The resort owned by the Wyndhams was built on colonial lines. It was spacious and cool and was right on the beach.
Holly unpacked her luggage in a pleasant room. It didn’t take her long; she was used to travelling light and had evolved a simple wardrobe that nevertheless saw her through most eventualities. She’d resisted her mother’s attempts to add to it.
She was contemplating going for a walk when she got a phone message: Mr Wyndham presented his compliments to Ms Harding; he had some time free and would like to see her in his suite in half an hour.
Ms Harding hesitated for a moment then agreed.
As she put the phone down, she felt a little trill of annoyance at this high-handed invitation but immediately took herself to task. This was business, wasn’t it?
She had a quick shower and put on jeans and a cotton blouse. But the humidity played havoc with her hair, so she decided to clip it back in order to control it.
That was when she found a surprise in her bag. Her mother had been unable to let her come to Palm Cove without some maternal input: she’d tucked in a little box of jewellery. Amongst the necklaces and bangles was a pair of very long, dangly bead-and-gilt earrings.
Holly stared at them then put them on.
Not bad, she decided, and tied her hair back.
Finally, with her feet in ballet pumps and her tote bag on her shoulder, she went to find Brett Wyndham’s suite.
It was on the top floor of the resort with sweeping views of Palm Cove. Although the sun was setting in the west behind the resort, the waters of the cove reflected the time of day in a spectrum of lovely colours, apricot, lavender and lilac.
It was a moment before she took her eyes off the panorama after a waiter admitted her and ushered her into the lounge. Then she turned to the man himself, and got a surprise.
No casual clothes this time. Today he wore a grey suit and a blue-and-white-striped shirt. Today he looked extremely formal as he talked into his mobile phone.
Merely talking? Holly wondered. Or in the process of delivering an extremely cutting dressing-down as he stood half-turned away from her and fired words rather like bullets into the phone? Then he cut the connection, threw the phone down on a sofa in disgust and turned to her with his dark eyes blazing.
Holly swallowed in sudden fright and took a step backwards. ‘Uh—hi!’ she said uncertainly. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. Maybe I’ll just go until your temper has cooled a bit.’ She turned away hurriedly.
He reached her in two strides and spun her back with his hands on her shoulders. ‘Don’t think you can walk out on me, Holly Harding.’
Holly stared up at him, going rigid and quite pale with anger. ‘Let me go!’
Brett Wyndham paused, frowned down at her then let his hands drop to his side. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly and went over to a drinks trolley. ‘Here.’ He brought her back a brandy.
‘I don’t—’
‘Holly…’ he warned.
‘All I ever seem to do is drink either champagne or brandy in your presence,’ she said frustratedly.
A faint smile twisted his lips. ‘Sit down,’ he said, and when she hesitated he added ‘Let me explain. In certain circumstances I have a very short fuse.’
‘So it would appear,’ she agreed wholeheartedly.
He pulled off his jacket. ‘Yes, well.’ He gestured towards the phone. ‘That was news that a breeding pair of black rhino—highly endangered now in Africa—has been injured in transit. I bought them from a zoo where they were patently not breeding due to stress, too small a habitat and so on.’
‘Oh,’ Holly said and sank into a chair, her imagination captured—so much so, she forgot her fright of a few minutes ago. ‘Badly injured? In a road accident or what? A road accident,’ she answered herself. ‘That’s why you were informing the person on the other end of the phone—’ she glanced over at his mobile phone lying on the sofa opposite ‘—that he must have got his driving licence out of a cornflake packet. Amongst everything else you said.’
Brett Wyndham grinned fleetingly. ‘Yes. But no, not badly injured. All the same, their numbers are shrinking at such an alarming rate, it’s a terrifying thought, losing even two. And it only adds to their stress.’
‘I see.’ She frowned. ‘Not that I see where I come into it. Are you trying to tell me that when your short fuse explodes anyone within range is liable to cop it?’
‘It’s been known to happen,’ he agreed. ‘However, there was a grain of truth in what I said. By the way, your hair looks nice. But I have an aversion to long, dangly earrings.’
Holly raised her eyebrows. ‘Why?’
He said, ‘A girl invited me home for dinner once. I arrived on time with a bunch of flowers and a bottle of wine. She opened the door. She had her hair all pulled back and all she wore were long dangly earrings, high heels and a G-string.’ Holly gasped.
‘Exactly how I reacted,’ he said gravely. ‘Only I dropped the flowers as well.’
‘What did you do then?’ Holly was now laughing helplessly.
‘I was younger,’ he said reflectively. ‘What did I do? I suggested to her that maybe she was putting the cart before the horse.’
‘Oh no! What did she do?’
‘She said that if all she’d achieved was to bring to mind a cart horse—not what I’d meant at all—she was wasting her time, and she slammed the door in my face. Of course, I’ve often wondered whether it didn’t fall more into a “looking a gift horse in the mouth” scenario or “horses for courses”.’
‘Don’t go on!’ Holly held a hand to her side. ‘You’re making me laugh too much.’
‘The worst part about it is I often find myself undressing women with long, dangly earrings to this day—only mentally, of course.’
‘Oh, no!’ Holly was still laughing as she removed her earrings. ‘There. Am I safe?’
He took his tie off and unbuttoned his collar as he studied her—rather acutely—and nodded. ‘Yes.’ He paused and seemed to change his mind about something. ‘OK. Shall we begin?’
Holly felt her heart jolt. ‘The interview?’
‘What else?’ he queried a little dryly.
‘Nothing! I mean, um, I didn’t realize you wanted to start tonight—but I’ve made some notes that I brought with me,’ she hastened to assure him and reached for her bag.
He sat down. ‘Where do you want to start?’
She drew a notebook from her tote and a pen. She nibbled the end of the pen for a moment and a subtle change came over her.
She looked at Brett Wyndham meditatively, as if sizing him up, then said, ‘Would you like to give me a brief background-history of the family? I have researched it, but you would have a much more personal view, and you may be able to pinpoint where the seeds of this passion you have for saving endangered-species came from.’
‘Animals always fascinated me,’ he said slowly. ‘And growing up on a station gave me plenty of experience with domestic ones, as well as the more exotic wild ones—echidnas, wombats and so on. I also remember my grandmother; she was renowned as a bush vet, although she wasn’t qualified as one. But she always had—’ he paused to grin ‘—a houseful of baby wallabies she’d rescued, or so it seemed to me anyway. She used to hang them up in pillow slips as if they were still in their mother’s pouch.’
‘So how far back does the Wyndham association with Far North Queensland go…?’
An hour later, Brett glanced at his watch and Holly took the hint. She put her pen and notebook back into her tote, but she was satisfied with their progress. Brett had given her an insight into how the Wyndham fortune had been built, as well as a fascinating insight into life on cattle stations in the Cape York area in the early part of the twentieth century—gleaned, he told her, from his grandmother’s stories and diaries. And he’d included a few immediate-family anecdotes.
‘Thank you,’ she said warmly. ‘That was a really good beginning. It’s always important to be able to set the
scene.’ She drained her brandy. ‘And I’ll try not to require any more medicinal brandy for our next session.’
He stood up and reached for his jacket. ‘I’m sorry; I have a dinner to attend, but you’re welcome to use the resort dining-room on us.’
Holly slung her bag on her shoulder. ‘Oh no, but thank you. I was planning to wander down the waterfront and indulge in a thoroughly decadent hamburger at one of the cafés, then an early night. We are still flying to Haywire early tomorrow, I take it?’
‘Yes. I plan to leave here at nine sharp. I’ll pick you up at Reception.’ He hesitated and frowned.
Holly studied him. ‘Are you having second thoughts?’ she queried.
‘No. But you’re good,’ he said slowly. ‘Especially for one so young.’
‘Good?’ She looked puzzled.
‘You seem to have the art of putting a person at ease down to a fine art.’
‘Thank you,’ Holly murmured. ‘Why do I get the feeling you don’t altogether approve, though?’ she added.
‘Could you be imagining it?’ he suggested with a sudden grin, and went on immediately, ‘I am running late now; I’m sorry…’
‘Going; I’m going!’ Holly assured him and turned towards the door. ‘See you tomorrow.’
But, even though he was running late, Brett Wyndham watched her retreating back until she disappeared. Then he walked out on to the terrace and stared at the moon and the river of silver light it was pouring onto the waters of the cove.
She’d been right, he reflected. He wasn’t entirely approving of her skills as an interviewer. She did have an engaging, relaxing way with her. She did also have an undoubted enthusiasm for, and a lively curiosity about, his story and that of his family and its history. Not that he’d told her anything he hadn’t wanted to tell her, nor did he have any intention of exposing the dark secret that lay behind him.
But was she capable of digging it out somehow?
Or, in other words, had he unwittingly put himself into a rather vulnerable situation because he’d underestimated a leggy twenty-four-year old who intrigued him?
For some reason his thoughts moved on to the little scene that had played out when she’d first arrived in his suite, and how she’d reacted when he’d stopped her walking out. She’d been genuinely frightened and angry at the same time. She had told him she’d got her fingers burnt once and it was still with her. He had to believe that now. He also had to believe it had pulled him up short, the fact that he’d frightened her.
All the same—call it all off and send her home? Or deliberately shift the focus to the project he really wanted to publicize, as had been his original intention?
He shrugged and went out to dinner with his brother, his sister, his sister-in-law-to-be and several others. He was unaware that his ex-fiancée would be one of the party.
Holly had her hamburger, and was strolling along the beach side of the road opposite the fabulous restaurants of Palm Cove, when she stopped as Brett Wyndham caught her attention.
He was with a party of diners at an upmarket restaurant that opened onto the pavement and had an amazing old melaleuca tree growing in the middle of it. It was not only an upmarket restaurant, it was a pretty upmarket party of diners, she decided. One of the women was his sister, Sue Murray, looking lovely in turquoise silk with pearls in her ears and around her neck. Two of the other women were exceptionally sleek and gorgeously dressed, one a stunning redhead, the other with a river of smooth, straight blonde hair that Holly would have given her eye teeth for.
It looked to be a lively party as wine glasses glinted beneath the lights and a small army of waiters delivered a course.
After her initial summing-up of the party, Holly turned her attention back to Brett and felt that not so unexpected frisson run through her. She frowned. Was she getting used to the effect his dark good looks and tall physique had on her? She certainly wasn’t as annoyed about it as she’d been only a few days ago.
But there was something else to worry about now, she acknowledged. Ever since she’d left his suite she’d been conscious of a sense of unease. Was she imagining it, or had he rather suddenly developed reservations about the interview?
No, it wasn’t her imagination, she decided. Something had changed. Had she asked too many questions?
She shook her head and went back to watching Brett Wyndham, only to be troubled by yet another set of thoughts. How would she feel if he pulled out of the interview? How would she feel if she never saw him again?
Her eyes widened at the chill little pang that ran through her at the thought, leaving her in no doubt she would suffer a sense of loss, a sense of regret. If that was the case for her now, after only a few brief encounters, how dangerous could it be to get to know Brett Wyndham better?
CHAPTER FOUR
HOLLY decided to go for a swim as dawn broke over Palm Cove the next morning.
She put on her swimsuit, a pretty peasant blouse and a skimpy pair of shorts. She laid out the clothes she would wear after her swim and looked at her luggage, all neatly packed. The only thing that wasn’t quite neat and tidy in her mind was, which way would she go when she left Palm Cove? Out to Haywire, or back to Brisbane?
She collected a towel from the pool area and walked through the quiet resort to the beach.
There was a sprinkling of early-morning walkers and swimmers and, even so early, a feel of the coming heat of the day on the air.
She hesitated then opted to go for a walk first.
Palm Cove—most of Far North Queensland, for that matter—didn’t offer blinding white sand on its beaches, although its off-shore islands might. What you got instead was sand that resembled raw sugar but it was clean, and towards the waterline, firm.
What also impressed her was that from further down the beach you would not have known Palm Cove was there, thanks to the height limitations put on the buildings and the trees that lined the beach.
She strode out and reviewed her dilemma as she did so. If she did go back to Brisbane off her own bat—assuming she wasn’t sent back, and she had the feeling it wasn’t impossible for that to be on the cards—how would she handle it? She would have to confess to Glenn and her mother that she’d been unable to handle the Wyndham interview, and she would go back to travel reporting with a sense of relief.
If she did get sent back, though, she’d have to confess that she must have pressed some wrong buttons with Brett Wyndham.
In either case, she would not even contemplate the fact that at times Brett Wyndham fascinated her mentally and stirred her physically, probably more than any man had done. Well, she could tell herself that, anyway.
It would be true to say she was still on the horns of a dilemma when she got back to her towel. She shrugged frustratedly, dropped her top and shorts on it and waded into the water. It was heavenly, refreshing but not cold, calm, buoyant; when it was up to her knees, she dived in and swam out energetically.
After about ten minutes, she swam back to where she could stand and floated on her back, feeling rejuvenated—cleansed, even—as if she’d experienced a catharsis and could put the whole sorry business behind her one way or another.
‘Morning, Holly.’
She sank, swallowed some water and came up spluttering. Brett Wyndham, with his dark hair plastered to his head, was standing a few feet away from her, his tanned shoulders smooth and wet.
‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded, somewhat indistinctly, through a fit of coughing.
He looked around. ‘I thought it was a public beach.’
‘Of course it is!’ She felt for the bottom with her toes. ‘I mean—it doesn’t matter.’
‘Have I done something to annoy you?’ he queried gravely.
Holly lay back in the water and rippled it with her fingers. Then she sat up and flicked her gaze from the strong brown column of his throat, from his sleek outline, and eyed a line of opal-pale clouds above, then their reflection on the glassy surface of the sea. ‘I thou
ght it might be the other way round.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Why?’
‘I thought—I thought you were having second thoughts last night.’
She moved a few steps towards the beach, then something swirled in the water next to her; she jerked away and fell over with a cry of fright.
‘Holly!’ Brett plunged to her side and lifted her into his arms. ‘What was it? Are you hurt?’
‘I don’t know what it was. I don’t think I’m hurt, though. I just got a fright!’
‘OK.’ He carried her up the beach and put her down on her towel. ‘Let’s have a look.’
He could find no wound on her feet or legs and he looked patently relieved.
Holly sat up. ‘What could it have been?’
‘It could have been a stingray.’
She stared at him round-eyed. ‘That could have been fatal!’
He smiled. ‘Not necessarily, not in your feet and legs, but it can take a long time to heal.’
Holly allowed a long breath to escape. ‘So, a serpent in paradise, you could say.’
‘Mmm… breakfast?’
‘No. Uh, no, but—’
‘Come and have it with me.’ He stood up.
Holly stared up at him. He wore a colourful pair of board shorts; as she’d always suspected, his physique was outstanding: not an ounce of excess weight and whipcord muscles. There was only one way to describe it: he was beautifully proportioned. Tall, lean, strong as well as dark, and pirate-like—altogether enough to set her pulses fluttering.
She swallowed and realized she was on the receiving end of his scrutiny. His dark gaze lingered on her legs, her waist and the curve of her breasts beneath the fine lycra of her costume, as well as the pulse beating at the base of her throat. She found herself feeling hot and cold as her nipples peaked visibly.
The Shy Socialite Page 5