Shattered Illusions

She’d done it.

Jaime’s breath left her lungs in a rush. ‘All right,’ she echoed, amazed to hear that her voice sounded so normal. And then, because she felt it was expected of her, she said, ‘Thank you.’

‘Good.’ Catriona walked back to her desk and pressed a button on the intercom. ‘Sophie?’ She cast a look at Jaime as she waited. ‘Sophie’s my housekeeper,’ she explained. And then, as the woman answered, she said, ‘Yes, Sophie. I’ve decided to offer Miss—um—Harris the job. She’ll be starting work tomorrow. Can you come and show her to her apartments, please?’

Her rooms were situated in a kind of annexe. It was attached to the main house by means of a vine-hung walkway, which even at this hour of the evening was fragrant with the scent of the pale pink flowers that grew there. The pool she had glimpsed earlier was just visible beyond the white-painted wall of the house, and from a dusk-shaded cupola came the drowsy sound of doves.

Idyllic surroundings indeed, she reflected, still basking in the glow of her success. The only fly in her particular ointment was the housekeeper, Sophie, who still maintained the air of superiority she’d adopted when she’d first shown Jaime into the house.

The door to her apartments had a key, she noticed with some relief, but it wasn’t locked, and Sophie thrust it open without ceremony. ‘I’m sure you’ll find you have everything you need here,’ she declared, using the switch by the door to turn on several lamps. ‘Miss Spencer had no complaints. She was very happy here.’

‘Was she?’

Jaime was beginning to get an inkling as to why Sophie resented her. Evidently, this Miss Spencer was the Kristin Catriona Redding had spoken of so disparagingly, but Sophie clearly considered that she should still have the job.

Deciding there was no point in pursuing the matter, Jaime surveyed the living room they had entered with real pleasure. ‘Did you do this, Sophie?’ she asked, indicating an arrangement of hibiscus and bird of paradise flowers that occupied a prominent position on a low table. Dark green waxy leaves cradled petals of crimson and orange, and it was no effort to admire them as she crossed the Chinese rug. ‘They’re beautiful!’

‘Miss Redding has a standing order with a firm of florists in Hamilton,’ responded Sophie dampeningly. She opened another door to display an adjoining bedroom. ‘Your bathroom is through there.’

‘It’s very nice. Thank you.’

Jaime refused to be daunted, and after another encompassing look about the room Sophie made for the door. ‘Miss Redding will advise you of the eating arrangements tomorrow morning at breakfast,’ she added brusquely. ‘I’ll have Samuel fetch your supper in fifteen minutes.’

Jaime was inclined to say that she didn’t want any supper, thank you, but it would have seemed ungrateful to refuse. Besides, although she was tired, she was doubtful if she’d be able to sleep right away. She was far too excited to relax.

‘My suitcase...’ she ventured instead as Sophie went out the door, and the housekeeper turned back to give her a disdainful look.

‘You’ll find your suitcase in the bedroom,’ she advised crisply. ‘Samuel attended to it earlier. Even if Miss Redding hadn’t decided to employ you, naturally you’d have been offered a bed for the night.’

‘Oh.’ Jaime felt suitably chastened. ‘Thank you.’

‘Miss Redding’s orders,’ declared Sophie, disclaiming all responsibility. ‘Goodnight, Miss Harris. I hope you sleep well.’

Do you?

Jaime closed the door behind the housekeeper with a sense of relief. There was no doubt in her mind that Sophie didn’t hope any such thing. Biting her lip, she turned the key before turning to reappraise her surroundings. Whatever else might happen, she was certainly going to have no complaints about her comfort while she was here.

It was almost dark, the twilight much shorter here than in England. The lamps Sophie had turned on had made the room clearly visible from outside, but before she drew the blinds she took a moment to admire the view.

There was a balcony beyond the windows, with a glass-topped table and a pair of rattan chairs. But it was the sweeping curve of the bay beyond the shrubbery that caught her imagination. And a sea which at this hour of the evening was painted with gold.

The room was even cosier when the curtains were drawn. A pair of rose-patterned sofas faced one another across a marble hearth, with the long low table that held the exotic flower arrangement between. There were several polished cabinets, one of which contained a television, and a single-stemmed mahogany table, and several matching mahogany chairs with velvet seats.

A huge Chinese rug covered most of the floor, but in the bedroom next door a cream shag pile was soft beneath her feet. Kicking off her shoes, she allowed her toes to curl into the carpet, imagining how disappointed her predecessor must have felt to be leaving all this behind.

The bedroom was dominated by a large, colonial-style bed, whose ruched counterpane matched the ruched silk curtains at the bedroom windows. The colour scheme of cream and gold was echoed in pale striped wallpaper, with the dark mahogany armoire and chest of drawers proving an attractive contrast.

Her suitcase was waiting on the padded ottoman at the foot of the bed, and she was releasing the clasps when she heard someone knock at the outer door. Her supper, she guessed ruefully, going to answer it. Whatever faults Sophie had, efficiency wasn’t one of them.

The tall, ebony-skinned man who had brought her tray was probably Sophie’s husband, she decided, though, unlike the housekeeper, he was inclined to be friendly. Setting the tray on the circular table, he took a little time to tell her what was under the silver lids, and then wished her a good night before he left.

Closing the door after him, Jaime leaned back against it, feeling a little less alien after his visit. It wasn’t her fault, after all, that Kristin Spencer had been dismissed. She was just grateful for the opportunity it had given her.

After unpacking her suitcase and exploring the sensuous luxury of the bathroom, Jaime sat down to her meal with some reluctance. She really wasn’t hungry, but conversely she was too hyped up to go to bed, and the spicy shrimps with sauce were quite delicious. She left the medallions of veal, and nibbled on the strawberry shortcake, even if it wasn’t particularly wise to eat something so sweet before going to bed. But, she told herself, she needed the sugar to maintain her optimism, and she’d never tasted such a delicious dessert before.

A small bottle of wine had accompanied the meal, and before going for her shower Jaime emptied the bottle into her glass, and stepped out onto the balcony. The shifting waters of the bay were no longer visible, but they were still audible, and she propped her hip against the rail and breathed deeply of the soft, salt-laden air. She was here, she thought incredulously. She was going to work with Catriona Redding. ‘Forgive me, Dad,’ she whispered, ‘but I had to see what she was like for myself.’

CHAPTER TWO (#u84c4cdc0-72c1-5c02-8dfe-c494ec15e984)

DOMINIC awakened with a foul taste in his mouth. And a headache, he discovered, when he lifted his head off the pillow. Which wasn’t so surprising, really. He’d drunk the better part of a bottle of Scotch the night before.

But it was the reason why he’d drunk the Scotch that made him want to bury his head in the pillow again and drag the sheet, which was all that was covering him, over his head. Catriona, damn her, was making his life difficult, and he sometimes actually found himself wishing his father had never married her.

Or died so soon, he appended ruefully, leaving him in such an invidious position. He thrust the sheet aside, and propped himself up on his elbows. If Lawrence Redding had still been alive, his life would have been so much simpler.

Sliding his long legs out of bed, he got rather unsteadily to his feet. The room rocked for a moment, but then steadied, and, promising himself he wouldn’t let this happen again, Dominic trudged across the carpeted floor.

Through the slatted blinds, the sun was just beginning to gild the arched roofs of the cabanas that flanked the pool. The lushness of the gardens gave the place a tropical appearance at this time of the year, and he couldn’t deny that he still regarded this place as home.

Beyond the pool and the gardens, dunes sloped away towards a stretch of white sand. The curve of Copperhead Bay formed an almost perfect backdrop, the ocean creaming softly on the shore. The tide was going out, leaving a tracery of rock pools that reflected the strengthening rays of the rising sun. His father had built this house to take full advantage of the view, and Dominic never tired of its timeless beauty.

Had never thought there might come a time when he would be forced to make a choice, he reflected wearily. After all, when his father married Catriona, he had been only sixteen. He’d never dreamt that in less than twenty years Lawrence Redding would be dead.

He was pondering the beneficial effects of an early morning dip when he saw someone appear from around the side of the house. A woman, he saw at once—a tall woman, dressed in trousers and a shirt, with a thick plait of rust-coloured hair draped over one shoulder. She had her arms wrapped about her body as she walked, and she acted as if she wasn’t really aware of where she was.

He sighed. He knew who she must be, of course. She was his stepmother’s new assistant, who’d apparently arrived from England the day before. Catriona had omitted to tell him that she had had a London employment agency find her another assistant. Just as she had omitted to tell him that while he was in New York she’d dismissed Kristin Spencer.

Poor Kristin. His lips twisted. He should have warned her that Catriona didn’t like competition. And judging from his first impression of the woman by the pool she had gone for experience over beauty this time.

He grimaced, not liking the cynicism that was creeping into his consciousness these days. Catriona’s fault, of course, but it was his own fault too for allowing himself to be influenced by her. Perhaps, if he’d had more success in his marriage than his father had, he’d have overcome the tendency. As it was, it was far too easy to accept his stepmother’s interpretation of events, and if he wasn’t careful he’d become just like her, taking what he wanted from life, without considering the consequences.

He frowned. He wondered what had attracted this woman to leave an apparently successful career in London to come and work in Bermuda. He supposed the idea was glamorous enough, but after a few weeks in the islands would she, like Kristin, be eager for some kind of diversion? After all, this estate was a good twelve miles from Hamilton, and apart from the obvious attractions of swimming and sunbathing there wasn’t a lot to do. Even the islanders themselves spent regular breaks in the United Kingdom or the United States, and Dominic knew he’d go stir crazy himself if he was obliged to live here all year round.

Catriona had said this woman was a fan, that she’d left the lucrative position she’d enjoyed at the university to work with a writer she admired, but Dominic found that hard to believe. Or was that just another example of his cynicism? he wondered wryly. There was no doubt that his father’s publishing house had benefited greatly from Catriona’s novels.

Shaking his head, he forced himself to leave the woman to her solitary walk and went into the adjoining bathroom. A cool shower achieved what the ocean had denied him, and after towelling himself dry he ran an exploratory hand over his roughening jawline. He needed a shave, but he couldn’t be bothered to attend to that right now. Instead, ignoring the warnings of his conscience, he pulled on a pair of frayed, knee-length denims and a black vest, and left his rooms.

The house was cool and quiet. Despite her sometimes strict working schedule, his stepmother rarely stirred before 8 a.m. Unlike himself, she was one of those people who could sleep whatever the circumstances, emerging from her room each morning with that fresh, unblemished appearance he knew so well.

Whatever else Catriona possessed, she was not troubled by a conscience—unlike himself.

Like many of the homes in Bermuda, the house was two-storeyed, with a hipped roof, and a huge underground storage tank for rain water. It was always a source of interest to tourists that despite the lushness of its vegetation Bermuda had no actual water supply. But happily the islands were blessed with sufficient rain to fill the tanks, and Dominic had never tasted purer water in his life.

Descending the curving staircase into the Italian-tiled hall, Dominic paused for a moment to lace his canvas deck shoes. Here, evidence of his father’s interest in sculpture was present in the marble likeness of an eighteenth-century nude that stood beside the archway into a cream- and rose-painted drawing room, while a pair of Venetian sconces provided light on the rare occasions when the power supply was interrupted.

Because he was so familiar with the house, Dominic paid little attention to the elegance of his surroundings. His father had built the house when he was little more than a schoolboy, and it was as familiar to him as his own apartment in Manhattan. Though perhaps not as comfortable these days, he conceded, with some irony.

Leaving the hall by means of the glass-panelled door that led into the sun-filled morning room, he crossed the braided carpet to reach the windows. Releasing the catch, he slid the patio door along, and stepped outside.