A Virgin For The Taking. Trish Morey

to emerge. And when he finally had, he’d pointedly ignored her and her question and headed directly to the nurses’ station to talk to the medical staff.

      Personally, she didn’t care less where he stayed or how he got there, her only wish being that he’d turn around and disappear under whatever rock he’d been hiding under for the past decade, but Laurence’s request kept pulling her back. ‘Look after Zane,’ he’d implored her. And if he had been able to think fondly about a son who hadn’t bothered to get in touch with him for nigh on a decade, then she could at least be civil—if only for Laurence’s sake.

      The staff slowly filtered away, one retrieving a bag for him from inside the nurses’ station. So, he’d come direct from the airport? He’d need a lift somewhere, then. She pushed herself from the chair and tried to forget how much she disliked this man already.

      ‘I wondered if you’d like a lift to the house?’ she repeated.

      He turned towards her, his features and his jaw set hard as he swung the bag up over his shoulder. The action exaggerated the broad sweep of his chest, revealing all too clearly the power in his muscled arms. Though his build was similar to his father’s, he was taller and more threatening than Laurence had ever been. She felt tiny alongside him.

      ‘I heard you.’

      ‘And?’

      ‘And I can take a cab.’

      ‘That would be pointless, seeing as I’m going there, anyway.’

      ‘Is that right?’ One eyebrow arched as his eyes glinted with what looked like victory. ‘And why would you be doing that?’

      For just a moment she hesitated, the arrangement she’d had with Laurence and accepted as normal suddenly sending alarm bells through her. Things were going to have to change, and soon—it was one thing to share a house with Laurence, who’d been more like a father to her than a colleague; it was another thing entirely to imagine living there with his son, with his overt hostility and his latent danger. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks as she stumbled over her answer.

      ‘Because…I live there.’

      His lip curled. A live-in mistress. ‘How very convenient,’ he said. ‘My father must have enjoyed having…’ your services on tap ‘…your company.’

      She angled her chin higher while her eyes remained glued to his. ‘Your father was a remarkable man. We shared a special friendship.’

      ‘I’ll bet,’ he said dismissively. His father had a habit of forming ‘special friendships’. The last one had cost Laurence the respect of his son and the complete breakdown of a father-son relationship. He was determined this one wouldn’t cost him a thing.

      It was only a short trip from the hospital to the house, but the BMW’s air-conditioning made driving the clear winner over walking. Zane spent the brief journey staring out the windows, reacquainting himself with his old neighbourhood and trying to ignore the scent that reminded him exactly whose car and whose company he was in.

      But at least she didn’t talk. He had too much to assimilate right now to continue their battle of words. Already he could feel a tidal surge of bone-tiredness, the legacy of both his long journey and its unexpected conclusion, creeping up on him, numbing his senses and his mind until there were only two things he could be certain of.

      His father was gone.

      And life for Zane Bastiani was about to radically change.

      There was little prospect it would be for the better.

      Ruby steered the car into a driveway, pulling up outside the sprawling colonial bungalow that had been Zane’s home for the first twenty years of his life. He uncurled himself slowly from the car, feeling a sudden and brief burst of warmth that had nothing to do with the brilliant sunlight as he took in the sight of the building.

      London and his former life had never seemed so far away.

      Built in the nineteen-twenties when pearl shell was gold and those who owned the pearl-lugger fleets were kings, the house was surrounded by wide verandahs and lattice fences lushly covered with flowering bougainvillea, a colourful invitation to the airy and cool interior.

      The empty interior.

      Bitterness seeped from a wound barely crusted over despite the passing of time. His mother had loved this house, the rambling, high-ceilinged rooms and timber floors, the large windows designed to let the slightest cooling breeze flow through. And she had loved the tropical gardens, which were always threatening to turn to jungle and overrun the house if left unchecked.

      His sense of loss changed state inside him, becoming tangible, a solid thing deep in his gut. He could feel it swelling until it cramped his organs. He could taste its bitter juices in his mouth.

      ‘Welcome home,’ he muttered under his breath.

      ‘Are you okay?’

      He absorbed her words rather than heard them, just one more element to the mix of sensations and memories that reached out to snare him and drag him back into the past.

      ‘My grandfather bought this house from one of the last of the old Master Pearlers,’ he said without shifting his focus, reciting the story he’d heard so often from his mother. ‘Laurence was just a kid back then. The pearl-shell industry was slowly dying and Grandfather put everything else he had in the new cultured pearl technology. He had a dream to become the first of the new breed of Master Pearlers.’

      ‘And he made it,’ she said. ‘Between your grandfather and Laurence, it’s quite a legacy they’ve left. Bastiani Pearls is now worth a fortune.’

      Her words knifed through his thoughts, slicing them to ribbons, and he turned the full force of his glare on to her.

      What was it with these mistresses? Anneleise could never stop thinking about money, either. Even at their last unexpected meeting, just two days before his desperate and now pointless rush to Australia, she’d staggered him by expecting some sort of compensation from him for finally getting it through her silvery blonde hair that it was over. And when he’d laughed out loud, she’d let go with the tears and lamented the opportunities she’d missed while Zane had held her undivided attention.

      Even if that were anywhere near the truth, she had plenty of trinkets from their brief liaison that she could hock to tide her over if it came to that. Not that she’d take long to find another mark, if indeed she hadn’t already in the time since they’d parted company. She certainly was stunning enough, with her alabaster skin and a fragile femininity that had made him want to protect her at first—until he’d discovered her fragility extended character deep. But at least now he was free of her and her parasitic tendencies. He’d had enough of grasping women, every last one of them.

      ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked, her attitude making it clear that she resented his intense scrutiny.

      He turned his gaze away, pulling his bag from the boot and slamming it shut. ‘Let’s go inside,’ he said.

      Her skirt flirted around the backs of her knees as she led the way up the short set of stairs to the verandah and once again he found himself caught in the heady trail of her scent, the damnable price of chivalry.

      His eyes took a moment to adjust as they entered the elegant bungalow. He looked around. The house might have been built over eighty years ago, but his mother had always seen to it that whatever renovations were made over the years had provided the most up-to-date conveniences while retaining the character of the colonial era. He let go a breath when he realised that Ruby’s tenure hadn’t impacted upon his mother’s vision.

      ‘I asked Kyoto to have your old room prepared in case you stayed,’ she said, turning slightly towards him. ‘I hope that’s okay.’

      He paused, not believing what he’d heard. ‘Kyoto’s still around?’ It was inconceivable that he was still alive. The former Japanese pearl diver had worked for his family for years, first as cook