A Secret Vengeance Read online

  A Secret Vengeance

  Harlequin Presents #2236

  Miranda Lee

  PROLOGUE

  CELIA was still half asleep when the phone rang. Lifting one eyelid, she glanced at her bedside clock radio.

  Ten past eight. Not all that early, she supposed, but it was Sunday. Celia liked to sleep in on a Sunday. Everyone who knew her well, knew she liked to sleep in on a Sunday.

  Which meant whoever was ringing her at this ungodly hour must have a good reason for doing so.

  "Probably Mum," Celia muttered as she threw back her duvet and reached for the receiver.

  "Hello," she said.

  "He's dead," came a woman's voice, sounding spaced out.

  Celia sucked in sharply and sat up. It was her mother. And Celia didn't have to ask who he was.

  There was only one he in her mother's life. Lionel Freeman. Sydney's most awarded architect. Fifty-four years old. Married, with one grown-up son, named Luke.

  Celia's mother had been Lionel Freeman's mistress for more years than her daughter liked to think about.

  "What...what happened?" Celia asked, her thoughts whirling.

  "He's dead," her mother repeated like a stuck record.

  Celia took a deep breath and tried not to panic. "Is Lionel there with you now?"

  "What?"

  "Did Lionel come to visit you at Pretty Point this weekend?" Celia was thinking heart attack or stroke. The idea that they might have been actually doing it at the time brought a degree of revulsion. But it had to be faced. That was why Lionel Freeman visited his mistress after all. To have sex. And plenty of it, no doubt.

  "No. No, he was going to, but then he couldn't make it."

  Celia was torn between relief and anger. Her mother had wasted nearly half of her life waiting for her married lover to show up.

  Well, now her waiting for Lionel was over. For good. But at what price?

  "It was on the radio."

  "What was on the radio, Mum?"

  "They said it wasn't his fault. The other driver was drunk."

  Celia nodded. Sounded like an accident of some kind. A car crash. And Lionel Freeman had been killed.

  There was little pity in her heart for the man, only for her mother, her poor deluded mother who'd sacrificed everything for the illicit moments she'd spent with him. She'd loved Lionel Freeman more than life itself.

  Now he was dead, and his distraught mistress was all alone in the secret love nest where the selfish Lionel had installed her a few years back.

  Celia was terrified that, once the reality of her beloved's death sank in, her mum might very well do something stupid. Celia wasn't going to let that happen. Her mother had wasted twenty years of her life on Lionel Freeman. Celia wasn't going to let him take her with him in death.

  "Mum, go and make yourself a cup of tea," she said firmly. "And put plenty of sugar in it. I'll be with you very soon."

  Celia lived not all that far away, in Swansea. She also drove a zappy little hatchback which could move when she wanted it to.

  Celia reached Pretty Point in twenty-three minutes flat. A record, considering it usually took her over half an hour. Of course, there'd hardly been a car on the road. The Sunday day-trippers from Sydney didn't swarm up in their droves till the seriously warm weather arrived, and summer was still a couple of months off.

  "Mum?" she called out as she knocked frantically on the locked back door. "Mum, where are you? Let me in."

  No answer. Celia's chest tightened like a vice as she raced round to the front of the house which faced the lake. She began imagining all kinds of horror scenarios.

  But there her mother was, sitting at a table on the deck which overlooked the lake. The rising sun was behind her, outlining her perfect profile and glinting on her softly curled red-gold hair. She was wearing a silky lemon robe, sashed tightly around her still tiny waist. From a distance, she looked very young and very beautiful.

  And, thankfully, very alive.

  Celia heaved a great sigh of relief and hurried up the wooden steps which led onto the deck.

  Her mother glanced up at her, her usually expressive green eyes worryingly vacant. She'd made the cup of tea, as ordered, but it sat in front of her, untouched.

  She was still in deep shock, Celia realised.

  "Mum," she chided gently as she sat down opposite her. "You haven't drunk your tea."

  "What?"

  "Your tea..."

  "Oh... Yes... The tea. I'm sorry. I made it but I forgot to drink it."

  "So I see." Celia decided against making another. Far better to get her mother away from here as soon as possible to a place where someone could watch her twenty-four hours a day for a while.

  As much as Celia would have liked that person to be herself, she had a clinic to run and appointments that she simply had to keep this coming week. And the next week too. Maybe, by the end of that week, she could clear her diary somewhat and have some time off.

  Meanwhile, Aunt Helen would have to come to the party, whether she wanted to or not.

  "Mum," she said firmly, "you do know you can't stay here, don't you? This place belonged to Lionel. No doubt he kept it a secret from his family, but there will be a deed somewhere. Sooner or later, someone will show up and if you're still here, questions will be asked. You always told me Lionel didn't want his wife and son to know about you, so..."

  "She's dead too," her mother broke in. "His wife. Kath. In the accident. They were both killed instantly."

  "Dear heaven. How dreadful." Celia sagged back against her chair. She'd often wished Lionel Freeman would go take a running jump from one of his tallest buildings, but she'd never wished any harm on his unfortunate wife.

  Poor woman, Celia thought.

  "Poor Luke," her mother choked out. "He's going to be shattered."

  Celia frowned. She didn't often think of the son, especially nowadays. He was a grown man after all, and not living at home. But now that her mother had mentioned him, she did feel sorry for the man. How awful to lose both his parents so tragically, especially his mother. Still, there was nothing she could do for him. She had her own shattered mother to worry about.

  Her mum suddenly looked up, her eyes troubled. "You're right," she said in panicky tones. "I can't stay here. Luke might come. Lionel would die if Luke found out about me."

  Once she realised what she'd just said, her face paled and a strangled sob escaped her throat.

  "I doubt Lionel's son would come here personally, Mum," Celia reassured her. "But even if he does, you won't be here. I'm taking you to stay at Aunt Helen's for a while till I can organise something more permanent for you."

  Her mother shook her head from side to side, tears flooding her eyes. "No. No, I couldn't go there Helen didn't approve of my relationship with Lionel. She hated him."

  Didn't we all? Celia thought ruefully.

  But this was hardly the time to say so.

  “She hated what he did to you, Mum," Celia said gently. "Which is another thing entirely. And the situation's changed now, isn't it?"

  "But she never understood," her mother cried, the tears spilling over. "You didn't either, did you, Celia? You thought I was wicked. And a fool."

  "I never thought you were wicked, Mum."

  "But you thought me a fool. And maybe I was. But love makes fools of all of us."

  Not me, Celia vowed privately. Never! When and if she fell in love, it wouldn't be with a man like Lionel Freeman.

  "I know you think Lionel didn't really love me," her mother said brokenly. "But he did."

  "If you say so, Mum," was all Celia could say to that.

  "You don't believe me."

  Celia neither denied, nor confirmed this truth.

  "There
are things you don't know...things I've never told you..."

  "Arid please don't go telling me now, Mum," Celia begged. The last thing she wanted to listen to was all the lies Lionel had fed his mistress to excuse and explain his two decades of adultery. She'd refused to discuss Lionel with her mother for some years now.

  Her mother sighed a long shuddering sigh and, as the air left her lungs, so, it seemed, did her spirit. Her shoulders sagged. Her eyes dulled. Perhaps it was only the sun going behind a cloud, but so did her hair.

  Suddenly, the eternally youthful and sensual creature that Lionel Freeman had lusted after so obsessively faded to nothing but a shadow of her former self. Till a moment before, she could have passed for thirty. Now, she looked every second of her forty-two years. And more.

  "You're right," she said with a weariness that worried Celia more than her earlier shocked state. "What does anything matter any more? He's dead. Lionel is dead. It's over."

  Celia gazed anxiously at her mother. This was what she'd been afraid of, her thinking there was nothing left to live for without the man she adored.

  People said she was just like her mother, and she was, in looks. But, there, any similarities ended.

  Her mother was a romantic, Celia, a realist. Especially when it came to men. Impossible for her to be otherwise after twenty years of watching her mother being so ruthlessly used by Lionel Freeman.

  Perversely, there'd been a time when Celia had thought Lionel was wonderful. He'd entered her life when she'd been six, a lonely, fatherless little girl. What lonely little six-year-old wouldn't have adored the handsome man who'd made her mummy so happy when he'd visited, and had brought such marvellous toys?

  It hadn't been till Celia had reached puberty that she'd taken off her rose-coloured glasses where her mummy's friend had been concerned. Once she'd realised exactly what Lionel came to visit for, and that he made her mother cry much more than smile, Celia's love for him had turned to hate overnight.

  Outraged as only a disillusioned and disgusted teenager was able, she'd confronted Lionel and had torn strips off him, appalled when her mother had then torn strips off her in return for being out of line. But, after that, the lovers had met elsewhere other than at her mother's flat Celia's mum had still cried a lot in the dead of night, and a distraught Celia had vowed never to grow up and fall in love with any man who wasn't a genuine Mr Wonderful. Her dream man wouldn't be afraid of commitment and fatherhood. And he certainly wouldn't be already married to someone else, like Lionel. He would be decent and honest, brave and reliable, loyal and loving.

  Oh, and of course he'd be terribly good-looking and a really good kisser. She'd been only thirteen when she'd conjured up this vision of masculine perfection, after all.

  Celia hadn't found him yet In fact, she was pretty sure her Mr Wonderful didn't exist She'd had quite a few boyfriends since leaving school, but hadn't found a single one who didn't eventually disappoint her, both in bed and out.

  Maybe she had impossibly high standards. Her girlfriends always said she did. Whatever, her relationships never worked out.

  The last one had been a couple of months ago. He'd been a footballer she'd treated for a knee injury, and he had pursued her to death after his treatments had finished, telling her he was simply crazy about her, promising her the world if she would just go out with him.

  She had in the end, because she'd actually found him very attractive. She liked tall, well-built men. He was also surprisingly intelligent and seemingly sincere. Naturally, she'd made him wait for sex. She never went to bed with a guy on a first date. Nor a second. Nor even a third. When she finally had, she'd wished she hadn't. For it had been such an anticlimax.

  He'd seemed pretty satisfied, however, which was always the case with men, she'd found. They really weren't too worried about their girlfriends' lack of orgasms, provided the girlfriend was coming across. They always blamed the woman, never themselves. And they invariably promised things would get better.

  Sometimes, if the guy was nice, Celia hung in there, hoping things would improve. But when the footballer had sensitively informed her during his second go that his previous girlfriend would have come three times by then, Celia had decided Mr Wonderful he wasn't. Nor ever would be.

  She'd dumped him the next morning.

  Pity her mother hadn't dumped Lionel Freeman the morning after all those years ago when she'd found out he was married. But then, Lionel, in bed at least, had been her mother's Mr Wonderful. Apparently, she did refuse to see him for a little while. But the manipulative devil had wormed his way back into her bed with all those excuses and lies Celia didn't want to hear about and he'd been there on a regular basis ever since.

  Celia didn't doubt it was a case of true love on her mum's part, but she would put a million dollars on it being nothing but lust on darling Lionel's.

  Celia wanted to be angry with her mother for being such a romantic fool all these years but, somehow, she couldn't. Not today. Not when the poor woman's heart was already breaking apart.

  "Why don't you go shower and dress while I ring Aunt Helen?" she suggested gently.

  Fortunately, Celia's aunt lived less than ten miles away, over at Dora Creek. Her husband, John, worked at the local power station. Their two sons had long grown up and left home, so they had plenty of spare bedrooms.

  Her mother shrugged listlessly. "Whatever."

  "We'll just pack you a small case of essentials for now. I can come back at a later date and get the rest of your things." There was no real hurry. Under the circumstances, Celia couldn't see anyone turning up here for ages. She doubted Lionel's son ever would personally. Seriously rich people had lackeys to attend to such matters. And Luke Freeman was now a seriously rich man.

  She stood up, her car keys still in her hand.

  Her mother levered herself up slowly before glancing around with sad eyes. "Lionel really loved this place," she said wanly. "He designed and built it, especially for us."

  Celia didn't doubt it. The A-framed cabin with its glass façade and large wooden decks overlooking the lake made the perfect love nest Remote and beautiful in setting, the open-plan interior was filled with all the romantic accoutrements lovers would appreciate. A huge sandstone fireplace, complete with deep squashy sofas flanking a plushly piled cream rug. Upstairs, the loft bedroom was dominated by a king-sized bed, with the adjoining bathroom sporting a spa bath which could easily accommodate two.

  No guest room, of course. Lionel had never wanted his mistress to have guests.

  Celia had never stayed here overnight. Neither did she drop in on a weekend, unless her mother gave her the all clear. Running into Lionel had been something to be avoided at all costs since she'd grown up, because Celia had known she would have been vicious to him if the occasion had arisen.

  But she visited her mother at least once during most weeks. And regardless of the day, she always knew if Lionel had visited the previous weekend. He'd had this distinctive cologne that he'd always worn, and that had lingered long after he'd been gone. She could remember smelling it in her mother's bedroom as a child, especially when she'd climbed into her mother's bed in the morning. It always disturbed her to remember how much she'd liked the smell back then. And how much she'd liked Lionel.

  "Mum, let's go," Celia said brusquely, and took her mother's arm.

  Jessica went quietly, because she knew it was for the best. There were too many memories of Lionel at Pretty Point. Too many ghosts to haunt her at night. Too many bad thoughts waiting to assail her.

  She'd always believed Lionel had genuinely loved her, that his passion for her had been more than sexual.

  Now, Jessica wasn't so sure. Often, in the past, when she hadn't seen Lionel for some time, she'd begin having these terrible doubts. But once he'd arrived and had taken her in his arms again, all her doubts would vanish.

  But he would never take her in his arms again. Never make love to her again. Never tell her how much she meant to him again.

&nb
sp; Which meant her doubts would never be put to rest. They would fester and grow like some dreadful disease.

  Jessica's heart seemed to disintegrate in her chest under the weight of this appalling prospect. For if she didn't believe Lionel had loved her as much as she'd loved him, then what had been the point of all the sacrifices she'd made? Never to write to him, nor send him cards. Never to spend Christmas or birthdays with him. Never to go anywhere in public with him.

  Never to have his child.

  Had it all been a waste of time? Had his love for her been a horrible illusion? Had he really been a deeply sensitive man...or a wickedly selfish liar?

  She couldn't bear to think such thoughts. Couldn't bear it.

  Suddenly, she began to sob, great heaving sobs which racked her whole body.

  "Oh, Mum," her daughter cried and hugged her close. "You'll be all right. You'll see. We just have to get you away from here."

  CHAPTER ONE

  "IS THAT everything, Harvey?" Luke asked, putting his pen away in his jacket pocket and pushing the papers back across the desk.

  "Yes. For now," the solicitor answered, stacking up all the forms and sliding them into a file.

  Luke went to rise from his chair.

  "No, wait. There is another small matter concerning your father's estate which I need your advice upon."

  Luke sat back down and glanced at his watch. It was a quarter to one. He was to meet Isabel downstairs at one for lunch, after which they were going shopping for their wedding rings. "What is it?"

  "The Friday before the accident, your father came to see me about a waterfront property he owned on Lake Macquarie."

  Luke frowned. "You wouldn't be talking about a place on Pretty Point, would you?"

  "Yes. That's the place. Pretty Point. It's a ten-acre holding, plus a single-bedroomed residence."

  Luke's frown deepened. "I thought Dad had sold that old place years ago. He'd said he didn't use it any more because the fishing in the lake wasn't what it used to be."

  His father had been mad about fishing. He'd taken Luke fishing with him as soon as he'd been old enough to hold a line. By the time Luke was six or seven, father and son would often go away for the weekend together, mostly to the cabin at Pretty Point which had a jetty and a small runabout moored there permanently. Luke's mother had always stayed home on these occasions. She'd hated everything to do with fish. The smell. The feel. Even the taste.