Читать книгу Bleeding Hearts - Lindy Cameron - Страница 7

Boardwalk was the latest thing in cool soaps: a cross between the classic trashiness of Number 96, from the good old days of Aussie-TV for-grown-ups, and the seemingly never-ending dilemmas of the occasionally topical Blue Heelers. It was a Melrose Place wannabe, without the underlying spite, in fact without the underlying cleverness, but with a marketable-as-a-CD-compilation soundtrack of homegrown music.

The show was also controversial, and therefore top rating, and littered with the mandatory jumpcut shots of an exotic-looking city - a.k.a. Melbourne. Used only as scene-changers, because the show was filmed almost entirely in the Docklands studio lot, the location-montages were instantly recognisable to Melbournians, but were also non-specific enough to be any exotic-looking city anywhere in the world.

Which proved, Kit thought, that any old city, especially one with a beach, could be made to look exotic if the cinematographer shoots the right shots: this St Kilda palm tree, that flash of boat-on-Port-Phillip-Bay, this vibrant cityscape-at-night reflected on that section of the Yarra River, any tram flashing by Luna Park, and just a glimpse of a rollicking Chinese dragon in Little Burke St - and all done with the camera on an angle and later synchronised to a really catchy tune.

Boardwalk was also filled with young Australian 'stars of the future' as well as quite a few older actual actors. One of the stars who, according to Rebecca Jones, apparently had enough talent to be an actor - one day - was the reason why Kit was standing beside a catering van on the studio back lot, watching three blokes having a very unconvincing punch-up - for the seventh time.

"Cut! That's bloody awful," yelled the man wearing the jacket that said 'Director'. "One more time guys, come on, and then we'll take a break for lunch - if you can get it right."

Kit finished eating the best hot dog she'd ever had, as she watched the soapie-star with a future, Dylan Thomas (yes) raise his fists at the two thugs who had just insulted his 'girlfriend'. While she, the girlfriend, yelled "Hit them Cody" (again yes), he ducked and weaved and generally threw his weight around badly. If he'd been in a real fight, he'd have been decked several times over.

"Cut!" the director growled again. "For Christ's sake Dylan, stop with the 'float like a butterfly' crap and take a swing. Try it again! Places, everybody."

"Dylan is worried about actually connecting; them with him, I mean. He doesn't want to mess up his pretty face," someone said in Kit's ear, which startled her because a second before she'd been standing on her own. Kit turned to face Angela Collier, Boardwalk's PR person, who had just snuck up on her after rushing off, for the third time, to help deal with a lingerie crisis being experienced by one of her other actors.

"That's better.' Kit whispered the comment, with a nod in Dylan's direction, as he ducked just in time to miss Thug A's right cross. He then feigned a left hook and caught the bad guy unawares (ha!) with an almost upper cut to the chin, which sent the Stunt Thug backwards into a well-placed pile of stunt boxes. Stunt Thug B ran off in fear, or because he didn't want to be caught acting in the same scene, and then the girlfriend - Kimberley, Ashley or Britney - threw her arms around brave Cody and mashed her lips against his.

"Cut...and that'll do it."

"Thank god," Kit said. "I was about to volunteer to help him protect his little surfer-chick."

Angela laughed. "It's strange how it never looks this hokey on TV; in the finished product, I mean."

Kit raised an eyebrow, wondering which finished show it was that Angela watched. "Jackie Chan he ain't," she observed.

"That's probably a good thing; I'd be a nervous wreck," Angela laughed, again. "Come on I'll introduce you."

Kit followed the painfully-cheerful Angela across the lot to where the 'director' was having a few words with Dylan and his co-star. "We'll find a solution, I promise. For now we just have to make it work, okay?" he said and then strolled off, shaking his head and looking as if he'd rather be directing traffic. Or as if he was wondering whether he already was.

"Dylan," Angela said, "this is Katherine Turner, the writer I was talking about. Katherine this is Dylan Thomas. Oh, and Bree Fisher."

Dylan stuck out his hand to shake Kit's, while Bree looked her up and down to gauge something - or other. Kit flashed her a brief smile and turned back to Dylan.

"Katherine Turner?" Bree said, questioningly. "Like the actress."

"That's Kathleen Turner," Kit corrected her. "Or Lana; unless, of course, you mean Katherine Hepburn."

"You're not with Who Weekly by any chance, are you?" Bree asked, as Kit's comment hovered over her head trying to find a way in.

"No, I'm not," Kit smiled again.

"You can rack off now Bree," Dylan said, a lot more politely than his choice of words implied.

"You rack off, toad face! I just wanted to know which magazine she writes for, that's all."

"I don't," Kit said. "I'm writing a book."

"Oh," Bree said, screwing up her pert little nose.

Kit wondered whether she'd recognise a book - in a library.

"I don't think she understands that concept," Dylan confirmed

"Oh ha!" Bree stated. "What's the book about, Kathleen?"

"Katherine," Kit said. "It's called Women in Television."

"Women in Television," Bree repeated. "So, pick me up here. Why is it that you want to talk to testerone-features here?"

"Testosterone," Dylan stated.

"Dick-head - same diff!" Bree snarled. "Last time I looked, I'm the woman out of us two."

Beam me up, Scotty, Kit thought desperately. "My book is not about actors. I'm writing about women producers, directors and presenters, like Margot Whelan, Maggie Wheeler, Mary Waters and Rebecca Jones," Kit explained, making up all the names except the last.

"Oh her. She didn't want to know me," Bree complained. "But you should have seen the way she came onto Dylan."

"Who? Maggie Wheeler?" Kit asked.

"No, that tart Rebecca Jones."

"She was here to interview Dylan, not you Bree," Angela said, while Kit now gave her actual attention to the little starlet. "That's why she wasn't interested in you."

"So!" Bree sulked. "She didn't have to ignore me."

"What do you mean 'came onto'?" Kit asked.

"Will you piss off, Bree," Dylan pleaded.

"What do you think I mean?" Bree said, ignoring Dylan and waggling her chin as only spoilt and self-centred young gals seem able to do.

"Do you care that she showed interest in Dylan?" Kit asked, wondering whether simple teenage jealousy lay behind the threats to Rebecca.

"Duh, no! Why should I? Dylan Thomas is an arse-wipe," Bree said, as if he wasn't standing right there to hear the insult.

"She wasn't coming onto me," Dylan said to Kit, without a trace of defensiveness or ego. "I wish she had," he added, with a smile.

"I cared that she ignored me, that's all," Bree was saying, as if she was the centre of attention.

"Which is exactly what Katherine is going to do as well," Angela stated. "We are walking away now, Bree honey."

"Don't you Bree-honey me, Angela," Bree complained, waggling her chin and her shoulders as she followed her anyway. "Just 'cause you're who you are, doesn't mean you can boss me round. And how come I never get these interview gigs?" she demanded.

Kit took a deep breath. "You have an excellent working relationship with your co-star, I see."

"She's a twit," Dylan laughed, running his hand through his super-blonde surfer-dude hair. "We have all, the whole cast, begged the producers and writers to kill her off before one of us commits actual murder."

"Does she have a thing for you? I mean was all that a love-hate scenario, or what?" Kit asked.

"God, I hope not," Dylan exclaimed. "Um, let's take a seat," he added, motioning towards a park bench that was part of the set. "Bree and I had one date, two years ago, when I first joined the show. She only went out with me, I discovered the next day, to make her rock singer boyfriend jealous."

"Two years ago?" Kit said. "How old is she?"

"Twenty-four," Dylan smiled, "going on twelve."

Forget the 'teenage' aspect of the jealous of Rebecca theory, Kit thought. "I thought she was about sixteen," she said.

"Tell me about it," Dylan threw up his hands. "On second thoughts, don't. Let's talk about the gorgeous Rebecca Jones instead. Not that I can tell you much; I only met her the once."

Kit smiled. "Do you have a thing for older women?" she asked.

"No, not specifically," Dylan grinned. "But Rebecca is an icon, isn't she? That makes her different from your usual older woman. That, and the fact that she's dead sexy and smart and nice. God that's a wimpy word. What I mean is, in person she's as cool, objective and informed as her image shapes her to be. She seems genuinely interested in who she's interviewing. It doesn't seem like a put on job. Oh-boy," Dylan pressed his hand to his mouth. "Is it okay to say stuff like that - like sexy and smart? I wouldn't want to sound patronising or anything."

Kit cocked her head. "Or anything like what?"

"Or anything like, you know, sexist." Dylan said earnestly.

"Is that because you don't want to sound sexist, or because you're not?"

Dylan narrowed his eyes and then smiled. "Because I'd like to think I'm not, so I wouldn't want to come across that way through a bad choice of words."

Kit laughed. "Well, that was a good choice of words," she said. "And given the context of our conversation, of course it's okay to call her sexy and smart."

"You stupid bloody bitch!"

Kit and Dylan looked at each other in surprise before glancing around to find out who had spoken. The entire area of the street-corner set, which moments before had been bustling with people, was now completely deserted. The only people in sight were two guys queuing at the catering van, which was a good fifty metres away to Kit's right.

Kit turned back to Dylan who was frowning. "There's no one here but us," he noted. "So who the hell said that?"

Thwunk! The sound of something fleshy hitting something metal coincided with the sudden appearance, about ten metres behind Dylan, of a middle-aged man wearing blue tracky dacks, a white singlet and a very disgruntled expression.

Thwunk! This time Kit saw the guy punch the forklift he was standing beside. It didn't look like a stunt; besides, there were no cameras around.

"Who's the bloke?" Kit asked.

Dylan swivelled around to take a look. "Oh no! I thought she'd gotten rid of him."

"Who is he?" Kit repeated, realising there was someone else standing behind the forklift.

"It's Angela's ex-husband. The guy is a complete loser. He's dangerous, and dense as shit."

"Does that mean that it's Angela he's abusing?" Kit asked, standing up.

Angela herself answered the question by stepping into view; her hands on her hips. The ex-husband, and his threatening body language, then crowded her up against a dumpster.

"God, what a prick!" Dylan observed.

"What a prick?" Kit repeated, staring down at Dylan in amazement. "Is that it?"

"Is that it, what?"

"You said he's dangerous, Dylan," Kit explained. "Do you think she might need some help?"

They both glanced back at Angela who seemed to be standing her ground successfully but the ex also seemed to be getting more aggro by the second.

"Um, yeah, probably," Dylan said hesitantly. "I'll go get Security," he offered.

"Dylan," Kit said, giving him a kindly smile, "I think Angela needs assistance now, not when the cavalry arrives. But if I promise to help you deal with your gallantry issues later, will you stroll over there with me, now, to see if we can help sort things out?"

"Are you kidding? What if he hits me in the face?"

"Okay," Kit said accommodatingly. "How about I try and sort things, and you back me up with one of those," she said, pointing at a pile of scaffolding. "You can poke him with it if you don't want to get too close."

"Good idea," Dylan agreed. He chose a very long pole and then gave her the thumbs up.

Kit suffered a depressing but gone-in-a-flash fear for the future of humanity. Actually, it was more like a passing groan over the youth of today; or maybe just heartburn from the hot dog. Whatever! Bullies, pretty boys and fast food. It's life Jim, but not as we know it; and civilisation is doomed.

"Will you give it a rest, please Barry," Angela was saying as Kit and Dylan approached. "Just leave me alone; leave everything alone."

"Screw that, Angie," Barry the bully growled. "I want you to come home, where you belong."

"I don't belong there, Barry. And I'm sick of your crap. Go away, or I will call the cops."

Barry didn't agree with that, apparently. In fact Barry didn't like that idea one little bit. He backhanded Angela across the right side of her face. She stumbled but remained on her feet.

"Jesus! Shit! He hit her...he actually hit her," Dylan exclaimed.

"Hey! Don't..." Kit began.

"Yeah? And who the fuck are you?" Barry snarled at Kit, before catching sight of her reluctant sidekick with his five-foot pole. He snorted. "Sure thing, Dylan, you little shitface. What are you gunna do with that?"

It took Kit two whole seconds to make the choice between trying to reason with Barry or deciding to deal with him. No contest, she thought, and kicked him as hard as she could in the balls. He collapsed onto his knees then keeled over into a foetal position with his hands between his legs.

"Way to go, Katherine!" Dylan cheered.

The previously chipper Angela now looked like she didn't give a shit - about anything. She kept blinking, to stop her right eye from watering, as she rubbed her face and stared down at the moaning Barry. "Wish I'd thought of that," she said flatly.

"I'll go get Andy," Dylan volunteered. "He's head of security," he explained to Kit over his shoulder, as he took off in the direction of the studio's main office.

"You okay?" Kit asked.

"Yeah," Angela said softly. "He just won't take no for an answer."

"Has he done this before?"

"What do you think?" Angela asked, her tone still emotionless as she turned her back on Barry. "Only ever at home though, before I moved out and got a restraining order. Oh God no. Look. Everybody will know about this by the time lunch is over."

Kit glanced in the direction Angela had indicated. Two guys in security uniforms had met Dylan en route and they, along with the Director, one Stunt Thug and two women were rushing over to - what...help? Oh, one of the two guys who'd been buying lunch was also loping in their direction, with his hotdog, which he'd apparently waited for; but the other guy, while showing his concern by perving on the action, obviously didn't want to lose his place in the queue. Kit shook her head.

A strange gurgling, heaving sound behind her was followed by a more articulate "Aaah!" from Angela to her left. Kit realised, too late, that Barry - like some kind of unsquashable cockroach - had recovered enough to get to his feet, grab Angela by the arm and fling her backwards into the side of the dumpster. He grunted with satisfaction as his ex-wife slid unconscious to the ground, then he turned to make a charge.

Kit sidestepped, but not far enough. Barry's elbow connected with her cheekbone as he stumbled forward over her outstretched foot. She rammed her knee into his coccyx, grabbed his arm and twisted it up behind his back, holding his thumb in the bastard-can't-move-if-his-thumb-is-being-held-in-that-position position.

Five seconds later the security guards relieved her.

"Escort him off the lot," the Director directed.

"No," Kit pronounced. She took out a business card - one that said 'Kit O'Malley, Private Investigator' not 'Katherine Turner, writer" - and gave it the older of the two security guards. "Take him to South Melbourne Police Station and get him locked up. Ask for Detective Wilkes, Hanson or Barnes, give them that card and tell them I'll be there in an hour to file assault charges."

"Sure thing," the guard smiled. "Our pleasure."

"Who the hell do you think you are?" the Director demanded.

Kit raised her eyebrows and cast a glance back at Angela who was being tended by the two women who'd rushed over with everyone else.

"Did you hear me?" the Director asked.

"Have you called an ambulance yet?" Kit asked by way of reply, pointing to the mobile in the Director's otherwise unhelpful hand.

"What? I asked you who you were."

"A deranged man, with a restraining order against him, gained unauthorised entry to your studio, assaulted two people, we're still waiting for you to call an ambulance, and all you care about is who I am," Kit exclaimed, flinging her hands up to demonstrate her exasperation. "I feel like I'm in a soap opera," she added dramatically, and then stepped back to see how Angela was.

"Well, who is she?" the Director asked.

"Gimme that, Tony," Dylan snapped, grabbing his phone.

"She's coming round," one of the women said to Kit.

"Angela, you okay?" Kit asked.

"I don't feel so good," Angela slurred.

"Forget the ambulance Dylan," Kit called out. "Get us one of those golf cart thingies, will you?" "Okay. I'll be right back."

"Can you stand up Angela?"

"Maybe. Can't guarantee I won't throw up, though."

"That's okay," Kit said, as she and the other women helped her up and then over to the bench.

"You're not really a writer, are you?" Dylan asked five minutes later as he snapped the safety belt around Angela in the back seat of Kit's car.

"What makes you say that?" Kit asked.

"I can ask Andy what your business card really said," Dylan threatened with a smile. He got into the front passenger seat beside Kit and pointed to show the quickest way off the studio lot.

"I'm a private investigator," Kit admitted.

"Cool!" he exclaimed. "I knew it. I mean I knew you weren't writing a book. Not at first, obviously, but you know."

Kit laughed. "But I am writing a book," she stated.

"You are?"

"Yeah. I'm writing a detective novel."

"A detective writing a detective novel. That's very Angela Lansbury. But that's not why you wanted to talk to me, I bet."

"No," Kit agreed.

"Was I a cover story so you could catch Barry?" Dylan asked.

"No," Kit snorted. "I didn't know about Barry. I wish I still didn't know about Barry. The bastard has completely messed up my morning and, to top it off, as a consequence of now knowing about Barry, I am going to be late for a very important date."

Kit glanced at the dash clock. It was 10:45 am. She might, might, manage to get Angela to Casualty, then drop into the local cop shop to make a formal complaint about Barry, before someone decided to let the bastard go, and get back into the city by midday - but she doubted it.

Alex had said to meet her for lunch at noon. Kit already had that desperate sinking feeling that no matter how hard she tried, she was going to be late for the only thing in the world she wanted to be on time for.

Murphy's bloody law, she thought angrily. Anything that can go wrong will be completely fucked up. Who the hell was Murphy, anyway? Kit wondered as she turned into Dudley Street, heading towards the top end of the city. She contemplated tracking him down and shooting him for thinking up such a stupid thing in the first place. This was obviously all his fault, being a twist on Lillian's rotational theory of life and art, because if Murphy hadn't made the law, this perverse universe wouldn't have to adhere to it.

"I hope it's not a date date," Dylan said.

"Why?" Kit asked, wondering if she'd been thinking aloud.

"Because the other thing that Barry messed up this morning was your face."

"What?" Kit asked, trying to get a look at herself in the rearview mirror.

"He decked you with his arm," Dylan said. "Don't you remember? Didn't you feel it? Don't you feel it now? Man, perhaps I should be driving. You've probably got head injuries too."

Kit pulled up at the next set of traffic lights, because they were red, and took the opportunity to swivel the mirror so she could see.

"Oh shit!" she exclaimed.

This was not unlike how she looked back in January; the last time she'd seen Alex - the last time Alex had seen her. Shit, shit, shit! The woman was going to think she was accident-prone or that she habitually attracted types of the undesirable whack-you-in-the-face variety.

"Aaagh," she groaned, taking off again as the lights changed.

"It's okay," Dylan said cheerily. "It's a radical purple. You could pretend..."

Kit pulled up again at the Peel Street lights. She turned to Dylan, narrowed her eyes and just... looked at him.

"Okay, yes, you're quite right," he acknowledged. "There's nothing that can be done. Oh look, Vic Market is very busy today. I didn't even know they opened on, whatever today is. How are you going back there, Angela?"

"Just dandy, thanks Dylan. I'd be even better if you weren't babbling so loudly."

"Right. I'll shut up now," he said, facing forwards. "The lights aren't going to get any greener, though," he added, giving Kit a sideways smile.

"Dylan, mate," Kit said, making a left turn, "when you're rich and famous - which Rebecca Jones seems to think is in your stars - I'd like you to do something for me."

Dylan eyed Kit suspiciously. "Sure Katherine, if I can."

"If you make any of those big action movies where you play the hero that saves the girl or the world or both, then every time a stunt person takes a fall for you, I'd like you to remember today," Kit said, tapping her face. Ow! That was dumb.

"Okay," he shrugged. "Why?"

"Because I want you to remember how I got this bruise while you just stood around with a large and useless pole."

"Oh," Dylan nodded. "I could probably do that for you."

"Thank you," Kit said.

What a spiteful place to put a mirror, Kit thought. There you are, on your way to an appointment with Melbourne's top modelling agency on the first floor, or to get advice on your millions from the investment company on the second floor, or to meet the gorgeous lawyer from the third floor for lunch, and you discover - when it's too late to do anything about it - that you look like a lunatic.

Kit ran her hands back through her hair, forwards, then back again. She shook her head and looked at the result in the large mirror that formed the back wall of the lift. A very scary face looked back at her. She tugged on her fringe, but it simply wasn't long enough to cover the map of Tasmania that had formed on her left cheekbone and was crowding her eye. Between the bruise and her wild hair, she really did look like an escapee from a place in which she'd usually be sedated.

Kit undid an extra button on her white shirt, did it up again, made sure the belt on her black slacks was straight, then turned her back on herself and pushed the button for Jenkins, Cazenove, Scott and Harris on the third floor of the William Street office building.

It was 12.25 p.m. She had rung Alex from the police station, an hour before, to say she'd be late. Margaret Richards, the legal firm's receptionist, had promised to pass the message on to Miss Cazenove who was unable to take her call personally as she was 'conferring'.

The lift doors opened. Kit took a deep breath. This is it, she thought. Romance or heartache - what's it going to be?

She pushed at the glass doors of J.C.S. & H. and entered the plush, hushed and everywhere-purple outer-domain of the firm's first line of defence against invading anything. One imperious look from Margaret Richards was enough to make a ruthless crim, a tough cop or a semi-hard-boiled PI shake in her boots. God knows what effect she had on potential clients.

Kit tried smiling, wondering as she did whether the imposing Mrs R. was wearing a huge corset of the whalebone and lots of hooks variety. Because no one, she thought, could be that big and not have rolls of extra body pushing out the fabric of her conservative, but elegant, receptionist attire.

"Ms O'Malley," Margaret pronounced, deliberately emphasising the title to show her disapproval of Kit's previous insistence on its application.

"Margaret," Kit replied nonchalantly, trying to sound wiser and more mature than the chronologically-experienced receptionist. "Is Miz Cazenove still conferring?" she added, in a tone that proved she could also be childish - if she wanted to be.

"Yes, Ms O'Malley. If you'd like to take a seat, she'll be out - when she's out."

Kit propped on the edge of a soft-cushioned couch and resisted the urge to remove her shoes and wriggle her toes in the super-soft pile of the lilac carpet. It seemed like a lifetime since she'd last sat here, with her then new client Quinn Orlando, but then a hell of a lot had happened since January. Miz Cazenove, for example. In fact it had been here on that same first visit to Quinn's solicitor Douglas Scott, that she'd met Alex for the first time. Now that had been embarrassing.

Kit shook her head, at herself, then stared at the Abigail Trellini lithograph on the wall opposite, until the irregular flick-flick of the spotlight above it got to be more than she could take. She got up and walked over to turn it off but, just as she reached out her hand, it plinked - and died.

"Spooky," Kit said. "Would you like me to change the bulb for you?" she asked Margaret.

The 'how dare you speak without being invited' glare lasted two seconds before being replaced with a look of surprise. "Ah, yes," Margaret replied warmly; well, in a tone slightly less Antarctic than usual. "Would you mind?"

"Of course not," Kit replied. "As long as I don't have to stand on anything higher than a kitchen chair I can do almost anything."

"A matchbox is too high for my fear of heights," Margaret admitted.

Kit smiled. "I'm fine up to an elevation of three feet, as long as I have something to brace myself against. Can I stand on that chair?"

"Go ahead," Margaret agreed, stepping out from behind her desk. "Wait while I get the new globe though, then I'll hold it steady for you."

Nothing like a shared phobia to bring two people together, Kit thought, dragging the chair over next to the couch opposite. She turned the light switch off.

Margaret returned to hold the chair while Kit climbed onto it and steadied herself with one hand on the wall. She swapped the dead globe for the live one and switched the light back on again.

"Ta-da!" Kit announced, feeling quite pleased about her small victory over irrational fear, until two unrelated things conspired against her balance and decorum. The first, was the sudden, startling sound of the front door opening behind her, which produced a surge of vertigo-induced adrenaline as she nearly lost her balance. The second, was the delicious sound of her name being uttered by the woman of her dreams, which supercharged the adrenaline with a dose of lust, tipped her wonky scales and sent her tumbling backwards onto the couch. Gravity then took over and dragged her, bum first, onto the floor.

"Ouch!"

"O'Malley?" Alex repeated.

Mortification began making chaotic percussion noises in Kit's head, as her mind whimpered: Oh, dear, I am so embarrassing!

She opened her eyes to find Alex - oh yes - Margaret, Douglas Scott and a not-quite completely strange woman staring down at her. Kit glanced warily at Alex and pulled a 'boy do I feel stupid face', while she tried desperately to reign in her hormones or her pheromones or... maybe they were lipozomes - no, they had something to do with skin elasticity.

Who cares! Come on, O'Malley. Get your warp-core back on line!

Easier said than done she thought. The very sight of Alexis Cazenove - her red-auburn hair curling carelessly just above her shoulders and her grey eyes laughing, while the sexiest mouth in the world tried not to - would have floored her, had her vertigo and klutziness not already taken care of that. Thank you very much!

Déjà vu, Kit sighed. She had been in this exact position - on her arse - the first time she'd ever looked up and into those oh-so-very-amused eyes.

Wow, but she really is drop-dead gorgeous, Kit thought. Not that she doubted that for a second. After all, the absence thing had made her heart do the growing fonder thing. Sadly, it had also taken nothing away from the first-laying-eyes-on-her falling-down-stupid-thing either.

And there she was - her Alex (maybe, hopefully) - in all her gorgeousness, just standing there turning Kit's mind and body to mush, as usual. And probably loving it - as usual.

And here you are, Katherine Frances O'Malley, nanoseconds later (also as usual), still on the floor. Get up woman!

Kit accepted the nearest hands, which belonged to Margaret and the now vaguely-familiar stranger.

"Thank you," she acknowledged. She took a deep breath and smiled. "Hi, Alex," she said.

"O'Malley," Alex acknowledged, raising one perfect eyebrow. "Are you - okay?"

"Yes. Thank you," Kit replied. Want to drag you into your office and kiss you until you beg for mercy kind of okay, she thought. But, I'm okay.

Kit turned to Douglas and grinned. "It's really good to see you again."

Which was what she'd wanted to say to Alex; what she would have said, had they been alone. After she'd done the kissing thing, of course.

"It is lovely to see you too, Kit." Douglas's eyes crinkled with pleasure under his unruly white eyebrows, as he encased her hand in both of his. "I do hope, my dear, that the other person came off second best," he added.

"Oh yes," Kit nodded. "His genitals are going to need long-term physiotherapy; maybe even psychotherapy seeing it was his balls he was using to think with when we, ah, met."

"Don't they all," said the now definitely familiar strange woman. "Present company excepted, I'm sure," she added, with a glance at Douglas.

Kit peered at the woman. She did know who she was, she was sure, but not directly. This was one of those seeing your bank teller at a Judy Small concert and not being able to place where you know her from type situation. Or the being so familiar with an actor syndrome that, even though you can't remember their name, you think you actually know them; whereon you proceed to make an idiot of yourself by saying say 'hi' as if you do, two seconds before you realise you don't, and one second before you realise they don't know you at all, because you're not famous.

"It's all right," the woman smiled. "We don't know each other."

"Oh good," Kit smiled, not really caring because she was finally, after 68 days and - no, O'Malley, we are not counting hours (four) - she was finally standing within touching distance of...

"I'm Carol Webster..."

Oh god. The bloody woman was still talking.

"...Independent candidate in the Nareen by-election. You've probably seen me on the tele."

"Oh, right," Kit said, recalling the TV news coverage of her campaign launch the previous night. "You're the Mayor of Brinlea. Tell me, is Richmond part of the Nareen electorate?"

"Outgoing Mayor, and no," she laughed.

"Good," Kit shrugged, uselessly. She looked at Alex, hoping she'd make a move of some kind.

She did. She pushed her hair back behind one ear and looked apologetic.

That's not quite what I had in mind, Kit thought.

"I'm sorry, O'Malley," Alex said. "Can we take a rain check on lunch?"

No way!

"Carol's appointment is rather important," Alex continued.

What? And I'm not? Kit wondered. "Rain check. Sure," she said.

"Oh, no," Carol sighed. "Have I upset your lunch plans?"

"It's okay, Carol," Alex said, soothingly.

It is bloody not! Kit thought. "Yeah, don't worry. It's no big deal," she lied.

Alex glanced at Kit with a serious but questioning expression. It was one of those Alex Cazenove looks; one of the special ones that ask everything, and give absolutely nothing away. It was the intriguing, maddening, mysterious, sexy, what-do-you-mean-by-that look. The one Kit had fallen in love with; the one Alex didn't know she did so well.

Kit just raised her eyebrows and smiled.

Alex, still with her eyes on Kit, asked Douglas if he'd be so kind as to show Carol back to her office. "I'll walk you out," she said to Kit, when they were alone except for the out-of-character farewell noises being made by Margaret Richards.

"Bye, Margaret," Kit said over her shoulder as she followed Alex out the front door to the lift. "Is this an occupational hazard?" Alex asked, barely touching Kit's cheek.

"No, actually," Kit smiled. "The guy had no idea who I was, what I am, or...anything."

Aagh! The lift was taking forever. "So, how long is this rain check for?" she asked.

"I was thinking..." Alex began.

"I've missed you." Kit couldn't help herself.

"Really?" Alex asked, as if she didn't quite believe her.

"Yes," Kit breathed. Shut up, O'Malley.

"I was thinking, dinner tonight," Alex suggested, as the lift opened. "I'm sorry about Carol," she added, narrowing those amazing eyes - just a little. "This wasn't supposed to happen."

"It's okay, really," Kit said stepping into the lift. "Dinner tonight it is then."

"Good. We need to talk." Alex smiled.

"We sure do," Kit acknowledged, wishing to hell she could be more than Miss Monosyllabic. "Your place or mine?" she asked, continuing the trend.

Alex just nodded. Kit turned her palms up expectantly and, as the doors began closing, she started leaning so she could keep her eyes on Alex as the gap between them narrowed.

"Damn it, O'Malley." Alex stepped into the lift; the doors closed behind her. "I guess I'll have to do it."

"Do what?" Kit asked. "Oh," she added, as Alex pushed her back against the wall of the lift.

"Oh, indeed," Alex laughed. She bent her head, brushed her mouth briefly against Kit's and then pulled back to look at her again. Her eyes were shining now.

Oh, hooley dooley, thought Kit; which was, in fact, about all she was capable of thinking because her body, quite of its own accord, had started melting. It was a very strange sensation.

But wow! Alex's eyes were still shining with...with, conspicuous - something; maybe passion, or maybe it was still amusement, Kit thought.

Ooh, a thought, she thought again. She opened her mouth to try speaking, but Alex stopped that idea by kissing her again.

It was a deep, passionate, long-lost reach down and touch your soul, dip-into-your-groin and spin-you-out-completely type of kiss.

It took Kit's breath away.

Alex hit the 'door open' button behind her. "Your place at six," she said, and stepped back into the foyer.

My god...dess - or someone! Bloody hell! Kit thought, as the doors closed in her face.

She fumbled for the ground floor button, wondering if maybe Alex was a vampire. A sexy, irresistible, yes absolutely you'd be more-than-willing to die for her kind of vampire.

Well! There was no going back now.

Kit had just exchanged her lifeforce for a promise of nerve-tingling eternity.

Holy shit!