An All-Consuming Passion

Morgan had not wanted to get involved, but it was Holly herself who had involved him. With artless provocation, she had slipped her arm through his and compelled him to stay, using his strength to support her when her father’s wrath washed over her. A tall girl, with cropped fair hair and a slim, still adolescently angular body, she had faced her father bravely, unaware that Andrew Forsyth wasn’t even listening to her. Poor Holly, Morgan remembered now, the colour leaving her face so quickly that the expertly used cosmetics became as conspicuous as a clown’s mask. She should have known better than to try and fight Andrew Forsyth. Men with far fewer scruples had tried and failed, and Holly simply did not have the weapons.

If only she had not looked so much like her mother, perhaps then her father might have been able to forget. But, having seen photographs of the first Mrs Forsyth, Morgan knew exactly why his employer found his daughter’s presence so intolerable. Holly’s mother was the only woman he had ever loved, and although there had been three other wives since her death, there had been no other children—not even a son to step into his father’s shoes.

Unfortunately, Morgan had been able to do nothing to help her and, when she realised this, Holly had turned on him, too. As her friends drifted away in twos and threes, unable—or unwilling—to be a party to her humiliation, Andrew had delivered his final ultimatum. If she wanted him to go on supporting her, she would have to give up mixing with that crowd of queers and layabouts, or she could get out.

Six weeks later, Morgan heard that she had left for her mother’s old home on Pulpit Island, one hundred and fifty miles from St Thomas in the Virgin Islands. Sara Gantry, Holly’s mother, had been born in the West Indies, and her family had once owned a thriving sugar plantation there. But, what with the price of sugar falling and labour becoming increasingly expensive, the estate had largely been dismantled, even before Holly’s grandparents died. However, the house was still standing and, according to Andrew, Holly had always been happy there.

‘She used to go out for holidays, when she was younger,’ he told Morgan, with a rare flash of what might have been conscience. ‘She likes swimming and fishing, and messing about with crayons and water colours,’ he added, when his assistant made no immediate comment. ‘Don’t judge me, Morgan. She always has been a thorn in my side.’

And who was he to judge anyway, reflected Morgan drily, resting one booted ankle across his knee. His own sixteen-year-old twins were proving to be just as much of a liability, and how could he blame Andrew for ignoring his daughter when he spent so little time with his sons? According to Alison, his ex-wife, he was totally responsible for their delinquency and, in all honesty, he had been away a lot when they were growing up. Andrew was a demanding employer and, as his empire stretched from one side of the financial world to the other, Morgan had often been in Hong Kong or San Francisco when he should have been at home.

But had he been entirely to blame? To begin with, Alison had been delighted when, soon after their marriage, Morgan had been recruited to Andrew Forsyth’s office. She had even encouraged him to make himself indispensable to his superior, and she had soon found uses for the higher salary his promotion had brought.

She had not wanted the twins, but their arrival less than two years after their marriage had coincided with their removal to a bigger flat, and she had been placated by the chance to prove her home-making abilities. Besides, she had discovered that having twins set her apart from other young mothers, who had only had one child at a time, and for a while she was content to bask in their reflected glory.

By the time the twins were two, however, motherhood had begun to pall, and Alison was clamouring for a garden to get them out of her hair. She didn’t care that, to buy the house in Willesden, Morgan had to work a twelve-hour day. She had chosen it because it was near her mother’s house, and in no time at all Mrs Stevens was caring for the twins while Alison spent her time in boutiques and beauty parlours.

But, eventually, even the novelty of an unlimited supply of money did not satisfy her. Morgan’s promotion to Andrew Forsyth’s personal assistant meant that he and his wife were occasionally invited to dinner in Hampstead, and before long Alison was resentful of their own ‘poky’ domain. She saw no reason why they should not have a large house, and a housekeeper, now that Morgan had a position of authority.

They moved again, this time to a sprawling house in Wimbledon, with every accoutrement Alison could wish for. Five bedrooms, three bathrooms; there was even a sauna in the basement. It was the kind of luxury home anyone would be proud of. Only, now, boredom took the place of envy, and resentment of Morgan’s more exciting lifestyle became the most contentious issue in Alison’s life.

Morgan was unable to appease her. Her constant jibes and recriminations made life pretty difficult at times, and before long the twins began to notice. Salving his conscience with the conviction that the boys would be happier if they were not constantly witness to their parents’ rows, Morgan had suggested boarding school. But for once Alison had demurred from taking the easy option.

‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ she had shouted, her fashionably thin features contorted into their habitual expression of dissatisfaction. ‘Then you wouldn’t need to feel any sense of guilt in neglecting your family, would you? You could go off with Andrew bloody Forsyth with a clear conscience!’

Morgan had endeavoured to explain that were he to resign his position as Andrew’s assistant, they could not afford their present standard of living, but she had not listened. So far as his wife was concerned, he was a careless, selfish bastard, whose only real enjoyment was in making money for someone else.

Alison, meanwhile, was finding different pursuits. Abandoning any pretence of fidelity, she began to look for diversion in other quarters, and their relationship quickly foundered.

Yet, even then, she had fought their inevitable separation. Blaming Morgan yet again for his selfishness and neglect, she had fought for, and gained, custody of the two boys, and Morgan found himself faced with the upkeep of two households, instead of just one. Of course, the modest flat he occupied in Kensington did not stretch his income, but fighting Alison’s influence on the twins was quite another matter.

Naturally, having been raised in such an atmosphere, they had been affected by it. Just in a small way at first: fighting in the playground, stealing small amounts of money from their mother’s purse, getting such poor grades in school that the headmaster had called their father in for a discussion. But gradually, as they had grown older, their crimes had become more serious. When they were sent to the local comprehensive school, they frequently played truant, and when Morgan found out and paid for their transfer to a fee-paying boys’ school, they were soon threatened with expulsion for using foul language. And finally, just recently, within weeks of leaving yet another fee-paying establishment, they had been caught shoplifting with some other boys in Oxford Street, and only the intervention of Andrew’s lawyer had prevented them from a serious conviction.

It had not been an opportune moment for Andrew to ask Morgan to fly out to the West Indies to bring his daughter back to London. With the twins out of school and resentful of the restrictions he had persuaded Alison to put upon them, he had been loath to leave the country. But Andrew had had the solution.

‘I’ll speak to the commanding officer of the Admiral Nelson,’ he declared, mentioning the name of a famous sailing vessel, used as a training ground for would-be naval recruits. ‘Fawcett—that’s the chap—he’s a friend of mine, and if he can fit them into his schedule, he will. Three weeks living in pretty austere surroundings is exactly what they need, and they’ll learn the rudiments of sailing as well as learning to work with other people as a team.’

‘And do you think Jeff and Jon will comply?’ asked Morgan doubtfully. ‘Will Alison let them go?’

‘If I ask her,’ returned Andrew smugly, exchanging an amused smile with his assistant. ‘It will do them a power of good. And it will get them away from their mother for a while, which can’t be bad.’

Morgan shifted rather impatiently in his seat now and Joe, attracted by the movement, glanced round. ‘That’s Pulpit Island, Mr Kane,’ he said, pointing down towards a mass of greenery, which seemed to be floating on the water. ‘See that sickle curve of beach? That’s Charlotte’s Bay that it’s wrapped around.’

‘Oh—thanks.’

Morgan produced a smile and determinedly forced his mind to dwell on less disturbing things. As the plane banked to facilitate its approach he was able to discern the distinctive outcropping of rock, which Andrew had told him had given the island its name, rising over a thousand feet from the central highlands. The rest of the island appeared to be covered in a thriving mass of vegetation, a darkly tinted emerald, set in a frame of creamy white coral.

The island was bigger than he had expected, though as the seaplane plunged towards the enveloping curve of Charlotte’s Bay, he could see little sign of life. ‘Charlottesville—that’s the capital—it’s at the other side of the island,’ the pilot commented, as if reading Morgan’s thoughts. ‘Not much of a capital, really. Just a handful of shops and warehouses, and a market that sells fruit and fish.’

Morgan wanted to reply, but the sea seemed to be hurtling up towards them at a terrifying pace. He felt the rush of adrenalin through his veins turn his stomach over, and he gripped the arms of his seat as the aircraft hit the water. ‘Christ,’ he muttered weakly, as the plane’s floats tore a channel across the bay, and a salty spray forced its way through a ventilator. Taking off had been slow, but landing certainly wasn’t.

‘You all right, Mr Kane?’ asked Joe with some concern, as the aircraft slowed to a more sedate pace and chugged happily towards the shore. ‘Guess you’ve never flown in the “goose” before, but you can rely on her. Safest transport around.’

‘Is it?’

Morgan’s tone was dry, but he couldn’t help it. It had been a long day. First the nine-hour flight to Miami, then the forty-minute wait for his connection to St Thomas. And now this crazy island-hopping amphibian, which even now was having its wheels cranked down by hand so that, when they reached the shallows, it could waddle out on to the beach.

He glanced at his watch. It was almost half past six local time, but his body told him it was much later. Apart from which, he had an ache in his spine through sitting so long, and the alarm he had experienced on landing had covered his whole body in an unpleasant wave of heat.

Reaching up, he loosened his tie and peered somewhat wearily out of the window. Although it was early evening, the warmth now that the plane had landed was almost palpable, and he looked down at his dark grey three-piece suit with some impatience. He should have changed at Miami, he reflected. He had had time. But he had also needed a drink, and he hadn’t had time for both.

The seaplane bumped up on to sand filtered from successive generations of coral, washed by the lucid green waters of Charlotte’s Bay. Ahead of the plane, the virginal white sand gave way to coconut groves and waving palms, and beyond that to the tangled forest he had seen from the air.

There was a boy standing on the beach, apparently waiting for the plane, and Joe waved to him, evidently recognising a friend. ‘That’s Samuel, Miss Holly’s houseboy,’ he explained to his passenger. ‘Seems like she knew you were coming.’

‘Seems like she did,’ murmured Morgan drily, loosening his seat belt and automatically checking the zipper of his trousers. ‘I wonder,’ he added, under his breath, and when the plane halted, he got gratefully to his feet.

Because of his height, it was impossible to stand straight inside the plane, but Joe was already out of his seat, loosening the catches and thrusting open the door. He let Morgan precede him, standing back while the other man bent to negotiate the low lintel.

Morgan stepped down on to the sand that crunched beneath the soles of his shoes, and into a wave of heat infinitely more enervating than the cloistered atmosphere on board had been. The seaplane had kept reasonably cool throughout the flight, and the wash of water against its hull had kept it cool on landing. But outside, in the still powerful rays of the setting sun, the temperature was considerably higher, and the jacket of his suit felt damp beneath his arms.

With a gesture of impatience, he shrugged out of the offending garment and slung it over one shoulder, aware of the amused gaze of the boy on the beach as he took in the equally uncomfortable waistcoat beneath. Samuel—if that was his name—was wearing sawn-off jeans and a flapping T-shirt, and his dark, bronzed skin gleamed dully with the patina of good health. He was perhaps sixteen, Morgan estimated, the twins’ age. But he was taller than they were, and not so stocky, his long legs protruding from the knee-length denims.

‘Mr Kane?’ he enquired, stepping forward, his expression sobering abruptly. ‘Miss Forsyth sent me to meet you. She’s waiting for you back at the house.’

‘Oh, thanks.’ Morgan inclined his head in acknowledgment, as Joe hoisted his overnight-case out of the plane. He shrugged. ‘Is it far to the house?’

‘Hell, no. That’s it—over there,’ exclaimed Joe, preempting the boy’s response. He pointed a long finger, and Morgan squinted into the deepening gloom. The sun was sinking fast, and the island was bathed in an amber radiance, an almost unholy glow that was rapidly turning to umber.

The Forsyth house seemed to stand on a rise, overlooking the bay. A white, verandahed portico was overset with dark iron-railed balconies and, even from this distance, Morgan could see the profusion of plant-life growing all around it. It was bigger than he had expected, and many of the windows were shuttered, but a light was glowing from a downstairs window revealing Holly’s occupancy.

‘Let’s go,’ said Samuel, apparently resenting Joe’s interference in what he considered to be his territory. He picked up Morgan’s suitcase and took a few pointed steps along the beach. ‘You coming, Mr Kane?’

‘Er—yes. Yes, of course.’ Morgan dragged his eyes away from the house and turned briefly back to the pilot. ‘Thanks,’ he said, shaking the man’s hand. ‘Now—how do I get in touch with you when I want to go back?’

‘Miss Holly’ll arrange all that,’ responded Joe, with a grin. ‘You have a good holiday now. You hear?’

Morgan forbore from repeating that this was not a holiday, and grinned in return. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘See you soon.’ And, with a final gesture of farewell, he started after Samuel’s lanky form.

By the time they had reached the stretch of beach below the house, the seaplane had shimmied back into the water and was making its take-off. The roar of its engines was an ugly intrusion into a stillness disturbed only by the piping sound of the crickets, and a flock of birds rose protestingly from their nesting place, startled by the unaccustomed violation of their privacy.

Samuel balanced Morgan’s suitcase on his head, holding it steady with one hand, as they left the beach to climb a shallow flight of steps to the house. There must have been fifty of them, Morgan decided, feeling the constriction in his chest as he followed Samuel’s unhurried tread. It made him realise that a weekly work-out at the squash club was not a total compensation for a sedentary life, and he was panting pretty badly by the time they reached the top.

It was fully dark now, but the air was fragrant with the scent of night-blooming plants and delicate honeysuckle. They picked their way across a garden that had evidently been left to go to seed, and brushed between a mass of statuary before climbing two more steps to a lawned area in front of the house. The lights from the house gave more illumination here, revealing that the grass had, at least, been cut, and the borders trimmed. An old cane chair reclined in the shade of a flowering acacia, and on the verandah a pair of cushioned sun-loungers were set beside a basket-woven table.

It wasn’t until they were actually climbing the steps up to the verandah that Morgan realised someone was standing there, in the darkness, watching their approach. She had not occupied either of the sun-loungers that flanked the circular table, where a jug of iced cordial drew his thirsty gaze. She was standing in the shadows, against the wall of the building, and she only moved into the light when she was obliged to do so.

Even then, Morgan had some difficulty in relating this golden-skinned creature to the Holly Forsyth he remembered. Setting down his briefcase, he ran a hand around the back of his neck, flinching from the dampness of his skin. He was sweating quite profusely now, and it didn’t help to be confronted by someone as cool and self-possessed as this young woman seemed to be.