Wife in Public
Authors: Emma Darcy
“There’s not a maître d’ in Sydney who wouldn’t find a table for me,” he answered, with supreme arrogance.
She sipped the champagne, and the fizz went to her head, promoting the urge to be reckless. “All right,” she said slowly. “I will have dinner with you.”
A treacherous tingle of anticipation invaded Ivy’s entire body. She didn’t wait to hear him make arrangements, pretending it was irrelevant to her whether or not he secured a table for the promised dinner. Undoubtedly he would. Jordan Powell could probably buy his way into anything, anytime at all.
But he couldn’t buy her.
Emma Darcy
EMMA DARCY
’s life journey has taken as many twists and turns as those of the characters in her stories, whose popularity worldwide has resulted in sixty million books in print.
Born in Australia, and currently living on a beautiful country property in New South Wales, she has moved from country to city to towns and back to country, sporadically indulging her love of tropical islands with numerous vacations.
Her ambition to be an actress was partly satisfied when she played in amateur theater productions, but ultimately fulfilled when she became a writer. Now she has the exciting pleasure of playing all the roles, as well as directing them and ringing down the curtain calls.
Initially a teacher of French and English, she changed her career to computer programming before marriage and motherhood settled her into community life. Her creative urges were channeled into oil painting, pottery, and designing and overseeing the construction and decorating of two homes, all in the midst of keeping up with three lively sons and the very busy social life of her businessman husband.
A voracious reader, the step to writing her own books seemed a natural progression to Emma, and the challenge of creating wonderful stories was soon highly addictive. With her strong interest in people and relationships, Emma found the world of romance fiction a happy one.
Currently she has broadened her horizons and begun to write mainstream women’s fiction. Other new directions include her most recent adventures of blissfully breezing around the Gulf of Mexico from Florida to Louisiana in a red convertible, and risking the perils of the tortuous road along the magnificent Amalfi Coast in Italy.
EMMA DARCY
‘T
HE
Valentino king of rose-giving is on the loose again,’ Heather Gale remarked, swinging around from her computer chair to grin at Ivy. ‘He’s just ordered the sticky date and ginger fudge with the three dozen red roses to go to his current woman. That’s his goodbye signature. Take it from me. She’s just been crossed out of his little black book.’
Ivy Thornton rolled her eyes over her sales manager’s salacious interest in Jordan Powell’s playboy activities. Ivy had met him once, very briefly at her mother’s last gallery exhibition of her paintings. That had been two years ago, soon after her father had died and she’d been coming to grips with running the rose farm without his guidance.
Much to her mother’s disgust, she’d worn jeans to the showing, completely disinterested in competing with the socialites who attended such events. For some perverse reason Jordan Powell had asked to be introduced to her, which had displeased her mother, having to own up to a daughter who had made no effort to look stunningly presentable.
There’d been curious interest in his eyes, probably because she didn’t fit in with the fashionable crowd. The encounter was very minimal. The gorgeous model
hugging his arm quickly drew him away, jealous of his attention being directed even momentarily to any other woman.
Understandably.
Keeping him to herself would have been a top-priority aim.
The man was not only a billionaire but oozed sex appeal—twinkling, bedroom blue eyes, perfect male physique in the tall-dark-and-handsome mould, charming voice and manner with a strikingly sensual mouth that had worn a teasing quirk of amusement as he’d spoken to Ivy. No doubt, with his wealth and looks, the world and everyone in it existed for his amusement.
‘How long did this love interest last?’ she asked, knowing Heather enjoyed keeping tabs on his affairs. Jordan Powell was the rose farm’s biggest spender on the private-client list.
Heather turned eagerly back to the computer to check the records. ‘Let’s see…a month ago he ordered jelly beans with the roses so that meant he wanted her to lighten up and just have fun. She probably didn’t get the message, hence the parting of the ways. A month before that it was the rum and raisin fudge, which indicates the heavy-sex stage.’
‘You can’t really know that, Heather,’ Ivy dryly protested.
‘Stands to reason. He always starts off with the double chocolate fudge when he first sends roses to a new woman. Clearly into seduction at that point.’
‘I don’t think he needs to seduce anyone,’ Ivy muttered, thinking most women would willingly fall at his feet, given one ounce of encouragement.
Heather was not to be moved from her deductions. ‘Probably not, but I think some play hard to get for a
little while,’ she explained. ‘Which is when he sends the roses with the macadamia fudge, meaning she’s driving him nuts so please come to the party. This last one didn’t get the macadamia gift.’
‘Therefore an easy conquest,’ Ivy concluded.
‘Straight into it I’d say,’ Heather agreed. ‘And that was…almost three months ago. He didn’t stick with her very long.’
‘Has he ever stuck with any woman very long?’
‘According to my records, six months has been the top limit so far, and that was only once. The usual is two to four months.’
She twirled the chair back to face Ivy, who was seated at her office desk, trying to get her mind into work mode but hopelessly distracted by the conversation which touched on sore points from her mother’s most recent telephone call. Another gallery exhibition. Another shot of advice to sell the rose farm and get a life in Sydney amongst interesting people. Insistence on a shopping trip so she could feel proud of her daughter’s appearance.
The problem was she and her mother occupied different worlds, had done so for as long as Ivy could remember. Her parents had never divorced but had lived separate lives, with Ivy being brought up by her father on the farm, while her mother indulged her need for cultural activities in the city. Horticulture was of no interest to her and she was constantly urging Ivy to leave it behind and experience the full art of living, which seemed to be endless parties with endless empty chatter.
Ivy loved the farm. It was what she knew, what she was comfortable with. And she had loved her father, loved him sharing the farm with her, teaching her everything about it. It was a good life, giving a sense of
satisfaction and achievement. The only thing missing from it was a man she could love, and more importantly, one who loved her back. She had thought, believed…but no, Ben hadn’t supported her when she’d needed support.
‘Hey, maybe you’ll get to meet our rose Valentino again at your mother’s exhibition! And he’ll be free this time!’ Heather said with a waggish play of her eyebrows.
‘I very much doubt a man like him would turn up on his own,’ Ivy shot back at her, instantly pouring cold water over ridiculous speculation.
It didn’t dampen Heather’s cheerful outlook on possibilities. ‘You never know. I bet you could turn his head if you hung out your hair and dolled yourself up. How often do your see that glorious shade of red-gold hair? If you didn’t wear it in a plait, the sheer mass of it would catch his eye.’
‘So what if it did?’ Ivy loaded her voice with scepticism. ‘Do you think for one moment Jordan Powell would be interested in a country farm girl? Or for that matter, I’d be interested in being the next woman on his Valentino list?’
Undeterred, Heather cocked her head on one side consideringly, her hazel eyes sparkling with mischief in the making. Her brown hair was cut in an asymmetrical bob and she tucked the longer side of it behind her ear as she invariably did before getting down to business. She was brilliant at her job, a warm friendly person by nature, and although she was two years older than Ivy—almost at the thirty mark, which was when she planned to have a baby—they’d become close friends since Heather had married Barry Gale, who was in charge of the greenhouses.
She had wanted to work at the rose farm, too, and with her computer skills was a great asset to the business. Ivy thanked her lucky stars that Heather seemed to have dropped out of the heavens when someone to help manage the office work was most needed. It had been a very stressful time after her father had been diagnosed with inoperable cancer. Even knowing his illness was terminal she had not been prepared for his death. The grief, the sudden huge hole in her life…without Heather, she might not have been able to keep everything flowing to maintain the company’s reliable reputation.
‘Seems to me Jordan Powell could well be up for a new experience and it could be good for you, too, Ivy,’ she drawled now, having fun with being provocative.
Ivy laughed. ‘
Up
is undoubtedly the operative word for him. Even if I did catch his eye, I don’t think I’d like the downer that inevitably follows the up. I know his track record, remember?’
‘Exactly! Forewarned, forearmed. He won’t break your heart since you’re well aware he’ll move on. You haven’t had a vacation for three years, nor had a relationship with a man for over two. Here you are, wasting your prime in work, and if you vegetate too long, you’ll forget how to kick up your heels. I bet Jordan Powell could give you a marvellous time—great fun, great sex, an absolutely lovely trip to wallow in for a while. Definitely worth having, if only to give you a different perspective on life.’
‘Pie in the sky, Heather. I can’t see Jordan Powell making a beeline for me, even if he does turn up alone at the gallery.’ She shrugged. ‘As for the rest, I have been thinking of taking a trip somewhere now that everything on the farm is running smoothly. I was looking through
the travel section of the Sunday newspaper yesterday and…’
‘That’s it!’ Heather cried triumphantly, leaping to her feet. ‘Have you still got yesterday’s newspapers?’
‘In the paper bin.’
‘I saw just the thing for you. Wait! I’ll find it.’
A few minutes later she was slapping the
Life
magazine from the Sunday
Sun-Herald
down on Ivy’s desk. It was already opened at a fashion page emblazoned with the words—
The
it
factor.
‘I was talking about a taking a vacation, not clothes,’ Ivy reminded her.
Heather tapped her finger on a picture featuring a model wearing a black sequinned jacket with a wide leather belt cinching in her waist, a pink sequinned mini-skirt, and high-heeled black platform shoes with pink and yellow and green bits attached to straps that ended up around her ankles. ‘If you wore this to your mother’s exhibition, you’d knock everyone’s eyes out.’
‘Oh, sure! That pink skirt with my carrot hair? You’re nuts, Heather.’
‘No, I’m not. The retailer will have other colours. You could buy green instead of pink. That would go with your eyes and still match in with the shoes. It would be brilliant on you, Ivy. You’re tall enough and slim enough to carry it off.’ She pointed again. ‘And look at these long jet earrings. They’d be fabulous swinging in front of your hair which you’ll have to wear down like the model. Yours will look a lot more striking against the jacket. The black handbag with the studs is a must, as well.’
‘Probably costs a fortune,’ Ivy muttered, tempted by the image of herself in such a
wow
outfit, but unable to see herself wearing it anywhere else in the future.
Such clothes simply weren’t worn around here. The farm was a hundred kilometres south of Sydney, situated in a valley which had once been a pastoral estate but had become a settlement for hobby farms. Very casual dress was the norm at any social occasion.
‘You can afford it,’ Heather insisted. ‘The farm raked in heaps with the St Valentine’s Day sales. Even if it’s only a one-off occasion for this gear, why not? Didn’t you say your mother wanted you to appear more fashionable at her exhibition this time?’
Ivy grimaced at the reminder. ‘So I’d fit in, not stand out.’
Heather grinned. ‘Well, I say, sock it to her. And sock it to Jordan Powell if he turns up, too.’
Ivy laughed. On both counts it was terribly tempting.
Sacha Thornton’s jaw would probably drop at seeing her daughter look like a trendy siren. It might even silence the barrage of critical advice that Ivy was usually subjected to every time she was with her mother.
As for Jordan Powell—well, there was certainly no guarantee that he’d be there, but…it would be fun to see if she could attract the sexiest man in Australia. It would do her female ego good, if nothing else.
‘Okay! Get on your computer and find out from the listed retailers where I can buy all this stuff,’ she tossed at Heather, feeling a bubbly sense of throwing her cap over a windmill. And why not? Just for once! She
could
afford it.
‘Yes!’ Heather punched the air with her fist, grabbed the magazine and danced back to her chair, singing an old Abba tune—‘Take a chance on me…’
Ivy couldn’t help smiling. If she was going to be mad enough to wear that outfit, she needed to acquire
it as fast as possible so she had enough time to practise walking in those crazy shoes. The exhibition opening was this Friday evening, cocktails at six in the gallery. She only had four and a half days to get ready for it.