Andrew parked the truck off the road, in the grove of eucalyptus near the bend in the road. In a hamper in the back of the truck, he’d brought some food and drink he’d bought in Pepper Flats. He thought this particular occasion might demand an icebreaker.
Marie arrived on her bike, the sun shining on her golden hair. She wore her seersucker shorts again and one of her white blouses. She seemed so fresh, so natural, that she almost glowed. He couldn’t imagine her looking any better.
He got out of the truck. “Hi,” he said.
She dismounted her bike. “Hello.” She gazed at the truck in surprise. “Whose is that?”
Andrew felt a tension radiating from her, a distrust. “The cook let me borrow it. I thought—well, it might throw people off our trail. I usually drive Tyler’s Jeep.”
She looked at him with greater suspicion. “People are on our trail?”
“Not that I know of. But you’re not comfortable about us being seen together.”
“But we’re right here in plain sight,” she said. “What are we supposed to do? Crawl under the truck and chat?”
Lord, she was a spunky little thing. And she said what she thought. Was that what heightened his attraction to her? Because he was attracted, damnably so.
She looked about. The grove was one of many dotting the hillside. He said, “I was out riding one day. I found an odd place down the hill. I asked Tyler about it. Come see for yourself. I brought some stuff just for a sort of—uh—snack.”
He tucked the cooler under his left arm and took up the hamper with his left hand.
She hoisted her backpack more firmly into place. “I brought something, too. I figure it’s my place in life.”
He almost winced. Did she think that he looked down on her?
But all he said was, “Chain up your bike and come with me.”
She chained her bike to a tree behind some large shrubs, hiding it almost completely. He said, “Down this way. Be careful. There’s no path, and it’s steep in spots.”
He fought back the desire to offer her his hand. He set off in front of her. The hillside dropped off, growing steeper once past the grove. He wondered if he, with his long legs, was walking too fast for her. But she’d kept pace perfectly and didn’t even seem out of breath.
He took a hard turn right, following a ridge of limestone, like a rocky spine thrusting through the crust of the earth. Then there was an almost stairlike set of limestone slabs, leading down precipitously beneath the spine. He negotiated the stones easily, but turned to help her. She had beautiful legs, and strong, but they weren’t long enough to make such long steps.
She seemed reluctant to take his hand, but she did, and when he touched hers, it was like touching a painless flame that jolted down his arm and flooded his body. He noticed the smooth muscles in her legs, the sureness of her movements. And then he said, “Here we are. A cave. Sort of.”
He saw her look up suddenly and almost smile. Above, the limestone formed an overhang that arched over an opening about fifteen feet across and ten feet deep. The floor was almost flat. There was a black spot where long-ago fires had been repeatedly built. In the farthest back corner sat an ancient blue enameled teakettle.
He set down the hamper and cooler. “A private dining room,” he said, straightening up and gesturing around them. “Does it pass muster?”
“Indeed,” she said. “What is this? Why the teakettle?”
“A hermit lived here once,” Andrew answered. “The kettle was his.”
“A hermit?” she asked, this time really smiling. And Lord, what a smile.
“Yes. Tyler told me. Said he had a long scraggly beard and hair. He’d go from house to house selling herbs and game. Otherwise he left people alone, and they left him alone. He was an old Scotsman. He’d lived here since he was a young Scotsman. They say his spirit still keeps guard here.”
She blinked. “He doesn’t want people to come here?”
He couldn’t believe how green her eyes were, how sparkling and alert. “No,” he said softly. “They say he’s a kindly spirit. That he watches over the place.”
He opened the hamper and took out a checkered oilcloth and laid it on the ground. “That’s why nobody’s ever taken the teakettle. There are some metal cups hidden up in the chinks, but their bottoms are rusted out. Still no one takes anything. Out of respect.”
He lowered himself to the oilcloth. “Sit,” he invited. She took off her backpack and sat, too, placing it between them.
“So why was he a hermit?” she asked.
“Legend says some girl broke his heart, so he left the world of people and became a solitary. It makes a nice story. I don’t know if it’s true.”
She looked skeptical. He said, “Don’t you believe in broken hearts?”
Her expression went wary. “I’m more concerned about unhealthy ones, like Louisa’s.”
Touché, he thought. “Right,” he said. “Have you seen her today?”
“I took her breakfast. She already hates the hospital. And she’s furious about being arrested.”
Marie actually looked worried about the old woman. She caught his gaze and held it. “You said you had information. You said maybe you could help her. Tell me, please.”
“Fine,” he said. “You want a glass of tea? Fruit? Cheese? Crackers? I’ve got wine, too, if you wa—”
“I don’t drink at this hour,” she said, rather sharply. “I’ll take tea. I brought lemonade and some cheese Danishes. You want any?”
“Sure,” he said, sounding as laid-back as he could. “Some of both.” Why had he offered her wine at this time of day? What had he been thinking, for God’s sake?
He poured her tea, she poured him lemonade. They exchanged glasses, and she handed him a Danish pastry on a paper napkin. “Now,” she said, “what do you have to tell me?”
That you’re lovely and brave and you fascinate me, he thought. He said, “Tyler pointed out that the fire victimized mainly three people, Sam Whittleson, Tyler himself, and me. Me as a candidate. By casting suspicion on Tyler—guilt by association. But he points out there’s a fourth victim—Louisa.”
She regarded him coolly. “That’s obvious. She’s been arrested, had a heart attack and they’re putting a guard at her door.”
“All right,” he told her. “When I want to be paranoid, I think some syndicate, say one that has to do with racing, would strike out against Tyler, and consequently me. Somebody, say, who wants Jacko Bullock to win.”
She cocked a dubious eyebrow. She took a sip of tea and waited. Hadn’t Reynard said almost the same thing?
“It’s a nice conspiracy theory,” he said. “But why kill Sam? And why frame Louisa? Because Tyler and I both think she’s been framed. And she’s a good friend of Jacko. One of his strongest supporters. Why would he turn on her? If he’s behind all this, why would he let his people implicate her?”
She frowned, reached into the open hamper and took an apple. “I don’t know. Why?”
She bit the apple and waited again.
“Imagine a map of this region,” Andrew said. “Can you see it in your mind?”
“I think so,” she said.
“Sam Whittleson’s land abuts Louisa’s. They fought about rights to the lake, which touched both their properties. Whose property is kitty-corner from Louisa’s?”
“Tyler’s,” she said without hesitation. “What are you getting at?”
“Add the three together and you get thousands of acres of the best Thoroughbred territory in the country. What do you think will happen to Sam’s place?”
She made an uncertain gesture. “Well, Daniel, Sam’s son, will inherit it, won’t he?”
“The place is falling down. Sam’s neglected it, and his horses didn’t do well last season.”
“There’s rumor he was badly in debt. You think Daniel can turn that around on a trainer’s salary?”
“I don’t know. It depends if Sam left Daniel any money.”
“And if the rumors are true? He had no money?”
“I suppose Daniel would have to sell it,” she said. She took another bite of apple, and he wished it didn’t make him think of Eden. It was too easy to imagine her as Eve.
“Tyler swears he’s going to rebuild Lochlain Racing. But he’s short on barns, and he’s got only one horse he can race. If he can’t make it, what do you think will happen?”
She looked thoughtful. “I suppose he’d have to sell, too.”
“Now here’s a big question for you,” Andrew said. “What if Louisa gets charged, convicted and sent to prison?”
Marie’s face went taut. “She’d never survive it.”
“She might not even survive this heart attack,” said Andrew. “And if she dies, what becomes of Fairchild Acres?”
Suddenly her expression changed, and she seemed shaken by the question. “I—I really don’t know.”
“Does somebody inherit it? Like her great-niece and -nephew? Who’s in her will? I don’t know. But she was estranged from the niece and nephew. Now she might write them into it, but what would they do with it? They’re not really horse people.”
Marie shook her head, as if truly confused. “I don’t know. I mean, they do have careers of their own. They’re not into racing. Not the way people around here are.”
“So they might sell it?” Andrew asked.
“I—I suppose they might.” She pushed her hand through her bangs as if in agitation.
Andrew leaned nearer. “So it’s possible that in one short period, three prime properties could go up for sale. And if someone could afford to buy them all, he’d be king of Hunter Valley. And Hunter Valley is second only to Kentucky in horse racing importance.”
She shook her head. “But how does that help Louisa? I mean really help her?”
“Ask D’Angelo,” he suggested. “Because looking at it that way, Louisa can be cast as another victim. Not the perpetrator, but a victim. Dylan Hastings has a very thin case against her, Marie. Hammer it hard enough, I think it’ll shatter into bits.”
She stared off into the distance, as if torn by what he said. He made the mistake of biting into the Danish. It was so delicious that it made him dizzy. My God, he thought. It’s a love potion. He took another bite and watched her. She seemed caught up in a private conflict.
At last she said. “It’s not enough to clear her. It’s a theory.”
“It’s one that makes sense,” he told her. “Do you know what organized crime is like? How complex it is? It’s like a great spiderweb. No. It’s more like an unimaginably huge maze of interlocking spiderwebs, with strands connecting in all sorts of directions.”
“Maybe it is,” she said warily. “So who’s the spider?”
“That’s the point,” he said earnestly. “There isn’t just one spider. It’s like a network of spider kings. Some big, some little. There’s probably no great, all-powerful one. The webs are constantly shifting and changing all around us. But they’re there.”
“Excuse me,” she said, her expression dubious. “But this is starting to sound like science fiction. The invisible spider kings of Australia?”
He laid his hand on her bare arm. It made his fingers tingle, but he forced himself to concentrate on his message.
“The invisible spider kings of the world,” he corrected. “Do you know how many kinds of syndicates, cartels, narcotics rings, smuggling rings, mobs, money launderers and crime families exist? Organized crime comes from everywhere, Europe, Asia, the Americas. And Australia.” He gave her a penetrating look. “Remember what I told you about horse racing and gambling?”
He felt her muscles stiffen under his touch. “Where there’s gambling, there’s crime.”
“Now,” he said, bringing his face nearer to hers, “for years there’ve been rumors that Jacko Bullock has ties to organized crime.”
“Rumors again,” she said, her expression tense. “Is Jacko supposed to be a big spider? Or a little spider?”
“Nobody seems to know,” he said, gripping her arm more firmly. “Maybe he’s a very small spider who’s well connected. If he’s president of the ITRF, he’s in a position to help many, many spiders. Who would help him in return.”
“All right,” she said, tilting her jaw. “Help him what?”
“First, help him get what he wants. First, the presidency. That’s obvious—if he has those connections. Right?”
“I suppose. But, Andrew, this is still just speculation.”
“It may be. I don’t know how much the government knows or how hard it’s looking. But what if another thing he wants is the Hunter Valley? The combination would make him one of the most powerful men in the racing world.”
For the first time she looked almost as if she might believe him. “And he could make things happen to people here?”
“Perhaps. Or his friends could. Look at it again, Marie. Sam’s gone. Louisa’s in serious trouble, and Tyler’s hanging on by the skin of his teeth. Hunter Valley could be changing hands.”
“And what about you?” she asked. “As president?”
He smiled a humorless smile. “I could lose. Fairly or unfairly. But I’ve got to try to win.”
“If you believe in all these webs and all these spiders—some are poisonous, I take it?”
He nodded. “Deadly.”
“Aren’t you afraid?” she challenged.
“Yes,” he admitted. “And for my family. Look at what’s happened to Tyler.”
He saw fear dull her eyes, as if a cloud passed over them. “What if they—hurt you?”
“That’s not what worries me most,” he said.
She searched his face. “Then what does?”
“You,” he said. “Losing you.”
He heard the sharp intake of her breath. “I don’t understand.”
“If any of this is right—and I think it may be—I don’t want you drawn into it. That’s why I had to see you face-to-face. To tell you that. You may be right, for now. About keeping our distance. But I don’t want to lose you.”
Her mouth trembled and she looked at him in bewilderment. “Why? Why say such a thing?”
“Because I feel that I need you. I need something in…your spirit. Remember how in Scone you told me to loosen up when I spoke. You said, ‘Maybe you should pretend you’re talking to just one person.’”
She nodded, smiling faintly at the memory.
“It works,” he said. “I’m doing much better. And the one person I pretend I’m talking to is you.”
Her smiled turned to disbelief. “Me? But why?”
“Like I said. Your spirit. Your character. Your courage.”
He moved his glass aside, as well as the love-spell Danish. He took her glass and placed it beside his own. He drew her to him and kissed her. He kissed her the way he’d never kissed any other woman.
She’d known this was going to happen. They both had known. It had shivered in the air like electricity building itself into a blaze of lightning. She could have stopped it from happening. But she hadn’t wanted to stop it.
For the first time in her life, she felt almost helpless with desire, filled with the need to have his mouth upon hers, to be close to his body, as close as possible. This was the forbidden delight that she’d never wanted to experience, never wanted to admit was real.
His mouth moved expertly against hers. Too expertly? His hands cradled her face firmly yet tenderly. But was that touch too practiced? Part of her wanted to analyze what he was doing and how he was doing it and why.
Another, newly discovered part of her wanted not to think at all, only to feel and desire and to desire more still. His body was strong and hard against hers. He smelled of spicy aftershave.
His lips were warm, strong and supple. They opened slightly, inviting her to follow suit. She did. He tasted like lemonade and richness.
His hands moved from her face to her shoulders, drawing her nearer, so that her breasts grazed the solidity of his chest. Her hands rose shyly and rested on his shoulders, and she felt the subtle movement of his muscles beneath her fingertips.
His arms folded around her, pulling her so close that her upper body pressed against his, and his kiss grew deeper, and she raised her face and strained to make it deeper still.
The tip of his tongue traced her upper lip, then her lower, then thrust gently into her mouth, and she found hers ready to greet him. She felt herself wanting to open like a flower to him, open slowly but completely.
When his hand settled over one tingling breast, it felt wonderful, but too wonderful.
Alas, how easily things go wrong!
A sigh too much, or a kiss too long…
She jolted back to reality, struggling to find her usual self-control. She tried to jerk away from him, although his arms still held her fast.
“No,” she said breathlessly. “No. This is going no farther. It shouldn’t have gone this far.”
She put her hands against his chest and pushed until he reluctantly let her go. She didn’t want to meet his eyes.
But he challenged her. “Look at me. Marie? Come on. Look at me.”
Around them, the dry leaves rattled like a whisper of percussion, a light but irresistible rhythm. Defiantly she lifted her head and met his dark gaze. A brown-black lock of hair had fallen over his forehead, and his expression was intense.
He caressed her face. “You’re complicated.”
“I don’t know what you want from me,” she said. “And I can’t let myself get tangled up in something like this. I—I don’t want to be like my mother. She had an illegitimate baby—me—and she was born to an unwed mother herself. I promised myself long ago I’d never join that club. Women who—who—”
He felt a wrenching, gut-deep sympathy for her. “I never asked you for that. For sex. I moved too fast. I’m sorry. But I’ll prove I mean what I say about you.”
Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them back down and squared her jaw. Her back was rigid with tension. “How?”
“I’ll do everything in my power to clear Louisa.”
She shook her head, as if he spoke only nonsense. “All you’ve got is a theory, and a fancy comparison about spiders. But with no proof to back it up.”
He edged nearer again. “You need proof?” he said in a low voice. “I’ll get it. Tyler and Dan Whittleson hired a private detective. I’m not from here, so maybe that’s why I wasn’t asked to chip in. But I can hire a detective myself. I can hire the best.”
She turned to face him. “Why? To buy Louisa’s favor for you in the election?”
“No. To help her. Because, like I said, I saw my own family go through the same thing. But not just for her. For you.”
“But why?” she asked again. She tossed her head so that her golden bangs stirred and glinted in the dappled light. “I don’t understand.”
“Because you’re not like most of the women I meet. You’re not like any of them. And I think I figured it out. You need to be courted. The old-fashioned way. I don’t mean roses and chocolates, I mean getting to know each other.
“I want to know you better. Much better. And I’m going to have to prove I care for you. So—though I’d like to see you at least once in a while—we’ll keep this platonic for a while. Because I think you’re a woman worth waiting for. So, will you let me get to know you?”
She went pale and wide-eyed. “And—and for that you’ll try to save Louisa.”
“For that,” he nodded. “And for the principle at stake. My father raised me to stand up for principles.”
She seemed to diminish a little, like a flower starting to fold in on itself. “I’m afraid,” she said. “Afraid of getting tangled up in something like this with you.”
He gave her a perplexed smile. “Something like this is only human. I was drawn to you the first time I saw you in Darwin. And then you turned up here, and I felt it again. And you felt something, too. Can you deny it?”
“No,” she whispered. “No.”
He put his hands on either side of her face and kissed her again until his groin tightened and his forehead seemed to be spinning out of place.
She drew back more quickly this time. “I should get back to Fairchild Acres.”
“Keeping my distance from you is going to be hard. Ungodly hard.”
Unable to think of a reply, she began to load her backpack up again. “Keep the Danishes,” she murmured self-consciously. “Feed them to the birds or something.”
Quickly, she rose, and he, too, stood. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes.
“Thank you,” she said.
Then she spun away and fled, fleet as a little deer, leaving him alone in the Hermit’s Cave, clenching and unclenching his fists. He put his hand to his chest and fingered the painted charm inside his shirt.
At The Secret Heiress that evening, Reynard bought Marie supper. “You spend your life cooking for other people. Let somebody else cook for you for a change. Mrs. Tidwell’s no Colette, but she makes decent tucker. Try the lamb chops.”
Marie smiled her gratitude, but then looked at him quizzically. “You never told me where you were last night. I tried to call you.”
“I was at the Crook Scale,” he said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the other pub. “Met an old mate who just moved up this way. Got into a card game, and then went partying, I guess you’d say. All work and no play, that sort of thing, y’know.”
She didn’t know, and Reynard was being maddeningly vague. She’d come to realize that he was often vague about his comings and goings. She was about to pry a little more, but instead, he became the questioner.
“Why’d you call?” he asked, his eyes innocent. “Something bothering you?”
“Well, there’s lots to be bothered about. Louisa’s in the hospital, and Dylan Hastings is hovering over her like a vulture. She’s in a rotten mood, which won’t help her recovery.”
“You’ve got a point. Plenty to be bothered about.” But then he brightened. “And here comes Mrs. Tidwell. Mrs. Tidwell, I swear that blue is your color. Indeed, it is.”
Mrs. Tidwell smiled girlishly. “Reynard, you’re a total rascal.”
He smiled up at her. “That I am, love. That I am.”
The woman took their orders and left. She returned in a moment and brought their drinks. Reynard quaffed deeply.
He wiped his mouth and then stared affectionately into Marie’s eyes. “You saw Andrew today again?”
“What?” She recoiled in surprise.
“He borrowed the cook’s truck,” Reynard said, as if he read her mind. “I didn’t ask why, but I wondered. And soon I knew.”
She was speechless and her face heated with a blush.
“I was driving to pick up some lumber,” he said casually. “Just happened to take that road that bends where the old girl’s property meets the late Sam’s. Saw that truck parked in the grove. And way back, where I could hardly see it, your bike.”
She tried to look righteous. “I met him because he said maybe he could help Louisa.”
“For this you had to disappear into the woods?”
“I didn’t want to be seen with him,” she retorted. “D’Angelo doesn’t want any of us talking with the Prestons. He’s right, and I don’t intend to—make a practice of it.”
Reynard leaned across the table. “You’d be better off intending never to do it again. But my curiosity is tweaked. Did he really know any way to help the old girl?”
Marie, conflicted, wasn’t sure if she should answer. But she said, “Nothing concrete.
“Just a theory that Tyler’s fire might be more than just a simple arson. That it might be part of a bigger plot. One involving some kind of land grab in Hunter Valley.”
“Hmm. Interesting,” was all Reynard said. He changed the subject. “I hear that the old girl’s great-niece and -nephew are staying on. Odd that they should grow fond of her so fast.”
“Rennie, don’t be cynical. Megan seems truly concerned about Louisa. Patrick, I’m not so sure. But she’s one of their last links to their mother.”
“And,” he added smoothly, “she’s one of your last links to your mother. When the old girl’s better, you’ll need to make your move. So those two don’t muscle you out of your rights.”
“I don’t know that I have any rights,” Marie objected.
He drew on his cigarette and exhaled. Through the shifting smoke, he regarded her with his lazy-lidded gaze. “Don’t worry, love,” he murmured. “You may soon. Trust your Uncle Rennie.”