Welcome to the intensely emotional world of USA TODAY bestselling author 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

“I’ve never in my life been kissed like that.”

He kept his eyes on her lovely face. Her expression appeared overwrought. He wanted to kiss her again. He hadn’t found the extra strength to free her, but he knew he had to call a stop. “Would you want to change anything?” He brushed back a few springy tendrils from her temples.

Carol took time to find an answer. “You could break my heart, Damon. I’d forgive you.”

Her answer rocked him. For the second time he had to pitch a fierce battle for control. Eventually his sense of what was best for them won out. He lifted her to her feet. “I would never do that.”

“Not deliberately. No.” Carol placed her hands against his chest.

They had left their close and comfortable relationship way behind. That relationship had taken a giant leap into the unknown. Those ecstatic moments between them could not be taken back. Unforgettable as they were, it didn’t guarantee ownership over the other or increasing intimacy between them. There were hazards ahead for both of them to overcome.

About the Author

USA TODAY bestselling author MARGARET WAY was born and raised in the River City of Brisbane, capital of Queensland, Australia. A conservatorium trained professional musician, in 1969 she decided to fulfill a childhood dream to write a book and have it published. She submitted a manuscript to the iconic publishing firm of Mills & boon ® in London. To her delight, the manuscript received immediate acceptance. The first book, King Country, published in 1970, was an outstanding success that heralded the start of a long and very successful career. The author hopes and believes the two goals she set herself since the beginning of her writing career have been achieved: first and foremost, to bring pleasure and relaxation to her global readership; second, to open up a window to the world on her own beautiful, unique country, captivating the hearts of her readers as they identify with rural and outback Australia and the Dreamtime culture of its Australian indigenous people. An award-winning author of more than one hundred and thirty books, published in one hundred and fourteen countries in thirty-four languages, Margaret Way is a three-time finalist for a Romance Writers of Australia RUBY Award.

Guardian to
the Heiress
Margaret Way

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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PROLOGUE

IT WASN’T THE BEST of times for Selwyn Chancellor. Lying in his massive carved mahogany bed, he was moving in and out of consciousness, lost in a darkening sea of foreboding. Wave upon wave of memories tossed him about. Figures came and went. All the while his fragmented dreams were attended by excruciating pain that morphine was barely touching.

He was dying; he knew that. He welcomed death. It would come as a relief—that from a man who had lived his life refusing to face the fact one day he would die like everybody else. Only, he wasn’t everyone else, was he? He was Selwyn Chancellor, billionaire several times over, a man of power and wide-reaching influence, rich beyond even his own dreams. He had lived and would die a rich man, president of the Chancellor Group, a conglomeration of trading companies, real-estate companies, manufacturing enterprises, transport services and insurance, with investments in many countries around the globe.

The father he had worshipped, Sir Edwin Chancellor, knighted by the Queen for his services to industry, had always urged him to excellence. His father at the end of his days had prophesised his brilliant future: I know I can count on you, Selwyn, to build on my achievements. I leave the Chancellor Group in safe hands.

His father, a legendary hard-nosed pragmatist, had been proud of him. His father’s approval had meant everything in the world to him; but none of that counted now. At the end of his extraordinary life he had been forced to concede the moments of true happiness in his life had been few and far between. He’d known some would genuinely mourn him just as he’d known the minute their family doctor, Harry McDowell, declared him dead “the Vultures” would move in.

“The Vultures” was his private name for his family. Not very nice, but justified. There was his son Maurice, by his deeply reserved wife, Elaine. His son’s wife, Dallas, who had started out so attractive but had quickly gone to seed. At least Elaine had never done that, but Elaine had been unfitted by temperament to be the wife of an increasingly powerful man. To bring her lifestyle traumas to a head, had come the premature death of their beloved son Adam, their first born. Not all that long after, Elaine had ended her own life, though the coronial finding had labelled it an accident.

He knew better. He knew it all. Tragedy had clung to him. Maybe he had brought it on, however unwittingly.

It was Adam who was to have succeeded him; Adam who had all the necessary skills and strength of character to step into his shoes. Maurice, his younger son, had always lived in Adam’s shadow, never effective enough in any of the family businesses, too indolent and too greedy to strike out on his own. The same could be said of Maurice’s son—his playboy grandson Troy—who, of all of them, had taken the most pleasure in watching him die. Oh, the boy had covered it well, even feigning sorrow, but Selwyn could read his grandson like a book. Troy was and always would be hungry for money. Not that all three of them wouldn’t have their hands out for their share. He knew there would be plenty of in-fighting. Blood was thinner than water when it came to money.

In a moment of blessed clarity he saw the stocky white-clad nurse move away from the window, checking her watch. Time for another injection. The woman had an obsession with punctuality. He saw her place her tray on the bedside table then pick up a syringe, flicking it to expel air, preparatory to injecting the powerful drug into his near-useless arm. She was about to jab him when he summoned up all his remaining strength, startling her so badly she let out a shriek. A fruit bat couldn’t have done it any better.

“Leave it, woman. Leave me be. Go away.”

Her mouth opened and closed like a beached fish, but whatever she wanted to say she thought better of it. No words emerged. He supposed, with bitter humour, she could understand his family’s wishing to be rid of the old tyrant. She wasn’t such a fool that she wouldn’t have cottoned on to the fact his family was a seething cauldron of emotions. Over the past week of his serious decline he had witnessed those emotions coming to a rolling boil. One of them could even take it into their head to finish him off; an overdose of a powerful drug would be especially tempting. A soft pillow held down just long enough?

“Well, then, what are you waiting for?” he rasped.

“Doctor McDowell will be here around two.” She spoke in a reproachful way.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

A flash of hostility came into her eyes. “You’ll be requiring another injection well before that, sir.”

“Don’t get lippy with me, woman. Get out of here. If you allow any member of my family into this room, it means instant dismissal.”

A sweat had broken out on the nurse’s forehead. She was extremely well-paid, well-housed and well-fed. No one had wanted to look after the old man. “Is there anything I can do before I go?”

“Wh-a-t?” Selwyn Chancellor had all but forgotten her. “No. Just go.”

The nurse went, wearing an aggrieved face.

Alone, all alone, on a storm-tossed sea.

One was always alone when dying. He could hear his own laboured breathing. Maybe death was freedom? Nice to think so. Maybe he would meet up again with the people he had loved and lost. Maybe they would come for him? The thought made him smile. And as he smiled he was granted one last vision…

“These are for you, Poppy.” A beautiful little girl, five years old with a crown of ruby-red curls, put a posy of spring flowers into his hand.

“They’re lovely, sweetheart!” he exclaimed, burying his nose in the fragrant offering, knowing he was risking a barrage of sneezes. “Thank you so much.”

“I love you, Poppy,” she told him, dancing around happily. Carol was never still. Little Carol, the only person in the world to love him unreservedly.

“I love you, too, my darling,” he said with perfect sincerity. He was seated out on the rear terrace, finishing off a last cup of coffee before setting off for the city. Time to go. He stood up, a tall, vigorous man, taking her soft little hand.

“What are you going to do today?” he asked. It was a Saturday. He knew her mother, Roxanne, wouldn’t bother taking her anywhere. The proverbial cat was a better mother than Roxanne, but he had employed an excellent nanny, a highly qualified, pleasant, middle-aged woman, experienced with looking after children. She and Carol got on famously.

“Can’t you and Daddy stay home and be with me, Poppy?” she implored.

“Not possible, sweetheart,” he said, brushing a hand over her springy curls. “Your father and I have business to attend to. Important business.”

“Can’t it wait?” She was impatient.

“Afraid not,” he said, casting around for something to appease her. “What about tomorrow? We could take a run out to Beaumont. How would that suit you?” He would have to make the time and effort, but his granddaughter was worth it.

She clapped her hands, looking up at him with sparkling cerulean-blue eyes. “That would be wonderful. You’re the best poppy in the whole wide world,” she announced, picking up his large hand and kissing it…

He couldn’t suppress a sob. Tears stung his eyes. It hadn’t been all that much longer before his little sweetheart had disappeared from his life along with his son Adam. His emotions had changed rapidly, savagely, from a reasonable contentment to a grief-stricken hatred. But he had kept his eye on his granddaughter, albeit from afar. Powerful as he then was, a mother had proved to be more powerful. But he had seen to it his little Carol was well provided for. The treacherous Roxanne had remarried a City identity, Jeff Emmett, a scant eighteen months after Adam’s death, but she had gone on sending him all the bills pertaining to Carol’s upkeep. Greed. As Adam’s widow, she had benefited greatly. He had paid up unquestioningly. Hadn’t he built up scrapbook after scrapbook of Carol’s young life and achievements over the years? He had watched her from a distance, locked away in the back seat of his Rolls. He’d had his best, most discreet private investigator keep an eye on her, her mother and stepfather.

A year before, when he had found out he had cancer—and not gall trouble, as he had supposed—he had called in a solicitor. Not steady-as-she-goes Marcus Bradfield, senior partner of Bradfield Douglass, but the new young fellow—the associate, Damon Hunter—the one who had come up with all the fresh ideas to save his companies’ money. It was Hunter who had drawn up his new will. Selwyn had urged him to get shot of Bradfield Douglass and go out on his own, though he was sure in time the young man would be offered a full partnership. It could be no more than his due.

He’d had plenty of experience picking the ones who would go to the top. Nevertheless he’d had Hunter thoroughly investigated. He had come up trumps in all departments. Hunter was chosen to guard Carol’s money and her interests until she turned twenty-one the following August. God knew, Hunter was young himself, but he had been when he’d started to make his mark. Hunter was his man.

Carol was family more than anyone else. Carol was Adam’s daughter, Adam’s only child. Adam had planned on more children, only life had cheated all three of them—most of all his sad, sweet Elaine. It was his turn now to cheat the gathering Vultures.

In his very last moments, Selwyn Chancellor was rewarded with another vision of his granddaughter, the last time he had seen her. Had she looked across the busy city street, she would have spotted the luxury car but she had been too busy chatting to one of her girlfriends, a fellow university student he had seen her with several times. She looked so beautiful, so vital, and beyond that so happy, a sense of peace had settled on him. He had always blamed himself—at least in part—for the way things had turned out, but now he felt a burden was lifted from his shoulders. He trusted Damon Hunter to look after Carol’s best interests and he wasn’t a man given to trust.

He had to be hallucinating—his poor head was so sick and muddled—but he fancied he saw his little Elaine come to stand at the end of his bed. His immediate reaction was to hold out his hand.

“Is that you, Elaine?” he whispered, straining upwards.

She didn’t speak, but she drew nearer, like the spirit appointed to take care of his soul.

His vision grew clearer. It was Elaine. She was shining, a silver haze surrounding her. He wasn’t afraid; he was eager to join her.

Selwyn Chancellor reached out to take his wife’s hand.

A farewell to arms.

CHAPTER ONE

DAMON HUNTER WAS placing some files into his briefcase when Marcus Bradfield walked through the open door of his office, an attempt at a solemn expression on his handsome, fleshy face. Oddly enough, the extra padding in his cheeks lent him the air of a middle-aged cherub. “Bit of news.”

Damon broke off what he was doing, directly meeting his boss’s gaze. “Don’t tell me—Selwyn Chancellor’s dead.”

“Exactly right.” Bradfield sank heavily into one of the armchairs in front of Damon’s desk. Bradfield was an affluent man, born of wealth, well-respected, a leading light of the city’s elite. His grandfather, Patrick Bradfield, had been one of the original partners who had founded Bradfield Douglass. “Maurice rang me.” A faint smile spread across Bradfield’s face. “He did his best, but he didn’t sound all that grief-stricken.”

“Difficult when you’re glad,” Damon commented briefly. He had no time for Maurice Chancellor. Ditto for Champagne Charlie, the son Troy. “Why didn’t he ring me, as well? I’m handling the will.”

“Maurice likes to deal with the top people, Damon,” Brad-field said with a smirk. “Selwyn Chancellor has employed this firm for many long years. I’m a full partner. You’re still an associate. Am I right?”

“And I’m quite sure there will be a full partnership on offer in the near future,” Damon countered, knowing it to be true. He had brought a lot of new business to the firm. In fact, he was gaining a reputation in the City as the can-do guy. “I still say he should have rung me, after he rang you.” He held firm. “That was the correct thing to do.”

“Poor man was in shock.” Bradfield gave way to a wry chuckle. “I said I’d tell you.”

“Not good enough! Did he tell you he’d contacted Carol Emmett, his niece? The family may have been estranged for years, but clearly she must be told.”

“Didn’t mention young Carol.” Bradfield waved that one away. “Why would he? He hasn’t acknowledged her since the big rift. Now there’s a beautiful girl. Met her a number of times. She darn nearly charmed the pants off me.”

“You wish.”

“Okay, so I’m getting on, as my dear wife never fails to remind me. Bit wild, young Carol, I hear.”

“Just young,” Damon clipped off, thinking Carol Emmett not only looked a handful she was bound to be one. “She has to know.”

“I dare say the old man remembered her?” Bradfield gave Damon one of his guileless stares.

“He did that.” Damon kept his face neutral. “She was his granddaughter.”

“He paid her no attention at all!” Condemnation was in Bradfield’s blue eyes. Marcus was a staunch family man with three daughters of marriageable age.

“As far as you know.”

Marcus gave him a long, searching look. “Damon, you know as well as I do, the family as good as abandoned her and her mother. Now, there’s a swinger, that Roxanne! A real glamour girl, though no one seems to like her. You should hear my wife! Another thing, my boy—”

“I’m not your boy, Marcus.”

“Another thing, my man, Maurice wants this kept quiet until morning when the press will be informed. Selwyn Chancellor was an important man. The premier could even want a state funeral.”

“Against Selwyn Chancellor’s wishes?” Damon shook his head. “He stipulated a quiet funeral, family and a few chosen friends only. He is to be buried in the garden of his country home, Beaumont, where I assume he died. Carol is to be invited.”

“Not Jeff and Roxanne?” Bradfield asked as though that violated some set of rules.

“No way. Jeff Emmett might be one of your ‘good ole boys,’ but he and Roxanne are specifically excluded.”

“So bygones won’t be bygones? We all know Selwyn and his wife—what was her name again?”

“Elaine,” Damon supplied.

“Blamed Roxanne for the death of their son Adam, the heir apparent. It was a bit suspicious you have to admit—all set to go through the Heads for a good day’s sailing, only Adam takes a wallop on the head from the boom on the mainsail before pitching into the harbour. Roxanne tries to chuck in a lifebuoy, finds it unfastened but still attached, so she throws in every cushion to hand, anything that would float. Meanwhile the boat is moving on at around eight knots.”

“She couldn’t swim. That much was true.”

“I’ve always said, men don’t teach their wives enough about boats and light aircraft. They rely on always being there.”

“I agree. Roxanne was believed.”

“Not by everybody.” Bradfield sighed. “Even to mention the case to my darling wife is to get into a heated argument. Old Selwyn didn’t believe her; the mother was the more vehement of the two. She never accepted the coroner’s finding. We’re both yachtsmen so we know what can happen. But Adam Chancellor’s parents continued to hold their daughter-in-law guilty of some crime.”

“Maybe she was,” Damon suggested. “She certainly acted strangely in the days that followed—not a sign of a tear, always dressed up to the nines. Not that that makes her guilty of anything. But the whole thing was a bit strange; I’ve read up on it all. The tragedy damn near split the city in two. But, whatever story Roxanne Chancellor told, it worked. As far as I’m concerned, more questions were asked than there were answers for.”

Bradfield stared down at his locked hands, as though they might hold the answer. “Speculation won’t get us anywhere. It was years ago. Just about everyone has forgotten.”

“Not true, Marcus.”

“Why so judgemental?” Bradfield asked, not wanting to take the issue further. “The verdict is what counts. Jeff Em-mett did the right thing—he adopted Roxanne’s little daughter not long after they were married.”

“I’m sure Roxanne forced him into it. No love lost between her and the Chancellor family.” Damon gathered up his briefcase. “Look, I’m out of here. It’s been a long day.” For some time now he had been the first to arrive and often the last to leave.

Marcus cranked to his feet. He had put on a good deal of weight in the past few years, with his tailor gamely keeping pace. “Me, too. They mightn’t have slung Roxanne into jail, as some in the family no doubt wanted, but she copped plenty of torture. You’ll want to tell your client as soon as possible.”

Damon started to the door. “I intend to.”

Bradfield stayed him with a hand on his shoulder. “You’re coming Saturday night?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” Damon managed to sound enthusiastic when he didn’t really want to go to Julie Bradfield’s just-the-right-side-of-thirty birthday party.

“Every night I go down on my knees and pray my Julie finds a good husband,” Marcus confided. One prayer stuck in the groove; Damon knew Marcus had his eye on him.

“And I’m sure she’ll find one.” Damon gave his boss a reassuring smile.

As long as it’s not me.

He knew her address; one of the inner suburbs. She had moved out of the Emmett house as soon as she’d started university. He knew she was studying law, a good student who could do so much better if she put her mind to it. He had his sources at the university where he had graduated top of his class. Carol Emmett wasn’t known as a party girl precisely, but the word was she was “wildly popular.” She was certainly social. There was hardly a venue she visited where she wasn’t photographed by what passed for the paparazzi. He knew her by her press coverage. She was ravishingly pretty, if pint-sized, with a mop of lustrous red curls, porcelain skin and brilliant blue eyes.

It was his job to find her and as soon as possible.

The unit Carol Emmett and two of her girlfriends were renting was part of a block of twenty. Most of the units were rented out to the better-heeled university students who knew they had to stick to certain rules or they’d be out the door. The block was in a good, mainly residential area with a small park nearby. There was security; that was good. He went up to the door and was about to press the button for apartment eight when two young women emerged from the lift. Their outfits—one of them was wearing a mega-short skirt exposing more than just her plump knees—indicated they were having a night out on the town. They gave him a giggling, comprehensive once-over. They would definitely know him again. He was a guy who stood out, not only for his height—six-two—his chiselled good looks, but his aura of success.

“Who are you looking for, handsome?” The cheekier of the two, the one with the plump knees, spoke, a bright, inquisitive expression on her face.

“Carol Emmett.” He answered in a relaxed way, but it came out with in-built authority.

“Well, you can’t be the cops!” Cheeky eyed his beautifully tailored Italian business-suit, the shirt, the tie, even the shoes on his feet.

“Certainly not. I come as a friend.”

“Ooh, lucky Caro!” she whistled, continuing to study him, her head tipped to one side. “Bit old for her, though, aren’t you? Like, the guys Caro dates are our age.”

Was thirty old these days? How depressing. “So you do know her?”

“Course we do,” the other girl chimed in. She was plain, with an extraordinary hot-pink streak in her dark spiked hairdo, no doubt to shift focus from an over-long nose. “She’s our flatmate. You won’t find her at home. She’s out looking for Trace.”

“And Trace would be?”

“One of our mates,” the cheeky one supplied, still eyeing him over. “Trace is always getting herself into trouble. Caro likes to keep an eye on her.”

“Any idea where she might have headed? I need to discuss a business matter with her. It’s urgent.”

The two girls looked at each other, before deciding on giving him the information he sought. Evidently he had passed muster. “I’d say Trace’s little hidey-hole,” Cheeky said. “She doesn’t live here; can’t afford it. We can’t either, only for Caro. She helps us out. She’s not in any trouble, is she?” Both girls suddenly looked concerned.

“Of course not. I only need to speak to her. Where does Trace—I assume that’s Tracey—live?”

Cheeky supplied the address which was in a less salubrious inner-city suburb. He knew he could find it easily.

A narrow winding street snaked between too many overhanging trees. He didn’t like the idea of a young girl walking down this street at night. He would make a call the next morning to see if he could get those trees loped. He parked behind a car with a personalised number-plate that as good as announced Carol Emmett was inside. She was exactly where her flat-mates had said she would be, checking on Trace; he didn’t like it. Whether her name had changed to Emmett or not, everyone knew she was Selwyn Chancellor’s granddaughter, albeit estranged. It was her grandfather’s dying wish she revert to her father’s name. From now on Carol Chancellor would need a bodyguard. Such a man would have to be unobtrusive, very probably with his function kept from his charge.

He exited his car and locked it, looking up at an old Victorian house that had been converted into flats. It would have been an impressive house in its day. It still was, despite the current owner’s neglect. There was no security. That didn’t surprise him. The front door was even ajar. He pushed it gently, walking into the hallway before scanning the names of the tenants listed on the wall. Not that he needed to. The girls had told him that Trace lived with her boyfriend in flat number six. The tone had indicated they didn’t approve of Trace’s boyfriend, who wasn’t a university student. “Calls himself a chef,” Cheeky had supplied with a snort. “Works in a sandwich bar.”

“He was a chef, Amanda. Got kicked out. Temper, remember?”

He was halfway up the stairs when he heard shouting. The language was far from polite. He took the rest of the stairs at a rush. A raised male voice drowned out a young woman’s. The accent was educated, though she wasn’t averse to the odd swear word or two. She didn’t sound afraid, rather she sounded angry, challenging. With the wrong man that tone of voice was courting trouble. He had real reason to be concerned. He didn’t think that voice belonged to Tracey. It belonged to Carol Emmett, soon to be Chancellor again.

He moved silently to the door and gave it a thump with his fist. The scruffy young man that came to the door was maybe twenty-five or-six, handsome, not tall but heavily muscled. He was wearing a tight T-shirt, no doubt to show off his physique. He looked strong. But depressingly stupid.

“What d’ya want?”

“Well, that’s to the point, if nothing else.” The show of aggression did nothing for Damon. “I’d like a word with Ms Emmett, if I may? She’s inside, isn’t she?”

“Why would she wanna talk to you? Slumming, are yah?” The veins on the young man’s neck were standing out.

“Can I have your name?” Damon asked crisply.

That confused the guy. “Yah gotta be joking.”

“Not at all.” Damon stared him down. “Step away from the door, please. I want to see Ms Emmett and her friend, Tracey. Do I take it you’re the boyfriend?”

The young man fired up. “Get outta here. You’re not the cops.” He went to slam the door, only Damon shoved him out of the way and drove the door forward. At the same time he sighted a young dark-haired woman slumped in a chair. The cheekbone nearest him was heavily bruised, the eye almost closed. That upset him; he had seen too many incidences of abuse of women by their partners. The worst part was the victims often backed up for more. The damage was as much psychological as physical. Some women actually believed they had been asking for punishment.

Another young woman, who had to be Carol Emmett, was hurrying from the direction of the kitchen, clutching an ice-pack like a weapon. His immediate impression was she was infinitely lovelier in the flesh. He took in the tousled mane of ruby hair, her glowing skin—he had never seen skin glow like that—and her beautiful eyes of an intense sparkling blue. She was dressed in a short silk tunic, turquoise with a broad band of amethyst at the hem. It showed off her slender legs to perfection. There wasn’t a hint of a generous curve. She was built like a ballerina. She even had a ballerina’s trick of appearing to be in motion when she wasn’t.

“What’s going on here?” she demanded in that clear voice that gave notice she would soon find out. So, an imperious bantam weight! She could only be five-three at most. “Who are you?” She gave Damon a sharp, questioning look.

He darn near laughed, only the boyfriend took advantage of the distraction. He made a fist around the set of keys he quickly yanked out of the door, and then came at Damon in a bullocking rush, swearing and snarling.

Two things happened at once. Carol Emmett, blue eyes blazing, hurled the icepack like a missile at the boyfriend’s head. It missed, but only because Damon, using his height and speed advantage, had his assailant in a deftly imposed arm-lock. The violent boyfriend was on his knees, his left arm twisted high behind his back, his right arm anchored to the floor with Damon’s shoe pressed down hard on his hand.

“You’re dead, mate.” The boyfriend made the threat, straining unsuccessfully to free himself.

“Gosh, I won’t sleep at night.” Damon got a grip on the guy’s shirt collar before heaving him up into a chair which the enterprising Ms Emmett pushed into position.

“This is called instant bonding.” She met his eyes, her lovely mouth upturned in a smile.

“You’re shaping up as a pretty good offsider. I’m your new solicitor, by the way. I’m quite prepared to act for Tracey. This is the guy who assaulted her?”

A denial came on a burst of genuine outrage. “Come on! I just smacked her around a little. She likes it.”

Tracey didn’t say anything, but Carol Emmett exploded. “It’s a good thing I got here when I did.” She looked directly at Damon, her face filled with disgust. “God knows what might have happened. This isn’t the first time, is it, Tarik?” she said with searing contempt.

“You’re no pal of Tracey’s,” he yelled over his shoulder, clenching every muscle. “This is all your fault! Why don’t you mind your own business? I’ll get square. Don’t you worry about that.”

Angered by the threat, Damon exerted ever-increasing pressure.

“You’ll break my bloody arm, mate.” Tarik, the abuser, was full of self-pity.

“It is possible,” Damon said, the voice of dispassion, knowing the point to stop. “Call the police, Carol.” He looked to her, not absolutely sure she wasn’t planning to hit the boyfriend with the glass paperweight near to hand.

“No, no!” Tracey finally found her voice. The note in her voice sent a shiver down Damon’s spine. Hadn’t he heard that note before?

Carol rounded on her friend, looking dismayed. “What’s wrong with you, Trace? Can’t you see what this guy’s capable of?”

“Why don’t you sit down, Ms Emmett?” Damon advised, trying to steer the situation into calmer waters. “Let me ask the questions.”

She raised her brows. “Go right head,” she said dryly. “You’re my new solicitor, right? News to me. I don’t have a solicitor.”

The boyfriend let out a sneering laugh. “Caught out, eh?”

“Bradfield Douglass.” Damon found his business card, handing it to Carol Emmett. “Damon Hunter at your service. And this young lady’s, too. She obviously needs help.” Tracey had straightened up, so now Damon could see the full extent of her injuries. They extended to around her neck.

“Good God!” he breathed in dismay. “Do what I say, Carol. Call the police.”

“Right away.” She sped away to the landline, without glancing back at her friend, who didn’t speak again.

While Carol Emmett made the call, the boyfriend seized a last opportunity to get away. He got to his feet again, shaping up and looking dangerous. Only Damon was taller, stronger, in excellent shape. He worked out regularly at a boxing gym. He found the exercise both tough and relaxing after long hours at his desk. The owner, an ex-middleweight champion who could still box the ears off anyone, had become not only his sparring partner but friend.

For his pains, the boyfriend was yanked back in his chair, looking as though he’d been hit by a train.

Tracey witnessed the whole thing. “Thank God!” She breathed a heartfelt sigh, her voice hoarse from the injury to her throat. “I’ve been such a fool.”

“Don’t I know it!” said Carol, not about to make soothing noises. “But don’t worry, Trace. We’ll get you through this. I’ll throw a few things in a bag, and then I’m going to take you back to our place. You can’t stay here any more.” She looked across at Damon. “She can take out an AVO against him, right? He must be kept away from her.”

He nodded. “I’ll have it seen to.” They all turned their heads at the sound of the heavy boots on the stairs.

“That’ll be the police now,” Carol announced, relief mixed with satisfaction.

Tarik scowled. “I’m gonna complain you assaulted me.” He fixed Damon with a look of loathing.

Damon gave a brief laugh. “Go for it!”

“I’ve got witnesses.”

A hoot from Carol. “Shut up, Tarik. Tracey is the one with the witness to your attack.”

“You won’t stop me,” he threatened, trying to catch his girlfriend’s eye. He had found it easy enough to control her. He had the knack.

“We’ll see about that.” Damon’s tone was curt. He knew men of Tarik’s type couldn’t be counted on to obey the law. In fact, they were proud of flouting it.

“Police,” a tough male voice boomed from the front door.

There was a big smile on Carol Emmett’s face. “I have to say, that was quick!”

“What, did you offer a reward?” Tarik sneered.

“I was on the point of it,” she replied, going swiftly to the door.

In the end, after initial statements had been given, Damon followed Carol’s little silver car to her flat. Tracey was tucked into the back seat, nursing her injuries, although she had refused point blank to go to the hospital to have herself checked out.

“I’m okay!” It was almost as if she feared presenting herself at Accident and Emergency.

“How do you know?” Carol had shot back.

“I know.” For once Tracey was adamant.

End of argument.

It was almost an hour later before Carol had settled her friend. After a shower, clean nightwear and pain killers, Tracey allowed herself to be tucked into Carol’s bed. Carol had assured her friend it would be no problem for her to sleep on the three-seater sofa in the living room.

“I’ve done it before.”

She hadn’t, although all manner of their friends had.

When she finally returned to the living room, she found Damon inspecting a group of photographs she’d put into a large frame and hung on a wall.

Damon had been expecting the usual student clutter, but what he had seen of the three-bedroom apartment—open-plan kitchen and living room—was a neat, very attractive dwelling place that had been furnished in a stylish way. He liked the three-piece lounge suite in genuine cream leather. There was a glass-topped circular table with four yellow cushioned rattan chairs arranged around it for dining. A wooden bookcase packed with a wide range of books, from romances to far more weighty tomes, stood in a corner. A large abstract painting hung over a Chinese altar table. A distance away to either side of the altar table stood a pair of traditional Chinese cabinets with horizontal open-work panels. Yellow curtains hung at the plate-glass doors that gave onto a small balcony where four yellow glazed pots planted with strelitzias were lined up against the balustrade.

“You’re taking an interest.” There was a faint taunt in her voice.

“Just admiring the decor. Someone has created a certain style. I love the Chinese pieces.” He bent to take a closer look at the cabinets. He thought the wood was huanghuali, the principal hardwood used by Chinese cabinet makers. He thought he was right dating them as late Qing.

“Me, too,” she said, offhandedly. “As for the decorating, someone had to make the effort. And find the money.”

“I’m sure your friends appreciate it.”

“Well…” She let a further comment slide. She knew her flatmates took advantage of her. She allowed it. “Like a cup of coffee? Glass of wine? Maybe a salad? You could join me. I haven’t had a thing to eat.”

It suddenly struck him he was hungry. “That’d be nice, Carol. May I call you Carol?”

“Caro,” she said. She made a point of being called Caro.

“Carol is such a beautiful name.”

“What do you want from me, Damon?” She moved behind the black granite kitchen counter. “Is there something you have to tell me? Something about the family?”

She didn’t look in the least perturbed, so he decided to give it to her straight. From what he’d seen of her, he thought she could handle it. “Your grandfather passed away late this afternoon, Carol—at Beaumont, his country estate.”

Her blue eyes, a wonderful contrast to her ruby-red hair, flew to his across the dividing space. “You’re absolutely sure about that?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“So it’s all over,” she said, turning to pull out plates.

“Not for you, Carol,” he pointed out with some gravity. “You’re a major beneficiary in his will.”

She swung back sharply, her porcelain cheeks flushed over her high cheekbones. “You’ve got to be joking!”

“In no way. I’m your appointed lawyer.”

She stared at him. He was no more than thirty, she estimated, though his manner had a self-assurance far beyond those years. He projected high intelligence and a quite staggering sexuality. He had everything going for him, the entire package: tall, dark and handsome; his classic features not bland but distinctive. He had a great head of hair, coal-black with a natural wave, brilliant dark eyes that took in everything at a glance.

She had the oddest feeling of recognition. Had she seen him before? She couldn’t have. She would have remembered; maybe a photograph in a glossy magazine, squiring some glamour girl? He looked just the kind of guy who attracted women in droves. The name, too, seemed familiar. Damon Hunter. Damon Hunter. It came to her in flash—Professor Deakin’s star pupil. The most outstanding student of law Professor Deakin had ever had the pleasure of teaching. That was pretty cool.

She appeared so engrossed in her speculations, Damon had to prompt her. “I hope I pass muster?” His resonant voice carried humour.

“You look like you make tons of money,” was her terse response. She had read about instant high-level arousal in novels. She hadn’t encountered it—until now. He was arousing feelings of which she had scarcely been aware. Not that he’d be interested in her. She was a twenty-year-old student, not some voluptuous beauty with a goodly share of experience in bed.

“Is that important?” he asked.

She had a sudden picture of herself as an instrument; a man like him could play a woman’s feelings at will. She shook her head so vigorously, her curls bounced. “No, but I thought Marcus Bradfield was my grandfather’s solicitor.”

“Was for many years,” he said. “But your grandfather appointed me in this case. I wanted to tell you about his death before anyone else did, or you simply saw it on TV. The media will have the news by now.”

“The great man is dead. Long live the king,” she said rather mournfully. “I shudder to think it might be Uncle Maurice?”

“We have to wait to see what transpires. Mind if I take off my jacket?”

“Go right ahead.” As she guessed he had a great body; all of his movements had an athlete’s grace. So, lawyer and action man. He had taken Tarik, who was strong, down without raising a sweat. 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 the woodwork.

Afterwards he helped her clear the table. Carol made coffee. Her moment of weakness had passed. “So, what is it I’m required to do?”

“By tomorrow this will be front-page news, Carol. A media event. Your grandfather died at his country estate. That is where he wished to be buried.”

“I know. In the garden at Beaumont, alongside my grandmother, Elaine. We used to go for walks there. The grounds were so beautiful, and so big I thought it was an enchanted forest and I was the princess. When I was about four, my grandfather told me where he wanted to be buried. He loved me, you know. Then.” She swallowed hard.

“He always loved you, Carol,” he felt compelled to say. He hadn’t missed that little pained swallow. “He told me he’d wanted to fight your mother for custody.”

She broke in fierily, flatly contradicting. “He did not!”

“Let me correct you—he did. As his legal advisors, we told him winning custody of you was one fight he wouldn’t win. Your mother was your mother, a powerful person in your life. She was determined to keep you. She wasn’t letting go.”

“Spite, probably,” Carol found herself saying. It shocked her because it very likely was true. She’d no idea up until that point her grandfather had wanted custody of her. She fully intended to take that up with her mother. “My mother hated the family—my uncle Maurice, his wife, Dallas, but particularly my grandfather. It took me years to find out he had practically accused her of murdering my father. She would never have done that. What would be the reason?” She spread her hands.

“Your grandparents didn’t have a case.”

“I know that.” She didn’t believe for a minute her mother had wanted to dispose of her father. But then her mother was so good at deception. In her mid-forties, Roxanne was still a beautiful, sexy woman, a born temptress. But she wasn’t all that smart. Murder would have been difficult to pull off on the harbour. The Manly ferry, in fact, had come to her mother’s rescue. Even the floating cushions had been retrieved; never her father’s body. As a child she had prayed and prayed he had swum all the way to New Guinea, perhaps; he had never drowned, anything but that. Her father had been out on the harbour a million times. He was a fine sailor.

Damon Hunter’s voice snapped her out of her unhappy thoughts. “Allow me to be the first to congratulate you, Carol. You’re the Chancellor heiress.”

She gave a bleak laugh. “So I might as well get back my father’s name. I’ve never liked Emmett but it was a shield for the time. This won’t make anyone in the family happy. I do hope they’ve all been well-provided for, or am I in for a lengthy court battle?”

“No battle. Your grandfather knew exactly what he was doing. Sound mind, sound intent. I drew up the will. It’s ironclad. I should tell you at this point I have control over your inheritance until you turn twenty-one, which I understand is August eighth, next year?”

She gave him a taunting smile. “That means you have charge of the purse strings?”

“We can always discuss what you need. You don’t have to worry about any heavy-handed treatment. I’m here to protect your interests, Carol.” And to protect you, he thought, jolted by his instantaneous attraction to her. It was like being handed a bouquet of the most beautiful red roses, perfect buds awaiting full bloom but spreading their fragrance. He couldn’t think of a single young woman of his acquaintance who’d had that extraordinary effect on him.

“Sounds like I might need it,” she said wryly. “The truth is, I don’t want the money. On the other hand, I think I can do a lot of good. Rich people have a responsibility to give back to the community.”

“Your grandfather certainly did that.”

She couldn’t deny it. “So here I am, an heiress without warning. I think I’m in shock.”

“Well, you’re not jumping up and down,” he said.

There was such an attractive quirk to his handsome mouth. It struck her that her feelings were a bit extreme. “Everyone will hate me,” she said. “Why would I feel elated? Except I am, in an odd way. It’s not the money. It’s the fact Poppy—my grandfather,” she quickly corrected, “wanted custody of me. If only I’d known that. It would have given me some comfort.”

She didn’t say her own mother had denied her that comfort. In death, her grandfather had left her rich enough to be independent of everyone—first up, her mother. They didn’t enjoy a good relationship. At least her mother had always been surprisingly generous when it came to providing for her. She had even bought her a flashy sports car when she had needed a car to get to and from university.

“You haven’t asked how much.” Damon wondered if she had any idea.

She shrugged a delicately boned shoulder. “I don’t want to know. Not yet, anyway. That’s way too mercenary. How much does anyone need? I just love big-business philanthropists, doing so much good, keeping their eye on things, not letting the money stray into the wrong hands.”

“Well, you won’t be in the their class.”

He had a heartbreaking smile. It lit up his handsome dark face with its gilt-bronze tan. She wondered if he were a yachtsman. Most likely he was; that tan was from the sun, not any sunbed. “I don’t want to be there when the will’s read,” she said with a faint shudder.

“I’ll be there, too, Carol,” he reassured her. “I expect I will have to go to the country house the day after tomorrow, maybe sooner. I’d like to take you with me. You should be there. The house is yours.”

Her finely arched brows, so much darker than her hair, shot up. “You’re serious?”

“Absolutely. Wills are serious matters.”

“I know that.” She coloured. “So I can tip them out—my uncle Maurice, Dallas and Troy, although he lives in the apartment at Point Piper. That belonged to Poppy.” Her childhood name for her grandfather was flying out regardless.

“That remains with the family,” he said. “Do you want to tip them out of Beaumont?”

She looked into his fathoms-deep dark eyes. “I have to think about that. I’m not finished my degree yet. I expect you’ve checked me out?” Of course he had. “I’m smart enough, apparently, but I’m not giving my studies my best shot.”

“A fresh start next year,” he suggested. “You’ll feel more committed by then.”

“Why were you so committed?” She really wanted to know. “We’ve all heard Professor Deakin sing your praises.”

A faint grimace spread across his dynamic features. “I didn’t have your advantages, Carol, but I’ve always wanted to be a lawyer. I was ambitious, an inherited trait. Then I, too, lost my dad, a geologist, when I was twelve.”

So both of them had lost their fathers at an early age. He at twelve, she at age five. That made a bond.

“It was just my mother and me,” he was saying. “I determined after that, it was my job to look after her, when she knew perfectly well how to look after both of us. She’s a strong woman. She ran a very successful catering business until she sold out a year ago. These days she and her sister, my aunt Terri, travel the world.”

“That’s good. There would be so much to see.” She hesitated for a moment before asking. “How did your father die? He wouldn’t have been very old.”

He told her, although he didn’t talk much about the premature death of his father. “He died in a mine explosion in Chile where he had been sent by his company to explore copper deposits in the region. He was able to help get a lot of the men out. He wasn’t so lucky. He was forty-one.”

“Oh, Damon, I’m so sorry.”

There was such a compassionate look on her face, he wanted to pull her to him.

Steady on!

Physical contact of the order he was thinking was out of the question. But even the thought gave him a strange pleasure that was very unsettling at the same time. He hadn’t anticipated this feeling of urgency. Anyone would think he had been appointed her knight in shining armour.

“The long summer vacation is coming up,” she said with a slight frown. “My Uncle Maurice made no attempt to see me in all these long years.”

“No.” She had been deprived of family.

“It’s a heavy burden having a lot of money,” she commented gravely.

“It is indeed. People don’t always realize that. Money can’t buy happiness. I’ve seen that time and time again. Too much money in a family can bring about a lot of internal conflict.” A prominent family’s feud was being publicly waged in the press at that point of time.

“Did my grandfather leave any instructions for me?” She hoped it was so.

“I’m glad you asked, Carol, because he did,” he answered gently. “He wanted you to know how things were. He wanted you to know why certain decisions had to be made. I guess he wanted pardon.”

“Then he’s got it,” she answered quietly. “I could never learn to hate my grandfather no matter what my mother tried to drum into me. I was a rebellious child, not easy to handle. Not cute at all. One thing in my favour—hate was left out of me, when sadly it defined my mother.”

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