‘Can I get you anything else, Miss Fulton?'
Susie was hovering right behind her, and Catherine came back into the bedroom, looking about her with smiling appreciation.
‘I don't think so, thank you. It's beautiful.'
The maid smiled her satisfaction at these words and gave a little bob. Then she noticed the cases set on an ottoman at the foot of the bed. ‘Would you like me to unpack for you?’ she suggested, but Catherine shook her head, assuring her that she could manage. ‘Well, the bell's just there, by the door,’ Susie added, her voice soft and slightly sing-song. ‘If you do need any help, just ring.'
When she was alone, Catherine breathed a sigh of relief and leaned back against the door to survey her domain. It was all far more luxurious than she had expected. Her father had talked very little about Jared's background, confining his remarks to the man's undoubted artistic ability, and the fight he had had with his father to leave Oxford and attend an art college. Her father had been lecturing at that time, before he gave it up to concentrate his energies towards a political career. But now she was left in no doubt as to her host's affluence, and she wondered if this was the main reason why her father had chosen such a guardian for her. Perhaps it was yet another attempt to persuade her of the foolishness of her own intentions.
The bathroom which adjoined the bedroom had porcelain tiles, patterned with the continuing rose design. Long mirrors gave back her reflection from a dozen different angles, and cut glass shelves supported a variety of oils and lotions intended to add their fragrance to the water.
Catherine decided to have a bath, shedding her clothes carelessly, too tired to fold them, or unpack her cases right now. Cool water melted the heat from her body and left her feeling infinitely refreshed. Wrapping herself in a white towelling bathrobe which she found hanging behind the bathroom door, she came back into the bedroom and stretched her length on the superbly comfortable springs of the bed, uncaring that her hair was damp and strewn carelessly across the pillows, or that her bare feet made little wet patches on the immaculate bedspread.
SHE awoke to the sound of birds arguing in the trees that cast pools of shade around the patio area. At first it was difficult to feel any sense of identity with her surroundings, but then it all came flooding back to her—her father's death six weeks ago, the summons and subsequent flight to Barbados, and the strange welcome which had been awaiting her.
She blinked, realising she was no longer lying on the bed, but in it, silk sheets caressing her bare legs. Her hands groped for the bathrobe. She was still wearing it, but the cord had become unloosened and the lapels had parted.
That daylight was coming through the slats of the blinds which had been drawn confused her, and she reached automatically for her watch which she always left on a table beside her bed. As she did so, something registered. There had been roses beside the bed before she went to sleep. Now they were gone.
The hands of her watch mocked her. Six-fifteen! Had she slept for barely an hour? It was impossible. She felt completely rested. Unless…
She pushed back the covers and swung her feet to the floor, finding the rug soft to her toes. The balcony doors had been closed by whoever had drawn the blinds and taken away the roses, but a window had been left ajar. Catherine unfastened the doors now and thrust them open, wrapping her robe closer about her as she stepped outside.
Her suspicions had been correct. Even without the golden orb of the sun spreading its brilliance over a sky translucently washed in pinks and lemon and turquoise, the coolness of the air compared to the softness of the evening before would have convinced her. A faint mist still hovered low over the meadow, and the scent of the ocean came strongly before the awakening blossoms in the garden overlaid the air with their perfume. There was no sound to be heard in the house, and she felt assured that no one would observe her standing here at this early hour. The balcony, which was a continuation of the one which ran across the front of the house, was separated from the rooms on either side by a vine-hung trellis, but that would prove no screen to prying eyes.
Fastening the cord of the bathrobe more tightly, she stretched her arms luxuriously above her head. She must have slept for twelve hours, and now she felt thoroughly wide awake and restless. The pool looked as inviting now as it had done the evening before, but somehow she was loath to use it and possibly arouse the other members of the household. The ocean beckoned, and she wondered whether it was possible to reach it across the paddocks. Even from this distance, she could see the line of foam where it surged over the reef, and her skin tingled at the prospect of plunging into its depths.
Turning back into the bedroom, she opened her suitcases and stared thoughtfully at their contents. The clothes she had discarded so untidily the night before had disappeared, and she guessed that whoever had drawn the covers over her and attended to the shutters, had taken them away for laundering. It was a curious sensation thinking she had been so soundly asleep that not even a servant's hands had awakened her.
She rummaged through the contents of one of the cases and brought out a pair of purple denim jeans and a spotted cotton smock with wide, elbow-length sleeves and a tie belt. The strap of a white bikini emerged from the disorder, and on impulse, she pulled the bikini out as well.
In her bathroom, she took a quick shower, taking care not to wet her hair, and then dressed, first in the bikini, and then in the jeans and smock. A brush brought a silky sheen to her thick straight hair, and she looped it back behind her ears but otherwise left it loose.
Her room door made no sound as she opened it, and she made her way along the hall and across the gallery to the stairs. Marble did not creak under her sandal-clad feet, but when she reached the hall the heavy doors were securely closed. Frowning, she turned through the archway leading to the room where she had taken tea with Elizabeth Royal, and finding that door went inside. French doors were easier to unfasten, and with impatient fingers she slid back the bolts and stepped outside.
She was at the side of the building where green leaves gave on to a trellised rose arbour, but she followed the line of the house around to the back and came upon the patio. The air was like wine, slightly sharp and invigorating, and she moved her shoulders in a gesture of complete indulgence of the senses.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a tall figure, moving beyond the bushes near the tennis courts. It was Jared, and hardly stopping to consider what she intended to do, Catherine ran around the swimming pool, pushed her way between laurel bushes and emerged on to a crazily-paved path. Jared was some way ahead now, astride a motor-cycle, she saw in surprise, but obviously waiting until he was out of sound of the house before starting the engine.
‘Hey!’ she called, running down the path after him. ‘Jared! Wait!'
Her voice came clearly on the still morning air, and he halted at once and swung round to stare at her. Not very amicably, she saw, as she came closer. Like her, he was wearing jeans, but nothing else, his skin smooth, and only lightly covered with hair.
‘Hello,’ she said determinedly. ‘Where are you going?'
Jared swung his leg over the motor-bike, stood it on its rest, and