Innocent Mistress. Margaret Way
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Название: Innocent Mistress
Автор: Margaret Way
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
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Jude groaned aloud. Lester Rogan wasn’t her father. He couldn’t be. He wouldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t his own father have known? His dad was one of the few people Lester Rogan had ever been known to confide in.
So what was the story? He let his mind range over a half a dozen scenarios all of which he hated. Surely he hadn’t let a complete stranger get under his skin? He wasn’t ready for that kind of connection with any woman much less one who gazed into crystal balls. He was depressed, too that she had lied to him. He hated lies.
Minutes later he arrived home. An old fishing mate of his father’s, Jimmy Dawson, though not a caretaker as such—Jimmy had his own little bungalow on the edge of the rain forest—kept the grounds under control. At least the jungle hadn’t set in. He got out to open the white picket gates, looking up with deep nostalgia at the handsome white house that stood tall against the turquoise sky. This was his much loved home right up until the time he had started his legal career in the state capital. Two storied it was surrounded by wide verandahs with a green painted galvanised roof and glossy emerald-green shutters to protect the pairs of French doors along the verandahs in times of tropical storms. A wide flight of six steps led to the porch.
His mother had always kept two huge ceramic pots planted with masses of white flowers flanking the double doorway with its beautiful stained-glass transom. Towering palms stood in the large, very private grounds, the lawns a carpet of lush green. Obviously Jimmy had seen to the mowing. The wonderfully spectacular poincianas were in full bloom as were the flame trees. On either side of the house the magnolias carried great plate-sized blooms, creamy-white and resplendent over the rich dark green leaves burnished underneath.
The flower beds had not survived although agapanthus, strelitzias, cannas, cassias and gardenias had gown back to the wild. The long fences on either side of the house were totally taken over by a dense screen of King Jasmine. Jude supposed the timber had rotted, teetering beneath the rampant vines which were so strong they were virtually self-supporting. It would be getting too much for Jimmy even with help. Jimmy was much older than Jude’s father, around seventy but wonderfully fit and wiry or he had been the last time Jude had seen him about a year ago. A year at Jimmy’s time of life was a long time.
He had rung Jimmy to let him know he was coming. The house had been aired. There was milk, butter, cheddar cheese, bacon and eggs, a whole roasted chicken, a bottle of chardonnay, four jars of cumquat marmalade in the frig—cumquat marmalade, brandied cumquats, pickled cumquats, you name it, cumquats were the base of Jimmy’s home made specialties—Jimmy like his dad didn’t bother growing the miniature fruit in pots like some people. He grew them in long hedges as a windbreak, always teeming with fruit or flower. Jude looked in the bread bin, found a fresh loaf. There was tea and coffee in the pantry, a few more groceries and a bottle of whiskey—he laughed at that.
Jimmy was a great guy, an honourary uncle to him when he was growing up. His throat tightened with affection and gratitude. Jimmy had been organised to go fishing with his dad that terrible day only another friend of Jimmy’s had stumbled over a snake on his way home from the pub and got bitten for his trouble. Jimmy, being a drinker, was on hand to get his friend to the hospital. The rest was history.
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