An Outback Affair/Runaway Wife/Outback Bridegroom/Outback Surrender/Home To Eden (43 page)

She gestured to the great open space in front of the homestead, the broad acres of grass, sun-scorched to a bright apricot, a scattering of majestic date palms, stands of grey and blue gum trees, blazing shrubbery that could withstand the dry heat and massive indifference. It was now hard to believe that her mother, in the early days of her marriage, had been devoted to the task of keeping a large area of dry climate garden and a vegetable patch alive.

“We didn't want to put you to the trouble of making lunch.” Brock looked straight into Shelley's emerald eyes, pinning her in place.

What was happening with this girl was too swift, he thought with sudden disquiet. He had a powerful impulse to kiss her again. Not her cheek, but her mouth. He could still feel it trembling under his. Shelley Logan's effect on him was far more radical than he could allow. He'd long trained
himself to be self-sufficient, but now he found the sight of this little Outback girl as fascinating as finding a delicately petalled wildflower in a rock crevice.

She wore a pink shirt with tiny pearly buttons over her jeans, and if anyone thought a redhead shouldn't wear pink they should think again—or maybe Shelley's beautiful skin changed the rules.

“It's no trouble at all.” Shelley appeared bright and friendly, despite the turbulent feelings that were sweeping through her. Fronting up to Brock again took every ounce of her poise and self-confidence. “It's all ready.”

“Isn't there something I can do to help?” Brock enquired. Why the heck had he brought Philip? he asked himself angrily. Unless to protect her…

From himself.

He wasn't a harmless kind of guy. There was such a torrent dammed up inside him that it wouldn't make life easy for any woman, let alone an innocent like Shelley.

Philip pushed away from the wrought-iron balustrade. “Let me,” he said eagerly. “You stay here and talk to Amanda.”

“We'll have plenty of time for that.” Brock took charge, smoothly turning Shelley in the direction of the hall. “I came over to talk about this Outback Adventures operation, remember? Who knows? I might decide to run one myself.”

Amanda, offended, nevertheless decided to follow. Only Philip, hot and thirsty, chose that precise moment to request a drink. He could see a big glass jug, frosty with condensation, which he knew would be full of Shelley's excellent home-made lemonade, with slices of lemon floating in it and tiny sprigs of mint.

“So, Amanda, what have you been doing with yourself since I saw you last?” he asked, with a determined effort to be sociable though he didn't like Amanda at all.

He settled his long length into a planter's chair, moving another companionably closer. Was there nothing he could do to beat Brock to the jump? Brock not only didn't obey
the rules, he didn't even know them. His grandfather behaved in the same way…

In the kitchen, bright and attractive given the dullness and relative sparseness of the rest of the house, Brock leaned against the sink and watched Shelley moving about. She didn't appear the least bit self-conscious under his gaze. Those blazing kisses might never have happened.

But then he saw her outstretched hand faintly tremble. Deep inside her she was throwing out a challenge. He admired that. She moved swiftly and gracefully, at ease if not with him with what she was doing.

“That was an excuse, wasn't it?” she asked, looking up at him. “You don't want to know about my tourist scheme?”

He shook his head. “Of course I do. I respect resourceful people who know how to make a go of things.”

“But you've absolutely no intention of doing something like it yourself?”

He eased away from the flood of sunlight coming in the large window. Sunlight that drew plum-coloured highlights from his raven hair. “I wouldn't have the time. Running the Kingsley empire will be a full-time job.”

“Are things already determined?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Has your grandfather said something positive to you?” In her urgency she came so close to him they were almost touching.

“None of your business, Miss Shelley.”

“I'm sorry.” She flushed under his brilliant gaze.

A long lock of her beautiful hair had fallen out of its upswept arrangement, provoking him to reach out and hook it behind her ear. For all her attempts at calmness and detachment he was very conscious that the attraction between them would take very little to ignite. His hand, tanned and bronzed against her white skin, brushed her cheek. It was a brief almost accidental contact that turned suddenly electric.

“Remember your vows.” Suddenly challenge sparkled out of her green eyes.

“Damned near impossible around you,” he grunted, clamping down on a rush of desire.

“I can see you're a man who loves women.”

“I certainly loved my mother.”

“I know, Brock.” She turned away.

“I think you do. The thing is, my grandfather is not a man I can trust, Shelley. He's a devil, a twister and a tormentor. He's a man living in a world of his own making. The only thing I can trust is the fact he wouldn't want his world destroyed.”

“That doesn't say much for poor Philip.” Sympathy gathered around her eyes.

“I guess it doesn't.” Brock gave her a brooding stare.

“He's worked so hard. Suffered so much humiliation at his grandfather's hands. I know what straining to please is like.”

“Stop acting like Philip is precious to you,” he said with a decided edge.

“What can it possibly mean to you, Brock? Anyone would feel sorry for him.”

“Not me, Shelley girl.”

“Then why did you bring him?” she asked, thoroughly puzzled. “I know I suggested it, but I didn't think you would.”

“Are you disappointed or pleased?” He watched her, narrow-eyed. “Actually, I had no intention of asking him right up until the last minute. But strategy dictated I keep him right under my nose.”

“Strategy?” For some reason she winced. “Of course you'd have a strategy. In a way you're almost as imperious as your grandfather.”

A flash like lightning came from his remarkable eyes. “Don't say that, even in fun. For your information, I hardly make a move without a strategy, so don't go judging me.”

She was unrepentant. “Far from judging you, I'm on your
side. At least, I think I am. Though obviously you're not overwhelmingly friendly today, I don't want to see you get hurt or cause hurt, Brock. Which I know you're capable of. Like exacting revenge, for instance, for the way you and your mother were treated. It might rebound on you. Eat away at your soul. Besides, Philip's not the problem. He's very much influenced by his mother.”

Brock permitted himself a cynical sigh. “Tell me something I don't know.”

“I'll have to grow a new layer of skin around you.”

“Why?” He held her green eyes.

“Because you're so damned caustic.”

“Which is why you prefer Phil?”

She chose her words carefully. “At least Philip isn't dangerous to know.”

He laughed grimly. “I feel duty-bound to tell you that you don't know Philip as well as you think you do. There's obsessiveness in his nature. It's not ardour. And don't forget,” Brock continued arrogantly, “you loved being kissed by me.”

“Hah!” Shelley almost leapt away. “You're excessively sure of yourself, aren't you?”

“Put it this way. I've learned a lot about women.”

“That's not lost on me, but I'm not about to burn my fingers.”

“A lot of women need excitement, Shelley. They can't get it fast enough. Charming, worldly women, bored to distraction.”

“Are you telling me you helped out?”

“Absolutely!” he mocked. “I needed to get a whole lot out of my system.”

“And you're still not cured?”

“I didn't expect the girl next door to turn me on.”

Heat flushed her whole body. “Just how long do your dalliances with physical attraction last?”

“Well, I'm not over you yet! Go easy, there.”

Flustered, she'd been tearing an iceberg lettuce to near
shreds without realizing it. “I bet a few women have wanted to kill you.”

“None that I know of.”

“Did you ever come close to falling in love with any one of them?” She dared to glance at him for a moment.

“Why do you want to know?” His brilliant gaze locked on hers.

“Just curious.”

“Being in love ain't for me, baby.” He laughed and picked up a juicy red apple, biting into it with his fine white teeth.

“Too bad.” She reached for a large serving platter that already held a colourful galaxy of green beans, red peppers, spring onions and chillies, lining it with the lettuce. Next she garnished the whole with olives, black and green. Finally she added dressing from a small jug.

“Voilà!”
he said. “I'm impressed.”

“By which part of it?”

His hand came forward to clamp on her wrist. “You're turning into a flirt before my very eyes.”

“I am not,” she protested. “You enjoy challenging women, Brock Tyson. You always did. Don't forget I remember you from your lordly days, when you played at having all the girls in love with you.”

“Rubbish. The charge is quite untrue.”

“Charm. Deadly charm,” she continued, as though he hadn't spoken. “It works all the time.”

“Not on you?” He started to play with her fingers.

“I'm too sensible. Stop that!” She pulled her hand away, feeling quite peculiar.

“You just have occasional flashes of letting your hair down?”

He stood there staring down at her, thumbs in the pockets of his jeans, elegant hands splayed over his lean hips. He looked marvellous, bitter, proud. The most physical man she had ever known. “You can use up some of your abundant
energy and carry the food out,” she said, exasperated but even more thrilled.

“Yes, ma'am. Would you like me to take both platters?” He indicated thickly sliced cold chicken breasts on a bed of multi-coloured pasta.

“Think you can manage it?”

He gave her a droll look. “Do you know, my mother couldn't cook? She never had to. I don't think she even knew what the inside of a kitchen looked like before we left Mulgaree. Maybe a slight exaggeration, but Grandfather always employed a housekeeper. We always had servants. Eula has been at Mulgaree ever since I can remember.”

“Yes, I know,” she answered quietly. “I often run into her in the town. She was dreadfully upset when you and your mother left. She must be thrilled you're back?”

He nodded. “Devastated about my mother, however.”

“Of course. She told me she adored her. She's very tight-lipped about Philip's mother.”

“The woman of the iron will.” He grimaced. “I think we might leave Frances to heaven.”

“Okay.” Shelley swiftly backtracked in an effort to calm him. “So, you're trying to tell me
you
were the cook?”

“Is that so hard to believe? And take care how you answer.”

“I believe you could do anything you wanted to do, Brock. No problem.”

“What if I told you I want to kiss you this minute,” he said abruptly, not even bothering to suppress the desire in his eyes. Nothing gentle. But fierce, deep, burning into her flesh. He longed to make love before all love was lost.

Shelley didn't answer at once. Her throat was blocked with emotion. “What good would come of it?” she managed finally.

“Who knows?” She was like a flower. A rose. Something natural and lovely. “I'd better shut the hell up,” he pronounced edgily. The longer he stayed near her the higher his desire would mount.

“I don't want that. I don't want you not to talk to me.” It came out far more emotionally than she'd intended.

“Shelley—!”

But whatever he was going to reply she wasn't to hear. Both of them were alert to the sound of footsteps tapping along the polished floor of the hallway.

Amanda.

Shelley tried hard to clear her face of expression.

“I'd never hurt you, Shelley.” His voice was rich and deep, deliberately pitched low.

“It could happen without your trying. You know it. I know it.” In the bright light of day she fancied they were back in a moonlit night, locked in one another's arms.

“I'm not playing a game with you. Don't think that. This is my head and heart in conflict. I'd like to change my life, but I can't. And I won't. My future is in the balance.”

Tension stretched between them, so strong that for a moment Shelley felt unable to function—only Amanda appeared in the open doorway, blue eyes flashing from one to the other.

“What's keeping you two?” she demanded, her voice loaded with implication. “I thought you said lunch was ready, Shel?”

Shelley was abruptly re-energised. “All bar the finishing touches,” she replied, amazed her voice sounded near enough to normal. “I never dress the salad until the very last moment. Now you're here, Mandy, would you like to grab the basket of rolls?”

I
T CAME
as no surprise when Amanda and Philip tagged along on the bush trek that Shelley had planned to take Brock on.

Philip had insisted on helping Shelley to clear away, while Amanda finished off an icy light beer with Brock. There was no way Amanda was going to be done out of the opportunity of getting to know Brock Tyson a whole lot better. Something about the way he turned his silver gaze on Shelley alarmed her but Shelley was already taken, she reassured herself.

Philip would make an excellent husband. Rich and sober, he was the highest bidder—already a firm favourite with the family. As for Brock? Men like that knew how to enslave a woman. Plus the fact there was always the possibility Rex Kingsley would reinstate his prodigal grandson in his will. Amanda rather fancied joining the ranks of the idle rich, having been idle, though not necessarily rich, nearly all her life.

Brock drove. It just happened like that. He didn't even bother to use his persuasive power. Shelley sat up front beside him, with Philip and Amanda in the back. Shelley was the navigator, pointing out various spots of particular interest to the station's guests, and Amanda kept interjecting, saying there were better places they could go.

“It's so hot in the back,” she complained. “Why don't we find somewhere cool, like Malkie Creek? We should have brought our swimsuits,” she purred suggestively.

Amanda looked like an ice-cream, begging to be licked, Brock thought. But did she interest him? No. Though Amanda's blue eyes, meeting his in the rear-vision mirror,
were telling him the answer should be, Hell, yes! Evidently she was looking for an affair—except it was her sister who tempted him, without even trying.

The heat of the afternoon was compensated for by the glowing colours of the vast landscape. Every hour of the day had its own colour palette: the rocks, the distant eroded hills and ridges with their weird formations, softened by a larkspur haze, the eternal Spinifex that clothed the harsh, fiery earth gold. They presented the full range of dry ochre colours: flaming red, orange, cinnabar, pink, white and yellow, brown and black. Colours that stood out in bold contrast to the deep blue of the clear skies.

Such was the sweeping flatness of the mulga plains they travelled across, the areas of rock formations, naked of any vegetation, and the chains of giant boulders, taking on the dimensions of towering hills. The country was in drought, so the sun-drenched earth was watertight, iron-hard. The wind-sculptured clay pans were crazed and cracked, encrusted with salt so the yellow sands were bleached white.

“No drought lasts forever,” Brock said, reading Shelley's mind.

“We haven't had rain for almost two years,” she mourned.

“Pray the skies will open up in a thunderstorm or a tropical cyclone will swing in from the North.”

“Then we'll have a flood,” Amanda crowed from the back seat.

“Maybe, but wherever flood waters spread a new cycle of life begins for the desert,” Brock said. “The response to water is truly stupendous. All those countless millions of newly germinated seeds, spreading like wildfire across the red earth. Anywhere the water has gravitated. I've seen some very beautiful sights over the last few years but nothing that moves me as much as our own Channel Country after rain. Wildflowers to the horizons! A spring to end all springs. Surely paradise couldn't look or smell better. It's
the visual extravagance, I suppose. The infiniteness. That incredible desert vastness under an ecstasy of flowering.”

His words burned pleasure deep inside Shelley. “That sounds lovely, Brock.” He understood. He felt as she felt, finding great joy and consolation in the timeless landscape. “I've had the most wonderful times of my life recording varieties of wildflowers,” she confided, her voice full of her own quiet pleasures.

“Isn't that pathetic?” Amanda scoffed. “It must be really bad when your best times are drawing flowers. Anyway, don't get her started. Shel can go on for hours about all the little paper daisies, the desert pea and the desert rose, the pink mulla-mullas and the parakeelya, the Star of Bethlehem and the wild cockscomb, and so forth and so on. It's so boring for the rest of us!”

That went down badly with Philip. “Shelley is an artist,” he told Amanda heatedly. “Her drawings are perfectly beautiful. She should be allowed to follow her talent, not wear herself out trying to make a go of this bloody station.”

“I enjoy it, Philip,” Shelley corrected him quickly, throwing a quelling glance over her shoulder. “I've learned a lot.”

“You could learn a lot more if you travelled,” he sighed. “Saw something of life. I hate the way you have to work so hard.”

“Then isn't it about time you asked her to marry you?” Amanda dared him.

“Thank you, Amanda, but that's our business,” Philip said stiffly.

“Why are neither of you considering Shelley doesn't want to?” Brock spoke in an even tone, strongly at variance with fury in his eyes.

“Oh, she wants to,” Amanda said with a playful, provocative grin. “I guess she tells me so just about seven days a week.”

Even knowing her sister, Shelley was shocked. “Do me a favour and stick to the truth, Amanda,” she said sharply,
thinking that if it were true Amanda wouldn't have hesitated to betray her trust.

“Oh, look—we've embarrassed her.” Amanda turned sideways to poke a resistant Philip in the ribs. “Okay, Shel, whatever you say.”

Angry, and wondering just how far her sister would go, Shelley lightly touched Brock's arm. “The grand tour seems to be over. We might find some cool at the creek.” She pointed through the screening trees to where the permanent waters glinted like green glass.

“Fine,” he clipped off.

Brock parked the Jeep on the high ground, beneath a stand of the drought-resistant bauhinias. They showered pink and white blossom on the hood and the bonnet.

The waterholes, billabongs, lagoon and creeks that crisscrossed the Channel Country's great cattle stations, the finest in the nation, were an enormous unexpected contrast to the glaring red of the arid plains. On their banks it was cool and green, an oasis lined by river gums white and smooth of trunk, feathery wattles and many species of flowering desert shrubs that drew on subterranean moisture.

Malkie Creek was a favourite haunt. A marvellous swimming pool in the Dry, and in the Wet a raging torrent. Now it was aglow with dozens of desert eucalyptus, with massed pale yellow flowers and silvery buds. Even the litter layer of shed bark and leaves around the trunks looked pretty, acting as valuable mulch. Higher up, wreathing the tree trunks, were the white cassias, their leaves covered with some white powdery substance that acted as protection and gave the plant an alien appearance.

At their approach large numbers of parrots flew up from an isolated pool of water, a dazzling flash of brilliant enamelled colours.

Amanda ran on ahead, playing the
femme fatale
to the hilt. She looked a very provocative figure in a tight low-necked blue T-shirt that matched her eyes, her slim tanned
legs flashing from beneath short, short white shorts that showed a little too much of her pert bottom.

Amanda in an outfit like that, with her big blue eyes, blonde curls aflutter, usually stopped men in their tracks, Shelley thought, but neither Brock nor Philip appeared to be taking any notice. In fact Shelley had the dismal thought that they seemed to be exchanging a few heated words. Philip looked very agitated.

It turned out she was correct. “Your sister is the biggest troublemaker it's ever been my misfortune to know,” Philip burst out the moment he reached Shelley's side. “She doesn't care what she says or when she says it. She's irritated me more times than I can remember.”

“It's nothing more than showing off,” Shelley soothed. “Anyway, she's my sister, Philip, and I love her.”

“God knows why!” Philip huffed.

“Were you and Brock having a few words?” she asked carefully, turning so she could see Brock stroll down to the water's edge. She was struck by the fluid grace of his body in motion. One could pick him in a crowd.

“Who does he think he is, taking me to task?” Philip crossed his arms over his chest. “He shows up after all these years—just in time to get himself reinstated in Grandfather's will—then tells me to stop putting pressure on you. As if I am!”

It was an opening. She had to take it. “Actually, you are, Philip.”

“The heck I am!” He looked deeply hurt and shocked. “Don't you know how much I care about you, Shelley?” He stared at her intensely. “Do you know the things I want to do for you? I've been holding back, waiting to see about Grandfather, but much as I hate to say it Amanda's right. I should ask you to marry me.”

She felt like slamming her head against a tree. It was getting so bad one might have thought she had a duty to her family and to Philip to say yes. “Philip, we're friends,” she said firmly. “We're certainly nothing more. This ro
mance you've got going exists in your own mind. I've never given you the slightest encouragement for our friendship to become romantic.”

“How come your family thinks so?” His eyes locked on hers with something like triumph. “Your father and mother approve of me. You heard what Amanda said. You know perfectly well I'd marry you in a minute.”

“A minute is about as long as our marriage would last. I'm not in love with you, Philip. I'm sorry. I like you, and I don't wish to hurt you.”

“You could begin to love me if we had some quality time together,” he persisted, believing it to be true.

“You can't take a simple no?” She saw Brock turn away from Amanda's splashing antics. He began to walk back their way.

“Never!” Philip kept his eyes on his cousin. “You're the one for me. I've known it for a very long time. But you have to cut free from your family. We can look after them, of course. I know you'd want that.”

“I don't want to talk any more about this, Philip.” All at once she felt like bursting into tears. It was an awful feeling to be backed into a corner.

“I love you.” Philip shook his head mournfully. “We just haven't had a chance. And now Brock's back to complicate things.”

“Philip, you don't even know me,” she said, very quietly.

“I think I do.” He squeezed her hand. “Just beware of Brock, that's all. Unlike me, he'd snatch you up and then let you drop. I can see his eyes on you, damn him!”

As Brock closed the narrow gap Philip moved off abruptly, bending to pick up a few pebbles he intended to skitter across the water.

“Everything okay?” Brock's voice was casual. His eyes were not.

“It's the darndest thing, but your coming back, or your
grandfather's dying, or both, has resulted in all Philip's ambitions coming together.”

“I take it he's decided you'd make a good wife?” His handsome face was cynical.

“I don't want it to get around, but I mightn't make a good wife for anyone,” she confessed wryly.

He took her hand, leading her into the shade of the acacias, a prowling anger just beneath the surface.

“Most women would consider Philip quite a catch,” he observed, his eyes on the distant figure of his cousin. “What are you waiting for, Miss Logan? A man to steal your breath away?”

“The answer to that is yes.”

He shocked her by kissing her neck. “A lot of passionate love affairs end badly.”

“I know that.” She ought to do something. What? She couldn't move away.

“But you want it, don't you? The passion?”

“How long are you going to tempt me?”

“Maybe for as long as it takes.” Again the sweep of his lips across her nape.

“You have to stop that, Brock.”

“Why? You don't mind.”

“I do mind.” She felt so languorous she didn't think she could remain standing up.

“Do you think Philip will turn and see us?” Now he brought his arm around her, high up, beneath her breasts.

“It's not Philip who's bothering me. It's you. Your arm. You know how to touch a woman.”

“You're lovely.” He pulled her back against his body.

“You're not. You're a devil!”

He laughed gently, dipped his raven head and nipped her ear. “Why the hell did I bring Philip? Why the hell did you bring your sister?”

“To stop you.” She could feel the warmth of his hand right through her cotton shirt. Soon she'd start sizzling. “You tell me one thing, then you do the opposite.”

“You shouldn't smile at me the way you do. You shouldn't make those sharp little comments. You shouldn't smell like a flower. You shouldn't have such soft, beautiful skin.”

“Oh, careful, Brock!” She grabbed the arm that encircled her. “They're coming back.”

“They'll take a while. Meanwhile I'm going to hold you. I can feel your heart, just under that little pink button.”

“You're getting a lot of pleasure out of this, aren't you?” She scarcely knew what was happening to her the level of excitement was so high.

“Aren't you?” he murmured, for a moment believing in simple happiness. Loving a woman. Giving her as much as she took from him.

“I'm like a cat on a hot tin roof, more like it,” Shelley said, the tip of her tongue curling over her upper lip, all unaware of it.

“That's interesting,” he purred. “All right, Shelley, if you're in so much panic and dread Philip might see you…”

“Devil!” She glanced back at him, her head resting beneath his shoulder, saw a smile on his mouth.

“When I'm with you, Shelley, all my good intentions waver.”

“Tell me the truth, Brock. What do you want of me?” She searched his eyes, part of her thinking this couldn't possibly be happening.

“What if I said everything? What would you do then?”