Margaret Way - Hidden Legacy

Alyssa sat down in one of the old chairs on the deck, cuddling Cleo, while she rocked gently back and forth. As always, the warm perfumed air of the tropics had a lulling effect, so in spite of her unhappiness, she drifted off….

SOME TIME LATER—she didn’t know exactly how long—she was jolted awake by the sound of a heavy vehicle driving onto the property. She sat up in confusion, startling Cleo, who registered her disapproval by digging in her claws.

“Ouch, Cleo, that hurt!” She tipped the cat on to the timber deck, then made her way back into the house, briefly checking her appearance in the mirror. She looked composed enough. She quickly ran down the staircase, to the entrance hall. There wasn’t a soul for miles around. Very few people ever ventured along the private road unless invited. For one dismal moment, the luxuriant jungle that enfolded the house now seemed like prison walls. Her father hadn’t wanted her to come until someone could go with her. Who knew when that would be, considering her parents’ heavy workload and her grandmother’s “illness.”

Alyssa’s first thought was that her visitor might be the local police chief, Jack McLean, checking on her. She knew him and his assistant, Constable Bill Pickett, well. Or it could be a neighbor? Maybe even the neighbor? She moved out onto the front veranda, seeing an unfamiliar dark-gray Range Rover pull beneath the canopy of trees, the ground beneath them carpeted with wind-stripped scarlet blossom.

Moments later a man climbed out, turned and looked toward the house.

He was tall, certainly over six feet. Even from a distance she recognized something dynamic about him. He was simply dressed, in a navy T-shirt and jeans, but his superb physique made the casual outfit look classy. Burnished by the blazing sunlight, his sweep of hair gleamed a rich mahogany. Thick and wavy, it was worn fairly long. None of the fashionable short spiky cuts for him. He walked like an athlete, loping along on the balls of his feet. Hero material dropped from the heavens, she thought cynically. After her experience with Brett she was feeling pretty wary of men.

This had to be Adam Hunt, Zizi’s mystery friend. A mystery to be solved, she reminded herself. It was important to her to get to the truth of people. She had taken way too long to get to the truth of Brett, in the process shaking her view of herself and her own judgment. She felt no fear of her visitor, yet her hand on the balustrade was trembling. She couldn’t have said why that was, but she made an urgent effort to steady it.

Her visitor covered the distance between them in no time. He was standing on the graveled drive a few feet away, looking up at her with a curious air of intensity. His eyes were startling in his tanned face, a true aquamarine like the shoals of the Reef waters. They compelled her into an extraordinary awareness of him. A sudden vertigo took hold, and she felt dizzy enough to pitch over the balustrade and into the gardenia bushes. That should get her even more attention.

He smiled faintly. “Miss Sutherland.” It wasn’t a question. He already knew the answer.

She realized belatedly that they were united in the intensity of their appraisal, matching glance for glance. He had a good voice. Voices were important to her. “Adam Hunt,” he said. “I’ve spoken to your father several times. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

She couldn’t manage a proper smile. Not yet. Besides, there were too many loose ends she had to sort out. “Adam Hunt, of course. Please come up.” She knew she sounded very formal, but she wasn’t about to jump into the deep end of instant familiarity—despite that odd moment of…recognition?

“Thank you. I won’t stay long.” He turned his head back toward his vehicle. “I have some provisions for you in the car. I really should get them out first. Some of them will need to go in the fridge.”

“How did you know I’d be here? I didn’t tell a soul.”

“You told your parents.”

“Surely Dad didn’t call you?” she asked in dismay.

He nodded, an amused glint in his eyes. “Fathers generally like to keep an eye on their daughters. It’s very lonely here, very isolated.” He gestured about him as if he wouldn’t recommend the remote plantation to any woman on her own.

“He asked you to keep an eye on me for him?” she asked, her tone incredulous.

Now she was treated to his full smile. It was a smile of enormous attractiveness, sexy yet wonderfully open. He would find it very useful when dealing with women. “Trust me, he loves you.”

“I know that, Mr. Hunt.” She had a desire to put him in his place.

“Adam, please.”

She inclined her head. “I’m well able to look after myself, Adam,” she assured him, sounding more confident than she felt. “Nevertheless, we’re in your debt. I know my father’s thanked you but I want to add my own thanks for being on hand when you were. It must’ve been an extremely upsetting experience.”

He made no attempt to deny it. “I couldn’t believe it. I don’t need to tell you Elizabeth was always so bright and alert, remarkably youthful for her age. I’m surprised it happened the way it did, and so very sorry. We were just getting to know one each other.”

“May I ask why you wanted to get to know her?” It came out more bluntly than she’d intended.

“Certainly. She didn’t tell you?” He kept his eyes trained on her, more than a touch of skepticism in his expression.

“What do you mean?”

“I thought Elizabeth would’ve told you. I understand you were very close.”

“As close as we could be,” she answered without hesitation. “But for some reason she neglected to mention you. You were saying?”

A sardonic pause. “A close relative of mine wanted me to look her up. He knew her back in the old days.”

“And your relative has a name? Perhaps I’ve heard it. Zizi and I had no secrets from each other.” Actually they did. Him!

“Julian Wainwright,” he said.

“Julian Wainwright! Of course! Several of his paintings are in the house. They belonged to the same artists’ colony in the early sixties. His paintings are splendid, especially the seascapes.”

He nodded his agreement. “Julian had to abandon his artistic career for business. He always said he regretted it. You probably know he continued to carry a torch for Elizabeth all his life.”

Was this a joke, or was a huge chasm opening beneath her feet? “I’m sorry, I didn’t know any such thing.” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded defensive.

“You didn’t know that at one stage they intended to marry?” He maintained the look of skepticism.

For a moment she felt the reality of her life might be stripped away. “Forgive me, but I have only your word for it. Is Julian Wainwright still alive?”

“Barely.” He shrugged, regret on his handsome face. “His doctors have given him no more than six or seven months.”

“I’m sorry.” Love for her great-aunt and a feeling of apprehension were inextricably entwined. If this was true, how much more had Zizi kept from her, from them all?

“Julian is four years older than Elizabeth,” he was saying. “He’s been in ill health for the last ten years. He was devastated to hear of her death.”

“You told him?”

“Of course.” His tone was clipped. He looked back at the Range Rover. “I should be getting the cold things into the fridge.”

“Can I help? I’m stronger than I look!” This time she managed a shaky smile.

His glance, brilliant as the gemstone, touched her lightly. She was still wearing the outfit she’d traveled in—a white tank top over navy straight-legged pants. “You look fine.”

“A girl does her best!” She spoke flippantly, to combat the heat that washed over her. It irked her to feel more like a flustered teenager than an experienced woman. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” She leaned over the wrought-iron balustrade to call to him. A cluster of white trumpet flowers from the vine-wreathed pillar tickled her cheek, its perfume entrancing.