she hadn’t travelled first-class. On this occasion, being at the front of the queue that was forming had little appeal. She would have preferred to hang back, to let the rest of the passengers disperse before she collected her luggage. She was uneasily aware of how ill-prepared for this meeting she was.
Beyond Passport Control, the building opened out into the customs area. Two carousels were already starting to unload luggage from the British Airways plane. She saw, to her dismay, that her suitcases had already been unloaded, and, realising she was only delaying the inevitable, she went to claim them as hers.
She didn’t know whether to feel glad or sorry when she emerged from the customs channel to find that neither Ryan nor Anita was waiting for her. She had acquired a porter to transport her luggage to where taxis traditionally touted for fares, but she hadn’t considered that she might have to hire one herself.
She didn’t know what to do. Her formal clothes set her apart from the regular holidaymakers, most of whom were dressed in lightweight summer gear. She looked more like a returning resident, she reflected. If only she’d had her own car in the car park.
The heat was really getting to her now. Even beneath the canopy that jutted out over the taxi rank, the moist air was sapping what little strength she had. On top of which, the porter she’d hired was beginning to get restless. Megan guessed he was thinking of all the gratuities he was missing, hanging about with her.
‘Megan.’
The voice was unfamiliar, but he evidently knew her name, and she turned to give the man an enquiring look. Perhaps Ryan Robards employed a chauffeur these days, she reflected, regarding him with some reserve. In faded jeans and a skin-tight vest, with a single gold earring threaded through the lobe of his left ear, he didn’t look the type of person to win anyone’s confidence.
‘Are you speaking to me?’ she asked, somewhat stiffly, wondering if he was some kind of beach burn who haunted the airport looking for gullible tourists to fleece. Her eyes dropped to the suitcases on the porter’s cart, suspecting he had got her name from the labels, but all her secretary had done was put ‘Ms M Cross’ on the tabs.
‘It is Megan, isn’t it?’ he asked, tawny eyes mirroring his slight amusement at her formal response, and she realised he wasn’t about to go away. On the contrary, he was watching her with intense interest, and she suddenly wished that Ryan Robards would appear.
‘What if it is?’ she asked now, glancing somewhat impatiently about her. For God’s sake, she thought, where was Anita? Didn’t she know what time the plane was due to land?
‘Because I’ve come to meet you,’ the man said coolly, and a look of consternation crossed her face. He handed the porter a couple of notes and plucked her cases from the trolley. ‘If you’ll come with me, the car’s parked just along here.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Megan knew she was probably being far too cautious, but she couldn’t just go with him without knowing who he was. ‘I mean—I still don’t know who you are,’ she added uncertainly, licking her lips. ‘Did Mr Robards send you? I expected—Anita—to come herself.’
The man sighed. He was still holding her cases, and she knew they must be heavy for him. Not that it seemed to bother him. His arms and shoulders looked sleekly muscular, the sinews rippling smoothly beneath honey-gold skin.
‘I guess you could say they—sent me,’ he agreed, at last, inclining his head with its unruly mane of night-dark hair. For a moment there was something vaguely familiar about his lean features, but she would still have preferred to send him on his way.
He started along the walkway and she had, perforce, to follow him. Either that, or say goodbye to her luggage, she decided, with some resignation. Besides, although it was after four o‘clock, the sun was showing no signs as yet of weakening, and she was longing to get out of her formal clothes.
She was hot and sticky by the time they reached the car, though the fact that it was a long, low estate car, the closed windows hinting of air-conditioning, was some consolation. ‘You get in,’ the man suggested, a quick glance in her direction ascertaining that she was already wilting with fatigue. He flipped up the tailgate. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute. Mom guessed you’d prefer the Audi to the buggy.’
Megan blinked. ‘Mom?’ she echoed, gazing at him in disbelief, and her companion permitted her a rueful grin. ‘You’re—Remy?’ she gasped weakly, feeling in need of some support. ‘My God!’ She swallowed. ‘I’m sorry. I had no idea.’
‘No.’ There was a faintly ironic twist to his lips as he responded. ‘Welcome to San Felipe, Aunt Megan. I hope you’re going to enjoy your stay.’
Megan blinked and then, realising she was staring at him with rather more curiosity than sense, she hastily folded her length into the car. But, ‘Remy!’ she breathed to herself, casting an incredulous look over her shoulder at the young man loading her suitcases into the back of the vehicle. She’d expected him to have grown up, but she’d never expected—never expected—
What?
She shook her head a little impatiently. What had she expected, after all? That the boy she remembered should have lost that lazy teasing humour? That he couldn’t have turned into the attractive man she’d just met?
Nevertheless, she wouldn’t have recognised him if he hadn’t spoken. It was hard to associate the child she remembered with the man. He’d been little more than a baby when her mother had first brought her to San Felipe. It made her feel incredibly old suddenly. He’d called her ‘Aunt’ Megan, and she supposed that was what she was to him.
She wondered what he did for a living. Whether he worked for his grandfather at the hotel. There was the marina, too, of course, and an estate that grew coffee and fruit. He could probably have his choice of occupations. Just because he dressed like—tike he did, that was no reason to assume he spent his time bumming around.
The tailgate slammed and presently Remy swung open the driver’s door and got in beside her. Megan permitted him a rueful smile as he started the engine, but she was uncomfortably aware that her feelings weren’t as uncomplicated as his.
‘I recognised you,’ he remarked, checking his rear-view mirror before pulling out. ‘I did,’ he averred, when she looked disbelieving. ‘You haven’t changed that much. Apart from your hair, that is. You used to wear it long.’
So she had. Megan had to steel herself not to check her reflection in the vanity mirror. Her hair had always been straight, and in those days she’d used to curl it. By the time she was a teenager, it had been a frizzy mop.
‘I don’t know whether to regard that as a compliment,’ she remarked now, grateful for the opening. ‘God, I used to look such a fright in those days. And I was about twenty pounds overweight.’
‘But not now.’ observed Remy, his tawny eyes making a brief, but disturbing, résumé of her figure. ‘Mom told us all about the operation. Imagine having ulcers at twenty-eight.’
‘I’m almost thirty-one actually,’ said Megan quickly, not quite sure why it was so necessary for her to state her age. ‘And it wasn’t ulcers, just one rather nasty individual. I’d been having treatment for it, but it didn’t respond.’
‘And it perforated.’
Megan nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Mom said it was touch-and-go
