you realise that some folks would give anything for that sunbleached look your hair’s got since you came out here?’ Sally complained, tactfully changing the subject.
‘Yes. Do you realise how much conditioner I need to use? The sun and salt are fatal. Actually I’ve been thinking of having it cut, it’s beginning to become a nuisance.’
The hotel boasted an international class hairdressing salon and she fingered the fluid strands of blonde hair curling on to her shoulders, contemplatively.
‘If I were a rival, I’d be dragging you to that salon myself,’ Sally assured her with a grin. ‘But as I’ve already hooked my man, let me give you a piece of sisterly advice—leave your hair as it is. It suits you—and it’s sexy.’
Autumn pulled a face, her eyes clouding faintly. Sally had meant the word as a compliment, but that wasn’t how she saw it. To be called ‘sexy’ was like someone touching an exposed nerve and implied that she was deliberately seeking to attract the attention of the opposite sex. Nothing could be farther from the truth. She had already endured enough of the humiliation that followed sexual bondage to last her a lifetime. The lessons she had learned during her brief marriage would last a lifetime. They ought to do, she reflected bitterly, they had been taught by an expert, but at the time she had been too naïve to know that; just as she had been too naïve to see so many things that had only become obvious with maturity. No man was ever going to be allowed to have any sort of hold over her again, and to that end she had ruthlessly suppressed the deeply passionate side of her nature which had so betrayed her in the past.
‘Frigid’, one of her dates had called her in baffled _ frustration, but she had merely shrugged aside the word. Men used it as an insult and a weapon; a key to unlock a closed door, but it wouldn’t work with her.
Over her shoulder Sally was watching the beach.
‘Alan’s back!’ she said excitedly. ‘I wish the launch was a little bit closer, I’m dying to see what the big fish looks like.’
Autumn shrugged. ‘Fifty, paunchy, balding, and probably still thinking he’s God’s gift to women.’
‘That’s a bit harsh,’ Sally complained. ‘By the way, I’ve got strict orders to stick to Alan like glue at dinner. He wants you to be free to devote all your attention to charming our visitor.’
‘And I’ve told him I won’t be used,’ Autumn said crisply.
‘Yes, I know. Look, it shouldn’t be so bad. I’ve persuaded him that it would look a bit obvious if the three of you dined alone, so it’s his bungalow for a general discussion and drinks, followed by dinner for the four of us at the Five Fathoms restaurant. That’s what I came to tell you really. We won’t be eating until about eight, and Alan wants you over at his bungalow for half six, so that you can help him put our friend fully in the picture.’
Recognising her friend’s tactful hand in the rearrangement of the evening, Autumn smiled faintly. She hadn’t been looking forward to an evening being very obviously dangled in front of Alan’s visitor, like a piece of tempting bait. Fond though she was of Alan, and much as she was aware of how much she owed him, her own self-respect was something she meant to retain no matter what the cost.
‘I’ll see you later,’ Sally announced, getting to her feet. ‘Alan wants me to type up some figures for him and take them over to the bungalow.’ She frowned anxiously. ‘I do hope everything goes okay. It would be criminal if he lost St John’s now, after all he’s done. Every cent he owns is tied up in it.’
‘I’ll do what I can,’ Autumn told her. ‘But I object to being used as a lure.’
‘Yes, I know, but you know Alan—tact isn’t his strong suit. I don’t think he ever intended you to come on strong with the heavy seduction scene. A light flirtation was probably all he had in mind.’
‘Have you any idea who this man is?’ Autumn asked her.
Sally shook her head.
‘Not a clue. Alan’s been awfully cagey—something about everything having to be kept strictly secret until he comes to a decision. You know how cloak-and-dagger these financial deals can be. I’m sure financiers must all be closet secret agents at heart!’
The bar was starting to fill up with guests wanting to enjoy the view and relax over a pre-dinner drink, and several of them paused to speak to Autumn.
On her way back to her bungalow she paused to glance at the notice board, pleased to see that the boat trip round the island, which was a fortnightly excursion, was well subscribed to.
In her bungalow she glanced at her watch. Half past five. She had an hour to get ready. Deciding against anything too formal, she opened her wardrobe and withdrew a silk two-piece, in deep cyclamen pink, leaving it on the bed while she stepped under the shower.
The cool sting of the water was instantly reviving and she enjoyed the therapeutic effect of the water against her skin. Towelling herself dry, she caught a glimpse of her body in the full-length mirror and frowned, turning away. There had been a time, shortly after her marriage broke up, when she found herself hating the sight of her own flesh, almost to the point where she wanted to inflict pain upon it for its betrayal, but this mood had passed and with it the desire to dress in drab, dull clothes that concealed her figure.
Bending to plug in her hair-dryer, she frowned again, her mind on the letter she had recently received from her solicitor. As she had only been married to her husband for a year before she left him, there could be no divorce without his consent for five years after the date of their marriage. It was now two years since she had left him; that meant she had another two years to wait before she could divorce him. She wielded her hairbrush angrily, making her scalp tingle. As she had made it plain that she had no plans to remarry, the two-year wait should not prove too onerous, her solicitor claimed, but until she was completely and legally free Autumn felt as though she were still held in thrall to the past. That she could never again recapture the innocence she had once had, she did not dispute, but while her marriage continued to exist, even if only on paper, it was like an open wound deep inside her, refusing to heal, festering and spreading its poison through her life. She knew her reasoning was illogical, but her desire to be free possessed her to the extent that she felt as though she were in limbo, unable to get on with the business of living until she had finally severed herself from the past. No one but herself knew how she felt. When she had walked out on her marriage she had locked the door on her memories and thrown away the key. Her mouth compressed. Two more years. How was she to endure it? Beg and plead to be set free? Her mouth twisted bitterly. No way!
The cyclamen silk emphasised her tan, the vivid colour making her hair seem fairer, her eyes more intensely blue, and the thin fabric clung seductively to her long, slender legs; the brief camisole top revealing the full taut swell of her breasts.
People dressed casually on St John’s and Autumn slid her bare feet into high-heeled cyclamen sandals, spraying herself lightly with Opium, before adding a slick of lip-gloss to her mouth. In a face that was delicately modelled with high cheekbones and an almost fragile jawline, she thought her mouth too wide and full. It was only since coming to London that she had discovered that men found it sexy, and she had gone through a stage of wearing only the palest lipstick as she tried to detract from its appeal. Now she had come to terms with her own sexuality. She no longer cared how others viewed her; only how she viewed herself. Her own self-respect was more important than the opinions of others.
The thin silk whispered provocatively against her legs as she stepped outside
