LITMIR.BIZ

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palace and saw all the sights from the deck.’

      Ruffled by the amusement in his voice, she bent down to snap off the suede-soft bloom of a gardenia and held it to her nose. Erotic, disturbing, the scent of the flower floated like an offering to unknown gods on the humid air.

      She lowered it and said, ‘It was definitely a gin palace, but I did go ashore a couple of times.’ She didn’t care what he thought of her—after all, he was nobody, a mere passer-by in her life.

      Kear glanced across to her mother, now walking with Great-Aunt Kit down her favourite border, pointing out flowering treasures. Lights in the garden illuminated them—the tall old woman, the smaller, younger one unobtrusively lending a supporting hand. ‘After meeting your mother, I can see where you got your features from. You don’t have her eyes, though.’

      ‘Apparently I inherited mine from my father’s mother,’ she said evenly, thinking it odd for this conversation to turn up twice on the same evening.

      ‘So intense a blue they make me think of the sheen on steel,’ he said, and held out his hand for the gardenia.

      Startled, she gave it to him and watched as he smelled it, his dark features etched arrogantly against the lights.

      The compliment unnerved her totally, melting the bones at the base of her spine. ‘Really?’ she said in a quiet, startled voice.

      ‘Yes.’ His brief smile sent her heart thudding. ‘My cousin said that you’re Anet Carruthers’ sister. I saw her win gold at the Olympics. You’re not in the least alike.’

      ‘We’re half-sisters. Anet gets her javelin-throwing expertise from my stepfather.’ Jan sent a swift, winged smile across to Stephen Carruthers. Obeying a distress signal she hadn’t realised she’d sent, he said a few smiling words to the couple he was with and came down to join her.

      After that it was easy. Listening to them as they talked, Jan was surprised to find out that Stephen liked Kear; her stepfather was clever and an excellent judge of character, yet he responded to the other man’s magnetism without any sign of resistance. But what set her stupid heart galloping in an uneven rhythm was the sight of that gardenia tucked negligently into Kear’s buttonhole.

      ‘Interesting chap, Lannion—I’ve always liked him,’ Stephen said hours later, when all the guests had gone.

      ‘I didn’t realise you knew him,’ Jan murmured.

      ‘He’s on a couple of boards with me. Not an easy chap to know, and no one pushes him around, but he’s a good man to have beside you in a fight.’

      Cynthia nodded. ‘As well as being a very desirable piece of real estate.’

      ‘Mother!’ Jan pretended to be shocked.

      Laughing, her mother defended her choice of words. ‘That’s what Gerry called him. I think she might be smitten.’

      Jan subdued something that came ominously close to being jealousy, and kissed her parents. ‘Well, I’m heading off. Goodnight, and thank you. I had a lovely party.’

      ‘You’re sure you don’t want to stay the night?’ her mother asked automatically.

      ‘No, I’ll go home, thanks.’ Jan hid a yawn. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow morning, though. And don’t have the place cleaned up by the time I get here like you did last year!’

      ‘There’s not a lot to do, darling. The caterers have already tidied up, so all that’s necessary is a bit of vacuuming.’

      ‘Don’t do it.’ Jan looked at her stepfather. ‘Dad, keep her in bed.’

      His answering grin was transformed into laughter as Cynthia blushed and bridled and shook her finger at him.

      She was very lucky, Jan thought as she drove through Auckland’s darkened streets. She had a super family.

      Back at home, she took off her make-up before sitting on the side of the bed with Anet’s present in her lap. She had been astounded when she’d opened it, because the tiny painting on ivory had been given to Anet by mutual friends barely a year before.

      Even the note hadn’t allayed her surprise. Anet had written:

      Dearest Jan

      I hope you have a wonderful birthday. I’m sorry we won’t be there—I always hate missing your party, the best of the year! This is our present. Yes, I know Olivia and Drake gave the portrait to me, but it was always with the proviso that I had to hand her on sooner or later. She’s ready to leave now, and I want you to have her. Don’t worry about her; she has the ability to keep herself out of trouble. Jan, be happy.

      Jan tilted the severe wooden frame so that the light illuminated the pretty face. It was exquisite work, done by a master. Fresh as though she were not at least two hundred years old, the woman gazed serenely out at the world, her delicately fine features set in an expression of confident assurance.

      ‘I wonder just what she means when she says you’re ready to leave now,’ Jan murmured. ‘I wish you could tell me. I’ll look after you carefully, and when Anet comes back I’ll ask her why she was so cryptic.’ Carefully, she steadied the wooden frame and put it on her dressing table.

      Two weeks later Jan was ushered into a solicitor’s office in the city. Holding out her hand, she said, ‘Mr Gates? I’m Jan Carruthers.’

      He was a well-tailored, middle-aged man, with shrewd dark eyes and a mouth clamped shut on secrets. ‘How do you do, Ms Carruthers,’ he said neutrally. ‘Actually, I think that legally your surname is Morrison, is it not?’

      ‘No,’ she said a little stiffly. ‘My stepfather adopted me.’

      ‘I see.’

      ‘But my birth father was Hugo Morrison.’

      He nodded. ‘Do sit down, Ms Carruthers,’ he said, and gestured to a chair. He waited until she was seated before saying smoothly, ‘Thank you for responding so promptly to my letter. You have your birth certificate?’

      ‘I have my shortened adoption one,’ she said, handing it over. ‘I can write away and get a copy of the one with my father’s name on it if you want it.’

      ‘It might be a good idea, but this will do for the moment.’ He looked at the document, then passed it back to her, saying, ‘Ms Carruthers, are you aware that you had a paternal grandfather—your birth father’s father?’

      ‘Yes,’ she said, feeling something chilly take up residence in the pit of her stomach. ‘Fergus Morrison. He went to Australia after my father’s death.’

      ‘He returned to New Zealand about fifteen years ago,’ he said.

      Astonishment raised her voice. ‘Did he?’

      ‘Yes.’ He shuffled the papers on his desk a moment before saying, ‘He saw you at some function a few years ago.’

      She felt the colour leach from her face. ‘Why didn’t he speak to me?’ she asked numbly.

      ‘I gather he thought he might not be welcome,’ he said, watching her with keen interest.

      ‘He might have tried to find out.’

      ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what his reasons were for keeping his distance. However, he made this will after he’d seen you.’

      He paused, but she’d already guessed what he was going to say. She’d never have thought that it could hurt so much.

      ‘Ms Carruthers, your grandfather died a year ago. He wanted his estate wound up before you were contacted. That has now been done, leaving money and a hundred acres of land some hundred or so miles north of Whangarei, in Northland. As you are your grandfather’s sole beneficiary, it is yours.’

      She shook her head. ‘I don’t want it,’ she said. Her voice sounded odd, as though she had a severe cold.

      ‘There

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