had hit her. It brought Matthew’s head round, in spite of himself, but there was no evidence that she’d been abused. On the contrary, she was staring after him, as if he’d done something wrong, her eyes wide with horror and all the colour drained out of her face.
It was crazy, because she meant nothing to him, but he was tempted to go back and ask her what the hell she thought she was doing. He’d got her off the hook, hadn’t he? She should be thanking him. Not gazing at him, for God’s sake, as if he was the devil incarnate.
With a grunt of impatience, Matthew swung his head round and continued towards his car. Forget it, he told himself fiercely. It was nothing to do with him. But he couldn’t deny a sense of anger and irritation—and the unpleasant feeling that he’d been used.
‘Who was that you were talking to?’ Fleur asked, after the briefest of greetings had been exchanged—reluctant on his part, fervent on hers. She insinuated herself into the seat beside him, despite the fact that Lucas had held the rear door for her, and gazed at him enquiringly. ‘A little young for your tastes, isn’t she, darling?’ she teased. ‘Or have you acquired a liking for schoolgirls in my absence?’
‘And if I have?’ Matthew countered, her accent jarring on him after his exchange with the other woman. His eyes glittered maliciously. ‘I’m only following in your footsteps, sister, dear. We both have peculiar tastes, don’t we?’
‘I’m not your sister,’ hissed Fleur, as Lucas climbed good-humouredly into the seat behind them. She cast the other man a tight smile. ‘Perhaps I can get some sense from you.’
‘I don’t know who they are,’ declared Lucas ruefully. ‘I’ve never seen them before. They’re probably here on holiday. We get a lot of them at this time of the year.’
‘On holiday?’ Fleur’s expression altered. ‘Not friends of Matt’s, then?’
Lucas met his employer’s gaze in the rear-view mirror, and gave an apologetic shrug of his shoulders. ‘Not to my knowledge,’ he conceded wryly. He pulled a face at Matthew before adding, ‘Did you have a good journey?’
Fleur relaxed, and for the first time since her arrival she allowed herself to show a trace of regret. ‘It was—lonely,’ she said, rummaging in her capacious handbag for a tissue, and using it to dab her eyes. ‘I couldn’t help remembering that the last time I came here Chase was with me. He loved to spend time with Matt, you know? It’s sad that in recent years they spent so little time together.’
Lucas made a polite rejoinder, and Matthew bit down on the urge to tell Fleur that she knew why that was, better than anyone. He had the feeling he’d been wrong to invite Fleur here, however sorry he’d felt for her at the funeral. She hadn’t really changed. She was just as ingenious as ever.
‘How’s Dad?’ he asked now, refusing to be drawn in that direction, and Fleur gave a careless shrug.
‘So long as he has his damn horses to care about, no one else seems to matter,’ she declared bitterly, as Matthew joined the stream of vehicles leaving the airport, and he gave her a brief, scornful glance. They both knew that wasn’t true. Ben Aitken had loved his eldest son dearly, and he’d been shattered when he was killed. What she really meant was that the older man had little time for her, and he didn’t have to pretend any more now that Chase was dead.
‘But he’s well?’ Matthew persisted, suddenly recognising the vehicle ahead of them. Andrew Sheridan was driving now, but there was no mistaking the young woman seated in the back. He’d have recognised that accusing profile anywhere. She was staring out of the rear window, and he was sure she was looking at him.
‘He was. When I left.’ Fleur pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her bag and put one between her teeth. ‘I spent a couple of days in New York before coming here.’ She scanned the dashboard for the automatic lighter. ‘Dammit, where is it?’
Matthew didn’t reply, and as if becoming aware that his attention had been distracted, Fleur followed the direction of his gaze. ‘Oh, God,’ she said disgustedly, ‘it’s the girl again, isn’t it? Whatever is she staring at? Someone should teach her some manners.’
‘Her husband, perhaps?’ suggested Matthew, determinedly avoiding that cool grey gaze.
‘Her husband?’ Fleur was disbelieving. ‘You’re not telling me she’s married?’
‘With two children,’ Matthew conceded tersely. Then, to Lucas, ‘They’re staying at Dragon Point.’
Lucas frowned. ‘At the Parrish place?’ he asked, and Matthew’s brows drew together.
‘Yeah, right,’ he said thoughtfully, taking advantage of an open piece of road to pass the other vehicle. Then, with his nemesis safely behind him, he felt free to make the connection. ‘I thought the place was occupied when I walked past there this morning.’
Fleur gave him a calculating look as she lit her cigarette. ‘That man—the man who was driving the car-he was on the flight from New York.’
Matthew cast her a careless glance. ‘So?’
‘So—one wonders what she’s been getting up to, while her husband’s been away.’ She inhaled, and then blew smoke deliberately into his face. ‘Have you been—comforting her in his absence, I wonder?’
Matthew’s jaw hardened. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ he countered, refusing to rise to her bait. ‘What I do is my business, Fleur,’ he added, meeting her angry gaze. ‘And if you must smoke, do it in your own car. I can’t stand the smell of stale tobacco.’
‘You’re a prig, do you know that?’
But Fleur stubbed out her cigarette before giving him the benefit of her scowl. Matthew didn’t answer. It would have been far too easy to tell her what he thought she was. Besides, she already knew it. Which begged the question of why she was here…
IT WAS a good hour’s drive back to the villa.
It shouldn’t have taken so long. For most of the way the new highway meant that the road was extremely good. But Helen had already learned to her cost that traffic moved much less frenetically in Barbados than it did in London. Yet she was glad of the prolonged length of the journey to try to get herself under control. The shock she had had at the airport had left her palms moist, her knees shaking and her heart beating uncomfortably fast. Dear God, had she really seen her mother? Or was it all some incredible coincidence?
Of course, Andrew thought she was sulking because he had let the Aitken man think she was his wife. She still didn’t know why he’d done it, but that embarrassment had been quickly superseded by other events. That man’s name—Aitken—had been familiar, but she’d never dreamed that that was who he was. Until Fleur—if it was Fleur—had come sauntering out of the airport. Then the connection had been too much to ignore.
She expelled her breath with a shiver. Had it really been Fleur? Had it really been Chase Aitken? It had looked like Fleur—or, at least, like the pictures she had once unearthed in the attic at Conyers. James Gregory had seldom mentioned her, and he had certainly never encouraged Helen to ask questions. But the woman had been her mother, after all, and she hadn’t been able to
