Читать книгу Cattle Baron Needs a Bride / Sparks Fly with Mr Mayor: Cattle Baron Needs a Bride / Sparks Fly with Mr Mayor - Margaret Way - Страница 8

EVERYTHING went exactly as planned. The church ceremony was so beautiful, so much a celebration of the heart, many a married woman abandoned herself to a gentle nostalgic tear that often escaped onto the cheek, while the young and the not so young but ever hopeful vowed to make up for lost time and get working towards achieving a magical wedding of their own. As an occasion, nothing could beat a wedding. This one was glorious, a real fairy tale affair, the legendary once in a lifetime. Excitement was running high. Great swirls of genuine emotion, impossible to describe, but it enveloped them all. At least for a time.

Miranda was the living fulfilment of the radiant bride. Her whole countenance, her extraordinary turquoise eyes, shone with love and joy. Here was a bride her groom could worship. Her beautiful silk wedding gown, traditionally white, was strapless, the bodice encrusted with crystals and tiny faux pearls, the silk endowed with a wonderful luminescence. The style, cut by a master, suited her petite figure perfectly. The skirt flared just enough from a tiny waist so as not to over-whelm her. There was a short train at the back. The lustrous fabric of the billowing skirt had been intricately woven with silver thread that formed a pattern of roses; tightly closed buds, half open buds, roses in full bloom, all in perfect botanical detail.

It was gorgeous!

Miranda had chosen the rose as the symbol of her wedding. It was a tribute to Kathryn Rylance, her beloved Corin and Zara’s late mother. The gesture was said to have reduced Zara to tears. A full circle of white silk roses held the bride’s short sunburst tulle veil in place. Around her throat was a necklet of Paspaley South Sea pearls, an incredibly beautiful offering from her adoring groom. Diamond and pearl earrings dropped from her ears, the pearls swinging gently with every movement.

All four bridesmaids were tall and very slim. They dared not be anything else with their closely fitting silk gowns. All wore their hair long, flowing over their shoulders. The bodice of the one-shouldered form-fitting gown was caught by a sparkling jewelled strap. A half-moon of silk roses scattered with Swarovski crystals to represent dew drops was tucked at the most flattering angle behind the ear. As headpieces, they were very beautiful, very flattering, the colour matched to their gowns, which were, in turn, the exact shade of the bride’s favourite roses from the garden, all of them prize blooms.

Zara, the chief bridesmaid, wore a glorious deep Peace pink. The shade acted as a wonderful foil for the second bridemaid’s lovely lavender-pink gown. Shimmering sunshine-yellow was chosen for the third dark-haired bridesmaid and, on the bride’s blonde cousin, the beautiful soft apricot of the old-fashioned musk rose. Miranda and Zara had spent a lot of time poring over fabrics before selecting the luminous silks in precisely complementary shades. The outcome was a triumph. Bride and all four of her bridesmaids moved as if bathed in pools of light.

The luxurious bouquets were composed of roses with a fine tracery of green. In themselves, works of art and, again, the bride’s favourites, large fragrant garden roses with their buds—not the hothouse variety. Afterwards, a great deal was spoken about the beauty and success of the bride’s and her bridesmaids’ outfits and truly lovely bouquets, but the groom and his attendants certainly didn’t miss out. It had to be accepted that the wonderfully handsome groom was now taken, the other guys were very attractive, but what about the best man? Brooding good looks like that and those blue eyes could drive a girl beserk! At least that was the general opinion.

It was obvious to all that Garrick Rylance was going to be targeted at the reception by all those young women, already fuzzy with emotion, who dared to dream the dream. Fortune was known to favour the daring. Clearly, he would be able to take his pick.

“Let the battle for the attention of the Cattle Baron begin!” one society matron whispered waggishly to another. “I’ve never seen a sexier action man in my life!”

“And not a thing you can do about it, darling!” whispered the other, who just happened to be her sister-in-law.

“Nothing wrong with looking, even for a grandmother!” was the swift retort. “There’s the hero of any girl’s dreams! Bit on the dangerous side, maybe!”

Guests were ferried from the picturesque church, which had been packed to overflowing, to the sumptuous reception in the Rylance mansion’s luxuriant gardens. Zara felt so tremulous, her inner voice had recourse to speak sternly to her.

You can’t allow your emotions to overcome you. Breathe deeply. Restore your calm.

Not so easy when what she had witnessed was the union of soulmates. Her heart was filled with happiness for her brother and for Miranda, her new sister-in-law—sister. Of course it was. But there was emotional upheaval as well. Only once during the ceremony had Garrick’s gaze locked with hers. Just the space of a few searing seconds, both of them standing immobile. The brilliant blue of his eyes, bluer than the deep vibrant blue of the sky, seemed to be mocking her. She had been the first to look away. It was as if he was telling her she had let her only chance of real happiness slip away from her.

Ah, the piercing ache of loss!

She couldn’t allow it to claw at her heart. Not today. Today was one of celebration. She was the chief bridesmaid. She had an important role to play. Feeling as she did, Zara would have been surprised to learn she looked the very picture of beauty and serenity, her great dark eyes eloquent with the love and happiness she felt for the bridal couple. Her family. As chief bridesmaid, she sat to Corin’s right. Garrick, as best man, was seated beside Miranda, so they were a good few feet apart. The other bridesmaids and the groomsmen alternated down the long rectangular bridal table, positioned centre front, so all the guests had a clear view of them. Exquisite garlands of gilded organza and chenille roses ran the perimeter of the table, framing it, with strands of gold beads and faux white pearls that had an amazing sheen. The bride and her bridesmaids had used their lovely bouquets to deck the table instead of arrangements.

The food was sumptuous; the drink the finest vintage champagne. Corin offered a deeply touching speech to his bride that moved many to tears. Garrick’s speech created a fine balance. A moment or two of high seriousness, as was to be expected, then his speech moved to the entertaining, with highlights from his and Corin’s boyhood. In particular an incident when they were ten, when he had talked Corin into an adventure; catapulting themselves out into the river by means of a stout rope, he had slung from one of the overhanging trees. It wouldn’t have been so bad, only the river was running a thrilling white foaming banker at the time.

“An Outback kid, you see,” he explained, to indulgent general laughter.

Bring on the Outback, sighed every last female.

“We both lived to tell the tale.” A flashing grin from Corin. Both of them had gotten into a lot of trouble. Garrick was a “wild bush boy, as headlong as a brumby” his father had thundered, all the more furious because Garrick wasn’t flustered or fearful. In fact, Garrick had been remarkably cool for a ten-year-old kid.

Zara remembered too. Their mother had been perturbed—the river, after all, was deep and swift, and in flood—but she had withheld any show of anger. Both boys were excellent swimmers but her father had gone to town, dressing them down for the reck-lessness of their actions. Garrick had told him repeatedly that he was the instigator, but to no avail. Garrick had looked suitably chastised, but no way had he been in awe of her father and his lashing tongue. Even then, her heart had been stirred by admiration. Perhaps her father had decided that very day that Garrick would forever be on the outer. Dalton Rylance had been so used to people kowtowing to him he would accept nothing less.

At last it was time for the married couple to leave. They were spending a night in Sydney. From there they would fly to Los Angeles, stay a week or so on the West Coast, then fly to New York. To much excitement, waving arms, a little light shoving and non-stop pleas to “throw it to me!” Miranda let her exquisite bouquet soar like a bird from the upstairs balcony into the blossoming field of beautifully dressed young women, themselves like flowers.

Zara kept her hands down and her eyes lowered. The man she yearned for, now standing only a few feet away, was laughing at the antics of one of the bridesmaids who, right from the wedding rehearsal, had made no secret of the fact that she found the best man “absolutely gorgeous—a guy a girl would follow anywhere!”

She, on the other hand, had played her part as chief bridesmaid with grace and dignity, but in no way did she lose her head, even slightly, or her sense of occasion. After the Hartmann affair, when she had been so falsely accused of being, at best, his mistress, at worst, privy to his business dealings, she had felt like a woman who lived in a house with glass walls. Those who had wanted to for a variety of reasons, mostly because she was an heiress—rolling in money—threw rocks.

She had told herself a thousand times she was too sensitive for her own good. She was so much like her mother and what had happened to her mother was a great weight on her shoulders. Some women were more vulnerable than others.

Like a bird on guided wings, Miranda’s bouquet, aimed at Zara, landed with a burst of fragrance against Zara’s breast. There were groans of disappointment, many more congratulatory cheers. There was great goodwill towards Zara within the extended family and beyond. Zara was so beautiful yet so modest, with the sweetest possible nature. Just like her late mother, Kathryn, beloved of them all and sadly missed.

“You’re next, Zara!” a soft voice fluted in her ear. Chloe, one of her young cousins.

Her grandmother, Sibella De Lacey, looking stunning in royal blue silk with a striking broad-brimmed hat, came up to her, taking her arm. “Is this a happy omen, my darling?” she whispered, full of protective love for her granddaughter.

“Nan, Miri aimed this at me deliberately,” Zara said wryly.

“And she’s a darn good shot.” Sibella laughed. “What you have to do now, my darling, is put your life in order. There’s a whole new life, a whole way of being, open to you. As a Christian, I should say God rest his soul, but your father had a lot to answer for. He failed you on so many levels.”

Zara knew the ocean of tears her grandmother had wept for her mother. No easy way out of grief. Sometimes no way at all. “You can’t forgive him, can you?”

“No, I can’t,” Sibella bluntly confessed. “Not for my Kathryn. Not for all eternity. And for shutting you out. When you appeared to have found happiness, he decided to inflict more suffering. He banished the young Garrick from your life. Such an intensely ambivalent man, your father. He really did love your mother in those early years but, gentle though she was, Kathryn refused to fit the mould. The other one did that.”

“She took great care to do it,” Zara said.

“Of course. Leila was prepared to do anything to get Dalton. Afterwards, I believe Dalton came to hate himself. He couldn’t look back on what he’d done. How Leila came to have that very special child, one would never know.”

“Good grandparents, Nan!” Zara said. “They would have been lovely people. Leila was a one-off.”

“Dazzling, yet nothing to her!” Sibella said sardonically. “She did everything in her power to sideline you. Jealousy. So much like your mother, you see. This may not have been obvious to you, my darling, but Dalton had a powerful jealousy of Garrick.”

Zara looked at her grandmother in astonishment. “Garrick? Don’t you mean Corin? Dad’s dominant characteristic was keeping control.”

“Bullying, don’t you mean?” Sibella said. “Splitting you and Garrick up was your father’s revenge. In no way was Garrick the kind of son-in-law he had in mind. He wanted a yes, sir, no sir man, someone who would conform. Someone he could take into the business so he’d have you both beneath his eye and under his control. He could never do that with Garrick. What did Dalton call him again?’ She sought Zara’s dark eyes. Eyes that Kathryn, then Zara had inherited from her.

Zara had to smile. “The wild bush boy! Garrick never went in awe of Dad. His attitude was even more pronounced than Corin’s. Even as a boy of ten, Garrick was a man in the making. I turned out a real wimp by comparison. Dad’s domination of me should have ended with my adolescence, Nan. I should have been strong enough to break free. Why wasn’t I?” she agonized. “I’ll tell you why!” Sibella had to hold down her wrath. “We’re talking about a tyrannical man here. Control was a compulsion. Here was a man who made tough competitors crack. It would have been easy to strip my daughter of all her confidence. She should never have married him, but she wanted him at the time. He was very cunning, determined to win her, whatever the cost. Kathryn, as a girl and a young woman, had a wonderful inner contentment and her own strength. That was the sad part. Yet, within a few years, your father had drained it. Stripped her of her happiness. You children were everything to her.”

Zara felt such a wave of pain that she hid her face in Miranda’s fragrant bouquet. “Dad robbed me of my confidence as well. He pretended—he was so convincing and I was thrilled he was even paying me attention—he was acting in my best interests. He convinced me no way would I fit into Garrick’s way of life. He told me I simply wouldn’t be able to handle any future role as Garrick’s wife and mistress of Cooranga. He pointed out to me that Mummy had felt pushed to the limit, having to assume the role of wife and partner of an important industrialist like himself. That’s what was responsible for the breakdown in the marriage, he said.”

“Not Leila, then,” Sibella commented bitterly. “Dalton was in all areas of his life a control freak.”

“He couldn’t control Corin.”

Sibella nodded with understanding and pride. “Not my Corin. But don’t forget, my darling, there was a marked contrast in how Dalton treated Corin and how he treated you, his only daughter. You were too young to lose your mother. Kathryn acted as the buffer between you children and your father. You in particular because you shared her gentle nature. She angled herself between you and Dalton. We lost her, Zara, but she never meant it She would never have deliberately left you.”

“No!” Zara nodded when she didn’t really know at all. Some questions would forever remain unanswered. But no way was she going to add to her grandmother’s grief.

Sibella spoke very quietly. “She’s here today, you know.”

“I’ve felt her,” Zara said in an equally quiet voice. “Corin told me he did too.”

“Every day of my life I pray for her and for you, Zara. You are so much like Kathryn, it’s as though she’s still with us. Now, I want you to do something for me. Garrick is standing only a few feet away. The two of us are going to stroll over for a chat. Garrick and I always did get on well. He might be smiling at that very frisky girl in the lovely blue dress, but I know where his thoughts are. You must try for a reconciliation, Zara. Too many years have been wasted.”

Beneath the silk of her beautiful bridesmaid’s dress, her heartbeat was urgent. “I’ve told you, Nan. He hates me.” Her grandmother had long since pried out of her her short-lived love affair with Garrick and its disastrous end.

“Garrick is a proud man.” Sibella glanced once more in Garrick’s direction. Garrick Rylance, so tall, bold, bronzed, vividly handsome! He could not have been more striking. His brilliant blue eyes framed by thick sooty lashes any girl would die for. A challenging man was Garrick. Never a devil like her late son-in-law, Dalton. “Garrick has it firmly in his head you threw him over, no matter how often you tried to explain. But I’ve caught him watching you. Garrick might still be angry with you, my darling, but hate you? Never! Neither of you has settled for anyone else, I notice, when both of you could have just about anyone. I find that very telling, don’t you?”

Garrick knew Zara and her grandmother were coming his way. There had scarcely been a second when he hadn’t been aware of Zara, despite the audacious attentions of several young women so hell-bent on flirtation one would have thought their lives depended on it. The one he was with now fitted the bill. She was a real stayer. The sad thing was, he only had eyes for Zara. That was his bitter fate. Being anywhere near her was like being electrified. She looked so beautiful in that pink silk gown, her long dark hair falling like a bolt of shining silk down her back. He loved the exquisite pink roses that dipped in under her ear. It had been a monumental effort trying to keep his eyes off her.

You’re totally messed up, Rylance. He’d told himself that repeatedly. Didn’t do much good. His feelings for Zara would never die. They wouldn’t even die down and it was years later. Maybe he ought to arrange a session with a really good shrink, he thought with a flash of humour.

How to cure obsession—for one particular woman.

He had already spoken to Sibella, of course. He greatly admired her. Zara was very much like her in appearance. Sibella De Lacey, nearing seventy, remained a beautiful woman. She looked after herself and dressed superbly, no doubt aided by the fact that she had retained her slender figure. He knew Sibella liked him. He knew that if Sibella could wave her magic wand she would make everything come right between himself and Zara. That was if Sibella could ever find her lost magic wand.

Zara, still holding Miranda’s lovely bouquet like some magic charm, drew a deep breath. Said a silent prayer. Perhaps she and Garrick could never get back to what they had had, but she had to try.

Her time was running out.

Celebrations continued on into the night, with couples dancing on the rear terrace to a great band who were enjoying themselves as much as anyone else. Others roamed the extensive gardens, which were lit by thousands and thousands of white fairy lights that decked the trees. Flirtations aplenty were going on. A lot of tender hand-holding. Delectable kisses stolen in the scented semidark. One overeager, overenthusiastic young male guest for a bit of fun launched himself into the swimming pool with its flotilla of big beautiful hibiscus blooms, but further silliness on the part of others was swiftly discouraged by an unobtrusive security man, dressed like the other guests, who hauled him out.

Older guests retired to the house, agog at the wonderful renovations. They flowed through the main reception rooms and the library, chattering and exclaiming, coming to settle into the opulent sofas and armchairs to go over the great day in detail and catch up on all the latest news and gossip. Many who had thought of her often that day went to gaze with a moment’s sadness at the life-size portrait of Kathryn Rylance. It hadn’t been seen for quite a while. Certainly not during the reign of the second wife, Leila. Recently it had been taken out of storage, cleaned, reframed and it now hung above the splendid white marble fireplace.

“In its rightful place!” murmured one of Kathryn’s friends to another.

Kathryn Rylance had been such a beautiful gracious woman! How sad that she couldn’t have been here on this day of days, the wedding of her only son. All agreed that Zara was the image of her, both in looks and in manner. All had decided Miranda had deliberately thrown her bouquet to her sister-in-law. Didn’t that declare to the whole world that the two young women were very close? No one had seen such happiness in the Rylance household for far too long.

The King is dead. Long live the King!

By one o’clock in the morning the last of the guests departed in chauffeured limousines that stood waiting for them. This service had been planned well in advance, the thinking being that, very few would be in any condition to drive their own cars. One woman guest was so grateful and maybe so tipsy she started to cry.

“How enormously thoughtful!” she gushed as the chauffeur opened the door for her and her husband.

Her husband, an eminent barrister, agreed. “We’d never get home otherwise, my dear.”

“God bless you, Corin, old son!” another male guest yelled at the top of his voice amid more cheering. “This entire day has been perfect!”

Everyone knew a love match when they saw one. It was enough to make you bawl your eyes out with joy!

At long, long last the house was empty. The army of caterers had attended to every last detail of the clean up before packing their things and leaving. Corin’s housekeeper and the major domo, Hannah and Gil McBride, a very efficient couple in their late forties, taken on by Corin, had retired to their own secluded quarters perhaps an hour ago. Their comfortable bungalow was set in the grounds screened by a grove of luxuriant golden canes and only a short walk to the main house by way of an adjoining covered path.

Zara now felt free to roam.

Garrick had gone on with a party of revellers who obviously had no intention of allowing the night to end. She had no idea when and if he would be back but if he did he knew how to handle the state-of-the-art security system. Lord knew he’d made a huge impression on a number of young women looking for a rich handsome husband. The one in the beautiful blue dress came to mind—Lisa something. She had overheard Lisa telling a highly interested friend, “Garrick is simply gorgeous! He makes me go weak at the knees!”

She wasn’t the only one.

Include yourself!

Silently, Zara wandered in and out of the huge reception rooms, pausing to admire all over again the glorious flower arrangements. It was she who had suggested the florist to Miranda. Wayne was acknowledged as one of the country’s most creative florists and one of the most expensive by a country mile. Wayne had supplied all the flowers for the wedding, the exquisite bouquets for bride and bridesmaids, church, reception and the house. The effects were stunning. No expense had been spared. He could possibly retire if he so chose.

Someone once said the scent of a flower was its soul. She stooped to inhale the intoxicating sweetness of masses and masses of white gardenias arranged in a very tall famille verte Chinese vase with long trailing sprays of jasmine. The whole arrangement was supported by fig branches with their green fruit. She remembered her mother had often used this particular vase for her arrangements. Out of nowhere, she was assailed by the vision and, strangely, the unmistakable perfume of pink frangipani branches. Her mother had liked to mix them in with pink or red azaleas. She retained a little snapshot of her childhood—she and her mother picking armloads from the garden, the two of them so happy, so much the loving mother and daughter. No one should have to lose their mother. It was an awful business. She had mourned her father and, to a degree, Leila. Death required attention. But in no way had their deaths caused the enormous grief and feeling of utter loss she had suffered when she and Corin had lost their mother. Neither her father nor Leila had had room in their lives for her.

Tears pricked her eyes. One of the first things Corin had done after the death of their father was to go in search of their mother’s portrait. It had been painted by a famous Italian artist, commissioned by their father not long after the marriage. Their father had had it taken down within days of her death. She remembered with a feeling of pride that she had found the courage to volubly protest, Corin even more stridently. The two of them had all but yelled at their domineering, autocratic father. To no avail. Neither of them had had any idea where the painting had been stored. Not in the house. They had looked, risking severe discipline. Corin had finally located the painting in an art dealer’s storeroom.

“You’re so very beautiful, Mummy,” she whispered, looking up at the bravura portrait of her mother in her wedding gown. The irony of it—her wedding gown! “I’m sure you were here today. I felt you. So did Corin. So did Nan. We love you so much.”

For the first time she spotted a single white rose of exquisite form and fragrance tied with a silver ribbon. It lay on the white marble mantelpiece at the base of the portrait. She picked it up, curious to know who had put it there.

The tiny silver and white card said simply: From Miranda.

That a gesture could be so perfect!

Still holding the white rose, she went about quietly turning off banks of switches that controlled the lighting. She would take the rose upstairs with her. Pop it in a bud vase and keep it beside her bed. It was all so extraordinary when one thought about it. Lovely little Miranda, with her essential goodness and brightness, was Leila’s daughter. Hard to realise, given Leila’s cold, calculating, selfabsorbed nature. The connection had not come out—Corin had made sure of that. Not that it was the worst story in the world, but it was somewhat bizarre. No one had commented on the fact that Miranda had been given away by her New Zealand grandfather, a distinguished professor of medicine. Nor that a New Zealand cousin had made a beautiful bridesmaid. Maybe someone would uncover the true story as the years passed. It would make no difference to Corin and Miranda. Nor to her and her grandparents. Garrick was the only one who had raised a question about what appeared to have gone over everyone else’s head. But Garrick didn’t know.

Radiant moonlight was coming in through the many tall windows and the side lights of the front door. She could easily see her way across the entrance hall. She planned to leave a few lights on for Garrick, anyway. He had such a powerful effect on women. Always had, even if he had been genuinely unaware of it. Yet the highly eligible Garrick seemed no more successful at putting back the pieces than she was. The one had altered the life of the other.

She felt anger rising in her at her father’s multiple deceptions. The way he had worked on her to strip her of all confidence. Her father, therefore, had been her enemy. Good fathers affirmed their children’s value. She had received no such validation from him. She had to accept, too, that somewhere along the line Garrick must have become a point of bitter antagonism. When one considered it, her father had shown all the signs of pathological jealousy. Business giant or not, Dalton Rylance had been a very strange man.

She had only walked a few feet towards the grand staircase when the front door suddenly opened. It had to be Garrick. She spun just in time to see his tall, muscular figure outlined against the exterior lights.

“Garrick!” She felt the breathless vibrations of her heart.

“Well, what do we have here,” he mocked, “a welcoming party of one?” He slowly approached, devastatingly handsome in his formal pearl-grey morning suit. He hadn’t bothered to change. That would have been an additional excitement for the young women in his party.

His tone was so sardonic she waved the taunt away with her hand. “Have no fear. I didn’t think you’d even come back. You seemed to be getting along so well with…Lisa, wasn’t it?”

“Louise,” he said with a drawl. “Call me Lou!”

“Well, I was close.” She shrugged, the jewelled strap that held the one-shouldered bodice of her gown giving off sparkles of light. “Didn’t work out?”

“I prefer to do the chasing,” he said, turning back to reactivate the alarm system. Then he recommenced his graceful walk, sleek as a panther, across the expanse of black and white marble tiles. “Still wearing your bridesmaid gown?” There was an oddly seductive note in his voice, given he had done his level best to avoid her the entire evening. One more or less obligatory dance, both of them remaining silent, their bodies locked in tension, the two of them divided even when his arm was tight around her.

“I haven’t been upstairs yet.” The raggedness of her breath betrayed her. “I’m not in the least tired.”

“You should never take that dress off.” He didn’t sound as much admiring as maddened by how she looked. Her small perfect breasts were outlined against the luminous silk. “Why is it you’re so extravagantly beautiful, Zara?” It came out like an unrelenting lament. “Why is it a part of me still madly wants you? God, sometimes I think you nailed me when we were only kids. Zara, the little princess! I’d never seen such a beautiful little girl before or since.”

Her limbs felt heavy, as though heat was bearing down on her. She turned fully to confront him. “Drink has loosened your tongue, Garrick.”

“Maybe it has,” he admitted with a wry laugh, moving ever closer. “How come you got over me just like that—” his fingers clicked “—when I can’t seem to put you behind me?”

She managed a sceptical laugh, tilting her chin. “You’re just wound up.”

And you aren’t?

“You did put me behind you, Garrick,” she said. “Very successfully, I would say.”

“A matter of opinion, my dear,” he drawled. “I’d say not terribly well. More’s the pity! What have you got in your hand?”

She held the white rose up to the shimmering moonlight. “A beautiful little gesture from Miranda. She left it in front of my mother’s portrait.”

“How very sweet!” He smiled, sounding unsurprised. “Corin is a lucky man. Miranda has my full approval. I’d like to drink a toast to your mother, Zara. I had the feeling she was here today—in spirit, anyway. I didn’t see as much of her as I would have liked, but I remember her as the loveliest woman. She was so kind to me when your father lived to bawl me out. I remember my mother receiving the news of her death with tears rolling down her cheeks. She doesn’t cry easily; she’s learned to hide her tears.”

“Some of us have to,” Zara pointed out quietly.

“Did you cry for me?”

She couldn’t bear the hurtful edge to his voice. “A million times!”

“Liar!” He shook his handsome dark head. “Just a mad fling, wasn’t it?”

“It was mad, certainly!” The most exultant experience she had ever had. There was all the difference in the world between being passionately in love and giving and receiving the loving affection that brought a lot of people to marriage. So many degrees of loving! Piled one upon another.

“Well, you got over it soon enough.” In the intimate semi-darkness he reached for her. “Come with me.”

Her legs felt like those of a newborn foal, barely able to support her. Every time he looked at her she remembered the rapture, then the heartbreak. Unsurprisingly, she lost her composure. Emotion could be uncontrollable. At least that was her experience with Garrick. “What is it you want, Garrick?” she asked in a soft ragged voice. “You want to see me cry?”

“Zara, darling, I have seen you cry, remember?” His answer was sardonic. “All crocodile tears.” He drew her into the opulent living room, switching lights back on as they went.

“Why did you never answer my letters?” Her accusation flew at him. Her voice sounded the old heartbreak. Yet he made no response. She dragged back against his strong hand. “Answer me, you ghastly, ghastly man!”

At that, he jerked them both to such an abrupt halt that her body slammed into his. “Do you understand nothing?” he asked harshly. “Sweetheart, I never read any of them.”

She had always held on to the hope that he had at least read some of them. Now she felt shattered. She had poured out her heart in those letters, telling him of her hatred for herself for being such a fool as to be so effortlessly manipulated by her father. “But I sent you so many!” Her expression was eloquent with pain. “God, how many? You never read any of them. You can’t be telling the truth!”

“Even more serious than that, Zara, my lost love; I burnt the lot of them.” There was a bitter twist to his beautifully shaped sensuous mouth. “Had a little bonfire. You made it very plain you were done with me, remember? You revealed yourself for what you were. Probably still are. A woman who has the power to bring a man to his knees. Were you planning on keeping the torture going? Now that’s sick! I wasn’t having any. I have my pride. You ought to consider you’re more like your father than you think.”

“What?” She reacted with horror, stunned that he should say such a thing. Indeed, her shock was so great that the air turned red before her eyes. Anti-violence all her life, without a second’s thought, she brought up her hand and struck him as hard as she possibly could across the face. He could easily have stopped her by grasping her wrist, his reflexes were such. But for some reason, he didn’t. He took the blow. “I’m nothing like my father,” she said very tightly. “He was a cruel, cruel man.”

“You’ll get no argument from me.” His answer was as dry as ash. “You took a chance hitting out at me, Zara.” As he spoke, he was making a production out of rubbing his cheekbone. His skin was so tanned the red imprint of her fingers barely showed. “I could have retaliated.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, when she wasn’t at all ashamed of her actions. He deserved it. There was immense pleasure in connecting, if only in a blow.

“No, you’re not,” he bluntly contradicted. “You loved it!”

“I did!” She admitted to it in a low voice, moving closer and staring into his burning blue eyes.

“Course you did!” he taunted. “So…I’d say what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

Tears of rage filled her eyes but he grabbed her, hauling her into his arms. How many times had he wanted to do that since he’d arrived? It was perilous being around Zara. She could have resisted, but she made no movement to draw back. “Hartmann a good lover?” With an effort, he kept his tone purely conversational.

Diamond pinpoints of light stood in her desperate eyes. He pulled her ever closer. “Did he tell you you have the most beautiful, the most kissable mouth in the world? Don’t bother struggling. You won’t get away.” He held her strongly with his left hand, brought up his right to touch her long hair, tipping her face up to his. “Be careful now how you answer,” he warned.

Anger burned past raw pain. “He did. He did!” She laughed in his face, her own face pale. “Of course he d—” She got no further.

He was under too much strain. Cursing her. Cursing himself. There was no reprieve with Zara.

He opened his mouth wide over hers, claiming it completely, sick to death with wanting her. It was a brutal kind of rapture to be with her, to have her captive in his arms, to kiss her again after such an eternity. The fire would never burn out. He had to believe she was feeling the heat too because her whole body was undulating, as though her tender woman’s flesh was melting at his touch.

Once she tried to draw back, making a sound of dissent as if she were in a rage. But he knew it for what it was. No more than excited defiance. He knew. He definitely knew. She could no more subdue the powerful sexual flame that sprang fiercely between them than he could—a flame that had been ignited years before. He wasn’t going to listen to any play acting. He’d had more than enough of that. He plunged his fingers into her long heavy hair, keeping her face up to him.

“Damn, damn, damn you, Garrick!” she cried, as though her emotions were too powerful to be contained.

“Sounds more like praying to me,” he taunted. “Anyway, I’ve damned you a thousand times.” His tongue worked over and around her closed lips, increasing the pressure, prising them apart. It had to be driving her crazy because her mouth opened fully and her breath mingled with his.

Paradise regained.

He was kissing her the way he wanted to kiss her. The way he kissed her in his dreams. Not tenderly, but a furious combative passion that demanded release. Sensation swirled all around them. Images of them together filled his mind. Now and in the past. He had her back where she belonged. In his arms. He couldn’t seem to care about all the rest. Her flight from Coorango. The betrayal he’d felt. He had her with him right now. He wasn’t going to let her go.

Not tonight. He hadn’t planned it. How so? When he knew it was going to take place.

Zara had a fear she might faint. So much pressure was building in her. In her back, in her stomach, her breasts and her legs. Her body swayed against his, her aching breasts pressed hard against the muscular plane of his chest. She hungered for him so much she was shaking uncontrollably. The strength of his hold on her increased. It came to her belatedly that he was supporting her. The rose had slipped out of her fingers. It was crushed somewhere between them. Its sweet fragrance was scenting the air. She felt trapped. At the same time she felt she was where she belonged.

“I could have picked any other girl in the world,” he muttered, his lips against her throat, “but it had to be you! So let’s choose a bed,” he said with a shuddering laugh. Yours or mine?” He raised his hand, clasping her neck beneath the heavy fall of her hair.

“Don’t sound so cynical, Garrick,” she begged, her voice a jagged whisper.

“Ah, be damned to everything!” he cried, as though the situation was utterly intolerable. He caught her chin, turned her face up to him. “You can’t be crying?” he rasped.

A single tear had escaped, edging down her cheek.

“Do you think your tears make me fair game?” His expression carried no gentleness whatever. It showed tension as tight as a piano wire strung to perfect pitch.

“It’s always about you, isn’t it?” she lashed back. “You and your abominable pride! Well, it cost us.” She closed her eyes against him, realizing he would never forgive her until the day he died. Her heart was drumming in her ears, the beat strong enough to make her deaf. A great flush of sexual excitement was covering her body in a tide. She thought of a dam, its massive walls giving way.

“Drop the tears, Zara,” he advised. “They won’t work. Tonight you’re mine. It will be just like old times!” He put one steely muscled arm beneath her and then swept her off her swooning feet.

There were no words in her mind to stop him. She knew it would happen. They both knew it would happen. Both of them wanted the torture over. If only for a single night. She needed no man in her life. Unless it was Garrick. He needed no woman. Unless it was her. Both of them were in the fierce grip of obsession. A maelstrom of passion that had at its core a fatal flaw.

There could be no real love, no real future without trust.

She could never hope to make him trust her again. He had not even read one of her letters. The pain of it seared her so badly she doubted she would ever mention those letters again. Her father was dead. She couldn’t confront him, make him confess to Garrick what he had said and done to drive them apart.

All she knew was that it was her lot to love Garrick. Every which way. No matter what happened. Until death did them part.