Guy Radcliffe was a real heartbreaker. Alana started to wonder if she’d dreamed he had proposed marriage just a few days ago.

If it wasn’t a dream, what was she supposed to say? I love you very, very much, Guy, but no. She had always suffered from the sin of pride. He hadn’t said a single word about loving her. Instead he had come up with a serious proposal. An arrangement; a business deal. He was, after all, a high-profile businessman, a master of strategy.

She had just about accepted he wanted her. Those kisses didn’t lie. Did he count on falling in love with her eventually? Or had he seen too much of love destroying lives? She had known Guy Radcliffe all her life. Now he had asked her to marry him. Not only that, he was waiting on a response from her…

Margaret Way, a definite Leo, was born and raised in the subtropical River City of Brisbane, capital of the Sunshine State of Queensland. A Conservatorium- trained pianist, teacher, accompanist and vocal coach, she found her musical career came to an unexpected end when she took up writing, initially as a fun thing to do. She currently lives in a harbourside apartment at beautiful Raby Bay, a thirty-minute drive from the state capital, where she loves dining al fresco on her plant-filled balcony, overlooking a translucent green marina filled with all manner of pleasure craft from motor cruisers costing millions of dollars and big, graceful yachts with carved masts standing tall against the cloudless blue sky to little bay runabouts. No one and nothing is in a mad rush, so she finds the laid-back village atmosphere very conducive to her writing. With well over 100 books to her credit, she still believes her best is yet to come.

BARONS OF THE OUTBACK

Rich, rugged…and ready to marry!

In the searing heat of Wangaree Valley,

where the rainbow colours of the birds and flowers

mix with the invigorating smell of the native eucalypts,

sheep barons Guy Radcliffe and Linc Mastermann

work hard to be at the very top of their game.

They are men of the earth, strong and powerful!

Their wealth and success means Guy and Linc

are two of Australia’s most eligible bachelors—

and now they’re looking for brides!

Available now, read all about gorgeous Guy in: WEDDING AT WANGAREE VALLEY

Coming next month, Linc’s story in: BRIDE AT BRIAR’S RIDGE

WEDDING AT WANGAREE VALLEY

BY

MARGARET WAY

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

ALANA awoke before the birds. She had long since made it her habit. This was the time when the Valley was possessed of a special magic. Misty shades and depths cloaked the land, sliding down the ravines between the sentinel hills, only to vanish with the first slants of the rising sun. Occasionally a lone kookaburra beat her to it, but she managed her pre-dawn awakening pretty much every day of her life, even on Sunday, and Sunday was her well- deserved day of rest. She didn’t need the hysterical wake-up call of the kookaburras or the ecstatic screech of flocks of cockatoos to rouse her. Her body clock was set. Besides, there was such beauty in the stillness, a wonderful quietude of the heart, that reached out and folded her in its soft arms.

Barefooted, she padded out onto the verandah, her spirits lifting as she was swept by cool little breezes. They whipped at her thin nightdress, moulding it against her body like petals sheathed a rose. She arched her back and stretched her arms, something sensual in her actions. The palest green mist hung over the densely treed hills, and the sky above was a transparent grey that was washed with pastel bands of yellow and amethyst along the horizon.

One twinkling star still blossomed, diamond- white with the faintest pink halo.

She had a wonderful unobstructed view over the Valley from the upper verandah. At all times of the day it presented a picture postcard of this part of rural Australia that was well beyond the precincts of the great Desert Heart. The garden beneath her was overflowing with colour: hibiscus, oleander, frangipani, giant bouginvillaea bushes in hot pink, purple and white. They spilled over arbours and walls and even climbed trees in their bid to reach the sun; close by, a rich diversity of nectar bearing native shrubs brought in parrots and brilliantly plumaged little lorikeets in their legions. It made a wild paradise of a garden that was now sadly neglected and in many places running rampant. The garden was huge by any standards. There simply wasn’t the time.

Briar’s Ridge was the centre of her life, but nowadays the homestead was hurting badly. Still, the Valley was the most desirable place on earth to live. This was where she was rooted. This was the place she had run wild as a child. She loved the fragrance of the eucalypts that dominated the high ridges, filling her lungs with their astonishing freshness. She felt she could even gargle on it, it had such antiseptic power. The eucalypts could be counted upon to flood the landscape with their marvellous aromatic scents and, when in flower, an amazing range of pods and blossom. Reluctantly she lifted her hands off the balustrade. It was so beautiful, a still dreaming world, but already the sky was lightening. Better get going.

Another day, another battle for survival. Over the past three years the farm had been going downhill, despite all their back-breaking hard work. Of course there was the drought. The man on the land was always fighting drought, but her father’s decline into a grief-stricken, booze-fuelled lethargy was the crux of the matter. Inside she was torn by her suspicions over Guy Radcliffe—the man she privately dubbed Lord and Master of the Valley—who had been giving her father a helping hand. It was all done on the quiet, of course. That was Guy’s way. Nevertheless, the thought oppressed her. Her feelings towards Guy— though she had known him all her life—were so strangely ambivalent they filled her with confusion; a confusion she was always at great pains to hide.

Guy Radcliffe, as Master of Wangaree, one of the nation’s great historic sheep stations, was without a doubt the richest and most successful man in a highly prosperous region, and he was a well-known philanthropist. It was equally well known that he liked to keep his many dealings with his adoring subjects strictly under wraps. Dispensing largesse and a helping hand was a Radcliffe tradition, as befitting the Valley’s leading family since the earliest days of settlement. Guy’s ancestors had pioneered Wangaree Valley. For more than a century their wealth had ridden on the sheep’s back. Then, with the downturn in the wool industry, the Radcliffes had been among the first of the sheep barons to diversify. These days Radcliffe Wine Estates had been added to the family portfolio. In a few short years it was already at the forefront of viticulture, with Guy as company chairman and brilliant CEO.

There wasn’t much Guy couldn’t do. He was The Man. No argument. Not only did he oversee the Radcliffe wine and olive production, he also still adhered to the old tradition of producing the world’s best ultra-fine wool, prized by the textile industry and the world’s great fashion houses. This most beautiful and expensive cloth was well suited to blending with silk and cashmere. Briar’s Ridge, on the other hand, had until fairly recently produced excellent fine-medium wool, suitable for middle-weight suiting. If the coming wool sales went badly, the farm could slide into ruin.

Could they possibly hold on?

A few splashes of bracingly cold water brought her fully awake. She stared in the mirror unseeingly as she patted her face dry with a soft towel. She always laid her gear out the night before to save time: same old thing. Hers was a uniform of tight fitting jeans—she looked great in them, or so her good friend Simon told her—and today a blue and white checked cotton shirt. Seated on the side of the bed, she bent to retrieve her boots, pulling them on over grey socks. She didn’t even bother to check her appearance. Who was to see her but the sheep and her dogs? The dogs were beautiful border collies, Monty and Brig—Brig being short for Brigadier. Border collies were special dogs, in her opinion. Though some sheep men in the Valley wouldn’t have them. They thought them too temperamental, preferring sprightly kelpies or Australian Shepherds. Certainly Border Collies could seriously misbehave if they weren’t getting enough exercise. They had quite a tendency to nip heels, which didn’t make them popular with visitors, and they could be destructive, but their phenomenal intelligence, their wonderful herding ability and their infinite energy, willingness and capacity to work tirelessly all day long had won Alana’s heart.

From long habit she quickly applied sunblock to her face, throat and the V above her shirt, and put protective gloss over her lips. A square of scarlet silk secured her thick honey blonde hair at the nape. She shoved her well worn cream Akubra down over her forehead as she made for the door. Barely ten minutes had elapsed, but the light had changed. The soft dove-grey of pre-dawn was taking on a solid blue cast as the sun leaned over the hills, flooding the Valley in golden dayshine.

Now the dawn chorus was up, building to a great crescendo. The noise was deafening to a city- dweller. She loved it. Nothing sweeter. Thousands and thousands of male birds in the Valley calling love songs to the thousands and thousands of females ready to listen. It usually took a good hour for the cacophony to die down, but some birds persisted for the best part of the day, pouring out their passion.

Today it was her job to ride up into the hills and round up the wethers—the castrated male sheep— before they started to scatter all over the hillside or moved deeper into the ridges with their tall trees. Usually she had her older brother Kieran’s invaluable help, but Kieran was away in Sydney on business for their dad. Briar’s Ridge was so deep in hock there was the real, sickening possibility they could lose it. These days their father rarely left home. He clung to the valley where his wife, their mother, was buried. Alana swallowed on the agonisingly hard lump in her throat. She couldn’t afford to break down. She was no stranger to sorrow, but life went on—no matter what.

Downstairs the homestead was silent, except for the loud ticking of the English long-case clock in the entrance hall. It kept wonderful time and was actually very valuable. Her mother had brought it and all the other beautiful antiques in the house with her on her marriage. Some people in the Valley—her Denby relatives in particular— thought Annabel Callaghan-née-Denby had married beneath her. Like the Radcliffes, the Denbys were the old squattocracy.

One hand on the mahogany banister, Alana descended the central staircase, turning left to tiptoe along the wide, polished wood corridor, covered with its splendid Persian runner—her mother’s. She moved past the big master bedroom—her father no longer slept there—and on to a much smaller room that in the old days had been the nursery. There their father—a big man, easily topping six feet—had set himself up, turning his back on all his old comforts and the crushing memory of having a much loved woman lying beside him, aching to hold her when she was no longer there.

The door was ajar, so she could hear him snoring. Even that was a relief. These days, almost three years after her mother’s death, Alana dreaded the thought that one morning she would find her beloved father dead. Broken hearts killed. Guilt killed. Even his drunken snoring sounded desperate. She pushed the door a little more, saw him lying, his dark, tanned, handsome face squashed into a pillow, his raven, silver-flecked curls matted. He was covered by a very beautiful ultra-fine wool rug her mother had woven. One long brown arm was flung over the side of the bed, and an empty bottle of whisky lay on its side, a few inches from his fingertips.

Just how many empty bottles had she dumped, even hidden? He always bought more. On the small bedside table was a large studio portrait in an antique silver frame. A young woman’s lovely smiling face looked out of it. The hairstyle was different, but the thick honey-blonde hair, the creamy complexion, the large hazel eyes that at different times had turned pure green, were the same. Then there was the smile. It could have been a photograph of her. Alana vividly remembered how the close resemblance between them had delighted her mother.

“When you’re older, my darling girl, you too will be named the most beautiful woman in the valley at the Naming.”

The Naming was a special event at Wangaree’s Wine Festival. The festival attracted large crowds from all over the State of New South Wales and beyond. Wine-lovers, food-lovers, music-lovers— they all came. And Guy always hired some famous artist to perform under the stars in the grounds of his lovely historic mansion, Wangaree. The Naming didn’t happen every year, more like every three, but Guy had already announced, to great excitement, that it would be on the agenda this year. It wasn’t just the honour—there was an all-inclusive holiday for two to California’s beautiful Napa Valley with it, and spending money to boot!

She had no intention of entering. She thought of herself as a modest working girl. Besides, there was no money for a knock-out evening gown— though she could still get into the beautiful dress her mother had made her for her eighteenth birthday party. Let one of her Denby cousins carry off the prize. There were three of them: Violette, Lilli and Rose. All flower names, all born into a privileged world far removed from her own. Indeed, there had been little or no interaction between the families. Violette—never, never Vi— the eldest, at twenty-seven, and judged to be the most glamorous of the three girls, but not by much. All three sisters were extremely good-looking, although Rose was by far the nicest. Violette and Lilli were pure snobs, and Violette was one of Guy’s special friends—but so far there had been no serious commitment, like an engagement.

Thank God! Something inside of Alana shied away violently from the thought of Violette’s ever becoming Mrs Guy Radcliffe. But then she didn’t want any other girl in the Valley to become his wife either. Now, that was a real puzzle. It wasn’t as though she was in the running, or as if she wasted any time making herself unhappy about it. Her world was very different from Guy’s. Violette was certain to win The Naming. Good luck to her.

As it happened, Alana’s mother had been the inspiration for the original Naming, though the festival was the brainchild of the Radcliffes. She thought she would never be as beautiful as her mother, Annabel, and nor did she have her mother’s wonderful craft skills. Her mother had excelled at quilting, rug-making, dressmaking, cooking, baking, making a house and garden beautiful, keeping her family well and happy. All those were art forms. Her mother had had them in abundance. Her own skills were with animals. Alana was an excellent rider. She had won many cross country and endurance races, beating Violette, who was a fine rider, on three separate occasions. That hadn’t gone down too well with the Denbys. They had the born- to-win mentality of the Valley’s social elite.

With the familiar tug of sadness she closed the door on her sleeping father, leaving him to his self induced oblivion. Every day of her life, while she was up in the hills within the cathedral of trees, she prayed he would break out of his prison of guilt and remorse. Everyone in the valley except Alan Callaghan knew it wasn’t his fault his wife had died after a crash involving their station ute and a big four-wheel drive leisurely exploring the famous sheep and wine district. Holding to the centre of an unfamiliar valley road, the four-wheel drive had side-swiped the ute hard as it rounded a bend. Alan Callaghan and the driver of the four-wheel drive had literally walked away, with minor injuries— her father a broken wrist. Annabel Callaghan had not been so lucky. For some reason she hadn’t been wearing her seat belt, though she had always been so particular with her children.

“Fasten up, Kieran. Fasten up, Lana. I don’t care if we are on a back road. Do as I tell you now.”

Her mother had not fastened up that day. That was the tragic part. A life lost through one careless mistake.

“I should have seen to it. Why didn’t I?”

Alan Callaghan would never forgive himself.

In the big, bright yellow and white kitchen, Alana grabbed up a couple of muesli bars and an apple, then let herself out though the back door, heading for the stables. The stables were a distance from the homestead, on the far side of the home paddock. Her fastidious mother had not wanted a single horsefly to get into the house, so her father had had the stables relocated even before her mother had moved in as a new bride.

Buddy was already up and about, ready to greet her with his brilliantly white smile. Buddy, now around eighteen—no one including Buddy knew his exact age—was aboriginal, an orphan who had landed on their doorstep almost ten years ago to the day. Their mother had put the raggedy boy into a warm soapy tub, rustled up some of Alana’s unisex clothes, dressed Buddy in them, then fed the starving child. Enquiries had been made, but no one had turned up to claim Buddy. The family had unofficially adopted him.

It was Buddy’s job, among other tasks, to look after the horses and keep the stables clean and orderly. He did all his jobs well and conscientiously, immensely proud of the fact that the kindly Callaghans had not only taken him in and sent him off to school—which he had loathed from day one—but eventually given him a job and, above all, somewhere nice to live.

“Morning, Miss Lana.”

“Morning, Buddy.” Alana returned the greeting with affection. “Hard at it, as usual?”

“I like to keep things just so. You know that. How’s Mr Alan this mornin’?” Buddy loved her father. He had worshipped her mother. Since she’d been gone Buddy had made time to religiously look after her rose garden.

“Not so good, Buddy.” Alana shook her head, fighting off a wave of despondency.

“That’s real sad. Devil-man’s at ’im!”

“Sure is,” Alana agreed. “I’ll take Cristo this morning.”

“Already got ’im saddled up.” Buddy gave a complacent grin. He ducked back into the cool dim interior, then returned leading a rangy bright chestnut gelding—good bloodstock, like the other five in the stable.

“You’re psychic, Buddy,” Alana pronounced, believing it to be so.

“Never been sick in me life, Miss Lana,” Buddy protested, his expression uncertain.

“Not sick—psychic,” Alana answered, swinging herself up into the saddle. “Psychic means you’ve got spiritual powers.”

“That’s me!” Buddy visibly brightened. “Must have a teeny bit of Wangaree blood in me.”

“Ah, the long-vanished Wangaree!” Alana gave a regretful sigh, looking up towards the surrounding hills.

The trees were standing tall, their silhouette greenish black against a radiant unclouded blue sky. The Valley had been the Wangaree’s tribal ground. Wangaree Homestead had been named in honour of that lost tribe.

Alana toiled for hours, driving the wethers down from the ridge at a steady pace into the low country. The mustering of sheep and the directing of them to various locations around the property required plenty of patience and skill. Monty and Brig were in their element, with wonderfully eager expressions, floating around the mob and keeping them in a tidy, closely packed flowing stream. She provided the orders and her dogs carried them out, revelling in the chance to show her what they could do. A few sheep with a little more rebellion than the rest of the docile mob tried to make a break for the scrub, almost losing themselves in the golden grasses, but Monty—a low, near-invisible streak, his neck chain jingling—made quick work of herding them back into line, with a quick nip to a hapless hoof.

The creek that wound through the property was glittering, as if a crowd of people were squatting beside it flashing mirrors. Alana always wore sunglasses. They were a must to protect her eyes from the searing glare.

These wethers were due to be drenched, but she would have to wait for Kieran to help her. Kieran was due home the day after next. She missed him when he went away. Life was pretty grim and enormously worrying, with their father the way he was. It broke her heart that the less compassionate people in the district had labelled her father “the Valley drunk.” Grief affected people in different ways. Her father, once a light drinker, enjoying a few cold beers at most, had embraced the whisky bottle with a vengeance.

She lifted her head to the wide-open sky. It was an incredible lapis-blue, virtually cloudless. A hot air balloon was almost directly overhead, sailing through the air as free as a bird. The Valley was a centre for sky-diving and parachuting too. She put up her hand and waved. The tourists waved back. They loved seeing the Valley this way. Wangaree and the adjoining valleys were at the very heart of one of the world’s great wine growing regions, and only a few hours’ drive from the country’s biggest and most vibrant city: Sydney.

Mid-morning, driven by hunger, she made her way back to the homestead. Two muesli bars and an apple didn’t fill a hard-working girl’s tummy. She stopped for a moment to admire her mother’s rose garden and say a little prayer. It was a daily ritual. She didn’t know if she believed in God any more, but she did it anyway. Her mother had been a believer. She missed her mother terribly.

Alana snapped out of it with an effort. How clever Buddy was! He had taken in everything her mother had taught him. High summer, and the roses were in extravagant bloom. The colours ranged from purest white through yellows and pinks to a deep crimson. Some of her mother’s favourites, the old fashioned garden roses, were wonderfully scented. Drought or no, her mother’s rose garden was putting on a superb display. For that matter the drought hadn’t had a detrimental effect on the grapes. The yield was down, certainly, but the quality was up. They had experienced just enough winter rain, with no damaging summer storms that could wipe out a vineyard in less than ten minutes.

She could hear Guy’s well-bred, sexy voice predicting, “This will be a vintage year.” She could hear his voice so clearly he might have been standing right beside her. But then Guy was so vitally alive he seemed physically present even when he wasn’t. At least that was what she believed. She even had to hold back a little moan, as though something sharp pricked at her heart. In his own way Guy Radcliffe was a god, complete with a valley full of worshippers. Certainly he was as splendid as any man might wish to be. Everyone adored him.

It fell to her to be the odd woman out.

* * *

Rounding the side of the house, she saw Simon’s Range Rover making its way out of the tunnel of trees that lent beauty and shade to the long drive up to the homestead. Her heart lifted. He could stay and have something to eat with her. She and Simon were the best of friends. The bond had sprung up in pre-school. Simon had been a real dreamer then, and very, very shy. He still was, come to that, and rather a bit too much on the intense side. She had taken charge of him right from the beginning, almost like a little mother. Her role had been to keep Simon safe.

“You must have been put on earth just for me, Lainie!”

That had been when the two of them had been standing hand in hand before the manger at a midnight service one Christmas Eve. She had given him a big squishy hug. What a pair they must have been!

Simon had lost every playground fight when she wasn’t around. The kids—and there had been some fair terrors around the Valley—had known not to mess with her. She’d been tough, and her big brother Kieran tougher. Simon was a Radcliffe—Guy’s first cousin—and that should have made him bullet proof. But it hadn’t—rather the reverse. Simon just seemed to be a natural-born victim. A big factor in his timidity could well have been the untimely loss of his playboy father before he was into his teens. Philip Radcliffe had died at the wheel of his high- powered car. His companion on that fateful day had not been his wife, but a Sydney socialite.

Simon’s widowed mother had not gone mad with grief. She had become as bitter as ever a scorned woman could, clinging tight to Simon, her only child, and smothering him in an unhealthy possessive love. Simon, who was very bright, like all the Radcliffes, had eventually gone off to university, where he’d thought himself safe from his mother’s excessive love—only to have to come home to Augusta Farm to a mother “terrified of being alone.” Though anyone who saw Rebecca Radcliffe throw up her narrow dark head, flash her black eyes and flare her thin nostrils would have been forgiven for thinking she wasn’t terrified of anyone or anything. It was the other way around.

Armed with an economics degree, Simon had been taken into the family firm as a matter of course. He worked on the business side of Radcliffe Wine Estates, which was now producing very high-quality chardonnay and shiraz wines. The estate’s chardonnay was reaching near iconic standards. Everything Guy touched turned to gold. Another example of the rich getting richer, Alana thought. If only a bit of Guy’s Midas touch could land on her father!

“It’s wonderful just to see the grapes grow,” Simon had once told her happily. “And Guy is the best boss in the world.”

Of course he was! Guy was Simon’s hero and his role model. Sometimes it put her teeth on edge, the way Simon drooled. She knew it wasn’t fair of her. Guy had huge responsibilities. He took them in his stride. It was freely acknowledged that he was doing wonderful things for the Valley. Surely, then, he richly deserved everyone’s devotion? There was no getting away from it. Guy Radcliffe was the driving force in Valley life. He drew people to him, men and women alike. Not that it made her love him the more. He didn’t take any special notice of her either. Neither could she truthfully say she was invisible to him. There was something about the way he looked at her from time to time that caused moments of elation she tried hard not to show. Underneath, of course, she found Guy as impressive as everyone else. It was just that she felt compelled to keep it to herself.

“How’s it going?” Simon called as he stepped out of his vehicle. As usual he had nosed it into his favourite parking spot in the shade of the lemon scented gums.

“Getting there,” she answered, waiting for him to crunch across the gravel to join her.

A beautiful stone fountain was the central feature of the driveway: three tiers, topped by a life-size bronze of a little boy. It was the work of a famous Australian sculptor—another treasure her mother had brought with her, along with the urns and stone statues that were dotted around the fairly extensive garden. These days the fountain never played.

“I was about to get myself something to eat. Come and keep me company.”

“Love to.” Simon showed his sweet, vulnerable smile. He had been a delicate and sensitive little boy, and sometimes it still showed. “Well, for a little while. I have to be getting back soon.”

“How did you get off in the first place?”

They mounted the short flight of front stairs.

Simon took off his hat and threw it onto the seat of a white wicker armchair. “I had to do a job for Guy. I was on my way back, but I thought I’d stop in here first. You look great.”

“You’re an awful fool!” she laughed. “I look terrible. I’m hot, sweating and starving.”

“You still look great.” Simon thought one of the best things about Alana was that she either didn’t know or didn’t care that her natural beauty was startling. Alana was his life. He had been running to her for peace and comfort ever since he could remember. “Your dad around?” His eyes slipped beyond her into the spacious entrance hall, as though Alan Callaghan was about to make another one of his slightly terrifying appearances.

“I guess he should be up by now,” Alana said, leading the way into the house. “Go into the kitchen while I check. You could start the coffee if you like.”

“Will do.”

Simon was as familiar with the Callaghan homestead as his own. He made his way through to the big farmhouse kitchen at the rear. It looked out onto the summerhouse where he and Alana had enjoyed endless after-school snacks prepared by her lovely mother. How he had wished he had a mother like that! The white lattice sides were covered in a very beautiful climbing rose, a creamy yellow with glossy dark green foliage, and a heavenly perfume wafted into the kitchen. He would always associate it with Annabel Callaghan. He missed her too. She had been such a radiant woman—beautiful, warm, welcoming. She and his own mother, Rebecca, could not have made a greater contrast.

Alana found her father in his study. He was dressed in knee-length khaki shorts and a clean white singlet. His heavy brown-rimmed glasses were sliding down his nose as he made his way through a fresh pile of bills.

“How are you, Dad?” Alana walked around the king-sized desk to give him a kiss.

“Awful, if you must know,” he grunted, putting an arm around her waist and resting his head briefly against her shoulder.

“Your own fault.” It was a mistake to give too much comfort.

“I know, but it ain’t easy,” he commented dryly. “The wethers have to be drenched.”

Alana slumped into a leather armchair. “Unless you can help me, it will have to wait until Kieran gets home.”

“Of course I’ll help you,” he said, just a shade testily. In her whole life Alana had never heard a harsh word from her father. “If you’re up to it we’ll do it this afternoon.”

“If I’m up to it? I like that!”

“Okay, okay—I know you’re a good, brave girl. The very best.” He broke off as emotion threatened to overcome him.

“My heart bleeds for you, Dad,” she said, very gently. After all, she didn’t know what it was to love someone like her father had loved and continued to love her mother. Passion between a man and woman was a different kind of love. She hadn’t experienced it as yet, and maybe she never would. Not everyone found a soul mate at will.

Alan gave himself a little mental shake. “I’m not quite the weak blubbing fool I must appear, but your mother was my shining star. She was there for me. In the morning she was there. When I came back at night she was there. Always shining. I still don’t know what she ever saw in me, the descendant of a wicked Irish convict.”

“Who was transported for the term of his natural life to Australia because he’d poached a couple of rabbits to feed his starving family,” Alana said darkly. “And who by the way went on to become a well-respected pastoralist.”

Her father allowed himself a smile. “Be that as it may, my Belle could have had any man in the Valley and way beyond. She could have had David Radcliffe.”

For a stunned moment Alana thought she hadn’t heard right. She started up in her chair, her expression aghast. “What?” She couldn’t control her rising tone. “Guy’s father?”

“The very one—God rest his soul!” Alan Callaghan, hands locked behind his head, rested back in his chair, staring up at the pressed metal ceiling.

“B-b-but—” Alana found herself stuttering now. “I’ve never heard a word of this.” In itself this was absolutely extraordinary. “Not one word, not from anyone in the Valley—and everyone knows everyone else’s business.”

“Obviously they don’t know it all.” Her father’s tone rasped as he took in her stunned expression. “It wasn’t common gossip. Neither your mother nor I ever spoke about it during our marriage. I’m sure the Radcliffes didn’t either—especially after David married Sidonie Bayley a few months after we married. The rebound, of course. And she’s a snob like the rest of them.”

“Guy isn’t. Simon isn’t,” Alana said fairly. “But this is unbelievable, Dad.” She felt immensely disturbed. “Are you saying Guy’s father could have been in love with Mum?”

“Is that a problem?” His eyes cut to her. “I don’t know why I mentioned it. It just slipped out. Everyone was in love with your mother, sweetheart. She was a beautiful, beautiful woman— inside and out.”

“And she’ll always be remembered for it.” Alana tried hard to pull herself together, but she was shocked. “Mum never made any mention of an old romance to me, and we talked about everything. That took in the Radcliffes as a matter of course. Why, she used to laugh whenever I made my little barbed comments about Guy.”

“She knew you were kidding. Guy Radcliffe is a—”

“Don’t tell me!” She passed a hand over her eyes. “A prince!”

“A real gentleman. There’s your own Denby cousins, treating us like riff-raff—leave out little Rose—but I’ve always found Guy the most egalitarian of men. He could teach the Denbys a thing or two about courtesy and respect. His dad was the same way. No side to the man. The whole valley was devastated when Dave lost his life on the Ravenshoe site.”

Alana nodded bleakly. It had been an appalling freak accident on a Radcliffe development site, when a ten-metre-high brick wall scheduled to be demolished later in the day had suddenly collapsed. David Radcliffe had been killed instantly, and his chief engineer, a short distance behind him, had narrowly escaped with significant injuries.

Alana began to wonder about certain things. “I remember coming upon Mum at the time,” she confessed. “She was crying her eyes out, terribly upset. One didn’t see Mum crying.”

Her father took long moments to answer. “No,” he rasped, and then inexplicably slammed his big hand down on a book. “David Radcliffe was a fine man, an honourable man. He left behind a fine son—a young man to be proud of. Let’s leave it at that. I don’t actually like talking about this, Lana. The drink loosens my tongue. I was very jealous over your mother when we were young. She was mine. I won her.”

Was that belligerence in her father’s dark blue eyes? Whatever it was, it made Alana swiftly drop the subject. “Simon is here, Dad,” she said, rising to her feet. “He called in on the way back to work. Want to come and say hello? Have you had anything to eat?”

Alan shook his head. “Buddy wanted to get me breakfast earlier, but I said no. There’s another good, loyal kid. I don’t feel like eating, love.”

“Well, you must. I insist. I’ll make you a plate of sandwiches and a cup of tea.”

“All right. But leave it until after Simon has left. I’ll come and wave him off, but I don’t want to spoil his precious time with you. He’s hopelessly in love with you, poor fella. He has been for many a year.”

Alana turned back at the door, her expression vaguely troubled. “Who says?”

“Me.” Her father thrust a thumb at his chest.

“Well, you’re wrong,” she corrected him, emphatically. “Simon loves me like the sister he never had. Simon is not in love with me. There’s a huge difference.”

“Believe that, you’ll believe anything,” her father muttered dryly. “He’s a nice boy. Always was. But he’s not man enough for you, my darlin.”

The coffee was perking by the time she walked into the kitchen. Simon had set out cups and saucers.

“I didn’t know what food you were going to have…” he said.

“Just a sandwich,” she said. She considered then rejected questioning Simon about any old love affair in the Radcliffe family. Better let it lie. That was certainly what her father wanted. “Have you eaten?” she asked.

“Only about an hour ago. I will have a cup of coffee, then I must be off. All set for Saturday night?”

She flashed him a reassuring smile. Simon would have been devastated had she said no. “I’m looking forward to it. So is Kieran.” Her brother got on a lot better with Guy than ever she had. They were of an age, with Kieran some six months or so older.

On Saturday Guy was giving a small function at Wangaree for visiting guests—an American couple, Chase and Amy Hartmann, members of a leading wine family in California’s Napa Valley.

“Your mother’s decided not to come?” she asked, striving to keep her tone non-committal. Rebecca Radcliffe’s presence would put a damper on anything.

The muscles of Simon’s face abruptly clenched. “Yes, and I have to say I’m glad. Sorry if it sounds disloyal, but Mum can’t be relied upon to say a pleasant thing in public. It’s just endless barbed comments that seem to bring all conversation to a halt. Guy only asked her because she’s family and he’s Guy. Lately she’s taken to criticising my friendship with you.”

“But she’s always done that.” Alana looked up from pouring the coffee. “Heck, she used to blame me for all the bullying that went on with those awful O’Brien boys. Oddly enough, they’ve turned out quite well.”

“Yes—can you believe it? But Mum’s jealous of anyone I care about, and you’re the closest person in the world to me.”

“What exactly is she worried about?” Alana was attacked by concern.

Simon directed his grey glance out of the window. “She’s terrified I might get married to someone she doesn’t approve of.”

Alana couldn’t help laughing. “Well, that just about wipes out every girl in the valley. No question of marriage for me, thanks,” she added briskly. “Put her mind at rest about me, at least. We’re best mates. Darn near brother and sister. It would be incestuous.”

Looking unbearably embarrassed, Simon grasped her hand and held it. “Can’t we take a step up from that, Lainie?” he begged. “No, don’t pull away. You mean everything in the world to me.”

She didn’t have it in her to be unkind. “Well, I’m happy about that, of course. But, Simon, dear, I’m not your girlfriend.” Gently she removed her hand. “I’m your best pal. After The Man, Guy, of course. What’s the matter with you, Simon?” she asked bracingly. The idea of making love with Simon simply wasn’t on. He was very dear to her, but no—decidedly not. “You and I, at twenty-two, are just babies in the marital stakes. You haven’t actually met a lot of girls.” Almost impossible with a psychotic mother. “I thought—I rather hoped— you liked Rose?”

Glumly Simon slumped back in his chair, stirring too much sugar into his coffee. “Come on, Lainie. Rose is really sweet—unlike the terrifying Violette—and I do like her, but she’s not a patch on you.”

“How do you know?” Alana challenged. She had previous knowledge that her cousin Rose thought Simon equally sweet. “You have to get to know her. Rose is not only sweet and seriously pretty, she has a lot of hidden depth.” Or she could have, Alana thought. She had a soft spot for Rose.

Simon rejected that idea. “I wouldn’t care to get mixed up with that family.” He actually shuddered. A gesture, she suddenly realised, very reminiscent of his mother.

“Your beloved Guy squires Violette around,” she reminded him, with a little touch of malice. Or could it have been envy? “Whenever it suits him, that is.” Whatever did Guy see in Violette? Apart from the fact she was stunning, always marvellously turned out and she could ride. Violette knew all about sheep farming—and wine as well. Ah, heck. Violette’s assets were starting to mount up.

“Violette, like many another, is praying that one day he’ll pop the question,” Simon answered. “But it’s not going to happen.” His tone couldn’t have been more positive.

“Then isn’t he being rather cruel to her?” Alana asked sternly. “I can hardly believe she confided in me, but she once told me he only uses her.”

“Guy most certainly isn’t a user. How dare she?” Simon burst out wrathfully. “He and Violette grew up together. That’s all.”

“Oh, please!” It came out with more vehemence than Alana had intended. “Are you trying to tell me they’ve never been lovers?” She bit her lip, regretting her betraying outburst, though Simon—bless him—didn’t appear to notice.

The very thought of Guy and Violette being lovers made her ill. There really was something weird about her feelings for Guy. On the one hand she pretended scorn; on the other hand just to catch sight of him induced the most extraordinary quickening in her body. Was it possible she was actually two people when it came to Guy Radcliffe? The Alana on the outside and the Alana on the inside?

“Now what deep thoughts are you thinking?” Simon startled her by asking. Mercifully he didn’t wait for an answer. “Guy’s no playboy, but he’s no monk either. Women fall for him in droves. We all know that.”

“He’s too sexy for his own good.”

There I go again!

“Lucky devil! I wish I had a bit of it.” Simon spoke with a mix of admiration and lamentation. “But it’s natural, Lainie—just like your sex appeal. You’re either born with it or you aren’t. Don’t believe anything Violette has to tell you. She’s only trying to put you off Guy, for some reason. Like I said—she’s not the right woman for Guy.” He put down his coffee cup, staring soulfully into Alana’s eyes. “But you are the only girl in the world for me.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Alana said.

Simon left soon after, leaving Alana feeling on edge and jittery. If Simon suddenly started coming over all romantic, she would have to join her father and take to the drink.

CHAPTER TWO

WANGAREE’S lovely mansion homestead stood on top of a knoll in the most beautiful part of the Valley. Everyone knew the magnificent rural property had been acquired by an Englishman, Nicholas Compton Radcliffe, in the early 1850’s. Radcliffe, a man of vision and enviable private means, and set about building a homestead to rival any in the colony of New South Wales, and the style he’d chosen was Colonial Georgian. A double-storey central section dominated a serenely imposing façade flanked by one-storey wings with big handsome bays at both ends. To accommodate the hot Australian climate, canopied verandahs had been added at a later date. Rosy brick married wonderfully with the frosting of classical white pillars and beautiful white cast-iron lace. When the building had been completed it had been described in the colonial gazette of that time as “a splendid gentleman’s residence.”

These days only a rich family could maintain it, Alana thought, staring up the hill at the mansion. It was ablaze with lights, putting her in mind of the great liner Queen Mary II at night. She and Kieran had seen the ship make its majestic entry into Sydney Harbour a few months before.

They were late. She had fretted about it at first, and then she had begun to worry when Simon hadn’t turned up on time. Finally he had arrived at the farm, a good forty minutes overdue. He’d looked handsome in his dinner suit, but pale and upset. It had only taken Alana a few seconds to establish why. Simon and his mother—known rather cruelly behind her back as The Widow—had had “words”. But then Rebecca would much rather have “words” than bid her son a fond, Goodnight, darling. Drive carefully. Have fun.

“About what?” Alana had asked.

“Oh, let’s forget it,” Simon had begged, putting his arm around her and giving her an exquisitely gentle kiss.

She hadn’t been able to think of a thing to say that wouldn’t have sounded dreadfully impolite. It was high time Simon stood up to his mother.

Now they were going to be the last to arrive. She could see all the parked cars, among them Kieran’s. He had left on his own, almost an hour before, with the wry comment, “Simon won’t want me along as a passenger.”

Did even her own brother think she and Simon were an item? Alana found herself oppressed by the idea. As fond as she was of Simon, she shrank from being so labelled. The only one on her side appeared to be Simon’s mother, who always greeted her so grimly she might have been hatching some plot to snatch Simon away. Even on the odd occasion when Rebecca offered afternoon tea, she never left them alone, but stood guard.

Together, they mounted the broad sandstone steps to the pedimented portico, waiting quietly in line behind other late arriving couples to gain admittance to Wangaree’s delightful entrance hall. Alana had been inside the house often enough to be familiar with it—the black and white marble floor tiles, the coffered ceiling with rosettes, the dazzling chandelier and the romantic sweep of the staircase.

There was an antique console that stood against the wall to the right of the front door, with its lovely fanlights and side lights, flanked by Chippendale chairs. She knew they were Chippendale. Guy had told her years ago when she had asked. A tall gilded mirror hung above the console, and tonight it reflected a marvellous arrangement of yellow and white liliums trailing green vines. Gilt framed watercolours of the valley had been placed precisely to either side of the antique mirror.

It suddenly struck her she really loved Wangaree homestead. She just loved it. There was no question Violette that would look perfectly at home there. Perhaps not perfectly, she consoled herself.

“You look gorgeous!” Simon mouthed reverently.

She might have been a National Treasure. “Thank you, Simon.”

It was maybe the fourth time she had thanked him, but she wasn’t going to knock back a compliment. She thought she looked rather gorgeous too, considering it was her eighteenth birthday party dress, halter necked, golden green, with a tiny waist and a lovely full skirt. She hadn’t put on an ounce of weight. Rather she had lost a few pounds since then.

For tonight she had gone to a lot of trouble. An incredible lot of trouble, for her. Who was she trying to impress? Not her best mate, Simon. The results, however, were pretty good, if she said so herself. And she could rely on her hair not to let her down. Great hair, inherited from her mother. Its honey-gold thickness and shimmer gave a girl a lot of confidence.

They were moving now. Alana counted herself lucky to be invited. Did Guy think she was Simon’s girl? Perhaps she should seize a moment to set him straight? Why, exactly? Would the knowledge make him rush to rearrange his life? Hardly. Simon took her arm, drawing her so tightly to him she might have been trying to make a break for it. For a minute she considered socking him—but there was the mesmerising Guy.

She had never seen a man look so intensely, magnificently male. Guy Radcliffe could be the archetypal hero of some heart warming romance. She thought she could safely speak for all the women of the Valley.

With that, however, came a warning.

Fall In Love With Him At Your Peril!

Wasn’t she blessed that she attended that warning? She had no intention of allowing herself to fall in love with Guy Radcliffe—not even in an abstracted kind of way, like a daydream. Nevertheless, her eyes absorbed him. He looked wonderfully elegant in his evening clothes. They fitted as though they had been cut for him by a master tailor—which they probably had.

She wanted to present herself in the best possible way, but instead of the cool composure she prayed for, she felt as though she had come madly alive, and shifted up several gears.

Warily, she continued her inspection. Charisma clung to him. What an asset! His beautiful sister, Alexandra, who lived and worked in Sydney, was standing beside him to receive their guests. She too possessed the same charisma. It worked like a beacon. How extraordinarily seductive was grace and breeding! And the Radcliffes had received more than their fair share.

Alexandra was the first to greet them, Guy being caught up with a few extra words to the couple in front of them. She flashed a lovely welcoming smile, putting out her hand. Huge soulful dark eyes lit up her magnolia-skinned face. “Lana, how lovely to see you again.” It wasn’t just the usual thing said on such occasions. Alana could see Alex really meant it, and felt warmed by it. “And how are you, Simon?’

Simon’s tanned skin pinked with pleasure. He made a funny little obeisance. “Great—just great, Alex.” It was obvious Simon was in some awe of his cousins.

The two young women exchanged feather light kisses. “I’m only here for the weekend,” Alexandra said, holding Alana’s hands. “You must come over tomorrow and have lunch—mustn’t she, Guy?’

Now the Lord of the Valley was free to give her his attention. He bent his face to her with languorous, almost regal grace.

It was the most stunning face imaginable. Alana put up a valiant struggle to meet that brilliant glance head on.

“It’d be a pleasure to have you, Alana!” he assured her, his veiled eyes moving over her.

She felt the impact of his gaze so keenly it might just as well have been his hands touching her. Part of her was ready to swoon. The weak, womanly part. Wasn’t it the curse of womanhood to swoon over such men? She’d be darned if she would. She responded with a few graceful words of thanks.

“That’s all settled, then.” He smiled at her, rather ironically, she thought, but perfectly relaxed.

Oh, he had a beautiful mouth! It drew the eye irresistibly. Little brackets framed it on either side, drawing extra attention to its sexy shape. A touch ashamed, she fought down the little flares of excitement but found it a real effort. Everything about him sent a thrill through her. Her heart didn’t just canter when Guy was around. It broke into a gallop. She just hoped to God he didn’t know it. He had far too many female worshippers already. And a lot of them would be here tonight. She was bound to collide with her cousin, Violette. Violette had very sharp eyes.

“I want to know how life’s been treating you,” Alex was saying.

Alana turned to her. “I’m always kept busy, Alex.” She smiled into that beautiful, poignant face.

Guy offered another comment designed to do damage. It never stopped. “May I say how beautiful you look, Alana?” He spoke in his usual smooth, self-assured way, yet she had never seen quite the type of look he was giving her. It was sort of full-on, and it provoked another chaotic flurry of sensations. She knew they were going to take a good while to settle down.

“Why, thank you, Guy!” she countered, almost as if they were sparring partners.

No use channelling your charm on me, Guy Radcliffe.

Yet his charm was drawing her into some powerful whirlpool. She had to make a serious attempt not to be caught up in it. She knew for a certainty it would be dangerous. She didn’t need Violette to tell her that.

Simon chose that moment to clamp a firm arm around her shoulders, exclaiming with great gusto, “Doesn’t she just? I love the dress she’s wearing. Her mother made it for her eighteenth birthday party, remember?”

Alana could have kicked her dear friend in the shins—only she saw recognition of her annoyance in Guy’s amused eyes. “I do,” he replied. “Your mother was very gifted, Alana.”

“Indeed she was,” Alex added gracefully. “I treasure the beautiful shawl she made for me.”

Alana blinked back a shimmer of tears. Guy had been invited to her eighteenth birthday party. Not Alexandra. Alex had already moved to Sydney by that time. Her abrupt departure for the bright lights had come as a big shock to the Valley. Everyone had thought Alex loved her home. But Alex had left them. Alana’s party had been held at the Radcliffe Estate’s award winning restaurant. It had been an unforgettable night. When Guy had presented her with her present—a porcelain Art Nouveau statuette of a nymph with long golden hair—he had bent to kiss her cheek.

It had been a token birthday gesture, but she still remembered how it had felt. What could she call it? The very essence of sensation? It had touched every part of her, as if she was naked, even reaching down into the most intimate part of her body. She had never realised until then that a kiss on the cheek could cause such an immense erotic rush. It had been quite scary. It still was, when she thought of it—which was usually at night. Guy Radcliffe was the one person who had ever had such a galvanic effect on her. It had to be what, exactly? Fascination? Infatuation? Neither answer satisfied. It certainly didn’t venture into the realm of love. As she told herself frequently, there was a lot of distance between her life and Guy’s.

“Come through and meet our guests,” he invited now, his dark eyes still lingering on her in that special way.

What was she supposed to do about it? She wasn’t in her element flirting.

“Yes, do.” Alex took her arm companionably. “The Hartmanns are lovely people. I hope you’re going to enter The Naming, this year, Alana. You could win the trip to beautiful Napa Valley.”

Mercifully Alex didn’t add, You could take Simon.

The huge reception rooms swam with bright faces and happy voices. It was a smallish function—only around forty people had been invited. Alana knew them all, except for Guy’s special guests, who turned out to be a delightful couple in their early thirties, good looking, outgoing, and very friendly. The wife was wearing a particularly stunning yellow chiffon dress that moulded her willowy body beautifully. Alana caught Violette studying it in detail. For once she understood Violette’s avid interest in fashion. She would have loved to own a dress like that herself—especially as yellow was her colour.

“Ah, there you are, Lana,” Violette said, when she encountered her. “Surely you could have risen to a new dress, dear? What is that, exactly? Muddy gold? Or is it muddy green? I’m sure I’ve seen it before.” Her blue eyes bored into the lovely shot- silk taffeta of Alana’s dress. “You know, you’ve given a whole new meaning to the word thrifty!”

“And you to bitchy, Vi, dear,” Alana returned, long used to her cousin’s caustic style and almost bulletproof against it. “But I do love what you’ve got on.”

It would have been too churlish not to mention it. Violette was wearing a couture strapless number in aubergine. It suited her wonderfully well. All three Denby sisters were blonde and blue eyed, but they didn’t boast Alana’s magnificent honey gold mane. Rose came closest, but neither she nor Lilli were present that evening. They were staying with a socialite aunt in Sydney.

Simon took her into supper, which was simply scrumptious—as expected from the restaurant’s top chef, who was handling the catering. Across a table laden with delicious food, she saw Kieran talking to Alex. The really odd thing about Alex and Kieran was that, although they had known one another all their lives, these days they acted like strangers. Even now, with their eyes glued on one another, neither was smiling. Alex was tall for a woman, taller yet in silver stiletto evening shoes that matched her short glittery dress, but Kieran, at six-three, easily topped her.

Both she and Kieran took after their mother, Alana thought with nostalgia. Kieran’s blond hair was swept back carelessly from his broad forehead, thick and long, like a lion’s, but it suited him. His eyes, though, were their father’s, an unbelievable blue. He wasn’t wearing a dinner suit—he didn’t own one— but he looked great, in a summer-weight light beige suit. She had one handsome brother, she thought with pride. And beside his goldenness, Alex’s dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty looked very exotic.

Kieran had once called Alex, “The most mysterious creature I’ve ever known.” Alana had thought at the time she understood. Alex had a way of looking at you, with her great lustrous, almost tragic eyes. Actually, there was something mysterious about the way her brother and Alex related to one another, Alana had often thought. Not that they met up frequently, living so far apart. They were both super-attractive people, but it was as if both of them had long since made the decision to walk separate paths.

Later, Alana was much in demand for dancing. Simon called her a miracle in a man’s arms. Actually, it was just that she loved dancing when she got the chance. She found it astonishingly easy, but Simon found it extremely difficult.

“You’ve got to let yourself go,” she advised. She really hadn’t encountered anyone quite as uncoordinated as Simon on the dance floor.

“You’re so brave!” he said. “If I let myself go I’d only be sorry. And so would you.”

A familiar voice spoke over Alana’s shoulder. “As host, it must be my turn.”

It would be just her and Guy. So close! Instantly she felt that enormous rush. She could weep for her own susceptibility if she had the strength. Guy didn’t have a loud voice, yet its special timbre, well-bred but a little edgy, sliced through the surrounding chatter.

Simon beamed at his cousin, ready to do anything he asked, and Alana spun around to face Guy, conscious of damp little tendrils of hair clinging to her cheeks and her nape. She could never look perfect when she wanted to. She knew she had a good clear skin, but it was inclined towards looking dewy instead of wonderfully matt, like Alex’s or even Violette’s. Perhaps her foundation was all wrong? Oh, hell—what did it matter?

Guy took her hand.

It was like being zapped. She even fancied she could see little blue arcs of static electricity crackling between her hand and his. It made her feel strangely weak—as if all her strength was draining away and her legs were about to give way. She couldn’t have moved even if she had wanted to, though her heart was pounding so hard even her ears hurt. This was madness, pure and simple. It would have been much wiser to have spent the evening safely at home, tucked up with a good book.

Simon gave her a much-needed moment to collect herself. “You won’t find a better dancer than Lainie in the whole valley,” he told Guy fondly, only too pleased to retreat from the dance floor and leave Alana to his celebrated cousin. “You can enjoy yourself at last, Lainie,” he promised, giving them a wave that looked something like a Papal benediction.

Guy couldn’t help it; he laughed. “He really puts you on a pedestal, doesn’t he?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” The time was ripe to tell him she and Simon weren’t an item.

“Oh, nonsense!” His tone was amused, those brackets beside his mouth deepening into sensual creases.

“Maybe Simon and I should split up for a bit,” she said airily. “People seem to think we’re a fixture.”

He drew back his dark head, staring into her eyes. “Aren’t you?”

Cool. Keep cool.

So much for that! She found herself answering with intensity. “What if I dared ask if you and Violette are an item?”

“Who says we ever were?” he challenged.

She drew a long breath. “Most of the Valley. Simon and I aren’t and never will be an item, Guy. Simon and I are best…pals. Yes—pals is a good word for it. I’ve been looking after him ever since I can remember. Certainly pre-school.”

“He loves you.” There was a quiet seriousness in Guy’s voice.

Uncertain, she searched his eyes. They were beautiful eyes, black as night, but with a diamond sheen. “You sound serious?”

“I’m always serious with you, Alana.”

Heat swept her like a flame. She could feel the flush spread out all over her body. “Well, I never knew that! In fact, it’s a bit too much to take in. Generally you speak to me as though I haven’t made much progress since my eighteenth birthday.”

“A bad habit I picked up,” he rejoined suavely.

“So you admit it?”

“Absolutely. You didn’t really want me to treat you like an alluring woman, did you?”

She nearly folded, deeply surprised. “Hey, I’m not the alluring one. You are.” The heat off her body could be throwing off sparks.

“Alana, that’s plain crazy!” He spun her then, in what felt like some elegant choreographed step. In fact the two of them were beginning to look like ballroom champions, she thought, aware people were looking their way, expressions openly admiring. “Men aren’t alluring,” he scoffed gently.

“Aren’t they?” He gave off male allure in metre-high waves. “You should try reading some of Vi’s romances.”

“Violette reads romances? How delicious!”

As was his laugh. “Well, she might, for all I know. I was having a little joke. But, just so there’s no misunderstanding, I want to make it perfectly plain. Simon and I have no plans that involve romance.”

That little smile was tugging at his mouth. “Does one have to plan it?’ he asked. “Surely it just happens? You wake up one morning wishing you could reach out for that special someone.”

Her body quickened. She knew his hands would be just lovely. “Well, you must have done a fair bit of that—” There was the faintest trace of hostility in her voice. She broke off, horrified. He was her host.

He drew back to stare down at her. “It might be a good time to tell you, Ms Callaghan, that you’ve just about used up all my gentler feelings towards you.”

“So I should start to worry?” she challenged.

For answer he pulled her in so close that the room around them started to blur.

“It might be an idea,” he cautioned.

“Does that mean you can say and do what you like, but I can’t?”

He didn’t answer.

Silence had never seemed to say so much.

“Who would you reach for, Guy?” The words simply came.

“I won’t terrify you and say you.”

She, so wonderfully sure on her feet, stumbled. “You’re terrifying me just thinking about it. You’re joking—aren’t you?”

He saw the bright confusion in her lustrous eyes. “Of course.” His glance remained on her. It brushed her face and her throat, and her very feminine creamy shoulders. “But who could blame a man for wanting you near him, Alana?”

Every single nerve-ending in her body was wired. “You’re taking me somewhere, Guy,” she said, unable to control the tremble in her voice. “Where is it?”

“The big question is, do you want to come?” His handsome face was unusually intent.

“And leave my safe little world?” she asked shakily. She marvelled at the difference in him—in her. What had changed things so dramatically? Was this precarious kind of intimacy better or was she about to jeopardise her whole future? “It would be far too easy to fall under your spell, Guy,” she said. “The result could be a lot of pain.” Her sharp-talking, supremely self-confident cousin hid a lot of pain.

“And you’re scared of that?”

“Absolutely.” She released a pent-up breath.

“So what is it about me that scares you? You certainly haven’t given that impression over the years.”

“You’ve never invited me to come close.”

“You were too young. Come closer now.” He gathered her in. “You’re a beautiful dancer, by the way.”

“Have you just noticed?”

“I’ve always noticed.”

“You could have asked me to dance with you hundreds of times over the last couple of years, but you never have.”

“In the space of a few minutes the intervening years have disappeared. Maybe I thought you were being faithful to Simon?”

Her body abandoned all pretence, trembling in his arms. “Maybe I thought you were being faithful to Violette? Among others.” She couldn’t resist the little waspish sting in the tail.

His hand at her back exerted a little more pressure. “Remember what I said about being more careful?”

“Actually, I remember an astonishing number of things you’ve said to me,” she found herself admitting. “At my eighteenth birthday party you told me I was sweet. And smart.”

He gave her a disturbing smile. “Sweet, smart, and tart. Let’s see—I remember now. I could have added passionate, argumentative, with a good sense of humour and sexy but innocent too. Sad, beautiful, a wonderful daughter and sister. The best woman rider in the valley, and that’s saying something. I’ve always loved to see you competing. Poor Violette was always doomed to run second. Come to that, I love to see you working those Border Collies of yours. Not easy working dogs, but you instinctively know how to get the best out of them. You have a very attractive voice too. I’ve heard you singing to your own guitar accompaniment.”

She was totally disarmed. “Now you’re using your fabled charm on me, Guy.”

“Is it working?” He flicked her a downward glance.

“I’m not sure it would be wise to tell you.” She shook back her honey-blonde mane. “I feel sure you’re pledged elsewhere. Or you soon will be.”

Another couple whirled by, coming in too close. Instantly Guy’s arms drew her out of harm’s way.

Harm’s way? Her heart rate had risen as though she had run halfway up Mount Everest. They had known each other such a very long time, but she couldn’t imagine anyone who seemed so familiar yet so new to her. Her body fitted his so perfectly, it was beyond explanation. So perfectly she wondered if she should back off. All it needed was one tiny step over the dividing line. And there was a dividing line. She could never allow herself to forget that.

For the first time her graceful body offered resistance. “Cousin Vi’s over there, looking like she wants to bury a tiny hatchet in my head.” She tried to turn what must have been her perceptible withdrawal into a joke.

“I wouldn’t let her.”

Her breath shortened at his tone. “She could catch me on my own. Batter me in my sleep. Are you trying to make her jealous?” Did that explain his newfound manner?

“Don’t be ridiculous.” His reply was short. “I can’t even see her. You’re so dazzling.”

She had a sensation she was floating. What was he trying to do to her? And why? There were so many unanswered questions spinning around in her head. “I’m dazzling all of a sudden?” she questioned, lifting sceptical eyes no longer hazel but pure green.

“Let’s just say you’ve been dazzling me for quite a long time—though, very modestly, you’ve appeared unaware of it.”

Modesty didn’t prevent a highly explosive recklessness surging into her. Whatever it was that was happening between them, it was moving way too fast. Mistakes carried penalties, she reminded herself. “Who are you tonight, Guy?” She tipped her head back, to ask, “Do I really know you?”

“I don’t think you do.”

His voice held the faintest rasp to it, yet it was very seductive. His evident experience made her acutely conscious of her own lack of it. She was still a virgin, probably the last one left in the Valley, but that had never mattered to her. To date she hadn’t met anyone she had wanted to enter into a serious love affair with. She hadn’t even glimpsed anyone who didn’t pale before Guy Radcliffe. Now she was discovering there was a lot of emotion locked up in her. Passion. Desperate hunger. She didn’t want to feel this vulnerable. Up until now she had been rock solid, in control. A whole person, not part of someone else. Falling madly in love didn’t guarantee happiness. Love could be abruptly withdrawn, leaving the rejected one to battle the pain.

“Wait.” She placed a shaky hand against the snowy-white of his dress shirt

Immediately his expression turned to concern. “What is it?”

“Nothing really. I just feel a little odd.” Her emotions, of course, were getting too hard to handle. But she couldn’t tell him that.

“Let’s go out onto the terrace. Get some air.” His hand moved beneath her elbow guiding her outside.

The mingled scents from the garden were like incense on the warm air. Couples were standing laughing, talking, on the lush sweeping lawn; others were wandering the many stone paths, one with a little bridge that spanned a man-made pond where black swans sailed majestically and came at your call. The way was lit by hundreds and hundreds of twinkling white lights that had been placed in the density of the overhead trees.

The night was all around them, the vast dome of the sky thickly studded with glittering stars. There was Orion, the mighty hunter with his jewelled belt. The Southern Cross was so bright she understood perfectly why the aborigines worshipped it, and the Milky Way was a broad sparkling stream, the resting place of the great tribal heros.

Thoughtfully Guy produced a handkerchief to dust off the wide surrounds of a stone pillar—one of eight that supported the roof of the loggia. “Sit here. There’s a lovely breeze.”

“How good it feels!” she sighed, letting the breeze slide over her to cool her heated skin. Hadn’t her inner voice always warned her it would be dangerous to get too close to Guy Radcliffe? And with good reason. Now that she had done so, however lightly, she realised she couldn’t go back. His magic had already worked its way into her. She should do something to counteract it. But what?

He stood with his tall elegant body eased back against the pillar, looking down at her. “You’re very like your mother,” he told her quietly. “She was such a radiant woman. The Valley isn’t as bright without her.”

The gentleness and the compassion in his voice overwhelmed her. She was so incredibly touched she feared she might burst into tears. She remembered how her mother had always laughed merrily when Alana had made her tart little comments about Guy Radcliffe, Lord of the Valley. Of course her mother, skilled at recognising the truth of it, had seen through her. Now she thought there was a possibility Guy might tell her what she had so recently learned about her mother and his father. She desperately wanted to know.

Had they once had a relationship? Even a brief flutter that had burnt itself out? She had always felt a decided resistance to her from Guy’s mother, Sidonie. Not that Mrs Radcliffe, who lived near Alex these days, wasn’t always gracious. But she was ultra-reserved, withholding any real warmth.

“Guy?” She lifted her head to him, her voice betraying strong emotion.

He looked down on her. The exterior lights were making a glory of her beautiful hair, and burnishing the golden-green of her evening dress, its long skirt pooling around her. “If it’s what I think you’re going to ask, the answer is no!”

She felt the powerful rejection. “You can read my mind?”

“This time I can. You forget, I’ve known you since you were a little girl. I’ve a pretty good idea where you’re heading. You were bound to hear something from your father at some point.”

“And so I have—just a comment. I want you to tell me.” She shifted position so she could look directly at him.

For a fraught moment he seemed to consider. “Alana, you shouldn’t listen to gossip,” he said finally.

“Gossip?” The tightness that had gathered in her throat was reflected in her voice. “There’s always gossip in the Valley, but my father never gossips. I’ve never heard this before.”

“And you’re not going to hear it from me.”

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