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Australia's Most Eligible Bachelor / The Bridesmaid's Secret: Australia's Most Eligible Bachelor
Margaret Way

Fiona Harper


AUSTRALIA’S MOST ELIGIBLE BACHELORMargaret Way Corin Rylance is super-handsome, super-rich, and way out of farm girl Miranda Thornton’s league. Until Corin’s sister takes Miranda under her wing and puts her within touching distance of Corin. Join Miranda as she steps into the glittering world of The Rylance Dynasty.THE BRIDESMAID’S SECRETFiona Harper In her designer suits Jackie Patterson, editor of Gloss! magazine, can take on the world. Yet the moment she arrives in Italy for a big Bella Rosa wedding, and sees her old boyfriend Romano Puccini, her groomed façade disappears. She has a seventeen-year-old secret to tell him from that fateful, sultry Italian summer…







There was something in his tone: in the depths of his brilliant dark eyes.

Eyes say more than words ever can.

What were hers saying? That she wanted to leap up, go to him, hug him, tell him she had missed him dreadfully in spite of all the wonderful times she’d been having?

Common sense won over. This was Corin Rylance. Dalton Rylance’s son and heir. A family worth billions. These were important people, who mattered. Corin was way out of her league.



There can be no future in this, Miranda thought. All you stand to gain is heartbreak.





Australia’s Most Eligible Bachelor


By




Margaret Way

The Bridesmaid’s Secret


By




Fiona Harper











www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


AUSTRALIA’S MOST ELIGIBLE BACHELOR

by Margaret Way

heralds the start of:



THE RYLANCE DYNASTY

The lives & loves of Australia’s most powerful family

Growing up in the spotlight hasn’t been easy, but the two Rylance heirs, Corin and his sister Zara, have come of age and are ready to claim their inheritance.



Though they are privileged, proud and powerful they are about to discover that there are some things money can’t buy…



Look out for Corin’s sister Zara Rylance’s story, coming soon!

…and stop by your favourite Italian restaurant as the Brides of Bella Rosa saga continues with:

THE BRIDESMAID’S SECRETby Fiona Harper





Australia’s Most Eligible Bachelor


By



Margaret way


MARGARET WAY, a definite Leo, was born and raised in the subtropical River City of Brisbane, capital of the Sunshine State of Queensland. A Conservatorium trained pianist, teacher, accompanist and vocal coach, she found her musical career came to an unexpected end when she took up writing—initially as a fun thing to do. She currently lives in a harbourside apartment at beautiful Raby Bay, a thirty-minute drive from the state capital, where she loves dining al fresco on her plant-filled balcony, overlooking a translucent green marina filled with all manner of pleasure craft: from motor cruisers costing millions of dollars, and big, graceful yachts with carved masts standing tall against the cloudless blue sky, to little bay runabouts. No one and nothing is in a mad rush, and she finds the laidback village atmosphere very conducive to her writing. With well over one hundred books to her credit, she still believes her best is yet to come.




Prologue


Brisbane, State Capital, Queensland.

Three years earlier.

FOR Miranda in her hyped-up state, everything seemed to be rushing at her: cars, buses, cabs, pedestrians. Even her blood was whooshing through her veins. The city seemed incredibly noisy—the pulse and beat of traffic, the mélange of sight and sound. Just to top it off, there was the threat of a late-afternoon thunderstorm, routine for high summer. Heat was vibrating rapidly to and fro between the forest of tall buildings, bouncing down on to the pavements. This was the norm: expectation of a brief, hectic downpour, then the return of a sun that admitted no rival. The overhead sky was still a dazzling deep blue, but there were ominous cracklings in the distance, the odd detonation of thunder and a bank-up of dark, silver-shot clouds with acid-green at their heart on the invisible horizon.

She was abuzz with adrenalin. Almost dancing with nerves. The humidity in the atmosphere did nothing to bank her intensity. The crowded street was thick with voices. People were milling about, smiling and chattering, happy to be going home after a long day at work; others were laden with shopping bags, feeling slightly guilty about blowing the budget on things they didn’t need; more held mobile phones glued to their ears, their side of the conversation loud enough to make the deaf sit up and take notice! Hadn’t they woken up to the fact mobile phones were a potential health hazard?

Of course there were dangers everywhere—even crossing the busy intersection. She could see the born-to-take-a-risk oddballs and the habitual stragglers caught halfway across the street at the red light. Ah, well! She couldn’t talk. Consider the dangerously risky move she was determined on making this very afternoon, given a stroke of luck? She only had one chance to get it right, but she had thought it through very carefully.

Over the last fortnight it had become routine surveillance, checking on the comings and goings of the Rylance men. Billionaire father Dalton Rylance, Chairman and CEO of Rylance Metals, one of the biggest metal companies in the world, and his only son and heir, Corin. Corin Rylance, twenty-five, was by all accounts the perfect candidate to inherit the Rylance empire. The Crown Prince, as it were. Super-rich. Super-handsome. Super-eligible. An opinion echoed countless times by the tabloids and gushing women’s magazines. That didn’t mean, however, the Rylances were nice people.

Anger merged with her constant grief. Not nice was starkly true of the present Mrs Rylance—Leila—Dalton Rylance’s glamorous second wife. His first wife had died in a car accident when Corin Rylance was in his early teens and his sister Zara a couple of years younger. A privileged life cut short. A few years later Dalton Rylance had shocked everyone by marrying a young woman from the PR section at Head Office called Leila Richardson. A gold-digger and an opportunist, according to family and friends who didn’t know anything about this young woman, however good she was supposed to be at her job. Collective wisdom had it she hailed from New Zealand.

Yet the marriage had survived. With all that money behind it, why not? Always beautiful, Leila Rylance, polished to within an inch of her life, had become over a few short years a bona fide member of the Establishment. She might have been born into one of the best families herself. Except Leila Rylance must live her glamorous life always looking over her shoulder. Leila Rylance wasn’t who she claimed she was.

Leila Rylance was a heartless monster.

It took some nerve to tackle people like the Rylances, Miranda thought for the umpteenth time. She could get into very serious trouble. These were people who took threats and perceived threats very seriously. They had armies of people working for them: staff, bodyguards, lawyers, probably they even had the Police Commissioner on side. She had to think seriously of being arrested, restraining orders and the like—the shame and humiliation—only she was fired up by her massive sense of injustice. Seventeen she might be, but she was clever—hadn’t that tag been hung on her since she was knee-high to a grasshopper?

“Miranda is such a clever little girl, Mrs Thornton. She must be given every chance!”

That from a stream of teachers—the latest, her highly regarded headmistress, Professor Elizabeth Morgan, reeling off her achievements. Professor Morgan had great hopes Miranda Thornton would bring credit on herself and her school. She had done her bit. She had secured the highest possible score for her leaving certificate, excelling at all the necessary subjects she needed for her goal: Mathematics, Physics, Chemistry, Biology. She had admittance to the university of her choice. She had the brain and the strong desire to become a doctor, but it would be hard, if not downright impossible, to get through the science diploma necessary for med school without money. She had long set her sights on Medicine.

“Where do you suppose that’s come from then, Tom? Our little Miri wanting to be a doctor?”

Her mother had often asked her father that question, wonderment in her tone. There was no medical background on either side of the family. Just ordinary working-class people. No one had made it to university.

But she had things going for her. She was resourceful. She had a maturity beyond her years. She coped well under pressure. That came directly from having looked after her mother for the last three years of her life battling cancer. The agony of it! To make it much worse, her death had come only a year or so since her hard-working father had died of a sudden massive heart attack. They had not been a young couple. Miranda was, in fact, a mid-life baby. Her mother had been forty-two when she fell pregnant, at a time when both her parents had despaired of ever producing a living child after a series of heartbreaking miscarriages.

Her childhood had been a happy, stable. They’d lived in a glorious natural environment. There had never been much money, and few of life’s little luxuries, but money was by no means essential for contentment. She’d loved and been loved, the apple of her parents’ eyes. Her parents had owned and run a small dairy farm in sub-tropical Queensland—the incredibly lush Hinterland behind the eastern seaboard, with the magnificent blue Pacific Ocean rolling in to its shores and only a short drive away. The farm had rarely shown more than a small profit. But they’d got by, working very hard—she included—to secure the best possible education at her prestigious private school for her final four years.

She would never forget the sacrifices her parents had made. In turn she had been fully committed to looking after them as they aged. Only now they were gone. And her world was lying in great jagged piles of rubble around her feet.

Her parents hadn’t been her parents at all.

They’d been her grandparents.

And no one had told her.

She had grown up living a lie.



Her heartbeat was as loud as a ticking clock, pumping so fast it was almost choking her. The sun flashing off windscreens temporarily blinded her. She blinked hard. Turned her head.

Then she saw him.

Eureka! She was close. Soooo close!

One had to fight fire with fire. She braced herself, lithe and as swift on her feet as a fleet fourteen-year-old boy. He was coming out of the steel-and-glass palace of Rylance Tower. The son. What a stroke of luck! She would know him anywhere. His image was etched into her brain. Who could miss him anyway? He was tall, dark, stunningly handsome with a dazzling white smile. The ultimate chick-magnet, as her friend Wynona would say. Could have been a movie star only for his layer of gravitas. Unusual at his age. But then he was a mining magnate’s son and heir, with a brilliant career ahead of him.

Well, he wasn’t the only one going places, she thought. Her whole body was shaking with nervous energy. She hadn’t been exactly sure she could deal with the father anyway. He was a hugely important man and purportedly ruthless. The odd thing was she had no real desire to potentially cause a breakup in his marriage. The son would do, whiz kid that he was, by far the less problematic proposition. Sometimes you just got lucky!

She watched the silver Rolls slide into the loading zone outside the building as per usual. The grey-uniformed chauffer stepped out smartly—God, a uniform, in this heat?—going around the bonnet of the gleaming car to be at the ready to open the rear door for the supremo’s son.

Couldn’t he open it himself, for goodness’ sake? Well, it did give the chauffeur a job. Every nerve in her body was throbbing with a mix of anticipation and a natural fear of the consequences. She had to get to him, speak to him, if her life was to go forward as she and her grandparents had planned. She watched Rylance dip his splendid crow-black head to get into the back seat of the car. This was the crucial moment. She seized it, taut as an athlete at the starter’s gun. Before the chauffeur could make a move to close the door, she literally sprang into the vehicle in one excited leap, the wind lifting her skirt and showing the full length of her legs, landing in a breathless heap against the shoulder of her target, who was playing it very cool indeed.

“Hi there, Corin!” she cried breathlessly. “Remember me? The Beauman party? Didn’t mean to scare you, but we have to talk.”

Those kinds of words usually made young men sit up and pay attention.

The chauffeur, well-built, probably ex-army, leaned into the Rolls, concern written all over him. “You know this young lady, Mr Rylance?”

She smiled up at the grim-faced man, who appeared on trigger alert. “Of course he does. Don’t you, Corin?”

Recognition didn’t light up his brilliant dark eyes. “Convince me.”

His speech was very clipped—blistering, really. Before she knew what he was about his lean, long-fingered hand snaked out, ran deftly but with delicacy over her shoulder, then down over her bodice, sparking her small breasts to life. She was shocked to the core, her entire body flooded with electricity. Even her nipples sprang erect. She prayed he didn’t register that. He continued to frisk her to her narrow waist, cinched as it was by a wide leather belt. Mercifully he stopped there. Not a full body search, then. She was wearing a short summer dress, well above her knees. Sleeveless, low-necked. Nowhere to hide anything. Nowhere decent anyhow.

He grabbed her tote bag and handed it over to the grim-faced chauffeur. “Check the contents, Gil.”

“You’re joking!” she railed. “Check the contents? What are you expecting, Corin? A Taser? I’m absolutely harmless.”

“I don’t think so.” Rylance kept a firm hold on her while the chauffeur swiftly and efficiently searched her bag.

“Nothing here, sir,” he reported with a note of relief. “Usual girly things. And a few old snapshots. Shall I send her on her way, or call the police?”

“And tell them what, Gil?” Her voice, which had acquired a prestige accent from school, was laced with sarcasm. “Your boss has been waylaid by a five-three, hundred-pound seventeen-year-old he doesn’t seem to remember? Why, a twelve-year-old boy could wrestle me to the ground. Trust me, Corin.” She turned a burning scornful glance on Rylance. “You don’t want anyone else in on our little chat, do you? Tell your man to pull over when we’re clear of the city. Then Gil here can go for a nice stroll. A park would be fine. There’s one on Vine.”



Women were always chasing him. Hell, it went with the territory. But never had one taken a spectacular leap into his car. That was a first. He couldn’t believe it. Not even after years of being hotly pursued. It was the money, of course. Every girl wanted to marry a billionaire, or at the very least a billionaire’s son. But this was a kid! She’d said seventeen. She could be sixteen. Not sweet. She looked a turbulent little thing, even a touch dangerous, with her great turquoise-green eyes and a fiery expression on her heart-shaped face. A riot of short silver gilt curls clung to her finely sculpted skull. She had very coltish light limbs, like a dancer; she was imaginatively if inexpensively dressed. Had he met her anywhere at all, he would definitely remember. No way was she unmemorable. And she had beautiful legs. He couldn’t help but notice.

So who the hell was she and what did she want? He had a fleeting moment when she put him in mind of someone. Who? No one he knew had those remarkable eyes or the rare silver-gilt hair. He was certain the colour was real. No betraying dark roots. Then there was her luminous alabaster skin. A natural blonde. Then it came to him. She was the very image of one of those mischievous sprites, nymphs, fairies—whatever. His sister, Zara, had used to fill her sketchbooks with them when she was a child. Zara would be intrigued by this one. All she needed was pointed ears, a garland of flowers and forest leaves around her head, and a wisp of some diaphanous garment to cover her willowy body.



They rode in a tense silence while he kept a tight hold on her arm. No conversation in front of the chauffeur. Some ten minutes out of the CBD the chauffeur pulled up beside a small park aglow with poincianas so heavy in blossom the great branches dipped like the tines of umbrellas. “This okay, sir?” The chauffeur turned his head.

“Fine, thanks, Gil. I’ll listen to this enterprising young woman’s story—God only knows what that might be—then I’ll give you a signal. I have a dinner party lined up for tonight.”

“Of course you have!” said Miranda, still trying to recover from the shock of his touch and his nearness. She understood exactly now what made him what he was. He even gave off the scent of crisp, newly minted money.

The chauffeur stepped out of the Rolls, shut the door, then made off across the thick, springy grass to a bench beneath one of the trees. If Gil Roberts was wondering what the hell this was all about he knew better than to show it. He believed Corin implicitly when he said he didn’t know the girl. He had been with the family for over twelve years, since Corin Rylance had been a boy. He had enormous liking and respect for him. Unlike a couple of his cousins, Corin was no playboy. He did not fool around with young girls, however enchanting and sexy. Maybe it had something to do with one of his cousins? A bit of blackmail, even? She had better not try it. Not on the Rylances.

“So?” Corin turned on her, his tone hard and edgy. “First of all, what’s your name? You obviously know mine.”

“Who doesn’t?” she retorted, not insolently, but with some irony. “It’s Miri Thornton. That’s Miranda Thornton.”

“Amazing—Miranda! Of course it would be.” He didn’t mask the sarcasm.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She stared at him with involuntary fascination. She was experiencing the weirdest feeling there was no one else in the world but the two of them. Imagine! Was she a total fool? She almost forgot what she was about with those dark eyes on her. God, he was handsome. The glossies were right. Up close and personal, his aura was so compelling it had her near gasping. It wasn’t simply the good looks, it was the force field that surrounded him. It had picked her up with a vengeance. For the first time she felt intimidation.

“You’re a smart girl,” he was saying.

“Not a little twit?”

He ignored that. “Well educated, obviously. Miranda—Prospero’s daughter?”

Deliberately she opened her eyes wide. “Got it in one. The Tempest.You know your Shakespeare. From whence did Corin come?” she asked with mock sweetness. “Coriolanus? Noble Caius Marcus?”

“Cut it out.” His tone was terse. There was a decided glitter in his eyes, so dark a brown they were almost black. “I don’t have time for this. What’s it all about? You have exactly five minutes.”

“Give me one,” she retorted smartly, hoping she looked a whole lot more in control of herself than she was. “May I have my bag?”

He frowned at her. “What is it you want to show me?” He didn’t oblige, but drew the tote bag onto his lap. Gil would have checked carefully, but there were always surprises in life. This extraordinary young woman didn’t exactly look unstable or wired. He could see the high intelligence in her face, the keenness of her turquoise-green regard. She was nothing like all the well-connected young women he knew. The pressure was on him from his father to pick out a suitable bride. Annette Atwood was highly suitable. But did he honestly believe in love?

“Photographs.” Miranda’s mind was momentarily distracted while she focused on his hands. He had beautifully shaped hands. Hands were important to her.

“That’s nice!” He didn’t hide the mockery.

“I’d hold the nice until you have a look at them,” she warned. “Don’t think for one minute it’s porn. Good old Gil would have spotted that, and I don’t deal in such things. I was very well brought up. Go on—pull them out. They won’t bite you.”

“The cheek of you!” he gritted. “You know what I’d really like to do with you?” He was uncomfortably aware his body was coiled taut. Why? She was pint-sized. No physical threat at all. What did he want to do with her? Why was he giving her the time of day? Actually, he didn’t want to think it through. She was so young, with her life in front of her. Despite himself he felt a disturbing level of attraction.

“Throw me out onto the street?” she was suggesting. “You could do it easily.”

“Maybe I will at some point.” He withdrew several photographs from a side pocket in her well-worn bag. They looked old, faded, turning up at the edges. He narrowed his dark eyes. “What exactly are these? Photographs of Mummy when she was a girl?” He was being facetious. Until he saw what he had in his hand.

God, no! This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t her. The girl in the photographs didn’t just bear a strong resemblance to his stepmother. She was Leila—unless she had an identical twin.

“How clever of you, Corin,” Miranda said, making an effort to conceal her own upset. “They’re photographs of my mother when she was a year younger than I am now.”

His expression turned daunting for so young a man. Shades of the father, Miranda supposed. “Just be quiet for a moment,” he ordered.

Miranda knew when it was time to obey. She and Corin Rylance had polarised positions in life. She was a nobody. He was on the highest rung of society. Heir to a great fortune. He could cause her a lot of grief.

“So what’s your game?” He shot her a steely glance, the expression in his fine eyes in no way benevolent.

“No game.” She turned up her palms. “I’m deadly serious. We can keep this between the two of us, if you like. I’m certain from what I know of my birth mother—your stepmother—that she hasn’t confided her sordid little story to another living soul. Least of all your father.”

“You want money?” The stunning features drew tight with contempt.

“I need money,” she corrected.

“Aaah! A big difference.” The tone was withering.

“I think you can spare it.”

“Do you, now?” His tone all but bit into her soft flesh. “So I’m to look after you indefinitely? Is that the plan? Well, let me help you out here, Miranda, as you’re barely out of school. Blackmail is a very serious crime. I could turn you over to the police this afternoon. It would only take one call.”

“Sure. I’ve risked that,” she admitted. “But you won’t be doing your family any favours, Corin. Don’t think I’m not ashamed to have to ask you. I have to. My mother—your stepmother, your father’s wife—owes me. I can’t go to her. I loathe and despise her. She abandoned me when I was only a few weeks old.”

“You can prove it?” His voice was harsh with unsuppressed emotion. “Or is this some highly imaginative ploy to make money?” The flaw in that was he could well see Leila doing such a thing. The only person Leila cared about was herself. Not his father. Although his father, business giant that he was, was in sexual thrall to her.

“I’m not stupid,” Miranda said. “I’m not a liar or a con artist. Of course I can.” She had to swallow hard on a sudden rush of tears. “I was brought up by my grandparents—my mother’s parents—believing I was theirs. A change of life baby. Both of them are now dead. My grandmother very recently. She told me the truth on her deathbed. She wanted to make a clean breast of it. The last years of her life were terrible. She died of cancer.”

His expression softened at the very real grief he saw in the depths of her crystalline eyes. “Miranda, I’m sorry, but your mother must have had a reason for doing what she did. That’s if these photographs are of my stepmother. People do have doubles in life.” Even as he said it he knew it was Leila.

“You know in your bones they are,” Miranda told him bleakly. “I even look a teeny bit like her, don’t you think?”

“Not really, no. Maybe the point to the chin—although Leila’s is less pronounced.”

“So I must have my father’s colouring.” There was a yearning note in her voice he picked up on. “Whoever he might be. She never would say. Anyway, I have a whole scrapbook if you want to see it. My birth mother was adored. My grandparents were lovely people. Yet she cut them—her own mother and father—ruthlessly out of her life. I didn’t matter at all. Good gracious, no. I was just a huge mistake. You know how it is. She wasn’t going to allow an unwanted baby to ruin her life. She ran away and never came back. Not even a postcard to say she was okay.”

“You’re sure about that?” he asked grimly. “Your grandmother mightn’t have told you everything. People have secrets. Some they take to the grave.”

“Tell me about it,” Miranda countered with real sadness. “I loved Mum—Sally—my grandmother. I nursed her. I was with her at the end. She told me everything. Not a pretty story. I had to forgive her. I loved her. She was so good to me. Yet the person I had trusted more than anyone else in the world had lied to me. God, it hurt. It will always hurt.”

“I imagine it would.” He studied her downbent face. She had a lovely mouth, very finely cut. Leila’s mouth was positively lush. This girl wore no lipstick. Maybe a touch of gloss. “I expect your grandmother thought it was best at the time. Then it all got away from her. Where did you live?”

She told him. “The Gold Coast Hinterland, Queensland.”

“A beautiful area. I know it well. So your grandparents were farming people?” he asked with a frown. “According to Leila she was born in New Zealand.”

“She was. And just look at how far she has come.” Miranda gave a theatrical wave of her hands. “Married to one of the richest men in the country. You can bet your life she didn’t want any more children. She’s only thirty-three, you know. But children would only cramp her style.”

True of Leila. “The woman you claim is your mother told my father she wasn’t able to have children,” he volunteered.

“I think you can take it she’s a born liar. Anyway, your father has you and your sister. You’re the heir.”

“You bet your life I am.”

“Don’t look at me!” She slumped back against the rich leather upholstery. “I don’t want to muscle in.”

“I thought you did.”

He had very sexy brackets at the sides of his mouth. “No way!” She shrugged, unsettled by his proximity. In a matter of moments this stranger had got under her skin. Definitely not allowed. “What I want—what I need—is to have the financial backing to get through med school. I’m clever. Maybe I’m even cleverer than you.” She held up her hand. “Okay, joke! But I scored in the top one per cent for my finals.”

“And there I was, only winning a few spelling bees.”

“Not so.” She sat straight. “You were awarded a university medal. You have an Honours Degree in Engineering. You also have a degree in Business Administration.”

“Go on—what else?” he asked caustically.

“Listen, Corin. I did my homework. It was necessary. I’m not asking for a fortune, you know. I’ll get a part-time job. Two if I have to. But I must attain my goal. It’s what my par—my grandparents lived and worked for. I was the one who was to be given every chance. Only they both went and died on me. That’s agony, you know.”

He regarded her for a moment in silence, all kinds of emotions nipping at him fiercely. This girl was getting to him. And she had done it so easily. “Your story has to be checked out very thoroughly,” he said. “You might tell me how, given there wasn’t much money in the family, your mother got away? Everyone needs money to survive. She was just a schoolgirl. How did she manage?”

“I daresay she blackmailed my father,” she said, bluntly rephrasing the explanation her grandmother had offered.

“So it runs in the family, then?”

She winced, her turquoise-green eyes flashing. “Don’t make me hate you, Corin.”

He laughed, very dryly. “That’s okay. Hate works for me, Miranda.”

Some note in his voice sent a shiver down her spine. “Miri, please.”

He continued to scan her face. “I prefer Miranda.”

She was locked into that brilliant regard. “You’ll find I’m telling the truth right down to the last detail. My grandparents didn’t know who fathered Leila’s child. But, whoever it was, his family must have had money. Someone must have given it to her. Although she took everything she could lay her hands on from her parents, including much needed money that was awaiting banking.”

“It’s a terrible story, Miranda, but not rare,” he said. “Young people—girls and boys—go missing all the time, for any number of reasons. It must be heartbreaking for the caring parents.”

“Leila obviously didn’t care about them. There was no abuse, no excessive strictness, only love. You know, I’ve been thinking of you—your father and you, certainly Leila—as the enemy,” she confessed. “You’re not so bad.”

“You don’t know me,” he said.

“I know you bear a noble name. The Corin bit anyway. I like it. I don’t even mind being allied with you, or your part of the enemy. But you can’t be slow about this, Corin. There are lots of things to be taken care of. I don’t have another damned soul in the world to appeal to.”

“And I’m supposed to care?” He was out to test her.

“But you do care, don’t you?” She was looking into his eyes as if she was reading his mind. “Leila may have cast a spell on your father, but I bet she didn’t cast any spell on you or your sister.”

Nothing could be truer. They had disliked and distrusted Leila even before she had married their father. Now they hated her. “So you think this will give me an advantage?” Of course it would. But he knew he wouldn’t use it. Not yet, anyway. His moment would come.

“Nothing so ugly,” she said. “You may dislike Leila. But you love your father. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“You might well make a doctor, Miranda,” he answered tersely. “You appear to have a gift.”

She visibly relaxed. “I hope so. I want so much to do good in this world. I won’t let my paren—” she corrected herself again “—grandparents down. I’m going to see this through and you’ve got to help me. I’ve even had a psychological assessment to determine whether I have the right stuff to become a doctor.”

“And you passed?”

“With flying colours, Corin. Also the mandatory interview for selection into the MBBS course. You don’t mind if I call you Corin?”

“Obviously you have a keen interest in getting me to like you.”

“I like you already. Bit odd, really. But I believe in destiny, don’t you? I was waiting for you—maybe your father. I got you. Far and away the better choice.”

There was severity, but a touch of amusement in his expression. “You can say that again. My father would have had you thrown out of the car. Right on your pretty ear.”

“Is that so? You can tell a lot about a man by the way he treats a woman.”

“I agree.”

“Hey, you do love your dad, don’t you?” She eyed him anxiously. There was something a bit off in his tone.

“Why do you ask that?”

“Unusual answer, Corin.” She spoke in an unconscious clinical fashion. “I’d say textbook father-son conflict?”

“Sure you don’t want to go for psychiatry?” he asked very dryly.

“I hit a nerve. Sorry. I’ll back off. Anyway, even your father wouldn’t have thrown me out. Not when I waved the photographs.” His handsome face was near enough to hers to touch. “I have to be tough. Like you people. I know you can work this out somehow. I won’t interfere. All you have to do is make it so I’m able to get through my first three years of training until I attain my BS, then I’ll tackle my MB.”

“An extremely arduous programme, Miranda,” he warned her, shaking his head. Two of his old schoolfriends had dropped out in their second year, finding the going too tough. “Sure you’re up to it? I’ll accept you have the brains. Maybe you can handle the ton of studying required. But there’s a lot of evidence many students leaving high school with top scores fall by the wayside for any number of reasons. Happens all the time.”

She nodded in agreement, but with a degree of frustration. She had been warned many times over how tough it was. “Listen, Corin, you don’t have to tell me. I know how hard it’s going to be. I know many drop out. But it’s not going happen to me. I mightn’t look it, but I’m a stoic. I’ve had to be. My grandparents’ hopes and dreams will prevail. I’m up for it.”

Everything seemed to point to it. “Where do you intend to study?” he asked.

“Griffith for my BS, then on to UQ. Why do you look like that? I promise you I won’t ever bother you. You need never lay eyes on me again.”

“Sorry!” He focused his brilliant dark gaze on her. “If you check out—and it’s by no means a foregone conclusion—you’ll be expected to take tests I’ll arrange. Again, if you pass our criteria you’ll be under constant scrutiny. You mustn’t think you’ve got this all sewn up, Miranda.”

“If you want references you can contact my old school principal,” she suggested eagerly, her heart beating like a drum.

“You just leave that to me.” He dismissed her suggestion. “You’d be very foolish to try to put anything across me.”

“Whoa…I gotcha, Corin.” She held up her palms, her heart now drumming away triple-time. “So, you want to think it over?” She swallowed down her nerves, moistening her dry lips with the tip of her tongue.

“Of course I want to think it over.” He spoke more sharply than he’d intended, but this girl was seriously sexy. God knew what power she’d have in a few years’ time. “I may sense you’re telling the truth. That’s all. If you’re Leila’s daughter, as you claim, you could be an accomplished liar.”

That made her heart swell with outrage. “What an absolutely rotten thing to say, Corin.”

“Okay, I apologise.” The glitter of tears stood in her beautiful eyes. Against all his principles, against rhyme and reason, even plain common sense, he had a powerful urge to catch that pointed chin and kiss her. Long and hard. A mind-body connection. It was almost as though he was being directed by another intelligence. Mercifully he had enough experience, let alone inbred caution, not to give way to an urge that was fraught with danger. Women had been making fools of men since time immemorial. Maybe this slip of a girl was trying to make a fool of him?

At first when she had made her mad leap into the car his mind had immediately sprung to his cousin, Greg. Greg was forever getting himself into trouble with women, but not teenagers—at least not to date. He’d never thought in a million years this would have something to do with Leila.

“Do you drive?” He turned his attention back to the would-be doctor. That counted for a lot with him. He had the ability to read people. She was ambitious, which he liked, idealistic, and she appeared very sincere in her aim. Becoming a doctor was a fine goal in life. He should check out her driver’s licence. If she had one.

“I can drive,” she confided. “As good as your Gil. Bet he was in the army at some stage. I used to drive the ute around the farm all the time, but I don’t have a car. I can’t afford one. Listen, Corin, I’m dirt-poor at the moment.”

“So where do you live now?” he asked. Gil was ex-army. She was very sharp.

“I share a flat with friends. A major downgrade for us all, but we have fun. My grandfather’s dying was a nightmare, then my…grandmother. What money there was simply went in to the bottomless hole of medical costs. There’s no licence for you to check. But you can check me out at my old school. I was Head Girl, no less Professor Morgan thought the world of me, which is as good a character reference as you’re likely to get. You can check out my grandparents too. Needless to say everyone in the district believed me to be their mid-life child. I have more information on my birth mother if you want it. My grandmother knew all about her marrying your father. She read about it in the newspapers. Leila might be all dolled up, but she’s the same Leila. Mum used to keep cuttings. Isn’t that sad? A parent is always a parent. No matter what.”

His father hadn’t been much of one, he thought bleakly. Not much of a husband either. In fact, the powerful and ruthless Dalton Rylance was a major league bastard. But he was still madly infatuated with the very much younger Leila. Obsessed with her, really.

“It’s all sad, Miranda.”

He gave way to a dark sigh. He and Zara had been devastated when their mother had been killed. Their father’s infidelities and lack of attention had brought great unhappiness to their beautiful, gentle mother. His maternal grandparents, the De Laceys, major shareholders in Ryland Metals, had positively loathed their son-in-law as much as they loved their daughter’s children. He, as his mother’s only son, had been extremely protective of her—ready to tell his father off at the drop of a hat, no matter the consequences. And there were quite a few he’d had to suffer along the way. The reality was he and Zara had looked to their mother for everything. Love, support, long serious discussions about life—where they were going. It was she who had taken them on numerous cultural outings. She’d been the source of joy in their so called privileged life. Their father had never been around. Jetting off here, off there. Legitimate business concerns, it had to be said, but it had never occurred to him to try to make up for his many absences when he returned. In his way Dalton Rylance had betrayed them all: his wife, his son and heir, and his daughter—the image of their beautiful mother.

And he punished her for it. Zara, the constant reminder. His hands tightened until his knuckles showed white.

“So what are you in the grip of?”

Her voice, which amazingly showed concern, brought him out of his dark thoughts.

“What do you mean?” She was way too perceptive, this girl.

“Don’t bite my head off, Corin. It can’t be me. It’s someone else you’re thinking about. What did you and your sister think when Leila turned up in your life? You couldn’t have lost your mother long? You must have been grieving terribly?”

“Miranda, we’re not talking about me,” he told her curtly, shaken by her perception. “We’re talking about you.”

“So you say!” she responded, undeterred. “Where did I get my brains from anyway? My maths gene, for a start. I was always very good at maths. My grandparents were lovely people. Full of good practical common sense. My grandfather could fix any piece of machinery on the farm. My grandmother was a great cook and a great dressmaker. But they wouldn’t have called themselves intellectuals. Neither of them read much.”

“Of course you are an intellectual,” he said, not sparing the dry-as-bone tone.

“No need to be sarcastic. I am. Fact of life, and I don’t take the credit. I inherited what brain I have from the boy—the man—who was my father. Leila can’t be too bright if she didn’t think I was going to track her down one day.”

“But there’s no way you want to meet her?” He trapped her gaze. God, wouldn’t that be an event to be in on?

“What? Show up unannounced? No way! I might tackle her to the ground and start pummelling her. Not that I’ve ever done anything like that before.”

“Miranda, don’t underestimate the woman you say is your mother,” he rasped. “It’s far more likely she’d seize you by the hair and have you thrown out. That’s if you could get in. My stepmother isn’t your normal woman.”

“Now, isn’t that exactly what I’ve been telling you?” she cried, her turquoise-green eyes opened wide. “She’s a cruel person. She broke her loving parents’ hearts. My grandmother died without her only child by her side. I don’t really care that Leila didn’t want me. Who the heck do I look like anyway?” She tugged in frustration at a loose silver-gilt curl. “What’s with the hair? The colour of my eyes? There’s my father out there somewhere. I might go looking for him. Did he even know about me? Actually, I’ve got a few doubts about your father. Given he’s the big mining magnate, how come he fell for Leila hook, line and sinker? What got into him?”

“Let’s not go there, Miranda,” he said tersely.

“Okay, she’s beautiful. She’s gorgeous. And she must be great in bed.”

And as dangerous as a taipan. “Are you done?” he asked, amazed. This seventeen-year-old girl was a total stranger, yet already they had made a strong connection.

“Don’t get angry with me, Corin,” she urged gently. “I could be worse. I could be out to make trouble, but I’m not. I don’t want to stress this—it’s a bit embarrassing—but look at the big picture. Aren’t we related by marriage?”

“I only have your word for it,” he answered, very sharply indeed because he was rattled. “Plus a few old photographs as some sort of proof.”

“Please…I don’t want you to be angry and upset. You might be keeping it well under wraps, but I think you have…difficulties in life.”

He didn’t care he sounded so cutting. “You’re a very special person, Miranda.” She had to be. Every cell in his body was drawn to her. It was an involuntary reaction. But sometimes one had to be cruel to be kind.

“You believe me, though, don’t you?” The glitter of unshed tears was back in her eyes at his harshness. “You believe me more than you would believe the woman you’ve known for years. I bet she’s been no friend to your sister. You do love your sister?”

He gritted his teeth. “Do you expect me to sit still for this interrogation?”

“Okay, okay!” She pressed her hands together as though in prayer. “I shouldn’t have said it. Let’s get back to what I need to get me through med school. I promise I’ll work harder than I ever have in my life. Back me and I won’t let you down. I’ll even try to pay you back once I qualify.”

He was driven to dropping his head into his hands. “Miranda, just stop talking for a moment. I’m going to check out your whole story. Or have my people do it for me. Don’t worry. They’re professionals. It will all be very confidential. None of the information they supply to me will get out. Where is this flat of yours?”

She was so nervous, excited, upset, her hands were shaking. “Look, I’ll write it down for you. And my mobile number. I hope I didn’t seriously ruin your day?”

“I can’t pretend you haven’t stunned me.” He shot back his cuff to check his watch. “I have a very tedious dinner party tonight I can’t get out of. I’ll get Gil to drop me off first at my apartment, then he can take you home.”

She became agitated. “No, no, don’t bother. I don’t want to put you to the trouble. Besides, I can’t possibly arrive back at the flat in a Rolls.”

“Gil can stop and let you out a short distance away,” he said shortly. “Anyway, it will be dark by the time he gets there.” He lifted his hand to signal the chauffeur, who now turned their way, walking down the path.

“So, will you let me know?” In her agitation she reached out to grip his hand hard, feeling the little shock wave of skin on skin. “Can I trust you, Corin? I do need help.”

“Have you told anyone else about this? Your friends?”

The brilliant gaze seared her. “Gosh, no! I promise you I haven’t told a living soul.”

“A smart move, Miranda, for a smart girl. You’ll hear from me within a few days. We’ll do this thing legitimately.”

“Legitimately, how?” She perked up.

“I’ll tell you when I judge it time for you to know,” he said dismissively. “But if you’ve dreamed up some story—”

“Then you’re free to go to the police.” She spoke with intensity. “It’s no story, Corin. That’s why you’ve been giving me a hearing. Even if your stepmother did lay eyes on me she wouldn’t recognise me.”

“On the other hand she might,” he answered her bluntly. “There is such a thing as genetics. You said it yourself. How did Leila produce a child with silver-gilt hair and turquoise-green eyes? It has to be your father’s legacy.”

“Or it could be any number of complex interactions.” She frowned in concentration. “So many variables—enzyms, proteins, biological phenomenon. I’m greatly interested in genetics and genomics, molecular biology. Why wouldn’t I be? I don’t even know who I am. That should put me at a serious disadvantage psychologically.”

He saw humour in that. “I don’t think so, Miranda. You appear pretty well integrated to me.”

“Gee, thanks!” She flushed with genuine pleasure. His good opinion meant a great deal. “Trust me, Corin,” she said earnestly. “Leila has totally forgotten she ever had a child.”

He swallowed his caustic retort. Hadn’t Zara always said there would come a time Leila, their stepmother, the central figure in their father’s life, would be caught out?

And so it began.




Chapter One


The present.

THE top floor of the immense glass-and-steel monolith, the command post of Rylance Metals, housed the multibillion-dollar corporation’s hierarchy. As Miranda rode the elevator to Corin’s office she had an overwhelming feeling she shouldn’t be in this building. Not that she would have to duck if she saw anyone. She had been inside Rylance Tower on isolated occasions over the past three years and no one had taken the slightest notice of her. Why would they? Her status of university student would have been obvious to them from her classic student dress. Besides, the Rylance Foundation sponsored a number of gifted students. They came and went. On those occasions she had been careful to maintain her camouflage. On campus she was a lot more flamboyant. Some of her girlfriends laughingly called her a fashionista. Amazing what one could do on a low budget, given a bit of flair. She had inherited that flair from someone. Leila? Leila was renowned for her style.

She had long since learned from Corin that Leila had been given a position on the board by her besotted husband. Corin had become so important to her she could recognise the fact he deplored his father’s decision. Not that he spoke about it. Only once, and then briefly. Corin played his cards very close to his chest. Mercifully today there was no chance of running into the woman who had abandoned her soon after birth. Leila only ventured into Rylance Tower for board meetings. Right now, she and her husband, Dalton Rylance, were in Singapore—a mix of business and pleasure, the newspapers said. Corin said business. It was always business. But Leila would get the opportunity to spend lots of money to make up for the time she had to spend on her own and so prevent herself from getting bored.

As Miranda stepped out into the hushed corridor, thickly carpeted and lined with architectural drawings—the corporation had its own architectural as well as engineering departments—she checked her watch. Ten minutes until Corin would see her. She was always early, never late for Corin. It was pleasant to make a little light conversation with his secretary, the beautifully groomed, forty-something Clare Howard, who was devoted to him and exceptionally good at her job. As she would have to be.

Afterwards, Miranda took a seat on one of the sofas facing a granite-and-chrome coffee table neatly stacked with trade magazines and financial papers. She picked up one, flipping through it without actually seeing anything. Today she had allowed herself a little more pizzazz with her dress. Ms Howard had kindly made a comment on how lovely she looked. Her dress was pretty. The yellow silk background was splashed with tiny daisy-like flowers in deep blue, violet and turquoise, with a fine tracery of green leaves. A sale coup. All the major department stores were running them in the recession. New turquoise sandals and a turquoise tote bag that looked a whole lot more expensive than they were completed the outfit. Her hair she continued to wear short, cutting her bubble of curls herself, sometimes enlisting a girlfriend’s help for the back of her head. She didn’t have the time or the money to go all-out with a glamorous new hairstyle. She had maintained her part-time job—waitressing at city restaurants, three nights a week—but that money was stretched to the limit. She had been given assistance by the Rylance Foundation to rent her inner-city flat, which was in a good, safe, very convenient area.

With two minutes to go she could feel the rise in her blood pressure. One’s blood pressure always rose when in the company of someone one was attracted to. Fact. She ached over her reasons. At least she felt confident she looked good. Healthy, eyes bright, skin glowing, despite the endless hours of burning the midnight oil.

Over the past three years she had grown close to Corin. She told herself it was in a quasi professional way. Mentor-protégée sort of thing. He always appeared pleased to see her at any rate, and was always willing to take the time to listen to her accounts of student life. A friendship had been established, but they both took good care to keep within the proper framework. Wealth could open doors for people. Corin had opened a door for her. She was immensely grateful. So much so she had gone all out to top her graduating class. Corin had actually taken the time to attend, clapping enthusiastically after she had given her speech.

“I knew the moment I laid eyes on you, you were a girl with enormous potential.” This with a mocking sparkle in his dark eyes.

By now she knew his every expression, every nuance of his resonant voice. She knew she had to be extremely careful to control her feelings. Her career was mapped out. She had to concentrate on her studies. She couldn’t allow emotion to get in the way. A show of emotion—however slight—could jeopardise her standing with Corin. There was a definite etiquette involved. She could not overstep the mark. Fortunately she had mastered the art of masking her deepest feelings. She might not appear vulnerable. But vulnerable she was. Privately she had run out of making excuses for herself. The truth was she had a huge crush on Corin Rylance.

Get real! You’re madly in love with him.

No one must ever know.

They shared their dark secret about Leila, but they rarely allowed it to come to the surface. From time to time she weakened in her discipline, always when she was in bed at night, allowing herself to wonder what Corin was doing. Who he was doing it with. Lately there had been rumours of an impending engagement that made the muscles of her stomach clench at every mention. Corin—married! Yet it seemed to her Corin didn’t have the look of a man in love. The young woman in the spotlight was one of his circle. Annette Atwood. An extremely attractive brunette of imposing height, with a great figure. A real figure. Naturally Ms Atwood was asked everywhere. Photographed wherever she went. Lately the paparazzi had taken to following her as though they knew she was a strong contender to become the heir apparent’s wife. Corin himself never spoke of her. But then, since she had met him Corin hadn’t spoken of any particular woman. Except his sister, Zara, who was working in London at a big financial institution. Zara had a Masters in Business. She had an excellent head on her shoulders and was also very artistic, like their mother and her side of the family. Zara was a gifted artist, but their father had been totally against her trying to make a career as a painter.

“A hobby, girl. Just a hobby! Live in the real world. Can’t abide dabblers.”

The image Miranda kept getting was that Dalton Rylance wasn’t a nice man at all. No comfort to his children—especially his daughter. No wonder Dalton and her mother were inseparable. They were creatures of the jungle. Power was all that counted.



“Hi, Miranda!” Corin looked up from something he had been reading to give her his irresistible smile. It was impossible not to smile back. “Take a seat, won’t you?” He gestured towards the leather armchairs arranged companionably on the opposite side of his desk. It was a huge space, his office, beautifully and comfortably furnished. Hundreds of leather-bound volumes gleamed through the antique English mahogany cabinets. A neat pile of files sat to one side on his desk; one was open before him. No disorder whatever. Everything in its proper place. There was a splendid view over the city towers and the broad, deep river to his back. “Clare is organising coffee. We have a few things we need to discuss.”

“Oh, Corin, like what?” She was feeling a little giddy at the sight of him—he looked so vibrant, impossible not to stare—so she quickly took an armchair opposite, folding her hands with a commendable show of calm in her lap.

“You look well,” he sidetracked. In fact, she looked enchanting. He had never seen her in so pretty or so feminine a dress. She was such an intriguing combination of inner strength and physical delicacy. No doubt she had picked the dress to suit her rare colouring. She probably knew her eyes were the exact colour of the turquoise flowers. He wanted to tell her. Thought he’d better not. Miranda kept her own space.

“So do you.” She stared back at him with a little worried frown. “Why is it I think you’re about to persuade me to take a gap year?” He had raised the subject before, but had since let it drop. She should have known better.

“Well, it is a good idea,” he said mildly.

She glanced away. A large canvas hung on the far wall. It depicted a lush rainforest scene with the buttressed trunk of a giant tree of extraordinary shape in the foreground. The magnificent tree was surrounded by a wide circle of copper-coloured dry leaves, and ferns of all kinds, fungi and terrestrial white orchids sprouted everywhere in the background. His sister, Zara, had painted it. Miranda, who had a good eye for such things, loved it. The scene looked so real—so immediate—one could almost walk into it. “I can handle the studying, Corin.” She looked back slowly.

He held up an elegant, long-fingered hand. “Please, Miranda, don’t look so crestfallen.”

“How can I not be?”

“You push yourself too hard. I worry about you.”

“You worry about me?” Her heart gave a quick jolt.

“Why look so surprised?”

“You don’t have to,” she said, trying to hide her immense gratification. He worried about her?

“Of course I do,” he confirmed. “You’re virtually an orphan. We share a history.”

She didn’t say she worried about him when he went off on his field trips to inspect various corporation mine sites.

With every passing year he had become more handsome and compelling. She watched with a mix of fascination and trepidation as he stood up, then came around his desk to perch on the edge of it. He was always impeccably dressed. Beautiful suits, shirts, ties, cufflinks, supple expensive shoes. The lot! How could she not fall in love with a man like that?

“I know you can handle the mind-numbing workload,” he said. “You’ve demonstrated ample proof of that. But you’re still very young, Miranda. Only twenty. Not twenty-one until next June, which is months off. I don’t want you totally blitzed.”

She drew in a long breath, preparing to argue. “Corin—”

Again he chopped her off with a gesture of his hand. “A gap year would give you time for personal development. Time to develop your other skills. You need to get a balance in life, Miranda. Believe me, it will all help in your chosen profession. You could travel. See something of the world. Do research if you like.”

She couldn’t hold back her derision. “Travel? You must be joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” He lifted a black brow. “I’m very serious about this, Miranda. You’re not just another brilliant student we’re sponsoring. The two of us have a strong connection. Your mother is married to my father. Many people thought it would be all over within a year or two, but they were wrong. She knows exactly how to handle him.”

“It has to be sex,” she said with a dark frown. “Razzle-dazzle.” Leila Rylance was famous for her beauty and glamour, her parties. From all accounts she had made herself knowledgeable about the political and big business scene. Even the art world, where she was fêted by gallery-owners. Leila was right at the top of the tree when it came to social-climbers.

“Don’t knock it,” Corin was saying dryly. “It’s important. Dad is still a vigorous and virile man. Besides, Leila has numerous other wiles at her disposal. She runs his private life and the house—indeed the houses all over the world—with considerable competence. She’s no fool. She’s appears very loving, very loyal, very respectful. She hangs on my father’s every word.”

“But is it for real?” Miranda demanded with a good deal of fire. “She obviously didn’t win you and Zara over.”

There was a flash in his brilliant dark eyes. “He brought her frequently to the house before our mother died, like she was a colleague and not an employee well down the rung. Fooled no one. At one stage I thought our housekeeper Matty was planning on poisoning her over morning tea. Matty adored our mother. Leila spent a lot of time trying to charm us. We were only children, but thinking children. We could see she posed a real threat to our parents’ marriage. Dad lusted after Leila long before she got him to marry her.”

She studied his handsome, brooding face, seeing how it must have been for him and his sister. “So hurting people didn’t concern her? Between the two of them they must have broken your mother’s heart.”

His expression was grim. “It was pretty harrowing for all of us. My beautiful mother most of all. I can’t talk about it, Miranda. I’ll never forgive either of them.”

“Why would you? I’d feel exactly the same. I do feel the same. The thing is, do they know? Does your father know? You’re his heir.”

He gave a brief laugh. “My grandparents, the De Laceys, are major shareholders. My grandfather Hugo still sits on the board. It was he who staked my father in the beginning—a lot of money, I can tell you. I have my mother’s shares. And Zara and I will have our grandparents’ eventually. Dad couldn’t overthrow me even if he wanted to. Which he doesn’t. In his own peculiar way he’s proud of me. It’s Zara, my beautiful, gifted sister, he endeavours to avoid. I look like him, except his eyes are a piercing pale blue and mine are dark.”

“They’re beautiful eyes,” she said without thinking.

“Thank you.” He smiled, thus lightening the atmosphere. “But I still say yours are the most remarkable eyes I’ve ever seen.”

“Someone has them,” she said. “My biological father? Some member of his family? Even you with all your resources couldn’t find out who my father was.”

“We couldn’t, and Lord knows my people tried. But we don’t know if it’s a good or a bad thing. Some people don’t want to become involved—not many years after, when the pattern of their lives is set. No one in the area where your grandparents and Leila lived fitted the bill or the time frame. It could have been someone she just happened to meet—”

“Like a one-night stand?” Miranda said sharply. “Barely sixteen, and Leila was taking lovers? Or was she raped? I can’t bear to think about that.” She shuddered. “My grandmother was convinced from the way Leila acted and spoke that wasn’t the case.”

Corin’s eyes never left her face. “There’s no way to tell, Miranda. I’m sorry. Only Leila knows. One day you might get the opportunity to ask her—” He broke off at a discreet tap on the door, calling for entry. A young woman Miranda had never seen before wheeled a trolley into the office.

“Thank you, Fiona. We’ll take it from here.”

“Yes, Mr Rylance.” Fiona flashed him her most dazzling smile, at the same time managing to give Miranda a comprehensive once-over.

Fiona left. Miranda stood up. “I’ll pour. No milk? Teaspoon of sugar?” She remembered.

“Fine.” His mind was clearly focused on something else.

“Want one of these sandwiches and a Danish?”

“Why not?” He went back to sit at his desk.

They were both settled before he spoke again. “This coffee is good.”

“Nothing less than the best.” It was very good. So were the neat little chicken sandwiches and the freshly baked mini-pastries. She was hungry. She’d only had fruit for breakfast. Papaya with a spritz of lime.

“Money would be made available for you to travel,” Corin said, setting down his coffee cup.

She looked at him in amazement. “You can’t be serious, Corin! Why would you do that? I’m taking enough. Can I say no?”

His brilliant eyes burned into her. “Better to say yes, Miranda.”

“Oh, Lord!” She took another hasty swallow of the excellent coffee. “You’re worried about burnout. Is that it?”

“There is such a thing. We both know that. The sheer drudgery of study. Your friend Peter almost died from an overdose.”

Her head sank. “Poor Peter!” Peter—her friend, the brilliant class geek. She had looked out for him from the start. When other students had tended to mock his extreme shyness and his bone-thin appearance she had been his constant support. Peter’s appearance at that stage of his life hadn’t matched up with his formidable brain.

“You were devastated,” Corin reminded her. Did she know poor Peter idolised her?

“Of course I was devastated,” she said, lifting her head. “We were supposed to be friends, but he never told me how bad he felt. Why didn’t he? I could have helped.”

“You can’t blame yourself, Miranda. You were a good friend to Peter, but his depression got the better of him. He was the classic square peg in a round hole.”

“Wasn’t he just?” She sighed. “I’m so grateful you were there for me that night.” Not knowing what else to do, she had called Corin from the hospital and he had come. “I’ll always remember that. And what you did for Peter afterwards. You spoke to his family. They listened. They’d been blind to the fact Peter wasn’t meant to be a doctor. With the family medical background they more or less forced him into it. Peter desperately wanted to become a musician. His ambition wasn’t taken at all seriously until you spoke up.”

“I wanted to help.”

“Well, you did.” These days Peter was studying the cello at the very prestigeous Royal College of Music in London.

“Still hearing from him?” Corin asked.

“All the time.”

She smiled. A sweet, uncomplicated smile. Peter was her friend. No more. He would never be her lover. He was glad about that. He didn’t stop to question why. But emotions had such intrusive, pressing qualities. Sometimes they had to be pushed away.

“I love Zara’s rainforest painting,” she said, gesturing to it.

“So do I. Zara keeps up her painting. I’ll find one of hers for you. I have quite a collection. But we’re not talking about Zara. Or Peter—though I’m very glad to hear he’s doing so well. We’re talking about you, Miranda. I firmly believe you’ll benefit from a gap year.”

Her fingers laced themselves together.

“Don’t argue. You wanted to fast-track science, remember?”

She looked across at him with pleading eyes. “I could have done it in two years had I worked through the long vacations.”

His tongue clicked with impatience. “Why won’t you admit you were glad when I made the decision for you? I’m on your side, Miranda. I’m simply not going to allow you to crash and burn. Two years was far too gruelling for a three-year science course and you know it. No time at all for a personal life.”

“Who needs a personal life?” she asked discordantly, stretching her slender arms along the sides of the armchair. “You’re a workaholic, though rumour has it you’re going to marry Annette Atwood. She’s stunning.”

He let the silence build. “So she is,” he agreed eventually. “But you appear to know more about it than I do.”

“You’re not?” It came out far too intensely. Damn, damn, damn.

“Let’s get back to you,” he said smoothly, aware she hadn’t meant to show such interest. “Professor Sutton shares my view you’d benefit from a gap year. And there’s a man who thinks the world of you.”

Her expression softened. “The Prof would like me to stick to science. He’s told me many times. He thinks I have a future in medical research. When you think about it, nine of our ten Nobel Prize winners have been medical scientists, or doctors of medicine. And Patrick White, of course, for Literature. I know at some future stage the Prof would like me to be in a position to make his team. I’m sure he’s told you he’s enormously grateful for the funding he receives from the Foundation?”

“He’s doing great work,” Corin acknowledged, as though that said it all. “Research doesn’t appeal to you?”

She ran her fingers through her short glittering curls. “I’d be honoured. But I have to get my MB first, Corin.” Her brain was ticking over at a million miles a minute. Travel? See the world? She felt exhilarated. And shocked.

“No reason to believe you won’t. I applaud your ambition. But taking a gap year will work out to be a distinct advantage. The more experienced and the more cultivated you are as a human being, you can only enhance your chosen career.”

“So I’m to do what I’m told? Is that it?”

He could see the mix of emotions in her eyes. “I’ve mapped out an agenda for your perusal.”

“Not my approval?” she commented wryly.

He ignored that. “Zara will be happy to keep an eye on you in London. I know the two of you will get on like a house on fire. Dad splashed out and bought a house in London when our mother was alive—an 1840s house in Holland Park. Rather run-down at the time, but in a superb location of beautiful tree-lined streets and gardens, and of course the park itself, which was once the grounds of a vast Jacobean Manor. Anyway, my mother and her English decorator transformed it. Zara is living in the house now. But there’s a basement apartment which I had turned into a very comfortable pied-à-terre for whenever I’m in London. You could live there. It will give you the feeling of independence. You can come and go as you please, but Zara would still be around for you. There’s a very elegant apartment in Paris too, typically Parisian, but Leila doesn’t go there often. She much prefers the villa she talked Dad into buying on the Côte d’Azur. It has a spectacular view of the Mediterranean.”

“So in the years of her marriage Leila has lived like royalty, greedily soaking up all the luxury your father’s billions can buy?”

“It’s not a new phenomenon. There have always been courtesans.”

“You hate her, don’t you?”

“I hate what she did to my mother,” he said tautly. “And how shamelessly. That’s when it all began. She worked to alienate Zara from Dad. These days I’m…indifferent to her.”

Miranda had to wonder about that. Only eight years separated Corin and Leila. “She must have to work very hard to be indifferent to you!” She spoke without thinking.

His handsome face tightened and his whole body tensed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She reined herself in quickly. “Leila likes to charm wherever she goes. Men, that is.”

“Well, she doesn’t charm me!” His voice was heavily freighted with hostility.

“Okay, don’t be angry.”

“Maybe you should start thinking about psychiatry?”

She met his dark eyes. “You’ve said that before. I’ve got good instincts, Corin. I let them work for me. Are you going to show me that agenda of yours?”

“I’ve got it right here.” He picked up a sheet of paper, then passed it across the desk to her. He must have been checking it when she arrived. “A bank account will be opened for you. You’ll have all the money you need to travel. See the great art museums of the world, study a language if you like. Go to the opera, the theatre, the ballet. Zara loves the ballet. Buy clothes. I want you to make the best of this time, Miranda. You’ll have a long, hard slog ahead of you.”

Her eyes ran dazedly down the page. “Look, I can’t do this, Corin,” she said eventually. “I’m not family. Yet you’re treating me like family.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, you are family—in a way. Your mother is married to my father. That’s family. Besides, I’m fond of you, Miranda. You must know that. We clicked from the very first moment you near landed in my lap. Your welfare has become important. It’s the least I can do for someone who has taken more than her share of blows. We’re both caught up in this, Miranda, so you must do as I say. This gap year will work wonders. Just see how quickly it goes.”

She closed her eyes briefly. “So a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do? Is that it?”

“I want your promise right now,” he said.

Her eyes opened. Her head flew back. “What if Leila and your father decide to visit London, or the Paris apartment or whatever?” she queried with sharp concern. “I see there’s another apartment in Rome.”

“You wouldn’t need to have contact should they visit. Leila likes the great hotels. Claridges in London, the Ritz in Paris are favourites. Dad does what she wants. She’s an expert manipulator. Anyway, I’ll always know their movements. Leave it to me.”

“Leave it to you?” She drew in a stunned breath. “I’m shocked by all this, Corin. I knew you might spring the gap year on me again, but never an agenda like this! Zara still doesn’t know about me and Leila?”

“I don’t think she could handle it,” he said sombrely. “Not without speaking out. She knows about my clever protégée Miranda Thornton. She knows nothing about the family connection. It’ll have to wait.”

“Until you’re good and ready, Machiavelli. Do protégées usually get world trips and a hefty bank allowance?”

“My sister knows I have a reason for everything I do,” he answered smoothly. “She won’t question it, or you. All she needs to know is that I consider, as does Professor Sutton, you’ll gain a great deal from a gap year.”

Her beautiful eyes glittered like jewels. “I think I knew from the start it might end up like this. You changing my life.”

His mouth twisted sardonically. “Cheer up! Didn’t you once call it destiny?”

“You believe in it?”

Their eyes locked. For the longest moment. “I do,” he said.




Chapter Two


IT WAS more like a fairy tale than real life. She was living a glittering lifestyle, like the most impossible of dreams. She had to remind herself every day that she couldn’t allow such a life to seduce her. Not that there was any real chance of that. Zara was the heiress. She most assuredly wasn’t. The practice of medicine would be her role in life. But for now she was enjoying herself immensely—just as Corin had wanted her to. Days, weeks, months simply flew by in a whirl of pleasure and excitement. She was learning a new way of life, acquiring much knowledge along the way.

She loved London—perhaps not the climate, not after the blue and gold of Queensland, but she worked around that like everyone else. London was one of the great cities of the world. It embraced her. It allowed her to trace its illustrious history, to see its magnificent historic buildings, the art galleries, the wonderful antiques shops, markets, to shop at the legendary Harrods, visit the beautiful parks. She was doubly blessed by being billeted in very swish Holland Park, just west of Notting Hill. More than anything she loved living in Corin’s elegant apartment, with its French Art Deco furniture and a basic colour scheme of brown, bronze and white enlivened by cinnamon and gold. It was definitely a male sanctum, but it welcomed her.

Though fourteen thousand miles separated them, she somehow felt Corin very close. That could have had a lot to do with the fact that she was sleeping in his huge Art Deco bed!

Zara was largely responsible for the lovely time she was having. She had quickly found Zara was the most beautiful, gracious creature on earth. And the kindest. A true lady. Miranda knew from the photographs of their mother—Corin had one lovely silver framed study he kept on his desk—Zara was fashioned in her mother’s image, but she did see a lot of Corin in her. The sharpness of intellect, the generosity of spirit, the sense of humour that happily they all shared. Just like Corin, there was something utterly irresistible about Zara. Yet Miranda sensed a deep sadness that lay in Zara’s heart. From time to time it was reflected in her huge dark eyes. Zara had some pretty serious stuff stacked away in the background.

Over the months Zara had taken the place of the big sister Miranda had never had. She had been so lonely for siblings that had never arrived. How could they? Her real mother, Leila, had fled, desperate to get away from her parents and her child. She now claimed she couldn’t bear children. Maybe, just maybe, it was true. Leila would surely have wanted to cement her new position by producing a male child? It was possible it was Dalton Rylance who didn’t want or need any more children. He had Corin and his daughter, even if she so painfully brought to mind his first wife. Was his cold disregard a by-product of his guilt? Miranda found herself both fascinated and repelled by the whole story.

Kathryn Rylance had died when she’d crashed her car. Had it been an accident? She would never dare ask. But surely such a loving mother would never have deliberately left her children? Not to such a father. Or the covetous young woman waiting in the wings. The potential stepmother. There could have been a single moment when Kathryn had become careless and lost control of the wheel. She could have been blinded by tears. Miranda realised she wouldn’t be the only one to ponder such things. There were the grieving grandparents, the De Laceys, and Kathryn’s clever, perceptive children, her close friends. Talk must have been rife!

But no one knew what really happened. Nor would they ever.

Often she wanted to break her own silence and confide in Zara, but she had given her promise to Corin. He would decide when it was time. In the meantime, Zara was always on hand with support and advice. She took Miranda everywhere—parties, functions, art showings—and introduced her to many highly placed people who seemed to like her. She was now included in many invitations. Zara arranged weekend trips to Paris, the fabulous City of Light, where they crammed in as much sightseeing as they could. All for her benefit, of course. Zara had visited the city many times before.

Back in London they lunched together whenever Zara could make it from work, went shopping together, loving every moment of it. But Zara never interfered or asked too many questions. It was as if she knew Miranda wasn’t too sure of the answers. The great thing was they had become the best of friends. Miranda valued that friendship greatly. For a young woman with a billionaire father Zara was remarkably down to earth. But Miranda, acutely attuned to Corin and now to his sister, knew Zara wasn’t happy at heart. It wasn’t as if she brooded or was subject to mood swings, nothing like that, but Miranda felt right in her judgement. Beautiful, privileged Zara, for all the money behind her and a long list of admirers, wasn’t happy or fulfilled. A melancholy lay behind the melting dark eyes that those who looked beyond the superficial clearly saw.

Miranda had written to Peter well in advance of her arrival. He had been thrilled to know she was coming. He thoroughly agreed with Corin, whom he referred to as his saviour, a gap year was an excellent idea.

“You don’t want to end up a burnt-out old wreck like me.”

These days they met up frequently for coffee and conversation, took in a concert or a movie. On good days, like today, when the sun was shining, they packed a picnic lunch and sat on the grass in either Hyde Park or St James’s, with its wonderful views of Buckingham Palace in one direction and Whitehall in the other. There was just so much history to this great city! Currently Peter’s teacher had entered him in a big European competition and convinced Peter if he worked hard and continued to show progress he would make his mark in the world of music.

“You’re in your element at last, aren’t you?” Miranda said, glancing over at her friend with affection. Peter had made a complete recovery now that he had been granted his wish to pursue a musical career.

“Absolutely!” Peter lolled on the green grass, tucking into a ham and salad roll. “I’ve never felt so at home in my life. I love London. All the action is here. And there’s no culture gap to contend with. Even the family has settled, knowing I’m making a success of myself over here. Life’s strange, isn’t it? I wouldn’t be here except for Corin. My parents actually listened to him. But then he has enormous presence and—what?—he’s not even thirty.”

“Twenty-eight.” Miranda took the last bite out of her crunchy apple.

“Still in love with him?” Peter leaned on an elbow to peer into her face.

“Why ever would you say that?” She feigned nonchalance though her heart had started to hammer. Was she that transparent?

“Come off it, Miri,” he scoffed gently. “I’m super-observant when it comes to you. Heck, I don’t blame you. I could fall in love with him myself and I’m not gay. Corin has more going for him than the law should allow. It’s a wonder some determined young woman hasn’t snaffled him up.”

Carefully Miranda wiped her hands, putting the apple core into a disposable bag. “There is one determined young woman on the scene. But no announcements as yet. Annette Atwood. You know the family?”

“Of course!” Peter nodded. His best feature, his mane of thick golden-brown hair, gleamed in the sun. He was growing it artistically long, as Miranda had suggested. The look suited him and added a certain panache. “Dad’s a big-time lawyer turned property developer?”

“That’s the one.”

“Think they’ll make a go of it?” Peter asked, sensitive to how Miranda might feel about that.

“Corin has never come close to telling me about his love life,” Miranda returned very dryly.

“What about your love life?” He turned questioning blue eyes on her. Corin’s sister, who was a really lovely person and a great beauty in the classic style, was making it her business to introduce Miri to a lot of high-flying guys.

But Miranda smiled as though she didn’t have a care in the world. “I have a powerful reason to stay on course, Peter. So do you. We have careers lined up.”

“That we do. I’ve often wondered where your driving interest in medicine and medical research came from, Miri. Your background isn’t like mine, with so many doctors in it. They say genius is random. Dad says it has to be in your genes.”

“Then it must be a very long way back.” She laughed. “I come from a line of small farmers.”

“So it’s just as they say. Genius is random.”

“And we’re both geniuses!” She lightly punched his arm. “Better get going. Haven’t you got a master class at three-thirty?”

Peter started. “Hell, I almost forget. It’s so lovely being with you, Miri.” He stood up, all of six-four, dusting his jeans off. “So, what are you going to do about your birthday? It’s coming up. I suppose Zara will have something arranged?”

“No, no!” She shook her head vigorously. “Zara doesn’t know anything about it. And you are not to tell her. I don’t want any fuss. No presents, except a little one from my best mate—and that’s you!”

“But you should celebrate!” he insisted. “You’re only twenty-one once.”

“It’s no big deal.”

“Of course it is! What say we get dressed up and have dinner at some posh hotel? I have money. The parents are very generous these days.”

Miranda handed over the picnic basket, then took his arm. “That will suit me just fine.”

Peter felt so happy he could have shouted with joy.



The best laid plans could always go awry, and circumstance forced them to move her birthday date forward to mid-week. Peter had been selected at short notice to replace the cellist in a highly regarded quartet, who had fallen ill. With a new member on board, intensive rehearsals would have to take place all over the weekend.

“No worries, Peter,” she reassured him, thrilled he was getting such a lucky break. “New horizons are opening up for you. Wednesday evening will be fine.”

And so it eventually turned out that Miranda’s early twenty-first birthday dinner with the young man who would become her life-long friend proved a special treat.



The following day Zara and three of her colleagues, all foreign-exchange traders, led by her boss, Sir Marcus Boyle, were to fly off to Berlin for a series of top-level business meetings.

Zara eased her tall, elegant body into the jacket of her Armani suit, picked up her briefcase, then walked to the front door that led onto its own private patch of emerald-green lawn and blossoming flowerbeds. Miranda was holding the door open for her, waving acknowledgement to the London taxi driver who had just arrived to take Zara to Heathrow. At twenty-six, Zara was very good indeed at her job. Miranda had learned that from one of her colleagues at a recent party.

“Tremendous flair. Not afraid of taking risks. She’s a star turn. In the genes, I suppose, as a Rylance. Rival banks regularly try to lure our Zara away. So far no luck!”

“I’ll be back Tuesday.” Zara smiled at the girl she had come to regard as the nearest thing she would ever have to a younger sister. “Be good. Don’t accept any solo invitations from Eddie Walton. He’s really keen on you, but he’s too old and too much the playboy. As I told you, he was involved in a rather high-profile scandal not all that long back. Likes the ladies, does our Viscount Edward.”

“Don’t worry, I can look after myself,” Miranda assured her. “Besides, I’m immune to Eddie’s mature charms. Though he does have them.”

“That he does,” Zara agreed wryly. “Well, look after yourself, Miri.” Zara bent to give the petite Miranda a real kiss on the cheek. “You don’t mind watering the plants, do you? There are rather a lot of them.”

“It’ll be a pleasure.”

“Thank you,” Zara said gratefully. “Oh, yes, that reminds me. You’re set for the charity do Wednesday evening?”

“Looking forward to it.” Miranda gave Zara a final hug. “Go on, now. The taxi is waiting. Have a safe trip and wow them in Berlin.”

Zara’s answer came in a fluent flow of German that sounded perfect to Miranda’s ears. She continued to stand on the doorstep of the handsome pristine white terrace house, watching until the taxi had disappeared.

You’ll be alone, all alone, on your twenty-first birthday, girl.

Not that she minded being alone—she was fully aware how blessed she was being taken on by Corin and Zara—but it was her twenty-first birthday after all. She hadn’t dared tell Zara about it. Zara would have done her utmost to organise something—even try to get out of the scheduled Berlin meetings.

With a little sigh, she shut the glass door of the big beautiful house and leaned against it.

Be happy, Miranda. It’s not so terrible, is it, to be alone on your birthday?

Of a sudden her eyes filled with emotional tears. She blinked them back, feeling ashamed of herself. She had been handed a marvellous London sojourn on a plate. Trips to Paris. A luxurious lifestyle. The ease and affection of Zara’s company. Most young women could only dream of being offered such an experience.

Buck up!

She breathed deeply. Corin knew it was her birthday tomorrow. No card had arrived. Maybe he thought a card might have alerted Zara? Flowers perhaps tomorrow? A possibility. She made a real effort to brighten up, wondering if she would ever find anyone in the world to fall in love with after Corin Rylance.



It was after midnight before she finished reading the latest novel by a writer she always enjoyed, Laura Lippman. She set the book down on the bedside table before turning off the light. The beautifully laundered sheets and pillowcases had a lovely fragrance of mimosa. Zara would have asked for it especially, as a reminder of home. Mimosa, or wattle to Australians, the national flower.

With practice Miranda had mastered the knack of putting herself into some lovely serene place to enable her to drift off to sleep. These places were always near water—the ocean, a lake, a river—with lots of blue and gold, a background of leafy trees, spring green…

She didn’t know how long she had been asleep, but she awoke with a great start and a swiftly muffled cry of fright in her throat. There were movements—soft, muted sounds—coming from upstairs in the house. She sat up, straining her ears, while the atmosphere in the apartment settled like a heavy blanket around her. She knew perfectly well she had set the state-of-the-art security system just as Zara had shown her. Who or what could have de-activated it? Should she ring the security people? Hastily she turned on a bedside lamp, checking the time: 1:30 a.m. She had never been more aware of how exposed a lone woman could be. She said a quick prayer—not at all convinced there was really someone up there to hear her, but prepared to give it a shot.

Stacks of valuable things were in the house. Paintings, antiques, silver, Oriental porcelain, rugs. Heart thudding, she slid out of bed, pulling on the turquoise silk kimono Zara had insisted on buying for her.

“It exactly matches your eyes, Miri. You must have it!”

She took several deep breaths. Held them. An exercise in slowing her heart-rate. Then very quietly she let herself out of the apartment into the staircase hall that connected the apartment to the house proper. For the first time since arriving in London she felt very much alone. The area lay in intense darkness. She reached out her fingers, seeking the bank of switches. She pressed one and a single low-level light came on, gleaming against the teal-blue-painted wall with its collection of miniatures in gilded frames. Now she could find her way up the curving internal staircase. A good twenty-four oak steps. Before leaving the apartment she had taken the precaution of arming herself with one of Corin’s golf clubs, which for some reason she had kept handy: an iron, a lethal weapon. God forbid she would have to use it. Maybe wave it about threateningly. Her mobile was in the pocket of her embroidered silk robe. She could ring the police.

Why don’t you do it now?

What if it’s Leila with Corin’s father?

She very nearly went into a panic at the idea. Surely Zara would have told her of their impending arrival in London?

That was if Zara even knew they were coming.

A whole world of problems opened up. Corin had been adamant Leila favoured the great hotels of the world when she was traveling, even though her husband maintained residences in various capital cities. Besides, Zara was in residence, and there was no love lost between Zara, her father and his second wife. None of them would have wanted to come into contact.

What a dysfunctional family! Leila the stepmother was at the root of it all. Leila, her birth mother. She had a hard time with that. If Leila ever laid eyes on her what reaction would she get? She had to closely resemble someone, in her colouring alone. Probably Leila would deny she had a daughter with her last breath.

Silently she edged up the staircase to the first landing, her bare feet making no sound. Halfway up she fancied she could smell coffee.

Of course she could smell coffee. The marvellous aroma was unmistakable. What sort of burglar would make himself coffee? It had to be some member of the family. A distant member, perhaps? One of the male cousins? That playboy, Greg? Just as she was hesitating, full of uncertainty, she heard footsteps in the long, spacious entrance hall with its marble tiling. Light, but simply not light enough to be a woman’s. It was a male. Intruder or relation?

Her stomach contracted and her head went into a spin. Adrenalin pumped into her blood, otherwise she thought she wouldn’t have been able to go a step further. As it was, she continued upwards. Someone was punching numbers into the security system. Why? They were already in. Or were they leaving? She felt a sharp ache at her temples, swayed a little, dropped the golf club.

You idiot!

If one accepted Murphy’s Law, if anything could go wrong, it would. She did. The club landed with a clatter, the stick pinging off the shining brass balustrade of the wrought-iron staircase. A thousand miserable damns! She backed down a step or two, in a great hurry to retrieve the golf club. The noise of its falling would have alerted the intruder. Silence now roared at her.

Breathe in and out. Slow your pulse.

She readied herself. She didn’t rate herself as fearless, but if something bad was about to overtake her she wouldn’t let it pass without a fight.

Only, like a benediction came a voice. A deep, vibrant, sophisticated male voice. She would recognise it anywhere in the world. Probably even if she were out moon-walking.

“Miranda, is that you?”

Louder footsteps struck the marble tiles. She stood electrified. Panic thinly plastered over with stoicism gave way to an excitement so thrilling it was impossible to contain it.

It’s me…it’s me…it’s me! She wanted to shout it from the rooftops.

Corin! Was that a birthday present or what?

“God, I thought I was being as quiet as the proverbial mouse,” he called down to her.

“I’m here.” She was practically whispering now, her mouth had gone so dry. Corin was here. She’d had only a forlorn hope he would even remember her birth date. But he was here! She didn’t think she could climb the rest of the stairs, she was starting to shake so much. She had to take a moment to settle, to compose herself.

Corin!

This was the nearest she had ever come to euphoria. It was making her quite woozy.

“Where are you? On the stairs?” His footsteps were moving closer. “I’m sorry I woke you.” His tone held both concern and apology. “I thought you’d be fast asleep.”

Pull yourself together, silly. Think of your next move. No way can you act the gauche girl.

Only she couldn’t seem to get her head around the fact Corin was here in the house. There had been no advance warning. Just his electrifying presence. Had Zara known, she would have told her. So that meant Zara didn’t know either. She felt so unnerved, so totally off balance, she was almost ready to scuttle back down the stairs. She knew she looked perfectly presentable, with the kimono tied tightly around her, but the shock and wonder of his arrival was so enormously extravagant it was emotional agony.

All at once her knees gave way. She collapsed in a silken huddle on the step.

Corin appeared, taking in her small crumpled figure. “Oh, for God’s sake, Miranda!” He hurried down to her, bringing with him the force field that always zoomed in on her. He was wearing evening dress. Black trousers, white pin-tucked shirt. The black bow tie was undone and left dangling. “I can’t apologise enough!” He spoke very gently, getting an arm around her and lifting her to her feet. “I frightened you?”

“I have to say you did.” From chills of fright, she was now bathed in the glorious heat of contact. It seared her lightly clad body that was pressed so alarmingly close to his. “Why didn’t you let us know you were coming?” She ventured to lift her head, staring into his brilliant dark eyes.

“But that would have spoilt the surprise. Though I was taking a risk, wasn’t I?” His expression went wry. “Surely that’s one of my golf irons on the step?”

“I was hoping I wouldn’t have to use it.” She stayed within the curve of his arm and shoulder, for the moment physically unable to stand straight. The warmth and scent of him was the most powerful aphrodisiac.

“Oh, poor you!” he groaned. Still with his arm around her, he steered them up the rest of the stairs and from there along the corridor into the entrance hall. Once there, he dropped a kiss on the top of her silver-gilt curls. “A very happy birthday, Miranda. I can say that, as it’s gone twelve.”

“Thank you.” The thrill of his presence was so keen it was like exquisite little pinpricks all over her skin. Plus there was the fear she would betray herself. “But you surely didn’t fly into London to say that?” She managed to make it sound as though she was well aware he hadn’t.

“Why not? You’re twenty-one only once in your life.” His dark eyes moved slowly, steadfastly over her. “You look well.” Marvellously pretty would have said it better. Not a skerrick of make-up on her heart-shaped face, her mouth a delectable rose, and the lovely blue-green of the silk kimono matching her eyes, turning them to jewels. The silver-gilt curls still clung to her head, but he thought they were a little longer and expertly styled. Zara would know all the right places to take her. “I’ve made coffee. Would you like a cup, or do you want to go back to sleep?”

“Won’t the coffee keep you awake?” She could only stand, staring at him. His white dress shirt was a wonderful foil for his deep tan.

“Who cares?” he said lightly, finding himself with a battle on his hands. He wanted to reach for her and draw her back into his arms. She fitted perfectly. At least take her hand. Frustrating, then, to have so many obstacles in the way. “I feel like one. Come along. You weren’t really going to hit me with that golf club, were you?”

“I was going to ring the police.”

“I’m so glad you didn’t.” He led the way into the large, beautifully designed kitchen. She and Zara had had many a meal here. Often she had done the cooking.

“You’re so much better than I am!” Zara had declared.

True. Only unlike Zara she’d had years of helping prepare meals, in the end taking over the job completely for her mother, who had morphed into her grandmother.

God rest her loving soul.

“They wouldn’t have been too happy, coming out this time of night—and for what?” Corin was saying, pulling her out of her thoughts. “It’s all my fault. I take full responsibility. It’s just that I remember you once told me you were out like a light as soon as your head hit the pillow.”

“That’s when I was studying hard,” she admitted with a faint smile. “These days I’m doing little but enjoying myself. I’ve got used to the sounds of the house as well, and Zara is in Berlin.”

“Yes, I know.”

“So she did know you were coming?”

“No, she didn’t.” He glanced across at her, a delicate figurine wrapped in turquoise silk. She had no idea how alluring she was. Which was just as well. “I told you. It had to be a surprise. I knew about the Berlin meetings, however. She’ll be back Tuesday anyway.”

“Yes.”

“So sit down.”

This was one of those kitchens that didn’t look like a kitchen. It looked more like an exceptionally inviting living area, big sparkling chandelier and all. The space was so large it could easily accommodate the marble-topped carved wood table, painted the same off-white as all the cabinetry and surrounded by six comfortable be-cushioned chairs.

She took one, conscious he was looking at her. She glanced up. Their eyes met. Married. Or was she imagining it?

“Hello!” he said, very gently.

Whatever it was, she could hardly speak for the force of her emotions. “And greetings to you.” Even her voice shook, as though she had lost much of her habitual control. There was something in his tone; in the depths of his brilliant dark eyes.

Eyes say more than words ever can.

What were hers saying? That she wanted to leap up, go to him, hug him, tell him she had missed him dreadfully, for all the wonderful times she’d been having.

Common sense won over. This was Corin Rylance. Dalton Rylance’s son and heir. A family worth billions. These were important people who mattered. Corin was way out of her league. For all she knew he could be about to tell her he was getting engaged when he went home. To the Atwood woman.

“What am I thinking of?” he asked himself with a quick frown. “Champagne is more in order than coffee. There’s a bottle of Dom in the fridge. I think we might crack it. What do you say?”

“I guess it should be champagne,” she agreed. She sounded so polite! No easy feat, when the level of excitement was rising at an alarming rate. She saw it as a flame that if only lightly fanned could turn into a dangerous blaze. Formality seemed as good as any defence mechanism.

Keep your deeper emotions out of it.

Sound advice.

“Twenty-one and don’t you forget it,” Corin said.

“So where have you been?” She inspected his tall elegant frame. “The evening clothes?” He looked so wonderful it made her feel strangely fretful, her legs restless.

“I spent the evening with old friends. I actually arrived in London from Rome late yesterday. Needed to catch up on my sleep. Had a business meeting this morning that lasted until lunch. I let Zara get away on her trip to Germany so I could move in.”

She thought of something to distract her attention away from him. “Let me get the glasses.” She rose swiftly on her small bare feet. “Zara and I often eat in here. In fact, we’ve had many an enjoyable late-night supper.”

“She tells me you get on wonderfully well together.” He lowered his handsome dark head to look into the well-stocked refrigerator.

“She’s my honorary big sister.”

He turned back, champagne bottle in hand, black eyes glittery. “Just don’t make me your big brother.”

She was surprised by his tone. “Why not?”

“I don’t feel like your big brother.”

His body language confirmed it. She felt a rush of emotion that was the equivalent to a huge jolt of adrenalin.

How can he possibly look at you like that if he doesn’t like you?

Get real! Don’t you mean he’s attracted?

In the past few months, with all the socialising she had been doing, she had been made aware men found her very attractive. Viscount Walton, the famous ladies’ man, for one. Now, for the first time, was there a tension and an intimacy between them? Maybe it was the lateness of the hour? The months of separation? All she knew was there was a star-bright, bursting sensation in her chest, as if sparkling, spinning, Catherine wheels were going off.

So what role does he want?

Don’t invite disaster.

She tried to ignore her voices, reaching up to grasp two beautiful crystal flutes. They were kept on the shelf above other crystal wine glasses of varying sizes. Sheer nerves and a surfeit of emotion made her fingers uncharacteristically clumsy. To her utter embarrassment, the flute she had just barely grasped fell from her hand onto the tiled floor. The long stem remained intact, but the bowl shattered into glittering fragments that covered a surprisingly wide area.

“Oh, no! Sorry, sorry—I’m so sorry.” She apologised over and over. Emotion was her undoing. “How could I have been so clumsy?”

Corin moved in very quickly. “Stand right where you are,” he instructed. “The glass has gone everywhere. Amazing how it can do that! You’d think the chandelier had fallen.”

“I’ll replace it.”

Corin sounded totally indifferent to the damage. “Forget it, Miranda. It’s only a glass.”

“A very expensive glass.” Her voice conveyed her distress and agitation.

“I said forget it,” he responded rather tersely, as though her evident upset was getting to him. “Rather a broken glass than you cut your pretty feet. No slippers?”

“Extra quiet on the stairs,” she explained shakily. “You could have been a burglar. Anyway, I’m fine. I’ll get the broom.” She unfroze, determined to sweep up the fragments, only Corin shocked her by reaching out for her and lifting her clean off her feet.

“I said stay put.”

Her breathing had escalated to such a pitch it was darn nearly a whistle. “No need to turn cranky.”

“I’m not cranky.” He laughed.

“All the same, I was clumsy.”

“You and clumsy don’t go together.”

It was precisely then that the silk sash of her kimono slid out of its knot and unfurled, making its sinuous way to the tiles, thus exposing Miranda’s flimsy nightgown: fine white cotton caught by a deep V of crocheted lace that was threaded with blue satin ribbon. She had never felt so naked in her life.

“You can’t hold me.” Her nerves were coiled so tight they were about to snap.

“Does holding you change things, Miranda?” The amusement had gone out of his voice. It was oddly taut, as were the muscles in his lean, powerful body. Even his eyes were filled with a daunting yet exciting masculine intensity.

“I mean I must be h-heavy.”

“You’re a featherweight.” He hoisted her higher, to prove his point, carrying her back to the table. “There—you can relax now!” He set her atop it, with a big blue pottery bowl filled with fat, juicy lemons just to her right. “Stay there. That’s an order. I’ve opened the champagne. We’re going to have a glass or two each. It’s your birthday. I’m not going to allow anything to spoil it.”

With his height, he reached easily into the top shelf, taking down two exquisite flutes while glass crunched beneath his gleaming black dress shoes. “Right! I’d better sweep this little lot up.”

The odd tension between them resonated in the large room. She watched him sweep up the glass with a few swift, efficient movements, then push it into a pile, clearly sticking to his plan of pouring the champagne. That done, he handed her a frosted flute, his strong, elegant fingers closing momentarily around hers.

The pleasure was so sharp it was a wonder she didn’t cry out.

“Congratulations, Miranda, on your twenty-first!” He toasted her. “May you have a long, happy, healthy and fulfilled life.”

“And may I always know you and Zara,” she returned emotionally. “The two of you have come to mean the world to this orphan.”

“Listen to you!” he said gently. “Drink up. This is a great year.”

She savoured the fine vintage wine, first in her mouth, experiencing the burst of delicious bubbles, then in the flavour, letting the wine run down her throat in a cold rivulet until the flute was empty. “Beautiful!” she breathed, her tongue retaining the cold, crisp after-taste.

“Then how come there’s a little heartbreak in your voice?” he asked, finding her far more of an intoxicant than the most superb wine.

“I don’t know, Corin. The significance of the moment?”

So many unsaid things were suddenly between them.

And then his hand came out. He touched the satin texture of her cheek.

She couldn’t help it. She moaned. “I feel like I’ve known you all my life.”

“So look at me.”

She obeyed, looking directly into his brilliant eyes. Dark as they were, they couldn’t hide the gleaming sensuality.

No distance at all now divided them. Both seemed possessed by the moment. “It’s your birthday, so I believe I should be allowed to kiss you,” he murmured, already dipping his head. “One kiss. That’s all. On this very special occasion we might find it permissible to go out on a limb.” He managed to speak lightly, affectionately, even, but in reality he was driven by pure desire that had to find at least some degree of release. Time to confront the repressed knowledge that his desire for her had begun the moment he had first laid eyes on her years before.

He wanted to run an urgent hand down the column of her throat to her delicate breasts. To his captive eyes they resembled pink-tipped white roses, not long out of bud. He wanted to feel her heartbeat beneath his palm. If only she were older, more experienced, more along the way with her ambitions, he would kiss her and caress her before carrying her to bed.

But this was Miranda. He couldn’t allow his control to slip. He had vowed to look after her and her interests. She was young, when his experience of life and living had gone far beyond even his own age group.

From long practice Corin reined himself back to a pace he thought they both could handle. He set down his wine glass before taking hers out of her hand.

“Happy birthday, Miranda.” His voice was low, and to Miranda’s ears heart-stoppingly deep and romantic. Even before he touched her she felt as if she was being possessed. Gently he took her face between his hands, inhaling her sweet fragrance.

There can be no future in this.

Her warning voice tolled like a bell.

All you stand to gain is heartbreak.

At that moment she couldn’t bring herself to care. She had to seize this one breathless instant. One kiss, then everything would go back to normal. They would return to their respective roles.

It doesn’t work that way.

“Come here,” he whispered.

All there was was a deep hunger. She moved her upper body into him, her spine curved, while he held her face and kissed her as if he had never in his life known a woman he wanted to kiss more. He kissed her not like Corin her mentor. He kissed her like the most ardent lover. It was a brilliant, beautiful, incredibly real kiss, as if for those short moments out of time he was declaring love for her. This was no quick flare of pleasure-seeking. None of the male’s driving sex urge was on display. All control wasn’t lost. The kiss was contained. A decision acted upon. But deeply, deeply erotic for all that.

One of you will get hurt. It won’t be him. It will be you.

Corin found he had to pull his mouth away. Even with his exercising of strict control, the level of excitement had surged so high he thought it would take a long time to subside. “Has no one told you how beautiful you are, Miranda?” He gazed down on her face. It looked dreamy, almost somnolent, as though she had been transported to another place.

It took her long moments to answer. “If they have, I haven’t taken much notice.”

As an answer it was very revealing. Careful now, Corin thought. He would do nothing to threaten her well being. One kiss had proved more than enough to handle, luring him on while staying his hand. He moved his body back a little, deliberately lightening his tone. “Zara has mentioned many times how charming people find you. There’s some old roué—what’s his name? Walton?”

Her heart was racing so hard and fast it was moving the lace at her breast. “Eddie is quite a player.” With an effort she summoned up a smile. She had taken their kiss in her stride, hadn’t she? There was wisdom in caution. “There are many women in his life.”

“But he wants to spend time with you?”

“Maybe he does. But I’m not anyone’s passing fancy, Corin. I avoid danger and damage.”

“Good.” He turned away from temptation. “One more glass, then I must let you go back to bed. I need to turn in myself. We’re off to Venice in the morning.”

She was so startled she gave a little cry. “What did you say?”

Venice? Magic in the air.

She wished she was sitting in a chair, so she could ease back into it for support. As it was, she thought she might topple off the table.

“Venice. Probably the most fascinating city ever built by man,” he said, busy refilling their sparkling flutes. “I have us booked into a first-class hotel. Tons of atmosphere. It’s on the site of the orphanage church where Vivaldi probably dreamed up the Four Seasons. I think you’ll love it. It’s the quintessential Venetian luxury hotel and its position is superb. Our respective suites overlook the Lagoon, and it’s only a few minutes’ walk from the Piazza San Marco. It’ll be a great experience for you. You’re just the sort of young woman to fully appreciate it. The heart of a pure romantic beats beneath this Bachelor of Science.”

She was perilously close to bursting into tears. “Corin, you don’t have to do all this for me.”

“What have I done for you really?” He held her with his compelling eyes.

“What no one else has done! You overwhelm me.”

“What? Feisty little you?” he scoffed. “The teenager who launched herself into my lap? If that wasn’t initiative, what is? Risky too, as you very well knew. Here—drink this down, then off to bed. A cab will be here at eight sharp to take us to the airport. Ninety minutes or so on we take off to Marco Polo International. We return to London Monday afternoon. I’ll wait to see Zara when she comes back, then I’ll be heading home for a few days before I head off to meet up with my father in China. Business, needless to say.”

“This is like a fairy tale,” Miranda breathed, accepting the crystal flute from him with visions of the legendary Serenissima she had seen only in books and films rising before her eyes.

“Well, your life hasn’t exactly been a fairy tale up to date. This is by way of balance. Besides, even if we’re not related by blood we do have a strong connection.”

A shadow crossed her small heart-shaped face. “I want to tell Zara,” she confessed. “We’ve become close. I don’t like keeping my true identity from her.”

“Only there might be quite a price to pay,” he offered rather tensely. “For the moment anyway. I know how you feel. I don’t keep secrets from my sister. I love her. After our mother was killed we were so alone, except for one another and our grandparents when we were allowed to see them. Dad did his best to isolate us, but he didn’t succeed. A life of wealth and privilege doesn’t guarantee happiness, that’s for sure. The occasion will present itself. You just have to be patient.”

“Until the timing fits in with your agenda, Corin?” There was just the tiniest hint of challenge in her tone.

“Trust me,” he urged. “Right at the moment I’m most concerned with protecting you from what could be a very unpleasant experience.”

“You feel contempt for Leila, don’t you?” she said, sadly aware this woman was her mother.

He gave a nonchalant shrug, but the expression on his handsome face had darkened. “Leila is a very destructive woman. My father can’t see it, but Leila’s whole being is centred on self. Valiant as you are, clever as you are, you’d be no match for her. You see life very differently from your mother, Miranda. You want to serve. Leila only wants to take.”

“Does she want to take you?” The instant it was out of her mouth she felt a great spasm of shock. Why had she broached such a highly dangerous and emotive subject? Could it have been acute feminine intuition at work? There was such a thing. Corin’s father was still a very handsome man. But Corin was young. He was much closer in age to Leila than his father. And Corin was blindingly sexy.

“Only you could get away with saying that.” He turned her face to him, fingers closing around her pointed chin.

“So forgive me.” She was actually appalled at herself. “But you make her sound such a rapacious woman.”

His hand dropped. “She makes my father happy. Zara and I might wish she had never come into our lives, but she did. My father is a business giant, a brilliantly clever man, but in some respects he’s completely under Leila’s domination.”

“And this is the woman who bore me?” she said, a dismal note in her voice.

“You are you,” he replied with strong emphasis. “All your admirable characteristics come from a different source.”

“Oh, I hope so,” she gasped. “My grandparents were fine people. They formed me. But then they would have done their best to form Leila. Perhaps my father, whoever he may be, made some sort of a contribution?” she suggested with some irony. “There are many mysteries in life, aren’t there? A lot of them I would think unsolved.”

His expression had turned brooding. “I agree. It’s possible that whoever your father was he didn’t know Leila was pregnant.”

“So where did she get the money to run away? My grandparents didn’t have anything. She didn’t rob a bank. Someone gave it to her.”

“Someone who might have been appalled by the whole situation. It could be a real grief, Miranda. Anyway, we won’t talk about it any more. It’s your birthday.”

“Do you think Leila will remember?” she asked with a twist of bitterness.

“If she does she won’t flail herself.” His answer was full of contempt. “Promise me you’ll put Leila out of your mind. I’m planning a long festive weekend. Promise?”

She threw up her shining head. “I promise,” she said.

“Then drink up and we’ll go to bed.”

If only! If only! If only!




Chapter Three


THERE followed the most glorious day of her life. The word dazzling should be kept for the rarest occasions, Miranda thought. A private mini-bus was waiting at Marco Polo airport to take them to their water taxi, which again had to be private, because they had it all to themselves. What it is to be rich! Miranda mused, all but mesmerised by this whirl of luxury and dream trips to fabled locations. With her particular mind set, another thought inevitably struck her. One would need to be sprightly when visiting Venice, with all the getting in and out of water craft. She had to think of the elderly, and people with back and knee problems. Mercifully, at the grand old age of twenty-one, her body was wonderfully flexible.

In a haze of unbounded pleasure and excitement she moved ahead of Corin into the cabin, and from there into the sunshine at the rear of the vaporetto. There was so much to take in. So much to capture the imagination. The triumph of Venice, a city built on water! At times like this she would have given almost anything to be an artist. She could scarcely believe she, Miranda Thornton, raised by ordinary country folk, the people who had loved her the most, yet who had kept secret from her the fact she had been abandoned by her mother as an infant, was now entering upon the most glorious street in the world. A street that had been immortalised by some of history’s truly great artists. Canaletto immediately sprang to mind. And the great English painter J. M. W. Turner. She had adored Turner’s work on her gallery trips with Zara, who was very knowledgeable about art. Turner had really spoken to her. Then there was the American John Singer Sargent, who had painted many scenes of Venice. And why not?

The sheer grandeur was breathtaking: the splendid frontages of the magnificent palaces—Venetian Byzantine, Gothic, Renaissance—that lined either bank of the famous waterway with a hot sun beating down. She felt as though she was absorbing the palpable sense of history—of a city founded in the fifth century—through her pores, though it was near impossible to absorb the totality of the scene, so much splendour was on show.

The water was an indescribable blue-green. Not sparkling, like the waters of home, but with a kind of lustre like oil spreading out over the surface of the great canal, thus picking up marvellous reflections. She wondered what Venice would look like at night. And she was here! It made one have faith in miracles.

“Well?” asked Corin, studying her enchantingly pretty face. From the moment he had met her he had found her fascinating—not just her highly distinctive looks, but her manner, her speech, the sense of purpose that even at seventeen had emanated from her. He and Zara had visited Venice, a favourite city of their mother’s, many times before, but this time with Miranda, brand-new to the fabled Serenissima, he found his own pleasure expanding by the minute.

She turned to him eagerly with a spontaneous smile, turquoise eyes glittering. “It’s beyond—way beyond—my expectations. The extraordinary light!”

“The golden glow of Venice,” he said.

“The colour of the water is indescribable!”

“From a height it shimmers,” he told her. “Anyone familiar with our waters in Australia speaks about the dazzling blue sparkle, but the Grand Canal—indeed all the waters of Europe—have a different palette and a different character.” He studied her flawless white skin with the luminosity of alabaster. “Are you wearing sun block?”

She shook her head almost guiltily. “No.” She had meant to put some on. Not that she had needed it so far in London.

He tut-tutted. “And you a doctor in the making. It’s very hot, and it will get hotter as the day wears on. It’s a different heat from ours, as I’m sure you’ve already noticed. Come back inside. Don’t worry. We’ll see everything. Take a gondola ride. The gondolas can reach the narrowest and most shallow canals. It’s the best way to get around. These days it costs an arm and a leg, but you learn the city from both sides of the canal. There’s a tremendous amount to see, but we have to make the best choices to fit in with our time. We might manage a visit to the island of Murano.”

“World-renowned for its glass-making. I do know that.” She had a girlfriend whose parents had brought her back a beautiful necklace and earrings set from Murano.

He nodded. “For centuries they were the only craftsmen in the whole of Europe who knew the secret of making mirrors. They held on to the technique for all that time.”

“I’m not surprised.” She laughed. “It would have brought in a great deal of money as well as prestige.”

“Exactly. There’s a very fine museum on the island called Palazzo Guistinian. Thousands of pieces cover the entire history of glassmaking from the ancient Egyptians to the present day.”

“Wasn’t there some Bond movie when they sent a cabinet toppling?” She frowned, trying to remember. Was it an older movie, with a marvellously handsome Roger Moore?

“Wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” he said wryly. “They sent a palazzo toppling into the Grand Canal for the first one featuring the new James Bond, Daniel Craig. If you like I can arrange a water taxi so we can go over on our own. Only a short trip.”

“That would be wonderful, Corin. But I must admit I’m a bit worried about how much money you must be spending.” A fortune already, in her reckoning.

“Don’t feel guilty. I’ve got it. One of the perks of being a Rylance.”

She watched him closely. He had only been standing in the sun a short time, but she could have sworn his golden tan had deepened. “It’s sad and strange, isn’t it, that you and Zara, brought up with such wealth, haven’t had a happy life?”

“And you all of twenty-one!” He gave her a smile.

“Okay, okay!” She drew in a quick breath. “But please let me tell you I’ll never forget this birthday if I live another eighty years.” It came out with enormous gratitude and a tiny quiver of sob.

Instantly, he enfolded her in a brief hug, as if she was his favourite cousin. “So why do you think I brought you?” he said.



Her suite overlooked a great breadth of the luminous waterscape, looking towards the island of San Giorgio. She could see its magnificent church, San Giorgio Maggiore with its Renaissance façade, gleaming white in the sun, and the imposing campanile—the bell tower. The bedroom’s décor was like no other she had ever seen. Sumptuous, seductive, otherworldly in its way, with antique furniture, fine art, fragrances on the air—and she thought a delicious touch of spookiness. But then she did have a great deal of imagination.

As she stood there, marvelling, Corin turned to face her for a moment, with amused and indulgent dark eyes. “I don’t like to drag you away, but I must. A quick lunch, then as much as we can comfortably fit in of a grand tour, before dinner here. The hotel has a very fine restaurant and chef. Then we take in the city by night. Don’t forget the sun block.”

“I wish I could say in Italian your wish is my command.”

“Then let me say it for you.”

She applauded as he broke into fluent Italian. “Non parlo Italiano, I’m afraid,” she smiled. “Apart from the usual one liners. Arriverderci, addio, ciao, and the like—and what I’ve picked up from Donna Leon’s Venice-based books. I really enjoy her charming Commissario Brunetti. I studied Japanese at school, but I had to concentrate on Maths, Physics and Chemistry. Not much time available for languages, I’m sorry to say.”

“You’ve got plenty of time to learn,” he said casually. “This won’t be your last trip to Italy, Miranda. This is your first.”

She couldn’t help it. She clapped her hands. “Prophecies already? Marvellous!”

“Don’t mention it,” he said.



She knew she would be having flashbacks of this fabulous trip to Venice for the rest of her life. In a single afternoon and evening they had packed in as much as they possibly could see of what had to be the most fascinating and mysterious city on earth. The fact that Corin spoke fluent Italian and knew the city so well proved to be an enormous advantage. She was free to soak up so many dazzling sights and scenes, buildings and churches. The famous Basilica of San Marco the focal point of the great piazza, Santa Maria della Salute. She loved the art, the sculpture—it was like partaking of a glorious banquet. Corin kept up a running commentary. She listened. They took a gondola ride. When they walked it was hand in hand. She knew he was keeping her close to his side, but they might have been lovers. Except they weren’t. Nor could they be. Theirs was no conventional friendship, yet Miranda had never felt more close to anyone in her life.

When they met up for dinner he greeted her with a low, admiring, “Come sei bella, Miranda!”

Although he had adopted the lightest of tones, something in his expression made her throat tighten and tears prick at the back of her eyes. Did he find her beautiful? She had tried her hardest to be. For him. She had packed a short glittery silver dress, little more than a slip, but she was slim and petite and it did touch in all the right places and show off her legs. She well remembered the lovely day shopping with Zara, who had picked the gauzy dress out for her.

“It’s you exactly, Miri!”

Pleasures! Ecstasies! She had allowed them to enter her life. Now she began to fear their power. She realised with a degree of shock that she didn’t know herself very well. She had thought herself as a calm, contained person, well in control. A young woman with a brain perfectly designed for study: taking in reams of information and retaining it. She had a serious purpose in life. What she had to confront now was the fact that beneath the containment, her serious ambitions in life, she had a very passionate nature. And it was Corin who had unlocked it.



Dinner was absolutely brilliant; the sala da pranzo richly appointed. Wherever her eyes rested it was on something beautiful. The hotel was renowned for its collection of artwork, all on display for the pleasure of their guests. They had a table for two looking directly across the lagoon at San Giorgio Maggiori. To her delight it was all lit up for the night.

Dishes materialised as if by magic. A superb mingling of flavours, combinations and textures; the finest, fresh ingredients; the presentation a work of art. In the background soft harmonious chamber music added to the ambience. Vivaldi, most likely. His famous church the Pieta was just next door. Her choice of dessert was a bitter chocolate mousse with coffee granita and ginger cream. It simply melted in her mouth. Corin’s choice was a classic tiramisu she thought had to be carried to the highest level of perfection.

“This has been so groaningly delicious I think we’ll take a stroll before bed,” he suggested. They had finished coffee, and now he motioned to their discreetly attentive cameriere.

“Yes, of course. Good idea!”

She didn’t want the night to end. But Corin had arranged a tour of the Grand Canal in a private vaporetto in the morning, including a trip to the Guggenheim, the great heiress Peggy Guggenheim’s former home, right on the Grand Canal, now one of Europe’s premier museums devoted to modern art. This might have been Miranda’s gap year, but no gap was being left unfilled. She was having a wonderful time. Small wonder the children of the wealthy were granted their finishing year in Europe. It added a fine polish. And there was nothing in the world like first-hand experience.

Outside the door of her suite, Corin tucked a breeze-ruffled curl behind her ear. “Sleep well. Lots to do tomorrow.”

They had returned from their stroll around the great piazza, along with the summer tourists enjoying the warmth and beauty of their surroundings, her arm tucked cozily in his. Now it was time to say goodnight.

“I can’t thank you enough for this trip, Corin.” She looked up to meet those brilliant, intense eyes. He had such an aura. She could only imagine it would increase with the years. “You and Zara have been wonderful to me.”

“You don’t think it’s because you’re easy to be wonderful to?” he asked with a smile. “You’re so receptive to new experiences, Miranda. You undoubtedly have an eye. I know you’ve added a considerable lustre to my stay. Now, goodnight. Breakfast at eight. Okay?”

“Fine. My first night in a huge canopied Venetian bed. This is such an alluring place!” She threw up her arms.



Did she know just how alluring she was? Corin thought as he moved resolutely away. All those fascinating changes of expression! Every minute he spent with her bound him closer and closer. It had taken all his resolve to walk away, pretending light affection, when he hungered to pick her up, take her to her Venetian bed and make endless love to her. She was twenty-one. Was she still a virgin? Had the usual experimentation gone on? Not with her Peter. He was sure of that. But with another intelligent, caring young man? Miranda wouldn’t settle for less. She was now very much a part of his life. He had no intention of letting her get away. But it would take time. Such was his high regard for her and her ambitions he was prepared to wait.

Only he was human, and he wanted her so much it was pain.

The bathroom of her suite was magnificent, lavishly covered in Italian marble. The finest bath and body products were to hand, and robe and slippers. Miranda took a quick shower and emerged glowing. She dried herself off, slipped on her nightdress and her own satin robe, then padded into the bedroom with the panoramic tiny terrace beyond. Truth be told, she felt too keyed-up to sleep. She had thought the warm shower followed by a quick cool blast would quell all the stirrings in her body. But just the opposite. This intense awareness of herself as a woman, the awareness of her body, had been brought about by Corin. His brilliant dark eyes as he had said goodnight had been hooded—just the broad, high sweep of his cheekbones. Was that to hide his thoughts? They had connected on many levels, but the physical one was definitely there. She had seen it. She had felt it when he took her face between his hands. So much was transmitted by touch. Whatever he felt, however, he wasn’t going to do a thing about it. In his position he would be weighing up the consequences. She wasn’t the only one with defence strategies. Did he consider a sexual relationship with her taboo? Technically she was his stepsister, wasn’t she? Was there a liability attached to having a physical relationship?

Feeling a wave of sweet melancholy, she picked up her crystal-backed brush to give her hair its ritual thirty strokes. Forget one hundred. Mentally she had long dreamed of Corin as her lover. Incredibly stupid of anyone to hanker for someone out of their reach. Her past lovers had been infrequent. Two, actually. Both fellow students, both in love with her, both very tender in their ministrations. She had wanted to know what making love was all about. She hadn’t found much of an answer in either short-lived experience. She had considered at those times she mightn’t be capable of giving herself completely to anyone. Look what had happened to her mother. She didn’t understand her mother’s life. It was crucial she understood her own.

That was when she casually looked up, glancing into the ornately carved pier mirror in front of her.

A man was staring back at her, his body as solid and impenetrable as a stone statue.

The level of shock was bottomless. She drew in a sharp breath that quivered like an arrow in flight. A judder racked her spine. Yet not a single word burst from her throat. No scream. No cry at all.

Somehow she kept upright, determined to stay that way. He was dressed very oddly. He might have stepped out of another century. Could it be some sort of fancy dress? Venice was famous for it. But even as she considered that she had to reject it.

Push back the panic.

He remained eerily still. Where had he sprung from? The terrace? Had he been hiding out there? Had he slipped in earlier in the night when the maid came in to turn down the bed?

“What are you doing here?” she cried as she spun to confront him. Aggression seemed the best way to go, though some part of her brain had signalled he meant her harm.

She required an explanation.

Only she was by herself.

Quite, quite alone.

How could that be? A kind of dread started cold in her veins. She had a well-organised mind. She was certain she wasn’t losing it. Her eyes darted all around the room. This was alarming. He’d had no time to get anywhere within a framework of seconds. There had to be a logical explanation. Yet her view of life as she had known it started to waver. The parameters were suddenly blurred. She leaned against the canopied bed. Had he stepped out of a parallel universe? Was there any such thing? Many people believed there was, but she was far too rational to believe in—

Ghosts?

The word presented itself, only it was seriously weird. She’d had more than a glimpse of her visitor. It couldn’t have been a trick of the light. More than a touch of dizziness beset her. The air had definitely chilled around her. Indeed, the opulent room was filled with an impenetrable thick silence, as if she had cotton wool stuffed into her ears. Except she could distinctly hear the tinkling of the chandelier above her head. Something had set the lovely crystal lustres in motion.

There was no breeze.

Sometimes life can depart from the easily explained.

It had to be a trick of the light. Her imagination. The legendary mystique of Venice at work?

She made a big effort to get control of herself. None of those explanations would wash. What she saw, she saw. No way was she crazy or mildly intoxicated. The walk after dinner had cleared her head in any case. Already a strong suspicion was with her. There just could be a paper-thin wall between this world and that. The majority of the population managed to keep it at arm’s length. But many learned people, academics and the like—one had to discount the fanciful—had theorised that ghosts did exist. And they were notorious for hanging around castles and palaces.

She was fairly sure now what her visitor was.

An apparition.

One she had done nothing to summon up. Her mind’s eye retained a snapshot of that long, narrow face, the black beard, the shoulder-length dark hair, the strange dress like a priest’s cassock. His hands, as white as his face, had been quietly folded. A glinting medallion hung around his neck. He hadn’t appeared hazy. Quite the contrary. He’d been substantial. Someone strong enough to materialise if only for a moment. Energy, perhaps? Something of a person that lingered in the atmosphere? She was striving to rationalise what she had seen.

Only she was certain she wouldn’t be able to sleep here. Imagine if he came back again? Imagine if he sat down on the side of the bed?

If anyone had asked her that morning if she believed in ghosts she would have laughed and quoted some lines from Hamlet:

“There are more things in Heaven and Earth,

Horatio,

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

She wasn’t laughing now. She was a quaking bundle of nerves.



Corin answered the phone almost immediately.

“Pronto!”

“It’s me,” she said at a rush, ashamed of the tremor in her voice. “Can you please come down to my suite? Now!”

His answer was sharp. “You’re okay? What’s happened?”

“I’ll tell you when you arrive.”

She needed his strong arms to enclose her. His powerful presence. At least whatever she had seen was long gone. How did ghosts come by their clothes anyway? she pondered weakly. Did they have access to communal wardrobes? She began to feel mildly hysterical. Jewellery pools? How did he manage to hold onto the medallion he wore around his neck?

What she had so briefly experienced had opened up a nest of snakes. She didn’t feel at all foolish. She had her wits about her. She had seen what she had seen for long enough to be sure.

Vast relief swept her as Corin strode in. His thick, lustrous hair was tousled into deep waves. He wore a white T-shirt and jeans, hurriedly pulled on.

“For God’s sake, Miranda, you’re as white as a sheet. What’s happened? Did something frighten you?” He looked at her, then beyond her, obviously searching the room, and then just as she had hoped he reached for her and drew her into his arms, clamping her close. “It’s okay. I’m here.” Solid warm flesh, strong arms, vibrantly male. She could feel the strength and power in him. The dizziness eased.

“And am I glad!” she muttered into his warm chest. “Listen, I don’t want to make an issue of it—wake up the manager, demand an exorcism—but I think I’ve had a visit from Signor Vivaldi.” She was capable now of attempting a joke.

He drew back a little so he could stare into her eyes. “What are you talking about? Did someone get in here?”

She shook her head. “Trust me. It was Signor Vivaldi. Only he wasn’t carrying his violin. Don’t let go!” she cried out as his grip slackened in his surprise.

“I won’t.” He sounded gentle, but perplexed. “Come and sit down.” He led her, still with his arms around her, to the sofa, upholstered in rich scarlet, amber and gold brocade to match the bedspread and the hangings around the canopied bed.

“Do you believe in ghosts, Corin?” she asked, staring into his eyes. “Serious question, here. And please don’t laugh.”

“Who’s laughing?” he answered soberly. Indeed, there was no trace of a laugh in his face or his voice. “Are you telling me you saw a ghost?”

“Right there in the mirror,” she said. “Go on. Take a look. You’re so tall and strong you’ll probably frighten him off.”

“More like he’d frighten me!” Corin rose to his feet, moving position so he could stare into the ornate antique pier glass.

“I confess I’m only getting a reflection of you,” he said. She looked profoundly shaken, but it was obvious to him she was trying hard to keep herself together. That impressed him. “The brain does funny things sometimes. Miranda,” he said very gently. “Both Zara and I saw our mother in all sorts of places for ages after she’d gone. On the landing. The stairs. The end of the hallway. The rose gardens especially. It’s grief. It’s trying to come to terms with it. The sense of loss drives you to conjure up the loved one’s presence.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Of course, Corin. I understand about you and Zara. I’ve had my own moments with my grandparents, but I knew them for what they were. I don’t know this guy. I’m pretty clear-headed. Strong-minded, if I say so myself. I wasn’t hallucinating. I’m not losing my marbles. I know what I know. I saw what I saw.”

Corin resisted any attempt to convince her she had to be mistaken. “Well, it wasn’t Vivaldi. He had red hair. He was called the Red Monk.”

“Then it was one of his cronies. The whole place is intrinsically spooky. It wasn’t my imagination. The whole experience was beyond eerie. He didn’t look particularly dangerous, but I don’t fancy seeing him again.”

“I bet you don’t !” Corin agreed on the instant. The weird thing was he believed her. Or believed her enough not to contradict her. “We’ll swap suites.”

Miranda reacted fast. “How do I know he won’t follow me to yours?”

“I wouldn’t blame him if he did.” His answer was wry.

“This isn’t a joke, Corin,” she told him sharply. “You have to stay with me.”

“What? Share the bed?” He had to try to inject some humour into a situation that was threatening to get out of hand.

“You can have the bed,” she said magnanimously. “I’ll sleep on this sofa. It’s big and it’s very comfortable. We might shift it closer to the bed, though.”

“So we can hold hands?”

“Do you believe me or not?” she challenged. “Or do you think this is some kind of idiotic ploy to entice you here?”

“Never occurred to me.” He kept his voice serious.

“If he’d been real I would have attacked him with my hairbrush. But there was no one. I suppose the fascination of Venice, apart from its beauty, mystery and exoticism, is that it’s tantalisingly spooky. Part of the mythology, isn’t it?”

He fetched up a sigh. “So my mother always said. As for me, I keep an open mind about ghosts. I have to admit it would take a lot to convince me. I do believe, however, you are convinced. Now, I have a suggestion. Why don’t I take you down to my suite? Let you see what you think?”

“No way!” She rejected the offer. “You have to stay here with me. The air changed, you know. It was like I had wads of cotton wool stuffed in my ears, except I could hear the tinkling of the chandelier.”

“It isn’t tinkling now,” he said somewhat dryly.

“Of course it isn’t!” She struck his arm. “He’s gone. Buzzed off. Maybe he has a full roster tonight? Some people are into the paranormal bigtime. The thing is he looked just like he would have looked in life. Not some ectoplasm I could walk through. Stay with me, Corin. This is the most beautiful place in the world, but it is scary.”

He released a long groan, feeling the onset of a raging torrent of emotions. “How can I possibly sleep in the bed and leave you on the sofa?”

“The bed’s big enough for both of us,” she said, trying to persuade him with the appeal in her turquoise eyes.

He groaned louder. “Miranda, there’s not a bed in the world big enough for both of us. What do you think’s going on here? You’re a beautiful girl, and I’m as frail as the next guy.”

“No, you’re not,” she said. “Not once you make up your mind. And you have made it up, haven’t you?”

He gave a soundless laugh. “How do you know my best intentions won’t fall into ruins?”

“If they do, it’s our secret,” she said. “We have secrets, don’t we, Corin?”

“Boy, are you full of surprises!” he exclaimed. “You’re saying you’ll sleep with me?”

“I’m desperate.”

He laughed aloud. “Miranda, I can’t sleep on the sofa. I’m too big. You can. We can’t share the bed. You know as well as I do that’s pushing it too far. My job is to look after you.”

“Well, I didn’t say you have this terrible aching longing for me, did I? You’re not by any chance getting engaged when you go home?”

“Miranda, engagements are the last thing on my mind.” The expression on his handsome face turned severe.

“Me too. So take it easy. Can you sleep in your jeans?”

“You bet I can.”

“Thank you for coming, Corin,” she said. “I’m not making this up. I’m sure of what I saw.”

“Then you’re a very lucky girl!” he offered darkly. “You’ll be dining off the experience for years.” He rose to his six foot plus, giving vent to a disturbed sigh. “Okay, I take the bed.”

“I’ll just curl up here on the sofa,” she said, immensely grateful for his presence. The force in him overrode all sense of trepidation. The worst of the trembling had stopped. “You can throw me the silk throw, if you would.”

“Anything, my lady.” He picked it up and passed it to her.

“Can we keep a light on in the sitting room?” she asked, settling herself with the luxurious silk throw over her.

“I don’t see why not.” He moved into the other room, switching on a single lamp, with its golden pool of illumination. “I just knew in my bones this was going to be a memorable stay. Shut your eyes and go to sleep now, Miranda. Your ghost will know better than to return.”




Chapter Four


SOMETHING drew him out of a tormented sleep. His body was still vibrating, unable to shut down. It had taken him ages to settle into a doze, but at least Miranda had lapsed into sleep almost immediately. Shock, of course. She was a highly intelligent, level-headed young woman. He had to believe she had seen something. Whatever it was, it wasn’t about to bother him. Or he sure as hell wasn’t worried. What worried him was that sex was very much on his mind. Sex with Miranda. God knew it was normal enough to want to make love to a young woman who held him in thrall. But not now—not like this. It seemed to him too much like taking advantage. That he could not do. But try telling that to his powerfully aroused body.

Decency must override desire, Corin.

He was getting a bit tired of his conscience blasting him.

Only the unthinkable had happened. Miranda had crept into bed beside him and now rolled lightly against his back, her petite body with its soft curves and light bones nestled up against his flesh. Tension tore through him. His heart set up a loud tattoo, beating in his ears with the volume turned full on. He turned very carefully, fighting not to give a strangled moan. He was lying beneath the coverlet. She was lying on top of it.

My God, what do I do next?

His whole body was throbbing, stirred into flaming life. He could barely stay in his skin. Desire was a burning fever. He would have coped with half a dozen Venetian ghosts far better than this intensely desirable young woman curled up against him. The lightness of her! The fragrance! A man could drown in it. The only course open to him was to retreat, slide out of the other side of the bed. He could prop himself up on the sofa for the rest of the night. Get comfortable somehow. See it out until morning. Ghosts didn’t hang around in the light of day. They were too tired out from their nocturnal excursions. Or was that vampires? Either way, he didn’t care. Miranda was the real problem.

“Corin?” Just to make the problem near unsolvable, she suddenly sat up, twisting her shining head towards him. Her voice was hushed, but filled with urgency. “Don’t go away. Please don’t. I didn’t like the sofa much. I wanted to be closer.”

“Miranda, stop it,” he begged.

You’re losing it, Corin!

“I can’t stay here in this bed with you,” he said tautly. “You’re nobody’s fool. My whole body is hurting. I’ll make love to you. Nothing surer!”

“Then do it!” she burst out, sounding as though she knew far better than he did. “Ease the pain. This is life! I’ve decided I want to live it. None of us knows how much time we have, do we? Why waste what we’ve got? You’re alive. I’m alive. If you like, when we wake up we can pretend it was all a dream.”

“And you think there’s going to be a lot of comfort in that?” he demanded, aghast. He reached for her, took hold of a bare delicate shoulder where her robe had fallen off. He could see the silver shimmer of her hair, like radiant moonlight. “Are you or are you not a virgin?”

“Will that improve or detract from my status?” she challenged. “Technically I’m not, but I can say in all truth the earth has never moved for me. I’ve had two lovers. Really nice guys. Fellow students. Smart, good-looking. Not untried either. But I couldn’t for the life of me see what all the fuss was about. Perhaps you can tell me? I’m sure you’ve had plenty of experience.”




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