CHAPTER SIX

SHE had almost finished dressing. Paradoxically, she had dressed herself up as a woman might for the man she loved. Now she sat in front of the dressing table, staring sightlessly at her own image, as captured fragments of the afternoon came back to haunt her. Or more accurately to taunt her. She had been over and over her behaviour of the afternoon, and the causes for it. She wanted to hold on to those lingering sensations of rapture when she had been so magically transformed, but her sharp withdrawal from Bryn’s embrace, her renouncement of bliss, kept interfering. How easy it was to lose one’s way! She had blown her chance, maybe her only chance.

A deeply entrenched habit of hers, her mind resorted to Shakespeare. ‘There is a tide in the affairs of men—’ and presumably women? ‘—which when taken at the flood leads on to fortune. Omitted, all the voyage of their life, is bound in shallows and in miseries…’

Who was going to argue with arguably the greatest literary genius in the history of mankind, with his sublime understanding of human nature and the power to express it? If she had missed the tide, then maybe she deserved it. Fortune favoured the brave. Fear was her weakness. She had to break free of it, haul herself up. Now Bryn had reverted to the easy companionship of her childhood and adolescence, apparently accepting she was harbouring myriad anxieties. The pounding passion of that episode in the water might not have happened. It was just one of her daydreams that went on for hours.

Slowly she drew her hairbrush through the rippling length of her long hair, listening to its electric crackle. It reminded her of the times when Aunt Elizabeth had brushed her hair as a child. They had been very close. Far closer than her own blood. Satisfied with the result, she set the brush down, giving vent to a sigh.

‘The arrow of time flies in only one direction. ’ Some other genius had said that. She had an idea it was Einstein. Einstein would no doubt have gone on to point out the enormous pulling power of the past and its impact on the future. But in the end one could only go forwards. Not backwards. She could never live this afternoon over again; only in memory. Consciousness was the crucial thing that separated man from beast. Man’s ability to relive the past and bring it vividly alive—happy or, in her case, cringe-worthy. The past had shaped her. The past had made her what she was.

She tried to fight off the sense of bleakness that had clung to her since she was a child. It was as if her life since the death of both her parents had assumed a topography of hidden dangers and traps that she had to navigate her way safely through. It was part of the misery of loss—not only of her mother and father, but of her very identity. So much depended on where we were born; who we were born to, our environment, social standing, the kind of childhood we had. Those factors determined so much of life. A well-adjusted adult in all probability had had a happy, stable childhood, with the priceless gift of having being loved. Then there were people like herself, with too many memories of being grief-stricken, lonely, afraid to trust, desperate to unmake tragedy, to turn back the clock when the hands of time only ticked relentlessly on.

Somehow over the years she had learned to work her way out of her pervading melancholy—which could be part of her artistic nature. The trick to survival, she had found, especially of late, was to focus all her energies on her new life and her plans for the future. For doing good. She had been given the opportunity to spread her wings, to take flight. What she now had to do—and she had been overlong at it—was throw off Carina’s influence, which she now recognised as a blight. Though she really wanted to believe Carina was changing as a person—it would make life so much better—it was difficult to accept the possibility.

Maybe it was just possible to accept that Carina had come to terms with being passed over by their grandfather. After all, the reins of power brought attendant burdens of responsibility, and huge security risks in a world gone mad. Carina was, by her own admission, the quintessential party girl—a social butterfly bent on a life of pleasure and self-indulgence.

Then, there was the crucial issue of Bryn.

It began and ended with Bryn.

How was Carina really handling her thwarted feelings and her whole world turned upside down? Carina didn’t tolerate loss. The way she had been reared as a pampered princess didn’t help. Carina was a very poor loser, even over a game of tennis. She had to win. Mostly she did, but it had to be all the time. Carina pushed gamesmanship to the limit. Wasn’t it highly unlikely, then, that Carina had accepted the loss of the man she intensely desired? With all Francesca knew of her cousin, Carina would be most likely to covet what she knew she could never possess. She might be forced to accept Bryn was never going to ask her to marry him, but Francesca couldn’t see Carina surrendering him to any other woman. And the worst possible scenario would be to a woman like herself.

Carina’s jealousy over Elizabeth’s affection for her had just about ruined their childhood. Of course Carina had so often played the caricature of the loving, caring older cousin, but she had never felt it had been real. Carina’s genius was for fooling people, confusing them, hiding behind an elaborate mask.

The issue of Bryn remained unresolved.

Yesterday, when Carina had come into the office, she had forced on herself a particular role. But what had she hoped to achieve by doing so? A cessation of hostilities, even though the hostilities had been all one-sided? What had she been playing at when she’d insisted she was only looking out for Francesca’s interests? When had Carina ever looked out for her? Her mind had all but shut down on that traumatic incident of their childhood when she had almost drowned, only for Bryn’s miraculous intervention, with Carina standing by screaming…and screaming…as though she had never wanted any of it to happen.

Even now, all these years later, she couldn’t bear to think it had been anything other than an accident that could always happen when children were left unattended. Only sometimes in the realm of her dreams she relived that day…The walk along the banks of the lagoon hand in hand, which had come as a lovely surprise, her exclaiming over the beauty of the waterlilies, how she was going to draw them the minute she was home, her scrapbook in her hand…Carina had hated the way she was always drawing…She remembered the danger of the deep water…the way Carina had waded in, which meant she’d had to go too. It was the paralysing feeling of extreme danger that always forced her awake.

What had happened that day? Would she find the answer in her dreams if only she could let the nightmare run its course? Would she have that dream for ever? Her lungs bursting…her hands locked around thirteen-year-old Bryn’s neck as he waded out, carrying her in his strong young arms. She remembered looking down at the waist-deep water, and then they were safely on the sand. She must have been near choking him, clinging to him the way she had, though he’d told her afterwards she’d weighed no more than a feather. She remembered he’d had algae caught in his thick, gleaming thatch of hair. Lurid green against black. She remembered she hadn’t cried. She had been trying so hard to be brave. A look of bewilderment crossed her face—hadn’t she whispered something in his ear? It had to have been a secret, but she couldn’t remember it.

All she did remember was that Bryn had rescued her as if he’d been sent by the Great Spirit of the Bush. She believed in such spirits, as the aboriginal people did. They moved across the earth, always standing by to give aid to the chosen, though they remained for the most part invisible. Even Bryn, the sanest man she knew, acknowledged the spirits of the Timeless Land and what they could do.

She was ready to go downstairs, still fighting off her demons. Reaching for a pair of silver bracelets, she slipped them on like an amulet. She was wearing one of her new semi-casual dresses for evening. Adele Bennett had picked it out for her. Adele certainly knew what she liked and what suited her. This particular dress was ankle-length, the material a gauzy water colour silk-chiffon. Very Ondine-ish, she thought with a smile.

The dress had a beautiful belt to go with it. Another one of Adele’s finds. It curved snugly around the waist, then dipped low in front, elongating her torso. The belt had a gorgeous enamelled clasp, made up like a large open-faced flower, violet in colour, with a yellow centre and petals dotted with deep pink crystals like dewdrops. Lime-green and turquoise butterflies, their wings similarly encrusted, alighted on either side. It was a work of art in itself. A beautiful dress wasn’t just a flattering garment that made a woman feel special. A beautiful dress was more like a magic talisman. Great things could happen! This dress would protect her. It had already given her waning confidence a boost.

So much depended not on Bryn, but on her. She had been a hair’s breadth away from letting him make love to her. She didn’t think he would tolerate a rebuff like that again. Rapture turned on, then abruptly turned off? The last thing she wanted was to have a sense of strain between them. Life wasn’t a game. Love was to be taken very seriously. It was the one thing that really mattered.

Needless to say, Bryn had let her win their race—though it must have been hard—and now it was his job to get dinner. She had told him she was no cook just for something to say. She was, in fact, a good cook and proud of it—she had taken courses as part of her education—so she was ready to help out. That was if she was needed. Bryn had always been great at barbecues. A funny thing, the way men liked to take over at barbecues, if nowhere else…

‘S-o-o-o! ’ he murmured on a long drawn-out breath as he turned to face her. ‘That’s an extraordinarily beautiful dress. Very romantic. ’

He dazzled her with the blaze in his eyes. She responded with a low curtsy. ‘Glad you like it. ’

‘Your eyes are more violet than grey tonight. They’ve picked up one of the colours in the dress. It amazes me when that happens. ’

‘What happens? ’ She leaned towards him, giving a funny little theatrical blink.

‘The way your eyes change colour. ’ He let his gaze rove over her, from her lustrous hair to her silver-sandal-shod feet. ‘Large eyes. Your eyes and your arching brows dominate your face in the way of certain women icons. Callas, Loren, and of course Audrey Hepburn. ’

‘The Big League? ’ She smiled, conscious of the excited pulses that had started up in her body.

She moved further into the mammoth room, with its custom-made cabinetry, black and white marble-tiled floor, marble benchtops and marble-topped islands. Stainless steel pots and pans hung from a stainless steel fitting suspended from the ceiling. The kitchen had been fitted out with every conceivable appliance. Just for the hell of it, she supposed. Only now and again had her grandfather entertained here. Mostly he’d kept well away from his flagship station.

‘I’m expecting a really good dinner, ’ she warned Bryn. ‘This afternoon’s ride has made me hungry. ’ She kept her voice light. ‘So what’s on the menu? Do you need any help? ’

He shot her a droll glance. ‘Francey, I understood you to say you couldn’t find your way around a kitchen? ’

‘I was never allowed in one, ’ she confessed with regret, picking up the bottle of chilled white wine that sat opened on the bench and pouring a pale greenish-gold stream into an empty waiting glass.

‘Here—I should have done that, ’ he said, laying down his knife. He had been chopping fresh herbs, releasing wonderfully pungent aromas.

‘That’s okay. You’re busy. I like that. You know the way we lived, ’ she said, sipping the wine, catching the fragrance of lime blossom. She broke off with a delighted comment. ‘This is delicious. It’s got quite a snap to it. I prefer a good Riesling over a Chardonnay. ’

‘That’s why I opened it, ’ he said. Francesca was no drinker, but she had a fine palate. ‘I know you and Carrie lived like little princesses. ’ He made a clicking sound with his tongue. ‘Even if you were the little princess in the tower. ’

‘I’d much rather have been treated like a normal person. ’

‘Only it didn’t happen that way. Poor Francey! ’

‘That’s why I took a couple of cookery courses—just in case I got married and my husband expected me to be able to turn out a good meal. ’

‘Do you think you’d ever have to? ’ he asked drolly, midnight-dark eyes mocking. ‘You’re the Forsyth heiress, Francesca, like it or not. ’

‘And you’re the Macallan heir, ’ she shot back. ‘I mean, you haven’t had a normal life either. ’

‘True. But I suppose it’s normal enough for me. We’ve been given a lot, Francey. We have to be able to take the good with the bad. Speaking of the good—we’re having cucumber rounds with Tasmanian smoked salmon for starters. No, don’t interrupt. I found the horseradish cream and the capers after a lengthy search, when they were right in front of me. Jili has left fresh herbs from her garden, as you see: parsley, mint, basil. There are a few others in the crisper. Beef fillet with mushrooms to follow, and there’s a chocolate mousse I’ve taken out of the freezer and put in the fridge about fifteen minutes ago. Jili whipped it up for us before she left. ’

‘Good for Jili! ’ she exclaimed. ‘Now, Jili really is a good cook. But don’t let that put you off, ’ she added with mock kindness. ‘So where are we going to eat? I don’t like it in here. You could seat an army and still have room for reinforcements. ’

‘Sir Francis always thought big, ’ Bryn remarked dryly. ‘He was notorious for it. What about—? ’

‘I know, ’ she broke in. ‘The Palm Room. It’s about the only room I like. ’

‘You took the words right out of my mouth, ’ Bryn said, twisting the top off a jar of capers. ‘You could set the table. You can do that? ’

‘Very funny! ’ She was feeling so extraordinarily light hearted she felt she could soar.

Francesca found she was every bit as hungry as she’d claimed. The starter was just right—light and crunchy, the richness of the smoked salmon cut by the cucumber, the horseradish sauce and a sprinkle of lemon. The Daramba beef fillet simply melted in the mouth, as did the selection of mushrooms, and Jili’s chocolate mousse was flavoured with Amaretto liqueur. Bryn scooped it out like ice cream and dusted it with cocoa powder. His own touch.

‘Perfect! ’ Francesca enthused, laying down her dessert spoon. ‘Let me make the coffee. ’

‘No, sit there. ’ He shook his head, rising to his feet. ‘I’m enjoying showing off. ’

‘You don’t want it to get around how good you are at turning out a meal, ’ she warned him. ‘You’ll have to fight off complete strangers. ’

‘I take it you mean women? ’ he asked suavely over his shoulder.

‘Of course women. God, don’t give me a heart attack. As it is your female admirers stretch for miles. ’

He didn’t deny it. ‘Amazing when all I need and want is one. ’

Over the beef fillet they had abandoned white wine for red. Picking up her crystal wine glass, Francesca leaned back in her bamboo armchair. The chair was comfortably upholstered in a fabric she liked—an embossed damask in a deep shade of crimson that stood up to all the greenery in the room, the luxuriant palms and tree ferns in their huge pots, and the dark timbers of the Asian furnishings. Smiling dreamily to herself, she drank a little more of the Margaret River Cabernet Sauvignon. It was from their own state of Western Australia, the ruggedly beautiful Margaret River wine region, which had fast become one of the world’s viticulture hot spots. This red she loved. It was smooth and elegant, with a succulent blackcurrant flavour.

After the drama of the afternoon, the night was a dream. A huge full moon saturated the enormous panorama of Daramba in its radiance. Through the floor-to-ceiling doors that stood open to the rear terrace the night wind came in deliciously cool gusts, spiked with the native boronia that grew wild. Which brought her to thinking of a garden. She would have to do something about establishing one. Bring in a landscaper capable of turning the desert site into an oasis. Jili had her extensive vegetable garden, which flourished. Her grandfather hadn’t minded that. The produce was used in the house and around the station. But he hadn’t shown the slightest interest in establishing a garden, either at the Forsyth mausoleum or at Daramba homestead. Didn’t that say something about the aridity of his character? It wasn’t as though he hadn’t been able to spare the money, though she realised it would take a lot. Gardens just hadn’t been in his philosophy.

The success of an Outback garden was going to depend on the skill of the landscaper and his ability to choose plants that would thrive in the dry. She had her heart set on date palms—as advanced as could be obtained and successfully transplanted. And she wanted a large water garden. Daramba abounded in underground springs. The University of Western Australia had a magnificent campus of more than fifty hectares, set in a superb natural bush setting. She had always loved the Canary Island date palms in the grounds there. Her home state was dry, yet beautiful gardens flourished. Why not here? She just needed the right person to handle the job. Lady Macallan could help her there. She was something of an authority on gardens. She adored her own magnificent garden, which was open to public viewing at certain times of the year.

‘What are you thinking about? ’ Bryn asked as he wheeled in the trolley.

‘Gardens, ’ she said, turning her jewelled gaze on him.

Bryn smiled with satisfaction. ‘I knew you’d get around to it. The homestead is crying out for a proper setting. So too is the family mansion, but Charles and Carrie seem happy enough with the way it is. You need a home of your own, you know, Francey. You weren’t left the mansion. ’

‘Thank God! ’ She sighed with feel feeling. ‘It’s such a strange place. More like a public building. Take those monumental pilasters supporting roaring lions at the front gate. What was with Grandfather and lions, do you know? ’

‘Wasn’t Leo his star sign? ’ Bryn poured coffee, placing one in front of her. ‘He named one of his sons Lionel. Sir Frank and my grandfather visited South Africa in their youth. They were stationed in Cape Town with friends, but they travelled quite extensively. It’s a wonder he didn’t try to bag a lion and bring it home. ’

‘What—shoot it? ’ she cried, horrified.

Bryn laughed and shook his head. ‘No, he’d have liked nothing better than to capture it live, bring it back, then let it wander around the grounds of the family home. You know—start a tradition. ’

‘At least that’s better than shooting such a splendid creature. I plan on asking Lady Macallan’s advice regarding a landscaper for here. I want date palms. Lots of them. Desert oaks. Native plants. A big water garden. God knows we’ve got plenty of room. ’

‘I’m sure she’ll be delighted to help you, ’ Bryn said.

After coffee he allowed her to help him. Then, when the kitchen had been returned to its immaculate condition and the dishes stacked away, they decided on a short walk.

‘Even if it’s only around the driveway. ’ Bryn spoke lightly, though he was acutely aware of his soaring sensory perceptions. As always with Francesca—holding her hand guaranteed sexual arousal. ‘Do you remember the stone fountain that used to grace the centre of the driveway when the Frazers used to own it? ’ he asked, striving for the casual. She was wearing that lovely elusive perfume he always associated with her, and it was really getting to him. ‘I don’t suppose you do. You were too young. ’

‘My father and Grandfather were already estranged. ’

‘Yes, ’ he acknowledged. ‘I wonder what happened to the fountain? The Frazers had it sent out from Italy. Three winged horses supported the main basin with rearing front legs. I think my grandfather tried to find out where it had gone, but Frank was very non-committal. I wouldn’t be in the least surprised if he had it reduced to rubble. ’

‘Oh, surely not? ’ she cried, dismayed.

‘Don’t take it personally. ’

‘How can I not take it personally? Sir Francis was my grandfather. ’

‘That doesn’t make him a saint, Francey, ’ Bryn said bluntly. ‘But better late than never. He left the Forsyth fortune largely in your hands. ’

She stared up at his handsome, chiselled profile, gilded by the exterior lights. ‘You know what I’ve been thinking about? ’

Going to bed with me? Bryn was in half-agony, half-rapture. How the hell was he going to get through the night without her beside him?

‘Couldn’t we return one of the Queensland stations, say Mount Kolah, to being a wildlife area? ’ she suggested persuasively. ‘I understand it has quite a few protected species within its boundaries. ’

Bryn stopped in his tracks. ‘You’ve been talking to someone from the Bush Heritage Authority? ’

‘Ross Fitzgibbon. But he certainly didn’t suggest it. ’

‘Ha! ’ said Bryn, and walked on.

‘He didn’t! ’

‘Francey, Ross Fitzgibbon spends his life spreading the message. ’

‘Why wouldn’t he? He’s one of our leading ecologists. ’

‘We can talk about this, ’ Bryn said, meaning it, ‘but not tonight. I just want to relax. Last I heard they were having trouble on Mount Kolah from feral pigs. As far as that goes, Roy Forster told me they might have to organise a hunt here, for the leader of a dingo pack that hangs out on the desert fringe. It seems the brute has acquired a taste for blood, savaging calves. It’s more dangerous than a pure-bred dingo because it has German Shepherd blood in it. Not from a station dog. Some desert traveller either lost a dog or abandoned it. This isn’t the city. Out here it’s primeval power that reigns. We’ll never tame it. ’

They were rounding the side of the homestead, out of the broad reach of the exterior lights and their excessive brightness. Unknown to them they were walking towards a dark figure who had broken all the rules by entering the home compound and then, seeing them emerge from the house, swiftly withdrawn to a hiding place behind the stone archway that led to the vegetable and fruit gardens.

He couldn’t make out what they were saying, and his hearing was razor-sharp. Their bodies had drawn close together. He warned himself to be careful. The man was the danger. The woman would present no problem. That was what he’d been told. By the Bitch—that was how he thought of her—who had treated him like scum, instead of as a trained professional whose expertise was unquestioned. Yet she was only too pleased to hire him to carry out her dirty work—like her grandfather before her.

He’d been furious when he’d first found out she knew all about him, what he had done for the Iron Man, how to contact him. He’d thought of it as blowing his cover. Where had she got her information from? He couldn’t accept it was from the old man. Forsyth had known better than anyone how to cover his tracks. The Bitch had the same piercing blue eyes that seemed to see right through you. She was a real stunner, but he hated her. Hated her sort. A normal woman would think what she was asking him to do too monstrous to even put into words. Not her!

It hadn’t taken him any time at all to land a job on the station and settle in. There weren’t many jobs he couldn’t handle. He had grown up on a small Outback cattle run, with a father who had beaten the hell out of him and his mother. He’d done what he had to do. He’d joined the army. Served in the world’s trouble spots. That was where he had learned how to take care of business. These days he was more of a mercenary—bodyguard, security man, enforcer, contract guy.

Although he was a man of violence, he didn’t like hurting women. Especially not one who looked like a Madonna. He had always stopped short of that. But the Bitch had too much on him, and she had only contempt for his fearsome reputation. Her grandfather had raised her in his image. He had to bide his time. He was in. An opportunity would arise. He felt a surge of rebellion. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like being dictated to by a woman—a woman, moreover, as ruthless as any enemy he had faced. The only good thing—if one could call it that—was that the Madonna wouldn’t feel a thing…

Francesca thought she saw a blur out of the corner of her eye. It unnerved her. ‘I’d like to go back now, Bryn, ’ she said quietly.

‘Of course. ’ He caught the anxious note in her voice. ‘Is anything wrong? ’ She had clutched his hand, as though to have him with her was everything.

‘No. I just have an odd feeling we’re being watched. ’

‘What? ’ Bryn jerked his head in the only direction there was cover. ‘I’m sure there’s no one about, Francey. None of the men would come up to the house at this time of night unless there was an emergency. They would identify themselves, anyway. ’

‘I know that. ’ Still she was caught fast in tendrils of panic.

‘I’ll take you back to the house, then I’ll have a look around. ’ Bryn drew her closer to his side. ‘It’s moonlight. There’s very little cover except for Jili’s vegetable garden, ’ he pointed out. ‘Perhaps it’s being raided by a bird? Stand on the path and wait. I’ll take a look. ’

‘No! ’ Her breath shuddered. ‘It’s like Carrie always says—I have too much imagination. ’

‘I’ll check all the same, ’ he said.

‘Be careful. ’ Vivid imagination or not, she was certain her internal radar had picked up some signal. Her heart beating hard, she waited for Bryn to return.

‘Nothing, ’ he said, but he was not absolutely sure she hadn’t picked up something. Francesca, even as a child, had had an extra sense.

They were back in the house. He checked all the doors on the ground floor, making it appear like a normal nightly ritual. No unauthorised person had ever dared invade the Forsyth privacy. No member of staff would arrive at the homestead unannounced. The men were all known to him, with the exception of the new guy, the big, burly Vance Bormann. He had questioned Roy Forster about the new arrival, but Roy had assured him Bormann checked out. Maybe it had been Gulla Nolan’s ghost hanging around? There were many legends woven around Gulla. Maybe he was keeping an eye on the place?

‘All right to go to bed, ’ he said, turning to face her. It wasn’t meant as a question—though God knew he wanted it to be. Her beautiful eyes were like saucers, the black pupils enlarged. ‘I’ll take the bedroom opposite instead of down the hall, if you’re nervous. ’

‘I’m not nervous with you here, ’ she said gratefully. ‘That’s if you’re not too far away. I’ve never felt unsafe on Daramba before. ’

Her tension was infectious. He felt a vague unease himself. Not that any trespasser on Daramba, let alone the homestead, wouldn’t quickly see the error of his ways. The weapons in the gun room were kept under lock and key, but he knew where the key was and he was a crack shot. In a world gone mad, with violence escalating at a frightening rate, he’d had to confront the spectre of kidnap himself. It was always a possibility, but he thanked God he lived in a country where such things didn’t happen. No one attacked giants of industry. His grandfather and Sir Francis had walked everywhere free as air. Their womenfolk and their offspring had also taken their safety completely for granted. But times had changed.

They were walking up the staircase together when Francesca, oddly off balance, surprised him with a question. ‘Why did you tell Carina we were coming here this weekend? ’

On edge himself, his answer was short and clipped. ‘You’re priceless—really. ’

‘What does that mean? ’

‘I’ve no time for all this nonsense about Carina. ’

They had reached the gallery and he moved along it swiftly, a panther without its leash, so she had to increase her pace. He wanted to reach out for her. Hold her. His desire for her was pouring off him. Yet she chose to speak about Carina when all he wanted was to brush all thoughts of Carina aside.

‘Well? ’ She caught his arm, feeling a stab of panic at the glitter in his eyes.

He swung about. ‘What is it you want me to say? ’

‘God knows! ’ She dropped her hand, feeling confused and suddenly terribly lonely. ‘I was a little hurt, that’s all. ’

‘You mean you continue to believe everything she tells you? ’ He knew he was getting angrier by the moment, but for once he couldn’t seem to get control. He moved off again, opening the door of the bedroom opposite hers. Unlike the one he usually occupied on his visits it wasn’t made up, but who the hell cared? He wouldn’t be getting any sleep.

‘Don’t be like this, Bryn, ’ she pleaded, coming to stand, shimmering, within the frame of the door, tormenting him. Water nymphs didn’t have a heart. Yet hadn’t he taken her small breast in his hand? Felt the heart beat?

‘Ah, give me a break! ’ he responded. ‘Are we ever going to be free of bloody Carina? She’s fed you so much misinformation and downright lies since you were a child you don’t seem able to see through her. ’

‘Are you saying you didn’t tell her? ’

‘I’m not saying anything, ’ he said. ‘If I can’t get through to you by now I ought to give up trying. ’

She moved a little further into the room. ‘Okay, then, she was lying. She said you made the first move. You rang her. It was then you told her we were coming here for the weekend. ’

‘There you go! It must be true. ’ If she came any nearer he really would lose it.

She paused at the brilliant glitter in his eyes. ‘Bryn…please, Bryn…’

‘Don’t you dare cry. Don’t do this! ’

His eyes blazed at her. Her tears goaded him.

‘I’m sorry, ’ she said. ‘I’m a fool. Carrie gets so many hooks into me they not only pierce my skin they drag me down. You must hate me at times. ’

‘Oh, yes—hate! ’ He was so wound up his tone could have stripped the skin from her. But the pressure inside him was building at a tremendous rate. A part of his brain told him not to frighten her—his job was to protect her, not to take what she couldn’t give—but her beauty was all around him, scenting the very air. It stripped him of all resistance.

He thought she began a little glide towards him. Surely she did? He was almost gone.

‘Francey! ’ he groaned. ‘Lord, girl, don’t you know how much I want you? I can’t keep this up any more. ’

He couldn’t look like that, speak like that, unless he meant it. There was an ache in his voice; the worst kind of pain. He was begging her to be true to herself. She extended her slender arm so her fingertips, light and soft as silk, were just brushing his face.

They burned him like a brand. He tensed, every rippling muscle in his body knotting.

‘I was betrayed, Bryn, ’ she whispered. ‘You were betrayed…I—’

Frantic now, feeling the throbbing hardness in his body, he pulled her forcibly to him, his head swimming with sexual excitement and his need so intense he turned her in an instant to being utterly pliant in his arms. ‘Don’t…don’t talk, Francey. I can’t wait for you any longer. ’

Her heart banged against her ribs. He was so strong she felt physically helpless, yet her instinct told her he would never hurt her. ‘Then don’t wait! ’ she cried. She was able to bring up her hands, locking them around his neck, her hips consciously working themselves against his highly aroused body. ‘I can’t wait either. ’ She put everything she felt for him into her emotion-charged admission.

Briefly she had a glimpse of the change that came over him. The anger disappeared, to be replaced by male exultation in all its forms. His physical power, considerable at any time, had increased. Much taller than she, now he seemed to tower over her, A fierce not-to-be-denied hunger glowed out of his dark, glittering eyes.

Holding her beautiful mouth with his, Bryn lifted her in one smooth, effortless movement, as though her slender body was weightless, and carried her across the hallway to her bedroom opposite…

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