by Miranda Lee
There was a short, sharp silence, during which Philip Forsythe just sat there, stony-faced.
Satisfied that he’d got his message across, Owen jumped to his feet. ‘I’d better take you along to Fiona’s office before she wonders where you are. But for pity’s sake, don’t tell her what I just said. She’s very touchy about her private life.’
‘Don’t worry. I won’t breathe a word. What Fiona does in her private life these days is not of the slightest interest to me.’
Despite the cold disdain in Philip’s voice, Owen was not totally convinced. He’d much rather have heard indifference.
Still, he’d done his best. What more could he do?
CHAPTER SEVEN
AT FIVE minutes to twelve, Fiona sent Rebecca back to her own office, nerves finally getting the better of her.
She’d come to work this morning, fired up with resentment over Philip’s high-handed attitude on the telephone. Who did he think he was, treating her like some hostile witness on the stand? No way was she going to let him grill her about the past. She’d spent ten years getting over what had happened back then and she wasn’t about to relive it. Neither was she going to reexplain her actions and decisions.
She’d been steady as a rock in her resolve till around eleven, when the reality of a long lunch alone with Philip had begun to unnerve her. By eleven-thirty she’d started clock-watching and waiting for the phone to ring, announcing his arrival.
For the last twenty-five minutes, however, her phone had remained stubbornly silent, a perverse state of affairs when, on most Monday mornings, she had little peace from its infernal and eternal ringing.
Fiona glared at the darned thing, but it just sat there, mutely mocking her growing agitation. She was reminded of a scene from one of those movies where the condemned man is be executed at midnight and the camera keeps going to the clock on the wall, then to the telephone just below it. Tension builds as the audience hopes and prays for the powers that be to call with a stay of execution.
That rarely happened, and the poor fellow was duly led away.
Fiona could not imagine anything worse than knowing the exact time of one’s death. The mental agony for the executee would be excruciating.
Fiona’s own tension was excruciating by the time the hands on the wall-clock finally came together at noon. Yet the phone—and her office—stayed deathly silent, the double glazed windows blocking out the noise of the traffic below, the solid walls and door stopping any sounds filtering through from the adjoining rooms.
Normally, Fiona liked this aspect of the solid old building. Today she found the silence claustrophobic.
By five past twelve she felt as if she was about to burst!
Jumping to her feet, she began to pace agitatedly around the room, muttering to herself.
When the phone suddenly jangled, her stomach leapt through her chest and into her mouth. For a few seconds she froze, before launching herself back to her desk and snatching up the receiver.
‘Yes?’ she asked rather breathlessly.
It wasn’t Janey, announcing Philip’s arrival. It was one of the florists she used, wanting to check up on a few things for the following weekend’s wedding.
More frustration flared, and Fiona had to fight for composure. Scooping in a deep breath, she slid up onto the corner of her somewhat battered but large desk, firmly crossed her legs, and found a cool voice from somewhere.
Experience had taught her that if she sounded and acted as though she were totally in control, soon she was. Fiona was actually idly swinging her top foot and answering the florist’s questions quite calmly when there was a soft tap on her office door. Before she had time to do more than blink, the door opened and Owen popped his head inside.
‘Excuse me for a sec,’ she told the florist. ‘What is it, Owen?’
‘Er...you were on the phone, so Janey brought Philip along to me for a minute. Is it all right for him to come in now?’
An instant vice clamped around Fiona’s chest, whilst a thousand fluttering butterflies invaded her stomach.
Now you just stop this, she hissed to herself. He’s just a man, not some dark and dangerous nemesis. Get a grip!
‘Fine,’ she told Owen with seemingly blithe indifference. ‘I’ll just be a moment or two longer. Have him come in and sit down.’
She swung her body slightly away from the doorway so that she wasn’t facing Philip when he entered the room. That way she wouldn’t have to look straight at him, or smile, or do anything except pretend to be thoroughly engrossed in a discussion over what blue flowers could be substituted if forget-me-knots were still unavailable this week. Out of the corner of her eye, however, she glimpsed him coming in alone, shutting the door behind him and settling his tall, elegantly clad frame into the comfy sofa which rested against the wall not far from the door.
‘So long as they’re blue and not mauve, Gillian,’ she was saying coolly, despite being hotly aware of Philip’s gaze on her legs, and the expanse of thigh her perched position was displaying.
Still, she would look ridiculous if she hastily uncrossed her legs, yanked down her skirt and pressed her knees firmly together like some uptight virgin.
Philip had seen a lot more of her bare than her thighs, anyway.
The thought made her insides tense. Was he sitting there, looking at her legs and remembering?
Fiona had been overawed and shy with him at first, but not for long. After their first stunning time together, she’d eagerly let him remove all her clothes, plus every one of her other remaining inhibitions and misconceptions about making love.
Though not a physical virgin when they’d met, she’d been a virgin in every other way, totally ignorant of the mindless madness which overtook a girl when deeply in love, and utterly unprepared for the bittersweet pleasures of the flesh just waiting to enslave her.
And enslave her Philip had. With breathtaking speed and an equally breathtaking expertise. By the time they’d been going out for a month, she’d been beside herself with desire for him, blown away by an unquenchable passion which had known no taboos. She’d done everything he’d wanted, sometimes before he’d asked. She’d been his besotted love-slave, his never-say-no Noni.
Once had never been enough...for either of them.
Fiona gritted her teeth at the memory and chatted on about the flowers, feigning indifference to Philip’s presence, idly swinging her foot again.
But, for all her outer nonchalance, behind her constricted ribs her heart had begun racing madly. A faint flush was wending its wicked way over the surface of her skin, bringing a prickling sensation to the erogenous zones of her body. Her breasts felt swollen, a disconcerting state of affairs since they weren’t safely encased in a bra. Her nipples peaked like hot pokers against the cool black satin of her camisole. Her neck felt decidedly warm, as did her face.
The temptation to pick up a nearby writing pad and fan herself was acute. All her clothes suddenly felt far too hot and far, far too tight.
Instead, with her free hand, she reached down and popped open the waist button on her jacket, sucking in some much needed air between words. ‘Yes... yes... That would be fine... Now I must go... A client... Yes, no rest for the wicked.’ She gave a soft if somewhat shaky laugh. ‘Bye, Gillian.’
She hung up, and without looking at Philip slipped off the corner of the desk, firmly rebuttoning her jacket as she strode round behind her desk. Only when she was safely seated in her chair did she glance up at him.
Just as well too, for he was staring at her. He was also looking sinfully sexy in one of those dark single-breasted suits which she simply adored on a man.
Not that Philip needed clothes to make him attractive to her. To her eye, he looked fantastic in anything. He looked extra fantastic in nothing.
Fiona gulped at this thought, having to battle to keep her mind back off that track. It had been bad enough imagining he was mentally undressing her whilst she’d been sitting on her desk. If she started s
tripping him in her mind, she would soon be non compos mentis.
But it was difficult not to look at him and wonder what be looked like now naked. He had more muscle on him now, more breadth of shoulder and overall solidity. Fiona didn’t doubt that the more mature Philip would be even more impressive in the buff than he had been at twenty.
And that was saying something.
Because he’d been pretty impressive back then.
Fiona had never seen the like, either before or since.
It was not a good thought to have in her head whilst trying to stay cool, calm and collected.
Clearing her throat, she looked down at her desk and turned some papers and a folder round to face his way.
‘I have all the things ready you asked to look at,’ she began brusquely. ‘The letters of recommendation. The portfolio of photographs. Plus a sample contract for you to peruse at your leisure.
‘If you’d like to come a little closer...’ she added, glancing up again at long last.
Their eyes met. His were hard and cold. Hers were hopefully businesslike and pragmatic.
Rising abruptly, his hand reached for the nearby doorknob. ‘That can wait till later,’ he said curtly as he yanked open the door. ‘I’m in a fifteen-minute parking spot, and my time is about to run out.’
Her mouth opened automatically to argue, but she immediately thought better of it. To argue with him was to betray emotion. Fiona didn’t want Philip to know that he still had the power to affect her in any way whatsoever.
Rising, she grabbed her black handbag, hoisted the long strap over her shoulder, then, with one hand firmly on its top flap and the other swinging by her side, covered the expanse of patterned carpet between her desk and the door with confident strides.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked nonchalantly as she brushed past him.
His answer floored her.
‘Balmoral Beach.’
She swung round and almost collided with him, momentarily putting her hand on his chest to steady herself, but swiftly snatching it away as though she’d stupidly reached out to stroke a cobra.
‘If you think I’m going to go with you to your place,’ she hissed, from still far too close a position, ‘then you can think again!’
His eyes showed surprise at her reaction, then a measure of thoughtfulness. ‘How do you know I live at Balmoral?’
Fiona thanked the Lord she could think on her feet. ‘Your mother told me.’
‘Did she?’
‘Yes, she did. Why?’ she challenged. Aggression was always the best defence when you were caught at a disadvantage.
He shrugged his beautifully tailored shoulders. ‘I just wondered how you knew. But there’s no reason to panic. I’m not taking you to my place. I’ve made a booking at the Watermark restaurant for lunch. It’s right on Balmoral Beach.’
Fiona could not believe the irony of the situation. The Watermark was the very restaurant Mark was planning to take her to that evening after work. He’d raved over how special it was. How exclusive and expensive, with a view second to none and a clientele to match. Meaning he wanted to impress her. Maybe he’d seen the writing on the wall.
‘Yes, I know of it,’ she said tautly.
Philip smiled a small smile. ‘I imagine you would.’
‘Meaning?’ she snapped.
‘Meaning I presume a popular girl like you would have been there before,’ he said drily.
‘Who says I’m popular?’
His gaze narrowed and swept down over her tensely held body, glaring at where her breasts were throbbing beneath the confines of her jacket.
‘Come now, Fiona,’ he drawled. ‘Much as I might prefer the old version, I’m not blind to your present-day attractions. I would imagine you’re never short of a dinner date, or some eager lover, ready and willing to satisfy your no doubt still insatiable needs. His name might be Mark at the moment. But last year it was probably Roger. And next year it could be Tom, Dick, or Harry. The names don’t really matter to you, do they? As long as their performance is up to scratch and they don’t do the unforgivable thing of hanging around too long and wearing out their welcome.’
Fiona was momentarily stunned by his verbal attack. Fair enough that he might think her a flighty piece, incapable of any depth of feeling or love. She accepted that his low opinion of her loyalty level was the legacy of her lies ten years ago, plus that other unfortunate marriage she’d raced into.
But that didn’t call for his virtually calling her a slut!
She wanted to come to her own defence, but stopped herself just in time. Why try to change his opinion of her? There was a certain safety in his misguided judgement of her present-day lifestyle.
‘So what?’ she flung at him offhandedly. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘Nothing at all,’ he returned coldly. ‘But I pity your poor Mark.’
She laughed. ‘Really? I doubt he needs it, but I’ll pass on your sentiments to him tonight. He’s picking me up after work. That’s why I’m all dressed up.’
‘I never imagined it was for my benefit.’
‘How clever of you. Now, shall we get going? You don’t want to end up with a parking ticket, do you?’
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE suburb of Balmoral was only a ten-minute drive from where Fiona’s office was located at St Leonard’s, maybe fifteen if the local council was digging up the Pacific Highway and adjoining roads, which always seemed the case when Fiona was desperate to get somewhere quickly. She’d learnt to allow extra time, on wedding days especially.
But no workmen flagged them down during the brief journey, which was just as well. Being enclosed within a sexy black car which smelt of new leather and Philip’s sexy aftershave did nothing for Fiona’s state of mind. And body.
Even so, those ten minutes seemed like an eternity, despite Fiona taking up where she’d left off back at the office and chattering away as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Not easy when, inside, she was wound up tight as a drum.
Philip made no pretence over his own mood, politeness not on his agenda, it seemed. He sat stiffly behind the wheel, his eyes fixed straight ahead, his only contribution to the conversation being one-word replies. By the time they turned down Military Road, and Balmoral was just a sea breeze away, his shoulders did loosen a little, and he stopped gripping the wheel with white-knuckled intensity. His face, however, remained without humour.
Frankly, Fiona could not understand why Philip was still so angry with her. The thought that he’d been pining for her all these years, that she might have been the one true love in his life, was far too fanciful a theory—and just too awful to contemplate—so she searched for another, more sensible, logical reason.
It dawned on her pretty quickly.
Male ego. Seriously dented at the time, and obviously still bruised.
Yes, that was the most likely cause for the sarcasm yesterday and today. Philip had always had a healthy ego. How could he not with all those God-given talents? Even at the tender age of twenty he would have already been prey to more female pursuits—and willing surrenders—than Fiona could possibly imagine. He hadn’t achieved that level of skill as a lover through correspondence!
Fiona had no doubt not a single girlfriend of his had ever voluntarily broken up with him.
Till she’d come along.
Philip probably hadn’t experienced rejection before and simply hadn’t been able to handle it.
Most men couldn’t, Fiona supposed, especially from someone like Noni. Good Lord, even she could excuse Philip for believing Noni would be his love-slave for life, the naive, gullible little fool!
But Noni was long gone now, she reaffirmed to herself. Fiona lived and breathed in her place, and Fiona was not naive, or gullible. She certainly wasn’t about to put up with being grilled by Philip over the whys and wherefores of their break-up. Heavens, she wouldn’t even dream of telling him the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
Masochism was no
t her thing at all!
She was reminding herself of this fact when the Jaguar smoothly negotiated a downhill corner, and, right before her eyes, the beach suddenly came into view.
Oddly enough, although she’d driven through Balmoral and shopped in its main street, Fiona had never been down to the actual beach before.
Its beauty quite took her breath away.
‘Oh,’ she gasped softly. ‘Oh, how lovely.’
‘Yes, it is,’ Philip agreed, then slanted her a puzzled look. ‘I thought you said you’d been to the Watermark before?’
‘No, not actually. I’ve only heard of it.’
Philip stopped the car at the bottom of the hill and turned right, to drive slowly along the esplanade which hugged the cove-like beach. Fiona drank in the scene, and thought how wonderful it would be to live here and be able to walk down to this place at any time and sit on the warm golden sand, or under the shade of one of the huge trees which lined the pavement.
The water was so blue, and gentle. Not a roaring surf, just lapping waves. Relaxing. Refreshing.
An old-fashioned fenced-off pool stretched out into the bay and there wasn’t a single commercial marina in sight, thank heavens, just a few boats, bobbing up and down at their private moorings.
Fiona glanced back up at the houses which hugged the hills overlooking the beach, and envied their owners—not so much for the houses themselves, although some of them were very grand, but for the sea view, and the position. They were close to the city yet at the same time a world away, hiding in this perfect oasis of peace and perfection.
It took a few moments before Fiona recalled Philip owned one of those houses.
‘You’re very lucky to live here,’ she said as he directed the Jag into a parking spot facing the beach, plus the biggest Morton Bay fig tree Fiona had ever seen
‘It’s not quite so ideal in the summer,’ Philip returned drily, turning off the engine and pulling out his keys. ‘Wall-to-wall cars, plus wall-to-wall people, all wanting their piece of paradise. But, yes, I have to agree with you. The first time I saw this place I planned to buy a house here, overlooking the ocean. But it took me quite a while to save up the money to buy the sort of house I wanted. I finally managed it last year.’
