Australia's Most Eligible Bachelor / The Bridesmaid's Secret: Australia's Most Eligible Bachelor. Margaret Way

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      “Thank you, Fiona. We’ll take it from here.”

      “Yes, Mr Rylance.” Fiona flashed him her most dazzling smile, at the same time managing to give Miranda a comprehensive once-over.

      Fiona left. Miranda stood up. “I’ll pour. No milk? Teaspoon of sugar?” She remembered.

      “Fine.” His mind was clearly focused on something else.

      “Want one of these sandwiches and a Danish?”

      “Why not?” He went back to sit at his desk.

      They were both settled before he spoke again. “This coffee is good.”

      “Nothing less than the best.” It was very good. So were the neat little chicken sandwiches and the freshly baked mini-pastries. She was hungry. She’d only had fruit for breakfast. Papaya with a spritz of lime.

      “Money would be made available for you to travel,” Corin said, setting down his coffee cup.

      She looked at him in amazement. “You can’t be serious, Corin! Why would you do that? I’m taking enough. Can I say no?”

      His brilliant eyes burned into her. “Better to say yes, Miranda.”

      “Oh, Lord!” She took another hasty swallow of the excellent coffee. “You’re worried about burnout. Is that it?”

      “There is such a thing. We both know that. The sheer drudgery of study. Your friend Peter almost died from an overdose.”

      Her head sank. “Poor Peter!” Peter—her friend, the brilliant class geek. She had looked out for him from the start. When other students had tended to mock his extreme shyness and his bone-thin appearance she had been his constant support. Peter’s appearance at that stage of his life hadn’t matched up with his formidable brain.

      “You were devastated,” Corin reminded her. Did she know poor Peter idolised her?

      “Of course I was devastated,” she said, lifting her head. “We were supposed to be friends, but he never told me how bad he felt. Why didn’t he? I could have helped.”

      “You can’t blame yourself, Miranda. You were a good friend to Peter, but his depression got the better of him. He was the classic square peg in a round hole.”

      “Wasn’t he just?” She sighed. “I’m so grateful you were there for me that night.” Not knowing what else to do, she had called Corin from the hospital and he had come. “I’ll always remember that. And what you did for Peter afterwards. You spoke to his family. They listened. They’d been blind to the fact Peter wasn’t meant to be a doctor. With the family medical background they more or less forced him into it. Peter desperately wanted to become a musician. His ambition wasn’t taken at all seriously until you spoke up.”

      “I wanted to help.”

      “Well, you did.” These days Peter was studying the cello at the very prestigeous Royal College of Music in London.

      “Still hearing from him?” Corin asked.

      “All the time.”

      She smiled. A sweet, uncomplicated smile. Peter was her friend. No more. He would never be her lover. He was glad about that. He didn’t stop to question why. But emotions had such intrusive, pressing qualities. Sometimes they had to be pushed away.

      “I love Zara’s rainforest painting,” she said, gesturing to it.

      “So do I. Zara keeps up her painting. I’ll find one of hers for you. I have quite a collection. But we’re not talking about Zara. Or Peter—though I’m very glad to hear he’s doing so well. We’re talking about you, Miranda. I firmly believe you’ll benefit from a gap year.”

      Her fingers laced themselves together.

      “Don’t argue. You wanted to fast-track science, remember?”

      She looked across at him with pleading eyes. “I could have done it in two years had I worked through the long vacations.”

      His tongue clicked with impatience. “Why won’t you admit you were glad when I made the decision for you? I’m on your side, Miranda. I’m simply not going to allow you to crash and burn. Two years was far too gruelling for a three-year science course and you know it. No time at all for a personal life.”

      “Who needs a personal life?” she asked discordantly, stretching her slender arms along the sides of the armchair. “You’re a workaholic, though rumour has it you’re going to marry Annette Atwood. She’s stunning.”

      He let the silence build. “So she is,” he agreed eventually. “But you appear to know more about it than I do.”

      “You’re not?” It came out far too intensely. Damn, damn, damn.

      “Let’s get back to you,” he said smoothly, aware she hadn’t meant to show such interest. “Professor Sutton shares my view you’d benefit from a gap year. And there’s a man who thinks the world of you.”

      Her expression softened. “The Prof would like me to stick to science. He’s told me many times. He thinks I have a future in medical research. When you think about it, nine of our ten Nobel Prize winners have been medical scientists, or doctors of medicine. And Patrick White, of course, for Literature. I know at some future stage the Prof would like me to be in a position to make his team. I’m sure he’s told you he’s enormously grateful for the funding he receives from the Foundation?”

      “He’s doing great work,” Corin acknowledged, as though that said it all. “Research doesn’t appeal to you?”

      She ran her fingers through her short glittering curls. “I’d be honoured. But I have to get my MB first, Corin.” Her brain was ticking over at a million miles a minute. Travel? See the world? She felt exhilarated. And shocked.

      “No reason to believe you won’t. I applaud your ambition. But taking a gap year will work out to be a distinct advantage. The more experienced and the more cultivated you are as a human being, you can only enhance your chosen career.”

      “So I’m to do what I’m told? Is that it?”

      He could see the mix of emotions in her eyes. “I’ve mapped out an agenda for your perusal.”

      “Not my approval?” she commented wryly.

      He ignored that. “Zara will be happy to keep an eye on you in London. I know the two of you will get on like a house on fire. Dad splashed out and bought a house in London when our mother was alive—an 1840s house in Holland Park. Rather run-down at the time, but in a superb location of beautiful tree-lined streets and gardens, and of course the park itself, which was once the grounds of a vast Jacobean Manor. Anyway, my mother and her English decorator transformed it. Zara is living in the house now. But there’s a basement apartment which I had turned into a very comfortable pied-à-terre for whenever I’m in London. You could live there. It will give you the feeling of independence. You can come and go as you please, but Zara would still be around for you. There’s a very elegant apartment СКАЧАТЬ