first foray into critical territory, a territory Gemma knew too well. How many times had she borne her mum’s barbs after her dad died?
Have you washed your hair?
Can’t you wear a dress for once?
No boy’s going to ask a tomboy to the graduation ball.
She’d learned to tune out, and with every dig she’d hardened her heart, pretending she didn’t care while wishing inside she could be the kind of daughter Coral wanted.
‘I actually got in last night.’
Coral’s hand stilled midway between the sugar bowl and the mug. ‘Why didn’t you stay here?’
‘I did. I bunked down in Dad’s workshop.’
Horror warred with distaste before Coral blinked and assumed her usual stoical mask. ‘You always did feel more comfortable out there.’
‘True.’
Gemma could have sworn her mum’s shoulders slumped before she resumed bustling around the kitchen.
Why did you do it? It buzzed around her head, the question demanding to be asked, but she knew better than to bail Coral up before her first caffeine hit of the day. She’d clam up or storm off in a huff, and that wouldn’t cut it—not today. Today she needed answers.
‘How long are you here for?’
As long as it takes to whip Rory Devlin’s butt into shape.
Devlin’s butt … bad analogy.
An image of dark blue eyes the colour of a Kimberley sky at night flashed into her mind, closely followed by the way he’d filled out his fancy-schmancy suit, his slick haircut, his cut-glass cheekbones.
At six-four he had the height to command attention, but the rest of the package sold it. The guy might be a cold-hearted, infuriating, corporate shark who cared for nothing bar the bottom dollar but, wow, he packed some serious heat.
She hated the fact she’d noticed.
‘I’m here for a job.’
She sighed with pleasure as the first tantalising waft of roasted coffee beans hit her.
Watching her mum carefully for a reaction, she added, ‘Out at Portsea.’
Coral’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with fear. ‘You know?’
‘That you sold out? That you got rid of the one thing that meant everything to Dad?’
To me?
She slid off the bar stool and slammed her palms on the island bench. ‘Of course I know.’
‘I—I was going to tell you—’
‘When? When I returned to Melbourne to build my dream home on that land? The home Dad helped me plan years ago? The home where I’d planned on raising my kids?’
Okay, so the latter might be stretching the truth a tad. She had no intention of getting married, let alone having kids, but the inner devastation she kept hidden enjoyed stabbing the knife of guilt and twisting hard.
Coral’s lips compressed into the thin, unimpressed line she’d seen many times growing up. ‘Sorry you feel that way, but you can’t bowl in here every few years, stay for a day, and expect to know every detail of my life.’
Shock filtered through Gemma’s astonishment. She had every right to know what happened to her dad’s land, but she’d never heard Coral raise her voice above a cultured tsk-tsk if they didn’t agree.
‘I’m not asking for every detail, just the important ones—like why you had to sell something that meant the world to me.’
Fear flickered across Coral’s expertly made-up face before she turned away on the pretext of pouring coffee.
‘I—I needed the money.’
She spoke so softly Gemma strained to hear it.
Coral—who wore the best clothes, used the most expensive cosmetics and lunched out daily—needed money?
‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ she muttered, sorrow and regret clogging her lungs, making simple inhalation impossible.
She wanted to explain why this meant so much to her, wanted her mum to understand how she’d travelled the world for years, never feeling as sheltered as she did at Portsea.
She wanted her mum to truly comprehend the vulnerabilities behind her tough-girl exterior, the deep-seated need for approval she’d deliberately hidden beneath layers of practised indifference.
She wanted her mum to realise her anger was about the loss of another childhood security rather than not being consulted.
She opened her mouth to speak but the words wouldn’t come. Not after all this time. Not after the consistent lack of understanding her mum had shown when she’d been growing up. Why should now be any different?
When Coral turned around to face her she’d donned her usual frosty mask.
‘I don’t question your financials; I’d expect the same courtesy from you.’ Coral handed her some coffee with a shaky hand, making a mockery of her poise. ‘You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like, no questions asked, because this is your home. But I won’t tolerate being interrogated like a criminal.’
Instinctively Gemma bristled—until she realised something. She valued her independence, lived her own life and answered to no one. Including the mother she rarely visited. How would she feel if Coral landed on her doorstep demanding answers to sticky questions? She’d be royally peed off.
Some of the fight drained out of her and she gave a brisk nod, hiding behind her coffee mug. Besides, the damage was done. The land was sold and nothing could change that. She’d be better off focussing on things she could control, like ensuring Devlin Corp respected the beach while they built their mansion monstrosities.
‘There’s a spare key behind the fruit bowl.’ Coral patted her sleek blond bob, an out-of-place, self-conscious gesture at odds with her air of understated elegance. ‘I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye, Gemma, but I’m glad you’re here.’
By the time she’d recovered from her shock and whispered, ‘Thanks …’ Coral had sailed out of the room.
CHAPTER THREE
RORY flipped the rough-textured business card between his fingers. Recycled paper, no doubt, but there was nothing second-hand about the information staring him in the face.
He’d had the company’s PI run a background check on Gemma Shultz last night, after she’d thrust her business card in his hand and exited his display like a queen.
He had to admit the results of the investigation surprised him as much as the woman had last night.
