“Yes,” Sally quickly agreed. Raising doubts would instantly snap that good humour, so she kept them to herself. Better to keep quiet and simply wait, but she couldn’t help feeling tense. Until the fifth chair was occupied by someone else, the spectre of Blackjack Maguire was hanging over it, certainly darkening Jane’s dreams.
As for her own … what did she want?
The bottom-line truth was she wanted to see Jack Maguire in that chair even though it meant he was a threat to the life she’d had up until now. She wanted him to get something from his father. It would be wrong if he didn’t. But more than anything else she wanted to see him again, wanted to feel the physical thrill of his presence, wanted him to pursue an acquaintance with her as he had suggested yesterday.
It was undoubtedly sheer madness to be craving some involvement with him, given the family history. Her mother would have a fit if she knew. Jane would be frightened for her. Yet the strong tug of the man kept pulling at her mind, her heart. Her whole body buzzed with excitement at the thought of connecting with him. No one else had ever affected her like this.
Maybe it was a dark dream, better set aside.
She’d probably be wiser after this meeting.
If he came.
Her heart leapt as the door to the meeting room opened, but the man who entered was not Jack Maguire. He was tall and lean, meticulously dressed in a dark-grey suit, white shirt, dark-red and grey striped tie, the tip of a matching dark-red handkerchief peaking out of his coat pocket. Sally judged him to be in his fifties, grey hair getting sparse, making his high forehead even higher, rimless spectacles resting on a hawkish nose, narrow jaw, thin lips.
This had to be the solicitor, Victor Newell. She’d never met him but he certainly had the distinguished air of authority that went with heading one of the most reputable legal firms in Sydney—the kind of man who was accustomed to people coming to him, not the other way around.
He gestured to someone still outside in the corridor, and Sally held her breath, wanting it to be Jack Maguire, no matter what that meant.
Yes!
It was him!
A weird exultation bubbled through her.
She told herself she was glad that his father had not disowned him.
But the truth was far more personal than that.
He was here, in the same room as herself, and there was a chance that something might happen between them.
The moment of truth, Jack thought sardonically, stepping inside and sweeping his gaze around the three women, waiting for the reading of the will.
Lady Ellen had lightened her funeral garb this morning. Her black hat had a white edging around the rim, matching the white edging around the lapels of her suit coat—the stylish grande dame. Her eyes flared hatred and her mouth compressed to an unattractive thin line when she saw him.
Jack smiled.
Sally wasn’t wearing a hat, her glorious red-gold curls tumbling free, and Jack instantly envisaged them spread in disarray across a pillow. She wore a sage-green linen shirtmaker dress, very prim and proper for this occasion, though the button-through style was quite provocative since he instantly started imagining undoing all her buttons. The colour matched her eyes, which were pinned on him with guarded interest. No thinning of those lush lips. He wondered how she’d respond if he crushed them with his own.
The younger sister looked about to faint with fright, staring at him as though he was the devil himself, complete with horns and pitchfork. Her lips were parted, gasping in air. She wore a beige outfit—no hat—and with her brown hair and brown eyes, seemed totally colourless next to Sally. Jack had the impression Jane wished she could disappear. He actually felt a stab of sympathy for her. Which was absurd. She’d had a good twenty-one years with the Maguire wealth.
“Good morning, all,” he said cheerfully, strolling around the table to the chair facing the two sisters.
Sally was the only one who returned the greeting, and promptly flushed when she realised she was on her own in acknowledging his presence. But she didn’t shoot an apologetic look at her mother. Her gaze remained fixed on him, a rebellious glint in her eyes.
Excitement fizzed through Jack. She had fire. And backbone. A mind of her own. The idea of pursuing a connection with her grew stronger legs. It had been circling around in his mind since yesterday’s funeral service. As perverse as it was of him to find Sally Maguire so desirable, there was no denying the sexual chemistry she’d stirred. He’d wondered if it was because of who she was—forbidden territory. It certainly added a piquancy to the attraction. But right now it was pure gut stuff. Everything about her appealed.
He knew this morning’s meeting could very well turn him into a hated antagonist in her mind. Any normal man-woman approach to her would be wiped out. But that only made the situation between them even more interesting, challenging, exciting. He needed to get into her mind, find out what was important to her, play on it.
Victor Newell made a little ceremony of greeting each one of them before taking the chair at the head of the table, directly facing Lady Ellen, who obviously took this to mean she was the major player in the will, throwing Jack a snooty, condescending look as though she imagined he was here for a few insignificant crumbs.
The solicitor leaned forward with an earnest air, his hands linked over the manila folder which contained Sir Leonard Maguire’s last will and testament. He addressed Lady Ellen.
“Please accept my sympathy over Sir Leonard’s passing. I know he expected to live for many more years. It is most unfortunate that his time was cut short.”
She nodded with sombre dignity.
Victor sighed and opened the folder. “This will was made and signed a year ago. It’s very simple. There are only two beneficiaries. It reads … to my son, Jack Ryan Maguire, I give one dollar …”
“One dollar!” A wild peal of laughter erupted from Lady Ellen’s throat. Her eyes danced malicious triumph at Jack. “How brilliant of Leonard! You can’t contest his will since he’s put you in it.”
“I have no intention of contesting it, Lady Ellen,” he returned carelessly, his gaze shifting to Sally to catch her reaction.
She looked embarrassed, pained by her mother’s gloating. Her eyes flashed dismay at him before her lashes lowered, hiding her feelings. But they’d already been clear enough to Jack. She cared that he was apparently getting next to nothing from his father. A soft heart, not a greedy one. It made her even more appealing. And gave him another weapon to use in winning her over to what he wanted.
The muscles around his groin tightened.
He couldn’t recall ever wanting a woman so much.
One way or another he was going to have Sally Maguire.
Every part of her.
Victor Newell cleared his throat with a come-to-attention cough and continued reading the will. “Contingent upon my wife, Ellen Mary Maguire surviving me by thirty days, I give her the remainder of my estate absolutely, and if she does not survive me by thirty days, I give the remainder of my estate in equal shares as tenants in common to my daughters, Sally Ann Maguire and Jane Therese Maguire.”
He closed the folder and linked his hands across it, having completed the task of reading the legal document. A grimace of distaste preceded his next words. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Lady Ellen, but I now have the onus of explaining to you that Sir Leonard’s estate does not encompass a great deal.”
The smug satisfaction on her face wavered. “What do you mean?” she asked sharply.
Jack focussed his attention on her. This was the pay line. This was why he’d stipulated that his father leave him a dollar, giving him the right to be here, to watch this woman get her