Forbidden Passion
ANNE MATHER says: ‘I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I wrote only for my own pleasure, and it wasn’t until my husband suggested that I ought to send one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, more than a hundred and fifty books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what happened.
‘I had written all through my infant and junior years, and on into my teens. The trouble was, I never used to finish any of the stories, and Caroline, my first published book, was the first book I’d actually completed. I was newly married then, and my daughter was just a baby. It was quite a job, juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can see, but that’s the way it was.
‘I now have two grown-up children, a son and daughter, and two adorable grandchildren, Abigail and Ben. My e-mail address is [email protected], and I’d be happy to hear from any of my readers.’
CLEO was almost sure she’d seen the woman before.
She didn’t know when or where she might have seen her, or if the feeling was real or just imagined. But there was an odd sense of familiarity when she looked at her that refused to go away.
She shook her head rather impatiently. Sometimes she was far too sensitive for her own good. But there was no doubt that the woman had been staring at her ever since she’d joined the queue at the checkout, so perhaps that was why she looked familiar. Perhaps she resembled someone the woman used to know.
There was obviously a perfectly innocent explanation. Just because she didn’t like being stared at didn’t mean the woman meant her any harm. Paying for the milk that had sent her to the store in the first place, Cleo determinedly ignored the persistent scrutiny, and then nearly jumped out of her skin when the woman spoke to her.
‘It’s Ms Novak, isn’t it?’ she asked, blocking Cleo’s way as she would have moved past her. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you at last. Your friend said I might find you here.’
Cleo frowned. She could only mean Norah. Which meant the woman must have been to their apartment first. She sighed. What was Norah thinking of, offering her whereabouts to a complete stranger? With all the odd things that happened these days, Cleo would have expected her to have more sense.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, albeit against her better judgement. ‘Should I know you?’
The woman smiled and Cleo realised she was older than she’d appeared from a distance. Cleo had assumed she was in her forties, but now she saw she was at least fifty. The sleek bob of copper hair was deceiving, but the trim figure and slender legs were not.
She wasn’t very tall. She had to tilt her head to meet Cleo’s enquiring gaze. But her make-up was skilful, her clothes obviously expensive, and what she lacked in stature she more than made up for in presence.
‘I apologise,’ she said, her accent vaguely transatlantic, drawing Cleo out of the store by the simple method of continuing to talk to her. The cool air of an autumn evening swirled about them and the woman shivered as if it wasn’t to her liking. ‘Of course,’ she went on, pausing on the forecourt. ‘I should have introduced myself at once. We haven’t met, my dear, but I’m Serena Montoya. Your father’s sister.’
Of all the things she might have said, that had to be the least expected, thought Cleo incredulously. For a moment she could only stare at her in disbelief.
Then, recovering a little, she said with a mixture of shaky amusement and relief, ‘My father didn’t have a sister, Ms Montoya. I’m sorry.’ She started to move away. ‘I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Serena Montoya—if that really was her name—put out scarlet-tipped fingers and caught the sleeve of Cleo’s woollen jacket. ‘Please,’ she pleaded. ‘Listen to me for a moment.’ She sighed and removed her fingers again when Cleo gave her a pointed look. ‘Your father’s name was Robert Montoya—’
‘No.’
‘—and he was born on the island of San Clemente in the Caribbean in 1956.’
‘That’s not true.’ Cleo stared at her impatiently. Then, with a sound of resignation, ‘Well, yes, my father was born on San Clemente, but I’m not absolutely sure of the date, and his name was Henry Novak.’
‘I’m afraid not.’ Grasping Cleo’s wrist, this time with a firmness that wouldn’t be denied, Serena Montoya regarded her with determined eyes. ‘I am not lying to you, Ms Novak. I know you’ve always thought that Lucille and Henry Novak were your parents, but they weren’t.’
Cleo couldn’t believe this was happening. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she demanded. ‘Why are you insisting that this man, Robert Montoya—your brother—is my father?’
‘Was,’ Serena corrected her regretfully. ‘Robert was your father. He died some years ago.’
Cleo’s voice broke on a sob. ‘It’s a ridiculous assertion and you know it.’
‘It’s true.’ Serena was inflexible. Resisting Cleo’s efforts to pull away, she continued flatly, ‘Believe me, Ms Novak, when my father—your grandfather—told me what had happened, I didn’t want to believe it either.’
‘Now, that I can believe,’ said Cleo a little grimly. ‘Well, don’t worry, Ms Montoya. Obviously your father is suffering from delusions. Unfortunately my real parents were killed in a rail accident six months ago or they would have told you that themselves.’
‘Yes, we know about the accident.’ Serena was full of surprises. ‘That’s when my father first learned where you were living.’ She paused. ‘And he is not delusional. Please, Cleo, come and have a drink with me and let me explain—’
Cleo fell back a step and this time the woman let her go. ‘How do you know my name?’
‘How do you think?’ Serena sounded as if she was getting bored now. ‘It’s Cleopatra, isn’t it?’ And, seeing the unwilling confirmation on Cleo’s face, she added, ‘It was your maternal grandmother’s name, too. She was called Cleopatra Dubois and her daughter, Celeste, was your mother. Celeste Dubois was one of the most beautiful women on the island.’ She gave Cleo a considering look. ‘I hesitate to say it, but you look a lot like her.’
Cleo’s lips tightened. ‘Was she black?’
Serena frowned. ‘Does that matter?’
Cleo shook her head. ‘Only a white person would ask such a question.’ Her lips curled. ‘Yes, it matters.’
‘OK.’ Serena considered. ‘Well, yes, I suppose she was—black. Her skin was—um—coffee coloured. Not black, exactly, but not white either.’
That was enough. Cleo refused to listen
