Innocent Mistress. Margaret Way

near silent approach.

      “Damn!” Within seconds he was out of the vehicle, watching in dismay as first she staggered then fell to the grass, thickly scattered with spent blossom. Her heel must have caught on something, he realized, probably an exposed root of one of the poincianas.

      He had a sensation of falling himself. He was always a careful driver. There was no excuse. “Are you all right?” Shoulders tensed, he bent to her, studying her with concern. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise anyone was still about.”

      “My fault.” Graciously, instead of berating him, she accepted his hand, wincing slightly as he brought her to her feet. “I shouldn’t have been walking on the driveway at all. There are plenty of paths.”

      “Are you sure you’re okay? You didn’t injure your ankle?” They were a touch away but neither moved back.

      “It’ll be fine,” she said quietly after a minute.

      It was balm to his guilt. “That’s a blessing.” They both glanced down at her legs; classy legs on show in her short skirt. She wasn’t wearing stockings in the heat, the skin tanned a pale gold. There was no swelling as far as he could see, but it could develop. “Jude Conroy,” he said, holding out his hand.

      “Cate Costello.” She took his hand briefly, the expression in her beautiful green eyes not soft and lingering like the women’s glances he was used to but quietly sizing him up.

      “You’re new in town?” He found himself staring back, all sorts of emotions crashing down on him like a wild surf. Up close she was even more lovely than his glimpse at the gravesite, like a vision from some tantalising dream. Her eyes had an unusual setting that bestowed an extra distinction on her delicate features. He realized straightaway she possessed an attraction that went beyond the physical though there was no denying that was potent enough.

      There was the unblemished creamy skin he’d first noted in the church. Her large eyes, the feature that really stopped him in his tracks were a clear green, with a definite upward curve at the corners. The brows matched. Her face was a perfect oval, the finely chiselled contours off set by a contradictory mouth. The top lip was finely cut, the bottom surprisingly full and cushiony. Looking at her it was difficult not to dredge up the old cliché “English rose” but just as attractive to Jude was the keen intelligence in her regard.

      He knew he was taking far too much time studying her, but she seemed quite unselfconscious under his scrutiny. She had to be around twenty two-or -three, but she seemed very self-contained for her age. Her voice, matched her patrician appearance; clear and well modulated. He wondered at the colour of her hair beneath the silk scarf and even found himself wanting to remove it. There was no question she had him in a kind of spell. Maybe it was the witchcraft of the eyes? If he could keep talking to her until midnight maybe she would simply disappear?

      As it was, she stood perfectly still, looking up at him, but he had the feeling she was equally well poised to run. “I’ve been here for six or seven months now,” she said calmly in response to his question. “I know who you are.”

      Women habitually used that line with him. The old cynicism kicked in. “Really? Want to tell me how?”

      “Anyone who comes to live in this town gets to know about you and your father,” she explained matter-of-factly. “Your father was much loved and respected. You’re the local celebrity.”

      He shrugged that off. “And you are?” Despite himself the words came out with the touch of steel he reserved for his job. Immediately he was aware of little sparks starting to fly between them. Whether they were harmful or not he couldn’t yet say.

      “I told you. Cate Costello.” Her expression became intent as though she was deciding whether she liked or disliked him.

      “Are you a friend of the family?”

      She stepped back out of the brilliant sunlight into the shade. “Is this an interrogation, Jude Conroy?”

      “Why would you see it that way, Ms Costello?” he countered, with a mock inclination of the head. “It’s a perfectly normal question.”

      “If you’d said it in a different tone perhaps. Anyone can see you’re a lawyer.”

      “You have a problem with lawyers?” He didn’t bother to hide the challenge.

      “I’ve never had occasion to call on one. But I appreciate they’re necessary.”

      “I do believe so,” he drawled. “And you, what do you do?” He made his tone friendly.

      He was pouring on the charm, she thought, feeling tiny tremors ripple down her back. “Does it matter? We’ll probably never see each other again.”

      He laughed, suddenly wanting nothing more than to get to know her better. “I can’t help be curious.”

      “Well then,” she relented, “I own a small gallery near the beach. It’s called the Crystal Cave. I buy and sell crystals from all over the world.”

      “As in gazing?” Amusement showed in his gaze. He wasn’t too far off in his assessment of her. “Obviously you don’t have the slanted green eyes of a storybook witch for nothing.”

      A faint warning glitter came into those eyes. “I have no powers of clairvoyance, otherwise I’d have known you were a metre off running me over. I simply have a loving affinity with crystals.”

      “Ouch, I don’t think I deserved that,” he chided. “I braked immediately.”

      “I’m sorry.” Her lovely face registered her sincerity.

      “However did you start with your crystals?” An onlooker might have supposed they were good friends or even lovers so intent were they on each other.

      “I knew some people who were great fossickers and collectors. They introduced me to the earth’s treasures. I shared their love of gemstones and crystals. After all crystals have been used and revered since the beginning of civilisation.” She looked away from him and those intensely blue searching eyes. The admiration in them was clearly flattering, but there was keen appraisal, too.

      “So how can I find the Crystal Cave?” he asked. “I’m on vacation for a month.”

      “You intend to spend it here?” She looked back in surprise.

      “Why not?” He slipped off his jacket, slinging it over his shoulder. “I was born in this town. I’ll probably die here. You sound a little like you’re wishing me on my way.”

      “Not at all.” Colour rose to the cut-glass cheekbones. “It’s I who should be on my way.”

      “On foot?” He took another look at her neat ankles. “Where’s your car?”

      “It’s just around the corner.” She gestured vaguely.

      “Okay so I’ll give you a lift. You’re not going up to the house then?”

      “The family don’t know me, Mr Conroy.”

      “I’m fine with Jude,” he told her. “I’m sure I’ll find your gallery.”

      She made an attractive little movement with her hand. “That shouldn’t be a problem. Everyone knows it. It used to be Tony Mandel’s Art Gallery. The living quarters are at the rear. You’d have known Tony?”

      “Of course I know Tony,” he lightly scoffed. “He was a constant visitor at our house. My dad bought a number of his paintings in the early days before he became famous. I thought he was overseas.”

      She nodded. “He is. In London. His last showing was a sell-out. We keep in touch.”

      “So there’s a connection?” Accustomed to asking questions, they were springing out.

      “A family friend.” Her smile conveyed she wasn’t about to tell him more. “You really don’t have to drive me. I can walk. It’s not far.”