Just One Night.... Trish Morey
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The men agreed unreservedly as Maureen blushed, her eyes a little glassy as she reached across and gave Eric’s hand a squeeze. ‘You’re an old softie from way back, Eric Culshaw, and you know it.’ She dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, and Eve, thinking she must look like she was shackled to Leo, shifted away, brushing his hand from her leg as she reached for her champagne. He must have got the message, because he didn’t press the issue, simply reached for his own drink, and part of her wondered whether he thought he’d done enough.
Part of her hoped he did.
The other part already missed his touch.
‘Felicity, how about you?’ she said, trying to forget about that other wayward part of her. ‘How did you and Richard meet?’
‘Well…’ The woman smiled and popped her glass on the table, slipping her hand into her husband’s. ‘This might sound familiar, but I’d been out with a friend, watching the sailing on Sydney Harbour. It had been a long day, so we stopped off to have a drink in a little pub on the way home, and the next thing I know, this nice fellow came up and asked if he could buy us both a drink.’ She turned to him and smiled and he leaned over and kissed her delicately on the tip of her nose. ‘And the rest, as they say, is history.’
‘That’s just like Princess Mary and Prince Frederik of Denmark,’ said Maureen. ‘Don’t you remember, everyone?’ Eve did, but she never had a chance to say anything because Leo chose that precise moment to run his finger along the back of her neck, a feather-light touch that came with depth charges that detonated deep down inside her as his fingertips drew tiny circles on her back.
‘It wasn’t the same hotel, was it?’ Maureen continued.
‘No. But it’s just as special to us. We go every year on the anniversary of that first meeting.’
‘How special,’ said Maureen. ‘Oh, I do love Sydney and the harbour. I have to say, the warmer weather suits me better than Melbourne’s, too.’
And Eve, lulled by the gentle touch of a master’s hand, and thinking of her never-ending quest to get the washing dried and not looking forward to cold showers and boiling kettles so Sam could have a warm bath, couldn’t help but agree. ‘Sydney’s wonderful. I used to work there. I spent so many weekends at the beach.’
The fingers at her neck stilled, a memory flickering like the frames of an old black and white movie in the recesses of his mind. Something about Sydney and a woman he’d met years ago so briefly—too briefly—a woman called Eve.
WHAT was it Maureen had said? ‘Most people would shorten it to Eve.’ And she’d said something like, ‘Either is fine.’ The exchange had niggled at some part of him when he’d heard it, although he hadn’t fully understood why at the time, but then the mention of Sydney had provided the missing link, and suddenly he’d realised that there could be no coincidence—that bit had provided the missing piece and the jigsaw had fitted together.
He thought back to a day that seemed so long ago, of flying into Sydney in the early morning, recalling memories of a whirlwind visit to rescue a deal threatening to go pear-shaped, and of a glass-walled office that had looked over Sydney Harbour and boasted plum views of both the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House. But the view had faded to insignificance when his eyes had happened upon the woman sitting in the opposite corner of the room. Her hair had been streaked with blonde and her skin had had a golden tan, like both had been kissed by the sun, and her amazing eyes had looked deeper and more inviting than any famous harbour.
And endless meetings and time differences and jetlag had all combined to press upon him one undeniable certainty.
He’d wanted her.
‘Eve,’ she’d told him when he’d cornered her during a break and asked her name. Breathless Eve with the lush mouth and amazing eyes and a body made for sin, a body all too willing to sin, as he’d discovered in that storeroom.
And he’d cursed when he’d had to leave all too suddenly for Santiago, cursed that he’d missed out on peeling her clothes from her luscious body, piece by piece. He’d had half a mind to return to Sydney after his business in Chile concluded, but by then something else had come up. And then there’d been more business in other countries, and other women, and she’d slipped from his radar, to be loosely filed under the-ones-that-got-away.
It wasn’t a big file and as it happened she hadn’t got away after all. She’d been right there under his nose, answering his emails, handling his paperwork, organising meetings, and she’d never once let on. Never once mentioned the fact they’d already met.
What was that about?
His hand drifted back to his pretend fiancée’s back, letting the conversation wash over him—something about an island the Culshaws owned in the Whitsundays—his fingertips busy tracing patterns on her satiny-soft skin as he studied her profile, the line of her jaw, the eyes he’d noticed and should have recognised. She was slightly changed, the colour of her hair more caramel now than the sun-streaked blonde it had been back then, and maybe she wasn’t quite so reed thin. Slight changes, no more than that, and they looked good on her. But no wonder he’d thought she’d looked familiar.
She glanced briefly at him then, as the party rose and headed for the dining area, a slight frown marring an otherwise perfect brow, as if she was wondering why he’d been so quiet. He smiled, knowing that the waiting time to meeting her again had passed; knowing that her time had come.
Knowing that for him the long wait would soon be over. She’d been like quicksilver in his arms that day, so potent and powerful that he hadn’t been able to wait the few hours before closing the deal to sample her.
There was no doubt in his mind that the long wait was going to be worth it.
So what, then, that he had a rule about not sleeping with his PA? Rules were made to be broken after all, some more than others. He smiled at her, taking her arm, already anticipating the evening ahead. A long evening filled with many delights, if he had anything to do with it. Which of course, he thought with a smile, he did.
Maybe it was the fact everyone so readily accepted Evelyn as his fiancée. Maybe it was the surprising realisation that playing the part of a fiancé wasn’t as appalling or difficult as he’d first imagined that made the evening work.
Or maybe it was the thought of afterwards, when he would finally get the opportunity to peel off her gown and unleash the real woman beneath.
But the evening did work, and well. The drinks and canapés, the dinner, the coffee and dessert—the hotel catering would get a bonus. It was all faultless. Culshaw was beaming, his wife was glowing and the Alvarezes made such entertaining dinner companions, reeling out one amusing anecdote after another, that half the time everyone was laughing too much to eat.
And Evelyn—the delectable Evelyn—played her part to perfection. Though he frowned as he caught her glancing at her watch again. Perfect, apart from that annoying habit she had of checking the time every ten minutes. Why? It wasn’t like she was going anywhere. Certainly not before they’d had a chance to catch up on old times.
Finally coffee and liqueurs had been served and the staff quietly vanished back into the kitchen. Culshaw stifled a yawn, apologising and blaming his habit of going for a long early walk every morning for not letting him stay up late. ‘But I thank you all for coming. Richard and Leo, maybe we can get those contract terms nutted out tomorrow—what do you think?’
The men drew aside to agree on a time to meet while the women chatted, gathering up purses and wraps. They were nice people, Eve thought, wishing she could have met them in different circumstances, and not while living this lie. She knew she’d never meet them again, and maybe in the bigger scheme of things it made no difference to anything, as they would all go their separate ways in a