either of them but always running on a subterranean current. With a less than ardent husband always preoccupied with business Delma had taken to mild flirtations. Never too overt, Owen for all his calm detachment wasn’t the man to cuckold. But recently Owen had become a man of mystery. To track him would have been the greatest insult but Lang found himself frequently pondering exactly what was going on in Owen’s life. Owen was a married man with a wife and young son. He was highly regarded in big business and the tropical north where he lived. Why would a man like that want to complicate his life with a secret affair? Providing, of course, the mystery in Owen’s life was a woman.
Whatever Owen’s story, his early life before coming north, he never spoke of it. Otherwise he spoke of anything and everything with his partner. Lang always felt Owen had suffered some terrible blow in his youth. Something he had never dealt with. Owen would probably go to his grave with all his secrets intact.
Now Lang walked at Owen’s side totally unaware of the attention his own looks attracted. Lang was and always had been very casual about such things. Achievement was what mattered. He had gone after it traumatized by his father’s financial crash, which had literally lost the family farm, though farm hardly described Marella Downs. A ten thousand square kilometre run on the western side of the Great Dividing Range, Marella was a most valuable property. Forsyths had lived there for well over a hundred years, a long time in this great southern land, until his father becoming increasingly desperate after a series of financial busts and industry reversals had finally lost it.
His father had since died, unable to handle not adversity, but the burden of guilt he had placed on himself for losing the family heritage. His father had never lived to see him gradually overcome all the terrible setbacks, but his mother had. Barbara Forsyth resided at Marella Downs once more.
He’d made it his life’s business to buy back the farm. There was no way now he could run the station. He was too heavily and financially involved with Carter-Forsyth Enterprises. His sister, Georgia, and her husband, Brad Carson, his good friend from childhood, managed the station very efficiently indeed. When it was time, Brad wanted to buy him out. But that was a good while off yet. Meanwhile the Forsyths were back on Marella Downs with the next generation taken care of in the form of one Ryan Forsyth Carson, aged six. His nephew and godson.
Lang and Owen lunched at the club, a beautiful old building that looked out at the Botanical Gardens. Both men relaxed over an excellent meal, which was served with quiet flourish by the waiter who usually attended to them. They talked easily. It had been their way from day one, but Owen studiously avoided talking business, which in itself was extraordinary despite the six months of change. Instead he concentrated on their outside interests like their mutual obsession with boats, sailing and big game fishing. They had the glorious waters of the Great Barrier Reef at their doorstep after all.
A few acquaintances walked in, toting briefcases. Greetings were exchanged. One man crossed the plush ruby carpet in long strides, patting Owen rather fulsomely on the back. “How’s it going, Owen? You look good! Been making some frequent trips to town, eh?” The snapping gaze was transferred to Lang. “Hi there, Lang, nice to see you again.”
He spoke some more but Lang barely heard him. He was focusing on something suggestive in the man’s manner. To Lang’s sharp eyes it assumed a ribald touch, “nudge, nudge, wink, wink.” That disturbed and angered him on Owen’s behalf.
“What was that all about?” he decided to ask when the man had gone off to rejoin friends. It had taken time to shake off his early awe of Owen, but these days he was much too self-assured, too successful to be intimidated by him.
Owen returned his direct glance unwaveringly. Probably it would take an earthquake to shake Owen Carter’s composure. “Does it matter? Silly sort of fellow. Anyone would think I’d turned up with a voluptuous blonde.”
“Always supposing a woman would be admitted to these hallowed halls,” Lang returned ironically.
“Actually they can come for dinner.” Owen slewed around to see where the other man had gone. “Wives and partners of members.”
“About time they changed the rules.” Lang was of the strong opinion women shouldn’t be excluded from anywhere they cared to go.
“I’m not averse to that.” Owen smiled, signalling their favourite waiter. He allowed himself a whiskey, rattling the ice cubes against the rim. “Will you see Arthur Knox for me this afternoon, Lang?” he asked, apology in his dark eyes. Apology and something else. Something that would have been in someone else, excitement. “I have things to do.”
“No problem.” Lang gave him the only answer possible. Arthur Knox was the senior partner of Knox Frazier, and Carter-Forsyth’s taxation lawyer. “Will we meet up for dinner?” Both of them were staying at the same hotel.
For once Owen’s eyes were veiled. “I’d have liked that, Lang, only I got talked into having dinner with old Drummond. Remember him?”
“Judge Drummond?”
“That’s the one.”
It was all too pat. In fact it sounded like Owen had rehearsed it.
Out in the street again, the pavement bouncing with heat, they said their farewells. Lang realised it was later than he thought, so he moved off in the direction of Knox’s legal offices. Many pretty girls, long legs flashing in short skirts, had passed them as they’d stood outside the club. Owen hadn’t turned his head to look at a one of them. So why now was he worrying Owen had somehow got himself heavily involved with a woman? A woman moreover who already had a firm grip on him. This was trouble. No doubt about that. A bloody foolish middle-aged fling? With a marriage to be ripped apart? Young Robbie who was certainly overindulged and overcosseted by his mother nevertheless adored his father. A broken marriage would wreak havoc in the child’s life. He, too, would become involved. Even asked to take sides.
Women! One way or other they caused a lot of pain.
Too many people recognised him at the hotel so Lang sought the anonymity of a restaurant rather than the dining room of the hotel, where he usually ate whenever he came to town. The very charming receptionist had recommended a restaurant to him and most obligingly made the reservation. He had toyed with the idea of room service but found the food was vastly better in the main dining room, which had a well-deserved reputation for fine cuisine. Besides, he was hungry after a long day of talking and listening. Talking to their Malaysian counterparts in a big building venture; listening to their own legal adviser.
Dressed in a lightweight Italian suit made of the finest Australian wool he took the lift to the elegantly opulent foyer then walked out onto the street. The doorman at the ready asked if he wanted a cab but he felt it ridiculous to take one over a short distance. He could walk. The receptionist had given him precise directions. She had also given him a subtle come-on, which he wasn’t about to avail himself of. One man’s indiscretion was more than enough.
The restaurant was new or it had been totally refurbished. From his walks around the city he didn’t remember it at all. Very obviously up-market. Maybe too much so. He wanted to be quiet. He had lots to think about. The very smooth maître d’ found him a nice secluded table having ascertained privacy was what he wanted. The restaurant was not quite full—Tuesday was an off night—and the tables mainly held discreet businessmen in well-tailored suits, and their partners, girlfriends, wives. The restaurant itself was lovely with luxuriant, flattering lighting falling on elegant tables and chairs, fine china and flatware, gleaming wineglasses. Leafy small trees in huge copper pots were set at intervals along the floor-to-ceiling windows that allowed a view of the river and the city’s night-time glitter.
Seated
