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She lowered her arms to her sides, hands clenched into tight fists, her chest heaving with frustration, her eyes wild with killing fervour. “Some daughter you are!” she spat.
The dutiful daughter had died in this room. It was one more grief adding pain to the load in Sally’s heart. “You never really made me feel you were my mother,” she said sadly.
It evoked a vicious reply. “I hope one of your damned horses throws you and tramples you to death.”
The last thread of any sense of loyalty broke. There was no room left for smoothing over this ruction. Sally steeled herself to draw a final line under it. “I suggest you pack up and go to wherever you feel good about yourself, because staying here is not going to work for you.”
Graham charged into the room, Jane hovering nervously behind him. “You need some help, Sally?” he asked, looking belligerently at his former employer.
Sally grimly made the call. “I think we’re finished here, aren’t we, Mother?”
Not without one last sting. “Your father would turn in his grave if he knew how you were treating me.”
Sally stared her down, denying her the satisfaction of seeing any evidence of a guilt trip. Besides which, she felt no guilt. None at all. She and Jane had done their best to please their father while he was alive. That need to please had ended with his death.
Lady Ellen puffed herself up and started to stalk out of the room in high dudgeon. She snapped her fingers at Jane. “You can come and help me pack.”
“No. Jane stays here with me,” Sally countermanded, not about to let her sister suffer the role of whipping boy.
“What? Even the worm turns,” was jeered at Jane who shrank behind Graham as Lady Ellen passed by.
Then she was gone, leaving behind a bleak emptiness that drained away the strength Sally had somehow managed to hang on to during the horrible confrontation. She started to shake.
“Anything I can do for you, Sally?” Graham asked caringly.
Her mind felt too scattered to think straight anymore. She needed comfort. “Would you ask Jeanette to bring us a pot of tea, please, Graham?”
“Sure.”
He left the two sisters together. Sally held out her arms to Jane, who flew into the offered embrace, hugging her tight and bursting into tears. “It’s okay,” she automatically soothed. “We have each other. Whatever the future holds, we’ll always have each other.”
Right now the future felt like a blank slate.
But it wasn’t really.
Jack Maguire was written on it.
This had been his day of reckoning.
Hers and Jane’s, too.
She wondered how the slate would read in a year’s time, but was too worn-out to think about it. Just take one day at a time, she told herself, do what feels right. Even when Jack Maguire comes to visit, I won’t do anything that doesn’t feel right.
CHAPTER SIX
JACK Maguire stood at the lounge room window of his Woolloomooloo apartment, watching the Queen Mary 2 make its majestic way down Sydney Harbour. It was accompanied by a flotilla of small craft which were made to look absolutely tiny by the massive cruise ship. Quite an incredible spectacle, Jack thought, and bound to bring out crowds of spectators on this, the new Queen Mary’s first visit to Sydney.
His mind drifted to another first visit—one which he expected to be more personally satisfying. It had been two weeks since the contract with Sally Maguire had been signed, and she hadn’t called him for help on any problem. He’d given her his cell-phone number but not once had she used it. Was she intent on proving herself capable of any task or was she shying clear of him?
Lady Ellen would have tried her best to poison her mind against him, but Lady Ellen had left the Yarramalong property the morning after the reading of the will. Couldn’t bear to stay there with Sir Leonard gone, he’d heard on the social grapevine. Not a word about eviction. She was currently being cosseted as a house-guest of a high-society friend, playing the grieving widow and saving pride by pretending she’d left Sally to manage the property with her horses.
The silence from Yarramalong niggled him. Had Sally agreed to her mother’s pretence, intent on keeping him out of their lives as long as she could? He didn’t care what Lady Ellen said or did, provided she was out of the picture he’d set up for himself. However he did want to know if Sally had actually thrown her lot in with him or was playing along with her mother’s game of deceit.
Time to make contact with her, he decided, and smiled cynically over the rush of eagerness that charged through him. Lust could make a fool of a man, and Jack was determined on never becoming any woman’s fool. The trick was to control his desire for Sally Maguire, not ever allow it to gain too much power over his thoughts or actions. Being master of his own fate was the prime directive of his life and he was not about to change it.
He forced himself to wait until after the dinner hour before he called her, anticipating she would definitely be in the house at that time—not out with her horses—and readily available to chat with him. Having armed himself with a relaxing glass of cognac, he settled into his favourite chair, made the connection to the Yarramalong property, and listened to the buzzing summons of the telephone, conscious of a buzz of excitement in his blood as he wondered how much she’d thought about him this past fortnight.
“Sally Maguire.”
The blunt announcement gave nothing away except her name.
“Hello, Sally,” he drawled, rolling that same name off his tongue with considerable relish. “It’s Jack Maguire, calling to catch up with what’s happening at your end.”
“Oh!” A breathy gush of surprise, then a burst of anxious concern. “Was I supposed to give you weekly reports or something? I don’t remember you saying so.”
“I didn’t. I hear Lady Ellen is in town. I take it she won’t be coming back to the property?”
A pause, then still with a note of anxiety, “I’m not expecting her to. She took all her personal things. I don’t think it would suit her to … to make trouble over the situation.”
It was an astute point. Wrong image if the widow wanted to make golden hay with a second husband. “How much trouble did she make for you, Sally?” he asked, still wondering if she had agreed to some deceptive scenario with her mother behind his back.
He heard the slight huff of a deep breath being scooped in. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said very firmly. “I stood my ground. Okay? Everyone who works here has chosen to stay on. We’re doing fine. No problems.”
I stood my ground.
Jack smiled over those fighting words.
There’d been trouble, all right, but Sally had not given in to her mother on anything. Definitely a strong backbone there. He liked that in her. It could very well add a lot of spice to getting her into bed with him. He didn’t believe she would come easily. Which made the prospect of winning the pillow fight all the more exciting.
“Are you … are you planning to visit soon?”
Her hesitant question revealed a nervous apprehension about his presence on the property. He didn’t want her afraid of him. That wasn’t part of his plan at all. Better to settle any fears she had—possibly implanted by the venomous Lady Ellen—before they grew into an insurmountable block.
“Tomorrow,” he decided. “It’s Friday. I’ll fly in about six-thirty tomorrow evening and spend the weekend evaluating the whole place.”
“Tomorrow,” she said weakly, as though in shock at how quickly he would be arriving on the scene.
“Okay with you?” he pushed.
“Yes. Yes, of course,” she said in a rush, obviously determined not to be found at fault. “Six-thirty. I’ll have the welcome mat ready.”
“Thank you, Sally.” He poured warmth into his voice. “I’ll look forward to it.”
Sally fiercely told herself she had no reason to feel any sense of panic. Everyone had worked hard all day to ensure everything was picture perfect for Jack Maguire’s personal evaluation of his property. The cleaning ladies had the house spick and span. The gardener had trimmed the lawn. Jeanette, after a frenzy of food shopping, was cooking a special welcome-home dinner. It was almost six o’clock and the only problem she had was deciding what to wear.
Should she dress up as her mother had always insisted they do for her father? She wasn’t a wife or a daughter to Jack Maguire, only an employee, and although he had expressed a wish to be welcomed as his father had, Sally couldn’t help worrying if dressing up might encourage him to think she was his for the taking—his grateful little mistress!
She hated her mother’s spin on the situation, didn’t want to give it any credence, yet she couldn’t quite banish it from her mind, having thought the same thing before she’d persuaded herself otherwise.
She should trust her own judgement. Her mother hadn’t talked with Jack, as she had. He wanted the welcome mat out. Part of that was dressing up, as anyone would for an important visitor. Who more important than Jack in these circumstances? Besides, in her heart of hearts, she wanted to look attractive, which was why she’d already spent so long washing and drying her hair into a gleaming mass of partially tamed curls.
Smart-casual, she finally decided, pulling on white slacks and a wraparound top in green and black and white. The top had cap sleeves and the V-neckline wasn’t low enough to show any cleavage, yet as she did up the ties at the side of her waist, she started worrying that he might see it as invitational. But if he had sex on his mind, it didn’t really matter what she wore, did it? And time was running out. Stupid to keep dithering.
She slapped some make-up on to give her face some colour. No perfume. Definitely not perfume, which might be interpreted as enticing. Satisfied with looking fresh and respectable, and doing her best to ignore the nervous thumping of her heart, she headed for the lounge room where the ingredients for a martini were lined up on her father’s bar, ready to be mixed. She would present him with one when he emerged from the helicopter. That part of the arrival ceremony was surely harmless. Besides, a greeting drink was appropriate in the circumstances.
Jeanette came in with a carefully arranged plate of antipasta and laid it on the bar counter. “In case he’s peckish before dinner,” she said, anxious to please. “Graham’s waiting in the kitchen. He’ll come out and carry Mr. Maguire’s bag to the guest room when the helicopter lands.” She gave Sally a worried look. “Are you sure he won’t want the master bedroom? We don’t want to offend.”
“I’ll ask him when he gets here. It’s easy enough to change, Jeannette,” she said soothingly.
The housekeeper patted down her apron and primped her permed grey hair. She was in her fifties and on the plump side, being fond of her own baking, but she prided herself on always looking neat and tidy and Sally knew these actions were symptoms of an attack of nerves. Change was difficult for everyone, she thought, probably more so for older people.
“The antipasta looks delicious and Jack Maguire will certainly appreciate the care you’ve put into dinner,” Sally assured her. “Stop worrying, Jeanette.”
She heaved a sigh then cocked her head in listening mode. “That’s the helicopter coming. Good luck, Sally.” Her kind brown eyes flashed approval. “You look very nice.”
“Thanks. And thanks for all you’ve done to make Jack feel welcomed here.”
“Got to make him happy to have this place to come to. I don’t mind telling you I’d hate to leave. That cottage has been our home for so long …” Another big sigh before she bustled out, leaving Sally to put the last finishing touch—a spiked olive—to the martini.
The helicopter noise was louder now. It seemed to vibrate right through Sally, making her body feel quivery. She gripped the martini glass very firmly and concentrated on not spilling a drop as she forced her shaky legs to walk out to the patio overlooking the helipad. It was important for Jack to see her there, waiting to welcome him. She had to get this right. Other people depended on her making him feel good about holding on to this property. A year would not be enough for Jeanette. The housekeeper wanted to keep her home.
The moment she stepped outside, the whirling wind from the helicopter blades blew her hair into wild disarray. She should have tied it back instead of leaving it loose—not thinking ahead, but nothing she could do about it now. She held grimly on to the glass, waiting for the craft to settle before heading down the steps to meet Jack.
The engine was switched off. The blades slowed. The doors opened for both Jack and the pilot to emerge. Sally plastered a smile on her face and, moving with what she hoped looked like casual grace, descended to the helipad to greet the man who had so suddenly become a driving force in her life.
Jack alighted from the passenger seat with a broad smile on his face and an eager bounce in his step. Amazing what a lift it had been to see Sally waiting for him on the patio, the fiery halo of her hair blown into a wild sunburst by the incoming helicopter. His mind did take note that she was only doing what he’d asked of her, but the cynical aside in no way reduced his pleasure in seeing her.
“Welcome home, Jack,” she called to him, pausing her approach as he strode towards her, holding out the martini she’d brought to give him.
He laughed, enjoying the black humour of the situation. This home had been bought, as Sally well knew. He had no emotional connection to it. The connection was to her, and she was simply fulfilling the role he had wickedly suggested. Doing it with class, too, looking country-fresh and beautiful in white and green. She belonged here. He had no sense of belonging to anywhere.
Yet as he took the offered drink, and felt desire for her firing through his blood, he was glad he’d come, even though the welcome had been paid for.
“Thank you, Sally,” he said, his eyes keenly sweeping hers for some sign of what she was feeling.
“How was your day?” she asked brightly, as though he’d only left her this morning.
“Busy,” he drawled, amused by the fiction she was keeping up. “Yours?”
“Very busy.” Her own lips twitched in amusement over the trite conversation. She gestured to the grey suit he wore. “You look as though you’ve come straight from a boardroom.”
“I have.” He waved to the helicopter pilot who was already on his way up to the house with Jack’s bag. “Bill has to fly back to Sydney while there’s still daylight, so time was tight. I thought I’d change into more relaxing clothes when I got here.”
“Of course.” Her gaze flickered with some anxious uncertainty. “I’ve had the guest quarters prepared for you, Jack. My … your … father’s personal things are still in the master bedroom suite. I wasn’t sure if you’d want some … some keepsake …”
“No.” He felt himself bristling with rejection of all that had not been freely given him by his father. Nothing had been offered. He would take nothing.
“I’m sorry.” Her hands flew out in apologetic appeal. “I should have asked when you called last night but I didn’t think of it until today, and then I didn’t want to bother you at work.”
“Fair enough,” he clipped out, annoyed that he’d made his anger obvious to her, determined to clamp down on it. “Let’s go inside,” he suggested, adopting a more pleasant tone. “You can show me the master suite on the way to the guest quarters and I’ll decide what’s to be done.”
One thing was certain. He didn’t want anything left in it to remind him of his father or the woman who had supplanted his mother and ensured that her husband’s son was persona non grata in this house. His house now, and he would not be shut out of any room in it. He was not a guest. He was the owner, and own it he would.
These thoughts were marching through his mind as Sally led him inside, her back very stiff and straight, probably thinking she had upset him with her lack of foresight—bad management. He would reassure her later when this issue had been dealt with. He was not about to lay fault on her. It had only been two weeks since the funeral and no doubt she’d had a lot to contend with, handling other changes.
The front door opened to a spacious foyer. Cream tiles on the floor were bordered by a terracotta and dark brown pattern in a distinctly Roman style. Caesar entering his palace, Jack thought sardonically. On one side, opened double cedar doors revealed a rather masculine lounge room—dark brown leather chesterfield sofas, a sandstone fireplace big enough to accommodate burning logs. His father had clearly been lord and master here.
But not in the bedroom.
Having been led down a wide corridor, Jack was ushered into a room that Lady Ellen had obviously decorated to please herself. Everything was sensuously feminine: elegant rosewood furniture, a silk brocade bedspread printed with lush red and deep pink roses, bundles of rich cushions, thick dark red carpet, matching red silk curtains. A room for a bordello queen, he thought cynically. He couldn’t imagine Sally on that bed. The colours were wrong for her. So was the whole style of the room.
She opened another door, waving him on to look at the rest of the suite. A glance to the left revealed a dressing room lined with two long rows of closed cupboards, their panelled doors painted in varying shades of jade green. A ceiling-to-floor mirror was at the end, reflecting his and Sally’s presence. Her back was turned to it, her attention focussed in the opposite direction.
On the right was a bathroom which instantly met his approval—a very spacious shower, easily large enough for two, and an equally luxurious spa bath, encased in marble tiles with a vein of jade green running through them. This part of the suite was fine, once he got rid of the red carpet in the dressing room. And whatever possessions were still housed behind the cupboard doors.
“I will occupy this suite when it’s refurbished,” he said casually. “In the meantime, the guest quarters will be fine, Sally. You made the right decision for me. I’ll have an interior decorator call you next week to make arrangements for seeing what the job will entail. Okay?”
“Yes.” Her inner tension visibly eased into a smile of relief. “What do you want done with Dad’s things?”
“Keep anything you’d like and give the rest to a charity. The Smith Family does good work. Try them.”
She nodded.
“And you can tell Lady Ellen she can have her bedroom furniture and furnishings free of charge,” he added mockingly. “I can see they belong to her.”
A flush of embarrassment blazed across her cheeks. “I’ll let her know.”
“I hear she’s taken up residence with Marion Harley,” he prodded, wanting to know how much contact Sally was having with her mother.
“She left instructions for her mail to be redirected there,” came the flat reply, carefully strained of any emotion. “I don’t know for how long. I guess the furniture could be put in storage … if she wants to keep it.”
Jack gleaned a strong impression of distance. No sense of any closeness. A ruction had definitely taken place. How much that pained Sally he didn’t know but it was abundantly clear she was getting on with her own life without her mother in her ear on any regular basis, and the prospect of calling her about the furniture was causing stress, not pleasure.
“On the other hand, you could just give it away to The Smith Family,” he said carelessly. “It’s irrelevant to me.”
“I’ll call her first,” she said with a flash of determination. “I’d feel wrong about giving it away without … without any consultation.”
Doing the right thing.
Yes, she had a strong sense of rightness, Sally Maguire. Which was undoubtedly at the core of why she had felt sympathetic towards his position in regard to the Maguire family. It also meant he was going to have to make her feel right about going to bed with him.
This realisation made her even more desirable. It would certainly be a novelty, having sex with a woman where the attraction was not bolstered by his wealth. Just an honest mating …because they wanted to. He simply had to bring out the wanting in Sally, overcome whatever reservations she had about giving in to it. Her guard was up at the moment, feeling her way with him.
“Okay. We’ve got that settled,” he said, smiling to put her more at ease. “Let’s move on to the guest quarters.”
She nodded and quickly led him back to the corridor which bisected this wing of the house. “My room,” she said, indicating a door on the left hand side. No offer to show it to him and he didn’t push for it, respecting her privacy though he was curious about how personal it was—how much it would tell him about her. She passed swiftly by but paused at the next door, turning anxiously appealing eyes to his.
“This is Jane’s room. Most of the time she’s in Sydney, sharing an apartment with other students while she attends the University of Technology. She’s in her last year of studying to be a nurse and wants to be a midwife eventually. Is it okay if she comes home …I mean visits me …” she hastily corrected,” …when she can?”
