Bonnie groaned silently, regretting her decision to leave her hair half down that day. Over the years, her hair had caused her as much, perhaps even more trouble than her figure. A flamboyant gold colour, its naturally tight curls made it impossible to style. She hated it short yet, long, it grew in a wild spiralled abundance which, when left totally out, gave her an untamed look that men were quick to misinterpret.
‘I suppose I should have guessed,’ came Neil’s cryptic mutter as he stalked over to snatch a mug down out of the automatic dispenser.
‘Guessed what?’
“That you’re having it off with the boss.’
Bonnie was speechless. OK, so Edgar Gray was a womaniser. Everyone in Blackrock Beach knew that. Even at fifty, with his receding hairline and spreading waistline, he still had considerable success with the opposite sex. Women liked him and he had three ex-wives to prove it. Even Bonnie liked him, but only as her boss. Edgar had always had the good sense not to cross the invisible line she had drawn up the day he’d hired her.
‘You might think you can pull the wool over everyone else’s eyes around here with your cool touch me-not act,’ Neil swept on nastily, ‘but I used to drink at the same pub as your hubby on a Friday night, and I know just what you are. He used to worry himself sick that you were seeing men behind his back. Men, honey. Not a man. You’re a closet nympho, Bonnie Merrick. I know it and you know it. I just didn’t think you’d sleep with an old geyser like Edgar. I thought a hot-looking bird like yourself would be more selective.’
All the blood had drained from Bonnie’s face. She tried to say something, tried to deny Neil’s appalling accusations, but she could not seem to find her voice.
Neil laughed at her shocked expression. ‘You’ve got it down pat, haven’t you? That wide-eyed innocent look. I’ll bet you fooled your husband real good to begin with, just like you fooled me here for a while. You know, I always wondered why Edgar hired you, a girl with no sales experience at all. But you had the experience he was looking for, didn’t you?’
‘You’re mad!’ she blurted out. ‘Do you realise if I told Edgar what you’ve just said he’d fire you?’
‘You think so, honey? I doubt it. Even if by some remote possibility I was wrong, dear old Edgar would be so flattered. After I apologised sincerely then told him it was all an honest enough mistake, he’d give me another lecture while underneath he’d be cock-a-hoop that people still thought he was such a stud.’
‘You’re insane!’
‘Heck, no, honey, I’ve never been saner. I knew there had to be a good reason why you kept turning me down. Now I know why. It’s nothing personal. It’s just business, isn’t it? I reckon I’ve also finally figured out how come you’ve become such a whiz at selling houses. When a guy buys a place from you, he gets a bonus, doesn’t he? One thing I’d like to know, though: do you screw the sucker before he signs on the dotted line or after?’
Bonnie almost threw her coffee all over him. At the last second, she gave him a contemptuous glare then whirled away to pour it down the sink. Without looking back, she marched back to her desk where she snatched up her bag and car keys before sweeping on to Reception.
‘Daphne, has Edgar given you the keys to the McClelland place yet?’ she asked the receptionist whose job it was to keep all the keys.
‘Yes, I think so. Yes, here they are. The address is written on the tag. I have no idea where that road is, though, do you?’
‘Edgar gave us all detailed directions so we wouldn’t get lost. Apparently, it’s only five minutes from here but tucked away down a deserted bush track.’
‘Is that where you’re off to now?’
‘Sure is.’
It was only ten-thirty. Mr Plum-in-the-mouth Moneybags Vine-Hall wouldn’t arrive before twelve at the earliest. She’d make sure she was back by then with her best the-client-is-always-right smile in place, plus a possible decision over what she was going to do about Neil.
Meanwhile, she badly needed a breath of fresh air.
‘Going to show it to that man who rang from Sydney a little while ago?’ Daphne enquired eagerly.
‘Good lord, no. No, I’m not expecting him till lunchtime. I should definitely be back by then but if, for some weird and wonderful reason, I’m delayed, look after him for me, will you? His name’s Vine-Hall.’
‘My pleasure,’ Daphne cooed. ‘His voice was yummy.’
Bonnie laughed at her youthful optimism. Daphne was only nineteen. ‘My experience with yummy male telephone voices,’ she informed the bubbly brunette, ‘is that they’re connected to very fat, very bald and very un-yummy men. Mr Vine-Hall, I can assure you, will prove to be a very disappointing specimen of the male species.’
CHAPTER TWO
BONNIE’S frustration was momentarily forgotten the second she stepped out of the office on to the pavement and glanced across the main street to the beach beyond.
Blackrock Beach on a clear sunny day was something to behold. The sparkling blue sea, the clean white sands, the stately Norfolk pines in the foreground, the rugged cliffs curving round at each end of the beach—it was a view bar none. Bonnie had lived most of her life here and she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.
Sighing, she turned and strode round to the car park behind the office, wishing as she went that Neil Campion lived somewhere else. Today, he’d moved from being a minor irritation in her life to a major problem. Bonnie wasn’t sure what to do about him yet, but she knew one thing. She wasn’t going to let him win this month’s sales competition. No, siree. The pewter mug for November was going to sit on her mantelpiece alongside October’s if it was the last thing she did.
Her decision to visit the McClelland house this morning was not just to get away from Neil. Neither was it to waste time. She was determined to find some waysome angle—of selling that monstrosity. They had few enough new listings this month and she couldn’t afford to waste a single opportunity.
It was to be thanked for that she hadn’t totally alienated Mr Moneybags earlier on. Imagine having stupidly handed him over to someone else. Daphne would probably have put him through to Neil. Bonnie shuddered at the thought.
Five minutes later, she was turning her Ford Falcon on to the narrow dirt track which led down to the McClelland house, grimacing when a cloud of dust rose from under the wheels to settle over the shiny green paintwork. Darn. Now she would have to take Mr Vine-Hall around in a dirty car. How irritating!
Bonnie automatically eased her foot off the accelerator, which was just as well because the surface was like corrugated iron. The thought of bringing clients down this excuse for a road was daunting enough, but when it came to an abrupt end in front of the oldest, tallest and rustiest pair of iron gates Bonnie had ever seen she just stared in disbelief.
Edgar hadn’t mentioned the gates. Or the crumbling stone wall. Neither were they in the photograph. Bonnie could well understand why. The house beyond was bad enough but, combined with the Count Dracula gates, the whole caboodle would give anyone the willies.
Shaking her head, she climbed out of the car and peered through the rusty rungs at the house itself. Under a bright November sun it didn’t look nearly as spooky as it had in the photograph, but still, it was hardly inviting. The once white walls were a grimy grey, with paint peeling off them. Something green and fungusy was growing all over the roof. The guttering was drooping in places and the garden, if one could call it a garden, was an overgrown disaster area.
A