Hot Island Nights Read online

  “I see.” And she did. Martin was hoping to be made partner at the firm this year. The last thing he wanted was to rock the boat.

  He reached out and took her hand, his thumb brushing reassuringly across her knuckles. “Elizabeth, if we could go somewhere private and talk this through, I’m sure you’ll understand that everything was done with your best interests at heart.”

  Her incredulous laughter sounded loud in the hall.

  “My best interests? How on earth would you know what my best interests are, Martin? You’re so busy telling me what’s good for me, you have no idea who I am or what I really want. It’s like those bloody awful Waterford champagne flutes. No one cares what I think, and I’m such a pathetic coward I swallow it and swallow it and swallow it, even while I tell myself it’s because I want to do the right thing and not upset the applecart.”

  Martin frowned. “Champagne flutes? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  She knew he didn’t, but it was all inextricably entwined in her head: her anger at her grandparents and Martin for this huge betrayal of her trust, her feelings of frustration and panic over the wedding, the suffocated feeling she got every time her grandparents made a decision for her or Martin spoke to her in that soothing tone and treated her as though she were made of fine porcelain.

  “I can’t do this,” she said, more to herself than him. “This is a mistake.”

  It was suddenly very clear to her.

  Martin slid his arm around her shoulders, trying to draw her into a hug. “Elizabeth, you’re getting yourself upset.”

  The feeling of his arms closing so carefully around her was the last straw. She braced her hands against his chest and pushed free from his embrace.

  “I want to call off the wedding.”

  Martin blinked, then reached for her again. “You don’t mean that. You’re upset.”

  She held him off. “Violet has been saying for months that I should stop and think about what I’m doing, and she’s right. I don’t want this, Martin. I feel like I’m suffocating.”

  “Violet. I might have known she’d have something to do with this. What rubbish has she been filling your head with now? The joys of being a free and easy slapper in West London? Or maybe how to get a head start on cirrhosis?”

  He’d never liked Violet, which was only fair, since her best friend had taken a violent aversion to him from the moment they’d first met.

  “No, actually. She pointed out that I was going to be thirty this year and that if I didn’t wake up and smell the coffee I’d be fifty and still living the life my grandparents chose for me.”

  “What a load of rubbish.”

  She looked at him, standing there in his Savile Row suit, his bespoke shirt pristine-white. He didn’t understand. Maybe he couldn’t.

  She knew about his childhood, about the poverty and the sacrifices his working-class single mom had made to send him to university. Elizabeth’s life—the life they were supposed to have together once they were married—was the fulfillment of all his aspirations. The high-paying partnership with the long-established law firm, the well-bred wife to come home to, the holidays on the French or Italian Riviera, membership at all the right men’s clubs.

  “We can’t get married, Martin. You don’t know who I am,” she said quietly. “How could you? I don’t even know who I am.”

  She turned and walked up the hallway.

  “Elizabeth. Can we at least talk about this?”

  She kept walking. Her grandparents were going to be upset when they heard she’d called off the wedding. It wouldn’t simply be a case of her grandmother having a headache—this would instigate full-scale damage control. They’d use every trick in the book to try to make her see sense. They’d make her feel guilty and stupid and wrong without actually accusing her of being any of those things. And she was so used to not rocking the boat, to toeing the line and doing the right thing that she was terribly afraid that she might listen to them and wind up married to Martin and unpacking all those expensive Harrods housewares in her marital home.

  She needed some time to herself. To think. To work things out. Somewhere private and quiet. She thought of Violet’s apartment above her shop and quickly discarded it. Even if it wasn’t only a one bedroom, she wouldn’t find much peace and quiet in Violet’s hectic world. Plus it would be the first place her grandparents would look for her. Then she remembered what she’d said to Martin—I don’t even know who I am—and the answer came to her.

  She would go to her father. Wherever he might be. She would find him, and she would go to him, and she would start working out who Elizabeth Jane Mason really was, and what she really wanted.

  FOUR DAYS LATER, ELIZABETH OPENED her rental car window and sucked in big lungfuls of fresh air. Her eyes were gritty with fatigue and she opened them wide, willing herself to wakefulness. She’d been traveling for nearly thirty hours to reach the other side of the world and now the foreign, somber-hued scrub of rural Australia was rushing past as she drove southwest from Melbourne toward Phillip Island, a small dot on the map nestled in the mouth of Westernport Bay.

  She’d spent the past few days holed up in a hotel room in Soho while Violet leaned on her police-officer cousin to use his contacts to locate Elizabeth’s father. The moment she’d learned that Sam Blackwell’s last known place of residence was Phillip Island in Victoria, Australia, Elizabeth had booked a room at a local hotel and jumped on a plane.

  She hadn’t spoken to her grandparents beyond assuring them she was fine and perfectly sane and determined to stand by her decision to cancel the wedding. Her grandfather had tried to talk her out of it over the phone, of course, but she’d cut the conversation short.

  Whatever happened next in her life was going to be her decision and no one else’s.

  The San Remo bridge appeared in front of her and she drove over a long stretch of water. Then she was on the island and the thought of meeting her father, actually looking into his face and perhaps seeing an echo of her own nose or eyes or cheekbones, chased the weariness away.

  She had no idea what to expect from this meeting. She wasn’t even sure what she wanted from it. A sense of connection? Information about where she came from? A replacement for the parents she’d lost when she was only seven years old?

  The truth was, she could hardly remember her mother and father—or the man she knew as her father. There were snatches of memory—her mother laughing, the smell of her stepfather’s pipe tobacco, moments from a family holiday—but precious little else. Her mother was always slightly sad in her few clear memories, her stepfather distant. Despite her lack of recall—or, perhaps, because of it—she’d always felt as though something profound was missing in her life. Her grandparents had been kind and loving in their own way, but their careful guardianship had not filled the gap the loss of her parents had left in her heart.

  A gap she’d never fully acknowledged until right this minute. It was only now that she was on the verge of meeting her biological father for the first time that she understood how much she’d always craved the wordless, instinctive connection between parent and child, how she’d envied her friends their relationships with their parents.

  Her hands tightened on the steering wheel and she gave herself a mental pep talk as she drove into the tree-lined main street of the township of Cowes, the most densely populated township on the island. It was highly likely that her father didn’t even know she existed. Arriving on his doorstep full of expectations was the best way to start off on the wrong foot. She needed to be realistic and patient. They were strangers. There was no reason to think that they would feel any special connection with each other, despite the fact that they shared DNA.

  And yet her stomach still lurched with nervousness as she turned the corner onto her father’s street and stopped out the front of a cream and Brunswick-green house that had all the architectural appeal of a shoe box. Clad in vertical aluminum siding, it featured a flat roof, a deep overhang over a
concrete porch, sliding metal windows and a patchy, brown front lawn.

  A far cry from the elegant, historically listed homes of Mayfair. She wiped her suddenly sweaty hands on the thighs of her trousers.

  She had no idea what kind of man her father was. What sort of life he’d led. How he might react to his long-lost daughter appearing on his doorstep.

  She’d had a lot of time to think about what might have happened between her mother and father all those years ago. In between dodging phone calls from Martin and reassuring her grandparents, she’d made some inquiries. She’d discovered that John Mason and her mother had married in January 1982 when Elizabeth was seventeen months old—further proof, if she’d been looking for it, that the birth certificate was accurate and John was not her father.

  What the marriage record couldn’t tell her was when her stepfather and mother had met or how long they’d dated before they got married or if there had been another man on the scene at the time. Her father, for example.

  Her grandfather clearly didn’t have a great opinion of Sam Blackwell. She wondered what her father had done to earn his condemnation. She’d been tempted to confront her grandfather again before she departed and insist he tell her everything he knew, but after a great deal of debating she’d decided not to. She was going to meet her father and talk to him and hear his story and form her own opinion about him.

  But before she did any of that, she needed to get her backside out of the car and across the lawn to her father’s front door.

  She didn’t move.

  Come on, Elizabeth. You didn’t fly all this way to sit in a hire car out the front of your father’s house like some sort of deranged stalker.

  And yet she still didn’t reach for the door handle.

  This meant so much to her. A chance to feel connected to someone. A chance to have a father.

  Just do it, Elizabeth.

  She curled her fingers around the cool metal of the door handle just as her phone rang, the sound shrill in the confines of the car. She checked caller ID.

  “Violet,” she said as she took the call.

  “E. How was your flight? What’s happening? Have you spoken to him yet?”

  “Long. Not much. And no,” Elizabeth said, answering her friend’s questions in order. “I’m sitting in front of his house right now, trying to get up the courage to knock on the door.”

  “You’re nervous.”

  “Just a little.”

  “Don’t be. Once he gets to know you, he’ll be over the moon you’ve tracked him down.”

  Elizabeth pulled a face. Violet’s vote of confidence was lovely, but if her father knew she existed—a big if—he’d clearly had his reasons for keeping his distance for the past thirty-odd years.

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’m doing this all wrong.” Elizabeth studied the slightly shabby house doubtfully. “Maybe I should have made contact with a letter or e-mail first. Used a lawyer to break the ice…”

  “No. You’ve done the right thing. And even if you haven’t, you’re there now. All you have to do is knock on his door.”

  “You make it sound so easy,” Elizabeth joked.

  “Come on, E. You’re a woman on a mission, remember? You’re reclaiming your life, striking out on your own. Shaking off old Droopy Drawers was just the first step.”

  Elizabeth frowned at her friend’s less-than-flattering description of Martin. “I wish you wouldn’t call him that. Just because I’ve decided not to marry him doesn’t mean he’s a bad person.”

  “True. It’s not as though he’s going around literally boring people to death. Although he took a fairly good stab at stifling the life out of you.”

  “Vi…”

  “Sorry. I just think it should be a punishable offense for someone as young as he is to carry on like a crusty old bugger. How many thirty-two-year-olds do you know wear cardigans with leather elbow patches?”

  “Just because he dresses conservatively doesn’t mean he’s crusty, Vi. He’s just…conservative,” Elizabeth finished lamely. “Conservative? I’m sorry, E, but conservative is not the word for a man who refuses to have sex in anything other than the missionary position. The word you’re looking for is repressed.”

  Elizabeth kneaded her forehead with the tips of her fingers. “You have no idea how much I regret ever saying anything to you about that, Vi.”

  Martin would be mortified if he knew that she’d discussed their sex life with anyone. Especially Violet.

  Elizabeth blamed her dentist. If it hadn’t been for the stupid article in the stupid women’s magazine in his waiting room, there was no way she would have tried to talk to Martin about her “sexual needs and desires” instead of “vainly waiting for him to intuit” them, and there was no way she would have felt the need to seek counsel from her best friend in the embarrassing aftermath.

  “I’m not going to apologize for refusing to let you sweep that sterling little moment under the rug,” Violet said. “Normal people—note I’m stressing the word normal, as opposed to uptight repressives—talk to each other about sex and explore their sexuality and have fun in bed. They don’t pat you on the head and tell you they respect you too much to objectify you, or whatever rubbish excuse he came out with after you’d finally got up the gumption to talk to him. And I love that he tried to make it all about you, by the way, and not about his hang-ups.”

  “I really don’t want to talk about this again.”

  But Violet was off and running on one of her favorite rants. “For God’s sake, it wasn’t as though you asked him to tie you up and go at you with a cheese grater or something. You wanted to do it doggy style, big bloody deal. There were no small animals involved, no leather or hot wax.”

  “I’ve called off the wedding, Vi. This is definitely filed under The Past. You need to let it go.”

  There was a small silence on the other end of the phone.

  “You’re right. Sorry. He just really gets on my wick.”

  “Well, you’ll probably never have to see him again, since he’s hardly going to want to know me once he’s gotten over the fact that I’ve dumped him. That should make you feel better.”

  A dart of fear raced down Elizabeth’s spine as she registered her own words. She’d changed the course of her life by walking away from the wedding and she had no idea what might happen next. A terrifying, knee-weakening thought. But she refused to regret her decision. The truth was she’d never really loved Martin the way a woman should love the man with whom she planned to spend the rest of her life. She was fond of him. She admired his many good qualities. He made her feel safe. But he also exasperated her and made her yearn for…something she didn’t even have a name for.

  “E. Someone’s just come into the shop and I have to go. But you can do this, okay? Just get out of the car and go introduce yourself. Whatever comes after that, you’ll handle it.”

  “Thanks, coach. And thanks for all the hand-holding and tissue-passing and intel-gathering over the past few days,” Elizabeth said.

  “Pshaw,” her friend said before ending the call.

  Elizabeth put her phone in her handbag and took a deep breath. It was time to stop fannying about and get this over and done with.

  Her heart in her mouth, she opened the car door and stepped into the hot Australian sun.

  2

  NATHAN JONES WOKE TO a single moment of pure nothingness. For a split second before the forgetfulness of sleep fell away, he felt nothing, knew nothing, remembered nothing.

  It was the best part of his day, hands down.

  And then he woke fully and it was all there: the memories, the anxiety, the guilt and shame and fear. Heavy and relentless and undeniable.

  He stared at the ceiling for a long beat, wondering at the fact that he kept forcing himself to jump through the flaming hoop of this shit, day in, day out. There was precious little joy in it and plenty of pain.

  Then he forced himself to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed. It wa
sn’t like he had a choice, after all. He wasn’t a quitter. Even though there were times when it seemed damned appealing.

  His head started throbbing the moment he was upright. He breathed deeply. It would pass soon enough. God knew he’d chalked up enough experience dealing with hangovers over the past four months to know.

  The important thing was that he hadn’t woken once that he could remember. If the price he had to pay this morning for oblivion last night was a hangover, then so be it.

  He stood and ran a hand over his hair, then grabbed the towel flung over the end of the bed and wrapped it around his waist. He worked his tongue around his mouth as he headed for the door. Water was called for. And maybe some food. Although he wasn’t certain about the food part just yet.

  The full glare of the midmorning sun hit him the moment he stepped out of the studio into the yard. He grunted and shielded his eyes with his forearm. Looked like it was going to be another stinker.

  He crossed to the main house and entered the kitchen. The kitchen floor was gritty with sand beneath his feet and he smiled to himself. Sam would have a cow when he came home, no doubt. Nate had never met a guy more anal about keeping things shipshape and perfect. A regular Mr. Clean, was Sammy.

  The fridge yielded a bottle of water and he closed his eyes, dropped his head back and tipped it down his throat. He swallowed and swallowed until his teeth ached from the cold, then put the nearly empty bottle onto the kitchen counter. He was about to head to the shower when a knock sounded at the front door.

  Nate frowned. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Didn’t particularly want to see anyone, either. That was the whole point of being on the island—privacy. Peace and quiet. Space.

  He walked through the living room to the front hallway. He could see a silhouette through the glass panel in the door. As he hovered, debating whether or not to answer, the silhouette lifted its hand and knocked again.

  “Coming,” he said, aware he sounded more than a little like a grumpy old man.

  The door swung open and he found himself facing a tall, slim woman with delicately sculpted features and deep blue eyes, her pale blond hair swept up into the kind of hairstyle that made him think of Grace Kelly and other old-school movie stars.