Evil in Emerald (A Harriet Gordon Mystery, Band 3) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Australian author, A.M Stuart, creator of the popular Harriet Gordon Mystery series, lives in Melbourne, Australia but over her life she has travelled extensively and lived in Africa and Singapore, experiences which she brings to her writing. Before becoming a full-time writer, she worked as a lawyer across a variety of disciplines including the military and emergency services.

As well as the Harriet Gordon series, she is also multi published in historical romance and short stories with settings in England and Australia and spanning different periods of history.

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One

Friday, 28 October 1910

As the last strains of a waltz died away, Harriet Gordon looked up into Simon Hume's handsome face. Her heart skipped a beat as he bent his head toward her and whispered, "It's too early to go home and it's a lovely night, let's go for a walk."

"Yes, let's," she whispered back.

After a wonderful dinner and a few turns around the dance floor at Raffles, a walk in the warm tropical evening seemed the perfect end to a perfect night.

With the lights of the hotel and the bright music of the band behind them, they strolled arm in arm across Beach Road to the beach itself. Away from the hotel, the soft night enfolded them. Harriet threw her head back to look at the stars bright in the inky velvet blackness of the sky. She had had, maybe, one glass of wine too many, but she didn't care.

The peaceful sea sighed as it lapped gently onto the white sand and Simon pulled her away from the solidity of the palm groves toward the water.

"Simon. I'm not dressed for beach walking," she protested.

"Then take off your stockings and shoes," he said, and undid his own boots, hanging them from the laces around his neck. He rolled up his trousers and held out his hand.

"Coming?"

Harriet looked down at her expensive gray leather evening shoes and her one pair of silk stockings.

"Oh, hang it all," she said, and while Simon discreetly stood with his hands in his pockets looking out to sea, she pulled off her shoes and stockings. She rolled her stockings into the toes of her shoes, and holding the shoes in her left hand, she indecorously hitched her skirts almost to her knees, gathering the fabric into the wide velvet belt, before stepping gingerly out onto the sand.

Simon caught her spare hand and tugged at her, pulling her down toward the water.

"Simon!" Harriet protested as he swept her into his arms and waded out into the sea. "My dress!"

"It's only ankle-deep, and it's wonderfully warm."

He set her down but didn't release her, his arm circling her waist. The water embraced her bare calves, her toes sinking into the sand as he pulled her closer. She slid her free hand beneath his jacket and closed her eyes, but even as she leaned into the warmth of his hard body beneath his shirt, the memory of another man intruded, a man who had rescued her from kidnappers and carried her to safety. She had pressed her cheek to the hard, damp khaki cloth of his uniform, grateful for his strength and the staunch heart that had driven him to risk his life for her and a small boy . . .

"A moonlit night, a beautiful girl, and a tropical breeze. It doesn't get any better," Simon whispered into her hair before bending his head and kissing her, lightly at first.

The heady effect of wine and the romance of time and place swept over Harriet, and she sent all other traitorous memories spinning across the water like a stone. She wound her arms around his neck and abandoned herself to the moment, allowing herself to respond to his kiss. She tasted the saltiness of his lips and breathed in the scent of soap and man.

This should have been a magical moment, their first proper kiss after months of stepping out together. She held her breath, waiting for the sense that this was it, this was him.

But she felt . . . nothing.

She pushed away from him, but he caught her hand, his brow creased as he studied her face.

"Harriet, that was presumptuous, I . . ."

Presumptuous? They had been keeping company since August. Presumption was not the issue.

She smiled. "It's fine, Simon. Really. I'm just a little . . . out of practice."

He brushed her cheek with his forefinger. "I know how hard it must be, but your husband has been gone a few years, Harriet. It's not fair that you should be alone."

She stood quite still, unsure how to respond. Her hesitation came not from a loyalty to the memory of James Gordon. It was not James, but that other man who slid like a shadow between them.

"I just need time, Simon. I like you, I really do-"

"Enough to-?"

She stared at him. "To . . . what?"

He looked at her, and in the moonlight a thousand conflicting emotions crossed his face before he shook his head. "It doesn't matter. The last thing I want to do is put pressure on you."

Despite the warm night, she shivered. "I think I should get home, Simon. It's getting late and I have a rehearsal tomorrow."

Simon laughed. "Oh, not that damned show. It's bad enough I have to put up with Maddocks rehearsing 'I am a Pirate King' in the bathroom every night. I'll be glad when it's over."

"I shall ensure you have front row seats. I would hate for you to fall asleep," Harriet chided.

"With cat like tread . . ." Simon sang as they strolled hand in hand back along the beach, barefooted in the warm water, the soft sand sliding away beneath their feet. When the lights of Raffles came into view and distant music once more spilled across the road, they ran up the beach to the tree line and sat on a fallen palm tree to pull on their shoes. Harriet grimaced as the lingering sand rubbed against the hard shoes, but it would never do to saunter back into Raffles barefooted.

As they walked back to the car, Simon slid his arm around her shoulder, leaving her with no alternative but to slide her own arm around his waist.

He swung her around to face him, lightly clasping her chin between his thumb and forefinger and raising her face to his.

"Harriet. I've never known a woman like you-"

"I should hope not," she said with a laugh, gently disengaging his hand and climbing into the green Maxwell tourer, the greatest love of Simon Hume's life.

He shut the door, and they drove in silence through the quiet streets, back to St. Thomas House, where a kerosene lamp had been left on the verandah to light her return.

Simon opened the passenger door, and as she stepped out, Harriet looked up at him and smiled, her hand on his chest.

He'd done nothing wrong. Nothing at all. Apart from the kiss, he had, as always, been the perfect gentleman. He was handsome, single, kind and considerate and from wealthy landed gentry in Australia. The perfect suitor in every way.

"Thank you for a lovely evening, Simon."

He bent his head and lightly kissed her again. She did not protest, closing her eyes and allowing herself to enjoy the moment.

"I'll be back from Kuala Lumpur in a couple of weeks. I can hardly wait to see you again," he whispered, curling a lock of her hair in his finger.

"It seems like a long time to be away," she said.

"I know, but the story's a big one. I will need the time."

"You haven't told me what the story is about-"

He silenced her with a kiss. "Another time, Harriet."

He vaulted back into the motor vehicle and with a wave of his hand, turned the vehicle onto St. Thomas Walk.

Harriet stood at the top of the steps and waited until she could no longer hear the noise of the engine, discordant among the familiar sounds of insects and animals in the tangle of jungle behind the school.

She sighed and turned to pick up the lamp, smiling as she pushed open the door of the slumbering...