Images Of Love. Anne Mather

dinner. It had been a long flight, and a long drive, and although it was only early evening in the Caribbean, her body told her it was much later in London.

      Mark had booked adjoining rooms, but as yet he had not tried to force their relationship. He wanted to make love to her, she knew that, but being a doctor, he was also aware of the reasons why she had refused to allow him to do so. Since Robert, since the emotional impact of what had happened to her, she found it incredibly difficult to relate to any man in a physical way, and Mark was sensible enough to see that if he compelled her to respond to him, he might destroy the tenuous thread he had constructed. So they remained friends, but not lovers in the true sense of the word, and Tobie believed they were closer than she and Robert had ever been.

      Lying on her bed, however, with the blinds drawn against the lighted street outside, and the steady hum of the hotel drifting irresistibly to her ears, she found it impossible to relax. Everything Mark had told her went round and round in her head, until she felt almost dizzy with the perplexity of her thoughts. Robert was an invalid, or he was crippled, at least. All those nightmares she had had during her illness, the women she had used to torment herself he was spending his nights with, had only existed in her imagination. She could understand why Mark had felt it necessary to warn her about the uncertainty of his moods. Robert had always been an arrogant devil, and even now she found it almost impossible to picture him any other way.

      She remembered the first time she had met him, when he came striding into the gallery where she worked. Her boss, Vincent Thomas, was staging one of his exhibitions, but she had not known that the tall lean stranger in the shabby denim shirt and jeans was Robert Lang. All she had seen was a man in his early thirties, a dark man, with untidy black hair, and skin with an olive cast. She had at first taken him for an intruder, not altogether trusting the way his dark eyes had swiftly appraised the layout of the gallery, and the general accessibility of the paintings, half suspecting he was checking the place out with criminal intent. Even when the dark eyes turned in her direction, and she found her own body betraying the dictates of her common sense, she was loath to admit that she found him disturbing, but when he spoke she was incapable of voicing any reproof. Robert had an attractive voice, low and mellow, with just a hint of the humour he had possessed in such measure, providing a lighter tone. And her nervousness had amused him, she had known that, even before he spoke to her and asked her who she was.

      She had answered him. How could she not? She was in charge of the gallery in Vincent’s absence, and for all she knew, this man might be a valued customer. But when it became apparent that he was more interested in her than the paintings, she had made a polite withdrawal, leaving him to browse around alone.

      He was gone before Vincent returned, and although she knew she ought to mention the suspicious circumstances of his visit, she was curiously unwilling to do so. Instead she kept the encounter to herself, and worried herself sick that night in case there should be a break-in.

      The following afternoon he was waiting for her when she left her office. She hardly recognised him in a well cut navy lounge suit, but when she did, she was astounded at his audacity. All her earlier doubts returned, and she convinced herself he intended to incriminate her in some plot to rob the gallery.

      His suggestion that she joined him for a drink before going home both excited and frightened her. She wanted to go with him, she knew that, but she also believed she was playing with fire, though how much, she had yet to learn.

      In the event, she had agreed to accompany him to a club nearby, the exclusiveness of its clientele only occurring to her when she was seated on a plush stool at the bar. It was difficult to think of anything with his dark eyes playing lazily over her face, lingering longer than was necessary on her mouth, before returning to tantalise the darting uncertainty of hers. She had never met anyone quite like him before, and her lips twisted now when she remembered how naïve she must have seemed.

      ‘Tell me about yourself,’ he prompted, when she had taken possession of a tall glass of Campari soda—her choice, not his—and she had found herself explaining that although she had been born in Northumberland, since her parents’ death two years ago she had been living with her married sister, Laura, in Wimbledon.

      ‘And you’ve worked at the gallery how long?’ he probed, studying her expression, and she admitted she had only been there a little over six months, having spent her first year in London, taking a secretarial course.

      ‘I thought I hadn’t seen you there before,’ he remarked, surprising her, and Tobie thought it was time she asked some questions of her own.

      ‘What—er—what do you do, Mr—Mr—’ she had begun awkwardly, realising she didn’t even know his name, and his dark brows had drawn together aggressively.

      ‘You mean you don’t know?’ he asked, his expression coldly sceptical, and she had had her first glimpse of another side to his character.

      ‘No,’ she insisted, glancing uneasily about her. ‘Why should I?’

      Robert had looked at her sharply, as if gauging her sincerity, and then, without provocation, he demanded: ‘So what the hell are you doing, accepting invitations from strange men? Didn’t that sister of yours tell you anything?’

      His attack was so unexpected, Tobie was stunned by it. One minute they had been sitting enjoying a quiet drink together, and the next his dark face was contorted with anger, his lips thin and impatient. More than anything, it convinced her of the veracity of his words, and she fumbled desperately for her handbag, jumping down from her stool, and charging out of the club as if the devil himself was at her heels.

      And he was—or so she thought when Robert caught up with her in the narrow side street adjoining the main thoroughfare. His face was grim and unrepentant, and the fingers that closed over her wrist were as hard and relentless as any tool of torture might be.

      ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he had exhorted, swinging her round to face him, and despite her tearful mortification, the desire to leave him melted beneath the powerful attraction he exerted.

      ‘I—I—’ she stammered helplessly, unable to find the words to express her consternation, and with a shake of his head he had pulled her closer to him and bent his mouth to hers.

      She thought at first he had intended to kiss her as a form of punishment, a way of avenging himself for her embarrassing departure from the club, but it didn’t work out that way at all. From the minute his lips touched hers everything changed, and what had begun as a tentative caress deepened into a passionate embrace. The fact that they were standing in a street—albeit a quiet one—in broad daylight, meant nothing to Tobie. She had lost all sense of time and consequence, and when he finally lifted his head she was weak with emotion.

      ‘Come on,’ he had said, in a husky voice, urging her forward along the pavement, and she went with him, making no objection when they came to where a low steel-grey sports car was parked, and he put her into the front seat, before striding round the bonnet to get in beside her …

      ‘Can’t you sleep?’

      Mark’s concerned voice broke into her reverie, and she turned almost guiltily to find him behind her. She had been so far from this colourful little island that it was incredibly difficult to reorientate herself. She stared at him blankly for several seconds before recovering her composure, and was grateful for his obtuseness when he added gently:

      ‘It’s the jet lag, isn’t it? It takes some getting used to. You’re tired, but you feel you shouldn’t be, isn’t that right? It’s a kind of mental hurdle, and it affects different people different ways. Personally, I find the atmosphere here makes me feel rather sleepy, and I never have any trouble adjusting to the time change.’

      Tobie bent her head. ‘How lucky for you,’ she commented, and fortunately Mark didn’t hear the irony in her tone. Nevertheless, the fact that it was there at all troubled her, and she felt the start of a headache hammering at her temples. It was the thought of tomorrow, she realised uneasily, the thought of going to Emerald Cay and meeting Robert again, with the awareness of his condition like a Damoclean sword hanging over her head.

      ‘We