The moment was charged with tension as the two girls, one pale with anger, the other inexpressibly hurt, faced one another across the room.
'But Greta, I should be one of your bridesmaids! I'm your sister!'
'Don't be so absurd. You've pretended ever since you came here. You're not my sister, so why you persist in the pretence I shall never understand!'
'But, Greta-'
'I've told you, several times, that I want only four bridesmaids, and as I have four best friends then obviously I can't have you!'
Christine stared at her dumbly; her big violet eyes had filled up and her mouth was quivering uncontrollably. She began to plead but choked on the words and had to stop. It seemed impossible to make Greta understand that the disappointment was so strong and deep that it had become a physical thing, tearing at her heart with crucifying pain. No, Greta could not understand because she had no ideas of sentimentality, of collecting precious memories… she was not an idealist like her adoptive sister and, therefore, could never be hurt in the way that Christine could.
'You-you c-can't do this to me!' cried Christine at last. She had pictured herself in a lovely flowing dress, proud to be the chief bridesmaid. 'Please, Greta, let me be one of your bridesmaids.'
'For heaven's sake, when are you going to stop!'
'I've set my heart on it… please…' Christine's small hands were clenched against her breast. 'If you knew h-how it hurts you'd n-not be so hard.'
An exasperated sigh escaped Greta and a contemptuous frown marred her wide, intelligent brow. 'It's final,' she stated through her teeth, 'so don't go on any more about it. In any case, I want all blondes and you're dark.'
'Not very dark-' Christine glanced at herself in the mirror above Greta's dressing table. 'It's-well-middling, a sort of brown, but more honey. I'd be willing to bleach it,' she added, eyes lighting up as this occurred to her. 'Maria's great at changing the colour of her clients' hair!'
'For the lord's sake, will you stop this nonsense!' Scathingly Greta glanced at the girl who, having lost her parents in a road accident seven years ago, had been taken in by Greta's mother and father and treated as their own daughter, a circumstance which Greta had always resented but had, for the most part, managed to hide her true feelings from her parents. Not so with Christine, who knew the extent of Greta's dislike. Nevertheless, her decision came as a shock, for whatever was lacking between them, Christine had taken it for granted that she would be the chief bridesmaid at Greta's wedding. 'As if it really matters,' added Greta disparagingly. 'You'll be at the wedding.'
Christine looked at her through a mist of tears. Yes, it did matter! Things like this mattered a great deal when you were eighteen, but she ought to have known that Greta would not understand.
'You're mean,' Christine could not help saying. 'I think that one day you'll be sorry for being so mean with me.'
'I'm mean?' with a lift of her delicately curved eyebrows. 'Well, if I'm mean, then you're ungrateful. You seem always to forget that you'd be in a home if my parents hadn't taken you in!'
'You always remind me of that.' Christine turned away, dragging her feet as she went towards the door.
'Close it after you,' snapped Greta, swivelling around on the stool to regard herself in the mirror. Beautiful! No wonder she had won the greatest prize on the island! A very satisfied smile curved her mouth as she picked up a silver-backed brush and held it thoughtfully for a long moment before beginning to brush her long golden hair. No real need for vigorous brushing; it shone naturally, as did her vivid blue eyes and her flawless skin. Yes, she was beautiful! Not like Christine with her dark hair which she liked to describe as honey-tinted, and her violet eyes…. True, they were large and expressive, admitted Greta grudgingly and with the appearance of a frown, but they filled up with tears far too often. Greta looked back four years to when she herself was eighteen. Was she a softie like that in her teenage years? The smile progressed to a laugh that was hard. No, she had never been anything other than practical, and she would get on in the world, whereas Christine and her like would end up married to some near pauper and live a humdrum existence until, when they were older and lost their looks altogether, their husbands would find someone younger and more glamorous…. 'Like me,' whispered Greta, who wondered just how long her marriage would last. No marriage lasted very long these days, but she must make sure she feathered her nest well before allowing any breakup to occur.
***
'Luke!' Christine saw the car and ran down the steps of the lovely white villa that had been her home for the past seven years. She reached the car just as it crunched to a halt on the gravel in front of the villa. 'Oh, but I'm glad to see you!'
Luke eased his long body unhurriedly from the driver's seat of his huge American car and Christine stood to one side as he closed the door before turning to look down into her animated little face. As always he found her enchanting, this fresh English girl who, bewildered and lost, had been brought out here to Pirates' Cay, one of the lesser-known islands of the Bahama group where Arthur Mead and his wife ran a flourishing business manufacturing Batik-printed fabrics, a great amount of which were exported to the States. Her uncle and aunt, several times removed, also English, had not hesitated to take her when her parents died, but although she had a luxurious home and a certain amount of affection from her adoptive father, Luke had always suspected that she was far from happy. Her eyes always gave her away and now, despite her smile and her lighthearted manner, it was her eyes that attracted and held his full attention. How well he remembered his first meeting with her, a child of eleven, bereaved and uprooted, brought here to a strange land, to live with people she had never met before. She had clung to him for some reason no one could understand, a slender mite who seemed to be drawn to him, and he recalled how her tears had fallen onto his collar and trickled down his neck, warm and fast flowing. He'd not had the heart to push her away despite the discomfort, and the embarrassment, for he was only twenty at the time and very conscious of the amusement of Mr. and Mrs. Mead, an amusement not shared by their daughter, Greta, who had stood there frowning sullenly, her pretty mouth compressed.
He had been uneasy, unsure of what he must do in circumstances such as these. His actions in the end came from sheer instinct; he held her trembling body close to his own, stroking her soft hair; he spoke soothing words against her cheek which, miraculously, eased her fears and pain sufficiently for her weeping to cease. It had been with a sort of wonderment that he had realised his success, had dazedly accepted that he had had the ability to comfort her. And from that moment there had been a bond between them so deep that, at first, Luke had never dared to analyse it.
'And how's my girl?' he said now, his observant gaze never leaving her face. 'Been crying?' Automatically his tawny eyes moved to the third window along… Greta's bedroom.
'No-er-well…'
'The answer's yes.' Luke could be stern when he liked, and his voice was edged with sternness now. 'Why?' he added briefly.
Christine hesitated, swallowing something that had lodged in her throat. 'It isn't important. You're here! And that is important. Have you come to see Uncle Arthur-Father?'
'Why have you been crying?' Luke was leaning against the car, one hand resting on the edge of the roof. Christine stared up into a face she loved, a handsome face in spite of the scar that ran down his left cheek, a scar caused when he rescued a child from drowning and injured his face on a jagged piece of coral, part of the reef. Luke was only sixteen then, and so shy that he just disappeared after handing the child over to her parents, a couple who were on holiday. It was several weeks before the truth leaked out. Now, Luke was anything but shy; he had travelled, had had a few affairs, and he had succeeded in business, having inherited two hotels on the island when his father died four years ago. Luke now had a third hotel on Grand Bahama Island and another in Nassau. Luke was refurbishing the former hotel and was buying materials for drapes and bedcovers from his friend, Arthur Mead. 'I asked why you were crying?' Luke's quiet, finely modulated voice broke into her reverie and she hesitated again, loath to explain.
His hand came out and her chin was taken, tilted in a way that had become familiar recently… for Luke seemed to have adopted a rather proprietorial attitude towards her these days. The result was that in some inexplicable way Christine's own manner had changed a little; she still knew the old camaraderie, but she felt also that he was too often her stern mentor and that she was obliged to respect and obey him. So now she found herself saying, almost against her will, 'I'm not being one of Greta's bridesmaids.'
'But-' Again his eyes flickered to the window of Greta's bedroom. 'What reason?' he demanded with a taut inflection.
'She has her friends….' Christine bit her lip hard to help stem the tears that had again gathered in a cloud behind her eyes. 'I-I-'
'It's your right to be a bridesmaid,' he broke in angrily. 'The chief bridesmaid.'
She nodded dumbly, catching her underlip between her teeth. Why, oh why, did it hurt so much? She would be at the wedding as Greta had said, and wearing a pretty dress-'But it's not the same!' she cried in anguish before she could control herself. Words she had not meant to utter… she glanced into the eyes of the man still holding her chin, firmly, but yet tenderly for all that. She saw his fine mouth compress, the tawny eyes glint like metal.
'Greta has said definitely that you can't be a bridesmaid?'
'It's n-not important,' she said again.
But Luke was eyeing her with that stern expression and his voice was very soft as he said, 'Chris, answer my question.'
'She wants only her best friends-and blondes.'
'Blondes?' he repeated, frowning in perplexity. 'What has the colour of your hair to do with it?'
Christine thought of the many times he had visited here, often for dinner, and always he had looked at Greta's beautiful hair with admiration-but then, everyone's eyes were attracted to its luxurious colour and sheen, and its length, for Greta knew it suited her long and so she had it well past her shoulders.
'It would look odd if there were one dark head among the other blondes….' She tailed off, aware that all this was having no effect on her companion. His face was hard, his eyes glittering with anger. Christine hated him in this kind of mood. She craved his more familiar gentleness; she had always blossomed in the warmth of his smile.
'I wish,' she said, again without due thought, 'that you had been my guardian-my adoptive father.'
'You do?' The inflection was as unfathomable as his changed expression. He seemed to give a small sigh but what his inner thoughts were Christine could not imagine as all he said was, 'Consider me as your adoptive uncle, then.'
'I do-always have, but…' Her voice trailed pensively. 'If you were my guardian…' A sigh and a smile, a hand coming up from her side to remove his from her chin and then to seek the warmth of his clasp as she wound her fingers into his palm. 'Shall you be here for the wedding?' He was away quite often, usually on business, but a few weeks ago Greta had informed Christine that he had a glamorous girlfriend in Miami and that was why he went there so often.
'Does my answer mean a lot to you, dear?' He knew it did, at this time of disappointment over the matter of the bridesmaids.
'You said you weren't sure of being here,' Christine reminded him as she bypassed his forthright enquiry.
'I intend to be here,' he said and his reward was a swift spontaneous smile that brought a glow to her eyes.
'Lovely! Will you dance with me?'
'Of course, several times.'
'You always treat me as an equal.' She stopped as she recalled again his proprietorial manner with her recently. He was beginning to make her feel inferior and she wanted very much to find a way to stop it.
'Why shouldn't I treat you as an equal?'
'I'm so much younger-nine years.'
'Yes,' he murmured inscrutably, 'nine years. It's a lot….'
Before Christine could say anything a cheery male voice was heard and they both turned at once.
'Steve.' Christine looked down at her feet, almost snatching her hand from Luke's. 'I didn't expect you today.'
'No? Greta did, though. She wants me to take her out to lunch.'
Of medium height and with a fresh complexion, Steve Walworth, Greta's fiancé, was more rugged than Greta would have wished and Christine knew it. But to her Steve was perfection… everything a girl could wish for. He was manly yet kind, considerate and, in spite of his great wealth, of a homely disposition-he liked puppies and kittens, babies and old people. To Christine he seemed totally unsuited to her sister, for where she was hard and materialistic, he was soft and seemed to have a sort of contempt for money. He had always been charming towards the girl who would soon be his sister-in-law and sometimes Greta seemed jealous of the relationship.
But she had no need to worry; Steve adored her, treated her like a queen. He had never seen the unattractive side of her because she was an excellent actress. Even Luke, with his keen perception, had no idea just how malicious Greta could be.
'It'll not be long now,' from Luke, who had not missed the effect Steve's appearance had had on his young friend. Calf love, he mused. She would suffer but get over it.
'No, not long,' agreed Steve wryly. 'I shall be glad when it's all over. Can't stand ceremony and people watching me.'
Christine lifted her eyes to look at him, a flush slowly spreading over her face at her own intimate thoughts. Steve sailed a lot; he loved boats. So his skin was bronzed and weather-beaten; Luke's was equally bronzed but not as toughened. There was a certain superiority about Luke not seen in Steve, even though Steve did possess a certain air of dignity and self-confidence-not always in evidence but there all the same. Steve's eyes were deep set and shrewd, while those of Luke were more penetrating in their shrewdness. Christine felt sure that if it were he who was engaged to Greta, he'd have seen through her long before now. She gave a deep sigh, feeling sorry for Steve but more sorry for herself. He was her shining example of what a man should be but it hadn't been until recently, when the wedding was almost upon them all, that she had realised just how much he meant to her.
'I'd better go and find Greta,' Steve was saying, a smile in his vivid blue eyes-eyes so like Greta's but yet lacking the hard glitter which Christine so often saw when she and her sister were alone.
'Where are you lunching?' Luke enquired and Christine shot him a glance of surprise. 'I'm asking,' explained Luke on seeing her expression, 'so that you and I will not arrive at the same restaurant as Steven and Greta. The lovers don't want company.' Sarcasm? Christine suspected so but couldn't be sure. Luke often baffled her these days.
'You're taking me out to lunch?'
'I think it will do you good-cheer you up a bit.'
Steve cast her a glance. 'Do you need cheering up, then?'
She shook her head, hoping Luke would not say anything about Greta's attitude in not choosing Christine as one of her bridesmaids. 'I'll go and change,' she said and sent Luke the kind of glance he could not possibly misinterpret.
'Steve ought to have been told,' he was saying half an hour later as they were approaching the Country Club Restaurant, a delightful place looking out to the smooth aquamarine sea and several other islands floating in it-or appearing to. 'He'd have had a talk to Greta-'
'It wouldn't have made any difference,' broke in Christine, wanting to forget both Greta and Steve just now so that she could enjoy Luke's company and the lunch he was going to buy her. She had changed into a cotton skirt, short and full with a sun top to match-white with navy-blue bindings on the hem of the skirt and the neckline of the top. She wore her hair brushed to one side and held in place with a small white bow.
Luke had seemed to heave a great sigh when on seeing her he had said, 'You look eleven again. When, dear, are you going to grow up?'
She had looked at him in a puzzled way, for it did seem that he spoke impatiently and really there was no reason for it that she could see. He might have been eager for her to grow up, she thought… waiting for it. Christine had dismissed the idea simply because not only was it silly but there was no logical reason for it.
'I certainly would have made sure that you were a bridesmaid,' Luke was saying in response to her comment. 'And I rather think Steve would, too, if he knew of your disappointment.'
Christine shrugged and said, placing a hand on his arm after he had stopped the car close to the entrance to the Country Club, 'I want to forget the wedding, and just enjoy myself-with you, dearest Luke.'
His smile was slow to come, and faintly bitter, she thought, and wondered why.
'Dearest Luke? Am I your dearest Luke? Are you sure?'
She moved her hand away and frowned as she did so. 'You're different these days,' she told him. 'We used to be like-well, like brother and sister.'
'You said I was regarded as your uncle,' Luke was quick to remind her.
'Well… yes, in a way I did, but when we're together like this I feel like your sister.' She paused and waited but Luke merely switched off the engine and leant back in his seat. 'Do you feel like my brother?' she asked.
He turned to her with a wry sort of expression on his face. 'No,' he said quite firmly, 'I do not.'
'Oh, well, never mind.' Another pause and then, 'What do you feel like, then?'
'Kissing you-'
'Kissing me? You've kissed me often, but only when I've been upset.'
'Aren't you upset now?'
'I've recovered, temporarily,' she assured him, remembering that he sometimes described her behaviour as volatile. 'I just want to be happy while I'm with you. After all, we don't often go out for a meal-not on our own, that is.'
'I must put the omission right,' stated Luke as he slid from the car. He was at her side before she could even open the door and he helped her out, his hand warm and strong beneath her elbow.
She looked up and her eyes were glowing. 'What would I do without you, Luke?' She tucked her arm into his. 'I need you so.'
He made no reply, but as he turned his head to look at her she had the impression that he was saying to himself, 'We need each other….'
What was the matter with her lately? She seemed always to be imagining things.
They entered the restaurant to nods of recognition from the waiters who all knew both Luke and Christine. Arthur Mead sometimes brought his wife and daughters here; it was his favourite eating place. Recently, though, Greta hadn't been with them, as she and Steve went off on their own, as was to be expected with a newly engaged couple.
'A table in the corner,' from Luke who hadn't booked because he'd made up his mind on the spur of the moment. 'And we'll have a drink first, in the restaurant.'
'The lounge is crowded,' observed Christine. 'So I'm glad we're having our apéritifs at the table.' She was fighting to put her disappointment from her mind, and fighting also to put Steve from her mind. She hadn't yet thought of what she was going to feel like at the wedding; she dared not.
Luke's gaze was perceptive and faintly troubled. 'I think it will be a good thing for all of us when this wedding is over and the couple have gone from Pirates' Cay for good.'
Silence. The wine waiter arrived and Luke ordered a martini for Christine. Her feelings were mixed regarding Steve's decision to live in Nassau.
'With lemonade,' he added and ordered a double whisky for himself.
'A double!' blinked Christine. 'You never have a double. In fact, you don't often have whisky at all.'
'Today, my child, I feel the need of that particular kind of sustenance.'
'Why?' she asked briefly. Had his love affair of which Greta had spoken gone wrong?
'If you don't ask questions, Chris, you won't be told any lies.' With a hand lifted to suppress a yawn, Luke picked up a menu and began perusing it. Christine frowned darkly at him, wondering greatly at his mood. Morose? Mentally she shook her head; Luke was never morose. He had a logical and set approach to life, taking whatever came along and putting it down to fate. She could never imagine him straining at the reins, becoming discontented with his lot. And yet…. Of late he had given the impression of some underlying yearning, some almost desperate reaching out for something just beyond his range. She looked at his face again, as he read the menu, noticing the firm and noble thrust of the chin and matching strength of the jaw; the mouth was full and, she realised with a little shock of surprise, had an element of sensuality about it she had never seen before, or ever expected to see. It was tight suddenly as she watched. What thought had come to him in this instant? she wondered, and unwanted colour filtered into her cheeks as he glanced up from under dark lashes any girl would give a great deal to possess. He had caught her unawares, caught her doing… what? His lashes flickered with the movement of his tawny eyes and she lowered hers swiftly, for there was some emotion within her rising for him to read if he had the smallest chance to do so. What was this quivering so close to her heart?
'What were you thinking just now?' he asked, lowering the menu but holding it open in both hands. She noticed his fingers, long and lean yet sensitive, like those of a pianist. She knew their strength because he used to lift her and toss her into the air, then catch her, saying she was little more than a doll. Eleven, then twelve… and then her teens and the beginning of real pleasure and pain, the ability to suffer, to be happy beyond words, to laugh or cry… no wonder Luke said she was volatile. Sixteen and Luke coming and going in her life as he had done for five years but now he had begun to treat her as an adult and she liked it. He had taken her out in his yacht, taken her to Nassau with him on three occasions, with the casual permission of her uncle and the more reluctant agreement of her aunt. Sometimes Christine wondered if her adoptive mother disliked Luke. As for Greta's opinion of him… she said little but looks spoke volumes. Nevertheless, she managed with her innate charm to attract and although Christine felt sure Luke had never had a crush on Greta, he had never once, by word or glance, shown anything but amicability. Christine rather thought his attitude towards her would have been one of indifference had it not been for his friendship with her father.
It had begun when Luke's father had begun buying materials from Arthur, and this practice had been carried on by his son, for without doubt the designs produced by Arthur's company far surpassed any others on the market hereabouts. The friendship had grown despite the difference in ages; Arthur trusted Luke implicitly, hence the reason why he allowed him to take Christine off on these trips to Nassau. She'd had wonderful times, being taken out to dine with the kind of escort who attracted attention from every female around, old and young alike. Over six feet tall, with the sort of lithe and powerful physique that spelled sex appeal, he also possessed a full measure of maturity in spite of the fact that he was only twenty-seven years of age even now. At twenty-four he had been endowed with perception and common sense envied by many of his older business associates; at twenty-five he had made an astute and most profitable deal when he bought the hotel on Grand Bahama, and a year and a half later a similar deal was successfully carried through and one of the largest and most luxurious hotels in Nassau became his property. Christine had thoroughly enjoyed his company and his attention; she was flattered by it and she blossomed because of it. From the chrysalis of childhood emerged the beautiful imago-at least, Luke considered her beautiful, she knew. His opinion differed from that of her sister, who disliked brunettes anyway.
He was speaking into her recollections, asking again what she was thinking about.
'Us,' she replied and a lovely smile broke as her eyes met his across the table. 'The things we've done, and the things that you have done. You're clever, Luke, and you'll be a millionaire before you're thirty.'
'Does money matter?' His gaze was curious and it was examining. He missed nothing about her-never did. The smile that gave a glow to her big violet eyes, the way her nose turned up a little at the end, the slant of her lashes so that her eyes seemed almond-shaped, the wide clear forehead with its halo of honey-tinted hair and that unruly little half fringe which, having caught the sun, was shades lighter than the rest of her hair. Her skin too was affected by the sun so that it was the colour of honey-gold and gleaming with health.
'No, money doesn't matter,' she answered after a pause. But then she added thoughtfully, thinking of her adoptive father and his assiduous attention to his business, which she was sure came first in his life, 'It seems, though, to be a mark of success or failure, depending on how much you have made in your life.'
'You're referring to Arthur?'
'Yes, I was actually.'
'He gives almost all of his time to his business-to the pastime of making money. That's what you were thinking?'
She nodded, picking up her glass to sip the martini and regarding Luke from above the rim. 'He's giving all his life to it so I don't suppose you could call it a pastime.'
'All his life…' Luke paused in thought and a slight frown knit his brows. 'But then, he has little else in life, has he?'
It was Christine's turn to frown. 'He has a lovely home and a family.'
The straight brows lifted a fraction. 'You of all people should know he isn't happy.'
Christine looked down into her glass. She had suspected it but had never been quite sure…. 'You mean Mother-Aunt Loreen?' Why had she never been able to decide what to call her adoptive parents?
'It isn't a unique case by any means.' Luke returned his attention to the menu but she knew his mind was elsewhere.
She said guardedly, 'Have you any proof, Luke? I mean, it's an awful suspicion to have, isn't it?'
'I have no actual proof. As for the suspicion-you must have had it for some time?' The menu was lowered again but now a waiter was hovering, pad in hand, and Luke handed her the menu.
'Have you chosen?' she asked.
'I'll have a steak Diane. It's always good here.'
'Yes, they make it hot. I'll have it too.' She handed the menu to the waiter, watched him write the order down after asking about starters.
When he had gone Luke said, 'Surely it affects your life in some way?'
'I've always been conscious of what they did for me, Luke, and so I'm grateful all the time. I have a lovely luxurious home and Father loves me, I'm sure, so I haven't really troubled myself with anything else.'
'By that you actually mean: anyone else, don't you?'
She nodded after a slight hesitation. 'Yes, I suppose that is it,' she agreed.
'Loreen's always out, and what of these holidays she takes and the cruises? What does Greta think about it?'
'She never says anything. Greta has so many diversions, as you know, so many friends, which means she has a very full social life.'
After a moment Luke said, with a returning frown, 'How did we get onto this kind of subject? Let's change it. Are you coming over to Nassau with me next week?'
Her eyes lit up instantly. 'You'll take me?'
'I have just asked you, silly.'
She laughed, saw a nerve pulsate in his cheek and sent him a puzzled glance. But all she said was, 'If Father says I can, then I'd love to come with you. I love Nassau. I'll look forward to seeing your hotel there.'
'You'll like it,' he assured her.
'Are we sailing there?' she wanted to know.
'I think we'll fly. I haven't a great deal of time to spare. I have to be in New York on Friday week and then I'll fly down to Miami where I have to stay for a few days.'
'Miami…' Where, Greta maintained, Luke's glamourous girl friend lived.
Something like a pain touched her heart. For the first time she did not like the idea of his having a girl friend….
