The Australian Heiress

by Way, Margaret

  Camille sighed again. “In part my own insecurities. I needed someone to love me and I thought he did.”

  “He did love you, insofar as he’s capable of loving anyone.”

  “Me and my fortune. Emphasis on the latter.”

  “Probably,” Linda admitted. “Strange—Harry never objected to him?”

  “I don’t think Harry really cared, as long as he thought he had control. We were never exactly close, my father and I, as you know.”

  “Well, it was his loss he never got to know his beautiful clever daughter.”

  Camille’s expression turned bleak. “Let’s face it, Lindy. Harry didn’t want me, but I was in his life. As for Philip, he didn’t make a fool of me. I did that all by myself.”

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER every name on the guest list had been checked off. The entrance foyer, the gallery, the magnificent reception rooms lit by spectacular chandeliers were thronged with people.

  Many of the guests had passed the Guilford mansion innumerable times, but few had ever been invited in. With Harry Guilford’s millions and buccaneering style it was expected the house would be the last word in knock-’em-dead opulence. But far from ostentatious, the interior decor was remarkable for its classic good taste.

  Most people assumed it was the work of a leading decorator, but in fact Camille had taken on the job herself; once her father had decided she knew what she was about, he’d given her carte blanche. Of course, Harry would have found it inexcusable in a woman not to be able to decorate a house. That was women’s work, after all. A man’s work was making money.

  But now Harry was dead and the winding-up process was excruciatingly painful. Some might have considered their only child their greatest treasure. Not Harry Guilford. For nearly all her life Camille had borne the pain and bewilderment of rejection. It had been a terrible thing to know she offered her father no parental delight. Perhaps a son would have mattered.

  It had taken one of her father’s top executives to suggest she could become a real asset to the corporation. Not really believing it, her father had taken her on and Camille had bloomed—to the extent it seemed possible her father might notice her as a person in her own right

  Yet he never had. Now he never would. Because no one had ever mattered to Harry Guilford except his wife, Natalie. Camille’s mother.

  Her mother had died when Camille was six, when she was no longer a baby but a child capable of feeling terrible grief. The tragic story was as disturbing now as ever. Natalie Guilford had drowned, washed off her husband’s yacht in a violent squall. The horror of the incident had almost sent her adoring husband mad.

  As for Camille, she’d spent her lonely childhood asking God why? All the children she knew had mothers. Mothers who loved and cared for them. Natalie’s sudden violent death had created an unfillable void in her child’s life. Worse, Natalie had been pregnant, and so Camille had also lost a sibling, whether a brother or sister, she still didn’t know. The subject seemed a terrible taboo and was never mentioned. Then she’d been shunted off to boarding school while her father, his heart turned to stone, concentrated on forging a business empire.

  A flash from a nearby camera brought Camille back to the present. Moments later she was asked to pose beneath her own portrait. It was the only painting she actually owned. Life-size, it had been commissioned by Harry to mark the occasion of her twenty-first birthday, four years ago. Not because he loved her, but because of the highly favorable publicity it garnered. Harry was cast in the press as the doting father who showered his daughter with fabulous gifts. Although the notion was a myth, Camille had never said a word to dispel it.

  For the next few minutes flashbulbs exploded in her face while she obligingly posed before her seven-foothigh portrait. In it she wore an extravagant gown of lace and taffeta. The deep green backdrop was the perfect foil for her mane of hair, which was a glorious mixture of red, gold and amber. It foamed in sumptuous waves and curls over her shoulders and haloed a classically beautiful face, dominated by large lustrous eyes and a full curving mouth. The artist had captured wonderfully the color and texture of the skin, the luminosity of white sloping shoulders and the rather daring décolletage he had insisted upon for such a bravura painting. The hands, always a real test of a painter’s skill, were judged perfect, the tapering fingers adorned with a single ring—a diamond-wreathed aquamarine.

  It was an enchanting portrait of a young woman who’d obviously inherited Natalie Guilford’s legendary beauty. But the intervening years had added another dimension to Camille’s looks—strength and resolution—which were entirely her own. Whether she would continue to grow in character as the fabric of a privileged life was stripped from her remained to be seen. Many people felt deeply sympathetic toward her; and nobody wanted to be in her situation.

  The picture-taking session done, guests drifted over to Camille, complimenting her on the brilliance of the evening, the beauty of the house. Some of the women asked for the name of the decorator, only to be amazed to learn it was Camille herself; one woman even asked if she would be available for advice. That stepped up Camille’s short list of job possibilities should she ever lose her position with Comtek, one of the few companies within the Guilford Corporation to stay afloat.

  Halfway through a discussion with several guests, she began to have a sense of being watched. She could almost feel a gaze concentrated on her, somber and brooding. It wasn’t a fancy but an acute sensory perception, one so strong she lost the thread of the conversation. Fortunately another in the group took up the thread, freeing her to concentrate on the source of the current she felt.

  The signal was coming from somewhere near the marble columns along one side of the huge living room. She shifted position, touching a hand to the titian masses of her hair. The house was filled with light, heat and the magic of Mozart, the scent of expensive perfumes and the incomparable sweetness of fresh flowers. The brilliant crush of women’s dresses looked like fields of swaying tulips, and it was almost impossible to pick out individuals as the patterns changed….

  Be careful, Camille, she warned herself. Be very careful. There was no visible explanation for her apprehension, but danger was being relayed to her through her wired senses.

  Her green eyes opened wide as she focused on a man standing between two of the marble columns.

  Nick Lombard.

  In the instant it took to recognize him she felt the hot rush of blood to her head. For him to have come here! How dared he!

  Without apology she swung away from the group, so overwhelmed by outrage she was actually shaking. The past dreadful year moved dizzily before her eyes. Nick Lombard, more than anyone, had been responsible for bringing down the Guilford empire. It was Lombard with his accusations who’d set in motion investigations into Harry Guilford’s business dealings. After that, companies toppled like sand castles before the incoming tide. And as Harry Guilford went down in flames of scandal, Nick Lombard emerged as the new chairman of the Orion Group. A really big player, he’d been dubbed the Man of Steel by the press. His callousness in coming here was beyond belief.

  At this point in her progress, someone standing beside Lombard, utterly insignificant by comparison, began to wave to her.

  Claude? Camille checked in astonishment. It was Claude. He waved again, the gesture looking more like a show of a white flag than a greeting. Surely Claude hadn’t brought Nick Lombard! It didn’t seem possible. Yet Claude had been allowed a guest; Camille had just assumed it would be one of his many lady friends.

  “Camille, darling!” he called, then stepped forward as if to head her off. In so doing he almost collided with a drinks waiter who spun like Baryshnikov to avoid certain disaster. With a quick apology Claude turned to Camille, who now stood frozen.

  “Sweetheart!” Claude, considerably overweight, threw out amazingly delicate hands to grasp hers. “Nick Lombard’s here. You know him, I believe.”

  “People who suffer at his hands generally do.” Camille’s vo
ice was like splintered glass. She stared beyond the portly Claude to the tall commanding man who waited only a few feet away. Lombard gave a subtle inclination of the head, his black fathomless eyes studying her with such intensity that her long pearly fingernails bit into her palms. She’d seen Nick Lombard countless times before in the newspapers and on television, but the images there were like wax compared to the man in person.

  Claude, ever the peacemaker, pulled Camille to him, kissing her on both cheeks. “Dearest girl, show your usual good sense.”

  “Tell me you didn’t bring him here, Claude,” she begged.

  His pink skin flushed. “No, darling. No, no, I’m here with Dulcie. But he’s an important man and a known art collector. He was bound to get an invitation for those reasons alone. Goodness, even that dreadful girl Masterman managed to get in, not to mention the other one. It’s hard, my darling, but we must forget the terrible past.”

  That was too much for Camille. “Weren’t you the one who told me the past fashions us?” she challenged him. “Have you forgotten that Nick Lombard plunged us all into ruin?”

  Claude groaned and passed a hand over his bald pate. “Harry staged his own destruction, dearest. He was my biggest client, but he could have destroyed my career at any time. He was an incredibly ruthless man. His harshness to you was unforgivable. So I suggest you meet Lombard before you decide he’s the villain Harry made him out to be.”

  “If all these people weren’t in the house, I’d have him thrown out on his ear so fast he wouldn’t know which end was up.”

  Claude laughed. “How they tagged you the Ice Princess I’ll never know. You’re the definitive fiery redhead.” He shook his head ruefully. “But you’re up against the Man of Steel.”

  Camille raised her chin. “I never realized you were such an opportunist, Claude. But then, it would pay you to get friendly with Lombard…now that Harry’s gone.”

  With that, she swept past her old friend to Nick Lombard, awaiting her like some dangerous Renaissance prince. Against the snowy white of his shirt his skin possessed the sheen of bronze. Hair, brows and eyes were jet-black. He was a remarkably handsome man—an elegant mask for a villain.

  She kept her voice low. “How dare you come here?”

  He didn’t hesitate for a moment. “I’m sorry if my presence offends you, Miss Guilford. I did receive an invitation, however.” His voice was smooth and deep, yet possessed a cutting edge. An edge Camille felt.

  “Who sent it?” she demanded.

  “Ironically, the Guilford Corporation. Or what’s left of it.”

  Camille was taken aback. “Oh. How peculiar,” was all she said.

  “On the contrary, it’s just a sound business move—I’m a known collector. Moreover, I’m delighted to have the opportunity to meet you, Miss Guilford. Your father made sure we were kept apart.”

  She managed to hide her surprise. “Surely one would expect a father to protect his daughter.”

  “Except that Harry Guilford did none of the things one might expect of a loving father!”

  There was a certain condemnation in his voice that Camille took violent exception to. “And on that account you did your best to eliminate him?”

  “Forgive me, but your father eliminated himself. I deeply regret you’ve been hurt. It was never part of my plan.”

  “So you admit you had a plan.” Camille looked at him with outright contempt.

  “Of course. I risked a great deal exposing your father.”

  “Risked? What did you risk?”

  For a moment he didn’t respond, his jet eyes fixed on her face. “I realize there are many things about your father you don’t know.”

  “And you’re going to fill me in?”

  “Perhaps—when you begin to trust me.” He smiled then, and she felt the sexuality he radiated all the way to her toes. But just as suddenly it was gone and he retreated behind his severe facade.

  “Mr. Lombard,” Camille said when she could trust herself to speak, “I don’t want any contact with you at all. I’m outraged you were invited to this house.”

  “Surely your ex-fiancé’s arrival was more sensa-

  tional,” he countered, watching her skin flush.

  “My engagement is long over. I don’t find Philip Garner the least bit threatening—unlike you.”

  He shook his head. “I want to be your friend. There are many ways I could help you.”

  Camille took a step backward. This man, this enemy offering friendship was too much. She felt lightheaded from a combination of nerves and anger. “Mr. Lombard, you used your powers to smash my world. Why would I ever, under any circumstances, accept your help?”

  He was staring at her as though sealing the moment in his mind, his eyes so hypnotic Camille almost felt reality slipping away. “You will in the end,” he said gently.

  CAMILLE FAILED to notice Philip and Robyn’s approach until they were almost upon her.

  Without preface Robyn reached out a scarlet-tipped hand. “My God, Camille! Talking to Nick Lombard! What next?”

  “Yes, it’s quite amazing isn’t it,” Camille said coolly. “So many people I didn’t realize had an invitation.”

  Robyn ignored the gibe. “Something to do with times changing?” she said with evident malice. “Must be a bitter pill for you to swallow.”

  Camille shrugged. “At least the evening seems to be a success.”

  “Yes.” Robyn stared about her with glistening eyes. “My mother is quite excited. She’s fallen in love with the Condor. She would have purchased it in London had it not been for your father. Bizarre, isn’t it, the way the wheel comes full circle?”

  Camille gazed at her calmly. “I see it more as a given. Anyway, a lot of people are after that painting. Your mother may miss out again.” She turned her attention to Philip, noting with satisfaction how the color had whipped up in his neck and face. “How are you, Philip?” she asked.

  Astonishingly he seemed quite unprepared for the sight of her. “Fine.” His faintly crooked smile was boyish and rather engaging, but his blue eyes were full of intensity. “And you?”

  “Oh, getting there.” She kept her voice steady.

  “You look glorious!”

  The compliment came out so spontaneously it was obvious he hadn’t intended saying it.

  “Why, thank you, Philip.”

  Robyn gave him a near-lethal glance. “Philip and I are getting engaged,” she announced.

  “How lovely! Philip is so good at engagements.”

  “Well, at least ours will result in a wedding, unlike…”

  “Unlike mine,” Camille finished for her. “Thank you for pointing that out, Robyn.” Her tone was dry.

  Robyn faced her squarely, but whatever she was about to say was interrupted by the sudden presence of Nick Lombard. He placed a light hand on Camille’s elbow and gave the others a brief smile. “Do please excuse us. Miss Guilford, would you mind? I need your expert opinion.”

  He gave her no chance to refuse but led her off in the direction of an Edwardian oil depicting three beautiful young women in lavish ballgowns.

  For a moment she felt powerless. “I did not need you to rescue me,” she said, looking pointedly at his hand on her arm. His bronzed skin made hers look like milk.

  “It might pass as entertainment for some people but I know just how appalling that Masterman woman can be.”

  “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”

  “I’m sure you are, but we all need a helping hand from time to time.” His tone changed to anger. “What kind of man is Garner? He abandons you in your hour of need, picks up with the Masterman woman, yet he dares to look at you with open desire.”

  “It means nothing,” Camille said. “Philip just… uses women.”

  “I’m aware of that,” he retorted curtly. “I’m equally aware you didn’t invite them.”

  “Right. No more than I invited you. I can’t treat this house as my home anymore.”


  “One wonders if you were ever able to do that.”

  “I beg your pardon?” She gave him an icy stare.

  “You do that very well,” he said with a faint smile. “The Ice Princess. Yet one doesn’t have to look far for the fire. As I understand it, your father didn’t encourage you to have friends.”

  “Why don’t you simply say I was unloved and unwanted?” Camille challenged. “You’re a man who likes to tear people to pieces.”

  “Don’t tar me with the same brush as your father,” he said. “I have a daughter of my own.”

  “You mean you actually love someone?” Even as she said it, Camille felt a twinge of shame. He’d known tragedy, too. A few years earlier, he’d lost his young wife in a car crash, she’d read.

  “I love quite a few people,” he said. “My daughter especially.”

  Camille swallowed. Hard. “I apologize. You don’t really want to know about this painting, do you?”

  “Of course I do.” He drew her to the glowing life-size canvas. “It’s exquisite.”

  “The three Standford sisters.” With him looming over her she was finding it difficult to keep her thoughts focused. “It’s expected to fetch around a quarter of a million. Pocket money for you. Everyone seems to expect fireworks tonight.”

  “Then don’t give them what they want.” He produced a beautiful Waterman fountain pen and made a note on his catalog. “You’ve faced bad situations before.”

  “You would know,” Camille said, and walked away.

  THE EVENING wore on. An hour after the showing was officially over, the house was still filled with people apparently in no hurry to go home. Interest had shifted to the splendid antiques. Camille had the feeling she couldn’t hold up much longer. Mercifully Nick Lombard had paired up with Clare Tennant, the widow of Arthur Tennant, grazier, philanthropist and art collector. Tennant had been sixty-nine when he’d shocked his grown family and all his friends by marrying the young woman who’d sold him a watch. Now, five years later, the widow appeared to have her sights firmly fixed on Nick Lombard. She was welcome to him, Camille thought