Second Tomorrow (3 page)

He spoke, softly, his head bent so that his mouth was close to her ear, ‘How easily your anger’s aroused, my child. Why don’t you relax, come out from that barrier you’ve built around yourself and learn to laugh again?’ He had stopped, and they stood together, motionless and silent for a few moments after he had spoken. Clare lifted her head, her big hazel eyes wide and bewildered and rather brighter than they should be.

‘I don’t want to forget. . . .’ Her voice faltered to a slow stop, because of the sudden tightness affecting her throat. ‘You don’t understand, Luke. No one does. Frank adored me and I him. You can’t just forget—it isn’t right to forget.’

She heard him draw a breath and guessed that he was impatient with her.

‘Five years, Clare,’ he said. ‘How much longer are you going to pine for what you can’t possibly have?’

‘You’re wrong. I said you don’t understand. I’m not pining for something I can’t have; that
would be absurd. I’m merely keeping a memory alive—’

‘It’ll fade, no matter how hard you try,’ he broke in roughly. ‘You might prolong the agony but in the end it will fade. You’ll be a middle-aged spinster then and you’ll have wasted your youth.’

‘I don’t know why you should be so concerned about me,’ she quivered, staring into his eyes but finding neither compassion nor understanding. ‘It’s strange that you should be, because you don’t strike me as a man who bothers his head much about my sex.’

‘Well,’ he returned with a light little laugh, ‘that’s forthright enough! So I strike you as a confirmed bachelor, do I?’ There was an odd inflection in his voice which puzzled her. Had he had a serious affair, she wondered. After all, she knew nothing of his past; there could be some very good reason why, at thirty-five, he was still a bachelor.

She said, compelled by something she could not control, ‘Have you ever been in love—?’ She stopped abruptly, wishing she could take the words back.

‘Sort of,’ was his surprising answer. Clare had felt sure that even if he had been in love he would have flatly denied it. ‘It was a long time ago.’

‘It was . . . serious?’

He smiled reminiscently. ‘Yes, it was—rather.’

Clare felt a little access of pity for him, which
was absurd, she chided herself, since Luke Mortimer was the last man who needed pity. He had everything—wealth, looks, physique, a wonderful house here and another in fabulous Miami Beach. And with all this he could have any woman he wanted.

‘Is she—alive?’

‘I’m not pining over someone who is dead, Clare.’

She coloured up. ‘It was a silly question. You’ve already stressed the futility of cherishing memories.’

‘You admit it’s futile?’

‘For me it isn’t, but for you—’

‘There’s no difference,’ he broke in impatiently.

Clare twisted round. ‘I’m going back,’ she said, a flatness in her voice. Subconsciously she had wanted to stay with him for a while longer but, somehow, his impatience brought back her resentment and she began to retrace her steps. Luke set the pace, which was faster than she desired. He had had enough of her company, she thought, and an unwanted feeling of dejection swept over her. She hurried along beside him, skipping now and then to keep up the pace set by those incredibly long legs of his. Her thoughts wandered to the girl he had loved. Where was she now? Was she married to someone else? Did Luke still care—just a little?

Clare drew a deep, shuddering breath, and wondered why her dejection should be even more weighty than before.

Chapter Two

Another fortnight went by and to her own surprise Clare was becoming so contented that the idea of going home scarcely ever entered her mind. She loved the sun and the sea and the lush, tropical vegetation of the island. Above all she was enchanted with the unspoiled, unchanging ways of the people, the natives who lived in brightly-painted clapboard houses, some of which nestled within groves of casuarinas, while others occupied sites in the narrow, neat little tree-lined streets.

‘These people have retained the secret of how life should be lived,’ Luke had told Clare after she had remarked on the happy, contented faces she invariably encountered whenever she went out of the hotel grounds to explore the island. On the main street there was one single traffic light, and this was the only one on the island. Drivers moved sedately towards it, hailing one another as they passed. All was free and easy, unhurried and leisurely. Clare had passed a remark to Luke about his building programme and had
been assured that the people buying his properties would be carefully chosen; moreover, he was laying down certain conditions that would have to be adhered to. Each villa was to be inconspicuously sited among trees already established, and once built the houses could neither be altered nor added to in any way whatsoever.

‘Will prospective purchasers agree to these restrictions?’ Clare had asked doubtfully.

Luke had shrugged his shoulders and answered to the effect that if people disliked the restrictions imposed they would obviously decide not to buy.

‘I particularly want to keep this island unspoiled,’ he had gone on to say. ‘The villas I shall build will not be a blot on the landscape, I can assure you of that.’ He had smiled in a way that set her pulses stirring . . . and her resentment rising. It was all so absurdly illogical, she admitted, but her tenacious determination to cling to her memories, to be true to her lost love, seemed to be warping her vision and there was nothing she could do about it because, if she even contemplated seeing someone else she was immediately filled with guilt and a feeling of disloyalty both to Frank and to his mother.

Mrs Weedall had written to her, reiterating what she had said when she first learned of Clare’s decision to join her brother on Flamingo Cay, ‘I don’t know how you could go away from everything you have known with Frank. And what about his grave? There’ll be no one when
I’ve gone—’ and at this point she had prophesied an early death for herself, because she had nothing left to live for now that her husband had died. Her other son, she said, had no feelings at all. ‘He keeps telling me I’m morbid. Did you ever hear anything so unkind, dear Clare?’

Clare had read the letter and then wept for the loneliness of the woman who would have been her mother-in-law. On impulse she had invited her over for a holiday but as yet had received no reply to her letter.

On another occasion, when she had been in conversation with Luke, Clare had received an invitation from him to attend a sort of garden party which he was giving for prospective purchasers of his villas. They would be shown over his own house, advised about any internal changes they might require, and any other matters regarding the properties which might be of interest to them. Phil was also invited but at the last minute he decided he could not spare the time.

‘You go, though,’ he urged when Clare seemed hesitant about going on her own. ‘It’ll be a nice break for you. Mary can manage on the desk. It isn’t as if we’ve anyone checking in until tomorrow morning.’

Still reluctant, Clare took a little more time over her lunch than usual, her mind occupied with the changes that were coming over her since she had joined her brother at the hotel. There was no doubt that the heaviness of the past years was lightening, that changes were
taking place within her despite her struggles to prevent change. More and more she was thinking of Luke’s words and admitting that he was right when he stated that the memory would fade. Yes, in time it would fade, if she remained here. But if she went home and took up where she had left off . . . A sudden frown touched her forehead at the thought. She had no desire to go back—at least not yet.

The colour-drenched gardens of Silver Springs presented an incredible panorama of tropical beauty, and as she gazed around Clare had to own that Luke Mortimer was nothing less than a genius where planning was concerned, be it a house he was planning or gardens such as these surrounding his villa, which itself was a breathtaking example of elegance and good taste.

She had arrived on foot, Silver Springs being no more than ten minutes’ walk from the Rusty Pelican. Luke, casual but immaculate in white slacks and short-sleeved shirt, came striding across the satin-smooth lawn to meet her, his dark eyes taking in her own delightful appearance. She wore a sleeveless cotton dress, leaf-green and short, revealing her honey-tanned arms and legs. Her sandals were of fine white leather, matching her handbag and the wide belt she wore. Luke’s eyes came at length to rest on her face; she parted her lips, unaware that the smile was delightfully reflected in her eyes, giving them a radiance Luke had never seen
there before. His scrutiny was unfathomable and long, and she blushed delicately beneath it, even more so when his eyes began to move with slow deliberation to settle for a moment on the tiny waist before rising to the tender curves of her breasts and then higher to the gentle swell of her throat. He seemed to catch his breath and at the same time a nerve pulsated at the side of his neck. Fascinated by it, Clare wondered just what kind of emotion touched him for it to be reflected in this way.

‘Clare,’ he murmured softly at last, ‘you look very charming. You’ll be the most beautiful woman here today.’

Her colour deepened at his flattery and a tremor that was pleasant touched the region of her heart.

‘Thank you, Luke,’ she responded shyly. ‘I’m glad you like my—my dress. . . .’

He laughed and her heart jerked involuntarily. Without doubt this man affected her senses on every occasion that they met, this in spite of her initial resolve to remain immune. His superlative physical attractions, the way his very tone of voice could give pleasure or pain, the expression she caught now and then that affected her pulse . . . all these were definite phases of her recent admission that Frank no longer held her entire waking thoughts, although he was, of course, ever in the background, an image that she never wanted completely to erase.

‘Yes,’ Luke was saying, breaking into her
reverie, ‘I like your dress very much . . . but it wasn’t your dress I was referring to, and you know it.’

She looked at him, a tiny frown between her eyes.

‘I wasn’t being facetious,’ she retorted defensively.

‘But you were,’ he contradicted. And then, without warning, he reached to take her hand, just as he had done on two previous occasions. But whereas on those occasions she had snatched her hand away before he could touch it, this time she even made a shy movement to let him enclose it within the warmth of his lean brown fingers. The contact sent feathery ripples along her spine; her smile fluttered, then deepened and seemed to match the liquid glow of pleasure in her eyes.

‘I—you. . . .’ Her voice trailed off, partly because she had no idea what she wanted to say, and partly because that nerve was pulsating in Luke’s throat again, and she could not take her eyes off it—not until, with a gentle finger beneath her chin, he lifted her face and she found herself staring into his eyes. The next instant he had bent his head and she felt the touch of a man’s lips for the first time in five years. Sheer undiluted pleasure rippled through her before, out from the recesses of her mind, there emerged the image of her dead fiancé. . . .

Her mouth twisted convulsively as the past flared to reality and she lived again through poignant memory the happiness she and Frank
had shared. And then Mrs Weedall’s anguished face superimposed itself over everything else and Clare heard her own sincere promise that she would never let another man enter her life.

An involuntary shudder brought movement to Clare’s body even before she fiercely snatched her hand away.

Luke’s own hand fell to his side as, perceiving Clare’s distress, his eyes glinted wrathfully. There was no hint of pity in his voice when presently he spoke.

‘What’s wrong now?’ he demanded. ‘You’ve changed dramatically within seconds.’

He knew of course what was wrong, but was determined to force an answer from her.

Her eyes lifted to his, pain mirrored in their depths.

‘I know you’ve no—no patience w-with me,’ she began, ‘but—’

‘Not a scrap of patience!’ he broke in derisively. ‘You’re your own worst enemy, and no one can help you!’

She stared with bewildered incomprehension, noticing the tightness of his mouth, the flexed line of his jaw, the narrowed, uncompromising expression in those steely grey eyes.

‘You shouldn’t have held my hand!’ she flashed, forgetting her own reciprocation. ‘There was no need!’

‘Memories!’ he scoffed, containing his temper with the utmost effort. ‘One day, Clare, I shall lose my control and knock some sense into you!’

‘You—!’ Staggered by his imperious manner
Clare could only stare at him for a long disbelieving moment. ‘What did you say?’ she challenged at last.

‘You heard! Next time you’ll
feel!’

An astounded silence followed this incredible threat, an upsurge of anger bringing colour to her cheeks. Anyone would think he had some sort of authority over her, the way he spoke!

‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that!’ she fumed. ‘Who do you think you are—adopting that high-handed attitude with me?’

Luke glowered at her, then suddenly his manner changed, and when he spoke he had assumed an air of indifference that was as unexpected as it was incomprehensible.

‘You are quite right to be indignant. I’ve no reason at all for my—er—high-handed attitude as you term it.’ His eyes roved her with a hint of contempt before he added briskly. ‘Come along. I don’t know what we’re standing here for!’

He began to walk away and Clare hurried to keep up with him. She was miserable because of his changed manner and because of her own reaction to the simple affectionate gesture of his taking her hand. He had obviously wanted to take it, expecting to derive some kind of pleasure, and she too had been in a reciprocal frame of mind until that intrusion of the past had filled her whole being with a sense of disloyalty and guilt. Would it continue for ever? Until coming here to Flamingo Cay she had not wanted it to end; her memories were carrying her through and, as far as her mind could estimate, they
would go on doing so for the rest of her life. After all, she had told herself, there were other women who, true to a first love, had remained single when that first love died. Clare knew of one middle-aged spinster who, having lost her boy-friend in the war, had remained wholly true to his memory.