All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the Author, and all the incidents are pure invention. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
First published 1979
Australian copyright 1979
Philippine copyright 1979
This edition 1979
© Helen Bianchin 1979
ISBN 0 263 72937 0
Set in Linotype Plantin 11 on ll½pt.
Made and printed in Great Britain by Richard Clay (The Chaucer Press) Ltd., Bungay, Suffolk
CHAPTER ONE
SALLY raised her head with a feeling of regret as the radio D.J.'s voice announced the time. Stretching out a hand she switched off the transistor, then gracefully moved to sit hugging her knees as she gazed out over the ocean.
Chinaman's Beach at the end of Shell Cove was a delightful spot—particularly during the week. Weekends, when most everyone flocked to the many bays and coves abounding Sydney's wandering harbour, waters, were a different matter entirely.
It had to be the hottest summer on record, she mused idly. These past few hours spent lazily sunbathing had been positively idyllic, for with Christmas mere weeks away, the city was choked with traffic and the pavements crammed with jostling shoppers.
With one fluid movement she stood to her feet, slipped off her sunglasses and tossed them down on to the beach towel. She felt unbearably hot, and the sea's coolness was infinitely inviting. With light steps she ran to the water, delighting in its silkiness against her body, and she lingered in the shallows for several minutes before emerging again.
The two minuscule scraps of material covering her slim curves were inclined to reveal more than they concealed, although she had no pretensions about her appearance and didn't consider her combination of shoulder-length silver-blonde hair, a slim shapely figure, golden-brown skin, and eyes of deep blue to be anything startling, despite her father's teasing remarkson occasion to the contrary.
Dear Daddy, Sally reflected fondly. It didn't seem anything like eight years since she'd left school and moved in to share his apartment in suburban Rose Bay. An only child, her parents had separated while she was still in kindergarten, and after the divorce she had been consigned to boarding school. Vacations were alternatively spent at her mother's chic Double Bay flat and the Rose Bay apartment. Luckily, she had never been the bone over which her parents fought for possession, and to all intents and purposes her parents had maintained an amicable relationship. But just when she most needed a woman's hand, her mother impulsively remarried and moved to America, leaving Sally to cope as best she could with the vulnerable teenage years. After completion of her formal, education there followed a two-year catering course from which she emerged with honours, and in the past six years she'd graduated from lowly kitchen maid to assistant chef with one of Sydney's exclusive catering firms.
Sally shook off her reverie as she reached the sand where her belongings lay, and she picked up her brush to restore a measure of order to her salt-tangled hair. Its length was a nuisance in summer, but she liked its versatility, and inevitably wound it on top of her head whenever she hovered twixt stove and work-bench.
A hasty glance at her wristwatch as she strapped it on declared a need to abandon any thoughts of sunbathing to dry out her bikini. Not that it really mattered, for it would dry as she drove home. In a few minutes she had dismantled the beach-umbrella in readiness, and picking up her transistor, towel, and paperback, she thrust them into her bag. With sunglasses slid on to her nose, her feet thrust into leather sandals, she was ready to leave.
The racy MGB-GT sports saloon that had been a twenty-first birthday gift from her father stood parked on the grass verge some distance away, and Sally headed towards it, her thoughts becoming pensive as she went over the menu she'd planned for tonight Onion soup then coq-au-vin, with strawberry mousse for dessert. Most of the preparation had been done that morning, but she needed an hour of unflustered con-centration to do the food justice.
Joseph Ballinger—Joe, to his friends—was an extremely active man, socially. A builder by trade, he ran his own business, and delighted in entertaining, giving as many as two dinner parties a month—sometimes more.
This evening's event was only one of many that Sally had catered for, and her brow furrowed as she, endeavoured to recollect the guests' names. Oscar and Olivia Nordestein, a charming middle-aged couple who were frequent guests at her father's table. Charles and Andrea Bakersfield, and their daughter Chantrelle.
On reaching the car, Sally stowed everything on to the back seat, then slid in behind the wheel and headed towards the city. The breeze set up by the car's movement was refreshing on her warm skin, teasing strands of damp hair and lifting them away from her neck. Heavens, it was hot! Leaning forward, she slid open the ventilator in an effort to increase the air-flow into the car's interior.
The road wound round numerous bays as it followed the coast, and all too soon she was in the midst of traffic crossing the metal girth of Sydney's harbour bridge. Never once did the sight of the Opera House fail to cause her to catch her breath, with its concrete sails peaking in a unique feat of architecture, set close to the deep sparkling waters of Port Jackson.
Sally eased the car on to New South Head Road, and was almost adjacent to the golf links at Rose Bay when she became aware of the erratic behaviour of her MGB-GT. Not a puncture, she pleaded silently— without heed, it proved, for there was no mistaking that lopsided thudding. With a sigh of resignation she flicked the indicator and pulled into the kerb, then slid out from behind the wheel to inspect the car's rear.
A few muttered epithets whispered from her lips as she unlocked the boot and began shifting tools and nameless junk in an effort to uncover the spare tyre.
'Can I be of assistance?'
Sally turned slowly to face the owner of that deep drawl, and her eyes widened fractionally as they took in the rugged, sardonic features of the man standing a few feet distant. Hairs tingled down the length of her spine as she registered shock at the sheer animal magnetism he projected. Even his conservative business suit did little to sheathe a raw masculinity that sent shivers of apprehension scudding in countless different directions. There was a dangerous compelling quality about him that made her want to run and hide.
'I have changed a tyre on at least two previous occasions,' she managed coolly, and turned away in the hope that he would take the hint and leave her to her own resources.
'I didn't stop merely to watch your feminine efforts,' he retorted with soft emphasis, and there was a faint accent, more an intonation of certain vowels, that was attractive to the ear.
'By all means, go ahead,' she declared sarcastically, and moved to one side, conscious for the first time of her brief attire.
One dark eyebrow lifted in cynical amusement as he shrugged off an immaculately-tailored jacket, and Sally suppressed a start of surprise when he held it out towards her. 'If you don't mind?'
She took it from him, holding it in front of her like a protective shield—although why, she wasn't sure! The material fe
lt expensive to the touch, and emitted an elusive male fragrance. Thoroughly cross with herself, she transferred her gaze to the car parked close behind her own, and noted the discreet Alfa-Romeo insignia on the grill of the sleek saloon.
In a remarkably short space of time he had the spare tyre in place, and Sally murmured a few polite words as he slung the punctured wheel into the boot.
He gave a negligent shrug and wiped his hands on a rag he extracted from among the debris. 'In your delectable state of déshabille, you had only to wait for as long as it took the first male to drive by,' he intimated dryly, and his eyes ran mockingly over her body, lingering with lazy insolence on her scantily-covered bosom. He took his jacket from her nerveless fingers, then leaning out a hand he ran a light finger over the exposed swell of her breast. 'I believe you have caught the sun.'
His fleeting touch scorched her. skin, and she withdrew as sharply as if from a lick of flame. 'How dare you!' she whispered furiously. It was too late to wish she'd donned the muslin top she'd hastily flung on to the passenger seat of her car more than four hours before. Her only thought had been to remain cool in the intense heat during the drive home—modesty had been a secondary consideration, and unfortunately un heeded!
His soft laugh served to increase her outrage, and she had the distinct impression he would dare anything.
'Ciao, bionda.' With a sardonic wave he turned and walked to his car.
Sally slammed the boot shut and moved round to slip in behind the wheel. Her breathing was as ragged as if she'd just run a mile. Of all the infuriating, arrogant men she'd ever met, this one took the prize! His maddening words echoed inside her brain—she could translate the mockingly-voiced 'blondie' without too much effort! She pointedly didn't acknowledge the klaxon salute as he eased the Alfa-Romeo into the steady stream of traffic, and she deliberately waited several minutes before attempting to follow him.
Sally was still seething as she parked the car and walked up the two flights of stairs to her father's apartment. Selecting a key from the collection on her keyring, she inserted it into the lock and stepped into the lobby.
'Hi—I'm home,' she called out as she shut the door behind her, and then as no one answered she moved through the lounge towards the kitchen. Ten minutes later the casserole containing the coq-au-vin was in the oven, and the ingredients for the soup were on the work-bench in readiness. Now for a quick shower, she decided silently.
In her room she thrust off the muslin top, then moved into the adjoining bathroom, emerging a short while later to slip into fresh underwear. She selected a printed jersey-silk patio dress from the wardrobe in her bedroom, stepped into it and slid the zip-fastener into place. Ten minutes with the blow-wave and her hair was dry enough to wind into a knot on top of her head. A quick application of skin moisturiser, a touch of lipstick, eyeshadow and mascara to heighten her eyes, and. her make-up was complete. There, that would do, she decided, casting her reflection a cursory glance in the mirror.
Philip would think she looked eye-catching, no matter what she wore. Sally hid a slight grimace. Quite what she was going to do about Philip eluded her, for he had become increasingly persistent in his attentions of late, and over the past few months he'd proposed marriage with predictable regularity. Why then did she hesitate to accept? She gave a sigh that defied description. Was it so wrong to want her emotions stirred into such a state of excitability that she couldn't even think straight? Was there a man, somewhere, meant for her alone, like the other half of a twin soul? Or were such things confined only between the pages of romantic novels, with no real-life parallel?
A knock at her bedroom door brought a return to the present, and calling out that she was ready, Sally emerged into the hall.
'Philip is here,' Joe Ballinger informed her, and she gave a monosyllabic acknowledgment. 'Ah, you look beautiful, my dear.'
Sally stood on tiptoe and kissed his chin. 'And you look very handsome, Daddy.' She tucked her hand through his arm, smiling up at him. 'Give Philip a drink. I'm needed in the kitchen for a while.'
Joe gave a slight chuckle. 'I rather think he'd prefer to be in the kitchen with you. The Nordesteins and the Bakersfields aren't due to arrive for at least another thirty minutes.'
They reached the lounge, and at once a tall, good- looking young man in his mid-twenties came forward with arms outstretched.
'There you are, darling.' He leant down and bestowed a fond kiss to her temple. 'Looking utterly gorgeous, as always.'
'Flattery will get you a glass of sherry,' Sally evinced gaily. 'Talk to Daddy, there's a few things I have to attend to in the kitchen.' She slipped away with an adroitness that brought a frown to Philip's forehead, and in the kitchen she took a deep breath. Dear God, what was wrong with her? Why tonight, of all nights, did she have to lapse into such a mood of introspection?
With deft fingers she prepared the soup and put it on the stove, chccked the casserole, then slipped into the dining-room and began setting the table.
She soon became lost to the task in front of her, delighting in utilising her culinary skills to their fullest extent as she slid dishes from the oven and attended to saucepans simmering on top of the stove. Only when everything was placed into serving dishes to keep warm did she emerge into the lounge and accept the drink her father held out.
'Sally, how charming you look,' Andrea Bakersfield complimented her warmly. 'You must let me have your secret of appearing to remain so cool in the kitchen on so hot an evening.'
'Wear the minimum of clothes, and apply mind over matter,' Sally responded with a ready smile.
'Mother,' Chantrelle mocked gently as her eyes swept over Sally's slender form. 'You never go into the kitchen, so the question is entirely irrelevant.' She laughed with fake gaiety as her eyes came to rest on Sally's head. 'Why, Sally dear, has preparing dinner been too much of a rush? Your hair is damp.'
'It's a secret of mine,' Sally responded with bittersweet politeness. 'That way I can remain cool.'
'What culinary delights have you planned to titillate our palates with tonight, my dear?'
Sally turned towards Olivia Nordestein with relief, for Chantrelle, even in small doses, was too much to endure. 'I've made strawberry mousse for dessert,' she said lightly. 'As to what preludes it, that will have to remain a surprise.'
'You look strangely unsettled tonight,' Philip murmured as he crossed to her side, and she forced a bright smile to her lips.
'I've been at the beach for a few hours. Perhaps the sun?' she suggested.
'I have tickets for the opera tomorrow evening. Will you come?'
She looked into his earnest, transparent face, and didn't have the heart to refuse. 'Thank you, I'd like that.'
His features broadened into a relaxed, relieved smile. 'I'll call for you at seven. We'll have dinner first.'
Tomorrow she'd probably view things differently, but now it took an effort to be considerate of his feelings, and she hated the little gremlin that was sitting on her shoulder. With a slight smile she excused herself and went into the kitchen to serve the soup while Joe bade his guests seat themselves in the dining-room.
The soup was a delight, and the coq-au-vin faultless. Sally gave her father a quick smile as he complimented her skill.
'Dear Sally, talented in so many things,' Chantrelle extolled sweetly. 'I can't even boil water—but then I shall never have to, shall I?' She made a pouting moue, and let her eyes sweep slowly round the table.
'If you're of the social élite, there's always the restaurant on cook's night off,' Sally commented, and the other girl gave a trill of light laughter.
'Of course, sweetie. I don't plan on doing anything more strenuous than being a glamorous partner to a wealthy husband.'
'A millionaire, without doubt, to cater to your expensive tastes?'
'At the very least,' Chantrelle asserted with glittering emphasis. 'There are still some around.'
'I shall pray the one you snare isn't balding, paunchy, and over fifty,' S
ally ventured with false sweetness, and Chantrelle pouted prettily.
'One can suffer a lot with silken sheets on the bed, mink on one's back, and jewels for every occasion.'
'I think I'll serve dessert,' Sally declared with a tight smile. In another minute she'd say something really catty!
'My compliments—that was superb.'
Sally inclined her head slightly in Philip's direction, but didn't meet his eyes. The mousse had turned out well, she knew, but she was darned if she would simper appreciatively beneath his praise.
'As usual, an exquisite meal, my dear,' Joe added fondly, then he waved an expansive hand to encompass his guests. 'If you would all like to adjourn to the lounge?'
'While dear little Cinderella attends to the dishes,' Chantrelle ventured sweetly, blandly ignoring the angry gasps from her parents.
'It's not as bad as that,' Sally laughed—what else could she do but laugh? If she resorted to a baser feminine instinct she'd grab a handful of Chantrelle's hair and pull—hard! 'I have a magic genie in the form of an automatic dishwasher—in no time at all the kitchen will be restored to order.'
Nevertheless, Chantrelle's barbs stung home, and Sally scoured the innumerable saucepans with unnecessary diligence considering they were to go into the diswasher, but the exercise served to expend some of her anger.
It was well after eleven when the Bakersfields and the Nordesteins took their leave, and Sally turned to Philip with an apologetic smile.
'Goodnight,' she bade gently, trying hard to ignore the look of disappointment in his eyes. 'I have a headache from being out in the sun, and besides, it's rather late.' She held up her face for his kiss, and felt the warm, faintly moist mouth descend on hers. Oh, why can't I feel something when he kisses me? she tormented herself guiltily. He could have been a brother, or a fond cousin, for all the feeling his touch aroused.
When the door was firmly shut, Sally gave a heartfelt sigh of relief.
Stormy Possession Page 1
