Tracey witnessed the whole thing. “Thank God!” She breathed a heartfelt sigh, her voice hoarse from the injury to her throat. “I’ve been such a fool.”
“Don’t I know it!” said Carol, not about to make soothing noises. “But don’t worry, Trace. We’ll get you through this. I’ll throw a few things in a bag, and then I’m going to take you back to our place. You can’t stay here any more.” She looked across at Damon. “She can take out an AVO against him, right? He must be kept away from her.”
He nodded. “I’ll have it seen to.” They all turned their heads at the sound of the heavy boots on the stairs.
“That’ll be the police now,” Carol announced, relief mixed with satisfaction.
Tarik scowled. “I’m gonna complain you assaulted me.” He fixed Damon with a look of loathing.
Damon gave a brief laugh. “Go for it!”
“I’ve got witnesses.”
A hoot from Carol. “Shut up, Tarik. Tracey is the one with the witness to your attack.”
“You won’t stop me,” he threatened, trying to catch his girlfriend’s eye. He had found it easy enough to control her. He had the knack.
“We’ll see about that.” Damon’s tone was curt. He knew men of Tarik’s type couldn’t be counted on to obey the law. In fact, they were proud of flouting it.
“Police,” a tough male voice boomed from the front door.
There was a big smile on Carol Emmett’s face. “I have to say, that was quick!”
“What, did you offer a reward?” Tarik sneered.
“I was on the point of it,” she replied, going swiftly to the door.
In the end, after initial statements had been given, Damon followed Carol’s little silver car to her flat. Tracey was tucked into the back seat, nursing her injuries, although she had refused point blank to go to the hospital to have herself checked out.
“I’m okay!” It was almost as if she feared presenting herself at Accident and Emergency.
“How do you know?” Carol had shot back.
“I know.” For once Tracey was adamant.
End of argument.
It was almost an hour later before Carol had settled her friend. After a shower, clean nightwear and pain killers, Tracey allowed herself to be tucked into Carol’s bed. Carol had assured her friend it would be no problem for her to sleep on the three-seater sofa in the living room.
“I’ve done it before.”
She hadn’t, although all manner of their friends had.
When she finally returned to the living room, she found Damon inspecting a group of photographs she’d put into a large frame and hung on a wall.
Damon had been expecting the usual student clutter, but what he had seen of the three-bedroom apartment—open-plan kitchen and living room—was a neat, very attractive dwelling place that had been furnished in a stylish way. He liked the three-piece lounge suite in genuine cream leather. There was a glass-topped circular table with four yellow cushioned rattan chairs arranged around it for dining. A wooden bookcase packed with a wide range of books, from romances to far more weighty tomes, stood in a corner. A large abstract painting hung over a Chinese altar table. A distance away to either side of the altar table stood a pair of traditional Chinese cabinets with horizontal open-work panels. Yellow curtains hung at the plate-glass doors that gave onto a small balcony where four yellow glazed pots planted with strelitzias were lined up against the balustrade.
“You’re taking an interest.” There was a faint taunt in her voice.
“Just admiring the decor. Someone has created a certain style. I love the Chinese pieces.” He bent to take a closer look at the cabinets. He thought the wood was huanghuali, the principal hardwood used by Chinese cabinet makers. He thought he was right dating them as late Qing.
“Me, too,” she said, offhandedly. “As for the decorating, someone had to make the effort. And find the money.”
“I’m sure your friends appreciate it.”
“Well…” She let a further comment slide. She knew her flatmates took advantage of her. She allowed it. “Like a cup of coffee? Glass of wine? Maybe a salad? You could join me. I haven’t had a thing to eat.”
It suddenly struck him he was hungry. “That’d be nice, Carol. May I call you Carol?”
“Caro,” she said. She made a point of being called Caro.
“Carol is such a beautiful name.”
“What do you want from me, Damon?” She moved behind the black granite kitchen counter. “Is there something you have to tell me? Something about the family?”
She didn’t look in the least perturbed, so he decided to give it to her straight. From what he’d seen of her, he thought she could handle it. “Your grandfather passed away late this afternoon, Carol—at Beaumont, his country estate.”
Her blue eyes, a wonderful contrast to her ruby-red hair, flew to his across the dividing space. “You’re absolutely sure about that?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“So it’s all over,” she said, turning to pull out plates.
“Not for you, Carol,” he pointed out with some gravity. “You’re a major beneficiary in his will.”
She swung back sharply, her porcelain cheeks flushed over her high cheekbones. “You’ve got to be joking!”
“In no way. I’m your appointed lawyer.”
She stared at him. He was no more than thirty, she estimated, though his manner had a self-assurance far beyond those years. He projected high intelligence and a quite staggering sexuality. He had everything going for him, the entire package: tall, dark and handsome; his classic features not bland but distinctive. He had a great head of hair, coal-black with a natural wave, brilliant dark eyes that took in everything at a glance.
She had the oddest feeling of recognition. Had she seen him before? She couldn’t have. She would have remembered; maybe a photograph in a glossy magazine, squiring some glamour girl? He looked just the kind of guy who attracted women in droves. The name, too, seemed familiar. Damon Hunter. Damon Hunter. It came to her in flash—Professor Deakin’s star pupil. The most outstanding student of law Professor Deakin had ever had the pleasure of teaching. That was pretty cool.
She appeared so engrossed in her speculations, Damon had to prompt her. “I hope I pass muster?” His resonant voice carried humour.
“You look like you make tons of money,” was her terse response. She had read about instant high-level arousal in novels. She hadn’t encountered it—until now. He was arousing feelings of which she had scarcely been aware. Not that he’d be interested in her. She was a twenty-year-old student, not some voluptuous beauty with a goodly share of experience in bed.
“Is that important?” he asked.
She had a sudden picture of herself as an instrument; a man like him could play a woman’s feelings at will. She shook her head so vigorously, her curls bounced. “No, but I thought Marcus Bradfield was my grandfather’s solicitor.”
“Was for many years,” he said. “But your grandfather appointed me in this case. I wanted to tell you about his death before anyone else did, or you simply saw it on TV. The media will have the news by now.”
“The great man is dead. Long live the king,” she said rather mournfully. “I shudder to think it might be Uncle Maurice?”
“We have to wait to see what transpires. Mind if I take off