by Vicki Tyley
FATAL LIAISON
Vicki Tyley
Copyright 2011 Vicki Tyley
All rights reserved
Other titles by Vicki Tyley:
THIN BLOOD
SLEIGHT MALICE
BRITTLE SHADOWS
Visit www.vickityley.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner.
CHAPTER 1
As he listened to the second phone call from his mother, Greg Jenkins noted the increased tremor in her voice.
“Samantha still hasn’t arrived. And she’s still not answering her phone. I’m so worried. Should I call the hospitals? What—”
“Whoa. Slow down, Mum. Don’t stress out. Remember what the doctor said. Don’t worry about Sam. We all know how bad she is with time. She’d be late for her own funeral.” Greg laughed, hoping to ease his mother’s tension.
“Yes, but—”
“Please, Mum, I’m sure you’re worrying unnecessarily. Sam has—”
“Gregory, dear, I wish you wouldn’t call her that. Sam’s a boy’s name.”
“Okay, Mum.” He started again, using the name Sam herself loathed. “Samantha’s a big girl now. I’m sure she’s all right, but just to put your mind at rest I’ll go and check on her. She’s probably so wrapped up in her new man she’s forgotten she was supposed to visit you this weekend.” He laughed again.
“What new man?” The pitch of her voice rose.
Greg could almost see her gripping the phone in both hands as she waited for her eldest child to answer. Silently berating himself for opening his big mouth, he wrestled with what he could say without digging himself into a bigger hole.
“Gregory?”
“Sorry, Mum, there’s someone at the door. I’ll have to go, but I promise I’ll get Sam… Samantha to phone you as soon as I can. Now don’t get all worked up. There’s nothing to worry about, you’ll see. Bye, Mum.”
He hung up, sucked in a deep breath and slowly released it. There was no one at the door but at short notice, it was the only thing he could think of to get out of what would’ve been the inevitable interrogation. His sister needed her butt kicked for letting down their mother like that. Sam, of all people, knew how over-protective their mother was, more so since Sam divorced her no-hoper of a husband and moved to Melbourne.
Greg picked up the phone again, and pressed the two buttons that would dial his sister’s home phone a suburb away. As he waited for the call to connect, he wandered through the house into the kitchen. The phone started ringing. Cradling it between his chin and shoulder, he filled the kettle. The phone rang out, which was good. It probably meant Sam was en route to their mother’s place. Maybe she’d been unlucky enough to end up with a flat tire or broken down. It was bound to be something as simple as that.
The kettle boiled as he tried Sam’s mobile number. It too went unanswered, but at least this time Greg was able to leave a message. He looked at his watch. He’d give her half an hour and if she hadn’t called him back by then, he would have to think of what else he could do to try to track her down. Younger sisters, who’d have them?
Twenty minutes later, he’d emptied the coffee pot and finished off the best part of a packet of shortbread biscuits without realizing it. His mother’s anxiety had started to rub off on him. He didn’t wait the half hour out. Instead, he reached for the phone and dialed Sam’s mobile first and then her home again, ending up with exactly the same results as before. No answer at either.
Had it been a Freudian slip when he’d inadvertently mentioned the new man in Sam’s life to his mother? Greg knew nothing about the guy except he was, in Sam’s words, “tall, dark, and drop-dead gorgeous.” He didn’t even know the guy’s name. What he did know was that Sam had met him through one of those agencies that specialized in dinner dating. Dinners for the desperate and dateless. He found the whole concept repugnant, but his sister had assured him that all was civilized and above board. He’d taken those assurances at face value, happy she was making an effort to get on with her life.
CHAPTER 2
Megan Brighton peered around the edge of her menu, flinching as her eyes met the ginger-mustached man’s stare across the table. What a sad lot her dinner companions were. Even the strained smiles pasted on the majority of faces at the table did little to lighten the atmosphere.
“So what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” asked the man seated on her right, before laughing.
She groaned inwardly. Why’d she allowed herself to be talked into this? She didn’t belong there. She was single because she chose to be. A single, professional career woman. Well, at least that’s what she told anyone who cared to listen, including herself.
“I’m not sure,” she said, her gaze not shifting from her menu. “It’s not quite what I’d imagined.” If it hadn’t been for Brenda, Megan knew she would have scarpered as soon as she caught sight of the ten or so white-tableclothed tables arranged around the room, each set for a dozen diners. From the company’s blurb, she’d been expecting to be one of “twelve carefully matched diners” eating at your standard everyday restaurant with normal people. Where she’d ended up looked more like a function centre, reminiscent of a wedding reception. The only difference was a lack of bride and groom, and the guests weren’t related by blood or marriage. Or at least she hoped not.
A beefy hand cut through her vision. “It’s Wayne, by the way. Wayne McGurk.”
She blinked and forced a smile. “Nice to meet you, Wayne. Megan Brighton.”
“So what do you do?”
“Recruitment consultant. And you?”
Wayne puffed out his chest. “Property entrepreneur. Units, villas, townhouses, duplexes, houses, vacant land, commercial, residential. You name it. Not good to have all your eggs in one basket. The key is to buy well under market price to minimize risk. Instant equity…”
Megan’s gaze swept the table. Next to Mr Ginger Moustache, whose place tag actually named him as Robert, sat Nick, a square-jawed man with dark-rimmed spectacles. Thanks to Brenda switching place tags, Nick had to be content sitting between two males. He was looking off into the distance, his thoughts obviously further afield than the immediate table. Adam, a hollow-cheeked pasty-faced man sporting a dark goatee beard was deep in conversation with Kate who was seated at the end. The boy-girl pattern continued as it was meant to around the table.
“…investment. You have to have the gift.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Megan caught Brenda smirking. Under the cover of the tablecloth, she kicked her foot sideways and connected with her friend’s ankle. Brenda chuckled before wincing in overplayed mock pain and indignation.
A giggle bubbled in Megan’s throat. She swallowed hard. The guy with the spectacles was looking her way, a smile playing on his lips. Heat flooded her face. What the hell was she doing there?
Shielded by her menu, Megan leaned to her left and elbowed Brenda in the ribs. Her so-called best friend had cajoled her into signing up with Dinner for Twelve with the ruse that she needed her support. Had Megan believed her? Of course not. Brenda was the last person who needed any help finding a date. Men literally fell over each other in their efforts to impress her. Discounting the permanent mischievous glint in her eyes, Brenda had the face of an angel and the type of body those tiny midriff tops and low-rise jeans were specif
ically designed for.
More importantly, she exuded a warmth that men and women alike were drawn to. They’d been friends since high school and Megan, like others, found her hard to resist. So, here she was in a room full of strangers trying to put together an escape strategy that wouldn’t offend her well-intentioned friend.
Oblivious to the elbow jabbed in her ribs, Brenda turned to Megan and grinned. Brenda actually looked like she was enjoying herself. No accounting for some tastes. “Hunk alert at nine o’clock.”
“What?”
Brenda cupped her hand around the left side of her face. “Over there,” she said, holding a finger close to her cheek, but still managing to indicate the general direction of the door.
Twisting in her seat, Megan watched the man ambling across the room towards the table. At first glance, he reminded her of a younger and darker-haired version of David Bowie. But as he neared the table, she saw he didn’t possess the relaxed raffish air of the singer. Quite the opposite. He looked nervous and unsure of himself, like a five-year-old boy on his first day at school.
He reached the table and, smiling half-heartedly, moved to step around it to one of the two vacant chairs at the back. Megan glanced at the place tag. Lawson. The name appealed to her, but she would’ve expected it to be attached to a man who carried himself with more confidence, arrogance even.
In her peripheral vision, she glimpsed Brenda stretching an arm across the table in the act of swapping her place tag with the one at the still vacant chair, the one next to Lawson. Just as Megan grabbed Brenda's arm, Pauline Meyer, Dinner for Twelve’s owner-manager, arrived on the scene. With her hands resting on the vacant chair’s back, she surveyed the table and frowned. The rearranged place tags had not gone unnoticed.
With an almost imperceptible shake of the head, Pauline pulled the chair out and settled herself at the top of the table. Now it was Megan’s turn to frown. Surely this wasn’t standard practice. Did Pauline attend all the dinners?
No one had uttered a word since Lawson and Pauline had arrived. It was as if a spell had been cast and they had all been struck dumb. That suited Megan. As far as she was concerned, the less blather the better. And she wished that the man with the moustache would stop gawking at her. He sent chills up her spine. She was definitely in the wrong place. This was the first time she’d contemplated, let alone carried through, anything remotely like dinner dating, and it would be the last, Brenda or no Brenda.
A waitress, her notepad and pen poised, appeared at the table corner. The bored, deadpan expression on her face turned to irritation when she realized no one was ready to order. With an audible sigh, she turned and left. Megan empathized with her, but at least the waitress was being paid for her efforts.
She turned her attention to the menu in her hands. On cue, her stomach growled. She’d skipped lunch, expecting that dinner would more than make up for the missed sandwich.
By the time the waitress returned, taking orders as she worked her way around the table, Megan decided to bypass the entrée course, sample the uninspiring sounding Cajun chicken dish, and treat herself to something chocolate and decadent for dessert. At least that way she had something to look forward to.
Without the menu to act as a shield, she suddenly felt vulnerable. She shuffled uncomfortably in her seat, plucking at the fabric at her waistline. The clingy dress accentuated bumps she would’ve much rather hidden. It was just another of Brenda’s bright ideas. According to her, black was supposed to be slimming. Megan would’ve felt far more at ease in the tailored suits she was accustomed to. One day she would learn how to say no.
Dropping her hands into her lap, she lifted her head and straightened her back. Then, with more enthusiasm than she actually felt, she scanned the faces of her dinner companions, smiling and nodding as her gaze met each of his or hers in turn. She raised her glass of wine and was about to propose a toast – anything to break the ice – when all heads swiveled in unison in the direction of the large double doors that led into the room. Biting her bottom lip, Megan managed to suppress the chuckle welling in her throat. Her dinner companions, especially the males, reminded her of the old laughing clowns sideshow attraction with round gaping mouths. Her eyes automatically followed their stares, but she made sure she kept her mouth firmly closed.
The woman sashaying across the polished wooden floorboards, although diminutive in stature, would never go unnoticed. She teetered atop high heels, the muscles in her bare, slender calves elongating in her effort to stay upright. With every step, the thigh-high split in her black skirt flashed a provocative patch of naked skin. And if that weren’t enough for the poor love-starved – or rather sex-starved – men desperate enough to join a dating agency, there was the plunging neckline that almost reached her navel.
As she neared the table, the newcomer tilted her head and pursed her ruby-red lips into a coquettish smile, before glancing at Lawson from beneath her dark eyelashes. Even in the low light the effect was dramatic. Lawson immediately blushed, a small smile tweaking the corners of his mouth. He lowered his gaze to the tabletop and twiddled with the stem of his wine glass.
Mata Hari, as Megan mentally christened the raven-haired woman, skimmed past Pauline to the vacant chair next to Lawson. Before she took her place at the table, Mata Hari laid her hand on Lawson’s shoulder, bending down to whisper into his ear. Her lips couldn’t have been any closer to his ear without touching. If Lawson had been red before, he was now positively glowing.
Megan shook her head. The depths some women would sink to never ceased to amaze her. But then it suddenly occurred to her that perhaps they already knew each other, that this wasn’t their first meeting. But if that were the case, what were they doing at a dinner meant for singles? Her eyes dropped to the place tag reserving Mata Hari’s spot at the table and read “Linda.” Quite a letdown after Mata Hari. Linda and Lawson? They say opposites attract. She lifted her eyes from the place tag only to meet Mata Hari’s, or rather Linda’s, amused gaze. It was now Megan’s turn to blush.
“Linda. Linda Nichols.”
Megan accepted the hand extended across the table. “Hi Linda. I’m Megan Brighton.” She extracted her hand, and gestured to her left. “And this is my friend Brenda.”
At the mention of her name, Brenda immediately snapped out of her trance and nodded across the table. “Brenda De Luca. Is this your first time?” Her eyes shifted slightly to the left. “And you, Lawson? Is this your first time?”
Megan gave a small frown. Her friend was never one to be shy, but even she was taken aback by Brenda’s bluntness. However, she waited in anticipation for their answers.
“Sadly, no. Mr Right has yet to sweep me off my feet,” Linda said with a light tinkly laugh. “But maybe,” she paused, running a long manicured fingernail down Lawson’s shirtsleeve, “tonight’s my lucky night.”
It was at that moment Pauline interjected. “Lawson, there’s some people I’d like you to meet.” She tapped his hand, pushed her chair back and rose to her feet. “Come with me.” With a smug grin, she turned to the table. “Carry on. We’ll be back shortly.”
Megan sympathized with the clearly bewildered man. How could she not? Except for ordering his dinner, and that’d been done in not much more than a whisper, Lawson had not uttered one word. Pulled in all directions, he appeared powerless to do anything about it.
Pauline had Lawson’s elbow firmly in her grip as she propelled him in the direction of the foyer. The woman in all her wisdom might have considered it a rescue mission on her part, but Lawson obviously didn’t see it that way. He kept glancing over his shoulder back at the table. The drooping jaw, twisted mouth and wide eyes spoke volumes. He really had no idea what was happening.
As Pauline and Lawson disappeared from sight, Megan turned to Brenda. “Poor bugger. When I first saw him, I was mystified why someone with looks like that would need a dating agency. But he’s just so painfully shy.” Megan picked up her wine and took a tentative sip, swilling it
around her mouth.
Brenda flicked her eyes in Linda’s direction. “Doesn’t help when you have women like her digging their claws in,” she hissed under her breath.
Megan nearly choked on her drink. She glanced at Linda who, oblivious to Brenda’s catty comment, was using all her wiles on Mr Ginger Moustache. He was lapping up the attention, his eyes focused on her cleavage. That suited Megan fine. If he was salivating over Mata Hari, he wouldn’t be bothering her. Taking another mouthful of wine, she wondered again about what had possessed her to sign up with a dinner dating agency.
The time between ordering dinner and the first courses coming out was taking forever. Megan had drunk more wine than she should’ve on an empty stomach and now started to feel a little light-headed. And besides, she really needed to pee. Wayne was still talking flat out, plainly unaware he’d lost her attention way back. She doubted he had stopped long enough to take a breath.
“…bridging finance. Turned it over in three months and invested the proceeds—”
“Sorry, Wayne…” Megan gathered up her handbag and pushed her chair back. “You’ll have to excuse me.” Not waiting for a response, she bolted for the ladies’ toilets.
She’d just stepped into the quiet and still of the white-tiled restroom when Brenda came barreling after her, swinging the door so hard it connected with the doorstop with an almighty crash.
Megan made a beeline for the nearest cubicle without a second thought for her friend’s dramatic entrance. It didn’t surprise her; Brenda swept through life like a hurricane. Just watching her was enough to exhaust Megan. Keeping up with her was certainly out of the question.
“Thought you could make a quick getaway without me noticing, eh?” Brenda’s cheeky laughter reverberated around the room. “No such luck, girlfriend.”
“How did I let you talk me into this again?” Not waiting for a reply, Megan stepped into the cubicle and snibbed the door behind her.