Born Out Of Love

Charlotte never failed to be amazed at Robert’s grasp of vocabulary. ‘Where on earth did you hear that?’ she was saying, when the dark man came down the aisle between the rows of seats and stopped beside them.

‘Mrs Derby?’ he queried politely, and she looked up into Logan’s critical gaze.

‘Y-yes,’ she stammered.

He inclined his head. ‘Will you come with me? I’m here to escort you to Avocado Cay.’

Charlotte’s mouth was dry. For several seconds she didn’t—couldn’t—say anything, remaining in her seat, staring at him through mists of confusion. It was Logan. She had no doubts about that now. Older, of course—he must be thirty-seven now—with lines etched upon his tanned features which had not been there before, but unmistakably the man who had ravaged her emotions and abandoned her. She ought to feel angry, she thought. She ought to feel resentful and cheated, capable of returning the contempt she could see glinting in those tawny eyes.

Instead, she felt shaken, and apprehensive; terrified of the complications he could create. She glanced anxiously at Robert, half afraid her expression revealed the turmoil in her brain, but he seemed quite relaxed at this unexpected turn of events, obviously just waiting for her to make the first move.

She took a deep breath. What could she do but go with Logan? If Madame Fabergé had asked him to pick them up she had no valid reason to refuse his offer, and certainly Robert would think it strange if she showed a preference for the bus now.

She wondered what Logan was thinking, wishing she could see behind that cool mask he was presenting. Had he decided not to acknowledge her? Were they to behave as if they were the strangers Robert believed? Her heart thumped and she cast another covert look in her son’s direction, mentally trying to reassure herself that Logan could never suspect their relationship. Why should he, after all? She had been married, and so far as he was concerned, Robert was the son of that marriage. Yet if he had guessed who she was, why hadn’t he made any attempt to stop her from coming here? He must surely have as little desire to see her again as she had to see him.

‘Avocado Cay?’ she said now, stupidly she realised, and Logan nodded.

‘That is where you’re going, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. We’re going to Avocado Cay.’ Robert spoke up with his usual confidence. ‘But Mum’s feeling a bit funny, aren’t you?’ He smiled encouragingly at her before transferring his attention back to the tall man beside them. ‘Who’re you?’

‘Robert—–’

Charlotte’s hasty reproval went unacknowledged. ‘I’m Logan Kennedy,’ he answered the boy evenly. ‘And as a matter of fact, your mother and I have met before—years ago.’ His lips twitched briefly. ‘I live at Avocado Cay, too.’

‘You do?’ Robert pushed back a lock of dark hair, his frown mirroring his confusion. ‘But Mum—–’

‘I expect your mother’s forgotten all about our brief encounter,’ Logan interposed smoothly. ‘I was an—er—associate of your father’s.’

‘Oh.’ Robert looked as though he might be about to say something about that too, but to Charlotte’s relief he gave in to other questions: ‘What’s Avocado Cay like? I can’t wait to see where we’re going to live. Is there a beach? Will I be able to swim in the sea?’

A faint trace of humour touched Logan’s mouth. ‘There are miles of beach,’ he reassured him. ‘And swimming in the sea is possible. But perhaps your mother would prefer you to use the lagoon.’

‘The lagoon!’ Robert looked intrigued. ‘What’s that, Mr Kennedy?’

Charlotte made a supreme effort and got to her feet. ‘Robert, Mr—Kennedy’s not here to answer your questions.’ She forced herself to look at Logan. ‘I’m ready when you are. Our luggage is stowed somewhere at the back of the bus.’

‘I know.’ Logan’s expression hardened as he looked at her. ‘Miguel is presently loading it into my car.’

‘Miguel?’ Charlotte glanced round in time to see the overweight bus driver closing the rear flap of the station wagon and her lips tightened. ‘You were sure we would agree, then?’ The words would not be denied.

Logan’s heavy-lidded eyes flickered with an emotion she couldn’t identify. ‘Why not? The journey is rough, whatever the conveyance, and I’d hazard a guess that physically you’ll feel safer with me.’ He turned. ‘Come.’

‘Mum wasn’t looking forward to riding in this!’ agreed Robert, apparently unaware of the undercurrents in their conversation. ‘It’s a museum piece!’

Following Logan along the aisle to the exit, Charlotte was aware of Robert’s voice carrying clearly to the man standing at the foot of the steps, and she wasn’t surprised when Miguel pulled a face at him.

‘What is this? You are calling my beautiful bus a museum piece!’ he exclaimed in mock fury, and Robert grinned widely.

‘I’d like to ride with you, Miguel,’ he offered placatingly, ‘but I don’t think Mum could stand the pace!’

Miguel roared with laughter, and Charlotte, prepared to remonstrate with her son once again for his casual use of the man’s name, bit her tongue. She saw Logan watching Robert with a curious expression on his face and her heart turned over. What if he should guess the truth? she thought agonisingly, and turned back from the inevitable outcome of such a consequence.

‘Perhaps you might prefer to travel in the bus—er—Robert?’ suggested Logan quietly, and Charlotte’s nerves jangled at the terrifying possibility of having to make the journey to Avocado Cay alone with this man.

But Robert took one look at her pale features and shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, thanks. Not today anyway. I think I ought to stick with Mum, if you don’t mind.’

Logan shrugged and swung open the nearside door of the station wagon. ‘De nada,’ he said indifferently, reminding Charlotte that in spite of his perfect English he was not European, and at his silent indication she subsided into the passenger seat with unconcealed relief.

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_468f4614-5e5a-5e62-9f16-60743eaba2e6)

THE road up from the harbour was little more than a dusty track, that in wet weather might well become dangerous, Charlotte surmised. Within minutes, the harbour had fallen away below them, a natural basin, which from this height revealed light and colour invisible from the quay. As they climbed higher, the air grew fresher, and the wind through the open windows tumbled Charlotte’s hair about her shoulders.

The palm groves which fringed the coastline had given way to dense undergrowth which was crushed beneath the wheels of the station wagon where it encroached on to the road. The trees, Charlotte could see, were overgrown with creepers, and their progress sent birds winging into the air, noisily indignant at being disturbed. They could hear water, clear rushing water, that revealed itself in streams and tiny waterfalls tumbling down the mountainside. Ferns and mossy rocks determined its course through pools and cascades, flowering plants clinging to its path for survival.

They followed the curve of a ridge until the harbour was hidden by the shoulder of the island and thick vegetation gave way to waist-high grasses. From here it was possible to glimpse the shapes of other islands in the group, shadowy mounds rising out of the deepening colours of the sea.

Robert, who, like Charlotte, had been silent on the journey up from the quay, now exclaimed eagerly: ‘How big is the island?’

‘I don’t know—–’ Charlotte was beginning, when Logan interrupted her.

‘San Cristobal is approximately twelve kilometres long and seven across at its widest point,’ he stated calmly. ‘Not very big, as you can see.’

Robert rested his arms along the backs of their seats, obviously regarding this as an invitation for more questions. ‘They’re volcanic islands, aren’t they?’

‘Twenty-five million years ago,’ agreed Logan dryly.

‘Twenty-five million years! Gosh!’ Even Robert was impressed by this. ‘I can’t imagine that—twenty-five million years!’

‘Nobody can,’ replied Logan, swerving to avoid the protruding buttress of a thickly rooted evergreen. ‘But geologically the oldest islands in the Antilles were formed about a hundred and fifty million years ago.’

‘Is that so?’ Robert frowned. ‘Have you made a study of the islands, Mr Kennedy?’

Logan glanced sideways at Charlotte. ‘I’m a scientist, Robert. All—behaviour interests me.’

Robert was intrigued. ‘What kind of a scientist?’

‘Oh, Robert, please—–’ Charlotte glanced round at him, nervously impatient, and then felt dismayed at his obvious lack of comprehension. ‘I—Mr Kennedy can’t want to answer all these questions!’

‘I don’t mind.’ Logan was infuriatingly casual. ‘I’m a marine biologist, Robert. I study underwater life, among other things.’

‘How terrific!’ Robert was really impressed now. ‘Do you go scuba diving—that sort of thing? Like Jacques Cousteau?’

A touch of humour lifted the corners of Logan’s mouth. ‘Well, I would not put myself in the class of Monsieur Cousteau, but yes—I do spend some of my time underwater. It’s a fascinating world.’

‘I’d love to see it—–’ Robert was beginning wistfully, when Charlotte determined that this conversation had gone far enough.

‘How well do you know the Fabergés, Mr Kennedy?’ she inquired politely, as much from a need to penetrate the wall of isolation she could feel closing around her as a desire to prelude her introduction to her employers.