Morgan rolled her eyes skyward again. He could be as b.i.t.c.hy as any self-respecting queen. Not that he'd ever admitted to her he was a gay man. The philosophy of "don't ask, don't tell" at the network also applied to her relationship with her agent, and that aspect of their lives was never discussed. Only business and money, percentages and profile-raising opportunities. And where Morgan was in her cycle. "Yes, Michael, I am. So unless you want to be the victim of a PMS-induced crime, you'd better tell me what you want quick-smart."

"Have you ever heard of a little event called the Logies?" Michael asked primly.

Of course she'd heard of the Logies. They were the Australian television industry's equivalent to the Emmys. Bonnes Vacances had ama.s.sed a nice collection of the little statues over the years and had indeed added another two at this year's ceremony, held only the month prior. "Get to the point."

Michael took a deep breath before saying in a very tightly controlled voice, "What would you say if I told you I had been approached asking if you want to host next year's event? Alone."

Morgan gasped. Hosting the Logies was an honor that had been bestowed on only a select few over the years. And of that select few, even fewer were women. In fact, Morgan could think of only one time a woman had single-handedly hosted the event. All others had been in a cohosting role. Michael had to be bulls.h.i.tting her. "No way!"

"I kid you not, my darling." Michael's controlled tone evaporated, replaced by his gushing, excited one. "I took the call from the head of the awards committee this morning. And you, my ever-so-popular little beauty, are their first choice."

"Oh, my G.o.d." Morgan could hardly believe her ears.

"They want to talk to you sometime this week."

Morgan nodded. "Yes, yes, of course."

"I know you're leaving again on Wednesday so I proposed tomorrow night-Monday. You are free?"

Morgan was scheduled for recording segment lead-ins tomorrow and Tuesday, but they should wind up around six. "Even if I wasn't, I'd make myself."

"Excellent. I'll call you back later with the venue and time." Michael sniffed, a sure indication there was a b.i.t.c.hy comment to come. "And this time keep your PMS monster in its cage."

Morgan hung up the phone without replying.

Oh, my G.o.d. The Logies. She shook her head in amazement as she consulted the instruction sheet that gave directions as to where she was supposed to go once having entered the school grounds. "The Logies," she said to herself in wonder as she stepped out of her car and followed the sign that pointed to the a.s.sembly hall.

Given the maze of buildings that stretched out across the impressive school grounds, she was rather surprised that she found the hall without fuss. She was late, but that didn't matter. According to the agenda, they should be serving a buffet-style lunch right now, the auction itself not due to start for another forty minutes. Morgan extended her hand to the man who welcomed her at the entrance and who announced himself as William, the organizer of the event. She smiled brilliantly in his direction. Wow. The Logies. And she walked beside him into the a.s.sembly hall, which was buzzing with the chatter of the quite sizable crowd.

They stopped not too far from a bank of cordoned-off white-clothed tables, upon which the auction items-with the exception of a very handsome but floor-bound Vespa scooter-were on display. It was with a slight grimace that she saw that Lot 55-the final lot-had only a gold glitter card with a black question mark on it. Since it was the only lot without an item attached, she a.s.sumed it was hers.

"I hope I'm not going to have to stand on the table and be 'viewed,'" she said only half-jokingly to William.

He gave a roar of laughter then shook his head, showing her the last page of a little booklet that gave details of each lot. "See here." He pointed to the details of Lot 55. "It's a mystery lot. No one will know what it is until the auctioneer presents you at the time." He waited for her to nod in understanding then steered her past the tables and to a small cl.u.s.ter of two men and a woman, all of whom held little plates of food. According to his introductions, they were the other members of the organizing committee.

After saying her h.e.l.los and accepting a gla.s.s of champagne from a wandering waiter, Morgan took a moment to size up the crowd. Lots of suits. Lots of designer dresses. And a distinct smell of money in the air. Morgan took a sip of her champagne, watching as empty gla.s.ses were placed on trays and immediately replaced with full ones. She decided-given the impressive-looking array of goods that were to go under the hammer-if the alcohol served to loosen the catches on some wallets even a little, this auction stood to make a very tidy sum indeed. She hoped they still had some money left by the time it came to the Mystery Lot. It would be rather embarra.s.sing to be pa.s.sed in.

"Would you like a little something to eat, Ms. Silverstone?"

"Please, call me Morgan." She smiled at William and nodded. She hadn't eaten any dinner the previous night, having picked all day at the trays of sandwiches and m.u.f.fins that the studio provided at every meeting. And she hadn't had any breakfast, a cup of coffee her only companion as she spent the morning wandering aimlessly around her apartment, turning the events of the past few days over and over in her mind and stopping every few minutes to check her phone, which lay charging on a lamp table. Ally hadn't called.

She followed William to the buffet. It was slow progress, since he saw fit to introduce her to everyone he knew along the way, but finally she had a small plate laden with an array of very tasty little treats. While she had been making a selection from the platter of sushi, William had been tapped on the shoulder and had hurried away to tend to some pre-auction detail, so she weaved her way back through the crowd alone, aiming for the still-cl.u.s.tered committee members.

Not too many steps into her journey she felt compelled to turn her head, feeling the weight of someone's glance. Morgan's throat tightened. Not ten feet away from her was Ally. She held a champagne flute in one hand and a small plate in the other. Her dress was salmon-colored, adding depth to the light tan of her skin. It had spaghetti straps that accentuated the fineness of her shoulders and collarbone. Her short hair, which throughout the train journey had had an urbane, tousled look, was smoothed back and sophisticated. Morgan sucked in her breath. She looked fabulous.

Her eyes strayed to the group she stood with. Three men and two women. All the men looked to be around the same age, and all wore the maroon-colored tie she'd seen on many of the other male guests. Having earlier commented on it to William, he had explained it was the school tie. He was wearing one himself and so had held it out for examination and admiration.

It could therefore be safely a.s.sumed that the male portion of Ally's contingent was alumni. And since the alumni member she stood closest to was the same man Morgan had seen her clinging onto at the train station yesterday morning, Ally's presence at this event was explained.

Morgan didn't have to delve very far into her memory to find the name of Ally's partner. James. She took a quick head-to-toe glance of the man. He was tall, dark and handsome-in a genteel James Bond type of way. The Pierce Brosnan Bond, as opposed to the more rugged Sean Connery Bond.

Morgan's gaze strayed back to Ally and she hovered over the decision whether to take the half-dozen steps necessary to say h.e.l.lo. What would the reception be like if she did? And how should she introduce herself? Had Ally told James about meeting her on the train? Goodness, what if Ally had told him . . . everything? Morgan didn't like that thought so she ignored it, instead testing the water by sending Ally a bright smile of recognition and h.e.l.lo.

Initially it appeared that Ally would return the smile. The hint of one flickered at the corners of her lips, but it quickly withered and died. She set her little plate onto the tray of a pa.s.sing waiter, crooked her arm into James's and turned her body slightly away. It was a subtle move, but it was as effective as if she had turned her back on Morgan completely.

Disappointment covered Morgan like a shroud. She turned and walked away, refusing to think of anything but happy thoughts. The Logies.

This time, however, even they could not raise her spirits.

James's voice floated into Ally's thoughts at the same time she felt his hand move to the small of her back. "Are you okay?" he asked, looking to her plate of food, which was disappearing into the crowd on a waiter's tray.

Ally wished she'd given the plate to James instead of mindlessly placing it onto the tray. He hadn't yet had the opportunity to partake of anything but a little of the marinated octopus, the appearance of another old school friend interrupting his attempts at lunch. The friend and his wife had departed their group only seconds before she appeared. Ally took a sip of her champagne and let the bubbles fizz on her tongue before swallowing. What on earth was Morgan doing here? Was she stalking her? More importantly, why did she find the thought of being followed around by Morgan appealing?

Despite the fact that her stomach was flopping about and her knees were a little wobbly she told James, "Sure. Sure. I'm fine. I've just overdone the wasabi a bit and am no longer hungry. I'm sorry about the plate. I wasn't thinking."

His hand moved to her waist and gave it a little squeeze. "It's okay."

"Maybe there's time to get another." In a little area right at the back of her mind Ally was envisioning the possible route Morgan had taken into the crowd and calculating the probability of being able to replicate it. She twisted James's wrist a little so she could see his watch. "How much longer until the auction starts?"

"Soon." James turned to her, concern in his eyes. "You're looking a little flushed. Do you want to sit down somewhere?" He scanned the hall. "I think I saw some seats behind the tables where the lots are being displayed."

My G.o.d, he is just so nice! Ally thought guiltily. What the h.e.l.l am I thinking? She closed the door on the little area right at the back of her mind and locked it. No itch-scratching for her today. Or any other day. "No, no. Honestly. I'm okay." Ally shook her head and stood up straight as if to prove it. She opened her little booklet and looked at it intently. "Do you know what you're going to bid on?"

Two and a half hours later and the auction was almost over. The auctioneer, borrowed from one of Sydney's more venerable auction houses, was good, and had Ally been in a different frame of mind she would have found him most entertaining. He worked the crowd well, using quick wit and sharp humor to encourage the bids ever higher. He drew attention to the bidders, frowning theatrically when someone indicated they were "out" and good-humoredly heckling them until they gave in and placed another bid. In fact, when it came time for the ugly Limoge Father Christmas Box to go under the hammer and Barbara was the only bidder, he cajoled and sweet-talked her until she actually put in a higher bid against herself. This drew howls of laughter from the crowd. Barbara, initially mortified, subsequently decided that being in the spotlight wasn't half bad. She put in a third, even higher bid against herself and beamed at the ensuing thunderous applause.

Even under normal circ.u.mstances, being on display was not something Ally relished. In fact, she avoided drawing attention to herself as much as possible. Now, knowing that Morgan was somewhere in the crowd, the last thing she wanted was the humiliation of being targeted by the auctioneer. Compounding her reticence to bid were the two men who had placed themselves immediately behind her not too long into the auction. They were too old to be students and too young to be fathers of students, but they wore that d.a.m.ned maroon tie, which made their presence immediately acceptable. The pair was detestable, sn.i.g.g.e.ring loudly as they maligned almost every item up for bid. The scooter she had admired was described as "something only a poofter would ride" and the bottles of Krug champagne as "Frenchman's p.i.s.s aerated with their foul cheese farts." What they said of the Limoge box was unrepeatable, as too was their comment about Barbara when she placed her second bid. It was at that point Ally swung around and hissed at the pair to shut up. The stares she received in return were defiant, but there was relative silence for the next two lots. Then they'd started again and continued unabated, even when James turned and fixed them with a threatening glare.

Hence Ally's checkbook was still intact.

"Almost your last chance, Alison." James pointed to the description of Lot 54-the Harbor Bridge Climb-in her auction booklet. At the same time the auctioneer began giving a colorful spiel about the same. "Would you like me to bid for you?"

Ally vacillated for a moment. She liked to think herself an independent woman, not one who hid behind her partner's coattails. "I'll do it," she said decisively, ignoring the comment from behind that half the crowd was too fat to fit into the overalls issued to each partic.i.p.ant for use during the climb.

Three minutes later the hammer came down and she found herself the proud holder of two Bridge Climb tickets. "I'll climb your bridge, darlin'," came a voice from behind.

Nothing would have pleased Ally more than to spin around and knee the source of the voice in the groin, but she didn't. She grabbed James by the arm. He had obviously heard the comment and his face was grim as he began to turn. "Don't," she warned. "Let's just go to the cashier, pay for our things and leave."

He nodded slowly, reluctantly, not taking his eyes off the two young men, who seemed to visibly shrink under the weight of his stare. Finally he turned to Phil and told him of their intention to leave. In the next moment he and Phil were chest to chest and banging each other on the back. He and Ned were doing the same when Ally-who had given an insincere "nice to meet you" to Mandy-halted in her handshaking good-byes to Barbara. Her hand dropped away as her attention was arrested by the auctioneer's words, " . . . Morgan Silverstone."

What words had preceded them she had no idea, but Ally turned to the stage to find Morgan, unseen by Ally for the duration of the auction, walking across it.

"Cor," said one of the men standing behind Ally, "she's f.u.c.king hot."

"Tell me about it," said the other man. "I keep a supply of Kleenex nearby when she's on the telly . . . if you know what I mean."

Ally tuned out their sn.i.g.g.e.ring and concentrated on the stage.

"Yes, folks." The auctioneer held an arm out in Morgan's direction, a gesture that conveyed he was presenting her to the audience. "The mystery is solved. Lot fifty-five . . . star of Bonnes Vacances, Morgan Silverstone!" He paused long enough that the crowd began murmuring among themselves. A couple of hoots came from the back of the room, followed by a wolf whistle from somewhere to the side. The auctioneer rested an elbow on his lectern. "Is it true, Morgan, that whoever bids highest this afternoon will get to spend an entire afternoon or evening in your company?"

"That's true," said Morgan, smiling.

"Doing whatever they want?" the auctioneer continued, giving a big wink at the crowd.

Ally felt a pressure on her arm as more hoots and wolf whistles echoed throughout the a.s.sembly hall. It was James. "Are we going?" he asked.

Ally shook his hand away, transfixed with the woman standing on the stage, waiting for her reply to the auctioneer's question. "Not quite yet."

Morgan smiled again, her voice as smooth as velvet. "Anything within reason."

"So, you're quite flexible then?" The auctioneer winked at the audience again.

Morgan didn't blink an eyelid at the double entendre. "I like to think so," she said evenly.

"Yeah, darlin'," came one of the now familiar voices from behind Ally. "I bet I can stretch you in a few ways you'd never expect."

"You gonna try an' buy her?" asked his buddy.

"Why the f.u.c.k not?" said the first one. "Wouldn't be the first time I've paid for it."

Ally clenched her fists. She should have let James loose on the pair when she had the chance. And how could Morgan stand up there and let herself be objectified like that? It was demeaning.

Weren't lesbians supposed to be against this type of thing? Women's rights and all?

"And let's not forget the reason why we're all here today, folks." The auctioneer pointed his hammer toward the banner that hung at the rear of the stage. On it was a large-eyed Indian boy sitting on a mat, chalkboard in hand. "For the kids. So let's make this, our last lot for the day, a good one." He waved his hammer in the air. "What am I bid?"

"Fifty," came the voice from behind.

"One hundred," another male voice called a few rows ahead.

"Two hundred." The voice from behind again.

"Three." Yet another male voice entered the bidding.

"Four." Another new bidder. Also male.

"Five hundred." The voice from behind. It was followed by a sn.i.g.g.e.r from his friend and a comment about an expensive bang.

When the bidding reach one thousand dollars there were only two left in the race, the man who stood a few rows ahead, and the cretin behind.

"Eleven hundred."

"Twelve."

"Fourteen hundred dollars," called the cretin.

The room fell into a sudden silence. Ally could feel the crowd hold its collective breath waiting for a counterbid.

"Fifteen," the other bidder said finally and there was a collective exhalation.

"Sixteen," Cretin said immediately.

Ally cringed. The cretin was cashed-up. She watched Morgan standing there, her face impa.s.sive, as the bidding went higher and higher. At twenty-four hundred it stalled again. The bid was held by the cretin.

"Sir?" The auctioneer pointed his hammer at the other bidder. "An afternoon . . . or an evening . . . with this beautiful woman."

The man shook his head. "I'm a morning person really," he said loudly, gaining a few chuckles from the crowd.

The auctioneer looked to Morgan. "Mornings are okay with you?"

"I'm good in the morning."

"I bet you're good at anytime of day, darlin'." The friend of the cretin sn.i.g.g.e.red.

The auctioneer turned back to the bidder. "She's good in the morning," he stated, straight-faced.

The audience laughed.

The man shook his head. "I'm out."

"Last chance, sir."

The man shook his head again and the auctioneer raised his hammer. "At twenty-four hundred dollars. Going once . . ."

"You're gonna get the b.i.t.c.h," the friend of the cretin whispered loudly.

The hammer stayed poised above the lectern. "Going twice . . ."

"Yeah," the cretin said smugly. "Bargain too. I would've paid twice that." He sn.i.g.g.e.red. "But she's gonna earn every cent of it."

The hammer began its descent. "Sol-"

"Five thousand dollars!"

The entire room fell into a stunned silence and Ally's skin grew hot as dozens of heads turned in her direction. Even the auctioneer seemed taken aback. "Any advance on five thousand?" he asked after a pause.

There was a sullen silence from behind and the auctioneer didn't even make an attempt at cajoling further bids. "At five thousand dollars. Going once . . ."

Less than a minute later the hammer came down to a thunderous applause that outdid that when Barbara bid against herself for the ugly Limoge.

"Sold!"

At least one person was not clapping. Ally took a half-step back and met James's eyes. They were wide with astonishment.

Ally answered his question even before he asked it. "You heard those twits behind us. I wasn't going to let them win. They were talking about her like she was a piece of meat."

"But five thousand dollars?" He rubbed at the stubble on his chin. "Not even the Vespa went for that much."

"It's my money," Ally said defensively, still coming to grips with what she'd just done. She hadn't even felt she was in control of her mouth when she issued her bid. It was as if some invisible force inside her had pushed the words out. "I can do what I want with it."