Stiletto Safari (17 page)

The laundry door banged open causing us both to turn around. Henrietta was standing in the doorway. “Oh there you are Hamish,” she exclaimed delightedly. “I’ve been looking for you all afternoon. You promised you’d read a bit of my thesis.” Her voice was demanding and Hamish looked testy.

“Well I’ll be off then,” I said gathering up my washing. My comment was really directed at Hamish, but he didn’t respond.

In total confusion I walked back to my room. I wasn’t sure what to make of Hamish’s strange behavior. I replayed the scene over and over in my head, but it still didn’t make sense.

Chapter 26

T

wo days later and I still wasn’t sure where I stood with Hamish. We hadn’t touched or kissed again. In fact, we’d barely spoken.

Of course I’d sought the girls’ advice. According to Sal, I’d broken one of the most basic dating rules, I’d brought up a numerical measurement during sex (or foreplay in my case) with a man.

I felt stupid. The whole six minute comment was meant as encouragement and not a turn-off. Why hadn’t I just kept my mouth shut?

Finally I couldn’t stand it any longer and confronted Hamish. He was carefully inspecting some cuts on a meerkat and didn’t look up at me.

“Hamish, about the other day,” I nervously began. I hadn’t really planned where I was going with this and wasn’t sure what to say next.

Hamish looked up and gave me one of his devastating smiles. “Dinner tonight at my place? I should be done by six p.m.”

“A-ah, that would be nice,” I stammered not trusting myself to say anything more.

An hour before dinner I stated agonizing over what to wear. I wanted to look sexy, but casual and I definitely didn’t want to come across as too desperate. After pretty much trying on everything I’d brought with me I opted for a cheeky denim mini-skirt and an over-sized tee that hung off my shoulder. As a compromise I selected some sexy lingerie just in case things got steamy.

A bit after six I made my way to Hamish’s. To say I was full of nervous anticipation was an understatement. But, frustratingly, there was no sign of him when I arrived.

I let myself in. A single white rose lay on a coffee table. As I picked it up I spied a note underneath:

Zara,

I’ve had to go into town and might be a little late back.

Start making dinner. I shouldn’t be long.

Hamish

I wandered into the kitchen. A bottle of French wine and some tagged recipe books lay on the bench. Was this some kind of joke or worse still a test? I can’t cook. And I don’t mean that in a modest way. I really can’t cook. With the exception of my microwave and fridge I don’t even know how my kitchen appliances work. In fact, just thinking about cooking (or any other household task for that matter) gives me heart palpations.

What I needed was a drink. Pouring myself a generous glass of wine I surveyed the recipes in dismay. Apparently we were having Greek style lamb with a fennel and parsley salad followed by individual semolina orange puddings. While the food sounded delicious it was way beyond my skill level of zero.

Overwhelmed by the thought of cooking, I poured myself another glass of wine and decided to have a sneak-peek around. I mean it would be remiss of me to just let this opportunity pass-by.

I made my way to Hamish’s bedroom first. A large double bed dominated the room. I flopped down on the bed. It was comfortable and smelt faintly of Hamish. I closed my eyes and imagined waking up next to him. Opening one eye I spied a bedside table. Rolling over I opened the draw, nothing kinky. So far so good.

Next, I ferreted through his cupboard. Aside from discovering Hamish was a neat freak (his clothes were ordered by type and color) there was again, nothing of interest. The bathroom was the same.

I looked at my watch, it was six forty-five. I really should make some pretense of cooking. Returning to the kitchen I turned on the oven to maximum heat and re-read the lamb recipe. It still didn’t make much sense, but I dutifully found a pan, added the lamb, drizzled a lot of olive oil over the top and threw it in the oven.

I poured myself another glass of wine and headed for Hamish’s study which in Ismail and Amy’s house served as a second bedroom. This room wasn’t as neat, there were papers strewn over the desk. Curious, I picked one up and started reading. It was obviously an article Hamish was working on. Skimming the first page I noticed a few mistakes in the text and without thinking picked up a pen and started correcting them. I was on page three before it occurred to me that if Hamish saw my corrections he’d know I’d been snooping around. Guiltily, I shoved the paper under a stack of books. Hopefully it wasn’t that important.

Just as I was about to attempt to hack into Hamish’s laptop I could smell a distinct burning smell. Hurrying back to the kitchen I found smoke billowing from the oven. I pulled out the lamb and surveyed the damage. Charcoaled… Tipping it onto a plate I found a knife and began trimming all the burnt bits off. By the time I’d finished, the lamb was half its original size. There was nothing for it, I drizzled some more oil over the top and placed it back in the oven remembering to turn the oven down.

Given that dinner was probably inedible I decided to make a start on the dessert. According to the recipe, I needed to beat egg whites with some sugar until the mixture formed stiff, glossy peaks. I hunted around for an egg beater, but didn’t find anything that resembled one. Right, I was going to have to do this by hand. I found a whisk and started. The first minute passed quickly enough. After the second minute I started panting from the effort. By the third minute the still runny egg mixture was flying all over the kitchen splattering the bench and the floor. My face was dripping with sweat and my arm ached. Just when I thought I was going to die from the effort the front door slammed.

“Mmm, something smells delic…burnt,” Hamish raced into the kitchen and pulled the lamb out of the oven. “What happened?” He asked staring at the shriveled up lamb in dismay.

“Don’t ask,” I replied crossly turning around to face him.

Hamish came over. “Let me help.”

Standing behind me he placed one hand firmly around my waist while the other hand moved to join mine on the whisk. My skin rubbed against his tingling with excitement. For a few moments we kept whisking the eggs in total silence. My breathing quickened and my legs felt like jelly.

“What’s on your cheek,” he huskily asked.

“Probably egg,” I murmured. “It went everywhere.”

“Ah-ha, egg,” he agreed tasting my cheek with his mouth. His mouth moved across to my earlobe where his tongue teased my ear before slowly moving down my neck. It was agony and ecstasy all rolled into one. Just when I couldn’t stand it any longer his mouth moved up to mine and we kissed. This kiss was hard and full of need.

The whisk was discarded. My bra was unhooked and Hamish’s shirt was off. My skirt was lying on the kitchen floor. Without any effort at all Hamish picked me up and carried me to his bedroom. He lay me down gently. Just as he was about to move on top of me there was an odd crunching sound. “What was that?” he exclaimed. He held up a piece of broken plastic. “It’s my cell,” I answered before realizing I must have dropped it on his bed while snooping around.

I pulled Hamish’s face down to my breasts before he asked anymore questions. My distraction seemed to have worked. “You’re just so beautiful,” he groaned. Full of urgency we moved together. I’d never felt anything so intense before and shuddered with pleasure at Hamish’s touch.

Afterwards we lay still for a long time. My head rested on Hamish’s chest. His arms were wrapped possessively around my body. Finally Hamish stirred and loosened his grip. “Fancy something to eat?” He asked brushing a stray hair off my cheek.

“I’m not sure dinner is exactly edible,” I responded sleepily.

“You stay here and I’ll see what I can do,” Hamish replied.

A few minutes later he returned with a fresh bottle of wine and lamb sandwiches.

“That was quick,” I nodded appreciatively at the food.

“Yes, six minutes is a lamb sandwich, not sex,” he cheekily responded.

And as if to prove the point he reached for me again.

Chapter 27

“S

o, Ismail, any developments on your front?” I was standing in Ismail and Amy’s kitchen drinking an organic chamomile tea after spending yet another amazing night with Hamish.

“Nothing; you?” Ismail’s voice sounded flat.

“Well, actually, yes.”

“Wow, that’s big news; congrats. And I thought your healthy glow was from fresh air and hard work. I should have known better! So give me hope: how did it happen?”

“Remember that whole bath/phone call incident? Let’s just say it sparked a response.”

Just as I was about to tell Ismail more, Amy ran into the kitchen. “Ismail, we’re on; hurry up and grab your things.”

“Where are you guys off to?” I tried to keep the disappointment out of my voice. I was at a loose end because Hamish had been called away on a field trip, and I had been looking forward to hanging out with Ismail and Amy.

Ismail was racing through the house grabbing things, and Amy had already headed out to the car. Calling over his shoulder, Ismail yelled, “We’re delivering our first baby—well, my first baby and Amy’s second baby. I’m scared shitless. Wish us luck.”

“Good luck, and don’t drop the baby when it comes out,” I yelled after their retreating figures.

Just as the flywire door was banging shut, Ismail shouted, “You can go ahead and use our Internet connection.”

The prospect of uninterrupted Internet access was suddenly very appealing, and my earlier twinge of disappointment at my ruined morning vanished.

Ismail’s crappy computer for once worked without a hitch, which was lucky because tech problems are not my thing. I had a stack of e-mails going back over a few weeks. Quite a few of the e-mails were shopping-related. Nostalgically, I thought of all the sales I was missing back home. The remaining e-mails were from my parents, my friends and one from Nick, I hadn’t heard from him in ages.

I decided to skim my parents’ e-mail first, just in case anything bad had happened at home. All their e-mail said was that as part of my Christmas present, they were giving me an open-ended flight home to Melbourne. Nice! While there were no direct entreaties to move back to Melbourne, they were of course implicit.

Full of trepidation, I opened Nick’s e-mail next. My heart gave a nervous flutter as I started reading. Out of respect, I really should tell him about Hamish, but I just didn’t have the courage.

Zara,

I can’t stop thinking about you. Will you give me another chance? I’ll do anything to keep from losing you. Couples’ counseling, therapy, yoga, you name it. My life is finally back on track. The case against me has been dropped. I need you Zara. You’re my one.

Nick

Oh my god, my heart was no longer fluttering; it was doing back-flips. For a few seconds, I couldn’t breathe and was in danger of passing out. Shocked was an understatement. Nick was free and he wanted me back. All I had to do was buy a ticket home and I could return to my cozy existence—romantic dinners at beautiful restaurants, a loving and generous boyfriend, my old job, and of course the girls.

Without consciously realizing it, I was suddenly on Qatar Airways’ website, ready to move my existing flight or just buy a new ticket, whichever was faster.

But then it hit me—that was my old life. I didn’t want to go back to Nick. I didn’t really like my job. Emi was in France and Sal was looking to leave Harvey & Rose. And maybe, just maybe, Hamish and I had a future together. We’d been together for a few weeks and things were going well.

I took a few deep breaths before deciding to sit on Nick’s e-mail. To try and distract myself, I opened an e-mail from Sal.

So I have been doing some digging, and it turns out your new squeeze is quite famous and just a little bit infamous.

Let’s start with what you already know. Hamish is a wildlife biologist. What you might not know, however, is that he is a celebrated wildlife biologist—he has both a publicist and a fan site. In the U.K. he is touted as the next David Attenborough (much hotter, of course) and has been involved in a number of successful wildlife documentaries. His most recent documentary on the solitary lives of leopards earned him a National Geographic award. He is also a prodigious writer and has published numerous articles and a best-selling novel, “Protecting the Planet.” At only thirty-four, he makes us look like underachievers.

Now, you haven’t mentioned that he also happens to come from one of England’s wealthiest families, which means you either don’t know or you don’t want me to think you’re a gold-digger. Of course, I already suspect the latter, so it must be the former.

Let me quote you an interview from Country and Life: “Growing up on one of England’s
largest
(my emphasis) country estates, it is hardly a surprise that Hamish’s love affair with nature developed from a tender age.”

Blah, blah…the article goes on to talk about Hamish’s many attributes, including him being “an accomplished horseman, a keen sailor, and an avid skier.”

Up to this point he is sounding perfect, but then I dug a little deeper and found a few skeletons in his closet.

The first is not such a biggie. He was expelled from Eton along with five other boys for smoking a joint when he was fifteen. Who cares? Everyone experiments a bit.

The second caused quite a stir. When he was seventeen, Hamish was in a horrendous car accident that killed his nineteen-year-old sister and badly injured his mother. At the time there was considerable speculation that he had been driving the car (unlicensed). Of course, some journalists found out about his expulsion and claimed that he was a drug addict, high at the time of the accident. Charges were never laid and the family refused to comment. The story died down after a couple of weeks. A few articles in the last few years have referred to a “tragic accident,” but that’s all.