“I know.”
The sympathy and understanding in his voice soothed her.
“But your little friend wouldn’t want that,” he continued.
“She’d want you to go on and make something of your life. Maybe you even owe it to her. What was her name?”
“Nicole.” She swallowed hard, determined not to break down. She could never ever go through something so heartbreaking again. “Everyone called her Nikki.”
“I’m sorry.” He sounded sad and respectful.
She liked him for that. It was oddly comforting considering he was a perfect stranger. “The death of a child has to be one of the worst things in life,” he mused. “The death of a child, a parent, a beloved spouse.”
A sentiment Sandra shared entirely. She nodded, for the first time allowing herself to stare into his eyes. He had the most striking colouring there was. Light eyes, darn near silver, fringed by long, thick, jet-black lashes any woman would die for. Jet-black rather wildly curling hair to match. It kicked up in waves on the nape. Strong arched brows, gleaming dark copper skin, straight nose, beautifully structured chin and jaw. For all the polished gleam of health on his skin she knew his beard would rasp. She could almost feel it, unable to control the little shudder that ran down her spine. He was the sort of guy who looked like he could handle himself anywhere, which she supposed would add to his attractiveness to women. A real plus for her, however, was that he could be kind. Kindness was much more important than drop dead good looks.
“I know what loss is all about,” he said, after a moment of silence, absently stirring three teaspoons of raw sugar into his coffee. “There are stages one after the other. You have to learn to slam down barriers.”
“Is that what you did?” Her voice quickened with interest, even as she removed the sugar. Obviously he had a sweet tooth and too much sugar wasn’t good for his health.
“Had to,” he said. “Grief can drain all the life out of you when our job is to go on. So how old are you anyway?” He tried a more bantering tone to ease the rather painful tension. “My first thought was about sixteen,” he said, not altogether joking.
“Try again.” She bit into another sandwich. They were good. Plenty of filling on fresh multigrain bread.
“Okay I know you’re twenty.” He concentrated on her intriguing face with her hair now all fluffed up.
“Nearly twenty-one.” She picked up another sandwich. “Or I will be in six months time when I inherit. If I’m still alive, that is. Once I’m on Moondai and at the mercy of my relatives who knows?”
He set his cup down so sharply, a few heads turned to see if he’d cracked the saucer. “You can’t be serious?”
“Dead serious,” she confirmed. “My mother and I left Moondai when I was ten, nearly eleven. She was a basket case. I went into a frenzy of bad behaviour that lasted for years. I was chucked out of two schools but that’s another story. We left not long after my dad, Trevor, was killed. Do you know how he was killed?”
“I’d like you to tell me.” Obviously she had to talk to someone about it. Like him, she appeared to have much bottled up.
“He crashed in the Cessna.”
He sat staring at her. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Her great eyes glittered. “Did your informant tell you the Cessna was sabotaged?”
“Dear oh dear!” He shook his head in sad disbelief.
“Don’t dear oh dear me!” she cried emotionally.
Clearly her beliefs were tearing her to pieces. “Sandra, let it go,” he advised quietly. “There was an inquiry. The wreckage would have been gone over by experts. There was no question of foul play. Who would want to do such a thing anyway?”
She took a deep gulp of her coffee. It was too hot. It burnt her mouth. She swore softly. “You may think you’re smart—you may even be smart—I’m sure you have to be to run Moondai, but that was a damned silly question, Daniel Carson. Who was the person with the most to gain?”
He looked at her sharply. “God, you don’t think very highly of your uncle, do you?”
“Do you?”
“My job is to run the station, not criticise your family.”
Tension was all over her. “So we’re on different sides?”
“Do we have to be?” He looked into her eyes. A man could dive into those sparkling blue lagoons and come out refreshed.
“I don’t want Moondai,” she said, shaking her shorn head.
“So who are you going to pass it on to, me?” He tried a smile.
She sighed deeply. “I’d just as soon leave it to a total stranger as my family.”
“That includes cousin Berne?”
She put both elbows on the table. “He was a dreadful kid,” she announced, her eyes darkening with bad memories. “He was always giving me Chinese burns but I never did let him see me cry. Worse, he used to kick my cat, Olly. We had to leave her behind which was terrible. As for me, I could look after myself and I could run fast. I bet he’s no better now than I remember?”
“You’ll have to see for yourself, Alexandra.” He kept his tone deliberately neutral.
“I won’t have one single friend inside that house,” she said then shut up abruptly, biting her lip.
He didn’t like that idea. “I work for you, Sandra,” he told her, underscoring work. “If you need someone you can trust you should consider me.”
She continued to nibble on her full bottom lip, something he found very distracting. “I certainly won’t have anyone else. I wasn’t going to offload my troubles onto you, not this early anyway, but I’m a mite scared of my folks.”
He was shocked. “But, Sandra, no one is going to harm you.” Even as he said it, his mind stirred with anxiety. The Kingstons were a weird lot, but surely not homicidal. Then again Rigby Kingston had left an estate worth roughly sixty million. The girl stood between it and them. Not a comfortable position to be in.
Frustrated by his attitude, Sandra dredged up an old Outback expression. “What would you know, you big galah!”
He choked back a laugh. “Hey, mind who you’re calling names!”
“Sorry. Galah is not the word for you. You’re more an eagle. But surely you realise they must have been shocked out of their minds by the will. Uncle Lloyd would have fully expected to inherit. He wouldn’t want to work the place. He’d sell it. Bernie would go along with that. Bernie disliked anything to do with station work. You must know that, too. Where do you live?” she asked abruptly.
“I have the overseer’s bungalow.”
“Roy Sommerville, what happened to him? He was the overseer when
