‘I'm surprised you wanted to,’ she murmured, preceding him out into the brilliant sunshine, and again forestalled his retort by adding: ‘Gosh, isn't it hot! It was raining when we left London.'
The convertible waited in the shade, and Jared had the porter stow her cases in the back, handed him a generous tip, and then swung open the passenger side door for Catherine to get in. He could not help but appreciate the long slender limbs exhibited as she drew her legs into the vehicle, and the perfume she was wearing rose up from the hollow between her breasts. Slamming the door, he walked round and levered himself in beside her, reaching for a cheroot before starting the engine.
‘Is it far to your house, Jared?’ she inquired, as he inhaled the aromatic fumes deep into his lungs, and he was not pleased by her casual use of his name. When her father had introduced them six years ago, he had been Mr Royal, and somehow he had expected that.
‘About twenty miles,’ he replied shortly, his tone indicative of his mood.
For a few moments there was silence, broken only by the whine of a jet engine overhead, and the sound of laughter across the parking area. Then she said with quiet deliberation: ‘Why did you bring me out here, Jared? It's obvious you don't really want me.'
Jared took the cheroot out of his mouth before his teeth crushed it flat. ‘Have I given you that impression?'
She looked amused, and that annoyed him even more. ‘You know you have,’ she said. ‘You've never even said hello, let alone asked me what kind of a journey I had! What's wrong? Haven't you forgiven me for embarrassing you all those years ago?'
‘You didn't embarrass me, Miss Fulton.'
‘Cat! And yes, I did. I'm sorry. But you were the first man I ever really fell for. I know I was a precocious little beast, but I have grown up a lot since then.'
‘It's really not important.'
‘So why are you so uptight?'
‘I'm not—uptight. Whatever that means!'
‘You must know. Barbados can't be that out of touch.'
‘I don't consider it out of touch at all.'
She gave him a sidelong glance. ‘You think I do.'
‘Vegetating—isn't that what you said?'
She laughed. ‘Oh, no! That got back to you.’ She shook her head. ‘That was Tony. He said that, not me.'
‘Tony?’ he queried.
‘Mmm. Tony Bainbridge. A—friend.'
‘Boy-friend?'
‘Well, as he is male…’ She looked amused and Jared ground out the remains of his cheroot in the ashtray.
‘The reason why you didn't want to come out here, one presumes,’ he commented coldly, and she sighed.
‘You do sound pompous,’ she said ruefully. ‘I didn't think you would be—being an artist and all.'
‘I am not an artist!’ he retorted grimly. ‘I'm a painter. Don't confuse me with your genuine be-smocked eccentric!'
‘I wouldn't do that,’ she assured him, and he leant forward to start the ignition with a vicious flick of his wrist. She had succeeded in putting hm on the defensive and he didn't like it.
They covered several miles without conversation. She seemed content to stare out of the side of the car at the neat hedges they were passing, at the smooth winding road which might have been in England had it not been for the little wobbling donkey carts with their loads of bananas and grapefruit, mangoes and avocados, the dark skins of the people, and cane in the fields instead of corn. Occasionally a white-painted windmill appeared, its sails turning in the breeze which fanned their faces and tangled Catherine's hair. Here and there were cottage gardens bright with flowers of every kind—lilies and begonias, fuchsias, rose mallows, red hibiscus or the exotic petals of the moonflower. It was an exciting and colourful scene, and as the road meandered towards the coast, they came within sight and sound of the Atlantic breakers rolling in to plunging headlands and wild and lovely beaches. The further north they drove, the more spectacular the scenery became and eventually Catherine had to comment upon it.
‘It reminds me of Brittany,’ she said, leaning forward in her seat to get a better view. ‘I had a holiday there when I was about seventeen. Have you ever been to France, Jared?'
He shook his head. ‘No.'
She studied his unsmiling profile. ‘This—visit isn't going to be much fun if you persist in treating me like some kind of pariah. Look, can't we at least be civil with one another? I know my father would have wanted it that way.'
At the mention of her father, Jared felt a twinge of remorse. Glancing sideways at her, he saw how her eyes had darkened with remembered grief, and he felt a moment's sympathy.
‘I liked your father,’ he said quietly. ‘He was a fine man. I met him in my final year at Oxford. Your mother was alive in those days.'
‘Oh, Mummy. Yes.’ Catherine sank back in her seat. ‘I seem to have been singularly unlucky with my parents. Mummy dying in that car accident, and now Daddy…'
Her voice trailed away, and Jared's fingers tightened on the wheel. ‘Then it's just as well you can take care of yourself, isn't it?'
His words, not entirely intended to sound ironic, came out that way, and for once she was stung by them. ‘That's exactly the kind of remark you would make, isn't it?’ she demanded. ‘Just because you once got a great deal of satisfaction out of putting me down, you can't resist repeating the experiment, can you?'
‘My dear girl—'
‘I'm not your dear girl! Oh, how I wish Daddy had never written that letter. I don't know what possessed him to do so. I don't need your guardianship. I was quite happy in London—having a good time—'
‘With Tony!’ he inserted dryly, and she gave him an angry stare.
‘Yes, with Tony. Why not with Tony—or with anyone else, for that matter?'
Jared's expression was contemptuous after this outburst. ‘I'm beginning to understand why your father was so concerned about you,’ he drawled.
‘Oh, are you?’ Her eyes challenged his, dark lashes giving them a sooty outline. She examined his face with frank appraisal, and then she said: ‘You've got cat's eyes, do you know that? You should have been called Kit, or Christian, so they could have abbreviated your name. With your looks you could easily have been a pirate. What a pity your character doesn't match your appearance!'
‘I was not aware you were talking about me. It's obvious. Your father was afraid some man would—would—'
‘—put me in the family way? Make me marry him so that he could get his hands on my fortune and I could save my good name? How old-fashioned, Mr Royal,’ she taunted. ‘Haven't you heard of the pill? And besides, you don't imagine being pregnant would force me to marry anyone, do you?'
Jared's jaw clenched. ‘Easy to say, Miss Fulton, when the need doesn't arise!'
Her hands balled together in her lap. ‘How do you know?’ she demanded scathingly. ‘What makes you so sure I'm not pregnant at this moment?'
Jared dragged his eyes away from the road to stare at her, disbelief vying with the recollection of his first sight of her in that loose, flowing garment at the airport. His eyes narrowed, tawny slits between lashes thicker, but not as long, as her own. ‘And are you?’ he inquired coldly.
Catherine pressed her lips together, deepening colour darkening the soft velvety skin of her cheeks. ‘I—yes,’ she answered. ‘Yes, I am. What are you going to do about it?'