An Outback Affair/Runaway Wife/Outback Bridegroom/Outback Surrender/Home To Eden (8 page)

“Maybe I don't want you to see me as I am.” It came out so very starkly she herself was shocked.

“If you're trying to tell me you've done bad things in your life, I just don't believe it.”

“Not bad things, no.” God, she hoped not. Was it bad to have allowed Colin to rape her? For that was what it had been. No love. No consent. But she couldn't have stopped him without being knocked senseless.

“In retrospect I can see how naïve I've been. I don't admire myself for it. I've accepted people at face value. If they were nice to me I thought they were nice people. But some wear handsome masks to hide their ugly faces. Maybe they're really devils, or in the devil's employ? That's when despair comes.”

The mere thought of her entangled with a “devil” chilled his blood. Goodness knew, he'd seen the face of evil in a beautiful woman. “Laura, if you're in a bad situation you have to get free,” he said, with some passion.

She closed her eyes. “I know that. I'm working on it. I don't feel alone. But I need a little time.” Why couldn't she simply say, Something horrible happened to me, Evan. A marriage that shamed me. She didn't realize that hers was a classic response from innocent victims of abuse.

“Did you live with this man?” Evan asked bluntly, giving
in to his first bitter taste of something near jealousy. He hated it.

Her beautiful clear eyes became shuttered. “He told me he loved me. He swore it time after time.”

“It sounds more like he terrorized you.” His voice was grim.

Laura shook her head, not ready to tell anyone outside Sarah, another woman, what she had suffered at Evan's hands. “I just fell out of love with him.” She took a quick sip of her coffee, swallowed it.

“Are you sure of that?”

“Haven't I come here to escape?”

“Obviously he has a powerful hold on you?”

“Yes.” No point in lying.

“Laura, I'm sorry.”

She couldn't fail to recognize his sincerity. “I'm sorry too. But it's my own fault. I was the easiest target.” She wondered what he would ask next.

“You know, you're the one who has to decide you need help. Or do you want to deliver yourself back to him.”

“God, no!” She couldn't stop the shudder. “What an unbearable thought. But he won't let go.” In fact I'm certain he's already begun looking, she thought.

“That might well be the case with you?” he watched her face. “You can't let go either.”

“That's not right, Evan,” she said, very quietly, her soft lovely features firming with resolve.

“Then help is at hand, Laura. All you have to do is want it.”

“You have no use for weak people, do you?” She lifted her head.

“I don't regard you as weak. Whatever makes you think that?”

“I'm not a woman of substance.” She fought against sudden tears.

“I'd like to be—I'm going to be—a woman of substance, like Sarah,” she said.

“Sarah has had her troubles, I'm sure. And they've left
their mark on her. As my bad experiences have left an indelible mark on me. You're younger than either of us. One doesn't know everything at twenty or twenty-three. That's no age at all! One's whole life is a process of learning. Obviously someone has gone out of their way to try to crush your spirit. After your father died you must have felt very much alone.”

“I really needed him.” She forced her grip on her coffee cup to relax. “I don't think I've felt safe for years. Certainly for a long time now the feeling of safety has eluded me.”

“What drew you to your doctor, then?” he asked, using a quiet, soothing voice. “Why did you fall in love with him?”

She put a hand beneath her satin hair. “He's very handsome. Nothing like you.”

“Thank you.” His mouth turned down.

“I mean he's an entirely different type. Golden-haired. Azure blue eyes. Cold, cold, cold. Nowhere near as tall as you, or so powerfully built. He's slim. Very elegant, in his way. He's terribly interested in clothes. He wears only the best.”

“These are very superficial things, Laura,” he chided her.

“You asked. I'm trying to answer. He's clever. He's very highly regarded.”

“What's his speciality?”

“I'm not saying. I've already told you too much. He's very much admired.”

“It occurs to me
you
don't admire him.” His deep voice was dry.

“He's so clever he can be insufferable,” she burst out, then stopped abruptly. “That's all I'm telling you, Evan.”

“Well, it's a start.” He continued to study her expressive face.

“I don't buy
your
cover either,” she countered. “I'm going to steal into your place one day…”

“To do what?” He narrowed his eyes at her.

“Search for clues. You could be an international spy. Are they still around?”

“Of course they are,” he confirmed. “They're all out there
in the arena. All the major powers, all the little guys spying on each other. The most extraordinary thing is even if they're on the same side they won't tell each other what they've learned. The strongest intelligence agencies just don't want to share.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“Worse, it could be criminal negligence.”

“You've travelled widely?” It was good to shift the focus from herself.

“I have. A lot of the time hitching rides. Moving on.”

“An adventurer?”

“Something like that.”

“Why did you move here? It's not your environment. You couldn't be more isolated.”

“That was the big attraction,” he said dryly. “The isolation and the lure of the desert. Though the desert was nearly the death of me.”

“How? Please go on.” She was fascinated.

“I was with an anthropologist friend who was visiting sacred sites when our helicopter crashed. One minute we were sitting pretty, the next falling out of the sky. This is it! It's all over! The pilot was badly injured, but Greg and I managed to get him clear before the chopper exploded. Search and Rescue spotted us.”

“A bad experience.”

“I've had worse.” And a lot closer, he thought.

“There must have been some good ones?” she insisted, admiring the way his thick dark hair curled around his head and onto his nape.

“Many beautiful and unforgettable ones. The heavenly peaks of the Himalayas. I didn't climb. I took it easy in a chopper. And perhaps the most awesome journey was to Antarctica, some years back.” Hell, would she remember his photograph on the back cover of his book, complete with full beard? “I got to see a glorious world with a group of great guys from all over,” he continued briskly. “In a curious way the vastness, the overwhelming feeling of being a speck, alone in its powerful effect, isn't unlike the feeling one gets
in the heart of the Outback. You recognise how tough it is to survive. The huskies howl as mournfully as any dingo. The thought that one could easily lose one's life is the same in both places.”

“Which makes us full of admiration for all our explorers.”

“Lord, yes,” he agreed fervently, even reverently. “It's not a question of pushing to the limits. It's going beyond human endurance. And the beauty of the place! The Outback is all brilliant oven-baked ochres. Extremes of colour—blood-red, cobalt blue, the rich gold of the Spinifex plains. A world of great heat and dancing mirage. Antarctica is blinding whiteness. A world of ice with tinges of aqua in the crevices. From the great red pyramids of the desert, its shifting sands sculpted by the winds, to the frozen pyramids of ice and the swirling white blizzards.”

“I'm forming instant pictures.” Laura shivered. “How long were you there?”

“A little over two weeks, then I had to move on.” He didn't say he'd been due back in Washington.

“I would think an experience like that would not only be memorable it would stay for ever.”

“Like a space flight to the moon.” He smiled.

“I'm surprised you haven't been there.” she gently mocked.

“I've talked to a guy who has.”

“Truly?”

He nodded, turning his head as a familiar strident sound interrupted them. “That's the phone. I'll get it, if you like. It could be Harriet. I asked her to ring us if she had news.”

“I pray it's good!”

T
HE
shock of Ruth McQueen's death immediately encompassed the whole town, although no one was informed of the exact circumstances. The official word was heart attack.

The fact that she had gone for a long walk in the bush no one found extraordinary. Ruth McQueen, after all, had run a great Outback station almost single-handedly for many years after her husband's premature death. She had led a full and active life, in her youth and middle life having piloted her own plane over the vast wilderness that was the country's Red Heart.

Ruth McQueen was the Outback like few other women, the matriarch of a great pioneering family. What everyone did consider extraordinary was she had gone off on her own without telling anyone. A grave mistake in the bush. Even seasoned stockmen had found themselves lost.

But Ruth McQueen, paradoxically respected and loathed, had been a bold woman, and appropriately she had died boldly, perhaps wishing to end her life out in the wild bush rather than in her bed. For it was soon made public that Ruth McQueen had had a heart condition she had been advised would kill her if she persisted in living her life to extremes.

One would have needed to know Ruth McQueen and her family intimately to begin to understand the true circumstances that had led to her death. But, as with most things pertaining to powerful families' affairs, the exact truth would never be known. It would do no good. Rather, a lot of harm—which was why the McQueen family reached a unanimous agreement to bury the matriarch with the full honours they all knew she did not deserve.

It was called burying Ruth with her sins. But first the family had to come together in solidarity. Perpetuate a myth.

Kyall's younger sister, Christine, a glamorous international
model, would be asked to return home. No one was absolutely sure she would. The late Ruth McQueen had to take much of the blame for her granddaughter's defection.

 

The shoot had actually begun with a crew call at six o'clock in the morning. Christine had had to be on the set by eight o'clock for hair and make-up. The photographer, a famous one, favoured working early mornings or late afternoons. This was a big budget shoot to launch a French designer's new collection of trousers, trouser suits, evening tuxedos and smoking suits with the waistcoats, shirts and blouses that went with them.

Christine had been engaged for the project because she looked fabulous in trousers. She had a tall, ultra-lean, sexy body. Add to that she was beautiful, with a healthy vivacious look that was gaining ground against the anorexic waifs. She had gorgeous blue eyes and that wonderful lavish hair. She was also intelligent, co-operative, good humoured, and clever enough to come up with many different looks. A winning recipe for becoming a success.

Christine had never dreamed about success when she had fled her home, the historic sheep station Wunnamurra in the Australian Outback. Her flight had been to escape her mother's and her grandmother's domination.

By sixteen she had grown into a frame inherited from her father's side of the family—nearly six feet tall, with wide shoulders, a shapely bust, lean through the torso and flanks, and long, long legs. Her mother was short of stature, like her grandmother. They made up for it with their lofty, commanding manner.

Both had been uncomfortable with the fact Christine had grown “so big”. They did not find it attractive. It was splendid for brother Kyall, the McQueen heir, to top six-three; disaster for a young woman. Men would treat her with wry amusement. Women would either be sympathetic or cruel.

Christine's height and her weight—she had been much heavier then—had made her mother especially very unhappy. Her mother had never mentioned her now famous smile, or
her perfect teeth which had landed her a lucrative toothpaste ad in the early days. Her mother had despaired—and had been quite vocal: Christine would never find a man who could sweep her off her feet. She'd survived on the love of her father and the brother she adored.

On her eighteenth birthday she had been able to access the income from her trust fund. It had provided her with the means for escape. She would live where she chose; be her own woman. She had started in Sydney where a top model agency, instantly seeing her potential, had taken her on to their books, promising her big things if she'd follow their advice. She had—to the letter.

A short year later she had moved with their blessing to New York, where things had really begun to happen.

A few months back she'd even been offered a feature role in a big budget action film, but when it was all said and done her life, exotic and crammed to the brim with her choice of endless parties and functions, wasn't making her as happy as her fans might have thought. Neither was her succession of relationships.

All her life, from adolescence, what she'd wanted to do was get married and settle down with her prince—her golden-headed blue-eyed Mitch. Mitchell Claydon, heir to Marjimba Station. She'd always loved Mitch, as Kyall had loved Sarah.

God knew Kyall had been through hell for years because Sarah had chosen a career as a doctor over becoming Kyall's wife. Clever Sarah! Sarah had been a good friend to her when they were kids. Sarah had never laughed unkindly. Sarah had always told her that one day, when her looks settled, she was going to be so beautiful.

“It will happen, Chris!”

Sarah had been beautiful even as a kid. She remembered the great bond that had existed between Sarah and her brother; between her and Mitch.

So here I am at the high point of my career, and nowhere near as happy with my life as I should be, Christine thought as someone knocked, then pushed open the door of her
trailer—her home on the set. She and Sylvie Chadwick, her favourite hairstylist, turned in mild surprise to see who it was.

“I thought we were supposed to be having a bloody break!” Sylvie exploded. “God knows, Chris is just a saint, putting up with bloody Malcolm's demands.”

“It's not Malcolm. Not this time.” Annie, one of the photographer's young assistants, apologised, grinding her hands together. She addressed the nicer-natured Christine directly. Sylvie was so fiery. Like her hair. “Sorry to barge in, Christine, but there's someone trying to get a message to you urgently. A lawyer, but I missed his name. Security wouldn't let him past. But here's a note.” She produced a crumpled piece of paper that the protective Sylvie immediately snatched and passed to Christine unread.

“The amount of rubbish Chris has to put up with,” Sylvie complained. “What's it say, Chris? Let me guess. He's a big fan? I can deal with it.”

“Not this time, Sylvie,” Christine said in a very quiet voice. “This is a message from home. From Australia.”

“Bad news, luv?” Sylvie saw how Christine's colour had changed.

“I'm afraid so,” Christine responded in the same quiet, unemotional voice. “My grandmother has died.”

“Oh, that's rough!” The British-born Sylvie grasped Christine's shoulder sympathetically. “You never talk much about your life back in Oz, but I bet you loved her?”

“There was no one like her, actually.”

“Ah, luv!” Sylvie, seared by images of her own darling grandmother, now passed away, quite missed the irony in Christine's voice.

No miraculous reconciliation there, Christine thought staring sightlessly at her own reflection. Even as she sought to take the news in she had to recognise that at this point in her life she wanted to go home. Not only to see her family.

Mitch would be there.

 

Laura let herself into the Endeavour Theatre, which also doubled as the concert hall, using the key Evan had given her.
After day after day of brilliant sunshine, cloudless cobalt blue skies, the quick silver of mirage, her eyes had to adjust to the gloom.

This was her second visit. She had spent most of yesterday afternoon practising, all her disciplines coming back to her as she had tried out the beautiful, very responsive piano. She was highly impressed with it. She would never have thought to find an instrument so fine in a small Outback town, but then McQueen money had provided it for the town and the McQueens apparently didn't do things by halves.

Tomorrow was Ruth McQueen's funeral. It had been set for mid-week, allowing time for Kyall's sister, Christine, their cousin Suzanne, a student in Sydney, and the extended family to arrive.

She still didn't know if she was going. She had no connection with the McQueens except through Sarah, who was marrying into the family. Though as far as the town was concerned she and Sarah were long-standing friends. Both of them had allowed the town to believe that. It was easier, and it had ensured Laura's quick acceptance. Evan thought she should go to support Sarah, and Evan was a very compelling man.

The interior of the theatre was very quiet and half dark, faintly musty from being closed up, almost ghostly, though the black grand piano had illuminated the moment she'd turned on some lights.

It was wonderful she'd been allowed access. She was very grateful and she owed it all to Evan. He had consulted the powers that be—Enid Reardon, Kyall's mother, the Mayor, and conductor of the town's orchestra guild, Alex Matheson.

Evan had told her Matheson was a brilliant musician who'd had to give up a promising career because of his erratic eyesight that sometimes left him half blind. A sad story and one that had really affected her. Evan said she would have her chance to thank Alex at the funeral, if she went along. It might seem strange if she didn't, given her friendship with Sarah.

She really didn't have any suitable clothes. Maybe she could find something.

The funeral was to take place at the McQueens' historic station Wunnamurra. Ruth McQueen was to be buried beside her husband in the family cemetery. She hadn't seen Sarah since it had happened, but they had spoken briefly on the phone. Sarah had sounded shocked, but strangely as though a great burden had lifted. Or so Laura had thought. She didn't really know what she had based that idea on. Nothing Sarah had actually articulated. More thoughts communicated through the mind.

Laura stared at the piano for a few moments without stirring. Then she went to it, opening it up, letting her fingers drift across the strings. No Colin to upset and undermine her, make her jittery with nerves. She sat down on the piano seat—she had already adjusted it—beginning to limber up with a technical exercise from her student days. That had been the best time of her life.

If only…if only…her father hadn't died. Her father would have seen through Colin's civilised exterior to the harshness beneath.

“My God, will you stop that?” Colin, venting his extreme irritation at her practice, his menacing undertone. “It's enough to make one plug one's ears. If you must play the piano, can't you choose something that falls a lot easier on the ear? Chopin, or something? Though your touch sounds to me all wrong. I'm shocked someone your size can make so much noise.”

His opinion hadn't touched her. She was sure of her own gift. She had been judged by her peers. She knew Colin had no critical ear. His aim had been to paralyse her talent. The reason was simple. She must have no interest outside him.

Nevertheless, in no time at all she had learned not to play when Colin was around. It wasn't a good idea. She, who was full of music, had hungered for it, but had finally found herself shutting down her beautiful Kawai concert grand, turning the key. It had been her father's gift to her at age sixteen, after she had won a national concerto competition.

So her music had been silenced. Her dissenting voice silenced. Her spirit, if not broken, subdued. She had judged herself a total failure in her marriage. Of course that was what Colin had intended. He'd wanted her totally under his control.

She had prayed for help. Someone had listened. One liked to think of a guardian angel at times like that.

Why had she allowed herself to be so intimidated? Why had she crumbled under the weight of his hand? Why had she given him the twisted pleasure of her sob-strangled entreaties? She should have resisted and resisted. Become a warrior.

Perhaps been killed?

She had come to understand with a man like Colin it just could happen. Something could snap. Then the ambulance. The police. The shocked neighbours. How could anything like that have happened in such a house? To such beautiful people? With Colin's immaculate reputation it might even have been thought she had caused it, brought it all down on herself.

Abruptly Laura broke off the intricacies of the technical exercise she was performing on autopilot, allowing her hands to come to rest on the comforting keys. How she loved the feel of them, the pads of her fingers compulsively smoothing the surface. Such emotions washed through her when she played. Yet Colin had almost had her believing she was a woman who knew nothing about passion.

She understood her music thoroughly. She understood passion. What she hadn't understood was the terrible way Colin had tried to communicate passion through violence. Ugly raw violence.

In retrospect it shamed her deeply. Their marriage hadn't undergone a process of disintegration. There had been no marriage from day one. The rest had cast her into such a state of fear and deep confusion about her life that she had run. At the time she had thought of it as self-rescue. Now she knew she was as trapped as ever. She would never be free until she had confronted Colin.

That was definitely scary, but she was determined to
muster all her resources, and some she didn't know she had, to win this big battle in life.

It wasn't the time to think about it now, but how she'd feared that vein that had used to pump in Colin's temple. More often than not it had been the forerunner of some violent outburst against which she'd had no defence short of murder. Some men used their physical strength, so much superior to a woman's, to keep their womenfolk subdued. It was the highest form of cowardice.