“Why do you hate me so much?” Eden asked quietly.

Lang flashed her a brilliant look. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t hate you at all.”

“But you find no joy in my sudden entry into your life?”

“Maybe I’m hurting too much,” he said involuntarily, but it was too late to recall those revealing words.

“Are you trying to make me feel more guilty?”

“Are you? Marvelous,” he mocked. “How come you lied so easily? How come you couldn’t even warn me?”

“I told you. I couldn’t go against Dad. I know it was wrong, but why are you being so hard on me? Is it me, or do you distrust all women?”

“Not until I met you.”

Margaret Way takes great pleasure in her work and works hard at her pleasure. She enjoys tearing off to the beach with her family at weekends, loves haunting galleries and auctions and is completely given over to French champagne “for every possible joyous occasion.” She was born and educated in the river city of Brisbane, Australia, and now lives within sight and sound of beautiful Moreton Bay.

Look out in December for

Outback Angel by Margaret Way (#3727)

Mistaken Mistress
Margaret Way

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

PROLOGUE

FOR over twenty years Owen Carter had tried to forget he had a daughter. Not that he had seen her, not for a second. Not until this day of sorrows; of leaden skies and driving rain. He had journeyed over a thousand miles to sit in the back pew of a lovely old stone church never free of the unshakeable bond that tied him to Cassandra. Her tragic death at the age of forty-three had never been foreseen, now tormented by his memories, he attended her funeral, staring longingly into a face so like Cassandra’s the pull to go to the young woman was enormous. He almost sprang up, but he didn’t dare. Not now.

His daughter was his beautiful Cassandra all over again. The same silky black cloud of hair, the same extraordinary eyes, iris-blue, violet, purple. In Cassandra it had depended on the clothes she wore and the intensity of her moods. On this tragic day, tears starting down her cheeks as she followed her mother’s flower-decked casket, his daughter’s eyes were almost navy, the very white skin, which contrasted so strikingly with her hair, as pale as milk. They had never met but he would have known her anywhere.

It was Cassandra, come back to him.

His eyes so riveted to his daughter, must somehow have broken through her miasma of grief. She turned her head abruptly as if she felt his look, fully focusing on him. It was a deep, direct look so much like Cassandra’s a slight keening broke from him and his broad shoulders crumpled like someone had delivered a king hit to his solar plexus. His daughter. My God! The great love, so deeply rooted in his heart it never saw the sun, suddenly sprang into frantic bloom. Nothing would stop it.

Surely the gods had punished him enough? He had cloistered both of them in his heart, Cassandra and Eden, thinking in some tortured way he’d been protecting the child. Now that was all over as the dynamic force that was in him rose to the challenge. She’s mine, he thought triumphantly. My own flesh and blood. My daughter. The daughter denied me.

Hear me, Cassandra, he cried silently, channelling his thought to the lily draped casket.

This is my daughter. I’ve come to take her home.

CHAPTER ONE

LANG and Owen left the meeting together.

“That went well,” Lang remarked with satisfaction, moving through the lunchtime crowd with such smooth confidence people found themselves quite happy to go around him.

“If it did it was thanks to you,” Owen admitted with open affection. “I thought I was a tough negotiator but you’ve overtaken me. Nowadays you’re the key player.”

“But isn’t that the way you want it?” Lang glanced sideways at his partner’s face. Although Owen looked as fit as ever, indeed he looked what he was, a handsome highly successful man in his prime, the old punch was gone. For the past six months it seemed Owen was no longer driven by his vast business interests. Somehow he had removed himself from his life in the fast track, his focus clearly elsewhere.

It was odd. Perturbing. As were the monthly trips to the state capital Brisbane, the reasons for which Owen had never divulged. Not that he had to. Owen Carter answered to no one. Not him, his former protégé, now his partner, not his wife, Delma. Last month when he had taken over Owen’s role at a business meeting in Singapore he’d found himself unable to contact Owen for a vital forty-eight hours. Their normal practice was to keep one another abreast of all that was happening but on that occasion Owen had simply gone A.W.O.L. But to where?

Lang had seen it as a big shift in the balance of their relationship and it upset him. Over ten years ago, straight from university with an honours degree in commerce and the university gold medal, he had applied for a job with Carter Enterprises, which he quickly secured over a dozen older, highly qualified applicants. He loved the thrill of big business and the high-flying ventures as much as Owen did. He knew he could handle anything Owen threw at him. Which Owen did, the work amounting to quite an overload. But Owen had liked him. Trusted him. They understood one another. Nowadays he had become honorary “family.” Owen was allowing Lang to operate at the very top level virtually without input from himself.

There had to be a story. They’d all noticed the big change in Owen but not even Delma had come close to asking what it was all about. If Owen hadn’t looked so marvellously fit they might have suspected illness. The only other possible reason for all these mysterious trips away was a love affair, which was quite absurd. In the twelve years Owen had been married to Delma, a very attractive woman some ten years his junior, Owen had never looked sideways at another woman though there were plenty that looked longingly at him. The fact was, and Delma admitted it, she had masterminded a strategy to land Owen. Why not? He was handsome, rich, available. Who was he going to leave all his money to? He needed a wife and heir and Delma had convinced him that she would be perfect.

The marriage had turned out to be durable but not, in Lang’s perceptive eyes, what one could call happy. Strictly speaking, it hadn’t been a love match. A fact never outwardly acknowledged by either of them but always running on a subterranean current. With a less than ardent husband always preoccupied with business Delma had taken to mild flirtations. Never too overt, Owen for all his calm detachment wasn’t the man to cuckold. But recently Owen had become a man of mystery. To track him would have been the greatest insult but Lang found himself frequently pondering exactly what was going on in Owen’s life. Owen was a married man with a wife and young son. He was highly regarded in big business and the tropical north where he lived. Why would a man like that want to complicate his life with a secret affair? Providing, of course, the mystery in Owen’s life was a woman.

Whatever Owen’s story, his early life before coming north, he never spoke of it. Otherwise he spoke of anything and everything with his partner. Lang always felt Owen had suffered some terrible blow in his youth. Something he had never dealt with. Owen would probably go to his grave with all his secrets intact.

Now Lang walked at Owen’s side totally unaware of the attention his own looks attracted. Lang was and always had been very casual about such things. Achievement was what mattered. He had gone after it traumatized by his father’s financial crash, which had literally lost the family farm, though farm hardly described Marella Downs. A ten thousand square kilometre run on the western side of the Great Dividing Range, Marella was a most valuable property. Forsyths had lived there for well over a hundred years, a long time in this great southern land, until his father becoming increasingly desperate after a series of financial busts and industry reversals had finally lost it.

His father had since died, unable to handle not adversity, but the burden of guilt he had placed on himself for losing the family heritage. His father had never lived to see him gradually overcome all the terrible setbacks, but his mother had. Barbara Forsyth resided at Marella Downs once more.

He’d made it his life’s business to buy back the farm. There was no way now he could run the station. He was too heavily and financially involved with Carter-Forsyth Enterprises. His sister, Georgia, and her husband, Brad Carson, his good friend from childhood, managed the station very efficiently indeed. When it was time, Brad wanted to buy him out. But that was a good while off yet. Meanwhile the Forsyths were back on Marella Downs with the next generation taken care of in the form of one Ryan Forsyth Carson, aged six. His nephew and godson.

Lang and Owen lunched at the club, a beautiful old building that looked out at the Botanical Gardens. Both men relaxed over an excellent meal, which was served with quiet flourish by the waiter who usually attended to them. They talked easily. It had been their way from day one, but Owen studiously avoided talking business, which in itself was extraordinary despite the six months of change. Instead he concentrated on their outside interests like their mutual obsession with boats, sailing and big game fishing. They had the glorious waters of the Great Barrier Reef at their doorstep after all.

A few acquaintances walked in, toting briefcases. Greetings were exchanged. One man crossed the plush ruby carpet in long strides, patting Owen rather fulsomely on the back. “How’s it going, Owen? You look good! Been making some frequent trips to town, eh?” The snapping gaze was transferred to Lang. “Hi there, Lang, nice to see you again.”

He spoke some more but Lang barely heard him. He was focusing on something suggestive in the man’s manner. To Lang’s sharp eyes it assumed a ribald touch, “nudge, nudge, wink, wink.” That disturbed and angered him on Owen’s behalf.

“What was that all about?” he decided to ask when the man had gone off to rejoin friends. It had taken time to shake off his early awe of Owen, but these days he was much too self-assured, too successful to be intimidated by him.

Owen returned his direct glance unwaveringly. Probably it would take an earthquake to shake Owen Carter’s composure. “Does it matter? Silly sort of fellow. Anyone would think I’d turned up with a voluptuous blonde.”

“Always supposing a woman would be admitted to these hallowed halls,” Lang returned ironically.

“Actually they can come for dinner.” Owen slewed around to see where the other man had gone. “Wives and partners of members.”

“About time they changed the rules.” Lang was of the strong opinion women shouldn’t be excluded from anywhere they cared to go.

“I’m not averse to that.” Owen smiled, signalling their favourite waiter. He allowed himself a whiskey, rattling the ice cubes against the rim. “Will you see Arthur Knox for me this afternoon, Lang?” he asked, apology in his dark eyes. Apology and something else. Something that would have been in someone else, excitement. “I have things to do.”

“No problem.” Lang gave him the only answer possible. Arthur Knox was the senior partner of Knox Frazier, and Carter-Forsyth’s taxation lawyer. “Will we meet up for dinner?” Both of them were staying at the same hotel.

For once Owen’s eyes were veiled. “I’d have liked that, Lang, only I got talked into having dinner with old Drummond. Remember him?”

“Judge Drummond?”

“That’s the one.”

It was all too pat. In fact it sounded like Owen had rehearsed it.

Out in the street again, the pavement bouncing with heat, they said their farewells. Lang realised it was later than he thought, so he moved off in the direction of Knox’s legal offices. Many pretty girls, long legs flashing in short skirts, had passed them as they’d stood outside the club. Owen hadn’t turned his head to look at a one of them. So why now was he worrying Owen had somehow got himself heavily involved with a woman? A woman moreover who already had a firm grip on him. This was trouble. No doubt about that. A bloody foolish middle-aged fling? With a marriage to be ripped apart? Young Robbie who was certainly overindulged and overcosseted by his mother nevertheless adored his father. A broken marriage would wreak havoc in the child’s life. He, too, would become involved. Even asked to take sides.

Women! One way or other they caused a lot of pain.

Too many people recognised him at the hotel so Lang sought the anonymity of a restaurant rather than the dining room of the hotel, where he usually ate whenever he came to town. The very charming receptionist had recommended a restaurant to him and most obligingly made the reservation. He had toyed with the idea of room service but found the food was vastly better in the main dining room, which had a well-deserved reputation for fine cuisine. Besides, he was hungry after a long day of talking and listening. Talking to their Malaysian counterparts in a big building venture; listening to their own legal adviser.

Dressed in a lightweight Italian suit made of the finest Australian wool he took the lift to the elegantly opulent foyer then walked out onto the street. The doorman at the ready asked if he wanted a cab but he felt it ridiculous to take one over a short distance. He could walk. The receptionist had given him precise directions. She had also given him a subtle come-on, which he wasn’t about to avail himself of. One man’s indiscretion was more than enough.

The restaurant was new or it had been totally refurbished. From his walks around the city he didn’t remember it at all. Very obviously up-market. Maybe too much so. He wanted to be quiet. He had lots to think about. The very smooth maître d’ found him a nice secluded table having ascertained privacy was what he wanted. The restaurant was not quite full—Tuesday was an off night—and the tables mainly held discreet businessmen in well-tailored suits, and their partners, girlfriends, wives. The restaurant itself was lovely with luxuriant, flattering lighting falling on elegant tables and chairs, fine china and flatware, gleaming wineglasses. Leafy small trees in huge copper pots were set at intervals along the floor-to-ceiling windows that allowed a view of the river and the city’s night-time glitter.

Seated at a window table but lightly screened by one of the small decorative trees, Lang decided on lobster for an entrée followed by baby lamb Roman style. He was walking back to the hotel so he ordered a very dry martini right away followed by a bottle of fine wine. Not bad at all, he thought, looking around. A very nice place. Close enough, too, to the hotel. He wondered how Owen would enjoy his evening. Gordon Drummond, though very learned in the law, was an austere man of austere habits. He lacked a sense of humour. Not the most entertaining of dinner companions.

The lobster was superb. Queensland seafood was renowned. The lamb was just as good. He was contemplating dessert, maybe the terrine di gelato al spezie con pan alle spezie. Fluent in Italian—tropical North Queensland and the sugar industry owned a great deal to its Italian migrants, he knew that meant a three-spice ice cream with spiced bread and red wine syrup. Like most men, he had a sweet tooth. The waiter was hovering, ready to take his order, only as he looked up he encountered a sight that transfixed him.

Uncertainty became an inescapable reality.

Being ushered to a table was Owen, radiating power, his tanned handsome face glowing with pride. Preceding him was the most beautiful young woman Lang had ever seen and he’d seen plenty of good-looking women. Tallish, very slender, she had masses of silky sable hair, curling loose to her shoulders. The centre part pointed up the perfect oval of her face. Her skin in the soft lighting had the perfection of a white camellia. But the most breath-taking feature was her eyes. From a little distance they looked purple. Surely no one had purple eyes, or were they a very dark blue? Above the eyes arched finely marked brows. Her features were small. It was a style of looks that put him in mind of the young Vivien Leigh of Gone With the Wind fame, but for all her beauty and the cool chic of her dress it wasn’t admiration he felt. It was condemnation. Pure and simple.

So this was Owen’s mystery woman. The catalyst that had released Owen from the traumas of the past. Lang stared at her for endless moments. Without actually looking for Owen’s mystery woman, he had found her. She had to be the answer to the great change in his friend. He had never seen naked emotion plain on Owen’s face. But he saw it now. Owen had fallen head over heels in love with a woman young enough to be his daughter. The thought filled him with dismay. The sight turned the fine wine he was drinking to vinegar.

How could Delma contend with this? Delma, herself a striking-looking woman, who worked with what God had given her. He couldn’t fail to know Delma had never felt totally secure in her marriage, indeed she trusted him enough to confide in him, though God knows Owen gave her every material thing she and the boy wanted. Everything it seemed except his heart. It was Delma who worked to keep the marriage alive. She was an excellent hostess and a high-ranking committee woman on just about every committee in town. Now everything was threatened just as he feared. He had never seen Owen look so happy, so triumphant, like a man in possession of some grand secret.

Or could it simply be the seven-year itch? An affair that started brilliantly and could only end badly? Owen was a fine-looking man. He had a full head of dark hair, good strong features, a Celtic nose and fine dark eyes. Sadly he had never deeply loved his wife yet love was written all over him now as he moved to a secluded table for two along the glassed wall. Owen was infatuated with this girl. Totally seduced. A blind man would have felt his deep involvement.

Lang exhaled a deep troubled breath. How was he going to get out of here without Owen seeing him? God, he couldn’t remember a worse situation. Owen wasn’t only his partner, he was his friend and mentor. He couldn’t bowl right up and take Owen to task. That would be a massive invasion of Owen’s privacy, an invasion Owen, a proud man, wouldn’t take too kindly, even from him. All he could do was wait for Owen to confide in him, yet Owen hadn’t said a word for the past six months. Obviously he was planning something and he didn’t intend telling anyone about it until that plan was finalised.

Seated at their table, Owen had his back to him, broad shoulders square beneath the jacket of his expensive suit. He was free then to observe the way the young woman’s eyes were focused on Owen as he spoke. Not once did her gaze wander casually around the dining room as most people’s did. It was as though she in her turn was spellbound by him. Once Owen must have said something funny. He heard the sweet peal of her laughter. God, what was going on? For all his suspicions had prepared him, he was shocked to actually see Owen with this girl.

Now she was touching Owen’s jacketed sleeve. Owen hungrily caught her hand, held it. Where and how had he met her? Don’t do it, Owen, he thought. You’re a married man with a child. She’s much too young for you. Early twenties at the outside. Owen had ordered champagne. The best. He saw the waiter take it from the ice and refill the glasses. It seemed vaguely indecent to watch them like this, but he couldn’t look away. They clinked flutes before they drank. Toasting one another, the girl’s beautiful eyes smiled at Owen over the glass’s transparent rim. Her glance was sparkling, young, tender. She probably made Owen feel like he was twenty-two again. Only he wasn’t twenty-two. He was more than double that age. Dangerous and irresistible yet a beautiful young woman made some men want to be young again. Only the Owen he knew was acting out of character.

They seemed to have a lot to talk about. He watched Owen catch her hand often. He saw the strength of the grasp.

Suddenly he felt disgusted. Disgusted with himself for sitting there like a voyeur, and disgusted with Owen for betraying his wife and ultimately his son. He was even more outraged at the girl. She had to know Owen was married. He had to have told her. So deeply involved with each other, wouldn’t she have asked? Or was it possible Owen had lied to her? Told her perhaps he was a widower or divorced. Or was it she simply didn’t care? Owen was a very rich man.

Their appearance together put quite a blight on his evening. Lang signalled a waiter, asked him if there was a discreet way he could leave the restaurant, his manner suggesting there was someone he preferred not to see on his way to the main entrance. It was easily arranged.

He paid with his card, waiting for the waiter to return, drumming his fingers on the table.

One could have thought her hearing was so acute she caught the sound. Either that or the quality of his gaze had somehow alerted her. The acuteness of her sensibilities caught him off guard. Those beautiful luminous eyes looked directly into his. They widened at what they saw there. Her mouth parted on a little gasp as though she had read the condemnation of his thoughts without his saying a word. The colour over her cheekbones deepened. The little smile that illuminated her face had completely disappeared. He saw all this in an instant of stunning clarity though he narrowed his eyes as if the fall of light in the dining room was too bright. He found to his self-contempt he could sympathize with Owen’s blind infatuation with this girl. She was not only beautiful, she had a look of exquisite refinement. Fresh. Innocent. Unflawed. Qualities at variance with her character. He made no attempt to look away, unable in that instant to soften the hostility he knew must emanate from him. All sounds in the dining room appeared to be absorbed by the density of the atmosphere between them. He swore he caught her fragrance. Yet there was no defiance in her expression, no challenge. Instead she looked so vulnerable his gaze might be damaging her.

And then she looked away. Broke the connection as if the impact was too great. She turned her dark head to stare out into the star-studded night, the city’s glitter reflected in the broad, deep river.

For a moment he’d worried Owen, so clearly protective of her, would turn around so he could follow her fraught gaze. But Owen, mercifully, was still studying the menu. The waiter returned. Lang rose abruptly, unwilling to admit to himself he had found that brief exchange unnerving. There were some women who haunted a man. She was one of them. He followed the waiter to a rear exit, which took him through the busy steaming kitchens, the chefs hurling instructions to assistants who scurried to oblige. He’d have climbed onto the roof rather than encounter Owen and his beautiful dinner companion.

As he made his way out into the back alley, he couldn’t help but make comparisons between the girl and Delma. Delma had the style and the particular confidence of a mature woman, but the young face he’d looked into was quite unforgettable.

He slept badly, sure of two things. Owen was never going to release his hold on this girl and two, there was little if anything he could do about it.

He was coming out of the shower when the phone rang. Swiftly he grabbed the hotel’s white bathrobe and shouldered into it.

Owen’s deep dynamic voice greeted him.

“How’s it going, pal?”

“I can’t wait to get home.” The simple truth.

“Sure you love the place.” Owen chuckled, obviously in high good humour. “Listen I know I’ve been asking far too much of you for quite a while now, but there’s a couple of things I need you to do today. I want to take a quick trip to the Gold Coast. A guy there has a motor yacht I want to take a look at. From all accounts it’s pretty fine.”

“And what’s wrong with the Delma?” he asked, trying to temper the faint sharpening in his tone.

“Nothing. Nothing. I could put it on the market today and someone would snap it up. This yacht is handmade by Italy’s finest craftsmen. Highest quality materials, all the latest equipment. I’d like you to come along as well—we always look at boats together—but this trip we’re so pushed for time.”

Of course, he thought dismally. Owen intended taking his girlfriend along. Spend the day exploring the delights of the oceanfront. Why the hell couldn’t the man speak?

“So what is it you want me to do?” He had little choice but to ask. Owen was the senior partner.

“You could see Rod Burgess for me,” Owen said. “You can handle the man better than I can anyway, and maybe pay a courtesy call on the old patriarch, Brierly. He still has a stake in a few of our property developments, as you know. Again he’ll be pleased to see you. One aristocrat to the other. My polish is superficial. Yours isn’t.”

“Don’t you believe it,” he clipped off ironically. “Anyway since when did so-called polish have anything to do with success in business?”

Owen laughed. “I know, I know, but old man Brierly really liked you. Do it for me, pal? I want you to know the best thing I ever did was take you on as a partner.”

“And I salute you as my mentor. What time do you expect to be back? Our return flight is booked for 9:00 a.m. Means we have to be at the airport by…”

“Don’t fuss, don’t fuss,” Owen chortled, hugely happy. “By the way, I have some great news for you.”

God here it comes. His first reaction was a deep biting anger. Why? When it was all said and done he had no right to interfere in Owen’s life.

“It’s everything I’ve been seeking,” Owen was saying, his voice thick with emotion. “For all of my life it seems.”

“Sounds like it’s been making you very happy?” He tried to keep the sadness out of his tone. Who was he to sit in judgment on Owen? Owen had been almost a father figure to him; yet the muscles in his neck tensed as he waited for Owen to continue.

“The answer is a great big yes!” Owen’s deep voice boomed down the line. “But I’ll have to defer the telling. It needs time. Lots of time. I’ve wanted to tell you for ages, but the timing hasn’t been quite right. This has altered my life, Lang. I didn’t think it was possible to know such joy. I want to shout about it to the world. I want it proclaimed.”

“Can’t you tell me some of it now?” he as good as begged.

“I’d love to, mate, I know you’re the man to fully understand. I love you like a son, which you’re not, thank God. I’ve got plans for you. I know why people respect you like they do.”

“Hey what’s all this about?” Owen was throwing out question marks galore.

“Life’s too short not to say what we really feel,” Owen exclaimed, his emotions uncharacteristically showing. “Listen, pal, there’s a knock at the door. I’ll go. I’ve hired a car. See you tonight. We’ll have dinner. I want you to meet someone. Righto, righto!” This was obviously directed to the person at the door. “See ya, Lang,” Owen spoke briskly into the mouthpiece.

“See you,” Lang repeated. “Go with God.”

Now why had he said that? It sounded so sombre. Almost final. He sought an answer even as he hung up. Maybe it was a releasing of his own acute tension. Maybe it was because he feared for his friend. A man like Owen, a middle-aged man so much in love, could be badly damaged if things went desperately wrong. He was absolutely certain Owen had suffered emotional trauma in his youth. The poor man could be fooling himself he had found the answer to his life’s happiness. There was Delma. There was Robbie. With a divorce a shattered Delma would move away with Robbie. A child needed his father. He should know.

Was it so strange Owen was acting the way he was? Beneath the tightly controlled facade Owen was a passionate man. It was just that he was sorry, so sorry. Sorry for all of them.

Except the girl.

She was kidding herself if she thought snaring a much older married man, a very rich man, was her right. No one could blame her for falling in love but when the outcome was going to cause so much lasting damage it was time to muster real character.

His meeting began with Burgess, a very successful tourism entrepreneur whose operations extended from the Queensland Gold Coast with its glorious beaches and luxury resorts, to their part of the world, the tropical north of the state over a thousand miles away. Rod was delighted to see him, and after a while steered the conversation away from business to talk cricket. Rod was mad about the game and he’d heard he’d been a dab hand with the bat in his university days.

They parted on the most amicable of terms, Rod sending his best regards to Owen. “Tell him from me, his best years are to come!”

A prophecy?

He decided to grab a bit of lunch before seeing Sir George Brierly. Owen had some information he’d like to show the old man in his room. He’d borrow Owen’s key from reception as soon as he got back to the hotel. All his nagging worries seemed to be getting the better of him but his working philosophy was to keep going and concentrate on the job ahead. It wasn’t like him to feel morbid. A good strong cup of black coffee would clear his head. The coffee Rod served at his office was pretty darn terrible when he thought about it. There was no excuse, either. The coffee plantations of North Queensland were turning out very fine quality coffee, but he’d felt a little hesitant to point that out to Rod who drank his down with every appearance of pleasure. Obviously Rod was a tea drinker.

Reception handed over Owen’s key without a murmur. The management knew both of them well. Knew they were close friends and business partners.

In the lift he used the security key to get himself to the top floor. This was the first time Owen had bothered with a suite. Owen, like himself, usually settled for a deluxe room. After all, they spent precious little time in it. His dark thoughts were returning. Was this Owen’s little love nest when he came to town? Surely not? Owen wouldn’t expose himself or his young love in this way.

He opened the door, seeing the empty space before him; the suite was commodious, comfortable, stylish, a home away from home for the businessman under pressure. He went to the desk along a wall hung with a large genuine oil painting, a seascape, of considerable merit. The hotel liked to trust its up-market guests. He spotted the folder at once. It contained coloured photographs, designs, architectural drawings still in the planning stage for a challenging new project, some twenty-five spacious luxury villas they intended to build along the Hibiscus coast shoreline. The resort would include a private marina, seafront pool and twenty-four-hour security. Last year they’d won platinum in the Best of the New Millennium Awards. He was riffling through the folder when he heard a sound from the master bedroom beyond. He hesitated, frowning. Was it possible the suite was being serviced? With the large folder in his hand he walked to the corridor calling out, “Hello?”

Even as he did it, the warning bells rang. He knew in a very few moments he was going to come face to face with the love of Owen’s life.

Hell and damnation. He wasn’t ready for it.

She emerged from the bedroom looking disturbed before she even caught sight of him. She’d been dressing. That was clear. She’d probably spent the morning in bed. He took in the silky black masses of waves and curls tumbling to her shoulders, little tendrils still damp from the shower. She wore no shoes on her narrow feet. Up close he saw her eyes were lotus-blue, like her dress. Nor could he stop noticing, like last night, she was trembling. If he were truthful with himself he’d have to admit there was something approaching violence in the emotions that shot through him. He didn’t want it, but he couldn’t stop it. He despised this girl but he knew now he wanted to see her again. The full realisation shocked him.

“You!”

The word was a little cry, a reminder of the night before. If possible she was more agitated than he was.

“I’m sorry.” He knew his voice was curt to cutting. “I didn’t realise anyone was here. Lang Forsyth.” He introduced himself. “I’m Owen’s partner.”

“Yes.” There was such stillness about her. She might have been a painting. “Owen has told me so much about you.”

“How fascinating!” He recognised that as acid. “I must go now.” He had to get out of there before he told her what he thought of her. That would be much too much. The end of everything with Owen.

“Please…” It was an appeal and it stopped him briefly. “You were at the restaurant last night.”

“I wanted to be private. There’s no reason for you to tell Owen. I had no wish to disturb you.”

“You looked at me as though you hated me?”

The luminous gaze momentarily disarmed him. “How could I do that? You’re a total stranger.”

“Except you do have a reason. Your reaction was so strong.”

He gave a harsh laugh. “What the devil are you doing here in his suite? Half dressed.” He marvelled at the colour and texture of her skin.

“I’m a kept woman, is that it?” Such control for such a small-boned, small-breasted, willowy creature.

He knew his eyes were ice-cold. “Forgive me if I can’t be as civil as you’d like. All I can think of is what’s going to happen from now on?”

“You don’t want me in Owen’s life?”

He shook his head. “Definitely not.”

“But I am in it, Mr. Forsyth,” she said with no trace of triumph. “My position has been confirmed. Owen loves me.”

“Infatuation,” he cut in. “Owen is totally swept away by your beauty.”

“He’s seen it before.”

He couldn’t account for that. “What are you talking about? What tricks are you playing?”

“No tricks,” she said gently. “If you’d allowed me just a little time to justify my actions…”

He turned decisively to go on his way. “I’m sorry. You’d need all the time in the world.”

“You’re on dangerous ground, Mr. Forsyth,” she warned from behind him.

“Don’t you think I don’t know that?” He caught hold of the doorknob. “You’ve propelled yourself into Owen’s life but it’s not my relationship with Owen that disturbs me the most. Or the fact that our relationship might end. It’s Owen himself I’m worried about. Owen and his family.”

“Such pure motives. How high-minded you are.”

“While you are not.” He let her see his contempt.

“I think you’d better go now.”

How her flush accentuated the whiteness of her skin. “I intend to. From something Owen said to me earlier I think he was planning for us all to meet over dinner. That may not be possible.”

“I’ll allow Owen to persuade you,” she said quietly. “I have no desire to myself.”

CHAPTER TWO

EDEN first laid eyes on her father at her mother’s funeral. She had no idea then who he was or the remarkable fact that he, not Redmond Sinclair, was her natural father. Owen was her mother’s lover over twenty years before when they were both very young.

Owen—a ruggedly handsome man in his prime—would have stood out anywhere, but it had been the quality of his gaze that had seized and held her attention. Just as Lang Forsyth’s silvery lancing glance had compelled her to look in his direction in the restaurant last night. Now she knew who he was. Owen’s close friend and partner. Owen had portrayed Lang Forsyth as a wonderful guy. Brilliant! A man of great strengths, educated, polished, ambitious, a great mixer, the sort of man you’d want on your side. Not the man you’d ever need as an enemy, Eden has since concluded.

She put up her hands to cover the flush of helpless anger that rose to her cheeks as she relived that brief incident which had so affected her. Of course he harboured the belief she was Owen’s mistress. How ironic! She still saw his frozen gaze. Diamond-hard. Heard the vibrant voice, uncompromising, deliberately stripped of all softness. She comforted herself—just barely, he had upset her so much—he would soon know the truth. Not that she would ever forgive him his contempt, understandable or not. She had suffered enough anguish of recent times, but she had loved her mother dearly. It hadn’t been easy to accept Owen’s claim he had fathered her and not Redmond Sinclair, the man she called “Father.” They had never been close or so comfortable for her to call him “Dad.” Redmond Sinclair was a man who never showed emotion. Not even at her mother’s funeral when every other thing about him spelled grief and desolation.

Now at long last Eden knew what was at the heart of the lack of trust her “father” had shown in her mother. The fear, kept rigidly in control, one day she might leave him. In retrospect she realised Redmond Sinclair had lived with such a burden of suspicion it had poisoned him. It allowed her to understand his reserve with her. In his heart of hearts Redmond Sinclair had known she wasn’t his child, but so closely did she resemble her mother, the woman he loved who had never returned his love in full measure, it kept him from rejecting her child outright. That and the fact Redmond Sinclair always strove to please her grandfather who had pulled a lot of strings to further his son-in-law’s legal career.

Her grandfather had been shattered by her mother’s death. In the intervening six months his health had declined rapidly. It seemed he didn’t want to survive the loss of his only child or thought he didn’t deserve to. Eden had known since she was a child her parents’ marriage hadn’t been a happy one just as she had gleaned over the years it had something to do with her mother having obeyed her father’s wishes as to her choice of husband.

Eden sank into an armchair trying to recover from the great shock of Lang Forsyth’s dramatic entry into her life. The day had started out so well. She had stayed in town with her father rather than return to the “family” home where she no longer felt needed or wanted. These days she only presented a pain-filled reminder to Redmond Sinclair. Her real father, Owen, had turned over the master bedroom of his suite to her while he spent the night on the very comfortable day bed in the main room. He’d left early to inspect a motor yacht he was particularly interested in. It was moored at the Gold Coast, some fifty miles away. She intended to spend the day in town doing some shopping and having lunch with a girlfriend. Owen would be back late afternoon. He had everything planned. At dinner he was going to introduce her to his close friend and partner, Lang Forsyth, a man Owen clearly looked on as “family.”

How the best-laid plans came unstuck. Lang Forsyth had caught up with her many hours before Owen intended, his attitude harshly judgmental. In truth the sight of him at dinner last night, a stranger staring so fixedly at her, darkly handsome and authoritative, an easy elegance to his tall body, his beautiful clothes, had filled her with foreboding. His appearance in Owen’s suite this morning was as momentous in its way as her first meeting with her own father. Even when Forsyth found out who she really was, Eden had the feeling he would always be antagonistic towards her. Maybe that was her destiny. Always to be the outsider.

Eden sank further into her reverie. She and Owen had come a long way since their first meeting. After her mother’s sudden violent end in a car crash, she and Redmond Sinclair had been on compassionate leave from her grandfather’s legal firm, Redmond a full partner, she a recent associate. Owen had approached her one morning as she’d left the house to visit her grandfather. At first she’d been startled to see him again, thinking perhaps he was someone from the press—there had been some speculation her mother’s death hadn’t been an accident, but Owen by his sheer presence overcame any fears and suspicions. He told her he wanted to speak to her about her mother; Cassandra was someone he had known very well when they were young. Could they go someplace quiet and private where they could talk?

Strangely she had gone with him without a moment’s hesitation, his demeanour so gentle and protective it allayed all fear. They had coffee but it was actually when they were seated on a park bench looking at small children playing on the swings that Owen began to relive the past….

“My story, the central tragedy of my life is no means unique, Eden,” he told this beautiful young woman gravely. “It’s a story as old as time. Star-crossed lovers. Boy from the wrong side of the tracks meets and falls desperately in love with the adored only child of a rich man. You know your grandfather. He was, and I suppose remains, a man who had very exacting standards. Penniless young men of no family had no place in his scheme of things. Despite that, for long tumultuous months Cassandra and I were lovers. But in the end the pressure from your grandfather was all too much for Cassandra. She’d been reared like a princess. She couldn’t contend with a run-away marriage to me. I had absolutely nothing to offer her at that time. Save my love.”

“It wasn’t enough?” Eden asked, the tears shimmering in her eyes.

“Your mother did love me, Eden. I want you to know that. But your grandfather and security won out.”

“How sad. My mother was always sad.” Eden stared sightlessly at the playing children. There was more. She just knew it.

“As was I.” Owen sighed deeply. “It has been an unparalleled grief to me all these long years to know my beautiful Cassandra was carrying a baby when she married her store dummy.”

Eden was electrified. “My God, what are you saying?” It came out like a plea. For a long moment she couldn’t speak until Owen put his arm around her shoulders.

“I’m saying, my dearest girl, that baby was you. Had I known your mother was pregnant to me at the time, things would have been very different.”

“You mean she didn’t tell you?” Eden shook her head, shocked and aghast.

“Not for three long years into her marriage. I have a letter to show you. You will know her handwriting. It confirms what I’m saying. The letter was sent to my mother who died without even knowing she had a granddaughter. Cassandra couldn’t trace me. I was mad with grief after she married. I felt crushed by her betrayal. I packed up and left home. I went north of Capricorn to frontier country. My mother always regarded Cassandra with some trepidation. She foresaw what would happen.”

“Yet she sent you the letter?”

Owen’s voice was gentle. “She had great integrity. I never told her about you because I knew she wouldn’t have left things alone. She was the wise one. Your mother begged me in the letter to keep her secret just like the confessional. Though it opened the door to unimaginable pain, I did it. Cassandra could always manipulate me. She convinced me you were happy and secure. So was she. As some kind of sop, probably to diffuse the inflammatory nature of her revelation, she told me she had named you after my mother, of all people. Your grandmother, Eden Carter.”

Eden was silent, trying to absorb her shock. “This is unbelievable,” she managed finally. “I can’t take it in.”

“I understand. I understand all about pain, suffering and shock. Read the letter.” Owen withdrew the yellowed much-read, much-folded pages from his inside breast pocket. He passed it to Eden….

As she read it her eyes became so filled with tears she had to pass it to Owen to finish aloud. How had her mother ever done him such a terrible wrong? Had she no courage? Whatever had persuaded her to remain with Redmond Sinclair? The marriage, so badly foundered, had never been happy but as a highly “social” couple they had maintained a public fiction. She herself had missed out on a father’s love. She could feel it pouring out of this man she now knew to be her real father. Redmond Sinclair had tried hard to find a place in his heart for her but he never could get the portals open. Such love as he had, more like obsession, had been reserved for her mother.

It was a terrible story and they all had paid for it. Even her grandfather had been worn down, she now realised, by a sense of guilt. In persuading his daughter to marry “one of their own kind” he had committed her to a life of unhappiness and unfulfillment. A charade.

“You know there’s been some speculation my mother’s death wasn’t an accident?”

Eden turned her head to look directly into her real father’s fine dark eyes.

Owen looked off abruptly. “Cassandra would never have left you.”

“You didn’t know her all these long years. I expect my mother changed greatly from the girl you knew. She was a sad woman. But so gentle and beautiful, everyone loved her. The man I called Father all my life certainly did.”

Owen’s rugged features hardened to granite. “I’m sorry, Eden. I don’t want to hear about him. Sinclair was the one Cassandra chose over me. From the look of him he hasn’t weathered the years well. He used to have a shock of golden hair. He was very handsome, very eligible, a promising lawyer. I never got past grade ten. I had to leave school before I was sixteen to learn a trade. There was little money in our house to go around. Today’s a different story. I’m a very rich man.”

“Did you ever marry?” Eden asked, thinking of so many broken lives.

Owen nodded. “I have a wife and child. A little boy called Robbie. Robert after my father. My wife, Delma—she has Italian blood—calls him Roberto.”

“Then you’re happy.” She was glad.

“I should be happy.” Owen frowned. “I would have been happy if I hadn’t had you and Cassandra perpetually on my mind. Often when I’m alone in my boat I have the habit of calling your name. Eden! My little girl. Sounds desolate, doesn’t it? It used to frighten the gulls away. But now by the grace of God I’ve found you. Cassandra’s tragedy has set us free.”

They’d met regularly after that, a couple of times a month. Owen travelled from his home in far North Queensland to be with her. Such was the power of blood both found their relationship, though propelled forward at a great rate, an intensely accepting one. They talked easily and freely, both of them on the same wave length. In fact Eden had come to recognise she had inherited some of her father’s characteristics, even mannerisms, though she had grown up isolated from him. There was so much for them both to discover. They enjoyed hours and hours of discussions and confidences as they pieced together the past. Owen was determined she come to live with him, to be family. But Owen in his exultation at finding a lost daughter was running the risk of alienating his wife and the mother of his son, her half brother, Robbie. It was obvious in keeping his friend and partner, Lang Forsyth, in the dark he had done some considerable damage already. But Owen couldn’t be persuaded to speak out prematurely any more than she could. Both of them needed time to turn their lives around.

While her relationship with Owen blossomed, her troubled relationship with the man she had called “Father” for all of her life deteriorated to the point Eden felt Redmond Sinclair no longer had anything to say to her. It was time to move out. Not hastily. People were talking enough already about her mother’s untimely death. She had no wish to cause Redmond extra pain and embarrassment. Six months after her mother’s passing it mightn’t seem such a desertion.

She hadn’t confided in her grandfather. Had she any need to? Her grandfather doted on her almost as much as he had doted on her mother, but he had become so much frailer Eden held back from upsetting him in any way. He surely knew the truth. She was convinced he did. Her grandfather was a very clever, astute man. He and her mother had been so close; her mother would have poured out the whole sorry story. Then there was the time factor, though no doubt she had been passed off as premature. The depth of her grandfather’s grief—he was inconsolable—began to persuade Eden he had profound regrets at the way his daughter’s relatively short life had turned out.

Eden rose from the armchair and returned to the bedroom where she finished dressing. She was looking forward to lunching with her friend, Carly. They had gone to school and university together. Like her, Carly had taken a degree in Law and joined a firm specialising in Family Law. Carly would have to get back to work, but Eden had taken accumulated leave from her grandfather’s firm not only to maximize the amount of time she could spend with Owen, but to spare Redmond Sinclair the painful memories the sight of her must evoke. Cassandra had been the one to hold them together. Now that she had gone, so had the bond. Proof positive if she ever needed it she and Redmond Sinclair were not of the same blood.

After a companionable lunch with her friend, Eden did a little leisurely shopping then returned to the hotel late afternoon. Owen should be back from the coast by now. No doubt the new owner of a luxury motor yacht. Later in the evening they were to dine with Lang Forsyth. A dinner at which Owen proposed to reveal her true identity. That should put the arrogant judgmental Lang Forsyth very nicely in his place. Strangely enough she gained no pleasure from the thought. Owen thought the world of him.

Lang Forsyth looked what he was, a man from a privileged world who nevertheless knew what it was like to fight to survive. Physically he was very striking. Well over six feet, very lean but powerfully built; she had noted the wide shoulders. A highly individual face; dark, very definite features, arrogant high-bridged nose, the mouth quite sensuous, hollows under the high cheekbones. The whole impression was one of tremendous vigour and vitality, the excitement coming from the ice-grey eyes. A total surprise when his hair was near black and his polished skin was tanned to dark gold. She was sure that Lang Forsyth would never be her friend. Not in a lifetime. But he was Owen’s close friend and partner. She had to remember that.

The sound of the phone in the quiet suite surprised her. She picked it up, murmuring, “The Gold Suite.”

“Miss Sinclair?”

She drew a sharp breath, already aware of the caller’s identity. “Yes, Mr. Forsyth.”

“I’m in the lobby,” he said, his tone almost flat. “I’m coming up.”

Suddenly the air-conditioned room seemed cold. Unease entered Eden’s mind. What was it he wanted? This wasn’t the time for confrontation.

She went to the door at his knock, opening it and standing back. His striking face was drained of all expression though she thought there was a pallor beneath his tan.

“Sit down.” He spoke more gently than she had yet heard.

“What is it?” She was so used now to unhappiness and grief she instantly caught his mood. “Is it Owen?”

His dark brows contracted. “I don’t know a good way to tell you this. Owen has been involved in a three-car pile-up on the Pacific Highway. It seems the driver of one of the cars suffered a seizure of some kind, ploughed into the first car, while Owen’s ploughed into him.”

Her knees went from under her and her eyelids flickered. “Oh My God!”

The next thing she knew she was lying back in an armchair with Lang Forsyth tapping her wrists. “Are you okay?”

“I knew something was wrong.” She kept her head down, unaware he was standing over her with an expression of concern, not unmixed with worry about the difficulties she now presented. Delma had to be informed. Owen had been conscious for a good part of his ordeal, giving the police his name and particulars and the person to be contacted.

Owen, as in so many other things, had left it to Lang to break the news. To Owen’s wife. And his mistress. He hadn’t rung Delma yet. Indeed he was with this girl, even trying to protect her.

“Where is he?” she raised her dark head to ask; her violet gaze resting on him.

He named the hospital, hearing her heartfelt sigh. “I’m sorry. I should have told you it wasn’t fatal.”

“My mother’s was.” She spoke very quietly.

He steeled himself not to react. “I beg your pardon?”

“My mother was killed in her car just over six months ago,” she told him from the depths of her grief.

“I’m very sorry.” Her news appalled him. “That must have been a great grief and a great shock to you. Now this. I’m going to the hospital now.” He could no longer delay.

“I’ll come with you.” She rose from the chair, trying very hard to calm herself.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He couldn’t hold off his frown.

“I don’t care what you think,” she said, without challenge. “If you don’t take me I’ll get a cab. I want to find out exactly how Owen is. I love him. I’m not going to lose him now.”

Her intensity was such he believed her, yet he had to chide her. “You must remember he has a wife and child.”

She looked at him as if that had no significance. “What has that got to do with me?”

Oddly he felt no anger. Just a quiet despair. “You don’t look callous.” In fact she looked the most sensitive of creatures, her beautiful eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Owen had intended to tell you all about me tonight,” she said, as though she pitied him.

That restored his hostility. “Frankly, Miss Sinclair, that fills me with dismay. You must realise this is going to be a very difficult time. I have to contact Delma, Owen’s wife.”

“I know.”

There was a secrecy to her, to Owen, he couldn’t fathom.

“Why haven’t you done it before?” she asked. “Why not before telling me?”

Why indeed. “I don’t have to explain myself to you,” he answered with more force than he intended. “We both know I have concerns about you. You’ll have to get out of this suite. I’ll attend to everything.”

“Of course.” She inclined her dark head. “I’m so grateful you’re here with your odd combination of condemnation and concern. Are you going to take me to the hospital?”

Her insistence left him reeling. “If I can trust you to keep perfectly quiet. I feel sure Owen’s accident is going to be reported. There could be news people about. Owen is quite a celebrity. Most certainly in the North.”

“And I’m someone second rate?” she asked with gentle irony, fixing him with her soulful eyes.

He couldn’t bear to think of her and Owen together. “You’re a young woman who’s happened to make a bad mistake. I can’t claim to understand Owen’s motives in not telling me about you long before this. We’ve shared so much over the years I’ve worked with him.”

“He thinks very highly of you,” she said. “My identity will come out soon enough. If not while Owen is ill then sometime in the future. Should anything happen to him, God forbid, I’ll quietly disappear.”

He found he didn’t want this to happen, yet he spoke curtly, cursing himself, but driven by shock and anxiety. “You may think that now.”

“What are you so afraid of? Do you think I’m after Owen’s money?”

“Forgive me if I believe Owen’s money is a factor.”

She shook her dark head. “You couldn’t be more wrong. My mother left me financially secure. There’s my grandfather, also. You know nothing about me, Mr. Forsyth.”

“Except you’ve got my friend, Owen, spellbound. Anyway, what good’s talk? If you’re coming with me, come. If you’ve got belongings here, get them. I assume if you’re so financially secure you have a good home?”

She flushed, the sheen of tears in her beautiful eyes. “You’re making far too many assumptions as it is, Mr. Forsyth. If you give me a moment I’ll pack what I have. We were to have had dinner with you tonight, instead Fate has stepped in yet again.”

They never spoke a word throughout the fifteen-minute journey to the hospital though Lang found himself watching her continually in case she started to crumble. He even had to stop himself reaching for her hand. Such a slim wrist, a network of delicate blue veins beating there. Two gold bracelets. He knew gold. Both were unmistakably heavy eighteen carat. Patek Philippe watch with diamonds and a mother-of-pearl face. All very expensive items. Had Owen given them to her? He rarely gave Delma presents though he allowed her to buy whatever she liked. For herself. There was a huge difference. He was beginning to feel more and more sorry for Delma. She would take it very badly when she found out about this girl. He was silent under the great surge of anxiety he felt. What if Owen died? God, hadn’t his own father slipped so easily out of life?

“Are you ready for this?” he asked as they made their way to the ward.

Her voice rang with hope and conviction. “I know he’s alive. I’m sure of it. He won’t leave me. Not now.”

“You look like you’re going to faint.” Indeed she was snow-white. Her took her arm as stabs of pity pierced him, his manner at that moment more protective than he realised. She was tall for a woman but beside him she seemed so small.

“I haven’t fainted so far, have I?” Her lips moved.

“You did briefly at the hotel,” he reminded her. “Anyway, we’re here now. Please let me do the talking.”

“Of course.” She didn’t look at him, but she didn’t pull away, either. That had some significance but he didn’t want to look into it now. This was Owen’s young love.

The surgeon was waiting for them, and they briefly shook hands. He needed to scrub up. “Mr. Carter will undergo immediate surgery,” he told them, looking from one to the other as though they were a pair. “For internal injuries. He’s bleeding and has broken ribs and a broken collarbone, but he’s in good shape for his age. He’s conscious at the moment, but he’s been sedated. You can speak to him for just a moment, if you like. Now you must excuse me.”

Even as the surgeon turned away they saw Owen being wheeled out into the corridor.

“Come on,” he heard himself saying to her, upset beyond words at the whole damn business.

Owen’s dazed eyes rested on him first. “Lang!” He put up a hand and Lang took it, feeling the strange chill off Owen’s skin. “We’re here for you, Owen,” he said, allowing his strong feelings to show. “Eden is here, too.” He used her name knowing that he liked it. It suited her.

“Eden?” Owen tried to turn his head, clearly excited, agitated and the medical attendant shook a warning head at them.

She came forward, taking Owen’s other hand, bending over him, her lovely face as sweet and innocent as a Madonna’s.

The expression that blazed out of Owen’s face caused him to look away. This was love. Real love. God! And it was going to last. He knew that now. No one, not wife, not child, not partner, was going to separate them.

Ward Sister came up briskly. “Thank you,” she said with what was clearly a dismissal. “Mr. Carter is due in surgery. You’re waiting?”

“Yes.” He spoke for both of them. “We want to be here.”

Sister nodded. “There’s no telling how long it might be.”

“We’ll wait.” Eden spoke for the first time. “We couldn’t possibly leave.”

But Owen wanted desperately to detain them. “Lang,” he called, his voice weak and slurred.

“Go now,” Sister said. “You’re disturbing the patient.”

“I think he wants to tell me something.” Lang started to move back towards Owen but Sister stepped with authority between them.

“If you don’t mind.” She lifted a hand to signal a medical attendant who wheeled Owen away.

He sat Eden in the waiting room, a cup of coffee in hand before he put through a call to Owen’s home from the privacy of the empty corridor. He had spoken to the Carter housekeeper initially, not filling her in before he had a chance to speak to Delma, but he had left the message for Delma to ring him on his mobile the moment she got in. The housekeeper sensing something was wrong had apologised profusely for not knowing exactly where Mrs. Carter had gone. Mrs. Carter was a busy lady, sometimes she forgot to say.

It seemed an age before Delma’s call came through. He saw the girl’s eyes as he left the waiting room again. She seemed to know intuitively this was Owen’s wife.

Delma didn’t take the news calmly. She was a volatile woman, her cries so despairing they echoed quite stridently over the phone line. It was as though Owen couldn’t possibly pull through. He tried his very best to reassure her but in the end had to fall back on telling her he would ring the instant they had news.

“That was upsetting?” The girl’s eyes flew to his as he took a chair beside her. They were alone. Another couple had been there, but they had left.

He nodded, not surprised by her perceptiveness. “That was Delma. She’s quite distraught.”

“She loves him,” the girl said as though that explained it. As indeed it did.

“I couldn’t convince her she will see him again.” He thrust an agitated hand through his hair.

“It must be terrible to be so far away.”

That incited his retort. “Would you have risked being here had Delma been in the city?”

She looked undismayed. “Of course. But then Owen would have made things clear.”

“That’s childish talk,” he answered, and shook his head. “You truly believe Delma, his wife, would just walk away? Miss Sinclair, you don’t know her. I wouldn’t care to see Delma humbled and humiliated. She wouldn’t react with quiet dignity. She’d turn into a tigress before your eyes. I don’t think that’s an exaggeration. Certainly for her son, Owen’s heir.”

“Tell me about him,” she invited, speaking in a gentle tranced tone. Perhaps she was in shock. “Robbie. Roberto?” She longed to say “my little brother, my half brother,” but she had given her word to Owen he would be the one to break their grand news.

“My godson,” he said with deliberate irony. “I have another. My sister, Georgia’s, boy, Ryan. Both boys are of an age. Why do you want to know?” He allowed his eyes to move over her face, feature by feature, almost dividing it up into segments like a painter. Above and beyond the physical perfection of her features was a quality that gave her real power. Sensitivity? Mystery? Refinement? Maybe it was all three.

“I want to know everything about Owen,” she said. “He’s told me so much but you have a different perspective. Certainly of me.”

“Can you blame me?” he asked with heavy emphasis. “Owen has a wife yet he’s obsessed with you.”

“Obsessions aren’t uncommon.”

“Especially with women like you.”

Tension fairly crackled in the air around them. “Why don’t you tell me what you think I’m like?” she invited, not avoiding his lancing gaze, but suddenly challenging it.

“I have no desire to make you unhappier than you are.” He kept his voice toneless. “You realise Delma will be flying down to Brisbane?”

“I’m surprised she’s not already on a plane.”

“Then don’t be surprised at all the complications. I assume you’re not going quietly?”

What else could she say? “Owen wants me here,” she answered gravely, almost certain Owen, facing surgery and unsure of the outcome for all the surgeon’s reassurances, had been about to divulge their “secret” when Sister intervened.

The surgeon in his operating greens, made an appearance much sooner than either of them had anticipated. His expression, as was the case with so many doctors dealing with life and death on a day-to-day basis, was austere.

“Oh God!” Eden gave a soft moan, every muscle in her body contracting. She wanted to believe everything was all right, but she was still traumatized by the death of her mother. She would never get over those shock moments when Redmond Sinclair, bone-white, had come to her office to give her the catastrophic news the police had found the wreck of her mother’s car. Cassandra was dead. Now Eden breathed in and out fighting off dread.

“It’s too early, isn’t it?” She appealed to this hard, strong, commanding man, Lang Forsyth, but he, too, looked like he was preparing himself for bad news. “What’s it been?”

“An hour ten.” A V-shaped cleft formed itself between his definite brows.

They were both on their feet, both persuaded the relatively short duration of the operation might mean the worst.

“He must go on living. He must. He can’t die.” Eden didn’t realise she was muttering aloud. Finding her father had given her own life meaning. She couldn’t lose him now. Her distress communicated itself to Lang at an intense level. He found himself putting a supportive arm around her, encircling her slender body. At the same time he felt a deep thrust of desire within him which he didn’t much welcome. It was dangerous, even shameful. The odd part was she leaned into him for all the world like she trusted him utterly. It was as if they were friends. But then she was desperate for comfort and support from anywhere. Even from him.

Only when the surgeon reached them did he give a brief but illuminating smile. He shook hands first with Lang, then Eden. “I’m happy to tell you everything went well.” He eyed them almost cheerfully. “Mr. Carter is a remarkably fit man. His heart is strong. We’ve repaired the internal injuries, stopped the bleeding. Orthopaedics will be looking at the collarbone. As you saw, he has some fairly extensive facial and chest abrasions, but they will heal. He’s been taken to the recovery room. You can see him for a few moments when he regains consciousness.”

The relief was enormous. Eden could feel the swoosh of blood through her veins. “I’ve got so much time to make up.” She spoke with deep gratitude. “So has Owen. Now our whole world can expand.”

He looked at her with disbelief. Keeping his tone level was a physical effort. “I wonder if you’ll say the same a year from now?” he asked soberly. “I’m not sure I could be happy walking over other people to achieve it. I know it happens all the time but these are my friends.”

His tone though quiet all but savaged her. Eden felt if she couldn’t speak out soon she’d become unstuck. Thank God, Owen would be able to make things abundantly clear very soon. She wanted to wipe away Lang Forsyth’s deep concerns. She wanted to be free of that daunting stare. She wanted to come out with the truth.

I’m Owen’s long-lost daughter. Just like in a work of fiction. I’m the daughter he never laid eyes on until six months ago. Only she knew Owen was set on revealing the whole story to his friend, rather than her.

Once more, Eden watched Lang Forsyth walk away to make his phone call to Owen’s wife. She’d thought many times over the past months Owen could have told his wife of her existence. The fact he hadn’t made her wonder anew about the state of their marriage. If the marriage was strong, she had a chance of being accepted. If the marriage was rocky Owen’s wife wouldn’t want any reminders of her husband’s past love right under her nose. In his exultation at finding her Owen appeared to have given little, if any, thought to the repercussions on his marriage. And what of young Robbie, his father’s heir? He mightn’t want a ready-made grown-up sister. One, moreover, to whom his father found no difficulties with demonstrating his love. Eden knew intuitively many problems lay ahead. All of them were merely human with human faults.

Eventually they were allowed to go to Recovery where they found Owen conscious despite his facial lacerations, looking better than they’d thought, but as expected, very groggy.

“How’s it going?” Lang bent over his friend, showing his relief and affection.

“Fine, pal.” Owen tried hard to sound normal but even for Owen the feat was beyond him. “Thanks for everything, Lang. I owe you so much. Where’s my beautiful girl?”

“Here, Owen.” Eden went forward, as she did so, the expression on Owen’s face almost embarrassing in its exclusion of the rest of the world.

Eden looked like she desperately wanted to hug him. She was half crying, her eyes for Owen alone.

“Don’t cry, sweetheart,” Owen was imploring, his voice hurting but boundlessly tender.

Lang found once more he had to turn away. This was all too damned disturbing. It was going to alter lives. He knew, too, when he was beaten. Delma, God help her, had yet to find out.

In a little space of time they were ushered out. Owen was in no condition for more than a few words, though by sheer force of will he brought up his arm to wave at them as they moved through the door.

In the corridor Lang turned to look down at her. Tears were sliding silently down her face, yet she looked radiant. It was fascinating to see and it was driving him crazy.

He still had the use of the hire-car. It was parked in the leafy street, a short stroll from the hospital entrance.

“Your overnight bag is in the car,” he reminded her as they walked down the driveway. “I have time to drive you home.” Some knight, he thought. She was evoking such strange contradictory emotions in him; he had to fall back on simple good manners.

“I can get a cab,” she offered, giving him just a glimpse of a smile so sweet it touched the heart he had hardened against her.

“I can save you the trouble. Just tell me where you live?”

“Really you don’t have to.”

He cut her short. “You’ve had a shock. Owen is my friend. He would want me to look after you.”

“But you don’t have to?”

The thing was, he did, but he denied it almost sharply. “I guess I don’t.” He took her arm quickly to cross the busy road. “Well, maybe not altogether. You’re so young.”

“You can’t be all that much older?” She picked up the conversation when they were in the car, the strange intimacy reforming.

He gave her a tight smile. “A thousand years. I’m sure of it. I’m nearly thirty-two as it happens and you’re…?”

“Twenty-four. I can’t believe my mother would have gone and left me just before my birthday.”

“It was a car accident, you said?”

She didn’t answer; simply nodded her head. She knew she would choke up if she began to explain. Her grief over her mother’s death, so recent, would never subside. She was frightened, too, to begin thinking in terms of guilt. Had it really been suicide? Was she in some way to blame? She thought she had always been there for her mother yet her mother had never confided the true circumstances of her birth. That hurt her. Or hadn’t her mother been brave enough to say? Her true parentage had been a closely guarded secret until the very end.

That fact alone presented Eden with an enormous emotional hurdle.

They said nothing more to one another until they were on the freeway.

“You must know the city well,” she ventured, deeply regretting her own lack of truth. He hadn’t asked how to get to her suburb.

“Yes I do,” he clipped off.

“Owen’s wife must be tremendously relieved,” she continued gently. “Is she flying down?”

“Of course.”

He wasn’t inclined to talk, his handsome profile remote. Eden glanced out the window. It was dusk and the glorious tropical sunset was turning the city’s glassed towers and high-rises to glittering gold. In another ten minutes night would fall, as it did in the tropics, suddenly and completely, as if someone had thrown a switch. The multi-coloured sky, now rose, gold, scarlet, indigo, lime green at the horizon, would turn to a deep velvety purple. There were people everywhere. The picturesque paddle wheeler, the Kookaburra Queen was returning from a river cruise; the City Kats busy ferrying passengers across the river to the parks where they kept their cars.

She loved her home city. It had a delightful, leisurely way of life and a wonderful climate. Owen wanted her to go to live with him in North Queensland. To think of the number of times she had visited the Great Barrier Reef and the magnificent Daintree Rain Forest and had never known her birth father, Owen, was close by. She could even have driven past his home. There were some wonderful tropical homes in the far North. Fabulous sites overlooking the spectacular beauty of turquoise sea and emerald offshore islands.

“It’s been an extraordinary day.”

“Yes.”

“Are you only going to answer me in as few words as possible?”

He responded wearily. “Eden, what is it you want me to say?”

“You can say I accept you?”

His brief laugh was grim. “The only way I could accept you is as Owen’s long-lost child.”

Her heart shook. “How do you know I’m not?”

Another lancing glance. “I know Owen, that’s why. There’s no way in this world Owen would have deserted his child, his child’s mother. I know him. No way he could have kept such a thing secret. Not from me, let alone Delma.”

“You don’t think she would take kindly to having Owen’s love child fostered on her?” she asked, her voice so poignant he wanted to stop the car to confront her.

“You’re not pregnant, are you?” God, he didn’t think he could live with that.

“I find that unforgivable.” She had never done anything illicit in her life. Owen was her father, for God’s sake. What code had Owen bound her to she couldn’t say it? Both her mother and her father were good at keeping secrets she’d found. She wasn’t going to relive history. Tomorrow when Owen was a little stronger she was going to insist he explain the exact nature of their relationship and the whole sad story behind it. There was no earthly reason to delay, not even Delma’s arrival. She was tired of this charade and intensely angry with Lang Forsyth. She didn’t enjoy how he was making her feel.

“I don’t follow you at all,” he was saying. “In fact we seem to be speaking a different language. This isn’t a good situation. You must know that. I feel I have to warn you, you’ll have a job fending Delma off. She’s a tough mature woman. She’ll fight tooth and nail for her man.” God knows she had come up with quite a strategy to land Owen in the first place, he thought. But he wasn’t about to tell the girl that. It could only amount to extra ammunition.

CHAPTER THREE

ANTAGONISM seemed to cling to them. Antagonism and a strange intimacy he tried to hold down. He wanted to be out of the car. Away from her. The scent of her. She was quite unreachable.

Sometime later he drove into her leafy street. He could see now what she meant when she said she was financially secure. The street was lined with wonderful old Queenslanders, the traditional nineteenth-century timber houses built especially for the tropics, with their wide, deep verandas shading the exterior walls and pristine white wrought-iron balustrades and detailing. The style of architecture could be seen all over the giant state of Queensland extending to his part of the world, the far North where there were fine examples. All these homes were proudly owned and maintained wherever they were, so eagerly were they sought after.

As he glanced out he could see colonial white wooden palings that linked the fences visually with the houses behind it. Masses and masses of pink, white and red oleanders ornamented the fence; towering palms defining the long drives. The street and house lights provided so much illumination he could see splashes of brilliant colour from all the tropical plants in the gardens. Gorgeous scarlets, vivid yellows, vibrant pinks.

“It’s the next one on the left,” she said quietly, breaking the silence. She pointed not to one of the beautiful big Queenslanders with their large gardens, swimming pools and tennis courts, but to a great two-story Victorian pile, set well back from the street, hiding behind high stone walls and hedges of what looked like sasanqua camellias.

It was an unexpected house for such a girl. He felt she belonged in something not so overtly ostentatious. Something very gracious. More like the houses that fanned out to either side.

“Your family live here?” he asked, peering out. It was a huge house by any standards. She could scarcely rattle around in it by herself.

“My…f-f-father.” Surprisingly she stumbled over it when usually her speech was as clear as cut glass.

“And what does your father think about what’s happening in your life? Or doesn’t he know…?” he couldn’t prevent himself from asking.

She half turned, held out her hand. “Thank you so much, Mr. Forsyth, for bringing me home.”

She had the air of a princess in her lovely blue silk dress.

He took the slender hand she extended, little currents of electricity cutting into his nerves and running up his wrist. He had a sudden powerful urge to go inside. Meet the father. He wanted to discover what all this was about. He wanted her, or her father, to reveal something about themselves. He was forced to think of the next day. Delma would be arriving. He was meeting her at the airport. Taking her first to the hotel and then straight on to the hospital. The image of the two women meeting flashed across his mind. He thought of Owen’s eyes, his face, his voice and the transparency of his emotions. Everything about him gave away his love for this girl.

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