The Collector's Edition Volume 1 (27 page)

Silence. Some heavy breathing. “You didn’t know he was my ex-husband?”

“How could I? We’ve never met before last night, and you always referred to your ex-husband as Mikey.” Lauren screwed up her nose at the inappropriate little-boy name.

“Oh, my God! Did he know you didn’t know?”

“I would think it was obvious. To me he was a perfect stranger.” Maybe that had influenced his decision, too, knowing she wasn’t prejudiced against him.

“Lauren, you didn’t go to bed with him, did you?”

She bristled. “Aren’t you being highly personal, Roxanne?”

“This
is
personal. He hates you, Lauren. Nothing would give him more satisfaction than to seduce you and have you begging for more.”

A horrible chill crawled down Lauren’s spine at the vehement conviction in Roxanne’s voice.
“Why?” she asked brusquely. “Why should he hate me?”

“We used to have fights over what you said.”

“What do you mean? I never said anything to him. I didn’t know him.”

“I mean when I threw your advice at him. He just couldn’t take it. He started calling you the feminist saboteur in his sneering, superior way. Believe me, he hates you, Lauren. If you could have seen the savage look in his eyes whenever I brought up your name. Pure venom.”

Shock didn’t roll through Lauren’s mind this time. It hit like jackhammer punches.

Feminist! Saboteur!

She felt sick. That was what had been going through Michael’s mind during all that talk with Tasha and Evan. The savage flash in his eyes-it had been directed at her, not a memory. And once he realised Roxanne would not be coming to the party-the accident with the waiter, stopping Beth from blurting out his connection to Roxanne, was a very timely party trick, clearing the path to put his vengeful plan into action.

No,
her heart screamed.

But it all added up.

“Look, I understand if he got to you,” Roxanne went on. “He’s a very sexy male animal when he decides to put out. But I’m warning you, Lauren. He’ll turn on you as fast as look at you when it suits him. I hope you didn’t let him have his rotten triumph over you.”

Lauren gritted her teeth and swallowed the bile that had surged up her throat. “Triumph?” she repeated raggedly.

“He reckoned what you needed was a real man who’d knock all the feminist starch out of you and melt you into a human being. He would have gone all out to achieve that, and if he did.”

“I see. Well, thank you for calling, Roxanne,” she managed stiffly and hung up, hating the thought that Michael might boast he had made her melt. Over and over again.

The perfect stranger. She should have realised he was too perfect to be real. Anyone could sustain an act for a night, especially if he knew what would strike a false note with her. Michael Timberlane was a highly intelligent man. He’d sucked her right in with his blend of sexiness and sensitivity to her desires and needs.

The telephone rang again. She hesitated, then berated herself for letting him affect her so deeply that she didn’t want to take what might be an important call. Work was work, and it was far more reliable than people, she thought fiercely. At least she could count on herself to get it as right as she could in that area of her life. She picked up the receiver, but her voice was momentarily disconnected because of the miserable muddle in her mind.

“Lauren? It’s Michael.” Said with a soft lilt of anticipation.

Her stomach clenched. The arch-deceiver himself! If he thought she was about to rush in and
beg for more, he could think again. “Yes?” she queried, her mind suddenly cold and clear.

“I found your note. It was a great night for me, too.” Purring with pleasure.

“I’m glad it was mutual,” she replied silkily, waiting for the perfect line to turn the knife.

He laughed. “Couldn’t be more so. When do you think you’ll finish work tonight?”

“Oh, I don’t know. What do you want, Michael?” That was a good question. Let him beg!

“To be with you again as soon as you’re free.”

She deliberately heaved a sigh. “Look, Michael, it was a great night. A really great night. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”

Silence. “Come again?” He sounded puzzled, disbelieving.

Lauren went for the kill. “Well, the fact of the matter is I don’t go in for repeat performances. Why spoil a perfect memory?”

“Performance?” he repeated harshly.

Got you, you rat!

“Mmm.” It was the hum of satisfaction. She injected some warmth into her voice. Warm poison. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Michael. You certainly delivered. Thanks again. It was great.”

She hung up to punctuate the finality of her farewell. And if that didn’t turn the tables on his rotten triumph, she didn’t know what would. A savage little smile curled her mouth. Vengeance could be sweet.

T
HEIR
taxi was cruising towards Mascot. Lauren checked her watch. The flight to Melbourne was scheduled to leave at five. Domestic aircraft rarely departed on time. They would have a good twentyfive minutes to collect their tickets, check in their luggage, get their seat allocations and relax with a drink in the Golden Wing lounge.

It had been a long, exhausting day, racing between the ABC studios at Ultimo for the radio spots and the other venues for magazine interviews. Evan Daniel had performed well overall, gaining confidence and a dash of panache as he became more practised at handling the questions thrown at him. He was riding a high. Lauren felt totally limp.

It was as though last week’s highly charged encounter with Michael Timberlane had drained something vital out of her. She wasn’t sleeping well. Doing anything required a conscious effort. She forced herself to follow the schedules she set, but somehow she couldn’t lift herself out of this. this slough of despondency. Sometimes she even wished she was dead.

The taxi was beetling along, the driver seemingly unconcerned that the cars in front of him were stopped at a red traffic light. Did he expect it to
change? Alarm shot through Lauren’s nerves. Couldn’t he see?

“I say,” Evan started weakly.

Lauren screamed.

The driver snapped alert, slammed on the brakes and the tyres burnt rubber to a squealing halt, millimetres from the stationary traffic ahead of them. Brakes shrieked from the car behind them as it narrowly avoided crashing into the back of the taxi.

“Sorry,” their driver mumbled.

Evan turned from the front seat to check on Lauren. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she replied shakily, then with a dark look at the back of their driver’s head, added, “I would like to get to the airport in one piece though.”

“I think I need a double gin,” Evan said with feeling.

It didn’t sound like a bad idea to Lauren, either, although the adrenaline kick of the near accident had proved one thing to her. She definitely didn’t want to be dead. There was life after inattentive taxidrivers and Michael Timberlane. It was up to her to make the best of it. And she would. Somehow.

It had only been a week since the disastrous morning after. Perhaps she had been subconsciously grieving a lost dream. This trip to Melbourne should lift her spirits. Tonight she would visit her mother and whatever family was at home. It was always heart-warming to be with people whom she cared about and who cared about her. Lauren didn’t
want anything to do with hatred. It was a destructive emotion.

It was a relief to leave the errant taxi and enter the bustle of the terminal. Here were people on the move, going somewhere, doing something, excitement, adventure, change. Lauren loved the mood of airports. The check-in went smoothly, and anticipation began to tingle through her as they rode the escalator up to the waiting areas. She was flying home.

The Golden Wing lounge seemed packed when they entered. “I’ll look for some seats while you get your drink, Evan,” Lauren offered.

“No problem. Michael should have bagged a table somewhere.”

“Michael?” Her heart fluttered.

“Ah, there he is!” Evan said with satisfaction, pointing to a window table across the room from the bar.

Lauren’s heart dropped to the floor. The dark, striking figure of Michael Timberlane, lounging at ease, idly perusing a business magazine, burned through her retinas and stamped itself on her quivering mind. Her peripheral vision took in the two chairs grouped with his, one occupied by a flight bag, the other by a newspaper. He was expecting them, waiting for them.

Goosebumps broke out on Lauren’s skin. She wasn’t finished with him. He wasn’t going to let her be finished with him. Just like Wayne. He had his own agenda, and to hell with what she wanted!

Rebellion stirred, pumping her heart into its rightful place. If Michael Timberlane thought he could get at her again, he was in for a big surprise. The trick was to act as though this meeting was totally inconsequential to her. Which it was. She would get that message across to him if it killed her.

She forced her legs to follow Evan as he picked his way towards his friend.
Head high,
she advised herself, and fiercely wished she’d pinned her hair up this morning. It was wildly afloat around her shoulders, and Michael had made almost a fetish of it in their lovemaking. Such a reminder was unwelcome, but it had to be borne with an air of carelessness.

She was glad she was wearing a tailored slacks suit. If Michael Timberlane wanted to make something feminist of that, let him. At least it didn’t mould her body in any overt way, not even with the jacket off. She had added a jazzy little vest featuring white reindeers on bands of mustard and black, and it neatly skimmed the curves her black skivvy and slacks would have outlined. Except for her hair, she presented a smartly professional appearance.

“We got here!” Evan announced, alerting Michael to their arrival. “No thanks to the taxi driver who gave us one hell of a fright.”

“Oh?” Michael queried as he put his magazine aside and rose to his feet, looking sleek, dangerous and disturbingly virile in blue jeans and a black leather jacket.

“If Lauren hadn’t screamed, I reckon we would have crashed for sure,” Evan went on with the relish of a storyteller.

A sardonic smile was directed at her. “I congratulate you on your timely screaming, Lauren.”

“It took siren strength to wake the driver,” she said, jollying the story along, pretending his presence had no import to her.

His silvery eyes swept a glittering glance over her hair, then shot piercing derision at her as he observed, “When it comes to siren quality, you certainly have it in quantity.”

So the knives were out, Lauren thought. No intent to seduce again. This was counter-kill time. Which suited her just fine. Where Michael Timberlane was concerned, she was armour-plated.

She smiled at Evan. “If you’re going to have a drink.”

“You bet I am.” He grinned and patted his stomach. “Needs some settling down. What will you have, Lauren? You can fill Michael in on our drama while I get our medicinal measures.”

“A lemon squash will be fine for me.”

“You’re joking!”

“No. I find alcohol drying on flights.”

“There’s an easy solution to that. Drink more.” Evan advised.

She shook her head. No way was she going to fuzz her brain in the present circumstances. If she’d drunk less champagne the last time she was with Michael Timberlane, she might not have lost her head in a cloud of rosy dreams.

“Lemon squash,” Evan conceded with mock disgust. “What can I get you, Michael?”

“I’ll join you in a gin.”

“Double?”

“Why not?”

Evan grinned at the ready camaraderie from his friend. “A Waki special coming up,” he promised and headed to the bar.

Michael leaned over and lifted the flight bag off the chair opposite his. “Have a seat,” he invited.

“Thank you.”

It was a comfortable tub chair, and Lauren deliberately struck a relaxed pose, settling back against the cushioned upholstery, laying her arms openly on the armrests and crossing her legs. If Michael Timberlane was adept at reading body language, the message she was projecting was as easygoing as she could get. Lauren was not about to show him any sign of tension.

He adopted a more casual posture, elbows on the armrests, hands dangling loosely, one foot resting on the other knee. He surveyed her slowly from head to toe, a deliberate stripping, meant to shame and unsettle her. Lauren wished she could do the same to him but found she couldn’t carry it off.

The blue chambray shirt he wore was opennecked. When her eyes hit the springy black curls nesting below the base of his throat, the memory of their intimacy was triggered too forcefully. She didn’t want to face it. She turned her gaze to the window and looked at the aircraft lined up at their boarding tunnels. Baggage was being loaded into
the closest one. Watching that process was pleasantly mind-numbing.

“Do you have business in Melbourne?” she asked when it became obvious he did not intend offering any conversation. If he had some battle plan against her she preferred some warning of what to expect.

Silence.

She directed a look of polite enquiry at him, determined to show his rudeness did not affect her.

“No,” he answered, a mocking challenge in his eyes.

“But you are flying with us,” she persisted, wanting at least the present situation clarified.

“Yes, I’m coming along for the ride.”

“Why?”

“I guess you could say I’m riding shotgun for Evan and Tasha.”

She frowned. “You think they need protecting?”

“Yes. You may consider it rather quaint of me, but I care about them. They’re meaningful people in my life. And God knows I’ve found few enough of them.”

The sarcasm cut. It was difficult to ignore. “Who would want to hurt them?” she asked. None of the interviews she had lined up were in the go-for-thejugular category. It was all human-interest fare; easy, informative, entertaining.

“You.”

“Me?” She stared incredulously at him.

“Don’t come the innocent, Lauren,” he said harshly, his eyes flashing contempt. “I’ve been there with you and know what’s at the end of it. If Evan
is chalked up as your next dalliance, I aim to prevent it.”

Hatred, hard and violent, coming at her in heartjolting, throat-constricting, mind-jamming waves. Lauren had never been subjected to anything like it before. For several moments she could do nothing but sit in mesmerised horror at what had been wrought in him by her act of vengeance.

She collected herself with difficulty. He hated her before she even met him, she reasoned. He deserved everything she had handed out for having played so falsely with her. There was no cause for guilt or shame on her part.

Nevertheless, it was frightening that her ego wounding had fired his hatred to such a high level of intensity. Would he do her harm if he got the chance? More harm than he had already done with
his
act of vengeance? Had he poisoned Evan’s mind against her?

No. The answer was swift and certain. Evan was treating her no differently. His personality was too open to cover up any harbouring of ill will towards her. There had been no confidences. This was a private thing, a deep festering of wounds that cut to the innermost core of Michael Timberlane.

“I don’t dally with married men,” she stated flatly, wanting at least that part of his picture of her corrected.

“What a nice distinction.” Pure acid. “If true.”

She shrugged. “Believe what you like, Michael.” Her mouth twisted with irony. “You will, anyway.”

“I keep thinking of your poor sucker of a husband. No wonder he didn’t like your
job,
” he drawled. “All those convenient hotel rooms and a quick change of authors to provide variety. How many notches have you got on your belt, Lauren?”

He was so far off beam she could let his offensiveness float over her. She raised a taunting eyebrow. “Hurt pride, Michael?”

“Curiosity.” His thin-lipped smile deflected the hit. “As a specimen of the modern female, you’re quite an interesting study, Lauren.”

“I do hope you’re open-minded enough to take response to stimuli into consideration,” she said sweetly. “You were—” she fluttered her gaze from his chest to his thighs in a deliberate parody of his sexual survey “—very stimulating.”

She saw the powerful leg muscles tauten against the stretch denim of his jeans and felt a savage triumph at having affected him, despite his contemptuous attitude towards her.

“But you prefer a change of flesh,” he said, rushing to the worst judgment again.

She raised her gaze, subjecting him to a mocking challenge. “Do I? Leaping to conclusions from faulty assumptions does not strike me as a sound way of conducting a study. Where’s your body of evidence, Michael?”

His mouth curled. “You gave it to me, Lauren.”

She forced a tinkling laugh. “How marvellous it must be to confidently extract the pattern of a person’s life from one incident.”

“Hardly an incident,” he drawled. “More a revelation.”

“Indeed?”

His deceit burned through her, igniting energy resources that had lain dormant for days. One thing could be said for Michael Timberlane’s unwelcome intrusion in her life again. He generated an electricity that had her firing on all cylinders.

She leaned forward and gave him an earnestly questioning look. “Could there possibly be a vital piece of the picture missing? Something critical that the genius has overlooked in his summing up?”

His eyes narrowed.

She flopped back in her chair in careless dismissal of whatever answers he came up with, scorning his arrogance in judging her so meanly when the mean-heartedness was all his.

He leaned forward, his eyes hypnotically luminescent in their need to know. “Enlighten me, Lauren. Tell me the missing factor.”

“You don’t recall the factor you so deliberately left out of the equation, Michael?” she tossed at him. She couldn’t quite keep the contempt out of her voice as she added, “Neat trick with the drink waiter. Very timely.”

He reeled, face tightening as though she had slapped him. He shook his head. His mouth thinned. Another more vehement shake of the head. With a startling burst of explosive energy, he jackknifed forward, his eyes riveting hers in a blaze of sizzling emotion.

“Are you telling me you let Roxanne influence you?” It was a blistering hiss. “After what we shared?”

She felt the memories if that night pulsing from him, bombarding her mind, curling around her heart, squeezing it. And the thought came to her that hatred was the reverse side of love. love betrayed, belittled, abused. Had she leapt to all the wrong conclusions?

Lauren was so paralysed by this appalling possibility she could make no response. Inwardly she retreated from the assault of his eyes, closing up, guarding herself from making any further mistakes. Confusion, emotional turbulence, a deep, dark sickness in her soul.

“Here we are!”

Three glasses clinked onto the table. Evan Daniel back from the bar, a lemon squash for her, double gins for the men. She wished she’d ordered something with the kick of a mule. It might have anaesthetised the painful chaos of trying to evaluate where she was and what she should do about Michael Timberlane.