Best Of Makeovers Bundle Part 44

Not many minutes later, he was tooling along the leafy streets of Point Piper in his Jag convertible. Traffic was light, and it didn't take long to make his way to the Woolloomooloo wharves. Tossing the keys to the parking attendant at the W Hotel, he strode inside, blinking in the relative darkness of the foyer.

He spotted his sister reading a newspaper on a bank of couches to his left. She didn't look up from the article she was reading, and he walked across to stand in front of her.

"Sorry I'm late. Although it doesn't look like you were exactly champing at the bit."

"Can you believe the rubbish they put in the social pages? This Katie Menski woman is a poisonous viper, if you ask me. The things she writes about people!"

"Good afternoon to you, too."

"I just don't understand why it's allowed," Alison said as she allowed him to lead her out onto the promenade, where there was a range of restaurants for them to choose from. "Why doesn't someone just sue the newspaper? That'd put a stop to the viciousness."

"Mmm. What do you feel like? Italian? Seafood?" Marc asked, mildly amused by his sister's rant.

"I want pastries after reading that stupid article. Some nice calming saturated fats."

Marc let out a bark of laughter and led her into a wood-paneled patisserie. They found a seat by the window, and both pulled out their sungla.s.ses to tame the bright midday sun.

"Can I make a suggestion?" he said as they picked up menus.

"Of course. But it doesn't mean I'm going to listen to you," Alison warned him.

"Don't read the social pages if they annoy you so much," he said.

She opened and shut her mouth a few times. "But it just irritates me that so many people lap that stuff up like it's gospel!"

"Yep. And you can't do a d.a.m.ned thing about it. So...don't worry about it," he said, spreading his hands wide to ill.u.s.trate his point.

Alison stared at him a moment, an arrested expression on her face. "I guess that's why you're the millionaire in the family," she said grudgingly.

"Just common sense, Ally," he said drily.

"Still."

She smiled at him, and reached across to squeeze his arm. "You're looking better, you know. More relaxed, less stressed. Last time I saw you I thought you were developing a permanent frown."

Instantly his thoughts turned to the spectacular bout of stress relief that he'd enjoyed the night before. He cleared his throat and s.h.i.+fted in his chair.

"What are you going to have?"

Alison lifted dark eyes to him. Anyone seeing them together would have no doubt about their relations.h.i.+p, Marc thought. They shared the same olive skin and dark hair and eyes. She was tall for a woman, too. Almost as tall as Anna Jackson.

"d.a.m.n it," he cursed under his breath. Why did he keep thinking about her?

"Sorry?" Alison asked.

"Nothing. Just thinking of something," he said, waving a hand to signify the thought's irrelevance.

"Work?" she asked sympathetically.

To his everlasting amazement, he felt a blush heat his neck and cheeks. He kept his gaze firmly on the menu, avoiding his sister's eagle eyes.

But she'd already caught on. "Why, Marc, I do believe you're blus.h.i.+ng!" she said archly.

Marc raised an eyebrow imperiously, trying to brazen it out. "Am I?"

"Oh, yes. What's going on?"

"Nothing."

"Come on now, you know that's not going to cut it with me," she said mockingly. She c.o.c.ked her head to one side and studied him. "Looking relaxed...slightly rumpled...running late..."

She sat up straighter and clapped her hands together. "You've met someone!" she squealed.

Marc frowned. "Alison...."

"Tell me everything. Where did you meet her? What's her name?" Alison asked, almost rubbing her hands together with antic.i.p.ation.

Marc signaled for the waiter to come over. "I'm having the croissants. What would you like?" he said, drawing a line under his sister's nosiness.

"The quiche and salad, please. And a slice of the gateau."

"We are las.h.i.+ng out," Marc commented sardonically.

"Absolutely. And don't think you've changed the subject, mister."

"Alison, as much as I love you dearly, you are not getting a free pa.s.s into my private life. So just leave it, okay?"

She must have heard the warning note in his voice, because she bit her lip and began fiddling with a sugar straw.

"I'm not being gratuitously nosy, Marc. It's only because I care about you. I know you loved Tara, I know you're still upset about what happened. But life goes on. You're thirty-five, ridiculously good-looking, disgustingly wealthy-you should be having a good time, not having lunch with your sister on a Sat.u.r.day afternoon."

"At this stage I feel honor-bound to point out that this lunch was your idea, to discuss Sally's progress with the job," he reminded her drily.

A wave of Alison's hand dispensed with this consideration. "You know what I mean, don't pretend you don't. Life goes on, Marc. There's still plenty of time to meet someone else, have a family."

"Perhaps I don't want a family," he said coolly.

"Which is why you bought a six-bedroom home."

Marc could feel all the familiar anger and hurt welling up inside him. Tara had thrown away so much when she'd betrayed him with another man. All their plans for the future...He wasn't going to risk that happening again.

"If it will make you happy, we can put a lid on this topic for all time right here and now. Listen very carefully-I am not interested in marrying again."

Alison opened her mouth, and he headed her off at the pa.s.s. "Or having a long-term relations.h.i.+p without marriage. Any future woman in my life will be there for one thing and one thing only. And right now, I'm not even particularly interested in that!"

Just to make a liar of him, an image of Anna flashed into his mind-the one he'd been obsessing about all week after he'd caught her changing before their opera house meeting. The slope of her breast, the curve of her b.u.t.t in lace, glimpsed for just a second before she pulled her dress on....

"Are you telling me that you're just going to fritter away the rest of your life having a series of affairs with women? Do you have any idea how empty that sounds?" she asked.

Marc saw that there were actually tears in his sister's eyes.

"Ally. Don't cry for me. I'm a very happy, very contented man."

But she just shook her head. "I'm really going to need that gateau now. That is the saddest thing I have ever heard."

Marc tensed his jaw and looked off into the middle distance. She didn't get it. Perhaps if her husband had pulled the rug out from beneath her, destroying everything she'd built around them to make their lives work-perhaps then she'd understand the pain and anger he'd been through in the last six months. And why he was never going to put himself in a position where it could happen again.

ANNA PUSHED THE COUCH another few inches forward, then stepped back to admire her handiwork. Perfect. She took another couple of steps back, eyes running approvingly over the soft chocolate leather of her new couch. It was accented perfectly by the rich burnt orange of the newly painted feature wall behind it, and by the luxuriously thick ruby red rug in front of it.

She knelt and ran her fingers through the rug's soft, velvety tufts. Silk and wool, the man in the shop had said. In winter, she could steal cus.h.i.+ons from the couch and curl up on the rug with a book and a gla.s.s of red wine. And it would be great for yoga-if and when she ever got around to watching the exercise DVD she'd bought recently. And, of course, it would really come into its own for making love. Instantly she pictured Marc, naked, hard and hot for her, stretched out across the rug like an offering to the G.o.ds.

She s.n.a.t.c.hed her hands off the rug as though she'd just been electrocuted.

"d.a.m.n it!" Pus.h.i.+ng her hands against her thighs, she exploded to her feet in a burst of frustrated energy.

She had done everything in her power to forget the man, and still he kept popping up in her subconscious. What was it going to take?

Gathering the plastic wrap that had protected the couch during delivery, Anna stuffed it into a garbage bag. It had been a week and a day since the encounter on her car. A good week, too, she told herself. She'd decided to learn from her lesson with Marc, to see it as the next, if maybe slightly extreme, step in her new life plan.

Hence the new couch. She'd always secretly longed for a colorful, comfortable nest to come home to. Her previous furniture had been a mixture of hand-me-downs, practical acquisitions and loans. Clean, neat, tidy. Boring. She'd always planned to invest in something more dramatic and interesting. But somehow, like so many other things, she'd never gotten around to it. So when the catalog came in the mail, she'd stared at the gorgeous couch in cla.s.sic Art Deco clubman style and decided to just go for it. Life was short, right?

Two hours and a drive to the furniture outlet later, she'd dropped a large chunk of change on the rug, the couch and a number of other accessories for around her home. Then she'd gone straight to the hardware store and picked a delicious deep orange paint to accent her new purchases. The whole lot had come together today, and it looked amazing-her own take on Morroccan nights.

She was changing, she really was.

Now, if she could just get Marc Lewis out of her head!

Even if she succeeded in going a whole day without indulging in a flashback fantasy about her time with him, she couldn't stop him from stealing into her dreams. As soon as she was asleep she was with him again, each touch a flame on her skin, each caress urging her toward an o.r.g.a.s.m that she knew was going to be so intense, so mind-blowing that she'd never be the same again. In her dream she'd strive and hold her breath and strain...but the o.r.g.a.s.m never came and she woke each morning feeling d.a.m.ned cranky and d.a.m.ned h.o.r.n.y and knowing full well that there was precious little she could do about it.

Because calling him was out of the question. She wanted to. She dreamed about making that call. But she couldn't. She just...couldn't.

What had happened had happened. But it was a one-off. Definitely.

She'd been over his side of the city many times since that fateful Friday night a week ago. Twice she'd even driven right past his corporate headquarters. Both times her skin had p.r.i.c.kled and she'd felt ridiculously self-conscious-just from driving past a stupid building! It was too much. Too ridiculous.

But no urge this strong could sustain itself. She'd rea.s.sured herself of that fact every morning as she stepped under the cold spray of her shower. It was just a matter of time. And of distracting herself from obsessing about him.

So as well as giving her apartment a new look, she'd reconnected with a number of her girlfriends from her lawyer days. They'd been flatteringly pleased to hear from her, and she'd been surprised at how much she'd enjoyed catching up with them. She'd cut a lot out of her life after her cancer diagnosis, and some of it had been good stuff. A case of throwing out the baby with the bathwater, perhaps.

Checking her watch, Anna pulled a face. She had to hustle if she was going to be ready in time. Dropping the garbage bag by the front door to take out when she left for the evening, she padded barefoot into her bedroom and pulled open her underwear drawer. Tossing a bra and panties onto the bed, she turned to head into the bathroom, only to find her attention caught by her new dress.

She was going to an exhibition opening with Leah and Jules, two friends from law school, and she'd added to her post-surgery wardrobe for the outing, purchasing a deep crimson sheath that hugged her curves and ended at midcalf. The front dipped dangerously low, showcasing the swell of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s but not prohibiting the wearing of a bra. Somehow, this small saving grace gave the old Anna some comfort. Baby steps, she reminded herself. Lots of baby steps.

She showered quickly, then did her makeup and hair in record time and was wriggling into her dress with a whole ten minutes to spare before her friends were due.

She whirled in front of the mirror, inspecting herself from every angle. She looked nice, definitely presentable. Maybe even a bit s.e.xy, dare she say it? She stared at the large expanse of cleavage on display. Perhaps the dress was too s.e.xy? It was the old Anna talking, she knew, but it made her move to her wardrobe and stare at the clothes hanging there. Was it too late to change?

The doorbell sounded. Her mouth twisted wryly-decision made, obviously. She opened the door, and her apartment was quickly filled with the sound of feminine laughter and chatter as they greeted each other.

"My G.o.d, Anna, that dress is incredible!" Leah said. "And your hair! You look so different!"

"h.e.l.l, yes. But it really suits you. You've got such great cheekbones," Jules chimed in.

Leah was still shaking her head, obviously incredulous. Anna spared a sympathetic thought for the woman she used to be-she of the uptight wardrobe and conservative blond bob.

"Thanks, guys. I thought maybe the dress might have been a bit too much...?"

"Are you kidding? You look like a movie star," Jules said.

"You should have done this years ago," Leah added enthusiastically. Then she blushed deeply, and clapped a hand over her mouth. "Anna-I'm so sorry!" she said contritely. "I didn't mean..."

Anna laughed, keen to dispel any awkwardness. That was the thing with cancer-other people were always more uncomfortable about it than she was.

"It's okay, relax," she said. "I know exactly what you mean."

Leah looked relieved, and Jules lifted envious eyes from the intent study she'd been making of Anna's dress.

"Such a gorgeous red, Anna. I'd rip it off your back if I thought I could squeeze more than one thigh into it." Jules pulled a face, indicating her fuller figure ruefully.

Her confidence well and truly bolstered, Anna collected her evening bag and house keys. "Well, if I'm not ready for a night out after that, it's never going to happen," she joked.

They laughed and talked in the taxi as they traveled across the city to the inner-west suburb of Glebe. Jules filled them in on her friend Maxine, the artist behind tonight's exhibition. She was a childhood friend, and Jules explained her style was abstract, but "not in a horrible elite w.a.n.ky kind of way." Since Anna knew just enough about art to fill the back of a postage stamp, she wasn't particularly fussed. Tonight was about fun-doing something different, and catching up with her friends.

The exhibition was being held in a Victorian-era mansion set well back from the road in a busy cafe district. Their taxi dropped them at the curb, and they click-clacked their way up the garden-bordered path and into the foyer of the old house. All three of them gasped with admiration as they stepped through the stained-gla.s.s entrance door. Floorboards gleamed around them, a huge chandelier sparkled high above and a staircase swept grandly up to the second floor.

They grinned at each other, a bit embarra.s.sed by their gauche responses. Leah pulled her jacket off with a flick of her wrist.

"Darrrrrrlings, I think we've arrived," she said in a really bad imitation of an upper-cla.s.s English accent.

Anna m.u.f.fled a laugh. Making contact with her old friends and coming here tonight was the best thing she could have done. Already things were a.s.suming a more normal, rational perspective. Like Marc Lewis, for example. She could barely remember the smell of his aftershave anymore. A huge step in the right direction. A few more weeks of determined socializing, and he'd be nothing but a short, hot flash of memory.

Realizing that Leah and Jules had moved off ahead of her, she followed them into the main exhibition s.p.a.ce. There was a good crowd, a very respectable showing for a young artist. But it only took a second for Anna's eyes to hone in on one tall, broad-shouldered figure standing at the far end of the gallery. Even as her stomach dipped with nerves, he turned his head toward her-almost as though he'd known she was there. Perhaps he had, in the same way that she'd sensed his presence the moment she walked in.

Across the room, dark, depthless eyes met hers as she froze in place, her breath stuck somewhere between her lungs and her throat.

Marc Lewis. Wouldn't you know it?

5.

EMBARRa.s.sMENT WASHED OVER HER. World-cla.s.s embarra.s.sment. Her body was so hot a troop of Boy Scouts could toast marshmallows on her. Astronauts could probably see her from the moon. The last time she'd seen this man, she'd torn his clothes off and done...things with him on the trunk of her car. She wasn't supposed to run into him like this. In fact, in a perfect world, Marc would have ceased to exist the moment she dropped him off at his house just over a week ago. That way she would never have to face up to the reality of what had happened between them that night.

But here he was, larger than life. In the flesh. Tall and handsome and vitally attractive.