A Wish and a Wedding (3 page)

His laugh was short. “Why would she? She's never been without it. So that's the latest misadventure? She was in a car with Morcombe?”

Philippa took a good swig of her drink. “Nothing happened to Tori. I suppose the police gave them all a talking-to.”

“I should damned well think so,” he said shortly. “She can't continue like this.”

“No, she can't,” Philippa agreed. “She's so ferociously bright, that's the thing!”

“She never finished her degree.”

“And she was doing so well.”

“She's never held down a job. We know she's clever, but she should be making something of herself—not leading this mindless life that can only get her into big trouble.”

“Can I tell you, dear, why she didn't finish her degree?” Philippa interrupted gently.

“Pip, I already know. Tori can't put her perfectly good mind to anything.”

“Some of the other students—”

“Not the boys?” he jeered.

“Well, no, not the boys. The male of the species loves her. But some of the girls gave her a hard time. She had her hangers-on, of course, but some of the young women who were jealous of her beauty and brains, spread some pretty nasty rumours behind her back. No substance in them, of course. Envy is one of the deadly sins, after all.”

“So she quit uni,” Haddo said, his expression still severe, “and probably hasn't read a book since. You still haven't told me what Lucinda expects me to do. Though I'm no stranger to her pleas for help. There was never any hope of a quiet life with Tori. She's on a quest to pour as much questionable experience into her young life as humanly possible.”

Philippa sighed. “Lucy loves Tori dearly, I know, but she's an ineffectual sort of person.”

“That's because she's always had everything done for her,” Haddo replied. “But on the plus side, Lucinda is a good woman—and she
is
Tori's grandmother. Tori wasn't safe with that sleazy Barry around.”

Philippa pulled a fastidious face. “Livinia has made a career out of marrying the wrong people. Tori still believes it was her grandmother who brought pressure on Livinia to let her go.”

“Let's keep it that way,” Haddo said. “I don't want her to know it was me. Does Lucinda want me to go to Sydney to read Tori the Riot Act?”

“Reading between the lines, I'd say Lucy wants you to bring Tori back here. Personally, I think it's a great idea. It will keep her out of harm's way, and allow any adverse publicity to die down. You can give the dear girl a job.”

Haddo's laugh was short. “That's the thing missing in Tori's life,” he said dryly. “A job.”

“So there you are. You're the boss. Give her one. You were bred for being the boss, Haddo dear. Nothing comes easier.”

Haddo's chiselled mouth compressed. “Don't mention
easy
and
Tori
in the same breath. Actually, there is something she could do,” he said musingly. But he was not sure it would work. It would certainly help them all out if it did, but he didn't know what Tori would think about becoming schoolmarm to more than a dozen station kids, plus the really little people—the four-year-olds.

“
I
know.” Philippa aware of everything that went on at the station, read his mind. “She can take over from Tracey.” Mallarinka being so isolated had its own one-teacher school. Tracey Bryant was the teacher in residence, and had been for the past two years.

“That's what I was thinking,” Haddo said.

“At least until Tracey is over her morning sickness and the pregnancy is well established.” Philippa regarded him with a pleased expression. Tracey was now the wife of Mallarinka's leading hand, Jim Bryant. Hired as a teacher for the station school, she had fallen in love with the very attractive Jim and quickly snaffled him up. Her first pregnancy, sadly, had ended in a miscarriage.

“Tori might have other ideas,” Haddo said. “But it'll be a real coup getting her out here.”

“Yep—well, you're the man to do it,” Philippa replied with conviction.

 

The study was in darkness. Haddo flicked a switch, flooding a room that was larger than most people's libraries with light. A portrait of his greatly loved grandfather, Quentin, dominated the wall behind the massive partner's desk. This was a man's study, the furnishings and décor very much in the style of a gentleman's club. His grandfather had called it his inner sanctum, but he had always allowed him into it, even as a small child. Floor-to-ceiling glass-fronted mahogany cabinets housed books and trophies of all kinds, countless silver cups, ribbons, awards,
photographs of family with famous guests at the station. A magnificent gilded bronze horse stood on a tall plinth in front of a glass panel that had been cut out of the wall. By daylight it gave a view of the garden and two splendid date palms planted by an Afghani trader in the late 1880s.

There were two photographs of Tori on the desk. He had put them there himself. One had been taken when she was about twelve, mounted on a horse much too big for her, the other by a professional photographer on the morning of her sixteenth birthday. Her enchanting smiling face looked out at him, vibrant with life. That was before the day had gone to hell.

Abruptly he picked up the three or four e-mails Lucinda had sent. Pip had printed them off and put them in order, securing them with a paperclip. They all said roughly the same thing: Lucinda was desperately worried about her granddaughter, especially the crowd she was mixing with currently. Most of them were years older. Tori—unfortunately—had moved out of her own age group. Lucinda fully appreciated he was “an extremely busy man”, but she wouldn't ask if she didn't believe the situation called for his active intervention. Tori only listened to him anyway.

That was news to him.

It wasn't possible to get away until the end of the week. He would let Lucinda know he would be arriving the coming Saturday. They could have a good talk then.

The beautiful Rushford heiress, of all people, an Outback schoolmarm. The thought gave him a wry laugh.

Sydney, Capital of New South Wales

Tori had spent the afternoon at the shelter for which she was a silent patron. She had a few other pet projects—breast cancer research was high up on the list; she had had no idea a woman could contract the disease so
young
—but she always insisted her philanthropy be kept strictly private. So far her requests had been
honoured. Whenever she visited the shelter she always wore a dark wig and a headscarf tied pirate fashion. Her long red hair was a dead giveaway. To aid anonymity she dressed Gothic, black from head to toe, with the obligatory black boots on her feet. She thought she looked suitably disguised, but despite the less than flattering gear, her natural beauty shone through.

The mother of one of her girlfriends, Tiffany, had focused her interest on the shelter. Tiffany's million-a-year barrister father—street angel, home devil—regularly beat up on Tiffany's mother. Never in places that showed. Incredibly, Tiffany's mother, a beautiful woman, bore the abuse in silence, full of shame, until her teenage son Luke had, one momentous night, threatened to kill his father if he didn't stop. Right there and then. The threat had come as a rude shock, and mercifully had worked. Luke's father had picked up on the avenging light in his son's eyes—and on the golf iron in his son's strong young hands. So it had been Tiffany's mother who had told her about the women's shelter on Wyndham Street, and the good work they did. Tori had become a patron first day out.

Her visit to the shelter, talking to the women and children there who lived in constant fear, only served to draw attention to the extravagant harbourside party that was now going on all around her. All the bigwigs and the high rollers were there, and the so-called celebrities who always appeared in the society pages—she was one of them—anyone, in fact, on the Rich List. Getting on the bandwagon had to be one of the most stupid things she had ever done. But she had been so caught up in it, it was near impossible to get off.

It was only halfway through the evening, yet already she was fed up. What was wrong with her all of a sudden? The truth was, she wasn't really a party girl—though she didn't expect anyone to believe her. You could say an accident of birth—being an heiress and all—had brought her to a place where she didn't really belong. What she really wanted…
really
wanted…

Time you grew up, Tori. You ain't gonna get it.

God, that music was
loud.
She felt like finding her hosts and lodging a complaint. She could feel her head pounding. The evening had been doomed from the start.

She looked towards the spacious entrance hall.

“Vicki—a dance?”

This was an offer she could well refuse. “No, thanks, Tim.”

“Come on, babe, I insist!' Tim, the airhead son of one of the state's biggest developers, clicked his fingers energetically.

“Not now.” She waved Tim off, ducking and weaving through the crush of people. There had to be at least a thousand!

A moment more and she came to a dead halt. Shock poured into her. At first she thought she might be hallucinating. It wasn't possible. Maybe she was dazed by the events of the day? Before the shelter she had attended a very boring charity breakfast and fashion parade, then she had talked with Trish Harvey, the editor of a top magazine, who was trying to persuade her into a fashion shoot. Hallucinating was ruled out! She kept religiously to her vow never to touch drugs when dope was all around her. She had, however, tossed back a couple of non-lethal cocktails when she'd arrived, just to get in the mood. The rest of the time she had drunk club soda. She felt stone-cold sober, yet she was in the middle of a surreal experience.

She blinked hard. The vision didn't go away. It became even clearer.

Across the jam-packed room, filled with laughing, drinking, gyrating partygoers, was Haddo—in the flesh. It didn't seem possible. How could he possibly be here? Yet there he was, standing head and shoulders above everyone else, a man who instantly commanded attention. Mimi Holland the pop star was trying to hit on him—what girl wouldn't?—but his astonishing blue gaze was moving like a searchlight over the crowd. She knew who he was looking for.

Her.

Would you believe it? She nearly lay down and cried. There was only one explanation. Nan must have sent for him. She had
to do something. Like scream! Only screaming was too tame an option, considering how agitated she felt. Hastily she tugged at the hem of her silver mini-skirt. Wrong place. Wrong clothes. It would always be that way with Haddo. She tried to lose herself in the swirling crowd, flopping one side of her long hair over her eye. It wasn't a perfect disguise, like her Goth, but it would have to do.

“Come on, Vicki, dance with me?” Another guy surged towards her, looking half stoned, but she briskly waved him off, wedging herself up against a soaring indoor plant. To no avail.

“Tori!”

Instantly she was thrown back to her old weakness. Haddo was there, looking down at her, his blue eyes taking in the hair-style—she had had her riotous mane straightened for the night—the itsy-bitsy sparkly dress, the silver stilettos. “It wasn't at all hard to spot you,” he said dryly, then, as adroitly as if he were cutting out a cute little poddy calf, he manoeuvred her into a relatively quiet nook.

“Haddo!” she retorted with feigned delight, regardless of her gut-churning emotions.

It hurt to see him. Really
hurt.
Once she would have walked on her hands for Haddo. He looked great. Right up there with the all-time hunks, and a very snappy dresser even when casual. His black tee was top quality, so were the black jeans, and the super bomber jacket in sexy, supple bronze Italian leather worn over them must have cost a mint. The breeze off the Harbour had tousled his hair, so a crow-black lock fell onto his tanned forehead. The back of his hair curled up enticingly at his nape. His blazing blue eyes sparkled. Was there ever such a great combination as crow-black hair and intensely blue eyes?

“Had no trouble finding me?” she queried. “You couldn't have, since you're here.”

He smiled down at her, in that super self-assured way he had. “Isn't there something dangerous about wearing your hair like
that?” he asked with seeming concern. “You could bump into something.”

She wanted to stomp off. Instead she tossed back the offending curtain of hair. “How did you get here?”

“The Rolls. What else?” He stared about him with an expression bordering on wonderment.

“Brody bring you?” Brody was her grandmother's long-time major-domo and chauffeur. His wife, Dawn, was the housekeeper and cook—a very good one.

“Having someone else drive me brings me out in a cold sweat,” he mocked.

“You could have walked, or even hitch-hiked,” she pointed out with sarcasm, still trying to get the dizzies under control. “It's not all that far away.”

“I was just too anxious to see you.” His glance dipped to her long slender legs. “Where does that dress disappear to when you sit down?” he asked, as if he really wanted to know.

“God, you're so old-fashioned, Haddo!” she said shortly, close to despair. “You should take in the bright lights more often.”

He shrugged a careless shoulder. “I wouldn't live in the city for a cool million.”

“And this is a guy who's worth—what?” she jeered.

“More than you, anyway. But enough of the repartee. I've come to escort you home, Victoria, if you'd be so kind as to come without making a scene. Your grandmother has become very worried about you of late.”

That incensed her. “She has no need to be,” she said loftily.

“Not even
you
believe that.” He chopped her off. “I had a quick glance through the newspapers Lucinda showed me. They said some pretty mean things about you and your crowd.”