Heart of the Outback (57 page)

Steve would not allow himself to be consoled. He shrugged Erin’s hand off his arm.
“Better
wasn’t good enough,” he retorted, his tone bitter. He’d failed. Again.

Les Westcott sat at the plane’s controls waiting for his heartbeat to return to some semblance of normality. The taste of bile half choked him and with it a disappointment so complete it almost robbed him of his remaining strength. He thought of the shoulder wound, it would need dressing. It would have to wait until he got onto autopilot. Banking the jet he made a final sweep of Murrundi. It was the last time he would set eyes on the place that had been his home for twenty years. No more for him the cut and thrust of big business deals, and no more Francey and all that may have entailed. And maybe he’d never see his
son, Mark, either.

The one thing he deeply regretted was that he hadn’t finished off Parrish. His good hand fiddled with the instrument panel, making adjustments. He’d been damned stupid to let Parrish rile him sufficiently to lose control. The smart-mouthed bastard, with his astute prodding had got the better of him,
and
he’d been eaten up by jealousy when he’d seen Francey in Parrish’s arms. The way she’d raced towards him, like a damn homing pigeon, a rapt expression on her face. She’d never looked that way at him. He swallowed the bile of envy and his one capable hand tightened on the wheel as he fought down his frustration, tried to get himself under control. Think. He must think …

First, he had to accept what had happened, that there could be no going back. But he could have a future … A smug smile crept across his face. He’d always been the type to think things through carefully and leave nothing to chance. He may have banked on getting control of CJ’s empire one day but he had been cautious enough to make alternative plans should something unforseen happen.

His money — two million — was safe in a Swiss bank account and he’d bought a modest villa in Buenos Aires just in case. All he had to do was organise a new identity, perhaps some plastic surgery too. He had contacts who could put all of that in motion, and then he’d be able to spend the rest of his life in reasonable luxury, there was enough money for that. Yes, a new life and a new identity. He, Les Westcott, would have the last laugh on CJ, Natalie and that damned Parrish.

He could feel his left arm going numb and a river of blood had begun to drip onto his trousers and the seat. He shook his head to dispel a sudden wooziness — he was losing too much blood. Just two minutes more then he’d be able to attend to the wound.

He started a reverse bank and noted that the controls were responding sluggishly. He frowned as he studied the dials on the instrument panel, they were going crazy. Then the jet began to lose altitude and the revs began to drop. What the hell? He stared at the fuel gauge, the indicator flickered and nudged empty.

Shit. There had been no time to refuel the Learjet after the flight from Cooktown. And those shots of Parrish’s …

With his good hand he fought the pull on the wheel as the plane’s nose dropped, and then with a sickening cough the starboard engine spluttered and died …

Francey was out of breath by the time she reached Steve. “Oh, Steve, thank God you’re not hurt.” She threw herself into his arms. “I was so scared. Les, who would have imagined?” She stared up at him and brought a hand up to stroke his cheek. “I thought he’d kill you.”

He smiled crookedly at her. “I thought so to.”

Ignoring Erin’s presence, Francey asked, “Did you mean what you said before?”

“About loving you?” He forgot the battering he’d taken from Les, how much his jaw hurt and pulled her close until their thighs, stomachs and chests touched. She felt glorious against him and he never
wanted to move again. “You bet. You’ve got it all on tape, Miss Spinetti.”

She smiled and cocked an eyebrow at him. “And what you said to Les, about us getting married?” Steve was all right. Better than all right. Wonderful. She couldn’t tell him that she had been so afraid when the two police officers said that Les had his gun, and intended to kill him. The blood had almost frozen in her veins with a fear so great she never wanted to experience such a feeling again.

“God, that’s on tape too.” He let a mock groan escape his lips. “Guess I’ll have to or you’ll sue.”

“Steve, look,” Erin interrupted. “The plane. Something’s wrong with it.”

Relief rebounded through Steve as he squinted up at the Learjet. The shots! Some had found their mark. The plane’s nose had come down, it was out of control.

As they watched he allowed a wave of exultation to move through him. He’d survived Les’ attack and now he honestly felt that he’d got his man, sure that the combination of wounding him and firing at the plane had caused it to go out of control. And contrary to his previous thoughts about failure, he now knew he’d succeeded. He was going to get Westcott, one way or another.

He stared at the twisting plane, watching the spiralling plume of smoke trail from its engines as it nosedived. He knew that Les wouldn’t have time and there wasn’t enough height for a parachute, even if he could make it to the door. Memories of the past and his deep-rooted feeling of not having what it took, slipped deep into his subconscious hopefully never to
resurface. The bogey was off his back, dead and buried.

The jet came down in almost a straight line, engines whining at first then cutting out to leave an eerie silence as it disappeared behind a small foothill. Seconds later a loud explosion followed by a trail of smoke proved the obvious.

No-one spoke for several seconds. Then they looked at each other. Each had been holding their breath as the jet plummeted to the ground.

“Guess you’ll need a new plane and a new pilot,” Erin murmured to Francey.

Francey gave the woman a cold stare then turned away. “Oh, God. Poor Les.”

“Poor Les
was a murderer,” Steve pointed out, his arms tightening around her. “He planned to coerce you into marriage so he could control CJ’s businesses. You heard me state that to him and he didn’t deny it. And Natalie, no matter whether we liked the woman or not, he killed her in cold blood. He would have killed me if Erin hadn’t fired at him.”

“I’d better check on Neil,” Erin decided and began to jog back to where Neil lay on the ground.

Francey waited until the policewoman was out of earshot. “You’re right of course, but it’s hard to believe. Les, a murderer! I mean, he was always so pleasant … so agreeable, like a brother or a relative. Almost.” Unbidden into her thoughts came the night in the kitchen when he’d tried to force himself on her. Why hadn’t she suspected something then? Even so, comprehending it all now in a matter of minutes was difficult. She shook her head. “It’s like there were two of him. One that hid inside the other.”

“Yes,” Steve agreed. His gaze returned to the coil of smoke which continued to rise skywards. He rubbed his jaw where one of Les’ wild punches had found its mark. “The real Les surfaced today and he’s received the same justice he delivered to Natalie—jury, judge and executioner.”

“CJ will be so upset. He thought of Les as a kind of unofficial son.” Then, as if thinking aloud she added, “Such ruthless ambition, people around here are going to find it hard to believe. And the things he knew about CJ’s business, he’ll be hard to replace.”

They turned towards the homestead and Steve’s arm slid around her waist. He smiled as she leant into him, their hips and thighs touching as they walked. After a dozen steps he stopped and turned her to face him, his hands encircling her waist. His mouth hovered a few centimetres away from hers until he couldn’t bear it and he kissed her long and hard.

“Miss Spinetti, soon to be Mrs Parrish,” a wicked gleam lit his eyes, “stop worrying. You’re CJ Ambrose’s daughter and I, as well as countless others, have every confidence that you’ll manage your coming inheritance with the same enterprise and success as your old man.”

“You think so?” she asked tentatively as she settled into his embrace. There was much to do and still so much to learn. She kissed him back. Such happiness to look forward to as well, a lifetime of it.

“I know so.”

N
ews of the drama at the hangar and Les’ subsequent death had a detrimental effect on CJ’s health, as Francey had predicted it would. A week later he slipped into a coma from which he never woke. His funeral was held on a late spring morning with only a few close friends and relatives — the Dupres, the Spinettis, Shellie and Barry, Francey and Steve and the stockmen of Murrundi. The press weren’t invited and for once they allowed the family to mourn in private.

CJ Ambrose, “the man with the golden touch”, was laid to rest in the small cemetery on Murrundi beside those he loved, his and the others’ graves shaded by the spreading, protective branches of the peppercorn tree.

A week later, Steve found Francey sitting on the grass by CJ’s grave, he knew she came here every day to think, have a little cry too, he suspected, and to
talk
to her father. A foolscap pad rested in her lap, a filofax was by her side. She appeared to be lost in thought. Instinctively he knew she was thinking about CJ. Over the past week he had watched her trying to come to terms with the loss of the father she had known all too briefly, and the enormity of the business empire she now controlled.

“Surveying your realm, hey?” He greeted her with a kiss as he sat beside her.

“More like trying to reorganise it. Getting everything to function efficiently with reduced manpower, or to be politically correct, personpower.”

She had spent hours, days, trying to figure out how to run CJ’s empire without him and Les and have it work like clockwork so that she and Steve could have a reasonable life together. Consolidate and delegate were the only options as far as she could see. She believed that she simply couldn’t manage his multitude of interests any other way.

“CJ left me with some unfinished business,” she understated the facts. “Maybe he wanted to test me or to keep me busy, I don’t know.” She expelled a sigh. “Natalie’s estate has to be organised and there’s the Jasmine project in Cooktown, which isn’t finished. I don’t want to relinquish control to Nikko Yakismoto if there’s a way around it. Plus there’s the Arts Museum in the Isa. The mayor is exerting pressure to have it built posthaste, in time for next year’s festival. The project’s funded and designed but someone has to supervise the building of it.” She took a breath, “As well, we’ve received approval for the resort complex in the Blue Mountains and there’s the half completed house at Kirribilli and a new
breeding program for Murrundi using two Braford bulls, plus the experimental camel herd and —”

“What about our wedding?” he reminded her gently.

“Let’s elope,” she said with a grin, but then frowned as she thought of Lucia. “No, Mamma would never forgive me.”

“Then you’ll just have to delegate more work.”

She rolled her eyes skywards. “I agree. That’s what I’m trying to work out.”

He looked at the pad and the many lines of scribbling. “So what have you got?”

Francey studied her handiwork. “I’m going to elevate Mike Hunter from foreman to manager of Murrundi, he’s more than capable. He can oversee the breeding program without any problems too. I’ve asked Lisa and Pierre if they’d like to move into Les’ cottage and if both of them would help me manage the other projects. Pierre can appoint someone in the trade to be manager for the Cooktown project and he’ll supervise the building of the Arts Museum.” She looked up at him. “By the way, it’s now going to be called the Ambrose Memorial Art Gallery. There’ll be a studio and living quarters for a permanent artist in residence because that was a dream of CJ’s wife, Brenda, according to Shellie.” She smiled as he nodded his head approvingly. Then she went on, “That leaves me with the Blue Mountains proposal and the house in Kirribilli.”

“And what are you doing about Natalie’s estate? I suppose she was worth a tidy sum.”

Francey frowned. “Shellie and I have been in something of a quandary over that, but we think we’ve
come up with a reasonable solution. Natalie’s will was made four years ago, pre-dating Richard’s death. She left everything to him so … in due course, it reverts to being part of CJ’s estate. We’ve decided to lease her art galleries to Hugh O’Leary and Trish Pentano who’ve both expressed interest in them. Her estate will take a percentage of their profit and when that accrues it will be added to the estate’s cash reserves which will fund a trust for talented, struggling artists. That’s appropriate, don’t you think?”

“Very.” More than Natalie’s behaviour deserved, he thought but didn’t voice the opinion.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” she said in a rush. “I talked to Roy Preston today. You remember him? CJ’s journalist mate.”

“Yes, he was at your birthday party.”

“He wants to write CJ’s biography.” Her eyes, green in the bright daylight, glistened with unshed tears. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

“You bet. I’m sure it’ll be a fine testimonial to his life.” Steve could see that she had worked hard to bring some order into her screamingly busy life. “So, when do you think we could find the time to get married and have a half decent honeymoon?” As he asked the question he took her left hand and turned it over to allow the diamond engagement ring he had recently placed there to catch the sun’s sparkle.

“This coming January, the fifteenth,” Francey, who’d been ready for the question, said with a smile. She looked up at the brilliant blue, cloudless sky and then across the pastures of yellow grass bending in the afternoon breeze. “It’ll be stinking hot so most of the guests will probably end up in the pool.”

“Good. That’ll fit in well with my resignation.”

“What resignation?” Surprise mirrored itself in her features. She stared at him expectantly, waiting.

“From the Queensland Police Service.” He draped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer to him. “I’ve had some time to think too. All the projects you’re involved with are going to need custom designed security set-ups. As a cop I know a thing or two about good security. I thought I’d start up my own business. What do you think?”