CYCLONE SEASON
by
VICTORIA GORDON
© Victoria Gordon 1985
CHAPTER ONE
THE sound of the Kalgoorlie flight being announced was, Holly thought, the most marvellous sound she’d heard in years.
‘That’s it for me then; I’m off,’ said her companion, tossing back the remains of a double Scotch as if it were merely water and rising in a welter of luggage to balance precariously on three-inch heels.
‘You take care of yourself up north,’ said the departing figure. ‘And good luck with your engineering type. I hope you take him for a bundle.’
‘Oh, I will,’ Holly replied, biting back the urge to sigh with relief until after the svelte, slender blonde had left the Perth airport bar.
Then Holly did sigh, and as much in astonishment as relief Why does this always happen to me, she wondered silently, her ears still ringing with the sound of the blonde’s voice. It was a voice she’d been hearing almost non-stop all the way from London, a pleasant enough voice despite the mildly strident Australian accent, but one Holly fervently wished never to hear again.
While she’d been waiting in Customs, it had been a pleasant mental exercise to calculate that she’d been listening to Amanda’s sordid history of sex and money for more than twenty hours, but she hadn’t, at that point. imagined she’d be in for yet another hour of it.
She’d emerged from Customs to find her own ongoing arrangements completely up in the air and a harassed airline person who could do no more than advise her to wait. The slender blonde had leapt in immediately to drag Holly off to the airport bar. Once there, Holly had been subjected to a quite astonishing lecture on the myriad ways to separate men from their money, their savings, their wives and anything else they possessed.
Too tired and jet-weary to argue, Holly had meekly accepted this continuation of what Amanda had been saying throughout their long journey. In the beginning, she’d sought to stave off the entire conversation by clarifying her own position. She wasn’t going to Australia to find a man, not even a rich one. She was merely going on holiday, to see her Aunt Jessica, who was housekeeper to a man who was some sort of mining engineer. From Perth, she’d be flying on northward to Port Hedland;
It was the wrong thing to say. Amanda, it seemed, had ‘worked’ Port Hedland a few years earlier, and she insisted upon dissecting her experiences in vivid detail for Holly’s benefit. By the time they reached Perth, Holly had been informed in equally vivid terms about Amanda’s similar exploits in the opal fields and various other remote mining areas, not only in Australia but overseas as well.
And it was all true! Holly knew that; people didn’t lie to Holly. They never had. It was, she thought, due to some strange quirk of her personality, probably the same one that made perfect strangers so eager to relate their life stories to her at the slightest opportunity. The fact that she found it impossible to be rude to anyone didn’t help. No matter how much her inner demons would scream at her to call Amanda a gold-digging bitch, which by the blonde’s own admission was putting it mildly, Holly found it just couldn’t be done.
Amanda wasn’t the first, but she was, Holly told herself silently, infinitely the worst. During their hour in the airport bar, she bombarded Holly with instructions on every possible way to use her sexual attractions to financial advantage, prattling on eagerly in blissful ignorance of the fact that Holly wasn’t that kind of girl, didn’t want to be, and never would be.
‘With your looks, you’ll knock ‘em dead,’ the blonde had said. ‘That hair ... ‘and those marvellous eyes ... and that figure. Wow!’
It might even be true, to a point, although Holly doubted if she looked anywhere near her personal best after more than two days of airplanes and airports and more airplanes. Her mane of dark auburn hair seemed to hang against the slender curve of her neck like something that didn’t really belong to her. Her dove-grey eyes felt like they’d been through a desert sandstorm and the part of that figure she was most aware of was the numb part on which she sat.
Her mind was equally numb. Even her training as a social worker, training never used because an unexpectedly successful acting career had somehow got in the way, hadn’t really prepared Holly for the reality of Amanda, and she found herself struggling through a fog of sheer disbelief for moments after the blonde’s departure.
Staring into the remains of the drink she hadn’t even really wanted. Holly forced herself to breathe slowly, deeply, as if by that action alone she could fend off the travel weariness that crept through her slender body. When she finally raised her eyes, idly scanning the room around her, it was to find her glance immediately intercepted by the tall, masculine figure at the next table.
Holly met the glance squarely, allowing her features to reveal neither encouragement nor interest. It wasn’t unusual for her to be the subject of masculine attention; she’d found that her refreshing, tidy attractiveness had drawn appreciative glances from men ever since she’d been in her mid-teens, and she’d had sufficient time to get used to it by her twenty-sixth birthday.
Except ... this man’s glance wasn’t, she thought, what could really he termed appreciative. Neutral, even perhaps a shade hostile, she thought, wrenching her eyes away as he rose lithely to his feet.
Oh, no, she thought. The absolute last thing she needed now was to have the problems of discouraging some casual admirer. Amanda, Holly thought, was surely enough to put up with during a single day. Then there was no more time to think; the man was standing over her, a looming, almost predatory figure with a voice to match.
And handsome, although certainly not in any conventional way. There was nothing about him that could be termed anything but hard; he was all planes and angles, starting right from the shock of medium-brown hair that slashed carelessly across his brow. Above eyes like frozen green sea ice were thick, almost beetling brows; below them a nose that looked as if it had been broken and improperly set. His mouth was a line of hardness across a face tanned to the colour of mahogany, and his chin looked as if it had been cleft with an axe.
‘It is Holly Grange?’ His voice rumbled, burbling up from the broad chest with a curiously ragged resonance. He sounded just like he looked, Holly thought as she managed a curt nod to acknowledge the question.
How could he know her name, she wondered, her mind racing backwards to recall that he’d entered the lounge only moments after she and Amanda, that he must surely have overheard their conversation. Or, rather, Amanda’s tedious monologue. But her name? Holly was still struggling to recall if that might have been mentioned when the voice broke through to claim her attention once more.
‘I thought so, although I must say your photographs don’t do you justice,’ the stranger said, and Holly’s eyes widened in cautious surprise.
‘Thank you ... I think,’ she replied. ‘But you have the advantage of me, Mr ...’
‘Bannister.’ He dropped the word explosively. "Wade Bannister.’ But it was what followed, adding to the numbing shock that this was her aunt’s employer, her host while she was in Australia, that made Holly’s clear, fresh complexion blanch white with shock.
‘I am, I believe, the engineering type you’re planning to take for a bundle,’ Wade Bannister growled, and nothing in the set of his jaw or those icy eyes suggested he found the idea in the slightest way amusing.
Holly swayed, and although she was in no danger of falling from her seat, a massive bronzed hand shot out to catch at her shoulder and steady her. She was held in that grip only for an instant, just long enough to feel as if she were a quail in a bird-dog’s mouth, long enough to feel the curious mixture of strength and gentleness. But once she’d steadied, he released her, and that gesture was clearly the type reserved fo
r when one had unexpectedly picked up something distasteful.
‘I’d have met you when you got off the plane,’ he was saying, voice rumbling through her shock, ‘but I was delayed slightly on a business matter ... when I saw you were otherwise occupied, I ...’
‘Just thought you’d sit around and eavesdrop a bit,’ she interjected sarcastically, the words dripping like acid from her tongue, but nothing compared to the acid that assaulted her pride. What must he have thought? Then, with Amanda’s lecture echoing larger-than-life in her ears, Holly knew!
‘Oh, my God,’ she sighed, ‘Oh, but ... but ... No. I know what you must think, and I certainly can’t blame you for it, but you’re wrong. Quite wrong.’
‘Whatever you reckon,’ he sighed, and the gesture said far more than the words, to which he then added, ‘but now you’ve got your instructions, I suggest we get moving.’
‘Oh, I do wish you’d at least try to understand,’ Holly muttered as one enormous hand stretched out to heft her suitcase as if it weighed ounces instead of the scarcely acceptable limit allowed by the airlines. ‘And ... where are we going? I have to tell you that my ongoing flight’s been cancelled or something.’
‘Not cancelled, just postponed,’ he growled over his shoulder, not pausing in his stride and clearly expecting Holly to follow him without question.
As they emerged from the terminal into the strong Australian sunlight. Wade Bannister clearly aiming for the car park. Holly suddenly had intense reservations about following him at all. Was he, in fact, her aunt’s employer? How could she know he wasn’t merely some clever con-man, or criminal, or worse? He might very well have garnered her name from the conversation in the bar, or merely read it from the tag on her luggage.
Holly felt the stirrings of mild panic, then quickened her pace, leaning down to grapple for the handle of her suitcase and then leaning back to halt the tall man’s progress.
He stopped, half-turned to face her, those glacial eyes shifting from the suitcase handle they now shared to her own face, now apprehensive, frightened.
‘I ... you ... just where do you think we’re going?’ she stammered. ‘And, well, how do I know you’re who you say you are, even?’
‘Do you really doubt it?’ And he grinned, but there was no warmth in the grin. ‘Still ... perhaps you’ve got a point.’ And he released the suitcase to reach into one breast pocket, the long, strong fingers emerging with a wallet from which he quickly extracted a driver’s licence and then several credit cards, including a bank account identification card with his picture and name clearly exhibited.
‘Satisfied?’ And again that icy, wolfish grin. He’d already picked up the suitcase again when Holly spoke up.
‘No,’ she said adamantly. ‘No, I’m not. I would like to know where we’re going. And why! I was supposed to fly on to Port Hedland in an hour. My Aunt Jessica is expecting me to arrive today and since I can only presume that you have changed my travel arrangements I think it’s only fair that you explain why before we go anywhere together.’
Wade Bannister stood silent a moment, his broad- shouldered figure looming so high above her that he provided a sort of living shade.
‘Look,’ he finally said. ‘You’re tired and you’re suffering from jet-lag. That’s for starters. Maybe you’re even upset at having your game blown before you even got into the field. I shouldn’t be surprised at that, either. But the fact of the matter is that Jessica isn’t expecting you today; she’s expecting you in a few days, after you’ve had a chance to recover from your trip, after I’ve had a chance to show you something of Perth.’
‘But I didn’t come here to see Perth. I came to see Aunt Jessica,’ Holly interrupted.
‘And if it were left to me, I wouldn’t be bothered showing you Perth,’ was the grating reply, implying silently that he’d rather be showing her nothing but the door of a plane straight back to England. ‘But it isn’t up to me; I’m following Jessica’s wishes in this, and damn it, so will you! Now stop arguing and come along, will you? I’ve got better things to do than stand around arguing in an airport parking lot.’
Nor did he wait for her reply, but immediately lifted the suitcase and strode away as if Holly’s objections were only a minor, irrelevant aspect of his mission. Holly followed, having to scamper in her medium- heeled shoes to keep up with his long angry strides.
She was panting when they finally reached a sleek, grey Mercedes, into the boot of which her luggage was already being deposited. Wade Bannister, Holly noticed, was even quite deliberately gentle in the way he handled the luggage, but that attitude didn’t extend to his treatment of Holly herself.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, he leaned over to unlock the passenger door, but made no attempt to help her into the vehicle. Indeed, he hardly waited to see if she could manage the seat belt before sliding the big machine out into the traffic.
He drove in silence and he drove swiftly, easing the car expertly through the highway traffic en route to the city centre, where he eventually drew into the underground parking garage of what was obviously a luxury apartment block.
‘Home again, home again, jiggedy jig,’ he muttered as he turned off the engine, but there was no humour in the remark. Indeed, Holly couldn’t even be certain it had been directed at her. Wade didn’t bother to hand her out of the car, but merely picked up her luggage and stalked off to the building’s entrance, leaving Holly to follow as best she could.
She found him difficult to keep up with, having to almost trot to match his pace, and by the time they’d reached the lifts she was once again short of breath and could feel the perspiration beading at her temples.
Inside the lift, he towered over her, seeming to fill the small compartment with a vital, totally masculine presence of expensive after-shave and sheer bulk. His silence, too, was distinctly overpowering, and Holly found herself stifling a desire to chatter, to somehow break through that wall of silence.
Instead, she contented herself with counting as the lift shot upwards until it stopped at the very top of the building, opening only when Wade brandished a particular key.
Inside, she couldn’t help but gasp at the magnificence of the penthouse flat, which was fitted in fine, dark woods and thick, rich carpets. From the lift, they walked straight into a broad entry way-cum-sitting room in which the taste in decoration was distinctly masculine and yet totally correct.
This, Holly sensed, was Wade Bannister’s personal domain, classically reflecting his personal tastes and style. And what style!
As he escorted her through the massive lounge room and down a hallway with several doors leading off, she realised that this penthouse must take in the entire top floor of the apartment building. It was quite simply the most luxurious accommodation she’d ever seen, so much so that she felt overpowered by the cost factors involved and the power that must be involved in a man who could amass such luxury while still in his early thirties.
‘I gather you’re impressed,’ he said with a sardonic, icy grin. ‘It wouldn’t have been a bad score, would it?’
Holly flinched as if he’d struck her. Damn the man; would he never give her a chance to explain? Never even so much as consider that what he’d overheard was somebody else talking, not Holly herself?
But he gave her no chance to reply, instead continuing to stride through into a large, airy bedroom with connecting bath. He set down her luggage and turned away immediately, only pausing at the doorway.
‘You’ll want a shower and then a rest, I reckon,’ he said with no hint of friendliness in his voice. ‘I’ll call you at seven for dinner; we’ll talk then.’
‘Is there any reason I can’t telephone Aunt Jessica, just to let her know I’ve got this far safely?’ Holly asked, and knew the answer, before he growled out his reply.
‘After we’ve talked,’ he said, and was gone from the room, moving like some great cat, silent on the thick carpet.
Holly stood for a moment, looking at the now-closed door,
then shook her head angrily. Autocratic, arrogant bastard, she thought. How dare he treat her like this on the basis of a conversation he didn’t understand and didn’t choose to even try to understand?
Snatching up her handbag, she flung herself into the hallway and marched swiftly through the flat, her head high and her eyes searching until she eventually found him sprawled in a huge leather chair in the lounge, his suit coat now discarded along with his tie, and a mass of curling dark hair sprouting from the open neck of his whiter-than-white shirt.
‘I want to telephone Aunt Jessica and I want to do it now!’ Holly proclaimed.
Eyes like green ice raised up from the magazine he’d been holding, surveyed her briefly, contemptuously, she thought, then returned to the magazine.
Holly’s anger was fanned by the intentional slur, and she didn’t have auburn hair for nothing, despite a lifetime of study on ways to keep one’s temper.
‘Damn you!’ she cried. ‘Don’t you dare treat me as if I didn’t exist. I do exist; I’m here and you’re going to listen to me whether you like it or not.’
‘I thought you were going to have a nap.’ The voice was low now, still gravelly and vibrant, but — or did she imagine it — less hostile than before.
‘After I phone Aunt Jessica,’ Holly replied, standing her ground. ‘Or is that so much to ask? Surely she might be just a bit worried to know about my arrival.’
‘She knows there’s no problem. I’d have already phoned her if there was.’ His voice was deceptively mild, but Holly knew also that he was lying. This man wouldn’t have telephoned her aunt to report a problem — not until it was solved, and therefore no longer relevant.
‘She would expect me to phone,’ Holly insisted, only to have her argument immediately deflated by his reply.
‘I didn’t notice you rushing off to phone her when you’d cleared Customs,’ he said, scathingly. ‘But of course then you’d have had to use your own money. Or phoned collect.’
Cyclone Season Page 1
