Innocent Mistress. Margaret Way
course I know Tony,” he lightly scoffed. “He was a constant visitor at our house. My dad bought a number of his paintings in the early days before he became famous. I thought he was overseas.”
She nodded. “He is. In London. His last showing was a sell-out. We keep in touch.”
“So there’s a connection?” Accustomed to asking questions, they were springing out.
“A family friend.” Her smile conveyed she wasn’t about to tell him more. “You really don’t have to drive me. I can walk. It’s not far.”
“I insist. Can’t have you hitchhiking.” His speculative gaze lingered on her face.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she questioned, with the tiniest frown.
“Forgive me, but I can’t help wondering who you are and why you’re at Lester Rogan’s funeral when you don’t know the family?”
She tilted her chin to look up at him. The knot in her stomach tightened. He had that confident demeanour tall men often have plus the superb body of an athlete. “Does it matter?” she asked, sounding a lot cooler than she felt.
“Damned if I haven’t got the feeling it could.”
“So you’re the clairvoyant now.” She smiled sweetly. “What’s your astrological sign?” She restricted herself to a brief glance into his eyes. She’d heard he was dazzling, but in his favour he appeared unconcerned with his good looks. What she hadn’t expected was the magnetism, the powerful attraction of that white, lopsided smile, the dimple that flicked deeply into his cheek.
“Leo,” he was saying, still sounding indulgent, amused. “There’s no scientific basis for astrology, Ms Costello.”
The sapphire eyes were full of mischief. “I was going to tell you names of crystals you might find useful,” she said coolly. “But no matter.”
“Gee, thanks. That’d be fun,” he lightly mocked. “Can you tell me something now?”
“If I can.” She managed to sound at ease, even though the air around them was so sizzling it burned.
“What’s the colour of your hair?” He could see he’d caught her off guard. “I’m intrigued by your covering it up.”
“Ever consider a bad hair day?” She cast him a quick glance.
“I’d be amazed if you were having one.”
“It’s obvious surely? I didn’t particularly want to be noticed. But as you seem to be so curious.”
Purposefully she raised a hand, lifting the silk scarf from her head. Another movement released the clasp at her nape.
He sucked in his breath sharply.
She shook her hair free, turning her head from side to side to loosen it. The breeze that swept along the driveway sent her hair swirling like a burnished veil. Sunlight reflected off myriad highlights like the prisms of a precious gem; gold, rose, amber, even pinks and orange. He supposed her long glorious mane would be best described as a gleaming copper.
“I can see what you mean about being noticed.” Entranced, he nevertheless kept his tone sardonic. “You speak like the scarf was protection?”
She met his eyes again, tucking her hair casually behind her ears. The richness of the colour made her eyes and skin zing. “It doesn’t do any harm to protect oneself. I really don’t need a lift, you know. Thank you for the offer.”
“No sense in walking in the heat. Deal?”
Her quick assessing glance skipped across his face again. “Okay.”
They turned back towards the car. “As a copper-head it’s a wonder your skin doesn’t burn?” he asked conversationally, moving ahead to open the passenger door.
She slid in. “Strangely enough it doesn’t, but I do use a good sunblock. The only hats I own were much too festive for a funeral.”
“That’s too bad. I’d like to have seen you in one.” He had a sudden mental image of her in a wide-brimmed hat weighed down with huge pink roses, something marvellously feminine and romantic. Ironically a hat like his mother used to wear to protect her skin. With a sudden twist of the heart he remembered how he’d fallen early and irrevocably in love with the image of a beautiful women in a picture hat. There were years when his parents had been passionate about their garden, working happily together. They’d even managed a beautiful sheltered rose garden, large, luxuriant shrubs and blooms, despite the humidity and attendant problems of the tropics. To this day he took a lot of pleasure out of sending roses to his dates.
It wasn’t until Jude had dropped the mysterious Cate Costello off at her car that he realized she still hadn’t revealed what exactly she was doing at Lester Rogan’s funeral.
Ten minutes later he arrived at the Rogan mansion, the overt display of the late Lester Rogan’s wealth. The house was huge. In his view no architectural gem but impressive for sheer size alone and the tropical splendour of the five acre manicured grounds. The entrance was electronically guarded, the long driveway lined by majestic Royal Cuban palms. A caretaker-gardener’s bungalow was off to the left through the screening trees. There was a pool and a guest-house at the back, but surpassing all the obvious signs of wealth, was the glorious blue sea.
There were plenty of cars littering the driveway and the grass. Jude found a spot, his mind still engaged with his meeting with Cate Costello. What could possibly have motivated her to attend Rogan’s funeral if she didn’t know the family? Or could he take that to mean she just didn’t know Myra, Ralph and Melinda, but she had known Lester? In what context? Lester could have bought out Tony Mandel’s beachside property that was the most obvious connection. These days with tourism in tropical North Queensland hectically blossoming the land would be very valuable for redevelopment at some future date. If the late Lester had been her landlord, why didn’t she say so? What was the big mystery? What was she doing sheltering amid the trees? He hadn’t the slightest doubt he’d find out.
An hour later hurried along by a less than subtle Ralph, all the mourners had departed, some of them definitely over the drink driving limit.
“Now’s as good a time as any to read the will,” Ralph rasped. “You’ve got it with you?” He threw Jude an impatient glance.
“Of course. I left my briefcase in the hall.”
“I’ll get it Jude,” Melinda offered. She was nearest the wide archway, one of a pair that led from off the entrance hall to the major reception rooms.
“Sure you’re up to this, Mrs Rogan?” Jude asked, taking another concerned look at Myra’s extreme pallor. “I can very easily come back tomorrow, or the next day.”
Ralph’s dark eyes shot red sparks of aggression. Here was a young man who was permanently angry. “For cryin’ out loud, Jude, how many times do I have to tell you? We’re ready to hear it? Right now.”
The school bully was still holding up. “I was talking to your mother, Ralph. Not you.” Unperturbed Jude looked towards Myra who was giving every appearance of being the next to follow her husband to the grave.
“Mum tell him.” Ralph scratched his forehead violently.
“No, Ralphie—no.” Myra pleaded, her voice tremulous.
Ralph stared at his mother for a bit, giving a can-you-believe-this roll of his eyes. “Listen,” he said very quietly as though addressing someone mentally challenged. “This won’t take long then you can take to your bed. For the rest of your life if you like.”
“I think she needs her bed right now,” Jude said, trying to keep the disgust out of his voice. “This has been a bad shock.”
“Get it over with, Jude,” Melinda advised, returning with his briefcase. In her own way she appeared as eager to hear the will as her brother.