Forgotten Passion. PENNY JORDAN

chilling her came the realisation that she was nothing really to him, nothing to Leigh who had never legally adopted her although she knew it had always been his intention.

      ‘I’m eleven years older than you and I’ve seen my share of the world. Besides, I have a purpose here, and my family…’

      ‘All right, you don’t need to remind me any more that I don’t belong here,’ Lisa bit out, interrupting him, more angry than she could ever remember being in her life. ‘Anyway,’ she told him childishly, ‘it isn’t up to you, it’s Leigh who says whether I can stay here or not, and…’

      ‘And he’s clinging to you because you remind him of your mother,’ he told her grimly. ‘Is that what you really want from life, Lisa? Out here the living’s easy, we all know that, but you’re too young for easy living; and if you’re not careful it can become degenerative.’

      She looked up at him and his mouth twisted wryly. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you believe me? Take a look around you; look at the native island girls, most of them mothers before they’re fifteen. Like I said, life out here is too easy.’ He turned and Lisa saw the almost brooding quality of his frown.

      Why was Rorke so anxious for her to leave St Martins? Surely he wasn’t jealous of her relationship with his father?

      ‘Rorke,’ she said his name, huskily and uncertainly, trying to conceal the faint tremor.

      ‘Lisa—Rorke!’ Both of them turned at the sound of Leigh’s voice, and Lisa decided she must have imagined the look she had glimpsed in Rorke’s eyes before his father arrived, because just for an instant it had seemed hotly possessive and bitterly resentful of his father’s arrival.

      Although she tried to forget them, Rorke’s words kept troubling her. She was thinking about them one morning as she walked along the beach dressed in frayed denim shorts, her sandals in her hand, the breeze flattening her thin tee-shirt against the burgeoning curves of her body as she walked across the sand of her favourite bay, just below the house.

      ‘Hello there!’ She came to an abrupt halt as a tall, lean-limbed young man suddenly bounded down the beach towards her, fair hair flopping into his eyes, an engaging grin splitting a face still pale enough for him to be an obvious newcomer.

      ‘I’m looking for Mr Geraint—am I heading in the right direction?’ he asked cheerfully. ‘Mike Peters at your service, by the way, newly arrived and newly qualified doctor of medicine, appointed to your local hospital. Curer of all ills known to man; and surgeon extraordinaire as well,’ he announced, sweeping a mock bow and making Lisa laugh with his friendly absurdity.

      ‘I’m just heading back to the house, we can walk there together,’ she told him. ‘Are you really? The new doctor, I mean. Leigh told me one was arriving, but somehow…’

      ‘You pictured an old greybeard, not the dashingly handsome young blade you now see before you,’ Mike Peters clowned, grinning. ‘Actually, don’t tell anyone, will you, but I still find it hard to believe myself. It’s been such a long slog to get qualified, I’m still half afraid, someone’s going to creep up behind me, filch my certificate and tell me it’s all a mistake—hence the flight to St Martins. Wow!’ he exclaimed, coming to a standstill as he saw the house for the first time. ‘That’s really something, Palladian, isn’t it?’

      Warming to him more and more by the minute, Lisa agreed that it was, and explained a little of the island’s history.

      They were just crossing the smooth greenness of the lawn, when Rorke suddenly emerged from the house, his forehead creasing in a frown as he looked from Lisa to her companion.

      ‘Rorke, this is Mike, our new doctor,’ Lisa introduced, wondering what had made him look so grim.

      ‘Peters,’ Rorke acknowledged, betraying that he already knew of Mike’s existence. ‘Lisa, Dad’s been asking for you.’

      ‘Phew—friendly soul, isn’t he?’ Mike grimaced as Rorke turned on his heel and left them, adding apologetically, ‘I’m sorry, I had no right to say that about your brother.’

      ‘Rorke is my stepbrother,’ Lisa told him absently, surprised to see comprehension dawning in Mike’s eyes and even further confused by his comprehensive: ‘So that’s the way the land lies! Look, if you can just direct me back to the village… I came out for a walk…’

      ‘Billy can run you back in the Moke,’ Lisa assured him. ‘In fact if Dad didn’t want to see me I’d come with you myself.’

      ‘No patients to look after, Peters?’ Neither of them had heard Rorke approach, and his clipped voice and hostile expression puzzled Lisa. What on earth was the matter with him?

      Ten minutes later when Mike had left with Billy in the Moke she tackled him about it.

      ‘What on earth was wrong with you, Rorke?’ she demanded crossly, ‘Poor Mike was so embarrassed!’

      ‘So it’s Mike now, is it?’ Rorke responded savagely. ‘God, Lisa, what is it with you? Haven’t they warned you at that damned school of yours about being too forthcoming with strangers?’

      ‘You mean when they ask me to go for a ride in their car and offer me sweeties?’ Lisa demanded angrily. ‘Rorke, I’m sixteen, not six, and besides, it was obvious that Mike…’

      ‘What? Come on, Lisa,’ he jeered, ‘tell me that Peters is impervious to physical desire, if you dare—it was written all over his face that he wanted you—and no wonder! Dressed like that you’re offering an open invitation to rape!’

      She wasn’t going to cry; she wasn’t going to give Rorke the satisfaction! There was nothing wrong with her tee-shirt and cut-off shorts; she had worn them for the last couple of holidays; they were clean and comfortable. What was the matter with Rorke?

      ‘That’s a horrid thing to say!’ she flung at him. ‘And Mike wouldn’t do a thing like that. All we were doing was talking; he didn’t even try to kiss me!’

      ‘He didn’t? Then perhaps it’s damned well time that someone did,’ Rorke muttered half under his breath, reaching for her, with hands that wouldn’t allow any escape, lean tanned fingers biting into her skin as she was hauled against the taut muscularity of his chest, the bronzed flesh rising and falling with the irregularity of his breathing.

      ‘Damn you, Lisa,’ he groaned against her hair. ‘Why the hell did my father have to go and complicate things by bringing you back here?’

      Lisa wanted to protest, to demand that he release her, but a strange weakness was spreading through her veins, a pulsing excitement firing her blood; a wantonness she had never known she possessed urging her to reach up and touch the bronzed flesh exposed by the vee of Rorke’s shirt.

      ‘Lisa!’ Rorke bit out her name as though he hated her, the sudden pressure of his mouth on hers shockingly intimate, robbing her of breath. ‘Open your mouth,’ he muttered huskily against her skin, and as though she were completely lacking in any willpower, Lisa felt her lips parting moistly to the sensual intrusion of his. A fierce, painful urge to mould her body against Rorke’s rippled through her, shocking her with its mindless intensity. She pulled away, and Rorke released her immediately, allowing her to turn and run into the cool shadows of the verandah.

      What on earth had possessed him? What had possessed her? Lisa asked herself fiercely. They were practically brother and sister; or were they?

      Shivering despite the tropical heat, she allowed her fingers to touch the sensitive flesh Rorke’s mouth had just ravaged. For a moment in his arms she had been oblivious to everything but the strange pulsating need to lose herself in him, to be part of him to… With a small cry Lisa clapped her hands over her ears, not wanting to listen to the inner voice telling her that she had wanted Rorke to make love to her. Rorke, who had never shown her anything but careless affection; Rorke who she knew from her mother had a whole contingent of girl-friends; who was worldly and experienced and would surely break her heart if she was ever foolish enough to