Outback With The Boss. Barbara Hannay
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Grace had assimilated an amazing amount of information about the northern region and all of it was highly relevant to their project. While reading her report, Mitch had become excited by all the potential location sites she’d outlined.
What had really surprised him was her uncanny grasp of what he was trying to achieve with this movie. He’d only sent a fairly sketchy proposal; she hadn’t even read a full script. But it was as if he and Grace had already shared several in-depth conversations about his hopes and expectations for New Tomorrow.
An assistant who could methodically work her way through extraneous details to find exactly what was relevant was a great asset. But one who could also share his artistic vision was a rare find. When her efficiency and presentation skills were also considered, Mitch knew George Hervey had been right. Grace was of inestimable value to the company.
It was a pity these qualities didn’t come with a pleasant, sunny personality. There was only one way to describe Grace—well-balanced—with a huge chip on both shoulders!
Throughout the three days he’d spent in the office, her face had remained a polite, but frowning, almost unfriendly mask. And, while it didn’t particularly bother him, Mitch was beginning to think he’d dreamed up that vision of an alluring, provocative beauty framed by the doorway of Henry Aspinall’s flat.
The way she scurried around the office with her head down, dressed in sombre browns and greys, she looked like a drab brown mouse. It was hard to believe she’d ever made a sexy come-on in her life.
Perhaps he should have said something to clear the air. But he hadn’t wanted any blurring of business and private matters between himself and the woman with whom he had to work so closely.
He flipped open the plastic cover of the report and turned again to Grace’s recommendations. Pen in hand, he read through them once more, circling certain points and making notes in the margins. She had certainly presented some thought-provoking options.
Grace was in the mood for cooking something special. It was an inspiration that didn’t hit her often, so she tended to make the most of it, preparing large quantities that would last her for many meals. Occasionally she felt expansive and threw a dinner party, but tonight she was making her favourite curry and she wasn’t planning on sharing it with anyone.
On the way home from work, she stopped off at the local supermarket and bought all the necessary ingredients. And after a long, warm soak in scented bath oils, she padded into her kitchen, drew the red gingham curtains closed and slipped her favourite Spanish guitar CD into the player.
In the four years she’d worked for Tropicana Films, she’d always made a deliberate effort to separate her work and her leisure. At the end of the working day, she relished time for herself to clear her thoughts. Now it was especially important to forget about her new boss and the persistent, niggling worry that he might have recognised her as the figure flaunting herself in Henry’s doorway.
What if Henry had said something to Mitch?
Shaking her head furiously, she tried to push aside such invasive thoughts and turned up the volume on the CD player. The fluid sounds rippled around her and she began to feel better than she had in days.
Three days.
She hummed softly under her breath as she diced lamb, and chopped onions and garlic. And within twenty minutes the small kitchen was redolent with the rich fragrance of lamb simmering in curry leaves, fresh coriander, crushed cummin and chilli.
Totally absorbed in her task, she was stirring in the final ingredient, coconut milk, when a knock on her door startled her. Quickly, she lowered the heat and snatched up a towel to wipe her hands as she headed for the door.
The last person she expected to find on her doorstep was Mitch Wentworth. Grace’s heart plummeted.
‘Wow, something smells wonderful.’ He sniffed the air appreciatively.
‘Er, hello, Mr Wentworth,’ she murmured, only just resisting the temptation to slam the door in his face. At least she was fully clothed this time. Not that her favourite old tracksuit was exactly suitable attire for greeting the boss. Especially when he was still in the elegantly tailored business suit he wore to the office. Her hand strayed to her hair which, aided by the soak in the bath and the warmth of the kitchen, had loosened and begun to fall in wispy strands around her face. She rubbed one bare foot against the other. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Do I smell roghan josh curry?’ Mitch asked.
Her eyes widened. ‘Madras, actually,’ she answered warily. Surely he wasn’t looking for a meal?
‘Ah, yes. I should have noticed.’ Mitch smiled and Grace took a step back. She needed to put some distance between herself and that smile. ‘There is faint aroma of coconut,’ he agreed. ‘Roghan josh has yoghurt, doesn’t it?’
‘You—you like curries?’ Why did she ask? Every man she’d ever met liked curries. But rarely were they so familiar with the details of the ingredients. ‘This one needs to simmer for a good while yet,’ she hastened to add, in case he had any bright ideas about inviting himself for dinner.
‘There’s no need to look so nervous, Grace. I won’t be invading your privacy for very long,’ Mitch reassured her as if he’d been reading her mind. ‘And I’m sure Henry Aspinall would have something to say if I ate his share of dinner.’
‘Hen—Henry?’ Grace stammered. What exactly did he know about Henry?
‘He’s been chasing me to look at his graphic designs and when I first met him he mentioned you and he were…good friends.’
‘Oh.’ Grace gulped. Nervously, she waited to see if Mitch was going to expand on this information. When he didn’t, she added, ‘So why have you come here?’
‘Do you mind if I come in for just a moment? There are a few things I need to discuss with you and I’d like to clear them up tonight.’
Mitch expected her hesitation, but he also knew Grace would invite him in. She had seen that he was holding the folder with her report and curiosity sparked from her green eyes. Valiantly ignoring his hunger pangs, he followed her into the small sitting room, rich with the fragrant, spicy smells that drifted from her kitchen.
He couldn’t help noticing that it was a lovely room—not extravagantly decorated, but comfortable and welcoming. And the raw, emotive passion of the guitar music in the background was a surprise. Another layer to the Grace Robbins enigma.
Mitch’s gaze roved slowly around the cosy setting. The lighting was low, creating a soothing mood. And the warm, natural earth colours of the terracotta tiled floor and the two large Aboriginal paintings dominating the main wall gave a sense of mellowness. In the opposite corner, beneath a black and white movie poster of Bogey and Bacall, a fat earthenware pot held a sheaf of dried grasses. Beside it sat an overly plump floor cushion covered with a stone-and claret-coloured design.
He’d rarely settled in one spot long enough to establish his own home, but when he did make purchases these same earthy tones, sunburnt ochres and browns were the colours that always attracted him.
The chocolate brown sofa was deep and soft and Mitch sank into it gratefully. Grace sat opposite him on a woven cane chair and clutched at a sienna and black striped cushion as if her life depended on it. Nevertheless, he didn’t miss the way she curled into the deep chair with catlike elegance.
‘You decorated this place yourself?’ he asked.
‘Yes. I thought the New Tomorrow project would take long enough to warrant moving all my gear from Sydney.’
Mitch nodded. ‘It’s very attractive. I’m looking forward to finding a home base for myself.’ His glance drifted to the fish tank on a stand behind her chair. Two goldfish and a black fish. ‘I have a sister-in-law who is a feng shui expert. She claims that aquariums are very helpful for creating…’ he paused, searching for the right word, but gave up with a smiling shrug ‘…a happy environment.’
Grace’s