Читать книгу Olivia's Awakening - Margaret Way - Страница 7

MCALPINE had to be a celebrity.

Everywhere they went he was waved at, smiled at, greeted with a mix of awe, respect and enthusiastic friendliness. He could have been a rock star in town for a huge open-air concert.

Overnight the stubble had disappeared. Morning found him clean-shaven but still with that “wild man” look, ensuring women never took their eyes off him. She was sure what she was registering was plain primal lust. She didn’t know whether to feel disgusted or deprived. She had never seen anything like the combination of his thick, lustrous dark auburn hair, bronze skin—she’d never seen a tan richer, darker—and confronting golden eyes. He had even found time to have his hair trimmed. One couldn’t have said “cut.” No regimental short back and sides. Oh, well, it was beautiful hair after all. Most women would give up a valuable eye tooth to have hair like it.

Why couldn’t the man have been ordinary? A good twenty years older? A father figure. Even uncle figure would have done. Her father’s choice of McAlpine was the worst of the worst. They had absolutely nothing in common. Even more upsetting was the fact they were basically hostile to each other. He certainly brought out the offensive in her. She was good for a joust. If one wanted peace, one prepared for war. But then again, war wasn’t good when she had to work for the man, and he no doubt would be reporting back to her father.

There was one good thing, however. She had slept like the proverbial log. And he had let her. Until 9:00 a.m., that is, when he had called her hotel room to instruct her to come down for breakfast without delay, after which they were flying on. At least he had had the decency to enquire whether she had slept at all.

“Thank you for asking about the quality of my sleep.” She willed herself to be cool. Not easy when there was some extraordinary heat at her centre. “I slept very well, Mr McAlpine.” Even as she answered she had thrown back the light bedclothes and leapt to her feet. “I hope you weren’t worrying about me?” She couldn’t prevent the note of sarcasm in her voice.

“Not in the least, Ms Balfour. But it’s time to put a little pressure on you. I’m sure being a Balfour you’re up for it. We’ll have breakfast—I’ve already taken the liberty of ordering—then we must be on our way. Business beckons. I’m sure you’re well used to that kind of thing from your father. See you in the foyer.”

She had showered, dressed and was downstairs in under twenty minutes, a positive record for her. Unfortunately she hadn’t had time to arrange her hair in its customary neat pleat. She had to knot the billowy blonde masses with a gold clasp at the nape. The foyer was surprisingly busy, people going back and forth, all acting happy to be there. No sign of McAlpine; he had to be dead easy to spot with his looks and height. But no, he was nowhere about. No fan groups circling in tight knots.

“Ms Balfour, I presume.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” She actually backed into him. Or had he let her? She spun, acutely embarrassed, feeling the crescendo of heat that arose from his hands momentarily on her shoulders. A light pressure actually, yet she felt it right down to her toes. They instantly turned up.

“Let’s go in, shall we?” he suggested suavely.

He was appraising her with faint incredulity, as though she was made of strawberries and whipped cream, Olivia thought crossly. “It might have been an idea to meet up inside the restaurant,” she pointed out loftily, regaining her habitual cool.

“So what are you saying?” He rounded on her, so tall that for the first time in her life she felt dwarfed.

“Why, nothing.” She was determined not to let him rattle her.

An experienced traveller she had laid out what she would be wearing the next day before collapsing into the hotel’s very comfortable bed. White silk-cotton top with an oval neck, and long sleeves she had pushed up in a concession to the heat. White linen trousers—lovely flattering cut—and white-and-tan loafers. Borrowing a bit of Bella’s dash she added a studded tan leather belt to break up the all-white.

He was wearing an outfit only a notch up from yesterday. A torso-hugging black T-shirt with a white logo—I Love NY, of all things, the love represented by a red heart. She supposed he had been to New York many times. Brought the T-shirt back from a recent trip. Black tight-fitting jeans. He looked about as fit as a man could possibly get. Fit and disgracefully sexy. And goodness, the way he moved! She was right about the big jungle cat, she thought, swallowing on a slight obstruction in her throat.

“Don’t be so nervous,” he bid her, almost kindly, when they were seated. “I’m sure you’re fully expecting a giant Territory T-bone steak, sausages, fried eggs, fried tomatoes and a pile of hash browns?”

“I’m sure it’s a breakfast you frequently indulge in?” she countered sweetly. But how could he with that body? Next thought: as a cattle baron he would most probably work the calories off.

“You can hold the hash browns,” he said, with a twist of a smile. “Though I doubt very much if you could put such a breakfast together.”

Such a sensuous mouth! The four women at the table to the right of them couldn’t tear their eyes off him. “What do you know of me really, Mr McAlpine?” She concentrated her attention away from him.

“Hardly a thing,” he conceded. “Why don’t we get matters out in the open? I didn’t want you here, Ms Balfour, any more than you want to be here. But you can’t escape. Neither can I. Both of us are doing this for your father. I want to keep him on board and you want to redeem yourself as I hear it?”

“Redeem myself?” Her blue eyes glinted. “Spoken by a man who listens to gossip. I’m not here to redeem myself—”

“Take it up with your father,” he briskly interrupted, turning his arrogant head as a bestarched young waitress approached, wheeling a trolley.

“Good morning, Mr McAlpine,” the waitress trilled.

“Good morning, Kym.” That careless, megawatt smile. “What have you got for us there?”

He had a darn good voice too. Deep and dark, slightly grainy like polished teak, rather thrillingly vibrant, if one responded to that sort of thing.

“Just what you ordered, sir.” Pretty dimples flickered in the waitress’s cheek.

“No surprises, then,” Olivia remarked, utilising her caustic tone.

Only then did the waitress turn her big brown eyes on Olivia. “Hope you enjoy it, ma’am.”

Ma’am? Olvia allowed no one to see her reaction. She might have been taken for his maiden aunt. Cheek of the girl!

The waitress began setting out freshly squeezed fruit juice in frosted glasses—grapefruit for both—slices of a lush-looking papaya with quartered limes, leaving the remaining boiled eggs and piping hot toast under cover on the trolley. Tea or coffee would be served at the table. McAlpine had only to raise a lazy finger.

“Nice to see you again, Mr McAlpine,” the young woman gushed by way of farewell, injecting all she had in the way of oomph. As it happened, rather a lot.

“Another admirer?” Olivia enquired, after the waitress had gone, allowing the scoff to show.

“Do you mind, Ms Balfour?” He picked up his glass of fruit juice, toasted her with it. “Hope everything is to your satisfaction?”

“Thank you, yes,” Olivia admitted, deciding to be gracious.

“So eat up because we’re outta here!” His dynamic features tightened. Abruptly he had sprung into tycoon mode right before her eyes. Not that she hadn’t seen it all before. But had her father seriously considered in sending her to Clint McAlpine he had sent her in fathoms deep. Not that she wasn’t an excellent swimmer. She had come to Australia determined on setting her mind to the task and in so doing reaffirming her self-worth. It would hardly do to give up at the outset.

Onward Christian soldiers.

At school they had used to sing that in chapel. And, oh, yes. “Amazing Grace.”

Even so it would be a titanic effort.

He came to her room just as she was wondering what to do with all her luggage. In retrospect she had brought rather a lot. Probably what she really needed was some khaki bush clothes, a slouch hat and stout boots to ward off possible snake attacks. She had read all about the snakes, the dingoes, the wild buffalo and the wild pigs, not to mention the crocodiles. Maybe she should tell him she had some experience of the African bush, though the place she and Bella had stayed at—the owner was the father of one of Bella’s admirers—was extremely comfortable. No magnificent wild animals were shot when they had been taken out on safari. She couldn’t have tolerated that. But she and Bella had adored the sightseeing.

Now the Northern Territory, the Top End. Terra incognito!

She swung her head at the peremptory tap on the door, shocked that she felt nervous of the man.

“Do you usually travel so light?” he asked, his gleaming eyes on the pile-up of Louis Vuitton.

“Only when I’m on safari.”

“No chance, then, of seeing you naked?”

She reacted, if she thought of it, like an outraged virgin. “I beg your pardon!”

“Please, a joke, Ms Balfour.” He groaned, casting an eye on her luggage once more. “Might be an idea if you tried to lighten up a little. You’re not at home now. Bring a couple of the smaller pieces. What you most need. I’ll get someone to collect the rest and fly it back to the station.”

Olivia lifted a delicate shoulder. He was making her feel rather foolish. Pompous to boot. “As you wish.”

“Forget the safari—you couldn’t have brought more if you were boarding the QE2 for a trans-Atlantic trip.”

“I’ve brought nothing out of the ordinary, I assure you.” She turned away, to save face, picking out two pieces of luggage and her small make-up box. She had brought lashings of sunblock.

“Right, now we can get under way.” He hoisted her two pieces of luggage—quite heavy, in fact—and tucked one under his arm, carrying the other as easily as if it were a cardboard box. “I have a city apartment,” he told her in an offhand manner. “We’ll take a cab there.”

She reacted with a frown. “What for?”

He gave her a brief, impatient glance. “Certainly not wild sex, if you had that in mind. There’s a helipad on the roof. The complex was built by one of the McAlpine companies. We’re going by helicopter.”

“Oh!” She gave a nonchalant wave of the hand to cover immense flurry. Wild sex? Lead me not into temptation. “That’s OK. I’ve travelled by helicopter before. My father owns an island retreat in the Caribbean.”

“Squillions could only dream of owning one!” he cried satirically. “Good, then you won’t be nervous. Your father is a very rich man.”

“I believe you are so regarded.”

Unexpectedly he gave her one of his slashing smiles. “How quaint! So regarded! But should that worry me?”

She abruptly exploded. He was looking at her as though she was stuck in a time warp. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Money is a powerful aphrodisiac,” he pointed out.

As though she needed to be told that. “You’ll be pleased to know I have absolutely no interest in you, Mr McAlpine, romantic or otherwise.” So why was she feeling decidedly hot. There was the possibility if he so much as touched her she could go up in flames.

“For the record, that makes two of us, Ms Balfour. Anyway, no offence, but you’re a little too buttoned up for me.”

She didn’t deign to reply. On the other hand she was unexpectedly dismayed. Buttoned up, was she? In her view she had always been so well behaved that she should have been given a medal. The lift arrived, unloading two smiling guests and a porter with a luggage trolley.

“I’ll take those Mr McAlpine,” the porter said. “You’re going to the helipad?”

“Yes, thank you, Arnold,” McAlpine said with a smile.

“Beautiful day for flying.”

“Perfect!”

“Good gracious!” Olivia burst out in surprise as she looked towards the waiting helicopter where a group of men were standing.

“You can’t back out now, Ms Balfour,” McAlpine told her with a mocking sideways glance.

“I didn’t mean that at all. I’m actually looking forward to the flight. It’s the helicopter. I’ve never seen one like it before.”

“Goodness, and I thought you’d seen everything. Maybe not done everything.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Her tone, had she known it, was cool on the way to arctic. Victorian, really.

“A fairly harmless remark, I would have thought. What you’re looking at—what we’ll be flying in—is the newest addition to McAlpine Aviation which has a three-state charter. The Territory, Western Australia and Queensland. You may not know—then again you might, as I suspect you’re a very well-read woman—Qantas, the national carrier, spells out Queensland and Northern Territory Aerial Services. It was founded in 1920 and it’s actually the oldest continuously operating airline in the English-speaking world.”

“I did fly Qantas from Singapore,” she said, finding herself caught up in the story.

“At the time of our worst cyclone ever—Cyclone Tracy which devastated Darwin—Qantas established a world record when six hundred and seventy-three people were evacuated on a single Boeing 747. I was just three at the time but I vividly remember it.”

“The cyclone or the flight?” She shaded her eyes to look up at him. It was surprisingly good to have to look up at a man. Even if it was McAlpine.

“Both. My family has always had a keen interest in aviation. My grandfather, Roscoe McAlpine, established McAlpine Aviation. General air charter, jet charter, helicopter, freight. Supporting government agencies with fire and flood operations. That kind of thing. We’ve grown exponentially since Granddad’s day. He would have been so proud. The irony is he was killed in a light aircraft crash when he was a very experienced pilot who had flown hundreds of hours in very hazardous conditions.” He shrugged fatalistically, but Olivia could see the hidden grief.

“Am I the only passenger?” she asked, looking uncertainly towards the waiting men.

“Do you need reassurance? They’re not cattle rustlers. All three are company employees. They’re coming with us,” he supplied briefly.

And pray tell exactly where?

She had the sense not to ask.

Words simply could not describe her feelings as Olivia looked down at the primeval wilderness that was to be her home for the next five months. It would be fair to say she was shocked out of her mind.

Dear God! she prayed fervently. How am I going to be able to withstand it?

God answered very promptly. Buck up!

The famous early explorers of this continent— splendid, intrepid men of British stock—would have quailed at the prospect of having to transverse such a place, which looked to her distraught eyes like no other kind on earth. What lay beneath her had to be one of the last remaining great wilderness areas on the planet.

There was no sign of human intervention, let alone habitation, apart from the lonely cluster of white buildings that looked like an outback version of Stone-henge. Extraordinary as it may appear, she couldn’t think she would enjoy her stay at all. This vast landscape glowed as fiery as Mars, the red soil held together by what looked like giant pincushions in the most amazing shades of burnt gold and burnt orange. And she with the English-rose complexion! She would probably shrivel up in a matter of days.

Don’t allow yourself to get fazed.

She knew it was extremely important to maintain order of the mind. Order, after all, was the bedrock of her being. She was a Balfour and a Capricorn to boot.

The two men McAlpine had taken on board were fortyish, lean outback characters in cowboy regalia. Both looked as if they could easily wrestle a bullock to the ground, but they were most courteous and soft spoken when introduced. They sat up close to McAlpine, the boss, often exchanging remarks in unison. The “great minds think alike” syndrome, she thought.

She had been allotted a seat in the farthest row, deciding there and then she wouldn’t let McAlpine see how the sight of his ancestral home was affecting her. She realised everyone couldn’t live in a stately home but this rather beggared belief.

She wouldn’t have need of any of the nice things she had brought with her. They would be as out of place in these surroundings as one of Bella’s outlandish sequinned party dresses.

Bella, oh, Bella, what did we do? She hoped her twin—she was missing her dreadfully—didn’t feel as scared as she did.

What are you scared of? McAlpine?

Minutes later they landed, smooth as a bird, on the front lawn of the homestead, a green oasis in the fiery red wilderness that went on and on and on, so it seemed to fill the known world. Towering palms, graceful unfamiliar trees and a riot of prodigally blossoming shrubs offered all-round protection to the building which looked hardly bigger than a cottage. She could see a silver stream snaking away into the distance. She wondered if crocodiles, flourishing as a protected species, sunned themselves on the banks, using them for slipways.

Safely on the ground now, she looked around her with stoicism. Eventually it came to her.

He’s having me on!

Well, she could take a joke as well as the next woman. Even with her sunglasses on she had to shade her eyes from the fierce, glittering sun. She tried to focus on the homestead and its square white facade. It was a genuinely small timber construction set on very high concrete piers, probably for ventilation and to keep the building above possible flooding. Latticework closed the space in, acting as a trellis for a magnificent flowering vine with huge bell-like golden-yellow flowers. And such a fragrance! One could get drunk on it.

The roof of the homestead was corrugated iron painted green, as were the shutters on the French doors that opened out onto the broad covered veranda. Planter-style chairs were set at intervals along with huge pots of rather wonderful tropical plants. More astonishing plants with great curling fernlike waves grew profusely out of hanging baskets. Hot or not, with a little TLC and a drop of precious water one could maintain a dream of an indoor garden. A vision of Balfour Manor’s splendid English gardens—especially the rose gardens—broke before her eyes.

Home! Oh, God! More than ever she felt like a fish out of water.

On the thick springy grass, she soon discovered she was wobbly on her feet. “OK?” McAlpine broke away from his men to take her by the arm with what seemed genuine concern.

“I’m perfectly fine, thank you,” she said stiffly, somewhat intimidated by the vibrant male sexuality.

“That’s strange. I could have sworn you were thinking, Where the hell am I?“

“Then never distrust your intuitions, Mr McAlpine,” she returned coolly. “Where exactly are we?” Two could play at a joke.

“You’re on Naroo Waters.”

“And it’s charming.” She gave him a bright social smile, clearly feigned.

“I’m very fond of it too.” His eyes glittered pure gold as he looked at her. “I’ve visited it over and over since I was a boy. This is one of our outstations, Ms Balfour, as I’m sure you’ve guessed. I’ve stopped to offload Wes and Bernie and a few supplies. Wes manages the place. Bernie is his leading hand.”

“You weren’t willing to tell me before?” she asked sweetly.

“I operate on a need-to-know basis, Ms Balfour.”

“While I think you were testing me out.”

He laughed. Far too attractive a sound. “OK, you passed. Totally unexpected, I have to say. Now, while I have a talk to Wes, you might like to go into the house. Heather will make you a cup of tea. Heather is his wife. I’ll be along presently.”

“And who shall I say I am?” she asked haughtily. He did bring out the worst in her.

“Let’s pretend you’re a friend,” he said and walked away.

As she approached the homestead a small woman with a mop of orange curls wearing a green tank top and cream shorts to the knee ran out onto the veranda to wave.

“You must be Olivia,” she called in such a way Olivia felt a most welcome visitor, not a total stranger who had just landed very noisily on the lawn. “Please come in.” Again not in the polite meaningless way Olivia had often been guilty of in the past, but as though she really meant it. “I’ve got a nice cup of tea for you and a slice of my raisin cake. Just baked it.”

The cake was excellent, with a delicious walnut crunch. The tea was just the way she liked it. Added to that the sheer niceness of Heather Finlay—a good Scottish name—and it all went a long way towards calming Olivia’s nerves.

They sat in the homestead’s small living room which was as comfortable and attractive as anyone could make the postage-stamp space. Large white ceiling fans whirred overhead. The furnishings were cane, the two sofas and the armchairs upholstered in emerald-green cotton patterned in white, maintaining the tropical look. The feature wall held four huge blown-up photographs of different tropical flowers set in a frame. It was cost effective as well as striking.

Close to Heather, Olivia could see that she was older than she first appeared. At a guess early forties, with a trim figure, a redhead’s freckled skin and green eyes with dancing lights.

“I take it you’re on holiday?” Heather’s eyes lingered on Olivia as though she were a creature from a fairy tale with fairy-tale clouds of golden blonde hair.

Olivia decided to tell the truth. Shame the devil. She almost—not quite—believed in him. “I’m here to help out Mr McAlpine in any way I can, Heather. A business arrangement, really. My father is a shareholder in the McAlpine Pastoral Company. I’m very interested in learning as much as I can about it and of course being helpful while I’m at it.”

Heather’s face lit up with what looked like a triumphant smile.

Why was that?

“You’ll be perfect to help with the big end-of-the-year functions Clint hosts,” Heather supplied the answer. “I suppose Clint had that in mind. You’ll have met Marigole, his ex-wife?”

“Actually, no!” Marigole? Ah, the unusual name. Olivia set down her pretty teacup. Royal Doulton’s Regalia. She suspected Heather had used her best, which was nice. “I don’t know Mr McAlpine all that well. We’ve met at a couple of functions in London and once at a wedding we both attended in Scotland. There’s some family connection between the Balfours and the McAlpines from way back. But his wife—his ex-wife, I should say—wasn’t with him at the time.”

Heather gave an eye roll. “Well, I suppose it’s getting pretty close on two years ago the divorce came through.” Heather poured them a second cup of tea. “Good Scottish names. Balfour and McAlpine. Balfour means pasture land, doesn’t it?”

“You’re very well informed, Heather.” Olivia was taken by surprise.

“Scottish background me ain self.” Heather laid on an accent. “Same as Wes. I daresay your family retain a good many pastures?” She flashed a teasing smile.

“Nothing on par with this, Heather! I wasn’t prepared for this!”

“You sound like you’re a wee bit scared of the place?”

“I’d like to say no, but actually it is daunting,” Olivia confessed. “The vastness, the isolation, the lack of human habitation and the floods of light! Nature is supreme here.”

“That it is,” Heather agreed.

“You must get lonely from time to time?” Olivia asked, even though she could see Heather was a strong spirit.

“Sometimes I do!” Heather freely admitted. “Especially since we sent our boys off to boarding school. That’s a couple of years back. They’re twelve. Twins! They’ll be home soon for the June vacation. If it gets a bit much for me or if Wes is away on a long muster, I take a trip into Darwin. I’ve got friends there.”

“So you’ll be looking forward to having your sons home.” Olivia didn’t doubt it.

“Alex and Ewan.” Heather’s green eyes lit up. “I adore them.”

“I’m a twin,” Olivia confided, feeling an instant of crushing loneliness for Bella and home. “My sister’s name is Bella. She’s very beautiful.”

“Well, she would be.” Heather laughed, still looking at Olivia with unfeigned admiration. “Like you.”

“Goodness, no!” Olivia shook her head. “We’re fraternal twins, not identical. Bella takes after our mother. She was a recognised beauty. We lost our mother when we were toddlers.”

“Now that’s sad!” Heather’s expression sobered.

“One is shaped by it, I always think. At any rate one develops very finely tuned emotional antennae.”

“But you have your dad?” Heather was regarding her visitor keenly.

“Not as much as we would have liked,” Olivia found herself revealing. Her inner person as opposed to her outer person appeared to be emerging at a rate of knots. “My father is an important man and a workaholic.”

“Well, it does go with the territory, love,” Heather said consolingly. “I’m sure he’s very proud of you and Bella.”

Olivia further surprised herself. “Well, we hope to make him proud, Heather. We live to please him because we love him.”

Heather made a little face. “I can see I’m talking to a very modest young woman.”

They had slipped into conversation so easily it was obvious Heather was starved of female company and ready for a chat, if not a good gossip. What struck Olivia as out of the ordinary was that Heather appeared to have taken to her on sight, when she knew scores of people who called her standoffish and a lot worse behind her back. It would have shocked them to know how shy she really was when the layers of cool polished veneer were stripped off. The trouble was, as the years went by she got better and better at playing cool. But it was all a facade. All the people who loved her knew that.

So apparently did Heather. And Bessie, her Good Samaritan. She hoped to see Bessie again.

Heather spoke gently. “You’ll be a good mother when the time comes. I take it you’re not married?” She had taken note of Olivia’s elegant ringless hands.

Olivia sighed. “It would be fantastic to meet the right man.”

“But you must have heaps of admirers.” Heather wasn’t trying to flatter. She thought her visitor very beautiful and refined. Also, her upper-class English voice fell entrancingly on the ear. Heather was impressed.

“Bella is the one with the admirers.” Olivia’s smile held pride and affection. “She’s very quirky. Funny as well as being stunningly beautiful. I missed out on the quirkiness. I tend to keep a much lower profile. Bella is very much at ease with herself. I’m a bit on the bland side, I’m afraid.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” said Heather, thinking her visitor anything but bland. Obviously the sister had a strong sense of her own beauty, whereas Olivia, for some unfathomable reason, did not. “Anyway, outback life instead of big-city life is guaranteed to bring anyone out of their shell. I know you’re going to love Kalla Koori. It’s one of the outback’s great showplaces.”

Of course it was, as befitting outback royalty.

“I’m looking forward to staying there.”

Heather leaned forward confidentially. “Just between you, me and the gatepost, which incidentally is a good few miles away, I should tell you Marigole still likes to pop in from time to time. Unannounced. As you don’t know her and you’ll be staying on the station, I feel a little word of warning mightn’t go astray. Marigole is very territorial, divorced or not. We’re all convinced she wants him back.”

“Really?” It wasn’t the discreet thing to do but Olivia decided to follow up Heather’s lead. Listening carefully, one always learned something interesting, or potentially useful. Just think of the journalist who had spilt the beans on her family. “How did they come to split up in the first place?” She knew her questioning Heather wasn’t the done thing but she really wanted to know. McAlpine wasn’t about to tell her a thing.

Heather leaned in. “Marigole put it about she was totally fed up with the lifestyle, the fact Clint was never there for her when goodness knows he has a huge job on his hands, but it was the other way around, I be thinking. You know they have a daughter?”

Olivia nodded and waited for Heather to continue.

“Georgina. Used to be a little honey but the divorce upset her terribly plus puberty hit her hard, as they say. Marigole pretty well abandoned her when this new guy came along. Lucas something, a merchant banker. Last year Clint’s aunt Buffy acted as his hostess and did a marvellous job of it but sadly her health has declined of recent times. It was a terrible grief and shock to her—to us all—when Mr McAlpine was killed. Lady Venetia—that’s Buffy—lost her brother and Clint lost his father.”

Olivia of the tender heart bowed her head. She had learned from her own father that Kyle McAlpine had been killed in a freak accident on a mining site. Clint McAlpine’s mother lived in Melbourne; one sister, Alison, had married a wealthy American business man and lived in New York. The other sister, Catriona, was a lawyer in London. Something to do with international law. She thought she had that right.

“Remember that character Joan Collins used to play on Dynasty?” Heather asked.

“I know of Joan Collins, of course. A beautiful ageless woman, but the series was before my time.”

“You should catch the reruns,” Heather advised. “Joan played a marvellous bitch, Alexis, the divorced wife, but I have to tell you, Marigole could give her lessons.”

Confidences were abruptly cut short.

“Hell, it’s Clint!” Heather turned in her chair so her eye was on the front door. “Not a word of this to him, love.”

“Goodness, no!” Olivia was aghast. “Mum’s the word.”

“It’s really not like me to gossip, especially not about the boss, but I spotted you for an innocent right off.” Heather hastily demolished what was left of her raisin cake. “In my experience—and I used to be a nurse for the Flying Doctors Service—a timely warning never goes astray.” She spoke as though her confidences were strategic manoeuvres Olivia should have at the ready. “As soon as Marigole hears you’re on Kalla Koori, she’ll descend like a bat out of hell.”

Olivia, blessed and sometimes cursed with a highly visual imagination, half covered her face. She had visions of a Caribbean fruit bat sinking its teeth into her like a ripe mango.