Passion's Mistral by Charlotte Boyett-Compo Page B

man sorely in need of a mate.
    As he climbed into bed, he looked at the bedside clock, and without giving himself time to back out,
    grabbed the phone and dialed a number he hadn’t called in eighteen years. Never once doubting the
    number would have changed, he held the receiver tightly to his ear as the transatlantic call went through.
    “Bellington residence,” a stiff voice with a very proper English accent announced.
    “I’d like to speak with Mrs. Bellington,” Julian said, his jaw clenched.
    “May I ask who is calling?”
    “It’s me, Guildford. It’s Anthony.”
    “Oh,” the voice on the other end said, dropping the word like a hot brick. “One moment, sir.”
    Guildford had been with the family for as long as he could remember. A prim and proper gentleman who
    wore his rank with impeccable stiffness, Guildford was incapable of smiling—or so it had seemed to
    Julian as he was growing up.
    “Anthony? Oh, my dear boy!” his mother shrieked. “Where are you? How are you?”
    “I’m fine, Mother,” he replied. “How are you?”
    “Oh, Anthony!” He heard her crying, sniffling, and knew she would be carrying a delicate lace
    handkerchief to wipe her eyes. “Why haven’t you called? I have been so worried. I—”
    “Mother, do you remember the words to the Connemara Cradle Song?” Julian interrupted. He held his
    breath, waiting for her answer.
    There was a long pause. “Whatever are you talking about?”
    “The lullaby, Mother. Do you remember singing it to me when I was a child?”
    “Anthony, my word!” she said. “I couldn’t carry a tune in a hand basket. Why are you asking me such a
    thing?”
    “Did Margaret sing it to me?”
    “I suppose she might have. I don’t recall. What do you—?”
    “Is she there?”
    “Heavens, no!” his mother stated. “She’s been dead ten years or so. There was an accident with a lorry.
    Very horrible affair as it were. Why on earth would you want to talk to a servant? You haven’t called
    your own mother in all these years and now you—”
    “I have to go, Mother,” Julian said. “I’m glad you’re all right.”
    “Anthony? You wait just a minute! Your Uncle Clive wants to speak with you. He—”
    The unmistakable sound of the phone being grabbed away from his mother made Julian lower the
    receiver.
    “Anthony! Anthony, answer me!” His uncle’s voice was strident, as hateful as he remembered the man
    being.
    Replacing the receiver, cutting off the detested voice, Julian turned over in the bed and pulled his pillow
    to him. The scar on his back began to burn and he reached behind him to massage the puckered flesh.
    When he had fled the English estate on which he had grown up, he had tried to shed the painful memories
    as easily as he had shed the name Anthony Lanier James Bellington. The memories, however, could not
    be dismissed as easily as he had hoped though he had spent half a lifetime trying to forget his childhood.
    He loved his mother as much as he had hated his father and feared his uncle. Not seeing her, not talking
    to her had been very difficult but that was the only way he could stay safe and out of the clutches of a
    family that had nearly destroyed him.

Chapter Five
    “But I won’t be participating in the programs offered here at the resort,” Silkie protested to Henri
    Bouvier. “Why do I need to be interviewed by Mr. St. John?”
    “You may not wish to indulge in the pleasures offered here, Ms. Trevor,” Bouvier replied, “but you will
    be utilizing resort personnel. Mr. St. John wants to make sure your presence here is…shall we say?
    Kosher?”
    Silkie frowned. “Why wouldn’t it be kosher, Mr. Bouvier? I am here as Dr. Carstairs’ assistant and—”
    “If you wish to stay at the Cay and perform your duties as the good doctor’s assistant, then you must
    meet with Mr. St. John and acquire his approval,” Henri interrupted in a firm, no-argument tone.
    Letting out an annoyed breath, Silkie put her