Guardian to the Heiress. Margaret Way
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She watched him place his tailored jacket over a chair before he loosened his silk tie. His every movement was imprinting itself on her brain. This was ridiculous. So ridiculous, she resented it.
She took the makings of a salad out of the crisper. “I don’t need a penny of his money. The way he treated me, the way the family treated me, was monstrous.”
He heard the deep hurt beneath the condemnation in her voice. “I agree, but I didn’t come here with apologies, Carol. The will speaks for itself. Your grandfather clearly wanted to make reparation.”
“My grandfather with the stone heart! Does the rest of the family know? My Uncle Maurice, Dallas and my creepy cousin Troy—I see him around. He’s even tried to chat me up. What a joke!”
“Has he really?” Damon found himself not liking that one bit. Her tone had implied Troy Chancellor’s approach hadn’t been cousinly.
“Alas, yes. I don’t like him. Let’s eat, before you tell me any more. I’m fast losing my appetite.”
“Can I help?”
She shook her head. “A salad is simplicity itself. Let me get you a glass of wine—red or white?”
“I’ll have red, if you’ve got it?”
“Mmm, I think so. Have a look in there.” She pointed to one of the Chinese cabinets.
He didn’t open the beaded doors immediately. He stood studying the piece of furniture that stood on rounded straight feet. “You know what you’ve got here?”
“I do indeed.” Her tone mocked. “I have a pair of pagoda-form side tables in my bedroom, but you’re not going in there.”
“You like Oriental furniture?” That was obvious. He knew Selwyn Chancellor had been a major collector.
“Who wouldn’t? If I get to know you well enough, I’ll show you my celadon jade carving. Qianlong.”
“Ah, another collector in the making.”
“I’m told I have the eye.”
“I’m sure you have. Like your grandfather. He was a renowned collector.” He opened one of the cabinet doors, studying the labels before selecting a bottle of Tasmanian pinot noir.
“I know.” Suddenly she was remembering the endless treasure trove her grandfather and his father before him had collected over the years. She had been just a little girl, yet her memories had stayed with her—the way her grandfather had held her hand as he had walked her down the long gallery filled with pictures in gilded frames, telling her the names of the artists and a little about them. She remembered his jade collection in the tall glass cabinets; all the Chinese porcelains; the tall “soldier” vases enamelled with birds and flowers; the blue and white porcelain; the famille rose and the famille noir. She remembered the wonderful famille verte fishbowls on their rosewood stands that had stood in the hallway. They’d always been filled with big pots of cymbidium orchids in full bloom. And this Damon Hunter asked her if she knew what she had?
He was saying something to her, but she could scarcely hear him. She was afraid she would burst into tears, she who never cried. How could a grandfather who had loved her so much turn heartless? She remembered how her mother had hated him and had inexplicably hated her gentle grandmother, who was so quiet and retiring and had always kept out of her mother’s way.
“Are you all right?”
She blinked hard, incensed she had come so close to weeping. “Of course I am,” she said crossly. “What have you got there?” Why wouldn’t he spot her momentary upset? She couldn’t remember when she had seen such X-ray eyes.
“A Tasmanian pinot noir.” He turned the bottle to show her the label. “It’s very good. Are you going to join me in a glass, or don’t you drink?”
“You know better,” she said briefly. A few times too many she had been photographed coming out of a nightclub with a few of her friends, looking a little on the wild side in short sparkly outfits with her hair in a mad crinkly halo. Okay so she enjoyed a glass of wine! She didn’t touch drugs even when a few in her circle did. Soft drugs, the so called recreational kind. Getting high on drugs was of as much interest to her as bungee jumping.
He came behind the counter, so tall she thought she would just about reach his heart. He was a sexy piece of work and no mistake. She drew a deep breath, opening a drawer finding the bottle opener, then passing it to him. Their fingers touched.
Contact almost took her breath away. She grabbed a tea towel, as if to wipe the effect of it away. “The glasses are in the cupboard directly behind you,” she said shortly, finishing off her green salad; fresh baby spinach leaves and peppery watercress with a chopped shallot, a quick dressing of extra virgin olive oil, balsamic vinegar with a little Dijon mustard then a grind of salt and black pepper. She had added some goat’s cheese to the mix. Usually cubed croutons as well, but she didn’t have the time. The succulent slices of ham were already sliced and on the white plates.
“That looks good,” he said and meant it.
He was so close her body was humming like live power lines. “Super simple. You just have to make sure everything is fresh. My flatmates would live on takeaways if I weren’t there. Takeaways aren’t my scene.”
“Not when one can whip up a delicious meal in ten or fifteen minutes.”
She was at war with herself. She wanted him to move away. At the same time she wanted him to stay. She could smell his very subtle, very pleasant cologne. “So what do you survive on, or is there a woman in your life?” she asked briskly.
Bound to be.
“Simple food, Carol, but good, fresh produce,” he answered, pouring the wine. “I don’t do takeaways, either.”
“Which doesn’t answer the question.”
“No permanent woman in my life, if that’s what you mean.”
She was pierced by some sensation she thought had to be embarrassment. “I thought I told you it was Caro.”
“Maybe I got used to hearing your grandfather referring to you as Carol,” he replied gently.
He appeared to enjoy the meal she had prepared. She couldn’t taste a thing. To make up for it she had a second glass of wine. She realised what she was doing; she was trying to cover up an emotional crisis. Her collapse would have to wait for later. She had learned to keep her emotions to herself. Her mother wasn’t the caring kind. Indeed, Roxanne had acted as though rearing a child, especially a daughter with a mind of her own, was a real penance. Her stepfather, Jeff, had been nice enough to her, but he had started getting too touchy around the time she’d turned sixteen. She had been glad to get out of the house; her mother was equally glad to see her go. Her mother had come to regard her as some sort of rival.
It didn’t bear thinking about. She had no one really to confide in among her friends. They didn’t know what it felt like to be Selwyn Chancellor’s granddaughter, to be photographed wherever you went. They thought it was fun to be in the picture; she hated it. The invasion of privacy, it was a kind of violation.
“What are you thinking about?” Damon asked. He had been watching her face. She had such a range of expressions. He knew the absence of tears beyond that glitter didn’t mean she wasn’t suffering in her way. He had learned a lot about her mother and her stepfather—nothing much good.
He didn’t want to think about what had made her break away. She was exquisitely pretty, like a Dresden figurine. He had heard it said her mother was as “hard as nails and twice as sharp.” Apparently she couldn’t deal with a daughter who, as she’d grown up, started to eclipse her. Now, that was sad—a kind of “mirror, mirror, on the wall” scenario. He wondered where Carol Emmett found comfort. Not that there would be any shortage of comforters. More now that she would have to cope with being the Chancellor heiress. The fortune hunters would emerge from