The Road Home by Margaret Way (2)

Chapter One

“Some place, bro!” the cabbie hooted, torn between envy and entrenched resentment of the superrich. “It’s a bloody disgrace, all them lights.” He spoke like a man committed to having the issue addressed ASAP. “Looks like the QM2 at sea, don’t it?”

Bruno had to agree. The Lubrinski mansion was ablaze. Even he, close friend of the Lubrinskis, had to drop his eyes. He reached into his wallet and took out a couple of crisp fifty-dollar bills. “Keep the change.” He put the notes into the man’s outstretched hand. “You wouldn’t expect them to hold a big charity bash in the dark, now, would you?”

“That’s what it is then?” The cabbie acknowledged the size of the tip by landing a friendly punch on Bruno’s shoulder. “Thank you kindly for that, bro!”

“That’s what it is most of the time,” Bruno said, stepping out of the cab without further damage to his person. “These people are among the biggest philanthropists in the country.”

“Yeah?” The driver wasn’t about to let it rest. “All to do with their taxes, I reckon. Okay, bro, enjoy yourself now. Me, I have to get back to the grind.”

He stood for a moment in the golden gleam of the streetlights, watching the cab driver perform a perfect U-turn and then scoot off with a friendly wave. The guy was right. The house did look like a liner at sea.

He was late. Couldn’t be helped. He’d gotten caught up with an old university friend he’d made a bundle for, allowing him to pay off his mortgage. There was satisfaction in that. He liked helping people. Just like his dad. As he made his way up the broad flight of stone steps, he could see guests milling around the huge, brilliantly lit entrance hall. They formed a living, moving kaleidoscope of multicoloured gowns, emerald, scarlet, amethyst, silver and gold, set off to perfection against the sea of black dinner suits. It all looked sensational. People had been known to fight for Marta Lubrinski’s invitations. Often it came down to hissy fits.

Beautiful music was issuing from the living room, soaring above the hubbub of voices and laughter. It conveyed a broad spectrum of human emotions: joy, love, sorrow, hope. He hadn’t started out life as a classical music lover, though he’d been fed a lot of Italian opera in the womb: Puccini, Verdi.

He loved jazz. He had a big collection of the world’s greatest jazz musicians. It was Marta, his self-appointed honorary aunt, who had taken charge of his classical music education, starting with A for Albeniz, the great Spanish virtuoso pianist and composer. He was still working his way through the Bs. Bach. Beethoven. Brahms. Marta had unloaded a hundred CDs on him, exhorting him, “Play them, darlink. Listen, listen. Give your soul wings!”

Tonight was one of Marta’s famous dos, with wonderful music and equally wonderful food and wine. It was taken for granted he would attend, especially as he had been, and still was to a certain extent, her husband, Ivor’s protégé. Ivor Lubrinski had started his new life in Australia as a seventeen-year-old Lithuanian emigrant with ten pounds in his pocket, an unshakeable belief in his destiny and an incredibly astute business brain. Ivor was also notoriously society shy. He rarely attended his wife’s grand soirees. It was Marta who had control of that side of things, as brilliant in her fashion as Ivor was in his.

Bruno was devoted to them both. Their philanthropy was legendary, when he happened to know Ivor was as careful with a dollar as his own Scottish-born dad had been. Neither man ever forgot their roots. Hungarian Marta had to a mind-blowing extent. Marta had the craving for luxury lodged in her very being.

As he stepped into the Rococo-on-steroids entrance hall with its glittering travertine floor, his eyes gravitated automatically to the magnificent Bohemian chandelier at its centre. The hundreds and hundreds of crystals bounced light off every surface. If it ever fell, it would surely kill anyone directly beneath it and injure those in the vicinity. It had been his suggestion to place a large library table beneath it to bear the brunt in such an eventuality. Marta had come up with an extraordinary ebonized and parcel gilt centre table with really weird claws for feet.

The table now held a great pyramid of flowers. It must have been arranged in situ. No one could have walked with it. He guessed it was the masses of Asian lilies, pink and white, showing off their beautiful dusky pink faces that gave off the heady perfume that tickled his nose.

Eventually, he was able to move through the throng into the voluminous living room, as big as a football field. A series of open arched and shuttered French doors gave on to a brilliantly lit poolside terrace. It too was paved in travertine, and beyond that a magnificent panoramic view of Sydney Harbour, the most beautiful harbour in the world, and he had seen them all in his travels.

Along his way, he received choruses of hellos, claps on the shoulder, air kisses from the women, some grasping his hand with faintly glazed eyes. He had to know he was one of the most eligible bachelors around. It wasn’t a good position to be in. In fact, he hated it. Being a bachelor didn’t trouble him at all. He had turned thirty, was coming at thirty-one. Being vigorously pursued by young women and determined cougars did his head in. He was in no hurry to get married. He hadn’t met the woman of his dreams. In truth, he was beginning to wonder if he ever would. He did have dreams, but they were locked away somewhere, inaccessible even to him. It was too damned hard for him to forget the disastrous breakup of his parents’ marriage and the way his staggeringly beautiful Italian mother had taken off and left him and his dad, an incredibly nice guy, to fend for themselves.

He well remembered the waves of grief that had come crashing down on them. They had adored her. Even now, he couldn’t think about his mother without feeling a deep, angry hurt. Those early years had been bad, missing his mother. It wasn’t until he turned twelve that he had really toughened up.

He’d gotten the hang of cleaning the house, shopping and preparing meals for him and his dad. His mother had been a wonderful cook. He had watched her often enough, so he soon became a dab hand with pasta, al dente of course, matching the right pasta to the right sauce. It’d got to the point when one evening, after a great dinner of spicy calamari followed by Linguini ai Frutti di Mare, his dad had sat him down, asking very seriously, “Do you want to become a chef, son? You know whatever you want to do, I’ll back you.”

A chef! A great job certainly, if one had a mind to it, but he was on course to secure a place at university. He wanted to finish with a double degree, Master of Laws and Bachelor of Commerce. He could do it in five years, working part time. He was smart. What a good laugh they’d had when he’d explained his ambition. His culinary skills had been inherited from his mother: Italian blood and the love of good food. That was it. Another area where he had shone was organising the household accounts. He saw they were paid on time. He even found better alternatives. He managed the budget far better than his dad. He had made his mark at school, both in the classroom and on the playing field. His father had told everyone who would listen he was meant for big things. Nothing had mattered more than his dad being proud of him. They were survivors. Mates.

Taller than most, his eyes ranged easily over the heads of the usual crowd, the movers and shakers, the society crowd, the hobnobbers and the fringe dwellers. He recognised the piece the quartet Marta had hired were playing. Borodin. The Polovtsian Dances. The reason he knew it was the Polovtsian Dances because it had opened the Winter Games in Sochi. He, Ivor and a couple of Ivor’s cronies had been witness to the dazzling opening ceremony, when a beautiful Russian girl had flown across a winter dreamscape to that music. He recalled how the works of Russia’s greatest classical composers had filled the stadium, rousing every heart, including his, with a highly emotional Ivor in unashamed floods of tears. The same beautiful Russian music was now being generated in the Lubrinski living room. The musicians were very good, as was expected.

The work came to an end. The applause began. He moved further into the monumental room that certainly had the wow factor, if you didn’t shy away from opulence. Sumptuous silk-taffeta gold curtains with tasselled tiebacks swept the floor, a pair of antique Italian chandeliers hung from the elaborately plastered ceiling, a huge portrait of a striking-looking woman stood on a gilded easel. Marta allowed people to think it was a portrait of her great-grandmother. Of course it wasn’t.

Loads of Louis XVI furnishings were mixed in with the plush modern stuff. Not Louis style; the real McCoy. Marta had a gimlet eye for such things. It made a praiseworthy balance, because Marta was as devoted to her charities as they were rightly devoted to her.

He was getting his first clear view of the musicians in the group, first and second violins, viola and cello. He started to lift his hands to join in the wave of applause, but they fell back to his sides as shock took over. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He probably would have given vent to a gasp, only his breath was lodged in his throat.

The focus of his attention was the cello player, a young woman in her early twenties. He knew the group from other occasions. An attractive, plump young woman showing a lot of bosom played viola. The second violin was a tall, earnest young gent with a mop of unruly black curls, a pronounced Adam’s apple and black-rimmed glasses to lend a bit of gravitas.

The cellist was new. A replacement for the evening. She could even be a graduate from the Con. She was that young. In a huge room, surrounded by many attractive, even beautiful women, she stood out as a single red rose would be a standout in a bouquet of carnations. He had no interest in the other members of the quartet. His sole focus was the girl. He was staring, when staring wasn’t his style. Not that he was the only male caught out looking his fill. He didn’t think he had seen anyone as sexy as this beautiful girl with a gleaming cello propped between her long, slender legs. The length from the knees was tantalizingly on view as the sheer top layer of her long black skirt fell away. Not that she gave off any overtly sexy aura. She looked chaste. Absolutely. Ultrarefined, very romantic. The princess in a fairy tale. A magical creature.

Curling masses of titian hair flowed away from her face and over her shoulders. Her porcelain skin, face, throat, décolletage were shown to priceless advantage against the black lace of the sleeveless V-necked bodice. She would be of above average height when she stood up, and willow slim. She had light eyes. At this distance, he didn’t know if they were blue or green. He was prepared to bet they were green, if only because he had seen a blown-up photograph of a large bravura portrait of this girl’s double. People did have doubles in life, he reminded himself, only he had the certainty this girl had Hartmann blood.

He was so certain, his nerve endings were doing a slow burn.

Through his late father, Ross McKendrick, a private investigator and a former ex-chief of detectives, he had developed a fascination with so-called cold cases: mysterious disappearances of certain individuals, male and female, that were never solved. The old Hartmann case was one his dad had laboured over to the point of obsession. It was as much a mystery today as it had been twenty years earlier.

Tonight had opened up a powerful new lead. The young woman he had under close observation had to have Hartmann blood in her. That was his gut feeling, and he trusted his gut feelings.

At one time of his life, after the untimely death of his father in a hit-and-run accident—the culprit never found—he had wanted to crack the case if only to finish the job for his father and give closure to the Hartmann family. Other ambitions had gotten in the way. He now ran his own wealth management company, The Fortuna Group. His company was getting bigger by the day. He was very good at whatever he did. Consequently, he was doing extremely well. An increasing number of other people were doing well because of him. To be a success had always been expected of him. No way was he going to let his dad down. He honoured his memory.

Well, not the she his father had never been able to trace, but an offspring?

The crowd parted like Moses parting the Red Sea as Marta, dressed in one of her eye-popping outfits, a glittering gold kaftan—made of material left over from the curtains?—with a matching jewel-adorned turban, rushed towards him. Marta didn’t hesitate to gild the lily. Her arms were spread in rapturous welcome. “Bruno, my darlink, you’re here. Mwah! Mwah! Mwah.” Multiple kisses were dispensed, landing on both cheeks, one near his mouth.

Marta was followed closely by Penelope Pfeiffer, Sam Pfeiffer’s daughter; Sam of the supermarkets. This wasn’t the first time Marta had taken on the job of finding him someone nice. There had been a very difficult time last year with Gemma Walker. Three dates and Gemma and her twittering girlfriends had started running around like headless chickens, spreading the word the big engagement bash at the Lubrinskis’ was barely a month off.

The word had spread like wildfire. He’d had to take steps to call a halt to it. Sweet little Gemma had then shown her true colours, flying into a right tizzy. In the old days, she would have had him up for breach of promise. He had to wonder if many a guy hadn’t been caught in this way. He was always on the bloke’s side. No surprise there.

Penelope was Marta’s current choice for him. At least Gem had held down a job. Penelope didn’t. No need, with a doting dad worth just short of a billion. Bruno tried not to be angry. It was hard to be angry with Marta, but he didn’t welcome this matchmaker role she had taken on. If he wanted to find a dream girl, he would find her himself, when he was good and ready.

“It’s too wonderful to see you, Bruno,” cooed Penelope, a sight for sore eyes in a figure-hugging scarlet bead-and-sequin number. He kissed her on both cheeks as expected, after which Marta took both their arms with abandon, as if announcing to the crowded room that after a few false starts, Penelope was the one. They moved off, a trio, with Marta and Penelope chattering away like geese.

Belatedly, he realized young fire head had been fully aware of his intense scrutiny. She was looking right back at him with surprising directness. Colour flooded her creamy skin, but her gaze was supercool, especially for one so young, and would you believe it, dismissive into the bargain. It was obvious she took exception to the boldness of his scrutiny. Had they been in ancient Rome, she probably would have had him thrown to the lions. Such imperiousness unlocked him. He would catch up with the mystery lady later. That was if he could ever fight free of Penelope. A single man on the up-and-up was a positive magnet for women, and men had to understand that.

“So, who’s the vision on Faraday’s arm?” he asked a hectic hour later, bending his head to Cassie Taylor, his journalist friend who barely came up to his shoulder. Cassie had once done an article on him that had proved very helpful. They had become friends. He was good friends with her husband, Ian, as well. He was godfather to their only child, Josh, who was autistic. Cassie, who had almost died in childbirth, had been advised not to attempt another child.

Cassie knew just about everyone and everything about so-called celebrities. She certainly knew Faraday. She had written many an article on him. None of them kind to the on-the-dodgy-side entrepreneur.

“Phil is showing better taste, huh?” Cassie snorted. “She looks really classy, doesn’t she, but way, way too young and innocent. Not Phil’s taste. She’s standing in for Jonathon Rule. Remember, Jon was offered a place in that German quartet?”

“I seem to remember Marta telling me.” He tore his gaze back to Cassie.

“She didn’t tell you anything about his replacement?”

“No.”

“Well, we’ll soon find out. You could do it just bowling up to them. Faraday is a great admirer of yours, though he does his best not to show it. He was really miffed when you left Wallace-Upton.”

“I always wanted to do my own thing, Cass. I didn’t particularly like working for George Upton. Underneath the day-to-day brush with the man, it was hard to know who the real George was.”

Cassie fixed her keen hazel eyes on Bruno McKendrick’s strikingly handsome face. She felt pleasure and, it had to be admitted even by a happily married woman, a trace of excitement, a thrill otherwise missing in her life. Bruno was the stuff of a woman’s dreams. He had a great head of hair, wonderful dark eyes, burnished skin, golden even in winter. Any woman would envy the natural glow.

“You were a real asset to Wallace-Upton,” she said, “but I can see how you felt about Upton. You’re no one’s yes-man. You would never turn a blind eye. You have a reputation for honesty.”

“One I prize.”

“So go to it,” she urged. “Mosey over to Phil’s group. See, he’s looking this way. So is his young friend. The really odd thing is that she reminds me of someone.” Cassie screwed up her eyes, obviously trying to think who. “I can’t for the life of me think who it is, but maybe it’ll come to me. She has the kind of face one doesn’t forget, don’t you think?”

“I do indeed,” he said, very dryly.

“Remember Sunday,” she called after him as he made off.

“Couldn’t keep me away.” Sunday was his godson Josh’s sixth birthday. He’d bought him a toy he thought would capture Josh’s attention, a tall, colourful robot that could walk and flash lights. Josh was receiving the very best attention and ongoing therapy, but it hadn’t been easy for Cassie or Ian. Oddly, though Josh usually shunned people, he had taken to Bruno right from the start.

“You’ve got the knack with kids, Bruno,” Cassie often told him, tears of gratitude swimming in her eyes. But then, he had insight into troubled kids. He had been one, hadn’t he?

A moment more and he braced himself for a Faraday hug. “Ciao, Bruno, you old son of a gun. Good to see you. You look great.”

“So do you, Phil. I’m loving the tie.” It appeared to have Philip’s winning string of racehorses on it.

“You know I’m a racing man. Hell, you learned to ride on my property.”

Philip had a splendid country retreat in the Blue Mountains. “I did too. You’re a great host, Phil.” It was perfectly true.

“They’re missing you over at Wallace-Upton, I hear.” Faraday looked up. One thing Phil couldn’t buy with all that money: height. He compensated by having his handmade shoes and boots built up. “I know you’re doing well, but you could have gone right to the top with the firm had you stayed. Not too late for you to go back.”

“Nice try, Phil, but I’m never going back,” he said, deliberately shifting his gaze to James Kellerman’s companion.

Faraday half-turned, a proprietorial expression on his attractive, fleshy face. “Isabelle, here’s an up-and-coming man I’d like you to meet. Bruno McKendrick, Isabelle Martin.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Martin. I thoroughly enjoyed the performance tonight, especially the Borodin.”

“Thank you.” She did not offer her hand. He’d known she wouldn’t. She was clearly on her guard.

Faraday had turned away for a moment to fawn over the governor-general, which was fine by Bruno. “Shall we move on?” He barely touched her elbow.

To his surprise, she made no protest. She went with him through the parting crowd, aware in their wake, that a few of the guests would be prodding one another. For some reason that escaped him, of late people had taken to running bets on how much longer he would remain a bachelor. Especially as Marta Lubrinski had elected to find him a suitable bride.

“Why the interest in me, Mr. McKendrick?” The girl gave him a sideways green glance.

“Oh please, Bruno. I have an Italian mother.”

“I’d never have guessed. Back to the question. Why the interest?”

“Let me explain. I’ve no wish to offend you, Isabelle; may I? But you’re the living image of someone my late father, a private investigator, had been hired to find. I’m talking just over twenty years ago.”

She raised finely arched brows several shades darker than her titian hair. “You’d have been a child.”

“Of course.”

“Was this woman found?”

He shook his dark head. “Never. Her disappearance devastated her family. She went missing of her own accord.”

She considered that for a moment. “Very likely big problems on the home front. That’s my guess. Didn’t your father investigate that?”

“My father left no stone unturned.”

“What has any of this to do with me beyond a superficial resemblance? We all have doubles, so they say.”

He shrugged off that theory. “I’ve seen photographs of the young woman, including one of a portrait painted when she’d turned twenty-one. The resemblance is uncanny, the colouring alone. Redheads make up only about four percent of the population. Your eyes are green. So were hers.”

“So that makes me a subject for investigation?” Her green eyes had the sparkle of jewels.

No touch of the usual female flirtatiousness about her. No man-woman challenge, no provocativeness. Rather the reverse. He liked that. Anyway, she was way too young for him. He was a man who applied rules and stuck to them. “Not at all. It’s simply I’m finding the resemblance riveting. As would you, if I showed you a photograph, though I agree we do have doubles.”

“You carry the photograph on your person?” she asked, so sweetly it had to be sarcasm.

“I meant at some other time. An appropriate time, because you’re with Faraday.”

Annoyance edged her clear young voice. “I’m not with your friend, Philip Faraday. I was standing briefly with him. I came with the group, Mr. McKendrick.”

He held up a palm. “No one calls me Mr. McKendrick.”

“Not even your staff?”

“Not even my staff.” How did she know he had a staff? Who had passed on the information? Probably Phil. Phil loved to gossip. Nothing bad. Nothing damaging; more titillating. Something appealing about that when other entrepreneurs were so brutally cruel.

“How liberal-minded of you,” she said.

“You were about to put me straight?”

“Sorry, I thought I did. Mr. Faraday attached himself to me. Not the other way around. He’s old enough to be my father.”

He couldn’t help it. He laughed. “That would lacerate him. Phil’s been married and divorced three times.”

“Clearly he doesn’t take matrimony seriously. Do you? You’re married?”

He fixed his dark eyes on her. “I’m in no hurry.”

She looked away, high, slanted cheekbones flushed. “Forgive me. But you set the tone of this conversation.”

“I started out wrongly. My excuse is I was stunned by the resemblance. I’m very serious about this. Maybe I could ask you to have lunch with me. Or dinner. Whatever you prefer.”

It was her turn to hold up a staying hand: beautiful, long-fingered, delicate but strong.

“Please don’t refuse me.” He hoped his smile worked, otherwise he was out of luck. “You may think me intrusive, but my father went to his grave without solving the Hartmann case. It took him over.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, as though she meant it. “You’d like to solve it for him?”

“I would. For him and for the Hartmann family.”

“Isn’t it way too late?”

“I would have thought so until I saw you. Were you adopted, by any chance? You’re what, English, the accent?”

There was a fleeting beat like uncertainty before she answered. “I’m as Australian as you are, given our forebears hailed from Europe. You’re very obviously of Italian descent. My parents are English. They arrived in Australia when I was a baby. I know you’d like to solve a mystery, but your mystery has nothing to do with me. My parents are alive and well. Both are specialist doctors. My father is an oncologist, my mother a highly regarded surgeon. I have no siblings. I’ve had to produce my birth certificate a number of times over the years. Passports, etc. I’ve never had the slightest doubt about who I am. Neither has anyone else.”

“Grandparents? Your grandparents are still living?” he persisted, driven by God knows what. Instinct. Gut feeling. Mirror images.

“Clearly you’re a detective tragic. But I can’t help you.”

“I’m pretty sure you can. No need to be crotchety.”

She looked up at him, blinked in amazement. “I am not crotchety. I’ve never actually heard that word spoken. Crotchety?”

“Really? My dad used it a lot.” He didn’t say it was in connection with his mother. A bit crotchety today, son! “Okay, how about vexed? If I’ve offended you, I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you. Dinner? Lunch is difficult for me most days. We could go to the new place, Leonards. It’s highly rated.”

“Who said I would enjoy myself?”

“I improve on acquaintance,” he assured her. “On the other hand, I’m fascinated by you, Ms. Martin. You’re not crotchety, forgive me. Maybe a teeny chip on your shoulder?”

She flipped back her luxuriant hair. A wonderfully feminine gesture. “That does it.”

“No, no.” His two-handed, up-flung gesture mirrored exactly one of his mother’s. “I promise you’ll be fascinated. It’s quite a story.” He glanced at his watch. “Look, it’s still early. Why don’t we go someplace quiet? At least let me explain. There’s some sort of mystery here. Hang on,” he suddenly remembered. “I have a small photo in the back of my wallet. It’s the same one my dad always carried. I grew up with this photo. And others.”

She wanted to resist him. She couldn’t. Not many women could, she imagined. It was a feeling she could not and did not want to understand. Not only was he a fantastic-looking man, with all the self-assurance success brings, he looked like a man who usually got what he wanted. For all that, his polished manner, and the humour in his voice, and the darker than dark eyes, he didn’t look the sort of man up for casual involvements, or to play women along. He was at heart a serious man; her trusty antennae told her that. At twenty-two, she had come to terms with the fact that men looked on her with considerable interest and a whole lot more that she didn’t want and actively discouraged. Bruno McKendrick wasn’t using his story as a kind of subterfuge for less cerebral pursuits. This was a story he was determined to investigate.

She made her decision, looking away. “I have to say good night to my hostess, to James and the other members of the group.”

“Of course. You’re finished for the evening?”

“James is staying on. He’s a party animal. I feel privileged to have been invited to play with the group. I thought we meshed well.”

“You meshed beautifully. You’re a fine musician yourself.”

“Royal College of Music, London. I have a Master’s degree.”

“Good for you. You must tell me more.”

“You’re interested?” She looked up at him quickly.

“Of course I’m interested. I don’t say things just for the hell of it. I suppose you were a child prodigy?”

She met his mesmerizing eyes. The irises were almost the brilliant black of the pupils. “Oddly enough, I was regarded as one in my hometown.”

“Why oddly?” He quirked a brow.

“It’s a long story.”

He was intent on hearing it. “No one else in the family was musical?” He knew for a fact the Hartmanns were a musical family. The portrait of the missing young woman had her seated at a grand piano, her face and torso turned towards the painter.

“Isn’t Mrs. Lubrinski waving at you?” Isabelle asked, having just that minute observed she and the dashing Bruno McKendrick were under surveillance.

He looked across to where Marta was standing. She might as well have been bellowing for his attention. Beside her stood Penelope, wearing an exquisitely pained expression. “So she is,” he said blandly. “The Lubrinskis are good friends of mine.”

“Is the young woman with her a good friend as well?” She was rummaging about in her memory for the name of the often-photographed society figure.

“I’ve lots of attractive women friends, Isabelle, none of them a fixture. Look, why don’t we go over and say good night together?”

“You need protection?” she asked with more than a hint of mischief.

“Every man needs protection from beautiful women.”

There was no trace of humour in his voice.

“I’ll take special note of that.” Bruno McKendrick had probably been chased from his teens, but that reaction? There had to be a story there involving a beautiful woman.

* * *

They walked down the brilliantly lit drive together into the starlit night. He had called a cab to take them to a waterfront restaurant. They would wait for it on the footpath.

“I think your Marta might be a holy terror,” Isabelle considered.

“Marta has a lovely nature.” It was said tongue in cheek. Marta, though she had remained the gracious hostess, definitely had not approved of Isabelle, who looked like a teenager, even if she were a brilliant young musician.

Isabelle was wearing strappy black heels, yet she had to tilt up her chin. “I have to ask this. Not idle curiosity. I really want to know. Have you something going on with Penelope?”

He didn’t weigh his response. “I thought I was the one who was going to ask the questions.” He looked down his perfectly aquiline nose at her.

“So it’s a setup. Madame Lubrinski”—it trilled off her tongue—“has made finding you the right partner a calling?”

“There’s the cab now.”

“I think she’s been giving you a hard time,” she said with a catch of laughter in her voice. Any of her girlfriends would have felt hurt and intimidated by Marta Lubrinski’s disapproval thinly cloaked by brilliant smiles. She didn’t. She was well used to intimidating women. On the other hand, if Penelope’s looks could have killed, she’d be laid out in the house.

Her skin was luminous under the streetlights. Her hair like rioting flames. If he weren’t immune to beautiful women, Bruno thought he’d be having palpitations. Not that Isabelle Martin had arrived at the femme fatale stage. She was still a girl, fresh as springtime. “What is this? You’re reading my mind?” he asked with a certain derisiveness.

“You’ve already given yourself away.”

He didn’t follow that up. What did she mean anyway? He wasn’t used to being put on the back foot.

* * *

The restaurant was upmarket. Jolly expensive, as Isabelle was soon to label it. They had a table for two at the window with a view of the starstruck, shimmering water. Isabelle didn’t know how he had managed that. The restaurant wasn’t crowded; nevertheless, it would have taken some clout to land their table by the window. She hadn’t eaten since lunch. Bruno revealed he hadn’t been able to manage lunch either, so both of them were hungry. Neither wanted to go past Sydney’s marvellous seafood, choosing a menu much like two people who knew exactly each other’s taste. At the end, they decided on a series of fancy little entrées featuring oysters, scallops, prawns and lobster.

“A Riesling to go?” Bruno signalled the hovering wine waiter.

“Perfect. Clare Valley.” She named the famous wine-growing region without hesitation.

“How do you know so much about Australian wines?”

She shrugged a creamy shoulder. “I’ve done a little judicious sampling.”

“So age bows to beauty.”

Her smile was so sweet, so uncomplicated, he saw her clearly as a little girl.

“You’re not middle-aged. Yet.”

“Before you ask, I’m quite a few years older than you.” Looked about ten years, actually. Made him suddenly feel old.

“I wasn’t going to ask, as it happens. I could easily check it out if I felt so inclined. It sounded like you were warning me off. I hope you haven’t jumped to the rash conclusion I’m after you, Bruno? There’s always someone, isn’t there?”

“I’m not sure you’d be the one to talk.”

She shook her head in demurral. “I can’t claim your hectic love life. I have my music. That’s more than enough for the time being.”

The waiter arrived at their table and highly rated their choice, while giving Isabelle more than a few lascivious glances. Bruno sent him on his way with a crisp grazie.

“I’m so sorry for that, Isabella,” he said, assailed by an unexpected anger. The guy was only looking. Who could blame him? Still, he hadn’t cared for it.

“I’m used to it,” Isabelle said gently.

He met her eyes, his serious. “You can be absolutely certain no trouble will come your way if I can help it.”

She paused, taking that in. “How, exactly?” She rested her chin on her linked hands. “And it’s Isabelle.”

“That’s the Italian in me.” He shrugged. “It’s very strong. Could you have a better name than Isabella, Bella?”

His smile dazzled. The smile alone had massive sex appeal. “Is that how you get women to fall in love with you?” She spoke as if she were conducting an interview, notebook in hand.

He met the sparkling mischief in her gaze. “I’m not with you, Isabella.”

“Of course you are. Even I’ve spotted women look at you like you’re a multimillionaire megastar. I’d be nervous myself, only I’ve divined you’re not into cradle snatching.”

“Cradle snatching is a big mistake. I could point out you’re over twenty-one and I like redheads.” His tone had unconsciously deepened. Hell, what was he doing, flirting?

Ruefully, it dawned on Isabelle she could be the moth drawn to the flame if she didn’t watch herself. She let a settling moment go by. “So how are you going to protect me and from what?” she asked.

“We don’t know yet.” His tone was serious.

“Oh, Bruno, stop that!” she implored. “I’m Isabelle Martin. My whole life is an open book.”

An open book? He had serious doubts about that. Soon this young woman would be immersed in asking questions, searching for answers. “Let’s just enjoy dinner, shall we?” he suggested. “You said you were hungry.”

“I am. Okay then, a cease-fire. I know perfectly well you’ll get back to being a private eye over coffee.”

“I’m only going to show you a photograph,” Bruno assured her.

That should be more than enough.

* * *

They were finishing coffee when Bruno pulled the photo out of his wallet and passed it across the candlelit table. “Tell me what you think.”

Isabelle took the photograph, studying it hard. She was looking at the unsmiling face of a very beautiful young woman. Not a girl. Most definitely a woman, and a very sexy one at that. It was like looking at the picture of an older, far more experienced sister. Isabelle didn’t know if she exactly liked this young woman. There was something very knowing in the gaze. The face was framed by masses of titian hair. She had large, almond-shaped eyes.

For a time she had absolutely nothing to say. She was, in fact, finding it hard to breathe. Astonishingly, the hand that held the photograph trembled. “This is a complete mystery,” she said.

His eyes held understanding and a melting compassion. “I don’t think we should do this here, Bella.”

“I don’t think we should do this at all. The resemblance is extraordinary, I grant you, but this woman has nothing to do with me and my family.” Isabelle handed the photo back.

“I’ve upset you.”

“Of course you’ve upset me,” she said with unaccustomed sharpness. “I can’t do this.”

“We’ll do only what you’re comfortable with.” He signalled for the bill.

Outside the restaurant, he hailed a cruising cab. “I live not far from here. We can talk quietly.”

“I don’t want to talk.”

“What are you afraid of? It’s not me. I’m here as your protector.”

“Look, this is crazy!” Isabelle turned to him, her expression disturbed.

“Then we can sort it out. Trust me.”

“I rarely trust strange men.”

“Only I’m not strange, am I? It happens sometimes. You’re comfortable enough with me.”

“God help us, yes.”

He placed a light, guiding hand at her back, yet Isabelle felt a sudden surge of sensation. It was as if he had caressed her spine.

When they were inside the cab, he glanced at her. “What’s it to be? Your call.”

Isabelle felt her agitation growing. “I swear I don’t know. I like reading mysteries. I don’t relish living one.”

“I know you’re intrigued.”

She shook her head. “Not that. Intrigued is too light a word.”

The cab driver broke in amiably. He had never seen such a contrast. The guy was the quintessential handsome Italian. The girl was pure Celt. A Celtic muse. “Where’s it to be, folks?”

Bruno gave his address.

She knew his luxury apartment block well. She had admired it from afar, never thinking for a moment she would enter it with a man able to afford such a fantastic home.

“The sky’s the limit!” she said, throwing up her hands. “Bet this set you back a pretty penny.”

“I’m a single man.”

“No fool for love, then?”

“Nothing I’m going to discuss with you, Bella.”

“You must be able to lean out from your balcony and touch the stars,” she said. “Fancy waking up to spectacular views in the morning; seeing the city a fairyland at night,” Isabelle continued to enthuse. “I might win the lottery and splash it all on a one-bedroom apartment.”

“I still can’t get used to it,” Bruno admitted as they walked into the elegant foyer. He and his father had lived modestly, in the same house all three of them had shared. Sometimes he thought they should have shifted. Too many memories. Especially for his dad.

No one joined them in the spacious lift. They were alone. Isabelle, in her hyped-up state, felt a smidge claustrophobic. Neither spoke a word. They just stood side by side. Isabelle found their being together unreal. She nibbled the inside of her lip while the superfast lift whizzed them to the twenty-eighth floor.

“Where do you live? With your parents?” Bruno asked as they exited into the hushed, thickly carpeted hallway.

She shook her head. “I have a small flat in a respectable neighbourhood, Bruno, because you asked.”

“By yourself?”

This time she met his eyes directly. She was very direct. He already knew that. “I think I’m a bit of a loner. Like you.”

A strike for her. “How did you work that out?” he asked dryly.

“Woman’s intuition.”

“Really? Woman’s intuition is no joke. Do you see your parents often?”

“Do you see your mother?” she parried.

He released a harsh breath. “No. Obviously, someone has filled you in on me, probably good old Phil. My parents’ marriage broke up when I was seven. My father and I adored her.”

She patted his jacketed arm, clearly offering comfort. “I’m so sorry. How sad. You were devastated. I understand that. You turned the rage inward.”

“What rage?” he asked crisply, opening the door to his apartment.

“Enough to make you fire up. Perhaps rage is the wrong word. The hurt, the sadness that simmers deep down. You haven’t gotten around to releasing it.”

“I thought you were a musician, not a psychoanalyst,” he said, turning a switch that controlled all the lighting.

“I know the signs,” she broke off as she took in their surroundings. “Oh wow!” She came to a halt, gazing around the huge space with genuine wonder and admiration. “Now this is a showcase apartment for a well-heeled, sophisticated man. A man of taste.”

“That’s encouraging!”

“I mean it.” Her eyes swept over the huge open-plan living area, beautifully furnished Italian style, dramatic like him. A palette of sand, bronze, black and gold. The only vibrant colours came from three dazzling artworks. An ebony grand piano stood in a prominent corner.

“That’s a big surprise,” she said, glancing towards the piano. “Do you play?”

“I give free rein to polishing the keys.”

“You mean you don’t play. You simply make sure the keys are depressed each day?”

“Right on. Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Haven’t you got enough going for you?” She flashed him a glance. “I’m really pleased you take time to look after your piano. It’s a Steinway, after all. One of your girlfriends isn’t a concert pianist, is she?”

“I’m hoping for such a woman to come my way.”

“I’ll start praying for you,” Isabelle said. “And the piano. It needs playing, like all instruments. This place is perfect for you. Did you have a decorator?” She was teasing him deliberately. She guessed he hadn’t.

“I did not,” he clipped off.

“Good for you,” she said approvingly.

“This is where I live. It has to reflect me. No one else.”

“Who’s arguing?” She put her black satin clutch bag down on a striking black lacquer cabinet, black trimmed with gilded bronze, moving toward one of the paintings, taking a closer look at it. “Next you’re going to tell me you painted this.”

Under the strong lights, her hair was on fire, glittering, gleaming, dancing with gold and copper highlights. “I wish. Do you like it?”

“Takes a lot of time to figure out, but it’s dynamic. You certainly know how to feather your nest. You’re a very stylish man.”

“Thank you, Isabella,” he said.

“And that’s the only compliment you’re going to get this evening. Do you have parties here? I can see parties.”

He nodded. “Often. My people mostly.” He took off his jacket, loosened his silk tie and settled them over the back of a chair.

“Your colleagues, the people who work for you?”

“My friends. A sprinkling of others. As long as they’re interesting, with something to say.”

“You must ask me. I’m not your dream concert pianist, but I’ll play the piano for you.”

“You play the piano?” One black eyebrow shot up.

“You people! Of course I do,” she tut-tutted. “The piano was my second instrument. I started out learning the piano when I was six.”

“So, a musical family, then?”

She didn’t answer for quite a while.

“You’ve gone quiet, Isabella. Anything up? The wrong question?”

She sighed. It was quite extraordinary, the way he said her name. It was as though they had known each other for years, the ease off the tongue, so melodic, so Italian. “I was a child who needed music. My parents are doctors, as I’ve said. Not that doctors don’t love music. Of course they do. It was just that my parents don’t. It’s a question of time, I suppose. They don’t have a lot of it.”

“So how did you manage lessons?” he asked with interest.

She gave a little laugh. “I put on spectacular tantrums, so I’m told. I was determined to learn the piano. Don’t ask me why.”

“Your soul needed it.”

She looked across at him, genuinely surprised. “Gosh, Bruno, that sounded like you really understand. My soul, my spirit, my being, even at that early age, did. I must have been a musician in another life. Once my mother got the message, she arranged a very good teacher for me. Nothing but the best. I started to be a good girl from then on. I had been a difficult child before that, from all accounts. Even I can dimly remember my troubles. My father bought me a grand piano—not like yours, King Steinway; you must have paid a packet for that, but a very good Yamaha. No little upright like other kids. They needed the spur to keep me busy and content. They were—are—committed to their careers. They’re dedicated people, just not . . . artistic.”

“When did you move out?” They were standing a short distance apart, facing each other, locked into the conversation.

“When I took up my scholarship in London. It took four years to complete. When I returned, I found myself an apartment in Sydney, close to the Conservatory. My parents live in Adelaide, the city of churches. It’s very English in its way. So are they.”

“Didn’t you want to be close to them?” He started to wonder about that.

“I wanted to be independent. Live my own life. Want me to play something for you?”

“Nothing I’d like more.”

Her jewelled eyes lit up. “You’re really nice, aren’t you, under that top-of-the-pile, exceedingly clever businessman façade?”

He laughed. “Don’t believe everything you read in the papers, Isabella. I have to work very hard.”

“Me too,” she said, sitting down at the piano and adjusting the seat. “Do you like Debussy?”

“All I know is ‘Clair de Lune,’” he admitted. He hadn’t arrived at the Ds yet.

“This is one of Debussy’s arabesques, the first.”

“Great!” He backed up, settled in one of the deep Italian leather armchairs. To his consternation, his heart was jumping in his chest. For the moment, before she started playing, she had struck the very same pose as the Hartmann girl. If only his father had lived to see this. It seemed to him momentous they had met. The truth could even be that their meeting had been ordained.

She began. He gave himself up to the rippling music, the wonderful tone, the lyricism. He had bought the Steinway—very expensive, as Bella said—because he had liked the sound, especially of the bass. Some of his friends were musicians. They played piano, trumpet, sax. Mostly jazz. Great fun at a party. No one had played his piano remotely like this. He found her playing touched him physically. It was tantalizing. Seductive. Darn near erotic.

The piece came to an end. She looked towards him expectantly. He waved his hand. “Please. Keep going. You’re a fine musician. This has been quite an evening.”

Isabelle had to agree. There was something surreal about it all. “You’ll know this one. Everyone knows this one. I play it on the cello as well. A Gershwin prelude.” She had never enjoyed such a gratifying reception from her parents. Piano. Cello. Made no difference. Maybe she would have gained a better response playing a mouth organ with abandon. Bruno McKendrick’s response, the brilliant flash of appreciation in his dark eyes, came as an absolute if unexpected delight.

“Bravo!”

She finished with a flourish. Rose to her feet. Dipped into her perfected concert bow.

“Come and sit down,” Bruno invited. “My musical friends will love you. Can I get you anything?”

“A nice cold glass of water would be lovely. A slice of lime in it. Lemon will do.” She began to wander about again. They were at a great height on the twenty-eighth floor. The apartment had two balconies. The city, the Harbour, the Bridge and the Opera House made for a glittering fairyland. It was a sensational view. She couldn’t conceive of one better.

He returned with a squat crystal glass filled with cold water, two ice cubes, two paper-thin slices of lime. “Thank you. I know you have some more photos to show me. I don’t know if I’m ready to look at them. This could get scary.”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Bella,” he said. “But I truly believe you should look at what I’ve got. The Hartmann case obsessed my father, as I told you. A young woman goes missing. Imagine! Dad felt strongly for the family, the grandfather in particular. The young woman was adored.”

“As far as you know.” Her green eyes moved away from him. “She wasn’t around to give her side of things, was she? And why the grandfather? She had parents, siblings?” She all but finished the cold water, handing the glass back to him.

“Dad found the grandfather, the patriarch, most affected.” He turned to head off to the kitchen.

“May I follow?”

“Of course.”

“Woo-hoo!” She gave a soft, melodious whistle, studying this new space. “How cool is this!” Black cabinetry, immaculate white marble tops, the silver sheen of stainless steel, a stainless-steel wine storage cabinet aligned with the refrigerator. Stainless-steel glass-fronted series of cupboards holding white crockery. Three dazzling gold pendants provided the lighting. She ran an appreciative hand over the white marble bench top. “Who does the cooking?”

“Who do you think?”

He looked down his nose at her. She was getting used to it. “At least one of your lady friends must be able to cook with brio!”

“My mother was a wonderful cook. She—”

He broke off abruptly, obviously about to say more, but thinking better of it.

“What made you tell me that?” One of his bronzed, shapely hands rested on the white marble. Before she knew it, she had rested her hand over his in a spontaneous gesture of empathy.

“I’m damned if I know.” He stared down at their hands. She didn’t take her hand away. Neither did he. It was as though each was absorbing the other, through their skin.

“You miss her. You’ve never stopped missing her.”

His answer came in a flash. “And what would you know about loss, Isabella?”

“I know what fills me with sadness,” she said. “Maybe we feel the loss of generations. Our forebears.” She was looking up into his dark, dark eyes. Deep. For a moment, she forgot to breathe. Even her limbs had turned liquid.

After a second he said very gently, “Bella, let go of my hand.”

“Oh I’m sorry, sorry.” She hastened to apologize, blushing.

“No need to be sorry.” As a total impulse, he bent and lightly kissed her magnolia cheek. He would kiss a young female cousin like that. If only he had one. There was something very endearing about Isabelle Martin. Through her beauty, he also discerned sadness. He could read it in her eyes, hear it in her playing. Maybe that was why they had made an instant connection.

“I should be going, all right?” she announced briskly, as if she had overstayed her welcome. “Could you call a cab?”

“I’ll take you,” he said.

“You can’t.” She stared back at him with widened eyes. “You might be over the limit, a man like you.”

“All I’ve had were three glasses of wine,” he pointed out. “You’ve had two. Do you want to drive?”

“A Lamborghini?” She laughed, more a gurgle in her creamy throat.

“Nothing with that amount of impact. A Mercedes.”

“Let me take the cab.”

“No. I’ll see you safely home. Moreover, I’ll get to see where you live.”

A strange look crossed her face. “You said you had more photos? May I borrow them for a day or two?”

“I’m going to have to say no to that, Bella. You can have one.”

A brightening up. “I’ll take good care of it. Trust me.”

“I do trust you.” He had learned the hard way where to put his trust. He trusted this girl.

“Thank you. Shall I ring for the cab?”

“You win. Give me a minute. I want you to see this particular photograph first.”

* * *

Seconds passed. A full minute. She guessed the photograph would be with bundles of his father’s papers. She waited in the living room, taking the piano seat, where she felt more in control.

What was happening here? What had compelled her to listen to him, to come with him, to play for him, to allow him to show her a photograph of—in her view—not an identical twin but an older sister with a sexy stare and a pout to her full mouth. The mouth was the same shape as hers, but she never pouted. At least she thought she didn’t. And she didn’t invite men’s lust-filled glances.

Inside she could feel her emotions shifting like ripples on a pond. She closed her eyes. Opened them. Took a breath. There was nothing but a certain piquancy in this resemblance thing. So why was her mind so agitated? It didn’t make sense. Maybe she was too impressionable, and Bruno McKendrick was far too persuasive. Only he hadn’t tracked her down. Fate had brought them together. If she hadn’t been standing in tonight as cellist for the quartet, they might never have met.

Bruno returned, holding a couple of photographs, one of which he handed to her. “I haven’t even asked you her name,” Isabelle said. “This is all sooo melodramatic.”

“Helena. Helena Hartmann. The Hartmanns are a pastoral family.”

“I’ve never heard of them.”

“People on the land have,” he said. An understatement.

“German name, Hartmann.” She made herself look down. “Oh my gosh!” she exclaimed, seeing herself. “How can this be?” This view of the young woman was completely different from the first photograph. The expression was openly vulnerable, in need of emotional support. This wasn’t an adored young woman living in a model family home. She looked like she had been fighting for years to be herself. Isabelle had the unnerving feeling she was looking at herself. Hadn’t she caught that very same expression in her mirror?

“Do you want to find out what happened to her?” Bruno asked gently. He could see she had instantly identified with the young woman in the photograph. He remembered his father once saying, “That look on Helena’s face, Bruno. Makes you want to jump in and help.”

Isabelle shook her head. “It doesn’t fall to me. An extraordinary resemblance, that’s all. I admit it’s bizarre. The other photo you showed me is of a different person. An older sister, perhaps?”

“What?” Startled, he looked down at an enlargement of the photo he had shown Isabelle in the restaurant. “Helena Hartmann didn’t have a sister. No siblings, in fact.”

“Her mother perhaps, when young?”

Bruno was stunned. He continued to stare down at the photograph, compelled to adjust his thinking. Isabelle appeared confident of her judgement. He had already rated her highly intelligent. No suggestion had ever been made that the photographs were of two different young women. They were, after all, identical, save for the differing expressions. It was only after Isabelle had pointed it out that he’d realized she could be right. Anything was possible. The personalities revealed were of one super-confident young woman, the other, girlish and insecure.

“Put the photos side by side on the table,” Isabelle suggested. “One is black and white. The other is in colour, I know. We both see the features as being extraordinarily alike. The same mane of curly hair. The same almond eyes, but the expressions—the inner selves are totally different. One is a shadow of the other. Surely your dad saw that?”

Bruno frowned. “He didn’t have a clue. The photographs were given to him by family. He was told they were of Helena. Why would they lie? What would be the point?”

“The grandfather?”

“Not Konrad. The father actually, Erik. He could scarcely make a mistake. We all do look different depending on whether life is going our way or isn’t, surely?”

“What about the mother?”

He paused for a moment, then he met her searching eyes. “The mother, Myra, was killed in a riding accident on the property when Helena was twelve. Rumour had it the mother had been having an affair. Affairs. Could have been exaggeration. The family were all against her, according to Dad.”

“Something is wrong somewhere, Bruno,” Isabelle said with a shake of her head. “Maybe the husband fixed it that she’d come off her horse. There would have been a lot of venom in him. A beautiful wife. A lover. A jealous, possessive husband. Has all the ingredients. Maybe Helena ran off to be free of all the family tensions. The dead woman was her mother, after all. It has to be considered: the first photo could be of the mother, Myra.”

“You seem so darned sure.”

“A woman’s take. Of course I could be wrong, but I doubt it. The other photo, the vulnerable one, could perhaps reflect grief over the mother’s tragedy.”

“Over ten years later?”

“Why not? What’s time to a grieving soul?”

“Of course there’s that, but Helena’s father handed over the photographs as those taken of his daughter.”

“He could have been playing games,” Isabelle said. “He could even hate his own child because she was a constant reminder of the wife who betrayed and humiliated him. The family could well have been trying to confuse your father. Maybe one of them didn’t want her found? Maybe one of them helped her get away for whatever reason. It had to be serious. An investigation was mounted by the grandfather, who must have loved Helena. The police would have been notified, then your father. The grandfather might never have suspected another family member was involved, even his own son. So then, which one was the real Helena? First subject looks fully capable of running off and establishing a new identity, wouldn’t you say? She looks confident, manipulative. Second subject looks just . . . sad and sort of helpless. Anyway, Bruno McKendrick, it’s not my problem. I’ve never met anyone called Hartmann in my life. My parents are Norville and Hilary Martin. My mother’s maiden name was Frazer-Holmes.” She began to wave the photograph in her hand as if it threatened her. “I don’t want this.”

“Don’t be angry,” he said quietly, not taking the photograph from her.

“I’m not angry. I’m all shook up. Like Elvis. Heck, Elvis has had dozens and dozens of look-alikes.”

“No one, but no one, looked like Elvis,” he half-laughed.

“Okay, but lock the photographs away.”

“At least you know what I’m talking about. There remains a possibility your parents haven’t spoken about, didn’t want to speak to you about the past.”

“By telling me they snatched someone else’s baby?” Her voice rose in disbelief.

“Not unheard of. Things do go wrong in maternity hospitals. Wrong tags, no tags, wrong names, mix-ups, babies given to the wrong mothers. Wrong mothers rear wrong babies. Baby gets to adulthood before someone stumbles on the truth. Baby doesn’t want to hook up with her biological mother. You read about it all the time, Bella, even if you can scarcely believe it. Surely a mother would know her own baby? The smell of it, the look of it. Should we doubt a mother’s instincts? I wouldn’t have thought so, yet the evidence is there. Babies do go to the wrong families. Moreover, they’re accepted.”

“Bruno,” she said, exasperated. “I am aware of what you say, but it just so happens I know they’re my parents. I truly do.”

“Then you shouldn’t be bothered checking things out. Ask a few questions. Show your mother the photograph. See what she says. How she responds.”

Isabelle had no difficulty visualizing her mother’s reaction. “It wouldn’t be the best conversation opener, I can tell you. She’d be affronted.”

“How so?” He had to turn that one over in his mind. “If she did react in that way surely you’d have stumbled onto a minefield. I can’t see a loving mother being outraged by your extraordinary resemblance to a young woman gone missing decades ago. There could be no possible reason for outrage.”

Isabelle sighed. “Want to bet? Everyone has a reason. Everything has a reason. My mother is a very formidable woman, and very clever. She intimidates people. I’ve seen it. She deals in life and death. Not fantasy.”

“Who’s talking fantasy?” Bruno countered, not liking the sound of her mother. “You have Helena Hartmann’s face. You have her colouring. You’re a musician. So was she.”

She felt dazed. “Maybe you should pay more attention to coincidence? I can’t listen, in any case. You’re driven to solve an old case for your father. I understand that. You had a father you loved, who loved you. I’m not criticizing my mother. I’m only describing the way she is. Both my parents have been extremely good to me. I’ve never wanted for anything. They may not have exactly approved of my decision to become a professional musician. They had different hopes for me—I was smart at school—but they supported me on the understanding my ambition was not to make a name for myself.”

Bruno’s shapely mouth compressed. “You can’t be serious?”

“I’m very serious.”

“Then I’m having a bit of trouble with that. You’ve spent years studying. You’ve gained a Master’s degree at a world-famous college of music yet all further ambitions are frowned upon. What’s their aim? To keep you hidden?” He took a deep and, yes, angry breath.

“More like marry me off.” She gave a half laugh. “A good marriage of course. My mother would pick out the most outstanding candidates from within her own circle.”

“They’re not everyday people,” Isabelle tried hard to explain. “Just imagine the life they lead.”

“They’re controllers?”

“Oh, Bruno,” she protested. “They want to see me settled. They want grandchildren.” Or so they claimed. Maybe they’d be more comfortable with the next generation, a grandchild.

“If you don’t want to risk showing her the photograph, it’s entirely up to you.”

“Risk being the punch line?” she challenged wryly.

“Right now, I think it’s worth it. If it’s sheer coincidence, there’s nothing whatever to worry you or your parents. Who knows; we could have exact doubles.”

“I said it first.” She looked back at the later photograph, then up at him. “I wish you hadn’t shown me this, Bruno. I see the tears behind her eyes. I don’t see a much-loved granddaughter or a much-loved daughter. The other woman looks older. Far more worldly.”

“I agree.” He did, now that he had given the photographs his total attention.

“So what happened in between? It would have been very easy for your father to get so involved. I know instinctively he was a very nice man. A kind man. You obviously loved him a great deal. But what makes you think you can solve a case he couldn’t? I’m guessing he was an expert investigator?”

Bruno’s explanation was simple. “The best. Only he never got to see you.”

“And you think you’re going to nail it?”

“Doesn’t her family deserve closure?”

Isabelle lowered her head, shielding her eyes. “All suffering families deserve closure. But this is conjecture. You have no proof of anything. Anyway, the Hartmann grandfather would be dead. Someone in the remaining family could be living with a secret. What do we know? We know Helena Hartmann had problems. She thought disappearing was the only answer. It’s a strong possibility she was desperately unhappy. She would have had help to get away. You can’t just hop on a bus in the Outback.”

“My father was convinced she had hidden away on a freight plane that regularly brought supplies to the station. Probably the pilot knew, but he wasn’t talking, not to the police, not even to my dad, who’d made the getting of information an art form.”

“The pilot was probably protecting her. You’re being very disruptive to my life, Bruno McKendrick.”

“I know.”

“Do you believe in fate? Karma? That sort of thing?”

“I do now.” There was a whole lot of feeling in his deep voice.

Isabelle came to a reluctant decision, but a decision all the same. “I think I’ll show this photograph to my father,” she said. “He’s more approachable than my mother. I’ll make it seem like a curiosity.”

“You’d have to fly to Adelaide?” He thought he should pay for that.

“No.” She shook her head. “There’s a medical conference in Sydney starting next Wednesday. I’ve organised to see him then. He’s been very good taking care of me, you know. He loves me. He’s not a demonstrative man, that’s all. Some men don’t find it easy. They don’t understand the concept of closeness like physical displays of affection. Perhaps it was the way they were brought up.” She omitted to say her mother found displays of affection redundant. Displays of affection were denied her father as well. She had never seen them hug, let alone kiss. They had always had separate bedrooms. Her mother was different. She remembered one of her school friends, Cressy, rolling her eyes while confiding her mother called Isabelle’s “a travelling iceberg.” She should have felt bad for her mother, but she didn’t. She liked Cressy’s mother a lot. She was so warm and friendly. Unfailingly kind. Kindness was very important. Besides, she knew her mother would come across as an icy, unapproachable woman. Certainly not one to stand around chatting with other mothers. But so clever! Everyone thought so.

At that moment, Bruno could find nothing easy to say about her parents. “Anyone with red hair and green eyes in the family?” he asked.

“Believe it or not, there is. A cousin on my mother’s side. Red hair and freckles. On the horsey side. Long face. Long nose. I don’t look a bit like her. But there you are!”

“You’ve met her?”

“No. I’ve only seen a photograph of her.”

“So what family have you actually known?”

“Tough question. None. It happens like that sometimes. I’d like to go home now, Bruno. There’s really no need for you to come with me.”

“I feel there is.”

“So no argument, then.”