Читать книгу Australia's Most Eligible Bachelor / The Bridesmaid's Secret - Margaret Way - Страница 8

Brisbane, State Capital, Queensland.

Three years earlier.

FOR Miranda in her hyped-up state, everything seemed to be rushing at her: cars, buses, cabs, pedestrians. Even her blood was whooshing through her veins. The city seemed incredibly noisy—the pulse and beat of traffic, the mélange of sight and sound. Just to top it off, there was the threat of a late-afternoon thunderstorm, routine for high summer. Heat was vibrating rapidly to and fro between the forest of tall buildings, bouncing down on to the pavements. This was the norm: expectation of a brief, hectic downpour, then the return of a sun that admitted no rival. The overhead sky was still a dazzling deep blue, but there were ominous cracklings in the distance, the odd detonation of thunder and a bank-up of dark, silver-shot clouds with acid-green at their heart on the invisible horizon.

She was abuzz with adrenalin. Almost dancing with nerves. The humidity in the atmosphere did nothing to bank her intensity. The crowded street was thick with voices. People were milling about, smiling and chattering, happy to be going home after a long day at work; others were laden with shopping bags, feeling slightly guilty about blowing the budget on things they didn’t need; more held mobile phones glued to their ears, their side of the conversation loud enough to make the deaf sit up and take notice! Hadn’t they woken up to the fact mobile phones were a potential health hazard?

Of course there were dangers everywhere—even crossing the busy intersection. She could see the born-to-take-a-risk oddballs and the habitual stragglers caught halfway across the street at the red light. Ah, well! She couldn’t talk. Consider the dangerously risky move she was determined on making this very afternoon, given a stroke of luck? She only had one chance to get it right, but she had thought it through very carefully.

Over the last fortnight it had become routine surveillance, checking on the comings and goings of the Rylance men. Billionaire father Dalton Rylance, Chairman and CEO of Rylance Metals, one of the biggest metal companies in the world, and his only son and heir, Corin. Corin Rylance, twenty-five, was by all accounts the perfect candidate to inherit the Rylance empire. The Crown Prince, as it were. Super-rich. Super-handsome. Super-eligible. An opinion echoed countless times by the tabloids and gushing women’s magazines. That didn’t mean, however, the Rylances were nice people.

Anger merged with her constant grief. Not nice was starkly true of the present Mrs Rylance—Leila—Dalton Rylance’s glamorous second wife. His first wife had died in a car accident when Corin Rylance was in his early teens and his sister Zara a couple of years younger. A privileged life cut short. A few years later Dalton Rylance had shocked everyone by marrying a young woman from the PR section at Head Office called Leila Richardson. A gold-digger and an opportunist, according to family and friends who didn’t know anything about this young woman, however good she was supposed to be at her job. Collective wisdom had it she hailed from New Zealand.

Yet the marriage had survived. With all that money behind it, why not? Always beautiful, Leila Rylance, polished to within an inch of her life, had become over a few short years a bona fide member of the Establishment. She might have been born into one of the best families herself. Except Leila Rylance must live her glamorous life always looking over her shoulder. Leila Rylance wasn’t who she claimed she was.

Leila Rylance was a heartless monster.

It took some nerve to tackle people like the Rylances, Miranda thought for the umpteenth time. She could get into very serious trouble. These were people who took threats and perceived threats very seriously. They had armies of people working for them: staff, bodyguards, lawyers, probably they even had the Police Commissioner on side. She had to think seriously of being arrested, restraining orders and the like—the shame and humiliation—only she was fired up by her massive sense of injustice. Seventeen she might be, but she was clever—hadn’t that tag been hung on her since she was knee-high to a grasshopper?

“Miranda is such a clever little girl, Mrs Thornton. She must be given every chance!”

That from a stream of teachers—the latest, her highly regarded headmistress, Professor Elizabeth Morgan, reeling off her achievements. Professor Morgan had great hopes Miranda Thornton would bring credit on herself and her school. She had done her bit. She had secured the highest possible score for her leaving certificate, excelling at all the necessary subjects she needed for her goal: Mathematics, Physics, Chemistry, Biology. She had admittance to the university of her choice. She had the brain and the strong desire to become a doctor, but it would be hard, if not downright impossible, to get through the science diploma necessary for med school without money. She had long set her sights on Medicine.

“Where do you suppose that’s come from then, Tom? Our little Miri wanting to be a doctor?”

Her mother had often asked her father that question, wonderment in her tone. There was no medical background on either side of the family. Just ordinary working-class people. No one had made it to university.

But she had things going for her. She was resourceful. She had a maturity beyond her years. She coped well under pressure. That came directly from having looked after her mother for the last three years of her life battling cancer. The agony of it! To make it much worse, her death had come only a year or so since her hard-working father had died of a sudden massive heart attack. They had not been a young couple. Miranda was, in fact, a mid-life baby. Her mother had been forty-two when she fell pregnant, at a time when both her parents had despaired of ever producing a living child after a series of heartbreaking miscarriages.

Her childhood had been a happy, stable. They’d lived in a glorious natural environment. There had never been much money, and few of life’s little luxuries, but money was by no means essential for contentment. She’d loved and been loved, the apple of her parents’ eyes. Her parents had owned and run a small dairy farm in sub-tropical Queensland—the incredibly lush Hinterland behind the eastern seaboard, with the magnificent blue Pacific Ocean rolling in to its shores and only a short drive away. The farm had rarely shown more than a small profit. But they’d got by, working very hard—she included—to secure the best possible education at her prestigious private school for her final four years.

She would never forget the sacrifices her parents had made. In turn she had been fully committed to looking after them as they aged. Only now they were gone. And her world was lying in great jagged piles of rubble around her feet.

Her parents hadn’t been her parents at all.

They’d been her grandparents.

And no one had told her.

She had grown up living a lie.

Her heartbeat was as loud as a ticking clock, pumping so fast it was almost choking her. The sun flashing off windscreens temporarily blinded her. She blinked hard. Turned her head.

Then she saw him.

Eureka! She was close. Soooo close!

One had to fight fire with fire. She braced herself, lithe and as swift on her feet as a fleet fourteen-year-old boy. He was coming out of the steel-and-glass palace of Rylance Tower. The son. What a stroke of luck! She would know him anywhere. His image was etched into her brain. Who could miss him anyway? He was tall, dark, stunningly handsome with a dazzling white smile. The ultimate chick-magnet, as her friend Wynona would say. Could have been a movie star only for his layer of gravitas. Unusual at his age. But then he was a mining magnate’s son and heir, with a brilliant career ahead of him.

Well, he wasn’t the only one going places, she thought. Her whole body was shaking with nervous energy. She hadn’t been exactly sure she could deal with the father anyway. He was a hugely important man and purportedly ruthless. The odd thing was she had no real desire to potentially cause a breakup in his marriage. The son would do, whiz kid that he was, by far the less problematic proposition. Sometimes you just got lucky!

She watched the silver Rolls slide into the loading zone outside the building as per usual. The grey-uniformed chauffer stepped out smartly—God, a uniform, in this heat?—going around the bonnet of the gleaming car to be at the ready to open the rear door for the supremo’s son.

Couldn’t he open it himself, for goodness’ sake? Well, it did give the chauffeur a job. Every nerve in her body was throbbing with a mix of anticipation and a natural fear of the consequences. She had to get to him, speak to him, if her life was to go forward as she and her grandparents had planned. She watched Rylance dip his splendid crow-black head to get into the back seat of the car. This was the crucial moment. She seized it, taut as an athlete at the starter’s gun. Before the chauffeur could make a move to close the door, she literally sprang into the vehicle in one excited leap, the wind lifting her skirt and showing the full length of her legs, landing in a breathless heap against the shoulder of her target, who was playing it very cool indeed.

“Hi there, Corin!” she cried breathlessly. “Remember me? The Beauman party? Didn’t mean to scare you, but we have to talk.”

Those kinds of words usually made young men sit up and pay attention.

The chauffeur, well-built, probably ex-army, leaned into the Rolls, concern written all over him. “You know this young lady, Mr Rylance?”

She smiled up at the grim-faced man, who appeared on trigger alert. “Of course he does. Don’t you, Corin?”

Recognition didn’t light up his brilliant dark eyes. “Convince me.”

His speech was very clipped—blistering, really. Before she knew what he was about his lean, long-fingered hand snaked out, ran deftly but with delicacy over her shoulder, then down over her bodice, sparking her small breasts to life. She was shocked to the core, her entire body flooded with electricity. Even her nipples sprang erect. She prayed he didn’t register that. He continued to frisk her to her narrow waist, cinched as it was by a wide leather belt. Mercifully he stopped there. Not a full body search, then. She was wearing a short summer dress, well above her knees. Sleeveless, low-necked. Nowhere to hide anything. Nowhere decent anyhow.

He grabbed her tote bag and handed it over to the grim-faced chauffeur. “Check the contents, Gil.”

“You’re joking!” she railed. “Check the contents? What are you expecting, Corin? A Taser? I’m absolutely harmless.”

“I don’t think so.” Rylance kept a firm hold on her while the chauffeur swiftly and efficiently searched her bag.

“Nothing here, sir,” he reported with a note of relief. “Usual girly things. And a few old snapshots. Shall I send her on her way, or call the police?”

“And tell them what, Gil?” Her voice, which had acquired a prestige accent from school, was laced with sarcasm. “Your boss has been waylaid by a five-three, hundred-pound seventeen-year-old he doesn’t seem to remember? Why, a twelve-year-old boy could wrestle me to the ground. Trust me, Corin.” She turned a burning scornful glance on Rylance. “You don’t want anyone else in on our little chat, do you? Tell your man to pull over when we’re clear of the city. Then Gil here can go for a nice stroll. A park would be fine. There’s one on Vine.”

Women were always chasing him. Hell, it went with the territory. But never had one taken a spectacular leap into his car. That was a first. He couldn’t believe it. Not even after years of being hotly pursued. It was the money, of course. Every girl wanted to marry a billionaire, or at the very least a billionaire’s son. But this was a kid! She’d said seventeen. She could be sixteen. Not sweet. She looked a turbulent little thing, even a touch dangerous, with her great turquoise-green eyes and a fiery expression on her heart-shaped face. A riot of short silver gilt curls clung to her finely sculpted skull. She had very coltish light limbs, like a dancer; she was imaginatively if inexpensively dressed. Had he met her anywhere at all, he would definitely remember. No way was she unmemorable. And she had beautiful legs. He couldn’t help but notice.

So who the hell was she and what did she want? He had a fleeting moment when she put him in mind of someone. Who? No one he knew had those remarkable eyes or the rare silver-gilt hair. He was certain the colour was real. No betraying dark roots. Then there was her luminous alabaster skin. A natural blonde. Then it came to him. She was the very image of one of those mischievous sprites, nymphs, fairies—whatever. His sister, Zara, had used to fill her sketchbooks with them when she was a child. Zara would be intrigued by this one. All she needed was pointed ears, a garland of flowers and forest leaves around her head, and a wisp of some diaphanous garment to cover her willowy body.

They rode in a tense silence while he kept a tight hold on her arm. No conversation in front of the chauffeur. Some ten minutes out of the CBD the chauffeur pulled up beside a small park aglow with poincianas so heavy in blossom the great branches dipped like the tines of umbrellas. “This okay, sir?” The chauffeur turned his head.

“Fine, thanks, Gil. I’ll listen to this enterprising young woman’s story—God only knows what that might be—then I’ll give you a signal. I have a dinner party lined up for tonight.”

“Of course you have!” said Miranda, still trying to recover from the shock of his touch and his nearness. She understood exactly now what made him what he was. He even gave off the scent of crisp, newly minted money.

The chauffeur stepped out of the Rolls, shut the door, then made off across the thick, springy grass to a bench beneath one of the trees. If Gil Roberts was wondering what the hell this was all about he knew better than to show it. He believed Corin implicitly when he said he didn’t know the girl. He had been with the family for over twelve years, since Corin Rylance had been a boy. He had enormous liking and respect for him. Unlike a couple of his cousins, Corin was no playboy. He did not fool around with young girls, however enchanting and sexy. Maybe it had something to do with one of his cousins? A bit of blackmail, even? She had better not try it. Not on the Rylances.

“So?” Corin turned on her, his tone hard and edgy. “First of all, what’s your name? You obviously know mine.”

“Who doesn’t?” she retorted, not insolently, but with some irony. “It’s Miri Thornton. That’s Miranda Thornton.”

“Amazing—Miranda! Of course it would be.” He didn’t mask the sarcasm.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She stared at him with involuntary fascination. She was experiencing the weirdest feeling there was no one else in the world but the two of them. Imagine! Was she a total fool? She almost forgot what she was about with those dark eyes on her. God, he was handsome. The glossies were right. Up close and personal, his aura was so compelling it had her near gasping. It wasn’t simply the good looks, it was the force field that surrounded him. It had picked her up with a vengeance. For the first time she felt intimidation.

“You’re a smart girl,” he was saying.

“Not a little twit?”

He ignored that. “Well educated, obviously. Miranda—Prospero’s daughter?”

Deliberately she opened her eyes wide. “Got it in one. The Tempest.You know your Shakespeare. From whence did Corin come?” she asked with mock sweetness. “Coriolanus? Noble Caius Marcus?”

“Cut it out.” His tone was terse. There was a decided glitter in his eyes, so dark a brown they were almost black. “I don’t have time for this. What’s it all about? You have exactly five minutes.”

“Give me one,” she retorted smartly, hoping she looked a whole lot more in control of herself than she was. “May I have my bag?”

He frowned at her. “What is it you want to show me?” He didn’t oblige, but drew the tote bag onto his lap. Gil would have checked carefully, but there were always surprises in life. This extraordinary young woman didn’t exactly look unstable or wired. He could see the high intelligence in her face, the keenness of her turquoise-green regard. She was nothing like all the well-connected young women he knew. The pressure was on him from his father to pick out a suitable bride. Annette Atwood was highly suitable. But did he honestly believe in love?

“Photographs.” Miranda’s mind was momentarily distracted while she focused on his hands. He had beautifully shaped hands. Hands were important to her.

“That’s nice!” He didn’t hide the mockery.

“I’d hold the nice until you have a look at them,” she warned. “Don’t think for one minute it’s porn. Good old Gil would have spotted that, and I don’t deal in such things. I was very well brought up. Go on—pull them out. They won’t bite you.”

“The cheek of you!” he gritted. “You know what I’d really like to do with you?” He was uncomfortably aware his body was coiled taut. Why? She was pint-sized. No physical threat at all. What did he want to do with her? Why was he giving her the time of day? Actually, he didn’t want to think it through. She was so young, with her life in front of her. Despite himself he felt a disturbing level of attraction.

“Throw me out onto the street?” she was suggesting. “You could do it easily.”

“Maybe I will at some point.” He withdrew several photographs from a side pocket in her well-worn bag. They looked old, faded, turning up at the edges. He narrowed his dark eyes. “What exactly are these? Photographs of Mummy when she was a girl?” He was being facetious. Until he saw what he had in his hand.

God, no! This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t her. The girl in the photographs didn’t just bear a strong resemblance to his stepmother. She was Leila—unless she had an identical twin.

“How clever of you, Corin,” Miranda said, making an effort to conceal her own upset. “They’re photographs of my mother when she was a year younger than I am now.”

His expression turned daunting for so young a man. Shades of the father, Miranda supposed. “Just be quiet for a moment,” he ordered.

Miranda knew when it was time to obey. She and Corin Rylance had polarised positions in life. She was a nobody. He was on the highest rung of society. Heir to a great fortune. He could cause her a lot of grief.

“So what’s your game?” He shot her a steely glance, the expression in his fine eyes in no way benevolent.

“No game.” She turned up her palms. “I’m deadly serious. We can keep this between the two of us, if you like. I’m certain from what I know of my birth mother—your stepmother—that she hasn’t confided her sordid little story to another living soul. Least of all your father.”

“You want money?” The stunning features drew tight with contempt.

“I need money,” she corrected.

“Aaah! A big difference.” The tone was withering.

“I think you can spare it.”

“Do you, now?” His tone all but bit into her soft flesh. “So I’m to look after you indefinitely? Is that the plan? Well, let me help you out here, Miranda, as you’re barely out of school. Blackmail is a very serious crime. I could turn you over to the police this afternoon. It would only take one call.”

“Sure. I’ve risked that,” she admitted. “But you won’t be doing your family any favours, Corin. Don’t think I’m not ashamed to have to ask you. I have to. My mother—your stepmother, your father’s wife—owes me. I can’t go to her. I loathe and despise her. She abandoned me when I was only a few weeks old.”

“You can prove it?” His voice was harsh with unsuppressed emotion. “Or is this some highly imaginative ploy to make money?” The flaw in that was he could well see Leila doing such a thing. The only person Leila cared about was herself. Not his father. Although his father, business giant that he was, was in sexual thrall to her.

“I’m not stupid,” Miranda said. “I’m not a liar or a con artist. Of course I can.” She had to swallow hard on a sudden rush of tears. “I was brought up by my grandparents—my mother’s parents—believing I was theirs. A change of life baby. Both of them are now dead. My grandmother very recently. She told me the truth on her deathbed. She wanted to make a clean breast of it. The last years of her life were terrible. She died of cancer.”

His expression softened at the very real grief he saw in the depths of her crystalline eyes. “Miranda, I’m sorry, but your mother must have had a reason for doing what she did. That’s if these photographs are of my stepmother. People do have doubles in life.” Even as he said it he knew it was Leila.

“You know in your bones they are,” Miranda told him bleakly. “I even look a teeny bit like her, don’t you think?”

“Not really, no. Maybe the point to the chin—although Leila’s is less pronounced.”

“So I must have my father’s colouring.” There was a yearning note in her voice he picked up on. “Whoever he might be. She never would say. Anyway, I have a whole scrapbook if you want to see it. My birth mother was adored. My grandparents were lovely people. Yet she cut them—her own mother and father—ruthlessly out of her life. I didn’t matter at all. Good gracious, no. I was just a huge mistake. You know how it is. She wasn’t going to allow an unwanted baby to ruin her life. She ran away and never came back. Not even a postcard to say she was okay.”

“You’re sure about that?” he asked grimly. “Your grandmother mightn’t have told you everything. People have secrets. Some they take to the grave.”

“Tell me about it,” Miranda countered with real sadness. “I loved Mum—Sally—my grandmother. I nursed her. I was with her at the end. She told me everything. Not a pretty story. I had to forgive her. I loved her. She was so good to me. Yet the person I had trusted more than anyone else in the world had lied to me. God, it hurt. It will always hurt.”

“I imagine it would.” He studied her downbent face. She had a lovely mouth, very finely cut. Leila’s mouth was positively lush. This girl wore no lipstick. Maybe a touch of gloss. “I expect your grandmother thought it was best at the time. Then it all got away from her. Where did you live?”

She told him. “The Gold Coast Hinterland, Queensland.”

“A beautiful area. I know it well. So your grandparents were farming people?” he asked with a frown. “According to Leila she was born in New Zealand.”

“She was. And just look at how far she has come.” Miranda gave a theatrical wave of her hands. “Married to one of the richest men in the country. You can bet your life she didn’t want any more children. She’s only thirty-three, you know. But children would only cramp her style.”

True of Leila. “The woman you claim is your mother told my father she wasn’t able to have children,” he volunteered.

“I think you can take it she’s a born liar. Anyway, your father has you and your sister. You’re the heir.”

“You bet your life I am.”

“Don’t look at me!” She slumped back against the rich leather upholstery. “I don’t want to muscle in.”

“I thought you did.”

He had very sexy brackets at the sides of his mouth. “No way!” She shrugged, unsettled by his proximity. In a matter of moments this stranger had got under her skin. Definitely not allowed. “What I want—what I need—is to have the financial backing to get through med school. I’m clever. Maybe I’m even cleverer than you.” She held up her hand. “Okay, joke! But I scored in the top one per cent for my finals.”

“And there I was, only winning a few spelling bees.”

“Not so.” She sat straight. “You were awarded a university medal. You have an Honours Degree in Engineering. You also have a degree in Business Administration.”

“Go on—what else?” he asked caustically.

“Listen, Corin. I did my homework. It was necessary. I’m not asking for a fortune, you know. I’ll get a part-time job. Two if I have to. But I must attain my goal. It’s what my par—my grandparents lived and worked for. I was the one who was to be given every chance. Only they both went and died on me. That’s agony, you know.”

He regarded her for a moment in silence, all kinds of emotions nipping at him fiercely. This girl was getting to him. And she had done it so easily. “Your story has to be checked out very thoroughly,” he said. “You might tell me how, given there wasn’t much money in the family, your mother got away? Everyone needs money to survive. She was just a schoolgirl. How did she manage?”

“I daresay she blackmailed my father,” she said, bluntly rephrasing the explanation her grandmother had offered.

“So it runs in the family, then?”

She winced, her turquoise-green eyes flashing. “Don’t make me hate you, Corin.”

He laughed, very dryly. “That’s okay. Hate works for me, Miranda.”

Some note in his voice sent a shiver down her spine. “Miri, please.”

He continued to scan her face. “I prefer Miranda.”

She was locked into that brilliant regard. “You’ll find I’m telling the truth right down to the last detail. My grandparents didn’t know who fathered Leila’s child. But, whoever it was, his family must have had money. Someone must have given it to her. Although she took everything she could lay her hands on from her parents, including much needed money that was awaiting banking.”

“It’s a terrible story, Miranda, but not rare,” he said. “Young people—girls and boys—go missing all the time, for any number of reasons. It must be heartbreaking for the caring parents.”

“Leila obviously didn’t care about them. There was no abuse, no excessive strictness, only love. You know, I’ve been thinking of you—your father and you, certainly Leila—as the enemy,” she confessed. “You’re not so bad.”

“You don’t know me,” he said.

“I know you bear a noble name. The Corin bit anyway. I like it. I don’t even mind being allied with you, or your part of the enemy. But you can’t be slow about this, Corin. There are lots of things to be taken care of. I don’t have another damned soul in the world to appeal to.”

“And I’m supposed to care?” He was out to test her.

“But you do care, don’t you?” She was looking into his eyes as if she was reading his mind. “Leila may have cast a spell on your father, but I bet she didn’t cast any spell on you or your sister.”

Nothing could be truer. They had disliked and distrusted Leila even before she had married their father. Now they hated her. “So you think this will give me an advantage?” Of course it would. But he knew he wouldn’t use it. Not yet, anyway. His moment would come.

“Nothing so ugly,” she said. “You may dislike Leila. But you love your father. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“You might well make a doctor, Miranda,” he answered tersely. “You appear to have a gift.”

She visibly relaxed. “I hope so. I want so much to do good in this world. I won’t let my paren—” she corrected herself again “—grandparents down. I’m going to see this through and you’ve got to help me. I’ve even had a psychological assessment to determine whether I have the right stuff to become a doctor.”

“And you passed?”

“With flying colours, Corin. Also the mandatory interview for selection into the MBBS course. You don’t mind if I call you Corin?”

“Obviously you have a keen interest in getting me to like you.”

“I like you already. Bit odd, really. But I believe in destiny, don’t you? I was waiting for you—maybe your father. I got you. Far and away the better choice.”

There was severity, but a touch of amusement in his expression. “You can say that again. My father would have had you thrown out of the car. Right on your pretty ear.”

“Is that so? You can tell a lot about a man by the way he treats a woman.”

“I agree.”

“Hey, you do love your dad, don’t you?” She eyed him anxiously. There was something a bit off in his tone.

“Why do you ask that?”

“Unusual answer, Corin.” She spoke in an unconscious clinical fashion. “I’d say textbook father-son conflict?”

“Sure you don’t want to go for psychiatry?” he asked very dryly.

“I hit a nerve. Sorry. I’ll back off. Anyway, even your father wouldn’t have thrown me out. Not when I waved the photographs.” His handsome face was near enough to hers to touch. “I have to be tough. Like you people. I know you can work this out somehow. I won’t interfere. All you have to do is make it so I’m able to get through my first three years of training until I attain my BS, then I’ll tackle my MB.”

“An extremely arduous programme, Miranda,” he warned her, shaking his head. Two of his old schoolfriends had dropped out in their second year, finding the going too tough. “Sure you’re up to it? I’ll accept you have the brains. Maybe you can handle the ton of studying required. But there’s a lot of evidence many students leaving high school with top scores fall by the wayside for any number of reasons. Happens all the time.”

She nodded in agreement, but with a degree of frustration. She had been warned many times over how tough it was. “Listen, Corin, you don’t have to tell me. I know how hard it’s going to be. I know many drop out. But it’s not going happen to me. I mightn’t look it, but I’m a stoic. I’ve had to be. My grandparents’ hopes and dreams will prevail. I’m up for it.”

Everything seemed to point to it. “Where do you intend to study?” he asked.

“Griffith for my BS, then on to UQ. Why do you look like that? I promise you I won’t ever bother you. You need never lay eyes on me again.”

“Sorry!” He focused his brilliant dark gaze on her. “If you check out—and it’s by no means a foregone conclusion—you’ll be expected to take tests I’ll arrange. Again, if you pass our criteria you’ll be under constant scrutiny. You mustn’t think you’ve got this all sewn up, Miranda.”

“If you want references you can contact my old school principal,” she suggested eagerly, her heart beating like a drum.

“You just leave that to me.” He dismissed her suggestion. “You’d be very foolish to try to put anything across me.”

“Whoa…I gotcha, Corin.” She held up her palms, her heart now drumming away triple-time. “So, you want to think it over?” She swallowed down her nerves, moistening her dry lips with the tip of her tongue.

“Of course I want to think it over.” He spoke more sharply than he’d intended, but this girl was seriously sexy. God knew what power she’d have in a few years’ time. “I may sense you’re telling the truth. That’s all. If you’re Leila’s daughter, as you claim, you could be an accomplished liar.”

That made her heart swell with outrage. “What an absolutely rotten thing to say, Corin.”

“Okay, I apologise.” The glitter of tears stood in her beautiful eyes. Against all his principles, against rhyme and reason, even plain common sense, he had a powerful urge to catch that pointed chin and kiss her. Long and hard. A mind-body connection. It was almost as though he was being directed by another intelligence. Mercifully he had enough experience, let alone inbred caution, not to give way to an urge that was fraught with danger. Women had been making fools of men since time immemorial. Maybe this slip of a girl was trying to make a fool of him?

At first when she had made her mad leap into the car his mind had immediately sprung to his cousin, Greg. Greg was forever getting himself into trouble with women, but not teenagers—at least not to date. He’d never thought in a million years this would have something to do with Leila.

“Do you drive?” He turned his attention back to the would-be doctor. That counted for a lot with him. He had the ability to read people. She was ambitious, which he liked, idealistic, and she appeared very sincere in her aim. Becoming a doctor was a fine goal in life. He should check out her driver’s licence. If she had one.

“I can drive,” she confided. “As good as your Gil. Bet he was in the army at some stage. I used to drive the ute around the farm all the time, but I don’t have a car. I can’t afford one. Listen, Corin, I’m dirt-poor at the moment.”

“So where do you live now?” he asked. Gil was ex-army. She was very sharp.

“I share a flat with friends. A major downgrade for us all, but we have fun. My grandfather’s dying was a nightmare, then my…grandmother. What money there was simply went in to the bottomless hole of medical costs. There’s no licence for you to check. But you can check me out at my old school. I was Head Girl, no less Professor Morgan thought the world of me, which is as good a character reference as you’re likely to get. You can check out my grandparents too. Needless to say everyone in the district believed me to be their mid-life child. I have more information on my birth mother if you want it. My grandmother knew all about her marrying your father. She read about it in the newspapers. Leila might be all dolled up, but she’s the same Leila. Mum used to keep cuttings. Isn’t that sad? A parent is always a parent. No matter what.”

His father hadn’t been much of one, he thought bleakly. Not much of a husband either. In fact, the powerful and ruthless Dalton Rylance was a major league bastard. But he was still madly infatuated with the very much younger Leila. Obsessed with her, really.

“It’s all sad, Miranda.”

He gave way to a dark sigh. He and Zara had been devastated when their mother had been killed. Their father’s infidelities and lack of attention had brought great unhappiness to their beautiful, gentle mother. His maternal grandparents, the De Laceys, major shareholders in Ryland Metals, had positively loathed their son-in-law as much as they loved their daughter’s children. He, as his mother’s only son, had been extremely protective of her—ready to tell his father off at the drop of a hat, no matter the consequences. And there were quite a few he’d had to suffer along the way. The reality was he and Zara had looked to their mother for everything. Love, support, long serious discussions about life—where they were going. It was she who had taken them on numerous cultural outings. She’d been the source of joy in their so called privileged life. Their father had never been around. Jetting off here, off there. Legitimate business concerns, it had to be said, but it had never occurred to him to try to make up for his many absences when he returned. In his way Dalton Rylance had betrayed them all: his wife, his son and heir, and his daughter—the image of their beautiful mother.

And he punished her for it. Zara, the constant reminder. His hands tightened until his knuckles showed white.

“So what are you in the grip of?”

Her voice, which amazingly showed concern, brought him out of his dark thoughts.

“What do you mean?” She was way too perceptive, this girl.

“Don’t bite my head off, Corin. It can’t be me. It’s someone else you’re thinking about. What did you and your sister think when Leila turned up in your life? You couldn’t have lost your mother long? You must have been grieving terribly?”

“Miranda, we’re not talking about me,” he told her curtly, shaken by her perception. “We’re talking about you.”

“So you say!” she responded, undeterred. “Where did I get my brains from anyway? My maths gene, for a start. I was always very good at maths. My grandparents were lovely people. Full of good practical common sense. My grandfather could fix any piece of machinery on the farm. My grandmother was a great cook and a great dressmaker. But they wouldn’t have called themselves intellectuals. Neither of them read much.”

“Of course you are an intellectual,” he said, not sparing the dry-as-bone tone.

“No need to be sarcastic. I am. Fact of life, and I don’t take the credit. I inherited what brain I have from the boy—the man—who was my father. Leila can’t be too bright if she didn’t think I was going to track her down one day.”

“But there’s no way you want to meet her?” He trapped her gaze. God, wouldn’t that be an event to be in on?

“What? Show up unannounced? No way! I might tackle her to the ground and start pummelling her. Not that I’ve ever done anything like that before.”

“Miranda, don’t underestimate the woman you say is your mother,” he rasped. “It’s far more likely she’d seize you by the hair and have you thrown out. That’s if you could get in. My stepmother isn’t your normal woman.”

“Now, isn’t that exactly what I’ve been telling you?” she cried, her turquoise-green eyes opened wide. “She’s a cruel person. She broke her loving parents’ hearts. My grandmother died without her only child by her side. I don’t really care that Leila didn’t want me. Who the heck do I look like anyway?” She tugged in frustration at a loose silver-gilt curl. “What’s with the hair? The colour of my eyes? There’s my father out there somewhere. I might go looking for him. Did he even know about me? Actually, I’ve got a few doubts about your father. Given he’s the big mining magnate, how come he fell for Leila hook, line and sinker? What got into him?”

“Let’s not go there, Miranda,” he said tersely.

“Okay, she’s beautiful. She’s gorgeous. And she must be great in bed.”

And as dangerous as a taipan. “Are you done?” he asked, amazed. This seventeen-year-old girl was a total stranger, yet already they had made a strong connection.

“Don’t get angry with me, Corin,” she urged gently. “I could be worse. I could be out to make trouble, but I’m not. I don’t want to stress this—it’s a bit embarrassing—but look at the big picture. Aren’t we related by marriage?”

“I only have your word for it,” he answered, very sharply indeed because he was rattled. “Plus a few old photographs as some sort of proof.”

“Please…I don’t want you to be angry and upset. You might be keeping it well under wraps, but I think you have…difficulties in life.”

He didn’t care he sounded so cutting. “You’re a very special person, Miranda.” She had to be. Every cell in his body was drawn to her. It was an involuntary reaction. But sometimes one had to be cruel to be kind.

“You believe me, though, don’t you?” The glitter of unshed tears was back in her eyes at his harshness. “You believe me more than you would believe the woman you’ve known for years. I bet she’s been no friend to your sister. You do love your sister?”

He gritted his teeth. “Do you expect me to sit still for this interrogation?”

“Okay, okay!” She pressed her hands together as though in prayer. “I shouldn’t have said it. Let’s get back to what I need to get me through med school. I promise I’ll work harder than I ever have in my life. Back me and I won’t let you down. I’ll even try to pay you back once I qualify.”

He was driven to dropping his head into his hands. “Miranda, just stop talking for a moment. I’m going to check out your whole story. Or have my people do it for me. Don’t worry. They’re professionals. It will all be very confidential. None of the information they supply to me will get out. Where is this flat of yours?”

She was so nervous, excited, upset, her hands were shaking. “Look, I’ll write it down for you. And my mobile number. I hope I didn’t seriously ruin your day?”

“I can’t pretend you haven’t stunned me.” He shot back his cuff to check his watch. “I have a very tedious dinner party tonight I can’t get out of. I’ll get Gil to drop me off first at my apartment, then he can take you home.”

She became agitated. “No, no, don’t bother. I don’t want to put you to the trouble. Besides, I can’t possibly arrive back at the flat in a Rolls.”

“Gil can stop and let you out a short distance away,” he said shortly. “Anyway, it will be dark by the time he gets there.” He lifted his hand to signal the chauffeur, who now turned their way, walking down the path.

“So, will you let me know?” In her agitation she reached out to grip his hand hard, feeling the little shock wave of skin on skin. “Can I trust you, Corin? I do need help.”

“Have you told anyone else about this? Your friends?”

The brilliant gaze seared her. “Gosh, no! I promise you I haven’t told a living soul.”

“A smart move, Miranda, for a smart girl. You’ll hear from me within a few days. We’ll do this thing legitimately.”

“Legitimately, how?” She perked up.

“I’ll tell you when I judge it time for you to know,” he said dismissively. “But if you’ve dreamed up some story—”

“Then you’re free to go to the police.” She spoke with intensity. “It’s no story, Corin. That’s why you’ve been giving me a hearing. Even if your stepmother did lay eyes on me she wouldn’t recognise me.”

“On the other hand she might,” he answered her bluntly. “There is such a thing as genetics. You said it yourself. How did Leila produce a child with silver-gilt hair and turquoise-green eyes? It has to be your father’s legacy.”

“Or it could be any number of complex interactions.” She frowned in concentration. “So many variables—enzyms, proteins, biological phenomenon. I’m greatly interested in genetics and genomics, molecular biology. Why wouldn’t I be? I don’t even know who I am. That should put me at a serious disadvantage psychologically.”

He saw humour in that. “I don’t think so, Miranda. You appear pretty well integrated to me.”

“Gee, thanks!” She flushed with genuine pleasure. His good opinion meant a great deal. “Trust me, Corin,” she said earnestly. “Leila has totally forgotten she ever had a child.”

He swallowed his caustic retort. Hadn’t Zara always said there would come a time Leila, their stepmother, the central figure in their father’s life, would be caught out?

And so it began.