A Picture of Innocence

A Picture of Innocence

By

Andrea Moss

Copyright 2012 Andrea Moss

Smashwords Edition

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Disclaimer: The persons, places, things, and otherwise animate or inanimate objects mentioned in this novel are figments of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to anything or anyone living (or dead) is unintentional.

CHAPTER ONE

`Oh, stop! Please stop!'

Robin Scarlett windmilled panic-stricken arms at the car reversing out of a driveway and over the footpath in front of her. It kept coming and in desperation her fist thumped the rear mudguard.

The car stopped dead. An impressive car, Robin vaguely noted, long and sleek and nasty.

So was its driver, who had flung open his door and was now emerging from the car in a ruthlessly upward surge. `Are you angling for an early death?' a deeply resonant voice softly asked.

Robin was no midget. At five feet ten inches in bare feet, she usually bent her head down towards people and the unfamiliar sensation of her head tilting up to make eye contact was disconcerting. She felt intimidated.

And now her gaze was caught and held by dark, piercing eyes that were steadily, unblinkingly turned on her.

Her mouth dropped open. She couldn't really help it. In fact, caught in the whirling depths of his incredibly magnetic gaze, Robin totally forgot why she'd needed to stop the car.

`Er.. um..' she managed.

`I asked you a question. Is it too much to expect an answer?'

Robin tried to make sense of his words. She was fascinated, eyes widening at the sheer physical presence of the man facing her.

The footpath, the street, the whole universe faded into nothingness for her; blotted out by the broad-shouldered height of the dark-haired, granite-featured man growing more irate by the second as he glared at her.

The glare meant nothing. All she saw was the embodiment of every sexual fantasy she had ever blushed over in her dreams.

There was nothing either slender or svelte about him. The beautifully tailored, ultra conservative cut of his dark grey suit made no attempt to hide blatant, muscular strength. Robin very much doubted if it could. Or if anything ever could. Power, self-confident male power oozed from every possible source.

Her eyes, which had been rather dazedly trying to bring the rest of the world into focus again, reluctantly travelled up from the long legs with their muscled thighs, and over the taut, lithe strength of his classically male torso, to pass wonderingly over a sensually carved mouth now straight with anger and finally to lock into those fathomless dark eyes that she felt sure had not blinked.

`If you've quite finished..?'

The deep voice brought her back to earth. She had another try at forming words.

`M-m-magpie. You were backing..baby magpie..I think it's injured ..er..behind car..in the gutter.'

Dark eyes continued their unblinking assessment of her.

`You buckled my car because of a bloody magpie?'

The spell was broken. What could possibly be more important than native birds? And in her world, magpies were sacrosanct.

`Of course. And don't swear at me!' she snapped, swinging away from him. More important matters than sex-symbol cars and their luscious drivers needed attention.

`Where do you think you're going?' the voice barked again, authority underlining each word.

Temper rising, Robin snapped,`To the magpie, of course. And you can lay off the sergeant-major bit, too.'

A side shuffle took her out of arm's reach and bravado expanded to fill the gap between them. `And anyway, I didn't buckle your car. There's nothing wrong with it.'

She flicked a disparaging finger across the gleaming British Racing Green paintwork and headed for a bedraggled bundle of feathers feebly flapping in the gutter.

The space between her and fury personified wasn't quite enough. A large, strong and shapely hand shot out and fastened itself to her arm.

`Just stop right there, bird lady.'

`Let go of me! That magpie needs me.' She glared and tilted a sneering nose at the car. `Just as well you braked in time. So go and comfort your rotten overgrown sardine tin on wheels.'

Astonished fury blazed for a second over the man's features, only to be slowly modified as a drily humourous smile tilted the corner of his mouth. Laughter-lined eyes slowly assessed Robin, now busily tugging her arm away from him.

`Sardine tin?'

Robin felt she ought to back down a tiny bit. `Well, isn't it?' Asking rather than telling might be safer.

`Actually, it's a Lagonda.'

She sniffed. `Lagonda? All right then - Italian sardine tin.' No way was she going to sound impressed.

`Italian?' he roared, `It's British. Made by Aston Martin.'

She wasn't going to be impressed by that either! She scooted past him and carefully lifted the squawking baby magpie, crooning softly as she gently smoothed its feathers.

`Poor little baby. Where's your mother, hmm?'

Robin had a husky voice that tended to break in the middle of a word when she felt emotional. Now, for some reason, the sound of it seemed to have a dramatic effect on the man. He was looking almost stunned, his eyes focused on her mouth as if waiting for more sounds to emerge. He quite visibly swallowed.

Robin tucked her lips inside her mouth and hunched her shoulders defensively. She couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable, especially when his eyes wandered, roaming over her, sliding in tiny steps down her, top to bottom. And wherever his eyes landed, she felt little prickles of heat. She knew the baggy lines of her old grey track suit didn't even try to enhance her figure, but that didn't seem to matter to him. His focus pulled back to her hair, which she’d left hanging freely down past her shoulders, barely confined by the green towelling sweatband pulled low across her forehead. Maybe he liked chestnut hair?

God, why wouldn’t he say something? Why couldn’t she? She tried but her throat felt dry as she spoke.

‘I can’t leave him here. Or maybe it’s a she? She’s too young to tell.’

‘And that’s relevant how?’ the man drawled.

‘Everything about magpies is relevant,’ Robin shot back breathlessly.

‘Not to me. What’s your name?’

Robin bristled. ‘Don’t bark at me. It’s Robin. Robin Scarlett. And your name is?’

‘Rhys Maitland,’ he told her, and held out a hand.

Robin shuffled the baby magpie between her hands and decided to ignore Rhys Maitland’s outstretched hand.

For heavens sake, now he was bending towards her, his eyes glued to her mouth. A little uncomfortable heat squirmed in her tummy. He actually looked fascinated!

Well, that was rubbish, wasn’t it? She couldn’t believe he would find any part of her fascinating. Her mother had convinced her otherwise. Since childhood.

`Never mind, little ugly duckling..' had been her mother's theme song for as long as she could remember for the daughter that her family considered too tall, too thin, too dreamy, too silly to be part of their own distinguished, scientific self-image.

`See, I can’t shake hands with you. It's clinging to me and won't let go,' she murmured, blushing slightly.

His mouth twisted. `Clinging? Must be a female then. The entire species clings. Just give them the slightest excuse, and they'll cling.'

Robin bristled. `That sounds really cynical..and stupid,’ she seethed through clenched teeth. ‘I happen to be female and I do not cling. Not to anyone. Not for any reason. And if I were you, I wouldn't be so keen on airing those tatty little male prejudices. You're twenty years out of date.'

The man shrugged. ‘Prejudices? Years of personal experience, more like.’ He shrugged and his lip quite definitely curled into a cynical twist. `Look, much as this might make fascinating morning coffee prattle for the girls' staff room, I have neither the time nor the desire to stand here and eulogise over a bird.'

His eyes flickered down to her breasts, barely noticeable beneath the baggy track-suit. `Any sort of a bird.'

Robin bit back an unusual—for her—level of fury and pointedly ignored him. She marched straight through his front gate, the bird clutched to her front, and made for a gum tree towering at the side of a raked gravel driveway.

`There you are, baby, your mother should be able to find you here,' and the bird was gently deposited on the ground under the tree. She straightened and turned, within inches of Smouldering Impatience himself.

All he needs is his fuse lit, she decided. The explosion would be memorable. Unconsciously, she lifted a hand as if to fend him off.

`I'm going now..'

`You're right about that,' he interrupted. `You’re going because I'm removing you.. now.'

Robin eyed an implacable, threatening face. It could so easily have been chiselled out of stone, she decided apprehensively. Or maybe cast in bronze.

She eased away from him and headed for the front gate, to the accompaniment of a gritted-teeth lecture.

`I have a full schedule for today, bird lady. A very full schedule. I left the house this morning knowing to the minute where I would be and what I would be doing. I am now,' he flicked a cuff away from the discreetly expensive watch clasping his wrist, `exactly eight minutes and forty seconds late.' He glared at her. `Thanks to you.'

`Tough.' Robin was proud of that reply. She couldn't believe that five minutes ago he'd been the answer to a maiden's prayer. "Anyway, it’s all your fault. Just look at the length of your driveway. It’s far too long to come barrelling out of in reverse. Who d’you think you are? Jack Brabham?’

Surprisingly, the man’s face turned a dull red. He made a sort of funny noise. Had she hit a sensitive nerve? No. This man was rude, overbearing, and about as sensitive as a bulldozer. And anal! Obviously lived his fussy life to the sounds of a ruthlessly ticking clock. She bristled at the thought.

`Well, thanks to your lack of co-operation,' she decided to attack, ‘I'll have to miss jogging for now or else be late for work.'

A sharply assessing glance took in the baggy track suit and x-rayed its way irreverently through the heavy material to her very long, very slender body. Robin stiffened, swung away from him and set off briskly back the way she had come.

His last words floated after her. `I didn't know birds went jogging.'

Rhys Maitland scowled at the bumper to bumper line of cars he helped form. At that time of the morning, every minute counted if you wanted to avoid traffic delays.

Stupid little.. Silently he re-assessed: Well, not so little. Actually, he had enjoyed the novelty of talking to a woman without needing to bend double at the same time.

He mentally reviewed the morning's timetable. Those lab results on the new optical laser application he'd been sweating over for months should be just about due. A bitter smile twisted his mouth. Too late to help Andy. Too late by years.

Somehow though, an unruly mane of vibrant chestnut waves superimposed itself over his thoughts. Chestnut brown hair and a fugitive dimple at the corner of a curved mouth made for laughing.

Or kissing.

The vision of himself burying his hands in that glorious mass of hair, of wildly kissing that dimpled mouth into glorious submission whiled away several otherwise unproductive minutes as the traffic slowly inched its way over King Street Bridge and into the busy heart of Melbourne.

`Robin my dear, can you spare me a few minutes?'

The managing director of McKerras Pearson Insurance Brokers had faded red hair and freckles. He also had a soft spot for Robin Scarlett, who was the same age, to the day, as his twenty-four-year-old daughter.

`Adrian, when you flaunt that Scottish burr at me, I can spare you lots of minutes,' Robin laughed.

She followed him back into his office. `So what's your problem?’

`Not exactly a problem. More in the nature of a boost to bigger and better things.'

`For who?'

`You of course. How about an opportunity to make real use of those not inconsiderable skills you possess?'

`Oh, that's nice!' Robin scoffed. `I thought I used them every day. So what is it this time, Adrian? Art collection? Antiques?'

It had been Robin's greatest wish come true when she had landed this position with McKerras Pearson.

A degree in fine arts and a monumental knowledge gained through sheer, grinding hard work and single-minded determination against her parents’ scoffing disapproval had helped her achieve status as a rising star in the world of art valuation. Her special love was early Australian art, particularly the women painters of the late eighteen-hundreds Heidelberg School.

`Well, it's partly an art collection. Shelley's brother has inherited an old homestead just out from Bright—a place called Porepunkah.'

`I didn't know your wife had a brother.'

`Two actually. But one of them..'

Robin frowned slightly, intrigued by his hesitation.

`And?' she prompted. She watched him run a freckled hand through his hair.

`The homestead has very little to recommend it,' he continued, shrugging off his previous comment. `But the walls were covered by paintings.'

Robin's interest was immediately caught.`And?'

`Over twenty all told, and obviously early Australian.. Which is right up your alley,' he added with a grin. `They've now been freighted down to Melbourne to be identified if possible, valued and insured. I've recommended you for the job. I know you can handle it.'

If in no other area, Robin had total confidence in her professional ability. `Sounds mighty, Adrian. Thanks for the vote of confidence.'

`Keep some time free tomorrow morning - we'll all get together and thrash out what he wants done and the best way to do it.'

It wasn't until Robin unlocked the door to her flat late that afternoon that she remembered the baby magpie.

Maybe she could go jogging and just check that it was still alive? After all, her morning exercise stint had been interrupted, hadn't it?

Don't kid yourself, she jeered as she changed into her comfortable track suit. You're just hoping that a certain someone will miraculously appear.

But if he does show up, she argued back, he'll probably order me off the property. Which of course he has every right to do, she added fairly, seeing both sides of the issue. But then again, maybe it wasn't his property.

So I can still accuse him of cruelty to Australian wild life, can't I? But I can't really justify an accusation like that, can I?

Then, on the other hand..

And before she knew what had happened, Robin was involved in a see-sawing, balancing act of argument and counter-argument.

She was well aware this was a common occurrence for her. Part and parcel of her on-going problem when trying to make up her mind between two sides of an issue. She never could decide.

The massive front gate was closed and no amount of jiggling the iron handle would shift it.

Robin checked out the high brick fence that ran unbroken for the entire hundred metre width frontage. She was wearing running shoes. Maybe she'd be able to get a toehold on the wall. Maybe she could lever herself over?

She managed one toehold, then several more, and a final effort to straddle the top of the wall. Then a careful search for hand and toe holds on the other side of the wall, one final jump down and cautious steps across a shrub-filled garden bed to the lawn. Success!

It was a beautiful garden, Robin decided. A mighty, spreading Moreton Bay fig tree canopied over the curving, raked driveway, and wherever she turned, tall clumps of