Australia: Wicked Mistresses(75)

Her heart sank because something in her knew he spoke the truth. Suddenly his words at the ball the other night—I want more—took on ominous meaning. This wasn’t just about sex or resuming their previous relationship. Somehow, for whatever reason, Nick Thorne wanted something more from her. And that was going to cause her heart all sorts of problems.

Jordan stayed silent, pretending he hadn’t said that.

“You never wanted to get away, strike out on your own?”

“I’d miss Mom too much.” That was a little twist on the truth. Syrius was a social animal whereas Elanor preferred home life. It was common knowledge he’d had a mistress for several years, but his wife and daughter always came first. The fact was, her mother would be more alone than ever if Jordan left Wellington.

It was a beautiful day with none of the bad weather and big seas that Cook Strait was famous for. Jordan asked Nick how long he’d had the big boat. He told her this was a charter.

“I had something similar but sold it three years ago. I never seem to find the time these days.”

“Will you take over from your father when he retires?” She knew her father and Randall Thorne were similar in age. Her mother made noises about Syrius retiring but Jordan privately thought they’d haul him out of his office in a body bag. That he had no son to take over from him was a source of great sorrow for her father, and something he constantly alluded to as proof of Randall Thorne’s sins.

“That’s what I’m working on.”

She wondered why he sounded so grim, but he didn’t elaborate.

After awhile, Jordan explored the plush vessel, surprised at the level of luxury on board. The stateroom was lavishly furnished, the kitchen nearly as good as hers at home, the bathrooms and hot tub inviting. To her surprise, she found two big cabins, both with beautifully decked out queen-size beds.

Jordan fully intended to ensure they got back to Wellington today but it was comforting to know she had a choice.

They weighed anchor in an inlet at the very tip of the Marlborough Sounds with the lovely name of Curious Cove. True to his word, Nick provided a fantastic picnic of chewy focaccia bread, tedaggio cheese, cold meats and crayfish. For dessert, there was a warm blackberry tart. There was wine, too, but Jordan declined, feeling she needed a clear head about her with Nick around, especially when he wasn’t drinking.

After lunch, they made their way through the beautiful bays leading to the famous Queen Charlotte Sound, and finally they arrived at the jetty that led to the lodge.

“Don’t expect too much,” Jordan warned as she packed away the food while he prepared to tie up the boat. “No one has lived here since it went out of business seven years ago. The owner died, someone in the family contested the will and it’s been tied up in an estate wrangle till I bought it two months ago.”

The jetty was quaint but serviceable, but Nick’s smile faded fast when confronted with the deteriorating facade of the house. Weatherboards missing or rotting away, crying out for a lick of paint, broken windows…

She quickly drew him away from the spot where the veranda sagged alarmingly, handing him the keys before he bolted.

“How often have you been here?” he asked dazedly.

“Three or four times, twice with the Working Bee.” There was a tense moment when she wondered if he’d actually rip up the contract before setting a foot over the threshold. The old house was in terrible condition, but there were some lovely features inside and the setting made up for it.

They spent the first hour on the upper level and discovered the three bathrooms needed serious remodeling and plumbing. The seven bedrooms were dated but dry and she noted a little more enthusiasm from Nick when he saw the views they had to offer. From every window, hills toasted by the sun gave way to slopes of dense dark green forest, rising out of the network of sparkling waterways.

Then it was downstairs to the three living areas. There was a huge room that could almost have been a ballroom, complete with some lovely leadlight windows, all of which seemed to be intact. A smaller room with a conservatory boasted wonderful water views. Finally, the large open dining room with built-in rimu wood benches and tables, leading into the kitchen. The wallpaper was peeling, the paint on the kitchen cupboards too, but it was big and bright and airy.

Jordan moved into the kitchen, hoping their efforts last trip had eliminated the rodent problem. The large sports bag she’d left on the kitchen bench last time was open, a box of teabags sitting beside it with some of the contents spilling out onto the bench.

Funny, she could swear she’d packed everything away before leaving.

“I’ve seen something like this before,” Nick called from the dining room.

Jordan looked up to see him gazing at the large bold mural on the wall.

She zipped up the bag, wondering which of the kids had nicked her large Tupperware container filled with biscuits.

“Something similar, anyway,” Nick said, peering closely at the mural. “No signature.”

Jordan felt no need to volunteer the fact that she was the artist. Drawing was just a hobby, not something she took seriously. She had been rained in on her second trip here, alone without the group. Sketching seemed a great way to pass the time, although she fully expected the wall to be painted over sometime soon.

Nick turned around. “This was in your apartment. Not this exact one,” he gestured at the mural “but something similar. Same tone, a couple dancing.” His face suddenly cleared. “You did this.”

Jordan hoisted the bag. “Uh-huh.” She wondered where to look for the other tools and paraphernalia the Working Bee had left.

“These are good,” Nick enthused. “Do you sell them?”

“No. It’s just a hobby.” Jordan frowned at the sight of the old black kettle sitting on the bench. She thought she’d emptied it and set it on the gas cooker. She reached out to touch the kettle.

“How do you expect anyone to take you seriously if you don’t yourself?”

Jordan didn’t answer him because she was distracted by the warmth of the kettle. She spread her fingers on the belly of the vessel, frowning. “It’s hot,” she said, more to herself than him.

Nick came over to lean on the bench. “It’s sitting in direct sunlight.”

Right, and it shouldn’t be. There were matches on the bench by the gas cooker. “I wonder…I could swear I packed everything in that bag before we left last time and zipped it up. And there’s a big box of biscuits missing.”

Nick shrugged, his interest waning. He wandered over to the huge open pantry, his nose wrinkling in distaste.

Jordan nearly smiled. Rodent droppings, perhaps, or a corpse in one of the many mousetraps she’d set.

There were no cups in the sink. If there was an intruder, they were house proud. “I’m thinking of Letitia, the missing girl.”

“More likely to be a hunter or tramper. This is on the Queen Charlotte Track, isn’t it?”

The Queen Charlotte Track was one of New Zealand’s most popular tourist destinations, a seventy kilometer walk through lush subtropical native bush, showcasing the tranquil and stunning scenery of the Marlborough Sounds. Many thousands took to the track all year around.

“The door was locked,” Jordan pointed out, unconvinced. The house seemed secure downstairs, but perhaps someone could access one of the broken windows upstairs from the crumbling exterior fire escape. She tried to call Russ to see if the girl had returned home but there was still no cell phone reception, even on Nick’s phone.

“Atmospheric conditions.” He shrugged.

They decided to explore the grounds. After all, that’s what they were there for. But now they had an additional purpose: looking for Letitia.

They wandered the expansive and overgrown grounds for the next few hours. Nick wasn’t much of a gardener but even he could see that under the neglect, this was a pearl of a property. There were treasures everywhere. Human faces carved into punga fern trunks, hammocks entwined with ivy, perishing between their supports, stone seats set in the most glorious positions to catch the late sun over the web of waterways and forested cliffs.

Jordan spotted a plastic wrapper; the brand of biscuits that were supposed to be in the Tupperware container in the kitchen. “It could have been there for ages,” Nick cautioned, not wanting to get her hopes up.

“Our Working Bee went through here with forks and bags, picking up all the rubbish.”

Perched on the hill behind the lodge was an old rickety chicken coop, the straw molding and smelly. And there was the empty Tupperware container, sitting in the corner.

“It must be Letitia.”

Although Nick was skeptical, he accompanied her, clambering around the steep slopes and thick scrub high above the house, calling the girl’s name.

No one answered their calls. Finally, Jordan looked at her watch and gasped with dismay. “Are we going to get home before dark?” He’d told her it was a condition of the charter that the boat be moored after dark.

“If you really think she’s around here somewhere, then we’d best stay and have another look in the morning,” Nick said casually as they started down the hill. “Besides, I hired the boat for two days.”

Jordan stopped abruptly and turned her head. “Two days?”