His Heiress Wife

by Margaret Way

  Jason shook his auburn head in shame and despair. “I don’t know how it happened, Liv. I can’t believe it happened.” His wide shoulders slumped. “I’d give anything to turn back the clock. I’ll never forgive myself for causing you so much pain.”

  “Pain? What do you mean, pain?” she gritted. “What about the bloody humiliation?” She who rarely swore was having difficulty stopping. “Don’t let’s beat about the bush. You’ve made the greatest fool of me. I gave you my heart. My soul. My pathetic body. At least I didn’t set you up for a shotgun wedding, that’s what you’ll have with the Duffys. And good luck to you and Megan. I’d have gone with you to the ends of the earth if you’d asked me. I was a total, total fool about you. As for that little traitor Megan, I felt I was helping her but all the while she was probably using me. You were right when you once called her secretive. I’ve been so happy, so brimming with joy, I couldn’t see what was right under my nose.” Olivia let out a strangled breath. “Ah, Jason!” Sorrow replaced anger. “To think I loved you. Your blue eyes! I thought your beautiful blue eyes were windows to your soul. Only there’s no-one home in your soul.”

  He inhaled jaggedly, feeling the most profound shame. “Not anymore.” He’d lost her. He was demolished.

  Olivia’s radiance too was totally extinguished. “I’ve loved you all my life,” she said brokenly. “To think Harry loves you. He’s done so much for you. He was proud to welcome you into the family. How you’ve betrayed us, betrayed yourself.”

  “I know.” He felt like a man of no substance. Like his father.

  “You know?” She threw up her chin. It perfectly expressed her anger and pride. “Is that all you can say? You know! Goddamn you, Jason.” Her voice began to shake in her throat. Her eyes turned to a diamond dazzle of pure fury. Deliberately she brought up her left hand that bore his ring and slapped him hard as she could across his taut handsome face. It left a red stain on his tanned skin and little spurts of blood where the setting of the ring had caught him. “I want you to leave,” she said with the greatest contempt. “Here’s your ring though it meant precious little to you.” She tore the solitaire diamond ring off her finger, hurling it at him, all fierce disgust. “I never want to see you again.” She was choking with anger and grief. “Go away, Jason Corey. Go away and never come back.”

  Jason came out of his reverie as a huge smoke-grimed hand came in the open window of the ute and touched his shoulder. It startled him. “Bruno?”

  “Are you all right, mate?” Bruno, who had been driving one of the tractors looked in at him with concern. “It must be boiling in the ute. I’m goin’ over to the shed for a cold beer. Want one?”

  Jason blinked hard, hoping his expression wasn’t as stricken as he felt. The memories that had come rushing back had been more vivid than they had been in a long time. “No thanks, Bruno,” he said, surprised his voice sounded so normal. “You go right ahead. We’re making good progress. Mr. Linfield has asked me to join him.” He glanced at his watch. “I’d better get going.”

  “See ya later then, boss.” Bruno, a giant of a man stood away from the ute, giving Jason a quick salute as he drove away.

  He had to get shot of the sense of hopelessness and futility that had overwhelmed him, Jason thought. It had come right out of the blue. Memories had a tendency to do that. With the passing of time he had convinced himself he was getting better and better at holding himself together. He was nowhere near the strong, self-sufficient figure most people thought him. All it needed was a chink opening onto the past for him to fall into a black void. Why were his memories bothering him today? He didn’t even dream about Liv much anymore. He’d learned to keep a tight rein on himself, even his subconscious. He had responsibilities. Harry had come to depend on him more and more. Jason was virtually running Havilah these days.

  “You’re my right hand man, Jason. I’m closer to you than I am to anybody outside my dear Olivia.”

  Tough as nails, him. A very fast learner. Harry had never had cause to tell him anything twice anymore than the owner of Caramba Station who’d done everything in his power to get Jason to stay on. His mother’s final illness-cancer—and quick death had brought him home. It had been a very, very difficult time. He’d loved his mother as he’d come to despise his absent father. But life went on. He had his little daughter, Tali to take care of. He had to make life right for her She was a wonderful little kid with his deep blue eyes. He saw little, if anything, of Megan in her. Her thick, silky black curls spoke to him of her Italian heritage though she hadn’t inherited the olive skin.

  He was nearing the house when he saw Harry sitting on a garden bench down by the lagoon with its flotilla of exquisite water lilies, pink, cream and the sacred blue lotus. For some reason he couldn’t fully understand Jason felt disturbed by something in Harry’s attitude. He brought the ute to a halt, stepping out onto the gravelled drive. Harry didn’t look up so he cupped his hands around his mouth, calling Harry’s name. It was too hot for Harry to walk uphill to the homestead.

  This time he expected Harry to turn his head and wave acknowledgement, except Harry didn’t budge. He continued to stare ahead at the glittering green sheet of water.

  Jason found himself sprinting down across the thick, springy lawn. “Harry?” He’d had so many shocks in his life he was coming to expect the worst as a matter of course.

  No answer from Harry’s still form.

  He was there, bending over to stare into Harry’s face half concealed by the wide brim of his familiar white panama.

  Harry! Dear Harry! Dear friend! Was loss the norm? Jason rested his hand lovingly on his mentor’s thin shoulder. For want of a male role model in life Harry Linfield had become that. Harry had known all about his inconsolable grief when he lost Olivia. An open paper bag containing little morsels of bread had fallen at Harry’s feet, scattering crumbs over the emerald-green grass. It gave Jason some comfort Harry’s expression was so peaceful. He must have passed away feeding his beloved black swans. Jason stared out across the arum lily lined lagoon and silently said a prayer.

  It was only when he had Harry back at the house with Gracie crying her heart out Jason began to think of the ramifications of Harry’s death. Olivia would have to be notified immediately. Olivia was Harry’s nearest and dearest, his heiress. Grace would have to do that if he could ever stop her crying. The last thing Liv would want was to hear from him. As far as Liv was concerned he was still managing an Outback cattle station. Harry had never told her of the big changes on Havilah or the fact he had hired Jason Corey to run it. Harry had never explained the reasons why. They both knew Liv would have reacted with horror, there was no question about that. So Olivia was never told.

  With Havilah in Olivia’s hands he would have to move on. This, when Tali had come to love the place. Jason determined he wasn’t going to leave until he’d placed Harry’s favourite crimson roses on his grave.

  CHAPTER THREE

  OLIVIA took a much earlier flight than planned. When she rang Doctor Hilary Lockwood, the head of Ormiston Girls Grammar, with her sad news, Doctor Lockwood was most sympathetic. She assured Olivia there was no need whatever for her to attend school the following day. They would miss her at the break-up party—Olivia had been closely involved in the preparation—but everyone would understand she’d be in no mood for celebrations. Doctor Lockwood expressed her sincere sympathies one more time, thanking Olivia for all her efforts on behalf of the school during the year. They had been well noted.

  Olivia decided in advance once she reached her destination she would ring Grace to arrange for someone to pick her up at the terminal. Grace would know better than to enlist Jason Corey’s help. The previous night she had lain awake into the small hours, grieving for her dear Harry, trying to come up with reasons why Jason Corey would have been at Havilah when Harry died.

  Had he come home to be with his mother perhaps? Antonella Corey had not enjoyed good health. Some said the rapid deterioration had started afte
r her husband had abandoned her. Had Jason’s grandmother, Renata, died? Hard to believe. Renata was ageless. Larger than life. But that was foolish. There were always massive changes in life. Sometimes it was hard for Olivia to believe she’d been away for so many years.

  Was it something to do with Megan’s family? She had no real idea of anything that was happening in that part of the world. She had cut herself off. She rarely if ever thought of Megan Duffy. Megan had been guilty of the ageless betrayal—she had stolen another woman’s man, whether premeditated or not. Olivia didn’t want to think about Megan Duffy. Not ever! She refused to think of her as Jason’s wife, much less could she bear to think of her as the mother of Jason’s child. That role had belonged to her. It had been ordained.

  What a wide-eyed innocent she had been. She no longer wept about it. It was the stuff of fiction. Love and betrayal. A rival’s deceit. It had become clear to her over the years Megan had been in love with Jason, not that Megan was the only one. If anyone could be said to have sexual radiance it was Jason Corey. Women were powerfully attracted to him. They thought him gorgeous, his wonderful colouring, the fine modelling of his bone structure, the way he carried his splendid body. Sex appeal beat around Jason in molten waves.

  But he was hers. She’d been so sure of him—she had never for one moment doubted Jason’s love—she had never been beset by jealousy or the fear some other woman would take him from her. No one could do that. Jason loved her. She loved him. Neither would dream of hurting the other. Everything simply got better as their wonderful relationship strengthened and deepened. Betrayal was never to be guessed at.

  Until Megan Duffy.

  Olivia sat very quietly on the plane resting her head against the cold oval of the window, staring out at the billowing white clouds and the great silver wing of the aircraft. The man beside her, thirtyish, attractive with snapping dark eyes had tried to start up a conversation but gradually got the message leaving her alone with her sad thoughts. She couldn’t escape them even in sleep.

  Almost two hours later her plane had landed and she had collected her baggage loading it onto a trolley. Then she rang through to the house. To her surprise, no-one answered. She gave it five minutes, rang again. Same result. Grace didn’t come to the phone. She could be anywhere. It was a big house. There were a number of extensions but even then Grace might not have heard the phone ringing. She was sorry now she hadn’t rung Grace from Brisbane instead of leaving it until now. That was a mistake—Grace wouldn’t be expecting her for hours. She was probably making her old bedroom ready; or putting the homestead in top-top order. Many people would be attending Harry’s funeral. They would all want to come back to the house.

  Harry’s funeral.

  Olivia bit down hard on her lip. When she felt more composed she lifted her head. Outside the terminal building was the taxi rank. A taxi was pulling away. Five more were lined up. It was a long trip to Havilah. She might as well get started.

  “Let me take that for you, Miss.” A porter appeared beside her taking charge of her laden trolley. “Are you being met or are you taking a taxi?”

  “Taxi, thank you,” she smiled at him, grateful for his help.

  They were driving up the avenue of towering palms. Cuban Royals. Twelve to each side like sentinels. From the moment she’d stepped onto the tarmac at the airport Olivia knew she was home. This was the tropics. North of Capricorn. Scent of flowers. Scent of salt. Scent of sea. Though the taxi was pleasantly air-conditioned she had wound down the window a little so she could feel the heat in her blood. Everywhere she looked was lush emerald green vegetation, vying with brilliant displays of colour. The great overhead curve of sky was a deep cobalt blue.

  On the verge of the Wet the landscape was splendid. The golden cascara trees had broken out in bloom, as had the magnificent poincianas that adorned the grounds. Her eyes moved lovingly to the beautiful magnolias with their huge waxy flowers; the burnt orange cups of the tulip trees, the extraordinary displays of the ever present bougainvillea, the common purple, and the hybrids, gold, white, apricot, bronze, crimson, fuchsia, violet, pink. Bouganvillea was the plant for the tropics. It made an enormous impact. Towering, dazzling, drawing the butterflies as surely as the lantana.

  “This is some place,” the driver commented, gazing from side to side in admiration. “First time I’ve ever brought anyone here. It’s a real experience. You’re a visitor, miss?”

  “This is my home.”

  “No kiddin’?” The driver was so surprised he almost brought the car to a stop. “I thought it belonged to Mr. Linfield?”

  “I’m his niece. His great-niece.” Olivia was unable to bring herself to say Harry had died. The news would travel like wildfire anyway.

  “Sounds about right,” the driver glanced over his shoulder at Olivia with bright, smiling eyes. “You and the house are of a piece.” Classy, he thought. A high-stepping thoroughbred. Super refined.

  The taxi came to rest at the base of the broad flight of white marble steps that led up to the terrace. The driver attended to her luggage, placing it on the verandah, while Olivia stood in the brilliant sunshine staring up at the house. It was large. An imposing colonial mansion painted the classic white with midnight blue shutters she remembered as always having being green. The glossy dark blue looked good she considered. It made a nice change. The colonnaded two storey central section rose proudly, flanked by substantial one storey wings. The handsome white pillars of the central section were thickly woven by the same violet-blue trumpet vine of old with its shining dark green pinnate leaves. The leaves were almost as pretty as the prolific clusters of mauve flowers.

  I’ve never been away, she thought. The myth of her being remote from her past life was exposed. Havilah had always been an enchanted place. The wonderful sense of peace was the same. It was Harry’s spirit presiding over the plantation. He had been a truly good man.

  Olivia paid the driver adding a handsome tip. It had been a long trip but the driver had been pleasant and courteous, not bothering her with too much conversation. She waited a moment for the taxi to drive off, suddenly overcome by her grief.

  No Harry to greet her. She was dimly aware of the heat of the sun on her bare head. She’d taken the precaution of wearing sunglasses to protect her eyes from the all pervading light. The air near the house smelled heavily of gardenias and frangipani. The extensive grounds appeared more beautiful to her than ever before, the great drifts of lawn perfectly manicured. It looked as though a team of gardeners was circling eight hours a day. Harry would have been very happy indeed at the way everything looked. She had never pressed him about business or staffing but it looked as though Harry had found himself a splendid overseer.

  Go up, she told herself, move one foot after the other. This is your home. Your house now. These coming days— Harry’s funeral—a possible confrontation with Jason Corey—had to be got through. Her silk blouse was sticking faintly to her back in the heat. It occurred to her as it had so often in the past, the perfumed heat of the tropics was not only sensual but sexual. Unbidden came the memory of indigo nights on the beach with Jason. The call of the sea. The way the white sand always found its way onto the rug. The grooves their bodies made. His mouth on hers. His hand on her naked breast, her body stirring beneath his every touch.

  The passion that had bloomed out of them! Was it the flush of youth? She had never experienced anything remotely approaching it ever since. The murmured endearments that had welled from their mouths, then rendered wordless when desire mounted so high it stopped all ability to speak. Her blood still carried the memory deep within its cells. She would never be free of it. Passion. Doomed or not, it had been hers for a little while.

  Heart burning Olivia walked up the flight of steps to the shade of the lofty terrace. No one was around. She couldn’t quite understand why. There was movement in the grounds though she couldn’t see through the thick screening of shade trees to the lower levels and the secret garden rooms she had onc
e so loved. She knew Grace would have been left near helpless by Harry’s death. Grace had worshipped Harry. She had been in his employ for close on thirty years and Harry had been the best employer in the world.

  Olivia moved into the silent entrance hall where the white marble flooring continued. Everything reminded her of her loss especially the rich scent of the glorious crimson roses that drifted to her from the crystal bowl atop a console. Roses had been Harry’s favourite flower. Despite the difficulties of keeping them pest free in the tropics Havilah’s rose gardens flourished.

  “Grace?” she called, remembering Grace was at retirement age and could even be a touch deaf.

  She lifted her eyes to the upstairs gallery that gave off the graceful central staircase. She fully expected Grace to appear and was troubled when she didn’t. The entrance hall was as beautiful as ever, the perfect setting for the works of art that adorned the high walls above the double archways that led on the right to the formal drawing room, on the left to the library. Light was streaming into both rooms through the soaring French doors. Olivia didn’t bother calling again. She decided to go in search of Grace. Very likely she was in the kitchen at the rear of the house.

  Olivia had started down the passageway when all of a sudden there was a light clatter of footsteps from somewhere behind her. Olivia spun around in surprise as a little girl with a mop of dark curls dressed in a white T-shirt and floral shorts, dashed through one of the archways clearly making for the front door.