Margaret Way - It Happened in Sydney

“David, darling.”

Pulled tight by little Aunt Lucy—a bare inch or so over five feet—feeling the great affection she had for him break over him in waves. No wonder Marcus had turned into himself after he lost her. Life could be very cruel. Sometimes it appeared as though the best went early. It would take for ever for the Wainwright clan to accept someone like Sonya if the worst came to the worst. A beautiful young woman’s motives for marrying a man old enough to be her father could not be pure. He had felt her affection for Marcus. That was genuine enough. The huge worry was it would take a miracle for that affection to turn to love. At least romantic love. Didn’t every young woman want that? Didn’t every young man? He was moving fast towards thirty. Many attractive young women had come his way but no one who engaged him in every possible way. He really wanted that. He wanted passion. He wanted magic. He wanted a woman to capture his imagination. Sadly no one ever had. He was beginning to wonder if anyone ever would.

That was what he wanted. He wanted the right woman to bring fulfilment to his existence. Not that he didn’t have a good life. A very busy life, a privileged life, but he knew what he was missing. His mother and father had been greatly blessed with a love match. He had grown up in a happy, stable household fully aware of how much his parents loved one another and him. It greatly disturbed him now to realize he was only a nudge away from maybe wanting to be where Sonya Erickson was. No use telling himself it was because he needed to check her out for Marcus’s sake. So where did that leave him?

In an impossible position, pal.

There lay the answer. His love for his uncle was deep. He could never be the one to hurt him. As for Sonya? Wouldn’t it be natural for any young woman to be flattered by the attentions of an older, rich and distinguished man? Even have her head temporarily turned? The worrying thing was Ms Erickson revealed no such excitements. She was entirely in possession of herself when excitement, even joy, fitted much better. He was well advised to mistrust her. His allegiance was to Marcus.

The front door was open. He was about to call a hello when a young woman came into sight carrying a large crystal bowl filled with a profusion of beautiful flowers. He didn’t register the full array of blossoms, gerberas, lush roses, peonies, he was too busy concentrating on the young woman. She wore fitted jeans that showed off her lovely lissom figure and the length of her legs. A simple vest-type top did the same for her breasts. Her shimmering long hair, centre parted, fell down her back in thick sinuous coils.

Rapunzel.

She came to a halt, so clearly startled he might have been wearing a balaclava over his head.

“Don’t drop it,” he warned, swiftly moving towards her. The Ice Princess for some reason had totally lost her cool. “Hold on. I’ll take it. Just don’t drop it,” he repeated the warning.

A visible shiver passed through her.

At least his tone was effective. “Let me have it.”

He seemed to tower over her. “David,” she said, dismayed by the fact her normally composed voice was wavering.

His alternative name had never sounded so good, so intimate to his ears. He took the bowl from her, turning to place it on the rosewood library table that graced the entrance hall. “I startled you. I’m sorry.” They were so close, barely a foot apart. He could see every little ripple along her throat as she swallowed. “Are you okay?’ he asked. She appeared disorientated. This was a completely different Sonya from the one he had previously seen. Impossible as it seemed, she also looked frightened. Perhaps endangered was a better word?

Feeling very exposed, she tried to force herself back to attention. Her reaction had been a big mistake.

David, too, was feeling a degree of perturbation. His hand went to her sloping white shoulder. He meant only to steady her, but his fingers were bent on caressing her white skin, warm to his touch. This was no beautiful statue. This was a living breathing woman. His eyes fell to the long heavy silk lock of her hair as it slid across his hand. He wanted to grasp a handful of it, pull her to him. He wanted to lower his head to capture her beautiful mouth that was surprisingly aquiver. He wanted to pick her up in his arms and carry her off like some caveman. Within seconds temptation after temptation was playing itself out. All common sense was getting away from him. This was mania. Magic, definitely black. She obviously had sirenlike powers. Fascinating men was a form of control. She could deliberately be luring him into her territory.

He stood back from her, the barriers springing back into place. “I’m sorry if I startled you. What are you doing here?” Given how he had felt, his voice sounded unnecessarily harsh. Was it guilt for slipping momentarily from his standards of behaviour?

For a moment she said nothing, giving her own protective shields a chance to get back into place. “Marcus has given me the job of doing the flowers for the house.” She felt enormous relief some of her habitual cool composure had come back into her voice.

“I see. Where is Marcus?” he asked, looking down the spacious hallway with its beautiful parquetry floor towards the library. Marcus’s favourite room.

“He’s not here. But he should be home soon.”

The way she spoke drove home the hurt. Did she think she could take Lucy’s place? “I’ll wait.” The rush of sexual desire was replaced by hard distrust.

“Would you like a drink?” she asked, turning to lead him into the drawing room. “Coffee, something stronger?”

“I’m fine.” He sounded just short of curt. “You’re the one who looks like you could do with a stiff drink.”

“You startled me, that’s all.”

“I might have been an intruder,” he said, with more than a hint of sarcasm.

“Perhaps it was the quality of your own surprise,” she returned. “You don’t like or trust me.” There was straightforward challenge in her voice.

“It’s not a question of liking, Ms Erickson. It’s more to do with your role.”

“Back to Ms Erickson, no Sonya?” She arched her fine brows.

“Sonya is a lovely name.” He shrugged. “Tell me, is it your real name?”

“What an extraordinary question.”

She had come to stand beneath a nineteenth century Russian chandelier, one of a matched pair in the yellow, gold and Wedgwood blue drawing room. In front of the white Carrara marble fireplace he noted she had placed a huge Chinese fish bowl filled with a wealth of sweet-smelling flowers. To add to the impact the beautiful pastel colours mimicked the colours in the magnificent nineteenth century Meissen porcelain clock that took centre place on the mantelpiece beneath a very valuable landscape. Other small arrangements were placed around the large room, rivalling the treasures on display.

“And?”

“Of course it’s my real name,” she said, one hand pushing a thick lock of hair back off her shoulder.

The drawing room was all too feminine for his taste, too opulent, silks and brocades, but Sonya Erickson could have been made for it. Even in tight sexy jeans and designer vest-top she fitted in. It occurred to him with her hair worn long and loose and very little make-up she looked hardly more than a girl of nineteen or twenty.

He released a tense breath. “But what about the Erickson? Would you believe I actually knew a woman who changed her name four times? She’s in jail now for fraud. She managed to extract the life savings from God knows how many fools of men.”

“Please, don’t make me weep!” she exclaimed. “Men are fools. But it’s hardly fraudulent to change one’s name by deed poll.”