by Margaret Way
“Phil is showing better taste, huh?” Cassie snorted. “She looks really classy, doesn’t she, but way, way too young and innocent. Not Phil’s taste. She’s standing in for Jonathon Rule. Remember, Jon was offered a place in that German quartet?”
“I seem to remember Marta telling me.” He tore his gaze back to Cassie.
“She didn’t tell you anything about his replacement?”
“No.”
“Well, we’ll soon find out. You could do it just bowling up to them. Faraday is a great admirer of yours, though he does his best not to show it. He was really miffed when you left Wallace-Upton.”
“I always wanted to do my own thing, Cass. I didn’t particularly like working for George Upton. Underneath the day-to-day brush with the man, it was hard to know who the real George was.”
Cassie fixed her keen hazel eyes on Bruno McKendrick’s strikingly handsome face. She felt pleasure and, it had to be admitted even by a happily married woman, a trace of excitement, a thrill otherwise missing in her life. Bruno was the stuff of a woman’s dreams. He had a great head of hair, wonderful dark eyes, burnished skin, golden even in winter. Any woman would envy the natural glow.
“You were a real asset to Wallace-Upton,” she said, “but I can see how you felt about Upton. You’re no one’s yes-man. You would never turn a blind eye. You have a reputation for honesty.”
“One I prize.”
“So go to it,” she urged. “Mosey over to Phil’s group. See, he’s looking this way. So is his young friend. The really odd thing is that she reminds me of someone.” Cassie screwed up her eyes, obviously trying to think who. “I can’t for the life of me think who it is, but maybe it’ll come to me. She has the kind of face one doesn’t forget, don’t you think?”
“I do indeed,” he said, very dryly.
“Remember Sunday,” she called after him as he made off.
“Couldn’t keep me away.” Sunday was his godson Josh’s sixth birthday. He’d bought him a toy he thought would capture Josh’s attention, a tall, colourful robot that could walk and flash lights. Josh was receiving the very best attention and ongoing therapy, but it hadn’t been easy for Cassie or Ian. Oddly, though Josh usually shunned people, he had taken to Bruno right from the start.
“You’ve got the knack with kids, Bruno,” Cassie often told him, tears of gratitude swimming in her eyes. But then, he had insight into troubled kids. He had been one, hadn’t he?
A moment more and he braced himself for a Faraday hug. “Ciao, Bruno, you old son of a gun. Good to see you. You look great.”
“So do you, Phil. I’m loving the tie.” It appeared to have Philip’s winning string of racehorses on it.
“You know I’m a racing man. Hell, you learned to ride on my property.”
Philip had a splendid country retreat in the Blue Mountains. “I did too. You’re a great host, Phil.” It was perfectly true.
“They’re missing you over at Wallace-Upton, I hear.” Faraday looked up. One thing Phil couldn’t buy with all that money: height. He compensated by having his handmade shoes and boots built up. “I know you’re doing well, but you could have gone right to the top with the firm had you stayed. Not too late for you to go back.”
“Nice try, Phil, but I’m never going back,” he said, deliberately shifting his gaze to James Kellerman’s companion.
Faraday half-turned, a proprietorial expression on his attractive, fleshy face. “Isabelle, here’s an up-and-coming man I’d like you to meet. Bruno McKendrick, Isabelle Martin.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Martin. I thoroughly enjoyed the performance tonight, especially the Borodin.”
“Thank you.” She did not offer her hand. He’d known she wouldn’t. She was clearly on her guard.
Faraday had turned away for a moment to fawn over the governor-general, which was fine by Bruno. “Shall we move on?” He barely touched her elbow.
To his surprise, she made no protest. She went with him through the parting crowd, aware in their wake, that a few of the guests would be prodding one another. For some reason that escaped him, of late people had taken to running bets on how much longer he would remain a bachelor. Especially as Marta Lubrinski had elected to find him a suitable bride.
“Why the interest in me, Mr. McKendrick?” The girl gave him a sideways green glance.
“Oh please, Bruno. I have an Italian mother.”
“I’d never have guessed. Back to the question. Why the interest?”
“Let me explain. I’ve no wish to offend you, Isabelle; may I? But you’re the living image of someone my late father, a private investigator, had been hired to find. I’m talking just over twenty years ago.”
She raised finely arched brows several shades darker than her titian hair. “You’d have been a child.”
“Of course.”
“Was this woman found?”
He shook his dark head. “Never. Her disappearance devastated her family. She went missing of her own accord.”
She considered that for a moment. “Very likely big problems on the home front. That’s my guess. Didn’t your father investigate that?”
“My father left no stone unturned.”
“What has any of this to do with me beyond a superficial resemblance? We all have doubles, so they say.”
He shrugged off that theory. “I’ve seen photographs of the young woman, including one of a portrait painted when she’d turned twenty-one. The resemblance is uncanny, the colouring alone. Redheads make up only about four percent of the population. Your eyes are green. So were hers.”
“So that makes me a subject for investigation?” Her green eyes had the sparkle of jewels.
No touch of the usual female flirtatiousness about her. No man-woman challenge, no provocativeness. Rather the reverse. He liked that. Anyway, she was way too young for him. He was a man who applied rules and stuck to them. “Not at all. It’s simply I’m finding the resemblance riveting. As would you, if I showed you a photograph, though I agree we do have doubles.”
“You carry the photograph on your person?” she asked, so sweetly it had to be sarcasm.
“I meant at some other time. An appropriate time, because you’re with Faraday.”
Annoyance edged her clear young voice. “I’m not with your friend, Philip Faraday. I was standing briefly with him. I came with the group, Mr. McKendrick.”
He held up a palm. “No one calls me Mr. McKendrick.”
“Not even your staff?”
“Not even my staff.” How did she know he had a staff? Who had passed on the information? Probably Phil. Phil loved to gossip. Nothing bad. Nothing damaging; more titillating. Something appealing about that when other entrepreneurs were so brutally cruel.
“How liberal-minded of you,” she said.
“You were about to put me straight?”
“Sorry, I thought I did. Mr. Faraday attached himself to me. Not the other way around. He’s old enough to be my father.”
He couldn’t help it. He laughed. “That would lacerate him. Phil’s been married and divorced three times.”
“Clearly he doesn’t take matrimony seriously. Do you? You’re married?”
He fixed his dark eyes on her. “I’m in no hurry.”
She looked away, high, slanted cheekbones flushed. “Forgive me. But you set the tone of this conversation.”
“I started out wrongly. My excuse is I was stunned by the resemblance. I’m very serious about this. Maybe I could ask you to have lunch with me. Or dinner. Whatever you prefer.”
It was her turn to hold up a staying hand: beautiful, long-fingered, delicate but strong.
“Please don’t refuse me.” He hoped his smile worked, otherwise he was out of luck. “You may think me intrusive, but my father went to his grave without solving the Hartmann case. It took him over.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, as though she meant it. “You’d like to solve it for him?”
“I would. For him and for th
e Hartmann family.”
“Isn’t it way too late?”
“I would have thought so until I saw you. Were you adopted, by any chance? You’re what, English, the accent?”
There was a fleeting beat like uncertainty before she answered. “I’m as Australian as you are, given our forebears hailed from Europe. You’re very obviously of Italian descent. My parents are English. They arrived in Australia when I was a baby. I know you’d like to solve a mystery, but your mystery has nothing to do with me. My parents are alive and well. Both are specialist doctors. My father is an oncologist, my mother a highly regarded surgeon. I have no siblings. I’ve had to produce my birth certificate a number of times over the years. Passports, etc. I’ve never had the slightest doubt about who I am. Neither has anyone else.”
“Grandparents? Your grandparents are still living?” he persisted, driven by God knows what. Instinct. Gut feeling. Mirror images.
“Clearly you’re a detective tragic. But I can’t help you.”
“I’m pretty sure you can. No need to be crotchety.”
She looked up at him, blinked in amazement. “I am not crotchety. I’ve never actually heard that word spoken. Crotchety?”
“Really? My dad used it a lot.” He didn’t say it was in connection with his mother. A bit crotchety today, son! “Okay, how about vexed? If I’ve offended you, I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you. Dinner? Lunch is difficult for me most days. We could go to the new place, Leonards. It’s highly rated.”
“Who said I would enjoy myself?”
“I improve on acquaintance,” he assured her. “On the other hand, I’m fascinated by you, Ms. Martin. You’re not crotchety, forgive me. Maybe a teeny chip on your shoulder?”
She flipped back her luxuriant hair. A wonderfully feminine gesture. “That does it.”
“No, no.” His two-handed, up-flung gesture mirrored exactly one of his mother’s. “I promise you’ll be fascinated. It’s quite a story.” He glanced at his watch. “Look, it’s still early. Why don’t we go someplace quiet? At least let me explain. There’s some sort of mystery here. Hang on,” he suddenly remembered. “I have a small photo in the back of my wallet. It’s the same one my dad always carried. I grew up with this photo. And others.”
She wanted to resist him. She couldn’t. Not many women could, she imagined. It was a feeling she could not and did not want to understand. Not only was he a fantastic-looking man, with all the self-assurance success brings, he looked like a man who usually got what he wanted. For all that, his polished manner, and the humour in his voice, and the darker than dark eyes, he didn’t look the sort of man up for casual involvements, or to play women along. He was at heart a serious man; her trusty antennae told her that. At twenty-two, she had come to terms with the fact that men looked on her with considerable interest and a whole lot more that she didn’t want and actively discouraged. Bruno McKendrick wasn’t using his story as a kind of subterfuge for less cerebral pursuits. This was a story he was determined to investigate.
She made her decision, looking away. “I have to say good night to my hostess, to James and the other members of the group.”
“Of course. You’re finished for the evening?”
“James is staying on. He’s a party animal. I feel privileged to have been invited to play with the group. I thought we meshed well.”
“You meshed beautifully. You’re a fine musician yourself.”
“Royal College of Music, London. I have a Master’s degree.”
“Good for you. You must tell me more.”
“You’re interested?” She looked up at him quickly.
“Of course I’m interested. I don’t say things just for the hell of it. I suppose you were a child prodigy?”
She met his mesmerizing eyes. The irises were almost the brilliant black of the pupils. “Oddly enough, I was regarded as one in my hometown.”
“Why oddly?” He quirked a brow.
“It’s a long story.”
He was intent on hearing it. “No one else in the family was musical?” He knew for a fact the Hartmanns were a musical family. The portrait of the missing young woman had her seated at a grand piano, her face and torso turned towards the painter.
“Isn’t Mrs. Lubrinski waving at you?” Isabelle asked, having just that minute observed she and the dashing Bruno McKendrick were under surveillance.
He looked across to where Marta was standing. She might as well have been bellowing for his attention. Beside her stood Penelope, wearing an exquisitely pained expression. “So she is,” he said blandly. “The Lubrinskis are good friends of mine.”
“Is the young woman with her a good friend as well?” She was rummaging about in her memory for the name of the often-photographed society figure.
“I’ve lots of attractive women friends, Isabelle, none of them a fixture. Look, why don’t we go over and say good night together?”
“You need protection?” she asked with more than a hint of mischief.
“Every man needs protection from beautiful women.”
There was no trace of humour in his voice.
“I’ll take special note of that.” Bruno McKendrick had probably been chased from his teens, but that reaction? There had to be a story there involving a beautiful woman.
* * *
They walked down the brilliantly lit drive together into the starlit night. He had called a cab to take them to a waterfront restaurant. They would wait for it on the footpath.
“I think your Marta might be a holy terror,” Isabelle considered.
“Marta has a lovely nature.” It was said tongue in cheek. Marta, though she had remained the gracious hostess, definitely had not approved of Isabelle, who looked like a teenager, even if she were a brilliant young musician.
Isabelle was wearing strappy black heels, yet she had to tilt up her chin. “I have to ask this. Not idle curiosity. I really want to know. Have you something going on with Penelope?”
He didn’t weigh his response. “I thought I was the one who was going to ask the questions.” He looked down his perfectly aquiline nose at her.
“So it’s a setup. Madame Lubrinski”—it trilled off her tongue—“has made finding you the right partner a calling?”
“There’s the cab now.”
“I think she’s been giving you a hard time,” she said with a catch of laughter in her voice. Any of her girlfriends would have felt hurt and intimidated by Marta Lubrinski’s disapproval thinly cloaked by brilliant smiles. She didn’t. She was well used to intimidating women. On the other hand, if Penelope’s looks could have killed, she’d be laid out in the house.
Her skin was luminous under the streetlights. Her hair like rioting flames. If he weren’t immune to beautiful women, Bruno thought he’d be having palpitations. Not that Isabelle Martin had arrived at the femme fatale stage. She was still a girl, fresh as springtime. “What is this? You’re reading my mind?” he asked with a certain derisiveness.
“You’ve already given yourself away.”
He didn’t follow that up. What did she mean anyway? He wasn’t used to being put on the back foot.
* * *
The restaurant was upmarket. Jolly expensive, as Isabelle was soon to label it. They had a table for two at the window with a view of the starstruck, shimmering water. Isabelle didn’t know how he had managed that. The restaurant wasn’t crowded; nevertheless, it would have taken some clout to land their table by the window. She hadn’t eaten since lunch. Bruno revealed he hadn’t been able to manage lunch either, so both of them were hungry. Neither wanted to go past Sydney’s marvellous seafood, choosing a menu much like two people who knew exactly each other’s taste. At the end, they decided on a series of fancy little entrées featuring oysters, scallops, prawns and lobster.
“A Riesling to go?” Bruno signalled the hovering wine waiter.
“Perfect. Clare Valley.” She named the famous wine-growing region without hesitation.
“How do you know so
much about Australian wines?”
She shrugged a creamy shoulder. “I’ve done a little judicious sampling.”
“So age bows to beauty.”
Her smile was so sweet, so uncomplicated, he saw her clearly as a little girl.
“You’re not middle-aged. Yet.”
“Before you ask, I’m quite a few years older than you.” Looked about ten years, actually. Made him suddenly feel old.
“I wasn’t going to ask, as it happens. I could easily check it out if I felt so inclined. It sounded like you were warning me off. I hope you haven’t jumped to the rash conclusion I’m after you, Bruno? There’s always someone, isn’t there?”
“I’m not sure you’d be the one to talk.”
She shook her head in demurral. “I can’t claim your hectic love life. I have my music. That’s more than enough for the time being.”
The waiter arrived at their table and highly rated their choice, while giving Isabelle more than a few lascivious glances. Bruno sent him on his way with a crisp grazie.
“I’m so sorry for that, Isabella,” he said, assailed by an unexpected anger. The guy was only looking. Who could blame him? Still, he hadn’t cared for it.
“I’m used to it,” Isabelle said gently.
He met her eyes, his serious. “You can be absolutely certain no trouble will come your way if I can help it.”
She paused, taking that in. “How, exactly?” She rested her chin on her linked hands. “And it’s Isabelle.”
“That’s the Italian in me.” He shrugged. “It’s very strong. Could you have a better name than Isabella, Bella?”
His smile dazzled. The smile alone had massive sex appeal. “Is that how you get women to fall in love with you?” She spoke as if she were conducting an interview, notebook in hand.
He met the sparkling mischief in her gaze. “I’m not with you, Isabella.”
“Of course you are. Even I’ve spotted women look at you like you’re a multimillionaire megastar. I’d be nervous myself, only I’ve divined you’re not into cradle snatching.”
“Cradle snatching is a big mistake. I could point out you’re over twenty-one and I like redheads.” His tone had unconsciously deepened. Hell, what was he doing, flirting?