Then he was there, materialising from the crowd like a magician from a puff of smoke, an enigmatic smile on his lips and a tray of drinks on the cupped fingers of one hand. But his eyes! Alana’s companion — what was his name?-had never met Phelan before, obviously. Or else he was just thick. Maybe both; surely nobody, Vashti thought, could miss the fire in those eyes, the explosive, wild madness.
Certainly Alana didn’t. She accepted her drink, then sat there, staring at it as if it might leap up and take her by the throat. Occasionally she shot a look of pure panic at her brother, or at Vashti, who held on to her own glass as if to maintain her balance.
And Phelan dominated the situation. His rich voice purred like that of a hunting cat; his personality held all of them as if in a cage. Skilfully, using words like fencing foils, he drew out Alana’s young man — who he was, what he did for a living, and did he ride? Of course, Alana wouldn’t even talk to a man who didn’t ride. Within minutes, it seemed, he knew more about the man than his own mother did; Vashti still couldn’t remember his name!
Then it was time for another round, and of course it was Alana’s friend’s turn to buy. He was gone for what seemed like days, silent days in which Phelan sat with a warm smile and ice-bleak eyes, pinning his sister in place, forestalling so much as a word from her by sheer will-power.
Alana seemed incapable of countering his silent assault, and Vashti was equally impotent. She wanted to cry out to Phelan, to somehow make him stop this torture, but it was as if she were locked out of the tableau, despite being a part of it.
Why didn’t he say something? Why no accusation, no yelling or screaming or whatever it was that brothers and sisters did under such duress? Vashti merely wanted to get away, to go and hide under a table, if nothing else. The atmosphere was so alive with tension that she could hardly breathe; she was freezing and stifling at the same time.
Alana sat like a mannequin, so still that she didn’t appear to breathe at all. Her eyes were wounded, her lips parted as if to gasp, or speak, or scream. Phelan smiled.
The boyfriend returned. Phelan turned the sound back on and conversation returned, but the tension remained — tangible, it seemed, to only three of the four.
Then Phelan began applying the pressure, forcing his sister to take an active role in the conversation, making her respond. He was truly a master manipulator, somehow engendering not only conversation but smiles, once even a laugh. Ghostly hollow, it was, but a laugh.
And he kept twisting the conversation, working it like potters’ clay to find places for words like ‘vengeance’, ‘vendetta’, and a host of other synonyms. Each one seemed to strike his sister like a lash. Most had a similar effect on Vashti, but he couldn’t realise that; seated beside him, she was on the periphery of his attention, she thought.
Wrong. He finished up with a line that allowed him to exhibit ‘retaliation’, then turned to favour Vashti with a smile so huge, so obviously genuine, that she couldn’t believe it.
‘Of course you’re not a vengeful person, dear Vashti,’ he grinned, but it was a false grin now. Then he rose to his feet and turned to his sister with an even broader, more false grin. ‘Anyway, we have to go now,’ he said to Alana, reaching out to her friend with an outstretched hand to be shaken.
Alana got a kiss on the cheek, then Phelan quietly said, ‘You know ... you’ve kept your figure really well. Must be all the riding. Give all the children a kiss for me when you get home, eh?’
And to Vashti, who simply didn’t believe what she’d just heard, ‘Come along, darling.’
Come along she must, because he had taken her wrist and was already turning away, leaving Alana standing there with a stunned expression and her companion looking like a man who’d just got his tax assessment.
Vashti would have been pulled along like the tail on a kite, except that as soon as they were out of the young couple’s sight Phelan tugged her close to him and put his arm companionably around her waist. And the fingers there trembled, as did, she quickly realised, the hip she was being bounced against as they walked. A few steps more and he stopped, his entire body shaking.
The bastard was laughing! And so, despite the turmoil of emotion that threatened to blow her head off, was Vashti. Phelan turned her to face him, loomed over her with tears brightening his eyes as he chortled at the success of his gambit, and Vashti simply couldn’t help but join in. They stood there, oblivious to the passing throng, and fairly howled with laughter.
‘You were magnificent; the perfect foil,’ he said after a minute, and leaned down to kiss her, almost chastely, on the lips.
‘I wasn’t being your damned foil,’ she replied. ‘I was just as dumbstruck by the whole performance as everybody else.’ And somehow the humour had gone out of it, for her. ‘You really are a cruel man,’ she said bluntly.
‘Fiddlesticks! The bloke was a nerd and she’ll thank me in the morning,’ he retorted. ‘That’s if she doesn’t come blazing out to the farm and slaughter me in my bed. I don’t suppose you’d let me stay with you tonight, where it’s safe?’
Vashti ignored him. ‘I really ought to go to her,’ she mused. ‘You had her absolutely terrified, you know? And that poor young man...’
‘He probably won’t figure it all out for a week,’ Phelan replied. ‘Stop fussing. When you’ve had a chance to think it all through, you’ll realise it wasn’t anywhere near as depraved as it sounded. Besides, it was your revenge too, or had you forgotten that?’
‘I’m not a vengeful person,’ she replied, throwing his words back at him, then suddenly aware that they were standing in the middle of the Wrest Point lobby, dividing the throngs of late-night gamblers and diners that flowed past them, and Phelan Keene was still holding her disturbingly close against him while he stared down into her eyes. One hand was acceptably enough placed on her hip, but the other...
‘And all the prettier for it,’ he replied, and for an instant she thought he was going to kiss her again. Vashti backed away the inch his hands would allow, only to have him whisper, ‘And you’ve kept your figure well, too.’
Which brought an immediate vision of Alana’s gentleman friend, rigid with astonishment. It was enough to break the spell that had been forming; Vashti couldn’t stop herself smiling.
‘It’s the riding that does it,’ she chuckled, and carefully kicked Phelan in the shin, just enough to make him release her. The gentle kick was rewarded with a grimace, but he did release her, only to take her arm immediately in a gentle but proprietary grip.
‘I don’t know about you,’ he said with a grin, ‘but all this vengeance has me fair starving. Fancy a snack before we retire to plot some more?’
‘No more! If I were your sister I’d shoot you for what you’ve done already,’ Vashti cried. ‘And no, I’m not hungry. Or rather, I’m not sure. I don’t know whether to laugh — because it was funny, I suppose — or to be just as angry with you as your sister is.’
‘If I were my sister, I’d be scampering for the nearest hills, rightfully fearful of more to come,’ he replied grimly. ‘That was just a taste of her own medicine; there’s the rest of the bottle to come — and it’s a big, big bottle that won’t taste one bit good. I’m certainly glad that you’re not my sister, by the way. It would make things very difficult indeed.’ And his eyes made very clear what he meant by that; they literally devoured her. ‘Do you gamble, by the way?’
‘The way they do here? Hardly. I’m just a working girl, remember.’
‘How could I forget? Actually, I’m not much of a punter either, just in case it worries you. But I do have my moments and tonight I feel rather specially lucky. Must be the company I keep. Let’s take a stroll through the gaming rooms and see if you’re as lucky for me as I’d expect.’
To which there was no rational answer, much less a safe one. Vashti allowed herself to be guided down to the glitz and glitter of the gaming rooms, thinking as they went that she must be out of her mind even trying to keep up with this man
.
I am well and truly out of my league, she thought, only to compare that intellectual rationale with how pleasant she found Phelan’s company, how much she actually enjoyed being with him.
Waiting while he exchanged money for chips, she idly glanced at the crowds which surrounded the various roulette and blackjack tables, their faces an education in itself. Most seemed to take their gambling seriously; it was the locals at the poker machines who radiated elation or dejection with each small win or loss. The serious gamblers didn’t, she thought, seem to have much fun at all.
Phelan, she quickly discovered, could never be described as a serious gambler. Within ten minutes at a roulette table he quadrupled his stake, only to be down to a single chip five minutes later.
‘A kiss for luck,’ he said then, and plundered her mouth before she could even think to object. Taking the longest possible odds, his chip multiplied as if by magic into stacks and stacks that grew like mushrooms.
‘You are lucky for me,’ he said, removing his winnings with a delighted grin. ‘Now let’s see how lucky you can be for yourself.’
‘But I don’t even know what’s going on,’ she protested. ‘And I can’t gamble with ... well, you know...’
‘With my money? Course you can. You just take a chip like this,’ and he put one in her hand, then guided it over the betting zone ‘and put it where you fancy.’ The chip dropped from nerveless fingers as he put his other arm around her, his touch moving gently at her waist, his hip against hers and his breath warm in her ear as he whispered instructions.
She lost. Lost again. And again. No third time lucky, nor fourth nor fifth nor sixth.
‘This is crazy,’ she said aloud, turning to Phelan, urging him. ‘I’ve got to stop. I can’t keep this up.’
‘It’s ‘cause you’ve got no faith,’ he smiled. ‘Or maybe because I haven’t kissed you for luck.’
It was a shortcoming he proceed to rectify with a thoroughness that left Vashti gasping and flushed with a sudden shyness. She’d have been embarrassed beyond belief, except that nobody noticed! And it was time to bet, which she did with all she had left, at Phelan’s insistence.
‘You can’t test kissing luck by being a piker,’ he said.
‘You only used one chip,’ she protested, horrified at the thought of losing everything in one go.
‘I only had one left,’ he said with a shrug. ‘And besides, I trusted you for luck.’
I don’t have your faith, she was about to say. Only suddenly she did — because she won! The pile of chips was magically cloned over and over and over.
‘I won!’ she cried. And again. Her eyes were wide with delight, her breath coming in gasps of excitement.
‘Again?’ Phelan smiled indulgently, helped rake in her winnings — their winnings.
‘Not on your life,’ Vashti said. ‘I’d have to be mad! There’s nearly a week’s salary there.’
Phelan reached out and retrieved a handful of chips. ‘Minus our original stake. What’s left here now is just play money; it doesn’t matter if you win with it, lose it or burn it.’
‘No,’ she said firmly, raking in the remainder and pouring the chips into his dinner-jacket pocket before he could move to object. The gloss was gone now. The heady feeling of excitement had ebbed to become common sense. Or, at least, as much common sense as Vashti felt capable of in this man’s presence.
Suddenly she was exhausted, sagging. And it must have been obvious, because he didn’t argue, didn’t protest, merely looked down into her eyes, his gaze warm and gentle and ... sharing.
‘Time I took you home,’ he said quietly. ‘You’ve had a busy day for a little girl.’
Ten minutes later they were again in his luxurious car, moving smoothly through the scant traffic along Sandy Bay Road. Vashti lounged against the leather of her seat, her mind coasting, revelling in the silence and the car’s super-smooth ride.
When they reached her flat, Phelan walked her to the door, his fingers warm on her arm. She ought to ask him in, she thought, but tiredness combined with caution to hold back the invitation. If she’d been vulnerable the other night, tonight was doubly so, dangerously so.
And he seemed to know it, even expect it.
‘I’ve enjoyed this evening very much,’ he said, lifting her hand to press his lips against it, then, startling, to press a wad of paper into it.
‘What?’
‘Your share,’ he said, voice very soft now. ‘And don’t spoil it by arguing. Use it to buy something sexy — not that you need it.’
‘But I can’t take this,’ she protested, ignoring him, forcing the money back into his hand.
‘You just did.’ And he deftly reached out to tuck the wad down the front of her dress, his fingers tracing a seductive retreat after he’d done so, his eyes claiming her, his lips ready to forestall any further argument.
‘We’ll do this again some time,’ he said, ‘if my sister survives long enough to arrange it. Now take yourself to bed, because if I have to do it for you I’d end up putting all my good luck at risk. Goodnight.’
And he left her, leaving the warmth of his lips against her throat, the feel of his fingers along her breast, along the length of her back. Warm feelings ... right feelings. But...
Vashti stood in the doorway as he walked back to his car, knowing she wanted to call out to him, to invite him inside, despite the certainty of what that would mean. Knowing exactly what it would mean, and hating herself for not having the nerve to find out.
‘No guts,’ she told herself as he slid into the big car, closing the door with an over-casual wave in her direction. Vashti stepped into the flat, resisting the temptation to slam the door behind her, to display her temper and frustration in some physical, angry gesture.
‘No guts,’ she said again, flinging her wrap to land on the sofa, flinging her purse to join it, and kicking off her shoes to let them sleep where they landed.
The dress she hung up. Even childish temper tantrums bad their limits, she told herself. And the frothy-frilly underwear, the ever so sexy stockings and minuscule suspender belt that had promised so much and delivered so little went into the laundry hamper to live with fair-dinkum working clothes until next wash-day.
Phelan’s money she flung on her dressing-table, then retrieved it and carefully tucked it beneath the old sweater in her drawer. Then she retrieved the lingerie and tenderly tucked that away too.
‘Not your fault,’ she found herself muttering, and ended the performance by flinging herself into a bed that somehow seemed too big, too ... something. She tried to take herself into sleep with thoughts of even sexier lingerie, of Phelan Keene’s response to it. Of how she thought he’d respond to it, of how she wanted him to respond.
Why hadn’t he? He surely would have sensed her readiness, her wanting him. And, she thought, he’d have sensed just as thoroughly how tired she was ... had been! Angry now and wide awake, she walked naked through her flat, picking up the shoes and putting them away, carefully folding the evening wrap.
Then she discovered she was hungry. His fault; if he hadn’t mentioned it, she wouldn’t be. She made herself a sandwich, forced herself to eat it; heated some milk, forced herself to drink it. Went back to bed, got up again, made some more warm milk, and took a long shower that became a short one when she found herself scrubbing her body and hating it, not wanting to see it, not wanting to touch it. Wanting him to touch it.
She finally tumbled into sleep through sheer exhaustion, her body driven to it despite the confusion in her head, only to find herself waking with the sun and the alarm clock she must have set without thinking about it.
‘No ... no ... nooo,’ she groaned, turning off the alarm and plunging back into the safety of sleep, only to be wakened five seconds later, it seemed, by the telephone.
‘I’m going to apologise to you,’ said a familiar voice. ‘Because you deserve an apology. For everything. Especially for involving you with him. Him, I’m going to kill. Sl
owly.’
‘Alana? Is this really necessary at this ungodly hour of the morning?’
‘It’s one o’clock in the afternoon. I’ve been wanting to ring since ... well, since very early. He won’t answer his phone, or has it turned off, or isn’t there at all.’
There was a long pause while the implications, Vashti thought, rattled round like peas in Alana’s questionable brain.
‘Oh. Oh ... oh! He’s not ... not there, not there with you? I never thought of that. Oh, dear.’
‘You never thought at all,’ Vashti replied, trying to keep her voice firm, but failing. The younger girl’s confusion had brought back memories of the night before, and with them the giggles. There was no sense trying to be stem; already she could feel herself wanting to laugh. Then had a better idea.
‘Would you like to speak to him?’
She listened to the silence, then rushed into it, suddenly alive with the idiocy of it all. ‘I’ll have to wake him; he’s had a rather hard night of it, poor love. How are the children, by the way? You did give them all a kiss, I hope. Ah, there’s the handle bit; he’ll wake up now, I reckon...’
An explosion of laughter cut her off, then both girls dissolved into laughter together. But it was Alana who recovered first.
‘Full marks for that,’ she gasped. ‘And I deserved it. Deserved last night, too, I have to admit. Damn Phelan! That’s the first time ever he’s caught me that flustered that I couldn’t even defend myself. I’ve never been so embarrassed.’
‘You deserved all of it, and more,’ Vashti replied. ‘As he’d tell you himself if he were here, which of course he isn’t. You’re damned lucky either one of us is speaking to you, or ever will again.’
‘You didn’t enjoy yourself? You must have, or you wouldn’t have ended up at the casino with him, would you?’
‘That,’ Vashti replied hotly, ‘is not the point.’
‘Course it is.’ Alana seemed suddenly totally recovered from her apology mode. And that, for whatever reasons, served only to make Vashti angry about the whole situation. She really hadn’t been, before. She’d been too involved, she realised, in Phelan Keene — just as Alana had intended! Which now made her even more angry.
A Taxing Affair Page 12