Once a Rebel... Page 4

  Because this was such a massive inconvenience? ‘The list is not really a team sport …’

  ‘I enjoyed the dolphins.’ A single strand of pleasure twisted through the darkness at his admission. ‘The experience I would have had on my own was different to the one I had with you there.’

  That was certainly true. ‘You would have ended up in a fist-fight with the volunteer.’

  ‘He was smug. And showing off for your benefit.’

  ‘He was passionate. And proud of the work they do. You belittled him.’

  ‘I tested him. Big difference.’

  Why did that surprise her? He’d always been interested in breaking people down to see what made them tick. ‘Not to the person on the receiving end.’

  That shut him up. For almost half a minute.

  ‘So, is that a no to partnering up? I already have reservations.’

  She hated doing this by phone. It was all too easy to imagine vulnerability in his tone. If she was looking him in the eye he’d never get away with that. But his tone changed hers. She sighed. ‘Tickets to what?’

  ‘The symphony.’

  ‘The Australian Symphony doesn’t have Beethoven on their line-up for this year.’ She’d already checked.

  ‘Not the ASO. The Berlin Philharmonic. They’re in town for a limited season. Three concerts.’

  ‘Those tickets were expensive.’ She’d checked that, too.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So throwing money at it is a fast way to get the list out of the way.’ And off your conscience.

  ‘Really? I suppose you walked to Antarctica, then?’

  ‘No. I took a work opportunity. There was a media call to promote the hundredth anniversary of the end of Scott’s expedition and I qualified. The only thing I paid for was my thermals.’

  ‘Nice junket,’ he snorted.

  ‘Sure. If you don’t count all the freezing-your-butt-off and hauling yourself up rope nets on and off an ice-breaker.’ That had nearly killed her. Although it had helped her get fit preparing for it.

  ‘So how were you planning on getting to Everest without money?’

  She tossed back her hair. Maybe it would translate in her voice. ‘I don’t know. Work on a cruise ship to earn passage. Then make my way to Kathmandu by bike.’

  She was nothing if not an idealist.

  ‘It would take a lifetime to do the list that way.’

  She stared at the wall. Suddenly something important clicked into place for her. Something she’d been missing.

  ‘“Full effort is full victory”,’ she murmured. Satisfaction lay in the effort, not the attainment. Gandhi knew it. It was just a pity Hayden—the student of human nature—had forgotten what that felt like.

  ‘What?’

  She refocused. ‘The list was supposed to be about honouring my mother’s memory. Buying your way down the list does the opposite.’ Almost worse than doing nothing at all.

  His pause grew dangerous. ‘So, now you don’t want me doing the list?’

  I want you to care. And she had no idea why that was so important to her. ‘Not if it means you put in the minimal amount of effort or outsource it to someone to make you up an itinerary.’

  Silence descended as he considered that.

  ‘What if I didn’t pay for the tickets?’

  She blinked. ‘Then I assume you’ll be arraigned for theft when the curtain rises.’

  ‘Ha ha. I meant that I contra’d them. Does that change how you feel?’

  Did it? Last week, if someone had given her a month off work and a cashed-up credit card she would have zoomed through the list knocking things off, too. But she felt sure that there’d be no sense of achievement. Not like the year of preparation for the marathon, or learning to horse-ride well enough to tackle the Snowy Mountains, or working for months on the Antarctica proposal and her ice fitness.

  Could she even enjoy the victory if it came so easily?

  ‘Using your influence is like using your money—’

  ‘It wasn’t influence. I bartered a friend for the tickets. Good old fashioned labour.’

  Labour? Those hands? ‘What for?’

  ‘I give you my word it’s nothing that wouldn’t honour the intent of Carol’s list.’

  She turned it over in her mind. And over. And then looked under it and really tried very hard to find something reasonable to object to. But her curiosity was piqued, too. What exactly did one trade for tickets to a performance that exclusive?

  ‘Front row?’ Okay, now she was just picking a fight.

  ‘Centre.’

  ‘When?’ Did he just assume she’d be available?

  ‘Tuesday night.’

  Damn. She was.

  Somehow it being an evening thing made it feel more like a date than a business arrangement. Which was ridiculous. Two birds, one stone, he’d said. The deal was made. The tickets arranged. Why shouldn’t she benefit from whatever hard manual labour he was going to have to undertake to pay them off?

  She sighed. ‘Okay. I’ll see you then.’

  ‘Really?’

  Lucky he couldn’t see her, because she completely failed to hide the tiny smile that broke at the surprise in his voice. Too cool for school was kind of his thing back when she used to watch him from the stairs. It was nice to know that someone who had been that jaded at nineteen was still capable of surprise at thirty.

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Great.’ Awkward. ‘See you Tuesday, then.’

  Her chest squeezed tighter at his parting words. But nineteen year old Hayden would never have been a good choice for her and she suspected thirty year old Hayden was even less so.

  Lucky this wasn’t a date, then.

  ‘Is that a cape?’

  Hayden stepped around her in the concert-hall foyer to check out the back of the indigo cloak that Shirley had put on over her simple black dress. The shoulders formed a reverse V that left her décolletage bare and met at an ornate black clasp that closed like fingers around her throat.

  ‘Capelet, according to the label,’ she informed him.

  Whatever it was, it did amazing things to her eyes. And the dress for the rest of her, too.

  ‘You’re early,’ she announced.

  ‘I wanted to pick up the tickets. You’re earlier.’

  ‘I wanted to people-watch.’

  At least Shiloh did.

  He should have twigged when she’d first told him her new name, except that he’d been out of action for so long his connection to the living world had dwindled to what he read in the newspaper and saw on television the few times he turned the thing on.

  The fawning of the girl on the beach that day was his biggest clue. That had sent him hunting on the Internet and it took no time at all to realise that his Shiloh was that Shiloh.

  The people’s princess.

  Blogger extraordinaire.

  Queen of snark and acute social awareness.

  Possessor of a two-million-plus social network and a list of subscribers that contained every major news journalist, politician’s aide and celebrity in the country. No one wanted to be the one not following Shiloh’s eloquent posts, even if they didn’t always like them. Or understand them.

  He found the dolphin story—beautifully researched and filled with example after example of people whose lives had been changed following an encounter with a cetacean. Hundreds more in the reader comments. The dolphin that sensed the tumour. Or a pregnancy. A whale that monstered a swarm of sharks away from a flipped catamaran long enough for its passengers to scramble onto the upturned hull. Even a shy manatee that nudged an unconscious boy repeatedly to the surface until help arrived. She’d given the many people who volunteered with wildlife a nod through the voice of that man they’d stood with in the shallows. Yet she’d taken care not to identify the beach location or the animals, protecting them, too.

  She knew her boundaries. And her power.

  So he’d followed her blogs these past weeks to get a feel
for the woman he’d only ever known as a child. She didn’t disappoint. Astute. Acerbic. Fearless.

  ‘The symphony’s not really the sort of place you’d expect to encounter intriguing story leads.’

  ‘You might be surprised at what people will talk about under cover of a crowd.’

  She didn’t even blink that he knew who she was. She tossed her hair and a waft of amberwood hit him, provocative and sensual. His breath thinned.

  ‘Are you a regular at the Concert Hall?’

  Not really the place he’d bring most of the women he’d dated. ‘I’ve been a few times, but I usually sit up the back.’ Right up the back, in the control box with Luc, generally. ‘This will be my first front row.’

  Her carefully shaped brows folded.

  He stepped closer as someone squeezed past them, then looked down on her. ‘That surprises you?’

  She did her best to step back. ‘You don’t really strike me as an up the back kind of guy. I thought you’d want to be seen.’

  ‘But you don’t know me at all.’ Despite what she thought. ‘Come on, this way …’

  He set off in the direction of the bar, not waiting for her to follow. Ordinarily he’d have found some way by now to touch a woman he’d invited on a date, multiple times if possible while shepherding her through the assembling crowd. But not only was this very much not ordinary, and not a date and not leading to anything further after the instruments were all back in their cases, but he thought Shirley might bite his hand off if he touched her. And he knew for sure she’d object to being corralled like some fragile thing.

  She was anything but.

  They passed the handful of patrons who’d turned up earlier than they had and crossed to the back area of the bar that served the exclusive members’ lounge, past the shelves of expensive drinks. All his old friends lifted their hands in salute, trying to catch his eye. Johnny. Jack. Remy. MacCallan.

  He pressed on past them all.

  ‘Luc?’

  It took a moment before anyone responded, but then his oldest friend appeared from a pair of doors behind the bar, carrying a sheaf of papers. He clapped forearms with Hayden and did a credible job of not looking at Shirley for more than the time it took to smile politely. Though he knew he’d get hammered for details later.

  ‘Mate, good to see you,’ Luc said.

  ‘Is it all arranged?’ Hayden asked. Keeping things businesslike.

  ‘Good to go.’ Luc reached into his pocket and produced two tickets. He held them aloft. ‘These weren’t easy to come by. There’ll be no reneging?’

  Please … ‘When have you ever known me not to be as good as my word?’

  ‘I’ve never asked something like this of you, though.’

  Shirley and Shiloh both grew interested in that.

  He handed over the tickets and Hayden pumped his hand. ‘Cheers, mate. I owe you one.’

  Luc laughed. ‘You know what you owe me.’ Then he disappeared back into the bowels of the Concert Hall. Hayden could feel Shirley’s gaze branding the back of his head, so he took his time turning around. When he did, her immaculately made-up eyes were narrowed.

  ‘What did you trade?’

  He let a cautious nothing wash over his face. ‘Oh, just a favour for a mutual friend.’

  ‘What kind of favour? If I’m going to be party to a fraud, I’d like to know exactly what I’m buying into.’

  ‘You’re not buying into anything. This was my trade.’

  ‘What was?’ Her hands balled on her hips. ‘I’m not moving until you tell me the truth.’

  Air hissed from between his drawn lips. ‘I’m helping out with a party Luc’s sister is throwing in a few weeks.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘You mean you’re paying for it?’

  ‘No. I told you this wasn’t a financial transaction.’

  ‘I didn’t realise event coordination was your bag.’

  ‘I’m not organising it, either.’

  ‘Catering?’

  He glared at her.

  ‘Not the alcohol, I hope?’

  The glare intensified. ‘It’s not that kind of party. It’s for Luc’s nephew. He’s …’ God damn her snooping. ‘He’s nine.’

  She blinked at him. A child’s party …? Then the tiniest of smiles crept onto her lips. ‘Please tell me you’re dressing as a clown.’

  He threw his arms up and walked across the room from her. ‘Do you seriously think that a garden-variety clown would be the best I can do?’

  ‘No, I expect you’d be a miserable, creepy clown.’

  He paused, uncertain whether he’d just been insulted. ‘Right. Exactly. Thankfully, Tim’s not into clowns.’

  ‘What is he into? And why are you trying so very hard not to say?’

  He huffed a long breath. ‘Warriors.’

  Those expressive brows folded again. ‘Soldiers?’

  He guided her from the bar again without touching her. ‘Old school. Swords and shields type of warriors.’

  Out of the corner of his vision he saw her press her lips together to stymie the smile he was sure was wanting to burst forth. ‘A boy after your own heart, then?’

  ‘That’s what Luc said.’

  She walked beside him. ‘Okay, so for the princely sum of one child’s birthday party we now have front row access to the Berlin Philharmonic?’

  He shrugged. ‘That should give you an idea of how not a big deal this trade is for Luc.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘Or how very big a deal a kid’s birthday party is for you.’

  He grunted and pushed through the doors back into the foyer, holding it open for her. The noise from the mounting audience surged and washed over them.

  ‘Are you coming or staying?’

  It wasn’t too late to scalp the tickets out front for a profit.

  She let the smile loose, finally. Smug and a little bit too appealing. ‘And forgo the chance to make you have to get your Spartacus on?’ She pushed past him and spoke into the crowd. ‘Not on your life.’

  Shirley shuffled in her seat as the applause for the conductor finally died down. She had no idea who he was but every other person there clearly did, judging by the adulation. The white-haired man turned his back on the audience and sorted his music in the descended hush. The perfect acoustics of the venue meant that everyone heard it. Even the shuffling of music sheets sounded good.

  Of course, her mother would have chided. Beethoven wrote it.

  It was hard, as it always was, not to regret her mother’s absence. How she would have appreciated this special moment. Then again, if she’d been alive, would any of them have thought of doing it? She’d barely gone to the movies in all of Shirley’s childhood, let alone anywhere this special.

  That was the awful irony about bucket lists.

  ‘Ready?’ Hayden leaned in and whispered. His shoulder brushed hers and the heat pumping off him surged.

  The final murmurs from the rows of seating behind and above them stopped and, though nothing in particular was said, the orchestra locked their eyes on the white-haired man in front of them the moment he raised both arms and held them there.

  Shirley’s breath held, too.

  And then they came … The first distinctive notes of Beethoven’s Fifth symphony.

  Da da da dum …

  Da da da dummmmm.

  This close, the music was virtually a physical impact. Its volume. Its presence. The hairs curling around her face blew and tickled in the breeze generated only by the synchronised speed of the string section as they commenced their furious playing.

  She still hadn’t breathed.

  Hayden glanced sideways at her as the galloping, excitable violins grew in pitch and strength and she sat up straighter. It wasn’t until the trombone had its momentary solo that she heaved in her first breath.

  And still he looked.

  Amazing, this close, this live. The passion of the performers poured off the stage and washed over her. The drama of the conductor’
s jerky directions, the rolling synergy of their notes.

  Her eyes fell shut.

  The music fluttered against her face as it entered the gentle, lyrical interlude which grew and grew.

  This was what Beethoven must have experienced when he could no longer hear his music.

  And then it came. The discordant counterpoint.

  Her eyes opened and she glanced to her right. Hayden was still looking at her. She took a deep breath and returned her full attention to the hammering orchestra. Minutes passed, planets orbited, the poles melted. The music softened for a momentary reprieve. The poignant, forlorn aria of a lone oboe—she wondered how she’d never noticed it before when her mother cranked up her Best of Beethoven.

  And then the tumbling notes, the controlled descent before returning to the power of the full orchestra for the climax which ended so very like it had begun. Her chest heaved, her heart beat in synch with the strokes of the musical genius. Her body flinched with the explosive closing notes, and she pressed her lips together to stop from crying out.

  And then … nothing.

  Silence.

  The conductor lowered his baton. The orchestra breathed out as one—long, slow and silent.

  Shirley turned, breathless, to Hayden. She couldn’t clap because no one else was. She couldn’t leap up and shout for more, though it seemed ludicrous that music like that wasn’t supposed to be celebrated loudly. She could only look at him and hope that her excitement and appreciation were written in her eyes. Her fingers curled around his, hard, as though she could press her thoughts straight through his skin.

  His return gaze was complex. Curious. As though she were an alien species he’d just discovered under a rock. But mostly laden with an unexpected quality.

  Envy.

  Someone behind them coughed. Someone else murmured as the orchestra quietly turned to the next piece. To them this was just another performance. Seven minutes of top-shelf proficiency.

  To Shirley it was one of the most extraordinary things she’d ever done.

  The audience murmuring grew loud enough that she risked a whisper. But while she might have been able to coordinate her lungs to push air through her voice box, she couldn’t quite make the sounds into a meaningful sentence.