it on. It had wide shoulders, a round neck, a narrow waist and flared slightly over her hips. She pushed the long fitted sleeves up, as the fashion of the moment dictated, but the impact of it came as much from the material as the style—a shadowy leopard skin pattern in blue, black and silver. It was unusual and stunning.
She smiled faintly at the difference it made to her—a bit like Joseph’s amazing coloured coat, she thought wryly. Because her image now was much closer to that of a cocktail-party-goer rather than an office girl. Well, almost, she temporised, and slipped the jacket off—only to hesitate for another moment as she hung it up carefully.
Then she made up her mind.
She reached up and pulled the pins out of hair. It tumbled to just above her shoulders in a fair, blunt-cut curtain. She took off her glasses and reached into her purse for her contact lenses. She applied them delicately from the pad of her forefinger. Then she got out her little make-up purse and inspected the contents—she only used the minimum during the day, so she didn’t have a lot to work with, but there was eyeshadow and mascara and some lip gloss.
She went to work on her eyes and again, as she stood back to study her image, the difference was quite startling. She sprayed on some perfume, brushed her hair, then tossed her head to give it a slightly tousled look and slipped the jacket on again, doing it up with its concealed hooks and eyes. Her shoes, fortunately, were pewter-grey suede and went with the jacket perfectly.
She stood back one last time and was pleased with what she saw. But she stopped and frowned suddenly.
Did she look like an ice queen? If only he knew…
* * *
Cam Hillier was in the foyer talking to Molly when Liz walked in. He had his back to her, but he saw Molly’s eyes widen as she looked past him and he swung round.
For a moment he didn’t recognise Liz. Then she saw him do a double-take and he whistled softly. It was something she would have found extremely satisfying except for one thing. He also allowed his blue gaze to drift down her body, to linger on her legs, and then he looked back into her eyes in the way that men let women know they were being summed up as bed partners.
To her annoyance that pointed, slow drift of assessment up and down her body reignited those sensations she’d experienced when she’d tripped on the pavement: accelerated breathing, a rush through her senses, an awareness of how tall and beautifully made he was.
Only thanks to her lingering resentment did she manage not to blush. She even tilted her chin at him instead.
‘I see,’ he said gravely. He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets before adding equally gravely, although she didn’t for a moment imagine it was genuine. ‘I’m sorry if I offended you, Miss Montrose. I was not to know you could look like this—stunning, in other words. Nor was I to know that you could conjure haute couture clothes out of thin air.’ He studied her jacket for a moment, then looked into her eyes. ‘OK. Let’s go.’
* * *
They reached the cocktail party venue in record time. This was partly due to the power and manoeuvrability of his car, a graphite-blue Aston Martin, and partly due to his skill as a driver and his knowledge of the back streets so he’d been able to avoid the after-work Sydney traffic.
Liz had refused to clutch the armrest, or demonstrate any form of nerves, but she did say when they pulled up and he killed the motor, ‘I think you missed your calling, Mr Hillier. You should be driving Formula One cars.’
‘I did. In my misspent youth,’ he replied easily. ‘It got a bit boring.’
‘Well, I couldn’t call that drive boring. But you can’t park here, can you?’
He’d pulled up in the driveway of the house next door to what she could see was a mansion behind a high wall that was lit up like a birthday cake and obviously the party venue.
‘It’s not a problem,’ he murmured.
‘But what if the owner wants to get in or out?’ she queried.
‘The owner is out,’ he replied.
Liz shrugged and surveyed the scene again.
She knew they were in Bellevue Hill, one of Sydney’s classiest suburbs, and she knew she was in for a classy event. None of it appealed to her in the slightest.
‘All right.’ She reached for the door handle. ‘Shall we get this over and done with?’
‘Just a moment,’ Cam Hillier said dryly. ‘I’ve acknowledged that I may have offended you—I’ve apologised. And you, with this stunning metamorphosis, have clearly had the last laugh. Is there any reason, therefore, for you to look so disapproving? Like a minder—or a governess.’
Liz flushed faintly and was struck speechless.
‘What exactly do you disapprove of?’ he queried.
Liz found her tongue. ‘If you really want to know—’
‘I do,’ he broke in to assure her.
She opened her mouth, then bit her lip. ‘Nothing. It’s not my place to approve or otherwise. There.’ She widened her eyes, straightened her spine and squared her shoulders, slipping her hair delicately behind her ears. Lastly she did some facial gymnastics, and then turned to him. ‘How’s that?’
Cam Hillier stared at her expressionlessly for a long moment and a curious thing happened. In the close confines of the car it wasn’t disapproval that threaded through the air between them, but an awareness of each other.
Liz found herself conscious again of the width of his shoulders beneath the jacket of his charcoal suit, worn with a green shirt and a darker green tie. She was aware of the little lines beside his mouth and that clever, brooding dark blue gaze.
Not only that, but she seemed to be more sensitive to textures—such as the beautiful quality fabric of his suit and the rich leather of the car’s upholstery.
And she was very aware of the way he was watching her…A physical summing up again, that brought her out in little goosebumps—because they were so close it was impossible, she suddenly found, not to imagine his arms around her, his hand in her hair, his mouth on hers.
She turned away abruptly.
He said nothing but opened his door. Liz did the same and got out without his assistance.
* * *
Although Liz had been fully aware she was in for a classy event, what she saw as she stepped through the front door of the Bellevue Hill home almost took her breath away. A broad stone-flagged passage led to the first of three descending terraces and a magnificent view of Sydney Harbour in the last of the daylight. Flaming braziers lit the terraces, pottery urns were laden with exotic flowering shrubs, and on the third and lowest terrace an aquamarine pool appeared to flow over the edge.
There were a lot of guests already assembled—an animated throng—the women making a bouquet of colours as well. In a corner of the middle terrace an energetic band was making African music with a mesmerising rhythm and the soft but fascinating throb of drums.
A dinner-suited waiter wearing white gloves was at
