thought of going that road again made her shudder. Better she remain alone than involved with one of those. Better she remain unmarried and childless than shackled to some selfish guy who would make a lousy father and who didn’t even satisfy her in bed!
Which left what to cure her present loneliness?
‘A flatmate!’ she decided aloud. ‘A female, of course,’ she added dryly as she strode down the small hallway and into her bedroom, tossing her handbag onto the double bed and kicking off her shoes.
‘Stuff men!’ she muttered as she began to strip.
One particular man suddenly jumped into her mind.
Her Aunt Lucy’s lover—the enigmatic Mr. Slade. She’d been going to ring him earlier at the office, but had kept putting it off. It irked her that she felt nervous about ringing him.
Ring him now, her pride demanded. What’s wrong with you? So he might give you the cold shoulder—you can’t help that. Just be polite, anyway. You’re used to being polite to some of the rudest and most arrogant men around. Your job has trained you for it. Use some of that training now!
Jessica glared over at the telephone, which sat on the bedside table nearest the window. Lifting her chin, she moved over to snatch up her handbag from the bed, opened it and drew out the business card the solicitor had given her. She didn’t delay once the number was in her hands. She sat down and dialled straight away before she procrastinated further.
‘Hi there,’ said a male voice at last. ‘Seb here.’
Jessica frowned. If ‘Seb here’ was Mr. Slade, then he did indeed sound young. Far too young to be the lover of a woman in her fifties. Unless…
Her stomach contracted at the thought her aunt might have fallen into the clutches of the type of unconscionable young man who preyed on wealthy widows. Jessica was not unfamiliar with the species. They often hung around the bars in the hotel, waiting and watching for suitable prey. They were invariably handsome. And charming. And young.
If Mr. Slade turned out to be one of those, she thought crossly, he would get short shrift after the month was over. He would not get a cent from her. Not one single cent!
‘This is Jessica Rawlins,’ she said, simmering outrage giving her voice a sharp edge. ‘Would I be speaking to Mr. Slade?’
‘You sure are. Pleased to hear from you, Jessica. I presume Lucy’s solicitor has been in touch. So when are you coming over?’
Jessica’s eyebrows lifted. Well, he was certainly straight to the point, and not at all resentful sounding. If she hadn’t been on her toes, she might have been totally disarmed by his casual charm.
‘I’m catching the seven o’clock flight from Sydney on Sunday,’ she said stiffly.
‘I’ll meet you then. Oops, no, I can’t. I promised Mike I’d go fishing with him Sunday morning. Tell you what, I’ll get Evie to meet you.’
‘And who, pray tell, is Evie?’ she asked archly.
‘Evie? She was your aunt’s chief cook and bottle washer. You’ll like Evie,’ he went on blithely. ‘Everyone does. Now perhaps you’d better tell me what you look like, so she won’t have any trouble recognising you on Sunday. Are you tall?’
‘Reasonably,’ Jessica bit out after smothering her frustration. She supposed she’d find out everything she wanted to know soon enough. And she could trust her eyes far more than a conversation on the telephone.
‘Slim?’ he went on.
‘Yes.’
‘What colour hair?’
‘Black.’
‘Long or short?’
‘Shoulder-length, but I always wear it up.’
‘How old are you? Approximately,’ he added quickly with humour in his voice.
‘Twenty-eight,’ Jessica said, having no reason to hide her age.
‘Really. You sound older.’
She tried not to take offence, and failed. ‘Well, you don’t,’ she snapped.
‘I don’t what?’
‘Sound as old as I thought you’d be. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were no more than thirty.’
His laughter might have been infectious under other circumstances. ‘You’ve no idea how many people say that to me, Jessica,’ he said. ‘But it’s some years since I saw thirty.’
Jessica wasn’t sure if she was mollified by that statement or not. She should have been relieved to find he was respectably middle-aged, but she didn’t feel relieved. She felt decidedly nettled. Mr. Slade was rubbing her the wrong way, for some reason.
‘I look young for my age, too,’ he volunteered. ‘But I try not to worry about it.’
She could hear the smile in his voice and bristled some more.
‘By the way, bring your swimmers and shorts with you,’ he added. ‘It’s pretty warm here at the moment. How long will you be staying?’
‘Just the month.’
‘Ah,’ he said with a long sigh. ‘What a pity. Still, we can talk about that more when you get here. I’m glad you rang, Jessica. I’m really looking forward to meeting you. I’m just sorry I can’t welcome you myself at the airport. I’ll try to get back by the time you arrive at the house. Au revoir for now. Have a good flight.’
He hung up, leaving Jessica not sure what she thought about him now. Clearly, he was middle-aged. He’d been most amused at her saying he sounded thirty.
If she were honest, she had to admit he’d been very nice to her, and not at all resentful of her inheritance. She wondered what he wanted to talk to her about. Did he hope to persuade her to stay and run the guesthouse? If he did, then he’d be wasting his breath. She had no intention of doing any such thing.
But she did want to talk to him. She wanted to find out everything he knew about her aunt. Maybe this Evie would know things, as well, depending on how many years she’d been Aunt Lucy’s cook.
Thinking of cooks reminded Jessica how hungry she was. Levering herself up from the bed, she headed for the door and the kitchen, dressed in nothing but her camisole and pantihose. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrored wardrobe as she passed and recalled the rather bland details she’d given Mr. Slade. Twenty-eight, tall, slim, black hair, worn up.
Not much of a description. Difficult to form a complete picture. But she could hardly have added she had a face that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the cover of Vogue, and a body one of her lovers had said he’d kill for.
He had certainly lied for it, she thought tartly.
‘And what do you look like, Mr. Slade?’ she mused out loud as she continued on to the kitchen. ‘Tall, I’ll bet. And slim. Men who look young for their age are always slim. And
