Gabriel's Mission
Margaret Way
GUARDIAN ANGELSTough boss, tender loverGabriel McGuire knew that Chloe Cavanaugh had never taken to him as her boss. Maybe he was ruthless and uncompromising, but she was certainly no angel! The way Chloe taunted him at work could be amusing, but her reckless actions could also be downright exasperating!If he was sometimes abrasive with her, couldn't Chloe see that it was for her own good? One of these days, she'd take one risk too many. She'd probably worn out a whole host of guardian angels, but some small voice kept telling Gabriel that someone had to protect her and he was the man for the job…Falling in love sometimes needs a little help from above!
“You don’t trust anyone with your heart?” (#u0c90f50e-57b6-5b17-a7bd-db54edec2f10)Letter to Reader (#ud44d4c59-0292-5667-8871-2c0896e82a75)Title Page (#u6a3aa5e3-1ae8-529a-b190-ab24f9a8ed57)PROLOGUE (#u906ca199-f15a-5943-98f0-30e86a6aeb14)CHAPTER ONE (#u68aa1ae9-3b43-5905-8c5a-db7735fe5be2)CHAPTER TWO (#u12714d45-17f3-59d0-8ddd-074e98291670)CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“You don’t trust anyone with your heart?”
The question was so smooth and gentle Chloe was taken aback. She answered sadly as if to herself. “No.”
“I had a very bleak childhood.” Gabriel empathized with her. “All I could ever think was run, run, run, but I stayed for my mother’s sake.”
Chloe was stunned by the revelation. “Gabriel, I’m so sorry.” A tremendous sympathy flowered from her body.
“Gracious lady.” His voice sounded both tender and a little scathing. He glanced at her. How beautiful. He had craved beauty all his life, yet something about her made his heart throb painfully. It had from that very first day when she walked into his office. “No need to be, Chloe.” He spoke dismissively. “It might have been a struggle, but it made me tough.” His rugged face was dark and shadowed. “I know the toughness bothers you.”
Chloe couldn’t answer. There was no way to deny it, but, tenderhearted, she sensed she had wounded him.
Dear Reader,
Remember the magic of the film It’s a Wonderful Life? The warmth and tender emotion of Truly, Madly, Deeply? The feel-good humor of Heaven Can Wait?
Well, we can’t promise you Alan Rickman or Warren Beatty, but we know you’ll be delighted with the latest miniseries in Harlequin Romanoe
: GUARDIAN ANGELS. It brings together all of your favorite ingredients for a perfect novel: great heroes, feisty heroines, breathtaking romance, all with a celestial spin. written by four of our star authors, this witty and wonderful series features four real-life angels—all of whom are perfect advertisements for heaven!
Already available are The Boss, the Baby and the Bride by Day Leclaire, Heavenly Husband by Carolyn Greene and A Groom for Gwen by Jeanne Allan. This month it’s the turn of popular Australian author Margaret Way with Gabriel’s Mission. This is an emotional story that sees Chloe taking one risk too many and, before she knows it, her boss is close by her side.
Have a heavenly read!
Falling in love sometimes needs a little help from above!
Gabriel’s Mission
Margaret Way
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
PROLOGUE
HEAVEN
TITUS and Thomas came tumbling down the grass, rolling ecstatically across the cushiony emerald sward, hurtling onwards to the stream that flashed silver in the all-pervading shining light. They often played this tumbling game. They loved it. Rolling from the very top of the undulating hill with its thick sprinkling of wildflowers, into the translucent water below. With their wings tucked back they dived to the bottom where gorgeous little fish, lovely little things, came to the hand, and flowers like jewels opened and shut amid the green reeds that grew out of the sand with its rich dusting of gold. Afterwards they floated with the immortal white swans that gently made way for them, bending their beaks to the still water that mirrored their snowy reflections. Afterwards they could ride the silky softness of the clouds calling on the Sky Wind to blow them to heaven’s brink or perhaps play with the cherubs who loved to fly through the great soaring trees of the forest on pretty little dragons, beautifully caparisoned. It was all marvellous fun! But sometimes Titus wished he had a job to do. He was bursting with love and miraculous energy so sometimes his aura flared like the sun.
They were almost at the bottom of the slope and into the crystal fountain when a voice like a golden trumpet echoed across the hillside and a great beam of pure white light approached them at enormous speed.
“Titus, Thomas, I haven’t seen you all day. A meeting at the Archives Building, if you please. Titus, Thomas, hello...hello...”
Mr. Bliss, Titus thought in surprise. Archangel in charge of recruitments for guardian angels.
Immediately Titus popped out his wings. Thomas followed suit, both soaring high in the air above the tops of the eternally blossoming trees.
“Ah, there you are, boys. A busy morning ahead,” Mr. Bliss said as soon as he saw them. Mr. Bliss stayed in place with a whirring of great wings, while Titus and Thomas flitted around him, all of them hundreds of feet off the ground.
Titus’s radiant blue eyes shone with excitement. Just maybe one day he would get to be a guardian angel. “What’s the meeting about, Mr. Bliss?” he asked with an eager inflection.
Mr. Bliss lifted his hands, light streaming from his fingertips. “Surely you can guess, Titus? Guardian angels have to be elected. We have to help our earthly friends. Poor souls, what would they do without us?”
What indeed!
The Great Hall of the Archives Building spired to God’s glory, its walls sculptured of sparkling crystal inlaid with silver and gold. Today it was filled with luminous beings wearing exquisite flowing robes, rose, saffron, azure, rich emerald and crimson and a wonderful violet, so that everywhere one looked there was rainbow upon rainbow of rippling colour. The higher one went through the nine angelic ranks the more the myriad colours gave way to an extreme white radiance like that of Mr. Bliss who now stood before them in a blinding flash of light and a great rushing whirl of majestic white wings. Wings they all had in common, from the cute double and triple wings of the adorable little cherubs to the six-foot splendour of the most awesome angels of all, the Cherubim and Seraphim, the highest-ranking heavenly beings who guarded the Divine Throne. These exulted angels, naturally, did not attend staff meetings.
Mr. Bliss lost no time getting things under way. Angels were encouraged to speak of their experiences; looking after their earthly charges, leading them to the realm of Heaven, a place of such joy and beauty no human mind could encompass it; or sending souls back through the long tunnel between near death and eternity to fulfil their destiny. Guardian angel roles were renewed, legions more appointed in the twinkling of an eye. A few angels spoke of exhaustion, a state rare among their ranks, although it was known. One angel in particular, Lucas, told the most wistful tale of all. For twenty-four years he had been the appointed guardian angel of one Chloe Cavanagh who was proving such a handful Lucas feared he had suffered a temporary burnout. In fact he was feeling a loss of power in his lower right wing.
“It’s not as though Chloe isn’t a fine compassionate young mortal with considerable spirituality, but she’s becoming something of a danger to herself,” he told his brilliant audience. “She has a tragic history you see.” Lucas went on to tell them Chloe had lost a sibling, a brother, Timothy, when she was six and the child barely eighteen months, leaving the family desolate. Then some two years ago tragedy struck again like a lightning bolt. Chloe’s parents were involved in a car crash that killed her father and put her mother into a coma from which she hadn’t emerged for months on end. The mother, still locked in a waking dream state, was now in a nursing home being cared for while Chloe tried to balance her career as a journalist in the high-powered world of network TV with being there for her mother.
Mr. Bliss was faced with a decision. To counsel Lucas and allow him to continue? Or allow Lucas a long rest and appoint a replacement. There were many positive angels he could rely on to do the job. Angels who wouldn’t collapse under the strain.
As Mr. Bliss looked around thoughtfully a glowing young face distracted him. Titus, of course, his garments radiating a flawless blue light. Angels’ beautifully sculptured tranquil features were seen mostly through a luminous haze rather like a vapour, but for some reason Titus’s sparkling face was almost flesh and blood. He glowed, with his burnished rose-gold curls, brilliant blue eyes and a tracery of gold freckles that danced across his nose. Curious to have freckles in this perfect realm where the sun spilled only adoration onto God and His heavenly kingdom. Mr. Bliss had the feeling there might be much to learn about young Titus’s past. Was it possible he had had an earthly life?
Even as Mr. Bliss considered a dip into Archives, Titus spoke up. “Please, Mr. Bliss, can’t you give us little guys a go?”
There it was again. Those unusual words. Guys? Of course Titus liked reading about life on earth. Didn’t they all!
Mr. Bliss folded his long, beautiful fingers together, the expression on his wonderful classic face not without sympathy. “Hmm. Not possible, young Titus, I’m afraid. I’m not saying not ever but not just yet.”
“It could be the answer,” Lucas suddenly interjected in a very deep mellow voice like a gong, reminding Mr. Bliss Lucas must be many thousands of years old. “I do realise Titus has had no experience but he’s so full of pep he just might be able to keep up with Chloe.”
Mr. Bliss’s singular eyes that were very dark but sparkled with light, began to sharpen and glow. “I rarely if ever send anyone so young, Lucas,” he pointed out gently.
“You started young, Mr. Bliss,” Titus piped up.
Another thing that struck Mr. Bliss as odd. How did Titus know? “So I did,” Mr. Bliss admitted.
There were chuckles all ’round, tender smiles for Titus.
“What joy it must be to be a guardian angel!” Titus exclaimed, bright curls abob. His expression was one of radiant hope.
Mr. Bliss pondered. Titus was an extremely helpful and cooperative young angel, given to playful games perhaps but excellent at supervising the cherubs. The experience of taking charge of a mortal life might catapult him into real responsibility, earn him his three-quarter wings. Really Titus wasn’t all that different from himself at the same state of transformation.
“All right, Titus,” Mr. Bliss announced to a rippling wave of applause and a familiar swishing of wings. “The position of guardian angel to Miss Chloe Cavanagh is yours as of now.”
Titus strove to control the great flame of excitement that sent far-distant memories raying through his mind.
While the cherubs played ball with the low-hanging silver stars, Titus embarked on his great flight to earth, accelerating through the vast sea of clouds with a rhythmic swishing of his wings, revelling in the freshness of the wind, the extraordinary smell of earth’s atmosphere as he entered it. While he watched the play of glittering golden sunlight on the near side of the planet, he was conscious of being happier than he had ever been in his experience. Maybe he had overdone the surging speed of descent. Even Heaven didn’t seem real.
“Hold on, Chloe,” he called in a sweet ecstasy, his glowing blue garments suddenly reflecting a white light. “I’m your guardian angel now. You can call upon my power.”
To keep Chloe safe would be his great mission.
A great wave of love engulfed him. Not so much glory, but something of a different lustre; warm, human affection.
The soul remembers.
CHAPTER ONE
IT was well after nine-thirty when Chloe finally made it back to BTQ8, thinking she mightn’t have a job at the end of the day. In the year since he had become Managing Director of the Brisbane link in the national network, McGuire had been reducing numbers at the drop of a hat. Downsizing, he said, in the quest to achieve better results. Not being a fan of McGuire’s, Chloe chose to ignore the fact the TV station had been staging a remarkable comeback from near disaster under her old mentor, Clive Connor, who had since been moved on with a very generous redundancy package. She had never taken to McGuire, Clive’s successor, but the Big Guys loved him. He was the Golden Boy with a big future in the industry. The man who could do no wrong. This might very well be her day to get the shove. The third monthly meeting she had missed in a row when she always started out with the very best intentions.
Hunching her shoulders against the heavy tropical downpour, Chloe dashed across the station car park and into the main building, struggling with her brolly which, being cheap, was playing up. When she looked up, McGuire was coming towards her. Six foot three of raw animal power. He had shoulders like a front rower which he had been apparently at University. She wouldn’t have cared to be his opposite number. She didn’t like men who were so dark, either. So in-the-face uncompromisingly male. For a man of Irish ancestry he was almost swarthy with thick jet-black hair he wore short to discourage the curl, a bronze skin and, it had to be admitted, rather fine near-black eyes with eyelashes most women would die for.
Chloe raised her hand and before she could help herself gave him a cheeky wave. Where for the love of mike was her sense of survival? Gone with the great wind from Hell that had blown away her entire world.
“Cavanagh, you’re late,” McGuire said with a touch of gravel, amused and irritated by the sort of cockiness she usually exhibited with him. He moved to join her, watching her fiddle with a floral umbrella that looked more like a child’s sunshade, then flip back her trademark mane of red hair. It was pouring outside and her hair curled extravagantly in the humid heat. Corkscrew locks spilled forward onto her forehead and flushed cheeks. She looked ravishing, like a heavenly illumination in a Medieval manuscript where the artist used precious pigments and gold inks. All that was missing was the bright halo and she sure didn’t deserve that. Three missed meetings in as many months. It made him so damned mad. Exaggeration. Exasperated. For some reason that evaded him, he had a soft spot for Cavanagh. Maybe it was the look of her, the finely constructed frame he would like to give a good shake. She appeared so light, so fragile, so feminine, the tender curves of her breasts, the willowy waist and delicate hips, the ballerina legs. Yet there was something strong about her, something supple and resilient that shone through the lightness. Of course he knew her tragic background, and that smote him. Not that she would ever confide in him. He was well aware of her hidden antipathy. Almost a revulsion, he sometimes thought, like a princess under siege with the barbarian at the gate. She had been ready to dislike him before he had ever been given the chance to open his mouth. He had no hand at all in Connor’s sacking. Poor old Clive had brought it all on himself.
Chloe looking up at McGuire towering above her suddenly coughed, making him aware he had been staring. “In my office in ten minutes,” he clipped off.
“Right, Chief.” She just barely refrained from saluting him. What had stopped her? Perhaps because McGuire had swung back on her. Lord, for a big man he was remarkably light on his feel A sudden vision of him in a tutu almost made her laugh aloud. “I’m so sorry I missed the meeting,” she found herself saying hastily, “I do most humbly apologise.”
It was so sweet he damn near lifted a hand to toy with her rain-sequined hair. Instead he asked sarcastically, “Another hot story breaking?”
“Could be a real scoop.” It was a fib. She had made an unscheduled early morning visit to see her mother then got caught up in road works. No use to tell McGuire that. She could see the flint in his all-encompassing dark eyes.
“Sure you’re not getting overly ambitious?” he challenged her, worried it might be the case. She had taken so many risks of late, even if they had managed to come off.
“It was you who persuaded us to lift our game, Chief,” she pointed out innocently.
“Then I’ll have to dissuade you from placing yourself in danger, as well. Get rid of these wet things then we’ll have a nice chat.”
Chat? Ha! As if she needed a chat with McGuire. Communications between the two of them were becoming increasingly edgy. She didn’t know why she disliked him so much. Every other woman in the building fell in a swoon as he passed. Hers was a feline reaction, much like her marmalade cat confronted by a very large Doberman. Chloe raced on, greeting fellow workers to her left and right in her bright, friendly fashion, beaming at Mike Cole, senior sports writer, as he held the door of the outer office for her.
“Chloe, damned if I’ve ever seen anyone look so pretty in the rain,” Mike exclaimed. “You’ve got messages, kid. They’re on your desk. Better warn ya, Gabe was browned off when you didn’t show up for the meeting.”
Chloe looked up at Mike with a little grimace. “Don’t I know. I saw the dear boy in the lobby. I started out so early, too, but I got caught up a traffic jam. Road works at Lang Park. Hopeless. They do everything right before an election. Fact is I called in on Mum. I had the weirdest dream last night. Mum was trying to tell me someone was coming. Pathetic isn’t it?”
Mike shook his head in sympathy. He had been on his way out but decided to walk back with her. He and his wife, Teri, were very fond of Chloe. A frequent visitor to their home, she was the godmother to their newest baby, Samantha. Chloe had been given a very rough deal in life. But she was such a fighter. “What about a coffee?” he suggested.
“Love one. A rushed one,” Chloe said. “I didn’t have time for breakfast. McGuire gave me a drop-dead invitation. In his office in ten minutes.” She glanced at her watch. “Correction, eight. He was looking at me so queerly as if he couldn’t figure me out.”
Mike snorted. “For such a tough guy, he’s mighty easy on you.” He walked to the coffee machine, came back with two steaming cups of black coffee. “And how is Mum?” he asked. He and Teri had accompanied Chloe to her mother’s nursing home on several occasions. Delia Cavanagh was still a beautiful woman but the life switch had been turned off. Probably for good, Mike thought sadly.
“She looks so serene, Mike,” Chloe said, a bright glitter of helpless tears in her dark blue eyes. “For all that has happened to her she doesn’t seem to have aged a minute. It’s like she’s locked in time.”
Mike shook his sandy head, receding rapidly at the hairline to his distress. “It’s been hard on you, Chloe, but you’re a daughter in a million.” Chloe visited her mother on almost a daily basis when Mike knew her packed schedule. No wonder she looked like a breeze could blow her out of town.
Chloe gulped her coffee, too hot. “Why did it have to happen, Mike? Isn’t it enough to lose your husband and child? I try, but I don’t know that I believe in God anymore.”
“Well, he sure isn’t selling this world,” Mike observed with a wry expression. “Maybe it’s the next we should be aimin’ for, kid.”
“I think McGuire is of the opinion I’m trying to get myself killed.”
Mike took a while to answer. “It makes sense, Chloe. Goodness knows Teri and I think you’re the bravest girl in the world but you haven’t quite come to terms with all the blows fate has dealt you. That’s what worries Gabe.”
Blue fire flashed from Chloe’s beautiful eyes. “What would McGuire know about it? He knows nothing about me.”
“Of course he does, Chloe. Don’t take it so hard.” Mike leaned back against Chloe’s desk, a gangling attractive figure. “Your father was a well-known physician. It was in all the papers. Gabe has access to anything he wants to know.”
“I wouldn’t put a great deal of faith in McGuire’s kind heart.” Chloe started to push her coffee away. “I don’t want him to know anything about me. I certainly don’t want his pity.”
“Chloe, love, settle down.” Mike’s voice carried a fatherly note. “I know you can’t see this, but Gabe’s a great guy.”
“Who gave our good friend, Clive, the push and laid off Ralph and Lindsey,” Chloe retorted.
“Connor had it coming. Be fair, in fact they all did. You have to admit Clive had lost his drive. I know we all liked him. You saw him as some sort of a father figure, but he totally lacked Gabe’s skills, let alone brilliance.”
“Gabriel McGuire, the one-man razor gang?” Chloe mocked, twiddling her fingers at a junior staffer.
“Everyone is cost conscious these days, Chloe. The shareholders want an adequate return and Gabe has to satisfy our national bosses. He’s single-handedly pulled us from disastrous near-bottom ratings to giving Channel Nine a run for their money.”
“All right, all right,” Chloe sighed, wishing she had a croissant. She was hungry. “He’s a dynamo but there’s something kind of ruthless about him. I don’t like men who look like that. So dark and overpowering.”
“You just cut your teeth on poor old Clive,” Mike pointed out gently.
“At least he was a gentle man.”
“You just don’t like Gabe, full stop.”
“I told you. Something about him frightens me away.”
“Hey, Chloe, like a muffin?” someone called. “Nice and fresh.”
Chloe looked up as a young production assistant sauntered up to her, holding out a white paper bag.
“Gee, thanks, Rosie. I’m hungry, missed breakfast.”
“Just popped into my head.” Rosie smiled and moved off.
Chloe made short work of the delicious apricot muffin, wiped her mouth and fingers, then adjusted the collar of her yellow silk crepe blouse and stood up. “That’s it, then. I’d better see McGuire.”
“I’ll walk out with you,” Mike said. “I should have been over at the Broncos training session ten minutes ago.”
McGuire was watching her approach through the glass wall of his office, motioning her in with a near pugilistic lift of his arm. Needless to say he was on the phone, one hand riffling through some papers, the other holding the receiver slotted between his aggressive cleft chin and his broad shoulder. Chloe took a seat, sitting upright, slender legs neatly locked at knee and ankle. She wished now she hadn’t worn the yellow outfit, a favourite because it brightened her mood, but the short skirt was undeniably short. McGuire must have thought so, too, because his eyes moved slowly over her legs before settling on her face.
Drat. Why did he have to do that? He was carrying on a high-powered conversation while his near-black eyes almost bound her to the chair. He was openly studying her. Not politely, formally, but with confrontational male interest. Chloe couldn’t help knowing she was pretty—other people said beautiful—but Chloe, at twenty-four, was still a virgin with a very fastidious mentality. Having sex, for Chloe, involved falling in love, and Chloe knew better than anyone that love and the loss of it meant terrible suffering. She had friends, of course. Lots of friends. Male and female. But she couldn’t play the jump-into-bed game. One of the things about McGuire that bothered her was his sexual charisma, the certain knowledge that he would be a passionate maybe too demanding lover. She had known the second she had laid eyes on him, felt his eyes on her; recognised the looming battle ahead. She had readied herself, immediately raising her defences against such a threatening aura.
Now inexplicably she knew a bleak moment She was a mess. Had been since the fabric of her life had been ripped apart. No man could ever put his heart in her hands. She wouldn’t know what to do with it.
McGuire slammed the phone down and leaned across his massive mahogany desk, causing Chloe to audibly exhale.
“Tell me why you couldn’t make the meeting?” he asked, almost gently for him.
For an instant, to her amazement, she considered telling him about her visit to her mother. What was the matter with her? “I was held up in traffic, Chief. They’ve decided at long last to do something about Lang Street.”
His sensual mouth so clear cut, compressed. “Our meeting was set for 8:30 sharp. Road works commenced at 9:00 a.m. I heard it on early morning radio.”
He would. “I’m sorry. I apologise.” Even to her own ears she sounded sincere. “I know it’s my job to attend. I fully intended to but I couldn’t make it through the traffic.” Heck, usually she threw down the gauntlet.
“Why can’t you talk to me, Chloe?” He leaned back in the leather armchair, powerful body languid, two seeing eyes trained on her.
She got some kind of a mad rush just hearing him speak her Christian name. She flushed. “There’s nothing to talk about, Chief. Outside work.”
“We’ll settle for that. You have a lot of potential, Cavanagh.” He could see she was more comfortable with the surname, the odd, sweet, prickly little creature. “How long is it now since you joined BTQ8?”
“Of course you know. Four years. I came straight from University to cadet reporter. Clive taught me everything I know.”
“I know he took you under his wing.” Why not? She must have looked like a cherub. “Clive in his heyday as anchorman never had your flair. People are starting to get riveted to your on-camera reporting. That was a good piece you did on the Fairfield tragedy. I got a phone call from upstairs. Sir Llew was very pleased with the way you handled it.”
“Maybe, but I hate covering tragedies,” Chloe said.
“We all do but it’s our job. The public appetite for news is voracious. What sets you apart from many others is your compassion.”
Chloe looked down at the hands locked in her lap. “I didn’t feel too compassionate staging a wait outside his house. I felt more like a vulture.”
“That’s understandable but we all know about real life. A prominent politician about to be investigated for corruption. Not even his widow guessed he was going to commit suicide. I marvel she could talk at all.”
“Only to me,” Chloe said, shaking her head sadly. “Only to Chloe Cavanagh. I don’t know why.”
“I do,” he said briefly. “You have a special knack for communicating with grieving souls.”
Why not? Chloe thought. I have a troubled soul myself.
“The only problem is, you’re putting yourself too much in the front line.” His voice switched suddenly, rasped.
“But this is a tough industry, Chief. No need to tell you that. I’m after the best story for the channel.”
He continued to appraise her as though seeking to see through to her soul. “You’re not taking enough care and you know it. I know for a fact Rob has concerns.”
She was utterly taken aback. “Did he speak to you?”
“Most people outside of you, do.” He smiled, a little tightly. “He’s entitled. He’s your sidekick, your photographer. He’s very protective of you, like your mate Mike. But that was a very expensive camera that got wrecked. It’s not your job to beard international con men in their den. You can leave that to our top investigative reporter.”
“But he didn’t get the story, did he?” She spoke with a light note of triumph.
“No, but he has a black belt.”
“Are you suggesting I learn karate?” she asked sweetly.
He shrugged a broad shoulder. “I’m suggesting you learn a few moves if you’re going to continue to get yourself into situations where angels might fear to tread.” His tone, tough and uncompromising, suddenly changed. “What would you think about taking over as anchorwoman at the weekend?” Hell, what a good idea. It just popped into his mind.
Chloe, too, was startled and looked it. She didn’t want to take anyone’s job but the thought excited her. “I don’t know that I’m ready for anything like that,” she evaded. The weekends gave her extra time with her mother.
“That doesn’t sound like you, Cavanagh. Too boring?”
“I suppose you could say that,” she sighed. “My talent is for getting a story, getting to the bottom of things. I’m not a talking head.”
“You will be if I think you fit the bill.” He had to think this thing through.
She sat very still. “You’re the boss.”
“And that continues to enrage you.” There was a slight bunching of the muscles around his hard jawbone.
“Not at all.” Her answer was surprisingly, disarmingly soft.
“So why look at me as if I’m a woman-eating tiger?”
Because you are and you’d better believe it. “You did send Marlene Attwell on her way,” she pointed out.
“You admired her, did you?” His expression was cynical.
“Not quite. She was too bitchy for any of us to like her, but she’s a professional. She looked good in front of the cameras and she has credibility.”
He quelled a little rush of anger. Like some other people, he wasn’t a forgiving soul. “She insulted a lot of powerful people once too often, Cavanagh. Not to set the story straight but to establish her own questionable style. Then as you say, her in-house standing was far from good.”
Chloe nodded, looking suitably chastened. “I knew I wasn’t going to leave your office with a big smile.”
“Why so sure?” His black eyes sparkled with sardonic humour. “Mel Gibson will be in town the beginning of next month,” he found himself saying. “A quick trip home to promote his new movie. He’s willing to talk to us. I’ve had it confirmed.”
Chloe looked back at him in astonishment. “You’re surely not handing the job to me?” Her melodious voice, one of her big assets, took on a decided lilt.
“Can’t handle it?” One black eyebrow shot up, giving him a rakish look. Surely he should be handing the interview to Jennifer?
“I’ll have you know I once sat a few seats behind Mel on a plane.” She smiled.
“Is that so? Then you won’t want to miss this golden opportunity, either. He’s happy to talk. Keep it short and keep it light.”
“A pleasure.” She totally forgot herself and beamed at him. Gosh, what was in that muffin? “It should be fun. They say he’s the easiest person in the world to talk to. None of that Big Star ego. A down-to-earth Aussie. Won’t Jennifer have her nose put out of joint?”
He held up a large palm. “There’s no law against passing over our senior female reporter. Though Jennifer is never late, never misses meetings, and never gets herself involved in ongoing brawls.”
“She’ll certainly have something to say to me.” Chloe smiled wryly. There were big jealousies abroad. Grudges. Undercurrents.
“That’s your problem, Cavanagh.” He stared at her for a minute or two. “I had intended to bawl you out, but I seem to have surrendered to your charm. You can go now. I’m busy. By the way, Sir Llew is giving a small party, which means roughly a hundred people, Saturday night. You’d better go out and buy yourself a new dress.”
Anyone else but McGuire, she would have rushed to kiss his cheek. “You mean, I’m invited? That’s a first.”
His eyes sparkled sardonically. “Cavanagh, you’re well on your way to becoming a high flier. I’m in a position to provide you with wings. Sir Llew wants four of us for company. Bright, engaging people, he said.”
Chloe suppressed a snort. Sure! McGuire was brilliant. Engaging? Never.
He had to be a mind-reader because his dark eyes flashed. “Cavanagh, your face is so transparent you ought to wear a mask. The party’s for Christopher Freeman, by the way.” He named an international businessman of legendary wealth. Australian born, but currently residing in the U.S.A.
“The wild one.” Chloe feigned a gasp. “Freeman has quite a reputation as a womaniser.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be there to protect you.”
“No problem,” Chloe responded blithely. “The likes of Christopher Freeman would get nowhere with me.” A professional virgin with ice cubes rattling in her veins.
“I like that, Cavanagh,” he said. “By the way, I’d like you to know our present weekend anchorwoman is looking to retire.”
Chloe, walking to the door, turned back in surprise. “She never said so.”
“She hasn’t seen much of you of late,” McGuire pointed out dryly, bewitched despite himself at the image of her. “For a girl who doesn’t run with the crowd, you keep yourself mighty busy.”
“I have a wonderful garden,” she quipped.
“I admit you’re a bit of a puzzlement, Cavanagh.” He seemed to lose interest in her, reaching for a pile of papers. “Get Farrell in here, would you. I wish he had a few of your daredevil qualities.” He glanced up casually. “I can give you a lift Saturday night if it would help. Drop you off home afterwards. The party’s at Sir Llew’s so it’s going to be difficult getting parking near the house.”
It sounded so simple yet it took her by storm, McGuire at close quarters? How claustrophobic could one get? Her moods were shifting madly back and forth. She couldn’t account for it. “Thanks for the offer, Chief, but I’ll be okay. I know my way around that neck of the woods.”
“Well, the offer’s open in case you change your mind. Oh, there’s something else, too. I want a piece on Jake Wylie, the writer. I don’t suppose you’ve gotten around to reading his book, One Man’s Poison?”
Chloe’s expressive face brightened. “As a matter of fact I have. I bought the hardback to see what all the fuss was about. A mite strong, but a cracking good story, very funny in places.”
McGuire nodded. “He has all the makings. Our new great white hope, though he could pare down a bit on the sex. We don’t need a potted course in how and where to do it.”
I might, Chloe thought. “When would you want the piece?”
“Couple of weeks.” His eyes were already on some newspaper clipping on his desk. “I’ll give you time. Talk to him first. If you think he might have some on-camera potential we can find a spot for you both.”
Just when she thought miracles were for someone else! “That’s great!” From such a shaky start she thought a soft billowy cloud was beneath her. She could almost have gone skydiving. Sans parachute.
“Well?” He glanced up. For all his black eyes could bore a hole through her, their expression was almost kindly. “Everything okay, Cavanagh?” he jeered. Why did she have to look so beautiful, so delicate, so refined? It pierced his heart. She was usually such an uppity little devil, as well, with a lot of aggravation. Hair like flame, and a spirit to match.
“Everything’s fine, Chief.” Chloe tried to move off but she seemed stuck to the spot. “I suppose about Saturday it doesn’t make sense taking two cars?” She didn’t say that. She couldn’t have said it. She began to seriously wonder what had befallen her. Maybe she should rush out and see a psychiatrist. This was McGuire, remember? The Wolf Man. Rumour tied him to Sir Llew’s nubile daughter, the very attractive, high-profile party-goer, Tara.
“No sense at all,” McGuire casually agreed. “Let’s say I pick you up around eight o’clock.”
So that was that.
Chloe fled McGuire’s office before she found herself agreeing to dropping off his dry cleaning.
She and Bob were watching a clip on a monitor, one of her assignments due to air, when Rosie, clipboard in hand, bustled into the studio. “Listen, there’s a protest meeting going on out at Ashfield parklands. Caller rang in. Usual thing, the greenies versus a developer. Rowlands, big shot He wants to put in a shopping centre. Some of the locals are all for it but it would mean clearing a section of bushland where the koalas hang out.”
“But surely the shire council is falling over itself trying to protect the wildlife?” Chloe lifted a brow.
“Up to a point. Hell, is it us or the koalas? They’re all over the place. Shift the little devils. All they need is a good feed of gum leaves,” Rose muttered.
“The right gum leaves, Rosie. And they are being killed on the roads despite all the signs.”
“Want the job or not? We could send Pamela.”
“Pamela can’t give an accurate account of anything. No, we’ll be there.” Chloe lost no time switching off the monitor. “If people are prepared to talk instead of shouting at one another they might be able to come up with a solution.”
“I know Rowlands,” Bob, fortyish, almost as short as Chloe, said casually. “He’s not much good at listening.”
“I don’t suppose he’ll be there. It’ll be one of his people.”
They arrived at the Ashfield parklands in twenty minutes flat, Chloe jumping out almost before the BTQ8 van streaked up onto the footpath.
“Oh-oh, trouble,” Bob chortled. “I wasn’t expecting anywhere near as many people.”
“The more, the merrier,” Chloe said briskly. “Get a move on, Bob. Let the camera roll.”
“People do wacky things when a camera’s on them, Chloe,” Bob called. “Take care. I don’t want any more broken equipment.”
“Look at that! BTQ8,” someone cried as Chloe made short work of crossing the parkland. “Chloe Cavanagh. That’s a blessing. We might get heard.”
By the time Bob arrived with his camera, Chloe was right in the thick of it. She’d be on the side of the koalas, of course, but you couldn’t please everyone. A lot of people seemed to want the shopping centre to go ahead, when as far as Bob could see there was a perfectly good one back down the road.
Chloe, one of those journalists who could really get people talking, worked the crowd briskly, taking opinions left and right. Most were concerned citizens, a few troublemakers, a couple from the lunatic fringe, their heads swaddled in red bandannas, with matching red waistcoats.
“They won’t be satisfied until there are no koalas left.” A very tall woman glowered.
The Rowlands’ representative, an attractive, middle-aged woman, stylishly dressed, smiled and took Chloe’s hand. “Mary Stanton, Miss Cavanagh, a pleasure. I’d like you to know no company is more environmentally conscious than we are at Rowlands, as I’m trying to tell these people.”
This was howled down while Bob, busy videoing at Chloe’s side, suddenly aimed the camera at a tree. Chloe looked up expecting to see a koala so dopey on gum leaves it hadn’t noticed it was broad daylight and there was a rally in progress, only to find a boy about nine or ten waving at her when he should have been at school.
“You’d better come down,” Chloe called, swinging ’round in surprise as a voice spoke softly in her ear. No one. That was odd. Disconcerted, she began again. “Come on down from there.” The child was straddling a fairly high branch. None too substantial. Hadn’t anyone noticed?
“I’m all right.” He gave her a wide toothy grin, and slid further along the branch.
“The koalas have absolutely nothing to fear from us,” the woman from Rowlands was saying very earnestly. “We try to get along with everybody. Not all of these trees are grey gums. The wildlife people will be only too pleased to rescue the very small koala population.”
“Who does that boy belong to?” Chloe asked, trying to puzzle out where the voice had come from. A soft melodic voice, young, infectious, with a kind of bubbling happiness. She really didn’t like the boy up there even if she knew she was being overly protective. It all had something to do with losing her little brother. Boys were always climbing trees. They had a lot of talent for it. But just looking up was giving her vertigo.
“All I want to ask is this,” a stout woman in baggy jeans and a T-shirt two sizes too small, cried over the top of the male protester beside her. “Do we really need another shopping centre? There’s a good one about a mile down the road.”
“We don’t all have cars, love,” an elderly lady decorated in beads piped up. “The way I heard it they’re going to sell out to a chain store. I feel terrible about the koalas but a new shopping centre right here would be exciting. I could walk over every day. Meet people.”
“And you, sir?” Chloe asked, confronting an elderly man with military medals festooning his jacket.
“Why doesn’t Rowlands pack up and go back to where he belongs,” he barked.
“We can’t give in to the greenies,” a young mother with fuzzy blond curls, babe in arms, was exclaiming. “We all want the shopping centre. Everyone except those guys.” She gestured towards the red bandannas.
“You couldn’t put it somewhere else?” Chloe asked Mary Stanton doubtfully.
“Not a chance. We’ve done our homework. We have community backing.”
At that there was an outcry, people on the fringes rushing in to protest, some with the light of battle in their eyes.
It should have made Chloe uneasy but for some reason she was focused on the boy in the tree. What was the big deal? It wasn’t all that high. Yet...
When the branch suddenly snapped it was no real surprise to Chloe. People underneath panicked, running out of harm’s way, but Chloe, the slender, the fragile, the petite, zeroed in. She wordlessly put up her arms, waiting for the boy to topple into them.
Incredibly he did.
People gaped in amazement, blinking like rabbits, honestly not believing their eyes. Chloe was spinning across the springy grass almost dancing, holding the boy aloft before they both suddenly fell, full stretch, side by side, to peals of merriment.
The crowd, a moment before in full roar, fell silent, then broke into a delighted round of applause and some giggles, as first Chloe then the boy leapt lightly to their feet. “How the heck did she do that?” one of the red bandannas asked in wonderment.
“She must be pumping iron,” his companion replied.
“Look, isn’t that sweet?” the old lady cried.
The boy had leaned up to kiss Chloe’s cheek, fumbling in his pocket for a piece of paper for her autograph. How could a skinny, five-three maybe five-four girl with a mop of wild red hair have the strength to catch him? He figured she had to have had some help from her guardian angel. His had disappeared the same day his dad had left home and never returned.
Everyone wanted to shake Chloe’s hand.
“It was nothing,” she felt compelled to say, still trying to grasp how the boy had seemed to weigh little more than Samantha, her baby goddaughter.
“Adrenaline,” an elderly man, an ex-professor explained. “One becomes absolutely superhuman in a crisis. Wonderful, my dear, and your cameraman got it.”
“What a turn-up that was!” a protester in scruffy running shoes cried.
The crowd was delighted, for the first time turning to one another, wondering, smiling, ready for a friendly chat.
“You know there’s another possible site we passed on the way,” Chloe addressed Mary Stanton, who was giving her wide-eyed attention. “Huge corner block near a nursery. A For Sale sign on it.” Had she really noticed all that?
“Old Waverley’s farm,” Military Medals supplied. “He won’t sell to any developer,” he added sternly.
“You tried him, did you?” Chloe prompted the still confused Mary.
“We certainly did, but he was very hostile,” Mary managed ruefully.
“Try him again,” Chloe suggested. “He’s sitting in the blue Holden over there.” She waved a hand.
Mary took a deep breath. “You know him, do you?” As she had just witnessed, anything was possible.
“Never met him in my life, but I’m sure that’s he.” My goodness, why? Chloe thought. If she was psychic, she wanted to be the first to know.
“I can’t bowl up to a stranger.” Mary turned to Chloe, flustered. “You could be mistaken.”
“All right, anyone know Mr. Waverley?” Chloe’s voice echoed like a silver bell.
Sure enough, Running Shoes answered. “Old Jack? He’s sitting over in his car. Probably hoping to bump up the price of his farm. That’s where the shopping centre should be, if you ask me. We could all agree to that.”
“Well, I never!” Mary Stanton thrust her shoulder bag under her arm. “Normally I don’t revel in these contentious occasions but this has been really amazing. I just might be able to get Mr. Waverley to listen.” She touched Chloe’s arm. “Thank you, dear. I’ve never seen a young woman so vibrant with life. Or so strong.”
“Keep me posted,” Chloe called, shooting a hand behind her to grasp a bony wrist. “Just a minute, Archie.”
The boy’s mouth fell open in astonishment. This Chloe was a female to be reckoned with. “How did you know my name?” He grinned.
“You told me, didn’t you?” Chloe looked down brightly.
“No, I didn’t.” Archie blew out his breath. She didn’t look at all different from the people around her but she certainly had powers. “I’m called after me grandfather, Mum and I are going to live with him.”
“You can tell me all about it when we give you a lift home,” Chloe said, “but first things first, Archie. Why aren’t you at school?”
“They won’t miss me,” Archie whispered. “The koalas are my friends. I don’t want to see them go.”
Around them the protest meeting was breaking up, the crowd faintly dazed, collectively beginning to lose all memory of that extraordinary incident. If old Waverley would sell out, things could work out. That Chloe Cavanagh was a magical girl.
“I can’t understand it,” Bob said as they stood watching the film run through the monitor. “I’ve got everything bar the moment when you caught the kid and started your astonishing dance.”
“The crowd surging around didn’t help, Bob. Sure you had the camera trained on me?”
“Are you crazy?” Bob gave her an injured glance. “Of course I’m sure. Hell, Chloe, you should be ashamed of yourself for asking. I’m one of the best in the business.”
“Well, you’re never going to live down this one, Bobby.” Chloe patted him kindly on the shoulder. “All we have is this shot of Archie and me in deep conversation.”
“It was a miracle,” Bob suddenly announced. “I know it. How am I supposed to video a miracle? It just doesn’t happen.”
“If you say so, Bobby.” Chloe laughed. “I’ve got to tell you, I’ve never felt like that in my entire life. It was like some other being got hold of Archie. I suppose it’s not all that unusual. I had a friend who lifted a car off a neighbour’s child. The mother backed out the garage not realising her little girl was there. Ian jumped the fence when the mother screamed and lifted the rear of the car right off the toddler. Do you know, she wasn’t even hurt.”
“I’d say the kid had a darn good guardian angel.” Bob scratched his head in some perplexity. “Let’s run the tape through again. I want to check if something’s wrong.”
They were still talking about it in the corridor when McGuire happened along.
“Okay you two? You look like you’re back from a space flight.” He paused for a moment to study them.
“There are some things in life, Chief, that just don’t add up,” Bob said. “Chloe and I were at a protest meeting a couple of hours ago—”
“Cavanagh never outlives her enthusiasm for protests.” McGuire’s black eyes were mocking.
“Don’t I know it. But she’s so helpful. People love talking to her. Anyway, this most amazing thing happened.”
“Tell me,” McGuire urged, his deep voice a purr.
“It’s nothing,” Chloe murmured briefly, feeling embarrassed.
“Nuthin’ don’t say it.” Bob tilted his head to address his tall Chief. “There was this kid up a tree. About ten, stopped home from school so he could join the protest. Course the mother didn’t know. This big branch snapped under him. You had to hear the noise. Everyone scattered but not Chloe. While we all thought the kid could break a leg, Chloe, wait for it, positions herself like Arnie Schwarzenegger while the kid takes a nosedive.”
“No. So what did he break?” McGuire asked laconically.
“What I’m trying to tell you, Chief, is Chloe caught him.”
McGuire said nothing for a moment, not taking his eyes off Chloe’s flushed face, then he patted Bob’s arm. “Sounds like you two stopped off for lunch. Cracked a bottle of wine.”
“Never on the job,” Chloe said. “I’m still not sure how I did it. I’ve had this funny voice in my ear all day.”
“A visit to your doctor might help. You wouldn’t have it on camera, I suppose, Bob?” McGuire asked.
“Now this is the really amazing part. I got everything else but some outside force seemed to put the camera into freeze.”
McGuire set his fine white teeth. “You’ll have to excuse me, folks. Ordinarily, I love to hear the mad stories you two make up.”
“It wasn’t a story, truly. I did catch him,” Chloe said.
McGuire wasn’t convinced. “You? Listen, you look like you’d have trouble emptying your shopping trolley. Heck, what do you weigh?” He took a step towards her, eyeing her slight figure, then before Chloe could move he swept her off her feet in one lightning-fast movement. “I’d say about fifty-four kilos.” He actually bounced her like a baby. “Am I right?”
She was utterly devastated. Her heart did a mad somersault and the blood whooshed in her ears. “Put me down.”
“Soon.” McGuire saw the rush of feeling flash through her eyes. Probably saw herself as Jessica Lange borne aloft by King Kong. “It’s a joke, right?” he asked with elaborate casualness.
“There were plenty of witnesses.” Bob was fascinated by the sight of Chloe looking like a porcelain doll in the Chief arms. He had to be dreaming all of it. “I can find you someone to speak to,” he offered.
McGuire laughed. “So there’s magic in you, Cavanagh.” Just holding her made him feel bedazzled. “Magic to move people. Catch them if you have to. That has to be the reason. It’s also quite possible you two screwballs dreamed the whole thing up.”
Bob looked shocked. “We’ve got too much respect for you, Chief, to waste your time.”
McGuire looked down at Chloe, noting every nuance of her expression. The scent of her was in his nostrils; honeysuckle, golden wattle, the fragrance of Spring.
“Chief,” she said, exasperated. She knew he could hear her unsteady breathing. Those smouldering black eyes zooming in on the telltale rise and fall of her breast.
“This is where it all falls apart, Bob. Cavanagh couldn’t possibly break the fall of a ten-year-old boy. You know it I know it.”
“What happened was a miracle,” Bob proclaimed like a convert.
“Nope. You’re just mad.” McGuire lowered Chloe to her feet, keeping his hand on her shoulder for a moment as though recognising she was very fluttery. “Sorry, you two. Got to run. You might like to be there when the jury returns a verdict on the Chandler case. I’ve just had a tip-off it could be late this afternoon.”
“Does this mean you still trust us?” Chloe challenged.
McGuire looked back over his shoulder, gave a twisted grin. “Sure, Cavanagh. What you obviously need is a good night’s sleep.”
“I guess you could call it mass hysteria,” Bob said later.
Chloe looked away from him. She could still feel McGuire’s strong muscular arms wrapping her body. She could still feel the shock waves, the chemistry as old as time, the brush of heat. It shamed her. “Let’s put it out of our minds,” she advised. We have to concentrate on the Chandler job. It has to be guilty.”
“There’s always a shock verdict, Chloe.” Bob sighed. “I’ve discovered that. Hang on a minute and I’ll get another tape. There must have been something wrong with the other one.”
CHAPTER TWO
BEFORE she left Friday, Chloe popped her head around the door of McGuire’s office. He was on the phone and he gave her a quick warning look: Don’t interrupt.
“Right, what is it?” he gritted when he finished what was clearly an aggravating call.
Unbelievable! Why had she accepted his offer to drive her to the party?
“I wasn’t sure if you knew where I lived.”
“Piece of cake, I’ve run past the house several times.”
“Whatever for?”
He looked back at her, a tight smile at the corner of his mouth. “Why not? I like to know all I can about the staff. Bit big for you, isn’t it?” It was a beautiful old Colonial, the family home, he had since been told, but it had to be a drain on her resources, physical and financial.
“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” she said simply.
He was sympathetic to that. “So see you, then.”
“Fine. Wonderful.” She backed out quickly, muttering under her breath. Maybe he would be in a better mood tomorrow. If not she would simply call a cab.
Saturday morning found her shopping for the week’s supplies. Nothing much. She lived on fresh fruit and salads. She bought ham and cheese from the delicatessen, a roast chicken, a couple of loaves of bread she could pop into the freezer. There was no time to cook.
Mostly she didn’t have the inclination. Not after long hours on the job. Occasionally she and her friends went out to dinner when she made up for the slight deprivations. Early afternoon was spent in the garden trying to bring some semblance of order to the large grounds she was gradually turning to low-maintenance native plants. Her mother had adored her garden. So had her father when he had the time. Now they were both gone from this place.
A sense of loss beat down on Chloe but she tried to fight it back. In the early days after the double tragedy, she had experienced an overwhelming debilitating grief, a sense of futility and emptiness. How could she live without her father and mother? But when her mother had come out of the coma and into a waking dream state Chloe had started to fight back. She wanted to be around when her mother was returned to full life, even when the doctors told her day after day that was never going to happen.
Her skin glistening with tears, Chloe dug in a flowerbed overflowing with daisies, petunias, pink and white impatiens, double pelargoniums with a thick border of lobelia. A magnificent Iceberg rose climbed all over the brick wall that separated the house from their neigh-bour’s, spilling its radiance all over the garden. Her mother loved white in the garden, the snow white of azaleas, candytuft, the masses and masses of windflowers she used to plant. The azaleas continued to bloom prolifically in Spring but she couldn’t afford the time for all the rest. Eventually she supposed she would have to sell the house. McGuire was right. It was too big. Once they had been very comfortably placed. Not rich, but her father had been a well-established specialist physician. Now money was going out at a frightening rate. It worried her dreadfully she might have to shift her mother from her nursing home. “Jacaranda Hill” was one of the very best, a large converted mansion with beautiful grounds and a reputation for excellent care. Chloe couldn’t fault the way her mother was being looked after, but it was very expensive.
Mid-afternoon found her pushing her mother’s wheelchair across the nursing home’s lawn, finding a lovely shady spot under one of the many magnificent blossoming jacarandas that gave the nursing home its name. A man-made lake had been constructed some years back in a low-lying area of the garden, now its undulating edge was totally obscured by the lush planting of water iris, lilies, ferns and ornamental aquatic grasses. A small section of the large pool was taken up with beautiful cream waterlilies but the important thing for the patients was the sparkle and reflection of the water, the way the breeze rippled over its surface, marking the green with molten silver.
Chloe in jeans and a simple T-shirt sat on the grass beside her mother’s chair, holding lovingly to her mother’s quiet unresponsive hand. Strangely, despite all evidence to the contrary, Chloe never had the feeling her mother didn’t recognise her, though the blue eyes so like her own seemed to be looking into the next world already. Totally without fear, but inturned. Maybe she was seeing visions, Chloe thought. Maybe she was in spirit with her husband and son, or there could be dozens of responses trapped inside her head. Chloe never saw her intense dedication to her mother as a duty. Being there was simply a measure of her love. As always on her visits, Chloe told her mother what was happening in her life. She spoke as though her mother was fully present and as interested in what Chloe had to say as she had been in the old days when life was full of sparkle and neither had questioned the happiness and stability of their family life. She spoke about her ongoing dealings with McGuire, what she was doing around the house and garden, her various assignments and, of course, the extraordinary incident of the day before. The really odd thing was, Chloe’s own memory of it was beginning to blur. She had to really concentrate before it all faded.
“I don’t believe I was holding him at all,” she confided to her mother in remembered amazement. “I could feel the warmth of this solid little boy’s body. I could see the sheen of perspiration on his skin. The crowd was speechless. There I was waltzing around with Archie quite calmly. It just doesn’t make sense. It was like I was transformed. McGuire thought we were having him on. He told me to go home and get a good night’s sleep. But it did happen. That’s the mystery. What do you think?”
Then came the shock.
“What?” Chloe, who had been looking out toward the lake whilst she was speaking, shot a startled upward glance at her mother. Her warm voice had clearly sounded in Chloe’s mind.
But Delia Cavanagh’s expression was unchanged. A frisson of something that was almost awe rippled through Chloe’s body from brain to heart to the tip of her toes. Was she going mad? In some way she couldn’t possibly fathom, she was convinced her mother had spoken to her at some level. Some subtle communication.
“Mumma!” She clutched her mother’s hand more tightly, finding what was happening difficult to grasp, but there was no response on her mother’s tranquil face nor did a muscle move.
“Oh, God!” Chloe tried desperately to collect herself before she burst into tears. She wasn’t entirely right in the head. That was it. Psychological damage from severe trauma was a reality of life. Yet she had caught that whisper as it rippled past her ear. She had. She had. What else did she have to cling to but hope? Her faith in God had lessened over this terrible time.
Chloe struggled to her feet, upset and without direction, only, she realised with a rush of sensation, someone was giving her a helping hand. On her feet she stopped abruptly as though she could very easily bump into them. She even rubbed her hands together waiting for the electric little tingle to subside.
“This is insane,” she said out loud, causing a passing nurse to stare at her. Yet there was comfort, an easing of her grief.
Chloe dusted off her jeans and began to push her mother’s wheelchair in the direction of the pretty little summerhouse at the far end of the lake. A beautiful pink rose clambered over the white lattice walls, and the pair of stone deer donated by a patient’s grateful family, flanked the entrance. It was their usual route. What was unusual was her extraordinary notion this third person, this invisible person, accompanied them on their journey. The person who had taken her by the hand.
Spirit power, Chloe thought, giving her mother’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. She was going to have to start saying her prayers again. Renew the communication she so abruptly had broken off with a great and loving God.
Chloe had never taken as much trouble over a party; never spent so much time trying on different dresses, or regarding herself so long and critically in the minor. She was down to two dresses now. The lime green silk, long with a halter neck, or the floral-print chiffon, sleeveless with a ruffle around the crossover V-neck and a sort of handkerchief skirt. Each conveyed a certain look. Cool and classic, or that delicate ethereal look she couldn’t seem to escape. Neither dress was new. She didn’t feel she had the right to spend the money anymore, but they were still in fashion. Maybe the flowered chiffon had the edge. The very feminine look was in and the fabric was beautiful, rose pink peonies with a tracery of jade leaves on a turquoise ground. The chiffon would have to do. She could be the Spring fairy.
A very strange feeling ran through her all the time she dressed. Pleasurable anticipation, normal enough in the circumstances, but she was haunted by the element of sexual awareness. Since when did she find McGuire sexy? Since when was she all atremble at the thought of being close to him? She disliked the man, was highly wary of him and had said so at length. Nevertheless she was excited and it sparkled in her looks.
Chloe opened the front door to McGuire as the grandfather clock in the living room was chiming eight She’d known it was to be a black tie occasion but she hadn’t expected to see him look so—gosh, she couldn’t avoid the word splendid, in evening dress. She almost had to look away.
“Hi,” he offered with dark, gleaming eyes. “You look enchanting.” A rare enough quality, but it was true. Tonight she wore her marvellous hair—red, amber, gold, a combination of all three—in an unfamiliar style. Pulled back off her face and arranged in a thick upturning roll but molten little tendrils sprang out around her face and nape. Her deep blue eyes, large and liquid, had picked up the colour of her dress, her skin was blushed porcelain, her mouth surprisingly full, tender, even a little pouty. He wondered as he always did what it would be like to kiss it, to open soft lips with the tip of his tongue.
She was always immaculately turned out in her little blouses and skirts, the snappy little suits, but he had never seen her in an evening dress before. The frothy shimmering ruffle of the bodice plunged low to reveal the shadowed cleft between her delicate breasts. He had to fight down the irresistible urge to reach for her. He knew she would only recoil in dismay.
“Why, thank you.” She dropped a graceful little bob, some note in his voice had got to her. This was McGuire, remember? Her old combatant and sparring partner. “Would you like to come in for a moment?” Keeping him on the doorstep was impossibly rude.
“Yes, I would.” He stepped across the threshold, looking like someone who could very easily mix it with the mega-rich. “This is a wonderful old house,” he said almost wistfully, glancing down the wide hallway with its glowing parqueted floor and rosy Chinese rug. A circular rosewood library table holding a jade horse on a carved stand and a large crystal bowl massed with white roses stood midway between the graceful arches that led to the formal rooms.
“I love it.” Chloe smiled, standing at his shoulder. “Let me show you through, that’s if we have time.”
“I’d like that.” Amazingly his whole expression had softened. “The house was built by your great-grandfather, I understand.” It had heritage listing he knew.
Chloe paused, lifting her chin. She so hated people talking about her. “Who told you that?”
He gave an easy shrug of his powerful shoulders, breaking the slight tension. “I do a lot of checking.”
“I suppose it goes with the territory,” she answered wryly.
“You should know, Chloe.”
At the use of her Christian name, so honeyed and intimate, a mild giddiness overtook her.
“If one could really chart the course of one’s life, this is just the sort of house I’d have liked to live in,” he said.
“Really? I thought you’d like something very modern, very strong, with sweeping clear places.” And terrible pictures that looked like cubic puzzles on the walls.
Once again his black eyes roved over her, checking out her too innocent expression. “I won’t say I don’t like to integrate old and new, but in terms of architecture I love these old Queensland Colonials with their sweeping verandah and white iron lace. They’re perfect for the subtropical climate. I particularly like the high ceilings and large rooms.”
“A big man would.” She was surprised by how sweetly that came out. They walked side by side, Chloe in her exquisite flowered chiffon, McGuire in his beautifully cut evening clothes. It was all so extraordinarily civilised.
“Someone had a very graceful hand with the decorating,” he commented.
Chloe felt her throat tighten. “My mother.” She couldn’t say a word more.
He admired the classic elegance of the living room, the mix of fine antique pieces with overstuffed chintz-covered sofas and armchairs in shades of ivory, peach and rose. A huge gilt-framed antique mirror hung over the fireplace with its beautiful white marble surround, and he walked towards it, studying the detail. “It must comfort you to have the stamp of her personality all around you.”
“Sometimes,” Chloe said softly, surprised by his perceptiveness. “Other times it hurts dreadfully.” She gestured towards an adjoining room. “Come through to the library. It’s my favourite room.”
The instant before she turned on the lights, Chloe came close to believing someone was sitting in her father’s wing-back chair beside the fireplace. She even drew in her breath.
“Everything okay?” McGuire stood very close, tall, powerful, protective.
“Of course.” It had to be an optical illusion. Particularly when she had the sense of someone small. Her father had been almost as tall as McGuire, but a completely different build, very spare with long, elegant limbs. She didn’t feel ready to deal with the odd things that were happening to her. She couldn’t dismiss them, either.
“You’ve gone a little pale.”
“I’m fine,” she said huskily.
“Do you ever feel nervous by yourself?”
“I’ve got my guardian angel on call.” Her eyes mirrored the sudden comfort that wrapped her soul.
“I’m glad.” His finger touched the tip of her nose, gentle as a feather, then he turned to inspect the large, graceful room.
He looked around keenly, showing considerable interest in everything, Chloe thought, the plaster work, the cedar panelling, the inbuilt floor-to-ceiling bookcase, the leatheround gold-foiled volumes. Even the 19th-century French gilt chandelier. If she gave him enough time he might make an offer for house and contents. “You must have enjoyed growing up here,” he murmured, the slight moodiness of his expression lending him the disturbing charm of Jane Eyre’s Rochester.
She couldn’t speak for a moment until her voice was under control. Though he was far from her ideal, he was, she began to realise, a ruggedly handsome man who carried himself superbly. “Where did you grow up?” she asked gently. The graciousness of her own surroundings were definitely having their effect on her, but he smiled his familiar taut smile.
“A small town outside Sydney, but I guess what you’d call the wrong side of the tracks.”
For once a sharp retort was easy to resist. “But you’ve come a long way.”
“That was the intention, Chloe. As far away as I could get.” The intonation was harsh. He shot back a cuff and glanced down at his gold watch. “Thank you for showing me your beautiful home. I’d like to see more, but I think we should be on our way.”
“Of course.” She flushed a little and as he passed her, he very gently stroked her cheek. “Now I know why you’re such a princess,” he said in a deep, low voice.
They were gliding away from the house before she could contribute another word. “I didn’t know you drove a Jaguar?” It was, in fact, a late model.
“I’ve been promising myself one since I was a kid.”
“It’s my kind of car.” She smiled.
“Of course. You didn’t think I was going to pick you up in what I drive to work?”
“I didn’t think at all.”
“Why’s that, Cavanagh?” He shot her a challenging glance.
“Hey, you’ve been calling me Chloe,” she protested for a second, strangely hurt.
“And you’ve been calling me nothing at all. To my face. I know what you call me behind my back.”
“Oh, please, don’t believe it all.” Chloe was embarrassed. “We’re going to a party, remember?” She realised with a sense of shock she wanted to maintain the unusual harmony that flowed between them.
“So, say it, then,” he prompted gruffly.
“Say what?” Inside the soft enfolding darkness of the beautiful car with its smell of fine leather mingled with her own perfume, the atmosphere was oddly intimate.
“My name,” he answered, shooting a glance at her. “Gabe, Gabriel, whatever you like.”
Chloe sucked in her breath. “Gabriel, the Messenger of God. You must admit it’s a shade incongruous with your powerful physique and dark colouring.”
“You’d relate better to Lucifer?”
She could see his eyes, dark and shimmery like the night. “Even for you that’s too scary. What do you say to a truce? I’ll call you Gabriel for the night, if you continue to call me Chloe. We can revert to our normal selves Monday morning.”
“Suits me.” He nodded. “I mean, can you imagine us being friends?” He sounded openly mocking and he had good reason.
“You know what they say, anything’s possible,” Chloe replied jauntily.
“I don’t think you could handle it, Cavanagh.” He glanced at her briefly. God, she was exquisite.
“You gather conectly.”
“I’m just your normal guy.”
She laughed, a sound of pure rejection. “No, you’re not.”
“I’d still like to get this whole thing cleared up. What exactly about me bothers you so much?”
Everything. Your looks, your force of character. “Gabriel I have no problem with you at all,” she said sweetly.
“Oh, but you do. Don’t smile about it.”
“Well...” She considered. “You really like to stir me up.”
He made a deprecating sound. “I have to admit I do.”
“And you have your own reasons for it.”
“True. But I seek to help you, Chloe, before you run yourself ragged. I might be a bit abrasive at times but I believe my intentions are good. You did what you liked under your old boss.”
Chloe admitted that inwardly. “Clive went a lot earlier than he should have.”
His smile was faintly crooked. “You’re just prejudiced. We’re on the same side, you know, even if our relationship hasn’t been all that smooth.”
“Clive didn’t bark at me.” She smiled.
“And what do you think the answer to that may be? You can’t twist me around your little finger, neither can you march in and out of my office uninvited.”
The colour in Chloe’s cheeks deepened. “That’s not true. I always knock.”
“When you remember to. Anyway that’s all camouflage. I think the problem is physical.”
She was glad of the darkness to cover her shock. This was unchartered country. “Well, you do have a lot of presence,” she managed. In fact it was particularly powerful.
“Really? You make me feel like Conan the Barbarian.” His glance mocked them both. “All those haughty little high-born expressions.”
“I can’t see what I think should bother you at all.”
“Hey! I’m asking the questions,” he drawled.
“All right. Fire away. I’ll have to rack my brains for a soothing answer. If it’s any comfort to you, I know at least a dozen women in the building who find you extremely attractive.”
“Fourteen at the last count,” he said laconically.
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