His Brand of Beautiful (5 page)

“You’re not seeing anyone, are you?” Lacy asked, mother hen clucking over its chick.

“No. I’m not.”

“So why haven’t you called Christina?”

His eyes swung to where Jancis was turning her chair into the leaning tower of Pisa.

Any second now she’d crash and completely wreck that new hip. He scowled at her until she sat up straight.

“It’s complicated.”

“Not you too,” Lacy sighed. “It’s actually very simple.”

“I meant it’s complicated over the phone.”

“Oh. I get it. Well you can talk to CC face to face at the wedding.”

“That sounds great.”

“Excellent. Seven‐thirty at Veale Gardens. Don’t worry about a present.”

“I’ll be there. Thank you.”

There was another pause which Lacy filled with a rush. “I’m trusting you here, Picasso. Don’t hurt her.”

He lowered his voice even further. “Why would I hurt her?”

“I know your type. You’re a lost soul. Women want to wrap you to their bosom and give you a big hug.”

“And you’re inviting me to your wedding
because
?”

“Because Christina’s a lost soul too. You both could do with a good hug.”

It was such a beautiful wedding.

Christina had smiled and nodded till her face ached from smiling and nodding, agreeing with everyone who offered the comment, all afternoon.

And it had been beautiful. As far as weddings went.

Certainly the guests seemed happy, and so were the bride and groom. Michael hadn’t taken his hand off Lacy for—Christina checked her watch—three whole hours.

She was happy for them. Truly.

“Why the sad face? Have you been stood up, CC dear?” A cloud of honeysuckle perfume in a floral parachute descended into the vacant chair on her right.

“Hello Aunt Vanda. It’s not eight‐thirty yet. He said he’d be late.”

Her father’s elder sister frowned over owlish glasses. She must have already had the one and only glass of wine she allowed herself per family occasion because her nose and cheeks glowed fire‐engine red.

“Well he can’t be stuck in traffic, CC dear. Not at this hour.” Aunt Vanda had a voice like a chainsaw on idle and the woman on Vanda’s right, one of Lacy’s many cousins, threw Christina a sympathetic glance.

Christina bit her lip.
If Lacy survives two plane trips to and from Bali, I’ll kill her when
she gets back for this matchmaking crap
.

Aunt Vanda picked up Tate’s name‐card, jogged it up and down, and twirled it just in case she might have missed any clues on the back. Then she set it against the unused tumbler.

“Cheer up, CC. Maybe tonight it will be your turn to catch the bouquet.”

Christina picked up her wineglass and dipped it like she was making a toast. “If I’m lucky.”

“What’s that dear? The music’s so loud in here.”

She gave her aunt her sweetest smile and lowered her voice. “This music is coming from the PA system, Auntie Vanda. Lacy and Michael organised a band for later.”

Vanda splayed her hand behind her ear and leaned even closer, shaking her head like a hen with a crust of bread. “Someone has to ask them to turn it down, I can’t hear myself think.” She eased her bulk off the chair with another soft pat for Christina’s thigh. “Don’t forget the bouquet toss, CC. I’ll be looking for you.”

She gave her aunt a thumbs up and mouthed: “
I’ll be in the loo
.”

Vanda cocked her head, even more bird‐like and her nostrils flared. She set off on a collision course with the pimply teenage waiter standing closest to the big speakers near the stage. Honeysuckle perfume lingered like it didn’t want to follow.

Christina hid a smile with her wineglass. Across the room, Richard Clay’s grey head kept an empty chair company, and as her eyes rested for a moment on her father, even that smile faded. She didn’t blame Saffah for leaving her father alone today. He was a bear with a sore head at weddings, too.

“CC sweetheart. Is that you hiding under that hat? What idiot wedding planner hid you all the way over here?”

Her heart sank.

Lily Malone

Dry lips brushed her cheek and if Abraham Lewis noticed the way she stiffened in her seat, he gave no sign. She stifled a sneeze. Bram always used too much Old Spice; he said voters liked it. He laid both hands on the back of the vacant chair and his fingers tapped chrome — wedding ring gleaming in the candlelight, nails blunt as his jaw. His tie drifted forward, the knot not quite central at his throat. He was still handsome, she decided, sandy hair just starting to recede. More time in the sun would do him good.

“Look at you—gorgeous as ever—and here I am getting fat and lazy. I sit too much. I sit in parliament. I sit in committees. I sit so much, someone should paint me.” He laughed and patted the burgundy shirt stretched over his stomach, a little tighter than last time she’d seen him.

“I heard you made the shadow ministry, Bram. Congratulations. You got what you wanted.”

“Shadow Minister for the Arts and Shadow Minister for Transport. Now we just have to win the next election so I can stop being a Shadow.” He pulled out the vacant chair and sat. “Maybe you could paint
me
, CC? I hear you throw a great paint party.”

She dropped her elbow to the tablecloth and squeezed the skin of her forehead between her thumb and fingers. “Who told you about that?”

“My Clay family birdie.”

“Bloody Saffah never could keep a secret.”

Brown eyes, gold‐flecked in the candlelight, glanced over her shoulder and she sighed inside. She couldn’t remember when that started. They didn’t always rove. When she first knew Bram his eyes were her favourite feature. Then he caught his father’s political bug and his eyes started searching, seeking people with more power, more influence. Making sure he didn’t miss any likely target who might donate to the Liberal party coffers.

“Saff said you made Lacy’s wedding dress.” His eyes returned to her face, slipped to the indent at the base of her throat, the green pendant hanging there. He poured Clay Wines Handcrafted 2008 Shiraz into a glass. “And what about that concoction you’re not quite wearing? Is that one of your originals?”

Her fingers tightened on the stem of her glass. “I’m not a politician’s
squeeze
any more, Bram, I can wear what I like.”

There was a hitch in the flow of wine pouring from the bottle in his hand, the only sign her barb hit home. Around them, waiters served alternate main courses: beef fillet and swordfish. The scent of coriander vied with red wine and Old Spice. Bram buried his nose in his glass. Sniffed. Swirled. Checked its colour by holding the glass to the light.

Christina thought he was full of shit.

He took a sip and rolled the liquid around his mouth. “That’s opened up beautifully. I get blackberries on the nose, what about you, CC?”

Wine wanker
. “Since when did you like wine?”

“Parliament has a superb cellar. I’ve developed a taste. I could put in a good word for Clay Wines if you like. Get you more sales.”

A fillet of beef landed in front of her, red juices running rare. Rivers of blood soaked into the bed of sweet potato mash. She swallowed hard against the rising lump in her throat.

“We don’t have enough wine for our current clients. Thanks anyway.”

Bram waved the waiter away before he could serve him the swordfish meant for Tate.

The colours on her plate stained crimson and blurred. There was so much blood.

Sweat broke across her forehead. She heard Bram’s voice but it was like listening to a scratched CD.

Just like the blood on her legs, running down the shower. With Bram right here, she couldn’t push the memories back.

“A fibroid,” Dr Busby said, tapping the arm of his glasses as he faced her over his oak
desk. “Four centimetres—it’s a big one. We don’t know for certain that’s what caused the
miscarriage, but it wouldn’t have helped.”

He recommended removing it. Keyhole surgery. “It should make things easier. I
wouldn’t give it too long though, not if you want to start a family, Christina. Six months
recovery after the surgery and then I wouldn’t wait.”

And her clock started ticking. It never stopped.

“CC?”

Her fingers flew to the corduroy lines of her herringbone cap. She shivered. “
What
?”

“I said: I heard you’re running the winery these days. It’s Saffah and Richard off saving the world. That makes a change. Where’ve they been anyway, Haiti?”

Her lips parted on a careful breath so she wouldn’t smell the raw rust of blood.

“Saffah’s on this pottery program that make pots and crockery to replace what the Haitians lost in the earthquake.”

Bram’s eyes roved. When they returned they dropped to the name card in front of his seat. “Tate Newell. He sounds familiar. Is he anyone special?”

The stem of her glass twitched. “I promised Lacy I wouldn’t throw it, Bram, don’t tempt me.”

He slapped the table hard enough to make Lacy’s cousin flinch. “So dramatic, CC. I thought running the family business might have leached that out of you. God I miss your passion.”

His eyes flicked over her shoulder again.

Smooth fingers brushed the nape of her neck, igniting an adrenalin‐infused warmth that spread through her body like she’d swallowed a steaming espresso. She didn’t need an awkward glance to verify the touch, every bone in her body told her it wasn’t any hand
but
Tate’s that caressed her skin. Relief spread through her.

“Am I in your chair, mate?” Bram eased himself up, hand outstretched in greeting.

He was shorter than Tate in stature but made up for it with his stocky build. “We haven’t met. Abraham Lewis.”

She heard the space he left behind his name for the initials, MP.

“Tate Newell.” It was a one‐pump handshake.

The two men sniffed each other like a pair of rival dogs in an alley. They didn’t so much relax as decide not to bristle and it was Bram who looked away first.

“Well it’s always a pleasure, CC. We should have a dance later.” He bent to brush a kiss on her cheek, stayed long enough that she heard the intake of air as he breathed the scent of her neck. Then he stood, beamed a farewell to the table, eyeballed Tate and added:

“CC loves dancing.”

“I didn’t know.” Tate’s murmur held steel, and high above her head she sensed something pass between the two men.

Lily Malone

A waiter, swooping with a plate of swordfish, dodged to let the politician pass.

Coriander‐scented steam curled from the thick wedge of white flesh he set on the table.

Tate folded his suit jacket over the back of the chair and sat. Beneath the table, his shoe bunted her boot. It didn’t move away.

“You are in
so
much trouble,” she began, but her voice lacked venom. It was hard to remember why she was annoyed when a rough chunk of biscuit‐brown hair fell across his eyebrow like that.

“Didn’t you get my text?”

“I don’t mean you’re in trouble for being
late
.”

His cobalt eyes danced. “Hey I’m not gate crashing. I was personally invited by the bride.”

“I’m not talking about gate crashing. And don’t worry. I’ll deal with my new sister‐in-law later.”

“Well, don’t think you’re in the clear,” he countered, leaning forward and splaying his fingers across the white tablecloth.

“This is
my
riot act I’m reading. Get your own.”

He ignored her. “You sent my receptionist chocolates so she’d book you that meeting with me.”

“It always pays to be nice to secretaries. They’re the gatekeepers.” She sounded a little smug.

“So why am I in so much trouble?” Tate opened his hands, distracting her with fingers that looked like they knew how to handle a paint brush. And a woman’s body.

Focus, Christina
.

She tapped her index finger on the table. “I found my name
in
that ice bucket when I was cleaning up last Saturday. Marlene and Annabell’s names were missing.” She concentrated on the exact spot where his sky‐blue striped shirt collar finished and the tanned skin in the deep vee of his throat began. “You
engineered
that whole nipple‐licking stunt. It wasn’t my name you picked out at all.”

He didn’t look as worried as she thought he should. “I was doing research.”

“
Research
?” Lacy’s cousin threw her a sideways glance and Christina’s next words were softer. “Research into what?”

“Stuff Google and Facebook couldn’t tell me. Like whether you’d lick like a lioness or a lamb.”

Her mouth went dry. “Because?”

“My brand strategies aren’t for the faint‐hearted. Any client of mine needs to be bold enough to make them play out.”

It was a test?
She was appalled. Fascinated. “So did I pass?”

He laid his hand over hers and stopped the tap of her fingernails. The rubber ball began its bounce in her chest.

“You damn‐near electrocuted me with your tongue. It wanted to spread your legs right there on your couch.”

Every ounce of breath left her body. His emotion knocked her sideways and made her glad she was sitting down. Her blood raced.

“Do you speak to all your clients like that?”

“You’re not my client.” He traced the back of her hand with his finger. “Not yet.”

Near the stage, the three‐piece band—shiny shoed, Beatles’ haircuts—began

sound‐checks and strummed guitars. Waiters moved through the tables, collecting plates, pouring wine. The room hummed with conversations far more conventional than her own.

“How did you break your nose?” It was the first thing that popped into her head that wasn’t
please take me home
.

He looked away. “A horse bucked me into a fence post when I was fifteen.”

“What did you do to piss it off?”

“It wasn’t what I did. It was the five‐foot King Brown who didn’t like hooves.”

She shuddered, no fan of snakes, and asked the second question that popped into her head. “Do you have children?”

“No.”

“But you want kids?”

“What is this? Twenty questions?” He swished swordfish in coriander and lime sauce, but the light in his eyes softened the answer: “One day, sure. You?”