To Be the Best (28 page)

She saw him the moment she stepped out of the elevator.

He wore a dark-blue blazer, a pale-blue shirt and tie, and grey slacks. He dominated the lobby with his height and his arresting looks, his inbred self-confidence, and his commanding air of authority.

When he saw her he raised a hand in greeting, and strode towards her.

She instantly tensed up in the way she had when she had met him in the portrait gallery, and she almost missed a step as she walked across the marble floor. Then she took hold of herself, and pushed a bright smile onto her face, and as they
came together in the middle of the lobby, she extended her hand, still smiling.

Philip took it, gave it a small squeeze, instantly released it. Looking down at her, he returned her smile, and said, ‘It’s nice to see you, Madelana, you look lovely, as usual.’ He glanced approvingly at her full, black wool skirt and the tailored, white silk shirt.

‘Thank you. You did say to dress simply.’

‘Yes,’ he murmured, escorting her across the lobby, then explained, ‘I’ve booked a table at Doyle’s…it’s a fish restaurant on the beach. Very casual, lots of fun, and they have the best fish and chips in Sydney, not to mention the most wonderful view of the city skyline from there.’

‘It sounds terrific.’

They went out into the street. His wine-coloured Rolls-Royce was parked immediately in front of the hotel, and after helping her inside, Philip strode around to the driver’s side, got in, turned on the ignition, and pulled away from the kerb.

‘Doyle’s is out at Watson’s Bay,’ he informed her. ‘It’ll take us about half an hour. So sit back, relax, and enjoy the music.’ As he spoke he turned on the tape in the dashboard and the voice of Mel Tormé singing
Moonlight in Vermont
filled the interior of the car.

Madelana tried to do as he suggested, not even attempting to make conversation. She could think of nothing to say to him. Unexpected panic choked her, made her throat dry. She did not know how she would manage to get through the evening. Sitting here next to him, in such close proximity, she was filled with some awful kind of terror, and she fervently wished she had not accepted his invitation.

‘Relax,’ he said, as if reading her mind.

She looked at him through the corner of her eye, and laughed nervously.

‘I am relaxed.’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

She was silent. She bit her inner lip.

Now it was his turn to laugh, and he sounded as nervous as she had.

Eventually, he murmured in a low voice, ‘We both work too hard, I suspect, and I suppose you’ve had as rough a day as I have. It takes a while to unwind…and I haven’t been very thoughtful. I should have taken you for a drink at the bar in the hotel first.’

‘No, I’m fine,’ she told him, and realized that this was partially true. The feeling of panic was easing somewhat. Anyway, she was being silly, wasn’t she? He had no way of knowing how attracted she was to him. Thank God. She had cultivated a bland face for the past few days, worn an inscrutable expression especially for him. Anyway, he was obviously only being polite, taking care of her for Paula. Undoubtedly, it was her boss who had asked him to take her out. Paula was always so thoughtful, so solicitous of her welfare.

The exterior architecture of Doyle’s had lovely Victorian mannerisms. Made of red brick and beige stone, the building was two storeys high, and its upstairs balconies were decorated with fancy, pierced-wood valances painted white, which were repeated around the edge of the front portico. The rooms inside were bright and cheerful, simply furnished, and without pretension; there was a pub-like atmosphere.

It was busy when they arrived, but Philip was quickly shown to a table in a quiet, windowed corner overlooking the beach and the dark sea curling away to the edge of a dim horizon. He insisted Madelana take the chair facing towards the city, and, just as he had said earlier, the view of Sydney from Watson’s Bay was breathtaking, with the McGill Tower dominating the skyline.

He ordered a bottle of Pouilly Fuissé, dry and cold and refreshing, and as they sipped it he asked her about the new manager, and how the grand sale was going at the boutique. She felt on safe ground, talking about business, and as they chatted she began to relax further, and so did he. He answered her questions about their opal mines at Coober Pedy and Lightning Ridge, told her about opal mining in general, and he talked at length about the various divisions of the giant conglomerate he ran. The McGill Corporation fascinated her, and she gave him her entire attention, as always intrigued by big business. Before either of them realized it almost an hour had passed.

‘I think we’d better order,’ Philip said, when the waitress appeared at their table for the third time.

‘I’ll have the same as you, please,’ Madelana murmured, after a quick glance at the menu.

He grinned. ‘Fried fish and chips…how does that sound?’

‘Just great. Thanks.’

Once he had ordered dinner, he asked her exactly what she did for Paula at Harte’s in New York, and she told him a little about her work, how she had been planning and organizing the special events for the sixtieth anniversary of the stores.

When she finished, he laughed, shook his head. ‘And I thought Paula was a workaholic! My God, you’re as bad as she is!’

‘I guess I am,’ Madelana agreed, also laughing, enjoying being alone with him; her apprehension of earlier had entirely dissipated.

‘And tell me, how do you manage to have a private life, working the way you do? Doesn’t your boyfriend object?’

‘I don’t have one.’

‘Oh.’ A black brow lifted. ‘A girl like you…so beautiful…so bright…’ He did not finish, merely stared at her intently, puzzlement flickering.

Ignoring his compliments, she said softly, ‘I just broke up with someone.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You don’t have to be. It was for the best…I’d made an error in judgement.’

Now the black brows drew together in a frown. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mistook personality for character.’

‘Ah, I
see,’
he said, liking the shrewdness of this observation. He was suddenly eaten up with curiosity about the man she had so recently been involved with, and he couldn’t help probing. ‘What does he do? You know, for a living?’

‘He’s an actor. A rather brilliant one, too. On the Broadway stage.’

‘Famous? Would I know him?’

‘Possibly…probably. Jack Miller.’

‘Oh sure, I saw him in something a couple of years ago when I was in New York. A Eugene O’Neill play, I think.’

Madelana nodded.

‘What went wrong between the two of you?’

Madelana bit her inner lip, glanced away.

But after a brief moment, she brought her eyes back to his, smiled faintly. ‘Mah daddy used to say there’s nothing worse than the ole moonshine for killin’ a romance and curin’ a woman of fanciful ideas she might be havin’ about a dude. Ah doan know that a truer word has ever been spoken.’

Philip smiled, loving the sudden, Southern intonation in her voice. It was soft, beguiling, very feminine. ‘Now you really sound as though you come from Kentucky,’ he said. ‘And I must admit, I agree with your daddy…about a drinking man.’

‘It wasn’t just the booze,’ she now said in her New York voice. ‘Jack was always a bit odd with me…about my work, I mean. He is a male chauvinist, by his own admission, and he resented my career. Anyway – ’

At this moment the waitress arrived with their food, and Madelana changed the subject by asking him about yacht racing. Since this was Philip’s favourite sport and his only genuine hobby, he was happy to discuss it with her. And when he finally paused, she told him how much she loved the sea, and how she had first gone sailing with the Smiths at Nantucket.

‘I met Patsy Smith the first day I arrived at the residence, and we became friends instantly. And we’re still close, even though she’s gone back to Boston.’

‘What’s the residence?’ Philip asked, between mouthfuls of fish.

‘It’s a place in Manhattan where Catholic girls and young women can live comfortably for very little money. It’s run by the Sisters of Divine Providence, a teaching order of nuns from Kentucky.’ She proceeded to tell him about Sister Bronagh, the other nuns, what life had been like at the residence, and her early days in New York.

Philip listened carefully, nodding from time to time, occasionally laughing at her anecdotes. But he did not interrupt her once. She was opening up to him tonight, revealing a great deal about herself for the first time, and he wanted to encourage this. He needed to know everything there was to know about this woman. She was under his skin.

It was later, over coffee, that Philip suddenly said, ‘I thought you might like to come up to Dunoon this weekend, Madelana. It’ll do you good after all your running around with Paula, all your hard work. And it
is
your last chance, since you’re leaving at the end of next week. Aren’t you?’

‘Yes, I am.’ She lifted her cup, took a sip of the coffee.

He waited a moment, then pressed her. ‘Say you’ll come, Madelana. I want you to…so very much.’

An odd nuance in his voice made her glance at him more
closely, and she saw there was a curious expression in his eyes, one she could not quite fathom. And then intuitively she knew he was interested in her, and she felt a sudden tightening in her chest. She found it impossible to speak. Her throat went tight and dry again. She instantly understood that to go to Dunoon with him would be playing with fire. Therefore she must refuse his invitation. To protect herself. That was the only wise thing to do.

She said, ‘Yes, I’d love to come. Thank you very much, Philip.’ As these words left her mouth, she sat back in the chair, surprised at herself, and at her perversity. You fool, she thought. You’re just asking for trouble.

Philip was beaming at her and saying, ‘We can fly up tomorrow afternoon.’

‘No, no, I can’t go then,’ she exclaimed quickly, staring at him. ‘I’ve got to be at the boutique. I couldn’t possibly come until Saturday.’

‘Friday,’ he insisted, holding her with his eyes. ‘You can come up Friday morning. Everything will be all right at the boutique. Don’t worry so much.’

She swallowed hard, wondering why she had ever accepted. ‘I must go into the boutique for a couple of hours at least,’ she compromised.

‘Okay, if you say so,’ Philip agreed. ‘But Ken will collect you there at eleven, drive you out to the airport. My plane will be waiting, and if you leave Sydney at noon, you’ll get to the station in time for lunch.’ Philip smiled deeply into her eyes, reached out, took her hand, held it in both of his.

Madelana nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Philip took off his soaking wet sweater and shirt, and threw them to one side. Hooking his right foot into the boot jack, he pushed off one riding boot, and then the other, stripped down to his underpants, and hurried through into the bathroom, feeling chilled to the bone.

He took a very hot shower, letting the steaming water sluice down over his body for a few minutes, until his blood was tingling and he felt warmer. Stepping out of the shower stall, he dried himself, pulled on his towelling robe and walked over to the washbasin. He stood in front of the mirror, combing his wet hair, slapping on cologne, and thinking of Madelana.

What a pity the thunderstorm had blown up when it had, so suddenly, about an hour ago. It had curtailed their ride. They had been up in the hills above Dunoon, and he had begun to sense a lessening of the tension in her out there in the peaceful countryside. Certainly she appeared to be more at ease with him today. When she had arrived yesterday at lunchtime, she had been very quiet, and so taut he thought at one moment that she might snap in half, and she had remained tense for the rest of the day. She had seemed a bit better in the evening though, had evidently enjoyed their dinner with Tim and Anne Willen.

By the time they had gone riding this afternoon she had been lighthearted, almost gay, and she was opening up to him once more; he knew he was gaining her confidence. So much so, he had been on the verge of telling her how strongly he felt about her when the weather had changed abruptly. The sky had grown overcast and dark. Heavy torrential rain had started to fall, and they had mounted their horses and
galloped back to the stables at top speed. Even so, it had taken them a good twenty minutes to get there. Matt had been waiting for them with one of the other grooms, and they had led Gilda and Black Opal off to the tack room; he had driven Madelana up to the manor in the Maserati, the two of them drenched to the skin and shivering. She had become very white, her teeth chattering uncontrollably as they had dashed into the house, and now, as he went through into his bedroom, Philip hoped that she had not caught a cold.

He stood warming himself in front of the fire for a few minutes, before crossing to the black lacquer Chinese cabinet, which contained a small, fully stocked bar. He poured two cognacs into small brandy balloons, gulped one down, then went to dress, pulling on a thick Fair Isle sweater and socks, and heavy grey flannels. He slipped his feet into a pair of brown loafers, collected the other brandy balloon, and left the room with it.

A second later he stood in front of Madelana’s door. He was about to knock, but hesitated fractionally, wondering if he had given her enough time to shed her wet riding clothes, shower and change. Deciding that he had, he rapped softly.

‘Come in,’ she called.

He did so, stood hovering on the threshold.

She was huddled in front of the fire, seated on the floor with her back to the sofa, dressed in a track suit and thick socks, sipping the tea he had asked Mrs Carr to have sent up to her a short while before.

‘I thought you might want this,’ he said, holding out the brandy balloon. ‘It’ll warm you through.’

‘Thank you.’ She put the cup she was holding back in its saucer on the end table. ‘Yes, I’d like it, Philip.’ There was a pause. ‘Thank you,’ she said again.

He pushed the door closed with his foot, walked over to her, handed her the glass. She took it from him, and as she did their fingers grazed. She jumped slightly, as if surprised,
drew back, pushed herself harder against the sofa. Then she lifted her eyes to his.