The Man with the Locked Away Heart

‘How long have you been in town, Dr Kendall?’ he asked, leaning back in his chair slightly, as if settling in for the rest of the evening.

Gemma shifted in her seat, her eyes flicking to those impossibly long, strong legs before returning to his dark, inscrutable eyes. ‘I’ve been here three years,’ she said. ‘I came up from Melbourne. I wanted to do my bit for the Outback. There’s a shortage of doctors in regional areas. It’s obviously much the same for your people. We’ve been waiting for a replacement for Sergeant Chugg for nearly six months.’

He gave a slow nod. ‘And what keeps you here, Dr Kendall?’ he asked. ‘It seems to me to be a rough, lonely sort of place for a young single woman.’

Gemma frowned at him. ‘How do you know I’m single?’

His eyes went to her tightly knotted hands in her lap before coming back to hers. Was that a hint of mockery she could see in his darker-than-dark gaze? ‘You’re not wearing a ring,’ he said.

‘So?’ she said, shifting again in her chair but in an affronted, agitated manner this time. Did she look as desperate and dateless as she sometimes felt? It had taken her the best part of her first year out here to put her heartbreak behind her. She was over it now. Well and truly over it. Or was there something about her appearance that shrieked lonely single woman? She knew she wasn’t wearing any make-up to speak of and her blond hair was in need of new highlights, not to mention her roots, and she didn’t even want to think about how badly her eyebrows needed a pluck. She would have done it last night but she had fallen asleep in front of the television. ‘I might choose not to wear jewellery when at work,’ she said. ‘A lot of doctors don’t.’

An upward movement of his top lip suggested it was about as close to a smile as he was used to giving. ‘Point taken,’ he said.

The ensuing silence was intimidating but, then, Gemma wondered if he had intended it to be. He was obviously assessing her, summing her up for his mental database. Most cops did it. They were trained to read people, to decode even the most subtle body language and subtext of speech. She suspected he was a master at it. She sat it out as determinedly as she could. She crossed her arms and her legs, a lightning strike of sensation rushing through her when her ankle accidentally brushed against one of his. She thought she saw a flash of primal male interest in his gaze but he just as quickly went back to deadpan.

‘You currently live at a property called Huntingdon Lodge,’ he said. ‘Is that correct?’

‘For someone who’s only been in town a matter of minutes, you seem to have done your research, Sergeant Di Angelo,’ Gemma said with an arch look.

He gave a lift of one shoulder, a careless, casual movement she knew instinctively was a guise. ‘In a town this small I don’t think it will take me long to get to know everything there is to know about everyone.’

He said it as if that was his goal and Gemma could well believe he would achieve it if he set his mind to it. There was a steely determination to his personality. She could see it in the chiselled strength of his jaw, the Roman nose and in the firm, intractable line of his unsmiling mouth. Here was a man used to getting his own way in every facet of his life, she thought. The hint of arrogance in his persona, the aloof, brooding set to his features and his unmistakable attractiveness was a powerful and deadly combination she would have to take care to guard against.

‘I’ve lived there since I came up from Melbourne,’ she said. ‘Gladys Rickards was a patient of mine. She ran the homestead as a boarding house and farm-stay property after her husband died. I ended up staying on with her rather than finding my own place. She was lonely and liked the company. We became very good friends. I guess that’s really one of the reasons I’ve stayed on for as long as I have in Jingilly Creek. I didn’t want to leave Gladys. She became rather dependent on me towards the end.’

His gaze was still locked on hers. ‘Mrs Rickards died not long ago, correct?’

Gemma shifted a little in her chair, her hands untying and then reknotting in her lap. She felt uncomfortable that he knew all that about her already. What else did he know? ‘Yes. It was very sad,’ she said. ‘She was one of the mainstays of this community, everyone loved her. She will be greatly missed.’ She let out a sigh and added, ‘It’s been just over a month and I still can’t quite believe she’s no longer there when I go home.’

The same brow lifted up, slightly higher this time, interest and intrigue there in that single movement. ‘What did she die of, exactly?’ he asked.

Gemma felt another frown pull at her forehead. ‘She was eighty-nine years old, Sergeant. She had a long history of kidney problem ssociated with her type two diabetes. She went into renal failure and at her request died at home.’

Dark, bottomless eyes, steady, watchful, assessing. ‘You were with her?’ he asked.

The question seemed loaded with something she found disturbing. She felt her back come up at what he seemed to be implying. ‘Sergeant Di Angelo, I have been with a number of patients when they die out here,’ she said. ‘Jingilly Creek is a long way from dialysis and transplant facilities, any facilities, in fact. Even if those were options Gladys could have had, she chose to die at home. She felt she had lived a long and productive life. She wanted no further intervention. I felt it was a privilege to have taken care of her. She had been extremely kind to me when I first arrived in town.’

‘She must have thought very highly of you,’ he said, still watching her with the gaze of a hawk. ‘Huntingdon Lodge is now yours, is it not?’

Gemma sent her tongue out over her lips again. Who on earth had he been speaking to? Ray Grant, the only other cop in town, hadn’t even mentioned the arrival of the new sergeant and she had been with him just an hour ago at Nick Goglin’s place. The only thing he had mentioned, and that had been at least a couple of weeks ago, had been that he was still waiting to see if the guy in mind was going to take up the position so he could have some much-needed time off. ‘Look, Sergeant Di Angelo, I am not sure what you are suggesting, but I had no idea Gladys had written her will that way. It came as a complete surprise to me. I had not expected her to do anything like that. It was certainly never something we discussed.’

‘How did her family feel about her bequeathing everything to you?’ he asked, still with that cop-like gaze fixed on hers.

‘Gladys and her husband Jim lost their only son forty years ago,’ she said, trying not to fidget under his unnerving scrutiny. ‘There are nieces and nephews and second cousins and so on, but no one who visited or kept in touch regularly.’

‘So you were the lucky one to inherit all of her considerable assets.’ It was neither a statement nor a question but more leaning towards an accusation, Gemma thought.

‘Huntingdon Lodge is like a lot of old properties around here—quite rundown,’ she said. ‘It needs much more money than it produces in order to keep things going.’

‘What have you decided to do with it?’ he asked. ‘Keep it or sell it?’

‘I—I haven’t quite decided,’ she answered, which wasn’t exactly the truth. As much as Gemma loved Jingilly Creek and caring for the locals, Huntingdon Lodge, although beautiful and with masses of potential, really needed someone with a farming background to run it properly. But for the first time since her mother had died she had a place to call home. But selling up and leaving so soon after inheriting the property could easily be misinterpreted by the locals. She had decided to make the best of it until enough time passed to make other plans.

‘No immediate plans to head back to the big smoke?’ he asked.

Gemma pursed her lips before she responded. He was watching her with that steady cop-gaze, quietly reading her every word and movement to see if they were in sync. ‘I am not sure what these questions have to do with your appointment here, Sergeant. I should warn you that if you subject every person you meet in Jingilly Creek to the same inquisition you have given me, you might find your stay here is not as pleasant or productive as you might have wished.’

He gave her his brief version of a smile but it didn’t involve his eyes. ‘I’ll risk it,’ he said as he rose to his feet. ‘Thank you for your time.’

Gemma stood up but her legs didn’t feel as steady as she would have liked. The consulting room seemed to have shrunk considerably as it accommodated the sergeant’s tall, authoritative presence. She could even catch a hint of his lemony aftershave and late-in-the-day honest male sweat. It wasn’t unpleasant, certainly not as unpleasant as that of some of her hard-working, hard-drinking, hard-smoking patients.

Marc Di Angelo smelt of a man in his prime: sexy, virile and dangerously potent. ‘How long are you planning on staying at this post?’ she asked out of a politeness she didn’t really feel.

‘I am not sure at this stage,’ he answered. ‘It depends.’

‘So, you’re like doing a locum or something?’

His eyes gave nothing away. ‘Something like that.’

‘Have you had a chance to meet the other officer?’ she asked. ‘I was out on a call with Ray Grant earlier but he should be back at the station by now. He didn’t mention he was expecting you today.’

‘I spoke to him by phone a short time ago to let him know I was here,’ he said. ‘I’ll head back there now to introduce myself in person.’ He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and handed her a card. ‘My contact details in case I’m not at the station any time.’

Gemma took the card, which was still warm from being so close to his body. She put it on her desk, and faced him again. ‘Where are you staying while you’re here?’ she asked, not just out of forced or fabricated politeness this time. Accommodation was limited in Jingilly Creek and he didn’t seem the type to rough it at the local pub.

‘The department has booked me in at the hotel for the time being,’ he said. ‘I believe it’s called The Drover’s Retreat.’

‘Yes, well, it was a long time since it was anything like a retreat,’ she said with a wry expression. ‘You’ll get a bed, a shared bathroom and a cold beer and bangers and mash, but that’s about it.’

‘Do you have somewhere else you could recommend?’ he asked.

Gemma hesitated. Sharing Huntingdon Lodge with Marc Di Angelo was not something she was going to put her hand up for even if she was keen to get some regular boarders in to meet the cost of the repairs Rob Foster was helping her with. ‘Um … well, there’s not much around here. You’d have to go to Minnigarra for a motel but that’s over a hundred kilometres away.’

He looked at her for an infinitesimal pause. ‘So you’re not currently taking in lodgers?’

Gemma knew her face was pink but there was nothing she could do about it. ‘Um … I’m in the middle of repairs and renovations at present.’ It sounded like the fob-off it was and the look in his dark eyes confirmed he recognised it as such.

‘I’ll give the local place a go before I make other arrangements,’ he said. ‘Thank you again for your time.’

Gemma let out the breath she had been unconsciously holding once he left the clinic building. She had a feeling this was not going to be the last time she was going to be cross-examined by the determined and rather delicious-looking sergeant.

The drive out to Huntingdon Lodge, especially close to sundown, never failed to inspire Gemma. The sky was a brilliant backdrop of orange and yellow against the red dust of the open plains. It hadn’t rained for months but the last showers had been enough to fill the tanks and rivers for the first time in a decade. The pastoral area surrounding Jingilly Creek was still struggling to get back on its feet after such a difficult time but the locals were hopeful of another solid rain before winter arrived.

The long driveway to the stately old Victorian-style mansion was lined by old poplar trees, whose just-starting-to-turn leaves rattled like bottle caps in the evening breeze. A flock of corellas and sulphurcrested cockatoos called shrilly from the red river gums down by the river running through the property. It was a picturesque setting and yet Gemma felt a rush of loneliness when her gaze went to the empty rocking chair on the veranda.

Flossie, Gladys’s old Border collie, came limping down the steps to greet her. Gemma crouched down and hugged the old girl around the neck. ‘Hiya, Floss,’ she said. ‘I miss her too.’

The dog gave her a melting look and followed her into the house. Gemma fed the dog, and then, after a quick refreshing shower, she poured herself a cool drink and went back out to sit on the veranda to enjoy the last of the sunset. A couple of kangaroos were grazing in the house paddock, increasingly brave now that Flossie’s eyesight and sense of smell and speed were not what they had once been.