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The beauty and artistry of the grounds surrounding the grand old mansion were unique in Australia. When Kelly had been little it had seemed like a fairyland: the terraces of emerald lawns, magnificent specimens of imported trees-ash, elm, maple, beech, the fascinating topiary work, sunken gardens, statuary, hidden ponds, the wistaria walk, the banks of azaleas and rhododendrons. So much to delight the eye everywhere one turned.
And nothing had changed over the years. Here it was as if time stayed still. Kelly half expected to spot Henry Lloyd chatting to one of the gardeners, but the timelessness was only an illusion. The Lloyd era was over at Marian Park.
Sadness dragged at Kelly's heart as she drew the car to a halt under the ivy-covered portico which stretched over the driveway. Suddenly she didn't want to get out and go inside the house that was now occupied by a stranger. Even as she fought down the feeling, the front door opened and a man started down the steps towards her.
Too young to be Justin St John, Kelly decided, and pushed herself out of the car.
'Miss Hanrahan?' he greeted her, looking slightly surprised.
She recognised the voice from the telephone. 'Mr Farley,' she replied with a nod of acknowledgement.
He was thirtyish, sandy-haired, blue-eyed, his face too weatherbeaten to be that of a city man, and he was dressed in the khaki work-drill clothes that went with the outdoors. He gave her a slightly crooked smile which lent a softening friendliness to his rugged features. He was not unattractive, but Kelly was in no mood to appreciate the looks of any man connected to the enemy.
'I was expecting someone older,' he said. 'But it's good of you to come.'
'I expect Mr St John to make it worth my while,' Kelly reminded him with some asperity. She opened the back door of the Toyota. 'Perhaps you would carry that inside for me,' she directed, indicating the interferential which was heavy and cumbersome to handle. And, since Roy Farley was obviously Justin St John's lackey, he might as well earn his keep!
'Of course,' he said, and treated the machine with conscientious care.
Kelly picked up her handbag and the ultrasound and followed him. She steeled herself to walk through the home that would never again be a second home to her. But apparently the new broom hadn't swept through the house yet. No changes had been made to any of the furnishings that she could see. Everything was exactly the same. Kelly wasn't sure if she felt relief or resentment.
It surprised her when she was led to the guest wing. A moment's consideration made her realise that Justin St John would not be using the stairs in his condition. She was ushered into a bedroom where two tables had been arranged for her: one for the equipment, the other draped with a large bath-towel.
'I trust this is satisfactory?' Roy Farley asked anxiously as he set the interferential down and plugged it into a power-point.
'It will serve,' Kelly replied.
He threw her a relieved smile, then knocked on the door to the adjoining bathroom. 'The physiotherapist is here, Justin,' he called.
'I'll be out in a minute.'
The voice was deep, with the cultured tone that was undoubtedly the built-in product of a high-class Victorian boarding-school. Kelly might have conceded that it was pleasant, if it had not belonged to the person she had most reason to hate.
'He's in the spa bath,' Roy Farley explained as he turned back to her. 'If there's nothing else you require, I'll leave you to it.'
'Thank you,' Kelly said dismissively.
She glanced at her watch as he left the room, sourly wondering how long Justin St John's minute would be. Not that it really mattered. She would have him just where she wanted him soon enough.
Conscious that her nerves were tightening now that the confrontation she had planned was imminent, Kelly busied herself plugging in the ultrasound and taking out the bottle of oil and box of tissues from her bag. When she heard the bathroom door click open, she carefully composed an expression of professional detachment and slowly swung around.
Kelly did not know if her look of detachment remained intact. For some immeasurable length of time her.brain didn't register anything but the image of the man who stood in the bathroom doorway. He was tall and tanned and impressively male; all the more so since he wore only a brief pair of underpants. There was nothing soft about him, and his utter stillness seemed to intensify the power of his presence.
His hair was straight and black, thick and slightly spiky from the bath steam. The harsh planes of his face converged to give him a strikingly individual look that was compelling rather than handsome, feral rather than civilised. The dimple in his chin was almost incongruous, yet it added an intriguing spice to his strong animal-like quality. His eyes were deeply set and slate-grey: hard and uncompromising and intensely concentrated on her.
Kelly felt a nerve-tingling sense of familiarity, as if she had seen him somewhere before. But that wasn't possible. There had been no photograph with the fulsome biography which had been printed in the local newspaper. He had been a business leader in Sydney for the last fourteen years. Prior to that, he had lived on the vast and prosperous St John sheep property in Victoria. In his youth he had been a polo player of international standard-one of the very few with a top ten-goal handicap-until an accident had disabled him. Kelly had never moved in polo-playing circles.
However, one question was now answered. She understood why his orders were obeyed to the letter. Few men would have the nerve to stand up to him. He exuded a raw power that challenged anything and anyone, asserting by nature that victory would be his. Other people's lives might be determined by forces outside themselves, but Kelly felt certain that this man would always determine his own fate.
For one weak moment she quailed at the prospect of taking him to task for what he had done, but a fiery sense of righteousness burned up her spine, stiffening her backbone and tilting her chin with stubborn pride. No way was she going to bend her head to his might! He might beat her, but she was not going to be cowed by him. Never!
Kelly wasn't aware of the signals emanating from her-the aggressive lift of her chin, the perceptible tightening of her full, sensual lips, the slight flush that marked her delicate cheekbones, the sudden glitter of battle-readiness in the darkly fringed green eyes-but every nerve in her body bristled as Justin St John's mouth took on a sardonic twist.
'I wasn't expecting a girl. I've never had one before.'
Kelly burned at the condescension, and fiercely resented the strong sexuality he exuded. He was not young. She judged him to be in his mid-thirties. But that only made him appear more dangerous. He was too knowing and experienced, and far too self-assured to be attackable from any angle. Nevertheless, she couldn't resist one gibe.
'You're lucky to get anyone, Mr St John. You're too much of a newcomer for your name to carry any weight around here. And your money isn't the answer to everything,' she said acidly.
