Mistress for a Night

‘What did you do? Blot your copybook?’ he asked lightly. There was a speck of creamy milk on her upper lip. The tip of her tongue peeped out to capture it. He looked away quickly, tightening his mouth as desire stabbed with wicked ferocity inside him, and heard her answer, sounding much more relaxed now.

‘I don’t think so. They weren’t around enough to get fed up with me. Harold used to hire a motor launch so they could visit San Antonio whenever they wanted, without having to rely on Elijah. I stayed here—swimming, exploring the island, going fishing with Elijah and being fussed over or bossed around by Blossom. I had a whale of a time.’

The only thing she’d longed for was for Jason to put in an appearance; she’d missed not seeing him once during the five weeks she’d spent here.

She drained the last drop from her mug. Better not to think of that old infatuation. She could think of it and deride herself for it when he was bac

k to being her enemy again. ‘Mother much preferred San Antonio—it has great shops, apparently, a couple of superb restaurants and plenty of sophisticated nightlife.’

I just bet she did, Jason thought acidly. Vivienne had loved the high life, going places where she could be seen in all that expensive designer gear. Blue Rock would have simply been a convenient base from which to visit the exclusive playground of the larger island, where the ordinary residents didn’t go because no way could they have afforded the mile-high prices.

But he held his tongue, because now he had Georgia in a relaxed mood he didn’t want to ruin it. Not yet, anyway. Not until he found the right moment to bring up the subject of the abortion.

‘You say “apparently”. Didn’t you go there?’

She shook her head and a few soft tendrils dropped from the loose knot on top of her head to frame her face. ‘Only passing through, from the airstrip to the quayside.’

That figured. Vivienne wouldn’t have wanted to be seen with the awkward, painfully shy sixteen-year-old Georgia would have been at that time. It wouldn’t have suited the image she’d created for herself.

Yet there was more to it than that. The letter had revealed that Vivienne had never really loved her daughter. He took their empty mugs and rinsed them at the stainless steel double sink, carefully keeping his back to her, his tone as casual as he could make it as he asked, ‘Were the two of you ever close?’

Vaguely, she wondered whether to give him the short answer, and then decided against it. She had always found him easy to talk to. And, in the light of her mother’s final wish to get closer to her at last, she needed to get their relationship in perspective, see it from all angles.

‘Never. She resented me. But you have to understand why,’ she told him thoughtfully, noting the dark frown as he turned back to face her. ‘I don’t know what she told Harold—we never shared confidences—but she got pregnant with me not long after she left school. She and my father—and don’t ask, because she never even told me his name—were engaged, going to be married. But he did a runner when he found out I was on the way. Whether he was frightened off because he couldn’t face the idea of fatherhood, or whether the promise of marriage had been a ploy to get her in bed, who can tell?’

She shrugged. It was of no importance now. Aware that Jason was about to rejoin her on the sofa, she shifted slightly to make more space, quickly twitching the edges of her robe together.

‘So?’ he prompted, noting that her attempt at modesty did nothing to disguise the fact that she was naked beneath the wispy silk, noting his own body’s immediate reaction and quietly despairing of himself.

‘So she was left, literally, holding the baby. I think Gran would have disowned her if she’d got rid of me or put me up for adoption. She had rigid principles, of the “You’ve made your bed, now you must lie in it” sort. Money was tight, so from what I gathered Vivienne settled down to get the secretarial skills she needed to support us all while Gran looked after me.’

‘It’s not a unique story,’ he put in, unable to stop himself. It didn’t excuse subjecting an innocent child to a life without love. That posthumous letter, the olive branch, was making Georgia defend and excuse her mother.

Almost as if she hadn’t registered his comment, she said slowly, as if working it out for herself was something she had to do, ‘Then Gran got ill. My mother signed on at an agency, took temporary jobs so she could work around having to look after the two of us, me and Gran. She was still young, and very pretty, and she wanted what she couldn’t have—fun, nice clothes to wear when she wasn’t working, a life of her own. I once overheard her telling Gran, “I’m stuck with it—what kind of future can I expect? What man would want me, saddled with this wretched child?” But in the end it did work out, because she met Harold, and when he proposed she must have thought all her Christmases had come at once.’

But it hadn’t altered her attitude to her child, Jason reflected. Resentment and spite were all Vivienne had ever offered her daughter. He would never forget the malice in her voice when she’d informed him over the phone of Georgia’s abortion.

Why? Had she been viciously glad that her daughter would never have what she herself had lacked: not just a child—Vivienne had a child—but a child she could love and cherish? And the Georgia who had told him of her pregnancy, who had listened to the plans he’d laid out for their wedding, would have loved their child. He would stake his life on that.

So what had happened in such a short space of time to change her mind?

He gave her a fleeting glance. Now was the time to find out.

But she forestalled him. ‘I’ve been wondering why she left this place in such a hurry. It wasn’t like her to leave so many lovely things behind.’

‘Because she discovered Harold having a furtive fumble with a little waitress on San Antonio. She actually witnessed it, apparently, which meant she couldn’t pretend it hadn’t happened,’ he clipped, deliberately crude. Her admission earlier today of her relationship with Harold—or yesterday, as it now was—had come back to him, igniting the sickening slow burn of anger inside him.

He got to his feet, unable to sit still a second longer. He needed to let her know what type of man she’d got involved with when she’d decided to play her stepfather for all she could get.

‘It was an addiction. Silly young girls. Just a bit of fun, nothing serious—that was his excuse.’ Bitterness broke into his voice. He let it stay there. ‘I’m damned sure, with hindsight, he broke my mother’s heart. And ultimately he drove Vivienne to her death. She left the island, fortuitously in time to hop on an airbus, got back to the UK, to Lytham, got in her car and simply drove away. One of the locals said she was driving like a maniac. The rest you know.’

He strode to the door, opened it, turned to face her. But he directed his gaze to a foot above her head. He couldn’t meet her eyes, afraid of the knowing indifference he might see there. Perhaps she had known what the man was like but had been too avaricious to care.

‘An illness in childhood meant Harold could never father a child, which is why, both times he married, he picked out a woman who already had a child of her own. It’s a pity Vivienne didn’t have a son, rather than a daughter. To give him his due, he wasn’t interested in teenage lads.’

Turning abruptly, he told her, ‘Better get back to bed for what’s left of the night.’

He’d promised himself he’d get to the truth about her reasons for aborting their child, but the opportunity had passed. He felt too sickeningly angry over her muddy relationship with Harold to handle the conversation with the tact and patience he knew would be called for.