She flinched away furiously. 'You are loathsome… a reptile,' she told him with deep conviction.
He grinned, not noticeably daunted by the announcement. 'I'm only trying to be helpful.'
'Then go walk under a bus,' she said childishly. The moment the words were out she realised what she had said. 'Oh, God! I didn't mean…' Agitated, her hand went to her mouth. 'I was just…'
'You think it might be hereditary, do you, infant? I assure you I have no suicidal tendencies at present.'
'You can't know it was suicide.' For a moment her own dilemma receded, and she rushed on, anxious to redress any unintentional wound she'd inflicted. 'Your mother was ill, the witnesses couldn't tell whether she fell or, or…' Her eyes slid away from the sapphire gaze.
'Stepped out deliberately,' he supplied without a hint of emotion in his voice. 'My mother stepped out all right.'
'Luke, you can't know,' she protested, instinctively reaching out and clasping his arm.
His eyes were hard and his expression sombrely composed—the combination made her heart thud painfully as he looked directly at her. 'She stepped out, but it wasn't suicide…it was murder, Emily,' he continued, ignoring her horrific gasp. 'Your father killed her as surely as if he'd driven a knife into her heart, in fact, the latter would have been kinder.'
She stepped back a pace. 'That's a wicked thing to say.'
'My dear Emmy, you don't even begin to know the meaning of the word. There is wickedness out there.' He made an expansive gesture. 'Enough to kill your dreams, invade your very soul.' She made a sound of protest; the blankness in his eyes was something she didn't want to see. Then, as if a veil had slipped back into place, the crooked, cynical grin was back and she almost welcomed the normality. 'The major catastrophe in your life is the fact you've been made a fool of. I've watched and reported bloodbaths and atrocities that make me feel nothing, so if you're looking for sympathy…' His eyes glittered with a dispassionate mockery.
'Compared to some things I realise this is petty and trivial, but I'm not feeling global disaster—just personal disaster,' she said, strangely calmed by his brief, shocking and totally uncharacteristic outburst. Did Luke have his vulnerabilities? The concept was alien. All the time she'd known him she'd never seen him come off worst in any encounter; he had always had that callous contempt for authority and an apparently limitless belief in his own ability.
She brushed down her long skirt and raised her eyes to his face. Life had hardened, not mellowed, Lucas Hunt, but experiences beyond her imagination had obviously left their mark. The blue eyes stared back and Emily shivered; the mental picture she'd established over the years of Luke seemed for a moment out of focus. She had the strangest sensation of looking at a stranger…as strangers went, he would have been worth several covert looks.
'The search parties will be out looking for me,' she said giving herself a brief mental shake. There were more pressing matters to concentrate on than Lucas Hunt. She lifted her skirt above the damp grass and walked up the incline towards the house.
'What are you going to do?' Luke had fallen into step beside her, but she chose to ignore him.
'I don't know yet,' she admitted.
'No grand scheme?'
'I'm waiting for inspiration,' she informed him honestly. No magical solution had crystallised in her head; in fact, she felt that things were bound to get a whole lot worse this evening. She felt fatalistic about the whole event. 'I don't know why you're following me. I mean, trivial domestic dilemmas are all a bit beneath you, aren't they?'
'Morbid curiosity?' he suggested, steadying her arm as she slipped on the damp turf. She snatched it away angrily. 'I'm waiting to see inspiration strike. I'm sure it'll be enlightening.'
CHAPTER TWO
They entered by a side-door. Emily felt physically sick now that the confrontation she could so well imagine was imminent.
Gavin, why did you do it? The question kept going around in her head. He had seemed genuinely fond of her—in fact, his devotion had been vaguely embarrassing at times. He was everything she could have wanted in a husband: he was considerate, kind, bright and, compared to the men in her own family, incredibly sensitive to her feelings. The novelty of having her wishes considered paramount had been original, a heady feeling of being cherished and one she felt sure she could tolerate on a permanent basis.
As for Charlotte, the thought of her sister made her feel wretched, trust betrayed… She didn't know when, if ever, she would be able to trust herself actually to confront her and remain even moderately civilised.
'I wish you'd go away.' She looked in Luke's direction, transposing some of her anger on to his able shoulders. The barely restrained vitality he was fairly oozing was an added insult. It was reflected in the way he moved, the air of expectation… He was enjoying it, she realised with fury. Contemplating her distress seemed to act on him in a stimulating way, so stimulating that she felt a fresh spasm of unease. At least, she reassured herself, she could be sure of one thing: not even Luke could make things worse at the moment.