true that she’d got the house for a good price, but not such a good price as to make it suspiciously low. In her mind’s eye she saw the round, friendly face of the estate agent who had sold her the house. The lady who had told her that there was no crime in these parts, the lady who had shown her the picture of her baby granddaughter—a beautiful baby, not at all the sort of baby that would have a criminal for a grandmother.
She was not the victim of a crooked deal. She could not afford to believe it. If the sale had been a fraudulent one, she might lose everything. There’d be nothing left—no money, no trip to the Amazon jungle. In fact, she’d be in debt. It was enough to make you panic and break out in a sopping sweat. Only, she refused. She simply refused to panic.
All the papers had been in order. The whole process had been completely ordinary and routine and she was no dummy. This wasn’t the first time she’d bought a house. In the past five years she’d bought, fixed up and sold five residences in all. This was the sixth. She knew what she was doing. She crossed her arms in front of her chest and gave him a stony stare.
‘I suggest you check with your lawyer about that will,’ she said, as coolly professionally as she could manage in the circumstances, ‘and with Boswell and Armis in Charlottesville. They dealt with the estate.’
His mouth curved fractionally. ‘Oh, I certainly will.’ And you’re not going to get away with anything, his tone implied. He took a swallow of his coffee and surveyed the view with obvious appreciation. He did not say anything, but she could tell from his face. A good face. Strong, determined, yet with a certain undefinable sensuality…Good lord, what was she thinking?
He turned to face her again. ‘You said you bought the house. Anyone else involved in this little scheme? A husband perhaps?’
She glared at him. ‘Nobody is involved in any kind of a scheme. And I don’t have a husband.’ Why had she said that? It was none of his business.
He was too close for comfort. She finished the last of her coffee and pushed herself away from the railing. In the kitchen she opened a carton of orange juice, filled two glasses and put them on the table.
This was not a good situation. What was she going to do with this man in her house? How was she going to get rid of him? Here she was, having breakfast with the intruder. It was completely absurd.
He came in and poured more water into the kettle and put it on the stove.
She fixed her gaze on his broad back. ‘Mrs Coddlemore died two months ago. If she was your grandmother, why didn’t you come here sooner to handle the estate?’
‘I didn’t know she had died until ten days ago.’ He turned and sat down at the table.
‘Why didn’t you know until ten days ago? Didn’t anyone notify you?’
‘Yes, they notified me, but the news didn’t reach me until ten days ago.’
‘Where were you? The moon? Antarctica? The jungle?’ She looked straight at his face.
’the jungle,’ he said. ‘Only these days we call it the rainforest.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard. Which rainforest?’
‘Kalimantan.’
She nodded. ‘Borneo, the Indonesian part.’
His eyes narrowed and she felt a thrill of triumph. She smiled brightly. ‘I have this thing for geography. Maps have always fascinated me, ever since I was little. All those exotic places! All those fascinating countries and mysterious islands!’ She sighed. ‘Well, let’s eat.’
The breakfast burritos were heated through and ready to eat. She placed one on each plate and he picked up his knife and fork and cut into the tortillawrapped bundle. Melted cheese oozed out. Egg and ham came into view. He began to eat without comment.
’so, what do they eat for breakfast in Kalimantan?’ she asked, having trouble with the silence between them. Silence made her nervous. She wanted it filled up with something—conversation.
He shrugged. ‘Rice, wild boar, fish, whatever.’ The water boiled and he pushed himself to his feet and made more coffee. The burrito finished, he ate two more slices of toast. Then he got up and marched to the kitchen door. He turned and met her eyes.
‘I’ll see you tonight.’ It was more than a statement. It was a promise. He opened the door and strode out.
She ran to the phone as soon as she’d heard the car drive away. But the lawyer’s offices weren’t open for business yet, nor the estate agent. Well, she wasn’t going to sit here and be paralysed. She was going to go on with the job.
The skip had been delivered the day before, and she began cheerfully tossing in junk and rubbish. She took down the old dusty window treatments and tossed them out, except the drapery linings which she could use as painting drop cloths. Soon the truck from Rommel’s Auction Barn would come and haul off the first load of stuff she didn’t want to keep—books and knick-knacks and much of the furniture.
Then the phone rang. It was Jack, her brother the architect, and the familiar sound of his voice was instantly comforting. However, not comforting was the news that his car had given up the ghost that very morning.
‘Would it be a terrible tragedy if I didn’t make it today?’ he asked. ‘I’ll have it back by tonight and I’ll come tomorrow.’
Livia felt her heart sink. She considered telling Jack what had transpired, then thought better of it. If she did, all four of her brothers would descend on the house to rescue her within hours. This was very nice, of course; it made her feel loved and cared for, but it might, in actual fact, not be helpful. First she wanted to make sure what the situation really was.
What the situation really was, the lawyer told her a while later when she called again, was that the old lady had made a new will only days before she had passed away. In that will it was stipulated that the house be put up for sale and the revenue deposited in the bank in the name of her grandson who was incommunicado in the Borneo jungle, but who would show up sooner or later. The lawyer himself had been appointed the executor of the estate and she had nothing to worry about. Nothing fishy going on.
‘What’s the name of the grandson?’ she asked, holding her breath.
‘Let me check,’ said the lawyer. ‘Oh, here it is. Clinton Bracamonte. Why do you want to know?’
‘He just emerged from the jungle and he’s trying to claim the house.’
From the dining-room window Livia noticed the silver-grey Ford come up the drive and instantly felt her heart start racing. The truck from Rommel’s Auction Barn was sitting in the drive, full of a load of chairs and tables and boxes with dishes and plates and glasses, none of them of great value. She’d spent all day sorting through cabinets and drawers, deciding what to keep and what to sell. She was tired and dirty. The dining-room was cleared and she was almost finished taking up the old carpeting.
Clint came out of the car, strode up to the truck, took one look at it, said something to the driver and turned abruptly. He marched up the front porch, opened the door and slammed it.
‘Olivia!’
‘I’m
