Читать книгу A Night, A Secret...A Child - Miranda Lee - Страница 8

SERINA found it impossible to concentrate at work that Friday morning. All she could think about was the fact that Nicolas was on his way here right at this moment; that soon, he would reach Port Macquarie and call, not Felicity or Fred Tarleton, Felicity’s school’s principal, but her own sorry self.

Felicity, the precocious child, had informed her of these new arrangements late last night, explaining that she’d given Nicolas her mobile number to contact when he arrived at Port Macquarie, as everyone at the school would be tied up all day, getting the school hall ready for the concert the following evening. Everything had to be perfect for their famous visiting judge.

There had been no use protesting. Felicity was as stubborn as a mule. And Nicolas, it seemed, was uncontactable at that hour, having already boarded his plane in London for the flight to Sydney. It hadn’t occurred to Serina till she’d arrived at work this morning that he probably had one of those fandangled new phones that received emails, even on planes. Serina had never been overly keen on technology and whilst she used a computer at work and carried a basic mobile phone with her, she didn’t have a PC of her own at home and wasn’t at all enamoured with the Internet.

Felicity, however, like most modern children, was a real computer buff and could make her way around the worldwide web with ridiculous ease. Over the past fortnight she’d regaled Serina with scads of information about Nicolas that she’d found on the Internet, from his earliest concert playing days right up to the successes he’d had as a theatrical entrepreneur, including that of his latest musical protégée, a young Japanese violinist called Junko Hoshino who was as beautiful as she was talented. Several gossip columnists had them being an item already. It seemed Nicolas had somewhat of a reputation as a ladies’ man, a fact that didn’t surprise.

Serina already knew quite a bit about Nicolas’s life over the past decade. There’d been a segment on 60 Minutes a couple of years ago back that was like a mini This is Your Life, highlighting the accident that had ended his piano playing career, then praising him for the way he’d put such a tragedy behind him and forged a new career in show business.

It had made difficult viewing with Greg by her side on the lounge. She’d wanted to tape the segment and watch it over and over—watch him over and over—but hadn’t dared. Greg knew she’d once dated Nicolas, though she’d always downplayed their relationship, claiming she hadn’t been unhappy when he left Australia to pursue his career. Later that night, when Greg had wanted sex, however, she’d turned him down, because she knew she simply could not bear to make love with her husband with the memory of Nicolas so fresh in her mind.

He was very fresh in her mind again today, not just because he was on his way to Rocky Creek but because of what she’d watched on Felicity’s computer last night. That incorrigible child had found an old video of him on a social networking site showing him playing one of Chopin’s polonaises at the Royal Albert Hall.

‘You have to come and look at this, Mum,’ she’d insisted.

Serina had, very reluctantly at first. But then with total concentration on the screen.

No one, in Serina’s opinion, played the piano quite like Nicolas. She had no doubt that lots of concert pianists—past and present—were more technically brilliant. But none possessed his passion, his panache, or his blatant sex appeal.

Women had swooned over him when he played. She certainly had that fateful night. His performance—even on this grainy video—sent sexual shivers running down her spine.

‘Wasn’t he an incredible pianist, Mum?’ Felicity had raved.

‘Yes,’ Serina had agreed huskily, her tongue thick in her throat.

‘And to think he can’t play anymore! I cried when I read about his hands being burned like that. But it was very brave of him to do what he did, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Serina had agreed again, this time in a more composed voice. ‘Very brave.’

Which it had been. Apparently, he’d been walking along a street in central London very late one night—not long after his mother died—when a passing car had careered out of control on a corner, hit a brick wall and burst into flames. The driver—a woman—had been knocked unconscious. Nicolas had raced over and dragged her out. He’d just pulled her clear when he’d heard the baby crying. It had taken him some considerable time to undo the seat belt and extricate the baby from its capsule in the backseat, during which time his hands had been burned, his left hand so badly that his left thumb had had to eventually be amputated.

Serina had cried, too, when she’d first heard about Nicolas’s burnt hand. It had been widely covered in the news at the time. Greg had found her weeping over it in her bedroom, but thought she was crying over her inability to conceive another child. She’d let him think that. For how could she explain her distress over Nicolas’s accident?

She’d felt guilty, though. She’d felt guilty a lot during her marriage. That was the one thing that Greg’s death had released her from. Feeling guilty.

There was no guilt in Serina today. The guilt had been replaced by the most excruciating nervous tension.

Her eyes kept going to the clock on the wall. Only tenfifteen. If he was driving, Nicolas couldn’t possibly be in Port yet. His plane didn’t touch down in Mascot till six-thirty this morning. By the time he got through customs and rented a car he would have hit peak hour traffic in Sydney. It would take him till well after nine to get out of the city and onto the freeway. Once you included a couple of stops for food and nature calling, plus all the delays caused by the road works around Bulahdelah and Taree, his estimated time of arrival would be around three or four this afternoon.

But, of course, he might not be driving up. He might have taken a connecting flight. She herself had never flown anywhere from Port. When she went to Sydney by herself that one time, she’d taken the train from Wauchope. Then, after her marriage to Greg, on the few occasions they’d gone to Sydney, they’d driven down. But she knew there was a flight from Sydney that got in around ten. If it was on time, it would take Nicolas about half an hour to collect his luggage and get to wherever he was staying in Port. Which meant she could expect a call anytime now.

Serina had just finished this mental calculation when her phone rang. Not her work phone but her mobile.

‘That’ll be him!’ Allie called out from the reception desk.

‘If it is then he couldn’t have driven,’ Serina said.

‘Of course not!’ Emma said impatiently from her nearby desk. ‘A man like that. He wouldn’t drive all this way when he could fly.’

Both the girls who worked with Serina in the office knew everything about Nicolas’s visit—and the man himself—courtesy of Felicity dropping by every second morning to give them an update, including this morning. Fortunately, neither of the girls were old enough to have been at high school with either Serina or Nicolas, so they believed everything Serina told them about her relationship with the famous entrepreneur.

Nonetheless, being typical females, they were quick to suggest that her ‘just good friends’ status with the famous Nicolas Dupre might develop into something more once he got to see her again. Both Allie and Emma were openly admiring of their boss’s looks and style, and had recently begun to try to matchmake her with every single man in Rocky Creek. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—there weren’t too many local men around Serina’s age who weren’t already married, or Mumma’s boys, or simply too unattractive for words.

In truth, Serina had no interest in getting married again. Or even in dating.

But Allie and Emma didn’t believe her.

‘For pity’s sake, Serina,’ Allie snapped. ‘Will you stop staring at that darned phone and just answer it!’

Serina winced as she swept up her phone from where it was vibrating all over her desktop.

‘Hello?’ she croaked out.

‘Serina? Is that you?’

It was Nicolas. His voice was extremely memorable, being rich and deep and as smooth as melted chocolate.

Serina cleared the lump in her throat. ‘Yes, yes, it’s me, Nicolas,’ she went on, hopefully sounding more like the calm, confident woman she usually was around the office. ‘So where are you?’

‘In Port Macquarie.’

‘Oh. You flew, then. So where are you staying?’

‘The Blue Horizon Apartments.’

The newest and most luxurious in Port. Trust Nicolas to choose the best. That segment she’d seen on TV had been filmed in his New York apartment, which was like a show home and probably worth millions.

‘Did you have a good flight from London?’ she said, well aware of Allie and Emma listening in.

‘Great. I slept all the way.’

Which was more than could be said for herself last night.

‘I always take a sleeping tablet on overnight flights,’ he added. ‘And I travel first class, which helps.’

‘I’m sure it does.’

Serina grimaced. Did that sound waspish? She hoped it didn’t, because that betrayed emotion and she was determined to remain cool around Nicolas. On the surface, anyway. She’d vowed during the long hours she’d lain awake last night that she was not going to let him get to her in any way.

But that was last night and this was now. Serina had an awful feeling that any vows she’d made where Nicolas was concerned would not stand up once they were face-to-face. Bad enough just talking to him. Her heartbeat had already doubled and her hand—the one clutching the phone—felt decidedly clammy.

Of course it was hot today. The forecast was for thirty-six degrees. But their office was air-conditioned. There was no reason for her to have sweaty palms.

‘Have you hired yourself a car?’ she inquired. Please don’t let him say that he hasn’t. The last thing she wanted was to have to chauffeur Nicolas around.

‘Of course,’ he said rather drily. ‘But I learned my lesson from last time and rented an SUV.’

‘What do you mean, last time?’

‘When I came home for Mum’s funeral I hired a sports car.’

‘Oh, yes, I remember,’ she said. All the girls in town—and the boys—had practically salivated over the yellow sporty number parked outside the church that day. Greg had made some caustic remark. Serina had done the wise thing and ignored it.

‘I presume the potholes on Rocky Creek Road are still as bad as ever,’ Nicolas said.

‘I’m afraid so,’ she replied.

‘Port’s changed a lot.’

‘Well, it has been a long time, Nicolas. Everything changes with time.’

‘Some things not for the better,’ he said rather brusquely. ‘Now, as soon as I shower and change, I’ll drive out to Rocky Creek and you can show me when and where I have to go tomorrow. Then I thought I’d take you to lunch.’

‘Lunch?’ she practically squawked before she could think better of it. A nervous glance over at Allie and Emma showed them both nodding vigorously. To refuse would have seemed not only inhospitable, but also worthy of suspicion.

‘Is there some reason why you can’t do that?’ he was already saying.

‘Well I…I’m at work at the moment,’ she hedged.

‘Ah, still the demands of the family business. But surely you’re the boss by now. Or did your father eventually recover from his stroke?’

Serina swallowed. ‘No, no, Dad never recovered. He…um…passed away a couple of years back. Another stroke.’

‘I’m so sorry, Serina,’ he said softly. ‘I know how much you loved him. How’s your mum coping?’

Serina blinked at this surprising sensitivity from Nicolas. So different from the last time they’d spoken. At his own mother’s wake, he’d been full of bitterness and anger. There’d not been one shred of understanding, or forgiveness. Maybe she was wrong about why he’d come back. Maybe he had grown mellow with age. Maybe he was well and truly over what she’d done to him all those years ago.

She hoped so. She really did.

‘I think Mum was almost relieved when Dad died,’ she told him. ‘His quality of life was never good. He couldn’t speak, you know, or walk. Therapy didn’t work. The damage to his brain was too great.’

‘I didn’t realise that.’

Well, of course not. He’d never asked. And she’d never told him. Not that she’d had much opportunity after his stormy departure for England. There’d been no contact between them after that till the night Felicity was conceived, where their brief reunion had not exactly been filled with conversation.

Oh, why did I have to start thinking about that night?

Serina’s head began to whirl. What had he just asked her? Something about her mother. Oh, yes…

‘Mum’s fine,’ she said. ‘She sold the old farm and moved into a villa in a new retirement village closer to town. She’s even started working here again at the weekends, which is very good. It gives me more time to spend with Felicity.’ She didn’t add that all this had come about after Greg’s death, when Serina hadn’t felt capable of going to work for a while.

She had loved her husband. Maybe not with the type of grand passion she’d once felt for Nicolas, but it had been a very true affection.

Nevertheless, she had to confess that once she got over her initial shock and grief, Serina had experienced a strange measure of relief, the same kind of relief, no doubt, that she was sure her mother had felt after her husband had died. Her mother had become very depressed over the years, looking after her husband’s needs and having little pleasure in her own life. Serina’s life with Greg hadn’t been as bad as that. But there was no denying her marriage had not been entirely happy. There’d been too much guilt in Serina’s heart. And one very big secret, which sometimes weighed heavily on her conscience.

Now that she was widow, Serina had imagined that that secret was safe.

Till this moment…

What would Nicolas think, she suddenly worried, when he watched Felicity play the piano? And he would tomorrow night, when she performed in the talent quest. Thankfully, Felicity still looked nothing like her real father. But she had developed certain physical mannerisms when she played. Mannerisms that were horribly familiar. The flamboyant way she attacked the keys; the flourish with which she lifted her hands once she’d finished a piece; the way she tossed her hair…

It was a worry, all right.

Just when she was beginning to feel slightly more relaxed over Nicolas’s motives in coming home.

‘Could your mum pop in to work now, do you think?’ Nicolas asked. ‘Give you some time off?’

‘Oh…er…no, she can’t. She had to take Mrs Johnson down to Newcastle. To the John Hunter Hospital to see a heart specialist.’

‘Mrs Johnson’s not well?’

‘Generally speaking she’s very well. But she’s an old lady, Nicolas. When she had a bit of a turn a few weeks back, Mum decided she should have a few tests. After what happened to Dad, she’s become a strong believer in prevention being better than cure. But she won’t be back till late today.’

‘I see. So you’re stuck at work for the rest of the day.’

‘No, no, I can get away for a while,’ she said when Allie and Emma started making exasperated noises. ‘I have very good help here in the office. And business is rather slow at this time of the year. Not much building going on this close to Christmas.’

‘That’s great. I’ll see you in about an hour then.’

‘Fine. You know where to go?’

‘I presume the lumber yard’s in the same place it’s always been. On the left, just past the garage at the far end of the main street.’

‘Yes, that’s right.’ Serina could not help a wry smile pulling at her mouth. In the ten years since Nicolas’s last visit to Rocky Creek, the town—plus her family’s business—had changed almost as much as Port had. She would rather enjoy seeing the shock in Nicolas’s eyes when he saw the changes for himself.

‘You’ve changed, too,’ she murmured not quite so happily as she inspected herself in the powder room mirror a few minutes later.

On the surface she was still an attractive woman. She hadn’t put on any weight over the years. And her hair hadn’t yet started turning grey. But her skin no longer held the bloom of youth. She had some lines at the corners of her eyes. And now that she looked closely, there was definitely some slackness around her jaw line.

Serina put her palms on her cheeks and her thumbs on her neck and pulled upwards, tightening her skin. That was what successful New York women did when their faces began to sag. They had facelifts and injections.

Serina dropped her hands away from her face with an exasperated sigh. She was being silly. And vain. All because of Nicolas.

Normally, she didn’t wear much makeup to work, just a touch of mascara and lipstick. This morning, however, she’d surrendered to temptation and used a little foundation and some eyeliner. She’d also worn a new outfit, bought at one of the boutiques in Port Macquarie the previous weekend, one of two outfits purchased with Nicolas’s visit in mind.

Feminine pride had demanded she look her best and not like some country bumpkin.

Serina’s hand trembled as she went to retouch her lipstick, her fingers freezing when her eyes met her own in the mirror.

They were bright. Too bright.

‘Oh, Serina, Serina, be careful,’ she whispered.

She’d claimed to Nicolas that time changed everything. But nothing had changed for her where he was concerned. She still wanted him. She would always want him.

But she would not let him know that. She could not let him know that. For if she did, who knew what might happen…