Margaret Way - Six Australian Heroes

‘Next school?’ He frowned.

‘I had a rather extended education,’ she said quickly.

‘If I could see your legs, I might be able to—settle the dispute. That is,’ his deep blue eyes were grave but not so grave as to hide the wicked little glint in them, ‘advise you whether it’s sinful to be proud of them or not.’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘if nothing else I think we should take the driver’s sensibilities into account, don’t you?’

They’d left the city and were driving down a dripping, classy, tree-lined street in Woollahra, her companion’s destination. When the driver didn’t respond, it was only because, as they realised moments later, he’d lost control of the taxi as it planed through a sea of water.

They mounted the pavement and hit a tree. They bounced off the tree and crunched through a fence behind it and came to rest precariously at the top of a rocky incline that led down to a park.

The next few minutes were chaotic. The passengers discovered themselves to be uninjured but the driver was knocked out. How long they would balance at the angle at which they were tilted was a moot point.

So they scrambled out into the rain, used a mobile phone to call for help and began to get the driver out before the car rolled down the incline.

It was no easy task. The impact had buckled the driver’s door and, had Rhiannon’s companion not been very strong but also extremely quick-thinking and resourceful, they’d have lost the driver and his taxi down the rocks.

They laid him on the grass, still out cold, on a waterproof sheet they’d found in the boot and Rhiannon ripped off her raincoat and covered him with it.

They were both, by this time, muddy, scratched, dirty and soaked.

The taxi settled then quite slowly slid down the rocks to bury its nose in the park.

‘Thank heavens we got him out!’ she breathed. ‘Are you all right? You’ve cut your hand and you’ve ruined your jacket.’

‘I’m OK. I—Ah!’ They both turned at the sound of sirens and in short order a police car and an ambulance arrived. Before long they’d been reassured that the taxi driver was not seriously injured.

By the time they’d both given their details to the police, Rhiannon to a policewoman who’d taken pity on her and invited her into the police car, Rhiannon was aware she was running very late so she explained her situation to the policewoman and asked her to call another taxi.

It came almost immediately, a miracle on a day like that, probably something to do with being summoned by the police.

She climbed out of the police car and the man she’d shared the first taxi with turned to her, having given his details to the second police officer.

‘Would you like to share it?’ she asked. ‘Unfortunately I’m running terribly late now, so—but.’ She hesitated with real anxiety written large in her eyes.

‘Thank you, no. I’m nearly there so I’ll walk.’

‘Well, let me pay my share of the first ride, not that I have any idea what it is, but—’ She flicked her purse open.

He closed his uncut hand over hers. ‘It’s on me and I won’t take no for an answer.’

She looked down at the lean, tanned hand over hers and felt an unmistakable frisson run through her.

She tore her gaze away and looked up into his eyes.

‘As for your legs,’ he said, and flicked a dark blue look down her short tight skirt to her feet, ‘you’re right, they’re sensational.’

‘I didn’t say that,’ she protested, going pink.

‘No, of course not, you simply drew my attention to them.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m not complaining about that at all.’

She blushed more vividly and he smiled at her, suddenly and unexpectedly, such abreathtakingly, purely wicked masculine smile it put her into a worse fluster.

‘Well, good-goodbye, then,’ she stammered. ‘I do have to dash.’

He waited as she stood rooted to the spot for a moment before shaking herself and scrambling into the second taxi.

When she got home she rushed in but her father was exactly where she’d left him, watching television.

She heaved a sigh of relief, kissed the top of his head and went away to shower and change.

The sight that greeted her in her bedroom mirror caused her to close her eyes in frustration. She’d forgotten about the wretched beret she was wearing pulled down to her ears and for a moment she almost didn’t recognise herself. It certainly was about as unflattering a frame for her face as she could think of.

She ripped it off and her silky fair hair made a much better frame. Still, how mortifying to meet a man to die for looking like that?

Then the irony of it all claimed her. If anyone had reason to be turned off men, she did. So what had happened to her in the taxi?

FOUR years later it was an older and wiser Rhiannon Fairfax who found herself staring wide-eyed at a man in an airport lounge.

Her flight was delayed and she was feeling bored and restless.

He was, she supposed, a striking example of the male species. He was tall and dark and she got a glimpse of aquiline features. His physique was superb, wide-shouldered and sleek-hipped beneath designer jeans, a white shirt and a leather jacket that shouted expense and quality craftsmanship.

He was the man she’d shared a taxi with four years ago, she was sure!

He had someone with him, almost as eye-catching as he was; a woman, tall, slim, dark and expensive-looking. She spoilt it with a slightly submissive air as she received what was obviously a string of instructions from him.

Then his briefing came to an end and he turned more towards Rhiannon and smiled, suddenly and unexpectedly, at the woman he was with. She blushed and looked for an instant as if she’d been transported to heaven, before taking her departure.

If there’d been any doubt in Rhiannon’s mind, that smile banished it

But that was when he lifted his head and surveyed the crowded lounge with the smile gone.

She caught her breath at how well she remembered his dark blue eyes and that aloof air—although today it was more than that. He had the air of a man who took what he wanted when he wanted it and damn the consequences.

All the same, she felt herself smiling at the memory of that rain-soaked taxi trip.

Then she realised he was looking at her, and for a long moment she was flustered into immobility with the smile still etched on her lips.

He took his time as he examined her short though stylish fair hair, her figure beneath her grey, severely tailored trouser suit worn with a black blouse. It was such a long, slow assessment and so intimate, she broke out in goose-pimples.

Then he looked back into her eyes and, with a shrug, turned away.

Rhiannon felt herself blush vividly.

He obviously hadn’t recognised her—perhaps it wasn’t so surprising without that dreadful beret. But did she look like the kind of girl who made tacit passes at men?

She bit her lip suddenly. She’d certainly pursued an unusual line of conversation with a strange man in a taxi.

She was still smarting when the flight was called and she boarded economy class while her perfectly arrogant stranger disappeared into business class.

She tried to comfort herself with the thought that he probably had some short-comings like an unmasculine sort of vanity—it didn’t altogether work but, by the time the flight landed on the Gold Coast, most of her equilibrium had been restored.

She’d spent the last half-hour concentrating on her new position. Put plainly, she was a housekeeper. Put more accurately, she specialised in putting her skills to work for the rich, and sometimes the famous, for short stints while she reorganized their households to maximum efficiency and style; or in some cases for a special event.