Zoe was surprised. She had heard about his grandfather. ‘The Brigadier?’
The passionate mouth curved. He was laughing at himself. She thought he was no longer strictly policing himself, curbing his instincts, banking down his passions. There was an alluring suggestion that he had loosed control. Oh, for the moment he was just lazily content. But potentially—Well, she could not guess. She had never seen him look like this. So relaxed. So alert. So accessible.
It made her want to touch him. More than touch. Curve against his body and stroke his skin and turn his mouth towards her and—
Careful, Zoe!
He said lazily, ‘Not the Brigadier. My mother’s father. He was a wholly different kettle of fish.’
She thought, He liked that grandfather a lot. Maybe even loved him. She had never thought of sexy, sophisticated Jay Christopher as loving anyone before. It was intriguing.
‘What was he like?’
His face softened. ‘The ideal grandfather. He knew brilliant games. He told stories. He taught me to swim—and how to recognise fish and birds and plants. He was a scholar and a philosopher. But most of all he was kind.’
Yes, he definitely loved him.
‘Why did he bring you up?’
‘Oh, the usual. My father was a hippy drop-out on the Maharishi trail when he met my mother. He persuaded her to leave college and go on the road with him. She got pregnant. He didn’t tell his family—he said they were British snobs and he never wanted to see them again. My Indian grandfather took them both in and they married. So I was born in this wonderful house on the beach. I used to fall asleep every night to the sound of the surf. Sometimes when I close my eyes I can still hear it.’
There was a world of loss in the deep voice. Zoe leaned forward.
‘When did you leave?’
‘When I was seven. I told you.’
Their tea came. She drank, watching him watch the crowd.
‘What happened? Did your father decide to go back to England after all?’
‘No. My father was long gone by then. Later we heard he’d died of pneumonia somewhere. We were never quite sure when, exactly. But as soon as my English grandfather found out he came looking for me. They sent him my father’s papers. That was how he found out that he had a grandson.’ His voice changed, flattened. ‘So he came and took us back to England.’
Zoe said slowly, ‘And you hated it.’
Jay shrugged impatiently. ‘It was okay once we got to the country. At least that was green and there were trees. London was bad. All that concrete. I was used to colours and spices and heat. Even the rains are warm in Kerala. At least on the coast, where we lived. In London everything was the colour of old chewing gum. And it smelled like wet Mackintosh.’
‘Horrible!’
‘To a seven-year-old, it was pretty much hell, yes.’ He drank his tea, his eyes shadowed.
‘But you went back?’
‘My English grandfather wouldn’t allow it. So, no, not until I was eighteen. And then later, of course, when I started to earn money and could afford it. But it wasn’t the same.’
Zoe’s heart turned over, he sounded so bleak. ‘Why?’
‘Me. The place was the same. Full of books and open to the sea breezes. But I’d changed.’
‘Well, of course. You’d grown up.’
‘It was more than that. I’d started winning races, you see. I was eighteen and I liked the buzz. And the attention.’
‘Understandable.’
‘Ah, but my lost grandfather told me to be careful of that. ‘‘You can like winning so much you lose sight of what it is you’re doing to win,’’ he said. But I didn’t take any notice.’
She said bracingly, ‘At eighteen boys don’t take any notice of anyone. It’s in the job description.’
His eyes lit with sudden laughter. He came out of his reverie, turning to her. ‘And how do you know that?’
‘My brother Harry. He tuned me out some time around fifteen.’
‘Tuned you out? You brought him up?’
‘It’s been a kind of communal effort,’ said Zoe ruefully. ‘Mother’s spaced out. Father’s off pretending he’s hunk of the month. We sort of brought each other up. Only I was the eldest so I did the shopping.’