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Two weeks later, Damien Moore got out of his metallic blue Porsche at his favourite lunchtime restaurant to find his way barred by a slim girl wearing khaki overalls and with her hair crammed into a black crocheted hat. It was only when she took off the hat and a cloud of auburn hair settled to her shoulders that he recognised Lee Westwood.
He stopped and sighed. ‘What are you? A one-woman SWAT team?’
‘If you’re referring to my clothes,’ Lee said with dignity, ‘they’re my working clothes—I’m a gardener, remember? If you’re referring to my presence here—’ she looked around the Milton precinct, a trendy inner suburb of Brisbane ‘—I cannot get to you on the phone so I decided to do a bit of research. I knew you were coming here today.’
‘How the hell did you know that?’
She smiled. ‘Simple. On the phone I masqueraded as a legal secretary from another firm, desirous of getting in touch with you urgently on behalf of my boss. Your receptionist told me your movements just in case you’d switched off your mobile phone.’
Damien Moore swore. ‘The reason you couldn’t get hold of me was because I have no news for you. As my secretary would have informed you.’
‘It’s been two weeks!’ Lee protested. ‘If he was going to reply he’d have replied by now, surely?’
‘Look—’
‘No, you look, Mr Moore,’ she interrupted, ‘my grandparents had to take out a mortgage on their home to augment their pension and they’re having trouble keeping up the repayments. If I don’t get something done soon they’ll lose their home as well—while you lunch out at expensive restaurants on my fees with not a care in the world!’
‘Hardly,’ he said, with a mixture of impatience and reluctant amusement. He seemed to come to a sudden decision. ‘All right. Come and have lunch with me.’
Lee glanced behind her at the scarlet door beneath a straw-coloured awning flanked by tubs of flowering pelargoniums. It simply shouted luxury and expense. ‘In there?’ she queried cautiously.
‘In there,’ he agreed. ‘I have a booking.’
‘But I don’t think I’m suitably dressed—there’s a fast-food restaurant down the road—’
‘Not on your life, Miss Westwood. Either in there or not at all.’
Lee chewed her lip. This time Damien Moore’s exquisitely tailored suit was pale grey, and he wore a white and blue striped shirt with it, and a navy tie. His black shoes shone—handmade, no doubt—there was a navy linen handkerchief in his breast pocket and his thick dark hair was neat. There was also, she divined, the hint of a challenge in his clever dark eyes…
‘OK.’ She squared her shoulders. ‘On one condition. That I pay for my lunch.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t wish to be beholden to you in any way, Mr Moore.’
He grinned. ‘We’ll see.’
Lee hesitated, but got the strong impression she might be left standing on the pavement if she crossed swords with him any further. So with a muttered, ‘You’re a hard man to deal with!’ she took a deep breath and preceded him through the scarlet door.
Five minutes later she had a glass of wine in front of her and had ordered a slice of quiche Lorraine with salad—the cheapest item she could find on the menu.
‘Are you sure?’ he’d asked. ‘You don’t have to starve—’
‘Quite sure,’ she’d told him firmly. ‘I happen to like quiche, and I adore salad.’
He’d shrugged and ordered the roast pork.
‘This is very nice,’ Lee remarked now, looking round. And I’m not sure whether it’s because I’m with you, but no one seems to have taken exception to my overalls.’
He looked wry. ‘I’m a fairly frequent customer.’
‘So if I’d come in on my own it might have been a different matter.’ She looked amused.
‘As a matter of fact,’ Damien Moore commented, ‘you came in like the Queen of Sheba. It was quite an impressive performance.’
Lee laughed. ‘Not the Queen of Sheba. A movie star.’
‘Really?’ He studied her quizzically. ‘You were imagining yourself like that?’
‘Yes.’ Lee looked rueful. ‘I don’t usually have that problem, but you’ve got to admit I’m at a disadvantage today for this kind of place.’ She glanced down at herself. ‘Can I ask you a question?’ she continued. ‘Do you always lunch in such solitary splendour?’
He sipped his wine and she took the first sip of hers and found it delicious. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘Often it’s a sandwich at my desk. I do work extremely hard, contrary to your thoughts on the subject, but I was supposed to meet someone today who had to cancel at the last minute. I decided to come anyway for a bit of peace and quiet. And the roast pork. Does that redeem me in your eyes at all?’
Lee looked momentarily guilty. ‘Yes. Sorry about that! Who…? No,’ she mumbled going faintly pink, unable to believe she’d been about to ask him who his lunch date was. ‘None of my business.’
His lips twitched. ‘It wasn’t a woman.’
Lee could find absolutely nothing to say to this, and could only thank heaven that her lunch arrived at that point. Further deliverance came to her in the form of Damien Moore who proved himself to be, suddenly, a charming companion. As they ate, he drew her out skilfully on the subject so close to her heart: horticulture. And he told her about the little gem of a botanic garden he’d come upon in Cooktown, Far North Queensland, of all places.
How had he come to be in Cooktown? she asked.
On his way to Lizard Island, he told her, for some R & R. Did she know anything about the pink orchid that was the emblem of that small, remote but famous Queensland town?
It so happened she did but she was fascinated to hear about the botanic gardens, with their links straight back to Captain Cook and Joseph Banks, as well as the Chinese gardeners who had planted fruit, vegetables and flowers among the native trees and shrubs named by Banks during the boom times of Cooktown in the last century.
It was his mobile phone beeping discreetly that interrupted this discussion. He looked annoyed, but took the call. When he’d finished he looked at her enigmatically and said, ‘It’s your lucky day today, Miss Westwood.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve been in court all morning so I’ve had no opportunity to see my mail. But Cyril Delaney has agreed to a meeting.’
The effect on Lee was electric. She sat up, her eyes sparkled with excitement and she said, ‘Now we’re getting somewhere! When? Where?’
Before he responded Damien Moore found himself once again intrigued by those green eyes. In fact, he conceded, there was a lot more to this thin redhead than he had first imagined. Stubborn and persistent, yes, but a plain nuisance was not exactly how he would describe her now, he thought, and narrowed his eyes. No, there was too much vitality. There was a hint of humour, and at times a rather touching dignity. Not that it meant anything to him other than in a lawyer-client context, he reflected. Or did it? No…
‘In two days’ time, at his home. He is not well, apparently, hence his delay in replying. He has also…’ Damien paused and looked at the last of his roast pork thoughtfully ‘…requested your presence at this meeting.’
Lee pushed her plate away. ‘Why do you sound disapproving?’ she enquired with a frown.
His dark eyes were amused as they met hers. ‘You do have a history of…inflammatory behaviour towards Cyril Delaney, so if I’m expressing any reservations it’s to do with how you will handle yourself at this meeting, Miss Westwood.’
‘Mr Moore,’ Lee said, ‘that will depend on how Cyril Delaney conducts himself.’
‘That’s what I was afraid of,’ he said humorously. ‘But histrionics only serve to put you in a more…vulnerable position.’
‘You mean,’ she said with a wicked little grin, ‘they make people think you’re all hot air and no substance? I would agree,’ she added judiciously, ‘most of the time. But there comes a stage when plain speaking is called for. So, while I won’t set out to be discourteous I will certainly be honest.’
‘I can hardly wait,’ Damien murmured, and finished his lunch.
Their plates were removed, coffee was poured and a platter of exquisite petits fours was presented. Lee took a miniature chocolate eclair and ate it with relish. Then she patted her stomach and sighed with pleasure. ‘Definitely an improvement on the kind of lunch I had in mind, but sadly I have to leave you now, Mr Moore.’ She consulted her watch. ‘My lunchtime is just about to run out. Could you ask for separate bills?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘But didn’t we agree—?’
‘We agreed to nothing,’ he said.
‘Look, I would really like to pay for my lunch!’
‘You might want to,’ he said, ‘but consider my reputation for a moment.’
Lee blinked at him. ‘I don’t understand. What has that got to do with it?’
‘I’m not in the habit of allowing my guests to pay for themselves. Particularly not women.’ His expression was grave but his eyes were another matter. They were full of secret amusement.
Lee gave it some thought before replying. ‘Firstly, I don’t think I fall into the category of a “guest”.’
‘I did invite you.’
She waved a hand. ‘I didn’t give you much choice.’
‘Now that’s an admission I didn’t expect you to make.’
‘Let me finish,’ she ordered. ‘Secondly, I’m not—’
‘Not a woman?’ he suggested, looking at her lazily.
Lee ground her teeth. ‘Of course—but I’m not a date—and even dates can go Dutch anyway. But…look,’ she said disjointedly, ‘I resent being patronised like this!’
‘On the contrary,’ Damien Moore drawled, ‘I’ve enjoyed my lunch today much more than I expected to—thanks to you, Miss Westwood. So I feel the least I can do is pay for yours.’
Lee stared at him wordlessly with confusion etched clearly in her green eyes. ‘You have?’ she said at length.
‘I give you my word.’
‘Why?’ Lee asked.
He shrugged. ‘You’re full of surprises.’
‘Like a circus act?’ she suggested with some bitterness.
He laughed. ‘No. Like a snippy redhead who shoots from the hip. It’s rather refreshing.’ His expression changed for a moment, as if he was viewing a phenomenon new to him. Then he said lightly, ‘So let’s have no more argument on the subject of who pays for this lunch.’ He stood up.
But it took Lee a moment or two to follow suit, because something struck her as she stared up at the tall figure of Damien Moore—something rather stunning and almost enough to take her breath away. Could you fall in love with a man over lunch?
At two o’clock the next morning Lee gave up trying to sleep on her convertible couch and made herself a cup of tea.
She was still stunned and uncomprehending at the thought that had crossed her mind just before she’d left the restaurant with her lawyer. Where had it come from? What had prompted it? How could something like that leap into her mind on only the second occasion she’d met a man?
But even if she were able to answer those questions what difference would it make? she wondered. Nothing could change the fact that her articulacy had deserted her as they’d walked out into the sunlight and he’d asked where she was parked. She’d pointed to her car and he’d escorted her to it.
She’d thanked him awkwardly for lunch and agreed to meet him in two days’ time, but it had been as if all the spontaneity and fluidity had drained from her—to be replaced by a keen awareness of the man beside her. The fact that his height caused a flutter along her nerve-ends, for example. The fact that she had enjoyed her lunch and his company much more than she’d expected to because he’d gone out of his way to make it enjoyable.
The fact, she thought hollowly, that he’d escorted her to her car as if he were escorting a movie star to her limousine rather than Lee Westwood in her work overalls to her second-hand yellow Toyota with its several dents.
But, she cautioned herself, with a sense of déjà vu, was it so surprising that at least a little flutter of attraction should cross her nerve-ends? How many other girls wouldn’t have felt the same beneath the spell of a tall, good-looking man at his charming best?
And there lies the rub, she thought ruefully. She was only one of a long line, she had no doubt. She heaved a sigh and decided the last thing she should ever do was give Damien Moore any indication that he’d been right about her that first day in his office. And she made a mental note that this was the second time she’d issued a warning of this nature to herself.
They met outside Cyril Delaney’s Balmain home on the appointed day.
Lee had taken the afternoon off work and wore neat beige linen trousers with a white shirt and a russet waistcoat. Her hair was loose but her trademark string bag remained the same. She showed no tendency to want to linger on the pavement, which Damien Moore noted, and he concluded from her severe expression that it held embarrassing memories for her.
He was tempted to ask her if that was so, but restrained himself. He had no real expectations of this interview solving anything for Lee Westwood’s grandparents, and it had caused him a few minutes’ internal interrogation to establish why that should concern him—minutely, but none the less it concerned him. The answer he came up with was that this feisty girl intrigued him. Not a good footing for lawyer-client relations, however, he reminded himself. Don’t get personally involved, in other words…
A housekeeper showed them into a sun room at the rear of the large, luxurious house, and introduced them to a frail-looking old man in a wheelchair—Cyril Delaney. They all shook hands and Lee and Damien seated themselves side by side on a cane settee.
‘So,’ Cyril said, ‘you’re the young lady my staff had to threaten with a restraining order while I was in hospital?’
Lee moistened her lips but took her time. In his prime, Cyril would have been tall and angular, she decided, whereas now he was stooped. His features were narrow and his teeth prominent. A few strands of silver hair were carefully combed over his head. But his eyes were bright blue and shrewd.
‘I am,’ she said quietly, ‘but I didn’t realise you were in hospital.’
‘Does that mean you would have picketed the hospital?’ he enquired.
Lee coloured faintly. ‘No. But I just couldn’t find any other way to bring this to your attention, Mr Delaney, and I feel I am quite within my rights to at least get a hearing.’
‘Hmm. So you’ve hired yourself a hotshot lawyer now?’ He turned those shrewd eyes on Damien. ‘Knew your father and I’ve always been an admirer of your mother, Damien Moore.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Damien replied, and let a few moments elapse. ‘Concerning Miss Westwood’s claims on behalf of her grandparents—’
‘Let the girl speak for herself,’ Cyril Delaney broke in.
Damien turned to Lee with a clear warning in his eyes—no hot air!
Lee swallowed. Then she began to outline her grandparents’ plight, coolly and simply. She concluded by saying, ‘It was your reputation that got them in, Mr Delaney.’
Cyril Delaney lay back in his wheelchair. ‘Piffle,’ he remarked.
‘Now look here—’ Lee began, but Damien put his hand over hers.
Cyril noted this, as well as noting how Lee Westwood looked up at Damien Moore with a stubborn light in her green eyes, and how, when she transferred that stubborn green gaze back to himself, and repeated herself, Damien Moore’s expression became tinged with a sort of wry affection rather than exasperation. All of which caused him to make a mental note concerning Evelyn Moore’s good-looking son who as yet, he believed, had not been snared and taken to the altar.
Then he closed his eyes and overrode what Lee was saying so hotly.
‘Young lady, tell me a bit about yourself.’
Lee stopped, open-mouthed. ‘Why?’ she got out at last.
