‘Plenty of ways around that,’ he said, and didn’t bother to hide the mischievous gleam in his eyes. ‘A whole heap of alternatives, as a matter of fact. Anything from quite posh hotels to cosy, intimate little bed and breakfast places tucked away in some astonishingly remote locations.’
‘And no prizes for guessing which you’d choose,’ Saunders replied tartly. ‘Honestly, Ford, don’t you ever give up?’
‘Give up?’ I’ve hardly even begun,’ he replied, then turned his attention to his flying, abandoning the campaign as readily as he’d begun it. Saunders was left to pick up the conversational gauntlet herself or turn her attentions to the speech lying patiently on her lap.
‘If this plane had pontoons, we could even have packed a little tent and some tucker and really gone bush,’ he said after a few moments’ silence, continuing the discussion as if the pause hadn’t existed. ‘Somewhere really remote, where we could—’
‘Oh, stop it! We’re going to Launceston so I can give my speech tonight, if you’ll just let me concentrate on it. And tomorrow we’re flying back; that’s what you said.’
Which it had been. ‘I know your mob is always a bit strapped for cash,’ he’d said on the telephone when making the unexpected offer of a lift to Launceston, and in the process totally ignoring the dark cloud under which they’d parted after drinks with Simon. ‘I have to fly down on business anyway, so if it helps you’re more than welcome to come down with me on the Friday — we’ll be there in heaps of time for you to organise your speech and all — and then we could come back some time Saturday, or whatever.’
Thinking back, Saunders realised she had paid little attention to that word ‘whatever’, which hadn’t seemed important at the time, but now…
Her outburst seemed to have taken Ford by surprise, despite the fact he’d quite deliberately engineered it.
‘Is it the speech that’s got you all spooked?’ he asked with apparent innocence. And, without waiting for a reply, i wouldn’t have thought such a thing would bother you; you should have it down to a fine science by now, considering the way you operate in the office.’
‘The office is one thing; this is quite different — for me, anyway.’
‘You should have picked up a few pointers from your little mate Simon Connelly,’ was the surprising rejoinder. ‘Now, there’s a man who knows about speechmaking. He’s got it down to more than a fine science, more like an art-form.’
The remark caused Saunders to glance up with surprise. Was he being serious in complimenting Simon, or having a shot at him? Or at her? Nothing in Ford’s demeanour suggested one thing or the other; he was just lolling in his seat, flying with casual skill, his attention apparently more on what he was doing than what he was saying.
Saunders studied his profile for a moment, wishing it didn’t have such intense attraction for her, then chose to return to her reading, without paddling the discussion into dangerous waters.
~~~
You think I’m having a go at you, Ford thought, carefully keeping his eyes averted, focusing his attention outside the intimate confines of the aircraft cabin.
Fair enough, I suppose. But I’m not. Not really. That Connelly bloke is one of the good ones, the genuine people. A good man, and obviously a friend of long standing — a valuable and valued friend.
He smiled to himself, careful to keep the smile inside, hidden.
Which didn’t stop me being jealous as hell, at first. The man is frighteningly observant, too. He twigged right off about how I feel about you, dear Saunders, although whether he told you straight or not, I don’t know. But he knew…
The hell of it was, Ford thought, that he had instinctively liked Simon Connelly, even at that first encounter, when his instinctive jealousy had had his insides twisted and his black eyes positively green with the jealousy.
I’m still jealous, but only because you’re so close, only because he knows you and I’m still trying to figure you out. With not the greatest of success, either. You’re a complicated woman, Saunders. Like a great ball of yarn that’s all full of different pieces, with ends hanging out everywhere. I keep feeling that if I could just grab the right one… But which one?
He risked a glance at her, head down as she studied the speech on her knee. Smiled again to himself at the masses of never-quite-tidy hair that only half concealed the long, slender neck. At first glance it was nondescript, could even have been called mousy, but within the rowdy curls were highlights of varied, more vivid colours, colours he wanted to touch, to feel against his lips.
His eyes followed the long, slender fingers as they flexed round her pen, moved along the line of her jeans-clad leg. A woman who could wear anything and look good in it, but thin, he thought, too thin. Still, she probably achieved her rigid diabetes control without medication partly through being so slim. Ford thought of his own reaction at being told he’d been slightly overweight all of his adult life, and had to stifle a chuckle at his self-righteous indignation. He weighed slightly less now. and felt the better for it too, although he’d never admit it to Saunders, or even her dietician.
He looked at Saunders again, then abruptly shifted his attention to flying when she seemed about to catch him observing her. These was plenty of time for that, he thought, before this trip was over.
~~~
Saunders, under the guise of reworking her speech for the evening, was free to wonder yet again about the erratic, tumultuous relationship which was evolving between them.
Not for the first time, she wished she had somehow met Landell outside her professional situation. It seemed to her a quite unnecessary distraction and one which had somehow coloured their entire relationship thus far.
And it shouldn’t, she thought.
To Saunders, her diabetes, while certainly serious enough, was something she seldom consciously thought of or worried about. It existed, it could be managed quite easily and, with a pragmatism granted by her profession and her particular temperament, that had always been sufficient. Until Ford Landell had leapt into the equation, with his philosophical questions and his ability to turn her inside-out with a single touch.
Now she found that the very existence of the medical condition they shared was simply too often a distraction; it crept into the relationship at unpredictable times and circumstances. Like when Ford had rung to ask if she wanted to fly to Tasmania … or after, rather. She had accepted willingly, perhaps too willingly, she now thought. But afterwards she had found it impossible to keep from wondering. There was no reason for him not to be flying, provided he had his condition under proper control and recognised the very tiny risks that might be involved. But did he? Certainly she couldn’t ask, but the question niggled.
As did the questions he’d brought up at that first professional consultation, about how relevant heredity might be in his future relationships. At the time she had thought them so premature as to be hardly relevant, but they had hovered in the back of her mind ever since. And, worse, they had insisted that she view them from her own perspective as well. Before meeting Ford she had seldom so much as considered having children, except in sort of vague generalities. Now she found herself occasionally giving the issue serious thought, and she was concerned at her reactions.
Pregnancy, she knew, always had an element of risk. Diabetes marginally increased the risk factor, but not by any startling degree. The real risk, she thought, was in how prospective parents viewed the problem, or created the problem, in how they viewed the overall situation.
Ford Landell wanted children. He hadn’t come right out and said so, but it was implicit in his attitudes, complicated somewhat by his own orphaned start in life, and now even more so by his having developed diabetes. Was the fact that she, too, had the condition merely a complication? Or something for which ‘merely’ wasn’t an adequate description?
The whole situation ran round and round through her mind like a devilish mouse in a treadmill cage. All exercise and no solution whatsoever, she though
t. Because no solution was possible.
If nothing else, it had given her the topic for her speech tonight. She’d selected the theme and done most of the work before Ford’s offer of a lift, had had grave second thoughts when she realised he might be among her audience, but found herself with neither the time to change topics or, being totally honest, the desire. Once into the subject, she had found it a classic, an issue raised by every client she’d dealt with.
And now here I am, she thought, soaring across Bass Strait in a flying tin can, with the man who’s responsible for the best speech I’ve ever prepared — and I can’t even talk to him about it!
It was a moment later when she suddenly realised she would have to fly back with him too, and that if he attended her speech, she might have no choice but to talk about it.
‘Damn,’ she said, and didn’t realise she had spoken aloud until she heard Ford reply.
If it’s causing you that much worry,’ he said, without looking directly at her, ‘why don’t you try it out on me first?’
‘Try out what?’ she replied, momentarily confused because she had been thinking about what to say to him after the speech, not the speech itself.
‘Your speech, of course. Or isn’t that what you were cursing? If it was my flying abilities, for example, maybe you’d best wait until after we get there; I don’t take criticism very well.’
‘Even if it’s constructive?’ Saunders asked, leaping at this tiny chance to change the subject.
‘Especially if it’s constructive! Constructive criticism is usually just another word for free advice, and you can take it from me that advice is usually worth just about as much as it costs.’
‘So, if I was to try out my speech on you, whatever advice you’d give me wouldn’t be worth anything? Or haven’t you established the price yet?’
‘It wouldn’t be worth a brass razoo. If I were to give you any — either free advice or constructive criticism, that is — which I wouldn’t even presume to do.’ His voice was soft, almost gentle, and he wasn’t looking at her when he spoke, but kept his attention on the job of flying the aircraft. ‘Really, Saunders. How could I offer you advice or criticism on something you know ten times more about than I do?’
‘Well, then, where’s the logic of me trying out the speech on you?’ she demanded. ‘You’re not making much sense, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘All the sense in the world. You haven’t, I’d bet, tried out your speech on an audience of any kind. Which means even you can only guess at how it will sound, how it will flow, which words might be worth changing to improve the cadence, which elements might be swapped round to make it hang together better. You’ve only done it in your head, and that, dear Saunders, isn’t the same thing at all. Your mate Simon would tell you that.’
All of which was true, and she knew it. Because she had been there before and been caught; usually she tried out her infrequent speeches on some innocent staff member, not for the acceptance that automatically followed, but because it gave her the chance for self-criticism. What Ford was suggesting was exactly that, except…
‘But if I went all through the speech now, you wouldn’t be able to come and listen to me do it properly,’ she protested. ‘Assuming, of course, that you were planning to come along tonight…’
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ he replied with a slow grin. ‘Unless, of course, you’d rather I didn’t come?’
‘I … Well … It’s up to you, of course,’ Saunders replied, not really sure how to continue. ‘But I can’t imagine you wanting to hear the entire speech twice.’
Strong fingers reached across the tiny cockpit to touch her forearm. The gesture was meant to be soothing, reassuring, she thought, but in actuality it only stirred her more, as did the words that followed.
‘If it’s as good a speech as I would expect from you, twice won’t hurt a bit,’ he said. ‘And if I get bored, I can always just sit and look at you, can’t I?’
Caught by the teasing expression in his voice, Saunders looked over to catch him looking at her now, his entire attention focused, it seemed, on exploring her face, her hair, her shoulders, her breasts, her entire body, with eyes that smouldered with ill- repressed laughter.
Saunders could not laugh in reply; there was nothing funny about the way her body reacted to Ford’s visual caresses. His touch had sent goose bumps spiralling from wrist to shoulder; she couldn’t help the compulsive shudder that followed, wanted to flinch away from that touch … or into it. Indeed, she must have flinched, because the papers on her lap slid off, to flutter down and land in a muddle around her feet.
‘Now see what you’ve made me do,’ she muttered, leaning forward in a vain attempt to capture the papers, then to pick them up. Only to rear upright again as his fingers lifted to touch the back of her neck, pushing aside the wild mane of hair and sliding along her skin like a whispered kiss.
Saunders’ hand dipped forward, her neck twisting as she writhed beneath that sensual, almost unbearable caress. She felt rather than heard the low moan of pleasure that crept up into her throat, felt also the searing flutter of excitement that flowed from her nape to the very centre of her being, where everything was turning to a whirlpool of sensation.
It was as if she were paralysed, unable to straighten against the light, magic touch of his fingers on her neck. She felt herself leaning forward, submissively, her elbows on her knees and her head bowed to allow his fingers all the freedom they wished.
His voice whispered, but she heard only a soothing, wind-blown sound; no words seemed involved. His hand moved so that his fingers touched behind her ears, gripping lightly but firmly as the fingertips massaged there. Then the massage moved lower, flexing along the length of her neck, easing the tensions she hadn’t even known existed. She felt the magic as he manipulated along her shoulders, first the one and then the other, his fingers strong and yet ever so gentle, ever so magical in their touch.
Saunders remained still, eyes shut, floating magically within the touch of Ford’s massage, even as the two of them and their aircraft floated magically above the frothy waters of Bass Strait. It was as if she were hypnotised; everything around her disappeared; the sound of the aircraft was muted, there was no sensation of movement, or … anything. Just the magic of the fingers stroking, caressing, manipulating her neck. It was as if her bones had turned to water; she had difficulty even maintaining her balance.
Then his hand moved lower, his strong fingers stroking a tune down the nubbins of her spine, a tune in which each note seemed to thrust down into the depths of her, touching nerves she hadn’t even known existed. She sighed, heard herself moan again in the pleasure of it, knew she was beyond all control now, didn’t care.
‘Saunders.’
He said her name, his voice far away, barely audible, but speaking in a tone she had never before heard from him, a tone filled with wanting, needing, a lone as soft as his caresses.
‘Saunders.’
Harsher now. And the caresses of his fingers had halted too. When he spoke her name a third time, she straightened up, tried to respond.
"Saunders? Are you all right?’
All right? She would never again be all right, she thought, but nodded agreement with a neck that seemed to have no muscles in it.
‘I’m fine, really.’
‘I thought for a moment you’d dropped off,’ he said, and it was too soon for her to even to try to meet his eyes. Saunders kept her head down, her eyes averted.
‘I must have been a bit more tense that I would have thought.’ she finally managed to say. Then wondered why, because even the words didn’t make much sense.
‘I don’t think “tense” is exactly the word,’ Ford said, and reached over to place his fingers beneath her chin, lifting her head and forcing her to look at him.
Those eyes! Like deep black pools of iridescent ink, they were. And they spoke to her just as his fingers had, telling her that he knew what she’d been feeli
ng, knew how she had reacted to his touch, to his caresses. He knew!
‘Saunders, I…’ He paused, then, holding back for some reason. But now Saunders knew — was certain — he was about to say what she so desperately needed to hear. He was about to put into the words the emotions and feelings he had been displaying through his caresses.
But the moment was lost; his dark eyes left hers, shifted past her, to where a faint, green-grey smudge of colour was peering through between riffled sea and cotton-wool cloud banks.
‘Flinders Island,’ he said. ‘Not that long now, and you’ll be back on firm ground.’
To which Saunders could easily have replied, “I’ve just come to earth with an almighty thump already, and yet I’m still up here in the air.” But she didn’t. Instead, she swallowed her disappointment and pretended enthusiasm as Ford swung the plane in a sweeping pass over Flinders Island and the rest of the Furneaux Group, then headed south-west on a long curve to Launceston, and the airport south of the city.
Forgotten, apparently, was his suggestion that she try her speech out on him. More important to Saunders, he also seemed to have forgotten whatever he’d been about to say as they had come into sight of land. Instead, he now turned into a sort of tour-guide, relating the various landmarks and scenic attractions as they appeared.
Saunders listened, observed, but only with half a mind. She had shifted into a mental wasteland, not quite in the present but not quite anywhere else either. It seemed her brain was stalled, numbed by the sensations of her emotions—emotions that Ford Landell had somehow taken to the brink and then abandoned there.
He spoke intermittently into the radio, circled the airport at Western Junction, just south of Launceston, eventually landed and drew the aircraft up to a private hangar. Saunders disembarked, took the various baggage he handed out to her, waited patiently and almost unthinkingly while he went to telephone for a taxi. When it arrived, they got in and drove into the city’s southern suburbs, eventually halting before a suburban house on a suburban street that could have been almost anywhere.
An Irresistible Flirtation Page 11
