Detained (11 page)

No note. But a lovely breakfast spread—for one.

She watched CNN and ate strawberries and yoghurt. She drank two big milky coffees and tried to review her notes one last time. But images from the weekend kept working their way into her head.

She couldn’t look at the baby grand without remembering him sitting her on the closed lid and taking the seat. She’d asked if he played. And he’d answered by laying her down so her feet were on the keys and then playing her like a virtuoso.

A breeze through the open balcony door lifted a photo of tall, dark, dashing and probably myopic, given the glasses, Will Parker, and floated it to the floor. Even the plush pile could make her blush. There was barely a surface in the suite they hadn’t used, despite it being equipped with the biggest bed in Darcy’s known world.

The reason the balcony door was open was he’d taken her against the railing with the sultry heat of the night cloaking their nakedness. She hoped. Not that it mattered. She was a long way from home and anyone who knew her. She could tie this weekend up in a box, stick a label on it called ‘extraordinary’ and file it away till it got dusty and lost its attraction.

She wondered how long that would take. She’d just had an experience that could pervert a girl’s expectations of romance for good.

To say Tara was an expert lover was like saying Gerry Ives liked to ‘do lunch’. It was a statement of the obvious. But Tara was more than that. He was a complex, accomplished man.

He was also guarded, controlling, aggressive and closely wound and instead of that being a turn-off, it’d been a challenge. She might not have won, but she knew she’d gotten to him.

She knew it the moment he’d closed his eyes, let her call the shots and shouted his pleasure. She’d owned him this weekend just as much as he’d owned her.

This morning she felt sore and sleep deprived, but powerful too. He’d thought she wasn’t strong enough, but she proved she could match him.

The only thing that worried her was his lies. He simply had to know her name. Though he’d been collected enough not to use it. One stuttered ‘darling’ was the closest he’d come to betraying himself.

And she was damn sure he’d been deliberately vague about his business. Probably a lot more besides, but he’d been truthful as well. She’d wanted to cry when he told her about the big picture tattoo on his back. It was like an Albert Namatjira painting. All sweeping scope and earthy colours. It must have taken a talented tattooist months to complete. But when she’d looked through the artistry and understood he’d chosen to glamorise his home town, commemorating his survival and escape from it, she couldn’t help but be affected.

The tattoo showed a dusty landscape, towering gums and a house made to look like a square container. She’d traced it. It was curious. Until it struck her what it was. A shipping container. For a time, he’d lived in a shipping container dumped in the bush. Without running water or sewerage and only a generator for power.

It explained a lot about his ambition and his need for control. It was the type of beginning that would keep most people from getting up in the morning, forget having goals and achieving them on a world stage. Now she understood what he meant about being beaten.

Her wild weekend made the Parker interview feel oddly like an anticlimax. Even in her suit and heels, notepad and mini-recorder in hand, it was hard to get focused on the real world again.

On the walk down Zhongshan Road towards Parker’s office she tried to keep Will Parker’s image firmly fixed in her mind. He was dark-haired, not a dirty blond. He was slender, not muscled like a boxer. He’d wear expensive clothing, not jeans with the knees nearly out of them.

By the time she got to number twenty-seven, she was sweating into the collar of her jacket, uncomfortable in the heat, but ready. This was Shanghai not Shangri-La, and the real world was about to get mighty interesting.

Aileen McVale, a stunningly attractive Chinese woman, met her in Parker’s impressively appointed executive reception area. She was Parker’s PR handler and spoke with an American accent. She was a pro, and after a minute of small talk on the way to Parker’s office, Darcy knew she’d get no interesting insights from her. She did, however, learn Aileen was Shanghai-born, did her MBA at Harvard and was married to an American banker. Parker apparently didn’t stint on hiring top talent.

Her first look at Will Parker confirmed he was the man in the photos. He sat behind a massive desk in a huge room that was so elegantly furnished it looked like a magazine spread. It was hard not to be self-conscious that her one good work suit was two seasons old and a label Parker’s executive receptionist wouldn’t be seen dead in.

Parker was as stylish as the room itself. He wore a hand stitched cool wool suit and a crisp dress shirt that was blindingly white. No tie. But the occasional glint of a cufflink and a fancy watch. He was on the phone and motioned to her to take a seat in an adjacent lounge area. Aileen offered her coffee and small talk to make eavesdropping difficult. She accepted a glass of water, and while Parker was wrapping the call up, Aileen excused herself, leaving Darcy free to assess the illusive Will Parker for the first time.

Dark and handsome—tick. Long limbed so that fit with tall—tick. Sexy in those frameless glasses—tick. Not a hunchback or a physical affliction in sight. It was hard to see why this man had a problem being more widely photographed. And none of the photos had done justice to his personality. They didn’t show his ease, his languid grace or the knowing look in his eyes.

He hung up the phone. “Sorry about that.” He had a modified Australian accent, no ocker, no country. It spoke of private school and quality education. He stood, made eye contact. “Did Aileen offer you a coffee?” He came around the desk and he was indeed tall, maybe 6’4, 6’5. “I’m a mean barista.”

“Yes, thanks. I’ve had mine already this morning.” Darcy held her hand out to shake. “Darcy Campbell.”

“Pleased to meet you, Darcy. I’m Peter Parker.”

“Forget injuries, never forget kindnesses.” — Confucius

Spiderman
.

It was the first word that surfaced in Darcy’s head. Peter Parker. Who the hell was Peter Parker, other than Spiderman?

“You’re Peter Parker?”

“That’s right.” Tall, dark, and not Will Parker, gestured to the sofa. “Please take a seat.”

“Will is your brother?” It was a reasonable guess. Younger, older, she had no idea.

“Yes, and unfortunately he can’t be here this morning. I’m terribly sorry about that.” Peter didn’t look in the least bit sorry. If anything he looked smug.

“Peter, I’ve flown from Sydney to interview Will. If it’s a matter of timing, I can wait.”

“I afraid it’s not a timing issue.”

“Are you cancelling the interview?”

“I’d be happy to talk to you instead.”

“You?” She didn’t mean to be insulting, but why would she want to interview Peter Parker in place of Parker Corporation’s founder and CEO? Peter Parker could be the snappily dressed company odd-jobs man for all she knew.

Peter laughed, so presumably guessed what she was thinking and found it amusing. “I’m general counsel.”

He was their legal eagle. A useful source, but not a suitable replacement for his brother. It was starting to look like she’d flown a long way on the paper’s dime for nothing.

“My paper expects an interview with Will Parker. And I’ll remind you it’s an interview Parker Corporation requested. I understand Mr Parker is a busy man and his availability may have changed, but I am prepared to wait.” There were limits to how long she could wait, how long Mark and Gerry would let her dick around in Shanghai dancing attendance on Will Parker, but Spiderman didn’t know that.

“As I explained, it’s not a matter of you waiting.”

“You’re cancelling the interview?”

“I’m offering you a substitute. We’re obviously distressed about not being able to make Will available to you.”

Darcy studied Peter Parker. He had one long leg crossed over his knee, arms lying along the rests of the square-shaped chair he sat in. He didn’t look remotely distressed. He had five hundred dollar plus shoes on. He had an office you could easily live in. What did he have to be distressed about?

“You understand cancelling the interview might inadvertently affect your company’s relationship with the paper.”

Peter had the gall to laugh. “That sounds awfully like a threat, Ms Campbell.”

So they were abandoning first names now. “It’s not a threat, Mr Parker. It would be unfortunate if you choose to take it as one.”

“I take it, Ms Campbell, what you’re telling me is, unless I produce Will you’ll write something negative.”

Spiderman got to his spider legs and went to his desk. He did something to the phone handset and Aileen’s voice said, “Yes, Pete.”

“Can you join us, please.” He sounded impatient now.

Darcy was on her feet as well. She was disappointed, she was annoyed, and she was already feeling the prickles from the screaming match that would no doubt occur with Gerry. No matter what the truth of this, Gerry would insist Parker cancelled because Darcy was a lightweight. He’d make it hard for Mark to disagree. Her big career break was turning into a big disaster.

She heard a door open; that would be Aileen brought in to placate her. She looked at the framed pictures on the wall of Peter’s office. A photograph of Peter with what looked like a Chinese basketball team, a couple of official looking certificates and an earthy-coloured Australian landscape.

The gears in her head ground. She crossed the room to take a closer look. The basketball team was the Sharks. The landscape was an Albert Namatjira, an original, and one of the certificates was from Oxford, Rhodes College.

Mother of God
. It couldn’t be. But he was Peter Parker, he was Spiderman. It was a long shot but worth taking.

“Darcy, are you sure I can’t make you a coffee?” said Aileen, coming up on her shoulder. They were going to try to end this as friends. She didn’t want coffee, but she wanted time to think this through.

“Thank you, I’d love one now.”

Aileen went to the machine and Darcy turned to Peter standing by the window.

“You went to Oxford.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Quite an achievement being a Rhodes scholar.” Parker inclined his head an attempt at modesty that didn’t sit well on him. If her gamble paid off, he wouldn’t look so smug in a minute.

“Especially for a boy from Tara.”

Aileen dropped a saucer and Parker’s head jerked up. But he was clever, so he didn’t miss a beat.

“It’s not about where you’re born, Ms Campbell, but how hard you work.”

“Did you live in the shipping container all your childhood or just some of it?”

Aileen tried to suppress a gasp and Peter stepped towards her. Darcy pressed her advantage.

“It must have been very difficult to get this far.”

“Impressive research, Ms Campbell, but I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

Neither was she. She sat down abruptly. She felt sick to the stomach. Her man from Tara was Will Parker. This man’s brother. Had to be. Though they looked nothing alike. She’d spent the weekend sharing orgasms and trading truths and dares with Will Parker. Lying, bastard scum. No wonder he wasn’t available.

She got to her feet again. “I think Will is here. I think he flew in on QF129 on Friday night.” She was yelling and she knew she needed to calm down, but she couldn’t believe it.

“Please lower your voice. Will’s movements are none of your concern, Ms Campbell. I can assure you he wasn’t flying anywhere,” said Peter.

“I think Will was detained by immigration on Friday—with me.”

“Ms Campbell,” said Peter, warning in his tone. “This meeting is over.”

Peter had moved behind his desk. Was he phoning security, was she going to be escorted out? Aileen was somewhere in the room. Darcy heard a door fly open.

“It’s not over till I get answers,” she shouted.

A familiar voice, slow and country, said her name for the first time. “Darcy.”

Peter snapped, “Stay out.”

And unexpectedly she was looking at Will Parker. Dirty blond, crooked nose, scarred chin. The boy from Tara, the man who’d learned from being beaten: the pirate, the liar, the seducer, the betrayer.

He walked into the room from a connecting office. He wore a pale blue dress shirt, one too many buttons undone, creased like he’d slept in it, no tie, suit pants and shiny shoes. She wanted to claw his eyes out. She wanted to throw herself in his arms.

Peter was saying, “Leave it, Will. I’ve got this. Go back to your office.” And Will Parker was looking at her as though the bottom might fall out of his world. He was right. She was going to rip it out.

He’d be smart to listen to Peter, but he didn’t acknowledge him or Aileen. It was like they were the only two people in existence. He kept coming across the room. Duplicity in motion. He said her name again. He wasn’t the man she’d spent hours naked with, the man she’d made clutch her like she was air he needed to breathe. He was a master manipulator.

He moved inexorably towards her. Somewhere a phone rang, Aileen’s. Then Peter was on Will, grabbing his arm, trying to block his advance. Will shook him off and stepped around him. When he was close enough to touch, Darcy shifted, leaned away, made a fist and punched him.

The sound of her knuckles connecting with his jaw was like a car crash.

Pain exploded in Darcy’s hand and inside her eyes. She spun away from him, tucking her hand into her chest, gasping at the shock of what she’d done. She’d never hit anyone and now she’d hit one of Australia’s richest men.

He could’ve stopped it. His arm came up, he saw it coming. He could’ve sidestepped. He walked into it. He let her hit him. She could hear Will yelling, “Stand back, get away, get ice.” He was somewhere behind her and she wanted to hit him again.

At the airport she’d told him she was a
Sydney Herald
journalist. She’d thought he’d worked out who she was when he’d installed her in the Palace Suite, but he’d known who she was right from the start.