Her mother was in the Mediterranean with husband number four the last she’d heard, which was about three times a year. Oh, yes, her family—they were the Brady Bunch all right.
Rick clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back. She wondered if he knew precisely how enticing that pose was to a woman—the broad shoulders on display, those biceps and the hard chiselled chest flagrantly defined in the tight black T-shirt angling down to a hard flat abdomen...and all in that deceptively open, easy, inviting posture.
She bet he did.
Even with all of that masculine vigour on display, it was his eyes that held her. He surveyed her until she had to fight the urge to fidget. She reached for another shrug—a pray tell, what on earth do you think you’re staring at? shrug. She was pretty certain she pulled it off with aplomb, but it didn’t stop him staring at her. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. ‘I’m starting to get the hang of those.’
She squinted at him—a what on earth are you talking about? squint. ‘I’m sorry, you’ve lost me.’
He lowered his arms. ‘For all of these years, here I was thinking you had the best of everything.’
She flicked her hair over her shoulders. ‘Of course I did. I had the best education money could buy. I had designer clothes, piano lessons and overseas holidays. I had—’
‘Parents who were as good at parenting as mine.’
She swallowed. ‘One shouldn’t be greedy.’ Or self-pitying. ‘Besides, they were merely products of their own upbringing...and they had their good points.’
‘Name one.’
‘We’ve already uncovered one. They didn’t betray each other so badly that I was the cuckoo they thought I might be. I’m not John’s secret love child and therefore I’m not your mystery sibling.’
‘Just thought I’d ask.’
She hesitated. ‘I did wonder...’
‘What?’
‘Would your mother be able to tell you anything that might be of use?’
She didn’t like to ask about Rick’s mother—she’d been a prostitute. Nell had a lot of bones to pick with her parents, but she’d never had to watch her mother sell her body. She’d always known where her next meal was coming from. She’d had a warm bed to retreat to. She’d been safe. She gripped her hands together. She was very grateful for those things.
Rick shook his head. ‘She developed dementia a few years ago. It’s advanced rapidly. Nine times out of ten, she doesn’t recognise me these days.’
Oh. Her heart burned for him. ‘I’m sorry.’
He merely shrugged. ‘What are you going to do?’ He said it in that casual, offhand way, which only made her heart burn more fiercely.
She clapped her hands together in an attempt to brisk the both of them up. ‘Well, I had another thought too. We should go and check out John’s cottage. It’s been empty since he went into hospital. I mean, I know it was cleaned, but maybe it’ll contain some clue.’
‘It could all be a hoax, you know?’
‘For what purpose?’ She didn’t believe it was a hoax. Not for a moment. And when she made for the door, Rick rose and followed.
They picked their way through the overgrown garden—across the terrace to the lawn and then towards the far end of the block. Whittaker House had been built on generous lines in more generous times. The house and grounds sprawled over the best part of a city block. No wonder her father wanted her to sell it.
She wasn’t selling! But it all needed so much attention. She bit back a sigh. It was all she could do not to let her heart slump with every step they took. It had all been so beautiful once upon a time.
‘Hell, Princess, this looks more like years rather than months of neglect.’
‘John was sick for a long time before he had to go into the hospice. He had a young chap in to help him, but...’ She shrugged and glanced around. Her father hadn’t maintained any of it. ‘There are a lot of vigorous-growing perennials here that have self-seeded and gone wild. It looks worse than it is.’ She crossed her fingers.
‘Do you see any self-seeding marigolds?’
He’d adopted that tone again. ‘I’m afraid marigolds are annuals not perennials. They need to be replanted each year.’
‘Why go to all that bother?’
‘For the colour and spectacular blooms. For the scents and the crazy beauty of it all. Because—’
She slammed to a halt and Rick slammed right into the back of her. ‘What on earth—’
He grabbed her shoulders to steady her, but she didn’t need steadying. She spun around and gripped his forearms. ‘You’ll find a clue where the marigolds grow.’
His face lost some of its cockiness. And a lot of its colour. She couldn’t concentrate when he stared at her so intently. She sat on the edge of the nearest raised bed and rubbed her temples. ‘When did I find out my mother didn’t like marigolds? John told me when I wanted to plant some of my own.’
Rick sat beside her, crushing part of a rampant rosemary bush. The aroma drifted up around them.
‘And why did I want to plant marigolds?’ Oh, but... ‘He couldn’t have known, could he?’
‘Couldn’t have known what?’
She turned to him. ‘After he chased you away that day he gave me my very own garden bed to tend.’
‘And you grew marigolds?’
She shook her head. ‘I wanted to, but I didn’t. You see I had this old chocolate box tin and it had pictures of marigolds on it and I showed it to John and told him that’s what I wanted to grow.’
Beside her, Rick stiffened. ‘A tin?’
She nodded.
‘What happened to the tin, Nell?’
‘I put all of my treasures in it and...’ But it had been a secret. John couldn’t have known. Could he?
‘What did you do with them?’
‘I buried them here in the garden. After the policeman left. I snuck out in the middle of the night and buried them when nobody could see what I was up to.’ She turned to meet his chocolate-dark eyes. ‘And I never dug it back up.’
He swallowed. ‘Okay, so all we have to do is try to find where you buried it.’ He leaned back on his hands as if he hadn’t a care in the world, but she’d seen beneath the façade now. ‘I bet you’ve long forgotten that?’
No. She remembered. Perfectly.
She leaned back on her hands too, crushing more rosemary until the air was thick with its scent. She drew a breath of it into her lungs. ‘Doesn’t that remind you of a Sunday roast?’
He didn’t say anything.
‘What are you afraid of?’ She asked the question she had no right to ask. She asked because he kept calling her Princess and it unnerved her and she wanted to unnerve him back.
‘Where I come from, Nell, Sunday roasts weren’t just a rarity; they were non-existent.’
He said her name in a way that made her wish he’d called her Princess instead.
He leaned in towards her. ‘And what am I afraid of? I’m afraid this isn’t some hoax your gardener has decided to play and that everything he’s said is true. I’m afraid I have a thirteen-year-old brother somewhere out there growing up by the scruff of his neck the way I did and with no one to give him a hand.’
Her