Long Cold Winter. PENNY JORDAN

forced herself to withstand it, her own eyes cold and contemptuous. There had been a time when that look had been sufficient to set her body on fire; but in those days she had seen only the sexual awareness and not the coldness which lay beneath it.

      Women had been standing in line for Yorke from the first day he wore long trousers, and there wasn’t a thing he didn’t know about their minds or bodies.

      ‘Look, we’d better get over to the restaurant,’ Alan said quickly. ‘We can have a drink over there and talk later, when we’re all feeling more relaxed.’

      He was standing up as he spoke, and Autumn walked out of the bungalow without a word, ignoring Sally’s puzzled eyes. She could feel Yorke looking at her, and she used the smile experience had taught her was a far more effective weapon than any amount of irritation or embarrassment. It was so cold and bitter that it normally froze off even the most ardent and thick-skinned Don Juan. On Yorke it was like using paper to ward off a forest fire; his glance consumed her, destroying her barricades, warning her of what was to come, but she gave him another of her cold little smiles and turned away from him to Alan. Behind her she could hear the breathless excitement in Sally’s voice as she answered his deep-toned questions. Even Sally, fathoms deep in love with her Richard, was not proof against Yorke’s sexuality.

      Alan closed the door of his bungalow and turned to Yorke to make some comment about arranging for him to see over the grounds, and Sally used the momentary diversion to murmur curiously to Autumn, ‘What gives? I detected a definite undercurrent in the bungalow just now, and when you saw Yorke you looked as though you’d seen a ghost.’

      ‘No such luck,’ Autumn muttered bitterly, taken off guard when Yorke loomed over her, his teeth white in the velvet darkness.

      ‘What a devoted wife you are, my love,’ he murmured dulcetly, loudly enough for Sally to hear. ‘And when I’ve come all this way to find you…’

      He turned back to Alan and Sally gaped in bemusement.

      ‘Was I hearing things, or…’ she broke off when she saw Autumn’s pale face. ‘My God, Autumn, he is your husband, isn’t he?’

      Such was Yorke’s power that even though Sally knew what her marriage had done to her, she could still look at her with perplexed eyes, and was no doubt thinking she must have been a fool to leave him, Autumn thought on a ragged sigh. But who was she to blame Sally? Hadn’t she been just as bemused—once? She loitered behind the others deliberately, glad that the path through the gardens to the Five Fathoms restaurant was barely wide enough for two people. At first when she saw the white flash of a dinner jacket she froze in alarm, thinking it was Yorke, but he was in front of her, his arm resting protectively on Sally’s waist as he helped her to negotiate the twisty path.

      ‘I’m sorry about this, Autumn,’ Alan muttered, falling into step beside her. ‘It was a hell of a thing to do to you, but he didn’t give me much alternative. When he was first introduced to me I had no idea he was your husband. He’d been recommended to me by my merchant bankers and he seemed enthusiastic about the island. It wasn’t until he’d discovered just how bad things were that he started to put the screws on. He told me if I didn’t fix up this meeting he’d make sure I wouldn’t come out of this mess with ten pounds to call my own.’

      ‘So you simply caved in and threw me to the wolves?’ She tried to keep the shaken anger out of her voice, but it was impossible. When she had first seen Yorke in the bungalow she had thought she must be hallucinating; that it was all part of the dreadful nightmares that used to torment her in the early months after she left him. There had never been any question of him wanting her back—he had wanted the marriage to end just as much as she did herself. When she had left him she had reverted to her maiden name, simply because she couldn’t bear to retain anything that might remind her of him, and as far as she knew he had never made any attempt to trace her, so why this, now?

      ‘Come on, it isn’t as bad as all that,’ Alan said gruffly. ‘He just wants to talk to you, Autumn.’

      Autumn ignored him.

      ‘You knew who he was all the time,’ she accused. ‘All the time you were giving me that “be nice to him” bit, you knew!’

      ‘He made me promise to say nothing. I tell you, Autumn, he would have ruined me if I hadn’t agreed. And still might. Look, I know I’ve no right to ask this of you, but St John’s means one hell of a lot to me; not just financially… and he has the power to make or break it.’

      ‘Come on, you two,’ Sally called back to them. ‘Stop dawdling!’

      Yorke barely glanced at Autumn when they arrived at the restaurant, but she was aware of him with every breath she drew. Why had he gone to such lengths to find her? Did he want a divorce? Her heart thudded against her breastbone and she glanced at his shuttered profile, her palms slightly damp. If that was the case, surely he wouldn’t seek her out in person?

      And Alan. He really was unbelievable. Surely he must be able to see that she couldn’t stay on St John’s now? But he didn’t see, she thought tiredly. He was so wrapped up in his business that he saw only that, and Yorke had made use of the fact.

      The Five Fathoms restaurant was something of a showpiece; the restaurant itself was below ground, having been excavated out of the volcanic rock, at the opposite end of the bay from the main hotel complex.

      Inside it was the last word in luxury, stretching out below the seabed; one huge illuminated glass ‘window’ looking out on to the undersea world of the coral reef, teeming with tiny fish and live coral. Clever lighting and engineering had turned the sea outside into an ‘aquarium’ and through the glass ‘window’ the diners could watch the ceaseless play of underwater life, while they ate and danced.

      The atmosphere in the Five Fathoms was more sophisticated than in the dining room attached to the main hotel, and guests tended to dress more formally and make a visit to the Five Fathoms something of an occasion.

      The head waiter came forward to greet them, and although he recognised Alan, it was to Yorke that he turned automatically, to ask if he had any table preference.

      By common consent they opted for one quite close to the dance floor, but with excellent views through the ‘window’, and as the muted strains of the resident steel band filled the silence, Autumn tried to relax. Now, the numbness which had followed her initial recognition of Yorke had given way to delayed shock, and she was glad of the dim atmosphere of the restaurant, tensing as she anticipated Yorke’s attention being focused upon her.

      She had underestimated him, she decided several minutes earlier. He was dividing his time impartially between Alan and Sally, making Sally laugh as he related some anecdote. Autumn stared stoically down at her wine glass. The days were gone when she would vibrate to those soft tones, like a well tuned instrument to a master player, sexual excitement erupting at a mere look, the slightest touch enough to send her into a frenzy of need.

      At thirty-four Yorke looked little different than he had done three years ago when she first met him. His body beneath the immaculate dinner suit was still lithe and firm, his hair dark and thick, and his face taut and alert. He looked lean and predatory, the fierce competitiveness that drove him, apparent in his expression. Yorke was a man who admitted no equal; no contenders for the things he considered his.

      He had learned about life in a hard school, Autumn reflected. His father had abandoned Yorke and his mother when Yorke was six, rejecting his son in favour of the daughter his mistress had given him, and that rejection was something Yorke had never forgotten nor forgiven. During their marriage Yorke had mentioned his father only once, and that had been when Autumn question him about him. He had been a haulage contractor with a profitable business, but in his will he had made it plain that neither Yorke nor his ex-wife were to receive anything from his estate, and Yorke had bitterly resented this further confirmation of his rejection.

      With the benefit of hindsight, Autumn had come to see that Yorke’s driving ambition was as a direct result of this rejection; his desire to succeed a deep-seated need springing from a bottomless well of bitterness; but the