Temporary Intrigue

• CHAPTER ONE
  
• CHAPTER TWO
  
• CHAPTER THREE
  
• CHAPTER FOUR
  
• CHAPTER FIVE
  
• CHAPTER SIX
  
• CHAPTER SEVEN
  
• CHAPTER EIGHT
  
• CHAPTER NINE
  
• CHAPTER TEN
  
• CHAPTER ELEVEN
  
• ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  

Temporary Intrigue

by

Judy Huston

Temporary Intrigue

© 2012 Judy Huston

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Published by Polygonia, Maitland, NSW, Australia.

Please visit
www.judyhuston.com.au

Email
[email protected]

For my parents

With love and thanks for

your never-failing

interest and encouragement.

The hotel corridor seemed endless. It was also, mercifully, deserted.

Wobbling down its length, pink stilettos sinking into plush beige carpet, Dimity peered over the tops of her sunglasses. On the last door before the corridor turned to the left was the sign she wanted:
Functions Manger.

Unfortunately, as she realised after knocking and trying the handle, the office was locked and empty.

Well, she hadn’t hobbled all the way here in these wretched heels and skin-tight suit to leave with mission unaccomplished. She dug the folder from her shoulder bag, bent over to slide it under the door then jerked upright with a muffled shriek.

There was no mistaking that vicious ripping noise. In accordance with Sandra’s dire prediction, the pink skirt had split asunder. And it had split big-time, straight down the back centre seam, almost from waistband to hem. Scanty enough before, it now seemed the size of a pocket handkerchief, impossible to hold together across her bottom.

Horribly aware that only a white thong protected her modesty, Dimity planted her back against the wall, gripped each side of the ruptured skirt and considered her options.

The obvious solution was to ring Sandra’s hairdressing salon. Like the hotel, the salon was located in Newcastle’s central business district, only minutes away. Friday was a busy day for Sandy but, even so, she would come to the rescue like a shot.

A quick search in her bag, however, put paid to that idea. She must have left her phone at the salon. In her rush to get to the interview, she had forgotten it.

A high-pitched squeal of laughter caught her attention. Two children, a boy and girl aged about six and eight, were running down the corridor towards her.

Dimity recognised them immediately. It would be hard to miss them. Earlier in the day they had joined the queue at her face-painting booth on the harbour foreshore, and were still wearing the results. The girl, galloping astride a straw broom, appeared set for Halloween, with greenish white witch face, spooky black eyebrows and an evil-looking spider on her chin. The boy had demanded a tiger face and Dimity had obliged with orange and black stripes topped off with generous white whiskers and eyebrows.

Cantering past, the girl stopped abruptly.

“You’re the lady who did our faces!” she announced.

Her younger brother joined the scrutiny.

“You look different,” he told Dimity, as if she didn’t know. “What happened to your other clothes?”

“Why are you wearing your sunglasses inside?” asked the girl.

“It’s a long story.” Dimity hoped they hadn’t followed her into the hotel. On top of her other troubles, she didn’t need frantic parents bringing a kidnapping charge against her.

Or police leading her away, with handcuffs preventing her from trying to cover her exposed . . .

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“We’re staying here.” Growling, the little boy dropped to all fours and pretended to attack her feet. “Our daddy’s sailing his yacht in the regatta this afternoon.”

That figured. If they belonged to the yachting fraternity they would be much more at home than she was in this five-star environment.

Especially in her present predicament.

“Do you have a phone?” she queried hopefully. Children of the rich usually had everything.

“Natalie! Simon!” A woman’s voice called from the direction of the stairs.

“There’s Mum!” The boy charged back down the hallway, followed by his broom-riding sister.

Through the dark sunglasses Dimity could make out the shape of a woman. A few cross words travelled back to her.

“. . . not to talk to strangers! Where did you find that broom?”

“She’s not a stranger!”

The group also seemed to include a tall, male figure. Probably the yachting daddy.

Losing interest, Dimity reverted to her dilemma. She couldn’t stand here all day. But walking away was out of the question. If she couldn’t summon help, it seemed her only option was to do a snake-like slide along the wall back to the lift, which would take her down to the swanky, ground floor foyer . . .

Where the security guard she had noticed earlier would, no doubt, be greatly interested in the sight of her trying to reverse her way out of the building with a shoulder bag clasped across a virtually bare rear end.

The bag was big, but not that big.

Dimity’s creative imagination failed her.

Maybe there was a public phone somewhere. She hadn’t seen one yet, but there might be one in the next corridor.

She edged across the office door to the corner. Keeping her back firmly against the wall, she stretched her head around as far as possible.

When a voice spoke beside her she nearly jumped through the third floor ceiling of the Global Homes Hotel.

****

Josh couldn’t figure out what on earth she was doing.

He had escaped his group and spent fifteen minutes exploring the hotel alone, something he always enjoyed. It was the best way to get the feel of a place. With the coat of his dark blue suit under his arm he worked his way up to the fourth floor before deciding, reluctantly, to return.

Opting for the stairs, he loped down one flight and was about to tackle the next when some instinctive male radar sent his head swivelling sharply to the left.

His gaze zoomed in on an extremely curvaceous, pink-clad rear whose owner was in the act of bending over to put something under one of the office doors. Watching appreciatively, he almost lost his balance as two small children raced up the stairs and cannoned into him. A broom hit his legs. At the same time he heard a stifled scream from the other end of the corridor.

Josh looked quickly to where the girl was now standing against the wall, then back at the children. Witch and tiger giggled delightedly at his double take before racing down the hallway. When they reached the girl they stopped and seemed to be talking to her.

A woman materialised behind Josh, calling out. As the children thundered back he stepped aside hastily, his attention on the girl again. She was now inching her way towards the end of the wall as if trying to stretch her head around the corner without exposing herself to anyone who might be there.

Had she heard a gunshot? Hell, maybe there was a psychopath loose in the building.

Josh took off, his stride almost breaking into a run before he reached the girl whose neck was still twisted around the corner at an impossible-looking angle.

“Something wrong?” he asked, pulling up beside her.

She jumped like a scalded cat and swung around with another small shriek. Her face slammed into his shoulder. Something clattered to the floor.

For a few seconds Josh stared down into a head of short blonde hair streaked with green. He was aware of a light, agreeable fragrance. Then he caught her arms, steadying and releasing her almost in the same movement, before sticking his own head around the corner.

Seeing only an empty corridor he looked back questioningly at the girl. She was flat against the wall again, arms straight by her sides.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “I thought –”

He stopped, only half managing to suppress a startled exclamation. Along with the hot pink skirt she wore a matching top, fastened with buttons that made hard work of the task of concealing her cleavage. Like the skirt, the top seemed to have been designed for someone less pleasantly curved.

But it wasn’t the clothes or the equally pink, smeared lipstick that caught his attention. Staring back at him from under the tousled, greenish blonde hair were two of the most impressive shiners he had seen since his junior boxing days in Toronto.

Josh felt his mouth drop open. She half raised a hand to her face then jerked it back to her side.

“I think I dropped my glasses. Would you mind?”

“Sure.” Glad to cover his confusion he glanced down, saw a pair of orange-framed Jackie Os and retrieved them, noting in the process that her very shapely legs ended in a pair of stridently pink stilettos.

She grabbed the glasses from him with one hand, ducking her head to adjust them. Then, straightening up to what he guessed would be a full five feet four without the shoes, she resumed standing like a soldier at attention. Squeezed against the wall, she seemed bent on keeping as far from him as possible.

Maybe he should rethink his aftershave. Slightly offended, he moved a step away. As he did, something else on the floor caught his eye.

“Is that yours too?” He nodded at a blue folder.

She glanced at it without enthusiasm.

“It’s my brother’s CV. The receptionist told me to give it to the functions manager but he’s not there. I was going to put it under the door.”

“Would you like me to?” Josh gestured inquiringly.

She nodded and watched him dispatch the folder, still rigid against the wall as if ready to defend herself against any move he might make.