I shan’t have time this morning, and Josef needs them for tonight.’
‘Forget about the avocados!’ Karen snorted. ‘Jordan, I just told you that Rhys Williams is back on the island! Doesn’t that mean anything to you?’
‘What should it mean?’ Making sure her face was still in shadow, Jordan turned to face her sister. ‘My relationship with Rhys Williams ended over ten years ago. I—I was a child, that’s all. It was a childish infatuation. It means nothing to me now.’
‘So why do you spend every spare minute at his house?’ demanded Karen scathingly. ‘Since he went away, you’ve been there at least once every week. Come on, Jordan. I may have been a kid when it happened, but I’m not a kid now!’
Jordan pressed the clipboard holding the housekeeping lists close to her chest. ‘You forget,’ she said, hearing the tremor in her voice and despising herself for it, ‘that house was Daddy’s home, too. Is it so unnatural that I should want to make sure it didn’t fall into disrepair?’
Karen shook her head. ‘And that’s your final word?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, I don’t believe you,’ retorted Karen succinctly, swinging about and making for the stairs. ‘I’ll get your avocados. I shan’t be long.’
After she had gone, Jordan spent several minutes composing herself before emerging from the linen room. There was always the chance that someone else might take it into their heads to inform her of Rhys’s return, and she wanted to be sure she could face their commiserations before returning to her office.
Just to make doubly sure, she made a detour to her own apartments, and closing the louvred door behind her, she paused a moment to take a deep breath. Rhys was back. Well, she had been expecting it. And it was nothing so terrible if she could keep things in perspective.
Walking across to her dressing table, she lifted a comb and lightly flicked back the errant strands that had escaped from the chignon at her nape. Her hair, which was toffee-coloured and streaked with blonde, grew back from a centre parting. Her brow was wide and tanned, and her eyes were grey and shielded by long brown lashes. She knew she was not beautiful in the accepted sense of the word, but when her features were animated they did have a certain attraction which she was not unaware of. Right now, however, her face was withdrawn and sombre, and she surveyed herself without pleasure and assessed the changes Rhys must see.
When he went away, she had been seventeen—now she was twenty-seven; a spinster, or so Karen was often telling her. As a teenager, she had worn her hair loose and free; now it was always coiled in a chignon or a knot, anything to keep it out of her eyes. And finally, when she was younger, her long-limbed frame had been rounded and feminine; these days, she seldom had an ounce of flesh on her bones, and she touched the hollows in her neck with fingers that shook quite revealingly.
Damn, she thought fiercely, turning away, why couldn’t she just dismiss him from her mind? He was totally amoral, totally insensitive. Were he not, he would never have come back here, never have brought his daughter with him—never have put her in such an invidious position.
By the time Jordan went downstairs again, she had herself in control. She had succeeded in convincing herself that she was behaving foolishly—irrationally—and that the cold sweat which had broken out over her flesh when Karen confirmed that Rhys was back was the natural result of long-suppressed emotions. Rhys had returned to the island; she had to accept that. He had every right to return here. She did not own the island, only a very small part of it—and that, too, was being whittled away by the disturbing decrease in visitors to the hotel. But that was nothing to do with Rhys Williams. That was her affair, her problem; and she had no need of any further problems to trouble her. The most sensible course, so far as Rhys was concerned, was to behave as if the past had never happened, and when they met—as they were bound to do on an island of this size—she would behave with the calmness and dignity won over ten years of self-restraint.
At this time of year the hotel was at its busiest, and she was grateful for that. As she made her way to her office, situated behind the reception desk on the ground floor, she exchanged greetings with several of the guests passing through on their way to change for lunch after a morning spent by the pool. Trade Winds, as her father had christened the hotel, was not a large concern, but it was unique, in that it occupied the finest position on the west coast of the island, and its patrons generally returned for a second, and sometimes a third, visit.
It was approaching noon, and already there was a sense of lethargy creeping over the place. The breezes that usually kept the climate temperate at this time of the year were conspicuous by their absence, and Jordan could feel a trickle of moisture dampening the back of her shirt. Even the wide-legged cotton culottes that covered her slim legs to well below her knees felt uncomfortably sticky, and she refused to associate her present condition with her thoughts earlier. It was a hot day. She was feeling the heat, that was all. And although a visit to one of the many quiet beaches that fringed the island, to swim and sunbathe, was appealing, she was needed here. Besides, she preferred to keep herself occupied. She would have time enough to think when the day was over.
The lobby of the hotel was light and airy. A through draught kept this area cool at all times, and urns of pampas grass and flowering plants added to its tropical appearance. There were wickerwork chairs, a small bar that jutted out below a thatched awning, and rose-pink quarry tiles underfoot, both functional and attractive.
Jordan’s office was small, but functional, too. Here she discussed menus, answered booking enquiries, and prepared accounts. There were a dozen other tasks she did, too, like ordering supplies from the mainland, choosing colour schemes when the rooms needed decorating, or arbitrating in disputes between the other members of the staff. But mostly, her job was concerned with being available to the guests, to answer queries and complaints, and to assure herself that everyone was pulling their weight.
She had a secretary, a coloured girl called Mary-Jo, and when she went into her office now, she found the girl on her hands and knees on the floor. ‘Paper-clips,’ Mary-Jo answered her silent enquiry, grimacing as one of the scattered items dug into an unwary knee. ‘Josef’s been in here complaining about the shortage of prawns for tonight’s buffet.’
‘And he threw these about?’ exclaimed Jordan, joining her on the floor.
‘No,’ Mary-Jo giggled. ‘Not intentionally, that is. But he did bring his fist down on the desk and the box just happened to be in the way …’
Jordan sighed. ‘He really is impossible at times! And I thought we had enough shellfish.’
‘We probably do.’ Mary-Jo satisfied herself that she had collected most of the paper-clips and got to her feet. ‘You know what Josef is like—all bark and no bite. Here, let me help you.’ She gave Jordan her hand. ‘You look worn out.’
‘Well, thanks.’ Jordan could smile at the backhanded sympathy. ‘I am—feeling the heat today. The linen room isn’t the coolest place to be when the temperature is in the nineties.’
‘You should have let me do it,’ exclaimed Mary-Jo, crossing to where a tray was set on a filing cabinet. ‘Would you like some orange juice? The ice hasn’t melted yet.’
‘Please.’ Jordan sank down into her own chair behind the desk, and fanned herself with a languid hand. ‘Did Karen go down to Mallorys?’
‘Yes. She left about a half hour ago,’ agreed Mary-Jo, handing over a glass of the sun-tinted fluid. ‘There you are—liquid vitamin C!’
