Master of her Virtue

Aside from being the only one to be plagued by acne in her teenage years, she’d looked totally different as well. Where both Vanessa and her mother were blue-eyed blondes with small bones and were less than average height, Violet was taller and curvier, with dark brown hair and eyes. Admittedly, her father and brother had dark-brown hair and eyes, but they weren’t big men, both a good few inches less than six feet with lean, wiry frames.

She’d been told, when she’d once questioned her genes, that she looked like her great-aunt Mirabella, the one who’d died and left her the ten grand. Not that she’d ever met the woman. Apparently, she’d died a spinster. It suddenly occurred to Violet that maybe no man would marry her because she’d had a face covered in pimples and scars at a time when there’d been no miracle pill or miracle lasers.

But it wasn’t just in looks that Violet was different from the rest of her family. Her brain was different as well. Measured with an IQ of one hundred and forty, she had a brilliant memory, as well as an analytical mind and a talent for writing—though not creative writing so much, she was beginning to suspect. She’d finally abandoned her attempt to write her first novel this past year when she hadn’t been able to get past the third chapter.

Her writing ability, she’d concluded, lay more in being able to put her analytical thoughts and opinions into words which were original and thought-provoking. Her English essays in high school had been so good that her teachers had been stunned. They’d encouraged her to enter an essay competition on the subject of Jane Austen’s books, first prize being a scholarship to study for an arts degree at Sydney University, where all her fees and books would be paid for.

She’d won it before she’d also noted the scholarship included two thousand dollars a semester towards her living expenses. It was not quite enough for her to live on, but she’d been fortunate to find board with a widow named Joy who’d charged her only a nominal rent provided Violet did some of the heavy cleaning and helped her with the shopping.

Another plus had been the location of Joy’s terraced house. It was in Newtown, an inner-city suburb within walking distance of Sydney University. Even so, her father had still had to give her some money so that she could make ends meet. That was till she had landed the job as one of Henry’s readers, after which she’d been able to survive without outside help.

Violet had quickly found she liked not being beholden to anyone for anything; had liked the feeling of being responsible for herself. As much as she still lacked confidence in her appearance, she did not lack confidence in other areas of her life.

She knew she was good at her job as well as quite a lot of other things. She’d learned to cook well, thanks to helping Joy in the kitchen. She was a good driver, again thanks to Joy, who’d lent her a car and bravely gone with her whilst she clocked up the numbers of hours driving that she needed to secure her licence. She would have bought herself a car, if she’d needed one, but Henry worked out of an apartment in the CBD and it was much easier to catch a bus than drive into the city and find parking.

Violet supposed that, if she had a social life with lots of friends dotted all over Sydney, she would definitely have to buy herself a car. But she didn’t. Occasionally, this bothered her, but she’d grown used to not having friends; grown used to her own company. Not that she stayed home alone all the time. She often went out with Joy, who was still a real live-wire, despite being seventy-five now with two arthritic hips, which gave her hell in the winter. Every Saturday night the two of them would go out for a bite to eat—usually at an Asian restaurant—before going on to see a movie.

Violet could honestly say that she was content with her life, on the whole. She wasn’t unhappy or depressed, as she’d once been. It was a big plus to be able to look in the mirror each morning and not shudder with revulsion. Of course, if she were brutally honest, she did secretly wish that she could find the courage to enter the dating world and eventually do something about her virginal status. She hated to think that next Christmas would eventually come around and she’d make the same tired old excuse over her lack of a love life.

A wry smile pulled at the corners of her mouth as she thought of the book in her bag. What she needed was a wickedly sexy pirate to kidnap her and not give her time to think or to worry before he ravaged her silly.

Unfortunately, that was highly unlikely to happen in this day and age. It was an exciting thought, though.

Suddenly, Violet couldn’t wait to get to the airport where she could start reading.

‘Don’t get out, Dad,’ she said once they arrived at the departure drop-off point.

‘Okay. Give us a kiss.’

Violet leant over and pecked him on the cheek. ‘Bye, Dad. Keep well.’

Twelve minutes later, Violet was sitting in the departure lounge, reading the story of Captain Strongbow and his Lady Gwendaline. By the time she boarded the plane, she was halfway through the three-hundred-and-fifty-page book, having become a speed reader over the years. By the time the jet began its descent into Mascot airport, she was on the last chapter.

The story had been pretty much as she remembered—the plot packed with action, the hero thrillingly sexy, the love scenes extremely explicit and, yes, exciting. Her heart was definitely racing once more.

There was one difference, however, which she noticed on second reading: the heroine was a much stronger character than she’d originally thought. Of course, the first time round Violet had been focusing more on the hero, who was the epitome of macho attractiveness.

On second reading, however, she saw that Lady Gwendaline wasn’t as dominated by the dashing but rather decadent Captain Strongbow as she’d imagined. She’d stood up to him all the way. When it was obvious he was going to have sex with her with or without her permission, her decision not to resist his advances had not been done out of fear and weakness but out of a determination to survive. She’d faced her ordeal with courage. Faced it head-on. She hadn’t whined and wept. She hadn’t begged. She’d lifted her chin, stripped off her clothes and done what she had to do.

That she’d found pleasure in having sex with her captor had come as a shock to Lady Gwendaline. It was blatantly obvious, though, that she had decided to go to bed with the pirate before she discovered what a great lover he was. There was nothing weak about Gwendaline. Nothing of the victim. She was a survivor because she was a decider. She didn’t just let things happen to her. She decided, then she acted. Sometimes foolishly, but always with spirit and courage.

Violet smothered a sigh as she closed the book then slipped it back into her bag. She wished she had that type of courage. But she didn’t. She couldn’t even find the courage to go out on a date. God, she was pathetic!

She was sitting there, castigating herself, when she became aware that the plane had stopped descending. It was, in fact, ascending—quite quickly. But why? Even before there was time for fear to take hold, the pilot’s voice came over the intercom.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘this is your captain speaking. We are experiencing a small technical problem with the undercarriage of the aircraft. You may have noticed that we have halted our descent. We will be returning to ten-thousand feet, where we will maintain a holding pattern till we have solved the problem. Please keep your phones and laptops turned off during this short delay. Be assured there is nothing to be alarmed about. I will keep you informed and trust we will soon be able to resume our descent.’

Unfortunately, things didn’t work out as smoothly as that. Instead of shortly resuming their descent, they maintained a holding pattern for a tense twenty minutes, after which they flew out over the ocean where the captain dumped the rest of the fuel before finally coming in for an emergency landing. The passengers by then were armed with the disturbing knowledge that the undercarriage was probably not properly locked in. The wheels had come down but some light that should have come on hadn’t.

Or maybe it should have gone off. Violet wasn’t sure which. Her normally sharp brain had gone into panic mode when the captain had been explaining the unfortunate situation. Either way, there was a very real possibility that once they hit the tarmac the undercarriage would totally collapse and all hell would break loose.

There was a deathly silence in the cabin as they made their approach. None of the hundred-and-fifty-plus passengers were at all reassured by the captain’s cool, or the fact that their runway had already been covered in fire-retardant foam, with all emergency vehicles at the ready. The reality of the matter was that they were all facing the possibility that in a minute or so everyone in that plane might die.

Violet wished, as she braced in the crash position, that she hadn’t watched so many of those air crash investigation shows. They didn’t inspire confidence in a positive outcome.

Survivors of plane crashes often said afterwards that their lives flashed before them during their near-death experience. Violet could honestly say that didn’t quite happen to her. The only thing she could think of at that moment was that she was about to go to her grave a virgin. She had never experienced sex, or love, or passion, or anything even close.

And it was all her own fault. It was then that she made a solemn vow to herself: if she got through this alive, she would change. From now on, she would say yes when asked out, no matter who asked her.

She would make other changes too. She would stop going to an all-female gym. She would dress more fashionably; wear make-up; perfume; jewellery. She would believe what the mirror told her and not her warped mind. She would even buy a car under the positive assumption that she would definitely need one when she began socialising more. Not a boring car, either. A red two-door model!

No more ‘shrinking Violet’ for her. The time had come to shrug off her stultifying past and embrace a very different future.

If I have a future, came the awful thought.

Her chest tightened as the plane touched down, a silent prayer forming on her lips. The wheels skidded a little on the foam but they held. Dear Lord in heaven, they held! Her head shot up at the same time as lots of other heads shot up. Everyone started laughing and clapping, hugging each other and even kissing. Violet had never felt so relieved, or so happy.

She’d been given a second chance at life and, by God, she wasn’t going to waste it!

CHAPTER TWO

LEO WAS SITTING on the balcony of his father’s harbour-side apartment, sipping a glass of very nice red, when he heard a phone ring somewhere inside. Not his; he always kept his phone with him.

‘Henry, phone!’ he called out after the phone rang a few more times. Leo hadn’t called his father ‘Father’ since he’d gone to Oxford to study law over twenty years ago. They’d always been close, the result of Leo’s mother having died when Leo had been very young, and his father never having remarried.

By the time Leo had gone to university they’d been more like best friends than father and son. Henry had suggested the change and Leo had happily gone along with the idea.

He was about to get up and answer the darned phone himself when the ringing finally stopped, leaving Leo to relax with his wine and enjoy the view, which was second to none, especially on a warm summer’s afternoon. The water was bluer than blue, sparkling in the sunshine and decorated with all manner of craft, from small sailing boats to ferries to five-star cruisers. In the not-too-distant foreground stood Sydney’s iconic Harbour Bridge, along with the stunning-looking Opera House on its left.

When Henry had announced eight years ago that he was retiring to the land down under, Leo had been sceptical of the move lasting. His father was a Londoner born and bred, like himself.

A successful literary agent, Henry’s life had always been steeped in the arts. His parents had been professors of history; his only sibling—an older sister—a potter of some note. Henry’s wife had been a well-known sculptress till her untimely death—she’d been struck down with meningitis when she’d been only thirty.

Whilst never remarrying, Henry’s name had been linked with many women over the years—all of them accomplished in the arts: opera singers. Ballet dancers. Painters. And, of course, writers. How could a man of his tastes possibly be happy living in Australia which, whilst not quite the cultural wasteland it had once been, was still hardly on a par with London?

Leo had been sure his father would soon become bored. But he hadn’t. Of course, he hadn’t retired either. He’d set up shop in an apartment he’d bought in Sydney’s CBD, working from home, quickly acquiring a stable of up-and-coming Aussie writers via a clever website which he’d had designed by a professional. His agency didn’t have any partners, as he’d had in London, or even any staff at first. Henry had kept his client base small, concentrating on the thriller genre and sending most of the manuscripts out to paid readers.

One of these readers had proved to be a little goldmine—a university student named Violet who had a real knack for recognising raw talent, as well as being able to suggest the kind of revisions which could turn a promising but unpublishable manuscript into a commercial winner. Henry had quickly learnt to take Violet’s opinions and advice very seriously indeed, the result of which was a succession of best-selling books whose authors now commanded top advances and royalties.

Soon, the Wolfe Literary Agency had become the literary agency to belong to if you were a thriller writer. And, whilst Henry wasn’t interested in expanding his agency at his age, his father had had the nous to hire this Violet as his assistant once she’d graduated from university. He’d also had the nous to buy this apartment—fully furnished—when it had come on the somewhat depressed market just over two years ago.

Leo had to admit that he was impressed with the place. He was impressed with Sydney, too. It was a glorious-looking city, with a superb climate and a wealth of things to see and do. Okay, so there weren’t as many theatres and museums as London boasted, but the restaurants were top class, the shopping perfectly adequate and the beaches to die for.

Not to mention the harbour. He’d only been here a week but already he could see the attraction for people from gloomy old England. There was something uplifting in seeing a clear blue sky in which the sun shone brightly.

It had certainly uplifted him. Leo had been feeling a bit low of late, what with his last movie having been a box-office flop. Entirely his fault, of course. He should never have attempted to make a two-hour film out of a thousand-page novel which was character- rather than plot-based. Failure had been inevitable.

Still, it had been a bitter pill to swallow after producing a string of hits over the past decade. One of the reasons he’d accepted his father’s invitation to spend Christmas and the New Year with him here in Sydney was to get away from the media—not to mention his so-called friends, the ones who seemed to enjoy saying that his Midas touch with movies might be on the wane. By the time he went back to England, he hoped the critics would have found someone else to slam with their poisonous reviews. For pity’s sake, the movie hadn’t been that bad!