by Margaret Way
Ruefully, it dawned on Isabelle she could be the moth drawn to the flame if she didn’t watch herself. She let a settling moment go by. “So how are you going to protect me and from what?” she asked.
“We don’t know yet.” His tone was serious.
“Oh, Bruno, stop that!” she implored. “I’m Isabelle Martin. My whole life is an open book.”
An open book? He had serious doubts about that. Soon this young woman would be immersed in asking questions, searching for answers. “Let’s just enjoy dinner, shall we?” he suggested. “You said you were hungry.”
“I am. Okay then, a cease-fire. I know perfectly well you’ll get back to being a private eye over coffee.”
“I’m only going to show you a photograph,” Bruno assured her.
That should be more than enough.
* * *
They were finishing coffee when Bruno pulled the photo out of his wallet and passed it across the candlelit table. “Tell me what you think.”
Isabelle took the photograph, studying it hard. She was looking at the unsmiling face of a very beautiful young woman. Not a girl. Most definitely a woman, and a very sexy one at that. It was like looking at the picture of an older, far more experienced sister. Isabelle didn’t know if she exactly liked this young woman. There was something very knowing in the gaze. The face was framed by masses of titian hair. She had large, almond-shaped eyes.
For a time she had absolutely nothing to say. She was, in fact, finding it hard to breathe. Astonishingly, the hand that held the photograph trembled. “This is a complete mystery,” she said.
His eyes held understanding and a melting compassion. “I don’t think we should do this here, Bella.”
“I don’t think we should do this at all. The resemblance is extraordinary, I grant you, but this woman has nothing to do with me and my family.” Isabelle handed the photo back.
“I’ve upset you.”
“Of course you’ve upset me,” she said with unaccustomed sharpness. “I can’t do this.”
“We’ll do only what you’re comfortable with.” He signalled for the bill.
Outside the restaurant, he hailed a cruising cab. “I live not far from here. We can talk quietly.”
“I don’t want to talk.”
“What are you afraid of? It’s not me. I’m here as your protector.”
“Look, this is crazy!” Isabelle turned to him, her expression disturbed.
“Then we can sort it out. Trust me.”
“I rarely trust strange men.”
“Only I’m not strange, am I? It happens sometimes. You’re comfortable enough with me.”
“God help us, yes.”
He placed a light, guiding hand at her back, yet Isabelle felt a sudden surge of sensation. It was as if he had caressed her spine.
When they were inside the cab, he glanced at her. “What’s it to be? Your call.”
Isabelle felt her agitation growing. “I swear I don’t know. I like reading mysteries. I don’t relish living one.”
“I know you’re intrigued.”
She shook her head. “Not that. Intrigued is too light a word.”
The cab driver broke in amiably. He had never seen such a contrast. The guy was the quintessential handsome Italian. The girl was pure Celt. A Celtic muse. “Where’s it to be, folks?”
Bruno gave his address.
She knew his luxury apartment block well. She had admired it from afar, never thinking for a moment she would enter it with a man able to afford such a fantastic home.
“The sky’s the limit!” she said, throwing up her hands. “Bet this set you back a pretty penny.”
“I’m a single man.”
“No fool for love, then?”
“Nothing I’m going to discuss with you, Bella.”
“You must be able to lean out from your balcony and touch the stars,” she said. “Fancy waking up to spectacular views in the morning; seeing the city a fairyland at night,” Isabelle continued to enthuse. “I might win the lottery and splash it all on a one-bedroom apartment.”
“I still can’t get used to it,” Bruno admitted as they walked into the elegant foyer. He and his father had lived modestly, in the same house all three of them had shared. Sometimes he thought they should have shifted. Too many memories. Especially for his dad.
No one joined them in the spacious lift. They were alone. Isabelle, in her hyped-up state, felt a smidge claustrophobic. Neither spoke a word. They just stood side by side. Isabelle found their being together unreal. She nibbled the inside of her lip while the superfast lift whizzed them to the twenty-eighth floor.
“Where do you live? With your parents?” Bruno asked as they exited into the hushed, thickly carpeted hallway.
She shook her head. “I have a small flat in a respectable neighbourhood, Bruno, because you asked.”
“By yourself?”
This time she met his eyes directly. She was very direct. He already knew that. “I think I’m a bit of a loner. Like you.”
A strike for her. “How did you work that out?” he asked dryly.
“Woman’s intuition.”
“Really? Woman’s intuition is no joke. Do you see your parents often?”
“Do you see your mother?” she parried.
He released a harsh breath. “No. Obviously, someone has filled you in on me, probably good old Phil. My parents’ marriage broke up when I was seven. My father and I adored her.”
She patted his jacketed arm, clearly offering comfort. “I’m so sorry. How sad. You were devastated. I understand that. You turned the rage inward.”
“What rage?” he asked crisply, opening the door to his apartment.
“Enough to make you fire up. Perhaps rage is the wrong word. The hurt, the sadness that simmers deep down. You haven’t gotten around to releasing it.”
“I thought you were a musician, not a psychoanalyst,” he said, turning a switch that controlled all the lighting.
“I know the signs,” she broke off as she took in their surroundings. “Oh wow!” She came to a halt, gazing around the huge space with genuine wonder and admiration. “Now this is a showcase apartment for a well-heeled, sophisticated man. A man of taste.”
“That’s encouraging!”
“I mean it.” Her eyes swept over the huge open-plan living area, beautifully furnished Italian style, dramatic like him. A palette of sand, bronze, black and gold. The only vibrant colours came from three dazzling artworks. An ebony grand piano stood in a prominent corner.
“That’s a big surprise,” she said, glancing towards the piano. “Do you play?”
“I give free rein to polishing the keys.”
“You mean you don’t play. You simply make sure the keys are depressed each day?”
“Right on. Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Haven’t you got enough going for you?” She flashed him a glance. “I’m really pleased you take time to look after your piano. It’s a Steinway, after all. One of your girlfriends isn’t a concert pianist, is she?”
“I’m hoping for such a woman to come my way.”
“I’ll start praying for you,” Isabelle said. “And the piano. It needs playing, like all instruments. This place is perfect for you. Did you have a decorator?” She was teasing him deliberately. She guessed he hadn’t.
“I did not,” he clipped off.
“Good for you,” she said approvingly.
“This is where I live. It has to reflect me. No one else.”
“Who’s arguing?” She put her black satin clutch bag down on a striking black lacquer cabinet, black trimmed with gilded bronze, moving toward one of the paintings, taking a closer look at it. “Next you’re going to tell me you painted this.”
Under the strong lights, her hair was on fire, glittering, gleaming, dancing with gold and copper highlights. “I wish. Do you like it?”
“Takes a lot of time to figure out, but it’s dynamic. You certainly know how to feather your nest. Y
ou’re a very stylish man.”
“Thank you, Isabella,” he said.
“And that’s the only compliment you’re going to get this evening. Do you have parties here? I can see parties.”
He nodded. “Often. My people mostly.” He took off his jacket, loosened his silk tie and settled them over the back of a chair.
“Your colleagues, the people who work for you?”
“My friends. A sprinkling of others. As long as they’re interesting, with something to say.”
“You must ask me. I’m not your dream concert pianist, but I’ll play the piano for you.”
“You play the piano?” One black eyebrow shot up.
“You people! Of course I do,” she tut-tutted. “The piano was my second instrument. I started out learning the piano when I was six.”
“So, a musical family, then?”
She didn’t answer for quite a while.
“You’ve gone quiet, Isabella. Anything up? The wrong question?”
She sighed. It was quite extraordinary, the way he said her name. It was as though they had known each other for years, the ease off the tongue, so melodic, so Italian. “I was a child who needed music. My parents are doctors, as I’ve said. Not that doctors don’t love music. Of course they do. It was just that my parents don’t. It’s a question of time, I suppose. They don’t have a lot of it.”
“So how did you manage lessons?” he asked with interest.
She gave a little laugh. “I put on spectacular tantrums, so I’m told. I was determined to learn the piano. Don’t ask me why.”
“Your soul needed it.”
She looked across at him, genuinely surprised. “Gosh, Bruno, that sounded like you really understand. My soul, my spirit, my being, even at that early age, did. I must have been a musician in another life. Once my mother got the message, she arranged a very good teacher for me. Nothing but the best. I started to be a good girl from then on. I had been a difficult child before that, from all accounts. Even I can dimly remember my troubles. My father bought me a grand piano—not like yours, King Steinway; you must have paid a packet for that, but a very good Yamaha. No little upright like other kids. They needed the spur to keep me busy and content. They were—are—committed to their careers. They’re dedicated people, just not . . . artistic.”
“When did you move out?” They were standing a short distance apart, facing each other, locked into the conversation.
“When I took up my scholarship in London. It took four years to complete. When I returned, I found myself an apartment in Sydney, close to the Conservatory. My parents live in Adelaide, the city of churches. It’s very English in its way. So are they.”
“Didn’t you want to be close to them?” He started to wonder about that.
“I wanted to be independent. Live my own life. Want me to play something for you?”
“Nothing I’d like more.”
Her jewelled eyes lit up. “You’re really nice, aren’t you, under that top-of-the-pile, exceedingly clever businessman façade?”
He laughed. “Don’t believe everything you read in the papers, Isabella. I have to work very hard.”
“Me too,” she said, sitting down at the piano and adjusting the seat. “Do you like Debussy?”
“All I know is ‘Clair de Lune,’” he admitted. He hadn’t arrived at the Ds yet.
“This is one of Debussy’s arabesques, the first.”
“Great!” He backed up, settled in one of the deep Italian leather armchairs. To his consternation, his heart was jumping in his chest. For the moment, before she started playing, she had struck the very same pose as the Hartmann girl. If only his father had lived to see this. It seemed to him momentous they had met. The truth could even be that their meeting had been ordained.
She began. He gave himself up to the rippling music, the wonderful tone, the lyricism. He had bought the Steinway—very expensive, as Bella said—because he had liked the sound, especially of the bass. Some of his friends were musicians. They played piano, trumpet, sax. Mostly jazz. Great fun at a party. No one had played his piano remotely like this. He found her playing touched him physically. It was tantalizing. Seductive. Darn near erotic.
The piece came to an end. She looked towards him expectantly. He waved his hand. “Please. Keep going. You’re a fine musician. This has been quite an evening.”
Isabelle had to agree. There was something surreal about it all. “You’ll know this one. Everyone knows this one. I play it on the cello as well. A Gershwin prelude.” She had never enjoyed such a gratifying reception from her parents. Piano. Cello. Made no difference. Maybe she would have gained a better response playing a mouth organ with abandon. Bruno McKendrick’s response, the brilliant flash of appreciation in his dark eyes, came as an absolute if unexpected delight.
“Bravo!”
She finished with a flourish. Rose to her feet. Dipped into her perfected concert bow.
“Come and sit down,” Bruno invited. “My musical friends will love you. Can I get you anything?”
“A nice cold glass of water would be lovely. A slice of lime in it. Lemon will do.” She began to wander about again. They were at a great height on the twenty-eighth floor. The apartment had two balconies. The city, the Harbour, the Bridge and the Opera House made for a glittering fairyland. It was a sensational view. She couldn’t conceive of one better.
He returned with a squat crystal glass filled with cold water, two ice cubes, two paper-thin slices of lime. “Thank you. I know you have some more photos to show me. I don’t know if I’m ready to look at them. This could get scary.”
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Bella,” he said. “But I truly believe you should look at what I’ve got. The Hartmann case obsessed my father, as I told you. A young woman goes missing. Imagine! Dad felt strongly for the family, the grandfather in particular. The young woman was adored.”
“As far as you know.” Her green eyes moved away from him. “She wasn’t around to give her side of things, was she? And why the grandfather? She had parents, siblings?” She all but finished the cold water, handing the glass back to him.
“Dad found the grandfather, the patriarch, most affected.” He turned to head off to the kitchen.
“May I follow?”
“Of course.”
“Woo-hoo!” She gave a soft, melodious whistle, studying this new space. “How cool is this!” Black cabinetry, immaculate white marble tops, the silver sheen of stainless steel, a stainless-steel wine storage cabinet aligned with the refrigerator. Stainless-steel glass-fronted series of cupboards holding white crockery. Three dazzling gold pendants provided the lighting. She ran an appreciative hand over the white marble bench top. “Who does the cooking?”
“Who do you think?”
He looked down his nose at her. She was getting used to it. “At least one of your lady friends must be able to cook with brio!”
“My mother was a wonderful cook. She—”
He broke off abruptly, obviously about to say more, but thinking better of it.
“What made you tell me that?” One of his bronzed, shapely hands rested on the white marble. Before she knew it, she had rested her hand over his in a spontaneous gesture of empathy.
“I’m damned if I know.” He stared down at their hands. She didn’t take her hand away. Neither did he. It was as though each was absorbing the other, through their skin.
“You miss her. You’ve never stopped missing her.”
His answer came in a flash. “And what would you know about loss, Isabella?”
“I know what fills me with sadness,” she said. “Maybe we feel the loss of generations. Our forebears.” She was looking up into his dark, dark eyes. Deep. For a moment, she forgot to breathe. Even her limbs had turned liquid.
After a second he said very gently, “Bella, let go of my hand.”
“Oh I’m sorry, sorry.” She hastened to apologize, blushing.
“No need to be sorry.” A
s a total impulse, he bent and lightly kissed her magnolia cheek. He would kiss a young female cousin like that. If only he had one. There was something very endearing about Isabelle Martin. Through her beauty, he also discerned sadness. He could read it in her eyes, hear it in her playing. Maybe that was why they had made an instant connection.
“I should be going, all right?” she announced briskly, as if she had overstayed her welcome. “Could you call a cab?”
“I’ll take you,” he said.
“You can’t.” She stared back at him with widened eyes. “You might be over the limit, a man like you.”
“All I’ve had were three glasses of wine,” he pointed out. “You’ve had two. Do you want to drive?”
“A Lamborghini?” She laughed, more a gurgle in her creamy throat.
“Nothing with that amount of impact. A Mercedes.”
“Let me take the cab.”
“No. I’ll see you safely home. Moreover, I’ll get to see where you live.”
A strange look crossed her face. “You said you had more photos? May I borrow them for a day or two?”
“I’m going to have to say no to that, Bella. You can have one.”
A brightening up. “I’ll take good care of it. Trust me.”
“I do trust you.” He had learned the hard way where to put his trust. He trusted this girl.
“Thank you. Shall I ring for the cab?”
“You win. Give me a minute. I want you to see this particular photograph first.”
* * *
Seconds passed. A full minute. She guessed the photograph would be with bundles of his father’s papers. She waited in the living room, taking the piano seat, where she felt more in control.
What was happening here? What had compelled her to listen to him, to come with him, to play for him, to allow him to show her a photograph of—in her view—not an identical twin but an older sister with a sexy stare and a pout to her full mouth. The mouth was the same shape as hers, but she never pouted. At least she thought she didn’t. And she didn’t invite men’s lust-filled glances.
Inside she could feel her emotions shifting like ripples on a pond. She closed her eyes. Opened them. Took a breath. There was nothing but a certain piquancy in this resemblance thing. So why was her mind so agitated? It didn’t make sense. Maybe she was too impressionable, and Bruno McKendrick was far too persuasive. Only he hadn’t tracked her down. Fate had brought them together. If she hadn’t been standing in tonight as cellist for the quartet, they might never have met.