Hidden Legacy

“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.

“But very easy to prove.” He spoke more gently this time. “Elizabeth and Julian were seriously involved. Then Langford came into her life.”

She sat there, speechless, almost in a trance.

“Alyssa?” he prompted.

She made a huge effort to respond. “This is a far cry from the encounter I expected to have with you.” She began to rub her temples, which ached.

“I know and I’m sorry. The fact is, Langford deeded this house to Elizabeth a year before he died. He also presented her with her little sailing yacht, the Cherub.”

All at once Alyssa felt a great surge of anger. She leaped up, unwilling to accept a word of it. “For pity’s sake, stop! Zizi bought this house. She bought the yacht. Either you’ve got your facts wrong, or you’re making it all up. Zizi would never have lied to me. She was a woman of integrity!”

He seemed unimpressed, although his tone was calm. “Please sit down again. I’m sorry to upset you. You may have been led to believe otherwise, but Richard Langford deeded the house to Elizabeth. The yacht, too, was a gift.”

The air thrummed with electricity. “That can easily be checked out.” She spoke sharply, but resumed her chair. “Why didn’t you tell my father any of this?”

“It wasn’t the time to talk to him about Elizabeth’s affairs. It was you Elizabeth was most focused on. She told me she was leaving you the house.”

“Do you have anything else to tell me?” she asked coldly, struggling with unfamiliar pangs of jealousy that Zizi could have been so drawn to him, confiding even that piece of information.

He seemed to realize it. “She spoke about you at length. How gifted you are, how much she loved you. How you both loved Flying Clouds. She was more than happy to speak freely about you, but it was extremely difficult to get her to talk about herself.”

“Why should she?” she asked angrily. Her heart was hammering away.

“Because of Julian,” he said, rising abruptly.

“Julian deserves some consideration. Julian is the issue for me. Here, let me pour the coffee.” The rich fragrance pervaded the kitchen. “There’s no question that was a very painful area of her life. She was loath to talk about it, although I think she accepted that she’d soon have to.”

An awful suspicion came into her mind. “You’re not a writer, are you? I shudder at the thought of some unauthorized biography of Elizabeth Jane Calvert, full of shocking disclosures.”

He didn’t answer until he’d placed her coffee before her. “It could happen,” he said with a shrug. “It’s quite a story, but it won’t be written by me. I’m an architect.”

Something clicked. “Hunt Hebron?” She referred to a Sydney-based firm, multi-award winners for many years.

He nodded, setting his own coffee down on the table. “My father, Philip Hunt, heads the firm since Uncle Julian retired.”

“I daresay you’ve won a few awards of your own.” She allowed her eyes to rest on him, struggling to keep the slow burn of hostility and a perverse awareness out of her voice, although it must have been obvious. Brett had always told her she was hopeless at hiding her feelings.

“A few,” he answered, “with better to come, I hope. I’ve checked out your work, although I’ve never managed to get to Brisbane to a showing. It seems to me that you’re on your way to matching and—who knows?—one day surpassing Elizabeth.”

“I doubt it. Zizi was wonderful.”

“And you aren’t?” A smile curved his lips.