by Penny Jordan
Again he was hit with a wave of absolute vulnerability. Most of the time she came across as so gung-ho. So unruffled. But he could hear, as clear as if she’d said the words out loud, that he’d done it again. He’d hurt her.
But awful as that was, as much as it was exactly what he’d been trying to avoid, the strength of her reaction gave him hope he might convince her to see him again. Once they were within touching distance he’d be in his element again and he’d know just how to make them both feel better.
He stopped pacing and planted his feet on the ground and stared hard at the graffiti-riddled brick wall of the alley. ‘I haven’t called to tell you I don’t want to see you again, Chelsea.’
She remained silent. Her disbelief palpable.
He ran a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t know what kind of guys you’ve dated in the past, but for me this whole phone thing we have going on leaves a lot to be desired. Especially now that I find myself missing the Mary Tyler Moore ring tone.’
She laughed through her nose, or at least that was what it sounded like. He clung onto the small noise for dear life.
‘Let me prove it to you. Let me take you out again tonight. I’ll pick you up, I’ll take you somewhere nice where there will be no waiters with nose rings or exposed bra straps, I’ll pay and I’ll escort you home like a regular old-fashioned date. No funny business.’
He crossed his fingers through the last part. He wanted funny business with her so much he could barely walk straight.
After a long pause she said, ‘I don’t mind nose rings. What I don’t like is bad service. And small portions at exorbitant prices. And snooty uppity sorts who think themselves above other people.’
He had a feeling she was somehow referring to him, which didn’t bode well for funny business so he chose to ignore it. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll do my best to find somewhere suitable. Tattoos all round and at the first sign of snootiness we walk. And afterwards, well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Okay?’
‘Fine,’ she said. She sounded as though she’d agreed against her will, but he had the feeling this woman didn’t do anything against her will. Her will was even stronger than his. And her will said he’d done enough to have her want to see him again.
He punched the air and let out a silent whoop.
‘Excellent. Let’s say seven o’clock. Text me your address as I’m nowhere near a piece of paper—’
‘You do know your phone has a notebook function?’
‘That’s nice. But I actually know how to retrieve a text message.’ He thought he did anyway. He’d better get back to the office just in case.
He looked around and realised he was halfway down a hill heading goodness knew where. He headed up the hill hoping he’d remember which way to turn when he reached civilisation again. ‘Does this thing have a Global Positioning System?’
‘Of course it does.’ She laughed again and this time it was softer, gentler, more forgiving. ‘Someone ought to buy you a pocket-sized paper notebook for Christmas.’
‘I’ll add it to Santa’s list,’ he said. ‘So, I’ll see you at seven?’
‘You will. Although I could just as easily send you to some deserted block as punishment for how you ended things last night.’
Damien grinned as he hit Collins Street and got his bearings and marched back towards the office. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You like me far too much to do that.’
She didn’t deny it. All she said was, ‘Then don’t be late.’
‘I’ll be so early I’ll be embarrassing.’
‘Bye, Damien.’
‘See you soon, Chelsea.’ Damien hung up only once he was sure the line was dead.
He pushed through the glass doors and jogged across the foyer, a newfound spring in his step. He knew that day he’d work as hard as ten men, to make up for the day before, and so that time would fly until he would be at her door.
And this time nothing, not cold feet, or honour, or guilt would stop him from happily taking from her whatever delights she readily offered.
Chelsea slowly hung up the phone. The only early meeting she had was with a cup of coffee and the newspaper.
She left the remains of both on the table in the kitchen nook at home, finished off the last bite of reheated leftover chicken teriyaki from a couple of nights before, then padded into her bedroom, disrobing as she headed towards the shower, wondering when exactly she’d become a masochist.
She’d gambled big three times in her life. Finishing high school via correspondence while she worked full-time in a pet-grooming business after her father died to help Kensey pay the rent. Taking over the business when her mentor retired. And buying out Kensey for this apartment.
All had given her the beginnings of stomach ulcers at first. But now…
She looked around her at the beautiful bedroom. Sunshine spilled through the small balcony window, a light breeze kissing the gauzy curtains. The opulent furnishings made the large space feel cosy. Her instincts had been dead on.
So what were her instincts telling her about Damien? That he was a creature of comfort who was emotionally unavailable. Not looking to fill any kind of void in his life with one woman.
She padded into the en suite and turned on the hot water, waiting until the room filled with heavenly steam before she cooled it down and slid under the invigorating spray.
But he was also a man who made her laugh. A man who made her able to forget her inhibitions and give herself to another person more intimately than she ever had.
Damien Halliburton was a man who just might be worth the gamble, or might yet prove her to be the greatest fool who ever walked the earth.
Right now she felt as if the odds were about even.
Just before seven o’clock that night, Damien walked up Flinders Lane pressing past clumps of scantily clad waifs spilling from funky restaurant doorways. He smiled at those who smiled at him first, but his steps did not falter. He was a man on a mission.
He looked up. Solid black wrought-iron balconies scattered the dark brick façade above. Several had light from inside spilling through translucent curtains, others yet trailed in bloodred bougainvillea. The building was unique and utterly charming. Much like the inhabitant he was here to see.
He straightened his tie, ran a hand over his hair, and paused with his finger over the doorbell of Chelsea’s apartment, wondering what on earth this night might bring him. It wasn’t as though any of this had gone according to plan so far.
He steeled himself, puffed out his chest, clutched at the bunch of lustrous orange tulips he’d bought for her and poked the button with as much force as his finger could take without breaking a bone.
After a few long seconds, the breathy sound of the intercom broke through the white noise of a city at play, and a husky voice answered, ‘Hello?’
He checked he had the right apartment number, then leaned into the speaker. ‘Chelsea, it’s Damien.’
Another pause. ‘Damien? Oh, heck, I’d completely forgotten.’ And smoked three packets of cigarettes in a minute flat by the sound of her.
Then the gist of what she’d said sank in. Forgotten? When he’d rushed out of work the minute the markets had closed to make sure he wasn’t a second late, she—
‘Damien?’
‘I’m still here,’ he said, not bothering to hide his annoyance. ‘Are you going to buzz me in?’
‘I can’t. I—’
‘Don’t tell me you’re not ready,’ he said, feeling more and more frustrated at having to talk to her through a wall. They might as well have been on the phone. Again.
He didn’t want that any more. He wanted to see her. Touch her. Smell her. Kiss her. Slide her clothes from her limbs. And to sink into her, to ease the ache that had built inside him since the first moment he’d looked into those golden brown eyes.
‘I’m happy to wait for you to tidy up or pick an outfit or dab on perfume or whatever it is you have yet to do. Just let me in.’
‘I…can’t. Damien.’ She paused. He even heard the sound shut off at the other end for a second before it came back on. ‘The truth is I’m sick.’
‘Sick,’ he repeated, wondering if that was some kind of code, like washing her hair, or paying him back for the early-morning excuse after all.
Frustrated to the point of a painfully clenched jaw, he looked over his shoulder. Melbourne was alive all around him. Music pouring from restaurant speakers. Tables full of young women laughing and young men paying close attention. All he wanted was to be a part of that scene again.
Maybe this thing between them had been all too hard from day dot for a reason. The fates were telling him to leave her well enough alone. To reinvigorate his weary libido in another pair of willing arms.
‘Damien?’ her reedy voice said again, and he knew, despite what his instincts were blaring at him, something else inside him simply wouldn’t let him leave.
‘Chelsea,’ he said, dropping his voice to its most persuasive level. ‘Let. Me. In.’
The smoked-glass door beside him clicked and he grabbed it and yanked it open. He shot through the marble lobby, giving brief nods to the octogenarian couple leaving the lift as he entered it. The art deco lifts took far too long to take him to the third floor. But when he got there her front door was ajar.
He took another deep breath and pushed it open to find Chelsea pacing the floor of a one-bedroom apartment overstuffed with furniture and books and knick-knacks and floral patterns so rich he practically had to squint to block them out.
She whooshed past him, a blur of tartan flannelette and bare feet. The frivolous hot-pink glitter on her toenails had him rooted to the floor. It took her husky voice to cut through his little daydream.
‘I didn’t want you to see me like this.’
He dragged his gaze upwards from her sexy toes past her baggy clothes to find her hair sprouted from a messy pony-tail atop her head. She wore not a lick of make-up. Her eyes were huge pools of muted gold, her lips overly pink against her pale skin. She looked warm and ruffled and ready for bed. All over his body his skin tightened until it felt a size too small.
‘I’m never sick,’ she wailed. ‘I’m so careful about everything as I can’t afford to be sick. I take multi-vitamins. I drink two litres of water a day. I wash my hands so much I’m in danger of being compulsive. Though when you deal with the kind of stuff I deal with on a daily basis hand-washing is a must. I—’ She came to an abrupt halt and began to breathe deep through her nose, her nostrils flaring, her cheeks bright pink.
She looked so wild. He wanted nothing more than to stride over to her and drag her into his arms and kiss her. His hands gripped so hard on the flowers he felt the stems crush.
But then her skin lost all semblance of colour. Her lips turned grey and she bolted. And the wretched sounds coming from her direction left him in no doubt that she was sincerely as sick as she’d said she was.
Still standing in the entrance, he had not one clue as to what to do. Surely he should go. She’d tried to warn him. And it wasn’t as though he had any kind of qualifications. Did throwing up call for chicken soup? Or was that lemon and ginger tea?
When after a good three minutes he’d heard nothing of her at all, an overwhelming wave of concern that she’d gone and done something foolish like pass out overrode any kind of squeamishness he might have had. It seemed his gallantry was not yet at an end.
He closed the door behind him with a soft click, placed the flowers on the hall stand, shucked off his jacket, leaving it hanging over the back of an overstuffed couch upholstered in some awful pink-rose fabric, and rolled up his sleeves.
She wouldn’t be the first girl whose hair he’d held off her face in a time of need. But she was the first girl he’d ever eaten humble pie for, and he had come all this way to see her so if this was how their second date was meant to play out, so be it.
Chelsea awoke with the thin morning sun teasing pink and pretty through the gauzy curtains of her bedroom window.
Her head felt like a bag of sand—dry, coarse and far too heavy to lift. Her mouth tasted as if she hadn’t cleaned her teeth in a week. She put a shaky hand over her eyes and sat up.
When she opened them she saw a folded newspaper on her bedside table. A plate of dry crackers and crumbs proving some of them had been eaten during the night. A single perfect orange tulip in a water-filled spaghetti jar. And just like that her night came swimming back to her.
Damien.
While she’d spent most of the night sleeping on the couch or with her head over the toilet bowl, he’d been there. Not hovering, not mothering, just there. Watching TV. Reading a magazine by the window with the blinds open and the city view painting its golden light upon his gorgeous profile. And had he really made her toast with Vegemite, cooked himself dinner from the pathetic contents of her fridge and loaded her dishwasher?
She pulled herself from her bed, and realised she had no idea how she’d ended up there and in a frilly sleeveless neck-to-knee white cotton nightie she hadn’t worn in years.
She grabbed her plush cream robe from the knob on the side of her cheval mirror, wrapped herself in it, tight, then headed out into the lounge room.
But all was quiet. Her kitchen was clean. And she was most definitely alone.
She poured a large glass of tap water, then headed to the lounge-room balcony. She opened the glass door a smidge, just enough to let in some morning sunshine, air, and comforting noise to drown out the plethora of embarrassing images in her head.
Whatever would she say to the guy when she saw him again? If she ever saw him again.
She dropped her head into her hands with a groan.
Damien stood below Chelsea’s apartment building holding a bag filled with croissants, cheese and bacon rolls and three different types of fresh bread as well as two steaming hot black coffees, with his mobile pressed to his ear.
‘Yeah, hello,’ Caleb said at the other end of the line.
‘It’s Damien. I need you to do me a favour.’
After a loud long yawn Caleb said, ‘Name it, buddy.’
‘I need you to take the morning meeting today.’
Silence.
‘Caleb?’
‘Yeah, I’m still here. Just needed a moment to check the number on my screen, make sure it was really you. You’re going to be late?’
‘Yes, I’m going to be late.’
‘You realise it’s a weekday, right?’
‘Caleb—’
‘Wow. I feel like I should commemorate this day with some kind of plaque, or parade, or something.’
‘Commemorate by holding the morning meeting.’
‘So what time will you be in?’
Damien glanced up at the third-storey balcony, which he now knew looked out from Chelsea’s small lounge-room. Fine white curtains fluttered in a light breeze, meaning she was up, padding about her apartment in just about the sexiest night attire he had ever come across.
‘Not sure,’ he said. ‘Later. Maybe. I’ll call you.’
‘But, Damien—’
Damien tore his gaze away, used the key he’d pilfered from Chelsea’s hall table, and walked into the foyer. ‘Let the gang talk. Any info that sounds interesting, use. Check on each trader during the day, touch base with each of the platinum clients in my Rolodex, leave your office door open, and try to refrain from fondling any of the staff. I trust you.’
‘I’m not sure you should.’
Damien jabbed the lift button with his elbow.
‘Are you in the hospital?’ Caleb asked. ‘Have you been kidnapped? Does someone have a gun to your head?’
Damien watched his reflection on the inside of the silver-panelled lift doors. ‘I’m fine. In one piece. I just have something more important I need to do right now.’
‘Like what?’
‘I’m with Chelsea.’
Caleb paused. ‘The hot get-back-on-the-horse cat lady?’
Damien breathed out slowly
through his nose. ‘If you call her that again I’ll slap you silly.’
‘Why?’
Why. Why? Damien ran a hand over his eyes and counted to ten. ‘Because it’s rude, that’s why.’
‘You’re playing hookey for her? You met her, what, five minutes ago? And now she’s what? Your girlfriend? Did you give her your varsity jacket?’
‘Caleb. She’s not my girlfriend. She’s a girl in need of a helping hand. Nothing more.’
‘Right. Though take one piece of advice from a veteran in the ways of the heart, won’t you?’
‘And that is…?’
‘Be careful.’
His own words from the night before came swimming back to him. ‘Careful about what, exactly?’
‘This girl. You know who you are. Who your parents are. What they expect of you. You know what you have to offer. Just be careful about how and why she’s managed to get her claws into you so quick. Be sure about your reasons, and hers.’
‘Caleb,’ he warned.
‘I’m your best mate. Everything I say I say out of love. I’ve known you for umpteen years. Our parents play gin-soaked tennis together on a weekly basis, and that’s a lifestyle I intend to protect so that when I grow in need of my first facelift I can take on the mantle of that fantastic life where they leave off. And I want you there by my side. Well, three or four blondes to my left, but in sight all the same.’
The lift binged. Damien’s reflection wavered and split. The cream panelled walls of the hallway leading to Chelsea’s apartment appeared before him. Images of sleep-ruffled caramel-blonde hair, wide golden eyes, and slim pale arms lifting trustingly so that he could slide a nightie over her half naked form swarmed over him and he pushed Caleb’s words far to the back of his head.
‘Gotta go,’ he said, then hung up.
Chelsea heard a noise. She spun towards the front door to see the handle moving. She could hear keys jangling. Her heart thundered in her chest as she simply stood there staring at the door waiting for the intruder to enter.