“Bloody oath, Colorado, you don’t do things by halves, do you? I suppose it never occurred to you that you could get Geoffrey’s attention without going to these extremes.”
“It was a desperate ploy,” she said, striving for humor and wondering if she sounded as mirthless as she felt. “I can't write the words 'Dammit, Geoff, focus on me' while I'm editing our book. Even if I could, it wouldn't be as effective as looking like a cooked lobster and puking my guts out in the loo.”
“Or is that part of the plan?” Ida said, ignoring Bess's attempt at wit, and her sour mood. “Get him in a situation where he can touch you, but only under very specific circumstances? On the other hand, you’re not going to be feeling terribly romantic for a fair old while, or at least not in any position to do much about it.”
Which finally drew a grin from Bess, who had wakened feeling as if her skin had turned to some brittle form of armor. Who had clambered from the bed with all the alacrity of a geriatric tortoise. Who had staggered into the bathroom to throw water into a face that stared back at her from pain-filled, haunted eyes. Truthfully, she had only fragmented memories of the evening before, of Geoff’s hands manipulating her body, manipulating sunburn lotion into places she could hardly believe he had touched.
Within minutes she was being shepherded upstairs to her room and ordered to get her gear off so a proper inspection could be made of the damage, and so direct and casual was Ida about issuing the orders that Bess never so much as thought to argue.
“Ooooh,” said Ida when Bess slipped off the silky wrap which had been all she could bear to put against her skin this morning. “Ooooh, darling, normally you’d get no sympathy from me for self-inflicted wounds, but I've been there myself and I know only too well how you feel. Happily, I also have a magic remedy that will make it at least bearable, I hope. But first, I think, a quick bath. Okay? You wouldn’t be able to stand a shower, so it’s back to the tub. I’ll slip down and get another cup of coffee. Shout for me when you’re done and I’ll smooth some of this stuff on the parts you can’t reach. Of course, Geoffrey will have to continue the treatment over the next few days. Not that I expect you’ll mind, but after what you put him through last night I think the poor, brave lad needs a day to recover.”
Feeling like a scalded cat again, Bess ran a tepid bath, but stayed in it only long enough to very gently wash away whatever potion Geoff had applied the night before and cool herself down in the process. Then she shouted for Ida, who bounded up the stairs with a huge, unidentifiable bottle in her hand.
“Don’t ask me what this is, Colorado, because I don’t know, don’t want to know, and wouldn’t tell you if I did know because I’d be too busy trying to get the patent rights. Now, assume the position, as they say in all the best cop shows, or lie down. And don’t fret. I’ll let you do your own front, just like I assume Geoffrey did last night. The difference is that I won’t mind.”
Whatever was in the potion, Bess could feel the effects almost immediately.
Then, rising and twisting her face to one side, she could see that the angry crimson color had faded from the backs of her legs.
“Right,” said Ida. “The rest is up to you. And when you’re done, I suggest you put on something that’s pure cotton. That silky stuff may feel cool, but it isn’t. I’ll go boil the jug again, although you really ought to stick to water for a day or so.”
“Water? My God, Ida, Geoff was right about you. You really are a woman of stone. Keeping me from my caffeine is about as mean a thing as I can imagine.”
“On your head be it. Speaking of which, how is your head this morning? You seem okay to me, but are you dead set positive you didn’t get a touch of sunstroke along with the rest?”
Bess shook her head, and immediately regretted it because it sent the ends of her hair flying across her shoulders like a cat’o’nine tails, each individual hair whipping the sunburn with a signature of its own.
When she returned to the kitchen, she found that Ida had eaten all the bacon and half the eggs. Nor was she looking one whit guilty about it.
“Liquids, all you can manage for the next few days,” she said. “Send the boy out for some of those liquid breakfast things that athletes advertise and lazy buggers actually drink. Lots of good stuff in them, even if they don’t give you enough bulk. I’d advise meusli for that, instead of this decadent rubbish. I cannot imagine what Geoffrey was thinking of, but he’s only a boy, after all.”
To which Bess had to grin. Despite her knowledge to the contrary, Ida seemed more like a mother than a former or current lover. Rocky... woman of stone... user and abuser... all probably true in their way, and yet Bess found her almost a soul mate, without understanding why.
Geoff stayed in his office even after Ida had gone, and it wasn’t until lunch time that he emerged, declaring himself to be starving and wondering if Bess dared brave the world outside because he’d already cooked once that day and wasn’t in the mood to do any more chef a cuisine.
“Especially for someone who won’t even eat it,” he added, softening the complaint with a slow smile. Then he glanced at his watch and muttered a curse.
“Are you late for another business meeting?” Bess knew she shouldn't ask, but her mouth seemed to have become unhinged. “Just what exactly do you do at all those meetings?”
“Earn a living, my dear child.”
“Yes, okay, but how?” A sudden thought occurred. Inside the seafood restaurant Ida had mentioned something about gangsters from the Big Smoke, and laundering money. Could Geoff be involved in drug trafficking? What kind of drugs? On all the best cop shows, as Ida would say, the drug of choice seemed to be angel dust, or heroin, or ecstasy, or... damn, she was letting her imagination run away with her. And yet Geoff still hadn't answered her question.
“With all due respect,” he finally said, “my business interests wouldn't concern you.”
“Au contraire, Barrett. I was once personal secretary to a ruthless business tycoon. In fact, he's called War...” She paused to cough behind her hand, once again reminding herself that she didn't want to talk about her father. “Warhorse, that's what he's called. Because he dabbles in politics,” she finished lamely.
“My, my, waitress and personal-tycoon scribe. What haven't you done?”
“I haven't played professional assassin for a crime syndicate, at least not yet. However, if they put out a contract on a certain smug Aussie, I might reconsider. Honestly, Geoff, did you think I evolved from my mother's womb a full-fledged romance author? Now, please tell me why you were cursing at your poor watch.”
He thrust the undoubtedly offensive object under her nose, but all she could see were numbers and a date and the fact that his arm was beautifully bronzed. Sure, she thought, he bronzed while she scalded.
“Isn't it working?” she asked, guessing that his ire had been directed toward a defective product, knowing how he felt because she had several Mickey Mouse watches that were inoperable. In fact, Mickey seemed to die the day his warranty ran out. She'd tried Minnie Mouse because women tended to live longer than men, but Minnie had only ticked for two additional weeks, following her warranty date.
“It's working all too well,” Geoff said. “Look at the bloody date! We have to go and we have to go now. The Deloraine Craft Fair is on this weekend. It’s the finest craft fair in Australia, probably in the southern hemisphere.”
“But...”
“No buts about it. You may be one of the walking wounded, but you simply can't miss this. And if we wait until tomorrow they’ll be starting to pack up and all the best stuff will be sold. Damn, we should have gone on Friday, but I forgot about it entirely. And yesterday we had to watch Lady mess up at the dog trials.”
He insisted she looked perfectly fine as she was, in a light cotton blouse and turquoise harem slacks, studded down the sides with fake jewels. The turquoise shade highlighted her eyes, he said, while the fake rubies paid tribute to her sunburn. Bess contemplated a career as profess
ional assassin again, especially when she flinched at the task of sliding her feet into sandals and heard him laugh.
Less than an hour later they were parking amongst hundreds of other vehicles outside the community sports complex at Deloraine, a small community to the west of Launceston. Here, each year, the local service clubs combined to stage what had, according to Geoff, become the major craft fair in Tasmania, if not the entire country.
“And the really good part of it is how they organize things,” he had explained as they drove. “You pay at whatever venue you can find parking near, and then go from venue to venue on a free bus service, getting off when and where you like, picking up the bus again when you’re ready. I usually walk most of the way; it isn’t that big a town, after all. But today we’ll use the bus because the less you see of the sun the better, I expect.”
And he made sure she saw as little of it as possible, not least by insisting on spending what was, to Bess, an outrageous price for a hand-painted pure silk parasol, displayed at the first exhibits venue they approached. It matched her eyes exactly, and set off the clothes she had on to absolute perfection. That was Geoff’s excuse for buying it, and he refused to be dissuaded.
Bess accepted under protest, but not too much protest, because she had fallen in love with it at first sight herself. Besides, it gave her something to do with her free hand while the other held the purse she dared not rest by its strap on either shoulder. The alternative had been to find, as she had in City Park, that Geoff just naturally took her hand whenever the opportunity arose, and the effect it had upon her was discomfiting.
Geoff put up with this state of affairs for a while without comment or any attitude that suggested he didn’t appreciate the shield he had, himself, provided, then got round it by carrying the parasol whenever it wasn’t needed. Bess was outwardly wary but secretly pleased, and hid her own smiles of pleasure each time her small hand disappeared into the grip of his much larger one.
They spent the entire afternoon wandering the various venues, discovering a vast similarity of taste as they viewed woodwork and wood carving, paintings and pottery, and a variety of other crafts that ranged through the entire spectrum of creativity. Their only disagreement, in fact, rose from Geoff’s insistence that he would buy her something to remember Tasmania by, something uniquely Tasmanian and unique in and of itself. Which to Bess’s eye meant only one thing…expensive. And this she was determined to avoid. The parasol alone was too much in her eyes. She also silently confessed that she didn’t want something to remember Tasmania by, since that would be an admission that this was, after all, merely a working holiday that would all too soon come to an end.
Her three-month visitor’s visa meant that she must return to Colorado, but it was a prospect she didn’t want to face up to or even think about until time forced that upon her. And her apprehension was not eased by the fact that Geoff wanted to buy a piece of jewelry and kept insisting she try on rings. He avoided the inevitable junk jewelry stalls, and seemed to know with instinctive certainty which were exhibits by good local crafts people. He also knew, she quickly found, what he liked and what he didn’t.
The only saving grace was that he appeared to be in no great hurry about buying anything. They wandered through every venue, some fifteen or sixteen in all, Geoff taking his time and, Bess suddenly realized, protecting her from undue bumps and scrapes when they were negotiating the crowds. He used his own bulk to ensure – or at least try to – that nobody pushed against her in the crush at some of the most popular exhibits, and especially when they walked along the seriously crowded streets.
And he held her hand whenever it could be managed. And she loved it, though she dared not show it, much less tell him so. There was such a feeling of security, or being wanted, in the way he seemed to gather her into his own aura. At one point, as emotions overwhelmed her, she had to excuse herself and visit the loo, just so she could release a tear or three.
He fed her. There was nothing all that fancy to be had at the various venues, but, remembering Ida's advice, she drank great quantities of herbal tea and feasted on ice cream and a variety of fancy Tasmanian-made chocolates; so many sweet goodies that she was glad in the end to have missed breakfast.
Geoff ate hot dogs. Gleefully, he told Bess he had driven to Deloraine before dawn so that he could sell his perfidious Lady to the vender.
Eventually, however, they had exhausted the exhibitions and Bess herself, without any decision being made about her Tasmanian keepsake, and she professed her exhaustion in hopes she could replace Geoff’s insistence with concern for her tiredness.
They returned to the Land Cruiser, which had been sitting in the hot sun long enough to demand that the air conditioning be turned on immediately, and Geoff was in fact backing out his parking space when he muttered something to himself, drove back in again, and told Bess he had forgotten one thing he’d promised himself to buy.
“You stay here where it’s relatively cool,” he said. “I won’t be long at all, because what I want is just inside the main pavilion.” And he was gone before she had any chance to agree, disagree, or argue.
He told the truth, because he was back in what seemed only a very few minutes, clutching several large bottles, gaily wrapped, with stickers declaring them to be from the Lark Distillery. Bess remembered seeing the exhibit, and timidly tongue-tasting some of the exquisite bush liqueurs sold there.
“Can’t go home without this stuff,” Geoff explained. “I try to get some here every year, and from the distillery in Kingston, south of Hobart, whenever I run out. Absolutely splendid liqueurs, although in your condition you won’t be finding that out for a bit. All you need is an overdose of grog on top of that sunburn.”
“You’re a spoilsport,” she retorted, despite knowing he was right. Truth to tell, she wasn’t much of a drinker in the first place, and could just imagine the effect a combination of liqueur and sunburn would have on her.
She was almost asleep in her seat when they finally got home, and more than glad there was no need to go out for dinner, or even cook up something. Half an hour later she was sprawled across her bed within three warm thoughts of being asleep, when Geoff’s brisk knock at the door brought her bolt upright.
“You can argue until you’re blue in the face, Bess, but I am going renew your sunburn medicine if I have to sit on you to do it, so make up your mind how you want it done,” he said when she attempted to stave off an experience she both feared and desired.
But this time Geoff’s application of Ida’s special remedy was vastly different from Bess’s fragmented memories of the night before. Now his movements were almost brusque. His touch was as sure and indeed as gentle, but the attitude behind that touch had changed. He smeared the oily lotion across her back, even undid her bra strap to make it easier, but there was no sense of that wondrous, lethargic caress she thought she remembered. His hands on her legs were gentle, but they didn’t linger near her crotch, didn’t alter the pattern of their touch when they reached the hem of her panties.
His hands returned then to her back and shoulders, rubbing in excess vestiges of the oil, and suddenly she could feel the change, could feel it as surely as if his fingers were shooting sparks. His hands moved upward, cradling the nape of her neck, fingers gentle as a kiss along the soft and bony areas behind her ears.
Lying with her face half-turned toward the side of the bed where Geoff was kneeling, she felt her very bones go limp, felt again that strange softening in her tummy. And without thinking, half-opened her eyes to see that whatever was happening to Geoff, it didn’t involve softness in the part of him she could see only too clearly. His groin throbbed, the fabric of his trousers straining against the evidence of his thoughts. And even as she saw that, she felt his touch begin to alter yet again, felt his fingers tremble as they moved away from her neck, back to her shoulders.
She heard him sigh, breathe deeply, then push himself back into control. Felt that control re-enter his fingers. Hear
d him sigh again as he lifted his hands from her, lifted himself from the edge of the bed.
“I’ll leave you to deal with the rest,” he said, and if there was really a tremble in his voice it was hidden in the terse way he spoke. “And thank you for coming with me today. It was a wonderful time made even better because of your company.”
She barely got out her own words of compliment about the afternoon before he was gone, the door closing silently behind him. No warning this time about making sure she applied lotion to her front, no promise of breakfast in the morning.
Just... gone. Except, he wasn’t. His touch was still with her, lodged in her mind like a splinter.
She applied the lotion carefully and thoroughly, despite being so tired now she could barely keep her eyes open. Then she collapsed again on the bed and didn’t wake until sunlight through the window brought her slowly up out of sleep, slowly up out of a dream she couldn’t remember upon waking, but was certain had been exotic, erotic, and thoroughly pleasant.
When she joined Geoff in the kitchen, things were just as they had been several days before. He informed her it was her turn to prepare breakfast, which they both considered the only meal she was capable of cooking, and that only if it was cereal drowned in milk. He poured her coffee for her, made the usual small-talk over the morning Examiner and the news therein, then asked politely if she felt well enough to join him in the office so they could work on the book together.
“I’ll just toss in a load of laundry and be right with you,” she replied, and when she entered the office some few minutes later he was already staring at the computer screen, his fingers flying across the keyboard.
She slid into her own chair, then rolled herself so she could look over Geoff’s right shoulder and watch his words as they emerged on the screen. It always seemed a magical process to her, even when the words were her own, but doubly so, for some reason, when they were his. He was a furious typist, often making errors and muttering insane and profane things when he had to go back and fix them.
Finding Bess Page 15
