Читать книгу Argentinian in the Outback - Margaret Way - Страница 7

THE French doors of her bedroom were open to the cooling breeze, so Ava was able to witness the exact moment the station Jeep bearing their Argentine guest swept through the tall wrought-iron gates that guarded the main compound. The tyres of the vehicle threw up sprays of loose gravel, the noise scattering the brilliantly coloured parrots and lorikeets that were feeding on the beautiful Orange Flame Grevilleas and the prolific White Plumed species with their masses of creamy white perfumed flowers nearby.

As she watched from the shelter of a filmy curtain the Jeep made a broad half-circle around the playing fountain before coming to a halt at the foot of the short flight of stone steps that led to Kooraki’s homestead.

Juan-Varo de Montalvo had arrived.

She didn’t know why, but she felt excited. What else but excitement was causing that flutter in her throat? It had been a long time since she had felt like that. But why had these emotions come bubbling up out of nowhere? They weren’t exactly what one could call appropriate. She had nothing to get excited about. Nothing at all.

Abruptly sobered, she turned back into the room to check her appearance in the pierglass mirror. She had dressed simply: a cream silk shirt tucked into cigarette-slim beige trousers. Around her waist she had slung a wide tan leather belt that showed off her narrow waist. She had debated what to do with her hair in the heat, but at the last moment had left it long and loose, waving over her shoulders. Her blonde hair was one of her best features.

Cast adrift in the middle of her beautifully furnished bedroom, she found herself making a helpless little gesture indicative of she didn’t know what. She had greeted countless visitors to Kooraki over the years. Why go into a spin now? Three successive inward breaths calmed her. She had read the helpful hint somewhere and, in need of it, formed the habit. It did work. Time to go downstairs now and greet their honoured guest.

Out in the hallway, lined on both sides with gilt-framed paintings, she walked so quietly towards the head of the staircase she might have been striving to steal a march on their guest. Ava could hear resonant male voices, one a little deeper, darker than the other, with a slight but fascinating accent. So they were already inside the house. She wasn’t sure why she did it but, like a child, she took a quick peek—seeing while remaining unseen—over the elegant wrought-iron lace of the balustrade down into the Great Hall.

It was then she saw the man who was to turn her whole life upside down. A moment she was destined never to forget. He was in animated conversation with her brother, Dev, both of them standing directly beneath the central chandelier with all its glittering, singing crystal drops. Their body language was proof they liked and respected each other, if one accepted the theory that the distance one maintained between oneself and another said a great deal about their relationship. To Ava’s mind these two were simpatico.

Both young men were stunningly handsome. Some inches over six feet, both were wide through the shoulders, lean-hipped, with hard-muscled thighs and long, long legs. As might be expected of top-class polo players, both possessed superb physiques. The blond young man was her brother, James Devereaux Langdon, Master of Kooraki following the death of their grandfather Gregory Langdon, cattle king and national icon; the other was his foil, his Argentine friend and wedding guest. Juan-Varo de Montalvo had flown in a scant fifteen or so minutes before, on a charter flight from Longreach, the nearest domestic terminal to the Langdon desert stronghold—a vast cattle station bordered to the west and north-west by the mighty Simpson, the world’s third-largest desert.

In colouring, the two were polarised. Dev’s thick hair was a gleaming blond, like her own. Both of them had the Langdon family’s aquamarine eyes. De Montalvo’s hair was as black and glossy as a crow’s wing. He had the traditional Hispanic’s lustrous dark eyes, and his skin was tanned to a polished deep bronze. He was very much a man of a different land and culture. It showed in his manner, his voice, his gesticulations—the constant movement of his hands and shoulders, even the flick of his head. Just looking down at him caused a stunning surge of heat in her chest that dived low down into her body, pretty much like swallowing a mouthful of neat whisky.

There was far too much excitement in her reaction, even if it was strictly involuntary. She was a woman who had to defend her inner fortress which she had privately named Emotional Limbo. Why not? She was a woman in the throes of acrimonious divorce proceedings with her husband Luke Selwyn who had turned nasty, even threatening.

She had long reached the conclusion that Luke was a born narcissist, with the narcissist’s exaggerated sense of his own importance. This unfortunate characteristic had been fostered from birth by his doting mother, who loved him above all else. Monica Selwyn, however, had pulled away from her daughter-in-law. Ava was the woman who had taken her son from her. The pretence that she had been liked had been at times more than Ava could bear.

When she’d told Luke long months ago she was leaving him and filing for divorce he had flown into a terrible rage. She would have feared him, only she had tremendous back-up and support from just being a Langdon. Luke was no match for her brother. Why, then, had she married him? She had thought she loved him, however imperfectly. Ava knew she couldn’t go on with her life without asking herself fundamental questions.

In retrospect she realised she had been Luke’s trophy bride—a Langdon with all that entailed. Her leaving him, and in doing so rejecting him, had caused Luke and his establishment family tremendous loss of face. That was the truth of the matter. Loss of face. She hadn’t broken Luke’s heart, just trampled his colossal pride. But wasn’t that a potentially dangerous thing for any woman to do to a vain man?

Luke would mend. She was prepared to bet her fortune on that. Whereas she now had a sad picture of herself as a psychologically damaged woman.

Maybe everyone was damaged—only it came down to a question of degree? Some would say one couldn’t be damaged unless one allowed it, furthermore believed it. Unfortunately she had. She felt she was a coward in some ways: afraid of so many things. Afraid to trust. Afraid to stand her ground. Afraid to reach out. Almost afraid to move on. That hurt. For all her lauded beauty, at her core was painfully low self-esteem. Her skin was too thin. She knew it. Pain could reach her too easily.

Ava had lived most of her life feeling utterly powerless: the granddaughter, not the all-important grandson of a national icon. In her world it was sons who were greatly to be prized. But surely that was history? Women through the ages had been expected to make as good a marriage as possible, to honour and obey her husband and bear him children. In some privileged cases for the continuation of the family dynasty.

She didn’t give a darn about dynasty. Yet she had found enough courage—perhaps courage was the wrong word and defiance was much better—to fly in the face of her authoritarian grandfather’s wishes. He had despised Luke and warned her off him. So had Dev, who’d only had her happiness and wellbeing at heart. She had ignored both of them—to her cost—she had got it badly wrong. Proof of her poor judgement.

It would take her some time before she was able to pick herself up and walk back into mainstream life. She had so many doubts about herself and her strength. Many, many women would understand that. It was a common pattern among besieged women trying so hard to do the right thing, with their efforts totally disregarded or held in contempt by their partners. She sometimes wondered if genuine equality between the sexes would ever happen. Women were still receiving horrific treatment at the hands of men all over the world. Unbearable to think that might remain the status quo.

To be truthful—and she believed she was—she had to own up to the fact she had never been passionate about Luke, or indeed any man. Certainly not the way Amelia was passionate about Dev. That was love—once in a lifetime love. In Ava’s eyes, one had to be incredibly blessed to find it. Ava was an heiress, but she knew better than anyone that although money could buy just about anything it couldn’t buy love. Her marriage, she acknowledged with a sense of shame, had been an escape route from her dysfunctional family—most particularly her late grandfather.

Her grandfather’s death, however, had brought about swift changes. All for the better. Dev now headed up Langdon Enterprises, of which Kooraki, one of the nation’s leading cattle stations and beef producers, was but an arm; their estranged parents were back together—something that filled her and Dev with joy; and Sarina Norton, Kooraki’s housekeeper for many years and her grandfather’s not-so-secret mistress, had taken herself off to enjoy la dolce vita in Italy, the country of her birth.

And last but not least Sarina’s daughter—the long-suffering Amelia—was putting the seal on her life-long unbreakable bond with Dev by getting married to him. Ava had long thought of Dev and Amelia as twin stars, circling a celestial field, never far apart. Now at last they were coming together, after delaying the wedding for some months as a mark of respect for Gregory Langdon’s passing.

She now had the honour and privilege of being Amelia’s chief bridesmaid—one of three. Together the lives of Dev and Amelia had gained their ultimate purpose. They would have children—beautiful children. Mel was strong. Ava had always been stunned by Mel’s strength. Beside Mel she was very conscious of her own frailty. Despite the fact that all her own hopes had vanished like a morning mist she couldn’t be happier for them. Dev was gaining a beautiful, clever wife who would be a great asset to the family business enterprises, her parents were gaining a daughter-in-law, and she was gaining the sister she had longed for.

Triumphs all round for the Langdon family. The past had to make way for a bright future. There had to be a meaning, a purpose, a truth to life. So far it seemed to Ava she had struggled through her existence. How she longed to take wing! She had suffered through the bad times—surely things could only get better?

From her vantage point it was plain to see their visitor projected the somewhat to be feared “dominant male” aura. Man controlled the world. Man was the rightful inheritor of the earth. In a lucid flash of insight she realised she didn’t much like men. Her grandfather had been a terrifying man. But at the end of the day what did all that power and money matter? Both were false idols. Strangely, the dominant-male image didn’t bother her in her adored brother. Dev had heart. But it put her on her guard against men like Juan-Varo de Montalvo. He looked every inch of his six-three—the quintessential macho male. It surrounded him like a force field. Such men were dangerous to emotionally fragile women wishing to lead a quiet life. In her case, she came with baggage too heavy to handle.

De Montalvo, she had learned from Dev, was the only son and heir of one of the richest land-owners in Argentina—Vicente de Montalvo. His mother was the American heiress Caroline Bradfield, who had eloped with Vicente at the age of eighteen against her parents’ violently expressed disapproval. Not that Vicente had been all that much older—twenty-three.

The story had made quite a splash at the time. They must have been passionately in love and remained so, Ava thought with approval and a touch of envy. They were still together. And Dev had told her the bitter family feuding was mercifully long over.

Why wouldn’t it be? Who would reject a grandson like Juan-Varo de Montalvo, who made an instant formidable impact. He had the kind of features romance novelists invariably labelled “chiselled”. That provoked a faint smile—but, really, what other word could one use? He was wearing a casual outfit, much like Dev. Jeans, blue-and-white open-necked cotton shirt, sleeves rolled up, high polished boots. Yet he still managed to look … the word patrician sprang to mind. That high-mettled demeanour was inbred—a certain arrogance handed down through generations of a hidalgo family.

Dev had told her the Varo side of the family had its own coat of arms, and de Montalvo’s bearing was very much that of the prideful Old World aristocrat. His stance was quite different from Dev’s New World elegant-but-relaxed posture, Dev’s self-assured nonchalance. Only as de Montalvo began moving around the Great Hall with striking suppleness a picture abruptly flashed into her mind. It was of a jaguar on the prowl. Didn’t jaguars roam the Argentinian pampas? She wasn’t exactly sure, but she would check it out. The man was dazzlingly exotic. He spoke perfect English. Why wouldn’t he speak perfect English? He had an American mother. He would be a highly educated man, a cultured world-traveller.

High time now for her to go downstairs to greet him. She put a welcoming smile on her face. Dev would be expecting it.

The wedding was in a fortnight’s time. The bride-to-be, Amelia, was still in Sydney, where she was finishing off work for her merchant bank. Dev was planning on flying there to collect her and their parents and some other Devereaux guests. That meant Ava would be playing hostess to Juan-Varo de Montalvo for a short time.

The season was shaping up to be absolutely brilliant for the great day: the sky was so glorious a blue she often had the fancy she was being drawn up into its density. Despite that, they were all praying the Channel Country wouldn’t be hit by one of its spectacular electrical storms that blew up out of nowhere and yet for the most part brought not a drop of rain. For once rain wasn’t needed after Queensland’s Great Flood—a natural disaster that had had a silver lining. After long, long punishing years of drought, the Outback was now in splendid, near unprecedented condition.

Kooraki was a place of extraordinary wild beauty, with every waterhole, creek, billabong and lagoon brimming with life-giving water that brought an influx of waterbirds in their tens of thousands. So the station was in prime condition—the perfect site for the marriage between her brother and her dear friend Amelia.

Guests were coming from all over the country, and Juan-Varo de Montalvo was, in fact, the first overseas visitor to arrive. In his honour Dev had arranged a polo match and a post-polo party for the coming weekend. Invitations had gone out, generating huge interest. Most Outback communities, with their love of horses, were polo-mad. De Montalvo would captain one team, Dev the other. The two men had forged their friendship on the polo field. Dev had even visited the de Montalvo estancia—a huge ranch that ran Black Angus cattle, located not all that far from the town of Córdoba. So here were two polo-playing cattlemen who had every reason to relate to each other.

How Juan-Varo de Montalvo would relate to her was an entirely different matter. As she moved, her heart picked up a beat a second. Sometimes the purely physical got the better of the mind. She consoled herself with that thought.

Both men looked up as Ava began her descent of the curving staircase, one slender hand trailing over the gleaming mahogany banister. Ava, herself, had the oddest sensation she was walking on air. Her blood was racing. She felt in no way comfortable, let alone possessed of her usual poise. How could feelings run so far ahead of the rational mind?

“Ah, here’s Ava,” Dev announced with brotherly pride.

Dev’s eyes were on his sister and not on Juan-Varo de Montalvo, whose dark regard was also fixed on the very fair young woman who was making her way so gracefully to them. He had known in advance she was beautiful. Dev had boasted many times that he had a beautiful sister. But the reality far exceeded his expectations. He was used to beautiful women. He was a man who loved women, having grown up surrounded by them—doting grandmothers, aunts, female cousins. He adored his mother. He had three beautiful sisters—one older, very happily married with a small son, his godchild, and two younger, with legions of admirers—but something about this young woman sent a jolt of electricity shafting through his body.

He could see beneath the grace, the serene air and the poise that she was oddly vulnerable. The vulnerability seemed inexplicable in a woman who looked like an angel and had grown up as she had, with every material advantage. Dev had told him about her failed marriage. Maybe she saw it as a humiliation? A fall from grace? Maybe she was guilty of heedlessly breaking a heart—or worse, inflicting deliberate pain? He had been brought up to frown on divorce. He had lived with two people—his mother and father—who had made a wonderful life together and lived side by side in great harmony.

She had to tilt her head to look up at him. There was a curiously sad look in her jewel-like eyes, the same dazzling aquamarine as her brother’s. She had flawless skin, with the luminescence of a pearl. Few women could claim a face so incandescent.

It was in all probability a symptom of jet lag, but he felt a distinct low-pitched hum in his ears. Her smile, lovely and effortlessly alluring, seemed to conceal secrets. He had a certainty it was she who had ended her marriage. A cruel thing for an angel to do. One would expect such coldness only of a young and imperious goddess, who would only be loved for as long as it suited her.

Ava released a caught breath. “Welcome to Kooraki, Señor de Montalvo,” she said with a welcome return of her practised poise. Heat was coming off the Argentine’s aura. It was enveloping her. “It’s a pleasure to have you here.” It was necessary to go through the social graces even when she was en garde and taking great pains not to show it.

“Varo, please,” he returned, taking her outstretched hand. His grip was gentle enough not to crush her slender fingers, but firm enough not to let her escape. “It’s a great pleasure to be here. I thought it impossible you could be as beautiful as Dev has often described, but now I find you are even more so.”

She felt the wave of colour rise to her cheeks but quickly recovered, giving him a slightly ironic look, as though judging and rejecting the sincerity of his words. “Please—you mustn’t pander to my vanity,” she returned lightly. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had caused her to flush. She didn’t like the enigmatic half-smile playing around his handsome mouth either. The expression in his dark eyes with their fringe of coal-black lashes was fathoms deep. She was angry with herself for even noticing.

“I had no such thought,” he responded suavely, somehow establishing his male authority.

“Then, thank you.”

There was strength behind his light grip on her. As a conductor for transmitting energy, his touch put her into such a charged state it caused an unprecedented flare of sexual hostility. It was as though he was taking something from her that she didn’t want to give.

The warning voice in her head struck up again. You have to protect yourself from this man, Ava. He could burn down all your defences.

That she already knew.

“I find myself fascinated with Kooraki,” de Montalvo was saying, including Dev in his flashing white smile. “It is much like one’s own private kingdom. The Outback setting is quite extraordinary.”

“From colonial times every man of ambition and means came to regard his homestead as the equivalent of the Englishman’s country manor,” Dev told him. “Most of the historic homesteads were built on memories of home—which was in the main the British Isles.”

“Whereas our style of architecture was naturally influenced by Spain.”

Dev turned his head to his sister. “As I told you, Estancia de Villaflores, Varo’s home, is a superb example.”

“We have much to be proud of, don’t we?” de Montalvo said, with some gravitas.

“Much to be grateful for.”

“Indeed we do.” Brother and sister spoke as one.

Ava was finding de Montalvo’s sonorous voice, with its deep dark register, making her feel weak at the knees. She was susceptible to voices. Voice and physical aura were undeniably sensual. Here was a man’s man, who at the same time was very much a woman’s man.

He was dangerous, all right.

Get ensnared at your peril.

They exchanged a few more pleasant remarks before Dev said, “I’m sure you’d like to be shown your room, Varo. That was a very long trip, getting here. Ava will show you upstairs. I hope you like what we’ve prepared for you. After lunch we’ll take the Jeep for a quick tour of the outbuildings and a look at some of the herd. An overview, if you like. We have roughly half a million acres, so we’ll be staying fairly close in for today.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” de Montalvo returned, with a sincere enthusiasm that made brother and sister feel flattered.

“Your luggage is already in your room, Varo,” Ava told him, aware she was struggling with the man’s magnetism. “One of the staff will have brought it up by now, taking the back entrance.” Although de Montalvo had travelled a very long way indeed, he showed no signs whatever of fatigue or the usual jet lag. In fact he exuded a blazing energy.

“So no one is wasting time?” De Montalvo took a small step nearer Ava. An inch or two above average height, Ava felt strangely doll-like. “Please lead on, Ava,” he invited. “I am all attention.”

That made Dev laugh. “I have a few things to attend to, Varo,” he called as his sister and his guest moved towards the grand staircase. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

“Hasta luego!” De Montalvo waved an elegant hand.

Ava had imagined that as she ascended the staircase she would marshal her defences. Now, only moments later, those defences were imploding around her. She had the sense that her life had speeded up, entered the fast lane. She had met many high-powered people in her life—none more so than her grandfather, who hadn’t possessed a shining aura. Neither did Montalvo. It was dark-sided, too complex. It wasn’t any comfort to realise she had been shocked out of her safe haven. Worse yet to think she might be shorn of protection.

How could any man do that in a split second? The impact had been as swift and precise as a bolt of lightning. Maybe it was because she wasn’t used to exotic men? Nor the way he looked at her—as if he issued an outright challenge to her womanhood. Man, that great force of nature, totally irresistible if he so chose.

The thought angered her. Perhaps it was borne of her sexual timidity? Luke had early on in their marriage formed the habit of calling her frigid. She now had an acute fear that if she weren’t very careful she might rise to de Montalvo’s lure. He was no Luke. He was an entirely different species. Yet in some bizarre way he seemed familiar to her. Only he was a stranger—a stranger well aware of his own power.

As he walked beside her, with his tantalising lithe grace, glowing sparks might have been shooting off his powerful lean body. Certainly something was making her feel hot beneath her light clothing. She who had been told countless times she always appeared as cool as a lily. That wasn’t the case now. She felt almost wild, when she’d had no intention let alone any experience of being any such thing. To her extreme consternation her entire body had become a mass of leaping responses. If those responses broke the surface it would be the ultimate humiliation.

His guest suite was in the right wing. It had been made ready by the household staff. Up until their grandfather’s death the post of housekeeper had been held by Sarina Norton, Amelia’s mother. Sarina had been most handsomely rewarded by Gregory Langdon for “services rendered”. No one wanted to go there …

The door lay open. Varo waved a gallant arm, indicating she should enter first. Ava had the unsettling feeling she had to hold on to something. Maybe the back of a chair? The magnetic pull he had on her was so strong. How on earth was she going to cope when Dev flew off to Sydney? She was astonished at how challenging she found the prospect. What woman reared to a life of privilege couldn’t handle entertaining a guest? She was a woman who had not only been married but was in the process of divorce—she being the one who had initiated the action. Didn’t that qualify her as a woman of the world?

Or perhaps one could interpret it as the action of a woman who didn’t hesitate to inflict pain and injury? Perhaps de Montalvo had already decided against her? His family of Spanish origin was probably Roman Catholic, but divorce couldn’t be as big a no-no now as it had been in the time of Katherine of Aragon, Henry VIII’s deposed, albeit lawfully wedded, wife. Not that taking Katherine’s place had done Anne Boleyn much good.

Ava put the tension that was coiling tighter and tighter inside her down to an attack of nerves. It was all so unreal.

The guest room that had been chosen for de Montalvo was a grand room—and not only in terms of space and the high scrolled ceilings that were a feature of Kooraki’s homestead. The headboard of the king-sized bed, the bed skirt and the big cushions were in a metallic grey silk, with pristine white bed-coverings and pillows. Above the bed hung a large gold-framed landscape by a renowned English-Australian colonial artist. Mahogany chests to each side of the bed held lamps covered in a parchment silk the same colour as the walls. A nineteenth century English secretary, cabinet and comfortable chair held pride of place in one corner of the room. The rest of the space was taken up by a gilded Louis XVI-style sofa covered in black velvet with a matching ottoman. All in all, a great place to stay, with the added plus of a deep walk-in wardrobe and an en suite bathroom.

He said something in Spanish that seemed to make sense to her even though she didn’t know the language. Quite obviously he was pleased. She did have passable French. She was better with Italian, and she even had some Japanese—although, she acknowledged ruefully, keeping up with languages made it necessary to speak them every day. She even knew a little Greek from a fairly long stint in Athens the year after leaving university.

De Montalvo turned back from surveying the landscaped garden. “I’ll be most happy and comfortable here, Ava,” he assured her. “I’m sure this will be a trip never to be forgotten.”

She almost burst out that she felt the same. Of course she did not. She meant to keep her feelings to herself. “I’ll leave you in peace, then, Varo,” she said. “Come downstairs whenever you like. Lunch will be served at one. Dev will be back by then.”

“Gracias,” he said.

Those brilliant dark eyes were looking at her again. Looking at her. Through her. She turned slowly for the door, saying over a graceful shoulder, “Nuestra casa es su casa.”

His laugh was low in his throat. “You make a fine attempt. Your accent is good. I hope to teach you many more Spanish phrases before I leave.”

Ava dared to face him. “Excellent,” she said, her tone a cool parry.