His Other Wife

Chapter 1

I just don’t understand it, Carla Hetherington said for about the fourth time. This time she glared at her eldest son who was lounging by the fireplace, his elbow resting on the marble mantle as if he had not a care in the world. But that was just like Saul.

What’s to understand? Saul murmured. My brother left a small legacy to a woman. He shrugged. So what? And knowing Fabio, it shouldn’t be at all surprising.

How dare you.

Saul raised an eyebrow at her. She looked flushed and agitated. Had he actually forgotten that Fabio— or fabulous Fabio as she always called him—had been her favourite child? He was the one, like his name, who seemed more Italian than English. Like his mother, he had been slim and dark and impossibly good looking.

Sorry, Saul conceded, and he was. Now was not the time to speak the truth about Fabio, to remind his mother that Fabio had been fond of women and la dolce vita! But it isn’t as if he has left Roxie Rawson all his money, just a small legacy.

Roxie Rawson...even the name makes me shudder. She sounds like one of those tap dancers at a men’s club.

I think you mean lap dancer...

Well, you would know, she snapped.

Saul did not respond. Maybe she was a lap dancer. Knowing Fabio, that would not be a surprise, but his mother was right to be worried. It was upsetting for Louisa, his brother’s widow. She was confused. They had been married only eighteen months and suddenly Fabio was dead. He had wrapped his car around a tree in Tuscany. Louisa had not even known her husband was in Tuscany and she had certainly not known he had known a Roxie Rawson so well he had bequeathed her ten thousand pounds. It was not a drop in the ocean either. Fabio was not wealthy...comfortable would be more like it. He was really just starting to make his way in the world.

What are you going to do about it? Carla demanded.

He supposed he would have to do something. Louisa could not be expected to look for this Roxie Rawson. She was devastated. His mother would claim fragility, although he knew she was about as fragile as a piece of Tuscan marble.

You have the contacts and know how to do it, Carla insisted, managing to make it sound like an insult. You find her...I suppose you’ll have to pay her?

Yes, the will is valid. The lawyer suggests advertising, but I think I’ll do it my way.

Do it quickly. I want it over with. And I need not tell you to keep this...this Roxie person out of our lives. You can insist on that.

I think this Roxie person is out of our lives, period. I don’t think she is a recent manifestation, Saul murmured.

* * * *

Carla glared at her eldest son as if there were a further insult to Fabio’s memory in the statement. He was like his father. Tall, well built, his tobacco-colored hair often unruly in that English kind of way, his eyes so dark a blue as to be almost navy. He possessed the Roman nose of her side of the family, but that was all. He looked English with that strong jaw...his fine chiselled lips, which were stained by a touch of cynicism. He had always been too tough for her. He’d excelled at rugby at school...was always captain of this and prefect of that. He had set the mould at school. Fabio had always been made to pay because he was not like Saul in any way, but it was she and not Fabio who had resented that. Fabio went on in his own sweet way and never seemed to bother about anyone, or how they felt about him.

Carla had been glad when Saul had left home and joined the army. He had succeeded there, too...going into the SAS. Now he had his own security consultation firm, offering personal security to the rich and famous. He was doing well. She hated his success. It was in a field of work that she thought was good for bruisers and mobsters and not a Hetherington.

* * * *

Saul drove away before dinner. He was glad to be away from the house. It was a nice house, a small manor house built in the Stuart period. It was the only thing the family had managed to hold onto. The land had long gone. There was half an acre of garden, most of it beautifully kept in Italian style by a retired gardener. His mother managed to retain the services of a cook-housekeeper, but there was no other staff. Bad investments had all but ruined his father, and death duties had eroded the rest.

Saul did not care; he had made his own way. He had ceased to have an attachment to the house when his mother had told him it would go to Fabio. There would be a small legacy for him, but the house was to be for her best-loved child. Saul had known that the moment Fabio got his hands on it, the house would be sold. It was no good moaning about it. It was the way of things. He was a realist and had long since learned to accept that his mother would never have deep maternal feelings for him. He was too confident in his own abilities to let it weaken him in any way.

The drive from the West Country to his London apartment gave him time for thought. When he arrived at the pre-war apartment block, he had a plan of action in his head. After tossing down his overnight bag, he went and turned on his computer. He tapped away for a good hour. The next morning there were replies to his queries, and Roxanne Rawson was traced. Although born in England, she had resided in New Zealand for the past nine years. That figured. His brother had spent two years in New Zealand on one of his discovering what I want to do safaris.

The next day Saul had an address for Roxie Rawson. It didn’t sound like the kind of town that would have a lap dancing club...but he conceded you never knew. Later, in the office, he re-arranged his diary with much effort. He was in the process of selling his business. He had not told his mother yet and did not intend to until it was all finalized, however he would take time out to see this woman. It would be easier doing it face to face. Besides, it would give him an opportunity to size her up and find out if she could be trouble. He did not want to merely write to the woman. He needed to know why she had ended up in his brother’s will, especially since Fabio had not been the kindest of men where his ex-lovers were concerned. Maybe she wasn’t a lover...perhaps she was just someone who had been kind to him. The trouble was it was so out of character for his brother to do anything, for anyone. He disliked being unkind to the dead, but he was a realist, and Fabio would not care anyway. Fabio did not care what anyone thought about him...with the possible exception of Louisa.

Louisa came into Saul’s mind. She was a pleasant enough girl, fair and pretty, and he liked the way she laughed. She had a laugh like champagne. It warmed him. He picked up the telephone and dialled her number. She sounded sad, but cheered a little when he told her what he had found out. She wanted to see him, talk to him about it, but he could not go back to the West Country where she was living. He hadn’t the time, although he hated to refuse her.

After he had spoken to Louisa, there were a few more calls to make. His life was about to change. He was ready to embark on doing what he wanted to do. This seeking for this girl of his brother’s was an irritant he could well do without.

* * * *

Saul parked outside the house. It was a single story home, detached, with a small driveway. Neither small nor big but fairly average. The street had about ten houses of a similar size and structure, but in the way of houses in New Zealand, they were all slightly different.

The short driveway needed some attention. There was a mail box at the entrance. It was slightly askew, but the name had long since become obscured. He went up the drive, then realized there were two houses on the same plot, one behind the other. There was no number on either, but the front lot had a small porch and a large Maori man was sitting in a rocker staring at Saul with more curiosity than suspicion.

In the still quiet air he heard a hammer being taken to something, the resounding clang followed by a mild curse. He decided to follow that sound rather than make enquiries the man on the porch.

A battered looking car was on the drive. A pair of feet in the grubbiest trainers he had ever seen were sticking out from underneath the vehicle. A voice—female he thought—said, Got you! He turned around before he realized it had come from under the vehicle and was obviously being addressed to something mechanical rather than physical.

Hello, Saul said.

There was a moment’s silence and then amid groans and scuffles, the dirty trainers pushed against the gravel, and legs began to be revealed, along with a torso clad in grubby men’s blue overalls. The head, when it emerged, was topped by a baseball cap, the peak pulled low over the face so the features were hard to make out.

Yes? It was a female voice. She quickly scrambled to her feet, her oil-stained hand clutching a monkey wrench.

I’m looking for Roxanne Rawson.

There was no reply right away and then, Oh, yes? And who can I say wants her?

Well, I think I’d rather tell her that, Saul answered smoothly.

Sorry, no can do. Roxie never sees anyone without she knows who exactly is visiting. The accent was English.

Security was his business; he was very good on accent and nuance. I’m not a debt collector.

Well, we don’t have debt, the girl said. She appeared to be a girl rather than a woman. So there wouldn’t be anything to collect. Do I know you? she asked. You seem familiar.

I don’t think we’ve ever met, but, of course, I can’t be sure, seeing as I don’t know who I’m speaking to.

Her mouth opened, almost as if she would say something, but then as she pulled back, she smiled, a knowing smile.

Nice one, she said. She lifted her hand; there was a thin-strapped watch on her wrist. Look, I have to go somewhere—

I really need to see Miss Rawson. I have some important news. It might even be good news...well, some of it. His eyes travelled to the house. There was a distinct lack of paint and repair. Ten thousand pounds would come in handy. The exchange rate would mean a comfortable sum of money for her.

Well, unless I know who you are, I can’t tell you anything. I hate to be a stickler, mate, but that’s the way we do things around here.

It doesn’t seem to be a place full of desperadoes...quite peaceful in fact.

Appearances can be very deceptive. Look, I really have to go, so...

Okay. You can tell her that Saul Hetherington wants to see her.

There was a flicker—it was at her mouth, a vague quiver that showed the name was not one entirely strange to her.

Okay, wait around.

She went into the house. He wondered for a moment if she meant for him to wait, or if it was some strange New Zealand saying that meant he could buzz off. He decided on the former. She came back in about ten minutes, at least he thought it was her. The overall was gone, replaced by clean jeans and a white, thin-strapped t-shirt. Her hair was dark chestnut, thick and with a natural curl, and she’d bunched it up and secured it unceremoniously in an elastic band. Then she looked at him directly, and he saw her eyes were large and green and framed by very long, luxurious lashes. In spite of all these positives she somehow missed being beautiful. She was more—and the word came to him suddenly—arresting.

I’m Roxie, she said. I have to be somewhere, so I can give you five minutes, or we can talk in the car if you’ll give me a ride to where I’m going.

You’re very trusting all of a sudden.

Eh, it’s New Zealand! She grinned, contradicting her earlier caution.

Saul noticed that, in spite of a tomboyish, no-nonsense kind of attitude, her mouth was pure sensuality. It reminded him of sweet red cherries, even though she was not wearing any makeup. He could well see her attraction for his brother. She was fresh. She was different.

Anyway, you look okay and your name suits me. Need I be worried?

I don’t think so. I want to talk to you about my brother Fabio.

Her face looked like the sun had suddenly hidden behind a cloud. All the brightness went from her. She froze, her mouth hardening, her eyes turning into twin emeralds.

My brother—

She raised a well-shaped eyebrow as she interrupted him by saying, I know who you are, but I don’t really want to—

He was killed. Six weeks ago, a motoring accident in Italy.

She paled and seemed to sway a little, then her hand went out and caught the bonnet of the car. She shook her head as if her thoughts needed shaking up.

Are you all right?

Just a little winded... She checked her watch. Look, I hate to be a drag, but I do have to get to school.

School?

Yes, I have to pick up Josh. Obviously my car is knackered, so could you give me a lift?

Of course.

As they went down the drive he wanted to take her arm. She was not a slim, waif-like creature. Quite the opposite, her jeans and sweater showed her to be curvaceous and very feminine, but she had seemed back there, as if she were going to pass out.

She waved to the man on the porch and he called something to her. No worries, she called back to him.

Once inside the car she concentrated on giving him directions. The town was very small, just one main street with shops on either side, but they drove out of town and soon were on a road lined with magnificent trees.

It’s a special kind of school, only small. We used to live out here, she explained. I moved into town two years ago. The house was going cheap and it was near my work. Josh didn’t want to change schools. It can be a pain. Fortunately, there’s another kid who goes to the same school and his Mum and me take turns taking the kids, but he’s out with the chicken pox. Okay...turn left and it’s just on the left. Look, obviously we have to talk. You’re Fabio’s brother. I know that. I saw a photo of you once. He was really proud of you, but we can’t talk in front of Josh. After tea he has football practice. Stay for tea, then we’ll talk.

That’s fine by me. Is Josh your brother? he asked.

The school came into view. It was a very small school set in beautiful manicured grounds. Gangs of little kids were coming out, most of them barefoot by choice, and all of them wearing cute sun hats. He realized how stupid the question had been...these were primary and junior aged children.

Josh spotted her the moment she was out of the car and hurtled towards her. He was a kid of about seven with masses of dark hair and huge brown, gold-rimmed eyes. Saul was no rocket scientist, but he could tell an Italian Hetherington at first glance.

Chapter 2

He had not been in a house like Roxie’s before. It was shabby but comfortable. There were books on shelves, crammed together, with some on top