Читать книгу The Australian Tycoon's Proposal - Margaret Way - Страница 7

“WHAT did you think of Steven?” Gilly asked, looking with the greatest interest into Bronte’s face.

“What was I supposed to think of him?” Bronte parried, deadpan.

“Tell me, you little tease!” Gilly seized her hand. They were sitting in the kitchen over a cup of coffee. Gilly had only been home ten minutes, most of the conversation taken up with Gilly’s visit to the eye specialist. The problem could not be cured but thank goodness it was manageable. “Not as nice as mine!” Gilly sniffed critically at the rich fragrant brew beneath her slightly hooked nose.

Bronte had to laugh. “Which says a lot for your cast-iron stomach. Actually they’re very good Italian beans. I put them through the grinder.”

“I expect Steven was thinking of you,” Gilly said, quite fondly for a woman usually incapable of finding a good word for a man. “I must have told him you didn’t like your coffee as full bodied as my home grown roast. He’s nothing if not thoughtful.”

Bronte set down her near empty cup, with a feeling of astonishment. She stared into Gilly’s much loved face. It was seamed, the skin tanned to the texture of soft leather, stretched tight over the prominent cheek bones. Gilly’s eyebrows were still pitch-black making a piquant contrast to the abundant snow-white hair she had always worn in a thick loose bun. It was a very much out of the ordinary face, Bronte decided. “In love with him, are you?” she jibed.

Gilly responded with an unexpected sigh. “I’m ever so slowly realizing I could have wasted my life, Bronte, girl. Just because I burnt my fingers once, I shouldn’t have let it put me off men for good.”

“Gosh I thought you loved being a recluse,” Bronte looked at her great-aunt with as much surprise as if she had just expressed regret at not reaching the summit of Everest. “Why, you’re famous around here.”

“And I deserve to be. Every bit!” Gilly harrumphed. “Didn’t I clear up Hetty Bannister’s terrible leg ulcers when her doctor couldn’t? I’ve cured dozens of cases of psoriasis, eczema, rosacea, you name it, over the years. I’ve got a home remedy for everything.” Gilly leaned down to whack a mosquito that had the temerity to land on her ankle. “I hope you’re not interested in becoming a recluse yourself?”

Bronte grimaced. “I might have to, seeing I dumped the love of my life a week from the altar.”

“You’re not regretting it, are you, lovie?” Gilly’s black eyes sharpened over Bronte’s face. She was wearing new lenses in her old spectacle frames. Now she re-adjusted them on her nose.

“I’m regretting I was nuts enough to get mixed up with him in the first place,” Bronte confessed.

Gilly looked at her great-niece with loving sympathy. “That was your mother pushing you every step of the way. It was a wonder you didn’t have a breakdown. You always end up trying to please her.”

“She is my mother,” Bronte put her elbows on the table, resting her face in her hands. “You’re my fairy godmother. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Gilly. You’re my haven.”

“You bet your life I am!” Gilly frowned ferociously. “It’s not as though you were going to marry Prince Charming anyway. You can’t be too upset about it?”

“Gilly, I’ve had hell,” Bronte said simply. “I vow here and now I can’t go through it again. I’ve had to listen to Miranda’s rages—” Miranda had long since banned the word Mum “—then Carl’s, sometimes both together. It was like the start of World War III. A woman is a fool to marry for love, Miranda told me. A woman should marry for security.”

“And wasn’t she just the girl to arrange it. Though they do use the two words together,” Gilly attempted to be fair. “Marriage. Security. I think you were very brave getting out in time. The suicide rate is high enough!”

“You were telling me the truth about your eyes?” Bronte changed the subject to one of more pressing interest to her. She was sick to death of her own traumas.

“’Course I was,” Gilly said, sitting so upright her back was straight as a crowbar. “Routine pressure check for glaucoma. No sign of it. Glaucoma is hereditary anyway and there’s no family history as far as I know. I get a few flashing lights in my right eye, but nothing to worry about. Like I told you it’s manageable. I’ll see him every six months. All in all I’m a fit old girl with a strong constitution. The sort of person who lives to be one hundred, not that I want to last that long, the only way to go is down. Why don’t we take a stroll before sunset. Steven has worked wonders. I’m darn happy with that young man.”

“So I see!” Bronte despised herself for feeling jealous. “Surely he couldn’t have done it all for nothing? It would have been a very big job. He told me he had workers?”

“They’re from the croc farm,” Gilly announced casually over her shoulder, leading the way out onto the verandah.

“Croc farm? Croc farm!” Bronte shuddered. “What are you saying, Gilly? He doesn’t have a croc farm, does he?”

“It was a real smart business move if you ask me,” Gilly said, stomping down the short flight of steps. “The tourists love the crocs and the reptiles, especially the Japanese. Our world famous crocodile man is moving his whole operation closer to Brisbane. Chika Moran has been doing very nicely for years with Wildwood but he lost a partner as you know.”

“To a crocodile, I believe.”

“I guess he prodded that old croc one time too many,” Gilly said. “Anyway Steven’s not in on that side of it.”

“Thank goodness!” Bronte put a hand over her breast. Used to the sight of crocodiles for years of her life they still frightened the living daylights out of her.

“Steven will handle the business side,” Gilly said, waving a scented gardenia beneath her nose. “He knows all about environmental issues, and he’s good with people.”

“What is he, insane?” Bronte asked sarcastically.

“What do you mean, love?” Gilly halted so abruptly, Bronte all but slammed into her. “Steven isn’t about to arm wrestle the crocs, if that’s what you’re worried about. I told you he won’t be involved with that side of the business at all. He and Chika are considering expanding into a kind of zoo. There’s big money in it.”

“Like a few lions and tigers, a giraffe or two?” Bronte suggested in the same sarcastic vein. “Elephants are obligatory. Everyone loves elephants. A rhino would be nice. I believe in Africa rhinos happily consort with crocodiles. There’s a thought! Did you know white rhino is a misnomer. It was originally wide referring to the size of their mouths which are bigger than the black rhino, though who got to measure their lips I can’t imagine. A bit of trivia for you.”

“That’s interesting.” Gilly smiled on her much as she had when Bronte, the great reader, had come up with a piece of unusual information as a child. “Anyway Chika has the land to make the idea of a zoo feasible. His family pioneered the district.”

Bronte slapped a palm to her forehead. “He’s a fast mover, all right!”

Gilly demurred. “Well, he’s a nice bloke, but I always thought Chika was a bit slow.”

“I’m talking about Steven Randolph. Anyone who lost most of their fingers would be a bit slow.”

“Chika admitted what he did was very very stupid,” Gilly pointed out. “It was years ago anyway. Chika has his boys now, big, strapping fellows.”

“Sure. Neither of them over-bright, either. Who’d want to handle man-eating crocodiles for a living?”

“There’s an art in it, love,” Gilly told her cheerfully. “Anyway Wildwood is only one of Steven’s ventures. He and a partner put up a very nice motel with a good restaurant. They use the walls for exhibitions of young artists. A lot of them have migrated here. The North is a glorious place to paint. The motel-restaurant has been a big success. Steven put in a manager as he likes to move on to new projects.”

“I expect he thinks Oriole is lovely?”

“Yes, he does.”

Bronte smarted. She turned to look back at the emerald blanketed Rex, imagining it as a real dinosaur that had once roamed this land. No wonder Steven loved Oriole. It was a dreamscape! The wonderful fragrances of the fruits and flowers, the exotic character of the place. The North was unique for the luxuriance and diversity of the plant life. She was looking forward to the sunsets. Tropical sunsets were extravagantly beautiful, the sun going down in a great ball of fire, the brief lilac dusk, then star spangled nights with a low hanging copper moon. She turned back to Gilly. “So what’s he up to now?” she asked.

“Well I’ve been dying to tell you all about it,” Gilly said, in a deep confidential tone.

Oh, no! Bronte thought. Here it comes! “Does it have anything to do with Oriole?” She crouched down to get a close-up of a beautiful orchid that had taken root in a dead branch.

Gilly prickled slightly at Bronte’s tone. “Now, now, lovie. It was my idea.”

“What was?” Bronte stood up.

“It’s just that Oriole is so big, love. And my money is running out. I’d love this old place to come back to life. Steven thinks we can make it happen.”

“I bet!” Bronte answered darkly, twisting her head to catch a flight of parrots.

“It will always be yours, love. Or my share of it.”

“Share?” Bronte thrust her hair over her shoulder in sudden agitation. “You own Oriole outright, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. I’m talking about if Steven and I went into partnership?”

“You’re going to farm crocs in the lily pond?”

“This is worth listening to, Bronte.” Gilly’s black eyes glinted with seriousness. “I’m no fool.”

“Of course not, I never meant to imply that,” Bronte apologised. Gilly could do what she liked with her own property.

“And Steven is no con man.”

“How could either of us rely on that?” Bronte challenged. “Looks and charisma go hand in hand with chicanery.” Bronte’s concern was written clearly on her face. “Have you checked him out? There’s a big backlog in the courts prosecuting charming con men.”

“Bronte, dear, I’ve been fending off con men for years,” Gilly scoffed. “Real estate up here is getting hot! I haven’t been interested before, but mostly for your sake I think it’s time to cash in on what we’ve got.”

Bronte groaned, terrified Gilly could get herself into financial trouble. And over her! “Please don’t worry about me, Gilly,” she implored.

“Don’t be ridiculous! I’ve been worrying about you for years and years. I can’t stop now. Your mother may have married a rich man but I don’t think there’ll be any mention of you in his will. I’m sure Miranda had to sign a pre-nuptial agreement.”

Bronte nodded. “She did. Not that she ever told me just what it was.”

“You can bet your life she found it humiliating,” Gilly said. “I thought you’d be pleased?”

“Gilly, you’re free to do anything you want.” To calm herself Bronte moved closer to a magnificent stand of ancient ferns found only in the rain forest. Some of them had grown into trees with huge crowns standing twenty feet or more over her head.

“I won’t do anything that upsets you.” Gilly followed Bronte up.

“We don’t really know this man, Gilly,” Bronte pointed out as gently as she could when she wanted to yell: exactly who is he? “He said he has a law degree. I don’t know from where but it should be fairly easy to find out. Another odd thing, he said he knew of Nat’s family. He said I wouldn’t want to move in with them. He spoke like he actually knew them.”

Gilly’s expression turned thoughtful. She tucked a snow-white lock back into the loose coils. “Funny, he never said anything to me.”

“Yet you told him all about me?” Bronte tried not to sound upset. She knew how proud Gilly was of her.

“Lovie, you can’t turn around anywhere in the house without seeing a photo of you. You were on the television until that rotten Saunders struck back. Damned if I’m famous compared to you. Steven was interested. He thinks you’re very beautiful and a great actress.”

Bronte laughed that one to scorn. “I’m not a great actress. Great actresses are born, like my mother. I’ve got a little talent that’s all and I’m photogenic. I’m not a great anything!”

Gilly pulled her over and hugged her. “You’re too modest, that’s your trouble. Give yourself a chance. You won’t be twenty-three until the end of December. I thought your parents might have named you Noelle but Miranda had a thing about the Brontë novel Wuthering Heights.”

“I know. She’s often said it’s her favourite book though I’ve never seen her read anything else. Vogue, Harpers & Queens, Tatler, Vanity Fair, Architectural Digest, that’s about it.”

“She wouldn’t have time to read,” Gilly said dryly. “That megalomaniac she married demands all her attention. But getting back to Steven!”

“How long have you actually known him, Gilly?” Bronte asked in a worried voice.

“I dunno.” Gilly broke off a dead frond. “It seems like forever. He’s been up here quite a while but I didn’t run into him until around June. It was after you left anyway. I’d taken a trip into town to do my shopping and Steven was walking out of the mall the same time as me. He asked if he could push my trolley.”

“Oh, right!” Bronte said with extreme sarcasm. “That’s one way to start up a conversation. He probably knew who you were.”

Gilly threw back her head and laughed, a sound that put a dozen brilliantly plumaged lorikeets to flight. “Hell, girl, who am I? Steven sure wasn’t after a fling. I mightn’t look it but I am an old lady. I have to keep reminding myself from time to time. Steven is a gentleman. He unloaded the trolley and put it all in the back of the ute for me. I said I had someone to unload it at the other end, the someone being me, but I didn’t let on to him about that.”

“So how did he get to visit?” Bronte had a sinking feeling.

Gilly eye-rolled her. “I seized my opportunity next time I saw him in town. I said if he was anywhere near Oriole Plantation sometime he might like to pop in.”

Bronte looked at her with eyes like saucers. “Gilly, do you realize how dangerous that was?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, girl. You of all people should know I can protect myself. Besides, eyes are the windows of the soul. That young man’s eyes are as clear as crystal. If I could go back forty years my ambition might be to marry him,” Gilly laughed, heading off towards the lagoon where thick banks of the Green Goddess lily and tall reeds grew around the boggy perimeter.

“I suppose it’s possible to become hooked in one’s seventies,” Bronte mused.

“Shows what you’d know,” Gilly said. “Seventy-year-olds are as enthusiastic about sex as seventeen-year-olds. The right man can melt a woman of any age like a marshmallow.”

“Good grief!” For some reason Bronte felt herself go hot. She bent in agitation selecting a river pebble and sending it skipping across the smooth sheet of water.

“I’m fooling, sweetheart!” Gilly guffawed. “I’m just trying to get something straight. I trust Steven Randolph like I trust you.”

That hurt. “You still haven’t told me what he wants you to do?”

Gilly bent, picking her own pebble. She threw it with gusto and it went further than Bronte’s. “If you can wait until tomorrow—I’ve asked Steven to dinner—he can tell you himself. He can explain it all so much better than I can. He knows his way around all the legalities and things like that. He’s right on side with the council and he does things properly, anyone in the town will tell you that. Wait until tomorrow night.”

Morning. The first rays of the sun filtered through the billowy lemon folds of the mosquito netting that cocooned the huge Balinese bed. A warm golden beam lay across Bronte’s dreaming figure, but it was the outpouring of bird song that woke her. She turned her dark head on the pillow. The pillow slips and the sheets had been scented with Gilly’s aromatic little sachets. It was a floral-woody smell, that was the closest she could come. Gilly never would reveal her secrets though she’d promised Bronte she’d left her her books of recipes in her will.

It was impossible to sleep with that powerful orchestra tuning up. There were all sorts of voices, violins, violas, cellos, flutes, oboes, trumpets, the occasional horn, even a bassoon. Whistles from those who couldn’t properly sing. A loud resounding choo from the whip birds. Miaows from the Catbirds. Beautiful singing from the robins.

Lovely! Bronte turned on her back, staring up at the sixteen-foot-high ceiling with its elegant plaster work and mouldings that badly needed restoring. She stretched her arms above her head, luxuriating in the morning and the brilliant performance. It was the first morning in fact she’d woken up not thinking of the terrible fiasco of her abandoned wedding. She fully appreciated now her involvement with Nathan had been engineered by her mother with the full support of her manipulative husband. Both understood the advantages of the match, social and financial. To them! Nat never had been interested in her really. Certainly not in her mind. He’d been far more interested in her body and the fact she could, when she put her mind to it, look as stunning as Miranda.

For so many years of her life Bronte had looked to her mother for some signs of love, of support, but mothering for Miranda was a closed book. All Miranda’s energies in life were directed towards pleasing her horrible husband and maintaining the ravishing looks that were the envy of her socialite friends. Looking back Bronte realized Miranda had been trying to marry her off from probably age eighteen. A girlfriend told her it was because her mother didn’t want Bronte around as competition. Gilly had brought her up to scorn vanity so Bronte never thought of herself in that way.

Her own mother jealous? Yet Miranda’s critical comments and hard stares whenever Bronte was dressed up to go out could have been interpreted as a kind of jealousy?

It didn’t matter any more. She couldn’t go home. She couldn’t even rent an apartment in Sydney. Like Carl Brandt owned her mother, Miranda thought she owned her daughter. And then there was poor Max, her half brother. She wondered if it would be possible to get Max up to Oriole for the Christmas vacation. He would love it! It wasn’t as though he had doting parents who required his presence although poor shy Max had knocked himself out for years trying to win a scrap of affection from either one of them.

What a pity no one could choose their parents, Bronte thought. Not that she didn’t cling to her love for her dead father. It ran like a river deep inside her. Her father couldn’t possibly have meant to end his own life as was rumoured. In doing so he would have left her, a defenceless little seven-year-old. Surely he would have thought of that? Ross McAllister, her dad. She just knew God was going to let her see her father again. She’d always been too sick at heart to allow herself to dwell on her mother’s relationship with Carl Brandt before their hasty marriage. Who in their right mind would want Carl Brandt for a lover let alone a husband?

Bronte threw back the single sheet, releasing yet another waft of delicious fragrance. Gilly was so clever, she should have been a celebrated parfumer—was there such a word?—capturing wonderful fragrances. Or at least a chemist, a botanist, a scientist.

Bronte pulled the mosquito net out from under the mattress then slid her feet to the cool polished floor. She felt like galloping bareback around the plantation but Gilly had been forced to sell Gypsy, her spirited and mischievous chestnut mare, and Diablo, the tall baby gelding, who was no devil at all, but sweet and even tempered. Gilly had always said Bronte and Gypsy were a perfect match, as it had to be if horse and rider were going to enjoy themselves. It was because of Gilly she was such a good rider. This had pleased Nathan. He liked the fact she was so knowledgeable about horses, especially at polo matches which he couldn’t really understand. But then she didn’t want thoughts of Nathan Saunders to sour her day. He was out of her life. The wonder was he was ever in it. She wouldn’t have even crossed his path had she lived a normal life instead of being Carl Brandt’s stepdaughter.

Bronte snatched up her silk kimono from the elaborate carved chest at the end of the bed, then padded across the hallway to the old-fashioned bathroom to take a quick shower. In her childhood big green frogs took up residence in the bath from time to time. Gilly hadn’t minded frogs any more than she minded snakes but Bronte hadn’t been so keen. She’d wanted the bath to herself. This morning she let the shower run refreshingly cold. It was going to be another hot day but she would soon acclimatize. Back in her room she pulled on some underwear, stepped into a pair of white linen shorts and topped them off with a blue and white striped singlet with a nautical motif. She pulled a leather belt around her waist and tied her hair back in a thick pigtail. The lightest touch of foundation for its high SPF, a slick of lipstick, trainers on her feet.

There, she was ready. All her items of dress were expensive but she’d have been just as happy in the sort of gear she used to wear. She remembered how she’d hated to wear dresses to school. Hated even more the uniforms she’d had to wear at boarding school. Some of the girls—they were all from rich families—had tried to torment her. “You’re such a primitive!” was an early taunt, until they found out when aroused she had a pretty caustic tongue. Gilly had always insisted she had to be articulate so she could defend herself in a tough world. Later, because she couldn’t stop herself wanting to learn, her fellow students discovered she was clever. Actually she’d sailed through her years at boarding school the smartest in her class. It was with human relationships she was such a dismal failure.

The morning was spent tidying up the homestead. Despite Gilly’s best efforts to keep order—she wasn’t at all domesticated—controlled chaos reigned. Gilly had always had a problem throwing anything out. Afterwards they careened around the plantation at breakneck speed in Gilly’s faithful old ute. It was a trip that evoked muttered prayers and many a shrieked, “Slow down!” from Bronte, not that Gilly took the slightest notice. Gilly considered herself to be an excellent driver. If anyone needed any proof, in over fifty years of driving she had never had an accident. This was something Bronte pointed out had more to do with having the rural roads mostly to herself than good driving practices. Gilly wouldn’t have lasted two minutes in the city without being waved down by a disbelieving traffic cop.

Much of the two hundred acres had gone back to an incredibly verdant jungle.

“I can imagine gorillas would be very happy here,” Bronte remarked, her feet quite jumpy from all the braking she’d been doing from the passenger seat.

“Are you serious, love?” Gilly swerved madly to ask.

“Of course I’m not!” Bronte laughed. “Listen, what about letting me drive?”

“No way, ducky. I know all the potholes and ditches. You don’t.”

“You must know them. You haven’t missed one.”

Gilly ignored that. “Once around sixty or seventy hectares were under sugar. A magnificent sight. And the burn offs! Spectacular! Great leaping orange flames against the night sky, the smell of molasses. These days a lot of cane growers have adopted green cane harvesting. That allows the trash to fall to the ground as organic mulch. It reduces soil erosion but in areas of high rainfall like here that method can contribute to water logging the fields. I miss all the drama of the old days.”

“Well, the kangaroos and the emus love it,” Bronte said, gazing out at a stretch of open savannah where the wild life was exhibiting mild curiosity at their noisy presence but mostly going on their serene way.

“You’re not really nervous, are you, Bronte?” Gilly had the grace to ask. “I can see your foot moving from time to time.”

“Pure reflex.” Bronte tossed back her plait.

“You’ll come to no harm with me,” Gilly said jovially, demonstrating her skills by ruthlessly sorting out the gears. “This is our world, Bronte.”

“Our lost world,” Bronte smiled. “I’d love to have seen Oriole in its prime.”

“Its prime could come again,” Gilly’s face wore an enigmatic smile. “World sugar prices peaked in the mid-seventies not all that long before you were born. I remember the Duke of Edinburgh—so handsome he was—attending a ceremony in Mackay in 1982 to mark twenty-five years of bulk handling. We led the world in the mechanical cultivation and handling of the crop. Oriole was right at the top in the 1970s, and it was a tropical Shangri-la years back when I was a girl. We lived like royalty in our own kingdom. Then came the war. You know the rest. McAllisters were among the first to enlist. Four of them. My father and his three brothers. Uncle Sholto was the only one to make it home. Such losses tore a great hole in our family.”

“They would have,” Bronte answered soberly, thinking how tragic it must have been for bereaved families all over the world.

“Uncle Sholto tried to do his best for us but he’d been badly wounded and suffered a lot of pain for the rest of his life. My brother, your grandfather, was so young when he took over. When we lost him in 1979 it was the end for Oriole. Your father had always wanted a different life. He was clever and ambitious, making his mark as an architect. I often think if he’d stayed at home he’d still be alive today.”

Bronte’s heart lurched. “Oh, Gilly, why do you say that?”

“Sorry, love, maybe I shouldn’t be saying it. I don’t want to hurt you but I’ll never forgive Miranda for what she did to my nephew.”

“What did she do?” Bronte asked quietly.

“She destroyed him.”

Bronte sucked in her breath. “You truly believe that?”

“No escaping the facts, lovey.” Sadly Gilly shook her head. “Miranda tried to pass off young Max as premature but you and I know differently. Not that I believe for a moment Ross threw away his life, he loved you far too much. It was an accident, tortured minds become careless. Your father never meant to leave you.”

“My mother said he loved speed.” Bronte looked off to the left where the trees of the rain forest met McAllister land. The savannah grasses had been scorched golden but the forest was in deep emerald shade.

Gilly’s voice vibrated with long suppressed anger. “She had to say something didn’t she? Speed may have been a factor but I’ll never believe any other explanation than Ross’s mind was elsewhere.”

“I was lucky I had you, Gilly.” Bronte’s voice lightly trembled.

“Darling girl, it was you who turned me back into a human. Around here I was becoming known as the witch of the North. I had to shake myself up with a child in the house. I came to love you so much I was devastated when you had to leave me.”

“I hated going away,” Bronte told her. “I’d been hoping my mother had forgotten about me. Why do you suppose she suddenly remembered she had a daughter?”

“I don’t know.” Gilly yanked on the gear stick. “Maybe she thought you might finally be an asset. You got prettier and prettier every time she saw you.”

“Which was like once a year,” Bronte’s mouth turned down. “I wanted to ask you. Would you mind if Max came to visit in his school holidays?”

Gilly shot her a slightly chastening look. “Of course I wouldn’t mind. But I can’t see your mother letting him come. Just for spite. She’d hate for him to enjoy himself up here.”

“Maybe she might.” Hastily Bronte adopted the brace position as Gilly floored the accelerator to tackle another ditch head on.

“Made it!” she whooped in triumph as they bounced high then plunged deep across. “Why don’t you write to the boy? I don’t suppose you can ring him at the school. We’ve got plenty of room. I suppose we’d better start getting back to the house. What are we going to give Steven for dinner?”

“What do you usually give him?” Bronte asked in a supercilious voice.

“Have you forgotten? I’m a terrible cook. I was hoping you would do the honours.”

“Really! You’ve got me up here to cook for Steven Randolph. In that case there’ll be a choice of cured kangaroo,” Bronte offered, deadpan, “or fricassee of baby crocodile’s tail with stir fried noodles.”

“You’re joking, aren’t you?” Gilly asked, alarmed. Gilly’s all time favourite was boiled eggs.

“Don’t you worry,” said Bronte. “I’ll put on a great meal. What time is Action Man arriving?”

“I know you’re going to be nice to him?” Gilly asked, mildly nervous. “I said, six-thirty for seven o’clock. Drinks on the verandah before we move in for dinner. Steven’s great company and you’re going to enjoy yourself, love. That’s a promise!”

Bronte looked at her sceptically. “I only know one thing for sure, I’ll be keeping a very sharp eye on Steven Randolph at all times.”

Bronte had difficulty deciding what to wear. She wasn’t going to dress up for the man, Gilly’s heartthrob or not. For one thing he might get the wrong idea. On the other hand she couldn’t offend Gilly who considered it impolite not to dress up for the rare guest. She’d only brought a couple of dresses with her anyway, trousers being de rigueur in the jungle. She looked at the two pretty summery dresses on the bed. One was a floaty white chiffon printed with big red flowers and swirls of green leaves. The other was a simple slip top with an asymmetrical skirt in imperial purple. Of course she’d bought it because of the colour. It did wonders for her eyes.

Steven Randolph was going to miss out on the pleasure of seeing her in those. She ought to be able to get away with what she called her pyjama outfit—a halter neck top with slinky long pants. The fabric was an understated gunmetal, but in certain lights it looked silver.

“What’s that you’re wearing?” Gilly asked, when she walked into the huge, old-fashioned kitchen. “You look gorgeous!” Gilly rolled expressive black eyes. “You’ve got just the right figure for trousers. I’ll have you know I had a great figure in my day. Great hair and skin, too. Hell, I don’t know why I lost my fiancé, I was a lotta woman.”

“You still are, Gilly,” Bronte smiled. “I love your caftan. Very Marrakech. Your fiancé couldn’t have been terribly smart.”

“He wasn’t,” Gilly snorted. “I think he’d planned to take me for every penny I had then found most of it was tied up with the land which I’d never sell. But I was in love with him at the time. He used to sing to me, you know, accompany himself on the guitar.”

“Good grief! That’s the first I’ve heard of it,” Bronte said, trying to visualize the young Gilly being serenaded by her caddish fiancé.

“Well I have to keep one or two things up my sleeve. Speaking of which, what are we having for dinner?”

“It’s a wonder we’re having anything,” Bronte said. “This kitchen might be as big as a football field but it wouldn’t thrill a serious cook. In fact, Gilly, the major appliances would make a serious cook seriously unhappy.”

“That’s all right, love,” Gilly said complacently. “Cooking isn’t my passion.”

“Whilst I on the other hand undertook an excellent cooking course to prepare myself for being a good wife to Nat.” Bronte moved over to the hob. “Controlling the heat on this is downright impossible. There’s no such thing as a simmer, no moderate heat, it’s all a raging boil. But I haven’t let you down. We’re having something nice but simple. The whole barramundi is in the oven as we speak. It should take around forty-five minutes. I’ve stuffed it with prawn meat, egg, cream, sherry, mushrooms, and surrounded it with cubed vegetables. It’s going to be delectable. The seafood certainly came in handy. Obviously your Steven knew he was coming to dinner. There’s a little dill sauce to finish. I couldn’t begin to tackle an elaborate dessert, but as the oven’s on, we’re having baked paw paw in coconut milk with toasted shredded coconut on top. There’ll be mango ice-cream, too, and I’ve already roasted a bowl of nuts, mostly our own macadamias to nibble on with drinks. Tomato and mozzarella for an appetizer with anchovies draped on top. I think he’ll go home a happy man.”

“Any complaints and we’ll push him out the door,” Gilly joked, obviously in high spirits. She placed a lovely pottery bowl full of avocados on the sideboard then made for the door, the dozen or more silver bracelets on her arm setting up a jingle. “When you do get really serious about someone, Bronte, you’ll make a wonderful wife.”

“That’s not my idea, Gilly,” Bronte called after her.

Not my idea at all!

Steven Randolph arrived bearing gifts. Wine, Belgian chocolates, and something in a cardboard box tied with a brown-gold striped ribbon.

“Thought it might come in handy,” he said, kissing Gilly on both cheeks and slanting Bronte a smile. Not a serious smile. A quirky one, that uptilted the corners of his shapely mouth. “I’ll take these into the kitchen, shall I?”

“You know you didn’t have to do that.” Gilly beamed on him.

“A pleasure, Gilly. You look great!”

Next he’ll be saying the two of us look like sisters, Bronte thought waspishly, leading the way to the kitchen. He certainly had Gilly hooked. Was he the second man in Gilly’s life trying to take her for every penny she had? Over my dead body, Bronte privately fumed.

“Don’t you want to see what it is,” Steven Randolph asked her, as Bronte set the cardboard box down on the long narrow pine sideboard. He was busy putting the wine away in the fridge. Gilly, excited and happy, had drifted out onto the candlelit verandah, no doubt pushing them together.

Bronte smarted. “Give me a minute, can’t you?”

“I’m sorry. How are you?” He allowed his eyes to move over her. She was so beautiful with those enormous black fringed blue-violet eyes but as spiky as a cactus. A cactus in an outfit like liquefied silver. It looked almost like lingerie. It took a huge effort not to reach out and caress it…her. But he’d never met a girl who so clearly signalled keep your distance!

“I’m fine, thank you.” Bronte fought her way through the ribbon which securely tied the box. “Gosh, this looks good!” The comment flew out of its own accord.

“Gilly loves chocolate.”

“I know that!” She flashed him an irritated glance which he met with a quirky one of his own. He looked really cool. She had to admit that. He was wearing a very smart black shirt with a cream stripe teamed with beige trousers. He really did have a great body. That aggravated her.

You better be darned careful, Bronte, she told herself. This man is dynamite!

“Why are you so desperate to put me in my place?” he was asking in an entirely reasonable voice.

“Put you in your place?” Bronte raised supercilious brows. “I thought I was only talking to you. Where did you get this scrumptious looking confection?”

“It’s a fruit and chocolate brandy cake, by the way.” He turned away to find a plate.

“Thank you,” she said pointedly, accepting it. He knew where everything was kept.

“Be careful getting it out.”

She knew he was trying to get a rise out of her. For a moment she considered dropping his offering. Instead she calmly and efficiently removed the large cake from the box. It was covered with a glistening chocolate icing and decorated with silver balls.

“I made it myself, actually,” he said, getting a finger to a tiny dollop of chocolate icing left inside the box and putting it slowly into his mouth.

She looked away from him, determined to keep her reactions on ice. “You did not!”

He laughed. “I had to say something to get you down off your high horse. The truth is, Bronte, I know a very nice lady I can turn to when I want something special.”

It wasn’t the question to ask, but she did. “Do you sleep with her?”

“What?” He rolled his clear green eyes upwards. “Bronte, you shock me. This lady makes cakes for heaps of people.”

“That’s all right then. The thing is we don’t know very much about you, do we, Steven Randolph.”