heard raspy breathing, and that meant Feeney. Feeney was his contact, his liaison in Jacko’s covert war on Andrew Preston. Feeney was a general in this war, one whose face he’d never seen, but who’d been supplied by very dependable allies.
Jacko had a public campaign for president of the ICRF. And he also had an extremely well-hidden private one, as complex as a huge spiderweb. Feeney wasn’t at its center, but he was close enough, close enough.
“Preston steered clear of her,” said a man’s rasping voice. “The dark one. She said he smiled, he nodded. But he didn’t let her get near him.”
Jacko swore. “What is he, a pansy? Sylvia’s gorgeous.”
Hell, he thought, she’d kept him satisfied for almost three months—that’s how good she was. He’d sent orders for her to wear something red and low-cut. And plenty of diamonds. He’d given her diamonds. Cheap ones, but they’d kept her happy.
“He’s not a pansy,” Feeney said. “He likes women, all right. I think he just was leery of her. Maybe she’s not his type.”
Jacko swore again. “Not his type? She’s the type for any man with a set of working goolies. For a while, at least.”
“Well,” Feeney said hesitantly, “she’s not subtle, y’ know? From what we know, he doesn’t go for the glam thing. No super-models. His tastes are hard to predict.”
If Sylvia’d got Preston in bed, I’d’ve given her good diamonds, Jacko thought.
He stared down at Tarita’s lovely, sleeping form and wondered if she’d suit the Yank. If she could turn the trick, he’d give her up in a minute.
“Preston’s human,” said Feeney in his scratchy voice. “This country’s full of beautiful women, and he’s a long time here. And he isn’t made of iron.”
Jacko snorted. “Then watch him. When he finds a piece, she’s dead meat, by God. And he’ll be done. Ruined.”
“He’s being watched,” said Feeney. “He’s being—”
Jacko, disgusted that the bejeweled Sylvia had failed, hung up. He stared down at Tarita, shadowy on the wine-red satin sheet. Should he shake her out of sleep and try again?
No. He was too tired, too disgusted. God, he wished this election were over and he could get on with his life. So much more lay ahead: more power, more prestige—and far more money.
He hoped Feeney was right, and Preston would hurry up and find himself a tasty tart. And then? God help the scumbag. And the unlucky dirty little girl he settled on.
Feeney would help him take care of that, too.
The next morning in Darwin, Marie still moved like an automaton. And like an automaton, she did not feel. She was numb and vaguely wondered if she was in shock.
She managed to get through the day because Colette would have wanted her to.
Reynard arrived late that evening, before Marie got home from Scepter. He’d parked his battered blue truck in front of her apartment and waited in the driver’s seat. As soon as he saw Marie, he leaped out of the truck to hug her tightly.
She clung to him with real affection. He’d always been kind to her and Colette, and Colette had adored him. Even though she fretted over him, he could always make her laugh with a funny story or a cheeky song.
“My little love,” he said against Marie’s ear. “Our Colie’s gone where there’s no more pain. Had she been born my blood sister, I couldn’t have loved her more.”
Marie drew back and studied his face, shadowy in the apartment’s outdoor lights. He was in his early sixties, but still surprisingly handsome. The only apparent flaw in his health was that he wore two hearing aids. He’d suffered for years from ringing in his ears, and had begun to go deaf in his late thirties.
He was tall, and his body was straight and strong. He had dark blond hair, wavy and going gray. His brows were darker, his lashes bronze-colored and surprisingly long.
In spite of the lashes, his face was strong-boned and years of sunburn had lined his skin, especially with laugh lines. His eyes were medium blue and looked lazy, heavy-lidded. They made him seem as if he was ready to nod off, but she knew his gaze missed little.
She looked up at him. “I’m glad you’re here. Nobody else would understand.”
He rumpled her short hair. “I know. We’re an odd lot, aren’t we? Tell me, duck, when’s the service? I’ll have to go to the Salvos and get me a suit.”
Marie looked him in the eye. “There’s no service. She was cremated yesterday. That’s how she wanted it. We can get the ashes tomorrow. She wanted them scattered in the ocean.”
Reynard’s body stiffened, and he stared down at her with displeasure. “Cremated? Burned like rubbish?”
“She never told you. She knew you wouldn’t like it.”
“You did it without me?”
“She didn’t want you to have to be there. She thought it…would hurt.”
“And what about you, miss? You were there all by yourself?”
She swallowed hard, not wanting to remember. “Yes. I didn’t want her to be alone.”
He shook his head in what seemed a mixture of dismay and grudging admiration. “But you were alone. Didn’t you feel wretched?”
“I didn’t feel much of anything,” she said honestly. “Rennie, it’s like an invisible suit of armor fell from the sky and clamped itself on me. It won’t let me feel yet.”
“Ah. I know the sensation.” He looped his arm around her shoulders. “Maybe now that I’m here, you can come back to yourself. Let’s go inside.”
As she unlocked the door, he said, jokingly, “I hope you’ve got a drop of something for you old uncle. The long drive made me thirsty.”
She nodded sadly. “I bought a bottle of port.”
“Then let’s have a glass. It’ll loosen you up. Your body feels tight as a knot, my girl. You should come back to Hunter Valley with me. Get away from this place for a while.”
He was steering her into the living room, but she stopped and stared at him in alarm. “I can’t leave here,” she protested. “I have classes. I have a job. I have this apartment.”
“Details,” he said with a careless air. “I have a proposition for you.”
“What?” she asked suspiciously.
He gave her his most winning smile. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. After…you know. Now let us drink a toast to our Colie. And that old bat Louisa. Who might be your granny.”
She could no longer think clearly. She didn’t want to think at all about Louisa Fairchild, only Colette. “Yes,” she said. “A toast. She deserves that.”
Marie had reserved a small hire boat. Reynard, of course, could pilot it, for he truly was a jack-of-all-trades. After her classes the next day, they took the boat out into the harbor to a pretty and private spot that Colette had always loved.
They said their own silent goodbyes and released the ashes into the waves. Then they returned to shore. And nothing, to Marie, would ever be the same.
Afterward, she and Reynard sat in a pub near the harbor. Reynard had a whiskey, but Marie barely touched her wine.
“Oh, knock it back,” Reynard urged her. “You’ve been through bloody hell, my girl. Drink a bit more. It’ll help you to sleep.”
“Sleep?” she asked dubiously.
“I’ll drive us back, and you should take a nap,” he said. “You look all fagged out. You’re