The Collector's Edition Volume 1 (54 page)

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Authors: Emma Darcy

BOOK: The Collector's Edition Volume 1
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“Yes. Very different,” she mocked.
“I’d like to think the farm will bring us together again.”
Not in a million years
! “Well, you’ve certainly got Dad excited by it. What made you think of investing in land?”
“It’s not so much an investment as a personal interest.”
She gave him a look of wide-eyed wonder. “You mean you don’t expect to make a profit out of it?”
A muscle in his cheek contracted, but he eyed her steadily. “Some things are more important than money.”
Like great sex on tap...until it burns out? Or not being beaten?
“Why does this have importance to you?” she asked, determined to pin down his duplicity. “You turned your back on the valley fifteen years ago. Not even leaving a forwarding address.”
“I didn’t have an address, Beth,” he said quietly. “I didn’t stay any place for long. When I did finally get myself more established, so much time had gone by, there didn’t seem much point-”
“What point is there now?” she cut in, relentlessly pursuing his purpose.
His dark eyes gleamed with intense determination. “A chance to find what was lost.”
Mission impossible—on every count! She’d been there, done that and knew the outcome. There could be no changing it after yesterday’s soul-emptying debacle.
“I told Jim about the letters you wrote, Beth,” her father said, returning to the table with the coffee. “He said he never got them. Old Jorgen must have kept them, stingy old bastard. I explained you didn’t write any more after you got the note from Mrs. Hutchens saying Jamie had gone and no one knew where he was.”
But he’d known where she was. Known and hadn’t cared. She’d given him their Melbourne address before they left the valley. No doubt he’d say he lost it with moving around so much. People on the way up had a habit of dropping baggage that wasn’t useful to them any more. All he cared about was getting her into his bed at his convenience. Jim Neilson didn’t lose what he wanted.
“Well, that’s ancient history,” she said, as if in light dismissal of an old grief that wasn’t worth resurrecting. “Tell me about the plan for the farm, Dad.”
He sat down, looking ten years younger than he had three days ago. He couldn’t stop smiling, and his eyes sparkled with happiness. “It’s very simple and straightforward, Beth. Jim’s going to supply the finance and I’ll supply the labour and management. I’m still as fit as a fiddle, so there’s no problem there.”
Years of labour in the Melbourne dockyards had certainly kept him strong physically. It had been his mental health worrying Beth. From the day he’d turned fifty-five and been retrenched from work, he seemed to have been willing himself to die, shuffling around in a deep depression, endlessly grieving over Kevin, finding no joy in anything.
The difference in him brought a lump to her throat. He looked almost spry, eager to get on with life. It was like a miracle. Though Beth found it bitterly ironic that Jim Neilson could take the credit for what she’d hoped to achieve. With her plan!
She focused her attention on the man currently in the box seat, wary of accepting anything at face value where he was concerned. Some cross-examination was definitely in order.
“Doesn’t Dad have to put any money into this partnership?”
“No. There is a lot of work involved,” he said with earnest appeal. “I’m afraid the house is a shambles. Practically everything’s fallen into disrepair. Fences need replacing. It’ll come as a shock to your father when he first sees it.”
“Don’t you worry about that, Jim. It’ll be the prettiest sight I’ve seen in many a year,” her father said with enthusiastic assurance.
It curdled Beth’s stomach. If Jim Neilson was game-playing, it was getting very dirty. Beth hated the necessity of playing devil’s advocate, but she had to protect her father. “Is this to be a legal partnership, drawn up properly?”
“Absolutely,” Jim Neilson said firmly.
“I wouldn’t like Dad to uproot his life here if you’re likely to change your mind in a month or two. An impulsive whim can come and go,” she warned meaningfully. “And sometimes people don’t get the result they want,” she added for good measure.
“Point taken, Beth,” he said, his eyes meeting the challenge in hers with every appearance of unshakable equanimity. “I won’t change my mind. I know what the farm means to your father and I know what it means to me. I’ll be instructing my solicitor on the partnership tomorrow. And I’ll have it put in my will that if I predecease your father, he will inherit my half of the property, giving him sole ownership.”
She was taken aback by such a final settlement. And his total lack of any hesitation. Resolution was written on his face, and she started to wonder if he was acting from a sense of guilt rather than headstrong desire.
“That’s very generous of you,” she said tentatively.
“I think it only fair...in the circumstances.”
He had certainly done her a few injustices. Was this his way of making restitution? He had admitted feeling guilty yesterday morning, before he’d soothed his conscience with the rotten assumptions he’d made. When she’d comprehensively smashed them, perhaps the guilt had really come home to roost. Even so, to act on it to this extent seemed incredibly extravagant. Though it was in keeping with the fast decisiveness Beth had come to associate with him.
“I wouldn’t expect your father to move until all the legalities are completed,” he went on, clearing her doubts about the extraordinary deal. “Your solicitor can check that everything is bona fide. Please feel free to question any part of the agreement. It won’t go ahead until you’re satisfied.”
“We’ve talked it all through, Beth,” her father said confidently. “Jim’s going to put a caravan on the property to begin with. It’ll give us a place to live until I get the house shipshape again.”
Beth raised her eyebrows incredulously at Jim Neilson. “You’re going to live there, too?”
“No, no,” her father corrected, laughing. “It’s for you and me, Beth. Jim’s too tied up with his business to be on hand. That’s why he needs me.”
“I see,” she murmured, dropping her lashes to veil the recoil in her eyes.
She could feel her face tightening. They were both assuming she’d accompany her father. While Jim Neilson might not be on hand, she would be... to a frequent visitor. Her father’s partner had every right to come to the farm whenever he liked.
It burst through her mind that this partnership had nothing to do with guilt, nothing to do with generosity, nothing to do with any sentimentality over rebuilding what had been laid waste, nothing to do with her father or the farm at all. It had to do with making her readily accessible to Jim Neilson.
A chance to find what was lost.
She’d walked out on him and what he’d offered, and he wanted another chance at getting her where he wanted her. This was simply a different approach, a clever manipulation, going through her father to seal the situation, counting on daughterly love for compliance. In Jim Neilson’s own words, psychologically brilliant. Except she didn’t have to play.
“Is there some problem, Beth?”
The anxious note in her father’s voice begged her not to spoil his rosy dream. But she had a life, too, and she’d given up much of it for the sake of her family. For her the past was gone. No point in revisiting it. No heart for it, either.
She reached out and squeezed her father’s hand, her eyes pleading for his understanding. “I’m delighted for you, Dad. I guess it feels right to you, and I’m truly glad about that. I’m not so sure it’s right for me.”
He frowned, unable to imagine what reservations she might have. “Why not?”
She had no intention of discussing her personal feelings in front of Jim Neilson. “Let me think about it. Okay?” She offered an appeasing smile. “You have rather landed this on me.”
“I just thought...”
He looked from her to Jim Neilson, and she knew he was thinking Jamie, not Jim—Jamie and Beth as it used to be. And her heart cried for what had been truly lost.
“I think it best I go now so you can discuss this between yourselves,” Jim Neilson put in smoothly, acting the sensitive soul to perfection.
“No, no,” her father protested. “You must stay for dinner, Jim. I’m sure Beth—”
“Actually I wanted to ask Beth if she’d have dinner with me tonight,” he cut in even more smoothly, a note of warm appeal in his voice.
“Oh! Oh, yes! What a good idea!” her father cried. “You’d love that, Beth, wouldn’t you?” he pressed eagerly. No prizes for being a subtle matchmaker!
No way was she going to put herself in a position where the wolf could eat her again! All the same, there was a certain perverse pleasure in punching home that point. “What do you have in mind for dinner, Jim?” she asked in a light lilt, her eyes aglow with a tigerish gleam.
“There’s a very fine restaurant, Marchetti’s Latin, in Lonsdale Street. I’d like to take you there,” he answered as though he was completely on the level, no devious plans at all for sex on the side. Or as the main course!
Marchetti’s Latin was reputed to be one of the classiest restaurants in Melbourne, renowned for its ambience, service and food. He was obviously laying out the red carpet to tempt her. And, in fact, he owed her for the bogus dinner invitation he’d given her at the gallery on Friday night. Not that she wanted to even some petty score with him.
Nevertheless, maybe she should not smack him down too soon. It could be worthwhile to take this opportunity to speak to Jim Neilson without her father listening. Best he be left in no doubt where she stood on this partnership deal. It did not involve her. If that meant Jim Neilson backing out of it, better now than later for letting her father down.
“How lovely!” she said, smiling sweetly. “I’d be very happy to meet you there at eight o’clock. Does that suit?”
“I hired a car. I can easily pick you up and bring you home, Beth.”
Any car with him in it was a keg of dynamite. “It would be bringing you out of your way twice to fetch me here and back. Thank you, but I prefer to drive my own car.”
And stay in control of where and when I go
. Her eyes flashed the message to him.
“As you wish,” he conceded.
He had no choice. Beth had no intention of giving him one after the power-game tricks he’d played on her.
“Independent women,” her father muttered disapprovingly.
Jim Neilson grinned at him. “Beth never did like to be helped. She was one feisty little girl.”
She would have kicked him under the table if he hadn’t been rising from it, pushing his chair back, ready to take his leave. If he remembered that about her, why had he assumed she’d come to him for help with money? A bit of inconsistency there, Mr. Neilson, she thought bitingly.
Nevertheless, her father’s good humour was restored by the deft stroke of old memories. He was chuckling as he rose from his chair to see his guest out. Good manners pushed Beth into standing, too, although she pointedly stayed by her chair. Jim Neilson paused, taking in her stiff stance, realising she would not accompany him to the door.
“Until tonight,” she said briefly, her eyes flat, promising nothing.
He nodded slowly, his eyes kindling with a dark fire that promised a furnace of feeling. “Until tonight,” he repeated.
Unreasonably, unaccountably, despite the hardest defences against him, those two words thudded into Beth’s heart, and she knew it wouldn’t matter what precautions she took. Jim Neilson would always be dangerous.
B
ETH dressed to kill. Why not? Opportunities to wear the outfit she’d bought for her youngest sister’s wedding were rare. Marchetti’s Latin certainly rated the best she had in her wardrobe. Besides, female vanity insisted she carry off this last night with Jim Neilson in style, so much style he would choke on it.
The silverstone-cut velvet evening jacket was a masterpiece of sensual elegance. The sweetheart neckline dipped into a row of covered buttons fastened by loops that kept the bodice snugly moulded to her breasts and waist. The long sleeves were slightly flared to match the swing of the jacket over her hips. Her skirt, in contrast, was sheer feminine frivolity, a peppermint silk georgette waterfall style that frothed around her thighs, leaving a long expanse of leg in pale silk tights. Her high-heeled white sandals crisscrossed her feet with thin straps, finally fastening above her ankles.
Her make-up was immaculate. Red lipstick, red fingernails. She’d washed and blow-dried her hair into a smooth, shining mane that swished around her shoulders. A spray of Christian Dior Poison on her pulse points and she was ready to fire on all cylinders.
When she went downstairs to bid her father good night, her glamorous appearance put the twinkle in his eyes. “Going to knock him dead?” he teased.
“I’m not a little girl any more,” she reminded him.
“Ah!” he said, as though her reluctance to commit herself to country life with him was now answered. With a little smirk that suggested he understood how the wind was blowing, he added, “Well, I think Jim will do you proud, Beth.”
“Time will tell,” she said dryly. “Don’t wait up for me, Dad.”
“You go right ahead and enjoy yourself,” he said benevolently. “I’ll be off to bed soon. Had enough excitement for one day.”
Beth hoped it was not about to turn sour on him.
As she drove to Lonsdale Street, she seriously pondered the position Jim Neilson had taken. He might be something of a shark on the money market, but she shied from believing he lacked all integrity. Her father was a complete innocent in what had developed as a highly personal and private battle of wills between them. To brush him aside as a dispensable casualty after dragging him into the fray would be utterly contemptible.
Jim Neilson had judged her contemptibly, but he had no reason to treat her father the same way. In hindsight, and with a much cooler head, Beth had to concede she had acted, well, rashly, in trying to find Jamie in Jim Neilson. Even recklessly. But she didn’t want her father to be a victim of her foolish pursuit of a dream. It wouldn’t be fair.
Not that life was fair. It wasn’t fair that Jamie had been dumped on a grandfather like old Jorgen. It wasn’t fair that her mother had died so young. It wasn’t fair that her father had been burdened with so many griefs. Was Jim Neilson so ruthless he would hurt an older man who’d never done him any harm? Was he so callous he only saw her father as a means to a totally selfish end?
Well, she would soon have the answers, Beth thought with a wave of determination. No fencing tonight. It was all cards on the table, face up.
Since it was Sunday night, she had no trouble parking on Lonsdale Street, and she didn’t even have to feed coins into a meter. She was glad of her velvet jacket on the short walk from the car to the restaurant. The nip in the air was a sharp reminder that early spring was much colder in Melbourne than in Sydney. She would probably feel a lot colder, in every sense, when she emerged from the restaurant after this showdown.
The building that housed the restaurant brought a smile. It was small, old and painted green, a brave statement of lasting individuality amongst the skyscrapers that surrounded it right here in the centre of the city. Double glass doors formed the entrance. She checked her watch. It was still a few minutes to eight. Uncaring whether Jim Neilson was punctual or not, she opened the door, stepped inside and was immediately enveloped in an atmosphere of old-world elegance.
The maître d’ was on the spot to greet her, gracious and charming. No sooner did she mention Jim Neilson than she was addressed by name. “Ah, yes, Miss Delaney—” an admiring smile “—Mr. Neilson is waiting for you at the bar. If you’ll come this way?”
The moment she saw him her surroundings blurred. He was on watch for her arrival, his gaze trained on her every step towards him, generating instant heat. He looked so damned imposing, impressive, dynamically sexy in a sleek black dinner suit teamed with the unconventional note of a white silk polo-necked shirt.
Beth deliberately distracted herself by looking at the magnificent floral arrangement adorning the bar. Though if anyone had asked her afterwards what flowers were used to create it, she wouldn’t have been able to name one of them. She was too intensely aware of feeling naked.
Worse than naked. Her mind somehow reproduced the sensation of his mouth tugging on her breasts, his thighs lying between hers, the power of him surging into her. Her muscles contracted, reliving the intense pleasure of that savage intimacy.
He stood to greet her. He didn’t offer his hand or try to take hers. When she deigned to meet his gaze, she had the strong impression he was just as intensely engaged in mentally measuring the physical impact she had on him. The maître d’ eased the electric tension by offering her a glass of champagne with his compliments. She thanked him and tried to relax, taking the bar stool offered.
Jim Neilson resumed his seat as they were discreetly left to converse alone. A wry smile tilted his mouth. “It’s not working,” he murmured.
Beth lifted a mocking eyebrow. “Your master plan?”
He shook his head. “You wear the colours of winter frost. I feel the heat of high summer.”
She gestured to the martini on the marble-topped bar beside him. “Perhaps you should ask for some ice in your drink. It might cool your temperature if you’re uncomfortable.”
He laughed. “You always were quick with words. I enjoyed reading your books, Beth. You have a real talent for storytelling.”
It surprised her that he’d bothered to read the ones he’d taken. Was his interest genuine or contrived? “Which did you like best?” she tested.
“The one about the snake,” he answered, grinning with the touch of boyishness she found unsettling. “It instantly reminded me of our experience up at the old quarry. Brought it all back to me. You were very brave that day, Beth.” His eyes caressed her with glowing admiration. “I didn’t think a girl would have so much guts.”
She frowned, not wanting him to tap into their childhood together. Not now. She sipped the champagne as she sought to take the initiative from him. “The books are doing very well. They’ve been sold to Britain and the U.S., so their popularity is building,” she stated matter-offactly.
“That’s great!” he declared.
“It’s useful,” she corrected tersely, not wanting her ego stroked. Her eyes flashed a flat rejection of the warmth he was projecting as she established the important point. “I can afford to buy Dad’s partnership in the farm.”
His mouth twisted. “I wasn’t aware it was for sale.”
She ignored the remark, boring straight to the business end of the deal she could offer. “Eventually I hope my income will provide the means to buy you out if you’re prepared to wait a while.”
“Thus severing all connection with me,” he drawled.
“At least it’s honest,” she snapped. “I’m not trying to get something else on the side.”
“I don’t want your money, Beth.”
“I know perfectly well what you
want
,” she said angrily, then tried to lower her temperature by drinking the cold champagne.
“And I’ll lay odds your father doesn’t want you to use it on him,” came the rather sobering judgment. “He’s a proud man.”
It troubled her, that thought. She hadn’t been considering her father’s reaction to the safeguard she was trying to put into place, only the need to remove any obligation to Jim Neilson. She watched him sip his martini, resenting the knowing authority with which he had spoken, yet unable to dismiss the doubt it had put in her mind.
“You haven’t discussed this with him, have you?” he said, more in the tone of a statement than a question.
She didn’t answer, brooding over her drink.
“He wouldn’t have liked you buying the farm for him, either. It would have made him feel more of a failure, Beth,” he went on quietly. “I know you had the best of intentions, wanting to help, wanting to give him a reason to get out of bed in the morning.”
She looked at him with pained eyes. How could he understand so much in so little time?
“It’s better coming from me than from you, Beth. He can take pride in acting for me, doing what I can’t. If you had offered it...” He shook his head. “Your father feels he owes you too much already. It’s one of the burdens he feels most keenly.”
“He doesn’t owe me,” she protested.
“I listened to him all afternoon.”
“You had no right to—to...”
“To listen?”
“Under false pretences of caring,” she accused bitterly.
His eyes held hers in steady challenge. “You denied me the chance to listen, Beth. Denied me the chance of caring. Why are you angry because your father opened up to me?”
“Oh, I don’t suppose the timing has anything to do with it,” she mocked.
“Perhaps it never felt right to me to intrude on your life. Until now:”
“And now it feels right?”
“Yes. It does.”
“Not to me, it doesn’t.”
“I know. And I hope to correct that.”
“Well, that should be a good trick.” She drained her glass and set it down. “Do start,” she invited derisively.
He stood up, not bothering to finish his martini. He caught the eye of the maître d’, who instantly responded, coming over to escort them to their table. Beth slid off her bar stool, ready to accompany him, coolly keeping distance between them so as not to allow even the accidental brushing of hands. He could talk himself blue in the face, she thought, and he still wouldn’t win her over. Physical contact wasn’t going to work for him, either.
Despite its being a Sunday night, the restaurant was well patronised. Beth was acutely aware of the attention they drew from other diners. The women, of course, were looking at Jim Neilson. Most of the men did, too. He had such a commanding presence, to say the least. She was measured up as his partner. Beth didn’t care if she did him credit or not.
Her interest was captured by the marvellous brass gondola that took centre stage in the dining room. It was about a metre long and was mounted on a glass stand propped by two cyprus trees in brass. It was enough to transport anyone to another time and place, redolent of the riches of Venice at the height of its power.
They were led to an intimate table for two, positioned against the centre of the wall on the right-hand side of the restaurant where a huge mirror towered up to the tall ceiling. A glance around convinced Beth it was the best table in the restaurant. And they were certainly getting VIP service, the maître d’ seeing them comfortably seated, introducing them to the waiter who would look after them for the evening, listing the chef’s specialties he personally recommended.
The food sounded divine, and Beth decided immediately she would have the mud crab pasta—tortellini filled with Queensland mud crab and served with butter and chive sauce—followed by the crisp duck—half a duckling boned and roasted and served with lemon peppercorn sauce—followed, if she could fit it in, by the chocolate and coffee soufflé. There was no point in not enjoying what she could of this experience with Jim Neilson.
He chose the ravioli, filled with pumpkin and dried fruit and almonds, which also sounded delicious, then decided on seafood for his main course, the filleted barramundi. A consultation with the wine waiter resulted in the selection of an Italian white wine, Bollini chardonnay, and a Mount Mary Australian red. Beth reminded herself to have only a glass of each since she was driving, but she certainly wanted to taste everything that was on offer in this fabulous place.
A small plate of appetisers was already on the table, oysters and delectable little savouries to tempt their appetite. As she nibbled on one of the latter, she deliberately avoided another immediate confrontation with Jim Neilson, casting her gaze around all the noteworthy features of the decor. The ambience was too special not to savour while she was here. She would probably never come again.
One very grand painting in a glorious gilt frame caught her eye. It depicted one of Henry the Eighth’s weddings.
“Do you like it?”
The waiters had gone. Beth mentally braced herself to face the man who was paying for all this. Handsomely, no doubt. Though whatever the cost, it was not going to buy what he wanted.
“To what are you referring?” she asked coolly, knowing she had to be warily sifting whatever he said and did this evening. She was not about to fall for any tricks he had up his sleeve.
“The painting.” His smile was disarming, full of whimsical charm.
Beth hastily erected defences, glancing at Henry’s wedding. “It seems to be slightly out of focus or something.”

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