Isabel took a sharp angry breath. ‘Men! You’re all the same; never there for you when you’re needed. If anyone could have persuaded her, you could have. But, on top of being unreliable, most men are as thick as planks!’ And she stormed past Damien and out into the night.
Harriet closed her mouth and blinked several times.
‘Ditto,’ Damien murmured. ‘You wouldn’t change your mind and come, would you, Harriet? If for no other reason than for me to regain some credibility in my aunt’s eyes.’
Harriet hesitated then sighed. ‘I might just put in an appearance. But that’s all,’ she warned.
‘Far be it from me to urge you otherwise,’ he said gravely. ‘No, I wouldn’t dream of persuading you to take part in what you might see as mindless revelry in some way beneath you—or whatever. So, goodnight, Miss Livingstone,’ he added reverently and he too stepped out into the night. He also closed the door.
Harriet discovered herself to be possessed of a burst of anger and she picked up an object to hurl it at the door, only to realise it was the ivory dolphin.
She lowered it to the table, breathing heavily, and she said to Tottie, ‘That was a close call.’
Tottie wagged her tail and went back to sleep.
* * *
By eight o’clock the next evening, Charlie’s party was starting to hum. The lounge had been cleared for dancing, a disco had been set up and the dining room hosted a magnificent buffet and a bar.
Guests from all over the Northern Rivers had descended on Heathcote, some from further afield like the Gold Coast.
Harriet got to know this because Charlie personally came to escort her to the party.
She looked down at herself just before Charlie climbed the stairs to the flat—not that she’d known he was coming. In fact she was grappling with nerves and the desire to find a hole to fall into. She was also hoping she wasn’t over-or underdressed.
She wore a black dress with a loose skirt to just above her knees with white elbow-length sleeves and white panels in the bodice. It was a dress that emphasised the slenderness of her waist. With it she had on a ruby-red chunky necklace, her legs were golden and long and bare and she wore black suede high heels with ankle ties.
Her hair was pulled back into a knot but she’d coaxed some tendrils to frame her face. Her lips were painted a delicious shimmering pink and her eyes were made up with smoky shadow, her lashes just touched with mascara to emphasise their length.
‘Holy Mackerel!’
Charlie stopped dead as he stepped into the flat and took in every detail about Harriet.
‘Oh, boy!’ he said then.
Harriet twisted her hands together. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s not that, it’s the opposite. Poor old Damien; is he in for...well. I hope you know what you’re doing, Harriet.’
‘Doing?’
Charlie blinked and frowned. ‘You didn’t set out to drive him wild?’ He gestured to take her in from the tip of her head to her toes.
Harriet opened her mouth to deny this accusation but she closed it and coloured slightly. ‘I haven’t actually worn it before. Is it too...?’ She didn’t complete the sentence. ‘I can change.’
‘Don’t you dare!’ Charlie looked horrified. ‘So you did set out to drive him wild?’
‘I did not,’ she denied.
‘I wouldn’t mind,’ Charlie offered. ‘I’m on your side.’
‘I...’ Harriet hesitated. ‘He made a remark that cast me in the light of a docile priggish bore. So I thought I’d show him otherwise. But now, if you must know, Charlie, I’m sorry, but I really don’t want to go to your party.’
‘Made a remark, did he?’ Charlie ignored the rest of her statement. ‘He’s done that to me. He has a way of doing it that makes you want to throw things—but what sweet revenge would this be. Come, my lady Harriet.’ He held out his arm.
‘Charlie...Charlie, this is not really me and I’ve changed my mind about...showing him anything.’
‘No, you haven’t,’ Charlie disagreed as he led her to the top of the stairs. ‘You’ve got a slight case of stage fright, that’s all. But I’ll be there!’
* * *
‘So.’
Harriet stood on the terrace, sipping champagne and fanning herself.
There was a moon. There were also flaming braziers in the garden and the music flowing out was of a solid rock beat and loud enough to drown the sound of the surf beyond the garden wall.
‘So,’ she repeated without turning.
‘You don’t mind a dance, Miss Livingstone,’ Damien observed, moving forward to stand beside her.
‘I don’t. At the right time and place,’ she replied. She took another sip of champagne as she registered the fact that he was wearing a tweed jacket over a round-necked shirt, and jeans.
‘I thought you were just going to put in an appearance.’
‘I was. Your brother had other ideas.’ She shrugged.
‘You look—great. Quite unlike your alter ego.’
‘Thank you. I suppose you mean my academic, neurotic—’ she waved a hand ‘—and all the rest of it, side.’
‘Well, certainly the you that looks as if you’ve stepped straight out of Christies or Sotheby’s or a museum.’ He paused then glanced across at her. ‘What would happen if I asked you to dance?’
‘Thank you so much, Damien, but—’ she drained her champagne and put the glass down on the table beside her ‘—I think I’ve done enough partying,’ she finished politely.
Their gazes locked. ‘That’s a pity.’ He raised a dark eyebrow. ‘Still scared and running, Harriet?’
Harriet put a hand to her throat. ‘We’ve been through all this, Damien.’
He shrugged and studied his beer tankard. ‘I don’t think we made allowances for the effects of you looking so gorgeous and seriously sexy, you dancing, your legs on show; no sign of the eternal jeans or leggings you wear. It’s almost as if you’re issuing an invitation, Miss Livingstone.’
A tide of colour poured into Harriet’s cheeks.
He studied it with interest. ‘You are?’
‘No. Oh! Look,’ she said intensely, ‘you persuaded me to come to this party. You then made—talk about an incendiary remark but in quite a different sense—you made my blood boil in anger,’ she emphasised, ‘with your comments about mindless revelry that I would find beneath me.’
‘So you decided to show me a thing or two?’ he hazarded.
‘Yes,’ she said through her teeth. ‘Mind you—’ she hesitated then decided she might as well go for broke ‘—I did intend only to put in an appearance, enjoy myself for a little while then retreat. The music got to me,’ she added.
His lips twitched. ‘I quite understand. The music is getting to me right now, as a matter of fact.’
Harriet narrowed her eyes and concentrated for a moment as she listened to the music, and grimaced.
‘No good for you?’ he queried as she barely restrained herself from moving to the beat.
‘I couldn’t exactly say that...’
‘We could have a “no hands” agreement,’ he suggested. ‘We could just do our own thing,’ he explained.
Harriet eyed him. ‘What a good idea.’ She smiled sweetly then laughed at his expression. ‘It’s OK. I’ll take my chances.’
* * *
It was a phrase that was to haunt her during the rest of that night and the day that followed.
Because the fact of the matter was, she’d danced the rest of the night away with Damien.
She’d rocked and rolled, she’d been quiet and peaceful in his arms. She’d revelled in the feel of his hands on her, in the feel of his body against hers. She’d followed his lead and adapted her steps to his, once with a flourish that had flared her skirt o
ut around her thighs so that she’d grimaced and pushed it down with a tinge of colour in her cheeks.
As she’d danced she’d recalled the last time she’d been in his arms and the intimacy of the way they’d kissed. And she’d wished they were alone as they’d been that day so she could run her fingers through the thick darkness of his hair and slide her hands beneath his jacket and shirt and feel those sleek muscles of his back...
And at the end she’d been wrapped in his arms, barely moving and loving it.
That was when the lights had come on. That was when people had started to leave. That was when she’d come to her senses, when she’d looked up into his eyes, when she’d seen the desire in them.
And when she’d freed herself urgently and fled from him, melting into the crowd of departing guests then running up the stairs to the flat, locking herself in and turning off all the lights.
She’d undressed shakily and thrown her dress onto the floor.
But as she’d climbed under the doona she’d known it was futile and ridiculous to blame a dress. She was the one to blame. She was the one who’d been unable to resist the feel of his arms around her, the one who’d got an incredible rush from matching her body to his as they’d danced. The one who had lost all her inhibitions at the hands of Damien Wyatt when she’d promised herself it was the last thing she would do...
* * *
There was no sign of Damien the next day.
In fact it was a curiously quiet day. Once the after-party clean-up had taken place, it was as if all the Wyatts and everyone else had melted away.
Isabel, at least, had explained that she was going to spend the night with a friend.
Charlie, Harriet assumed, had gone back to his base.
Not that she particularly wanted to face anyone after last night but it somehow added to her mood of doom and gloom to find herself feeling as if she were alone on the planet.
She’d just eaten her dinner when she heard footsteps on the outside stairway, and Damien arrived.
She half got up, sat down again and trembled inwardly at his expression.
Tottie was, of course, delighted to see him.
Harriet stood up again and collected her plate and knife and fork. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what got into me last night.’
‘I didn’t come to conduct a post-mortem into last night.’ He looked at her sardonically. ‘Any idea where Isabel is? She usually leaves a note.’
Harriet explained about the friend.
He looked even more irritated. ‘Did she say which fr—?’
He stopped abruptly as Tottie growled suddenly and then, in a manner of speaking, all hell broke loose.
There was a whoosh of sound and the sky beyond the windows of the flat illuminated briefly in the direction of the house.
‘What the devil...?’ Damien shut his teeth hard then went on, ‘It’s the kitchen. Looks like the cook has finally decided to burn the place down.’
The cook hadn’t—at least not consciously had he decided to burn the place down—but he had got drunk and he had allowed oil in a deep fryer to catch alight as he’d dozed with a bottle of bourbon in his fist.
He still had it—the bourbon bottle in his fist— when Harriet and Damien arrived on the scene as he stared, stupefied, from the relative safety of the vegetable garden, at the flames leaping out of the kitchen windows.
But within moments, or so it seemed, Damien had taken control. He’d rung for the fire brigade, he’d sent Harriet to waken Stan, the stable foreman, who was the only other person on the property, and he’d located several fire extinguishers, hoses and fire blankets. He also took a moment to attempt to send Harriet back upstairs to the flat.
‘No,’ she shouted over the crackling of the flames, ‘I can hold a hose!’
‘Yeah, but I don’t want you tripping and falling over!’
‘Listen to me, Damien Wyatt,’ she yelled at him, ‘it’s only you who makes me do that—look out,’ she screamed as a burning piece of wood fell from a window ledge right next to him.
He leapt away and she grabbed a hose and sprayed the sparks that had fallen on his boots and jeans.
‘All right, listen,’ he said. ‘Be careful; be very careful.’
‘I will, I will,’ she promised fervently.
He stared down at her in the demonic firelight, then hugged her to him, and immediately turned away.
* * *
It was a frenetic scene as they tried to tame the leaping, crackling flames glowing orange against the background of a midnight-blue sky, a scene also of choking smoke pouring from the kitchen and a stifling charred smell.
And by the time the fire brigade arrived Harriet was blackened and soaked to the skin.
‘Don’t.’ Damien loomed up in front of her and removed her hose from her hand. ‘Don’t do any more; you’ve done enough. It’s under control now.’
‘But...’
‘Just do as I tell you, Harriet Livingstone,’ he said and, without further ado, kissed her full on the lips. ‘Be a good girl and go and get cleaned up.’
CHAPTER FIVE
HARRIET WENT, WITH the tips of her fingers pressed to her lips.
And she grimaced at the sight of herself as she went to take her third shower of the day. She dressed in jeans and a track top and concentrated on clearing away her dinner and putting a fresh pot of coffee on to perk.
Sounds of all the activity were starting to scale down as she worked, and finally she heard the fire engine drive away and an almost unnatural silence overtake Heathcote.
Not much later Damien and Tottie turned up, Damien also showered and in clean clothes, a grey track top and khaki cargo pants, and bearing a bottle of brandy.
Harriet reached for glasses. ‘You must be a mind-reader.’
He grimaced. ‘Nothing like a good fire to provoke the need for some Dutch courage.’ He splashed two generous tots into the glasses.
‘How bad is it?’
‘The kitchen—cheers,’ he said and touched his glass to hers, ‘the kitchen will have to be rebuilt. Thankfully, it didn’t go any further.’
‘How’s the cook?’
Damien shook his head. ‘A sodden wreck. Stan’s looking after him. He’s full of remorse and petrified he’s going to lose his job.’
Harriet paused with her glass halfway to her mouth. ‘He expects to keep it after nearly burning the place down?’
Damien shrugged and his lips twisted. ‘According to Isabel, he’s got six kids stashed away in Queensland so I’ll get her to find him a position closer to home.’
Harriet looked surprised.
He looked wry. ‘You didn’t expect that?’
‘Well, no,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’
‘That’s OK. I’m used to being in your bad books or, if not that, then suspected of some kind of dodginess or another.’ He drained some of his brandy. ‘Incidentally, we’re going to have to use this kitchen until we get the house kitchen fixed.’ He looked around.
‘Oh. Of course.’ She got up and poured the coffee and brought it back to the table. ‘I don’t suspect you of dodginess, whatever that means precisely.’ She pushed his mug over to him and sat down with hers.
He drank some more brandy. ‘You obviously suspect me of something, Miss Livingstone.’
Harriet grimaced. ‘I did tell Isabel I thought you were a bit of a control freak.’
‘What brought that on?’
Harriet looked at him askance. ‘The car you insisted I drive.’
‘Oh, that.’ He lounged back and shoved his hands into his pockets.
Harriet studied him. His dark hair was still damp and there were blue shadows on his jaw. He looked perfectly relaxed and not as if he’d just fought a fire. For some reason,
to have him so big and powerful and quite at ease in what she’d come to regard as her home annoyed her. ‘Yes, that,’ she said tartly.
He lifted his shoulders. ‘I wouldn’t be so far off the mark in believing you and your brother’s vehicle were something of a menace on the roads but—’ he sat up ‘—before you take umbrage, just the sight of it annoyed me enormously.’
Harriet stared at him.
‘Does it make me a control freak to provide you with an alternative, though?’ he mused gently. ‘I don’t believe so.’
Harriet continued to stare at him as several things ran through her mind. She’d experienced a maelstrom of emotions due solely to this man. She’d never stopped thinking about Damien Wyatt while he’d been away, even if she had been able to bury it in her subconscious. She’d been physically stirred by him. She’d told him some of her painful history. She’d cooked him dinner—she’d even made him a lemon meringue dessert.
She’d danced with him, ridden with him, been hugged and kissed by him—she could still feel the imprint of his mouth on hers, come to think of it—and her fingers went to her lips involuntarily at the mere thought of it.
Only to see that he was watching her intently.
She snatched her hand away as a tide of pink rose in her cheeks, then threw up her hands in serious frustration. ‘Look,’ she said levelly, ‘because I’m not prepared to jump into bed with you doesn’t mean to say I think you’re dodgy, although it’s just as bad but quite the opposite really.’
He frowned. ‘What does that mean?’
Harriet bit her lip and could have shot herself—if ever she’d voiced an unwise utterance this was it...
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said stiffly.
‘Oh, come on, Harriet,’ he said impatiently, ‘I can take it.’ He looked briefly amused. ‘Spit it out, Miss Livingstone.’
Harriet glared at him. ‘If you must know, I suspect you of being far too good in bed, Mr Wyatt, for any girl’s peace of mind.’
He sobered completely and stared at her narrowly. ‘How, one has to ask,’ he said slowly, ‘did you work that out?’
Her eyes were full of irony. ‘You’re talking to a girl who’s kissed you, remember?’
An Exception to His Rule Page 7
