Chapter One
“In three hundred metres your destination is on the right.”
Sophie slowed the hardtop sports car and searched for the cattle-gridded entrance she barely remembered. As a child she’d spent most holidays here. Then she’d become a teenager and her ageing grandparents’ remote property no longer held much appeal. It had been fifteen years since she had been a regular visitor to the farm nestled at the farthest end of the Hunter Valley.
When her grandfather died, and her grandmother moved away, Sophie never thought about what had happened to the farm. She had her life in the city, fast-paced and satisfying. Then in one horrifying car accident both her parents and her grandmother had been killed. In the aftermath, the parties, the alcohol, the superficial contacts that passed for her social life felt empty and meaningless.
Her parents’ death left her the sole heir to substantial assets including the Hunter Valley property. Memories of her childhood, of the peace and happiness, offered her solace in her grief.
Four months after the accident, she took extended leave from her job, packed her car and headed to the country. If the homestead was in disrepair, she could restore it, keep it as a holiday house, a reminder of happier times.
After seven hours of driving, she didn’t care what condition it was in, as long as there was a roof and somewhere to put a sleeping bag.
She made the turn onto the narrow gravel road. It was surprisingly pothole free, the paddocks on either side marked off by rows of fence posts, strung with taut wire.
She pulled up in front of the house. Built low to the ground, with verandahs on four sides in the Australian tradition, shaded by gum trees, it looked the same as it had when her grandparents were alive. The painted weatherboard sparkled white in the bright spring sunshine. The water tank still nestled up against the side of the house, the grass around it neat and freshly mown.
She grabbed her bag and fished around in it for the key she’d stored away in her jewellery box as a memento of some of the happiest times in her life. Not that she’d ever seen the door locked during her holidays with her grandparents, but the moment when they had given her the serrated metal shaped cut specially for her had been important, a mark of how much she belonged.
She walked up to the door, inserted the key and turned it. Although she pushed hard, the door stayed shut. She blew out a breath. In the years since she’d last been here, had someone changed the lock? She refused to believe crime had found its way to this little patch of serenity.
She squared her shoulders, flexed her muscles and turned the key again. This time the solid wooden panel swung inward.
She stepped across the threshold, instantly aware that the house smelt fresh, with a spicy, outdoors scent. The open plan living room was much as she remembered it. A hardwood floor led to a row of floor-to-ceiling windows. Her grandparents’ antique, high-back sofa still faced inwards, just as it always had.
She took a few steps forward when she heard a soft noise she couldn’t identify. Something or someone was in the room with her.
The noise, a low moan, this time identifiably human, came again. She raised her bag like a weapon and prepared to swing, but her arm stopped, everything in her body, including her breath, frozen into immobility.
A man lay on the sofa, his head against the armrest. He was naked except for a pair of jeans scrunched around his thighs. The man sprawled on top of him was also shirtless. Their stubbled jaws were locked together in a passionate kiss.
The forearm of the man on top disappeared between their two bodies and… He arched up and her mouth dropped open. He had a fistful of the other guy’s cock. Not much doubt about what was going on here. If they weren’t having sex, they were damn close to it. She leant forward, prurient curiosity and building outrage compelling her to get a
“In three hundred metres your destination is on the right.”
Sophie slowed the hardtop sports car and searched for the cattle-gridded entrance she barely remembered. As a child she’d spent most holidays here. Then she’d become a teenager and her ageing grandparents’ remote property no longer held much appeal. It had been fifteen years since she had been a regular visitor to the farm nestled at the farthest end of the Hunter Valley.
When her grandfather died, and her grandmother moved away, Sophie never thought about what had happened to the farm. She had her life in the city, fast-paced and satisfying. Then in one horrifying car accident both her parents and her grandmother had been killed. In the aftermath, the parties, the alcohol, the superficial contacts that passed for her social life felt empty and meaningless.
Her parents’ death left her the sole heir to substantial assets including the Hunter Valley property. Memories of her childhood, of the peace and happiness, offered her solace in her grief.
Four months after the accident, she took extended leave from her job, packed her car and headed to the country. If the homestead was in disrepair, she could restore it, keep it as a holiday house, a reminder of happier times.
After seven hours of driving, she didn’t care what condition it was in, as long as there was a roof and somewhere to put a sleeping bag.
She made the turn onto the narrow gravel road. It was surprisingly pothole free, the paddocks on either side marked off by rows of fence posts, strung with taut wire.
She pulled up in front of the house. Built low to the ground, with verandahs on four sides in the Australian tradition, shaded by gum trees, it looked the same as it had when her grandparents were alive. The painted weatherboard sparkled white in the bright spring sunshine. The water tank still nestled up against the side of the house, the grass around it neat and freshly mown.
She grabbed her bag and fished around in it for the key she’d stored away in her jewellery box as a memento of some of the happiest times in her life. Not that she’d ever seen the door locked during her holidays with her grandparents, but the moment when they had given her the serrated metal shaped cut specially for her had been important, a mark of how much she belonged.
She walked up to the door, inserted the key and turned it. Although she pushed hard, the door stayed shut. She blew out a breath. In the years since she’d last been here, had someone changed the lock? She refused to believe crime had found its way to this little patch of serenity.
She squared her shoulders, flexed her muscles and turned the key again. This time the solid wooden panel swung inward.
She stepped across the threshold, instantly aware that the house smelt fresh, with a spicy, outdoors scent. The open plan living room was much as she remembered it. A hardwood floor led to a row of floor-to-ceiling windows. Her grandparents’ antique, high-back sofa still faced inwards, just as it always had.
She took a few steps forward when she heard a soft noise she couldn’t identify. Something or someone was in the room with her.
The noise, a low moan, this time identifiably human, came again. She raised her bag like a weapon and prepared to swing, but her arm stopped, everything in her body, including her breath, frozen into immobility.
A man lay on the sofa, his head against the armrest. He was naked except for a pair of jeans scrunched around his thighs. The man sprawled on top of him was also shirtless. Their stubbled jaws were locked together in a passionate kiss.
The forearm of the man on top disappeared between their two bodies and… He arched up and her mouth dropped open. He had a fistful of the other guy’s cock. Not much doubt about what was going on here. If they weren’t having sex, they were damn close to it. She leant forward, prurient curiosity and building outrage compelling her to get a
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