Seduction And Sacrifice

Gemma didn’t know how to take this welter of compliments. It wasn’t like Ma to rave on so.

‘You make it sound like I’m beautiful or something,’ she protested with an embarrassed laugh.

‘Or something just about describes it,’ Ma muttered. ‘You’ll have to watch yourself when you get to Sydney, my girl. City men are vultures.’

‘I’m not much interested in men at the moment,’ Gemma replied stiffly. God, she’d thought she’d got over that other business. But she hadn’t at all. It had been there lurking in the depths of her mind, waiting to be dragged up to the surface again, just as he had been lurking, waiting for the opportunity to assault her again.

Ma reached out to pat her on the wrist. ‘Stop thinkin’ about him, dear. He isn’t worth thinkin’ about, you know. Men like him never are.’

Gemma gaped a moment before the penny dropped. Ma wasn’t talking about him. She was talking about her father. ‘What do you mean by men like him?’

‘Cruel. Selfish. Mean.’

The word ‘mean’ struck a chord with Gemma. Was that why her father hadn’t sold the opal? Because he was a miser, like Scrooge? Had he gained pleasure by bringing the stone out late at night to drool over its beauty all by himself in secret?

She would never know now. That she was certain of. Jon Smith had not shared the existence of the opal with anyone, even his daughter. He’d dressed her in second-hand clothes and accepted food hand-outs rather than part with his precious prize.

Oh, yes, he’d been a mean man.

Suddenly, she was sorely tempted to show Ma the opal and ask her advice, but people had long stopped showing valuable finds around Lightning Ridge. Greed and envy did strange things to even the closest of friends. So she kept her own counsel and said, ‘Yes, he was mean. But he was my father and he could have been worse.’

‘You’d find excuses for Hitler,’ Ma scoffed. ‘How are you set for money?’

Once again, Gemma resisted the temptation to confess all to Ma. ‘There’s a small parcel of opals Dad saved that I can sell,’ she admitted. ‘Other than that I’ve got about twenty dollars left out of the housekeeping, three hundred dollars savings in the bank, and the money you’re going to give me for the truck.’

‘Which I brought over with me,’ Ma said, and pulled a roll of money from the pocket of her dress. ‘Don’t tell the taxman but I did rather well with my fossicking this year.’

Gemma laughed. ‘I won’t breathe a word.’

‘So when are you off to Sydney?’

A nervous lump immediately formed in Gemma’s throat. My God, the furthest she’d been from Lightning Ridge was Walgett, a whole forty or so miles away. Sydney was another world, a big frightening exciting world! But wild horses wouldn’t keep her away. Not now. Sydney held even more attractions than ever. Her mother had been born in Sydney. Maybe she had relatives there. Maybe she could find them.

‘As soon as I can get myself organised, I suppose,’ she said, her resolve deepening.

‘Mr Whitmore’s due in town day after tomorrow if you want to sell those opals. He’ll give you a fairer price than most. Don’t take his first offer, though, haggle a little.’

Gemma frowned. Her father hadn’t liked Mr Whitmore for some reason, had refused to have anything to do with him, saying slick city buyers couldn’t be trusted.

‘Dad used to sell his opals to Mr Gunther,’ she said hesitantly.

‘That old skinflint? Look, I know he came to the funeral today and Jon might have been able to bully a fair price out of him, but he’ll try to fleece you blind. You listen to me, love, and try Byron Whitmore. A fairer man never drew breath. Just go along to the Ridge Motel any time next Friday and ask for his room.’

‘All right, Ma. I’ll do that.’

‘Good. Now you can get me a beer, love. It’s bloody hot today.’

Gemma rose to get her visitor a beer. There were still several cans in the small gas fridge and a full carton leaning up against the far wall. If there was one thing her father never stinted himself on, it was beer.

‘So tell me,’ Gemma said on returning to the table and handing the beer over, ‘what’s this Mr Whitmore like?’

Ma snapped back the ring top on the can and gulped deeply before answering. ‘Byron?’ She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘A big man. Around fifty, I’d say, but he looks younger. Thick wavy black hair sprinkled with grey and the most wonderful blue eyes. Very handsome. Too old for you, though, love. He’s married as well, not that that seems to bother some men once their wives are out of sight.’

Gemma’s eyes rounded and Ma gave a dry laugh. ‘You are an innocent, aren’t you? Better wise up before you go to Sydney. City men live fast and play fast, and they have an insatiable appetite for lovely young things with big brown eyes and bodies like yours. Still, I don’t think you need worry about Byron Whitmore. He’s a man of honour. A rare commodity indeed!’

Ma made Sydney sound like a huge dark forest full of big bad wolves. Surely it couldn’t be as bad as that! Besides, no man would get to first base with her unless he was good and decent and kind. Maybe no man would ever get to first base with her, she worried anew.

That experience years ago had scarred her more than she realised. She’d thought she’d shunned boys up till now because they bored her. Now she interpreted her lack of interest in the opposite sex as a very real wariness. But was it a wariness of the boys themselves, or her own inner self, incapable perhaps of responding to a man in a normal, natural way? Dear God, she hoped that wasn’t so. For if it was, how was she ever going to be happily married and have children of her own?

‘Don’t you believe me, love?’ Ma said. ‘About Mr Whitmore?’

‘What? Oh, yes, Ma, I believe you. I’m sorry. I was wool-gathering.’

‘You’ve had a long, trying day. Look, come over around six and I’ll have a nice dinner ready for you. And bring your nightie.’

Gemma’s eyes blurred. ‘You’re so good to me.’

‘What rubbish! What are neighbours for?’

But Ma’s faded blue eyes were a little teary too as she stood up. Gemma vowed to write to the dear old thing as often as she could from Sydney. And she would come back to visit. Often. It was the least she could do. If that black opal was worth what she thought it was worth, she’d be able to fly back in style!

CHAPTER TWO

MR WHITMORE, Gemma was told, was in room twenty-three, and no, he had no one with him at that time.

The Ridge Motel was the newest in Lightning Ridge, an ochre-coloured assortment of buildings, with reception and a restaurant separate from the forty units which stood at rectangular attention behind a kidney-shaped pool. Room twenty-three was on the second of the two storeys.

Gemma’s stomach was churning as she climbed the stairs, something that would have surprised many people, including Ma, who had often commented on how confident she was for a girl of her upbringing and background. Gemma knew better, recognising her supposed assurance as little more than a desperate weapon to combat her father’s volatile and often violent nature. She’d found over the years that if she were too docile and subservient he treated her even worse. So she’d learnt to stand up for herself to a degree, sometimes to her sorrow.

But none of that meant she had the sort of savoir-faire to deal confidently with a city opal trader like Byron Whitmore. Lord, she was shaking in her boots, or she would have been if she’d been wearing boots! Gemma’s only consolation was that she’d decided not to try to sell the big opal today, only the smaller ones.

A couple of nights’ sensible thinking since her astonishing find had formulated a plan to take the prize to Sydney and have it valued by a couple of experts before she sold it. It had come to her as late as half an hour ago that it might bring more money if she put it up for auction as a collector’s piece. Six-figure amounts kept dancing around in her mind. She’d be able to buy herself a house, pretty clothes, a dog...

Her heart contracted fiercely. No, she wouldn’t buy another dog. Not yet. Maybe some day, but not yet. The pain of Blue’s death was still too raw, too fresh.

Gemma dragged her mind back to the problems at hand. Selling these infernal opals. By this time she was standing in front of room twenty-three but she couldn’t bring herself to knock, gnawing away at her bottom lip instead and trying to find a good reason to abandon this idea entirely.

But that wouldn’t get her any money, would it? She’d already booked tickets for the bus leaving tomorrow night for Dubbo, and the train from there to Sydney.

If only her father had let her go with him when he’d sold opals, she groaned silently. If only she’d met this Mr Whitmore before. Ma said he was OK but it was hard totally to dismiss her father’s warnings about him.

Oh, get on with it, you stupid girl! Gemma berated herself. God knows how you’re going to cope in the big bad city if you can’t even do this small thing. Stop being such a wimp!

Taking a deep steadying breath, Gemma curled her fingers into a tight fist and knocked on the door.

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed when it was wrenched open, practically from under her knuckles. ‘Oh!’ she cried again, once she’d fully taken in the man who’d opened it.

He was nowhere near fifty, neither did he have black hair or blue eyes. At most he was thirty-five. His hair was a golden wheat colour and his eyes were grey. He was, however, very handsome in an unnervingly sleek, citified sort of way.

‘I...I’m sorry, I must have the wrong room,’ she babbled. ‘I was wanting Mr Whitmore.’

Lazy grey eyes swept down her body and down her long bare tanned legs, one eyebrow arching by the time his gaze lifted back to her face. Gemma stiffened, not sure if his scrutiny was flattering or insulting.

Surely he couldn’t be surprised by how she was dressed. No one wore anything other than shorts in Lightning Ridge in the summer, no one except visitors like this chap. He was all togged up in tailored grey trousers and a long-sleeved white shirt. There was even a dark red tie at his throat. A travelling salesman, Gemma decided. On his first trip outback, probably. It wouldn’t be long before that tie was disposed of and those shirt-sleeves rolled up.

A small smile tugged at his mouth, as though he were amused at something. ‘Now I know why Byron always looked forward to his trips out here,’ he said drily.

Gemma frowned. Byron? That was Mr Whitmore’s first name, wasn’t it?

‘I’m Nathan Whitmore,’ the man elaborated before she could put her confusion into words. ‘I’m standing in for Byron this trip, a fact that seems to have gotten around. You’re my first client this afternoon, and only my third for the day. You are a client, aren’t you?’ he asked, amusement still in his voice.

Gemma was unsure now what to do. Ma had recommended Byron Whitmore, not his brother.

‘You look concerned, Miss—er...’

‘Smith,’ she informed him. ‘Gemma Smith.’

‘Aah...and have you had dealings with my father before, Miss Smith?’

‘No, I...your father?’ Rounded eyes stared into Nathan Whitmore’s face, seeing the age lines around his eyes and mouth. Either Byron Whitmore was older than Ma thought or his son had been living the life of a rake. Handsome he might be, but that young he wasn’t. ‘I...I thought you were his brother.’

‘I understand your confusion. Byron adopted me when I was seventeen and he was thirty-two. We are more like brothers than like father and son.’

‘Oh...oh, I see.’ She didn’t actually. Seventeen was rather old to be adopted. Still, it wasn’t any of her business. Her business was getting a good price for the opals in her pocket.

‘Let me assure you, Miss Smith,’ Nathan Whitmore said, ‘that I know opals, and I won’t cheat you. Byron would have my hide if I did anything to ruin his reputation for honesty and fairness.’

‘He certainly comes highly recommended.’

‘Whitmore Opals has a reputation second to none. Shall we go inside, then, and get down to business?’

Gemma hesitated, her eyes darting over Nathan Whitmore’s shoulder and into the motel room. It was an oddly personal place to do business in. Intimate, even. Now her eyes darted back to that cool grey gaze.

‘Dear Miss Smith,’ he said in a rather droll tone, ‘I have not come this far to compromise young women, however beautiful they might be.’

Beautiful? He found her beautiful?

My God, I’m blushing, she realised, feeling the heat in her face.

Hoping it wouldn’t show underneath her tan, she kept her chin up and her eyes steady. He was probably only flattering her, she decided. Hoping, perhaps, to compliment his way into giving her less money than her opals were worth. Ma had warned her about city businessmen. Cunning, ruthless devils, she’d called them only this morning.

But this one didn’t look like a devil. More like an angel with that golden hair and that lovely full-lipped mouth.

‘Shall we sit down at the table?’ he suggested, stepping back to wave her inside.

One swift, all-encompassing glance took in a typical motel room with a king-sized bed in one corner, a built-in television opposite, an extra divan and a round table and two chairs, over the back of which was draped a grey suit jacket.

Gemma chose the other chair and sat down, feeling conscious of her bare legs now, especially since the room was air-conditioned and much cooler than outside. She could appreciate now why its occupant was over-dressed. She clasped her hands together between her knees and gave a little shiver. Even her neck felt cool. If she could have taken her hair down out of its pony-tail she would have.

‘The air-conditioning too cold for you? Shall I turn it down?’

‘If you would, please, Mr Whitmore.’

How attentive he was, she thought. And how observant. Ma was right. City men were clever. Gemma determined to be on her guard.

The air-conditioning unit hissed when he turned it right off.

‘Please call me Nathan,’ he said suavely as he sat down, a lock of blond hair falling across his forehead. He swept it aside and smiled at her. ‘And may I call you Gemma?’

Despite her earlier resolve not to be distracted by flattery or false charm, Gemma found herself smiling fatuously back at the man opposite her. She nodded, her tongue seemingly thick in her mouth. A light tangy pine smell was wafting across the table from him which she found both pleasant and perturbing. Did all city men smell like that?

‘Well, Gemma?’ he interrupted her agitated day-dreaming. ‘I presume you have some opals with you?’

‘Oh...oh, yes.’ Squirming both physically and mentally, she pulled the small canvas pouch out of her shorts pocket. Fumbling because her fingers were shaking, she finally undid the drawstring and poured the stones out on to the table, then watched with heart pounding while Mr Whitmore put a jeweller’s glass to his eye and started examining them.

‘Mmm,’ he said once. ‘Yes, very nice,’ another time.

Finally, he put the glass down and looked over at her with a slight frown. ‘Did you mine these yourself?’

‘No, my father did.’

‘And you have his permission to sell them?’

‘He died a few days ago,’ she said, so bluntly that the man opposite her blinked with astonishment.

‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured politely.

Then you’d be the only one, Gemma thought.

‘You couldn’t have known,’ she returned, her voice flat.

It brought another sharp glance. ‘Do you want individual prices, or are you selling these as a parcel?’

‘Which will get me more money?’

He smiled. Gemma noticed that when he smiled he showed lovely white teeth, and a dimple in his right cheek. That was because his smile was slightly lopsided. There was no doubt that he was by far the most attractive man she had ever met, despite his age.

‘There are twenty-seven stones here,’ he resumed, ‘most worth no more than ten dollars. But this one I particularly like.’ He pointed to the largest. ‘It has a vivid green colour that appeals to me personally. So I’ll offer you two hundred and sixty dollars for the rest and one hundred dollars for this one. That’s three hundred and sixty in all.’

Gemma remembered what Ma had said about not accepting the first price. ‘Four hundred,’ she countered with surprising firmness.

He leant back in his chair, breathing in and out quite deeply. Gemma was fascinated by the play of muscles beneath his shirt and his surprisingly broad shoulders. He would look something with that jacket on. ‘I was already being over-generous with the three hundred and sixty,’ he said.

‘Why?’

Gemma’s forthright question seemed to startle him for a moment. Then he smiled. ‘Well you might ask. Very well. Four hundred. Do you want cash or cheque?’

‘Cash.’

‘Somehow I knew you were going to say that.’

Extracting a well-stuffed wallet from the breast pocket of the jacket beside him, he counted out four one-hundred-dollar notes before returning the wallet.

They rose simultaneously, Gemma folding the notes and placing them carefully into her back pocket.

‘Thank you, Mr Whitmore,’ she said, and extended her hand.

He shook it, saying, ‘I thought we agreed on Nathan.’

‘Sorry,’ she grinned. ‘I find it hard to call my elders by their first name.’ Now that the business end of proceedings was over and Gemma had her money safely tucked away, she was feeling more relaxed.

‘Elders,’ he repeated, a grimace twisting his mouth. ‘Now that’s putting me in my place. Might I ask how old you are?’

‘Eigh—’ Gemma broke off. She’d been going to say eighteen, but of course she wasn’t. ‘I’ll be twenty next month,’ she guessed.

He looked surprised, and, for a moment, stared at her hard. She gained the impression he was about to say something but changed his mind, shaking his head instead and walking over to open the door for her.

She walked past him out on to the balcony, but as she went to turn to say thank you one last time, she saw something out of the corner of her eye that made her heart leap and her stomach flip over. For there he was, standing down by the pool, looking huge and menacing, watching and waiting for her.

Panic-stricken, she bolted back into the room, almost sending Nathan Whitmore flying. ‘Close the door,’ she said in a husky, frightened whisper.

‘What?’

‘Close the door!’ she hissed, backing up till her knees were against the bed.

He did as she asked, then turned slowly to view her fear-filled face with concern in his. ‘What is it? What’s out there that’s frightened you so much? Is it a man?’ he asked sharply. ‘Is that it?’

‘Yes,’ she squeaked, appalled with herself that she’d started to shake uncontrollably. Dear God, she’d always thought herself a brave person. But she wasn’t brave at all. Not even a little bit.

‘Your boyfriend?’

She shook her head vigorously.

‘Who, then? Dear God, what did he do to you to make you react like this?’

He was standing in front of her now, holding her trembling shoulders with firm but gentle hands.

Memories of other male hands surfaced from the backwater of her mind, large calloused hands that pinched and poked and probed...

A strangled sob broke from her lips, haunted eyes flying to warm grey ones.

‘It’s all right,’ the owner of those eyes soothed. ‘You’re safe here with me.’

Another sob welled up within her and all of a sudden, she was wrapping her arms around him and hugging him for dear life, a whole torrent of emotions cascading through her, leaving her awash with a fiercely instinctive need to hold and be held.

After a momentary hesitation, Nathan Whitmore answered that need, holding her tightly against him, stroking her neck and back with fatherly tenderness, whispering soothing words as one would to a frightened child. But there was nothing fatherly in the effect such an intensely intimate embrace eventually had on his male body, nothing fatherly at all.

Nathan abruptly held her away from him, pressing her down into a sitting position on the bed. ‘I’ll get you a drink,’ he said curtly, and turned away before the situation became embarrassing. ‘And then you’re going to tell me what the problem is,’ he called back over his shoulder.

Gemma stared after him as he crossed the room, her head whirling with an alien confusion. Who would have thought she would ever find a safe haven in the solid warmth of a man’s chest, or enjoy the feel of male arms encircling her?

She was still looking up at Nathan with startled surprise when he returned with a glass of brandy. For a moment their eyes locked and she could have sworn his were as puzzled as her own.

‘Here.’ He pressed the glass into her hands. ‘Drink this up. Then start talking.’

In a way it was a relief to tell someone after keeping it to herself all these years. But she’d been so ashamed at the time. She’d felt so dirty. Yet the words did not come easily. She stumbled over them, faltering occasionally, and finding it hard to explain exactly what had happened.

‘So he didn’t actually rape you,’ Nathan said with relief in his voice after listening to her tortured tale.

‘He...he tried,’ she explained huskily, ‘but he...he... couldn’t do it. He was very drunk.’

‘And where were your parents while this was happening?’

‘My mother’s dead,’ she explained. ‘My father had passed out. He’d been drinking. He came home with him. When Dad fell asleep he climbed into my bed. When I screamed, he put one hand over my mouth while he...he...you know what he did,’ she finished in a raw whisper.

‘And does this bastard have a name?’

Gemma shuddered and shook her head. ‘I never found out and I never asked. I...I see him in town sometimes, watching me.’

‘But he hasn’t come near you since.’

‘No, but now that my father’s dead, I...I’m scared.’

‘How did your father die?’

‘He fell down a mine shaft.’

‘Are you sure he fell?’

Gemma blinked her astonishment.

‘I think we should go to the police and tell them about this creep,’ Nathan decided.

Gemma gasped and jumped to her feet. ‘No! I don’t want to do that. I can’t tell them what I’ve just told you. I simply can’t! Besides, I...I’m leaving Lightning Ridge tomorrow, on the bus.’

‘To go where?’

‘To Sydney.’

He stared at her for a long moment. ‘Sydney’s a tough town for someone alone,’ he said. ‘Do you have any relatives there?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Don’t you know?’

She shrugged. ‘My mother was born in Sydney but I never knew her folks. I...I was hoping I might be able to track them down some time.’

‘How much money do you have?’

‘Enough.’

His smile was sardonic. ‘Independent, aren’t you? Look, I’ll give you my card. If you find yourself in a hole when you get to Sydney, or you’re desperate for a job, look me up, OK?’ Striding back over to his suit jacket, he drew a small white card from another of the pockets and brought it back to her.

‘Tell me what I can do to help right now,’ he added after she’d slipped the card into the breast pocket of her blue checked shirt. ‘Did you drive yourself here? Can I walk you to your car?’

‘Yes, I’d appreciate that.’

‘And what about when you get home?’

‘That’ll be all right. Ma will be there.’

Nathan frowned at her. ‘But I thought you said your mother was dead.’

‘She is. Ma’s not my mother. She’s a friend.’

He sighed. ‘Something tells me you’re a very complicated girl.’

Gemma laughed. ‘Ma says I have hidden qualities. Is that the same thing as complicated?’

‘Could very well be. But I don’t think I should try to find out.’ Having uttered this rather cryptic remark, he picked up his room key, took Gemma’s elbow and ushered her outside. ‘Can you still see him?’ he asked.