For my little brother, Kyle, who’s always been a
rebel in his own way.
RICK BRADFORD STARED at the Victorian mansion elegantly arranged in front of him and then down at the note in his hand before crumpling the piece of paper and shoving it in his jeans pocket.
He’d checked with his friend Tash earlier. ‘You’re sure you got that right? Nell Smythe-Whittaker rang and asked if I’d drop round?’
‘For the tenth time, Rick, yes! It was the Princess all right. And no, she didn’t mention what it was about. And no, I didn’t ask her.’
For the last fortnight Tash’s brain had been addled by love. His lip curled. Not that he had anything against Mitch King and it was great to see Tash happy but, as far as he could tell, her street smarts had all but floated out of the window. Why hadn’t she asked the Princess what this was about?
Because she was viewing the world through rose-coloured glasses, that was why. His lip curled a little more. He wasn’t sure he could stand being a third wheel in her and Mitch’s hazy, happy little world for much longer. It was time to move on. Tomorrow he’d head up the coast, find work somewhere and…
And what?
He lifted a shoulder.
First he’d find out what Nell Smythe-Whittaker wanted. You won’t find that out by standing here on the footpath like some dumb schmuck.
Blowing out a breath, he settled a mantle of casual, almost insolent assurance about himself. The people from Nell’s world—probably including Nell herself—looked down on the likes of him and he had no intention of giving them, or her, the satisfaction of thinking he cared two hoots either way.
Would Nell look down that pretty autocratic nose at him? He hadn’t spoken to her since they were ten years old. He could count the number of times he’d seen her since then—and only ever in the distance—on one hand. They’d never spoken, but she’d always lifted a hand in acknowledgement. And he’d always waved back.
It had never felt real. It had always felt somehow apart from the daily humdrum. He scratched a hand across his face. Stupid! Fairy tales! He was too old for such nonsense.
You’re only twenty-five.
Yeah? Well, most days he felt as if he was fifty.
Clenching his jaw, he pushed open the gate and strode up the walk to the wide veranda with its ochre and cream tessellated tiles. With an effort of will, he slowed his strides to a saunter and planted a devil-may-care smirk on his face.
Up closer, he could see that Nell’s fancy castle needed some attention. Paint peeled at the window trims and flaked here and there from the walls. One section of guttering leaned at a drunken angle and the wider garden was overgrown and unkempt. Here and there he caught sight of the silver wrappers of crisp packets and chocolate bar wrappers winking in the sunlight.
So…the rumours were true then. The Princess had fallen on hard times.
Ignoring a doorbell he had little faith would work, he lifted his hand to knock on the ornately moulded front door when voices from the partially open French windows further along the veranda halted him. Words didn’t just drift out on the summer air. They sped.
‘You won’t get another opportunity like this, Nell!’
A male voice. An angry male voice. Rick’s every muscle bunched in readiness. He hated bullies. And he really hated men who bullied women. He stalked down to the windows.
‘You are a sleazy, slimy excuse for a man, Mr Withers.’
He paused. Her voice held no fear, only scorn. She could obviously deal with the situation on her own.
‘You know it’s the only answer to the current straits you find yourself in.’
‘Is that so? And I suppose it’s a coincidence that this particular solution is one that will also line your pockets?’
‘There isn’t a bank manager in Sydney who’ll loan you the money you need. They’re not going to touch that business plan of yours with a bargepole.’
‘As you don’t happen to be a bank manager and I no longer have any faith in your professionalism you’ll have to excuse my scepticism.’
Rick grinned. Go, Princess!
‘Your father won’t be pleased.’
‘That is true. It’s also none of your concern.’
‘You’re wasting your not inconsiderable talents.’ There was a silence. ‘You’re a very beautiful woman. We’d make a good team, you and I, Nellie.’
Nellie?
‘Stay where you are, Mr Withers. I do not want you to kiss me.’
Rick straightened, instantly alert.
In the next moment a loud slap rang in the air, followed by scuffling. Rick leapt for the window, but it burst open before he could reach it and he found himself pressed back against the wall of the house as Nell frogmarched a man in a shiny suit along the length of the veranda, his earlobe twisted between her thumb and forefinger, and all but threw him towards the gate. ‘Good day, Mr Withers.’
The suit straightened and threw his shoulders back. Rick went to stand behind Nell, legs planted and mouth grim. He folded his arms and flexed his biceps.
The suit gave the kind of smirk Rick would give a lot to wipe off his face…except he wasn’t that kind of guy any more.
‘I see you’ve your bit of rough. So that’s the way you like it?’
‘I’m afraid, Mr Withers, you’re never going to find out how I like it.’ She glanced behind her and met Rick’s gaze, her green eyes…beautiful. ‘Hello, Mr Bradford.’
Her voice reached out and wrapped around him like a caress. ‘Hello, Princess.’ He hadn’t meant to call her that; it just slipped out. Those eyes widened and continued to stare into his until the breath jammed in his throat.
‘Well, you needn’t think your bit of rough is going to get you out of your current jam and—’
‘Oh, do be quiet, you horrible little man.’
Those green eyes snapped away and Rick found he could breathe again.
And then he looked at her fully and what he saw made him blink. Nell looked as if she’d just stepped out of some nineteen-fifties movie. She wore a dress that made every male impulse he had sit up and stare. It had a fitted bodice that was snug to the waist and a skirt that flared out to mid-calf. It sported a Hawaiian beach print complete with surf, sand and palm trees.
‘Mr Bradford is ten times the man you are and what’s more he has manners, like a true gentleman.’
He did? In the next instant he shook his head. They were reading from different scripts here.
Without another word, Nell turned and took his arm. ‘I’m so glad you could drop around.’ And she led him back along the veranda, effectively dismissing the other man. ‘I’m terribly sorry. I’d take you through the front door—I don’t want you thinking I’m taking you in via the tradesman’s entrance or some such nonsense—but I can’t get the rotten thing open. I’m also afraid that you’ll have to excuse the mess.’
She led him through the French windows into a large room—a drawing room or parlour or music room or something of that nature. Whatever it was, it