She wondered what Mouse would say. “You're in trouble now, dear,” he'd say. “Such terrible trouble.” And Bess resolved to raise the drawbridge at the first opportunity and keep it raised. Surely she could work with this man professionally and not succumb to the potential for personal involvement. She couldn’t get involved, couldn’t allow such a thing to happen. It would only result in disappointment for Geoffrey. And, worse, for herself.
During the trip into town, Geoffrey pointed out this and that, but Bess could only oooh and aaah and then immediately forget. She was so busy putting a check rein on her emotions, she barely registered the fact that they had pulled into the driveway of a large, oldish-style house, and that Lady clearly knew where they were. The little spaniel was doing cartwheels at the end of her tether.
“Home again, home again,” Geoffrey said with a grin. Then added, as he opened the rear of the vehicle and reached in for the tether clasp, “Now don’t say I didn’t warn you about this, Ms. Carson. Just stand still, and if you’re lucky ... well ... we shall see.”
“Wait!” he said to the spaniel. And then, “Okay!”
A whirling dervish of brown and white and speckles sailed to the ground and spun around Bess’s feet. The flying tail also managing to whip droplets of piddle everywhere as the dog did her amazing dance.
Bess whooped with surprise, but that only added to the astonishing performance. Geoffrey just stood there and laughed, making no attempt to control the mad animal.
Okay, Bess thought, I guess it’s up to me.
“Lady,” she said softly but firmly. When the dog paused long enough to meet her eyes, she raised one finger as she had seen Geoffrey do, and commanded, “Sit!” And to her astonishment – and perhaps the dog’s as well – it worked. “Wait,” Bess added, putting her hand down toward the dog like a traffic cop halting traffic. And that worked too!
“Bloody hell,” Geoffrey said. “You didn’t tell me you were a dog person.”
“You never asked,” Bess said with a grin, not about to admit that she had only become a dog person in the past fifteen minutes. Or, to be honest, one minute. Her father had never allowed what he called “scruffy canines” inside his Long Island mansion. He had dabbled in horse racing, but when his million-dollar auction choice, Queen Elizabeth, lost her first race, Father – in a fit of rage – sold the mare. Her mother had possessed a regal, squashy-faced cat, but Bess had only been seven years old. After the death of her mother's cat, Noyes, not so much as a goldfish had invaded the Cornwall estates, and Bess, craving some semblance of petting, longing to pet, had satisfied herself with a menagerie of stuffed animals.
“You’ve made a conquest,” Geoffrey said, staring at Lady. “Not that it takes much with this one. She’s the biggest tart I’ve ever seen, aren’t you my little sausage?” Which put paid to Bess and her dog handling. The dervish began again, only this time it was around Geoffrey’s legs.
“Enough,” he griped, picking up the suitcases and starting toward the back door of the house. “Go and kennel.”
Lady dutifully scooted toward a purpose-built kennel adjacent to the back door, giving her owner a positively filthy look as he shut the gate on her.
“Now, Ms. Carson, let’s see what we’re going to do with you.” Geoffrey led the way down a hall, then elbowed open the door to a spacious guest room with its own en-suite bathroom and a balcony that overlooked portions of the city below.
“I would expect you’ll want to freshen up or maybe even have a nap,” he said to Bess, as he dropped her suitcases. “Just do whatever satisfies your needs, come find me when you’re ready, and we’ll go out for some tucker. Okay?’
“Sure,” she replied, somewhat taken aback by the casualness of his approach. “But... uhm... where do I look for you?”
“Oh, I’ll be somewhere round the house.” His grin was truly wicked. “And it’ll give you a chance to snoop with a proper excuse.”
Whereupon her host bowed politely, just before he shut the door. But he left Bess the image of that wicked, fanciful grin, and the eternal wisdom behind it.
Definitely a man to be very careful of, she decided, cranking up the chains on her emotional drawbridge by another notch. She took his advice and flopped face down on the bed. Asleep within seconds, she stayed that way for several hours as her body clock made an attempt to sort out the loss of a day and the transposition of too many hours.
She awoke feeling grubby, stiff, and – after a lengthy shower followed by a vain attempt to tame her auburn curls – decidedly hungry. So she dressed quickly and casually in jeans and an over-large Denver Broncos sweatshirt, then began her investigation of Geoffrey Barrett’s home.
Bess had a vague memory of him describing it in one of his emails as “Federation Style,” whatever that meant. However, it was spacious, nicely planned, and delightfully decorated. He obviously had an eye for art; there were several paintings that caught her eye and imagination, plus a variety of wood carvings that sat or stood, each one gleaming polished in the late afternoon sun, each begging to be touched, fondled, admired in a tactile sense.
One, she especially loved. It was a chunk of what had obviously been driftwood of some sort, but now from its depths peered the bearded face of an almost mystic personage. Her mind shouted: Druid.
She found his office, empty and yet not empty. His presence was palpable. She could almost see him sitting at the computer, whittling away in his mind at the poem he had used to lure her to Tasmania. There was an indentation in the aging leather couch that told her he often napped there.
His bedroom, into which she only peeped, was austere. A large bed, dressing table, a single chair. The only touch of whimsy was a huge piggy-bank, almost child-like in its simplicity. There was one painting on plain, off-white walls that surely cried out for more. The painting showed a surrealistic figure, a nude without blatant nudity, decidedly feminine but without blatant sexuality. It was beautiful, ethereal, almost haunting. Bess felt something reach out from the painting and touch her, even as she closed her eyes and the bedroom door at the same moment.
She eventually found the kitchen, and Geoffrey with it, sprawled in a chair with a coffee cup close to his hand and a faraway look in his ice-green eyes. He was staring out the window, seeing something in the garden that was invisible to Bess. Then, aware of her presence, he rose to his feet.
“Feeling better?” His voice was gentle, its rough texture tamed by softness. But his eyes had suddenly become lasers, scanning her from crown to insole, missing no detail, then returning to rest on her face like a distant caress.
“Much. Although I’d kill for a cup of that coffee, Geoffrey, and some food. I’m famished. May I raid your fridge, or is that something not done by guests in this country?”
“Any guest in my house is free to do whatever takes their fancy, up to a point,” he replied. “The coffee’s just freeze-dried instant. I’ll show you how to boil the jug. And I had been hoping to take you out for a meal. I’m a reasonable cook, but it’s been a sort of hectic day and I’ve nothing planned.”
“Good thing you plan to do the cooking,” Bess said with a slow smile. “Because, although I can cook if I have to, it isn’t something I enjoy very much, and I do it primitively at best.”
“Not a problem here. Living in the town like this, there are heaps of choices, all within walking distance, at least for me. Do you enjoy walking, Bess?”
“Yes.”
If only he could manage to say her name without that sensual caress in his voice, she thought. No, not a caress. The suggestion of a caress, the hint of something more than she heard, something coming.
She found herself hearing the Ray Bradbury title: Something Wicked This Way Comes. And she shivered inside, hoping it didn’t show. However, as Geoffrey switched on the electric kettle, she was unable to ignore the economy of his movements, the lithe, almost feline grace as he moved across the kitchen.
“Will I have to get dressed? For dinner, I mean,” she ad
ded, then looked away to try and hide the fanciful thoughts that accompanied her question. Although Geoffrey considered her words carefully, she expected him to grin and say something about eating in the nude. What on earth was going on in her head? Every time she came into this man’s presence her entire system seemed to conspire against her.
“No, we’re pretty casual mostly,” he finally replied. “Unless you’ve a fancy to visit the Casino, or some really posh restaurant, we can go as we are.” He looked pointedly down at her bare feet and raised one dark eyebrow. “Although I suppose you’ll have to put some shoes on.”
“Yes, well... the thought did occur to me, too. First, coffee. Okay?”
Shortly thereafter they were strolling down the city streets of Launceston. But Geoffrey didn’t bother with much touristy talk, merely answered her occasional question, then suggested they drop in at O'Keefe's for a counter meal.
“Which is...?”
“A pub meal. You have them in The States, but I can’t remember what they’re called, I’m afraid. Just good, wholesome tucker, not awfully expensive, not great shakes for atmosphere, but quick and satisfying. Suit you?”
“Lead on,” Bess said, her stomach telling her she was looking forward to food, and at this stage it didn't matter where it came from.
They had barely entered the place when a barmaid called out, “Hey Geoff... ow ya goin’?” The woman smiled as he replied sadly, “Without, as usual.” She then shot Bess a look that could only mean: why-was-Geoff-going-without?
For his part, Geoffrey could only nod to Bess and mutter, “Sorry…old joke.”
And an old friend too, she surmised, but said nothing, merely nodded back. The food was plentiful and more than satisfying, and the only real difference Bess noticed in service was the business of paying at the bar when the meal was ordered, rather than waiting for the bill at the end.
“I’ll get the tip, if that’s okay,” she said when they had finished eating and were dawdling over the remains of some splendid local beer.
“No need,” was the reply. “Tipping isn’t very common in Australia, and even less so in Tasmania.”
Bess was astonished. “How do these people make a living? I waited tables in Colorado, and believe me, when you only make about two dollars an hour, tipping is what it’s all about.”
“You? A waitress? Well bugger me dead,” he said, surprise evident on his face. “Sorry... very much an Australianism, that. I just wouldn’t have thought—”
“I was good enough to average eighty dollars or more a night in tips, but it’s hard work, very stressful. And please don’t apologize for your language. I’ve heard it all before. It doesn’t bother me in the slightest.” And then, coming from nowhere, certainly not from her logical mind, she added, “Just don’t pinch my butt. That really pisses me off.” And she could have crawled under the table.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, face set in what had to be fake seriousness. “But while we’re on the subject, or near it, would you please see if you can manage to call me just Geoff? My mother called me Geoffrey and one... close friend... does too, but it sounds very strange in my ears hearing it from anyone else.”
“Okay, Just Geoff, so long as you continue to lay off the Ms. stuff and call me Bess. Deal?”
“Done.”
“And now I think it’s time you took me home to bed because I can feel an attack of jet lag coming on. Ohmigosh! Did I say take me home to bed? I can’t believe I said that. I mean—”
“I know exactly what you mean, Bess. Loosen up a bit, please. We’ll never be able to work together if you throw a... what do you Yanks call it?... hissy fit... every time one of us makes a Freudian slip.”
“It wasn’t a Freudian slip. It was a figure of speech.”
“And a very nice figure at that,” he replied, appraising her jeans and tee. “Now, let’s get you home to your own bed, alone, before you stop making sense entirely.”
Which was what they did. Walking in silence all the way. Bess would have thought he was annoyed with her, except that somewhere along the journey she tripped, and having taken her hand to steady her, he kept holding it...
And she never even thought to try and free herself.
CHAPTER FOUR
They started on The Book two days later. Geoff wanted to call it Our Book, but Bess insisted it would be The Book until it had a genuine title.
Actually it was a case of Bess making her start, since Geoff had already roughed out the first chapter as he saw it. Now it was up to her, he suggested, to determine if she could make the transition from his work to a second chapter that was her work.
Great in theory. Impossible to implement. Their writing styles were too different.
“We can’t do it this way,” Bess announced at lunch time, when he said they should walk downtown to have a beer and sandwich somewhere. “And I’d rather discuss this in private, Geoff. Surely I can make us a sandwich while we thrash this out here.”
“No bread,” was the almost-brusque reply. “And more importantly, no beer.”
“And no one, I suppose, who’d be prepared to just go and get such things. Are you angling for a public discussion to keep me from making a scene or screaming at you?”
“Precisely. We're still sorting ourselves out, Bess. Tempers could flare, and don’t deny it. You’re not wearing all that red hair for nothing, I suspect.”
“I'm one third Irish and one third Jewish,” she said, fighting for calm. Damn it but he could be annoying when he chose to be. “Which, my mother used to say, means I have an Irish temper and Jewish guilt. It does not, however, make me a person who stages scenes or loses my cool at the drop of a hat.”
“Of course not,” he said. “But you don’t know about me. Indeed, for all you know, I like to throw the occasional hissy fit where the world can see and appreciate it.”
Bess broke up. She couldn’t help it. The thought of Geoffrey Barrett throwing a hissy fit in public was so ludicrous, her sense of humor couldn’t deal with it. She started with a giggle, but within seconds had tears running down her cheeks and could hardly sit upright.
Geoff just stood there, shaking his head sadly, until she finally regained some shred of composure. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just that...” And she lost it again, dissolving into giggles once more.
All of which was far, far too much for Lady, who had gamely sat through the first session with only a token wriggle. Now she went into her dervish mode, spinning round Bess’s feet, sprinkling as she spun.
“Oh, Lady. See what you’ve done. You didn’t name her properly at all, Geoff. She ought to have been named Cyclone.”
He handed over a roll of paper towels. “Here. You started it, you get to clean it up. Then, I'm leaving for a beer and sandwich, whether you choose to come with me or not. Lady! Go and kennel.”
Geoff headed for the door with the spaniel at his heels. Lady looked back as if asking Bess if it was all right to follow him. Smiling at the dog, she knelt to wipe up the piddle, thankful it had happened on the polished kitchen floorboards instead of the living room – no, here it was lounge room – carpet.
“Right, I’m off,” Geoff said, having locked up his recalcitrant Lady. “You coming or not?”
“Not,” she replied, hardly bothering to think about it. “I’ll just raid the fridge and try to make some sense out of this collaboration thing. If we don’t get it sorted out, you’ve spent a lot of money for me to play tourist and—”
“Your principles won’t allow it. Damn it, Bess, even you have to eat. Especially you. There’s hardly anything of you in the first place.”
To which she merely snorted. There was more than enough of her for the size of her frame. A fellow author had once said: “It's not that I'm overweight, it's just that I'm under tall.” Then there was the old cliché: “You can never be too rich or too thin.” Well, she'd been too rich, thank you very much, and too thin wasn't her style.
“Besides, the walk will
do you good,” Geoff persisted. “Clear away the cobwebs so we can look at our problems from a different perspective.”
“Is this your way of telling me you have some new and exciting ideas about how to approach it, or are you angling for company?”
“Both. Now put your shoes on and let’s go. I’m getting decidedly peckish.”
As they meandered down the streets, Bess did her best to explain to Geoff why she thought they would have to try something different if their collaboration was to succeed.
“Look, you’ve got this American heroine, Kate, who is caught up in a press gang raid in San Francisco, protected by a pirate all the way to Australia. Then she winds up on the Ballarat gold fields, which is the setting for Chapter One. I'm sorry, Geoff, but I think that’s a poor choice from the get-go. Especially when you want the reader to believe she’s still a virgin.”
“Innocent. I said innocent, not virginal. There is a difference, you know.”
“Probably better than you do!” Bess, who felt neither innocent nor virginal, wished Geoff would stop looking at her that way every time so much as a word was mentioned that had the slightest sexual connotation. It was as if those brigand’s eyes were able to slice through her defenses like a cutlass, and it was damned disconcerting.
“Okay, I suppose so,” he said, “but your point is?”
“I think you should start where she starts, in San Francisco. Otherwise, there's too much flashback, which is no place to try and explain how she manages to maintain her... innocence... for so long under such difficult circumstances. And we have to explain how she got into those circumstances in the first place. After all, she's a decent girl, isn’t she? What was she doing getting involved in a press-gang raid?”
“I explained all that in my outline. Didn’t you read the outline?”
“Don't be so defensive. Of course I read it. Unfortunately, it isn’t detailed enough for my puny female mind to follow.” Bess felt her Irish temper flare, then simmer. His outline had been filled with promise. However, her emotions had been tangled at the time, and it now seemed to be all smoke and mirrors. “The problem is,” she continued, “and I don't want to hurt your feelings, but the problem is...” She took a deep breath. “It's all puff and little substance.”
Finding Bess Page 5