Stars (The Butterfly Trilogy) (4 page)

     She stared at him, her hand still holding the microphone, the tape still running.

     He continued to come brazenly onto the terrace. Behind him, sunlight danced like stars on the spiky water of the Swan River, where boats of all types tacked through the broad channel, their white sails full and majestic. Through her open window, Philippa could hear the laughter and shouts of vacationers on nearby beaches, the drone of outboard motors, the cries of sea gulls. In a flash of red, black, and white, Santa Claus suddenly flew by on
water skis, his white beard blowing back in the wind as he waved to those on shore, reminding everyone that it was December, the peak of summer, and Christmas was just two weeks away.

     Philippa watched the young man walk to the end of her Italianate swimming pool and come to a stop amid the tall Doric columns that encircled the shimmering green water. His stance was casual and careless as he stood in the sun shine, long blond hair whipping about his bare shoulders, an air of expectancy about him. Philippa was mesmerized, the microphone forgotten in her hand.

     And then, with a complete lack of concern, the young man reached down and unzipped his jeans. Down they came, revealing more blond hair, more golden skin without a patch of whiteness anywhere, as if he were a young god who had just been born out of the sunlight. He looked like a typical Australian surfie, of whom Philippa had seen so many on the beaches at Sydney and Melbourne. Here, in Perth, on the coast of Western Australia, his likes would be found on pearling boats or windsurfers—one of those reckless, arrogant young Aussies who scoffed at mortality and believed in their own eternal youth.

     Philippa noted how unself-conscious he was, not caring that someone might be watching, as he raised his arms over his head and stretched languidly. When Philippa saw his erection, she drew in a sharp breath.

     Switching off the tape recorder, she got up from her desk, walked through the house to the living room that stood open to the terrace, and listened for sounds in the kitchen. Had the cook seen the young man?

     While Philippa remained there, watching him, he paused to look around and then dived into the lime green water, cutting it with barely a splash.

     A speedboat suddenly shot by on the river, leaving a foaming wake of spume and spray, the boatload of partiers shouting, "Hello there!" and "G'day!" before they disappeared from view.

     Philippa's villa was on the northern bank of the Swan River, on a street called Jutland Parade in the posh suburb of Dalkeith in Perth, Western Australia, considered to be the country's most expensive district. It had been nicknamed Millionaires' Row, for good reason, and tour buses drove by regularly. Locals called it the Great Wall tour, because all sightseers saw
were high walls surrounding hidden estates. The millionaires behind their high walls communicated with the outside world through intercoms at their locked electronic gates, and whenever they ventured forth from their protected estates, they went in cars with smoked-glass windows. Or the other way, over the water in sloops, ketches, and motor yachts.

     At low tide one could walk all the way to Point Resolution, where tall eucalypts gave way to bamboo thickets, wild fig trees, and castor oil plants. From there, one had a breathtaking view of the various Fremantle marinas where the sailboats of the rich bobbed in the wind. Beyond lay the blue water of the Indian Ocean, with its choppy waters and the murderous wind that sailors called the Fremantle Doctor.

     Listening again for sounds of her servants, but hearing nothing in the quiet, subdued house, she ventured out into the blinding sunlight of the terrace.

     Because of the heat, Philippa had been working in shorts, a blouse tied in a knot over her midriff, and no bra. She had been working in her study, where she was writing her new book,
The 99-Point Starlite Weight Loss and Beauty Plan.
It was a follow-up to her previous book,
The Starlite One-Hour Diet
, which had topped the best-seller lists for over a year. The 99-Point Plan wasn't in fact new; it was a summation of the entire Starlite program, the summation, in fact, of Philippa's life work. "Praise your successes," which she had just dictated into her recorder, was point forty-three in the plan.

     She walked to the edge of the pool and watched in fascination as the youthful, golden body swam back and forth beneath the water's lime green surface. When he came up for air, flipping his blond hair out of his face, he didn't seem to notice Philippa, but plunged back under and swam toward the other end of the pool.

     As Philippa watched him do a few more laps, she realized how aroused she was. She glanced back toward the house to see if anyone was watching. Wrapped in the baking summer heat, feeling strangely detached and other worldly, she stepped down onto the first step, barely aware of the water that was cold and warm at the same time as it lapped over her ankles.

     The hot sun beat down on her as she descended another step, impelled not so much by conscious effort as by something deeper, more instinctive.
The white walls surrounding the terrace seemed to pulsate with sunlight, the palms and ferns sitting in giant pots were almost too green, their waxy fronds shimmering like emeralds. Philippa's villa was of Aegean design, having been built by an Australian beer mogul who had once visited Greece and fallen in love with the stark white masonry of the Greek islands. The house was Philippa's temporary hideaway from the world; she had inherited it a year ago and had come here to nurse her secret pain. A pain that was with her always, even now as she felt the sparkling water swirl around her thighs and soak the edge of her shorts.

     Philippa Roberts headed a financial empire that earned millions each year in profits; she owned a yacht and a private jet and a priceless collection of rare Western Australian Aboriginal artifacts. She could buy anything she desired, travel to any place in the world she wanted. But when the probate court had finally granted her title to the villa, she had taken one look at it and thought, I will write my book here. She had rarely set foot outside the villa in ten months, except to walk down to Point Resolution at the same hour every day, to keep her private vigil.

     She left the bottom step and stood in water up to her waist in the shallow end. The young swimmer reached the far end of the pool and burst out of the water in a spray of gold and silver drops. He was about to plunge back in when he saw her; he froze, rivulets streaming down his body, his chest heaving. He stared at Philippa for a moment, then he swam toward her, his head above the water, his eyes on her.

     He swam right to her, and when he stood up, he was so close that Philippa could see water glistening on his blond eyebrows and lashes. Strangely, his breathing seemed easier now. Without saying anything, he put his hands together, scooped up some water, and dribbled it over Philippa's blouse. The sudden wetness shocked her; it also excited her. He continued to pour water onto her until her blouse was soaked and her nipples could be seen through the transparent fabric.

     Then he reached down to the knot over her midriff and slowly untied it. Then, undoing the buttons, he gently slipped the blouse off her shoulders and let it fall onto the water, where it floated away on the pool's subtle tide. Philippa shivered despite the summer heat, and when he put his hands on
her breasts, she felt a shock go through her. It shot through her chest, down through her heart, and touched a point deep inside her, where she carried her pain. The pain responded briefly—a sharp, sweet stab. And then, to her amazement, the pain began to abate, as if his hands on her bare skin were a balm.

     The scene seemed to unfold in slow motion as she stood there unmoving, bewitched, his hands gently caressing her breasts. Then he ducked under the water and began to pull her shorts down. When they were off, he moved her legs apart and swam between them, brushing her inner thighs with his long silken hair. He surfaced behind her, reaching around and cupping her breasts; his tongue went to work on her neck, while she felt his erection pushing against her buttocks.

     Philippa felt as if she were on fire, even in the water. His hand slid down, over her belly, her navel, down under the water to explore. She leaned back against him as his finger slipped inside, and she felt the pain begin to melt away. She turned impulsively, and sought his mouth with hers.

     As they fell back into the water, kissing, their passion becoming more urgent, a chime sounded inside the house, the signal that a car was coming through the electronic gate. But neither of them heard it.

     Out on the red-brick drive, the taxi rolled to a stop just as Nyree, Philippa's half-caste Aboriginal housekeeper, came hurrying down the steps.

     "Miss Charmer!" she said when the passenger got out.

     "Hello, Nyree," Charmie said as she stepped onto the hot red bricks and squinted in the blinding sunlight, which seemed to her crisper and more transparent than the sunlight of California. Nyree was a descendant of a Pilbara tribe; she was tall, with silky brown hair drawn back in a tight knot, deeply set red-brown eyes, and a wide mouth that was quick to smile, despite the air of snobbishness that she seemed to affect. No one knew exactly how old she was, but most people guessed somewhere between fifty and sixty, and she carried herself with a dignity that some considered uppity. She had been with Philippa for nine months and was intensely protective of her employer. The uniform she wore was Nyree's idea; she had insisted upon it.

     "Miss Charmer!" she said again.

     "What's wrong, Nyree? You seem surprised to see me. Didn't Philippa tell you I was coming?"

     The household had indeed been informed of Charmie's sudden visit, with the staff being alerted that, since Miss Charmer always spent Christmas with her family in America, this was an unusual visit and that therefore special considerations might have to be made. They had no idea how long she would be staying or what she and Miss Roberts would be doing while she was here. There might be a small Christmas party, Philippa had told the housekeeper, or an excursion on the river, possibly a shopping expedition to nearby Perth.

     "Yes," Nyree said hesitantly. "But we thought you would be getting in later. You're early."

     Charmie smiled. "We had a strong tail wind."

     "You should have called, I would have sent the car to meet you."

     "Taxis do me just fine." When Charmie started toward the house, Nyree signaled to the houseboy to pick up Charmie's suitcase and said, "Is there anything I can get for you, Miss Charmer?"

     "There sure is! A gin and tonic, please, Nyree. Tall, and easy on the tonic. Where's Philippa, in her study?"

     Nyree stepped quickly in front of her. "I'll tell Miss Roberts you're here."

     "Don't bother, I'll surprise her," Charmie said, perplexed by the woman's uncharacteristic skittishness. She went up the steps, delivering herself into the cool interior of the Aegean-style house. As she passed through the foyer, where a Lucite wall displayed Aboriginal bark paintings, she wondered why Nyree had seemed so flustered. Charmie knew she had been expected; she had spoken to Philippa on the phone before she had left L.A.

     She was the chairman of the executive committee of Starlite Industries, of which Philippa was founder and CEO, and she was here on business. Since Philippa had decided to exile herself temporarily in this southern corner of the globe, Charmie had taken over the day-to-day operation of the corporation at the Los Angeles headquarters, reporting to Philippa by phone. She had come to Western Australia three times in the past ten months, partly for pleasure, to visit her best friend, but this trip was not for pleasure. Charmie had not said anything about it over the phone to Philippa, but she was bringing disturbing news.

     Charmie heard the splashing in the pool before she reached the terrace. She thought she might quickly change into her swimsuit and surprise Philippa by joining her in the pool, when she saw two heads of wet hair in the sunlight, Philippa's auburn curls looking redder than usual, and the other a golden blond—

     Charmie stopped and stared.

     Philippa was on her back with her eyes closed and her arms stretched out as she held on to the side of the pool, while the young man floated on top of her, his body creating waves as he moved back and forth. When he saw something out of the corner of his eye, he looked up and, seeing Charmie standing there, he suddenly stopped and murmured, "Uh oh."

     "Don't stop," Philippa said, but when she saw the look on his face as he drew away from her, she turned around and gave her friend a startled look. "Charmie!" she said. "You're early!"

     "Hi, Philippa," Charmie said with a smile as she strolled out onto the terrace and leaned against one of the Doric columns. Then she looked at the young man, who was standing up in the waist-deep water and smiling at her, unabashed at his nakedness. "Hello, Ricky," she said.

     "Hello, Miss Charmer. Nice to see you again."

     "Well," Philippa said with a sigh, "I suppose that's that!"

     Charmie said, "I can go back inside if you want," but Philippa laughed and said, "No, it's all right. Hand me that robe, will you?" She pointed to the thick terry cloth bathrobe that had been placed beside the pool earlier, in anticipation of her "swim" with Ricky. Turning to the young man, she said, "I won't be needing you for a while. My morning's notes are still in the tape recorder. Transcribe them, please, and then you can take care of the correspondence."

     "Right-o, Miss Roberts!" he said, and in one swift movement the unself-conscious young man hoisted himself out of the pool, treated Charmie to a brief flash of his rear end, and then disappeared through the columns and into the house.

     "Well!" Charmie said as she watched Philippa wrap herself into the robe, envying her friend's slender figure. Only one year older than Philippa, but heavier, Charmie had long since given up the diet battle. The two friends
had come a long way since their days at the Tarzana Obesity Clinic. Philippa had weighed 210 pounds then.