She wanted to raise her lips to meet his, to run her hands over the smooth skin of his torso, the tautness of his muscles and the crispness of his chest hair. She wanted to guide his strong hand to her breast. His kiss would be like a soft key that unlocked her timid lips and unleashed feelings in her that were strange and wonderful, but that were also new and frightening.
She’d put her arms around his neck, and the sensation of their touching would make her feel as if she were swaying, losing control of her body and her will and—
Her eyes snapped open with an embarrassed start, her body throbbing.
She never had thoughts like this. Ever. She didn’t have sexual fantasies. She didn’t allow herself to have them.
In fact, she’d come to suppose that she was frigid, but so what? It would keep her safe from the fate of Colette and Colette’s mother.
Marie was shaken by that thought and by the sensual hunger she’d discovered in herself. Why, after all the years she’d repressed such feelings, had quiet, gentlemanly Andrew Preston awakened them? A man with whom she had no chance. No. None at all.
Chapter Seven
The next morning Marie dressed in one of her short-sleeved blouses with a ruffled front and her best nonuniform shorts, blue-and-white seersucker, with a blue belt.
She walked a mile to the bus stop, and once aboard, she stared out at the rolling countryside. The irrigated vineyards were green, but much of the land was browned and yellowed by drought, and she could see a smudge of smoke along the Koongarra Tops.
In Scone, the morning heat was already burning, and the sultry breezes whirled dust through the air. She walked to the library, got herself a card and checked out four books, a cookbook of gourmet desserts, two collections of poetry and a volume on dealing with grief. They would fill the empty nights when she didn’t see Reynard.
She tried not to think of her uncle. He’d have his private conversation with Louisa Fairchild. Heaven only knew what Louisa wanted from him and what the outcome might be. Reynard was good company, but Marie had long suspected that he picked up spare money wherever and however he could. Did he get involved with shady dealings? She fiercely blocked the notion; it was too painful—and too possible.
She made her way to the town’s shopping district and looked in a thrift shop. She was amazed to find a half a rack of Fairchild Acre-type uniforms for both men and women. She found two informal sets that were her size, and put them into her shopping cart.
She browsed awhile more. Although she had little money, she decided to buy another secondhand outfit, a three-piece set in her size; a simple top, shorts and a nicely cut skirt. It looked nearly new, simple to care for, and was a silky apple green.
She paid and walked outside, carrying her purchases and cradling her library books in the crook of her arm. She paused on the steps of the store and set down her books, then took off her backpack, and put her new clothes inside.
A man’s voice, from behind her, startled her. “Shopping? Find what you wanted?”
She whirled and saw Andrew standing with one hip cocked. He wore freshly pressed khakis, bush shoes and a T-shirt of such dark blue it almost matched his eyes. The day was breezy, and the wind ruffled his hair so that a dark forelock danced over his brow.
“Oh,” she said, stunned. She remembered last night’s drowsy sexual fantasy and felt her cheeks turning hot. “What are you doing here?”
“Took some stuff to the cleaner’s,” he replied, tilting his head at a shop farther down the street. “I go to a lot of lunches and banquets. I keep spilling gravy on my power ties. It negates their power. I have to get their potency restored.”
I doubt if you have any trouble with potency, Marie thought, then blushed harder.
“That’s all?” she asked, not believing he was really there.
“Nope,” he answered with a one-sided smile. “I’ve got to buy some stuff to take back to Lochlain. Are you through shopping?”
She forced herself to give a lighthearted shrug. “Almost. I have to go to the grocery store. Check it out and buy a few things.”
“That’s where I’m headed,” he said, squinting into the distance. “It’s a long way. Why don’t you let me drive you?”
Oh, yes, yes, yes! shouted her emotional side.
No, no, and no again! warned her rational side. He asked yesterday if he could bring me here. Did he follow me? Somehow figure out how to meet me?
Her cynical side scolded, You’re daft. Why would he bother? He said he was coming this way this morning. We met by accident, not design.
“Well,” she said half-reluctantly, “if you really have to go…”
“I do. But it’s hot. Want to get a cold tea or lemonade? There’s a tea shop over there. Isn’t it time for morning tea or, what do they call it—smacko or something?”
“Smoke-oh,” she corrected, smiling. “Yes, that’s what workers call the morning break. “They have tea or coffee—or a smoke.”
“Okay,” he said with a serious nod. “You’ve taught me something. So let’s have a smoke-oh across the street. And then get on with business.”
No, her mind told her. Yes. Shouldn’t do it. Not at all. But maybe…
“Certainly,” she said in her most business-like tone. “But I’ll need to be quick about it.”
“I’ll carry your books,” he said, scooping them up from the steps.
Andrew thought, Am I ruthless? A stalker? Has political work paid off—I now talk out of both sides of my mouth?
But they were in the tearoom, a quaint place with dozens of framed etchings of Thoroughbreds on the walls and horse brasses decorating the side beams. She ordered lemonade and he had iced tea.
Once again he had to search for something to say. She had a way of befuddling his usually quick and careful powers of speech. At last he said, “I hear Louisa’s leaving for London soon.”
“So she said,” Marie replied amiably enough. “But I haven’t the foggiest why.”
“A foal, my cousin says,” Andrew told her. “A descendent of one of her great mares, Secret Heiress. If she likes what she sees, she’ll buy it.”
“I wonder when she’ll be back.”
“This is Louisa we’re talking about. She’ll come back when she chooses. Who knows?”
Marie made no answer, so he gazed at the spines of her books, which he’d set on the table top. He looked at a title and frowned. “Gourmet desserts? I thought you already knew all about cooking.”
“Do you know all about horses?” she asked with a mischievous smile.
“No,” he admitted. “I’m still learning.”
“So am I,” she said. “Miss Fairchild has a sweet tooth. I need to learn more about her favorite types of desserts, give her some variety.”
“You’re very solicitous,” he said, not knowing what to think of her. She seemed too sincere and unaffected to be trying to cozy up to Louisa for her own advantage.
He looked at the last book. Dealing with the Death of a Loved One. He paused. “You got this one out because of your mother?”
She stared at the tablecloth. “Yes.”
“You and she were…close?”
“Extremely.” She still didn’t look at him. “Listen. I need to say this.” She took a deep breath. “That night in the parking lot when I cried? It wasn’t because of that idiot busboy. My mother was…very ill. That’s why I broke down. I’m so sorry about that—it must have been very embarrassing for you. But I—” She struggled to keep from faltering and almost succeeded. “She died only a few hours later.”
His heart twisted for her. She’d been so brisk and efficient and poised inside the restaurant. How had she hidden her fears so well? She must have been sick with worry the whole night.
“I’m sorry. Do you have brothers and sisters to help you through this?”
“No. I just have Reynard.”
He examined her. This lovely, valiant little creature had only one living relative? He said, “That must be hard. I can
’t imagine life without a big family. I miss mine all the time. My brothers, my sister, my folks, my granddad.” He paused, then asked, “Your father’s gone, too?”
She looked him straight in the eyes and said, “He never married my mother. He didn’t want a child, and I never knew him. He died when I was five.”
He gazed at her, astonished by her frankness, her matter-of-fact air. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.
She gave him a philosophical smile. “Thanks, but you don’t have to be. We did fine without him. Let’s talk about something else. What made you want to run for Federation president? It sounds like a hard job to get and then even harder once you’ve got it. You’ll have to keep most people happy, and they’re all going to want a piece of you. No matter what you do, someone will be mad.”
He stole another look at her. She was astute, all right. And she’d deftly changed the subject from herself. Still, she looked truly interested in what he had to say. He took a swig of his tea, wishing it were a whiskey and soda.
“There are causes I believe in strongly,” he began. “One’s equine health. There’s too much irresponsible breeding. Treating horses like commodities, not living creatures like us that can feel pain, catch diseases, have needless accidents… There’s a serious problem with overbreeding—and too much chasing after money.”
The more he talked, the more closely she seemed to listen, until he realized he’d been speaking almost ten minutes, and he’d been serious as a judge and earnest as a preacher. “I—I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I sound like I’m stumping for votes. But I really believe in what I say.”
“I can tell,” she said, gazing at him with something like approval. “Mrs. Lipton says you’re taking a strong stand on gambling reform.”
He let a harsh sigh escape from between his teeth. “Where there’s gambling, there’s crime. And crime, like wolves, tends to travel in packs. You have bookies and offshore betting and expensive horses. You get money-laundering. I read a report—shady business may account for as much as twenty per cent of today’s economy.”
He paused. “So, yeah, we’ve got some pretty dirty people and some pretty dirty business trying to muscle in on ours. It’s time to clean up.”
She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. “Aren’t you afraid?”
“Not for me,” he said, and meant it. He knew danger, lots of it, could come with a run for the presidency. “For my family. That’s another matter. The arson? Tyler was threatened before I ever got there.”
“Isn’t he scared?”
“Somebody began threatening his best horse months ago. He won a race nobody expected him to win. Made him some enemies of his own. It’s a high-stakes world. And sometimes the stakes are more than money. I hope my staying with him doesn’t make him a target again.”
She cocked her head and stared at him in disbelief. “And you just calmly sit there and talk about it, like it’s the weather.”
Good God, was that admiration in her look? Or did she just think he was crazy? His heart did a wild, dangerous cartwheel. “I’ve talked too much. Let’s go hit the grocery store.”
Soon they were doing the most ordinary of tasks, each rolling a cart through the Coles store in the mall. Andrew had a short list from the cook, and Marie bought only a few items, fresh raspberries, sliced almonds, grapes, a large turkey and sausage spices. But Andrew saw that she was expertly casing the joint. She looked over almost every category of food, making notes in a small spiral notebook.
“What are you—a spy?” he joked.
She gave him a startled look.
He said, “I mean some kind of professional comparison shopper? All those notes?”
“I—I just have to know what’s available and how fresh the produce is,” she stammered. “I’ll eventually have to do some of the shopping.”
He smiled and shook his head. She was a thorough pro, as observant and businesslike and efficient as a rising young executive.
“Miss Fairchild’s difficult to please?” he asked, wondering how honestly she’d answer.
“She is. She compliments me in backhanded ways, but she doesn’t seem to like me. I’m not sure why.”
“That makes two of us. She doesn’t even want to see me.”
“Well, she’s very moody of late, Mrs. Lipton told me.” She paused and nipped at her full underlip in a way that made him want to taste her mouth, explore its softness. She shook her head and murmured, as if to herself, “I shouldn’t talk about her. She’s my employer.”
“I shouldn’t have asked,” he replied. “I didn’t mean to pick your brain about her. By the way, do you want to check out any of the other markets? I’ll be glad to take you.”
“No, thanks. I can’t let you do that. I’ll come another time. You must have things to do.”
“Not until the afternoon,” he said. “There’s a tea in Maitland I’ve got to go to. Besides, you’ve got a lot of bags to wrestle. Ride back with me. It’ll be a lot easier than the bus.”
She hesitated. He leaned closer, looked into those flawlessly green eyes. “Come on,” he coaxed.
She gave him a sardonic smile. “Miss Fairchild might think that I’m consorting with the enemy. I’m sorry to say that, but I have to face facts. You’re very kind, though.”
“Let me drive you to the bus stop, at least. There’s no harm in that.”
She agreed, although she had her reservations. “I suppose you have a full schedule with the election coming up,” she said, fastening her seat belt. “A lot of engagements.”
“Enough,” he said without enthusiasm. “I have to go to Sydney for the next few days—if we can get there. There’s a lot of trouble there. Riots. Sabotage. All over APEC, and it looks like it’s getting worse. After that, it’s back to Tyler’s. And then I really hit the road. I see Oz from coast to coast.”
“Sounds grueling,” she said.
“Absolutely,” he agreed. “I’m no raconteur and entertainer like Jacko. And lately I feel off my game. Like the fire in the belly doesn’t burn hot enough. I think I’m coming across as too stiff, too dull compared to him.” He paused and cast her a curious glance. “You ever see me on television?”
She looked almost guilty. “Well—yes. I’ve seen you a few times.”
He cocked his head. “Well, what did you think? Don’t be afraid to give it to me straight.”
She drew a deep breath, deciding if he wanted honesty, she’d give it to him. “You don’t come across the way you do in person. It’s hard to know who or what you are on television.”
He frowned slightly, looking puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“A lot of times you come across as so measured, so studied. Mr. McPerfect.”
“I’m not perfect,” he said with a wry smile. “I assure you.”
“Nobody is,” she replied. “But on the telly, you seem perfect. Or like you’re trying to be. So completely controlled. Maybe too controlled. You don’t talk the way you talked in the tea shop. So if I only knew you from that, the face you show the public, I’d wonder who’s the real Andrew Preston.”
Darci had hinted at the same thing. He came across as serious and deliberate, sometimes too much so. He’d been the eldest son, the one who was supposed to set the example, carry on the Preston tradition and his father’s high standards.
What Marie said brought the simple truth home to him. “I don’t want to make any mistakes,” he said, almost to himself.
“Maybe it’s a mistake to be afraid of mistakes,” she offered. “Holding yourself in for the sake of—of decorum or something.”
She smiled. “You were plenty eloquent in the tearoom. If you speak half that well every place else, you’ll be great. Maybe you should pretend you’re talking to just one person. Forget about crowds and cameras.”
Damn! he thought. It was old advice, but good advice that he’d forgotten, and she reminded him of it when he needed to hear it the most. Her words were like a pleasant wave of cool, blue water wa
shing over him. And he knew he wanted to see her again.
“I’d like to take you to tea again,” he said, his heart jarring his rib cage. “Maybe on your next day off.”
“That might not be wise. Miss Fairchild has mixed emotions about me. And quite strong ones about you. It makes me feel as if you and I come from warring houses.”
Like Romeo and Juliette, he thought. And he remembered what had happened to those two.
“I understand,” he said.
But he didn’t accept it. He couldn’t. And wouldn’t.
Hot and dusty, tired by her walk from the bus stop, Marie was glad to reach Fairchild Acres. She put away the groceries she’d bought and gave Mrs. Lipton the bill.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Lipton putting her hand to her breast, “you didn’t have to spend your morning shopping. You should take time from your workday to do that. I’m sure you can use the truck to carry back supplies. You mustn’t take the bus.”
“I just wanted to look over what’s available,” Marie said. She didn’t mention Andrew Preston and wondered what would have happened if she’d driven up to Louisa’s gates with him.
She excused herself and went to her room to put her books and clothes away. Suddenly, in the little room that was still strange to her, a pang of loneliness pierced her, and for the first time since she’d been at Fairchild Acres, she let herself get misty over Colette. The way Andrew spoke about his family made her lonely for her mother and homesick for a home that would never again be complete.
The phone rang, and she was pleased to hear Reynard’s voice. He asked her if he could pick her up and take her to The Secret Heiress again that night—they ought to get together and have a good chin-wag, he said.
She agreed. Then, keeping on her white shirt and seersucker shorts, she went to the house to eat. She’d made the lunch the night before: a country chicken and veggie casserole with coleslaw.
Upstairs Louisa and her guests would dine on this, as well. So far Marie had heard no negative reviews from Louisa about the humbler fare—could she actually be happier with the simpler food? Or was this just another of her whims?
The Secret Heiress Page 9