The Australian Heiress

by Way, Margaret

  As for promising young artists, both of them knew plenty, so there was an abundance to choose from, but as always, only a relative few would make the grade.

  “I think you should look at the work of some young aboriginal artists,” Claude suggested. “They’re doing wonderful work. I also met the most amazing young Japanese woman the other day. She’s working in watercolors but she’s far removed from the traditional. I’ll introduce you.”

  “That’d be great!” Camille took up another delicious forkful of lightly grilled salmon. “By the way, Linda wants a job as my. assistant.”

  “You’ll need one. But Linda? I thought she was a dedicated little homemaker. It was so sad about her miscarriage. I would have thought she and Stephen would want to try again fairly soon.”

  “Things aren’t going terribly well for Lindy and Stephen at the moment, Claude. She needs time to work through her grief. Stephen’s not coping with that very well.”

  “I’m so sorry. They always seemed such a happy young couple. Dreadful woman, the mother-in-law. Don’t care for her at all. Linda must find her quite overpowering.”

  “That’s much of the problem.” Camille sighed. “At this point I don’t know how it’s all going to end. I can’t see any of them changing.”

  “Perhaps Linda should have thought of that before she married.”

  “We all make mistakes, Claude. Like I made with Philip.”

  Claude laid down his knife and fork. “Dearest, it was a simple desire for affection. Harry treated you so badly.”

  “Now you’re calling him Harry.”

  “I mean your father.” Claude picked up his wineglass and drained it. “Make no mistake, though, you did inherit some of his toughness and his brain. I can see it in you. He came from nowhere to build a business empire. It was only in the last years he began to make his mistakes. Megalomania took over.”

  “I don’t think it was greed so much as mortal combat,” Camille offered, feeling her way. “If he’d let up on his ruthless ambitions, he might have had to face a far greater menace. Himself. I’ve thought about it and thought about it, but I still haven’t worked it through.”

  Claude frowned. “I have to agree he became increasingly withdrawn and morose. But isn’t that the pattern with suicide? Look, we could go on with this interminably. Let me set your mind at rest. Harry Guilford was your father. No doubt. He loved your mother passionately. He could never have hurt her. Never in his right mind.”

  “But that’s just it, isn’t it, Claude?” Camille said with deep sorrow. “Was he in his right mind that terrible day?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  CAMILLE DIDN’T KNOW at what point she thought she was being followed. All she knew was she’d experienced an odd feeling of disquiet several times during a day spent calling on young artists.

  Mostly she had this feeling out on the road, to the extent that by early afternoon she’d begun checking the cars in her rearview mirror. She even made an unscheduled detour just to see if an old-model blue Mercedes, two cars behind her for some time, would follow. It didn’t and she breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe she was becoming a touch paranoid. Not surprising. It wasn’t every day one was assailed by a scissors-wielding maniac.

  By the time she reached her local shopping center she’d calmed down completely. There were a few things she needed, so she found a parking spot in the alley at the rear of the shops and walked through to the main street. She bought crusty French rolls and a fruit loaf at the bakery, salad ingredients at the fruit shop, cold meats, cheese and black olives from the excellent delicatessen run by an energetic and cheerful Greek couple. She stayed to chat for a few moments, thanking the young man who held the door for her as she prepared to walk out.

  On the street she glanced up at the ominous sky. It had a bruised look. The dark grape-colored clouds hung low with streaks of livid yellow. Over the past few hours the brilliantly fine weather had taken an abrupt turn, courtesy of the cyclone standing off the central Queensland coast and now asserting its authority a thousand miles away. It looked as if they were in for a violent downpour, but she thought she had a while yet. The latest offering from Dick Francis was decorating the front window of the bookshop across the street. She never missed one of his, especially the adventures of ex-champion jockey Sid Halley.

  Inside the shop she picked up a book and began to read the blurb on the jacket. It was then she became convinced someone was staring at her. She turned abruptly and shot a searching glance around the shop. Nothing sinister there. The few people inside either had their heads buried in books or were quietly browsing the shelves. Two uniformed schoolgirls were giggling in a corner, and a young man with a long thin ponytail was pulling down a textbook of some kind.

  He looked like the young man who’d held the delicatessen door for her, but she couldn’t be sure. He was fairly ordinary-looking. In any event, book in hand, he sauntered casually to the counter and made his purchase without once looking in her direction. He seemed much more interested in his change as he went out the door.

  Still feeling uneasy, she’d just returned to her book when a middle-aged woman nearby suddenly spoke. “You all right, love?”

  Camille tried for a smile, but it was truly beyond her. “Fine, thank you.”

  “That’s all right, then. You seemed a touch nervous is all.”

  So it showed! “I thought someone was staring at me,” she explained.

  “The young fella that just went out the door. Couldn’t take his eyes off you. Can’t say I blame him. You should be decorating one of these.” She held up a historical romance novel with a cover featuring a luscious redhead held high in the arms of a blackhaired bare-chested pirate.

  Were her looks the only explanation? Camille knew that her coloring especially singled her out for attention. Most of the time the stares had no effect. But what she’d felt today had not been admiration; she’d felt…threatened.

  By the time she returned to the back alley, the rain had begun to pelt down and the wind was gusting through the laneway in sharp angry bursts. It tore at her umbrella, almost turning it inside out. She looked to her left. Nothing coming. No need to look to the right, for the alley was one way. She grasped her umbrella defensively, tightening her grip on her parcels—but just as she stepped off the pavement a car made an incorrect turn into the alley, tires skidding as it accelerated sharply forward.

  Wheels spewing jets of water, it hurtled toward her. Adrenaline pumped through her, and Camille leaped back, letting go of her umbrella. It blew at the oncoming car, hitting the windshield, perhaps obstructing the driver’s view. She heard the car clip the gutter, knew a moment of sheer terror before it rocketed past, miraculously not encountering another vehicle coming the other way. Another moment and the car screeched around the corner. All she had was an impression of a small car, not new, dark gray or a faded green. She couldn’t tell the make, only that it was a hatchback.

  Surely someone hadn’t intended to run her down! This was far worse than she’d ever imagined. When she finally managed to unlock her car, she was trembling all over and thoroughly drenched. She put a hand to her heart to stop the painful pounding. Was someone after her, again?

  Even as she sat in a kind of sick stupor, another car attempted a wrong turn, realizing at the last minute the alley was one way. Camille watched it reverse and drive on. Another simple mistake? Another motorist who didn’t know the area? Whatever the reason, she was thoroughly unnerved.

  When she reached her apartment building, she made no attempt to drive down the slope into the underground garage. She pulled, instead, into one of the parking bays at the front of the building. She hadn’t retrieved her umbrella. Getting soaked to the skin no longer seemed important. It was a battle just staying alive.

  She was hurrying, head down, toward the entry when someone came up behind her like a black cloud. Someone who emanated maleness, strength, power.

  When she saw who it was, her knees almost buckled. Nick Lombard, st
aring down at her, marked black brows drawn together. He didn’t speak, only grasped her elbow and urged her beneath the marquee that protected the front entrance.

  “You frightened me,” she protested.

  “I’m sorry.” His jet black eyes were brilliant yet impenetrable. “I called your name, but obviously you didn’t hear me. You’re soaked to the skin. Here, give me those damned things.” He stretched out a hand and took the shopping bags from her. “We can’t stand here. Let’s go inside.”

  “Are you asking or ordering?” She gave a shaky laugh.

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “I’m not sure.” She was aware of a pounding pulse.

  “Not me, is it?”

  Camille stared at him. “Someone tried to run me down.”

  He seemed to look through and beyond her. “You’re sure?”

  “You think I’m making it up?” She was suddenly breathless with anger.

  “You’re upset and very wet. Let’s get you inside.”

  He stood by while she released the security door. There was no one about. No one in the elevator. In silence they walked to her door, but before Camille could insert the key, the occupant of the adjoining apartment, a pleasant elderly woman, put her head around the door.

  “Miss Guilford,” she called. “Goodness me, dear, you did get soaked. There was a delivery for you. I took it as you weren’t at home. I hope you don’t mind.”

  In a few moments she returned with a long narrow box covered in cellophane and decorated with silver and white ribbons. Flowers obviously. Camille thanked her and took the box. Lifted the lid. White lilies. Scentless. Perfect.

  Funereal.

  Nick Lombard snatched them from her. “Come on. Let’s go in.”

  “What’s happening?” Camille asked, fighting down panic. She closed the apartment door and leaned against it, trying to clear her mind of a frightening miasma of images. “Is there a message with them?”

  “That’s what I intend to find out.” He carried the box to the dining table and set it down.

  Camille was shaking, chilled to the bone.

  “Get out of those wet clothes,” he ordered without turning around.

  “I’m too concerned about those bloody flowers!” Her green eyes burned.

  “No one’s going to harm you. I promise you that.” His voice sounded grim.

  In the bathroom Camille stripped off her wet clothes and kicked them out of the way, a gesture so unlike her it betrayed her agitated state of mind. She showered, toweled off and smoothed her damp hair back severely.

  She knew she should get fully dressed again, but she felt nerveless, wanting only to be comfortable. In the end she pulled on her charmeuse robe, knotting the cord firmly around her waist. It was full length, pale green. She could have worn it out on the street.

  When she went back into the open-plan living area, Nick Lombard was seated in an armchair rubbing his forehead with the palm of his hand.

  “Well?” she asked.

  He stood up abruptly, his eyes moving over her and causing her blood to fill with sparks. “Some kind of a sick joke,” he said harshly.

  “Oh, no! What does the card say?”

  He hesitated, then, “It reads, ‘With deepest sympathy.’ That’s all.”

  She gave a shrug of vast helplessness. “What does it mean?”

  “Obviously it’s intended to put you on the defensive.”

  “So someone else hates me?”

  A muscle worked in his jaw. “We’ll have a word with Detective Lewis. He’s a good man.”

  “I’m not going to hide.” Despite her brave words, Camille’s voice trembled.

  “Do you want to tell me what frightened you before I arrived?” he asked.

  She answered with a question of her own. “Where were you this afternoon?”

  “I’ve been caught up in meetings all day.” His voice had an edge to it. “Can we get back to you?”

  Camille began to pace, her hands pressed to her head. “Damn, damn, damn, will my problems never go away?”

  “We’ll deal with them. Don’t—”

  The telephone rang, and instantly he made a grab for it, his tone conveying formidability in just a word. “Hello.” A pause. “Wrong number,” he told Camille tonelessly as he hung up.

  She stared at him skeptically. “What a comforting lie.”

  “Look, let’s have a drink. Got anything?”

  “All I have is white wine. It’s in the fridge.”

  He moved into the galley kitchen and returned with full glasses.

  “Cheers,” he said laconically, handing her hers.

  “Cheers.” She was concentrating hard on smothering her emotions. She moved back to the sofa, angling herself into a corner. “This can’t be happening.”

  “Here, let’s make you more comfortable.” He began to pack cushions around her as if she were a child, but as his hands brushed her, her woman’s body instantly reacted, flaming into sensual life. Her breasts ached to be caressed, and her nipples budded, rubbing with exquisite friction against her silk robe. She felt excited almost to the point of pain. All she could think about was the last time she’d been in his arms.

  Perhaps he saw her state of arousal because he moved back abruptly, taking the armchair opposite as she launched rather shakily into her story, only going into detail from the time she reached the shopping center.

  He listened without interruption. When she finished, he said quietly. “Perhaps you overreacted. It’s understandable.”

  “And dreadfully melodramatic, I know. But surely you’re the one who’s lucky to be alive.”

  “Not me—us,” he corrected. “You’re convinced it was intentional?”

  “How many people have you seen driving the wrong way at high speed?” she said.

  “It could be easy if you didn’t know the area. Some people do drive erratically in storms. The weather unnerves them or something.”

  “So you think I’m jumping to conclusions?”

  His mouth twisted. “I honestly don’t know.”

  “No, you don’t, and neither do I.”

  “You didn’t see who was driving? Male, female?”

  “It was pouring rain,” she answered in a brittle voice. “Whoever it was, was driving fast, and the wind was blowing my umbrella inside out.”

  “Can you give me a description of the young man in the bookshop?” Nick’s tone was neutral.

  “No.” She shook her head. Even when he was perfectly still, he had a kind of electricity about him.

  “Come on, try.”

  Camille let her head fall back against the cushions. “I got a general impression. An ordinary young man. Tallish, thin, gawky, a little stooped, light brown hair tied back in a ponytail. He wore jeans, a navy T-shirt, no logo, sneakers on his feet. The woman said he couldn’t take his eyes off me.”

  “I’m sure you’ve heard that countless times before.” His voice was as dry as ash.

  She ignored that. “He was probably just a student come in to buy a textbook. It’s ridiculous, I know.”

  “It shouldn’t be too hard to check out.”

  “And the flowers? What about them?” She lifted her head, little ringlets springing up along her hairline like licks of flame.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll make inquiries. This is good wine.” He tossed his off.

  “How kind of you to say so. I still don’t know why you turned up on my doorstep.”

  His handsome face tautened. “Don’t waste time feeling suspicious of me. I wanted to take a good look at where you’re living.”

  “How did you know the address?”

  “There’s very little one can’t find out, Camille. You should know that. Melissa’s been very concerned about you. She thought you shouldn’t have had to move out of your big house. She’d like you to come live with us.”

  Despite her tension, Camille had to smile. “She’s a very caring child. She doesn’t know the truly awful things in our lives, a
nd I hope she never does.”

  “Camille, I’d like to be whatever help to you I can.”

  “Thank you, but I’m determined to live my own life.”

  “Which has been an arduous business up to date.”

  “Hasn’t it! I don’t even know where I’m headed.”

  “Well, I’m .here to help you, not hurt you. If you want a job, I can place you tomorrow.”

  Camille found her mind spinning. She’d been programmed to hate him. Now, this. “I’ve decided to become an art dealer.” She said it as a rebuff.

  His eyebrows rose. “You have the ability, as well as the entree.”

  “You mean Claude?”

  “He’s probably the most successful dealer in the country.”

  She nodded. “He’s offered to help me. Claude has always looked on himself as my honorary uncle.”

  “Does his help include capital?”

  “Surely that’s my business.”

  “I’m only suggesting that if you want to go it on your own, I could arrange a loan with my bank.”

  “With you as guarantor?”

  He nodded fractionally, ignoring the sharp sarcasm. “I don’t see that as a problem. You have everything it takes to be a success. You have a good business brain and training. You’re very knowledgeable about art. The fact you look like you stepped out of a painting won’t hurt, either.”

  She stared down at the gold fringe on a cushion, unnerved by the expression that came and went in his eyes. “Claude’s far from poor. My father alone made him a rich man. He wants to help. Also, I have no doubt whatsoever about his integrity.”

  “Is that a shot at me?” The deep voice fairly crackled.

  “Do you expect me to do an about-face? I can’t so easily come to grips with your opposing images. Anyway, you rely on your instincts. They were confirmed at the auction. The same with me. I was being followed for most of the day. Harry’s enemies are still out there.”