‘Disagreeable or not,’ her father snapped, ‘you’ll have to deal with him if you want to build that complex.’
‘We’ll see, Dad,’ she said, trying not to sound as rattled as she was suddenly feeling. ‘We’ll see.’
‘I have a feeling there’s more to this than meets the eye. Watch it, daughter. The last thing I want to see is our family name splashed across next week’s headlines in another souped-up scandal!’
CHAPTER TWO
BEN scooped up this week’s copy of the Sunrise Gazette from the floor then kicked the front door shut behind him. He stripped off the wrapping, tossed the rolled paper onto his favourite armchair for later perusal, then strode out into the kitchen to stuff the shrivelled ball of plastic into the bin.
He grimaced as he reached for the whisky bottle which was sitting in readiness on the starkly white kitchen counter. His other hand up-ended the clean glass which sat next to it. Unscrewing the cap on the bottle, he poured himself a well needed measure.
What a day! What a life! Wall to wall bulldust!
He loosened his blue silk tie with a frustrated yank then retrieved a tray of ice from the fridge, plopping several cubes into the straight Scotch. He was scowling as he snatched up the glass.
Strange. He had always thought being a big-city lawyer would make him supremely happy. He’d have money and kudos. People would look up to him and think he was someone. Women would fall at his feet.
Well, he certainly had money. Corporate law paid very well. How else could he have afforded this snazzy unit overlooking Sydney Harbour? Or the sleek black Saab 9000 CD Turbo which occupied one of his two private car spaces in the underground car park, twenty storeys down?
He gulped down a large swallow of liquid tranquilliser, then frowned at his need for it.
A top-flight legal eagle earned more than most doctors these days, and Ben’s six-figure salary satisfied his craving for monetary success. But he hadn’t been basking in too much community admiration lately.
The status of lawyers worldwide had slipped somewhat in the past ten years. In a recent poll, public opinion had had them just above politicians and used-car salesmen. People generally thought of lawyers as shysters and rogues who charged exorbitant fees for services which were often ineffectual and inefficient.
The law firm where Ben worked as a junior partner was actually very effective and efficient, but very, very expensive. The rate per hour for a consultancy alone was exorbitant. Once a client actually hired them, the costs began to soar. Certainly they got results, which perhaps justified the high fees. Ben appreciated the adage that you only got what you paid for. It was the petty but hidden charges which rankled.
When he’d noticed yesterday that they’d started billing clients two dollars for every miserable photocopy, he’d seen red. But when he’d pointed out this questionable charge to one of the senior partners this afternoon, he’d been told curtly and coldly that crusading lawyers worked for Legal Aid, not one of the largest and most successful law firms in Sydney.
‘Maybe working for Legal Aid might not be such a bad idea,’ Ben muttered into his drink, feeling quite dissatisfied with his professional life at that moment.
Admittedly, he could not complain over his private life and his score rate with the opposite sex. There were an incredible number of beautiful women in Sydney who obviously weren’t as discriminating as the public over where or how you earned your money, as long as you drove a great car, dressed in even greater suits and took them to the greatest restaurants.
Over the past few years Ben had dated a steady succession of society beauties and career colleagues, plus the odd sprinkling of unashamedly ambitious gold-diggers. In a weird kind of way he rather preferred these last steely-hearted souls, because he empathised with what drove them to be so accommodating.
Poverty.
Or an aversion to it.
Ben knew about being poor. And he didn’t plan on being poor ever again. Or being without a pretty woman on his arm. It was just a pity his choice of profession hadn’t won him the personal esteem and respect he coveted as well.
‘Still,’ he muttered as he lifted the straight Scotch to his lips once more, ‘two out of three ain’t bad. Stop griping, Ben. Would you rather still be living with Gran back at Sunrise Point? Every time you become disgruntled with your life, think about the life you once had—living with a crotchety old lady on a ramshackle farm, being treated by everyone in town—and at school—as an outsider. And, worst of all, being looked down upon by the one girl you so desperately wanted.’
Amber Hollingsworth...
Ben’s top lip curled as he thought of her—as he still did far too often. What an insufferably spoiled, self-centred little snob she’d been!
But so bloody beautiful. The type of girl boys like him could only dream about. Blonde, of course. With hair down to her waist, legs up to her armpits and perfect, perky breasts which had jiggled tauntingly as she walked along.
And what a walk that had been! A cross between a wanton wiggle and an arrogant strut. That prettily pert nose always up in the air, her slender shoulders well back, her spine straight, but her hips swaying seductively from side to side as those long legs propelled her along.
There hadn’t been a boy in school—or a man in town—who hadn’t stopped to watch Amber Hollingsworth walk by.
Except me, Ben recalled, with the beginnings of a rueful smile.
Oh, he’d watched. But surreptitiously. Sneakily.
He’d never stopped and gawked. He would never have given the bitch the satisfaction.
And she had been a bitch. To him. But only to him.
To all the other boys at school, butter wouldn’t have melted in her mouth. She’d been so sweet to them, flashing that megawatt smile of hers, widening those falsely innocent big blue eyes and fluttering those impossibly long, curling eyelashes.
All he’d got from the first day his gran dropped him off at school, the day after his sixteenth birthday, had been pitying glances, soon followed by scornful comments.
‘Really, Ben. Don’t you own any other clothes?’
‘Really, Ben. I don’t know how they do things down in the city, but up here we wear deodorant.’
‘Really, Ben. Didn’t your mother teach you it’s rude to stare?’
He scowled as he thought of that one time she’d caught him doing just that. Staring at her.
It had been a year or so after the welfare department had sent him to live with his gran. On that particular summer’s day Amber had been lying on the grass under a tree in the school grounds during the lunch-hour. It had been very hot, and she’d undone the top two buttons of her white school blouse. From where Ben had been sitting on a nearby bench he’d been able to see all of her cleavage and most of one of those perfect breasts, inadequately encased in expensive white lace.
Ben had been pretty sure she’d known he was ogling her all along, and had even shifted her body slightly to give him a better view. Finally, when he’d been totally engrossed in drooling over those luscious curves, her head had snapped round to catch him in the act. He hadn’t looked away, as he might usually have done. He’d just kept on staring.
For a split second he could have sworn she’d blushed—although it might have been the thirty-five degrees centigrade warming her cheeks—but then she’d tossed her hair back, lifted her nose and delivered that scathing reproach about his mother and his rude staring.
Ben had hated her from that moment. Hated her and wanted her at the same time. He’d vowed to get even with the high and mighty Miss Amber Hollingsworth if it was the last thing he did.
His