Hero Duty (5 page)

The taxi drew up in front of the colonnaded porch. Derek waited on the top step.

Jessica gave the driver her credit card, but her attention was on Derek sauntering down the seven steps, one hand in his pocket, pushing back the unbuttoned, sharply-tailored jacket of his suit. No tie, open collar. He was the alpha male. She saw the moment when he registered not just that she had company with her, but Brodie’s size and presence.

A small glimmer of confidence returned to her. She had been right to enlist an ally, and this man in particular.

As Brodie straightened out of the taxi, she saw Derek step back up from the ground to the next-to-bottom step. Ha! How had she not realised that he was sensitive about his height? He wasn’t short, but if she wore heels — which she seldom did — she’d be taller than him.

‘Are you sitting in there all day?’ Brodie stuck his head back in the window.

‘Oh. Sorry,’ she added apologetically to the patiently-waiting driver. She retrieved her card, slipped him ten dollars and scrambled out of the taxi.

Brodie slammed the door. He’d already gotten their bags out of the boot and he scooped them up as the taxi drove off. A quick frown warned her away from insisting on carrying her own.

Unwillingly, she turned to face Derek.

‘You’ve hired a bodyguard.’ He stared at Brodie, making no effort to introduce himself or shake hands. ‘He looks competent.’

Brodie had his duffel over a shoulder and her backpack dangling from his left hand. His host’s rudeness didn’t faze him, though. He put his right hand to Jessica’s lower back and urged her forward.

Derek’s eyes narrowed.

‘Brodie, this is my stepbrother, Derek Amberly.’ The man who had so charmingly indicated that she could never have a boyfriend as attractive as Brodie, and in a double whammy, that Brodie was too dumb to be more than hired muscle. She shifted closer to Brodie, undermined as always by Derek’s contempt. ‘Derek, Brodie’s a friend. Losing Dad so suddenly, it’s difficult, so Brodie’s going to be here for me this weekend.’

‘Here? As in, in my house?’ And that was Portia, making a grand entrance through the double doors. She stayed in the doorway, barring their entrance. The comparative gloom of the hallway behind her emphasised the fashionable gauntness of her white-clad figure. Her blonde hair, lightened to an ethereal fairness, fell in carefully straightened disarray; a youthful style that the understated drama of her makeup matched. As always her face showed little emotion. It wasn’t Botox, either. Portia was very controlled.

‘How inconsiderate of you, Jessica. You’ll have to excuse me for speaking bluntly, Mr…?’

‘Brodie Carlton.’ His hand slid from Jessica’s lower back to lightly rest at her waist. The effect was to tuck her closer. ‘I’m sorry to hear of your loss, Mrs Trove.’

‘Thank you.’ It was perfunctory. ‘I’m sure you’ll understand that this is a private time, a family time.’

‘With only a couple of hundred of your closest friends at the weekend’s party,’ Jessica said. Portia and Derek might have the high ground, but she wasn’t alone. In a strange way, defending Brodie, whether he needed it or not, gave her the courage she couldn’t summon in her own defence. She stood tall.

‘Jessica, that’s uncalled for,’ Derek contributed. ‘Everyone grieves in their own way. I took the afternoon away from the office to help Mum with her preparations for Ian’s send off. We must honour him as he deserves.’

Translated, he’d just called her an ungrateful daughter and a selfish cow.

‘Which room is free?’ Jessica stayed determinedly focussed. ‘Is the top floor guest suite – ’

‘Anabel and I are staying there,’ Derek said.

He and his fiancée had their own apartment in Double Bay, close enough that there was no need…ah, but of course. He could hardly bully Jessica if he wasn’t in the house.

‘The spare room near mine, then,’ Jessica said.

‘Impossible,’ Portia cried ringingly. ‘A stranger at such a difficult time.’

Like a good son, Derek hurried up the steps in time for his mother to turn into the protection of his arms. ‘Honestly, Jessica. Unless you intend to get the lawyers involved and insist that Mum’s home is your house, and make her a guest — and an unwelcome one, at that — in her own home, the least you can do is respect her feelings.’

‘The least I can do,’ she muttered.

Brodie leaned towards her. ‘Pack your gear.’

‘Pardon?’ She looked up at him.

‘Your clothes, whatever else you have in your room here that you’ll need, pack it all up and we’ll find a hotel.’

Portia’s spine snapped straight. ‘You will stay in your father’s house.’

‘Or Jess, you can rent a house,’ Brodie continued. ‘A short-term let, something with staff.’ There was humour in his hazel eyes.

The boa constrictor that had nearly strangled her, relaxed a bit. ‘Do we need a butler?’

Derek choked.

She hid a grin. It was her thoughtless ‘we’ that had done it. She knew Derek and Portia meant her to be alone and lonely. Vulnerable. Her momentary sense of triumph dissolved.

‘A hotel would have room service.’ Brodie propelled her up the steps and past Portia and Derek, into the dim hall. ‘Which way?’

‘My room’s upstairs, overlooking the street.’ As far from the water as she could get.

Derek hurried up the stairs after them. ‘Jessica, don’t be ridiculous. This is your home. You have to stay here.’

Brodie was walking upstairs one step behind her. It meant that when she turned to face her stepbrother, she had to peer around Brodie. The physical barrier of his body made her feel a fraction safer emotionally. Out of habit and familial loyalty she’d have stayed in the mansion, but the sense of freedom Brodie’s suggestion gave her was significant enough that she knew she had to fight to keep it.

She kept her voice level as she stood her ground, neither giving in nor fleeing the confrontation. ‘As you reminded me, this is Portia’s home. I’ll be sure to stay near enough to attend Dad’s memorial service, or party, or whatever you’re calling it.’

‘A celebration of Ian’s life,’ Portia said coldly. ‘People will talk if his daughter isn’t here for it.’

‘I’ll be nearby.’ If there was one thing Sydney had, it was hotels; from the large, impersonal chains to boutique charmers.

‘I insist on you staying here,’ Portia said.

Jessica felt Brodie tense. Line-in-the-sand time. She leaned past him so she could look Portia in the eye, but she leaned in a way that she could naturally balance with a hand on his arm. It felt as if she drew on his strength.

Certainly his gaze stayed steadily on her.

‘I’m twenty-five, Portia,’ she said quietly. ‘You can’t ground me and there’s no point pretending that my presence here comforts you. If we grieve for Dad, we grieve separately.’

‘What do you mean “if”?’ her stepmother demanded.

Derek stood halfway between the two women. ‘Maybe Jessica isn’t grieving. Are you discovering the pleasures of wealth, sis? You disdained them for long enough, digging in the mud.’

‘I don’t dig and — ’

Brodie picked her up, turned her and started her up the remaining steps.

‘What are you doing?’ She was far from insubstantial, and he’d just effortlessly manhandled her. That sort of thing took a girl’s breath away.

‘Skirmishes achieve nothing. They just show an enemy your weaknesses. Don’t fight unless you know what you’re fighting for. This your room?’

‘No, the next one along.’

He opened the second door.

She blushed for the messy room, though the mess was all papers and things had looked worse when she’d been writing her PhD thesis.

As well, and in what she could only consider an act of spite, Portia had never updated the room’s décor. It remained teenage girl, and not the Goth kind. Apricot and white predominated with a rainbow mural that had been fashionable ten years ago. The bed was a single.

How had she not noticed?

Because she’d been in survival mode each time she’d returned to the house.

Plus, in all her normal teenage fantasies of rock stars and actors, she’d never imagined a man this male in her room. She felt juvenile and inadequate — exactly what Portia intended. It frustrated Jessica no end.

‘I’ll wait outside.’ Brodie closed the door behind him.

It didn’t shut out the sound of Derek’s voice. ‘Jessica isn’t kidding anyone. You’re a bodyguard. I demand to see your credentials. She’s vulnerable right now and I won’t let you or anyone take advantage of her.’

No, that was his privilege.

The papers crumpled in her hands. From somewhere she had to find the strength to take on the burden she’d inherited. Pops hadn’t meant his wealth to hurt, but it had.

Poor little rich girl, all alone. And Derek meant to keep her that way.

Derek Olsen was a jerk.

Brodie took his time to reach that decision. A whole two seconds, and after that, every word out of the jerk’s arrogant mouth confirmed the assessment. ‘Friends don’t need credentials,’ Brodie pointed out the obvious, although he shut his mouth on the rest of the sentence. Undoubtedly Derek did vet his friends for their usefulness.

‘Where on earth would Jessica have met a “friend” like you?’

The contemptuous look at Brodie’s T-shirt and jeans would have worked better if Brodie had cared. Sure, he didn’t match the polished floors, embossed wallpaper and fancy art of the house. Good for him. His lip curled. The exotic scent of a crystal bowl of pot pourri standing on a delicate hall table made him want to sneeze. He exaggerated his drawl. ‘This is Australia, mate. You can meet all sorts if you step out of your bubble.’

‘My daughter has nothing in common with a man like you.’ ‘Like you’ appeared to be mother and son’s favourite put down.

Brodie studied the middle-aged woman whose shoulder-length blonde hair framed a bony face above a body that had been starved into submission. He reminded himself that she was owed the respect due a recently-widowed woman. It didn’t mean he liked her. Behind him, through the door, he heard faint sounds of Jessica moving about. Whatever was said out here, she’d hear.

‘Out of interest, what sort of man do you think I am?’ All right, so that was simply indulging his curiosity, but in this day and age, T-shirts and jeans could be worn by anyone. He could be a university colleague of Jessica’s or her gardener, if she had a garden. He had no idea how she lived.

‘You’re obviously hired muscle. Probably ex-military or a wannabe, from the way you stand.’ Derek was smart.

Brodie stood at parade rest, out of habit. He kept the position, merely raising an eyebrow.

‘Jessica’s just lost her father.’ Derek lowered his voice, but not enough to prevent Jessica overhearing. ‘Obviously she’s looking around for another male authority figure to lean on. In this case, she’s mistaken brawn for brain. Just don’t think that you can exploit her unbalanced emotions. Her father had her power of attorney because she couldn’t manage her affairs. Now it’s my turn to look after her. I’ll go to court rather than let anyone take advantage of her.’ His passion was convincing.

‘Poor Jessica. So fragile,’ Portia said.

Derek nodded approval.

They were a piece of work. First, they’d attacked Jessica, now they undermined her. And all this with only him, a bodyguard, in their eyes, as an audience. Were they really that scared of other influences in Jessica’s life, or was this part of an established pattern of behaviour. Worse, was it practice for the weekend’s memorial party?

Back in Jardin Bay, he’d agreed to accompany Jessica because he could believe that with so much money involved, family affairs could get nasty, and she was obviously vulnerable. Now that he’d met her family, their concentrated venom made him rethink her story. She thought she was a coward, but if she’d survived this precious pair for years, then she deserved a medal for courage under fire.

Her bedroom door opened. ‘Brodie, would you mind carrying the folders, please?’

‘No problem.’ He slung his duffel over a shoulder and scooped the folders up from the white-painted desk in the corner. It was a sizeable stack. ‘I’ll come back for your suitcase and backpack.’

‘No need.’ She picked up both.

Since he couldn’t blame her for wanting to get out of the house as soon as possible, he didn’t argue. Derek didn’t offer to carry her bags.

‘I’ll see you at dinner tomorrow.’ Jessica looked at Portia, who stood in their way.

‘Darling, I know how hard it is to be in the house without Ian. I keep expecting to see him around the corner or standing on the terrace, checking the sailing conditions. But I really could use your help in preparing for the weekend. It will be traumatic for all of us. Ian’s final good-bye.’

‘The bags are heavy, Portia. Could you move so I can put take them down to the taxi.’

‘What taxi?’

‘I called one.’ Jessica stepped forward.

Brodie noted Derek’s jolt of surprise. Evidently, Jessica usually accepted her fate.

‘I didn’t hear you talking to anyone.’ Portia just wouldn’t give up.

Jessica kept moving. Her stepmother finally gave ground.

‘I called while I was clearing my toiletries from the bathroom.’

Brodie fell in behind the boss, feeling proud of her. She hadn’t let their lack of transport stop her. She was fighting back.

At the foot of the stairs, a woman walked out of the shadows and held open the front door. She was Vietnamese, in her fifties, and had a smile for Jessica.

Jessica returned her smile. ‘Thank you, Mae.’

‘Your taxi is here. I just let him in.’

‘That will be all, Mae,’ Portia snapped.

Brodie rubbed the back of his neck, unwillingly amused. The woman sounded like a bad sitcom character.

Mae smiled her good-bye and walked back along the hall, presumably to the kitchen.

‘Butler?’ Brodie murmured in Jessica’s ear. He loved her little snort of laughter.

‘Housekeeper. Mae’s a love. She could organise this weekend all by herself.’

‘Hardly,’ Portia said. Botox defeated the scowl that sharpened her voice. ‘Mae’s not family.’

‘Mae and her husband, Steve, have worked here nine years as housekeeper and caretaker,’ Jessica said, her information neutrally delivered but contradicting Portia nonetheless.