Aunt Lucy's Lover. Miranda Lee
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there,’ said a male voice at last. ‘Seb here.’
Jessica frowned. If ‘Seb here’ was Mr. Slade, then he did indeed sound young. Far too young to be the lover of a woman in her fifties. Unless…
Her stomach contracted at the thought her aunt might have fallen into the clutches of the type of unconscionable young man who preyed on wealthy widows. Jessica was not unfamiliar with the species. They often hung around the bars in the hotel, waiting and watching for suitable prey. They were invariably handsome. And charming. And young.
If Mr. Slade turned out to be one of those, she thought crossly, he would get short shrift after the month was over. He would not get a cent from her. Not one single cent!
‘This is Jessica Rawlins,’ she said, simmering outrage giving her voice a sharp edge. ‘Would I be speaking to Mr. Slade?’
‘You sure are. Pleased to hear from you, Jessica. I presume Lucy’s solicitor has been in touch. So when are you coming over?’
Jessica’s eyebrows lifted. Well, he was certainly straight to the point, and not at all resentful sounding. If she hadn’t been on her toes, she might have been totally disarmed by his casual charm.
‘I’m catching the seven o’clock flight from Sydney on Sunday,’ she said stiffly.
‘I’ll meet you then. Oops, no, I can’t. I promised Mike I’d go fishing with him Sunday morning. Tell you what, I’ll get Evie to meet you.’
‘And who, pray tell, is Evie?’ she asked archly.
‘Evie? She was your aunt’s chief cook and bottle washer. You’ll like Evie,’ he went on blithely. ‘Everyone does. Now perhaps you’d better tell me what you look like, so she won’t have any trouble recognising you on Sunday. Are you tall?’
‘Reasonably,’ Jessica bit out after smothering her frustration. She supposed she’d find out everything she wanted to know soon enough. And she could trust her eyes far more than a conversation on the telephone.
‘Slim?’ he went on.
‘Yes.’
‘What colour hair?’
‘Black.’
‘Long or short?’
‘Shoulder-length, but I always wear it up.’
‘How old are you? Approximately,’ he added quickly with humour in his voice.
‘Twenty-eight,’ Jessica said, having no reason to hide her age.
‘Really. You sound older.’
She tried not to take offence, and failed. ‘Well, you don’t,’ she snapped.
‘I don’t what?’
‘Sound as old as I thought you’d be. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were no more than thirty.’
His laughter might have been infectious under other circumstances. ‘You’ve no idea how many people say that to me, Jessica,’ he said. ‘But it’s some years since I saw thirty.’
Jessica wasn’t sure if she was mollified by that statement or not. She should have been relieved to find he was respectably middle-aged, but she didn’t feel relieved. She felt decidedly nettled. Mr. Slade was rubbing her the wrong way, for some reason.
‘I look young for my age, too,’ he volunteered. ‘But I try not to worry about it.’
She could hear the smile in his voice and bristled some more.
‘By the way, bring your swimmers and shorts with you,’ he added. ‘It’s pretty warm here at the moment. How long will you be staying?’
‘Just the month.’
‘Ah,’ he said with a long sigh. ‘What a pity. Still, we can talk about that more when you get here. I’m glad you rang, Jessica. I’m really looking forward to meeting you. I’m just sorry I can’t welcome you myself at the airport. I’ll try to get back by the time you arrive at the house. Au revoir for now. Have a good flight.’
He hung up, leaving Jessica not sure what she thought about him now. Clearly, he was middle-aged. He’d been most amused at her saying he sounded thirty.
If she were honest, she had to admit he’d been very nice to her, and not at all resentful of her inheritance. She wondered what he wanted to talk to her about. Did he hope to persuade her to stay and run the guesthouse? If he did, then he’d be wasting his breath. She had no intention of doing any such thing.
But she did want to talk to him. She wanted to find out everything he knew about her aunt. Maybe this Evie would know things, as well, depending on how many years she’d been Aunt Lucy’s cook.
Thinking of cooks reminded Jessica how hungry she was. Levering herself up from the bed, she headed for the door and the kitchen, dressed in nothing but her camisole and pantihose. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrored wardrobe as she passed and recalled the rather bland details she’d given Mr. Slade. Twenty-eight, tall, slim, black hair, worn up.
Not much of a description. Difficult to form a complete picture. But she could hardly have added she had a face that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the cover of Vogue, and a body one of her lovers had said he’d kill for.
He had certainly lied for it, she thought tartly.
‘And what do you look like, Mr. Slade?’ she mused out loud as she continued on to the kitchen. ‘Tall, I’ll bet. And slim. Men who look young for their age are always slim. And you won’t be bald. No way. You’ll have a full head of hair with only a little grey. And you’ll be handsome, won’t you, Mr. Slade? In a middle-aged sort of way. And just a little bit of a ladies’ man, I’ll warrant.’
Jessica wondered anew if he’d really been her aunt’s lover, or just a good friend. He’d said nothing to indicate either way. Really, she hadn’t handled that call very well. She’d found out absolutely nothing! Mr. Slade’s youthful voice and manner had sent her off on a cynical tangent, and by the time she’d realised her mistake, the call had been over.
Still, it was only three days till Sunday. Not long. In no time she’d be landing at Norfolk Island airport and be right on the doorstep of discovering all she wanted to know.
A nervous wave rippled down Jessica’s spine, and she shivered. It had not escaped her logical mind that something pretty awful must have happened for her mother to lie like she had. Maybe she’d done something wicked and shameful, then run away from home. Or something wicked and shameful had been done to her, with the same result.
Jessica wasn’t sure what that something could have been. Whatever had happened, she meant to find out the truth. Oh, yes, she meant to find out everything!
CHAPTER THREE
JESSICA’S flight on Sunday morning took two and a half hours. Two and a half long hours of butterflies in her stomach. Some due to her fear of flying; most to fear of the unknown that awaited her on Norfolk Island.
She stared through her window the whole way, despite high cloud preventing a view of the ocean below. Not that she was really looking. She was thinking, and speculating, and worrying. It was only when they began their descent that the sight of the island itself jolted her back to the physical reality of her destination.
Goodness, but it was picturesque, a dot of deep tropical green within a wide blue expanse of sea. But so small! Jessica knew from the travel brochures that the island only measured five kilometres by eight. This hadn’t bothered her till she saw that the airstrip was even smaller. She hoped the plane could stop in time, that it wouldn’t plunge off the end of the runway into the sea.
The plane began to bank steeply at that moment, a wing blocking Jessica’s view of the island. All she could see was water—deep, deep water. Her insides started to churn. She