Guilty Passion by Laurey Bright Page B

water, and Ethan, with his hands in his pockets, waited for her.
    â€œSorry,” she said, as she went to his side. “It’s so lovely here. This is very peaceful, isn’t it?”
    â€œDon’t you miss the social life of Sydney?”
    â€œWe didn’t have a very active social life, as a matter of fact. About the only times we went out were to university functions, and other things that Alec had to attend because of his work.”
    â€œOver here,” he said, touching her arm and indicating the path to the Palmers’ house.
    He allowed her to go ahead of him when the path narrowed, and she climbed quickly, very conscious of him just behind her, now and then reaching across her shoulder to lift a wayward, trailing spray of purple bougainvillea or a curling tendril of trumpet vine out of her way.
    When he caught her arm, she stiffened, holding her breath.
    Ethan said, “Don’t go so fast, there’s plenty of time. You’re panting.”
    She hadn’t realised it. She nodded without looking at him and, when he released her, proceeded more slowly.
    She was glad when they reached the house, a natural wood structure with a broad balcony around three sides. Henry leaned over the railing and called, “Come on up. Jeff’s arrived and we’re having drinks out here. Janice is doing things in the kitchen.”
    There was an outside staircase, and at the top, of course, a view of the bay. Henry poured drinks, and shortly afterwards Janice joined them. Celeste gradually relaxed. The Palmers went out of their way to make their guests feel comfortable, and she wished she could be a little more animated, but she had to mentally shake herself awake a couple of times. Still, she smiled and nodded in the right places, managed to carry on a conversation, and even laughed once or twice. She was, in a mild sort of way, enjoying herself.
    The men volunteered to wash up after dinner, and at Ethan’s urging, Janice took Celeste into her small studio to show her some of her paintings.
    There were a few oils and bold acrylics, but most were watercolours. “I have one theme.” Janice laughed. “This island. I love painting it.”
    Leaving the studio, they sat out on the balcony again, and the men joined them, Jeff drawing up a chair close to Celeste’s. “What do you think of Janice’s paintings?” he asked her.
    â€œI like them. They’re restful and yet interesting.”
    â€œMm-hm. She’s quite talented.”
    Henry called his attention with a question about some mutual acquaintance, and Celeste leaned her head against the chair back.
    â€œTired?” Jeff asked, turning to her again.
    â€œNot really,” she said guiltily, and made an effort to stir herself. She smiled at him and asked, “Do you know a lot of people on the island?”
    â€œMost of the prominent ones and the old identities. I got to know them when I was researching for the book.”
    â€œTell me about them,” she invited, and managed to concentrate long enough to be genuinely entertained by some anecdotes that for one reason or another had not been included in his history of the island. “Some were too raunchy for general consumption,” he said, grinning. “And some that dealt with people still living or who had a close living relative were plain slanderous. I had no wish to be involved in a libel suit. Besides, I wanted to live here, and if I’d printed everything the locals would probably have tarred and feathered me and thrown me into the sea.”
    â€œSurely not!” Celeste laughed.
    â€œOh, I don’t know. It has happened here, you know. Though not too recently,” he admitted. “There was a time when the respectable settlers were trying to get the upper hand over the beachcombers who populated the island in the earlier days, and they formed a sort of vigilante committee. One of my informants was a descendant of