‘Wherever you go,’ he said simply, with the absolute simplicity of utter conviction, in fact.
She sprang up. ‘You’re mad!’ she said agitatedly. ‘Quite mad. Why me, and after… why me?’
‘I’m not quite sure,’ Rick said meditatively. ‘I mean, I’ve surprised myself somewhat. I generally fall for uninhibited, athletic blondes, but there’s something so very different about you. You have a pale pearl glow, but it’s mysteriously veiled as if through a mantilla—your personality as well as your beautiful body…’
‘Stop it!’ Evonne commanded hoarsely. ‘Anyway, you can’t…’
‘Oh, but I can,’ he returned mildly. ‘I’m also a seeker of the truth—comes from being a geographer, no doubt—so I’m really interested to find out who is right in this matter, you or me.’
Evonne had been pacing the room incredulously, but she stopped as if shot.
‘Ah,’ he murmured, watching her, ‘so you have wondered about that.’
‘You’re diabolical!’ she breathed, then could have shot herself.
Rick shrugged. ‘That’s the other thing I’d like to get to the bottom of, why you are the way you are. What’s so diabolical about it?’
‘You…’
‘But there’ll be no coercion, I promise,’ he overrode her. ‘Last night was a slight aberration, as I’ve mentioned and apologised for. Where are you off to, incidentally? Back to Uncle Amos’s bosom? That’s no problem for me. I’ll tell him you’ve achieved the impossible—in fact you accomplished your mission.’
‘You w-wouldn’t!’ she stammered.
‘I’d have no qualms about telling him that perhaps I ought to have a look at the business instead of rejecting it out of hand—who knows? It might even be the wise thing to do.’
‘Your book,’ whispered Evonne with the hollow, sinking certainty that she was trapped, that Rick would do exactly as he said. But it’s…unbelievable! she told herself, then glanced at him and knew it was not. Not for a man who had just spent a year of his life buried beyond the last frontier amongst often hostile, unintelligible people in the cause of a science he believed in passionately.
‘My book,’ he repeated thoughtfully. ‘Therein lies an alternative for us, Evonne.’
She sat down again and stared at him bleakly. ‘Tell me,’ she invited finally with a feeling of fatal fascination.
‘It’s too long.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘How do you know that?’
‘I’ve spent enough years doing and correcting assignments to know that it’s almost exactly seventy-five thousand words long, whereas sixty thousand is the length my publisher has in mind.’
‘Do you mean to tell me I’ve typed fifteen thousand unnecessary words?’
He grinned. ‘The problem was how to distinguish the unnecessary ones, and until it was typed…’ He looked at her ruefully.
She was silent for a time, staring at her hands. Then she said with an effort, ‘I don’t see—it is typed now, and your editor will be the best person to…’
‘No,’ he said quietly and quite definitely. ‘I’d rather you did it. You have the experience, you’ve laboured over it, from the odd things you’ve said I think it appeals to you… let us do it.’
‘Rick…’ Evonne stood up again and walked over to the windows. He stared at the slender line of her back, the chic, cool almond dress, and got up to stand behind her.
‘Let’s go to Sydney, Evonne,’ he said very quietly. ‘Sydney always makes me feel alive, I love it and I haven’t seen it for twelve months. Let’s feast ourselves on beautiful Sydney and see what comes of it.’
‘Do I have a choice?’ she whispered.
‘No. But you have the choice of at least admitting that, for whatever reason, you kissed me last night like someone… starved, drowning…’ she flinched and he lifted a hand to touch the brave green scarf on her hair ‘… someone tormented,’ he went on. ‘You can at least admit that, rather than go on being an emotional coward.’
She didn’t stir, and his hand left her hair to lie lightly on her shoulder, then he turned her to face him.
She didn’t resist, nor did she try to hide the fact that her eyes were bright with hot, stinging tears. ‘So you think you can be my psychiatrist as well as my lover?’ she said, licking the tears off her lip as they overflowed. ‘Don’t blame me when I remind you that it was your idea.’
Evonne slept quite a lot on the way to Sydney, unusual for her in aircraft, but because it was broken not only by meals but landing in Rockhampton and Brisbane, she arrived feeling like a zombie. Then Rick’s ‘beautiful Sydney’ was cloaked with thick, dark cloud and it was pouring on the ground. They had hardly talked at all since leaving Brampton.
‘I’ve booked us into the Inter-Continental,’ Rick told her in the taxi. ‘Separate rooms but next door. Do you know it?’
‘Yes. It’s rather lovely—they’ve preserved the old Treasury building for the first couple of floors. It’s also expensive.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he told her.
‘Why separate rooms?’
He glanced at her, then said deliberately, ‘My idea was not for us to sleep together in the spirit of your saying—you wanted it, you’ve got it… for what it’s worth.’
She looked out of the window at the teeming rain and suppressed a shiver. ‘It’s not worth a lot.’
Rick didn’t answer, and when she turned back to him there was a glint of anger in his green eyes. But he only said, ‘Perhaps you should let others be the judge of that.’
Evonne shrugged.
The Inter-Continental was fairly new, but Evonne had stayed there a couple of times on business trips to Sydney, and been genuinely captivated. She loved the Cortile, the foyer lounge, raised up a few steps in the middle of the restored old Treasury, surrounded by arched galleries of old pink stone and beneath a skylight dome. She loved the old lift cages, no longer in use but preserved, and the atmosphere that was reminiscent of grand hotels of bygone eras in far-flung parts of the world, crossroads where you might see the rich and famous, even infamous. She had noted on her previous stays that there always seemed to be a cross-section of the world Press staying at the Inter-Continental, drinking coffee in the Cortile and scribbling in their notebooks.
None of this, as they booked in, gave her the usual lift of spirits, and she realised she had passed from the physical discomfort of exhaustion to a state of numbness. Their rooms were on the twenty-first floor, with views over Farm Cove, the Botanical Gardens and the Harbour towards the Heads—or they would be, she knew, when the rain cleared. But the rain was heavy and steady, as heavy as her heart.
She stared at her bags and the thought of unpacking was equally heavy.
‘Don’t,’ said Rick behind her, and he walked round her to inspect her face. ‘Will you be able to sleep, do you think?’
Evonne shook her head dumbly, then made an effort. ‘I shouldn’t have danced so energetically on top of… on top of everything else. I feel as if I’m dancing again. That’s crazy, but…’
‘Then I’ve got a better idea.’ He disappeared into the bathroom and she heard the taps being run. Then he opened her fridge and inspected the mini-bar, poured two brandies and soda, more brandy than soda, and handed her one. ‘Take it into the bath with you, sip it while you soak, relax your muscles one by one—I’ve poured some bubble bath in, take your time.’
‘I’m going!’
The bath was heavenly, and she soaked for half an hour, sipping as ordered, until her eyelids began to feel heavy and she forced herself out reluctantly. She dried herself lethargically, then stopped to stare at herself in the mirror. Her loose, thick hair, usually so sleek, had curled in little tendrils about her face from the steam and her body was pink and glowing—her body that had betrayed her so completely last night that she could still feel it, still remember.
She closed her eyes and reached for the thick white towelling gown behind the door.
Rick had n
ot gone as she had half expected but was lying back on the settee with his feet up on a glass-topped table and the afternoon paper in his hands. But her bags had disappeared and the bed was turned down invitingly.
He looked up and cocked an eyebrow at her. ‘Feeling better?’
‘Yes. What…?’ Evonne looked around, mystified.
‘I unpacked for you,’ he said casually. ‘I remembered what you said about respecting your clothes, and anyway, this is my kind of hotel.’ ‘It is? I don’t see what that’s got to do with it.’
‘They have proper hangers.’
Evonne stared at him, then swung round to open the built-in wardrobe. And there were all her clothes hanging up neatly on proper hangers.
‘Underwear here,’ said Rick, opening a drawer beneath the television, ‘miscellaneous on this side.’ Miscellaneous included belts and scarves. ‘I didn’t unpack your make-up because I thought the best place for it might be the bathroom… what’s so funny?’
‘I don’t know,’ she gasped, and sat down on the side of the bed, then lay back against the pillows. ‘Sometimes you really surprise me, that’s all. Oh, I’m so tired!’
‘Will you sleep now?’ He pulled the bedclothes up and bent over her.
‘Yes, yes,’ she said drowsily. ‘I nearly fell asleep in the bath.’
‘Do you want to change into a nightgown? You have more beautiful nightgowns than I’ve ever seen before.’
‘No, I’m fine, I haven’t got the energy…’ And indeed, she found she couldn’t keep her eyes open. Not even when she felt his lips brush her brow.
‘Sleep easy, Cinderella.’
‘Goodnight.’
Nor did she know that he watched and waited until her breathing was quiet and regular and her hand, which had been curled up on the pillow, slowly relaxed and opened. If she had, she would have seen the frown in Rick’s eyes as he studied her unconscious, naked face for quite a few minutes before he quietly left.
She woke up once, very late, and lay still, getting her bearings, then finding her thoughts turning to Rick like a quiet stream that would not be diverted. A man she barely knew, she thought, then had to qualify it. Through his book, if for no other reason, I do know him, but not half as well as he seems to know me. What… what am I letting myself in for? If I can’t back out at this stage, somehow, what will… what is the only way it will ever end? The way it always does. I must think…
But sleep claimed her again, insidiously, a silent enemy with weapons she had no answer for. Rather like Rick himself, was her last thought.
CHAPTER FIVE
HER phone rang at eight-thirty, waking her.
It was Rick with the news that he had ordered breakfast for them both, it was outside her door, and could he come and eat with her?
Evonne said yes, and almost immediately a knock sounded on the door. So it was that, still clad in the towelling robe and with dishevelled hair and barely awake, she went to open the door, to be greeted by not one but two specimens of keen-eyed, shaved and alert masculinity, one of them Rick and one of them the room-service waiter, who was not only keen-eyed but extremely genial.
‘It’s a lovely day, madam,’ he said as he pushed his trolley in. ‘May I open the curtains for you? Sydney is just blooming this morning—you won’t be sorry to see it!’
‘Please do,’ Evonne smiled and he was right. There was no sign of the cloud and rain of the previous day, the waters of the Harbour were pale blue and everything else, suburbs, gardens, the hydrofoil streaking towards Manly and leaving a delicate white curved wake upon the pale blue, stood out with the extra clarity of a new, fine day.
Evonne sat on the side of the bed as the trolley was expertly converted to a table, napkins were flourished and orange juice poured, feeling slightly overcome and not altogether in tune with her surroundings or her company.
‘Drink this,’ advised Rick, handing her a glass of orange juice as the waiter finally left. ‘I know how you feel.’
‘Do you?’ She took the glass and their fingers brushed briefly.
‘For a little while after sleeping for over twelve hours, it’s almost as bad as before you went to bed. I ordered you an omelette, by the way—you must be starving.’
Evonne studied him over the top of her glass. The bruise around his eye was slightly darker, but the scratch had healed. He wore grey jeans and a green cotton-knit shirt with a white collar, open at the throat, his hair was damp and unusually tidy—and once again she was struck by the fact that he seemed younger than she was. Younger and carefree and the least likely-looking prospective Doctor of Geography she could imagine. That’s the problem with him, she mused, and drank some orange. You think he’s just another elegant young man who attracts girls like bees to a honeypot, and thoroughly enjoys it, then you run into the… other side of him. Why do I feel… so helpless?
‘Come,’ Rick said as he had before. ‘Your omelette awaits you, madam.’
Her omelette was stuffed with tiny little mushrooms and was delicious. Then he poured her coffee, and the aroma was strong, and she tilted her head back and breathed deeply and appreciatively.
‘Reckon you might live now?’ he asked with a grin.
‘Yes, but I feel such a mess.’ Evonne raised her arms and ran her hands through her hair.
‘I’m sure no one can rectify that as exquisitely as you, although your idea of a mess isn’t mine.’
‘Rick.’ She sat forward and sipped her coffee. ‘I…’
‘Why don’t we give ourselves a break today?’ he interrupted.
Evonne put the cup down and fiddled with the handle, staring at it, then lifted her dark eyes to his. ‘A break from what?’
Rick thought before he spoke, then said with an oddly intent glance, ‘Trauma, drama—that kind of thing. Too much thought or reasoning. Why don’t we just let our senses take over?’
Her fingers curled rather tightly round the delicate handle of her coffee-cup. ‘If you mean…’
‘I mean—when you’re ready and you can take all the time in the world—why don’t we wander down to Circular Quay and take the Taronga Park ferry to the Zoo? It’ll be beautiful on the Harbour, and zoos fascinate me. We could wander around slowly, have some lunch there, commune with nature, talk… about everything but us, if you prefer.’
Evonne uncurled her fingers. ‘The Zoo,’ she said softly.
A gleam lit his green eyes. ‘You like the Zoo, too?’
‘I… every year on Boxing Day we used to go to the Zoo. It was the highlight of Christmas, sometimes the whole year. We used to work ourselves into a fever pitch of excitement, and afterwards, we’d be so thoroughly overtired we’d fight and Mum would say, “Right! That’s the last time I ever take you lot to the Zoo!” But every year she came up trumps, somehow.’
She stared across the room but seeing into the past, seeing the last time she’d been to the Zoo, at fifteen and as the oldest, carrying Sandra, the baby of the family at six, awkwardly on her hip and with Sam, eight, on the other side, held by the hand in a vicelike grip because of his tendency to wander off and get lost—and a smile curved her lips.
‘Tell me,’ Rick said quietly.
She shrugged slightly. ‘We were such riffraff. Poor Mum!’
‘How many of you?’
‘Six—I was just thinking of the last time, the last Boxing Day when I was fifteen—I never went again.’
‘Why not?’
‘That was the year I lost my innocence,’ she said meditatively. ‘Oh,’ as his eyes widened, ‘not like that, that took another few years, but during that year I suddenly stopped… being a child, I guess. I began to become embarrassed by the riffraff we were, which was odd, because up until then if anyone said a word against us, I’d fight them tooth and nail. But then, that year, that was when the longing to get away, the determination not to be sucked into the poverty and the… everything else that seemed to be self-perpetuating, started to crystallise. I don’t suppose you know what it’s like to be p
oor?’ she finished.
Rick didn’t answer immediately, and the curious notion took hold of Evonne that she could see the wheels of his mind absorbing this fact about her and placing it in context. I bet he’s saying to himself—ah, that’s one reason she’s the way she is. Then again, I am…
‘No,’ he said at last. ‘And you’ve succeeded, you’ve fulfilled those fifteen-year-old dreams, obviously.’
‘Oh yes. Yes!’
‘If it’s going to be painful to go to the Zoo we could…’
‘I think I’d like nothing better than to go to the Zoo today,’ said Evonne, and smiled at him. ‘You have some very good ideas sometimes. But tomorrow…’ She stopped as something settled in her mind like a leaf falling, a silent sigh, and she knew she had given in to this battle she should be waging without a fight, put off until tomorrow what she should have done today. Why the Zoo? she wondered helplessly. How does he do it? How does he know I could have resisted just about anything but the Zoo—why can’t I resist Taronga Park Zoo? Do I think I’ll find that innocence again by going back?
‘Tomorrow?’ queried Rick with a lift of an eyebrow.
‘I think I’d better wait before I pass judgement on tomorrow,’ she told him.
‘Very wise,’ he commented. ‘Just my philosophy, in fact.’
She blinked and thought of something cutting to say, but restrained herself. ‘I’ll get ready, then,’ she said instead, and stood up.
‘I’ll leave you to it.’
She wore a pair of candy pink and white striped slacks, pink canvas espadrilles and a loose white blouse. She left her hair loose, brushed back and tucked behind her ears, and in her light canvas shoulder-bag carried only the barest of necessities—a brush, hanky, sunglasses, some money and a floppy linen hat. She couldn’t help but be aware that she looked not only younger but touristy, possibly even eager, nor for the life of her could she care.
It appeared that Rick approved of this image, because in the lift he studied her until she started to colour faintly, then drawled, ‘I like it.’ All he carried was a camera.
One More Night Page 7