Treacherous Longings. Anne Mather

so thin-skinned?

      He hesitated. ‘Where is she?’

      Hector regarded him warily. ‘You’ll do it?’

      Quinn shrugged. ‘Do I have a choice?’

      ‘Everyone has a choice, my boy.’

      Quinn’s mouth twisted. Oh, yeah. Right. But not if he wanted to keep his job. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ he said, taking his hands out of his pockets and raking impatient fingers through his hair. ‘But I’m not making any promises. She may refuse to see me.’

      ‘I doubt it.’ Hector regarded him ironically. ‘I have it on good authority that you’re exactly the kind of man she admires. Dark, good-looking—though I have to say I’d have my hair cut if I were you. It’s a pity you were such a kid when she knew your mother. You might have been able to give me some stories that never made the headlines.’

      Quinn steeled himself not to show any reaction. He’d had plenty of experience, after all. When Julia had first disappeared his mother had constantly worried over the reason why. And, although she’d known nothing of their relationship, Quinn had been the recipient of all her guilty fears.

      God, how he had hated that. At a time when he’d been desperately trying to come to terms with his own feelings, the last thing he’d wanted to do was discuss Julia with his mother.

      If only Lady Marriott hadn’t been such a fan. If only she hadn’t persuaded her husband to organise that gala so that she might meet her. Without that connection they never would have met. And certainly Julia and Isabel Marriott would never have become friends...

      Hector got up from his desk now, and came to pat Quinn’s shoulder with an encouraging hand. His enthusiasm should have been infectious, but all Quinn could think about was what he had let himself in for.

      ‘So where is she?’ he asked, resisting Hector’s efforts to turn his capitulation into a celebration. He was fairly sure he was going to have a wasted journey. Julia Harvey would never agree to do what Hector wanted.

      ‘San Jacinto,’ the older man replied now, with an air of triumph, and Quinn’s spirits plummeted. ‘It’s a small island, just off the Caymans,’ continued the older man, pouring himself another glass of Scotch and savouring its bouquet. ‘I doubt if anybody’s even heard of it. From what I can gather, she’s been living like a recluse all these years.’

      * * *

      Lunchtime found Quinn perched on a bar-stool scanning the huge file of information Hector had given him about Julia Harvey. The file was thick enough, certainly, containing as it did the massive wedge of press clippings gleaned from newspapers and magazines ten and twenty years old.

      Some of the cuttings were from the seventies, when she had first been noticed in a drama school production. Unlike most would-be actresses, Julia hadn’t had to struggle to become successful. As one fulsome reviewer had put it, ‘artistes of Miss Harvey’s calibre were born to delight the senses of other mere mortals’. And she was regarded as having divine inspiration and an unassuming character to boot.

      Of course, as she had become more successful the reviews had become less idealistic, though no less glowing. Stories about her love-life had begun to circulate, and she was suspected of having affairs with all her leading men. Bitchy subordinates had accused her of being a man-eater, and rumours of adulterous liaisons had fanned the fires of notoriety.

      Yet through it all Julia had emerged as a woman much loved by her public—and by those people who believed they’d known her as she really was, Quinn acknowledged sardonically, ordering another beer. Whatever the real truth, she had appeared serene and untouchable, an irritation to her enemies and an icon to her friends.

      There were dozens of pictures, and although Quinn had no real desire to look at the woman he couldn’t help being drawn by her beauty. Hair that was more silver than gold, creamy skin, green eyes, and a generous mouth to die for: Julia Harvey had had more than her fair share of life’s endowments. So why had she chosen to give it all up? What had persuaded her to abandon her career? She’d kept her secret, whatever it was, for ten years. Couldn’t Hector see that she’d never divulge it now?

      ‘Sorry I’m late, darling.’

      Susan Aitken slid on to the stool beside him, and bestowed a cold-lipped kiss on his cheek. Outside, the temperature was hovering somewhere around freezing-point, but it was warm in the bar and she hunched her slim shoulders appreciatively.

      ‘No problem.’

      Quinn offered her a smile that required more of an effort than he’d anticipated, and nodded towards the bartender. ‘What do you want?’

      ‘Oh, my usual, I think,’ she responded warmly, and Quinn ordered a spritzer as she peered over his shoulder. ‘What are you doing?’

      Suppressing a quite ridiculous desire to hide the file from her, instead Quinn pushed it towards her. ‘See for yourself,’ he said, picking up his beer and emptying his glass, before signalling to the barman that he’d have another. They were only half-pint bottles after all, he consoled himself, aware that he was drinking more than he usually did at lunchtime. ‘Pickard wants to do a profile on her, if we can find her.’

      Susan bent over the file, her cap of chestnut hair swinging confidingly against her cheek. Unlike Julia Harvey, whose beauty had had a wholly sensual appeal, Susan’s charm lay in her smallness, in the diminutive frame of her body, in the delicate shape of her face. Her father called her his pocket Venus, and the description was not inappropriate.

      ‘Julia Harvey,’ she said now wonderingly. ‘I thought she was dead.’

      Quinn stilled the urge to drag the file back to him, and managed a careless shrug. ‘So do a lot of people.’

      Susan looked up. ‘But she’s not?’

      ‘Obviously not.’ Quinn could hear the impatience creeping into his voice and determinedly controlled it. ‘According to Hector she’s living on some remote island in the Caribbean. Somehow—I’m not sure I want to know how—he’s traced her supposed whereabouts. He—wants me to try and see her. To persuade her to co-operate.’

      ‘You!’ Susan’s blue eyes widened. ‘Why you? That’s not your job.’

      ‘No.’ Quinn conceded the point, unsure of how much he wanted to tell her. ‘It’s just that—well, my mother used to be a fan of hers.’

      ‘Just your mother?’

      ‘What do you—?’ Quinn had started a defensive response when he realised Susan was only joking. Her expression had been full of mischief, and only the half-aggressive swiftness of his reply had brought a trace of anxiety to her eyes. ‘She was my mother’s contemporary, not mine,’ he finished, with more defiance than conviction. ‘Give me a break.’

      Susan was quick to forgive him. ‘Well, men have been known to worship lesser idols,’ she responded, eager to restore their previous closeness. ‘All the same, I don’t see what your mother being a fan has to do with it.’

      ‘They were—friends,’ admitted Quinn reluctantly. ‘Well, close acquaintances, anyway. She—Julia Harvey, that is—spent several weekends at Courtlands.’

      ‘Really?’ Susan stared at him. ‘You never told me.’

      ‘Why would I?’ Quinn was unwillingly defensive again. ‘It was long before we knew one another. And, as you say, she dropped out of circulation.’

      ‘So did your mother keep in touch with her?’

      Susan was annoyingly persistent, sipping her wine and watching him over the rim of her glass with disturbing intent. Quinn wished he hadn’t brought the Harvey file with him. But curiosity had got the better of him, and he had told himself he was eager to start his research.

      ‘No,’ he replied now, taking the file from her and sliding it beneath his elbow. ‘They weren’t that close. I seem to remember