Awakened by His Touch (6 page)

Corporate him looked pretty grim, come to think of it.

‘I have more stubble on my face today than in this picture because I’m relaxed, and my beard tends to want to grow further down my neck than I’d like. It’s a constant pain.’ He clicked his phone to darkness. ‘So that’s me in a nutshell.’

Her lopsided smile evened out on the right and then broke into a fully fledged, fully glorious thing. ‘I’m glad you’re relaxed with us.’

So was he. She had no idea how rare a thing that was.

‘Want to know what that looks like in my head...?’ she offered.

Yes, desperately.
‘No. I hate bad news.’

‘Heathcliff painted by Picasso.’

His laugh was immediate and genuine. ‘That’s how you’re imagining me?’

‘Right now, yes.’

‘How do you know how Picasso paints?’

‘I told you, Mum likes to scene-set. She has an amazing descriptive vocabulary.’

‘And Heathcliff?’

‘I’m a big reader.’

‘Well...I’ll take Picasso’s Heathcliff. Happily.’

Her voice turned two shades breathier. ‘Want to know how I was imagining you before?’

Something told him he didn’t. Yet something else whispered that the next words out of her mouth would be amongst the most important of his life. And his subconscious had never let him down yet.

‘Go ahead.’

She tipped her head to the sky and stared into the sun, eyes wide open. Straight into it—just as she had that day on the beach. His immediate urge was to leap across and shield her eyes from the damaging rays. But something in her motion told him she’d been doing this for a long time. And that it was special to her.

She tipped her head back down, towards him. ‘When I do that, I get a “ghost”. Right up-front, where my vision should be.’ Her hand waved in a small arc just above her head. ‘That’s what the specialists call it. My parents would call it a glow.’

‘And you see it?’

Her head shook. ‘I
experience
it. It’s as much a feeling as a visual thing, and it lasts about thirty seconds. I’m not always sure it’s even real or whether it’s just my imagination filling in blanks. Because I get it for different people, too.’

He struggled hard not to clear his suddenly thick throat. ‘You experience me as a...ghost?’

‘Yours is dense.’

‘Right...’

Her laugh whipped away on the wind as they sped along between the coast and the trees. ‘Not literally. They have frequencies and yours is kind of...thick. Rich. Masculine. Which is stupid, given I have two men in the family.’

One or either of them should be hideously uncomfortable right about now, but he found it hard to be anything other than intrigued. And grateful. ‘You make me sound positively mysterious. I think I prefer the ghost to the Picasso.’

‘Me, too.’

They rumbled onwards in silence and Elliott looked out at the terrain whizzing past them on the private roads—primarily as an excuse not to look at Laney. Just because she couldn’t see him do it there was no excuse to stare.

It occurred to him that Laney Morgan ‘saw’ things more clearly without ever actually seeing them than he ever had with his twenty-twenty vision. She was all about people’s qualities, their goodness and their truth. And he should be worried as all hell about that. Worried that she was going to get to the truth of who he really was: the man beneath the corporate suit, the guy without his desk. Because on his worst days Elliott doubted there was much of a man there at all beneath the trappings of his corporate lifestyle, and that maybe his mother had been right in never pushing him to be more. Maybe she’d seen early what he was too cocky and ambitious to admit.

That there might not be much more of a man to be had.

It would certainly explain the hollow emptiness.

And his blazing desperation to fill it with
stuff
.

Owen pulled the ute to a halt by the barest of clearings in the bush on the side of the road, next to a blue steel gate.

‘We’re here,’ she breathed. ‘The Davidson property.’

‘It’s certainly not as impressive as Morgan’s entry.’

‘This is the back gate. Their four-year-old is allergic, so the hives are on the farthest corner of their farm.’

Owen pulled through and then closed the gate behind them before driving in low gear up a barely discernible track. He stopped at the top, in a croft of trees, near to two dozen white hives. Elliott pushed to his feet and guided Laney to the back edge of the ute before jumping down ahead of her.

Assisting her seemed the right thing to do, though he knew in his heart she’d probably been jumping down off the back of this truck since she was a kid. She sat on the back edge of the ute and felt for his shoulders as he stepped up between her legs and braced her gently around the waist. Then he lifted as she slid.

Helping her might be appropriate, but there was nothing appropriate about his reaction to her body’s slide down his, coming so soon on the tail of yesterday’s grope disguised as a rescue. Even through his own clothes his skin immediately questioned what she was wearing below the flimsy safety overalls. A tank top, maybe? Shorts? Didn’t feel like much. Instead, as his hands bunched in the light waxy material, all he could feel was heat.

Laney’s heat. His own.

She settled more certainly on her feet and tipped her head up on a murmur. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’

And then it happened. Their proximity and the direction of his voice meant she was able to lock those deep grey eyes directly on his and even though his mind knew they were sightless, his heart felt sure that her soul was seeing him.

Right down into his own.

It was as inconceivable as the idea that she saw him as a ghost glow, yet utterly unshakeable.

She
was
seeing him on some level. Whether she knew it or not.

‘Suit up, Elliott,’ Owen said, slamming his door and moving straight to the side of the ute to unlash the empty hive boxes. ‘Heaps to do.’

A pretty flush ran up Laney’s jaw and she stepped back. ‘Ignore him—everybody does. You’re here observing.’

The glance Owen cast his sister was as brief as it was wounded.

‘I don’t mind helping out. A bit of labour will be good for me,’ said Elliott.

‘I don’t want to be responsible for callousing up those hands.’ The colour doubled as she realised what her casual comment was an admission of. ‘But it’s up to you.’

She turned and walked towards her brother, her knuckles lightly grazing the dirtied edge of the ute, keeping her orientated, and Owen loaded her up with equipment.

Elliott had to bite his tongue. Her brother treated her as if she was as capable as he was—and that was no doubt true—but deep down inside he couldn’t shake the feeling that Helena Morgan was someone to be cherished, protected. Spoiled like a princess. He’d thought she was regal in those first moments yesterday and the sense hadn’t left him. It was in her carriage. And her confidence. And the way she commanded any space she was in.

And he’d never in his life wanted so badly to cherish someone.

Nor known for certain how unwelcome that would be.

CHAPTER FIVE

I
T
WAS
A
full month before Elliott returned to the farm. A few short weeks for Laney to get her headspace and her perspective—and her tranquil existence—back in order.

Nowhere near long enough, judging by the little random rushes of anticipation as the weekend approached. The whole weekend, this time—not just the second half of Saturday and the first half of Sunday. Her mum had told her that Elliott was driving down mid-afternoon Friday, to get ahead of the weekend exodus down south.

She knew his car the moment it began travelling the long drive up to the house. With any other vehicle she’d hear the engine first and the tyre-crunch second. Whatever Elliott drove was close to silent running. Which meant it was expensive. Morgan’s
generated enough profit that her family could have expensive cars to match their architect-designed house perched high on the bluff, too, if they cared about that sort of thing. But this was a working property, where vehicles were function before form, and nothing here ran silently.

So she knew he was here, and knew he was probably settling in to his chalet—when had it become
his
chalet?—until dinner, and she was determined not to make a big deal of his arrival. Because it wasn’t. He was just a visitor.

Despite what the ghost glow urged.

It had come back with a vengeance the moment she’d heard Elliott was returning—so strongly she wondered how she hadn’t noticed it diminishing.

Ridiculous.

And just like that she decided to head into town for the evening. She wasn’t about to sit through another meal unable to focus on anything but Elliott Garvey. And she wasn’t about to indulge her body’s insane anticipation, either. It would just have to wait.

She reached for her phone.

‘Owen,’ she said as soon as her brother answered her call. ‘I changed my mind about dinner. How soon can we leave?’

Within the half-hour she was comfortably installed at the Liar’s Saloon in Mitchell’s Cliff, surrounded by Owen’s mates and talking with the younger sister of her best friend. At least,
she
was talking; Kelly’s sister seemed to be thoroughly distracted. Only about half of her answers were actually in synch with the conversation.

Laney sighed, giving up. ‘So which one is it?’

‘Huh?’ Kristal asked, still not really attending.

‘Which of my brother’s mates are you all breathless for?’

Kristal’s voice rose a half-octave in a half-croak, half-squeak protest.
‘Laney!’

‘Sorry.’ She leaned in closer and
faux
-whispered. ‘Travis or Richard?’

‘What makes you think it’s not Owen?’

‘Because Owen’s
Owen
. He’s not distraction-worthy.’ And he had no real interests beyond the ocean.

‘You say that because he’s your brother.’

‘I say that because he’s a dufus.’

Kristal laughed, overly loud, confirming Laney’s worst fears.
Owen.
The man-boy who couldn’t keep a girlfriend for five minutes. ‘Don’t fall for Owen, Kristal. Fall for Travis. He’s lovely.’

And Travis was the only one close to Kristal’s age.

‘I dated him in high school.’

‘Oh. What about Rick, then?’

‘Meh.’

‘What about anyone else in this pub?’

‘I don’t want anyone else. I want O—’

Kristal’s inward gasp was the first giveaway as the opening vowel of her brother’s name morphed into a breathy, ‘O
h,
hello
...’

The certain footfalls through the noisy pub were the second.

And Kristal’s urgently whispered, ‘Incoming!’ as a waft of instantly recognisable cologne brushed towards them was final confirmation.

Elliott.

‘Owen, good to see you,’ that deep voice murmured.

Her brother’s chair shifted and palm slapped palm.

‘Welcome back, mate,’ Owen said, before doing fast introductions around the table. Kristal—typically—gushed and giggled and seemed to forget all about her great infatuation of moments before in the face of a better, more interesting and even less suitable option.

Elliott pulled a chair up next to her with exaggerated movements. ‘Laney.’

‘Welcome back to the Peninsula. I have a big weekend planned for you.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. How have you been?’

‘Great. And you?’ Every word was a mask for what she really wanted to say. And do. More than anything she wanted to reach out and brush her fingertips across his smooth ones again. In lieu of hello.

‘Passable. Busy singing Morgan’s praises to the senior partners.’

Oh, joy.
‘You
have
remembered that nothing is a done deal, right?’

‘Definitely. But in my experience optimism is generally rewarded.’

Laney could practically feel Kristal’s speculation, and it must have been just as obvious outwardly because Elliott turned his voice away slightly.

‘Kristal, is it? How do you know Laney?’

Once it would have angered her to have every conversation linked back to her. But she recognised it for the strategy it was, reconfirming Elliott as a kind man as well as good, subtly telling Kristal he wasn’t interested. Pity Kristal was anything but subtle.

The heavy scent of gardenia wafted off the younger woman’s skin as she tossed back her hair. Trademark move. ‘Through my sister. They’re best friends.’

‘Kristal’s sister is Kelly,’ Laney murmured.

‘Ah, the beautician.’

‘Ex-beautician.’ Kristal was sulky. ‘Now shacked up with a farmer in Ireland.’

‘You must miss her.’

The slight change in the timbre of his voice told Laney that Elliott was speaking to her. ‘We both do.’

‘But thank goodness for webcams, hey?’ Kristal cut in, bright and overly loud, but in the absence of any kind of response from Elliott her conversation dried right up.

‘Kelly did the full backpacking around Europe extravaganza a couple of years ago,’ Laney said, mostly for something to say, ‘and met Garth in a pub in County Kerry. I always knew I’d lose her to love.’

His chuckle flirted with the fine hairs on her skin. ‘You didn’t go with her?’

‘Backpacking in Europe? Does that seem the sort of thing I might do?’

‘I don’t see why not.’

‘Because she’s
blind
,’ Kristal pointed out helpfully. In a half-whisper. As if it was some kind of secret. Or maybe a reminder for Elliott.

Actually, Laney wouldn’t put that past her. Kristal cheated at board games, too.

He ignored her. ‘That doesn’t stop you doing anything at home. Why would it be different overseas?’

‘I had a business to run.’ And it wouldn’t have been fair on Kelly, who’d saved her whole working life for the opportunity. And because Laney liked to be independent—which she could be, at home. ‘Besides, we get foreign tourists by the busload. Why would I need to leave?’

‘Because there’s a whole world to discover. People. Places.’

The implication irked. ‘Better places? Better people?’

‘Different. New. You’re missing so much.’

‘Surely wherever I went I’d be missing a lot? I might as well stay home and miss it.’

Disbelief puffed from his lips.

‘Excuse me,’ Kristal announced somewhat sulkily. ‘I’m going to talk to Owen.’

Neither of them acknowledged her departure.

‘That’s quite a theory,’ Elliott murmured.

‘Feel free to disagree.’

‘It seems impolitic to argue with—’

‘A blind girl?’

‘With the woman I’m relying on to keep an open mind this weekend.’

Oh.
Back to business. Of course. ‘I’ll be sure to trade on that as fully as I can, then.’

‘You should.’ A smile enriched his words. ‘It won’t last for ever.’

‘Have
you
travelled overseas?’

‘Of course.’

As if it was automatically such a given. ‘Why?’

‘To see the world. To get a better understanding of my place in it.’

‘How old were you?’

Maybe on someone else his pause would simply have been swallowed by the pub music. But to her it practically pulsed.

‘I first went overseas when I was seventeen.’

‘Seriously? Can you even get a passport before you’re of age?’

‘With parental consent.’

‘And your mother let you go?’

‘Eventually. It took me a year of campaigning. But I wore her down.’

‘You wanted to go at sixteen?’

‘I wanted to go at
thirteen
,
but the law said I had to wait until I was sixteen.’

‘Why so young?’

As always, he gave his answer actual thought. Laney filled the silence soaking up his scent.

‘Because it was all there waiting for me.’

‘And you couldn’t wait for
it
?’

‘I convinced myself I’d be missing something. And the only thing stopping me seeing it was my mother.’

‘Could she not afford it?’

‘She never travelled.’

Something in his tone tightened her chest. ‘That’s not actually a crime, Elliott.’

‘My mother was free to make her own choices. I was trapped, unable to choose until I was sixteen. I hated that.’

‘Having to wait?’

‘Having to ask. Being reliant on someone who was never going to take me out of the state, let alone the country.’

‘You never went anywhere as a kid?’

‘We went on a grand total of one family holiday in my whole life. I drove further getting here to you.’

Getting to you.
She forced the little thrill of those words down. He meant Morgan’s. Of course he did. But still...

‘So you headed off to see the world. How did you pay for it?’

‘I’d been working after school in a fast food place since I was fourteen, I saved up enough for the first leg of my journey as soon as I left school.’

‘To where?’

‘Cheapest flight out of Perth was to Bali. You’d be amazed at how many people go to the trouble of travelling to another country and then don’t want to engage with the locals. I ran errands for xenophobic Westerners for a few months before hopping over to Vietnam, then Thailand and India. Picking up whatever work I could get, always living local. Living cheap. Exploiting whatever opportunities I could find as I went along. Country-hopping.’

‘How did you manage the languages? The politics in some of those areas? As a kid?’

‘I didn’t always, but I got by. By the time I hit India I had a system and I was of age. Bars, hotels and restaurants were perfect for short-term work, because you could sneak at least one decent meal a day while getting paid. I kept a low profile and always kept moving.’

‘You didn’t want to stop?’

‘No.’
Passion leaked out of him as a groan. ‘I’d been stopped my whole life. I just wanted to move.’

She shuffled around towards him. ‘Then why did you come home?’

When she said ‘home’ it was with a respectful breath. But she got the sense that to Elliott it was more of a dirty word.

He accepted a drink from the waiter who had delivered it to their cluster of seats and then dropped his voice down for her hearing only.

‘I grew up. Got tired of my own pace. And I realised that I could get the same spirit of...
conquering
...from finding small businesses and growing them. Selling for a profit. Eventually, that led to a buy-sell pattern that was as nomadic as my travelling but more profitable, and Ashmore Coolidge took me on as an intern. And the rest is history.’

What he saw as nomadism she saw as reluctance to commit. Not that it had made him any less money that way. ‘No more travel?’

‘For business, yes. And the odd holiday back to Bali, where it all started.’

‘We’re very different people,’ she murmured.

The only part of his wanderlust that she could relate to was the frustration towards a parent. She’d felt it her whole life, but attached to her over-eager father, whereas Elliott’s had been with his apparently under-achieving mother.

‘Not so different. You wouldn’t have grown Morgan’s the way you have if you didn’t have a pioneering spirit.’

‘I grew it to secure our financial base. I wasn’t looking to revolutionise the industry.’

‘Yet you have in some ways.’

‘What ways?’

‘The apitoxin side of your business. Treating rheumatism and Parkinson’s. That’s pretty unusual. The surf wax.’

Hmm. Someone had been reading up.

‘Apitoxin is not revolutionary. I started with bee venom in response to the Davidsons’ allergic son—to help desensitise him so that they can stay on the land they love.’

And once she’d discovered that harvesting the venom didn’t have to kill the bees, she’d realised it was a perfect by-product of what they did every day, anyway.

‘And we produce near one of Australia’s best surf regions. Of course we were going to make a speciality board wax. But I still didn’t invent the idea.’

‘There’s nothing that Morgan’s is doing that’s totally unique? What about your facial recognition work?’

Really? Was he going to keep badgering until she confessed to being the Steve Jobs of bees? ‘It’s
the bees
that are amazing. And the software engineers. Not me.’

‘It was your proposal.’ But something in her expression must have finally dawned on him. ‘Why don’t you want to be amazing, Laney?’

Frustration hissed out of her. ‘Because I’m not. I’m just me. Anything I do is out of curiosity or the desire to strengthen our brand. I’m not curing cancer or splitting atoms.’

‘Not yet...’

Ugh..!
‘Why does everyone try to make me more than I am? I just work with bees. They are my business and I try to be smart about business. But that’s it.’

‘Laney—’

‘We have a whole weekend ahead of us, and I’m not going to show you anything of interest if you don’t let this go. Your visit is about Morgan’s—not about me.’

‘Okay, take it easy. I’ll drop the subject. But at some point you’re going to have to accept what everyone else knows—that you
are
Morgan’s.’

* * *

You
are
Morgan’s.

She wasn’t. She didn’t want to be. She was
a
Morgan and that was it. Morgan’s
was a family, a plural, a heritage and a way of life. It was the genetic memory and the learning of everyone who’d ever had anything to do with their bees, going right back as far as their founder, her great-grandfather, and that first Queen he’d hived up as a hobby.