name? Perhaps I’ve heard it. Zizi and I had no secrets from each other.” Actually they did. Him!
“Julian Wainwright,” he said.
“Julian Wainwright! Of course! Several of his paintings are in the house. They belonged to the same artists’ colony in the early sixties. His paintings are splendid, especially the seascapes.”
He nodded his agreement. “Julian had to abandon his artistic career for business. He always said he regretted it. You probably know he continued to carry a torch for Elizabeth all his life.”
Was this a joke, or was a huge chasm opening beneath her feet? “I’m sorry, I didn’t know any such thing.” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded defensive.
“You didn’t know that at one stage they intended to marry?” He maintained the look of skepticism.
For a moment she felt the reality of her life might be stripped away. “Forgive me, but I have only your word for it. Is Julian Wainwright still alive?”
“Barely.” He shrugged, regret on his handsome face. “His doctors have given him no more than six or seven months.”
“I’m sorry.” Love for her great-aunt and a feeling of apprehension were inextricably entwined. If this was true, how much more had Zizi kept from her, from them all?
“Julian is four years older than Elizabeth,” he was saying. “He’s been in ill health for the last ten years. He was devastated to hear of her death.”
“You told him?”
“Of course.” His tone was clipped. He looked back at the Range Rover. “I should be getting the cold things into the fridge.”
“Can I help? I’m stronger than I look!” This time she managed a shaky smile.
His glance, brilliant as the gemstone, touched her lightly. She was still wearing the outfit she’d traveled in—a white tank top over navy straight-legged pants. “You look fine.”
“A girl does her best!” She spoke flippantly, to combat the heat that washed over her. It irked her to feel more like a flustered teenager than an experienced woman. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” She leaned over the wrought-iron balustrade to call to him. A cluster of white trumpet flowers from the vine-wreathed pillar tickled her cheek, its perfume entrancing.
“I won’t say no,” he said over his shoulder. “Elizabeth always made me a cup.”
Did she indeed? She had to wrestle with that picture. Adam Hunt and Zizi sharing friendly cups of coffee?
Zizi, whatever were you up to?
For the first time in her life, Alyssa began to realize that her great-aunt must’ve had a life about which she knew little or nothing. She was starting to feel desperately hurt at being kept in the dark.
CHAPTER THREE
A BIG MAN, he filled the kitchen. He left Alyssa, who was above average height, feeling small. And it wasn’t only his height and breadth of shoulder that made him so powerful, but a kind of blazing energy. The two of them worked in fraught silence while they packed the provisions away. She took care of the things that went into the refrigerator. He’d brought her more fresh bread, butter and milk, and in addition a carton of cream, vanilla ice cream and some small tubs of fruit yogurt. From the excellent village delicatessen he’d thrown in some King Island Camembert, a chunk of Havarti, New Guinea coffee beans and a half-dozen little pastries. It was more than enough to keep her going.
She’d noticed him putting away a small bag of locally grown baby potatoes and some red and white onions, about the only things Zizi hadn’t grown herself. Alyssa hadn’t checked on the vegetable garden yet, but she had a feeling he would’ve given it some water as well as fed Cleo. He looked that sort of man.
“You seem to know your way around.” She couldn’t help the dryness creeping into her tone.
“Elizabeth showed me all over the house the first time I came here,” he explained as he emerged from the large pantry. “It’s a marvelous old place, incredible atmosphere. The widow’s walk is quite unique in this part of the world. I’d heard about it, of course.”
“From Julian?” She was having difficulty coming to terms with Zizi’s late-blossoming friendship with him, let alone a supposed romantic involvement with Julian Wainwright. “What is your relationship, by the way?”
“Ah, a woman who wants answers!” he jibed gently.
“Julian’s my great-uncle. Think back. Surely she mentioned their close friendship at some point? Perhaps you’ve forgotten?” There was an unmistakable note of challenge in his voice.
Alyssa stood staring at him. “I assure you I wouldn’t have forgotten.”
“So, what did she say about him?”
Alyssa felt ill at ease beneath that probing gaze. “She did speak of him, but only as a friend—a colleague—of her youth. There was never any hint of romance. Zizi never spoke of any romantic attachment to anyone. Don’t you find that extremely odd if what you say is true?”
His expression was reflective. “I do find it odd, but it would seem Elizabeth was a woman for secrets. She was beautiful at seventy. Imagine what she was like in her twenties. Very much like you, I’d imagine, except for the eyes.”
She bit her lip, feeling bewildered and upset. “That’s true. Zizi’s eyes were a definite green. No one else in the family has eyes like mine—with gold flecks. My mother’s more like Zizi than I am, but I see what you mean. Zizi was bound to have many admirers. So how far did this involvement with Julian go? Were they thinking of getting engaged?” She felt a flare of antipathy and it showed.
“Didn’t happen. Elizabeth lost her heart to someone else.”
“Another suitor?” she asked with a brittle laugh.
“Your great-uncle gave you all this information?”
“He can give it to you if you like.” He registered her every passing expression. He’d seen her portraits in the house and enough photographs of her in Elizabeth’s scrapbooks to know in advance that she was beautiful. None of them did her justice. One had to see her in the flesh to fully appreciate the exquisite complexion, the delicately sculpted bones of her face, that cascading hair, the lovely mouth and those distinctive eyes. The body matched the face, willowy and graceful. She was the kind of woman a certain type of man hungered for. The kind of woman that man could only dream about.
“That is, if you want to risk hearing what he has to say,” he added, dragging out a kitchen chair for her. “Why don’t you sit down? You’ve lost color.”
She obeyed him, waiting until the darkness at the edge of her vision receded. “Why have we never heard of Julian Wainwright in all these years?” Impatiently she pushed a long coil of hair over her shoulder.
He watched her do it, fascinated by the femininity of the movement. She was a natural ash-blonde, as her great-aunt had been. But whereas Elizabeth had worn her hair shorn like a small boy’s, she wore hers center-parted and falling in loose waves over her shoulders and down her back. He studied her; she was either
