Rescued by a brooding stranger...

Jilted heiress Penny Hindmarsh-Firth sets her broken heart on escaping high-society city life. Instead, she’s trapped by floods in the Outback and a handsome stranger on horseback comes to her rescue!

After a betrayal shattered his life, Matt Fraser withdrew from the world—but he can’t deny Penny a refuge. The secret billionaire is reluctantly intrigued as the society princess starts proving there’s more to her than meets the eye...

“We need to go in now because if we stay out here one moment longer, I’ll be forced to kiss you.”

And there it was, out in the open. This thing...

“And you don’t want to?” It was a whisper, so low Matt thought he’d misheard. But he hadn’t. Penny’s whisper seemed to echo. Even the owls above their heads seemed to pause to listen.

Did he want to?

This was such a bad idea. This woman was his employee. She was trapped here for the next four days, or longer if she took him up on his offer to extend.

What was he doing? Standing in the dark talking of kissing a woman?

Did he want to?

“Yes,” he said, because there was nothing else to say.

“Then what’s stopping you?”

“Penny...”

“Just shut up, Matt Fraser, and kiss me.”

And what was a man to say to that?

Matt took Penny into his arms and he kissed her.

Stranded with the Secret Billionaire

Marion Lennox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MARION LENNOX has written more than a hundred romances and is published in over a hundred countries and thirty languages. Her multiple awards include the prestigious RITA® Award (twice) and the RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award for “a body of work which makes us laugh and teaches us about love.”

Marion adores her family, her kayak, her dog and lying on the beach with a book someone else has written. Heaven!

This book is dedicated to the memory of Grace,

the warmest, most generous mother-in-law

a woman could wish for—and the baker

of the world’s best ginger fluff sponge!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE IMPECCABLE ENGLISH ACCENT had directed Penelope Hindmarsh-Firth twelve hundred kilometres across two states without a problem. From ‘Take the third exit after the Harbour Tunnel’, as Penny had navigated her way out of Sydney, to ‘Continue for two hundred kilometres until you reach the next turn’, as she’d crossed South Australia’s vast inland farming country, the cultured voice hadn’t faltered.

True, the last turn had made Penny uneasy. The accent had told her to proceed for thirty kilometres along the Innawarra Track, but it had hesitated over the pronunciation of Innawarra. Penny had hesitated too. The country around them was beautiful, lush and green from recent rains and dotted with vast stands of river red gums. The road she’d been on had been narrow, but solid and well used.

In contrast, the Innawarra Track looked hardly used. It was rough and deeply rutted.

Penny’s car wasn’t built for rough. She was driving her gorgeous little sports car. Pink. The car had been her father’s engagement gift to her, a joyful signal to the world that Penny had done something he approved of.

That hadn’t lasted. Of course not—when had pleasing her father lasted? Right now she seemed to be doing a whole lot wrong.

She was facing a creek crossing. It had been raining hard up north. She’d heard reports of it on the radio but hadn’t taken much notice. Now, what looked to be a usually dry creek bed was running. She got out of the car, took off her pink sandals and walked across, testing the depth.

Samson was doing no testing. Her little white poodle stood in the back seat and whined, and Penny felt a bit like whining too.

‘It’s okay,’ she told Samson. ‘Look, it only comes up to my ankles, and the nice lady on the satnav says this is the quickest way to Malley’s Corner.’

Samson still whined, but Penny climbed back behind the wheel and steered her little car determinedly through the water. There were stones underneath. It felt solid and the water barely reached the centre of her tyres. So far so good.

Her qualms were growing by the minute.

She’d estimated it’d take her two hours tops to reach Malley’s, but it was already four in the afternoon and the road ahead looked like an obstacle course.

‘If worst comes to worst we can sleep in the car,’ she told Samson. ‘And we’re getting used to worst, right?’

Samson whined again but Penny didn’t. The time for whining was over.

‘Malley’s Corner, here I come,’ she muttered. ‘Floods or not, I’m never turning back.’

* * *

Matt Fraser was a man in control. He didn’t depend on luck. Early in life, luck had played him a sour hand and he hadn’t trusted in it since.

When he was twelve, Matt’s mother had taken a job as a farmer’s housekeeper. For Matt, who’d spent his young life tugged from one emotional disaster to another, the farm had seemed heaven and farming had been his life ever since. With only one—admittedly major—hiccup to impede his progress he’d done spectacularly well, but here was another hiccup and it was a big one. He was staring out from his veranda at his massive shearing shed. It was set up for a five a.m. start. His team of crack shearers was ready but his planning had let him down.

He needed to break the news soon, and it wouldn’t be pretty.

Hiring gun shearers was half the trick to success in this business. Over the years Matt had worked hard to make sure he had everything in place to attract the best, and he’d succeeded.

But this afternoon’s phone call had floored him.

‘Sorry, Matt, can’t do. The water’s already cut the Innawarra Track to your north and they’re saying the floodwaters will cut you off from the south by tomorrow. You want to hire me a helicopter? It’s the only alternative.’

A helicopter would cut into his profits from the wool clip but that wouldn’t bother him. It was keeping his shearers happy that was the problem. No matter whose fault it was, an unhappy shed meant he’d slip down the shearers’ roster next year. He’d be stuck with a winter shear rather than the spring shears that kept his flocks in such great shape.

So he needed a chopper, but there were none for hire. The flooding up north had all available helicopters either hauling idiots out of floodwater or, more mundanely, dropping feed to stranded stock.

He should go and tell them now, he thought.

He’d cop a riot.

He had to tell them some time.

Dinner was easy. They had to provide their own. It was only at first smoko tomorrow that the proverbial would hit the fan.

‘They might as well sleep in ignorance,’ he muttered and headed out the back of the sheds to find his horse. Nugget didn’t care about shearing and shearing shed politics. His two kelpies, Reg and Bluey, flew out from under the house the moment they heard the clink of his riding gear. They didn’t care either.

And, for the moment, neither did Matt.

‘Courage to change the things that can be changed, strength to accept those things that can’t be changed and the wisdom to know the difference...’ It was a good mantra. He couldn’t hire a chopper. Shearing would be a surly, ill-tempered disaster but it was tomorrow’s worry.

For now he led Nugget out of the home paddock and whistled the dogs to follow.

He might be in trouble but for now he had every intention of forgetting about it.

* * *

She was in so much trouble.

‘You’d think if there were stones at the bottom of one creek there’d be stones at the bottom of every creek.’ She was standing on the far side of the second creek crossing. Samson was still in the car.

Her car was in the middle of the creek.

It wasn’t deep. She’d checked. Once more she’d climbed out of the car and waded through, and it was no deeper than the last.

What she hadn’t figured was that the bottom of this section of the creek was soft, loose sand. Sand that sucked a girl’s tyres down.

Was it her imagination or was the water rising?

She’d checked the important things a girl should know before coming out here—like telephone reception. It was lousy so she’d spent serious money fitting herself out with a satellite phone, but who could she ring? Her father? Dad, come and get me out of a river. He’d swear at her, tell her she was useless and tell his assistant to organize a chopper to bring her home.

That assistant would probably be Brett.

She’d rather burn in hell.

So who? Her friends?

They’d think it was a blast, a joke to be bruited all over the Internet. Penelope Hindmarsh-Firth, indulged daughter of a billionaire, stuck in the outback in her new pink car. A broken engagement. A scandal. Her first ever decision to revolt.

There wasn’t one she would trust not to sell the story to the media.

Her new employer?

She’d tried to sound competent in her phone interview. Maybe it would come to that, but he’d need to come by truck and no truck could reach her by dark.

Aargh.

Samson was watching from the car, whimpering as the water definitely rose.

‘Okay,’ she said wearily. ‘I didn’t much like this car anyway. We have lots of supplies. I have half a kitchen worth of cooking gear and specialist ingredients in those boxes. Let’s get everything unloaded, including you. If no one comes before the car goes under I guess we’re camping here while my father’s engagement gift floats down the river.’

* * *

There was a car in the middle of the creek.

A pink car. A tiny sports car. Cute.

Wet. Getting closer to being swept away by the minute.

Of all the dumb...

There was a woman heaving boxes from some sort of luggage rack she’d rigged onto the back. She was hauling them to safety.

A little dog was watching from the riverbank, yapping with anxiety.

Matt reined to a halt and stared incredulously. Reg and Bluey stopped too, quivering with shock, and then hurled themselves down towards what Matt thought must surely be a hallucination. A poodle? They’d never seen such a thing.

The woman in the water turned and saw the two dogs, then ran, trying to launch herself between the killer dogs and her pooch.

She was little and blonde, and her curls twisted to her shoulders. She was wearing a short denim skirt, a bright pink blouse and oversized pink earrings. She was nicely curved—very nicely curved.

Her sunglasses were propped on her head. She looked as if she was dressed for sipping Chardonnay at some beachside café.

She reached the bank, slipped in the soft sand and her crate fell out of her hands.

A teapot fell out and rolled into the water.

‘Samson!’ She hauled herself to her feet, yelling to her poodle, but Reg and Bluey had reached their target.

Matt was too stunned to call them off, but there was no need. His dogs weren’t vicious. This small mutt must look like a lone sheep, needing to be returned to the flock. Rounding up stray sheep was what his dogs did best.

But Matt could almost see what they were thinking as they reached the white bit of fluff, skidded to a halt and started the universal sniffing of both ends. It looks like a sheep but...what...?

He grinned. The troubles of the day took a back seat for the moment and he nudged Nugget forward.

There wasn’t a thing he could do about his shearing problems. What he needed was distraction, and this looked just what the doctor ordered.

* * *

She needed a knight on a white charger. This was no white charger, though. The horse was huge and black as night. And the guy on it?

Instead of armour, he wore the almost universal uniform of the farmer. Moleskin pants. A khaki shirt, open at the throat, sleeves rolled to the elbows. A wide Akubra hat. As he edged his horse carefully down the embankment she had the impression of a weathered face, lean, dark, strong. Not so old. In his thirties?

His mouth was curving into a smile. He was laughing? At her?

‘In a spot of bother, ma’am?’

What she would have given to be able to say: No bother—everything’s under control, thank you.

But her car was sinking and Samson was somewhere under his dogs.

‘Yeah,’ she said grimly. ‘I tried to cross but the creek doesn’t have stones in it.’

His lips twitched. ‘How inconsiderate.’

‘The last creek did.’

He put his hands up, as if in surrender. ‘I cannot tell a lie,’ he told her. ‘I dropped stones in the first crossing but not this one. The first floods all the time. This one not so much. There’s a lot of water coming down. I doubt you’d get back over the first crossing now.’

‘You put the stones in...’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

She stood and thought about it. She had bare feet—a pair of bright pink sandals had been tossed onto the bank on this side. Obviously she’d waded through first, which was intelligent. Driving into a flooded creek with a sandy base was the opposite.

But now wasn’t the time for judging. The water was rising by the minute. ‘Would you like me to help you get your car out?’

And any hint of belligerence died. ‘Could you? Do you know how?’

‘You have cushions on your passenger seat,’ he said. He’d been checking out the car while they talked. A big car might be a problem but this looked small enough to push, and with the traction of cushions... ‘We could use those.’

‘They’re Samson’s.’

‘Samson?’

‘My poodle.’

‘I see.’ He was still having trouble keeping a straight face. ‘Is he likely to bite my arm off if I use his cushions?’

She glanced to where Reg and Bluey were still warily circling Samson. Samson was wisely standing still. Very still.

‘Your dogs...’

‘Are meeting a poodle for the very first time. They won’t take a piece out of him, if that’s what you’re worried about. So Samson won’t take a piece out of me if I borrow his cushion?’

‘No. Please... If you could...’

‘My pleasure, ma’am. I haven’t pushed a pink car out of floodwaters for a very long time.’

* * *

And then he got bossy.

He swung himself down from his horse. He didn’t bother tying it up—the assumption, she guessed, was that it’d stay where he left it and the assumption seemed correct. Then he strode out into the water to her car. He removed the cushions, then stooped and wedged them underwater, in front of the back wheels.

‘Rear-wheel drive is useful,’ he told her. ‘Four-wheel drive is better—it’s pretty much essential out here. You didn’t think to borrow something a little more useful before driving off-road?’

‘This is a road.’

‘This is a track,’ he told her.

He was standing almost thigh-deep in water and he was soaked from pushing the cushions into place.

‘I should push,’ she offered.

The lips twitched again. ‘I’m thinking I might just have a bit more muscle. Could you hop in and switch on the ignition? When I tell you to accelerate, go for it. Straight forward, and as soon as you feel the car get a grip, keep going.’

She thought about it for a moment and saw a problem. A big one. ‘Um...’

He paused. ‘Um?’

‘Are there any more creeks?’ she asked, her voice filled with trepidation.

‘Any more creeks where?’

‘Between here and Malley’s Corner.’

‘You’re headed for Malley’s Corner?’

‘Yes.’ She tilted her chin at the note of incredulity in his voice. It was the same incredulity she’d heard from every one of her family and friends.

He paused for a moment. The water level rose an inch.

‘We’ll talk about it later,’ he said curtly. ‘We have minutes to get your car clear before she’s properly swamped. Get in and turn it on.’

‘But are there more creeks?’

‘A dozen or so.’

‘Then I can’t get to Malley’s Corner,’ she wailed. ‘I need to go back the way I came. Can you push me back to the other side?’

‘You want to do a U-turn in the middle of the creek?’

‘No, but I don’t want to be trapped.’

‘I have news for you, lady,’ he told her. ‘You’re already trapped. The only hope we have of getting your car out of this water is to go straight forward and do it now. Get in your car and I’ll push or it’ll be washed away. Move!’

She gave a yelp of fright—and moved.

* * *

She was in such a mess.

Actually, if she was honest, she wasn’t in a mess at all. She was perfectly dry. Her little car was on dry land, still drivable. Samson had jumped back up into the passenger seat and was looking around for his cushions. It looked as if she could drive happily away. There were more creeks but for now she was safe.

But she had a cowboy to thank, the guy who’d saved her car—and he was the mess.

Though actually... She should be able to describe him as a mess, she thought. He’d shoved the cushions under her back wheels to get traction and then, as she’d touched the accelerator, he’d put his hands under the back of her car and pushed.

She’d felt the strength of him, the sheer muscle. With the acceleration behind him he’d practically heaved the little car free.

She’d stopped and looked back, and her cowboy—her rescuer—was sprawled full length in the water.

When he stood up he almost looked scary. He was seriously big, he was soaked and he was spitting sand. He did not look happy.

When he reached the bank she backed off a little.

‘Th...thank you,’ she ventured. ‘That was very good of you.’

‘My pleasure, ma’am,’ he said with obvious sarcasm and she winced.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘All in a day’s work. I’ve heaved stock from bogs before this. Your car’s not much bigger than a decent bull.’ He wiped away some sand and she had a clearer view of his face. He had deep brown eyes set in a strongly boned face. Strength and capability and toughness was written on every inch of him. This wasn’t the sort of guy she ever met in her city life.

‘Do you live round here?’ she managed and he nodded.

‘Over the rise.’

‘Then...I guess that means at least you can go home and have a shower. Look, I really am sorry...’

‘So what will you do?’

‘Go on until I reach the next creek,’ she said in a small voice. ‘Samson and I can sleep in the car if the water doesn’t go down before nightfall. We’ll go on tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow...’

‘I start work on Tuesday. I guess it’s just lucky I left myself a day’s leeway.’

Something seemed to be happening on her rescuer’s face. There was a tic right next to his jaw. It was sort of...twitching.

Laughter? No. Exasperation?

Maybe.

‘You’d better follow me,’ he said at last and she blinked.

‘Why? I’m sorry; that doesn’t sound gracious but you’ve done enough. Samson and I will be fine.’

‘For a fortnight?’

‘A fortnight?’

‘That’s how long they’re saying before the floodwaters subside.’ He sighed. ‘There’s been rain all over central New South Wales. It’s been dry here, which is why you’ve been lulled into thinking it’s safe to drive, but it’s been raining up north like it hasn’t for years. The water’s pouring into the Murray catchment and all that water’s making its way downstream. Creeks that haven’t seen water for years are starting to fill. If you’d followed the main road you might have made it...’

‘The satnav lady said this way was much shorter,’ she said in a small voice.

‘Then the satnav lady’s a moron,’ he said bluntly. ‘There’s no way you’ll get this little car through to Malley’s Corner and there’s no way you can get back. You’re stuck right here and you’re stuck for a while.’

She stood and stared at him and he gazed right back. He was looking at her as if she were some sort of strange species.

An idiot.

All her careful plans. All her defiance...

This was just what her father expected—Penelope being stupid once again.

She thought of the last appalling tabloid article she’d read before she’d packed and left—her father explaining to the media why the man who’d intended to marry Penny was now marrying Penny’s older half-sister, the gorgeous, clever, talented Felicity.

‘They’re a much more suitable match,’ George had told the journalist. ‘Brett is one in a million. He’s an employee who’s going places and he needs a woman of class to support that. My younger daughter means well, but she’s much more interested in her cakes than in taking care of her man. I’m not sure why we all didn’t see this was a more sensible match to begin with.’

Sensible. Right.

She shook herself, shoving painful memories harshly behind her. No, she wouldn’t be calling her father for help.

‘Is there somewhere I can stay?’ she asked in a small voice.

‘You’re on my land,’ he told her. ‘From here until the next two creek crossings there’s nowhere but Jindalee.’

‘Jindalee?’

‘My home.’

‘Oh.’

She looked at his horse and her mind was twisting so much she even thought of offering to buy the thing and ride off into the sunset. Fording rivers on horseback with Samson riding up front.

Um...not. Even if she could ride a horse. Even if she was game to go near it.

‘Do you...do you have a four-wheel drive?’ she asked. ‘Is it possible that a truck or something could get through?’

‘It might,’ he said grudgingly.

She’d been trying to figure a way out, but she thought she saw one. ‘Could you take me on to Malley’s? If you have a truck that can get through we could make it. I could leave my car here and get someone to bring me back to collect it when the water goes down.’

And this is my last chance, she thought desperately, looking into his impassive face. Please.

He gazed at her and she forced herself to meet his gaze calmly, as if her request was totally reasonable—as if asking him to drive for at least four hours over flooded creeks was as minor as hiring a cab.

‘I can pay,’ she added. ‘I mean...I can pay well. Like a good day’s wages...’

‘You have no idea,’ he said and then there was even more silence. Was he considering it?

But finally he shook his head.

‘It’s impossible,’ he told her. ‘I can’t leave the property. I have a team ready to start shearing at dawn and two thousand sheep to be shorn. Nothing’s messing with that.’

‘You could...maybe come back tonight?’

‘In your dreams. The water’s coming up. I could end up trapped at Malley’s Corner with you. I can’t risk sending a couple of my men because I need everyone. So I don’t seem to have a choice and neither do you.’ He sighed. ‘We might as well make the best of it. I’m inviting you home. You and your dog. As long as you don’t get in the way of my shearing team, you’re welcome to stay at Jindalee for as long as the floodwater takes to recede.’

CHAPTER TWO

PENNY DROVE, SLOWLY and carefully, along the rutted track. He followed behind on his horse, his dogs trotting beside him, and she was aware of him every inch of the way.

He could be an axe murderer. He was sodden and filthy. His jet-black hair was still dripping and his dark face looked grim.

He’d laughed when he first saw her but now he looked as if he’d just been handed a problem and he didn’t like it.

She didn’t even know his name.

He didn’t know hers, she reminded herself. He was opening his house to her, and all he knew about her was that she was dumb enough to get herself stranded in the middle of nowhere. She could be the axe murderer.

She had knives. She thought fleetingly of her precious set, wrapped carefully in one of her crates. They were always super sharp.

What sort of knives did axe murderers use?

‘They use axes, idiot,’ she said aloud and that was a mistake. The guy on the horse swivelled and stared.

‘Axes?’ he said cautiously, and she thought, He’ll be thinking he has a real fruitcake here.

That was what she felt like. A fruitcake.

‘Sorry. Um...just thinking of what I’d need if... I mean, if I was stuck camping and needed something like wood to light a fire. I’d need an axe.’

‘Right,’ he said, still more cautiously. ‘But you don’t have one?’

‘No.’

‘You seem to have everything else.’

‘I’m going to Malley’s to work. I need stuff.’

‘You’re working at Malley’s?’ He sounded incredulous. ‘That place is a dump.’

‘The owner has plans,’ she said with as much dignity as she could muster. ‘I’m employed to help.’

‘It could use a bit of interior decorating,’ he agreed. ‘From the ground up.’ His lips suddenly twitched again. ‘And you always carry a teapot?’

‘They might only use tea bags.’

‘You don’t like tea bags?’

‘I drink lapsang souchong and it doesn’t work in tea bags. I love its smoky flavour. Don’t you?’

‘Doesn’t everyone?’ he asked and suddenly he grinned. ‘I’m Matt,’ he told her. ‘Matt Fraser. I’m the owner of Jindalee but I hope you brought your own lapsang souchong with you. Sadly I seem to be short on essentials.’

‘I have a year’s supply,’ she told him and his grin widened.

‘Of course you do. And you are?’

‘Penelope Hindmarsh-Firth.’ He was laughing at her but she could take it, she decided. She should be used to people laughing at her by now. ‘And I’m the owner of one pink car and one white poodle.’

‘And a teapot,’ he reminded her.

‘Thank you. Yes.’ She concentrated on negotiating an extra deep rut in the road.

‘Penelope...’ Matt said as the road levelled again.

‘Penny.’

‘Penny,’ he repeated. ‘Did you say Hindmarsh-Firth?’

And her heart sank. He knows, she thought, but there was no sense denying it.

‘Yes.’

‘Of the Hindmarsh-Firth Corporation?’

‘I don’t work for them.’ Not any more. She said it almost defiantly.

‘But you’re connected.’

‘I might be.’

‘The way I heard it,’ he said slowly, seemingly thinking as he spoke, ‘is that George Hindmarsh, up-and-coming investment banker, married Louise Firth, only daughter of a mining magnate worth billions. Hindmarsh-Firth is now a financial empire that has tentacles worldwide. You’re part of that Hindmarsh-Firth family?’

‘They could be my parents,’ she muttered. ‘But I’m still not part of it.’

‘I see.’

He didn’t, she thought. He couldn’t. He’d have no idea of what it was like growing up in that goldfish bowl, with her father’s ego. He’d have no idea why she’d finally had to run.

‘So if I rang up the newspapers now and said I’ve just pulled a woman called Penelope Hindmarsh-Firth out of a creek, they wouldn’t be interested?’

No! ‘Please don’t,’ she whispered and then repeated it, louder, so she was sure he could hear. She was suddenly very close to tears.

‘I won’t,’ he told her, his voice suddenly softening. ‘Believe me, I have no wish for media choppers to be circling. Though...’

‘Though what?’

‘There’s someone I need to get here,’ he told her. ‘It’d almost be worth it—I could tell them they could find you here as long as they brought Pete with them.’

‘Pete?’

She hit a bump. The car jolted and the teapot bounced and clanged against the pots underneath it.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said roughly. ‘I won’t do it. I can understand your situation might well cause humiliation. I assume you’re heading to Malley’s to get out of the spotlight?’

‘Yes,’ she said and could have wept with gratitude.

‘Then you’ve come to the right place,’ he told her. ‘And this is a lot cleaner than Malley’s. Jindalee has plenty of spare bedrooms, though most are in desperate need of a good dust. As long as you and Samson keep out of my way, you’re welcome to hunker down for as long as the flood lasts.’

And then they topped the last rise before the house and Penny was so astounded she stalled the car.

The rain clouds up north must have visited here a while back because the pastures were lush and green. The property was vast and undulating. There were low hills rolling away as far as the eye could see. The land was dotted with stands of magnificent gums. She could see the occasional flock of sheep in the distance, white against green.

But the house... It took her breath away.

It was a real homestead, built a hundred or more years ago. It sat on a slight rise, huge, long and low, built of whitewashed stone. French windows opened to the vast verandas and soft white curtains fluttered out into the warm afternoon breeze. Grapevines massed under the veranda and massive old settees sat under their shade. An ancient dog lay on the top step by the front door as if he was guarding the garden.

And what a garden. It looked almost like an oasis in the middle of this vast grazing property. Even from here she could see the work, the care...

Wisteria hung from massive beamed walkways. She could see rockwork, the same sandstone that lined the creeks, used to merge levels into each other. Bougainvillea, salvia, honeysuckle... Massive trees that looked hundreds of years old. A rock pool with a waterfall that looked almost natural. Roses, roses and more roses.

And birds. As they approached the house a flock of crimson rosellas rose screeching from the gums, wheeling above their heads as if to get a better look, and then settled again.

For why wouldn’t they settle? This place looked like paradise.

‘Oh, my...’ She slowed to a halt. She needed to stop and take it all in.

And Matt pulled his horse to a halt as well. He sat watching her.

‘This is... Oh...’ She could hardly speak.

‘Home,’ Matt said and she could feel the love in his voice. And suddenly every doubt about staying here went out of the window.

He loved this place. He loved this garden and surely no one who loved as much as this could be an axe murderer?

‘Who does this?’ she stammered. She’d tried gardening in the past. It had been a thankless task as her parents moved from prestige property to prestige property, but she knew enough to know that such a seemingly casual, natural garden represented more hard work than she could imagine. ‘Your wife?’ she asked. ‘Or...’

‘I don’t have a wife,’ he said, suddenly curt, and she thought instinctively that there was a story there. ‘But I do have someone helping me in the garden. Donald loves it as much as I do. He’s in his eighties now but he won’t slow down.’

‘Your dad? Grandpa?’

‘No.’ Once more his reply was curt and she knew suddenly that she needed to back off. This guy wasn’t into personal interrogation. ‘Donald owned this place before I bought it. He’s stayed on because of the garden.’

‘That’s lovely,’ she breathed.

‘It is,’ he said and he wasn’t talking of Donald. His eyes skimmed the house, the garden, the country around them and she saw his face soften. ‘There’s nowhere I’d rather be.’

She gazed around her, at the low lying hills, at the rich pasture, at the massive gum trees, at the sheer age and beauty of the homestead which seemed to nestle into its surroundings as if it had grown there. ‘How much of this do you own?’ she breathed.

‘As far as you can see and more.’ It was impossible for him to hide the pride in his voice.

‘Oh, wow!’ The property must be vast. She sat and soaked it in, and something in her settled. Who could be fearful or even heartbroken in a place like this?

Okay, she was still heartbroken but maybe she could put it aside.

‘What’s the building over there?’ A low shed built of ancient handmade bricks sat under the gum trees in the distance. It looked so old it practically disappeared into the landscape.

‘That’s the shearing shed. The shearers’ quarters are behind that.’

And suddenly she was diverted from the farm’s beauty.

‘There’s a dozen trucks. At least.’

‘They belong to the shearing team. We start at dawn. You’ll need to keep out of the way.’

‘Oh, but...’ Surely with so many...

‘No,’ he said, seeing where she was heading and cutting her off before she got started. ‘No one’s driving you anywhere. You’ll find an empty garage around the back. I need to take care of Nugget and talk to the men before I come in for the night, but the back door’s open. Put the kettle on and make yourself a cup of...what was it? Lapsang souchong. I’ll see you in an hour or so. Meanwhile, welcome to Jindalee, Miss Hindmarsh-Firth. Welcome to my home.’

* * *

Matt led Nugget into the stables, unstrapped his gear and started brushing. Nugget looked vaguely surprised. Knowing shearing was about to start, knowing life was about to get crazy, he’d given him a decent brush this morning. But two brushes in one day wouldn’t hurt and it might help get his head together.

In one sense the worsening flood was a blessing. The shearing team hadn’t listened to the weather forecast. They’d come straight from a property south of here this morning, and there’d been no hint of the flooding to come. That meant when they woke tomorrow and found he had no shearers’ cook they couldn’t leave in disgust. At least his sheep would be shorn.

But he was facing two weeks of disgruntled shearers. Plus two weeks of a society princess who asked questions.

Penelope Hindmarsh-Firth...

He took his phone from the waterproof protector he always used—thank heaven he’d had it today—and hit the Internet. Thank heaven for satellites too, he thought, glancing at the dish on the top of the house. If he’d used the Internet to good effect he could have tracked the speed of the flooding. He could have let the shearers know not to come, but he’d gambled. He’d known the water was on its way but he’d thought they’d be able to get through this morning. They had. He had two weeks’ work for them and a decent amount of supplies.

He’d also thought his cook could get through, but he’d been coming from another property in a different direction. And that had spelled disaster.

First World problem—shearers having to cook their own tucker? Maybe it was, but from time immemorial shearers had counted the quality of food and accommodation as a major enticement. This was a crack team and they expected the best. They couldn’t blame him but it would be a sullen two weeks.

‘So what are the odds of Miss Hindmarsh-Firth being able to cook?’ he asked Nugget and thought of the teapot and grimaced. He needed to know more about the blonde and her white poodle. He leaned back on his horse’s hindquarters and Nugget nibbled his ear while he searched Penelope Hindmarsh-Firth in his Internet browser.

And what sprang up were gossip columns—a list of them, longer than his screen. Current gossip.

‘Is one Hindmarsh-Firth as good as another?’ ‘Sister Swap!’ ‘Taggart’s gamble pays off...’

Bemused, he hit the first and read.

Brett Taggart, chief accountant to investment banker George Hindmarsh and heiress Louise Firth, has played a risky hand and won. He wooed the pair’s daughter, company PR assistant Penelope, with what we hope were honourable intentions... Familiarity, however, meant a change of direction for our dubiously intentioned Brett. As he was welcomed into the golden world of the Hindmarsh-Firth family, his attention was obviously caught by his fiancée’s older half-sister, glamorous social butterfly Felicity. Never let a promise get in the way of a good time, seems to be Brett’s philosophy, and rumour has it that he and Felicity might be expecting a Happy Event in the next few months.

Such a ruckus in the family might have some parents casting children out. ‘Never darken our door again!’ would have been this columnist’s reaction to such a back-stabbing sibling, but George and Louise seem to have taken the situation in their stride. In a recent tabloid interview George even insinuated he understands why Brett would choose the gorgeous Felicity over her dumpy, media-shy sister, and Louise refuses to comment. So one wedding has been swapped for another.

Ugh, Matt thought, feeling a wave of sympathy for the ‘dumpy, media-shy’ Penny.

And then he thought...dumpy? What a description for those curves.

Um...let’s not go there. He didn’t need distraction.

He did not need anyone—except a shearer’s cook.

‘At least she can make her own tea,’ he muttered to Nugget. ‘There’s a bonus. I wonder if she can make her own toast?’

* * *

Penny ventured in through the back door and was met by silence. Samson sniffed forward so she cautiously opened a few doors. The house was a beautiful...mausoleum?

It looked like a magnificent homestead built for a family of a dozen or so, with entertaining on a lavish scale. But it also looked like it hadn’t been used for years. The massive sitting room off the main entrance was covered in dust sheets, as were the two other rooms she ventured into. She peeked under the dust sheets and saw furniture that’d look at home in an antique store. An expensive antique store.

There was a small sun-drenched den that looked well used. It was crammed with farming journals, books, a computer, dog beds. Matt’s study? A wide passage led to what must be the bedroom wing but she wasn’t game to go there.

Feeling more and more like an intruder, she retreated to the kitchen.

Which was...spectacular.

Windows opened to the veranda, to the shearing shed in the distance and to the hills beyond. Sunbeams were dancing on the floor, the ancient timbers worn by years of use. A battered wooden table ran almost the full length of the room, with scattered mismatched chairs that looked incredibly inviting. A small, slow combustion stove stood to one side of an old hearth, as if a far bigger wood stove had been removed. Beside it was a vast industrial oven and cooktop. It looked as if it could feed a small army.

How many people lived here? Hardly anyone by the look of the closed-up rooms, but these ovens... Wow!

She glanced again at the firestove. It was lit and emitting a gentle warmth. She’d never used one. Could she make bread?

What was she thinking of? Baking?

This situation was a mess. She didn’t want to be here and Matt Fraser didn’t want her here. Her job at Malley’s Corner was in doubt. She’d ring them now but would they still want her when she arrived two weeks late?

She was stuck here for two weeks, with a man she didn’t know.

But she was suddenly thinking: did he have decent flour?

There was a door to the side which looked like it could lead to a pantry. She shouldn’t pry. The very stillness of the house was making her nervous, but he’d said she could make herself a cup of tea.

She did have tea but it was packed at the bottom of one of her crates. So she needed to check the pantry...

She opened the pantry door and gasped.

This pantry was huge, and it was stocked as if Matt was expecting to feed an army.

There were flour bins, big ones, topped to overflowing. There were bins of rice, of sugar. There were mountains of cans, stacks of packs of pasta. There was every dried herb and sauce she could imagine.

There were two vast refrigerators and freezers, and another door led to a coolroom. She saw vegetables, fruit, every perishable a cook could need. There were whole sides of beef and lamb. Who could eat this much meat?

The shearing team? She’d read descriptions of life on the big sheep stations. Gun shearers, working twelve-hour days, pushing themselves to the limits, while the farmer’s wife pushed herself to the limit feeding them.

Matt had no wife. There was no evidence of a housekeeper.

Was he planning to cook, or did one of those trucks out there belong to a cook?

She closed the lid of the freezer and saw an enormous list pinned to the wall. It was an inventory of everything she’d just seen.

It was printed out as an email. She flicked through to the end.

Can you get all this in stock and have it waiting? I’ll be there on the seventh by mid-afternoon, but my first cook will be smoko on the eighth. See you then.

So he did have a cook. He’d probably be over with the men now, she thought. Maybe Matt was there too. Maybe they were sitting round drinking beer while Matt told them about the dopey blonde he’d pulled out of the water.

And suddenly all the fears of the past few weeks crowded back.

She was stuck in the middle of nowhere, where no one wanted her. She was stuck for two weeks.

A shearer’s cook would be taking over this kitchen from tomorrow morning. Maybe she could help, she thought, but she’d worked in enough kitchens to know how possessive cooks could be.

‘I might be allowed to wash dishes,’ she told Samson morosely.

She found a tea bag—actually, she found about a thousand tea bags. They weren’t generic, but they weren’t lapsang souchong either.

‘We’ll have to slum it,’ she told her dog, and made her tea and headed out to the veranda.

The big, old collie she’d seen earlier was still snoozing on the step. He raised his head and gave his tail a faint wag, then settled back down to the serious business of sleeping.

An old man was dead-heading roses. He was stooped and weathered with age, almost a part of the land around him. He glanced up from his roses as she emerged from the back door, and startled as if he’d just seen a ghost.

‘Hi,’ Penny called. ‘I’m Penny.’

He didn’t answer. Instead he dropped the canvas bag he’d been carrying and backed away. Ghosts, it seemed, were scary.

Penny sighed. She plonked herself down on the edge of the veranda and gazed out over the garden to the rolling plains beyond. Samson eyed the old dog warily, and then plonked down beside her.

‘This is a beautiful view,’ she told Samson. ‘But I might just get sick of it after two weeks.’

Samson put his nose into the crook of her arm and whined. Samson, it seemed, was in complete agreement.

* * *

To say the men were unhappy would be an understatement.

‘So who’s going to cook?’ Bert, self-proclaimed shearers’ foreman, sounded incredulous.

‘Me,’ Matt told him. ‘It means I can’t spend much time in the shed, but Ron and Harv will have things under control.’ Ron was his right-hand man, Harv his jackeroo. They were both capable sheep men.

Leaving the shed in their hands was still a risk. Half the trick of a smooth shear was the owner being hands-on. Men worked at full capacity, day after day, pushing themselves to the limit because the sooner they finished the sooner they’d be paid, and that was a recipe for problems. Tensions escalated fast. Ron and Harv were both men who disliked conflict and backed away from it—there was a reason they both worked on such an isolated property. Matt didn’t like conflict either, but he could deal. He had the authority to dock wages, to kick a drunk shearer off the team or, worse, to recommend to other station owners which teams not to employ.

But Ron and Harv couldn’t cook to save their lives. They lived on a diet of corned beef, beer and the occasional apple to prevent scurvy. At least Matt could do a decent spag. bol.

He had no choice. The kitchen was his.

‘So we’ll be eating pasta and boiled beef for two weeks?’ Bert demanded and Matt shrugged.

‘I’ll do my best. Sorry, guys. I’m as unhappy about this as you are.’

‘So what about the Sheila we just saw you drive in with?’ Bert demanded. ‘Have you replaced Pete with a bit of fluff?’

‘I haven’t. She was stuck in the creek and I pulled her out. She’s stuck here too and, before you ask, I suspect she might be able to brew a decent tea but not much else.’

‘Great,’ Bert growled. ‘That’s just great.’

‘Sorry,’ Matt told him. ‘But that’s the situation and we’re stuck with it.’

And also a cute blonde with curves?

Do not go there. What was wrong with him? That was the second time he’d thought it.

Two weeks...

Stay well clear, he told himself. The last thing he needed was yet another woman complicating his life.

CHAPTER THREE

MATT RETURNED TO FIND Penny on the veranda, trying to make friends with Donald’s dog. He greeted her curtly. There was a lot to be done before he could sleep. If she was expecting to be entertained he might as well make things clear now.

He showed her which bedroom she could use. It was big, it overlooked the garden and it had the extra advantage of being as far away from his as possible. Plus it had its own bathroom. For a Hindmarsh-Firth it might still be slumming it, he thought, but it’d be a thousand times better than the accommodation she’d get at Malley’s Corner.

What on earth was she intending to do at Malley’s? He’d ask some time, he thought, but he had to be up before dawn to make sure the first mob was ready to go, he had to check the sheep again tonight and he needed to eat.

But he should offer to feed her, he decided. From tomorrow he was faced with feeding the multitude. He might as well start now.

‘Dinner’s in half an hour,’ he told her as he dumped her gear in her bedroom—how much stuff could one woman use? ‘At seven.’

‘I can help.’ She hesitated. ‘I’d like to.’

‘I’ll do it.’ He wanted to eat and run, not sit while she fussed over something fancy. ‘Thirty minutes. Kitchen. Oh, and there’s dog food...’

‘Samson has his own dog food.’

‘Of course he does,’ he said shortly and left her to her unpacking.

Showered, clean of the river sand, he felt better but not much. He tossed bacon and tomatoes into a frying pan, put bread in the toaster and set plates on the table.

Right on seven she walked in the door. She’d changed too. She’d obviously showered as well, for her curls were still damp. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and she’d caught her curls back in a ponytail.

He glanced around as she came into the room and had to force himself to turn back to the frying pan.

She looked fresh and clean and...cute? More than cute.

Curvy? Bouncy?

Sexy.

Cut it out, he told himself and concentrated on the bacon.

‘The house is lovely,’ she told him. ‘Thank you for taking me in.’

‘It’s not like I had a choice.’ He thought about that for a moment and decided he sounded a bore. ‘Sorry. You’re welcome. And yes, it’s lovely. Eggs?’ Then he figured as a conversational gambit it needed a little extra. ‘How many?’

‘Two, please.’ Her feet were bare. She padded over to the bench beside the firestove and hauled herself up so her legs were swinging. ‘You can fry on this? I’ve never used a slow combustion stove.’

‘It’s a skill,’ he said, deciding to sound modest.

‘What else can you do on it?’

Uh oh. She’d called him out. He grinned and cracked an egg into the pan. ‘Sausages,’ he told her. ‘And I can boil stuff.’

‘So you use the big oven?’

‘Not usually. The firestove suits me. If it’s a cold morning I put my boots in the oven. Oh, and the occasional live lamb.’

‘You put lambs in the oven?’

‘It’s the best place for a lamb that’s been caught in the frost,’ he told her. ‘I can fit a lamb and boots in there all at once. Lamb and boots come out warm and ready to go. It’s a win-win for everyone. Who needs an oven for baking?’

‘But you can still bake in it?’

‘I could try,’ he told her. ‘But anything I put in there might come out smelling of wet wool and boot leather.’

‘Yum,’ she said and then looked down at his frying eggs. ‘Don’t let them get hard.’

‘What?’ He stared down at the five eggs he’d cracked. He picked up the egg slice to flip them but Penny put her hand out and held his. Stopping him mid-flip.

‘You want runny yolks?’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘Runny’s nicer.’

‘Yeah, but...’

‘Just spoon a little hot fat over them. It’s much less likely to burst the yolks.’

‘I don’t have time for nice.’

‘Then let me,’ she told him and jumped down, grabbed a spoon and edged him out of the way.

Her body hit his and all of a sudden they were close. Too close.

He felt... He didn’t know what he felt. How long since he’d stood beside a woman in a kitchen?

This was not a sensation he needed to be feeling tonight.

He edged away fast, and stood and watched while she carefully spooned hot fat over the yolks.

‘Done,’ she said.

She flicked bacon and tomatoes he’d fried earlier onto the toast and then carefully slid the eggs on top.

How had she done that? It was weird but somehow she’d made it look...sort of gourmet? When he piled eggs and bacon onto a plate they looked like eggs and bacon. She’d sort of set the tomatoes at one side and then made a round of bacon. The eggs slid on top and it looked...great.

He’d been hungry. Now he was even hungrier.

And so, it seemed, was she. She sat down and tackled her eggs and bacon as if she hadn’t seen food in a week. She was enjoying every mouthful of this very plain meal.

He thought of the few women he knew and the way they ate. Not like this. This was almost sensual.

‘Wow,’ she breathed as she finished her first egg and tackled her bacon. ‘Yum!’

‘It’s all in the cooking,’ he said and she grinned. It was a great grin, he decided. Kind of endearing.

‘Yeah, great fat scooping.’ She shook her head. ‘Nope. These eggs... This bacon...’

‘Home grown,’ he told her. ‘They’re Donald’s projects.’

‘Donald?’

‘I told you about him. He used to own this property. He got too old to run it; he sold it but the thought of leaving broke his heart. I offered him one of the shearers’ cottages in return for keeping up the garden. He’s been with me for ten years now, running a few of his precious pigs, caring for his hens and keeping my garden magnificent. Win-win for everyone.’

‘Are the eggs free range too?’ she asked.

‘We lock ’em up at night. Which reminds me...’ He headed for the sink, dumping his dishes. ‘I need to go. Sleep well. Anything you need in the morning, help yourself. I’ll be gone before dawn.’

‘You start shearing before dawn?’

‘The pens are already full for the dawn start but I’ll run the south mob into the home paddock to refill the pens as the men work. But I’ll be back here by about nine to make sandwiches.’

‘You’re making sandwiches?’

‘Yeah.’ He grimaced. ‘That’s all they’re getting. But it doesn’t affect you. Just stay away from the sheds, that’s all I ask. I don’t like distractions.’

‘I’m a distraction?’

He turned and looked at her. Cute, he thought again. Definitely cute.

Her poodle was at her feet. Most of the shearers had dogs.

Penny and Samson in the shearers’ shed? No and no and no.

‘Definitely a distraction. Stay away,’ he growled, possibly more gruffly than he intended.

But she looked distracted now. She was frowning. ‘You’re making sandwiches?’ she said again.

‘Yes.’

‘And you just said all you can do is sausages and boiling stuff.’

‘I’ll boil a couple of slabs of beef for lunch.’

The thought of it was almost overwhelming but who else would do it? Ron and Harv could be depended on to keep the sheep coming in and clear the pens but their cooking skills were zero. Donald was eighty-seven. That was his pool of workers.

He could imagine the reaction of the shearers if he went over there now and said: Hey, do any of you cook? Care to swap jobs?

But he was eyeing the woman at the table with caution. She’d known how to cook an egg. That was about twenty per cent of his cooking skill. Maybe...

But she drove a pink car. She had a poodle. She came from one of the richest families in Australia.

Ask.

‘I employ a shearers’ cook,’ he told her. ‘The best. Pete sent me lists. I have everything I need—except Pete. He’s stuck on the far side of the floodwater.’ He hesitated. ‘So I’m stuck with cooking. But any help you could give me...’

‘I’ll cook.’

Silence.

I’ll cook.

Two magic words.

‘You can cook?’

‘Don’t sound so shocked. Why do you think I was heading for Malley’s Corner?’

‘You were going to Malley’s to cook?’ He couldn’t keep the incredulity from his voice.

‘What’s wrong with that?’ She glared. ‘Just because my family’s...’

‘The richest family in Australia?’

‘We’re not. There are mining magnates richer than us.’

‘Of course there are.’

‘Don’t be sarcastic. Besides, this has nothing to do with money. Though...’ she considered ‘...I’m stuck here so I might as well make myself useful. Consider it payment for board.’

‘Do you have any idea how hard it is to cook for a shearers’ team?’

‘You were going to do it.’

‘Now you sound sarcastic.’

And she grinned. ‘I do,’ she conceded. ‘But I can do better than sandwiches.’

‘We have a team of twenty shearers, classers and roustabouts. Do you have any idea how much they eat?’

‘I’ve cooked for hundreds.’

‘You...’

‘You say that like I’m some sort of amoebic slug,’ she said carefully. ‘Why shouldn’t I cook? Why do you think Malley hired me?’

‘Malley would employ anyone with a pulse. Come to think of it, rumour was that his last cook didn’t have one.’

‘Then he’s about to be surprised. I even have qualifications.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘Only a basic apprenticeship,’ she admitted. ‘But I’ve done lots of cooking classes in amazing places. Mum and Dad approved of those.’

‘I just read an article online,’ he told her. A man had to be careful but he might as well say it. Not that he had a recruitment pool of hundreds but he needed to know what he was getting into. ‘It described you as a PR assistant in your family corporation. It also said you were nursing a bruised ego and a broken heart.’

She froze. ‘You checked up on me.’

‘I did. About the broken heart bit. Your sister... I’m sorry...’

And all of a sudden the apologetic, polite blonde was transformed by temper.

‘Don’t you dare go there,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t want sorry. Every one of my so-called friends are sorry, but not sorry enough to refuse an invitation to the massive wedding my parents are organizing right now. My father says a big function’s important to show there’s no family rift. So there’s no family rift. Business as usual.’

He winced. ‘That must hurt. Every major tabloid...’

‘Is enjoying it very much.’ She cut him off bitterly. ‘But that’s important how? Right now I’m offering to cook for you. Isn’t there a Discrimination Act somewhere that says asking employees about their past appalling taste in men is illegal?’

‘Are you applying for a job?’

‘I might be,’ she snapped. ‘As long as you don’t rake up my family. I’ve left them in Sydney and that’s where they’re staying. I like the fact that half of Australia is flooding between here and there. Do you like the fact that I can cook?’

There was no arguing with that. ‘Yes.’

‘So let’s move on. Your shearers like sandwiches? Are you any better at making them than frying eggs?’

‘Mine would be pretty basic sandwiches,’ he admitted.

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed eight. He should be gone, he thought. There was so much to do before dark.

But he had the offer of a cook.

She intrigued him. She was half perky, half defensive.

It sounded as if her family had cut her a raw deal and he’d seen enough of the tabloids to realize how widely her humiliation must have spread. She must be hurting a lot under her pink bravado.

What he wanted was to probe deeper into what was behind her blind run to Malley’s. But then...this was personal and hadn’t he learned a long time ago not to get personal with women? The last thing he needed was a wealthy blonde socialite sobbing on his chest while she spilt all.

And she was right. Her past had no bearing on her ability to cook.

She could probably only do fancy, he thought. Soufflés and caviar and truffles. But she had cooked a mean egg, which was more than he could do. And how could her cooking be worse than his efforts?

‘If you really could...’

‘I could try,’ she told him, her glare fading. She looked as if she was sensing his train of thought. ‘You can sack me if it doesn’t work.’ She smiled suddenly, and he thought she had a great smile. It lit her face.

It lit the room.

‘Tell me what you need,’ she said and he had to force himself to focus on something that wasn’t that smile.

‘Morning smoko, dinner and arvo tea. The shearers make their own breakfast and evening meal, but our dinner’s midday, when we need a full, hot meal to keep going. You have no idea how many calories a gun shearer burns. Are you really serious about helping?’

‘I’m serious.’

‘Okay.’ He took a deep breath, seeing clear air where from the time he’d had the call from Pete he’d only seen fog. ‘At ten you’d provide smoko—morning tea. You’d bring the food over to the shed. I’ll come and help you carry it. Then at twelve-thirty they all come here for a buffet dinner and take it onto the veranda to eat. At three it’s time for arvo tea and you take that to the shed as well. It saves time. You’d be expected to cook a couple of extra roasts and leave them in the shearer’s quarters so they can use that as a base for their evening meal.’

‘Wow,’ she said and looked at the big stove. ‘No wonder you have three ovens. Is there an instruction manual?’

‘On the Internet.’

‘You have Internet?’

‘Yep. Satellite. I’ll give you the password.’

She stood up and her smile widened until the defensiveness of moments ago disappeared entirely.

‘You have no idea how good that makes me feel,’ she told him. ‘Half an hour ago I was trapped in the middle of nowhere feeling useless. Now I have a job and Internet and there’s nothing more I need in the world. Right. You’d better put those chooks to bed and gather those sheep or whatever you have to do. Leave me be, Matt. I’m about to get busy.’

He’d been dismissed.

* * *

She was needed! She stood in the great kitchen and, for the first time since that appalling night when Brett and Felicity had appeared at the family dinner table hand in hand and smugly announced the new order of things, she felt as if she was standing on firm ground again.

A shearing team of twenty. Two weeks’ hard work, she thought with satisfaction. Two weeks when she could put her head down and forget that every tabloid in the country was running articles pitying her.

She’d be working for Matt.

Matt...

And suddenly her thoughts went off at a tangent. Matt. The way he’d said he was sorry. He’d said it...as if he understood. How was that possible? It had been a throwaway line, a platitude, something that had been said to her over and over before her family and her friends had moved on to the new normal.

But his eyes were kind.

And the rest of him...

Wow.

And that was enough to make her give herself a fast mental slap to the side of the head. What was she thinking? He was her new boss. He was the owner of this place, a guy who lived and breathed the land, a guy who’d practically lifted her car and heaved it out of the water.

She’d been brought up with suits. She’d never met anyone even vaguely like Matt.

He made her feel...breathless.

Oh, for heaven’s sake. It had been less than a month since she’d been unceremoniously dumped by Brett. She’d thought she was in love, and look how that had turned out.

‘I have no sense at all,’ she told Samson. ‘Okay, he might be good-looking enough to make my toes curl but my toes are not a good indicator. My father thinks I’m an idiot, and where men are concerned I’ve just proved him spectacularly right. I need to ignore Matt Fraser and get on with my job.’

She opened the pantry again and gazed at the contents in delight.

This place was like a miniature supermarket. Filled with hope, she headed out the back. A vegetable garden! Herbs!

Her head was spinning in all directions. What first?

She could make cupcakes for morning tea. No. She pulled herself up short. Cupcakes might seem girly and the last thing she needed was guys thinking her food was girly. Okay, lamingtons. Better. She could whip up a couple of sponges now and coat them first thing in the morning. Then maybe a couple of big frittatas for lunch, with salads from the gorgeous stuff in the garden and fresh crusty bread. She had an overnight bread recipe. She could start it now so it’d rise magnificently overnight.

She looked at the sacks of flour and realized that Matt had supplies for an army. This must be provisioning for the rest of the year.

She wasn’t complaining.

Next? What had Matt called it...arvo tea? If they’d eaten a big lunch they wouldn’t want much. Chocolate brownies?

‘Let’s go,’ she told Samson and he wiggled his tail at the joy in her voice.

There hadn’t been much joy lately but she was feeling it now.

And she had to ask herself—was it just a little bit because a guy called Matt Fraser would be sharing a house with her for the next two weeks?

Was it just a little bit because a guy called Matt Fraser had caused a tingle of something she couldn’t put a name to?

‘It has nothing to do with Matt,’ she told Samson severely. ‘It’s only the fact that I’m a world away from ghastly Brett and smug Felicity, and I’m needed.’

And the fact that Matt was sexy as...

Surely that had nothing to do with anything at all?

* * *

He’d met her only hours before. She was a society princess in a pink car and she had nothing to do with his world.

So why was he still feeling her hand on his, the way her body had seemed to melt into his as she’d edged him aside to stop him doing the unthinkable—flipping his eggs!

Why did it suddenly feel as if his world was tilting?

There was no reason at all, he told himself and headed out to make sure the hens were locked up for the night.

‘Who is she?’ It was Donald—caring for the chooks was his job. But increasingly Donald forgot. Age was beginning to fuddle him, but he didn’t seem to notice that Matt double-checked on most things he did.

Donald had run this property alone for fifty years. He was a confirmed bachelor and to say he treated women as aliens would be an understatement. Penny’s presence, it seemed, had shocked him to the core.

‘I pulled her out of the creek,’ Matt told him. ‘She was taking a dumb shortcut. She’s stuck here until the water goes down.’

‘Stuck. Here.’ Donald said the two words as if they might explode and Matt almost laughed. He thought of the ditzy little blonde in his kitchen and wondered if there was anything less scary.

Although there were scary elements. Like the way his body reacted to her.

Um...let’s not go there.

‘She can cook,’ he told Donald as he shooed the last hen into the pen and started collecting the eggs. ‘The shearers’ cook is stuck on the far side of the floodwater. If she can keep the team happy...’

‘She can cook!’ Donald’s mother had run off with a wool-buyer when Donald was seven. His opinion of women had been set in stone since.

He grinned. ‘I hear some women can.’

Donald thought about it. ‘Rufus seems to like her,’ he conceded at last. ‘I watched her scratch his ear so she can’t be all bad. What’s that bit of fluff she’s got with her?’

‘A poodle.’

‘A poodle at Jindalee! What next?’

‘I’m thinking of getting him to help drafting the mobs in the morning,’ Matt said and Donald gave a crack of laughter.

‘He might end up getting shorn himself. I wonder what the classer’d make of that fleece?’ He grinned. ‘So you’ve got a woman and a poodle in the homestead. Want to kip in my place for the duration?’

‘That’d be a bit of overkill. I’ve put her in your old bedroom and you know I sleep at the other end of the house. I think we can manage.’

‘Women reel you in.’

‘That’s eighty years of experience speaking?’

‘Eighty years of keeping out of their way. Mark my words, boy, it’s like a disease.’

‘I’ve been married, had a kid and have the scars to prove it,’ Matt said, his grin fading. ‘I’m immune.’

‘No one’s immune.’ Donald shook his head and gestured to the house with a grimy thumb. ‘Don’t you go in till she’s safely in bed and leave before she wakes up. Have your cornflakes at my place.’

‘I’ll be careful,’ Matt promised him and smiled, although suddenly for some reason he didn’t feel like smiling.

He thought of Penny—maybe Donald’s advice was wise.

Lifting eggs from the nesting boxes, he enjoyed, as he always did, the warmth, the miracle of their production. He’d never quite got over the miracle of owning this place. Of never being told to move on.

He found himself thinking of his mother, going from one disastrous love affair to another, dragging her son with her. He’d learned early that when his mother fell in love it meant disaster.

She’d left and finally he’d figured he didn’t need her.

After that...his first farm, financial security, finally feeling he could look forward.

And then deciding he could love.

Darrilyn.

And there it was again—disaster. Because Darrilyn didn’t want him. She wanted the things his money represented. Two minutes after they were married she was pushing him to leave the farm he loved, and when he didn’t...

Yeah, well, that was old history now. He didn’t need Darrilyn. He didn’t need anyone. But Donald was right.

He needed to be careful.

CHAPTER FOUR

THEY LOOKED BEAUTIFUL.

Penny gazed at the table in satisfaction. She had two plates of lamingtons ready to go. She’d rolled her cakes in rich chocolate sauce, coated them in coconut and filled them with cream. She’d thought of the difficulties of plates and spoons over in the yard so she’d gone small, but she’d made two each to compensate.

She’d piled them in beautifully stacked pyramids. They looked exquisite.

But this wasn’t a social event, she reminded herself. Two lamingtons might not be enough, so she made a few rounds of club sandwiches, bite-sized beauties. She cut them into four-point serves and set them on a plate in the lamingtons’ midst. They looked great.

She glanced at the clock and felt a little swell of pride. She had the ovens hot for the frittatas for lunch. They were almost ready to pop in. She had fifteen minutes before smoko and she was totally in control.

Matt would walk in any minute.

And here he was. He looked filthy, his pants and open neck shirt coated in dust, his boots caked in...whatever, she didn’t want to think about it. His face was smeared with dust and his hair plastered down with sweat. ‘Hey. Nearly ready?’

She lifted her lamingtons for inspection. ‘We can take them over now if you like.’

He glanced at the table and his gaze moved on. ‘Where’s the rest?’

‘The rest?’

There was a pregnant pause. And then... ‘This is all there is?’

‘Two lamingtons, two points of sandwiches each. How much more...’

He swore and headed for the pantry, leaving a trail of filthy footsteps over her nice, clean kitchen floor.

Her kitchen. That was how she felt when she worked. This was her domain.

Um...not. Matt had flung open the pantry door and was foraging behind the flour sacks. He emerged with three boxes.

Charity sale Christmas cakes. Big ones.

‘They hate them but they’ll have to do,’ he snapped. ‘Help me chop them up. They’ll stop work in half an hour and if this is all you have...’

‘But there’s plenty,’ she stammered and he gave her a look that resembled—eerily—the one her father gave her all the time. Like: You’ve been an idiot but what else could I expect?

‘This isn’t your society morning tea,’ he snapped, ripping cartons open. ‘It’s fuel. Grab a knife and help me.’

She was having trouble moving. This was supposed to be her domain, the kitchen, her food—and he was treating her like an idiot. She felt sick.

A memory came flooding back of the dinner a month ago. She and her parents in the family home, the mansion overlooking Sydney Harbour. It had been her birthday. She’d like a family dinner, she’d told them. Just her parents, her half-sister and her fiancé.

And she’d cooked, because that was what she loved to do. She’d cooked what Brett loved to eat—stylish, with expensive ingredients, the sort of meal her father would enjoy paying a lot of money for in a society restaurant. She’d worked hard but she thought she’d got it right.

She’d even made time to get her hair done and she was wearing a new dress. Flushed with success, she’d only been a little disconcerted when Brett was late. And Felicity... Well, her sister was always late.

And then they’d walked in, hand in hand. ‘We’re so sorry, Penny, but we have something to tell you...’

Matt was already slicing the first cake but at her silence he glanced up. Maybe the colour had drained from her face. Maybe she looked how she felt—as if she was about to be sick. For whatever reason, he put the knife down.

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