A few seconds later her phone chirped, signalling an incoming message. She ignored it in favour of looking morosely down at her new Bernie Dexter dress. She’d spent ages beautifying herself tonight, just to end up being ditched by text message half an hour
after
her date was supposed to meet her. It was enough to leave her feeling a little teary, but she refused to dwell on that right now. She looked up and caught sight of the two men lounging at the table nearby.
The friendly, drop-dead-gorgeous American sailor she’d just brushed off was laughing at something his friend had to say and she felt a sharp stab of longing. Sometimes she wished she was the kind of woman who could have a one-night stand. Over the past couple of years she’d entertained some pretty racy fantasies on the subject but knew she’d never act on them. There was no quality control. She’d never be able to guarantee the man wasn’t a violent lunatic or just another inconsiderate bastard. Given her tendency to attract that particular species of male, she didn’t want to tempt fate.
The sailor’s friend caught her watching them and raised his wine glass in a salute. Unlike his friend, this man resembled a well-dressed thug. His head of black hair was closely shaven to almost the same length as the stubble on his jaw. His pale eyes–maybe blue, maybe green–were watching her from under heavy lids, and his incongruously sensual lips were pulled into a faint, mocking smile.
Amy found herself squirming in her seat, uncomfortable with the attention. She knew it didn’t mean anything and she should be used to it by now, but that didn’t make it any less cringeworthy.
Every time an American naval vessel pulled into the Fremantle port, the entire city of Perth was flooded with horny sailors who tried to chat up any woman–and a significant number of men–who looked even vaguely available. They usually left without much trouble when Amy told them she had a boyfriend. They had definitely never watched her like this guy was.
She picked up her phone again to mask her discomfort, only to find another message from her absent date. Bastard. When did it become okay to ask someone out, cancel late without a call and then try to confirm an appointment for a haircut and shave a few minutes later?
‘There ya go. One bottle of wine as ordered.’ Scott set a bulbous red wine glass in front of her. He looked pointedly at her phone. ‘Am I killing someone?’
‘Nope.’ Amy waved her hand dismissively. ‘Just helping me stick pins in a voodoo doll later tonight after we get a bit more drunk and debauched.’
‘Fair enough.’ Scott searched her features for a few minutes before pouring them both a generous helping of rich oaky red, then set the bottle on the table between them. ‘So d’you want to tell me why you just gave Alex Crane the brush-off?’
‘Hmm?’ Amy was too busy focusing on the wine bottle to take notice of his words. It was an Evangeline’s Rest shiraz. Scott’s family owned the winery. ‘You get this stuff for free m’love. Why are you ordering it at a bar?’
Scott shrugged and looked entirely unrepentant. ‘I missed the taste of home and I haven’t gotten down to the farm to pick up another case yet. So back to Alex Crane.’
‘Alex Crane? Who’s Alex Crane?’
‘The famous guy who was chatting you up when I walked in.’ Scott nonchalantly ran his thumb along the base of his glass.
‘Famous? How?’ Amy’s eyes narrowed on the American sailor at the next table. With looks like his, she was sure she would have recognised him if she’d seen him in one of the trashy magazines at her salon, not that she’d had the time to look at them lately.
‘He’s a popular opera singer. Tenor. He’s only on all the billboards and flyers in the bloody city. You been sniffing the perming solution again, Ames?’
‘Opera singer? I thought he was a sailor.’ The mouthful of wine Amy had just swallowed turned to acid in her empty stomach.
‘A sailor? Look at him, babe. If he’s a sailor, I’m Popeye.’ Scott paused, then his eyes widened. ‘Oh Jesus. What did you say to him?’
‘Only that I had a boyfriend like I always do. He’s a
sailor
,’ Amy insisted, even as she realised the man hadn’t said as much. She’d not given him a chance. The minute she’d heard his American accent she’d run on autopilot. ‘Bugger.’
This time Scott couldn’t contain his booming laughter and she gave him a glare dark enough to singe his socks off before twisting to furtively study the men at the next table. The sailor, maybe opera singer, was looking the other way, but his friend was still openly scrutinising her with a cat-that-ate-the-cream smile as if she were part of a joke. If what Scott had just said was true, she probably was.
She twisted back around. ‘Scott, tell me I didn’t just insult an international celebrity? Please, please, just tell me you’re joking. That would top off a truly crappy day.’
‘Dunno.’ Scott drained his wine glass in one go and filled it up again. ‘Chill. I hear Crane’s a pretty nice guy. And he’s not looking pissed off right now, so I doubt it. Can’t say the same about his friend, though. That’s Ben Martindale. By all accounts, he’s a total prick.’
‘Ben who?’ Amy dared another look at the thug who had now turned back to his friend. Something about his features reminded her of a more rugged Clive Owens.
Scott’s expression turned incredulous. ‘You
really
don’t get out much, do you squirt?’
‘No time.’ Amy’s mind whirred at the implications of committing such a major social faux pas. Her professional reputation, her livelihood, relied on keeping famous people very happy so they, in turn, recommended her businesses and made
her
very happy. Pissing off an international celebrity was not a part of the plan. With Perth being such a fishbowl, it wouldn’t be hard for this Alex Crane guy to find out who she was if he was the vengeful sort.
‘Do you think I should apologise?’
‘Wouldn’t hurt, but don’t stress. I don’t think it’s as big a deal as you’re making it.’ Scott swirled the wine around his glass and regarded it for a few seconds before raising his eyes to hers. ‘You know I missed this. Missed you too.’
‘Yeah. Love you too, sweetie. Give me a sec.’ Amy kept watch on the men at the next table, who were now engaged in conversation. She was going to have to make this right.
She took a deep breath, pushed her chair back abruptly and bridged the short distance as quickly as her four-inch heels allowed, ignoring a twinge of pain as her feet protested at having to work again after sixty hours on the job over the past week.
Neither man noticed her approach until she was standing at their table.
‘Hello again,’ she chirped, forcing a cheerful smile, deliberately keeping her eyes on Alex Crane, while surreptitiously smoothing her sweaty palms over her dress. She immediately found herself the centre of attention.
‘Hi,’ Crane replied with a surprised, weaken-the-knees grin.
The thuggish friend was another matter entirely. He nodded at her in greeting but a sarcastic smile played at the corner of his full lips. Maybe it was just the contrast of short hair, heavy black stubble and icy pale green eyes that set her nerves on edge. To Amy, he looked dangerous, moody–definitely someone she didn’t want to know. Not that she would dwell on that right now. She turned back to Crane, who was looking anything but offended by her earlier mistake. Still, best to be sure.
‘Take a seat.’ He gestured to the spare chair at their table.
Amy winced with feigned regret. ‘I’d love to but I can’t. I came over to apologise.’
‘Yeah? Why?’ Alex Crane’s smile slipped a little as his forehead wrinkled in a frown. Now that she looked at him clearly, Amy kicked herself for her earlier assumption. This man was far too polished to be a sailor. His clothes — a soft-looking moss-green jumper and black jeans — screamed money, and his immaculately groomed curly black hair had no doubt been styled at a top salon. Never mind that his friend Mr Neanderthal was wearing a black suit that had to have been tailored to his lean, hard-looking body. She’d never met a sailor who wore a suit. How had she missed that?
‘I thought you were a sailor. That’s why I told you I had a boyfriend. I don’t. Not that that’s important and you’re not . . . a sailor, I mean. My friend just told me you’re a musician. An opera singer?’ Amy drew a deep breath. ‘So yeah, I’m really sorry. I’d love to make it up to you. If you want to come to my barbershop on Monday I can offer you a free cut-throat shave. My place is called Babyface. It’s not far from here. Most people know about it.’ She darted a glance at the thug friend, who was still watching her while flipping a packet of foreign cigarettes over and over on the table in front of him. It felt like he was laughing at her. The sensation wasn’t pleasant. It was even less pleasant when he spoke.
‘What time Monday?’ His voice was sharp, his diction precise. Educated English. Expensive English. While waiting for her answer, he ran his eyes over her new dress as if tallying up every little fault so he could laugh about them later. It was an extremely rude gesture and Amy’s hackles began to rise.
‘Pardon?’ she asked, doing her best to keep her expression friendly for Crane’s benefit.
‘What time?’ the man repeated, as if she were slow.
‘Be nice.’ Crane gave Amy another warm smile. ‘Ignore him, he’s not house trained.’
‘I’m always nice.’ The thug’s eyes narrowed and his mouth quirked, almost imperceptibly, at the side. Now Amy knew for sure he was playing with her. She’d watched her sister’s cat wearing that same expression when lying on his back asking for a tummy rub. It was always a trap.
‘It’s allright.’ Amy turned back to Crane. ‘I open at nine.’
‘I didn’t catch your name,’ he prompted.
‘Amy.’
‘Amy. You know,
damn
, thank you so much for your offer, but I’m flying out to Sydney on Monday. My name is Alex.’ He held out a hand and Amy automatically shook it. His palm was large and warm, his fingers long and narrow, enveloping her hand reassuringly, momentarily putting her at ease.
‘I know. My friend just told me.’ She darted a look back at Scott before gently disengaging her hand. She could be imagining it, but Alex seemed disappointed at the loss of contact.
‘Well, great. I’ll be back in town in a few months’ time. I’d love to see you.’ He flashed her another thousand-watt smile.
Amy felt a surge of happiness as her usual unfailing optimism returned. This incredibly handsome man wanted to take her out? Maybe dolling herself up tonight hadn’t been such a tragic waste of time after all. ‘That’d be great. Just wait. I’ll give you my card.’ She returned to her table as quickly as dignity allowed, ignoring Scott’s enquiring expression, and retrieved a business card from her bag.
‘Here you go.’ She handed it to Alex moments later, her voice a little breathless.
‘Great.’ He took it, immediately tucking it into his wallet.
‘Oh well. Great, then. I, ah . . . I have to go.’ Amy gestured to her table where Scott was monitoring the proceedings with a faintly protective air. Relieved to have avoided a disaster and elated by Alex Crane’s obvious interest, she spun around and began to walk off.
‘Ben.’ The thug’s cut-glass voice stopped her dead in her tracks.
She turned. ‘Pardon?’
‘It’s what you should write in your appointment book for nine on Monday.’ With that, he nodded curtly before turning to Alex, dismissing her. Amy was tempted to walk back to their table and pour Ben’s glass of wine over his head.
‘Want to tell me what went on there?’ Scott asked, having heard that last exchange and noticed Amy’s quicksilver change of mood.
‘I’ll tell you after I’ve finished this glass.’ Amy threw back a mouthful of wine. Scott was right. It did taste like home, dark and full of swirling, faintly acidic memories.
‘So.’ She swallowed with a grimace, then curved her reluctant lips into a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ‘I missed you too. Tell me about London.’
Chapter 2
‘Harvey, why are you doing this to me now?’ Amy considered the drips of water splattering her bare knees with a morose expression. Harvey had another leak.
Damn.
She peered up at the corrugated tin roof of her antiquated stone outhouse with a long-suffering sigh. Outside, rain was still pelting down, nearly drowning out the sound of thunder overhead. Much of the water hitting the roof was managing to find its way through an assortment of rusty nail holes to land in her lap.
She groaned and stood up, balancing on her beloved hot-pink mule slippers–complete with damp pompons–and brushed the water off her knees before flushing the toilet. Pulling her short black lacy matinee wrap tightly around her in a completely ineffective gesture to ward off the rain and cold, she tottered out the door, across her uneven, treacherously slippery, mossy courtyard and into her warmly lit kitchen.
The sweet smell of coffee brewing and chocolate cake baking greeted her senses, as did the sight of a shirtless Scott in the jeans he’d been wearing the night before. He was casually leaning against her kitchen bench slathering a slice of toast with honey, completely impervious to the faint chill in the house and shaking his head at her soggy appearance.
Amy held up a hand and narrowed her eyes. ‘Don’t start.’
‘Didn’t say anything,’ he said around a mouthful of toast, shrugging his wide shoulders.
She washed her hands, then retrieved a butter plate from a bright red kitchen cupboard, handing it to him.
‘You didn’t have to. Put a plate under that or you’re gonna be my maid for the day, and put on a T-shirt while you’re at it. You’re giving me a lady moment with all this nudity.’ She nudged his flat stomach with a playful fist, then poured coffee into a pink and white spotted mug, ignoring Scott as he began to choke on inhaled crumbs.
‘And if you’re going to die, make sure you call emergency first.’ She settled herself on one of the two mismatched ladder-back chairs at her small square kitchen table and took her first sip of heavenly caffeine for the morning.
‘You’re all heart, Ames,’ Scott wheezed. He poured himself his own mug of coffee, then disappeared off to the tiny spare bedroom that abutted the kitchen.