Sarah Mayberry - All They Need

“I wonder what happened?” Gloria murmured.

“Looks like someone’s lost something in the fountain,” Tony said.

“Isn’t that your wife, Owen?” Gloria asked.

“Yes, that’s Melanie,” Owen said. He was frowning, his gaze intent on the trio by the fountain.

“Shit,” Owen said, so quietly Flynn almost didn’t hear him.

He glanced at the other man briefly before returning his gaze to the lawn. He soon realized what had made Owen swear—his wife had stepped out of her shoes and was hitching up the skirt of her long dress. A crowd had started to gather, drawn by the promise of a spectacle.

Still talking to the older couple, Mel put a knee onto the waist-high rim of the fountain and boosted herself up so that she was balanced on both knees. She held out a hand and Hamish grasped it. Mel laughed, the sound floating up from the suddenly silent lawn—this was gripping stuff, much more interesting than any gossip that was being exchanged.

“Oh, dear. This has the potential to end badly,” Tony said with a smirk.

Flynn didn’t take his eyes off Mel as she leaned out over the water, while the older man used his weight as a counterbalance.

The crowd held its collective breath as she dipped her hand into the water and leaned farther and farther away from the rim, straining for all she was worth.

“Almost got it… There!” She pulled her arm from the water and the floodlights threw sparks off what looked like a diamond bracelet.

The crowd started to applaud—then Mel gave a startled yelp and fell into the fountain with a mighty splash. There was a communal gasp, followed by a wave of titters as she broke the surface. Her elegant updo had dissolved in the water and her dark hair hung in a tangled mess down her back. Mascara ran down her face as she pushed herself to her feet. Another round of titters washed through the crowd. The water had turned her blush gown translucent, leaving very little to the imagination. The dark outlines of her nipples were clearly visible, as was her underwear—which appeared to be bright pink with white stripes.

She should have looked ridiculous, standing there wet and bedraggled in her silly underwear, but she looked magnificent. Like some kind of mythical goddess rising from the mists of time.

Statuesque, utterly feminine. Breathtaking.

Flynn couldn’t take his eyes off her and only remembered to blink when she threw back her head and laughed. The sound—loud and boisterous and incredibly sexy—echoed across the lawn. She wasn’t alone in her amusement—Flynn couldn’t keep the smile from his own face and everyone around him was either smiling or laughing.

Except Owen Hunter.

Without saying a word, he pushed his way through the crowd and headed toward the stairs to the lawn. Flynn barely registered his departure—he was too busy watching Mel fling a long, athletic leg over the edge of the fountain and extend both hands forward in an unspoken request for assistance. Two men rushed forward, and within seconds she was standing on dry land, dripping from head to toe and thanking her rescuers.

She presented the bracelet to Andrea Greggs with a little bow, which earned her more laughter, then turned and held up her hands as though accepting a standing ovation.

“Thank you, you’ve been wonderful. I’ll be here all week,” she said.

Her audience was still laughing and applauding this show of chutzpah when her husband pushed his way to her side. Shrugging out of his coat, Owen flung it over her shoulders and leaned close to say something in her ear. The smile fell from her lips and she nodded, then ducked her head. The crowd cleared a path for them as he led her away from the fountain.

“Someone’s in trouble,” Gloria said with a quick, expressive lift of her eyebrows.

“It was hardly her fault. Hamish shouldn’t have let her go,” Flynn said.

“Or she could have let the Hollands take care of it,” Gloria said, referring to their hosts. “Like a normal person. They could have easily arranged to have the bracelet retrieved tomorrow morning.”

Flynn drank the last of his champagne instead of continuing the discussion. Melbourne society was notoriously stuffy for a supposedly egalitarian culture. Old Money only very grudgingly accepted New Money, and No Money didn’t stand a chance in hell. There was an unspoken social hierarchy and a set of rules that were only bent for the right people—and Melanie Hunter was not one of them. Personally, he thought she was bloody gutsy, the way she’d waded in to do her bit while everyone else stood around watching. And he definitely wasn’t going to object to the view he’d enjoyed when she’d stepped out of the fountain—he had a pulse, after all, as well as a healthy appreciation for the female form.

He glanced at his glass. “I’m hitting the bar. Anyone else want a refill?”

A series of head shakes meant he was on his own as he made his way into the house. The bartender was working at full pitch to serve a slew of people and Flynn stood to one side, waiting for the crush to subside. He nodded to various acquaintances and friends and lifted a hand to acknowledge an ex-girlfriend, but didn’t go out of his way to connect with anyone.

He was tired. He probably should have gone home instead of come to the party. As a rule, however, he liked to honor his commitments and he’d said he’d attend.

His thoughts drifted to the conversation he’d had with his mother earlier in the week. She’d asked him to meet her for lunch and then surprised the hell out of him by asking if he’d noticed anything “different” about his father, Adam, lately. She’d cited several instances of finding things in odd places around the house—the kettle in the fridge, shoes in the washing machine—as well as a number of memory or attention lapses on his father’s part. At the time, Flynn had been quick to assign his father’s slips to stress. His father’s property development business was closing a deal to build several apartment towers on government land in a former industrial suburb and his father had been working around the clock. Still, Flynn couldn’t get his mother’s concerns out of his head. She knew his father better than anyone, after all.

But his father was only fifty-eight. Way too early to be hitting the panic button over a few memory lapses.

Flynn stared into his empty champagne flute, brooding. He made a snap decision. He’d put in an appearance, done his duty. Now he was going home. Life was too short to waste time at parties talking to the same people about the same things, over and over. And he had a garden to view tomorrow with an eye to developing a design. If he was successful, it would be yet another win for Verdant Design, the landscaping firm he’d founded nearly three years ago.

He set his glass on the nearest flat surface and wove through the crowd. It took him five minutes to find his hosts to say goodbye, then he made his way to the foyer and out through the open double doors into the portico. He was about to start down the drive when he noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye.

It was Mel, standing in the shadows beneath the carefully manicured hedge that bordered the driveway. She was facing the street, her husband’s tuxedo jacket draped over her shoulders. Gravel crunched beneath his shoe and her head swung toward him. They locked gazes across twelve feet of driveway.

There was no mistaking the unadulterated misery in the depths of her gray eyes. After a few short seconds she looked away.

He opened his mouth to say something—what, he had no idea—as his phone rang. He pulled it from his jacket pocket and saw that it was his father. He glanced at Melanie again. Her focus was once more on the driveway. Waiting for her husband to bring the car around, he guessed.