Anne Mather - His Forbidden Passion

CLEO was almost sure shed seen the woman before.

She didnt know when or where she might have seen her, or if the feeling was real or just imagined. But there was an odd sense of familiarity when she looked at her that refused to go away.

She shook her head rather impatiently. Sometimes she was far too sensitive for her own good. But there was no doubt that the woman had been staring at her ever since shed joined the queue at the checkout, so perhaps that was why she looked familiar. Perhaps she resembled someone the woman used to know.

There was obviously a perfectly innocent explanation. Just because she didnt like being stared at didnt mean the woman meant her any harm. Paying for the milk that had sent her to the store in the first place, Cleo determinedly ignored the persistent scrutiny, and then nearly jumped out of her skin when the woman spoke to her.

Its Ms Novak, isnt it? she asked, blocking Cleos way as she would have moved past her. Im so pleased to meet you at last. Your friend said I might find you here.

Cleo frowned. She could only mean Norah. Which meant the woman must have been to their apartment first. She sighed. What was Norah thinking of, offering her whereabouts to a complete stranger? With all the odd things that happened these days, Cleo would have expected her to have more sense.

Im sorry, she said, albeit against her better judgement. Should I know you?

The woman smiled and Cleo realised she was older than shed appeared from a distance. Cleo had assumed she was in her forties, but now she saw she was at least fifty. The sleek bob of copper hair was deceiving, but the trim figure and slender legs were not.

She wasnt very tall. She had to tilt her head to meet Cleos enquiring gaze. But her make-up was skilful, her clothes obviously expensive, and what she lacked in stature she more than made up for in presence.

I apologise, she said, her accent vaguely transatlantic, drawing Cleo out of the store by the simple method of continuing to talk to her. The cool air of an autumn evening swirled about them and the woman shivered as if it wasnt to her liking. Of course, she went on, pausing on the forecourt. I should have introduced myself at once. We havent met, my dear, but Im Serena Montoya. Your fathers sister.

Of all the things she might have said, that had to be the least expected, thought Cleo incredulously. For a moment she could only stare at her in disbelief.

Then, recovering a little, she said with a mixture of shaky amusement and relief, My father didnt have a sister, Ms Montoya. Im sorry. She started to move away. Im afraid youve made a mistake.

I dont think so. Serena Montoyaif that really was her nameput out scarlet-tipped fingers and caught the sleeve of Cleos woollen jacket. Please, she pleaded. Listen to me for a moment. She sighed and removed her fingers again when Cleo gave her a pointed look. Your fathers name was Robert Montoya

No.

and he was born on the island of San Clemente in the Caribbean in 1956.

Thats not true. Cleo stared at her impatiently. Then, with a sound of resignation, Well, yes, my father was born on San Clemente, but Im not absolutely sure of the date, and his name was Henry Novak.

Im afraid not. Grasping Cleos wrist, this time with a firmness that wouldnt be denied, Serena Montoya regarded her with determined eyes. I am not lying to you, Ms Novak. I know youve always thought that Lucille and Henry Novak were your parents, but they werent.

Cleo couldnt believe this was happening. Why are you doing this? she demanded. Why are you insisting that this man, Robert Montoyayour brotheris my father?

Was, Serena corrected her regretfully. Robert was your father. He died some years ago.

Cleos voice broke on a sob. Its a ridiculous assertion and you know it.

Its true. Serena was inflexible. Resisting Cleos efforts to pull away, she continued flatly, Believe me, Ms Novak, when my fatheryour grandfathertold me what had happened, I didnt want to believe it either.

Now, that I can believe, said Cleo a little grimly. Well, dont worry, Ms Montoya. Obviously your father is suffering from delusions. Unfortunately my real parents were killed in a rail accident six months ago or they would have told you that themselves.

Yes, we know about the accident. Serena was full of surprises. Thats when my father first learned where you were living. She paused. And he is not delusional. Please, Cleo, come and have a drink with me and let me explain

Cleo fell back a step and this time the woman let her go. How do you know my name?

How do you think? Serena sounded as if she was getting bored now. Its Cleopatra, isnt it? And, seeing the unwilling confirmation on Cleos face, she added, It was your maternal grandmothers name, too. She was called Cleopatra Dubois and her daughter, Celeste, was your mother. Celeste Dubois was one of the most beautiful women on the island. She gave Cleo a considering look. I hesitate to say it, but you look a lot like her.

Cleos lips tightened. Was she black?

Serena frowned. Does that matter?

Cleo shook her head. Only a white person would ask such a question. Her lips curled. Yes, it matters.

OK. Serena considered. Well, yes, I suppose she wasblack. Her skin wasumcoffee coloured. Not black, exactly, but not white either.

That was enough. Cleo refused to listen to any more. If the description of her so-called mother had been meant to disarm her, it had failed abysmally. She was used to vapid flattery. Usually from men, it was true. But shed had to deal with it all her life.

Look, I have to go, she said, assuring herself that if there had been any truth in what the woman was saying, shed have heard about it by now. Her parents had not been liars, whatever Serena Montoya said. And Cleo had loved them far too much to even countenance such a suggestion.