A Haunting Obsession

When the man’s gaze remained cool, not lascivious in any way, Bonnie felt some relief. But not enough for her to relax totally.

‘No, I am not Mrs McClelland’s nephew,’ the stranger informed her in an upper-crust accent. ‘I’m Jordan Vine-Hall. Your office directed me here. I did call out to you downstairs but you didn’t answer.’

Bonnie’s heart sank. Oh, God. Mr Moneybags himself! And she hadn’t been at the office to meet him.

Any dismay was quickly overridden by a surge of the same irritation he’d engendered in her during their earlier phone call. What right had he to drive up here so darned quickly? And why couldn’t he have been fat and bald? Why did he have to be the most impressive-looking man in the Southern hemisphere, maybe even the whole world? Lord, Daphne would have a field day when she got back to the office!

‘You shouldn’t have come out all this way, Mr Vine-Hall,’ she said extra-coolly in an attempt to hide her inner fluster. ‘I would have been back at the office by twelve.’

‘It’s just on twelve now, Mrs Merrick.’

A quick glance at her wristwatch brought a gasp of shock. ‘Good heavens, so it is! I... I lost track of time. I’m so sorry, Mr Vine-Hall. I don’t know what to say.’ Bonnie hated having to grovel, but she could see that a little grovelling was called for.

‘No need to apologise,’ he drawled. ‘As I said, I was early.’

‘I hope you didn’t have too much trouble finding me.’

‘I had good directions. Your—er—friend was most helpful.’

‘Oh, what friend was that?’

‘I think his name was Neil.’

The memory of the morning’s encounter with Neil swept back in and Bonnie grimaced. Whatever was she going to do about him? Should she tell Edgar or try to brazen the situation out?

‘Something wrong, Mrs Merrick?’

Bonnie was jerked back to the present. ‘No, no, I was just wondering where to take you first. I suppose you wouldn’t be interested in this place, would you?’

His face told it all.

‘I didn’t think so,’ she muttered drily. ‘Would you—um—mind waiting outside while I lock up?’

He glared at her for a second, then spun round and stalked off, leaving Bonnie with the impression of extreme irritation.

Her sigh carried a weary acceptance that the week might not start with an easy sale after all. Still, she supposed he had some right to be annoyed, coming all this way from Sydney then having to traipse out here after her, when he’d probably expected her to be there at the office, ready and waiting to dance attention on him. Wealthy men liked a lot of attention, she’d found.

Bonnie touched a slightly shaking hand to her head and glanced around the nursery. It was this room’s fault, she decided. She hadn’t wanted to come in here. She should have listened to her intuition. She should certainly have never sat down in that window-seat. Somehow, by doing so, the old woman’s pain had become her pain, filling Bonnie’s soul with a nameless yearning. It filled her now, yet remained tantalisingly out of reach.

What was it the old woman wanted her to do?

Bonnie shook her head. She was being fanciful again, the so-called haunted atmosphere getting to her. She didn’t believe in ghosts. She didn’t believe in haunted houses, or hidden messages from beyond. Her job here was to find a buyer for this place, not surrender to vague, highly emotional impulses.

Resisting the urge to give the room one last look, Bonnie closed the door and started down the stairs, doing up her jacket as she went. This time, she tried to see the house more as Mr Vine-Hall had and not through sentimental, rose-coloured spectacles.

It was a hideous old place. Run-down. Musty. Poky.

By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs, Bonnie felt oddly depressed.

But depressed salespeople rarely sold houses, so she made a conscious effort to brighten up before stepping outside, plastering a cheery smile on her face.

She needn’t have bothered, since her cantankerous client was standing on the veranda with his back to her. Every line in his body spelt impatience and tension, from the rigid set of his shoulders to the wide, feet-apart stance. She suspected he was a man who never relaxed, who lived life at too fast a pace. She wondered, for the second time, what he did for a living, and resolved to find out as soon as she could.

‘All set,’ she said brightly on joining him at the edge of the veranda.

He turned slowly towards her and once again she was struck by his looks, though up close and on second inspection he was not as conventionally handsome as she had first thought. His face was long and lean, his nose sharp, his mouth stern. It was a rather harsh, ascetic face, softened only by the wave of dark hair across his high forehead, and dominated by a pair of deep-set black eyes which drew one’s own eyes to them like a magnet. They had held her, transfixed, up in the nursery. They were holding her now, his gaze piercing, as though he was trying to see right into her very soul.

And what he was seeing was not to his liking.

Or was he always like this? she puzzled. Austere, grim, and coldly disapproving?

‘Shall we be using both cars?’ he asked curtly.

She noted the sleek bronze sedan parked on the other side of her Falcon. ‘I think we should go in mine,’ she said sensibly. ‘Otherwise we’ll waste valuable time.’

‘And my car?’ he asked, his left eyebrow arching sardonically skywards.

‘It will be quite safe here,’ she assured him, smothering any annoyance. The man definitely had an attitude problem. But she’d dealt with difficult clients before and prided herself on usually being able to bring them round. ‘I’ll lock the gates on the way out,’ she told him, and drummed up a placating smile.

No luck. All it produced was a half-sneer, as though her smile had been a long-awaited mistake.

‘But will I be safe, Mrs Merrick?’ he muttered.

‘Pardon?’

Her bewilderment at this cryptic comment seemed to surprise him.

‘I usually prefer to drive,’ he stated brusquely. ‘Do you drive competently, Mrs Merrick?’

‘I am a very competent driver,’ she snapped, giving in finally to irritation.

‘Yes, I’m sure you are,’ he said with an odd hint of scorn still in his voice. ‘I’m sure you’re very competent at everything you do. Shall we go?’ And he strode off down the steps in the direction of the cars, leaving a totally thrown Bonnie behind.

She glared after him, wondering what on earth she had done to get so far on his wrong side. Surely, if he’d been really annoyed by her not being at the office when he arrived, he could have demanded that someone else show him around?

Bonnie found it very frustrating to be on the end of such disfavour, particularly when she didn’t think it justified. All she could imagine was that Mr Vine-Hall was even more of a chauvinist than he’d displayed during his phone call this morning. There was no doubting his displeasure at having to deal with a woman. Any woman. Perhaps he considered doing business with such a young one the living end!

That had to be it, she supposed, though a niggling little something kept telling her there was more to this situation than met the eye. But what?

Shaking her head, she trailed after the man, thinking to herself that this was the worst Monday she had encountered in a long, long time. What else could go wrong?

Mr Vine-Hall was stretched out in the passenger seat by the time she slid behind the wheel, her automatic sidewards glance meeting a wary, sour-puss expression. Those unnerving black eyes flicked over her once more, and what he saw still didn’t seem to meet with his approval.

‘So where are we off to first, Mrs Merrick?’ he asked, that dry note still in his voice.

Bonnie suppressed a sigh and decided to give good manners and pleasantries one last try. ‘Perhaps you’d better call me Bonnie,’ she began with dogged optimism. ‘Not many people call me Mrs Merrick.’

‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘I don’t imagine they do.’