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The possibilities tossed around and around in her head like debris swirling down a drainpipe and finally she gave up trying to sleep. Slipping out of bed, she padded in bare feet through the dark flat to her study, blinked at the brightness as her computer screen came to life and read Belle and Claire’s emails for the zillionth time.
Belle had written:
Oh, Simone! What a shame about your diary. I know how hard you worked on it—will you be able to put together your article without it? If you need any details, I’ve got the stuff I wrote for my reports that you can have. As for anyone connecting us with it, I wouldn’t worry too much. It’s most likely in some airport waste compactor by now.
That was a comforting thought. If only she could believe it.
Claire had been equally sympathetic and reassuring:
Don’t beat yourself up about this. It’s disappointing and frustrating, but I can’t imagine it will cause any problems for any of us.
Simone closed down her email programme, hoping the girls were right. It wouldn’t be so bad if she hadn’t included so many personal ramblings in her diary. She hadn’t meant to get deep and meaningful. Her intention had been simply to record the cycling challenge, but for years now she’d kept her inner self so tightly under wraps that once she was out of the country and had started to write, all kinds of thoughts, hopes and fears had tumbled on to the page.
So many dreams and dreads, memories and secrets…
Up there in the Himalayas, close beneath the stars, she’d looked at the vast dome of sky and hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her parents. Both dead. She’d never known her father—he’d died before she was born, fighting in Vietnam. Her mother had died when she was seventeen.
She’d thought a great deal about her grandfather, who was very much alive, although she hadn’t seen him in over a decade.
Belle and Claire had been going through something similar, she’d discovered later, which was why they’d eventually made their pact and why Simone had pledged to go to Jonathan Daintree, her grandfather, to tell him what she should have told him years ago.
But now, back in Sydney and sitting alone in the dark, her courage seemed to have abandoned her totally.
In the eerie darkness, her eyes sought the familiar shape of an old cardboard box on the bookshelf beside her. It held all the Christmas and birthday cards her grandfather had sent her. Each card had come with a generous cheque and she’d written polite notes to thank him, but on both sides their correspondence had been guarded and coldly polite for some time now.
And it was her fault.
After her mother’s death, she’d distanced herself from the old man. At first there had been occasional fleeting meetings in cafеs when Jonathan had come to town. A kiss on the cheek…
A handful of words…
“How are you?”
“I’m fine, thanks, Grandfather.”
“You know you’re always welcome at Murrawinni.”
“Yes, but I’m so busy.”
She’d had to force the distance between them. It was awful and she knew she’d broken his heart, but if she’d remained close with Jonathan he would have asked too many questions. Questions about her stepfather, Harold Pearson’s, death, about her mother Angela’s involvement. Questions Simone could never answer.
Her mother had begged her never to tell anyone.
But could her mother have guessed the unbearable burden that ban had imposed?
Living with such a terrible secret had not only soured her relationship with her grandfather; her refusal to talk about it was at the root of her string of broken relationships with men. For Simone, the whole getting-to-know-you dating scene was fraught with tension.
Each time she went out with a new boyfriend, she always hoped that this would be The One. She would give anything to fall completely, obsessively, permanently in love with one wonderful man, but the burden of her secret always held her back.
In the Himalayas, she had come to the alarming decision that Angela had been wrong to silence her. The guilty secret had blighted her life and the pain of separation from her grandfather was too great. She owed him the truth.
And now she had to find the courage to tell him everything. And she had to do it fast, because—oh, help—because the person who found the diary might let her secrets out and her grandfather would, most definitely, never forgive her then.
Simone felt her eyes sting, couldn’t bring herself to look at the other larger box that held letters from her mother. Just looking at it brought a rush of painful memories and a wave of guilt and fear. She bit down hard on her lip to stop herself from crying, turned on her desk lamp and began to type a bravely hopeful reply to Belle and Claire.
Next morning, stomach churning, she dialed Murrawinni’s number before she lost her nerve. Her grandfather’s housekeeper, Connie Price, answered.
“I beg your pardon?” she said. “Who did you say is calling?”
“Simone. Simone Gray, Jonathan’s granddaughter.”
“Simone?” Connie’s voice quavered with surprised disbelief. “Lord have mercy, child. This is going to be quite a shock for him. It’s been so long.”
Simone’s stomach lurched. “Is my grandfather well? I don’t want to upset him or make him ill.”
“I don’t think there’s any fear of that, Simone. He’s well enough. Fit as a fiddle, in fact. Keeps us all on our toes. Just a moment and I’ll fetch him.”
Connie took more than a moment and Simone’s heart accelerated to a gallop while she waited. Would her grandfather be angry? Would he refuse to speak to her? Would he hammer her with a thousand questions?
“Simone?” It was Connie’s voice again.
“Yes?”
“I—I’m sorry, my dear. Jonathan—” Connie paused and cleared her throat. “I’m afraid he can be a little stubborn these days.”
“What does that mean? Are you saying that he doesn’t want to speak to me?” Simone’s voice broke pitifully. She screwed her face tight, fighting tears. “I was hoping to ask if I could come out to Murrawinni to—to visit him. Th-there’s something I need—”
She broke off, couldn’t get the words out.
“I’m sure he’ll come round, dear. It’s just that your call has been quite a shock. It’s been such a long time.”
“Yes.” The word came out as a despairing squeak. “Perhaps Grandfather will ring me l-later, if—if he changes his mind.”
Simone gave Connie her number and hung up, felt an overwhelming sense of defeat. She’d already lost her diary. What else could go wrong?
By the end of a few days of self-imposed vacation, the printer’s ink in Ryan’s veins drove him back to The Sydney Chronicle newsroom. He was greeted with flattering enthusiasm and predictable curiosity about the row that had ended his time in London.
“What was that about?” asked Jock Guinness, the chief-of-staff and Ryan’s former mentor. “Brash young Aussie clashes with ultra-conservative British establishment?”
“More like—Aussie black sheep spits the dummy when intrusive, cashed-up father tries to jump his boy up the British promotion queue.”
Jock’s jaw gaped. “Your dad did that?”
Ryan’s lip curled. “Who else?”
Everyone in the newsroom expected Ryan to resume his old post. The chief-of-staff announced openly that a desk could be cleared for him in ten minutes flat. But Ryan shook his head. He wasn’t looking for another spot as a general news gatherer. He’d had a gutful of being sent out on tame stories pulled off the daily job sheet.
Jock accepted this with grudging good grace. “You’ll do well as a freelancer,” he admitted. “You were one of the few people in this place who always had a string of good stories on the back burner.”
Ryan was chatting to Meg James, one of the journalists, when he saw the girl from the airport.
He stared at her picture, smiling up at him from the pages of a glossy magazine—a full-page colour photo of her, sitting cross-legged on a grassy slope with a spectacular rocky gorge behind her and snow-capped mountains in the distance. Felt again that gut-punching sensation.
He had rung the airport’s lost property office, but no one had reported a missing diary. And now, here was the girl. She was wearing slim-fitting bike shorts, revealing her legs in all their shapely, golden-tanned loveliness.
He remembered the way she’d caught his attention at the airport—as if she were in glowing Technicolor and the rest of the scene was in black and white. Remembered the uncanny moment of connection when he’d locked gazes with her. Thought of the crowded handwritten pages of her diary, still sitting on his bookshelf. It was the weirdest feeling, almost as if he knew her and he’d let her down somehow.
With admirable restraint, he refrained from snatching up the magazine. Instead, he pointed to the open pages with an excessively casual hook of his right thumb. “Do you mind if I borrow this?”
Meg James shot him a curious smile. “Be my guest. But since when have you been a fan of City Girl?”
“I’d just like to check out this story. About the bike ride in the Himalayas.”
“Oh, sure, it’s a great travel piece.” Meg glanced at the picture and rolled her eyes. “Simone puts the rest of us to shame.”
Simone. He repeated her name softly, savouring it, letting it settle inside him. It was a sensuous name—just a little exotic—a good fit for her.
“Simone Gray,” he said, reading her byline.
“Yep. Don’t you know her? She’s the Big Chief at City Girl. Executive editor.”
“No kidding?” A pulse began to throb in his jaw and fine pinpricks erupted over his arms. “Tell me more about her.”
Meg sighed. “I get pea-green just thinking about Simone Gray. She’s smart, successful, has the job I’ve always lusted after. And every time I see her, she seems to have a different guy in tow and they’re all madly in love with her, of course. And then, to cap it off, instead of just writing a cheque for her favourite charity, she put herself through a huge ordeal, training hard, getting sweaty and blistered and making the rest of us feel like lazy layabouts.”
Ryan set the magazine down abruptly and Meg frowned at him.
“Changed your mind about reading it?”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll get what I want firsthand.”
Meg treated him to a very weird look, but he was already halfway out of the office.
Simone had given her PA the day off because it was her elderly mother’s birthday, so when the phone rang for the twentieth or maybe fortieth time that morning, her response was automatic. “Good morning. Simone Gray speaking. How can I help you?”
“Morning, Simone. My name’s Ryan Tanner. I’m a fellow journalist and I’ve rung to congratulate you on the article in this month’s City Girl. I really enjoyed your story about China. Nice work.”
Simone frowned. Her article was workmanlike and professional, possibly inspiring for some readers, but not exactly the kind of writing that would attract attention from fellow journalists—especially a male with a beautifully modulated, deeply sexy voice.
He’d said his name was Tanner…Ryan Tanner…
She didn’t think she’d met him, but couldn’t be sure. The only Tanners she could think of offhand were billionaires who owned vast tracts of mining land in Western Australia and the Northern Territory. No one in that family would want to work as a journalist.
“Thank you, Mr Tanner. It’s kind of you to take the trouble to call me.”
“No trouble.”
She waited a beat.
“But there is something else, Simone…”
He paused again and in the silence she decided there was something undeniably sexy about the way he said her name—warming it with his voice, touching a chord deep inside her.
It occurred to her that if this guy was as smooth as his voice suggested, he might be going to ask her on a date. He wouldn’t be the first man to make contact after seeing her photo in a magazine. Her mind raced ahead, planning a quick exit strategy.
Ryan Tanner’s deep voice rumbled silkily down the phone line. “I have something of yours that I’d like to return.”
“Something of mine?”
“You lost a book at the airport last week.”
A blast of fear exploded in her chest.
Crash.
The phone receiver slipped from her hand, clattered on to her desk.
“Simone?”
Her vital organs collided. She’d convinced herself that her precious diary had been dumped by a sullen taxi driver, or had been swept up and pulped by one of those noisy street sweeping machines. Last week, she’d rung the taxi company countless times with no luck and had decided it was safe enough to publish the Himalayan article. Had decided that even if someone had found the diary, the chances of that person reading City Girl and putting two and two together were negligible.
But now, only one day after City Girl had hit the news-stands, her worst fears were realised.
And of all people to have found the diary and make the connection, it had to be another journalist!
Her hand shook as she picked up the receiver again and held it to her ear.
“Ms Gray, are you there?”
She didn’t answer.
“Ms Gray, are you OK?”
Ryan Tanner sounded concerned, but she didn’t trust him.
Her mind raced in crazy panicking circles. His faux admiration of her article was a front, of course. The only reason he’d rung was to let her know he had the diary.
The sickening question was: what else did this guy know about her? And how did he plan to use it? Her stomach heaved and sweat trickled down her back as she imagined her diary entries and her innermost secret fears splashed across some grubby tabloid newspaper. Ridiculously, she even pictured her story flashed on a television news bulletin. Nausea rose from the pit of her stomach.
She had to get a grip, had to think like an editor, not a panicking victim. It was time to think in terms of crisis management.
As calmly as she could, she said, “Tell me one thing, Mr Tanner. We’re not on air, are we?”
“Of course not. There’s no need to panic. I only work with print media.”
A huff of relief escaped her. “OK…RyanTanner…I’m trying to remember if I’ve seen your byline.”
“Used to be with The Sydney Chronicle, but I’ve been in London for the last year and a half.”
