The Far Side of Paradise. Robyn Donald
fashion. The last time he’d gone home—to celebrate his first big commission as a sculptor, a work for a public park in a market town—he hadn’t referred to her.
So why that anguished, cryptic mention in his final call?
Cade turned away, his hard, arrogantly contoured face set. What part had Taryn Angove played in Peter’s death?
Had something she’d said, something she’d done, precipitated his final, fatal decision? It seemed possible, although she’d left for her home country of New Zealand eight hours before Peter’s suicide.
Cade had always known that revenge was a fool’s game; he’d seen the hunger for it eat into the intellect, destroy the soul.
Justice, however, was a different matter.
Progress had been infuriatingly slow. He knew now her return to New Zealand had been organised well before Peter’s death. He knew she and Peter had been good friends for almost two years, almost certainly lovers.
He knew Peter’s bank account should have been flush with a large advance to buy materials for his commission. Indeed, the money had arrived—and immediately a substantial sum had been taken out and paid directly to Taryn Angove. But the rest of the money had been siphoned off in large weekly cash payments, so that when Peter had died there had only been a few hundred pounds left.
If—and it was only an if, Cade reminded himself—Taryn Angove had somehow got her hands on it all, that could be why Peter had killed himself. Unfortunately, so far there was nothing, apart from that initial payment, to connect her with its absence.
But now, thanks to dedicated work by his security people, he knew where she was in New Zealand.
Cade looked across at the suitcase he’d just finished packing. His arrangements were all made and his actions from now on would depend on the woman he was hunting.
All day it had been still, the horizon a hazy brush-stroke where simmering sky met burnished sea, the forest-clad hills around the bay drowsing in the fierce glare of a sub-tropical sun. Cade narrowed his eyes against the intense light to watch seabirds made dumb by the heat fight silent battles over their catch.
Even the tiny waves on the shore were noiseless; all he could hear was the thrum of thousands of cicadas vibrating through the forest-covered hills behind the bay—the prevailing summer sound in this long northern peninsula of New Zealand.
The sibilant hum was penetrated by the imperative summons of his cell phone. Only his personal assistant had that number, so somewhere in his vast holdings something had gone wrong.
From halfway around the world his PA said, ‘A few matters pertaining to this meeting in Fala’isi.’
‘What about it?’ Because of his business interests in the Pacific Basin, Cade had been asked to attend a gathering of high-powered Pacific dignitaries to discuss the future of the region.
Dealing with that took a few minutes. His voice a little tentative, Roger, his PA, said, ‘Lady Louisa called.’
Arrogant black brows almost meeting across the blade of his nose, Cade said, ‘And she wanted.?’
‘Your address. She was not happy when I wouldn’t give it to her. She said it was urgent and important.’
‘Thanks.’ Cade didn’t discuss his private life easily, but he did say, ‘We are no longer together.’
A pause, then, ‘You might need to work on convincing her of that.’
His voice hard and cold, Cade said, ‘Ignore her.’
‘Very well.’
Cade’s mouth curved in a sardonic smile. Louisa wouldn’t follow him to New Zealand—it was completely out of her orbit. His ex-lover craved luxury and fashion and the heady stimulation of admiration. This remote paradise couldn’t satisfy her need for the envy of others.
‘Ah … not to put too fine a point on it, but she sounded stressed.’ Roger paused. ‘Actually, desperate.’
Her father had probably refused to pay a bill. Cade shrugged broad shoulders. ‘Not your problem.’ Or his. ‘How is your daughter?’
His PA hesitated before saying in a completely different tone, ‘We hear the results of the first lot of tests tomorrow.’
What the hell did you say to a man whose child could be suffering a terminal illness? ‘If you need leave or any help at all, it’s yours.’
‘I know. Thanks—for everything.’
‘No need for thanks—just let me know what I can do.’
‘Thanks. I will. Keep in touch.’
Cade closed down the cell phone, his eyes flinty. Against the fact that a three-year-old could be dying, Louisa was a very minor consideration. A sensuous, satisfying lover until she’d decided Cade—influential, moving in the ‘right’ circles and exceedingly rich—would make the ideal first husband, she’d been careless enough to let him overhear as she discussed her plans on the telephone.
It had needed only a few questions in the right ears for Cade to discover she’d run through most of the fortune inherited from her grandfather. With no chance of support from a father whose income had been decimated by financial crisis, marriage was the obvious solution.
Like Louisa, Cade didn’t believe in the sort of love poets wrote about. However, although experience had made him cynical, he intended to marry some day, and when he did it would be to a woman who’d value him for more than the size of his assets. He’d choose carefully, and it would last.
Cade’s expression hardened. If Louisa was desperate enough to follow him, he’d make sure she understood that he was not and never would be a suitable husband—first, last or intermediate—for her.
After eyeing the hammock in the dark shade of one of the huge trees bordering the beach, he succumbed to an unusual restlessness that drove him down onto the hot amber sand. He stared out to sea for a long moment before turning. Only then did a drift of movement in the cloudless sky catch his attention.
Frowning, he stared at it. At first nothing more substantial than a subtle darkening of the blue, the haze swiftly thickened into a veil, an ominous stain across the sky.
In the grip of its severest drought in living memory, the province of Northland was under a total fire ban. The manager of the farm he’d rented the holiday house from had impressed on him that any smoke anywhere had to mean danger.
Muttering a word he wouldn’t have said in polite company, Cade headed towards the house, long legs covering the ground at speed. He grabbed his car keys and cell phone, punching in a number as he headed towards the bedroom.
‘I can see smoke in the sky,’ he said curtly when the farm manager answered. ‘South, and close—in the next bay, I’d say, and building fast.’
The farm manager swore vigorously, then said, ‘Bloody free campers probably, careless with a camp-fire. OK, I’ll ring the brigade and round up a posse from here. With any luck, we’ll be able to put it out before it takes hold.’
Cade eyed the growing smoke cloud. ‘I’ll go over and see what I can do.’
‘Man, be careful. There’s a tap in the bay, but the creek’s probably dry. If you’ve got a bucket there, grab it.’ Possibly recalling that the man renting the farm’s beach house was an influential tycoon, he added, ‘And don’t try to be a hero.’
Cade’s swift grin vanished as he closed the cell phone. The smoke suddenly billowed, forming a cloud. Until then there had been no movement in the air, but of course the instant some idiot lit a fire the wind picked up.
The faster he got there, the better. He hauled on a long-sleeved shirt and trousers with swift, economical movements, then wasted precious moments looking for a non-existent bucket before giving up.
Not, he thought