Читать книгу Innocent Mistress - Margaret Way - Страница 8

HE DIDN’T mean to deal with the issue today. He wanted time to think about the whole situation at least overnight.

He went home. Jude focused his gaze on the high beach road that was the quickest route to his house at Spirit Cove some three miles from the Rogan mansion. The narrow road, divided by a white line down the middle, clung on one side to the glorious blue ocean; on the other, beyond an open space of lush tropical vegetation were the plantations; sugar cane, banana, mango, pineapple, avocado, new species of tropical fruits some of which he’d never even tasted.

The town had grown, extending much further south along the coast road and up the low indigo hills of the hinterland. The hills, tropical rain forests, were full of beautiful birds, gorgeous parrots, and plants. There were tree dwelling orchids, the dendrobium, the state flower of Queensland, spider orchids, angel orchids, terrestrial orchids, the extraordinary bromeliads with their vividly coloured centre leaves. He knew all those hills. He had explored them as a boy.

The golden disc of the sun was hot and brilliant. There was a bluish haze over the water. Blue water all around, glittering as if a billion metallic sequins had been cast on the rolling surface. Blue sky above. This was the tropics. Ineffable gold and blue.

He’d lowered the passenger window so the sea breeze could waft in. It bore the fragrance of sea water and salt mingled with the tropical fruits that grew nearby and the delicious scent of flowers. The lovely frangipani that grew everywhere in profusion, the common cream-yellow-centred flowers and nowadays almost as many pink and red. There were frangipanis twenty feet high in his home garden and the scent when they were in flower was so exquisitely heady as to be near unbearable. The frangipani were as ubiquitous as the indestructible oleanders of many colours that massed in great numbers around the cove where he was heading.

As he drove he could see draped over every fence and outbuilding a spectacular array of flowering vines; golden trumpets blazing away, the flashy Morning Glory, jasmines in flower all year round, allamandas and black-eyed Susans, the flame vines and the giant solandras. One had to be very careful planting vines in the tropics. They had a habit of running rampant, in no time at all turning into impenetrable jungle.

At least the lush beauty all around him was calming his thoughts. They’d been heading off in all directions, mostly centred on the mystery woman, Cate Costello. She’d fooled him with her clear direct gaze.

He couldn’t bear to think of her as Lester Rogan’s mistress. For that matter he couldn’t bear to think of any man’s hands on her which didn’t exactly make sense. He didn’t even know her. Was it possible there was a biological tie to Rogan? There was no evidence of it in her appearance. She bore no physical resemblance whatsoever to him—no single feature, eyes, mouth, nose, chin let alone the hair colour. Could she possibly be Rogan’s long-lost illegitimate daughter? She’d told him she didn’t know the family. She’d lied. She definitely knew Lester Rogan. That was a bad start.

He remembered those beautiful eyes, their cool green colour emphasized by her delicate dark brows and thick eyelashes, startling given the copper hair. Maybe that cascade of glowing silk was dyed? Women changed their hair colour all the time. There were lots of things he had yet to learn about Cate Costello. So far he’d learned she was hiding a great deal.

As had the late Lester Rogan, real estate tycoon. Why? His career wouldn’t have suffered had he acknowledged paternity of a child other than his son, Ralph and his daughter Melinda. His wife, Myra, was so completely dominated she wouldn’t have given him a terrible time had he confided in her or simply produced a surprise offspring as a fait accompli.

Jude groaned aloud. Lester Rogan wasn’t her father. He couldn’t be. He wouldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t his own father have known? His dad was one of the few people Lester Rogan had ever been known to confide in.

So what was the story? He let his mind range over a half a dozen scenarios all of which he hated. Surely he hadn’t let a complete stranger get under his skin? He wasn’t ready for that kind of connection with any woman much less one who gazed into crystal balls. He was depressed, too that she had lied to him. He hated lies.

Minutes later he arrived home. An old fishing mate of his father’s, Jimmy Dawson, though not a caretaker as such—Jimmy had his own little bungalow on the edge of the rain forest—kept the grounds under control. At least the jungle hadn’t set in. He got out to open the white picket gates, looking up with deep nostalgia at the handsome white house that stood tall against the turquoise sky. This was his much loved home right up until the time he had started his legal career in the state capital. Two storied it was surrounded by wide verandahs with a green painted galvanised roof and glossy emerald-green shutters to protect the pairs of French doors along the verandahs in times of tropical storms. A wide flight of six steps led to the porch.

His mother had always kept two huge ceramic pots planted with masses of white flowers flanking the double doorway with its beautiful stained-glass transom. Towering palms stood in the large, very private grounds, the lawns a carpet of lush green. Obviously Jimmy had seen to the mowing. The wonderfully spectacular poincianas were in full bloom as were the flame trees. On either side of the house the magnolias carried great plate-sized blooms, creamy-white and resplendent over the rich dark green leaves burnished underneath.

The flower beds had not survived although agapanthus, strelitzias, cannas, cassias and gardenias had gown back to the wild. The long fences on either side of the house were totally taken over by a dense screen of King Jasmine. Jude supposed the timber had rotted, teetering beneath the rampant vines which were so strong they were virtually self-supporting. It would be getting too much for Jimmy even with help. Jimmy was much older than Jude’s father, around seventy but wonderfully fit and wiry or he had been the last time Jude had seen him about a year ago. A year at Jimmy’s time of life was a long time.

He had rung Jimmy to let him know he was coming. The house had been aired. There was milk, butter, cheddar cheese, bacon and eggs, a whole roasted chicken, a bottle of chardonnay, four jars of cumquat marmalade in the frig—cumquat marmalade, brandied cumquats, pickled cumquats, you name it, cumquats were the base of Jimmy’s home made specialties—Jimmy like his dad didn’t bother growing the miniature fruit in pots like some people. He grew them in long hedges as a windbreak, always teeming with fruit or flower. Jude looked in the bread bin, found a fresh loaf. There was tea and coffee in the pantry, a few more groceries and a bottle of whiskey—he laughed at that.

Jimmy was a great guy, an honourary uncle to him when he was growing up. His throat tightened with affection and gratitude. Jimmy had been organised to go fishing with his dad that terrible day only another friend of Jimmy’s had stumbled over a snake on his way home from the pub and got bitten for his trouble. Jimmy, being a drinker, was on hand to get his friend to the hospital. The rest was history.