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      CHAPTER ONE

       Vancouver Canada

      HE KNEW her the moment she moved into the hotel lobby. The doorman in his natty top hat held the door for her, his face wreathed in smiles. Who could blame him? A woman like that inspired smiles. But just why he was so sure it was she he couldn’t fathom. Gut feeling? He didn’t question it, even when it went against all his preconceptions. But then his mental picture had been based on the description Mark had given his mother, Hilary, in a one-off letter sent months after he had married the Canadian girl. Nevertheless the feeling of recognition was so powerful it was almost a force in itself. It shook him when he was a man who shielded himself against shock.

      For one thing, Mark’s description didn’t begin to do her justice. She was beautiful. No other word would do. She always would be, given her bone structure, he thought. She also radiated an air of refinement—a cool reserve that in itself was unusual. Not Mark’s scene at all. She was immaculately groomed, her stylishness understated. She was a recent widow, after all, he thought grimly. Obviously her lovely outward appearance camouflaged the shallowness of the woman beneath.

      He had chosen the most inconspicuous spot he could find to wait for her. He reasoned it would give him a slight advantage, observing her before she had a chance to observe him. That way he might be able to form a better idea of what sort of young woman Mark had married. Right now he found himself unable to grasp the reality when set against his half brother’s description. Where, for instance, was the blonde hair? And surely she was supposed to be petite? But then she was wearing high heels, and women moved on, changing their hair colour as fashion or mood dictated.

      He knew in his bones he hadn’t picked the wrong woman, despite the many discrepancies. He was supposed to keep an open mind. This had to be Mandy—Mark’s widow, Amanda. She didn’t look like a Mandy, or even an Amanda. Pretty names, but they didn’t suit her. Perhaps it was one of Mark’s little jokes? From boyhood Mark had revelled in deception, spinning an elaborate web of fantasies, half-truths and shameless lies that had tied everyone in knots. Their father had once confided he was worried Mark was becoming something of a sociopath. A harsh judgement when their father hadn’t been a judgemental man. But it had to be admitted Mark had barely registered the difference between right and wrong. Nothing had stopped him when his mind was set on something. He certainly hadn’t cared about people. His self-interest had been profound. That hadn’t been an easy truth for either his father or him to accept.

      As for his tastes in young women? Mark had only been interested in pretty girls who had all their assets on show. Other qualities a young woman might offer, like warmth, companionship, spirituality or intellect, came right down the list. Mark’s type had always been the stereotypical glamour girl. “Air-heads” Marcia, his twin, had always called them acidly, with the exception of Joanne Barrett, the fiancée Hilary had picked out for her son and whom Mark had so callously abandoned. This woman he had finally chosen to marry presented a striking departure from the norm.

      As she stood poised a moment, looking about her, he rose to his feet to hold up an identifying hand. Poor Joanne wouldn’t have been in the race beside this young woman, he thought, with regret mixed with resentment. There was no comparison. At least in the looks department.

      No welcoming smile appeared on her face.

      Nor on his.

      His heart was locked against her like cold steel.

      She walked towards him, a willowy figure, glancing neither to left nor right. She seemed to have little idea of the admiring glances she was receiving, from men and women alike. But then a beautiful woman would never escape constant attention. She was probably so used to it she didn’t notice.

      His trip to Vancouver, beautiful city though it was, surrounded by mountains and sea, unfortunately wouldn’t entail pleasure, or even time for some sightseeing. He regretted that. But he would have to say he wasn’t at home in such cold—let alone the rain. Outside the centrally heated hotel it was freezing, with a biting wind. He had never known it to be so cold, even when wintering in Europe. He had been born and raised on a vast Australian cattle station on the fringe of one of the world’s great deserts, the scorching blood-red Simpson. But he was here for a specific purpose: to arrange for his half-brother’s body to be taken home and to invite Mark’s widow to return with him to Australia, to attend the funeral and finally meet the family. The family she had chosen to totally ignore for the two short years of her marriage.

      He didn’t think she would ignore them now. There was a sizable legacy he wished to give her, for a start. Very few people knocked back money. Besides, a few deserving people had a right to know why Mark had acted the way he had. First and foremost his mother Hilary, his twin Marcia, and the cruelly jilted Joanne. He needed no explanations. Mark’s actions had never shocked him. And they had never shocked their late father, who had spent the last two years of his life as an invalid, his spine fractured so badly that two operations hadn’t helped at all. The titanium pins simply hadn’t been able to hold. To make matters so much more devastating, their father had suffered a rare type of amnesia since his near fatal accident. He remembered nothing of the day when he, a splendid horseman, born in the saddle, had been thrown violently from his favourite mare Duchess.