Sally fiercely told herself she had no reason to feel any sense of panic. Everyone had worked hard all day to ensure everything was picture perfect for Jack Maguire’s personal evaluation of his property. The cleaning ladies had the house spick and span. The gardener had trimmed the lawn. Jeanette, after a frenzy of food shopping, was cooking a special welcome-home dinner. It was almost six o’clock and the only problem she had was deciding what to wear.
Should she dress up as her mother had always insisted they do for her father? She wasn’t a wife or a daughter to Jack Maguire, only an employee, and although he had expressed a wish to be welcomed as his father had, Sally couldn’t help worrying if dressing up might encourage him to think she was his for the taking—his grateful little mistress!
She hated her mother’s spin on the situation, didn’t want to give it any credence, yet she couldn’t quite banish it from her mind, having thought the same thing before she’d persuaded herself otherwise.
She should trust her own judgement. Her mother hadn’t talked with Jack, as she had. He wanted the welcome mat out. Part of that was dressing up, as anyone would for an important visitor. Who more important than Jack in these circumstances? Besides, in her heart of hearts, she wanted to look attractive, which was why she’d already spent so long washing and drying her hair into a gleaming mass of partially tamed curls.
Smart-casual, she finally decided, pulling on white slacks and a wraparound top in green and black and white. The top had cap sleeves and the V-neckline wasn’t low enough to show any cleavage, yet as she did up the ties at the side of her waist, she started worrying that he might see it as invitational. But if he had sex on his mind, it didn’t really matter what she wore, did it? And time was running out. Stupid to keep dithering.
She slapped some make-up on to give her face some colour. No perfume. Definitely not perfume, which might be interpreted as enticing. Satisfied with looking fresh and respectable, and doing her best to ignore the nervous thumping of her heart, she headed for the lounge room where the ingredients for a martini were lined up on her father’s bar, ready to be mixed. She would present him with one when he emerged from the helicopter. That part of the arrival ceremony was surely harmless. Besides, a greeting drink was appropriate in the circumstances.
Jeanette came in with a carefully arranged plate of antipasta and laid it on the bar counter. “In case he’s peckish before dinner,” she said, anxious to please. “Graham’s waiting in the kitchen. He’ll come out and carry Mr. Maguire’s bag to the guest room when the helicopter lands.” She gave Sally a worried look. “Are you sure he won’t want the master bedroom? We don’t want to offend.”
“I’ll ask him when he gets here. It’s easy enough to change, Jeannette,” she said soothingly.
The housekeeper patted down her apron and primped her permed grey hair. She was in her fifties and on the plump side, being fond of her own baking, but she prided herself on always looking neat and tidy and Sally knew these actions were symptoms of an attack of nerves. Change was difficult for everyone, she thought, probably more so for older people.
“The antipasta looks delicious and Jack Maguire will certainly appreciate the care you’ve put into dinner,” Sally assured her. “Stop worrying, Jeanette.”
She heaved a sigh then cocked her head in listening mode. “That’s the helicopter coming. Good luck, Sally.” Her kind brown eyes flashed approval. “You look very nice.”
“Thanks. And thanks for all you’ve done to make Jack feel welcomed here.”
“Got to make him happy to have this place to come to. I don’t mind telling you I’d hate to leave. That cottage has been our home for so long…” Another big sigh before she bustled out, leaving Sally to put the last finishing touch—a spiked olive—to the martini.
The helicopter noise was louder now. It seemed to vibrate right through Sally, making her body feel quivery. She gripped the martini glass very firmly and concentrated on not spilling a drop as she forced her shaky legs to walk out to the patio overlooking the helipad. It was important for Jack to see her there, waiting to welcome him. She had to get this right. Other people depended on her making him feel good about holding on to this property. A year would not be enough for Jeanette. The housekeeper wanted to keep her home.
The moment she stepped outside, the whirling wind from the helicopter blades blew her hair into wild disarray. She should have tied it back instead of leaving it loose—not thinking ahead, but nothing she could do about it now. She held grimly on to the glass, waiting for the craft to settle before heading down the steps to meet Jack.
The engine was switched off. The blades slowed. The doors opened for both Jack and the pilot to emerge. Sally plastered a smile on her face and, moving with what she hoped looked like casual grace, descended to the helipad to greet the man who had so suddenly become a driving force in her life.
Jack alighted from the passenger seat with a broad smile on his face and an eager bounce in his step. Amazing what a lift it had been to see Sally waiting for him on the patio, the fiery halo of her hair blown into a wild sunburst by the incoming helicopter. His mind did take note that she was only doing what he’d asked of her, but the cynical aside in no way reduced his pleasure in seeing her.
“Welcome home, Jack,” she called to him, pausing her approach as he strode towards her, holding out the martini she’d brought to give him.
He laughed, enjoying the black humour of the situation. This home had been bought, as Sally well knew. He had no emotional connection to it. The connection was to her, and she was simply fulfilling the role he had wickedly suggested. Doing it with class, too, looking country-fresh and beautiful in white and green. She belonged here. He had no sense of belonging to anywhere.
Yet as he took the offered drink, and felt desire for her firing through his blood, he was glad he’d come, even though the welcome had been paid for.
“Thank you, Sally,” he said, his eyes keenly sweeping hers for some sign of what she was feeling.
“How was your day?” she asked brightly, as though he’d only left her this morning.
“Busy,” he drawled, amused by the fiction she was keeping up. “Yours?”
“Very busy.” Her own lips twitched in amusement over the trite conversation. She gestured to the grey suit he wore. “You look as though you’ve come straight from a boardroom.”