Kiss Don't Tell

by Avril Tremayne

  When the knock came again a minute later, Erica came out from the kitchen to cast a solicitous eye over Lane, who was sitting there incapacitated, before hurrying to answer the door. It wasn’t until Lane heard Erica’s loud gust of laughter that she managed to summon the interest to look up, just as Sarah came into the room bursting with her usual energy, carrying a box balanced on one palm with a gift bag swinging from the other hand.

  ‘Happy birthday, Laney,’ she said. ‘I bought you a cake.’

  Lane got to her feet for a kiss, leaving her mother’s paperwork on the chair. ‘Thank you, Sarah, so much.’

  ‘But we need to put it in the fridge,’ Sarah said, and looked around her. ‘Brad!’ she exclaimed delightedly, and Brad, never proof against her sparkling charm, hurried forward. ‘Do you mind taking the cake to the kitchen?’ As Brad took the cake, Sarah held out the bag to Lane. ‘And this is from Mum.’

  Lane blinked at Sarah, stunned, as she took it.

  ‘She was cleaning out the house—she and Massimo are off to Italy on Tuesday, so you can imagine what it’s like—and she found this tucked away in a cupboard—a cast-off from one of her clients, apparently—and she thought you might like it. It’s no big deal, just a bedspread.’

  Erica came back into the room from the hallway. ‘I’m dying to see it, Lane,’ she said, and Lane shoved her mother’s paperwork to one side of the chair and sat with the gift bag on her lap. For a moment, she let the sense of anticipation build, and then she took a deep breath and pulled out the bedspread. It was eye-popping, as much of Sarah’s mother’s choices tended to be. A screaming red, exotically patterned and luxuriously soft and so gorgeous, Lane wished she could wear it.

  Lane stroked it reverently. ‘How could she bear to part with it?’

  ‘Oh, as to that, red is not her colour, you know that, but she always says it’s yours. And let’s face it, Laney …’ she cast a disgusted eye around the room ‘… these colours, this furniture? They’re not the real you.’ A quick grimace as she caught sight of Lane’s mother, who was eyeing the bedspread with something akin to shocked displeasure. ‘Sorry, Mrs Davis, but you’d know better than anyone that this is all a bit bland for Lane. She just hasn’t had the time to do anything about it and now—voila! Mum—Italy—cast-off bedspreads … serendipity right?’

  ‘Definitely serendipity,’ Erica threw in, oh-so-sweetly. ‘We are dying to get rid of this hideous furniture.’

  Lane’s mother’s lips were so tight by that point, they looked ready to crack her face.

  Sarah turned to Lane with a slightly Argh look on her face. ‘So, Lane, I’ve booked a champagne brunch for the three of us.’ She leaned forward as though about to impart something highly confidential. ‘And when I say the three of us, I mean you, me and Erica.’ She jerked her head backwards. ‘No gate crashers allowed.’

  And that was when Lane realized another person had belatedly entered and was standing just inside the living room. The face was obscured by a bunch of balloons but Lane recognized the denim-clad legs, and bundling the bedspread back into its bag, got to her feet. And then the balloons shifted to one side, and Adam’s face appeared.

  ‘Happy birthday, sweetheart,’ he said, and there was not even the tiniest hint that the thought of a threesome with two girls had even crossed his mind earlier that day.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, and her eyes started to tear over. Which was stupid, because she was happy. Actually, it was even more stupid that she was happy, given their earlier telephone conversation and all the things she felt were unresolved from it. But he was here, of his own free will, without her having to even ask him, and he’d bought her impractical, idiotic balloons and she was just so … well, happy.

  Adam’s eyes zeroed in on the papers she’d left behind on the chair. ‘I hope you’re not working on your birthday,’ he said. ‘That would suck.’

  He shifted so he was looking at her mother—and Brad, who’d come back into the room and was hovering around Sarah as though waiting for a pat on the head. Lane, realizing Adam had drawn the correct conclusion about whose work she was doing, shoved the papers in her handbag and hurried over to introduce him to her mother. But if she’d hoped to somehow deflect the knife-edge tension in the room, she was doomed to disappointment, because her mother was bristling and Adam was looking hostile.

  Lane almost groaned as Adam turned to Brad immediately after the introduction and told him with marked insincerity how nice it was to see him again.

  But then Adam smiled at her, and miraculously everything felt a little more bearable. ‘Are you going to take your balloons, Lane?’ he asked.

  Lane reached for them. ‘Thank you, Adam—I … I—’ She stopped, heart stuttering, as he held out his balloon-free hand before she could take them. He was offering her a slender box, and Lane had no idea what to take. The balloons or the box.

  ‘Let the balloons go,’ Erica suggested. ‘We can scoop them off the ceiling later. Or we can leave them there until they run out of helium and drop. Whatever. I love balloons.’

  And so Lane took the balloons and released them, and then took the box and looked at it.

  ‘Open it,’ Adam said.

  Lane lifted the lid on the box and removed a fine layer of tissue and froze, choking on the emotion that flooded her. It was a glittering silver charm bracelet. Pretty and frivolous and girly. ‘Oh, my,’ she breathed. ‘Oh, Adam.’

  ‘I chose each charm myself, Lane.’ He winked at her. ‘Make sure you look at every one.’

  Lane touched them, one by one. An L, an A. A bed. Champagne bottle. Strawberry. Telephone. Jeep. The $ symbol. A crown—that had to be for the Royal Flush! Sydney Harbour Bridge. A kangaroo and a whale’s tail. A foot, for goodness’ sake, with tiny crystal toenails. A playing card for strip poker. A hand for the spanking. Even a fish that she guessed was a salmon—she was never going to live those canapés down! Each marked a moment in their time together.

  Adam took the bracelet from her and fastened it around her wrist and she kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘I love it,’ she said, her eyes shining. ‘I just— I love it.’

  ‘Just the scooter to go,’ he said, and cupped her cheek with his palm.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Soon, I promise.’

  ‘Of course you’re staying for dinner,’ Erica said to Adam.

  Adam smiled at Erica over Lane’s head. ‘I’d be delighted.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Dinner was awkward, bordering on painful, for Adam.

  He watched, biting his tongue, as Lane toyed first with her mushroom soup and then with her stir-fried chicken, darted apprehensive looks at him with every oh-so-sweet putdown of her mother’s, every artless criticism of her brother’s, every parrying dig of Erica’s. (And damn if he didn’t like Erica after all!)

  At those moments, Lane was at her most vulnerable. How she must have hated for him to see her like this. But he didn’t regret barging in. Not one bit. Because he was like the salvage operation—when dinner was over, he’d be cleaning up the mess, making up for everything she’d put up with tonight.

  After dinner, when an excruciatingly unenthusiastic Happy Birthday had been sung and pieces of Lane’s birthday cake were handed around, Erica turned to Lane’s brother and said, ‘So, Brad, now that your sister has coughed up for another course, let’s hear about it.’

  Lane actually gasped, which made Adam’s ears prick up like a Doberman guard dog’s.

  Brad, oblivious to any undercurrent, ran enthusiastically through a course outline that sounded heavy on the flim-flam to Adam.

  ‘Do you need a job, Brad?’ Adam asked, all innocence at the end. ‘Because I have one or two going, no course required, at AQHP.’

  ‘Brad, work?’ Erica asked in mock horror.

  ‘It’s not as though Brad has had the same advantages as Lane.’ Lane’s mother offered the comment in her best sugar-coated steel voice.

  Erica�
��s eyes blazed. ‘Oh, you mean the advantages that come with hard work and saving and studying? Those advantages? The work that enables Lane to spend her birthday managing the family investments for people who not only don’t work but don’t appreciate it?’

  ‘Please, Erica,’ Lane begged, her face stark white with strain.

  And Adam decided to shelve the pointed remarks at that point; he’d make peace with the devil to take that look away.

  Erica had obviously come to the same conclusion because she tried to smile as she announced it was time for coffee, which she’d serve in the living room.

  But the strain didn’t lift from Lane’s face as the unhappy group doggedly sipped coffee as though their lives depended on the caffeine hit, even with the formidably cheerful Sarah’s efforts to charm everyone into a better mood.

  Adam, on the couch beside Lane, concentrated on looking for a distraction that would stop him from dragging her into his arms in some misguided attempt to protect her from the world. He was relieved when he spied a parcel on the sideboard and figured he could break the heavy silence by asking about it. ‘Birthday booty!’ he exclaimed, sounding like a demented Santa. ‘Are you going to show us, Lane?’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ she told him.

  Looking relieved at having something to do, she retrieved the parcel and came back to sit beside him. She carefully undid the wrapping and held up a gossamer-thin scarf the same colour as her famous pink silk dress. ‘Isn’t it lovely?’

  ‘Beautiful,’ Adam said softly, fingering the silk but looking straight at her.

  He offered Lane’s sharp-eyed mother his best conciliatory smile—at least she’d picked a nice gift—then carefully refolded the scarf and took the paper to rewrap it. A small gift card fluttered to the floor, and he bent to retrieve it. The words were formed so clearly, he really couldn’t help but read them: Red and pink for the win. Love, always, my darling Laney. Erica.

  He felt his neck hairs tingle, heard the sound of rushing blood in his ears. He forced himself to tuck the scarf back into its wrapping and slip the gift tag in with it. He waited for Lane to produce her other gifts. From her mother. Her brother.

  But apparently there were no others. Going by Lane’s mother’s dagger looks at the red bedspread his mother had sent over, even that, second-hand offering though it was, was an affront to her sensibilities. At one point, he even caught her testing a corner of it by rubbing it between her fingers, her mouth a tiny scrunch of discontent. What was the problem—did she not like the gift, did she resent being shown up for not giving Lane a present, or was she insulted over what Sarah had said about the furniture she’d inflicted on Lane?

  Within moments of finishing their coffee, Lane’s mother and brother made their farewells and left, and everyone breathed an audible sigh of collective relief.

  ‘Thank God!’ Erica groaned, flopping into a chair.

  ‘She can’t help it, Erica, you know that,’ Lane said. ‘Really, she can’t!’

  ‘Maybe not, but she could try a little harder,’ Erica said.

  ‘Well, anyway, now there are just the four of us,’ Sarah said, ‘I’ve decided we should make it just the two of us. Or the two of them, anyway. What do you say, Erica? Shall we go and join Jeremy at that bar in the city? I’m between men again now that Patrick and I have parted ways, and I need to find a new one, so I’m keen to meet this Liam lawyer person Jeremy thinks could be my next victim.’

  Erica grinned as she got back onto her feet. ‘Fabulous. I’m definitely in the mood for love, and it doesn’t have to be my own.’ She swooped on Adam and kissed him soundly on the cheek. ‘You really do have excellent taste, Adam.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And in jewellery, too!’

  Adam laughed. ‘Try not to corrupt my sister tonight.’

  Erica shook her head at him. ‘If that doesn’t prove that men do not know their sisters! She’s the corrupter,’ she said, and swept a laughing Sarah out of the room.

  ‘Okay,’ Adam said when they were alone, ‘I like Erica.’

  ‘All men like Erica.’

  Adam pulled her down onto the couch beside him. ‘Not that kind of like, Lane. I’m reserving that kind for you.’

  ‘For six more weeks, anyway,’ Lane said.

  Adam kissed her. ‘Let’s pack six weeks’ worth into tonight and really get you your money’s worth, hmm?’ he said against her mouth, and when she stiffened, he pulled back and looked at her searchingly. ‘What is it, Lane?’

  ‘I feel I should warn you that … that whatever you intend to pack into the remaining six weeks, I’m drawing the line at a threesome.’

  ‘Yeah, well a threesome is passé, anyway. We need to think of something I’ve never done before to keep it interesting.’

  He tried to take her into his arms, but Lane resisted. ‘How did you know? To come tonight, to bring me a present?’

  ‘I asked Sarah what was going on. She was surprised I didn’t already know.’ Pause. ‘So was I, Lane.’

  ‘If you’d known … What, then? Would you have been different on the phone?’

  ‘I would have understood about tonight.’

  ‘Is that why you stopped being angry with me? Sympathy? Because it’s my birthday and the anniversary and you knew how it would be?’

  ‘I wasn’t angry with you, Lane.’

  ‘Then what were you?’

  He shrugged, not knowing how to explain it. ‘It’s just …’ Another shrug. ‘Look, I suppose this was never going to be as uncomplicated as we thought it would. You and me, the contract, your relationship with Sarah …’ David, he added silently to himself. He wanted to say the name out loud, wanted to force her tell him more. But he wanted, also, to never hear David’s name again. David, the unknown quantity, whom he resented sight unseen. ‘The money aspect, as well,’ he said, because he bloody hated that too.

  ‘I have to pay you, Adam.’

  ‘No you don’t, Lane.’

  She’d gone very still, as though scenting danger. ‘If I don’t pay you, then what is this between us? Or are you saying … are you meaning … you don’t want to continue?’

  God, what did he say to that? So many thoughts darted through his head. Erica, telling him that she and Sarah both knew the contract was a dumb idea. ‘But Lane doesn’t know it, and at this point, if she knew what we all think, if she had any inkling of how it all came about, she’d be mortified.’ Sarah, telling him Lane didn’t see the contract as paying him for sex, but for skills transference and confidence. ‘It’s no different from when she signed up for private Mandarin lessons.’ Lane herself: ‘I’m not paying you to care about me.’

  What would happen if he told her how it had started? What if he told her he was never supposed to sign her contract? If he told her he was supposed to talk her out of it that first night? It might salve his conscience—but it would make her feel like the sympathy case she didn’t want to be.

  And what if he told her how much money he had, that her money therefore meant nothing to him? It might soothe his pride—Lesson Six, men are proud bastards—but it would rip hers to shreds, wouldn’t it? Because money was more than dollars and cents to Lane; it was her emotional currency, the way she assessed her worth to her worthless family.

  What would either of them gain by his telling her the truth? He might not like the idea that he was being used to benefit some other guy, but he nevertheless had nothing to offer her, and if he had nothing to offer, she would still go to David at the end. And who knew what would happen between her and Sarah. And if that went wrong he, Adam, would have … nothing.

  So: ‘I do want to continue, Lane,’ he said, and kissed her because he knew this thing between them was fragile enough to be over with one wrong word and that scared him. ‘I just feel uncomfortable holding out my hand for your money now I’ve seen your family in action.’

  She pulled away from him. ‘You don’t understand the … the financials
involved.’

  He tugged her under his arm and settled them in. ‘So explain them to me. It’s got to have something to do with the will, right? What did your father do? Leave it all to you?’

  ‘No, but it kind of worked out like that anyway. Everyone expected him to leave everything to Mum, on the understanding that she’d provide for me and Brad—that’s the way these thing usually work out.’

  ‘Not … always,’ Adam said uncomfortably.

  ‘No?’

  ‘Sarah and I got money directly from one of our grandparents, you know.’

  ‘Oh, well, I guess that makes sense, too.’

  ‘But this is not about me, so say: “Shut up, Adam, I’m talking.”’

  ‘Shut up, Adam, I’m talking,’ she said and laughed as he mimed zipping up his mouth. ‘Anyway, what Dad did was leave Mum the family home, but split the money three ways—a third each to Mum, Brad and me. My money was held in a trust, and came to me when I was twenty-one. But Brad’s was to be managed by Mum. It was done that was so that if he ever needed it for medical reasons, it was there, and he comes into it, like me, at twenty-one—in three years’ time.’ She sighed. ‘So of course Mum was right when she said the T-shirt guy would have a different investor by then.’

  ‘And everyone was happy with will? No one fought it?’

  ‘No one contested it, and yes, everyone seemed happy enough. Until Mum lost almost all her money, and by default Brad’s, in some bad investments.’

  ‘But your money was safe …’

  ‘Dad had appointed a guy who’s a bit of an investment whiz as my trustee, and he not only kept my money safe, he grew it. By the time I turned twenty-one, I had quite a sizeable nest egg. I also started taking an interest in the stock market when I was sixteen. I was preparing to study economics at school and became quite good at predicting trends, so I did very well even after taking over my own investments. I ended up transferring some money to Mum and started advising her and she’s slowly clawing back some money.’