Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Silver Fruit upon Silver Trees
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

SOPHIE thought she must have been mad to agree to come. What was she doing here in Port of Spain, waiting with palpitating heart for Eve’s grandfather to come and fetch her? How could she hope to play this role so well that no one would suspect she was not Eve Hollister? Wasn’t it a criminal offence to impersonate someone else? Or did that apply when the person involved had given her permission, indeed had begged her to do it? Sophie gave a helpless little shrug. Her palms were moist, a rivulet of pure sweat was running into the small of her back, a damp trembling unsteadiness seemed to have invaded her legs. She paced restlessly about the hotel room trying to calm her nerves, going over and over in her mind the things Eve had impressed upon her.

She had nothing to worry about, she told herself, but without much conviction. The St. Vincentes had never seen Eve, so how could they possibly know what she looked like, know anything about her other than what she had chosen to tell them in her letters? And after all, she and Eve did have similar characteristics. They were both blonde to begin with, but whereas Eve’s hair had a silvery lightness, Sophie’s was corn-gold with streaks of a darker shade. They were both slightly above average height, slim, and if Sophie’s slimness was slightly more pronounced, that was because she hadn’t always paid enough attention to food. But there had been so many more important things on which to spend the small salary she earned as stage manager and general dogsbody of the Pier Playhouse in Sandchurch that looking after herself had not figured highly amongst them. Eve had thought she was crazy slaving away for such a pittance, but then Eve had never known what it was to have financial problems.

Sophie had first met Eve four years ago when she was eighteen and in her first job in London. Although becoming an actress had always been her first choice for a career she had been sensible enough to realize that she would need some other means to support herself. Consequently, she had taken a course in shorthand and typewriting and had been at that time working in the typing pool of one of the independent television companies.

Eve was a journalist, a young and successful journalist, who had already made quite a name for herself in Fleet Street. Sophie had been seconded to her when she came to do an article about the television company, and the two girls had become friends right away. Whether it was that they were so similar in age – Eve was only three years older than Sophie – or whether Sophie’s extreme unsophistication in the face of Eve’s worldliness attracted them to one another neither could say, but from the beginning they had enjoyed each other’s company. Thus it was that when Sophie confided her desire to become an actress to Eve, she had used her influence to get Sophie the chance of stage manager at the Sandchurch Playhouse. Of course, Sophie had realized that Eve did not really expect her to stick at it, but she had, and for the past three and a half years she had been happy in her own way. She hadn’t had a lot of money, but she had made some good friends, and from time to time there had been a weekend in London with Eve to look forward to.

Eve seemed to lead a much more exciting life than Sophie, despite the younger girl’s association with the theatre. Eve was always being invited to parties or having all-expenses-paid holidays covering some feature or other. She had lots of boy-friends and never seemed to spend much time with her father, who Sophie knew was retired and lived alone in Kensington. She had casually mentioned that her mother had died when she was born, and she felt her father had never really forgiven her for being the cause of her mother’s death.

To Sophie, brought up by an elderly aunt, this was a tragic situation. She had never known what it was to have parents, and she felt sure that in the same circumstances she would have had to have tried to show her father that because there were just the two of them they should mean more to one another. But it was not her affair and aside from mentioning occasionally that she thought that Eve ought to visit with her father more often, there was nothing she could do.

Then about six months ago Eve’s father had died. She had attended the funeral accompanied by Sophie, and afterwards had confided that she supposed she would have to let her mother’s family know. This was the first Sophie had heard of Eve’s mother’s family, and she had been fascinated when she had learned that they were wealthy plantation owners in Trinidad. The further information that Eve’s mother had run away to marry James Hollister when she was only eighteen years old had explained why, until then, Sophie had never heard Eve mention them. But now the whole story came out. Eve’s father had been an engineer, working on a constructional job in Trinidad, when he and her mother met. Compared to the wealthy St. Vincente family, James Hollister had been considered a very poor match, and besides, Eve’s mother was already engaged to the son of another of the wealthy families on the island.

But, rather cynically, Eve had gone on to explain that it was love at first sight, and the young couple had run away to England and never returned to Trinidad. Of course, her grandfather had cut off his daughter completely, and not even the knowledge that she had died in childbirth had softened the hardness of his heart. Eve’s father was heartbroken at the death of his wife, and apart from ensuring that Eve was well cared for, he had paid little attention to her. She had grown up with a series of nannies, progressed through boarding school, and had finally displayed the fine talent for writing which had enabled her to obtain one of the highest paid posts in British journalism.

Sophie had heard nothing more about the St. Vincentes until a few weeks ago when Eve invited her to spend a weekend at her flat. Then she had confessed that she had been corresponding with her grandfather for the past few months. He must have softened with the years, because he had replied almost by return to her brief missive concerning her father’s death, and since then he had written several times.

Sophie had been delighted at this news. She had thought that at last Eve was to know the pleasure of belonging to a real family. But, as usual, Eve was unpredictable.

She admitted that in the beginning the idea of effecting a reconciliation with her mother’s family had amused her, but now her grandfather had suggested that she should go to Trinidad, to their house at Pointe St. Vincente, and spend several weeks getting to know her relatives.

“Can you imagine it, darling?” she had asked Sophie, with that wide-eyed stare which men seemed to find so appealing. “Me, cutting myself off from civilization for several weeks! Heavens, I’d go mad! I really would.”

Sophie had not known what to say. She had been able to understand Eve’s consternation in one way. She was simply not the type to exist without the hectic whirl of her present life, but on the other hand she had written to her grandfather and virtually invited just this situation.

“So what do you intend to do?” she had asked at last, and that was when Eve had exploded her bombshell.

“I thought you might like to go instead of me, Sophie,” she said, and before giving Sophie a chance to utter any protest, she went on: “Don’t say no straight away. Give it some thought.”

Sophie drew a deep breath. “You can’t be serious!”

“Why not?”

“Well, because – because it’s impossible!”

“Why is it impossible?”

Sophie’s eyes searched Eve’s face for some sign of amusement, some indication that this was all just a joke and not to be taken seriously. “Eve –”

“Listen to me, Sophie. Didn’t you tell me a few weeks ago that Roderick Harvey was holding an actors’ summer school in Rome later this year?”

“Sir Roderick Harvey,” corrected Sophie automatically.

“All right then, Sir Roderick Harvey. Well? Isn’t he?”

“Y–es, yes, of course.”

“Well, how would you like to attend?”

“Me?” Sophie stared at her friend in amazement. “Attend the summer school?”

“Yes. I – er – I could arrange it.”

“I couldn’t afford it,” stated Sophie flatly.

“I could.”

“Oh, Eve, for heaven’s sake, what are you trying to say? That if I go out to Trinidad in your place you’ll arrange for me to go to Roderick Harvey’s summer school?”

“That’s right.”

Sophie was flabbergasted. “But why? Why should you do that?”

Eve had risen to her feet then and paced barefooted about the soft carpet of her lounge. “Does there have to be a reason? We’re friends, aren’t we? I thought we could help one another without there having to be too many reasons why.”

Sophie stretched her legs out in front of her. “You know I’d do anything to help you, Eye, but this – well, this is something different.”

“How is it different?”

“You know how.” Sophie examined a tiny hole in her tights, trying not to think about what she was turning down.

“I don’t.” Eve leant negligently against the mantel. “Here I am, offering you not only the chance to attend this summer school you’ve been enthusing about but also several weeks’ holiday on one of the most exciting islands in the world. I’d have thought you’d jump at the chance!”

“Would you?” Sophie’s tone was dry.

“Yes, I would. Honestly, Sophie, where’s your spirit of adventure? Don’t you want to see something of the world before you’re too old to appreciate it? You’re not going to get anywhere at that third-rate playhouse in Sandchurch!”

Sophie flushed. “The Playhouse is not third-rate. And I’m glad you reminded me that I’m employed there!”

“You could get leave of absence.” Eve was impatient. “You’re not indispensable, you know.”

She could be cruel when opposed, Sophie had learned that earlier in their relationship, and she tried not to be hurt by the things Eve was saying. She realized it was just her way of trying to make Sophie change her mind, and she returned her attention to her legs, curving one foot to rest against the ankle bone of the other.

Eve seemed to realize that her present tactics were getting her nowhere, for she sighed and then said apologetically: “I’m sorry, Sophie. I’m a bitch. But I was really depending on you to get me out of this.”

Sophie looked up. “Out of what?”

Eve shrugged, reaching for a pack of cigarettes. She offered them to Sophie, but she refused. She smoked only very occasionally, and usually when she was suffering from nervous tension on the first night of a play.

“I’ve virtually agreed to go to Pointe St. Vincente,” confessed Eve, lighting her cigarette with a monogrammed gold lighter.

“But why?” Sophie was astounded.

Eve shrugged. “Oh, you know how it is. One starts something like this and pretty soon it gets out of hand.”

“But you must have known whether or not you intended going to Trinidad!” declared Sophie.

“You don’t understand. The letters my grandfather has written to me have sort of – assumed that I would want to go there. It’s obvious he regrets very much what happened twenty-five years ago and he’d like the chance to make amends. I suppose he sees me orphaned and alone, without any family of my own now that my father is dead.”

“Well, that’s true.”

“Yes, but not in the way he believes. I mean – the very last thing I need is some doting parent checking on my movements!”

Sophie sighed. Obviously the image Eve’s grandfather had of her was vastly different from the original.

“You’ll just have to write and tell him that your work won’t permit you to have leave at this time,” she suggested practically.

“No, I don’t want to do that.” Eve was resolute.

“Why?”

“Well – don’t be cross if I tell you.”

“If you tell me what?” Sophie cupped her chin in her hands.

Eve considered the glowing tip of her cigarette. “Well, they don’t know I’m a journalist –”

“What?”

Eve made a dismissive gesture. “It’s true. It was a sort of game I played.”

“A game?”

“Yes.” Eve hesitated. “When I first wrote to tell Grandfather about my father’s death, I didn’t mention my career, and when he wrote back to me it was obvious that he thought I was – well, you know – some sort of clerk. So I let him go on thinking it.”

“But why?” Sophie was astounded.

“Oh, if I’d told him I was a journalist, I guess I’d have ruined the image.”

“In what way?”

“Well, journalists – women journalists particularly – are usually very competent, self-confident types. Hard, if you like. I just knew that my grandfather wouldn’t respond to anyone like that, so I pretended to be a secretary.”

“Oh, Eve!”

Eve shrugged. “So what? I might well have been.”

“But what has that got to do with you going out there?”

“My grandfather is an old man. My letters have made him happy. They’ve reassured him, if you like. If I refuse to go out there now, can’t you see what it would do to him?”

Sophie hunched her shoulders. Of course. She could see quite well. This old man had clung to the small comfort of Eve’s letters. He had built his hopes up of seeing her, of possibly spending some of his last days with her. How could she disappoint him now?

Sophie was aware of Eve’s eyes upon her and with a helpless shrug she said: “You’ll have to go.”

“But I can’t.”

“You mean you won’t.”

“No, I mean I can’t. Apart from anything else, I have this assignment coming up. John Fellowes; you know John Fellowes, don’t you?” Sophie had heard of him and she nodded, and Eve went on: “Well, John and I have been offered the chance to go to the Middle East. The paper wants to do a series of articles about Middle-Eastern statesmen, and if it’s successful who knows where it will lead? There’s been talk of a television series –”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute!” Sophie held up a protesting hand. “This has nothing to do with me. The trip sounds great – the Middle Eastern trip, I mean, but so far as your grandfather is concerned –”

“Darling, would you deny me the chance to work with John? It’s what I’ve been angling for for years –”

“Eve, It’s nothing to do with me! You simply can’t have your cake and eat it. You’ll have to choose.”

There was silence for a long time and then Eve said slowly: “And I thought you were my friend.”

“I am your friend.” Sophie sounded exasperated.

“Friends help one another. Like I helped you when you wanted to leave the typing pool and join a repertory company.”

Sophie stared at her in disbelief. “But that was altogether different.”

“How was it? Without my help you’d probably still be pounding the typewriter. Making your own way in the theatre world is no sinecure.”

“I know that, but – but –”

“But what? But you’d have made it anyway?”

“I didn’t say that.” Sophie felt shocked. “Eve, do you realize what you’re asking me to do?”

“Yes, I realize. I’m asking you to spend a few weeks on a plantation in the West Indies pretending to be me, and in so doing helping an old man to die happy.”

“You make it sound so easy!”

“It is easy. Where’s the problem? They’ve never met me. They know nothing about me except what I’ve chosen to write in my letters. You say you want to be an actress. Well, here’s a chance to prove you can do it. And there’s still the summer school in Rome to look forward to later.”

Sophie pressed her fingers through the long thick hair which fell about her slim shoulders. “You’re making things terribly difficult for me, Eve,” she admitted.

Eve pressed home her advantage. She came to kneel before Sophie, taking her hands in both of hers and saying: “Darling, I don’t want to blackmail you into doing this, but can’t you see – you can do it! Don’t you want to be responsible for bringing a little happiness into Brandt St. Vincente’s life?”

Sophie blinked. “Brandt St. Vincente? Is that your grandfather’s name?”

Eve nodded.

“Do you have a – a grandmother?”

Eve shook her head. “No, she died about ten years ago.”

“And this old man – does he live alone ?”

“No. There’s his son, my mother’s brother, Edge.”

“Edge?” Sophie tried not to become interested. “He lives with your grandfather ?”

“Yes.”

“He’s not married?”

“He’s a widower. I imagine he’s my grandfather’s manager. He must be middle-aged now.”

“Is – is that the whole ménage?”

“No. There’s my great-aunt Rosalind, generally known as Rosa, I believe. That’s how my grandfather used her name in the letters.”

“I see.” Sophie released one hand and pushed back her hair from her face. “And that’s all ?”

“As far as I know. And after all, you’ll be expected to know no more than what was written in the letters. You can read them if you like. Then you’ll see it all firsthand.”

“No, thanks.” Sophie felt a sense of distaste. Eve’s grandfather had written those letters in good faith. He had not expected them to be shown around to her friends.

Eve looked impatiently at her. “Well?” she urged. “Will you do it?”

Sophie shook her head. “I don’t know, I honestly don’t know. Give me time to think about it.”

But of course she had eventually given in, as Eve had known she would. Sophie tried to tell herself that her motives were mainly concerned with saving Brandt St. Vincente from disappointment, but deep down she despised the knowledge that the proposed visit to the Actors’ Summer School had helped to persuade her.

And now here she was in the hotel room in Port of Spain, waiting with impatience for Eve’s grandfather to come and greet his long-lost granddaughter. It had been Eve’s idea to wait until she was actually in Port of Spain before contacting the St. Vincentes. That way it avoided the awkwardness of passports and so on at the airport. Sophie had been amazed at the deviousness Eve could display when called upon to do so, and she was beginning to wonder how well she had known the other girl all these years.

She went to the window now and looked out on the busy street below her. Eve had insisted that she book into one of the better known hotels, and this one was in the very heart of the city. It was also alarmingly exepensive and Sophie wondered how long her money would last out if she had to stay here longer than expected. From the window, the bustling throng of humanity outside frightened her a little. She was not a seasoned traveller and nor was she an extrovert, and the knowledge that she knew no one amongst all these people of so many different colours and nationalities was rather terrifying.

There were Indian women in saris, American men in Hawaiian shirts and straw hats; dhotis and turbans, lace mantillas and fezes. She saw beautiful olive-skinned Chinese girls in gorgeously patterned cheongsams slit daringly to thigh level, and black African women carrying enormous bundles on their heads with casual elegance. Car horns blared impatiently, bicycle bells jangled, and those who were brave enough to board the gaily painted buses clung carelessly to the rails and seemed to jump on and off wherever they liked. To Sophie the whole scene breathed an excitement and exuberance from which she felt totally alienated.

Suddenly the telephone beside the bed shrilled loudly. Sophie almost jumped out of her skin. She turned back to look at it, both hands pressed to her mouth, and felt a genuine sense of panic assail her. The only people who knew she was here in Port of Spain were the St. Vincentes, so this call had to be something to do with them. All of a sudden she was sure she couldn’t go through with it and she heard the phone ringing and ringing through the waves of unreasoning fear that swept over her.

The phone eventually stopped ringing and the silence which followed brought her inevitably to her senses. Her hands fell loosely to her sides and she drew long trembling breaths, trying to calm her shaken nerves. She should have answered it, she told herself fiercely. What if the telephonist chose to check up on who was in room 75? What if she discovered that it was not Miss Hollister after all, but Miss Slater? Sophie’s heart thumped violently, and she quickly crossed the room to seat herself on the side of the bed and lift the telephone receiver. This had been another of Eve’s devious ideas: to book into a hotel large enough not to remember the names of all their guests, and then to give a room number in her communication with the St. Vincentes. Naturally, she had had to take a room in her own name. They had wanted to see her passport. But what if right now they were flicking through their records, telling whoever it was who was trying to contact her that there was no one called Hollister registered in the hotel?

When the telephonist answered, Sophie said: “Were you ringing me? I’m afraid I was – in the bathroom.”

“Miss Hollister?” asked the telephonist politely.

Sophie crossed her fingers. “Yes.”

“There is an extension in the bathroom, Miss Hollister,” the telephonist advised her smoothly. Then: “We have been trying to locate you. There’s a gentleman in the foyer waiting to see you. A Mr. St. Vincente.”

St. Vincente! The name threatened to destroy all her new-found confidence. And he was here, in the foyer! She had not expected him to come without calling first.

Managing to keep her voice calm, she said: “I – I see. Er – I’ll come down. Gi – give me five minutes.”

“Very well, Miss Hollister. I’ll tell Mr. St. Vincente you’ll be down directly.”

“Thank you.”

Sophie replaced the receiver and looked down at the simple cotton dress she was wearing. Was this the sort of garment Eve might have worn to meet her grandfather for the first time? Or ought she to change into something a little more formal? She shrugged. Eve would not want her to behave any differently from usual, and the pale blue dress looked cool and attractive against her pale skin.

With a sigh she rose to her feet and walked to the dressing table, examining her face in the mirror there. Her cheeks did look very pale, and her grey eyes seemed to be reproaching her for what she was about to do. But it was too late now. She was here. She was committed.

At the end of the rubber-tiled corridor outside her room, a row of lifts gave access to the ground floor. A dark-skinned West Indian boy smiled at her when she chose to enter his small cage and commented cheerfully upon the weather as they descended the six floors between them and the foyer.

When she walked into the foyer she was trembling, but she had to go on. She crossed to the reception desk covertly examining the men she could see standing about in groups or singly, but none of them seemed old enough to be Eve’s grandfather.

The receptionist of the moment was a slim young Indian who smiled encouragingly at Sophie when she approached him.

“I’m – I’m Miss Hollister,” she said in a low voice. “I understand there’s someone waiting to see me.”

“Oh, yes, Miss Hollister.” The young man nodded. “Mr. St. Vincente is waiting for you in the Kingston Bar.”

“The Kingston Bar,” echoed Sophie faintly. “Where – where’s that?”

“Through the archway, miss. You’ll see the sign on your right.”

“Oh! Oh, thank you.”

Sophie nodded her thanks and turned away from the desk. The Kingston Bar! Hardly the place she would have expected an old man to wait for his long-lost granddaughter, but that was hardly her affair. And how on earth was she to recognize him?

She walked to the archway the young Indian had indicated and looked about her. There were several illuminated signs directing guests to the various different facilities of the hotel and the one indicating the Kingston Bar was easy to find. Everything about the hotel breathed the kind of luxury she had never until now experienced, and the Kingston Bar was no exception. Even at this early hour of the evening there were a number of guests partaking of pre-dinner drinks in the secluded booths set between trellises of climbing plants, vivid with flamboyant blossom. The bar was artificially lit by old ships’ lanterns which cast a shadowy gloom into certain corners inducing an intimate atmosphere, while the bar itself was strung with coloured lights which glinted in the shiny black face of its Trinidadian tender.

Sophie looked down again at her unsophisticated cotton dress. She should have changed, she thought unhappily. After all, it was almost dinner time and the women she could see were all dressed with the ultimate amount of care.

She looked about her helplessly. Where was Eve’s grandfather? Surely he ought to have been waiting near the entrance to the bar, watching for her. But there was no one near the entrance, no one who appeared to be alone at all except a dark man seated on a tall stool at the bar with a tall glass of some amber-looking liquid before him.

Even as her eyes lingered on him the man turned his head and looked her way and a shiver of pure apprehension ran through her. He was easily the most devastatingly attractive male she had ever seen in her life, although she realized there was something cruel in the thin line of his mouth and a sardonic appreciation of the effect he had upon women in the cynical depths of his eyes. They were strange amber-coloured eyes, reflecting the colour of the liquid in the glass he raised to his lips, and they moved over Sophie with insolent consideration.

She looked away from him quickly. She was not used to being assessed in that manner and she didn’t like it. Where on earth was Brandt St. Vincente? Why didn’t he come forward and introduce himself? Surely if he was here, he could see her standing there obviously waiting for someone?

The man at the bar slid off his stool, swallowed a mouthful of his drink, made a casual comment to the bartender and then walked toward her. Sophie’s pulses raced alarmingly, and she half turned away. Heavens, she thought in dismay. He thinks I’m on the lookout for a man!

“Eve?” The attractive male voice spoke somewhere near her temple.

She gasped and spun round again. The man from the bar was standing negligently before her, one hand brushing the jacket of his immaculate dark brown silk suit aside to rest on his hip just above the low waistband of his trousers, his other arm hanging casually at his side. Close to he was even more disturbing than before, and Sophie could hardly formulate the words she wanted to say. His hard body, lean and muscled, was only inches away from hers, his lazy intelligent eyes were regarding her with vague mockery, and he emanated an aura of latent strength and virility.

“I – I think you’ve made a mistake –” she was beginning, when he interrupted her.

“You are – Eve Hollister, are you not?” he queried, dark eyebrows lifting sardonically.

Sophie stared at him. “Well – yes, I’m Eve Hollister. But – but who are you?”

He straightened. “My name is Edge St. Vincente. Surely my father mentioned me.”

“Edge –” Sophie brought herself up short. “You were – I mean – you’re my mother’s brother?”

“I believe I have that privilege.” She had the feeling he was enjoying her consternation.

“Then – then are you the – the Mr. St. Vincente who – who is waiting for me?” Eve could scarcely take it in. This man was Edge St. Vincente, the brother of Eve’s dead mother, the man Eve had described to Sophie as being a widower of middle age!

She shook her head. Edge St. Vincente wasn’t middle-aged. She doubted he was much over thirty-five, and she had the feeling that the experience in those strange amber eyes of his had not been put there by his wife.

CHAPTER TWO

“THAT is correct,” Edge St. Vincente was saying now. “Who were you expecting?”

Sophie gathered her scattered wits. “I – I thought – my grandfather –”

“Oh, I see.” Edge inclined his head. “Well, no. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but my father seldom visits Port of Spain. He doesn’t care for the – er –” he glanced round expressively, shrugging, “– the atmosphere of the place.”

“I see.” Sophie pressed her hands together.

Edge returned his attention to her, studying her intently, bringing the hot colour to her pale cheeks. “So you’re Eve. You don’t look much like your mother.”

Sophie tried to return his gaze. “I suppose I must take after my father.”

“I suppose.” His expression had become brooding. “Well –” He looked towards the bar. “Shall we have a drink?”

Sophie hesitated. “I don’t – drink much.”

“Don’t you?” Again the dark brows were lifted. “I thought all newspaper women enjoyed the social side of their work.”

“Newspaper women?” Sophie was really shocked now and she couldn’t hide it.

“Yes.” Edge turned back towards the bar and she had perforce to fall into step beside him. “You are a reporter, aren’t you? Or is that some other Eve Hollister?”

Sophie felt shattered. In one sentence Edge St. Vincente had destroyed the whole image Eve had so painstakingly built around her. They ought to have realized that a family like the St. Vincentes would not accept a stranger into their midst without first checking up on her. But how much checking up had been done? And by whom?

She chanced a swift sideways glance at her companion. He seemed relaxed enough. There had been no censure in his remark. But how could she tell? All her old fears came to haunt her. She should not have given in to Eve; she should not have agreed to come. She ought to have known that she could never get away with it.

They had reached the bar and Edge indicated that she should take one of the tall stools while he attracted the attention of the barman. Sophie climbed on to the stool with some misgivings, trying desperately to think of some reply to make.

Edge sat easily on the stool beside her, his arms resting on the bar. He was much taller than she was and had not had the difficulty getting on to his seat that she had had. He summoned the bartender and when he came he ordered himself another Bacardi and Coke and then looked quizzically at Sophie.

“Well?” he urged her. “What’s it to be?”

Sophie ran her tongue over dry lips. “Perhaps – a sherry?” she suggested.

“Sherry?” He sounded amused. “All right. And a sherry, too, Gene.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. St. Vincente.”

The bartender grinned and moved away to get their drinks. Sophie rested her hands on the bar to stop them from fidgeting. She glanced nervously round the dimly lit area, and shifted rather awkwardly on her stool. She wondered whether he was aware of her extreme state of tension. She thought it was likely.

He drew out a long case of cigars and regarded them thoughtfully. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you a cigarette, but Gene can give you some if you need them.”

“I – I don’t smoke.”

“Don’t you now?” His eyes narrowed as he placed a thick cigar between his teeth. “Curiouser and curiouser.”

Sophie was convinced he was playing some sort of cat and mouse game with her. She opened her mouth to say that he had no need to say anything else. She admitted the truth; she was not Eve Hollister and she intended leaving Trinidad as soon as she could possibly get a flight.

But the words were never uttered, because he said: “I suppose you should call me Uncle, shouldn’t you?”

Sophie’s fingers curled into her palms. “I – I – if you like.”

Edge St. Vincente was serious now, the mockery gone from his eyes. “It’s what my father will expect,” he stated quietly, lighting his cigar with a gold lighter. “But whether or not you choose to use the definition is, I suppose, up to you.”

The bartender, Gene, returned with their drinks. He put them down and then rubbed the bar nearby with a damp cloth as though waiting for something more. Edge nodded his thanks, and then said: “You tell your brother-in-law to give me a call. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Yes, sir.” Gene’s face broke into a wide grin. “I’d sure be grateful, Mr. St. Vincente.”

“That’s okay.” Edge gave a gesture of dismissal and the bartender moved away to attend to another customer. Then Edge turned his attention back to Sophie. “Now: tell me. Did you have a good flight ?”

Sophie’s fingers curved round the stem of her glass as though it was a lifeline. “Yes, thank you,” she replied quickly. She was about to go on and say that she had not done enough flying to know what was good and what was not, but she was wary now of what he might know and Eve was used to taking trips to the continent. “I – the flight landed late last night.”

“Yes.” Edge swallowed a mouthful of the Barcardi and Coke. There was a slice of lemon cut and draped to the side of his glass and he took it off and squeezed its juice into the spirit. The action drew attention to his hands, long-fingered brown hands, totally unlike the hands of any farmer Sophie had ever seen. But then the St. Vincentes were not ordinary farmers, were they? “My father was delighted to receive your telegram. You should have let us know the time of your flight and someone could have met you at the airport.”

“I – I knew it would be so late in arriving. I thought it would be easier ...” Sophie’s voice trailed away. She sipped her sherry. This was only the beginning, she told herself severely. It was going to get much harder than this.

“Never mind.” Edge let her off the hook. He drew on his cigar, exhaling a delicious aroma of Havana tobacco around them. “You’re here now, and that’s what matters, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Sophie wished she felt as confident. “I – er – how far is it to – to your home ?”

“Pointe St. Vincente?” He shrugged. “About thirty miles; north of here and along the coast.”

“Oh, yes.” Sophie looked into her drink. “I – I’m looking forward to meeting my – my grandfather.”

“I expect you are.” Edge’s eyes were unnervingly penetrating. “Are you ready to leave?”

“Now?”

“In a few minutes.”

Sophie thought of the hotel bill, made out in Sophie Slater’s name. Her heart thumped uncomfortably loudly. Couldn’t he hear it too?

“If – if you’ll wait here, I’ll go and collect my things,” she said.

“All right.” Edge finished the Bacardi and Coke, and summoned Gene again. “I’ll have another.”

Sophie slid off the stool. “I shan’t be long.”

“You haven’t finished your sherry.”

“Oh! Well, I’m not very thirsty.”

His eyes narrowed. “Very well. I’ll wait here.”

Sophie nodded and hurried out of the Kingston Bar. In the hotel foyer she looked hopefully towards the reception desk and her silent prayers were answered. The Indian receptionist had gone and in his place was a dark-skinned West Indian girl she had not seen before. Sophie went up to her and explained who she was and that she would be leaving in a few minutes. The girl was polite and understanding. She agreed to have the bill ready and waiting when she came downstairs again after collecting her belongings.

The lift seemed to take aeons to reach the seventh floor and her key stuck in the lock and wouldn’t immediately turn. It seemed to take her ages to gather her things together and reach the foyer again, and she was amazed to discover she had only taken fifteen minutes.

Leaving her suitcase in the charge of a bellhop, she quickly crossed the foyer to the reception desk. A swift glance around had assured her that Edge St. Vincente was nowhere to be seen, and when the girl presented her bill Sophie paid it without even bothering to check it. Then she turned back towards the bar.

Edge St. Vincente was still seated at the long bar, but now he was not alone. A woman was draped on the stool which Sophie had previously occupied, a slim red-haired woman dressed in a long chiffon gown in shades of yellow. Sophie approached them nervously. Neither of them appeared to have noticed her presence and she didn’t quite know whether she ought to interrupt. The woman had her back to the entrance, but Edge had not, and just when Sophie was considering turning away he caught sight of her and slid abruptly off his stool. Casting a wry glance at his companion, he said: “Here is my niece now, Sandra. Eve Hollister. Eve, come and be introduced to an old friend of mine.”

As Sophie approached the woman turned rather languidly in her seat, resting an elbow in the bar to support herself. She was older than Sophie had at first imagined, about thirty, she thought, but maturity had added to rather than detracted from her beauty. There was something vaguely oriental about her classically moulded features, and she gave Edge a slanted glance from between slightly almond-shaped lids that belied a wholly European ancestry.

“I didn’t know you were an uncle, darling,” she murmured.

“Didn’t you?” Edge half smiled. “Well, one learns a little something every day.”

“Does Piers know he has a cousin?”

“I imagine he’s as aware of that fact as anyone,” returned Edge smoothly. Then, as though realizing that Sophie was standing listening to this with a certain amount of perplexity, he said: “Eve, allow me to present Mrs. March. Her husband and I share an interest in a small company on the southern coast of the island.”

“How do you do?”

Sophie shook hands with Sandra March rather reluctantly. There was something about the older woman which repulsed her a little, although she wasn’t quite sure what. It couldn’t have anything to do with the rather proprietorial looks she was bestowing on Edge St. Vincente. His private affairs were nothing to do with Sophie. All the same, she didn’t think it was right that a married woman should treat any man but her husband with such provocative intimacy.

“So you’re Jennifer’s daughter.” Sandra March spoke consideringly. “And is Brandt killing the proverbial fatted calf in your honour?”

“Brandt?” For a moment Sophie felt blank. “Oh, you mean – my grandfather.”

“That’s right. He must be softening in his old age. He always swore he’d never forgive your mother for what she did.”

“That’s enough, Sandra.” Edge’s tone was incisive, and Sophie was amazed at the way his words could explode Sandra’s bubble of confidence. “Now, you must excuse us. We have to be going.”

Sandra put long fingers with purple lacquered nails on the fine material of his sleeve. “Oh, Edge darling, surely you can stay in town for dinner,” she appealed.

“I’m afraid not.” Edge moved so that her hand fell to her side.

“But it’s ages since I’ve seen you –”

“I’m sorry, Sandra.”

Sandra compressed her lips and looked coldly in Sophie’s direction. “Aren’t you lucky you’re only his niece,” she asked, with scarcely veiled sarcasm. “He’s such a pig where women are concerned, aren’t you, darling?”

Edge ignored her and looked compellingly at Sophie. “Are you ready?”

Sophie nodded. “Yes. One of the bellboys is looking after my suitcase in the foyer.” She spoke quickly, wanting to get away, conscious of the other woman’s humiliation, almost pitying her for it.

“Good. You go ahead. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

As she walked towards the doorway, Sophie heard the brief interchange between them. She heard Sandra’s almost tearful appeals and Edge’s cruel rejection, and then he was beside her, walking carelessly through to the foyer, and when she stole a glance in his direction he seemed totally indifferent to what had just occurred. She shivered. If ever any man spoke to her as Edge had just spoken to Sandra March she felt she would want to curl up and die. And yet Sandra was married. Didn’t her husband mean anything to her?

The bellboy willingly carried Sophie’s suitcase out to where Edge’s car was parked, and Sophie realized why when Edge handed him a five-dollar bill. She wondered whether she should have tipped the boy, but then forgot about it in the other interests of the moment.

Dusk had fallen while they were having their drinks in the bar and now the coolness of evening had a velvety warmth about it. Even the traffic in the busy street seemed to have ebbed somewhat, although there seemed no lessening in the crowds of people thronging into the shops where silver and wood-carvings, Indian silks and Chinese jewellery attracted attention.

Edge’s car was an enormous Mercedes station wagon, sleek and powerful, despite its covering film of dust. He unlocked the passenger side door, threw her case inside on to the back seat, and then indicated that she should get in. Sophie did so willingly. She would be glad to get away from the hotel and all the pitfalls it represented. Edge slammed the door behind her and then walked round the bonnet to climb in beside her. He held on to the roof of the vehicle as he got in, sliding into his seat with lithe, supple movements. He pressed the keys into the ignition, but before starting the motor he said:

“You don’t have to act as if I were some kind of monster, you know. I assure you, Sandra is perfectly capable of taking care of herself.”

Sophie’s cheeks flamed and she was glad of the shadows in the car to hide them. “I don’t know what you’re talking about –”

“Oh yes, you do.” He adjusted his clothes more comfortably. “I do have some small knowledge of your sex, and I’m quite aware that you feel a certain amount of sympathy for her.”

“It’s nothing to do with me.”

“I agree. It’s not. Nevertheless, save your sympathies for someone who deserves it!”

He flicked the ignition then and the powerful engine roared to life. He turned the wheel with smooth expertise and the large vehicle moved smoothly out of the parking area and into the stream of traffic.

Now Sophie could hear the rhythmic beat of a steel band playing somewhere close at hand, and the pulsating sound caused a sudden and uncontrollable surge of anticipation to run through her body. There was something wholly primitive about that drumming, a wild and stirring penetration of the depths of her consciousness arousing a desire to keep time with the music. She was used to modern music at home, used to moving to the thrumming of electric guitars, but this was different. This was the real thing played by people with generations of African culture behind them. She turned her gaze in Edge St. Vincente’s direction, but he seemed totally unaffected by the sounds that came clearly even over the roar of the traffic. No doubt he had heard it all many times before and it was no novelty to him. But to Sophie it was all new and exciting and for a few moments she forgot that she was the interloper here and sighed in pure enjoyment.

The sound drew Edge’s attention. “You’re tired?” he asked.

Sophie shook her head. “No.” She lifted her shoulders and let them fall expressively. “Isn’t that music marvellous?”

Edge’s lips twisted slightly. “I wonder if you’ll be saying that in a few weeks’ time.”

“Why?” Sophie frowned.

“It’s Carnival in three weeks. You’ll hear so much pan you’ll wish it had never been invented.”

“Pan?”

“Sure. That’s the common name for the steel bands. You know the instruments were fashioned out of empty oil drums, don’t you ? Steel pans?”

“Oh, I see.” Sophie was interested. “It’s fascinating, isn’t it?”

“That rather depends on what you find fascinating,” remarked Edge dryly. “I gather you like that kind of music.”

“I like all kinds of music,” retorted Sophie defensively. “Don’t you?”

Edge shrugged. “I’ve no doubt you’ll have more in common with my son in that respect,” he returned, rather sardonically, and Sophie stiffened. His son! Eve hadn’t mentioned that Edge had a son!

And then, unwillingly, she recalled something Sandra March had said and which at the time had made no impression on her. She had asked whether – Piers – knew he had a cousin! Of course. She ought to have realized. If he was Eve’s cousin, he had to be Edge’s son.

She swallowed hard. “Piers?” she managed, rather chokily.

“Yes.” Edge looked her way for a moment. “How old did you say you were?”

“I – I’m twenty – five.” She felt a wave of sweat break out on her forehead. She had almost said twenty-two!

“Twenty-five,” echoed Edge, shaking his head, “You don’t look it.”

“Thank you for the compliment.” She was trying to sound flip, but couldn’t. “H – how old is Piers?”

“Didn’t my father tell you?”

“He – he may have done. I – I’ve forgotten.” That was reasonable, wasn’t it?

“He’s seventeen.”

“Oh, I see.” Sophie bent her head. Seventeen! Only five years younger than she was. So how old did that make this man who was Eve’s uncle? And why was she interested anyway?

Edge swung the car out of the bright lights of the main streets into a shadowy suburb where palm trees looked exotic in the glare of the headlights. They were gradually climbing higher and higher out of the town into the hills around, and glancing back Sophie could see the fairyland of lights spreading out below them. She felt an unwelcome twinge of apprehension. Down in the town she had still felt in a sense in command of her own destiny, capable of escaping back to England and denouncing her position if things got too difficult. But no longer. She was here, she was committed to the role she had agreed to play, and she knew instinctively that Edge St. Vincente would brook no uncertainty on her part. He was not the kind of man to play games with, and if ever he found out that she had been deceiving them ...

The coolness of the breeze through the opened windows of the car had a sea-salt tang about it now. Sophie guessed they were near the sea, but apart from a pale sheen in the moonlight, she could discern nothing. In spite of the difficulties of her position, she found herself eager to see the coastline in daylight. Everything she had seen so far on the island had been almost larger than life in colour and exuberance, and she was convinced the white coral beaches and green surf would be no less exciting. If only she could just think of these things and stop worrying ...

The silence between them stretched and Sophie felt it was up to her to make some effort to break it. Trying to sound casual, she said: “Tell me about – Pointe St. Vincente. Is – is that the name of your father’s house?” Belatedly, she realized that she should have said my grandfather’s house, but it was too late to do anything about it now.

Happily, however, Edge seemed not to have observed any slip. “No,” he replied. “Pointe St. Vincente is the name of the peninsula where the house is situated. The house has no name, except perhaps that it’s known locally as the St. Vincente house.”

“It – it sounds wonderful!”

“Does it?” Edge’s lips twisted. “I shouldn’t have thought it would have appealed to you.”

“Why?” Sophie was taken aback.

“Surely it’s obvious. You must have known of our existence for twenty years, but you’ve never made any effort before now to contact us.”

Sophie flushed. “I – I understood my – my grandfather refused to have anything to do with – with my father.”

“So he did. But he would have welcomed some word from you. You are his granddaughter, after all. The innocent party in the affair.”

Sophie moved awkwardly. “I – we never talked about it.”

“Didn’t you?” Edge’s lean hands tightened on the wheel as the road swung sharply round a hairpin bend. “I find that hard to believe.”

“You don’t understand.” Sophie warmed to her subject. She had heard Eve’s side of the story and could appreciate her dilemma. “My father never got over my mother’s death. He – he had loved her very much. He was unable to forget that I was the unwitting cause of her dying. I – I don’t say he blamed me exactly, but I must have constantly reminded him. I – well, don’t you see? I couldn’t have contacted my grandfather in the circumstances. It would have seemed – disloyal.”

Edge considered this. “I can see what you’re trying to say,” he remarked. “I don’t say I agree with it.”

“Well, my – my grandfather wasn’t an innocent spectator in this affair, was he? I mean, he was responsible for the rift in the first place.”

“Maybe so. I can remember he was pretty cut up about it himself. Jennifer had always been the apple of his eye. It was a great shock to him when she chose to ignore everything he had done for her – everything he hoped to do for her – in favour of a penniless engineer!”

“He – my father that is, wasn’t penniless!”

“Compared to the wealth my father controls, he was.”

“I suppose he would have had her make a marriage of expediency?”

“If, by expediency, you mean he wanted her to marry someone more suitable, then yes –”

“Expediency has other meanings,” Sophie broke in, unable to help herself. “It also means more politic than just!”

“Howard Fleming would have made her happy.”

“How can you say that?” Sophie was stung by the coolness of his tone. “She obviously didn’t love this – this Howard Fleming or she wouldn’t have run away with James Hollister!”

Edge’s eyes narrowed and as he looked at her she saw the thickness of long black lashes. “James Hollister?” he repeated. “That’s a curious way to speak of one’s own father.”

Sophie knew she had to bluff it out. “Why?” she challenged him. “My father’s name was James Hollister, wasn’t it?”

Edge returned his attention to the tortuous bends in the road. “If you say so,” he commented quietly, and Sophie wondered rather desperately whether she was imagining the note of scepticism in his voice. Surely he must believe she was who she said she was. He couldn’t have brought her here otherwise, could he ?

Changing the subject entirely, she said: “How much further is it to Pointe St. Vincente?” determinedly forcing herself not to stammer.

Edge flicked back his cuff and consulted the gold watch on his wrist. “About another fifteen minutes,” he replied, and Sophie sank more deeply down into her seat, her fingers curving tightly about the soft leather upholstery. Soon they would be there and she had to prepare herself for the ordeal to come.

The moon had risen by the time they reached the curving drive which led down to the St. Vincente house. In its pale glow, Sophie could see tree-clad slopes, leading down to a natural harbour below the house where shadowy buildings indicated boathouses. But the house itself was what held her spellbound, the floodlit gardens giving its white-painted façade unnatural colour. It was a split-level dwelling, seemingly welded into the hillside itself with shallow stone steps leading down between pergolas laden with bougainvillea and other climbing plants to a stone-paved area for cars. The various sections of the building spread themselves comfortably in all directions with a complete disregard for balance or design, and yet for all that it was one of the most beautiful buildings Sophie had ever seen.

Edge brought the Mercedes to a smooth halt in the paved courtyard which was slightly to the side of the house, and as Sophie thrust open her door and climbed out she heard the unmistakable hiss and thunder of the ocean on the rocks below. She thought it would be very easy for someone to get an inflated opinion of themselves in such surroundings, but Edge St. Vincente seemed to take it all for granted.

He got out of the car too, and as he reached into the back for her suitcase someone came hurrying down the steps towards them. As the newcomer drew nearer, Sophie saw it was a black-skinned manservant dressed immaculately in dark trousers and a white jacket and he grinned at Edge with easy familiarity.

“Your pa’s getting mighty anxious about you, Mr. Edge,” he said, taking the suitcase from his master’s hand automatically. His gaze flicked to Sophie. “Is this here Miss Jennifer’s daughter?”

Edge’s lips twitched. “That’s right, Joseph. This is – Miss Eve Hollister.”

Joseph nodded warmly in Sophie’s direction. “Mr. Brandt, he’s gonna be sure glad to see you, Miss Eve. Ain’t been no young women around the St. Vincente house in many a long day!”

Sophie looked up at Edge, standing so indolently beside her. He had hooked his thumbs into the belt of his pants and was regarding Joseph with lazy resignation. She thought that everything he did had an unconscious grace about it. He moved lithely, lazily even; and yet she could sense the latent strength that lay just below the surface, the sinuous power that had an almost sensual tangibility. It was this quality he possessed which disturbed her so. She was consciously aware of him, and the knowledge troubled her somewhat.

Joseph became aware that he was delaying them and drew back to allow Edge to urge Sophie up the steps to the house. As they walked she could hear the sound of the crickets like a steady hum above the sound of the sea, and she had to squash the feeling of intense excitement that seemed to be welling up inside her and choking her throat.

When they reached the top of the steps and she stopped at the entrance to the house, Edge bumped into her and for a moment his hand was on her arm, supporting her, as he apologized.

“It – it was my fault,” said Sophie jerkily, pulling herself away from him. She was unnecessarily abrupt, but for a moment his flesh had burned hers and she couldn’t help but be aware of it. She had felt the hardness of his lean body, her arms had brushed against the soft silk of his shirt beneath which the muscles of his chest had been disturbingly firm, and she had known an intense, and wholly incomprehensible desire to remain there against him. She wasn’t used to experiencing feelings like this, and she chided herself for being stupidly imaginative. Heavens, she was supposed to be his niece! What would he have thought of her if he had been able to read her thoughts just then?

Edge led the way through a mesh door into a cool tiled hall. The hall appeared to run from front to back of the building with several other passages leading from it, while a curved wrought iron staircase led to the upper floors. A tall stand supported a vase of gorgeously coloured lilies, their fleshy stamens protruding in a totally alien fashion. The hall was illuminated by a copper-based lamp that had a painted Chinese shade.

Sophie looked about her a trifle bemusedly. There was so much colour and beauty to absorb, but Edge was urging her forward, taking her across the hall and up a short flight of stairs to halt before a dark blue panelled door.

“This is my father’s study,” he remarked, in explanation, and then pressed the handle and swung open the door.

Sophie stepped forward into a comfortably furnished room, with skin rugs on the floor and a desk dominating the central area. She saw walls lined with leather volumes, filing cabinets, and a low couch, and a small table on which stood a couple of filing baskets and a typewriter. Clearly it was from here that Brandt St. Vincente conducted the affairs of the estate.

But then a man rose from behind the desk to greet her; and all further impressions of the room ceased as the man commanded her whole attention.

Brandt St. Vincente was nothing like she had imagined. After Eve’s appeals to her to come here to Trinidad to assuage the needs of an old man, Sophie had expected him to be in his seventies, frail and ill, living every day without really knowing how much time he had left.

The real man was totally different. Like his son, he was years younger than she had expected, in his early sixties, she estimated. And what was more, he was a man in his prime, tall and vigorous, more heavily built than his son but very much like him, with thick hair that was greying now, and strong handsome features.

He came round his desk to greet her, holding out both hands, and she put hers into them automatically, unable to deny the welcome he was showing her.

“So you’re Eve!” he exclaimed, shaking his head. “My Jennifer’s girl! I can hardly believe it.”

“Why?” The word was scarcely more than a whisper, but it was all Sophie could think to say.

Brandt squeezed her hands tightly. “It’s been so long,” he said, rather emotionally. But then he seemed to gather his composure again, and he went on: “I don’t suppose you knew anything about your mother.”

“Not a lot,” admitted Sophie, nervously. “She – er – my father seldom spoke of her. It – it was too painful for him.”

At the mention of James Hollister’s name, Brandt’s face changed. His lips tightened perceptibly and his brown eyes lost some of their warmth.

“I think it would be as well if we forgot the past and concentrated on the present, don’t you? I mean, it’s obvious that there are things which if said would be painful to both of us. It’s no use resurrecting past grievances. And we’ve both had our share of grief, believe me. I suggest we begin afresh, learn to know one another without the distorting influences that were created by other people so many years ago.”

Sophie nodded slowly. “I – I’m willing,” she murmured, looking down at her hands clasped in his.

“Good! Good!” Brandt’s expression softened again. “You’ve no idea how happy you’ve made me. I’ve so looked forward to your coming here, to meeting you. We’re your family now, this is where you belong. Oh, I know you’ve got your career, but surely the family should come first, in spite of everything!”

Sophie stared at him. She didn’t quite know how to answer him. But to her relief, she didn’t have to.

“Relax!” he exclaimed. “Don’t look so nervous! We won’t bite, I promise you. On the contrary, it will be delightful to have a young woman about the place again.”

Sophie glanced behind her. All the while his father had been speaking Edge had been standing silently near the door, watching them, a lazy smile playing about his lips. But now he stepped forward and said: “Joseph said practically the same thing. If I’d know you were both so eager for feminine company ...”

His voice trailed away insinuatively and Brandt looked impatiently at his son. “Don’t be sarcastic, Edge. If this is any example of the welcome you’ve given your niece, I’m not surprised she looks nervous!”

Edge looked speculatively at Sophie. “Well, perhaps we’re not what she expected either.”

“What do you mean?” Brandt glared at him.

Edge shrugged. “Oh, nothing.” He looked away from Sophie and drew his cigar case out of his pocket. “I think I’ll go and change for dinner. I feel rather – hot and uncomfortable.” His eyes flickered over Sophie again. “Perhaps – my niece would like to shower and change, too.”

Brandt released Sophie’s hands apologetically and went to pull a long velvet cord hanging near a screened fireplace. “Of course, of course,” he exclaimed. “In the excitement of meeting you, my dear, I’m forgetting common courtesy. Of course, you must be tired and hungry. I’ll have Violet show you to your room and we’ll dine in – say –” he glanced at his wrist watch, “– say – thirty minutes? Do you think that will be long enough for you to get ready?”

“Of – of course.” Sophie cupped her hands together. “I – I’d just like to say I’m – I’m very happy to be here.”

Edge, a cigar between his teeth, walked to the door. “Oh, well said,” he remarked mockingly, and Sophie’s hands clenched into fists.

“Ignore your uncle,” advised Brandt, giving his son a reproving glance. “Edge has a very cynical mind.”

Edge swung open the door and leant against the jamb for a moment. “You always said we had a lot in common, Brandt,” he remarked lazily, and the door closed behind him with a definite click.

After he had gone the room seemed suddenly empty. Sophie looked awkwardly at Eve’s grandfather. “You – you have a beautiful house,” she murmured. “I – I’m longing to see it in daylight.”

“Indeed, yes.” Brandt seemed to relax and came towards her again smiling down into her eyes. “I’m sure you’re going to be happy here, Eve. If you’re not, it won’t be through the fault of not trying on my part. I intend to make your stay so enjoyable that you won’t want to leave us again. We have so much here to interest you.” He spread and encompassing hand. “Swimming; sailing; skin-diving, if you’re adventurous enough. Edge and Piers would teach you. They spend hours out in the boat. Then, of course, the island itself is a veritable paradise for nature-lovers. We have so many different species of birds. We must take you to the Caroni bird sanctuary to see the scarlet ibis. I don’t suppose you’ve seen it in its natural habitat.” He sighed. “You see, my dear, already I’m anticipating the weeks ahead with a great deal of satisfaction.”

Sophie was saved the need of responding to this small speech by a knock at the door. At Brandt’s bidding a black-skinned servant appeared, and he smiled.

“Ah, Violet,” he said, putting an arm round Sophie. “Eve, my dear, allow me to introduce you to our treasure, Violet.” The black woman chuckled and he went on: “She smoothes all our lives without us really appreciating it, don’t you, Violet?”

“If you say so, Mr. Brandt.” Violet’s dark luminous eyes shifted to the girl at his side. “How do you do, Miss Eve. I’m pleased to meet you.”

“Hello, Violet.” Sophie managed a smile.

“Will you show Miss Eve to her room, Violet?” added Brandt, propelling Sophie forward. “Then we’ll have dinner in half an hour.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Brandt.” Violet stepped back into the corridor behind her. “Will you follow me, miss?”

After receiving another encouraging smile from Eve’s grandfather, Sophie accompanied Violet back along the passage to the hall. They crossed to the wrought iron staircase and had just begun to climb when a young man came in through the mesh door and saw them. He was tall and very lean, his bony body accentuated by close-fitting hipster jeans and a collarless sweat shirt. When he saw them he looked up in surprise, his gaze moving over Sophie as Edge’s had done. Sophie guessed that this must be Piers, but he was not as dark as his father and his hair was longer. However, he had lazily attractive features, less aggressively masculine than his father’s.

“Well, well,” he commented, moving to the foot of the stairs. “You must be Eve, am I right?”

Sophie saw that Violet had halted ahead of her and was obviously waiting for her to respond to Piers’ informal introduction. She nodded. “Yes, I’m – Eve. And you, of course, are Piers.”

“I do have that dubious distinction.” Piers laughed. “Aren’t you coming down to say hello to your long-lost cousin?”

Violet leaned over the balustrade. “Mr. Brandt said dinner was to be served in half an hour, Mr. Piers. Miss Eve needs time to wash and tidy herself before then.”

Piers made a face. “Family dinner,” he mocked. Then: “And have you met our family, Eve?”

Sophie hesitated. “All except Great-aunt Rosalind, I believe.”

“Rosa?” Piers’ lips twitched. “Ah, well, that’s a treat in store.”

“Mr. Piers!” Violet sounded reproving.

“I know, I know. I shouldn’t speak disrespectfully of my elders, but really ... Don’t take too much notice of what she says, will you, Eve?”

Sophie was saved from replying by Violet’s expressive snort and when the servant continued on up the winding staircase, Sophie followed her without looking back.

But a smile was touching her lips, too. She liked Piers. He was nice and – uncomplicated. She thought she could understand him. But she’d never understand his father; never in a million years ...

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