Australia: Wicked Mistresses(74)
She had no choice. “If you think we’re just going to pick up where we left off…” she muttered furiously. “Your three million bought this—” her fingers flicked the folded contract in his hand “—not me!”
He raised his hands. “That’s your choice. Nothing will happen that you don’t want.”
That was cold comfort. They both knew she was incapable of resisting him once he started touching her.
“Be at Aotea Marina at eight a.m. on Saturday.”
Great. She’d have to spend the three-hour ferry trip pretending she didn’t know him—not that she would be talking to him. “The ferries don’t leave from Aotea Marina,” she said testily.
“Aotea Marina. Eight a.m sharp,” Nick said firmly and tucked the contract into his jacket pocket.
Eight
“Something wrong?” Nick asked from the wheel of the Liberte 1V luxury cruiser.
Jordan closed her cell phone, frowning. They were an hour out from Wellington and her phone had just died in the middle of a text. She normally got reception most of the way across the Strait on the big public ferries.
She looked up into his questioning gaze. “One of the girls in our Outreach program has gone missing. Russ wants us to keep an eye out for her.”
Letitia was fourteen. She came from a large family who’d hit hard times. They were loving and kind people who qualified for the support the church and the Elpis Foundation offered—and they gave much.
But two nights ago after a fight with her parents over a cell phone—Letitia wanted one and they couldn’t afford it—she’d left home and hadn’t been heard from since.
Nick grunted. “Probably just hanging with her friends.”
Jordan hoped so. In fact she could remember running away to friends to cool off herself at fourteen. But there was little comparison between the places she’d hung out and the options open to a young girl alone on the streets of Wellington.
“She came out here a couple of weeks ago. We had a Working Bee.”
“At the lodge?”
Jordan broke off a little of the fluffy croissant on the plate in front of her. Nick had promised her a decent lunch on the floating palace, but for now, she was making do with coffee and still-warm croissants. “We’ve had a couple. Mostly picking up rubbish around the place and pulling up old carpet. Letitia had a ball and hasn’t stopped talking about it, according to her parents.”
“And Russ thinks she might have come back?”
Jordan sipped her coffee. “I don’t see how. She has no money for the ferry, or the water taxi from Picton.”
Talk of the Working Bee reminded her…“Do you mind if I bring back some stuff that we left last time? Some tools and food we were keeping for the next Working Bee. I’ll bring it back today and get it out of your way.”
He nodded briefly, but if he’d noticed the reference to coming back today, he didn’t say anything.
Jordan had arrived at Aotea Square as instructed at eight sharp. Nick helped her aboard and then immersed himself in skippering the cruiser out of the harbor and into Cook Strait, that turbulent stretch of water linking the North and South Islands of New Zealand. He estimated the trip to their destination to be under four hours, plenty of time to make it back today.
And that was the only option, as far as Jordan was concerned. She was still miffed at his strong-arm tactics to get her here but she would play along—for now.
“Why were you holding Working Bees there when you intended to auction it off?”
“I hadn’t intended to sell it at that stage. I’d planned to develop a retreat for families who never seem to have enough money to take a holiday.” She felt her cheeks color. The idea seemed to have merit at the time she’d purchased the lodge, but in the cold light of day…“It was a pipe dream.” She lifted her shoulders carelessly.
“Why?”
Jordan glanced at him. Nick looked like he was born on a boat. He wore tan chinos, moccasins without socks and a casual white shirt that he’d left untucked. A world removed from his suits and crisp business shirts. The breeze ruffled his dark hair, spinning it with dark gold tips. With the backdrop of the sparkling sea, his hands strong and capable on the wheel, he was master of his destiny.
And she’d do well to stop admiring his physical attributes and remember that she was here under duress. “I hadn’t thought it through. Needy people don’t want a holiday, they want tangible support, support they can see in their wallets and on their table. I meant well, but…” Jordan had no idea, really. How could she with her upbringing?
Nick frowned. “Doesn’t sound like such a bad idea to me. Is it only the well-heeled who deserve holidays?”
“No, of course not.” She lapsed into silence, feeling foolish.
“Why did you change your mind?”
“The big boy toys were a bit light.” He raised his brows.
“The auction,” she qualified. “We expected a few more high-value items to put up for the charity auction. When they didn’t eventuate, I thought the property might provide a draw card and fetch a good price for the coffers.”
“Did you get what you hoped for?”
More time with you? The thought popped into her brain with the speed of light. That was how it had turned out but Jordan knew that wasn’t what she needed. She merely nodded.
“Why all the secrecy, Jordan? Most women in your position can’t wait to let the world know about the good works they do.”
She knew that, but she’d also had a lifetime of people looking down on her because she was rich. “It’s better that way. No one takes me seriously but this—the Foundation—is a serious business. The minute people realize that I’m involved, a lot of the support would dry up.” She looked at him candidly. “For example, did you see an amusing headline about me three weeks ago? The Penny-Pinching Million-Hair-ess!”
Nick nodded. “Something to do with buying up shampoo on special.”
“A woman took a picture of me with half a dozen bottles of cut-price hair products in the supermarket. Neither she nor the rag she gave the photo to bothered to find out that I’d bought them for one of Russ’s jumble sales. I often do things like that, but maybe I should cover myself in sackcloth and ashes.”
“That would be a crime,” he quipped, but there was genuine sympathy in his face.
She turned away from it. “I brought it on myself, the way I behaved—used to. People don’t want to see me as anything other than a rich bitch.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself,” Nick commented. “It’s a lot more than most people are doing.”
He was right, she supposed. Pity it had taken her so long to get a conscience.
“Tell me about Elpis. It means hope, doesn’t it? Something to do with Pandora’s box?”
“Technically, it was a jar,” Jordan murmured, surprised at his interest. “A curse given by Zeus to punish mankind. It was entrusted to Pandora and when she opened it, all the good spirits were lost to mankind, except for hope.” She shrugged self-consciously. “Something like that, anyway.” Russ’s interest in Greek mythology had inspired the name.
“And you set up the Foundation, financed the lot?”
Jordan nodded. There were no prizes for guessing what was going through his mind, that it was Thorne commercial real estate her trust fund was built on. Paid for by his father, so ultimately him. “Yes, it was from the trust fund that came from your father’s land. But I think you know that.”
“Do you think I’m after reclaiming that money, Jordan?” His tone was casual, his long considering look anything but.
She searched his face for hidden meaning, liking his directness. “No.”
“Do you feel guilty about it? Is that why you give it away?”
That had occurred to her before. She had plenty of money apart from this particular trust fund. What had spurred her into suddenly developing a philanthropic streak a year ago, when this fund matured? “Do you think I’m guilty?”
It took a while but when it came, his smile was warm and melted her insides. “Guilty of being too good and too hard on yourself, maybe.”
Too good? She wondered if anyone, especially her father, would see it that way if her torrid affair with Nick Thorne was discovered. “I’m no angel. I just have too much time on my hands.”
“Did you never have any plans or ambitions of your own?” he asked.
Jordan liked art, which played right into her indulgent father’s hands. A hobby rather than a career choice. “Daddy didn’t exactly imbue me with a good work ethic.” The sad thing was that Jordan had let him get away with that for so long. Taking his handouts, indulging in every pleasure, pleasing herself.
“Surely he could have set you up in one of his businesses somewhere.”
She laughed out loud. “He doesn’t believe in women working. How he gets away without sexual discrimination charges for the lack of female employees—especially in the corporate sector—is beyond me.” She glanced at him sideways. “And you are the very last person I should have shared that with.”
Nick gave her another of his long, assessing looks. “I’m on your side, Jordan.”