Margaret Way - Hidden Legacy

“I won’t say no,” he said over his shoulder. “Elizabeth always made me a cup.”

Did she indeed? She had to wrestle with that picture. Adam Hunt and Zizi sharing friendly cups of coffee?

Zizi, whatever were you up to?

For the first time in her life, Alyssa began to realize that her great-aunt must’ve had a life about which she knew little or nothing. She was starting to feel desperately hurt at being kept in the dark.

A BIG MAN, he filled the kitchen. He left Alyssa, who was above average height, feeling small. And it wasn’t only his height and breadth of shoulder that made him so powerful, but a kind of blazing energy. The two of them worked in fraught silence while they packed the provisions away. She took care of the things that went into the refrigerator. He’d brought her more fresh bread, butter and milk, and in addition a carton of cream, vanilla ice cream and some small tubs of fruit yogurt. From the excellent village delicatessen he’d thrown in some King Island Camembert, a chunk of Havarti, New Guinea coffee beans and a half-dozen little pastries. It was more than enough to keep her going.

She’d noticed him putting away a small bag of locally grown baby potatoes and some red and white onions, about the only things Zizi hadn’t grown herself. Alyssa hadn’t checked on the vegetable garden yet, but she had a feeling he would’ve given it some water as well as fed Cleo. He looked that sort of man.

“You seem to know your way around.” She couldn’t help the dryness creeping into her tone.

“Elizabeth showed me all over the house the first time I came here,” he explained as he emerged from the large pantry. “It’s a marvelous old place, incredible atmosphere. The widow’s walk is quite unique in this part of the world. I’d heard about it, of course.”

“From Julian?” She was having difficulty coming to terms with Zizi’s late-blossoming friendship with him, let alone a supposed romantic involvement with Julian Wainwright. “What is your relationship, by the way?”

“Ah, a woman who wants answers!” he jibed gently.

“Julian’s my great-uncle. Think back. Surely she mentioned their close friendship at some point? Perhaps you’ve forgotten?” There was an unmistakable note of challenge in his voice.

Alyssa stood staring at him. “I assure you I wouldn’t have forgotten.”

“So, what did she say about him?”

Alyssa felt ill at ease beneath that probing gaze. “She did speak of him, but only as a friend—a colleague—of her youth. There was never any hint of romance. Zizi never spoke of any romantic attachment to anyone. Don’t you find that extremely odd if what you say is true?”

His expression was reflective. “I do find it odd, but it would seem Elizabeth was a woman for secrets. She was beautiful at seventy. Imagine what she was like in her twenties. Very much like you, I’d imagine, except for the eyes.”

She bit her lip, feeling bewildered and upset. “That’s true. Zizi’s eyes were a definite green. No one else in the family has eyes like mine—with gold flecks. My mother’s more like Zizi than I am, but I see what you mean. Zizi was bound to have many admirers. So how far did this involvement with Julian go? Were they thinking of getting engaged?” She felt a flare of antipathy and it showed.

“Didn’t happen. Elizabeth lost her heart to someone else.”

“Another suitor?” she asked with a brittle laugh.

“Your great-uncle gave you all this information?”

“He can give it to you if you like.” He registered her every passing expression. He’d seen her portraits in the house and enough photographs of her in Elizabeth’s scrapbooks to know in advance that she was beautiful. None of them did her justice. One had to see her in the flesh to fully appreciate the exquisite complexion, the delicately sculpted bones of her face, that cascading hair, the lovely mouth and those distinctive eyes. The body matched the face, willowy and graceful. She was the kind of woman a certain type of man hungered for. The kind of woman that man could only dream about.

“That is, if you want to risk hearing what he has to say,” he added, dragging out a kitchen chair for her. “Why don’t you sit down? You’ve lost color.”

She obeyed him, waiting until the darkness at the edge of her vision receded. “Why have we never heard of Julian Wainwright in all these years?” Impatiently she pushed a long coil of hair over her shoulder.

He watched her do it, fascinated by the femininity of the movement. She was a natural ash-blonde, as her great-aunt had been. But whereas Elizabeth had worn her hair shorn like a small boy’s, she wore hers center-parted and falling in loose waves over her shoulders and down her back. He studied her; she was either a superb actress or what he was saying was a shock.

“Let me get you something to eat first,” he suggested briskly. “Then we can talk. What about a sandwich with the coffee?”

She waved a distracted hand. There was a firmness and strength about him, a masculinity that would turn any woman’s head. Wasn’t it a good thing hers was now firmly screwed on? “Would you mind answering the question?”

“Sure.” His handsome mouth compressed. “Let me grind the coffee beans first.”

“Please, don’t worry about the coffee.” She wanted to move forward with this.

“It’s no problem.”

She gave up. So many chaotic emotions were running through her. Shock, pain, confusion and a sense of wonder that he was moving so authoritatively around her kitchen. Had he done this with Zizi? She had to admit he was very deft in all his movements. In no time at all, the percolator was on the hot plate and turkey-breast sandwiches, neatly cut into four triangles, were in front of her. “Surely you’re going to join me?” She was starting to feel quite…unreal.

“Delighted to,” he said, taking a chair opposite her.

“Elizabeth and Julian corresponded for years. You didn’t know?”

“Why do you continually doubt me?” He watched the sparks in her eyes flare brightly.

“Because it’s hard to believe Elizabeth kept all this from you.”

“It is,” she acknowledged, her tone bleak.

“He used to visit her often after Langford was lost at sea.”

She was forced to take two big steadying breaths before answering. “Are you about to tell me she was friends with Richard Langford, the yachtsman?”

There was a quick flash of impatience in his eyes. “You have to know about Langford.”

She struggled to control her temper. There was flat disbelief in his voice. “Look, just take my word for it, will you? All I know is what Zizi told me. She bought this house when it came on the market. This was after Richard Langford was lost at sea. As I understand it, he took his yacht out in very dangerous conditions. The locals thought the house was haunted, so Zizi got a bargain. It is haunted, by the way.”

“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” he said without any trace of humor.

“I only have your word for all of this,” she reminded him. “Zizi and I were as close as we could be. I spent all my vacations with her since I was seven. We talked about everything and everyone.”

“Except Richard Langford and Julian Wainwright,” he retorted bluntly. “Both of whom were her lovers.”

She had to put a hand to her heart, it gave such a lunge. “Well, well, well! Why didn’t I see that coming?”

His features tightened. “You’re not going to say you didn’t know that, either?”

“It’s not possible.” This man was a stranger. Zizi was her much-loved great-aunt. Why should she believe one word he said? For all she knew, he could have a hidden agenda.