style="font-size:15px;"> He was not unaware of the several pairs of female eyes which followed his progress. He was not a conceited man, but he had not reached the age of thirty-four without realising his own potential, and for a time he had taken advantage of it. But in recent years he had grown bored with the reputation he had created for himself, and since his engagement to Laura, had avoided any sexual entanglements.
One particular pair of eyes were more persistent than the rest, and he turned to confront their owner with mild impatience. He saw a tall girl with long straight hair streaked in shades of honey and ash blonde. She was slim, but not excessively so, and the tantalising swell of her pointed breasts was visible above the unbuttoned neckline of the striped cotton dress she was wearing. The dress looked like a maternity garment, loose and swinging, its white background striped in shades of violet and purple, the latter exactly matching the colour of her eyes. Her lips parted, as he looked at her, to reveal even white teeth, and there was something familiar about the amusement in her expression. And then he realised why.
Walking towards her, he could feel his whole body stiffening. ‘You're—Miss Fulton, aren't you?'
She nodded and smiled, and he wondered how he could have been in any doubt. Six years ago she had been shorter and plumper, the thick hair confined in two bunches, but even then her features had given an indication of what was to come. Now she was quite beautiful, an enchanting picture of burgeoning womanhood. And what else? His eyes probed the length of her slender body, and then returned to her face as she spoke.
‘Catherine,’ she said easily. ‘My name's Catherine. Only you can call me Cat. All my friends do.'
It was seldom that Jared found himself at a loss for words, but this was one of those occasions. Her attitude was so completely unexpected. He had been prepared for anger, and resentment, indifference even. But not this casual amiability.
‘I—your plane was early?’ he suggested, glancing round for her luggage, and she nodded again.
‘I didn't know what to do, and as you had said you would meet me…'
‘Oh, right. Right.’ Jared was annoyed at the irritation he felt. ‘I'm—sorry I was late.'
‘Are you?’ Her eyes challenged his, but before he could make some suitable retort, she went on: ‘Oh, well, I've only been waiting about five minutes.’ She indicated the two suitcases standing behind her. ‘These are mine. They're all I've brought. I left the rest of my belongings in the flat. I didn't think there was much point in giving it up, not just for six months.'
Jared regarded her sourly. ‘You're very sure you're going back there in six months,’ he remarked, and then wondered why he had done so. He didn't want the girl here at all.
‘Yes,’ she answered now, swinging the strap of a cream leather bag over her shoulder. ‘It's my home, after all.'
Jared summoned a porter to take the suitcases, aware of her watching him as he did so. He wondered what she was thinking and was disconcerted when she said: ‘It was kind of you to invite me here, but it wasn't necessary. Daddy was always far too protective. I can look after myself.'
‘Can you?’ Jared's tone was dry. ‘Well, I'm sorry, but I felt unable to carry out your father's wishes at several thousand miles’ distance.'
‘I'm surprised you wanted to,’ she murmured, preceding him out into the brilliant sunshine, and again forestalled his retort by adding: ‘Gosh, isn't it hot! It was raining when we left London.'
The convertible waited in the shade, and Jared had the porter stow her cases in the back, handed him a generous tip, and then swung open the passenger side door for Catherine to get in. He could not help but appreciate the long slender limbs exhibited as she drew her legs into the vehicle, and the perfume she was wearing rose up from the hollow between her breasts. Slamming the door, he walked round and levered himself in beside her, reaching for a cheroot before starting the engine.
‘Is it far to your house, Jared?’ she inquired, as he inhaled the aromatic fumes deep into his lungs, and he was not pleased by her casual use of his name. When her father had introduced them six years ago, he had been Mr Royal, and somehow he had expected that.
‘About twenty miles,’ he replied shortly, his tone indicative of his mood.
For a few moments there was silence, broken only by the whine of a jet engine overhead, and the sound of laughter across the parking area. Then she said with quiet deliberation: ‘Why did you bring me out here, Jared? It's obvious you don't really want me.'
Jared took the cheroot out of his mouth before his teeth crushed it flat. ‘Have I given you that impression?'
She looked amused, and that annoyed him even more. ‘You know you have,’ she said. ‘You've never even said hello, let alone asked me what kind of a journey I had! What's wrong? Haven't you forgiven me for embarrassing you all those years ago?'
‘You didn't embarrass me, Miss Fulton.'
‘Cat! And yes, I did. I'm sorry. But you were the first man I ever really fell for. I know I was a precocious little beast, but I have grown up a lot since then.'
‘It's really not important.'
‘So why are you so uptight?'
‘I'm not—uptight. Whatever that means!'
‘You must know. Barbados can't be that out of touch.'
‘I don't consider it out of touch at all.'
She gave him a sidelong glance. ‘You think I do.'
‘Vegetating—isn't that what you said?'
She laughed. ‘Oh, no! That got back to you.’ She shook her head. ‘That was Tony. He said that, not me.'
‘Tony?’ he queried.
‘Mmm. Tony Bainbridge. A—friend.'
‘Boy-friend?'
‘Well, as he is male…’ She looked amused and Jared ground out the remains of his cheroot in the ashtray.
‘The reason why you didn't want to come out here, one presumes,’ he commented coldly, and she sighed.
‘You do sound pompous,’ she said ruefully. ‘I didn't think you would be—being an artist and all.'
‘I am not an artist!’ he retorted grimly. ‘I'm a painter. Don't confuse me with your genuine be-smocked eccentric!'
‘I wouldn't do that,’ she assured him, and he leant forward to start the ignition with a vicious flick of his wrist. She had succeeded in putting hm on the defensive and he didn't like it.
They covered several miles without conversation. She seemed content to stare out of the side of the car at the neat hedges they were passing, at the smooth winding road which might have been in England had it not been for the little wobbling donkey carts with their loads of bananas and grapefruit, mangoes and avocados, the dark skins of the people, and cane in the fields instead of corn. Occasionally a white-painted windmill appeared, its sails turning in the breeze which fanned their faces and tangled Catherine's hair. Here and there were cottage gardens bright with flowers of every kind—lilies and begonias, fuchsias, rose mallows,
