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It suddenly struck Max as he opened the squeaky iron gate and walked up onto the small front porch that Tara’s upbringing would not have been filled with luxuries. He recalled how awestruck she’d been the morning after the first night they’d spent together, when she’d walked through the penthouse and oohed and aahed at everything.
For the first time, a small doubt entered his mind about her falling pregnant. Could she be lying about it having been a rare accident? Could she have planned it? Was it a ploy to get him to marry her?
If it was, she would have to be the cleverest, most devious female he had ever known.
No, he decided as he rang the doorbell. The Tara he knew and loved was no gold-digger. She had a delightfully transparent character. She wasn’t capable of that kind of manipulative behaviour. She was as different from the Alicias of this world as chalk was to cheese.
That was why he loved her so much.
The door opened and Max peered down into eyes which were nothing like Tara’s. In fact, the short, plump, dark-haired woman glowering up at him was nothing like Tara at all, except perhaps for her nose. She had the same cute little upturned nose.
‘You’ve wasted your time coming here, Mr Richmond,’ she said sharply. ‘You should have rung first.’
‘I thought it best to speak to Tara in person. I did try to ring last night from the airport, but Tara must have taken the phone off the hook. She wasn’t answering her mobile, either. Look, Mrs Bond, I can understand your feelings where I’m concerned. You think I’m one of those rich guys who prey on beautiful young girls, but you’re wrong. I love your daughter and I would never do anything to hurt her. Now, could you tell her that I’m here, please?’
His words seemed to have taken some of the anger out of the woman’s face. But she still looked concerned. ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. She’s not here.’
‘What? You mean she’s gone to work, even after she knew I was coming?’
‘No. She left here last night. Packed a bag and took a taxi to I don’t know where.’
Max’s astonishment was soon overtaken by frustration. The woman had to be lying. ‘What do you mean you don’t know where? That’s crazy. You’re her mother. She would have told you where she was going.’
A guilty colour zoomed into the woman’s cheeks. ‘We had an argument. She was angry with me for making her tell you about the baby. And I was angry with her for hanging up on you, then taking the phone off the hook. I thought she was being silly. And stubborn. I…I…’
Joyce bit her bottom lip to stop herself from crying. If only she could go back to yesterday. She’d handled the situation terribly from the moment Tara had told her about the baby. After the initial shock had worn off, she’d begun badgering the girl about telling Max and demanding that he marry her. When Tara threw back at her that men these days didn’t marry girls just because they were pregnant, Joyce had been less than complimentary over the morals of men like Max Richmond, and the silly girls who became involved with them. By the time the man himself had rung last night, Joyce had been determined to somehow let him know that Tara was having his baby.
She’d thought she was doing the right thing. But she’d been wrong. It had not been her decision to make. Tara was a grown woman, even if Joyce had difficulty seeing her daughter as that. To her, she would always be her baby.
‘I don’t know where she’s gone. Honestly, Mr Richmond,’ she said, her head drooping as tears pricked at her eyes.
‘Max,’ he said gently, feeling genuinely sorry for the woman. ‘I think it’s about time you called me Max, don’t you? Especially since I’m going to be your son-in-law.’
Joyce’s moist eyes shot back up to his. ‘You…you mean that? You’re going to marry my Tara?’
‘If she’ll have me.’
‘If she’ll have you. The girl adores you.’
‘Not enough to stay here when I asked her to.’
‘I was partly to blame for that. I…I didn’t handle the news of her pregnancy very well.’
‘Don’t worry, neither did I. Did she say something before she left?’
‘She said to tell you she had to have some time by herself. Away from everyone telling her what to do. She said it was her body and her life and she needed some space to come to terms with the situation and work out what she was going to do. I spoke to Jen after she left. Jen’s her older sister, by the way…’
‘Yes, I know all about Jen.’
‘You do?’ Joyce was surprised.
Max’s smile was wry. ‘We do talk sometimes, Tara and I.’
The implication sent some pink into Joyce’s cheeks. But truly, now that she’d met the man in the flesh, she couldn’t blame Tara for losing her head over him. He was just so handsome. And impressive, with an aura of power and success about him. A wonderful dresser too. That black suit must have cost a small fortune.
‘You were saying?’ he prompted. ‘Something about Tara’s sister.’
‘Oh, yes, well, I thought at first that Tara might have gone there, so I called Jen. I was probably on the phone when you rang from the airport. Tara had taken it off the hook but I put it back on later. Much later, I guess,’ she added sheepishly. ‘Anyway, she wasn’t there and Jen didn’t know where she might have gone. I was feeling awful because I thought I’d made her run away. But Jen said it was also because she was frightened you might try to talk her into getting rid of the baby when you got here.’
Max was appalled. But he could see that it wasn’t an unreasonable assumption.
‘And there I was,’ he said wearily, ‘worrying that she might do that.’
‘Oh, no. Tara would never have an abortion. Never!’
‘I’m glad to hear that. Because she’d never get over it, if she did. She’s far too sweet and sensitive a soul.’
Joyce was touched that he knew Tara so well. This was not a man who wanted her daughter for her beauty alone. ‘You…you really love Tara, don’t you?’
‘With all my heart. Clearly, however, she doesn’t believe that. And I have only myself to blame. I’ve been thinking about our relationship all night on the plane and I can see I’ve been incredibly selfish and arrogant. People say actions speak louder than words, but not once did I stop to think what my actions were shouting to Tara. No wonder she had no faith in my committing to her and the baby. All I’ve ever given her were words. And words are so damned cheap. I have to show her now that I mean what I say. But first, I have to find her. Do you think you might invite me in for a cup of coffee, Mrs Bond, and we’ll try to work out where she might have gone?’
‘Joyce, Max,’ she said with a smile which did remind him of Tara. ‘If I’m going to be your mother-in-law, then I think you should call me Joyce.’
CHAPTER TEN (#ulink_a8258c35-0fa6-596b-9e04-df68c585fba8)
MAX waved Joyce goodbye through the taxi window, feeling pleased that he’d been able to make the woman believe that his intentions towards Tara were, at last, honourable. Not an easy task, given the way he’d treated her daughter this past year.
Joyce had not been backward in coming forward over his misdeeds. He was accused of having taken Tara for granted. Of neglecting her shamefully. But worst of all, of not caring enough to see how a girl like Tara would feel with his not making a definite commitment to her a lot sooner.
She’d poo-poohed Max’s counter-arguments that Tara hadn’t wanted marriage and children up till this point any more than he had.
‘Tara needs security and commitment more than most girls,’ she’d explained. ‘She was more upset at losing her father than her older sister, yet Tara was only three at the time. She cried herself to sleep every night for months after the funeral. Having met you, I think, in a way, you are more than a lover to her. You are a father figure as well.’
Max hadn’t been too pleased with this theory. It had made him feel old. He didn’t entirely agree with it, either. Maybe Joyce didn’t know her daughter as well as she thought she did. The grown-up Tara was a highly independent creature, not some cling-on. Yes, she was sensitive. And yes, she probably needed reassurance at this time in her life. But he didn’t believe she thought of him as a father figure. Hell, she didn’t even think of him as a father figure for their baby! If she had, she wouldn’t have run away like this.
‘Where in heaven’s name are you, Tara?’ he muttered under his breath.
‘You say somethin’, mate?’ the taxi driver asked.
‘Just having a grumble,’ Max replied.
‘Nothin’ to grumble about, mate. The sun’s out. We’re winnin’ the cricket. Life’s good.’
Max thought about that simple philosophy and decided he could embrace it, if only he knew where Tara was.
He and Joyce decided she probably hadn’t gone too far at night. Probably to a friend’s house. The trouble was he’d discovered Tara had dropped all of her friends during the year she’d spent being his lady friend.
That was the term Joyce had tactfully used, although he had a feeling she was dying to use some other derogatory term, like mistress. Tara’s mother hadn’t missed an opportunity to put the knife in and twist it a little. Guilt gnawed away at him, alongside some growing frustration.
If Tara thought she could punish him this way indefinitely, then she was very much mistaken. He had ways and means at his disposal to find his missing girlfriend, especially one as good-looking and noticeable as Tara. In fact, he had one of two choices. He could hire a private investigator to find her, or he could spend a small fortune another way and hopefully come up with a quicker solution.
Max decided on this latter way.
Leaning forward, he gave the taxi driver a different address from the Regency Royale, after which he settled back and started working out what he would say to Tara when they finally came face to face.
Two hours later—they’d hit plenty of traffic on the way back to the city—Max was in his penthouse at the hotel. Snatching up some casual clothes, he headed straight for the shower. Once refreshed and dressed in crisp cream trousers and a blue yachting top, he headed for the lift again. Thankfully, Joyce had fed him as they’d talked, so he didn’t need to order any food from Room Service. It crossed his mind to make himself some coffee, but decided he didn’t want to wait. Having made up his mind what other things he had to do that day, Max wasn’t about to dilly-dally. If he had one virtue—Joyce didn’t seem to think he had too many—it was decisiveness.
This time he called for his own car, and within minutes was driving east of the city. Thankfully, by then, the traffic was lighter. It was just after eleven-thirty, the sun was well up in the summer sky and Max would have rather gone anywhere than where he was going.
His stomach knotted as he approached his parents’ home. He hadn’t been to see them since Christmas, a token visit which he felt he couldn’t avoid. Ever since Stevie’s death, he’d kept his visits to a minimum. They were always a strain, even more so since his father’s stroke. The accusing, angry words he might have once spoken—and which might have cleared the air between father and son—were always held back. He could hardly bear to watch his mother, either. He resented the way she tended to his father. So patiently, with never a cross word.
Maybe Tara was right. Maybe she really did love the man. She’d certainly been prepared to forgive him for lots of things.
Max wondered if he could ever really forgive his father. He doubted it. But he’d have to pretend to, if he was to have any chance of convincing Tara he was man enough to be a good father to their baby.
Max parked his car at the kerb outside his parents’ Point Piper mansion and just sat there for a minute or two, looking at the place. It was certainly a far cry from Tara’s house. Aside from the house, which ran over three levels, there were the perfectly manicured gardens at the front, a huge solar-heated pool out the back and magnificent harbour views from most of the rooms.
It was a home fit for a king. Or a prince.
He’d been brought up here, taking it all for granted. The perfect house. The private schools. Membership of the nearby yacht club.
And then there were the women. The ones who’d targeted him from the moment he’d been old enough to have sex. The ones who’d done anything and everything to get him to fall in love with them.
But he hadn’t loved any of them.
The only woman he’d ever fallen for was Tara.
And she was in danger of slipping away from him, if he wasn’t careful.
With his stomach still in knots, Max climbed out from behind the wheel and went inside. He still had keys. He hadn’t moved out of home till after the episode with Stevie.
His mother was sitting out on the top terrace, reading the newspaper to his father, who was in his wheelchair beside her. Dressed in pale blue trousers and a pretty floral top, she was immaculately groomed as usual. Her streaked blonde hair was cut short in a modern style and she was wearing make-up and pearl earrings.
For as long as Max could remember, she’d looked much younger than her age, but today, in the harsh sunlight, she looked every one of her fifty-nine years. And then some.
Her father’s appearance, however, shocked him more than his mother’s. Before his stroke he’d been a vibrant, handsome man with a fit, powerful body and thick head of dark hair. Now his hair was white, his muscles withered, his skin deeply lined. He looked eighty, yet he was only sixty-two.
For the first time, some sympathy stirred in Max’s soul. Plus a measure of guilt. How come he hadn’t noticed the extent of his father’s deterioration at Christmas? It had only been a couple of months ago.
Maybe he hadn’t noticed because he hadn’t wanted to. It was easier to cling to old resentments rather than see that his father was going downhill at a rate of knots, or that his mother might need some hands-on help. Much easier to hate than to love.
Max realised in that defining moment that he didn’t really hate his parents. He never had. He just didn’t understand them. Tara was right when she’d said people never knew what went on in a marriage.
One thing Max did know, however, as he watched his mother reach out to tenderly touch his father’s arm. She did love the man. And if the way his father looked back was any judge, then that love was returned.
Max’s heart turned over as he hoped that Tara would always look at him like that.
Neither of them had seen him yet, standing there just inside the sliding glass doors which led out onto the terrace. When he slid one back, his mother’s head jerked up and around, her blue eyes widening with surprise, and then pleasure.
‘Max!’ she exclaimed. ‘Ronald, it’s Max.’
‘Max…’ His father’s hands fumbled as they reached to swivel his chair around. His eyes, too, mirrored surprise. But they were tired eyes, Max thought. Dead eyes.
All the life had gone out of him.
‘Max,’ the old man repeated as though he could still not believe his son had come to visit.
‘Hi there, Mum. Dad,’ he said as he came forward and bent to kiss his mother on the cheek. ‘You’re both looking well,’ he added as he pulled up a chair.
His father croaked out a dry laugh. ‘I look terrible and I know it.’
Max smiled a wry smile. The old man wasn’t quite dead yet.
‘You know, Dad, when I was a boy you told me that God helps those who help themselves. You obviously practised what you preached all your life. After all, you worked your way up from a valet-parking attendant to being one of Australia’s most successful hotel owners.’
Max generously refrained from reminding his father that marrying the daughter of an established hotel baron had been a leg-up, especially when Max’s maternal grandfather was already at death’s door. Within weeks of Max’s grandfather dying, Ronald Richmond had sold off the hotels that didn’t live up to his ideals and started up the Royale chain. He hadn’t looked back, till three years ago, when his stroke had forced his premature retirement.
‘I have to say I’m a bit disappointed,’ Max went on, ‘that you seem to have thrown in the towel this time. Frankly, I expected more from you than this.’
Some more fire sparked in the old man’s eyes, which was exactly what Max had intended.
‘What would you know about it, boy? My whole right side is virtually useless.’
‘Something which could be remedied with therapy. You should be thankful that your speech wasn’t affected. Some people can’t talk after a stroke.’
‘My eyes are bad,’ he grumbled. ‘Your mother has to read to me.’
‘But you’re not blind. Look, how about I line up a top physiotherapist to come in every day and work with you? He’ll have you up and out of that wheelchair in no time.’
‘That would be wonderful, Max,’ his mother said. ‘Wouldn’t it, Ronald?’
‘It’s too late,’ his father muttered. ‘I’m done for.’
‘Rubbish!’ Max countered. ‘Never too late. That’s another of your own philosophies, might I remind you? Besides, I need you up and about in time for my wedding.’
‘Your wedding!’ they chorused, their expressions shocked.
‘Yep. I’m getting married.’
After that, Max was regaled with questions. He thought he lied very well, telling them all about Tara and the baby, but nothing about her disappearance. He made it sound like a done deal that he and Tara would walk down the aisle in the near future. He also promised to bring her over to meet them by the end of the weekend. He made some excuse that she was away visiting friends for the next couple of days.
Talk about optimism!
Over lunch he also told his father that he planned to stay in Australia more in future and delegate some of the overseas travelling to his assistant.
‘Good idea,’ his father said, nodding. ‘When a man has a family, he should not be away from home too much. I was away from home too much. Far too much.’
When tears suddenly welled up in his father’s eyes, his mother immediately jumped up. ‘I think it’s time for your afternoon nap, dear,’ she said. ‘He gets tired very easily these days,’ she directed at a shocked Max as she wheeled his father off. ‘I won’t be long. Have another cup of coffee.’
