‘Oh, no, you don’t, mister. It takes a bit more than some pasta to get me to bed!’ And she stood up and folded herself into her coat with a flourish.
He made no move to rise; he appeared to be amused if anything and he said only, ‘How old are you, Martha?’
‘Nineteen—what’s that got to do with it?’
‘Nothing, necessarily,’ he drawled. ‘Goodnight, then.’
She glared at him and swung out of the restaurant.
Two days later she opened the door of the dingy bedsitter she rented to find him on the doorstep. And she didn’t have to simulate surprise and annoyance; she was in fact quite stunned, then furious, because two days had been ample time to discover how ashamed she felt of herself. Conversely, she was prepared to admit it to no one, least of all Simon Macquarie.
‘What are you doing here?’ she said rudely. ‘And how did you find me?’
His lips twisted. ‘It was quite simple. Don’t tell me it didn’t occur to you, Martha, that all I had to do was make enquiries from the catering company that used to employ you?’
That did it. ‘Hey!’ She rearranged her features into a cheeky smile. ‘You are a bright boy, Simon! Not that I really doubted it. It’s just that you’ve caught me with my hair down.’ She had in fact just washed her hair. ‘But never mind—come in. And you can tell me,’ she added, with a wink, ‘what you’ve thought up now to get me to sleep with you.’
He took his time answering. He looked around the depressing room and then looked her over thoroughly. She was wearing faded jeans and an unexceptional white cotton top and had a towel slung round her neck with which she’d been drying her hair. And at last he said, with a faint quizzical smile touching his lips, ‘Before we go into that, can I buy you lunch? I know, I know,’ he said wryly, coming to stand right in front her, ‘that the price of a meal is not going to do it—I think I might have learnt that lesson.’
‘Then what?’ she said before she could stop herself.
‘You might have to tell me that, Martha. In the meantime, it’s a nice day, there are some nice beaches on Sydney Harbour—why don’t you bring a swimming costume? We could have a dip before lunch.’
He drove her to Watson’s Bay and they did just that—had a swim before a fine seafood lunch at Doyles. And Martha worked conscientiously on her tart act, setting her teeth on edge again but aware that this man aroused two things in her—a troublesome attraction and a deep sense of hostility. But he didn’t attempt to touch her and he delivered her home without making any arrangements to see her again.
Suits me, she thought, and for the next few days applied herself diligently to getting another job. The trouble was, she couldn’t get Simon Macquarie out of her mind. She kept thinking of his tall body slicing through the water beside her, thinking of the fact that for an Englishman—well, a Scot in fact, as she now knew—he wasn’t all pink and lily-white but lightly tanned, and there was something quite beautiful about the strong, lean lines of him that tended to take her breath away. Thinking how adult he was, how obviously cultured and sophisticated, how it would be a pleasure to drop her act and just be herself, wondering what he’d make of her true nineteen-year-old self. But when he reappeared on her doorstep five days later she was furious with herself because of it.
‘Oh, it’s you again,’ she said flatly. It was a chill evening, her feet were sore from walking to half a dozen job interviews, none of which held out much hope, and what lay ahead was an evening alone, making herself toasted cheese. ‘Come up with anything new but lunch or dinner?’
‘Yes, this,’ he said quietly, and took the door-handle out of her hand, closed it and took her in his arms. ‘Let’s see how we enjoy kissing each other, Martha,’ he said, barely audibly and with soul-searing little glints of amusement in his grey-green eyes.
Shock held her suspended for a long moment. Shock and the feel of him against her body, the way it made her heart start to pound suddenly, how she shivered involuntarily at the feel of her breasts against the hard wall of his chest. Shock as she wondered whether she was not much better than the role she was trying to play anyway...
It was this thought that made her toss her head and say, ‘OK—let’s see what you can do, mister! But only a kiss, mind.’
‘Whatever you say, Martha,’ he murmured. And then, quite a few minutes later, ‘How did I do?’
She had to swallow as she stared up into his eyes, swallow and desperately try to compose herself. Because what she’d been determined should be a light-hearted, shallow, give-nothing-away experience had been anything but. Instead, the feel of his fingers on the skin of her throat and the curve of her cheek before his mouth met hers had produced a kind of rapture she’d not before experienced. And the feel of his arms around her had evoked a consciousness of her body that had been quite stunning. And the way she’d melted against him as he’d kissed her had been anything but shallow and light-hearted...
‘You did OK,’ she said with an effort. ‘But hey, I learnt a long time ago not to get too carried away doing this. Could you let me go? My feet are killing me and I’m as hungry as a hound!’
What she saw in his eyes, though, startled her because it appeared to her to be sheer, wicked enjoyment. And he said gravely, ‘Of course. I too learnt long ago not to get carried away doing this. Can I say just one thing before I do?’
Martha opened her mouth, closed it then said, ‘Fire away, mister, but I haven’t got all night.’
He lifted a wry eyebrow. ‘My apologies. I was merely going to say that you’re...beautiful.’
‘Thanks, mate!’ But she tore herself away from him before she added, ‘You’re not so bad yourself. Mind you, I generally go in for Latin types—don’t know why; there must be something about dark hair and eyes that turns me on. Care for some toasted cheese? It’s about all I’ve got.’
‘No, thank you, Martha. I have a dinner appointment shortly, but perhaps I can help out in the matter of toasted cheese.’ And he pulled a fifty-dollar note from his pocket and before she was aware of his intentions opened a gap between the buttons of her cardigan and tucked it into her bra. ‘For services rendered,’ he said gently, and left.
Martha took a deep, furious breath, plucked the note out and tore it up.
‘I don’t know why you keep popping up like this,’ she said coolly, the next time he called, a Saturday lunchtime.
‘Is that your way of saying, Make me an offer I can’t refuse or go away?’ he queried with a dry little smile.
‘Probably. Fifty bucks doesn’t go far,’ she retorted, and stuck her hands on her hips. ‘So what’s it to be today?’
He studied her rather pretty floral skirt, thin white jumper and the simple knot she’d tied her hair back in. ‘We could go to the races.’
Despite herself a spark of interest lit her eyes, something he obviously noted because he said, ‘Do you like the horses?’
‘They’re OK,’ she conceded. ‘But I’m not dressed to kill.’
