Claiming His Child

On the fringe of the crowd of mourners, dark glasses shielding his eyes, Nick Konrads stared at the young woman he had loved so passionately. Not even extreme tragedy could rob her of her heart-stopping beauty. Against the stark black of her wide-brimmed hat and her black suit, her skin glowed with the perfection of magnolias. He knew she had a child, a little girl, but her figure was as girlish and slender as ever, her long legs exquisite. Marcus Sheffield, her father, the man who had wrought such havoc and suffering in his life, stood protectively beside her, a striking-looking man still but his body had lost its fine shape and erect posture. Nick knew about the stroke. He knew about the failed business dealings, the downturn in Sheffield’s fortunes. His agents were busy acquiring Bellemont Farm now, the scene of his humiliation. He had never thought for one moment Martin White would die an early death. No matter their tremendous differences, the way Martin and Marcus Sheffield had conspired against him, he had never wanted that. He had taken a risk, really, coming here today. Despite the superficial changes—maturity, shorter hair, grooming, expensive clothes—many people would recognise him. But he couldn’t keep away. He had received news of Martin White’s death only last night, then with a wince of pain. It wasn’t right, someone not yet thirty-one, the same age as himself, should be snatched so cruelly from life. How wretched Suzannah must feel. He knew the marriage hadn’t been happy. He knew everything. The simple ceremony was almost over. He had to go. But nothing would interfere with his plans. It wasn’t his way to hide. He would come back to this town if only as an infrequent visitor. But he could come back to this town in triumph. The new owner of Bellemont Farm, Marcus Sheffield’s castle.

He would have got clean away, because he was walking swiftly to his parked Mercedes, except for Jock Craig, his old math teacher at the high school. Craig came running up behind him grasping his arm.

“Aren’t you Nick Konrads? It is you, Nick?” His voice held surprise and an unmistakable note of respect.

There was nothing else for it but to turn and shake hands. “Mr. Craig, how are you?”

“Fine, Nick, fine.” The man stared at him with keen, shrewd eyes. “Bad business, eh? A tragedy. It must have taken some courage coming back for the funeral? Although you and Martin were never exactly friends.”

“Suzannah was my friend, Mr. Craig,” he said, not conscious of the severity of his expression.

“Of course, of course. She’s in agony, poor girl. One can see that clearly behind that ingrained poise. Actually my boy, she’s coming this way. Sheffield, too. Perhaps you’d better go?” he suggested. “I only say that with the best of intentions.”

“I know.” Nick nodded briefly. “But Marcus Sheffield doesn’t bother me any more.”

“He did once.” Jock Craig spoke kindly. He had never believed for one moment young Konrads was a thief, though Sheffield swore he had stolen a safe full of jewellery, which eventually turned up in the toolshed behind the Konrads’ modest house.

“Sheffield has had to live with what he did.” Nick’s face showed nothing, neither anger nor hatred. I’m ready for him this time, he thought.

Jock Craig shuddered. He couldn’t help it but Marcus Sheffield was way past dealing with anyone let alone the striking self-assured young man before him. Craig had followed Nick Konrads’ career with great interest. Even as a boy he’d been staggeringly clever. Pity about the mother. Never recovered from her husband’s death, the scandal about her son had almost destroyed her. Marcus Sheffield had a lot to answer for, he thought. And he wasn’t the first to think it.

Nick stood quite still while she was approaching, outwardly very calm, but his tall lean frame emanated a daunting power. Inside his blood ran cold. He had loved Suzannah. Even after her betrayal and the great humiliation he had suffered, he had still yearned to see her. Proof of his obsessive attention to her lay just beneath the skin. Scratch it and draw blood. He had never recovered from her loss even when he was sleeping with other women. He had Adrienne in the car even now promising her a drive around the beautiful countryside where he had lived as a boy, with lunch afterwards at one of the fine restaurants along the coast. It was bad to use her as some kind of shield and he felt a stab of remorse. Adrienne was a beautiful woman, a divorcee a little older than he, sophisticated, charming, witty. He had enjoyed her steady company—he was far from being a promiscuous man—for almost a year now, keeping her friendship but not offering anything. It seemed to suit Adrienne. Both of them had been badly burned.

Now Suzannah approached, utterly unforgettable, her body language taut and brittle. She was moving swiftly, like a deer in a forest, so that her father couldn’t possibly keep pace with her. Dozens of pictures flicked rapidly through his mind. Suzannah at all ages. The enchanting little girl. The bewitching adolescent. Suzannah when she had lost her status as an innocent little virgin and wept in his arms. Natural, abundant tears of rapture and ex- haustion. An act indelible in his memory. An act that had wrecked his life.

Get away from here, he thought. Just get away. You have total control over your life. This fixation on Suzannah Sheffield. Suzannah White was just too bizarre. Too damaging. He wasn’t over it yet.

Suzannah, moving over the thick emerald grass without any thought to possible grass stains on her expensive black suede shoes, couldn’t have known that. The man before her in his black funeral clothes, a long impeccably tailored topcoat with his beautifully cut suit, looked remote and unfathomable. A man whose severity of expression precluded passion. Yet how splendid he looked, how compelling. The uncanny old telepathic thing wasn’t working. She couldn’t pick up a thing. Yet why had he come here like this?

“Nick.” She reached him, lifted her head and spoke in a clipped voice that was as cool as crystal.

“Suzannah.”

His response was a faint rasp on dark velvet. He still hadn’t lost all traces of his accent. Probably never would.

“May I offer you my sincere sympathy,” he said. “You must be greatly shocked and distressed.”

“Traumatised, I think.” Her violet-blue eyes looked away. “What are you doing here, Nick? You must know it’s only asking for trouble.”

If anything his striking features grew tougher. “You mean your father?” He gave her the faintest grim smile. A travesty of the beautiful one she remembered. “I really don’t think your father will present a problem ever again.” His eyes at that moment were full of knowledge.

“Did someone tell you we’ll be moving out of Bellemont?” she asked sharply.

“No,” he lied.

“Things have gone badly for us.”

“You’ve had offers for the property?” He looked down at her, concealing all his old fascination.

“I suppose there’s no harm in telling you.” She gave a weary shrug. “Negotiations are going on right now. Not as much as we hoped but we’re in no position to hold out.”

“How the mighty have fallen,” he said. “I don’t think the new owner or owners would pressure you to move out in a hurry. Given the circumstances.” He spoke with a kind of compassion.

“Who told you about...Martin?” Looking at his mouth as he spoke she could almost taste his lips. It caused her bewilderment and grief.

“I really don’t recall who mentioned it,” he said. “Bellemont Farm is an historic property, after all! Your father has changed greatly, hasn’t he? He really shouldn’t be leading a battle charge in his condition.”

“What condition?” Suzannah asked. Was it possible he knew all about their lives? He was a powerful man.

“I was just speaking to Jock Craig.” His eyebrows raised. He’d let her believe Jock had been the one to tell him about the stroke.

Suzannah glanced behind her, apprehension in her eyes. “It might be wise, Nick, if you left.”

He followed her gaze to where Marcus Sheffield was determinedly negotiating the grassy slope, righteous wrath all over his face. “Actually that had been my intention only for Craig. In any case it’s too late. Your father, stroke or not, is obviously determined on some kind of showdown.”

“He wouldn’t forget himself on a day like this,” Suzannah said, a little catch in her throat. “And in such a place.”

“I think, Suzannah, your father hasn’t changed much. It fills him with fury to see his beloved daughter within a foot of me.”

Once they had stood shoulder to shoulder, Marcus Sheffield had been a big man, now he was half a head shorter and stooped. “What the devil are you doing here, Konrads?” he snarled. “Haven’t you learnt to keep away from my daughter?”

Nick bowed slightly, his elegance quite natural. “As pleasant a greeting as I could ask for,” he answered, his tone sardonic. “I believe it was Suzannah who approached me. I had no intention of intruding upon your grief.”

“So why are you here?” Marcus Sheffield scowled, his breath shaking in his chest.

“I knew Martin for years. We grew up together.”

“He was light years away from you.” Marcus Sheffield drew his steel-grey brows together.

“I could never understand why you couldn’t see that,” Nick retorted. “I won’t add to your distress, Mr. Sheffield. Fear of another stroke must be a worry.” He turned to Suzannah with terrible power and grace. “Once again my sympathies, Suzannah. It was never in any of our minds Martin should die so young.” With that he walked away, his long legs easily covering the distance to where a big late-model Mercedes was parked.

“Why the hell should he blow back into our lives?” Marcus Sheffield furiously demanded of his daughter. “Did you see him! Arrogance of the devil. The scorn in those black eyes.”

“Don’t upset yourself, Father,” Suzannah murmured, looking pale and sad. She took his arm.

“The hide of him!” her father fumed, high colour mottling his cheeks. This was his first taste of Nicholas Konrads’ power, and the terrible loss of his own.

“We did grow up together, Father,” Suzannah said in a quiet nostalgic voice. “Nick always did have a compassionate heart. I believe he’s truly sorry about Martin.”

“Bah, they were never friends,” Marcus Sheffield scoffed.

“That all had to do with me,” she said, assuming the blame and the guilt. “Then you played your part.” It was the first time she had ventured to say it.

“Everything I did was to protect you,” Marcus Sheffield pronounced stoutly.

Suzannah couldn’t answer, a cascade of tears fell down her heart choking her. Her father was speaking the truth as he saw it, a truth that had blown her life apart. Because of her father, his powerful influence and her unquestioning belief in his integrity, she had become more deeply entwined with Martin, then a short time after the furore of Nick’s disgrace and departure had abated, married him in the same church from whence he had been buried.

Demons would pursue her all her life. Memories. The pain and the bitter betrayal in Nick’s brilliant eyes. The agony in his mother’s. The triumph in Martin’s and her father’s. They had won. In their way they had kept her a prisoner while Nick was shipped off with his long-suffering mother.