Читать книгу Mistaken Mistress - Margaret Way - Страница 9

ANTAGONISM seemed to cling to them. Antagonism and a strange intimacy he tried to hold down. He wanted to be out of the car. Away from her. The scent of her. She was quite unreachable.

Sometime later he drove into her leafy street. He could see now what she meant when she said she was financially secure. The street was lined with wonderful old Queenslanders, the traditional nineteenth-century timber houses built especially for the tropics, with their wide, deep verandas shading the exterior walls and pristine white wrought-iron balustrades and detailing. The style of architecture could be seen all over the giant state of Queensland extending to his part of the world, the far North where there were fine examples. All these homes were proudly owned and maintained wherever they were, so eagerly were they sought after.

As he glanced out he could see colonial white wooden palings that linked the fences visually with the houses behind it. Masses and masses of pink, white and red oleanders ornamented the fence; towering palms defining the long drives. The street and house lights provided so much illumination he could see splashes of brilliant colour from all the tropical plants in the gardens. Gorgeous scarlets, vivid yellows, vibrant pinks.

“It’s the next one on the left,” she said quietly, breaking the silence. She pointed not to one of the beautiful big Queenslanders with their large gardens, swimming pools and tennis courts, but to a great two-story Victorian pile, set well back from the street, hiding behind high stone walls and hedges of what looked like sasanqua camellias.

It was an unexpected house for such a girl. He felt she belonged in something not so overtly ostentatious. Something very gracious. More like the houses that fanned out to either side.

“Your family live here?” he asked, peering out. It was a huge house by any standards. She could scarcely rattle around in it by herself.

“My…f-f-father.” Surprisingly she stumbled over it when usually her speech was as clear as cut glass.

“And what does your father think about what’s happening in your life? Or doesn’t he know…?” he couldn’t prevent himself from asking.

She half turned, held out her hand. “Thank you so much, Mr. Forsyth, for bringing me home.”

She had the air of a princess in her lovely blue silk dress.

He took the slender hand she extended, little currents of electricity cutting into his nerves and running up his wrist. He had a sudden powerful urge to go inside. Meet the father. He wanted to discover what all this was about. He wanted her, or her father, to reveal something about themselves. He was forced to think of the next day. Delma would be arriving. He was meeting her at the airport. Taking her first to the hotel and then straight on to the hospital. The image of the two women meeting flashed across his mind. He thought of Owen’s eyes, his face, his voice and the transparency of his emotions. Everything about him gave away his love for this girl.