you can’t handle the truth?’
‘You’re unbelievable! You really believe I’m here for Laurence’s money?’
‘Most people would be lured by it.’
‘Then I’m not “most people”. I don’t want his money. I never have.’
‘Then why else would you have been living with him, a man old enough to have been your father?’
She laughed then, mostly because she knew that if she didn’t laugh, she’d probably cry with the injustice of it all. He was so wrong. He didn’t know his father. He didn’t know her. He knew nothing.
‘I pity you,’ she said, much more calmly than she felt. ‘Obviously you’re completely unfamiliar with the words “friendship” or “companionship”.’
He snorted his disbelief and her anger escalated to dangerous levels again. But this time she was determined to keep control. She had to try to remember what Laurence had asked of her. She dragged in a deep breath, battling to stay rational and calm, in spite of his attack.
‘Just because you were incapable of showing your father any respect or affection…’ she shook her head ‘…don’t assume everybody else was.’
His eyes narrowed dangerously, the resentment contained within so hard and absolute, it glistened. ‘So you looked after him out of the goodness of your heart? You stayed merely to keep him company? Next you’ll be expecting me to believe you really loved him.’
‘Somebody had to! God only knows he got nothing but grief from you.’
She jerked herself away, wanting to get out of there, wanting to get as far away from him as she could, but a steel grip on her arm stopped her dead, preventing her escape. She turned, indignant, but the protest died on her lips the moment she saw his face, his features contorted with fury.
‘Don’t you try to take the high moral ground with me. You have no idea what I felt for my father or why. None at all.’
She fisted her hand and wrenched at her arm unsuccessfully. So instead she leaned closer, so close she could feel the anger coming out of him like heat from an open fire. But his anger was nothing compared to hers—she was angry enough for both of them.
‘You’re right,’ she agreed, feeling her lip curl in contempt. ‘I have no idea what you felt or why. But whose fault is that? Mine, for being here when your father needed support, or yours, for not caring enough to be here yourself?’
CHAPTER THREE
HOURS LATER, as the first unlayering of the night sky heralded the coming dawn, Zane had given up on sleep. He lay on his bed in the room that had been his for more than half his life, the accumulated photographs and trophies from his youth still exactly where he’d left them. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine he’d never left. But he knew he wouldn’t be thinking about how things used to be. Because the last few hours had shown him that all he’d be thinking about was a woman with fire in her eyes and venom on her tongue, a woman built like a goddess and who fought like a she-cat.
Even last night, when she’d lashed out and slapped him, she hadn’t backed away. She’d come back for more and she’d given more. And even when she’d agreed with him, in their final exchange, she’d hit back with such a sting in her parting comments that when she’d yanked her arm against his grip once more he’d had no choice but to let her go.
She had some spirit. He wrestled once more with the sheets as he tried to get comfortable. What would she be like in bed? He’d lay odds that she’d show as much life out of her clothes, if not more, than she did in them.
He punched his pillow one final time before giving up, swinging his legs off the bed and making for the en suite, dragging his hands over his troubled head. What the hell was wrong with him? It didn’t matter what she was like in bed, he was hardly about to pick up where his father left off!
Besides, he had more pressing problems to turn his mind to now. There would be all kinds of things to deal with: a funeral to arrange, the future of the business. Naturally he’d be expected to fill Laurence’s shoes for the time being, but plans would have to be made for the longer term. He might as well make a start on it before Ruby could interfere. She might have held a high place in Laurence’s ‘affections’, but, now he was here, things were going to change.
Kyoto was waiting for him in the kitchen when he emerged, finally feeling more human after a long hot shower and fresh clothes.
‘Mister Zane!’ Kyoto shouted in welcome as he approached, his wrinkled face contorted between half-toothless smile, half anguish. ‘It’s so good you’re home. I make you breakfast, “special”.’
Sinewy arms suddenly wrapped tightly around him in a rapid embrace before releasing him just as quickly and returning to the task of scrambling eggs as if they’d never touched him. Zane smiled to himself. Kyoto’s broken English was just the same, but he could never remember a time when he’d ever been so physically demonstrative. It was strangely touching.
‘It’s good to see you again, too,’ he said sincerely.
‘Your father,’ Kyoto said, shaking his head as he heaped a plate full. ‘I am so sorry.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, right now feeling Kyoto’s loss more than his own, as hot coffee and a heavily laden breakfast plate with a stack of toast on the side was placed in front of him.
Kyoto disappeared, muttering sadly to himself as Zane made a start on breakfast in the large, airy room. It was hours since his last real meal and Kyoto’s cooking had never been a hardship to endure, least of all now. He’d almost made his way through the mountain when Kyoto returned and something else appeared on the table before him. He blinked in cold hard shock as he recognised the small padlocked wooden chest.
The old pearler skipper’s box had always sat in pride of place on his father’s desk and now it sat in front of him, bold and challenging. Mocking.
A relic of a former era, when natural pearls were real treasure and the rare bonus discovered while collecting the mother-of-pearl shell itself, any such pearls were deposited through a small hole in the lid and so kept secure during the lugger’s time at sea.
But it was hardly pearls he knew the box contained. More like dynamite.
‘Your father said you were to have,’ Kyoto said in response to Zane’s unspoken question.
Zane set his plate aside and drained the last of his strong coffee, never taking his eyes off the chest. The wood had aged to an even richer golden patina than he remembered, the metal handle and lock scratched and scarred by the passage of time, the tiny key clearly in place. Inviting. Taunting. Because it was hardly the chest his father wanted him to have. It was the contents. And Zane knew exactly what was inside.
Did his father honestly not realise Zane knew, or was he merely trying to press the point home—a bitter reminder of the circumstances of his leaving? No question, Zane decided. Of course he would have known. Clearly his father hadn’t asked to see Zane in order to settle their differences. He’d called for him to rub them in!
His mind rankled with the stench of the fetid memories. He’d been just a young boy home
