LITMIR.BIZ

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growled, reverberating off the snow walls. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit hungry.’

      ‘When the storm abates, we can get some food from the plane.’

      She grinned. ‘It’s not all crash survivors who can claim to have eaten caviar and drunk champagne while they waited. Although someone on the mountain might have been forced to have supermarket dip and biscuits and—quelle horreur—Australian sparkling wine.’

      He laughed. ‘Ah, but they will incorporate it into a great dinnertime story back in Toorak, which would make up for it.’

      ‘The night they slummed it?’

      ‘Something like that.’

      His words carried a reserve she hadn’t heard before. Realisation hit her. He was probably talking from experience. She wanted to know. She needed to know if her gut feeling about his privileged life was correct. That would be the ammunition she needed to fight her attraction to him. And she must fight it, otherwise it would all end in tears. Her tears.

      ‘You asked who is worrying about me. So, who’s worrying about you?’

      ‘I’m guessing that when the plane didn’t land the people meeting me will have contacted my parents.’

      ‘Were you staying with family friends?’

      ‘In a manner of speaking, I suppose they are. My parents certainly consider them family. I’ve known them all my life, went to school with them.’

      A leaden feeling sank in her hungry stomach. Her intuition was correct. ‘Old Penton Grammarians?’

      ‘Yes.’ Surprise, mixed with an eagerness to establish a shared connection, played though his voice.

      She recognised it from Graeme’s family and friends. First came the enthusiasm that she was an ‘old girl’. Then came the blank ‘Oh’ when the connection didn’t exist.

      ‘Did you go to the sister school?’

      Bingo. ‘No.’ She couldn’t keep the edge out of her voice. ‘I went to Laurelton Secondary College.’ She waited for the ‘Oh’ and the inevitable silence that followed.

      ‘Didn’t Laurelton win the ski cup six to eight years ago? I remember my cousin, James, up in arms that Penton had been outmanoeuvred by a local high school.’ He laughed. ‘Did them good to learn that even with a truck-load of money, you still need skill to win.’

      Surprise at his comment wriggled though her. She was amazed he would remember that. ‘We had Stuart McGregor that year. He was a gun skier and went on to represent Australia in the Olympics. But, win or lose, the Penton boys seemed to think it their duty to gatecrash our party. Apparently we were supposed to be grateful for the attention and the fact they added class.’ Teenage memories, some tinged with resentment, swirled in her head.

      He laughed. ‘Yes, some of them could smell a party thirty kilometres away. Although vomiting in the snow never struck me as all that classy.’

      ‘That’s true.’ Will’s answers astonished her. She longed to pigeonhole him but he wasn’t quite fitting into the round hole she’d created for him. And her body was betraying her. Her bone-chilling coldness was receding. A bank of heat now permeated her back and she was desperate to press back to soak more of it in. To touch more of him.

      With Will’s arms cocooning her, his warm breath skating along the edge of her cheeks, the heat from his body surrounding her, she could feel her flimsy walls of defence crumbling. She couldn’t let this attraction go anywhere. She had to stop it dead in its tracks.

      She drew on what she knew. ‘What I don’t understand about Penton is why, as adults, old Penton boys want to live in each other’s pockets.’

      ‘Security, shared experiences. All the same reasons people hang out in groups.’

      ‘Yes, but…’ A niggle of irritation chafed against his reasonableness. ‘You have to admit, Penton has made it an art form. It isn’t just their ex-schoolmates—they marry the girls from the sister school and then enrol their yet-to-be-conceived children at both schools.’ Her words rushed out, carried on a wave of ingrained bitterness and hurt.

      ‘Not all old Penton boys socialise with their schoolmates.’ The words seemed clipped.

      She heard his change of tone. She’d learned from Graeme that Penton was sacrosanct, above criticism. She’d expected Will to react like that.

      Good. She pictured Will slowly morphing into the round shape to fit into the round hole she had all picked out for him. The same hole Graeme had slotted into so well. Money, privilege and a sense of superiority. Use, abuse, move on.

      Once she had Will in that hole, her attraction to him would shrivel. ‘Yeah, right, weren’t you on your way to spend a week with your old school pals?’ She squashed the sensible voice in her head that told her she was being childish, sounding petulant. ‘I bet you were staying at the Alston, where all good Pentonians stay.’

      ‘Actually, I was staying at a private apartment.’

      His voice became cool and for the first time she noticed his independent school accent.

      A private apartment meant serious money.

      Meg knew the mountain like the back of her hand. Each year when a new hotel or apartment complex was built, part of her was pained that fewer ordinary people could afford to enjoy the mountain in the winter. She sat forward and half turned toward him. ‘Which apartments?’

      ‘The Grenoble complex.’

      She breathed in hard and fast. The Grenoble was the development the local environment group had protested against. She’d protested against it. And they’d lost. ‘Those apartments should never have been built. Money bought off that planning process. Now the mountain is being taken over and controlled by a select few.’

      He tensed behind her. ‘Skiing has always been a rich man’s sport. There are lodges that provide access to the mountain for people with less money.’

      Fury blazed inside her. That was such a ‘Graeme’ statement. ‘Yes, but it’s people like you who are driving up the prices for everyone, taking all you want during winter and never giving back.’

      ‘Never give back? We pour hundreds of thousands of dollars into the region, including into Laurelton. We support your livelihoods.’

      Face it, Meg. You need my money, you need my connections and you need me. Graeme’s smarmy voice boomed in her head.

      ‘That champagne and caviar was probably ordered by your host!’ Her voice rose on a wave of anger.

      ‘There is every chance it might have been.’ The words were as icy as the cave.

      Triumph saluted inside her. She’d been right from the start. Will was in the pigeonhole. Her lust shrivelled. She was safe.

      ‘Do you need me to apologise for that?’ He enunciated each word. ‘Does being an ex-Pentonian mean I am automatically a lesser person in your eyes?’ He paused for a brief moment, his words hanging in the air. ‘The fact you don’t know anything about me and that you’ve jumped to a massive stereotype conclusion says more about you than me.’

      A kernel of guilt sprouted inside her.

      ‘I don’t need to justify myself to you. If you must know, this week’s ski trip was as much about work as it was about skiing. This group of rich bastards you so like to malign have the capabilities to donate large amounts of money for research and health-care facilities. Money is tight. The government gives limited amounts and research absorbs money like a bushfire absorbs oxygen. My old school connections come in handy sometimes and I don’t apologise for that. I use them to my advantage when I need to.’

      An ugly silence settled over them. Meg was physically warm but his words sent shards of ice through her. She’d deliberately been aggressive, so determined to make him the same as Graeme, so determined to protect herself,

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