Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | Innocent Mistress

Innocent Mistress
Margaret Way


When lawyer Jude Conroy tells Cate that she's just inherited a fortune from a wealthy man, everyone - including Jude - presumes she must have been the man's mistress….Cate insists she doesn't even know the man who left her the money. But Jude has learned to be cynical about women who play the innocent - and part of him doesn't believe her. But another part wants to go to any lengths to prove she's telling the truth….Because if she's going to be anyone's mistress - or anyone's wife, for that matter - she's going to be his!









“Put your arms around me?” Cate asked.


“You know where this could lead,” Jude said into her hair. “You’re far too beautiful for me to resist.”

“I want to forget everything for a little while.”

“Is that the only reason?” He turned her to look at him.

“Sex can be very liberating.” There was more than a hint of bravado in her tone.

“I asked if that was the only reason.”

Her expression changed. “You know it isn’t.”


Margaret Way takes great pleasure in her work and works hard at her pleasure. She enjoys tearing off to the beach with her family at weekends, loves haunting galleries and auctions and is completely given over to French champagne “for every possible joyous occasion.” She was born and educated in the river city of Brisbane, Australia, and now lives within sight and sound of beautiful Moreton Bay.




Innocent Mistress

Margaret Way










CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN




CHAPTER ONE


AFTER the well-heeled, well-endowed Poppy Gooding left his office in a swirl of silken perfume, Jude carefully wiped any lingering trace of lipstick from his mouth, then straightened his tie.

“Play it cool, Jude,” he advised himself.

It didn’t help. He knew he’d had about as many of Poppy’s come-ons as he could comfortably deal with. He’d never met a girl so oversexed. He suddenly recalled a movie about sexual harassment in the workplace in which the man was the victim. Poppy’s behaviour wasn’t as dastardly as that woman’s had been but her methods of seduction were at the very least questionable. Poppy completely lacked the degree of reserve one saw in properly brought up young ladies—although maybe that thought belonged in the Dark Ages… She most certainly wasn’t a virgin, but then virginity wasn’t as valuable as it used to be, either. The key point was that Jude had to stop her before she removed her clothes. Or his. He was the guy who’d always considered mixing business and pleasure high risk. In this instance it could see him right out of a high paid job.

After months of trying to fend her off he’d come to the conclusion Poppy had big plans for him. He was even tempted to get it over with and prove a big disappointment. Two of the guys in the firm, fellow associates, had given service beyond the call of duty. Maybe it was a required course of action? At present he was the guy holding out, resulting in a lot of ribbing from his colleagues.

The big problem was that it would be a bad, bad move to offend her. Her father just happened to be his boss, Leonard Gooding, senior partner in the prestigious firm of Gooding, Carter and Legge, corporate lawyers. Being invited into this firm usually didn’t happen for years, if ever, but he’d earned a lot of kudos along the way. He’d graduated top of his law class with first class honours. He was a good athlete, track and field which didn’t hurt, either—even couch potatoes like Leonard Gooding were sports mad. He could only be thankful Poppy had spent the previous six months overseas, no doubt spending a goodly portion of her father’s money. It was Poppy, the collector, who’d made the running almost from the day she laid eyes on him.

Women smiled on Jude. He’d be a fool not to have noticed, though it took them a little time to realize how keen he was on his bachelor status. He was twenty-eight years old. There was a lot of exasperating talk about his “blue, blue eyes” among the girls in the office. Blue eyes apparently scored well. The articled clerk, Vanessa, had even told him she wanted to pass his blue eyes on to her children. Even so Vanessa didn’t put him on the defensive like Poppy.

City life had enforced his entrenched view of women. Every last one of them was after a husband—preferably a rich one—they’d been brought up that way. It was intimidating for guys. Some of them thought Jude, as a husband, would do nicely.

The only thing was, he wasn’t in the running. Not yet. Most guys were happy to start considering marriage when they got to thirty or so but he wasn’t sure he would. Not that he played unobtainable—he’d had lots of nice girl-friends—but there were huge problems after The Knot had been tied. Marriage after the marvellous heady flush of the Big Day was a big letdown. Women seemed to live for the day alone as if they were no ever-after to occupy their time. The fabulous wedding dress—it needed to be white, the veil, the masses and masses of flowers, the picturesque church, the reception, just family and friends that turned into a crowd of four hundred. In his opinion, and on the evidence, they’d been planning it since they changed booties for shoes. The trouble was the excitement didn’t last and lots of times neither did the attraction.

Statistics proved too many marriages didn’t work out. Some of his clients had been married two and three times and they sure as hell didn’t give the appearance of being happy. In fact most of them had a henpecked look. Jude didn’t want his marriage—if he ever stopped flinching away from the hazards—to be a dismal failure. He didn’t want to see another kid, like himself, suffer. If the saddest thing in the world was a mother losing her child, it was just as sad to be a child losing its mother.

These days he got by playing fancy-free man-about-town. A month ago he’d made it into a list of the Ten Sexiest Men in the city, though he’d never returned the call of the woman journalist who had started the whole nonsense. In any event she turned up a glossy photo of him at a function and used that under the heading Local Heartthrob. There was no point in being outraged. Vanessa had made a bumper sticker of it and somehow managed to fix it to the back of his car. All the beeps and the cheeky little waves finally aroused his suspicions and he had stopped in a loading zone and ripped it off. No one seemed to take it seriously anyway, so he’d shrugged off the ribbing. It was a crazy world. Sometimes it didn’t seem worthwhile a quiet, country boy like himself trying to hold the line.

Nevertheless he’d changed a lot since his university days. Now he had to dress in sharp suits, shirts and ties, even his socks had been labelled cool by that journalist. He could kill her. Cool socks? That was a brain wave. His unruly blond hair—always had too much curl in it—was cut just right according to Bobbi his secretary who from the beginning had taken pity on him and told him the in places to shop, even where to have his hair cut. He no longer had short back and sides and as a result it skimmed his collar. He couldn’t stop it flicking up all over the place. He’d long ceased trying. The guy at the unisex salon who’d cut it told Jude with a roll of his eyes he was a dead ringer for some famous actor. For an eye-popping minute there Jude had thought the man with the scissors was going to kiss him, but no, he settled for a friendly squeeze on the shoulder.

The fact was he’d taken years to get himself together. He’d always liked to be comfortable, even sloppy. T-shirt, jeans, sneekers. He liked going to the gym, working out, as he was still an athlete at heart—he’d even won a bridge-to-city run. For public display he’d had to change in a hurry; he had to look like what he was, a young lawyer on the fast track, cited to get to the top. At the beginning he hadn’t minded Poppy’s advances all that much—he was as open to temptation as the next guy—if only she could have kept it low-key.

He’d never expected it would please Leonard Gooding who had the kind of granite face you wouldn’t wish on anyone—what if it came out in Poppy’s children?—if Jude became involved in a meaningful relationship with his only child. The possibilities for Leonard Gooding’s future son-in-law were limitless. Hints were already being thrown around about a full partnership by thirty, access to the top clients. There would be fresh territory to roam, an introduction to the charmed world of the hyperrich. Jude would have to laugh at all their jokes and let them beat him at golf.

Born and bred in the middle of nowhere, a small North Queensland sugar town, Jude sometimes thought he might be able to get used to that kind of life. He hadn’t studied as hard as he had to be a loser. His much loved Dad had been so proud of him. But then he had to confront a formidable truth. He saw no real possibility of ever selling his soul no matter the rewards.

The only way out for him was if Poppy got interested in someone else and the sooner the better. He realised however hard he worked, however smart he was supposed to be, it wasn’t beyond Gooding to turn on him at a moment’s notice and engineer his dismissal from the firm. Leonard Gooding was a shark.

Jude walked restlessly to the panoramic plate-glass window that overlooked the broad sweep of the River City. At this time of the afternoon the impressive steel and glass commercial towers were turned to columns of gold by the slanting rays of the sun. Any self-respecting shrink could diagnose his deeply ingrained resistance to matrimony as the by-product of his childhood. His mother had abandoned the best and kindest man in the world, his father. She’d abandoned him, her only child. That single event had influenced his entire mode of thinking.

“My gorgeous boy!”

That was the way she’d used to greet him. What a joke! It depressed him to even think about it. She’d never meant it at all. She was only acknowledging that physically he’d taken after her. He’d been a bright kid going on twelve, thinking all was right with his world, when she took off for the beckoning horizons. He only found out years later when his father finally told him the whole pathetic story, that his mother had gone away with a rich American tourist who had been holidaying at the luxury hotel where she was receptionist. His mother in those days was a knock-out. She was probably still able to turn heads with her golden blond hair, big melting blue eyes and luscious figure. According to his all-forgiving father no man could be blamed for falling in love with Jude’s mother, Sally. Sally was perfect.

It took Jude years to come to the realisation that when it came to his mother, his father had been one gullible fool. Even as a kid he’d been edgily aware that his mother who the gang he hung around with described as “hot” was a habitual flirt. She gave off allure like a body scent. Probably the rich Texan hadn’t been her first affair. At the time his father told him his mother needed a more exciting life. The town was a rural backwater.

“Sally wants a real taste of life. She’s so beautiful! She deserves more than I can give her.”

Did that excuse being unfaithful? Jude didn’t think so. His father had let himself be seen as dull and boring when the fact was he had been a clever, industrious, respected town lawyer. He loved books, revered literature. He loved music, too, classical, jazz, opera and he adored big game fishing. He had such a great sense of humour. Much as Jude’s father had grieved, extraordinarily he’d never held a grudge against his wife.

Jude did. Unlike his father he’d never wished his mother all the best. He and his father had been betrayed and Jude had learned the lesson that women weren’t to be trusted. They cheated on their husbands. If they didn’t get what they wanted, they moved on. If his father continued to love his mother until the day he died, Jude took the opposite stand. He might be thought hard and judgmental, but he hated her for sucking all the life out of his father who died soon after Jude made it into the firm. His father had flown to Brisbane so they could have a celebratory dinner together. He’d been so proud, telling Jude before he left, his dearest wish was that Jude would have a much better life than he had.

“Find the right girl. Marry her. Give me grandchildren. You’re the one who always kept me going, Jude. I’ve lived for you, son. You’ve done me proud.”

Trying to make his father proud was what had given him the edge, driven him to succeed. Then his father up and died on him. At least he’d been doing what he loved—big game fishing. He and a couple of his life-long pals were out on Calypso when a freak electrical storm hit. The waves, reportedly, had been huge. His father and one of his friends had been washed overboard. Both perished in the Coral Sea. Despite a wide search their bodies had never been found.

How I miss him! Jude thought, grief locked deep inside him. The town had given him all the sympathy in the world when he flew home for the memorial service. He and his dad had always been popular. He was the local boy made good. Now that he had a real chance of making it up to his dad for all his sacrifices his dad wasn’t around. Successful as he’d become the loss of his father shadowed Jude’s life. There’s no end to love in the human heart; no end to grief when love is lost.

Bobbi, Jude’s secretary tapped lightly on his door, breaking up his melancholy reflections.

“Manage to get rid of her?” Her hazel eyes were full of wry humour. Bobbi was petite, attractive, power dressed and happily engaged. Since he’d been with the firm she’d proved a real friend and a great legal secretary, loyal, thorough and accurate. He got on well with her sports reporter fiancé, Bryan as well.

“Don’t look so damned happy,” Jude groaned. “It was really, really hard.” He moved back to his desk. “Poppy Gooding has deluded herself into thinking she fancies me.”

“And how!” Bobbi choked on a laugh. “I nearly had cardiac arrest when she shoved past me. She mightn’t look like Leonard—she must get down on her knees every night and thank the Lord for it—but she’s a bulldozer just like him. She only wants you for your body, friend.”

“Why the heck me?” he asked in extreme irritation.

He really means it, Bobbi thought. Jude Conroy, every girl’s dream! A drop-dead gorgeous hunk with those dreamy, dreamy blue eyes! He even had a fan club in the building. If she and Bryan weren’t destined for each other Bobbi thought she’d have thrown her own cap in the ring.

“Want me to put around the rumour you’re gay?” she asked drolly.

He shot her a sharp glance that softened into his white lopsided grin. It made even the faithful Bobbi’s heart execute a little dance. If he wanted to, Jude could star in a toothpaste commercial.

“I doubt that would stop Poppy. She’d think she was the one girl who could turn a man around. What I need right now is a vacation.”



His cell phone rang when he was walking to his car later that afternoon. It was Bobbi on the line, her voice flustered.

“Listen, I just had a guy on the phone, kind of snarly sort of guy I bet kicks his dog, severely put out you weren’t here—name of Ralph Rogan. Says you know him. Wants to speak to you ASAP. Sounded like you were sleeping with his wife. I told him you were due for an important meeting that should break up around four. Number is—your part of the world curiously—got a pen?”

“Give it to me, I’ll remember.”

She laughed. “Jude, you’re a human calculator.”

“Right.” He had a special thing with numbers. Even as a kid he’d been able to add up stacks of them in his head not that kids used those skills anymore. Bobbi gave it to him and from the area code he immediately identified his area of Far Northern Queensland. He didn’t need any introduction to Ralph. Ralph Rogan was the son of the richest man in his home town of Isis and one of the richest men in the tropical north. Jude’s dad had been Lester Rogan’s solicitor and close confidant. Rogan Senior had trusted no one except Jude’s father. Jude and Ralph had gone to school together but they had never been friends. More like adversaries. The hostility was an on-going state of affairs exacerbated by Ralph’s “problems” with his domineering father. Rogan Senior had wanted and expected his son to shine, to come out on top. Ralph never had. Even as a boy he’d been to use Bobbi’s word, “snarly,” a bully who traded on the fact his father practically owned the town and huge tracts of land for development. It had to be something serious for Ralph to get on the phone to Jude. As soon as the meeting was over he’d place a call.



Piercing screams woke him, screams that echoed around the mansion. The minute Ralph Rogan heard his mother’s frenzied cries, he knew something was very wrong. It had to be his father. His father had been diagnosed with atherosclerosis, hardening of the arteries. It wasn’t surprising after a lifetime of indulgence, eating, drinking, smoking, womanising. Despite the warnings it never occurred to him to give anything up. With any luck he was dead. Ralph had lost every skerrick of affection for that big bull of a man who was his father. He didn’t consider he closely resembled his father at the same age.

Ralph shot out of bed, pulling on jeans and a shirt in a great hurry. He didn’t bother finding shoes. He rushed into the hallway, covering the not inconsiderable distance to his father’s suite in the west wing in record time. His mother and father hadn’t shared a bedroom in years. In his arrogance and insensitivity—Lester Rogan thought of his wife and children as property—he’d brought in workman to turn several rooms of the family mansion into a self-contained suite for himself. Ralph’s long-suffering mother had no back bone. She was a thin pitiful thing these days and she’d been left out in the cold. His father was like that: a law unto himself. That’s what came of too much money and power.

Inside the massive bedroom with its heavy Victorian furniture inappropriate to the climate Ralph found his mother slumped to the floor beside his father’s bed. She was sobbing bitterly, her thin body convulsing as though shocked and grieved out of her mind.

“I couldn’t sleep. I knew something had happened.” She turned her head, choking on her tears. “He’s gone, Ralph. He’s gone.”

“And good riddance.” Ralph Rogan let a lifetime of bitterness and resentment rip out. For moments he stood staring at his father’s body, his heavy, handsome face dark with brooding, a thick blue vein throbbing in his temple. Eventually he moved to check if his father was indeed dead. A huge man in life, in death Lester Rogan looked surprisingly lighter, shorter, his mouth thrown open and his jaw slack. His eyes were still open, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Ralph reached down to shut them, but abruptly drew back as if the corpse would rise up and bite him. He didn’t want to touch the man who had treated him so badly, who had never shown an ounce of pleasure or pride in him. All he’d received were insults and humiliations, comparisons with that clever bastard, Jude Conroy, the Golden Boy.

“He’s dead all right!” Coldly he informed his weeping mother, throwing the sheet over his father’s face with something approaching violence. “I’ll get Atwell over. He’ll have to sign the death certificate.” Ralph cast another disgusted look at his mother, before drawing her to her feet. “What the hell are you crying about, Ma?” he demanded in genuine amazement. “He treated you like dirt. He never had a kind word for you. He kicked you out of his bed. He had other women.”

“I loved him,” his mother said, disengaging herself from her son’s hard grasp and collapsing into one of the huge maroon leather armchairs custom built for her husband. It dwarfed her. “We were happy once.”

Ralph’s laugh was near wild. “What a load of drivel! It must have been a lifetime ago. There’s never been any happiness in this house. You’ll have to pull yourself together while I phone Atwell. Where’s Jinx?”

“Please don’t call your sister that, Ralph,” his mother pleaded. “Sometimes you’re so cruel.”

He rounded on her, tall and burly, deep-set dark eyes, large straight nose, square jaw, already at twenty-eight carrying too much weight. “I didn’t give her the nickname, remember? It was Dad. Okay, where’s Mel?”

“Here, Ralph.” A light soprano voice spoke from the door. “He can’t be dead.” Melinda Rogan cast one horrified glance at the sheeted figure on the bed, then advanced fearfully into the room.

“He is, darling.” Myra Rogan answered, holding out her hand to her dressing gowned daughter. Melinda was two years younger than her brother, a pretty young woman with her mother’s small neat features, soft brown hair and grey eyes.

“Well I’ll be damned!” Ralph mocked. “He never did a thing the doc told him.”

“It’s such a shock, Ralph.” Melinda swallowed on the hard lump in her throat. Bravely she went to tend to her mother, putting her arms around Myra’s thin shoulders. “Don’t weep for him, Mum,” she said gently, her own eyes bright with unshed tears. Death was death after all. “He never showed you any kindness.”

“He did once,” Myra insisted, rocking herself back and forth.

“Oh, yeah, when?” Ralph busy pushing buttons on the phone looked towards them to bark.

Myra tried to think when her husband had been kind to her. “Before you were born, a few years after that,” she said vaguely. Lester Rogan had taken little notice of his daughter.

“So he never cared for me from day one,” Ralph snarled.

“That’s not true. He loved you. He had great plans for you.” The fact that these plans never worked out was not always Lester’s fault.

Abruptly Ralph held up a staying hand, speaking into the phone to his father’s doctor.

“Here, Mum,” Melinda found a box of tissues. Copious tears were streaming down her mother’s face, dampening the front of her nightgown. Once her mother had been pretty, but for years now she had been neglecting herself, horribly aware her husband had no use for her.

“Atwell will be here in twenty minutes,” Ralph informed them. “Could you please stop all that hypocritical blubbing, Mum, and get yourself dressed. That man in the bed there—” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder “—has done us a huge favour. At long last we’re free of him and his cruel tongue.”

“Surely you mean at long last you can get your hands on the money,” Melinda challenged, suddenly looking at her brother as though he were the enemy. “You’re head of the family now. I tell you what, Ralph, I’ll take a bet you’ll turn out no better than Dad.”



It was hours before Ralph Rogan was able to make his phone call to his old sparring partner, Jude Conroy. Good old Jude, the big success story. The hotshot lawyer. There was no love lost between them. Once when they were kids, around thirteen, Conroy had whipped him good and proper for bullying some new kid, a snivelling little runt, small as a girl, who’d been admitted to their excellent boys’ school on scholarship. Ralph had never forgotten lying on the ground, wiping the blood from his nose and his mouth—a loose tooth. It was easy to beat up other kids. It was humiliating to be beaten up yourself. One day he swore he’d get even with Jude Conroy, school hero, champion of the underdog, young lion. Even Ralph’s mother had said he’d probably deserved his beating, taking Conroy’s side.

His father and Conroy’s father had been real close. Matthew Conroy had been his dad’s solicitor. Conroy knew all the secrets and he’d taken them down to the deep with him. Now Ralph was going to need a solicitor and loathe as he was to contact Jude, he knew he had to. Matthew Conroy had drawn up his father’s will but in the event of his death Lester Rogan had appointed Jude executor.



Lester Rogan’s funeral was underway before a young woman slipped into the back pew of the church. She knelt for a moment, then sat back quietly. A navy silk scarf was wound around her hair in such a way not a tendril escaped. She wore a simple navy shift dress. A few people at the back of the church turned to glance at her. Most were caught up in the eulogies, as first Ralph Rogan, then various towns-people walked to the podium to endeavour to say a few words for the late Lester Rogan, whose real estate kingdom included half the town and stretched for miles.

Though everyone tried—some better than others—there was no real feeling, not even from his son who stood with his hand over his heart, face beaded with sweat in the heat, rambling on about what a giant among men his father had been; how his father had taught him everything he knew. This had caused a little sardonic ripple to pass through the congregation that was quickly brought under control. Lester Rogan had not been loved and admired. Over the years he had become as mean as they come. Collective wisdom suggested Ralph was shaping up to be a chip off the old block.

The family sat up the front, son and daughter with their faces blank, Myra Rogan inexplicably weeping uncontrollably as though her husband had been the finest man ever to walk the earth.

Tears of joy, a lot of the congregation thought waspishly. She’d get over it. Probably take a grand tour overseas. There never had been any evidence Lester Rogan had physically abused his wife or children, but he’d kept tight control on them, allowing his wife and daughter little real freedom. At the same time they had benefited from his money. They lived in a sprawling two-storey mansion atop a hill with the most breath-taking view of the ocean. The womenfolk were able to buy anything they wanted—clothes, cars, things to keep them entertained—though Myra Rogan wasn’t anywhere near as attractive as she used to be. The expensive black suit she wore with a black and white printed blouse was much too big for her. The stylish, wide-brimmed hat with a fetching spray of dark grey and white feathers, spoiled by her haggard unmade up face.

Jude, who had arrived a scant ten minutes before the service began sat rows back on the family’s side of the aisle. How different this was to the memorial service that had been held for his father. Then the old timber church had been packed with mourners spilling four deep into the grounds. Today it was half filled.

People had wept as they spoke about Matthew Conroy’s innumerable kindnesses and the generosity which he’d wanted kept private, but the grateful had let their stories out. It was well known and perhaps traded on, in hard times Matthew Conroy never took a fee. He was always on hand with free advice. He listened to people’s problems when they came to him, tried to come up with solutions and most often did. Matthew Conroy had spent his life giving service to the community. All agreed he had been a wonderful father to his son. The proof was Jude himself.

No one seems to doubt I’m a winner, Jude thought. They don’t know about the scars. The young woman Jude had seen slip into the church late—his hearing was so acute he could near hear a pin drop—was barely visible at the back. It was as though she had deliberately withdrawn into the shadows. Only her skin bloomed. It made him think of the creamy magnolias that grew in the front yard of his dad’s house that now belonged to him. Whoever she was, he didn’t recognise her. Intrigued, he turned his head slightly to take another look. Immediately she bent forward, her face downcast as if in prayer, or she’d realised her presence had drawn his interest and didn’t welcome it.

By the time the service was over, she had disappeared. He even knew the moment she’d left. He thought he knew just about everyone in the town. Obviously she’d arrived fairly recently, or she was from out of town. He really couldn’t understand why he was so curious. He certainly wasn’t keeping watch on anyone else, not even poor little Mel, who had always wrung his heart.

Jude joined the slow, orderly, motorcade in the hire car Bobbi had organised to be waiting for him at the air terminal, some twenty kilometres from the town. It felt a little strange to be back to the snail’s pace of his hometown. No traffic. No nightmare rush hour. No freeways, no one-ways. You could go wherever you wanted with no hassle at all. There was limitless peace and quiet, limitless golden sunlight to soak in, tropical heat and colour, white sand, and the glorious blue of the ocean at your door. The rain forest and the Great Barrier Reef were a jump away. Isis had been a wonderful place to grow up.

The family and the mourners—not everyone who had attended the service came—spread out around the gravesite, all slightly stunned Lester Rogan was actually dead and being lowered into the ground. He’d always seemed larger than life, a big, burly, commanding man with a voice like the rumble of thunder.

The interment took little time. The widow was a pitiable sight. Who knows what she was thinking. Ralph, sweating profusely, shovelled the first spadeful of dirt onto his father’s ornate, gleaming casket with too much gusto. As Jude walked over to pay his respects to Myra and the family, he saw, not entirely to his surprise, the same young woman who had attracted his attention at the church. She was standing well away from the crowd, taking refuge and he suspected a degree of cover under the giant shade trees dotted all over the cemetery’s well-tended grounds. There had to be a reason she was there. He could see she was taller than average, very slender. She wore a simple dark dress that managed to look amazingly chic, no hat, but a matching head scarf tied artfully. It completely covered her hair.

Who was she? He wondered if the family knew her. It didn’t appear at all likely she was going to come across the grass to speak to them, unlike the other mourners who had formed themselves into a receiving line. They probably weren’t relying on their memories of the late Lester in order to summon up a few kind words, Jude thought, his eyes still on the mystery woman.

Myra, to his surprise, reached up to kiss him as he offered his sympathies which were genuine for her and Mel. Many the time he’d heard Ralph wish his father dead. Melinda looked so lost and pathetic he took her into a comforting hug, allowing her head to nod against him.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Jude,” she whispered, deriving strength from her childhood friend’s presence. Her own brother, Ralph, had been incredibly mean to her as a child. Jude had always been nice to her and she’d never forget that.

“Anything I can do for you and your mother, Mel, I will,” he was saying in his attractive voice. Melinda clung to Jude’s arm, hanging on his every word.

“This must have been a big shock for you, Mel, even if your dad had health problems,” Jude said.

“He didn’t try at all,” Mel lamented. “In fact you’d swear he was trying to kill himself. I couldn’t love him, Jude. He wouldn’t let me. You know that.”

“He wasn’t exactly fatherly material, Mel.”

“Whereas your dad was everything a father should be,” Mel sighed. “I know how cut up you were about losing your mother, Jude. You were very brave. But you had your dad and he was such a lovely man. My dad was very open about how stupid he thought we were.” Melinda dabbed at her eyes with a lace edged handkerchief.

It had an old-fashioned scent like lavender. Heck, it was lavender, the sort old ladies bought. Jude found that a little strange for so young a woman.

Nevertheless he shook his head. “Never stupid, Mel.” He comforted her. “You aren’t and you know you aren’t. It was just your father’s way of trying to keep you all down.”

“Well he succeeded.” Melinda bowed her head like a sacrificial lamb. “Death is always a shock, even when you’re half expecting it. He was my father, the most important person in my life. I feel a sense of awe he’s gone. You’re coming to the house aren’t you?” Her soft grey eyes held a plea.

“Of course. I’m executor of your father’s will. You do know that?”

“Ralph told us. I’m glad it’s you, not a strange lawyer. We really miss your father around here, Jude. He was very special. Like you.”

Jude gave a rueful smile. “I’m not so special, Mel. I’ve got my faults just like the next guy. There’ll be a reading whenever your mother feels up to it.”

Ralph, nearby, must have heard. He broke away from a group of mourners to stride up to them. “Thanks for coming, Jude.” The hard expression in his eyes didn’t match his words. In fact he looked confrontational. Good old Ralph, still mired in his adolescent jealousies and resentments, Jude thought. “It won’t take long at the house before everyone starts moving off. I’d like you to read the will straight after.”

Jude glanced towards Myra doubtfully. “Is that okay with your mother? She looks very frail.”

“It’s okay with me,” Ralph said tersely, turning on his heel again as though he was the only one who counted.




CHAPTER TWO


JUDE let the procession of mourners’ cars get away before he made a move towards the hire car. As usual Ralph rubbed him up the wrong way as soon as he opened his mouth. Now he wanted to get the reading over before he returned to his family home. He’d taken Bobbi’s advice and asked for his overdue vacation. Leonard Gooding had agreed on the spot, buoyed up by the fact Jude had managed to pull off a big, but complicated merger and in the process bring in new highly profitable business for the firm.

The path through the cemetery to the towering front gates was wide, but winding, flanked by enormous poincianas in full bloom. Their hectic blossoming had turned the very air rosy. The town cemetery was never a gloomy place even when the flowering was over. He should have had his eyes firmly on the drive but he happened to glance reflexively at his watch. When he looked up again, his heart skipped a beat, and every nerve ending tensed as he hit the brakes.

Right in front of him, a young woman was leaping back from the driveway to the grassy verge, her frozen expression betraying her shock at his car’s near silent approach.

“Damn!” Within seconds he was out of the vehicle, watching in dismay as first she staggered then fell to the grass, thickly scattered with spent blossom. Her heel must have caught on something, he realized, probably an exposed root of one of the poincianas.

He had a sensation of falling himself. He was always a careful driver. There was no excuse. “Are you all right?” Shoulders tensed, he bent to her, studying her with concern. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise anyone was still about.”

“My fault.” Graciously, instead of berating him, she accepted his hand, wincing slightly as he brought her to her feet. “I shouldn’t have been walking on the driveway at all. There are plenty of paths.”

“Are you sure you’re okay? You didn’t injure your ankle?” They were a touch away but neither moved back.

“It’ll be fine,” she said quietly after a minute.

It was balm to his guilt. “That’s a blessing.” They both glanced down at her legs; classy legs on show in her short skirt. She wasn’t wearing stockings in the heat, the skin tanned a pale gold. There was no swelling as far as he could see, but it could develop. “Jude Conroy,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Cate Costello.” She took his hand briefly, the expression in her beautiful green eyes not soft and lingering like the women’s glances he was used to but quietly sizing him up.

“You’re new in town?” He found himself staring back, all sorts of emotions crashing down on him like a wild surf. Up close she was even more lovely than his glimpse at the gravesite, like a vision from some tantalising dream. Her eyes had an unusual setting that bestowed an extra distinction on her delicate features. He realized straightaway she possessed an attraction that went beyond the physical though there was no denying that was potent enough.

There was the unblemished creamy skin he’d first noted in the church. Her large eyes, the feature that really stopped him in his tracks were a clear green, with a definite upward curve at the corners. The brows matched. Her face was a perfect oval, the finely chiselled contours off set by a contradictory mouth. The top lip was finely cut, the bottom surprisingly full and cushiony. Looking at her it was difficult not to dredge up the old cliché “English rose” but just as attractive to Jude was the keen intelligence in her regard.

He knew he was taking far too much time studying her, but she seemed quite unselfconscious under his scrutiny. She had to be around twenty two-or -three, but she seemed very self-contained for her age. Her voice, matched her patrician appearance; clear and well modulated. He wondered at the colour of her hair beneath the silk scarf and even found himself wanting to remove it. There was no question she had him in a kind of spell. Maybe it was the witchcraft of the eyes? If he could keep talking to her until midnight maybe she would simply disappear?

As it was, she stood perfectly still, looking up at him, but he had the feeling she was equally well poised to run. “I’ve been here for six or seven months now,” she said calmly in response to his question. “I know who you are.”

Women habitually used that line with him. The old cynicism kicked in. “Really? Want to tell me how?”

“Anyone who comes to live in this town gets to know about you and your father,” she explained matter-of-factly. “Your father was much loved and respected. You’re the local celebrity.”

He shrugged that off. “And you are?” Despite himself the words came out with the touch of steel he reserved for his job. Immediately he was aware of little sparks starting to fly between them. Whether they were harmful or not he couldn’t yet say.

“I told you. Cate Costello.” Her expression became intent as though she was deciding whether she liked or disliked him.

“Are you a friend of the family?”

She stepped back out of the brilliant sunlight into the shade. “Is this an interrogation, Jude Conroy?”

“Why would you see it that way, Ms Costello?” he countered, with a mock inclination of the head. “It’s a perfectly normal question.”

“If you’d said it in a different tone perhaps. Anyone can see you’re a lawyer.”

“You have a problem with lawyers?” He didn’t bother to hide the challenge.

“I’ve never had occasion to call on one. But I appreciate they’re necessary.”

“I do believe so,” he drawled. “And you, what do you do?” He made his tone friendly.

He was pouring on the charm, she thought, feeling tiny tremors ripple down her back. “Does it matter? We’ll probably never see each other again.”

He laughed, suddenly wanting nothing more than to get to know her better. “I can’t help be curious.”

“Well then,” she relented, “I own a small gallery near the beach. It’s called the Crystal Cave. I buy and sell crystals from all over the world.”

“As in gazing?” Amusement showed in his gaze. He wasn’t too far off in his assessment of her. “Obviously you don’t have the slanted green eyes of a storybook witch for nothing.”

A faint warning glitter came into those eyes. “I have no powers of clairvoyance, otherwise I’d have known you were a metre off running me over. I simply have a loving affinity with crystals.”

“Ouch, I don’t think I deserved that,” he chided. “I braked immediately.”

“I’m sorry.” Her lovely face registered her sincerity.

“However did you start with your crystals?” An onlooker might have supposed they were good friends or even lovers so intent were they on each other.

“I knew some people who were great fossickers and collectors. They introduced me to the earth’s treasures. I shared their love of gemstones and crystals. After all crystals have been used and revered since the beginning of civilisation.” She looked away from him and those intensely blue searching eyes. The admiration in them was clearly flattering, but there was keen appraisal, too.

“So how can I find the Crystal Cave?” he asked. “I’m on vacation for a month.”

“You intend to spend it here?” She looked back in surprise.

“Why not?” He slipped off his jacket, slinging it over his shoulder. “I was born in this town. I’ll probably die here. You sound a little like you’re wishing me on my way.”

“Not at all.” Colour rose to the cut-glass cheekbones. “It’s I who should be on my way.”

“On foot?” He took another look at her neat ankles. “Where’s your car?”

“It’s just around the corner.” She gestured vaguely.

“Okay so I’ll give you a lift. You’re not going up to the house then?”

“The family don’t know me, Mr Conroy.”

“I’m fine with Jude,” he told her. “I’m sure I’ll find your gallery.”

She made an attractive little movement with her hand. “That shouldn’t be a problem. Everyone knows it. It used to be Tony Mandel’s Art Gallery. The living quarters are at the rear. You’d have known Tony?”

“Of course I know Tony,” he lightly scoffed. “He was a constant visitor at our house. My dad bought a number of his paintings in the early days before he became famous. I thought he was overseas.”

She nodded. “He is. In London. His last showing was a sell-out. We keep in touch.”

“So there’s a connection?” Accustomed to asking questions, they were springing out.

“A family friend.” Her smile conveyed she wasn’t about to tell him more. “You really don’t have to drive me. I can walk. It’s not far.”

“I insist. Can’t have you hitchhiking.” His speculative gaze lingered on her face.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she questioned, with the tiniest frown.

“Forgive me, but I can’t help wondering who you are and why you’re at Lester Rogan’s funeral when you don’t know the family?”

She tilted her chin to look up at him. The knot in her stomach tightened. He had that confident demeanour tall men often have plus the superb body of an athlete. “Does it matter?” she asked, sounding a lot cooler than she felt.

“Damned if I haven’t got the feeling it could.”

“So you’re the clairvoyant now.” She smiled sweetly. “What’s your astrological sign?” She restricted herself to a brief glance into his eyes. She’d heard he was dazzling, but in his favour he appeared unconcerned with his good looks. What she hadn’t expected was the magnetism, the powerful attraction of that white, lopsided smile, the dimple that flicked deeply into his cheek.

“Leo,” he was saying, still sounding indulgent, amused. “There’s no scientific basis for astrology, Ms Costello.”

The sapphire eyes were full of mischief. “I was going to tell you names of crystals you might find useful,” she said coolly. “But no matter.”

“Gee, thanks. That’d be fun,” he lightly mocked. “Can you tell me something now?”

“If I can.” She managed to sound at ease, even though the air around them was so sizzling it burned.

“What’s the colour of your hair?” He could see he’d caught her off guard. “I’m intrigued by your covering it up.”

“Ever consider a bad hair day?” She cast him a quick glance.

“I’d be amazed if you were having one.”

“It’s obvious surely? I didn’t particularly want to be noticed. But as you seem to be so curious.”

Purposefully she raised a hand, lifting the silk scarf from her head. Another movement released the clasp at her nape.

He sucked in his breath sharply.

She shook her hair free, turning her head from side to side to loosen it. The breeze that swept along the driveway sent her hair swirling like a burnished veil. Sunlight reflected off myriad highlights like the prisms of a precious gem; gold, rose, amber, even pinks and orange. He supposed her long glorious mane would be best described as a gleaming copper.

“I can see what you mean about being noticed.” Entranced, he nevertheless kept his tone sardonic. “You speak like the scarf was protection?”

She met his eyes again, tucking her hair casually behind her ears. The richness of the colour made her eyes and skin zing. “It doesn’t do any harm to protect oneself. I really don’t need a lift, you know. Thank you for the offer.”

“No sense in walking in the heat. Deal?”

Her quick assessing glance skipped across his face again. “Okay.”

They turned back towards the car. “As a copper-head it’s a wonder your skin doesn’t burn?” he asked conversationally, moving ahead to open the passenger door.

She slid in. “Strangely enough it doesn’t, but I do use a good sunblock. The only hats I own were much too festive for a funeral.”

“That’s too bad. I’d like to have seen you in one.” He had a sudden mental image of her in a wide-brimmed hat weighed down with huge pink roses, something marvellously feminine and romantic. Ironically a hat like his mother used to wear to protect her skin. With a sudden twist of the heart he remembered how he’d fallen early and irrevocably in love with the image of a beautiful women in a picture hat. There were years when his parents had been passionate about their garden, working happily together. They’d even managed a beautiful sheltered rose garden, large, luxuriant shrubs and blooms, despite the humidity and attendant problems of the tropics. To this day he took a lot of pleasure out of sending roses to his dates.

It wasn’t until Jude had dropped the mysterious Cate Costello off at her car that he realized she still hadn’t revealed what exactly she was doing at Lester Rogan’s funeral.



Ten minutes later he arrived at the Rogan mansion, the overt display of the late Lester Rogan’s wealth. The house was huge. In his view no architectural gem but impressive for sheer size alone and the tropical splendour of the five acre manicured grounds. The entrance was electronically guarded, the long driveway lined by majestic Royal Cuban palms. A caretaker-gardener’s bungalow was off to the left through the screening trees. There was a pool and a guest-house at the back, but surpassing all the obvious signs of wealth, was the glorious blue sea.

There were plenty of cars littering the driveway and the grass. Jude found a spot, his mind still engaged with his meeting with Cate Costello. What could possibly have motivated her to attend Rogan’s funeral if she didn’t know the family? Or could he take that to mean she just didn’t know Myra, Ralph and Melinda, but she had known Lester? In what context? Lester could have bought out Tony Mandel’s beachside property that was the most obvious connection. These days with tourism in tropical North Queensland hectically blossoming the land would be very valuable for redevelopment at some future date. If the late Lester had been her landlord, why didn’t she say so? What was the big mystery? What was she doing sheltering amid the trees? He hadn’t the slightest doubt he’d find out.



An hour later hurried along by a less than subtle Ralph, all the mourners had departed, some of them definitely over the drink driving limit.

“Now’s as good a time as any to read the will,” Ralph rasped. “You’ve got it with you?” He threw Jude an impatient glance.

“Of course. I left my briefcase in the hall.”

“I’ll get it Jude,” Melinda offered. She was nearest the wide archway, one of a pair that led from off the entrance hall to the major reception rooms.

“Sure you’re up to this, Mrs Rogan?” Jude asked, taking another concerned look at Myra’s extreme pallor. “I can very easily come back tomorrow, or the next day.”

Ralph’s dark eyes shot red sparks of aggression. Here was a young man who was permanently angry. “For cryin’ out loud, Jude, how many times do I have to tell you? We’re ready to hear it? Right now.”

The school bully was still holding up. “I was talking to your mother, Ralph. Not you.” Unperturbed Jude looked towards Myra who was giving every appearance of being the next to follow her husband to the grave.

“Mum tell him.” Ralph scratched his forehead violently.

“No, Ralphie—no.” Myra pleaded, her voice tremulous.

Ralph stared at his mother for a bit, giving a can-you-believe-this roll of his eyes. “Listen,” he said very quietly as though addressing someone mentally challenged. “This won’t take long then you can take to your bed. For the rest of your life if you like.”

“I think she needs her bed right now,” Jude said, trying to keep the disgust out of his voice. “This has been a bad shock.”

“Get it over with, Jude,” Melinda advised, returning with his briefcase. In her own way she appeared as eager to hear the will as her brother. “I’ll look after Mum. She’s stronger than she looks. Dad hammered away at her for years.”

“Yes, get it over, Jude,” Myra’s opposition suddenly collapsed, as if she thought both her children were about to ostracize her.

“Okay.” Against his better judgment Jude deferred to their wishes. “Mel, you might like to settle your mother in a more comfortable chair.” Myra was perched like a budgie on the edge of a small antique chair that looked like it was only good for decoration.

Melinda put her arm around her mother, leading her to an armchair. Myra took her time, her movements those of a woman twenty years her senior. Jude suspected Dr Atwell had given her medication to get her through the service. She was pretty much out of it. Meanwhile, Ralph was shaping up to be as nasty as his late father.

“Sit the hell down, Mum,” Ralph confirmed Jude’s assessment by crying out in utter exasperation.

“You’re awful, Ralph,” his sister croaked, as if she couldn’t get past the big lump of misery in her throat. “A real pig.”

“Like Dad.” Ralph looked back at her out of his deep-set dark eyes. “Okay, Mr Hotshot, read the will.”

Jude stepped right up to him, two inches taller, a stone or more lighter, but obviously fitter by far. “Jude will do, thanks, Ralph, and a little more respect all around. I’m your late father’s lawyer, not your lackey.” Jude didn’t give a damn about how much money the Rogans had. Never had. It showed in the sapphire glitter of his eyes.

“So take it easy.” Swaying slightly from side to side, Ralph backed off. “Surely you can understand I’m anxious to hear how Dad left things between the three of us.”

“Of course.” Jude took a seat in the armchair nearest the big Oriental style coffee table so he could put the document down to read it. He withdrew the will from his briefcase, the collective eyes of the family trained on him. They wouldn’t be seeing shades of his father. Jude bore little physical resemblance to him, apart from his height. He even had his mother’s dimple in his left cheek just so he could never forget her.

“Hang on a moment I’ll get myself a drink. Anyone else want one?” Ralph lumbered off looking over his shoulder.

“Haven’t you had enough, Ralph?” Myra roused herself sufficiently to ask.

Ralph snorted. “Been countin’, Ma?” He poured himself a generous shot of whiskey from a spirits laden trolley, tonging a couple of ice cubes into it. “You, Jude?”

“Thank you. No.” As instructed, Jude wanted to get on with it, his expression as professional as any lawyer’s could get.

Ralph positioned himself on the opposite side of the coffee table, swirling the amber contents of his crystal tumbler, hunkering down his broad shoulders.

Jude showed them Lester Rogan’s will with the seal intact. He viewed their faces intently, then he broke open the long, thick envelope, beginning to read with suitable gravitas…

“This is the last will and testament of me, Lester Michael Rogan…”

Instantly he was interrupted by Myra’s stricken cry, one of many to be ripped from her throat. Was this for real? Jude agonised, wanting to shake his head in amazement. She had no reason to love her husband. Mel grabbed her mother’s hand and held it. It didn’t appear to be a gesture of comfort, more to shut her mother up.

“Would you mind keeping a lid on it, Ma. Is that too much to ask?” Ralph slewed another disgusted look at his mother. “Continue, Jude.”

Jude continued, managing from experience to keep his voice perfectly level despite the rippling shock he felt. “This will is to be held in terrorem,” he announced, looking up for a reaction.

“What the hell’s that? I haven’t a clue.” Ralph waved his glass, empty now except for a melting ice cube.

It means this will is going to be one big surprise, Jude thought without immediately responding. Any member of the family who contested Lester Rogan’s wishes could finish up with nothing. Ralph pre-set to take over his father’s real estate empire was visibly disturbed.

“Why don’t you let me read on,” Jude suggested. “I’ll explain all the legal jargon later.”

“Fine,” Ralph muttered through gritted teeth.

“This relates to disposition of property,” Jude advised them. “To my wife, Myra…” Not the usual beloved, that would have been too much to ask. This highly dysfunctional family knew little about love, Jude thought. It took five seconds for Myra to let out another agonized wail this one so sharp Jude winced. Both of her children however ignored her, continuing to stare fixedly at Jude. “To my wife, Myra,” Jude started off again, “I bequeath sole possession of the family home, land and all the contents therein plus the adjoining five acres. In addition she is to receive the sum of ten million dollars which should allow her to see out her days comfortably. In the unlikely event she remarry, the house and all land reverts to my son, Ralph. Myra can do what she likes with the contents.”

Ralph made a dramatic grasp at his heart. He had expected his mother was due for heaps more. Lester had to be worth around $85 to $100 million. Everyone knew he’d been shovelling money in! Wasn’t Myra legally entitled to a sizeable percentage of the estate? Ralph wasn’t sure. What he was sure of was she wouldn’t put up a fight. More for him. Like his dad, Ralph couldn’t seriously believe another man would lavish love on his mother.

Jude continued. “To my daughter, Melinda—” again no expression of affection, this was becoming a habit “—I bequeath an annual income of seventy-five thousand dollars to be paid from the trust established for this purpose. The payments will continue up until such time as she marries. On her wedding day she will receive as final payment five million dollars.” No gifts, no mementos, not even a pair of Lester’s favourite cuff links. What code had Lester stuck to?

Peanuts, Ralph was thinking, a triumphant laugh escaping him. “Mean old bastard.” That only meant one thing. He was the big winner. At long last after all these years of humiliation he was going to score big time. He’d have control of everything. As long as he lived he’d never have to take anything from another living soul. He was powerful. Rich. Ralph’s bloodshot eyes began to gleam. He could buy and sell Golden Boy Conroy.

“To my son, Ralph, named after a man he couldn’t in any way hold a candle to, I bequeath my collection of sporting trophies and motor cars, my motor yacht, Sea Eagle, my portrait by Dargy in the study and the sum of five million dollars in the hope he can do something with himself in the future.” Jude glanced up. The tension in the room was so thick he could have cut it with a knife.

“Go on, go on.” Ralph jumped to his feet as though he’d been attacked with an ice pick. “There’s more. There’s gotta be more. I’m the heir!”

“Of course there’s more, dear,” Myra consoled him, albeit fearfully, the pale skin of her face and neck mottled red.

“Of course there’s more,” Melinda chimed in, characteristically satisfied with her lot. “Please sit down again. Go on, Jude.”

Jude felt a certain tightness in his chest. He didn’t want to say this. “To Jude Kelsey Conroy, son of the only man I’ve ever trusted, Matthew John Conroy, a most honourable man, and in recognition of Jude’s devotion to his father and his own outstanding merits I bequeath the sum of one hundred thousand dollars knowing he will use it wisely. The residue of my estate, land, houses, rental properties, share portfolio I hereby bequeath to Catherine Elizabeth Costello, spinster, of the…”

Whatever else Jude, more dismayed than pleased with his windfall, was about to say, it was cut off by Ralph’s bull roar. It would have been pretty scary to a lot of people.

Jude wasn’t one of them. “Do you want to hear the rest of this, Ralph?” he asked crisply. “I should say I knew nothing of my bequest.”

“When your dad drew it up?” Ralph snarled with a curl of the lip. “I bloody well don’t want to hear any more of this.” He picked up his crystal tumbler and hurled it across the living room where it smashed to smithereens against a large bronze sculpture of a rodeo rider atop a bucking horse. Rage, shock, contempt was written across his face.

“Did the old fool go mad?” he demanded of them all, though no one came up with an answer. “Catherine Elizabeth Costello. Who is she? Some fancy whore he had on the side? What hold did she have on him? I can’t believe this. It’s like my worst nightmare. Who is this woman? The woman he wanted to marry? Not Ma?”

Jude was struggling hard to master his own shock. Now he knew for certainty that Cate Costello and trouble went together. He stared at each member of the family in turn. “Do none of you know her?”

Myra shook her head vigorously. At least she seemed to have snapped out of her catatonic state.

“I know of her,” Melinda admitted, staring at Jude. She looked the very picture of bewilderment, which seemed to be her general condition. “She runs a gallery, the Crystal Cave, near the beach.”

“What does that have to do with us?” Ralph bellowed, reaching down for his father’s will with the obvious intention of tearing it to bits.

Jude swiftly removed it from harm’s way, while Ralph glared at him. “You knew about this?” he demanded.

Jude shook his head ready to give Ralph a good shove if he decided to get nasty. Not that he altogether blamed him. Who was Catherine Elizabeth Costello and what had she been to Lester Rogan? “You saw me break the seal. I’m as shocked as you are.” For various reasons he didn’t announce to the family he had already met Rogan’s heiress. One of them was to protect her, another was to avoid getting into a fistfight with Ralph. Ralph in this mood was as destructive as a boxer with a sore head.

“She’s young,” Melinda frowned hard in concentration, gripping her mother’s hand as if it might assist her recollections. “Younger than I am. She’s beautiful. She has the most wonderful hair. The colour’s sort of indescribable, red-gold. I’ve seen her in the town any number of times but we’ve never actually met.”

“She moved here,” Ralph growled, banging his muscular arms together. “I remember now. The chick at Mandel’s old place. I’ve had her description from quite a few of the guys. To think I meant to check her out when I had the time! Dad saw I had as little spare time as possible. I don’t get this? What would a good-looking young chick have to do with my big ugly geriatric dad?”

Myra whistled indignation through her nostrils. “No one could have called your father old or ugly,” she burst out, in her loyal, long-suffering wife mode. “He wasn’t even sixty. Sixty these days is young I might remind you. Your father was handsome as you’re handsome but you’d better lose some weight. And very soon. I’m amazed you can still get into your clothes. For Heaven’s sake, Jude,” She turned her attention away from her near apoplexic son. “You have to advise us. This has taken us all by shock. You’re telling me Lester has left the bulk of his estate to a young woman none of us knows?”

“That’s it, Mrs Rogan.” Jude threw up his hands. “I don’t understand what’s happened here. I confidently expected the estate to be divided between the family. I have no idea why your husband did what he did, but as the appointed executor of your late husband’s estate, I promise you I’ll find out. I have my responsibilities.”

“You bet you do!” Ralph dredged up a lifetime of jealousy and irritation. He was breathing hard through his large, straight nose, making a surprisingly loud whistling noise. “I always knew my dad was a mean bastard. I never figured he was a lunatic as well. He’s shafted me. He’s shafted the whole family. Even when he’s dead he’s punishing us.” The destruction of his hopes and dreams was written all over Ralph’s face. “He won’t get away with it. The money is rightfully mine.”

“Ours,” Melinda piped up to keep the record straight. “Mum’s.”

“What the hell would you two know to do with it?” Ralph glared at his sister, standing up to get himself another drink. “You and Ma know nothing about business. You’ve spent your life on your backsides. He mightn’t have loved you but you had everything else you wanted. You never even had the guts, Mel, to find yourself a job. How many chicks your age haven’t actually had a job? Anyone would think you couldn’t read or write.”

“You can stop that now, Ralph,” Myra admonished in an astonishingly severe voice. “I needed Mel at home.”

“So both of you could watch the flowers grow?” Ralph threw back his head and laughed. “Ah hell!” He reached out in extreme frustration sending a pile of glossy magazines flying. “You’re the big shot lawyer, Conroy, what’s your advice?”

“Nice of you to ask me, Ralph. The will would only be invalid if your father had been of unsound mind when he made it,” Jude pointed out in a deceptively calm voice. “As far as I know there wouldn’t be a soul around who could prove he was. Your mother has rights by law, family home, etc. In that regard, she’s been provided for. You and Mel don’t actually have rights as such, Ralph. Your father was free to do as he liked with his money. You and Mel have been provided for. In terrorem means in layman’s language if any of you contest the will you’ll get nothing.”

Ralph executed a full turn, swearing violently. He slammed his fist down on the mahogany coffee table, the steam of anger rising off him. “What if the old devil was insane? What if this girl had him wound around her little finger? What if she bamboozled him into making the will in her favour? I wish I knew where she came from.”

That makes two of us Jude thought. “You could contest the will on that basis, Ralph,” he offered a legal opinion, actually feeling sorry for the guy. “Work the duress angle. But I’m duty-bound to tell you legal proceedings could risk your inheritance. What’s more, your mother has first claim on the estate. If you wanted to fight it your mother has to initiate the action. She could lose. That would be a terrible result. What I have to do is meet with this young woman and establish the connection.”

“Even your dad, that honourable man, betrayed us.” Ralph looked across at Jude with open hostility.

Jude’s whole body tensed. “Don’t bring my father into this, Ralph. You’d better know right now I won’t stand for it. My father carried out your father’s wishes.”

“Shame on you, Ralph.” Melinda’s soft voice turned shrill with rebuke. “You know the respect Dad had for Mr Conroy. Dad was always interested in Jude, too. Dad put a lot of store in brains.”

“You were behind the door when they were handed out,” Ralph taunted his sister. He turned his glance back on Jude. “I bet your dad told you all about it.”

“I’ve got a couple of things to say, Ralph.” Jude, who’d had just about enough of Ralph even given the years in-between, looked at him out of steely eyes. “Mel was actually considered a good student, remember? She got good grades.” He never added “unlike you” but it hung in the air. “My father said nothing whatever to me.” Jude stood up, quietly returning the time bomb of a will to his briefcase before snapping it shut. “It’s called lawyer-client privilege. My father was absolutely clear about his role. I’m very sorry, believe me, your father’s will wasn’t what you all wanted, and confidently expected. As your father’s executor I have to pay Ms Costello a visit.”

“Just be sure you report back to us straight away,” Ralph threw up his big head belligerently.

“I’m not your lawyer, Ralph,” Jude pointed out. “I act as executor for your late father’s estate.” He turned to Myra, his hand out, a sympathetic smile in his eyes. “As a family friend, Mrs Rogan, if you do wish to retain me I’ll do everything in my power to help you.”

Myra stood up, still holding his hand. “Thank you so much, Jude. We do need your help. My boy needs help. I can’t take all this in. Everything has been such a shock.”

“I can appreciate that, Mrs Rogan.” And how!

“I’ll walk you to the door, Jude,” Melinda offered catching hold of Jude’s arm. “I’m so glad you’re here for us. I guess we’ll find out soon enough what this Catherine Costello was to Dad.”

What indeed! Jude felt all kinds of horrors creep along his skin. He and Cate Costello were strangers though they had spoken briefly. Nevertheless he wasn’t sure he could deal with the possibility she might have been Lester Rogan’s mistress. It wasn’t as though such things didn’t happen. Rich powerful men, even geriatrics as Ralph had suggested, didn’t have much of a problem picking up female trophies. But how could a young woman so beautiful and seemingly so refined as Cate Costello be part of anything so totally ugly? The very idea didn’t so much disgust as numb him. Life was so complicated. He doubted he would ever reach a period in life when it wasn’t.




CHAPTER THREE


HE DIDN’T mean to deal with the issue today. He wanted time to think about the whole situation at least overnight.

He went home. Jude focused his gaze on the high beach road that was the quickest route to his house at Spirit Cove some three miles from the Rogan mansion. The narrow road, divided by a white line down the middle, clung on one side to the glorious blue ocean; on the other, beyond an open space of lush tropical vegetation were the plantations; sugar cane, banana, mango, pineapple, avocado, new species of tropical fruits some of which he’d never even tasted.

The town had grown, extending much further south along the coast road and up the low indigo hills of the hinterland. The hills, tropical rain forests, were full of beautiful birds, gorgeous parrots, and plants. There were tree dwelling orchids, the dendrobium, the state flower of Queensland, spider orchids, angel orchids, terrestrial orchids, the extraordinary bromeliads with their vividly coloured centre leaves. He knew all those hills. He had explored them as a boy.

The golden disc of the sun was hot and brilliant. There was a bluish haze over the water. Blue water all around, glittering as if a billion metallic sequins had been cast on the rolling surface. Blue sky above. This was the tropics. Ineffable gold and blue.

He’d lowered the passenger window so the sea breeze could waft in. It bore the fragrance of sea water and salt mingled with the tropical fruits that grew nearby and the delicious scent of flowers. The lovely frangipani that grew everywhere in profusion, the common cream-yellow-centred flowers and nowadays almost as many pink and red. There were frangipanis twenty feet high in his home garden and the scent when they were in flower was so exquisitely heady as to be near unbearable. The frangipani were as ubiquitous as the indestructible oleanders of many colours that massed in great numbers around the cove where he was heading.

As he drove he could see draped over every fence and outbuilding a spectacular array of flowering vines; golden trumpets blazing away, the flashy Morning Glory, jasmines in flower all year round, allamandas and black-eyed Susans, the flame vines and the giant solandras. One had to be very careful planting vines in the tropics. They had a habit of running rampant, in no time at all turning into impenetrable jungle.

At least the lush beauty all around him was calming his thoughts. They’d been heading off in all directions, mostly centred on the mystery woman, Cate Costello. She’d fooled him with her clear direct gaze.

He couldn’t bear to think of her as Lester Rogan’s mistress. For that matter he couldn’t bear to think of any man’s hands on her which didn’t exactly make sense. He didn’t even know her. Was it possible there was a biological tie to Rogan? There was no evidence of it in her appearance. She bore no physical resemblance whatsoever to him—no single feature, eyes, mouth, nose, chin let alone the hair colour. Could she possibly be Rogan’s long-lost illegitimate daughter? She’d told him she didn’t know the family. She’d lied. She definitely knew Lester Rogan. That was a bad start.

He remembered those beautiful eyes, their cool green colour emphasized by her delicate dark brows and thick eyelashes, startling given the copper hair. Maybe that cascade of glowing silk was dyed? Women changed their hair colour all the time. There were lots of things he had yet to learn about Cate Costello. So far he’d learned she was hiding a great deal.

As had the late Lester Rogan, real estate tycoon. Why? His career wouldn’t have suffered had he acknowledged paternity of a child other than his son, Ralph and his daughter Melinda. His wife, Myra, was so completely dominated she wouldn’t have given him a terrible time had he confided in her or simply produced a surprise offspring as a fait accompli.

Jude groaned aloud. Lester Rogan wasn’t her father. He couldn’t be. He wouldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t his own father have known? His dad was one of the few people Lester Rogan had ever been known to confide in.

So what was the story? He let his mind range over a half a dozen scenarios all of which he hated. Surely he hadn’t let a complete stranger get under his skin? He wasn’t ready for that kind of connection with any woman much less one who gazed into crystal balls. He was depressed, too that she had lied to him. He hated lies.

Minutes later he arrived home. An old fishing mate of his father’s, Jimmy Dawson, though not a caretaker as such—Jimmy had his own little bungalow on the edge of the rain forest—kept the grounds under control. At least the jungle hadn’t set in. He got out to open the white picket gates, looking up with deep nostalgia at the handsome white house that stood tall against the turquoise sky. This was his much loved home right up until the time he had started his legal career in the state capital. Two storied it was surrounded by wide verandahs with a green painted galvanised roof and glossy emerald-green shutters to protect the pairs of French doors along the verandahs in times of tropical storms. A wide flight of six steps led to the porch.

His mother had always kept two huge ceramic pots planted with masses of white flowers flanking the double doorway with its beautiful stained-glass transom. Towering palms stood in the large, very private grounds, the lawns a carpet of lush green. Obviously Jimmy had seen to the mowing. The wonderfully spectacular poincianas were in full bloom as were the flame trees. On either side of the house the magnolias carried great plate-sized blooms, creamy-white and resplendent over the rich dark green leaves burnished underneath.

The flower beds had not survived although agapanthus, strelitzias, cannas, cassias and gardenias had gown back to the wild. The long fences on either side of the house were totally taken over by a dense screen of King Jasmine. Jude supposed the timber had rotted, teetering beneath the rampant vines which were so strong they were virtually self-supporting. It would be getting too much for Jimmy even with help. Jimmy was much older than Jude’s father, around seventy but wonderfully fit and wiry or he had been the last time Jude had seen him about a year ago. A year at Jimmy’s time of life was a long time.

He had rung Jimmy to let him know he was coming. The house had been aired. There was milk, butter, cheddar cheese, bacon and eggs, a whole roasted chicken, a bottle of chardonnay, four jars of cumquat marmalade in the frig—cumquat marmalade, brandied cumquats, pickled cumquats, you name it, cumquats were the base of Jimmy’s home made specialties—Jimmy like his dad didn’t bother growing the miniature fruit in pots like some people. He grew them in long hedges as a windbreak, always teeming with fruit or flower. Jude looked in the bread bin, found a fresh loaf. There was tea and coffee in the pantry, a few more groceries and a bottle of whiskey—he laughed at that.

Jimmy was a great guy, an honourary uncle to him when he was growing up. His throat tightened with affection and gratitude. Jimmy had been organised to go fishing with his dad that terrible day only another friend of Jimmy’s had stumbled over a snake on his way home from the pub and got bitten for his trouble. Jimmy, being a drinker, was on hand to get his friend to the hospital. The rest was history.




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/margaret-way/innocent-mistress-39906818/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.