It Happened in Sydney

Zero tact on Paula’s part. She might as well have shouted: As though that’s possible!

Just as he was debating abandoning Paula for the evening or perhaps treading on her expensively shod toe, Ms Erickson put her long-fingered white hand very lightly to the great glittering emerald. “My family lost everything at the end of World War Two,” she offered very gravely.

God, that woman, Anna Andersen, claiming to be the Grand Duchess Anastasia couldn’t have done it any better, Holt thought. Why on earth would she want to be a florist? She had everything going for her to be a big movie star.

“Really?” Paula exclaimed, incredulously.

He could read Paula’s thoughts. Ms Erickson was only making it up.

“That can’t be true! I feel you’re kidding me.”

“Too true.” Sonya Erickson’s reply was so quiet she might have been talking to herself.

High time to step in. The last thing he ever wanted was to offer the slightest embarrassment to his uncle.

“Shall we go to our table?” he suggested. His voice was as smooth as molasses, when his blood was heating up.

Marcus, who had tensed, gently took hold of the exquisite Sonya’s arm. “Lead the way, David,” he murmured.

He did so, shouldering responsibility like a man.

Since Marcus had pressed her to accompany him to this gala evening Sonya had wondered what it would be like. Now her gaze swept across the spacious room. Everything sparkled under the big chandeliers: glittering sequins, beading, crystals, expensive jewellery, smiling eyes. And the dresses! Strapless, one-shouldered, backless, daringly near frontless. A kaleidoscope of colour. She had known she would be mixing with the super rich, people in the public eye, and perhaps she would be meeting a member or two of Marcus’s family, although she knew his parents were currently in New York. She knew all about David Holt Wainwright. She had gleaned quite a lot from magazines and business reviews. He was very highly regarded, brilliant in fact, the man to watch even though she knew he wasn’t yet thirty. His mother was Sharron Holt-Wainwright, heiress to Holt Pharmaceuticals. Money married money. That was the way of it. Marcus always referred to his nephew as David. Mostly he got Holt from his mother’s family and just about everyone else, Marcus had explained. It was his uncle Philip, his mother’s brother, who had hit on the nickname. It had stuck, probably because the arresting good looks and the superior height had come from the Holt side of the family.

She felt Marcus’s family would be against her. The age difference would be a big factor although rich men married beautiful young women all the time. Whether such marriages were for love or not, young wives were rarely given the benefit of the doubt. That was the way of the world. The gossip would have gone out. She worked in a florist shop, a good one, but she wasn’t someone from their social milieu. She was a working girl. No one of any account. No esteemed family. No connections. No background of prestigious schools and university. Worse yet, she was twenty-five. Marcus was almost three decades on, not to mention his wealth. By and large, she had accepted the invitation against her better judgment. She knew her blonde beauty, inherited from her mother and maternal grandmother, gave her a real shot at power, but she had never entertained the notion she could land herself a millionaire.

Marcus was different. She had sensed the unresolved grief in him from the very first time he had wandered into her shop. He had been lingering outside, a distinguished older man, impeccably dressed, looking in the window, enticed apparently by an arrangement of lime-green lilium buds and luxurious tropical leaves, figs on branches, and some wonderful ruby-red peonies she had arranged in an old Japanese wooden vase. Just the one arrangement. No distractions.

She had smiled at him, catching his eyes. A moment later he came into the shop filled with beautiful flowers and exquisite scents. A shyly elegant, courtly man. She had taken to him on the spot. Trace memories, she supposed. The friendship had flourished. These days he allowed her to “work her magic” in his very beautiful home. It was way too big for a man on his own—a mansion. He employed a married couple, housekeeper and chauffeur/groundsman, who lived in staff quarters in the grounds but he had long refused to sell the house when many spectacular offers had been made. The house he had shared with his late wife. It held all his memories.

She knew all about memories. It had cemented their bond. It was just one of those things that happened in life. Like called to like. Marcus had later directed his aunt, Lady Palmerston, to her shop. Lady Palmerston in turn had directed many of her friends. She owed them both a lot. She realized for any young woman, especially one in her position, Marcus Wainwright would be a great catch. His age wouldn’t come into it. He was a handsome, highly intelligent and very interesting man. He was also the type of man who liked making the people in his life happy. Self-gratification wasn’t his thing. Marcus was a fine man. The first time she had met him he had commented on her green eyes.

“My late wife had wonderful eyes too. Green as emeralds.”

Poor Marcus with all his dreams of happiness shot down in flames. Similar tragedies had happened to her.

“What are you thinking about?”

Sonya turned her head towards that vibrant, very sexy voice. It was pitched low for her ears only. All through the lavish four-course dinner she had listened with fascinated attention to his contributions to the conversation. It volleyed back and forth between highly educated, professional people. Even so, it was Holt Wainwright who carried their table of eight along effortlessly. He had a wide range of interests about which he was very knowledgeable. He was highly articulate and quick witted. He effortlessly commanded an impressive company. And here was a man, easily the youngest man at the table, totally at ease and in control of himself. She had to give him full marks for that.

She had been seated between Marcus and Holt. Marcus was busy answering a flurry of questions from one of the women guests, Tara Bradford, a top executive with a merchant bank, a formidable looking woman in her well-preserved early fifties. Sonya caught the vibes. Not that it was difficult. Tara Bradford, a divorcee, tall, thin, handsome more than attractive, was very interested in Marcus. She showed it in every look, every gesture. Tara had been a close friend of Marcus’s late wife. She had directed only a few words Sonya’s way, but with a smooth courtesy. Public relations were important. Tara gave the strong impression she already knew Marcus would come to his senses. May-November matches were just so unsuitable. Besides, the mature woman had so much more to offer.

Sonya, for her part, had been intensely aware of Holt Wainwright. Nothing extraordinary about that. He was a very charismatic man. Scores of women would have felt his attraction. She wasn’t about to become enmeshed in such madness. But one couldn’t control chemical reactions. Mercifully caution had been inbred in her. Getting too close to Holt Wainwright would be like playing with fire. Any resultant conflagration could pull the life she had so carefully constructed for herself down on her head. That kind of insight lent an edge of fear, like a glittering sword poised over her head.

Holt sat in silence watching the gentle tenderness of her expression gradually change. It lost its warmth, became almost shuttered. “I was recalling how I first met Marcus,” she told him lightly.

“He came into your florist shop.” His smile was urbane, but his instincts were every bit as keen as hers. He knew at some level they could hurt one another badly. Hurt Marcus. A little danger always excited him, but that couldn’t happen with Marcus involved. He cared far too much about his uncle.

Sonya wasn’t about to allow his brilliant fathoms-deep dark gaze faze her. “But you know. Marcus was attracted to one of my arrangements in the window.”

“I’m told you’re a genius at work.”

“A quiet achiever!” she said, finding it difficult to unlock her glance from his. They had become almost duel-like in quality. “Lady Palmerston?”

“Another one of your admirers.”

“Thankfully.” Her expression relaxed into a smile. “I run a business. I need customers. Good customers who appreciate what I do.”

“Then you must have been thrilled Marcus and my great-aunt walked through your door,” he returned suavely.

She looked directly into his clever, probing eyes. “Perhaps I can help you at some time, David. I’ve begun arranging the flowers for luncheons, dinner parties, parties of all kinds, weddings. I’ve had to take on staff.”

As if he’d be rash enough to make a booking! “I’ll make note of that,” he said, knowing full well he would never contact her. Too dangerous. Better to lie awake thinking about it. “Tell me about yourself,” he invited.

And wouldn’t there be lots to tell, said the cynical voice in his head.

“Little to tell.” She had no difficulty with the lie. “Anyway, I’m sure you’ll run a few checks.”

“I’m your man,” he said with cool amusement.

“There is such a thing as minding your own business.” She drew back a little, picking up her wine glass.

“The thing is, Sonya, beautiful exotic women usually have a few skeletons in the cupboard.”

“A cynical view.”

“Truer than you think.”

“Then it’s a great comfort to me to know, if I do have a few skeletons lurking in my cupboard, you won’t find them.” There was a blend of mockery and disdain in her voice.

“Is that a dare?”

“What can I say?” She shrugged her white shoulders.

Beautiful shoulders. He could learn to appreciate that shrug. Even wait for it. And that little gesture with her hands? Pure Europa. “Yes, or no,” he said.

She dared turn her head knowing he was baiting her. His eyes were as dark as hers were full of light. “No dare. It’s a promise,” she replied, keeping her voice as low pitched as his.

At the same moment Marcus turned his attention back to Sonya with what looked like an expression of relief on his face. Surely Tara knew she would never land Marcus? Holt thought. Lucy and Tara had been friends. It was clear poor Tara thought that guaranteed her next in line. Though even Tara would be far more suitable than Ms Erickson of the emerald-green eyes. If he had panicked her in any way she hid it supremely well. How did she manage such aplomb at twenty-five years of age?

He knew in his bones he was right. Ms Sonya Erickson had a past.

Right now she was looking to a rosy future with Marcus. He hadn’t a single doubt if she wanted marriage she would get it. She was already wearing the jewels. He needed to ask Marcus in a diplomatic way if he had lent them to her for the night. Or had he gone totally overboard and given them to her? That idea plagued him. He imagined the sort of conversation that might have gone on.

“You’re wearing an emerald silk dress, Sonya? I have in mind a particular necklace and matching earrings. They need an airing, after being locked away in the safe.”

Did she protest? “Really, no, Marcus!”

“It would please me so much.”

To be strictly fair it was hard to resist Marcus. Maybe she was the sort of young woman who lived to please. Dear Marcus, so long faithful to the memory of his beautiful Lucy, appeared to have fallen deeply in love.

Alas!

No wonder writers used the verb fall. The feeling was exactly like a free fall through space. The profound worry was the beautiful Sonya could be the best heartbreaker of them all. She must have trodden a path littered with admirers. Lovers? Despite himself he thought it would be quite an experience to share a bed with Ms Erickson. He was only human, but he was having none of taking Ms Erickson on trust. The beautiful Ms Erickson was wearing a mask. He would check on her discreetly. Clarify the situation.

The voice in his head said wryly, It’s already too late.

CHAPTER TWO

MIDWEEK Holt had lunch with Rowena. Usual place, Simone’s. The food was so good even Gordon Ramsay would have to wax lyrical. He and Rowena had things to discuss. Namely Marcus’s future. Marcus was very dear to both of them and now they realized Marcus for the second time in his life was totally enraptured and could be at that very moment seriously considering marrying a woman young enough to be his daughter.

Okay, was that a bad thing? It happened all the time with beautiful clever girls. Most often they were blonde. Rich men married blondes for choice. He didn’t exactly know why. Beauty came in many guises. But he had to say blonde was good.

He was nearly ten minutes late, having to work hard at winding up a meeting with a lot of guys in business suits and one woman executive with really Big Hair. With the light behind her he had the unsettling sensation he was talking to a balloon. If he lived to be one hundred he would still be amazed by what women did to their hair. The incredible colours they tried out. One of the girls in the office, Ellie, had gone briefly pink and purple. Maybe it was to attract his attention? He had stumbled over her so often, he had come to the conclusion she deliberately lay in wait.

A majestic-looking Rowena waved when she saw him, her face lighting up.

“Sorry I’m late.” He threaded his way through the tables, acknowledging friends along the way. Simone’s did a roaring trade with the big end of town. He bent to kiss Rowena’s velvet cheek. He loved everything about her. Her wit and her wisdom. She always wore the same perfume like a signature note. Roses softened by iris, musk and, he thought, vanilla? It was so wonderfully subtle and evocative of Rowena, who could blame her for sticking to one sublime perfume? Most of the women in his circle ran the gamut. The beautiful Sonya had worn a serenely beautiful fragrance he was not familiar with. But it had been heaven to inhale.

“What are we having?” Once seated, he picked up the menu.

Rowena glanced across at him, delighting in his handsomeness. “I hope I did the right thing, dear. I’ve already ordered for both of us. I know how little time you have.”

“You also know my tastes. So what is it?” He put up his hand to signal the drinks waiter. He and Rowena always shared a bottle of wine. Just enough. Not too much. He had plenty of work to do. Rowena, after a long successful life as a top diplomat’s wife and hostess, knew exactly her limits. He only wished Paula did. She had become very argumentative after the gala night, claiming Sonya Erickson had not only sunk her claws in Marcus but had fascinated him as well. Of course he had denied it. Not strenuously.

To go with the fine Riesling Rowena had chosen seared scallops, white truffle butter, Tasmanian salmon with a creamy crab sauce and niçoise vegetables; he said he’d pass on dessert. Rowena elected to stay with the chocolate and mandarin parfait. Rowena was one of those fortunate women who loved her food but never put on a pound.

“So, you think Marcus is in love with her?” Rowena got right down to business.

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t. She’s extremely beautiful. Well spoken. And nobody’s fool.”

“But you don’t trust her?” Rowena had the Wainwright piercing grey eyes.

“What do you think?”

“I haven’t seen them together, dear.”

“Excuse me, do you have to? She was wearing Lucy’s emeralds! Not something I’d expect of Marcus.”

“Maybe she promised to take them off when the night was over.” Rowena gave him an arch smile.

“Do you suppose she stayed over?” The idea dismayed him. Not a good sign.

“Come on, my dear. You sound dismal. It’s the twenty-first century. Marcus is still a fine-looking man. She could well have.”

“Then he’s a lucky son of a gun,” he said, with a twist in his smile.

“Sure you weren’t a bit taken yourself?” She reached out to touch his hand.

“I’m a man, Rowena,” he said very dryly.

“Very much so. What about that Paula of yours?”

He ran a hand over his brow. “Rowena, you know perfectly well Paula is a long-time friend. It’s not serious.”

“God, I hope not!” Rowena heaved a grateful sigh. “And that mother of hers!” She closed her eyes. “I bet she never gets off her knees praying for a match. But enough of the Rowlands. No wonder poor George spends his entire time at work.”

“I like him.”

“So do I.” Rowena smiled. “A diamond in the rough.”

“Ms Erickson is no rough diamond,” he pointed out. “She has the aristocrat down pat. She’s highly intelligent. And ultra cool. But she doesn’t love Marcus. That’s the big worry.”

“How would you know?” Rowena’s gaze sharpened on his face.

“I know,” he said and glanced away.

“So you’re worried where this is going?”

“The short answer, Rowena, darling, is yes. I’d be a fool not to be wary of Ms Erickson.”

“For what it’s worth, I like her. I really like her.”

“Your opinion is worth a lot. But what’s her story?” he asked tersely. “She has one, of course.”

Rowena nodded sagely. “One wouldn’t have to be a mastermind to sense that. She has a very graceful flow of conversation. Pick a subject. Any subject. She speaks fluent French. I once put a question to her in French about the extraordinary arrangement she was working on at the time, a blend of burgundy and pale pink calla lilies. She answered, switching automatically from English to French. Polished accent. Better than mine. The one thing she doesn’t talk about is herself. She appears so self-contained yet I feel she’s terribly alone. There’s a sadness there, don’t you think?”

“Maybe that’s part of her role of woman of mystery?” His tone was highly sceptical. “She could be a consummate actress.”

Rowena negated that with a shake of her silver-streaked head. “She’s genuine.”

“But genuine what, Rowena dear? I’ve made a few enquiries on the side. Couldn’t come up with anything much. I might try Interpol.” It was only half a joke.

“She’s only been in the country for around five years,” Rowena supplied.

“Yes, I found out that much. There’s a trace of an accent that isn’t French.”

“Hungarian,” Rowena said with some certainty.

“Hungarian?” He set down his wine glass to give her a long look. Rowena and her husband had lived for many years in Europe. “The land of Liszt, Bela Bartok, Kodaly, Franz Lehar? I’ve even heard of the gorgeous Gabor sisters and their equally gorgeous mother. You know I haven’t visited Budapest, which you assure me is one of the most beautiful cities in Europe, but you and Sir Roland knew it well. Or did you ask her straight out?”

“No, love.” Rowena sat back. “But I have an excellent ear for accents. Besides, Sonya is a very private young lady. Her inbuilt cautions, insecurities if you like, have something to do with her former life. Somehow she has developed—”

“A mask?” he supplied. “So what is the mask hiding?”

Rowena sighed. “I’m having one of my buffet luncheons next Sunday. I’m asking Sonya. Would you care to come?’

He decided on the spot to seize on the invitation. Worry about the collateral damage later. “Is Marcus coming?”

“I wanted to speak to you first, before giving him a call. I always ask Marcus. He comes if he likes the people.”

“Oh, God, Rowena,” he groaned. “I advise extreme caution. I have the feeling the beautiful Sonya is going to wheel out a trolley full of tricks.”

“Possibly,” Rowena considered. “But I like her and I do love a mystery. So do you.”

“If only she were older!” he lamented. “More suitable.”

“No, no, no to Tara Bradford.” Rowena threw up her hands in horror.

“Tara wouldn’t break his heart,” he pointed out rather grimly.

“What a blessing.” Rowena allowed herself a touch of malice. “Only Marcus has no romantic interest in poor old Tara. Wishful thinking on her part. She’s a splendid woman in many ways, but she does have thunderous legs.”

“All the better to hold her up,” he offered vaguely. “I haven’t seen Sonya’s legs yet. I bet they’re perfect.”

Rowena nodded. “I have and they are.”

The following afternoon he stopped by Marcus’s house with its millions-plus view of Sydney Harbour. He’d been extremely busy all week with meetings plus endless piles of paperwork his father usually handled. His father, a notoriously secretive man, and CEO of Wainwright Enterprises, trusted few people outside his immediate family. These days he was leaving more and more to his only son and heir, adding to his already heavy workload. As a consequence he hadn’t had a chance to catch up with his uncle, who headed up the property department. Considering the properties owned by Wainwright Enterprises, it was a huge job in itself. As well, he and Marcus, both of them holding Law and Economics degrees with first-class honours, sat in on major meetings with the legal department. They did work in the same building, Wainwright Towers, but not on the same floor. Made a surprising difference as it happened.

The house Marcus and Lucy had lived in for so many years had been left to Lucy by her maternal grandmother, Lady Marina Harnett, a great philanthropist and art collector. To Holt’s eye it was one of the prettiest houses in the city. Not grand like the Wainwright ancestral home he had been raised in, but smaller and more welcoming to his eye, especially in the days when Aunt Lucy had been alive. She was the sweetest, kindest woman imaginable and she had to die. That was the trouble with life; there was always death at the end. The enemy that couldn’t be overcome. Death did despicable things. He remembered his mother had been grief stricken when at long last Lucy had passed away. She and Lucy had been great friends. The family had taken Lucy to their hearts. No one could take her place.

So what now, with a very possible candidate for the second Mrs Marcus Wainwright on the scene? Would it be seen by the family as a betrayal of Lucy? Everyone wanted Marcus’s happiness, but a beautiful young woman like Sonya Erickson could only inspire suspicion. God help him, he was already dealing with his mistrust of her.

He stepped out of the car, glancing briefly at a small blue hatchback nosed into a corner. Looked as if the estate had bought the housekeeper a new little runabout. The gardens were looking superb, ablaze with flowers. He started across the paved circular drive to the sandstone house. It had been built in the mid-1850s to a very high standard. Regency in design, it was perfectly symmetrical. The only concession to the Australian climate was the broad verandah with its series of white elegant pillars and fretwork. A lot of the original land had been sold off over the years—too valuable for one family to keep to themselves—but the original servants’ quarters, beautifully maintained and updated, were still at the rear of the house along with storerooms that looked more like bungalows. He had spent such a lot of time here, for a moment he was overwhelmed by nostalgia.

“David, darling.”

Pulled tight by little Aunt Lucy—a bare inch or so over five feet—feeling the great affection she had for him break over him in waves. No wonder Marcus had turned into himself after he lost her. Life could be very cruel. Sometimes it appeared as though the best went early. It would take for ever for the Wainwright clan to accept someone like Sonya if the worst came to the worst. A beautiful young woman’s motives for marrying a man old enough to be her father could not be pure. He had felt her affection for Marcus. That was genuine enough. The huge worry was it would take a miracle for that affection to turn to love. At least romantic love. Didn’t every young woman want that? Didn’t every young man? He was moving fast towards thirty. Many attractive young women had come his way but no one who engaged him in every possible way. He really wanted that. He wanted passion. He wanted magic. He wanted a woman to capture his imagination. Sadly no one ever had. He was beginning to wonder if anyone ever would.