a formal statement to the police, the seemingly endless inquisition by the media. Annabel felt she had more than earned this escape from the pressure of having to perform.
Izzie was surely safe now. They could both relax. If the photograph taken of her twin sister and Barry Wolfe entering the motel room could have disproved Annabel’s account of events, it would have surfaced when the news was hot. Or been used for blackmail before this. The danger was gone. Neil Mason would never find out that his wife had flirted with infidelity. Barry Wolfe was dead and buried.
Annabel ruefully reflected that she hadn’t wished him dead in the physical sense, yet she couldn’t regret his passing. The world was a cleaner place for it. Getting cleaner by the day down in Sydney, where the cover-ups were unravelling without any assistance from her.
Maybe it had been overly squeamish of her not to capitalise on the article she had written. Her editor had almost been frothing at the mouth for it. She’d worked so hard at putting the Barry Wolfe corruption story together, and it had probably been unprofessional not to go through with it, yet when it came to the point of deciding on publication the morning after his death, it had felt like overkill—brutal, unfeeling, unnecessary.
The man was dead. Not only that, she and her sister had been caught up in the circumstances surrounding his death. It made it all too personal, somehow. Besides, there was no moral gain in a public demolition of Barry Wolfe’s career when that career had died with him.
Definitely overkill.
She didn’t need that kind of professional kudos. She had only ever wanted the truth to come out so the corruption would come to an end. Which it had.
Although she had held back the damning article, she had been pressed into referring to her work on it, with the media demanding the reason for her meeting with Barry Wolfe in what was perceived as a clandestine manner. That in itself, plus details of her research, had raised enough questions to trigger an investigation.
Ironically, the finance minister’s death had exposed his cronies in corruption. Without his strong front to protect them, they were scrambling to explain their activities to the new minister, who was demanding accountability in no uncertain terms.
But Annabel didn’t have to think about any of it any more. The desired result had been achieved. She could breathe in this gloriously fresh air and simply enjoy herself.
Twilight was bleaching the sea of colour. It was time to walk down to the Long House near the beach for dinner. Although the paths were adequately lit, she preferred to go before darkness fell, to savour the ambience of the forest around her in its softer evening mood.
Her cabin was situated high on the hill, perched on stilts to counter the steep gradient. When she had arrived yesterday, the porter had commented on its isolation, wondering if it worried her. Annabel smiled over his concern as she locked the door behind her and started down the steps from the porch. Being left alone was precisely what she wanted.
The path that served her cabin also wound around the next, which was seven or eight metres distant and at a slightly lower level. Yesterday it had been vacant. The door opened as she was about to pass by, drawing her curiosity. New guests or one of the staff?
The man who emerged blasted her light-heartedness. Recognition was instant, rocking her with shock. Her feet faltered to a halt. The smile lingering on her lips sagged into a gasp of dismay. Her mind reeled against accepting the reality of his physical presence here.
“Good evening,” he said, offering the casual grace of a fellow guest, lending substance to the form, chasing away any chance he was a mirage.
Daniel Wolfe!
Barry Wolfe’s brother!
In the cabin next to hers!
Annabel couldn’t believe in coincidence. A convulsive shiver ran down her spine as she remembered him sitting in the motel room while her statement was taken down by the police, watching her recount how and when his brother had died and what she’d done about it. He hadn’t said a word, but his eyes had drilled into her with riveting concentration, raising the eerie sense that she was the accused in a witness box.
The fire in her belly to see real justice done had surged into a blaze of challenge that seared a silent but highly electric path between them. Not me, my friend. Her eyes had spoken in fierce rebuttal of anything he could do to her. You won’t get to me any more than your brother did.
He hadn’t then.
She hadn’t let him.
But now?
“Good evening,” she returned, struggling to mount defences and establish a calm stand-off in this surprise encounter.
His mouth curved into a whimsical smile. “We have been introduced.”
She summoned up an ironic response. “I remember it well.”
His eyes didn’t smile. Neither did hers. They appraised each other in a silence that sizzled with undercurrents.
In the days after his brother’s death, Annabel had been highly conscious of Daniel Wolfe, reading his reported comments with considerable apprehension and watching him interviewed on television. He didn’t raise questions. He posed no problem to her. Yet still she had felt a threat, as she did now.
The camera had reflected the austere elegance of the man, the strong, classically-boned face, the touch of grey at the temples lending a distinguished air to conventionally cut coal-black hair, the tall, broad-shouldered physique clothed in tailored perfection, the aura of control that came with sharply honed intelligence. It had not captured the cold blast of his power to dominate.
Warm charm had been Barry Wolfe’s personal trademark.
His brother exuded icy, unshakable command.
A wolf in sheep’s clothing tonight, Annabel thought, dismissing the casual image of blue jeans and a dark red sports shirt. The pretence of being on vacation did not wear with her. The laserlike grey eyes were at work trying to strip her of control and strike at any vulnerability he could find.
Her white pants-suit felt flimsy. She needed a steel-plated coat of armour against this man. The soft balminess of the evening suddenly developed a chill. Her arms prickled with goose bumps, despite the long-sleeved overblouse she’d worn in case it was cooler on the walk to her cabin after dinner.
“I much prefer the circumstances of this meeting,” he said, as though offering her a truce.
“I was thinking what a small world it is,” she replied, the suspicion growing that he had followed her here. Which meant he’d had her under surveillance. For what purpose? was the million-dollar question.
“Growing smaller all the time,” he agreed. “Do you mind if I walk with you?”
She shrugged. “Why not?” Better to have him beside her than behind her.
She got her feet working again, and he caught up with her in a few strides. They settled into an easy stroll. The path zigzagged down the hill and was wide enough for there to be no difficulty in avoiding contact. Annabel kept well apart from her unwelcome companion, too intensely aware of him for her comfort. He emanated a more aggressive maleness than she’d met in any other man. It was unnerving, giving the feeling she was threatened on more than one level.
