White Lies

“You’re not seriously thinking of keeping me here!” she cried Letter to Reader Title Page Acknowledgments CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE Copyright

“You’re not seriously thinking of keeping me here!” she cried

“I’m sorry it’s come to this, Mandy, but you need protection.”

With a strangled cry Mandy ran for the door to find a telephone. But she fell into Pascal’s arms instead and he wrapped them around her like the coils of an iron snake.

“Let me go!” she yelled.

“Save your breath,” he said levelly. “Or I’ll stop it for you!”

“How?”

He stopped. Stared at her, his eyes glowing. She gasped, sensing the flare of his sexual desire as she gazed up at him. Clutched to his chest, she became intensely aware of him. The way his heart beat beneath her hand.

He bent his head in a sudden movement, and kissed her.

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Sara Wood’s colorful new trilogy. The series is full of family intrigue, secrets, lies and, of course, love. It involves the St. Honoré family, which has a reputation second to none in Saint Lucia. Mandy, Ginny and Amber are about to be drawn into this notorious family and the secrets of its past. Each of these intrepid heroines is looking for love and each of them will find it—but only where they least expect it! But then, as you’ll discover, in this series things are rarely as they seem!

In White Lies, Mandy Cook is desperate to find her father, and perhaps Vincente St. Honoré can help her. If she can ever find him! For first she must wrest herself from the arms of his commanding and charismatic son—Pascal.

In Scarlet Lady (#1916), Ginny MacKenzie is a successful fashion model, but her worst nightmares are confirmed as she is wrongly branded a scarlet lady by the press and loses her husband, the Hon. Leo Brandon, as a result. It is only when, two years later, she decides to search for love elsewhere that Ginny is reunited in Saint Lucia with the man she has always loved—Leo! The question is, why is he there? You can read Ginny’s story in October 1997.

In Amber’s Wedding (#1922), Amber Fraser has just married Jake Cavendish, not for love but for convenience, companionship and to secure a father for her unborn child. On their wedding day Jake reveals to Amber a secret that will change her life. A secret that will finally reveal the truth about the St. Honoré family. They honeymoon in Saint Lucia where love appears to blossom after all—until Amber discovers Jake’s real motive for marrying her. You can read Amber’s story in November 1997.

Happy reading!

The Editor

White Lies

Sara Wood

www.millsandboon.co.uk

With my grateful thanks to Mrs. Joan Devaux,

Gary Devaux, Maria Monplaisir and

all at Anse Chastanet

CAST OF CHARACTERS

CHAPTER ONE

‘THE...Caribbean?’ repeated Mandy incredulously. ‘There must be some mistake! I can’t possibly have any family there! I thought,’ she said, suddenly more subdued, ‘that this was an advert from a relative who was trying to trace me. That can’t be right, can it?’

‘Why not?’ The solicitor smiled encouragingly.

In a wistful gesture that was almost a caress, her hand smoothed the much read page of the newspaper in front of her and she went over the words of the advert again, even though she knew them by heart.

MANDY COOK, née Brandon. Born 26.8.71, Sunnyside Nursing Home, Glasgow. Resident of West Hill Children’s Home, and St Mary’s Children’s Home. Married David James Cook, 26.8.89. Last heard of in Devon.

Please contact the office below where you will learn something to your advantage.

Cold facts, simple words. And yet they’d aroused such a disturbing turbulence in her that she’d barely been able to keep her finger steady to dial the number given for the London solicitor, Jack Lacey. Full of excitement and hope, she’d gabbled out her story—that she’d been searching for her natural parents for a long, long time and was hardly daring to hope that she might have a positive lead at last.

And luckily Jack Lacey had understood why she’d been half laughing, half crying and why her words had tumbled out in an unstoppable rush like a river in full spate.

‘Come at once,’ he’d said. ‘Take the next train from Plymouth.’

And here she was in his office, four hours later. She’d sipped tea and nervously chatted to him while he checked the documents she’d brought as proof of her identity.

Then he’d looked up and stunned her by saying that she was to fly to St Lucia in the Caribbean!

‘I dearly want this to give me a link with my real parents,’ she said earnestly. ‘But it’s so unlikely—’

Jack Lacey lifted a thick grey eyebrow. ‘Is it? The details are correct, aren’t they? I can understand your amazement, but my contact in St Lucia said that when I found Mandy Cook his client wanted her to take these tickets and make the trip to the West Indies as soon as possible.’ He smiled at her, knowing that she desperately wanted to be convinced. ‘I believe quite a few Scots went out to work on plantations in the past. Why not one of your relatives?’

Mandy found herself smiling back wryly. ‘Because having exotic connections isn’t the kind of thing that happens to ordinary people like me!’

A little dazed, she stared at the tickets in front of her. Heathrow to St Lucia. St Lucia to Heathrow. They were genuine; the solicitor had checked them out—and he’d confirmed that the hotel accommodation at the Anse La Verdure Hotel was genuine too.

‘I can’t think of anyone better,’ said Jack Lacey gently. ‘Go,’ he urged. ‘Treat yourself. I’ll get in touch with Vincente St Honoré once I know your flight plans.’

‘I could ring him from home, couldn’t I?’ she suggested cautiously. ‘That would save his client’s money.’ And save herself a nerve-racking trip. Mandy flipped open the clasp of her handbag and began to rummage for something to write on. ‘Do you have his phone number or address?’

‘I’m not to divulge that,’ Lacey said to her surprise. ‘I know; odd, isn’t it? But those are my instructions. He wants to contact you. If his client is willing to pay for your travel, why argue? I’m sure you’ll be told everything when St Honoré meets you.’

It seemed very cloak-and-dagger. Why weren’t people straightforward instead of being so devious? It could be a huge disappointment. It could be...oh, it would be wonderful if St Honoré could put her in touch with relatives.

‘If he refers to a client, does that mean that Vincente St Honoré is a solicitor? If so, surely he would have said something about the purpose of the advert?’ She leaned forward eagerly. ‘It’s worded as if someone’s died and the executors are searching for anyone with claims on the estate. What do you think?’

Jack Lacey nodded. ‘That’s how I read it. But St Honoré has told me nothing. He could be just a lay executor, but he keeps referring to his “client” so I’d put my money on him being a solicitor as well. I assume he’s acting as a go-between for someone and he wants to satisfy himself that you’re who you say you are. However, I’d advise you not to raise your hopes—’

‘Why?’ Mandy asked quickly.

‘Because he hinted that he was making other enquiries. That’s all I know.’ Lacey hesitated, seeing how her spirits had fallen and that the joy had vanished from her face. ‘I wish I could tell you more.’

‘I’m not interested in any financial gain,’ Mandy said shakily. ‘It’s...it’s the prospect of discovering my roots that’s excited me. But if there are doubts...’

All of a sudden her voice became croaky with emotion and her soft hazel eyes grew filmy with unshed tears. Flying to St Lucia only to discover that there had been a mistake would be quite devastating to her. Disappointments had peppered all her attempts to find her family so far and increasingly she was afraid to allow hope into her heart any more—even though her quest was becoming an obsession.

Lacey cleared his throat. ‘All I know is that St Honoré wants you in St Lucia.’

‘For an audition, perhaps?’ she asked with a rueful laugh. ‘Or some kind of identity parade, where this man’s client stands behind a two-way mirror and picks out whoever has the greatest family resemblance?’

‘I don’t know,’ confessed Lacey, giving her a sympathetic grin. ‘But if there’s any doubt I’m sure DNA testing will be used if necessary, to put everyone’s mind at rest. I hope it works out,’ he added quietly. ‘I’d hate to see you return disappointed.’

‘I would be, Mr Lacey,’ she said fervently. ‘I’ve longed to know about my mother all my life.’ She dropped her gaze for a brief moment. Jack Lacey’s sympathetic eyes were encouraging her tears to form, and she knew that she mustn’t let herself cry or she’d never feel tough enough to cope with the prospect of failure.

‘See it as a holiday, all expenses paid,’ he told her. ‘I envy you, Mrs Cook. How about taking a personal advisor with you?’ he suggested, a twinkle in his eyes.

She flashed him a grateful smile for realising that she needed a touch of humour to lift her spirits. ‘I can’t afford you! Besides, you’d miss your daughter’s school play—and your wife’s...what did you say? Her tip-tilted smile and the way she sings around the house.’

Jack Lacey laughed warmly. Unlikely though it seemed, the young woman in the washed-out, demure blue dress and the cheap shoes had totally disarmed him with her admiring exclamations over the photograph of his family and had somehow coaxed him to wax sentimental about the people he loved.

‘You’re right,’ he admitted, feeling an odd affection for Mandy. He frowned. She was so open that she’d be extremely vulnerable. ‘Don’t get hurt,’ he said suddenly, with fervour.

‘How kind you are!’ she said warmly. Her eyes shone with pleasure through the fine veil of tears. ‘I might,’ she admitted. ‘I’m afraid that happens now and then. I trust people and sometimes they let me down. I’ve had cranks and opportunists answering my adverts and pretending to be a long-lost parent before, as I told you.’

‘But no crank would fund a trip to the West Indies,’ reasoned Jack Lacey.

‘That’s what I’m banking on,’ she said eagerly. ‘This time the solicitor in St Lucia could be acting for a relative of mine and I might learn about my past. I know it would be wiser not to get excited, but this means everything to me, Mr Lacey. If I find my mother, or my father, or even one relative, I’ll come right back and hug you!’

Jack Lacey found himself praying that she would. But as she left, his hand aching from where she had squeezed it so fiercely and a lump in his throat at the quiet joy on her pale face, he thought of the ice-cold tones of the man he’d been told would contact her and he wondered if he should have warned her more strongly. He sighed, knowing that he wouldn’t have had the heart.

Mandy Cook might discover that some families were best left divided and that the mother who’d abandoned her at the nursing home had probably had a good reason to keep her baby girl’s existence a secret from her relatives.

‘A Planter’s Punch for you too, madam?’

Mandy smiled warmly at the woman who’d come to the table in the spacious, open-air lounge of the hotel. The ‘welcome’ drink looked long and cool and fruity—just what she needed after the hot and dusty drive.

She checked the name-tag on the frill decorating the woman’s crisp white blouse. ‘Please, Agnes,’ she said gratefully. ‘The road was so bumpy! I felt quite shaky when I got out of the minibus.’ She took a sip of the drink and detected the faint taste of rum.

‘It’s bad,’ agreed Agnes equably, and shot her a curious glance. ‘Are you Mrs Cook?’ And at Mandy’s nod she said, ‘Monsieur St Honoré’s been asking after you.’

Mandy glowed with delight. ‘Is he here?’

‘He’s on the beach,’ Agnes said shortly. ‘Simon will show you. Simon!’

‘The beach?’ Mandy quickly drained her glass and jumped up. She felt a little unsteady, but then she’d been sitting for hours and hours on the plane. She smiled at the young bar attendant who came running up. And she wondered how many St Lucian solicitors received their clients on the beach! ‘The beach! It’s wacky. I think I’m going to love Anse La Verdure,’ she said with a grin.

‘Everybody does. It’s the best in the Caribbean,’ said Simon proudly. He indicated the key in her hand. ‘Would you like to unpack and rest first?’ he asked thoughtfully, but then, they’d had a long chat already, and she’d drawn out half his family history from him.

She hesitated. Perhaps she ought to take the opportunity to freshen up and wait till her shakiness had gone before confronting the man she’d flown thousands of miles to see. But she was eager to meet him—and she felt sure that her dizziness would pass once her body had realised that it had stopped travelling.

‘I’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘I’ve had time to drop off my hand luggage.’ She smiled, thinking happily of the luxurious villa perched higher up the hill. ‘Mr St Honoré takes priority.’

‘We go that way.’ Simon pointed to some dark volcanic steps which led from the terrace of the bar and lounge area.

‘OK. I’ll see you all later, I expect,’ she said warmly to the other guests sitting nearby, and they smiled and cheerfully lifted their glasses in a friendly farewell.

She followed the teenager down the steep hill, occasionally catching glimpses of an impossibly blue sea scintillating like a jewel in the hot sun. The steps wound through a tropical garden of palm trees, hibiscus, great billows of bougainvillea...

In answer to her request, Simon began to give her the names of the plants, shouting them over his shoulderangels’ tears, heart flower, water-well, paw-paw, mango, bottlebrush—till her mind reeled.

But it took the edge off her tense anticipation. Somewhere on the beach below was the man who might change her life. And as she hurried after the white-clad Simon her whole body almost bounced with joy till the thick brown rope of her plait bounced too in sympathy.

‘Where is he?’ At the bottom of the steps she paused to search the beach expectantly. Yet there was no one remotely like a solicitor in sight. ‘I’m looking for a guy in a bowler hat and pinstriped suit with a briefcase,’ she said with a chuckle. ‘I suppose I’ve got that wrong!’

Simon grinned back at her. ‘No suits here! Only sand and sea, sun and tanned people. Everybody having a good time.’

Mandy beamed merrily at all the friendly faces nearby and was rewarded with a battery of smiles in return. ‘It’s going to be so lovely staying at this hotel!’ she sighed. ‘I expected people to be standoffish. But they all look as happy as I feel.’

‘Sure they do. This is paradise,’ said Simon. He paused, then gave a satisfied exclamation. ‘I see him! You follow me, lady!’

Excitedly Mandy strode after his eye-searing, white-clad figure, barely controlling her urge to skip. Her pulses, however, were galloping along in leaps and bounds because all her hopes and dreams were bound up in this moment. Even admiring the dazzling blue sky, the translucent sea and the ‘desert island’ beach with its leaning palms and sultry, tropical atmosphere came second to her long-term goal. Beaches she could enjoy later. The unbelievable view to the mountains from her balcony could be drooled over some other time. This was her future, after all.

Preoccupied by her thoughts, she stumbled on a ridge of sand. Seeing Simon’s curious glance, she grinned and said, ‘It’s OK. I feel wobbly. I’m just nervous as a kitten about this meeting!’

Simon’s step faltered. ‘Monsieur St Honoré is—’ He stopped, seemingly unable—or unwilling—to continue.

Mandy’s joy faded a little. There seemed to be a kind of warning in Simon’s silence. Feeling a little alarmed, she stopped and touched his arm. ‘What is it?’ she asked uncertainly. ‘What’s worrying you? He is here, isn’t he?’ Frantically she searched up and down the shoreline, her heart sinking. ‘There isn’t anyone with clothes on,’ she said in wry disappointment, ‘let alone a suit!’

‘Monsieur St Honoré, he don’t wear a suit often. Or many clothes much,’ explained Simon.

‘Not...wear...!’ Her eyes widened. ‘Where is he?’

‘There!’ Simon seemed embarrassed but she didn’t have time to question him further because he added hastily, ‘Monsieur St Honoré!’

He lay sprawled beneath the waving fronds of a nearby palm tree, sunlight and palm shadows contriving to slash his lithe form with gold and black. A sleeping tiger. A rather magnificent animal, the torso sculpted with firm muscle, the tanned body beautifully taut and lean. And he wasn’t wearing much—only a pair of brief green bathing shorts, low on the narrow hips.

This was Monsieur St Honoré? A lawyer? Mandy put a hand to her mouth to stop her gasp of disbelief and tried to gather her wits. ‘Simon, I think you’ve made a mistake—’ she began in a hushed and urgent whisper.

‘No mistake,’ he replied, sounding hurt. ‘This is him.’

For Simon’s sake she gave the man another once-over. He looked thirtyish, his flaxen hair sun-streaked and with no hint of grey. It was untidy too, the thick, springing curls tousled and damp as though he’d recently been for a swim. Her uncertain gaze took in his thick, honeycoloured brows and his strong bone structure, highlighted by the sun where it hit the prominent cheekbones and firm jawline.

OK, she thought. Solicitors came in all shapes and sizes. But... tousled? Rakish? Mandy now understood Simon’s unstated warning. He looked the kind of man who’d bite.

‘This is Monsieur St Honoré? You’re absolutely sure?’ she persisted in a whisper.

‘Definitely,’ the young man answered. ‘This, Monsieur St Honoré. That—’ and he pointed out to sea ‘—his boat.’

‘Oh! Thanks,’ she said absently, riveted by the sight of the boat.

Simon left her gaping at the sleek motor yacht lying a short distance off shore. Its size and elegant lines screamed money. She shaded her eyes against the glare from the sea and watched its launch being drawn up out of the water by an on-board crane.

‘Wow!’ she breathed. A crane on a boat! Even more astonishing was the sea-level bathing deck at the stern, where a couple of St Lucians in white shorts and shirts were setting up a barbecue—a barbecue! ‘Now that is money! How the rich do live!’ she marvelled.

The gold letters on the stern proclaimed the boat to be named St Honoré, confirming Simon’s claim. Confounded, Mandy followed the line of the mooring rope. It extended all the way to the beach where its end had been coiled a couple of times around a palm tree. The one that shaded the sleeping tiger.

Mandy moved closer, eyeing the teak-coloured body admiringly. It was too good a sight to ignore. His flat, muscle-defined stomach tensed slightly and she took a startled pace back, thinking for a crazy moment that he was aware of her presence despite the resolutely closed eyelids. Embarrassment made her pink and hot. Nice women didn’t ogle men’s bodies in public!

Then something dawned on her. He didn’t look ready to conduct any business at all. There was just him and the sand and the palm tree. No briefcase, no shoes, no clothes, no towel. She swayed slightly and realised that the sun was beating down on her head. Cautiously she ducked under the shady palm and wondered what to do.

There had been some mistake. Her stomach turned over with the intense disappointment. Someone had got his wires crossed. Her soft eyes glazed over as she gloomily reviewed her situation and battled with the fear of failure.

Perhaps her hopes had been raised unnecessarily. All along she’d tried not to expect too much, just in case she was disappointed. But how could you not get excited at the prospect of finding a blood relative when you’d longed for family all your life?

And... maybe she’d be asked to pay back the cost of the ticket! Appalled, she lifted her eyes to the heavens. ‘Oh, Lord!’ she groaned aloud, swamped with misery. ‘If this doesn’t work out, I could be on the streets!’

Something shimmered at her feet, making her look down quickly. The man had stirred and stretched, sunlight bouncing off the planes and curves of his body and the wide bracelet of his gold watch. As she watched, holding her breath, the heavy fringe of golden lashes fluttered. So did her pulses and her stomach. And then she found herself pinned by the bluest and most compelling pair of eyes she’d ever seen.

‘Hi,’ said their owner lazily, bringing up an arm behind his head. And then the tiger stretched again, flexing and tensing a battery of shifting muscles in the process. Mandy half expected him to purr.

She cleared her throat. ‘Hi.’ And cleared it again because she’d sounded as if she was suffering from bronchitis. ‘I was looking for Monsieur Vincente St Honoré...’ She paused and took a deep breath, her mouth trembling. Better get it over with. ‘I don’t think I’ve got the right man, have I?’ she asked sadly.

He smiled. Not much, just enough to make the firm, male mouth quirk in a disconcertingly attractive curve. He’ll bite! she reminded herself hastily.

‘Expecting someone older?’ he murmured.

For a moment she was taken aback by his silky, fascinating accent. And then, seeing his amused eyes on her, she found her voice again. ‘Well, yes...’

‘My father.’

‘Oh! Mystery explained!’ she said huskily. ‘I thought there had been a mistake. I’m so believed!’

‘I bet.’

Mandy risked a friendly smile and tried to place the accent. French, presumably. Herbert, the man who’d driven the minibus from the airport, had said the British and French had fought endlessly over the island. Seven times British, seven times French.

It seemed to her that the man’s sexy accent was mixed with the slow-blues drawl of the Caribbean, and it reached into her stomach like warm, soothing cocoa. Mandy concealed the weakening effect of the richly flowing voice and got down to business.

‘I’m glad there’s no mix-up,’ she said in a rush. ‘Mr Lacey told me Monsieur St Honoré would contact me—and then the girl at the bar said Monsieur St Honoré was waiting on the beach and then, when I saw you, well!’ She laughed but he didn’t smile in response and continued to gaze at her cynically. Her smile faded. ‘I was sure something was wrong,’ she said more soberly, ‘and I didn’t know what to do.’

He jackknifed his strong legs and stood up in a leisurely, languid way as if his joints had been oiled as comprehensively as his gleaming dark body. ‘I’m Pascal.’ Then he smiled and two dimples appeared in each cheek, utterly distracting her because they turned him from a rake into a charmer. ‘You’re Mandy Cook, I presume?’

‘Yes!’

Everything was going to be all right! Overjoyed, Mandy took the offered hand enthusiastically. It was large and dry and strangely comforting, and it reminded her of her beloved Dave’s hands so much that she was momentarily thrown off balance.

‘Delighted,’ he murmured. ‘Absolutely delighted.’

And the frisson that Pascal St Honoré engendered was something new—a sudden contracting of her loins, and unexpected awareness of his sexuality. Startled, she flipped a quick glance up at the blue, blue eyes and then wished that she hadn’t. He was studying her with a frank and open interest that left her wondering where her breath had gone.

‘Thank goodness!’ she burbled, letting her mouth take over. ‘For a ghastly moment I thought I’d been the victim of a practical joke! I’d half expected someone with a bald head, a pinstriped suit and a briefcase, you see, and you didn’t fit that bill at all so—’