An Outback Affair/Runaway Wife/Outback Bridegroom/Outback Surrender/Home To Eden (38 page)

“Did you speak to Harriet herself?” She had to break through this confusion, this spell, otherwise the excitement would be impossible to stop.

He took the key of the door from her fingers. “That's how we've managed to get in. Harriet told me she'd look after us. Harriet's a big fan of yours.”

“That works both ways.” She looked at the span of his
shoulders as he closed her door, suddenly bedevilled by the memory of what it was like to be swept up in his arms. Yet something about Brock Tyson, for all his macho image, made her heart break. What a dreadful penance it must have been for his mother and him, having to remain on Mulgaree after his father had deserted them. It was such a sad house. Like her own.

“I've not been to Harriet's since it opened,” she remarked, pitching her tone to conversational. “I was invited to the gala night, but Amanda wanted to go and I wasn't happy leaving my mother. You wouldn't believe the migraines she gets.”

He took her arm as they walked the corridor, so slender, so delicate, he felt he could encircle it. “How we sacrifice our lives to misery.”

“My mother is afraid to be happy. She believes that it would be a disloyalty to Sean.”

“Sounds a terrible waste. It's depressing, but I can't say I don't understand,” he replied sombrely.

They had to move past a sea of smiling, highly interested faces on their way out of the pub. Everyone seemed thrilled to have Brock back. Brock was quite calm with it all, returning shouted greetings from the bar. Shelley felt herself blush. What was she doing on Brock Tyson's arm? Just being with him seemed a tremendous event.

They walked in a vaguely fraught silence until they reached Harriet's, where lights from the restaurant spilled out onto the pavement. Inside it was lovely and cool, the décor green and white, with feathery stands of bamboo in pots, graceful arches, and old sepia photographs of the town's past decorating a wall. From the night it had opened Harriet's had been a very popular gathering place for the locals as well as people from the outlying stations.

Harriet, looking marvellous in a mandarin-yellow Thai silk caftan that flowed softly around her slim body, came forward to greet them jauntily.

“Welcome, welcome!” She bent forward to kiss her ex-
pupil Shelley's cheek. “Where have you been all this time, Brock? We've really missed you.”

“Ireland.” He looked into Harriet's eyes, finding them kind and very shrewd. He named a famous stud farm.

She nodded, having heard of it. “The life must have agreed with you. You look marvellous. But someone told me as I came up that you lost your dear mother?”

For a minute he couldn't answer, grief and wildness spoiling in him. “She's where she wanted to be, Harriet. The home of her ancestors. There was no home for her here.” Pain and bitterness played about his chiselled mouth.

“My heart aches for you, Brock. You've taken a hard blow.” Harriet pressed his arm, looking with great sympathy into his brilliant eyes. “We'll talk of this again, but for now you'll be wanting to find some peace and comfort. I have a good table for you in the courtyard. Come through. You look lovely, Shelley.”

Harriet smiled with great encouragement at her. Shelley was a young woman she very much admired. A brave person of high intelligence, Shelley Logan could have gone far in any one of the big cities, but she had stuck with her highly dysfunctional, unappreciative family. What it was to be tied by the bonds of love and loyalty! And a quite un-deserved feeling of guilt, Harriet thought.

“Great to see you, Brock!”

Brock's hand was caught and held over and over, slowing their progress, but finally they were seated at a secluded table for two in the courtyard, with its white rattan glass-topped tables and white rattan chairs and huge golden canes in glazed pots. The comfortable upholstery was in white Indian cotton with a pattern of green bamboo leaves to continue the theme, while near them white ceramic elephants held pots of colourful flowers on their backs. It all looked enormously attractive.

The restaurant was only open three times a week—after all Harriet was well into her sixties and couldn't risk burn-out—on Wednesday, Friday and Saturday, for lunch and
dinner. But far from stretching her to the limit, Shelley thought affectionately, Harriet looked years younger and on top of the world.

“An experience awaits you,” Harriet was saying with a flourish, passing them what looked like a fairly extensive menu for a small restaurant. “Oriental-style cooking is the speciality of the house, but if you would like something else we can whip it up for you.”

“You're a wonder, Miss Crompton,” Brock told her, his face respectful but still holding more than a trace of that wicked daring that had so distinguished him as a boy.

“Tell me that when your meal is over.” Harriet smiled. “Now, I must return to the kitchen—but one of my girls will be here shortly to take your order. Would you care for a drink in the meantime?”

“Shelley?” Brock looked across the table at his companion, so pretty he had no desire to look anywhere else.

“May I have a glass of white wine?”

“Certainly. Why don't we push the boat out and have champagne?” It had been a rotten day. He could do with a few bubbles, and Shelley might like it. “Okay?”

“Perfect,” Shelley agreed.

Harriet smiled. “I'll have someone bring it over.”

O
VER
the leisurely meal Brock left the soul-destroying world of Mulgaree with all its bleak memories behind him. Shelley was lovely enough for any man—so interested in what he was saying, asking such intelligent questions that he found his whole body, for months coiled tight as a spring, relaxing. And dinner rated highly. He'd had some fine, unforgettable meals in the gourmet restaurants of Ireland and France, where he'd visited constantly on the stud farm's business, but the well-travelled Harriet was right up there with them. No mean feat for a small Outback town on the edge of nowhere.

They'd opted for Thai food, as it was the speciality of the house: magnificent chilli prawns, flown in from the tropical north, garnished with crispy curry leaves and served with a wonderfully flavoured cream sauce, followed by a chicken dish in a peanut sauce, accompanied by shredded cucumber, carrots and spring onions. Then they'd enjoyed little jellied fruits, beautifully arranged, to finish. Delicious, imaginative and innovative, when most dishes were done to death.

“That was superb!” Brock said with satisfaction and not a little surprise.

“I've never had such a wonderful meal in my life!” Shelley agreed. “I've been flat out trying to master a few Japanese dishes for my guests.”

“Have you succeeded?” He was deriving a lot of pleasure from watching the swift changes of expression on her mobile face. In the candleglow from the frangipani-ringed lamp her eyes had little flecks of gold suspended in the emerald. Fascinating!

“It's taken time,” she said. “I've certainly mastered sushi rice, but the rice only lasts a day. You can only serve it once. The biggest problem is getting in fresh fish—frozen simply won't do. Most times I have to make do with canned salmon and crab, but our plentiful beef is the basis for sukiyaki, teriyaki, kushi-age. I've even bought special serving ware—bowls, plates, platters. They're white. Food always looks good on white. Not to mention accessories like omelette pans. Japanese omelettes need a special rectangular pan. I'm good with thin and thick omelettes, and I'm not bad with presentation.”

He smiled at her enthusiasm. “I'll have to visit some time,” he said, making a decision to do just that. “I seem to recall you had an artistic streak at school. Didn't Miss Crompton keep all your drawings?”

“She did.” Shelley felt a tingle of pleasure. “Fancy your remembering that. I still have my drawing and my watercolours, whenever I get the time for relaxation. I'm a thwarted botanical artist. You'd be surprised at the remote areas I've ventured into when all the wildflowers are out.”

“You sound like you really love what you do.” She looked so happy he wanted to reach over and take her hand. Seemingly so fragile, she sizzled with life.

“Of course. I'm not as certain as Miss Crompton my watercolours are that good, but she seems to think so. She taught me art and its appreciation in the first place. Encouraged me every step of the way. Told me I was way better than she was years ago! She's been trying to get me to mount an exhibition. She even offered to have it here.” Shelley glanced about the courtyard and into the packed main room. “Imagine my watercolours all over her walls, like a gallery.”

“That sounds like an excellent idea.” Brock realized with surprise he was getting a considerable lift out of Shelley's company, when beautiful, experienced women with languorous eyes had come close to boring him. “I'm quite sure Miss Crompton is an excellent judge.”

Shelley smiled. “That's what gives me confidence. Harriet has done me such a lot of good. I love painting on silk as well. One of these days I'm going to find my way up to the Daintree. I want to paint the rainforest flora and the butterflies. The brilliant electric blue Ulysses and all the lacewings. Butterflies are so romantic! But, there; you're making me talk too much.”

“Believe me, I'm enjoying it. Keep going.” The tension had all but drained out of him. He might even see if he couldn't organise a trip to the Daintree for her some time.

“Stop me at any time,” she advised. “I'll never run out of things to paint. There's a whole world of tropical birds, and all the fruits of the rainforest.”

“How are you going to fit all this in?” he mocked.

“Heaven knows! Most times I'm run off my feet.”

“There's certainly nothing of you.” He controlled his tone, but he could tell just by looking at her she'd be exquisite to make love to. He had a finely honed instinct about such things.

“Don't be fooled,” she replied. “I'm strong and I eat properly—as you can see. It's a lot of work, but I really enjoy the tourist parties. I get a huge amount of pleasure out of my work, too. It was a Japanese lady who spent a lot of time showing me how to wield a vegetable knife to make all the beautiful garnishes that adorn Japanese food platters. Now, she
was
an artist. She could make anything of simple vegetables, flowers, leaves, little ornaments—you name it. Just give her a lemon or a lime, a cucumber, a radish, mushroom, zucchini, baby squash. It was marvellous just to watch her.”

“I expect it took her years to master the technique.”

She nodded. “Getting to know the Japanese and their language has been a real experience. Learning to prepare Japanese food is one good way of entering the culture.”

“So you're open to all outside influences? Though Australia nowadays is very much part of Asia. You really are the hostess with the mostest!”

“I try to be. We desperately need our paying guests. I've been trying to talk one of our aboriginal stockmen, a tribal elder, into taking the guests for bush walks to the Wybourne caves. They're so careful and appreciative of the fragile environment. So far Dad has kept him busy, but it would take a lot off me.”

“It sounds like you relish a challenge, Shelley?” Brock tilted his wine glass, watching the fine beads rising.

“Especially when the challenge pays off. I suppose it's far too early for you to formulate any plans—unless you intend to return to Ireland?” She prepared herself to be tremendously disappointed if he said yes.

“My plan is to take over the Kingsley chain.”

At his tone she inhaled deeply. There was such bitterness in his brilliant eyes. “Forgive me, Brock, but is that possible?” she dared ask. “There's Philip after all.”

“I don't take partners,” he said, with a very sardonic expression.

Something about him scared her. “Then I'll pray for you.”

“Do that.” Suddenly he smiled, an illuminating flash like a ray of sunshine through storm clouds. “I may need it. Please don't look at me with fear in your eyes, Shelley Logan.”

“I'm fearful for you,” she said. “How could your grandfather possibly change?”

He gripped the stem of the wine glass so tightly she though it might shatter. “Maybe he's discovered he's got a conscience after all.”

“You believe he means to reinstate you in his will?” She was very aware of the shift in his mood.

He nodded, though his mouth had a sceptical twist. “I'm always troubled by my grandfather's motives, Shelley. On the face of it he's told me he wants a reconciliation, but he's always been the most devious of men. Maybe it's another cruel joke. Maybe he's a little mad these days. Pain is tearing his body to pieces. Guilt his mind. He was even
talking of going to Ireland to visit my mother's grave. He'll never get there.”

“He's that bad?” Shelley waited quietly for his reply.

“Even if he survived the journey he knows what kind of a reception he'd get from my mother's people and all the friends we made. He put my mother through dreadful anguish. Though she eventually found peace I'm sure all those terrible years took their toll.”

“He must have loved her once.”

His answer was suave and cutting. “My grandfather knows nothing about love, Shelley.”

“I'm so terribly sorry, Brock. Maybe you shouldn't have come back when there's so much turbulence inside you.”

“There was no alternative,” he answered, as though her comment had touched a raw nerve. “Can you see it? The turbulence?”

“I'm sad to say yes!” She spoke truthfully, even if it wasn't something he cared to hear. “I've been watching you all night.” It was there in the tautness of his features, the way his hands tended to clench whenever his grandfather's name was mentioned.

“Then no doubt you're right!” His voice was suave. “There's no help for my bitterness, I'm afraid, but Mulgaree is part of me. It's my turn to close in. And no way am I going to allow Philip and Frances to cut me out.”

“Am I saying the wrong thing every time I open my mouth?” she asked wryly. “I do understand your feelings, Brock, but you must have considered Philip has a legitimate claim? He's Rex Kingsley's grandson too. You really couldn't tolerate sharing Mulgaree?”

He reached out suddenly and grasped her hand. It sent shock waves racing down her arm. “Philip, my dear Shelley, isn't competent to run Mulgaree, let alone the whole chain. Consider that. I've only been back a couple of days and it's perfectly plain Philip can't manage. He doesn't know how to use his power, position or money. He's no good with the men. You can't demand respect; you have to
earn it. It wouldn't take him long to lose what Kingsley has built up. Using part of the Brockway fortune, I'll remind you.” His jaw looked tight enough to crack.

“Brock, you're hurting me.”

“I'm sorry.” He released her hand immediately, still with the glint in his eyes.

“How bad is your grandfather?” She well remembered a big, handsome, scowling, arrogant man.

He glanced away. “He tells me his heart has got a hell of a big leak in it, his brain's on the edge and cancer is eating away at his stomach. His death could be any time, damn him.”

She gave an involuntary little shudder. “That sounds so harsh and unforgiving.”

His eyes burned over her. “If it is, it's the result of his treatment of me and my mother. Sorry, Shelley.” He shrugged. “I'm too far gone for a sweet little thing like you to reform me.”

“I'm not all that sweet,” she said briskly. “Not for a long time. Like you, I'm capable of holding deep resentments. I'm only saying don't let your grief and your bitterness gobble you up. Then your grandfather will win. You could even end up like him.”

“What a thought!” he said tautly. “And yet you can say it to my face!”

“The truth isn't always what we want to hear. I'm sorry if I upset you, Brock. It wasn't my intention.”

His handsome mouth twisted. “It wasn't? For a little bit of a thing you pack quite a punch. But then I expect you know as much about bitterness as I do. Didn't your family condemn you?”

It was her turn to suffer. “You have a cruel streak.” She gazed at him with expressive green eyes.

“So be warned.”

“And don't you intrude upon my inner world either,” Shelley continued, doing her best to ignore the sexual tension that simmered between them.

He answered in an ironic voice. “Shelley, both our lives might just as well have been splashed across the front pages of the town gazette. Everyone knows our history.”

“How could they not?” she countered, with a touch of his own bitterness. “Sometimes I think I'll never be free. Losing my twin in such tragic circumstances has coloured my life grey.”

“Then you have to change it.” He spoke emphatically. “No one with flame-coloured hair should ever lead a dull life. You can't let your family cage you. You're entitled to a life of your own. But hopefully not with my cousin. That would be too, too awful.”

Brock looked up, and as he did so vertical lines appeared between his black brows.

“Speak of the devil!” he groaned. “You're not going to believe this, but Philip is on his way over to our table.”

“No!” Mechanically she turned her head. “Oh, my goodness!”

“Exactly,” Brock muttered, a hard timbre to his voice.

Philip Kingsley made it to their table. He was a tall, sober young man, his shoulders slightly stooped, as if under a weight. He had the well-cut Kingsley features that would have been striking had they had some edge to them. As it was he was merely good-looking. Beside his cousin Brock, with his dark, handsome smoulder, Philip looked decidedly soft.

He looked down at her with an expression like betrayal in his hazel eyes. “Evening, Shelley! You're the very last person I expected to see here with Brock!” He employed an accusatory tone that irritated Shelley immensely, then, without being asked, pulled a spare chair to the table and sat down. “Why in the world would you be having dinner with
Brock
?” he asked, looking at her in dismay.

She reacted with a lick of temper. “Philip, do me a favour. It's none of your business.” The air was so electric it crackled with static.

“I thought you'd given me to understand it was?” he retorted, moving his chair even closer.

“I certainly have not.” She spoke quietly, but through clenched teeth.

“I'm sorry. I thought you had,” he persisted, which she knew was his way. Persistence would win the day.

Brock held up a silencing hand “For heaven's sake, Phil, stop hassling the girl. You heard what Shelley said. What would she want with a pompous stuffed shirt like you? Come to that, what in hell are you doing here? I don't recall inviting you to sit at our table.” There was a distinctly aggressive edge to Brock's voice, a warning darkening his expression.

“Is something wrong at home, Philip?” Shelley swiftly cut in. “Is that it?” Clearly there was no love lost between the cousins.

Philip looked directly at her, his soul in his eyes. “Grandfather has had a bad turn. He's asking for Brock. I would have explained if you'd given me time.”