His Australian Heiress (9 page)

* * *

At another party, Carol Sutton was in the middle of a pleasant conversation with Beth Reed, a friend from University days, when Simon, his sun-streaked blond head held high, strode up to them. Without a preliminary word, he broke rudely into the conversation, laying a firm hand on Carol's shoulder. “We have to get a start right now,” he said in his arrogant fashion.

Beth, who didn't like Simon Mansfield one little bit and couldn't for the life of her see why her friend Carol would, took him on. “Get started where? I thought you were enjoying the party?” It was a good party. No one had left so far.

“We have another party to attend,” Simon said, dislike in his voice.

“Really? Which one?” Beth looked him in the eye.

“My cousin's, of course.” His expression also showed a degree of exasperation. He hated being challenged by women. He didn't see females as his equal. “You know of her. Everyone does. Charlotte Mansfield.”

“Charlotte Mansfield? Big time!” Beth crowed. “People really admire her, you know. Especially us girls. She has the makings of a leader. Rumour has it you weren't invited to her party, Simon. You screwed up somehow or other.”

Beside her outspoken friend, Carol was near hyperventilating. A surefire method to make Simon angry was to cross him. Her father was like that. Simon's expression was full of loathing of her friend.

Simon Mansfield was, without doubt, a handsome man, rich to boot, but no prize in the matrimony department, Beth thought. He was a prig and a controller. “A slight disagreement.” He brushed off Beth's offensive words. “No more. Nothing came of it. We can't stand around chatting, Carol. We have to go.”

“You're not driving up the mountain, surely?” Beth asked, suddenly concerned for the safety of her friend. Carol had been born late in life to her well-respected, dignified parents, now in their mid-sixties. Consequently Carol had lived a very quiet, overtly protected life. Until she met Simon Mansfield, that was. From that moment, Carol was doomed. Simon Mansfield had simply taken her over like a modern-day Svengali. Their unlikely romance had flourished, to the consternation of Carol's friends.

“I can't see how that's any of your business,” Simon was saying, bringing Beth back to the moment, “but I assure you, I'm under the limit. Last call, Carol. Are you coming with me or not?”

Anxiety cast a shadow over Carol's face. “Ahm . . .” she murmured. Remarkably, Carol was dithering. Beth touched her arm to give her support. “If you're nervous, Carol, I'd advise you to stay here. It's getting late to be driving another ninety minutes or so to the Blue Mountains.”

Once more Simon placed a heavy hand on Carol's thin shoulder. “It's hardly the Matterhorn,” he scoffed. “You've said your piece, Ms. Reed. I'll take very good care of Carol, but thank you so much for your concern. Come along, Carol.”

Carol was looking extremely upset. Why didn't she tell Mansfield to bugger off? Carol's friends would rally around. “You've certainly got a bullying way about you,” Beth said, realizing she loathed this guy as much as he apparently loathed her. Simon Mansfield really needed to get himself sorted.

“And you should learn to mind your own business,” Simon snapped, the colour rising to his lean cheeks.

Carol barely had time to say good night to her friend, let alone beg Beth to make her apologies to her hosts, before Simon moved her off so fast her feet were barely touching the ground. “What a truly detestable bitch,” Simon gave his considered opinion of Beth Reed. “I've always thought she was gay,” he said with sweeping intolerance.

“She
isn't
,” Carol found the courage to reply. “As if anyone cares one way or the other. Beth is my friend.”

R
oyce Weld, Brendon's longtime close friend, was passing through the entrance hall in time to witness the unexpected arrival of Simon Mansfield. He had a rather plain young woman glued to his side. Royce knew Mansfield hadn't been invited, so he made a dash to Brendon's side, pulling him away from the laughing group that circled him.

“Bren, I say—guess who's here?”

Brendon turned to give Royce his full attention. “Santa?” he asked, with a deadpan face.

“Try again. The insufferable Simon Mansfield. He has some poor girl in tow. She doesn't look happy.”

“My God!” Instantly Brendon felt his temper rise. “What a bloody nuisance! Where is he?”

“He was coming through the door when I spotted him. I believe he was about to place Charlie's birthday present under the tree,” Royce said.

“Was he now?” Brendon said grimly. “I might have to enlist your aid to run him back to his car.”

“No problem. I suppose Charlie should be told? Hang on, here she comes,” he said in relief. “She's got a real antennae for trouble, has Charlie. Might be best we go softly . . . softly.”

“I'm not buying that, Royce. I
know
Mansfield. The way I see it is he's here to make trouble.”

“I get the picture. So, what now?”

“We have a word—” Brendon broke off as Charlotte, moving like a gazelle, reached them.

“What's up?” She looked from Bren to their friend Royce. Even as she said it, she
knew.
“Don't tell me. Simon has turned up like the proverbial bad penny?”

“He wants aggro. He'll get aggro,” Brendon bit off. “Royce and I will escort him back to his car.”

“Is Carol with him?” Charlotte asked.

“A plain girl? Well, sort of plain, a bit dreary, but
nice
?” Royce asked. “Not Simon's usual companion, that's for sure. Mansfield is said to be smart, but I always thought he was pretty thick.”

“Don't let's turn this into a major incident,” Charlotte said, thinking fast. “Leastways not yet. Not until we absolutely have to. I'll go greet them. Act as if we were expecting them. I like Carol. I don't think she's had an easy life.”

“Yeah, in a convent?” quipped Royce.

“I'll come with you,” Brendon said.

“No, you won't. Please, Bren.” Charlotte put her hand on his arm. “You're like a red flag to a bull so far as Simon is concerned. I can handle him. Royce can come with me. He doesn't have a black belt.”

“Just another one of Bren's skills,” said Royce, so admiring of his friend. Brendon was superbly fit. He worked at it.

“There's no easy ride with your cousin, Charlotte,” Brendon warned. “He hates you. Therefore he has to be watched.” He didn't add that there were minders out there keeping track of the evening's events. But no one had told them to bar Simon Mansfield from the party. He was, after all, a member of the family.

Royce took a deep breath, feeling like he had wandered onto a minefield. Unlike Brendon, he wasn't equipped to dance with danger. “I'll come get you if we need you, Bren,” he said, fully intending to act on his promise. Privately he thought Mansfield could be a bit of a nutter. The rich seemed to have the idea they were somehow above the law. Charlie and Bren aside, that was.

* * *

Charlotte gave her cousin a brilliant smile, mindful of the small curious crowd around the tree. She took a few steps forward to acknowledge Carol with a kiss on the cheek. “I was beginning to think you'd never turn up.”

Carol's frantic heartbeat slowed. Simon answered for both of them. “Wouldn't miss your party for the world,” he cried. “We had to see the Cornells first. The tree looks splendid, Charlotte. Happy birthday, by the way. Your present is the one with the emerald and red bow.”

“Why, thank you. I did say not to bother with presents, but no one was listening,” Charlotte responded, grateful the temperature in the entrance hall had dropped a few points. “Come on through. The buffet is still open.”

“That'd be great!” Simon was affability itself. Seized again by the arm, Carol permitted herself a small, relieved smile. Charlotte looked glorious, she thought. A golden girl and so
kind
. She had been praying right through the trip to Clouds. She hoped with all her heart that God had listened. Not that He always did, in her experience. Inside the living room a seriously good group of musicians was playing a medley of popular tunes.

Back in the living room, Charlotte watched her cousin amble up to a group who knew him. Nobody appeared in a rush to greet him, but after a minute or two, with Simon on his best behaviour and his girlfriend so obviously nice and refined, everyone settled.

“Well then?” Charlotte waited for Brendon's response.

Brendon drew a quick, hard breath. “I don't trust him, Charlotte. He's going to string everyone along and then he's going to let fly. You took the wrong course. Royce and I could have ejected him.”

“What else could I do?” Charlotte's eyes were sparking. “He brings Carol along like some kind of hostage.”

“What's wrong with the girl?” Brendon wanted to know. “It's beyond strange. How can she be so stupid?”

“She thinks she loves him, Bren.”

“Then she's soft in the head.”

“Sometimes feeling sways reason. She's desperate for love,” Charlotte pointed out with compassion.

“She won't get it from your cousin,” Brendon returned. “She'll finish up a damaged woman. Damn it, this is your birthday party, Charlie. Everything was going so well.”

Charlotte shook his arm. “Don't worry. Worse comes to worst, you do have your black belt.”

He shook his handsome head. “I'm sorry, Charlotte,” he said. “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”

“It's okay, Bren.” Momentarily she leaned against him, drawing strength from his body, which she felt was
perfect
. “It's
my
family. I have to deal with them. I pretty much knew Simon would turn up. Maybe his darling mother egged him on. It helps if Aunt Patricia comes out in the open. She's been undercover for far too long.”

“She's actually your
enemy,
Charlotte,” he said sombrely.

Charlotte was searching her memory. “She would have been very happy to make trouble for my mother. Funny thing about jealousy is that it does away with conscience. Anyway, I'm not going to stand around waiting for Simon to accuse me of stealing the family fortune. I'm going to dance.”

“Just as well I'm available,” said Brendon, in a smooth, dry voice. His suddenly smiling silver-grey eyes were back on hers. She felt the twist of her heart. He put one arm around her waist, leading her back to the dance floor. Brendon was determined to keep a close protective watch on Charlotte. It was part of who he was.

* * *

Simon took well over an hour before he launched his attack. He had waited so he could get in some of the sumptuous buffet, accompanied by a few drinks. He truly believed he was in the right. The birthday girl was at the heart of the Mansfield family's huge problem. She had stolen the family fortune right from under his father's nose. It was the biggest heist on family record. His head and his veins were thrumming with an altogether manic outrage. He could think of no good reason not to spoil her lavish birthday party. God only knew what she was wearing around her neck! He had never seen it before. It must have cost tens of thousands of dollars.

She was standing at the edge of the dance floor. Needless to say, Macmillan was right beside her. They looked so eye-catching together, no one could look anywhere else. Of course Macmillan was going after the heiress in his smooth, ruthless fashion. His family would be backing him. Good old Brendon Macmillan. He had been waiting for ages to snaffle up the little heiress. That they looked so
right
together only served to increase his rage. It would be a positive joy to embarrass them in front of their friends.

Carol, her face blanched white, had sensed his intent. She gave him such a look of entreaty it almost brought him to his senses. Instead, he physically thrust her away. As he began to move towards them, he saw Macmillan turn Charlotte into his arms.

“That's it, dance with the little heiress, Macmillan,” he called in a challenging voice. “You do that. What are you going to do with her afterwards? Pick her up, throw her on a bed, and shag her senseless, you big, macho guy?” His tanned skin began to blotch as he abandoned himself to a near-orgasmic rage. It gave him a feeling of power he never felt otherwise. “Promise her you're going to spend the rest of your life making her happy. God knows you'll have your hands on her money.”

It was a dreadful moment. Strangely enough, no one was truly aghast except possibly Mansfield's girlfriend, Carol, who looked like she was about to faint.

Simon swung his head quickly to harangue the guests. “You all know it, don't you? He's after her. He always was. He's after the money. The Macmillans can't get enough. She robbed us, you know. She robbed my father, the rightful heir. She robbed . . .”

There it was again, the same old litany. Brendon didn't plan on waiting for the rest. He moved like a big cat towards Charlotte's insufferable cousin, seeing out of the corner of his eye Carol Sutton bursting into tears.

“Never mind him. Never mind him, Brendon.” Charlotte went after Brendon, dragging on his arm. She knew Brendon would flatten her cousin for sure. Even the way he was moving put her in mind of a jungle cat ready to pounce.

Only that didn't happen. Two tall, heavily built men wearing dark suits suddenly appeared as if by magic. They went to either side of Simon, who had stiffened in shock, got a firm hold on him, then began bearing his slumped form backwards. Simon's large feet were dragging on the floor as he tried in vain to find purchase. Rage wasn't drowning him. It was humiliation. They were out of the living room and into the entrance hall, with Simon protesting all the while.

After the terrible moment of shock, it suddenly seemed funny. Who were those guys, the Blues Brothers? They could hear Simon continuing to protest at the top of his lungs, ready to yell “police brutality” but clearly unable to identify who the men were. There would have been a lot of crowd satisfaction in seeing Brendon knock Mansfield flat, but this was a tidier outcome. Most guessed the two men had been hired for the evening as security guards. They must have been alerted, as indeed they had been by one Royce Weld, who sought to protect his dear friends.

* * *

By 2 a.m. the guests bound for Blue Horizons motel were taken there by a specially chartered bus. The remainder of the guests who were staying over at the house had retired, happily exhausted. Breakfast would be served from 8:30 a.m. onward for those who could make it, lunch at 1 p.m. for those who liked to sleep it off. It had been a marvellously entertaining night. Simon Mansfield, well over the limit, had not been allowed to drive his car. His keys had been withheld. A small room not up to his usual standard had been found for him at the motel. Charlotte hadn't had much difficulty persuading Carol Sutton to stay on at Clouds. The two people who were left standing were Charlotte, the birthday girl, and Brendon, who was going around the huge house turning off lights. When he returned through the house, he found Charlotte standing outside her uncle's study. One hand was on the brass handle of the door.

“I was wondering when you'd decide to take a peek,” he said. “You'll have wonderful luck if you find it open.”

“You're so right,” Charlotte muttered. “He really shouldn't have done that.”

Brendon sighed. “Charlotte, you've allowed them far too much licence. They think the house is theirs.”

She answered with a sigh of her own. “I really didn't want to kick them out. Conrad is my uncle. He's a distinguished novelist. I understand perfectly how Clouds suits him.”

“And it saves him having to buy a suitable retreat for himself,” Brendon pointed out. “There are other beautiful houses here in the mountains with outstanding views.”

“Clouds would be the pick of them. And there's the garden. He would see his mother moving around in the garden, wouldn't he? Everyone loved Grandma.”

Brendon touched her gently on her shoulder, bare except for a shoestring strap. A gesture he had made countless times, yet now it was
different.
“They have to go, Charlotte.” His hand didn't linger. It burned. “You must let them go. However forgiving you are, your uncle and aunt have treated you very badly. And Simon is a disgrace.”

“He's close to paranoid,” Charlotte said. “Anyway, I can get in here. I know where the spare key is.”

Brendon looked down at her in wry amusement. “Charlie, most probably it has been shifted. It's been years!”

“This was Daddy's study, you know. Uncle Conrad took it over. He wouldn't know where the spare key is hidden. Only me.”

“And me, I hope?” His voice held more than a hint of challenge.

“You've earned it. Follow me.”

Brendon shook his head. “Charlotte, there simply aren't words to match my relief at your faith in me,” he drawled.

* * *

She led him back into the entrance hall, moving past the glittering Christmas tree to the gilt-wood console table. It was surmounted by a tall, elegant gilt-wood mirror with a carved crest.

“Should I guess?” Brendon asked, his eyes ranging over both antiques.

“Go right ahead,” she invited.

“Not the mirror,” he concluded. “Too high for a little girl. The console here, maybe. God knows there are enough scrolls and swags and things. If anywhere, I'd say the central mask.” He bent closer.