The English Lord's Secret Son (6 page)

“So?”

“I do not want to talk about the past, Julian,” she said, sounding ultra-controlled. This wasn’t the incredibly exciting, incredibly passionate Ashe she had known. Even the beautiful, maddeningly upper-class English voice had hardened into tempered steel. Shades of his dear mother. Even men could turn into their mothers.

“Of course you don’t,” he conceded. “They tell me you have a child, a boy.”

She swallowed down the flare of panic. Surely Hugh hadn’t told him that? “Yes I do,” she said. Her voice sounded perfectly normal.

“But no husband?”

“I’m fascinated you’re interested. What about you? Wife, children, an heir to the title,
noblesse oblige
and all that?”

“My life is
my
business, Catrina.” He looked straight at her.

“And so is mine,” she said sharply, drawing back a little. “Shall we leave it at that?”

“How old is your boy?” His intense gaze pinned her in place. It didn’t make him happy to see she had grown even more beautiful over the years, confident, polished, beautifully dressed, understated, perfect. A very assured woman.

Cate drew breath. There was no option but to lie. “Five,” she said, holding his gaze, but a rose glow had entered her cheeks. “He’s the love of my life.”

“What about the father?” He continued to study her, this enigma that was the girl he had fallen crazily in love with. Love made such fools of people. The great and the good. It ruined careers, damaged lives, sometimes irrevocably. He hadn’t really known that girl. Nor the woman. “What was he?” he asked. “Live-in lover?”

She didn’t answer.

“Live out, then? With your boy. You had to consider him?”

“Hard to say what he was really.” She shrugged a nonchalant shoulder. “He didn’t pass the test at any rate. Look, the waiter is returning with the wine.” Her gaze shifted over his shoulder.

“That sounds like the truth.” He gave a brief laugh. “It’s mythology in a way. Suitors being required to pass a series of tests. I’ve never figured out which one I failed,” he said, openly contemptuous. “She’s gone, she’s gone, she’s gone, she’s gone!” He crooned it, low voiced, like a melancholy love song.

Her physical reactions were involuntary, unstoppable. Dopamine, she thought. The brain’s motivational chemical. The sight and sound of him gave her enormous pleasure, an erotic rush. She wasn’t entirely responsible. The man was devastating. Devastatingly handsome, devastatingly charismatic, devastatingly rich and important. Devastation all round. She knew now she had never been healed. What she had to do was push her memories further and further behind her. “Can we drop this?” She looked the picture of perfect confidence, but she was churning inside.

Cool it!
her inner voice warned her.

God, she was trying to but she was using up every scrap of control.

“I don’t like talking about it either.” He was perilously close to bluntness, but at just the right moment he had to turn in his chair to acknowledge the waiter, who made a little business of showing the excellent Australian Riesling. It rated high on a world list. A little was poured for sampling. Cate was never sure if the ritual was absolutely necessary.

Consequently she took no notice. It was a relief to study the menu, although stress had robbed her of all appetite. Same old lethal sexual attraction; same old primitive physical responses. Could
nothing
kill them? If she knew nothing could—as in outside anyone’s control—she might feel a little better about herself.

But her brain decided to kick in.
You’re pathetic.
She sought to whip up a degree of self-disgust. One would have thought betrayal would have been a huge incentive. Betrayal killed every time. Only it was impossible for them to be strangers. He was the father of her child. Their lives were mired. Cate turned her face away, acknowledging a female acquaintance who was staring over with avid interest. Dinner dates were a very public matter in city society. No hand-holding with this one. No melting glances across the table.

What, then?
Let the curious figure it out.

* * *

One course after the other arrived, each looking like a work of art. The Japanese chef was a celebrity. The lobster was superb. It settled her stomach slightly. But it was impossible to relax. She had a life. Her son had anchored her to the earth. She had to shield herself and her little son from all harm. Julian couldn’t know about him.

“But, darling girl, why call him Julian?”

It was Stella smoothing the damp hair away from her tear-stained, exhausted face.

“I don’t know,”
she had wailed.

Eventually Stella stopped asking.

But Julian Arnold Hamilton it was.

Coffee. Both declined a liqueur. It was then she finally asked, “Who told you about me?” There was more than a hint of aggression in her voice.

“About you?” he asked, settling his coffee cup onto the saucer. His thick black eyelashes were pointing down towards his prominent cheekbones. Jules had inherited those eyes and lashes. Abruptly he glanced up.

“Please,”
she said, fighting the urge to get up and run away.

“A devoted colleague.” His reply was sardonic. “That Stiller woman. I gather you and she are rivals in the workplace?”

She could barely speak. “The rivalry is all on Murphy’s side.”

He spread his elegant hands. “Okay. I knew that. I’m not stupid. She’s not only jealous of your abilities. She’s jealous of your relationship with Saunders.”

She was taken aback. “Hugh is my boss,” she said icily.

“Fine. But he wants you, you know.”

That was a truth she didn’t want to know. “Then he’s got a big problem,” she said, coolly. “Apart from being my boss, he’s old enough to be my father. And a married man. Murphy has a sick way with her. When did you see her, anyway?”

His blue eyes glinted. “For a few moments after you took off. Apparently she thought I would find the fact you’re a single mother interesting.”

“God alone knows why she thought that,” she said, shocked by Murphy’s enmity towards her. Thank God Murphy had never laid eyes on Jules. None of them had.

“Perhaps she’s one of those people who can spot sparks between two people?” he suggested, very smoothly. “Sometimes there’s no way of hiding our sparks. And our sorrows. That’s of course if one can
feel
sorrow. Can you, Catrina?”

Some note in his voice sent a shiver down her spine. “It’s hard for you to accept, isn’t it, that I walked away from you?”

“You did better than that.” His retort was crisp. “You
flew
.
There one moment. Gone the next.”

For a moment she forgot where she was. “What else could I do after that little chat with your mum?” she asked fiercely, instantly regretting her loss of control.

His black brows came together. “What little chat?” His tone bit.

“Nothing to do with
you
,” she lied and waved a nonchalant hand.

“I’d like to know.”

“Nothing
to
know,” she clipped off. “If you’re ready, I would like to leave. This was a business dinner, after all. I’ve told you Lady McCready is happy to meet with you. I need to accompany you but we can handle that. You can take it from there. We’re both adults. There’s no need whatsoever for her to know we’ve met before.”

“Meet? Is that what we did?” His voice had taken on a decided edge. “You obviously have no trouble burying memories.”

“You had no difficulty coming out of it, either,” she said. “Lady McCready will be sure to ask you something about yourself and your family. I didn’t ask after your mother. How is she?”

His eyes turned as cold as an iceberg. “You’re actually interested?”

“Only possibly.”

“She was bitterly disappointed in you.”

“Blimey!” she said facetiously, gathering up her satin and brass-studded evening clutch. “That’s mothers for you. Shall we go?” But there was fear in her. And a sudden confusion. But that was just Alicia protecting herself. Alicia had always had her own agenda.

“Certainly.” He put up a hand signalling their waiter, who hurried over.

“I’ll pay for this,” Cate said, her credit card already in hand. This was business. She could claim.

“You
will
pay, Catrina, but not for dinner,” he said. His bluer than blue eyes held her to him.

Captive.

For a moment she damn near crumpled.

* * *

Stella was waiting up just as she had promised. Stella was a woman who would go to any lengths to protect her little family. Cate. Jules. Herself. She was a protective person and she had proved it. Hadn’t she gone to extraordinary lengths to protect her little sister? She had devoted her life to the interests of others, Annabel, then Cate. Like mother, like daughter, both fallen pregnant though she had avoided sitting in judgment. And there was darling little Jules. Occasionally all her self-sacrifice, her stress on the importance of family, had put easy-going Arnold’s nose right out of joint.

I took on this job, Arnold.

Now you’re stuck with it. I’m stuck with it. We’re stuck with it. Or are you really, Stella?

Always those searching looks from Arnold as if he sought to put a huge dent in her armour but couldn’t quite bring it off.

“Give it to me straight.” Stella took Cate’s arm, leading her into the living room where down lights cast a golden glow. Through the sliding glass doors onto the balcony across the multicoloured sequinned waters Sydney’s great landmarks, the Bridge and the Opera House, lit up the night.

“I think I’ll have a drink first,” Cate said, going in search of one.

“What?”

“I need a drink. Trust me.” Cate headed to the kitchen, Stella following, a pleat of concern etched into her forehead. She was wearing a luxurious nightgown with a matching robe, which she pulled tight in a fit of nerves. “Join me?” Cate held up a bottle of cognac.

“I have a feeling I might need to,” Stella returned crisply.

“Besides, it will make you sleep better.” Cate poured a shot into two crystal balloons. They went back into the living room and settled into two armchairs. Only then did Cate begin to relate economically the events of the evening while Stella sat with folded hands...

* * *

“What did that Murphy Stiller think she was gaining telling him you had a son?’ Stella rolled out her anger. On the odd occasion Stella was seriously formidable.

“Unsure. Murphy has her own agenda. He did ask how old my son was. Of course I lied. Had to. I said he was five.” Cate ran her tongue around her lips, tasting fine brandy.

“And he never said a thing about his own family? I would have thought he would. Are you keeping something from me?”

“Nary a word.” Cate shook her blonde head while thinking,
You certainly did.
“His father was always a no-go area with the whole family.”

“I can understand that. Much too painful.” Geoffrey Carlisle, recruited from Oxford into the British Security Service—MI5 or MI6, no one seemed to know—had been killed by a militant’s bullet in the Middle East where he was touring. That was years back. He was a highly intelligent man and a polyglot; the Middle East had been his speciality area. Had he lived it was he who would have inherited the title Baron Wyndham, not his son.

“He told me his life is his
business,” Cate said. “Our meeting was business, not a rehash of old times. I did, however, ask after his mother.”

Stella’s expression froze. “Was that wise?”

“Confound them all,” said Cate, polishing off her drink. “Don’t worry, Stell. I can handle this.”

“Surely there’s someone else who can go with him, introduce him to Lady McCready?” Stella felt a great surge of anxiety. She wondered if her niece had the strength to resist the man who had ripped her heart out. It didn’t feel that way.

Cate gave a crooked smile. “I could suggest Murphy. She took to him at first sight. Turned into a positive sunbeam. Ask anyone.” She laughed, then abruptly sobered. “No, Stell, I have to do it. Hugh expects it. Show commitment. Integral part of the team and all that. I just have to get it over with. He’ll buy his island retreat. He’ll invest in our mineral wealth, then he’ll go home. Back to what’s important to him.” Her eyes frosted over. “I could of course lead him on. What do you think?” Her laugh held black humour. “The physical attraction is still there. Can’t kill it. Fact of life. I don’t think I’d have all that much trouble coaxing him into the palm of my hand,” she said with contempt. “Just think of it!” she crowed.

“I don’t
want
to think of it,” Stella said, her jaw clenched. “Now is not the time to play with fire. Sacrifice everything we’ve built up.”

Cate waved her brandy balloon in the air, not really hearing. Stella sometimes did set the calm image aside. “I could tell him to get lost. Reverse process if you like. Put
him
on the rack.”

“Don’t even think of going there,” Stella warned, unable to control a shudder. Cate had never been cured of Julian Carlisle. That was at the heart of it all. Cate was only in remission. Stella felt a savage anger.

CHAPTER FOUR

L
ADY
M
C
C
READY
HAD
readied herself for their visit. She had made it her business to go around the island in her cute little go-cart, driven by her faithful Davey, who managed just about everything for her. His wife, Mary, did the cooking and the housework. She was well looked after and she looked after her staff, her friends, really.

It was a glorious day, the sky a cloudless azure blue. Bluer yet the sparkling sea. The green lawns were mown to perfection, fringed with alternate borders of agapanthus in blue and white. There were sculptural beds of strelitzias and agaves, numerous types of hibiscus, marvellous tree ferns, pandanus and of course the soaring palms, their fronds swaying gently in the breeze. As they swept past, the scent of ginger blossom and gardenia spiked the air. Davey was a zealous and talented gardener. He had turned the island retreat into a botanical garden with his imaginative mix of exotic and endemic plants.

Lady McCready brushed a snowy strand of hair off her high forehead. “Such a lovely cooling breeze, Davey.”

“That it is. I’m looking forward to meeting your guest, a lord and all. Miss Hamilton, of course, I’ve met. She’s a special young lady.”

“She is that.” Lady McCready had taken an instant liking to Catrina. Not only was she a lovely-looking young woman, but she was kind with a quick intuition. “I know Catrina will have our best interests at heart. You and Mary are very dear to me, Davey. You’ve always made us proud.” As ever Lady McCready included her beloved late husband as though he were still there. She fully intended telling Lord Wyndham part of any deal they might strike would include a clause stating Davey and Mary were to remain on the island for as long as they wished. Isla Bella had been home to them for over twenty years. They would make perfect caretakers. They loved the island as much as she did. She had provided for them in her will. Which was as it should be.

* * *

They had taken the morning flight from Sydney to Townsville, then twenty minutes later boarded the launch
Petrel
for the trip to the island. The only access was by boat or helicopter. Wyndham held her hand tightly while she moved rather perilously into the launch that was swinging away from the jetty on the high tide. Again contact was like being plugged into a million volts. She would have to avoid it. He was casually dressed, beige chinos, tan leather belt, short-sleeved, open-necked blue cotton shirt, a wide-brimmed cream straw hat, slouched on one side. Sunglasses in his breast pocket. He looked extremely handsome, perfectly at ease.

She had dressed casually as well. All virgin white. White cotton-denim jeans, white shirt, added a fancy snakeskin belt, leather and canvas bag over her shoulder, Gucci sunglasses on her nose, her long hair tied back with a silk scarf that matched the vibrant yellows and reds in her bag. Both wore sensible albeit stylish shoes.

“No need to be nervous,” he mocked. “I wasn’t going to let you fall.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Really?” His tone bit.

“Well, I have caught the odd flicker of hostility. God knows why.”

“Catrina, you would have to be joking,” he drawled.

She felt caught in the
thrust
of it all, translated the momentary sense of powerlessness into a brilliant smile. “The captain is looking our way.”

“Probably wondering what’s going on.” He nodded to the captain, a good-looking bearded man some forty odd years, as spick and span as his boat. The owner nodded back.

* * *

They were under way, heading eastward to Isla Bella, a continental island some six nautical miles from the mainland. She peered down into the water. It had gone from aqua to turquoise, deepening into cobalt the further they moved away from the quay. It wasn’t going to be a placid run. The trade wind was chasing them.

“Any sharks around?” he asked after a while.

“Why don’t you chance it?” she suggested, almost cheerfully.

“I’d make sure I pulled you in.” The look on his dark face was a bit scary.

“You’re a prince,” she remarked.

“Not I.”

“No, you’re a lord. I bet you revel in it?’

“Well, it can make one’s passage through life a little easier,” he admitted. “This is a very beautiful part of the world.” He spoke in conversational style, maybe for the captain’s benefit. “Of course the Great Barrier Reef is one of the world’s natural wonders.”

She played her part. She couldn’t help but notice the owner of the launch
had
been fixing them with a speculative eye. “It’s the great breakwater that protects hundreds of kilometres of our eastern seaboard and the continental islands. Isla Bella is a continental island, as I told you. It has a rather steeply sloping hill cutting down the middle. The house is on the leeward side—”

“Needless to say,” he interjected smoothly.

She continued like a tour guide. “There are volcanic islands, coral islands, some with extensive fringing reefs, cays, hundreds of them. I hope you know about our cyclones,” she said with a warning in her voice. “Most years they’re spawned in the Coral Sea before they eventually cross the Queensland coast. We had horrific Yasi at the beginning of 2011. The largest and most powerful cyclone to hit Queensland in living memory. It wreaked havoc. There was a phenomenal amount of flooding. Thousands left homeless. The whole state was affected. Parts of Brisbane went under.”

“It did make world news,” he pointed out gently. “From what I’ve seen and heard you’re well into the recovery process.”

“True. The entire country got behind Queensland and the areas of Victoria that were flood affected. There was enormous community spirit.”

“And Isla Bella?”

“Mercifully it was spared,” she said, visualising the old TV flood coverage. “Although a couple of the tourist islands weren’t. Lady McCready and her staff actually stayed on the island right through. I believe there’s a cyclone-proof bunker.”

“That’s good to know,” he said wryly.

“Not putting you off?” She ventured a sideways glance. She had tried
everything
to forget him. Now she was up to her neck in it again.

“Are you trying to?”

“Simply want you to understand. There are risks to be considered.”

“Which I’m well acquainted with. Hurricanes affect the Bahamas as well as many other countries in the world. I could have sworn I told you all about Hurricane Noel in the late nineties when my family was there.”

She shrugged. “Don’t recall.” Why admit to any memories at all? Hadn’t Stella perfected it? “Still own property there, do you?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. But I’m looking for a less accessible holiday retreat. I’m hoping Isla Bella is a good choice.”

“How about a little more information? How many children do you have—three or four?”

“To your one?” he said, leaning on the rail and looking out over the deep blue sea mantled with silver pinpoints of light.

“Of course, you’re not going to tell me.”

“Why should I?” He glanced at her with eyes that luminous electric blue. “I would have thought you’d check up on me.”

She had thought of it. Too many times. “Why ever would I do that?”

“Odd, I never checked up on you either,” he said. “Of course I knew I was bound to sooner or later.”

Prepare yourself.

“Meaning what?” she asked, clear challenge in her voice.

“Then I thought it would be a big mistake,” he admitted. “Why would I ever want to hear of you again?”

She hid the tide of anger that swept through her. “Absolutely right. I, for one, am a totally different person these days.”

“You were a totally different person
then
,”
he returned curtly. “At least from the person I thought you were.”

“Dangerous to assume you know anyone,” she retorted. “We don’t even know ourselves. Everything changes, that’s the thing.”

“Well, I’m resigned to the fact I never knew you.”

“Our goals in life weren’t the same.” She had to breathe in deeply. What would he do, what would he say, if she told him she was the mother of his child? React with rage, toss her overboard? She knew the fact that she had kept that momentous piece of news from him would bring a forceful response. For all she knew he didn’t have a son.

The wind had picked up. It suddenly seized her silk scarf, wrenching it from her head. She made a wild grab for it. It was a lovely scarf. Hermes. He lunged for it too, executing some manoeuvre that had him rescuing the scarf while capturing her pivoting body in a powerful one-armed grip. They slammed into one another.

Heat scorched her body. It burnt holes in her character that felt as weak as her arms and her legs. Deep, dark emotions were swirling through her like dangerous debris. The tips of her breasts were against his chest, hard as berries with a physical response she couldn’t control. What she felt was desire. Shame and guilt would follow. She thought she had wised up, grown up. Now it appeared she really hadn’t.

She jerked away from him violently. She had loved him once. The man who had deceived her. “Thank you,” she said, sounding more ferocious than grateful.

“No trouble.” He kept watching her like a hawk.

The wind had picked up considerably, making a grab for her hair. The full length of it whipped free, a long column of blonde shining silk. “If I might venture a suggestion, leave it,” he said.

For answer she put up her hands, scraping her hair back with her fingers. Long tendrils were escaping but she couldn’t help that. Once more she tied the scarf, knotting it twice. “Well?” She found she couldn’t bear him staring at her.

“Just for a moment you reminded me of a girl I once knew,” he said, for a moment pitched back in time. “Hard to believe it was you.”

“I was very young and incredibly foolish. Let’s drop it.”

“Why not? What the hell!”

His private life had not fared well during the ensuing years. Not that he was about to tell her that. Inevitable she would find out eventually. His public life, his business life, had gone exceedingly well. Losing her—the way she had left—the short, pitiful letter of explanation, if that was what one could call it, had affected him deeply. No one could have been treated worse. The moment his back was turned, she had fled at frightful speed. The final indignity. Maybe she had known what she was doing from the beginning? It was he who had got it all wrong. His mother, appalled by Catrina’s behaviour, had done everything in her power to console him, until finally she was forced to stop in despair.

He had chosen his own way to get through. He had used his perfectly good brain to amass a fortune over a few years. On solid evidence he was a great success, a man of property, with many possessions.

He didn’t have a wife. He didn’t have a son. Marina had hung in there as long as she thought there was hope. Now and again under pressure from the family, especially his mother, he had considered asking Marina to be his wife. Had he not met Catrina Hamilton who knew? He could have married Marina. She was a lovely person, eminently suitable. Marina had deserved better. She had gone on to marry a good friend of his, Simon Bolton. He had in fact been best man at the wedding. They remained close friends.

It was Catrina who had stolen his heart. She had never contacted him again. Simply vanished from his life. Once hope was gone there was only heartbreak to be endured. Women weren’t the only ones to suffer that. Men did too. He had missed her. God, how he’d missed her. Hated her too. What she had done he regarded as not only cowardly but cruel. The cruellest, the most demoralising part was, there was hardly a time and a long, long night he hadn’t thought of her. He could almost believe destiny had thrown them together again. For a crime there was punishment.

This time she wouldn’t get off so easily. An unmarried mother said it. Catrina played games with men’s minds and men’s bodies. Probably nothing really touched her. Except—and he knew it in his bones—her son. Her son would be her Achilles heel. Meeting the boy might deliver a judgment. Apparently she kept him well hidden. Hugh Saunders hadn’t met the boy either. But he knew where she lived. The big mystery was how had the boy’s father opted out so easily? Either he had placed little value on being the father of a child, or Catrina hadn’t told him.

Simply used him.

It happened. Women were getting better and better at using men.

* * *

They sat down on the loggia to a light, delicious lunch served by Lady McCready’s housekeeper, Mary, a pleasant, capable woman clearly devoted to her mistress. The loggia with its series of archways faced a cerulean infinity-edged pool. Beyond that, breathtaking views of the Coral Sea. There were comfortable white furnishings set back from the pool, the tables, couches and chairs protected from the dazzling sun by large blue, white fringed umbrellas. Huge terracotta planters framed either side of the arches, filled with blossoming hibiscus in a range of brilliant colours. The house presented the classic Mediterranean style of architecture he was long familiar with.

Over lunch Lady McCready didn’t bother him with personal questions. He had asked to speak to her privately regarding possible negotiations. If she was surprised she had hidden it well. Davey would take Catrina on a tour of the gardens while they talked. Catrina, however, was allowed to take him on a tour of what was the large house.

“I’m not as spry as I once was,” Lady McCready said with a laugh and a little wave of her beringed hand. Indeed the regal little lady dressed in a gorgeous kaftan looked quite frail, though the years had dealt kindly with her. “I’ll wait here for you.”

Immediately they were out of earshot and Cate went on the attack. “So you cut me out of the negotiations? That wasn’t the plan.”

“Plans change,” he said briefly, moving ahead of her. “I really don’t need
you
to make a business pitch. I would have thought that it was obvious I can handle it myself. Lady McCready and I won’t have a problem dealing with each other on what I’m sure is a seven-figure deal. It’s a truly beautiful home they’ve created here, but I haven’t yet decided whether it’s irresistible to me. It’s clear no expense has been spared. Isla Bella is much more than a hideaway. More like an Italianate villa. It must have taken a long time to complete the project?” He suddenly turned to her, caught her out staring at him.