seen her at the funeral, he hadn’t doubted that it was a blow to her, too. She had been dressed all in black and oozing tears, and he’d had to feel sympathy for her. For the first time in his life, he’d pitied her. He couldn’t believe even she could have wanted Chase dead.
But as he sat there in the Range Rover, with sweat dampening the shirt on his back and his bare thighs sticking to the leather seat, he couldn’t help remembering that he hadn’t always felt so charitably towards her. He’d been only sixteen when his brother had brought Fleur to live with them. The fact that she had still been married to her first husband at that time hadn’t sat too happily with their father either, but Chase had been mad about her, and somehow they’d all settled down.
It was just as well his own mother hadn’t been around, Matthew reflected drily. Emily Aitken had died of a rare form of cancer when he was ten, and until Fleur had come to live at the ranch their housekeeper, Rosa Cortez, had been both wife and mother to the three men.
Fleur had changed all that. In no time at all she was giving Rosa orders, telling his father what to do, and bullying Chase into doing whatever she wanted. His father hadn’t liked it but he was a mild man, more at home with temperamental horses than temperamental women, and at least he could escape into the stables whenever he felt like it.
Of course, the horses their father bred were what had enabled Chase to become the successful sportsman he had been. The Aitken Stud was famous throughout the United States, and enthusiasts came from as far afield as Argentina and Europe to buy the spirited stallions he produced. It was a lucrative business, and for all Matthew had been so young, he had had no doubt that Chase’s wealth had been a goodly part of his allure. Fleur had liked spending his money too much to have been attracted to a poor man, and he’d sometimes wondered what her first husband must have been like, and whether he had been wealthy, too.
Fortunately, during the early years of their marriage, he, Matthew, had spent most of his time away. College, and then university, had enabled him to avoid the image of his big brother being turned from a laughing, confident man into a grovelling supplicant. Whatever Fleur had, Chase had certainly been hooked on it, and Matthew had preferred to stay out of their way whenever he was at home.
He had been twenty-two when Fleur tried to seduce him. He remembered the occasion vividly. Chase had been away, playing a match in Buenos Aires, and his father had been attending the horse sales in Kentucky. Matthew wouldn’t have been there at all had it not been for the fact that he was attending an interview the following day in Tallahassee. The editor of the Tallahassee Chronicle was looking for a junior reporter, and Matthew had been hoping to get the job.
At first he hadn’t believed what was happening. When Fleur had come to his room, he’d assumed there really must be something wrong. It was when she had complained of being so lonely and started to shed her satin wrap that he’d comprehended. And, although his hot young body had been burning, he’d succeeded in throwing her out.
However, he hadn’t been able to hide the fact that she’d aroused him, and Fleur had seen his weakness as a challenge. At every opportunity she’d let him see how willing she was to be with him, touching him with clinging hands, bestowing longing looks.
Matthew had been sickened by it. It wasn’t as if there had been any shortage of women his own age, ready and willing to satisfy his every need. But not his brother’s wife, he’d assured himself disgustedly. Dear God, he’d thought, if he ever got that desperate, he’d go out and buy a gun.
Not that his attitude had deterred Fleur. On the contrary, she’d seemed to find his resistance very appealing. It became a point of honour with her to succeed, and not until he threatened to tell Chase did her provocation cease.
Of course, that was a dozen years ago now, and Matthew had long stopped worrying about his brother. His own career—first as a newspaper columnist, and then as an overseas reporter working for an agency based in New York—had broadened his mind, and he was no longer surprised by anything people did. Working in war-tom Lebanon and South-east Asia, he’d become inured to man’s inhumanities to man. The problem of a sex-hungry sister-in-law seemed small indeed, when compared to the struggle between life and death.
Besides, in his absence, Fleur and Chase had appeared to reconcile any differences they might have had. They had both grown older, for one thing, and Matthew’s different lifestyle had reinforced the barriers between them.
Then, five years ago, Matthew had written his first novel. A lot of it had been based on his own experiences in Beirut, and, to his amazement, it had been an immediate success. Film rights had been optioned; in paperback it sold almost five million copies. He’d become an overnight celebrity—and he’d found he didn’t like it.
That was when he had had the notion of moving out of the United States. He’d always liked the islands of the Caribbean, and the casual lifestyle of Barbados suited him far better than the hectic social round of living in New York had ever done. When his second book was completed, he had it written into the contract that he was not available for subsequent publicity. He preferred his anonymity. He didn’t want to become a media hack.
But, to his astonishment, like Fleur when he’d rejected her, his public found his detachment as intriguing as she had done. Avoiding talk-shows and signing sessions made no difference to his sales. His books apparently sold themselves, and curiosity about his lifestyle was rife.
All the same, it was a lot harder to reach him at Dragon Bay. The villa, which he had had erected on the ruins of an old plantation house, had excellent security features, and Lucas Cord—once his sound technician, but now his secretary-cum-assistant—made sure he wasn’t bothered by any unwelcome guests. Matthew supposed he’d become something of a recluse, only visiting New York when he needed stimulation. He seldom invited women to Dragon Bay. He wasn’t married, and he had no desire to be so.
Which was probably something else he could lay at Fleur’s door, he reflected cynically, watching as a dusty estate car skidded into the parking area and a girl and two young children tumbled out. For all his brother’s marriage had lasted until his death, he doubted Chase had really been happy. He’d lived his life constantly placating a woman who’d tried to cheat him at every turn.
‘Henry—wait!’
The girl—or was she a young woman? Matthew was never quite sure of the distinction—yelled desperately after the small boy, who had darted recklessly between the parked cars. She seemed hung up with the other child, who appeared to be doubled up with pain, and Matthew could see an accident in the making if the boy gained the busy area where the taxis were waiting.
Without giving himself time to think about the pros and cons of what he was about to do, Matthew thrust open his door and vaulted out of the Range Rover. His long legs swiftly overtook the boy’s, and his hand descended on the child’s shoulder seconds before he reached the open road.
‘Ouch,’ The boy—Henry?—looked up at him indignantly. ‘Let go of me! I’m going to meet my daddy.’
‘Not without your mother, you’re not,’ returned Matthew smoothly, turning to look back towards the cars. ‘Come along. I’ll take you back. Did no one ever tell you it’s dangerous to play in traffic?’
Henry looked up at him mutinously. ‘I wasn’t playing.’
‘Nor are the drivers,’ said Matthew drily, feeling the boy’s resistance in every step they took. He was aware that his action had drawn some unwelcome attention, and he hoped that no one imagined he was enjoying himself.
The child’s mother was hurrying towards them now, and Matthew regarded her with some impatience. With her waist-length braid and narrow body, she hardly looked old enough to have two children, albeit of preschool age. But she had the casual elegance of many English holidaymakers at this time of year, women who knew nothing about caring for their own children, and he felt a surge of anger at her obvious lack of control.
‘Oh, Henry!’ she exclaimed when she reached them, bending down to grab the boy’s hand with evident relief. ‘Don’t you ever—ever—go dashing off like that again.