“You didn’t want me to try and save you?” He studied her face intently.
She glanced away. Wherever his eyes touched her she felt little jolts of electricity. Even when he took his dark eyes from her, she still felt the after-shocks. “I’d much prefer it if we saved ourselves,” she said, in an agony of helplessness, hopelessness—and, it had to be admitted, burning resentment.
“Well, let it go for the moment,” Guy advised. “You’re right on the edge. So, for that matter, am I.”
“Never! Not Guy Radcliffe?”
“You don’t even know me.”
“Yes, well, I know as much as is safe to know. Ah—here comes the champagne.”
“Two glasses and I’ll take you back to your hotel. I’d like you to have dinner with me tonight.”
Her heart almost leapt into her mouth. “You can’t be serious? I expect Uncle Charles and Vi will have muscled in?”
“I had the pleasure of Charles and your cousins at lunch.”
“If I didn’t know better I’d say you found ‘the pleasure’ quite an ordeal. Has Uncle Charles ever turned the conversation to wedding bells?”
“Nothing so alarming.” A waiter, who bore more than a passing resemblance to a well known English comic, arrived with the bottle of champagne, presenting it for Guy’s inspection like a character in a skit. After a quick glance, Guy nodded.
“Surely you’ve sown your wild oats by now?” Alana asked, after the waiter had waltzed his way back through the tables. Was it possible the comedian really was in town and there was a hidden camera?
“Dinner for two,” Guy said, watching the waiter’s comic progress himself. “Just you and me. I’d much rather listen to you—even if you do like to cross swords.” He lifted his glass. Their flutes clinked. “Loosen up, Alana. There are always some compensations available.”
She took a quick sip. It was delicious. “Believe me, I want to. But I can’t. I’d love to have dinner with you, Guy—not that I’ve got anything halfway decent to wear—but I suddenly feel I’m wanted at home.” She spoke with such urgency she might actually have received a phone call. “Kieran did ring Dad to let him know how things went. Dad’s been good for weeks, but I fear he won’t be able to handle this. He’ll start drinking again.” She sought understanding in his eyes. “You couldn’t possibly drive me back tonight, could you?” She was so nervous her tongue seemed to be cleaving to the roof of her mouth. “I understand perfectly if you can’t. You probably have commitments. Not to mention breakfast with Violette,” she added, even though she recognised it was foolish.
“Is this the right way to go about asking me?” He looked steadily back.
“I guess not. But I’m nervous. It’s difficult not to be nervous around you.”
His mouth compressed. She had a mad urge to lean forward and kiss it, though neither of them were acting in the least flirtatiously.
“I have to say you hide it remarkably well. There’s nothing that can’t be taken care of at a later date. You really want to go home? You’re absolutely sure?”
She took a deep, fluttery breath, then nodded her head. “If you’d be good enough to take me, Guy,” she said meekly.
Now he smiled—half-amused, half-mocking. “I rather enjoy seeing you this way, sweet and pleading. But just how do you think you can help your father?”
She stayed quiet, took another sip. “At least I’ll be there. You know how he is. I can’t help worrying. I’ll ring Kieran. Let him know. He has his mobile with him. I’m guessing he won’t be able to drag himself away from his mystery woman. That’s if he finds her. You wouldn’t happen to know who she is?”
Guy’s eyes were brilliant, but unreadable. “The whole thing is pretty damned weird. But, whoever she is, she clearly has a lot of power over Kieran.”
CHAPTER FIVE
SHE wasn’t in the apartment when he arrived. Kieran hadn’t expected her to be. It would probably be another hour before she got home. He considered ringing her, decided not to. He had his key. He let himself in, instantly inhaling the lovely scent of her. He could almost see her floating towards him. Sometimes he got so frustrated he could punch a hole in the wall.
He turned on a few lights. It was a beautiful apartment. No minimalist approach here. Everywhere one looked there was something beautiful to admire. The colours were white and a delicate shade of green, with accents of sunshine-yellow; there were lots of silk cushions with expensive fringes, tall famille vert porcelain vases, valuable antiques someone had turned into lampstands for her. Lampstands, mind you. The rich really were different. A glorious cyclamen orchid with five bracts sat in another deep famille vert bowl on a glass-topped table.
A beautiful setting for a beautiful woman. He crossed to the sliding glass doors, opened them. Beyond the plant-filled balcony set with a circular table and chairs was Sydney’s magnificent harbour, the breeze fresh off it. She had a splendid view, fanning three hundred and sixty degrees. And why not? The apartment had cost millions. Well, they had it. He shrugged. Old money. Nothing ostentatious.
He ripped off his jacket and threw it down over the back of a sofa. He loosened a couple of buttons at the neck of his shirt, jerked his tie down. Next he moved to the cabinet where he knew the drinks were housed. God, how he needed one! He almost began to see how their father had made the tragic slide into alcoholism. Yet hadn’t love been the cause of it? The intensity of that love? Surely there was something a little noble about that? He hadn’t just lost his money or his farm. He’d lost a woman—his beloved wife. Their father was grieving so profoundly over the loss of their mother he couldn’t seem to face life without her. How would it feel to love someone like that and know you could never have them, let alone have them back? Kieran thought he knew.
Whisky came to hand. Great! He poured himself a good shot of it, then walked through to the bright and open kitchen for a little crushed ice from the refrigerator door. This was one neat woman. Not a thing out of place, and lovely little feminine touches everywhere. She loved flowers. He had never seen the apartment without flowers in every room, and that included the en suite and the guest bathroom. Today there were yellow tulips on the glossy black granite flecked with gold. There were lots of crisp white cupboards, some glass-paned to show off fancy bone china, but the pièce de resistance of this beautiful apartment, with all its art works and objets d’art was always her.
Gradually, under such a benign influence, he was calming. What a terrible day! No way could they afford to hold on to Briar’s Ridge now. The bank would foreclose on them. And what then? He had come to realise the farm wasn’t everything in life to him, as it was to their father and Alana. Alana was a true country girl. She revelled in life on the land. He had always enjoyed it too, but in his heart of hearts he knew he wouldn’t mourn the loss of it deeply. He could always visit it when he wanted. He could always paint it when the urge took him.
The truth was, he recognised inside himself that he had a gift. His mother had always told him he did.
“Why, I do believe, my darling Kieran, one day you’ll have it in you to become a fine painter. I’d be interested to see what Marcus thinks of all these drawings. Next time he’s in the country I’ll ask him.”
He might never rise to Marcus Denby’s lofty heights, but then he had a different vision. He wouldn’t mind struggling for a while. Just about everyone had to struggle for a while. His abrupt laugh sounded strangely harsh in the silence of the lovely room. He wouldn’t have to struggle with Alex by his side. Alex was a Radcliffe, an heiress, a glittering, impossible prize. He threw back the whisky with one gulp. A vision of Alex flashed before his eyes. Skin like a pearl. Eyes and hair like ebony.