and
attentive. His eyes framed by those long seductive eyelashes were intense and
alert.
“Megan, isn’t it? We haven’t been formally introduced.” He extended
a hand across the table. “Lawson Green.”
She reached for his hand. “Megan Brighton.” His touch was cool, his
grip firm.
With the formalities out of the way, Brenda proceeded to liven up
the occasion by recounting in dramatic style her disastrous day at work. Her
hands did most of the talking. Brenda told a good story, even if it did tend to
verge on the outlandish.
Towards the end of the tale, Megan looked up and saw Mr Ginger
Moustache homing in on their hostess. She watched in amusement as Pauline tried
to brush him off. Megan didn’t need to hear what was being said, the body
language was more than enough. It was like watching a pantomime. Pauline’s mask
slipped and she looked ready to swat the single-minded sleaze at any moment.
Maybe the night wasn’t going to be a write-off, after all. The entertainment
was certainly proving interesting.
Eventually, Pauline managed to escape from Mr Ginger Moustache’s
clutches to continue working her way around the room, meeting and greeting.
Halfway through her rounds, Pauline happened to look across the room, catching
Megan’s gaze. Her eyes then drifted to Lawson, her hollow smile hardening.
Within seconds she was by Lawson’s side, her heavily bejeweled fingers laying
claim to his arm.
“Darling Lawson, I’m so sorry you had to go through all that nasty
business with the police. I told them that girl’s disappearance had nothing to
do with you.”
Megan’s ears pricked up, as undoubtedly did everyone else’s within
hearing radius.
CHAPTER 7
Running late, Greg
walked with lengthening strides down the footpath towards the Little Collins
Street bar. As he paused to catch his breath, the door flew open, spilling an
inebriated party of four out onto the street. The two women and two men were in
high spirits as they cavorted up the footpath and disappeared into the night.
Once inside the bar, he paused, allowing his eyes to adjust to the
low light. The burble of multiple conversations interlaced with music enveloped
him. To his right he saw what looked to be the registration table. The chair
behind the table was empty, but laid out on the tabletop in a neat line beside
a clipboard and pen were five nametags, one of which he assumed belonged to
him. At least he wasn’t the last to arrive.
He stepped over to the table and studied the names, becoming puzzled
when he couldn’t see his. Then he remembered. For tonight he was Justin, not
Greg. Picking up his alias’s name badge, he clipped it to his lapel and turned
to survey the room.
A short pixie-like woman headed his way, her intent obvious by the
hungry look on her face. He scowled. Bewilderment flashed across the woman’s face.
Veering from her original course, she took a wide detour around him and made
her way to the bar.
Greg patted his jacket pocket, reminding himself why he was there.
He shouldn’t have alienated the woman like that. He needed all the help he
could get. Maybe she would recognize Sam from the photo in his pocket. Maybe
she’d be the one with the crucial piece of information needed to track down his
sister. Maybe. He sighed. There were too many maybes.
He had to remember these people had all signed up with Dinner for
Twelve searching for that elusive meaningful relationship. He was the one
operating under false pretences. Summoning all the courage he could muster, he
crossed to the bar to make amends. And maybe uncover his first lead.
With his mouth arranged in what he hoped was an apologetic smile, he
sidled up to the woman. She shot him a dismissive glance, paid for her
strawberry adorned drink, turned and marched off. All without a word. No doubt
he deserved it, but it still felt like a slap in the face.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, the air in the bar stifling. It didn’t
help matters that he hadn’t had
attentive. His eyes framed by those long seductive eyelashes were intense and
alert.
“Megan, isn’t it? We haven’t been formally introduced.” He extended
a hand across the table. “Lawson Green.”
She reached for his hand. “Megan Brighton.” His touch was cool, his
grip firm.
With the formalities out of the way, Brenda proceeded to liven up
the occasion by recounting in dramatic style her disastrous day at work. Her
hands did most of the talking. Brenda told a good story, even if it did tend to
verge on the outlandish.
Towards the end of the tale, Megan looked up and saw Mr Ginger
Moustache homing in on their hostess. She watched in amusement as Pauline tried
to brush him off. Megan didn’t need to hear what was being said, the body
language was more than enough. It was like watching a pantomime. Pauline’s mask
slipped and she looked ready to swat the single-minded sleaze at any moment.
Maybe the night wasn’t going to be a write-off, after all. The entertainment
was certainly proving interesting.
Eventually, Pauline managed to escape from Mr Ginger Moustache’s
clutches to continue working her way around the room, meeting and greeting.
Halfway through her rounds, Pauline happened to look across the room, catching
Megan’s gaze. Her eyes then drifted to Lawson, her hollow smile hardening.
Within seconds she was by Lawson’s side, her heavily bejeweled fingers laying
claim to his arm.
“Darling Lawson, I’m so sorry you had to go through all that nasty
business with the police. I told them that girl’s disappearance had nothing to
do with you.”
Megan’s ears pricked up, as undoubtedly did everyone else’s within
hearing radius.
CHAPTER 7
Running late, Greg
walked with lengthening strides down the footpath towards the Little Collins
Street bar. As he paused to catch his breath, the door flew open, spilling an
inebriated party of four out onto the street. The two women and two men were in
high spirits as they cavorted up the footpath and disappeared into the night.
Once inside the bar, he paused, allowing his eyes to adjust to the
low light. The burble of multiple conversations interlaced with music enveloped
him. To his right he saw what looked to be the registration table. The chair
behind the table was empty, but laid out on the tabletop in a neat line beside
a clipboard and pen were five nametags, one of which he assumed belonged to
him. At least he wasn’t the last to arrive.
He stepped over to the table and studied the names, becoming puzzled
when he couldn’t see his. Then he remembered. For tonight he was Justin, not
Greg. Picking up his alias’s name badge, he clipped it to his lapel and turned
to survey the room.
A short pixie-like woman headed his way, her intent obvious by the
hungry look on her face. He scowled. Bewilderment flashed across the woman’s face.
Veering from her original course, she took a wide detour around him and made
her way to the bar.
Greg patted his jacket pocket, reminding himself why he was there.
He shouldn’t have alienated the woman like that. He needed all the help he
could get. Maybe she would recognize Sam from the photo in his pocket. Maybe
she’d be the one with the crucial piece of information needed to track down his
sister. Maybe. He sighed. There were too many maybes.
He had to remember these people had all signed up with Dinner for
Twelve searching for that elusive meaningful relationship. He was the one
operating under false pretences. Summoning all the courage he could muster, he
crossed to the bar to make amends. And maybe uncover his first lead.
With his mouth arranged in what he hoped was an apologetic smile, he
sidled up to the woman. She shot him a dismissive glance, paid for her
strawberry adorned drink, turned and marched off. All without a word. No doubt
he deserved it, but it still felt like a slap in the face.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, the air in the bar stifling. It didn’t
help matters that he hadn’t had
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