CHAPTER THREE

      AT FIVE to eight, Molly was standing at her bedroom window, watching for Liam’s car. She doubted he would be late. Surprisingly, punctuality was now one of his virtues.

      He hadn’t always been like that. When Molly had first met Liam, and he’d been a computer-mad adolescent of seventeen, she could not count the number of times he’d been late for things. Back then, he’d always been working on some computer-based project, becoming totally absorbed as soon as he sat down in front of the screen. Time had had little meaning for him once his concentration was focused on his latest game, or graphic design.

      Every morning, Molly would wait anxiously outside his house for him to accompany her to school—a job he’d volunteered for when some bullies had started hassling her on the walk to school. Barely minutes before the school bell was due to ring, Liam would come dashing out, yelling for her to start running.

      How she kept up with his long legs she would never know. But hero-worship made you do things your body was incapable of, although in that final year she was to share school with Liam she hadn’t yet reached puberty—or her fat phase—being only twelve. Somehow, she’d managed to stick to his shadow like glue all the way, down the hill then along the flat beside the railway, over the railway bridge, across the highway then up another hill to school, usually arriving in time but in a totally breathless state.

      She would have to run home too, so that Liam could be sitting back down to his all-consuming hobby all the quicker. Although never interested in sport, Liam had been very fit in those days from running to and from school at full pelt. He still ran every day, jogging to and from work, apparently. He’d told her once that his best inspirations and ideas came while he was running.

      Molly was about to turn away from the window when Liam’s bright red car came up the hill and turned into their driveway. Right on time! She shook her head in rueful acceptance that Liam had changed in many ways. He was no longer the forgetful boy next door. He was an exceptionally sharp businessman. Ambitious. Brilliant. Successful.

      Way out of your league, Molly.

      Sighing, she bent to switch off her bedside lamp, and was about to leave the room when she hesitated, walking back to where she could watch Liam, unobserved, from the now darkened window.

      He sat there for several seconds, combing his hair. Though not with undue vanity. He didn’t even glance into the rear-vision or side-mirror, just swept the comb quickly through both sides and down the back before slipping it back into his jacket pocket.

      At least in that Liam hadn’t changed. He’d never been vain about his looks, and still wasn’t. There was nothing of the peacock in him.

      Yet, for all that, he did like to look good. Molly believed his sense of style came from his mother, who, though in her late fifties, was very young at heart and kept up to date with the latest trends and fashions. A writer and illustrator of children’s books, Babs Delaney had ably supported herself and her only son after her husband was killed in a rock-climbing accident when Liam was only twelve.

      It suddenly occurred to Molly how similar her and Liam’s family backgrounds were. Both only children with widowed mothers.

      But there the similarity ended. Babs Delaney was nothing like her own, timid mother. She was an outgoing personality with a wide range of friends and interests. She loved Liam to death but did not live her life through her son. She was encouraging, never clinging, a positive force, without a pessimistic or negative thought. She always said she wanted the best for her son, but that it was up to him to find what was best for himself.

      It was no wonder Liam thought the world was his oyster; no wonder his business had been a great success. He’d even won an award a couple of years back as New South Wales Young Businessman of the Year and was often asked to be a motivating after-dinner speaker at various functions.

      A quiver rippled down Molly’s spine as she watched the object of her secret obsession unfold his elegant frame from behind the wheel. He was dressed in the same blue jeans, navy top and cream linen jacket he’d been wearing earlier. He stretched as he stood up, and another deeper quiver reverberated all through her.

      For the first time it struck Molly just how intensely sexual her love for Liam had become with the passing of the years. Her more innocent schoolgirl crush had long since graduated to a full-on physical passion, filled with needs and yearnings which would not be denied. More and more she dreamt of making love with Liam, rather than just loving him. She would lie in bed at night and think about what it would be like to kiss him and touch him; how he would look, naked and erect; how he would feel, deep inside her.

      She blushed in the darkness, her blood pounding through her body, her head whirling with a wild mixture of shame and excitement. Was she wicked to think about such things?

      She didn’t feel wicked. She felt driven and compelled, oblivious to everything but wanting Liam with a want that had no conscience, only the most merciless and agonising frustration. Oh, how she wished she were dazzlingly beautiful, with the sort of body no man could resist!

      A bitter longing flooded Molly as she watched Liam stride confidently towards her front door, his golden head gleaming under the street lights. Her grip on the curtains tightened and inevitably her thoughts turned to the dreaded Roxy.

      How often did Liam sleep with her? she wondered enviously. Molly knew he didn’t live with her, but that didn’t mean they didn’t share most of their nights either at his place or hers. Was she great in bed? came the added tormenting thought. Did she know all the tricks that a man would find irresistible? What was it she did to him that had kept Liam interested for six whole months?

      Another