Tasmanian pinot noir.” He turned the bottle to show her the label. “It’s very good. Are you going to join me in a glass, or don’t you drink?”
“You know better,” she said briefly. A few times too many she had been photographed coming out of a nightclub with a few of her friends, looking a little on the wild side in short sparkly outfits with her hair in a mad crinkly halo. Okay so she enjoyed a glass of wine! She didn’t touch drugs even when a few in her circle did. Soft drugs, the so called recreational kind. Getting high on drugs was of as much interest to her as bungee jumping.
He came behind the counter, so tall she thought she would just about reach his heart. He was a sexy piece of work and no mistake. She drew a deep breath, opening a drawer finding the bottle opener, then passing it to him. Their fingers touched.
Contact almost took her breath away. She grabbed a tea towel, as if to wipe the effect of it away. “The glasses are in the cupboard directly behind you,” she said shortly, finishing off her green salad; fresh baby spinach leaves and peppery watercress with a chopped shallot, a quick dressing of extra virgin olive oil, balsamic vinegar with a little Dijon mustard then a grind of salt and black pepper. She had added some goat’s cheese to the mix. Usually cubed croutons as well, but she didn’t have the time. The succulent slices of ham were already sliced and on the white plates.
“That looks good,” he said and meant it.
He was so close her body was humming like live power lines. “Super simple. You just have to make sure everything is fresh. My flatmates would live on takeaways if I weren’t there. Takeaways aren’t my scene.”
“Not when one can whip up a delicious meal in ten or fifteen minutes.”
She was at war with herself. She wanted him to move away. At the same time she wanted him to stay. She could smell his very subtle, very pleasant cologne. “So what do you survive on, or is there a woman in your life?” she asked briskly.
Bound to be.
“Simple food, Carol, but good, fresh produce,” he answered, pouring the wine. “I don’t do takeaways, either.”
“Which doesn’t answer the question.”
“No permanent woman in my life, if that’s what you mean.”
She was pierced by some sensation she thought had to be embarrassment. “I thought I told you it was Caro.”
“Maybe I got used to hearing your grandfather referring to you as Carol,” he replied gently.
He appeared to enjoy the meal she had prepared. She couldn’t taste a thing. To make up for it she had a second glass of wine. She realised what she was doing; she was trying to cover up an emotional crisis. Her collapse would have to wait for later. She had learned to keep her emotions to herself. Her mother wasn’t the caring kind. Indeed, Roxanne had acted as though rearing a child, especially a daughter with a mind of her own, was a real penance. Her stepfather, Jeff, had been nice enough to her, but he had started getting too touchy around the time she’d turned sixteen. She had been glad to get out of the house; her mother was equally glad to see her go. Her mother had come to regard her as some sort of rival.
It didn’t bear thinking about. She had no one really to confide in among her friends. They didn’t know what it felt like to be Selwyn Chancellor’s granddaughter, to be photographed wherever you went. They thought it was fun to be in the picture; she hated it. The invasion of privacy, it was a kind of violation.
“What are you thinking about?” Damon asked. He had been watching her face. She had such a range of expressions. He knew the absence of tears beyond that glitter didn’t mean she wasn’t suffering in her way. He had learned a lot about her mother and her stepfather—nothing much good.
He didn’t want to think about what had made her break away. She was exquisitely pretty, like a Dresden figurine. He had heard it said her mother was as “hard as nails and twice as sharp.” Apparently she couldn’t deal with a daughter who, as she’d grown up, started to eclipse her. Now, that was sad—a kind of “mirror, mirror, on the wall” scenario. He wondered where Carol Emmett found comfort. Not that there would be any shortage of comforters. More now that she would have to cope with being the Chancellor heiress. The fortune hunters would emerge from the woodwork.
Afterwards he helped her clear the table. Carol made coffee. Her moment of weakness had passed. “So, what is it I’m required to do?”
“By tomorrow this will be front-page news, Carol. A media event. Your grandfather died at his country estate. That is where he wished to be buried.”
“I know. In the garden at Beaumont, alongside my grandmother, Elaine. We used to go for walks there. The grounds were so beautiful, and so big I thought it was an enchanted forest and I was the princess. When I was about four, my grandfather told me where he wanted to be buried. He loved me, you know. Then.” She swallowed hard.
“He always loved you, Carol,” he felt compelled to say. He hadn’t missed that little pained swallow. “He told me he’d wanted to fight your mother for custody.”
She broke in fierily, flatly contradicting. “He did not!”
“Let me correct you—he did. As his legal advisors, we told him winning custody of you was one fight he wouldn’t win. Your mother was your mother, a powerful person in your life. She was determined to keep you. She wasn’t letting go.”
“Spite, probably,” Carol found herself saying. It shocked her because it very likely was true. She’d no idea up until that point her grandfather had wanted custody of her. She fully intended to take that up with her mother. “My mother hated the family—my uncle Maurice, his wife, Dallas, but particularly my grandfather. It took me years to find out he had practically accused her of murdering my father. She would never have done that. What would be the reason?” She spread her hands.
“Your grandparents didn’t have a case.”
“I know that.” She didn’t believe for a minute her mother had wanted to dispose of her father. But then her mother was so good at deception. In her mid-forties, Roxanne was still a beautiful, sexy woman, a born temptress. But she wasn’t all that smart. Murder would have been difficult to pull off on the harbour. The Manly ferry, in fact, had come to her mother’s rescue. Even the floating cushions had been retrieved; never her father’s body. As a child she had prayed and prayed he had swum all the way to New Guinea, perhaps; he had never drowned, anything but that. Her father had been out on the harbour a million times. He was a fine sailor.
Damon Hunter’s voice snapped her out of her unhappy thoughts. “Allow me to be the first to congratulate you, Carol. You’re the Chancellor heiress.”
She gave a bleak laugh. “So I might as well get back my father’s name. I’ve never liked Emmett but it was a shield for the time. This won’t make anyone in the family happy. I do hope they’ve all been well-provided for, or am I in for a lengthy court battle?”
“No battle. Your grandfather knew exactly what he was doing. Sound mind, sound intent. I drew up the will. It’s ironclad. I should tell you at this point I have control over your inheritance until you turn twenty-one, which I understand is August eighth, next year?”
She gave him a taunting smile. “That means you have charge of the purse strings?”
“We can always discuss
