An Outback Affair/Runaway Wife/Outback Bridegroom/Outback Surrender/Home To Eden (24 page)

Mitch gave her his beautiful white smile. “No one has ever called us angels before.”

“You've got wings, haven't yah? Further, I have a feelin' you do lots of good things.” Gemmima squinted up at Christine. “You sure are a good-looking girl. A bit tall, but I kinda like it. That plait of yours is like a rope. I used to have hair like that, believe it or not. I bet your husband loves to brush it. Reckon you're newly-weds.”

Christine blushed hotly, not trusting herself to look at the sardonic Mitch. “I have to own up, Gemmima, he's not my husband.”

“Soon will be, if I'm not mistaken.” Gemmima squatted down by her husband, who smiled at her tenderly. “I can see it in your faces. I know these things. Clarry could tell yah if he wasn't so shook up.”

“I think you're a woman who puts a positive spin on everything, Gemmima,” Mitch said in a smooth, pleasant voice. “Now, I want you to go ahead with Chris. I'm going to get Clarry to the plane.”

“Good on yah!” said Gemmima, rising unaided and taking Christine's hand. “He's a real Outback hero. No wonder you're in love with him.” She gave Christine a warm smile. “I'm goin' to be praying for you two.”

“Make it a thousand Our Fathers,” Mitch sug
gested. “How are you feeling now, Clarry?” he asked as the women moved off.

“Gettin' there.” Clarry grimaced.

“Not too good?”

“I'm seein' two of yah, not one.”

“Concussion,” Mitch said, not wanting to worry the man. “Now, I'm going to lift you and carry you back to the plane. Tell me if you're in any pain.”

“I'll be okay, if you just take it easy,” Clarry maintained. “Don't reckon I could walk.”

“You don't have to.” Mitch gave him a wry grin. “Just relax and enjoy the ride.”

U
NLIKE
Wunnamurra, the reigning queen of homesteads, Marjimba Station hadn't changed all that much since Mitch's grandfather's day, Christine thought. Captain Douglas Claydon, awarded the Military Medal for bravery in the field, had returned home from war in the North African desert to marry his faithful Kathleen and add an extra wing. The new wing was to house his parents while he and Kathleen took over the main house to raise a family.

Douglas had hoped for much needed sons, to love and take pride in. They would help him run Marjimba Station, while his daughters would delight him with their accomplishments and marry well, preferably into landed families like themselves. What he and Kathleen got was one fine son, always his favourite, and four clever daughters who lived in their brother's shadow but did go on to marry into suitable pastoral families. This had created a powerful network through kinship of landed people who could depend on one another through thick and thin, people who qui
etly helped one another out when times were tough.

The Claydons and their extended family were universally liked and respected. Family partnerships had been formed to ensure prosperity for them all, new ventures undertaken to carry the cattle chain through the lean times. They had invested heavily in mining and mineral exploration, then cotton, taking a lead from Christine's own family, the McQueens. The name of the game was diversification for both families, though they had one powerful thing in common. They loved the land with a passion.

Christine stood in the burnished sunlight of the driveway, with the rush of green and gold budgerigar overhead, looking at the rambling white homestead that was the Claydon family home. It was set in a grove of magnificent date palms and fiery Outback flora. Unlike Wunnamurra, which was two-storeyed, Marjimba was a large low-lying building. Two wings jutted out at an angle from the original central structure to form what looked like three separate pyramids with wraparound verandahs. All three sections were reached by a short flight of stone steps. Mitch, she knew, had had the whole west wing to himself since he'd turned fourteen and been judged a man.

The first time they'd made love had been in his bedroom after a ball the Claydons had hosted. She remembered the whole experience as though it
were yesterday. The white heat, the hot blood, the thudding heart. Pure desire. She held it all fast in the citadel of her heart. The memory would never go away; like haunting melodies remained in the mind.

She had easily been the most noticeable girl there that night. She'd said it was because of her height. Mitch had said it was because she was just so darn beautiful.

“Your eyes are like liquid sapphires; your skin has the lustre of a pearl; your mouth is as red as rubies.” He had waxed lyrical as his desire increased. “I can see the cleft between your breasts, now the flush on your cheeks!”

Mitch! He'd been giddy with love for her. Her heart in his hands.

Her ballgown had been the same colour as her eyes, a deep blue silk-taffeta, daringly strapless with a tight bodice, tiny waist and a wonderful billowing skirt. Her grandmother, Ruth, had actually let her wear some family jewellery—more for showing off the family possessions than from affection—a perfect sapphire as big as a walnut on a diamond chain. There had been pendant earrings to match, that when she had danced bounced against her cheeks, sending out chinks of light. Even her mother had seemed deeply impressed, and her father content to put his arm around her and kiss her cheek, murmuring, “My beautiful girl!”

Mitch had been her date. Mitch had always been her date. And that night she'd fought such a physical battle against temptation, desperate to behave as expected of her when all her senses and those she hadn't even known she possessed stirred unbidden. That night Mitch had become her first lover. He'd given her the sexual rapture she'd thought she couldn't live without but very sadly did.

Her mental images were so luminous she could have moaned aloud: Mitch holding her passionately in the dark—“I can't, Chris, I can't, I can't. I can't wait any longer. I love you. I'm mad about you. I've got protection. I promise I'll never let anything bad happen to you. My love. My love.”

The agony in his voice had rendered her incandescent, both of them gasping and stumbling, blindly, intensely kissing, hoping, hoping to reach the west wing and his bedroom before someone discovered them. No one who hadn't experienced passionate love could imagine the force of it. If you wanted someone, truly wanted someone, you were lost. If you loved them as she had loved Mitch they entered your psyche.

She had returned his fevered kisses, pressing her body cased in its beautiful gown into his, deliberately inciting him so he hauled her onto the bed. She had felt the thrilling physical sensations in her breasts, in her stomach, the knife-edge between her legs, the strong pull on her womb.

Mitch—his mouth moving all over her face, her neck, the swell of her breasts. She remembered the smell of his skin, the taste of him, his tongue caressing hers. At nineteen, two years older than she, he was the most skilful lover, expertly playing her nerves and sinews like the strings on a violin.

It had been ecstasy and terror. An extravagant blend of both. A giant leap to another level of their extraordinary relationship begun when they were children. In the end she couldn't have stopped him even if she had wanted to. She'd known he couldn't stop himself. It had been delirium. Her first sexual experience. The one against which all others had been judged. And found wanting.

She didn't know whether to laugh or weep. She could simply say she was a one-man woman…

“Say, what's wrong?” Mitch demanded. He'd been assembling her baggage and placing it up on the verandah. Now he came alongside, struck by her preoccupation with the west wing.

“Good question.” She lowered her thick eyelashes before he caught any residual emotion in her gaze.

“Looks like you were thrown by a few memories?” he remarked tersely. As youngsters they'd prided themselves on being able to read each other's thoughts.

“Okay, so it was the most exciting night of my
life.” She didn't attempt to hide her patently obvious thoughts. “The first time we made love.”

“Chrissy, Chrissy, is that supposed to upset me?” he asked, leaning back against the Jeep and jamming his hands in his pockets. “I'm quite sure you've enjoyed a good sex-life these past years.”

“Me?” She gave a little self-mocking grimace. “I live like a nun.”

“Not believeable, kiddo,” he clipped, raking her with his eyes. “Unless you've totally changed. The least you can do is show me what you've learned.”

Her heart twisted at his insolence. Even simple friendship seemed to be out of the question. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you give me to understand I'd better back off?”

“We're grown-ups, aren't we?” he countered, staring her down. “I don't get a lot of fun way out here, Chrissy. What I meant was that you'll never get me to the altar again.”

“I didn't get you there the first time,” she reminded him tartly.

“Now that's a rotten answer. You women are so cruel. You were seriously contemplating it. We made love every time we could. In barns, around corners, every bend of the creek, our lily pond. It was love, wasn't it?”

She looked straight into his blissful blue eyes. “It was more like a freefall through space.”

He didn't move, but glanced away abruptly, ad
justing the tilt of his akubra on his gold-fire hair. “The symbolism, my dear Chrissy, isn't lost on me. But if you'd like to sneak into my room one night while you're here, I'm sure we can work something out. It's just that we'll never be what we were again.”

She shoved on her sunglasses. “I agree. I won't be tempted either.”

“What, you're in denial?”

She had started walking; now she halted abruptly, coming within inches of his taunting face.

“How come you can't commit to anyone?”

“Spoken by the woman who dumped me.” Languidly he pushed a stray silky lock behind her ear. “I was only having you on, Chrissy. You won't get your head on my pillow again. Never!”

“Who says?” she challenged, holding the blue gaze.

“I say.”

“Listen, Mitch Claydon, don't ever use a sentence that ends in ‘never' with me.”

He gave a low whistle, then his marvellous smile. “You know, Chrissy, it's really weird, but you sound just like you used to when you were about sixteen.”

“And you were already in love with me.”

“True.” His eyes darkened to turquoise and she felt his instant withdrawal. “I've been through that once. I don't plan on doing it twice.
Now, let's go inside before this conversation starts getting really rough.”

 

Julanne Claydon loved having Christine in the house. She'd been badly missing her daughter, India, presently living in London, but Christine was surely the next best thing.

Christine knew life could be very lonely for station women, so she did all the things she knew Julanne loved. They took long walks together, or drove to a cool shady picnic spot beside a water lily-filled lagoon. They enjoyed being quiet together or chatting companionably. They listened to music together—Christine had brought over a whole range of CDs—and they played chess just like in the old days.

Both of them loved games of strategy. Christine, to whom winning wasn't as important as enjoying the game, was still amused by Julanne's competitiveness. She never gave up. Afterwards they always had tea, accompanied by a slice of delicious freshly baked cake. Christine always said if she stayed much longer she'd get fat.

“Do racehorses put on weight?” Julanne would reply.

“She's every bit as down to earth and sunny-natured as when she was a child,” Julanne confided to Mitch one evening, when he called to say goodnight. “Success hasn't gone to her head at
all! She enjoys the same old things: having dinner with the family, catching up on all the gossip, the latest news about mutual friends, who's had a baby who's expecting one, the inevitable losses in families—all the sorts of things India never really enjoys talking about much.”

“India was always preoccupied with Kyall,” Mitch pointed out dryly. He watched his mother, glowingly serene, as she brushed out the thick, curling, sun-streaked blonde hair that had once been as golden as his own. “Kyall was the centre of her life.”

“I blame Ruth for that.” Julanne brushed harder. “And myself too, of course. I failed India by allowing her to believe she had a chance.”

Mitch slumped into an armchair sighing. “Mum, no one had a chance as long as there was Sarah. Those two were made for each other.”

“I know that.” Julanne spoke more calmly. “And what about you two? You and Chris? You're always sparring with each other. She's been here two days and the air fairly crackles.”

“That's when I get to see her,” he said in a mock injured voice. “She's been keeping you company mostly.”

“Yes, isn't she sweet?” Julanne smiled. “Don't think I'm going to keep her chained to my side, but she's such fun. She brought heaps of photographs for me to see. She's got some wonderful fashion shots, and photographic-type
shots of just her face. She knew I'd love them, but it's all part of the trade to her. They don't mean much to Christine. Vanity has never been her problem.”

“She got too much of a drubbing as a girl,” Mitch pointed out with a flash of anger. “I don't like to think about the way her mother and Ruth gave her such a hard time.”

“No, it was pretty bad.” Julanne groped around for her glasses. “No wonder she sprouted wings and flew away.”

“She also left me, Mum,” Mitch reminded her, spotting his mother's reading glasses and handing them to her. “I thought I'd never get over it. My one and only love. Isn't that pitiful? She abandoned me so she could show the rest of the world how beautiful she is.”

“It doesn't sound like you've found a cure?” Julanne eyed her adored son with open sympathy.

“You know darn well I haven't. Which doesn't mean I'm thrilled to have her here.”

“Oh?” Julanne's full-throated mezzo sounded highly sceptical.

“Don't look at me like that. I know how you feel about Chris, but she's going to go away again, Mum. Don't kid yourself or get your hopes too high. This will all be too tame for her. She's lived a very glamorous lifestyle. She's told us any number of times she adores New York. She's
done what thousands of women would only dream of doing.”

“Be that as it may!” Julanne murmured vaguely, going to a drawer of her bureau and removing a sheaf of glossy photographs. She extended them to her son.” Take a look at those. I know you want to. It seems to me there are two Christines. The public Christine— the supermodel moving with all the beautiful people—and the real Christine. The one who loves the land, who loves horses and rides like the wind. I'm sure she could leave all the fancy clothes and the wonderful jewellery behind tomorrow. She's perfectly happy in her old gear.”

“Old gear?” Mitch mocked, pausing to stare down at a photograph for a moment. What a luscious mouth Chrissy had. “You mean the tight designer jeans, the sexy little gauzy blouses and the crisp striped shirts? The trendy T-shirts with the tiny sleeves and fancy logos across the front calling attention to her beautiful breasts? She's all woman now, Mum. Forget the boyish look she used to cultivate to annoy her mother.”

“You'd think they were trying to break something in her,” Julanne mused. “Ruth McQueen was the strangest woman I ever encountered or ever expect to. She had so much influence on poor Enid.”

“Poor Enid, nothing!” Mitch exclaimed. He was forever loyal to Christine, and there was
nothing he could do about it. “It's a sad state of affairs when you have to escape your own mother.”