The Blind Date Surprise. Barbara Hannay
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to be super careful. You need to hit exactly the right note.’
And because Annie had known Melissa since boarding school, and because Victoria was Mel’s flatmate, and because both the girls were city born and bred, Annie had deferred to their finely honed understanding of ‘How Things Work in the City’.
The trio had hit the shops with Victoria leading the fray, and Annie had quickly discovered how exceedingly lucky she was to have clued-up friends to advise her about clothes. On her own, she would have made so totally all the wrong choices.
She’d wanted to head straight for the stunning racks of sparkly after-five wear, but Victoria had dismissed them with a disdainful toss of the corkscrew curls she’d created that morning.
‘No way, Annie. You don’t want to look as if you’re trying too hard to impress Damien. If you look too dressed up or trendy you might scare him off.’
Oh.
After one last wistful glance towards the shimmering, ultra-feminine dresses, Annie allowed herself to be steered towards racks of jeans.
‘Never underestimate jeans,’ Victoria explained with impressive patience. ‘You can dress them up or down and they always look fab.’
‘But—um—I live in jeans. And Damien knows I’m a country girl. Don’t you think these might make me look a little too Annie Get Your Gun?’
Victoria blinked, then eyed Annie with just a tad more respect. ‘Point taken.’
But, seconds later, she was struck by her light bulb idea. ‘I’ve got it! Pink jeans would be perfect. Team them with a little camisole top.’ Grabbing a coat-hanger from a rack, she flourished something white and silky. ‘How heaven is this?’
Annie squashed the thought that a pink and white outfit would make her look like an ice cream. She tried the clothes on and decided that they were comfortable and rather gorgeous, actually.
But she put up a stronger fight over the high heels.
‘What if Damien’s really short?’
This time Mel chipped in. ‘He didn’t look short in the photo he sent you.’
‘Photos can be deceptive.’ Annie had spent many sleepless nights worrying about that possibility.
‘Annie, if Damien’s short, you’re going to be taller than him no matter what kind of shoes you wear.’
She tried another tack. ‘I can’t afford two hundred and fifty dollars for a couple of strips of sequinned leather.’
Victoria grinned. ‘Don’t worry, that’s why God invented credit cards.’
And so here she was in the foyer of the Pinnacle Hotel, dressed by Victoria and getting last-minute advice from both the girls before she took the lift to La Piastra on the twenty-seventh floor. To meet Damien.
Damien. Eeeeeee! Just thinking about him made her stomach play leap-frog with her heart. She knew it was foolish to have high hopes for this guy, but she couldn’t help it. She’d travelled over a thousand kilometres from her outback cattle station in Southern Cross, North Queensland, just to meet him and she really, really wanted their date to work out.
It was going to be fine. It was.
Everything she and Damien had chatted about over the Internet during the past six weeks indicated that they meshed. They both loved dogs, world music, books and thinking about deeper things—like destiny and fate, whether life was a wager, and the possibility that animals were happier than humans. Talking to him had been comfortable and inspiring, fun and—and well, to be honest—sexy.
To cap it off, she and Damien both adored everything Italian, especially linguini.
That was why they’d settled on La Piastra.
And when Damien had emailed her a photo of himself, she’d completely flipped. Head over heels. He looked so-o-o yummy—with sleepy blue eyes, sun-streaked surfer-boy hair, pash-me-now lips and a cute, crooked smile. She hoped to high heaven that he’d been as impressed with her photo as he’d claimed to be, because she could feel in her bones that he was her perfect match.
And now she was about to meet him.
She was six minutes late, which, according to Mel and Victoria, was perfect timing. Her heart thumped as the trio waited for the lift, and she drew several deep breaths while the girls pumped her with last-minute advice.
‘Remember, don’t be too serious. Try to relax and have fun.’
‘But don’t drink too much.’
‘You have to watch your date’s body language. If he’s mirroring your gestures, you’re on the right track.’
‘The danger sign is when he crosses his arms while you’re talking.’
‘Or if he starts to come on too heavy. He might just want sex.’
Annie shook her head to shush them. The girls meant well, but she wasn’t as clueless about men as they feared. Besides, there was a rather conservative, bespectacled fellow a few feet behind Victoria, who must have overheard them. He was looking rather stunned by their conversation and he—crikey—he almost walked smack into a marble pillar.
Annie was about to send him a sympathetic smile when the bell above the lift pinged.
The doors were about to open.
‘Remember there’s always the escape plan,’ Mel urged. ‘You’ve got your mobile phone handy, haven’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right. You look gorgeous, Annie.’
‘Stunning!’
‘Thanks.’
‘So break a leg!’
‘Have a ball!’
‘Go get Damien, kiddo!’
Amidst a flurry of air kisses Annie stepped into the lift, sent the girls a quick wave, and pressed the button for Level twenty-seven. The doors swished closed, Mel and Victoria’s encouraging grins disappeared, and with a soft sigh the lift whisked her away from them…skywards.
And her stomach dropped. Oh, crumbs.
She made a last-minute check in the mirror at the back of the lift. No bra showing, no visible panty-line. Lipstick still holding. Hair okay.
Ping! Level twenty-seven.
Gulp.
This was it.
The lift doors swept apart and Annie looked out at an expanse of mega-trendy pale timber and stainless steel. So this was La Piastra. She felt a fleeting rush of nostalgia for Beryl’s friendly café in Mirrabrook with its gingham tablecloths, ruffled curtains and bright plastic flowers on every table.
How silly. She’d come to Brisbane to get away from all that. Somewhere in here Damien was waiting. Oh, please let him like me. Her legs shook. She was as nervous as she’d been on her first day at boarding school.
A tall, dark, very Italian-looking man in black was watching her from his post directly in front of the lift and as she approached him he bowed stiffly.
‘Good evening, madam.’
‘Good evening.’
‘Welcome to La Piastra.’ He looked down a very Roman nose at her.
‘Thanks.’ She smiled, but her smile faltered as the man waited for her to say something more. What was she supposed to say? She peered into the restaurant, searching for a streaked sandy head among the diners. ‘I’m—er—supposed to be meeting someone here.’
‘You have a reservation?’
‘No.’
He frowned and pursed his lips.
She