ISLAND OF LOVE Read online

  HARLEQUIN ROMANCE

  Rosemary Hammond-ISLAND OF LOVE

  “You don’t approve of me, do you?”

  Anne gave him her most innocent look. “It’s none of my business what you get up to with your blondes, although I must say—”

  “And just what do you actually know about my love life, Anne? Aside from office gossip, that is.” His expression was serious.

  Speechless, she found herself gazing into those deep brown eyes of his. As she watched, they slowly widened, and then he cocked his head, smiled and gave her a cool, appraising look.

  “Little Miss Touch-Me-Not,” he murmured. “For your information, I’m getting rather tired of blondes.”

  She wasn’t his type!

  The endless string of tall blondes that trooped in and out of Anne’s boss’s office was clear evidence of that. He’d never come remotely close to making a pass at her—never even looked at her as though she was a desirable woman. Until now….

  Had there really been a glimmer of desire in those dark eyes of his, or was it only her imagination? And why did he keep harping on the subject of her feelings for an old family friend? If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was jealous. But she did know better—didn’t she?

  Rosemary Hammond-ISLAND OF LOVE

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE telephone call came on a Thursday night in early November. Anne was curled up in an easy chair in the living room of her apartment, listening to the eternal rain slashing against the window and strugŹgling halfheartedly with the special feature article on Christmas in the northwest that Jerry had assigned to her.

  She’d broken her rule and was drinking an after-dinner cup of coffee, Starbuck’s French mocha, enŹjoying every wicked sip, Sinatra singing softly in the background, one of those three-hour fire logs flickŹering feebly in the small brick fireplace.

  She picked up the telephone at the first ring, glad of the interruption. “Hello.”

  “Anne?” It was a man’s voice, vaguely familiar. “Anne Cameron?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Arnold Pembroke. You may not remember me.”

  She had to think a minute, but in just a few seconds she was able to picture him in her mind. “Mr. Pembroke! Of course I remember you.” She laughed nervously and ran a hand over her short dark hair. “It’s just been so long that I couldn’t quite place you at first.”

  “Yes, it has been a long time,” he replied. “Must be over ten years by now, in fact. How have you been, Anne?”

  “Oh, quite well. Working hard.”

  There was a small silence. Scenes from the past seemed to flash before Anne’s very eyes from the moment she’d heard him speak his name and she’d been able to put a face to the voice. More than a face, a personality, a person who’d been an intimate part of her girlhood, her father’s good friend. So many questions rose in her mind that she hardly knew where to start. The most important one at the moment, however, was why he was calling her at all after so many years of silence.

  “Are you here in Seattle?” she asked finally.

  “No, I’m calling from my office at Friday Harbor. Working late, as usual. Trying to catch up.” He cleared his throat. “Anne, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. Your father died suddenly last week. It was quite unexpected. I’m sorry.”

  Anne sank back against the cushions, closed her eyes and tried to picture her father. The last time she’d seen him he’d been so angry at her that he could hardly speak, except to shout at her to get out of his house, out of his sight, that he never wanted to set eyes on her again.

  “I see,” she said at last in a small voice.

  “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you,” the lawyer went on briskly. “You know, for the funeral. We—er—buried him on Monday.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been out of town for the past week on a story for my magazine and just got back this afternoon.” She cleared her throat. “How did he die?”

  “Coronary. It was quick anyway. Not a bad way to go.”

  “No.”

  There was another silence. He seemed to be waiting for her to say something, burst into tears, express some kind of emotion, at least ask for details, but all she felt was a creeping numbness. Like a door suddenly slamming, the final chapter of her youth was now closed, over and done with.

  He began speaking again, in the same brisk tone of voice. “I don’t know if you were aware that I’ve been handling his legal affairs for some time. He named you as sole beneficiary in his will. There’s not a lot of money, just a few thousand, but there is the property, the house, and a small insurance policy.”

  Anne sat bolt upright. “You mean he left everything to me? I can’t believe it. There must be some mistake. It’s been years since we had any contact at all.”

  “There’s no mistake,” was the dry, toneless reply. “I drew up the will myself.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know offhand. A few years ago. It’s watertight. No question of another will, and I can attest that he was of sound mind when he executed this one.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Pembroke. I didn’t mean to doubt your word. It’s just such a shock. I had no idea he’d leave me a bean, much less everything. Even the farm.”

  “Who else would he leave it to? And, as I said, there’s not much of an estate. I’m named as executor, but as his beneficiary there are certain things only you can decide.”

  “I see,” she said slowly. “What do you want me to do?”

  “That depends. I can take care of everything up here if you like, then mail you a check when the probate closes, but I do have to know what you want to do about the house and property.”

  “Do? What is there to do?”

  “Well, do you intend to keep it or sell it?”

  “I don’t really know. Probably sell it. I suppose something will have to be done about the animals.”

  “There are no animals. He sold off all the sheep last year.”

  “I see.”

  “Well, at any rate, if you’re sure you want to sell the place, I can handle all the legal details, but I think you’d better come on up here and go through his things.”

  “Why?” she said, panicking. “Why do I have to do that?”

  “It all belongs to you now, Anne. You have to make the decisions regarding the disposition of furniture, his personal belongings, that kind of thing.”

  “Can’t you do that? I’m sorry, Mr. Pembroke, I don’t mean to be difficult, but I just don’t think I

  could face coming back to the island again” Her

  voice broke off.

  “I understand,” came the quick reply. “I can do it if you really want me to.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “All right, then, we’ll leave it at that. I’ll go on up there one day next week and see to things myself.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’d really appreciate that.”

  After they hung up, Anne sat there for a long time staring blankly into the fire until the last embers slowly flickered out. As the stark reality of her father’s death

  took hold in her mind, the fact that he was gone now for good, a wave of terrible regret swept over her.

  It was too late now to make it up with him. She should have tried long ago. She could picture him now as he’d been when she was a child—a rather remote man, preoccupied with his farm, his sheep, but a man of high principle, a fair man, a good husband, a loving father in his way. Until that last awful night…

  It was then that the tears began to fall, and she buried her face in her hands, sobbing.

  Later, lying wakeful in her bed, she went over and over the conversation with Arnold Pembroke. It had cost her so much through the years to keep every ; painful
memory of her father at bay that her first inŹstinctive reaction had been self-protective. She wanted no part of his estate, not the money, not the house, no mementos of her girlhood, nothing from the past at all.

  Now, however, she was being hurtled back into that past whether she liked it or not. The news of her father’s death, and especially the fact that he’d left everything to her, had touched her more than she would ever have thought possible. The way she’d left the island after the terrible fight with him—sneaking off in the night with no farewells, not even a note to the people she cared about the most, especially people like Ben and Victoria Poole—still had the power to shame her.

  Mr. Pembroke had said he’d take care of all the practical details, selling the house, disposing of her father’s personal belongings, winding up his business affairs. All she’d have to do was sit down here in Seattle, getting on with her own life, and in the end he’d send her a check.

  But was the life she planned to get on with all that great? Something had been missing from it for so long that she’d almost become accustomed to the empŹtiness, the pointlessness of it all, filling her days with frantic work on the magazine, agreeing to every one of Jerry’s unreasonable requests, making jokes about her slave-driving boss, but in truth grateful for the distraction.

  Tonight’s telephone call emphasized just how aimless her existence really was compared with the life she’d left behind ten years ago, the person she’d been then. A good part of herself was contained in that village, that house. Memories of her dead mother rose in her mind, and of David, the adored older brother. How could she just let someone else dispose of what might remain of them?

  It came to her then that she had to go herself, that no matter how her father had felt about her she owed it to him to do this one last thing for him. Jerry wouldn’t like it, but she’d just have to risk his wrath. She’d catered to his whims and totally unreasonable demands for so long that surely he owed her this one favor.

  “Two weeks!” Jerry shook his dark head vigorously. “Out of the question.”

  The interview was turning out pretty much as Anne had expected it would, negative to the point of flat refusal. She’d gone straight to his office first thing that Friday morning, hadn’t even stopped to hang up her coat or set her bag down on her desk, not only because Jerry was one of those people who was always at his best in the early hours, but for fear she would

  lose her nerve and change her mind again if she deŹlayed the confrontation.

  Although it was fifteen minutes before the official start of the working day, he was already there, as she knew he would be, sitting behind his cluttered desk, bent over the layout for the December issue of the magazine, his head in his hands, groaning softly to himself.

  “Jerry, have you got a minute?”

  He looked up at her, sheer agony etched in every feature. “What is it?” he barked. He picked up the glossy sheets on his desk and waved them at her. “If I’ve told that blankety-blank fashion editor once, I’ve told her a dozen times“

  “Jerry,” she broke in. “I just received word last night that my father died.”

  He stared blankly at her for a moment, as if she’d just brought him a message from Mars. “Oh,” he said at last, obviously doing his best to look symŹpathetic, but not succeeding very well. “Sorry.”

  “I’m afraid I’ll need some time off—you know, to go on up to Mystic Harbor, take care of things.”

  He eyed her suspiciously. “How much time?”

  She shrugged. “Well, I thought two weeks.”

  It was then he exploded, just as she’d anticipated. He leapt up from his chair and began pacing around the office in his typical long-legged stride. As she watched him, listening to the sound of the rain slashing against the window, the traffic noises drifting up from Union Street, twenty stories below, she was torn between asserting herself to pry out of him the leave that was hers by rights anyway, and cowardly relief at the thought that if he flatly refused she wouldn’t have to go.

  Still, she had to try. “Jerry, my father just died. There are things I have to do.”

  He came to stand before her, braced his lean hips back against the desk and glared down at her. “How long have you been working on the magazine, Anne?”

  She gave him a startled look. “A little over five years. Why?”

  “In all that time I never once heard you mention that you even had a father, much less that you cared anything about him. Now why, all of a sudden, is it so important for you to dash up to that dinky island of yours for two weeks to settle his affairs? Can’t his lawyer take care of that?”

  “He could, but it’s really my responsibility. Come on, Jerry, I can work on the Christmas feature article just as well up there as I can here in Seattle. Call it compassionate leave—which I am entitled to, acŹcording to the terms of my contract, if you recall.”

  He gave her a humorless smile. “You should know by now, Anne, that I’m not a compassionate man.” He straightened up and stared out of the window, chin in hand, thinking it over. “All right,” he said grudgŹingly at last. “But two weeks is too long. Today is Friday. You can go up this afternoon, get your business taken care of over the weekend, and be back on Monday.”

  She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin at him. “No,” she said firmly. “I need more time than that. A week at least.”

  He threw up his hands. “All right, you win. A week.”

  “Thank you,” she said stiffly, and turned to go.

  It wasn’t until she reached the door that it dawned on her that she’d been outmaneuvered again. She’d

  been determined to squeeze the whole two weeks out of him, and somehow had ended up getting only one. He’d even managed to make that seem like a major concession.

  She wasn’t going to let him get away with it this time. Except for the week she’d been down with a strep throat two winters ago, she hadn’t been out sick a day in over five years, not to mention that she’d worked most holidays. He’d even managed to cut every vacation short by calling her at home and sending her out on assignments he claimed only she could handle.

  She turned around, her mouth open, ready to do battle, to see him walking slowly toward her, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Say,” he said. “Doesn’t that famous artist live on your island? What’s his name? Ben Poole?”

  Anne stared at him. “Yes, he does. What about it?”

  “Do you know him?”

  “I used to.”

  “Okay, you can have your two weeks.” He held up a hand. “Provided you get an interview with Poole and bring back a feature article. With photographs.”

  Anne sighed. “Jerry, he doesn’t give interviews. You know that.”

  Jerry grinned. “But he might, as a favor to a perŹsonal friend.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. He’s a very private man. Besides, I haven’t even seen him in years.”

  Jerry put a hand on her arm, leaned toward her and adopted his most confidential tone. “Listen, Anne, you’re my best interviewer. Didn’t you get in

  to see Nancy Reagan when she was in town and no one else could get near her? And that great piece you did on Mel Gibson when he was filming here?”

  He was getting excited now, warming to the project. Nothing could stem the tide once he’d seized hold of a pet idea. In that mood he was like a dog guarding a particularly delectable bone. It was even rather amusing to watch the dramatic metamorphosis in his attitude once he glimpsed the possibility of benefit to himself, the expression on his sharp, intelligent face moving from blank-eyed resistance to dawning self-interest.

  Anne knew it was hopeless to argue. Still, she had to try. The mere prospect of seeing Ben again after what happened last time, much less ask him for an interview, was too awful even to contemplate.

  “Listen, Jerry. I know him. He lives like a perfect recluse. All that ever mattered to him was his painting, probably even more so since his wife died last year. They were very c
lose.”

  Jerry nodded vigorously. “Good. That’s a great angle.”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Jerry, I just can’t do it, intrude on his privacy like that. I won’t do it.”

  Jerry’s mouth flew open, clearly shocked at the unŹexpected firmness of her tone. He wasn’t used to such insubordination and seemed to be genuinely bewilŹdered by it, at a loss how to handle it. However, he hadn’t become the owner of a growing string of magazines for nothing. Recovering swiftly, he folded his arms across his chest and fixed her with a gimlet eye.

  “Now you listen to me, Cameron,” he said in the deceptively gentle tones that always meant a storm

  was brewing. “Ben Poole is one of the Northwest’s greatest natural resources, a painter whose work is recognized all over the world. Even an artistic moron like me knows that. And no one can get near him.” He shook his head slowly from side to side with an expression of ineffable sorrow. “Now, are you seriŹously going to tell me you won’t even try?”

  That was her plan exactly, and she opened her mouth to tell him so, but before she could get a word out he’d raised a hand to stop her.

  “Sit down, Anne,” he said in a deceptively calm tone. He motioned her to the chair in front of his desk.

  She slowly sank onto it and gazed up at him warily, wondering what diabolical scheme had popped into his head this time. He was leaning back against the desk, his arms folded across his chest, giving her such a long appraising look that it took all her willpower to keep from flinching from those steady deep brown eyes.

  “There’s more going on here than you’re telling me,” he said at last. “Just what is this guy Poole to you? Personally, I mean.”

  Anne could feel the warm flush spreading over her face. She squirmed uncomfortably in her chair and looked away. She couldn’t help it. Not only was she flustered by his uncanny ability to put his finger on her sorest spot, but for the first time in living memory he was looking at her as if she was a real human being instead of merely a cog in his well-oiled machine.

  “N-nothing,” she faltered. “When I knew Ben he was not only married to my best friend, but he was so crazy in love with her, no other woman even existed for him.”