The Return of Her Past. Lindsay Armstrong

wall bin, checked his water, then, with a friendly pat and a flick of his mane through her fingers, she closed him in.

      That was when she came to grief. She’d collected some wood for her stove and was taking a last look at the sunset when, seemingly from nowhere, what she’d kept at bay for hours enveloped her—the memories she’d refused to allow to surface ever since she’d known who would be at tomorrow’s wedding flooded back to haunt her.

      ‘Surely I can do this,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve come so far since those days—surely I can do this?’

      She closed her eyes but nothing could stop those memories as she allowed herself the luxury of picturing Carlos O’Connor in her mind’s eye. Luxury? Or was it a torment?

      Whatever, how could she forget that night-dark hair that sometimes fell in his eyes? That olive skin his Spanish mother had bequeathed, yet the grey eyes that came from his Irish father and could be as cool as the North Sea or so penetrating his glance made you mentally sit up in a flurry and hope like mad you had your wits about you.

      How could she forget the satanic edge to his looks that was so intriguing; irresistible but at the same time capable of making you feel you were playing with fire?

      Or not remember the way he laughed sometimes and that wicked sense of humour?

      Or the times when no one would have suspected he was at the helm of a multi-national construction company. Times when he exchanged his suit for jeans and T-shirt and indulged his favourite pastimes—sailing, riding, flying. In fact he was rarely formal when she thought about it. But above all how could she ever forget lying in Carlos O’Connor’s arms?

      She stood perfectly still for a long moment, then she reached into her pocket for a tissue and mopped herself up, determined that she would recover her equilibrium before tomorrow.

      Mercifully, when she woke early the next morning, it was to see that at least the weather was fine; the sun had just started to climb into a cloudless sky. She had all sorts of contingency plans for wet weather but it was a relief not to have to resort to them.

      She got up, dressed swiftly in jeans and an old shirt and brewed herself a cup of tea, which she took out into the garden. She loved the garden, all five acres of it, and although Bellbird employed a gardener it was Mia who supervised what went in and came out, something that led her into frequent discord with the gardener, Bill James, a man in his sixties who’d lived all his life on the mountain. Bill and his wife, Lucy, lived in another cottage on the property.

      Lucy James was away at the moment. She made an annual pilgrimage to spend a month with her daughter and her six grandchildren in Cairns. To Mia’s regret, Bill drove Lucy up to and back from Cairns but only ever stayed a couple of days with them.

      That left Mia in the position of having to cope with Bill living on his own and hating it until Lucy returned. If he was cranky when his wife was present, he was ten times crankier when she wasn’t.

      Still, it had been a huge stroke of luck how she’d come to be able to start her reception business at Bellbird in the first place. She’d met the two old ladies, sisters and spinsters and now in their late eighties, who owned Bellbird, at Echo Point.

      It had been her first visit to the Blue Mountains’ premier tourist attraction, from which you could look over the Three Sisters and the Jamison Valley.

      From the viewing platform she’d gazed out over the scenery and been enchanted by the wondrous views.

      The elderly sisters had sat down on the bench beside her and struck up a conversation. Before long she’d learnt about the estate on Mount Wilson, the fact that the sisters now lived in a retirement home in Katoomba, which they hardly had a good word to say for. And the fact that they were looking for a use for their estate.

      Mia had explained that she’d come up to the Blue Mountains with the idea of opening a function business—and things had progressed from there. Of course the sisters had had her vetted but what had started out as a business venture had blossomed into a friendship and Mia often visited them in their despised retirement home that was actually very luxurious and well-run. And she often took them bunches of flowers and snippets of gossip about the mountain because she could well imagine what it must be like living away from Bellbird.

      If there was one area of concern for her regarding the estate it was that her lease was renewed annually and due for renewal shortly. Her two spinsters would be perfectly happy to renew it but had let drop that they were under some pressure from their nephew, their closest relative and heir, to think of selling Bellbird and investing the money for a higher return than the estate was earning them.

      On the morning of the Lombard/Miller wedding, things at Mount Wilson were looking pretty grand. The gardens were in spectacular form and so was the house, Mia noted, as she reluctantly went indoors and did a thorough inspection.

      The ceremony was to be conducted by a marriage celebrant in an elegant rotunda in the garden, whilst the meal was to be served in the huge main dining room that easily seated the estimated seventy-five guests. It was a spectacular room with a pressed iron ceiling and long glass doors that opened onto the terrace and the main rose garden.

      Dancing would be in the atrium with its cool tiled floor, and tables and chairs were dotted around the main lawn.

      ‘Well, it all looks good,’ Mia said to the newly arrived Gail—she lived on the mountain only a few minutes’ drive away. ‘And here come the caterers. OK! Let’s get started.’ And she and Gail gave each other a high five salute as was their custom.

      In the time she had before the wedding party arrived Mia took a last look into the wedding suite—where the members of the bridal party would dress and be able to retire to if need be. And, content that it was all spick and span, she jogged to her own quarters, where she took a shower and dressed herself for the event.

      She studied herself thoughtfully in the mirror when she was ready. She always contrived to look elegant enough to be a guest but a discreet one, and today she was wearing a slim short-sleeved jade-green Thai silk dress with fashionable but medium heels in matching leather and a string of glass beads on a gold chain. She also wore a hat, more of a fascinator, to be precise. A little cap made from the same Thai silk with feathers and a froth of dotted voile worn on the side of her head.

      He probably won’t recognise me, she reassured herself as she stood in front of her cheval mirror admiring her reflection, and particularly the lovely fascinator, which seemed to invest her with more sophistication than she usually exhibited.

      But even without the hat she was a far cry from the kind of girl she’d been in those days. Always in jeans, always outdoors, always riding when she could get away with it. Her clothes—her hair alone must look different from how she used to wear it. She grimaced.

      Her hair was a sore point with her. Nearly black, it was wild and curly, yet it never looked right when it was cut to be manageable. So she wore it severely tied back when she was being formal, something she’d not done when she was younger.

      Nothing, she had to acknowledge, had changed about her eyes, though. They were green and Gail had once told her her eyelashes were utterly to die for and so was her mouth. She also possessed a pair of dimples that she wasn’t a hundred per cent keen on—they didn’t seem to go with the sophisticated woman of the world she liked to hope she resembled.

      She turned away from the mirror with a shrug and discovered, to her horror, that she was trembling finely because she was scared to death all of a sudden.

      No, not all of a sudden, she corrected herself. Ever since she’d realised who the bride was, she’d been pretending to herself that she was quite capable of dealing with the O’Connor family when, underneath that, she’d been filled with the desire to run, to put as much distance between them as she could.

      Now it was too late. She was going to have to go through with it. She was going to have to be civil to Arancha O’Connor and her daughter Juanita. Somehow she was going to have to be normal with Carlos.

      Unless they didn’t recognise her.

      She