by Jan Colley
“Looking pleased with yourself,” Ethan commented, resuming his seat.
Magnus removed the cigar and pointed it at him, his eyes twinkling. “It’s marriage, my boy. You should try it.”
Ethan considered again raising the subject of the newspaper clippings, but he hated to blight his boss’s relaxed good humor. It could wait till they were back in Sydney. Or until he had something concrete from the P.I. “Just like a newlywed,” he sighed. “You must try and fix up all your poor, miserable, single friends.”
“Uh-huh.” Magnus leaned back in his chair and squinted at him. “Got a bit of a light in your own eye today.”
Ethan pushed the unbidden thought of Lucy firmly away. “There is something else.” He pulled his open briefcase toward him, his mouth tightening into a cautious grin. The Turtle Island file was on top and he lifted it and placed it on the table. Magnus’s big hand landed on the plain manila folder and he slid it closer, flipping back the cover.
While he studied the file, Ethan paced, savoring the anticipation of his boss’s reaction. Turtle Island had historical significance to MagnaCorp. He counted on Magnus jumping at the chance to recoup a substantial loss suffered.
He sat down again, his hand threatening to drum up a tattoo of impatience on the table.
Finally Magnus cleared his throat, his head still bent but the last page of the slim file inching closed. He picked up his cigar, tapped the end of it on the table and brought it slowly to his mouth. The chair creaked as he shifted to face Ethan.
The older man’s eyes were lit up with guarded pleasure. “When did you start on this?”
“Got the tip-off a month ago.”
“You’ve been busy.”
Ethan nodded. “I’m the only player. Clark knows.”
Magnus eyed him, nodding slowly. “Clark’s a good man.”
Ethan leaned back in his own seat, folding his arms. “Is it a go?”
Magnus roused himself. “Your father—” He tapped the file. “He did all the work on this, twenty years ago. Would have clinched it, too, but for the coup.”
Ethan sighed. The old man read him like a book. “Before my time.”
He was well aware of the history. Nearly twenty years ago, before this priceless piece of land had been nationalized, there were only two companies in the Pacific large enough to buy the rights to develop the bay into the world’s most exclusive resort. “You also spent millions,” he reminded him. “Lawyers, surveyors, architects…”
“And we both lost.”
“Here it is. You don’t want it?”
“Hell, yes. It would be the jewel in my crown. I’d be thrilled for you if it wasn’t your father and this island.”
“It’s business,” Ethan told him stubbornly.
“You know, Ethan, you only took the job I offered you to rub his nose in it. Else you’d be running his corporation now, instead of mine. He’d welcome you, and it wouldn’t be like working for someone else. You’re his only son. His rightful heir.”
“I’ve earned my money—sufficient, I think—my way.”
“You’ve done well.” Magnus pursed his mouth thoughtfully. “If you ever decide to call in ownership of all your units at the same time, you’d damn near break me.”
They smiled at the joke. Magnus had been among the top five Australasians on the rich list for the last decade.
From the time Ethan had completed his first project for MagnaCorp, he’d deferred the generous bonuses his boss offered in lieu of a down payment on a small portion of land on every project since. Sometimes this took the shape of a unit to be let out, a small piece of beachfront. In one case, he’d purchased the resort golf course.
“I want you to think about this, long and hard. Jackson’s done well these last few years, even if he didn’t do right by you and your mother.”
“My father doesn’t even feature in my thoughts most of the time. Some families just aren’t that close.”
“Yes but his failures made you what you are today,” Magnus insisted. “Forgive him, Ethan. Don’t allow him to leave this world with regrets. You do, and you’ll do the same.”
Ethan blew out a long breath and leaned toward the table. He picked up the Turtle Island file and saluted his boss with it. “Duly noted. And appreciated. Now, can we get down to business?”
Magnus grinned. “I swear, I’ve never met anyone as single-minded as you. Loosen up, son. Quit ticking things off that interminable list in your head. Come hunting with us.”
Ethan shook his head. “Not my idea of fun, old man. I’ll stick around here, enjoy the scenery.”
A smile nagged the corners of Magnus’s mouth. “Little Miss Lucy does kind of light up a room, even in the middle of nowhere, doesn’t she?” The smile broadened when he saw Ethan’s guarded expression.
“Let me have a go at Turtle Island, Magnus,” he hedged.
Magnus shook his head ruefully. “All right, son. If you think you can swing Turtle Island without causing an irretrievable break between you and your father, then go for it. I have every faith in you.”
Ethan slapped the file on the table in elation. “I’ll call Clark now, get the ball rolling.”
Magnus waved his hand. “Since you’ll be hanging around here, how about doing something for me? I’ve been hearing some disturbing things about Summerhill. It’s why I chose this as a belated honeymoon.”
“What sort of things?” Ethan’s interest piqued.
“Cutbacks. Maintenance issues. The word is, they’re close to the wall. The integrity of the club is paramount. There can be no hint of impropriety.”
The reference to the club made Ethan smile. Now that Ethan managed most of the affairs of MagnaCorp, Magnus had slowed down some, but the club was his pet. “Sure. I’ll ask a few questions. Looks okay, so far.” Better than okay, he thought, almost giving a wolfish grin. Lucy’s tantalizing presence could help him overlook just about anything. “The accommodation is spot-on, if a bit faded. Incredible location.”
“Mmm. Keep your ear to the ground. And have a bit of a rest. I’ll be back Wednesday, and we fly out on Friday.” He stood slowly. “Keep tomorrow night free. Tom has offered us some tickets for New Zealand versus Argentina. One of his friends has a corporate box. Whaddya say? It’s compulsory to see a rugby game when in New Zealand.”
Ethan closed his briefcase and picked up his jacket. “Who’s coming?” he asked casually.
Magnus turned to the door, but not before Ethan caught a definite gleam in his eye. “My wife and I. You and Lucy. Sadly, Tom will be busy with arrangements for our safari. We’ll have dinner afterwards and Lucy was going to see about booking a hotel in town for the night, save driving back.”
Lucy allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction. Nothing had gone wrong for once. She had checked the Andersons and Ethan into their hotel and had had time to call in to the apartment and pick up her beloved New Zealand jersey. The real stroke of luck was finding a rare parking spot on the street not three blocks from the stadium. They would be seated in good time.
The atmosphere was festive as thirty-seven thousand people poured in through the gates. A fireworks display sent big puffs of smoke rolling across the field and into the stands. Lucy paused a minute—she loved fireworks—then noticed Ethan had stopped to turn and look at her.
She had planned to avoid him as much as politely possible for the duration of his stay and had managed that nicely since yesterday’s incident on the gorge. But today they had all ganged up on her, even Tom. “Take my SUV,” he’d insisted, when she’d protested that four would be a bit of a squeeze in the Alfa.
Ethan had turned back to say something to Magnus. A body bumped into her and she stepped aside, her eyes intermittently on the fireworks and Ethan’s tall figure a few feet ahead. “Sorry,” she murmured automatically, then felt someone grip her arm.
A face, clean-shaven and loose-looking, peered at her closely. Because of the crush behind, she strove to keep walking but his grip tighte
ned.
“Ms. McKinlay.”
A waft of strong alcohol preceded his words and she stiffened. The face looked vaguely familiar, but distaste muddled her memory. “I’m sorry, I…”
“Joseph Dunn. Friend of your brother’s.”
A small spurt of relief was wiped out by the realization that he still hung on to her arm. “Oh. Okay.”
While she stammered, her eyes lifted over the man’s shoulder and she saw Ethan frowning back at her.
“We met at the casino one night, not long after you came home.”
Lucy did not remember but she did know his face. She tried to think of something to say to politely extricate herself from his grasp. “Nice to see you,” she murmured, lifting her arm pointedly. To her confusion, he seemed to grip her harder. Giving up the pretence of politeness, she pulled against him. “Excuse me,” she began icily.
“Where’s your brother?” The fleshy lips were no longer smiling. It was as if he too had given up on diplomacy.
“Tom?” A little scared now, she registered that Ethan was pushing toward her, only a few feet away.
“Yes, Tom.” The tone was now openly belligerent. “I know he’s here. I saw his car.”
Perhaps emboldened by rescue at hand, she tugged sharply to free herself.
“Hey!” She heard Ethan’s voice crack through the din of the crowd. The man checked.
“What do you want?” she hissed.
He glanced quickly over his shoulder then his fingers dug deep into her arm, so hard that tears of pain and outrage sprang into her eyes. He shoved his face very close. “Tell him I’m looking for him.” With that, he gave her a small but quite rough push.
A little dazed and off balance, she heard a louder “Hey!” close now, right in front of her, and then the tang of Ethan’s aftershave blitzed the smell of alcohol and malice away. Her head cleared. He came level with her, moving determinedly in the direction of the departing man. Without thinking, Lucy raised her hand quickly. “Leave it!” She slapped her hand quite forcefully on his chest.
His wide chest.
His hard chest.
His heart beat strongly under her flat palm. He looked down at it, possibly surprised at the force she’d used or perhaps it was the commanding tone of voice. Then he looked at her face.
She stared back, trying to think of something to say. Her train of thought was completely attuned to the rhythm of his heart under her hand. And the warmth of his skin under the shirt invited each of her fingers to flex and flatten out, pressing fractionally closer.
“You okay? What did he…?”
Lucy gingerly took control of herself, lifting her hand off his chest. “He was just being vulgar.” She started to walk in the direction he’d come from. “Come on, they’ll be wondering.”
Ethan’s hand landed on her arm, the same arm. His grip was gentle, but his voice was not. “Lucy.”
She tensed, inhaling deeply. This had to be handled with a light touch. She had no idea what that man had wanted with Tom, but her gut feeling was it had something to do with money.
Turning slowly to face him, she looked pointedly at his hand on her arm. “Gosh, it’s my week for being manhandled.” With satisfaction, she saw his eyes narrow at the coolness she’d imparted.
There were people everywhere, pushing impatiently to get to their seats. Ethan guided her determinedly to the side of the thoroughfare. When her back was against the wall, he leaned in close. His hands were on the wall on either side of her, cutting off her escape, but he did not touch her.
“What was that about?” His voice was low and tense.
Lucy quailed when she saw how tightly reined he was; his jaw was clamped, his eyes flashing. Why he was angry with her? “It was nothing.”
His breath puffed over her face. “Ex-boyfriend?”
She shuddered. “No.”
“His hands were on you.”
She saw then it was not her he was angry with. God help Joseph Dunn if Ethan stumbled across him tonight. “As were yours, yesterday morning,” she said carefully.
As a distraction, it worked. He shifted slightly, leaning on his arms, and his eyes slid down to her lips. A breathless shiver of excitement fizzed through her. Her fingers curled in remembrance of his heartbeat.
He was thinking of their morning kiss, as she was.
“Did I bully you yesterday morning?” he asked softly, and brought his eyes back to hers.
Smouldering voice. Smouldering eyes. Desire, not just excitement or anticipation but hot, flowing, knee-trembling desire rolled through every cell of her. And he saw it, recognized it. She saw his pupils dilate, his lips part slightly, and Lucy had to fight not to sag against him, helpless with longing.
And then the stadium erupted. Loudspeakers, applause, music rushed into the vacuum between them and sanity returned. Lucy shook her head and ducked quickly under his arm. “Forget it. Let’s go.” She made a timely escape, breathing deeply.
Ethan straightened. Following, he glared at the sea of people, as if to pick out the obnoxious man. “What did he want with your brother?”
She could not escape him; his long legs ate up the ground. “My brother? I told you, he was just trying it on. We’ll miss kick-off.”
She flicked him a nervous look and knew he saw right through her lie. He must have heard the man.
He moved to her side and put his arm through hers decisively. “You’ll tell me later.”
It sounded like a threat but she was somehow soothed by the touch of his arm running the length of hers.
This was a revelation. He was being protective, even territorial, of her. A champion. That was a first, ever since she’d been a kid, anyway. It was hard to know how to feel about it. No doubt she’d be called to account at some stage. By then, she hoped she’d have thought up something to distract him.
Several distractions went through her mind over the course of the game. The corporate box catered for about twenty but seemed to be well over-subscribed tonight. Magnus and Juliette had managed to snare a leaner and some stools right in front of the big glass doors, but it was a crush. Stuck in between Magnus and Ethan, she wrapped her arms around her torso and tried to diminish her size.
It was no good. The whole of her right leg was pressed up against his left. She felt on fire all down that side. If she moved to sip her drink, her elbow touched him. If he half turned to exchange a word with Magnus, his breath lifted strands of her hair. If she leaned forward to talk to Juliette, he seemed to fill the space behind so she could not lean back without touching him.
This attraction was fast becoming overwhelming, especially since her skin—her very nerve endings—were already sensitized by their altercation earlier. She was totally aware of every breath he took. Of every muscle in his long, taut thigh pressed against hers. He had rolled his shirt sleeves up a little and her eyes strayed, time and again, to the coffee-colored skin of his forearm with its sprinkling of springy-looking dark hair, and to his hands—long-fingered and spread wide on his thighs.
Worst of all was his reaction to the accidental touches. A stillness which told her more than the many three-second meetings of their eyes. A stillness that seemed to pass from him into her. An awareness of each other breathing, moving, just being. They spoke hardly at all, and the silences were fraught with a constant hum of excitement and perplexity.
What a relief to finally leave the small area and lose herself in other people again, although Ethan stuck quite close to her this time.
The crowd was in high spirits as they swept onto the streets. The plan was that Lucy would drop the Australians at their central hotel, go back to the apartment and change and meet them at the new jazz restaurant she’d booked, by ten or ten-thirty.
But when they came to the spot where Tom’s SUV should have been, it was nowhere to be seen. Lucy knew she’d left it right here; she recalled seeing the black balloons fastened to the lamppost right beside where she’d parked.
Where a green Toyota now
sat. She shook her head. “Good grief, it must be the next street over.”
“Look.” Juliette was looking at the ground, moving the toe of her expensive boot over the road. “Glass.”
Ethan crouched. “Broken car-window glass.” He picked up a fragment. “Someone broke into it and drove it away.”
“I don’t believe it.” Lucy squatted beside him, rummaging in her bag for her phone. She was hot with embarrassment. What a great impression of her city this would leave on the visitors. “I’ll call a cab.”
It was handy having a few connections in the tourist business and five minutes or so later, a corporate cab pulled up alongside.
When they reached the hotel, Ethan got out to let Magnus and Juliette out and then insisted, despite her objections, on accompanying her to the police station.
Half an hour later, they were still in the queue and she was still objecting. It was a busy Saturday night with an assortment of drunks, assaults and reports of thefts to entertain them. Finally they stood in front of a young policeman and Lucy outlined why they were there.
“Fill this in.” A form was placed on the counter. Her heart sank. Filling in forms on the spot with people watching—him watching—was as much fun as being in the dentist’s chair. Both men’s eyes on her, she picked up the pen and frowned down at the paper. Her face felt hot. The text in front of her danced behind her eyes.
“Registration number?” the officer inquired, tapping his keyboard.
Lucy wished the ground would open up and swallow her. In times of stress, her dyslexia was exacerbated. She knew there was nothing wrong with her intellect, just the way her brain processed words and figures.
Right. And it didn’t matter how often she heard those words, or read the literature from well-meaning disability learning centers. She felt so dumb, having to punch her PIN number in three times at the front of a queue, putting numbers back to front. Names, too—if she was given a written message to call someone she didn’t know called Joe Brown, Lucy was likely to say, “Is that Brown Joe?” when the called person answered.