A Woman Of Passion

‘Yes, again,’ went on Andrew evenly. ‘We all had our problems, didn’t we, Henry?’ He gave his son a warning look. ‘Now, run along and ask whoever it is your mother said is looking after us——’

‘Maria,’ supplied Sophie proudly, and her father smiled.

‘Very well. You two go and ask Maria if she’d be kind enough to give you a drink.’

‘Helen can do it,’ protested Tricia, before Henry and Sophie could leave them. She carefully resumed her position on the lounger. ‘As they’re obviously tired, it would probably be a good idea to give them their supper early and put them to bed.’

‘Oh, Mummy—’

‘But a want to talk to Daddy—’

The two children both spoke at once, but Tricia just ignored them. ‘You can have an early night, too, Helen,’ she added, stretching out her hand towards heir husband. ‘I shan’t need you any more today.’ She sighed contentedly. ‘Drew and I will enjoy a quiet evening together. It’s ages since we had any time alone.’

‘Helen’s not a child, Trish.’ Andrew came to her defence, even though she hadn’t wanted him to. ‘Put the brats to bed by all means, Helen. But then you must join us for supper.’

‘Helen may not want to,’ Tricia observed tersely, not at all pleased to have her plans overset. ‘She might like a quiet evening, too.’

‘We are on holiday, Trish,’ retorted Andrew, just as Helen was about to agree with her. ‘Besides, I’m sure you’ll want to hear about the man we met at the airport. He said his name was Aitken, didn’t he, Helen?’ He turned back to his wife. ‘Do we know anyone of that name?’

Tricia stared first at her husband, then at Helen. ‘Aitken?’ she exclaimed. ‘Did you say Aitken?’

‘That’s what he said,’ said Andrew maliciously, enjoying Helen’s discomfort. ‘The name is familiar, but I can’t imagine why.’

‘I can,’ said Tricia suddenly, and for an awful moment Helen thought she had made the connection between Chase Aitken and her mother. But then, as the other woman began to speak again, she realised how unlikely that was. Her mother had left her father almost twenty years ago.

‘Well, you won’t know,’ Tricia explained patiently. ‘It’s the name of the man who owns the house beyond the point. I asked Maria who our neighbours were, and she said his name was Aitken.’ She clasped her hands together excitedly. ‘D’you think it’s the same man?’

‘I’d say it was highly likely,’ said Andrew, frowning. ‘Though the chap didn’t make any comment when I told him we were staying here. You’d think he’d have mentioned it, wouldn’t you, Helen? Unless we offended him, of course.’

‘Offended him?’ exclaimed Tricia sharply, looking from one to the other of them with suspicious eyes. ‘How could you have offended him? For heaven’s sake, Helen, what did you say?’

Helen noticed the assumption that she was the one who must have said something to offend him, and she was just about to explain what had happened when Andrew broke in.

‘Well, as you know, Sophie had been throwing up all over the car park, and the bloke came over to offer his assistance. We let him think that Helen was my wife, and I don’t think he was impressed by our behaviour.’

‘You did what?’

Tricia stared at her husband, aghast, as Helen wished the ground would open up and swallow her. But she had nothing but admiration for the way Andrew had turned the tables. Not only had he implicated her in his schemes, but he’d successfully neutralised any flack from Aitken’s direction.

‘It was just a game,’ he said carelessly, draping his jacket over one shoulder and loosening his tie. ‘For God’s sake, Trish, I doubt if he believed it. Does Helen look like the mother of these two, I ask you? A fool could see she’s far too young.’

‘She’s exactly four years younger than me,’ said Tricia through her teeth, and Andrew gave a dismissive shrug in her direction.

‘Like I said, far too young,’ he remarked, grinning at her frustration. ‘I’m going for a shower now. I assume we do have showers in this place?’ He sauntered towards the French doors that opened into the villa. ‘You can come and show Daddy where Mummy’s room is, Henry. And then, while I’m changing, d’you think one of you could get me a beer?’

‘Andrew!’

Tricia’s temper was simmering, but he was totally undaunted by her infuriated stare. ‘Oh, and ask Maria if she’d get my suitcase,’ he added. ‘Unless someone else would like to oblige.’

Helen spent an uncomfortable evening on her own.

After giving the children their suppers and getting them ready for bed, she’d sent a message, via Maria, to say she had a headache, and would not be joining her employers for the evening meal. Instead she’d made herself a salad, eating it in her room, with the doors and windows securely bolted.

Which was one of the reasons why it was so uncomfortable, although, compared to the other events of the day, the humidity in her room was of little importance. Dear God, what was she going to do? She was almost sure the woman she had seen was her mother. And she was staying just a short distance away. Oh, lord, how could she bear it?

The clipped exchange she had with Tricia, after Andrew had gone for his shower, hadn’t helped. It had been useless trying to explain that Andrew hadn’t actually said she was his wife, that Aitken—she refused to think of him as Chase—had only assumed it. She hadn’t even been given the opportunity to relate properly the events which had led up to his introduction, and if she’d hoped that by telling Tricia how he’d spoken to her—how he’d criticised her—the other woman might relent at all, she’d been wrong. Tricia wasn’t interested in her feelings. She was only interested in the embarrassment their behaviour might have caused her.

‘I think you behaved totally irresponsibly,’ she had said, pacing up and down the terrace, and Helen had noticed how somehow she had shouldered all the blame. ‘Have you seen the house beyond the point? Well, of course you must have. It’s huge, Helen, and obviously expensive. The man must be seriously rich!’

‘Why?’ Helen had sighed. ‘He could be renting the place, just as we are.’

‘I doubt it.’ Tricia had dismissed that idea. ‘I’m fairly sure he lives here.’ She had frowned. ‘I wonder if he’s married. I’d like to meet his wife.’

Helen groaned, and ran her hands over her hair now. The prospect of Tricia meeting the Aitkens socially was one she couldn’t bear to endure. Although she doubted her mother would recognise her, her name was obviously going to give her identity away. What would Fleur do if she was introduced to her own daughter by a stranger? Would she acknowledge her? Would she care? Or was it all some awful nightmare she’d invented?

Helen was up even earlier the next morning. The ironic thing was that her body was beginning to adjust to the time-change, but the uneasy tenor of her thoughts wouldn’t let her sleep. As soon as it was at all light, she crawled wearily out of bed. Perhaps a swim in the ocean might revive her, she thought tiredly. Right now the prospect of facing any of the Sheridans filled her with dismay.

Stripping off her nightgown, she went into the bathroom and cleaned her teeth. One of the ubiquitous flying beetles had committed suicide in the sink, and she removed it to the lavatory with a handful of toilet paper. Then, returning to the bedroom, she pulled a one-piece maillot out of the drawer. Its high-cut hipline was rather daring, but she doubted anyone would see her.

In any event it was black and, in spite of the fact that she’d already spent several days in the sun, she looked rather pale this morning. Pale and uninteresting, she mocked herself ruefully. Still, that was her role here: to avoid being noticed.

Wrapping a towel about her hips, she unlocked the shutters and crossed the balcony. Unlike a summer’s morning at home, it didn’t really get light here until after six o’clock. Then, like the twilight that lasted so briefly, there was a rapid transference to day. The sun rose swiftly in these semi-tropical islands, and the air was always transparent and sweet.

Tussocky grass grew against the low wall where she’d been sitting musing the previous day. A shallow flight of steps gave way to the beach, and the sand felt quite cool between her toes. It was coral sand, fine and slightly gritty, and here and there a rockpool gave a fleeting glimpse of shade. There were crabs, too, scuttling out of her path, some of them so tiny they looked like shells. And now and then a seabird came down to hunt for food, screaming its objection to her intrusion.

When she reached the water’s edge, she couldn’t resist turning her head to see the house Tricia had spoken of the night before. It wasn’t wholly visible, which was one of the reasons Tricia had been so interested in it. All they could see from this distance was a sprawling roof, shaded by palms, and a coral wall. Evidence, if any was needed, that their neighbour preferred his privacy.

Still, Tricia was right about one thing, Helen reflected ruefully. It did look an enormous place. Compared to the Aitken house, the villa they were renting looked tiny, even if it did have four bedrooms and a parlour, and the swimming-pool in the garden.

The water felt cold when she broached the tiny rivulets edged with foam that creamed about her feet. Of course, she knew it was only the heat of her body that made her think it. Compared to the English Channel, it was like a Turkish bath.

It crossed her mind suddenly that this was the time she had seen the stranger walking along the shoreline from her balcony. And hard on the heels of this thought came the obvious knowledge of who it must be. She’d seen him often enough, and always walking in this direction. It had to be Chase Ait ken, and be was bound to think she’d come to intercept him.

The idea of taking a swim instantly lost its appeal. She had no desire to encounter Chase Aitken again, and the realisation of how fine she was cutting it sent her hurrying back the way she had come. Unless he had better things to do—and her stomach hollowed unpleasantly at the thought—he’d be turning the point any moment. All that had saved her was an outcrop of rock, and a brain that was not quite vapid.

‘We meet again, Mrs Sheridan.’

The voice—a far too familiar voice in the circumstances—almost scared the life out of her. She’d thought she was alone on the beach—she had been alone when she walked down to the water. But somehow, while she was ogling his house, perhaps, or before the coolness of the water had cleared her head, he’d negotiated the outcrop. He was sprawling in her path now, and she’d almost walked all over him.

‘I’m—not—Mrs Sheridan,’ she said, choosing the least controversial thing she could say. It was disconcerting to have him looking up at her, and she was glad she still had the towel securely round her hips.

‘I know.’ With a lithe movement he reversed their positions, his superior height making it necessary for Helen to tilt her head now. ‘My—housekeeper—knows your maid, Maria. When I described you, she said you were the Sheridans’ nanny.’

Helen felt a quiver of annoyance. ‘Why should you describe me to your housekeeper?’ she demanded. ‘I don’t think I like the idea of you—gossiping—about me to your staff.’

His dark eyes flickered. ‘I don’t gossip—Helen, isn’t it? I was curious. You seemed far too young to have two children.’

Helen was angry. ‘Did I?’ She licked her lips. ‘Well, that may be so, but I don’t recall giving you permission to use my name, Mr Aitken,’ she declared stiffly.