‘Connor, for all his sins, Elliott’s my son. And then there’s my grandson.’ His rheumy old eyes filled up with tears. ‘He’s four years old.’
Connor noticed a tremor in the frail, liver-spotted hand grasping his sleeve and felt the faintest twinge in his chest. ‘Right,’ he said, exhaling a long breath. Old people and children had always been his Achilles’ heel. He might as well grit his teeth, agree to the task and get it over with. He straightened his wide shoulders, and, needing to rein in the excess of emotion lapping the walls of the limo, injected some professional briskness into his voice. ‘Do you have anything on the woman?’
Sir Frank conquered his tears with amazing swiftness and switched into business mode. Reaching into an alcove set in the door, he produced a file. ‘Her name’s Sophy something. Woodford…no… Woodruff. Works in the Alexandra.’
‘Where’s that?’ Connor said, flipping the single page. The information was sparse. A few dates and times. Meetings with Elliott in coffee shops. A bar. An indistinct CCTV still of a slim, dark-haired woman. Her face wasn’t quite in focus, but the camera had managed to catch something of the delicacy of an oval face, the lustre of longish, wavy dark hair. Employed as a speech pathologist in a paediatric clinic. A good, conservative cover. Like his own.
‘You know Macquarie Street?’
‘Who doesn’t?’ As the avenue in which both the Botanical Gardens and the Opera House resided, Macquarie Street was one of the finest boulevards in Sydney. It had long been the preserve of the high-fliers of the medical profession.
‘Some rooms have been vacated for you there. Your law practice will be a perfect cover.’ The old tycoon added slyly, ‘If you did decide to stay, there’d be nothing to stop you hanging up your shingle there for real.’
The location was just around the corner from some of the wealthiest bastions of the legal profession. Connor supposed he could get away with setting up as a lawyer in doctors’ territory. Just how dangerous did the old guy expect the assignment to be? He felt some misgivings at the amorphous nature of it. Sir Frank’s reputation as a cunning operator was well earned.
He studied the clever old face. ‘What exactly do you want from me?’
‘Find out about her. Her background, connections, everything. She’s almost certainly working for a foreign state. Pillow talk.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘You’d think Elliott would have enough savvy to…’ He broke off, ruminating on his son’s naiveté with compressed lips. ‘Anyway, if—if—you find she’s just a little gold-digger looking for a lamb to fleece, pay her off.’
Connor winced. From what he’d heard of Elliott Fraser, his lamb-like qualities were highly doubtful. On the surface, though, it seemed a tame little assignment. Nothing like strolling to an evening rendezvous to meet a contact dressed in high explosives. Hardly in the same universe as drinking coffee with a smiling man who was preparing to slice open his throat.
‘A good-looking lad like you won’t have any trouble getting close to the woman.’
Connor flashed him a wry glance. He didn’t do close. He was just about to set him straight on that issue when the limo turned into a tree-lined avenue, and he recognised the graceful colonial architecture of Macquarie Street.
Traffic was minimal at this early hour, and there was time to appreciate the street’s pleasantness, enhanced on one side by the dense green mystery of the Botanical Gardens burgeoning with summer growth behind a long stretch of tall, iron railings.
Halfway along the street the chauffeur pulled into the kerb.
‘The Alexandra,’ Sir Frank announced.
Connor craned to stare up at a honey-coloured sandstone edifice, several storeys in height. A splash of scarlet flowers spilled from a third-floor window ledge.
‘You’ll find your rooms on the top floor. Suite 3E.’ Sir Frank pressed a set of old-fashioned keys into Connor’s hand. ‘Mind you keep in touch with me every step of the way.’ He sat back and pulled on his blank cigar, then added excitedly, ‘You know, Connor, I have a very good feeling about this now. I’m sure you’ll be just the man to stop clever little Miss Sophy Woodruff in her tracks.’
CHAPTER TWO
SHADOW. Just a touch to enhance the blue of her irises. Violet like her name, her father used to say. Her official name, not that she’d ever use it. Thank goodness it only rarely appeared, usually on government documents or bank statements. What sort of people would call their child something so schmaltzy?
Certainly not the parents she knew. They’d felt obliged to keep it, but everyone had preferred to call her by the name they’d chosen themselves. Sophy was her father’s choice. Henry—her real father, not the biological one.
That uncomfortable feeling coiled in her stomach. Her biological father. Such a cold descriptor. But could he really be as cold as he seemed? How warm was any man likely to feel when he encountered the daughter he never knew he had? Or so he’d said. Still, if he’d been lying, why order the DNA test?
He was lying about something, though, she could feel it in her bones.
Her brows were dark enough, closer to black than her hair. One quick pencil stroke to define their natural arch. In an emergency it would have to do.
Mascara was mandatory. Lashes could never be too long or too thick. A quick brush of blush on her cheekbones to warm the pallor of her broken night’s sleep, but a glance at the clock decided her to be satisfied with that if she wanted to catch the 6.03 ferry.
With the heatwave still roasting Sydney after three days, she needed to wear something cool. She slipped on a straight, knee-length skirt, turned sideways to check in the mirror. Flat enough. Her lilac shirt with its pretty cap-sleeves was fresh from the cleaners’ and required no ironing. She snatched up her handbag and slid into her lucky high heels.
Something told her there’d be running ahead. Tuesdays were seldom her best, but she had a very strong feeling about this one. She was on the verge of something, she could tell by the prickling in the back of her neck.
Zoe and Leah, her housemates, were barely stirring. She battled her way around the pile of camping gear they’d assembled in the hall, flung them a hasty ‘Bye,’ and ran down the path to the gate, the sun barely up. For the thousandth time she retraced in her mind every step she’d taken since she’d picked the registered letter up from the post office in yesterday’s lunch hour.
She’d taken it straight back to her office to read. And there it had been. Official confirmation. Elliott Fraser’s DNA profile matched sufficiently with hers for the lab to attest that he was her father.
She’d placed it in her bag, and felt sure she still had it when she went to help Millie, in the office next door, pack up for her move.
It hadn’t been until she arrived home that she’d realised it was missing. After the initial panic, she remembered pausing in the mothers’ room on the way from the Ladies. That had to be right…Sonia from the ophthalmic clinic had been in there having a weep, and she’d dragged out a handful of tissues from her bag to help Sonia mop up. The letter could have fallen out then.
If she was to find it before anyone else, she needed to get to work before the Alexandra hummed into life. She supposed she could easily get the lab to send her a replacement copy. But that wouldn’t help the confidentiality
