Even from where he was sitting Damien sensed the change in her as she ignored the light-hearted banter, her eyes focusing on the glass between her hands. ‘There was only one other. My kid brother. They named him Montreal.’
‘Montreal. That’s unusual,’ said Stuart.
‘I know.’ She smiled softly, letting her head fall to one side. ‘He hated it so we call him—’ She hesitated, suddenly biting down on her bottom lip. ‘We used to call him Monty instead.’
There was a quiet resonance in her words that went way beyond what was spoken.
‘What happened to him?’ Damien asked softly, before he’d realised he’d even put voice to his question.
Her eyes were fixed on the glass, her thumbs stroking away the condensation forming and reforming on the outside.
‘He was a pilot, flying home for the weekend with Annelise, his wife, to show off their new baby son. They’d named him after our father—he died ten years ago and mum was so proud that they’d named the baby after him. She couldn’t wait to meet her first grandchild.’ She took a breath, as if unwilling to give voice to what came next for fear it would be true.
‘There was a storm en route and something went wrong; they think a lightning strike took out the electrical system.’ She shrugged. ‘Whatever. The plane crashed and they all…every one of them. They all died.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Thomas was just ten days old.’
Forces shifted inside him as the silence that followed blanketed the table. The quiet emotion of her words betrayed a feeling he recognised, a feeling buried deep inside.
But it was a feeling he didn’t want to be reminded of. He didn’t want to pull it out and examine what it meant. It was better off left exactly where it was.
Philly looked up at the faces around the table. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, you didn’t want to hear all that. Please forgive me.’
Stuart was the first to react. His arm shifted from the chair back to around her shoulders and he gave her a squeeze, putting his wineglass down so he could cover her hands in his. ‘Don’t apologise,’ he said softly. ‘There’s absolutely no need.’
She smiled up at him, her lashes moist, eyes glistening. ‘Thank you, Stuart.’
‘Call me Stu,’ he said, his voice low and sympathetic. ‘All my friends do.’
Her smile widened. ‘Thank you, Stu.’
Damien pushed himself out of his chair. ‘Time to call it a night. Thank you, gentlemen. We’ll see ourselves back to the hotel.’
Philly looked up, surprised by his sudden action. ‘Oh, right. Okay.’
She made a move to stand but Stuart placed an ironman fist over her arm, pinning her to the chair. ‘It’s still early,’ he said, his eyes fixed on Philly but the tone of his words aimed directly at Damien. ‘Maybe Philly would like to see a little more of the Gold Coast entertainment.’
His eyes softened. ‘Would you like that, Philly? Do you like to dance?’
‘Um, yes, actually,’ she said, her voice wavering. ‘I do.’
He turned to Damien triumphantly. ‘So that’s settled, then. Sorry you don’t feel up to joining us, Damien, but we’ll see you tomorrow morning at the office. And don’t worry, we’ll look after Philly for you.’
Damien battled with the urge to rearrange one smug face, but he wasn’t about to undo all the goodwill they’d built up today. Then again, he wasn’t about to be out-manoeuvred either.
He dredged up a laugh, as if he was enjoying the banter, and schooled his voice to sound civilised while inside him his heartbeat pounded like jungle drums. ‘Another time, perhaps. Sorry to disappoint you, but Ms Summers and I have some important details to go over tonight. I’m sure you understand.’
With that he placed a firm hand under her elbow and levered her from her chair. Stuart was left with no choice but to remove his hand from her arm though he made no pretence that he was happy about it.
‘Good night, gentlemen. I look forward to furthering our discussions in the morning.’
He steered Philly out of the restaurant and into a waiting taxi without saying another word.
‘What was that all about?’
She was sick of the silent treatment, sick of the brooding male who had sprawled over the taxi seat like a despot, arrogant limbs taking up space as if he owned it, sick of the way he’d frog-marched her to her door like a prisoner to be locked in for the night.
As his silence continued her anger grew and grew, simmering away, fuelled by the heat he was giving off with his black mood.
‘What was what all about?’
‘Don’t give me that,’ she said as she inserted her card key into the reader. ‘You acted like some caveman back there at the restaurant.’