by Margot Early
That was before Aristotle Theodoros had appeared on the scene, a rival, an older man who was attractive to Bronwyn as a suitor and also filled the role of the father she’d never had—or something like that.
“Thank you,” she said again.
Two snifters. He handed Bronwyn hers, and their fingers brushed. He lifted his glass. “Around here,” he said, “we usually drink to horses. So, to Louisa’s hopeful for the Outback Classic—An Indecent Proposal.”
Bronwyn slid her eyes sideways, her mouth twisting in near amusement, and lifted her glass. “As long as you realize that I’m not here to make one.”
They both drank.
“Then why are you here?”
The question was spoken quietly, and Bronwyn found herself watching his lips, his mouth, and thinking how unchanged he was and yet how completely different. He remained a very attractive man—one who had once been madly in love with her. He had walked away without looking back after she’d told him she was marryingAri— that is, he’d left the coffee shop where she was working, hurried out into the parking lot. She’d been horribly worried then, her stomach tensing up, and had hardly been able to finish her shift. She’d been afraid Patrick would simply go out of his mind, but that wasn’t all.
Part of her had feared that she was making a terrible mistake, that she was letting go of something she’d never find again and that she was foolish to marry Ari, that she and Ari could never be together what she and Patrick might have been.
Now Patrick had asked why she’d come to Fairchild Acres. Now was the moment to tell him about Wesley.
But to do so suddenly seemed rash. Patrick was rich, powerful. She had nothing. What if he tried to take Wesley from her? It wasn’t as though the possibility hadn’t occurred to her before; but the old Patrick hadn’t been the kind of person to do that. This new Patrick? She wasn’t sure. She had no way of defending herself, and the widow of a mobster wouldn’t look so great in the courts. “I came for the job,” she said.
“Knowing I was here?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “I knew you were here. But I’m here because I need the work. The government has seized Ari’s assets. I must support Wesley.”
She could tell from the look in his half-closed hazel eyes that he didn’t think her story credible.
Well, too bad. If he wanted to cherish conceited notions that she fantasized about getting back together with him, so be it.
Patrick wished he could read minds. He would gladly open Bronwyn Davies’s head and see what had really brought her to Fairchild Acres. Whatever she said—and, face it, she’d just admitted that she’d known she would find him there—he had to believe she’d come here looking for him.
“Then let’s get a few things straight,” he said.
Bronwyn buttoned her lip, knowing what was coming.
“You’re not going to get any special treatment from me. And don’t entertain dreams about you and me picking up where we left off. If you haven’t acquired any new job skills since you worked in that coffee shop, it’s time you developed some.”
Bronwyn took a drink of cognac, wanting to tell him a few home truths but knowing that doing so might influence her ability to secure the job in the kitchens.
Instead she said, “Please believe that it’s with the greatest reluctance I accepted the offer of sleeping in this house tonight, let alone enjoying this drink with you. I would be a fool if I believed any man whom I’d once rejected would come back for more.”
“Ouch,” Patrick murmured.
She shrugged. “I don’t think you’re giving me this charming lecture because you’ve forgotten I once decided to marry someone else.”
Ouch again, he thought. But Patrick knew that her ability to stick up for herself, the integrity that had never made him think everything he did was perfect, were part of what had attracted him to her in the first place. The women he’d known before Bronwyn had all been afraid of losing his favor by being less than agreeable; they’d seemed to worship him. But Patrick hadn’t wanted that. He’d wanted a partner, an equal.
And just now—well, she was probably being snotty because he was letting her know how things would be if they were both around Fairchild Acres. “Can you imagine my not being suspicious of your motives under the circumstances?”
“No,” Bronwyn replied, but she wasn’t about to relieve him of his suspicions. She decided to distract him. “What did bring you here, Patrick? As I recall, you weren’t on the best terms with your great-aunt.”
“We weren’t on any terms with her, good or bad,” he admitted. “But she invited Megan and me to Fairchild Acres, and I wanted to hear what she had to say. I have to admit, I’ve grown fond of her. And protective.”
Bronwyn managed not to say that of course Patrick would be protective of Louisa Fairchild’s money, especially if he hoped to inherit part of it.
Instead, she asked, “And what are you doing with yourself these days?” She knew the answer; the same friends who’d mentioned where he was had supplied that information.
“The stock market. Must be in the blood.”
Bronwyn well remembered when he’d seemed allergic to the possibility of doing anything so practical.
He turned from where he stood by the bar, and Bronwyn felt him assessing her. She knew he was examining her clothing, her figure, her general appearance. The thing about growing up on the streets was that she’d become used to other people being her mirror. She’d also learned to base her feelings of self-worth on things other than her physical appearance. How she treated people, her competence in life, a whole host of things were more important. But Patrick was a cipher. She couldn’t guess his reaction to anything about her. Except the suspicion that he hadn’t needed to put into words.
“Should I express condolences?” he asked.
“That’s entirely up to you. I’m a widow, and that’s considered good manners.” The callous way he’d spoken of Ari’s death—more than once—upset her, but she wanted to make as few waves as possible. She finished her cognac then and said, “In any case, I think I’ll go see if Wesley is done with his bath.”
Wesley had filled the huge claw-foot tub with as much water as he would have used at home, the home they didn’t have anymore in Sydney, the home they didn’t have anymore in Greece, the home they didn’t have anymore in Queensland, any of the homes that weren’t theirs anymore.
Why had his mother brought him here? Why couldn’t she have gotten a job in Sydney so that he could have stayed at his school?
Then he remembered the past few months, the friends who wouldn’t come over anymore because of who his father had turned out to be, the friends whose houses he couldn’t go to because his mother had found out things about their parents. All right, she’d managed to convince him that moving away from Sydney would make him happier in the long run. But it sure wasn’t happening yet. The Hunter Valley was full of rich kids, too, he knew, and he was not a rich kid any longer; his mother had made that pretty clear.
And who was that man who had finally introduced himself as Patrick, a friend of his mother’s from uni? Obviously, he didn’t want them here, but his mother must have known Patrick would be here when she decided to come to Fairchild Acres.
He had to admit there were some very nice lawns here, perfect for kicking a soccer ball, but his mum had said he couldn’t play on them till she found out if it was all right with the owner.
Yes, he was just going to be an employee’s kid, and there weren’t any other kids here that he could see. His life was horrible.
And his father was dead.
Did his mother hate his father because she’d found out he was a criminal? She’d become so brusque all of a sudden, always in a hurry, constantly issuing orders. She’d told him, I’m just concentrating on surviving, Wesley. That’s what we’ve got to think about now. Making sure we have a place to live.
His father used to be free with money, but his mum never had been. She used to get mad if she came
in his room and found change on the floor. Don’t you understand how important money is, Wesley? I hope you’ll always have enough, but you need to treat it with respect.
Did they have enough money now? His father had said his mother worried too much about money; she’d always have plenty. Well, now he was worried about money.
And his father was dead.
After a brief discussion with Wesley on the necessity of conserving water, especially in the country, Bronwyn left him occupied in his temporary bedroom, reading a manga comic book he had brought with him, and headed for the bathroom herself. There, she stood under the spray of the shower, praying, begging. Begging a divinity by any name to give her the job she’d come here to obtain.
But was getting this particular job so important anymore? Patrick had been so rude, so presumptuous, that the thought of telling him that Wesley was his son held no appeal whatsoever. Bronwyn knew men, understood them. Patrick’s ego was obviously still smarting from her rejection of his proposal almost eleven years before. Bronwyn didn’t flatter herself that any attraction remained on his side, but a man like Patrick… Yes, the bitterness would remain.
How would he treat Wesley, then? It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that he would completely reject his son.
And what was all this stuff about her coming to get money from him? Did he think she was that devious? Or just insane? In any case, it offended her to be perceived as a gold digger. When had she ever not worked for a living? Even when she’d lived with Ari, she’d contributed to caring for all of his homes, working right alongside the staff whenever a dinner party or other entertainment was planned. Ari hadn’t wanted her to hold an outside job, or even to finish her degree in sports nutrition and physiology, wanting her instead to manage his homes and devote herself to Wesley. And she’d thrown herself completely into the role of mother, volunteering at Wesley’s school, going to soccer and rugby and cricket practices. Shutting off the water to soap her hair, Bronwyn wondered if being a mother counted as work to someone like Patrick Stafford.
Like Patrick?
What was Patrick actually like? He seemed so different, even dressed differently, from the way he had as a student. Now he was a stockbroker, and the wild, romantic dreamer was gone. Bronwyn knew that there was a steadiness and self-confidence to Patrick now that hadn’t been there when he’d been fantasizing different futures for himself. But there was an aloofness and distance, too. And Bronwyn was curious. Because of Wesley.
But it wasn’t because of Wesley that she noticed that Patrick was still a very attractive man, more attractive, if possible, than he had been at university.
Well, that was natural. There was probably even some biological reason for her being interested in Patrick that way, something to do with his being Wesley’s father. In any event, she wouldn’t be seeing much of Patrick, once she started work in the kitchens.
If she was hired at all.
Patrick was not sleeping. He resented that he wasn’t sleeping, that seeing Bronwyn should keep him awake. What was she up to anyway? Why had she come to Fairchild Acres, knowing he was there, to get a low-paying job in the kitchens? The answer had to be him. She denied wanting money from him, but Patrick wasn’t sure he believed that. Did she want to take up where they’d left off? Crazy. But she was here for a reason. Everything Bronwyn did was deliberate. Coincidence did not stretch far enough to explain her winding up in the same place as him.
But the question troubling him was whether the puzzle of her being here was what was really keeping him awake. Or was it just Bronwyn? She was, if anything, more beautiful than before. It was easy to believe she’d been living in luxury for the past ten years. Her honey-colored skin showed no sign of age.And that hair, the long red hair, the green eyes, whose color struck so forcefully. Lying awake in the dark, he saw not a money-grubbing widow with schemes in her heart; he saw Bronwyn. Bronwyn, Bronwyn, the only woman who’d ever broken his heart. The only woman he’d truly loved.
Chapter Three
“My only trouble with giving you this job,” said Mrs. Lipton the next day, “is that you’re overqualified. I haven’t had much luck keeping people from the city, let alone university-educated workers, here.”
“I didn’t finish,” Bronwyn said, because this was an important distinction as far as she was concerned.
“Nonetheless. Well, we’ll give it a try. We have a room in the employee bungalow for you and another for your son. Ordinarily he would have to share with the other children, but there are none living in the bungalow. Only a few of the staff actually live at Fairchild Acres. Most of them are local.”
Bronwyn nodded. “Thank you very much. I’m glad for the chance to do this job.”
The housekeeper, a middle-aged woman whose hair was neatly styled in a short cut, studied her. “Are you a horse lover?”
“Not especially,” Bronwyn admitted. Then she realized her error.
Mrs. Lipton said, “What brought you from Sydney? I would think, with your background, you could have found a better job there.”
Bronwyn was ready. She’d known this question would come up. “I wanted a change of scene for my son. I was searching for the kind of place where I wanted him to grow up and decided that the Hunter Valley looked perfect.”
“But it’s expensive to live here, dear, if you’re looking to own your own home sometime.”
Bronwyn tried again. “My husband died recently, and it was painful to remain in Sydney.” That much was certainly true. Reading the housekeeper’s sympathetic look, she decided this would be her main story from now on.
“Well, let’s get you your Fairchild Acres shirts, and then I’ll take you out to the kitchens. Or perhaps first we should settle your boy into the cottage.”
“Thank you,” Bronwyn said again.
Wesley was her worry now, Wesley with too much time on his hands while she was in the kitchens. The sooner she could register him in the local school the better.
“Lipton!”
The voice came from outside. The housekeeper stood up, and so did Bronwyn. They went outside, and Bronwyn hung back as an elderly woman in trousers and a button-down shirt said, “There is a dog in the kitchens. We can’t have that. Not around the food preparation area. It’s a stray, I think. It would be best if you could call someone to take it away.”
Wesley, sitting on the stone wall outside the office, peered up at Bronwyn, and she gave him a small wave, but kept her attention on the figure who was giving instructions about a dog. This was Louisa Fairchild, and Bronwyn couldn’t help staring. The woman radiated confidence and charisma, and Bronwyn could tell that Mrs. Lipton genuinely liked her employer. Bronwyn could think of no finer recommendation for a human being.
Louisa Fairchild glanced over at her. Mrs. Lipton said, “Bronwyn Davies, our new dishwasher. Bronwyn, this is Miss Fairchild.”
Bronwyn tried hard to meet the older woman’s eyes as Louisa gave her a curt nod, seeming preoccupied.
“The dog, Lipton,” Louisa Fairchild repeated.
Bronwyn was glad to escape the matriarch’s piercing gaze.
If only she never finds out who I am or that I was married to Ari.
Doping horses. Racing fraud. Damn it, Ari. Why didn’t you think about Wesley and me, about what would happen to us if you were caught?
She blinked the thought away.
All her recollections of Ari were now tinged by what she hadn’t known about him. Or had part of her known? No, not really, Bronwyn answered herself honestly. She’d assumed that not all his investments were politically correct, but she’d never believed he’d do something criminal.
Maybe you didn’t want to know, Bronwyn.
If she hadn’t loved him, all of it would be easier now. But she’d loved him all right. Fallen for him hard since he was the antithesis to Patrick’s youthful romanticism. Ari was steady, responsible, so appreciative of her. She’d loved her life with him.
But now, how could she mourn a crook? Who would
care that he was dead or that she missed any part of him? He’d left her so isolated. She hadn’t maintained one friendship separate from her life with him. Couples. They’d known other couples, Ari’s business associates. If these friends weren’t implicated in Ari’s fraud, they’d been hurt by association with him.
Yes, she’d needed to get out of Sydney, had even considered leaving the country, starting over where no one knew her, where no one would see her as a wife who’d turned a blind eye to her husband’s criminal activities.
Marie dragged the animal in question out of the kitchens. He was just a puppy and looked half-starved.
Louisa Fairchild said, “Looks like a dingo to me.”
Marie watched her employer with an apprehensive expression, then told the dog, “You stay out.”
The puppy, who was gray with black spots, sat down and scratched one oversize black ear.
“Part heeler,” Mrs. Lipton pronounced.
“Well, let’s get him out of here.”
“I can watch him and make sure he doesn’t go back inside.”
Bronwyn stared. It was Wesley who’d spoken. He had jumped up from the stone wall where he sat beside the baggage they’d lugged from the house. Today he wore his child-size Manchester United uniform, and it struck Bronwyn how small he was, how young, as he marched up to Louisa Fairchild. Bronwyn wanted to tell him to stop, to sit down again, but her mouth wouldn’t work.
The elderly woman gazed at him as though she’d never seen a child before. “Where did he come from?” she asked Mrs. Lipton.
Bronwyn stepped forward, her hand on her throat.
The estate manager gave her a reassuring smile. “He’s your son, isn’t he, Bronwyn?”
“Wesley,” Bronwyn supplied.
“Theodoros,” said Wesley, too softly to be heard by anyone but his mother, who considered infanticide.
He went over to the puppy and crouched down beside it, and the dog licked its lips, sticking out his tongue, lifting his head.
