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      ‘No, thanks,’ she replied, wishing she could ask for a large Scotch over ice, with a twist of lemon for good measure. But the medication she was still obliged to take denied any use of alcohol, and she was sufficiently considerate of the tenderness of her stomach not to take any risks.

      The stewardess went away again and Megan tried to relax. After all, that was what she was here for. To relax; to get away from phones and faxes, and the never-ending demands of the designer directory she and Simon Chater had founded almost eight years ago. Work had become her life, her obsession. Nothing else had seemed so important. Not possessions, not people, and most especially not her health.

      The ironic thing was, she didn’t honestly see how coming to San Felipe was going to help her to relax. On the contrary, even the thought that they’d be landing shortly set her nerves on edge. Nothing Anita had said had convinced Megan that her stepfather would be pleased to see her. So far as Ryan Robards was concerned, she had betrayed her mother by choosing to live with her father. And even though Giles Cross was dead, too, the bitterness he’d suffered lived on.

      The only optimistic note was that Anita had phoned without being aware that Megan was ill. After years, when their only contact had been through Christmas and birthday cards, she had called totally out of the blue. Even now, Megan wasn’t precisely sure why Anita had phoned. Unless the goodwill of Christmas had inspired a sudden need to renew old ties.

      But it was going to be difficult even so. Megan had no idea what she would say to someone she hadn’t had a proper conversation with for more than sixteen years. How could she share her problems with a virtual stranger? She didn’t even know if the other woman was married, let alone what might have happened to her son.

      Remy.

      Megan tilted her head against the cushioned rest and sighed. It was strange to think that Remy would be grown up, too. He’d been—what? Five? Six?—when she’d last seen him? A dark-haired little boy, who’d run around half naked most of the time, and who had taken a delight in teasing his older playmate: herself.

      She hadn’t asked Anita about Remy when she’d spoken to her. She’d been tense and uncommunicative, too intent on trying to find excuses why she shouldn’t come to show any interest in Anita’s affairs. Not that that had deterred her stepsister, she acknowledged. Anita had probably thought that Megan’s attitude was the result of the weeks she’d spent under medication. She’d been adamant that Megan should come to San Felipe to regain her strength. It was what Megan’s mother would have wanted, she’d insisted, and Megan couldn’t argue with that.

      She was getting more and more edgy, and, deciding she needed to reassure herself that she didn’t look as sick as she felt, she took herself off to the toilet. In the narrow confines of the cubicle, she examined her pale features critically. Lord, she thought ruefully, it would take more than a re-application of her lipstick to give her face any life.

      The truth was, she had been neglecting herself recently. But with Simon spending so much time in New York, or-ganising the launch of the directory there, she had naturally had a lot more work to cope with. She should delegate more; she knew that. Simon was always telling her so. But she liked to feel that she was needed. A hang-up from her childhood, she supposed.

      She leaned towards the mirror. Was that a grey hair? she wondered anxiously. Certainly, the fine strand glinted silver among the corn-silk helmet of hair that framed her face. She shook her head and the offending hair disappeared, absorbed by the bell-like curve that cupped her chin.

      Did she look too severe? she fretted, smoothing damp palms over the long narrow lines of her jacket. The trouser suit, with its fine cream stripe, was navy blue and not really a holiday outfit. She’d known Simon didn’t approve of her choice from the minute she’d come downstairs that morning.

      But she couldn’t have worn something light and feminine, she told herself, not in her present state of mind. The navy suit was smart, if a trifle impersonal, and it was certainly more in keeping with her mood.

      Someone tried the toilet door, reminding her that she was spending far too long analysing her appearance. What did it matter what she looked like, after all? She grimaced. She could be stopping someone from keeping an intimate assignation. As unlikely as it seemed, such things did go on.

      Outside, the purser gave her a searching look. ‘All right, Ms Cross?’ he asked, his cheeky grin proving that he was not above having such thoughts about her. ‘We’ll be landing in a few minutes. If you’ll take your seat and fasten your seatbelt, we’ll soon have you safely on the ground.’

      ‘Oh—good.’ Megan managed a polite smile in return, and groped her way back to her seat. The aircraft was banking quite steeply now, and it was difficult to keep her balance. She put the sudden sense of nausea she felt down to a momentary touch of air-sickness.

      Yet she guessed her feelings was mostly psychosomatic. The prospect of seeing the Robards again was what was really causing her concern. She wondered if her stepfather would come to the airport to meet her. What on earth was she going to say to him that wouldn’t sound abysmally insincere?

      Her stomach dropped suddenly, but this time it really was the effects of the plane levelling out before landing. The pilot lowered the undercarriage as they passed over the rocky promontory of Cap Saint Nicolas, and then they dipped towards the runway that ran parallel to the beach.

      It was beautiful, she thought reluctantly as memories of the holidays she had spent here sent a painful thrill through her veins. She had been so naive in those days; so innocent. Which was why she’d been so hurt when the truth had come out.

      But she didn’t want to think about that now. That period of her life was dead and gone—like her parents, she reflected bitterly. It was no use believing that her father would still be alive if her mother hadn’t betrayed him; no good wondering if Laura—her mother—would have developed that obscure kind of skin cancer if she’d continued to live as his wife...

      The plane landed without incident and taxied slowly towards the airport buildings. Megan remembered that when she’d first come here the formalities had been dealt with in a kind of Nissen hut, with a corrugated-iron roof that drummed noisily when it rained. And it did rain sometimes, she recalled unwillingly. Heavy, torrential rain that left the vegetation green and the island steaming.

      But now, when the plane door was opened, and her fellow passengers began to disembark, Megan felt the heat almost before she stepped out onto the gantry. She was immediately conscious of the unsuitability of her clothes, and her skin prickled beneath the fine cashmere.

      Consequently, she was glad to descend the steps, cross the tarmac, and step into the arrivals hall. Gladder still to discover that air-conditioning had also been installed, and the debilitating heat was left outside.

      All the same, for once she wished she hadn’t travelled first-class. On this occasion, being at the front of the queue that was forming had little appeal. She would have preferred to hang back, to let the rest of the passengers disperse before she collected her luggage. She was uneasily aware of how ill-prepared for this meeting she was.

      Beyond Passport Control, the building opened out into the customs area. Two carousels were already starting to unload luggage from the British Airways plane. She saw, to her dismay, that her suitcases had already been unloaded, and, realising she was only delaying the inevitable, she went to claim them as hers.

      She didn’t know whether to feel glad or sorry when she emerged from the customs channel to find that neither Ryan nor Anita was waiting for her. She had acquired a porter to transport her luggage to where taxis traditionally touted for fares, but she hadn’t considered that she might have to hire one herself.

      She didn’t know what to do. Her formal clothes set her apart from the regular holidaymakers, most of whom were dressed in lightweight summer gear. She looked more like a returning resident, she reflected. If only she’d had her own car in the car park.

      The heat was really getting to her now. Even beneath the canopy that jutted out over the taxi rank, the moist air was sapping what little strength she had. On top of

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