Guardian to the Heiress (3 page)

He darn near laughed, only the boyfriend took advantage of the distraction. He made a fist around the set of keys he quickly yanked out of the door, and then came at Damon in a bullocking rush, swearing and snarling.

Two things happened at once. Carol Emmett, blue eyes blazing, hurled the icepack like a missile at the boyfriend’s head. It missed, but only because Damon, using his height and speed advantage, had his assailant in a deftly imposed arm-lock. The violent boyfriend was on his knees, his left arm twisted high behind his back, his right arm anchored to the floor with Damon’s shoe pressed down hard on his hand.

“You’re dead, mate.” The boyfriend made the threat, straining unsuccessfully to free himself.

“Gosh, I won’t sleep at night.” Damon got a grip on the guy’s shirt collar before heaving him up into a chair which the enterprising Ms Emmett pushed into position.

“This is called instant bonding.” She met his eyes, her lovely mouth upturned in a smile.

“You’re shaping up as a pretty good offsider. I’m your new solicitor, by the way. I’m quite prepared to act for Tracey. This is the guy who assaulted her?”

A denial came on a burst of genuine outrage. “Come on! I just smacked her around a little. She likes it.”

Tracey didn’t say anything, but Carol Emmett exploded. “It’s a good thing I got here when I did.” She looked directly at Damon, her face filled with disgust. “God knows what might have happened. This isn’t the first time, is it, Tarik?” she said with searing contempt.

“You’re no pal of Tracey’s,” he yelled over his shoulder, clenching every muscle. “This is all your fault! Why don’t you mind your own business? I’ll get square. Don’t you worry about that.”

Angered by the threat, Damon exerted ever-increasing pressure.

“You’ll break my bloody arm, mate.” Tarik, the abuser, was full of self-pity.

“It is possible,” Damon said, the voice of dispassion, knowing the point to stop. “Call the police, Carol.” He looked to her, not absolutely sure she wasn’t planning to hit the boyfriend with the glass paperweight near to hand.

“No, no!” Tracey finally found her voice. The note in her voice sent a shiver down Damon’s spine. Hadn’t he heard that note before?

Carol rounded on her friend, looking dismayed. “What’s wrong with you, Trace? Can’t you see what this guy’s capable of?”

“Why don’t you sit down, Ms Emmett?” Damon advised, trying to steer the situation into calmer waters. “Let
me
ask the questions.”

She raised her brows. “Go right head,” she said dryly. “You’re my new solicitor, right? News to me. I don’t have a solicitor.”

The boyfriend let out a sneering laugh. “Caught out, eh?”

“Bradfield Douglass.” Damon found his business card, handing it to Carol Emmett. “Damon Hunter at your service. And this young lady’s, too. She obviously needs help.” Tracey had straightened up, so now Damon could see the full extent of her injuries. They extended to around her neck.

“Good God!” he breathed in dismay. “Do what I say, Carol. Call the police.”

“Right away.” She sped away to the landline, without glancing back at her friend, who didn’t speak again.

While Carol Emmett made the call, the boyfriend seized a last opportunity to get away. He got to his feet again, shaping up and looking dangerous. Only Damon was taller, stronger, in excellent shape. He worked out regularly at a boxing gym. He found the exercise both tough and relaxing after long hours at his desk. The owner, an ex-middleweight champion who could still box the ears off anyone, had become not only his sparring partner but friend.

For his pains, the boyfriend was yanked back in his chair, looking as though he’d been hit by a train.

Tracey witnessed the whole thing. “Thank God!” She breathed a heartfelt sigh, her voice hoarse from the injury to her throat. “I’ve been such a fool.”

“Don’t I know it!” said Carol, not about to make soothing noises. “But don’t worry, Trace. We’ll get you through this. I’ll throw a few things in a bag, and then I’m going to take you back to our place. You can’t stay here any more.” She looked across at Damon. “She can take out an AVO against him, right? He must be kept away from her.”

He nodded. “I’ll have it seen to.” They all turned their heads at the sound of the heavy boots on the stairs.

“That’ll be the police now,” Carol announced, relief mixed with satisfaction.

Tarik scowled. “I’m gonna complain you assaulted me.” He fixed Damon with a look of loathing.

Damon gave a brief laugh. “Go for it!”

“I’ve got witnesses.”

A hoot from Carol. “Shut up, Tarik. Tracey is the one with the witness to your attack.”

“You won’t stop me,” he threatened, trying to catch his girlfriend’s eye. He had found it easy enough to control her. He had the knack.

“We’ll see about that.” Damon’s tone was curt. He knew men of Tarik’s type couldn’t be counted on to obey the law. In fact, they were proud of flouting it.

“Police,” a tough male voice boomed from the front door.

There was a big smile on Carol Emmett’s face. “I have to say, that was quick!”

“What, did you offer a reward?” Tarik sneered.

“I was on the point of it,” she replied, going swiftly to the door.

* * *

In the end, after initial statements had been given, Damon followed Carol’s little silver car to her flat. Tracey was tucked into the back seat, nursing her injuries, although she had refused point blank to go to the hospital to have herself checked out.

“I’m okay!” It was almost as if she feared presenting herself at Accident and Emergency.

“How do you know?” Carol had shot back.

“I know.”
For once Tracey was adamant.

End of argument.

It was almost an hour later before Carol had settled her friend. After a shower, clean nightwear and pain killers, Tracey allowed herself to be tucked into Carol’s bed. Carol had assured her friend it would be no problem for her to sleep on the three-seater sofa in the living room.

“I’ve done it before.”

She hadn’t, although all manner of their friends had.

When she finally returned to the living room, she found Damon inspecting a group of photographs she’d put into a large frame and hung on a wall.

Damon had been expecting the usual student clutter, but what he had seen of the three-bedroom apartment—open-plan kitchen and living room—was a neat, very attractive dwelling place that had been furnished in a stylish way. He liked the three-piece lounge suite in genuine cream leather. There was a glass-topped circular table with four yellow cushioned rattan chairs arranged around it for dining. A wooden bookcase packed with a wide range of books, from romances to far more weighty tomes, stood in a corner. A large abstract painting hung over a Chinese altar table. A distance away to either side of the altar table stood a pair of traditional Chinese cabinets with horizontal open-work panels. Yellow curtains hung at the plate-glass doors that gave onto a small balcony where four yellow glazed pots planted with strelitzias were lined up against the balustrade.

“You’re taking an interest.” There was a faint taunt in her voice.

“Just admiring the decor. Someone has created a certain style. I love the Chinese pieces.” He bent to take a closer look at the cabinets. He thought the wood was
huanghuali,
the principal hardwood used by Chinese cabinet makers. He thought he was right dating them as late Qing.

“Me, too,” she said, offhandedly. “As for the decorating, someone had to make the effort. And find the money.”

“I’m sure your friends appreciate it.”

“Well...” She let a further comment slide. She knew her flatmates took advantage of her. She allowed it. “Like a cup of coffee? Glass of wine? Maybe a salad? You could join me. I haven’t had a thing to eat.”

It suddenly struck him he was hungry. “That’d be nice, Carol. May I call you Carol?”

“Caro,” she said. She made a point of being called Caro.

“Carol is such a beautiful name.”

“What do you want from me, Damon?” She moved behind the black granite kitchen counter. “Is there something you have to tell me? Something about the family?”

She didn’t look in the least perturbed, so he decided to give it to her straight. From what he’d seen of her, he thought she could handle it. “Your grandfather passed away late this afternoon, Carol—at Beaumont, his country estate.”

Her blue eyes, a wonderful contrast to her ruby-red hair, flew to his across the dividing space. “You’re absolutely sure about that?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“So it’s all over,” she said, turning to pull out plates.

“Not for you, Carol,” he pointed out with some gravity. “You’re a major beneficiary in his will.”

She swung back sharply, her porcelain cheeks flushed over her high cheekbones. “You’ve got to be joking!”

“In no way. I’m your appointed lawyer.”

She stared at him. He was no more than thirty, she estimated, though his manner had a self-assurance far beyond those years. He projected high intelligence and a quite staggering sexuality. He had everything going for him, the entire package: tall, dark and handsome; his classic features not bland but distinctive. He had a great head of hair, coal-black with a natural wave, brilliant dark eyes that took in everything at a glance.

She had the oddest feeling of recognition. Had she seen him before? She couldn’t have. She would have remembered; maybe a photograph in a glossy magazine, squiring some glamour girl? He looked just the kind of guy who attracted women in droves. The name, too, seemed familiar.
Damon Hunter. Damon Hunter.
It came to her in flash—Professor Deakin’s star pupil
.
The most outstanding student of law Professor Deakin had ever had the pleasure of teaching. That was pretty cool.

She appeared so engrossed in her speculations, Damon had to prompt her. “I hope I pass muster?” His resonant voice carried humour.

“You look like you make tons of money,” was her terse response. She had read about instant high-level arousal in novels. She hadn’t encountered it—until now. He was arousing feelings of which she had scarcely been aware. Not that he’d be interested in her. She was a twenty-year-old student, not some voluptuous beauty with a goodly share of experience in bed.

“Is that important?” he asked.

She had a sudden picture of herself as an instrument; a man like him could play a woman’s feelings at will. She shook her head so vigorously, her curls bounced. “No, but I thought Marcus Bradfield was my grandfather’s solicitor.”

“Was for many years,” he said. “But your grandfather appointed me in this case. I wanted to tell you about his death before anyone else did, or you simply saw it on TV. The media will have the news by now.”

“The great man is dead. Long live the king,” she said rather mournfully. “I shudder to think it might be Uncle Maurice?”

“We have to wait to see what transpires. Mind if I take off my jacket?”

“Go right ahead.” As she guessed he had a great body; all of his movements had an athlete’s grace. So, lawyer and action man. He had taken Tarik, who was strong, down without raising a sweat. She watched him place his tailored jacket over a chair before he loosened his silk tie. His every movement was imprinting itself on her brain. This was ridiculous. So ridiculous, she resented it.

She took the makings of a salad out of the crisper. “I don’t need a penny of his money. The way he treated me, the way the family treated me, was monstrous.”

He heard the deep hurt beneath the condemnation in her voice. “I agree, but I didn’t come here with apologies, Carol. The will speaks for itself. Your grandfather clearly wanted to make reparation.”

“My grandfather with the stone heart! Does the rest of the family know? My Uncle Maurice, Dallas and my creepy cousin Troy—I see him around. He’s even tried to chat me up. What a joke!”

“Has he really?” Damon found himself not liking that one bit. Her tone had implied Troy Chancellor’s approach hadn’t been cousinly.

“Alas, yes. I don’t like him. Let’s eat, before you tell me any more. I’m fast losing my appetite.”

“Can I help?”

She shook her head. “A salad is simplicity itself. Let me get you a glass of wine—red or white?”

“I’ll have red, if you’ve got it?”

“Mmm, I think so. Have a look in there.” She pointed to one of the Chinese cabinets.

He didn’t open the beaded doors immediately. He stood studying the piece of furniture that stood on rounded straight feet. “You know what you’ve got here?”

“I do indeed.” Her tone mocked. “I have a pair of pagoda-form side tables in my bedroom, but you’re not going in there.”

“You like Oriental furniture?” That was obvious. He knew Selwyn Chancellor had been a major collector.

“Who wouldn’t? If I get to know you well enough, I’ll show you my celadon jade carving.
Qianlong.
”

“Ah, another collector in the making.”

“I’m told I have the eye.”

“I’m sure you have. Like your grandfather. He was a renowned collector.” He opened one of the cabinet doors, studying the labels before selecting a bottle of Tasmanian pinot noir.

“I know.” Suddenly she was remembering the endless treasure trove her grandfather and his father before him had collected over the years. She had been just a little girl, yet her memories had stayed with her—the way her grandfather had held her hand as he had walked her down the long gallery filled with pictures in gilded frames, telling her the names of the artists and a little about them. She remembered his jade collection in the tall glass cabinets; all the Chinese porcelains; the tall “soldier” vases enamelled with birds and flowers; the blue and white porcelain; the
famille rose
and the
famille noir.
She remembered the wonderful
famille verte
fishbowls on their rosewood stands that had stood in the hallway. They’d always been filled with big pots of cymbidium orchids in full bloom. And this Damon Hunter asked her if she knew what she had?

He was saying something to her, but she could scarcely hear him. She was afraid she would burst into tears, she who never cried. How could a grandfather who had loved her so much turn heartless? She remembered how her mother had hated him and had inexplicably hated her gentle grandmother, who was so quiet and retiring and had always kept out of her mother’s way.