by Margaret Way
“Too much of you goes on inside your head, Rick. I never really know what you’re thinking.”
He felt bad about that. He couldn’t get past Zara. Or the ache in him.
Sometimes he couldn’t believe the passage of years. Could it possibly be five? Zara had made an attempt at bridging the deep gulf between them, writing many letters. The latest had been sent from London. That was shortly before she’d started to appear on the front page of the London newspapers. The temptation to read her letters had been powerful. He’d had to wrestle long and hard with the urge to slit the envelopes and devour the contents but he had come to think of it as a betrayal of himself. Of his self-esteem. Accordingly, the letters, tied in a thick bundle and shoved away in the back of a bureau drawer, had finally been consigned, not to the shredder, but fire. Fire seemed appropriate.
The past was off-limits.
Such a pity he couldn’t erase memory.
CHAPTER TWO
THE Rylance Mediterranean-style mansion was some house. Dauntingly vast, it was set in five acres of landscaped gardens that at the rear led past a turquoise swimming pool and a pool house big enough to hold a family, down to the river, deep, broad and thrillingly dangerous in flood. In spring and summer the banks were overhung by prolifically blossoming trees. The front of the house sat at the centre of a sweeping cul-de-sac with only two very expensive estates to either side.
He had been a boy when he first visited the house. At ten, Outback children—at least those whose parents could afford it—were sent to boarding school to receive the best possible education. It was a tradition. He and Corin had been enrolled at birth in the same prestigious boys’ college their fathers and their grandfathers before them had attended. They were to start Grade Five together in the coming year.
His bonding with Corin had been one of those instant things. Friends and kinsmen right from the start. Corin’s beautiful little sister, Zara, had appeared to him like the princess in his own little sister Julianne’s fairy stories. For one thing, she wore a white dress with embroidery all over it, the like of which he had never seen. Her long gleaming dark hair had been pulled back from her face, held with a wide blue satin ribbon but left to slide like a waterfall over her shoulders and down her back. For Jules, who was six at that time everyday gear was asexual—T-shirts, shorts or jeans, boyish cap of dark curls. That was the norm on the station for all the kids.
He had been irresistibly and utterly captivated by Corin’s sister, who even then had dizzying power over him. He had a theory that she had established herself so early and so vividly that it had been impossible for him to see her as she really was. But, for all the excitement and attendant dangers of living on a vast Outback station, meeting little Zara Rylance, a cousin of sorts, had been one of the big moments of his childhood.
“This is Zara, Garrick. My jewel of a daughter!”
Corin and Zara’s beautiful mother Kathryn had smilingly introduced them, perhaps amused by his open-mouthed reaction. The little girl, to his astonishment, had sweetly and composedly given him her hand. How graceful was that? How adult!
Of course her mother had taught Zara her polished manners. Kathryn Rylance had been such a gracious woman of luminous poise. Who could possibly have imagined that not all that many years later she would be dead, killed in a spectacular crash when her powerful sports car became airborne and went over a bridge? The entire extended family had been stunned and saddened. He remembered his own strong-minded, highly articulate mother loudly deploring the fact that Dalton Rylance had remarried a relatively short time later.
“Young enough to be his daughter, Daniel, would you believe?” she’d addressed his father, her eyes the deep and brilliant blue she had passed on to her son sparkling in condemnation. “What is to happen to those children, so deprived of their loving mother? That callous monster Dalton will be no comfort at all. Little Zara will be the one to suffer the most. Mark my words. Are you listening to me, Daniel? With Zara around, Dalton and this new Mrs Rylance will never be able to forget Kathryn. I know you don’t like my saying it, but I’ve always believed our dearest Kathy was in such distress—”
At that point his mother, who had gained a reputation for looking ageless, had broken off, quickly swivelling her burnished head.
His father had caught sight of him, hovering at the door, and called out his name. “It’s all right, Garrick. Come in.”
Just as he was hanging on what his mother was about to say! Everyone knew his mother had not been impressed by Leila Rylance. She made no secret of it. In fact she was very outspoken. Not surprising perhaps when she’d had considerable affection for the tragic Kathryn who Zara so closely resembled.
The spectacular hand-forged iron gates, ebony offset with gleaming brass scrolls, parted on command. Then slowly closed behind them. They were cruising up the broad driveway lined by towering Cuban palms. An extraordinarily dramatic display of bromeliads flowered at their feet in long narrow beds that formed an allee that reached to the circular drive. Manicured lawns spread away to either side, a lush green never seen in the Outback.
Nearer the mansion, his eyes were enchanted by the sight of the box-edged rose gardens he remembered. The roses, his mother’s favourite plant, reigned without attendants. No other plants or under-plantings shared the beds. He approved of that. The rose, after all, was the Queen of Flowers. Now, in early summer, they were in exquisite bloom, each bed devoted to a particular colour—all the pinks from pale to deep, the whites, the yellows and oranges, a hundred iridescent shades of red, crimson, scarlet, ruby, carmine furthest away. The whole aura was one of peace and tranquillity.
He knew Kathryn Rylance had taken great personal interest in the garden. It was she who had worked closely with the head gardener at that time, a transplanted Englishman by the name of Joshua Morris. Josh was a man with a great love and knowledge of roses. It had been his job to enlarge the rose gardens. To no one’s surprise, Josh had resigned almost immediately after the news of Kathryn Rylance’s death had broken. He was said to have been devastated.
The gardens remained as Kathryn’s memorial.
Garrick’s fatigue had vanished. Nevertheless, he was acutely aware he was on edge. He wasn’t sure whether Zara was staying at the house or not. He knew she had a city apartment. But, with the wedding so close, it was possible she would be staying at the mansion. God knew it could accommodate an army. He understood Zara and Miranda had grown close. But then Zara had enormous charm at her disposal.
Corin had confided he was in two minds about keeping the property. Memories, of course. But, even with any amount of money at his disposal, he would be hard pressed to find a more valuable or better sited property with a superb view of the river to the rear. The estate was a major asset. It had to be worth many millions and state-of-the-art security would already have been put in place by Dalton. It was all up to Corin. Quite possibly, Miranda wouldn’t care to live in the house, although she had only met Leila Rylance, the last chatelaine, briefly. Miranda would be in for a lot of exposure as Corin’s wife. In the ordinary course of events, medical students didn’t get to marry billionaires. From what he had seen of Miranda, he was sure she could hold her own.
He knew, even before the door opened, it would be Zara. That warning tightness in his chest. The first of the shock waves?
Kathryn Rylance had passed on her exquisite features to her daughter. Zara looked up at him with a tremulous smile—no doubt uncertain of his reaction—but her wonderful eyes were already working their spell like some medieval witch. “Hello, Garrick.”
Just the sight of her! Did she know how it hurt? A thousand electrifying volts of recognition. The accompanying sense of futility for ever having loved someone beyond reach. Would he never get over the tortured angst he had carried around as a young man?
You’re carrying a torch you can’t put down, let alone put out, you fool.
He was older, wiser. His heartache had morphed into steely resolve. He didn’t fully
realise it but he was radiating sexual antagonism. “Zara, I wondered if you’d be here.”
She flushed at his cutting tone. “I don’t expect a hug.”
“I’m not a big hugger any more, Zara,” he offered very dryly, when his heart was beating like a bass drum. “You cured me of that. Am I allowed to come in?’
“Of course.” Her flush deepened, like the pink bloom on a rose. She stood back, a willowy young woman with an entrancingly slender silhouette. Her gleaming dark hair was caught back in some elaborate knot, emphasizing her swan’s neck and the set of her pretty ears. She was dressed in a white sleeveless blouse with gauzy ruffles down the front and narrow-legged black pants. Tall as she was, above average in height, she still wore high heeled slingbacks on her feet. A simple enough outfit albeit of the finest quality. Zara enhanced everything she wore.
“Corin’s been delayed,” she told him, clearly showing her nerves. She had to look up at him. He, like Corin, was inches over six feet. “Miri is with him. Just a quick drink with friends. They’ll be home for dinner, which is at seven.”
“I remember,” he said, slightly relaxing the tension in his voice.
“Shall I show you to your room?”
She gave him another shaky smile. She sounded very gentle, very anxious to please. “Where are the staff?” he asked briskly, as if he would much prefer one of them to do the job.
“They’re about. I wanted to greet you myself.”
“Really?” He raised a black brow. “I suppose we do have to sort out how best to handle the next couple of days.’
His expression must have been harsh because she said, “You still hate me?” Her own expression was one of deep regret.
He didn’t have to consider his response. It was automatic. “Don’t kid yourself, Zara.”
Don’t let those big dark eyes drag you in.
“If you ever haunted my dreams, those days are long past.”
“You still haunt mine,” she said very simply.
Great God! The cheek of her! His answer was so stinging it made her flinch. “You always were good at putting on a show. But surely you’re not over Hartmann already?”
She visibly recovered her poise, her tone unwavering. “You’re talking utter nonsense, Garrick. I was never involved with Konrad Hartmann. There was no relationship as such. A few dinner dates. A couple of concerts.”
“I guess I can accept that.” He shrugged. “Goddesses don’t fall in love with mere mortals. But you had a sexual relationship?”
“Hardly any of your business,” she said with considerable reserve.
“Of course you did.”
He glanced away from her beautiful face into the sumptuous formal living room. It had been redecorated since he had last seen it. Now its palette was gold, turquoise and citrine-yellow, with the walls painted a shade of terracotta impossible for him to describe. This grand room had once been walled in with a graceful curving arch that matched the arch on the other side. Now both huge reception rooms were open to the entrance hall.
It was a real coup! In fact it was stunning. The entrance hall remained floored in traditional black and white marble tiles but, as he lifted his head, he saw the new white coffered ceiling. In place of the arches, four Corinthian columns soared to left and right, acting as a splendid colonnade.
So who had inspired the magic? Some high-priced designer with impeccable taste? Miranda? Very possibly, Zara. It looked like her—the refinement—he decided. Zara always did have tremendous style.
She was standing a short distance away, appearing lost in her own thoughts. “I can’t talk about Konrad Hartmann,” she was saying. “I was the victim there.”
He lowered his coal-black head, his expression highly sceptical. “His beautiful Australian mistress?”
“Believe that, you’ll believe anything!” She spoke tautly. “I was sorry to hear your engagement to Sally Forbes broke up. I do remember her. She was a very attractive girl. And very suitable.”
He shrugged. “Well, she’s happily married to Nick Draper now. Remember him?”
“I remember your other friend, Nash, better.”
“Why wouldn’t you?” He laughed, a dry and bitter sound. “Nash fell in love with you as well. One way or the other, you left lasting impressions. Corin must have spent a fortune redecorating the place.”
“You like it?”
“Someone has superb taste,” he said, lowering his dazzling blue gaze to hers. “Was it Miranda? I would have thought she was too preoccupied with her studies. I greatly admire her ambition, by the way.”
“As do we all.” She spoke tenderly, as if Miranda were a much loved sister. “Miri and I decided on things together. Of course we had a very talented professional team in as well. We didn’t want any reminders of—” She stopped short, biting her lower lip. It was fuller than the sensitive upper lip. She had a beautiful mouth. Once he could have kissed it all day. All night. Pretty well did.
“Go on,” he urged in a clipped tone, thinking he might never have any real protection against this woman. “You didn’t get on with your stepmother, did you? I suppose it’s understandable. You couldn’t bear another woman to take over from your mother, let alone steal your father’s attention away from you.”
She put her hand to her throat as though such a charge caused her great pain. “What would you know about it, Garrick?”
“I don’t pretend I know a great deal,” he confessed. “After all, we’ve lived over a thousand miles apart for nearly all of our lives. But I do recall your telling me any number of times how Leila had come between you and your father. Not that we spent much time talking, or indeed talking about anyone else but ourselves and our plans for a future together,” he tacked on with marked bitterness.
“She did more than that,” Zara pointed out, keeping her face as expressionless as she could. “But one isn’t supposed to speak ill of the dead. Suffice to say, it was Miranda more than anyone who wanted big changes.”
“What? Wasn’t what was already in place good enough?” he asked in genuine surprise. “No one could say poor tragic Leila lacked style.”
Zara half turned away, showing him her lovely profile. “Let’s get off the subject, shall we? It’s really not your concern.”
“Of course it isn’t,” he agreed suavely. “But, tell me, what exactly is my concern?” He picked up his suitcase. “I’m Corin’s best man.”
“Corin thinks the world of you.” She began to lead the way to the double height divided staircase that swirled upward to left and right at the end of the entrance hall.
“The feeling is mutual,” he said. His eyes were on her delicate shoulders and straight back. “It’s you who seriously messed up. By the way—” he paused, wanting to know the answer “—Corin doesn’t know about us, does he? Or the dubious us we were.”
She didn’t stop, knowing he was baiting her. “No need to bring your suitcase,” she said. “Someone will bring it up.”
“Just answer the question,” he returned curtly.
Now she turned to face him, feeling racked with emotion. His height and strength, the grace and vibrant life. If only one could wish for one’s time over again! Had she known it, her eyes, huge and haunting, dominated a magnolia-pale face.
She was the most desirable woman in the world, despite the way she had treated him, Garrick thought, struggling against a rush of fever and remembered passion.
She messed you up once. Don’t let her do it again.
“You didn’t read my letters, did you?” she asked sadly, one slender hand holding on to the gleaming brass hand-rail, as if for support.
Anger was driving him now. He made a grab for it. Got it under control.
Don’t let her see she’s getting to you.
“What was the point? You were never coming back to me. You made that abundantly clear. You were just spreading your wings. Taking advantage of all I felt for you.”
“I was scared of my father,” she said, superb actress t
hat she was, managing to still look upset and frightened. “He called. I jumped.”
Garrick fired up, his voice like a whiplash “Oh, rubbish! Your father gave you everything! You wanted for nothing.” He knew he was betraying far too much emotion.
“Only in some ways,” she said. Garrick didn’t even know the half of it. “Ever since I was a little girl—even when our mother was alive—my father was such a controlling man. He controlled her.” Tears pooled in her beautiful dark eyes. Resolutely, she blinked them back. “I never had the courage to challenge him. That shames me now. I should have been braver. But my father scared strong men witless. You might consider that. Tough business people, not just servants or the like. Only Corin could stand up to him. I had to pay the price for so closely resembling my mother. Corin was the heir. I was the daughter. A nothing person. Daughters were nothing. But he would never forfeit control. You didn’t really know my father, Garrick, any more than you knew Leila. You remember her as a charming, super-glamorous woman, warm and friendly. The reality was very different.”
“I thought you weren’t going to speak ill of the dead,” he reminded her harshly. “And you weren’t a handful, I suppose?” he challenged. She was standing on the first step. They were almost eye to eye. He could have reached out and pulled her into his arms. “Your father confided he was greatly disturbed and disappointed in the way you did everything in your power to make life extremely unpleasant for your stepmother. Leila, according to him, and her, incidentally—though she said little against you—tried over and over to please you, to establish a connection, but you weren’t having any. As I say, it was understandable, but don’t lay all the blame on Leila, who isn’t here to speak for herself.”
“Well, it appears she has you,” she retorted sharply, visibly stung. “You feel my father and Leila were more trustworthy than me?”