Kitabı oxu: «The Final Proposal»

CHAPTER ONE

‘GERRY, I look completely ridiculous. Nobody in their right mind wears clothes like this to a celebrity polo tournament!’ Jan Carruthers stared at her reflection with appalled fascination as her cousin carefully settled a wide-brimmed hat onto her short, auburn hair. Some milliner, crazed by romanticism, had draped both crown and brim with what looked to be the entire stock of a florist’s shop.

‘That,’ Gerry said smugly, stepping back to gaze at her, ‘is the whole idea. When you do “before and after” shots, you always make the “before” shot as outrageous as you can. You, little coz, are now definitely, extravagantly, magnificently conspicuous—just the way you should look.’

‘I should have told you to find some other midget when you came up with this absurd scheme.’

‘You did, several times. But I’m cunning, and I know all your weak spots. As soon as I mentioned all those poor women who think it’s necessary to spend thousands of dollars to look good, you wavered. Then I pointed out that you could donate the money you’re going to earn to your centre for troubled girls. Being the noble-minded sucker that you are, you couldn’t say no.’

‘It’s not my centre, and I’d have turned you down without a moment’s thought if I’d known you were going to dress me up as a mushroom.’ Jan glowered down at the narrow-skirted silk suit in palest peach. Worn to a fashionable lunch it would have been perfect; it would be totally out of place at the polo ground just south of Auckland.

‘No, you wouldn’t have.’ Secure in her model’s figure, and with her extra eight inches of height, Gerry radiated satisfaction. ‘Stop grumbling—of course you look like a mushroom. Women who are only five foot two can’t wear hats like cartwheels. Just be grateful we didn’t decide on the toadstool look, and make the hat scarlet with big white spots.’

The far too many people needed to set up a photographic shoot for a fashion magazine sniggered. Clearly this rare opportunity to indulge themselves with flagrantly bad taste was giving them all a sneaky forbidden pleasure.

‘Besides,’ Gerry pointed out mercilessly, ‘your centre for disturbed girls needs all the money it can get. Didn’t I see in the newspaper that the government has just cut the grant by fifty per cent?’

‘And fifty per cent of a shoestring is a thread,’ Jan muttered, still feeling the sick dismay the news had caused.

Gerry surveyed her with affectionate resignation. ‘Under that glossily smart, sophisticated, hip exterior you’re the most motherly creature I’ve ever come across. Why don’t you get married and have kids of your own instead of spending most of your spare time worrying about, raising money for and counselling your wayward girls?’

‘They are not my girls, and they are not all wayward!’ ‘Oh, semantics! In need of care and attention, then—and don’t you dare frown!’

Jan froze. It had taken so long for her make-up to be applied that she didn’t dare risk cracking it. More for form’s sake than from conviction, she said, ‘I warn you, I’ll have strong hysterics if anyone so much as smirks.’

The hairdresser, a nervy young man with a shaven head set off by a diamond stud in his ear, said fretfully, ‘I still think she should be wearing a wig. With ringlets.’

‘No,’ Jan said, as forcefully as she could through stiff lips.

Gerry sighed. ‘She’s right. We don’t want to slide over the edge into farce. She has to look as though some poor woman could make the same mistakes.’

‘A madwoman.’ Jan leaned forward to peer at the coating of blue mascara on her black lashes. Flinching, she closed her eyes and backed away from the mirror. ‘I must be crazy! I’m an image consultant—I show people what their most flattering colours and styles are, I teach them how to wear clothes so they look great and I’m moderately famous for my seminars and workshops on self-esteem—I don’t prance through magazine pages as a glaring example of what not to do.’ Ignoring Gerry’s outcry she chewed her lip, carefully and sultrily coloured a shade that clashed subtly with the suit and her ivory skin.

‘The “after” pages will reveal you as your true, impeccably elegant self,’ Gerry reminded her with cheerful callousness. ‘Come on, let Cindy redo your mouth and then put this bracelet on.’

‘Diamonds!’ Recoiling, Jan almost lost her balance as the ankle-wrecking high heels on her Italian shoes sank into the grass. ‘Oh, damn these things! They’re going to kill me before this is over. Gerry, you’ll never get away with this. Talk about a Victorian nightmare!’

‘We don’t want to get away with anything,’ Gerry said, casting her eyes heavenward. ‘The bracelet is absolutely perfect.’

‘I might lose it. Though I’d be doing the world a favour if I did. Or it might be stolen,’ Jan muttered through set lips while the make-up woman reapplied lipstick.

‘You’re too conscientious and sensible to lose anything, and although I know New Zealand seems to be trying to catch up with the rest of the world as far as crime rates go, there’s not likely to be a master jewel thief at a polo match. Anyway, we’ve got a security man. And that bracelet is just the right overdone touch. So shut up and hold your arm out. Think of what you can do with the money at your half-a-shoestring centre.’

It was the only redeeming feature of this whole episode. Closing her eyes again, Jan schooled her features into long-suffering patience and submitted to being fettered by the heavy, ostentatious snake of diamonds and gold.

‘Great,’ Gerry said, gloating. ‘You look awful. Actually, damn you, you don’t—in spite of our best efforts you just about manage to get away with it. Shows what little chicken bones and huge, dark blue eyes set on an exotic slant will do for a woman. To say nothing of that sensual pout. Just think, snooks, if you’d been ten inches taller you’d be a millionaire model.’

Jan snorted. ‘I haven’t the stamina for it. Anyway, I’d be be over the hill by now.’

‘But rich, love, filthy rich—because the camera adores you. And nowadays quite a few models last beyond their thirty-first birthday. You’d be one—there isn’t a wrinkle on that fabulous skin.’

‘Everyone’s got wrinkles,’ Jan said morosely. ‘And I’m not thirty-one until tomorrow.’

‘Ha—more semantics! I’m really looking forward to tonight—you and Aunt Cynthia know how to make a birthday party hum. But first we have to get this over with. OK, let’s go out there—and don’t forget to simper for the camera.’

Jan batted her lashes dramatically. ‘You’ll never see a more perfect simper. Damn, I can barely move in these shoes. I need crutches. Or a large, oiled Nubian slave to carry me around.’

Unimpressed, Gerry grinned. ‘Sorry, slaves are off today. Anyway, an oiled one would mark the suit. You’ll cope. You’ve got that inborn aplomb that makes the rest of us feel inferior. And remember, it’s for a good cause. There are hundreds of thousands of women in New Zealand and Australia who are dying to discover that they can go anywhere, any time, with a good, basic wardrobe that isn’t going to cost them a fortune.’

‘I still think just showing the right gear would have been enough.’

‘It lacks drama. Trust me. Besides, this is good publicity for you.’

‘Good publicity?’ Jan almost choked. ‘I’ll probably never see another client.’

‘Rubbish! Everyone will look at the “after” shots and understand what we’ve done.’

‘And if you believe that,’ Jan said sweetly, picking her way out of the tent and into the blinding sunlight of a late New Zealand summer, ‘I have the latitude and longitude of a shipwreck off Fiji and I know for a fact that all the gold is still on board. I’ll sell you the treasure map for a million dollars.’

Outside, champagne glass in hand, she posed for the camera, keeping her gaze fixed and slightly unfocused, because most of the spectators at the celebrity tournament found the sight of an overdressed woman being photographed every bit as fascinating as the game. People she knew grinned, waved and settled back to stare quite unashamedly, but even complete strangers seemed to feel that the camera gave them licence to watch.

Jan was accustomed to being looked at; it was, to some extent, part of her job. At seminars and workshops she frequently stood in front of large audiences and, without anything more than a few minor bubbles in her stomach, kept them interested.

This, however, was different. She felt as though she’d been dumped into the modern equivalent of medieval stocks.

It didn’t help when the photographer, damn him, entered wholeheartedly into the theatrical ambience of the occasion and began giving a running commentary.

‘Everyone’s an actor,’ Jan hissed after he’d told her to shake her sexy little hips. ‘Shut up!’

‘But this is how photographers are supposed to behave,’ he said, narrowing his eyes lustfully at her. ‘You’ve seen the films and read the books. Come on, darling, give me a slow, come-hither grin—make like a volcano...’

Resisting the impulse to stick out her tongue, she tossed her head, catching as she did so the eyes of a man a few feet away. Until then he’d been intent upon the game, but apparently Sid’s babble had intruded on his concentration. Dark brows compressed, he scrutinised them.

Growing up with a tall, big-framed stepfather and a half-sister who took after him should have taught Jan not to be intimidated by mere stature, but Anet and Stephen Carruthers were gentle people. Once she’d discovered that some men used their height and build to intimidate, Jan had rapidly developed a small woman’s wariness.

And the stranger was tall, with broad shoulders and heavily muscled legs and thighs beneath skin-tight jodhpurs.

Something about him—possibly his relaxed stance, the almost feline grace that held the promise of instant, decisive response—tested the barriers she’d erected over the years.

Trying to reinforce them, she gave him her most aloofly objective gaze and decided that he’d photograph well. Angular bone structure gave strength and a certain striking severity to his features, a hard edge intensified by straight browns and a wide, imperiously moulded mouth. His bronzed, bone-deep tan indicated a life spent outside, as did the long, corded muscles in his arms. And he had a good head of hair, wavy and conventionally cut by an expert, the glossy brown heated by the sun to a rich mahogany.

He had to be a professional polo player, in New Zealand for the celebrity tournament. Perhaps he was playing in the next game.

Beside him stood a girl even taller than Gerry, a girl, Jan noticed automatically, dressed with exactly the right note of casual elegance. As Jan watched she said something, her stance revealing a certain tentativeness. Instantly he switched that intent, oddly remote gaze from Jan to the girl, and answered. His companion blushed, her carefully cultivated poise vanishing like mist in the fierce light of the sun. His smile was a masterpiece, the sort that seduced women without even trying—indolent, confident and compelling.

And you’d better get a hold of yourself, Jan commanded herself sternly. You’re here to do a job, not drool over some wandering sportsman, even if he does have more magnetism in one black eyebrow than most other men have in their whole bodies.

Eventually, thank heavens, Gerry said, ‘OK, that should do it. Let’s get back into the tent and change into the “after” gear.’

‘Just a couple more,’ Sid decided. ‘Jan, stand by the hoardings, will you? I want to get a horse or two in the background.’

Jan cast a swift glance at the field. Most of the game was taking place in the middle of the paddock, well away from the advertisements that separated the playing ground from the spectators, so she’d be safe enough.

Moving as gracefully as she could in the ridiculous heels, she walked across, obeying Sid’s request to watch the horses.

‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘Try a smile. OK—a sort of faint, yearning one, as though your lover’s out there and you’re going to see him again tonight.’

What lover? Jan thought sardonically. Still, she did her best, keeping the smile pinned in place even when horses and riders suddenly changed direction and thundered towards her. She stepped back at the moment a breeze whipped the ludicrous hat off her head and sent it cartwheeling out into the paddock, straight into the path of one of the horses.

Rigid, Jan watched as the horse reared and tripped, sending its rider to one side as it came down and slid towards her, a huge, squealing mass of gleaming chestnut.

Even as she tottered backward Jan knew she was doomed. Faintly, she was aware of yells. A woman screamed.

Suddenly she was grasped by steel-strong hands and hauled back and to one side, snatched by the sheer force of her rescuer’s momentum into safety. At the same time the horse splintered through the hoardings, then amazingly got to its feet, sweating, shaking its head as its eyes rolled.

Jan was thrust aside and her rescuer, the man with the deadly smile, moved with slow, steady steps towards the trembling horse, talking to it in a voice that was deep and lazy and gentle. Jan couldn’t hear what he was saying above the hammer of her heart, but like everyone else she watched, spellbound.

‘Are you all right?’ Gerry whispered, grabbing her.

Jan nodded, pulling away from her cousin’s hold and clenching her teeth to hold back the shivers that had come abruptly out of nowhere.

A lean, tanned hand caught the horse’s bridle and held it firmly while the other hand stroked up the dripping neck. The man’s voice, textured with a magic as primal and compelling as the partnership between man and beast, crooned the nervous, panting horse into quiescence while the rider, fortunately unhurt by his tumble, approached.

Time got going again. Jan’s rescuer said something to the polo player that made him laugh, and then relinquished his charge and turned back, heading straight for Jan.

‘Are you all right?’ he demanded.

The same words Gerry had used, but where her tone had been anxious his was accusing.

Although that swift, hard embrace had wrenched every bone in her body, Jan said, ‘I’m fine. Is the horse?’

He had amazing eyes, smouldering silver between thick, curly lashes, and he was in a towering rage. ‘If it is, it’s no thanks to ^you,’ he said, his voice curt as a whiplash. ‘Horses are not props, and that damned hat of yours could have killed both the rider and the horse, as well as you.’

Jan nodded. Her eyes felt huge in her face and she was dry-mouthed, unable to think let alone speak.

‘Get her something to drink,’ he ordered Gerry, without any softening in his manner. ‘Tea, not alcohol, and put plenty of sugar in it.’

Astonishingly Gerry—capable, sensible Gerry—said meekly, ‘Yes, all right,’ and turned away.

‘I’ll go with you,’ Jan croaked.

But her knees shook. When she tried to walk they gave way and she stumbled. To her utter mortification her rescuer picked her up with casual, insulting ease and carried her into the tent, away from the horses and the sun and the whispering crowd.

Her nostrils quivered, sensitised to a particular scent, faint, masculine, so potent that she could feel its effects in every cell in her body. Abnormally conscious of the smooth, coiled power in her rescuer’s strong arms and shoulders, Jan raised her lashes and saw in his bronzed throat the steady pulsing of his heartbeat.

For some reason her eyes filled with tears. Blinking fiercely, she dragged her gaze away and stared straight ahead, more shocked by the exaggerated response of her body than by the danger she had just escaped. Being aware of a man was one thing; this, she thought feverishly, was another and entirely more hazardous reaction. He overloaded her senses.

Inside the tent, he set her on her feet, and the heat of his body was replaced by a chill that struck through to her bones. Shivering, she collapsed into a folding chair that someone pushed towards her, kicking her shoes off. The man who had saved her life looked at her feet, brows climbing.

‘They scarcely look big enough to support an adult,’ he said.

It was not a compliment, but Jan’s bones liquefied.

‘We’re so very grateful for your quick thinking,’ Gerry said, turning her famous, slow smile onto the man.

He responded with a remark and an ironic, knowledgeable smile of his own. A visibly affected Gerry accompanied him from the tent.

‘God,’ the hairdresser said beneath his breath as he handed Jan a mug of tea, ‘I wish I had half his pulling power!’

Jan cupped her hands around the mug, waiting for them to stop trembling. Hearing without understanding the chatter of the crew about her, she sipped the hot liquid, taking exaggerated care not to spill it. She felt bruised and battered, her bones aching. Tomorrow, she thought grimly, she’d have fingermarks imprinted on her skin. Still, if he hadn’t acted with the speed and brute force of a hunting animal she could well have ended up under the horse, and then bruises would have been the least of her worries.

‘How do you feel?’ Gerry asked, approaching her with a frown that didn’t hide the anxiety in her expression.

Jan put the half-empty mug down and got to her feet, wavering slightly but determined. ‘I feel a bit shaky,’ she said, ‘but I’ll be fine. Hadn’t we better get the rest of the shots done?’

‘Are you sure you can manage it?’

‘Positive,’ Jan said. ‘Help me off with this wretched suit, will you?’

It took all of her self-assurance to walk again through the entrance of the tent and into the sun. Even though she’d expected the sudden shift of attention, she was embarrassed by it.

At least the ‘after’ gear suited the occasion perfectly—a honey-coloured shirt and matching skirt in fine cotton. Beneath the shirt was a silk singlet a shade lighter, and instead of the Italian shoes she wore low heels, perfect for picking her way across the grass. The diamond horror was replaced by a thin gold chain wound several times around her small wrist, and she carried a sleek, unadorned parasol.

This time Sid was his normal silent self, and the shoot finished quickly. Posing, looking wistful, smiling, Jan wanted nothing more than to be out of this and safely at home—away from all the eyes, away from the man who had looked at her with such charged antipathy.

Thank heavens he was nowhere in sight.

And she was there as a model, not to search the polo field for a stranger. So she kept her eyes resolutely away from the game and her mind on what she was doing.

However, just before she slipped back into the tent she saw him on a black horse. A primitive, unexpected alertness stirred her senses as she watched the rider reach over and hit the ball, then, with a skilled hand on the reins, gather his steed for a rapid change of direction.

‘Who are you looking at?’ Gerry asked. ‘Oh, him—he’s gorgeous, isn’t he?’ She grinned. ‘Definitely hero material, even though he made me feel like a worm. Too big for you, though—we all know you like smaller men.’

‘I don’t mind big men provided they don’t tread on me,’ Jan said, switching her gaze to a friend who was waving from further along the field. Waving back, she said, ‘I grew up with a big man—and a big sister.’

‘How is Anet? And that utterly glamorous hunk of a husband of hers?’

‘Still besotted with each other. They’re checking out some lost plateau in Venezuela at the moment.’

‘They can have that. Too hot by far for me.’ Gerry blew a curl back from her face. ‘In fact, this is too hot for me. Do you want to stay and watch?’

‘No, thanks. I don’t know the rules.’

‘What you really mean is that country pursuits bore you,’ Gerry accused.

‘Well, I’m a city woman at heart.’ Jan smiled at a woman she’d served on a committee with. ‘Hello, Sue.’

Sue gushed, ‘I nearly died when I saw that horse slide onto you! Trust you to be rescued by some god-like being! You didn’t get hurt at all? And who was he?’

Once Jan had assured her that yes, she’d been scooped clean out of the horse’s way, and no, she didn’t know her rescuer’s name, Sue urged, ‘Join us, both of you.’

‘I’d love to,’ Jan said, ‘but I can’t, I’m sorry.’

It wasn’t the only invitation they turned down. All of Auckland, it seemed, was at the polo tournament, and determined to enjoy it.

As they threaded their way through the crowd Gerry looked around. ‘Between us,’ she said, ‘we probably know everyone here.’

‘If you go back far enough in the family tree we’re probably related to most of them,’ Jan said. ‘New Zealand’s pretty small.’

‘Do you ever want to go and find a bigger pool to swim in?’

Jan shook her head. ‘I thoroughly enjoyed the three years I spent overseas, but this is home.’

‘I know how you feel,’ Gerry said peacefully. ‘Little it might be, but there’s something about the place.’

The sun was only half way to the horizon when Jan drove her small, elderly, much cosseted MG into the garage of her townhouse in Mount Eden, one of three in a new block hidden from the street by a high, lime-washed wall. Once inside, she stripped off her shoes and, wiggling her toes on the cool, smooth tiles, rang her mother.

‘Hello, darling,’ Cynthia said enthusiastically. ‘How did the photo shoot go?’

‘Well...’ Because she’d soon hear it from someone, Jan told her about the incident, soothing her natural maternal alarm by assuring her that she was completely unhurt.

‘At the polo,’ Cynthia lamented, as though somehow it was especially outrageous that such a thing should have happened there.

‘Ah, well, I was rescued by a superb man,’ Jan said.

‘I wish I could thank him!’

Jan recalled the splintering anger in those frigid eyes and shivered. ‘I’m not likely to see him again,’ she said, and changed the subject. ‘I thought I’d have a shower and then come on over.’

‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ her mother said sternly. ‘You’ll arrive at exactly eight o’clock. Everything is under control. The caterers are doing all the hard work. The flowers are done. The house is spotless. I don’t need you dashing around getting in the way, so have a rest. Make a cup of tea. Wallow in the bath. Read a book. Don’t come near this place until we’re all ready for you!’

Laughing, Jan gave in. Her mother much preferred to prepare for her parties in her own way.

She put the receiver down and wandered out onto the terrace. Ahead, in blissful solitude, stretched the afternoon and early evening. The polo stunt had been the last of the photographic shoots, for which Jan was extremely thankful. In a couple of months Gerry’s article and the photos would appear in the magazine.

Her cousin had even promised to slip in a mention of the centre, and that group of dedicated, mostly unpaid women who worked with and worried about the girls and young women brought to them—many in severe trouble, most just trembling on the brink of it.

Money, Jan thought; it all came down to money. Or the lack of it.

A van, which would be enormously useful, was just a pipedream.

Still, she thought drily as she moved a lounger into the shade of the sky-flower vine that rambled over her pergola, Gerry’s project would put some extra money in the coffers.

She must have gone to sleep, because although the telephone bell invaded her dreams like a berserk bee she was unable to wake herself up in time to answer it. Whoever it was hadn’t left a message, so it wasn’t a summons from the centre. However, the imperative call had destroyed her serenity, leaving her to wander restlessly around the house looking for something to do.

Yawning, she wondered how the trip was going. Ten of the girls who’d been recommended to the centre by a social agency were with selected adults at a camp on one of the islands in the Hauraki Gulf. A weekend wasn’t long enough, of course, but it would help.

Unfortunately, they needed more than an occasional weekend if the lessons they learned there about their capabilities, and the self-esteem they gained, were to stick with them. On the centre’s wish-list was a camp of their own, where the girls could stay for several weeks if needed, away from the many temptations of the city and from bad companions.

Another pipedream.

A few weeks ago Jan and her committee had worked out how much they needed. ‘We’re not asking for a lot—just the world,’ one of the women had said, staring glumly at the figures.

Now, as she recalled the enormous set-up costs, Jan’s heart quailed. Over the last few years she’d organised exhaustive and very vigorous fundraising to build up their financial base. They no longer had to worry about the rent, and they could afford the social worker’s salary, but, as costs climbed and more girls turned up on their doorstep, they needed another paid social worker.

Every year they still had to go cap-in-hand to various organisations just to get money to struggle along.

So many organisations, all worthwhile, all seeking a share from the public’s generosity.

‘I must be running out of steam,’ she told the potted bay tree out on the terrace as she watered it.

Thirty-one was not old, but it did seem to mark some sort of milestone. Perhaps it was the siren call of her hormones, warning her that time was frittering away.

For the first time Jan didn’t want the party her mother planned with such care to mark each birthday. It was a family tradition, the end-of-summer, welcome-to-autumn party, and friends and relatives from all over the city and its environs came to wish her luck and enjoy themselves enormously.

Possibly this feeling of slow melancholy was what another of her cousins had warned her about.

‘It’s a crunch year—everyone has one,’ she’d said, smiling wryly. ‘Mine was my thirtieth. I woke up in tears, and wept all day. Everyone thought I was mad, but it’s surprising how many women have one awful birthday—usually in their early thirties.’

Jan had enjoyed her thirtieth, which made it ridiculous to feel so ambivalent about her thirty-first. ‘Stop right there,’ she told herself aloud, wandering into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of feijoa and grapefruit juice.

Her gaze fell on the gaily wrapped present her half-sister had given her the day she and her husband left for their South American trip, with instructions to open it just before the party.

Where were they now, Anet and her husband of almost a year? Slashing their way through some tropical jungle, probably. For the first time, Jan allowed herself to admit that she envied Anet and Lucas the unmeasured, consuming love they shared.

Because she’d never fallen in love.

Not once.

Oh, there’d been a lover when she was twenty—she shivered, recalling the painful, humiliating end to that affair, if affair it could be called—and since then several men had asked her to marry them. A couple of them she’d liked and been attracted to, but she hadn’t ever felt that complete confidence, the essential trust that allowed normally sensible and wary people to confide their life and their happiness to another person.

She just wanted everything, she thought sardonically: the electric, passionate involvement, the eager companionship and the complete faith in each other. And if she couldn’t have it all, she wouldn’t settle for less.