Hidden Legacy. Margaret Way

Adam Hunt, Zizi’s mystery friend. A mystery to be solved, she reminded herself. It was important to her to get to the truth of people. She had taken way too long to get to the truth of Brett, in the process shaking her view of herself and her own judgment. She felt no fear of her visitor, yet her hand on the balustrade was trembling. She couldn’t have said why that was, but she made an urgent effort to steady it.

      Her visitor covered the distance between them in no time. He was standing on the graveled drive a few feet away, looking up at her with a curious air of intensity. His eyes were startling in his tanned face, a true aquamarine like the shoals of the Reef waters. They compelled her into an extraordinary awareness of him. A sudden vertigo took hold, and she felt dizzy enough to pitch over the balustrade and into the gardenia bushes. That should get her even more attention.

      He smiled faintly. “Miss Sutherland.” It wasn’t a question. He already knew the answer.

      She realized belatedly that they were united in the intensity of their appraisal, matching glance for glance. He had a good voice. Voices were important to her. “Adam Hunt,” he said. “I’ve spoken to your father several times. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

      She couldn’t manage a proper smile. Not yet. Besides, there were too many loose ends she had to sort out. “Adam Hunt, of course. Please come up.” She knew she sounded very formal, but she wasn’t about to jump into the deep end of instant familiarity—despite that odd moment of…recognition?

      “Thank you. I won’t stay long.” He turned his head back toward his vehicle. “I have some provisions for you in the car. I really should get them out first. Some of them will need to go in the fridge.”

      “How did you know I’d be here? I didn’t tell a soul.”

      “You told your parents.”

      “Surely Dad didn’t call you?” she asked in dismay.

      He nodded, an amused glint in his eyes. “Fathers generally like to keep an eye on their daughters. It’s very lonely here, very isolated.” He gestured about him as if he wouldn’t recommend the remote plantation to any woman on her own.

      “He asked you to keep an eye on me for him?” she asked, her tone incredulous.

      Now she was treated to his full smile. It was a smile of enormous attractiveness, sexy yet wonderfully open. He would find it very useful when dealing with women. “Trust me, he loves you.”

      “I know that, Mr. Hunt.” She had a desire to put him in his place.

      “Adam, please.”

      She inclined her head. “I’m well able to look after myself, Adam,” she assured him, sounding more confident than she felt. “Nevertheless, we’re in your debt. I know my father’s thanked you but I want to add my own thanks for being on hand when you were. It must’ve been an extremely upsetting experience.”

      He made no attempt to deny it. “I couldn’t believe it. I don’t need to tell you Elizabeth was always so bright and alert, remarkably youthful for her age. I’m surprised it happened the way it did, and so very sorry. We were just getting to know one each other.”

      “May I ask why you wanted to get to know her?” It came out more bluntly than she’d intended.

      “Certainly. She didn’t tell you?” He kept his eyes trained on her, more than a touch of skepticism in his expression.

      “What do you mean?”

      “I thought Elizabeth would’ve told you. I understand you were very close.”

      “As close as we could be,” she answered without hesitation. “But for some reason she neglected to mention you. You were saying?”

      A sardonic pause. “A close relative of mine wanted me to look her up. He knew her back in the old days.”

      “And your relative has a name? Perhaps I’ve heard it. Zizi and I had no secrets from each other.” Actually they did. Him!

      “Julian Wainwright,” he said.

      “Julian Wainwright! Of course! Several of his paintings are in the house. They belonged to the same artists’ colony in the early sixties. His paintings are splendid, especially the seascapes.”

      He nodded his agreement. “Julian had to abandon his artistic career for business. He always said he regretted it. You probably know he continued to carry a torch for Elizabeth all his life.”

      Was this a joke, or was a huge chasm opening beneath her feet? “I’m sorry, I didn’t know any such thing.” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded defensive.

      “You didn’t know that at one stage they intended to marry?” He maintained the look of skepticism.

      For a moment she felt the reality of her life might be stripped away. “Forgive me, but I have only your word for it. Is Julian Wainwright still alive?”

      “Barely.” He shrugged, regret on his handsome face. “His doctors have given him no more than six or seven months.”

      “I’m sorry.” Love for her great-aunt and a feeling of apprehension were inextricably entwined. If this was true, how much more had Zizi kept from her, from them all?

      “Julian is four years older than Elizabeth,” he was saying. “He’s been in ill health for the last ten years. He was devastated to hear of her death.”

      “You told him?”

      “Of course.” His tone was clipped. He looked back at the Range Rover. “I should be getting the cold things into the fridge.”

      “Can I help? I’m stronger than I look!” This time she managed a shaky smile.

      His glance, brilliant as the gemstone, touched her lightly. She was still wearing the outfit she’d traveled in—a white tank top over navy straight-legged pants. “You look fine.”

      “A girl does her best!” She spoke flippantly, to combat the heat that washed over her. It irked her to feel more like a flustered teenager than an experienced woman. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” She leaned over the wrought-iron balustrade to call to him. A cluster of white trumpet flowers from the vine-wreathed pillar tickled her cheek, its perfume entrancing.

      “I won’t say no,” he said over his shoulder. “Elizabeth always made me a cup.”

      Did she indeed? She had to wrestle with that picture. Adam Hunt and Zizi sharing friendly cups of coffee?

      Zizi, whatever were you up to?

      For the first time in her life, Alyssa began to realize that her great-aunt must’ve had a life about which she knew little or nothing. She was starting to feel desperately hurt at being kept in the dark.

      CHAPTER THREE

      A BIG MAN, he filled the kitchen. He left Alyssa, who was above average height, feeling small. And it wasn’t only his height and breadth of shoulder that made him so powerful, but a kind of blazing energy. The two of them worked in fraught silence while they packed the provisions away. She took care of the things that went into the refrigerator. He’d brought her more fresh bread, butter and milk, and in addition a carton of cream, vanilla ice cream and some small tubs of fruit yogurt. From the excellent village delicatessen he’d thrown in some King Island Camembert, a chunk of Havarti, New Guinea coffee beans and a half-dozen little pastries. It was more than enough to keep her going.

      She’d noticed him putting away a small bag of locally grown baby potatoes and some red and white onions, about the only things Zizi hadn’t grown herself. Alyssa hadn’t checked on the vegetable garden yet, but she had a feeling he would’ve given it some water as well as fed Cleo. He looked that sort of man.

      “You seem to know your way around.” She couldn’t help the dryness creeping into her tone.

      “Elizabeth showed me all over the house the first time I came here,” he