Mango Kisses (19 page)

She barged along the walkway and past Marianne’s room, grateful for the closed curtains and the lack of light. Impossible to face anyone now, least of all Marianne. What was Marianne doing here in Birrigai anyway? Everything had gone wrong since she arrived.

Tiffany shoved her key in the lock and flung the door open so hard that it bounced against the wall and almost back into her face. Damn the door, damn Marianne, damn Miles, damn her stupid, tongue-tied, emotionless, unsympathetic self. Damn everything.

Her shoes made two satisfying thuds when they hit the wall by the bed. Her bag stayed on the floor where she hurled it. Her skirt dropped to the floor followed by her blouse followed by bra and knickers, all in a chaotic, messy trail leading to the bathroom.

Naked, Tiffany glared at herself in the mirror while the shower steamed gently in the cubicle behind her. If only she could wash
herself
away along with the perspiration and grime. Hopeless, pathetic woman: red cheeks glowing like stop lights; swollen, desperate, reddened eyes of a lunatic; hair like straw; scrawny body, hardly any boobs; no hips worth holding onto; stick legs; no personality beyond a column of numbers and the human warmth of a calculator. Couldn’t even get a decent tan. Her skin went pink then red and then, grudgingly after much effort, turned a pale milky brown.

Marianne, of course, was the colour of coffee after ten minutes. And her figure? Bombshell. Personality oozed out of her gorgeous olive skin. Men drooled over her. Even Andrew couldn’t resist after an initial show of disinterest. She could have any man she wanted when she wanted.

Tiffany’s dismal image gradually faded, obscured by steam and condensation. She rested her hands on the vanity and hung her head. A tear dropped into the basin. Another one followed and then another. Her legs crumpled at the knees and she clutched the edge of the basin to keep herself from collapsing on to the cold, white tiled floor.

It wasn’t fair. Nothing was fair. She only wanted one man. She wasn’t greedy. One special man. Why didn’t he want her?

Chapter Ten

Returning to Miles’s house the next morning required every ounce of courage Tiffany could cram into her sleep-deprived, wrung-out-like-a-used-dish-rag body. The only way was to be professional, competent and pretend nothing had occurred last night. Which hadn’t, really. All the drama had been in her own head — what she’d said and left unsaid, what she’d meant to do and hadn’t, what she’d been incapable of doing.

Miles probably hadn’t even noticed. He’d thought she was drunk.
Teasing? Not bloody likely.

Wearing her armour of grey skirt, white blouse, sandals and a serious expression, she arrived a few minutes late. He didn’t answer the door. Tiffany walked around the verandah to the rear. The curtains were open. He was up. By peering in she could see the remains of his breakfast still on the table. She tapped on the glass. Nothing.

Was he on the beach? She had walked right by the surf shop. Boris was there alone. He had said hello and dropped an armful of plastic buckets that he was trying for some obscure reason, to stack in the open doorway. Miles always waited at home to let her in before he went to work. Strange. Annoying.

Tiffany shaded her eyes and scanned the bright morning beach, almost empty, except for a few small figures strolling hand in hand by the water’s edge. Breathtakingly beautiful. Sparkling sunlit waves pounded onto the sand with a crash of foam and ran tamely back out to hurl themselves in again. Tireless, effortless, soothing in its repetition.

The Pacific Ocean stretched languidly to the deeper blue water at the horizon. Crystal clear air, blue sky, not a cloud to be seen. The only sounds were the natural ones of surf, whispering leaves in the towering gums close by and the squawk of gulls scrabbling among the rocks below Miles’s fence line.

Tiffany inhaled deeply. She leaned on the railing and gazed out at the water. A small sailboat came from behind the headland on her right and made its way laboriously across the bay. A fisherman appeared on the white sand just below where she stood and began clambering over the rocks. Tiffany watched him navigate the rock pools and boulders until his khaki sunhat and green shirt disappeared behind the headland.

Her holiday had been eaten up with Miles and his inheritance, Miles and his sexiness, Miles and his casual indifference and now Miles and his personal woes. Now she was standing here wasting more precious time because he couldn’t be bothered letting her in. She straightened her spine. Too bad. This lost morning would be on his bill. All her papers and her laptop were in the house. There was nothing she could do and she damn well wasn’t coming back this afternoon instead.

He’d have to wait until Monday for the report because she wasn’t using up her last weekend on him either. He wanted professional; professional he would get.

Marianne surfaced at lunchtime. She tapped on Tiffany’s door and it was obvious by the care she’d taken with her dress and make-up she wasn’t expecting fish and chips on the beach with a girlfriend.

‘Hi,’ she cried cheerfully. ‘I’m going out with Andrew for lunch.’

‘How did you manage that?’ asked Tiffany. She stayed in the open doorway, one hand resting on the frame.

Marianne’s eyes hardened subtly. ‘What’s your problem? You’re not interested in Andrew.’

‘No.’ Tiffany folded her arms. ‘He’s nice, though.’

‘Nice? He’s gorgeous. And he can kiss really well. We should do that course, Tiff. He told me all about it.’

‘You kissed him?’ Why ask? Andrew didn’t stand a chance the moment he agreed to a walk on the beach.

‘Don’t look so po-faced. That’s all we did, just kissed. I’m not the slut you think I am.’ Marianne eyed Tiffany with a distinctly cooler expression. ‘What happened last night with Miles?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What did you want to happen?’

‘Nothing.’

Marianne let that go after a split second’s hesitation. ‘What about the letters?’

‘Miles is very upset about them.’

‘I don’t blame him.’

‘No.’ Tiffany sighed. ‘It’s not our business.’

‘True. But it’s fascinating. And he’s a real catch, Miles — now.’

Tiffany clamped her mouth into a thin straight line.

‘Why now?’ Because he has money? Wasn’t Andrew enough for her?

‘He is,’ cried Marianne. ‘And it’s not just because he’s instantly rich. He’s a very sexy guy plus he’s a gentleman. And if you weren’t such a workaholic you’d see it too. You have to think beyond work Tiffany. There’s more to life than a career, you know.’

‘I know that.’

‘Well why don’t you act like it?’

‘I do. The man is a client, Marianne and I’m not breaking professional confidences.’

Marianne flapped her hands in exasperation. Gold bangles jangled. ‘No-one’s asking you to. I’m just saying you need to lighten up. What’s wrong with a little holiday action when you’re not on duty? If he’d given me the slightest...’

A car crunched over the gravel in the parking lot and Marianne spun around.

Andrew opened his door and got out. Marianne strolled across and planted a generous kiss on his mouth. She ran her hands over his chest. He grinned at Tiffany over her shoulder.

‘How was the dive?’ asked Marianne.

‘Fantastic. Miles took me to a spot he knows where a fishing boat sank,’ he said enthusiastically.

‘Bye-bye, Tiff. Remember, we’re going out with Fleur tonight. Did you ask Miles to come?’

‘No.’ The denial shot out like a silver bullet. Tiffany hastily regrouped and added, ‘I thought a girls’ night out might be more fun. Fleur would probably prefer it.’

‘Oh okay, you’re probably right. Bye.’

Tiffany waved as they headed out to the road. Andrew could well be a trifle sedate and law abiding for Marianne, although he might set boundaries which appealed to her. Who knew? Least of all Tiffany. Relationship Disaster Incorporated. She could start up her own company. Limited, of course, to one.

Miles had taken Andrew diving. That’s where he’d been this morning. She’d forgotten. He could have left her a note. Unless he thought she’d be too hung over to do anything, like walk to his house, or read.

Beach lazing this afternoon with a book?
Miles could stare out the shop door and see her and know she’d done no work for him today because he’d forgotten she was coming. Served him right.

Miles watched Tiffany saunter across the road with her beach bag slung over her shoulder, her straw hat jammed on her head and a white paper bag in one hand.

She didn’t even glance his way. Where had she been this morning? When he’d gone home after the dive she wasn’t there and obviously hadn’t bothered to turn up at all. Now she was ignoring him, having casually taken the morning off. What was she playing at?

The woman had promised a report today or tomorrow at the latest and he was paying good money for her services. Tiffany knew how important it was to him. He wanted to know where he stood financially, he wanted to know just how wealthy his father had been, and just what his mother had denied him all those years. Denied herself as well.

Miles moved a precarious stack of children’s coloured buckets from the doorway to the pavement outside the shop, and balanced the cardboard
Special
sign on top. Turned his back to the beach.

His mother — what sort of twisted woman was Nancy Jane Frobisher? It was as though a disguise had been ripped away and a stranger had emerged from her skin, someone he didn’t know at all and had no way of recognising. Nothing about that callous letter-writing woman reminded him of the mother he’d loved.

The more he thought about it the worse it became, the enormity of the lie, the shocking deceit enacted upon him. Why? What could Grant Davidson possibly have done to generate such punishment? And why didn’t the man just turn up on the doorstep and claim his son? Why did he go along with it? Weakness? Guilt? Fear?

Had he inherited these traits himself?

But Miles had nothing to be guilty about, and he had no fear either — certainly no fear of that woman sunning herself on the sand. He wanted answers from her and he was bloody well going to get them.

He stepped inside the shop and yelled in the general direction of the storeroom, ‘Going out for a while, Boris.’

Her dark glasses turned his way when he was still a few metres from where she sat. Did she stiffen? Maybe he imagined the tightening of her mouth and the studied way she lowered the book to her lap. She waited for him to come to her, no smile of welcome, barely an acknowledgement.

Hands on hips he glared down at her, her body spread before him on a red and blue towel for his personal torture: her slim, pale brown legs inviting the caress of his fingers, delicate waist encased in blue nylon; small, perfectly shaped breasts.

‘Where were you this morning?’ he demanded. ‘You said you’d be there.’

‘I was. You weren’t,’ she snapped. She stared up at him for a moment then scrambled to her feet. The book flew onto the sand and closed itself.

‘When were you there?’ Miles frowned. He’d swear she hadn’t done anything today. Everything was exactly as he’d left it. Surely she hadn’t worked around his dirty toast plate and coffee mug. He’d felt guilty when he returned and saw them blemishing her work space. A petty little gesture.

‘The usual time. Nine o’clock.’ The floppy sunhat threw her face into shade, and he wished she’d take off those glasses. She couldn’t hide anything when he was able to look her in those beautiful blue eyes.

‘No, you were not. I waited as long as I could then I had to go to meet Andrew. You must have been very late.’ He had to screw his eyes up against the dazzling glare while she remained insulated.

‘I was nine minutes late.’ Her cheeks flushed pink. He wanted to place the flat of his palm around the gentle curve of her jaw and kiss her defiant mouth. Her voice rose. ‘And don’t think I’m going back this afternoon to make up the time because I’m not.’

Time? Numbers? Money? Were they always her bottom line? Who cared, for heaven’s sake?
His own voice matched hers, rising in exasperation. ‘Why didn’t you go in? Just because I wasn’t there doesn’t mean you can’t go in. I trust you in my house, surely you know that? I told you before. The first day, when we barely knew each other.’

‘I don’t have a key,’ she yelled, heedless of the amused glances from the sunbathers in the vicinity. In fact, probably most of Birrigai heard that screech. Just as quickly as it had arisen the urge to kiss her faded away.

‘You don’t need a key,’ Miles hissed in an attempt to regain a measure of privacy. ‘I left the sliding door unlocked.’

‘How was I supposed to know?’ Just the people within a twenty-metre radius would have heard that.

‘I thought you’d figure it out and try the door,’ Miles said. ‘I’d hardly leave a note on the front door saying, ‘The back door is unlocked.’

Her lips compressed again so that they were almost white against the furious pink of her face. He could see his contorted reflection in the dark lenses of her glasses.

‘No,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘I didn’t figure that out. People don’t leave their houses wide open where I come from.’