The Girl he Never Noticed

by Lindsay Armstrong

  Liz stiffened, but as she looked up into his face in the moonlight she suddenly knew she couldn’t resist him. She raised her hand tentatively and touched her fingertips to the little lines beside his mouth—something she realised she’d wanted to do for ever, it seemed. Just as she’d wanted to be drawn to the flame of this tall, dangerously alive, incredibly exciting and tempting man for ever…

  He turned his head and kissed her fingers, ran his hands up and down her back, then down to the flare of her hips. She breathed raggedly as her whole body came alive with delicious tremors.

  He bent his head and started to kiss her.

  Some minutes later, he picked her up and carried her to the swing seat, sat down with her across his lap.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said then, ‘but I’ve been wanting to do this for some time. And so have you, I can’t help feeling. Maybe that’s all we should think of?’ And he cupped her cheek lightly.

  Liz was arrested, with her lips parted, her eyes huge. And if she thought she’d been affected by him on a hot Sydney pavement, in his car, in his office, in his veranda room it was nothing to the mounting sensations she was experiencing now, in his arms.

  She could literally feel her body come alight where it was in contact with his. She felt, to her astonishment, a primitive urge to throw her arms round his neck and surrender her mouth, her breasts, her whole body to him, to be played in whatever key he liked. But what she would really like, she knew, would be for him to mix his keys. To be gentle, although a little teasing, to be strong when she needed it, to be in charge when she was about to explode with desire—because she just knew he could do that to her…make her ignite.

  She groaned and closed her eyes, and when she felt his mouth on hers she did put her arms around his neck and draw him closer.

  He did just as she’d wished, as if he’d read her mind. He ran his fingers through her hair, then down her neck and round her throat, and that was nice. It made her skin feel like silk. But when he slipped his hand beneath her jumper and beneath her bra strap it was more than nice. It was exquisite. And tremors ran up and down her because it was almost too much to bear.

  As if he sensed it, he removed his hand and stopped kissing her briefly to say, ‘This can be a two-way street.’

  A smile curved her lips, and she freed her hands and slid them beneath his shirt.

  It was glorious, she found. A glorious warmth that came to her as she held him close. It was a kinship that banished the lonely years—but a kinship with an exciting, dangerous edge to it, she thought. A blending of their bodies—a transference, as his hands moved on her and hers moved on him, of lovely sensations and rhythms that had to lead to the final act they both not only sought but needed desperately.

  But that was where the danger lay, she knew. Not only because of the consequences that could arise—she would never allow that to happen to her again—but could she afford the less tangible consequences? The giving of her soul into a man’s keeping with this act, only to have it brutally returned to her?

  She faltered in his arms.

  He raised his head. ‘Liz?’ Then he smiled down at her. ‘Not an Ice Queen at all. The opposite, if anything. I—’

  But he never did get to say it, because she freed herself and fell off his lap.

  ‘Liz!’ He reached for her. ‘What’s wrong?’

  She scrambled up, evading his hands and smoothing her clothes. ‘You make it sound as if I’m in the habit of doing this.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘You didn’t have to.’ She dragged her fingers through her hair.

  ‘Liz.’ He pushed himself off the swing seat and towered over her. ‘You are being ridiculous now. Look, I know you might have cause to be sensitive about what men think of you, but—’

  ‘Oh, I am.’ She retreated a few steps. ‘Sorry, but that’s me!’

  ‘Despite the fact you light up like a firecracker in my arms? No,’ he said as she gasped, ‘I’m not going to sugar-coat things between us just because you had one lousy experience.’

  ‘Sugar-coating or not, you’ll be talking to yourself. I’m going in!’ And she ran across the dew-spangled lawn and into the house.

  He made no attempt to follow her.

  The next morning she studied herself in the bathroom mirror and flinched.

  There were dark shadows under her eyes, she was pale, and she looked—not to put too fine a point on it—tormented.

  She took a hot shower and dressed in navy shorts and a white T-shirt. She didn’t even have Scout to distract her, she thought dismally, as she made coffee and poured herself a mug. But coffee would help, she assured herself as she picked up the phone that had a direct line to the house. Help her to do what she knew she had to do.

  Two minutes later she waited for Mrs Preston to put the house phone down, then she slammed hers into its cradle and wouldn’t have given a damn if it never worked again.

  She took her coffee to the kitchen table, and to her horror found herself crying again. She licked the salty tears from her lips and forced herself to sip her coffee as she wondered what to do.

  Her plan had been to offer her resignation to Cameron Hillier via the telephone, and not take no for an answer. That was not possible, however, because according to Mrs Preston he’d driven away from Yewarra last night.

  Had he left any messages? Any instructions? Had he said when he’d be back? No, no and no, had been Mrs Preston’s response. All he’d left was a note, telling her what he’d done. There’d been a puzzled note in Mrs Preston’s voice—puzzled and questioning at the same time. Liz had understood, but had had no answer for her.

  Typical of the arrogant man she knew him to be, she thought bitterly. How could he not know that with one short observation he’d made her feel cheap last night? How could he not know that, for her, when she gave herself to a man it could never be just sex? It was a head over heels, all bells and whistles affair for her. It was the way she was made and it had taken one awful lesson to teach her that.

  On the other hand, was he entitled to be angry with her? Had she overreacted?

  She paused her thoughts and got up to look out of the kitchen window. It was an overcast morning, as grey as she felt. Not only grey, but down in the dumps and…hopeless.

  What if she’d said yes? Would she have spent her life feeling as if she was treading on eggshells in case it didn’t last and he turned to some other woman? After all, despite his explanation of the situation that had developed between him and Portia Pengelly, she couldn’t help feeling a streak of sympathy for Portia.

  She also flinched inwardly because she knew herself well enough to know that she might never feel safe with a man again, despite the irrationality of it. It too was the way she was made. No half-measures for Liz Montrose, she thought grimly. Could she change?

  But even if she did there was something holding her back—something she couldn’t quite pin down in her mind. Unless…?

  She stared unseeingly out of the window and thought suddenly, Of course! It was her reputation that was troubling her so deeply. Living with a man in an informal relationship, as opposed to Scout’s father who was solidly married—could she ever feel right about that? Not so much not right, but secure in her position as the most suitable parent for Scout?

  She folded her arms around her, trying desperately to find some comfort and some solution.

  If she didn’t agree to move in with Cam Hillier, what on earth was she going to do? Walk away? Uproot Scout? Leave Archie? Go back to living with her mother—who definitely had a man in her life and was loving every minute of it, as well as her costume-designing project?

  But how could she stay…?

  She reached for the other phone, the one with an outside line, and rang Cam Hillier’s mobile. She couldn’t allow things to simply hang, but perhaps she could offer him a week’s notice so as not to destabilise his household completely?

  What she got was a recorded message advising callers that he was
unavailable and they should contact Roger Woodward if the matter was urgent. It wasn’t even his own voice. It was Roger’s.

  She pressed her lips together as she put the phone down, and thought, All right! She had no choice but to go on as usual—for the time being.

  Several days later Cam stared around his office in the Hillier Corporation’s premises and knew he was in deep trouble.

  He’d just signed the final document that had acquired him another company and he couldn’t give a damn. Worse than that, he hated the drive within him that had seen him add another burden to his life—a life that was already overburdened and completely unsatisfactory.

  He’d been more right than he knew when he’d posed that question to himself—what if a tortured Ice Queen was the one woman he really wanted and couldn’t have?

  What if?

  He’d turn into a more demented workaholic than ever. He’d turn into a monster to work for. He’d…

  He threw his pen down on the desk and ground his teeth. There had to be a way to get through to Liz. He knew now they set each other alight physically—it certainly wasn’t one-sided—but how to make her see there was so much more they could share? How to make her see he needed her?

  He shrugged and thought with amazement that Liz Montrose had planted herself in his heart probably from the moment he’d caught her climbing over his wall. That was the way it had happened, and he was helpless to change it.

  And the irony was she loved Yewarra and Archie, and Scout loved…

  He sat up suddenly. Archie and Scout—would they get through to Liz where he had failed?

  He came back with a house party.

  It was an impromptu party in that it had somehow been missed in both his office and the Yewarra diary until it was too late cancel. And Liz and Mrs Preston had only had a couple of hours and their work cut out to have everything ready for six overnight guests.

  As for her own contretemps—how she was going to face Cam Hillier—Liz had no idea. But she comforted herself with the thought that at least she could stay very much in the background, as she usually did when there were guests.

  An hour before dinner was due to be served she learnt that she was to be denied even that respite.

  She got an urgent call from Mrs Preston with the news that her offsider, Rose, who acted as a waitress, had cut her hand and wouldn’t be able to work. Could Liz hand Scout over to Daisy for the night and take her place?

  Liz breathed heavily, but she could tell from Mrs Preston’s voice that the housekeeper was under a lot of pressure. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Give me half an hour.’

  She showered, and changed hastily into a little black dress and flat shoes.

  She hesitated briefly in front of the bathroom mirror, then swept her hair back into a neat, severe pleat and applied no make-up. She thought of replacing her contact lenses with her glasses, but decided she didn’t need to go to extremes.

  Then she gathered up Scout, and everything she needed, and ran over to the big house. Archie was delighted with the unexpected change of plan, and proudly displayed the latest curiosity Cam had brought home for him: a didgeridoo that was taller than Archie himself.

  Liz glanced at Daisy, who raised her eyes heavenwards.

  ‘Problem is I can’t play it—and girls aren’t allowed to, Cam said.’ Archie suddenly looked as troubled as only he could at times.

  Liz squatted down in front of him and put an arm round him. Scout came and snuggled into her other side. She dropped light kisses on their heads. ‘It’s very hard,’ she said seriously, ‘to play a didgeridoo. You need to learn a special kind of breathing, and you need to be a bit bigger and older. So until that happens, Archie, what say we find out all about them? How they’re made, where this one may have come from, and so on.’

  Archie considered the matter. ‘OK,’ he said at last. ‘Will you help me, Liz?’

  ‘Sure,’ Liz promised. ‘In the meantime, goodnight to both of you. Sleep tight!’ She hugged them both, and to Daisy added, ‘I took them for a run through the paddock this afternoon to check out the new foals, so they should be happy to go to bed PDQ!’

  Mrs Preston was standing in the middle of the kitchen still as a statue, with her fists clenched and her eyes closed, when Liz got there.

  ‘Mrs P! What’s wrong?’ Liz flew across the tiled floor. ‘Are you all right?’

  Mrs Preston opened her eyes and unclenched her fists. ‘I’m all right, dear,’ she said. ‘It must be the late notice we got that’s making me feel a bit flustered. And, of course, Rose cutting her hand like that.’

  ‘Just tell me what to do. Between us we can cope!’ Although she sounded bright and breezy, Liz swallowed suddenly, but told herself it was no good both she and Mrs Preston going to water. ‘What delicious dishes have you concocted tonight?’

  Mrs Preston visibly took hold of herself. ‘Leek soup with croutons, roast duck with maraschino cherries, and my hot chocolate pudding for dessert. The table is set. I’ll carve the duck and we’ll serve it with the vegetables buffet-style on the sideboard, so they can help themselves. Could you be a love and check the table, Liz? Oh, and put out the canapés?’

  ‘Roger wilco!’

  The dining room looked lovely. The long table was clothed in cream damask with matching napkins, and a centrepiece of massed blue agapanthus stood between two silver-branched candlesticks.

  Liz did a quick check of the cutlery, the crystal and the china and found it all present and correct, then carried the canapé platters through to the veranda room. There were delicate bites of caviar—red and black—on toast, and anchovies on biscuits. There were olives and small meatballs on toothpicks, with a savoury sauce in a fluted silver dipping dish. A hot pepperoni sausage had been cut into circles and was accompanied by squares of cool Edam. There were tiny butterfly prawns with their tail shells still attached, so they could be dipped into the thousand island sauce in a crystal bowl.

  It was the prawns that reminded Liz of the need for napkins for the canapés. She found them, and jogged back to the veranda room—not that they were running late, but she had the feeling that the less time Mrs Preston was left alone tonight, the better.

  She deployed the napkins and swung round—to run straight into Cam Hillier.

  ‘Whoa!’ he said, and steadied her with his hands on her shoulders, as he’d done once before on a hot Sydney pavement—an encounter that seemed like a lifetime away as it flashed through Liz’s mind.

  ‘Oh!’ she breathed, and then to all intents and purposes was struck dumb, as the familiar sensations her boss could inflict on her ran in a clamouring tremor through her body.

  ‘Liz?’ He frowned, giving no indication that he was at all affected as she was. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Uh…’ She took some quick breaths. ‘Hello! I’m filling in for Rose. She had an accident—she cut her hand.’

  His gaze took in her pinned-back hair and moved down her body to her flat shoes. ‘You’re going to waitress?’

  She nodded. ‘Don’t worry,’ she assured him, ‘I don’t mind! Mrs Preston really needs a hand and—’

  ‘No,’ he interrupted.

  Liz blinked. ‘No? But—’

  ‘No,’ he repeated.

  ‘Why not?’ She stared up at him, utterly confused. He was wearing a crisp check shirt open at the throat, and pressed khaki trousers. She could smell his faint lemony aftershave, and his hair was tidy and slightly damp.

  ‘Because,’ he said, ‘you’re coming to this dinner as a guest.’

  He removed his hands from her shoulders and with calm authority reached round her head to release her hair from its pins, which he then ceremoniously presented to her.

  Liz gasped. ‘How…? Why…? You can’t… I can’t do that! I’m not dressed or anything.’ She stopped abruptly with extreme frustration. What she wore could be the least of her problems!

  ‘You are dressed.’ He inspected the little black dress. ‘Perhaps not Joseph’s amazing coat
of many colours, but it’ll do.’

  Her mouth fell open—and Daisy walked into the veranda room, calling her name.

  ‘There you are, Liz! Oh, sorry, Mr Hillier—I was looking for Liz to tell her that she was right. Both Archie and Scout are fast asleep!’

  ‘That’s great news, Daisy,’ Cam said. ‘Daisy, I have a huge favour to ask of you,’ he added. ‘We seem to be short-staffed—would you mind helping Mrs Preston out with dinner tonight? Liz was going to, but I’d like her to be a guest.’

  Daisy’s eyes nearly fell out on stalks, but she rallied immediately. ‘Of course I wouldn’t mind. But…’ She trailed off and looked a little anxiously at Liz.

  ‘I look a mess?’ Liz said dryly.

  ‘No, you don’t!’ Daisy said loyally. ‘You always look wonderful. It’s just that your hair needs a brush! I’ll get one.’ And she twirled on her heels and ran out.

  Leaving Liz confronting her employer with a mixture of sheer bewilderment and disbelief in her eyes.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked, her voice husky with surprise and uncertainty.

  ‘Because if you ever do agree to live with me, Liz Montrose, I’d rather not have it bandied about that you were once one of my kitchen staff. For your sake, that is. I don’t give a damn.’

  Five minutes later, with her hair brushed but still no reply formulated to what her boss had said to her, Liz was being introduced to the house guests as his estate manager.

  Half an hour later she was seated on his right hand, with her spoon poised to partake of Mrs Preston’s pale green leek soup that was artistically swirled with cream.

  It was going amazingly well, this dinner party that she had gatecrashed.

  The guest party comprised two middle-aged couples, a vibrant woman in her early thirties, and Cam’s legal adviser in an unofficial capacity. The talk was wideranging as the duck with its lovely accompaniment of glowing maraschino cherries was served, and Liz was gradually able to lose her slightly frozen air.

  And then the talk became localised—on horses. On breeding, racing, and buying and selling horses.