Wednesday, 6:30 p.m.
Every time I tried Megan’s mobile, her answering machine kicked in.
“This is Megan here. I’m tied up at the moment and can’t come to the phone. If I don’t get back to you by morning, it means the keys to the handcuffs haven’t been found.”
Not only had I phoned her but I’d messaged her. I’d emailed her. I’d even considered borrowing a carrier pigeon and fastening a message to its leg.
But I still hadn’t got through.
Half a dozen times, I lifted the phone to ring Edward and cancel our date, but then changed my mind. Finally I gave up. Quirk or no quirk, this man had two tickets to Singing in the Rain—my all-time favorite musical show. After my brush with death outside Derek’s house earlier in the day, I guess the fact that Edward had an odd foible or two was the least of my worries.
As I stood under the shower relishing the feel of the hot water as it pummeled my skin, I tried to piece together scattered segments of the puzzle currently turning my life into one big, black, ugly void. Had the Subaru been following us when I noticed it on the Birkenhead Bridge? Was the driver trying to off Derek or had he also been intent on turning me into road kill? And was the woman who’d rung Derek on the night of his wife’s murder the same woman he’d been having an affair with? The same woman he’d unceremoniously dumped a few days before his wife’s death?
Men!
Not only did they expect their cake naked, primed, and stretched out waiting for them on a plate at home, but they also craved that oh-so-tempting plateful of forbidden cake on someone else’s doorstep.
Now I remembered why I was still single.
After wrapping a fluffy bath towel around my middle, I reached for the elegant jar of Sister Mary’s Anti-Aging Creme that sat smugly on the wash basin under the bathroom mirror. I piled the thick porridgy gunk onto the train-tracks on each side of my eyes and the lines around my mouth, and rubbed the cream in until it was absorbed into my skin. Then, leaning closer, examined my reflection, searching for the slightest sign of improvement.
Nix. Naught. Nothing.
What a rip-off. For two solid months I’d religiously followed Sister Mary’s daily instructions, and yet, my three-day-off-fifty-year-old wrinkles were still deep enough to wade in. I should have noticed the women demonstrating the cream on television were either too young to need Sister Mary or, like Megan, had already solved their problems with cosmetic surgery.
Muttering that I may as well have smeared mud from the backyard on my face, I finished blow drying my hair into a smooth page boy style and wandered into the bedroom.
On the middle of my bed, head resting on both front paws, lay Horace. An ex-racing greyhound I’d adopted from the Greyhound Adoption Program a couple of years ago, Horace was now my best friend, my confidante, and my protector.
“What do you think, sweetie?” I asked him holding up a flowered skirt with a white silky top. “This hot enough?”
Horace blew through his nose.
“Okay, so you think that’s a bit stuffy for a night out at the Festival Theatre.” I threw the skirt and top on the bed beside him. “How about black slacks and a flowery top?”
Horace covered his eyes with a paw.
“You’re right…not dressy enough.”
I peered into my wardrobe. Slid the hangers along until I came to a dress I’d bought twelve months before and hadn’t been game to wear. It was a silky red halter dress of cocktail length with an uneven hem. Utterly gorgeous—but so not me. What had I been thinking when I paid half my weekly salary for the damn thing. A halter dress was for firm young skin, not for a middle-aged woman with droopy fat on the undersides of her arms.
I held it up to Horace and sighed. “Gorgeous, isn’t it?”
Grinning, he scooted off the bed and padded across to me, his tail wagging in agreement.
“Like it that much, huh?” I leant down and petted him. “Well…I suppose I could get away with it if I wear my overcoat over the top to hide my floppy bits.”
Decision made, I quickly dressed, remembering at the last minute to attach my gold hoop earrings to my ears.
Wednesday, 8:30 p.m.
All I had to go on was a pink carnation in the buttonhole of a grey suit.
Standing beside the ticket box at the Festival Theatre—minus my new spectacles that made me look like a stuffed owl—I peered short-sightedly at the flood of suits passing by. Surprisingly, grey seemed to be the color of the month. There were so many people swirling around me, eager to get out of the cold and enjoy the show, I found it difficult to check every grey-suited male heading for the foyer. After ten minutes, I’d discovered two white nasturtiums and a purple orchid.
But no pink carnation.
What else was it Megan had said about Edward? Oh yes, the scar that ran from his collarbone to his belly button. The scar he’d acquired in some sort of gang warfare or payback.
I decided to concentrate on the carnation.
“Hello. You must be Megan’s friend, Danielle.” The voice was pure honey-smooth and suave in my ear. And when I looked over my shoulder, the speaker matched the voice. Wow! Did he match the voice! All smooth planes and sophistication. Dark eyes, dark hair with just a tantalizing touch of grey, full kissable lips, and a swimmer’s six-foot-plus body. I could see this guy in Speedos doing lengths in his own private pool every morning.
And there, displayed in his right button hole, was a perky pink carnation.
A little overwhelmed, I blinked up at him. Megan said he was good looking, but this guy would give Pierce Brosnan a run for his money. “Edward Granger?”
“At your service, ma’am.” One hand, complete with long elegant fingers and perfectly manicured nails, settled on my arm. “When Megan spoke about you she forgot to tell me how beautiful you are.”
This guy had charm-school written all over him. And shitloads of money, which he’d likely acquired doing nefarious things, which I wasn’t going to think about right at that moment. “And she failed to warn me about your silver tongue.”
He laughed. A low laugh that rumbled in his swimmer’s chest. “My mother always taught me beauty was on the inside,” he crooned. “And I have this god-given knack of seeing what a person is really like. You, my dear, are quite beautiful.”
“And you, Edward, could charm for Australia.”
When he smiled at me, warmth pooled in the pit of my stomach and shivers of anticipation made my mouth dry. Perhaps, if I played this right, I could end up with hands-on experience for my column. His fingers shifted to my elbow. “Shall we go inside now? The show is due to start in ten minutes.”
“I’ve been looking forward to the show all day. Guess I’m a bit old-fashioned, but I adore the songs and the dancing in Singing in the Rain.”
“Me too,” he said, and his dark eyes twinkled as he steered me towards the nearest entrance. “I just don’t broadcast the fact. After all, I have my macho image to protect.”
“Don’t worry, my lips are sealed.” I twinkled back at him. Hey, I could flirt with the best of them if I really put my mind to it. “Even if a gang of torturers poked screwdrivers under my finger nails and butted their cigarettes out on my face, I still wouldn’t divulge your secret.”
For a second, his smile wavered and his eyes darkened. Oh hell, I’d probably described an activity this guy participated in weekly. “Where are we sitting?” I asked, changing the subject before I managed to shove my foot any further down my throat.
The high-wattage of his smile slowly returned. “For Singing in the Rain? Where the real action takes place—in the front row, of course.”
That surprised me. Edward looked more like an upstairs, best-seat-in-the-house sort of guy. “Well, in that case, we’d better buy a couple of raincoats.”
As well as two brightly colored plastic ponchos from a nearby stall, my new found friend procured two jumbo sized buckets of popcorn, which immediately placed him even higher in my estimation. Then, chatting and joking, we followed the usher down the aisle and settled companionably together in the center of the front row.
Watching Singing in the Rain with Edward was a lot of fun. We laughed, munched on our popcorn, and when the stage hands became over enthusiastic with their fake rain, screamed and pulled our ponchos over our heads.
As we left the theatre, Edward slipped his hand into mine. And it felt okay. No sweaty palms. No sleazy question with his thumb. Nothing but a pleasant sort of let’s hold hands because I’m enjoying your company. In contrast to his suave businessman façade, I was finding Edward a fun guy. And contrary to Megan’s subtle insinuations, he didn’t press me to go back to his place for a coffee…or for anything else. I wasn’t sure if I was upset about that or not. Perhaps he wasn’t as interested in me as I was in him. Or it could be that he was a perfect gentleman.
I opted for the latter.
“Come on, Dani, I’ll see you to your car,” he said, and we joined the crowd heading toward the Festival Theatre’s large underground car park. Not content with holding my hand, he hooked his arm around my shoulders as we walked, pulling me close to his body. And that was all right, too. I let my head drop against the silk of his suit, inhaled his expensive cologne, and felt safe.
Coincidentally, Edward had parked his car next to mine in the car-park, which made me laugh. My battered Ford against the sleek lines of his shiny BMW reminded me of a muddy stray cozying up to a pedigreed Doberman.
“Thanks, Edward,” I said as I beeped my car doors open. “I had a wonderful time tonight. Thoroughly enjoyed the show and the company.”
He leant down and brushed his lips against mine. They were soft and warm, and tasted of popcorn. “How about I ring you tomorrow?”
I nodded. Couldn’t find my voice. Probably misplaced it during the kiss.
“We could go out for dinner somewhere.”
“That’d be lovely,” I told him, slipping into the driver’s seat of my car. I must have misunderstood Megan when she hinted at Edward’s ties to the Mafia. This guy had real potential as a future Mr. Right. Good looking, a gentleman, flash car—and what’s more, he was a front-seat lover of Singing in the Rain.
Unable to wipe the smile off my face, nor stop the daydreams flitting around in my head, I turned my key in the ignition.
Nothing happened.
I turned the key again. Same result. My fickle car had let me down. This time there wasn’t even a tiny chug-a-chug or even an apologetic cough. Only complete disinterested silence.
“Blast! Can’t be the battery, I replaced that last week. And the spark plugs are new,” I told Edward, as I scrambled out and stomped around to lift the bonnet.
Frustrated, I peered into the bowels of the car. The motor appeared normal. Covered in grease—still attached—made of metal. Dubiously, I checked the coolant levels—seemed okay. Oil on dipstick? Check. Other than that, I didn’t have a clue. I sighed, and wiped one greasy hand across the bridge of my nose. “I’d better ring the RAA. Again. Must be close to running out of roadside services.”
Edward lounged against his gleaming sports car and surveyed me with a thinly disguised twinkle. “You could be waiting for an hour for the RAA. Why don’t I get onto my mechanic and then drive you home? Patrick will tow the car to his garage, take a look, and get the car back to you first thing in the morning.”
“But Edward, I can’t put you to all that trouble—”
“No trouble,” he broke in, plucking his cell phone from one of his inside coat pockets. “Patrick owes me.”
“But—”
“Don’t worry, Dani. I’ll take care of it.” Already tapping in numbers, he withdrew to the far side of his car and spoke into the phone for several minutes.
“All under control,” he assured me, smiling as he tucked the phone back into his pocket. “I’ll drive you home, and Patrick will have your car fixed and in your driveway before you leave for work in the morning.”
“Are you sure?”
“Megan would skin me alive if I left you here in the car park on your own at this time of night. Now, come on; hop in,” he said opening the passenger side door of his car for me. “I don’t know about you, but I’m seriously in need of a nice glass of red.”
A nice glass of red?
With these scary words buzzing around in my brain, I ducked under Edward’s arm and slid into the front seat of his car. The inside of Edward’s BMW smelt of new leather and his distinctive cologne. And as I fastened my seat belt and forced myself to relax, the luxuriously soft feel of the upholstery wrapped itself around me.
Nothing to worry about, I told myself, catching at my bottom lip. Not a thing!
After all, there was no red wine in my cupboards—nice or otherwise—so I wouldn’t be obliged to invite Edward inside for a drink.