ALWAYS THE BOSS

VICTORIA GORDON

She was determined to stick it out...

A legacy had brought Dinah to Australia, and at first she regarded the chance of a job in a television news department as a bonus—and a challenge.

But when she found herself continually clashing with her boss, the formidable Conan Garth, she began to wonder whether the "bonus" was all it seemed.

Conan was wrong in every opinion he held of her. She despaired of ever making him see the truth about her as a worker—and as a woman!

She balanced her glass as Conan embraced her…

"No...oh, no," Dinah whispered as he released her so that both his hands could explore the contours of her body.

His fingers played across the hot skin beneath her T-shirt, along her spine and then across her side as he gently turned her so he could reach the swelling softness of her breast.

Dinah's knees sagged as desire coursed through her.

Suddenly Conan gave a shocked cry of outrage and abruptly stepped back. She almost fell. Then she realized what had happened and collapsed in laughter.

Conan, his eyes dark with anger, was reaching to touch where the remains of Dinah's wine had poured down his neck. "Were there any ice cubes left?" she giggled. ‑.

But the feelings between them were no laughing matter

CHAPTER ONE

The rollicking gossip of magpies coaxed Dinah out of a restless sleep while the sun still climbed hidden behind the imposing bulk of Black Mountain. Drowsily rolling her head across the pillow dampened by the perspiration of haunted dreams, she wasn’t quite fully awake when the frenzied, maniacal braying of kookaburras brought her suddenly upright in the strange bed, honey-blonde hair flying and her large green eyes wide with fright.

It lasted only an instant; then she relaxed in the realisation of where she was.

‘Silly ninny,’ she sighed half aloud. ‘It’s only morning.’ And she leaned over to draw back the curtains and let in the fresh air from the dew-sparkled garden. Morning indeed! Seventh morning in Australia, fourth morning in Canberra, and the first morning in her very own flat. Not to mention the first morning at her new job in the A.C.T.—T.V. newsroom. Pressing her nose against the flyscreen, Dinah breathed in deeply, savouring the heady aroma of the flowering wattle bushes that flanked the bedroom window. Then she flung her long, shapely legs out of the bed and scampered off to the shower.

Fifteen minutes later she was perched beside a large cedar table in the garden, a cup of tea close at hand and a warm crumpet ready for breakfast. The sun, too, was fully awake, and she revelled in its warmth.

The languid warmth was tempting, but Dinah was far too excited to relax. She rushed through her breakfast without even tasting it and returned to her bedroom to dress. A longish floral skirt in soft cotton was topped by a tidy blouse of a light cream that exactly matched one colour in the skirt. Her shoes, also cream, were old friends, and she was assured of comfort in that aspect of what she anticipated might be a somewhat trying day. It was just half past eight when she dabbed on a light perfume, gave her short hair a final shake and skipped out to start the perky red Mini in the carport.

‘I’ll likely be early,’ she thought, then laughed at her own excitement. It was, at the worst, a fifteen-minute drive to the A.C.T. studios on the lower slopes of Black Mountain, and she didn’t have to be there until nine-thirty, but on this day of all days she couldn’t see herself sitting quietly over a second cup of tea. Instead, after carefully consulting her city map, she drove across the Scrivener Dam, parked in the visitors’ lot and strolled over to read the tourist information.

Above the high concrete dam was Lake Burley Griffin, named for the American architect who had designed Australia’s national capital. Below, the Molonglo River twisted through rolling paddocks en route to its junction with the Murrumbidgee. Dinah read all the tourist information, but the words didn’t get past her eyes. She was thinking ahead to nine-thirty and her first day at work.

When she finally arrived at the studios, Dinah was only ten minutes early, and she opened the door of the newsroom to be greeted by the clattering of the teletypes and a friendly grin from a stocky, red-haired man who was ripping teletype copy across a ruler and muttering curses under his breath. He rose to his feet as Dinah approached and thrust out his hand.

‘Dinah Fisher . . . right? Hi! I’m Mick Johnstone. Let’s go have coffee and you can tell me what a lovely girl like you is doing in a dump like this.’

Without waiting for a reply, he hustled her out the door and through a maze of corridors to the self-service canteen.

They’d just got their coffee and moved to sit down when Mick suddenly looked up and muttered, ‘Oh ... oh. Here comes trouble!’

Dinah looked up at the new arrival with a casual interest that quickened as she took in his lithe, catlike walk and the sheer magnetism that seemed to surround him. Dark wavy, hair with reddish highlights seemed to accentuate his tanned but still fair complexion. He was, she decided immediately, extraordinarily handsome, although not in any conventional way. His features were rough-hewn, craggy and strong. A high-bridged nose that looked as if it had been broken at least once overshadowed a wide, generous mouth that now was thin-lipped with anger and his eyes were such a pale taupe shade they seemed almost colourless.

As he approached the table, Dinah could see that his shoulders were disproportionately broad for the leanness of his hips, yet he seemed to be all of a piece, an impression perhaps aided by the well-cut and obviously expensive three-piece business suit in a subdued houndstooth pattern. His pale eyes rested briefly on Dinah as he reached them, roving over her body with a seemingly careless indifference. Then they returned to the silent Mick Johnstone, and pale fires glimmered before the man spoke.

Dinah tensed unconsciously, waiting for the outburst of the rage she could sense, lay coiled within the taupe-eyed stranger. But his voice was softly gentle despite the evident anger as he nodded his head in a curt gesture to Mick.

‘In the office . . . now!’

Mick stammered into what was obviously intended as an introduction. 'Er . . . Conan ... I’d like you to .…'

‘Now!’

There was a flatness to the command which brooked no further comment. Then the man turned on his heel and strode out of the canteen without so much as a glance to where Dinah sat in open-mouthed surprise. She looked at Mick, who was gulping hastily at his coffee and already half-way to his feet.

‘Welcome to the newsroom,’ he said with a self-conscious shrug. ‘Now I’d better get in there before the boss really blows his cool. You’d better give him a few minutes to chew on me before making your appearance, or you might learn some new words. He’s obviously not in the best of moods.’

He lurched out of his chair and scuttled off down the corridor, unnoticing of Dinah walking quickly in his wake. She couldn’t keep up without actually running, and was delayed briefly in shifting through a group of people having a highly vocal discussion in the middle of one corridor, so Mick was already inside the newsroom with the door closed when Dinah arrived. Pausing for breath, she could hear part of what had obviously become a flaming row inside.

‘. . . leave you alone for a minute . . . out hustling some chickie ...’

‘But I didn’t . . .’

‘. . . newsroom unattended . . .’

‘But she’s . . .’

‘I don’t bloody well care who she is . . .’

Mick’s quickly thwarted attempts to speak were easy enough to follow, but Dinah found the thickness of the door enough to blur many of his accuser’s deadly soft words. It was obvious, however, that Mick was getting the worst of the argument, and without even thinking about it Dinah thrust open the door and strode into the argument. ‘Who the hell are you?’

The man’s voice lost none of its peculiar softness, but the anger in his grey eyes struck her like a blow.

‘I’m . . . I’m . . .’ She was stammering, quite unaccountably, when Mick broke in.

‘She’s your new secretary.’ And in the abrupt silence that followed: ‘Conan Garth—Dinah Fisher.’

‘Oh,’ said Conan Garth in a voice that belied the blaze of fury in his eyes. ‘Oh . . . that’s just bloody wonderful, that is. A secretary!’ One corner of his mouth turned down in a deliberate sneer as he turned to Mick Johnstone with an angry shake of his head. ‘I told you once this outfit was right spinny, didn’t I, Mick? A secretary! I ask them for journalists, I ask for more equipment, and what do I get?—a secretary!’

Then the pale eyes turned on Dinah and he laughed harshly. ‘And worse than that, I get a secretary who goes about seducing my journos into leaving the newsroom vacant while they run off to chat her up in the canteen. Oh, I can see you’re going to be a great help around here, Miss Fisher. A bloody marvellous help!’

Mick Johnstone interrupted in a bid to take the blame for the canteen incident, but he might as well have been talking to the wall. Conan Garth was still giving all his attention to Dinah. His eyes roved over her from shaggy blonde hair to trim, shapely ankles, and it was obvious that little of what he saw impressed him very much.

‘And tell me, Miss Fisher, just how did you come to be selected as secretary for this newsroom? I don’t even remember advertising for a secretary, but then I’m only the news director. I suppose it’s really too much to expect that anybody’d tell me what’s going on in my own newsroom.’ Dinah felt a warmth flushing up into her throat, and recognised part of it, at least, as anger. This she could control, but her confusion beneath those stern taupe eyes was less easy to handle.

‘I ... I was hired by Mr ... by the general manager,’ she stammered, embarrassed at having forgotten the man’s name at such an inconvenient time.

‘Obviously,’ came the cold reply. ‘But why were you hired, Miss Fisher? That’s what I want to know. I mean, did you just walk in and flash your dimples at dear old Geoff Lewis, or did he specifically come looking for you, or what? Where did you hear about the job in the first place?’

Determined not to falter again beneath that steely gaze, Dinah took a deep, slow breath before replying, ‘My uncle ‑'

‘Nepotism!’ He spat out the word as if it tasted bad. ‘I swear if it wasn’t for nepotism there wouldn’t be any people at all in the television industry. Tell me, dear child, who is your uncle—the janitor, or the chairman of the board’s forty-second cousin?’ His voice, still alarmingly soft, dripped sarcasm she could almost see.

‘My uncle is—was—Jonathan Fisher, a thoroughly well respected journalist here in Canberra,’ she shot back. ‘And I don’t know anything whatsoever about nepotism. I was given to understand there was a job here that was within my qualifications.’ Anger had dwarfed her fear and confusion; she was glaring back at Conan Garth through eyes that sparkled like emeralds.

‘Right! Well, since you know so much, Miss Fisher, perhaps you’d be kind enough to explain just what kind of qualifications you have that would be of the slightest possible use to me.’ Once again his eyes roamed over her slim figure, probing with such intensity that Dinah felt she might as well be naked.

‘Secretarial qualifications, of course,’ she retorted with downcast eyes. ‘I type, I have excellent shorthand, I’ve been told I have an excellent telephone presence . . .’

He interrupted. ‘How long have you been in Canberra?’

‘Three days, but . ..’

‘Three days? Three whole days? How nice for you.’ His words were curdled by the sarcasm, then his voice hardened once again. ‘So who do you know? Who are the movers and shakers in the town? What do you know about television—television news, that is? I’m not interested in the soap opera garbage you women revel in between seductions. Come on, Miss Fisher, let’s have it!’

He stepped closer, and Dinah found herself retreating. The threat in his pale eyes was so strong that she backed farther away, bumping into a desk and almost falling before a grip of iron clasped about her left arm to steady her. ‘Are you going to answer me, or just keep trying to run away?’ he said in a voice that seemed little more than a whisper in her pounding head.

‘But what you’re talking about is journalistic knowledge,’ she replied. ‘I’ve never claimed to have any of that. I did take a night-school course on the media, but…'

‘But nothing! What I’m talking about, dear Miss Fisher, is useful knowledge. I can type. I can take shorthand. I can answer a telephone. And all of them at least as well as you can, Miss Fisher. It’s of no use to me at all if you can answer a telephone but don’t know enough to ask the right questions and recognise the right answers. It just means somebody else has to do it all over again anyway. And if you’re a really good secretary—I mean a real, honest-to-goodness professional one, there’s even less of a place for you here, because you’d only be bored to tears inside a week. I’ve got far too much to do here without some bored little dolly-bird plaguing all my journalists so that they forget what they're here for.’

Dinah shook herself free from his grip, mouth opened to refute his accusations, but as she did so he stepped away and stared up at the clock which dominated one wall.

‘Hell! You’ve even got me doing it,’ he cursed. ‘Mick! Grab a cameraman and get yourself over to the N.C.D.C. There’s a press conference in fifteen minutes. Probably nothing but the usual propaganda, but we daren’t miss it. Then radio in when you’re done and we’ll see what else is afoot by then.’

Mick scurried for the door, obviously pleased at being released, and Garth turned again on Dinah.

‘First lesson, Miss Fisher. N.C.D.C.—National Capital Development Commission. It’s the equivalent of a planning commission, only more so. Almost total power . . . bureaucracy to the ultimate. Very, very important in Canberra, but not just for the moment. Right now I’d just like to know what I’m going to do with you?

He stood gazing about the room in silence, and Dinah could see the ripple of jaw muscle as a signal of the tension still rampant inside him. After a moment he thrust his arm towards an aged, vacant school-type desk in the far corner. It was almost buried in discarded newspapers and looked as if it should have been retired years before.

‘That’ll do. Clean off that mess, drag yourself over a chair and then sit there quietly for a while,’ he said. ‘There’s too much work for me to waste time with you now.’

‘But . . . but what am I going to do?' Dinah asked patiently. It was perfectly clear to her that it wouldn’t take her long to clean the desk, and she didn’t fancy sitting about like a truant schoolchild.

His answer was a harsh and quite unexpected laugh, but Dinah looked up to find that the humour didn’t reach his eyes.

‘Lord love us, don’t tell me you actually want to do some work? I’d have thought you’d be perfectly happy to spend the day just doing your nails and plotting your next seduction campaign. Surely you’re not going to confuse the issue by actually working?’ Then, abruptly, he dropped the sarcasm and looked at her with a curious light of speculation in his pale taupe eyes.

‘Right! You can start by cleaning the desk, and then reading through all those papers once you’ve sorted them out. And I mean read them—everything from the headlines through the classifieds. How’s that?’

‘That will be fine, thank you,’ Dinah replied coolly enough, immediately turning towards the task. She could understand without explanation that such reading would help her start to figure out who and what constituted news in Australia’s national capital. She was secretly amused when a glance as she sat down revealed a wry expression on Conan Garth’s handsome face.

They worked separately, in total silence from Dinah, for the next two hours. She concentrated on her task, only subliminally aware of Conan Garth’s presence, while he seemed to spend most of the time reading and fielding the various telephone calls that began to trickle in.

But shortly after noon, she’d read all the papers and was beginning to wonder what else she could think of to do. And although there had been neither word nor glance to indicate it, she was subtly aware that Conan Garth knew she was finished, and was waiting to see what she would do.

‘Where do you file the stories you’ve used?’ The night course paid for itself when she saw one dark eyebrow raise in surprise at the question.

‘Bottom drawer of that filing cabinet, but you’d better take a lunch-break first,’ he replied with a wave at the filing cabinet beside her.

‘Oh, I’m really not hungry,’ she replied honestly..

‘Eat. You might not get another chance for quite a while,’ came the reply. ‘Or are you all that worried about keeping your figure that you have to starve yourself?’

‘I have a perfectly healthy appetite,’ she replied tartly. ‘I’m simply not hungry at the moment. But I could get you something if you’re too busy.’ Better a soft answer than something to raise the fires in those incredible pale eyes, she thought.

• ‘I’m always busy,’ he replied. ‘So hustle your little self out of here and put some food in it, and quit trying to distract me.’

‘I’m not trying to do any such thing,’ she replied, her own anger rising at his apparent rudeness. ‘And I’ve told you that I’m not hungry.’

It was a lie; she’d suddenly become absolutely ravenous. But she’d starve before admitting it to this mocking, arrogant man.

‘If you’re not hungry, you should be,’ he answered without looking up. ‘And as for the distraction, didn’t you know your slip’s showing?’

‘But I’m not . . .’ Dinah stopped, eyes flaring with rage as she caught herself looking down and raised her eyes again to meet the mocking laughter that rang in her ears. The sound followed her as she stumbled through the doorway and almost ran down the corridor to escape.

By the time she had bolted a quick sandwich and a cup of tea, she had regained sufficient composure to return to the newsroom, but Conan Garth ignored her and she began sifting through the old files, studying them as she had the papers earlier in the day.

It was, however, too much to assimilate so quickly, and soon Dinah’s mind began to wander over the chain of events that had brought her to this unwelcome position in Conan Garth’s newsroom.

It was almost a year ago that she had first met her Uncle Jonathan, who had moved to Australia long before Dinah’s birth. Jonathan was fifteen years older than her father, and had emigrated ‘down under’ while his younger brother was still in primary school. During the years before Dinah was born, he had worked as a jackaroo in far north Queensland, as a miner in the western deserts, and had wandered Australia from one end to the other.

Finally he had moved into journalism, eventually ending up in Canberra as a leading newspaper columnist and television commentator. No longer English even in his thoughts, he had ignored his birthplace until ill-health began to plague a body long abused by excesses of work and long hours and strong drink.

But his return to England was coupled with heights of disillusionment. His brother, Dinah’s father, had died in a road accident the year before, when Dinah was just twenty-one, and with him had died the sister-in-law Jonathan had never met. His own parents were long gone, and his only tenuous link with England was the niece he had heard of only in the rare letters he had exchanged with her father.

Strangely enough, they had taken to each other right from the first, although Jonathan had been less than equally impressed with Dinah’s tiny cold-water flat and her seemingly aimless future in the overcrowded island country he had himself rejected.

‘It’s a hell-hole!’ he had judged bluntly after less than five minutes in the flat. ‘And you, my girl, are damned silly to stay here. Mother England’s nothing but a fat, overstaffed queen bee—no fit place for any young person with an ounce of gumption.’

Later he had taken her to the theatre, and to dinner at several exceptionally smart restaurants. And he had seemed to enjoy her in the role of guide to the art galleries and museums that had improved so greatly during his forty-year absence.

But Jonathan Fisher’s gruff heartiness and genuine love for his adopted country had easily won over Dinah to ‘at least give it a go’, and after his departure she had enthusiastically ploughed through the maze of paperwork required to arrange for her immigration.

‘You must come by ship,’ he had said. ‘It’s the only way to appreciate the differences and the sheer distance involved.’ He had given; her some names of firms that might have a job going, and if she suspected he might be pulling strings at the other end to help her, Dinah thrust aside those suspicions in the excitement of planning for the adventure before her. Besides, one secretarial job is pretty much like any other, as her uncle had said, and Australia was surely the land of opportunity.

She got the letter from his solicitors the day before she was to sail. A very short letter, merely stating that Jonathan Fisher had died four days earlier after a brief but severe illness, and that he had specifically asked that she should not be informed until after the funeral so as not to upset her sailing plans. In the same post was her acceptance letter from A.C.T.-T.V., and Dinah had numbly accepted the lawyer’s assumption that she would be going to Australia as originally planned.

It wasn’t until she arrived in his office that her uncle’s lawyer informed her of the strange legacy she had inherited.

‘In essence, Jonathan wanted to ensure that you’d give Australia a fair chance,’ the lawyer said. ‘So while he’s chosen a strange way of organising it, I think you’ll find everything quite straightforward. He’s left you a small establishment fund, his old Mini and some personal effects. Those you’ll receive immediately. But the bulk of the estate, which is just over fifty thousand dollars, goes into a trust fund that has these conditions: you must stay two full years in the country, working and supporting yourself for at least eighteen months of that time. He also insists that you visit every capital city for at least two days, and we’ve set aside travel funds for that.’

Dinah wouldn’t have needed that much encouragement; she fell in love with Canberra almost at first sight.

She thought the legacy to be a very touching and tender gesture from a kindly old man she had very quickly come to love and admire, and the idea of working for two years in Australia hadn’t caused her a moment’s worry until her exposure to Conan Garth’s charge of nepotism.

The mere thought made her bubble with anger, and without even realising it she surged out of her chair and hastened towards the newsroom door. Conan Garth’s sharp query halted her in her tracks, but it didn’t quench her inexplicable anger.

‘Where do you think you’re going in such a hurry?’ he demanded. .

‘I’m going to see Mr . . . the general manager,’ she retorted angrily. ‘I want to straighten out this nepotism thing once and for all.’

If she had expected a vivid response, she was sorely disappointed. Conan Garth merely grinned up at her and said, ‘Then why don’t you ask me?’

‘This morning you didn’t even know I was employed here,’ Dinah replied archly. ‘All you did know was that you didn’t want me around, and frankly, Mr Garth, I have no wish to stay where I’m not wanted. I shall see the general manager, and if there’s anything to your snotty charges of nepotism I can assure you you’ll get your wish. I should resign immediately.’

‘Don’t bother.’ He said it so quietly she didn’t at first believe what she heard, but at the look of query on her face he repeated himself.

‘I said don’t bother. I’ve already talked to the general manager, and if there’s anything else you’d like to know about your hiring you can ask me.’

His oddly assured expression gave Dinah pause, and she revealed a touch of caution when she finally spoke. ‘You’re satisfied then that I've been given the job on merit?’

‘We’ll see,’ he shrugged. Clearly he knew more than he was prepared to admit. Or was he just baiting her? Dinah decided she must know, one way or the other.

‘I really would like this matter clarified,’ she demanded.

‘Why?’

Was there a glimmer of sheer deviltry behind those pale taupe eyes? she wondered. ‘Because I have no need to travel under false colours,’ she replied sternly. ‘And because I don’t believe my uncle would have wanted it any other way.’

‘Then why did you suggest earlier that he’d arranged the job for you?’

‘I said no such thing!’ Dinah could feel the anger rising to fumble at her tongue, and although she more than half suspected he was baiting her, she couldn’t back away from it. ‘Before you so rudely interrupted me with your high-and-mighty speeches, I was merely going to say that I believed my uncle might have made some enquiries about available positions, including this one.’

He mocked her with eyes that moved over her trembling figure with a life of their own. ‘Then why are you so keen to rush off and sort it out now? I don’t think you really know what you’re thinking, Miss Fisher. First you say he wouldn’t have arranged the job, then you’re all hot to trot off and prove it—almost as if you really believed he might have set it up. Which is it?’

‘I don’t know and I don’t care,’ she blazed. ‘All I know is that you don’t want me here, and I’m not sure I really want to be here anyway.’ She also knew she was nearly in tears, but she didn’t care about that either.

‘Go and sit down.’ Conan Garth spoke the words softly, but it was obviously a direct order, and Dinah was moving to obey him before she realised it and stopped with an angry glare.

‘I said sit down!’ And this time the expression in his eyes revealed an anger she couldn’t ignore. Dinah moved slowly back to her chair and sat down firmly.

‘Now, Miss Fisher,’ Conan Garth said very deliberately, ‘let me put your mind at rest about this nepotism issue. First, I probably knew your uncle Jonathan far better than you did, and you’re probably correct in assuming he wouldn’t have recommended you for this job if he didn’t think you could handle it. Second, if the general manager hadn’t thought I needed a secretary, I’m sure he wouldn’t have offered it to you. The fact that I don’t need a secretary but another journalist is something I’ll take up with him, so you needn’t worry your pretty head about that.’

The words came unbidden, and Dinah flushed with embarrassment at the mocking laughter that greeted them, but they were there. ‘Why can’t I be a journalist, then, if that’s what you need?’

His laughter drove her embarrassment into anger, and at his first pause she snarled, ‘I didn’t think it was that humorous.’

That drew another bark of laughter, which was only interrupted by the opening of the newsroom door. ‘Teatime!’ chimed a merry voice from the corridor.

‘You’d best get out there or there’ll be none left,’ Conan Garth said seriously, and Dinah was halfway to the door before she realised it. She was expecting him to start laughing again, and in a desperate bid to avoid that, she turned and offered to bring him some coffee.

‘No, I’ll be all right, thanks,’ he replied, mouth quirking as if to avoid a grin.

And as she approached the tea trolley, Dinah could easily understand his point. The young blonde tea-lady, a voluptuous and quite pretty lass of about eighteen, swished seductively towards Conan Garth with a cup of coffee in her hand. Her adoration of the handsome news director shone from cornflower blue eyes, and her every movement was a carefully rehearsed advertisement of her own blatant sexuality.

‘Ah, Melissa, you’re a darling,’ Conan Garth crooned as he took the coffee. ‘Now get that sexy young bod out of here; I can’t concentrate.’

He aimed a swat at her departing behind as she pranced back towards her trolley with a piercing giggle, and Dinah noticed there was nothing juvenile in the looks the young tea-lady had been giving Conan Garth. The obvious difference between their ages—he’d never see thirty-five again—obviously made no difference to the giggling tea-lady.

Dinah returned to the room with her own tea a moment later to find the three telephones all ringing at once, and without thinking she grabbed the nearest one even as Conan Garth picked up the one on his desk.

Her simple ‘Newsroom!’ echoed his, and she reddened at the hostile glance he shot in her direction. How silly, she thought, restraining the impulse to stick out her tongue at him. But he had already turned away and was busy muttering something as the third phone stopped ringing.

‘Bruce Mitchell?’ Dinah queried, hesitating as the caller repeated himself. She looked at Garth, who was holding up the fingers of one hand in an obvious signal. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said into the telephone, ‘he won’t be here until. . . five o’clock.’ A nod from Garth affirmed it. ‘May I take a message, please?’

As she replaced the telephone, the other one began demanding attention, and Dinah spent the next half hour crossing from one telephone to the other, half the time keeping both phones going at once. It wasn’t until Mick Johnstone strode in, magically silencing all three phones, that she realised her tea had gone cold without her getting so much as a sip.

‘Typical N.C.D.C. garbage,’ Mick announced to nobody in particular. ‘They’ve announced the final report on the Tuggeranong Expressway, or Parkway, or whatever they’re calling it this week. Film’s no hell . . . maybe thirty seconds if we’re lucky or desperate.’ He turned to Conan Garth: ‘Your film’s ready, and they want you in Graphics if you get a minute. Suppose I’ve missed the tea-lady?’

‘Yes, and you’ll have to go without, unless you can persuade Miss Fisher here to fetch and carry for you,’ replied Conan Garth. ‘The phones have been going wild and I’ve got people to see before I start editing. Bruce will be here at five, which probably means five-thirty, so it’s on your shoulders until then. When will your film be ready?’

‘It’ll be done by five and it’s the last stuff today, so no worries,’ Mick replied, then turned to Dinah. ‘Black coffee with three sugars, if you don’t mind, love.’

‘You’ll have to be nicer than that,’ Garth interjected in a sarcastic tone. ‘Miss Fisher isn’t content with just being a secretary any more; she’s decided to be a journalist.’ His mocking laughter flowed through the doorway behind him, and although Dinah followed him with hot words on her own lips, he had disappeared down into the maze of corridors before she could speak.

And when he finally returned a few minutes before the evening news, it was clearly no time to take up the discussion again. In the rush to deadlines, there was no room for personal discussions. The telephones rang off their hooks, voices were raised in frustration and anger, and Dinah’s most sensible contribution was simply to stay out of the way.

Conan Garth had thrown off his suitcoat and rolled up the sleeves of his immaculate white shirt, and was busy collating the news bulletin when Bruce, the third journalist, strolled in. It was five-fifteen, and Dinah tensed as she waited for the expected blast, but it didn’t come. Probably vented all of his spleen on me, she mused, only half aware that she was staring until Conan Garth suddenly looked up and she found his cool grey eyes meeting her own. He raised one eyebrow in a mocking gesture and she saw the pale eyes suddenly shimmer as they roved over her figure in blatant disrobing movements:

Caught short, she acted without thinking, raising an eyebrow of her own and following the gesture by quickly sticking out her tongue. His burst of laughter startled everybody in the room, and Dinah thrust her eyes down as she waited for him to explain his laughter to the others.

Instead, he deliberately stayed silent until curiosity forced her to look up once more, and she was forced to stifle a giggle at his quite outrageous wink. Then he returned to his labours, leaving Dinah ample opportunity to sneak covert glances at him as he moved about the room like some fierce, caged feline, waiting for the deadline.

When he left for the news conference, Mick was directed to take Dinah into the studio so she could watch as the news went to air. ‘And if you’ve any questions, I’ll answer them over dinner,’ said Conan Garth as he strode from the room.

Dinah was fascinated by the seemingly effortless and yet complicated procedures involved in getting the jumbles of news copy and film into a cohesive unit. The studio was, to her inexperienced eyes, a scene of chaos as the director flashed his hands across the complicated console and barked incomprehensible orders to everyone in sight. Mick tried to explain everything as it happened, but Dinah’s head was spinning in confusion before it ended.

She had found it difficult to concentrate, especially with Conan Garth’s unexpected dinner invitation resounding in her ears. And worse yet was her indecision about whether or not to accept.

‘He might be handsome; he very definitely is handsome,’ she mused as Mick tried to explain the studio process. ‘But that’s about all. And why should he just automatically assume that I’ve nothing better to do than dine with him? He’s rude and overbearing and totally obnoxious, and he tries to treat me like dirt. It’s not my fault he’s got a secretary instead of a journalist. . .’

By the time they returned to the newsroom for the regular post-mortem, she had decided quite firmly to decline his invitation, and when Conan Garth walked in, she lost no time in saying so.

‘Why?’ His question was so abrupt that she faltered in answering, and then she realised that she couldn’t just come out and say, ‘I don’t like you,’ and she had failed to come prepared with any other excuse at all.

Caught without time to prepare her speech, she couldn’t seem to find any appropriate words at all, and the sudden interest of the other two journalists didn’t help at all. Nor did Conan Garth’s rapier assault on her decision.

‘What else have you got planned? You haven’t been here long enough to have a boy-friend already. Surely even you would need at least a week for that, Miss Fisher. So why not admit it—you simply haven’t got an excuse, have you? Except that I’m rude, crude and unattractive and far, far too old for you.’

Her eyes flashed at that statement, then more so as she realised he was laughing at her. ‘I’ve said nothing of the sort,’ she replied hotly.

‘Ah, so you don’t think I’m too old for you,’ he chuckled. ‘Or is it that you don’t think I’m unattractive?’

‘You’re definitely rude,’ she blurted, immediately aware of the many ways such an answer could be interpreted. ‘Why can’t you take no for an answer?’

‘Because this is my newsroom, Miss Fisher,’ he replied with a harsh grin. ‘And in my newsroom, I give the orders. You’ll do well to remember that if you’re serious about becoming a journalist here. Now trot yourself off home, change your clothes and put on a new face, and I’ll pick you up at eight. And don’t look so glum about it; even slave-drivers have to eat, you know, and I sometimes fancy doing it in company—friendly company.’

‘Well then, why don’t you . . .’ she paused only a second before anger overshadowed her better judgment, ‘. . . take the tea-lady?’

She saw his eyes go strangely cold, but he didn’t answer. He just stood there, mouth crinkled in a grin that mocked her childish outburst. The chuckles from Mick and Bruce didn’t help her failing composure, and a voice she didn’t even recognise whispered, ‘Come now, Dinah, you can do better than that.’

‘But I . . . I . . . don't even know my address,’ she stammered. ‘I’ll have to meet you somewhere.’

‘Right! Paco’s . . . eight o’clock,’ he said firmly, and walked from the room before she could reply.

Dinah flung herself through the door behind him, angry but not sure if it was with him or herself, and drove the Mini home at breakneck speeds. Her mind on Conan Garth and a whirlwind of things she should have said and didn’t, she ducked too quickly into the shower, soaked her hair, and wound up with a shampoo she hadn’t planned on.

Muttering grouchily to herself, she barely managed to get it dried in time to dither over what would be suitable to wear. Her final compromise was a lavender cocktail dress she had never worn before, and when she added the silver locket she’d bought en route to Australia, the result was surprisingly pleasant.

CHAPTER TWO

Dinah’s drive to the restaurant was considerably less than successful. She got herself across the Commonwealth Avenue Bridge easily enough, but like so many tourists she then got all tangled up in the intricacies of the Capital Hill roundabouts. It was already past eight when she finally located Melbourne Avenue and followed it up the switchback road to the crest of Red Hill, where the restaurant, named Paco’s Carousel, dominated the summit with a panoramic view of the city below. As she parked the Mini and hurried across the parking lot, she wondered if Conan would be waiting still.

He wasn’t waiting outside, which left Dinah to wonder if she would be forced to ask for him at reception. When she climbed the staircase to the restaurant proper, she was immediately met by a tuxedo-clad head waiter enquiring about her booking.

‘Ah ... no,’ she replied in some confusion. ‘I was to meet Mr Garth . . . Conan Garth?’

‘Ah . . . Mr Garth!’ The expression on the head waiter’s face revealed that Conan was a favoured customer. A moment later, Dinah was being escorted to a table for two right against the windows, where the view was superb.

Conan, immaculate in a pale charcoal suit, was staring moodily out the window, but he turned and rose lithely to his feet as the head waiter ushered Dinah into her seat. Dinah felt herself the object of an intense and overt appraisal as Conan’s pale eyes arrogantly surveyed her from dainty ankles to honey-blonde crown.

One dark eyebrow was raised in—speculation? sarcasm?

Dinah wasn’t sure, but she felt her heart flutter at the intensity of his gaze.

‘I’m sorry I was late,’ she said immediately upon being seated.

‘Hardly unexpected,’ was the sardonic reply. ‘What would you like to drink?’

With the head waiter hovering at her shoulder, Dinah suddenly found herself tongue-tied, and she stared silently at Conan as her mind scurried in search of an answer. All she really wanted to do was get the head waiter away from them.

Conan looked at her with open amusement before turning to the head waiter and saying, ‘A daiquiri for the lady, very sweet, please. And I’ll have another Scotch and soda.’

The man nodded graciously and swept away, whereupon Dinah immediately found her tongue and hissed at Conan, ‘What do you mean, hardly unexpected?’

He raised one eyebrow haughtily, the pale grey eyes lit with mocking amusement.

‘Isn’t it all part of the game? Being late enough so that you can be sure your arrival is noticed. Keep the poor man on his toes . . . keep him interested?’

‘That’s quite despicable,’ she replied. ‘I’m late because I got lost, if you must know.’

His reply was no more than a mocking grin which served to stir her anger. ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ she cried softly. ‘Well it happens to be true, and for tuppence I’d…'

‘Over here the expression is “two bob”,’ he interjected. ‘And I won’t offer it just now. Why should you get out of it that easily?’ He paused while the waiter gently set down Dinah’s daiquiri and Conan’s own drink, along with the menus.

‘We’ll order a bit later, I think,’ he told the waiter, then turned his attention again to Dinah.

‘So tell me, dear Miss Fisher, how did you manage to get yourself lost? Deliberately, or simply because you can’t read a map?’

‘It just happened, that’s all,’ she replied angrily. ‘And it’s not something I make a habit of. I was always taught that punctuality is a virtue.’

‘Ah!’ The mocking smile returned. ‘And are you a virtuous woman, Miss Fisher?’

‘I certainly am!’ The answer burst out unbidden, a direct rejection of her desire to answer lightly and without showing surprise.

‘Good. I’ve always admired virtuous women, although I think you’re the first one under the age of seventy I’ve met in some time. Would you like another daiquiri?’

‘Would I . . . oh, my goodness,’ she stammered, looking down at the empty glass with its rim of sweet sugar. She had drained it without even realising she was drinking, and Conan’s mocking smile only added to her confusion.

‘Maybe I should order them two at a time,’ he grinned, signalling to the omnipresent waiter. And then, in an abrupt change of approach, he smiled quite warmly and ran his eyes approvingly over the somewhat revealing neckline of the cocktail dress.

‘It suits you very well,’ he said softly. ‘The colour shouldn’t go with your eyes, but it enhances them, somehow. I think we’d better order now, if you’re ready?’ Throughout the meal, Conan carried the conversation on to non-controversial grounds, and his warm, friendly attitude soon made Dinah less wary of his earlier displays of abruptness. Their spicy, Spanish-style chicken was accompanied by a white burgundy she had never heard of, and with coffee he recommended a liqueur that was also totally unfamiliar. It was called Bailey’s Irish Cream, and Dinah found the super-smooth texture and chocolate-coconut milkshake flavour delightful.

As Dinah warmed to her companion, she found herself opening up and responding more naturally, her own hostility to Conan’s earlier abrasiveness fading. She told him of her life in England, her uncle’s visit and his campaign to have her visit Australia.

‘Your uncle was a fine journalist and a good man,’ he said. ‘He was well liked and very well respected. I’m not at all surprised that you were hired, with that kind of recommendation behind you.’

Dinah steeled herself for another lecture on nepotism, but Conan surprised her with his calm approach to the subject. ‘Were you really serious about wanting to become a journalist?’ he asked quietly.

‘Yes ... yes, I was,’ she said. ‘Most especially since that’s what you seem to feel is required in your newsroom. I realise I know very little about it, except for the night-school course I took, but I’m not exactly stupid, and I’m sure I could learn if I were given the opportunity.’

‘Not an easy life,’ he mused, ‘especially for a woman.’ Dinah bridled at his chauvinism, but he grinned disarmingly before continuing. ‘It’s still very much a man’s world out there, and regardless of ability, a woman faces a distinct disadvantage in many respects. The worst part is that it makes some women very tough and very hard, and I don’t think I’d like that to happen to you.’

As he spoke, his hand moved to touch her fingers very lightly, a caress so fleeting she would have thought she imagined it but for the immediate response that thrilled throughout her body. Dinah met his gaze and was struck by the gentleness in eyes she had always seen blazing with turbulent emotion. He caressed her with his eyes, no longer touching her and without a word. Dinah sat silent also, afraid to speak lest she break the spell.

‘I suppose I could put you on as a fourth-year cadet,’ he mused. ‘The pay’s about what you’re getting now, and if you’re really your uncle’s niece you’ll pick up the rest quickly enough.’

‘I would . . . oh, I would,’ she said quickly. ‘Please give me a chance, at least.’

‘Tricky,’ he said. ‘After today, I wonder how well you’d fit into our little team. All these fireworks are bad for morale; you’d have to learn very quickly that in my newsroom, I’m the one who makes the decisions—and I don’t take kindly to getting static, even from pretty young ladies. And you’d have to stop seducing my journos off for stolen moments of passion in the canteen.’

Dinah bristled momentarily until she caught the glint in his eye, but she caught it too late to keep from blurting out, ‘You know I didn’t do that.’

‘Do I?’ he grinned. ‘You look extremely seductive to me.’

‘Thank you,’ Dinah replied demurely. ‘But then this isn’t the newsroom, either.’

Whatever he was about to reply got lost in the arrival of a newcomer to the restaurant, a woman who arrived at their table without either Dinah or Conan noticing her.

‘Conan darling! I thought you told me you were working tonight?’ The speaker had tried to make her comment lighthearted, but Dinah sensed the hostility behind the bantering tone. The tall redhead in a glittering green gown that revealed as much as it covered stood smiling fondly down at Conan, every aspect of her attitude crying for his attention. Dinah felt an instant pang of jealousy as her escort looked up at the redhead, but his manner quickly dispelled' it. The curtness of his tone surprised Dinah as much as it did the other woman.

‘I am working,’ he said, making no effort to hide his obvious annoyance at the interruption. It was plain he had no intention of providing introductions, a gesture so patently rude that the redhead blushed fiercely before abruptly excusing herself and slinking away to where her handsome escort waited at another table. Conan sat glowering into his coffee, clearly aware of his rudeness but stubbornly avoiding having to justify it.

‘She was certainly very lovely,’ Dinah said tentatively, but without aiming to draw further annoyance. Her only answer was a grunt that might or might not have been an affirmation.

Then he muttered something under his breath that she didn’t quite catch, and Dinah found herself forced to ask him to repeat it.

‘Kleenex girl is what I said,’ he replied abruptly.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand.’

‘No, I suppose you wouldn’t, virtuous lady that you are,’ he replied with a mocking grin. ‘Just think about it for a minute. What’s the one great advantage of a Kleenex tissue?’

‘You throw it away after you’re done . . .’ Dinah didn’t bother to complete her answer. ‘What a horrid thing to say about anyone!’ she blazed. ‘But then I gather that’s about your opinion of all women, isn’t it?’

‘Not at all,’ he replied blithely. ‘I’ll put the same value on a woman she puts on herself, provided she lives up to it. But some girls seem born to be used and discarded; why fight it?’

‘And what kind of advance billing am I supposed to live up to?’ Dinah demanded angrily. ‘Do I get this job on my own merits, or my uncle’s reputation, or because you expect me to lie down and kiss your feet, like the child who brings the tea?’

Suddenly his eyes were no longer pale, but dark with suppressed anger, and Dinah could see the muscles of his jaw flickering with tension as he fought back the rage.

He started to speak, then shook his head as he thought better of it, and she could see the knuckles of his hand go white as he clenched his fist. For a split second, she feared he might strike her, but then his eyes paled away again to their normal mocking lightness, and he spoke softly.

‘You may think what you will of me, dear Miss Fisher, but I’m not a cradle-robber.’

Dinah raised her eyebrow in disbelief, but he didn’t rise to the bait and after a lengthy silence she had to break the quiet herself. ‘I think I’d like to go now.’

‘As you wish,’ he replied softly, signalling for the account with a gesture that brought the waiter scurrying quickly. A minute later and they were descending to the parking lot. Dinah turned at the door to say her farewell, but Conan took her arm and steered her towards her car, and while he released her immediately, it was clear he would walk her to the vehicle regardless of what she said. It was just as they reached the car that Dinah caught her toe on a protruding lump of bitumen and stumbled. She would have fallen had he not caught her quickly by the shoulders.

‘Thank you,’ she gasped, regaining her balance and trying to step away from the ghost-grey eyes that looked so deep into her own.

‘See the advantages of chauvinism,’ he laughed cruelly. ‘If you’d been a man, I’d have let you fall.’

‘Which has nothing whatsoever to do with it,’ Dinah replied tartly. ‘All that shows is that you’ve got no compassion. It’s far more worthy to help someone who’s in difficulty, without worrying about their sex.’

The only answer was that horrid, mocking grin, and even her hand pressing against his shoulder didn’t make him release her.

‘Dear Dinah,’ he said very softly. ‘You are just so worried about everything sexual, aren’t you?’

‘I am not!’ she said sternly. ‘I have nothing at all against sexuality, in its proper place. Now will you please let me go.’

‘Why? Isn’t this a reasonably proper place?’ He was laughing openly at her, and Dinah felt herself getting angry despite the tingling feeling his touch thrust through her body.

‘Why? Because I’ve asked you to, that’s why,’ she said hotly. ‘Or are you a groper as well as a male chauvinist?’

‘A groper, my dear girl, is a fish. I am not a fish. A chauvinist most certainly; I’ve never denied it and can’t imagine doing so. Which has nothing at all to do with letting you go. It’s a romantic, moonlit night; I’ve just saved you from barking your knees, at least. And what thanks do I get?’

‘I’ve already said thank you,’ she replied, suddenly aware of the growing warmth where their bodies touched. ‘What do you expect me to do, kiss your feet?’

‘Not exactly,’ he murmured, his eyes only inches from her own. Then his mouth descended upon her lips with slow, unstoppable deliberation. Dinah didn’t resist, but neither did she join in the kiss; she felt his lips touching her own, then moving off to slide gently across her cheek and down beside her ear to the hollow of her bare neck.

She reached up to shove at him, but he was too quick, and had already moved back his head—without releasing her—and then he smiled down at her.

‘That was very nice. Anyone for seconds?’

‘Not likely,’ she retorted, striving for a maximum of scorn to hide the shaky feeling in her legs and the still-burning memory of his lips. ‘You’d better ask one of your Kleenex girls for some coaching.’

Even in the pallid moonlight, Dinah could see the reaction. It was as if she’d slapped him, which prompted the words, ‘And if you try it again I think I should slap your face!’

‘Maybe it would be better to give me some coaching,’ he replied with a grin. ‘That way you’d be sure I came up to your standards.’

‘There’s not much need for that, is there?’ she retorted.

‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’

Conan’s fingers reached up to stroke a dainty track along the line of her jaw, raising her lips to meet his in a blistering, burning follow-up to the first kiss. His arms turned her so that she was squarely against him, and Dinah could feel the warmth of his chest as her breasts were crushed against his body. His fingers moved in slow, tantalising circles, touching first the silken fabric of her dress, then the smoothness of her shoulders and neck. His left arm clasped her against him and his lips moved over her own as his fingers strayed lightly across her neck, her throat and then up to hold her face as his lips explored her eyes, her temples, and then returned to bum against her lips.

And Dinah responded, her body overruling her mind to the extent that she had to consciously refrain from whispering his name aloud. Conan . . . Conan . . . Conan ... it rang through her mind as her lips finally parted and moved to meet his own. His arm lost none of its crushing power, but it was no longer needed as she strained against him, her fingers touching at his shoulders, stroking the taut muscles of his upper arms and then sliding up to clasp around his neck.

When he finally stepped away from her, he had to reach up and disentangle her arms from around his neck, and Dinah opened her eyes to meet pale grey eyes that were filled not with passion, but with mockery.

‘You make a very good coach,’ he whispered with a sly grin.

Dinah stepped back as rage flooded the glow of passion from her body. Then her right hand swung across Conan’s face in the hardest slap she could deliver, hard enough that her hand stung with the impact and his head was turned^ by the power of the blow.

‘You utter bastard!’ she whispered brokenly, then turned before he could move and flung open the door of her car. Her hand stung as she fumbled the key into the ignition and the engine thrust into a roar. Without looking at him, she jammed the car into reverse and sent it skittering backwards before she clashed the gears again and spun out of the parking lot and down the dark, narrow track from the crest of Red Hill.

But she heard him, at least subconsciously, because all the way home his voice kept repeating in her head— ‘Virtuous girls don’t swear, Miss Fisher.’ And his jeering laugh rang in her ears even longer than the sting in her palm. She woke to it several times that night, each time wondering how her body could so betray her by flaring to the touch of a man whom she so hated. By morning she 'was none the wiser, smudgy under the eyes from lack of sleep, and strangely afraid to meet Conan Garth in the cold light of day.

Would he apologise; she wondered. Not likely. She somehow didn’t see Conan Garth as the type for it. By the time she reached the office that morning, Dinah was angry all over again, and mostly because although she knew he wouldn’t apologise, she was beginning to feel that perhaps she ought to.

The taste of his kisses remained with her. A taste, in fact, that seemed only to grow sweeter as her mood blackened. She had spent some time that morning staring into her mirror, unable to believe that her clear skin didn’t reveal the brand marks of his lips, but there wasn’t a physical sign of the night’s encounter, discounting the faint throbbing in her right palm and the less tangible but more significant fluttering in her heart.

As she moved through the corridors towards the newsroom, unable to even guess at her reception, she consciously prepared to meet ridicule, perhaps scorn, or worst of all, indifference. That, she thought, would be the worst possible thing.

But when she stepped through the door, certain she was blushing and feeling strangely unco-ordinated, Conan Garth wasn’t even there. It was a curious let-down feeling she experienced then, and one not improved by Mick’s boisterous greeting.

‘Hear you’ve been whipping the boss into line,’ he grinned mischievously. Dinah didn’t know what to say.

She was at first shocked at the thought that Conan would have come into the office and bragged about the encounter. Then something inside her cried out that he wouldn’t possibly have done such a thing, while another small voice shouted that of course he had. Her mind whirled through embarrassment to livid rage, but when she finally answered, her voice was calm and steady.

‘I thought this was a newsroom, not a gossip mill,’ she said.

‘Hear, hear!’ said a familiar voice as Conan walked into the room, his smile neither including nor excluding Dinah from the rest of the staff. But then he looked directly into her eyes, and the unholy gleam she saw in his glance made her shrink inside.

‘Message for you,’ Mick broke in, and Conan slowly took his eyes from Dinah’s to give Mick his attention. ‘Strange redheaded lady phoned; said to tell you she’s very pleased to see you so involved in your work, and that it gets such smashing results ...’

‘That’ll do, Mick,’ was the stern rejoinder, and Mick very wisely turned away. He was still grinning, however, as Dinah noticed before Conan turned to her with a strangely calm expression.

‘Well, coach, looks like I’m not the only one who appreciates your talents,’ he said with a hard grin. ‘I just hope you’re as good a journalist.’

‘I shall certainly try my best,’ she replied quite seriously.

‘Any chance you could start by getting us all some coffee, love?’ Mick spoke up, and it was definitely tongue in cheek, but Dinah didn’t catch that part of it.

‘Certainly,’ she said, moving towards the door, only to halt immediately at Conan’s brisk order.

‘First rule,’ he said angrily. ‘Dinah is part of the team now, which means she’s a journalist, not the tea-lady. And don’t forget that, Mick. Nothing’s changed just because we now have a woman in our midst. Is that clear?’

‘Couldn’t be clearer,’ Mick replied in mock humility. ‘Good. Now I suggest that you go get us all some coffee,’ said Conan. ‘And then you can take Dinah off and show her how the Visnews system operates.’

Mick trotted out of the door, and Dinah turned to find Conan regarding her with a curiously calm expression in his eyes.

‘Thank you for that,’ she said, and then startled herself by blurting out, ‘and I’m sorry about last night.’

He grinned fiercely. ‘Sorry? What is there to be sorry about? That I kissed you ... or that I stopped? That I took to your coaching so well ... or that somebody saw us?’

His taunts ripped through her self-control, and Dinah found herself fighting back tears as she struck out at him. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t kick you as well, if you must know,’ she cried. ‘You’re the most insufferable man I’ve ever met!’

‘And you, dear Dinah, are one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met,’ he replied softly, stepping forward to kiss her lightly on the cheek before she could move. ‘Especially when you’re angry.’

‘Well, I think I’ve every right to be angry after that,’ she replied. ‘After all, it was I who apologised, when you know very well that you should have. The least you could do is accept it with some degree of graciousness.’

‘All right, I accept your apology . . . graciously. Shall we kiss and make up?’

Dinah gasped with frustration and was within a hair of throwing the nearest telephone at him when Mick returned with coffee balanced questionably on a tray.

‘Next time it’s my turn we’ll wait for the tea-lady,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t do this real well at all.’

Dinah looked at the tray, which held more coffee than all three cups combined, and shook her head sadly. ‘Perhaps it would be better if I did it,’ she said. ‘At least that way we’d be sure of getting at least half a cup each.’

‘You’ll find your talents stretched sufficiently without trying to play tea-lady as well,’ Conan said threateningly. ‘It will undoubtedly be easier to teach Mick how to carry a tray.’

‘Well, it would certainly be easier all round if you’d stop being so sarcastic all the time,’ Dinah blazed, retreating to her desk at the same time.

‘If you can’t stand the heat. . .’ Conan began with a mocking grin.

‘And don’t patronise me with platitudes,’ she cut in angrily. ‘Equal rights certainly has to mean more than having somebody else bring the tea.’

‘We’re not talking about equal rights in your case, Miss Fisher,’ Conan replied coldly. ‘We’ll see about rights after I’ve seen how you handle the business of equal opportunities.'

He turned back towards his desk, then suddenly spun to face Dinah once again. ‘And on the subject of platitudes, there is just one that you might try and remember—The boss may not always be right; but he's always the boss. And in this newsroom, that’s the law!’

Mick repeated the. line when he took Dinah down to the telecine room where the Visnews was recorded, and with it he gave her a cautioning she accepted as due.

‘I’d back off a bit if I were you,’ he said. ‘You’re not going to learn anything if you’re fighting with him all the time, and I’ll guarantee you that he won’t put up with it either—at least not in the office.’

‘You’re right, of course. But he’s just so ... so abrasive,’ she replied. ‘He just draws sparks every time he looks at me, and I’m sure he does it all deliberately.’

‘One of the privileges of rank,’ Mick replied. ‘And learning to control your temper is important in this job. There are plenty of people out there who’ll use it against you if you can’t.’

So Dinah tried, and during the next few days it proved surprisingly easy to control her temper, at least where Conan Garth was concerned. Whether by accident or design, he dropped all his sarcastic mannerisms and treated Dinah exactly as he did his other staff members. He left the bulk of her training to Mick, since he himself was out filming most of each day, but he never chastised either of them for the myriad mistakes Dinah managed to make.

Admittedly they were mostly minor things, but they brought only a prolonged stare from Conan’s pale eyes; never a reprimand, never a suggestion of anger. It was always left to Mick to do the explaining about where and why Dinah had gone wrong. Apart' from the usual exchange of morning greetings, in fact, Conan hardly spoke to her.

The effect of this treatment upon Dinah wasn’t quite what she herself would have expected. Under Mick’s tutelege, she came quickly to find her own niche in the workings of the newsroom, but the lack of obvious acceptance from Conan make it a tenuous achievement. She found herself striving ever harder, seeking some form of recognition from the tall man with the eyes of taupe, and the lack of that recognition brought only depression despite the knowledge that she was learning and learning quickly and well. ‑.

‘He really doesn’t want me here at all,’ she muttered at Mick one day when the depression was worst. ‘He treats me like a nothing; as if I didn’t even exist.’

Mick only shrugged his shoulders. ‘You’re wrong, I think,’ he said. ‘You’re learning well enough to please anyone—even him—and you certainly can’t accuse him of complaining about your work.’

‘Complain? I wish he would complain,’ she muttered. ‘Anything would be better than being treated like part of the furniture. At least you get the satisfaction of a good fight with him once in a while, but he doesn’t even know I exist. I could do a tap-dance, naked, on top of my desk, and the great Conan Garth wouldn’t raise an eyebrow.’ Mick laughed. ‘Don’t you be too sure of that, my girl! I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s not half the problem with our great and glorious leader. You’d be the prettiest girl that ever worked in this newsroom, and don’t think Conan’s unaware of it.’

‘I’m the first girl that’s ever worked in this newsroom, and you know it,’ she laughed. ‘Unless you count dear Melissa the tea-lady. Now it wouldn’t surprise me at all if she did a tap-dance. She does everything but.’

‘Oh, and aren’t you the catty one?’ he replied. ‘Do I see a bit of the old green-eyed monster coming up here? Best have a look at yourself in the mirror, Dinah; you might be surprised. And it’s obvious that Conan’s got you figured out properly. Don’t like being ignored, eh? But it sure does keep you interested, doesn’t it?’

‘It does not!’ Dinah’s cheeks were burning and she knew Mick could see it. When he laughed at her discomfort, she grew even hotter before an outburst of giggles caught up and she realised he was just having her on.

They were still laughing when Conan walked into the room, and Dinah noticed that the glance he threw them was cool as ever, but unless it was only her own imagination there was just a hint of curiosity as well.

Certainly there wasn’t any good temper. He snapped out a scathing comment about there being work to be done, ordered Mick out on the afternoon film run, then pointedly ignored Dinah as he turned to his own work.

CHAPTER THREE

Mick stormed back into the room an hour later with blood in his eye and curses fairly dripping from pale, angry lips.

‘That bitch! That utter, depraved stubborn witch!’ he swore. ‘Feminist.. .hah! She’s a witch, that’s all.’

‘What are you on about, that McArdle woman?’ Conan looked up from the story he was working on. ‘What did she do, refuse to smile for the camera?’

‘Smile? The bid bitch wouldn’t even talk to me,’ said Mick. ‘There’s to be a press conference in half an hour, but only for female journalists. And then everybody—all the women, that is—is to have five minutes for individual interviews. She says we can sit in at the conference if we like, but only the female journos get to ask questions. I really don’t believe the nerve of the woman. And what’s worse, she’ll get away with it’

Conan looked thoughtful. ‘She didn’t go all stroppy and demand female camera crews while she was at it?’

‘No, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she did. You’d think she was the Queen or something, the way she goes on. Serve her right if we just ignored her. All it does is promote her wretched book anyway.’

‘Yeah, but it wouldn’t work that way,’ Conan snarled. ‘You know very well the A.B.C. and the Times would be there for sure. All we’d end up with is looking as if we’d missed out on the story.’

Mick wasn’t much mollified. ‘I suppose so,’ he grunted. ‘I saw Charlotte Fleury going in as I left, so she’ll be in on it as well. But what are we going to do about an interview?’

‘Send our female journo, what else?’ Conan’s grin was absolutely wolfish as he turned to Dinah with a faintly mocking bow. ‘How about it, Miss Fisher ... do you think you’re ready for your television debut?’

‘You’re joking, of course.’ Dinah had the awful feeling that he wasn’t joking a bit, but she’d never so much as tried on-camera work, and the likelihood of having to do so had seemed very far in the future until that moment.

‘Joking? Would I joke about a thing like that? Five minutes to powder your nose, dear Dinah. I’ll meet you in the news van oat back.’ He was gone before she could open her mouth, and ten minutes later they were driving far too quickly down Belconnen Way, with Dinah jammed into the seat between Conan and his cameraman.

It was only then that the shock began to take effect. ‘This is ridiculous,’ she protested. ‘I’m not ready for anything like this and you know it.’

‘You’ll do fine.’

‘But I won’t! I haven’t the faintest idea what to do. All I’ll end up doing is making a fool of myself—or is that what you want?’ She was all too aware of the warmth of him against her hip, of his arm sprawled casually along the seat back and just touching her neck. As she continued her protests, all of them blithely ignored, she looked up to find his piercing taupe eyes only inches from her own.

Conan bent his head slightly; for an instant she thought he was going to kiss her and Dinah reared back away from him, jostling the driver so that he turned with a cry and snarled at her.

‘You’ll cope,’ said Conan with a grin. ‘Just remember we’re counting on you, that’s all.’

Counting on her . . . Dinah cringed inside at the thought. She knew she ought to be looking on this as her first—maybe last—big chance. But as Conan looked down into her eyes and spoke, she felt only the impact of his eyes, and they created a-mixture of terror and tenderness that whirled through her mind.

‘Just keep a low profile at the press conference itself,’ he told her. ‘Don’t ask any questions if you don’t want to, but listen to what the others ask and try to come up with a slant for when we film the interview.’

‘But surely you don’t expect me to go on camera with this woman? I . . . I . . .’

‘You’ll do just fine. Now stop worrying about it,’ he said. ‘Just concentrate on finding an angle for your story. It’s very likely I won’t be able to prompt you, so when the time comes you’ll just have to depend on what you’ve learned. And on Jerry, here, of course. He’ll know what to do.’

‘But . . . but I won’t be in the film, surely?’ Dinah was suddenly terrified. Her head felt as if it belonged to somebody else and her trembling was evident to both her male companions.

‘No, of course not,’ Conan assured her with what she hoped was a sincere grin. ‘We’ll film it so only this McArdle woman appears on camera, won’t we, Jerry?’ His expression made it an order, and Dinah turned to see Jerry’s affirmative nod. She didn’t see the wink that Conan threw over her shoulder while her head was turned.

The press conference, in the spacious grounds of the Australian National University, was a total fiasco as far as Dinah was concerned. Flustered, frightened and totally confused by it all, she sat numbly through the half-hour in which other female journalists asked highly complicated questions about Flora McArdle’s book Equality—Compared to What?

Conan had gone to sit far at the rear of the improvised outdoor lecture facility, where Dinah couldn’t so much as catch his eye for moral support. Her mind was awhirl with possible questions, but she couldn’t summon the nerve to ask any of them, a problem certainly not faced by Charlotte Fleury of the Financial Review.

If Conan’s presence was visibly distasteful to Flora McArdle and her fleet of lieutenants, it was only a shade more so than that of Charlotte Fleury, who had greeted Conan with a flashing smile and a peck on the cheek as she swept to the forefront of the assembled journalists.

‘You’re in luck today, darling,’ she quipped. ‘Just imagine, a handsome devil like you surrounded by all these women, and you don’t even have to talk . . . just sit there and look pretty.’

‘It’s always nice to be appreciated,’ he grinned back, then introduced Charlotte to Dinah. It was a poor time for it; Dinah flushed slightly at the poorly-concealed intimacy between her boss and the poised, icy beauty. She received only a casual nod from Charlotte, but she felt the woman’s speculative glance encompassing her every detail, then dismissing Dinah as no competition.

Tall, slender, and very beautiful, with fashionably short auburn hair and a glowing complexion, Charlotte was elegantly dressed in a cool-looking ice-green suit that highlighted her figure and long, graceful legs.

She was a direct contrast to the avowed feminist, and with alluring sexuality she made Flora McArdle look more like a grubby dock worker than a staunch foe of chauvinism. Dinah wasn’t pleased by any comparison either. The other woman’s cool composure made her feel tatty and dishevelled, as if she’d been caught at short notice with her hair uncombed and her shoes dirty.

Throughout the conference, in which Charlotte Fleury played the dominant role as interrogator, Dinah sat like a frightened mouse. She wasn’t intimidated by the harsh, often crude manner of Flora McArdle, and in fact found the woman far less literate in person than her writings would have indicated. But Dinah couldn’t quite rid her mind of the picture of Charlotte Fleury and Conan together, together with an obvious and long-standing intimacy. It made her angry, and the more angry she became, the less attention she paid to what was happening around her. She was mildly surprised, therefore, when the group session ended without her raising a single question, and by her inattention she had become relegated to the end of the line for individual interviews. She sensed an aura of faint disapproval around Conan at that turn of events.

‘Just you pray she doesn’t pull the pin on us timewise,’ he muttered at her whispered apology as they moved to where Jerry was busy setting up his equipment.

In the half-hour while they waited for Flora McArdle, Conan virtually ignored Dinah, but she could sense he was annoyed at the delay and regretting the impulse which had brought them into this most uncomfortable situation. Worse, Dinah hadn’t any brilliant ideas for getting herself out of it with a whole skin. She had read the McArdle book, but only sketchily, because she found it far too radical and quite removed from her own concepts of feminism and the woman's place in the world. Now she wished she had had the good sense to read it thoroughly, recalling with a tingle of shame the highly specific approach taken by Charlotte Fleury.

Dinah thought and thought; her mind raced around and around like a leaf in a whirlpool—and with about as much constructive effect. Then Flora McArdle and her two lieutenants were arriving, and it was too late to think.

Conan removed himself to another side of the garden, almost out of sight from where Jerry was seating Dinah and Flora McArdle on a low concrete bench. Conan stood impassively, hands folded across his broad chest, and when Dinah threw him an impassioned ‘help me’ glance, he ignored it entirely.

‘Say something.’ It was Jerry, seeking voice levels from the microphone he had handed Dinah a moment before.

Dinah lifted the microphone, struggling to control her shaking fingers. Say something! But what? She couldn’t think, much less speak. Jerry repeated his request and as if from somewhere else, she heard her own voice saying, ‘The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.’

Ridiculous, she suddenly thought. She had watched the other journalists doing interviews a dozen times, and none of them exhibited even a trace of the terror that flowed through her. Dinah looked up once more to where Conan was standing, only to turn her eyes away instantly as she saw the icy green suit beside him. Dinah concentrated on Flora McArdle, who was now being asked to give Jerry a voice level. He asked her to say something, and she did.

‘Something.’ It was a flat, curiously aggressive statement, and Dinah realised the woman knew full well Jerry couldn’t get a proper voice level from the single word. Anxiously, Dinah peered at where he was looking into his camera, headphones obscuring most of his head. If he was concerned, it certainly didn’t show.

‘Say something else.’ Not a hint of the exasperation Dinah knew he must be feeling.

‘Something else.’ Dinah’s fingers trembled on the microphone. Was this silly woman merely baiting Jerry as a member of the male sex, or could she be playing games that would be aimed at putting Dinah off as well? Dinah glanced hurriedly towards Conan, standing beside Charlotte Fleury and laughing at something.

At me, she thought irrationally, and felt the terror inside her begin to churn even faster.

‘Say this camerman’s getting angry and if I don’t quit playing silly damn games I won’t be getting on the telly.’ Jerry’s quip drew ripples of anger across Flora McArdle’s jawline, and Dinah waited for the explosion. But it didn’t come. Instead, the woman seemed to settle back into herself, giving in to the game.

‘This is the level of voice which I will use throughout the course of this interview,' Flora McArdle said calmly. ‘Will that be sufficient?’

Power! Dinah suddenly saw just how significant that word could be, and with the realisation that Flora McArdle needed them far more than she was required, Dinah took a deep breath and felt the trembling in her fingers cease. When Jerry muttered ‘Right to go,’ she didn’t hesitate.

‘Ms McArdle, your book deals extensively with the rights to equality that all women should exercise, and throughout the book you’ve castigated male chauvinism as the major enemy, along with male prejudices.’ It wasn’t a question, really, but Flora McArdle nodded her agreement and gave Dinah time to draw breath before plunging in deeper.

‘But although you’ve stressed throughout your book the need for equal treatment and rights, today you’ve refused to be interviewed except by female journalists. How can you possibly justify this attitude?’

‘Men don’t really understand my book . . .’ It was too slick, too prepared, and Dinah interjected,

‘How can you possibly know that if you refuse to even discuss it with them? Aren’t you being guilty of exactly the same chauvinism that you’re accusing the man of having, the chauvinism you’re allegedly fighting?’

‘Of course not! But my book is for women. It is women who are the oppressed, women who are in need of help in dealing with a male-dominated society. Men . . .’

‘Men—who are supposedly incapable of understanding your book—shouldn’t be given the help to do so? How can you possibly seek equality without allowing equal understanding?’

‘Oh, men understand it all too well. That’s why . . .’

‘But you just a moment ago said that men don’t really understand your book. Which do you mean?’

There was a lengthy pause, and if looks could kill, Dinah thought, she’d be buried already. But then Flora McArdle flashed her a smarmy, sharklike smile, and continued, ‘Well, of course you understand, dear. I mean, equality is of course very important, and so is understanding. But society is so distinctly male-dominated that . . .’

‘No!’ said Dinah. ‘No, I’m sorry, but I don’t understand, and while I hate to keep interrupting, I’d like to get this clear. Are you saying that men are equal, or not equal? Do they understand your book, or don’t they? And if they don’t, why are you so opposed to trying to help them understand? I really get the idea, Ms McArdle, that your concept of equality involves keeping men separate, as the enemy to be kept at bay. Don’t you like men, Ms McArdle?’

It was as if she’d lit a bomb under the woman. Flora McArdle lurched to her feet, waving her own microphone like a club as she shrieked at Dinah, ‘This is ridiculous! I will not be treated in this manner! And you . . . you . . . it’s obvious whose side you’re on. And you’re welcome to it!’

Dinah would never realise how she did it, but without raising a hair, she said quite clearly, ‘Thank you, Ms McArdle,’ as the feminist stormed off with her lieutenants flanking her and all three throwing back angry, hostile glances.

‘Faaaantastic!’ Jerry shouted, flinging his headphones to the ground. ‘Just bloody marvellous!’

But more important, Conan was striding towards her, alone, and he was smiling broadly. As the aftermath drained the tension from Dinah’s bones, she wanted no more than to run into his arms, but she couldn’t so much as lift herself from the bench, and Conan made no attempt to assist. Instead, he stood looking down at her, a gentle expression in his pale taupe eyes.

‘You handled that very well indeed,’ he said. ‘Very well indeed.’

As they drove back towards the studio, Dinah could feel herself glowing inside, though she wasn’t altogether certain if it was from her own success or from Conan’s praise. She gave little thought to the implications of the interview until afternoon tea-time, when she heard several of the other girls discussing the McArdle book and their own experiences at the hands of male chauvinism. She returned to the newsroom with her earlier glow totally shattered, wondering if she’d really done the right thing in so handily dismissing the author’s attitudes.

Conan didn’t help. ‘What’s the matter—feeling a bit of a traitor?’ he asked after glancing over to find her gazing pensively out the window. It was far too close to the mark, and Dinah didn’t think to deny it.

‘Well, don’t be absurd,’ he growled. ‘All you did is show the old bat up to be the phoney she is.’

‘It’s easy enough for you to say,’ Dinah retorted. ‘You’re not the one who’s victimised.’

‘Victimised? Bit strong for a fearless girl reporter, I’d say. Are you so victimised, Dinah?’

‘Well . . .’

‘Well what? Can you honestly say you get treated any differently from the other journalists here? Are you going to say I take advantage of you because you’re female?’

‘No ... no, I can’t,’ she admitted. ‘But . . .’

‘But what?’ he sneered, and his mocking eyes flashed an open challenge. ‘That woman’s a man-hater, pure and simple. And that’s the entire message of her book, no matter how many times she tries to hide it in terms like equality and feminine rights. If equality was what she really wanted, we’d have been spared this childish nonsense about females-only press conferences. She’s likely never had a man, and it’s easy enough to see why . .

‘There—you see?’ Dinah was fully angry now, and sure she’d finally caught him out. ‘Talk about chauvinism, you’ve just condemned the poor woman because she’s not particularly attractive. Typical man! If she looked like that . . . that Charlotte Fleury, it wouldn’t matter what views she expressed, you’d be there listening with your tongue hanging out.’

Conan’s eyebrow shot up in a gesture of total disdain. ‘I always listen to Charlotte Fleury,’ he drawled slowly, ‘although seldom, as you put it, with my tongue hanging out. But then Charlotte is intelligent enough to know that sacrificing femininity is no way to gain equality in a man’s world. I would also suggest, dear young Dinah, that you don’t go criticising people you know nothing about. Charlotte is one of the top journalists in this country, and she got there purely on her merits, which makes her a far more credible advocate of feminine equality than Flora McArdle—or you.’

‘I was not criticising Charlotte Fleury,’ Dinah retorted angrily. ‘I merely used her as an example, and I’ll bet that if she were the one standing up for women’s rights you wouldn’t be telling her she ought to run off and find herself a man.’

‘At least she’d know what to do with one when she got him,’ he grinned. ‘Would you?’

‘If I ever met one that was worth having, I certainly would,’ Dinah shot back. ‘Unfortunately the only ones I’ve met around here seem to think a woman should be kept barefoot, pregnant and ignorant. Well, no, thanks!’

‘Don’t knock back what you haven’t been offered,’ he laughed. ‘It was a question, not a proposal.’

‘And just as well,’ Dinah flared. ‘Because you’d be the last man on my list of potential husbands, I can assure you of that!’

Conan laughed even louder at that, and suddenly had stepped across the room to take her shoulders in his strong hands. He looked down at her, eyes crinkled with mocking amusement.

‘At least I’m on the list,’ he murmured. ‘With a little more coaching, who knows where I’ll end up?’ And before Dinah could reply his lips were burning against hers with a roughness that was almost bruising. Only for an instant, and then he stepped away again, releasing her and backing out of range as her hand flashed towards his face.

Dinah stood poised for another swing at him, but she couldn’t, for the moment, think of a word to say. Underlying her anger was another emotion, and she was all too aware of the taste of him on her lips. Her anger was the stronger, however, and when she did speak it was in scathing terms.

‘And I suppose that, Mr Garth, is your idea of equality?’ she sneered. ‘Forcing yourself on somebody despite its being obvious you’re not wanted.’

Her sarcasm did nothing to disturb his superior attitude. ‘If you think that was a discussion about equality, dear Dinah, you’ve got a lot to learn,’ he said. ‘Although certainly you’re free to force yourself on me in the same way, if that’s what you want.’

‘Well, don’t hold your breath,’ she snarled. ‘It’ll be a frosty Friday in July before I ever throw myself at you, Conan Garth!’

His only reply was a broad grin, and he turned away to his desk as Mick and Bruce wandered into the room. Dinah turned to her own work, and managed to keep busy until her shift ended at five o’clock. She called out a general goodbye as she walked to the door, but was halted by a word from Conan. She approached his desk with tentative steps, clued by his expression and wondering what she’d done wrong, but all he did was direct her attention to the chart on his desk.

It was a weather synopsis for the previous July in Canberra, and Conan had underlined in red the fact that every single Friday had been frosty. Dinah stared at the chart in growing frustration as he whispered, ‘I’ll look forward to winter this year.’

Not trusting herself to speak, or even to meet the pale grey eyes she knew would be laughing at her, Dinah thrust herself away from his desk and turned blindly towards the door. All the way home, she berated herself for having forgotten that July was midwinter in Australia, and worse, that Canberra was within the frost zone.

But by the time she’d settled down with a long, cool drink to watch the evening news, she was forced to admit the humour of it, though she swore she’d find a way to even the score with the maddening Mr Conan Garth. Of more interest to her at that moment was the result of her interview with Flora McArdle, and she was feeling decidedly suspicious about how it would turn out.

Jerry the cameraman had hailed her in the hall on her way out of the building, chiding her for going home to watch her television debut in privacy, and Dinah’s reaction had been to retort, ‘What’s so special about it? Nobody’s actually going to see me.’

But the look on his face had bothered her just enough that she checked into the editing room and asked if she could have a quick preview, just to be sure it was all in order.

It was a common enough request, but Dinah thought the film editor seemed a bit dodgy when she was explaining that the film wasn’t processed yet, and that she didn’t think there’d be time for Dinah to see it because everything had been going wrong that day, and that she was really too busy to talk about it just at the moment.

Dinah didn’t dare return to confront Conan about it in the newsroom, but she could find Jerry again and she finally tracked him down in the canteen.

‘Are you sure you kept me out of the picture when we filmed that interview?’ she demanded. And was less than impressed when he shrugged and said, ‘You heard the boss order me to, didn’t you?’

Dinah wasn’t convinced, but it was clear she’d get no straight answers from anybody in the studio where Conan Garth was undisputed ruler. So as the news theme flickered up on to her television screen, she waited with uneasy anticipation as the newsreader began his presentation.

Her worst fears were realised when he reached the McArdle piece and she heard him say, ‘spoke to our reporter Dinah Fisher’. The picture changed to show Dinah seated on the bench with the feminist leader, and the Dinah at home was mesmerised by the sight of herself doing the interview. Seconds after the enraged Ms McArdle strode angrily out of sight, Dinah strode over with equal agitation and turned off her television set.

She was trembling, but she couldn’t determine if it was because of anger or embarrassment. As silence followed her through the flat, she kept finding her mind returning to run through the scene again and again—especially highlighting the inch of petticoat she’d been revealing throughout the filming.

Dinah sat down and poured herself a second, stronger drink before trying to honestly analyse her feelings. She felt betrayed, more by Conan Garth than by the others who had obviously followed his orders, and that made her angry. But she was also vividly intrigued by her own reactions at seeing herself actually on the news broadcast, and by the knowledge that thousands of people in the national capital had also seen her. It was a sobering and somewhat terrifying thought.

‘Ah, vanity,’ she sighed, flushed with the sudden realisation that whatever else, she’d been thrilled by the experience. Drink in hand, she wandered into the bathroom and stared deeply at the image in the mirror. It was like seeing a stranger, she thought, or perhaps seeing herself for the first time. She was the same person as she’d been that morning, and yet she wasn’t . . . and the change troubled her. She could sense the heady excitement that such exposure can create, and although she feared it instinctively, she couldn't deny the drawing power.

Better come back to earth, she mused, or you’ll be caught up in a real ego trip. And she shivered at just how easy it would be. Although with Conan Garth around, she could imagine any ego trip would meet with shattering results. Especially since he always seemed to be just one jump ahead of her, winning every encounter with maddening ease. But then I suppose he should, she thought, since it’s a game he’s obviously played many times before.

‘But not with me . . . not any more,’ she said aloud. ‘I’ve had more than enough of Mr Garth and his little games.’ Suddenly very tired, she decided to pass up dinner entirely and just go to bed. The fact that it was barely six-thirty was somehow quite irrelevant, and she drifted into sleep seconds after her head touched the pillow.

The sound of her doorbell, only seconds later it seemed, dragged Dinah from a particularly pleasant dream, and she threw on a housecoat and fumbled her way to the door without being fully awake.

‘In bed already? I didn’t imagine being a famous television star was all that exhausting.’ Conan’s infuriating grin did nothing to relieve Dinah’s sudden shyness as she glanced from his pale eyes to the tatty housecoat that was only barely covering her breasts.

Flustered, she clasped the front of the housecoat with one hand, backing away as he strode through the open doorway, one hand extended to give her a gaily wrapped wine bottle.

Thank you . . . er . . . please come in,’ she said, turning away so that she could rearrange her robe.

‘I am in,' he said calmly, flicking with his hand at the unused security chain on the doorjamb. ‘You really ought to use this, you know, especially if you're in the habit of answering the door with hardly anything on.'

Dinah had recovered sufficient of her composure to ignore the jibe. ‘I wasn't really expecting company,' she said. ‘Is there some particular reason why you're. here— with wine, no less—at this hour?'

Conan laughed, striding over to seat himself on one comer of her sofa. ‘At this hour? It's only eight o'clock, for goodness' sake. I just came to see if you were ready to forgive me for today's small deception.'

‘Small deception? You lied to me, deliberately lied to me!'

Conan shrugged. It was obvious he wasn't overly concerned at having lied. ‘Why don't you go and put on something civilised,' he said quietly. ‘That's the scruffiest housecoat I've ever seen.

‘Well then, don't look at it,' Dinah retorted. ‘If you insist on dropping in without warning you have to take what you get.'

‘Okay. But I must say, dearie, I liked you much better on the telly,' he said in a contrived voice. Dinah couldn't help but giggle.

She'd been more than half prepared to stay in the housecoat, despite its raggedness and the problem of keeping it properly closed, but second thoughts and the cool appraisal in Conan's eyes made her change her mind.

‘Since you brought the wine, I'll let you open it while I change,' she said over her shoulder as she retreated to the bedroom. When she returned a few moments later, feeling far less vulnerable in jeans and a T-shirt, he had poured two enormous glasses of the still white wine over ice.

‘What do we drink to,’ he asked as he raised his own glass after handing Dinah one, ‘Canberra’s newest television star ... or Women’s Liberation?’

‘Women’s Lib, I guess,’ she replied tardy. ‘I hardly qualify as a T.V. star, and I can’t see myself in the role, to be honest.’

‘You’re far too modest,’ Conan replied with a grin. ‘Or have you already done your ego trip—looked in every mirror in the house, reviewed the interview in your mind fifteen dozen times?’

Dinah’s face gave her away, but instead of pressing the attack, Conan said, ‘Don’t be ashamed of it. I’d be more worried if you hadn’t reacted. Besides, you weren’t half bad, and that’s the truth.’

‘Oh yes, especially with my petticoat showing.’ She coloured slightly. ‘Now why did I have to say that?’

‘Typical feminine perversity,’ he laughed. ‘And with your legs, who’d ever notice half an inch of petticoat?’

‘Only every woman watching,’ she retorted. ‘And it’s your fault. You could have warned me, instead of lying about the whole thing.’

‘Can you honestly say you’d have done it if I had?’

‘I can honestly say I’d probably have run for my life,’ Dinah replied. ‘But surely that’s not the point.’

‘My very word it is,’ said Conan, suddenly deeply serious. ‘Ego trips aside; my dear, the purpose of the exercise was to get the interview, not to pander to your vanity or worry about your petticoats. But I will admit to having deliberately deceived you, even if it was in a good cause. The question is, are you going to forgive me, or do you expect me to get down on my knees and beg?’

Dinah laughed out loud. ‘The great Conan Garth on his knees? I’d want a camera in my hand for that,’ she chuckled. She was actually sorely tempted to push the issue and see if he was serious, but something warned her it might not be such a good idea.

‘No, I’ll compromise,’ she said finally. ‘I’ll admit you were probably right—but I won't forgive you. Not even if you get down on your knees.’

‘Good. I wasn’t planning on doing that anyway,’ he said, rising to refill their wine glasses. And in this, Dinah realised, he wasn’t lying. Conan Garth wasn’t the type to beg, even in jest.

‘You never intended to apologise in the first place,’ she suddenly thought aloud, and nothing in Conan’s eyes denied the charge.

‘Well then, why did you come?’ she shouted, inexplicably angry all over again. ‘Just to see how much of an ego trip I’d be on? Or did you think you’d get in some training for next July?’

‘Now that,’ he said with a knowing grin, ‘is a truly splendid idea—now that you bring it up.’ He rose easily to his feet and reached his hand out towards her. ‘Come here, Dinah.’

Dinah cringed back against the sofa, willing herself to resist the challenge and the promise in his cool grey eyes.

‘I won’t,’ she said, and it came out all squeaky, which made Conan grin the wider and only served to increase her anger.

‘Oh, come now,’ he said softly. ‘Surely a staunch feminist like you isn’t going to be afraid of a kiss.’

His fingers clasped like a vice around her wrist, and he lifted Dinah to her feet in a single easy motion, slipping one arm around her waist as he did so. With a glass in one hand and the other imprisoned in his grip, she was virtually helpless as his lips slowly descended to meet her own. His arm crushed her against him, and she could feel the warmth of him through the thin cotton of her T-shirt.

He kissed her slowly, thoroughly, his lips searching her mouth with an exquisite gentleness. Then they slid across her cheek to brush like fire against the lobe of her ear and trace paths of tingling pleasure along the line of her throat.

‘No ... oh, no,’ she whispered as he released her hand so that both his hands could explore the curves and gentle contours of her body. His hand played across her back, ' fingers splayed to caress her hips and the small hollows at the base of her spine. The touch sent shivers rushing through her, like shocks that touched on every nerve ending. Her body strained against him then, wrapped in a growing film of desire.

She lifted her arms around his neck, letting the strength of his arms force her closer against him, revelling in the touch of his muscular thighs against her own, the feel of his lips exploring her face, tasting her, devouring her.

She tangled the fingers of her free hand into the shock of hair at the nape of his neck, allowing her desire free rein as she strove to bring him closer to her. She was lost, riding a wave of sheer ecstasy that knew nothing but Conan’s touch, Conan’s strong male desire.

His fingers played against her spine as if it was a musical instrument, and each note stirred Dinah towards a crescendo she could no longer resist, and no longer wanted to.

Conan’s fingers played across the hot skin beneath the T-shirt, along her spine and then across her side as he gently turned her so that he could reach the swelling softness of her breast. The touch sent ripples of sheer pleasure through her, and Dinah sagged slightly as the weakness of desire coursed through her. She was moaning softly, all possible resistance long past, when suddenly he released her with a shocked cry of outrage and stepped back away.

She almost fell, she was so surprised by the abruptness, and when she suddenly realised what had happened, she did fall, helpless with laughter as she sagged into the sofa.

Conan, his eyes dark with anger, was reaching to touch where the remains of Dinah’s wine had poured down his neck, and the look on his face should have frightened her, it was so fierce. She wanted to plead her innocence, because she certainly hadn’t meant to spill her wine all over him, but when she opened her mouth to speak, only more laughter emerged, followed by the single thought that raced into her mind—a thought she certainly didn’t mean to voice.

‘Were . . . were there any ice cubes left?’

His fingers tensed, and Dinah cowered from the blow she expected, but Conan only glared at her, the fine muscles on jawline quivering and his eyes darkened with the force of his anger.

She tried again to apologise, struggling through the convulsions of her nearly-hysterical laughter to force out the words.

‘Accident,’ she finally gasped. ‘It was an ... an accident.’

He stood silent, glaring down at her with eyes that moved across her body without tenderness, without the exquisite gentleness that had brought her to the verge of surrender only a minute before.

Nostrils flaring, his lip curled in a sneer that made it clear he did not, would not believe her, he stood for what seemed like hours. And although it was now the last thing Dinah wanted, all she could do was giggle hysterically, unable even to repeat her assertions of innocence. What sense in it, indeed? Conan Garth wasn’t going to believe her.

And then he was gone, turning like some great cat and moving through the doorway in a single graceful motion that only served to highlight his anger.

He was gone for several minutes before Dinah’s laughter finally stopped, and when it stopped, it was only because the gulps of laughter had suddenly turned to the noisier rasping cries of her tears.

It was much later before she very sadly picked up the glasses and the wine, put everything away, and went off to bed.

CHAPTER FOUR

Morning came within minutes after she had gone to bed, or so it seemed to Dinah when she forced open her puffy eyes. In the garden, a mob of kookaburras seemed to have gathered specially to laugh hysterically at her folly of the previous evening, but the sight of the partially-empty wine bottle on the kitchen counter shoved her closer to tears than to laughter.

She drove to work with a huge emptiness in her tummy, and it had little to do with the breakfast she’d been unable to face. She knew before she crossed the threshold of the newsroom that whatever had been building between herself and Conan Garth had melted with the ice-cubes of the evening, and Conan’s attitude towards her confirmed it.

His nod of greeting was so chillingly, formally polite, so horribly distant and empty that Dinah had trouble even replying with a nod of her own. To speak would have been impossible.

And from that moment on, it was as if she didn’t exist, at least as Dinah Fisher—person. Much less as the Dinah who’d melted in those strong arms the evening before. Dinah Fisher the journalist existed; he spoke to her, directed her work, but only that. There was no hint of either anger or remorse or even bitterness. Conan was the boss; Dinah was simply one of the staff.

She didn’t even have the satisfaction of being singled out in that role. Dinah was given her fair share of the work, but not one whit more or less. When she made a mistake, which occurred with disturbing frequency as the days passed, he corrected her with the impersonal attitude of a bored but well-paid tutor. He spoke to her only when it was absolutely necessary, but so did he constrain his conversations with the others in the room. It was fully a fortnight before Mick noticed the sterile environment sufficiently to snarl in a moment of stress that it was like working in a refrigerator.

Conan ignored the comment, as did Dinah, who was only gradually coming to terms with her own emotions in the situation. But beginning the next day, Conan altered the shifts so that with her starting very early and himself on the late shift, they were in the office together only occasionally. Dinah didn’t really care all that much; she worked, and lived, in a virtual vacuum, devoid of any social life and lethargically uninterested in changing anything. Both Bruce and Mick tried to bring her out of her depression, but neither succeeded. Even Dinah’s single close female friend, graphic artist Pam Princeton, could do nothing.

It took a new arrival to combat Dinah’s moodiness, and right from the moment he walked into the building, Marcel Aleron had the effect of a letter from home.

Marcel was a producer, a freelancer whose talents were exceeded only by his sheer irreverence for convention and authority in any form—and his eye for a pretty girl. Perhaps more important was the fact that he had been peripherally involved in the media course Dinah had taken at home in London, and the fact that he remembered her.

He came into the organisation like a breath of spring. He was the archetypical romantic Frenchman, tall, slender and handsome, with strong Gallic features, dark brooding eyes and curly black hair. He was gallant, gay and always cheerful; he oozed charm and he treated every woman, regardless of age or appearance, like a veritable queen.

Marcel was a rake and a scoundrel by his own definitions, incurably fickle, hopelessly romantic and incapable of any seriousness beyond his work. Half the women at the channel fell in love with him immediately, all the men seemed to hate him on sight, and Dinah found his good-natured happiness impossible to resist. Unable to accept her silent withdrawal by comparison to the cheerful girl he had met in London, Marcel deliberately set out to put Dinah back on what he considered the right track. Dinah knew it, and something in her responded. It wasn’t anything romantic, and both of them knew that even if nobody else did. Marcel told her she was his ‘Canberra project’ and vowed revenge on the man who had so obviously spurned her.

Dinah’s bitter laugh of denial only made him laugh gaily in return. ‘Of course it is a man,’ he grinned. ‘For serious girls like you it is always a man. And do not bother to lie to Marcel; I have been that man all too often myself.’

Marcel courted her vigorously in a game of his own devising, and although Dinah could not and would not take him seriously, she played the game. In public, anyway. On the rare occasions when they spoke in private it was of London, or their respective jobs, and even about Marcel’s prodigious love-life, since his courting of Dinah was an office romance game that never left the office. But by unspoken agreement, they never discussed Dinah’s love-life, and Conan Garth’s name was never raised between them.

Marcel chased women like a dog chases cars—catching them wasn’t half as important as the running, and he knew all too well the dangers of being caught himself. ‘For a woman, being in love is being alive,’ he would laugh. ‘But for a man, being in love is to be feared above all things, because it is the one thing in life he is never trained to cope with.’

The truth of it was sobering, but he said it like everything else, in a fashion that brought humour into Dinah’s eyes and a smile to her lips.

‘What do you know about it?’ she laughed. ‘You’ve never stayed with the same woman long enough to fall in love.’

‘Long enough . . . phui! When the right two people come together at the time in their lives when it is right for them to fall in love, a minute is long enough—a second even.’ Marcel’s dark eyes shadowed, a vain attempt to cover the emptiness inside. ‘Believe me, because I have been there, only I was not smart enough to stay.’

Then he turned away quickly, although not quickly enough for Dinah to miss the sadness that flowed from him, and got up to reach for his jacket.

I must away; fair damsels wait in their legions for the touch of my lips,’ he said with false gaiety. ‘And you must rest, because tomorrow night is the great Press Club Ball at which I shall dance every dance with you.’

He kissed her hand with exaggerated élan and departed into the night, leaving Dinah shaking her head in a mixture of fond compassion and sheer delight.

It wasn’t until she was snuggled in bed, drifting into the half-sleep of earliest dreams, that she realised for the first time how terribly, terribly lonely Marcel must be, and wondered if he would ever again touch upon his magic moment with just the right person at just the right time. But Dinah couldn’t bear to reflect on whether he would finally be smart enough to stay, if it did happen. ‘He’s probably just as stupid as I am,’ she muttered aloud just as sleep drove all thought from her mind.

She spent that Saturday morning in a whirlwind shopping spree, dipping into her cash reserves to finance an entire new outfit for the ball and to get her hair done professionally. As she emerged from a long and leisurely bath filled with scented oils and a spicy bubble-bath she’d purchased aboard ship, she paused to look into the mirror, noting how the hair-do crowned her face in a simple yet elegant arrangement that gave vivid prominence to' her slender neck and smooth well-tanned shoulders.

Critically assessing her figure, she noted rather small but well-shaped breasts, a narrow waist that swelled to hips she considered just a trifle large, and her legs were excellent, even to her own eyes.

‘I wonder what kind of figure Conan Garth fancies,’ she mused idly. ‘Probably the kind that’s almost non-existent . . . but then I know he likes my legs. For all the difference it makes.’ She made a conscious if not totally successful effort to force Conan from her mind as she began dressing.

The past few weeks, virtually since Marcel’s arrival in the organisation, had been busy ones for Dinah. Conan had finally dropped the ‘Miss Fisher’ and was calling her Dinah again, but none of his other coolness had thawed and he’d been working her harder than ever before.

So it seemed to Dinah, in any event, but she knew there were others in the office who had a different view.

‘You just think he’s working you hard,’ Pam Princeton had told her. ‘But there are rumours going round that he’s developing you as his protégée. And they mightn’t be all that wrong . . . have you thought of that?’

‘Protégée? It’s more like he’s trying to get enough work out of me so the rest of them can take a holiday,’ Dinah replied archly. ‘I don’t think I’ve had time even for coffee—outside the newsroom—in the last fortnight. I hardly even get time to sit down any more. It’s as if he was trying to force me into learning the whole business overnight.’

‘Maybe he is,’ her friend replied. ‘But don’t forget that you’re the first woman he’s ever voluntarily hired as a journalist, at least in this outfit. Now that has to mean something.’

‘It means he needed me for that one particular job and now he’s stuck with me,’ Dinah replied bitterly. ‘He’s hardly looked at me since.’ Which was actually untrue. It wasn’t that Conan hadn’t looked at her; it was the coldness in those pale taupe eyes that was really the issue.

And staring into her mirror, Dinah wondered pensively if it would ever be possible to make him look at her any other way. Not as a convenience, or as a fellow journalist, but as a woman!

Marcel could make her laugh, and even on occasion almost simper with glee at his outrageous lovemaking. Mick and even Bruce could make her angry, and certainly Mick, with his gentle ways, could make her cry. But only Conan Garth could bring her blood firing through her veins, trembling just from a single look. He could make her speechless with anger, but it was a pale anger compared to the emptiness he created with his indifference.

Dinah spent a long time in applying her make-up, using only a little and making sure it was properly applied—a hint of blusher, the merest touch of pale green eye-shadow, mascara applied sparingly and her lipstick. It was enough, she thought. Make-up should never be obvious, merely a highlight to the face beneath it. The thought brought another picture to mind, one of a truly beautiful girl who had come into the newsroom to deliver some press releases. Bruce and even Mick had commented on her beauty, which had been sufficient to shine through the heavy make-up she wore, but Conan had merely grunted, ‘She’d be all right if you washed her face.’

Dinah completed her toilette with dabs of a new and very subtle perfume she’d splurged on that morning, then turned to the dress she’d paid far more for than she really should have. It was worth every penny, she thought, if it turned a few heads that night.

The gown was a silky jersey, designed in a vaguely old-fashioned mode. A clinging, low-cut bodice revealed more bosom than she’d ever shown before, then closed with a row of tiny buttons at the base of her throat to create an entrancing keyhole effect. The same buttons adorned the front closure of the gown from cleavage to the tiny, very tailored waist, leaving arms and shoulders bare. It moulded closely at her hips before flaring in a series of tiers to the handkerchief hemline that would swirl out behind her on the dance floor. The colour began as something between cream and gold, but the fabric was cunningly cut to follow the almost invisible patterning that began at the bodice and slowly grew more pronounced towards the hem. The subtle changes in colour ranged through the yellows into a high bronze tone, and Dinah’s figure was moulded as much by the colour changes as by the gown itself.

Matching shoes, much too expensive but perfect in their fit, had been given a dedicated massage with Vaseline to soften the leather and ensure she wouldn’t be forced off the dance floor with aching feet, and she had also found a small evening bag to complete the outfit.

Gold earrings? Yes, and just one ring. No other jewellery. She studied the effect, and liked it very well indeed.

Marcel placed the final seal of approval when he arrived to pick her up. ‘Magnifque! ’ he whispered, bowing to kiss her hand. And when he lifted his eyes again there was an unexpected mist of world-weary sadness in them. ‘Ah, if you were not already in love I would run away with you, this very minute,’ he said softly. ‘But as it is, I shall have to spend the evening fighting off these Aussies with a huge stick.’

‘I can take care of myself, thank you,’ Dinah replied happily, shaken by his perception but determined not to let it show.

The main dining room of the National Press Club had been extravagantly decorated for the evening, which featured a popular local band and a rather exotic menu. Mick and Pam were there, along with Bruce and his girl, and the rest of the dozen seats at their table were taken— except for two—by other journalists Dinah had met before.

The eventual seating arrangement placed Dinah between Marcel and Mick, with the two vacant chairs directly across from them. And when they remained vacant until just before the waiter arrived for their entree order, Mick commented, ‘Isn’t His Majesty coming, I wonder?’

‘Oh, he’ll be here,’ said Pam just a shade too loudly. ‘I expect Charlotte Fleury’s made him late so she can stage a more impressive entrance.’

Charlotte Fleury! Dinah’s heart seemed to stop at the mention of the name. It didn’t help to have Pam lean forward with an I-told-you-so look as Mick casually mentioned that Conan and Charlotte had been seen together quite often in recent weeks.

‘Well, maybe her entrance will be worth it,’ Dinah replied lightly, sure that her face revealed her true feelings. Surveying the room as they’d all sipped at glasses of chilled wine, she had reckoned her own outfit and appearance could match the best she’d seen among the two hundred other women in the room, but just the mention of Charlotte Fleury made her cringe inside. She just knew that when the auburn-haired beauty arrived, it would be in something that would stifle all competition.

And it did! There was a discernible hush when Conan and Charlotte stepped into the room, and Dinah could feel the waves of envy that radiated from every woman present. Her own eyes went first to Conan, who was magnificently elegant in a perfectly tailored outfit of pale dove grey. He walked unconsciously erect, casually returning greetings as they passed various tables. But it wasn’t he who drew the attention. Charlotte had more than fulfilled the promise of a truly impressive entrance.

The heels she wore were so high that she almost matched Conan in height, and the high heels provided a splendid footing for the deep green gown she wore. It was totally uncluttered, a shimmering fabric that was tailored so as to cling enticingly to her waist and hips while still accentuating what little of the bosom it covered. Strapless, almost backless, and slit to mid-thigh on each side, the gown was barbaric in its simplicity while shouting out a price tag that Dinah would have shuddered to even think of.

Charlotte’s dark auburn hair was virtually unchanged from her day-to-day style, yet it looked the height of fashion. But it was the jewellery that made the outfit. It was positively barbaric; heavy solid gold in a series of bracelets and a necklet that had obviously been handmade for the wearer. The earrings were heavy, with drops that were almost too bulky for Charlotte’s dainty ears, yet on second glance they were the perfect complement to the other jewellery, and Dinah could feel the envy of every woman in the room.

Dinah felt no envy; she simply felt dowdy and quite ordinary as they seated themselves across from her. The introductions were brief because of the arrival of the waitress, and for Dinah it was just as well. She felt Charlotte’s eyes cross her own, evaluate and then dismiss her, much as they’d done on their first meeting.

Charlotte’s great amber eyes moved to Dinah’s left as she was introduced to Marcel, who responded with a reply so stilted, so totally removed from his normal gay repartee, that Dinah looked up in surprise. But it wasn’t Marcel who caught her glance; he was far too stricken by the woman across the table. Dinah found instead that her attention was claimed by pale taupe eyes that reached out to her like magnets to wrench at her heart-strings and pull her head around to meet the gaze of Conan Garth.

He said nothing, but his eyes were curiously alive as they moved over her, touching her face, her shoulders, the column of her throat and the deep crevice of her bosom before returning to capture her eyes. Dinah’s head swam, and she tried to look away but couldn’t. She didn’t at first hear Charlotte speak to her.

‘I’m . . . I’m sorry,’ she stammered, ‘I’m afraid I missed that.’

‘I just asked how you enjoyed working for Gengis Khan here,’ Charlotte grinned.

Dinah didn’t. . . couldn’t answer. But her face did it for her, and the response was a friendly laugh. ‘That bad, eh? Can’t say I blame you. I wouldn’t want to put up with Conan every day again. He’s an absolute swine to work for, aren’t you, love?’

The bantering remark drew only an enigmatic smile from Conan, whose eyes never ceased their journey over Dinah’s face. Then, as Dinah turned her attention to Charlotte’s continued conversation, Conan released her and reached out to refill their glasses from the carafes that already littered the large table.

‘I can see he’s already got you under his thumb,’ Charlotte laughed. ‘We’ll have to get together in the powder room after dinner. I know a few tricks you should have if you’re going to keep him in line. It isn’t really too hard.’

‘You’re brave enough now that you’re not working for me,’ Conan said lightly.

‘Brave enough any time; you’re not so tough,’ she replied with a brash grin. ‘Not a bad boss, though, as editors go.’ Then she gave Dinah a conspiratorial look.

‘Editors are all proper swines, actually. Something in the blood. The blood they drink, that is, from poor defenceless journalists.’

Conan was clearly losing patience, and the look he gave her wasn’t friendly. ‘I didn’t bring you here tonight to talk shop with Dinah,’ he said. ‘You’ve never worked in television, and Dinah can pick up quite enough bad habits without your help, so let’s stop playing pick-on-the-editor, shall we? I came to drink and dance with beautiful girls, not sit here and be abused.’

Surprisingly, Charlotte took the hint, turning her attentions to an astoundingly quiet Marcel. Dinah, who suddenly wanted desperately to depend on Marcel’s ready tongue and rapier-like wit, was jolted almost as' much by the quiet, pensive man beside her as by the electric magnetism of Conan’s eyes upon her again. Marcel seemed stunned; his entire being was deathly still and his attention never wavered from Charlotte Fleury. Conan was no better, only his eyes were once again disrobing Dinah and caressing her with astonishing effectiveness.

The arrival of the main course proved a welcome respite, and Dinah devoted herself to the excellent duckling a l’orange in a single-minded attempt to avoid meeting the gaze she could feel without looking. She drank more than she should have, then stopped suddenly when, in pouring her another refill, Conan took her shaking fingers and steadied them around her glass. She didn’t dare meet his eyes, but somehow she got the message, and only sipped at her wine from then on.

Just as the band began tuning up, Dinah retired with Pam to the powder room, but if she’d expected Charlotte to join them she was disappointed. She was also less than pleased with the ease Pam displayed at comprehending her sudden lack of energy.

‘It’s just a bit of a headache,’ she lied. ‘Or more likely too much wine too fast. I’ll be right in a bit.’

‘I think it’s more likely too much Charlotte Fleury,’ Pam replied. ‘And I, for one, wouldn’t find it very difficult to get too much of her.’

‘I thought she was pleasant enough,’ Dinah replied, then grinned wryly at her involuntary defence of a known competitor.

‘Well, I suppose it isn’t her fault she was born beautiful,’ said Pam. ‘But she doesn’t have to go to such extremes to make it obvious. Lord, I’d give my soul to have that many men look at me that way! She’s even got to Marcel. He’s just been sitting there like a stunned mullet, or haven’t you noticed, since you’ve been captivated by Conan?’

‘I noticed, but I must admit I don’t think I believe it,’ Dinah replied, totally forgetting that her friend was supposed to be a victim of Marcel’s deceptive courting game.

‘Believe it! He’s as taken by Charlotte as you are with Conan,’ said Pam. ‘Why don’t you arrange a swap or something? It might do you both some good.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Dinah snapped.

‘Who’s being ridiculous? And don’t try to tell me there’s anything more than friendship between you and Marcel, Dinah Fisher. You might get Conan to believe it; that’s likely the name of the game. But I know better and so do you. There’s nothing wrong with a little honest horse-trading.’

‘Well then, see if you can trade Mick for him,’ retorted Dinah. ‘I’m not all that interested.’ She swept out of the powder room, trying to ignore Pam’s final rejoinder, ‘My, you have got it bad!’ and arrived back at their table in time for the first dance.

Dinah loved to dance. It was one thing she could do extremely well and with total confidence, regardless of how inept her partner. Not that ineptness was a problem with Marcel, whose abilities matched her own. Marcel was a master, and in his arms Dinah flamboyantly rose to new heights as a ballroom dancer. The pleasure brought fresh colour to her cheeks, and by the end of the first few brackets she was breathless.

‘Dear Dinah, I must beg from you a great favour,’ he said as they slowly strolled around the dance floor between sets, and there was something in his voice that made Dinah look up with alarm.

‘You must release me from my promise to dance every single dance with you. I beg this of you,’ he pleaded unashamedly. His eyes strayed to where Conan walked arm in arm with Charlotte Fleury, and Dinah understood the passion in Marcel’s eyes.

‘Well, of course, silly,’ she replied, and it wasn’t until he’d said, ‘I shall make it up to you,’ that she realised her agreement would throw her into a closer proximity to Conan than she was prepared for.

The next set was a slow one, and they danced the numbers in a flowing, Viennese style that left Dinah slightly giddy. Except for the last number, and she couldn’t help but be surprised when Marcel drew her in close to him, far closer than was really required. He felt her tension immediately, and whispered softly into her ear:

‘Have you so little faith? I said that I would make it up to you, and so I do. Trust me.’ Dinah looked up with surprise to find his lips descending on her own, meeting them with an expertise which matched the Frenchman’s reputation. Dinah was stunned. Marcel had never once in their relationship even attempted to kiss her, except on the fingers as he did every other woman he met. And worse, it went on, and on, totally without passion, without any attempt to further intrude into Dinah’s personal self, but to anyone watching she knew exactly how it must look.

Finally he signalled the end with an imperceptible flicker of the fingers at her waist, and Dinah flashed open her eves in honest wonder. But it wasn’t Marcel’s face that caught her response, it was that of Conan Garth, ‘who was dancing immediately beside them with Charlotte. His eyes were flashing, then even as Dinah stared into them, they seemed to cloud over with a film of distaste, and he swung Charlotte away in a sudden, violent gesture. She followed him with her eyes, but he nicely manoeuvred so as to keep his back to her.

‘Perfect! Absolutely perfect,’ Marcel breathed, and Dinah suddenly realised that he’d planned the entire thing specifically for Conan’s viewing.

‘Oh, Marcel, how could you?’ she sighed. ‘He already hates me—and now you’ve made it worse.’

‘Worse? Hates you? Dinah my sweet, my innocent little flower, do you never listen to Marcel? Do you think that a man who hates you could look like that just because of another man’s kiss? Hah! Before the night is out he will be on his knees to kiss your hem.’

Dinah couldn’t help but laugh. The thought of it was so patently ridiculous she couldn’t even get a mental picture of it. ‘Well, I hope you get a picture of it,’ she giggled, ‘because I won’t believe it otherwise.’

Marcel shrugged his best Gallic shrug. ‘Maybe I just exaggerate a little,’ he grinned. ‘But at least I found out what I wanted to know.’ And with that enigmatic statement he led her back to the table.

When the music began again, Marcel returned to something approaching his normal irreverence, and with exaggerated courtliness he swept Charlotte Fleury out into the crowd. Conan made no move, at first, to respond by asking Dinah to dance; he just sat there, totally at ease and silent as he ran his eyes over her face. He waited until the first number was over before rising to move around to her, and when he asked it was with heavy formality.

They danced with a rigidness, a tenseness that forced Dinah to miss steps and falter without reason. They were like two stray cats, ritually circling but allowing no hint of familiarity. But when that set finished, Conan made no move to return Dinah to the table. Instead he casually took her arm and walked silently round the dance floor with her, making no attempt at conversation and allowing her no opportunity to speak if she’d wanted to.

When the music started up again, it was the slowest ' bracket so far that night, and Dinah shivered at having to try and get through it with this man whose body would so strongly reject her. But when Conan swung her into his arms it was with a grace and rhythm that instantly transformed their dancing from an ordeal to a flowing delight. Dinah couldn’t help but respond, and she relaxed and gave herself to the music and the perfect meshing of their movements.

‘Has anybody told you yet that you look absolutely ravishing tonight?’ The question, whispered softly in her ear, made Dinah suddenly aware that she’d been dancing in a daze with her head lying gently upon Conan’s broad shoulder. She instinctively recoiled, and was both surprised and disappointed when he made no attempt to pull her close again.

‘Yes ... someone has, actually,’ she replied, ‘but you can repeat it if you like. I’m as susceptible to flattery as the next girl.’

The brazen reply surprised her, but Conan only threw back his head with soft laughter. ‘Somehow I can’t imagine you being anything at all like the next girl,’ he said. ‘You’ve always impressed me as being totally unique.’

‘I didn’t know I’d ever impressed you at all,’ she replied tartly. ‘Is that supposed to be some kind of left-handed compliment?’

‘No . . .just a fact,’ he said carelessly. ‘You’ve also got a wicked right hand, when you choose to use it.’

‘Only when it’s called for,’ Dinah replied cautiously.

‘I notice you didn’t smack your Frenchman when he kissed you. Am I the only one who’s off limits?’

‘I could hardly slap his face in the middle of the dance floor,’ Dinah replied without thinking—and then tried to cover by saying, ‘Presuming I’d want to, of course.’

‘And did you?’ His eyes were boring into her own, and she couldn’t meet them as she deliberately said, ‘No, of course not.’

‘You’re lying to me, Dinah,’ he said softly. ‘You can’t even look me in the eye.’

‘I’m not lying!’ Which was true enough; she’d never even thought of slapping Marcel.

‘Humph! Next thing you’ll be telling me you enjoyed it.’

‘Perhaps I did.’

‘If you did, you wouldn’t be using words like perhaps,’ he said. ‘But maybe it’s because you haven’t any basis for comparison.’ And his lips were on hers before she could think to object, his arm holding her tightly against him as Conan kissed her every bit as thoroughly as had Marcel. But where Marcel’s kiss had been almost chaste in its impersonality, Conan’s was flaming with passion and Dinah felt her body begin to melt against him as her lips softened and writhed in response. Even when his arm loosened so that she could breathe, his lips chained her to him with bonds of promise.

But when he released her, so abruptly that she would have stumbled but for his strong arm around her, Conan’s eyes were filled with mocking laughter and the lips that had burned her own were twisted into a sneer. Worse, he made no attempt to clasp her right hand in his left, but held his palm up so that she could hit him without restraint. Dinah’s fingers trembled against the warmth of his palm and her eyes locked with his, but she couldn’t lift her hand to strike, and somehow she knew that he’d known from the start she couldn’t slap him.

He stared silently into her eyes as they continued dancing, then said softly, ‘No comment?’

‘You’re learning,’ she said coldly. ‘But Marcel could leave you for dead in any kissing contest.’

Dinah saw the mockery face out of his eyes to be replaced by a chilling anger, and instinctively she tightened her fingers against his hand lest he strike her.

But Conan only laughed harshly and sneered, ‘Not in the middle of the dance floor, Miss Fisher.’

Then he turned her easily through the crowd and back to where they could leave the floor the instant the music ended. He said not another word as he escorted her back to the table and walked away.

Tears forming in her eyes and with a growing fear that she was going to scream, Dinah fumbled up her handbag and fled to the powder room, where a concerned-looking Charlotte Fleury joined her a moment later.

‘Are you all right?’ asked the auburn-haired beauty. ‘You looked ready to fall apart out there.’

‘I’m fine,’ Dinah lied. ‘Just the closeness in there, I expect.’

‘More like the closeness of your great and glorious leader,’ Charlotte laughed. ‘I really am going to have to give you lessons in dealing with him if he affects you this badly. You’ve just got to stand up to him, that’s all. I mean, he’s only a man, after all. A little spoiled, but with the proper training he’d make a wonderful husband.’

‘Well, why don’t you finish training him, then?’ Dinah retorted, voice tart as rhubarb.

‘Lord love us,’ Charlotte laughed, 'I need a husband like a hole in the head! Although if I was looking, he’d be pretty high on the list, I’ll give you that. At least I don’t have the problems with him that you do.’

‘Perhaps it’s because I’m not looking for a husband,’ said Dinah. ‘And if I were, I should think there are better risks around.’

‘Not many, my dear. Not many at all. Don’t let all that chauvinism fool you. Conan’s as soft as a marshmallow inside, that’s why he’s so hard to get along with. Really, he’s just a great big teddy bear.’

‘Well, I don’t think I’m in the market for a teddy bear, either,’ Dinah retorted. ‘Let’s change the subject, shall we? I find the subject of men rather boring.’

‘Boring? Talk about men is never boring,’ Charlotte laughed. ‘Sometimes the men are, but the subject is always fascinating. And why not talk about Conan? Do you really fancy him that much, then?’

‘Frankly, I think he’s rude, crude and unattractive, to use a new Australian expression I’ve only just learned.’

‘Well! Defensive, aren’t we? Okay, let’s talk about your boy-friend, then, that lovely Frenchman who says he’s going to marry me.’

An image of Marcel’s moon-struck eyes came to mind, and Dinah tried to reply as lightly as she could. ‘He says that to all the girls.’

‘That’s what he told me, just before he advised me to come and ask you if he was serious this time,’ Charlotte replied in total seriousness of her own. ‘He said I was to tell you his exact words—“this time I stay”—and then ask you if he was serious.’

Dinah looked into Charlotte’s amber eyes, unsure of herself suddenly and acutely conscious of the responsibility Marcel had placed upon her. Her mind whirled at the implications of it all. . . Charlotte and Marcel... a Conan perhaps now available .. . but she couldn’t answer directly. ‘Let’s go back now,’ she said cautiously. ‘I’ll think about it and tell you later.’

When they returned to the table, both Conan and Marcel had disappeared, and they talked lightly of various things in an environment of unexpected comfort. When the subject of men came round again, Dinah muttered about all of them being little more than conceited egotists, and then flinched with surprise when a masculine voice behind her said, ‘Of course they are.’

It was a stranger that Dinah didn’t know, but obviously Charlotte knew him. And she wasn’t impressed. ‘If we ignore him, we could get lucky and he’ll go away,’ she said to Dinah, eyes blank with loathing.

The man was tall, exceptionally slender, and handsome in a peculiar fashion. Where Dinah might have accepted that Marcel was beautifully handsome by comparison to Conan’s rugged good looks, this man was actually pretty. He was also drunk, she thought; certainly Charlotte’s snub had no effect on him. Ignoring her, he plunked himself down beside Dinah, reaching out for a wine glass with one hand as he slithered the other up on to her knee.

‘You’re certainly a lovely little thing,’ he leered. ‘Not like Charlie here; she’s a perfect bitch.’

Dinah thrust his hand away, shifting her chair at the same time. ‘Do you mind!’ she snapped in a tone that should have discouraged anyone. But not this fellow; he ignored the objection and slid his own chair closer. He was like an octopus; as quickly as she moved his hand it was back again, and Dinah was fast losing her worries about becoming the centre of a flaming row.

‘Do you think he’d stop this if I smacked him in the mouth?’ she asked Charlotte in a tight, angry voice that matched the fist she clenched in the newcomer’s face. ‘He’s all mouth; you wouldn’t know where to start,’ was the terse reply. The stranger ignored that too, and began pawing Dinah even more distastefully. When she flung his hand away and tried to rise, he grabbed at her wrist in a painful grip and slurred unintelligible words into her ear.

Struggling to free herself, Dinah saw Charlotte rise to help her, then settle back with a broad smile. A second later Dinah’s hand was released as the intruder was hefted clear of his seat by a strong grasp on his collar.

‘Do me a favour, mate. Argue!’ Conan Garth’s voice was cold and oddly gentle, but as Dinah looked up she could see the scarcely-controlled rage in his eyes. His jaw muscles quivered and his eyes narrowed to slits of disgust as he dragged the man around and stood him on his feet. Then he took his fingers in a firm grasp and frogmarched him over to a table where several other men sat alone. The resultant conversation was brief and beyond Dinah’s hearing, but within seconds two men had risen to quietly escort the intruder from the room.

‘Bloody animal!’ Conan muttered as he returned to slump into the vacant chair beside Dinah and tenderly pick up her bruised wrist. He stroked it gently, saying nothing, but Dinah jerked it from his grasp when he turned to Charlotte and demanded, ‘What did you let that pig come over here for, Charlotte? You, of all people, should know better.’

‘It’s not her fault, for goodness’ sake. He came by himself, and both of us did everything but throw a screaming tantrum to get rid of him.’

‘Well, maybe you should have,’ he replied hotly. ‘Or did you really want to get rid of him?’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ she flared back. ‘He was drunk and he was obnoxious. But I certainly didn’t need your help to get rid of him. I was doing just fine by myself.’

Her wrist gave a particular twinge as she said it, but if Conan noticed he gave no sign of it. ‘Oh, sure you were,’ he snarled. ‘Maybe I should bring him back for a rematch or something. You never did get to use your famous right cross.’

‘Well, just keep it up and I will,’ Dinah lashed back, struggling to control the tears she knew were coming.

‘Well, go ahead and try it; it’s your left wrist that’s sore,’ he said angrily.

‘Don’t think I won’t,’ she retorted, then recoiled in fear as he reached out to take her right wrist in a strong grip and rose to lift her to her feet.

‘Right! Go ahead,’ he drawled, releasing her wrist and lowering his arms to fold them across his chest.

Dinah flung her arm back, and was taking aim when a muffled howl of laughter made her look down at where Charlotte was quivering with uncontrolled giggles.

‘I wish you . . . you could see yourselves,’ Charlotte gasped. ‘Like . . . like a couple of two-year-olds!’. She broke up then, and buried her face in her hands as the laughter burst forth in a torrent.

Dinah looked back at Conan and was astounded to see that his lower lip was twitching as he tried to suppress a grin, then her own lips began to quiver.

Marcel returned to the table a few minutes later to find all three of them still convulsed with tearful laughter that spread from one to the other in an unending circle. It took him five minutes to calm things down enough to get any sort of explanation, and he didn’t find the result at all amusing.

‘You are all mad,’ he said. And to Conan: ‘You should have beaten the man severely.’

Then he turned with sober eyes and asked Charlotte to dance with him, leaving Conan and Dinah alone together at the table, smiling at each other.

‘Well, if we’re not going to bash each other, we’d better go and dance,’ Conan said quietly. ‘I can’t laugh any more.’ He took her gently in his arms and moved easily onto the dance floor, where they flowed together smoothly as the winding-down band shifted to slower and slower numbers.

Dinah’s wrist ached uncomfortably, but she ignored it. In fact she hardly noticed, except when she moved too severely in twisting her fingers through the hair on Conan’s neck. They hardly spoke, and only occasionally lapsed into a quiet chuckle or giggle whenever they passed Charlotte and Marcel, who invariably winked at them. For Dinah, the headiness of the wine was nothing compared to that which Conan’s nearness created, and Marcel did nothing to disturb it when he finally drove her home.

CHAPTER FIVE

Dinah woke late next morning with a blinding headache, three smudgy bruises on her wrist and a heart full of blissful memories. It wasn’t until she’d taken two aspirins and a long, leisurely shower that she sat down to her morning cup of tea and some serious reflections.

She could no longer deny what should have been obvious, she realised with diamond-clear hindsight. She was in love with Conan Garth—or at least so close to it as to make no difference anyway. She could no longer ignore , the fluttering heart that was caused by his merest glance, the race of blood at his touch. It was a pleasant but frightening feeling, considering his stated attitude towards women, and without the headiness of the wine to carry her, Dinah’s revelation began to carry grave doubts about the wisdom of the situation.

Slowly sipping at the cooling tea, she replayed all of the previous evening in her mind, and was forced to admit there was nothing concrete upon which to base even the assumption that Conan might return her feelings. Indeed if he was serious about anyone it would be Charlotte Fleury, though Dinah wondered if the feelings were fully returned, considering Charlotte’s sudden interest in Marcel.

She was thinking idly about the possibilities of Marcel taking Charlotte out of the competition when she suddenly recalled her promise of the evening before, a promise that hadn’t been kept but which now took on a new and strong significance. Because Marcel’s comments to Charlotte clearly indicated a seriousness Dinah hadn’t suspected, and his referral of Charlotte to Dinah for confirmation now created a responsibility Dinah couldn’t ignore.

Obviously Marcel wanted Charlotte to know he was really serious, but could Dinah allow herself to be used as a tool in the affair? Considering her newly-recognised feelings for Conan, she would feel like a manipulator, yet as Marcel’s friend she couldn’t just ignore the issue and her promise to Charlotte.

Her mind whirled the matter over and over, but without any acceptable solution. She would have to fulfil her promise or feel like a traitor to Marcel as well as herself. If I think about it any longer I won’t be able to do anything, she thought suddenly, grabbing for the telephone book to look up Charlotte’s number.

The phone rang several times as Dinah sought just the right words to use, but when it was answered she stayed breathlessly silent. It wasn’t Charlotte’s voice she heard saying hello, but Conan’s.

Dinah couldn’t speak, couldn’t so much as breathe. A fierce, white-hot stab of jealousy roared through her, blotting out everything but the voice at the other end of the line. She heard Conan repeat his hello, then the fainter sound of Charlotte’s voice in the background asking him what was wrong.

‘Hello?’ he asked for the third time, and then, ‘I don’t know, love. Seems to be nobody there.’

‘So hang up,’ Charlotte’s voice said in what seemed to Dinah to be sultry tones. ‘We’ve got more important things to worry about.’

It wasn’t until Conan had hung up the phone that Dinah dropped her own receiver, flinging it down as if it had bitten her. She closed her eyes against the tears that flowed unbidden, but Dinah couldn’t blot out the mental picture of Conan returning to Charlotte’s bed. It was a picture so starkly real that she pressed her palms against her eyelids and shook her head desperately, but it wouldn’t go away, even when she flung herself down on the sofa and howled her despair into a pillow.

The rest of Sunday was a wide-awake nightmare. Dinah pottered about the flat, cleaning and polishing as if the physical effort could: free her mind. But it couldn’t, and periodically she would find herself bursting into tears virtually without reason. She slept fitfully that night, and arrived at work on Monday morning with puffy eyes and a continuation of Sunday’s headache.

It was a relief when Conan rang to say he’d be in late, although just the sound of his voice was enough to stab at her heart like a dagger. Much worse was Marcel’s coffee-break discussion about Charlotte and Dinah’s forced admission that she hadn’t found an opportunity to confirm his seriousness as he’d wanted. Marcel wasn’t even upset by the confession, although he seemed curiously subdued and in something of a hurry to get somewhere.

He brushed aside Dinah’s apologies, saying they were totally unnecessary and that it didn’t matter anyway. Then he was gone. Dinah didn’t even notice if it was minutes or hours before Pam wandered into the canteen and sat herself in Marcel’s chair.

‘You’re in love with Conan Garth, aren’t you?’

The unexpected question, flung out without so much as a good morning before it, caught Dinah totally unawares. She looked up at her friend, aware that her face already had answered for her, and then said, ‘Yes. Yes, I’m afraid I am.’

‘And what are you going to do about it?’

‘Nothing,’ she heard herself say. ‘There isn’t anything that I can do.’

Pam shook her head sadly. ‘You could try letting him know.’

‘No! Oh, no! That’s the one thing I can’t do,’ Dinah protested in shocked dismay. ‘No, no ... I couldn’t.’

‘You’re not even going to make a fight of it?’

Dinah shook her head, struggling to hold back her tears. ‘There’s no sense.’

‘Because of Charlotte Fleury, I suppose?’

Dinah nodded, no longer trusting herself to speak.

Pam looked at her, eyes large with empathy. ‘You could be wrong, you know?’

‘Not likely.’ The words were bitterly harsh. ‘He was there all night after the ball.’

Pam laughed, unexpectedly. ‘So what does that prove? We’re not talking about whether he’s a virgin.’

‘It proves enough for me,’ Dinah replied. ‘And I really don’t want to discuss it any more, all right?’

‘Fine,’ said Pam. ‘But I think you’re making a big mistake.’

From Dinah’s viewpoint, her big mistake had already been made, and she wasn’t about to compound it by making a fool of herself. And as the next week passed, she gradually came to terms with the decision as best she could.

Since the night of the Press Club Ball, Conan’s attitude towards Dinah had changed dramatically, but not in any way that helped resolve her own personal dilemma. He was no longer haughty, never abusive. Where he had once been teasing, he was now sombre; where he had been mocking in his deliberate attempts to rouse her anger, he was now strangely sparing of her feelings.

But as another week passed, his mood changed again, and gradually Dinah came to realise that he was becoming increasingly distant with her. With her, and with every other member of the staff. From distant, he became blatantly hostile, picking on all of them for the slightest mistake. Dinah could cope with it only because it was never a personal attack; he was concerned only with the professionalism of his newsroom, it seemed, and his growing criticisms and rampant mood changes seemed tied only to professional matters.

Both Bruce and Mick threatened to resign after one particularly bad day, and the next he had the young tea-lady in tears after he’d snapped at her. Within another week he was the talk of the building, and Dinah found his foul temper wasn’t being confined to the newsroom.

Pam Princeton threatened to bar Conan from her graphics department for ever after one particularly noisy row, and later confessed to Dinah that the whole affair was getting the entire office down.

‘And you know what it’s about?’ she asked deliberately. ‘It’s Marcel and Charlotte. Or haven’t you noticed that they’ve become quite a couple during the past few weeks? Frankly I think it suits Conan right to get left out in the cold; I just wish we didn’t have to work with him.’

‘Marcel and Charlotte Fleury! Are you sure about that?’

‘Too right I am. You mean you really haven't noticed?’

Dinah had not. She and Marcel had continued their little office romance game more as a habit than anything, but she hadn’t seen him outside office hours since the Press Club Ball and hadn’t had any occasion to talk with him in private. After Pam’s disclosure, she lost no time in doing so.

‘But what about Conan?’ she asked Marcel after he’d admitted rather happily that his love affair with Charlotte was progressing extremely satisfactorily.

‘What about him?’ he retorted. ‘As far as I am concerned he has nothing to do with it at all. We don’t discuss him.’

It wasn’t much of an answer, but it clarified in Dinah’s mind the mercurial changes of temperament she’d been witnessing in Conan. In retrospect, he was showing all the classic signs of a jilted lover, signs she knew only too well herself.

Returning to the newsroom after lunch, Dinah found it empty but for Conan, who was gazing pensively out the window and seemingly ignoring the telephone that jangled on the desk in front of him. Without even thinking about it, Dinah lifted the receiver and identified herself, then reeled back in surprise at the torrent of abuse that poured into her ear. The caller was male, loud and angry, and when he became obscene as well, Dinah couldn’t help moving the receiver farther from Her ear. She was numb, unable to answer or even think in the face of such treatment.

Suddenly the instrument was plucked from her nervous fingers, and Conan held it to his own ear, listening. But only for an instant before he barked into it, ‘Who is that?’

Dinah didn’t hear the reply, but Conan’s voice when he spoke again was filled with bitter, chilling anger. ‘What the hell is the idea of phoning up here and abusing my staff?’ There was a further silence at their end, then, ‘Yes, I will look into it. And you’d bloody well better be right. But even so, if I ever hear of you pulling a stunt like this again it’ll be the last time. Nobody talks to my staff like that; if you’ve got a complaint you come to me.’

There was another silence as he listened to what might have been an apology, then Conan broke in angrily, ‘I don’t want to listen to any apologies. You put it in writing, to Miss Dinah Fisher. And you’d better do it today, because if it isn’t in this office by tomorrow morning it’ll be the last time you ever get a mention in my news, mate. And just one more thing—don’t ever try to talk to me like that, either, or you’ll be picking up broken teeth with broken fingers!’

He slammed down the receiver with a curse and turned on Dinah. ‘Damned union secretaries! They get so used to thinking they’re God that they, can’t imagine why the whole world doesn’t get down and kiss their stinking little feet.’

Rising hurriedly, he walked over to the assignment board and wrote in huge letters that the man involved was blacklisted until further notice.

‘And if you haven’t got a proper apology by morning, further notice will mean for ever,’ he said angrily. ‘And as for you, my girl, don’t ever, ever, ever listen to that kind of nonsense again. If anybody tries it on like that, you refer it to me immediately, and if I’m not here just hang up in their ear. I don’t pay my people to take any garbage!’

Dinah looked up at him, nodding silently in acceptance. She was struck by the lines of strain in his face, and by the bleakness of his grey eyes. His eyes were puffy-looking around the edges and his skin was paler than usual. Even his hair seemed dry and lifeless, and Dinah had to consciously hold back her urge to reach out to him. But she couldn’t still her tongue.

‘Is there anything I can do about what’s upsetting you?’ she asked without thinking. ‘Not this, specifically, but whatever’s been bugging you for the past three weeks. You really look awful, and judging from your attitude you’re not having much luck resolving it yourself.’

She was startled by the hollow bitterness in his laugh. ‘I really look that bad, do I? Not surprising; I haven’t been sleeping well. Must be getting old or something; Lord knows I feel old, that’s for sure.’

He laughed again, less bitterly this time, and then, ‘Yes, you know there is something you could do for me. How would you like to go for a nice long drive?’

‘Now?’ Dinah was confused.

‘No . . . tomorrow. It is Saturday tomorrow, isn’t it? Yeah. I’ll pick you up at—oh, five o’clock tomorrow morning and we’ll spend the day looking at the country . around Canberra. I don’t imagine you’ve been outside the city much, and you might enjoy the change. No special dress, just wear jeans or shorts, because it’ll be hot. Bring your swimsuit and a towel. Okay?’

Dinah wanted to ask more, but the insistent ringing of the phones interrupted her, and the rest of the day passed in a blur of work that offered no chance to question Conan further. Work finished, she paused for one drink at the Press Club with Pam and Mick, then pleaded the need for an early night without giving any reasons, and went home to an unusually lonely dinner.

Conan telephoned her at four-thirty in the morning, and Dinah took a childish pleasure in the fact that she was already awake, dressed and ready to go when he called.

‘Listen, I forgot about breakfast,’ he said. ‘Shall we grab something out of my cupboard here, or what? It could be a while before we get another chance.’

‘I’m just having coffee now,’ Dinah replied. ‘Why don’t you just come straight away and I’ll have breakfast ready when you arrive.’

After she’d hung up, she glanced at herself in the mirror with mild bemusement. You really must be mad, she thought, when a man wants to take you on a mysterious drive at this ungodly hour of the morning—probably to ask for romantic advice about another woman—and you even offer to cook breakfast for him. Mad, mad, mad!

. But she had bacon sizzling gently, the toast and eggs ready to cook and a fresh pot of perked coffee on the stove when Conan arrived. Also a dozen questions, while he ate as if he hadn’t been fed in weeks. Conan flatly refused to answer her questions, much to Dinah’s astonishment, except to say it would just be a day-trip. ‘We’re going to just drive around and see what there is to see, that’s all there is to it,’ he said.

Then he insisted on helping with the dishes, ‘just to prove I’m really housebroken’ but said virtually nothing until they were far from Canberra itself.

They drove through silent streets to the south-west edge of the city, then up across the high, narrow, one-way bridge across the Murrumbidgee and into the Cotter Reserve, one of Canberra’s favourite picnic sites, then around through rolling grasslands and young pine nurseries over a rough gravel track that hugged the sides of the hills until they got into the rising timber country of the Brindabella Ranges.

Into the ranges, the track grew steadily rougher, rising and descending in a series of harsh switchbacks to suddenly bottom in a delightful green valley. Conan said it was the valley of the Goodradigbee River, and pulled off the road near the bridge long enough to pull out a map and show Dinah where the Goodradigbee flowed north to join the Murrumbidgee and form the massive Burrinjuck reservoir.

‘But up here it’s one of the finest trout streams in the country, I reckon,’ he said, pointing to where he’d once caught a one-and-a-half-kilogram trout. ‘It’s the only one I ever did catch here, but only because they’re about the smartest trout I’ve ever run across. Tasty, too.’

Dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a worn cotton shirt, and with his dark hair blown into confusion by the breeze, he seemed a different, more youthful man than the Conan Garth of the newsroom. And whatever the problems that had been bothering him in recent weeks, he seemed to have thrown them off for the moment; he looked younger, more relaxed and happier than Dinah had ever seen him. He handled his car, an elderly but well kept Alfa Romeo sedan, with casual alertness, working it gently over the rougher sections of road and making good time on the infrequent sections of smooth dirt or gravel. The road past Brindabella wasn’t extensively used, judging from the rough, rutted surface.

Dinah kept the map after they left Brindabella, and shortly she began to anticipate their route, bound for Tumut on a track that skirted the north end of Kosciusko National Park. On the map it was a very thick red line, but on the ground it was even less impressive, a narrow and lonely track without habitation or other vehicles. Conan was forced to drive quite slowly as it became rougher, and it was then that he suddenly began to talk.

‘Do you believe in love at first sight?’

He threw the question out after more than half an hour’s silence, catching Dinah quite by surprise. She stalled her answer, first because it brought a vision of Marcel and Charlotte to mind, and second—more important—because she wondered if she’d fallen in love with Conan at first sight. Was it the sudden romance of Marcel and Charlotte that drew such a question from Conan, she wondered, or something even more significant?

‘I suppose it’s possible,’ she finally hedged. ‘For some people, anyway. Why . . . have you been bitten?’

Conan didn’t answer, but kept his eyes on the road ahead. It seemed like many minutes before he spoke again.

‘What kinds of things would you, as a woman, expect from marriage?’ he asked then. And it was in such an impersonal tone that Dinah turned to look at him, a look he didn’t return. She couldn’t handle the seriousness, and as she realised it, her answer came out with a lightness of attitude she didn’t feel.

‘Goodness, is this some kind of proposal?’ she laughed, hoping the laughter would cover the fact that she secretly hoped it would be. She didn’t expect Conan to snap back at her.

‘No, it’s not! But don’t let that bother you,’ he snarled.

‘It’s just that you’re a person whose judgement I thought I might rely on. If you don’t want to answer, then don’t bother.’ His knuckles were white on the steering wheel and she could see the tensing of muscles at his clean-shaven jaw.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Dinah. ‘I should have realised this was something quite serious for you. Do you mean me personally, then? Or just women in general?’

‘Both, actually. But I’m not trying to pry or anything; I just have something to work out and I need more information.’

Dinah took a deep, slow breath. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I suppose first is love . . .’

‘And what’s love? I mean really, what is love?’ There was an abrasiveness to his interjection that almost frightened Dinah, but there was a curious undertone of something else, too. Something she couldn’t quite define, although desperation might have been a reasonable word.

What was worse was the fact that she couldn’t answer, at least not truthfully, without getting much more personal than she had any intention of getting. ‘I suppose it can be whatever you want it to be,’ she said.

‘Very specific.’ Conan said it quietly, but it was obvious he wasn’t much impressed by her answer.

‘Well, all right,’ she retorted. ‘Love is sort of all inclusive. It includes respect, consideration, kindness, faith . . .’

‘Friendship has all of those,’ he replied grimly. ‘What makes love so different?’

‘I’m not sure it is so very different,’ she lied. ‘I mean, you can’t love somebody you don’t respect, not really. And I know I certainly couldn’t love a man who didn’t respect me.’

‘Great. I know plenty of women I respect a great deal, women who I’d certainly consider friends, but I damned well don’t love them, and I know it.’

‘Well, if you know so much about it, why ask me?’

Dinah could feel herself getting angry as her only defence against questions that were cutting her up inside.

‘If I thought I knew everything, I wouldn’t ask you,’ Conan retorted. ‘Hell! Can’t you and I ever talk about anything without getting into a fight about it?’

‘Apparently not,’ she replied. ‘And I’m sorry . . . I don’t mean to start a fight. But I just don’t see how you expect me to answer your questions. They’re all so vague, so generalised. And there’s nothing that says love means the same things to different people.’

‘Well then, what does it mean to you? And I mean you personally. Surely you can explain that to me.’

Surely she couldn’t! Dinah was still trying to cope herself with the vast emptiness Conan’s absences created, the tiny, intricate special things like a look, a touch, the need to be with him as she was this moment, only without the spectre of someone else between them.

‘What makes you think I’ve ever been in love?’ she countered. ‘But if I were, I’d think friendship would have to count for a great part of it. I know that my parents were each other’s very best friends. My mother used to say that, and I think she meant it just about that simply. They were a team; they shared their lives, but they didn’t five in each other’s pockets. But that doesn’t really answer you either, because I was really talking about marriage, not just love.’

‘And don’t they go together? Like a horse and carriage or something?’ Dinah had to look to see that he wasn’t grinning when he said it.

‘Now you’re being facetious,’ she retorted.

‘No, I’m not. Could you love a man without wanting to marry him?’

‘Now you’re being personal. But no, I suppose not. Unless he was already married or something. I mean, it does happen.’

‘Hummph!’ Conan drove in silence for a bit then, before speaking again. ‘Do you reckon it’s possible to love somebody who doesn’t love you in return?’

Oh yes! her heart responded, but her words were more cautious. ‘I suppose so,’ she replied quietly, her eyes turned to look out the side window so that he couldn’t see her expression. ‘But I’m not sure such a thing could last. I’d think unrequited love must be a fragile thing.’ Liar, liar, said her heart.

‘Okay.’ Conan seemed to have missed the tremulous clenching of her fingers and the paleness of her face. ‘So let’s talk about marriage for a minute. How important is security? To a woman, I mean.’

‘Well, it depends. Certainly if you’re going to have children it requires security. They have to be educated, decently clothed and everything. But I don’t think that’s exactly what you mean . . .’

‘It isn’t, actually. I was more looking at just how tied down a man would have to be to the rat-race, the whole career thing. What if it isn’t all that important to him?’

‘Says the man who wears three-hundred-dollar suits and drives an Alfa.’

‘Now you’re getting personal, but don’t forget that I’m not locked into the career thing as firmly as you think. Not that journalism’s much of a career for a married bloke . . . too many late nights, too much moving around the country, even around the world.’

‘It sounds to me as if you’re trying to talk yourself out of something,’ said Dinah almost without conscious thought.

‘Well, maybe I am. And if you’re so smart, let’s just presume that I am thinking of getting married. What kind of husband do you think I’d make?’

He’d taken his attention off the road too long, and the front wheels jammed into a rut that threw the car lurching sideways. His instinctive movements covered the similar lurch in Dinah’s tummy as she struggled with his question and the intense emotions it raised inside her.

‘Probably a terrible one,’ she replied tartly, and then at his brief, angry look, ‘No, I’m sorry, I didn’t really mean that. You’re awfully considerate when you choose to be, and I guess with people you genuinely care for you’re probably very gentle and kind.’

‘You guess? That implies you don’t think I genuinely care for you, that I’m not gentle and kind enough.’

Dinah stammered, stalled. She couldn’t answer that one. ‘I imagine you’d be very good with dogs and children,’ she continued. ‘But are you vindictive? That would be a definite fault.’

‘Vindictive? No, I don’t think so. Revenge is a pretty wasteful emotion. And I’m not cruel, or at least not intentionally. But I know I’m too hard on people who don’t live up to my expectations sometimes. Why don’t you think I’m gentle enough with you?’

Dinah blushed; she couldn’t help it. Then she stammered in an attempt to avoid the question. But that didn’t work either, and she was finally forced to reply, ‘I never said that at all.’

‘You implied it, so stop hedging.’

‘I’m not hedging either,’ she replied with unexpected resolution. ‘I just think this is a stupid discussion. And if you’re not going to tell me why this sudden fascination with the subject, I don’t want to talk about it any more.’

‘You think I treat you too harshly at work, is that it?’

Silence from Dinah. She also refused to meet his eyes and sat staring out the side window. For several minutes she sat like that, ignoring his questions and growing more and more aware of his exasperation. Finally he changed the subject, though only to return to his original topic.

‘All right, if you must know, I’m planning to quit my job.’

‘And get married, I take it?’ Dinah couldn’t hold back the question, but she managed quite well to hide the great emptiness that was building inside her.

‘I didn’t say that, damn it. Although I won’t deny it’s a remote possibility.’

‘Well then, what’s the problem?’ she snorted angrily. ‘And why are you asking me? I don’t own you, and it’s certainly none of my business whether you leave your job or not. Why should I care?’

‘I didn’t ask you to care,’ he replied bitterly. ‘I just wanted your advice on something, but I can see I’m not likely to get it.’

‘Well, you might, if you’d just tell me what you want to know and stop asking all these stupid questions.’

‘I didn’t think they were all that stupid.’

‘Well, I do! How you treat me in the office, or how I think you treat me, has nothing whatsoever to do with you quitting your job and getting married, and you know it.’ Dinah’s anger broke loose in a torrent of words, but not the ones she wanted to use, nothing to say that she wouldn’t care if he quit his job to become a ditch-digger, so long as Conan took her with him.

‘All right, I’m sorry,’ he snapped. And didn’t sound a bit sorry. ‘Can I try just one more?’

Dinah considered it, knowing it would hurt her just as badly if she didn’t know what he was planning. ‘Okay, but let’s try to stay on the subject and leave my personal ideas out of it,’ she finally agreed.

‘Okay. What it is . . . I want to just take a couple of years off and freelance. Travel around, live on my savings if I have to, and write what I want to for a change, instead of the incredible pap that we force-feed the public with now.’

‘And you want to get married first?’ Oh, why did she have to ask it just that way? It was only asking for yet another fight, but the words were out.

‘I said I was merely thinking about it,’ Conan replied calmly. ‘But it doesn’t seem like much of an idea, when you consider the financial insecurity. I mean, I’ve got plenty of long-term investments; I could probably live without working for the rest of my life and be quite comfortable, but I’d really like to just see if I can make out solely on freelance work, and it would have to be that way for at least five years, since most of my nest-eggs won’t hatch until at least then.’

‘I’m sorry, but I still don’t understand your problem,’ Dinah replied. ‘Surely there are plenty of people who live on far less than you could make freelancing, married or not.’

‘Maybe, but it’s a bit rough asking a woman to share the first years of her marriage without even a home to call her own. I really plan on roughing it, roaming all over the country with as little permanence as possible.’

Oh, Conan, you fool! Dinah thought. She couldn’t even think of the right words to express herself. She would follow him anywhere, but would Charlotte Fleury? Well why not, really? ‘I just think you’re being silly,’ she said finally. ‘You’re putting much too much emphasis on the immediate aspects of security.’

‘Maybe I am, but what about a woman’s career. I mean, could a woman be expected to just throw it aside to follow some man’s dream? It doesn’t seem fair to me, that’s all.’

Dinah couldn’t hold back any longer. ‘Well, you might try asking her,’ she burst out. ‘How can I possibly answer for somebody else? If it was me, I wouldn’t worry about it, because my career’s only just starting anyway, but another woman might think very differently. Certainly some kind of compromise must be possible if you both love each other. That’s what marriage is, for goodness’ sake—some kind of compromise most of the time. It couldn’t possibly work if it were all one-sided.’

‘So you would give up your career for marriage?’

‘I thought we agreed not to get personal,’ she replied hastily. It was a desperate bid to change the subject before her defences broke down entirely, and before Conan could reply she began talking again. ‘Besides, I don’t have to worry that much about it. If I fulfil the conditions of my uncle’s will, I’ll end up fairly well off, so my career isn’t as important from a financial point of view as it might be.’

‘You mean you’d give up journalism after all I went through to get you started in it?’ Conan never took his eyes off the track, but Dinah sensed a wonderment in his voice, almost a hurt sound.

‘I didn’t say that either,’ she retorted. ‘Of course I plan to stay in journalism; I love it. But even so, I won’t be quite as dependent on my earnings as another woman might be, once I’ve fulfilled the legacy conditions.’ Having managed to sidetrack the discussion, Dinah had no intention of letting it return to dangerous ground, and within seconds she was busy explaining—in far more detail than it required—the strange conditions of her uncle’s will and the reasoning behind it.

‘How very strange,’ Conan remarked when she finally wound down. ‘But I can see his point, actually, in a perverted sort of way. Still, fifty thousand dollars isn’t really enough to live on. You’d still have to work, unless you decided to become a housewife.’

‘Thank you! And I suppose you don’t think being a housewife is work?’

‘That’s not what I meant and you know it. Although you’d make a pretty good catch, now that I think about it. Properly invested you’d get five thousand dollars a year out of your fifty thousand dollars without touching the principal.’

‘Oh, goody,’ Dinah replied scathingly. ‘Maybe I should place an ad in the Canberra Times—Spinster with five thousand dollars annual income seeks suitable husband— with any luck I’d get some dipstick journalist who wants his freelance career subsidised.’

Only silence followed that remark, and when Dinah finally looked over at Conan she could tell by his rigid expression that she’d gone too far. Much, much too far, she realised, and mentally cursed herself as she sought for appropriate words of apology.

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .’ She might have been talking to the dashboard of the car. Conan was livid with anger. His eyes narrowed to slits and he stared straight ahead as he forced the car faster and faster over the deteriorating track, oblivious to her in his need for a physical reaction to the charge she’d flung at him. Finally she could take no more.

‘Stop! Stop this car or I’m going to jump out right now!’ she screamed, and there was as much anger as fear in her voice. Anger with herself, and fear for both of them. As Conan ignored her, she flung herself against the door, only to have his arm flung like a board across the front of her as he wrenched it shut again and began to slow the car.

When it finally stopped, she took a deep breath and turned to grasp his face in her palms, forcing him to meet her eyes. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘You must believe me now. I am truly sorry for saying that, but it wasn’t meant in the personal way it sounded. I was angry and I was hurt, and I shouldn’t have said it at all. But I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. You have to know that I think far too much of you to ever mean that as you heard it; you must believe me. Oh, please . . .’

‘All right, I believe you,’ he said through anger-thin lips. ‘But it was a bloody low blow.’ And he didn’t believe ^ her; Dinah knew it as surely as she knew she loved him, and her heart went sick at what she’d done.

‘Perhaps we’d better go back,’ she said, suddenly wanting nothing more than to get away from Conan Garth and her own vain, silly follies.

‘Go back? We’ve hardly begun,’ he replied with a grimace that was supposed to be a smile. ‘Look, Dinah, I’m sorry I riled you, and from some points of view maybe I deserved the rocket you just gave me . ..’ He raised a hand against her attempt to protest. ‘But even if we can’t change what’s been said, I’d rather try and forget it and just carry on with our drive, if that’s all right with you. Going back now isn’t going to change anything, and frankly I’d rather be driving than sitting at home. How about we just call a total truce, talk about anything else for the rest of the day, and just try and enjoy ourselves?’

‘You’re sure . . .?’ Dinah didn’t want to argue. She was more than happy to do whatever Conan wanted to do— anything that would help make up for the unreasonable accusation she’d flung at him.

‘I’m sure. So how about it? Truce?’

There was a hint of a smile in his eyes although the hurt was appallingly obvious. Dinah could have cried, but she forced a smile of her own. ‘Truce!’

CHAPTER SIX

Without the dark cloud of Dinah’s faux pas floating overhead like some satanic shadow, the rest of the day would have been quite perfect. And even with guilt on her shoulder, Dinah managed to enjoy herself far more than she would have expected.

They stopped for coffee in Tumut, glad to be off the rugged bush track and back on to bitumen roads again. Then, with Conan declaring that ‘unplanning’ would be the order of things, they picked up the makings of a picnic lunch and headed south along the edge of the great Blowering Reservoir. Conan, seemingly more able to shake off the blackness of depression than Dinah, regaled her with stories about the Massive Snowy Mountains hydroelectric scheme and the many attempts made by Australian Ken Warbey on the world speedboat record. It was on Blowering reservoir that he had finally achieved his dream in 1978.

They toured briefly through the famous Yarrangobilly Caves, emerging to the fresh warmth of daylight to lunch with feeding trout and voracious, biting March flies at tiny Three Mile Dam, high in the mountains. Then a quick visit to Cabramurra, rated the highest town in Australia at over fifteen hundred metres above sea level. It wasn’t much of a town, merely a few homes and a tiny shopping area to service local families and tourists, but it was important in historic terms for its significance to the Snowy River hydro-electric scheme.

There was little conversation as they drove south and west, crossing the end of Tumut Pond reservoir and down to Khancoban on the western edge of Kosciusko National Park. Dinah was enthralled by the magnificence of the scenery, and Conan drove with silent, casual attention to both road and scenery, visibly relaxing as the day progressed.

South to Tom Groggin, then east and north again along the Alpine Way, through Dead Horse Gap, and into the winter ski resort of Thredbo Village, where they stopped for coffee and debated a trip on the chairlift to the crest of Crackenback Mountain.

Dinah' feared the chairlift, but only partially because she was worried about the heights. Sitting beside Conan in the car was one thing; she wasn’t quite so sure she could handle being snuggled against him in the seat of a chairlift. Nonetheless, she agreed to try it, and even the discomfiting and yet warmly comfortable feeling of his arm around her on the way up didn’t slow her exhilaration at the vistas of scenery and the thrill of the ride itself.

Coming down, however, was distinctly frightening, and she huddled into the protective crook of Conan’s arm until the chairlift had reached the bottom, taking most of the ride with her eyes closed.

‘If it’s any consolation, I was a bit nervous too,’ he confided on the way back to the car.

‘Now that I can’t even imagine,’ she laughed. ‘I could think of nothing that would make you really nervous.’

Conan raised one eyebrow in his habitually quizzical expression. ‘You do,’ he said quietly. ‘More often than you might think.’

‘Oh, don’t be silly,’ Dinah retorted, aware of the sudden burning in her cheeks. Then she broke away from him to run lightly down across the wide wooden bridge that spanned the gaily tripping river beside the village. By the time Conan caught up with her at the car, she had regained her composure, at least for the moment.

He was silent as they drove into Jindabyne, then turned almost in their tracks and headed west again, climbing through rugged country past the ski resorts of Smiggin Holes and Perisher Valley to where the road once again turned to gravel as they neared the crest of Mount Kosciusko, the highest point in Australia at two thousand three hundred metres.

The road went almost to the summit, but not quite, and Dinah could find no words to argue with Conan’s insistence that having come that far they should finish the trek. Nor could she reject the hand that gripped her own in a gentle but firm grasp as they walked together up the walking track to the very top of Australia.

‘Oh, it’s lovely,’ she panted when they finally scrambled over the scree to stand at the very tip, hand in hand. She heard only faintly his words, ‘almost as lovely as you,’ before she was turned around to face him, her lips only inches from his.

Conan’s grey eyes stared down at her, stripped of any semblance of the mockery she usually saw there, and soft with a brilliance that drew her like a moth to the flame. ‘This is something that I will never apologise for,’ he said very quietly, ‘kissing a beautiful woman at the very top of the world.’

..His lips descended slowly, giving Dinah every chance to avoid them, but Conan’s eyes held her enslaved. And when he kissed her, it was with, an exquisite tenderness that flickered through her body like faery fire, sweeter than any feeling she had ever known. There was no hint of aggression, or dominance or harshness, merely a gentle, almost a sexual sharing of something. And he released Dinah almost immediately with a soft, ‘Thank you for today.’

She didn’t recoil, but stayed staring up at him through eyes she knew would be far too soft and vulnerable for her own good. But when she spoke, all that emerged was her own thanks in return. And the magic moment was over almost as quickly as it had begun.

They drove back to Perisher Village for an expensive but much-needed meal, and from that point things began to get hazy as Dinah’s tiredness and nervous tensions took their toll. She was asleep by the time they reached Jindabyne again, and her next memory was a cheery voice saying, ‘Wake up, sleepyhead! We’re home.’ ‑.

She shook the sleep from her eyes and looked around in confusion. It was dark outside, but a street light confirmed that they had indeed returned to their starting point. ‘What time is it?’ she asked in surprise, struggling to get herself awake.

‘After midnight,’ Conan said gently. ‘Sorry our little drive turned out to be a marathon like that. I hadn’t planned it to be quite so arduous for you.’

‘It was a lovely day,’ Dinah replied. ‘I loved it, truly I did. But you must be exhausted.’

‘No, as a matter of fact I feel great,’ Conan replied with a slow grin. ‘Driving does that for me sometimes . . . helps to clear the cobwebs out of my head. And I enjoyed the day too; in fact I can’t remember one I’ve enjoyed quite so much in a long, long time. I just hope it wasn’t too much of an ordeal for you, that’s all.’

‘Oh no! I loved it—or at least the part I didn’t sleep through. How long did I sleep, by the way?’

‘You dropped off when we passed through Jindabyne, but you didn’t miss anything, really. Only Cooma, and you can see that any time. Now listen, I’d best get out of here and let you get back to sleep. Four hundred miles in a day is quite enough for anybody.’

‘Four hundred miles?’ Dinah’s mind, still accustomed to English distances, could hardly conceive of such a trek even after completing it.

Conan glanced down at the tripmetre on the dash.

‘Four hundred and thirty-two, actually. A long, long day’s driving, my very word it is.’

‘Oh, it was wonderful!’ Dinah was suddenly wide awake, having been well refreshed by her two hours of sleep. ‘And so very much to see; it’s like a dream. Did we really go right to the top of Australia?’

‘The very top,’ he said firmly, and then with sudden gentleness, ‘Is that what you remember most, being kissed at the top of Kosciusko?’

Dinah would remember it for the rest of her life; even the thought brought shivers of desire through her bones. But she would never find the words to admit to having been that vitally affected. ‘One thing,’ she hedged, ‘but there was so much . . .’ She paused to look more clearly at Conan’s drooping eyes and realised he was far more tired than he knew or admitted. ‘You’re right,’ she whispered, ‘it is very late. And you’re very tired.’

‘I am,’ he admitted. ‘Goodnight, Dinah . . . and . . . thanks again.’

Dinah fully expected him to be asleep within minutes after reaching his own home, but she didn’t find sleep that easily. She sat gazing into a cup of instant coffee until it had cooled untasted, her mind casting back over the highlights of the day. And when she finally did go to bed, she drifted into a dreamtime filled with alpine flowers, deep cooling waters and flickering impressions of a Conan Garth she had never seen before.

It was nearly noon when she finally roused herself, and she moved her patio table out of the sun before sitting down to brunch. But even in the shade it was too hot for her, and rather than share her bacon, eggs and hash-brown potatoes with the growing horde of blowflies, she chose to eat indoors.

It was the identical meal she had served Conan the morning before, a morning that now seemed so far in the past it was only a fleeting memory, but Dinah found herself wishing idly that he could be with her again. It had been the first time since her father’s death that she had shared breakfast with a man, and however fleeting the experience by comparison with other events of the day, it also claimed a place among the delights.

Too, she found herself wondering how it would be to have Conan at breakfast every morning, and from there her mind drifted to the obvious pre-breakfast ramifications, which she concluded without a blush would be even more pleasant. Except that Conan Garth obviously didn’t much consider her as a potential wife. It seemed obvious from his obtuse questions the day before that he was seriously considering offering marriage to Charlotte before she became seriously involved with Marcel, and Dinah realised she had certainly done nothing to alter that plan.

‘You really accomplished a lot there,’ she muttered aloud. ‘Even if Conan does fancy your judgment. Of all the strangest things . . . spending such a day with a man you love while you help him make up his mind about marrying somebody else!’

But would he marry Charlotte? There seemed every possibility that Marcel’s seriousness might just match Conan’s own, although even if it did, Dinah couldn’t see the gallant Frenchman as much competition. Not for me, anyway, she immediately decided. Dinah simply could not> imagine Conan running second to Marcel in anything, any more than she could imagine herself being any sort of competition for the glamorous Charlotte Fleury.

Although I’d cheerfully give up my career to follow Conan . . . anywhere he wanted to go, she thought. Would Charlotte do as much? Dinah suddenly doubted it very much indeed. Unless she loves him as much as I do, she thought, and if that’s the case, I wonder how she’d react to the knowledge that he’d spent all day yesterday and half the night with another woman. Or would Conan bother to tell her?

Dinah had to admit, even as that thought raced wildly through her mind, that she knew the answer. Whatever else Conan might be, he wasn’t sneaky. Of course he’d tell Charlotte. Why shouldn’t he? In his mind it was only a drive with a friend, somebody whose judgment he felt he could depend upon. She slammed her coffee cup down angrily at the thought.

Her day in the mountains had given her a totally new perspective on Conan Garth, but it was one which did nothing but further reinforce her feelings about him. It had seemed like a quiet, uncommunicative day after their early row, yet in retrospect she’d learned a great deal about Conan, his background, and the future he was considering for himself. She knew he liked fishing, especially for trout . . . that he sailed occasionally, couldn’t be bothered with golf . . . that he was essentially a loner, neither interested in nor active in team activities. He watched the occasional rugby league game, but strangely for an Australian, he loathed cricket with a passion bordering upon the fanatical. Conan’s idea of a pleasant weekend was to go walking or driving in a remote area, or one new to him, either with a selected companion or totally alone.

‘Usually alone,’ he had said. ‘There are few people who can really share my idea of solitude without infringing on it. And I value my days like that too much to mess them up. You, on the other hand, are always welcome company.’

It was an unexpected compliment, flattering in a peculiar way until he told her about what he called the ‘two-hundred-mile law’. Then Dinah rallied to the defence of her sex, even though she could easily understand the point Conan was trying to make.

‘It’s not really my own invention,’ he said. ‘Actually it comes from an interview I once read concerning some Hollywood star. Can’t even remember who it was, to be honest. But he said the fastest way to figure out if you can stand a woman is to take her on a two-hundred-mile trip by car. And he was right, although the chauvinism isn’t required. Most people, female or not, would drive me right round the twist in fifty miles.’

‘Well, it still sounds like a typical chauvinist platitude to me,’ Dinah had replied.

‘Only from some points of view. Probably because men understand other men better than they do women. I’d be able to decide such a thing about another man without having to go for a drive at all. I’d know almost by instinct, whereas with most women I’d probably have to drive along and see what happened.’

‘All you’re admitting is that you really don’t understand women,’ Dinah had retorted. ‘And frankly I’m not sure I like the idea of being tested, if that’s what this has been all about.’

‘Well, until just this minute, it hadn’t even crossed my mind, and that’s the truth. It never even occurred to me that you’d be hard to get along with in that way.’

‘So what does that make me, a man?’

‘Not hardly,’ Conan had replied with a gentle grin. ‘Nobody could ever accuse you of giving that impression, least of all me.’

‘Well, I suppose I should be thankful for that,’ Dinah had retorted, unaware of just how convincingly he would prove it later on the crest of Mount Kosciusko.

‘You can also be thankful I never lie, because if I did, I’d tell you it was a test, and you failed it during the first fifty miles,’ he said with a disarming grin. ‘And before you get all stroppy about it, I admit that was a low blow, and also that you’ve more than made up for it since. During the last fifty miles, for instance, you’ve said hardly a single word, I've been doing all the talking, which probably should mean that I should fail the test.’

‘You probably would have.’ Dinah was mollified. ‘But it wouldn't have been fair anyway; I’ve never been known as a chatterbox.’

'Well, if nothing else, it proves some people can share a pleasant experience without having to talk it to death at the same time. And most women—people--have gone on long drives with me have just about driven me mad with idle chatter. You are therefore virtually unique.’

And that had been the last word from either of them for the next fifty miles, as they travelled veiled in their individual exposures to the flowing landscape. Individual, but no less shared. And for Dinah it was a sharing burdened with troubled inner feelings.

Sharing ... sharing a day with the man she loved, the man who wanted to marry somebody else and was using her as a sounding board for his own thoughts. Would Conan Garth, she wondered, remember the day as vividly as she would in the years to come? Would he remember the simple comfort of being quiet with somebody so exquisitely special, or merely-if anything-that he had once taken a long drive to help clear up his mind?

'Maybe I should send Charlotte a bill, instead of a wedding present,’ she muttered savagely. ‘I wonder if he ever takes her on long drives.’

Then her thoughts turned to the horrifying thought that maybe he couldn’t -- that Charlotte might be the type of woman he professed to dislike on such outings. How awful if that were so, she thought. It would take away all the pleasure for him, and eventually he would be forced to either go alone or not at all.

Yet surely such a singular issue wasn’t enough to judge a marriage on. There was so much else in life, so many other important issues between two people contemplating a lifetime partnership. But Dinah found her memory sifting back over the drives that she had taken as a child, long drives by British standards, but also quiet, comfortable experiences in which her parents rarely spoke except to point out something of particular interest.

She remembered thinking as a teenager that it must be very boring for her parents to drive for hours without conversation, but looking back with Conan’s words in mind, she could see that she had been horribly, childishly wrong.

Because her parents had never appeared bored with each other; they simply couldn’t be bothered with trivialities. When they talked, there was something of interest or importance involved for at least one partner. Their concern was with the sharing, not the conversation. And what more difficult to share than solitude?

Especially for somebody like Conan, she thought, who valued his solitude so greatly, and who cherished the rural ramblings that he could share, but never abandon. And it would also be equally important to Dinah herself, since she couldn’t visualise such a journey in any other company. Not without remembering this first one, and not without remembering the words. It was a harsh realisation that spilled salty tears into the now-cold coffee.

By the time she went to the office on the Monday, Dinah had completely come to terms with her feelings for Conan, and she was totally reconciled to their futility. The only thing she could do that might be constructive, she decided, was change jobs at the earliest opportunity, preferably getting as far from Canberra as possible in the process. Her first task on the Monday, therefore, was to scan the weekly broadcasting and advertising magazine which was the media job-hunter’s bible.

But there was nothing for which Dinah was suited, and her mood wasn’t improved by the realisation that she was still only a novice journalist with a long road ahead before she’d be a good prospect for any employer.

Doesn’t matter ... I’ve got to resolve this thing, and it will be easier away from here, she told herself, making a firm resolution to scour the weekend papers thoroughly and grab the first job she could lay her hands on. It wouldn’t be easy, not with Christmas just around the corner, but maybe after Christmas . . .

‘Why the fearful scowl? Get out of the wrong side of the bed this morning?’ Conan stood majestically in the doorway, immaculately dressed as usual, but far more cheerful than Dinah had come to expect in the office. He looked down at the magazine in her hands and raised one eyebrow quizzically. ‘Checking out the jobs, eh? Not planning to shoot through just when we’re getting you whipped into shape?’

‘Well. . .’ and then she shrugged. Why not admit it? He’d have to know sooner or later. ‘Yes, I was thinking about it,’ she admitted somewhat lamely.

‘And probably because of me,’ Conan replied with innocent but alarming accuracy. His handsome face was grim with the admission, but Dinah couldn’t doubt his sincerity. ‘Well, you can forget about that; after our little trek the other day I’m a new man, at least for a week or so. I wouldn’t even think of snarling at Mick today, that’s how good I feel. And I would hate to lose you, Dinah. True! You’ve done a lot to brighten this place up, and I don’t mean that chauvinistically. So promise you’ll give it another go . . . okay?’

Dinah was trapped. She couldn’t insist without giving some kind of legitimate reason. Or could she? Yet she didn’t want to make any promise she’d be unable to keep. Her heart tugged at her mind, pulling it towards the promise. She opened her mouth, but no words came.

‘And besides,’ Conan said with a knowing grin, ‘you’d need a reference—and I damn well won’t give you one, so how’s that?’ He was grinning, true, but there was a hint of determination in his voice that sparked quick anger from Dinah’s troubled mind.

‘You ... you couldn’t,’ she said hotly. And seeing the look in his eyes, she knew he could, and would. She flustered entirely. ‘That’s .. . that’s just totally . . . damned despicable. That’s right—despicable!’

She could feel the tears coming, unstoppable, despite her surprise when he stepped back in mock terror.

‘Good lord, woman, I was only joking! And you are serious about leaving, aren’t you?’ Dinah nodded through a veil of tears. ‘And it is something to do with me, isn’t it?’ Again she nodded, oblivious of the tears that flowed unhindered down her cheeks.

Unexpectedly, he reached into his pocket and handed her a fresh, clean hanky. ‘Well, it must be pretty bad if it makes you cry. But please don’t leave now. Let’s make a deal—stay until after Christmas, and if you still think it’s necessary then, I’ll help you all I can. Right?’

Dinah’s head whirled. She couldn’t think straight about it at all. But at least his offer would mean only a few more weeks, certainly not more than a couple of months. Then she could get herself totally away from the damnable influence of Conan’s pale eyes and disturbing presence. She nodded agreement without really listening to him any more, mopping at the tears which refused to stop their erratic dripping.

‘. . . settled, then; I’ll pick you up about five o’clock Saturday morning and we should get in a good day’s fishing even if it does mean driving home in the dark as well.’

‘But. . . but. . .’ She might have saved her breath. Mick walked into the room at that moment and Conan immediately turned to him with a series of instructions about the day’s work. It seemed to Dinah that part of the exercise was to give her time to finish mopping up her tears, but it also settled the matter of the coming Saturday.

Throughout the week, her brain struggled towards a last-minute reprieve while her heart, sang every time Conan mentioned his enjoyment of their earlier trip. And he mentioned it rather often, somewhat to her embarrassment. She got no sympathy from her fellow workers, either. They were persistent in urging her to go fishing with Conan every weekend, if it meant that they could benefit from his sudden improvement in temperament.

‘But I don’t even like fishing,’ she confided to Pam at coffee that Friday morning.

‘So what? Hardly any girl really does, but you sure see a lot of them trying it. Gives them a proper chance to be all coy and feminine. Lets the men feel oh-so-manly when they’re sticking poor innocent worms and things on hooks. Then, once you’ve hooked your own fish and married him, you sort of wean the fellow back to his mates for fishing trips, and everybody’s happier all round.’

Married! The word struck at her like a sword, though she was sure Pam didn’t see the sudden paleness caused simply by that one word. Why couldn’t Conan take Charlotte on his fishing trips? Dinah thought. Surely he didn’t really want her own company all that much, so why did he persist in making her a part of his private life? It didn’t have any of the markings of a campaign to make Charlotte jealous, or at least none that she could see.

When Conan arrived just before dawn on the Saturday, Dinah wouldn’t have had to lie to plead a headache; she was suffering from the worst headache she’d ever experienced in her life. And it hadn’t been helped by an inability to sleep the night before. But when he enquired if she’d rather beg off, some mindful imp took control of her tongue, and they were off down the road before she could possibly refuse.

Through the sleeping city, out across the elderly wooden span of Tharwa Bridge, and finally on to the rough gravel of the Shannon’s Flat road that wound south through the edge of the ranges to Adaminaby, and throughout the journey neither Dinah nor Conan said a word. Even as they once again picked up the bitumen at a high crossing on the upper Murrumbidgee, Conan spoke only to point out the scenery as they sped quicker along the good road to the turn off at Providence Portal.

Dinah’s headache had returned with a vengeance, and she didn’t pay much attention as Conan organised to pick up his friend’s boat, loaded the gear into it and finally shoved them off into the broad, quiet waters of Lake Eucumbene. The sun was just beginning to burn off the mist when they reached his destination, a broad expanse of flooded timber that waved skeletal arms above the shimmering waters of a narrow inlet.

Dinah waved away any suggestion that she take part in the actual fishing, content to lie back in the bow of the boat while Conan stood in the stem and waved his long fly rod like a ghostly wand. Allowing the boat to drift idly, he began to concentrate his casting to the edges of the submerged timber, drawing back the floating fine with gentle, easy movements of his fingers.

As the sun warmed her, Dinah removed her blouse and denim jeans, using them as a cushion when she sprawled out in her bikini to catch the early warmth.

Through her half-closed eyes, Conan’s face seemed to be gradually slipping into a softness she’d never before noticed, as if the years were slipping away from him and taking the tension marks with them. And when the first trout rose to his fly, it was a boyish Conan Garth whose whoop of joy floated echoing over the silent waters.

‘Whoo! Look at that!’ he exclaimed as he brought the fish finally to the net. ‘Two pounds if it’s anything at all. One more like that and we can stop for breakfast—and what a breakfast it’ll be!’

Dinah winced as he unceremoniously cracked the trout across the top of the head against the gunwale of the boat and then wrapped it carefully in a damp sugar bag and stowed it beneath his seat before rising once again to seek out a new victim.

‘Keep your fingers crossed, love. Maybe his daddy’s out there,’ Conan muttered as he flicked the tiny fly down alongside the skeleton of a huge tree, manipulating his rod to make the imitation insect dance in the rising breeze. Dinah watched anxiously but in vain, and she had closed her eyes again in deference to her aching head when Conan’s sibilant hiss of delight announced yet another strike.

This fish, even Dinah could see, was far larger than the first. It leaped fully out of the water, shaking its rainbow tail in anger at the minuscule gnat that held it prisoner. Then the fish surged away in a swift and mighty attempt to reach shelter.

‘Oh no, you don’t!’ Conan reacted by rearing high into the air with his flexible fly rod, using the power of the slender wand and the long floating line to try and turn the fish before it could snag him and escape. Headache again forgotten, Dinah watched in fascination as he played the fish back and forth, nearing the boat at times before the fish churned the water again in another escape attempt. It took him nearly half an hour to land the monster, and Dinah was Conan’s equal in excitement before the huge trout finally rolled in its surrender to the waiting net.

‘Oh, you’re a mighty fish!’ Conan exclaimed as he lifted the net to display the full size of his rainbow-sided prize. ‘It’s a shame to keep you, I reckon, after a fight like that.’

‘Oh . . . can you still let him go? Oh, please do, Conan,’ Dinah cried. ‘He’s much too big to cook anyway, and he did fight so well . . . please . . .’ She was stammering, tom between the excitement of the catch and the feeling that she couldn’t bear to see the massive fish so casually killed. When Conan gently disengaged the hook and then lowered the net again into the water to swish the monster free, she gave a huge sigh of happiness.

‘That’ll cost you at least a kiss, young lady. He was a damned fine splendid fish. A trophy, in fact.’ Conan was wiping his hands on his pant legs, and he looked up to receive a brisk peck on the cheek.

He reached out to capture Dinah by the arm before she could settle back into her place, and those deep taupe eyes took on an expression of weary amusement. ‘Hmph! Call that a kiss? You’ll have to do better than that, dear Dinah, mark my words. But not until we’re on dry land; I can’t run this boat without keeping my attention on what I’m supposed to be doing.’

But it looked for a moment as if he had every intention of claiming a far more complete kiss than he had received, and to cover her own feelings Dinah accepted the trolling rig he passed to her before starting the motor to cruise a weaving course beside the sunken forest. Obeying his instructions, she paid out the handline behind the boat and held the spool firmly in her hands as they moved along.

‘It’s all up to you, now,’ he said, shouting over the noise of the motor. ‘It was your idea to give away what should have been breakfast, lunch and dinner, so you’ll have to catch us another fish for breakfast or go hungry.’ Dinah, sprawled across the centre seat of the boat to keep the line away from the propeller, didn’t bother to answer him. She was all too aware of his eyes as they caressed her scantily-clad body, and she knew her voice would tremble with suppressed emotion if she dared to speak.

But she couldn’t totally control the reaction of her slender figure to such careful scrutiny, and soon realised it was more than the sun which brought a delicate pink colouring up the smooth lines of her breasts and into her throat. She was searching for an excuse to stop fishing and put her clothes on when a gentle, stirring tug on her line was followed by another and then a third, and she yanked savagely on the spool, to be rewarded by an answering pull as something unseen struggled for freedom beneath the water.

‘Stop! Oh ... oh ... stop! Stop the boat. I’ve got something . . . Oh, stop!’ Dinah squealed with excitement as the unseen fish pulled more strongly on the line, and Conan turned the boat to give her room before shutting off the motor and lolling back against the stern to watch her struggle with the spool that threatened to jump from her straining fingers.

‘Oh, come and help me . . . please!’ she shouted, her fingers burning as the fish charged away and took line with it. ‘Oh . . . Conan . . . please help me!’

‘No way,’ he laughed. ‘You caught him; you have to land him. I’ll hold the net, but it’s up to you to get him close enough.’

Dinah’s reply was a squeal of excitement as her fish, coming close to the boat for the first time, suddenly flung itself into the air in a bid to shake the hook. As it returned to the water, Dinah frantically wound in line, and after two short runs she had him.

She shook the hair from her eyes as Conan lifted her fish into the boat and shouted, ‘Fantastic! My word, you don’t mess around when you’re told to catch fish, do you? I reckon I’ll have to give you a kiss for this beauty!’

The fish was a twin of Conan’s earlier catch, and fifteen minutes later they were both sizzling gently in a large frying pan over a driftwood fire on a small sandspit. Dinah had never believed anything could taste so good, or that she could be so ravenously hungry. The pan hadn’t even cooled before only two stark skeletons remained of the fish. Dinah repacked the utensils while Conan scrubbed the frying pan with soft beach sand, then they settled down with a final cup of coffee to enjoy the sunshine that had finally won its battle with the lakeside mists.

‘It’s so peaceful here, I’d like to stay for ever,’ Dinah sighed as Conan returned to sprawl down beside her. ‘You’d think there was nobody left in the world but us.’

He turned to gaze into her eyes, and she could see the intensity in his glance before he spoke. ‘Just as well, because I have a kiss to collect, and so do you,’ he murmured, reaching over to draw her against him as his lips searched across her cheek. Dinah fought a short and unwanted battle between head and heart before relaxing in Conan’s arms and letting her lips soften beneath his.

Time, the warming sun, the rippling of the waters . . . all were forgotten as she merged into Conan’s arms and let his caresses stretch her senses to the limit. Her hands wound around his neck, fingers clasped in the thickness of his hair, she opened her lips to the warmth and sweetness of his breath and felt his arms crushing her against him as his kisses became more and more ardent.

Then his hands were moving over her body, touching in places with an erotic magic that tingled through her like flickering fire. Once, her mind began to argue, but she shut it out; she was already lost. If he wanted her, here on this silent, deserted beach, she was his—even if it would only be for this moment and never again. When his fingers loosened the bikini top and stroked fire into her bared breasts, Dinah didn’t resist, but instead shifted to ease his way, wordless and yet ardent in her surrender.

His lips left hers to wander a fluttering path down her cheek, the column of her neck to the flushed warmth of her bared bosom, tongue teasing across her skin like nothing she had ever known before. Her own fingers were moving under his shirt, stroking the muscles of his shoulders, his back, as his lips moved lower to devour her last shreds of possible resistance.

His hands were everywhere, touching lightly at her thigh, across the arch of her hip before returning to caress her breasts as her own hands embarked on explorations of their own.

Dinah was no longer capable of resistance, and she no longer wanted to resist. She was moaning his name in her growing frenzy, writhing as her body became almost liquid in his hands, moulded to meet his every touch, his every movement as he gently shifted her towards the final, ultimate surrender. Eyes closed, she lived it all by touch, her hands and her entire body responding to desires far stronger than anything she would have believed. She could feel the warm sand against her back, the sun caressing their bodies with a warmth nowhere near that which Conan’s fingers and lips created, and his fingers—Conan’s fingers as they moved at the ties of her bikini bottom.

Then, without warning, his fingers were pushing against her hip, thrusting her harshly away from him as he stumbled upright with an anguished cry. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled before turning his tormented face from hers and striding angrily away.

Through the mist of her own tears Dinah could see him walking angrily down the sandspit, wrenching harshly at a branch in passing as he reached the underbrush. And even in the curious mixture of anger and disappointment and relief, she could feel her heart going out to him with love and tenderness. She wanted to follow him, to somehow comfort him, but she didn’t know how. So she comforted herself as best she could, and the tears dripped tiny patterns on the sand beneath her face.

When Conan finally returned, eyes hardened and body rigid with emotion, Dinah made a single attempt to ease his burden, but he rejected it with a single-mindedness that was even more ruthless than his original departure.

‘I said I was sorry, and I mean it,’ he said chillingly. ‘But I’m just as sorry that I stopped, for whatever sense you want to make of it.’

‘Not much at all,’ Dinah replied. ‘And I don’t see why you’re so upset anyway; it’s hardly as if I were an unwilling victim.’

‘Maybe not unwilling, but you’d have been a victim all the same. It wouldn’t have been any good for you.’

‘And I suppose I have nothing at all to say about it?’ she retorted, angered by his chilly attitude.

‘No. No, you damn well don’t! A little casual messing about is one thing, but that wasn’t casual and we both know it.’

‘Well, I’m sorry,’ she sneered. ‘Do you think just because I was going to let you make love to me that I’d be dragging you up to the altar next?’ Her lips thinned with hurt and rage, and she flung the words out without regard to the risk of hurting him. ‘At least it would have been worth five thousand dollars a year, which is more than you’d get from one of your Kleenex girls!’

Conan’s laughter rang venomously in her ears. ‘I can’t imagine you’d need to pay for a lover,’ he sneered. ‘But . with that witch’s tongue maybe you damned well should.’ He reached down suddenly to yank Dinah to her feet, glaring down into her eyes as he shouted at her, ‘Well, let me tell you something, Miss Fisher, it’s only because you’re not one of my so-called Kleenex girls that you’re here at all, never mind that I stopped making love to you when I did. I had thought that you were my friend, and friends are more important than lovers, in my book.’

And suddenly he was crushing her again in his arms, and as his lips searched across her throat and down in to the cleft of her bosom, his voice floated up with devilish harshness. ‘But obviously you need a lover more, and that’s just fine with me. I’ve wanted you since the first moment I laid eyes on you, so if that’s the way you want to play the game, who am I to argue?’

Dinah struggled vainly against his strength, aware that his kisses were no longer loving and tender but harsh and brutally demanding as his hands on her body. The warmth and softness was gone; he was handling her with knowing sureness, but without the aura that had brought her to such peaks of desire before, when her own love responded.

She struggled in silence at first, but as she became aware that her body was betraying her, she screamed her anger. Then, in a final flush of resistance, she flung one hand against his face, feeling her nails catch as she shoved hard to shift him off balance and then over as he tripped against her outflung foot and fell against the edge of the boat.

She gasped at the sudden crunch of something breaking and then his startled yip of pain, but she knew relief when he turned to look at his smashed fly rod, and she saw the hooks of her own lure dangling from his trousers. Conan was cursing under his breath, reaching for the broken rod with one hand as he fumbled behind himself with the other, and she caught his gasp of pain as he tentatively tugged at the lure.

But her anger retreated before her fears, and she stepped over to grab his hand away before he did any serious damage. ‘Leave it; you’ll hurt yourself!’ she shouted, and he halted in abrupt silence at the sound. One of the treble hooks was caught in the cloth of his trousers and another was free, but the third was obviously securely entrenched in the seat of both trousers and man.

Already there was a trickle of blood, and Dinah shook her head to clear away the immediate feeling of nausea that rose in her throat.

‘I suppose the bloody thing’s right in past the barb,’ Conan muttered, reaching back once again to try and work the hook loose. Dinah slapped at his hand without thinking and shouted at him to stop. ‘You can’t possibly fix it,’ she hissed.

‘Well, I can’t drive home like this either, can I?’ he shouted back at her.

‘Of course not,’ Dinah snapped. ‘But you might stand still so I can see how badly you’re hooked. Maybe I can get it out.’

‘Like hell you will,’ he replied.

‘Exactly!’ she snarled back at him. ‘Now bend over the edge of the boat and be quiet. You’re not a child!’

Conan wasn’t happy about any of it, but he finally gave in to Dinah’s angry demands and allowed her to slit open the cloth of his trousers and shorts until she could see the shiny steel of the hook that had indeed gone into him right past the barb. He swore bitterly when she told him, then heaved a great sigh and asked if she thought she could get it out.

‘I don’t ... I don’t know,’ she admitted, swallowing against the queasiness of her stomach. ‘I’ve never done anything like that before.’

‘Well, there’s no time like the present to learn,’ he muttered, obviously no more pleased at the prospect than Dinah herself. Under his direction she rummaged in his tackle box until she found a pair of strong pliers, and tried to follow his deft movements as he demonstrated how she’d have to twist the hook enough through to reach and then cut off the barb.

‘I don’t think I can,’ she said, only to be met with a snarling, ‘Do it, damn it!’

‘But it will hurt you . . .’

‘No,' it won’t—everything’s numb. Now do it!’

And she did, fighting back her stomach and her amazement that human skin could be so incredibly elastic and so incredibly tough. It took all her strength to twist the pliers until the sharp point with its wicked barb suddenly popped through to where she could reach it.

‘Now what?’ she muttered through clenched teeth, angry at her weakness and at the irrepressible gasp of pain from Conan as the hook came through.

‘Use the cutters and cut the barb off; then pull it back the way it went in,’ he snarled. ‘And do it quickly, before you faint or some such stupid thing.’

The sneering criticism had an immediate effect on Dinah, in that it made her so angry that she considered for a moment just walking off and leaving him, but instead she used both hands to snip off the barb and then adroitly freed the hook itself. Except for two tiny droplets of blood, there wasn’t a sign of the. injury.

‘There,’ she said loudly, shivering in her relief that the ordeal was over. ‘It’s out.’

‘Thank you,’ said a much calmer voice than she’d heard earlier. ‘Now do you suppose you could reach into the first-aid kit and put some iodine or something on it?’ Dinah splashed on the antiseptic with a perverse delight at his involuntary gasp when it stung. ‘There,’ she said, ‘and I hope it teaches you to keep your hands to yourself.'

I m sure it will,’ he replied coldly. ‘And thanks for the doctoring job, since I’m sure you’d rather have left the hook there so you could enjoy watching me suffer.'

‘I was very tempted,’ Dinah retorted. ‘I could have had you stuffed and mounted to hang on the newsroom wall.’ Conan grinned mockingly. ‘Well, at least you’d have proof that you can catch a man,’ he sneered. ‘Just don’t put me on the same wall as your Frenchman, that’s all I ask.’

Dinah threw her eyes wide in pretended innocence. ‘Oh no,’ she replied sweetly. ‘He’d go on the bedroom wall.’ And acid laughter bubbled inside her at the look of cold rage in Conan’s steel grey eyes.

‘Then it’s just as well you decided to throw me back,’ he said coolly, turning to start repacking the boat.

Score one for Dinah, she thought to herself, and wished bitterly that she could feel she had actually won something. But as they drove across the lake and then up the track towards Canberra, she knew from the cold, silent presence beside her that it was a hollow victory indeed.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Sunday was a day of torment for Dinah. She spent it in solemn communion with her heart, and no longer able to even think of denying her feelings for Conan, she spent the day running an emotional gauntlet that ranged from tears to bitter laughter. By evening, exhausted by the torment inside her, she flung herself on to her bed and determined that her only recourse would be flight.

It had been a mistake, a dreadful mistake, to promise Conan she’d stay through Christmas. But it was a mistake she would have to bear in any event, since there was no possibility of finding another job in the interim. It would be an unbearable three weeks, she realised, but probably no worse than her future wherever she went, because without Conan Garth in her life, she could see only emptiness.

And if she was going to work with him for another three weeks, she would simply have to put a check-rein on her emotions and endure as best she could. If nothing else, perhaps she could avoid giving him any opportunity to hurt her any more.

As she walked through the corridors of the television station the next morning, Dinah offered silent prayers that it would be one of those days when either she or Conan would be out filming most of the time. She hoped it would be her, since his presence pervaded the newsroom even when he wasn’t physically in it.

A hum of laughter warned her that somebody else had arrived early, and Dinah entered the newsroom to a grin of greeting from Mick, who sat across the main desk from an immaculately dressed Conan Garth. Conan didn't grin a welcome, but merely looked up at Dinah with expressionless eyes.

It was Mick who spoke. ‘Enter the great fisherwoman,’ he said loudly. ‘We were just discussing your expedition. Did you really catch the biggest fish of the day?’

Dinah looked at Conan, wondering just what he’d been saying before she arrived. She couldn’t imagine him telling Mick about the fish hook incident, and certainly not about the prologue to it, but his eyes now told her nothing. It would serve him right if I broadcast it all over the building, she thought. The great Conan Garth with a fish hook in his rump would be the laugh of the station. But she couldn’t do it, and she realised that immediately. It would be ridicule of the worst possible sort, and she loved him too much to do that.

‘Oh, I caught a big one,’ she replied finally with a forced laugh. ‘But I threw him back.’ Again she looked at Conan, defying him to reply, but it was Mick again who picked up the conversation.

‘What the hell did you do that for?’ he asked.

And an imp inside her answered out loud, ‘Because he wasn’t worth keeping.’

Dinah’s eyes were locked with Conan’s, both of them challenging the other, but neither quite ready to pick up the challenge. Mick looked from one to the other, his eyebrows raised in curiosity, but then his instincts must have warned him, because he turned away abruptly and began to read the morning paper. Dinah and Conan stayed in their staring match for a moment longer before Conan, too, turned away with a sneer of obvious hostility.

A few moments later he got up and walked out, saying he’d be out in the news van on filming jobs if anybody needed him.

It was a pattern that continued through the next few days. As if he had read her own thoughts, Conan arranged the schedules so that he and Dinah spent as little time as possible in the office at the same time. Necessary contact was carried out with a chilled politeness that did nothing to relieve the strained tensions within the newsroom, but at least they didn’t fight.

The strain was telling on Dinah, however. Her temper grew shorter by the day, and since she couldn’t take it out on Conan, everybody else in the newsroom came in for shares of acerbic comment. She ate hardly at all, her sleep was fraught with nightmares and her waking moments with thoughts of Conan. He haunted her, and his cold politeness only made it worse. Every time she passed a certain sports shop, her eyes were drawn to an ultra-light fly-rod outfit. For Conan.

It was ridiculous, she thought. But the fifth time she passed the shop she rushed in and bought it without a thought to her motives. She’d never give it to him, but somehow that didn’t matter. She wanted it, and she’d bought it. For him. Insane. She shook her head at her own silliness and flung the parcel into the back of her car, then walked off to meet the cameraman for her afternoon assignment.

It would be an easy one, typical of the midsummer silly season stories they’d all been involved in recently—an extensive display of fine jewellery, far too close to Christmas to make logical sense, but providing a stagnant newsroom with the chance of some topical film.

‘There’s no news in it, but you should get some kind of fancy picture story,’ Conan had told her earlier that day. ‘Have a natter with the exhibitors; see if there just might be an angle for a story, but either way get plenty of film. The way things are shaping up today we could need two minutes just to fill out the bulletin, so if you have to, do it as a what-do-you-get-for-the-girl-who-has-everything? piece.’

The cameraman was waiting when Dinah arrived, having already grabbed, he said, a fair bit of footage of pretty girls drooling over the extensive display of diamonds and emeralds and hand-crafted gold and silver. He waited while she had a quick chat to the woman in charge and was taken on a brief tour of the exhibition.

Some of the jewellery, Dinah decided, was so garish as to have little more than pictorial value despite the shocking prices, but a few pieces showed a vivid talent for design and genuine appeal. The comparison, she decided, might make at least a show of a story. It took only a few minutes to organise before she was standing with Julia Smythe, the woman in charge of the display, and ready to begin the interview.

The cameraman signalled his readiness, and Dinah turned to begin the interview, but her glance was drawn over Mrs Smythe’s shoulder to where, out of camera shot, the pale-eyed face of Conan Garth sprang into focus.

Dinah’s stomach knotted; she could feel herself begin to colour, and she dreaded the stammer she knew would emerge when she opened her mouth. The nerve of him! He, of all people, should know better than to deliberately step into a situation so potentially distracting. Her mind raced like an engine out of gear, then as suddenly meshed into a clear pattern of cold consideration and deliberateness. Her eyes never left his as she began directing questions to a slightly confused Mrs Smythe.

Her mind was clear, her questions sharp and brief, and sixty seconds later she knew it was a quality interview. But she wasn’t finished yet. She could feel rapport like a chalkline between herself and the cameraman, and when the final answer was done and Mrs Smythe stepped aside, Dinah moved into action.

She stepped forward to select various items from the display, discussing them in a running commentary as she walked. Everything came right off the top of her head, but there wasn’t a flaw in the presentation. And finally she was positioned right in front of Conan Garth, right where she wanted to be.

‘And of course we can’t ignore the growing trend to masculine jewellery,’ she said into the microphone. ‘Here’s our news director, Conan Garth, to provide that view. And what do you think of the current range, Mr Garth?’ Conan’s eyes blazed cold as any diamond, but the face he turned to the camera was smiling and at ease. Reaching down, he picked up one of the clunky medallions from the showcase and handed it towards her with a grin.

‘I think it’s like any other form of adornment, Miss Fisher. Purely a matter of taste. Can you, for instance, imagine me in this?’

He’d thrown the ball back to her with maddening ease and a mocking glance that only Dinah could see, but she was in too deep to give up at the first exchange. Smiling sweetly, she examined the medallion in such a way that the camera could bring it into focus as she spoke. ‘No, somehow I don’t think this is really you, Mr Garth,’ she replied in a syrupy voice. Then she exchanged the medallion for one that she had privately assessed earlier as ‘ultramodern ghastly’. It looked like a refugee from a Hollywood cannibal movie.

But it was easily the farthest possible thing from anything Conan would voluntarily choose, and it suited her purpose exactly. ‘Now this, Mr Garth, would be just splendid on you,’ she smirked. ‘Of course you’d have to wear a mauve shirt, preferably open to the belt . . .’ And then she knew she’d gone too far.

Conan’s laugh was as warm as his eyes were cold, and he lifted the monstrosity from her own icy fingers like it was some dead animal. ‘Like I said, Miss Fisher, it’s all a matter of taste. And I’m certainly glad I don’t have to worry about you picking out my jewellery.’

Game to Conan Garth. Dinah stood there, stuck for words and aware that whatever she said now would be wrong. She was only dimly aware of Conan turning to the cameraman. ‘They’ll love that one in the editing room; ask them to take the whole thing if I’m not back in time, will you?’

Then he turned to grasp Dinah firmly by the arm, his smile suddenly sharkish. ‘We’ll just thank Mrs Smythe, shall we?’ he said, steering her towards where the older woman stood. His strong fingers remained clamped about Dinah’s elbow during the few moments it took to deal with the formalities, but even then he didn’t release her. Instead she felt herself being directed back towards the beginning of the display.

‘That was quite brilliantly done, I thought,’ Conan said easily. ‘And I’m sorry I distracted you, but I was there before I realised it was a bad position, and then it was too late to move.’

‘In a pig’s eye,’ she retorted, struggling vainly to free her elbow. ‘You did it deliberately and you know it. Really, I may be inexperienced, but I’m not stupid!’

‘You are if you think I deliberately play those kind of games,’ he replied calmly. ‘You can accuse me of many things, but unprofessionalism isn’t among them.’

And even as he said it, Dinah knew he was right. Right, and worse . . . because if there was any unprofessionalism involved in the performance, it was her own. But would she—could she—care to admit it to this man who already knew it and had refrained from saying so? She must, she realised, and ignoring the heated flush in her cheeks, she did so.

The response was a thoughtful nod, accompanied by a minuscule raising of one sooty eyebrow. ‘It’s hardly the end of the world,’ he drawled. ‘But maybe I should do things like that more often; you really come alive when you’re angry. Now let’s forget it. I want to look at this exhibition without the cameras, and I want you to give me an honest opinion about some of the stuff. Honest, mind you. Try to lead me down the garden path and I won’t buy you lunch.’

Dinah was surprised at how quickly his anger had gone, and with her own massive attack of guilt, she didn’t argue with him. Conan took her arm again, gently this time, as they strolled along beside the display cases, and he made a special point of seeking her opinions.

Dinah fell in with the game, exercising her opinions honestly enough. But when they reached the section where the engagement rings were displayed, she cringed inwardly and hoped he’d pass it by. No such luck.

‘Do you believe that diamonds are a girl’s best friend?’ he asked with a grin.

‘For most girls, I expect,’ she replied calmly. .

‘Most—but not you, I gather?’ Conan was leading her, and Dinah knew that whatever she said it would very likely trip her up, so she chose simple honesty as the safest route.

‘Oh, I like them well enough, but only as an investment. Frankly I think there are much more attractive stones.’ Honest enough, despite the turgid feeling in her tummy and the heat of his hand at her elbow.

‘Such as?’ he asked.

‘Well, opal, for starters. It may be common enough here in Australia, but it’s still the most gorgeous gemstone in the world. I think so, anyway.’

‘I’m inclined to agree, but it’s also one of the most fragile,’ he said. ‘Totally unsuitable for an engagement ring because of the fragility. Actually, an opal ring is putting the stone to its worst possible usage, because of the risk of breakage and the way it suffers from simple wear and tear. You should never put an opal in water, for instance, and especially not soapy water, or bathwater that contains oil.’

Conan went on to tell Dinah about how opals tend to absorb even body oils, which is why the. best use for the pure stones is in pendants and brooches. ‘It just wouldn’t do for an engagement ring, so what else would you choose?’ he asked.

‘I hardly think I have to worry about such a choice,’ Dinah said in her coolest voice, hoping it wouldn’t reveal the tremors inside her.

‘Ah, but you never know,’ he quipped. ‘So humour me. What would you pick from all this lot if you were going to become engaged?’

‘I’d have to think about it, and I don’t really want to bother,’ she answered, struggling to move further along the display counter. But Conan retained a firm if gentle grip on her arm, and she wasn’t going anywhere.

‘Now don’t flap, Dinah. All I’m asking for is an honest opinion. What are you afraid of, that I’d buy the ring and rush you off to get a wedding licence?’

‘I’m not afraid of anything,’ she said desperately. ‘But it’s a silly game and I don’t want to play any more.’

‘Well then, maybe we should get Mrs Smythe back here and I’ll tell her we’re about to become engaged. I’m sure she’d just love to help us select a ring.’ Conan’s voice was deadly calm, but he was serious and Dinah knew he’d like nothing better than to humiliate her further.

‘You’re a devil!’ she hissed at him. ‘But if it’ll stop you making a scene ... all right!’ She pointed to a small, delicately fashioned creation in yellow gold, with the setting twined about a polished but naturally-shaped emerald crystal to make a ring that was high, vitally distinctive, and which had stolen her heart the moment she saw it first. ‘There, that’s the ring I’d choose,’ she said in a harsh voice. ‘And I honestly think it’s the most gorgeous ring in the whole collection.’

Conan looked first at the ring, then down into Dinah’s eyes. ‘You’ve certainly got better taste than you showed in that interview,’ he said with a sardonic grin. ‘But wouldn’t the colour make it difficult to wear all the time?’

‘Not for me,’ said Dinah. ‘It isn’t that large, and it’s the unusual setting that first draws the eye, not the stone itself. Besides, it’s the person who wears an engagement ring who looks at it most, and I could look at that one for ever. Now can we please go? I’ve had enough of this.’

‘No, not yet,’ he said. ‘We haven’t looked at the rings for men. Now come and show me what you’d pick out for me if we were getting engaged—and I don’t mean something like that barbaric pendant.’

Dinah’s stomach began turning flip-flops and she could feel herself going weak in the knees. Was this man totally insensitive? Couldn’t he see how cruel this teasing was? Closing her eyes, she forced herself into immobility and tried to drown out the cacophony of emotions that swirled through her blood.

‘No . . . no, really. I ... I have to get back to work,’ she stammered. ‘There’s that film to be edited, and . . .’

‘I’m the boss. Which means I decide when you go back to work,’ Conan said sternly. ‘And which means I decide that it’s necessary to look at men’s rings.’ His tone and expression made it clear he’d brook no argument, but Dinah’s inner turmoil distracted her from noticing.

‘But men don’t wear engagement rings,’ she said angrily. ‘Most of them don’t even wear wedding rings.’

‘But we’re not talking about most men; we’re talking about me. And I would wear one, I can assure you of that.’

‘Well, I don’t want to be the one choosing it,’ she said hotly. ‘I wouldn’t even know where to start and it isn’t something that particularly appeals to me.’

‘So fake it,’ Conan shrugged. ‘But I want a choice from you, and I want a choice that’s honestly yours, not the product of your spitefulness.’

‘I really don’t know what you’re trying to prove,’ she retorted. ‘The only ring involved in your marriage will be the one in your wife’s nose!’

Conan remained unperturbed by the outburst. He stood her in front of the display case and waited patiently, silently. Finally Dinah gave in.

‘Very well, if you must insist on this foolishness . . . that one!’

Conan didn’t look at the ring immediately, but instead turned to look steadily into her eyes, as if seeking the lie. But Dinah hadn’t lied. The ring she had marked was a heavy rectangle of silver surrounding a chunk of Queensland boulder opal with veins of liquid fire running through it. It was solid, obviously hand-made, and to her mind it was made specifically for the graceful, strong finger of Conan Garth. The silver setting would protect the veins of opal, and the overall effect, while slightly barbaric, was truly impressive.

Conan finally looked down at the ring, and Dinah anxiously watched his face. But he betrayed no reaction she could see. Instead, he looked up after the merest of glances and gestured for Mrs Smythe to attend them.

‘I’d like to try this ring on,’ he said when she arrived. Mrs Smythe was more than anxious to assist, and a second later he held up his hand for Dinah’s inspection.

‘Still your choice?’ he asked quietly, and at her nod of agreement, he smiled, but said nothing else as he returned the ring to Mrs Smythe. ‘Now I’d like Miss Fisher to try a certain engagement ring,’ he said, forcibly dragging Dinah back to that display.

Dinah’s heart tumbled like a falling leaf when he took the ring from Mrs Smythe, insisting that he must place it on Dinah’s finger himself. Her hands trembled so badly he had to forcibly hold her steady as he eased the ring into place.

‘Don’t be so flighty, woman. This might be the best offer you’ll get all day,’ he said. And he flung a delighted wink at Mrs Smythe, drawing a gracious smile from the older woman and a furious blush from Dinah.

Dinah was afraid to look down and see the ring on her finger, afraid that her face would reveal every emotion and the white-hot intensity of her feelings. Conan didn’t help; he looked not at the ring, but deep into Dinah’s eyes, his gaze forcing her to look at the ring. She stared back defiantly into the depths of his grey eyes, searching vainly for some sign of the expected mockery. But if it existed, he’d hidden it well, and finally she couldn’t bear the scrutiny any longer. Dinah turned her eyes to where her hand was still warmly in his grasp, with the soft gold and the distinctive emerald seeming to draw a heat of their own against her skin. It was perfect!

And that very perfection, threatening to drown her heart in its own tears, suddenly made her angrier at Conan Garth than she’d ever been before. Pulling her hand away from him, she tugged and strained until she’d freed the ring, which she handed immediately to Mrs Smythe without giving Conan another look.

‘It’s certainly lovely; I’ll remember it if I ever decide to buy myself a present,’ she said coldly. ‘But I think you should show Mr Garth the diamonds. I’m sure they’d be more suitable for the woman he has in mind.’

Mrs Smythe turned towards Conan, and Dinah took full advantage of the slight distraction to shoulder her way through the lunch-time crowds until she found the door. Blinded by the brightness of the sunshine and her own tears, she stumbled into a lamp-post and almost fell, saved only by the strong hand that claimed her wrist and held her upright. ‑'

‘You do get excited, don’t you?’ said an all-too-familiar voice. ‘Now come and I’ll buy you lunch.’

Dinah thrashed blindly, fighting against her tears and the iron of his grip, but Conan stood like a stone, tall and immovable and quite oblivious to her attempts to escape.

‘I don’t want any lunch,’ she cried angrily. ‘I don’t want anything to do with you. Can’t you see that?’

‘I could hardly miss it,’ he said calmly. ‘But you’re coming for lunch whether you want to or not.’

‘I won’t!’

‘You will... if I have to drag you,’ he said firmly. ‘And stop arguing; you should be happy to have somebody buy your lunch for you.’

‘I can buy my own lunch! I don’t need you.’

‘Of course you don’t need me. You keep trying to tell me that. But think of the money you save if I buy you lunch,’ he said with a grin.

‘I’m not interested in saving money. I just want you to . . .’

Conan didn’t bother to let her continue; he turned her around beside him and began walking solidly towards the entrance of nearby Petro’s Tavern. Unable to free herself, Dinah was dragged along beside him like a miscreant child. Only when she lost a shoe in her struggles did he stop, and then only long enough to let her reclaim it.

‘You should be interested in saving money,’ he said as if it were perfectly natural for him to be carrying on a quiet conversation while he dragged her down the footpath. ‘After all, you’ll need money to buy me a Christmas present.’

That comment was sufficient to stun Dinah into something approaching compliance, and the next thing she knew they were ensconced in a booth with menus before them.

Conan kept silent as he ordered, steak for himself and the lemon sole for Dinah. It wasn’t until coffee was brought that he forced her into conversation again.

‘Well . . . have you decided what to get me for Christmas?’ he asked with an expression of total seriousness.

Dinah nodded mutely, seeing in her mind the handsome fly-rod travel pack and wishing suddenly that she could wrap it around his neck.

‘Well,’ he asked, ‘don’t I even get a hint?’

‘What I’d like to give you,’ Dinah hissed savagely, ‘is another fish-hook, right where it would do you the most good!’

‘My, aren’t we vicious today!’ he laughed. ‘But surely you can do better than that. I’ve found something for you that I think will be almost perfect.’

Almost perfect! Dinah’s mind conjured up the ring, unbidden, and the vision brought fresh tears of anger at the futility of it all. ‘The only thing you could possibly give me that would be “almost perfect” would be a good recommendation, so that I can get another job and get away from you for ever,’ she replied. ‘And as soon as ever possible!’

‘You’re a most ungrateful child,’ Conan said mockingly. ‘Here I’ve taught you all I know, you still don’t know anything, and all you want to do is leave.’

The attempt at humour failed miserably, but he ignored that. ‘Would you believe me if I told you that you aren’t going to have to quit your job just to get rid of me?’

‘Why should I believe you?’ she flared. ‘I can never tell when you’re being serious—if you ever are—and you obviously don’t care what I believe anyway, or you’d leave me alone.’

‘If it wasn’t for me, would you still want to quit your job?’ There was a subtle change in Conan’s voice, a strength and authority that Dinah couldn’t avoid.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I like my job ... I love it, in fact. But I will not, cannot, continue working for you.’

‘Why?’

Because I love you and I hate you and I can’t live without you, her heart cried, but there weren’t the words to answer the question out loud. She didn’t even try to answer; she stared silently at her lap.

‘Well, there has to be a reason,’ he said, and she shivered at the anger in his voice. ‘What is it?’

Dinah didn’t even raise her eyes. She could feel the anger as it built inside Conan, flowing like a cloud to encompass them both. The silence drew on and on.

Finally she couldn’t bear it any longer. ‘We’re just not compatible,’ she whispered.

‘What?’ His voice seemed like thunder in her ears.

‘I said we’re just not compatible,’ Dinah repeated, slightly louder this time.

She waited for an answer, but he said nothing, and finally she could bear the silence no longer. She had to look up and meet his eyes. Conan shook his head fondly as she did so. ‘Dear, dear Dinah,’ he sighed. ‘Do you really hate me so very much?’

‘Yes,’ lied Dinah, ‘I do.’

‘Well, if you don’t hate any better than you lie, I’ve very little to worry about,’ he said with a grin.

It infuriated Dinah. ‘Do you always have to be so smug?’ she railed. ‘You don’t know everything . . . you’re not always infallible . . . you’re not always right. . .’

Conan merely grinned back at her. ‘The boss may not always be right . . .’ he began.

‘But he’s always the boss!’ Dinah finished for him. ‘Well, be my guest, Mr Garth. Because there’s only a couple of weeks to go until Christmas, and after that I’m free to leave if I want to, unless you’re a promise-breaker as well as a . . . a . .

‘As well as a busy man who can’t sit all day over lunch,’ he said, ‘so, much as I’d like to prolong this discussion further, it’s back to work for both of us. But don’t worry about me breaking my promise. As of January the first, if you still want to leave, I’ll help you . . . just as I promised.’

‘But you said Christmas . . .’

‘Purely an expression. What I meant was what I’ve just said—January the first. Not that it really matters, because you’re not going to want to leave anyway.’

‘Oh yes, I am!’ Dinah couldn’t possibly admit that he was right in that as well. She wouldn’t ever want to leave wherever Conan might be, but she had 'to, for her own survival.

‘We’ll see,’ he said, folding money into the bill and rising from his seat. ‘Now hustle yourself off to work; I have things to do.’

Conan didn’t get back to the newsroom until nearly four o’clock, and from then on things became their usual hectic jumble of last-minute problems. Dinah had only one other story on the go, and she was waiting on a single telephone call so that she could wrap it up. There wasn’t any urgency, since it was for the following day, but she wanted the business out of the way, and she knew if she didn’t get the information that night, she might miss out entirely.

She was waiting still when everybody else left, the boys off to the pub for tea, and Conan to direct the evening newscast. Dinah was sitting with her head in her arms, wishing the phone call would come before the news ended and Conan returned, when a voice from the doorway startled her into awareness. ‘You’re here awfully late; were you a bad girl today or something?’

She turned to meet the gaze of Charlotte Fleury, looking as immaculate as ever. ‘Why . . . good evening,’ said Dinah. ‘I’m just waiting for a phone call, that’s all.’

‘Ah! Where’s wonder boy—not finished the news yet?’

‘I’m . . . not sure . . .’ Dinah’s reply was halted by the sudden appearance of her interview segment on the newsroom television set, and she automatically reached up to turn off the sound.

‘Oh, no . . . turn it up, if you don’t mind,’ Charlotte exclaimed. ‘I’ve been meaning to have a look at that exhibition.’

Dinah couldn’t ignore the request, but embarrassment forced her to open a newspaper and pretend to read it, keeping just half an eye on the screen. She also watched Charlotte’s face, wondering how the other girl would react if the portion of the film involving Conan had been left in. A tinkle of laughter answered that question for her.

‘Oh, Dinah, that was priceless! You should be proud for even trying to score off him like that. More nerve than I’d ever have, believe me. I can’t wait to see his face. I’ll bet he was just livid with rage, wasn’t he? Not that he’d ever let it show on camera, of course.’ Charlotte shook her auburn head with laughter, obviously amused by the whole thing. ‘You’re certainly lucky he’s not a vindictive person,’ she said to Dinah, ‘or you’d be stuck covering Legislative Assembly for the rest of your life.’

‘And who says she won’t be?’ Conan’s deep voice rumbled through the room and he moved over quickly to kiss Charlotte lightly on the cheek. ‘And what are you hanging around for, Dinah? You’ll have Charlotte thinking I’m a regular slavedriver.’

Dinah explained about the phone call, but Conan brushed aside the explanation.

‘It’s not .important enough to stay over for,’ he said. ‘If you can’t pick it up tomorrow, just forget it. Now run along home.’

Dinah could take the hint; she quickly grabbed up her handbag and fled towards the door, flinging a quick farewell behind her. It wasn’t until she reached the car that Charlotte’s ‘see you Saturday night’ crept into her consciousness.

‘Oh, no, you won’t,’ Dinah muttered half aloud. The last thing she wanted to do was attend the station’s annual Christmas party and have to spend the evening watching Charlotte and Conan together.

It was while she was easing her car out of the parking lot that she chanced to look back towards the building, where lights inside revealed Conan and Charlotte walking down a corridor which Dinah knew could lead to only one place—the general manager’s office.

With her headlights already on, she couldn’t dare be seen stopping in the middle of the road, but she did slow down the car to a virtual crawl. And her suspicions were confirmed. The only lights in that entire wing were in Geoffrey Lewis’s office.

But why would Conan and Charlotte be going there? Dinah wondered. It simply didn’t make sense. She was still pondering it when she got home, but even by bedtime she was no closer to a reasonable explanation.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Friday sped by with annoying haste, as everybody in the building seemed to be involved in last-minute planning for Saturday night’s office Christmas party. Willing or not, Dinah was constantly being drawn into lengthy discussions about dresses and make-up and who’d be sitting at which table on the big night.

Saturday, by comparison, crawled by at a snail’s pace as Dinah’s tormented mind created and rejected a dozen excuses for missing the party. Had it not been for Conan, she would have been thrilled by the event, having heard a welter of stories about past Christmas parties and the pranks and excitement involved. But she knew she simply could not face an evening of Conan and Charlotte together, and with the entire newsroom at one table, it would be doubly difficult to ignore.

But even as she told herself she wouldn’t attend the party, Dinah was surprised to find herself subconsciously selecting the clothes she would wear and the accessories to complete the outfit.

The rest of the team would be expecting her, and she knew that Mick and Pam, if nobody else, would be mildly disappointed if she failed to attend. Conan, of course, would be too busy with Charlotte to even notice Dinah’s absence ... or would he? she thought idly. Well, too bad if he did.

For some unaccountable reason, Dinah’s weekend house-cleaning chores simply flew past; she even managed time to drive to the laundromat in Kingston, do a bit of needed shopping while her laundry was in the wash, and get home in time to iron everything that needed it—all chores that normally would have plodded through the day, but this time they seemed only to increase the idle time in which she could think of nothing but Conan and the upcoming party.

As she laid out her clothes and slipped into a frothy bubble-bath, Dinah told herself she would go to the party and Conan Garth be damned. As she brushed at her hair in the mirror, she decided to stay home and avoid further problems for her troubled heart. And when Pam phoned to see if she wanted a lift to the party, Dinah hedged desperately.

‘Listen, Pam, I’ve got the absolute worst headache I’ve ever had,’ she lied, ‘and my throat’s been getting sore all afternoon. I think I might be coming down with a bug of some kind, and believe me, if I don’t feel a bit better by tea-time, I may just give the party a miss and go to bed with a hot toddy. Certainly I’ve no intention of showing up with a runny nose and a headache and spoiling everybody else’s fun.’

Pam’s reply made little attempt to hide the fact that she thought Dinah might be faking, but her friend accepted the explanation without argument, and Dinah was quick to explain that she would definitely try to make it, but she didn’t really want a lift.

‘After all, I might not make it through the entire evening,’ she explained. ‘I’ll either bring my own car or come in a taxi, so that nobody has to worry about leaving the party to bring me home if this bug gets any worse.’

After the telephone conversation, Dinah moped about the flat, angry with herself at the deception but perhaps equally angry at the cowardice she was revealing in her plans to avoid the party because of Conan. She cleaned and dusted and polished in a vain attempt to physically force her feelings aside, but it was no use. By six o’clock she did have the headache, no longer imaginary, and by the time she was fully dressed and ready to leave at six forty-five, she was caught unprepared by a non-imaginary and quite unexpected sneeze.

Her reaction was a giggle, followed by a virulent comment about psychosomatic illnesses and fickle women— just the type of comment she’d expect from Conan, she thought. Still, she took a couple of cold tablets, and with half an hour to go before her departure, sat down in her most comfortable easy chair and closed her eyes wearily.

The thunderous knocking on her apartment door seemed at first to be part of the dream she was having, and before she could get herself together enough to answer it, the unlocked door was flung open to admit an angry Conan Garth.

Dressed in immaculate evening clothes, he stood just over the threshold, pale eyes raking over Dinah’s party outfit and her sleepy, bemused expression. Conan reached over to touch the security chain, and his lip curled in bitter rage. ‘What do you think this thing is, a pretty little decoration?’ he asked angrily. ‘Hell, woman, anybody could walk in here just as they pleased!’

‘I’m sure they could,’ Dinah replied in sudden fiery anger of her own. ‘But let’s not forget that nobody invited you. What do you want here anyway?’

‘Obviously I came to see why you weren’t at the party,’ he said calmly.

‘Well, I don’t see that it’s any concern of yours in the first place, but I fell asleep,’ she answered, retreating inwardly at the strength of his gaze. Under Conan’s scrutiny, she felt she might as well be naked, and her inner reaction to that concept was a.bit too pleasant to be revealed.

‘That’s funny, the way I heard it you had a headache, or a cold, or some other convenient little female problem,’ he sneered. ‘But I see you’re at least dressed for the party.’

‘Well, of course I’m dressed for the party,’ Dinah replied hotly. ‘And I’d be there already if I hadn’t fallen asleep.’

‘Then why all the excuses to Pam about headaches and chills and fever? It sounds to me as if you were trying to talk yourself out of going.’

‘And why would I want to do that?’ Dinah hoped her anger would cover the feeling of guilt his comment had raised.

Conan merely shrugged and raised one black eyebrow in his habitual gesture of scepticism. ‘How should I know?’ he muttered. ‘Doesn’t matter anyway, since you’re obviously ready now.’ Reaching out to the coffee table, he picked up her purse and shawl and handed them towards her. ‘Okay, let’s be off. You’re late enough already.’

‘I’m perfectly capable of finding my own way there, thank you,’ Dinah replied coldly, nonetheless accepting purse and shawl from his hand. ‘I’ll take my own car.’

‘You’ll come with me,’ he replied with equal bluntness, reaching out to take her arm in a firm grip. ‘Girls who take naps with their flats wide open aren’t to be trusted driving alone at night. Besides, you might suffer a relapse of this imaginary illness.’

Dinah pulled herself free of his grip, shaking her blonde hair angrily. ‘Will you keep your hands to yourself! I am not a child, and I resent taking orders from you like this. It’s none of your business how I get to the party—or if I get there at all.’

‘But of course it’s my business,’ Conan replied with an unexpected grin. ‘It’s an office party, and I am the boss. It would certainly reflect on me if you decided to stay away just in spite. Goodness, old man Lewis might think he had no esprit de corps, and we couldn’t have him thinking that, now could we?’

‘Well, why not? He’d be right. Anyway, I can’t walk into the party with you, and especially not this late. Some people might get the wrong idea ... like Charlotte, for instance.’

Conan’s laughter sounded too genuine to be real. ‘I can’t imagine it worrying Charlotte very much,’ he chuckled, and Dinah’s heart dropped like a stone. Of course it wouldn’t worry Charlotte, she thought. Charlotte already had the game won, and she knew it. Dinah’s spirits slumped at the acceptance, and she didn’t protest a second time when Conan took her arm and led her from the flat.

He drove in silence to the hotel where the party was being held, and Dinah slumped in her own seat, no longer sufficiently aroused to argue with him. She did, however, steal an occasional glance at his face while he drove.

And even in silence, Conan’s presence filled the car. She could sense his alertness, smell the outdoorsy flavour of his after-shave. The breeze through the open side-window ruffled thick dark curls where her fingers had once toyed in a passion she could barely imagine possible, and his strong fingers, so light on the steering wheel, had been even lighter in their explorations of her own straining body.

Conan stopped the car at the front entrance to the hotel and walked round to help her from her seat. By gesture only, he indicated she should wait for him, then he stepped back into the car and moved off in search of a place to park.

Wait for him! Dinah would wait for him for ever, if only he would indicate that there was some purpose in it, but without that indication she could see no logic in allowing Conan’s presence to make her own entrance any more obvious than it must be. Clutching her evening bag in fingers that still trembled from his touch, she strode through the hotel corridor to the function room where the party was already in full swing.

Entering the room, she could see at a glance that her lateness wouldn’t even be noticed. She was barely late at all, considering that waitresses were still bringing trays of dinner to most of the tables, including the one occupied by the newsroom crew. Several people waved cheery hellos as Dinah approached.

‘We’d just about given up on you,’ Pam smiled as Dinah reached the table. ‘Headache all better?’

‘Oh yes, thanks. Sorry I’m so late, but I took a couple of tablets and fell asleep. Where am I to sit, just anywhere?’ Dinah’s eyes roved around the table as she spoke, noting with some surprise the placement of Charlotte Fleury beside Marcel, and the empty seats beside Pam and Mick.

‘Right here beside me,’ said a deep voice at her shoulder, and she turned to find Conan staring down at her with an exasperated look in his eye. ‘You just don’t like to do anything I tell you, do you?’ he muttered in her ear as he held her chair. ‘What’s the matter, afraid I’ll compromise you—or something?’

‘Nothing could be farther from my mind,’ she replied acidly. ‘I just didn’t want anybody getting the wrong idea.’

‘Well, if it’s going to be one of those kind of nights, I’m going to get some tucker into me,’ he replied with a mischievous grin. ‘Nothing I hate worse than fighting on an empty stomach.’ He reached out to start ladling huge helpings of turkey and dressing and mashed potatoes on to both their plates.

‘I can’t possibly eat this much,’ she protested, trying to stop him from loading her plate even further.

‘Well, if a couple of cold pills put you to sleep like you say they did,’ Conan replied sarcastically, ‘you’d better get through all of this before you try and have anything alcoholic to drink. I’m not having you pass out on me here.’

‘I have no intention of passing out on anybody,’ she replied tartly. ‘And besides, I am not with you, despite the fact I’m sitting beside you. You should be sitting with Charlotte anyway; I’m sure she wouldn’t think of passing out on you.’

Conan ignored her objections, and with his mouth full he didn’t even bother to answer her. Dinah was vaguely glad of the opportunity to avoid further discussion, and after a few bites of the food she suddenly discovered she was much hungrier than she’d thought.

‘See, I told you it wouldn’t be too much,’ Conan grinned as she finished cleaning her plate. ‘Can’t party without food to provide energy. Now do you want coffee, or are you coming to dance with me?’

‘I’ll have coffee, thank you,’ Dinah replied. ‘I don’t really feel much like dancing.’

Conan merely shrugged and passed the sugar and cream before turning away to talk to the person on his right. If he’d caught the snub, he didn’t acknowledge it.

Marcel, on the other hand, was having no such problems with his dinner companion. Ignoring the coffee, he was out on the dance floor with Charlotte as the first set began, both of them obviously more than prepared to enjoy themselves. And they no sooner returned to the table than Conan claimed Charlotte, spinning her away into the throng without a backward glance. It left Dinah alone with Marcel, who immediately asked her to dance with him, and of course she never thought of refusing. And then with Mick, and Bruce, and various other men who asked, but always with her eyes on the tall figure of Conan as he twirled through the crowd with a variety of girls.

The first break was devoted to speeches, principally from the chairman of the board and the general manager. Neither was overly impressive, but at least it kept Dinah from having to try and communicate with Conan. Not that it made all that much difference; she was constantly aware of his presence beside her, almost as if he were radiating some form of aura that she couldn’t escape.

As the final speech ended and the band returned to pick up instruments, she slipped quickly away from the table, using the powder room excuse and detesting herself for her cowardice. It was a wasted effort; she returned to the table to find only Conan still seated. Everybody else was on the dance floor, but Conan didn’t ask Dinah to join him there. He sat in contemplative silence, seemingly content to watch without speaking.

Certain he was watching Charlotte Fleury, who was dancing up a storm with Marcel, Dinah tried to follow his gaze, looking cautiously at his profile every so often as if it might tell her his reaction. But gradually she realised he wasn’t really watching anything, but merely staring into space, lost in his own thoughts. Even when that bracket of music ended and the rest of the crew flocked back to the table, Conan didn’t join in the good-natured bantering that followed.

At one stage, however, he exchanged a significant glance with Charlotte, who was flirting outrageously, Dinah thought, with Marcel. And the look they exchanged was so intimate, so knowing, that Dinah’s heart quailed before it. She was torn by reactions of pure jealousy, anger at Charlotte for the flirting, and pity for Marcel, who seemed unaware of the closeness between this woman he obviously adored and the man who sat beside Dinah.

She was talking to Pam when the next bracket of music began, and didn’t at first notice the change to a softer, slower rhythm until she felt fingertips at her shoulder and looked round to find Conan standing over her.

‘You’ll dance with me now,’ he said gently, but it was as much command as request. Dinah wanted to refuse him; she couldn’t bear the thought of being in his arms. Her mouth opened, but no words came, and then she was guided from her seat and led like a nervous filly on to the rapidly-filling dance floor.

At first she danced stiffly', badly. Her body was consciously held as far from Conan’s as she could manage, and she kept her head averted from the inviting hollow of his shoulder. But as the floor grew more and more packed with dancers, she was less able to keep her distance, and by the end of the second number she was firm against him, her body throbbing to the heat of his own and her breasts taut with the contact. The scent of him, masculine and strongly drawing, filled her nostrils and her fingers trembled in his hand.

At the first pause, she stood trembling until forced to move by the push of the shifting crowd, hoping silently that Conan would release her and return to the questionable safety of the table. But his fingers remained loosely about her wrist in a grip that was casually gentle, as if he didn’t realise that the touch of those fingers burned into her flesh like a living brand.

‘Why are you so nervous?’ The whisper drifted to her ears as she was drawn close to him with the resumption of the music.

Dinah’s heart thundered wildly against the restraint she forced into her soft-voiced answer. ‘I’m not nervous.’

‘Why do you always lie to me?’ he said in a husky whisper. ‘You’re trembling, your heart is fluttering like a wild thing in a cage, and you say you’re not nervous. Are you really that afraid of me?’

Afraid! The only fear Dinah had ever felt was at the lake, when she was afraid that he’d stop making love to her. And at this moment her one great fear was that the music would stop, though she dared not admit it. She couldn’t, mustn’t continue like this. It was madness and worse to find her body, even her tongue, betraying her at Conan’s slightest whim. ‘Of course I’m not afraid of you,’ she replied with as much assurance as she could muster. ‘Who could possibly be afraid of a man with a seat full of fish-hooks?’ She had to force the acid into her voice, bringing it up like bile and feeling her mouth twist to the acrid, bitter taste.

Conan laughed softly. ‘Nobody, I reckon,’ he said. ‘Although I’m disappointed the fish-hook incident is what you remember best about that trip.’

‘Well, it was certainly the funniest thing about the trip, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, but hardly the most fun, at least for me. You probably enjoyed it most, though. You’re inclined to be a rather vindictive little witch.’

‘I’m no such thing, although you certainly don’t deserve any better,’ Dinah replied.

‘If I didn’t have such amazing powers of self-restraint you wouldn’t be saying that,’ he muttered. ‘And you wouldn’t be thinking your surgery was the most enjoyable part of the trip, either.’

‘Well, I can’t imagine your juvenile attempts at love-making to be much of a highlight,’ she replied angrily.

‘Oh, can’t you?’ he replied grimly. ‘That’s probably because we never quite finished. If we had, you’d be singing a different tune now, I promise you.’

‘I can do without your promises, thanks.’ Dinah felt his arm begin to tighten around her waist, hugging her even closer to him. The heathery scent of his after-shave was pungent in her nostrils, and his strong fingers were like steel bars against her back, forcing her body against him so that every movement seemed to meld them together. Her breasts burned with the heat of his body and she could feel the muscles of his thigh flex when he guided her through the turns. She was no longer listening to the music; her body was following only his commands, as if she were part of him.

‘I never make a promise I can’t keep,’ he said lightly. ‘Which is just as well, from your point of view.’

‘The only promise I need is the one I’ve already got,’ Dinah whispered. ‘A good reference so that I can change jobs first thing next year.’

‘You haven’t changed your mind about that, eh? I’d really hoped you would, because I’ve already said you won’t have to change jobs.’

‘One of us has to,' she replied. ‘And since I can’t imagine it being you, that only leaves me, doesn’t it?’

‘Don’t be too sure about that,’ he replied with a wide grin. ‘I just might fool you by throwing it all in and running away to Queensland or something.’

Dinah laughed. ‘I can’t imagine the great Conan Garth as a beach-bum,’ she said. ‘Besides, you’re a bit too old to fit the surfie mould.’

‘You’re only as old as you feel,’ he said. ‘And I feel remarkably young, right at the moment. All I’d need is the right woman along, and I’d be off like a shot.’

‘That shouldn’t to terribly difficult to arrange,’ she replied without thinking. ‘I’m sure Charlotte would be happy to join you.’

‘What? And give up her career? You don’t know Charlotte very well, Dinah.’

And I don’t especially want to, either, Dinah thought. Then she couldn’t resist adding, out loud, ‘Well, there must be plenty of other girls whose standards aren’t too high. I’m sure our spunky little tea-lady would be in it.’

Conan shifted his grip suddenly, releasing her so that he could glare down into her eyes. ‘And I suppose that your standards are too high?’ he asked in a deliberately provocative voice.

‘Does that matter?’ Dinah replied with a cold stare. ‘You haven’t asked me, have you?’

‘Not much sense in it, is there? You’d only make some snotty remark about me being after your money.’ Conan’s eyes were coldly brilliant, and she could see the clouds of anger building in them.

‘I’d do no such thing,’ Dinah lied. The words had been right on the tip of her tongue, hastily swallowed before the accuracy of his charge.

‘You are the worst liar in the entire world,’ Conan told her. ‘Haven’t you learned by now that I can read your mind?’ He was smiling, but grimly.

If you could read my mind, we’d be somewhere else but here, Dinah thought. Somewhere cosy and warm and private and somewhere we could give up this arguing and fighting ... ‘If you could really read my mind you’d be more than happy to get rid of me,’ she said aloud. ‘After all, it’s you who says I’ve a vindictive streak.’

In reply, he suddenly spun away from her so that her hand left his shoulder and came between them. Conan picked it up, never missing a step, and looked at it carefully. ‘Surprise ... no dagger in it,’ he chuckled, swinging Dinah back against him again.

‘You could hardly expect it, in public,’ she replied demurely, not bothering to hide the acid in her politeness. ‘Want to go somewhere private?’

‘No, thank you!’

‘Okay. Want to run away to Queensland?’

Dinah’s heart stopped, briefly. She seemed unable to breathe, and afraid to speak lest she shout out Yes! Yes! He had to be joking, toying with her as he always did. ‘But I thought you were taking Charlotte,’ she finally stammered. ‘I’d just be in the way, wouldn’t I?’

‘I didn’t say I was taking Charlotte . . . you did,’ he replied calmly. ‘You’ll have to come up with a better excuse than that.’

‘Any excuse is better than none,’ Dinah replied with a lightness she didn’t feel. ‘Besides, you’re not serious anyway, so what difference does it make?’

‘Who said I wasn’t serious?’ Conan’s voice was strangely calm, alive with undercurrents she couldn’t read. But he was obviously going to pursue the matter until she gave him an answer, even though she didn’t dare to take him seriously.

‘You can’t be serious,’ she said. ‘Besides, you’d have to give three months’ notice, and by then I’ll be gone from here and into a new job. You wouldn’t expect me to just drop everything at that stage.’

‘You sure don’t make it easy, do you?’

‘Life wasn’t meant to be easy,’ Dinah replied in a haughty imitation of the Australian Prime Minister’s most quoted remark.

‘Maybe not,’ Conan replied grimly, ‘but you go out of your way to make things difficult, my girl. In fact I can hardly imagine life ever being easy with you. What I can’t figure out is whether you’re naturally this hard to get on with, or whether you practise just for me.’

‘Neither!’ she snapped. ‘It’s just a natural response to your male ego and chauvinistic tendencies.’

‘Now, now, don’t get excited,’ Conan said soothingly. He drew her a bit closer and moved the fingers of his right hand in stroking motions down her back.

‘And stop petting me, I’m not a cat!’ she snarled, struggling against him in a vain attempt to gain breathing space.

‘Then stop fighting,’ he said, unperturbed. ‘At least we dance well together, when you let go enough to allow it.’

‘Only because I have to let you lead,’ she gasped, unable to escape the crush of his arms.

‘Which is clearly the proof that if you’d let me lead all the time there’d be far less friction,’ he laughed—and then abruptly changed positions so that Dinah was in the traditional male dancing position, her left hand outstretched to hold his and her right around his waist. ‘Okay, you lead,' he said with a joyous grin at her immediate discomfort. ‘But I warn you, it’s tricky keeping off somebody’s tender feet when you’re leading.’

‘I’d just as soon kick you in the shins as step on your toes,’ she replied, struggling to swing him around to the music. It was a disaster from the beginning. Dinah felt as if she was trying to move a sack of sand, even though she was forced to admit Conan was helping as much as possible. They stumbled, careered into other dancers, almost fell once. And throughout it, he laughed down at her with open amusement that only made her more angry.

At the end of the number he was so convulsed with laughter he could hardly stand alone, while Dinah was equally shaken with pure rage. As the floor began to clear, she stared angrily up at him, desperately searching for the proper pointed remark.

And she found it. ‘You’re a terrible dancer,’ she said angrily. ‘I shan’t ask you again.’ And with, that she turned on her heel and stomped back to the table, leaving Conan alone with his horrid, mocking grin.

Grabbing up her handbag as she passed the table, she almost ran for the powder room, arriving flushed and almost in tears just as a supremely cool-looking Charlotte arrived from another direction.

‘You’ve been fighting with Conan again,’ Charlotte said with a sorrowful grin, shaking her lovely auburn head as if to chastise Dinah. It was the final straw; Dinah ran for one of the cubicles and slammed the door behind her as the tears erupted.

It seemed to take forever to get herself under control, and having finally done so, she was in no mood to return to the ballroom. Her eyes were puffy from crying and no make-up could repair the tension and strain of the evening.

Well, I won’t go back, she thought, remembering as she did so that her shawl was still hanging over the back of her chair. No matter! She simply couldn’t face any more of Conan, not in such an atmosphere. Pam would notice the shawl and bring it away with her, and if not, then so what? It was a small price to pay for being able to save face.

It took her only a moment to slip down the corridor and ring for a taxi, then she was standing in the cool breeze on the hotel steps, suddenly very, very weary. She saw the rooftop light of the cab as it rounded the corner, but as she started down the steps a rigid grip on her arm stopped her in her tracks.

'I wouldn’t have reckoned you for the type to run away,’ said Conan, without a trace of humour in his eyes.

‘I’m . . . I’m not,’ she replied, unable to meet his glance.

‘Too right you’re not,’ he said, steering her around as easily as if she were a child. Dinah couldn’t resist without making an unholy scene, and they were back inside the hotel before the taxi arrived. Conan paused only long enough to slap some bills on to the desk and advise the clerk that the lady had changed her mind, then they were moving back into the party as if nothing had happened.

Their table was empty, everyone on the dance floor, and Conan seated her with something of a flourish before sitting down beside her and reaching out to grasp her hand.

‘Now listen, young lady,’ he said very gravely. ‘This kind of nonsense simply has to stop. Either you tell me what’s eating at you', or you smarten up and fly straight. I don’t mind you showing a bit of spirit, but these childish temper tantrums are too much out of character for me to enjoy.’

‘What do you know about my character?’ Dinah flashed back. ‘And it’s none of your business anyway. I’m getting sick and tired of you being always the boss.’

‘There’s far more to it than that,’ he said without raising his voice. ‘Now what have I done that’s turned you so thoroughly against me?’

‘Nothing.’ She spat out the word without a pause, hoping vainly that it would satisfy him.

Conan’s grip tightened almost enough to hurt her hand. ‘Don’t lie to me,’ he snarled. 'You can’t lie to me, dear Dinah, because I can always catch you at it.’

Dinah sat in silence, unable to speak because she knew she’d break into tears if she tried. Conan held on to her hand, willing her with his eyes to answer him. ‘All right,’ he said finally. ‘If that’s the way you want it. . .’

He was interrupted by the return of Charlotte and Marcel, but although he stopped speaking, he didn’t release Dinah’s hand. If anything, he held it more firmly against her own efforts to free herself.

‘You two sure do fight a lot,’ said a perceptive Charlotte, making Dinah cringe inside at being found by that particular woman in this particular situation. ‘Well, don’t let us disturb you; we’re off anyway,’ said the auburn-haired beauty, walking around the table to give Conan a loving kiss. ‘Goodnight, darling,’ she murmured. ‘Good luck in the wars.’

Dinah hardly noticed the kiss Marcel planted on her own cheek before the two of them strolled away arm in arm. She had so firmly convinced herself that Charlotte had come to the party with Conan that she couldn’t for a moment bring everything properly into focus.

‘Nice to see some people have better things to do,’ Conan muttered ruefully, releasing her hand as he did so. ‘Makes me wonder why I’ve always declared myself to be a lover and not a fighter.’

Dinah said nothing. She stayed looking down at her fingers, aware of his gaze upon her, but unsure what she should or could say. Anything, she knew instinctively, would likely be wrong at this point. Her mind whirled in a daze that shut out the room and everyone in it.

The next thing she knew, everyone else was returning to the table as well, and Conan had retreated into a thoughtful silence that effectively shut her out. With the next bracket of music, he turned to Pam, leaving Dinah to dance with Mick, and then others as the evening wore on.

It wasn’t until the final set that he returned his attention to her, saying, ‘Shall we dance this one, or would you rather go home now?’

There was a chilling remoteness in his words and attitude, and Dinah felt her stomach churn as her heart cried with anguish. She wanted to dance, of course, but Conan’s attitude suggested that he might not.

‘Which would you prefer?’ she asked cautiously.

‘I’m easy,’ he replied, ‘but if you’re going to argue about it, the dancing will be over anyway.’

‘Then let’s dance,’ Dinah said abruptly. And while she wanted to say they could argue any time, she didn’t. She simply moved into Conan’s arms and flowed with him through the final waltzes of the evening, saying nothing more at all.

And the general silence continued when he finally drove her home, refusing her offer of a nightcap with an excuse so lame that even he had the grace to blush slightly as he uttered it.

Dinah wanted to cry out to him, to apologise, to plead, anything that might turn aside his sudden coldness. But she couldn’t, and after he drove away she threw herself on to the bed in a paroxysm of weeping.

What a fool she’d been! And for how long? she wondered. Obviously Conan hadn’t taken Charlotte to the party that night. And equally obvious was the fact that he didn’t reveal the slightest discomfort at her arrival—and departure—with Marcel. There could have been a chance for Dinah after all, and all she’d done was throw taunts in his face.

The worst was the comments about him being after her money to finance his freelance work. Even in her torment, Dinah had realised immediately she’d said it that such a deliberate assault on any man’s pride would hardly be forgettable ... or forgivable.

And her childish behaviour this very evening was not much of an improvement. Conan had made his disapproval clear enough.

As she sobbed herself into sleep, she realised that all too clearly, along with the even clearer admission that she had, indeed, thrown him back after once having— possibly?—caught him. That was something she couldn’t easily retract, and she fell asleep with the awful feeling that she’d finally killed whatever chance she’d had of getting Conan Garth to love her as she loved him.

CHAPTER NINE

Monday morning, for Dinah, was like walking into hell itself. Sunday, alone with her thoughts and guilts and recriminations, had been bad enough, but as she approached the newsroom, knowing Conan would be there and that she’d have to face his chilling aloofness, was infinitely worse.

He wasn’t, fortunately, in the newsroom when Dinah arrived. But he obviously had already been there; the official-looking envelope on her desk was proof of that. Dinah opened it with trembling fingers, then read with increasing astonishment the glowing letter of reference written, and signed, by Conan Garth. The praise in it was overwhelming, but even more so was the letter itself—undeniable proof that Conan had finally given up on her.

She tried to still the shaking of her fingers as she replaced the letter in its envelope and placed it in her purse, but the trembling only spread until it encompassed her entire being, and a moment later she was sobbing into her hands and wishing she could take it all back, start over, anything but have to accept this written reminder of her own folly.

‘I presume those are tears of happiness,’ said a cold voice from behind her, and Dinah turned to meet the steely gaze of Conan himself. She couldn’t answer him, and instead only cried the harder.

His rigid, unbending coldness completely unnerved her. She wanted to plead with him, to admit her feelings, her folly, but she couldn’t do it. And after a brief, hostile stare, he turned away and returned to his own work.

It wasn’t until late that afternoon that he so much as spoke to her again, and then it was to say that he’d be talking to some of his fellow news editors around the country during the next day or so, and that he’d see what jobs might be going for Dinah.

‘Oh, please . . . please don’t bother,’ she said. ‘I . . . don’t want to put you to any trouble. I can look for myself, if you don’t mind.’

‘Suit yourself,’ he shrugged, and abruptly left the room on some errand or other. Dinah sagged in her chair, completely undone by his coldness.

The next few days were little better, although Conan’s cold reserve seemed to give way at times to mere indifference. He spoke to Charlotte Fleury on the telephone several times, and took her to lunch at least twice that Dinah was aware of—actions that only drove more nails in the coffin as far as Dinah was concerned.

For her own part, she made no move at all to seek a new job, other than to think about it occasionally. She existed in a sort of limbo, content to just cope with each day as it happened.

One night she erected her tiny imitation Christmas tree, then cried herself to sleep at the shocking loneliness that seemed to overwhelm her. The small tree looked quite forlorn, even after she’d placed under it the presents for Pam and Mick and Bruce . . . and Conan Garth.

Christmas, in what to Dinah was midsummer, had a faintly unreal quality about it until the final few days. Even the bustle of last-minute shoppers, the carols on the radio and the bright shop decorations couldn’t make it seem real. But the final days were different, somehow, and she became increasingly aware of being virtually alone in a strange country, facing a lonely Christmas Eve and undoubtedly a lonelier Christmas morning. She was increasingly glad to have accepted Pam’s invitation to Christmas dinner and the open house that went with it.

‘Come over Christmas Eve as well, if you’re feeling a bit down,’ said her friend. ‘There’ll just be Mick and me, but it’s better than being alone. I’ve tried it myself once or twice.’

Dinah thanked her, but confessed she’d already booked a table at one of the leading restaurants. ‘I’ve got a lot of things I want to think about,’ she said. ‘And I shan’t mind being alone on Christmas Eve that much, not in a place where there are plenty of people.’

A blatant lie, but she couldn’t bear to impose herself on Pam’s hospitality, especially knowing that Pam and Mick would really rather be alone.

She arrived at the restaurant precisely on time, which was hardly surprising, she thought, since she had nothing else to do. She had. taken the trouble to dress up for the occasion, although she privately thought her basic black outfit might be more suited to a less supposedly joyous evening, and she felt the eyes of several men as she followed the head waiter through the crowded restaurant.

She gave her drink order and then relaxed, against the back of her chair, staring pensively out the window at the ^lowly setting sun colours over the city. Having convinced herself it would be silly to wallow in her sorrows, she was busy thinking of past Christmas Eves, more pleasant ones, and hardly heard what the waiter said to her when he brought the drink. The words flowed into her brain, but swirled without settling for a moment, and it wasn’t until she looked down to see a second drink, across the table from her, that the waiter’s words took on meaning.

‘The gentleman will be along in just a minute.’ Could he really have said that? In her confusion, Dinah simply sat and stared at the drink across the table from her. It made no sense. She looked up to see the waiter approaching again, and hailed him, explaining that he must have made a mistake.

‘No . . . no mistake,’ he said brusquely, then turned away on his duties before she could speak again. And when she tried to corner him as he passed a third time, he politely ignored her.

Mystified, and aware that she. could all too easily become angered by the mystery, Dinah sipped at her own drink for a moment, determined to catch the waiter on his next trip and demand an explanation.

But it wasn’t the waiter who approached to stand beside her table, resplendent in dove-grey evening suit, but Conan Garth. And suddenly the waiter was there as well, ushering Conan into the chair across from Dinah.

‘You could try to look pleased to see me,’ he said slowly. ‘Any company’s better than none on Christmas Eve.’

A tart reply sprang to Dinah’s lips, but she swallowed it quickly and replaced it with what she hoped was a convincing smile. ‘You’re right, of course,’ she said, shivering inside at the tingle that thrust through her very being at the sight of his smile. She was totally flustered by his presence, and the more so because she didn’t dare to ask for an explanation. Surely he should have been with Charlotte, she thought. Or with someone . . . anyone. Why was he here?

Conan seemed unlikely to provide any explanations. He signalled for more drinks, then turned his attention to the impressive menu in a trivial but polite discussion that left Dinah even more flustered.

‘You order for us, please,’ she said finally. ‘I ... I really don’t know what I fancy. Anything but turkey, as I shall be having that tomorrow, I expect.’ Conan did as she asked, then sat with his drink in speculative silence, almost as if he were waiting for her to make the next move. We’re sitting here like two married people having a tiff, Dinah suddenly thought, but she couldn’t think of any ice-breaking remark that didn’t sound trite even in her mind. And Conan seemed determined to outwait her. Silence hung like a pall over their first course, so obvious that the waiter gave both of them a curious look as he offered the vintage wine for Conan’s approval, then filled their glasses. Dinah couldn’t bear it any longer.

‘Merry Christmas,’ she said in a slightly too-loud voice as she lifted her glass and drained it in a single draught that almost choked her. Conan looked mildly amused, and she thought absently, if he laughs, I’ll throw something at him!

But he didn’t laugh. Instead, he said very gently and very seriously, ‘And to you, dear Dinah.’ She thought her heart would break.

Then the silence returned, but less substantial this time, and it was Conan who broke it.

He talked shop, relating tales of newsrooms past and present, but at least he talked! Dinah gradually felt herself begin to relax, and by the time the main course arrived she was able to join the totally safe, neutral conversation without stammering and blushing. They talked their way through to dessert, and the only touchy point was when Conan asked her how she’d enjoyed the pheasant. It was a reasonable enough question, except that she hadn’t the faintest idea how to answer. She’d eaten her meal without the slightest sensation of taste or aroma or texture; it might have been cardboard for all she knew.

Her stammered reply brought another twinkle of amusement to his grey eyes, but again he refrained from letting it show enough to draw her ire.

But the conversation floundered of its own accord by the time their coffee and liqueurs arrived, and Dinah was grateful for the intervention of a corpulent Santa Claus figure that bounced and capered his way through the crowded restaurant. She smiled happily as the Santa shuffled gaily through the room, shouting ‘Ho, ho, ho’ and kissing every woman within reach as he dropped small, prettily wrapped gifts at each table.

When the slightly ludicrous but wholly appropriate figure reached their own table and claimed his kiss from Dinah, she reacted with delight as he took his due and then claimed yet another kiss.

‘My, my, aren’t you a pretty one?’ Santa boomed. ‘We’ll have to see if there isn’t something special here for you.’ Scrabbling deep into his pack, he extracted a diminutive parcel, placed it before Dinah with a sly wink, and lumbered away to the next table. Dinah sat, her own eyes twinkling, as she watched him wend his way through their end of the restaurant.

‘Are you going to open it now, or stick it under your Christmas tree and see if it grows?’ Conan asked with a warm smile.

‘What do you suggest?’ she replied happily, then thought of the immaculate but so-small tree in her flat. There was little enough beneath the decorated branches, and when she’d taken her parcels off to Pam’s for Christmas dinner, there’d be nothing at all.

‘All the same to me,’ Conan replied. ‘Although I notice most of the ladies seem to be opening their gifts here.’ There was a curious look in his eyes, one that she’d never ever seen before. And his answer seemed just a shade too casual, Dinah thought at first. A look around the room confirmed his comment, however, so she picked up the packet and began to pick at the sticky tape with one fingernail.

‘You don’t have to, you know!’ Conan blurted it out so quickly that Dinah’s suspicions were immediately raised again, though she stopped working at the tape.

Dinah kept her eyes on his, trying to see through the mask of nonchalance. 'Well, make up your mind ... do I open it now, or not?’ She flung the question at him without shifting her eyes, but got only a raised eyebrow for an answer.

The package then seemed to take the initiative. The bit of sticky tape under her fingernail lifted away from the bright paper as if by its own volition, and with that decision made for her, Dinah began to unwrap her gift with slow, deliberate patience. So slowly did she work that Conan ordered two more glasses of liqueur and received them before she’d finished unwinding the ribbon and liberated the tiny box from its meticulous wrappings.

‘Do you always unwrap things like that?’ His slightly unbelieving tone stopped her on the verge of opening the box, and Dinah looked up to find him handing her a glass. .

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘It’s always more enjoyable if you don’t hurry.’

‘Okay,’ he shrugged. ‘But now we’ll have our toast before you open the box. Here’s to a merry Christmas, Dinah.’

‘And to you,’ she replied gravely. ‘Merry Christmas, Conan.’

They stared into each other’s eyes for what seemed like hours, until Dinah finally had to tear her eyes away before she said something totally inexpressible. She looked down at the box. ‘Now?’

‘Now!’ he confirmed, leaning back into his chair as she gently prized open the box.

The lid came stiffly at first, then snicked upward to reveal the interior. Her fingers clutched at the box as her eyes stared unbelievingly at the contents, and the tiny card fluttered unseen to the table. For a long moment she stared in silence, unable to credit what her eyes revealed. Dainty as thistledown lay two earrings, each fashioned from light, hand-crafted gold into a tiny delicate leaf enclosing a small but perfectly matched bud of brilliant, flashing opal. Milk-opal, with the fairy flashes of pink and green and blue and turquoise radiating from within.

Dinah closed her eyes, then opened them again. It was no dream, yet certainly these lovely earrings couldn’t be part of any restaurant’s Christmas for customers.

‘There . . . there must be some mistake,’ she stammered, holding the box out for Conan to see. There was a gentle smile in his eyes as he handed the box back to her, then directed her with his gaze to the small card that lay beside her glass.

Dinah’s fingers wouldn’t work properly. Each time she tried to get a grip on the card, her trembling fingers slid away and left it as if it were glued to the tablecloth. Finally, using both hands, she managed to get one nail under the card and lift it to where her eyes could focus.

‘For your first, but I hope not last, Christmas in Australia,’ she read. The signature, already blurred by the tears she couldn’t halt, was an intricate ‘C.G.’

‘But you ... I ... oh ... oh ... oh .. .’ she stammered as the tears came more quickly. Blindly, she pushed herself from the table and ran for the powder room, her heart rending with surprise and her face scarlet with the confusion of the moment and the scene she realised her abrupt exit must have created.

Alone, before the large, well-lit mirrors, she stared blankly at the swollen, reddened eyes of a stranger ... a pale face she could barely recognise. Ashamed of her flight, yet unable to deny the need for it, she dabbed at her face with a moist tissue and thought about it all.

She couldn’t possibly accept such a gift. That was her first thought. But it was followed quickly by the wonder of him giving it to her in the first place. And to organise it so meticulously . . . Dinah’s head swam. Her face, blurred in the mirror by her tears, was equally obscured by flashing, vivid memories—memories of Conan during their trek to the mountains, of their fights, of that passionate, unfulfilled lovemaking on the beach. They fluttered through her mind like the colours in a kaleidoscope, swarming like bees until she wanted to scream at them to stop, to go away and leave her in peace.

And finally they did, leaving her hollow-eyed and spent, her make-up smeared and her lips trembling as she shook her head and felt her entire body twitch in response. It took her some time to repair the physical damage, time in which she was forced to look at the rudeness and sheer thoughtlessness of her exit. When she finally dared to return to the table, knowing she must still look a mess, she was chastened, slightly ashamed, and resolute.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said first. The answer was a mute, gentle nod of understanding. Conan rose and helped her into her seat without a word, and as he returned to his own chair Dinah lifted the box and looked again at the beautiful earrings. Then she closed the box slowly and handed it towards him. ‘I really can’t accept them,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry . . .’

She expected anger, and was prepared for it. But she wasn’t prepared for a man who simply looked at her calmly and made no move to pick up the box from her fingers. ‘You can—and you will,’ he said quietly.

‘Oh, no . . . really!’

‘Oh, yes . . . really. And I’ll have no arguments, Dinah.’ His voice was velvet over steel; there’d be no sense in arguing.

‘But they’re too . . .’ She was going to say expensive, and they both knew it, but Conan didn’t give her the chance.

‘Too beautiful for anyone but you,’ he said quietly. ‘So why don’t you stop arguing and go try them on? You can fix your face while you’re at it.’ Then he grinned at her sudden flash of response at the jibe, and ducked away as if expecting to be hit. ‘That’s more like the Dinah I know,’

he laughed. ‘Now off you go; I’ll order us another drink while you’re at it.’

‘Does my face really need fixing?’ she asked, almost whispering the question as she once again opened the box with its dainty treasures. Conan shook his head with a smile, and Dinah matched it with a weak grin of her own. ‘Then I don’t need to go anywhere to try them.’

It was easy enough to remove her own earrings, but her fingers were suddenly like clubs when trying to fix the dainty opals in place.

‘Let me.’ And he was out of his chair and moving round behind her before she could speak. Strong, deft fingers quickly fixed the studs, then he bent to kiss each earring into place. Dinah’s ears throbbed to his touch, and her neck trembled as his lips swept downward from her ears to caress her. She felt everyone must be looking, but she didn’t care. And when she looked up to see, there was only Conan’s lithe shape returning to his chair.

‘Thank you. Thank you so very much,’ she said softly. ‘I’ll treasure them, always.’

‘See that you do,’ he replied lightly, and his eyes met hers with a softness that sent her senses reeling.

‘Would you like to go now?’ His voice was so soft she could barely hear, but at her nod he turned quickly and signalled to the waiter.

Dinah walked out with him in a daze, aware of his hand on her bare arm as he led her to her own car and handed her inside. ‘I’ll follow you home, just to see you don’t get lost,’ he whispered, and was gone.

It was just as well, she thought, driving home through the dream streets of a dream city, only barely aware of the traffic around her but totally conscious of Conan’s headlights behind. He parked behind her, walked her silently to her door, and without a word reached out to take her in his arms.

There was no harshness in his kiss ... no roughness, no brooding, seething urgency. It was the gentle kiss of a man for a favoured child, and Dinah’s soul waited for the lifting response that would bring her into the crush of his arms with an urgency that would match her own. But he released her, abruptly but carefully, as if she were somehow suddenly fragile. He seemed oblivious of her need to be gathered solidly in his arms, swept through her doorway and loved with a passion that would bring her feelings like fire.

‘Merry Christmas,’ he whispered. And he was gone, striding away like a wraith in the moonlight, leaving her to stand like a hollow, empty vessel suddenly deprived of rain.

She quivered, a dread running through her bones as she struggled to speak. She couldn’t let him walk away . . . she couldn’t. But when she finally spoke, the words issued forth so softly she thought at first he didn’t hear.

‘But. . .’ He turned, silently waiting but not moving a step towards her. ‘Your Christmas present . . . you forgot your Christmas present.’ Her words flew across the silent yard, and his own sped back like soft shadows.

‘No, I haven’t.’

She didn’t understand, and he wouldn’t understand. Hastily she turned towards the door, fumbling in some ridiculous idea that she could get it for him before he reached his car and drove away. Then she realised she would be too late, and turned back to catch the end of his statement.

‘. . . Pam’s, tomorrow. See you then.’

Followed by the slamming of his car door and the throaty growl of the Alfa engine. Dinah stood, one foot inside her flat and the other outside, watching the tail lights as they faded into the night.

Later, placing the dainty earrings beneath her small Christmas tree, she cried. But she wasn’t sure if they were tears of happiness or sorrow.

CHAPTER TEN

The garden magpies greeted Christmas morning with far more enthusiasm than Dinah could muster. Sleepily tumbling over in bed to raise the blind, she was struck immediately by the shafts of sunlight and the brassy texture of the sky. Another scorcher, for certain, and the stark contrast with Christmas memories from Britain did nothing to improve her mood. Neither did the sugar she spilled while making tea, nor the crumpet that stuck in the toaster, refusing to emerge until it had become a cinder.

Dinah’s puffy eyes were mute evidence of tears the night before, and even the glorious beauty of the opal earrings in the sunlight couldn’t make up for the vast wasteland of her soul. In retrospect, Conan’s gift had acquired an awesome finality. Combined with his final handing over of her letter of recommendation and his hands-off attitude the night before, the gift became more of a going-away present than anything else.

She’d had her chance, and obviously thrown it away, Dinah thought, wondering if she could even bear to face Conan over Christmas dinner at Pam’s. Little choice, since she couldn’t hurt her friend by not attending. She’d just have to face up to it, and try to keep her feelings covered as much as possible.

She went through the mechanical routine of shower and shampoo, started to do her nails, and then realised she’d go absolutely mad if she stayed by herself until the party at four o’clock. Boredom was bad enough, but her self-abuse for being such a fool was quite unbearable.

‘I don’t suppose you could use a little help?’ she asked when Pam picked up the telephone after several rings.

‘Help!’ The answer was almost hysterical. ‘Come right now. Come an hour ago . . . two hours! I’ll fall down on my knees and worship you, that’s a promise, Dinah. Just please hurry!’

The interior of the small house where Pam lived alone had been tidied to perfection—except for the kitchen. It looked like the aftermath of a kiddies’ tea-party, with pots, pans and dishes everywhere, dribbles of various things on floor and counter, and the sink a running cesspool.

Pam looked even worse.

‘My goodness! Whatever have you been doing?’ Dinah cried. The answer was an outburst of tears.

‘Just look at this! The sink’s blocked and the dessert is ruined already and I’ve broken three wine glasses and my best casserole and Mick doesn’t have a phone so I can’t get him to come and help and the whole party’s going to be a total disaster and—oh, Dinah, what am I going to do?'

Pam was heartbroken and totally demoralised, but Dinah, for whatever reason, found her own mind racing with potential solutions. ‘First, give me Mick’s address; I’ll have him back here in no time. Meanwhile, you get the broken glass cleaned up. Forget about the dessert, we can fix something later when there’s room in the kitchen to move,’ she ordered.

Twenty minutes later she was back and ready to begin work. ‘Mick will be here in a few minutes,’ she called as she walked into the disaster area. ‘Have you got an apron or something I can slip on?’

‘Oh, Dinah, you can’t work in that outfit!’ Pam cried. ‘It would be ruined in five minutes flat. But I haven’t got anything that would fit you . . . oh . . . oh, I know!’ She raced into the bedroom and returned with a man’s shirt and an old pair of men’s blue jeans. With a slight blush she admitted they were Mick’s, and then confessed that a very special announcement would be forthcoming during dinner.

‘That’s if we ever have a dinner,’ she moaned. ‘And please promise to keep it a secret. Mick’s still a bit shy about it all, but he’s promised to announce our engagement tonight. We’re getting married on February the fifth.’

‘Oh, Pam, how wonderful!’ Dinah cried, clasping her friend for a quick and flour-smudged kiss.

She held on to Pam longer than was necessary, hoping her own tears would be interpreted as tears of joy. Which they were, except for the few that flowed from her own broken heart. Dinah was honestly joyful at Pam’s news, but she couldn’t help the addition it made to the vast emptiness inside her. ‘And of course I won’t spoil the surprise,’ she said. ‘But only if I get to kiss the blushing bridegroom as soon as he gets here. And before he starts fixing the sink.’

‘If you’re going to wear my pants, you’ll kiss me when I say you can,’ came a gruff voice from the doorway. And once he’d looked at the overflowing sink, Mick decided that all kisses would wait until he’d fixed it. It took him the better part of three hours, but finally the girls were allowed to return to the kitchen and begin making a new dessert for the dinner party.

‘Well, that’s that,’ Mick declared, slumping into an armchair with the air of a man nearing exhaustion. ‘I’ve spent better Christmas mornings, I can tell you, although seldom in much better company. Any chance of a drink, love? The sun’s well and truly over the yardarm and I reckon we’ve all earned a drop.’

‘Very well, but only one,’ said Pam. ‘We still have to get us presentable, and the first guests will be here in just on an hour.’

She brought drinks for them into the lounge room and immediately lifted her own glass in a toast. ‘Here’s to the best Christmas present I’m likely to get,’ she said. ‘Willing workers! Thanks, to you both. I’d never have survived without you.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ Mick replied. ‘Nice to know a man around the house is good for something, eh?’

Pam blushed prettily, but didn’t respond to the hazing. Instead she turned to Dinah.

‘Would you like first crack at the shower, Dinah? Or should we let the resident plumber have first go?’

‘Actually, I think I’ll just nip home and clean up,’ Dinah replied. ‘I’ve plenty of time, really, and it’ll be much easier for all concerned. Besides, in the rush this morning I forgot the gifts I was to bring, and we can’t do without those.’

‘Too right,’ said Mick. ‘Especially not the one for His Majesty the boss.’

‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ Pam asked. ‘Nothing, really. It’s just that I happen to know what he’s giving Dinah, and I wouldn’t be surprised if our little announcement tonight isn’t matched by one that’s even more surprising.’

‘Well, it won’t be much of a surprise if you keep shooting off your mouth,’ said Pam. ‘Now be quiet. I don’t want you spoiling anything. Dinah could use a pleasant surprise after the day she’s just put in.’

‘I could at that,’ said Dinah with studied casualness. ‘But I think Mick’s got his facts mixed up as usual. Or else he’s terribly unobservant. I’ve already got my Christmas present from the boss. Didn’t you notice my earrings, Mick?’

‘Ah . . . well . . . no, actually,’ he stammered in obvious confusion. The look on his face told the rest; it hadn’t been the earrings he’d seen Conan Garth preparing as a gift, and he couldn’t hide that fact from either girl. But he could—and did—refuse to accept any questions at all on the subject. ‘Obviously I’ve jumped to the wrong conclusion,’ he said. ‘And I’m not making it worse by saying any more. Not a blooming word. No time, either. Got to get my shower.’ And he scooted for the bathroom without even finishing his drink.

‘Well, well, well ... I wonder what’s going on with our Mr Garth,’ pondered Pam. ‘Honestly, Dinah, I’m sorry about Mick and his big mouth. Sometimes I could just throttle him! He’s got it into his head that you and Conan are . . . well . . . you know. And that’s it!’

‘Not to worry,’ Dinah replied with a calmness she didn’t feel. ‘He’s probably just playing matchmaker because you two are so happy. But why he wants to link me with Conan, I can’t imagine. Whatever plans Conan has ever had for me, they didn’t include anything quite as honourable as marriage.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that,’ Pam laughed. ‘Men don’t give opals like those ones to girls they don’t fancy. I’d sure like to know what Mick knows about this, now, but he damned well won’t tell me.’

‘Doesn’t matter anyway,’ said Dinah. ‘Probably a ring for Charlotte Fleury, if he can pry her away from Marcel long enough to try it on her.’

‘The way I hear things, he’d have a job doing that,’ said Pam. ‘If anybody puts a ring on her pretty little pinkie it’s likely to be our handsome Frenchman, not Conan. I have it on pretty good authority, if you class male intuition as any authority at all, that you’re the one Conan fancies, not Charlotte.’

Dinah’s heart leaped, but she kept her feelings buried. It might have been true, she thought, but she’d effectively finished that off. And nobody to blame but herself. ‘Well, Mick’s intuition isn’t anything I’d bank on too heavily,’ she laughed. ‘And it doesn’t matter anyway, because I’m really not interested. As soon as I can find another job I’ll be getting as far away from Conan Garth as I can possibly manage.’

‘You’re quitting?’ Pam was openly incredulous. ‘But I thought you were really in ...’

‘I was, but there’s no way it would work out,’ said Dinah. ‘All we do is fight and cut each other up. Besides, Conan hasn’t got those kind of feelings for me. I’m just somebody to fight with.’

‘Has it ever occurred to you that maybe it’s time to quit fighting and give in?’ Pam asked soberly. ‘The way I’ve seen you acting with him, the poor man’s got very little choice but to fight with you.’

‘It’s not a matter of choice,’ Dinah replied. ‘And I’ve got to get out of here and get cleaned up, or I’ll be late.’ She fled before the tears began, and drove slowly home, wondering how she could ever summon up the nerve to return to the party.

The odour of roasting turkey greeted her on her return to Pam’s, feeling much improved by a shower and a change of clothes. Pam, transformed miraculously to a radiant picture of calm and serenity, greeted her at the door, quickly disposed of the rolled bundle of Mick’s clothing, and helped Dinah distribute her carton of gifts beneath the Christmas tree.

‘You’d never think it was the same house as this morning, would you?’ she laughed. ‘And thanks again, Dinah. You were a lifesaver.’ Pam had changed into a light pink dress and slippers that gave her a breezy, frivolous look, especially when compared to Dinah’s pale green evening dress, which was almost too formal for the occasion. Dinah had made the decision because she really felt she needed a lift, and because it set off her new earrings so well.

Under the shower, Dinah’s attitude had changed to a resolution. She would attend the party, and she would enjoy herself regardless of Conan or her feelings for him. But as the other guests began to arrive, Dinah’s nervousness rose even beyond that of her hostess. When Marcel arrived, alone, Dinah’s heart sank. She knew Charlotte would be coming, and it seemed now as if she’d certainly come with Conan.

‘You are exquisite,’ Marcel claimed, kissing Dinah’s hand in the most flattering Continental fashion. ‘Come, let us run away together. I shall take you to Paris, Rome, and maybe even Melbourne.’

Dinah almost cried, and if he had said Queensland, she would have. And why did such a frivolity on Marcel’s part serve only to reinforce a game invented by Conan? He, too, had once almost asked her to run away with him, but he’d never do it again. Dinah mustered a grin and told Marcel she couldn’t run away anywhere on an empty stomach, whereupon he replied that she obviously didn’t love him enough.

But a moment later Charlotte Fleury arrived, and she came in her own car, and alone. ‘Strange, isn’t it?’ Pam said to Dinah when they got together alone in the kitchen. ‘I would have expected her to come with Conan—it was his idea to invite her.’

Their discussion ended abruptly when the lady in question wandered into the kitchen to join them, splendidly dressed in a simple white sheath that highlighted her colouring.

‘Oh, doesn’t it all look marvellous!’ she exclaimed at the wide display of food. ‘You’ll be the ruination of my diet today, although I suppose it’s one day we should forget about such things. I love your dress, by the way, and Dinah, you look absolutely delectable. The earrings are lovely.’

Dinah was searching for an appropriate reply when the front door opened with a loud, ‘Ho, ho, ho!’ and Conan strode into the room with his arms filled with parcels. He greeted Pam with a kiss and a demand for a drink, shouted his greetings to the others, and planted a kiss on Charlotte’s cheek before greeting Dinah with polite but gentle reserve.

Not even a friendly Christmas kiss, she thought almost angrily. And her sadness flowed in like surf on a lonely beach. She couldn’t bear to face Conan and the rest of the party in idle, familiar chatter, so she retired to the kitchen to help Pam with dinner. The respite was short-lived; Pam immediately dragged her back into the lounge room, announcing that at least one Christmas present would have to be opened before dinner.

‘It’s really for Mick’s benefit,’ she said shyly. ‘The rest of you can wait until later.’

The general laughter when Mick tore away wrappings and ribbon to reveal an electric carving knife showed that the engagement announcement wouldn’t be a great surprise to anyone when it came.

‘What do I expect next year—a hair-dryer?’ he queried with mock truculence. ‘Because if that’s the way it’s going to be, you can expect a very fine set of men’s golf clubs next Christmas, my love.’ He displayed a remarkable skill with his gift once the huge turkey was brought to table, however. Its arrival brought a chorus of jibes about traditional English tucker for a midsummer Australian Christmas, but nobody’s appetite seemed to suffer.

Except for Dinah. Marcel’s champagne and wines had carried them through a few too many toasts, and she found the wine going to her head far too quickly. Instead of relaxing her, it seemed only to increase her tensions, and when she was chosen to play Santa Claus, she had to smile and accept the role with a grace She didn’t really feel.

The almost childish delight that everyone took in the situation was contagious, however, and her depression lifted with the first hurried tearing of wrapping paper and the cries of excitement as the presents were revealed. Most were simply small gifts, trinkets that were really only a tribute to the occasion. Nobody was overlooked and everybody was highly delighted with the personal touches that Pam had taken in choosing the small gifts.

But when the more personal, intimate gifts began to need distributing, Dinah’s heart whooped each time her eyes caught the packet containing Conan’s fishing outfit. She deliberately kept it to the last, knowing it was silly to heighten her own tensions, but suddenly fearful of the intimacy it might imply. Conan showed no such tensions, however, and when the issue could no longer be avoided and she shyly placed the packet in his hands, he opened it slowly, with a deliberation matching that she had used in opening her gift the night before. His gracious smile of acceptance was strangely gentle, but he made no remark that might disturb the tranquillity of the occasion.

The two final gifts to be distributed were Conan’s present for Charlotte, and Mick’s engagement ring for Pam. The first was delayed simply by fate, but Dinah had held back the ring on Mick’s whispered instructions. ‘You’ll have to be first, Charlotte,’ said Dinah with a lightheaded fuzziness of wine and bewilderment. The parcel she was handing Charlotte couldn’t possibly be the engagement ring Dinah had expected it to be, and she couldn’t help flashing a curious look at Mick, who deliberately shook his head and turned away. No answers there for Dinah.

When the papers and ribbons came away from Charlotte’s present, nobody was more surprised than Dinah at finding it contained, not an engagement ring, but a bottle of expensive perfume. ‘Conan, you darling!’ Charlotte exclaimed, obviously pleased by the gift and showing no sign of having expected anything more intimate. Dinah, touching one finger to a suddenly burning earlobe, looked across the room to find Mick looking vaguely confused.

But there wasn’t time to think of it, since the big moment had arrived. ‘I think you must give this to Pam yourself, Mick,’ Dinah smiled, slipping away to sit down beside Marcel. Mick, obviously greatly moved by the occasion, placed the ring on Pam’s finger with a kiss and a flourish, and stood back to accept the applause from the gathering. If there was any lack of surprise, it was graciously hidden, and the room resounded to cheers and good wishes. Then there was a subtle silence, broken finally by Marcel calling for fresh drinks and a toast to the happy couple.

It was after the toasts that Conan suddenly stood up to speak, and Dinah noticed that even on such an informal occasion, his presence dominated the room so that silence immediately followed his desire to make an announcement of his own.

‘You two have really stolen my thunder tonight,’ he said with a smile at Mick and Pam. ‘It’s going to be a hard act to follow.’

Waving to Charlotte, he said, ‘I came tonight with one present that I didn’t put under the tree, and since it concerns you, Charlotte, I reckon you’d better come over here and we’ll see if we can’t spread the happiness a little farther.’

Dinah shrank into her chair as Charlotte rose gracefully and walked over to stand beside Conan, who had reached into his pocket to take out a small, brightly wrapped packet. Dinah caught a small, sympathetic glance from Mick, then everybody’s attention focused on Charlotte’s fingers as she slowly unwrapped the parcel.

Dinah was sick; her stomach had filled with a million butterflies trying to escape, and she thought for a second that she’d have to flee the room. I can’t stand it, she thought in a panic, closing her eyes to a mental vision of Charlotte holding up the emerald ring that Dinah herself had chosen, and her body trembled convulsively at the thought.

It seemed to take forever for Charlotte to take off the paper and ribbon from the packet—an eternity in which Dinah’s mind conjured up the other woman as a deliberate accomplice in a conspiracy to subject her to as much torture as possible. Looking downward when she finally opened her eyes, Dinah was startled to see her nails digging craters in her palms, and she shook her head in bewilderment and sorrow.

It was no conscious thought that brought her eyes round to meet those of Conan, but his own grey eyes held Dinah like magnets, even as Charlotte opened the box with a squeal of delight. Charlotte held up the box for all to see, but Dinah, unable to move or think, stared into Conan’s eyes with a total intensity. She didn’t even hear the questions, couldn’t sense the curiosity in the voices around her. She was a statue, rigid with a terror she couldn’t contain, and shaking with the knowledge that behind those grey eyes lay the power to blast her heart to shreds. Somehow she felt that once the staring link had parted, she would be lost. While it held, there was hope.

The voices around them were a mere jumble of noise that couldn’t penetrate her mesmerised state. Until, to her horror, Conan destroyed that link. He winked!

Questions and voices flooded back into Dinah’s consciousness with a roaring rush, but they brought only confusion.

' . . key ... so what? . . . significance? . . . it for . . . what’s it all about? . . Until Conan’s voice, strangely gentle in Dinah’s ears, knifed through the confusion. ‘We can excuse Mick for not recognising it, he’s had a rather emotional day,’ he said. ‘But Dinah should be able to figure it out.’

The sound of her name brought Dinah’s eyes first to Conan, and then, almost tentatively, to where Charlotte stood dangling a brass key from one finger. Dinah looked at the key, at Charlotte’s smiling face, over to where Conan showed an equally bright smile, and then back again to the key.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t . . . understand,’ she whispered, not trusting herself to speak. What was it? The key to his apartment? Dinah couldn’t think past that.

‘That’s what I love about young journalists, such magnificent powers of observation,’ Conan laughed. ‘Okay, enough fooling around. The key, boys and girls, is for our newsroom. And the lady who’s holding it is—as of January the first—your new boss!’

Dinah sat silently through the round of questions and congratulations and explanations, hearing everything and understanding nothing. She heard Conan explain that he was stale, badly in need of a change. She heard him say he was planning to run off to Queensland as soon as he found the right girl to take with him. She heard him explain the great secrecy, to stem the flood of rumours that would have flooded the city at the change in the newsroom. None of it registered.

A stranger with Dinah’s face rose to congratulate Charlotte in Dinah’s voice, but Dinah was hardly aware of it. She kept looking at the key and seeing an emerald ring.

When she returned to her seat, Marcel had to ask her twice if she felt all right. The room seemed to be whirling around her, buffeting her with boisterous noise and loud voices. ‘I’m fine,’ she answered him, ‘just a bit warm, that’s all.’

But she wasn’t fine. She wasn’t anything, in this strange, tumultuous atmosphere. She couldn’t seem to get her eyes or her mind into focus. Finally Dinah rose and made her way into the kitchen with some vague idea about helping with the dishes, but Pam spurned that offer outright. ‘You’ve done more than your share today, and besides, you don’t look steady enough to be handling my glassware,’ said her friend. ‘Why don’t you go and amuse yourself with the men, or better yet slip out for some fresh air.’

Dinah shook her head in bland acceptance and stepped out of the back door into the relative coolness of the garden. A bright, full moon and a sky full of stars made it almost like daylight, and she wandered haphazardly to the back fence and stood looking out over the lights of the city.

Conan was going. Conan, not her. To Queensland, or so he said. Gradually, with as much concentration as she could muster, she absorbed the realities. But there was no sense of excitement, no sense of relief, only a weary sadness. She stood there in the moonlight and let her mind spin free, until gradually her trembling ceased and she could think again.

She would cope, somehow. But not this night. And with that realisation she became aware of the night sounds around her, the traffic in the distance, the tinkling of glassware and the muted rumble of voices in the kitchen behind her. And finally she turned to go in again.

‘You don’t look very happy.’ Conan’s voice came from the shadow of a huge tree, but only the white of his shirt was visible. Dinah wasn’t startled by his presence, strangely enough, but she couldn’t speak. She had no answer. They stood in silence, several feet apart, until finally he moved to stand before her. 'I'd have thought you’d be pleased to see me go. You won’t have to find a new job after all.’

Dinah said nothing. Her nostrils were filled with the scent of him, her world had constricted until it held only the two of them, but she couldn’t open her mouth.

Conan’s grey eyes flashed as he reached out to take her hand, and Dinah didn’t resist. ‘But you’re not happy, are you?’ His voice was gentle but insistent. ‘I don’t think you really hate me so much after all.’

He said it so softly, in less than a whisper. For a second she wasn’t sure he’d spoken aloud at all. ‘No ... I don’t,’ she replied without realising it.

‘Charlotte will want you to stay on. Will you do that, or ...’ Conan’s voice faded out almost sadly.

‘I ... I don’t know yet,’ she whispered, afraid now to meet his eyes.

‘. . . you could come with me.’ He couldn’t have said that! Dinah felt her blood lift in a swooping surge that shook her entire body, but still she couldn’t look at him. Her hand lay in his palm like a limp rag.

‘Dinah.’ His grip tightened on her hand, pulling her towards him, and she couldn’t resist it. ‘Look at me.’ It was a command, and slowly she raised her eyes to meet the ghostly taupe of his gaze.

‘Will you come with me?’ He did say it, but . . . but what did he mean? Her eyes locked with his, and she knew then that it didn’t matter what he meant, if he wanted her with him she’d go, without hesitation.

‘Yes,’ she whispered, ‘oh yes!’ And her words cut across his own, blurring them. But he had said it, she knew that even as his fingers released her hand and he reached out to take her shoulders in his hands and pull her closer yet.

‘I said I love you,' he repeated himself, louder this time, and there couldn’t be any question. His lips moved down to claim Dinah’s mouth, and she could feel herself trembling in his hands as he lifted her body to meet him.

‘I love you!’ It thundered through her mind, her body, her very soul, obliterating everything but the touch of Conan’s mouth.

He kissed her at first so gently, so softly, that she could barely feel the touch of his lips. But she could hear the words revolving in her brain and her own response stirred inside her, leaping like fire to warm her lips and her body moved against him without hesitation. Her every resistance was gone, flying with the wind of his passion as his lips moved more strongly. Her arms, free now, lifted to clasp his neck. His hands caressed her shoulders, her back, and down to the softness of her hips, every touch lifting her sensitivity and her own fiery responsiveness.

The heat of his body flowed through the thin material of her dress. His broad chest crushed against her bosom, and his thighs were like white-hot iron against the softness of her. When his lips moved away from hers, sliding gently down cross her cheek, rippling along the straining cords of her neck and then searing the soft swell of her breasts, Dinah could only sigh her acceptance and sway her body to ease his quest.

Her surrender was total, and as if he sensed it, Conan slowed the ardour of his lovemaking, easing the tempo until he simply stood, holding her, snuggling her head into the crook of his shoulder as his arms held her.

'I was so afraid of loving you,’ he whispered. Dinah raised a palm to hush him, but he shrugged it away. ‘From the very first moment I saw you . . . but I didn’t believe you could possibly love me.’

‘I’ve always loved you.’ There, she’d finally said it. And it sounded so right, so very, very easy to say . . . now.

Conan reached up to touch one opal earring with a gentle, searching fingertip. ‘These were supposed to be a going away present. I don’t know why, because I never planned to let you go.’

‘I never really wanted to go.’

‘I wasn’t really sure about that, until tonight,’ he said.

‘Why tonight?’ Dinah didn’t really care; all she wanted was for him to keep on holding her, never to let her go.

‘The fishing rod. You wouldn’t choose a gift like that for a man you hated.’ He held her away just far enough so he could look into her eyes. ‘And I watched you when I was giving Charlotte the key.’ Suddenly he laughed, but it hadn’t a hint of mockery in it, only wonder. ‘You thought I was giving her an engagement ring, didn’t you?’

Dinah nodded, silently.

‘I was saying I love you all the way through that performance, but you couldn’t see anything but the package,’ he charged. ‘And if you could think there’s anything but friendship between Charlotte and me, you’re not terribly observant, young lady.’

‘What else could I think? You’re awfully chummy for just. . .’

‘For just the best of friends,’ he chuckled. ‘Always have been and I hope always will. But never lovers. I’ve only ever loved one woman in my life, and it’s you.’

‘Well, you’ve a funny way of showing it sometimes,’ she laughed, eyes sparkling with a new, total life. ‘I kept thinking you didn’t like me at all, or only . . .’

‘Only wanted your beautiful body? I do, and I’ll have it too. Or are you thinking about your legacy?’

‘I am not!’ Dinah’s eyes widened in horror as she saw the spectre of her ill-fated jibe rising to haunt her life forever.

Conan stopped her fears with a kiss like thistledown. ‘Of course you’re not,’ he whispered. ‘Because I’m never ever going to see it. It’s going into a trust fund for your—our—children. I won’t have it said that I married you for your money.’

Married! Dinah sighed against his shoulders, hardly aware of the shift of his body as he reached into his pocket and then moved her away from him so that he could reach her left hand.

‘You will marry me, I hope,’ he whispered as he slipped the emerald on to her finger. ‘I don’t believe in long engagements.’

Dinah held her hand up so that the emerald gathered in the starlight, brimming with happiness as full as her heart. Then she looked up to meet Conan’s eyes.

‘You remembered this,’ she whispered.

‘Better than that. I bought it as soon as I’d sent you back to the office. Bit of a dicey transaction, that, because I’m almost sure Mick caught me at it, and I was afraid he’d say something at the wrong time. ‘I wish he had,’ Dinah said, ‘because then I could have got the one I picked out for you. I hope old Mrs Smythe hasn’t sold it, because I won’t marry you without it, so we may have to wait until I can get another one made, and... ’

He stopped her with a kiss. ‘Not to worry,’ he said with a grin. ‘I had her put it away for you.’ He laughed at her astounded expression, then shrugged. ‘Well, just in case. Now let’s get back to the party before they think I’ve kidnapped you.’

Dinah’s response was a kiss, then she placed her hand in his and smiled up at him. ‘You’re the boss,’ she said, ‘always the boss.’

AUSTRALIA’S “MEETING PLACE”

Canberra, a name that derives from an aboriginal term meaning “meeting place,” sits astride the Molonglo River at the foot of the spurs of the Australian Alps. As the seat of federal parliament, Canberra’s main business is the business of government. Today, with a population of more than 215,000, it is the fastest-growing city in Australia.

Like other cities built this century, Canberra is not a place that breathes old-world history and romance. Still, its origins are unique among the cities of Australia—and interesting enough to make the armchair traveler pause for a visit with a book like Always the Boss.

For while the major cities of the world have grown primarily in response to the needs of trade and commerce, Canberra came about through architectural planning. In 1911 the Australian government launched a worldwide competition for a design of the new federal capital. The winner of the competition was Walter Burley Griffin, an American architect. His stunning plan, which featured an artificial lake in the center of the city, was praised as a “model of town planning.” Work began on the new city in 1913, and after some interruptions from World War I, federal parliament moved from Melbourne to Canberra in May 1927.

The artificial lake, Lake Burley Griffin, still exists today, as do the much-admired, broad tree-lined avenues that radiate from it. Sadly, in the outer suburbs the original plan is not being followed. Like those of its American counterparts, Canberra’s suburbs are. sprawling and increasingly automobile oriented.

Nevertheless, Canberra remains a conspicuously well-planned city with a growing tourist trade—not just armchair travelers but the other kind, as well!