Margaret Way - Six Australian Heroes

‘Which is?’ Rhiannon raised a cool eyebrow at him.

‘A lot of responsibility and a heavy workload.’

‘Could he not handle that from a milieu she’s more at home in, though?’ Rhiannon queried.

‘Yes, possibly he could, but after he’s taken six months off to take her around the world on an extended, expensive honeymoon by anyone’s standards, wouldn’t you consider that some time spent living where he wants to live and showing some interest in the Richardson side of things would be appropriate?’

Rhiannon rubbed the bridge of her nose.

‘She is also pregnant,’ he murmured.

Rhiannon heaved a sigh. ‘Maybe you’re right—in theory. But theories don’t always work with living, breathing people and I’m just relieved—’ she smiled ruefully ‘—it’s not my problem.’ She gestured a little helplessly.

‘You wouldn’t have that problem yourself?’

She frowned. ‘What problem?’

‘You wouldn’t find living at Southall a penance?’

‘A penance?’ She looked at him as if he were mad. ‘The opposite, if anything.’ She stood up. ‘Be that as it may, about the party.’

He sat up. ‘Yes. About the party. I’m sure your thoughts on the subject are invaluable, Rhiannon.’

She grimaced, then reminded herself she had a job to do, and do it to the best of her ability she would.

‘Well, I’ve got the food under control. Most of it can be prepared this afternoon, so it only needs heating up tomorrow. But rather than using the dining room I suggest we use the east veranda. It’s big enough to dance on and house the DJ.’

‘True. We also have some standard gas heaters to warm it up if necessary.’

‘Oh, good! And Sharon has told me she’s got two extra pairs of hands for tomorrow to help in the kitchen. But what may be a problem with so many people is the lack of waiters. I haven’t worked out how to handle that.’

‘Uh—Cliff used to double as a waiter sometimes for my mother. He also used to set things up, tables and so on, for outside parties. I’m sure he’d be happy to do the same for you. And he has a friend he used to rope in—I’ll organise that. As a matter of fact, I agree to it all on one condition.’

‘What’s that?’ She looked at him abstractedly, her mind on the million things she had to do.

‘That you come to the party as a guest rather than lurking behind the scenes.’

This time she not only looked it but also said it as her gaze snapped back into focus. ‘You must be mad!’

He shook his head.

‘I won’t have a moment to spare!’

‘You will have staff,’ he pointed out. ‘You’ve just told me about Sharon’s arrangements and that most of the cooking will be done earlier.’

‘Mr Richardson—Lee, I don’t want to do this!’

He shrugged. ‘Then we’ll call it off.’

‘The party?’

‘What else?’ he enquired drily.

She stared at him, totally nonplussed and with the distinct impression she’d run into a brick wall. It also caused her to wonder how secure the rest of this assignment would be if she tried to dig in her heels but she made one last despairing effort.

‘I don’t have anything to wear!’

‘Thus work the minds of women,’ he murmured and Rhiannon could have killed herself for making such a feeble objection. ‘I’m sure Mary could help out,’ he added.

‘No, don’t do that! I … this … wfty?’ she asked intently.

‘I feel your influence will be better exerted from the front line rather than behind the scenes.’

‘You make me feel like a sergeant major!’ she said resentfully.

‘Ah, but much better looking,’ he said. ‘No, don’t take it the wrong way. It is part of your job description, after all.’ He paused and summed her up from head to toe.

She’d discarded her blue waistcoat and she looked young and slim but capable and brimming with vitality. You just knew, he reflected, that you were in good hands even if she stayed behind the scenes tomorrow night. So why was he doing this?

‘Scared, Rhiannon?’ he asked as the answer to his question articulated itself, or started to.

‘Scared? What do you mean?’ She looked baffled.

‘That you might not be able to maintain your absolute indifference to me in a partying mode?’

The colour started at the base of her throat. She clenched her fists but it mounted all the same to stain her cheeks pink. She pushed her hair behind her ear almost savagely but her cheeks still burned and she appeared to be lost for words.

‘I just wondered, you see,’ he continued softly, ‘if we didn’t strike sparks off each other when we first met this morning. Well, amend that.’ The ghost of a smile touched his eyes. ‘I know you struck a certain chord with me.’

Rhiannon felt herself go from hot to cold then back again. She swallowed. She knew that never in a million years would she admit to the undoubted frisson he’d produced in her this morning.

But denying it could be another matter. Would he believe her? Had she given herself away in those few moments of confusion? She’d certainly got the feeling at the time that she had. How had it happened to her anyway? It was four years ago since she’d first been affected by this man.

‘Ms Fairfax?’ He interrupted her chaotic thoughts gravely.

She took hold and swept him with a look of scorn out of her sparkling brown eyes that was meant to tell him she had no intention of playing word games—or cat-and-mouse games, come to that—with him. She would simply ignore the issue.

‘Well, it’s up to you,’ she said coolly and shrugged as if it was all a storm in a teacup anyway. ‘You’re the boss. Now I really do need to get to work.’

She swung on her heel and marched towards the door.

‘Isn’t that a little less than honest and upfront, Rhiannon?’ he queried.

She stopped and, after a moment, turned back.

‘Mr Richardson, I don’t care what men think of me, with good reason, believe me. So if you want to change your mind, you’re welcome to; it really doesn’t matter one way or the other to me.’

Their gazes clashed and held, his was entirely inscrutable, hers was defiant.

‘No, I won’t change my mind.’ That inscrutable gaze skimmed her figure and he added, ‘I don’t mind jeans on women in general but on you it’s criminal to hide such a marvellous pair of legs.’

She took a sharp breath. ‘You’re wasting your time, you know,’ she warned through her teeth.

‘I’ll reserve judgement on that. Please don’t let me detain you, Rhiannon.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Especially since—if looks could kill I’d be six feet under now.’

‘I wish you were!’ she retorted then bit her lip and stalked out of the room.

Lee Richardson watched her go with a quizzical expression. Then he sobered and once again asked himself what on earth he thought he was doing.

‘“FOOD, glorious food!”’ Sharon sang from the musical Oliver in a clear, high soprano.

She was an enthusiastic member of the local operatic society, Rhiannon had learnt in the hours they’d worked together.

She also put her height and lean, rangy build to good use on the basketball court.

And she was nice. Sharon confessed to Rhiannon that she desperately needed the kind of input Margaret Richardson had given her now Southall was to be lived in again.

‘She always knew what to serve, she always did the flowers herself and decorated the tables, and the cleaning staff really cleaned while she was around. I don’t seem to have the same effect on them and neither does Mary,’ she’d confided ruefully to Rhiannon.