sexuality radiated from eyes as blue as amethysts, fringed by short thick lashes, several shades darker than his hair. There were rugged hollows beneath his arching cheekbones, and she knew his nose had been broken in his youth. But his mouth was what drew her gaze, thin, and hard, and masculine, yet infinitely sensual, and gentler than when she’d last seen it.
But the silvery blond hair was the same, she noticed, chiding the treacherous emotions that still found beauty in his face. Longer than was fashionable, it brushed the open collar of his chambray shirt, the fine strands upturned against his neck. He was not a man you could ever ignore, thought Joanna uneasily, though God knew she had done her best to do so for the past three years.
‘May I join you?’
The question was unexpected, and for a moment Joanna knew the mouth-drying sense of panic she had experienced when she first saw him coming towards her. No, she wanted to say harshly. No, you can’t. I don’t want you to. I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want you spoiling my affection for these islands by your presence.
But, of course, she didn’t say any of those things. Although she knew she was probably being incredibly stupid, she was far too—polite—to behave so childishly, so obviously.
So, instead, ‘Why not?’ she murmured, moving her glass of orange juice aside, and relocating the cooling pot of coffee. ‘Be my guest.’
‘Thanks.’
With the inherent grace that had always seemed so unusual in a man of his size, Cole pulled out one of the vinyl-cushioned plastic chairs, and, turning its back to the table, straddled it. His bony knee, clad in cream cotton trousers, brushed the side of her bare thigh as he positioned himself, and it was all Joanna could do not to flinch away from even that slight contact. But Cole seemed not to notice any withdrawal on her part, as he draped his arms along the back of the chair, and cast a casual eye over the palm-shaded stretch of sand only a few yards away.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ he observed, and Joanna disciplined herself to make the obvious rejoinder.
‘Beautiful,’ she agreed, looking towards the ocean, creaming on to the crushed coral, beyond the coloured umbrellas, and oil-slick bodies. Although it wasn’t the Caribbean, the waters cradling the sun-rich islands of the Bahamas were every bit as warm and inviting, their blue-green depths a magnet for yachtsmen and underwater explorers alike. ‘I’ve always loved it.’
‘Yes.’ Cole’s mouth compressed. ‘Your family have a villa here, don’t they?’
His brows, distinctly darker than the ash-pale subtlety of his hair, drew together speculatively, but before he could voice the question his words had provoked Joanna forestalled him.
‘Not any more,’ she stated swiftly, avoiding his enquiring gaze. ‘In any case, it’s not important. And I’m sure it has nothing to do with why you’re here.’
‘No.’ Cole agreed with her. ‘But you are.’
Joanna stared at him. ‘You knew I was here?’
‘Obviously.’
‘No, not obviously.’ She felt her nails digging into her palms, and determinedly relaxed herself. ‘I assumed you must be here on holiday. That—that this meeting was accidental.’
‘Hardly.’ Cole regarded her dispassionately. ‘That would be quite a coincidence, wouldn’t it?’
Joanna took a steadying breath. ‘Then I think you’d better leave. Or I will.’
She wanted to get to her feet. She wanted to walk away from the table, and pretend this had never happened. Perhaps, if she pinched herself hard enough, she might wake up. Oh, what she would give to find out this was all a dream—or a nightmare!
But she had run away from Cole once before, and she was damned if she’d do it again. He couldn’t hurt her now. Not any more. And she would just be playing into his hands, if she allowed him to see he had upset her.
So, with admirable restraint, she helped herself to a croissant, from the napkin-lined basket in front of her, and picked up her knife to butter it.
Cole watched her. She was aware of his gaze, though she didn’t acknowledge it. He had always had the ability to make her aware of him, even when she least wanted it. There was a brooding intensity to his appraisal that pierced any façade of indifference she might raise against him. Even now, buttering her croissant, with hands that only by a supreme effort on her part remained steady, she could feel his eyes upon her. What was he thinking? she wondered. What did he want? And how had he known where she was?
‘Prickly, aren’t you?’ he said at last, and Joanna fought back the angry defence that sprang to her lips.
‘I’m—curious,’ she admitted, proud of the lack of aggression in her tone. ‘How did you know I was here?’
‘Grace told me,’ he replied, mentioning his aunt’s name without inflexion. ‘You must know we keep in touch. And just because she’s English, you shouldn’t automatically assume she’ll take your side.’
Joanna swallowed hard. Grace, she thought grimly. She should have guessed. Blood was thicker than water, and the Macallisters—even estranged ones—evidently believed that stronger than most.
‘Don’t think badly of her,’ Cole said now, as Joanna stared down at the croissant. ‘She didn’t have a lot of choice. Not in the circumstances.’
But Joanna wasn’t listening to him. Damn Grace, she was thinking, abandoning the untouched roll in favour of another cup of coffee. She knew, better than anyone, that for the past three years Joanna had done her utmost to forget Cole, and what he had done to her life. How could Grace have told him she was here, taking the first holiday she had had in twenty solid months of hard slog? This was supposed to be her reward to herself for finishing ahead of time. The paintings for the exhibition were completed. She hadn’t even brought her materials with her. She had intended to have a complete break. And now——
‘Where’s—Sammy-Jean?’ she demanded, looking beyond him, as if expecting the other woman to appear. ‘You did marry her, didn’t you?’ She forced a mocking lilt into her voice, as she added, ‘Sammy-Jean Macallister! Oh, yes, that sounds so much better than Joanna Macallister ever did.’
Cole’s lips tightened. ‘You won’t get an argument from me,’ he retorted, but she realised to her amazement—and delight—that, for once, she had got under his skin. A faint trace of colour ran up beneath his tan, and the hands resting on the chair-back balled into fists.
But then, exercising the same kind of control Joanna had used earlier, he expelled his breath. ‘I didn’t come here to talk about Sam,’ he said tautly, meeting her gaze. ‘My father’s dying.’
Joanna gulped. She couldn’t help it. Ryan Macallister had always appeared invincible to her. It scarcely seemed credible that he was mortal, like the rest of them.
Even so, he had never been any friend of hers, and her dark brows rose without sympathy. ‘Is that supposed to mean something to me?’
Cole regarded her grimly. ‘He wants to see you.’
‘To see me?’ Joanna’s voice came out several degrees higher than normal, but Cole only nodded.
‘That’s
