This book was deftly written.  The story has it all - mystery, intrigue, betrayal and romance. It also has well developed characters from the hero/heroine to the traditional wicked mother-in-law.  The secondary characters of Quentin and Catherine were a positive addition to the storyline.  They all leave an indelible impression on the reader. This was a very enjoyable read and I look forward to the next book by the author.

Rating: 4.5 Hearts

© Love Romances, 2001-2003. All Rights Reserved.

Kelley

     Twenty years of neglect had taken a heavy toll.

     Surveying the ruin that was Drumullen, Ethan Calloway shook his head in disbelief. He'd not really believed Aunt Maura when she'd told him his father closed the house the day he married Stella. And apart from ordering all the furniture be covered with dust covers, no one had ever set foot inside. Looking around him he could believe it.

     The day his father remarried was the day Ethan walked away from home and country, a bitter disillusioned man. The day he vowed he'd never again trust any woman.

     Walking through inch thick dust and festooning cobwebs, he swore he heard his mother's sigh.

     Man it was going to take a power of effort and money to restore the old house. But neglect aside, he was fiercely glad Stella's hand hadn't tainted this link to his past.

      It had taken his father to do that.

      Ethan aimed a frustrated kick at the banister rail.

      Who the hell was this Elise Devereau? And why had his father left her a half share of Drumullen and its surrounding acreage? The rich Waikato farmland around the old house might now be his, but in leaving a half share in the homestead to a stranger, his father broke a trust spanning generations.

      To punish a wayward son?

      Grimshaw, the family lawyer was as much in the dark as Ethan.

      A low hum of a car penetrated his bleak thoughts. He walked to the window to see who was violating his privacy. From his vantage point he saw a slender, dark haired woman emerge from a yellow car and gingerly pick her way across broken paving and up the steps to the front door.

      He wracked his memory banks, but came up blank.

      With perverse curiosity he watched her open the door and step inside. On the upstairs gallery, he stepped back into a deep alcove, never taking his eyes from the interloper. From there he monitored her progress as she crossed the foyer and climbed the stairs.

       A determined thief?

       She carried a flat parcel and obviously knew where she was headed. As she came closer, her delicate features were easier to read. That peaches and cream complexion had never seen an Antipodean summer or he missed his guess. A retroussé nose and page-boy haircut gave her an otherworldly air.

      Halfway up the stairs she ripped open the paper on the parcel she carried and, frowning he resisted the urge to make his presence known. She came closer and he realized she held a portrait. Obviously startled, she looked from it to the one hanging in the gallery.

      The hairs on his neck rose.

      This pretty intruder held the missing portrait...Burke Calloway's portrait?

      This was beyond spooky.

      "Who are you?" She asked, looking at the portrait.

      Ethan frowned, annoyed to feel a jolt of arousal at her precise and proper English accent. Damping down the hot instinctive rush, he decided he was due the answers.

      "More to the point, who are you?" He asked from directly behind her.

      "Would you like mine?"

      The humorous question jerked Lynster O'Malley from her tortured thoughts. Sucking in a ragged breath she looked up into the amused face of a stranger.

      "Pardon?" 

      "My handkerchief." He proffered a square of white linen with a telling glance at the maltreated one she clutched in a death grip. "It's stronger and won't tear so easily."

       Was he deranged? To be waylaid by some wacko stranger was all she needed to cap off the whole disastrous week.

       "That's the fourth handkerchief you've shredded in the past hour."

       The wry observation startled her. She glanced at the remains of what had once been a delicate lawn handkerchief. Good grief, she'd torn it to pieces. Embarrassed, she thrust it in her pocket.

       "Waiting for someone?"

      Warily, she studied him. Dressed in a dark business suit, pale blue shirt and maroon tie, he leaned against one of the huge pillars supporting the second storey of Auckland's International Airport. The suit did little to conceal his impressive physique or his aura of leashed power. An aura that jarred with his indolent pose.

      Was he just an airport jock, here to pick up a woman?

      Her eyes narrowed. He didn't look the type, but was there a particular type? She debated the wisdom of answering then decided he looked harmless enough.

     "My fiancé, at least I hope he's still my fiancé," she muttered at last glancing up at the arrivals board. Jon's flight was disembarking.

      "You hope he's your fiancé?" His grey eyes glittered with unholy amusement. "How can you not be sure? That's like saying you're a little bit pregnant."

      Damn! Why had she voiced her doubts to this mocking stranger? Her hand delved in her pocket for the handkerchief but a glance his mocking expression halted the movement. She squirmed with embarrassment. 

     "Jon's been gone two years." She lifted a hand and pushed a swathe of dark hair back behind her ear. "We aren't formally engaged, but he asked me to wait."

       "Hence the maybe engagement?"

        Put like that, it sounded ridiculous.