Treacherous Longings - Anne Mather

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address as San Jacinto. What if they sent someone else, who remembered her? Not a brash young reporter who’d still been wet behind the ears when she was young.

      All the same, she had changed—quite a lot, she consoled herself firmly. Once she had thought nothing of spending a thousand dollars on a beauty treatment, but these days her hair was unstyled and bleached by the same sun that had aged her veranda. The skin that a generation had raved about was tanned a tawny brown and, although she was still slim, her hips were broader, her breasts much fuller since she’d had Jake.

      She looked what she was, she decided grimly. A thirty-seven-year-old single mother, with no pretensions to glamour. Whatever that reporter had hoped to find, she hadn’t fulfilled his expectations. He’d been quite prepared to believe that she couldn’t possibly be his quarry.

      Sweat was trickling down between her breasts now, and, lifting her arms, she swept the weight of her hair from the back of her neck. Although she wore it in a braid most days, today she had left it loose, and she tilted her head to allow the comparative freshness of the breeze to cool her moist skin. Perhaps she ought to consider having air-conditioning installed, she reflected, but she’d miss the freedom of leaving all the doors and windows open. Still, if the media was going to start beating a path to her door again, she might be forced to lock herself in.

      If she stayed...

      The percolator had switched itself off behind her and, refusing to worry about the matter any more, she went back inside. The terracotta tiles felt almost cold after the heat outside, and the air was fragrant with the trailing plants and pots of herbs she cultivated on her windowsills.

      Looking at the herbs reminded her that she would have to go over to George Town before the end of the week. Although San Jacinto had its own thriving little market beside the harbour, most manufactured goods had to be brought from Grand Cayman, which was a three-hour ferry ride away. Julia owned a small dinghy, which she and Jake sailed at weekends, but it wasn’t suitable for carrying supplies. Generally she and Maria, the island woman who shared the housework with her, visited the capital of the Cayman Islands every couple of weeks. It was a pleasant outing, shopping for stores and having lunch in one of the many excellent restaurants.

      George Town was where Jake attended school, too. He boarded there throughout the week with the headmaster and his wife, coming home at weekends, from Friday through to Sunday.

      He hadn’t liked it at first. During his early years Julia had tutored him herself, and Jake hadn’t been able to see why she couldn’t go on doing so. But it was for another reason that Julia had insisted on his attending St Augustine’s. Although her son had friends on San Jacinto, she knew he needed the regular company of children his own age. Besides, her life was so solitary. It wasn’t fair to let him think that he didn’t need anyone else.

      Carrying her mug of coffee with her, Julia trudged back to her office and resumed her seat at the word processor. A couple of weeks ago, Harold’s adventures had filled her with enthusiasm, but now it was difficult to keep her mind on her work. Anxiety, apprehension, fear; call it what she would, she was uneasy. A horrible sense of foreboding had gripped her, and she couldn’t quite set herself free.

      * * *

      By the end of the following week, Julia was feeling much better. Time—and the fact that she was sleeping again—had persuaded her that she had been far too alarmist about her visitor. So what if the man had come here? So what if he’d asked questions about her? She’d given him his answer. There was no reason for him to come back. After all, she was the only Englishwoman of her age living on the island, and he might think a mistake had been made. It was unusual, perhaps, to find a woman living alone out here. And people were always intrigued by non-conformity. Maybe that was how conclusions had been drawn. Conclusions which she hoped she had persuaded her visitor were incorrect.

      But such thoughts were still depressing, and she avoided them. Only occasionally now did she wonder why anyone should have chosen to look on this island. Where had they got their information? Who still knew where she was?

      It was late afternoon when she finally turned off the word processor. Normally she would have worked on until suppertime, but it was Friday and she had to meet Jake from the ferry. Fridays were always special, with her son’s return and the prospect of the weekend ahead to look forward to. She seldom worked when he was around. They enjoyed spending time together.

      Earlier in the day, she had prepared Jake’s favourite meal of pizza followed by sticky toffee pudding and ice-cream, and all she had to do when they came home was put them in the oven. Not the ice-cream, of course, she thought humorously as she set the kitchen table for two. Anything cold had to be kept in the freezer, or else it dissolved into an unappetising soup.

      It was getting dark when she left the villa, but she knew the route to the small town of San Jacinto blindfold. She had driven this way countless times before, though it never failed to charm her.

      Her villa was at the south-western end of the island, approximately five miles from the town. The road wound its way inland for a distance, twisting among palms and flowering shrubs before seeking the coastal track again, where shallow cliffs and rocky outcrops made fantastic shapes in the fading light. It was a narrow road, sprouting weeds in places, and always at the mercy of the crowding vegetation. Unlike other islands, there was no shortage of water on San Jacinto, and plants and shrubs grew lushly in its rich, verdant soil. Julia was always fascinated by the orchids. She’d never seen them growing wild before.

      She passed no one on the road, though she did pass several other dwellings. The island doctor, Henry Lefevre, and his wife, Elena, lived next door, and further along the coast she skirted the Jacob plantation. Bernard Jacob grew sugar-cane and sweet potatoes, producing his own very potent spirit that he exported to the United States.

      The tiny village of West Bay, where Maria lived, was on the way, too. When Jake was home he spent a lot of his time in West Bay, playing with Maria’s two sons and three daughters. Julia had always been thankful that he had Maria’s children to play with, though the fact that he was an only child occasionally caused some friction.

      Jake could never understand why, if she had had one child without a husband, she couldn’t have two. She knew he would have loved a brother or sister of his own. But Julia had no intention of making that mistake again.

      San Jacinto was roughly horseshoe-shaped, with the port of San Jacinto situated on the inner curve of the stretch of water known simply as the Sound. To reach the town, Julia had to cross the island at its narrowest point and then negotiate the descent from towering cliffs, which were the highest point on the island.

      The town was busy. The return of the ferry, which only ran three times a week, was always a source of some excitement to its inhabitants. San Jacinto got few visitors, but the islanders were sociable people and there was always the anticipation of meeting someone new.

      Julia, however, avoided newcomers whenever possible. Fortunately, those tourists who did come were obliged to stay at one of the two boarding establishments near the harbour, and although they could hire Mokes for touring the island her property was sufficiently remote to deter trespassers.

      The ferry was in sight across the bay, and Julia parked her open-topped four-by-four beside the sea-wall and sat for several minutes just enjoying the view. With the sun sinking steadily behind the cliffs, the sky was a brilliant palette of colour. She could see every hint of red, shading through to magenta, with a lemony tinge to the clouds that heralded the night. They had a short twilight on the island, though not as short as it was nearer the equator. Here it was a much more civilised transformation, with a velvety breeze to offset the heat and cool her perspiring skin.

      ‘You expecting company, Mrs Stewart?’

      Ezekiel Hope, who ran one of the island’s two hotels, had come to prop himself against the bonnet of the Mitsubishi, and Julia gave up her contemplation of the view to get out of the vehicle and join him. She had stayed at the Old Rum House herself, while the villa was being dealt with, spending the latter half of her pregnancy on his veranda, sunning herself in one of his rattan chairs.

      ‘Just my son,’

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