A Case For Trust (19 page)

Oh, she'd known he'd despised her. Known he hadn't trusted her. He'd made that clear from the beginning. But why the cruel charade, the very recent pretence that he cared for her? Even his cavalier use of her body was less hurtful than this calculated betrayal of her new trust. She understood vengeful, even if she didn't understand why he'd decided she merited vengeance. But this play-acting, the fake sincerity, was simply vindictive. Malicious. He had nothing whatsoever to gain from it. Unless, for Matt Mason, it wasn't enough to take a woman's livelihood, her home, her dreams. Perhaps, for Matt Mason, a victory wasn't truly a victory unless he'd also taken her heart.

Well, he'd done that, too. Yay for Matt. Victory for Matt. Long live bloody Matt. She couldn't even hate him for it. She'd never been able to hate him. She had to be the world's biggest sucker, because even now, there was nothing in her, nothing in her heart or body or mind, that she wouldn't hand him on a platter if he as much as asked. She'd fallen irrevocably for a man who would only destroy her. She'd turned into her mother.

The realisation crushed her into the couch and she curled herself into a tight ball, shivering arms wrapped around her ice-cold body. It was shock, she thought distantly; couldn't be anything else in this heat. Shock, or maybe sunstroke. She suddenly reefed off the couch, quick but not quick enough, and vomited on the floor. It was mostly bile—she'd not eaten since breakfast—and she wiped at it half-heartedly with tissues from the box on the coffee table, before resting her cheek against the cool, timber floorboards. Teeth chattering, limbs shaking violently, heart pulsing in a frightening rhythm, she had neither the will nor the energy to rouse herself, merely tugging fitfully at the loose cotton cover near her feet until it peeled off the couch and she could wrap herself in its folds.

She couldn't stop shivering. Shock, then. Not sunstroke. That was good. Wasn't it? At some point in her musings, exhaustion overtook her and she slept.

***

Hours later she woke, with a single thought, clear and encompassing as the night. She might be like her mother, but she had one thing her mother hadn't: her mother's example. She was in love with a beast of a man, but she wasn't tied to him, she wasn't married to him. She was in love with him, but he didn't know it. Thank god, he didn't know it. And now never would. He might destroy her as she was, but she'd never let on. She wouldn't allow him that final victory. She wasn't dead yet. She would survive this, for the mother who hadn't survived, but who had given her life, and dreams, and some vestige of courage, and an example of how
not
to fall in thrall to a man. She would survive it, and she would begin again.

And Matt Mason would never, ever know what he'd really cost her.

Chapter 13

‘Philippa! Don't you look lovely!' Eleanor's powdered cheek pressed against Pippa's, and Pippa was glad she'd taken extra care, armed her still-fragile confidence in make-up and perfume and bling, some slim-fitting jeans, a cowl-necked white sleeveless top that looked more expensive than it was, and killer heels. She returned Eleanor's second cheek kiss and stepped back with a plastered-on smile.

‘I missed you this morning,' Eleanor continued. ‘I thought I saw you with a gentleman in the driveway, but when I came out, you were both gone again. Is there a problem with the garden?'

‘A small hiccup,' Pippa said smoothly. ‘But I've worked it out and we'll be back on track tomorrow. I'd like to talk to you about it in the morning—would nine o'clock be okay?'

‘Of course! And now, let's look at what Justin's produced. I can't quite believe it; he never showed the least artistic flair when he was younger. Garrett was always the creative one of the Mason brood …'

Pippa let Eleanor's prattle wash over her as they steered a path through the gallery. It was abuzz with elegant types—‘Tyrekickers, handcrunchers and gladraggers,' Justin had advised her drolly when she arrived and exclaimed over the packed-like-sardines bodies—and in truth, most of the guests seemed more interested in social chatter and the revolving trays of champagne than in examining Justin's superbly framed and curated photographs. That made it easier for Eleanor and her to look at them, at least.

Previously Pippa had seen only small prints. But Justin had clearly spent a lot of time cropping and enlarging, and Eleanor was right: he had a very fine eye for composition and colour. In one frame, he'd entirely eschewed the spectacular but perhaps predictable floral spikes of a bird-of-paradise for the broad and arching and unexpectedly graceful curves of its fleshy leaves, veins marching precisely up the canvas.

In another, she recognised one of his earliest photographs, the tiny, tightly curled fronds of the tree fern now magnified, plump and sensuous, their form and colour and solid, robust delicacy reminding her of nothing so much as ammonites, the fibonacci fossils that shared the fern's prehistoric origins.

And there was her favourite grevillea, its spidery, coconut-ice coloured flowers a simultaneous wash of chaos and symmetry. Technically, perhaps, the images weren't perfect—he hadn't quite managed a sharp focus in that one—but still, they were stunning. She was just saying as much to Eleanor when an arm slung around her waist. For a heartbeat her blood froze before she remembered: Matt was in Sydney. And anyway, the familiar sandalwood fragrance, while still seductive, wasn't Matt's. She turned to face Justin, who she now saw also had an arm around his mother. ‘They're amazing, Justin. Congratulations!'

‘Thanks, Pip. Couldn't have done it without you and your encyclopaedic knowledge of Australian flora. Which I'll be telling everybody in my speech, just as soon as our latecomer arrives.'

Pippa had already registered Lucy's absence. ‘I wondered. But I'm glad she's coming, Justin. She'll be so proud of you. And you can finally show her the wattle tree—I think it's my favourite image. I can see now why Lucy wanted wattle in her bouquet …'

She trailed off as she registered Justin's suddenly taut stance, his locked jaw, his face grimly free of emotion. ‘Lucy's not coming. She's not even in the country. I got an email from her in response to my invitation for tonight. She was in Singapore, en route to London. She's got herself a European work visa and a job as in-house counsel at Barclays. We won't be seeing Lucy again.'

‘Oh, Justin!' Eleanor and Pippa exclaimed in dismayed unison, Eleanor squeezing her son's waist, Pippa gripping his hand.

‘It's not necessarily forever, darling,' Eleanor entreated. ‘And anyway, you can always follow her. You always said you'd like to work in Europe.'

Justin brushed off his mother's concern with a nod and a shrug, and with what Pippa privately assessed was two parts stubbornness, eight parts bravura. ‘You're right, I
have
always wanted that. I'd have to requalify under the British system, but it's not out of the question. Perhaps I will. Later. Philippa, stop looking at me like my puppy's just died. I'm fine. I'm not giving up on Lucy just yet, but you've said all along she needs time, so that's what I'm going to give her. Speaking of time, where the hell is Matt?'

Pippa's fingers clenched uncontrollably in Justin's and she evaded his sharp look, scanning the crowds with what she hoped looked like calm indifference and speaking with what she tried to make a casual inflection. ‘Matt? I haven't seen him. Isn't he in Sydney?'

‘He's come back for the opening tonight. At least, he's supposed to have come back.' Justin was scrolling through the text messages on his phone. ‘Yep. He should have been here half an hour ago. Maybe his flight was delayed. I guess I'll go and find a quiet spot to ring him and see how far away he is.'

Pippa gripped his sleeve urgently. ‘Justin, before you go: I just wanted to say thank you for the invitation, and I'm sorry I can't stay—'

‘You're leaving?' This time it was Eleanor and Justin speaking in unison, their frowns mirror images of each other.

‘I'm not well. I'm sorry. I think I caught sunstroke yesterday. I've been battling it all day, and with the heat and the crowds … I'm sorry. But I really must go.'

‘But I haven't made my speech yet!' Justin's woebegone wail sounded much as Pippa imagined it had when he'd been a toddler deprived of a favourite toy. She reached up and pressed a kiss against his cheek.

‘You don't need me here for your speech. I'd rather slip away now before you start.'

Justin kissed her briefly on the forehead. ‘Hope you feel better soon.'

He turned away, and Pippa turned in the opposite direction, towards the door, but her elbow was grasped in surprisingly firm fingers. ‘Philippa, are you avoiding Matt?' Eleanor's tone was kind but distinctly disapproving.

‘Avoiding Matt? Why would I avoid Matt?' She tried to control the breathlessness but knew from Eleanor's face she wasn't fooled.

‘He mentioned this morning you hadn't returned his calls the last couple of days. I know the two of you have been getting … close. I wondered if he'd upset you in some way.'

She had to get away. She couldn't have this conversation, not with his mother. She pinned a bright smile on her face.

‘No, of course he hasn't upset me. I've just been very busy, I'm afraid. And we're not close; not that way. Matt was probably just trying to ring me about a business matter.'

‘Don't hurt him, Philippa.' The kindness was still there, but there was also a cold maternal steel in Eleanor's dark eyes, so much like her son's Pippa wondered how she'd never seen it before. She was startled into silence for a moment before she remembered, and had to choke down the hysterics that threatened to bubble out of her gullet.
Her
? Hurt
Matt
? Her incredulity must have shown, despite her attempts to dampen it.

‘I know he appears impervious, he likes to pretend he has no human feelings to be damaged, but it's a shell, Philippa. He's trying to protect himself. For years he's refused to allow himself to care about anybody. But with you, he's different. He cares. And that makes him vulnerable. So please, don't hurt him. I'm not sure he could recover from it.'

Rage battled with despair and temporarily helped Pippa reassert her brittle control. She respected Eleanor. Liked her. Trusted her. Had hoped they might become friends. In one single statement, Eleanor had reminded Pippa of the thing she couldn't, must never, forget: Eleanor was Matt's mother. A Mason. Her first allegiance would always be to her son. And her son was set on destroying Pippa. She sucked resolve into her spine and professional hauteur into her features.

‘I assure you, Eleanor, I'm the last person on earth who could hurt Matt. You don't need to worry. And now I really must go.'

She almost made it. Got as far as the heavy, swinging chrome-and-glass door, only to see Matt trotting up the front steps on the other side of it, still in his dark business suit but tieless, with his snowy white shirt unbuttoned at the throat. Desire, pain, terror, fury, all collided somewhere in the centre of her chest and coagulated in the base of her throat. She spun about, blocked by the solid wall of chattering, champagne-swilling society. There was nowhere for her to go, and with a sinking inevitability she felt him, smelt him, his heat and musk and irrepressible, close-harnessed energy beside her. His hands moved towards her waist and she feinted, dodged down and around, intent on escaping him, eyes fixed on the taxi she could see still paused at the entrance, ignoring his harsh, ‘Philippa! Wait!', shoving the door open and almost tumbling down the stairs as she avoided his clasp. She was vaguely conscious of people on the concourse staring at her, somebody moving towards her. It didn't matter. All that mattered was getting in that cab.

She slammed the door as Matt reached the bottom step, ordered, ‘City, please,' as the driver pulled away, and watched, heart racing, as Matt stopped at the bottom of the stairs, threw his hands in the air in frustration and yelled something Pippa couldn't hear. She was still craning, still watching, still not quite believing she'd made her escape, as the cab took a sharp left and Matt disappeared from view.

***

She couldn't stay in the house.

Pippa knew it was only a matter of time before Matt arrived. Like an automaton, even as her mind panicked her body slipped into action, packing a small tote with a change of clothes, preparing a flask of hot tea and another of soft drink, stashing packets of muesli bars, pieces of fruit, the half loaf of bread in the bag with the clothes. She stopped abruptly in the middle of the kitchen: what the hell was she doing? What the hell was she thinking?

She wasn't thinking, that was the point. Didn't need to think. Escaping the house, escaping the danger was a reflex, an automatic response she hadn't had to call on in more than a decade, but still, was ingrained as deeply in her system as the times table. It was only a matter of time before Matt arrived, and she didn't plan on being there when he did. She ran through the mental list again. Clothes, food, hot drink. Running shoes. Blanket. Keys, wallet, mobile. She locked the windows and doors then ran out to her ute, flinging her kit onto the front seat and pulling out of the driveway and into the street with no clear idea where she was going.

Where
could
she go? She had friends, sure, but none were close. Or not close enough, anyway, to turn up on their doorstep like some fugitive from the law. Her foot eased on the pedal. What the hell
was
she doing? Matt wasn't her father. He'd never shown violence. And even if he had, he had no rights. No rights to her, no rights to her property. If he showed up—
when
he showed up—she could insist he leave. She could call the police if he didn't. Why the hell was she letting him force her out of her own home?