Until Death - Sandy Curtis

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that he spoke of. His father used to live there, but he died years ago. I remember because it was my first year with the firm, and ...' Wesley had followed Mal, and now he stopped in front of the alcove where the telephone sat on a small table. 'There's a call on the answering machine. It must have come when I was in the shower.' He pressed the Play button, and several seconds of silence ensued before the line was disconnected. He pressed the Caller ID button.

      'Mal,' he beckoned, 'this call came from a Queensland phone number. One I don't recognise.'

      With three swift strides Mal was beside him, plonking his stubby on the table and dragging a notepad and pen from his pocket. He wrote down the number and snapped the book closed. 'I can trace the grandfather through Libby's father's death records. There may be other relatives you don't know about, and she could have run to them. If this phone number matches any of theirs, it's got to be her.'

      Whatever Libby had found out from her phone call this morning, Conor thought, it certainly wasn't happy news. She had been miserable and distracted all day, and nothing he said could persuade her to confide in him. Only Thomas seemed able to make her smile, and then only once.

      Conor knew he should suggest that she leave, he was growing too fond of her, and that wasn't safe. She had an odd way of looking at him, eyes wide but full of doubt, as though she'd like to trust him, but wasn't sure. She'd insisted on doing housework all morning, sweeping the floors with gusto, then drifting off halfway through and staring out the window. When Thomas was in the way, she stopped, sat down beside him and stroked him, a disturbing array of emotions shadowing her face.

      At lunchtime she picked at the salad Conor had made, and it frustrated him that he couldn't find out the reason for her misery. Finally, he told her they were going out, insisted she slather sunscreen on her face and arms, then set the security system and locked the house behind them.

      It wasn't a long walk to New Farm Park, but no breeze broke the heat. He bought ice-creams at the kiosk, and they wandered down to the river and sat under a large Moreton Bay fig tree. Fat crows ambled out of their way and pecked at insects in the lush grass.

      Except to tell him what ice-cream she liked, Libby still hadn't spoken, but now she said, 'My grandfather used to bring me down here so we could go for a ride on the ferry.' She caught a dollop of dripping ice-cream with her tongue and swallowed it with relish, and Conor froze in amazement at his body's reaction. He'd always had a high libido, but for many years now had kept that, like every other aspect of his life, very strictly controlled. It was disconcerting to find this delicate woman, with her delicate face and almost child-like demeanour, could get under his guard and arouse him so easily.

      'They have a new ferry now, a large catamaran called the City Cat. Would you like to go for a ride?' he asked, hoping to distract her. And himself.

      'Could we?' Her eyes lit. 'I'd like that.'

      They only had to wait a few minutes on the wharf before the ferry arrived. As they stepped onto the deck, the ferryman looked at the ugly bruise on Libby's face, then scowled at Conor.

      Libby smiled. 'He thinks you've hit me,' she whispered to Conor, and, hoping to disprove the assumption, stretched up to kiss him on the cheek. Conor leaned towards her at the same moment, and her lips brushed his.

      A tingling burst of awareness shot through her body. She stumbled, and Conor's arm curved around her, drawing her close as he quickly manoeuvred them inside the spacious cabin. He seemed to be short of breath, and she realised the brief contact had affected him as well. He bought their tickets, and gestured for Libby to take a window seat.

      As the ferry wound its way upstream, the captain gave a running commentary on the various landmarks. Conor occasionally added a few remarks, but Libby's attention was focussed inwards, trying to make a logical assessment about Conor, and her feelings for him. Although she was sexually inexperienced, she wasn't naive, and recognised the attraction that had been growing between them. It struck her as ironic that none of the men she'd dated had sparked an iota of arousal in her, and now here she was positively electrified with desire for a man who she wasn't sure if she could trust, in a situation where she could be arrested for murdering her mother, and with two men who wanted to kill her and she had no idea why.

      Libby quickly thrust the last thoughts from her mind as grief and panic threatened to swamp her. Compartmentalising her feelings had enabled her to cope with what she had thought to be her father's lack of love, and what she had come to realise was her mother's inability to love unconditionally. Yes, she thought bitterly, if she did what Vanessa expected of her she was rewarded with restrained approval, but transgress ... oh, the ice could chill your bones.

      But in spite of never feeling loved, she had loved her mother in the way that children do no matter how their parents treat them, and with the forlorn hope that her love would one day be returned. After her father's death, Libby had even felt pity for Vanessa.

      She forced her attention back to the scenery on the southern side, admiring the townhouses with their terraced gardens that sat only metres above the brown-green water. Every block of units and private residence seemed to have its own jetty, in contrast to the other side of the river where river-bank parkland soon gave way to older-style houses and flats, and jetties were sparse.

      Conor touched her arm lightly, and pointed upstream. Three men on jet skies were skimming down the river. She turned and watched as they passed, expertly jumping the ferry's wake. She could feel Conor's gaze on her, and she looked up at him. His pale blue polo shirt seemed to accentuate the darkness of his eyes, but nothing could disguise the desire so evident there. For a moment she let it consume her, feeling the answering passion in her own body, then she broke the contact and looked away.

      Her resolve to go to the police was becoming harder to sustain. More than anything she wanted to stay in this cocoon with Conor and pretend that the events of the past few days were just a dream. But she now knew, since her phone calls, that the nightmare was real, and if she could remember the two days she had lost, it might confirm that she was a murderer. Fear tightened her chest, and she gripped Conor's thigh before she realised what she was doing. The sudden contraction of his muscles made her look down, and she stared, fascinated, at the bulge growing in his grey chinos. She felt a sense of wonderment that she had the power to cause that response in him, but as her breasts began to tingle and swell against the confines of her bra, she realised the power was mutual.

      Tempted though she was to let her hand remain, she quickly removed it and gazed out the window. The ferry passed under a bridge and at the river's edge she saw the Water Police station, and a shiver of fear shot through her. All morning she had tried to work out why Wesley would want her dead. If he resented her father leaving his companies to her, he had concealed it well. He had been so understanding, showing her how the business operated, even taking over a lot of the paperwork her father used to look after and which she should have been doing. He was so competent, and so nice, that she had signed documents wherever and whenever he told her, though he always explained what they were first.

      Because she had never before been involved in her father's business, she had been reluctant to make any changes, but Wesley had seemed to have no problems with the few she had suggested. So why? If she died, everything would go to her mother. Although Vanessa had had little to do with Wesley, she had approved of his good manners and unblemished social status, so he would have had an ally there.

      And why was a policeman in cohoots with Wesley? So many questions, and she couldn't even hazard a guess at an answer.

      Libby couldn't understand why Vanessa's death hadn't been in the paper, or on the television news when she'd watched it with Conor last night. Then she realised it might not be reported in Queensland or in the national paper. She would have to ask Conor to buy a Sydney paper. Not having money of her own was frustrating. She hoped the man who'd stolen her handbag hadn't used her credit card, but at the moment that was too minor a concern to worry about.

      She longed to trust Conor, but her instincts told her that his motives for helping her might not be as innocent as he would like her to believe. And apart from his work, she knew nothing about him.

      'Do you have family here, Conor?' she asked.

      He

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