His Heiress Wife. Margaret Way
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 after 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