A Weekend To Remember

Pride was something she’d been deficient in for quite some time, and in gratitude for the chance he’d given her Hannah gave him absolute loyalty in return. In her eyes, Jack could do no wrong. He deserved the best, in her opinion, and the best was not a two-faced two-bit soapie-star by the unlikely name of Felicia Fay.

Hannah’s top lip curled in contempt at the mere thought of the woman.

Really, she was beneath contempt—the worst excuse for a woman Hannah had ever met. She’d begun to suspect as much the moment Jack’s fiancee had opened the apartment door to her the previous evening…

‘Well, if it isn’t the efficient Hannah, running late for once. Whatever will Jack say!’

Startled by her sour tone, Hannah’s hazel eyes blinked wide for a second, before narrowing to appraise further the woman her boss was to marry in four weeks’ time.

There was no doubt that Felicia was physically beautiful—more so tonight than ever before. She looked a million dollars, in fact. Masses of blonde streaked tresses framed a perfectly madeup face before cascading down over slender shoulders. Her tall model-like figure was encased in a suede trouser suit in a deep blue which complemented her big blue eyes. A long rope of reallooking pearls hung between her high, firm breasts, matching drop earrings swinging sexily from her lobes as she tipped her head to one side and returned the appraisal.

‘I see you haven’t had time to change,’ she drawled. ‘I must tell Jack not to work you so hard. Poor Hannah. Still…black always looks well on older women, doesn’t it? It’s kind on the complexion and so slimming.’

Poor Hannah was stunned into silence by such an ill-concealed display of bitchiness. The black dress she was wearing was understated but definitely after-five—not the sort of garment she would ever have dreamt of wearing to the office. And her shoulder-length brown hair was stylishly done up in a French roll, not the simple topknot she favoured for work. Despite all this, Hannah knew she didn’t hold a candle to the bright butterfly standing before her. So why the attempt to put her down?

‘I must thank you for the sweet little engagement gift you sent via Jack,’ the butterfly swept on, with a cloying smile. ‘One can’t have too many ornaments, can one?’

Hannah tried not to choke. The ‘ornament’ she’d sent had been a very elegant and very expensive Lladro!

‘Now, don’t just stand there, Hannah, looking out of place. Do come in. Jack’s busy talking to some important people at the moment, so you’ll have to mingle, I’m afraid.’

Hannah absorbed all the subtle and not-sosubtle slights of Felicia’s welcome with a rueful dismay. This was the first time she’d been alone with Jack’s fiancée for more than a minute, and the cat’s claws were well and truly out. Rather telling, Hannah thought, since she was hardly the sort of secretary to worry a prospective wife. The woman had to be a natural bitch, who believed all other women were the same.

‘I don’t mind mingling,’ Hannah returned as Felicia shut the door behind her.

‘Don’t you? Funny, I always think of you as such a shy little thing. It amazes me sometimes why Jack has so much confidence in you. You don’t seem the type to be a super-secretary.’

Hannah bristled. ‘What type would you say I am?’

Felicia’s laugh was light and tinkling. Presumably it was meant to soften the malice behind the words. ‘Oh, you know. The little-woman-athome type. You are married, aren’t you? You wear a wedding-ring and I heard someone call you Mrs Althorp the other day.’

The fingers of Hannah’s left hand automatically curled over into a tight, tense fist. ‘Actually, no, I’m not any more,’ she said tautly. ‘My divorce came through today. I just haven’t bothered to take off my rings. Maybe I never will. With the number of males who come through the office, sometimes it’s handy to be thought of as married.’

Felicia’s glance was sharp. ‘So you’ve become a man-hater, have you?’ she asked hopefully.

‘I wouldn’t say that, exactly. But I have no intention of ever remarrying, if that’s what you’re asking,’ she added, hoping to put the woman’s unfounded fears at rest.

Her smile still had an edge to it. ‘In that case, I’ll make sure I call you Mrs Althorp when I’m in the office. Funny, I know a plastic surgeon called Althorp. Has a practice on the North Shore. But of course, he can’t be your Althorp. Such a handsome, charming, cultured man.’

Hannah could hardly believe the venom she was hearing. What had she ever done to this woman but be polite and pleasant?

‘I must get back to Jack. You can look after yourself, can’t you?’

With gritted teeth, Hannah agreed that she could, all the while wondering if dear Felicia was the twenty-nine she claimed to be. Hannah’s ex-husband was a dab hand at facelifts, and all sorts of other cosmetic surgery. Dwight’s practice depended largely on ladies in the public eye who wanted to look young forever, and other poor put-upon women whose husbands and boyfriends wanted them to look like the models in Playboy magazine.

The epitome of feminine desirability these days seemed to be large-breasted, tiny-waisted, slenderhipped, tight-buttocked, firm-thighed, longlegged, small-nosed, big-lipped, wide-eyed, nowrinkles, clear-skinned beauties, with the public sweetness of angels and the private talents of whores.

Hannah didn’t quite qualify. Admittedly when she’d married Dwight, at nineteen, she’d been very pretty and her figure excellent. She was still pretty enough, she supposed, with neat features and nice big eyes. And, being fairly tall, she still looked good in clothes. But the birth of two boys by the time she’d been twenty-one, plus another fourteen years, had taken a certain toll. As for her talents in the bedroom…Well, least said, best said about that.

Felicia, however, obviously did qualify—in every way. Her face and figure were second bar none. Her public demeanour in front of Jack was feminine and accommodating. As far as her private demeanour was concerned…Hannah had no doubt that Felicia’s talents in the bedroom were superb as well, to have Jack doing what he’d vowed never to do. Getting married.

Hannah sighed. God, she just hated to think of Jack married to that woman! Felicia was like this apartment—all surface glamour and glitz, but with no soul. In a way, she reminded Hannah of Dwight. Both of them were social climbers, who cared more for appearances than anything else. Jack would find no more happiness with Felicia as his wife than Hannah had with Dwight as her husband.

But it was none of her business, was it, whom her boss married? He was a grown man, thirtyfour years old, with a mind of his own. If she dared venture an adverse opinion of his new fiancée, he wouldn’t be at all pleased. It might even reverberate on her and the job she valued. Really, there was nothing for it but to smile sweetly and keep her mouth firmly shut.

Hannah moved from the marble-floored foyer down three cream-carpeted steps and into the first of the large living-rooms. It was peppered with small groups of people, all with drinks in their hands, several with cigarettes as well. She cringed as the smoke haze teased her nostrils, setting off that old tell-tale pang of need. Irritated with herself, she swept a flute of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and pressed it to her lips, taking a few swift sharp swallows. It wasn’t as good as a cigarette, but it was better than nothing.

Glancing around, she quickly spied Jack across the heads in the next room. Nothing strange about that. At six feet six inches tall, Jack’s head usually stood above all others. His longish wavy jet-black hair was hard to miss as well. Hannah stood, sipping her drink and quietly watching him from a distance.

Not a classically handsome man, Jack nevertheless had a face one remembered, with its large, strong features, deeply set blue eyes, squared jaw and uncompromising mouth. One also remembered the scar that ran from his left eyebrow across his cheekbone to his left ear—the result of a run-in with a knife when he was a lad. Or so the rumour went.

Looking at him objectively, Hannah had to concede that a pretty boy, Jack wasn’t. But, with shoulders and a body to match his height, he was physically a very impressive and intimidating individual.

She could still remember catching her breath in surprise when, during her job interview, Jack had suddenly stood up to attend an incoming fax. Prior to that he’d been leaning back in his swivelchair, his long legs stretched out under the desk. She hadn’t realised how tall he was. Even now, when he strode into the office some mornings, she could still be awed by his size.

Hannah was not used to physical men. Dwight possessed an elegant, slender frame—nothing like Jack, who was a big bull of a man. No, not a bull—a bear. But, like a lot of big bears, underneath all the huff and bluff, lay a soft heart.

Too bad it had to be snared by the likes of Felicia.

Hannah moved through the archway which separated the two rooms, her eyebrows lifting in surprise once Jack came into full view. For he was dressed as she had never seen him before, in a sleek black dinner suit with satin lapels that would have done an ambassador proud.

Hannah stared, amazed that Felicia had persuaded Jack to wear what he always called a ‘penguin’ suit. His usual garb was shorts and a T-shirt if it was hot, jeans and a sweatshirt if it wasn’t. Occasionally he sported a pair of casual trousers and a proper shirt if he was going to a restaurant. No tie, though. He despised ties. Yet here he was, with a bow-tie choking his muscular neck.

There was no doubting the power of love!

Or sex, Hannah added with silent cynicism. Men’s brains went from their heads to their groins when it came to sex—especially with women who looked like Felicia. Feminine instinct warned Hannah that her boss didn’t really love his new fiancée. He was sexually besotted, that was all. As for Felicia…Hannah felt certain that she didn’t love Jack either.

But there was nothing she could do about it.

Hannah stopped her progress towards her boss once she saw who Jack was talking to. It was Gerald Boynton, the owner of this unit and a highly successful property developer. About forty, he was one of those sleazily handsome men, with slicked back hair, a pencil-thin moustache and dark oily eyes which slid all over you.

Hannah couldn’t stand a bar of him.

Recently he’d bought great tracts of land around the Wyong area, and wanted Jack to build his quality homes on the various developments he had planned. He insisted that together they would ‘revolutionise’ housing on the Central Coast.

That was the way Gerald Boynton talked. Very big. Still, there was no doubt he got things done, and it looked as if Jack would sign up with him. Hannah felt that it was the second dubious partnership her boss was about to enter into.

The urge to have a cigarette consumed her again, and she swivelled round to see whom she could cadge a cigarette from. The need quickly became a compulsion. Her fingers itched. She licked dry lips. It had been two whole months since she’d gone cold turkey, and she’d hoped she’d moved beyond this. It was clear that she hadn’t.

Giving in to temptation with a rush of rebellion, she headed straight for a group of smokers, only to have someone grab her by the arm and pull her to a halt.

‘Oh, no you don’t,’ a deep male voice growled.

Hannah whirled to find Jack glaring down at her from under beetling brows, his piercing blue eyes carrying reproach.

‘No, you don’t, what?’ she tried, but her own eyes were smiling ruefully. When Jack had first noticed she’d given up cigarettes he’d declared himself her watchdog, he himself having only given up the dreaded vice a few months before. His vocal pride in her success so far had always stopped her sneaking one behind his back. Till tonight.

‘Hannah, Hannah,’ he sighed. ‘I can read you like a book. You were coveting that fellow’s cigarette over there like a starving man covets a Big Mac. Admit it. I caught you just in time.’