A Case For Trust (20 page)

Pippa pulled the car over to the side of the road and rested her head on the steering wheel. If she'd ever doubted the impact Matt Mason had had on her, here it was: she was fleeing him with the same dread she and her mother had so many times fled her father. And for what? She was in no physical danger, she was quite sure of that. So why was she running away?

It's not your body that's at risk. It's your heart, remember? You don't want him to know. You don't want to look at him and see just how he's played you. You don't want to see that contempt when he realises he doesn't have to pretend any more, when he realises he's won.

You don't want him to see you love him, in spite of it all.

And because she knew she couldn't hide it, couldn't hide herself or her perplexing, disastrous love, she couldn't go home. Couldn't be where he would find her. The towers of Mt Coot-tha blinked cheerily to the west. Why not? She couldn't afford a hotel, not with the current parlous state of her finances, and it wouldn't be the first time she'd slept in the ute. There was a lay by on the mountain where lovers stopped to look out over the city lights. It was regularly patrolled by police. It wouldn't be comfortable, and she'd probably have to identify and explain herself to every patrol during the night, but it was safe. She slipped the car into gear and drove off, to spend the second night in a row somewhere other than her own bed.

***

Justin was seeing off the last of his guests and Matt wandered idly about the gallery, hands stuffed in his pockets, perusing a bunch of photographs. Eleanor had headed off in a taxi a few minutes ago, and he'd lied when she'd asked him had he seen Philippa. He didn't know what the hell was going on, but he didn't need his mother interfering before he'd worked it out.

The nagging feelings he'd had when she hadn't answered his phone calls or texts had coalesced with her panicked departure. She hadn't even spoken to him. Not a word. The last time he'd seen her—Saturday morning, looking dishevelled and delectable after their long and passionate night of loving—there'd been no clue anything was wrong. They'd played phone-tag Sunday and Monday, he'd been too busy to call her Tuesday while he tried to hurry the negotiations along so he could get back early for Justin's mysterious function, but he'd called her repeatedly yesterday and today and she'd not responded once. Maddening, fickle, unpredictable bloody woman!

Except she wasn't. Not usually. And that worried him more than anything.

He clenched his fingers again around the small, hard case in his pocket. He'd been carrying it around since Sunday, flipping it open in private moments to check again that it was right. Right for her, for Philippa. It was the most impulsive thing he could remember doing since he'd skipped an exam in his final year at high school to go to the races with his Uncle Jack. The bawling-out he'd got from his father over that episode, his mother's silent but pained disappointment, had cured him of impetuous follies.

But he'd been thinking of Philippa since he left her, thinking of how she made him feel, thinking of how she made him hope, and when he'd seen the ring in a jeweller's shop in the Queen Victoria Building on Sunday, he'd known. More certainly than he'd ever known anything before her, he'd known he wanted her forever. For good times and bad. For all of it.

So when Justin insisted Matt had to be home on Thursday night instead of Friday, he hadn't taken much persuading. All he'd had to decide was whether he'd ask her Thursday night, after whatever it was Justin had cooked up, or Friday night, on their date. Their first date. He'd chafed at the delay when the first plane couldn't take off and had to be replaced; had had to forcibly restrain himself from pushing to the head of the long taxi queue when he'd landed in Brisbane; had urged the taxi driver to hurry up even knowing the man was already driving at the speed limit. By the time they'd arrived at the gallery, he'd known: he didn't want to wait. He was going to ask her tonight.

And then he'd seen her coming towards him, felt the wallop in his guts and his groin he always felt when he saw her, had reached for her with all the love he felt for her—and she'd run. She'd run away from him. She'd got in his own bloody cab and driven away. Justin had hustled him in off the footpath and then made a speech which was largely a blur. Something about a competition. Something about a mentor. Something about Philippa, Philippa helping Justin. Matt had made no sense of any of it. His mind had been too busy trying to make sense of Philippa leaving. Eleanor had found him and stared at him with that penetrating gaze that always suggested she'd discovered the erotic poetry he'd penned as a pimply teenager and hidden under his mattress. She'd asked if he'd seen Philippa and he'd lied, and shortly after she'd left.

Now he wandered around the gallery wondering what the hell he was doing here. He squinted at a photograph, trying to work out what the devil it was. Stepped back for a better perspective; skimmed the accompanying description and tripped over the name of the photographer. Shit. It was Justin's name. Justin's work. He moved to the next image and checked the description. Also Justin's. Moved on. Frame after frame, it was all Justin's.

Some of it wasn't bad. For a barrister.

As if he'd heard the silent, backhanded praise, his brother clapped him on the shoulder and handed him a glass of flat champagne. He didn't bother tasting it; it was bad enough when it had fizz.

‘Thanks for coming back, Matt. It meant a lot to me.'

‘You might have at least let on what I was coming back for. How long have you been doing this?' Matt gestured at the photos with the glass, slopping a little over the rim. He offloaded it on a nearby table.

‘A couple of months. It's kind of therapy. Philippa told me I had to find an interest of my own, something that didn't involve family or Lucy or work. This is what I ended up with.'

‘It's not bad.'

‘I'm not giving up my day job.'

‘No. But it's not bad. Philippa told you to do it?'

‘Well, not this specifically. But yes. It was one of her conditions for counselling me: I had to leave Lucy alone for a while, leave
women
alone for a while, and find some other outlet for my … energies.'

‘You didn't have to leave Philippa alone though?'

Justin heaved an exaggerated sigh. ‘Mate, I've told you: there is nothing between Philippa and me. The road is clear. Always has been.'

‘You gave me the idea, a few times, that wasn't the case.'

Justin shrugged. ‘Old habits die hard. It was obvious from the beginning you fancied her. Should have seen the look on your face the first time you saw her. You looked like you'd been poleaxed. The next thing I know, you've got her out in the carpark in the dark, looking like she's your idea of breakfast, lunch and dinner. You know I can't just let you have everything you want so easily. I'd be failing in my duty as your younger brother to help build your character.'

‘I thought she'd split you up, you and Lucy.'

Justin sighed again, and this time the sigh was real. ‘The only person who split Lucy and me up was me. I was an idiot. A complete bloody tool, if you must know. The way I felt about Lucy scared the bejesus out of me. She gave me an ultimatum—stop screwing around or she'd leave me for good. I didn't want her seeing anybody else so I proposed to her. It was an impulse—' Matt fingered the box in his pocket again—' but as soon as I asked her, I knew it was right. I promised her I'd never so much as look at another woman again, and she agreed to marry me.'

‘And what went wrong?'

‘I hit on Philippa.'

‘You
what?
'

‘I hit on her. I don't know what I was thinking. I didn't even want her that badly. I mean, she's pretty and everything, and she's an absolutely brilliant person when you get to know her, but she's really not my type. I'd been feeling a bit … trapped, I suppose, a bit weird about the fact I'd never sleep with any other woman but Lucy. Anyway, Philippa sent me packing. I was terrified she was going to tell Lucy, but she didn't; she just suggested we needed some pre-marriage counselling. I was so relieved, I knew I'd got away with it and it had given me enough of a fright that I knew I wouldn't do it again—wouldn't cheat, I mean—so I said I didn't need counselling. And then Lucy said she wouldn't marry me if we didn't have counselling, and it all kind of went south from there. And she called it off.'

‘Lucy called it off?'

‘Yep. I think she knew something had happened, even though Philippa didn't say anything. She said she couldn't trust me and wouldn't marry me, and that was that.'

‘But you kept on seeing Philippa?'

‘She was coaching me, trying to help me get Lucy back. And for a while there, I thought it was going to work, but then it all went to shit at Mum's party. My fault again. And now Lucy's up and moved to London, and here I stand, a sore, sorry excuse for a lawyer with a nasty habit of hiding in bushes taking pictures, which will no doubt get me into a lot of trouble in my later years.'

Justin was trying to laugh off his misery, but Matt had had years of practice reading his siblings' feelings. He half-slapped, half-rubbed his younger brother's back. ‘Will you go after her?'

‘I don't know. I don't think she wants me to. But I'll tell you this much: if I do, and I get her back again, I won't ever let her go. That stupid old cliché about not knowing what you've got until it's gone is absolutely true.'

‘That's why it's a cliché.'

‘And what about you, big brother mine? What's going on with you and Philippa? You going to nail her, or what?'

Matt pushed away, sympathy turning abruptly to ire. ‘Don't be so bloody crude, Justin.'

His brother raised one lazy eyebrow. ‘You're only saying that because you already have, am I right? Of course I'm right. That's why you've been so antsy thinking I was chasing her. Is it serious?'

‘Is what serious?'

Matt's prevarication didn't hold up to his brother's eagle-eyed scrutiny and Justin whooped. ‘It is! Mighty Matt Mason has finally fallen. I can hear the hearts breaking all over town. Going to marry her?'

‘That's the general idea,' Matt said through gritted teeth.

‘Then why are you still here? She went home early, wasn't feeling well, but I'm sure a little tender loving from you will make her all better again.'

Matt ignored the teasing. ‘She wasn't feeling well? When?'

‘Right before she left. Said she had sunstroke or something. I thought it might have been because she'd just found out you were on your way, but that can't be right. Or haven't you told her yet how you feel?'

‘The right opportunity hasn't presented itself.'

‘Speak to her like that in your lawyer voice and it probably never will. God, I hope you don't talk to her like that in bed. Need a few tips?'

‘Not from you,' Matt bit out, and Justin laughed aloud.

‘All right, all right, I'm just playing with you. But take it from me: if you're serious about her, go and find her and get a ring on her finger before she knows what's happening. If you're serious about her, you don't want to lose her.'

‘I know that much already.'

‘And yet you're still here, talking to me instead of her.'

Matt nodded tersely. ‘Need a lift?'

‘Nah, I'm all good. Give Philippa a kiss from me. A nice brotherly kiss!' he yelled as Matt, scowling, strode out of the gallery.

***

She wasn't home. Matt sat on the top step of Philippa's verandah and worried his bottom lip with his teeth. He'd seen her get in the taxi, watched it drive off and head towards the city, but if she wasn't well, perhaps she hadn't made it home. He'd had sunstroke years ago, after a furious game of tennis in midsummer heat with a competitive, domineering client. Had won the match, as he recalled, and had paid for the victory with his head stuck in the toilet bowl all night afterwards. He could remember the dazed helplessness he'd felt. Had she been able to give the driver the right directions to get home? Was it a yellow taxi or a black and white one? He could ring the taxi dispatch, track down the driver. Perhaps he should check the hospitals.

He leaned back against the railing, flicking through his mobile phone messages. He'd called her again, texted her, begged her in the last message to call him urgently so he'd know she was all right. Nothing. Not a whisper. He lay the phone on the verandah next to him, and spotted a slip of cardboard in the cracks beside the phone. It took him a moment or two to pull it out with his fingernails, and he was surprised when he flipped it over to see a real estate agent's grinning mug beside a well-known logo. It was a new card, not faded or bent or grubby. Couldn't have been there long. Why was Philippa talking to real estate agents?

He got up and banged on the door again, but he knew it was pointless. The house was locked up tight and the ute was gone, so she must have made it home, must have gone out again. It was well past the time the stores would have closed, but still: he'd wait a bit longer.

Matt settled back on the step and pulled out the jewellery box. The brilliant-cut diamond winked at him in the light reflected from the street lamp. Justin's words echoed in his head, and he worked to unclench the knot in his throat that had taken residence since Philippa pushed past him. If she was ill, chances were she hadn't even known it was him. If she was ill, she was probably just in a desperate hurry to get out, to get home.

If that was the case, where was she now?

It didn't matter where she was. He'd wait. He'd wait until she came home, because wherever she was, whatever was going on, he was asking her to marry him. Tonight.

Chapter 14

A sharp rap against the window snatched Pippa from her doze. It was the same cop who'd woken her two hours before. She wound down her window.