by Margaret Way
“You’re taking an interest.” There was a faint taunt in her voice.
“Just admiring the decor. Someone has created a certain style. I love the Chinese pieces.” He bent to take a closer look at the cabinets. He thought the wood was huanghuali, the principal hardwood used by Chinese cabinet makers. He thought he was right dating them as late Qing.
“Me, too,” she said, offhandedly. “As for the decorating, someone had to make the effort. And find the money.”
“I’m sure your friends appreciate it.”
“Well...” She let a further comment slide. She knew her flatmates took advantage of her. She allowed it. “Like a cup of coffee? Glass of wine? Maybe a salad? You could join me. I haven’t had a thing to eat.”
It suddenly struck him he was hungry. “That’d be nice, Carol. May I call you Carol?”
“Caro,” she said. She made a point of being called Caro.
“Carol is such a beautiful name.”
“What do you want from me, Damon?” She moved behind the black granite kitchen counter. “Is there something you have to tell me? Something about the family?”
She didn’t look in the least perturbed, so he decided to give it to her straight. From what he’d seen of her, he thought she could handle it. “Your grandfather passed away late this afternoon, Carol—at Beaumont, his country estate.”
Her blue eyes, a wonderful contrast to her ruby-red hair, flew to his across the dividing space. “You’re absolutely sure about that?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“So it’s all over,” she said, turning to pull out plates.
“Not for you, Carol,” he pointed out with some gravity. “You’re a major beneficiary in his will.”
She swung back sharply, her porcelain cheeks flushed over her high cheekbones. “You’ve got to be joking!”
“In no way. I’m your appointed lawyer.”
She stared at him. He was no more than thirty, she estimated, though his manner had a self-assurance far beyond those years. He projected high intelligence and a quite staggering sexuality. He had everything going for him, the entire package: tall, dark and handsome; his classic features not bland but distinctive. He had a great head of hair, coal-black with a natural wave, brilliant dark eyes that took in everything at a glance.
She had the oddest feeling of recognition. Had she seen him before? She couldn’t have. She would have remembered; maybe a photograph in a glossy magazine, squiring some glamour girl? He looked just the kind of guy who attracted women in droves. The name, too, seemed familiar. Damon Hunter. Damon Hunter. It came to her in flash—Professor Deakin’s star pupil. The most outstanding student of law Professor Deakin had ever had the pleasure of teaching. That was pretty cool.
She appeared so engrossed in her speculations, Damon had to prompt her. “I hope I pass muster?” His resonant voice carried humour.
“You look like you make tons of money,” was her terse response. She had read about instant high-level arousal in novels. She hadn’t encountered it—until now. He was arousing feelings of which she had scarcely been aware. Not that he’d be interested in her. She was a twenty-year-old student, not some voluptuous beauty with a goodly share of experience in bed.
“Is that important?” he asked.
She had a sudden picture of herself as an instrument; a man like him could play a woman’s feelings at will. She shook her head so vigorously, her curls bounced. “No, but I thought Marcus Bradfield was my grandfather’s solicitor.”
“Was for many years,” he said. “But your grandfather appointed me in this case. I wanted to tell you about his death before anyone else did, or you simply saw it on TV. The media will have the news by now.”
“The great man is dead. Long live the king,” she said rather mournfully. “I shudder to think it might be Uncle Maurice?”
“We have to wait to see what transpires. Mind if I take off my jacket?”
“Go right ahead.” As she guessed he had a great body; all of his movements had an athlete’s grace. So, lawyer and action man. He had taken Tarik, who was strong, down without raising a sweat. She watched him place his tailored jacket over a chair before he loosened his silk tie. His every movement was imprinting itself on her brain. This was ridiculous. So ridiculous, she resented it.
She took the makings of a salad out of the crisper. “I don’t need a penny of his money. The way he treated me, the way the family treated me, was monstrous.”
He heard the deep hurt beneath the condemnation in her voice. “I agree, but I didn’t come here with apologies, Carol. The will speaks for itself. Your grandfather clearly wanted to make reparation.”
“My grandfather with the stone heart! Does the rest of the family know? My Uncle Maurice, Dallas and my creepy cousin Troy—I see him around. He’s even tried to chat me up. What a joke!”
“Has he really?” Damon found himself not liking that one bit. Her tone had implied Troy Chancellor’s approach hadn’t been cousinly.
“Alas, yes. I don’t like him. Let’s eat, before you tell me any more. I’m fast losing my appetite.”
“Can I help?”
She shook her head. “A salad is simplicity itself. Let me get you a glass of wine—red or white?”
“I’ll have red, if you’ve got it?”
“Mmm, I think so. Have a look in there.” She pointed to one of the Chinese cabinets.
He didn’t open the beaded doors immediately. He stood studying the piece of furniture that stood on rounded straight feet. “You know what you’ve got here?”
“I do indeed.” Her tone mocked. “I have a pair of pagoda-form side tables in my bedroom, but you’re not going in there.”
“You like Oriental furniture?” That was obvious. He knew Selwyn Chancellor had been a major collector.
“Who wouldn’t? If I get to know you well enough, I’ll show you my celadon jade carving. Qianlong.”
“Ah, another collector in the making.”
“I’m told I have the eye.”
“I’m sure you have. Like your grandfather. He was a renowned collector.” He opened one of the cabinet doors, studying the labels before selecting a bottle of Tasmanian pinot noir.
“I know.” Suddenly she was remembering the endless treasure trove her grandfather and his father before him had collected over the years. She had been just a little girl, yet her memories had stayed with her—the way her grandfather had held her hand as he had walked her down the long gallery filled with pictures in gilded frames, telling her the names of the artists and a little about them. She remembered his jade collection in the tall glass cabinets; all the Chinese porcelains; the tall “soldier” vases enamelled with birds and flowers; the blue and white porcelain; the famille rose and the famille noir. She remembered the wonderful famille verte fishbowls on their rosewood stands that had stood in the hallway. They’d always been filled with big pots of cymbidium orchids in full bloom. And this Damon Hunter asked her if she knew what she had?
He was saying something to her, but she could scarcely hear him. She was afraid she would burst into tears, she who never cried. How could a grandfather who had loved her so much turn heartless? She remembered how her mother had hated him and had inexplicably hated her gentle grandmother, who was so quiet and retiring and had always kept out of her mother’s way.
“Are you all right?”
She blinked hard, incensed she had come so close to weeping. “Of course I am,” she said crossly. “What have you got there?” Why wouldn’t he spot her momentary upset? She couldn’t remember when she had seen such X-ray eyes.
“A Tasmanian pinot noir.” He turned the bottle to show her the label. “It’s very good. Are you going to join me in a glass, or don’t you drink?”
“You know better,” she said briefly. A few times too many she had been photographed coming out of a nightclub with a few of her friends, looking a little on the wild side in short sparkly outfits with her hair in a mad crinkly halo. Okay so she enjoyed a gla
ss of wine! She didn’t touch drugs even when a few in her circle did. Soft drugs, the so called recreational kind. Getting high on drugs was of as much interest to her as bungee jumping.
He came behind the counter, so tall she thought she would just about reach his heart. He was a sexy piece of work and no mistake. She drew a deep breath, opening a drawer finding the bottle opener, then passing it to him. Their fingers touched.
Contact almost took her breath away. She grabbed a tea towel, as if to wipe the effect of it away. “The glasses are in the cupboard directly behind you,” she said shortly, finishing off her green salad; fresh baby spinach leaves and peppery watercress with a chopped shallot, a quick dressing of extra virgin olive oil, balsamic vinegar with a little Dijon mustard then a grind of salt and black pepper. She had added some goat’s cheese to the mix. Usually cubed croutons as well, but she didn’t have the time. The succulent slices of ham were already sliced and on the white plates.
“That looks good,” he said and meant it.
He was so close her body was humming like live power lines. “Super simple. You just have to make sure everything is fresh. My flatmates would live on takeaways if I weren’t there. Takeaways aren’t my scene.”
“Not when one can whip up a delicious meal in ten or fifteen minutes.”
She was at war with herself. She wanted him to move away. At the same time she wanted him to stay. She could smell his very subtle, very pleasant cologne. “So what do you survive on, or is there a woman in your life?” she asked briskly.
Bound to be.
“Simple food, Carol, but good, fresh produce,” he answered, pouring the wine. “I don’t do takeaways, either.”
“Which doesn’t answer the question.”
“No permanent woman in my life, if that’s what you mean.”
She was pierced by some sensation she thought had to be embarrassment. “I thought I told you it was Caro.”
“Maybe I got used to hearing your grandfather referring to you as Carol,” he replied gently.
* * *
He appeared to enjoy the meal she had prepared. She couldn’t taste a thing. To make up for it she had a second glass of wine. She realised what she was doing; she was trying to cover up an emotional crisis. Her collapse would have to wait for later. She had learned to keep her emotions to herself. Her mother wasn’t the caring kind. Indeed, Roxanne had acted as though rearing a child, especially a daughter with a mind of her own, was a real penance. Her stepfather, Jeff, had been nice enough to her, but he had started getting too touchy around the time she’d turned sixteen. She had been glad to get out of the house; her mother was equally glad to see her go. Her mother had come to regard her as some sort of rival.
It didn’t bear thinking about. She had no one really to confide in among her friends. They didn’t know what it felt like to be Selwyn Chancellor’s granddaughter, to be photographed wherever you went. They thought it was fun to be in the picture; she hated it. The invasion of privacy, it was a kind of violation.
“What are you thinking about?” Damon asked. He had been watching her face. She had such a range of expressions. He knew the absence of tears beyond that glitter didn’t mean she wasn’t suffering in her way. He had learned a lot about her mother and her stepfather—nothing much good.
He didn’t want to think about what had made her break away. She was exquisitely pretty, like a Dresden figurine. He had heard it said her mother was as “hard as nails and twice as sharp.” Apparently she couldn’t deal with a daughter who, as she’d grown up, started to eclipse her. Now, that was sad—a kind of “mirror, mirror, on the wall” scenario. He wondered where Carol Emmett found comfort. Not that there would be any shortage of comforters. More now that she would have to cope with being the Chancellor heiress. The fortune hunters would emerge from the woodwork.
Afterwards he helped her clear the table. Carol made coffee. Her moment of weakness had passed. “So, what is it I’m required to do?”
“By tomorrow this will be front-page news, Carol. A media event. Your grandfather died at his country estate. That is where he wished to be buried.”
“I know. In the garden at Beaumont, alongside my grandmother, Elaine. We used to go for walks there. The grounds were so beautiful, and so big I thought it was an enchanted forest and I was the princess. When I was about four, my grandfather told me where he wanted to be buried. He loved me, you know. Then.” She swallowed hard.
“He always loved you, Carol,” he felt compelled to say. He hadn’t missed that little pained swallow. “He told me he’d wanted to fight your mother for custody.”
She broke in fierily, flatly contradicting. “He did not!”
“Let me correct you—he did. As his legal advisors, we told him winning custody of you was one fight he wouldn’t win. Your mother was your mother, a powerful person in your life. She was determined to keep you. She wasn’t letting go.”
“Spite, probably,” Carol found herself saying. It shocked her because it very likely was true. She’d no idea up until that point her grandfather had wanted custody of her. She fully intended to take that up with her mother. “My mother hated the family—my uncle Maurice, his wife, Dallas, but particularly my grandfather. It took me years to find out he had practically accused her of murdering my father. She would never have done that. What would be the reason?” She spread her hands.
“Your grandparents didn’t have a case.”
“I know that.” She didn’t believe for a minute her mother had wanted to dispose of her father. But then her mother was so good at deception. In her mid-forties, Roxanne was still a beautiful, sexy woman, a born temptress. But she wasn’t all that smart. Murder would have been difficult to pull off on the harbour. The Manly ferry, in fact, had come to her mother’s rescue. Even the floating cushions had been retrieved; never her father’s body. As a child she had prayed and prayed he had swum all the way to New Guinea, perhaps; he had never drowned, anything but that. Her father had been out on the harbour a million times. He was a fine sailor.
Damon Hunter’s voice snapped her out of her unhappy thoughts. “Allow me to be the first to congratulate you, Carol. You’re the Chancellor heiress.”
She gave a bleak laugh. “So I might as well get back my father’s name. I’ve never liked Emmett but it was a shield for the time. This won’t make anyone in the family happy. I do hope they’ve all been well-provided for, or am I in for a lengthy court battle?”
“No battle. Your grandfather knew exactly what he was doing. Sound mind, sound intent. I drew up the will. It’s ironclad. I should tell you at this point I have control over your inheritance until you turn twenty-one, which I understand is August eighth, next year?”
She gave him a taunting smile. “That means you have charge of the purse strings?”
“We can always discuss what you need. You don’t have to worry about any heavy-handed treatment. I’m here to protect your interests, Carol.” And to protect you, he thought, jolted by his instantaneous attraction to her. It was like being handed a bouquet of the most beautiful red roses, perfect buds awaiting full bloom but spreading their fragrance. He couldn’t think of a single young woman of his acquaintance who’d had that extraordinary effect on him.
“Sounds like I might need it,” she said wryly. “The truth is, I don’t want the money. On the other hand, I think I can do a lot of good. Rich people have a responsibility to give back to the community.”
“Your grandfather certainly did that.”
She couldn’t deny it. “So here I am, an heiress without warning. I think I’m in shock.”
“Well, you’re not jumping up and down,” he said.
There was such an attractive quirk to his handsome mouth. It struck her that her feelings were a bit extreme. “Everyone will hate me,” she said. “Why would I feel elated? Except I am, in an odd way. It’s not the money. It’s the fact Poppy—my grandfather,” she quickly corrected, “wanted custody of me. If only I’d known that. It would have giv
en me some comfort.”
She didn’t say her own mother had denied her that comfort. In death, her grandfather had left her rich enough to be independent of everyone—first up, her mother. They didn’t enjoy a good relationship. At least her mother had always been surprisingly generous when it came to providing for her. She had even bought her a flashy sports car when she had needed a car to get to and from university.
“You haven’t asked how much.” Damon wondered if she had any idea.
She shrugged a delicately boned shoulder. “I don’t want to know. Not yet, anyway. That’s way too mercenary. How much does anyone need? I just love big-business philanthropists, doing so much good, keeping their eye on things, not letting the money stray into the wrong hands.”
“Well, you won’t be in the their class.”
He had a heartbreaking smile. It lit up his handsome dark face with its gilt-bronze tan. She wondered if he were a yachtsman. Most likely he was; that tan was from the sun, not any sunbed. “I don’t want to be there when the will’s read,” she said with a faint shudder.
“I’ll be there, too, Carol,” he reassured her. “I expect I will have to go to the country house the day after tomorrow, maybe sooner. I’d like to take you with me. You should be there. The house is yours.”
Her finely arched brows, so much darker than her hair, shot up. “You’re serious?”
“Absolutely. Wills are serious matters.”
“I know that.” She coloured. “So I can tip them out—my uncle Maurice, Dallas and Troy, although he lives in the apartment at Point Piper. That belonged to Poppy.” Her childhood name for her grandfather was flying out regardless.
“That remains with the family,” he said. “Do you want to tip them out of Beaumont?”
She looked into his fathoms-deep dark eyes. “I have to think about that. I’m not finished my degree yet. I expect you’ve checked me out?” Of course he had. “I’m smart enough, apparently, but I’m not giving my studies my best shot.”
