Lady Ellen was responding very graciously to the secretary who ushered them to what looked like a men’s club private meeting room. Five dark-green leather chairs were placed around an oval table of highly polished mahogany. Bookshelves full of serious leather tomes lined the walls. An elegant traymobile was set up with various refreshments.
Five chairs. Would the secretary take one of them or was the fifth chair for Jack Maguire? Had he been bluffing about being at this meeting yesterday, giving them a night of worry as a payback for the rotten feelings her mother had undoubtedly inflicted on him with her letter?
The secretary directed them to the three chairs around one end of the table and proceeded to the tray-mobile, asking for their preferred drinks. Sally and Jane decided on simple glasses of water but their mother went for the whole ceremonial fuss of requesting Earl Grey tea with a slice of lemon. They were all served with little plates of finger sandwiches and dainty pastries. Neither Sally nor Jane felt like eating anything but their mother suddenly found a cheerful appetite. Apparently she had decided there was no longer any cause for concern.
Satisfied with her ministering, the secretary excused herself to go and tell Mr. Newell they were waiting for him.
“Will she come back?” Jane whispered anxiously, nodding to the fifth chair.
“I don’t know,” Sally murmured, nowhere near as sure as her mother that Jack Maguire was out of the picture.
“What are you girls muttering about?” their mother demanded.
Jane instantly shrank back in her chair.
“We’re just a bit nervous about what’s going to happen next,” Sally answered.
“Obviously we are the beneficiaries of your father’s will.” Declared with confidence.
“Yes,” Sally quickly agreed. Raising doubts would instantly snap that good humour, so she kept them to herself. Better to keep quiet and simply wait, but she couldn’t help feeling tense. Until the fifth chair was occupied by someone else, the spectre of Blackjack Maguire was hanging over it, certainly darkening Jane’s dreams.
As for her own…what did she want?
The bottom-line truth was she wanted to see Jack Maguire in that chair even though it meant he was a threat to the life she’d had up until now. She wanted him to get something from his father. It would be wrong if he didn’t. But more than anything else she wanted to see him again, wanted to feel the physical thrill of his presence, wanted him to pursue an acquaintance with her as he had suggested yesterday.
It was undoubtedly sheer madness to be craving some involvement with him, given the family history. Her mother would have a fit if she knew. Jane would be frightened for her. Yet the strong tug of the man kept pulling at her mind, her heart. Her whole body buzzed with excitement at the thought of connecting with him. No one else had ever affected her like this.
Maybe it was a dark dream, better set aside.
She’d probably be wiser after this meeting.
If he came.
Her heart leapt as the door to the meeting room opened, but the man who entered was not Jack Maguire. He was tall and lean, meticulously dressed in a dark-grey suit, white shirt, dark-red and grey striped tie, the tip of a matching dark-red handkerchief peaking out of his coat pocket. Sally judged him to be in his fifties, grey hair getting sparse, making his high forehead even higher, rimless spectacles resting on a hawkish nose, narrow jaw, thin lips.
This had to be the solicitor, Victor Newell. She’d never met him but he certainly had the distinguished air of authority that went with heading one of the most reputable legal firms in Sydney—the kind of man who was accustomed to people coming to him, not the other way around.
He gestured to someone still outside in the corridor, and Sally held her breath, wanting it to be Jack Maguire, no matter what that meant.
Yes!
It was him!
A weird exultation bubbled through her.
She told herself she was glad that his father had not disowned him.
But the truth was far more personal than that.
He was here, in the same room as herself, and there was a chance that something might happen between them.
The moment of truth, Jack thought sardonically, stepping inside and sweeping his gaze around the three women, waiting for the reading of the will.
Lady Ellen had lightened her funeral garb this morning. Her black hat had a white edging around the rim, matching the white edging around the lapels of her suit coat—the stylish grande dame. Her eyes flared hatred and her mouth compressed to an unattractive thin line when she saw him.
Jack smiled.
Sally wasn’t wearing a hat, her glorious red-gold curls tumbling free, and Jack instantly envisaged them spread in disarray across a pillow. She wore a sage-green linen shirtmaker dress, very prim and proper for this occasion, though the button-through style was quite provocative since he instantly started imagining undoing all her buttons. The colour matched her eyes, which were pinned on him with guarded interest. No thinning of those lush lips. He wondered how she’d respond if he crushed them with his own.
The younger sister looked about to faint with fright, staring at him as though he was the devil himself, complete with horns and pitchfork. Her lips were parted, gasping in air. She wore a beige outfit—no hat—and with her brown hair and brown eyes, seemed totally colourless next to Sally. Jack had the impression Jane wished she could disappear. He actually felt a stab of sympathy for her. Which was absurd. She’d had a good twenty-one years with the Maguire wealth.
“Good morning, all,” he said cheerfully, strolling around the table to the chair facing the two sisters.
Sally was the only one who returned the greeting, and promptly flushed when she realised she was on her own in acknowledging his presence. But she didn’t shoot an apologetic look at her mother. Her gaze remained fixed on him, a rebellious glint in her eyes.
Excitement fizzed through Jack. She had fire. And backbone. A mind of her own. The idea of pursuing a connection with her grew stronger legs. It had been circling around in his mind since yesterday’s funeral service. As perverse as it was of him to find Sally Maguire so desirable, there was no denying the sexual chemistry she’d stirred. He’d wondered if it was because of who she was—forbidden territory. It certainly added a piquancy to the attraction. But right now it was pure gut stuff. Everything about her appealed.
He knew this morning’s meeting could very well turn him into a hated antagonist in her mind. Any normal man-woman approach to her would be wiped out. But that only made the situation between them even more interesting, challenging, exciting. He needed to get into her mind, find out what was important to her, play on it.
Victor Newell made a little ceremony of greeting each one of them before taking the chair at the head of the table, directly facing Lady Ellen, who obviously took this to mean she was the major player in the will, throwing Jack a snooty, condescending look as though she imagined he was here for a few insignificant crumbs.
The solicitor leaned forward with an earnest air, his hands linked over the manila folder which contained Sir Leonard Maguire’s last will and testament. He addressed Lady Ellen.
“Please accept my sympathy over Sir Leonard’s passing. I know he expected to live for many more years. It is most unfortunate that his time was cut short.”
She nodded with sombre dignity.
Victor sighed and opened the folder. “This will was made and signed a year ago. It’s very simple. There are only two beneficiaries. It reads…to my son, Jack Ryan Maguire, I give one dollar…”
“One dollar!” A wild peal of laughter erupted from Lady Ellen’s throat. Her eyes danced malicious triumph at Jack. “How brilliant of Leonard! You