Emma Darcy: Merry Christmas

She’d thought that thought a thousand times before, so why did it hurt like hell right now? Because he was here, she answered herself, and his eyes looked exactly the same as when he’d looked at her in the summertime of their youth, combining the slowly feasting sensuality of dark chocolate with the overlying shine of intense magnets, tugging on her soul.

But what was he seeing? She wasn’t so young anymore, either, and she was suddenly acutely aware of her appearance. Her make-up was probably looking tired after the long day she’d put in at her office, mascara smudged under her eyes, lipstick faded to a pencilled outline. While her smooth olive skin didn’t have blemishes to cover, the matt powder she used to reduce shine would have worn off.

Not exactly putting her best foot forward, she thought ruefully, and was instantly reminded she was standing in her stockinged feet, having kicked off her shoes when she’d come in. Not that it made much difference. She only ever wore little heels. Her legs were so long she always felt her tall, slim figure looked out of proportion in high heels. Nevertheless, the omission of shoes left her feeling even more ungroomed.

And her hair had to be adding to that impression. He’d once described it as strings of honeycomb and treacle—words of smiling whimsy. It was undoubtedly stringy tonight. It hadn’t been brushed since this morning and it was so thick and fine it tended to look unkempt after a few hours, billowing out into a fuzzy cloud instead of a smooth curtain on either side of her long neck.

At least her dress would have retained its class. The silk linen chemise was mostly printed in a geometric pattern, black, white and sand, with stylish bands of each colour running around the lower half of the skirt. It was very much an adult, career-woman dress, she thought wryly, no shades of the teenager in skimpy beach wear. Life had moved on for her, too.

He broke out of his stillness, his shoulders visibly squaring, chin lifting in a dismissive jerk. “Forgive me for staring. It must be the likeness to Kimberly. The eyes. Same unusual shade of green. It feels...uncanny,” he said in an awkward rush.

“I thought she was more like...”

You.

The word teetered on her tongue. She barely bit it back in time. Her heart somersaulted. Did he know? He wasn’t supposed to know. Meredith had no idea what it would mean to his life if he did. She quickly shook her head, dismissing the subject.

“I would have remembered if I’d ever met you,” he blurted out with emphatic certainty, his gaze skating over her, taking in the line and length of her, each finely drawn feature of her face. His brow puckered over the sense of recognition. “It has to be the eyes,” he murmured more to himself than her.

No, it’s all of me, Meredith silently cried, fiercely wishing she could say it.

He shot her a smile that dizzied her with its appealing charm. “I have to confess this situation is like none other I’ve ever been in. I’m not usually so gauche.”

“Please...go on and sit down. Make yourself comfortable,” she invited, forcing herself to move to the kitchen doorway. Easier to cover the strain of this meeting with social conventions. “Can I get you a drink? I’ve opened a bottle of white wine if you’d like a glass, but if you’d prefer tea or coffee...?”

He hesitated, then with an air of playing for time, asked, “Will you have some wine with me?”

“Yes.” Why not? She wanted time with him, too, however futile and hurtful it might be.

He nodded. “Thank you.”

She took the bottle from the refrigerator, glad to have something to do. His presence had her nerves jangling. What did he want here? Why had he come?

He didn’t sit down. He prowled around, glancing over the contents of her bookcases, taking in the twilight view of the ocean beyond Balmoral Beach from the picture windows behind her lounge suite, eyeing the floral arrangements she’d done for herself, matching them against her furnishings. She’d been pleased with their artistic simplicity. Was he impressed? she wondered. What was he gleaning from this detailed observation of her personal environment?

Strange to think she would never have become a florist but for being pregnant so young, having to drop out of school and being shuttled out of sight to her stepmother’s sister in Sydney. Ironic how one thing had led to another, the unpaid apprenticeship in her stepaunt’s shop giving her the interest and training to develop a talent she had eventually turned into a successful business.

“Do you share this apartment?” Nick Hamilton asked, tense and ill at ease with the question but asking it nonetheless.

“No,” she replied. “It’s all mine,” she added with a touch of pride, knowing that the home she’d created here proved she was a woman of independent means.

She’d taken her time, selecting what she wanted to live with. The deeply cushioned, squashy leather sofa and chairs were cream so she could dress them up with the multicoloured tapestry cushions she’d stitched over many lonely nights. The wood of the bookshelves and desk was a blond ash, as were the sidetables and her small, four-chair dining suite. The carpet was a dusky pink mushroom.

She’d wanted everything soft and light, uplifting and cosy. It suited her. She fiercely told herself whatever he thought didn’t matter. He’d dropped out of her life thirteen years ago and had no right to walk back into it and be critical of anything.

She pushed his glass of wine across the kitchen counter which was open to the living area. “Your drink.”

“Thank you. You haven’t married?” His eyes were sharply curious and calculating as he came toward her to pick up the wine.

The highly personal inquiry niggled Meredith. He’d spoiled her for any other man and she resented the implication she might have had a free ride on a husband’s income. “No. I didn’t get this place from a man, Mr. Hamilton,” she answered tersely. “I’ve made my own way through a lot of hard work and a bit of luck. Did you achieve whatever you’ve got through a woman?”

In a way he had, his sister protecting him from even knowing about a responsibility he had incurred. He’d been left free to prosper in his chosen career instead of being saddled with a young wife and baby. Denise Graham had not only ensured he had every chance to succeed, she’d kept his child for him, too.

He looked abashed. “I didn’t mean to suggest...”

Resentment over his intrusion in her life now—far too late—brought a surge of impatience with his purpose. “Just why are you checking me out?” she demanded bluntly. “What answers are you looking for?”

He grimaced at her directness. “I guess you could say we’re both faced with a highly delicate situation. I’m trying to ascertain what your attitude might be toward a meeting with Kimberly. Whether it would intrude negatively on the life you have now.”

Her mind reeled at the incredible import of what he was saying. A meeting with her daughter? She’d barely dared to hope for it some time in the future when Kimberly was old enough to be her own person. How could this be when she was only twelve?

“Your sister will allow it?” Her throat had gone so dry her voice was a raw croak. Her eyes clung to his in a torment of doubt.

“My sister and her husband were killed in a car accident a year ago. Just before Christmas,” he stated quietly. “Kimberly has been in my care ever since.”

Shock rolled through her in mind-blowing, heart-wrenching waves. Denise and Colin Graham dead. Since before Christmas last year. And all this time she’d been thinking of them, picturing them going about their lives in their family unit, enjoying all she couldn’t enjoy with their daughter. A year! Her daughter had been without a mother, without her adoptive parents, for a whole year!