A Guilty Passion Read online

  He nodded. “Fine. Good night, then."

  He went out, taking a torch from a drawer in a dresser near the door. Perhaps he made a habit of having an evening stroll.

  Celeste ran her eyes over the bookcase. Ethan seemed to have a very catholic taste, she thought. There were a few classics, a shelf of Australian and New Zealand fiction, and several recent bestsellers. All of his brother's books were there, and she hastily skimmed over those to a solid row of books on oceanography, marine animals and natural history, giving way to a mixture of topics including a history of Australia, an ecological handbook and a book on prison reform, as well as two thick volumes on the workings of the human mind, and a guide to Western philosophy.

  Tonight she wanted something light and easily digested, so she bent hopefully to the shelf of paperbacks near the floor, going down on her knees to examine the titles.

  Most of them were thrillers, with one or two westerns and some paperback editions of popular novels. At the end of the shelf were thin volumes of pamphlet size, one of them a short history of Sheerwind Island. She took that and a couple of thrillers and went up to bed.

  She had read just five pages before her eyelids drooped, and she switched off the bedside lamp, only to spend the next hour or so waiting for sleep to come.

  It was some time before Ethan quietly climbed the stairs and went into the bathroom. She heard the water running as he showered, and the soft closing of his bedroom door later, then muted sounds and finally silence.

  At last she went to sleep, but woke again in the early hours. Prey to disconnected thoughts and disturbing emotions, she tossed restlessly and tried to shut off her mind. When dawn streaked the sky she slept again, and the next time she opened her eyes it was full daylight, her watch showing her the time was almost ten.

  Going down to the living room, she found a woman with her back to the stairs, running a cloth over the low table.

  “Good morning,” Celeste said.

  The woman straightened. “Oh, good morning.” She had a pleasant, middle-aged face under pepper-and-salt curls. “You must be Mrs. Ryland."

  “Yes, Mrs ... Jackson, isn't it?"

  The woman smiled. “That's right. Mr. Ryland's told you about me, then. I'm sorry about your husband."

  “Thank you."

  “Mr. Ryland said to tell you there's breakfast in the kitchen, and if there's anything else you want, to ask me. I hope you found all you needed in your room and the bathroom. I expect you've got your own shampoo and stuff, but I bought a few things in case you'd forgotten. A lot of men just use soap for their hair, and I know I can't do without a good shampoo myself."

  “Everything was perfect. It was very thoughtful of you. Where is Mr. Ryland?"

  “He's in his workroom, upstairs. He doesn't like to be disturbed once he's started work."

  “I won't disturb him. And I don't think I'll need to disturb your work, either, Mrs. Jackson."

  “That's all right, dear. Anything I can do..."

  Celeste thanked her again and made for the kitchen. She washed up the dishes afterwards and made her way down to the beach. Her sandals were not on the sand, and she clambered onto the rocks, searching along where she had been yesterday.

  There was no sign of them. The tide was coming in, and she didn't want to have the same experience as the previous day, so she scrambled back to the sand, to find a man coming out of the trees.

  “Hi!” he hailed her. He was tall and brown-haired, dressed in a pair of cutoff jeans and a white T-shirt. As he came closer she saw that he had brown eyes and a pleasant grin.

  A little cautiously, Celeste smiled back. “Hello."

  “Lost something?” he asked her.

  “Yes. I left my shoes on the beach yesterday, but I guess they got washed away by the tide."

  “I saw you wandering about as though you were looking for something, when I was on my way down from my place. I'll help you, if you like."

  “Thank you very much, but I don't think it's much use. You live up there?” She could see faint signs of another path and the gleam of window glass among the trees on the slope.

  He nodded. “I'm Jeff Saunders, by the way. You're staying with Ethan?"

  She saw the slight hint of speculation in his eyes, and said, “I'm his sister-in-law. Celeste Ryland."

  “Very glad to meet you, Celeste.” He paused, obviously putting two and two together. “Then it was your husband who ... died recently? Ethan's brother?"

  “Yes."

  “I'm really sorry. Ethan was cut up about it, I know."

  “Yes. He and Alec were very close."

  “How long are you staying?"

  “I don't know yet. It depends on ... a number of things."

  Jeff nodded sympathetically. “Look, if there's anything I can do..."

  “Thank you. Everyone's very kind, but there isn't much anyone can do."

  “I guess not. Did you come down here to be alone? If you want me to—"

  “No, it's all right. Ethan's working, and Mrs. Jackson is cleaning the house. I just thought I'd find my sandals and keep out of their way for a while."

  “How would you like to come up to my place for a cup of coffee or a fruit juice? I could do with some company. Haven't seen a soul since Ethan left for the mainland. Most of the houses nearby are holiday homes, you know. Except for the Palmers—they live over there, just about dead opposite my place—Ethan and I are the only permanent residents. And both of us spend weeks at a time away from home."

  “What about Mrs. Jackson?"

  “Oh, she comes from around the point. There's a community in that bay, bigger than ours. About a dozen residents, and more holiday places. In the season it's pretty lively there. Here it just stays nice and quiet, except for the odd picnic party."

  “What do you do?” Celeste asked as they climbed the steep path through the trees.

  “For a living? I'm a writer."

  “What do you write?"

  “A bit of everything. I'm trying to make a living at it, which isn't easy. I've had a couple of thrillers published, which have done quite nicely but not set the world on fire, and a lot of travel writing and other journalism. And a short history of Sheerwind."

  “Oh, I thought your name was familiar. I was reading it last night."

  “Hope you enjoyed it."

  “I went to sleep,” she confessed. Well, she hadn't really, but she had felt sleepy. She caught the grin he gave her over his shoulder as he led the way up the path, and said, “Sorry! But I was very tired."

  “It's okay. Perhaps I'll give you a copy of one of my thrillers, and see if it will keep you awake."

  “I promise I'll finish the history,” she said. “What I did read looked interesting. I hadn't known the island was named after a ship that was wrecked here."

  “Well, it was a long time ago. Last century. Wait till you get to the bit about how the survivors reacted to their situation, and the struggles for leadership. Jealousies, sexual rivalry, intrigues, murder, the lot. I defy you to fall asleep over that!"

  “I'll look forward to it."

  “The research was fascinating,” Jeff said, as they reached the house, which was set into the hillside, with plenty of glass in front to make use of the view. “Come in."

  Chapter Five

  To her surprise, Celeste enjoyed herself, sipping coffee and talking with Jeff Saunders. When she said she ought to go, he took her cup and got up. “I'll walk you back. If Ethan stops for lunch today, there's something I want to see him about, anyway."

  “He doesn't always?” she queried.

  “We both have rather erratic working habits. We've been known to take a boat out and go fishing when the weather and water look promising, and have to stay up half the night afterwards to meet our deadlines."

  “You're good friends, then."

  “I guess. Ethan's very helpful when I strike trouble with my computer, and I've sometimes helped him write instruction manuals for his programmes. He says it'
s useful having my input because I'm practically illiterate in computer language, even though I use a word processor for my work, and some of his programmes will be used by people like me."

  “I can understand a writer living in a place like this,” Celeste said. “But I would have thought Ethan would need to be nearer to a city."

  “Designing software is not just technical, you know. It involves imaginative thinking. We creative types need to be able to get away from the madding crowd and let our thoughts flow. At least, that's the theory. Actually, of course, we just like an excuse to live in a place as beautiful as this. Ethan spends a fair amount of his time away from the island, though, just as I do. He has to contact clients, and keep up with what's happening in his field. There was that conference in Sydney last month, for instance."

  “Conference?"

  “Big computer buffs’ convention that he went to. Didn't he see you, then?"

  “No,” Celeste said baldly. She knew nothing about that.

  “Oh.” Jeff seemed surprised. “Well, I guess the conference schedule was pretty heavy."

  When they reached the top of the path to Ethan's house he was standing on the terrace, and watched them coming towards him. Jeff had not taken the path at the same pace that Ethan had the day before, but the climb was quite steep, and Celeste's cheeks were flushed when she emerged from the trees at Jeff's side.

  Jeff lifted a hand in casual greeting. “Hi. I found your sister-in-law wandering all alone on the beach."

  Ethan gave him a nod and transferred his gaze to Celeste. “You look better,” he said.

  Jeff turned to her. “Have you been unwell?"

  Suddenly impatient, she said, “I'm perfectly all right. I'll just go and wash my hands."

  “Lunch is ready,” Ethan called after her as she made for the stairs.

  She hadn't realised it was so late. Mrs. Jackson must have left. When Celeste came downstairs again, Ethan was alone at the table on the terrace, but another plate was set opposite his, and he was helping himself to salad and French bread and sliced ham.

  As she paused in the doorway he said, “Come and eat."

  “Thank you. Jeff didn't stay long, did he?"

  “Disappointed?"

  Suspecting a sneer in his voice, she looked up quickly as she took her chair, but he was spreading butter on a thick piece of bread. “He seemed nice,” she said. “You didn't invite him for lunch?” There was plenty of food on the table, more than she and Ethan could possibly eat on their own.

  “I did,” Ethan said shortly. “He declined."

  “I'm not surprised."

  It was Ethan's turn to look up, his brows sardonically raised.

  “You seem to be in a bad mood,” Celeste said. “If it's because you felt obliged to make lunch for me, you really needn't have, you know."

  “I'm not in a bad mood."

  “All right, you're not. You're just naturally surly."

  He put down his fork and sat back. His mouth was grim, but a gleam of reluctant humour lit the dark eyes. “Okay,” he said. “I admit it. But it has nothing to do with making lunch for you."

  “Work not going well?” she guessed.

  He paused, then picked up his fork again. “Not particularly. I take it you had an enjoyable morning."

  That sarcasm was there again, but she decided to ignore it. “Yes, thank you. Jeff says you often skip lunch."

  “I forget it sometimes. I eat when I'm hungry."

  “I could make lunch for you,” she said, “and bring it to your workroom if you don't want to stop."

  “Thanks, but you needn't wait on me."

  “By the same token,” she argued, “you don't need to wait on me. I can make my own lunch if I'm hungry. And I can cook dinner, if you like. I feel I should do something to earn my keep."

  He shrugged. “If you insist. Sure you feel up to it?"

  “There's nothing wrong with me."

  “So you keep saying.” He regarded her thoughtfully.

  Celeste said, “Jeff says you attended a conference in Sydney."

  “I attend quite a number of conferences."

  “Last month. He seemed surprised that Alec and I hadn't seen you then."

  “I saw Alec. We had lunch together on the second day. He didn't mention it?"

  “No.” She didn't look at him, concentrating on her salad. “He didn't say anything about it."

  A constrained silence fell, and Celeste pushed away her plate.

  “You haven't finished."

  “I've had enough.” She stood. “Do you want a cup of coffee?"

  “No, I'll take one up to the workroom with me. What do you plan to do this afternoon?"

  “I have no particular plans. But I might swim. I haven't been in the water yet."

  “I'll come with you."

  “There's no need—"

  “I'm not sure I ought to allow you to go in alone."

  “You said it was safe."

  “For a normally healthy person and a strong swimmer, yes. Don't argue, Celeste. Give me half an hour and we'll go together."

  After dealing with the dishes, Celeste pinned her hair up, covered most of her body with sunscreen and donned a one-piece black swimsuit. Then tucking a towel about her like a sarong, she went to wait for Ethan on the terrace.

  When he joined her he was wearing dark blue trunks and had a towel slung around his shoulders. His skin was well tanned, and she guessed he must spend quite a lot of his time in the sun.

  He let her lead the way, and when they came to the beach he said, “Straight in, or do you like to soak up the sun first?"

  “For a little while,” she answered politely. “But don't let me stop you if you want to go in."

  He nodded, threw the towel on the sand and strode to the water, flinging himself in and powering away from the shore in a fast crawl. Celeste lay down on her towel and closed her eyes.

  The world gradually floated away, and it wasn't until she felt a light showering of cold droplets on her skin that she opened her eyes. Ethan was standing over her, his hair sleek with water and his body gleaming.

  “I hope you put on some sun lotion,” he said. “Going to sleep was not the idea."

  “I wasn't!” she protested, sitting up.

  “Looked like it to me.” He dropped down beside her and subjected her to a piercing scrutiny. “What is all this falling asleep at the drop of a hat?"

  “I didn't sleep well last night,” she admitted, “that's all."

  “Did I disturb you?"

  She shook her head. “No, not at all. I quite often have trouble sleeping."

  “And then make up for it in the daytime?"

  “Sometimes."

  “I think I'll get Henry Palmer to check you over. He's one of the neighbours, and a doctor."

  “I already saw a doctor,” she reminded him. “If I want to see another one, I'll make the decision."

  She got up and walked to the water, allowing it to reach her thighs before she dived into its silken caress. In a few minutes she knew that Ethan had joined her and was swimming not far away, keeping an eye on her, no doubt. She ignored him, and floated, dived, swam gently for twenty minutes or so, before making her way to the shore. She felt as though it had been hours.

  Ethan splashed out beside her. As she reached the dry sand, he suddenly trailed a finger over her shoulder blades. “You're much too thin,” he said. “These bones didn't used to be so visible."

  She flinched away from him, half turning. “Don't!"

  He stopped short, standing in her way. “Don't touch, or don't criticise?"

  “Both."

  “Things change, don't they, Celeste? And people. For the record, you're the last woman in the world I'd be tempted to ravish."

  He went past her and picked up his towel. As she came slowly after him, he said, “I'll see you later. Don't go out of your depth if you want to swim again.” And he walked away from her to the path up the cliff.

  She stayed on the
beach all afternoon, moving into the shade for a doze when the sun had dried her body, later wandering along the water's edge, then having another quick dip.

  When she was dry again, she went back to the house and showered off the sand. She changed into the same dress she had worn the night before, then investigated the refrigerator and the well-stocked freezer and walk-in pantry.

  When Ethan came down, she had a couple of pork chops almost ready, with vegetables and a crisp salad.

  “Smells good,” he commented as he looked into the kitchen. “Like a drink before we eat?"

  “A small sherry, thank you,” she answered, “if you have it."

  “Coming up.” He brought it in for her and leaned on the counter, watching as she put the finishing touches to the meal. “I think this rates opening a bottle of wine,” he said when she had placed the dishes on the table. “White?"

  “Yes."

  He seemed to be going out of his way to be nice, she thought, and tried to match him. When he had poured the wine into two glasses and begun helping himself to the meat, she said, “I hope the work went better this afternoon."

  “A bit.” He commented, “You've caught some sun. It suits you, but don't overdo it, will you?"

  Tempted to tell him to mind his own business, she said instead, quite meekly, “I won't."

  Ethan looked up. “So I'm a bully. Put it down to a feeling of responsibility."

  “You're not a bully,” she admitted. “And I don't see that you need to feel that way at all."

  “Don't you?” he said. “Alec appears to have left you in my care."

  “How do you make that out?"

  “It's the only sense I can make of his will. And if that's not what he had in mind—"

  “I'm sure it wasn't!"

  “—then I still feel morally responsible."

  “I'm twenty-eight years old,” Celeste said distinctly. “No one needs to be responsible for me!"

  “That,” Ethan said softly, “sounds almost like your old self."

  Celeste took a sip of wine. She wasn't sure what her old self was, but certainly she felt rather less jaded in Ethan's company, aware that under the surface of his apparent urbanity some powerful emotion was simmering forceful enough to penetrate the indifference that held her in thrall. She shivered, gulping down more wine.