Oh, my dear, Delia thought. You poor kid. 'Ring Fraser,' she suggested.
'After what you did to his car, it's the least you can do.'
'Would you...?'
'No, Saffron,' Delia said firmly. 'Do as you're told!'
Fraser wasn't in as it transpired, but Flora said she would pass on the message. Saffron put the phone down and looked rather helplessly at Delia. Who said, not without some frustration, 'Home, some supper and bed for you now, Saffron Shaw. Don't argue.'
The next morning, which was the first of the month, saw Saffron changing the window display in her showroom.
She'd pulled down the blind so as not to be visible in her exertions from the pavement, and the new scenario was taking shape. It was a hallway she'd decided to feature this month, with a lacquered French hall table bearing an antique telephone beneath a lovely old Venetian mirror. There was also a pewter bowl of rusty pink and deep blue hydrangeas, white roses and white lilac on the table.
But the highlight of the display was a trompe-l'oeil screen she'd found, featuring a hat stand. It was a wooden stand against a saffron background and it bore, like luscious fruit, straw hats trailing ribbons, raffia hats adorned with flowers, a black bowler hat, a little girl's lacy bonnet, a tartan beret—even an army pith helmet with a brass spike.
At the base of the stand there were shoes and boots, polished riding boots, a tiny pair of welingtons, a frivolous pair of high-heeled sandals and a very oriental pair of slippers with up-turned toes.
She was just standing back to admire the effect when the door opened and Fraser walked in. She dropped the book she had in her hands—a heavy volume of art that she'd been going to put on the hall table—on her toe, yelped, and they both bent to retrieve it at the same time.
'One would almost imagine you were accident-prone, Saffron,' Fraser said, wresting the tome from her oddly nerveless fingers and placing it firmly out of her reach.
She straightened slowly and smoothed the green blouse she wore over her daisy-patterned leggings unnecessarily—an outfit he'd seen her in once before even down to her paint-splashed sand-shoes. Her hair was tied back in a bunch.
He was dressed conservatively in a dark suit, white shirt and a blue and grey polka-dot tie.
'I'm...I'm terribly sorry about your car,' she said miserably. 'I'm sure you must be wondering whether I did it on purpose after what I said, but I didn't. It was...it was the rain, you see. Not only was it very heavy, it was also very noisy.'
He said nothing for a while, just studied her narrowly. Then, abruptly he said, 'Forget about the car. Are you sure you're all right?'
'I'm fine. Honestly!'
'You don't look it.'
Saffron blinked. 'In what way?'
'You look thoroughly washed out if you really want to know—can we go somewhere more private?'
'Thank you!' Saffron said with a toss of her bunched hair and an old-fashioned look. 'Well, I have finished here so, yes, we could go into my office, although, surely it's all been finalised?'
'That's better.' An unamused smile played across his lips. 'You had me worried for a moment. But there is still this.' He withdrew a cheque from his inner jacket pocket.
'Ah. Yes, please, do come in; I'll write you out a receipt.' She led the way.
'By the way,' she said as she got a receipt book out of her drawer, 'this will go into a trust account. And every penny I spend of it will be itemised and documented with receipts from the suppliers so you'll know I haven't been misusing your money.'
'Very businesslike, Miss Shaw,' he commented.
This time it was a fighting little glance she tossed him. 'I thought we were agreed on that if nothing else.'
He chose not to comment this time, but simply put the cheque down in front of her.
She glanced at it, rustled through the receipt book seeking the right page then stopped dead. 'This—' she picked up the cheque and stared at it '—is not what we agreed upon.'
'We didn't agree upon anything, Saffron. You made a—chivalrous—gesture in the matter of your fee, or was it foolhardy? Never mind; I decided not to accept it. It's that simple.' He looked at her impatiently.
'But...'
'No buts, my dear. I got Flora to do some research for me and she is of the opinion that that is what other interior decorators would have charged me, give or take a bit, so that's what you're taking.'
'I...' Saffron bit her lip.
'If you're going to ask me why, I don't choose to be beholden to you, Saffron,' he said softly but with a curiously cutting little look.
'And you think this will wipe the slate clean?' Why she said it she couldn't begin to imagine, but the words just sprang to her lips.
'Don't you?'
She dropped the cheque and rubbed her face.
He waited, and it was as if the air were charged with static electricity. It occurred to Saffron as she tried to marshal her thoughts and defences that there was an unspoken challenge in the air, too, but she couldn't pin it down. All she knew, she decided, was that she'd been right when she'd said once—it seemed like a very long time ago—that it would be a bit of a heartache to love Fraser Ross.
This cold, cutting version of him was indisputable proof of that and the sooner she got it all over and done with surely the hurt would begin to recede?
She swallowed and picked up a pen. A minute later, she tore the receipt out neatly along the perforated line and handed it to him. 'Thank you very much,' she said formally. 'I do consider the slate now wiped.' She stood up.
'I'm also sure you're a very busy man so let's not prolong things unnecessarily.'
'There's just one thing that neither of us may be able to wipe, Saffron,' he said after a long moment.
'What's that?' She looked at him wearily.
'An unplanned pregnancy.'
The words were quiet but they seemed to rebound off the walls. Her heart started to beat heavily, and for a moment it seemed to her as if there were only the two of them in the whole world. It seemed as if those dark eyes of his were boring through to her soul and she was flooded suddenly with exquisite memories of their lovemaking.
Besieged by memories of a different Fraser, memories of them naked in the moonlight, when her slightness against the beautiful proportions of his body, her softness against his strength, had been a revelation and a joy...
'No,' she said barely audibly. 'I... if you really want to know why I bumped into your car yesterday, apart from the rain, I...it...well, I tend to be a bit dithery at this time of the month.'
'So.' He stood up as well. 'Then there's nothing more to say?'
She opened her mouth, for a moment unbearably tempted. But she closed it and shook her head.
'Oh, by the way, don't worry about the Zanzibari doors. I've changed my mind.'
She swallowed. 'If you did really want them I could—'
'As a particular reminder of you? I don't think so.
You were the one who was anxious not to prolong things unnecessarily, anyway. I think you were right. We'll make this a last, clean cut in other words.' He smiled dryly.
'Why not?' she said very quietly.
'Then goodbye, Saffron. May your business—prosper.'
'And yours, Fraser.' She turned away. She heard him leave.
It was raining again as she lay on her couch that evening, listening to Mozart. Driving rain that slanted against the windows and drummed on the ground.
She'd changed into pyjamas and her green robe, eaten a meal—and couldn't remember when she'd felt more tired, lonely and desolate. Had he known? she wondered, reliving once again that piercing moment when the rest of the world had been cut off...at the thought of his child.
The strange part about it was that it had only occurred to her after they'd parted in this very room the night he'd driven down from Brisbane. It had crept into her mind like a seedling breaking the surface of hard ground then clung with an amazing tenacity.
Why? she'd asked herself torturedly. Why
would you want the child of a man who doesn't love you? You of all people. This is against all expectations, Saffron, she'd told herself. You're not really—hoping? You couldn't be!
But the plain fact of it had been that she couldn't get the idea out of her mind, and the reason why she couldn't had shaken her to the core. That was how special their lovemaking had been to her. That was how special Fraser Ross would always be to her.
She could hate the fact that he might be cynical and disenchanted, she could query and rail against her own often disastrous impulses and nature that would make her the most unsuitable wife for him, but she couldn't hate the man.
She brushed away a stray tear with her sleeve because of course that little, incredible hope had been no more than that—just wishful thinking. But it was the knowledge of how unexpectedly and deeply it had affected her that had held her silent this morning. When she had been on the verge of offering to be his mistress—anything to turn the hard, cold man in front of her back to her memories of him, and them.
What was he doing now? she wondered sadly, pillowing her head on her arms. What would he do in the future? Marry a suitable wife, a pliable wife, a wife who would enjoy great privilege—so long as she had no career of her own and was content to fit into his life as he saw fit? A wife who would never make the mistake of trying to get too close? Certainly not a girl who was sometimes a hellcat, who spoke her mind but adored going to bed with him...
He couldn't have doubted that, surely?
A girl who—she swallowed and brushed her eyes again—had been mesmerised at the thought of their child. Who couldn't bear to think of him with someone else.
She stared up at the dim ceiling, trying desperately to clear her mind of not only that torment but all her memories of him. All her curiosity about a child of theirs, all her heartbreak. Sleep, creeping up on her at last, was her only release. And she slept the night right through on the couch.
CHAPTER NINE
'WHY on earth do they need them all to be different?' Saffron said savagely, about ten days later.
She'd started work on the guest house project and was contemplating the task of twenty-five bedrooms, all different. 'Don't they realise that even four or five schemes would save them a packet?' she continued to Delia.
'I get the impression it's to be a very classy and different kind of establishment,' Delia murmured.
'I know, stuffed to the brim with antiques, or look-alike antiques,' Saffron muttered darkly. 'Oh, well.' She shrugged. 'It takes all kinds.'
Delia frowned at her bent head. Because normally a project like this would have been an intoxicating challenge for Saffron.
'Why are you looking at me like that?'
Delia started and realised her boss had caught the frown. 'I'm still worried about you,' she admitted.
Saffron grimaced. 'You're very sweet, Delia, but I'll be fine. How's Bernard?'
Delia blushed.
'Like that, eh?' Saffron looked at her impishly then relented. 'I'm very happy for you. Does this mean I'm about to lose you, though?'
'Oh, no. We're not going to rush into anything. I'm not, anyway.'
'So he would like to rush you to the altar?' Saffron asked curiously.
'We haven't even got to the stage of going to bed, but, Saffron, I wanted to ask you something.' Delia paused and took a deep breath. 'You know how we had to postpone sending everything up to Fraser's house for a couple of weeks because of the barge being out of action?'
'Uh-huh.'
'Well, Bernard suggested, with Fraser's approval, that we delay it a little longer so...so we could go up together. He and I.'
Saffron sat back. 'Why not? It sounds lovely. Why don't you take a week?'
'I'm not due for holidays yet,' Delia said uncomfortably.
'Who cares? I don't. Look, do it,' she said warmly. 'I've got weeks of creative work here before we get down to the mad rush of actually assembling it all. I can cope!'
Delia sighed and said with difficulty, 'You're... Thanks so much.'
Two days later, at Delia's suggestion, they closed the shop up and treated themselves to lunch in the village.
'I must say you have some good ideas,' Saffron murmured contentedly as they sat opposite the waterfront and watched the world go by. She drew her gaze to Delia. 'But you're not still worried about me, are you?'
'What makes you say that?'
'You almost twisted my arm to get me here, nice as it's been. I wondered if you were trying to fatten me up, though.'
'I doubt that's possible,' Delia said wryly.
'Take my mind off certain things, then?' Saffron suggested after a moment, and wondered whether it was her imagination that made her think Delia looked suddenly uncomfortable.
'Maybe. You know what we need now? A bit of a walk. Let's go down the jetty.' She stood up.
Saffron grimaced. 'You're full of inspiration and energy, Delia. But I don't—'
'Yes, you do,' Delia said firmly.
'I'm not an invalid, you know,' Saffron said some minutes later as they wandered down between the boats. 'I mean, I appreciate your concern—'
She stopped suddenly and narrowed her eyes. They were opposite a sleek yacht, white with a maroon trim, and its name was painted on the bows— Buccaneer. 'Isn't this...?'
She turned but Delia had disappeared. She frowned then shrugged, assuming that another boat had caught Delia's attention and that she'd wandered along one of the fingers out of sight to get a better look at it. She turned back.
Was this Fraser's Buccaneer? she wondered. And, if so, what was it doing here on the public jetty and not tied up at the house? A little niggle of curiosity possessed her although she tried to fight it. Then she put a hand on the shining timbers of the bow, and walked down the finger alongside it.
'Hello, Saffron,' a quiet voice said above her, and the jetty sank a little as someone leapt lightly down onto its planks—Fraser.
She simply stared at him for a long moment, wondering if she was dreaming. But there seemed no doubt it was Fraser, casually dressed in a yellow T-shirt and khaki shorts with his dark hair windblown. Fraser, taking in her slim lime-green capri pants and matching silk shirt, the double gold-link belt around her waist, her loose hair.
'What—?' Her voice didn't seem to want to work. 'What are you doing here?'
'Come to take you away, Saffron.'
Her eyes widened incredulously. 'You can't be serious...'
'Try me.'
'No, look—'
But he picked her up and carried her aboard with no further ado, and sat her in the cockpit. And she realised, amidst her sheer shock, that the motor was turning over, had been all the time.
'Fraser, you can't do this!' she began as he cast off the one rope that had been holding the boat to the jetty and put the throttle into reverse.
'Don't make a scene, Saffron,' he murmured, looking over his shoulder as he started to reverse the yacht carefully out. 'Or I'll lock you in the cabin.'
'You'll what?''
He looked down at her. 'Isn't that what a good pirate would do?'
Her mouth fell open—something he took advantage of to add, 'Be a good girl and don't talk for a while. Not until I get us out of the marina, anyway.'
'But...but where are we going?'
'Wherever the whim takes me, Saffron.'
'Delia,' she said dazedly as they left the marina behind and slid into the north arm of the Coomera river. 'Delia agreed to this? Connived with you even?'
'She did.' He was standing at the big stainless-steel wheel with his legs braced as the wash of a power boat rocked them. 'She said to tell you that she's able to take care of everything for a while.'
'I don't believe this.' Her eyes were still stunned, and he smiled slightly as he glanced down at her.
'I would if I were you. You always told me I'd make a good pirate.'
'Fraser,' she whispered, 'don't do this. I can't... take any more.'
'It's strange you should say that, Saffron
. Neither, I found, could I.'
'But nothing's changed...'
'Yes, it has. Listen, though, I've got some tricky manoeuvring to do through these channels if we don't want to run aground. Why don't you have a look around?'
It can't be what I hope it is, she told herself as she climbed down into the main cabin. Why am I even agreeing to this suggestion?
What else could you do? she answered herself with irony as she stood at the foot of the companionway and looked around. It was a spacious and comfortable main salon with lovely woodwork and a neat galley. The built-in couches were covered in maroon velour, the carpet was rose-pink and the portholes were genuine polished brass.
She turned and went down another short set of stairs to what turned out to be the aft cabin. A miniature stateroom with a walk-around double bed, it had a masculine flavour—a navy and white fitted and quilted spread, an off-white carpet, more lovely woodwork and brass fittings, all highly polished. But what riveted her attention were the carrier bags on the bed. Elegant bags from Gold Coast shops that she knew well...
She up-ended the first and a yellow bikini slid out with a yellow and white sarong to match. The second yielded some shorts and shirts. The third a lovely summer dress with a long skirt and a halter-neck bodice. Her hands started to shake as she found a package of the cosmetics she used still in their wrappings, a hairbrush, toiletries, even a selection of scrunchies to tie her hair back with...
The last carrier bag revealed underwear and night-wear. All silk or the finest cotton, all beautiful, all a bit more than she could bear. She swung round precipitately, realised the motor had been cut and heard the anchor chain rattle out. Her eyes widened, and she made a sudden decision. They couldn't be far from Sanctuary Cove although she had no idea why they'd stopped. But there were always plenty of boats on the river, it wasn't that wide and, anyway, there were plenty of sandbanks...
'Sorry,' Fraser said wryly as she appeared at the top of the companionway,
'but we're going to need a bit more tide to get through here— Saffron! You idiot...'
But the rest of his words were drowned, literally, as she glanced around swiftly, chose a spot, kicked her shoes off and dived neatly over the side of the Buccaneer.
Wildcat Wife Page 13
