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He sat down in the chair nearest her. “There you go again! I’ve ordered a bottle of champagne.”
“Good heavens! Isn’t that a dumb thing to do? I’m just so angry and despondent I might get drunk.”
“I won’t let that happen.” He very gently patted her hand, his dark eyes glinting. “You had a good lunch, didn’t you?’
“Not as good as yours, I bet.” It was usual for the pastoral houses to take the big wool producers to lunch on sales day. “Oh, God, what a day!” she lamented. “We’re going to lose Briar’s Ridge, Guy. We needed good sales. We’re drowning in debt—as if you didn’t know.”
“Something can be worked out,” Guy said.
She looked at him with a sharp sense of humiliation. “You’ve been propping us up, haven’t you? I feel it in my bones.”
“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. The pure face of a Madonna, yet she had sinned deeply. He walked to one of the upholstered custom-built sofas and eased his long body into it, staring sightlessly at the exquisite spray of cyclamen orchids. He felt his heart contract with his own kind of grief. That whisky had gone down too quickly. He’d have another …
Immediately he heard the key inserted into the deadlock he jumped to his feet. His heart was thudding, picking up knots. It was dark now. He had turned the lights on. How many times had he entered her apartment before she’d arrived home? He couldn’t begin to count.
She must have realised he was there, because she called softly, “Kieran?”
He covered the distance that separated them in a couple of long strides, watching her drop her leather handbag to the silk rug. He reached for her, pulling her into his arms, kissing her feverishly, hotly, hungrily, forcing open her softly cushioned lips.
“I’m crazy about you!” he muttered “Crazy. Is it ever going to stop?” He didn’t seem to care that he was overwhelming her with his intensity.
He had her moaning in his arms. To hear her moan meant everything to him. Somehow he had lifted her clear of the ground, crushing her in his powerful grip. She was tall, but so slender, she was a featherweight to him. Her beautiful pale pink suit had little covered buttons down the front. She wore a white silk camisole beneath the jacket. His hand swept rapaciously across her breasts as though it had a life of its own. “Alex, Alex,” he whispered. “What am I going to do about you?”
She breathed into his neck. “Just keep on putting me through hell?”
His response was to swing her off her feet, carrying her down the passageway into the master bedroom. He was desperate to be inside her. He couldn’t see straight until he was. He threw her down on her marvellous big bed, pausing for a moment to stare down at her as she lay back against the opulent cream and gold quilt. Oh, the ache in him! Every time he laid eyes on her he had the sensation that his heart was breaking. Her wonderful dark eyes were huge with emotion. He never felt guilty at seeing her drowning in it. She was the one who should feel guilty but refused to. Her arms were thrown back above her head, outstretched, imploring, pleading. She was imperceptibly trembling. Her long silky hair that had been arranged in some elegant knot was coming loose. A skein fell like a black satin ribbon across her pearly cheek.
“How beautiful you are,” he rasped. “Too beautiful!” But she could never wipe the slate clean.
He reached down to her, his long fingers beginning to burrow at all those little buttons. She made no effort to stop him. She lay quietly while he undressed her, wondering if there was ever going to be an end to this unquenchable desire.
“Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?” she whispered.
He made no reply. Instead he pulled her up so he could release the catch on her rose lace bra and expose her exquisite white breasts. How incredibly seductive a woman’s breasts were. Every time he undressed her it was like the first time. Such beauty! Always for him.
“Kieran—Kieran, do you love me?” Tears filled her large oval eyes.
He kissed them. “How can I love you after what you did to us?” he answered jaggedly. “I want you. I need you. Be content with that.”
They had everything and nothing. All the world lost. “How easily you’ve condemned me all these years. You had no difficulty at all, even when I told you the truth.”
He choked off a bitter laugh. “Don’t, Alex,” he said. “I’m supremely indifferent to your lies. They’ve all been done to death anyway.”
A glistening tear slid down her cheek. She arched her back to make it easier for him to take off her panties—rose lace to match her delicate bra. She always wore the most beautiful underwear. He thrilled to strip the delicate garments off her.
Finally she was naked, her white body as remarkably virginal as when he had first seen it when they were innocent teenagers. There had been no adolescent yearning, no clumsy gropings. It had been full on, wildly passionate sex—she surrendering herself completely, he taking her, penetrating her, as if he wanted his whole self to disappear inside her. Neither of them had been able to get enough of the other. Drunk on sex. Drunk on love. Alex had been his sun, moon and stars.
But almost seven years had passed. Years spent apart. Time they could no longer spend together. He wanted her more now than he had then—barely believable but utterly true. Not only that, he knew how to get more of her. Oh, yes, he did. Alex was his. His incurable addiction.
He fell to his knees beside the bed, still fully clothed, taking a coral pink nipple sweet as a fruit into his mouth, lightly between his teeth … “Alex, Alex, Alex …” he whispered, his voice fierce even to his own ears.
She shaped his golden head with her hands, sinking her fingers into his thick mane of hair. Her eyes were filled not only with an overwhelming desire, but with a deep, dark tenderness. She would have died for Kieran. He knew that. But he didn’t care.
He put one strong hand beneath her back, raising her to him.
“Why do I let you do this to me?” she gasped.
He pressed his open mouth all over her. “You know why,” he muttered, without a shred of sympathy. “Because neither of us can stop.”
The big car ate up the miles. Alana thought she might close her eyes briefly, but was stunned when she heard Guy’s voice murmur near her ear. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.”
She blinked and sat straight, looking around dazedly. “I can’t believe that! I fell asleep.”
“I’d say you needed it.” He didn’t mention she had been making little distressed whimpers that smote his heart.
“We’re home!”
“Right at your door, my lady!” Guy looked very soberly towards the darkened homestead. There appeared to be only one light on, towards the rear of the house. “I’ll come in with you.” He released his seat belt.
Voices said such a lot about a person, Alana thought. Who you were. What you were. Where you lived, even how you lived. Were you confident, self-assured, charming? Warm or cold, diffident, abrasive, a person to steer clear of. Her father was right. Guy Radcliffe was a prince.
They were walking towards the front steps when Buddy, stick-thin no matter how much he ate, emerged from the interior of the house and moved out onto the verandah. He lifted a hand to turn on the verandah light, splashing himself in a dull golden light.
“Miss Lana, I didn’t know you’d be comin’ home,” he called, then tiptoed over to the timber balustrade. “Good evening, Mr Radcliffe,” he added respectfully.
“Evening, Buddy.” Guy’s tone was warm and approving. He knew that approval gave the loyal youngster pleasure and confidence. “Everything okay here?”
They all knew it was nothing of the sort. Alana ran on ahead, up the steps, disappearing into the house.
Buddy’s liquid black eyes cut to Guy. “Mr Alan—he start drinkin’ a few hours back,” he confided in an unhappy voice. “I came to check on ‘im. He likes me around.”
“I know he does, Buddy.” Guy nodded, feeling the keenest sympathy for Alana. “You’re a good man to have around.”
“I do me best.” Buddy glowed at Guy’s praise. “I’m afraid Miss Lana is going to find her dad collapsed in his armchair. I wanted to shift him into bed, but he’s a big man.” He spread his arms an unbelievable distance, to demonstrate just how big. “Didn’t have a chance of lifting ‘im. It’s all so sad.”
It’s that! Guy thought to himself. What had happened to Alan Callaghan came under the category of “survivor’s guilt.” Callaghan blamed himself terribly for surviving when the wife he adored hadn’t.
“Mrs Annabel, she’s up there.” Buddy pointed towards the glittering river of diamonds that was the Milky Way. “She’s fine. She’s not alone. Mr Alan should find somethin’ good.”
Guy couldn’t help but agree. It would allow the man some release. “You can go along now, Buddy,” he said. “And thank you. I should be able to get Mr Callaghan into bed.”
“Need a hand?” Buddy, thin as a whippet, even in riding boots only five-five, was desperate to help in any way he could.
“Thanks, Buddy, but I’ll manage.” Guy made a movement to go inside, paused. “Have you eaten yet?”
“No, sir. Been here.” Buddy’s coal-black curls bobbed as he shook his head. “I had to attend to Mr Alan first.”
“Do this for me?” Guy said, as though asking a favour. “Drive out to the estate restaurant and get yourself a really nice meal? Whatever you want—three courses. You can take it away if you feel shy being on your own. I’ll ring ahead so they’ll know you’re coming.”
Buddy gave a funny little whoop. “Me?”
“Yes, Buddy,” Guy confirmed. “You must be starving by now.”
“I am a bit hungry,” Buddy admitted. Actually, he had a growling stomach. But the Radcliffe Estate restaurant! He’d only poked his head in a couple of times. Never been in there, of course. It was way too grand for the likes of him. Could he really order up a three course meal? Maybe oysters and a fillet steak? Some crazy wicked chocolate dessert? Mr Radcliffe said he could, and Mr Radcliffe owned the place. Cool!
Alana knelt beside her father’s armchair. Alan Callaghan sat in it, looking hellish, one large brown hand resting on the top of her shining head.
“Guy!’ Recognition leapt into the bleary red-rimmed eyes as Guy approached. “God, I’m sorry.” Her father’s normally attractive voice was nothing more than a slurred croak.
“Why don’t we get you to bed, Alan?” Guy said, calm as a stone Buddha on the outside, deeply perturbed on the inside. He stripped off his checked jacket.
“Sall right!” Alan Callaghan made a pathetic attempt to heave himself out of the armchair and fell back, looking worse than ever.
“Come on—we’ll help you, Dad.” Alana fiercely wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand.
“It’s okay, Alana. Just get out of the way,” Guy told her, in a kindly but authoritative tone.
She didn’t argue. Guy said he could do it. Simple. She did what she was told, running ahead to make sure her father’s bed was ready and the room was fit to be seen. She was agonisingly embarrassed, but at least she always did her best to make sure her father’s bolt hole—for that was what it was—was clean.
They came slowly down the hallway, Guy supporting her father by the shoulders as though Alan Callaghan were a drunken dancing partner. Both dark heads were bent towards their feet. Her father was muttering incoherently to himself. Guy wasn’t even breathing hard. It only took a few minutes for Guy to lower the older man onto the narrow bed.
“What is he doing in here?” Guy looked about him. “It’s a monk’s cell.”
“With Dad the penitent?” Strain and mortification were showing on Alana’s face. “I’m only surprised he doesn’t scourge himself.”
“I’ll undress him,” Guy said. “Or at least make him more comfortable. No problem. Go along now.”
Alana turned, but hesitated near the door. Her father blew out a harsh, spluttering moan, then seemed to come alive. He lifted one still powerful arm and began to wave it with a vigour that surprised her.
“She was in love with him, you know,” he said, in voice that was almost normal. “I’m telling the truth here. I made her pregnant. I made my beautiful Belle pregnant. Can’t say anything in my own defence. I did it. I did it. “ Alan Callaghan made a futile grab for the front of Guy’s shirt. “You’re a gentleman, aren’t yah? And your dad was a gentleman. I’m just a bog Irishman. Anything to say?”
Guy’s expression transfixed Alana. It had turned from compassionate to granite. Would this man who had always been so kind to her father now turn and condemn him for being a pitiful drunk? “You’re shocking your daughter, Alan,” Guy said quietly.
Alan Callaghan stared blearily past Guy, the full weight of what he had just said seeming to fall on him. “Are yah still here, darlin'?” he asked in dismay.
Alana didn’t answer. She stood frozen on the spot, more vulnerable than she had ever been in her life.
