style="font-size:15px;"> On his way to Lizard Island, he told her, for some R & R. Did she know anything about the pink orchid that was the emblem of that small, remote but famous Queensland town?
It so happened she did but she was fascinated to hear about the botanic gardens, with their links straight back to Captain Cook and Joseph Banks, as well as the Chinese gardeners who had planted fruit, vegetables and flowers among the native trees and shrubs named by Banks during the boom times of Cooktown in the last century.
It was his mobile phone beeping discreetly that interrupted this discussion. He looked annoyed, but took the call. When he’d finished he looked at her enigmatically and said, ‘It’s your lucky day today, Miss Westwood.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve been in court all morning so I’ve had no opportunity to see my mail. But Cyril Delaney has agreed to a meeting.’
The effect on Lee was electric. She sat up, her eyes sparkled with excitement and she said, ‘Now we’re getting somewhere! When? Where?’
Before he responded Damien Moore found himself once again intrigued by those green eyes. In fact, he conceded, there was a lot more to this thin redhead than he had first imagined. Stubborn and persistent, yes, but a plain nuisance was not exactly how he would describe her now, he thought, and narrowed his eyes. No, there was too much vitality. There was a hint of humour, and at times a rather touching dignity. Not that it meant anything to him other than in a lawyer-client context, he reflected. Or did it? No…
‘In two days’ time, at his home. He is not well, apparently, hence his delay in replying. He has also…’ Damien paused and looked at the last of his roast pork thoughtfully ‘…requested your presence at this meeting.’
Lee pushed her plate away. ‘Why do you sound disapproving?’ she enquired with a frown.
His dark eyes were amused as they met hers. ‘You do have a history of…inflammatory behaviour towards Cyril Delaney, so if I’m expressing any reservations it’s to do with how you will handle yourself at this meeting, Miss Westwood.’
‘Mr Moore,’ Lee said, ‘that will depend on how Cyril Delaney conducts himself.’
‘That’s what I was afraid of,’ he said humorously. ‘But histrionics only serve to put you in a more…vulnerable position.’
‘You mean,’ she said with a wicked little grin, ‘they make people think you’re all hot air and no substance? I would agree,’ she added judiciously, ‘most of the time. But there comes a stage when plain speaking is called for. So, while I won’t set out to be discourteous I will certainly be honest.’
‘I can hardly wait,’ Damien murmured, and finished his lunch.
Their plates were removed, coffee was poured and a platter of exquisite petits fours was presented. Lee took a miniature chocolate eclair and ate it with relish. Then she patted her stomach and sighed with pleasure. ‘Definitely an improvement on the kind of lunch I had in mind, but sadly I have to leave you now, Mr Moore.’ She consulted her watch. ‘My lunchtime is just about to run out. Could you ask for separate bills?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘But didn’t we agree—?’
‘We agreed to nothing,’ he said.
‘Look, I would really like to pay for my lunch!’
‘You might want to,’ he said, ‘but consider my reputation for a moment.’
Lee blinked at him. ‘I don’t understand. What has that got to do with it?’
‘I’m not in the habit of allowing my guests to pay for themselves. Particularly not women.’ His expression was grave but his eyes were another matter. They were full of secret amusement.
Lee gave it some thought before replying. ‘Firstly, I don’t think I fall into the category of a “guest”.’
‘I did invite you.’
She waved a hand. ‘I didn’t give you much choice.’
‘Now that’s an admission I didn’t expect you to make.’
‘Let me finish,’ she ordered. ‘Secondly, I’m not—’
‘Not a woman?’ he suggested, looking at her lazily.
Lee ground her teeth. ‘Of course—but I’m not a date—and even dates can go Dutch anyway. But…look,’ she said disjointedly, ‘I resent being patronised like this!’
‘On the contrary,’ Damien Moore drawled, ‘I’ve enjoyed my lunch today much more than I expected to—thanks to you, Miss Westwood. So I feel the least I can do is pay for yours.’
Lee stared at him wordlessly with confusion etched clearly in her green eyes. ‘You have?’ she said at length.
‘I give you my word.’
‘Why?’ Lee asked.
He shrugged. ‘You’re full of surprises.’
‘Like a circus act?’ she suggested with some bitterness.
He laughed. ‘No. Like a snippy redhead who shoots from the hip. It’s rather refreshing.’ His expression changed for a moment, as if he was viewing a phenomenon new to him. Then he said lightly, ‘So let’s have no more argument on the subject of who pays for this lunch.’ He stood up.
But it took Lee a moment or two to follow suit, because something struck her as she stared up at the tall figure of Damien Moore—something rather stunning and almost enough to take her breath away. Could you fall in love with a man over lunch?
At two o’clock the next morning Lee gave up trying to sleep on her convertible couch and made herself a cup of tea.
She was still stunned and uncomprehending at the thought that had crossed her mind just before she’d left the restaurant with her lawyer. Where had it come from? What had prompted it? How could something like that leap into her mind on only the second occasion she’d met a man?
But even if she were able to answer those questions what difference would it make? she wondered. Nothing could change the fact that her articulacy had deserted her as they’d walked out into the sunlight and he’d asked where she was parked. She’d pointed to her car and he’d escorted her to it.
She’d thanked him awkwardly for lunch and agreed to meet him in two days’ time, but it had been as if all the spontaneity and fluidity had drained from her—to be replaced by a keen awareness of the man beside her. The fact that his height caused a flutter along her nerve-ends, for example. The fact that she had enjoyed her lunch and his company much more than she’d expected to because he’d gone out of his way to make it enjoyable.
The fact, she thought hollowly, that he’d escorted her to her car as if he were escorting a movie star to her limousine rather than Lee Westwood in her work overalls to her second-hand yellow Toyota with its several dents.
But, she cautioned herself, with a sense of déjà vu, was it so surprising that at least a little flutter
