Shattered Illusions. Anne MatherЧитать онлайн книгу.
room, he crossed the braided carpet to reach the windows. Releasing the catch, he slid the patio door along, and stepped outside.
The warmth that met him was hypnotic. The coolness of the house was such a contrast to the sensuous heat of the morning and even there, in the shade of the terrace, his skin prickled in anticipation of the sun’s assault. There was little humidity, and although it could get very hot in the middle of the day it was seldom unbearable. Right now, at the beginning of July, summer was at its height, and apart from a few fleecy clouds the sky above was clear.
Breathing deeply, he stepped out into the sunlight. From here, it was possible to see the whole of the pool area, and he was almost disappointed to find that the woman he’d seen earlier had disappeared. Not that he had any interest in her, he assured himself drily. He knew better than to show any partiality for Catriona’s protégées. He was just curious to know what had really persuaded her to take this job.
He sighed, and glanced at the watch on his wrist. It was barely seven o’clock, and apart from having to speak to his office later the day was his own. A prospect that didn’t please him as it should, he realised grimly, wishing he had not succumbed to Catriona’s invitation to recuperate at Copperhead Bay. Dammit, he had only had a cold. Just because he had neglected it, and it had turned to pneumonia, that was no reason to leave New York at one of the busiest times of the year.
The trouble was, her invitation had come when his spirits were at their lowest ebb, and he’d given in without really considering what he was taking on. It was over a year since his father’s death, and he should have known that Catriona would consider twelve months more than long enough to mourn her late husband.
A shadow moved at the far side of the pool. He’d been wrong, he realised at once. The woman hadn’t disappeared. She’d been there all the time, hidden by the canopy of a striped lounge chair, but now she had got to her feet, and her consternation at seeing him was evident in every startled line of her body.
Dominic hesitated. It would be easy enough to turn and go back into the house, and save her the trouble of having to explain herself to him. But something, some latent spark of interest that he would otherwise have denied, kept him where he was. Made him move forward in fact, to intercept her automatic intention to escape.
‘Good morning,’ he said easily, shoving his hands into the back pockets of his cut-offs to avoid the necessity of a more formal introduction. ‘It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?’
‘Beautiful, yes,’ she answered, with evident unwillingness. And then, because she obviously thought she’d been trespassing, she added, ‘I’m sorry if I disturbed you.’
‘You didn’t,’ he assured her, although she had, inadvertently at least. There was something about her that stirred a vague sense of recognition inside him, and although he had not been wrong about her age her pale features were not unappealing. ‘Miss—Harrison, isn’t it?’
‘Harris,’ she corrected him at once, one hand reaching to circle her throat. ‘Um-Jaime Harris,’ she appended, the unbuttoned sleeve of her shirt falling back to reveal the vulnerable curve of her elbow. ‘Mr—er—’
He was curiously reluctant to tell her. ‘Redding,’ he supplied briefly. ‘Dominic Redding. Catriona’s—stepson.’
‘Oh!’ Was it his imagination or did that information cause a little of the tenseness to leave her face? ‘How do you do?’
So formal!
His lips curled. ‘Reasonably well, mostly,’ he replied, with a wry smile. ‘How about you?’
‘Oh—I—yes. I’m fine,’ she stammered, her tongue appearing to moisten her lips, and Dominic was surprised to find himself studying her features with rather more discrimination.
His first impression had not been entirely wrong, he decided. She was older than Kristin had been, and decidedly more reserved in her approach to men. But there was some merit in those wide-set grey eyes, which avoided his gaze more often than they met it, and her mouth, for all its nervousness, had a surprisingly sensual lower lip.
All in all, she was not what he had expected, Dominic mused, half wishing he hadn’t effected the introduction. Catriona wouldn’t approve of his socialising with the paid help, and for all he seldom obeyed her dictates he didn’t want to make life any more difficult than it already was.
‘Do you live here, Mr Redding?’
While he had been brooding over past mistakes, she had evidently gained in confidence. Her question caught him unawares, and although he guessed it was innocent enough he objected to being interrogated.
‘Sometimes,’ he answered obliquely, and he could almost sense the way she took in his reply, and stored it away for future reference. He had been right, he thought again. She was nothing like Kristin. He wasn’t altogether sure he trusted her.
‘Sometimes?’ she echoed now, in that diffident way she had of speaking. ‘It’s not your home, then?’
‘It was my father’s house. I live in New York,’ declared Dominic, not quite knowing why he suddenly felt so defensive. He turned the tables. ‘Tell me, Miss Harris, why would someone with a degree in English, and an obviously secure job in a London university, give it all up to come and work as Catriona’s secretary?’
That seemed to baulk her. But only briefly.
‘Why—I’m a great fan of your stepmother’s!’ she exclaimed, with rather more spirit than she had shown thus far. ‘It was a wonderful opportunity.’
Was it?
Dominic’s mouth drew in. Her enthusiasm seemed genuine enough, and yet there was something about the way she’d said the words that made him doubt her sincerity. But what other reason could she have for coming to the island? Why was he looking for problems, when there were none to find?
‘Well, I hope it lives up to your expectations,’ he averred, deciding to curtail their conversation. She was here. Catriona had employed her—temporarily, at least. And he intended to return to New York in a few days anyway.
‘Thank you.’
She seemed to sense his irritation, for after allowing him a polite look from beneath thick, gold-tipped lashes she moved towards the colonnade that led back to her apartment.
But, as he was reaching to pull his vest over his head, preparatory to taking a swim, her voice drifted back to him. ‘Your father’s dead?’ she asked, and Dominic jerked the top down again, and turned to regard her with dark, angry eyes.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I’m sorry.’ Her nervousness didn’t seem feigned now. Quite the opposite. ‘But you said—you said it was your father’s house. Is Miss—Mrs—Redding a widow?’
Dominic’s nostrils flared. ‘That would seem a fair assumption,’ he responded curtly. ‘Why?’
‘Oh—no reason.’ A faint smile brushed across that sensual mouth. She gestured towards her rooms. ‘I’d better go and get ready for breakfast.’
And get rid of those ugly trousers, thought Dominic grimly, tossing off his vest and reaching for the zip of his cut-offs. But then his hand stilled. Dammit, he wasn’t wearing any swimming shorts. It wasn’t that he was bashful. He was long past the age of feeling any callow modesty about his body; it was simply that he didn’t care for the idea of her watching him. There was something about Miss Harris that disturbed his equilibrium.
His mood completely soured now, Dominic snatched up his top and strode back to the terrace. Slamming the patio door aside, he plunged into the house—and came face to face with his stepmother.
With his eyes still dazzled from the sunlight outside, Dominic was even less inclined to be tolerant. ‘Dammit, Cat,’ he muttered, pulling back from her reaching hands, ‘what the hell are you doing up at this hour of the morning?’
His stepmother regarded