Brett swore.
‘She is the best—at this kind of thing,’ Mike offered.
‘But I believe they had someone else to start with who made a real hash of things, so they called on Ms Hewson and she saved the day, apparently. She and Aria are friends,’ he added.
‘I see.’ Brett drummed his fingers on the desk then looked to have made a decision. ‘Mike, find out all you can about a girl called Holly Harding. She’s Richard Harding’s daughter—the well-known writer—and I believe she’s a journalist herself. Do it now, please.’
Mike stared at his boss for a moment as he tried to tie this in with Mark Wyndham’s wedding.
‘What?’ Brett queried.
‘Nothing,’ Mike said hastily. ‘Just going.’
On Monday afternoon Glenn Shepherd called Holly into his office, and hugged her. ‘You’re such a clever girl,’ he enthused. ‘I might have known I was laying down the gauntlet to you when I mentioned his name, but how on earth did you pull it off? And why keep it such a secret?’ He released her and went back behind his desk.
Holly, looking dazed and confused, sank into a chair across the desk. ‘What are you talking about, Glenn?’
‘Getting an interview with Brett Wyndham, of course. What else?’
Holly stared at him, transfixed, then she cleared her throat. ‘I—wasn’t aware that I had.’
Glenn gestured. ‘Well, there are a few details he wants to sort out with you before he gives his final consent, so I made an appointment for you with him for five-thirty this afternoon.’ He passed a slip of paper to her over the desk. ‘If you’ve got anything on, cancel it. This could be your big break, Holly, and it won’t do us any harm, either. Uh—there may be some travel involved.’
‘Travel?’
‘I’ll let him tell you about it but of course we’d foot the bill where necessary.’
‘Glenn…’ Holly said.
But he interrupted her and stood up. ‘Go get it, girl! And now I’ve got to run.’
At five-twenty that afternoon, Holly glanced at the piece of paper Glenn had given her and frowned. Southbank was a lovely precinct on the Brisbane river, opposite the tall towers of the CBD. It was made up of restaurants, a swimming lagoon and gardens set around the civic theatre and the art gallery. It was not exactly where she would have expected to conduct a business meeting with Brett Wyndham.
Then again, that was the last thing she’d expected to be doing this Monday afternoon, or any afternoon, so why quibble at the venue?
She parked her car, gathered her tote bag and for a moment wished she was dressed more formally. But that would have involved rushing home to change, and anyway, she didn’t want him to think she’d gone to any trouble with her appearance on his behalf, did she?
No, she answered herself, so why even think it?
Because she might have felt more mature, or something like that, if she wasn’t dressed as she usually was for work.
She looked down at her jeans, the pink singlet top she wore under a rather beloved jacket and her brown, short boots. This was the kind of clothes she felt comfortable in when she was traveling, as well as at work.
As for her hair, she’d left it to its own devices that morning and the result was a mass of untamed curls.
There could be little or no resemblance to the girl at the shelter lunch or Holly Golightly, she reasoned, which should be a good thing.
But, she also reasoned, really her clothes and hair were nothing compared to her absolute shock and disbelief at this move Brett Wyndham had made. What was behind it?
She shook her head, locked her car and went to find him.
It took a moment for Brett Wyndham to recognize Holly Harding. He noticed a tall girl in denims and a pink singlet with a leather tote hanging from her shoulder, wandering down the path from the car park. He noted that she looked completely natural, with no make-up, from her wild, fair curls to her boots, as well as looking young and leggy. Then it suddenly dawned on him who she was.
He saw her look around the restaurant terrace—their designated meeting place—and he raised a hand. He thought she hesitated briefly, then she came over.
He stood up and offered her a chair. ‘Good day,’ he murmured as they both sat down. ‘Yet another incarnation of Holly Harding?’
‘This is the real me,’ Holly said dryly, and studied him briefly. He wore a black sweater, olive-canvas trousers and thick-soled black-leather shoes. His short, dark hair was ruffled; while he might have made a perfect Spanish aristocrat a few nights ago, today he looked tough, inscrutable and potentially dangerous.
‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Just a soft one, thank you. I never mix business with pleasure,’ Holly replied.
He ordered a fruit juice for her and beer for himself, ignoring her rather pointed comment. ‘If this is the real you,’ he said, ‘What makes you moonlight as a social butterfly?’
‘My mother. Please don’t make any smart remarks,’ she warned, and explained the situation to him in a nutshell.
‘Very commendable.’ He paused as his beer was served, along with a silver dish of olives and a fruit-laden glass of juice topped by a pink parasol for Holly.
‘But a bit trying at times,’ Holly revealed, allowing her hostilities to lapse for a moment. ‘I think I would have preferred standing on a street corner with a collection box rather than that lunch, but perhaps I shouldn’t say that in deference to your sister.’ She eyed him curiously then stared out over the gardens towards the river. The sun was setting and the quality of light was warm and vivid.
He watched her thoughtfully. ‘Each to his own method, but we seem to have a few things in common.’
‘Not really,’ Holly disagreed, going back to clearly hostile, and turned to look straight at him. ‘Why have you done this?’
He countered with a question, ‘Did you or did you not tell your mother you would love to interview me?’
‘I…’ Holly paused. ‘I told her an interview with you could provide the boost my career needed. I told her that I’d had no idea who you were, but if there’d ever been any chance of an interview I’d blown it.’
‘Only, being a mother, she didn’t believe you,’ he said wryly. ‘Well, it is on, on certain conditions.’
‘So I hear.’ She glanced at him coolly, as if she was highly suspicious of his conditions—which she was. ‘What are they?’
‘I’m a bit pressed for time. I need to be in Cairns—Palm Cove, precisely. I have an important meeting. And I need to be out at Haywire the following day for a few days. It’s the only free time I have before my brother gets married, and anyway—’ he looked at her over the rim of his glass ‘—it will set the scene for you.’
‘You—want me to come to Palm Cove and then on to this Haywire place with you?’ she queried a little jaggedly.
He nodded. ‘Not only am I pressed for time, but logistically it makes sense. The best way to get you to Haywire is for you to fly out there with me from Cairns.’
‘Do I,’ Holly gestured, ‘actually have to see this Haywire place?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
He sat back and shoved his hands into his pockets with a slight frown. ‘That doesn’t sound like a dedicated journalist. Why wouldn’t you want to see it?’
‘Mr Wyndham,’