Читать книгу: «Guardian to the Heiress»
Welcome to the intensely emotional world of USA TODAY bestselling author Margaret Way where rugged, brooding bachelors meet their match in the burning heart of Australia…
Praise for the author:
“Margaret Way delivers…vividly written,
dramatic stories.”
—RT Book Reviews
“With climactic scenes, dramatic imagery
and bold characters, Margaret Way makes
the Outback come alive.”
—RT Book Reviews
“I’ve never in my life been kissed like that.”
He kept his eyes on her lovely face. Her expression appeared overwrought. He wanted to kiss her again. He hadn’t found the extra strength to free her, but he knew he had to call a stop. “Would you want to change anything?” He brushed back a few springy tendrils from her temples.
Carol took time to find an answer. “You could break my heart, Damon. I’d forgive you.”
Her answer rocked him. For the second time he had to pitch a fierce battle for control. Eventually his sense of what was best for them won out. He lifted her to her feet. “I would never do that.”
“Not deliberately. No.” Carol placed her hands against his chest.
They had left their close and comfortable relationship way behind. That relationship had taken a giant leap into the unknown. Those ecstatic moments between them could not be taken back. Unforgettable as they were, it didn’t guarantee ownership over the other or increasing intimacy between them. There were hazards ahead for both of them to overcome.
About the Author
USA TODAY bestselling author MARGARET WAY was born and raised in the River City of Brisbane, capital of Queensland, Australia. A conservatorium trained professional musician, in 1969 she decided to fulfill a childhood dream to write a book and have it published. She submitted a manuscript to the iconic publishing firm of Mills & boon ® in London. To her delight, the manuscript received immediate acceptance. The first book, King Country, published in 1970, was an outstanding success that heralded the start of a long and very successful career. The author hopes and believes the two goals she set herself since the beginning of her writing career have been achieved: first and foremost, to bring pleasure and relaxation to her global readership; second, to open up a window to the world on her own beautiful, unique country, captivating the hearts of her readers as they identify with rural and outback Australia and the Dreamtime culture of its Australian indigenous people. An award-winning author of more than one hundred and thirty books, published in one hundred and fourteen countries in thirty-four languages, Margaret Way is a three-time finalist for a Romance Writers of Australia RUBY Award.
Guardian to
the Heiress
Margaret Way
MILLS & BOON
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This book is dedicated to my wonderful Management Team
PROLOGUE
IT WASN’T THE BEST of times for Selwyn Chancellor. Lying in his massive carved mahogany bed, he was moving in and out of consciousness, lost in a darkening sea of foreboding. Wave upon wave of memories tossed him about. Figures came and went. All the while his fragmented dreams were attended by excruciating pain that morphine was barely touching.
He was dying; he knew that. He welcomed death. It would come as a relief—that from a man who had lived his life refusing to face the fact one day he would die like everybody else. Only, he wasn’t everyone else, was he? He was Selwyn Chancellor, billionaire several times over, a man of power and wide-reaching influence, rich beyond even his own dreams. He had lived and would die a rich man, president of the Chancellor Group, a conglomeration of trading companies, real-estate companies, manufacturing enterprises, transport services and insurance, with investments in many countries around the globe.
The father he had worshipped, Sir Edwin Chancellor, knighted by the Queen for his services to industry, had always urged him to excellence. His father at the end of his days had prophesised his brilliant future: I know I can count on you, Selwyn, to build on my achievements. I leave the Chancellor Group in safe hands.
His father, a legendary hard-nosed pragmatist, had been proud of him. His father’s approval had meant everything in the world to him; but none of that counted now. At the end of his extraordinary life he had been forced to concede the moments of true happiness in his life had been few and far between. He’d known some would genuinely mourn him just as he’d known the minute their family doctor, Harry McDowell, declared him dead “the Vultures” would move in.
“The Vultures” was his private name for his family. Not very nice, but justified. There was his son Maurice, by his deeply reserved wife, Elaine. His son’s wife, Dallas, who had started out so attractive but had quickly gone to seed. At least Elaine had never done that, but Elaine had been unfitted by temperament to be the wife of an increasingly powerful man. To bring her lifestyle traumas to a head, had come the premature death of their beloved son Adam, their first born. Not all that long after, Elaine had ended her own life, though the coronial finding had labelled it an accident.
He knew better. He knew it all. Tragedy had clung to him. Maybe he had brought it on, however unwittingly.
It was Adam who was to have succeeded him; Adam who had all the necessary skills and strength of character to step into his shoes. Maurice, his younger son, had always lived in Adam’s shadow, never effective enough in any of the family businesses, too indolent and too greedy to strike out on his own. The same could be said of Maurice’s son—his playboy grandson Troy—who, of all of them, had taken the most pleasure in watching him die. Oh, the boy had covered it well, even feigning sorrow, but Selwyn could read his grandson like a book. Troy was and always would be hungry for money. Not that all three of them wouldn’t have their hands out for their share. He knew there would be plenty of in-fighting. Blood was thinner than water when it came to money.
In a moment of blessed clarity he saw the stocky white-clad nurse move away from the window, checking her watch. Time for another injection. The woman had an obsession with punctuality. He saw her place her tray on the bedside table then pick up a syringe, flicking it to expel air, preparatory to injecting the powerful drug into his near-useless arm. She was about to jab him when he summoned up all his remaining strength, startling her so badly she let out a shriek. A fruit bat couldn’t have done it any better.
“Leave it, woman. Leave me be. Go away.”
Her mouth opened and closed like a beached fish, but whatever she wanted to say she thought better of it. No words emerged. He supposed, with bitter humour, she could understand his family’s wishing to be rid of the old tyrant. She wasn’t such a fool that she wouldn’t have cottoned on to the fact his family was a seething cauldron of emotions. Over the past week of his serious decline he had witnessed those emotions coming to a rolling boil. One of them could even take it into their head to finish him off; an overdose of a powerful drug would be especially tempting. A soft pillow held down just long enough?
“Well, then, what are you waiting for?” he rasped.
“Doctor McDowell will be here around two.” She spoke in a reproachful way.
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
A flash of hostility came into her eyes. “You’ll be requiring another injection well before that, sir.”
“Don’t get lippy with me, woman. Get out of here. If you allow any member of my family into this room, it means instant dismissal.”
A sweat had broken out on the nurse’s forehead. She was extremely well-paid, well-housed and well-fed. No one had wanted to look after the old man. “Is there anything I can do before I go?”
“Wh-a-t?” Selwyn Chancellor had all but forgotten her. “No. Just go.”
The nurse went, wearing an aggrieved face.
Alone, all alone, on a storm-tossed sea.
One was always alone when dying. He could hear his own laboured breathing. Maybe death was freedom? Nice to think so. Maybe he would meet up again with the people he had loved and lost. Maybe they would come for him? The thought made him smile. And as he smiled he was granted one last vision…
“These are for you, Poppy.” A beautiful little girl, five years old with a crown of ruby-red curls, put a posy of spring flowers into his hand.
“They’re lovely, sweetheart!” he exclaimed, burying his nose in the fragrant offering, knowing he was risking a barrage of sneezes. “Thank you so much.”
“I love you, Poppy,” she told him, dancing around happily. Carol was never still. Little Carol, the only person in the world to love him unreservedly.
“I love you, too, my darling,” he said with perfect sincerity. He was seated out on the rear terrace, finishing off a last cup of coffee before setting off for the city. Time to go. He stood up, a tall, vigorous man, taking her soft little hand.
“What are you going to do today?” he asked. It was a Saturday. He knew her mother, Roxanne, wouldn’t bother taking her anywhere. The proverbial cat was a better mother than Roxanne, but he had employed an excellent nanny, a highly qualified, pleasant, middle-aged woman, experienced with looking after children. She and Carol got on famously.
“Can’t you and Daddy stay home and be with me, Poppy?” she implored.
“Not possible, sweetheart,” he said, brushing a hand over her springy curls. “Your father and I have business to attend to. Important business.”
“Can’t it wait?” She was impatient.
“Afraid not,” he said, casting around for something to appease her. “What about tomorrow? We could take a run out to Beaumont. How would that suit you?” He would have to make the time and effort, but his granddaughter was worth it.
She clapped her hands, looking up at him with sparkling cerulean-blue eyes. “That would be wonderful. You’re the best poppy in the whole wide world,” she announced, picking up his large hand and kissing it…
He couldn’t suppress a sob. Tears stung his eyes. It hadn’t been all that much longer before his little sweetheart had disappeared from his life along with his son Adam. His emotions had changed rapidly, savagely, from a reasonable contentment to a grief-stricken hatred. But he had kept his eye on his granddaughter, albeit from afar. Powerful as he then was, a mother had proved to be more powerful. But he had seen to it his little Carol was well provided for. The treacherous Roxanne had remarried a City identity, Jeff Emmett, a scant eighteen months after Adam’s death, but she had gone on sending him all the bills pertaining to Carol’s upkeep. Greed. As Adam’s widow, she had benefited greatly. He had paid up unquestioningly. Hadn’t he built up scrapbook after scrapbook of Carol’s young life and achievements over the years? He had watched her from a distance, locked away in the back seat of his Rolls. He’d had his best, most discreet private investigator keep an eye on her, her mother and stepfather.
A year before, when he had found out he had cancer—and not gall trouble, as he had supposed—he had called in a solicitor. Not steady-as-she-goes Marcus Bradfield, senior partner of Bradfield Douglass, but the new young fellow—the associate, Damon Hunter—the one who had come up with all the fresh ideas to save his companies’ money. It was Hunter who had drawn up his new will. Selwyn had urged him to get shot of Bradfield Douglass and go out on his own, though he was sure in time the young man would be offered a full partnership. It could be no more than his due.
He’d had plenty of experience picking the ones who would go to the top. Nevertheless he’d had Hunter thoroughly investigated. He had come up trumps in all departments. Hunter was chosen to guard Carol’s money and her interests until she turned twenty-one the following August. God knew, Hunter was young himself, but he had been when he’d started to make his mark. Hunter was his man.
Carol was family more than anyone else. Carol was Adam’s daughter, Adam’s only child. Adam had planned on more children, only life had cheated all three of them—most of all his sad, sweet Elaine. It was his turn now to cheat the gathering Vultures.
In his very last moments, Selwyn Chancellor was rewarded with another vision of his granddaughter, the last time he had seen her. Had she looked across the busy city street, she would have spotted the luxury car but she had been too busy chatting to one of her girlfriends, a fellow university student he had seen her with several times. She looked so beautiful, so vital, and beyond that so happy, a sense of peace had settled on him. He had always blamed himself—at least in part—for the way things had turned out, but now he felt a burden was lifted from his shoulders. He trusted Damon Hunter to look after Carol’s best interests and he wasn’t a man given to trust.
He had to be hallucinating—his poor head was so sick and muddled—but he fancied he saw his little Elaine come to stand at the end of his bed. His immediate reaction was to hold out his hand.
“Is that you, Elaine?” he whispered, straining upwards.
She didn’t speak, but she drew nearer, like the spirit appointed to take care of his soul.
His vision grew clearer. It was Elaine. She was shining, a silver haze surrounding her. He wasn’t afraid; he was eager to join her.
Selwyn Chancellor reached out to take his wife’s hand.
A farewell to arms.
CHAPTER ONE
DAMON HUNTER WAS placing some files into his briefcase when Marcus Bradfield walked through the open door of his office, an attempt at a solemn expression on his handsome, fleshy face. Oddly enough, the extra padding in his cheeks lent him the air of a middle-aged cherub. “Bit of news.”
Damon broke off what he was doing, directly meeting his boss’s gaze. “Don’t tell me—Selwyn Chancellor’s dead.”
“Exactly right.” Bradfield sank heavily into one of the armchairs in front of Damon’s desk. Bradfield was an affluent man, born of wealth, well-respected, a leading light of the city’s elite. His grandfather, Patrick Bradfield, had been one of the original partners who had founded Bradfield Douglass. “Maurice rang me.” A faint smile spread across Bradfield’s face. “He did his best, but he didn’t sound all that grief-stricken.”
“Difficult when you’re glad,” Damon commented briefly. He had no time for Maurice Chancellor. Ditto for Champagne Charlie, the son Troy. “Why didn’t he ring me, as well? I’m handling the will.”
“Maurice likes to deal with the top people, Damon,” Brad-field said with a smirk. “Selwyn Chancellor has employed this firm for many long years. I’m a full partner. You’re still an associate. Am I right?”
“And I’m quite sure there will be a full partnership on offer in the near future,” Damon countered, knowing it to be true. He had brought a lot of new business to the firm. In fact, he was gaining a reputation in the City as the can-do guy. “I still say he should have rung me, after he rang you.” He held firm. “That was the correct thing to do.”
“Poor man was in shock.” Bradfield gave way to a wry chuckle. “I said I’d tell you.”
“Not good enough! Did he tell you he’d contacted Carol Emmett, his niece? The family may have been estranged for years, but clearly she must be told.”
“Didn’t mention young Carol.” Bradfield waved that one away. “Why would he? He hasn’t acknowledged her since the big rift. Now there’s a beautiful girl. Met her a number of times. She darn nearly charmed the pants off me.”
“You wish.”
“Okay, so I’m getting on, as my dear wife never fails to remind me. Bit wild, young Carol, I hear.”
“Just young,” Damon clipped off, thinking Carol Emmett not only looked a handful she was bound to be one. “She has to know.”
“I dare say the old man remembered her?” Bradfield gave Damon one of his guileless stares.
“He did that.” Damon kept his face neutral. “She was his granddaughter.”
“He paid her no attention at all!” Condemnation was in Bradfield’s blue eyes. Marcus was a staunch family man with three daughters of marriageable age.
“As far as you know.”
Marcus gave him a long, searching look. “Damon, you know as well as I do, the family as good as abandoned her and her mother. Now, there’s a swinger, that Roxanne! A real glamour girl, though no one seems to like her. You should hear my wife! Another thing, my boy—”
“I’m not your boy, Marcus.”
“Another thing, my man, Maurice wants this kept quiet until morning when the press will be informed. Selwyn Chancellor was an important man. The premier could even want a state funeral.”
“Against Selwyn Chancellor’s wishes?” Damon shook his head. “He stipulated a quiet funeral, family and a few chosen friends only. He is to be buried in the garden of his country home, Beaumont, where I assume he died. Carol is to be invited.”
“Not Jeff and Roxanne?” Bradfield asked as though that violated some set of rules.
“No way. Jeff Emmett might be one of your ‘good ole boys,’ but he and Roxanne are specifically excluded.”
“So bygones won’t be bygones? We all know Selwyn and his wife—what was her name again?”
“Elaine,” Damon supplied.
“Blamed Roxanne for the death of their son Adam, the heir apparent. It was a bit suspicious you have to admit—all set to go through the Heads for a good day’s sailing, only Adam takes a wallop on the head from the boom on the mainsail before pitching into the harbour. Roxanne tries to chuck in a lifebuoy, finds it unfastened but still attached, so she throws in every cushion to hand, anything that would float. Meanwhile the boat is moving on at around eight knots.”
“She couldn’t swim. That much was true.”
“I’ve always said, men don’t teach their wives enough about boats and light aircraft. They rely on always being there.”
“I agree. Roxanne was believed.”
“Not by everybody.” Bradfield sighed. “Even to mention the case to my darling wife is to get into a heated argument. Old Selwyn didn’t believe her; the mother was the more vehement of the two. She never accepted the coroner’s finding. We’re both yachtsmen so we know what can happen. But Adam Chancellor’s parents continued to hold their daughter-in-law guilty of some crime.”
“Maybe she was,” Damon suggested. “She certainly acted strangely in the days that followed—not a sign of a tear, always dressed up to the nines. Not that that makes her guilty of anything. But the whole thing was a bit strange; I’ve read up on it all. The tragedy damn near split the city in two. But, whatever story Roxanne Chancellor told, it worked. As far as I’m concerned, more questions were asked than there were answers for.”
Bradfield stared down at his locked hands, as though they might hold the answer. “Speculation won’t get us anywhere. It was years ago. Just about everyone has forgotten.”
“Not true, Marcus.”
“Why so judgemental?” Bradfield asked, not wanting to take the issue further. “The verdict is what counts. Jeff Em-mett did the right thing—he adopted Roxanne’s little daughter not long after they were married.”
“I’m sure Roxanne forced him into it. No love lost between her and the Chancellor family.” Damon gathered up his briefcase. “Look, I’m out of here. It’s been a long day.” For some time now he had been the first to arrive and often the last to leave.
Marcus cranked to his feet. He had put on a good deal of weight in the past few years, with his tailor gamely keeping pace. “Me, too. They mightn’t have slung Roxanne into jail, as some in the family no doubt wanted, but she copped plenty of torture. You’ll want to tell your client as soon as possible.”
Damon started to the door. “I intend to.”
Bradfield stayed him with a hand on his shoulder. “You’re coming Saturday night?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” Damon managed to sound enthusiastic when he didn’t really want to go to Julie Bradfield’s just-the-right-side-of-thirty birthday party.
“Every night I go down on my knees and pray my Julie finds a good husband,” Marcus confided. One prayer stuck in the groove; Damon knew Marcus had his eye on him.
“And I’m sure she’ll find one.” Damon gave his boss a reassuring smile.
As long as it’s not me.
He knew her address; one of the inner suburbs. She had moved out of the Emmett house as soon as she’d started university. He knew she was studying law, a good student who could do so much better if she put her mind to it. He had his sources at the university where he had graduated top of his class. Carol Emmett wasn’t known as a party girl precisely, but the word was she was “wildly popular.” She was certainly social. There was hardly a venue she visited where she wasn’t photographed by what passed for the paparazzi. He knew her by her press coverage. She was ravishingly pretty, if pint-sized, with a mop of lustrous red curls, porcelain skin and brilliant blue eyes.
It was his job to find her and as soon as possible.
The unit Carol Emmett and two of her girlfriends were renting was part of a block of twenty. Most of the units were rented out to the better-heeled university students who knew they had to stick to certain rules or they’d be out the door. The block was in a good, mainly residential area with a small park nearby. There was security; that was good. He went up to the door and was about to press the button for apartment eight when two young women emerged from the lift. Their outfits—one of them was wearing a mega-short skirt exposing more than just her plump knees—indicated they were having a night out on the town. They gave him a giggling, comprehensive once-over. They would definitely know him again. He was a guy who stood out, not only for his height—six-two—his chiselled good looks, but his aura of success.
“Who are you looking for, handsome?” The cheekier of the two, the one with the plump knees, spoke, a bright, inquisitive expression on her face.
“Carol Emmett.” He answered in a relaxed way, but it came out with in-built authority.
“Well, you can’t be the cops!” Cheeky eyed his beautifully tailored Italian business-suit, the shirt, the tie, even the shoes on his feet.
“Certainly not. I come as a friend.”
“Ooh, lucky Caro!” she whistled, continuing to study him, her head tipped to one side. “Bit old for her, though, aren’t you? Like, the guys Caro dates are our age.”
Was thirty old these days? How depressing. “So you do know her?”
“Course we do,” the other girl chimed in. She was plain, with an extraordinary hot-pink streak in her dark spiked hairdo, no doubt to shift focus from an over-long nose. “She’s our flatmate. You won’t find her at home. She’s out looking for Trace.”
“And Trace would be?”
“One of our mates,” the cheeky one supplied, still eyeing him over. “Trace is always getting herself into trouble. Caro likes to keep an eye on her.”
“Any idea where she might have headed? I need to discuss a business matter with her. It’s urgent.”
The two girls looked at each other, before deciding on giving him the information he sought. Evidently he had passed muster. “I’d say Trace’s little hidey-hole,” Cheeky said. “She doesn’t live here; can’t afford it. We can’t either, only for Caro. She helps us out. She’s not in any trouble, is she?” Both girls suddenly looked concerned.
“Of course not. I only need to speak to her. Where does Trace—I assume that’s Tracey—live?”
Cheeky supplied the address which was in a less salubrious inner-city suburb. He knew he could find it easily.
A narrow winding street snaked between too many overhanging trees. He didn’t like the idea of a young girl walking down this street at night. He would make a call the next morning to see if he could get those trees loped. He parked behind a car with a personalised number-plate that as good as announced Carol Emmett was inside. She was exactly where her flat-mates had said she would be, checking on Trace; he didn’t like it. Whether her name had changed to Emmett or not, everyone knew she was Selwyn Chancellor’s granddaughter, albeit estranged. It was her grandfather’s dying wish she revert to her father’s name. From now on Carol Chancellor would need a bodyguard. Such a man would have to be unobtrusive, very probably with his function kept from his charge.
He exited his car and locked it, looking up at an old Victorian house that had been converted into flats. It would have been an impressive house in its day. It still was, despite the current owner’s neglect. There was no security. That didn’t surprise him. The front door was even ajar. He pushed it gently, walking into the hallway before scanning the names of the tenants listed on the wall. Not that he needed to. The girls had told him that Trace lived with her boyfriend in flat number six. The tone had indicated they didn’t approve of Trace’s boyfriend, who wasn’t a university student. “Calls himself a chef,” Cheeky had supplied with a snort. “Works in a sandwich bar.”
“He was a chef, Amanda. Got kicked out. Temper, remember?”
He was halfway up the stairs when he heard shouting. The language was far from polite. He took the rest of the stairs at a rush. A raised male voice drowned out a young woman’s. The accent was educated, though she wasn’t averse to the odd swear word or two. She didn’t sound afraid, rather she sounded angry, challenging. With the wrong man that tone of voice was courting trouble. He had real reason to be concerned. He didn’t think that voice belonged to Tracey. It belonged to Carol Emmett, soon to be Chancellor again.
He moved silently to the door and gave it a thump with his fist. The scruffy young man that came to the door was maybe twenty-five or-six, handsome, not tall but heavily muscled. He was wearing a tight T-shirt, no doubt to show off his physique. He looked strong. But depressingly stupid.
“What d’ya want?”
“Well, that’s to the point, if nothing else.” The show of aggression did nothing for Damon. “I’d like a word with Ms Emmett, if I may? She’s inside, isn’t she?”
“Why would she wanna talk to you? Slumming, are yah?” The veins on the young man’s neck were standing out.
“Can I have your name?” Damon asked crisply.
That confused the guy. “Yah gotta be joking.”
“Not at all.” Damon stared him down. “Step away from the door, please. I want to see Ms Emmett and her friend, Tracey. Do I take it you’re the boyfriend?”
The young man fired up. “Get outta here. You’re not the cops.” He went to slam the door, only Damon shoved him out of the way and drove the door forward. At the same time he sighted a young dark-haired woman slumped in a chair. The cheekbone nearest him was heavily bruised, the eye almost closed. That upset him; he had seen too many incidences of abuse of women by their partners. The worst part was the victims often backed up for more. The damage was as much psychological as physical. Some women actually believed they had been asking for punishment.
Another young woman, who had to be Carol Emmett, was hurrying from the direction of the kitchen, clutching an ice-pack like a weapon. His immediate impression was she was infinitely lovelier in the flesh. He took in the tousled mane of ruby hair, her glowing skin—he had never seen skin glow like that—and her beautiful eyes of an intense sparkling blue. She was dressed in a short silk tunic, turquoise with a broad band of amethyst at the hem. It showed off her slender legs to perfection. There wasn’t a hint of a generous curve. She was built like a ballerina. She even had a ballerina’s trick of appearing to be in motion when she wasn’t.
“What’s going on here?” she demanded in that clear voice that gave notice she would soon find out. So, an imperious bantam weight! She could only be five-three at most. “Who are you?” She gave Damon a sharp, questioning look.
He darn near laughed, only the boyfriend took advantage of the distraction. He made a fist around the set of keys he quickly yanked out of the door, and then came at Damon in a bullocking rush, swearing and snarling.
Two things happened at once. Carol Emmett, blue eyes blazing, hurled the icepack like a missile at the boyfriend’s head. It missed, but only because Damon, using his height and speed advantage, had his assailant in a deftly imposed arm-lock. The violent boyfriend was on his knees, his left arm twisted high behind his back, his right arm anchored to the floor with Damon’s shoe pressed down hard on his hand.
“You’re dead, mate.” The boyfriend made the threat, straining unsuccessfully to free himself.
“Gosh, I won’t sleep at night.” Damon got a grip on the guy’s shirt collar before heaving him up into a chair which the enterprising Ms Emmett pushed into position.
“This is called instant bonding.” She met his eyes, her lovely mouth upturned in a smile.
“You’re shaping up as a pretty good offsider. I’m your new solicitor, by the way. I’m quite prepared to act for Tracey. This is the guy who assaulted her?”
A denial came on a burst of genuine outrage. “Come on! I just smacked her around a little. She likes it.”
Tracey didn’t say anything, but Carol Emmett exploded. “It’s a good thing I got here when I did.” She looked directly at Damon, her face filled with disgust. “God knows what might have happened. This isn’t the first time, is it, Tarik?” she said with searing contempt.
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