Marriage On Command. Lindsay Armstrong
night school courses in it. Her grandmother claimed that Lee was artistic, and could turn her hand to anything in that line.
Now, however, she thought a little sadly, until she got her grandparents out of this mess her dreams were receding a bit—unless Damien Moore fulfilled her expectations of being the cleverest lawyer in town. But, she reflected, even if he was, had she succeeded in getting him to take her seriously?
She got up to wash the dishes and decided she would give him a week.
Two weeks later, Damien Moore got out of his metallic blue Porsche at his favourite lunchtime restaurant to find his way barred by a slim girl wearing khaki overalls and with her hair crammed into a black crocheted hat. It was only when she took off the hat and a cloud of auburn hair settled to her shoulders that he recognised Lee Westwood.
He stopped and sighed. ‘What are you? A one-woman SWAT team?’
‘If you’re referring to my clothes,’ Lee said with dignity, ‘they’re my working clothes—I’m a gardener, remember? If you’re referring to my presence here—’ she looked around the Milton precinct, a trendy inner suburb of Brisbane ‘—I cannot get to you on the phone so I decided to do a bit of research. I knew you were coming here today.’
‘How the hell did you know that?’
She smiled. ‘Simple. On the phone I masqueraded as a legal secretary from another firm, desirous of getting in touch with you urgently on behalf of my boss. Your receptionist told me your movements just in case you’d switched off your mobile phone.’
Damien Moore swore. ‘The reason you couldn’t get hold of me was because I have no news for you. As my secretary would have informed you.’
‘It’s been two weeks!’ Lee protested. ‘If he was going to reply he’d have replied by now, surely?’
‘Look—’
‘No, you look, Mr Moore,’ she interrupted, ‘my grandparents had to take out a mortgage on their home to augment their pension and they’re having trouble keeping up the repayments. If I don’t get something done soon they’ll lose their home as well—while you lunch out at expensive restaurants on my fees with not a care in the world!’
‘Hardly,’ he said, with a mixture of impatience and reluctant amusement. He seemed to come to a sudden decision. ‘All right. Come and have lunch with me.’
Lee glanced behind her at the scarlet door beneath a straw-coloured awning flanked by tubs of flowering pelargoniums. It simply shouted luxury and expense. ‘In there?’ she queried cautiously.
‘In there,’ he agreed. ‘I have a booking.’
‘But I don’t think I’m suitably dressed—there’s a fast-food restaurant down the road—’
‘Not on your life, Miss Westwood. Either in there or not at all.’
Lee chewed her lip. This time Damien Moore’s exquisitely tailored suit was pale grey, and he wore a white and blue striped shirt with it, and a navy tie. His black shoes shone—handmade, no doubt—there was a navy linen handkerchief in his breast pocket and his thick dark hair was neat. There was also, she divined, the hint of a challenge in his clever dark eyes…
‘OK.’ She squared her shoulders. ‘On one condition. That I pay for my lunch.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t wish to be beholden to you in any way, Mr Moore.’
He grinned. ‘We’ll see.’
Lee hesitated, but got the strong impression she might be left standing on the pavement if she crossed swords with him any further. So with a muttered, ‘You’re a hard man to deal with!’ she took a deep breath and preceded him through the scarlet door.
Five minutes later she had a glass of wine in front of her and had ordered a slice of quiche Lorraine with salad—the cheapest item she could find on the menu.
‘Are you sure?’ he’d asked. ‘You don’t have to starve—’
‘Quite sure,’ she’d told him firmly. ‘I happen to like quiche, and I adore salad.’
He’d shrugged and ordered the roast pork.
‘This is very nice,’ Lee remarked now, looking round. And I’m not sure whether it’s because I’m with you, but no one seems to have taken exception to my overalls.’
He looked wry. ‘I’m a fairly frequent customer.’
‘So if I’d come in on my own it might have been a different matter.’ She looked amused.
‘As a matter of fact,’ Damien Moore commented, ‘you came in like the Queen of Sheba. It was quite an impressive performance.’
Lee laughed. ‘Not the Queen of Sheba. A movie star.’
‘Really?’ He studied her quizzically. ‘You were imagining yourself like that?’
‘Yes.’ Lee looked rueful. ‘I don’t usually have that problem, but you’ve got to admit I’m at a disadvantage today for this kind of place.’ She glanced down at herself. ‘Can I ask you a question?’ she continued. ‘Do you always lunch in such solitary splendour?’
He sipped his wine and she took the first sip of hers and found it delicious. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘Often it’s a sandwich at my desk. I do work extremely hard, contrary to your thoughts on the subject, but I was supposed to meet someone today who had to cancel at the last minute. I decided to come anyway for a bit of peace and quiet. And the roast pork. Does that redeem me in your eyes at all?’
Lee looked momentarily guilty. ‘Yes. Sorry about that! Who…? No,’ she mumbled going faintly pink, unable to believe she’d been about to ask him who his lunch date was. ‘None of my business.’
His lips twitched. ‘It wasn’t a woman.’
Lee could find absolutely nothing to say to this, and could only thank heaven that her lunch arrived at that point. Further deliverance came to her in the form of Damien Moore who proved himself to be, suddenly, a charming companion. As they ate, he drew her out skilfully on the subject so close to her heart: horticulture. And he told her about the little gem of a botanic garden he’d come upon in Cooktown, Far North Queensland, of all places.
How had he come to be in Cooktown? she asked.
On his way to Lizard Island, he told her, for some R & R. Did she know anything about the pink orchid that was the emblem of that small, remote but famous Queensland town?
It so happened she did but she was fascinated to hear about the botanic gardens, with their links straight back to Captain Cook and Joseph Banks, as well as the Chinese gardeners who had planted fruit, vegetables and flowers among the native trees and shrubs named by Banks during the boom times of Cooktown in the last century.
It was his mobile phone beeping discreetly that interrupted this discussion. He looked annoyed, but took the call. When he’d finished he looked at her enigmatically and said, ‘It’s your lucky day today, Miss Westwood.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve been in court all morning so I’ve had no opportunity to see my mail. But Cyril Delaney has agreed to a meeting.’
The effect on Lee was electric. She sat up, her eyes sparkled with excitement and she said, ‘Now we’re getting somewhere! When? Where?’
Before he responded Damien Moore found himself once again intrigued by those green eyes. In fact, he conceded, there was a lot more to this thin redhead than he had first imagined. Stubborn and persistent, yes, but a plain nuisance was not exactly how he would describe her now, he thought, and narrowed his eyes. No, there was too much vitality. There was a hint of humour, and at times a rather touching dignity. Not that it meant anything to him other than in a lawyer-client context, he reflected. Or did it? No…
‘In