Long Cold Winter. PENNY JORDAN

it shouldn’t be so bad. I’ve persuaded him that it would look a bit obvious if the three of you dined alone, so it’s his bungalow for a general discussion and drinks, followed by dinner for the four of us at the Five Fathoms restaurant. That’s what I came to tell you really. We won’t be eating until about eight, and Alan wants you over at his bungalow for half six, so that you can help him put our friend fully in the picture.’

      Recognising her friend’s tactful hand in the rearrangement of the evening, Autumn smiled faintly. She hadn’t been looking forward to an evening being very obviously dangled in front of Alan’s visitor, like a piece of tempting bait. Fond though she was of Alan, and much as she was aware of how much she owed him, her own self-respect was something she meant to retain no matter what the cost.

      ‘I’ll see you later,’ Sally announced, getting to her feet. ‘Alan wants me to type up some figures for him and take them over to the bungalow.’ She frowned anxiously. ‘I do hope everything goes okay. It would be criminal if he lost St John’s now, after all he’s done. Every cent he owns is tied up in it.’

      ‘I’ll do what I can,’ Autumn told her. ‘But I object to being used as a lure.’

      ‘Yes, I know, but you know Alan—tact isn’t his strong suit. I don’t think he ever intended you to come on strong with the heavy seduction scene. A light flirtation was probably all he had in mind.’

      ‘Have you any idea who this man is?’ Autumn asked her.

      Sally shook her head.

      ‘Not a clue. Alan’s been awfully cagey—something about everything having to be kept strictly secret until he comes to a decision. You know how cloak-and-dagger these financial deals can be. I’m sure financiers must all be closet secret agents at heart!’

      The bar was starting to fill up with guests wanting to enjoy the view and relax over a pre-dinner drink, and several of them paused to speak to Autumn.

      On her way back to her bungalow she paused to glance at the notice board, pleased to see that the boat trip round the island, which was a fortnightly excursion, was well subscribed to.

      In her bungalow she glanced at her watch. Half past five. She had an hour to get ready. Deciding against anything too formal, she opened her wardrobe and withdrew a silk two-piece, in deep cyclamen pink, leaving it on the bed while she stepped under the shower.

      The cool sting of the water was instantly reviving and she enjoyed the therapeutic effect of the water against her skin. Towelling herself dry, she caught a glimpse of her body in the full-length mirror and frowned, turning away. There had been a time, shortly after her marriage broke up, when she found herself hating the sight of her own flesh, almost to the point where she wanted to inflict pain upon it for its betrayal, but this mood had passed and with it the desire to dress in drab, dull clothes that concealed her figure.

      Bending to plug in her hair-dryer, she frowned again, her mind on the letter she had recently received from her solicitor. As she had only been married to her husband for a year before she left him, there could be no divorce without his consent for five years after the date of their marriage. It was now two years since she had left him; that meant she had another two years to wait before she could divorce him. She wielded her hairbrush angrily, making her scalp tingle. As she had made it plain that she had no plans to remarry, the two-year wait should not prove too onerous, her solicitor claimed, but until she was completely and legally free Autumn felt as though she were still held in thrall to the past. That she could never again recapture the innocence she had once had, she did not dispute, but while her marriage continued to exist, even if only on paper, it was like an open wound deep inside her, refusing to heal, festering and spreading its poison through her life. She knew her reasoning was illogical, but her desire to be free possessed her to the extent that she felt as though she were in limbo, unable to get on with the business of living until she had finally severed herself from the past. No one but herself knew how she felt. When she had walked out on her marriage she had locked the door on her memories and thrown away the key. Her mouth compressed. Two more years. How was she to endure it? Beg and plead to be set free? Her mouth twisted bitterly. No way!

      The cyclamen silk emphasised her tan, the vivid colour making her hair seem fairer, her eyes more intensely blue, and the thin fabric clung seductively to her long, slender legs; the brief camisole top revealing the full taut swell of her breasts.

      People dressed casually on St John’s and Autumn slid her bare feet into high-heeled cyclamen sandals, spraying herself lightly with Opium, before adding a slick of lip-gloss to her mouth. In a face that was delicately modelled with high cheekbones and an almost fragile jawline, she thought her mouth too wide and full. It was only since coming to London that she had discovered that men found it sexy, and she had gone through a stage of wearing only the palest lipstick as she tried to detract from its appeal. Now she had come to terms with her own sexuality. She no longer cared how others viewed her; only how she viewed herself. Her own self-respect was more important than the opinions of others.

      The thin silk whispered provocatively against her legs as she stepped outside into the dense darkness of the tropical night, alive with sounds that seemed to echo the pulsing beat of the sea against the shore.

      As she opened the door of Alan’s bungalow, Sally smiled up at her over Alan’s head. Alan himself was sitting on the edge of his chair; the posture a familiar one, his mind and body totally engrossed in the man seated opposite him. The electric light was unkind, revealing the stress in his eyes, but didn’t stop him from looking as alert as a terrier at a rat-hole, as he talked quickly, gesticulating, proffering the papers stacked neatly on the table in front of him.

      Sally was drinking a rum punch, and poured one for Autumn, who took it with a smile. A large jug of the punch stood on the table, and as Sally leaned forward to top up Alan’s glass Autumn had her first glimpse of the man sitting opposite him.

      Recognition and fear welled up inside her like sickness. She was shaking so badly that she had to clasp her hands together to hide their trembling. Thick dark hair curled down over the collar of a pale silk shirt, a jacket lying discarded next to its owner, his back lean and muscled beneath the thin covering.

      Alan had stopped talking and was listening carefully. Autumn felt as though she had strayed into a nightmare. She had no need to listen to that cool, incisive voice, shredding all Alan’s carefully balanced arguments; its every inflection and intonation was as familiar to her as her own. If she listened hard enough she could even hear the faint contempt lacing the words.

      ‘You say everything would have been fine if it hadn’t been for this hurricane,’ he was saying to Alan. ‘But surely hurricanes and tropical islands are something that automatically go together and must be allowed for?’

      Alan flushed darkly, his voice conciliating as he mumbled a reply.

      How well she knew that hard, ‘I’ve got you in a corner,’ tone, Autumn thought numbly. And what would follow. Alan wouldn’t be allowed to escape until his arguments were relentlessly decimated. Her sickness grew and she wanted badly to run, and then Alan looked up and registered her presence, wariness and relief struggling for supremacy as he stood up and drew her forward.

      ‘Autumn, let me introduce you to Yorke Laing, head of Laing Airlines.’

      She could tell from Alan’s eyes that although he was trying hard to pretend he did not, he knew quite well who Yorke was, and she acknowledged the introduction with a cold smile, extending her hand for the briefest second.

      ‘Yorke.’

      She was not going to be part of the pretence. She knew that Sally was staring at her, and felt relief that her friend at least had not been a party to this charade.

      She didn’t need to meet Yorke’s cold green eyes to know the expression she would find there; she had seen it too often before. His face wasn’t strictly handsome. It was too rugged for that, too male; the harsh symmetry of bones and flesh mirroring his nature and attitude to life. Dear God, Autumn thought hysterically. Alan had baited his line for a ‘big fish’ and he had caught one with a vengeance, but what had he used as bait. Her?