after tomorrow if you want to sell those opals. He’ll give you a fairer price than most. Don’t take his first offer, though, haggle a little.’
Gemma frowned. Her father hadn’t liked Mr Whitmore for some reason, had refused to have anything to do with him, saying slick city buyers couldn’t be trusted.
‘Dad used to sell his opals to Mr Gunther,’ she said hesitantly.
‘That old skinflint? Look, I know he came to the funeral today and Jon might have been able to bully a fair price out of him, but he’ll try to fleece you blind. You listen to me, love, and try Byron Whitmore. A fairer man never drew breath. Just go along to the Ridge Motel any time next Friday and ask for his room.’
‘All right, Ma. I’ll do that.’
‘Good. Now you can get me a beer, love. It’s bloody hot today.’
Gemma rose to get her visitor a beer. There were still several cans in the small gas fridge and a full carton leaning up against the far wall. If there was one thing her father never stinted himself on, it was beer.
‘So tell me,’ Gemma said on returning to the table and handing the beer over, ‘what’s this Mr Whitmore like?’
Ma snapped back the ring top on the can and gulped deeply before answering. ‘Byron?’ She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘A big man. Around fifty, I’d say, but he looks younger. Thick wavy black hair sprinkled with grey and the most wonderful blue eyes. Very handsome. Too old for you, though, love. He’s married as well, not that that seems to bother some men once their wives are out of sight.’
Gemma’s eyes rounded and Ma gave a dry laugh. ‘You are an innocent, aren’t you? Better wise up before you go to Sydney. City men live fast and play fast, and they have an insatiable appetite for lovely young things with big brown eyes and bodies like yours. Still, I don’t think you need worry about Byron Whitmore. He’s a man of honour. A rare commodity indeed!’
Ma made Sydney sound like a huge dark forest full of big bad wolves. Surely it couldn’t be as bad as that! Besides, no man would get to first base with her unless he was good and decent and kind. Maybe no man would ever get to first base with her, she worried anew.
That experience years ago had scarred her more than she realised. She’d thought she’d shunned boys up till now because they bored her. Now she interpreted her lack of interest in the opposite sex as a very real wariness. But was it a wariness of the boys themselves, or her own inner self, incapable perhaps of responding to a man in a normal, natural way? Dear God, she hoped that wasn’t so. For if it was, how was she ever going to be happily married and have children of her own?
‘Don’t you believe me, love?’ Ma said. ‘About Mr Whitmore?’
‘What? Oh, yes, Ma, I believe you. I’m sorry. I was wool-gathering.’
‘You’ve had a long, trying day. Look, come over around six and I’ll have a nice dinner ready for you. And bring your nightie.’
Gemma’s eyes blurred. ‘You’re so good to me.’
‘What rubbish! What are neighbours for?’
But Ma’s faded blue eyes were a little teary too as she stood up. Gemma vowed to write to the dear old thing as often as she could from Sydney. And she would come back to visit. Often. It was the least she could do. If that black opal was worth what she thought it was worth, she’d be able to fly back in style!
CHAPTER TWO
MR WHITMORE, Gemma was told, was in room twenty-three, and no, he had no one with him at that time.
The Ridge Motel was the newest in Lightning Ridge, an ochre-coloured assortment of buildings, with reception and a restaurant separate from the forty units which stood at rectangular attention behind a kidney-shaped pool. Room twenty-three was on the second of the two storeys.
Gemma’s stomach was churning as she climbed the stairs, something that would have surprised many people, including Ma, who had often commented on how confident she was for a girl of her upbringing and background. Gemma knew better, recognising her supposed assurance as little more than a desperate weapon to combat her father’s volatile and often violent nature. She’d found over the years that if she were too docile and subservient he treated her even worse. So she’d learnt to stand up for herself to a degree, sometimes to her sorrow.
But none of that meant she had the sort of savoir-faire to deal confidently with a city opal trader like Byron Whitmore. Lord, she was shaking in her boots, or she would have been if she’d been wearing boots! Gemma’s only consolation was that she’d decided not to try to sell the big opal today, only the smaller ones.
A couple of nights’ sensible thinking since her astonishing find had formulated a plan to take the prize to Sydney and have it valued by a couple of experts before she sold it. It had come to her as late as half an hour ago that it might bring more money if she put it up for auction as a collector’s piece. Six-figure amounts kept dancing around in her mind. She’d be able to buy herself a house, pretty clothes, a dog...
Her heart contracted fiercely. No, she wouldn’t buy another dog. Not yet. Maybe some day, but not yet. The pain of Blue’s death was still too raw, too fresh.
Gemma dragged her mind back to the problems at hand. Selling these infernal opals. By this time she was standing in front of room twenty-three but she couldn’t bring herself to knock, gnawing away at her bottom lip instead and trying to find a good reason to abandon this idea entirely.
But that wouldn’t get her any money, would it? She’d already booked tickets for the bus leaving tomorrow night for Dubbo, and the train from there to Sydney.
If only her father had let her go with him when he’d sold opals, she groaned silently. If only she’d met this Mr Whitmore before. Ma said he was OK but it was hard totally to dismiss her father’s warnings about him.
Oh, get on with it, you stupid girl! Gemma berated herself. God knows how you’re going to cope in the big bad city if you can’t even do this small thing. Stop being such a wimp!
Taking a deep steadying breath, Gemma curled her fingers into a tight fist and knocked on the door.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed when it was wrenched open, practically from under her knuckles. ‘Oh!’ she cried again, once she’d fully taken in the man who’d opened it.
He was nowhere near fifty, neither did he have black hair or blue eyes. At most he was thirty-five. His hair was a golden wheat colour and his eyes were grey. He was, however, very handsome in an unnervingly sleek, citified sort of way.
‘I...I’m sorry, I must have the wrong room,’ she babbled. ‘I was wanting Mr Whitmore.’
Lazy grey eyes swept down her body and down her long bare tanned legs, one eyebrow arching by the time his gaze lifted back to her face. Gemma stiffened, not sure if his scrutiny was flattering or insulting.
Surely he couldn’t be surprised by how she was dressed. No one wore anything other than shorts in Lightning Ridge in the summer, no one except visitors like this chap. He was all togged up in tailored grey trousers and a long-sleeved white shirt. There was even a dark red tie at his throat. A travelling salesman, Gemma decided. On his first trip outback,
