Читать книгу Christmas with her Boss - Marion Lennox, Marion Lennox - Страница 7

Where was she taking him?

Maybe he should have paid attention, but he’d stalked back into his office and worked until she’d decreed it was time to go. Then he’d walked beside her to the station and stayed silent as she organised tickets. He’d been too angry to do anything else, and too caught up in work. The Berswood faxes had come through just as he left, and he’d spotted a loophole that would have his lawyers busy for weeks.

Had they really thought he wouldn’t notice such a problem?

As he walked to the station he was planning his course of attack—and maybe that was no accident. Burying himself in work had always been his way to block out the world, and he was not looking forward to the next three days. Three days immersed in his work, with little to alleviate it, with no hotel gym to burn energy…And missing Elinor and the kids…That hurt.

At least he had the Berswood contract to work on, he told himself as he strode beside his PA, trying to think the legal implications through as she purchased tickets and hurried to the train. Then as the train pulled out, the announcement came through that the train destination was four hours away. What the…?

He and Meg had been forced to sit across the aisle from each other. He looked across at her in alarm. ‘Four hours?’

‘We get off earlier,’ she called. ‘Two and a half hours.’

Two and a half hours?

He couldn’t even grill her. He sat hard against the window with barely enough room to balance his laptop. Beside him, a woman was juggling two small children, one on her knee and one in a carrycot in the aisle. Meg had someone else’s child on her lap. There were people squashed every which way, in a train taking them who knew where?

He was heading into the unknown, with his PA.

She didn’t even look like his PA, he thought as the interminable train journey proceeded, and even the Berswood deal wasn’t enough to hold his attention. It seemed she’d brought her luggage to the office so she could make a quick getaway. Once he’d grudgingly accepted her invitation, she’d slipped into the Ladies and emerged…different.

His PA normally wore a neat black suit, crisp white blouse and sensible black shoes with solid heels. She wore her hair pulled tightly into an elegant chignon. He’d never seen her with a hair out of place.

She was now wearing hip-hugging jeans, pale blue canvas sneakers—a little bit worn—and a soft white shirt, open necked, with a collar but no sleeves.

What was more amazing was that she’d tugged her chignon free, and her bouncing chestnut curls were flowing over her shoulders. And at her throat was a tiny Christmas angel.

The angel could have been under her corporate shirt for weeks, he thought, stunned at the transformation. She looked casual. She looked completely unbusinesslike—and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like being on this train. He didn’t like it that his PA was chatting happily to the woman beside her about who knew what?

He wasn’t in control, and to say he wasn’t accustomed to the sensation was an understatement.

William McMaster had been born in control. His parents were distant, to say the least, and he’d learned early that nursery staff came and went. If he made a fuss, they went. He seldom did make a fuss. He liked continuity; he liked his world running smoothly.

His PA was paid to make sure it did.

Meg had come to him with impeccable references. She’d graduated with an excellent commerce degree, she’d moved up the corporate ladder in the banking sector and it was only when her personal circumstances changed that she’d applied for the job with him.

‘I need to spend more time with my family,’ she’d said and he hadn’t asked more.

Her private life wasn’t his business.

Only now it was his business. He should have asked more questions. He was trapped with her family, whoever her family turned out to be.

While back in New York…

He needed to contact Elinor, urgently, but he couldn’t call her now. It was three in the morning her time. It’d have to wait.

The thought of contacting her made him feel ill. To give such disappointment…

‘There’s less than an hour to go,’ Meg called across the aisle and, to his astonishment, she sounded cheerful. ‘Dandle a baby if you’re bored. I’m sure the lady beside you would be grateful.’

‘I couldn’t let him do that.’ The young mother beside him looked shocked. ‘I’d spoil his lovely suit.’

He winced. He’d taken off his jacket but he still looked corporate and he knew it. He had suits and gym gear. Nothing else.

Surely that couldn’t be a problem. But…

Where were they going?

He’d had visions of a suburban house with a comfortable spare room where he could lock himself in and work for three days. He’d pay, so he wouldn’t have to be social; something he’d be forced to be if he stayed with any of Melbourne’s social set. But now…Where was she taking him?

He was a billionaire. He did not have problems like this.

How did you get off a train?

There was a no alcohol policy on the train, which was just as well as the carriage was starting to look like a party. It was full of commuters going home for Christmas, holidaymakers, everyone escaping the city and heading bush.

Someone started a Christmas singalong, which was ridiculous, but somehow Meg found herself singing along too.

Was she punch-drunk?

No. She was someone who’d lost the plot but there was nothing she could do about it. She had no illusions about her job. She’d messed things up and, even though she was doing the best she could, William McMaster had been denied his Christmas and she was responsible.

Worse, she was taking him home. He hadn’t asked where home was. He wasn’t interested.

She glanced across the aisle at him and thought he so didn’t belong on this train. He looked…

Fabulous, she admitted to herself, and there it was, the thing she’d carefully suppressed since she’d taken this job. W S McMaster was awesome. He was brilliant and powerful and more. He worked her hard but he paid magnificently; he expected the best from her and he got it.

And he was so-o-o sexy. If she wasn’t careful, she knew she stood every chance of having a major crush on the guy. But she’d realised that from the start, from that first interview, so she’d carefully compartmentalised her life. He was her boss. Any other sensation had to be carefully put aside.

And she’d learned from him. W S McMaster had compartments down to a fine art. There was never any hint of personal interaction between employer and employee.

But now there needed to be personal interaction. W S McMaster was coming home to her family.

He’d better be nice to Scotty.

He didn’t have to be nice to anyone.

Yes, he did, she thought. For the next few days her boundaries needed to shift. Not to be taken away, she reminded herself hastily. Just moved a little. She needed to stop thinking about him as her boss and start thinking about him as someone who should be grateful to her for providing emergency accommodation.

She’d made a start, deliberately getting rid of her corporate gear, making a statement that this weekend wasn’t entirely an extension of their work relationship.

He could lock himself in his room for the duration, she thought. She’d sent a flurry of texts to Letty on the subject of which room they’d put him in. The attic was best. There was a good bed and a desk and a comfy chair. It had its own small bathroom. The man was a serious workaholic. Maybe he’d even take his meals in his room.

‘He’s not singing,’ the elderly woman beside her said. Meg had struck up an intermittent conversation with her, so she knew the connection. ‘Your boss. Is he not happy?’

‘He’s stuck in Australia because of the airline strike,’ Meg said. ‘I suspect he’s homesick.’

Homesick. She’d spoken loudly because of the singing, but there was a sudden lull between verses and somehow her words hit silence. Suddenly everyone was looking at William.

‘Homesick,’ the woman beside Meg breathed, loud enough for everyone to hear; loud enough to catch William’s attention. ‘Oh, that’s awful. Do you have a wife and kiddies back home?’

‘I…no,’ William said, clearly astonished that a stranger could be so familiar.

‘So it’ll just be your parents missing you,’ the woman said. ‘Oh, I couldn’t bear it. Where’s home?’

‘New York.’ The two syllables were said with bluntness bordering on rudeness, but the woman wasn’t to be deflected.

‘New York City?’ she breathed. ‘Oh, where? Near Central Park?’

‘My apartment overlooks Central Park,’ he conceded, and there was an awed hush.

‘Will it be snowing there?’ someone asked, and Meg looked at her boss’s grim face and answered for him. She’d checked the forecast. It was part of her job.

‘The forecast is for snow.’

‘Oh, and the temperature here’s going to be boiling.’ The woman doing the questioning looked as if she might burst into tears on his behalf. ‘You could have made snowmen in Central Park.’

‘I don’t…’

‘Or thrown snowballs,’ someone added.

‘Or made a Snowman Santa.’

‘Hey, did you see that movie where they fell down and made snow angels?’

‘He could do that here in the dust.’

There was general laughter, but it was sympathetic, and then the next carol started and William was mercifully left alone.

Um…maybe she should have protected him from that. Maybe she shouldn’t have told anyone he was her boss. Meg looked across at William—immersed in his work again—and thought—I’m taking my boss home for Christmas and all we’re offering is dust angels. He could be having a white Christmas in Central Park.

With who?

She didn’t know, and she was not going to feel bad about that, she decided. Not until he told her that he was missing a person in particular. If he was simply going to sit in a luxury penthouse and have lobster and caviar and truffles and open gifts to himself…

She was going home to Scotty and Grandma and a hundred cows.

That was a good thought. No matter how appallingly she’d messed up, she was still going home for Christmas.

She was very noble to share, she told herself.

Hold that thought.

Tandaroit wasn’t so much a station as a rail head. There’d been talk of closing it down but Letty had immediately presented a petition with over five thousand names on it to their local parliamentarian. No matter that Letty, Scotty and Meg seemed to be the only ones who used it—and that the names on the petition had been garnered by Letty, dressed in gumboots and overalls, sitting on the corner of one of Melbourne’s major pedestrian malls in Scotty’s now discarded wheelchair. She’d been holding an enormous photograph of a huge-eyed calf with a logo saying ‘Save Your Country Cousins’ superimposed.

Tandaroit Station stayed.

When Letty wanted something she generally got it. Her energy was legendary. The death of her son and daughter-in-law four years ago had left her shattered, but afterwards she’d hugged Meg and she’d said, ‘There’s nothing to do but keep going, so we keep going. Let’s get you another job.’

Meg’s first thought had been to get some sort of accountancy job in Curalo, their closest city, but then they’d found Mr McMaster’s advertisement. ‘You’d be away from us almost completely for three months of the year but the rest we’d have you almost full-time. That’d be better for Scotty; better for all of us. And look at the pay,’ Letty had said, awed. ‘Oh, Meg, go for it.’

So she’d gone for it, and now she was tugging her bag down from the luggage rack as William extricated himself from his wedged in position and she was thinking that was what she had to do now. Just go for it. Christmas, here we come, ready or not.

Her bag was stuck under a load of other people’s baggage. She gave it a fierce tug and it came loose, just as William freed himself from his seat. She lurched backward and he caught her. And held.

He had to hold her. The train was slowing. There were youngsters sitting in the aisle, she had no hope of steadying herself and she had every chance of landing on top of a child. But her boss was holding her against him, steady as a rock in the swaying train.

And she let him hold her. She was tired and unnerved and overwrought. She’d been trying to be chirpy; trying to pretend everything was cool and she brought someone like her boss home for Christmas every year. She’d been trying to think that she didn’t care that she’d just ruined the most fantastic job she’d ever be likely to have.

And suddenly it was all just too much. For one fleeting moment she let her guard down. She let herself lean into him, while she felt his strength, the feel of his new-this-morning crisp linen shirt, the scent of his half-a-month’s-salary aftershave…

‘Ooh, I hope you two have a very happy Christmas,’ the lady she’d been sitting near said, beaming up at them in approval. ‘No need for gifts for you two, then. No wonder you’re taking him home for Christmas.’ And then she giggled. ‘You know, I married my boss too. Best thing I ever did. Fourteen grandchildren later…You go for it, love.’

And Meg, who’d never blushed in her life, turned bright crimson and hauled herself out of her boss’s arms as if she were burned.

The train was shuddering to a halt. She had to manoeuvre her way through the crowds to get out.

She headed for the door, leaving her boss to follow. If he could. And she wouldn’t really mind if he couldn’t.

The train dumped them and left, rolling away into the night, civilisation on wheels, leaving them where civilisation wasn’t. Nine o’clock on the Tandaroit rail head. Social hub of the world. Or not. There was a single electric light above the entrance, and nothing else for as far as the eye could see.

‘So…where exactly are we?’ William said, sounding as if he might have just landed on Mars, but Meg wasn’t listening. She was too busy staring out into the night, willing the headlights of Letty’s station wagon to appear.

Letty was always late. She’d threatened her with death if she was late tonight.

She couldn’t even phone her to find out where she was. There was no mobile reception out here. And, as if in echo of her thoughts…

‘There’s no reception.’ Her boss was staring incredulously at his phone.

‘There’s a land line at the farm.’

‘You’ve brought me somewhere with no cellphone reception?’

Hysterics were once again very close to the surface. Meg felt ill. ‘It’s better than sleeping at the airport,’ she snapped, feeling desperate.

‘How is it better?’ He was looking where she was looking, obviously hoping for any small sign of civilisation. There wasn’t any. Just a vast starlit sky and nothing and nothing and nothing.

‘She’ll come.’

‘Who’ll come?’

‘My grandmother,’ Meg said through gritted teeth. ‘If she knows what’s good for her, she’ll come right now.’

‘Your home is how far from the station?’

‘Eight miles.’

‘Eight!’

‘Maybe a bit more.’

‘It’s a farm?’

‘Yes.’

‘So Tandaroit…’

She took a couple of deep breaths. Hysterics would help no one. ‘It’s more of a district than a town,’ she admitted. ‘There was a school here once, and tennis courts. Not now, though. They use the school for storing stock feed.’

‘And your farm’s eight miles from this…hub,’ he said, his voice carefully, dangerously neutral. ‘That’s a little far to walk.’

‘We’re not walking.’

‘I was thinking,’ he said, ‘of how long it might take to walk back here when I decide to leave.’

That caught her. She stopped staring out into the night and stared at her boss instead. Thinking how this might look to him.

‘You mean if my family turn into axe-murderers?’ she ventured.

‘I’ve seen Deliverance.’

Her lips twitched. ‘We’re not that bad.’

‘You don’t own a car?’

‘No.’

‘Yet I pay you a very good wage.’

‘We have Letty’s station wagon and a tractor. What else do we need?’

‘You like sitting on rail heads waiting for grandmothers who may or may not appear?’

‘She’ll appear.’

‘I believe,’ he said, speaking slowly, as if she was ever so slightly dim, ‘that I might be changing my mind about travelling to a place that’s eight miles from a train which comes…how often a day?’

‘Three or four times, but it only stops here once.’

‘Once,’ he said faintly. ‘It stops once, eight miles away from a place that has no mobile phone reception, with a grandmother who even her granddaughter appears to be feeling homicidal about.’

Uh-oh. She ran her fingers through her hair and tried to regroup.

‘Not that it’s not a very kind invitation,’ he added and she choked. She was so close to the edge…

‘I thought it was kind,’ she managed.

‘Kind?’

‘I could have left you in the office.’

‘Or not. It was you,’ he reminded her, ‘who got me into this mess.’

‘You could have listened to the news on the radio this morning as well as me,’ she snapped and then thought—had she really said that? What little hope she had of keeping her job had finally gone.

‘That’s what I pay you for,’ he snapped back.

Well, if she’d gone this far…‘I left the office at eleven last night. I was at your hotel just after six. I don’t get eight hours off?’

‘I pay you for twenty-four hours on call.’

‘I’m not fussed about what you pay me,’ she snapped. The tension of the last few hours was suddenly erupting, and there was no way she could keep a lid on her emotions. ‘I’m fussed about the ten minutes I spent washing my hair this morning when I should have been listening to the radio and hearing about the airline strike. I’m fussed about being stuck with my boss, who doesn’t seem the least bit grateful that I’m doing the best I can. And now I’m stuck with someone who has the capacity to mess with my family Christmas if he doesn’t stop making me feel guilty and if he spends the rest of Christmas playing Manhattan Millionaire stuck here, and it’s All My Fault.’

She stopped. Out of breath. Out of emotion. Out of words. And it seemed he was the same.

Well, what could he say? Should he agree? He could hardly sack her here, right now, Meg thought. If he did…she and Letty really could be axe-murderers.

Or they could just leave him here, sitting on the Tandaroit station until the next train came through late tomorrow.

‘Don’t do it,’ he growled, and she remembered too late he had an uncanny ability to read her mind. He hesitated and then obviously decided he had no choice but to be a little bit conciliatory. ‘It’s very…clean hair,’ he ventured.

‘Thank you.’ What else was there to say?

‘This…grandmother…’

‘Letty.’

‘She’s backed up by other family members? With other cars?’ He was obviously moving on from her outburst, deciding the wisest thing was to ignore it.

‘Just Letty.’

‘And…who else?’

‘Scotty. My kid brother.’

‘You said no children,’ he said, alarmed.

‘Fifteen’s not a child.’

‘Okay,’ he conceded. ‘Who else?’

‘No one.’

‘Where are your parents?’

‘They died,’ she said. ‘Four years ago. Car crash.’

He was quick. He had it sorted straight away. ‘Which is why you took the job with me?’

‘So I could get home more,’ she said. ‘Ironic, isn’t it?’

But he was no longer listening. Had he been listening, anyway? ‘Could this be Letty?’ he demanded.

Oh, please…She stared into the darkness, and there it was, two pinpricks of light in the distance, growing bigger.

Headlights.

‘Deliverance,’ she muttered and her boss almost visibly flinched.

‘Just joking,’ she said.

‘Don’t joke.’

‘No jokes,’ she agreed and took a deep breath and picked up her holdall. ‘Okay, here’s Letty and, while you may not appreciate it, we really are safe. We’ve organised you a nice private bedroom with Internet. You can use our telephone if there are people you need to contact other than over the Web. You can stay in your room and work all Christmas but Letty is one of the world’s best cooks and here really is better than camping in the office.’

‘I imagine it will be,’ he said, but he didn’t sound sure. ‘And I am grateful.’

‘I bet you are.’

‘It’s lovely hair,’ he said, surprisingly. ‘It would have been a shame to leave it dirty for Christmas.’

‘Thank you,’ she managed again. Cheering up, despite herself.

Letty was coming. She could send W S McMaster to his allocated room and she could get on with Christmas.

Anger was counterproductive. Anger would get him nowhere. Yes, his PA had messed up his Christmas plans but the thing was done. And no, he should never have agreed to come with her to this middle-of-nowhere place. If he’d thought it through, maybe he could have rung a realtor and even bought a small house. Anything rather than being stuck at the beck and call of one wiry little woman called Letty who seemed to own the only set of wheels in the entire district.

They hadn’t passed another car. The car they were in sounded sick enough to be worrying. There was something wrong with its silencer—as if it didn’t have one. The engine was periodically missing. The gearbox seemed seriously shot. They were jolting along an unsealed road. He was wedged in the back seat with both his and Meg’s gear and Letty was talking at the top of her lungs.

‘I’m late because Dave Barring popped over to check on Millicent. Millicent’s a heifer I’m worried is going to calve over Christmas.’ Letty was yelling at him over her shoulder. ‘Dave’s our local vet and he’s off for Christmas so I wanted a bit of reassurance. He reckons she should be right,’ she told Meg. ‘Then I had to pick up three bags of fertiliser from Robertson’s. Robby said if I didn’t take it tonight the place’d be locked up till after New Year. So I’m sorry it’s a bit squashed in the back.’

‘I’m fine,’ he said. He wasn’t.

Anger was counterproductive. If he said it often enough he might believe it.

‘We can swap if you want,’ Meg said.

‘You won’t fit in the back,’ Letty said. ‘Not with Killer.’

Letty was right. The combination of Meg and Killer would never fit in the back seat with the baggage.

Killer looked like a cross between a Labrador and an Old English sheepdog. He was huge and hairy and black as the night around them. He’d met Meg with such exuberance that once more William had had to steady her, stopping her from being pushed right over.

While Killer had greeted Meg, Letty had greeted him with a handshake that was stronger than a man’s twice her size. Then she’d greeted her granddaughter with a hug that made Meg wince, and then she’d moved into organisational mode.

‘You in the back. Meg, in the front with Killer. I told Scotty I’d be back by nine-thirty so we need to move.’

They were moving. They were flying over the corrugated road with a speed that made him feel as if he was about to lose teeth.

‘So what do we call you?’ Letty said over her shoulder.

‘I told you; he’s Mr McMaster,’ Meg said, sounding muffled, as well she might under so much dog.

‘Mac?’ Letty demanded.

‘He’s my boss,’ Letty said, sounding desperate. ‘He’s not Mac.’

‘He’s our guest for Christmas. What do we call you?’ she demanded again. ‘How about Mac?’

Do not let the servants become familiar.

Master William.

Mr McMaster.

Sir.

Once upon a time a woman called Hannah had called him William. To her appalling cost…

‘How about Bill?’ Letty demanded. ‘That’s short for William. Or Billy.’

‘Billy?’ Meg said, sounding revolted. ‘Grandma, can we…’

‘William,’ he said flatly, hating it.

‘Willie?’ Letty said, hopeful.

‘William.’

Letty sighed. ‘Will’s better. Though it is a bit short.’

‘Like Meg,’ Meg said.

‘You know I like Meggie.’

‘And you know I don’t answer to it. We don’t have to call you anything you don’t like,’ Meg said over her shoulder. ‘I’m happy to keep calling you Mr McMaster.’

‘You are not,’ Letty retorted. ‘Not over Christmas. And why are you calling him Mr McMaster, anyway? How long have you worked for him? Three years?’

‘He calls me Miss Jardine.’

‘Then the pair of you need to come off your high horses,’ Letty retorted. ‘Meg and William it is, and if I hear any sign of Ms or Mr then it’s Meggie and Willie for the rest of Christmas. Right?’

‘Okay with me,’ Meg said, resigned.

‘Fine,’ William said.

Define fine.

He was expecting hillbilly country. What he got was Fantasia. They sped over a crest and there it was, spread out before them, a house straight out of a fairy tale.

Or not. As he got closer…

Not a fairy tale. A Christmas tableau.

The farmhouse, set well back from the road among scattered gums, was lit up like a series of flashing neon signs. It was so bright it should almost be visible from the next state.

‘Oh, my…’ Meg breathed before William could even get his breath back. ‘Grandma, what have you done?’

‘We both did it,’ Letty said proudly. ‘Me and Scotty. You like our sleigh?’

The house had two chimneys, with what looked like an attic between them. The sleigh took up the entire distance between chimneys. There was a Santa protruding from the chimney on the left. Or, rather, part of Santa. His lower half. His legs were waving backwards and forwards, as if Santa had become stuck in descent. The movement wasn’t smooth, so he moved gracefully from left to right, then jerked back with a movement sharp enough to dislodge vertebrae.

The house was Christmas City. There were lights from one end to the other, a myriad of fairy lights that made the house look like something out of a cartoon movie.

‘It took us days,’ Letty said, pleased with the awed hush. ‘When you rang and said there was a chance you couldn’t get home tonight Scotty and I were ready to shoot ourselves. We’ve worked our tails off getting this right.’

‘I can see that you have,’ Meg said, sounding as stunned as he was. ‘Grandma…’

‘And, before you say a word, we got it all over the Internet,’ Letty informed her. ‘Scotty found it. It was a package deal advertised in July by some lady cleaning out her garage. She’d just bought the house and found it, and she practically paid us to take it away. Some people,’ she said, slowing the car so they could admire the house in all its glory, ‘have no appreciation of art.’

‘But running it,’ Meg said helplessly. ‘It’ll cost…’

‘It’s practically all solar,’ Letty cut in. ‘Except Santa. Well, there’s not a lot of solar Santa Claus’s backsides out there. We haven’t quite got the legs right, but I’ll adjust them before Christmas. Still…What do you think?’

There was suddenly a touch of anxiety in her voice. William got it, and he thought maybe this lady wasn’t as tough as she sounded. She surely wanted to please this girl, Meg, sitting somewhere under her dog.

‘You climb up on that roof again and I’ll give all of your Christmas presents to the dogs. But I love it,’ Meg said as the car came to a halt.

‘Really?’

‘I really love it.’ Meg giggled. ‘It’s kitsch and funny and those legs are just plain adorable.’

‘What do you think?’ Letty said, and she swivelled and looked straight at him. ‘Will?’

‘William. Um…’

‘No lies,’ she said. ‘Is my Meg just humouring me?’

Meg swivelled too. She was covered in dog but somehow he managed to see her expression.

Mess with my grandma and I’ll mess with you, her look said, and it was such a look that he had to revise all over again what he thought of his competent, biddable PA.

His hostess for Christmas.

‘Adorable,’ he said faintly.

‘You’re lying,’ Letty said, and he found himself smiling.

‘I am,’ he agreed, and he met Meg’s glare square on. ‘There’s nothing adorable about a pair of crimson trousers stuck in a chimney. However, it’s fantastical and truly in the spirit of Christmas. As soon as we came over the crest I just knew this was going to be a Christmas to remember.’

‘Better than being stuck in the office?’ Meg said, starting to smile.

‘Better than the office.’ Maybe.

‘Then that’s okay,’ Letty said, accelerating again. ‘If you like my decorations then you can stay. The pair of you.’

‘You’re very generous,’ William said.

‘We are, aren’t we?’ Meg agreed, and hugged her dog.

And then the car pulled to a halt beside the house—and straight away there was more dog. Killer’s relatives? William opened the door and four noses surged in, each desperate to reach him. They were all smaller than Killer, he thought with some relief. Black and white. Collies?

‘Fred, Milo, Turps, Roger, leave the man alone,’ Meg called and the dog pack headed frantically for the other side of the car to envelope someone they obviously knew and loved. Meg was on the ground hugging handfuls of ecstatic dog, being welcomed home in truly splendid style.

William extricated himself from the car and stared down at her. Any hint of his cool, composed PA had disappeared. Meg was being licked from every angle, she was coated with dog and she was showing every sign of loving it.

‘Killer’s Meg’s dog,’ Letty said, surveying the scene in satisfaction. ‘Fred and Roger are mine. Turps and Milo belong to Scotty but they all love Meg. She’s so good with dogs.’

Meg was well and truly buried—and the sight gave him pause.

In twenty-four hours he should be entering his apartment overlooking Central Park. His housekeeper would have come in before him, made sure the heating was on, filled the place with provisions, even set up a tasteful tree. The place would be warm and elegant and welcoming.

Maybe not as welcoming as this.

He would have been welcomed almost as much as this on Christmas Day, he thought, and that was a bleak thought. A really bleak thought. The disappointment he’d felt when he’d learned of the air strike hit home with a vengeance.

He didn’t show emotion. He was schooled not to show it. But now…

It wasn’t any use thinking of it, he thought, struggling to get a grip on his feelings. Elinor would make alternative arrangements. The kids were accustomed to disappointment.

That made it worse, not better.

Don’t think about it. Why rail against something he could do nothing about?

Why was the sight of this woman rolling with dog intensifying the emotion? Making him feel as if he was on the outside looking in?

Back off, he told himself. He was stuck here for three days. Make the most of it and move on.

Meg was struggling to her feet and, despite a ridiculous urge to go fend off a few dogs, he let her do it herself, regain her feet and her composure, or as much composure as a woman who’d just been buried with dogs could have.

‘No, down. Oh, I’ve missed you guys. But where’s Scotty?’

Scotty was watching them.

The kid in the doorway was tall and gangly and way too skinny, even allowing for an adolescent growth spurt. He had Meg’s chestnut curls, Meg’s freckles, Meg’s clear green eyes, but William’s initial overriding impression was that he looked almost emaciated. There was a scar running the length of his left cheek. He had a brace enclosing his left leg, from foot to hip.

He was looking nervously at William, but as soon as William glanced at him he turned his attention to his sister. Who’d turned her attention to him.

‘Scotty…’ Dogs forgotten, Meg headed for her brother and enveloped him in a hug that was almost enough to take him from his feet. The kid was four or five inches taller than Meg’s meagre five feet four or so, but he had no body weight to hold him down. Meg could hug as much as she wanted. There was no way Scotty could defend himself.

Not that he was defending himself. He was hugging Meg back, but with a wary glance at William over her head. Suspicious.

‘Hi,’ William said. ‘I’m William.’ There. He’d said it as if it didn’t hurt at all.

‘I’m Scott,’ the boy said, and Meg released him and turned to face William, her arm staying round her brother, her face a mixture of defensiveness and pride.

‘This is my family,’ she said. ‘Letty and Scotty and our dogs.’

‘Scott,’ Scott said again, only it didn’t come out as it should. He was just at that age, William thought, adolescent trying desperately to be a man but his body wasn’t cooperating. His voice was almost broken, but not quite.

And, aside from his breaking voice, his leg looked a mess as well. You didn’t get to wear a brace that looked like scaffolding if the bones underneath weren’t deeply problematic.

Meg had told him her parents had died four years ago. Had Scott been in the same car crash? The brace spoke of serious ongoing concerns.

Why hadn’t he found this out? William had always prided himself on hiring on instinct rather than background checks. A background check right now would be handy.

‘Did the car get you here all right?’ the kid asked, and William could see he was making an effort to seem older than he was. ‘It needs about six parts replacing but Grandma won’t let me touch it.’

‘You mess with that car and we’re stuck,’ Letty said. ‘Next milk cheque I’ll get it seen to.’

‘I wouldn’t hurt it.’

‘You’re fifteen. You’re hardly a mechanic.’

‘Yeah, but I’ve read…’

‘No,’ Letty snapped. ‘The car’s fine.’

‘I tried messing with my dad’s golf cart when I was fifteen,’ William said, interrupting what he suspected to be a long running battle. ‘Dad was away for a month. He came back and I’d supplied him with a hundred or so extra horsepower. Sadly, he touched the accelerator and hit the garage door. The fuss! Talk about lack of appreciation.’

Scott smiled at that—a shy smile but a smile nonetheless. So did Letty, and so did Meg. And his reaction surprised him.

He kind of liked these smiles, he decided. They took away a little of the sting of the last few hours. It seemed he could put thoughts of Deliverance aside. These people were decent. He could settle down here and get some work done.

And maybe he could try and make Meg smile again. Was that a thought worth considering?

‘The Internet’s down,’ Scott said and smiling was suddenly the last thing on his mind.

‘The Internet…’ Meg said, sounding stunned. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘There’s been a landslip over at Tandaroit South and the lines are down. They don’t know when it’ll be fixed. Days probably.’

He was having trouble figuring this out. ‘Lines?’

‘Telephone lines,’ Scott said, an adolescent explaining something to slightly stupid next-generation-up.

‘You use phone lines for the Internet?’

‘I know, dinosaur stuff and slow as,’ Scott said. ‘But satellite connection costs heaps. Mickey has satellite connection, but Meg’s only just figured out a way we can afford dial-up.’

‘And…’ He checked his phone. ‘There’s no mobile reception here either,’ he said slowly.

‘No,’ Meg told him.

‘And now no fixed phone?’

‘No.’ Meg sounded really nervous—as well she might.

‘So no Internet until the line’s fixed?’

‘Well, duh,’ Scott said, sounding adolescent and a bit belligerent. Maybe he thought his sister was about to be attacked. Maybe she was.

But William wasn’t focused on Meg. He was feeling ill. To be so far from contact…He should have rung Elinor before he left Melbourne. He should have woken her.

He had to contact her. Her entire Christmas would be ruined.

‘I can’t stay here,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘The airport’d be better than this.’

‘Hey!’ Letty said.

He didn’t have time or space to pacify her. All he could think of was Elinor—and two small kids. ‘I need to use a phone,’ he snapped. ‘Now.’

‘I have supper on,’ Letty said.

‘This is important. There are people waiting for me in New York.’

‘But you’re not due there until tomorrow,’ Meg said, astounded. ‘They’ll hardly be waiting at the airport yet.’

‘I still need a phone. Sort it, Jardine,’ he ordered.

He watched her long thoughtful stare, the stare he’d come to rely on. This woman was seriously good. He depended on her in a crisis.

He was depending on her now, and she didn’t let him down.

‘Supper first,’ she said at last. ‘If it can wait that long.’

Maybe it could, he conceded. ‘Supper first. Then what?’

‘Then I’ll take you over to Scotty…to Scott’s friend, Mickey’s. Mickey lives two miles north of here and his parents have satellite connection. You can use the Internet or their Skype phone for half an hour while I catch up with Mickey’s mum. The weekend before Christmas she’ll probably still be up.’

‘I need it for more…’

‘Half an hour max,’ she said, blunt and direct, as he’d come to expect. ‘Even that’s a favour. They’re dairy farmers and it’s late now. But you should be able to talk to New York via Skype. Mind, it’ll be before seven in the morning over there, so trying to wake anyone up…’

‘She’ll wake.’

‘Of course she will,’ she said, almost cordially, and he looked at her with suspicion.

‘Miss Jardine…’

‘I’m Meg,’ she said. ‘Remember? Meg until I’m back on the payroll, if that ever happens.’

‘I don’t believe I’ve fired you.’

‘So you haven’t,’ she said. ‘And Christmas miracles happen. Okay, I’ll take you over to Mickey’s and I will try and get you in touch with New York but let’s not go anywhere until we’ve had some of Letty’s mango trifle. You have made me mango trifle, haven’t you, Grandma?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then what are we waiting for?’ she demanded, and she grabbed her bag, manoeuvred her way through her dog pack and headed inside. ‘Trifle, yay.’ Then she paused. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, sir,’ she said, looking back. ‘I mean…William. Do you want your mango trifle in your room? Do you want me to take you straight there?’

‘Um…no,’ he said weakly.

‘That’s a shame,’ she said. ‘If you’re sitting at the kitchen table you’ll want seconds. There’s less for us that way, but if you’re sure…Lead the way, Grandma. Let’s go.’