‘SO WHERE is he?’
Adele Kittrick turned from applying a moisturising foundation to her face and neck, and regarded her daughter impatiently. In a coral silk wrapper, with her skilfully bleached hair hidden beneath a black turban, she looked rather more than the forty-two years she admitted to. It didn’t help that her expression was taut and demanding. India was the only person who ever saw her mother at her worst.
‘He said he was going to take a shower,’ India replied now, hooking her hip over the arm of a satin-striped chaise-longue, and meeting her mother’s gaze without rancour. ‘I’ve put him in 204, as we decided. If I’d known you wanted me to bring him here, I’d have made other arrangements.’
‘I didn’t want you to bring him here,’ retorted her mother shortly, turning back to survey her reflection in the mirror of the dressing-table. ‘I just find it hard to believe that he didn’t mention the will as you were driving back from the airport. It must be on his mind, for God’s sake. It’s why he’s come here. To make fools of us all!’
India drew her lower lip between her teeth. ‘I don’t think you can blame Nathan for what his father did,’ she said cautiously. ‘He knew nothing about the will. And he certainly didn’t influence Daddy.’
‘How do you know that?’ Adele screwed the cap back on to the jar of cream and slammed it down on the tray in front of her. The crystal rang protestingly, but fortunately it didn’t shatter. Nevertheless, India’s nails curled into her palms at this obvious display of temper.
‘Mother, you know Daddy hasn’t spoken to Nathan for over eight years,’ her daughter replied steadily. ‘Why, even Mr Hastings didn’t have his address.’
Adele snorted. ‘Oh, yes, go on. Defend him, India. You always did. Even though you knew what he’d said about you, how he’d treated you, you still ran around after him like a lovesick puppy!’
India drew a calming breath. This was an old argument, and one she had learned not to pursue. It used to hurt—it might still hurt, if she let it. But she knew it was just her mother’s way of expunging her frustration, of letting out some of the bitterness that was eating her up.
‘Well, what did you talk about, then?’ Adele persisted now, when it became apparent that her previous taunt was not about to bear fruit. ‘Is he still as arrogant as ever—as aggressive? What?’
India carefully uncurled her fingers and smoothed them over the expanded Lycra of her shorts. She was glad her mother was looking at her own reflection at that moment, and not at her. But that didn’t prevent her palms from growing moist, or stop a trickle of sweat from running down between her breasts.
‘He’s—older,’ she said at last, realising that was hardly a satisfactory response, but needing to say something before her mother became suspicious of her silence. ‘And—he’s very brown. I’d say that, whatever he’s been doing for the past eight years, it hasn’t been in an office.’
Adele’s eyes shifted to her daughter’s face. ‘Well, what did you expect?’ she demanded scathingly, and India was so relieved she had noticed nothing amiss that she didn’t voice any protest. ‘He’s probably been herding cattle or working on an oil rig! God knows, he wasn’t fit for anything else. When I think of how we’ve worked to make a success of this place, I could weep. It’s just not fair that he should get it all.’
‘No.’ India had to concede her mother’s final point at least. But Nathan was his father’s flesh and blood. She had only ever been second-best.
Adele picked up a tube of lip-gloss, and examined the colour intently. ‘Did—er—did he ask about me?’ she enquired, and, although India had been expecting the question, it still caught her unawares.
‘He—asked how you were,’ she admitted honestly, managing to contain the wave of heat that threatened to invade her neck. And then, rushing on, ‘But mostly he talked about Daddy. He wanted to know the details of how he died.’
Adele’s mouth took on a sullen twist. ‘As if he cared,’ she exclaimed malevolently. ‘I hope you told him his father never spoke of him. I don’t remember Aaron even mentioning his name in my hearing.’
India got abruptly to her feet. That wasn’t true, but she knew better than to say so. ‘I’d better go,’ she said, aware that, for all her apparent composure, she couldn’t take much more. It hadn’t been an easy day for her either, and even her cultivated detachment was wearing dangerously thin. ‘I promised Carlos I’d speak to Paolo about serving drinks while he’s playing. And I’ve got to get changed yet. I’m supposed to be having dinner with Senator Markham and his wife.’
Adele grimaced. ‘He won’t expect you to keep to that arrangement, India. Besides, it was business, wasn’t it? Why should you continue to take bookings when, as far as we know, Nathan could boot us out tomorrow?’
India breathed out slowly. ‘I—don’t think he’ll do that, Mother.’
‘How do you know? Has he said so?’
‘No——’
‘There you are, then.’ Adele sighed with frustration. ‘I wish you’d stop thinking that you know him better than I do. He’s a rat, India. A bastard! He’s totally without scruples, and you’d better start believing it!’
She did!
As India made some perfunctory comment about not having time to discuss Nathan now, and left her mother’s room, her nerves were working overtime. And, with the door closed behind her, she took a moment to get herself back together. But her mother’s words were far too potent to dismiss that easily, and the fact that they were true made them impossible to forget.
Nathan was everything her mother had said. He had behaved abominably, and had almost broken his father’s heart. It had taken Aaron Kittrick years to get over what his son had done, and her mother had borne the brunt of the depression he had suffered because of it.
Squaring her shoulders, India determinedly put that memory behind her. However Nathan had behaved, whatever he had done, it was pointless thinking about it now. Evidently his father had forgiven him, or he would not have made him his heir. It was no use her feeling bitter. Her mother was nursing enough bitterness for both of them.
The family apartments were situated in a separate wing of the hotel. Connected to the main building by means of a vine-hung colonnade, it was a single-storey dwelling, with a pink-tiled hipped roof, and long windows, opening on to a paved terrace. It was sufficiently apart from the other hotel buildings to ensure complete privacy, but near enough so that any problems could be dealt with at once. After all, it was the very personal service they offered that had made Kittrick’s Hotel and Pelican Island world-famous. It prided itself on its reputation for providing both comfort and individuality, and, although it had accommodated many visitors over the years, a careful record was kept of each guest’s likes and dislikes.
Of course, it helped that the hotel could only accommodate a maximum of thirty guests at any one time. Eighteen suites catered to the needs of visitors as diverse as politicians and pop stars, their exclusivity ensuring that if privacy was sought it would be found. There were no sensation seekers on Pelican Island, no publicity hounds, no fans wanting autographs. Indeed, there were times when the whole hotel was filled with a single party, and it wasn’t uncommon for an anonymous guest to turn out to be a very familiar face.
It was almost dark as India entered the cathedral-like foyer of the hotel. But the enormous chandelier suspended from the cavernous ceiling cast its mellow glow over the many plants and floral displays that gave the huge reception