terrace. It was sufficiently apart from the other hotel buildings to ensure complete privacy, but near enough so that any problems could be dealt with at once. After all, it was the very personal service they offered that had made Kittrick’s Hotel and Pelican Island world-famous. It prided itself on its reputation for providing both comfort and individuality, and, although it had accommodated many visitors over the years, a careful record was kept of each guest’s likes and dislikes.
Of course, it helped that the hotel could only accommodate a maximum of thirty guests at any one time. Eighteen suites catered to the needs of visitors as diverse as politicians and pop stars, their exclusivity ensuring that if privacy was sought it would be found. There were no sensation seekers on Pelican Island, no publicity hounds, no fans wanting autographs. Indeed, there were times when the whole hotel was filled with a single party, and it wasn’t uncommon for an anonymous guest to turn out to be a very familiar face.
It was almost dark as India entered the cathedral-like foyer of the hotel. But the enormous chandelier suspended from the cavernous ceiling cast its mellow glow over the many plants and floral displays that gave the huge reception area a colourful ambience. As well as the chandelier, a sprinkling of lamps, set beside groupings of chairs and sofas, created small oases of intimacy and comfort, while the stripped pine floor was strewn with Chinese rugs, thick and rich and delicately patterned.
There were few people about at this hour of the evening. From experience, India knew that most guests were either bathing or resting at this time, or enjoying a rejuvenating massage from one of the hotel’s team of health therapists. After a day spent swimming, or sailing, or simply soaking up the sun, it was good to relax and be pampered. Kittrick’s Hotel was equipped with every device necessary to make their guests happy, and men, as well as women, took advantage of its many facilities.
It was later that the bar would fill up and the poolside restaurant would start serving the score of gourmet delicacies cooked up by their French chef and his expert staff. But for now the public rooms were practically deserted, except for the ever present army of stewards, some of whom were always on duty.
Nevertheless, India felt slightly under-dressed as she crossed to the reception desk. By this time, she was usually changed for the evening, and although her presence wasn’t always necessary, she preferred to keep an eye on things. But Nathan’s arrival had upset the normal scheme of things, and she was still struggling to come to terms with her own reaction to it.
‘Oh, hello, Miss Kittrick.’ The receptionist left the pile of credit slips she had been systematically entering into the computer, and came to greet her. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘What?’ For a moment, India wondered if she meant Nathan, and then, realising it was her appearance that had produced such a comment, she shook her head. ‘Oh—no. No.’ She forced a smile. ‘I just wanted to have a word with Paolo. Do you know where he is?’
‘He’s in the bar, Miss Kittrick,’ said the girl at once. ‘Your—er—brother wanted a drink.’ She paused. ‘He’s very nice, isn’t he? Your brother, I mean. So—easy-going and friendly. Not—not at all like … well, like his father, is he?’
She was embarrassed and showed it, but, having started the sentence, she had had to finish it. India sympathised with her. And it was true, she thought unwillingly. In latter years, Nathan’s father had become more and more remote. India had put his uncertain moods down to his health. There was no denying that, for the past eighteen months at least, Aaron Kittrick had not been a well man. He had been withdrawn and unsociable, even with her. But now she was not so sure of her conclusion. Had his estrangement from Nathan been preying on his mind? she wondered. She would probably never know.
But, more immediately, she had the unenviable prospect of facing Nathan again, if she wanted to speak to Paolo before the evening’s entertainment began. She would have preferred to avoid seeing Nathan, at least until she had had time to bathe and change. Without the armour of clothes and make-up she felt absurdly vulnerable, a circumstance for which Nathan was wholly responsible.
He had embarrassed her horribly that afternoon by asking her that unforgivable question. And she had made it worse by admitting that she still cared about him. She should have evaded an answer, made some glib response that wouldn’t commit her either way. Instead, she had been so desperate to prove her own detachment that she had laid herself open to the kind of ridicule he could so readily produce.
Once it wouldn’t have bothered her. She had grown up with his teasing, and she’d always believed it was without malice. Until her mother had pointed out how unsuitable it was for a thirteen-year-old to go on treating Nathan as her contemporary. Until she had made it plain that he was just too polite to tell her to get lost.
India remembered how humiliated she had felt when she’d realised that truth. She had followed Nathan everywhere, it was true, but she’d never had a brother before, especially not an older brother who could do all the things she herself was desperate to learn.
She’d thought he’d enjoyed her company, too, and perhaps he had, to begin with. Perhaps, like her, he’d found having a ready-made sibling quite appealing. Particularly one who admired him, and hung on his every word.
But there was an enormous difference between the hero-worship of a seven-year-old and the embarrassing persistence of a post-pubescent teenager. And, as soon as her mother remarked on it, India had known she must be right. Of course then she hadn’t realised where his desires lay, hadn’t understood that his tolerance with her had just been a means to an end …
Now she straightened her spine, made a reassuring remark to the red-faced receptionist, and walked determinedly across the foyer. She couldn’t blame the girl for responding to Nathan’s charm. She knew only too well how lethal that charm could be.
The cocktail bar was four steps down from the level of the foyer. Cool and dim, with a long counter strung with lights, it overlooked the beach, and the lights of the marina in the distance. Her stepfather had built the marina in the days before Kittrick’s Hotel had become a household name. The old house, where they had lived when she and her mother had first come here, had been both hotel and residence. However, since the new hotel had been constructed, it had been turned into a haven for yachtsmen. There was a clubhouse now, on the upper floor, and a comprehensive chandlery beneath. And, although the store was supposed to be there for the benefit of the yachting community, it also sold golf and scuba-diving gear, and female guests could often be found browsing through its racks of designer sportswear, or chatting up the manager, who was, admittedly, quite a hunk.
India halted at the top of the steps leading down into the bar, and surveyed the territory. The piano where Carlos Mendoza played most evenings was as yet unattended, and there were no couples smooching on the tiny dance-floor. The neat armchairs and tables that were set by the long windows to take advantage of the view were still empty, and the distant sounds from the stereo were soft and not intrusive.
She saw Nathan at once, seated on one of the tall stools at the bar, talking to Paolo. And why wouldn’t she? she asked herself impatiently. Apart from the bartender, he was the only occupant. Nevertheless, it was galling to feel her pulses racing, and she thrust aside the feeling that he had already taken control.
He had changed, she noticed. The well-worn jeans that had clung to his muscled thighs had given way to black chinos and a dark shirt. His dark hair overhung his collar at the back, and even from here she could see it was still damp from his shower. But, when Paolo suddenly noticed her, and said something to his companion, Nathan turned his head in her direction, and she focused on the fact that the tie they insisted upon was absent.
All the same, it was a little unnerving to have him watch her descend the steps and cross the polished floor towards them. She was intensely conscious of her windswept hair and bare arms and legs, and she prayed she wouldn’t trip or do something equally stupid.
‘Hi,’ he said when she reached them, and she was glad he didn’t slide off the bar-stool to greet her. As it was, with his arms on the counter, and his shoulders hunched over the Scotch and water in front of him, he was almost her own height, and she didn’t experience the same lack of advantage she’d