The Australian Heiress Page 11

  Only a few feet away, the woman suddenly rushed at Camille, her plain features twisted by emotion. A stream of obscenities spewed from her mouth, incoherent, crazed. To Camille’s stunned ears she didn’t sound human. She didn’t even look human as she lunged at her, one arm brandishing a knife.

  Camille’s vocal chords froze. The saliva in her mouth dried. She’s going to kill me, she thought in a paralysis of dread. This is how it happens. Out of a clear blue sky I’m going to die.

  Across the grounds the two security men were galvanized into action but were too faraway to be effective.

  The wicked blade of the knife glittered, a keen shining silver. Impossible for it to miss Camille’s exposed throat.

  Nick Lombard saw his opportunity and seized it. In a single swift motion he threw out his arm, sending Camille reeling back. She lost her balance and fell to the grass. From there she saw Nick lunge at the woman and grab her wrist. For all his superior height and strength he wasn’t finding it easy to subdue her manic struggles.

  The woman’s fetid breath struck his nostrils, along with the bitter odors of sweat and hate. It caused him an instant’s revulsion, allowing the woman to keep her frenzied momentum going. The blade was only inches from his own flesh.

  “Spawn of the devil!” she screamed, the words spilling like poison into the warm air. “How I’ve waited to get her.”

  The long thin hand desperately tried to work the knife. For a brief second the woman was able to bring her arm down, angling it into Nick’s shoulder. Finally the pressure on her wrist became too great. The knife fell to the grass, and Camille, released from her appalling torpor, rolled onto her side, then leaped to grab it

  There was blood all over the blade. Whose? She could smell it, metallic, primal, terrifying. The hairs stood up on the nape of her neck. While she fought to gain control of her swimming senses, two security guards finally reached them. One a big burly man, stomach resting on his leather belt, took the stillscreaming woman off Nick Lombard with a grunt and held her forcibly, her arms clamped behind her back.

  “I hate him, I tell you. I hate him,” the woman raged, sweat pouring down her face. “He killed my husband. I wanted to finish her. A death for a death!”

  Camille stood stricken, overcome by pity and horror. The knife, which was no knife at all but a pair of lethal-looking scissors, Camille held weakly, blades pointed toward the ground. Now the other guard, a younger man, took them from her, handkerchief in hand.

  “It’s all right, Miss Guilford. I’ve got it. The police and ambulance are on their way.”

  A few feet away from her stood Nick Lombard, handsome face contorted, teeth gritted against some agony. His hand was clamped to his collarbone beneath his jacket. Camille flew to him, her expression one of shock and total disbelief. The blade must have entered his shoulder or his chest. He had shielded her, allowing a madwoman to attack him, instead.

  He didn’t speak, but his distorted expression warned her off. She ignored him, opening his ruined jacket. Her stomach clenched at all the blood. The deep red stain spread out across his shirt, soaked the lining of his jacket. There were spatters all over his silk tie like macabre polka dots. She could hear his ragged breathing as he tried to force air into his lungs. Was it possible the blade had pierced the lung? In which case the lung would collapse, she reasoned frantically.

  Without looking back Camille threw out an urgent hand, shouting for something to act as a pad. Almost instantly three men’s handkerchiefs were slapped into her hand. Thick, white, spotless. She pressed them to the wound, trying to staunch the flow of blood. She was aware Lombard’s lean body was crumpling. Her mind filled with anguish at the possible extent of his injury, the fragility of life. His pallor was frightening. He was obviously in agony. Unable to speak.

  Even a hero has his limits, she thought. And Nick Lombard, somewhere between devil and angel, had saved her life.

  “Help me lower him to the grass,” she urged to the young guard, who sprang to her assistance.

  A heavyset gray-haired man lumbered up, his shadow falling over them. “I’m a doctor,” he said in an authoritative voice. “I’ll take over.”

  “Thank God you weren’t far away.” Camille wasn’t aware of it, but tears were streaming down her cheeks.

  “At the auction, actually.” The doctor turned his attention to the man on the grass.

  Some distance away the woman could still be heard screaming torrents of abuse, while people stood around in stunned disarray.

  Camille rose slowly, her face as pale as milk, her lovely white dress smeared with blood, grass and soil. Without even knowing what she was doing, she closed the gap between herself and her would-be assassin. She could feel the woman’s hatred and loathing coming at her like a vile cloud of gas. The burly guard who held the woman called something to her, but Camille continued to advance. When she reached the snarling spitting woman, she lifted a hand and struck her across the face.

  It had an extraordinary effect. The dementia turned off like a tap. The woman appeared to regain some sort of control. She fell silent

  “I’m sorry for what happened to your husband,” Camille said. “But I’m not to blame. Neither is the man you sought to kill. You got it all wrong.”

  Incredibly the woman laughed. “I don’t regret it, Harry Guilford’s daughter. It felt good.”

  A policeman on a motorbike entered the grounds to act as escort for the ambulance that was on its way, evidenced by the siren wail growing louder and louder. Sick to her stomach, Camille moved back to where Nick Lombard lay slumped on the ground.

  “How badly is he hurt?” she asked the doctor, barely above a whisper.

  The doctor grunted and shook his head. “I’d say a rib deflected the worst of the blow. He’ll need stitching and watching for internal bleeding.” He looked at her. “Sit down, lassie, and put your head between your knees.”

  He urged her to a nearby chair, but as he did so, she felt a swirling darkness. She fought it, but suddenly it was overwhelming. With an uncertain little cry, she crumpled to the ground.

  When she came to, she was staring into a paramedic’s eyes. Tommy was there, his familiar face looking much older, deeply drawn. Although she kept protesting she was all right, no one appeared convinced. In the end she was taken in the same ambulance as Nick Lombard, who was slipping in and out of consciousness. When they arrived at the hospital, he was wheeled away swiftly and Camille was directed to a cubicle where she was told to lie down until a doctor arrived to make an assessment.

  Tommy, who had followed the ambulance and was a long way from his unflappable self, demanded to know to what room Camille had been taken. It wasn’t until sometime later she was able to reassure him and change into the fresh clothing he’d brought for her. The police, too, had arrived at the hospital, waiting quietly for her to make a statement. Nick Lombard was to be admitted. He was expected to give his statement later in the day.

  Camille insisted on remaining at the hospital until she was allowed to see the man who’d saved her life. He had been given a private room with a policeman stationed at the door. When Camille entered, she found him fully conscious and propped up on pillows. His powerful torso was bare except for the bandages that wrapped it. His color was better, and at her entry he gave her a faint smile.

  “Why should you look like a spray of apple blossom after what you’ve been through?” he asked.

  Even on such a day dangerous desire stirred.

  She glanced down a little apologetically at her pink dress. “Dot sent it along for me. The other one is ruined.”

  “Are you going to sit down?”

  “Just for a moment.” She realized her heart was hammering. Perhaps it would always hammer when she was near him. “How do you feel?’ she asked solicitously.

  “A lot better. Having the lung deflate was the worst part. The actual wound only seemed like a gigantic bee sting.”

  “You’re going to feel it just the same.” She sat faci
ng him, her hands clasped. “When the painkillers wear off.”

  “You want me to feel pain?” His voice held a certain mockery.

  She shook her head. “No, of course not. I was regretting it. You saved my life.”

  “It can’t be much help to you when you’re determined to hate me.”

  She met his brilliant eyes. “I never had much choice, but hatred is not paramount in my mind now. You could have been killed.”

  “I doubt it.” He gave one of his shrugs, then winced. “She fought like a tigress. I see now what mania can do. But ultimately her strength wasn’t enough.”

  “What will they do with her?” Camille asked quietly.

  “She’ll be given a psychiatric assessment to determine her state of mind at the time of the attack. If she’s committed, it won’t go to trial.”

  “Do you know her?” Camille asked. “Have you found out anything about her?”

  Lombard lifted a hand and raked it through his thick raven hair. “Apparently her name is Gray. The husband was Gerald Gray. The name doesn’t mean a thing to me.”

  “Just another one of my father’s creditors,” Camille said in a somber voice. “Another one he destroyed.”

  “There’s no law of God or man that says she’s allowed to exact her vengeance on you,” Lombard answered harshly. “You wouldn’t have stood a chance against her.”

  “No. How extraordinary you had that premonition.”

  “Perhaps it’s to be expected,” he said in an ironic tone. “I’m not the first man in my family to have been addicted to a dangerous woman.”

  “Except I’m not dangerous at all.”

  “It’s pretty clear you are.” He held her gaze until she had to look away.

  “Shall I call around to see Melissa?” she asked quickly.

  “She’d like that, but I’d rather you take yourself off home and rest. The shock you’ve had will reassert itself. Browning’s with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I imagined he would be. He loves you like a daughter. I’ve already sent a message that Melissa is not to be told what happened. I’ll tell her myself when I get home. I’m hoping to be discharged sometime tomorrow, all being well.”

  “I’ll come for you,” Camille offered spontaneously.

  “Not necessary. I have a chauffeur, you know.”

  “I want to. It seems right.”

  “Then I’m not complaining.” He smiled.

  A nurse appeared silently at the door, her manner indicating it was time to leave.

  Camille rose immediately. The nurse nodded while Camille stood motionless gazing down into his night black eyes. “I’ll go now,” she murmured, “but I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “I won’t object to a kiss goodbye.” He looked at her with charming mockery. “A simple thank-you.”

  Her lips touched his cheek. “Satisfied?”

  “Not particularly, no. I need something that will leave no trace of the morning.”

  “Could that be possible?” She shuddered.

  “I think so.” He reached up with one hand and drew her down until her face was inches above his. “Extreme events call forth extreme actions, Camille. Whether you like it or not, you’re in my life.”

  She only had time to emit a soft sigh before his mouth moved over, hers, filling her sweetly, sadly with longing. It was a quiet kiss, unforced, but at its core was passion.

  When he released her, she realized with a painful lurch of her heart that here was a man who could possess her, body and mind. Her father would not have understood it. She didn’t understand it herself.

  CAMILLE WAS in the hospital lobby waiting for Tommy to bring the car around when Clare Tennant rushed through the front door. Her eyes fell on Camille with an expression of outrage.

  “Where is he? Where have they taken him?”

  “You’ll have to check, Mrs. Tennant.” Camille wasn’t about to tell her. “It wasn’t as bad as we feared.”

  The woman looked stunned by Camille’s calmness. “I’ve never been so shocked in my life. I must know his true condition. Nick and I are the greatest friends, yet I wasn’t allowed anywhere near him.”

  “Too much was happening, Mrs. Tennant. I’m sorry.”

  “As well you might be.” Her skin blanched. “I hope you realize now how very much your father was hated. In fact, if I were you, I’d go overseas until all the furor dies down.”

  Camille’s eyes began to spark. She felt a little stronger. “Well, you’re not me, Mrs. Tennant, and there’s not much chance of my doing that.”

  “You’re after Nick,” Clare Tennant moved closer.

  “Don’t be absurd. I’ve never wanted anything to do with him.”

  “But all that’s changed. Nick’s every woman’s dream. He’s rich, handsome, powerful, exciting. I know women who’d marry him for his smile alone.”

  Camille flushed. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. And now.”

  Clare Tennant’s voice was curt. “It’s a lot sooner than I expected. But absolutely nothing is going to plan. I’ll put my cards on the table, Miss Guilford— I’m warning you off.”

  Camille looked down at Clare Tennant’s red-tipped fingers clutching her arm. “Would you mind removing your hand?”

  “It’s true. You know it is,” Clare Tennant insisted. “You’re seriously attracted to him. Maybe it was never what you intended, but it happened.” Her blue-gray eyes were flinty. “Stay away from Nick. He’s mine.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  WHEN CAMILLE ARRIVED home, Linda was waiting for her, aghast at the news, which apparently had traveled like wildfire. They sat on the balcony off Camille’s bedroom looking out at the blue harbor dotted with all manner of pleasure craft and sailing yachts.

  Everything seemed so peaceful, idyllic, yet Camille had the feeling nothing would ever be the same again.

  “To think Stephen and I were arguing over some blessed barbecue when your life was in danger.” Linda sipped at the cold orange drink Dot had brought her. “In a long chapter of shocks, this is the worst Thank God for Nick Lombard. It could have been a tragedy.”

  “It very nearly was,” Camille said. “I owe him my life.”

  “It makes one believe in a predetermined fate, doesn’t it? Fate has thrown you two together. I have to say I think he’s perfect for the part of hero.”

  “Only, I can’t adjust to that so quickly. I’d have to rethink my whole attitude toward him. Not easy, Lindy. Harry was my father. Nick Lombard started the avalanche.”

  “If not Nick Lombard, someone else would have, Milly. It has to be faced.”

  “Not now. It’s too soon. I’m carrying too much emotional freight. He tells me there’s a connection going back a generation.”

  Linda turned her head sharply. “In what way?”

  “It might be best if I show you.” Camille walked back into her bedroom to get the album. She’d been drawn to place it beside her mother’s rosewood jewel box, an item of great sentimental value to her. She returned to the balcony and handed the album to Linda. “I have to return this to Nick Lombard.”

  “It looks very old.” Linda shot her a look, fingering the leather-bound album almost apprehensively. “And a coat of arms?”

  “The Italian side of Nick Lombard’s family.”

  “I don’t know why exactly, but this seems scary.”

  “It is.” Camille had experienced the same sensation. She sat in silence while Linda turned page after page until she came to the first of the photographs of Natalie and Hugo Vandenberg.

  “Milly!” Linda was dumbfounded. “This could be you.”

  Camille nodded, feeling a pang of sadness. “The resemblance is very strong.”

  “It’s more than that. It’s uncanny. And the young man beside your mother? Judging from his body language, I’d say he’s madly in love with her.”

  “It leaps out of the frame, doesn’t it? That’s Hugo Vandenberg, Nick Lombard’s uncle. They were to have b
een married, only my mother met Harry at a function they all attended. He swept her off her feet.”

  “What extraordinarily bad karma! Hugo must have been devastated.”

  “It gets worse,” Camille warned.

  “Bad enough she left him for your father,” Linda said. “Your father had such a…”

  “Cruel nature?” She needed to face it.

  “My heart aches for you, Milly.” Linda turned back to the album. “This Hugo has a lovely smile. I remember catching Nick Lombard’s smile at the art showing. It touches every part of his face, lights it up. But why all the secrecy?”

  Camille shrugged. “Harry never, but never, spoke of the past. He never allowed anyone else to speak of it, either. As far as I can remember, my mother and father were passionately in love. He would hardly let her out of his sight.”

  “Or he was passionately possessive. Women as beautiful as your mother never live without incident So what’s the rest? You have to tell me.”

  “I don’t know that I should. It’s been an unhappy time for you of late.”

  Linda brushed that away. “If it will help you to talk, Milly, that’s all that matters.”

  “All right, then.” Camille sighed. “Hugo Vandenberg chose the day of my mother’s funeral to end his own life.”

  Linda looked staggered. “But that’s frightful!”

  Camille nodded. “The repercussions are still being felt.”

  Linda leaned closer and patted Camille’s hand. “At least we know the reason for the terrible enmity between Nick Lombard and Harry.”

  Camille was silent for a time, gazing down at a garden bed ablaze with scarlet roses. Red for passion. Red for blood. “I’d tell this to no one else but you, Lindy.”

  Her voice was so muted Linda had to lean forward to hear. She regarded her friend with gentle questioning eyes.

  “My mother was pregnant when she died. The child she was carrying wasn’t my father’s. It was Hugo Vandenberg’s.”

  Linda didn’t even attempt to control the pitch of her voice. “Nick Lombard told you this?”