Cage Of Shadows

‘Joanna,’ he said suddenly, confounding all her hopes and fears, and bringing a flush of confused colour to her cheeks. ‘My God, it is Joanna Holland, isn’t it? Or if it’s not, you’re her living double!’

Joanna blinked. ‘I—why, yes. Yes, I’m Joanna Holland,’ she got out jerkily. ‘But how do you know that? Who are you?’

Afterwards, she realised she had made exactly the right response. Her voice had had precisely the right inflection—that anxious note that fell somewhere between interest and disbelief. But just then she had had no thought of duplicity. On the contrary, she was totally bewildered by the way he suddenly let her go, stepping back from her abruptly, as if afraid she might have some contagion. In those first few seconds, she was convinced she had never met this man before. If she had she was sure she would not have forgotten, And only briefly, in the back of her mind, flickered the thought that he might have some connection with Matthew Wilder …

But as she recovered from the shock and her brain began to function again, reason came to her. Of course, she flayed herself impatiently, of course, that had to be the answer. After all, she was within a few yards of Matthew Wilder’s house. She had let her attraction to the man blind her to the fact of her whereabouts, and for the moment she gave no thought to the question of how some colleague of the man she had come to find could identify her.

‘Joanna,’ he said again, incredulously now, pushing back his hair with a bewildered hand. The action parted the sides of the denim waistcoat, revealing the fine arrowing of hair that disappeared below the belt of his shorts and exposing an unexpectedly pale scar on the underside of his left arm. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ His lips twisted. ‘Don’t tell me Marcia sent you!’

‘Marcia?’ Joanna could only stare at him, incapable of making any sense of this, and he expelled his breath resignedly.

‘Marcia,’ he repeated flatly. ‘Marcia Stewart—she is your stepmother, isn’t she?’

‘Marcia Stewart married my father, yes,’ answered Joanna unsteadily. ‘But I don’t understand—–’

‘Don’t you remember me at all, Joanna?’ he enquired, a trace of bitterness giving a cynical slant to his mouth. ‘I’m Matthew Wilder. Uncle Matt, remember? Or have you forgotten that I ever existed?’

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_60040a38-462b-5382-a08d-7a485e223a28)

‘YOU—you’re Matthew Wilder!’

Joanna was stunned. She couldn’t believe this young, disturbingly attractive individual was the man who had once carried her pick-a-back round her father’s study. The Matthew Wilder she remembered was the Matthew Wilder from the photograph—a tall man, certainly, but much older and heavier built, with the bushy beard and moustache that had tickled her cheek when he kissed her.

‘I guess you didn’t know I lived out here,’ he was saying now, interpreting her reaction as one of surprise at their encounter. ‘I bought a house here about three years ago. I’ve made the island my home.’

Joanna shook her head, trying desperately to think of something suitable to say. But all she could think was that this was the man she had travelled so many thousands of miles to find, and it was all going to be so much easier than she had imagined.

‘It’s you,’ she said at last. ‘I thought—oh, I don’t know, I thought you were older.’

‘Did you think about me at all, Joanna?’ he asked drily. ‘I doubt it. A girl like you—you must live a very busy life.’

‘Not so very,’ answered Joanna, with a fleeting smile. ‘Not like you. You were always on your way to some remote location or other. I used to envy you. Don’t you find it dull now, living in the same place all the time?’

‘No.’ The syllable was clipped, and for a moment Joanna wondered if she had said something to offend him. But almost immediately, he added: ‘I was very sorry to read about your father. You must miss him terribly. Still, I imagine you and Marcia are company for one another.’ He paused. ‘I suppose she’s here with you.’

‘No.’ Joanna spoke hastily now, eager to dispel that particular illusion. It had been a surprise to learn that he appeared to know Marcia. She couldn’t remember her stepmother ever mentioning him, or indeed her father ever discussing Matthew’s activities with his wife. ‘I—er—I’m on my own,’ she went on, trying to sound casual. ‘I’m nineteen now, you know. Not a little girl any more.’ She smiled again. ‘But it’s lovely to see you again. Is that your house?’

She pointed to the sprawling villa just visible above a spiky wooden fence. Because the house was set on sloping ground, its pale cream walls were capable of being seen from this angle, and the profusion of plants and flowering shrubs that surrounded it only provided an exotic setting.

But if she had expected an invitation, she was disappointed. ‘Yes,’ he responded shortly, ‘that’s my house.’ He gave her a polite smile in return. ‘It’s been a pleasure seeing you again, Joanna. But I’m afraid I must leave you now. I have work to do.’ He half turned away. ‘Enjoy the rest of your holiday—–’

‘Wait!’ Joanna could not let him go like that. ‘I mean—–’ this as he turned to her stiffly, his expression not so friendly now, more like the way it had been when he first found her trespassing, ‘I wonder if I could trouble you for a drink?’ She licked her dry lips expressively. ‘It’s such a hot afternoon, and I didn’t realise I’d come so far. I’m staying at the Hotel Conchas, you see …’

Matthew’s dark face mirrored his impatience, but common decency forbade his refusal. Even so, Joanna felt a sense of amazement that she had ever had the temerity to call him Uncle Matt. He seemed so remote now from the jolly playmate she remembered.

‘A drink?’ he said. ‘Of what? Water? Lemonade?’

‘Anything,’ she averred. ‘Water would do fine.’ She grimaced. ‘I’m sorry if I’m being a nuisance.’

He made no response to this, and she was left to the conclusion that she was being exactly that—a nuisance. He wasn’t very friendly, she mused, wondering if her father had done anything to offend him before he died. But somehow she sensed his displeasure was not with her father, more with her, though what she had done to arouse it she couldn’t honestly imagine. After all, he thought she had come upon him by accident. Heaven help her if he ever discovered the truth, she thought uneasily, following him across the sand to the iron gate set in the wooden fence.

‘If you’d just wait here,’ he said, astounding her still further, and she gazed at him aghast.

‘Wait here?’ she echoed. ‘Can’t I come with you?’ She hesitated, and then decided she might as well plunge right in: ‘I mean—I’d like to see your house, if you’ve no objection. It looks really beautiful!’

‘But I do,’ he interjected quietly. ‘Have objections, that is. I’m afraid my home is off-limits to anyone. It’s a little foible of mine. I permit no visitors.’

Joanna’s cheeks flamed. ‘I see.’

‘I doubt you do, but I’ll go and get your drink,’ he remarked, swinging open the gate and mounting the first step. ‘I’m sorry about this, Joanna, but believe me, it’s for the best possible reasons.’

Joanna turned her back on him, but after a moment’s sense of outrage she squatted down in the shade of the fence. It was such a relief to get out of the direct rays of the sun, and she blew her breath up over her face, enjoying the brief draught of air it afforded.

Matthew came back perhaps ten minutes later carrying a jug of iced fruit juice and a glass. ‘Sorry to be so long,’ he said, holding the glass out to her, and after she had taken it he filled it from the jug he was carrying. Joanna shook her head, still too affronted at his rudeness to offer him any respite. Instead she gulped thirstily at the delicious liquid, only pausing for breath when the glass was completely empty.

‘Do you want some more?’ he asked, but she made a barely audible refusal, her wet lips muffled against the back of her hand.

‘I shouldn’t like to detain you,’ she declared, getting determinedly to her feet and brushing the sand from her culottes. Being submissive was going to get her nowhere, and she was disappointed that what she had thought was going to be so easy was proving to be so hard.

Matthew took the empty glass from her and set it, along with the jug, on the steps leading up through his garden. ‘I’ll walk with you to the breakwater,’ he said, and although she was tempted to refuse him, she knew that giving in to pique would get her nowhere either.

‘All right,’ she said offhandedly, her mind engrossed with the problem of how she was going to arrange another meeting, and he fell into step beside her, his hands pushed carelessly into the back pockets of his shorts.

‘I suppose it surprises you that I recognised you,’ he remarked, and briefly Joanna acknowledged that this was something she had not yet considered.

‘How did you?’ she asked, looking sideways at him, and his lips twisted humorously as he answered her question.

‘From photographs,’ he said simply. ‘Your father wrote to me from time to time, and in his last letter he enclosed a picture of you. I believe it was taken after you’d won some art award. He was very proud of you.’

‘Oh …’ Joanna bent her head. ‘It must have been the poster competition at school. I haven’t won any other awards.’

‘Nevertheless, you evidently have a talent in that direction.’ Matthew paused. ‘I gather you’re not interested in writing.’

Joanna shrugged. ‘Sometimes I think I would like to write children’s books and illustrate them, but it’s a very competitive field, and I don’t think I’m good enough.’

‘Are you sure you’re not letting your father’s success overshadow your own efforts?’ he asked shrewdly. ‘Perhaps you should discuss it with someone. What does—your stepmother say?’

‘Marcia?’ Joanna wondered how much to tell him. ‘As a matter of fact, Marcia and I don’t talk much any more.’

They had reached the breakwater, and she would have left him then, but now he detained her. ‘What do you mean by that?’ he asked, his attractive voice causing her to pause before scrambling over the wooden struts. ‘Don’t you and Marcia get on? Has there been some trouble between you since Drew died?’

‘You might say that.’ Even now, Joanna could feel her eyes smarting at the remembrance of what her father would say if he knew exactly what had happened. But pushing these thoughts aside, she politely held out her hand. ‘Goodbye, Mr Wilder,’ she said carefully. ‘I hope we can meet again.’

He did not take her hand, however, and presently it fell, rather gauchely, to her side. He really was the most unpredictable man, she thought irritably, looking up at him through her lashes. But also the most disturbing, she conceded, aware of him as she had never been aware of any man before.

‘Is that why you’re here, holidaying alone?’ he asked abruptly, apparently unwilling to abandon his theme. ‘Have you and Marcia had a row? What’s the matter? Didn’t your father leave her enough?’

The note of irony in his voice was surprising, but Joanna was more concerned with the effect his words had on her. Until now, she had kept her thoughts about Marcia to herself, not even telling Sara Davenport, her best friend since their schooldays. But, unexpectedly, Matthew Wilder’s enquiry struck a chord deep inside her, and she knew a sudden weakness to share her feelings with him.