India shook her head and a silky strand of her long hair brushed his knuckles. ‘Afterwards—after the heart attack that killed him—they discovered a small embolism in his chest. It—was very quick.’
Nathan turned his hand and captured the fiery thread, smoothing it between his fingers. ‘I see.’
‘We did try to reach you,’ she added. ‘But we didn’t know where you were living. Fortunately, Mr Hastings——’ his father’s lawyer, he remembered ‘—located an address in New York. But, as you know, you weren’t there.’
‘No.’ She moved her head again and he let go of her hair. ‘I was—out of the country. Still——’ his lips twisted ‘—I doubt if I was missed.’
Her eyes turned to him then, cool and dispassionate. ‘You are his son,’ she said, as if that was enough, and the rawness of injustice stirred inside him.
‘Not for the past eight years,’ he said, baring his resentment. ‘The old man threw me off the island, if you remember. I didn’t get the impression he ever wanted me back.’
India’s fingers tightened on the steering-wheel, and for a few moments she said nothing, allowing him to draw his own conclusions. But it was difficult to sustain any bitterness here, with the spicy scents of the island invading his nostrils, and the lowering sun touching everything with a golden brilliance. He’d forgotten exactly how beautiful it all was, and he gazed at the drooping heads of mimosa and oleander with an equal measure of ambivalence.
The road was dipping down towards the shoreline, and, to their left, the manicured lawns of a golf course defied the hand of nature. Beyond the trunk of a flowering jacaranda, he could see the coral roof of the clubhouse, and the gaily painted carts that ferried the guests around.
Evidently Adele had been busy, he reflected wryly, remembering this area as being a flowering wilderness. But these days no resort worth its salt could do without a golf course, and even a desultory glance disclosed that this was a rather better one than most.
‘He never stopped loving you, you know,’ India said suddenly, into the faintly hostile silence that had fallen, and Nathan gave her a searching look.
‘No?’ He was sceptical.
‘No.’ She clung to the wheel as the buggy bounced over a wooden bridge that arched a small ravine. ‘He used to talk about you a lot.’ She paused. ‘Particularly towards—towards the end.’
Nathan’s jaw compressed. What was he supposed to say to that? What was he supposed to think? Did she think it comforted him to believe his father had forgiven him? Dammit; as far as he was concerned, there was nothing to forgive.
‘And what about you?’ he asked, somewhat mockingly, eager to change the subject, and she gave him a startled glance.
‘What about me?’
‘Do you still love me?’ he asked, wanting to disconcert her, and a feathering of colour brushed her skin.
She had beautiful skin, he noticed, pale and delicate, but with the rich lushness of cream. She had never tanned, but she had also escaped the bane of freckles that many redheads suffered. Instead, her arms and legs were smooth and unblemished, and disturbingly appealing.
‘Of course,’ she said at once, her reply swift and defensive, and he found himself staring at her, resenting her generosity. How could she love someone who, if she believed her mother, had despised and insulted her? Someone, moreover, who had betrayed them all, particularly his father? But, ‘You’re my brother,’ she added simply, and Nathan felt as if someone had just kicked him in the gut …
‘SO WHERE is he?’
Adele Kittrick turned from applying a moisturising foundation to her face and neck, and regarded her daughter impatiently. In a coral silk wrapper, with her skilfully bleached hair hidden beneath a black turban, she looked rather more than the forty-two years she admitted to. It didn’t help that her expression was taut and demanding. India was the only person who ever saw her mother at her worst.
‘He said he was going to take a shower,’ India replied now, hooking her hip over the arm of a satin-striped chaise-longue, and meeting her mother’s gaze without rancour. ‘I’ve put him in 204, as we decided. If I’d known you wanted me to bring him here, I’d have made other arrangements.’
‘I didn’t want you to bring him here,’ retorted her mother shortly, turning back to survey her reflection in the mirror of the dressing-table. ‘I just find it hard to believe that he didn’t mention the will as you were driving back from the airport. It must be on his mind, for God’s sake. It’s why he’s come here. To make fools of us all!’
India drew her lower lip between her teeth. ‘I don’t think you can blame Nathan for what his father did,’ she said cautiously. ‘He knew nothing about the will. And he certainly didn’t influence Daddy.’
‘How do you know that?’ Adele screwed the cap back on to the jar of cream and slammed it down on the tray in front of her. The crystal rang protestingly, but fortunately it didn’t shatter. Nevertheless, India’s nails curled into her palms at this obvious display of temper.
‘Mother, you know Daddy hasn’t spoken to Nathan for over eight years,’ her daughter replied steadily. ‘Why, even Mr Hastings didn’t have his address.’
Adele snorted. ‘Oh, yes, go on. Defend him, India. You always did. Even though you knew what he’d said about you, how he’d treated you, you still ran around after him like a lovesick puppy!’
India drew a calming breath. This was an old argument, and one she had learned not to pursue. It used to hurt—it might still hurt, if she let it. But she knew it was just her mother’s way of expunging her frustration, of letting out some of the bitterness that was eating her up.
‘Well, what did you talk about, then?’ Adele persisted now, when it became apparent that her previous taunt was not about to bear fruit. ‘Is he still as arrogant as ever—as aggressive? What?’
India carefully uncurled her fingers and smoothed them over the expanded Lycra of her shorts. She was glad her mother was looking at her own reflection at that moment, and not at her. But that didn’t prevent her palms from growing moist, or stop a trickle of sweat from running down between her breasts.
‘He’s—older,’ she said at last, realising that was hardly a satisfactory response, but needing to say something before her mother became suspicious of her silence. ‘And—he’s very brown. I’d say that, whatever he’s been doing for the past eight years, it hasn’t been in an office.’
Adele’s eyes shifted to her daughter’s face. ‘Well, what did you expect?’ she demanded scathingly, and India was so relieved she had noticed nothing amiss that she didn’t voice any protest. ‘He’s probably been herding cattle or working on an oil rig! God knows, he wasn’t fit for anything else. When I think of how we’ve worked to make a success of this place, I could weep. It’s just not fair that he should get it all.’
‘No.’ India had to concede her mother’s final point at least. But Nathan was his father’s flesh and blood. She had only ever been
