The roses, his mother’s favourite plant, reigned without attendants. No other plants or under-plantings shared the beds. He approved of that. The rose, after all, was the Queen of Flowers. Now, in early summer, they were in exquisite bloom, each bed devoted to a particular colour—all the pinks from pale to deep, the whites, the yellows and oranges, a hundred iridescent shades of red, crimson, scarlet, ruby, carmine furthest away. The whole aura was one of peace and tranquillity.
He knew Kathryn Rylance had taken great personal interest in the garden. It was she who had worked closely with the head gardener at that time, a transplanted Englishman by the name of Joshua Morris. Josh was a man with a great love and knowledge of roses. It had been his job to enlarge the rose gardens. To no one’s surprise, Josh had resigned almost immediately after the news of Kathryn Rylance’s death had broken. He was said to have been devastated.
The gardens remained as Kathryn’s memorial.
Garrick’s fatigue had vanished. Nevertheless, he was acutely aware he was on edge. He wasn’t sure whether Zara was staying at the house or not. He knew she had a city apartment. But, with the wedding so close, it was possible she would be staying at the mansion. God knew it could accommodate an army. He understood Zara and Miranda had grown close. But then Zara had enormous charm at her disposal.
Corin had confided he was in two minds about keeping the property. Memories, of course. But, even with any amount of money at his disposal, he would be hard pressed to find a more valuable or better sited property with a superb view of the river to the rear. The estate was a major asset. It had to be worth many millions and state-of-the-art security would already have been put in place by Dalton. It was all up to Corin. Quite possibly, Miranda wouldn’t care to live in the house, although she had only met Leila Rylance, the last chatelaine, briefly. Miranda would be in for a lot of exposure as Corin’s wife. In the ordinary course of events, medical students didn’t get to marry billionaires. From what he had seen of Miranda, he was sure she could hold her own.
He knew, even before the door opened, it would be Zara. That warning tightness in his chest. The first of the shock waves?
Kathryn Rylance had passed on her exquisite features to her daughter. Zara looked up at him with a tremulous smile—no doubt uncertain of his reaction—but her wonderful eyes were already working their spell like some medieval witch. “Hello, Garrick.”
Just the sight of her! Did she know how it hurt? A thousand electrifying volts of recognition. The accompanying sense of futility for ever having loved someone beyond reach. Would he never get over the tortured angst he had carried around as a young man?
You’re carrying a torch you can’t put down, let alone put out, you fool.
He was older, wiser. His heartache had morphed into steely resolve. He didn’t fully realise it but he was radiating sexual antagonism. “Zara, I wondered if you’d be here.”
She flushed at his cutting tone. “I don’t expect a hug.”
“I’m not a big hugger any more, Zara,” he offered very dryly, when his heart was beating like a bass drum. “You cured me of that. Am I allowed to come in?’
“Of course.” Her flush deepened, like the pink bloom on a rose. She stood back, a willowy young woman with an entrancingly slender silhouette. Her gleaming dark hair was caught back in some elaborate knot, emphasizing her swan’s neck and the set of her pretty ears. She was dressed in a white sleeveless blouse with gauzy ruffles down the front and narrow-legged black pants. Tall as she was, above average in height, she still wore high heeled slingbacks on her feet. A simple enough outfit albeit of the finest quality. Zara enhanced everything she wore.
“Corin’s been delayed,” she told him, clearly showing her nerves. She had to look up at him. He, like Corin, was inches over six feet. “Miri is with him. Just a quick drink with friends. They’ll be home for dinner, which is at seven.”
“I remember,” he said, slightly relaxing the tension in his voice.
“Shall I show you to your room?”
She gave him another shaky smile. She sounded very gentle, very anxious to please. “Where are the staff?” he asked briskly, as if he would much prefer one of them to do the job.
“They’re about. I wanted to greet you myself.”
“Really?” He raised a black brow. “I suppose we do have to sort out how best to handle the next couple of days.’
His expression must have been harsh because she said, “You still hate me?” Her own expression was one of deep regret.
He didn’t have to consider his response. It was automatic. “Don’t kid yourself, Zara.”
Don’t let those big dark eyes drag you in.
“If you ever haunted my dreams, those days are long past.”
“You still haunt mine,” she said very simply.
Great God! The cheek of her! His answer was so stinging it made her flinch. “You always were good at putting on a show. But surely you’re not over Hartmann already?”
She visibly recovered her poise, her tone unwavering. “You’re talking utter nonsense, Garrick. I was never involved with Konrad Hartmann. There was no relationship as such. A few dinner dates. A couple of concerts.”
“I guess I can accept that.” He shrugged. “Goddesses don’t fall in love with mere mortals. But you had a sexual relationship?”
“Hardly any of your business,” she said with considerable reserve.
“Of course you did.”
He glanced away from her beautiful face into the sumptuous formal living room. It had been redecorated since he had last seen it. Now its palette was gold, turquoise and citrine-yellow, with the walls painted a shade of terracotta impossible for him to describe. This grand room had once been walled in with a graceful curving arch that matched the arch on the other side. Now both huge reception rooms were open to the entrance hall.
It was a real coup! In fact it was stunning. The entrance hall remained floored in traditional black and white marble tiles but, as he lifted his head, he saw the new white coffered ceiling. In place of the arches, four Corinthian columns soared to left and right, acting as a splendid colonnade.
So who had inspired the magic? Some high-priced designer with impeccable taste? Miranda? Very possibly, Zara. It looked like her—the refinement—he decided. Zara always did have tremendous style.
She was standing a short distance away, appearing lost in her own thoughts. “I can’t talk about Konrad Hartmann,” she was saying. “I was the victim there.”
He lowered his coal-black head, his expression highly sceptical. “His beautiful Australian mistress?”
“Believe that, you’ll believe anything!” She spoke tautly. “I was sorry to hear your engagement to Sally Forbes broke up. I do remember her. She was a very attractive girl. And very suitable.”
He shrugged. “Well, she’s happily married to Nick Draper now. Remember him?”
“I remember your other friend, Nash, better.”
“Why
