There was only one answer to that. ‘Talk to whoever you like. Just don’t talk to me.’
Slam.
‘Cara?’
‘Jackson, love, I wasn’t expecting another call so soon…’
‘Cara, I need to tell you about this property. It’s fantastic. If we can get it then I think it’s just what we’ve been looking for.’
‘That’s marvellous.’ She hesitated. ‘Is anything wrong?’
‘What should be wrong?’
‘I don’t know. You sound sort of absent.’
‘I am in Australia.’
‘That must be it.’
‘Are you willing to come and see it-before I sign on the dotted line?’
Another hesitation. ‘Darling, I am busy. And Australia’s so far.’
He let his irritation show through at that. ‘Well, I’m busy, too. But this is for long term, Cara. If you can’t put in a bit of effort…’
‘Okay. Okay. I’ll make time. If it’s important.’
‘It is.’
‘Roger? It’s Michael.’
‘Mmm?’
‘It’s not going to work. She won’t have a bar of me.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
MICHAEL’S odd phone call from out of the blue had done little to settle her mood.
It was strange, Molly thought. Until Friday she’d thought of Michael a dozen times a day. She’d been desperate for him to explain the unexplainable. Now it was as if he had simply ceased to exist. And it wasn’t Michael who was doing the unsettling.
Jackson had seen them into a taxi at the airport. ‘Until tomorrow,’ he’d told her, and he’d placed a finger on her lips as a farewell gesture. ‘Sleep well.’
The pressure of his touch had stayed with her as she’d slammed the phone down on Michael. It had been with her as she’d put Sam to bed. It was with her still, and when her doorbell pealed she drifted towards it as if she was almost floating. This night seemed so magical anything could happen.
But it wasn’t Jackson. Of course it wasn’t Jackson. Angela was on her doorstep, as she’d promised she would be-an Angela with crimson spots burning on her cheeks, her eyes bright with laughter and mock indignation.
‘Will you look at this?’ she demanded the minute Molly opened the door. She stalked inside and held up a newspaper. ‘Oh, and I had such wonderful plans.’
‘I… What?’ Molly stood back to let her friend stalk past. Angela, it seemed, was in the mood for stalking.
‘The man’s not what he seems. He got all my hopes up. Here I was, planning weddings and honeymoons and limousines and mansions-and look! The man’s spoken for.’
Molly thought that through, but she was confused. ‘Um… Guy’s spoken for?’ It seemed crazy.
‘As if.’ Angela glowered, and then managed a rueful smile. ‘Not that it wouldn’t be a very good thing if Guy found Another. That man! You know what he wore to his Roaring Twenties party? A dinner suit! A dinner suit, I ask you. When I went to so much trouble and the man wouldn’t even wear white shoes. And now this.’
‘Now what?’ Angela was waving her newspaper like a flag and Molly couldn’t see a thing. ‘If you’re not planning yours, whose wedding were you planning?’
‘Yours, of course. With Jackson Baird.’ Angela moaned. ‘And now he has some woman called Cara…’
Silence.
She shouldn’t mind, Molly thought abstractedly, and in a way she didn’t. She felt disassociated. Adrift. As if she was someone else. As if this conversation had nothing to do with her.
‘Can I see?’ she said at last, and Angela cast her an odd glance. Angela’s face was still flushed with mock indignation, but it was fading and she was starting to watch Molly carefully. Her friend’s reaction wasn’t what she’d expected. This was meant to be a joke-but there was no laughter here.
This was suddenly serious.
‘Page three.’
And Molly read.
Rumour has it that Jackson Baird is spending the weekend assessing one of New South Wales’ foremost pastoral properties, with the intention of purchasing it as his base in Australia. Baird, known until now for inhabiting expensive penthouses, is in the market for a rural property to share with Cara Lyons, international model and renowned horsewoman. More news as it comes to hand. Watch this space.
‘The fink,’ Angela said, but her fire had died. She was watching Molly very cautiously indeed.
‘There’s no reason why he’s a fink. The man has a perfect right to share his property with whoever he likes.’
‘But not to tell us!’
‘It’s hardly in the sales contract. It’s none of our business.’
‘No. But…’ Angela’s eyes narrowed. ‘You look…different. Did you get close to the man?’
‘Uh…yes.’
Angela’s bubble of laughter had disappeared completely. ‘Did he kiss you?’
Molly fumbled with the buttons of her bathrobe. ‘He might have.’ Then at Angela’s indignant gasp she managed a smile. ‘Well, why not? I’d imagine he’s kissed thousands of women.’
‘And a little thing like another woman shouldn’t stand in his way?’
‘I guess not.’ But it hurt. It hurt far more than she thought possible.
‘You’re nuts.’
‘I’m a businesswoman,’ Molly managed. ‘For heaven’s sake, I don’t know what you’re carrying on about. Anything between us is out of the question.’
‘Yet still he kissed you.’ Angela took a deep breath. ‘Molly, I’d just die to be kissed by a hunk like that.’
‘I’m almost sure you wouldn’t.’
‘And I’m sure I would.’
The firmness of Angela’s tone was startling, and Molly steadied. Okay, she had problems, but there was more to this than met the eye. And concentrating on Angela meant that she could stop concentrating on Jackson. She steered her friend into a lounge chair. ‘Problems with Guy, huh?’
‘Nothing that a little affair with Jackson Baird couldn’t sort out,’ Angela said bitterly-and then, almost longingly, ‘Did you kiss him back?’
‘It’s none of your business.’
‘But wouldn’t it be wonderful…’ She sighed again, and decided to change tack. ‘You made the sale?’
‘I made the sale.’
‘Does Trevor know?’
‘I rang him before we left Birraginbil.’
‘He’ll be over the moon. But…’ Angela was clearly not thinking about Trevor’s commission. ‘Are you seeing him again?’
‘Who, Trevor?’
‘You know very well who I mean.’
‘Tomorrow. For lunch.’
‘Oh, Moll…’
‘With the property owner. And, according to this, maybe even with someone called Cara.’ Molly looked at Cara’s photograph under the newsprint and thought, Wow! And then, How could I ever compete with someone like this?
