Cage Of Shadows

‘—that it wouldn’t look good for my father’s widow to throw out his only daughter within weeks of his funeral!’ snapped Joanna in disgust. ‘Don’t pretend you had any real thought for my feelings.’

‘You’re wrong, Joanna.’ Howard clenched his fists angrily. ‘If it hadn’t been for me, you’d have been working in some shop or café by now, slogging your guts out all day, and dragging yourself home to some sleazy bedsitter! As it is—–’

‘As it is, I’m to be thrown out now, is that it?’

‘No.’ Howard took another step towards her. ‘Not if you play your cards right.’

‘Not if I play my cards right?’ Joanna stood her ground, staring at him distrustfully. ‘What is that supposed to mean? What are you talking about?’

‘I’m talking about art school, that’s what I’m talking about,’ exclaimed Howard triumphantly. ‘That is what you want to do, isn’t it? Go to art school?’

‘Well—yes—–’

‘Very well, then,’ Howard hesitated a moment, before putting his hot fingers beneath her chin and tilting her face to his. ‘If you stop treating me like a leper, I’ll promise to put in a good word for you. Between us, we should be able to persuade Marcia—–’

Joanna was appalled, but she forced herself to remain motionless as his thumb rubbed insinuatingly along her jawline. Dear Heaven, her thoughts raced, what was he suggesting? That she should allow him to—to—– Her mind baulked at the obvious conclusion, but her spirits rose again at the thought of what Marcia would say when she told her the truth—–

‘I mean,’ Howard was going on, his whisky-scented breath fanning her cheek, ‘you know that if your father had made you his heir—–’

The sound of the handle of the door being turned effected the reaction Joanna was about to make. It caused Howard to step abruptly away from her, and by the time Marcia Holland came into the room, he was back in his position before the fire, apparently conducting a casual exchange with her stepdaughter.

Marcia Holland was small and blonde and petite, the exact antithesis of Joanna. Having seen pictures of her own mother, Joanna had sometimes wondered whether Andrew Holland had married Marcia because she was the absolute opposite of what his first wife had been. Joanna’s mother had been an extremely capable woman. Marcia appeared not. She behaved the way men expected a woman like her to behave. Because she looked so small and frail, she adopted an air of ingenuous fragility, and she always succeeded in getting her own way, because she looked so helpless. Only Joanna knew she wasn’t helpless; anything but. Marcia’s outward appearance was only a façade; underneath she was a very determined woman.

Now, she closed the door and advanced into the room, her gaze flickering briefly over her stepdaughter before moving on to the man by the fire. Holding out her hands towards Howard, she moved into the circle of his arm, and then turned to face Joanna, as if anxious for her approval.

‘Has Howard told you our news?’ she asked, in the little-girl voice she effected whenever any man was within earshot, and Joanna, endeavouring to recover from the two shocks she had received, took a deep breath.

‘He—he’s told me you plan to get married,’ she replied rather huskily. ‘I—I was surprised. I had no idea you had that in mind.’

Marcia’s brittle blue eyes hardened. ‘I don’t have to discuss my affairs with you, Joanna,’ she said, the baby-soft voice belying the pointedness of the words. She glanced up at the man beside her, her diminutive size complementing his height. ‘It happened so quickly, didn’t it, darling? We didn’t have time to discuss it with anyone.’

‘You’re so right,’ applauded Howard warmly, and the duplicity of his behaviour made Joanna feel physically sick. ‘But Joanna knows all about it now. I’ve put her in the picture, so to speak.’ His eyes flicked insolently in the girl’s direction. ‘Isn’t that right, Joanna?’

Joanna’s lips felt stiff, but she knew she had to speak. She would not—she could not—let him get away with it. ‘I don’t know that Marcia would agree with you,’ she retorted contemptuously. ‘I’m sure she’s totally in the dark about what you have in mind.’

Marcia’s blue eyes darted swiftly up at the man within whose arm she was nestling. ‘Howard?’ she murmured questioningly. ‘What is she talking about? What do you have in mind?’

Later, Joanna realised she had played right into Howard’s hands by accusing him outright. But just then she could only stare at him in outrage as he expertly negotiated this unexpected attack. Instead of rushing to his own defence as Joanna had anticipated, he took a leaf out of Marcia’s book and assumed a rueful expression, answering her reluctantly, as if betraying a confidence.

‘I’m afraid—well, Joanna doesn’t entirely approve of the place I’m taking you for our honeymoon,’ he conceded with a convincing sigh. ‘I suppose—the villa was her father’s, and—–’

‘The villa!’ exclaimed Joanna, doing the unforgivable and losing her temper. ‘The villa wasn’t even mentioned! He made a pass at me, Marcia! He told me that if I’d been Daddy’s heir instead of you—–’

‘That’s enough!’ With a muffled ejaculation Marcia pulled herself away from the solicitor and regarded her stepdaughter with cold loathing. ‘That will do, Joanna. I will not listen to any more. How dare you? How dare you stand there and vilify the man I intend to marry?’

‘It’s the truth,’ protested Joanna wearily. ‘For Heaven’s sake, Marcia, it’s not you he’s interested in, it’s Daddy’s money! He virtually told me—–’

‘Be quiet!’ Marcia’s hand stung across Joanna’s hot cheek, successfully silencing her stepdaughter. ‘I think you’d better leave,’ she went on icily. ‘I’ve known for some time that you hated me, Joanna, that you were jealous of me. But I never thought you’d stoop to telling lies to get even with me—–’

‘I’m not lying.’ Joanna looked at Howard, as if hoping to find some betraying emotion she could reveal to her stepmother, but his face was calm, sympathetic even. He looked as if he could think of no reason for this unwarranted attack, and only his eyes showed any real evidence of his feelings. ‘Marcia, please—–’

‘I want you to leave us,’ repeated her stepmother coldly. ‘I will not put up with your selfishness a moment longer. Get out! And I don’t just mean out of the library. I mean out of this house!’

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_57b99864-094b-5d14-a8cb-2464808cc82b)

JOANNA drove south through miles of open swampland, alert to the danger that some unwary alligator might step into the road in front of her. The man at the car-rental agency in Miami Beach had warned her that alligators were now protected by law, but Joanna suspected his aim was to inspire interest rather than warn of any serious hazard. She rather hoped she would meet an alligator, so long as she was safely inside the car, of course, but all she had seen so far were herons and wild geese, and, once, the long-necked beauty of a stork in flight.

She had spent the last couple of days in Miami Beach recovering from her jet-lag and endeavouring to get her bearings. She bought some maps and spent some time plotting her route to the Keys, but the temptation was to linger, and she was loath to leave the security of the hotel. Her room overlooked the salt-water creek at the front of the hotel, and beyond, the colour-washed villas of some of Miami Beach’s wealthier inhabitants made an ideal backdrop to the luxury yachts that moored at the hotel overnight. At the back of the hotel, a soft sandy beach stretched to the ocean, and Joanna had swum in its translucent green waters, feeling the warmth and relaxation of the sun unloosening the nerves that were wound tight within her.

She didn’t want to think about England. She didn’t want to remember that awful scene she had had with Marcia, or recollect that when she returned to London she would have to find somewhere to live. Mrs Morris had been marvellous, of course, but she couldn’t continue to depend on her help. Nevertheless, she had been grateful when the housekeeper had found her temporary accommodation with her sister and her husband in Fulham, and for the present that was where all her personal belongings were stored.

Evan had been delighted when she had rung him and confirmed that she would accept his offer. She didn’t bore him with her reasons for accepting. She simply let him think she was doing it for the money, which she supposed, if she was honest with herself, she was. But there was more, so much more, to this escape from England. It seemed as if, since her father died, she had been living in limbo, and only now was she beginning to take a hold of her life. For so long she had let things slide, waiting for Marcia to make a move. Well, she had made the move instead, albeit impulsively, and it was up to her now to make a success of her future. She tried not to feel bitter; bitterness was a negative emotion. But even so, it was painful to think of Howard Rogers living in her father’s house, using her father’s things, sleeping in her father’s bed …

Thirty miles south of Homestead, the swamps gave way to the blue waters of Florida Bay, and the highway swept over its first bridge on to the island of Key Largo. Although Joanna was intrigued by the signs indicating the John Pennekamp Coral Reef State Park, she pressed on, following the highway as it leapfrogged its way over a series of long bridges to other islands with names like Islamorada and Long Key and Bahia Honda.

The cooler morning when she had set off gave way to the heat of noon, and Joanna was glad that the car had air-conditioning. Just now, she would have been sweating, even in the cotton vest and shorts which were her only attire, and although there was usually a breeze to offset the higher temperatures, sitting on a sticky car seat was not the most comfortable way to travel.

It was after one o’clock when she reached Mango Key. The main highway intersected the island at the newer commercial quarter, but having read her guide books well, Joanna took the road that led to the older part of town. Her route took her along streets with a distinctly Spanish air, grilled balconies overhung with vines and bougainvillea, and pastel-tinted walls guarding inner courtyards where fountains played. At this time of the afternoon the streets were quiet, only an occasional horse-drawn vehicle meandering its way between rose-covered pergolas, carrying energetic tourists on a journey round the island. Joanna was able to stop and read the road signs without being harassed by other irate motorists, and she found the Hotel Conchas without too much difficulty.

She parked the car on the forecourt, and leaving her luggage in the trunk, walked the few yards between the parking area and the cool, air-conditioned freshness of the hotel. But even in those few yards she could feel the heat of the sun on her bare shoulders, and was glad her hair was thick enough to protect her head. She was glad, too, she had caught it up in a knot on top of her head. Already the back of her neck felt sticky, and its weight about her shoulders would have been unbearable.

The receptionist was Cuban, a dark-eyed, dark-skinned young man who eyed Joanna’s long slim bare legs with appreciation as she crossed the marble-tiled foyer. Not for the first time since coming to Florida, she was made aware of her own femininity, and she adjusted her spectacles firmly, as if disclaiming any desire to draw attention to herself.

‘I—good afternoon,’ she murmured in a low voice, and then, clearing her throat, went on: ‘My name’s Holland, Joanna Holland. I phoned you from the hotel in Miami.’

‘Ah yes, Miss Holland.’ The young man’s eyes assessed her as he consulted his ledger. ‘You are a visitor from England, am I right? You are booked with us for two weeks.’

‘Provisionally, yes,’ agreed Joanna, moistening her upper lip and concentrating her attention on the entry in the book open on the desk. ‘But I may stay longer. Will that be all right? I mean, you’re not likely to get booked up or anything?’

‘We can always hope,’ remarked the young man humorously. ‘But take it easy. I’m sure we can always accommodate you, Miss Holland.’

Joanna sighed. ‘Er—my suitcases are out in my car. I just parked on the forecourt. Could someone …?’

A bell-boy was summoned and while Joanna filled in the necessary registration form, her luggage was brought in from the car and placed on a trolley, ready for direction.

‘Room 447,’ the receptionist advised at last, handing the keys to the bell-boy, and feeling only slightly less selfconscious, Joanna followed the man into the lift for the trip up to the third floor. She had already learned that Americans regarded the ground floor as the first floor, and consequently the fourth floor was in actual fact only three floors above the ground.

Her room overlooked the swimming pool at the back of the hotel. It was a large comfortable apartment, comprising a twin-bedded room with a balcony and an adjoining bathroom, and after the bell-boy had left her, Joanna walked out into the sunshine. Below her balcony, the water in the pool was alive with sunspots, while beyond the fringe of palms that edged the gardens, a narrow beach was all that separated the hotel from the Gulf of Mexico. It was exotic and it was colourful, and she rested her elbows on the rail and surveyed the activity below with a feeling of satisfation. She was here. She was actually here in Mango Key. All she had to do now was find Matthew Wilder.

All!

Screwing up her eyes against the glare, she acknowledged that it was no small task that Evan had set her. She had not been lying when she said that Uncle Matt might not recognise her. There was little resemblance now between the eight-year-old schoolgirl he had brought beads for and the nineteen-year-old young woman she had become. Indeed, she didn’t remember him all that well. It was only the fact that her father had kept a photograph of Matthew Wilder in his study that had convinced her she might be able to recognise him. He couldn’t have changed that much in eleven years. Her father hadn’t. And after all, Uncle Matt was his contemporary, not hers.

On impulse, she went back into the room behind her and opened up her suitcase. She had brought the photograph with her, for reassurance, and now she drew it out and examined it once again. Marcia had made no bones about her taking any of the photographs out of her father’s study. She had not wanted them, and after her father died, Joanna had gathered all the old snaps together and stuffed them into a holdall ready to sort through later. She was glad she had. The night she left Ashworth Terrace, she had been in no state to bother about old photographs, but because they had been among her possessions they had been sent to Mrs Morris’s sister’s house along with everything else she owned.

Now, she studied the old black and white image with faintly troubled eyes. The bearded features were familiar, and yet unfamiliar. She hardly remembered the man who had come back to England from Africa, bringing with him bracelets and necklaces carved from bone and shells, weird-looking dolls, and a pair of drums, wood-framed and covered with skin. It was all so long ago, and she felt the old sense of anxiety that he would immediately suspect why she was here.

The hollow feeling inside her resolved itself into hunger, and shedding the shorts for a more modest cotton wrap-around skirt, Joanna left her room and went down to the coffee shop. She had still to decide how she was going to arrange an accidental meeting with Matthew Wilder, and over a hamburger and french fries she considered the alternatives.