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damned with faint praise. 'Um I think your sister's waiting for you,' she
added. 'Perhaps you'd better go, before something awful happens.'
'You mean it hasn't?' Reed remarked drily, and saw the faint colour that rose
in her cheeks at his words. What on earth was she thinking? He shrugged.
'Oh, well,' he declared, glancing ruefully across the room, 'I suppose you're
right. Sorry about Victoria. You'll just have to accept that we're not your
conventional sort of family!' *
CHAPTER FIVE
WHICH was something of an understatement, thought Helen the next
morning, as she showered before joining Jon and his family for breakfast.
There was nothing remotely conventional about Reed's fathering a child he
didn't even know existed, or in not remembering the girl he had once been so
intimate with.
Helen sighed. The memories just went round and round in her brain, in a
never-ending spiral. And, in spite of the fact that she had decided she
couldn't hold Jon responsible for his father's actions, the situation hadn't
improved. Oh, she had considered all the alternatives, before deciding she
had to stay here. She had thought of pretending that Alexa was ill and asking
for her, but in those circumstances, she knew, Jon would have insisted on
accompanying her back to England, and what would she say then, when he
discovered it was all made up? Besides, it wasn't wise to invent an excuse
like that. Lies of that sort had a habit of coming true, and Alexa was far too
dear to her to risk wishing an illness on her.
Another idea she had considered had been to pretend that Alan Wright had
sent a message, via her parents, asking if she could come back right away.
As she had phoned her parents, and Alexa, the day after their arrival, it had
been a viable proposition. But Jon knew Alan, too, and if she made up some
story that he had sent for her, she would have to invent another set of lies for
Alan, to induce his assistance.
And then, there was Alexa herself. How could she explain to her daughter
why she didn't want to stay with Jon's family? Apart from a natural
reluctance to be separated from her mother for a fairly long period of time,
Alexa had been quite excited about the trip, particularly as Jon had told her
that maybe one day she could visit the island, too. When Helen spoke to her
on the phone, the little girl had been full of questions about what it was like,
and where they were going, and Helen would have had to have had a heart of
stone not to respond enthusiastically.
So, here she was, she thought wryly, preparing to face her fourth day at
Palmer's Sound. And after last night's little altercation, she was not exactly
looking forward to seeing Victoria again. In spite of the fact that Jon's
intervention at the exhibition had been turned to her advantage, Victoria had
still been less than friendly when they arrived home. So far as she was
concerned, Jon's motives in attending the party had not been excusable, and
she had lost no time in telling him so, once the paparazzi were not around to
report on the event.
For her part, Helen had wished she had never heard of the exhibition. No
matter how she might argue that Jon had used her to annoy his aunt, the fact
remained that she had been the one to show interest in the exhibition. And it
wasn't until she had come face to face with Reed that she had realised that
history could repeat itself.
Dear God, she should have known better. The idea of entering any art
gallery where Reed Wyatt might be present should have made her run a
mile. But, the truth was, she had seen the exhibition as a way of avoiding
Jon's father. She had had no way of knowing that he would be in attendance.
So far as she had been concerned, it was an opportunity for her and Jon to
spend the evening alone together, visiting the exhibition first, and then
dining at one of the many restaurants that were available in the city.
Of course, she might have suspected Jon had an ulterior motive. He had
certainly been in good spirits as they were chauffeured into town, and
although he was usually cheerful he had been exceptionally so. It was
obvious he would jump at any chance to irritate Victoria, and the opening of
her gallery was too good an occasion to miss.
All the same, if she was honest, Helen had to admit it was not Jon's, or
Victoria's, behaviour which was troubling her now. It was her own. Meeting
Reed like that, allowing history to repeat at least a part of that night in
London, had left her feeling unnerved, and strangely disorientated. She
hadn't wanted to spend any time with him, but she had; and, what was
worse, there had been times when she had actually enjoyed his company.
Lord!
Stepping out of the shower now, Helen took one of the fluffy cream
bath-sheets from the rail. Then, towelling herself vigorously, she made a
determined effort to dispel the sense of panic her thoughts had incited. For
heaven's sake, she told herself fiercely, what was so dreadful about
admitting that Reed Wyatt was still an attractive man? Attractive physically,
that was, she amended. His character wouldn't bear such close examination.
Nevertheless, if a man like him set about to be charming, she would have
had to be less than human not to respond to it. And she had found herself
only too human once, where he was concerned. So why assume that he must
suddenly have grown horns and a tail?
Because of what he had done! Because of the callous way he had done it!
her emotions argued desperately. All right, objectively Reed was a
physically good specimen for his age, she appended maliciously. And it
was obvious she wasn't the only woman to think so. That blonde he had been
standing with, when they arrived at the party, for instance oh, yes, she
acknowledged bitterly. She had noticed him as soon as she had stepped into
the room. But, anyway, she, the blonde, had been gazing at him as if he were
the most tasty item on the menu, and Helen's jaw tightened at the thought
that she might be his current mistress. For she was sure Reed would have a
mistress. A man like him a man as sexual as him was bound to have
some woman, somewhere. Just because he had never married again was no
reason to assume he was celibate. No. There had to be someone, and it was
probably someone like her.
She was dry now, Helen discovered, the heat of her body obviously assisting
in the process, and she dropped the towel disgustedly. And, as she did so,
she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the long mirrors that lined the wall
above the bath. She looked pale and tight-lipped, she fretted impatiently, the
brightness of her hair only accentuating the whiteness of her skin. Even two
days on the island had added little to her colouring, the faintest trace of
redness over her shoulders and forearms, and on the upper half of her thighs,
the only indication she had spent any time in the sun. Of course, she had to
be careful. Her skin was very sensitive unfortunately and she had to
apply a liberal amount of screening lotion to prevent herself from burning.
But even so she and Jon had spent most of their time outdoors, and he was
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