The Balfour Legacy

by Various

  “Never!” She spoke so softly it was almost under her breath.

  “So it’s in my best interests to give you plenty to remind you.”

  She lifted her face, knowing even the act of leaving him to fly home would be unbearable. But he was testing her. And testing her hard. He had had a bad experience. There could be no more of that.

  He trapped her body against his, crushing her breasts to his chest. Then he was kissing her with great abandon, just as she was returning his passionate kisses with a hunger to equal his. It was a huge effort to break apart. A huger effort not to begin to throw off their clothes so they could glory in naked skin against skin.

  He took his hands from her. Both of them were trembling. She whispered his name but it seemed to be a point of honour with him not to seduce her while she was beneath his roof. She was going home. Back to her old life. Neither of them could ignore that.

  Least of all McAlpine. It was a huge temptation not to rush her. Take her to bed. He knew she would come willingly. His body was in a torment of sexual frustration but he saw clearly he had to protect her until she was very sure of her own mind. England was a long way off. She had to be given the opportunity to return to her glittering world. And only then would she be in a position to decide.

  Her father had never allowed her more than a glimpse into his complex business dealings. He had been notoriously secretive. She knew the Balfour Foundation had an endless list of beneficiaries. Her father had to be one of the biggest philanthropists in the country. She met with a similar set-up with McAlpine Enterprises. The pastoral arm was only one of a wide portfolio of interests. When she found something a little difficult—these weren’t ordinary business affairs; this was big business—he found time to explain things to her. He not only directed her, he gave her reasons for what he was doing. He was even asking her opinion on a range of issues. One, a high-risk investment she thought mightn’t have been necessary given McAlpine Enterprises’ high rate of growth.

  “Chip off the old block, Olivia!” He smiled, thinking she could become an enormous asset.

  “Sons are expected to be chips off the old blocks. Not daughters.”

  “Oscar should have started you off at a junior executive level. It wouldn’t have taken you long to rise to the top.”

  “You’re joking!”

  He looked back at her seriously. “Not at all. I’ve got top people who aren’t as sharp as you are. Your mind leaps so briskly ahead, you’ve been able to cover a lot of ground in a very short time. Oscar’s loss.”

  When the time came, the two of them delivered Georgy to her prestigious girl’s college where she was greeted royally. Several of her girlfriends were on hand to welcome her back for the new term.

  “I must say Georgina is looking particularly well,” the headmistress gushed, beaming on Georgina’s stunning father, a flush of pleasure in her cheeks. “She is one of our most promising students.”

  “You won’t go home without coming to see me?” Georgy had made Olivia promise.

  “Count on it,” Olivia said, returning the child’s emotional hug. “And you’ll be coming to see me in England.”

  “Oh, I will! But I’m hoping you’ll want to come back to us, after you see your dad and your sisters. Bessie said you would.”

  “When was this?” Olivia was startled.

  “The day she called in with that great billabong painting she did for you.”

  “She never said anything to me.”

  “Gosh, no. You’re not supposed to know. Just slipped out. That’s why I’m so happy—you’ll be coming back.”

  Physical pain started up in her chest. And an intense hope. However badly one wanted something it didn’t always happen. She was in love with McAlpine. She knew he was very strongly attracted to her. What would her father make of it? The relationship mightn’t suit him at all.

  It’s your life, girl.

  That evening she and Clint were to attend an art showing at one of the city’s leading galleries—a relatively new young artist who had been receiving serious attention from the critics. Supper at an art patron’s river-side mansion was to follow, the guest list drawn up with particular care.

  Olivia spent a couple of hours of the afternoon having her hair done before choosing a cocktail dress at a boutique that had been recommended to her. She wanted to look her very best, as a woman wants to look her most beautiful for the man she loves.

  Chapter Ten

  OLIVIA loved art. She had been attending art showings all her life. Some of the world’s finest galleries were open to the English public and overseas tourists for free. From time to time one of her jobs had been to open certain showings.

  The new young artist’s work was not particularly to her liking for all the critical acclaim. The canvases were huge. Maybe that was it. The bigger, the better? The style abstract. One could get away with nearly anything if one stuck to the abstract. These days “traditional art,” where one actually had to be able to draw and apply paint, was almost the kiss of death with some galleries and critics. She didn’t like the way the paint had been trowelled on either. Or the dreary monochrome colours.

  “Our artist ought to hose it all off and start again,” Clint seconded her opinion. “Oh, for God’s sake, don’t look now.”

  “What is it?” For an appalled moment she thought the artist might have been hovering near and overhead Clint’s comment.

  “Marigole and Lucas,” Clint groaned. “I thought they were still at Port Douglas.”

  “Not bothering you, is it?” She stared up into his handsome face. He didn’t look so much perturbed as disgusted.

  “Not if it doesn’t bother you. I would guess they’ve been invited to the supper. Do you really want to go?”

  “Not if you don’t.”

  “How we are in accord.” He smiled down at her. In his view she was far and away the most beautiful and stylish woman in a room full of glamorous, expensively dressed women. But none had her finely wrought classical features or her taut, slender body. And those long legs! Her hairstyle was new to him, side parted, with layers that kicked up in deep waves. It was enormously sexy. Her dress was short, above the knee, one-shouldered. He loved the Grecian look on her, the colour a heavenly shade of blue to match her eyes. She wore exquisite drop earrings, oval sapphires set in diamonds. He had never seen them before. Had she recently bought them? Lord knows she was an heiress.

  “Let’s beat it into the next room,” he murmured, taking her arm. “With any luck at all we may not run into them as there’s such a crush.”

  No such luck!

  Marigole, the consummate actress, with so many very curious eyes on her, greeted her ex-husband with a kiss on both cheeks, resting one small delicate hand on his black-jacketed shoulder.

  “Lovely to see you!” She included Olivia in her bright smile. “Georgina’s back in school.” It wasn’t a question. She knew. “I’m dying to see her.”

  “A pity, Marigole,” Clint said, his expression cool but hardening. “Because she doesn’t want to say one word to you. I’d advise you to stay away and wait until she wants to see you.”

  “If you say so, darling. I only want her to be happy.”

  “She is happy,” Clint said.

  Marigole turned her ice-black eyes on Olivia. “Love the hair. And the dress. Go to Sonya’s, did you? She always stocks the best. Haven’t got long to go now.” She gave a throaty laugh. “When is your father’s birthday again?”

  Olivia retained her social smile. It came easily after years of the most intensive practise. “I’m sure, Marigole, you already know.”

  “So touchy!” Marigole pouted. “Anyway, I wish you well. I’m sorry we didn’t get off to a good start. If you were staying in the country we could start again. You’ve been very good for Georgina. I do appreciate it. She’s been sending me progress reports. Ah, there’s dear Lucas. I expect we’ll be seeing you at the supper?” She lifted her eyes to her splendid ex-husband.

&nb
sp; “Afraid not, Marigole,” he said smoothly. “We’re moving on to another function. In fact, we’re leaving right now.”

  Progress reports? Olivia pondered. Was it possible Georgy had been sending her mother progress reports? Lord knows she sent enough emails. Clint might have been eyeing Marigole with huge disbelief, but she felt a deep pang akin to desolation. A mother is a mother after all. Marigole mightn’t have been of much comfort to her young daughter with her abrasive ways and quick temper, but surely the mother-daughter bond could never be broken? She had friends who couldn’t stand their mothers, but all of them would claim to love them. Maybe liking one’s mother wasn’t strictly necessary? It was a terribly sobering thought. Georgy might, at the back of her mind, be hoping for a reconciliation between her parents. Why else send her mother progress reports?

  Nothing is simple or straightforward in this life, Olivia.

  If the voice turned to issuing emails, she would delete them.

  It took quite a while before they were able to leave the gallery. Clint knew so many people who stopped him for a few words and to gain an introduction to his companion. Before they left he made his apologies to the society hostess who was genuinely upset he and Olivia—by now they all knew who she was, or rather who her father was—couldn’t join them.

  It wasn’t yet eight o’clock. “Let’s go some place and have dinner,” Clint suggested. “I know just the spot. Nicely out of the way.”

  “Don’t want to be seen with me?” Olivia asked, unaware her flawless skin was blooming in the street lights, her sumptuous mane like a halo.

  “How could you even say such a thing! I’m terrified Marigole is going to chuck supper and follow our cab.”

  Mercifully that didn’t happen.

  It was one of those intimate little places that served wonderful food. Clint ordered a bottle of vintage Bollinger the moment they sat down. “If Marigole attempts to upset Georgy I’ll break her neck.”

  “You think she will?”

  Remember, love and hate go together.

  “Oh, you don’t know, Marigole,” he said, a tautness to his expression.

  “Do you think Georgy really has been emailing her mother? The progress reports she mentioned. Marigole is her mother after all.”

  “After all, what?” he said disgustedly. “After all the rotten years? Don’t let’s talk about Marigole. I’m sick to death of the woman. Sorry if that sounds bad, but that’s the way it is.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve seen so much heartache in my life. My father has suffered and he has inflicted suffering in turn. But I love him. Nothing can change that.”

  “Men aren’t in the race when it comes to devious behaviour,” he said tersely.

  “Not true. I’ve known plenty of devious liars. All male.”

  “I guess.” He turned his golden eyes on her and smiled. “If it’s worrying you, I’m certain Georgy hasn’t been sending her mother any progress reports.”

  “I wish I could believe that.” A shadow fell across her face.

  “Easy enough to check.”

  “I wouldn’t spy on Georgy,” she said, horrified. “All of us love our parents no matter what they do.”

  He made a little scoffing sound beneath his breath. “Georgy has a tougher streak than you. She’s lived in a different world. Kids these days question their parents’ morality. They’re bright, they’re outspoken, they’re not afraid to express their views. Georgy doesn’t hate her mother. No one wants that, least of all me, because hate is corrosive. But Georgy knows her mother doesn’t love her. Whatever your father’s ideas and the way of life he has in a sense imposed on you, he loves you. Huge difference there.”

  It was a bit of a stretch—a couple of city blocks—but they decided to walk back to their hotel. It was a beautiful balmy night, the city humming with activity, tourists and locals strolling about. Lining the way were leafy trees decorated with tiny shimmering white lights. The huge picture windows of the shops, the upscale boutiques, the high-rises and the cars all reflected a kaleidoscope of colour and glitter. With so many milling around on the streets—happy, prosperous, well-dressed people—he kept her close to his side to avoid her being inadvertently knocked.

  For all the cooling river breezes, she could feel the heat of desire spread over her skin like the heat off a fire. It seemed extraordinary to her she had to wait until she was twenty-eight before experiencing a true sexual awakening. And he hadn’t even taken her to his bed! Yet there was a bond between them that had grown stronger. Was it possible that bond would snap when she had to return to the other side of the world?

  Absence makes the heart grow fonder—or out of sight, out of mind? Take your pick!

  Such was her involvement with Clint McAlpine at all levels; her former life had all but faded from her mind. It seemed, all at once, incredible what had passed between them.

  Lively conversation had flowed while they were out on the street, but inside their hotel both of them abruptly went quiet. Glancing at him in the elevator his striking face wore an oddly steely expression, as though he was forcing himself to do something he didn’t really want to do.

  What exactly?

  A man at war with himself? She felt a sense of foreboding. Did he have something to tell her? Something that might possibly break her heart? There was a woman. Not Marigole? A woman who might fit more easily into his lifestyle. Not a woman who bore the badge of the British aristocratic elite.

  He saw her to her door, his handsome face a dark golden mask. Hiding God knows what? she pondered. “Sleep well, Olivia.” He dipped his head to lightly brush her cheek. “I’ll pick you up for breakfast, say eight o’clock? I thought we’d take a car tour around the city and its sights before we head back to Kalla Koori.”

  What is he hiding from you? What is it he won’t say?

  “Good night, Clint.” She gave him a real smile. “Thank you for a lovely evening.” There was something odd about his manner she couldn’t quite put a finger on. If only she were a more sexually confident woman she might have thought he didn’t want the night to end there. Only she had to make the first move.

  You’re way out of your depth.

  She watched him walk away down the corridor—tall, wide shoulders, slim hipped, his body the perfect male model. Though he would have hated to be told that. She knew his room number. She had made the bookings.

  Why do you always abide by the conventions? Why do you always play it safe? You were up for all those passionate kisses. What sense is there in jamming on the brakes? You ‘re twenty-eight, for God’s sake! Such reticence is laughable.

  She simply couldn’t believe a man could kiss one woman with so much ardour but have another woman in mind for a wife.

  You know what Bella always says. Men are brutes!

  McAlpine wasn’t a brute.

  The true depth of your relationship is obviously bothering him.

  He’s trying to minimise the dangers? For all the intensity of their attraction she might turn out to be someone transient in his life? Her father had sent her to him, believing she would be in safe hands.

  Maybe he’s being extra-scrupulous? Maybe he’s holding himself under tremendous constraint? Damn it, girl, he could be waiting for some sign from you.

  She couldn’t contain her restlessness. She threw off her beautiful blue dress, catching sight of herself in the long mirror. She touched her breast, staring back at herself. Her new self. It might have been a trick of the light but she looked beautiful. Rather like Bella.

  What if you tippy-toed down the corridor and knocked on his door? Make up some excuse? Anything. Say you’ll be taking an early morning jog. Just wanted to let him know.

  Before what little confidence she had collapsed, she pulled a long caftan she had brought with her over her head. She had thought at the time the silk was just begging to be touched. She was quivering with nerves, preparing to encounter resistance, possible humiliation.

  By the time she was out in t
he hallway—mercifully no one was around—she was marvelling at her own daring. Anyone would think she was underage, instead of overage. She had stayed for weekends in many country houses, back home, but she had never been one for bed hopping. She had always been expected to do the right thing. It had enslaved her. And where exactly had it got her? Men soon lost interest in women who only did the right thing.

  Time to find out!

  By the time she reached his door she was nearly fainting with a great surfeit of emotion.

  Pull yourself together. You can deal with it.

  Only the hand she put out to tap on his door went limp. He could well be asleep.

  Oh, don’t be so stupid.

  Even the voice in her head was egging her on. Both of them sick of her procrastination. Yet she could hardly breathe. To her horror she stopped just short of pounding on his door such was the excess of adrenalin.

  You ‘re on your own now, girl. Don’t make a mess of it.

  He opened it, looked down at her, golden eyes blazing, then without a word slid a strong arm around the small of her back and pulled her with great urgency into his room.

  “Clint, I…”

  She felt the burn of his glance. “Hush.” He kissed her then, fierce and fiery, taking her breath away. He kissed her so deeply they were both left shuddering.

  “I willed you to come to me.”

  “I couldn’t stay away.”

  All further words trailed away. She let herself be swept off her feet—totally without effort on his part—and carried to the already turned-back bed, thrilled out of her mind she could be the object of such passion.

  “You had to come to me.” He stared down at her with his lion’s eyes, his strongly muscled, deeply tanned arms propped on either side of her highly aroused body, its contours clearly visible beneath the thin silk.