Welcome to the intensely emotional world of

Margaret Way

where rugged, brooding bachelors meet their match in the burning heart of Australia …

Praise for the author

“Margaret Way delivers … vividly written, dramatic stories.”

—RT Book Reviews

“With climactic scenes, dramatic imagery and bold characters, Margaret Way makes the Outback come alive.”

—RT Book Reviews

An extremely handsome man entered the boardroom.

Aquiline nose—perfect to look down on people—finely chiseled aristocratic features, thick jet-black hair with a natural wave, extraordinary eyes the color of blue flame: immediate impact that would linger for a long time. He stood well over six feet, and was very elegantly dressed. A tailor’s dream. So sophisticated was his appearance it held them all speechless for a while.

But none was more transfixed than Cate.

Time collapsed. How vivid was memory! How powerful was the past!

For a fleeting moment she felt her breathing had stopped. Then, as air came back into her lungs, she knew such fright she thought she had actually fainted while still remaining conscious. Her whole body was shaking, her mind sliding out of kilter.

This is it, she thought.

The heavens had shifted. She knew he had taken her in at once.

Lord Julian Ashton Carlisle, Fifth Baron Wyndham.

The father of her child.

About the Author

MARGARET WAY, a definite Leo, was born and raised in the subtropical river city of Brisbane, capital of the Sunshine State of Queensland, Australia. A Conservatorium-trained pianist, teacher, accompanist and vocal coach, she found her musical career came to an unexpected end when she took up writing—initially as a fun thing to do. She currently lives in a harborside apartment at beautiful Raby Bay, a thirty-minute drive from the state capital, where she loves dining alfresco on her plant-filled balcony, overlooking a translucent green marina filled with all manner of pleasure craft: from motor cruisers costing millions of dollars, and big, graceful yachts with carved masts standing tall against the cloudless blue sky, to little bay runabouts. No one and nothing is in a mad rush, and she finds the laid-back village atmosphere very conducive to her writing. With well over one hundred books to her credit, she still believes her best is yet to come.

The
English Lord’s
Secret Son
Margaret Way

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

SEVEN-YEAR-OLD Jules slapped a fist into his palm as Cate nosed the Beemer into the parking space vacated by a runabout so compact it could fit into the owner’s pocket.

“Good one, Mum,” he whooped.

“Talk about perfect timing!” Cate Hamilton had come to rely on her parking skills. At times like this they proved invaluable.

“That was ace!”

Ace had taken over from the battered awesome. Jules always liked to keep a pace ahead.

“Noah really looks up to you, Mum.” It was a source of pride to him. Noah, his best friend, was seriously impressed by Cate’s driving. Noah’s mother, a nice lady, had the really scary knack of either side swiping vehicles or on occasions reversing into them. She should have had a number plate bearing the warning: WATCH OUT. There were always scrapes and dents on their silver Volvo. Repairs were carried out. Back to Square One. It was a pattern pretty well set. Noah said his mother didn’t know how to explain it. His father had a hard time understanding it as well.

So did Cate. She often had coffee with Noah’s mother, who was a bright, intelligent woman, right on the ball, apart from her driving habits. She switched off the ignition, eyeing the busy road. At this time of the morning there were cars everywhere, causing a worrying amount of chaos. There didn’t appear to be any order on the part of the drivers. She had even begun to question the safety of the pedestrian crossing. People appeared to be in such a desperate hurry these days. Where were they going? What was so important every nanosecond counted? Surely nothing could be more important than the safety of a child? The difficulty was, parking spots were at a premium for the junior school. Small children, even big children, didn’t leg it to school these days. They didn’t even bus it. They were driven to and fro by their parents. Different times, worrying times. Or maybe that perception was a beat up by a media who seized on anything when there was a dearth of stories.

A recent coverage featured an attempted snatching of a thirteen-year-old schoolgirl. Even the police had been sucked in for a while until a child psychologist in their ranks pointed out thirteen-year-old girls were known to have a burgeoning need for attention. Some were more demanding and more inventive than others. That particular young lady had a future writing fiction.

Cate glanced at her son’s glowing face. The most beautiful face in the whole wide world to her. Not only beautiful, Jules was smart, really smart. Her one and only child. Pure and innocent. Her sun, moon and stars. Cate relished the moment of real joy, lifting a hand to acknowledge a departing driver, another mother, who fluttered curling, separated fingers in response.

It was a beautiful day, so bright and full of promise. A great time to be alive. Scent of trees. Scent of flowers, the heat amplifying the myriad scents to incense. Tangy taste of salt off Sydney Harbour. The Harbour, the most beautiful natural harbour in the world, made a splendid contribution to Sydney’s scenic beauty. No wonder Sydney was regularly featured as one of the world’s most beautiful and liveable cities. Few cities could boast such a glorious environment, a dazzling blue and gold world, with hundreds of bays and beaches of white sands, magical coves and waterways for its citizens to enjoy. To Sydneysiders it was a privilege to live within easy distance of the sparkling Pacific Ocean. Even the trip to school was a heart-lifting experience.

The great jacaranda trees that lined Kingsley Avenue on both sides were in full bloom. She recalled as a student it was a superstition among them that if a jacaranda blossom fell on one’s head, one would pass one’s exams. A fanciful notion and, like all fanciful notions, not one to count on. Nothing in life was as simple as that. Blossoms fell indiscriminately on heads all the time. This morning there were circular lavender carpets around the trunks, with spent blossoms fanning out across the pavement and the road.

Cate turned off the ignition. Only a short time to go now before term was over. The long Christmas vacation lay ahead.

Christmas.

Out of the blue her mind gave way to memories. She could never predict when they would invade her consciousness, frame by frame, unstoppable now, near obscuring her vision. A moment before she had been celebrating life. Now was not the time to allow dark thoughts to kick in. Yet inexorably she found herself going back in time to a place she knew from bitter experience was no place to go. Christmas across the world where it snowed instead of rained mauve blossom; where snow blanketed roofs and gardens, and frosted the trees, their skeletal branches outlined in white. For all the frigid air it was a world transformed. A fairy land.

Another time. Another place …

She had turned eighteen, an innocent at large, at the happiest, most exciting time of her young life, when the road ahead offered nothing but promise. She had thought at the time her guardian angel had to be watching over her, because it was then she fell helplessly, hopelessly, in love. The miracle of Destiny. She had revelled in the magic for long dreamlike months before all her happiness had been cruelly snatched away.

Overnight.

How was one supposed to respond to having one’s heart broken? Not just broken, trampled on with feet that came down hard. What had been required of her was to absorb the terrible loss and disappear like a puff of smoke.

A Housman poem had run continuously in her head for years.

Give crowns and pounds and guineas

But not your heart away.

She had come to think of it as her theme song. She had given her heart away and given it in vain. She had learned a hard lesson—were there any better?—there were never guarantees when two people fell in love. What was love anyway between a man and a woman? A period of mesmerising madness? A period of lust, a desperation to assuage a physical hunger, without a single thought as to looking deeper for longer-lasting qualities? Just how many people were blessed with the sort of love that endured? Love for life. Was that too much to expect given the fickleness and limited attention span of human nature? Far too many suffered the sort of love that vanished as suddenly as it arrived. A case of love running out.

Or in my case, without warning, a changing course.

These days she was back to loving Christmas, indeed the whole festive season. The arrival of Jules had miraculously put her world to rights. She could see the big picture as she had never done before. From the instant he had been placed on her breast, he had become the most important person in the world to her. No love like a mother’s love. No passion as strong. His impact on her very existence was profound. She no longer focused on herself and her pain. She had a son to focus on. She knew from experience children raised by a single parent, usually the mother, needed that parent to play dual roles, mother and father. She had read publications from eminent people in the field that had arrived at the conclusion children from the nuclear middle-class family, mum and dad, with a bit of money, fared much better in life than children raised by single parents. While she respected the findings she had seen plenty of kids from affluent homes with both parents to care for them run off the rails. On the other hand, she had seen many success stories of people who had grown up in single-parent homes with very little money to spare. Wanting something better was a great driving force. So as far as she was concerned there were two sides to the issue. She was definitely on the side of the single parents and their difficult, challenging role.

She and Julian had a very special relationship in the best and brightest way. She couldn’t really say she’d had to work at it. They had loved one another on sight, neither wanting to offer the least little bit of hurt or upset to the other. It might have been a support programme between mother and son. It had worked beautifully.

Other cars were cruising the avenue, looking for a parking spot. A late-model Mercedes shamelessly double parked to take advantage of the fact she might soon be leaving. They were a few metres from the gates of one of the country’s top-ranked boys’ schools, Kingsley College. The school buildings of dressed stone were regarded by all as exceptionally fine. The grounds were meticulously maintained with great sweeps of emerald green lawn, and a meld of magnificent shade trees. Parents were proud to be able to send their sons there, even if in some cases the fees almost broke the bank.

Thankfully they had found their parking spot when she was really pressed for time. She had received a text message to the effect a meeting with a potential client had been called for first thing in the morning. No name was mentioned.

Briskly Cate bent over to kiss the top of her son’s blond head, taking enormous pleasure in the scent of him. His hair was so thick and soft it cushioned her lips. “Love you, darling,” she said from the depths of her heart. Ah, the passage of time! She had visions of Jules as the most adorable baby in the world. Jules as a toddler. It seemed only the other day since he had taken his first steps. Wonder of wonders it had been a Sunday and she was at home. She was convinced he had delayed the momentous event so she could witness it; so she could be there for him to half run, half stumble into her waiting arms. Surely it wasn’t that long since he had turned four and she had put on a big birthday party with clowns and rides on a darling little Shetland pony in the grounds? It had to be only a few months since he had lost his first baby tooth heralding the arrival of the tooth fairy? Time was so precious and Time was passing far too quickly. Her son was being shaped and developed before her eyes. He was rapidly turning into a questioning child, looking at the world from his own perspective.

“Love you too, Mum,” Jules answered. It was their daily ritual. The “Jules” had started the very first day of school when his best friend, Noah, had hit on it in preference to the mouthful Julian. Now he was Jules to everyone, his wide circle of friends, classmates, even teachers. He took over-long unfastening his seat belt. He even hesitated a moment before opening out the passenger door.

“Everything okay, sweetheart?” Her mother’s antennae picked up on his inaction.

For a moment he didn’t answer, as though weighing up the effect his answer might have on her. Jules was super protective. Then it all came out in a rush. “Why can’t I have a dad like everyone else?” He spoke in a half mumble, head down, when Jules never mumbled. He was a very clever, confident little boy, much loved and cared for with all the warmth that was vital for the growth of his young body and soul. Jules was no solitary child.

At his words, Cate’s heart gave a painful lunge. Deep down, no matter how much he was loved by her, his mother, it seemed Jules longed for a dad; the glory of having a dad, a male figure to identify with. Clearly she couldn’t cover both roles. Her mouth went dry.

Haven’t you always known you’d have to address this? The dark cloud over your head, the constant psychological weight.

Adept at masking her emotions, her voice broke halfway. “It’s biologically impossible not to have a dad, Jules.” A pathetic stopgap, unworthy. Jules was at the age of reason. Everything changed as a child grew to the age of reason. Jules, her baby, was pushing forward. Questions were about to be asked. Answers sought. Her fears would be revealed as secrets became unlocked. This was an area she had to confront.

Now.

“Be serious, Mum,” Jules implored. He turned back to her, pinning her with his matchless blue eyes. Everyone commented on the resemblance between them. Except for the eyes. “You don’t know what it’s like. The kids are starting to ask me all sorts of questions. They never did it before. Who my dad is? Where is he? Why isn’t he with us?”

She put it as matter-of-factly as she could. “I told you, Jules. He lives in England. He couldn’t be with us.”

God, he doesn’t even know there’s an “us”. What would he do if he did? Acknowledge paternity? Easy enough to prove. Let it all go? Not enough room in his life for an illegitimate child? Surely the term illegitimate wasn’t used any more? What would he do? Would he act, acknowledge his child? That was the potentially threatening question. Only no one was going to take her son from her. She had reared him. She had shouldered the burden of being a single mother. If it came down to it—a fight for custody—she would fight like a lioness.

Except her case could be unwinnable. No wonder she had woken up that morning feeling jittery. It was as though she was being given a warning.

“Doesn’t he love us?” Jules’ question snapped her back to attention. “Why didn’t he want to be with us? The kids think you’re super cool.” They did indeed. Jules’ mother was right up there in the attention stakes.

Julian’s young life had been woman oriented, sublimely peaceful. He lived with his mother, and his grandmother Stella, who had always looked after him, especially when Cate was at work or delayed with endless long meetings. Jules had lots of honorary “aunts”—friends and colleagues of hers. They lived in a rather grand hillside house with a view of the harbour. It was a five-minute drive down to a blue sparkling marina and a park where kids could play. The city, surrounded by beautiful beaches, offered any number of places to go for a swim. Jules was already a strong swimmer for his age. He lived the good life, stable and secure. Jules wanted for nothing.

Except a father.

“Why couldn’t you get married, Mum?” Her son’s young voice combined protectiveness for her and unmistakable hostility for the man who had fathered him. This was a new development, emotionally and socially. Jules was clearly reviewing his position in his world.

“We were going to, Jules,” Cate told him very gently. To think she had actually believed it. “We were deeply in love, starting to make plans.” Their romance had been close to sublime until they had started making plans. Plans did them in. “And then something rather momentous happened. Your father came into an important inheritance called a peerage. That meant he would never leave England.” Didn’t want to leave England. “I was desperate to come back to Australia. My family was here. His people were there. His life was there. It was as simple and disruptive as a grand inheritance. Your father’s mother had someone in mind for her only son. She was the daughter of an earl. Born to the purple, as it were.” Even now the breath rushed out of her chest.

Your paternal grandmother, with her silk knickers in a twist. Alicia, the patrician-faced hatchet woman who expected Cate to do the right thing and go home.

“Didn’t she like you?” Jules sounded incredulous. His mother was perfect in his eyes.

Cate had to acknowledge she still bore the scars of that last confrontation with Alicia, the icy determination of the woman, the breathtaking arrogance of the English upper class. “Well, she did at first,” she managed after a moment. It was true enough. Alicia had been supremely confident this young woman was going back to Australia. It was no more than a holiday flirtation, a passing fancy for a pretty girl. But there were strict limits to the friendship. The question of succession had finally been settled. “Later I was made very aware there was no question of a marriage between us.”

“None at all, my dear. How could you think otherwise? My son will marry one of us.” Alicia had been adamant. Here was a woman with a deep understanding of noblesse oblige.

She must have muttered aloud, because Jules asked with a flash to his beautiful eyes, “Who’s us?”

“Oh, I soon discovered that!” She gave a brief laugh. “People of the same background. The English aristocracy and the like. It’s still a class system no matter what they say.”

“Class system?” Jules was getting het up.

That wouldn’t do. “It’s different from here, Jules,” she said soothingly. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll explain it to you this evening.”

“So he married someone else, the us?” Anger simmered in Jules’ clear voice. Another stage in his development.

“I expect so. I never followed through. I left him and England behind, my darling. My life is here, Jules. With you and Nan. You’re happy, aren’t you?”

Jules rallied. He wasn’t going to upset his mother any further. “Sure I’m happy, Mum,” he declared, though it was obvious to Cate he was grappling with this fresh information. He leant over to give her a kiss. “I can take care of the boys at school. What’s his name, my father’s name?”

“Ashton.” She suddenly realised she had not spoken his name aloud for years. Ashe. Julian Ashton Carlisle, Fifth Baron Wyndham.

“That’s a funny name,” Jules said. “Bit like Julian. I expect he named me. English, you see. I’m glad everyone calls me Jules. Better go, Mum. See you tonight.”

“Take care, my darling.”

“I will.” Jules gave her a quick hug. Mercifully Jules wasn’t one of those kids who were embarrassed by public displays of affection. Noah, on the other hand, had forbidden his mother to kiss him when any of the other kids were about. Jules made short work of heaving up his satchel then hopping out of the car. Noah was racing towards him both arms outstretched, one up, one down, dipping and rising mimicking a plane’s wings. He was calling out in delight, “Jules … Jules …”

Cate watched a moment longer, her heart torn. May joy fill your days. Both boys turned back to wave to her. She responded, putting a big carefree smile on her face.

This is only the start of it all, my girl. Her inner voice broke up the moment, weighing in with a warning.

At twenty-six she was well on the way to becoming a high flyer in the corporate world. She knew she appeared to others to have it all. Only one person, Stella, the person closest to her, knew the whole story. She could never have managed without Stella’s selfless support. It was Stella who had taken charge of her baby when she was at university. She needed a career. They had both agreed on that. She had a son to rear.

Stella was the guardian angel for her and her son. Stella, her adoptive mother.

It had taken well over twenty years for her to find out who her biological mother was. And that only came about because her biological mother had thought it prudent to make a deathbed confession before she met her Maker.

A sad way to clean the slate; devastating for an unacknowledged daughter to find out the truth. Sometimes she thought she would never forgive Stella for not having told her. Over the years she had met “Aunty Annabel” perhaps a half dozen times when she visited Stella, her older sister in Australia. Cate realised then, as never before, one should not keep secrets from a child. Inevitably at some stage it would all come out causing confusion and conflict and often estrangement. She’d had her own experience as an adult. She couldn’t delay all that much longer discussing her past with her child. What choice did she have? Questions would be repeated over and over if the issue wasn’t addressed. She couldn’t allow her old emotions to get in the way.

“Good morning, Cate.” It was the attractive young brunette behind the reception desk.

“Morning, Lara.”

Lara was busy appraising Cate’s smart appearance. “Mr Saunders and the others are waiting for you in the boardroom. Some bigwig is coming in.”

“Have you got a name for me?” Cate paused to enquire.

“Actually, no.” Lara sent her a look of mild surprise. “The appointment is for nine-fifteen. Love your outfit.” Lara had learned a great deal about grooming, hair, make-up, clothes accessories, simply from studying Cate Hamilton. Cate had such style. She was wonderfully approachable too. No unbearable airs of superiority, unlike Cate’s female colleague, the terrifying Murphy Stiller, who held herself aloof from everyone not on the command chain. Stiller was supremely indifferent to office perceptions of her. Cate Hamilton appeared to know instinctively office alliances were important.

“Thanks, Lara.” Cate moved off. In her own spacious office she swiftly divested herself of her classic, quilted lambskin black handbag, and then checked her appearance in the long mirror she’d had fixed inside the door of one of the tall cabinets. She always dressed with great care. It was important to look good. It was expected of her. It went with the job. She was wearing a recent buy, a designer two-piece outfit with a slim black pencil skirt and a white jacket banded in black. Her long blonde hair—the definitive Leo’s mane—she always wore pulled back into various updated arrangements for work. Looking good was mandatory. All-out glamour wasn’t on the agenda. Too distracting to the clients. Even so she’d been told she was considered pretty hot stuff.

They were all seated around the boardroom table—big as any two ping-pong tables shoved together—when she entered the room.

“Good morning, everyone,” she greeted them pleasantly, and received suave nods that hid a variety of feelings. Downright lecherous on the part of Geoff Bartz, their resident environmentalist and a very unattractive man. The hierarchy was still men, though not as inflexible as it once had been. The richest person in Australia was in fact a woman, the late mining magnate Lang Hancock’s daughter, Gina Rinehart, worth around twenty billion and counting. All of the men were Italian suited, Ferragamo shod, the one woman at the table as impeccably turned out as ever, cream silk blouse, Armani power suit. No one reached a position near the top of the tree without being exceptionally well dressed. Lord knew they were paid enough to buy the best even if they rarely strayed from imported labels. Cate trusted her own instincts, giving Australian designers a go. They were so good she stuck to them.

“Ah, Cate,” Hugh Saunders, CEO and chairman of the board of Inter-Austral Resources, oil, minerals, chemicals, properties etc. sat at the head of the table. He was credited with almost single-handedly turning a small sleeping mining company into a multibillion-dollar corporation. On Cate’s entry he exhaled an audible sigh of pleasure. A lean, handsome, very stylish man turning sixty, he had personally recruited Cate Hamilton some three years previously. He considered himself her mentor. If he were only ten years younger he privately considered he would have qualified as a whole lot more, sublimely unaware Cate had never entertained such a thought. “Come take a seat. There’s one here by me.” He gestured towards the empty seat to his right.

Territorial display if there ever was one, Murphy Stiller thought with a tightening of her lips and a knitting of her jetblack brows of one. Murphy Stiller was brilliant, abrasive, ferociously competitive. Murphy’s sole aspiration was to move into Hugh Saunders’ padded chair while it was still warm. The great pity was he was such a stayer! Before Hamilton had arrived on the scene she had been Queen of the Heap, able to command attention and a seat at the CEO’s right hand without saying a word. Then the newcomer she had mentally labelled upstart had from the outset started producing results. Corporate politics, balance sheets, marketing plans, impromptu presentations, refinancing. It could have been familiar territory. Hamilton was up for the challenge. A compulsive over-achiever, of course. Murphy knew the type. A multitasker, always up to speed. Saunders seemed mesmerised by her. Certainly he had carefully mapped out her career. But that was what men spent a lot of time thinking about, wasn’t it? Sex. Whether they were getting it. Or more often missing out. When Murphy had entered the boardroom she had naturally made for the seat on the CEO’s right—she never jockeyed, jockeying was beneath her—only to be forestalled by Saunders’ upraised hand smoothly directing her to a seat on his left, as though oblivious to her chagrin. Time to hot up her nightly prayers her young rival would get her comeuppance. Flunk something. Take a fall. Get married. Go into politics. Fall under a bus. Anything.

Murphy forced herself to stop daydreaming. It wasn’t going to happen.

All were now seated. All faces were turned to the chairman, who had glanced at his watch to check what time they had. “What we do and say here before our prospective client arrives is extremely important,” he announced with great earnestness. “This is a man used to meeting people at the highest level. I believe he even talks to the Prince of Wales on a first-name basis.”

Cate pretended to be lost in envy. She had her own understanding of the English upper classes, though the Prince was said to be a genuine egalitarian.

“He’s already acquired a small empire in different parts of the world,” the CEO was saying. “He’s now looking at our mineral wealth. Overseas the news is Australia is being driven by mining and resource. Not surprising their top entrepreneurs want in. We’re going to prove extremely helpful.” He paused as another project came to mind. “He’s also interested in acquiring a property in the Whitsundays. Virgin territory as it were, far away from the usual haunts of jetsetters and the current hot spots, the Caribbean and such. You all know the late George Harrison bought up there. Had a holiday home on our far-flung shores, then a virtual outpost. George knew what he was about. I know we can help our prospective client. Perhaps you, Cate. You’re very good at dealing with people. You might even be able to persuade Lady McCready to finally sell Isla Bella. She trusts you. Aren’t many places left in the world as pristine as Isla Bella.”

“Sure our prospective client doesn’t want to turn it into a resort?” Cate asked. “Lady McCready is totally against any such project.”

“Goodness me, no!” Saunders vehemently shook his head as though he’d had it straight from the horse’s mouth. “This is a man who shuns glitz. He wants a private sanctuary for him, his family and close friends. He will want to visit, of course, if Lady McCready is agreeable. She must be a great age now. Only the other day someone told me she had passed away.”

“Still very much alive, sir,” Cate said, watching the CEO hold up a staying hand as the mobile on the table rang. He listened for a moment, said a few words, then put the receiver down. “Ah, he’s arrived.”

It was delivered with such reverence the prospective client could equally well have been Prince Charles or even President Obama. The Clintons had made the great escape to North Queensland and the Great Barrier Reef islands, pronouncing the whole area an idyllic destination. Perhaps it was Bill Clinton or some retired American senator, who just wanted to sit around all day without anyone taking cheap shots at him as political enemies tended to do.

Lara entered the boardroom cheeks glowing, her mouth curved up in a smile. After her came an extremely handsome man in a hawkish kind of way: aquiline nose—perfect to look down on people—finely chiselled aristocratic features, thick jet-black hair with a natural wave, extraordinary eyes, the colour of blue flame; immediate impact that would linger for a long time. He stood well over six feet, very elegantly dressed. Not Zenga; Savile Row made to measure. A tailor’s dream. Snow-white shirt, striped silk tie no doubt denoting something elitist, tied just so. So sophisticated was his appearance it held them all speechless for a while.

But none more transfixed than Cate.

Time collapsed. How vivid was memory; how powerful was the past!

For a fleeting moment she felt her breathing had stopped. Then as air came back into her lungs she knew such fright she thought she had actually fainted while still remaining conscious. Her whole body was shaking, her mind sliding out of kilter. Thank God she didn’t have a glass of mineral water in her trembling hand for everyone would have watched her drop it to the ground where it probably would have shattered.

This is it, she thought. The heavens had shifted. She knew he had taken her in at once.

Lord Julian Ashton Carlisle, Fifth Baron Wyndham.

The father of her child.

She had come to him a virgin, the man who had devastated her life. So this was the way Karma worked? Action, effect, fate. She was trapped in the same room as the man she had never succeeded in erasing from her mind or her heart and hated him for it. He was indelibly fixed there by lost love, sorrow and humiliation. She had tried with every atom of her being to put the past behind her, but the past had had its effect on all of her subsequent relationships. No other man measured up.

Now her brain was signalling warnings.

The Day of Reckoning is at hand.

Over the past years she had almost succeeded in convincing herself Jules was solely hers. A virgin birth as it were. She knew now she had lost all touch with reality. Jules at some point in his life was going to want to meet his father. Jules’ father might very well want to meet the son he had hitherto known nothing about. The only way she could avert such a thing happening was to keep them far apart. At least until Jules was of an age to undertake his own search for his biological father, who probably by now had children with his aristocratic wife. Impeccable breeding, of course. It was expected, after all. Someone had to inherit the baronetcy, keep up tradition. Social status was something to be cherished.

Cate made a massive effort to calm herself by focusing on how appalling things had been for her. Alicia, steely eyed, tall, rail-thin body vibrating as she told her to go away and not come back. All Alicia had ever been up to then had been no more than a bit on the snobbish side—a woman with a mindset stuck in the early twentieth century, very patronising to a young woman from the colonies, but pleasant enough. Then everything had abruptly changed. It had been crisis time, with Ashe away for a few days in London on family business. It had all been stunningly, shockingly sudden.

“There’s simply no place for you here, Catrina.” Alicia had spoken with a gleam of triumph in her slate-grey eyes. “My son has acknowledged that. I am sorry for you, my dear, but you allowed yourself false hopes. You made a terrible mistake, but then you’re so very young. So ignorant of the ways of the world. Frankly I did try to warn you. There are unwritten rules to our way of life. We all understand them. You don’t. You would never have fitted in. Marina was born for the role. Julian may have thought you special for a time, but now he knows he has to take a step back. Life is all about doing one’s duty, assuming one’s responsibilities.”

Cate hadn’t accepted that blindly. She had fought back claiming all were equal under the sun, her expression so combative any other woman but Alicia might have ducked for cover. She’d told Alicia she needed to hear it all from Ashe himself.

Ashe, please help me.

Only Ashe wasn’t there.

“That’s the thing, my dear. Julian is in London,” Alicia had countered, trying to sound pitying and only succeeding in sounding chilling. “He’s not there on business. I assumed you would guess that. He went away because he couldn’t bear to tell you himself. It was far from an easy decision but I helped him see it was the best way. Indeed the only way. You are both far too young. Julian simply didn’t realise you were taking him so utterly seriously. Holiday romances tend to fade pretty quickly, my dear. You’ll find that out when you get back to Australia. You have your own life. My son has his.”

And so she had vanished. It took her a couple of months more to come to the devastating realisation she was pregnant. Hello, pregnant? When they had practised safe sex. She had never trusted safe sex from there on. She was pregnant to a young man, to a family, who didn’t want her. Moreover would not be eager to know her child even if it had their blood. She wasn’t good enough. It was a grave situation and one of her own making. She had turned to the only mother she had ever known to help her.

Stella.

CHAPTER TWO

England, 2005

CATE HAD BEEN driving for miles through the picture-perfect English countryside, a patchwork of emerald-green fields bordered by woods, lovely towering trees and wondrously neat hedges. Miraculously it had stopped raining. She had only been in England a couple of weeks, and the rain had been falling without end. And, Lord, was it cold! The European winter was fast setting in. But for now the sun shone, however briefly, and what lay before her was a pastoral idyll, a symphony of soft misty colours. It made her feel good to be alive. On her own at last. Freedom! Was there anything so good? Freedom. She sang it aloud. No one to hear her anyway but the woolly white sheep that dotted the enchanting landscape. It was simply wonderful to be footloose and fancy free.

Her base for her gap year was the great historic city of London, squeezed into a teeny flat with two of her university-going pals. Not that they noticed the lack of life’s little luxuries to which all of them had long been accustomed. They were too busy enjoying themselves and exploring the cultural wonders the great city had to offer. This was to be a great year for them, their Grand Tour. Afterwards all three would embark on their chosen careers. Josh came from a long line of medical doctors, so it was Medicine for Josh. Sarah with her legal family would read Law. Cate had decided on the high-flying world of Big Business, maybe along the track of an MBA from Harvard? So that had meant an Economics degree. At school her brilliance at Maths had set her apart. That didn’t bother her. She had been something of an oddity all her life.

Why wouldn’t she have been, given her history? She had been raised not knowing who her biological parents were. That alone put a girl at a severe psychological disadvantage. But at least she had been adopted as a baby by a beautiful young Englishwoman who to her great sadness couldn’t carry a baby beyond a couple of months without suffering a miscarriage. She had come by all accounts as a gift from God, albeit a giveaway baby to the right couple. Stella and Arnold certainly were. She knew they loved her. She loved them. They were good people, kindness itself, encouraging her in every way. But she had never truly felt she belonged. Forever a step away. Despite all their efforts—and she had been a difficult child she had to admit—she was and remained, in her own mind at least, an outsider.

Stella had had no idea when Cate left Australia that her adopted daughter fully intended tracking down the Cotswold manor house where Stella and her sister, Annabel, had grown up. “Lady” Annabel, her ravishing adoptive aunt, had only visited her sister in Australia a mere handful of times in the last two decades. A true and loving sister. Annabel had remained in England where she married one Nigel Warren, knighted by the Queen for something or other and a seriously rich man many years her senior. Stella, on the other hand, had married someone her own age. The great mystery was Stella and her new husband had abandoned their gracious lives in England to migrate to the opposite end of the earth: Australia. An extraordinary move, one would have thought. They hadn’t arrived penniless, however. Quite the reverse, which surely had some significance? With private funds they had settled into a new life on the oldest continent on earth.

Surely though they had to be missing all this? Cate thought. Even the softly falling rain had its own enchantment. Home was Home, wasn’t it? This part of the world somewhat to her surprise—used as she was to a brilliant, eternally shining sun and vast open spaces—she found truly beautiful. Comforting. Oddly familiar. It was as though she had stepped into a wonderful English landscape painting by Constable. One with which she identified. That mystified her. Such a landscape couldn’t be further removed from where she had grown up. There the sun dominated. The rain when it came didn’t require one to keep a raincoat forever handy—often it required a boat.

For now she was intent on catching a glimpse of the manor house that had been in Stella’s family for many years. Yet Stella had chosen to abandon the country of her birth and what had to be a gracious heritage for the comparative wilderness. Cate had to think it was love. Arnold was as English as Stella. Both, even after twenty years, retained their upper-class English accents. A few of her schoolmates in the early days had dared to call her a “Pom”. They hadn’t done it twice. At least not to her face. But even she knew her accent was more English than English-Australian. Why wouldn’t it be the way she had grown up?

She had arrived in the village now, with no idea her life was poised for dramatic change. She pulled to the side of the street, then switched off the ignition of her little hire car, looking keenly around her. The village was so small but very pretty, dominated by what had to be original Tudor buildings with a handful of speciality shops. Glorious hanging baskets featured a spilling profusion of brightly coloured and scented flowers. She spotted a tea room, a picturesque old pub, The Four Swans, and a post office. There was a central park that had a lovely large pond. Over the green glassy surface glided the said four snow-white graceful swans. Her heart lifted. She stepped out of the car, rounding the bonnet, to enter the post office. Graceful in body and movement, she walked fast with a long confident stride.

A pleasant-faced woman carrying too much weight was behind the counter deep into a romance novel. A bodice ripper by the look of it. The woman glanced up with a welcoming smile as Cate entered. “Lost yourself, love?” She inserted a bookmark to mind her place.

Cate had to laugh. She had an excellent sense of direction. “Not really. I was enjoying this very beautiful part of the world.”

“So it is. So it is. I’m the postmistress among other things. Aussie, love?”

Cate’s smile widened. “At home more often than not I’m mistaken for a Pom.”

The woman nodded sagely. “Not the accent, love.” Upper-class English, but not quite, Joyce Bailey thought. “Something about your easy manner, the confident stride, the attitude.”

“Now that is flattery at its finest.” Cate gave a little mock bow.

The postmistress leant heavily on the counter. “I have family in Australia. Been out there a couple of times. Ah, life in the sun! The family, especially the kids, won’t come back now. They’re fair dinkum Aussies. So how can I help you?’

“Radclyffe Hall,” Cate said, moving closer. “Which way is it? I’m keen to take a glimpse.”

The postmistress abruptly sobered. “Great white elephant of a house. Lots of tragedy in that family. Sons that served in the army. Lost in all sorts of battles. Crimean, Balkan, First and Second World Wars, the Falklands. Enormous devastation, wars! The present Lord Wyndham who inherited when his older brother was killed doesn’t entertain much. Not like the old days. But the whole village has learned the historic gardens and the parklands are being restored. Be quite a challenge, I reckon. A famous landscape gardener has been working there for months. His aim is to bring the estate back to its former glory. Best of luck, we all say. We’ll have the tourists back in no time. The hall’s rose gardens used to be ever so famous. You won’t be able to get in, love. But you can enjoy the view. The manor house—it’s built out of our lovely honey-coloured Cotswold stone—stands on the top of the hill. Keep driving north out of town, no more than three miles on. Can’t miss it. All of them rolling acres belong to Lord Wyndham. Only had daughters. No surviving son. The estate is entailed so it will pass to another male member of the Radclyffe family once Lord Wyndham is gone.”

Cate absorbed all this information in utter silence. In truth she was poleaxed. Stella had rarely spoken of her former life. Stella had made secrecy an art form. Cate hadn’t even known the house where Stella and her younger sister, Annabel, had grown up was called Radclyffe Hall until fairly recently when she had overheard a conversation between Stella and Arnold. So this all came as a revelation. Lord Wyndham was Stella’s father. My God! Wasn’t Stella a woman for burying the past? Cate felt incensed but shook it off.

“What’s lunch like at the pub?” she asked, swiftly changing the subject. It would take time to absorb it all. Lots of time. Quietness to reflect.

“Second to none!” the postmistress declared stoutly.

“Think they can put me up for a few days?”

“I’d say so, love. Me and my hubby, Jack, run it. Shall I book you in?”

“If you would. My name is Cate Hamilton, by the way. I have ID in the car.” She half turned to go out and get it.

“Won’t be necessary, love,” the woman stayed her. “We’ll get the particulars when you return from your sightseeing jaunt. I’ll have your room prepared.”

“Thank you. You’re very kind, Mrs—”

“Bailey. Joyce Bailey.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Mrs Bailey.” Cate put out her hand. It was heart-lifting to be so warmly received.

Joyce Bailey took it. She just loved that radiant smile. Funny thing was the girl—she couldn’t have been more than eighteen—reminded her of someone. She tried to think who. No one who lived in the village. She was absolutely sure of that. She knew every last soul. But the smile, the girl’s beauty, struck some sort of chord. Maybe it would come to her some time. Never an oil painting, she suddenly remembered the beautiful Radclyffe girls, Stella and Annabel. Dark-haired both, with lovely melting dark eyes; Annabel had been considered the more beautiful of the two. The whole district had been stunned when Stella and her husband had taken off for Australia. Annabel had gone with them at the time. But Annabel had returned almost a year later to marry a baronet who carried her off to London.

It had taken little time for Lord and Lady Wyndham to adapt to losing their beautiful daughters. The loss of their son, the heir, in infancy was the big tragedy. Everything else rated far below the line. The death of the son had come as the great blow of their lives. Other losses could be sustained. It was well known in the village the Radclyffes were a dysfunctional family.

After Lady Wyndham died, her husband retreated from the world, seeing few visitors. The Australian girl had no chance of getting a glimpse inside the hall. She could get as far as the garden. Beautiful girls had a way of getting in where the ants couldn’t.

* * *

So her objective Radclyffe Hall was only a few miles away. Cate couldn’t help feeling a quickening excitement. She slipped back behind the wheel with a parting wave to Mrs Bailey who, intrigued, had come to the post office door to see her off. Cate was really looking forward to this excursion. Lunch too for that matter. She was hungry. Back on the road there was a continuation of the chequered green landscape, a tapestry with all its different textures. It had the most potent charm. She had the window wound down so she could feel the breeze against her cheek. This was a muted world of soft pastel shades, and a totally different quality of light. Even the underlying colour schemes were different. She was used to such a flamboyant palette.

Just when she thought it was all plain sailing, the engine of the little hire car gave a cough, then a splutter. She urged it onto the verge where it quietly died.

“Blast!” Cate hit the wheel with both hands. Clever she might be at maths, but a car mechanic she was not. She looked ahead, then back. Nothing coming. She could lock the car, then proceed on foot. She couldn’t be that far off her objective. But what about getting back again? She got out of the car, setting about lifting the bonnet to have a peer inside. Perhaps the car had overheated and she could restart it after a while. She heard a vehicle coming along the country road behind her. She didn’t turn around, trusting whoever it was would stop. Help out a young lady in distress. The English were mannerly helpful people. Or so she’d been told.

The resonant male voice when it came wasn’t in the least solicitous. It was unmistakably a young man’s voice, but it proclaimed the legendary public-school accent—Eton? Harrow? Maybe modernised a bit.

“Think you can handle it?”

She found herself bridling at the tone. It was shocking in its languidness. “Clear off,” she muttered, risking she would be overheard.

He pounced. “I did ask a question.”

“Really!” She spun around, shocked by the level of aggression that tone had provoked. “And I’m asking you one. What’s so funny? Do you want to help or are you just being bloody-minded?” Of course he was. She could spot it.

He gave her an extraordinarily beautiful if condescending smile. Humour the girl. Beautiful white teeth, perfectly even and straight. She felt all her nerve ends clench. “Exaggerating, aren’t you?” he asked ever so slowly, at the same time taking her in. “I only enquired if you can handle the problem.”

She couldn’t mask the irritation his persona engendered. Such feelings had never attacked her before. He was as handsome as the devil. Those eyes! She had never seen eyes so intensely blue. Sapphires set in coal-black lashes. A wave of jet-black hair flopped down onto his high forehead. His skin faintly dewed with perspiration was very fine, lightly tanned. He had a nose disagreeable to her. An aquiline beak, the bone as straight as a blade. You could get impaled on it. He was using it to good effect looking down it at her. Some girls would really fancy him. Most would actually. “I’ve never met with a problem up until today,” she told him shortly. “A less than efficient hire car, in fact a bit of a rattle trap. Steering a bit wobbly. But it’s been okay up to date, which doesn’t explain why the engine suddenly died on me.”

“Would you allow me to take a look?” he asked, mock super suave. He wafted an elegant hand in the air. The Scarlet Pimpernel dressed like a gardener, square shoulders, narrow hips, tight jeans, navy jersey, a red kerchief tied loosely around his neck for a bit of dash, high muddy boots.

Cate didn’t rush to answer. “Know about cars, do you? I didn’t catch your name?”

“Nosey Parker,” he said, moving to stand beside her. Suddenly she was dwarfed when she wasn’t all that short: five-four.

She knew she was being terribly ungracious, but her feelings of hostility were expanding by the minute. “Suits you,” she commented.

From peering into the car, he stood to attention running his vivid blue eyes over her flushed face. Eyes that sparkled and snaffled her up. She preferred soft eyes. Gentle, humorous eyes. Brown maybe. “Have you been drinking?” he asked.

She couldn’t ignore that. “Right! You can smell the fumes, can you?”

“You could have stopped off at The Four Swans,” he answered, continuing to study her keenly.

She might have stepped out of a wrecked space shuttle instead of a beat-up piece of British engineering. Cate’s blonde head snapped up. “Ha, ha and ha! Apart from being nosey, you’re downright rude.”

“No different from you,” he returned with the arrogance that had to be bred into him. “Looks like we’ve rubbed each other up the wrong way.”

“You don’t stand a chance of rubbing up against me,” she said tartly. “So what’s wrong with the car, or don’t you know? I’d say you were used to leaving all that to the chauffeur. No doubt you’re the centre of someone’s solar system?”

“Perfectly true. How did you know?” He got into the car, making a business of squirming before cranking back the seat as though the car had previously been driven by a midget. He then switched on the engine, which kicked over briefly, then gave up the ghost. “The reason for your breakdown—tempestuous little Aussie that you are—is you’re out of petrol,” he announced as he got out.

For a moment Cate was seriously embarrassed. “Nonsense! It was reading a quarter full. Or near enough. And stop staring at me as though I’m from another planet.”

He laughed. “To be perfectly honest I didn’t know extraterrestrials came ravishingly pretty.”

Had she blushed? Damn it, she had. “Don’t feel the need to flatter me.”

“I thought it was a plain statement of fact. As for my opinion of your manner? Prickly as a rose bush. Now, the petrol gauge is obviously not reading true. Where are you going anyway?”

She backtracked. “How did you know I’m an Australian?” she asked as though that created a definite barrier.

“I’d rather not say.” He shut his mouth firmly. It was a very good mouth, a clean sensual line above his chiselled jaw. The edges were faintly upturned. She found herself noting all the little details. She really had to concentrate on something other than his mouth. She felt in her bones he would be a great kisser. It would be interesting to see what happened if he suddenly grabbed her.

“Why would that be?”

“Maybe I’m frightened you’ll attack me.” His sapphire eyes were alive with mockery.

Did her heart turn over? Something in her chest did. Even her legs were feeling a bit flimsy. Nevertheless she took a step forward. “You find Australians threatening?”

Instantly he took a step back, holding up his elegant hands in a gesture of appeasement. “On the contrary, I like Australians. Within reason.”

Cate gave up. He had a very engaging laugh. It made her want to laugh back. “I was on my way to Radclyffe Hall. You would know it.”

“Why exactly?” he asked, with an unexpected frown. “Why Radclyffe Hall?”

Cate’s turn to frown. “Look, can’t we drop the interrogation? I just want to look at it.”

“Then you’ll have to do it from afar,” he said.

“I never said I wanted to drop in for tea and scones.” She tilted her chin. God, he was tall! “What’s your name, by the way?”

“Ashe.”

“Ash?” She raised a supercilious brow. “Your parents called you Ash?” she asked, feigning incredulity. “I’ve never met anyone called Ash. I take it that’s Ashe with an e?”

“Julian Ashton,” he informed her, looking impossibly, unbearably superior. “And you are?”

She considered not telling him. Only she could use his help. “Catrina Hamilton. My family and friends call me Cate.”

“Then I shall call you Catrina.”

“That’s okay. Please do, Ashe. So are you going to help me out?”

He shrugged a shoulder. His body was perfectly proportioned, giving the strong impression of superb physical fitness. “How can I? I’m heading in the opposite direction,” he retorted carelessly.

Cate didn’t know what to make of that. “I understood Englishmen were gentlemen,” she said with sudden dismay. “You must be a rare species.”

He shook his head, loosening the satiny black wave that had stuck to his forehead. “Our womenfolk are much sweeter and more persuasive than you.” He sounded deeply grateful for the fact.

“You must know only quiet, controllable creatures. Does this mean you’re going to leave me stranded on a lonely country road?”

He considered a while, looking this way and that. “An apology might be in order,” he suggested.

“We take it in turns, do we?” she asked. Goodness, he could only be a handful of years older than she, maybe twenty-three or four, but with an imperiousness well beyond his years.

“Okay then. I’m off.” From nonchalance he was energised, turning purposefully towards his parked four-wheel drive.

“So much for being a gentleman, then,” she called after him severely. “Go on. Drive away.” He looked very much as if he was going to. “All right, sorry.” She only said it because that was what he wanted.

Immediately he swung back, beckoning her towards his vehicle, a dusty banged-up Range Rover. “Come along,” he called briskly as though it were possible he’d change his mind. “I’ll run you up to the hall, then send someone back with a can of petrol to pick up your old bomb. The only thing that surprises me is you didn’t finish up in a ditch.”

Cate swallowed a put-down. No need to antagonise him further. Maybe his turning up was an omen?

Good or bad she couldn’t yet tell.

Courteously he held the door for her. His fingers brushed against hers, setting off such an explosion of sparks it almost had her crying, “Ouch!”

Inside the battered Range Rover, the sparks continued to jump the distance between them. It radiated a heat through her body, to her arm, her breasts, her stomach, working its way lower. Every last nerve ending seemed to be on fire. What she had to do was separate her body from her mind. Difficult. She was experiencing the sort of dizziness one had when in the company of someone overwhelmingly attractive. He was definitely not gay. She had gay mates. Love was love wherever cupid’s arrow fell was her reasoning. This guy was powerfully heterosexual. Married? She found herself hoping he wasn’t. He was too young for a start.

* * *

He stopped the Range Rover at a certain point. She could see why. It offered a sublime view of Radclyffe Hall. It sat high on a hill overlooking the beautiful countryside and the rolling hills.

It was an extraordinary moment for Cate. She felt a disconcerting prick of tears, blinking them back before he saw them. Whatever she had been expecting, the postmistress’s “great white elephant of a house” in an advanced state of decay, it surely wasn’t this. She couldn’t remain in the vehicle. She threw open the door and jumped out onto the lush green verge, holding a hand to her sunstruck eyes.

He joined her, staring down at her as though faintly perplexed. “Not what you expected?”

Her tone was soft, almost reverent. “Wow, oh, wow! To be honest I’m a bit in shock.”

“Why exactly?” He sounded as though he really wanted to know.

She almost told him why. It was on the tip of her tongue. The moment when she would confide her adoptive mother was Stella Radclyffe that was. Only caution, grounded in childhood, took over. She didn’t know it then but her secret history was in the making.

“Well, it’s some house, so grand. Georgian, I think. The symmetry, the balance, the adherence to classical rules. Chimneys rising to either side of the gabled roof.” One-storey wings had been built to the left and right of the imposing central building most probably at a much later date.

“Correct,” he said briefly, his eyes glittering. “The hall was built in the late fifteen hundreds by Thomas Willoughby-Radclyffe of Cotswold stone. It’s stood for over four hundred years but for a long time now it’s been in great need of repair. The house and the estate—it’s been reduced to around three hundred acres with tenant cottages—belong to Lord Wyndham. He hasn’t enjoyed good health for some time now. In fact he’s quite frail.”

Four hundred years?

Shock wasn’t too strong a word. Why had it been so important to Stella to cover up her past? “Do you know Lord Wyndham?” she turned to ask, her eyes on his profile. Oddly enough she was getting used to that aquiline beak.

“I’m working on a large project there at the moment,” he said by way of a response. An evasion if ever there was one. “The restoration of the hall’s once famous gardens, particularly the rose gardens. It had become something of a wilderness, quite a challenge, but Lord Wyndham hired a world-famous landscape designer, David Courtland.”

She was fortunate she had grown up with a passionate gardening team, Stella and Arnold, who had passed on their passion to her. “I’ve heard of him.” She nodded. “I’m assuming you’re the gardener?”

“You could say that.”

“A pretty posh one, if you don’t mind my saying so.” Her amazing lime-green eyes flashed mockery.

“Don’t mind in the least. If you’re very good between here and the hall I’ll let you see over the garden. It has a number of ‘rooms’ but Dave has begun a new project. He’s in London for a couple of days.”

“Leaving you in charge? Call him Dave, do you?” she asked provocatively.

“The first strike against you,” he clipped off.

“Ah, come on.”

“Get back in the car.”

“Certainly, m’lord.”

And so it began. The great star-crossed love affair of her life.

CHAPTER THREE

The present.

HUGH SAUNDERS stood up to perform the introductions, a delighted smile on his lean, tanned face. Each member of the team and their specific function was acknowledged. Handshakes all round. Murphy Stiller’s habitual glare was replaced by a sunburst. When it came to Cate’s turn she actually considered fleeing the room, like a woman teetering on the brink of a major crack-up. For all the little niggles of nameless anxiety the last thing her mind had focused on was this momentous blast from the past. Would he now confound her and say, “But I know you, surely? It’s Catrina Hamilton, isn’t it?” all the while pinning her with his blazing blue eyes?

He did no such thing. Not a muscle on his striking face moved. He calmly took her hand. God, was she bound to him for ever? Even that brief, cool contact evoked such grief, such remembered pain she almost moaned. This time it seemed he had no mind to be cruel. All that came was the usual rhetorical “how do you do?” requiring no answer. Somehow she was able to resume her seat. She had to cast out her devils. And fast. At least her blood was coursing around her body again. A few fraught moments, then she was able to regain enough composure to not put her job in jeopardy.

As CEO, Hugh Saunders dealt with matters mostly but when he turned for her input she was able to contribute from a wealth of research. Her brain was on autopilot. Not for the first time in her career but never when she was in such a high emotional state.

“Absolutely right, Cate.” Hugh spoke with approval. Always rely on Cate to give clear concise answers, he thought. Nothing routine. Outside the box. She was one classy young woman, with high-grade diplomacy skills. He admired her capacities and shrewd gut instincts. Gut instincts he considered important. They provided an edge. Even more importantly, never once in his experience had she attempted to capitalise on her beauty.

For some reason Murphy Stiller had suffered a collapse of her usual supreme confidence so Cate was invited to speak out more often. It might have been a triumph despite Murphy’s periodic grunts. Murphy was looking a bit as if she wanted to kill someone, preferably Cate. Cate for her part was falling back heavily on experience. Wyndham’s questions when they came were brusque, very explicit. It was obvious to everyone seated around the table he was well acquainted with big business, Money Business. They all knew it was conducted in a certain way, bland enough on the surface, underneath extremely tough. He wasn’t relying on his advisors. He was managing his own negotiations. While the team was taking the fifth Baron Wyndham’s measure he was taking theirs. In the course of the meeting it was revealed he had substantial investments in the mining sector of Chile and Canada. Although the vast State of Western Australia was the usual target for their investors, Cate suggested Queensland as an excellent alternative. Mining drove the Queensland economy just as it did W.A. The traditional bases of wealth created over several generations were being overtaken by mining magnates, some of them surprisingly young. These men were fast rising to the top of the Rich List, rubbing shoulders with the multibillionaires.

Eventually the meeting broke up. Discussions had been intense. A follow-up meeting was scheduled for midweek.

Cate was still concerned he was going to expose her. As what, for God’s sake? No one on the planet outside Stella knew Lord Wyndham was the father of her child. Not a single soul since dear Arnold had passed away after two very painful years of battling lung cancer. Her adoptive father always had smoked too much.

Hugh’s up mood was infectious. They were moving out of the boardroom, when he suddenly brought up Wyndham’s other interest. Buying land on some beautiful Whitsunday island.

“Just a moment, Cate.” For some reason Cate was moving away too fast.

“Yes, sir.” She turned back.

“Cate here might very well have the answer to your Barrier Reef island retreat,” he told Wyndham.

“No.” Wyndham responded suavely.

“Cate works hard at everything she does,” said Hugh. “She has managed to build a very good relationship with a lady, Lady McCready actually, now in her mid-eighties, who owns a small but fabulous Whitsunday island called Isla Bella.”

“After one of Italy’s great gardens perhaps or simply a beautiful island?” he asked without looking at Cate.

“Lady McCready did confide she and her husband named their island after a trip to Italy,” Cate said. “They loved Italy and the wonderful gardens.”

Now he looked down his blade of a nose at her. “The island is for sale?”

“Could be. Could be,” Hugh broke in, somewhat puzzled by a certain tension in the atmosphere. He had an instinct for such things.

“You have doubts, Ms Hamilton?” Wyndham asked, his tone faintly brittle.

“Up to a point, yes. Lady McCready is very much against exploitation of her island. No boutique hotels for the rich and their … friends. Certainly no tourist destination. The island has been her home since the death of her husband. She would never be budged on an investment.”

Before Hugh could intervene Wyndham pre-empted him. “Let me make it quite clear, Ms Hamilton. It’s a private home I wish to build. A tropical retreat for me and my family. Hopefully a few friends will be allowed. I’m a very busy man. Occasionally I like getting away from it all. This is the first trip I’ve been able to make to Australia. I very much like what I see. The Great Barrier Reef is one of the great wonders of the world. I intend to see it while I’m here.”

“Wonderful!” Hugh said, giving Cate the beginnings of a sharpish look. “If you are seriously interested, perhaps Cate could contact Lady McCready. She trusts Cate, you see.”

For a fleeting instant Wyndham looked as though he wouldn’t trust her for a minute. “Perhaps we could discuss it over dinner this evening,” he suggested, as though formalising the matter, making it a business call.

“Cate?” Hugh prompted, his grey gaze turning faintly steely.

Hugh was as near to perturbed as she had seen him. Her behaviour, she knew, wasn’t being consistent. She always did what was expected. The intelligent, indeed the only, thing to do.

Her training took over. “Certainly, Lord Wyndham,” she said, demonstrating her loyalty to the firm. “That would be lovely. I could in the meantime see if I can contact Lady McCready.”

“With that happy thought in mind,” he said smoothly, “perhaps you can recommend a restaurant. You know Sydney. I don’t.”

“C’est Bon!” Cate and Hugh said together.

“I could pick you up at your hotel,” Cate said, trying hard to be charming for Hugh’s sake. “Shall we say eight o’clock?”

“Are you sure I couldn’t pick you up at your home?” Wyndham asked, a glitter in his sapphire eyes. “A limo has been put at my disposal.”

“It’s quite a drive,” said Cate quite untruthfully. “Really, Lord Wyndham, it suits me perfectly to pick you up. No trouble at all.”

“Well, that’s settled!” Hugh made the emphatic announcement while wondering at the same time what was going on. The fact Cate and Lord Wyndham were antagonistic hadn’t been lost on him. It wasn’t as though Wyndham didn’t approve of career women. He had caught the gleam of respect in his razor-sharp glance as Cate demonstrated her expertise. Perhaps they would settle down over dinner. He sincerely hoped so. This was a big deal for Inter-Austral. Wyndham was prepared to invest a heap of money. Obviously the man was massively rich. Cate was right: Queensland was emerging as the hot spot. The state had huge potential expanding on the back of the resources sector. Australia for that matter had one of the highest concentrations of wealth in the world: one super-rich individual per eight thousand or so as opposed to around thirty-seven thousand globally. Lord Wyndham had come to the right place.

Stella, an exceedingly observant woman, saw the upset in Cate’s face the moment she walked through the door. It was as still as a marble carving. “Cate, what’s up? Are you going to tell me?” Stella, whose whole background had been a gigantic puzzle, perversely demanded she know everything in Cate’s life. It had taken Cate many long years to realise Stella in her own quiet way was very controlling.

Cate put her expensive leather handbag down on the marble-topped console in the entrance hall, wondering how best to break the momentous news.

Stella took her silence for refusal and began to walk away, obviously offended.

Cate followed Stella, taking hold of her arm. “Where’s Jules?” she asked urgently.

Stella turned to stare at her. “Why, he’s in his bedroom playing the video game you bought him. He’s done his homework. Never have to tell him. He really is a remarkable child.”

“Come into the living room.” Cate kept her voice significantly lower. It was their favourite room, furnished with a mix of Asian and Western antiques. Three plush white leather sofas faced the magnificent view across the sparkling blue satin water to the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House. The wide covered deck to the rear was the only major structural change they had made. It had been worth every penny.

“So what is it, then?” Stella set a silk cushion aside as she continued to study the face of her adopted daughter. Both of them had kept Annabel’s secret and agreed they would continue to. Cate, however, had stopped calling Stella Mum. Whether she was aware of it or not she had never really thought of Stella as her mum. Jules called Stella Nan. Maybe it wasn’t going to stay that way, Cate thought with a funny little stab of premonition.

“Something extraordinary happened today,” she announced, collapsing beside Stella. “I have trouble even getting it out.”

“You might try,” Stella said, a formless anxiety starting to spread through her. “You’ve lost your job?” She squeezed her eyes shut. Cate lived such a high-powered life. She handled incredible sums of money. Could something have gone wrong? Big mistakes happened.

“That might have been easier.” Cate impatiently kicked off her high-heeled shoes. “I can’t put off telling you—”

“But you are, dear,” Stella stressed somewhat impatiently.

Cate had seen that coming. “All right! You have to know. Of all the men in the world—you’re not going to believe this, so steel yourself—Julian Carlisle, the present Baron Wyndham, walked into the boardroom this very morning.”

Stella threw up her arms as though she were going to dive into water. “For God’s sake!” Now she bent over as if in pain, winding her arms tight around her body like some form of shield.

“Exactly,” Cate seconded grimly. Since the revelation that Annabel was her mother, not Stella, Stella’s penchant for secrecy loomed large in Cate’s mind.

“Has he come in search of you?” Stella asked, as though sensing big trouble ahead. “Has he come in search of Jules?”

“How could he? He knows nothing about Jules.” Cate was sorry for the way the colour had faded out of Stella’s face. In her early fifties, Stella was still a fine-looking woman. She had kept her slim figure; her thick dark hair was stylishly cut. She had excellent skin and lovely dark eyes. There was no physical resemblance between aunt and niece. For that matter, Cate didn’t even resemble her biological mother, Annabel. Annabel never had confessed who Cate’s father was, but he had to have been blond with light eyes. “He doesn’t know Jules exists,” Cate said so harshly, she might have been willing it to remain so. “I’m certain he hasn’t found out anything in all these years. He had his own life then. He has it now. I’ve been no part of it. Probably a vaguely unpleasant memory.”

“You hardly came from the wrong side of the tracks,” Stella burst out indignantly. “I never did understand why you didn’t tell him about us.”

“My God, Stella, that’s good coming from you.” Cate couldn’t help ramming that point home. “How would I have known about us when you told me nothing? It was as if it was none of my business.”

Stella flushed. The truth was hard to take. “I was trying to protect you.”

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