On the Right Track Page 21

  ‘You take the bed,’ she says. ‘Whenever we share I worry about kicking your leg.’

  I’m so worn out I can barely string thoughts together. I shake my head and point to the sofa that takes up one wall of the room.

  ‘I’ll be up early. I’ll sleep there.’

  ‘You have to give Peppercorn and Fudge their breakfast, don’t you? And Seashell.’

  I nod.

  ‘Go and warm up in the shower then, while I get the sheets.’ She hands me a thick white towel, embossed with an italicised A in one corner. Then she opens the door to the en suite bathroom. ‘Take your time, Golden. I’ll go and see Tor and Nate. Tell them they should go home.’

  CHAPTER

  30

  I’m wrapped in the towel when I come out of the bathroom. A matching handtowel is draped around my shoulders to catch the drips from my hair. Angelina isn’t here but she’s laid out a pair of pyjamas. They’re cream-coloured and silky. I move them out of the way when I sit in the middle of the bed and rub my hair. My back is to the door that leads to the hall. I don’t turn around when I hear it open and click shut.

  ‘Lock it, Angelina, in case Mum comes back.’

  Another click.

  ‘Thanks for the pyjamas.’

  ‘Golden.’

  Tor says the vowel sounds in my name shorter than he ever has. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. A shiver moves through my body. It takes ages to get a word out.

  ‘Go.’

  He speaks softly as he walks towards the bed. ‘Angelina’s next door. She said she’d come back in half an hour, or earlier if you need her, you just have to call out.’

  The bed dips when he sits behind me. My shoulders are bare. So are my legs. One of them is slender, with pale smooth skin. The other is scarred by ridges, dents and puncture marks. The skin is stained red. White. Purple. The scars are uneven and jagged. The joints are misshapen.

  A giant sob was lodged deep in my chest when I ran from Eric’s study. I walked through the rain and sat on the bench and I didn’t let it out. I saw Angelina and kept it inside. But now I’m gasping for breath. Tears stream down my cheeks. I spin around and face him.

  He slowly shakes his head. His eyes are dark and wary. ‘Sweet—’

  ‘No!’ I cover his mouth with my hand. ‘Don’t say anything!’ I grind my palm against his lips until he flinches. ‘I don’t want to hear your voice. Do you understand?’

  His eyes close for a moment. When he opens them again they’re impossible to read. My hand is still on his mouth and he places his hand over it. He nods his assent, slowly and deliberately, and then eases my hand away. He keeps it in his and lines our hands up, palm to palm. His hand is so much bigger.

  I’m shaking; every breath triggers a pain in my chest.

  He mutters ‘Fuck’ as he pulls me against his body and wraps his arms tightly around me. He cradles my head and rocks me like a baby. Finally my breathing settles. When he hands me a corner of the towel I wipe my face. He inches his way backwards, taking me with him, until he’s leaning on the bedhead. He untangles my hair by running it through his fingers. His heartbeats thump against my ear. When the towel slips I pull it up so it covers my breasts. Our hands meet again. Then our eyes.

  ‘You set Eric off again.’ I sniff. ‘You were horrible on my birthday.’

  He tucks in the top of the towel. His fingers are gentle. ‘Can I talk?’

  I shake my head.

  He sighs deeply. Then his hand trails over my shoulder and feathers down my spine, finally resting on the curve of my bottom. He tips my chin up with his other hand and kisses my forehead. And then he looks at my leg. My ankle and shin are lumpy and uneven, thickened by scar tissue. The scars on my knee are horizontal and vertical like lines in a tartan. There are skin grafts on my foot and lower leg—irregular mottled patches in ugly shades of pink.

  It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking but at least he doesn’t seem to be disgusted or embarrassed. When he traces around the circular scars and raises his brows, I let out the breath I’ve been holding.

  ‘I had an external fixator,’ I say, ‘a metal frame like a scaffold. It kept my bones in place until they could be pinned.’

  He nods. Then trails his fingers down the scar that starts midway down my calf and ends at the arch of my foot. It’s a few centimetres wide.

  ‘I lost a lot of skin there, necrosis. They had to cut it away and do grafts. Tor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Some people’s scars heal well. Mine don’t. But my leg is good on the inside. Dr Khoury says I’m lucky.’

  He kisses my mouth. A brief, hard kiss. ‘I want to say something.’

  I think about it. And then shake my head again. ‘No.’

  He curses under his breath. Then shifts me around so my back rests against his chest. My legs are stretched out in front of me; his legs stretch out too. He’s wearing dark brown leather shoes. His socks are navy and so are his trousers. I smooth the cuffs of his light blue shirt when he wraps his arms around my middle.

  ‘You always dress up so much.’

  His lips move against my neck but he doesn’t say a word.

  We look at my leg again. There are a few scars above my knee and he traces over them. Then we both lean forward so that he can reach the scars at my ankle. He feels the flattened patches of the skin grafts. I bend my right knee and point out the neatly stitched lines that go midway up the inside of my thigh, and similar scars on the outside of my thigh as well.

  ‘Sometimes they got skin from my right leg,’ I say.

  He runs his hand along those scars too. Then strokes my legs from my knees to the tops of my thighs. At first it’s a comforting feeling, but then it’s something else. Warmth pools in the pit of my stomach and seeps between my legs.

  His fingers massage and caress. One minute they’re firm and the next they’re soft like a whisper. His breathing changes. His heart thumps more quickly. He warms my skin and liquefies my bones. I’m floppy like a ragdoll again.

  After a while the towel forms a strip of cloth that barely hides anything. Maybe it’s wrong to feel like this. Tor is fully dressed. I’m draped in a towel. My legs are slipping further and further apart to give him access to wherever he wants to go. I turn my head and look into his eyes. They’re bright and his breathing is uneven, but I have to ask.

  ‘Do you feel sorry for me?’

  His breath hisses through his teeth. He takes my hand and presses it to the top of his thigh. His erection is long and thick and hard.

  ‘Oh.’

  He mumbles against my ear. ‘Golden, I want you so much.’

  Then he goes back to stroking. Each time his hands reach between my thighs and move away again I bite my lip to stop myself from moaning. Perhaps he knows I’m holding back.

  He whispers. ‘Golden?’

  I tighten my thighs as I try to stop squirming. ‘Shhh.’

  He slowly turns my face so we’re looking into each other’s eyes. And then his lips cover mine in a scorching, incendiary kiss. I wrap my arms around his neck and struggle to keep up with whatever it is he’s doing with his tongue. His kisses are onslaughts, demanding and exhausting and arousing all at the same time. I’m breathless and trembling when he finally lifts his head. He moves the towel out of his way and caresses my breasts, and then trails open-mouthed kisses down my throat.

  His breathing is ragged. ‘Fuck.’

  I twist in his arms but he holds me firmly where I am, my back against his front. He nods towards the door.

  ‘Angelina will be here soon,’ he says, reaching for the pyjama top and guiding my arms into the sleeves. I lie against his chest again, but when I reach for the buttons he traps my hands in one of his.

  ‘Uh uh,’ he says, smoothing the silky fabric over my breasts. He circles my nipples through the material. Then kisses me again. And slides his hand between my thighs, properly this time, so his fingers glide over the folds.

  I grasp his arm and hold
it in place. I breathe against his throat. ‘Please, Tor. Yes.’

  We share a long wet kiss as he strokes. ‘So beautiful,’ he says against my mouth, as his other hand caresses my breast.

  He teases until I’m straining against his hand. And when I climax he kisses me again, timing the strokes of our tongues to my release. His breath is audible long after mine has quietened.

  His face is in profile. I touch his cheek. ‘Tor? This isn’t right.’

  Our eyes meet. And then, without any warning at all, I burst into tears. He lifts and turns me so I’m facing him. He slowly shakes his head as he frowns into my eyes. He kisses my cheeks, sliding his lips across my face. His eyes are hot with frustrated desire.

  ‘It must be right,’ he says. ‘I don’t want anyone else.’

  There’s a mark on his bottom lip. It’s a bruise. I gently pull his lip down. He has a tiny cut on the inside of his mouth.

  ‘I hurt you. I’m sorry.’ He tolerates the way I kiss his mouth and smooth my hands over his arms and chest but he’s as tense as a tightly coiled spring. When he growls I speak against his lips. ‘I don’t mean to hurt you.’

  He pulls back and opens his mouth as if he wants to say something. But then he closes it again.

  I run my thumb over the bruise on his lip. ‘It’s okay to talk.’

  We both start when there’s a tap on the door. ‘Golden? It’s Ange.’

  I roll to the foot of the bed and grab the pyjama bottoms, pulling them on as I shout, ‘Go away, Angelina.’

  ‘Are you, okay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Dad’s in his study with Nate. They’ve run out of things to say.’ She rattles the door. ‘Tor? You have to come out.’

  ‘Five minutes,’ he says.

  Just as my feet touch the ground he crawls over the bed and grabs me, hauling me back against his chest. He runs his hands down my leg, all the way from my thigh to my knee.

  I swallow the gigantic lump in my throat. ‘Tor? My life is falling apart.’

  His fingers are soft when he brushes the hair from my face. ‘I’ll do what I can with Eric.’

  He must see how frightened I am. He sighs, then pulls down the doona so I can crawl between the sheets. He smooths my hair over the pillow and rubs my back. I’m drifting off to sleep when I feel his lips on my temple.

  ‘Trust me,’ he mumbles.

  CHAPTER

  31

  I’m curled up on the bed with my back to them and they can’t see my face. I shouldn’t even be here; I told Angelina I’d take the sofa.

  ‘Is she all right?’ Angelina says.

  ‘How can she be?’ Tor says. He must be very close. ‘Why would they do this? It doesn’t make sense.’

  Angelina whispers. ‘Golden’s home reminds Mum of James, Golden’s father. Mum wants to pretend he never existed.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She went through a bad patch when Golden was born.’ Angelina sniffs. ‘And Dad says it’s time Golden moved on.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Quiet. You’ll wake her.’

  Their voices fade away.

  Angelina’s sniffing wakes me up, but it’s Tor’s face I see first. He’s standing at the end of my bed, glowering.

  I push my hair out of my eyes. My hair is still damp so I can’t have been asleep for long. I yawn.

  ‘Tor? What’s the matter?’

  It’s not only anger that darkens his eyes. There’s something else as well. His jaw is working; it seems to be an effort for him to unclench it and speak.

  ‘Money was paid to Ferguson by your sister in the year your grandfather died,’ he says. ‘And then it disappeared. You didn’t think that was something I should know about?’

  I tear my gaze away from Tor’s when Angelina hiccups. ‘Ange? What did you say?’

  She shakes her head. Her eyes are wide.

  Tor paces up and down at the foot of the bed. Then he comes to a sudden stop and faces me again. ‘You thought I didn’t need to know about dangerous men?’

  ‘I only found out about that—’

  ‘When?’

  ‘A week ago.’ I mumble. ‘Maybe two.’

  His silence unnerves me.

  Angelina finally finds her voice. ‘I’m sorry. I had to tell him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I didn’t want to cause trouble by keeping secrets between you, not when he was stroking your hair and—’

  ‘Shut up!’ Tor snaps.

  ‘I’m not stupid! I see the way you look at her!’ She joins Tor at the foot of the bed. ‘And you’ve been worried about keeping this to yourself, Golden, I know you have. Once I said one thing it led to another.’ Her voice is wobbly. ‘He interrogated me.’ Ange sniffs again. ‘But he said he wouldn’t tell Eric.’

  ‘Leave us, Angelina,’ Tor says.

  ‘Golden?’ she says, looking from me to Tor.

  I nod. ‘I’m okay. You can go.’

  As Angelina quietly closes the door I shuffle off the bed and walk to the window. I neaten the folds of the curtains until the silence stretches and I’m forced to face him.

  ‘I didn’t think what happened with Marc was relevant at first. Now I agree it might have been. Are you really going to keep this to yourself?’

  ‘Not as a favour to you.’

  ‘Why then?’

  ‘Garcia could be scared off.’

  I twist my fingers together. ‘I didn’t think of that.’

  His vowel sounds are short and clipped. ‘You never think.’

  I’ve hurt him again. ‘Right.’

  His gaze moves over my face. ‘Any more secrets?’

  I’m in love with you. ‘No.’

  ‘Liar. You won’t even look at me.’

  A tear runs down my cheek.

  He mutters a curse as he spins on his heel. He wrenches open the door before facing me again.

  ‘You don’t play fair,’ he says.

  ‘I don’t know the rules.’

  ‘Is this a game?’

  ‘I don’t know what it is.’

  ‘Golden?’ His ironbark eyes are flat and hard. ‘Sometimes your naivety is endearing. Right now it’s laughable.’

  ‘So go! Back to New York or Brussels, or wherever it is you happen to leave your coats. You’ve already found the criminals you wanted in Hong Kong. I can work out what happened with my father by myself. It’s my problem.’

  His hold on the doorframe is so tight his fingers are white. ‘I started this,’ he says, ‘and I’ll finish it.’

  CHAPTER

  32

  Early on Sunday morning I load Pepper into the float and drive to Randwick. Solomon wants to check Pepper out, and I want to gallop. Marty, Sol’s assistant trainer, meets me in the car park. He looks even older and more wizened than he did the last time I saw him.

  ‘Morning, Gumnut,’ he says, giving me a wink and nod as if I’ve been turning up here every morning for the past six years. ‘I’ll help you unload. Solomon can’t wait to get his hands on this mare.’

  ‘If she has a foal, there’s no guarantee I’d let it race. Not after what happened to Pepper.’

  Marty chuckles. ‘No worries there. Sol won’t count his chickens with you.’

  Pepper backs down the ramp and lifts her nose. She tosses her head, whinnies; she’s toey and flighty. I pass her lead rope to Marty. By the time I face him again I have my saddle and the rest of my gear over one arm. We walk side by side towards the stalls. Marty keeps hold of Pepper and she prances by his side.

  Dr Khoury once told me it would be better if the adrenaline rush I get from riding a thoroughbred at a gallop didn’t block out the pain. ‘It’d force you to focus on the consequences,’ he said. ‘You’re my shittiest patient ever. No bloody contest.’

  I’m older now, more mature, and aware of how far I can push myself. Pepper and I often trot through the gums or amble on the trails. But today … I want speed.

  The track is fast, notwithstanding
Friday night’s rain. I can’t bring my left knee up close to Pepper’s withers like a jockey, but I crouch low over her neck as she gallops over the soft green turf. It’s exciting, dangerous, exhilarating. My horse and me. No Angelina to worry about, no Mum, or Eric. No Tor …? I wipe my eyes on my sleeve.

  Tor might be attracted to me, but he doesn’t commit. And I can see how he gets away with that. He’s honest and intelligent. He’s a thoughtful lover, generous and accomplished. He dates lawyers, actresses and human rights activists. They aren’t ‘naive’ and ‘laughable’. They don’t associate with criminals, or have secrets to keep. It was Tor’s investigation that prompted me to find out about my father, and that’s why he puts up with me. He thinks he has a duty to keep me out of harm’s way.

  I ease myself upright and bring Pepper back to a canter. Any longer in the saddle and I’ll be on crutches for a week. We’re trotting when Solomon waves me in. He holds Pepper steady as I ease my foot out of the stirrup. My breath catches and I grasp my knee. It takes a while before I can say anything. Even then it’s only a whisper.

  ‘You go. I’ll come and find you later.’

  Solomon speaks gruffly. ‘I’ve got all the time in the world.’

  Grandpa used that expression whenever I was slow in getting off a horse. When my eyes meet Solomon’s, my vision blurs. He looks away. Harrumphs. And leads Pepper towards the stalls without speaking again.

  Thirty minutes later, Solomon and Marty walk back to Sol’s stables with the horses and the rest of the staff, leaving Pepper and me with two stablehands. They’re cleaning up the stalls, a long row of open-fronted spaces with timber partitions between them. I’m at one end of the row and the stablehands are mucking out the stalls at the other, but I can hear them laughing. I’m doing up the leg straps of Pepper’s rug when I sense I’m being watched. Pepper pricks up her ears. There’s someone in the stall next to us.

  I stand on my toes and call. ‘Who’s there?’

  At first there’s no answer, but then I hear footsteps. Tomas Farmer appears, blocking the exit to Pepper’s stall. Maybe he heard the unease in my voice. He pulls his cap off his head.