it, though neither of them were acting in the least flirtatiously.
“I have to say you hide it remarkably well. There’s nothing that can’t be taken care of at a later date. You really want to go home? You’re absolutely sure?”
She took a deep, fluttery breath, then nodded her head. “If you’d be good enough to take me, Guy,” she said meekly.
Now he smiled—half-amused, half-mocking. “I rather enjoy seeing you this way, sweet and pleading. But just how do you think you can help your father?”
She stayed quiet, took another sip. “At least I’ll be there. You know how he is. I can’t help worrying. I’ll ring Kieran. Let him know. He has his mobile with him. I’m guessing he won’t be able to drag himself away from his mystery woman. That’s if he finds her. You wouldn’t happen to know who she is?”
Guy’s eyes were brilliant, but unreadable. “The whole thing is pretty damned weird. But, whoever she is, she clearly has a lot of power over Kieran.”
CHAPTER FIVE
SHE wasn’t in the apartment when he arrived. Kieran hadn’t expected her to be. It would probably be another hour before she got home. He considered ringing her, decided not to. He had his key. He let himself in, instantly inhaling the lovely scent of her. He could almost see her floating towards him. Sometimes he got so frustrated he could punch a hole in the wall.
He turned on a few lights. It was a beautiful apartment. No minimalist approach here. Everywhere one looked there was something beautiful to admire. The colours were white and a delicate shade of green, with accents of sunshine-yellow; there were lots of silk cushions with expensive fringes, tall famille vert porcelain vases, valuable antiques someone had turned into lampstands for her. Lampstands, mind you. The rich really were different. A glorious cyclamen orchid with five bracts sat in another deep famille vert bowl on a glass-topped table.
A beautiful setting for a beautiful woman. He crossed to the sliding glass doors, opened them. Beyond the plant-filled balcony set with a circular table and chairs was Sydney’s magnificent harbour, the breeze fresh off it. She had a splendid view, fanning three hundred and sixty degrees. And why not? The apartment had cost millions. Well, they had it. He shrugged. Old money. Nothing ostentatious.
He ripped off his jacket and threw it down over the back of a sofa. He loosened a couple of buttons at the neck of his shirt, jerked his tie down. Next he moved to the cabinet where he knew the drinks were housed. God, how he needed one! He almost began to see how their father had made the tragic slide into alcoholism. Yet hadn’t love been the cause of it? The intensity of that love? Surely there was something a little noble about that? He hadn’t just lost his money or his farm. He’d lost a woman—his beloved wife. Their father was grieving so profoundly over the loss of their mother he couldn’t seem to face life without her. How would it feel to love someone like that and know you could never have them, let alone have them back? Kieran thought he knew.
Whisky came to hand. Great! He poured himself a good shot of it, then walked through to the bright and open kitchen for a little crushed ice from the refrigerator door. This was one neat woman. Not a thing out of place, and lovely little feminine touches everywhere. She loved flowers. He had never seen the apartment without flowers in every room, and that included the en suite and the guest bathroom. Today there were yellow tulips on the glossy black granite flecked with gold. There were lots of crisp white cupboards, some glass-paned to show off fancy bone china, but the pièce de resistance of this beautiful apartment, with all its art works and objets d’art was always her.
Gradually, under such a benign influence, he was calming. What a terrible day! No way could they afford to hold on to Briar’s Ridge now. The bank would foreclose on them. And what then? He had come to realise the farm wasn’t everything in life to him, as it was to their father and Alana. Alana was a true country girl. She revelled in life on the land. He had always enjoyed it too, but in his heart of hearts he knew he wouldn’t mourn the loss of it deeply. He could always visit it when he wanted. He could always paint it when the urge took him.
The truth was, he recognised inside himself that he had a gift. His mother had always told him he did.
“Why, I do believe, my darling Kieran, one day you’ll have it in you to become a fine painter. I’d be interested to see what Marcus thinks of all these drawings. Next time he’s in the country I’ll ask him.”
He might never rise to Marcus Denby’s lofty heights, but then he had a different vision. He wouldn’t mind struggling for a while. Just about everyone had to struggle for a while. His abrupt laugh sounded strangely harsh in the silence of the lovely room. He wouldn’t have to struggle with Alex by his side. Alex was a Radcliffe, an heiress, a glittering, impossible prize. He threw back the whisky with one gulp. A vision of Alex flashed before his eyes. Skin like a pearl. Eyes and hair like ebony. The pure face of a Madonna, yet she had sinned deeply. He walked to one of the upholstered custom-built sofas and eased his long body into it, staring sightlessly at the exquisite spray of cyclamen orchids. He felt his heart contract with his own kind of grief. That whisky had gone down too quickly. He’d have another …
Immediately he heard the key inserted into the deadlock he jumped to his feet. His heart was thudding, picking up knots. It was dark now. He had turned the lights on. How many times had he entered her apartment before she’d arrived home? He couldn’t begin to count.
She must have realised he was there, because she called softly, “Kieran?”
He covered the distance that separated them in a couple of long strides, watching her drop her leather handbag to the silk rug. He reached for her, pulling her into his arms, kissing her feverishly, hotly, hungrily, forcing open her softly cushioned lips.
“I’m crazy about you!” he muttered “Crazy. Is it ever going to stop?” He didn’t seem to care that he was overwhelming her with his intensity.
He had her moaning in his arms. To hear her moan meant everything to him. Somehow he had lifted her clear of the ground, crushing her in his powerful grip. She was tall, but so slender, she was a featherweight to him. Her beautiful pale pink suit had little covered buttons down the front. She wore a white silk camisole beneath the jacket. His hand swept rapaciously across her breasts as though it had a life of its own. “Alex, Alex,” he whispered. “What am I going to do about you?”
She breathed into his neck. “Just keep on putting me through hell?”
His response was to swing her off her feet, carrying her down the passageway into the master bedroom. He was desperate to be inside her. He couldn’t see straight until he was. He threw her down on her marvellous big bed, pausing for a moment to stare down at her as she lay back against the opulent cream and gold quilt. Oh, the ache in him! Every time he laid eyes on her he had the sensation that his heart was breaking. Her wonderful dark eyes were huge with emotion. He never felt guilty at seeing her drowning in it. She was the one who should feel guilty but refused to. Her arms were thrown back above her head, outstretched, imploring, pleading. She was imperceptibly trembling. Her long silky hair that had been arranged in some elegant knot was coming loose. A skein fell like a black satin ribbon across her pearly cheek.
“How beautiful you are,” he rasped. “Too beautiful!” But she could never wipe the slate clean.
He reached down to her, his long fingers beginning to burrow at all those little buttons. She made no effort to stop him. She lay quietly while he undressed her, wondering if there was ever going to be an end to this unquenchable desire.
“Why
