Heart of the Outback (7 page)

Hell and damnation. A deep-seated growl, like that of a discontented lion, rumbled from his throat and his lined features expressed his distaste. The thought of Natalie ruling his empire was not palatable, by any stretch of the imagination. At one time he had hoped that she and Les Westcott would make a match, but now they seemed totally incompatible. In deep contemplation the fingers of both his hands drummed staccato like on the sides of the chair.

With his gaze focused again on the photo of the opal, for the first time in twenty-six years he
allowed
himself to consciously think about the child, Mary’s child, as a real person. What would he, or she, be like? The child would be about a year older than Richard. How had Mary fared raising him on her own? He’d sent her money before he’d left Adelaide, a bank cheque for ten thousand dollars. That would have set her up well enough, if she’d used it carefully. She never had. The bank had informed him the cheque had been returned and the money credited back to his account. Damned independent woman, Mary Williams. Then, in the wink of a mere second he was swept by an aching, desperate longing to know about the child. About Mary. To try to make amends for the wrong he’d done both of them, but that was impossible. Too many years had passed and, for all he knew she was most likely happily married to someone else.

Even so, his right hand reached for the bottom drawer of the desk. He opened it and retrieved an old
tin. Rummaging through the contents he found a photo and pulled it out. The photo was dog-eared and badly faded. It showed a young woman in a cotton dress.
Mary.

It wasn’t often he admitted the error of his ways, he was too bullheaded and ruthless to dwell on them and the finer points of life. But in Mary’s case he should have done more. Made her take the money and seen her set up so that she’d be comfortable, only at the time he’d felt so damned guilty over what he’d tried to get her to do, he’d wanted to get as far away as he could from Coober Pedy. She had once been very important to him but not as important as his dream of being successful. He had allowed nothing, not Mary, not Brenda, not even his son Richard to come before that.

Nostalgically his thoughts returned to his son, gone, forever. His mouth turned down in a travesty of a smile. Perhaps God was finally getting even with him for what he’d done to Mary. Well, he was paying a higher price than he’d ever thought possible.

A
den Nicholson leant his tall, trim frame against the office door jamb to better observe the woman bent over a large drawing board. A fax sheet lay loosely in his right hand and he slid his left hand into his trouser pocket. A contemplative smile hovered around his mouth as he watched her, while silently he marvelled that she could remain so still, or relatively still, for so long.

Francesca Spinetti, Francey to everyone, Chief Assistant Architect at Nicholson, Drew and Carlyle, was such a bundle of energy and Italian volatility that her ability to concentrate when she was drawing up a plan constantly amazed him. Aden had enough nous though, considering her capacity to speak her mind at an instant’s notice, not to mention it to her. Francey had come to work for the firm after graduating with honours from Sydney University. In a few short years she had livened up the traditional thinking of his
architectural firm more so than any other architect had done in Sydney for years with her
nouveau
architectural designs, her love of colour and of mixing the traditional with the ultra modern.

“You know I don’t like people looking over my shoulder when I’m working.” Her tone was soft, a touch husky, and she spoke without lifting her head from the drawing board.

“Is that the thanks I get for lobbying the partners to let you have your own office with good light?” Aden retaliated as he came into the room. “I’m not watching what you’re drawing,” he added softly, “I’m watching you.”

Francey’s mop of long dark curls that swayed at every twitch and turn of her head jerked up from the drawing board as she turned to look at him. “Well, it’s nice to know that the boss has so much leisure time.” Her direct gaze studied his angular features, the dark hair, the wide shoulders. He would strip well, she thought. Yoicks! What on earth had made her think that? He was her employer, for God’s sake. His remark, personal without a doubt — I’m watching you — had set her thoughts along lines not at all related to work.

He grinned boyishly as he sat on the side of her desk. “Mmmm, one of the perks of being the boss, wouldn’t you say?” He liked the way they fenced verbally with each other and especially liked the undertone of attraction that shivered invisibly between them. It had become more pronounced since they’d worked together on a few projects. There. Just below the surface. Not that he’d made a move in that direction. Yet.

Actually, why he hadn’t he still didn’t understand. Maybe he hesitated to step over the employer/employee line or the obvious social differences between them. There wasn’t much he didn’t like about Francey Spinetti though. She was easy on the eye, as the saying went. Wide-set, huge blue-green eyes, lustrous black hair that seemed to have a mind of its own, just like its owner, and she was unusually tall and slender for someone of Italian extraction.

He shook himself out of his reverie and became all business. “How’s the plan for the Monroe building going?”

“Slowly.” She gave him a droll look. “Mainly because Mr Monroe and his board of directors keep changing their minds about what they want.”

“Problems?” She shrugged her shoulders, giving him a tantalising glimpse of pink lace between the vee of her deeper pink blouse. Her just-a-fraction-too-wide pink lipsticked lips pursed in contemplation. They were very kissable lips. Oh, yes, he’d fantasised about them often lately.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Francey told him. “Their indecisiveness slows the process, that’s all.”

“Well, make the best of it. We don’t want Monroe upset. He’s too important a client. This,” he passed her the fax he’d been holding, “might cheer you up.”

Francey read the fax and grinned, well, it started as a grin and then it became a wide, radiant smile that lit up her whole face. She re-read the most important part again out loud. “Your design: the one hectare Swayne’s apartment building, shopping complex and marina is confirmed as one of the finalists in the
medium density under three point five million freestanding Australian Architectural Design awards.”

“Aden, this is wonderful.” Her hands went into action and she began to gesticulate wildly. “I can hardly believe it.”

The Swayne’s complex had been her most ambitious and successful project to date. Completed six months ago, after eighteen months building time, she was inordinately proud of the design which combined the latest building materials and blended them in such a way that they harmonised with the surrounding neighbourhood and the water views of Tambourine Bay. Matthew Drew and Tony Carlyle, Aden’s other partners, had been critical of the innovative design, wanting to opt for something more traditional, but Aden, the senior partner, had the ruling vote and had backed Francey up. He’d given her her head and Alex Swayne had waxed lyrical far and wide about the finished product. The apartments and the small, exclusive stores had sold in record time and the ultra modern marina was filling with permanent berths fast.

“It is good news. You’re a contender for an award, Francey. Pretty fantastic, considering you’ve not been working that long.” His grey eyes began to twinkle with mischievous anticipation. “Which means you must wear something outrageously sexy when accepting the award.”

She shook her head from side to side, causing her curly tresses to sway and curve around her face. “Aren’t you being somewhat premature? I have to win it first.”

“I have the utmost confidence that you will. You see, I’ve seen a couple of the other entries.”

“Now you’ve done it!” She waggled an accusatory finger at him which made his features take on a bewildered look. “My concentration’s shot for the next half-hour, just thinking about Thursday night.” The venue for this year’s awards dinner was The Regent. She’d been last year and it had been a huge yawn. However, she knew she wouldn’t be bored this year. But she wouldn’t enjoy herself either because all evening she would be a bundle of nerves. Wait until she told mamma and papà. They wouldn’t believe it.

“Take an early lunch,” he suggested.

Eat? Who could think about food? But she said as a matter of form, “Good idea.”

She rose from her stool and stretched. In low heels and standing to her full height she was twelve centimetres shorter than Aden.

“Would you like me to pick you up Thursday evening?” Aden offered.

“Thank you, but no. I’ll get a taxi.”

She went behind her desk and picked up her handbag while at the same time she reached for her navy blazer which lay casually over the back of her desk chair. She could just imagine what her father would think if he knew that Aden Nicholson, her boss, was showing a personal interest in her. He’s very good husband material, her father would proclaim, and then she’d never hear the end of it. The situation was bad enough as it was. Every opportunity he got her father reminded her that she wasn’t getting any younger. That she should be looking to settle down, get married — like her cousins. Since she’d achieved her degree he’d become the perennial nagger, wanting her to find a good man and give him and Lucia, her
mother, a tribe of grandchildren. What a thought! She had too much to do career-wise. Her dream was to one day have a full partnership with Nicholson, Drew and Carlyle. And she’d never travelled. Before she turned thirty she wanted to see the ancient architecture of places she’d read about — Italy, Greece, England — as she had studied for her degree.

They walked together to the outer corridor beyond the large room in which four draughtsmen were employed to draw up the detailed plans of the architects. Aden left her at the foyer and went towards his own office. Like Francey, he knew it would be hard to concentrate for a while. Lately, Francey had that effect on him. Soon, he sensed, almost fatalistically, he’d have to do something about it.

“But Francey,
amore
, I don’t understand. This drive, this ambition you have. Why you not want to marry a good man and have lots of
bambini
? That’s what your mamma always wanted to do but,” Carlo Spinetti shrugged his shoulders sadly, “we were only blessed once. With you.”

Francey’s throat muscles tightened. She regularly ate with her parents on Wednesday nights and this particular turn in the conversation always had the same effect on her, no matter how hard she tried for it not to. She’d tried over the years to make her point but her father still didn’t understand.

“Papà, we’ve had this talk before. Many times. I don’t know why I have this need inside me, this desire to be the best I can be at something. I can’t explain it, but I can’t ignore it either.” She tried not to let the hurt show in her voice. “I thought you’d be
happy for me. Being in contention for a national architectural award is quite an honour. Think of all the architects around Australia trying to win this award — hundreds! And even if I don’t get a place just being short-listed will increase my value with Nicholson, Drew and Carlyle. Maybe they’ll offer me a junior partnership next year.”

Carlo shook his silver head, a mixture of consternation and frustration etched into his lined features, the expression in his dark eyes undecipherable. “Aahh, Francey, you’ll end up an old maid. Alone and unloved,” he opined as he slurped his minestrone soup.

“You’d rather I be like Rosa or Daniella?” They were her cousins, her Aunt Josie’s children. “They’ve each pushed out a baby a year for the last three years. Well, no thank you. I don’t want to be a baby factory, or be tied to a husband and live off the crumbs he graciously throws me.” This was something of an exaggeration but her father’s words stung, even though she knew that Rosa and Daniella were happy with their respective husbands, and they were wonderful mothers too.

“You’re not getting any younger,” Carlo pointed out. “One day you’ll wake up in bed alone and you’ll want those things. Marriage. Children. You might be wealthy and successful by then, but you’ll be too old. And you’ll be by yourself.”

“I date,” she said with a bored sigh. “Didn’t I go to a wedding last week with Rocco Biviano?”

Carlo’s head shook slightly. “Rocco is your second cousin. Big deal, as you young ones say.”

“Papà, I’ve got plenty of time to settle down. I’m nowhere near thirty yet.” Francey forced herself to
breathe deeply, slowly, and not take offence because he didn’t
mean
to hurt her. It was just that he had this thing about her getting married, and unlike some Italian-born fathers who tried to hold onto their single daughters, Carlo Spinetti was quite the opposite.

God, if she had a dollar for every time he’d made a comment about finding a man over the last four years, she’d own her much-loved VW beetle outright. For a moment her blue-green eyes snapped with the light of battle — she enjoyed a confrontation — and then her gaze darted about the kitchen her mother was so proud of. Finally, after years of agitating and not-so-gentle arguments Lucia had convinced her tight-fisted husband to have it modernised. And now, her mother, who loved to cook, while Francey did not, happily spent a good part of her days conjuring up wonderful food for her husband and daughter. No, she decided, no arguments tonight, she was too happy about being on the awards short-list.

Still, she had some understanding of her father’s reasoning. Carlo and Lucia Spinetti were from Murge, a village near Minerveno, not far from Bari, on the south-eastern side of Italy. A few years after World War II they’d come to Australia to start a new life, and had brought many reminders of the old country with them. Family photos, hand-stitched linen, mementoes and the old ways with which they were familiar. And in her father’s case, the traditional belief that women should marry early and devote their lives to their husbands, home, cooking and raising many
bambini.
Poor Papà. A well of compassion flowed through her as she remembered some of the stories he’d told her of his relatives, and where he’d grown
up. The poverty had been unbelievable. Now, Carlo Spinetti was caught in a time warp, unable to catch up with twentieth-century technology, let alone the coming third millennium.