A Case For Trust (12 page)

‘Are you sure it's not Matt you fancy?' Pippa teased gently, and was ashamed of herself when she saw the flush creep across Lucy's face.

‘No,' she said softly. ‘It's always been Justin for me. Anyway, Matt wouldn't look at me twice; it would take a pretty spectacular woman to turn Matt's head from his work.'

‘That sounds grim.'

Lucy shrugged. ‘He wasn't always that way. He used to play the field much as Justin does now, although perhaps with more discretion; in fact, I think in so many ways, Justin idolises Matt and emulates him. But when their father died, it hit Matt hard. It hit all of them hard, but Matt more than the others. He'd been seeing a girl for a while, another lawyer, and the family thought she might be the one, but he couldn't have cared for her too much. Shortly after his father died, he dropped her like a stone, took on the mantle of head of the family, started working all the hours god sends and seems intent on making sure the Mason legal legacy outlasts us all.'

Philippa couldn't contain her curiosity. ‘He doesn't date?'

‘Oh, sure, you could call them dates. He has a lot of work functions he has to attend and he quite often takes a woman along with him. But they're usually business contacts or daughters of clients, and he's always a perfect gentleman. Never a sniff of scandal, and if he's kissing any of them, they're certainly not telling. And a catch like Matt? If he
was
involved with a woman, I don't imagine she could keep quiet about it!'

Lucy suddenly pressed her hands against her mouth. ‘Oh my goodness. What an appalling gossip I am! And all I was trying to say is: Matt's a wonderful man. He's tried really hard since Justin and I broke up to make sure I still feel comfortable with the family, and welcome. I guess a time will come when Justin decides to settle down and I'll have to stay away, for my own sake. But yes, when that time comes, I'll miss Matt, too.'

A few moments later Lucy headed inside to find Eleanor, leaving Pippa to ponder what she'd heard. She trusted Lucy's judgement. But if all Lucy said of Matt was true, why was he acting so out of character with her?

***

Pippa clutched her towel more closely around her shower-fresh torso and peered morosely into her wardrobe. For some reason she dare not question, it was vitally important that she look a knockout tonight. She'd meant to find a spare hour to shop for a new frock during the week, but between the planned landscaping and the unexpected tidying in the garden in preparation for the party, she'd been busy through the days. Her wardrobe contained her celebrancy suits—formal, unfussy, predominantly pastel, basically boring—and her garden gear—stained, hard-wearing overalls, work shirts and singlets in drab shades of grey, grey, khaki and grey. There was nothing that shouted ‘party' or even whispered ‘pretty'. Certainly nothing she could rely on to bolster her confidence under the disapproving eyes of Matt Mason.

She turned back to the bed, and the dress that lay across it. It didn't shout ‘party', or whisper ‘pretty' either. It screamed ‘sex'. For the life of her, she couldn't understand why she'd bought it. Or why she'd kept it. It had been a rebellion, she supposed, against the rigid constraints—disciplinary and financial—her father had imposed on her before he died. She'd bought a simple, demure black dress for his funeral, and as she'd waited at the sales counter her eyes had fallen on this. Vampish, low-cut, electric blue and riotously expensive. She hadn't even tried it on in the store; had simply grabbed it on impulse and thrust it at the startled sales assistant, who'd wasted no time arguing before snatching Pippa's credit card and folding the slinky fabric first into rustling tissue and then into the bag with the funeral outfit.

It slunk across the bed now like a languorous lynx, and even eleven years later the price tag on the label caused Pippa's breath to catch. What a shocking waste of money. What a waste of beautiful fabric. It was a classic cut, but even classics dated, didn't they? It wouldn't fit her anyway, she was sure. She'd lost weight in some places, filled out in others, and the sensuous, silky jersey would cling to every curve in a way she would never have envisaged at nineteen. Probably wouldn't even get it over her hips. And even if she did, it would stretch too tightly across her butt. But she might as well try it. Then she could stop wondering and start choosing which of her professional celebrant's suits looked least prudish.

It fit. It clung. It plunged and lifted and caressed. Instant classic.

Pippa stared in the mirror as if she'd never seen herself before. God, she loved it! She'd never be game to wear it, but she loved it. She loved the way the dress seemed to make her blue eyes ten shades more intense; loved the way it cupped her braless breasts into pert and inviting peaks; loved the way it shaped her thighs to sleek rather than sinewy. There was too much cleavage, too much back, altogether too much skin—but her little apricot bolero might sort that out. She shrugged it on, and marvelled how the prissy crepe jacket took on a luminous
savoir vivre
when paired with sultry blue jersey instead of its matching crepe shift.

It was exactly the right look for a semi-formal sixtieth. But was she game to wear it? Could she pull it off?

The next best alternative was the apricot crepe ensemble, and holding the shift against her blue-draped figure, Pippa gazed at her mirror image and wondered if she'd ever wear her tried-and-true conservative ceremony outfit again. She swept her long red ringlets off her neck and held them high above her crown. Her throat was instantly longer, paler, more elegant. Well, apart from the faint scratch under one ear where she'd caught a branch during that morning's final clean-up. A blotting of foundation would fix that. Eyes bright and cheeks flushed with excitement, blue-jersey Philippa was a stranger, a more vibrant, more daring personality Pippa longed to try on for a night.

What would Matt think? Would he be surprised? Would he look at her again with those hooded, desiring, enigmatic eyes?

She wanted him. She did. There was no point pretending the crash-and-burn attraction she'd felt for him at their second meeting, that evening on her back verandah, was anything other than desire. Sure, he'd frightened her that first night, at the Byron Bay wedding, with his furrowed brow and stupid threats. And ever since, he'd frustrated her and annoyed her and offended and angered her. Still, she wanted him. She'd been wanting him for weeks. She'd go to her grave regretting the fact she'd been too drunk last Saturday night to appreciate making love with him.

Pippa stared and the siren stared back. They both knew. She wasn't going to just call in at the party out of courtesy. She wasn't going to the party to please Eleanor, much as she liked the woman. She wasn't going to keep Lucy company. She was going to the Mason family party tonight to seduce Matt. And this time, she was sticking to orange juice.

Chapter 8

Matt looked broodingly out at the back garden, and couldn't explain why he was so irritated. It was bloody perfect: the flowerbeds tidied within an inch of their lives, not a deadhead rose or gardenia to be seen; the lawns manicured as if she'd been out at daybreak with her nail scissors. At the bottom of the garden the rickety old pavilion looked like a fairyland, wreathed in ribbons and flowers and lit by twinkling lights. He could see where she'd started to transform the rugged, barren slopes into terraces, and there was an arcade of weeping something-or-others that, small as they were, held the promise of beauty.

If anybody other than Philippa Lloyd had produced such a result, he'd have been very pleased indeed. But he didn't
want
Philippa pleasing him. He was getting tired of waiting for her to slip up. When he'd called in earlier in the week, the backyard had looked like a bombsite, and he'd been halfway to looking forward to insisting Eleanor sack her. Who would have imagined she could turn the place around in such a short time, and to such arresting effect. Damn her. The admiring comments from the arriving guests only increased his aggravation. He smiled stiffly in response and turned away, suppressing his irritation.

He'd wanted everything to be perfect for Eleanor tonight, hadn't he? And it was. It was a fitting setting for the matriarch's soiree. Possibly more fitting than Eleanor deserved. He'd give her credit for playing society host to his father all those years, for raising him and his siblings with affection and care, for providing a home that was warm and welcoming. He'd give her that. But he was a long way from forgiving her for the transgression she claimed was a single mistake.

Matt watched his mother greet their guests with all the aplomb he'd learned to expect of her. She'd appeared not one whit put-out, arriving home with Lucy to find her house filled with unexpected friends. Indeed, she'd looked delighted, greeting each of them graciously, ensuring they were looked after with drinks and introductions before briefly disappearing to change from her shopping clothes into a favourite outfit more in keeping with the party atmosphere. But she'd had no time to eliminate the lines of weariness from her face, and a brief pang of guilt shafted Matt somewhere around the middle of his solar plexus. She was sixty years old. And though she'd never let on, she was slowing down. Perhaps it was time he stopped testing her.

The familiar bile of guilt and bitterness collided in his gut and he turned away in disgust, at himself as much as at her. He was getting soft. There was a time he wouldn't have thought twice about taking down an adversary quickly and brutally. When people had done wrong, they should expect to answer for it, whether that was a corporate raider who broke faith with a partner or the mother who'd broken faith with her family.

There was a commotion at the front door; he started to move towards the arriving guests but Georgia beat him to it, her graceful welcome a replica of their mother's. Marissa, he saw, was circling the room, smiling and making small talk. Hospitality was bred in the Masons as thoroughly as the law. He supposed he ought to play host a little more assiduously, but he had other things on his mind.

For weeks he'd been looking for opportunities to throw Justin and Lucy together, and Eleanor's birthday had been the ideal occasion. He'd loaded Lucy up with party tasks, relying on her fondness for Eleanor and on Justin's residence in the house to ensure their paths crossed frequently. He had his speech prepared, principally for Eleanor of course, but with a generous tribute to Lucy's help in the party preparations that enumerated all the qualities Justin shouldn't have to be reminded of. Now he just needed the two of them to rediscover each other in an environment conducive to sentimentality and romance.

Matt's eyes scanned the room idly, coming to rest on a pair of hips sheathed in a bright blue dress that moulded a tight, curvy arse on top of the fittest set of petite pins he'd seen in some time. Knockout. Matt couldn't remember the last time he'd been so instantly turned on by the shape of a woman and before he'd even registered the fact, he was striding towards the lissom figure, eyes eating up the skin displayed by the deep plunge of fabric that left her back bare from nape to lower-spine. As he drew closer he read tension in the shoulders, agitation in the stance. The woman was in a heated discussion with one of the waitstaff; it appeared they were in some kind of tug-of-war. ‘Is there a problem here? Can I be of assistance?'

The waiter had already seen his client approach and was babbling an apology. ‘Mr Mason, I'm sorry, it was my fault. I'll have the lady's jacket dry-cleaned and returned to her on Monday. But really, the stain needs to be attended to now. Orange juice is very difficult to remove once the stain is set.'

‘It's not necessary, I assure you. I'll take it home now and look after it myself.'

At that familiar, husky tone, Matt's head swivelled like a barn owl's to hone in on Philippa standing beside him, clutching an apricot jacket to her chest. Unexpected Philippa. Uninvited Philippa. Almost unrecognisable Philippa. A forlorn drip from one sopping sleeve acted in counterpoint to the sudden short breaths he could hear emanating from her. As his eyes moved from the jacket to the decolletage she was vainly trying to cover, his own breath caught for a moment. Absurd; he'd seen this woman naked. Her body held no surprises for him. But his erection hadn't yet subsided from his view of the sinuous sway of her back, and he was horrendously aware of its throb as his sweeping gaze took in her lustrous skin, the fragile sculpting of her collarbone, the vulnerable pulse beating madly in her throat, those oceanic eyes. By god, she was stunning. Not just pretty. More than beautiful. She was stunning.

She was leaving.

Matt woke from his lustful trance as she brushed past him, a new scent that was somehow both less and also more Philippa wafting to his nostrils and sending another kick to his gut. Her jaw was determined, her eyes fixed on the door, and he had to reach to grip her elbow to prevent her escape, hauling her to a stop that had her teetering momentarily on her skyscraper patent black heels. She wouldn't look at him; averted her head and tried to tug her arm from his intractable fingers. He could see a slow tide of colour mounting her chest, rising to her neck, and he watched its passage, fascinated, until it bloomed in her cheeks.

‘Would you please let me go? I need to leave.'

‘Why? Why do you need to leave? The party's barely started. Come, I'll take you to see Eleanor.'

‘My jacket …' She gestured helplessly with the garment. ‘I need to get the stain out.'

‘The staff can look after that. It's no trouble.' He tried to remove the jacket from her resisting fingers, but she clutched it more tightly to her chest.

‘No. Thank you. I can't wear it. I'll take it home.'

‘You don't need to wear it. It's not cold. I'd have thought you'd be sweltering in it anyway. Let me give it to the waitstaff, and come back to the party. There are people here who want to talk to you about the garden.'