A Case For Trust (9 page)

Back in the kitchen, he flicked open his tablet and fired up her file. With a few rapid keystrokes, he updated her file with the information about her family. Or lack thereof. There was a photo of her attached to the file, some social snap Simon had dug up from somewhere. He stared at it fixedly, trying to read intentions in the over-pixelated blurry contours of her face, focusing too long on the lips that looked just as they had while she slept, before snapping the tablet closed with a snort.

Well, if nothing else, he'd accomplished what he'd first set out to do. Regardless of Justin's feelings for Philippa, Matt knew his brother's pride would never allow him to chase a woman he'd consider to be Matt's leavings. It wouldn't be a pleasant discussion, but Matt need only tell Justin what had transpired between him and Philippa that night to put an end to her plans for Justin Mason.

And if she thought she had plans for himself, she had another think coming.

***

The incessant yammering and nagging of noisy miner birds outside her open window had Pippa dragging her spare pillow across her head to block the sound. It didn't help block the other hammering, though. Hell, her head hurt. She pressed the pillow tighter to her temple, and breathed deeply as she willed the pain away. It had been years since she'd had a migraine. What could possibly have … vaguely she became aware of a heady, musky, strange-yet-familiar aroma permeating her every breath. She sniffed a little then breathed deeply again, and her nostrils filled with the scent. Mmm. Nice.

The piercing imperative of her alarm clock had her jackknifing up in bed and flailing about to find the off switch, the early morning light sending needles straight through her eyeballs, so that in the end she blindly wrenched the cord out of the wall socket altogether to stop the infernal racket. Clutching her head with both hands and squeezing her eyes tightly against the excruciating pain, she wilfully abandoned all thoughts for a minute or so. Next time she moved she was more careful, resting her head ever so gently against the headboard and breathing heavily until the pain abated a little more.

Drugs. She needed drugs. Fumbling in the bedside drawer, determinedly keeping her eyes shut, her fingers finally closed around the packet of painkillers buried below her daily detritus. Groggily she groped for the glass on her bedside table; there was barely a mouthful of water in it and she swallowed it to chase two pills down through a scratchy, protesting throat. Eventually she was able to think again, to remember what had startled her. If the alarm clock had gone off, she had to get to work. But she wouldn't be working today, not with a headache like this one.
Where
was she supposed to be working today? What day
was
it? She couldn't think through the pain, had to force herself to concentrate. Yesterday. What had she done yesterday?

A wedding. She'd performed a wedding yesterday. Dammit, that made today Sunday. She should have turned her alarm clock off yesterday morning. Why hadn't she? Oh, right. She'd slept in, slept through the alarm. Almost been late.

Matt Mason.

At that memory, her eyes snapped open and she blinked slowly as they adjusted to the light, wandering about the shadows of the room. What the hell had happened here? Her normally neat-as-a-pin bedroom looked like a pigsty. The light summer bedspread was in a heap on the floor, one of her shoes poking out from under it. Her sheets were in a tangle at the foot of the bed, suggesting she'd had a very restless night, and she could see her bra dangling limply from one bedpost. Her suit jacket was pooled by the door, creased beyond all help, its matching skirt bunched a few feet away and surmounted by her other shoe. Her nightgown, still half-folded, was adorning the floor by the bed. It wasn't unusual for Pippa to sleep naked in the middle of the summer, but such slovenliness
was
unlike her, and she struggled through the grey wash of pain to remember the events of the night before.

The last clear memory she had was of the Jacksons' wedding reception. Matt had been there, and she could remember how devastatingly handsome he'd looked. She'd let him do all the conversational work, she recalled; she'd been content to stand beside him and listen as he chatted amiably and with authority on everything from stock market hiccups to cricket scores. She'd imagined them as lovers, she remembered; had clutched his arm and leaned a little into his warmth, had pretended they were together, partners, not just acquaintances, making polite small talk with strangers while their eyes told each other promises of being alone together.

She'd had a glass of champagne—two?—perhaps that was why her head was so muzzy and sore. Her eyes scoured the destruction of her bedroom again. Well, if nothing else, it confirmed her decision not to drink alcohol. If that's what a couple of champagnes could do to her, she wanted no part of it again.

She guessed Matt must have driven her home. He'd been very kind to her yesterday, all things considered. She couldn't remember getting herself into bed, but the sorry state of her clothes suggested she'd been in a bit of a hurry. What a mess.

But if it was early, and Sunday, at least she had some time to put the room to rights. Her brain was thinking a little more clearly as the painkillers worked their magic. She had an appointment that afternoon with Eleanor, the patron of the kindergarten who'd asked her to come out and look at her garden, but aside from that she was free. She sank back into the bed again. She'd sleep a little longer, give the painkillers time to do their job properly.

Pippa sank her face into her spare pillow and her senses were again assailed by that scent that was not her own. That clean, masculine scent. That woody, sophisticated, expensive scent.

Matt Mason's scent.

Her mind went curiously blank. Then a flood of half-rinsed memories, dreams mostly, had her rolling off the bed and confronting her own image in the full-length wardrobe mirror. Oh, no. No, no, no.
No
. It wasn't possible.

One hand drew up to cup her breast, and in the mirror she noted the faint beard rash that flushed the tender skin on the underside. She heard herself whimper, felt again the coaxing lave of the tongue that had soothed before mounting a tugging, insistent assault on her nipple that had turned her whimpers to moans of delight.

Her hand smoothed down her hip, pulled the upper skin aside exposing her inner thigh. There. The nip, at once savage and tender, that had pre-empted the maddening, mind-numbing rasp of his mouth, the licking, flickering tongue against her clit, the plunging exploration of nimble fingers then smooth, urgent cock that drove her to wild, mindless begging. One long, powerful explosion of feeling, and she knew she'd screamed his name. And then nothing, oblivion, until those teasing, masterful fingers had brought her to half-consciousness again before he took her back into bliss. He'd asked her something—what was it? She couldn't remember now—and she thought he'd been angry, a little, at her answer.

Oh, sweet Jesus. Pippa buried her head in her hands before a spasm of nausea sent her tumbling into her ensuite, knees to the cool tiles and head into the toilet bowl. There was barely enough in her gut to bring up—had she seriously allowed herself to drink champagne on an empty stomach?—and she sat abruptly on the floor, spine pressed against the wall, dabbing at her mouth with a sheet of toilet paper. Stupid. How could she have been so
stupid
?

It hadn't felt stupid last night, the traitorous voice in her head whispered. It had felt good. Better than good. The fizzy champagne, the light-headed laughter, the tug of attraction, the insatiable wanting. The loving. It was the best feeling in the world. And she wanted more of it.

That's
why she should never drink.

Pippa crumpled the toilet paper in her hand, lurched to her feet, reached to toss the paper in the rubbish bin and stopped, eyes fixed on the clearest evidence of her folly. Two neatly tied condoms nestled in the bin among the used cotton balls and stocking wrappers. Her breath left her chest in a rush, and her cheeks flamed in shame. She hadn't even considered the risks, hadn't been prepared at all. In her tipsy, amorous state, she hadn't even thought about protection.

Thank heavens Matt clearly had.

Chapter 6

Eleanor's garden was beautiful, in an overly ordered, formal style that suited the sprawling, colonial-era house, if not Pippa's own taste. As Pippa walked around its high-maintenance lawns and fussy flowerbeds, she could see already in her mind how it might be transformed. The massive old hoop pines would stay, patrolling the fence line, but the bare patches beneath, where the sparse grass struggled to thrive, would support cycads and tropical ferns. She'd plant up the rest of the open lawn with butterfly- and bird-attracting shrubs; the terraces would be perfect for the weeping habits of groundcover grevilleas, and she'd turn the flowerbeds into companion plantings of vegetables and herbs, perhaps some strawberries. And in between, with some new paths, an arbour of fast-growing, hardy bougainvillea to provide shade and colour.

An aged pavilion, standing in glorious isolation at the bottom of the garden, provided welcome shelter as the late afternoon sun stirred Pippa's headache again. She pounded its columns and noted that while it was old, it was still strong and well maintained. At some time it had supported grapevines, but no longer. The dead vines yielded easily to her tugs and displaced soil that was too wet, too clayey, for successful grape growing. Waxy, fragrant stephanotis might do well, though, or perhaps a hoya, to keep true to the native theme; she'd have to research some options.

Eleanor found her there, and apologised for taking so long with a phone call. Pippa waved away the apology. ‘I've enjoyed exploring. You have a magnificent property.'

Eleanor sighed as she joined Pippa on the outer bench of the pavilion. ‘It's been my home—my haven—for forty years. I have so many fond memories. This pavilion, for example, is where I married my husband. Of course, it looked prettier then.'

‘It's still in good shape, and can look pretty again,' Pippa reassured her. ‘But are you sure you want to change the garden, when you have such special memories of it? I can recommend some lawn treatments that would help bring the grass back. Although, with our dry winters and drought every few years, the lawns will always need a good deal of work.'

Eleanor was gazing wistfully up the hill to the house, where the late afternoon sunlight was setting the windows aglow. Slowly she shook her head. ‘No. I've already spent too many years trying to force it to grow against its nature, all in the name of preserving family history. Why should I hand that burden on to my children? Let's change it. Let's change it all. Tell me what to do.'

An hour later, Pippa stretched her back tiredly and gave Eleanor a smile. ‘I think that's it,' she said. ‘I have all the measurements, and I've sketched out our ideas. I'll do some research on the best species for the soil, particularly down at the pavilion, and I should be able to finalise my recommendations and firm up a quote for all the work by Tuesday.'

Eleanor nodded. ‘Perfect. I'm looking forward to working with you on this. Now, please, come up to the house and let me fix you a drink. You've certainly earned one. I have my family over for dinner this evening; why don't you stay so we can tell them about our plans for the garden?'

Pippa's hangover headache and aching muscles were a persistent, dull reminder that she'd had a big weekend. What she really wanted was a long, cool shower, a light snack and some brainless time in front of the undemanding TV before an early night. But Eleanor's tone was insistent, and the contract would be a lucrative one.
Suck it up, Lloyd
, she told herself,
this is important work.
And with the kindergarten job finished, she could afford to take tomorrow easy. She smiled at Eleanor. ‘If you and your family can forgive my muddy boots, I'd be delighted to join you.'

‘Excellent. Come in and freshen up a little. Leave the boots by the back door—your socks are fine—and I'll have my housekeeper clean them up ready for you to go home. What can I get for you to drink?'

The two curly heads, one strawberry blonde, one dark and burnished with silver, were close together, poring over a garden catalogue, when a hellooooo from the front door interrupted them. A raven-ringleted woman bounced into the lounge room where they sat, followed at a more sedate pace by another woman, slightly older. The family resemblance, between the two young women and also with Eleanor, was startling.

Eleanor presented her cheek to them one at a time and introduced them to Pippa. ‘Philippa, this is my younger daughter, Marissa, and my elder, Georgia. Girls, this is Philippa Lloyd, who's going to be transforming the garden for me.'

Marissa of the raven ringlets thrust a hand out to Pippa. ‘Fantastic. I don't know how you persuaded Mum to abandon the family couch grass, but we're all forever grateful to you. Now, if you can only persuade her to give up the house as well—'

‘Marissa, wash your mouth out! You might not value our family memories, but don't assume the rest of us are so cavalier. This house is our heritage.'

‘Oh, blah blah blah, Georgia.
You'll
never live in it. You know you won't. You couldn't wait to move out into an apartment you can clean in twenty minutes. Why should Mum be tied to this—'

‘You can
both
pipe down,' Eleanor spoke over them. ‘For now, I'm only interested in updating the garden. Georgia, pour Philippa another drink, please, and Marissa, go up and see if that's your brother making all that racket upstairs. If he's finally found his way home, he could at least have the courtesy to come and say hello.'

Heavy thudding on the staircase saved Marissa any effort. Pippa was thanking Georgia for her drink with a shy smile when in her periphery she saw a man stop on the threshhold, clearly startled. ‘Pippa! What a brilliant surprise!'