in,’ advised Jason briefly, his eyes already looking beyond her to the two men behind. She did so, with reluctance, closing her ears to the terse instructions Jason was issuing, not looking his way again even when she felt the depression of his weight on the cushioned seat beside her.
The door was closed, and immediately the air-conditioning inside the car chilled her flesh. With the glass screen between front and back raised, they were enclosed in a world of smoked glass sophistication, and Laura couldn’t help remembering the last occasion she had ridden with him. There had been antagonism between them then, as there was now, but also a compelling familiarity—an addictive intimacy Laura had found it so hard to live without. She had known him so well—or at least she had thought she had—and there were times in those early days when she had wondered how she had ever found the strength to leave him, even after what she had learned. The truth, she had discovered to her cost, was that love did not always conform to a code of ethics. It was headstrong and unpredictable, and it had taken many months and many sleepless nights to get Jason Montefiore out of her blood …
‘You flew in—when? Yesterday?’ he inquired now, and she was forced to withdraw her attention from the leather strap hanging by the window.
‘Yesterday afternoon,’ she agreed, giving him a swift look of appraisal. He had lost weight, she noticed unwillingly, but the deeply-set eyes and thin-lipped mouth were still as disturbingly sensual as ever. His cheeks had hollowed, but the skin stretched tautly over his bones gave his dark face the strength and character she remembered, his Italian ancestry only evident in the burnished darkness of his hair.
‘From London?’ he persisted, raising one leg to rest his ankle across his knee, and the fine cloth of his pants tautened across his thighs.
‘No,’ she responded shortly, turning her eyes away from his unconscious sexuality, and concentrating on the back of the chauffeur’s head. Evidently the two other men were riding in a separate car, for there was only themselves and the driver in this one. After all, what use had Jason for a bodyguard with her? He was perfectly capable of subduing her, should he so wish.
She thought he might pursue his questions, but he didn’t. As if deciding he could wait if she could, he lounged a little lower in his seat, resting one leanfingered hand on his drawn-up ankle and gazing broodingly out of the tinted window.
It didn’t take them long to reach the marina. Jason’s driver evidently knew the city well, and in only a few minutes they had reached the basin where dozens of yachts had their mooring. The Mercedes drove into the parking area, but before he could get out to open the door for his passengers, Jason had already taken care of it.
‘You can pick me up at four o’clock,’ he told the man, flicking back the cuff of his brown silk shirt and glancing at the narrow gold watch circling his wrist. ‘If I need you before, I’ll call.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The chauffeur touched his cap with exaggerated courtesy, and Jason’s lean face displayed the first trace of humour Laura had seen since his appearance. ‘Okay, Ben,’ he acknowledged drily, jerking open Laura’s door and offering her his hand to alight. ‘I’ll see you later.’
Laura got out without any assistance, and Jason’s hand fell to his side without comment. Slamming the door behind her, he waited until his driver had moved away before starting off towards the boardwalk, his long stride covering the ground easily so that Laura had to hurry to keep up.
He was one of the few men who did not make her conscious of her height, she thought reluctantly, his lean frame overtaking hers by a good six inches. It was one of the first things she had noticed about him; that, and the lazy brilliance of his eyes. The fact that he had been at least ten years older than she was had not registered. Despite the fact that until then she had never been interested in older men, her attraction to Jason had been immediate and overwhelming. Was that how it had been with Pamela? she wondered, struggling manfully to remember exactly why she was here.
Jason’s yacht, the Laura M, was moored at the end of the jetty. Laura had thought he might have changed the yacht—or changed its name—but the 84 foot schooner was exactly as she remembered it, its trim white lines gleaming as it nudged against the boardwalk. A man in white shorts and a knitted cotton shirt was already on board, leaning on the rail, talking to a member of the crew of the adjoining craft. But he quickly straightened when he saw Jason, and Laura’s lips parted as she recognised Alec Cowray, the captain of the Laura M.
‘Good morning, Mr Montefiore,’ he greeted Jason politely, lifting his cap and then pushing it back on his bald pate. ‘I didna expect ye to be coming aboard this day.’
‘I didn’t know myself, Mr Cowray,’ responded Jason drily, stepping on to the deck. ‘Don’t disturb yourself. I shan’t be staying longer than a few hours. I gather we do have some food on board?’
‘No problem,’ averred the stout Scotsman, his expression mirroring his confusion, and then he saw Laura. ‘Christ!’ he exclaimed, forgetting to moderate his language. ‘I don’t believe it!’
‘Hello, Mr Cowray. How are you?’ asked Laura awkwardly, following Jason towards the forward hatch. ‘It’s good to see you again.’
‘It’s good to see you, too, miss,’ declared Alec Cowray fervently. He looked helplessly towards his employer. ‘Will that be lunch for two, Mr Montefiore?’
‘Provisionally,’ replied Jason crisply, giving Laura a thoughtful glance. ‘Don’t go to a lot of trouble, Alec. Miss Huyton may not be staying.’
Laura pressed her lips together to prevent herself from voicing an indignant comment as she followed Jason down the gleaming stairway. She was more convinced than ever now that he knew exactly why she had come to the islands, and she fed her resentment in an effort to dispel the effect her surroundings were having on her. He had brought her here deliberately, she thought, knowing what association it would have for her. The first time Jason had made love with her had been aboard this yacht, and she averted her eyes determinedly from the panelled doors to his stateroom. She knew the craft so well—she knew there were three suites; an upper and lower saloon; and a well-equipped galley aft. Yet, for all its size, a crew of three could handle it, using the powerful diesel engines when the sails were not in use.
Jason led the way into the forward saloon, a beautifully furnished living area, with cushioned banquettes, panelled walls, and a soft carpet underfoot. From its windows on three sides, one had an uninterrupted view when the craft was sailing, and Laura remembered moonlit evenings, after she and Jason had dined alone, sitting here and enjoying the starlit beauty of the night …
‘Will you have a drink?’
While she had been absorbing the saloon’s familiarity, Jason had opened up the fitted bar and was presently examining its contents. ‘Gin? Scotch? Vodka? Or would you like me to mix you a Chi-Chi?’ he inquired, mentioning the island cocktail which had once been her favourite.
‘Nothing, thank you,’ she responded tautly, seating herself on the low banquette and imprisoning her hands between her knees. ‘I—well, I’d like to get this over with. I believe you know why I’ve come.’
Jason poured himself a scotch, despite the early hour, and after adding several cubes of ice, looked at her over the rim of the glass. ‘I have a fairly good idea,’ he conceded cynically, swallowing a generous mouthful. ‘I suppose you assume my agreeing to see you gives you the edge. Well—I shouldn’t bank on it, if I were you.’
Laura felt the colour pour into her cheeks at his scathing
