His Australian Heiress by Margaret Way Read Free Book Online Page A

thing is, Bren, I don’t think I know what love is.”
    Once her parents had gone, she had known precious little of it. “Coming here opens up old wounds,” he said with concern.
    â€œI feel it’s necessary, Bren. Poppa thought it a good place to die. My parents died not all that far from here, down the mountain. I own this house free and clear. There are answers here. I intend to find them. The chinks in the armour that open up and as quickly close might become clear to me.”
    â€œMaybe you’re frightened to remember what you believe you know? You were only twelve, Charlotte, but you weren’t any ordinary twelve-year-old,” Brendon said.
    â€œIt’s called sublimation, isn’t it? I know my mother didn’t trust Aunt Patricia. I mean, she really didn’t trust her. Why not? Things can never go back to the way they were when trust is lost. The relationship becomes different. What did Aunt Patricia do or say about my mother? She was always making little jokes that weren’t in the least funny. I do remember Poppa once telling her very loudly to ‘shut the hell up!’ ”
    â€œI can imagine!” Bren exclaimed, visualizing the lion roaring. Sir Reginald cranky and displeased would have been something to see. “Jealousy, that might be the answer, Charlie. Your aunt didn’t have your mother’s beauty or charisma.”
    â€œAnd she could have had a hand in trying to destroy my mother’s reputation,” Charlotte said, with a kind of resigned sorrow. “If it’s true, I will never accept it. We’re close to what I want to know. They hate me. The affability is sheer window dressing. I can never trust them.”
    Her attitude was inherently dramatic, part and parcel of her passionate nature. “You don’t trust my family, either, Charlie,” Brendon reminded her. “But we’re the ones who are going to keep you safe.” It was a solemn vow.

Chapter 3
    T he family was assembled in the huge open-plan living room with the mountainous panorama a breathtaking backdrop. Conrad Mansfield; his wife, Patricia; their son, Simon, a good-looking young man with a thick thatch of gold hair streaked with flaxen, were in attendance. Simon was wearing his familiar supercilious expression. His girlfriend was a surprise. She was a complete departure from the glamorous, on-the-vapid-side socialites Simon had always favoured. She was seated in front of his standing figure in a pose reminiscent of a Victorian portrait with one of Simon’s hands held firmly on her shoulder.
    â€œMy dear girl!” Uncle Conrad rose from his armchair, the genial host. Since Charlotte had last seen him, he had allowed his copious mane, a premature white, to grow long enough to form a ponytail. His beautifully trimmed darker beard and moustache only heightened the image of the literary lion, an image reinforced by his slightly eccentric but expensive clothing. Like his late father, Sir Reginald, the premature white was very flattering to his handsome, well-preserved face and his bright green eyes. He looked good. “How wonderful to see you, Charlotte,” he enthused. A man determined to play it right. “You, too, Brendon.”
    It was an Academy Award performance, yet Charlotte felt as nervous as a high-strung cat. The earlier bout of panic was threatening to re-erupt. She couldn’t allow that. It made her feel fragile. Her uncle might not have shown the slightest interest in her these past years, indeed her entire life, but he was her uncle, not a potential assassin. The thought calmed her. Her uncle hadn’t been responsible for her parents’ death. Her grandfather had simply made a ruthless decision in bypassing his remaining son as his heir. Obviously she had soaked up some of her grandfather’s harsh attitude. Nevertheless, she wasn’t going to play this monstrous game of happy families. It was sheer