Guardian to the Heiress

“Of course not. I only need to speak to her. Where does Trace—I assume that’s Tracey—live?”

Cheeky supplied the address which was in a less salubrious inner-city suburb. He knew he could find it easily.

A narrow winding street snaked between too many overhanging trees. He didn’t like the idea of a young girl walking down this street at night. He would make a call the next morning to see if he could get those trees loped. He parked behind a car with a personalised number-plate that as good as announced Carol Emmett was inside. She was exactly where her flat-mates had said she would be, checking on Trace; he didn’t like it. Whether her name had changed to Emmett or not, everyone knew she was Selwyn Chancellor’s granddaughter, albeit estranged. It was her grandfather’s dying wish she revert to her father’s name. From now on Carol Chancellor would need a bodyguard. Such a man would have to be unobtrusive, very probably with his function kept from his charge.

He exited his car and locked it, looking up at an old Victorian house that had been converted into flats. It would have been an impressive house in its day. It still was, despite the current owner’s neglect. There was no security. That didn’t surprise him. The front door was even ajar. He pushed it gently, walking into the hallway before scanning the names of the tenants listed on the wall. Not that he needed to. The girls had told him that Trace lived with her boyfriend in flat number six. The tone had indicated they didn’t approve of Trace’s boyfriend, who wasn’t a university student. “Calls himself a chef,” Cheeky had supplied with a snort. “Works in a sandwich bar.”

“He was a chef, Amanda. Got kicked out. Temper, remember?”

He was halfway up the stairs when he heard shouting. The language was far from polite. He took the rest of the stairs at a rush. A raised male voice drowned out a young woman’s. The accent was educated, though she wasn’t averse to the odd swear word or two. She didn’t sound afraid, rather she sounded angry, challenging. With the wrong man that tone of voice was courting trouble. He had real reason to be concerned. He didn’t think that voice belonged to Tracey. It belonged to Carol Emmett, soon to be Chancellor again.

He moved silently to the door and gave it a thump with his fist. The scruffy young man that came to the door was maybe twenty-five or-six, handsome, not tall but heavily muscled. He was wearing a tight T-shirt, no doubt to show off his physique. He looked strong. But depressingly stupid.

“What d’ya want?”

“Well, that’s to the point, if nothing else.” The show of aggression did nothing for Damon. “I’d like a word with Ms Emmett, if I may? She’s inside, isn’t she?”

“Why would she wanna talk to you? Slumming, are yah?” The veins on the young man’s neck were standing out.

“Can I have your name?” Damon asked crisply.

That confused the guy. “Yah gotta be joking.”

“Not at all.” Damon stared him down. “Step away from the door, please. I want to see Ms Emmett and her friend, Tracey. Do I take it you’re the boyfriend?”

The young man fired up. “Get outta here. You’re not the cops.” He went to slam the door, only Damon shoved him out of the way and drove the door forward. At the same time he sighted a young dark-haired woman slumped in a chair. The cheekbone nearest him was heavily bruised, the eye almost closed. That upset him; he had seen too many incidences of abuse of women by their partners. The worst part was the victims often backed up for more. The damage was as much psychological as physical. Some women actually believed they had been asking for punishment.

Another young woman, who had to be Carol Emmett, was hurrying from the direction of the kitchen, clutching an ice-pack like a weapon. His immediate impression was she was infinitely lovelier in the flesh. He took in the tousled mane of ruby hair, her glowing skin—he had never seen skin glow like that—and her beautiful eyes of an intense sparkling blue. She was dressed in a short silk tunic, turquoise with a broad band of amethyst at the hem. It showed off her slender legs to perfection. There wasn’t a hint of a generous curve. She was built like a ballerina. She even had a ballerina’s trick of appearing to be in motion when she wasn’t.

“What’s going on here?” she demanded in that clear voice that gave notice she would soon find out. So, an imperious bantam weight! She could only be five-three at most. “Who are you?” She gave Damon a sharp, questioning look.

He darn near laughed, only the boyfriend took advantage of the distraction. He made a fist around the set of keys he quickly yanked out of the door, and then came at Damon in a bullocking rush, swearing and snarling.

Two things happened at once. Carol Emmett, blue eyes blazing, hurled the icepack like a missile at the boyfriend’s head. It missed, but only because Damon, using his height and speed advantage, had his assailant in a deftly imposed arm-lock. The violent boyfriend was on his knees, his left arm twisted high behind his back, his right arm anchored to the floor with Damon’s shoe pressed down hard on his hand.

“You’re dead, mate.” The boyfriend made the threat, straining unsuccessfully to free himself.

“Gosh, I won’t sleep at night.” Damon got a grip on the guy’s shirt collar before heaving him up into a chair which the enterprising Ms Emmett pushed into position.

“This is called instant bonding.” She met his eyes, her lovely mouth upturned in a smile.

“You’re shaping up as a pretty good offsider. I’m your new solicitor, by the way. I’m quite prepared to act for Tracey. This is the guy who assaulted her?”

A denial came on a burst of genuine outrage. “Come on! I just smacked her around a little. She likes it.”

Tracey didn’t say anything, but Carol Emmett exploded. “It’s a good thing I got here when I did.” She looked directly at Damon, her face filled with disgust. “God knows what might have happened. This isn’t the first time, is it, Tarik?” she said with searing contempt.

“You’re no pal of Tracey’s,” he yelled over his shoulder, clenching every muscle. “This is all your fault! Why don’t you mind your own business? I’ll get square. Don’t you worry about that.”

Angered by the threat, Damon exerted ever-increasing pressure.

“You’ll break my bloody arm, mate.” Tarik, the abuser, was full of self-pity.

“It is possible,” Damon said, the voice of dispassion, knowing the point to stop. “Call the police, Carol.” He looked to her, not absolutely sure she wasn’t planning to hit the boyfriend with the glass paperweight near to hand.

“No, no!” Tracey finally found her voice. The note in her voice sent a shiver down Damon’s spine. Hadn’t he heard that note before?

Carol rounded on her friend, looking dismayed. “What’s wrong with you, Trace? Can’t you see what this guy’s capable of?”

“Why don’t you sit down, Ms Emmett?” Damon advised, trying to steer the situation into calmer waters. “Let me ask the questions.”

She raised her brows. “Go right head,” she said dryly. “You’re my new solicitor, right? News to me. I don’t have a solicitor.”

The boyfriend let out a sneering laugh. “Caught out, eh?”

“Bradfield Douglass.” Damon found his business card, handing it to Carol Emmett. “Damon Hunter at your service. And this young lady’s, too. She obviously needs help.” Tracey had straightened up, so now Damon could see the full extent of her injuries. They extended to around her neck.

“Good God!” he breathed in dismay. “Do what I say, Carol. Call the police.”

“Right away.” She sped away to the landline, without glancing back at her friend, who didn’t speak again.

While Carol Emmett made the call, the boyfriend seized a last opportunity to get away. He got to his feet again, shaping up and looking dangerous. Only Damon was taller, stronger, in excellent shape. He worked out regularly at a boxing gym. He found the exercise both tough and relaxing after long hours at his desk. The owner, an ex-middleweight champion who could still box the ears off anyone, had become not only his sparring partner but friend.

For his pains, the boyfriend was yanked back in his chair, looking as though he’d been hit by a train.

Tracey witnessed the whole thing. “Thank God!” She breathed a heartfelt sigh, her voice hoarse from the injury to her throat. “I’ve been such a fool.”

“Don’t I know it!” said Carol, not about to make soothing noises. “But don’t worry, Trace. We’ll get you through this. I’ll throw a few things in a bag, and then I’m going to take you back to our place. You can’t stay here any more.” She looked across at Damon. “She can take out an AVO against him, right? He must be kept away from her.”

He nodded. “I’ll have it seen to.” They all turned their heads at the sound of the heavy boots on the stairs.

“That’ll be the police now,” Carol announced, relief mixed with satisfaction.

Tarik scowled. “I’m gonna complain you assaulted me.” He fixed Damon with a look of loathing.

Damon gave a brief laugh. “Go for it!”

“I’ve got witnesses.”

A hoot from Carol. “Shut up, Tarik. Tracey is the one with the witness to your attack.”

“You won’t stop me,” he threatened, trying to catch his girlfriend’s eye. He had found it easy enough to control her. He had the knack.

“We’ll see about that.” Damon’s tone was curt. He knew men of Tarik’s type couldn’t be counted on to obey the law. In fact, they were proud of flouting it.

“Police,” a tough male voice boomed from the front door.

There was a big smile on Carol Emmett’s face. “I have to say, that was quick!”

“What, did you offer a reward?” Tarik sneered.

“I was on the point of it,” she replied, going swiftly to the door.

In the end, after initial statements had been given, Damon followed Carol’s little silver car to her flat. Tracey was tucked into the back seat, nursing her injuries, although she had refused point blank to go to the hospital to have herself checked out.

“I’m okay!” It was almost as if she feared presenting herself at Accident and Emergency.

“How do you know?” Carol had shot back.

“I know.” For once Tracey was adamant.

End of argument.

It was almost an hour later before Carol had settled her friend. After a shower, clean nightwear and pain killers, Tracey allowed herself to be tucked into Carol’s bed. Carol had assured her friend it would be no problem for her to sleep on the three-seater sofa in the living room.

“I’ve done it before.”

She hadn’t, although all manner of their friends had.

When she finally returned to the living room, she found Damon inspecting a group of photographs she’d put into a large frame and hung on a wall.

Damon had been expecting the usual student clutter, but what he had seen of the three-bedroom apartment—open-plan kitchen and living room—was a neat, very attractive dwelling place that had been furnished in a stylish way. He liked the three-piece lounge suite in genuine cream leather. There was a glass-topped circular table with four yellow cushioned rattan chairs arranged around it for dining. A wooden bookcase packed with a wide range of books, from romances to far more weighty tomes, stood in a corner. A large abstract painting hung over a Chinese altar table. A distance away to either side of the altar table stood a pair of traditional Chinese cabinets with horizontal open-work panels. Yellow curtains hung at the plate-glass doors that gave onto a small balcony where four yellow glazed pots planted with strelitzias were lined up against the balustrade.

“You’re taking an interest.” There was a faint taunt in her voice.

“Just admiring the decor. Someone has created a certain style. I love the Chinese pieces.” He bent to take a closer look at the cabinets. He thought the wood was huanghuali, the principal hardwood used by Chinese cabinet makers. He thought he was right dating them as late Qing.

“Me, too,” she said, offhandedly. “As for the decorating, someone had to make the effort. And find the money.”

“I’m sure your friends appreciate it.”

“Well…” She let a further comment slide. She knew her flatmates took advantage of her. She allowed it. “Like a cup of coffee? Glass of wine? Maybe a salad? You could join me. I haven’t had a thing to eat.”

It suddenly struck him he was hungry. “That’d be nice, Carol. May I call you Carol?”

“Caro,” she said. She made a point of being called Caro.

“Carol is such a beautiful name.”

“What do you want from me, Damon?” She moved behind the black granite kitchen counter. “Is there something you have to tell me? Something about the family?”

She didn’t look in the least perturbed, so he decided to give it to her straight. From what he’d seen of her, he thought she could handle it. “Your grandfather passed away late this afternoon, Carol—at Beaumont, his country estate.”

Her blue eyes, a wonderful contrast to her ruby-red hair, flew to his across the dividing space. “You’re absolutely sure about that?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“So it’s all over,” she said, turning to pull out plates.

“Not for you, Carol,” he pointed out with some gravity. “You’re a major beneficiary in his will.”

She swung back sharply, her porcelain cheeks flushed over her high cheekbones. “You’ve got to be joking!”

“In no way. I’m your appointed lawyer.”

She stared at him. He was no more than thirty, she estimated, though his manner had a self-assurance far beyond those years. He projected high intelligence and a quite staggering sexuality. He had everything going for him, the entire package: tall, dark and handsome; his classic features not bland but distinctive. He had a great head of hair, coal-black with a natural wave, brilliant dark eyes that took in everything at a glance.

She had the oddest feeling of recognition. Had she seen him before? She couldn’t have. She would have remembered; maybe a photograph in a glossy magazine, squiring some glamour girl? He looked just the kind of guy who attracted women in droves. The name, too, seemed familiar. Damon Hunter. Damon Hunter. It came to her in flash—Professor Deakin’s star pupil. The most outstanding student of law Professor Deakin had ever had the pleasure of teaching. That was pretty cool.

She appeared so engrossed in her speculations, Damon had to prompt her. “I hope I pass muster?” His resonant voice carried humour.

“You look like you make tons of money,” was her terse response. She had read about instant high-level arousal in novels. She hadn’t encountered it—until now. He was arousing feelings of which she had scarcely been aware. Not that he’d be interested in her. She was a twenty-year-old student, not some voluptuous beauty with a goodly share of experience in bed.

“Is that important?” he asked.

She had a sudden picture of herself as an instrument; a man like him could play a woman’s feelings at will. She shook her head so vigorously, her curls bounced. “No, but I thought Marcus Bradfield was my grandfather’s solicitor.”

“Was for many years,” he said. “But your grandfather appointed me in this case. I wanted to tell you about his death before anyone else did, or you simply saw it on TV. The media will have the news by now.”

“The great man is dead. Long live the king,” she said rather mournfully. “I shudder to think it might be Uncle Maurice?”

“We have to wait to see what transpires. Mind if I take off my jacket?”

“Go right ahead.” As she guessed he had a great body; all of his movements had an athlete’s grace. So, lawyer and action man. He had taken Tarik, who was strong, down without raising a sweat. She watched him place his tailored jacket over a chair before he loosened his silk tie. His every movement was imprinting itself on her brain. This was ridiculous. So ridiculous, she resented it.

She took the makings of a salad out of the crisper. “I don’t need a penny of his money. The way he treated me, the way the family treated me, was monstrous.”

He heard the deep hurt beneath the condemnation in her voice. “I agree, but I didn’t come here with apologies, Carol. The will speaks for itself. Your grandfather clearly wanted to make reparation.”

“My grandfather with the stone heart! Does the rest of the family know? My Uncle Maurice, Dallas and my creepy cousin Troy—I see him around. He’s even tried to chat me up. What a joke!”

“Has he really?” Damon found himself not liking that one bit. Her tone had implied Troy Chancellor’s approach hadn’t been cousinly.

“Alas, yes. I don’t like him. Let’s eat, before you tell me any more. I’m fast losing my appetite.”

“Can I help?”

She shook her head. “A salad is simplicity itself. Let me get you a glass of wine—red or white?”

“I’ll have red, if you’ve got it?”

“Mmm, I think so. Have a look in there.” She pointed to one of the Chinese cabinets.

He didn’t open the beaded doors immediately. He stood studying the piece of furniture that stood on rounded straight feet. “You know what you’ve got here?”

“I do indeed.” Her tone mocked. “I have a pair of pagoda-form side tables in my bedroom, but you’re not going in there.”

“You like Oriental furniture?” That was obvious. He knew Selwyn Chancellor had been a major collector.

“Who wouldn’t? If I get to know you well enough, I’ll show you my celadon jade carving. Qianlong.”

“Ah, another collector in the making.”

“I’m told I have the eye.”

“I’m sure you have. Like your grandfather. He was a renowned collector.” He opened one of the cabinet doors, studying the labels before selecting a bottle of Tasmanian pinot noir.

“I know.” Suddenly she was remembering the endless treasure trove her grandfather and his father before him had collected over the years. She had been just a little girl, yet her memories had stayed with her—the way her grandfather had held her hand as he had walked her down the long gallery filled with pictures in gilded frames, telling her the names of the artists and a little about them. She remembered his jade collection in the tall glass cabinets; all the Chinese porcelains; the tall “soldier” vases enamelled with birds and flowers; the blue and white porcelain; the famille rose and the famille noir. She remembered the wonderful famille verte fishbowls on their rosewood stands that had stood in the hallway. They’d always been filled with big pots of cymbidium orchids in full bloom. And this Damon Hunter asked her if she knew what she had?

He was saying something to her, but she could scarcely hear him. She was afraid she would burst into tears, she who never cried. How could a grandfather who had loved her so much turn heartless? She remembered how her mother had hated him and had inexplicably hated her gentle grandmother, who was so quiet and retiring and had always kept out of her mother’s way.

“Are you all right?”

She blinked hard, incensed she had come so close to weeping. “Of course I am,” she said crossly. “What have you got there?” Why wouldn’t he spot her momentary upset? She couldn’t remember when she had seen such X-ray eyes.

“A Tasmanian pinot noir.” He turned the bottle to show her the label. “It’s very good. Are you going to join me in a glass, or don’t you drink?”

“You know better,” she said briefly. A few times too many she had been photographed coming out of a nightclub with a few of her friends, looking a little on the wild side in short sparkly outfits with her hair in a mad crinkly halo. Okay so she enjoyed a glass of wine! She didn’t touch drugs even when a few in her circle did. Soft drugs, the so called recreational kind. Getting high on drugs was of as much interest to her as bungee jumping.

He came behind the counter, so tall she thought she would just about reach his heart. He was a sexy piece of work and no mistake. She drew a deep breath, opening a drawer finding the bottle opener, then passing it to him. Their fingers touched.

Contact almost took her breath away. She grabbed a tea towel, as if to wipe the effect of it away. “The glasses are in the cupboard directly behind you,” she said shortly, finishing off her green salad; fresh baby spinach leaves and peppery watercress with a chopped shallot, a quick dressing of extra virgin olive oil, balsamic vinegar with a little Dijon mustard then a grind of salt and black pepper. She had added some goat’s cheese to the mix. Usually cubed croutons as well, but she didn’t have the time. The succulent slices of ham were already sliced and on the white plates.

“That looks good,” he said and meant it.

He was so close her body was humming like live power lines. “Super simple. You just have to make sure everything is fresh. My flatmates would live on takeaways if I weren’t there. Takeaways aren’t my scene.”

“Not when one can whip up a delicious meal in ten or fifteen minutes.”

She was at war with herself. She wanted him to move away. At the same time she wanted him to stay. She could smell his very subtle, very pleasant cologne. “So what do you survive on, or is there a woman in your life?” she asked briskly.

Bound to be.

“Simple food, Carol, but good, fresh produce,” he answered, pouring the wine. “I don’t do takeaways, either.”

“Which doesn’t answer the question.”

“No permanent woman in my life, if that’s what you mean.”

She was pierced by some sensation she thought had to be embarrassment. “I thought I told you it was Caro.”

“Maybe I got used to hearing your grandfather referring to you as Carol,” he replied gently.

He appeared to enjoy the meal she had prepared. She couldn’t taste a thing. To make up for it she had a second glass of wine. She realised what she was doing; she was trying to cover up an emotional crisis. Her collapse would have to wait for later. She had learned to keep her emotions to herself. Her mother wasn’t the caring kind. Indeed, Roxanne had acted as though rearing a child, especially a daughter with a mind of her own, was a real penance. Her stepfather, Jeff, had been nice enough to her, but he had started getting too touchy around the time she’d turned sixteen. She had been glad to get out of the house; her mother was equally glad to see her go. Her mother had come to regard her as some sort of rival.

It didn’t bear thinking about. She had no one really to confide in among her friends. They didn’t know what it felt like to be Selwyn Chancellor’s granddaughter, to be photographed wherever you went. They thought it was fun to be in the picture; she hated it. The invasion of privacy, it was a kind of violation.

“What are you thinking about?” Damon asked. He had been watching her face. She had such a range of expressions. He knew the absence of tears beyond that glitter didn’t mean she wasn’t suffering in her way. He had learned a lot about her mother and her stepfather—nothing much good.

He didn’t want to think about what had made her break away. She was exquisitely pretty, like a Dresden figurine. He had heard it said her mother was as “hard as nails and twice as sharp.” Apparently she couldn’t deal with a daughter who, as she’d grown up, started to eclipse her. Now, that was sad—a kind of “mirror, mirror, on the wall” scenario. He wondered where Carol Emmett found comfort. Not that there would be any shortage of comforters. More now that she would have to cope with being the Chancellor heiress. The fortune hunters would emerge from the woodwork.

Afterwards he helped her clear the table. Carol made coffee. Her moment of weakness had passed. “So, what is it I’m required to do?”

“By tomorrow this will be front-page news, Carol. A media event. Your grandfather died at his country estate. That is where he wished to be buried.”

“I know. In the garden at Beaumont, alongside my grandmother, Elaine. We used to go for walks there. The grounds were so beautiful, and so big I thought it was an enchanted forest and I was the princess. When I was about four, my grandfather told me where he wanted to be buried. He loved me, you know. Then.” She swallowed hard.