And would the years have changed him? In the photograph his smile had softened the firm lines of his face, the seriousness of his usual expression, and took years off his age. Even now she felt a pang at his undeniable attraction. When he turned the charm of that smile on her she fell to pieces. At least she had in the beginning.
She sighed, running a finger over the surface of the photo. He would be almost thirty-six now, a gulf of a dozen years between them, years that they had thought would mean nothing compared with the pure attraction they had for each other.
In the beginning it had been good— she couldn’t deny that. They had been so physically attracted to each other, a purely chemical reaction, no more. If she had had any sense she would have simply gone to bed with him and got him out of her system. Plenty of her friends thought nothing of doing just that. She ran her fingers through her hair and flexed her tired muscles. She could no more have done that than fly. It had to be all or nothing. She had wanted no hole-and-corner affair, and neither had he.
And so they had married. And when the first strain was put on their relationship it had folded like a house of cards, a marriage she could have sworn would last forever. Forever. Nothing lasts forever, she told herself cynically. Nothing.
Well, all that was behind her. Six years’ worth of being alone was behind her, had been weathered, and she had made a new life for herself. She had joined up with the three boys as lead singer in their band and they had a five-night-a-week permanent engagement in a popular city restaurant. The four of them realised their good luck in this. It was a regular gig, more than anyone could expect in the business.
Tomorrow was to be their final night in Brisbane for a whole month. The management wanted the band to play down at their new restaurant at Surfers Paradise on the Gold Coast by way of building up its clientele down there. Even their accommodation was provided, in a large flat not far from the beach which belonged to the owner of the restaurant. It was all just like a working holiday for the four of them. They began next Tuesday night and Alex had been looking forward to it.
So didn’t that prove that she didn’t need anyone or anything? Especially him. Tomorrow afternoon she was going to sit in the stalls and watch him, prove to herself that it was definitely over once and for all.
She picked up the advertising sheet again, her eyes skipping over the words, words she knew by heart.
Australian Symphony Orchestra. Limited engagement. Featuring the internationally renowned soprano Margot Donald and English tenor Graham Peters. And the celebrated conductor Justin de Wilde.
Her lips twisted. So Margot was still in the play, always waiting patiently in the wings. That was the one thing she found hard to understand, that he had never sued for divorce and married Margot. Because Margot was biding her time for that moment. And she had everything on her side. She was the type of wife he should have chosen—nearer his age, poised, sophisticated, genuinely talented. Yes, Margot was more in keeping with his background, his career. Instead of an angry young folk singer with long fair hair, large blue eyes and a burning desire to change the world.
Next day Alex dressed carefully in a subdued suit of pale blue, and wound her hair up into a chignon. She wanted to go unnoticed, to blend in with the crowd. On the off-chance that he would cast a searching eye over his audience, she didn’t want to call attention to herself. As an afterthought she slipped her opera glasses into her bag as she ran outside and caught a bus into the city. At first she had planned to drive in to the city venue, but it was simpler going by bus. She could relax and psyche herself up for the afternoon’s performance.
That she needed to do just that was made clear to her this morning when she had innocently turned the pages of the Courier Mail and his face had leapt out of the paper at her. They had attended some function the evening before, after their performance, and the photographer had snapped them drinking champagne with the Lady Mayoress. Margot Donald’s hand rested possessively on his arm and he had been caught leaning slightly towards the Lady Mayoress, listening intently to what she was saying.
The pulpy photo had not reproduced well, but it didn’t detract from his distinguished attractiveness. She tried to decide how he had changed, for she thought he had in some almost imperceptible way. His hair looked to be lighter at the temples. Before it had only been peppered with grey. And the lines running from his nose past his mouth seemed to be etched a little deeper.
Now the members of the orchestra had taken their positions, were tuning up, while the audience chatted patiently. When he appeared there was a moment’s silence before the theatre filled with applause. He acknowledged their welcome before striding into his position and calling the orchestra to attention.
Alex sat stiffly in her seat and almost cried out at the pain. It was as though her whole body had been numb and suddenly circulation returning brought the agony of renewed sensation. She remembered the way he held himself, tall, erect, the purposefulness of his stride, the way he inclined his head.
Oh God! It had been a mistake to come. She had to fight down an urge to rush from the theatre, but of course, she had left it too late. Far too late. Now his presence held her rigid in her seat, as though he exuded a magnetism that drew her to him, held her under his spell. It had been that way from the moment they’d met.
The concert auditorium faded away and she saw again the setting for that meeting, a chance encounter, that had had such a disastrous effect on her whole life, her whole life style. She closed her eyes as the music swelled around her and that scene returned so vividly that the twanging music of the guitars and a banjo ringing in her memory almost drowned the swell of the Symphony Orchestra.
The Queensland sun shone brightly that afternoon, adding a shine to the pebble pathways across King George Square, reflecting off the symmetry of the City Hall, giving the green lawn the appearance of a soft thick carpet. A rally was in progress and Alex was there with a few friends from the University. They were protesting peacefully about some injustice and there were speeches and songs and the distribution of pamphlets to passers-by.
The leader of the rally was an awesome sight—faded jeans, loose sweatshirt, thick dark hair and beard, tall rangy body. His bushy brows drew together as he thundered emphatically on his battered guitar. That he was one of the nicest, kindest, most peace-loving individuals that Alex had ever met seemed extremely hard to believe at that moment.
Someone in the crowd stepped forward to disagree with a statement and a heated debate broke out. The crowd sitting or lounging on the grass stood up, the better to observe the loud altercation. Alex herself had been sitting on the outskirts of the group, and standing on tiptoe, she took two or three hasty steps backwards in an effort to see over the bobbing heads in front of her only to career into a firm masculine body, which until that particular moment was striding purposefully across the square without a sideways glance at the intense little group.
In those split seconds before two firm hands came about her to steady them both she only had time to register the feel of a smooth silk shirt against her bare shoulder and the solid muscular body beneath its softness. As she turned to offer her apologies for her carelessness the words all but died on her lips. In fact she couldn’t have said whether she actually voiced them or not as her startled blue eyes grew round as they met his eyes, cool and light in his tanned face, with just a flicker of something abstruse in their icy depths.
He was so… No, handsome wasn’t exactly the right word to describe him. Yes, he was reasonably nice looking with a firm square face, straight nose and dark, immaculately combed hair. But there was something else. He was so… Somehow compelling.
His hands slowly relaxed their grip on her arms and he lifted one hand to smooth his unruffled hair. Alex became aware of her own fingers still resting on the satiny front of his shirt, feeling the steady thump of his heart, and the intimacy of the sensation had her flushing as
she hastily dropped her hand.
‘I didn’t hurt you, did I?’ she asked lamely, breathily.
A ghost of a smile touched the corners of his mouth. ‘Only took me by surprise.’ His voice was deep and pleasant.
Those light-coloured eyes flicked over her hair, shining almost white in the afternoon sun, her face, lightly tanned and freshly youthful, her slim body clad in the tight old jeans and curve-revealing shirt, before returning impassively to meet her gaze. Alex’s blush deepened, much to her mortification. It was as though he had actually reached out and physically touched her.
‘I’d heard that Queensland girls were very friendly, but I didn’t expect one to throw herself into my arms!’
Straightening her back, Alex lifted her chin, only to see the humour in his face that brought a certain boyishness to his chiselled features, and she wondered fleetingly if he was perhaps younger than she had at first thought.
‘Just joking,’ he said lightly, and this time he did smile.
Alex actually felt her knees wobble. She had read about such an occurrence in books, but she had always disdainfully discounted such a feeling as romantic nonsense. But now she had the absurd urge to sit down before she fell down.
‘Are you part of these angry young people?’ he asked evenly, those seeking eyes skimming the crowd, not giving any indication as to whether he admired or condemned such a gathering.
‘Kind of,’ she heard herself reply, and cringed inwardly. What in heaven’s name was wrong with her, acting like a gauche schoolgirl? ‘Observing mostly.’ She forced her unwillingly dry lips to form the words. ‘A friend of mine asked me to write a report on the rally for the Uni newspaper.’
He nodded. ‘What seems to be the basis of the protest?’
He showed no inclination to move on, and suddenly Alex found she wanted him to stay, so she launched herself into an objective coverage of the whole thing, all the while aware of that compelling aura about him, all the while sensing that he was something more than just an average passer-by.
His silk shirt, tailored slacks and conservatively expensive leather shoes put him into a much higher wage bracket than herself and her family. That he actually listened to and commented on what she was telling him also warmed her to him. So much so that when one of her friends hailed her she knew a spurt of disappointment that he would continue on his way.
‘Hey, Alex! We’re all heading back. You coming?’ called a tousled-haired youth.
‘No, I’ll stay on a little longer,’ she replied, hoping the stranger would too, as she turned back to him.
‘You have some interesting ideas, Alex,’ he said, using her name quite easily, and his eyes flicked over her again before he added, ‘Would you care to join a visitor to your city for coffee and more conversation?’
Alex was taken aback. Her first thoughts were of the pitfalls that a girl could encounter allowing herself to be picked up by a stranger and she hesitated uncertainly, wanting desperately to see and know more of him but knowing she must follow the rules.
‘No. I’m sorry, I don’t think I should. Thank you very much anyway,’ she said softly, feeling very young and unsophisticated.
‘Because you don’t want to or because we haven’t been formally introduced?’ He smiled back.
‘Oh, no. I’d like to very much, but…’ Alex blushed at her eagerness.
‘Well, may I make the introductions? I assure you I’m a most respectable member of the community. I’m at present staying at the Gazebo up on the Terrace, and here,’ he drew a brown leather wallet out of his pocket and showed her a folded piece of paper, ‘is my driver’s licence. Justin de Wilde from Sydney. How do you do, Miss Alex…?’ He raised one dark eyebrow as he held out his hand.
In a reflex action Alex found her hand going out to him. ‘Alex Marshall,’ she said as his long fingers folded about her hand and a tingling sensation spread from that contact.
‘Just Alex?’ he queried.
She shook her head slightly. ‘Alexandra.’
‘Well, Alexandra Marshall? How about it? I passed a coffee shop a couple of doors up the street. We might be lucky enough to find a vacant seat.’
She wavered uncertainly as his hand stayed clasped around hers and those eyes rested on her face. ‘All right,’ she agreed at last, and he smiled as though he was genuinely pleased she had accepted. That had been the beginning. And the end.
The deafening applause penetrated Alex’s thoughts and she almost started as she once again became aware of her surroundings. A tight band of tension was making her head ache and her fingers were stiff where she had clutched her hands together in her lap.
As Margot and the tenor reappeared to take another bow the applause rose again. Margot brought the two long-stemmed red roses with which she had been presented to her face, savouring their delicate perfume, before she blew three or four theatrical kisses to the audience. Of course, they loved it.
And Alex couldn’t deny the fact that Margot Donald was a striking-looking woman, with her auburn hair, pale complexion and perfect figure. Besides her good looks she was an exceptionally talented soprano who spent as much time singing overseas as she spent in Australia, receiving rave reviews everywhere she appeared.
Stepping across to centre stage, Margot presented her conductor with one of her roses with exaggerated deference. As Alex watched all this something twisted inside her and she forced her eyes closed as Margot put her red-tipped fingers to her lips and much to the delight of the fans, blew Justin de Wilde a kiss. Curtsying again, Margot lifted her hand in a sweeping gesture of her acknowledgement of the conductor and he turned and bowed to the applauding crowd, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth.
Alex’s hand instinctively raised her opera glasses and her eyes searched and found him, travelled upwards, settled on his face, bringing it vividly closer, and she assimilated each feature. Those intense light-coloured eyes seemed to be looking straight at her and she froze. But his eyes turned away as the curtain fell.
As people around her began to file along the rows of seats and out of the theatre Alex remained where she was. Her eyes gazed at the luxurious fall of red curtain, not really seeing it. She tried valiantly not to admit to herself that an old wound within her had begun to throb as she had watched the familiar exchange between Margot and Justin. And what had she accomplished by seeing him again? she asked herself. Absolutely nothing, she answered without a shred of truth.
Chapter 2
Alone in his dressing room Justin de Wilde shed his immaculately cut jacket and lowered himself into the one comfortable chair in the room. He closed his eyes and sighed heavily. The tiredness was still weighing depressingly upon him. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and then the collar, running his hand tiredly around the back of his neck, feeling the stiffness of his taut muscles. One more performance.
After a while he reluctantly glanced at the time and grimaced. He had less than an hour to shower and change in readiness for the dinner Margot had arranged they attend. Now he wished he had refused to go along with the arrangements. It would be another wretched farce.
God, he was sick of it all! All the glitter, all the pretence, the continuous maintaining of the façade. He could feel his muscles tensing and ran a hand over his eyes before forcing himself to relax back into the chair.
He could almost hear the ticking of his watch as time raced on and he knew he should force himself to snap out of it. Exasperatedly he moved decisively to his feet and his hand caught a folded newspaper resting on the small chest of drawers by his chair. Retrieving it, he straightened the pages and glanced half-heartedly at the local headlines. He had intended reading it before the matinee performance, but somehow time had slipped away from him again.
It was something of a habit he had fallen into in the last few years, to buy at least one local newspaper in each city he visited. Goodnes
s knows, usually he was too tied up to see anything of the centres where the orchestra performed. So he tried to substitute this lack with a little local news.
As he turned the first few pages, his eyes skimmed the various articles—local and overseas news, the racing guide, the cartoon section. When he found himself half smiling at the Charlie Brown strip he shook his head and turned the page. Advertisements, entertainment— the whole double page was devoted to places to dine, to dance, movies.
Sighing again, he went to cast the paper aside when the photograph of a heart-shaped face framed by long fair hair almost sprang out of the page at him. He stared at the fuzzy print, scarcely believing his eyes. It had to be her.
He felt his muscles knot in the pit of his stomach and he sank once more into the chair as his eyes read the small advertisement. Christie’s Restaurant. Dine and Dance to the music of the Everglades. For the first time he realised that hers was one of four faces in the small photograph. Three men and Alex. So she was still singing.
He reached over and lifted the telephone book from beside the phone and flipped the pages. Drawing a blank under de Wilde, he tried Marshall. Marshall, A M, and the address in the suburb of Toowong. Why hadn’t he thought of the phone book before? He had assumed she had gone to Canada with her parents, but she had been here in Brisbane all the time. His lips thinned as his eyes moved back to the photograph.
Well, now that he had found her, what was he going to do about it?
***
‘You’re quiet tonight.’ Paul Denman leant in the doorway as Alex finished fixing her make-up. ‘Where’s that sexy smile we all know and love?’
‘I guess I’m just a little tired, Paul. I didn’t sleep very well last night.’ Alex gave her hair a final brush and turned a smile towards the lead guitarist. ‘How’s that?’
Play Our Song Again (Lynsey Stevens Romance Book 13) Page 2