Forgotten Passion

They were greeted enthusiastically by the manager, who was obviously anxious to impress Rorke with the smooth running of the hotel, and certainly there was no fault to be found with the speed with which their baggage was taken care of, and complimentary drinks brought to them in the foyer-cum-lounge. While the two men talked, Lisa got up and strolled over to glance at the small parade of shops. One window had an exquisite display of beach and resort wear, another expensive and exclusive casuals. Lisa glanced over her shoulder. Rorke was still deep in conversation with the hotel manager. On a small spurt of rebellion she opened the door to the boutique. She knew Rorke had intended to hand her over to Helen and leave it to the older woman to choose her new clothes, but during her time in England Lisa had often visited the homes of her friends, and had gone with them on shopping expeditions. She had a natural sense of taste and flair, her mother had always said, and her initial qualms were quickly stifled as a charming and pleasant girl stepped forward to help her.

Quickly explaining what she wanted, Lisa watched the girl riffle through the packed racks of clothes, unerringly selecting half a dozen or so outfits which she piled on to a chair.

‘You’re lucky,’ she told Lisa, as she handed them to her. ‘We’ve only this week received this lot—Jane, my partner, ordered them the last time she went to America—I promise you they’re the very latest thing—and quite exclusive.’

They were lovely, Lisa admitted, alone in the cubicle, running her fingers over the fine silks and cottons. A Benny Ong two-piece in vibrant blue and emerald silk caught her eye, and she quickly pulled off her own clothes and slipped the slender sheath of a dress over her shoulders. The colours brought out the deep blue-green depths of her eyes, and the soft golden glints of her hair. The dress was supported by tiny shoestring straps and over it there was a thin matching silk jacket that tied softly in a knot. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, Lisa was astounded at the transformation. The outfit might have been made for her—a verdict fully endorsed by the salesgirl as she came to see how she was getting on.

‘It’s definitely you,’ she pronounced. ‘But don’t commit yourself until you’ve tried the others.’

Taking her advice, Lisa tried on everything she brought, and when she eventually emerged from the boutique she had bought the Benny Ong outfit plus an attractive range of cotton separates that she could mix and match for maximum effect; some brilliant magenta cut-off jeans, and a French bikini so brief that she had blushed to see herself in it, until the salesgirl had assured her that it was absolutely stunning.

There had still been quite a lot left from the money Leigh had given her, so on the salesgirl’s advice she had purchased some new underwear—feminine Italian satin and lace that she was sure she would never wear, but which felt so pleasurable against her skin that she hadn’t been able to resist it.

Rorke was waiting outside as she opened the boutique door, glowering at his watch.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he pounced when he saw her.

‘Shopping,’ she told him, proud of her calm voice. ‘Leigh told me to.’

‘I was going to take you to see Helen.’

‘I’m perfectly capable of buying clothes for myself without the advice of your mistress,’ Lisa told him rashly.

‘I hope you’re right,’ Rorke threatened, ‘because we’re dining here tonight with Helen and some friends of ours. Helen and Sandra are both very elegant women.’

‘In that case I’d better make an appointment to have my hair done,’ Lisa told him with commendable aplomb. ‘I don’t want to let you down.’

‘I’ll get someone to take you up to your room,’ Rorke told her without responding. ‘I’m going to see Helen.’

If only her hand wasn’t shaking so much, Lisa thought, tongue protruding slightly between her lips as she applied the eyeshadow she had bought on the advice of the girl in the beauty salon. Her hair lay softly sleek against her shoulders, the unruly curls tamed; the herbal rinse the hairdresser used gave off a delicate fragrance that perfumed the air. If Rorke thought she wouldn’t compare favourably with Helen and her friend he was going to be proved wrong!

In addition to having her hair done and getting the advice of the girl in the beauty salon Lisa had found time to buy a pair of sandals, striped in emerald and blue leather to tone with her dress.

At last she was ready. She peered anxiously at her reflection. Had she blended the eyeshadow enough? She didn’t want to look like a clown! A glimpse in the mirror reassured her. Her own face stared back at her, familiar but subtly different. Her eyes looked larger and darker, the careful blending of blue and green eyeshadow adding a hint of depth and mystery. A coat of mascara added thickness to the luxuriance of her dark lashes, and the coral lipstick she had carefully painted on emphasised the full lower curve of her mouth and the honey translucence of healthy young skin.

She was ready when Rorke tapped on her door, strangely unfamiliar in formal evening clothes, and her heart thumped unevenly as she stared up at him, wondering how on earth she had managed in the past to miss the overt sexuality he exuded.

‘Ready?’

His glance swept her dismissively, and Lisa felt anger burn up inside her at his indifference. Surely he must see how different she looked? Why, she even felt different, but he was still treating her as the same little girl who had tagged after him in the past.

Helen and her friends were already in the bar waiting for them, Helen elegant and sophisticated in a white sheath dress that privately Lisa thought a shade too revealing, her elongated cat-like eyes skimming with barely suppressed hostility over Lisa’s silk clad figure as she cooed, ‘Poor Rorke has to babysit this trip. Leigh insisted that he bring Lisa with him. Never mind, darling,’ she comforted Rorke, ‘there’s always later.’

‘You mustn’t mind Helen,’ Sandra Wilkes murmured understandingly to Lisa as Rorke signalled a waiter. ‘She’s always been a mite possessive where Rorke’s concerned.’

‘You certainly don’t look much like a baby to me!’ Peter Wilkes added with heavy gallantry, giving her an admiring glance. The Wilkes were in their early thirties and seemed a pleasant enough couple. They had two children, Sandra told Lisa over dinner, both at school in England.

‘I miss them dreadfully,’ she confided, ‘but needs must, I’m afraid. Still, Peter’s hoping to get a London posting soon, so we should all be reunited. Tell me about the island,’ she encouraged. ‘According to Helen it’s virtually the back of beyond, although I must say it sounds so exciting—one’s own island!’

‘It’s been in Rorke’s family for generations,’ Lisa told her, ‘and I can’t see him ever parting with it.’

‘He will if Helen has anything to do with it,’ Sandra laughed. ‘She’s told me she’s aching to get back to London.’

‘I don’t think Rorke would agree to that. He’d want his children to grow up on the island as he did,’ Lisa told her, surprised when Sandra’s eyes widened. ‘Have I said something wrong?’ she asked uncertainly.

‘Not exactly—it’s just that Helen can’t have children—can’t, and wouldn’t anyway—she loathes them.’

‘But Rorke…’

‘Will want a son to come after him?’ Sandra supplied. ‘Yes, I got that impression too. Still, it’s their business, not ours. Personally I’ve always thought of Helen more as a mistress than a wife. Perhaps Rorke will come to think so too. He could find a dutiful little wife to bear his sons, and still have his fun with Helen.’

‘Oh no, surely not!’ Lisa protested, thoroughly revolted by the picture Sandra was drawing.

The older woman laughed. ‘You’re such a baby,’ she teased, ‘but then how old are you?’

‘Seventeen—almost,’ Lisa told her.

‘Is that all? I thought you were nineteen at least.’

Lisa found her words wonderfully uplifting after Rorke’s apparent unawareness of the change in her appearance, but it was hard not to notice how Helen constantly touched Rorke’s arm when she spoke to him; their low-voiced murmurs wafting across the table, making Lisa long to get up from the table and run as far and as fast as she could to escape the evidence of their intimacy.

After dinner Helen insisted that she wanted to dance. She knew of a nightclub, she told Rorke. They could all go on there. All except Lisa, she suggested, glancing pointedly at the younger girl.

‘Oh, of course she can come with us,’ Sandra protested. ‘If she wants to, and I’m sure she does. A pretty girl wearing a new dress always wants to show it off.’

Helen looked far from pleased, and Lisa held her breath, half expecting Rorke to tell her that she was to go to her room, but to her surprise he said nothing, merely looking grimly unforthcoming as Peter took her arm and escorted her from the table.

The nightclub was hot and cramped, and although she wasn’t going to admit it, Lisa would have much preferred to be walking along the beach at St Martin’s, the soft evening breeze cooling her overheated skin and blowing freely in her hair.

‘Lisa?’

She came out of her reverie to find Rorke towering over her while Helen glowered furiously, and Sandra and Peter exchanged comprehensive glances.

‘Lisa, I’m asking you to dance,’ Rorke reminded her.

‘To dance?’ She looked up at him wildly, heady excitement racing through her veins. Like someone in a dream she followed him on to the small crowded floor. The steel band were playing a tune with a powerfully sensual beat, and Lisa found her body seemed to have its own rhythm, as Rorke took her in his arms, his palms flat against the bare skin of her shoulders.

‘I don’t think Helen likes you dancing with me,’ Lisa murmured as she glanced towards their table and saw Helen watching them, fury in the catlike eyes.

‘Damn Helen,’ Rorke muttered ruthlessly, stunning her with the fierce intensity of his words, his fingers tightening on her shoulders as he drew her closer towards him. ‘And damn you, Lisa,’ he muttered thickly, ‘for making me feel like this. God, you’re a child… or so I keep telling myself, but seeing you tonight, holding you in my arms…’

A tremor ripped through him, and Lisa could see the sheen of perspiration on his face. Rorke—Rorke whom she had always thought of as invincible, was trembling because he was holding her in his arms. She could hardly believe it, but it was true!

‘Lisa!’ He groaned her name against her hair, holding her even closer, close enough for her to feel the fixed rigidity of his body, the pulsating heat it radiated. His mouth left her hair, seeking the tender curve of her throat. A maelstrom of emotion gripped her. Her body shivered delicately as his mouth plundered the soft sweetness of her skin. His hands shaped her to him, her breasts crushed against his chest, the hardness of his body compelling hers to yield and mould itself to him.

Distantly she was aware of Helen, glaring furiously at her, knowing that she was warning Lisa that she would make her pay for the pleasure of being in Rorke’s arms, but she felt too deliriously happy to care. Even so, it wasn’t pleasant, feeling Helen’s eyes boring into the back of her neck, and as though he sensed her distress Rorke questioned frowningly, ‘Is something wrong?’

‘It’s just that it’s so hot in here,’ Lisa told him, not wanting to admit that Helen made her feel uncomfortable. What was between them was too new and precious for her to talk freely. She had no idea what had brought about the transformation in Rorke, but she wasn’t going to jeopardise it by criticising Helen to him.

‘Feel like a walk, then, to cool off?’

There was a disturbing glint in his eyes, a curve to his mouth that made Lisa’s heart race.

‘That would be very nice,’ she managed sedately, hoping he wouldn’t guess how understated her comment was.

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