dawdling!’
Yorke barely glanced at Autumn when they arrived at the restaurant, but she was aware of him with every breath she drew. Why had he gone to such lengths to find her? Did he want a divorce? Her heart thudded against her breastbone and she glanced at his shuttered profile, her palms slightly damp. If that was the case, surely he wouldn’t seek her out in person?
And Alan. He really was unbelievable. Surely he must be able to see that she couldn’t stay on St John’s now? But he didn’t see, she thought tiredly. He was so wrapped up in his business that he saw only that, and Yorke had made use of the fact.
The Five Fathoms restaurant was something of a showpiece; the restaurant itself was below ground, having been excavated out of the volcanic rock, at the opposite end of the bay from the main hotel complex.
Inside it was the last word in luxury, stretching out below the seabed; one huge illuminated glass ‘window’ looking out on to the undersea world of the coral reef, teeming with tiny fish and live coral. Clever lighting and engineering had turned the sea outside into an ‘aquarium’ and through the glass ‘window’ the diners could watch the ceaseless play of underwater life, while they ate and danced.
The atmosphere in the Five Fathoms was more sophisticated than in the dining room attached to the main hotel, and guests tended to dress more formally and make a visit to the Five Fathoms something of an occasion.
The head waiter came forward to greet them, and although he recognised Alan, it was to Yorke that he turned automatically, to ask if he had any table preference.
By common consent they opted for one quite close to the dance floor, but with excellent views through the ‘window’, and as the muted strains of the resident steel band filled the silence, Autumn tried to relax. Now, the numbness which had followed her initial recognition of Yorke had given way to delayed shock, and she was glad of the dim atmosphere of the restaurant, tensing as she anticipated Yorke’s attention being focused upon her.
She had underestimated him, she decided several minutes earlier. He was dividing his time impartially between Alan and Sally, making Sally laugh as he related some anecdote. Autumn stared stoically down at her wine glass. The days were gone when she would vibrate to those soft tones, like a well tuned instrument to a master player, sexual excitement erupting at a mere look, the slightest touch enough to send her into a frenzy of need.
At thirty-four Yorke looked little different than he had done three years ago when she first met him. His body beneath the immaculate dinner suit was still lithe and firm, his hair dark and thick, and his face taut and alert. He looked lean and predatory, the fierce competitiveness that drove him, apparent in his expression. Yorke was a man who admitted no equal; no contenders for the things he considered his.
He had learned about life in a hard school, Autumn reflected. His father had abandoned Yorke and his mother when Yorke was six, rejecting his son in favour of the daughter his mistress had given him, and that rejection was something Yorke had never forgotten nor forgiven. During their marriage Yorke had mentioned his father only once, and that had been when Autumn question him about him. He had been a haulage contractor with a profitable business, but in his will he had made it plain that neither Yorke nor his ex-wife were to receive anything from his estate, and Yorke had bitterly resented this further confirmation of his rejection.
With the benefit of hindsight, Autumn had come to see that Yorke’s driving ambition was as a direct result of this rejection; his desire to succeed a deep-seated need springing from a bottomless well of bitterness; but the knowledge had come too late. And Yorke had succeeded. His hugely successful independent airline was now world-renowned.
The waiter brought the lobster Autumn had ordered as a starter, but she could only pick at it. Ever since she left Yorke she had been armouring herself for the moment when she must confront him again, but now fear tingled along her spine as he raised his head and glanced assessingly at her.
What did he want? Her nails dug into the palms of her hands as she tried to steady her racing pulses.
The others were ready for their main meal, and Autumn pushed her lobster aside barely touched.
‘Something spoiling your appetite?’ Yorke asked smoothly.
She smiled coolly back, glad of the surface sophistication the last few years had brought. At one time Yorke had been able to destroy her fragile defences in three minutes—just as long as it took his expert lovemaking to send her body into heated rebellion against her mind. She had once thought that he loved her, but she had come to realise that hatred was closer to what he actually did feel, and in the end their marriage had become an unendurable hell, while her mind fought against his undeniable mastery of her body.
It was plain that both Alan and Sally had fallen completely under Yorke’s spell, just as she had once done herself, but now she could see through the charming shell to the man beneath and she ignored him when he smiled at her, concentrating purely on surviving the evening unscathed.
At one point while the two men were discussing business, Sally leaned across the table and said enviously to Autumn, ‘I love your outfit. Every other woman in the place is longing to scratch your eyes out and all the men are wondering what you’re like in bed.’
Autumn felt the colour burn up under her skin. Normally Sally’s forthright manner didn’t bother her, but on this occasion her eyes slid automatically to Yorke, her tongue wetting her top lip in nervous dread.
‘Yes, what are you like, Autumn?’ Yorke mocked softly. ‘It’s so long that I’ve practically forgotten.’
‘You’d find me very disappointing.’ Autumn stared at him, deliberately holding his eyes and then letting her own drop as obviously over his body as his glance did over hers. She had found it to be quite an effective ploy in the past. Men might say that they were all in favour of equal rights, but they still thought some rights belonged to them alone.
Yorke wasn’t the slightest bit abashed; indeed he returned her look with deliberately insulting thoroughness, and Autumn, who had seen forty-year-olds flustered under the look she had given him, knew that he had turned the tables on her. She turned away, ostensibly to speak to Alan, but in reality to give herself an opportunity to recharge her emotional batteries.
Merely being in the same room as Yorke drained her of energy; he was like a force-field, destroying everything that threatened his own supremacy.
André, the chef, had surpassed himself with the food, but Autumn was barely aware of what they ate. Other couples drifted on to the dance floor and she found her stomach muscles contracting in nervous dread. She could not dance with Yorke. She could not bear to be held close to him; the mere thought was enough to make her feel physically sick.
At her side she could feel Alan watching Yorke anxiously. Worrying about the future of the island, no doubt, but when he asked her to dance with him she hadn’t the heart to refuse.
The steel band were good and Autumn had danced with Alan often enough for them to make a well matched couple. The small dance floor was quite crowded, and they were on the far side of the room from their table, and yet the moment Yorke and Sally joined them Autumn was unbearably aware of their presence, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck prickling warningly.
When the music slowed to a more romantic beat, Autumn suggested to Alan that they sit down.
‘Still not forgiven me, have you?’ he asked wryly, his hand on the small of her back as they went back to their table. ‘I honestly didn’t have any choice. Do you think if I hadn’t
