However tempting it was to stay there, she had to do something about this headache because she had clients to see in an hour. If she took an aspirin immediately she’d probably be all right.
By the time her clients arrived the headache had dwindled to a drained, dispirited lassitude that made her normal cheerful professionalism difficult to achieve. Fortunately the young couple loved the sketches and the concept, and were very enthusiastic over her cost-saving ideas; although they agreed to think it over and contact her the following day Lecia was almost sure it would be a formality.
She should be celebrating. Instead, she drank a glass of orange juice and gazed blindly at the street below. Because hers was one of the cheapest flats in the development she had no view of the harbour. She didn’t miss it. One end of the sitting room looked down onto the visitors’ parking area and the street, but from her bedroom and kitchen she could see the garden, and usually that was refreshment enough for her soul.
Not today, however.
She’d made the right decision to cut off any communication with Keane Paget—the only decision! The echo of the past that had seen her glimpse Anthony in the man at the restaurant had reinforced it for her. Keane was the same type as Anthony; both possessed enormous masculine charisma wrapped up in a gorgeously male body, both were powerful men, driven to achieve, clever and tough and more than a little ruthless.
Sourly hoping that Keane had more honour than Anthony, she sat down and began to check through yet another set of specifications.
Much later, the irritating summons of the telephone interrupted her concentration. Blinking, she realised that it was getting dark outside, which meant she’d missed dinner again.
Absently, her mind still full of stress loadings and other figures, she got to her feet, knocking a pile of papers to the floor. The answering machine was on, so she bent to pick up the scattered sheets, aware that it might be Peter.
It was not. Instead, Keane’s deep voice said, ‘My great-aunt would be delighted to meet you and thank you for her new house. I’ll pick you up tomorrow evening at seven.’
Click as he replaced the receiver.
Lecia scrambled to her feet, dumped the papers on the desk and muttered, ‘Why didn’t you wait, for heaven’s sake? I’d have got there.’
Damn. Damn, damn, damn! Now she’d have to ring him back and tell him she wasn’t going.
His card! Where had she put his card?
Five minutes later she knew it hadn’t gone into her daily file, and it wasn’t in her bag or her diary. Had she thrown it away? She couldn’t remember doing so, but she must have.
Quite sensible of her unconscious mind if she had! Sighing in disgust, she pulled out the telephone directory. There were quite a few Pagets, three of whom had the initial K. None of those lived on the North Shore. Setting her chin, she rang Directory Service, only to be told that Keane’s number was unlisted.
She couldn’t remember what the name of his business was, and it would be crass to ask Peter, who did know. But there was the article Andrea had given her—no, she’d thrown that away too.
Glowering balefully at the telephone, she said, ‘Bloody hell!’ and stamped out into the kitchen to prepare dinner. Unless she found that wretched card soon she was going to have to be ready at seven tomorrow evening.
When the telephone rang again she dropped the knife with which she was eviscerating an avocado, put the fruit on the bench and raced to answer it.
This time it was Peter.
‘Hello, Lecia,’ he said, cheerfully buoyant. ‘How nice to see you last week.’
Resigned, she said, ‘We had a super day, didn’t we? I especially enjoyed the fireworks.’
‘I enjoyed looking at you as you enjoyed them,’ he said somewhat ponderously. ‘I wondered whether you’d like to come to Don Giovanni with me next weekend. I hear it’s an excellent production.’
Gently, she said, ‘No, I’m sorry, I won’t be able to do that.’
His voice altered a fraction. ‘Then—dinner?’
‘No, thank you,’ she said.
Recovering quickly, he chatted for a few minutes and then hung up. She would not, she thought, be hearing from him again, and she hoped he hadn’t been building dreams because she hated having to hurt him. He was a nice man.
It was just unfortunate that she seemed attracted to men with an edge to them.
Dangerous men.
Men like Anthony—and like Keane, who was quite possibly having an affair with the lovely woman he’d escorted to the park.
Forbidden men.
Perhaps that was her hang-up. At least she’d learned to stay well away from such men. Never again was she going to endure that guilt and shame and degrading humiliation.
As Keane’s card remained obstinately lost, at seven the following evening Lecia was ready, wearing the shades of peach and gold that best flattered her skin and eyes. For some reason—one she didn’t plan to explore—she didn’t want him to see her apartment; she waited in the garden on a seat skilfully placed so she could see through the vestibule to the main entrance.
And, in spite of the stern talking-to she had given herself, an unwanted, unbidden knot of excitement twisted in her stomach, and she had to keep her hands open because sweat collected in tiny beads on the palms.
As soon as Keane’s tall form appeared at the front doors she got to her feet and walked into the vestibule. Silhouetted against the sunny street outside, he watched her without moving. He was, she realised with a subtle stirring of the senses, a very big man. Within her, tension tightened a notch into anticipation. Hoping that none of her inner turmoil showed, she smiled as she came up to him.
He said, ‘You look almost edible.’ A note of mockery in the deep, sensual voice robbed the compliment of sweetness.
‘Summer fruits. And I look like you,’ she retorted, reminding herself as well as him.
His eyes lingered for taut seconds on her face. ‘Had a bad day?’
Unwillingly her mouth eased into a wry smile. ‘I spent the morning at a building site, arguing with a man who apparently can’t read plans or specifications and is convinced no mere woman can either.’
‘How did you deal with that?’
‘I have this trick.’ She could feel some of her irritation fading as she spoke. ‘I pick up a nail and a hammer, put the nail into the wood and slam it in with one blow of the hammer. For some reason the fact that I can drive a nail straight and true and right in to its head persuades most men that I know what I’m talking about.’
He laughed. ‘How long did you have to practise?’
‘A week,’ she said, straight-faced.
‘There’s
