A Little Crushed (27 page)

Mrs. Black frowned. “Why are you here, Rebecca? I’m sure it’s not to rehash the past, so if you don’t mind, it’s late, and I do have to be up at six.”

“I’m surprised you have to ask.” Rebecca smiled at her selective memory. “Or perhaps you thought I’d abandoned my plan? I did as you suggested. I waited six months —eight, actually—and now, it’s time for me to go.”

“Ah.” Nodding her understanding, Mrs. Black rubbed at her forehead. “To be honest, I had hoped you’d got over him.”

“Why?” Rebecca smiled at her assumption. “Because you thought it just a little crush? You still don’t get it, do you?”

“Rebecca, you have to understand I have misgivings about you running off to chase —dare I say—a dream?” Mrs. Black spoke quietly. “Look, I know Max. Next to my husband and kids, I love him more than anyone. He’s a good person, kind and generous with a big heart. He is also impulsive, sometimes downright immature. The bottom line is he made bad judgment call. Whatever slant you may want to put on it, he shouldn’t have let you get so close to him.”

“Why?” She curled her index fingers into quotation marks. “Because I was a child? I am not a child, Mrs. Black, and he certainly never treated me like one. He treated me like an adult. We could talk about anything. He was gentle, warm, so caring. When I was with him, I felt wonderful. I didn’t have to be Daddy’s little girl, always trying hard to live up to his expectations. I wasn’t my mum’s irritating daughter, or Vicky’s pain in the arse sister. I didn’t have to keep up the pretence of always being so tough and cynical. Max made me feel real.”

Mrs. Black’s expression remained cynical. Rebecca didn’t care. Perhaps she was taken aback by this unprecedented outpouring, but it felt good to off load, even if she was making no sense. “I know he felt it, too. We had a bond.” She jerked her chin up, challenging Mrs. Black to contradict her. She didn’t. “Anyway, I wanted to ask if you’d heard from him.”

“Occasionally,” she hedged. “But he is so busy now.”

“I know.” If this was an attempt to thwart her mission, Rebecca wasn’t buying. “I’ve been reading
Business News
today. I know Jackson Media is stable, and I do know Mr. J. is acting CEO while his father recovers. Thing is, Mrs. Black. I’m going to do this. What I need from you is Mr. Jackson’s address.”

“Ah, now that I can’t tell you. Don’t look so suspicious. I’m telling you the truth. We’ve never needed it, and Max was hardly ever there anyway. He always contacted us. I suppose you could try calling Jackson Media, although in all honesty I doubt very much they’d willingly hand out information. This is a multi-million dollar company we’re talking about. Their security is very tight.”

“I know.” Rebecca chewed on the end of her plait. “I’ve tried. When I do see him, I’m going to have to tell him his staff could use lessons in public relations. It was like talking to a troop of S.S but with less charm.” She stood. “No matter. I’ll find him on my own. Thank you for seeing me, and please…tell Mr. Black I’m sorry for still being angry with him.”

“He’ll get over it.” For the first time in their terse little conversation, Mrs. Black smiled. “And Rebecca, for what it’s worth, I hope you do find him, and you get what you want. I have no idea if he’s still with Kate, but she doesn’t deserve him. I think maybe you could make him happy.”

“This is it.” The taxi driver held out his hand to receive her dwindling Aussie dollars. Hardly giving her time to get out, he gunned the engine and drove off, covering her in dust. Now he definitely was a bloody colonial. “Pig,” she muttered, dragging her holdall out of the way of the ongoing traffic.

“Oh…oh my.” She forgot all about the unsociable taxi-driver. An imposing building towered above her, a black marble and glass beanstalk, piercing the cerulean blue sky. Feeling rather small, very vulnerable, and definitely intimidated, she climbed the marble steps.

Two burly security guards flanked the great wood and brass revolving doors. Their smart livery of burgundy with gold piping did nothing to disguise the enormous breadth of their chests, but it was their serial killer stares that disturbed Rebecca most. Keeping her gaze trained on them, she pushed her way through the door, tripping up in her haste to put as much distance between her and the
Terminator
-like twins.

She couldn’t hold back an awed whistle. The lavish foyer was an interior designer’s triumph of cream veined marble and huge mirrors. The muted tinkling of fountains and lush greenery was probably planned to soothe. It wasn’t working. Despite the light and airy décor, an oppressive silence permeated the atmosphere. Smartly dressed men and women went about their business, their faces set in rigid lines, talking in hushed tones. Hardly encouraging, but she hadn’t flown thousands of miles to be put off by a miserable work force. Taking a deep breath, she strode across the cavernous reception area.

“Good afternoon, may I help you?”

A tall, willowy blonde with
Snow Queen
eyes and sprayed-on make-up looked her up and down as if she was something the cat had dragged up from the drains. Glancing down at her scruffy attire, Rebecca couldn’t blame her. She looked like a reject from a homeless shelter.

Rebecca stared, fascinated by the woman’s hair. Her asymmetric bob had been cut with such precision, cheese could have been sliced with it. Blood-red talons tapped impatiently on the mahogany desk. “Sorry—” Rebecca cleared her throat. “Actually I’m here to see Mr. Jackson.”

Fingers stopped flying over keyboards, phones held in mid-air.

“Mr. Jackson is not available for comment. Our position was made perfectly clear in the press release.” The blonde snarled the words whilst waving her index finger. Another security guard appeared, hand hovering close to his gun. Rebecca’s heart pounded as the possibility that she had come on a wild-goose chase looked probable. “I don’t know anything about any press release. I thought you people were the press. I just want to see Max.”

“Mr. Jackson is not available.”

“So he’s here, then?” Her pulse kicked into sprint.

“Good day. One of our guards will be pleased to escort you out.” The ice-maiden lowered her gaze.

“I’ll take that as a yes?” Rebecca held her ground as iron fingers gripped her shoulder.

“You heard Miss Wilde. This way please.”

Rebecca snorted. Miss Wilde was about as wild as a night in bed with the Pope. She screamed in silent rage, feeling utterly powerless. “Will you stop that?” Trying to wrench free of his grip, she aimed a kick at his shins.

“You little—”

“Ralph, what, may I ask, is going on here? Please unhand the young lady. We are not the Mafia.”

Rebecca stared in amazement. A pair of sharp, grey eyes bore into her, and for a moment, she was back at Thamesford School. Miss Steele had a doppelganger.

The woman drew herself up to her full height of only five feet. “Excuse our security’s over-zealous dedication to duty, but please understand, we have to be cautious. Now, if you would be so kind as to tell me what you want?”

“Please, I only want to see Max. I need to see him. Just tell him that I’m here. I…” Rebecca faltered under the eagle stare, but then—oh joy—the woman’s expression softened, and tiny laughter lines crinkled at the corners of her eyes.

“Miss Harding, I believe. If you would care to follow me. Ralph, that will be all, thank you.”

More than a little shell-shocked, Rebecca took the offered hand and shook it. ‘Miss Steele’ beckoned her to follow across the endless sea of marble.

“How did you know my name?” Rebecca scurried at her side. For an old biddy, she certainly kicked up a brisk pace.

“The hair. Max told me no one else had hair that colour—or as messy.”

Rebecca didn’t know whether to be angry because he’d described her as messy, or ecstatic because he’d found the time to mention it to this old dear, whoever she was.

She hurried Rebecca into a lift the size of the spare room at home and pushed the button for—Rebecca peered at the panel—the executive floor. Saliva pooled in her mouth, and for the first time since embarking on Operation Aus, doubt crept over her like an unwelcome rash. What if he flipped his lid? Worse, what if Kate was with him?

The lift jerked to a halt, and the doors glided open onto a long corridor that seemed to disappear into infinity. Nose almost pressed against her escort’s grey tweed jacket, Rebecca stepped out onto the thick cream carpet, her insides stirring and rolling. The urge to pee was now very real indeed.

“Come along, please. It’s long past my coffee time, and I do have a hundred and one things to attend to.”

Resisting the childish urge to stick out her tongue, Rebecca followed her down the long silent shrouded corridor. “I will not pee. I will not pee,” she recited as she tiptoed behind.

“Did you say something?”

Rebecca careened into the old woman’s impressive bosom.

“No…honest.”

The woman smiled. “Don’t be nervous. He doesn’t bite.”

No, but he yells pretty well.

The corridor ended in a huge hexagonal shaped room, the centerpiece of which was another mahogany desk. So much for environmentally friendly working space. On the far wall, Rebecca spied another door. Her gut contracted, and her palms broke into a sweat. He was behind that door, she knew it.

“Wait here.” ‘Miss Steele’ waved her into an over-sized cream leather sofa.

Rebecca preferred to remain standing—easier for a quick getaway.

Amusement written all over her age-lined face, the woman administered a discreet knock to the door and then disappeared, leaving Rebecca alone. The moment of truth had arrived. An eternity passed before the door eased open, and with a slight incline of her head, ‘Miss Steele’ beckoned her in.

Her legs feeling as if they were encased in lead, Rebecca entered the room.

“I’ll be at my desk if you want me, Max.” Before closing the door, the woman sent her a conspiratorial wink, as if to say, all is well. Hardly. Rebecca wanted to run and hide.

Pushing back her tangled hair, she counted to ten and met his gaze full on. He stood, leaning against his desk, legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded in the stance she knew so well. The navy suit was businessman efficient. He’d always looked good in dark colours. But some things never change. Rebecca bit back a nervous giggle. Mr. J. was still crap at ties. The one he now wore hung loose under the white unbuttoned shirt collar. Although it was Aussie winter, he still sported remnants of a tan. Her breath caught. She was still in love with him. She’d almost forgotten how handsome he was. He’d lost a bit of weight, but it suited him. The sun-lightened hair now lay close-cropped against his head, accentuating those fabulous features: green eyes that stared at her as if he wasn’t sure if she was real.

“Well…” He broke the tension first. “At least you’re not wet. That’s something.”

He didn’t move, devouring her reason with his probing stare until she felt faint. Still she couldn’t speak. Never mind speak, she couldn’t breathe. The old, familiar sensation simmered in the core of her stomach.

“So.” He straightened up and perched on the edge of his desk. “May I ask what you’re doing here, and please don’t say you just happened to be in the neighbourhood.”

“I-I…” Oh my goodness, she couldn’t find the words. His indifferent tone tore a huge strip from her bravado. “I came because…because I had to.” Pretty lame, but it was all she had. Looking down at her feet, she squeezed back tears. Not quite the joyous reunion she’d fantasized about for eight long months.

“Mr. Jack—”

“I think it’s okay to call me Max, now.”

“Oh.”

“Rebecca…”

The way he spoke her name turned her insides to liquid. He slid off the desk and stepped toward her. Every nerve ending in her body fizzled into life as his fingers curved around her wrists, thumbs tracing delicate circles on her palms, sending a thousand butterflies fluttering around in her heart. He stared into her eyes, his expression soft, caring, and yet, at the same time, unhappy.

“You’re cold.” He smiled. “You’re always cold—and a mess. No wonder security stopped you. You look like a Romanian refugee. When did you arrive?”

“The plane landed at six a.m. I think. I came straight here.” Rebecca did her damnedest not to sound like a sulky schoolgirl, but after flying so many miles, being told she was messy wasn’t exactly romantic. “Max…” It still felt strange saying his name. “Are you angry? Because I came?”

He let go of her hands, his marble expression driving ice shards into her heart.

“No.” His awkward whisper did little to relieve her despair. “Not angry, only concerned.
Why
did you come?”

Her heart shattered into tiny pieces. If he had to ask her, then her journey was for nothing.

“Okay.” Running his hands through his hair, he let out a heavy sigh. “Why you’re here isn’t important right now. The fact is you are, and you look ready to drop.You must be exhausted. Do you have anywhere to stay?”

“I have some addresses,” she answered dully, pulling a scrunched piece of paper from her jeans back pocket. “I got this list of hostels from a guy at the airport.”

Max skewered her with a look which clearly said
Are you insane
? He took it from her fingers and scanned it, the corners of his mouth turning down into a deep frown. “Okay. Seems good—if you want to become a crack whore, that is.” Screwing up the paper, he lobbed it into a wastepaper basket. “I think you’d better stay here for now.”

Through blurred vision, Rebecca scanned his office. The green leather Chesterfield probably cost thousands, but it didn’t look very comfortable.

Wearing the bemused schoolteacher expression of old, he took her by the hand and led her to the door behind the huge desk. “Oh, ye of little faith.” He pushed a lever, and the door slid back to reveal a lift.

“Wow!” She couldn’t help it. “You
are
seriously rich. Don’t tell me—penthouse suite on the top floor?”

For the first time, he seemed to relax. “Something like that. It’s supposed to be the company apartment, but I think its uses for my father were more recreational than business related. It is amazing, the last word in kitsch luxury.” The lift glided to a halt, and he pushed open the gilt cage doors into the outrageously decorated flat.