by Margaret Way
“I promise I’ll tell you a hundred times over before the night’s out. I love the dress. Never take it off unless I’m there to help you.”
“You plan to?” The expression in his eyes made her toes curl.
“Are you surprised?”
“No,” Nicole said softly.
THEY STUDIED THEIR MENUS, little shafts of electricity charging the air between them.
Nicole stuck to beautiful Moreton Bay’s legendary seafood. Drake was torn between the carpaccio of coral-reef trout with herbs and the Red Emperor with papaya chili and coconut salsa.
“We can choose dessert later.” He smiled at her.
“You can choose dessert later. I have to watch my figure.”
“I’ll watch it for you.” He leaned closer. “You have the most beautiful breasts.”
She put a forefinger to her mouth, exquisitely conscious of her plunging neckline. “Hush, I can’t take it.”
He smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ve seen you more naked than that.” He sat back, holding his fragile wineglass by the stem, the beads of champagne reflecting a golden-green.
He looked effortlessly right, Nicole thought. The breadth of his shoulders set off the fine tailoring of his charcoal jacket. His ice-white shirt worn with a stylish striped silk tie in gray, gold and black, accentuated his deep tan, the thick raven hair and his extraordinary eyes. She had a sudden mental image of them both in bed, knowing when the moment came she would welcome him.
“So tell me about Dot,” he said after the waiter had taken their order and moved away from their secluded window table. “I suppose you’ve already set about improving her life.”
“She doesn’t want to come back to Eden.”
“Now that surprises me. I thought she was a fixture.”
Her eyes were troubled. “It might come down to Dot’s mental health.”
“Really?” Drake raised an eyebrow. “I would have thought Dot had her head screwed on right. So what are we talking about—early stages of dementia? That’s not fair. That demon Dot married gave her hell. God knows how many times she was hospitalized during their marriage, but she kept going back to him. Inexplicable to me.”
“It happens,” Nicole sighed. “Perhaps the abuse turned her mind. She confessed she left Eden because she was afraid of Alan.”
“Alan?” Drake’s reaction was the same as hers. Naked disbelief. “So she’s lost it?”
“I’ve had to consider that, but in every other respect she’s perfectly normal, the same as ever. Dot was always quiet, but she was a pretty shrewd observer. She said he’s a born actor, which he is. She said he was ‘crazily’—her word—in love with my mother.”
Drake shrugged. “Okay, I can accept that. Lots of men fall for fascinating women. But it would have been a look-not-touch situation.”
“I’m certain my mother hardly noticed him.”
His look was somber. “Given that all the action was elsewhere.”
“What tangled lives we’ve led,” Nicole observed.
“It had a lot to do with sex-charged people being under the same roof. Virtually living in isolation for most of the time,” Drake said. “That sort of intimacy can be suffocating. So we have a hotbed of intrigue. Alan was never in love with his wife. I think we all know why he married her. Siggy was left feeling unloved and unfulfilled. Corrinne had two men madly in love with her—”
“Three, if Dot is correct.”
He grimaced slightly. “Okay, three. Siggy is attracted to the hugely virile Heath. You’ve got a lot of confusion and despair there. Small wonder Joel has problems. Devalued by his grandfather, largely ignored by his father, pressured by his mother… That only left you and Louise, who spoiled the both of you. As for you and Joel—”
“Do you think we should talk about Joel if we want to enjoy ourselves? I told you our relationship is fine.”
“Okay.” He apparently had the sense not to push it.
In the end, after two delicious courses, Nicole couldn’t resist dessert.
“Chocolate, the ultimate aphrodisiac,” Drake joked, then joined Nicole in a slice of a luscious dark-chocolate truffle tart on the sweets trolley.
They lingered over coffee, both conscious of the building sexual tension. “What now?” she asked, aware her voice wasn’t quite steady.
“To your suite, I hope.” He was staring at her intently, his eyes drinking in her face. “I want to feel your body against mine. I want you in bed with me. Anything strange about that?”
Her skin sizzled, yet she shivered. “Sex, excitement, the two of us dressed up for dinner. What’s the real agenda, I wonder?”
“You think I’m after more than your body?” He frowned.
“I know you are. They tell me you’re becoming famous as a strategist.”
“Tell me, what’s my strategy with you? I know you have a vivid imagination.”
She lifted her chin. “So I’ll let it have its head. You could want to take me further into the regions of suffering. You could want revenge for your family—Callista would back you in that. You lock me into a deep relationship, an engagement, then break things off the minute you get Eden. Just like that. Over. It’s been done before.”
His handsome mouth turned down at the corners. “That’s monstrous and cruel. I’d need to hate you to do that.”
“But you don’t love me.” She looked at him levelly.
“Are either of us able to move on to love, Nicole?” he asked quietly.
“Oh, I hope so!” Her tone was intense. “But love might have seized up. In my experience loving is loss. I’ve learned to protect myself for emotional survival.”
“But the desire is there.” He leaned forward and held her wrist. “Neither of us can deny it. I always thought you were brave, Nicole, not scared.”
She looked down at his strong tanned hand on her narrow wrist. Against his skin, hers was the color of milk. “Desire that flares brilliantly has the potential to destroy. We both know that.”
“Maybe we should go together for counseling,” he suggested wryly, releasing her and leaning back.
She had to smile. “I don’t know that I’d argue with that. Another thing I wanted to mention and get your view on. Shelley Logan told me she learned from Brock that Joel had been seeing Dr. Rosendahl.”
Drake’s black eyebrows drew together. “As in doctor, patient?”
“Yes.”
“Why would Joel tell Brock that? They’re not at all friendly. Never have been.”
“Their paths must have crossed. Apparently Joel didn’t mean to divulge the information. It slipped out in the course of what I imagine was a heated conversation.”
“Is there any other kind with Joel?” Drake asked. “Why would he want to see Rosendahl? I thought the man rather frightened him.”
“What did Joel have to be frightened about?” The notion made her feel anxious.
“Nic, darling, why don’t you ask him?” he challenged.
“Maybe I will,” she retorted.
“If it’s true, Joel had to get to Sydney, as Rosendahl practiced there. He must have been feeling especially bad. Despite all his talk about shrinks, he must have thought the good doctor could help him as he helped you. Rosendahl knew the whole story. It’s much like going to a doctor who knows your case history. It makes things easier. Joel could have been living for years with some information he wanted to get off his chest.”
“Like what? Aren’t you forgetting the whole family was grilled for hours by the police?”
“Joel never took the witness stand.”
“He knew nothing,” she protested. “He was only sixteen at the time.”
“He could have lied about someone, something. He could have shoved it all to the back of his mind and thrown away the key. Forgetfulness is just another form of lying.”
“Except he wouldn’t have protected my—”
“Go on, say it.”
She was startled, a little daunted by the darkening look on
his face. “I was going to say it, Drake, if you’d given me the chance. My father, Heath.”
“Finally!” He threw up a hand. “Dot’s opinion—knowing you, you would have asked her—must have carried some weight.”
She gazed out the window to the floodlit promenade. Couples were strolling arm in arm, enjoying the view of the city skyline and the balmy breeze off the river. A City Cat had docked a short distance off, and passengers, mostly young people, disembarked, laughing, chattering, set for a night on the town.
“It doesn’t take much to scratch the surface of our renewed friendship, does it?”
He shrugged. “Keeping to safe subjects is a high-wire act. Both of us fall off. You’re right in a way. Coming together sexually, marvelous as it was, has only complicated things. Our emotions are heightened. I’m not planning on making you unhappy, Nic. Believe me. I care about you. I always have.”
“I wish I believed that.” She smiled a little, but her face was serious.
He reached for her hand again, lean fingers causing her flesh to tingle. “I’m no psychiatrist, but you’re still pretty much mixed up.”
“And you want to rescue me?”
“Maybe I’m the only one who can,” he said.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HE TOOK HER HAND as they walked back to the hotel. The breeze off the river was like black silk. The gardens that lined both sides of the promenade were filled with lush tropical plants, the gorgeous blossoms of the tuberose, the white ginger and gardenia scenting the air so heavily it was almost dripping perfume. Standing tall above the garden beds, the palms whispered sensuously as the wind stroked their long curving fronds.
Headlights beamed at them as they waited to cross the road. His hand shifted to the sensitive flesh of her upper arm, rested near her breast. She felt intoxicated, out of balance, pierced through with sexual urgency.
By the time they reached the hotel—was it minutes or hours? time had dissolved—she felt almost too shaky to walk. For someone who had lived on the outskirts of passion, her lust for him seemed shocking. They didn’t speak at all in the elevator, heads near turned in opposite directions as though they were indifferent to each other. Strangers.
“Have you your entry card?” he asked outside the door of her suite. Who needed a suite? She’d only booked it because of him. Because of the inevitable. Extra privacy. Sleeping together. With the enemy?
It was a miracle they’d got this far. Once inside the door she fell back against it as if she’d walked miles, his strong arms reaching for her, holding her up. He began to kiss her deeply, madly, without pause; all over her face, her mouth, her ears, her neck, hungry nuzzling kisses that had long moaning breaths sighing out of her. He must have worked out in advance the best way to get her out of her dress, not letting it slide to the floor, but moving her with him, so he could drop it gently over a chair.
They hadn’t paused to turn on the lights. The room’s illumination came from the glitter of the city’s towers. Urgency mounting, he lifted her, carrying her from the sitting room to the bedroom, where he let her fall onto the bedcovers already turned back by a maid.
“The more I have, the more I want.” He leaned above her in the semidarkness, his voice harsh with desire.
“You’re good at everything, aren’t you?” she whispered back. “Consummate lover. My knight in shining armor.” The words held the merest flicker of a taunt. Such extremes of feeling were in her: love she felt she needed to cover up, at the same time an underlying resistance; yet she was yearning for him, her blood turned to mercury, allowing him to undress her so slowly, so voluptuously that in the end she was almost thrashing.
He left her naked, defenseless. Sex, even great sex, couldn’t be labeled love.
“My funny Nicole!” He bent to kiss her, tempering the turbulence of his desire with a mocking lightness. “You’re compelled to fight me.”
Light fell on her upturned face. “I might be like my mother. I might bring punishment down on our heads.”
He shuddered involuntarily, also carrying his share of devastating memories. “Nic, for God’s sake, stop!” He stood away from her, deftly stripping off his clothes, totally unselfconscious in his nakedness, his erection rearing.
He was so beautiful to see. So beautiful to touch. Such a man. Nicole let her body take over.
Ungently he rolled her across the bed, stripping off the heavy quilted bedspread and heaving it on the floor.
“Come here to me.” He lay down, pulling her backward into his arms, allowing his rock-hard penis to slip between her legs when he wanted to sink it deep within her.
Not yet, though his veins seemed to be exploding with sparks.
She bent like a willow to him, fitting her supple back and neat buttocks to his torso. With his fingers he began applying increasing amounts of friction to the swollen nipples of her breasts, dark as mulberries against the luminosity of her skin. Excitement spurted, unbearable, panting, excruciatingly exquisite. Her body began to buck, her pelvis lifting upward and outward, following its own will.
A hundred more excitements were to follow. He flipped her this way and that, a master, fully in control of her, his eyes glowing even in the low light.
Her fluttery moans became so agitated they sounded heartbroken to his ears. Wrenched from some secret place deep within her. Somewhere she didn’t want him to see, but prised out of her by passion. He eased back slightly; the need to have her so intense he felt near-insane with frustration.
“You want me? Tell me.”
Her throat was so crowded with cries Nicole was soundless when she wanted to shout yes! He had her legs spread, tonguing her, every curve, every crease, every crevice, savoring texture and taste, until she thought she couldn’t bear more excitement and not expire.
Now she acted on her own. She climbed over his long splendid body, her thighs shutting tight, riding him like a favorite stallion, swaying, flying, letting her tapering fingers with their long polished nails, curl around him, guiding him into the entrance to her womb, glorying in his deep plunge.
He filled her.
This was where she wanted him to be.
Tonight. Tomorrow. Forever.
DRAKE HAD TO RETURN to Kooltar, but Nicole spent several more days in Brisbane attending to unfinished business. Her solicitor’s office was prompt coming up with a number of options for Dot’s retirement home. In the end she and Dot chose a villa with immediate occupancy in Brisbane’s beautiful bayside area. Dot was ecstatic about it, which pleased Nicole. She left her solicitors to complete the sale. They would pick up a generous fee for their time and attention. It was a simple matter to pick out suitable furniture—completed in an afternoon—delivery date to be set by Dot. At least in that direction things were moving.
“You’re an angel,” Dot told her, overcome by her good fortune and Nicole’s generosity.
“I’m not that good. You like it? You really like it?”
“It’s marvelous,” Dot said, far happier than she’d been only days ago.
“I want to make you as comfortable as I can.”
“You’ve done that, love.” They were having coffee at the retirement village’s attractive lakeside restaurant, Dot gazing about with interest. Most of the tables were full of pleasant-looking retirees, with others, couples and singles, wandering the shady paths down by the lake. The whole atmosphere was easy and relaxed. Nicole was sure it wouldn’t take Dot long to make friends.
The business of tracking down Jacob Rosendahl’s widow proved a lot harder. Nicole had met Sonya, a psychiatrist like her late husband, on many occasions. She was a woman of calm inner strength. Sonya would have been devastated by her husband’s senseless death. It took a number of calls—nobody seemed to want to give out information, probably being protective—to finally get the phone number of Sonya Rosendahl’s sister, Mrs. Irene Stellmach. Listening to the area code, Nicole realized Mrs. Stellmach lived in Brisbane. A great piece of luck!
She consulted the p
hone book. Four Stellmachs. None with the initial I. She settled herself on the side of the bed and began pushing buttons. It took three calls to finally get Irene, who sounded extremely wary until it sank in that Nicole was an ex-patient of Dr. Rosendahl’s. Mrs. Rosendahl would know her, Nicole said; she’d been living in the United States and had only recently heard the sad news. She fully expected Irene to say she would pass on the message; instead, she brought her sister to the phone.
“Why don’t you come visit me,” Sonya invited. “We can talk.”
IT WAS SUCH a beautiful day they sat on the stone terrace at the rear of the house with steps leading down to manicured lawns and beautiful tropical gardens. The Stellmachs—he was an eminent surgeon—lived on acreage in the affluent western suburbs. The residence was large, light-filled and beautifully decorated. Clearly, the Stellmachs didn’t want for money, something that was supported by Irene Stellmach’s immaculate appearance. The resemblance between the sisters was marked, though Irene dressed in the height of fashion and Sonya was far less conventional. Arty, people would have called her, with her long skirts and peasant blouses, rather like a costume, long dangly earrings, her naturally blond hair a fuzzy mop, unlike her sister’s classic pageboy. Both sisters had voices like cellos. Both still retained slight Hungarian accents, though they had been in the country forty years.
“There’s something you want to know, Nicole, I can tell.” They had been speaking for well over a half hour, Nicole finding out almost immediately the police had never tracked down the hit-and-run driver. It had been raining. Dusk had been closing in.
“It was Jacob’s time,” Sonya said philosophically. “We can’t evade the call when it comes.”
“Such a tragic waste!” Nicole sighed deeply. “It was Dr. Rosendahl who helped me get on with my life. He was the one who really started me on my painting.”
“And you are already becoming famous.” Sonya smiled.
“Not exactly, but my showings gave me a lot of encouragement.” Nicole paused a moment before she found the courage to ask, “You never ever thought the hit-and-run may not have been an accident?”
