Caramel.
It’s burned sugar. Sweet candy. A colour. And it was the very first thing that I noticed about him during our initial, ill-fated encounter.
Not his immaculate outfit, comprising of a white linen shirt, beige pants, and boat shoes. Not his piercing eyes, framed by lashes that could evoke the envy of a covetous woman. Not even his flawless white teeth, full lips, and chiselled jaw that twitched as he tensely asked if I was alright.
It was his skin, his hair, and his eyes – all were the richest tones of caramel.
I considered him as he stepped towards me to hand me my satchel, and was struck with a most peculiar realisation – his appearance was not in any way manufactured. It was entirely nuclear; he radiated vitality.
As our eyes met, I was consumed by a powerful magnetism. It drew me to him with such force that my heart hammered a warning of impending unconsciousness, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. I was intoxicated.
“Are you alright?” he repeated. His attractive voice was vaguely accented – British, but with a touch of something else. I absently pondered this, but failed to place it.
Abruptly, he averted his eyes and stepped back from me – and the effect was devastating. It was like being physically severed from my life-source. I lurched forward, my hands gripping my grass-stained knees as I laboured to gasp out a response. “I’m fine. I just didn’t see ... didn’t hear you coming. You came out of nowhere.”
It was a struggle to maintain coherence.
“I could say the same,” he rejoined, frowning as he effortlessly returned my bike to its upright position. With a fleeting appraisal, he declared it undamaged and turned back to me, taking in my dishevelled appearance.
“I should drive you home.” His words were more directive than suggestive.
I straightened, intending to advise him that I was barely a kilometre from home, when I noticed the black Aston Martin. It was as flawless in appearance as its driver, and looked more like it had been precision parked than in a recent near-collision with a cyclist.
I scowled as I registered the personalised license plates – TEMPTN. My expression reflected my dawning supposition that its driver, standing before me, was just another yuppie traversing the Blackall Range like he was on an episode of Top Gear.
I pursed my lips, recalling his appearance once more. From his dress, I’d bet he was headed to Noosa – the coastal yuppie capital. He’d probably spend the day with his yuppie friends, boasting about their yuppie lives, and joke about his unfortunate encounter with an unremarkable girl in one of those nondescript hinterland towns. His appearance had deceived me, but only for a moment. I knew his kind – and it was hardly tempting to me.
Curtly declining his invitation, I slung the satchel across my torso and wheeled my much-loved Shimano a few feet away. I sensed his bewilderment at my sudden change of temper, but defied my instincts to look at him lest I lose control of myself again.
I rode off furiously, chastising myself for failing to rebuke him for his reckless driving. The feeling intensified seconds later as he tore past me – windows down, music pumping – with one hand outstretched in what looked to be an apologetic wave.
I gripped the handlebars, my knuckles white from resisting the urge to send him off with the one-fingered salute. He was really something else, this guy. But as soon as the Aston Martin disappeared from sight, I pulled off the road onto a nearby grassy embankment to collect myself, as my mind and heart still raced.
What had just happened?
I was shaken to the core. Not just because I’d nearly ended up as road-kill; but I was staggered by the powerful attraction I’d felt for a man whose very genus and conduct should have repelled me.
“Who puts TEMPTN on their license plate? What a tool.” It felt good to slate him verbally, though the failed timing of my rebuke wasn’t lost on me.
I rolled my eyes. Perfect.
Feeling slightly more composed, I set back out on the road, enjoying the way my muscles warmed as they strained to navigate the steep gradient that marked the final stretch of my journey. Within minutes, the brick and wrought iron fence that spanned the perimeter of Blackall Manor came into view. I smiled, allowing the feelings of peace and tranquillity to sweep over me as I returned to the manor that was my aunt’s estate. It was a place of tremendous beauty to which I had not developed the slightest immunity, despite having called the manor home for over a year now.
I stopped as I arrived at the distinctive crest and imposing entrance gates that denoted the start of the manor’s expansive driveway. As I did most days, I took a moment to appreciate my surrounds before embarking on the day ahead.
Indeed, Blackall Manor is the undisputed jewel in the crown of sprawling estates and mountain retreats located on the razorback ridge of the Sunshine Coast hinterland. Boasting twelve stately bedrooms over three levels, the grand sandstone mansion is founded on one hundred manicured acres, just minutes from the heart of town. Although originally purchased as a private residence by my aunt and her husband thirty-five years earlier, the unfortunate impact of the global financial crisis had catalysed its transformation into an exclusive retreat for the country’s upper crust.
It was a retreat with which, by all reason and circumstance, I should never have been acquainted. Not only by virtue of my upbringing, which was vastly removed from the socio-economic sphere of the manor’s typical patrons; but more importantly, due to the complete severance of my mother’s association with her family after she eloped with my father twenty-three years earlier. Despite his highly decorated police career, my mother’s elitist family could never accept my father’s blue-collar background and deemed their marriage as an infinite disgrace. And it was this vulgar prejudice that triggered an estrangement between the families that lasted until eighteen months after my parents’ death, at which time my aunt finally decided to reach out to me, her only niece, in an attempt to heal the severed ties of the past.
Or at least, so it had seemed.
After several months of phone calls and emails, my aunt unexpectedly arrived at my modest Melbourne apartment to reveal that not only had she recently buried her husband; but that she felt I possessed some redeeming qualities – despite my inferior upbringing.
Not exactly the reunion I’d been hoping for.
But then, she presented me with an astonishing offer: if I agreed to move across the country and help her manage her estate, she would discharge my student debt and cover the costs of the final year of my engineering degree.
Needless to say, I was stunned by her proposal. I was apprehensive about being thrust into the province of the elitist society whose pride and conceit my parents had thoroughly taught me to despise; but I wasn’t so foolish as to ignore the benefits of her offer: it would certainly beat my current job that barely covered my tuition and rent; not to mention the fact that it represented the only tie I had to the one thing I missed the most – my family.
And so after due consideration, I had accepted my aunt’s invitation and begun my new life at Blackall Manor.
“Bree? Are you okay, love?”
I was jolted from my reveries by Joe, the old gardener who has worked at the estate since its inception. He stood nearby, trimming the Japanese box hedge that bordered the drive.
I flushed. How long had I been standing there?
“Hey, Joe. I’m fine, thanks. I’m just on my way back from Montville – had to organise a few things for our guest today.” I smiled at him warmly.
His weathered brow furrowed with confusion. “Guests today? When I spoke to Mrs. March yesterday, she said there’d be no-one coming ‘til next month.”
“Yeah, the reservation only came through last night. Just one guest, though he’s booked out the whole wing for a week. Uh, Templeton’s his name, and he’s supposed to arrive around lunchtime ... which reminds me, could you make sure that the pool area gets a look over this mo
rning?” I gave him my most winning smile.
“Yeah, no worries, love. I’ll get Mitch onto it once he’s finished up at the stables.”
I grinned. “Thanks, Joe. I’ll see you later.”
Waving farewell, I headed down the estate’s winding drive, branching off to the left just before reaching the Romanesque fountain that denoted its entrance. I followed the slightly narrowed path to a garage that looked more like a house than an outbuilding, and was cleverly concealed by a row of pencil pines. Here, I neatly stored my bike then hurried toward the manor’s southwest entrance.
As I walked, I rifled through my satchel for my phone to check the time.
It was 10:00 a.m.
I groaned. I was thirty minutes behind schedule.
Of all the mornings that I could have nearly died, of course it had to be this morning. Cursing TEMPTN once more, I stealthily opened the door to the library, praying for the miracle that would be my aunt’s ignorance of my delay. I really didn’t have the time, or composure, to withstand a lecture from her on the vice of tardiness right now.
“Breanna, you are late.”
I guess God was plumb out of miracles.
Exhaling slowly, I closed the door and straightened as I turned to face her. “I know. Sorry.” I didn’t bother with an explanation. The gospel according to Emmeline March decreed that explanations were excuses for shortcomings – and shortcomings could never be excused.
Looking up from the book she read, my aunt’s steely eyes narrowed as she took in my appearance. “I suggest that you attend to yourself at once. I have been informed that we will be receiving Mr. Templeton sooner than anticipated. He will arrive shortly before lunch. Rona and Mary are making preparations.”
I nodded. “Of course. Excuse me.”
I followed the great hall through to the manor’s imposing foyer. At its centre, a fragrant arrangement of white roses sat atop a polished black marble table. It complemented the black and cream tiled marble floor and sweeping double curved staircases that framed the foyer, each one adjoined by ornate balconies.
I bounded up the southern staircase that led to my bedroom on the second floor. Large windows offered stunning vistas of manicured gardens, lush hinterland and razorback escarpments, while the sunlight danced off the Coral Sea in the distance.
Closing the hardwood door behind me, I strode past the plush four-poster bed to the triple dresser and framed mirror, where I scrutinised my reflection. The mirrored image grimaced its disapproval of my unruly mahogany mane, sweat-sheened face and soiled clothing.
“Okay, Cinderella, you’ve got fifteen minutes to turn this around.”
I rifled through the adjacent armoire until I found the cleanly pressed shift dress I was looking for. I showered with brevity to rival the staunchest water conservationist, and wrapped a towel around my hair while I dressed and applied a light layer of make-up. It was not the first time that I was grateful for my clear, sun-kissed complexion, large hazel eyes, and plump dark lashes that needed minimal primping. My hair, however, was a law unto itself. I didn’t have the preening time and patience it required this morning; so in my final bid to beat the clock, I simply brushed and twisted my long, damp locks into a loose knot.
With one last cursory glance in the mirror to ensure I was fit to be seen, I grabbed the contents of my satchel and scurried downstairs to the office. Flinging myself into the leather chair, I flipped on my iMac and noted the clock sitting on the solid oak desk.
10:25 a.m.
I smiled, happy to be back in my comfort zone that was five minutes ahead of schedule.
The time flew as I went about my morning routine of attending to administrative matters, interspersed with the staff enquiries that always accompanied the preparations to receive new guests. So it seemed like only moments later when Rona burst into the office to breathlessly announce that Mr. Templeton had arrived, and was currently in the parlour with my aunt.
“Thanks, Ro. I’ll be there in just a moment.”
Rona nodded, smiling absentmindedly as she ran her fingers through her neat blonde bob. At twenty-four, she was just two years older than I, and over the past year we had become close friends. So I immediately noticed her unusual behaviour as she vaguely repeated her earlier statement.
I paused to examine her closely. Was she blushing? “Hey, are you okay?” I asked worriedly.
Her surprise was obvious – her cheeks resembling two ripened tomatoes.
Clearly my instincts had been right.
“You’re blushing!” I chortled as impossibly, her flush deepened.
Mortified by the exposure, Rona ran to me, grabbing my wrists to pull me to my feet. “Shh, Bree! I know, I can’t explain it. He’s just so gorgeous and charming – he’s perfection!” Rona grinned wider than the Cheshire Cat.
Now it was I, who was dumbfounded. Could she be talking about Ray, the local mechanic who was her high school sweetheart – and a notorious ladies’ man? I studied her face again and dismissed that idea. She’d never looked like this when she spoke about Ray. Had she finally seen the light and met someone new?
I put my hands on her trembling shoulders, shaking her gently. “Ro, calm down. What’s happened? You haven’t said a word to me all morning!”
She beamed. “I know. I only just met him. Oh, Bree, he’s amazing. He’s like something else, you know?” Her voice trailed off dreamily.
I stared after her in astonished silence as she floated to the office window. Attempting to make sense of her revelation, I asked, “So, is it over with Ray then?” Unfortunately I was unable to mask my hopeful tone – and it seemed to snap her back to reality.
“What?” she asked tersely.
I bit my lip nervously. “I said, is it over with Ray? I mean...” Unsure of how to finish, I let my half-formed sentence hang suggestively.
Unwittingly, I had stoked her ire.
“Of course not,” she snapped, turning away from my imploring expression. “I don’t know what’s going on with me today. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
I was immediately remorseful. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you; I’m just kind of confused. Can we talk later?”
After a fleeting moment’s hesitation, she nodded. A slow smile spread across her features as her intrinsic good nature resurfaced. I walked over to the window where she stood to give her a parting hug, when something outside caught my attention.
I froze.
A black Aston Martin – identical to the one that had nearly sent me to the morgue – was presently parked in the circular driveway. Nausea washed over me, forcing me to close my eyes and lean against the windowsill in a desperate attempt to regain my composure.
“Bree? You look pale, what’s wrong?” Rona sounded like she was in a tunnel.
I held my hand up to show I just needed a moment.
“Can I get you anything? Here, sit down.” She guided me to an antique armchair a few steps away. I folded into it gratefully.
“Do you need me to tell Mrs. March you’re unwell?”
For a fleeting moment, I was tempted to agree – after all, how could I face him after our encounter this morning? But a larger part of me revolted at the thought of giving in. Refusing to be daunted by him, I declined Rona’s offer. Surely I could handle this. I had dealt with plenty of spoiled yuppies over the past year. This would be no different.
Except that my palms were clammy and my throat was tight. That was different.
I huffed out an exasperated sigh. I knew I didn’t have the time to consider it further, and so I hastily promised Rona that I was fine and that I would head directly to the parlour. As the promise left my lips, I had meant it; however I soon gained an understanding of the adage that relates how the road to hell is paved with good intentions, for as soon as Rona left me alone, my intentions scattered to the wind and I was consumed by deranged curiosity: was I sure he was
here? Could it really be him?
Deciding that it couldn’t hurt to take one last look at the offending vehicle before I headed to the parlour, my traitorous body steered me back to the window. As I peeked outside to examine the license plates, my stomach plummeted: six gold letters blazed on black plating to form the singular combination I most dreaded.
TEMPTN.
Well, this was going to be interesting.
II – Introduction: Anomaly