look up at him. His fingers were under her chin, cupping her face to meet his eyes.
A girl could drown in those eyes. A girl might want to. Anything but face this scorching, ghastly pain.
‘I…my sister and I have been…apart for ever,’ she whispered. ‘We don’t…’
‘I see.’ He didn’t. His voice said he was totally confused, and Tammy made a Herculean effort to make her voice work.
‘My sister and I didn’t get on.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’ She let herself stay motionless for one more long moment, as if drawing strength from the warmth and size of him. Then she hauled herself bleakly together and pulled away. He released her, but the way he did it was curious. It was almost as if he was reluctant to let her go.
Questions. She had to ask questions. She needed to know—but she didn’t want to.
She must.
‘You said…she died in a skiing accident?’
‘Yes.’ His face was still calm. She was standing two feet back from him, gazing up into his eyes as if trying to read him. Trying to find some sort of comfort in his calmness.
‘H…how?’
‘They took out a bobsled.’ His face tightened for a minute, as if in anger. ‘They took it on a black run—a run for experienced skiers only. Bobsledding in those conditions is madness. I’m afraid…I’m afraid they’d been drinking.’
The knot of pain in Tammy’s stomach tightened. Oh, you fool, she thought bleakly. Lara, you fool. It took an almost overpowering effort of will to go on. ‘So…’ It was so hard to speak. It was as if her voice didn’t belong to her. ‘She…Lara was married to your cousin?’
‘Yes.’
‘And your cousin died, too?’
‘Jean-Paul died, yes.’
She couldn’t see what he was thinking. His face was still impassive. Was there pain there? She couldn’t tell.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I guess we’re both sorry.’
He had a nice voice, she thought dispassionately. Deep and rumbly. It was tinged with what sounded almost like a French accent, but it was very slight. He’d been well schooled in English.
She wasn’t supposed to be thinking about this man’s voice. Or maybe she was still using thoughts to distract herself.
Lara was dead.
What else had he said? They had a baby?
‘I can’t believe that you don’t know about this.’ Marc’s voice was suddenly rough, tinged again with anger. ‘That your mother didn’t tell you.’
‘My mother knows?’
‘Of course your mother knows. I flew her to Broitenburg for the funeral. They were buried with a State funeral last month.’
Her mother would have enjoyed that, Tammy thought inconsequentially, going off on another tangent as her mind darted back and forth, trying to avoid pain. She thought of Isobelle Dexter de Bier as a grieving mother at a royal funeral. Isobelle would have done it brilliantly. She could almost guess what her mother would have worn. It would have been something lacy and black and extremely elegant. She’d have worn a veil, and there’d have been a wispy handkerchief dabbing at eyes that welled with tears that were never allowed to fall.
‘Was…was she alone?’
‘Your stepfather came with her.’
Oh, of course. Which stepfather was this? Tammy bit her lip, anger welling. Isobelle didn’t bother to marry her lovers any more, which was just as well. Tammy’s mother had been up to husband number four when Lara was born.
Lara was dead?
Lara was buried.
And there’d been a funeral. She should have been there, she thought bleakly. She should have been there as she’d been there for Lara since birth. Of all the things her mother had done to her, maybe this was the worst. To bury Lara with only her mother…
‘You were fond of your sister?’ Marc didn’t understand. He was staring at her with the same confusion she was feeling—maybe even more so.
‘Once,’ she said brusquely. ‘A long time ago.’
‘You’ve completely lost contact?’
‘Yes.’
‘And with your mother?’
‘Do you think my mother would admit she has a daughter who was a tree surgeon? That she has a daughter who looks like this?’
His calm gaze raked her from the toes up, but his face stayed impassive and his voice stayed gravely calm. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. ‘I can’t say,’ he told her. ‘Maybe not.’
Maybe definitely. ‘Look, I think I need time to take this in.’ She was glaring at him now. Maybe her anger was misdirected, but she needed space to come to terms with what she’d learned. ‘Have you got a card or something to tell me where I can contact you? I need…’
She hesitated, but she knew what she needed. To be alone. She’d learned early that solitude was the only solution to pain. It didn’t stop anything, but alone she could haul her features back into control, adjust the mask and get herself ready to face the world again. ‘Can you just leave me be? Contact me tomorrow if you must. But for now…’
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘I need to be back in Sydney tonight, and then I’m leaving for Broitenburg immediately,’ Marc told her. ‘I’ve brought the release papers with me. You need to sign them. Then I’ll take Henry back to Broitenburg and let you have all the solitude you want.’
CHAPTER TWO
HE HADN’T expected this. Marc hadn’t known what to expect of Lara’s sister but it certainly wasn’t the woman standing before him.
She looked bereft, he thought, and he accepted that she really hadn’t known about her sister’s death. Which led him to Isobelle. Their mother.
What sort of mother would not tell one daughter about another’s death?
It wasn’t any of his business, he told himself savagely. His job was to get the papers signed and get out of here. Heaven knew a trip to Australia at this time was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Jean-Paul’s death had left a huge mess at home. He needed to collect the child and go.
He just needed the signature, but, judging by the look of devastation on the face of the girl before him, it was going to be tricky.
Maybe he could just push the papers in front of her and say sign. Maybe she would. She looked so shocked he could push her right over and she wouldn’t fight back.
He shouldn’t do it—he should give her time—but it was his country he was fighting for. Henry’s country. Henry’s inheritance.
And his own freedom.
‘I need you to sign,’ he repeated, this time more gently, and he motioned to the car. ‘I have the papers here.’
‘What papers?’
‘The release papers.’
‘I still don’t understand what you’re talking about.’ She was standing as if she’d been turned to stone. Her face was totally devoid of colour and he thought she looked as if she was about to topple over. She looked sick.
He made an involuntary gesture of comfort, holding out a hand—and then he pulled it away. What was he thinking