The more he heard, the less he spoke;
The less he spoke, the more he heard;
Why aren’t we all like that wise old bird?”
She eyed him thoughtfully. “Is that how you know so much about what goes on here? And you’ve only been here—what?—two months?”
He winked. “That’s it, love. Eyes open. Ears open. Mouth shut. That’s how you learn.”
He parked, got out stiffly, and opened Marie’s door as smoothly as if he were a trained chauffeur. Perhaps he’d once been one, for she didn’t know all of his past. Not by half.
He escorted her to a back door and gave the bellpull a smart ring, and then two more.
A girl of about eighteen opened the door. She had curling red hair and freckles all over her ruddy face. She wore navy-blue shorts, a white short-sleeved blouse and a white apron.
“Oh, Rennie,” she said with a grin. “Come in. And this must be your niece. Marie, is it?
“I’m Belinda, but everybody calls me Bindy. I’ll get Mrs. Lipton.”
Bindy talked fast, and she dashed off into a hallway just as fast. Marie stood, dazzled by the huge modern kitchen, gleaming with whiteness and chrome.
“Hello, Rennie,” said a man’s deep voice. The accent was American.
Marie turned to see a tall figure standing near a table. She looked up into his face, and her heart, already pounding, almost leaped out of her chest.
He was the man who’d defended her in the parking lot of the Scepter that night, the stranger she’d clung to so foolishly, so desperately. Suddenly the room seemed to swim round her, dizzying her.
Did he recognize her? Would he remember her? She prayed not.
“Mr. Preston,” said Reynard, heartily shaking hands with him. He grinned.
“What are you doing here? Miss Fairchild must be gone.”
“She is, and somebody had to do your work. So I brought the eggs today.”
Rennie grinned more widely. “Thanks kindly, mate. And meet my niece, Marie Lafayette from Darwin. She’s the new assistant cook. Marie, Andrew Preston from the U.S.A. He’s running for the presidency of the ITRF. Staying with his cousin over at Lochlain.”
Marie was still struck dumb and immobile. Andrew Preston stepped over to her and offered her his hand. Somehow she raised her own and placed it in his. It was like having tiny flames shoot up her fingers, through her arm, and into her heart.
She remembered he’d been handsome, but not as handsome as this. He might be the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, but it was a purely masculine beauty. He wore a white T-shirt that emphasized his shoulders and chest and revealed tanned, muscular arms. Around his neck was a peculiar necklace, a carved bird on a red string.
Low-riding blue jeans hugged his narrow hips and long legs. His riding boots were tall, black and dusty. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said.
His eyes were such a dark blue they seemed nearly black. His wavy hair was a dark and gleaming brown, and he seemed fully a foot taller than she.
Assume a virtue if you have it not, she thought. She raised her chin and gave a perky smile. “Pleased to meet you.”
He smiled back and released her hand. Again, strange sensations tripped through her body, making her giddy.
“I heard about your mother,” Andrew said. “I’m sorry for your loss.” He sounded as if he actually meant it.
“Thank you,” she said, her smile dying.
Andrew turned to Reynard. “I was just starting back to Lochlain,” he said. “See you there later. And I hope we meet again, Miss Lafayette.”
Marie nodded. She’d let down her guard, so she gave him a mildly friendly, totally professional and completely manufactured smile.
Andrew smiled again, almost hesitantly, and left by the back door.
“Well, you seemed a bit gobsmacked at the sight of him,” Reynard said, eyes narrowing.
“I didn’t know anyone was there. H-he surprised me,” she said defensively.
“I’ll bet he did, I’ll bet he did. And you surprised me.”
Before Marie could reply, an interior door opened and a tall woman entered. She had perfectly sculpted gray hair, a strong jaw, a kind face and a firm, stout figure. She wore a navy-blue skirt and blouse, and a ruffled white apron with a bib. “Rennie, you rascal,” she said, obviously pleased.
“Ah,” he replied, his tone silky. “And what mischief are you up to, entertaining gentlemen in your kitchen? Miss Louisa doesn’t know he was here, does she? You’re a bold one, you are.”
She made a shooing gesture at him. “She’s in Sydney getting her annual checkup. She won’t be back until this evening. Ah. And this is your niece, Marie?”
“The very one. Marie, Mrs. Lipton, the housekeeper. A marvel of organization, she is.”
Mrs. Lipton almost smiled, but her face grew serious. “Marie, I’m very sorry about your loss. It’s good you’ve come to join your uncle. It’s a very empty feeling, losing one’s mother. I remember all too well.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Marie almost whispered.
Reynard said, “My sister was a darling woman and a lovely cook.” He pinched Marie’s cheek affectionately. “And this one’s every bit her mother’s child. She’ll do you proud.”
Mrs. Lipton moved to a small cabinet built into the wall. She opened it and pulled out a set of keys. “Rennie, will you be a dear and take Marie to her quarters? I suppose she has things you’ll have to help her move in. Then bring her back here, and I’ll explain her duties to her. Marie, did you bring a uniform?”
Marie said, “Yes, ma’am.” Mrs. Lipton had e-mailed the uniform requirements.
“You needn’t wear it until this evening. We’ll also provide you with one of our staff T-shirts with the Fairchild logo. Now, help her settle in, Rennie.”
He gave her an appreciative look from beneath half-lowered lids. “Right away. By the way, Mrs. Lipton, you’ve changed your hair somewhat, haven’t you?”
“Oh. Just a bit,” she said, toying with a gray curl. “Now run along. I know Tyler will want you back at Lochlain.”
“He’s a good enough cove, Andrew Preston,” Reynard said, as they parked in front of the staff bungalow. “I see him around Lochlain all the time. Not our sort, of course, but a good cove. The old girl doesn’t like him, of course. She’s got her back up because he’s a Preston and a Yank and dared come here to campaign against her candidate—Jacko Bullock.”
“I see.” But Marie didn’t really understand; she was still in shock at seeing the man again. Andrew Preston. She hadn’t even known his name. Andrew Preston.
Reynard parked and unloaded the truck, talking the whole time.
Numbly she listened as he explained that Bullock had used all his media clout to defend Louisa in the shooting case the year before. He’d been her loyal supporter, and she intended to be his. She therefore hoped that Andrew Preston would not be merely beaten, but crushed like a bug.
“When it gets to racing politics, she can be hell on wheels,” Reynard said as he unlocked the door to her room. The cottage was sparklingly clean, not fancy, but comfortable, with a shared living room and kitchen.
“It’s nice.” Marie nodded in approval. “And Mrs. Lipton is a nice woman.”
“She is indeed.”
“She