One Winter's Sunrise

CHAPTER THREE

TRY AS SHE MIGHT, Andie couldn’t get excited about the nineteen-twenties theme she had envisaged for Dominic Hunt’s party. It would be lavish and glamorous and she would enjoy every moment of planning such a visually splendid event. Such a party would be a spangled feather in Party Queens’ cap. But it seemed somehow wrong.

The feeling niggled at her. How could something so extravagant, so limited to those who could afford the substantial donation that would be the cost of entrance make Dominic Hunt look less miserly? Even if he offered an apartment for auction—and there was no such thing as a cheap apartment in Sydney—and raised a lot of money, wouldn’t it be a wealthy person who benefited? Might he appear to be a Scrooge hanging out with other rich people who might or might not also be Scrooges? Somehow, it reeked of...well, there was no other word but hypocrisy.

It wasn’t her place to be critical—the media-attention-grabbing party was his marketing people’s idea. Her job was to plan the party and make it as memorable and spectacular as possible. But she resolved to bring up her reservations in the brainstorming meeting with him. If she dared.

She knew it would be a fine line to tread—she did not want to risk losing the job for Party Queens—but she felt she had to give her opinion. After that she would just keep her mouth shut and concentrate on making his event the most memorable on the December social calendar.

She dressed with care for the meeting, which was again at his Vaucluse mansion. An outfit that posed no danger of showing off her underwear. Slim white trousers, a white top, a string of outsize turquoise beads, silver sandals that strapped around her ankles. At the magazine she’d made friends with the fashion editor and still had access to sample sales and special deals. She felt her wardrobe could hold its own in whatever company she found herself in—even on millionaire row.

‘I didn’t risk wearing that skirt,’ she blurted out to Dominic Hunt as he let her into the house. ‘Even though there doesn’t appear to be any wind about.’

Mentally she slammed her hand against her forehead. What a dumb top-of-mind remark to make to a client. But he still made her nervous. Try as she might, she couldn’t shake that ever-present awareness of how attractive he was.

His eyes flickered momentarily to her legs. ‘Shame,’ he said in that deep, testosterone-edged voice that thrilled through her.

Was he flirting with her?

‘It...it was a lovely skirt,’ she said. ‘Just...just rather badly behaved.’ How much had he seen when her skirt had flown up over her thighs?

‘I liked it very much,’ he said.

‘The prettiness of its fabric or my skirt’s bad behaviour?’

She held his cool grey gaze for a second longer than she should.

‘Both,’ he said.

She took a deep breath and tilted her chin upward. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ she said with a smile she hoped radiated aplomb. ‘Thank you, Mr Hunt.’

‘Dominic,’ he said.

‘Dominic,’ she repeated, liking the sound of his name on her lips. ‘And thank you again for this opportunity to plan your party.’ Bring it back to business.

In truth, she would have liked to tell him how good he looked in his superbly tailored dark suit and dark shirt but she knew her voice would come out all choked up. Because it wasn’t the Italian elegance of his suit that she found herself admiring. It was the powerful, perfectly proportioned male body that inhabited it. And she didn’t want to reveal even a hint of that. He was a client.

He nodded in acknowledgement of her words. ‘Come through to the back,’ he said. ‘You can see how the rooms might work for the party.’

She followed him through where the grand staircase split—a choir really would be amazing ranged on the steps—over pristine marble floors to a high-ceilinged room so large their footsteps echoed as they walked into the centre of it. Furnished minimally in shades of white, it looked ready for a high-end photo shoot. Arched windows and a wall of folding doors opened through to an elegant art deco style swimming pool and then to a formal garden planted with palm trees and rows of budding blue agapanthus.

For a long moment Andie simply absorbed the splendour of the room. ‘What a magnificent space,’ she said finally. ‘Was it originally a ballroom?’

‘Yes. Apparently the wool merchant liked to entertain in grand style. But it wasn’t suited for modern living, which is why I opened it up through to the terrace when I remodelled the house.’

‘You did an awesome job,’ she said. In her mind’s eye she could see flappers in glittering dresses trimmed with feathers and fringing, and men in dapper suits doing the Charleston. Then had to blink, not sure if she was imagining what the room had once been or how she’d like it to be for Dominic’s party.

‘The people who work for me did an excellent job,’ he said.

‘As an interior designer I give them full marks,’ she said. She had gone to university with Dominic’s designer. She just might get in touch with him, seeking inside gossip into what made Dominic Hunt tick.

She looked around her. ‘Where’s the kitchen? Gemma will shoot me if I go back without reporting to her on the cooking facilities.’

‘Through here.’

Andie followed him through to an adjoining vast state-of-the-art kitchen, gleaming in white marble and stainless steel. The style was sleek and modern but paid homage to the vintage of the house. She breathed out a sigh of relief and pleasure. A kitchen like this would make catering for hundreds of guests so much easier. Not that the food was her department. Gemma kept that under her control. ‘It’s a superb kitchen. Do you cook?’

Was Dominic the kind of guy who ate out every night and whose refrigerator contained only cartons of beer? Or the kind who excelled at cooking and liked to show off his skills to a breathlessly admiring female audience?

‘I can look after myself,’ he said shortly. ‘That includes cooking.’

That figured. After yesterday’s meeting she had done some research into Dominic Hunt—though there wasn’t much information dating back further than a few years. Along with his comments about celebrating Christmas being a waste of space, he’d also been quoted as saying he would never marry again. From the media accounts, his marriage in his mid-twenties had been short, tumultuous and public, thanks to his ex-wife’s penchant for spilling the details to the gossip columns.

‘The kitchen and its position will be perfect for the caterers,’ she said. ‘Gemma will be delighted.’

‘Good,’ he said.

‘You must love this house.’ She could not help a wistful note from edging her voice. As an interior designer she knew only too well how much the remodelling would have cost. Never in a million years would she live in a house like this. He was only a few years older than her—thirty-two to her twenty-eight—yet it was as if they came from different planets.

He shrugged those impressively broad shoulders. ‘It’s a spectacular house. But it’s just a house. I never get attached to places.’

Or people?

Her online research had showed him snapped by paparazzi with a number of long-legged beauties—but no woman more than once or twice. What did it matter to her?

She patted her satchel. Back to business. ‘I’ve come prepared for brainstorming,’ she said. ‘Have you had any thoughts about the nineteen-twenties theme I suggested?’

‘I’ve thought,’ he said. He paused. ‘I’ve thought about it a lot.’

His tone of voice didn’t give her cause for confidence. ‘You...like it? You don’t like it? Because if you don’t I have lots of other ideas that would work as well. I—’

He put up his right hand to halt her—large, well sculpted, with knuckles that looked as if they’d sustained scrapes over the years. His well-spoken accent and obvious wealth suggested injuries sustained from boxing or rugby at a private school; the tightly leashed power in those muscles, that strong jaw, gave thought to injuries sustained in something perhaps more visceral.

‘It’s a wonderful idea for a party,’ he said. ‘Perfect for this house. Kudos to you, Ms Party Queen.’

‘Thank you.’ She made a mock curtsy and was pleased when he smiled. How handsome he was without that scowl. ‘However, is that a “but” I hear coming on?’

He pivoted on his heel so he faced out to the pool, gleaming blue and pristine in the afternoon sun of a late-spring day in mid-November. His back view was impressive, broad shoulders tapering to a tight, muscular rear end. Then he turned back to face her. ‘It’s more than one “but”,’ he said. ‘The party, the guest list, the—’

‘The pointlessness of it all?’ she ventured.

He furrowed his brow. ‘What makes you say that?’

She found herself twisting the turquoise beads on her necklace between her finger and thumb. Her business partners would be furious with her if she lost Party Queens this high-profile job because she said what she wanted to say rather than what she should say.

‘This party is all about improving your image, right? To make a statement that you’re not the...the Scrooge people think you are.’

The fierce scowl was back. ‘I’d rather you didn’t use the word Scrooge.’

‘Okay,’ she said immediately. But she would find it difficult to stop thinking it. ‘I’ll try again: that you’re not a...a person lacking in the spirit of giving.’

‘That doesn’t sound much better.’ She couldn’t have imagined his scowl could have got any darker but it did. ‘The party is meant to be a public display of something I would rather be kept private.’

‘So...you give privately to charity?’

‘Of course I do but it’s not your or anyone else’s business.’

Personally, she would be glad if he wasn’t as tight-fisted as his reputation decreed. But this was about more than what she felt. She could not back down. ‘If that’s how you feel, tell me again why you’re doing this.’

He paused. ‘If I share with you the reason why I agreed to holding this party, it’s not to leave this room.’

‘Of course,’ she said. A party planner had to be discreet. It was astounding what family secrets got aired in the planning of a party. She leaned closer, close enough to notice that he must be a twice-a-day-shave guy. Lots of testosterone, all right.

‘I’ve got a big joint venture in the United States on the point of being signed. My potential business partner, Walter Burton, is the head of a family company and he is committed to public displays of philanthropy. It would go better with me if I was seen to be the same.’

Andie made a motion with her fingers of zipping her lips shut. ‘I... I understand,’ she said. Disappointment shafted through her. So he really was a Scrooge.

She’d found herself wanting Dominic to be someone better than he was reputed to be. But the party, while purporting to be a charity event, was simply a smart business ploy. More about greed than good-heartedness.

‘Now you can see why it’s so important,’ he said.

Should she say what she thought? The scrapheap of discarded party planners beckoned again. She could imagine her silver-sandal-clad foot kicking feebly from the top of it and hoped it would be a soft landing.

She took a deep steadying breath. ‘Cynical journalists might have a field-day with the hypocrisy of a Scrooge—sorry!—trying to turn over a new gilded leaf in such an obvious and staged way.’

To her surprise, something like relief relaxed the tense lines of his face. ‘That’s what I thought too.’

‘You...you did?’

‘I could see the whole thing backfiring and me no better off in terms of reputation. Possibly worse.’

If she didn’t stop twisting her necklace it would break and scatter her beads all over the marble floor. ‘So—help me out here. We’re back to you not wanting a party?’

She’d talked him out of the big, glitzy event Party Queens really needed. Andie cringed at the prospect of the combined wrath of Gemma and Eliza when she went back to their headquarters with the contract that was sitting in her satchel waiting for his signature still unsigned.

‘You know I don’t.’ Thank heaven. ‘But maybe a different kind of event,’ he said.

‘Like...handing over a giant facsimile cheque to a charity?’ Which would be doing her right out of a job.

‘Where’s the good PR in that?’

‘In fact it could look even more cynical than the party.’

‘Correct.’

He paced a few long strides away from her and then back. ‘I’m good at turning one dollar into lots of dollars. That’s my skill. Not planning parties. But surely I can get the kind of publicity my marketing department wants, impress my prospective business partner and actually help some less advantaged people along the way?’

She resisted the urge to high-five him. ‘To tell you the truth, I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking that exact same thing.’ Was it wise to have admitted that?

‘Me too,’ he said. ‘I tossed and turned all night.’

A sudden vision of him in a huge billionaire’s bed, all tangled in the sheets wearing nothing but...well nothing but a billionaire’s birthday suit, flashed through her mind and sizzled through her body. Not my type. Not my type. She had to repeat it like a mantra.

She willed her heartbeat to slow and hoped he took the flush on her cheekbones for enthusiasm. ‘So we’re singing from the same hymn sheet. Did you have any thoughts on solving your dilemma?’

‘That’s where you come in; you’re the party expert.’

She hesitated. ‘During my sleepless night, I did think of something. But you might not like it.’

‘Try me,’ he said, eyes narrowed.

‘It’s out of the ball park,’ she warned.

‘I’m all for that,’ he said.

She flung up her hands in front of her face to act as a shield. ‘It...it involves Christmas.’

He blanched under the smooth olive of his tan. ‘I told you—’

His mouth set in a grim line, his hands balled into fists by his sides. Should she leave well enough alone? After all, he had said the festive season had difficult associations for him. ‘What is it that you hate so much about Christmas?’ she asked. She’d always been one to dive straight into the deep end.

‘I don’t hate Christmas.’ He cursed under his breath. ‘I’m misquoted once and the media repeat it over and over.’

‘But—’

He put up his hand to halt her. ‘I don’t have to justify anything to you. But let me give you three good reasons why I don’t choose to celebrate Christmas and all the razzmatazz that goes with it.’

‘Fire away,’ she said, thinking it wasn’t appropriate for her to counter with three things she adored about the festive season. This wasn’t a debate. It was a business brainstorming.

‘First—the weather is all wrong,’ he said. ‘It’s hot when it should be cold. A proper Christmas is a northern hemisphere Christmas—snow, not sand.’

Not true, she thought. For a born-and-bred Australian like her, Christmas was all about the long, hot sticky days of summer. Cicadas chirruping in the warm air as the family walked to a midnight church service. Lunch outdoors, preferably around a pool or at the beach. Then it struck her—Dominic had a distinct trace of an English accent. That might explain his aversion to festivities Down Under style. But something still didn’t seem quite right. His words sounded...too practised, as if he’d recited them a hundred times before.

He continued, warming to his point as she wondered about the subtext to his spiel. ‘Then there’s the fact that the whole thing is over-commercialised to the point of being ludicrous. I saw Christmas stuff festooning the shops in September.’

She almost expected him to snarl a Scrooge-like Bah! Humbug! but he obviously restrained himself.

‘You have a point,’ she said. ‘And carols piped through shopping malls in October? So annoying.’

‘Quite right,’ he said. ‘This whole obsession with extended Christmas celebrations, it...it...makes people who don’t celebrate it—for one reason or another—feel...feel excluded.’

His words faltered and he looked away in the direction of the pool but not before she’d seen the bleakness in his eyes. She realised those last words hadn’t been rehearsed. That he might be regretting them. Again she had that inane urge to comfort him—without knowing why he needed comforting.

She knew she had to take this carefully. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘I know what you mean.’ That first Christmas without Anthony had been the bleakest imaginable. And each year after she had thought about him and the emptiness in her heart he had left behind him. But she would not share that with this man; it was far too personal. And nothing to do with the general discussion about Christmas.

His mouth twisted. ‘Do you?’

She forced her voice to sound cheerful and impersonal. Her ongoing sadness over Anthony was deeply private. ‘Not me personally. I love Christmas. I’m lucky enough to come from a big family—one of five kids. I have two older brothers and a sister and a younger sister. Christmas with our extended family was always—still is—a special time of the year. But my parents knew that wasn’t the case for everyone. Every year we shared our celebration with children who weren’t as fortunate as we were.’

‘Charity cases, you mean,’ he said, his voice hard-edged with something she couldn’t identify.

‘In the truest sense of the word,’ she said. ‘We didn’t query them being there. It meant more kids to play with on Christmas Day. It didn’t even enter our heads that there would be fewer presents for us so they could have presents too. Two of them moved in with us as long-term foster kids. When I say I’m from five, I really mean from seven. Only that’s too confusing to explain.’

He gave a sound that seemed a cross between a grunt and a cynical snort.

She shrugged, inexplicably hurt by his reaction. ‘You might think it goody-two-shoes-ish but that’s the way my family are, and I love them for it,’ she said, her voice stiff and more than a touch defensive.

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘I think it...it sounds wonderful. You were very lucky to grow up in a family like that.’ With the implication being he hadn’t?

‘I know, and I’m thankful. And my parents’ strong sense of community didn’t do us any harm. In fact those Christmas Days my family shared with others got me thinking. It was what kept me up last night. I had an idea.’

‘Fire away,’ he said.

She channelled all her optimism and enthusiasm to make her voice sound convincing to Sydney’s most notorious Scrooge. ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you opened this beautiful home on Christmas Day for a big lunch party for children and families who do it hard on Christmas Day? Not as a gimmick. Not as a stunt. As a genuine act of hospitality and sharing the true spirit of Christmas.’

CHAPTER FOUR

DOMINIC STARED AT Andie in disbelief. Hadn’t she heard a word he’d said about his views on Christmas? She looked up at him, her eyes bright with enthusiasm but backlit by wariness. ‘Please, just consider my proposal,’ she said. ‘That’s all I ask.’ He could easily fire her for straying so far from the brief and she must know it—yet that didn’t stop her. Her tenacity was to be admired.

Maybe she had a point. No matter what she or anyone else thought, he was not a Scrooge or a hypocrite. To make a holiday that could never be happy for him happy for others had genuine appeal. He was aware Christmas was a special time for a huge percentage of the population. It was just too painful for him to want to do anything but lock himself away with a bottle of bourbon from Christmas Eve to Boxing Day.

Deep from within, he dredged memories of his first Christmas away from home. Aged seventeen, he’d been living in an underground car park beneath an abandoned shopping centre project. His companions had been a ragtag collection of other runaways, addicts, criminals and people who’d lost all hope of a better life. Someone had stolen a branch of a pine tree from somewhere and decorated it with scavenged scraps of glittery paper. They’d all stood around it and sung carols with varying degrees of sobriety. Only he had stood aloof.

Now, he reached out to where Andie was twisting her necklace so tightly it was in danger of snapping. Gently, he disengaged her hand and freed the string of beads. Fought the temptation to hold her hand for any longer than was necessary—slender and warm in his own much bigger hand. Today her nails were painted turquoise. And, as he’d noticed the day before, her fingers were free of any rings.

‘Your idea could have merit,’ he said, stepping back from her. Back from her beautiful interesting face, her intelligent eyes, the subtle spicy-sweet scent of her. ‘Come and sit outside by the pool and we can talk it over.’

Her face flushed with relief at his response and he realised again what spunk it had taken for her to propose something so radical. He was grateful to whoever had sent Party Planner Number Four his way. Andie was gorgeous, smart and not the slightest in awe of him and his money, which was refreshing. His only regret was that he could not both employ her and date her.

He hadn’t told the complete truth about why he’d been unable to sleep the night before. Thoughts of her had been churning through his head as much as concerns about the party. He had never felt so instantly attracted to a woman. Ever. If they had met under other circumstances he would have asked her out by now.

‘I really think it could work,’ she said as she walked with him through the doors and out to the pool area.

For a heart-halting second he thought Andie had tuned into his private thoughts—that she thought dating her could work. Never. He’d met his ex-wife, Tara, when she’d worked for his company, with disastrous consequences. The whole marriage had, in fact, been disastrous—based on lies and deception. He wouldn’t make that mistake again—even for this intriguing woman.

But of course Andie was talking about her party proposal in businesslike tones. ‘You could generate the right kind of publicity—both for your potential business partner and in general,’ she said as he settled her into one of the white outdoor armchairs that had cost a small fortune because of its vintage styling.

‘While at the same time directly benefiting people who do it tough on the so-called Big Day,’ he said as he took the chair next to her.

‘Exactly,’ she said with her wide, generous smile. When she smiled like that it made him want to make her do it again, just for the pleasure of seeing her face light up. Not a good idea.

Her chair was in the shade of one of the mature palm trees he’d had helicoptered in for the landscaping but the sun was dancing off the aqua surface of the pool. He was disappointed when she reached into her satchel, pulled out a pair of tortoiseshell-rimmed sunglasses and donned them against the glare. They looked ‘vintage’ too. In fact, in her white clothes and turquoise necklace, she looked as if she belonged here.

‘In principal, I don’t mind your idea,’ he said. ‘In fact I find it more acceptable than the other.’

Her smile was edged with relief. ‘I can’t tell you how pleased that makes me.’

‘Would the lunch have to be on actual Christmas Day?’ he said.

‘You could hold it on Christmas Eve or the week leading up to Christmas. In terms of organisation, that would be easier. But none of those peripheral days is as lonely and miserable as Christmas Day can be if you’re one...one of the excluded ones,’ she said. ‘My foster sister told me that.’

The way she was looking at him, even with those too-perceptive green eyes shaded from his view, made him think she was beginning to suspect he had a deeply personal reason for his anti-Christmas stance.

He’d only ever shared that reason with one woman—Melody, the girl who’d first captivated, then shredded, his teenage heart back in that car park squat. By the time Christmas had loomed in the first year of his marriage to Tara, he’d known he’d never be sharing secrets with her. But there was something disarming about Andie that seemed to invite confidences—something he had to stand guard against. She might not be what she seemed—and he had learned the painful lesson not to trust his first impressions when it came to beautiful women.

‘I guess any other day doesn’t have the same impact,’ he reluctantly agreed, not sure he would be able to face the festivities. Did he actually have to be present on the day? Might it not be enough to provide the house and the meal? No. To achieve his goal, he knew his presence would be necessary. Much as he would hate every minute of it.

‘Maybe your marketing people will have other ideas,’ she said. ‘But I think opening your home on the actual December twenty-five to give people who really need it a slap-up feast would be a marvellous antidote to your Scrooge...sorry, miser... I mean cheap reputation.’ She pulled a face. ‘Sorry. I didn’t actually mean any of those things.’

Why did it sting so much more coming from her? ‘Of course you did. So does everyone else. People who have no idea of what and where I might give without wanting any fanfare.’ The main reason he wanted to secure the joint venture was to ensure his big project in Brisbane would continue to be funded long after his lifetime.

She looked shamefaced. ‘I’m sorry.’

He hated that people like Andie thought he was stingy. Any remaining reservations he might hold about the party had to go. He needed to take action before this unfair reputation become so deeply entrenched he’d never free himself from it. ‘Let’s hope the seasonal name-calling eases if I go ahead with the lunch.’

She held up a finger in warning. ‘It wouldn’t appease everyone. Those cynical journalists might not be easily swayed.’

He scowled. ‘I can’t please everyone.’ But he found himself, irrationally, wanting to please her.

‘It might help if you followed through with a visible, ongoing relationship with a charity. If the media could see...could see...’

Her eyes narrowed in concentration. He waited for the end of her sentence but it wasn’t forthcoming. ‘See what?’

‘Sorry,’ she said, shaking her head as if bringing herself back to earth. ‘My thoughts tend to run faster than my words sometimes when I’m deep in the creative zone.’

‘I get it,’ he said, though he wasn’t sure what the hell being in the creative zone meant.

‘I meant your critics might relent if they could see your gesture was genuine.’

He scowled. ‘But it will be genuine.’

‘You know it and I know it but they might see it as just another publicity gimmick.’ Her eyes narrowed again and he gave her time to think. ‘What if you didn’t actually seek publicity for this day? You know—no invitations or press releases. Let the details leak. Tantalise the media.’

‘For a designer, you seem to know a lot about publicity,’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘When you work in magazines you pick up a lot about both seeking and giving publicity. But your marketing people would have their own ideas, I’m sure.’

‘I should talk it over with them,’ he said.

‘As it’s only six weeks until Christmas, and this would be a big event to pull together, may I suggest there’s not a lot of discussion time left?’

‘You’re right. I know. But it’s a big deal.’ So much bigger for him personally than she realised.

‘You’re seriously considering going ahead with it?’

He so much preferred it to the Z-list celebrity party. ‘Yes. Let’s do it.’

She clapped her hands together. ‘I’m so glad. We can make it a real dream-come-true for your guests.’

‘What about you and your business partners? You’d have to work on Christmas Day.’

‘Speaking for me, I’d be fine with working. True spirit of Christmas and all that. I’ll have to speak to Gemma and Eliza, but I think they’d be behind it too.’ Securing Dominic Hunt’s business for Party Queens was too important for them to refuse.

‘What about caterers and so on?’ he asked.

‘The hospitality industry works three hundred and sixty-five days a year. It shouldn’t be a problem. There are also people who don’t celebrate Christmas as part of their culture who are very happy to work—especially for holiday pay rates. You don’t have to worry about all that—that’s our job.’

‘And the guests? How would we recruit them?’ He was about to say he could talk to people in Brisbane, where he was heavily involved in a homeless charity, but stopped himself. That was too connected to the secret part of his life he had no desire to share.

‘I know the perfect person to help—my older sister, Hannah, is a social worker. She would know exactly which charities to liaise with. I think she would be excited to be involved.’

It was her. Andie. He would not be considering this direction if it wasn’t for her. The big glitzy party had seemed so wrong. She made him see what could be right.

‘Could we set up a meeting with your sister?’ he asked.

‘I can do better than that,’ she said with a triumphant toss of her head that set her oversized earrings swaying. ‘Every Wednesday night is open house dinner at my parents’ house. Whoever of my siblings can make it comes. Sometimes grandparents and cousins too. I know Hannah will be there tonight and I’m planning to go too. Why don’t you come along?’

‘To your family dinner?’ His first thought was to say no. Nothing much intimidated him—but meeting people’s families was near the top of the list.

‘Family is an elastic term for the Newmans. Friends, waifs and strays are always welcome at the table.’

What category would he be placed under? His memory of being a real-life stray made him wince. Friend? Strictly speaking, if circumstances were different, he’d want to be more than friends with Andie. Would connecting with her family create an intimacy he might later come to regret?