Читать книгу Claiming His Child - Margaret Way - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

HEADLIGHTS coming up the driveway woke her up, illuminating the bedroom. Suddenly alert to every sound, Suzannah turned her head quickly to glance at her bedside clock: 2:35. The right side of the bed was empty, the bed linen unruffled. Martin returning home. Whatever has happened to my life? she thought bleakly. I’ve tried, God knows I’ve tried, but our marriage was doomed from the start. The lies and the heartbreak. The wounds that ran deep and wouldn’t heal. She still cared for Martin even now but she had never loved him. All along Martin had known it.

The headlights didn’t swerve away to the garages as she expected. Now it occurred to her the car’s engine sounded different. It crunched around the broad loop of the driveway and stopped at the front porch.

She started up. The first hint of dread struck her. For quite a while now Martin had been drinking heavily. Had he been involved in an accident? Suzannah threw on her dark blue robe, thrust her feet into bedroom slippers then rushed through the open French door and out onto the upper balcony looking down.

A police car stood parked in the driveway, lights flashing.

Dear God! Suzannah whirled about almost overcome by the terrible trembling in her limbs. Was there anything more frightening than seeing a police car parked at one’s door in the early hours of the morning? It could only mean trouble. Perhaps tragedy. On her flight down the hallway she paused to shut Charley’s door lest her little daughter be disturbed. Her father, she knew, would be sleeping heavily. He had been taking medication since his mild stroke. She was almost at the bottom of the stain before the door chimes rang.

“Suzannah! Terribly sorry to disturb you.” It was Frank Harris, the local police chief, kneading his hat, his deputy Will Powell’s kindly rugged face totally without his usual smile, two paces behind him. “May we come in?”

Suzannah stood back wordlessly, her sense of foreboding deepening with every second. She watched them move into the entrance hall with its grand divided staircase soaring to the upper level, then turn to face her ready to show their hand.

“What’s wrong, Frank?” A voice came out, husky, strained. Not hers. “Is it Martin?” She could see it in his eyes.

“Mind she doesn’t faint,” Will Powell cried out warningly, starting forward.

Somehow they were in the drawing room, Frank gently supporting her. “I’m so sorry, Suzannah.” His voice was deep, kind, distressed. He eased her into a chair. “It was an accident. Martin ran off the River Road Piled up against a tree.”

“Oh God, no!” Her whole body sagged and her face fell into her hands. No, not Martin. Life taking another tragic twist.

“I’m so sorry,” Harris repeated, reminding himself there was worse news to come. Martin White hadn’t been alone. His passenger had been killed as well. Cindy Carlin from the town. He had known her instantly from her long blond hair. Hell, he knew them all. Knew them from when they were kids. Suzannah, Martin, Cindy, the migrant boy, Nicholas Konrads, he had all but run out of town. On Marcus Sheffield’s orders. Had to be seven years ago but he still felt terrible about it. Konrads had turned out to be a business genius. Suzannah had married the wrong man. Marcus Sheffield, arrogant, wealthy, the master manipulator had lost his substantial fortune and his once robust health. Now his son-in-law, picked by his own hand, Suzannah’s husband, little Charlotte’s father, was dead. For all its grandeur, Bellemont Farm, the town’s historic landmark, was a sad place.

Suzannah could barely remember the events leading up to the funeral. She put herself on autopilot and somehow she got through. She never heard all the rumours and gossip that swept like a bushfire through the town. She refused help, gently turned her well-meaning friends way, explained about Daddy to Charlotte, discussed matters briefly with her father and organised all arrangements herself. Martin was gone and it was all her fault For all that her world had fallen apart years ago.

The day of the funeral there were no tears from Heaven. Martin White was laid to rest in brilliant sunshine with family, friends, just about everyone he knew, attending his funeral at the Anglican Church where he and Suzannah had been married. It was a big funeral conducted with sombre dignity as the families closed ranks. People spoke quietly, no matter what their feelings, huddling together in groups. Cindy Carlin’s funeral the day before was just the opposite with the girl’s parents loud in their condemnation of Martin White and the Sheffield family who thought they still owned the town. How young Nick Konrads had been run out of town was rehashed. A great many long-standing scandals were aired.

This isn’t happening, Suzannah thought as she listened to the minister drone on in what seemed to her in her grief, a mindless fashion. Her father, tall, gaunt, a shadow of his former handsome powerful self, stood by her side. Across from them Martin’s family were ranged all golden haired, all distraught inwardly but steady as she was herself. Martin was to be buried in the White family plot in deference to his family’s wishes. Suzannah had always got on very well with Martin’s mother and sisters but they weren’t looking at her now. Because of her Martin was dead. It would never be said. Just buried in hearts. The prominent families of the district stuck together. They left it to people like Cindy Carlin’s family to air their dirty linen.

On the fringe of the crowd of mourners, dark glasses shielding his eyes, Nick Konrads stared at the young woman he had loved so passionately. Not even extreme tragedy could rob her of her heart-stopping beauty. Against the stark black of her wide-brimmed hat and her black suit, her skin glowed with the perfection of magnolias. He knew she had a child, a little girl, but her figure was as girlish and slender as ever, her long legs exquisite. Marcus Sheffield, her father, the man who had wrought such havoc and suffering in his life, stood protectively beside her, a striking-looking man still but his body had lost its fine shape and erect posture. Nick knew about the stroke. He knew about the failed business dealings, the downturn in Sheffield’s fortunes. His agents were busy acquiring Bellemont Farm now, the scene of his humiliation. He had never thought for one moment Martin White would die an early death. No matter their tremendous differences, the way Martin and Marcus Sheffield had conspired against him, he had never wanted that. He had taken a risk, really, coming here today. Despite the superficial changes—maturity, shorter hair, grooming, expensive clothes—many people would recognise him. But he couldn’t keep away. He had received news of Martin White’s death only last night, then with a wince of pain. It wasn’t right, someone not yet thirty-one, the same age as himself, should be snatched so cruelly from life. How wretched Suzannah must feel. He knew the marriage hadn’t been happy. He knew everything. The simple ceremony was almost over. He had to go. But nothing would interfere with his plans. It wasn’t his way to hide. He would come back to this town if only as an infrequent visitor. But he could come back to this town in triumph. The new owner of Bellemont Farm, Marcus Sheffield’s castle.

He would have got clean away, because he was walking swiftly to his parked Mercedes, except for Jock Craig, his old math teacher at the high school. Craig came running up behind him grasping his arm.

“Aren’t you Nick Konrads? It is you, Nick?” His voice held surprise and an unmistakable note of respect.

There was nothing else for it but to turn and shake hands. “Mr. Craig, how are you?”

“Fine, Nick, fine.” The man stared at him with keen, shrewd eyes. “Bad business, eh? A tragedy. It must have taken some courage coming back for the funeral? Although you and Martin were never exactly friends.”

“Suzannah was my friend, Mr. Craig,” he said, not conscious of the severity of his expression.

“Of course, of course. She’s in agony, poor girl. One can see that clearly behind that ingrained poise. Actually my boy, she’s coming this way. Sheffield, too. Perhaps you’d better go?” he suggested. “I only say that with the best of intentions.”

“I know.” Nick nodded briefly. “But Marcus Sheffield doesn’t bother me any more.”

“He did once.” Jock Craig spoke kindly. He had never believed for one moment young Konrads was a thief, though Sheffield swore he had stolen a safe full of jewellery, which eventually turned up in the toolshed behind the Konrads’ modest house.

“Sheffield has had to live with what he did.” Nick’s face showed nothing, neither anger nor hatred. I’m ready for him this time, he thought.

Jock Craig shuddered. He couldn’t help it but Marcus Sheffield was way past dealing with anyone let alone the striking self-assured young man before him. Craig had followed Nick Konrads’ career with great interest. Even as a boy he’d been staggeringly clever. Pity about the mother. Never recovered from her husband’s death, the scandal about her son had almost destroyed her. Marcus Sheffield had a lot to answer for, he thought. And he wasn’t the first to think it.

Nick stood quite still while she was approaching, outwardly very calm, but his tall lean frame emanated a daunting power. Inside his blood ran cold. He had loved Suzannah. Even after her betrayal and the great humiliation he had suffered, he had still yearned to see her. Proof of his obsessive attention to her lay just beneath the skin. Scratch it and draw blood. He had never recovered from her loss even when he was sleeping with other women. He had Adrienne in the car even now promising her a drive around the beautiful countryside where he had lived as a boy, with lunch afterwards at one of the fine restaurants along the coast. It was bad to use her as some kind of shield and he felt a stab of remorse. Adrienne was a beautiful woman, a divorcee a little older than he, sophisticated, charming, witty. He had enjoyed her steady company—he was far from being a promiscuous man—for almost a year now, keeping her friendship but not offering anything. It seemed to suit Adrienne. Both of them had been badly burned.

Now Suzannah approached, utterly unforgettable, her body language taut and brittle. She was moving swiftly, like a deer in a forest, so that her father couldn’t possibly keep pace with her. Dozens of pictures flicked rapidly through his mind. Suzannah at all ages. The enchanting little girl. The bewitching adolescent. Suzannah when she had lost her status as an innocent little virgin and wept in his arms. Natural, abundant tears of rapture and ex- haustion. An act indelible in his memory. An act that had wrecked his life.

Get away from here, he thought. Just get away. You have total control over your life. This fixation on Suzannah Sheffield. Suzannah White was just too bizarre. Too damaging. He wasn’t over it yet.

Suzannah, moving over the thick emerald grass without any thought to possible grass stains on her expensive black suede shoes, couldn’t have known that. The man before her in his black funeral clothes, a long impeccably tailored topcoat with his beautifully cut suit, looked remote and unfathomable. A man whose severity of expression precluded passion. Yet how splendid he looked, how compelling. The uncanny old telepathic thing wasn’t working. She couldn’t pick up a thing. Yet why had he come here like this?

“Nick.” She reached him, lifted her head and spoke in a clipped voice that was as cool as crystal.

“Suzannah.”

His response was a faint rasp on dark velvet. He still hadn’t lost all traces of his accent. Probably never would.

“May I offer you my sincere sympathy,” he said. “You must be greatly shocked and distressed.”

“Traumatised, I think.” Her violet-blue eyes looked away. “What are you doing here, Nick? You must know it’s only asking for trouble.”

If anything his striking features grew tougher. “You mean your father?” He gave her the faintest grim smile. A travesty of the beautiful one she remembered. “I really don’t think your father will present a problem ever again.” His eyes at that moment were full of knowledge.

“Did someone tell you we’ll be moving out of Bellemont?” she asked sharply.

“No,” he lied.

“Things have gone badly for us.”

“You’ve had offers for the property?” He looked down at her, concealing all his old fascination.

“I suppose there’s no harm in telling you.” She gave a weary shrug. “Negotiations are going on right now. Not as much as we hoped but we’re in no position to hold out.”

“How the mighty have fallen,” he said. “I don’t think the new owner or owners would pressure you to move out in a hurry. Given the circumstances.” He spoke with a kind of compassion.

“Who told you about...Martin?” Looking at his mouth as he spoke she could almost taste his lips. It caused her bewilderment and grief.

“I really don’t recall who mentioned it,” he said. “Bellemont Farm is an historic property, after all! Your father has changed greatly, hasn’t he? He really shouldn’t be leading a battle charge in his condition.”

“What condition?” Suzannah asked. Was it possible he knew all about their lives? He was a powerful man.

“I was just speaking to Jock Craig.” His eyebrows raised. He’d let her believe Jock had been the one to tell him about the stroke.

Suzannah glanced behind her, apprehension in her eyes. “It might be wise, Nick, if you left.”

He followed her gaze to where Marcus Sheffield was determinedly negotiating the grassy slope, righteous wrath all over his face. “Actually that had been my intention only for Craig. In any case it’s too late. Your father, stroke or not, is obviously determined on some kind of showdown.”

“He wouldn’t forget himself on a day like this,” Suzannah said, a little catch in her throat. “And in such a place.”

“I think, Suzannah, your father hasn’t changed much. It fills him with fury to see his beloved daughter within a foot of me.”

Once they had stood shoulder to shoulder, Marcus Sheffield had been a big man, now he was half a head shorter and stooped. “What the devil are you doing here, Konrads?” he snarled. “Haven’t you learnt to keep away from my daughter?”

Nick bowed slightly, his elegance quite natural. “As pleasant a greeting as I could ask for,” he answered, his tone sardonic. “I believe it was Suzannah who approached me. I had no intention of intruding upon your grief.”

“So why are you here?” Marcus Sheffield scowled, his breath shaking in his chest.

“I knew Martin for years. We grew up together.”

“He was light years away from you.” Marcus Sheffield drew his steel-grey brows together.

“I could never understand why you couldn’t see that,” Nick retorted. “I won’t add to your distress, Mr. Sheffield. Fear of another stroke must be a worry.” He turned to Suzannah with terrible power and grace. “Once again my sympathies, Suzannah. It was never in any of our minds Martin should die so young.” With that he walked away, his long legs easily covering the distance to where a big late-model Mercedes was parked.

“Why the hell should he blow back into our lives?” Marcus Sheffield furiously demanded of his daughter. “Did you see him! Arrogance of the devil. The scorn in those black eyes.”

“Don’t upset yourself, Father,” Suzannah murmured, looking pale and sad. She took his arm.

“The hide of him!” her father fumed, high colour mottling his cheeks. This was his first taste of Nicholas Konrads’ power, and the terrible loss of his own.

“We did grow up together, Father,” Suzannah said in a quiet nostalgic voice. “Nick always did have a compassionate heart. I believe he’s truly sorry about Martin.”

“Bah, they were never friends,” Marcus Sheffield scoffed.

“That all had to do with me,” she said, assuming the blame and the guilt. “Then you played your part.” It was the first time she had ventured to say it.

“Everything I did was to protect you,” Marcus Sheffield pronounced stoutly.

Suzannah couldn’t answer, a cascade of tears fell down her heart choking her. Her father was speaking the truth as he saw it, a truth that had blown her life apart. Because of her father, his powerful influence and her unquestioning belief in his integrity, she had become more deeply entwined with Martin, then a short time after the furore of Nick’s disgrace and departure had abated, married him in the same church from whence he had been buried.

Demons would pursue her all her life. Memories. The pain and the bitter betrayal in Nick’s brilliant eyes. The agony in his mother’s. The triumph in Martin’s and her father’s. They had won. In their way they had kept her a prisoner while Nick was shipped off with his long-suffering mother.

Suzannah wondered how she could ever have believed, even for one wavering moment, that Nick was a thief. Nick the hero of her girlhood. Wonderful, sweet, kind with the magic and power of a white knight. How had she ever allowed her father and Frank Harris to convince her he had stolen anything from the safe? So he knew the combination? He had been with her when she put her good pearls away. Nick noticed everything. Money had been very tight in the Konrads’ household, never more than after Nick’s father had died. Mrs. Konrads, not a strong woman after experiences she would never talk about, had had to work too hard, taking domestic jobs in the homes of the wealthy to help out. Nick had adored his mother. He could scarcely contain his anxieties about her, longing for the day when he could support her properly. The day that never came.

Suzannah’s own anguish was permanent and deep. People were following. There was to be the ritual gathering at the house. Nearing the car, an old but beautifully maintained navy Rolls, they saw Nick drive away. In the passenger seat, looking out with intense interest was a very good-looking woman with short bright chestnut hair, fine regular features, designer sunglasses perched on her nose. Just a few seconds, yet Suzannah caught the flare of her nostrils, the intensity of the stare that was directed solely at her.

Nick’s wife? She had read about him in the newspapers from time to time, seen pictures of him and various glamorous women companions in society magazines, but she had never read a word about his getting married. Not that that meant anything. Nick always had been a very private person.

Who could not fall in love with him?

Sadness seeped into her steadily. Her early womanhood had been swept away. She had bowed to intense pressure. She had bowed to a concerted barrage of lies. She had lost Nick and deserved to. She had lost Martin who had asked for nothing but the love she couldn’t give him. Charlotte was the only one to call her back to Bellemont. Her adorable dark-haired little daughter. So much like her. Except for the eyes.

Inside the Mercedes, Adrienne made a big effort to keep an uncontrollable spurt of jealousy out of her voice. “Who are these people, Nick? Did you know them well?” She took off her sunglasses, and turned her spectacular amber eyes in his direction. Things weren’t going half as well as she had hoped with Nick Konrads. They always had a good time. He appeared to enjoy her company—she knew there wasn’t anyone else—but in the end their relationship wasn’t flowering. She was desperately in love with him. Had been in love with him from the moment she laid eyes on him for that matter. He was simply extraordinary, but so complex even now she didn’t feel she knew the least thing about him. She did know however he wasn’t in love with her. She wasn’t such a fool she didn’t realise that. But they communicated very well on the sexual and social level. She and a woman partner ran their own successful public relations firm. Nick admired hardworking successful people. God knows he was the man of the moment. Businessman of the Year.

Who was that young woman he was speaking to? Although they stood a couple of feet apart, it seemed to Adrienne’s tormented eyes their bodies were almost straining towards each other. Surely an illusion? The shimmering, dancing light of the sun.

Nick took his time answering, aware of Adrienne’s powerful curiosity, the jealousy that shone in her eyes. “We all knew one another when we were growing up. Martin White, it was his funeral, was my age. His widow, Suzannah, was a friend of mine.”

“Suzannah? The woman you were talking to?” She had always felt there was someone in the background. Some shadowy figure.

“Suzannah Sheffield, that was.”

She took a moment to digest this. “Sheffield? Isn’t there a historic homestead around here someplace? Used to run sheep, then turned into a horse breeding establishment when wool took a dive? The name of the place is on the tip of my tongue.” She resisted the impulse to crease her forehead.

“Bellemont Farm,” he supplied quietly.

“Yes, of course.” Adrienne suddenly hated the slender young woman in her widow’s weeds. “Didn’t I see somewhere it’s on the market? I take all the usual magazines.”

“I believe it is,” he answered casually, curiously unwilling to take her into his confidence. “We can skirt the property if you like. Impossible to see the house from any of the roads. It’s a long drive from the front gate and the house is nestled in a grove of jacaranda trees. It’s a glorious sight when the great trees are in flower.”

“Sounds like you knew the place well?” Adrienne flashed a glance at his handsome profile.

“Every inch of it. Suzannah used to take me over it when her father was away on his polo weekends.”

Something in his voice gave off shivery little sparks.

“That sounds like you weren’t allowed there when he was?”

“You’re so right.” His tone held the weight of dislike. “Marcus Sheffield was and remains the biggest snob in the world.”

“And Mrs. Sheffield?” Nick could twist any woman around his little finger.

“She ran off when Suzannah was barely four,” he told her. “One of Sheffield’s opponents on the polo field, would you believe? They went to live in South America. There was no question of her getting custody of Suzannah. Marcus Sheffield was establishment. A very powerful and monied figure. He adored Suzannah. His only child. He was very bitter about his wife. Her name was never permitted to be mentioned.”

“That must have been terribly hard on your Suzannah,” she said a little harshly.

He did glance at her then. A penetrating look. “Her father never gave her time to miss her mother too much. He doted on her. Couldn’t bear her out of his sight. For that matter Suzannah was devoted to him. She was too young to see he ruled her life.”

Adrienne tried to give a little understanding laugh; she did not succeed. Suddenly she was afraid she couldn’t hold onto Nick Konrads much longer. She had felt that way, she now realised, as soon as she laid eyes on this Suzannah. Nick was better than anyone she knew at hiding his true feelings, but she had seen what she had seen.

Garry Hesson, his solicitor, rang him. “All sewn up, Nick,” he said, sounding pleased with himself. “They’re allowed to stay on six months or until they relocate, according to your instructions. Marvellous place. Allow me to congratulate you. And beg for a visit.”

“Make it a weekend,” Nick responded, leaning back in his swivel chair. “Bring Jenny and the kids.”

“They’d love that,” the solicitor whooped. “Won’t hold you up, Nick. I know you’re doing great things.”

Am I? In some ways, he thought, but that doesn’t absolve me. How many times over the years had he envisioned bringing Marcus Sheffield to his knees? Now it was done. He owned Bellemont Farm lock, stock, and barrel. He thought it would mean a lot, now suddenly it didn’t mean much at all. He couldn’t get Martin’s violent death out of his mind and the circumstances that had led to his having an affair with young Cindy Carlin from the town. He could just barely remember Cindy. Blond, pretty, a school drop-out, he thought. Poor little Cindy. What a terrible end. He was shocked. Martin must have been dreadfully unhappy. He had never looked at anyone but Suzannah. Challenged any of his friends who tried to get near her. Martin had sold his soul to the devil to get Suzannah, hiding the jewellery from Marcus Sheffield’s safe in the Konrads’ old toolshed. He must have hidden there for quite a while before he was able to gain his stealthy access. Martin, his face a white mask, accusing him of bragging about some “coup” he had pulled off. Suzannah on her feet, violet eyes flashing with the light of battle for him. The light had gone out later when her father accused him quietly and contemptuously of grossly abusing their trust.

“I wouldn’t care about you, young man,” Marcus Sheffield had said with icy disgust. “You could go to jail for my money. It’s the place, after all, where thieves go. It’s your mother I pity. Hasn’t she had enough to endure?”

He remembered defending himself vigorously, offering arguments to Frank Harris the police chief, who just stood there stiffly, almost miserably, as if he were in Sheffield’s employ. Finally it became starkly apparent his defence was falling on deaf ears. He was guilty. Even Suzannah never challenged her father again. She just gave up. As he did. He had stolen because he and his mother were in a precarious financial position. The ultimatum was put to him bluntly. For his mother’s sake, since every piece of jewellery had been recovered, he would leave town immediately. If he was prepared to do that, no further action would be taken.

He knew all about justice even then. He had his parents’ experiences as an example. Justice was in the hands of the powerful. Marcus Sheffield was the wealthiest and most influential man in the town. He owned many businesses, whole parcels of real estate. Hundreds of people one way or the other relied on him for an income. Suzannah had tried to speak to him the day that he left, begged him to meet her but he had hung up on her, whitefaced and furious. In the moment of crisis the girl that he loved, that he ached with passion for, had trusted her father above him. She had actually believed he was a common thief. For weeks after she had tried to speak to his mother, weeping with frustration when his mother refused to tell her where he had gone, where he was staying. Although his mother had come to love Suzannah as a daughter, a deep well of fear and anxiety had stopped her from ever allowing Suzannah to get close to her son again. It wasn’t long after that he landed his job with Ecos Solutions and his mother was able to come to him. And Suzannah, who had blazed with love for him, had married Martin White. Absurd to think of it now but he had always rated Martin’s chances as next to nil. So his parents were close friends of Marcus Sheffield’s? So Martin had been in love with Suzannah for most of his life? Suzannah had promised to be “his girl for all time”. And poor fool that he was he had believed her.