The Australian Heiress (10 page)

“What’s wrong, Tommy?” Camille gently shook his arm. “It’s not like you to sound so nervous.”

“It’s been our job, Dot’s and mine, to watch over you,” Tommy maintained. “In white especially, you look like a piece of porcelain. Something too precious to touch. The only thing is, someone with a grievance might like to see you smashed.”

Camille could barely control a shudder. “Tommy, aren’t you overreacting? I’m sure I’m safe. The security men are still around. There’s been no incident apart from some hurtful remarks from people at the auctions. I’ll be careful whom I speak to.”

“Everyone knows you,” Tommy said, rubbing his long fingers together anxiously. “The red hair alone!”

“I have my hat to wear in the sun.”

“Well, I’ll be glad when it’s all over,” Tommy said.

In point of fact, a lot of people nodded their heads courteously and quite a few came up to press her hand when she went down to join the crowd. The younger set, who had known Camille for years, showed she had their wholehearted loyalty, for which she was grateful. Whatever her father had done, they didn’t blame her. It was true some people were far less forgiving, but in the main, social etiquette managed to keep the hounds at bay.

It was almost like a party. The October was glorious, the people on the great expanse of emerald green lawn in constant flowing motion. The gardens were in splendid bloom, and the incredibly rich scent of the
roses wafted on the breeze that came in from the harbor. Camille, her titian head covered by an exquisite wide-brimmed hat with roses around the crown, the brim dipping seductively to one side, supplied the glamour.

I’m playing a role,
she thought as she continued on her rounds.
I’m an actress hired to do a job.

There was no room for regret. The house, however magnificent, held no special place in her heart. She would miss the gardens, the incomparable view and the paintings, but that was all. She had no place she could call her own, but she could work to secure her own future.

She didn’t see Perdita Masterman until she was almost in front of her. Right behind Mrs. Masterman’s large matronly figure were Philip and Robyn, arm in arm, the perfect couple.

For Robyn the occasion for being unpleasant was impossible to resist. “Good morning, Camille!” she cried, studying Camille from head to foot. “I didn’t think you’d show your face today.”

To her credit her mother turned back to frown at her, and Philip actually recoiled.

“I can’t give up yet, Robyn,” Camille answered coolly. “I’m determined to see it through. How are you, Mrs. Masterman? Philip?” She took care to smile.

“I’m happy to say well, my dear,” Perdita Masterman answered while Philip settled for one of his lopsided smiles. “This must be a very sad occasion for you.”

Robyn yawned rudely. “Good grief. I’d have thought Camille would want to be out of here as soon
as possible. It was never much of a home for you, was it? It’s to be hoped the next owner, whoever that might be, knows how to entertain. Your father used the place like a fortress. I expect he thought there might be attempts on his life.”

“Strangely enough, I don’t think that was a concern of his.” Camille glanced over Mrs. Masterman’s padded shoulder. “Ah, there’s Lady Kershaw,” she said. “I must have a word with her. Nice to see you, Mrs. Masterman.” She ignored Robyn and Philip.

About fifteen minutes before the auction was due to begin, heads turned sharply as someone obviously newsworthy arrived. Camille experienced the same jolt of current as she had at the art showing.

Nick Lombard. None other. A very elegant Clare Tennant not faraway. Of course they would be here. Anyone who was anyone was. Lombard stood head and shoulders above the group of people who clustered around him, black hair gleaming in the sun, brilliant black eyes narrowing as they scanned the crowd, at last falling on Camille.

He broke away from the group of people around him and came toward her. She stood in the shade of a tree, feeling both fascination and fear.

When he reached her, a flush of color sheened her cheeks. “I should have known you’d be here,” she said. “It must give you great satisfaction to know it’s all gone.”

He took her arm. “If you must know, I came on account of you. Too much publicity has been stirred up—I don’t like you wandering about in this crowd. We don’t know everyone here. By the look of them,
a lot have come in off the street. And you looking like
that!
It’s a recipe for disaster.”

It was almost exactly what Tommy had said, but still Camille resisted. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

Anger flared in his eyes. “Where the devil are the security men?”

“Surely you’re not implying there might be a threat to my life.” Her tone was scornful.

“Not necessarily your life. Your well-being possibly. Don’t pretend to be stupid—I know you’re not Your father was
hated.
It will take years before such feelings are muted—if ever.”

“Perhaps you’re right, but I intend to see this through.”

“Then walk with me.”

“But you’re here with Clare Tennant, aren’t you?”

“Not at all. She asked for a lift, no more.”

“Well, I’m not sure she would agree with that.”

“Damnation! Don’t bother me with rot.” For once the velvet voice was rough, staccato. “Walk on.”

Infected, she, too, began to scan the crowd. “I feel no threat.”

“I’m glad, but I’ve learned to obey my instincts. You draw too much attention.”

That brought her to an abrupt halt.
“You
should talk.”

He looked down at her with cold detachment. “I know it’s a lot to ask to simply obey me, but I assure you it’s in your own best interests. Let’s stroll toward the house. They’ll be reading out the conditions of sale shortly, in any case.”

“How’s Melissa?” she asked, submitting to his stronger will. “I sent her a letter.”

“She got it. We had no idea you had such a talent for drawing.”

So he’d seen it. Why not? Melissa adored her father, after all. “You know little or nothing about me.”

“That’s not strictly true, is it?”

Some note in his voice restricted her breathing. Even her limbs felt heavy, languorous. She fell silent

They stood together as the Realtor endeavored to get the large crowd’s full attention. When at last he succeeded, he embarked on the long spiel of sale terms.

Lord in heaven! Camille thought. How easily Nick Lombard had invaded her life.
Why?
Did he intend to take her over lock, stock and barrel so there wouldn’t be a trace of a Guilford left? People had to be astounded that they were in each other’s company. Moreover, his lean powerful body was so angled as to almost shield her.

For some twenty minutes the auction went on, bids coming in from all over, with only a slight tilt of head or a fractional lift of a brochure. In the end Perdita Masterman, confirmed grandstander that she was, all but got into battle with an equally flamboyant multimillionaire about to be investigated for corruption.

“Another Mafia boss,” Nick Lombard murmured into Camille’s ear.

“I expect
you’ll
be bidding next.” She turned her. head, only to find his face, with its undeniable sensual mouth, dangerously close and she looked away abruptly.

The bidding became more furious. Egged on by an
excited Robyn, who was close to jumping up. and down, Perdita went for broke. The television cameras were having a field day. While a well-known merchant banker shook his head and threw up his hands in defeat, Perdita Masterman uttered a cry of joy. She hugged her daughter to her enormous bosom, while most people clapped and others looked on in a kind of disgust.

Camille said simply, “Dear God!”

“At least it didn’t come to blows. In which case my money would have been on Perdita. As it is, she paid too much. Come away, Camille,” Nick Lombard urged. “There’s nothing that can be done here.”

“To think, the Mastermans!” Camille moaned.

“We can be sure the house will never look the same.”

The excitement over, people were now moving in all directions, anxious to get back to their cars and perhaps some afternoon sailing. No one took any notice of the tall, thin, ordinary-looking woman in a beige dress who was moving quietly and swiftly toward Camille. She wasn’t making herself in any way conspicuous, although anyone who did bother to look at her would have thought her demeanor uncommonly grim.

Camille, moving gracefully beside Nick Lombard, was a shining target. The breeze off the harbor whipped at her cloudy white skirt and threatened to catch her hat and launch it into the air. Beneath its wide brim her distinctive red hair accentuated the porcelain quality of her skin. A fairy-tale creature with a black demon for a father, most people thought.

“Miss Guilford?”

Camille turned at the voice, which was more a loud snarl. Nick Lombard turned with her, his body tensing.

Only a few feet away, the woman suddenly rushed at Camille, her plain features twisted by emotion. A stream of obscenities spewed from her mouth, incoherent, crazed. To Camille’s stunned ears she didn’t sound human. She didn’t even look human as she lunged at her, one arm brandishing a knife.

Camille’s vocal chords froze. The saliva in her mouth dried.
She’s going to kill me,
she thought in a paralysis of dread.
This is how it happens. Out of a clear blue sky I’m going to die.

Across the grounds the two security men were galvanized into action but were too faraway to be effective.

The wicked blade of the knife glittered, a keen shining silver. Impossible for it to miss Camille’s exposed throat.

Nick Lombard saw his opportunity and seized it. In a single swift motion he threw out his arm, sending Camille reeling back. She lost her balance and fell to the grass. From there she saw Nick lunge at the woman and grab her wrist. For all his superior height and strength he wasn’t finding it easy to subdue her manic struggles.

The woman’s fetid breath struck his nostrils, along with the bitter odors of sweat and hate. It caused him an instant’s revulsion, allowing the woman to keep her frenzied momentum going. The blade was only inches from his own flesh.

“Spawn of the devil!” she screamed, the words spilling like poison into the warm air. “How I’ve waited to get her.”

The long thin hand desperately tried to work the knife. For a brief second the woman was able to bring her arm down, angling it into Nick’s shoulder. Finally the pressure on her wrist became too great. The knife fell to the grass, and Camille, released from her appalling torpor, rolled onto her side, then leaped to grab it

There was blood all over the blade. Whose? She could smell it, metallic, primal, terrifying. The hairs stood up on the nape of her neck. While she fought to gain control of her swimming senses, two security guards finally reached them. One a big burly man, stomach resting on his leather belt, took the stillscreaming woman off Nick Lombard with a grunt and held her forcibly, her arms clamped behind her back.

“I hate him, I tell you. I
hate
him,” the woman raged, sweat pouring down her face. “He killed my husband. I wanted to finish
her.
A death for a death!”

Camille stood stricken, overcome by pity and horror. The knife, which was no knife at all but a pair of lethal-looking scissors, Camille held weakly, blades pointed toward the ground. Now the other guard, a younger man, took them from her, handkerchief in hand.

“It’s all right, Miss Guilford. I’ve got it. The police and ambulance are on their way.”

A few feet away from her stood Nick Lombard, handsome face contorted, teeth gritted against some agony. His hand was clamped to his collarbone beneath his jacket. Camille flew to him, her expression one of shock and total disbelief. The blade must have entered his shoulder or his chest. He had shielded her, allowing a madwoman to attack him, instead.

He didn’t speak, but his distorted expression warned her off. She ignored him, opening his ruined jacket. Her stomach clenched at all the blood. The deep red stain spread out across his shirt, soaked the lining of his jacket. There were spatters all over his silk tie like macabre polka dots. She could hear his ragged breathing as he tried to force air into his lungs. Was it possible the blade had pierced the lung? In which case the lung would collapse, she reasoned frantically.

Without looking back Camille threw out an urgent hand, shouting for something to act as a pad. Almost instantly three men’s handkerchiefs were slapped into her hand. Thick, white, spotless. She pressed them to the wound, trying to staunch the flow of blood. She was aware Lombard’s lean body was crumpling. Her mind filled with anguish at the possible extent of his injury, the fragility of life. His pallor was frightening. He was obviously in agony. Unable to speak.

Even a hero has his limits, she thought. And Nick Lombard, somewhere between devil and angel, had saved her life.

“Help me lower him to the grass,” she urged to the young guard, who sprang to her assistance.

A heavyset gray-haired man lumbered up, his shadow falling over them. “I’m a doctor,” he said in an authoritative voice. “I’ll take over.”

“Thank God you weren’t far away.” Camille wasn’t aware of it, but tears were streaming down her cheeks.

“At the auction, actually.” The doctor turned his attention to the man on the grass.

Some distance away the woman could still be heard
screaming torrents of abuse, while people stood around in stunned disarray.

Camille rose slowly, her face as pale as milk, her lovely white dress smeared with blood, grass and soil. Without even knowing what she was doing, she closed the gap between herself and her would-be assassin. She could feel the woman’s hatred and loathing coming at her like a vile cloud of gas. The burly guard who held the woman called something to her, but Camille continued to advance. When she reached the snarling spitting woman, she lifted a hand and struck her across the face.

It had an extraordinary effect. The dementia turned off like a tap. The woman appeared to regain some sort of control. She fell silent

“I’m sorry for what happened to your husband,” Camille said. “But
I’m
not to blame. Neither is the man you sought to kill. You got it all wrong.”