The Feel of Forever Read online

  Bailey paused. “There was one thing you said that I’ve held onto all this time. You said you’d been waiting for me all your life. Was that true?”

  “At the time, I thought it was.”

  They were both silent as the past and present merged together.

  “Is there any chance you still feel that way?” Bailey asked thickly.

  “No.” Fliss said with some force. The word seemed to echo mockingly in the tumultuous atmosphere between them and she suspected she was trying to convince herself as much as Bailey.

  “Are you sure?” Bailey’s voice was choked. She moved her hand and covered Fliss’s as it rested on the fence.

  Fliss turned her head, met Bailey’s blue gaze and when Bailey leaned forward, she couldn’t seem to move away. Then Bailey’s warm, soft lips touched Fliss’s and she lost all sense of time and place. There was only the feel of Bailey’s mouth on hers, the tender enticement of her tongue tip, the familiar surge of her body’s awakening responses.

  Eight years faded away in a moment and Fliss was totally tuned to Bailey, the heady light musk of her perfume, the sensual nuances as her body molded itself to Fliss’s. She moaned, a throaty libidinous sound she scarcely recognized as her own voice. In a split second she knew she would be lost.

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  Copyright© 2006 by Lyn Denison

  Bella Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 10543

  Tallahassee, FL 32302

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  First Edition

  Editor: Anna Chinappi

  Cover designer: LA Callaghan

  ISBN 1-59493-073-2

  For Glenda

  My LT

  About the Author

  Lyn Denison is an Australian who was born in Brisbane, the capital city of Queensland, the Sunshine State. Before becoming a writer she was a librarian. She’s not fond of composing her own bio as she’s a Libra and, well, there’s so much to choose from . . .

  Her hobbies include genealogy, scrapbooking, photography, travel, reading, modern country music and her partner of nineteen years. (Saving the best for last.) Lyn’s partner works in an art gallery and they live in an inner city suburb of Brisbane.

  Chapter One

  “When was the last time you had a roll in the hay?”

  Fliss looked up and blinked. “A roll in the hay?” she repeated, raising a fine, fair eyebrow in surprise.

  Marcus O’Leary nodded, sending his blond curls dancing.

  It was sacrilegious, Fliss thought, that a man, and a straight man at that, could have such gorgeous hair. It was a thick, rich blond, curling loosely around his handsome head. A woman would give her eyeteeth to have hair like that. Heck, Fliss thought, she coveted it herself. Unconsciously, she brushed a strand of her unremarkable fair shoulder-length hair back behind her ear.

  “You heard me.” Marcus draped himself over the large easy chair Fliss had set in front of her desk. He crossed his bare feet and wriggled his wiry body until he was comfortable. “A roll in the proverbial hay,” he said again, with great satisfaction.

  Fliss feigned giving the question deep thought, knowing he was trying to get his usual rise out of her. “Well, hay rolling is not what it’s cracked up to be.” She returned her attention to her computer screen. “Too sharp and distracting at inopportune moments and in even less opportune places. Apparently.”

  “Ah ha!” Marcus sat up, feet on the floor now, his body language all attentive male. “So you’re speaking from experience.”

  Experience? What if she told him—? She hastily shoved the memory back where it had come from before it could take hold in her consciousness. Years of practise had made her an expert at heading off those dark, painful memories.

  “ ’Fess up, Fliss.”

  “Like I’d tell you if I had, Mr. News of the Nation.” She kept her voice light and even.

  He frowned. “That cut me to the quick.” He dramatically patted the region of his heart. “I have this picture of old Mrs. Jones back home, leaning over her veranda, beady eyes spying on everyone in town, gossiping with her cronies, stirring up trouble. It wasn’t pretty. I’m not like that.” He shot her a pleading glance. “Am I?”

  Fliss grinned. “Not a troublemaker, no. But something of a gossip of the first order. So, and I can’t believe I’m encouraging you, what is the latest news around the island?”

  “Nothing much.” He gave her a mock wounded look. “And how would you know what was going on around here if I didn’t tell you? You’re the only person I know who would keep a secret tied to the rack.”

  “Well, if you don’t want to talk about it—” Fliss hid a smile when Marcus took a breath.

  “I think John Macrae has visitors. Well, a visitor.”

  Fliss quelled a sliver of disquiet. John Macrae was the island’s famous writer. For over a dozen years he’d rented Allendale Cottage from Fliss’s father. The cottage was the house Fliss’s great-great-great-grandfather had built and Fliss’s mother had been brought up there.

  It was at Allendale Cottage that John Macrae wrote his best-selling thrillers and the islanders claimed him as their own. He was a solitary man, not prone to being social and the islanders respected and protected his privacy. He was one of theirs, after all. As far as Fliss knew, the only visitors John Macrae had were very occasional visits from his editor. And once, his sister . . .

  “John doesn’t have visitors,” she said flatly.

  “Well, there was someone sitting on the seat out on the headland when I was taking my daily constitutional this morning. Even though she was wearing an oversized jacket and a scarf, I’d say it was definitely a woman, so maybe old John has finally been bitten by the love bug.” Marcus shook his head. “Not before time. You know, he’s as bad as you are. Maybe you two should get together.”

  “Marcus!”

  “Okay. Okay. He’s nearly old enough to be your father.” He raised his hands and let them fall. “You know, I can’t understand it. The man’s here on his lonesome for nine or ten months of the year and yet his books are pretty raunchy. All I can say is he must have a fantastic time when he’s away, getting inspiration for his books.”

  “People who write murder mysteries don’t go off and try their hand at murder,” Fliss commented dryly.

  “Maybe not, but wasn’t there something suss about Agatha Christie? And I guess romance writers are little old ladies with purple hair and false eyelashes.”

  Fliss burst out laughing. “Thank God for stereotypes.”

  “That’s as may be,” Marcus continued, unabashed, “but the more I think about it, I’m positive that stranger on the headland this morning was a woman.”

  “How do you know it wasn’t a tourist communing with nature, enjoying the seascape. That headland boasts one of the best views on the island.”

  “Let’s consider the clues.” Marcus tapped the side of his perfect nose. “Unfamiliar jacket. No return wave when I made friendly overtures as I started up the pathway to the headland. She was wearing a dark brown or black jacket, red scarf on her head, blue jeans. I didn’t get a good look at her but she had a nice body though.”

  “You could tell that? I thought you said she was wearing a coat?”

  “It was windy and some body-molding was happening.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “As I said, great body. Good luck to old John, I say.”

  “Give him a break, Marcus. The man’s not even forty yet.”
<
br />   “You’re taking me literally again.”

  “And how do you know she had anything to do with John Macrae?”

  Marcus sighed. “Well, duh. She disappeared in the front door of Allendale Cottage.”

  “Oh.”

  “Well may you oh. Hey!” Marcus snapped his fingers. “Maybe it was his famous sister. The one on television. Maybe she’s on the island for a holiday, getting away from the paparazzi.”

  Fliss felt as though the blood in her veins had stopped flowing. Surely not. It couldn’t be her. She’d never come back here. Would she?

  “On second thoughts,” Marcus continued, unaware of the turmoil inside Fliss, “I guess it wouldn’t be her. I just saw her on the cover of the latest trashy magazine down at Gayton’s Store. She was stretched out by a pool at some swank resort in Fiji. Who’d choose Allendale Cottage over a five-star resort in Fiji?”

  “Who indeed,” Fliss agreed a little sarcastically. Surely she wouldn’t have come back here? She swallowed, her mouth uncomfortably dry.

  “Did you read John’s latest?” Marcus asked. “I couldn’t put it down. He sure has the gift for writing a readable book. No wonder they’re all best sellers.”

  “Yes. He’s quite a storyteller.”

  “In that same trashy magazine—”

  “That would be one of the trashy magazines you wouldn’t be caught dead reading?”

  Marcus grimaced. “What could I do? Joy Gayton was telling everyone in the shop about her lumbago, among other things. Who was I to call a stop to the organ recital? I just waited patiently and all there was to read were the trashy magazines. As I said, what could I do? And, as far as John Macrae’s sister goes, it wasn’t just the perfect turquoise of the swimming pool that caught my eye either. Now there’s another terrific body. She was almost wearing this tiny bikini—”

  Something wove tentacles around Fliss’s heart and began to squeeze. Pain seeped into her soul and she felt a moment of claustrophobic panic before she valiantly struggled for control again.

  “Anyway,” Marcus’s voice seeped back into her consciousness and she clutched at the normalcy of it. “In that same magazine they said a movie company had taken an option on John Macrae’s Joe Reynolds series. They’ve started filming it at the Gold Coast with big-name stars.”

  “I think I did hear that.” To her own ears Fliss’s voice seemed to come from somewhere outside her body. She was still working to prevent the painful memories from rising to engulf her. If she let them out she suspected she might be unable to regain control and that would be—She just couldn’t allow it. It had taken her far too long to get over that dreadful, wonderful time.

  “Wish I’d had the opportunity to invest in it.”

  Fliss blinked at him, uncomprehending.

  “In the movie. From John Macrae’s best seller.”

  “Oh. Yes. The movie.” Fliss nodded. “It’s sure to do well.”

  “I’ll say. Oh, and I saw your father this morning, too.”

  “Dad?” Fliss fought to catch up on Marcus’s change of subject. Part of her, a small, yearning part, wanted to think about her.

  “Yes. Your father. Down at the jetty. He had a bumper catch of prawns.” Marcus grinned. “He gave me a bag. Delicious. You know, your father looks different. Younger.” He shrugged. “Happy, I guess.”

  Fliss nodded. “He does look happy, doesn’t he? I’m just so relieved and glad he’s involved with Annabel. We’ve all been so worried about him these past few years. He was just so devastated when our mother died. It was as though part of him had died with her. Annabel seems to have pulled him back from the edge.”

  Marcus nodded sympathetically. “Well, even I noticed the change in him.”

  “For such a long time we’ve thought he wouldn’t make it. He couldn’t seem to set foot in here. I guess because this gallery was mum’s baby. She set it up. It featured her work.” Fliss shook her head. “For ages after mum died Brent even went out on the boat with him each trip just to make sure he came home again. That’s how worried we were.”

  “It was a bloody shame.” Marcus shook his head. “Your mother was such a talented artist.”

  Fliss sighed. “She was. Everyone thought we should close the gallery down. When I decided to take it over, keep it going, they were sure we’d flounder, especially without my mother’s work. I mean, the gallery featured her work exclusively. But closing the doors seemed a betrayal of her and her talent. Taking on other artists’ work seemed logical to me. We have some talented people here in southeast Queensland, especially on this island. So, the Delia Devon Gallery lives on.”

  “For which I’m eternally grateful.”

  “As the gallery is for Marcus O’Leary’s magnificent paintings. So no false modesty,” Fliss added with a grin. “Your work is one of the reasons we continue to be so successful.”

  Marcus smirked. “I love it when you heap praise on my head. It’s what keeps me hard at work.”

  “Yeah, right! Nothing would keep that paintbrush out of your hand.”

  “I suppose not. But being here, being able to use your mother’s studio, well, I can’t thank you enough, Fliss.”

  “Gratitude accepted,” she said with an exaggerated inclination of her head.

  “And I really am grateful—”

  “Marcus, enough. Let’s just say it works wonderfully for both of us.”

  “Okay.” He pulled at a piece of thread on the stuffed arm of the chair. “But all this mutual admiration has caused us to veer abysmally from our conversational journey. In short, we’ve digressed. We were talking about your sex life. Or lack thereof.”

  Fliss feigned interest in her computer screen again. “I don’t recall any such thing. We were talking about nonspecific hay-rolling and the only hay around here is in Fred Kingston’s barn. Floor to ceiling. No rolling possible.”

  “I think we can forget Fred Kingston’s barn. The old codger wouldn’t let anyone in there. No, I was speaking figuratively. Trying to be subtle. That apparently didn’t work so, what I was asking, nicely choosing my words carefully, was how long has it been since you got laid?”

  Fliss pulled a face. “Bad taste, Marcus. Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s rude to ask such personal questions? Very socially unacceptable.”

  “It is?” Marcus leaned back in his chair and made a steeple with his long, artistic fingers. “Well, in my defence, my mother didn’t tell me anything.”

  “She didn’t?” Fliss watched a fleeting shadow pass over his handsome face. Had he lost his mother when he was very young? She realized she knew next to nothing about his family. He’d once mentioned a brother but he’d said nothing about his parents.

  “Nope. She didn’t. Too drunk most of the time,” he said lightly enough.

  “Oh. Marcus. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—You’ve never talked much about your family.”

  “Not much to say really.” He shrugged. “Dad’s a successful builder. Was never home. Mum’s a very successful alcoholic. Lights on but nobody home. My brother, well, Shawn’s also a builder and well on the way to being an alcoholic. And then there’s me. To quote my father, I’m the arty type and probably gay. Now, our family’s dysfunction personified. I left home as soon as I could.”

  “I’m sorry. Have you—? How long since you’ve seen them?”

  “About six years. I sent them an invitation to my first show. None of them came.”

  Fliss sighed. “Families are wonderful and awful.”

  “You’ve got that right. But we all forge onwards.” He shook his head, curls dancing. “Funny how things turn out. When we were kids Shawn was the best big brother a guy could have. I miss that.”

  “I’m sure you do. And I just want to say I’m desperately and selfishly glad you are the arty type.” She gestured to the couple of wonderful oils hanging behind Marcus. “A brilliant arty type.” Marcus stood up and bowed deeply. “You are too kind. But, just for the record, as to the other thing, I want to assure y
ou I may be arty but I’m not gay.”

  Fliss paused. I am, she wanted to say. But, of course, she didn’t. It was her secret and she’d never shared it with her family or even her best friend Chrissie. It was something she’d never discussed. The only person on the island who knew was Mayla and Mayla would have no reason to out her.

  “Of course, I know you only have my word for it,” Marcus continued, and Fliss drew her tortured thoughts back to his conversation.

  “Your word’s good enough for me,” she assured him as evenly as she could.

  “Well, I wouldn’t trust me if I were you. You know what they say about wimpy blond blokes.”

  Fliss rolled her eyes. “Okay. I know I’ll regret it, but what do they say about wimpy blond guys?”

  “Can’t trust ’em.” Marcus sat on the edge of her desk, leaned over and put his finger under her chin, gently lifting it so that he could look deeply into her eyes. “Just say the word and I can prove myself.” His beautiful lips curved into a teasing smile.

  The problem was, Fliss reflected, she could never be one hundred percent sure he was just fooling around. She hoped he was. “Prove yourself? What? How? Allowing for the sad fact that there’s a tour bus due in about ten minutes?”

  Marcus sat up and looked at the clock on the wall behind Fliss’s head. “Ten minutes.” He groaned. “You’re right. I couldn’t do it justice in ten minutes. Let it not be said I’m a sixty-second man.”

  Fliss laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ve never heard that said.”

  Marcus grinned. “Lucky for me. But seriously, Fliss, my love. I think you need to get out more. You just about live here twenty-four-seven.”

  “This is a full-time job and I do go home you know.”

  “Late every night. Especially now your father’s living with Annabel and Petra spends most of her time there, too. You need a social life,” Marcus admonished.