Innocent Mistress

Though everyone tried—some better than others—there was no real feeling, not even from his son who stood with his hand over his heart, face beaded with sweat in the heat, rambling on about what a giant among men his father had been; how his father had taught him everything he knew. This had caused a little sardonic ripple to pass through the congregation that was quickly brought under control. Lester Rogan had not been loved and admired. Over the years he had become as mean as they come. Collective wisdom suggested Ralph was shaping up to be a chip off the old block.

The family sat up the front, son and daughter with their faces blank, Myra Rogan inexplicably weeping uncontrollably as though her husband had been the finest man ever to walk the earth.

Tears of joy, a lot of the congregation thought waspishly. She’d get over it. Probably take a grand tour overseas. There never had been any evidence Lester Rogan had physically abused his wife or children, but he’d kept tight control on them, allowing his wife and daughter little real freedom. At the same time they had benefited from his money. They lived in a sprawling two-storey mansion atop a hill with the most breath-taking view of the ocean. The womenfolk were able to buy anything they wanted—clothes, cars, things to keep them entertained—though Myra Rogan wasn’t anywhere near as attractive as she used to be. The expensive black suit she wore with a black and white printed blouse was much too big for her. The stylish, wide-brimmed hat with a fetching spray of dark grey and white feathers, spoiled by her haggard unmade up face.

Jude, who had arrived a scant ten minutes before the service began sat rows back on the family’s side of the aisle. How different this was to the memorial service that had been held for his father. Then the old timber church had been packed with mourners spilling four deep into the grounds. Today it was half filled.

People had wept as they spoke about Matthew Conroy’s innumerable kindnesses and the generosity which he’d wanted kept private, but the grateful had let their stories out. It was well known and perhaps traded on, in hard times Matthew Conroy never took a fee. He was always on hand with free advice. He listened to people’s problems when they came to him, tried to come up with solutions and most often did. Matthew Conroy had spent his life giving service to the community. All agreed he had been a wonderful father to his son. The proof was Jude himself.

No one seems to doubt I’m a winner, Jude thought. They don’t know about the scars. The young woman Jude had seen slip into the church late—his hearing was so acute he could near hear a pin drop—was barely visible at the back. It was as though she had deliberately withdrawn into the shadows. Only her skin bloomed. It made him think of the creamy magnolias that grew in the front yard of his dad’s house that now belonged to him. Whoever she was, he didn’t recognise her. Intrigued, he turned his head slightly to take another look. Immediately she bent forward, her face downcast as if in prayer, or she’d realised her presence had drawn his interest and didn’t welcome it.

By the time the service was over, she had disappeared. He even knew the moment she’d left. He thought he knew just about everyone in the town. Obviously she’d arrived fairly recently, or she was from out of town. He really couldn’t understand why he was so curious. He certainly wasn’t keeping watch on anyone else, not even poor little Mel, who had always wrung his heart.

Jude joined the slow, orderly, motorcade in the hire car Bobbi had organised to be waiting for him at the air terminal, some twenty kilometres from the town. It felt a little strange to be back to the snail’s pace of his hometown. No traffic. No nightmare rush hour. No freeways, no one-ways. You could go wherever you wanted with no hassle at all. There was limitless peace and quiet, limitless golden sunlight to soak in, tropical heat and colour, white sand, and the glorious blue of the ocean at your door. The rain forest and the Great Barrier Reef were a jump away. Isis had been a wonderful place to grow up.

The family and the mourners—not everyone who had attended the service came—spread out around the gravesite, all slightly stunned Lester Rogan was actually dead and being lowered into the ground. He’d always seemed larger than life, a big, burly, commanding man with a voice like the rumble of thunder.

The interment took little time. The widow was a pitiable sight. Who knows what she was thinking. Ralph, sweating profusely, shovelled the first spadeful of dirt onto his father’s ornate, gleaming casket with too much gusto. As Jude walked over to pay his respects to Myra and the family, he saw, not entirely to his surprise, the same young woman who had attracted his attention at the church. She was standing well away from the crowd, taking refuge and he suspected a degree of cover under the giant shade trees dotted all over the cemetery’s well-tended grounds. There had to be a reason she was there. He could see she was taller than average, very slender. She wore a simple dark dress that managed to look amazingly chic, no hat, but a matching head scarf tied artfully. It completely covered her hair.

Who was she? He wondered if the family knew her. It didn’t appear at all likely she was going to come across the grass to speak to them, unlike the other mourners who had formed themselves into a receiving line. They probably weren’t relying on their memories of the late Lester in order to summon up a few kind words, Jude thought, his eyes still on the mystery woman.

Myra, to his surprise, reached up to kiss him as he offered his sympathies which were genuine for her and Mel. Many the time he’d heard Ralph wish his father dead. Melinda looked so lost and pathetic he took her into a comforting hug, allowing her head to nod against him.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Jude,” she whispered, deriving strength from her childhood friend’s presence. Her own brother, Ralph, had been incredibly mean to her as a child. Jude had always been nice to her and she’d never forget that.

“Anything I can do for you and your mother, Mel, I will,” he was saying in his attractive voice. Melinda clung to Jude’s arm, hanging on his every word.

“This must have been a big shock for you, Mel, even if your dad had health problems,” Jude said.

“He didn’t try at all,” Mel lamented. “In fact you’d swear he was trying to kill himself. I couldn’t love him, Jude. He wouldn’t let me. You know that.”

“He wasn’t exactly fatherly material, Mel.”

“Whereas your dad was everything a father should be,” Mel sighed. “I know how cut up you were about losing your mother, Jude. You were very brave. But you had your dad and he was such a lovely man. My dad was very open about how stupid he thought we were.” Melinda dabbed at her eyes with a lace edged handkerchief.

It had an old-fashioned scent like lavender. Heck, it was lavender, the sort old ladies bought. Jude found that a little strange for so young a woman.

Nevertheless he shook his head. “Never stupid, Mel.” He comforted her. “You aren’t and you know you aren’t. It was just your father’s way of trying to keep you all down.”

“Well he succeeded.” Melinda bowed her head like a sacrificial lamb. “Death is always a shock, even when you’re half expecting it. He was my father, the most important person in my life. I feel a sense of awe he’s gone. You’re coming to the house aren’t you?” Her soft grey eyes held a plea.

“Of course. I’m executor of your father’s will. You do know that?”

“Ralph told us. I’m glad it’s you, not a strange lawyer. We really miss your father around here, Jude. He was very special. Like you.”

Jude gave a rueful smile. “I’m not so special, Mel. I’ve got my faults just like the next guy. There’ll be a reading whenever your mother feels up to it.”

Ralph, nearby, must have heard. He broke away from a group of mourners to stride up to them. “Thanks for coming, Jude.” The hard expression in his eyes didn’t match his words. In fact he looked confrontational. Good old Ralph, still mired in his adolescent jealousies and resentments, Jude thought. “It won’t take long at the house before everyone starts moving off. I’d like you to read the will straight after.”

Jude glanced towards Myra doubtfully. “Is that okay with your mother? She looks very frail.”

“It’s okay with me,” Ralph said tersely, turning on his heel again as though he was the only one who counted.

CHAPTER TWO

JUDE let the procession of mourners’ cars get away before he made a move towards the hire car. As usual Ralph rubbed him up the wrong way as soon as he opened his mouth. Now he wanted to get the reading over before he returned to his family home. He’d taken Bobbi’s advice and asked for his overdue vacation. Leonard Gooding had agreed on the spot, buoyed up by the fact Jude had managed to pull off a big, but complicated merger and in the process bring in new highly profitable business for the firm.

The path through the cemetery to the towering front gates was wide, but winding, flanked by enormous poincianas in full bloom. Their hectic blossoming had turned the very air rosy. The town cemetery was never a gloomy place even when the flowering was over. He should have had his eyes firmly on the drive but he happened to glance reflexively at his watch. When he looked up again, his heart skipped a beat, and every nerve ending tensed as he hit the brakes.

Right in front of him, a young woman was leaping back from the driveway to the grassy verge, her frozen expression betraying her shock at his car’s near silent approach.

“Damn!” Within seconds he was out of the vehicle, watching in dismay as first she staggered then fell to the grass, thickly scattered with spent blossom. Her heel must have caught on something, he realized, probably an exposed root of one of the poincianas.

He had a sensation of falling himself. He was always a careful driver. There was no excuse. “Are you all right?” Shoulders tensed, he bent to her, studying her with concern. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise anyone was still about.”

“My fault.” Graciously, instead of berating him, she accepted his hand, wincing slightly as he brought her to her feet. “I shouldn’t have been walking on the driveway at all. There are plenty of paths.”

“Are you sure you’re okay? You didn’t injure your ankle?” They were a touch away but neither moved back.

“It’ll be fine,” she said quietly after a minute.

It was balm to his guilt. “That’s a blessing.” They both glanced down at her legs; classy legs on show in her short skirt. She wasn’t wearing stockings in the heat, the skin tanned a pale gold. There was no swelling as far as he could see, but it could develop. “Jude Conroy,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Cate Costello.” She took his hand briefly, the expression in her beautiful green eyes not soft and lingering like the women’s glances he was used to but quietly sizing him up.

“You’re new in town?” He found himself staring back, all sorts of emotions crashing down on him like a wild surf. Up close she was even more lovely than his glimpse at the gravesite, like a vision from some tantalising dream. Her eyes had an unusual setting that bestowed an extra distinction on her delicate features. He realized straightaway she possessed an attraction that went beyond the physical though there was no denying that was potent enough.

There was the unblemished creamy skin he’d first noted in the church. Her large eyes, the feature that really stopped him in his tracks were a clear green, with a definite upward curve at the corners. The brows matched. Her face was a perfect oval, the finely chiselled contours off set by a contradictory mouth. The top lip was finely cut, the bottom surprisingly full and cushiony. Looking at her it was difficult not to dredge up the old cliché “English rose” but just as attractive to Jude was the keen intelligence in her regard.

He knew he was taking far too much time studying her, but she seemed quite unselfconscious under his scrutiny. She had to be around twenty two-or -three, but she seemed very self-contained for her age. Her voice, matched her patrician appearance; clear and well modulated. He wondered at the colour of her hair beneath the silk scarf and even found himself wanting to remove it. There was no question she had him in a kind of spell. Maybe it was the witchcraft of the eyes? If he could keep talking to her until midnight maybe she would simply disappear?

As it was, she stood perfectly still, looking up at him, but he had the feeling she was equally well poised to run. “I’ve been here for six or seven months now,” she said calmly in response to his question. “I know who you are.”

Women habitually used that line with him. The old cynicism kicked in. “Really? Want to tell me how?”

“Anyone who comes to live in this town gets to know about you and your father,” she explained matter-of-factly. “Your father was much loved and respected. You’re the local celebrity.”

He shrugged that off. “And you are?” Despite himself the words came out with the touch of steel he reserved for his job. Immediately he was aware of little sparks starting to fly between them. Whether they were harmful or not he couldn’t yet say.

“I told you. Cate Costello.” Her expression became intent as though she was deciding whether she liked or disliked him.

“Are you a friend of the family?”

She stepped back out of the brilliant sunlight into the shade. “Is this an interrogation, Jude Conroy?”

“Why would you see it that way, Ms Costello?” he countered, with a mock inclination of the head. “It’s a perfectly normal question.”

“If you’d said it in a different tone perhaps. Anyone can see you’re a lawyer.”

“You have a problem with lawyers?” He didn’t bother to hide the challenge.

“I’ve never had occasion to call on one. But I appreciate they’re necessary.”

“I do believe so,” he drawled. “And you, what do you do?” He made his tone friendly.

He was pouring on the charm, she thought, feeling tiny tremors ripple down her back. “Does it matter? We’ll probably never see each other again.”

He laughed, suddenly wanting nothing more than to get to know her better. “I can’t help be curious.”

“Well then,” she relented, “I own a small gallery near the beach. It’s called the Crystal Cave. I buy and sell crystals from all over the world.”

“As in gazing?” Amusement showed in his gaze. He wasn’t too far off in his assessment of her. “Obviously you don’t have the slanted green eyes of a storybook witch for nothing.”

A faint warning glitter came into those eyes. “I have no powers of clairvoyance, otherwise I’d have known you were a metre off running me over. I simply have a loving affinity with crystals.”

“Ouch, I don’t think I deserved that,” he chided. “I braked immediately.”

“I’m sorry.” Her lovely face registered her sincerity.

“However did you start with your crystals?” An onlooker might have supposed they were good friends or even lovers so intent were they on each other.

“I knew some people who were great fossickers and collectors. They introduced me to the earth’s treasures. I shared their love of gemstones and crystals. After all crystals have been used and revered since the beginning of civilisation.” She looked away from him and those intensely blue searching eyes. The admiration in them was clearly flattering, but there was keen appraisal, too.

“So how can I find the Crystal Cave?” he asked. “I’m on vacation for a month.”

“You intend to spend it here?” She looked back in surprise.

“Why not?” He slipped off his jacket, slinging it over his shoulder. “I was born in this town. I’ll probably die here. You sound a little like you’re wishing me on my way.”

“Not at all.” Colour rose to the cut-glass cheekbones. “It’s I who should be on my way.”

“On foot?” He took another look at her neat ankles. “Where’s your car?”

“It’s just around the corner.” She gestured vaguely.

“Okay so I’ll give you a lift. You’re not going up to the house then?”

“The family don’t know me, Mr Conroy.”

“I’m fine with Jude,” he told her. “I’m sure I’ll find your gallery.”

She made an attractive little movement with her hand. “That shouldn’t be a problem. Everyone knows it. It used to be Tony Mandel’s Art Gallery. The living quarters are at the rear. You’d have known Tony?”

“Of course I know Tony,” he lightly scoffed. “He was a constant visitor at our house. My dad bought a number of his paintings in the early days before he became famous. I thought he was overseas.”

She nodded. “He is. In London. His last showing was a sell-out. We keep in touch.”

“So there’s a connection?” Accustomed to asking questions, they were springing out.

“A family friend.” Her smile conveyed she wasn’t about to tell him more. “You really don’t have to drive me. I can walk. It’s not far.”

“I insist. Can’t have you hitchhiking.” His speculative gaze lingered on her face.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she questioned, with the tiniest frown.

“Forgive me, but I can’t help wondering who you are and why you’re at Lester Rogan’s funeral when you don’t know the family?”

She tilted her chin to look up at him. The knot in her stomach tightened. He had that confident demeanour tall men often have plus the superb body of an athlete. “Does it matter?” she asked, sounding a lot cooler than she felt.

“Damned if I haven’t got the feeling it could.”

“So you’re the clairvoyant now.” She smiled sweetly. “What’s your astrological sign?” She restricted herself to a brief glance into his eyes. She’d heard he was dazzling, but in his favour he appeared unconcerned with his good looks. What she hadn’t expected was the magnetism, the powerful attraction of that white, lopsided smile, the dimple that flicked deeply into his cheek.

“Leo,” he was saying, still sounding indulgent, amused. “There’s no scientific basis for astrology, Ms Costello.”

The sapphire eyes were full of mischief. “I was going to tell you names of crystals you might find useful,” she said coolly. “But no matter.”

“Gee, thanks. That’d be fun,” he lightly mocked. “Can you tell me something now?”

“If I can.” She managed to sound at ease, even though the air around them was so sizzling it burned.

“What’s the colour of your hair?” He could see he’d caught her off guard. “I’m intrigued by your covering it up.”

“Ever consider a bad hair day?” She cast him a quick glance.

“I’d be amazed if you were having one.”

“It’s obvious surely? I didn’t particularly want to be noticed. But as you seem to be so curious.”

Purposefully she raised a hand, lifting the silk scarf from her head. Another movement released the clasp at her nape.

He sucked in his breath sharply.

She shook her hair free, turning her head from side to side to loosen it. The breeze that swept along the driveway sent her hair swirling like a burnished veil. Sunlight reflected off myriad highlights like the prisms of a precious gem; gold, rose, amber, even pinks and orange. He supposed her long glorious mane would be best described as a gleaming copper.

“I can see what you mean about being noticed.” Entranced, he nevertheless kept his tone sardonic. “You speak like the scarf was protection?”

She met his eyes again, tucking her hair casually behind her ears. The richness of the colour made her eyes and skin zing. “It doesn’t do any harm to protect oneself. I really don’t need a lift, you know. Thank you for the offer.”

“No sense in walking in the heat. Deal?”

Her quick assessing glance skipped across his face again. “Okay.”

They turned back towards the car. “As a copper-head it’s a wonder your skin doesn’t burn?” he asked conversationally, moving ahead to open the passenger door.

She slid in. “Strangely enough it doesn’t, but I do use a good sunblock. The only hats I own were much too festive for a funeral.”

“That’s too bad. I’d like to have seen you in one.” He had a sudden mental image of her in a wide-brimmed hat weighed down with huge pink roses, something marvellously feminine and romantic. Ironically a hat like his mother used to wear to protect her skin. With a sudden twist of the heart he remembered how he’d fallen early and irrevocably in love with the image of a beautiful women in a picture hat. There were years when his parents had been passionate about their garden, working happily together. They’d even managed a beautiful sheltered rose garden, large, luxuriant shrubs and blooms, despite the humidity and attendant problems of the tropics. To this day he took a lot of pleasure out of sending roses to his dates.

It wasn’t until Jude had dropped the mysterious Cate Costello off at her car that he realized she still hadn’t revealed what exactly she was doing at Lester Rogan’s funeral.

Ten minutes later he arrived at the Rogan mansion, the overt display of the late Lester Rogan’s wealth. The house was huge. In his view no architectural gem but impressive for sheer size alone and the tropical splendour of the five acre manicured grounds. The entrance was electronically guarded, the long driveway lined by majestic Royal Cuban palms. A caretaker-gardener’s bungalow was off to the left through the screening trees. There was a pool and a guest-house at the back, but surpassing all the obvious signs of wealth, was the glorious blue sea.

There were plenty of cars littering the driveway and the grass. Jude found a spot, his mind still engaged with his meeting with Cate Costello. What could possibly have motivated her to attend Rogan’s funeral if she didn’t know the family? Or could he take that to mean she just didn’t know Myra, Ralph and Melinda, but she had known Lester? In what context? Lester could have bought out Tony Mandel’s beachside property that was the most obvious connection. These days with tourism in tropical North Queensland hectically blossoming the land would be very valuable for redevelopment at some future date. If the late Lester had been her landlord, why didn’t she say so? What was the big mystery? What was she doing sheltering amid the trees? He hadn’t the slightest doubt he’d find out.

An hour later hurried along by a less than subtle Ralph, all the mourners had departed, some of them definitely over the drink driving limit.

“Now’s as good a time as any to read the will,” Ralph rasped. “You’ve got it with you?” He threw Jude an impatient glance.

“Of course. I left my briefcase in the hall.”

“I’ll get it Jude,” Melinda offered. She was nearest the wide archway, one of a pair that led from off the entrance hall to the major reception rooms.

“Sure you’re up to this, Mrs Rogan?” Jude asked, taking another concerned look at Myra’s extreme pallor. “I can very easily come back tomorrow, or the next day.”

Ralph’s dark eyes shot red sparks of aggression. Here was a young man who was permanently angry. “For cryin’ out loud, Jude, how many times do I have to tell you? We’re ready to hear it? Right now.”

The school bully was still holding up. “I was talking to your mother, Ralph. Not you.” Unperturbed Jude looked towards Myra who was giving every appearance of being the next to follow her husband to the grave.

“Mum tell him.” Ralph scratched his forehead violently.

“No, Ralphie—no.” Myra pleaded, her voice tremulous.

Ralph stared at his mother for a bit, giving a can-you-believe-this roll of his eyes. “Listen,” he said very quietly as though addressing someone mentally challenged. “This won’t take long then you can take to your bed. For the rest of your life if you like.”

“I think she needs her bed right now,” Jude said, trying to keep the disgust out of his voice. “This has been a bad shock.”

“Get it over with, Jude,” Melinda advised, returning with his briefcase. In her own way she appeared as eager to hear the will as her brother. “I’ll look after Mum. She’s stronger than she looks. Dad hammered away at her for years.”

“Yes, get it over, Jude,” Myra’s opposition suddenly collapsed, as if she thought both her children were about to ostracize her.