The Secret Heiress. Bethany Campbell

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СКАЧАТЬ next morning, zombielike, Marie arranged for her mother’s remains to be cremated. She had it done as soon as possible, without ceremony, for that had been Colette’s wish.

      Then, somehow, she went to her classes, still feeling trapped in the numb, unbelievable nightmare. That night she waited tables at the Scepter, functioning on autopilot. But under her business-as-usual facade, she was in a maelstrom of emotion.

      All of Marie’s life, it had been the two of them, she and Colette. When the Lafayette family’s fortune failed, Colette went to work as soon as she could and had never stopped. Reynard had left Darwin. Some called him a drifter, but he called himself “a free spirit.”

      He returned to visit two or three times a year, and then he’d be off again to wherever his whim took him. He was clever enough to always find a job, too restless ever to keep it long.

      By her early thirties, Colette was working as a cook and housekeeper. Lonely and shy, she tried always to please. Finally, in the household of a professor whose wife had left him, she tried too hard. He easily seduced her.

      Colette soon found herself pregnant—and unemployed. She didn’t tell Marie who her father was until Marie was ten, and the man had been dead five years.

      He’d never acknowledged Marie’s existence, and Colette had never asked him for a thing. So from the beginning of Marie’s life, she and Colette had been a family of two, and Colette had been not only her mother but her closest companion.

      That night, the first night that Colette was gone, the stupid busboy, Butch, made a move to grope Marie again.

      “Where’s your fancy toff tonight?” he sneered. “Want a real man?” She looked at him in disgust, her expression cold as Antarctica.

      “Why are you so uppity?” he demanded. “Think you got the crown jewels between your legs? You’re the same as any other woman.”

      She turned and walked away. She was not the same as any other woman. All she knew for certain about Colette’s mother was that the woman had foolishly trusted a man. Result? She’d ended up unmarried and pregnant.

      Colette made exactly the same mistake. Result? She’d ended up unmarried and pregnant—but she’d not been one to give up her child.

      Two illegitimate generations were enough.

      Long ago, Marie vowed she wouldn’t repeat the pattern. She intended never to “fall in love” or into any man’s bed. Ever. Marriage? Married women could be as lonely as single ones. Sometimes lonelier.

      It had been completely unlike her, nearly collapsing into a stranger’s arms last night. She wondered if she’d done it because she’d known Colette was dying. Had she known that from the moment Colette put the letter in her hand?

      She wanted this empty, unhappy day to be over.

      This, too, will pass away, she thought. But it didn’t pass soon enough.

      She glanced at her watch, wishing it were midnight. But it was only 7:00 p.m.

      On the grounds of Mick’s stud farm, Makem’s Thoroughbreds, Andrew glanced at his watch and wished the night was older and the party over. But it was only 7:00 p.m.

      A gorgeous brunette in a tight red sundress leaned against a palm tree watching him, sultry invitation in her gaze. Andrew ignored her. He intended to keep on ignoring her.

      A man in the public eye, a man campaigning for an important office, should not fool with women. He knew he shouldn’t have impulsively embraced the waitress in the parking lot last night…yet, still, for some reason, the memory of her rain-misted face haunted him.

      But he needed to watch his step. Especially when his opponent had large media holdings—including some of the country’s most ruthless scandal sheets. And Andrew’s family had just emerged from an alleged breeding crime that made headlines around the world.

      Jacko Bullock loved to sling mud. Sexy mud sold best, even if it was lies. Jacko would be delighted to find dirt on Andrew, especially sensational dirt.

      Andrew didn’t intend to supply him with any. Not a rustle of impropriety. Not a whisper, a wisp, a breath.

      Mick Makem, who was hosting the barbecue, gave him a sly nudge. “That black-haired beauty over there’s giving you the eye.” His freckled face split in a grin.

      “Not interested,” Andrew answered, taking a sip of beer. “People are taking pictures here. And she looks like trouble.”

      Mick jabbed with a sharper nudge. “Lovely trouble. All work and no play make Jack a dull guy.”

      “Better a dull guy than a fall guy,” Andrew muttered.

      “Oh,” said Mick, understanding. “Bullock, you mean.”

      “Right.”

      Bullock still repeated the accusations about the American Prestons’ breeding fraud. Even though the Prestons had been cleared of any wrong doing in the DNA fraud that had ended the career of their star stallion, Leopold’s Legacy, Bullock kept resurrecting memories of the old rumors and implying new evidence might soon emerge.

      Bullock’s point, Andrew knew, was to keep the Preston family firmly linked to the word scandal. And what could be more damaging to a candidate than a good old-fashioned sex scandal?

      How many American politicians had lost their reputations, even their careers, by not keeping their pants zipped? Count ’em, Andrew thought.

      So he had grimly vowed to stay celibate for the duration of the election. Here in Australia, he was the tall, dark, single American from a rich family with a famous stable. Beautiful women signaled him they were ready for kissing and a great deal more. He’d been approached by so many lookers, it made him suspicious.

      He knew he was considered handsome. But he was also smart enough to know that he hadn’t become as sexy as a rock star as soon as he stepped on the Australian shore. And he knew looks weren’t particularly an advantage against the homely, hearty and proudly homegrown Bullock. Bullock looked and acted like somebody’s plain and stocky loudmouthed uncle, Australia’s answer to a Good Ol’ Boy.

      Andrew didn’t come across as a Good Ol’ Boy. He was long and lean, with chiseled features, brown-black hair and deep blue eyes, and he had a slew of college degrees. Next to the rotund Bullock, he didn’t look homey and jovial; he looked aristocratic and privileged.

      Unlike Bullock, he wasn’t a glad-hander or a baby-kisser. He didn’t slap backs or lavish smarmy compliments on everybody he met. When he talked about issues, he talked about them with passion, but his passion was measured and earnest. He didn’t pound the podium like Bullock. He didn’t shout or sputter or chortle or wave his arms or tell raunchy jokes.

      The result was that, although some people thought Andrew the serious, committed and perfect candidate, others believed he didn’t have a chance in hell. And tonight, he was haunted by a sensation usually foreign to him: he felt isolated.

      Mick’s barbecue wasn’t just for political reasons. This was Andrew’s birthday, his thirty-sixth. Turning thirty-six was sobering. He’d unwittingly crossed some psychological line he hadn’t known existed.

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