I was ready for hostility, anger, bitter resentment, even blame, thought Casey.

Instead it was like they all knew she was going to turn up one day. Kindness and generosity seemed to emanate from Darcy. Her big sister?

“You’re too nice to me,” Casey said abruptly.

“Who could deny a goddess?” Troy pressed back in his chair, smiling his bold, tantalizing smile.

“It’s settled, then,” Darcy said, eyes sparkling. “Give us a call when you want to come home.”

Never had Casey been so glad she had her sunglasses on. She, who never cried except on increasingly rare occasions when she was flooded by her nightmares, felt the sting of tears.

Home? Did she have a home? If she hadn’t been such an undemonstrative person she would have put her arms around Darcy and hugged her.

Margaret Way takes great pleasure in her work and works hard at her pleasure. She enjoys tearing off to the beach with her family on weekends, loves haunting galleries and auctions and is completely given over to French champagne “for every possible joyous occasion.” She was born and educated in the river city of Brisbane, Australia, and now lives within sight and sound of beautiful Moreton Bay.

Marriage at Murraree
Margaret Way

The McIvor Sisters

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

IF SHE hadn’t landed on planet Mars, she didn’t know where she was. The heat and the blinding glare! The colour of the desert sand was unbelievable, fiery-red, burnt-orange. It glowed like a furnace under the rich blue sky. The very vastness stunned her. The plains ran out to the horizon without anything to connect them to humans. It must seem the same to a sailor adrift on a great ocean she thought. Her trip was turning into quite an experience. The lack of anything except the land in all its savage glory was amazing. Space. Pure air. Freedom. In a place like this she might be able to regain her soul. These desert areas—and she realised she was only on the desert fringe—were seemingly barren except for the eternal porcupine grasses, the Spinifex. It had covered huge areas of her journey into Queensland’s vast Outback. The legendary name, The Never Never was right on. She had never seen such a surreal landscape outside of a painting.

Brilliant red earth, cobalt vault, totally cloudless, large rounded clumps of Spinifex like giant pincushions scorched to a dull gold. In the distance the baffling mirage danced in waves, conjuring up alluring green oases with lots of lovely water. She could well understand how the early pioneers had followed it, never catching up. This had to be somewhere near the place the English explorer, Captain Charles Sturt had battled his way with horses in search of the inland sea. What had he called it? The Iron Region. Or maybe that was the Stony Desert named after him. Either way it was awesome country, with enormous drawing power.

Casey pulled off the dead straight road that went nowhere. Goodness knows why, she thought wryly, no one else was on it. She’d been travelling for days yet she’d hardly seen a soul. She turned off the ignition of her battered old ute and consulted her map again, resting it on the steering wheel. To be landed in this immense empty wilderness could turn out to be extremely hazardous. One wouldn’t need to have a breakdown or run out of water. The glare alone was soporific. It had damned nearly put her to sleep. Of course the ancient ute had no air-conditioning and it was blazingly hot.

It was well she was tough. She had to be. No one had looked after her. She had lived hard. Born in a shack on the outskirts of a tropical town. Reared by a mother who hardly knew how to look after herself let alone a child. Then after her mother had died of a drug overdose, The Home. Bad, bad days. She’d endured that until she was sixteen when she left with nothing but searing memories. Truth was she had never had a real home anywhere.

You’ve got a lot to answer for, Jock McIvor.

Casey reckoned he’d be in hell and deservedly so.

There was nothing else to do but drive on, hoping Old Faithful would make it into the Three Rivers Country. For years she had heard mention of the Channel Country in the State’s far South-West on the weather report. She hadn’t taken much notice except to register it was darn hot! To her mind it sounded like the end of the earth. Only very recently had she learned it was the legendary home of the nation’s cattle kings. The domain of men like Jock McIvor.

She had never known who her father was. The kids at school had given her hell about that. Her poor little mother had been a joke, the butt of many a sick prank. Kids were so cruel. Pretty as a picture but so overwhelmed by life her mother had eventually sought solace first in alcohol, then in drugs. She had once confessed to Casey she didn’t want to live.

She hadn’t. She’d OD’d at the grand old age of thirty-six. Casey had always blamed herself for not being able to protect her mother but then she was only a kid at the time. At eleven she’d been put into The Home. Plenty of kids there didn’t have fathers or mothers, either. It wasn’t unusual for parents to dump their kids or make life so unbearable for them even The Home was preferable.

Casey drove on. She figured she was two hundred kilometres west of her last stop, the bush town of Cullen Creek. She hadn’t seen any creek, just a dry sandy bed someone told her in times of flood turned into a raging torrent. Hard to believe! As she’d gone in search of something to eat, the townspeople had stared at her like she’d stepped off a UFO that had landed in the main street. But at least they had given her a decent cup of tea and a plate of sandwiches made with freshly baked bread and plenty of ham and salad filling. A big apple and cinnamon muffin to follow and lots of advice about always letting someone know where she was heading in the Outback.

She hadn’t told them where she was going. Her appearance alone had magnetised them. Probably her height and her red hair. Both had made her a target as a kid. “How’s the weather up there, Agent Orange?” Even her mother had seemed to blame her for looking the way she did. At least her formidable height had saved her from a few batterings in The Home. She was good with her nails and her fists and her high kicking legs. The world was a dangerous place. She had found that out early.

Then six weeks ago, a blast from the past. An old friend of her mother’s came into her life. Not by chance. Judith Harrison had gone to a great deal of trouble to track down first Casey’s mother, then learning of her premature death, her only child. Judith Harrison it turned out had grown up with her mother and knew all about the family “tragedy”. Casey had not known anything about it since it had never passed her mother’s lips. Her poor little mother—at least they had loved one another—had been born into a well-to-do family. Casey had to have that explained to her. Twice. A woman who had lived with her child often below the breadline had come from a cushy background. The irony of it! Casey’s grandparents had since died, no doubt leaving their small fortune to a retirement village for pampered cats. Judith had been her mother’s friend from childhood, apparently consumed by guilt that she had never sought to contact Casey’s mother after she stormed out of the parental home, cutting all ties.

It was on account of a man. It always was. A mystery man Casey’s grandparents had never met yet instinctively feared. He had taken over their hitherto perfect daughter’s life, making her a different person. When Casey had calmed down from the revelation her mother had come from a very comfortable home, Judith told her she had spotted her mother and her lover just once. Once was enough. A week later she had seen the man being interviewed on television.

His name was Jock McIvor. Swashbuckling cattle baron. A man with money to burn.

Jock McIvor, who it appeared short of DNA testing, was Casey’s father. He couldn’t be anything else. He was even taller than she was. After she had finally closed the door on a sobbing Judith Harrison, nevertheless de-lumbered of her burden, Casey had made it her business to read up everything she could about McIvor that paragon of sin; all the press clippings, accompanied by photographs. Judith Harrison hadn’t lied. Handsome was too tame a word for him. The photographs were all in black and white so she didn’t know his exact colouring except for what Judith Harrison had told her. He had a leonine shock of red-gold hair. He was very tall, probably six-four with sapphire eyes and a cleft in his chin. Casey had almost laughed. It fit her own colouring. She even had—in her case—a dimple in her chin. In no way had she resembled her dark haired, dark eyed mother who’d been five-three at most. The person she resembled obviously was the person who had seduced her naïve little mother, ultimately destroying her life.

A man without conscience. Jock McIvor.

Powerful, rich, probably dumping one woman after the other, he had taken everything her mother could give him, then returned to his own world where pretty gullible little creatures like her mother didn’t belong. By the time her mother found out she was pregnant she was on her own and a long way from home. Casey had no way of knowing what her mother had felt then but she must have been terrified with no one to turn to. She had alienated her parents in abandoning herself to her lover.

Only her lover, it turned out, had a wife and a baby. A baby called Darcy.

Jock McIvor, who should have had Dirty Rotten Scoundrel as a bumper sticker.

But he was dead. That was okay. The family was going to pay. Those McIvor women—she knew all about the other one, Courtney, who had arrived a couple of years after the first born Darcy—those McIvor heiresses as the Press dubbed them—were rolling in money. That struck Casey as being shockingly unfair. If she were McIvor’s daughter and she didn’t for a moment doubt that she was, wasn’t she entitled to a stake? It was about time the poor and oppressed of this world had justice. Well she was poor enough to qualify but just let anyone try to oppress her. She’d had more than her fair share of that in The Home where all her survival skills had been tested.

She was probably traumatised. She had been sexually assaulted by The Cobra but he hadn’t managed to rape her on account of the noise she made and a great kick that would have carried her far in soccer, sending him hurtling across the room. She was fourteen then, almost at her full height and as wiry as hell. That had sent a message to the others. Leave McGuire alone or she might be tempted to slug you or kick you in the balls. She never had much of an education. About two days at school and a smattering of the three R’s she picked up at The Home where grade ten was about as good as it got. Could she ever forget even in her time two of the kids had committed suicide, unable to withstand the day in day out torment? She had prayed and prayed they had gone to a much better place….

For years Casey had been supporting herself singing for her supper. People really liked her in the pubs where she was starting to make a name for herself as a singer-songwriter. She had a good voice for country and she liked to think plenty of talent on the guitar. One of her boyfriends, a really nice guy—yes, there were a few out there—had taught her. He had even passed over his own expensive guitar saying when he heard her he realised he shouldn’t play any more. She’d even managed to finish her formal education to Leaving Certificate. Emboldened by the results, she had taken up various courses at an Adult Learning institute, even basic French. It made her feel cultured. On the purely practical side she’d signed on for a get-to-know-your-car course where she’d outshone most of the guys. Heck, she was as good as any A Grade garage mechanic, which was probably why the ute was still running.

Twenty minutes later she saw on a slight rise set well back from the road, a fairly impressive dwelling for this or any other neck of the woods. A homestead of some kind? Though she leaned forwards peering through the windshield she couldn’t see a solitary goat let alone a herd of cattle. It even had trees around it. Desert oaks. She’d become familiar with them. Several towering gums. A couple of palms. The house was two storey, built of rose coloured bricks finished off with wide verandahs, white cast-iron balustrades and white lattice treillage. What in the world was a quite handsome house doing in the middle of nowhere?

“You’re seeing things, Casey girl,” she mumbled to herself. Her heart missed a beat as a large stone flew up from the road and hit the windshield at a point close to her head. At various intervals on her long journey she had seen piles of glass at the side of the road marking the spots where some traveller had struck trouble. Mercifully her windscreen remained intact, but she would like to take on more water. The house didn’t look deserted. It looked lived-in. She could see a big galvanised iron water tank off to one side and a few out-buildings at the back. Surely a weary traveller could beg a container of water? Outback people were supposed to be hospitable. On the other hand she might run into some ornery character totting a .22. Nothing life dished up surprised her.

Okay, let’s see! Casey took the gravelled side road that led to the house. She wasn’t counting on a gate. I mean just how many people came calling? Nevertheless she got out to open it and closed it securely after her once the ute was inside. Maybe a bunch of cows was out back planning a stampede?

Not cows. A cattle dog, with the distinctive blue speckled coat and dark tan markings. She knew what it was. A Queensland Blue Heeler bred especially for droving and rounding up cattle. It came skittling around a corner of the house barking its head off, probably determined to make amends for having been taking a nap.

“Hey, fella!” she called to it, standing her ground. “What’s your problem? I’m not a bad person. I’m here for water.”

The bluey must have liked the sound of her voice. It stopped barking and came right up to her as though eager to clear up any misunderstandings.

“Hi, there, what’s your name?” She bent to pat it. She liked animals better than people and they liked her. There was a collar around its neck with a name tag.

“Rusty!” She chuckled. “Is that your name? Howya goin’, Rusty? You’re a clever boy. How about showing me up to the house?”

She could have sworn the dog smiled.

She rapped on the solid timber front door. No one came.

“Damn, Rusty!” The owner had to be away. They had probably taken a run into the town, which on her map was Koomera Crossing. She kept talking away to the dog to prove her good intentions. The front door was offset by brilliant stained glass panels, fan lights and sidelights, in the style she had learned was Art Nouveau. She had been starved of beauty. Now she was making up for lost time. She was taking a closer look, one hand resting gently against the front door when the door suddenly gave. It swung open and she was left looking into a generous entrance hall illuminated by the brilliant sunlight. It had an unusual floor of alternating light and dark boards. There was little furniture beyond a single painting hanging above a small dark timber console.

“Hello, there,” she called. “Anyone at home?” But if anyone was at home, surely they would have heard Rusty’s barking.

Afterwards she never knew why she walked in but everything about the place was irresistible. Rusty followed her, making not the slightest attempt to nip at her heels.

Casey laughed. “Some watchdog you are.” She gave him another pat while he looked back at her with an eager, expectant face as if soon they’d be outside playing catch. Obviously Rusty had retired. “Since I’m here, I suppose it’s okay if I fill my container.” She went back to the ute to get it with the cattle dog padding along happily at her side. “Rusty, you old dog, you like women. I wonder if you’d be so nice if I were a man?” Probably not. Men were such threatening creatures. Women weren’t.

By the time she filled the big container to the top it was heavy. She lowered it to the floor and then, because she was so much enjoying being inside such a house, she decided to take a quick look around. She wouldn’t go upstairs. She felt sure she shouldn’t, but there was no harm in taking a look around the ground floor and out the back. Rusty didn’t mind. It was a large house but the furnishings were austere.

The back door was open as well. Obviously the occupier was very trusting. Not that there was anything worth taking. Rusty thinking she might be about to have a look outside, bounded down the short flight of steps, looking back up at her.

It was then she was caught from behind, her arms pinned and hauled behind her back. She had heard no footsteps. Nothing. There was the power of untold strength in the grip.

“What the hell are you up to, cowboy?” A man’s voice ground out. He kicked the back door shut so Rusty couldn’t come to her aid.

That was it! No one manhandled her. The fingers that encircled her wrists were like bands of steel. She could just imagine the rest of him but she wasn’t about to cringe or beg for mercy. Was there no place on earth there wasn’t violence?

She felt a surge of adrenalin, heaving with all her might to loosen the powerful grip. She was far from being a weak woman. She was strong. She’d worked out four times a week at the gym. She lifted weights. Add to that she had taken karate lessons at which she’d proved a natural. She succeeded in freeing herself to the extent one of her hands came loose. That was all she needed. She whirled, ready to defend herself with ugly memories flashing before her eyes. Under attack, she took two quick steps forward, raised her right leg to chest height then drove the ball of her foot at him in a snap kick.

It should have connected but at the last minute he rapidly sidestepped. Immediately she spun, abandoning the idea of another snap kick he might have been expecting for a good old-fashioned sock at his jaw. Bewdy! She heard with satisfaction his grunt as his neck snapped back.

Next things, in under a couple of seconds she was flat on her back, gasping for breath, with her assailant standing over her. She reacted swiftly, rolling away across the carpet runner. One strike each.

“You’re not going to hurt me, you bastard!” She was out of a crouch, back on her feet, fully in control of her body, her mind locked into self-defence. There was no place for panic. She wasn’t going down without a fight.

Trust no man. Your life could depend upon it.

He was taller than she was. Maybe by three or four inches. Rugged and rangy. He was young, too, under thirty. Good tanned skin lay taut over carved bones, thick golden-brown hair, sun-streaked blond. For a space of a breath she thought, gold eyes. Who had gold eyes? She couldn’t feel a rapist’s aura. Instead he was saying tersely, “Get a grip, girl. I’m not going to hurt you.” His expression was startled.

It took a few moments for what he was saying to sink through her consciousness.

“Who are you?” she demanded, maintaining her aggressive stance. At the same time she manoeuvred herself to the back door so she could let Rusty in.

“God!” he exhaled softly. “I had no idea you were a woman.” His voice abruptly hardened. “So what do you mean, who am I? I’m asking the questions around here. Who are you? What are you doing here and what do you want? Look, it’s okay.” He held up his hands. “How long have you been a karate cum prize fighter?”

“As long as guys like you are around!” Her face was still alight with anger, her sapphire eyes blazing. “Maybe I shouldn’t be in here, but I knocked. The door gave. I thought it would be all right if I filled my water container. It’s in the kitchen. What did you think I was going to do? Pinch your lousy possessions?”

“Could be,” he returned, a faint smile on his generous mouth.

“I’m going to let Rusty in,” she said, like Rusty was a trained killer. She flattened herself against the back door then opened it. This guy was tough. Very tough. She saw that now. There wouldn’t be a woman alive who could match his physical strength. Seconds later Rusty was inside the house, exhausted from having run back and forth finding the door locked against him.

“Sit, boy,” her assailant gave the clipped order.

Rusty sat.

Of course! It had to be his dog, though she doubted very much he could get the cattle dog to turn on her.

“Your name please?” he asked, suddenly as formal as a policeman.

“Casey McGuire.”

“No doubt of the mad McGuire clan?” He examined her from head to toe. Far from being some young guy she was all femaleness.

“No clan,” she informed him shortly. “I’m an orphan.”

“I imagine your family prefer it that way. So what are you doing around here, Casey McGuire?”

“Drivin’ through, if it’s any of your business. This your house?”

“In a manner of speaking, but I don’t live here. This house is at the disposal of our resident school master. It’s a few kilometres out of town but he doesn’t mind.”

“Doesn’t he ever lock his doors?” she asked.

“He will from now on,” he informed her. “But as you say, there’s nothing much to take. I apologise for manhandling you. I mistook you for some vagrant out to make trouble.”

“Right!” she said firmly. “Now you know different. I don’t apologise for slugging you. You asked for it.”

He laughed, stroking a hand along his strong jaw where a dark red mark was still visible. “The fact your hat fell off gave you the element of surprise, so don’t take too much credit. How many guys I wonder have a torrent of fiery hair tumbling down their back? How long did it take to grow it?”

“So what’s your name,” she replied, totally ignoring his smart aleck question. Yet all the while he was studying her intently, a small frown between his bronze brows.

“Connellan. Troy Connellan. My dad owns Vulcan Plains about 100 K’s west of here. I had to come into town so I decided to take a run out here to check on a few things. I won’t mention to Phil Carson—that’s the new headmaster—you were snooping around his place.”

She coloured. “I’m sorry. It’s hard to explain. I was just enjoying the house. And Rusty’s company.” She clicked her fingers and the blue speckled dog came to her, showing its pleasure at a few pats on the head.

“Don’t be a fool, Rusty,” Troy Connellan chided. “He might look the picture of a sweet natured dog but I’ve seen Rusty hold quite a few people at bay.”

“I’m good with animals,” she said offhandedly. “So you believe me?”

“I have to put a stop to those right hooks,” he answered sarcastically. “Yeah, I believe you. We got off to a bad start. Where are you heading?”

She shrugged. “I’m going to stop off at the town. Koomera Crossing?”

“Right.” He nodded slowly, still intently sizing her up. There was nothing lecherous about it. The considerable interest wasn’t on that account.

“Then I’m heading out to McIvor country. Murraree. That’s the name of the station, isn’t it?”

“Right again.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re a relative of Jock’s?”

“You could say that.”

“I hope you know he’s dead?”

“So I’ve heard. But not the end of story.”

“You’ve got me intrigued, Ms McGuire.”

Something about him sent an unwelcome self-awareness crackling along her nerves. “Look, I’m a busy woman.” She said it through her teeth. “You knew Jock McIvor?”

“Lady, everyone knew Jock McIvor,” he said laconically. “You ever so slightly resemble him.”

“Do I now.” She picked up her cream Akubra and rammed it back on her head. All day her hair had been pleated for coolness, now she let it fall loose.

“Have you told the girls you’re coming?” He made a rough mocking sound like a snort.

She looked at him, thinking suddenly he was extraordinarily good-looking if you liked big dramatic hunks. He had strong distinctive features and a bump at the bridge of his aquiline nose, probably from an old break. The eyes were as gold as a jungle cat’s, thickly lashed. “This is gonna be a big surprise,” she drawled.

“I bet. Who the hell are you?”

“As I said before, none of your business, Connellan. I’ll collect my container and be on my way. Have a nice day.”

She couldn’t stop him. He walked with her to the ute.

“You’re expecting to get to Murraree in this old wreck?” he enquired, standing back to admire it.

“This old wreck has served me faithfully,” she told him tartly.

“We do have a policeman in the town. Would it pass a road worthy test?”

“You’re joking. Who the hell would care around here?”

“You’d be surprised. The fact it takes time and money to go after irresponsible idiots who find themselves broken down in the Outback doesn’t seem to bother you.”

“Look, buster!” She stuck her hands on her hips, adopting her aggressive stance. “I’m a mechanic. This here ute mightn’t look pretty but it’s well maintained. It’s not gonna break down, got it?”

“Boy do you have a chip on your shoulder.” He gave a white smile, the corners of his mouth curling up.

Fascinating. She was starting to get uncomfortable with the fact she was finding him attractive. “I don’t like being called an irresponsible idiot.”

He gave a mocking bow. “I was generalising, dear girl.”

“I’m not your dear girl. I’m not a girl at all. I’m a woman.”

“And an excellent specimen.” He gave another wide smile. “Could I interest you in a cup of coffee back in town?”

“Not likely.” This guy was getting under her skin faster than a splinter. “How far on is Murraree?”

“Not far as the crow flies. Darn near three hours by road. I suggest you don’t drive after dark.”

“Why is that. Do you think the dark might make me jumpy?” she jeered.

“You? No. That was some punch. I’m just glad the snap kick never connected. There are kangaroos on the road. They’re as dumb as they come. I don’t think your old ute would stand up to a front end collision. I travel with a bull bar.”

“I take it that’s your 4WD beyond the gate. What did you do, pole vault the fence?”

“I wanted to surprise you. At least you closed the gate behind you. Country girl.”

She shook her head. “I’ve never been to the Outback in my life.”

His bronze brows lifted. “Jock never invite you?”

“I never had the pleasure of meeting Jock McIvor.”

“But you’re a relation?”

She laughed, despite herself. “The evidence seems to be mounting up. Do you know the McIvor heiresses?”

“Darcy, yes. But the younger one, Courtney, stayed in Brisbane with her mother. She’s only recently come back. I haven’t had the pleasure as yet. I’ve been managing one of our outstations in the Territory.”

“One of…” she scoffed. “You don’t get to be as cocky as you unless Daddy happens to be a rich old cattle baron.”

“You’re just jealous.” He shrugged. “Anyway you don’t know the amount of rubbish I have to put with.”

“And I couldn’t care less. Now would you mind taking your arm off my car. I have to be on my way to this Koomera Crossing. The last town I pulled in every last damned citizen was all eyes. You would have thought I’d come from another planet.”

“More likely every last damned person was struck by your extraordinary resemblance to Jock McIvor. It’s kinda startling. You’ve even got the cleft chin.”

“Make that a dimple.” She slipped behind the wheel. “Could you do me a favour and open the gate?”

“How could you leave Rusty behind?” he asked, amused by the way the cattle dog had taken to her.

“He’s your dog, not mine. I suppose you dumped him on the schoolteacher.”

“Fella wanted a bit of protection.”

She laughed. “It would be fair to say Rusty is a push-over.”

“Or you could melt metal?”

Casey felt heat rush through her veins. This conversation had gone far enough. “I thought you were the one who behaved like a savage.” She swung away.

“Look, I thought you were an intruder, okay?”

“I’m glad I wasn’t. Are you going to open the gate?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He gave a mocking salute. “If you stay on in town I might see you there.”

“Not if I see you first,” she called sweetly. “Bye, Rusty!” She waited until he had opened the gate fully, before revving away in a cloud of red dust and flying gravel. Rusty followed, in hot pursuit. Just as she started to worry, Connellan let out a whistle so piercing Rusty got the message and reluctantly returned home.

More amazement at Koomera Crossing. More long considering stares. More unsolicited advice not to attempt to travel after dusk, which made it even more dangerously irresistible, but she wasn’t a complete fool. She booked into the pub for the night. She could start out fresh in the morning.

By seven o’clock she was starving. She felt sure the pub didn’t run to room service but if she went down to the dining room she might run into Troy Connellan. Just the thought of him made the adrenalin kick in. His wasn’t a soothing presence. In fact, he was particularly challenging. She could still feel that steely grip on her. She supposed he had every reason to think she was a lanky young man from the back. There was her height, her long legs and her dusty cowboy garb. Her hair—what had he called it?—a fiery torrent, was pushed under her hat. So his daddy owned the schoolmaster’s house. He owned a place called Vulcan Plains and another station in the Northern Territory. Daddy had to be a rich man. A cattle baron.

Spare me from them.

Hunger got the better of her. There was a lot of her to fill. She prettied herself up with a fine cotton shirt the colour of her eyes and brand-new designer jeans, tight as leggings, slinging one of her very fancy belts around her waist. This was the sort of outfit she adopted in the pubs when she sang. People seemed to like it. Her hair she brushed until it crackled and left it to hang loose over her shoulders and down her back in deep thick waves. McIvor’s hair. She sighed and a flush of anger appeared in her cheeks. A few things he had passed on to her. As a child she had wondered where she got her red curls from. Her mother’s hair had been dark and glossy until she started not taking care of herself. Her mother had never forgotten McIvor but he had forgotten her overnight. Had her mother ever tried to contact him to tell him about the pregnancy? Casey never knew. He might have sent money or advised her mother to have an abortion. He would pay for it. He was a married man.

Her poor little mother had a higher morality.

She was hardly settled in her chair before a plump, middle-aged woman reminiscent of someone’s mother on a sitcom came up to her, beaming. “I thought it was. You’re Casey McGuire, aren’t you? I’m a fan of yours. I’ve heard you sing back in Brisbane and the Gold Coast. I’m on holiday staying with my niece. She’s over there.” She gestured towards a table. “Dee Walker, that’s my name.” She held out her hand.

What else could a girl do. Casey shook it. “Thanks for the kind words, Dee, but I won’t be doing any singing around here.”

Dee’s double chin quivered as if she might cry. “Not even if I asked you? Folks would love it.”

Casey stared up at the woman’s plum-hued hair. “I’m like you, Dee, I’m on vacation.” Dee wore a plum lipstick as well.

Dee wasn’t the sort of person who took no for an answer. She leaned her hands on the table. “Look, I’ve set myself the little task of getting you to sing. I bet hubby I could.”

“Dee, I’m about to order. I’m very hungry.”

“Later then?” Dee was nothing if not persistent. It had worked countless times in the past. People just folded before they got a migraine.

Casey wasn’t one of them. She was about to put a stop to Dee, only a voice she knew breathed over her shoulder. “Hey, sorry I’m late!” Next minute Troy Connellan dropped an audacious kiss on her cheek before taking the chair opposite her.

“Oh, I’m intruding,” Dee Walker said, looking pleasantly flustered.

“Nice to meet you, Dee,” Casey gave her a big bright smile. “Bye now.”

Dee left reluctantly while Connellan rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me. She wanted to know if that hot hair was real?”

“You’ve heard about wigs in the sticks?”

“Hell, yes. What did she want?”

For some unknown reason she told him. “She wanted me to sing a song.”

“Imagine that!” One bronze eyebrow shot up. “What are we talking about here? Grand opera, pop, rock and roll, maybe the blues?” He had already noted her speaking voice, low and rich, full of sexy modulations.

She looked at him through narrowed, hostile eyes. “I’m sorry I told you.”

He shook his head. “Contrary to what you may believe, any one of those styles is possible. You have a voice people would want to listen to. So did Jock come to think of it. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone spin a yarn like McIvor. That voice of his could weave spells.”

“Can we leave McIvor out of this?” she asked sharply

“Sounds like you don’t have a good opinion of him?”

“Go on. Dig a bit further,” she challenged.

Again he shook his head. “I’m here for a nice chat and to have a good dinner. Have you ordered yet?”

“Dee got in the way,” she said sarcastically.

“Allow me.” He held up a hand. Immediately a pretty young waitress with dyed platinum hair curling around her head, hurried to their table.

“Yes, Troy?”

He smiled up at her. “How are things with you, Debby?”

“Just the same as when you left, Troy. Pretty tame, but I have dreams.”

It looked very much like Connellan was one of them, Casey thought, sitting back and listening to the exchange. It went on for a minute more before they ordered. Fresh barramundi had arrived from the Gulf, so what else? French fries, green salad on the side.

“Thanks, Debby.” Connellan handed her the menus. “We’ll let you know if we want dessert.”

“Thank you, Troy,” she said, eyes glowing, cheeks pink.

“One of your girlfriends?” Casey asked. “Or not high enough up the social scale?”

“Debby’s just a kid,” he frowned. His white shirt revealed a glimpse of broad bronzed torso, a gold ring in his ear would have finished the look off perfectly. Even his thick hair curled up from his collar.

“A kid with a crush,” Casey pointed out.” Whereas you’re exactly the age Debby is attracted to. You did a good job making her want to grow up. Fast.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. Another signal of the hand. “What’s it to be?” He turned back to Casey. “Beer or wine? I guess a glass of wine wouldn’t kill me.”

“Perhaps you should go sit at another table?” she suggested sweetly.

“Don’t be like that, McGuire. Waiter’s coming. What’s it to be?”

“A nice crisp Riesling,” she said.

The generous mouth compressed. “If they’ve got it. Crisp Riesling drinkers don’t come in all that often.”

“Try them,” she said.

The owner of the pub, a pleasant-looking man with bright blue eyes took her request very seriously. He smiled their way and waved a hand, indicating he had just what she wanted in stock.

Not only that, the bottle arrived nicely chilled.

Troy poured. “You’re going to drink this whole bottle by yourself?” he mocked.

“If that’s okay with you.” She gave a uncaring shrug. “I’ll have as little or as much as I like. Who the heck asked you to join me, may I ask?”

“No use glowering at me,” he said. “I was rescuing you from Dee. You come on real strong, don’t you McGuire?”

“Hasn’t stopped you coming back for more. And who said you could call me McGuire?”

“I distinctly recall your calling me Connellan. What’s good for the goose, etc., etc. What do you say we call it a truce while we polish off the barramundi?”

“Fine. I plan on going to bed early.”

It wasn’t to turn out that way. The main course was so delicious they followed it with a chocolate mousse then coffee.

“Who’s paying, by the way?” he asked.

“You’re wasting your time if you’re trying to take a rise out of me.”

“I just can’t make out if you actually smile or not.” He looked boldly into her eyes.

“Wouldn’t you just love to tell me it’s just like McIvor’s.”

“Jock McIvor was renowned for his sexual prowess,” he said. “Part of the appeal was his flashing smile.”

“He must have exercised it a lot,” she said contemptuously. “Don’t look for it from me. I had a tough childhood.”

“Really?” He leaned closer. “Turns out so did I. Maybe we can compare notes? Let’s order another coffee seeing you’re paying.”

She nodded. For one reason only, or so she told herself. The short black had been very good. She’d only had two glasses of wine, so she’d take the rest of the bottle up to her room. Maybe have another drop to help her sleep. Alcohol wasn’t going to be her downfall. She could take it or leave it.

Five minutes later Dee descended on them again. This time wearing elaborate spectacles. She seemed tremendously excited. “I’ve waited and waited,” she announced. “But now you’re finished. There’s a young man here with a guitar. Says his name is John Denver. Joking of course. He said he’d lend you his guitar if you would sing. I’ve spoken to the publican. Such a nice man! He said his customers would love it.”

Casey hoped her smile was okay. “Fact is, Dee, I don’t usually sing after a meal.” She had numerous times but not professionally.

“If I were you,” Connellan chipped in. “I’d get it over.”

“Why can’t you just keep out of it?” Casey fired.

“I’d lurve to hear you,” he drawled. “Never let it be said I don’t enjoy the finer things in life.”

“Oh, please, please,” Dee added, for good measure putting her hands together in a little clap. “Look here comes Johnny with his guitar.”

“Wonder it’s not Elvis,” Connellan murmured, giving her a gold-gleaming glance full of humour. “Clearly you’re caught!”

Casey took the tiny stage to much applause and more than a few loud whistles. She’d been so engrossed crossing swords with Troy Connellan she really hadn’t registered the amount of interest she’d been getting. If people whispered among themselves at Cullen Creek, at Koomera Crossing speculation was rife. The consensus of opinion. “Got to be one of Jock’s!”

Dee, electing herself compere of the night, took it upon herself to make the introductions.

“Please make welcome, Casey McGuire, all the way from Brisbane. You’re in for a treat, folks.”

More applause. More loud catcalls.

Casey took a minute to fine tune the guitar. Perfect pitch was quite rare she’d found and she had it. She decided on a sad ballad. One she had written herself. Most of her songs were sad. This one was some kind of memorial to her mother. Someone had turned on a spotlight and it shone on her. She didn’t need the mike but the publican hurried to switch it on, while someone else drew up a high chair for her to play sitting down if she wished. Anyone would have thought she was a rock star, she was getting so much attention.

“Song for Marnie,” she said, simply, looking out into the now crowded dining room. Where had everyone come from? The dining room had only been a little over half full.

Totally focused, she sat on the high stool unconscious of the image she created, strumming the introduction. Then when all was perfectly quiet, she began to sing….

Troy Connellan, rebel with good cause, found himself almost unbearably moved. She had a beautiful voice. He didn’t know what category. Mezzo, contralto, it wasn’t soprano. It was coming from some sad place deep inside her. Low and melodious, filled with emotion. She had wonderful control. Not only that, he had never heard the guitar sound so darned good. Her long elegant fingers caressed the strings, really made them sound. She was a true musician. Confrontational with him—he had to admit he’d gone out of his way to cause a little friction—when she sang of this Marnie her voice was heartbreakingly sad. She couldn’t be lesbian could she? He rejected that. He’d had enough experience to know there was something sexual going on beneath their sparring. The lyrics seemed to tell him tragic Marnie could be her mother. She’d said she was an orphan and he’d mocked her. He was sorry now.

He began to think of another star-crossed woman. His own mother, Elizabeth. Of the great love between them. But his mother was dead. She and a family friend had been caught in a flash flood on the station. Rumour had it his mother and their friend, his godfather, had been having a forbidden affair. His mother had been so beautiful who wouldn’t have fallen in love with her? His father was a very jealous man. Jealous of his beautiful mother. Jealous of him. He saw his only son as a rival and directed very real conflicts his way. It was all done on purpose. His father knew perfectly well what he was doing to Troy, at the same time as he heaped lavish gifts and affection on his sister, Leah. A new twist on the Oedipal dislocations.

This McGuire woman was simply stunning though she didn’t seem to know it. Okay, she was very tall. Too tall for a woman, six feet, but not too tall for him. In the spotlight her magnificent Titian hair glittered like fairy gold. She had flawless milky-white skin. No freckles. He wondered how she’d missed out on them. Her long lithe body was decidedly feminine, incredibly fluid and infinitely sexy. And the length of those legs! They could have stretched to Cape York. He remembered as intimidating as he might first have appeared to her, she was ready and able to fight back. Unfortunately he’d made the huge mistake thinking she was some young guy snooping around. The battered old ute had given him a bum steer. What woman in her right mind drove such a bucket load of trouble?

What terrible times had Casey McGuire seen? What had provided the basis for the song? He was convinced she’d suffered to be able to sing with such depths. She’d told him she’d had a tough childhood. That made two of them. It had taken him forever to realize his father had been jealous of him even as a boy. It had much to do with his mother’s special love for him and he for her.

After Casey finished there was total quiet in the room. It lasted for long moments as though the audience was unwilling to let the singer and the song drift away. Then the room erupted.

“More…more!”

A thunder of applause, this time no whistles perhaps out of respect, a muffled drumming of the feet, others stood up. A tourist with a plummy Pommy voice shouted, “Bravo!”

The singer, herself, seemed to come to, slowly as if breaking out of a trance.

Troy for his part was still trapped in the song’s power and the sad memories it evoked.

Nothing could be clearer. Casey McGuire had many songs to sing and many stories to tell. No wonder she was heading for McIvor country. He’d take a bet on it. That’s where she belonged.

Casey started into an encore. Upbeat, hand clapping, exciting. It drew a big response from her audience.

Casey McGuire, Goddess of Song.

CHAPTER TWO

Murraree Station

THE PEACE of that hot, languorous afternoon was disturbed by quite a commotion. An early model utility covered in red dust had entered the main compound, making speedy, ear splitting progress up the drive. By the time it rattled to a halt at the base of the homestead’s front steps they were all standing wondering who the heck it was. Darcy and Curt were at the balustrade, Marian and Peter out of their chairs, Adam standing tall at Courtney’s side startled by something in her expression.

“What’s wrong?”

Shaken by premonition, Courtney put a hand to her throat. “I have a feeling this is serious,” she said.

“Serious? In what way?” Adam stared down at her golden head.

“We’ll soon find out.”

Typically Curt took charge. He called out to the driver using only enough authority as was necessary. “Hello there! What do you want?” It wasn’t usual this kind of charge to the front door. No one they knew drove such a vehicle, either. For one thing it looked like it should have been in a wrecker’s yard, but at least it hadn’t caught fire.

In front of Courtney’s mesmerised eyes a very tall young woman slid from the driver’s seat, banging the door rigorously. Probably she had to, to make it shut.

“Which one of you is Darcy?” she demanded to know in a rich caustic voice. She moved towards them sweeping off her wide-brimmed cream Akubra. Immediately a magnificent unbound fiery mane tumbled down her back. She had eyes the colour of sapphires.

Four people saw the resemblance at once but no one said a word. They were temporarily struck dumb. Darcy, Courtney, their mother Marian, Curt, Darcy’s fiancé, the love of her life.

Some things in life one couldn’t evade, Courtney thought.

“Cat got your tongue?” The young woman addressed Darcy, who stood frozen. She flashed a familiar brilliant smile that held a world of challenge. “Hi, I’m Casey. Jock McIvor was my dad. Now are you going to let me up?”

Courtney looked quickly at her elder sister, waiting for Darcy to respond.

Darcy did, keeping the tremendous shock from her voice. “By all means, join us, Casey whatever-your-name,” she responded levelly. “Looks like you’ve come a long way?”

Casey gave the dark haired young woman on the verandah another smile. “Indeed I have. Thanks a lot.”

What should they do now, Courtney wondered, looks passing quickly around. Once on the verandah the statuesque red-head made a bee-line for her. “And you couldn’t be anyone else but Courtney, the younger sister. Hi, there, Courtney. You’re as pretty as a picture.” She put out her hand and Courtney, feeling very odd took it, thinking she’d have to check her fingers afterwards. That was some grip for a woman.

“You have proof you’re Jock McIvor’s daughter?” Adam spoke for the first time, using his smooth dispassionate lawyer’s voice.

“Hell, do I need it?” The goddess fixed him with a blue stare.

She sounded so much like Jock, looked so much like Jock, Marian sat back down in her chair, feeling a light sweat break out over her body. Just how long had Jock been faithful to her? Answer. Never. Jock had made quite a sideline out of sleeping with other women.

“And you must be Marian, McIvor’s wife?” Casey advanced on Marian who was looking a bit pale.

“She was.” Darcy did the answering. From the expression on her face, Marian was marooned in a sea of unhappy memories. “As you correctly deduced, that’s my mother.” For the first time a flicker of anger showed in Darcy’s voice, but she made the introductions. “My mother’s husband Peter Owens, my fiancé, Curt Berenger, and our friend and family lawyer, Adam Maynard.”

“In short, everybody,” Casey said, sounding brisk and assured. “So will someone offer me a drink?”

“Why not!” Darcy shrugged, finding for all her air of challenge she somehow liked this strange young woman who might or might not be her half sister. She was shockingly like Jock. She even talked like him. “Perhaps a meal?” Darcy suggested.

“That would be lovely.” Casey broke out another smile, drenched in sunshine. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast. That was at Koomera Crossing. I’d have been here a lot earlier, only I had a few problems with the ute I had to fix.”

“You fixed it yourself?” Courtney who had no talent for fixing anything mechanical was amazed.

“Who else?” The goddess shrugged carelessly. “I take pleasure in keeping it running.”

“So why have you come here, Casey?” Curt asked, suddenly in Guardian mode.

She flashed that startling blue glance at him. “Why, to get to know my family of course.”

“But Casey,” Adam said gently, “we don’t know that you are family. Despite the remarkable resemblance, Darcy and Courtney have to have proof. We all do.”

“Sure, you’re a lawyer,” Casey said. “Just wait till you hear my story.”

They did over dinner. After their visitor downed a cold beer, Darcy had shown her to a recently refurbished guest room, leaving her to get the dust and the grime of her journey off her and settle in.

“I always knew this was going to happen,” Darcy confided to Courtney. “It has an inevitability about it. Dad had so many affairs. The only thing I got wrong was I thought it would be a son.”

“Watch out, there’s still time,” Courtney warned. “Any number could pop out of the woodwork. If Casey has waited until now, she probably read about Dad’s death in the papers. You know what that means, don’t you?”

“Sure.” Darcy didn’t sound worried. “She wants money. But she has to prove her identity first.”

“She looks pretty authentic to me,” Courtney said. “Fact is, I kind of like her though she’s not the sweetest young woman I’ve ever met. And that handshake! For a minute I was frightened she was going to toss me over her shoulder.”

“She could do it, too.” Darcy’s aquamarine eyes looked into the middle distance. “I have the feeling Casey has done it hard. But she’s never let anything stop her. I figure she’s a fighter.”

“So do I,” Courtney agreed with some feeling. “You don’t think she’s here to threaten us?”

“Let’s wait and see,” Darcy advised.

“Sorry I couldn’t run to a dress,” Casey said, eyeing the other women. Pretty as a picture, Courtney had on something ultra-feminine in a lovely shade of violet. It floated on the air. Darcy, who was unmistakably a beauty, wore an outfit not unlike her own. A silk shirt over lean designer jeans. Casey loved the way Darcy carried her tall slender body with confident grace. She looked as at home in her body as Casey was in hers. Marian, the mother—probably Courtney would look just like her at the same age—hardly looked old enough to have two grown up daughters. She, too, was a pretty sight, calm and gentle with tender blue eyes. As a type she wasn’t unlike her own mother. A cloud drifted over Casey’s face. Her mother, too, had been a very pretty woman before poverty, unhappiness and the drugs she couldn’t live without had changed all that.

As for the men! Berenger, the Outback aristocrat. Very impressive. Maynard, the lawyer, suave as James Bond. Peter, the second husband, a nice man but beside McIvor in his prime, hardly worth looking at.

It surprised Casey little five-feet-two-and-a-bit Courtney was the cook. And a very good cook as it turned out. They ate well and deliciously. Casey didn’t peck at her food daintily like Marian, who seemed to her a fragile person. She tucked in because she was hungry. She was always hungry since she’d made her escape from The Home. At any time she led a very active life. Her long journey into the Back O’Beyond had been exhausting. They left her alone until the main course of melt-in-the-mouth spiced loin of lamb with pine nuts served over a bed of spinach was taken away and little strawberry jellies with ice cream were brought in. Then the inquisition started just as she expected.

“When did you first find out Jock McIvor was your father?” Maynard asked, his keen dark eyes sweeping over her. “Did your mother tell you?”

“No, she didn’t,” she said briskly.

“You have your birth certificate?”

“I didn’t think I needed one since I’m so obviously here,” she answered facetiously.

“You need your birth certificate for many things, Casey,” Darcy intervened quietly. “Why don’t you tell us your story in your own words.”

Casey finished her strawberry jelly first. It was very refreshing. “It’s not a pretty story,” she said.

Nothing was pretty around our father, Courtney thought.

“You don’t need Peter and me here,” Marian spoke in a wobbly voice, looking uncertainly around the table. This stunning-looking creature might well resent their presence. Casey McGuire had a combative air about her. Marian was much more at home with a sweetness of manner like her beloved Courtney.

“Mumma, please stay.” Courtney put out a staying hand.

“Very well, dear.”

As she spoke Casey could see their faces change. She told them about her early life in far North Queensland. She spoke about her mother with a tightened throat. She could see that upset them. She skimmed over The Home, her voice emotionless. She told them how she’d set about getting an education. Of the courses she had taken, the jobs that included waitressing, cleaning, drawing beer in pubs, unloading trucks, working in nurseries where she’d picked up quite a lot of information about horticulture, finally her career as a singer-songwriter.

“Is this your future? Is this what you want to do?” Courtney asked, sparked by interest. Listening to her speak, there was no doubt Casey McGuire had a voice.

“Maybe.” Casey shrugged. “I’m getting to like the writing more than the singing.”

“So when did you find out Jock was your father if your mother didn’t tell you?” Curt asked, disturbed by her story. Especially what she hadn’t said about the orphanage. That in itself spoke volumes.

“An old friend of my mother’s,” Casey answered. “It seems she’d been suffering from the guilts for years. She knew of my mother’s affair and her leaving home in disgrace. Some time later she saw my mother and Jock McIvor together. A few days after that she saw him again on television, being interviewed about something in the bush. She put two and two together. It must have cost her a big effort because she took years and years before she decided to track down my mother. By then, of course, my mother was dead.”

“As was Jock,” Curt said quietly. “The way you tell it it’s impossible not to believe your story, Casey—a very sad story—but it doesn’t actually prove Jock was your father.”

“Dig him up,” she suggested, her heart slamming. She’d just told them Jock McIvor had destroyed her mother’s life.

Marian looked appalled. “How old are you, Casey?” She swallowed on emotion.

“Twenty-four. A few months younger than Courtney here.”

It fitted, Marian thought dismally. Jock had had no time for her when she was pregnant. Not with Darcy. Not with Courtney. She recalled his numerous city trips at those times.

“I’ve done a lot of research on Jock McIvor,” Casey was saying. “He was a serial adulterer. Sorry if I offend anybody.” She didn’t look sorry. In fact she looked like she’d desperately needed to say it.

“We don’t need the late Mr McIvor to prove paternity,” Adam said, scanning their visitor closely but with discretion. “We can compare your DNA with that of Darcy’s or Courtney’s. What is it you want, Ms McGuire?”

Casey turned her torso towards him. “My due. I’m well aware Jock McIvor was a rich man. I’ve read all about the McIvor heiresses. They can’t spend it all. Jock McIvor made it so hard for my mother to survive, she gave up on life. I’m not about to do the same. I want restitution for the sins of the past.”

“You’re nothing if not honest,” said Adam.

“Isn’t there a saying an honest lawyer is an oxymoron?” Casey shot back.

To his credit Adam laughed. “Touché. First Darcy and Courtney together with Curt and I as trustees would have to discuss the whole situation. Then we would suggest DNA testing. It could be arranged. It would take some time to get results of tests, say blood samples back. Tests would have to be sent to a lab in Brisbane.”

“I’m in no hurry!” Casey answered promptly. “After all I’ve waited all my life.” She looked across the table at Darcy, in some way deferring to her as did Courtney. “This is one magnificent homestead you’ve got here, Darcy. You could turn it into a hotel. I was wondering if I could stay a while before continuing on my way?”

Darcy stared back. This young woman who claimed to be their half sister had McIvor’s riveting sapphire eyes with their bright look of challenge. But Darcy recognised suffering when she saw it. Casey was covering it well, but there was a haunting in their brilliant depths. “Whether you prove to be our half sister or not, Casey, you can stay,” she said gently.

Casey smiled crookedly. “Tell you what, Darcy. You’ve got a heart.”

At Adam’s signal Courtney followed him out into the starry night on the pretext of reading the constellations in the desert sky.

“That’s an extraordinary story Casey had to tell.” Adam took her elbow as they walked down the short flight of steps to the home gardens. The palm of his hand only touched the point of her elbow, yet the thrill shocked her.

“You’re not sure if you believe it?” Why would he? He had doubted her when she had returned to Murraree at the bequest of her dying father. It was almost as though they were back to square one.

“Why do you say that?”

Her voice was ironic. “You’re a very careful man.”

“Courtney, I have to be. Ms McGuire on the surface appears to be who she says she is. But at this point we don’t know. It has to be checked out.”

She took a harsh breath. “Of course. But if what she’s saying is true, while Mum was pregnant with me my womanising father was busy impregnating her mother.”

“The story is far from new,” he answered sardonically.

“Then who knows how many more might turn up?” Courtney burst out, then quickly bit her tongue.

Adam shrugged. “I have to admit it’s a worry. The coverage of your father’s death would have a lot to do with Casey’s coming forward.”

“I do wish they’d stop calling Darcy and me the McIvor heiresses.” She made a little impatient gesture with her hand.

“Actually the label fits. You are heiresses.”

“And we’re so grateful we have you to look after us, Adam,” Courtney spoke with exaggerated sweetness that stopped just short of anger. “I hid a smile when she took a crack at you. What was it? An honest lawyer is an oxymoron?”

“Heard it before,” he said casually. “There are all kinds of jokes about lawyers. Here’s one. Two lawyers were lost in the woods when they were confronted by a dangerous bear. One quickly removed his running shoes from his bag and put them on. The other stared at him. ‘You can’t outrun that bear.’ The guy replied, ‘I don’t have to outrun the bear. I just have to outrun you.’”

Courtney laughed, but inside she was feeling decidedly on edge. Just when they were all settling down, an alleged long lost half sister turns up Adam’s reaction, adding fuel to her ingrained wariness of him. “There’s something very likeable about her, don’t you think?” she questioned. “Something brave and strong. I can understand the rage in her heart about Dad and what happened to her mother. How very tragic. Casey is very confrontational. I suppose she’d have to be, given her sad life, but I can’t help liking her. Darcy does, too.”

“Maybe the answer is blood,” Adam suggested. Casey McGuire was a very striking young woman but she wasn’t his cup of tea. His cup of tea was a blue eyed blonde who didn’t even come up to his shoulder. One, moreover, who didn’t trust him. “I’d say she’s a very tough, determined young woman. She could be hiding a lot.”

“Like me?” Heat burned in her cheeks, making her feel glad of the star spangled darkness.

“No, not like you,” he said.

“Goodness knows you were suspicious enough of me,” Courtney continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “For all I know you still are.”

“You can’t let that lie, can you?” He looked down at her halo of curls that managed to shine even at night.

“Sometimes I can, but now and again the memory peeks out. How you thought I unduly influenced Dad. The way you were ready to believe my ex-work mate’s story of how I boasted I was going to twist a dying man around my little finger?”

“Ah, Courtney,” he sighed. “The truth is whether you wanted to or not, you did.”

Courtney tried hard to check her anger. After all, she had started this herself. “Typical lawyer’s response. Now you have Casey’s story to contend with. She covers up well but I think she’s been dreadfully hurt.”

“Which says a great deal for her survival skills. That’s if her story’s right,” he cautioned. “If it is, there can be no doubt she’s suffered. The nightmare of her mother’s death and state homes aren’t fun places. The question is did your father know of her mother’s pregnancy? Did she contact him?”

“Maybe she felt she couldn’t,” Courtney, always tender-hearted, answered painfully. “Nobody there for her. Wanting to hide. She could have known he was married with a child. Who knows what he told her. Maybe he waited until she was entirely in his power before he told her and by then it was too late. He could even have told her he was single or let her assume he was. Casey didn’t say.”

“Casey was deliberately vague.” Adam said, holding a palm frond up and away from her face. “Or she couldn’t bear to speak about it. Your father could be ruthless but I don’t think he would have abandoned Casey’s mother because she was pregnant. He could have come to her aid in some shape or form. He could very easily have given her money to see her through.”

“Maybe she didn’t want money?” Courtney suggested, part of her thinking that might have been the answer. “She wanted him. She must have been madly in love with him. After all, she cut all her ties with her family for some kind of half life he promised her. She was young and she must have been a very vulnerable, needy person. Dad tired of her early.”

“There’s plenty of evidence that was his way,” Adam said tonelessly.

“So it all started out very badly for Casey. She must have had an awful time at school. Born and raised in a little town where everyone knew everyone else’s business. Her mother wasn’t married and that carried a social stigma. No money. Then her extraordinary stand out looks. She’s even taller than Darcy.”

“But very female,” Adam said dryly. “At this stage, Courtney, it would be a fatal mistake to swallow every word she’s said. As remarkably as Casey resembles your father, such chance resemblances aren’t unheard of. We’ve all seen people who could be someone else’s double.”

“Except she’d realise we would want proof?”

“Not necessarily.” He led her towards a stone garden bench. “Women are notorious for plucking the heartstrings. Her story is just bad enough to earn her a lot of sympathy and possibly a reluctance to press her further.”

“Well not sympathy from you,” she said sharply. “You have ice in your veins.”

“I could change that opinion if you want.”

She listened for derision. Heard none. Instead the sensual note in his voice caused a sudden flush of heat that coursed through her body. “I don’t want, Adam. I don’t want any complications.”

A half smile lifted a corner of his chiselled mouth. “My sentiments as well, Courtney,” he said suavely, pulling out a handkerchief and dusting off the area of bench where she intended to sit in her very pretty dress. “I wouldn’t like it to be said I took advantage of an heiress. After all, it’s what your father most feared.”

Sweet smelling desert plants were flowering nearby. They filled the air with their fragrance. This area of the garden was secluded and still, full of shadows, with deep pockets of darkness. It was moonless but the stars were out in all their powerful brilliance, as beautiful as she had ever seen. Diamonds in a black-velvet sky. Beautiful, beautiful precious gems. She searched for the familiar clusters. Crux Australis, the Southern Cross, Triangulum Australe, the Southern Triangle, Corona Australis, the Southern Crown. They hung so low in the sky she felt like putting up a hand and pulling one down.

Catch a falling star. Make a wish.

What would it be? To find the man she wanted to share her life with? Was he already beside her? A cooling breeze had sprung up ruffling her hair. Little nocturnal creatures were scuttling about the garden. She felt all sensation. He made her that way. Presently to break the electric silence that had fallen between them she said, “My father showed compassion at the end, though, didn’t he? He wanted to see me. He wanted to provide for me. I just can’t go on believing there was no good in him. That he was totally without conscience or genuine feeling.”

“Don’t fret, Courtney.” Gently he touched her shoulder. His arm had been leaning on the back of the bench behind her. “He wasn’t. At the same time he turned the tables on Darcy who had devoted her life to him. Curt and I have become good friends. Curt makes no bones about the fact McIvor did everything in his power to keep Darcy tied to him and away from Curt, who’s always loved her.”

She felt guilty about that when she didn’t need to feel guilty. “Now that I do believe. Darcy carried the burden, I know. I had a peaceful life with Mum. Lots of love and understanding. But Darcy was the one our father wanted. Not me. He would have crushed the life out of me. Just as he did my mother.” Tears burned behind her eyes but she defied them to fall.

“I think not,” Adam answered firmly, turning his dark head. “There’s not much of you but I think you would have triumphed, Courtney. You have your own gutsy core.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not.” There was a faint edge to her voice.

“Why not?” His finger lightly brushed one of her bright curls. “Haven’t I complimented you before?” He studied her enchanting profile.

He had kissed her, too. Rocking her to her foundations. “I’d better answer carefully, seeing you’re a lawyer. I believe you told me I looked beautiful at the polo ball.”

“Which you did. You wove magic. A trick women have.”

“Trick?” She risked a glance at him. Saw the glitter of his eyes. “Sometimes I think a woman hurt you badly. A woman who looked a bit like me.” What if he still loved that woman, Courtney thought. What if?

“Now you’ve caught me out,” Adam said smoothly. “I was going for a time with a blue-eyed blonde. An associate in another law firm. She was very bright and very attractive, but nowhere near as lovely as you.”

“So what happened?” His voice told her at one time this other girl had mattered.

“The usual thing. She cheated on me. I didn’t like that. Especially as she’d already moved in with me. She swore it hadn’t meant anything. A one night stand. She’d had a few drinks and one thing led to another. It was apparent she couldn’t be trusted. Maybe if I’d really loved her I’d have been prepared to forgive her. As it was, we broke up.”

“You mean you broke it up.” She could just see him doing it. Clinical, dispassionate, shutting the door on his true feelings.

“Don’t be so hard on me, Courtney,” he groaned. “I take fidelity seriously. Don’t you?”

“I’ve never actually lived with anyone,” she said. “How long were you together?” It was very unsettling, these fierce stabs of jealousy.

“Pray tell, what is this?” He turned her face towards him, a finger on her chin. “Jealous?”

He was so mocking. So arrogant. “I’d prefer to say making conversation.” Now her palm itched to hit him.

“Is that what it is?”

“Better to stick to conversation,” she said.

“When a beautiful woman is born to be kissed?” He drew her to her feet and confounded her by rocking her gently in his arms. “It’s been far too long, Courtney.”

Had he spoken those exact lines to that other woman? Had he turned her heart upside down? Of course he had, he had perfected the art. Then he had left her. Was he telling the truth about that affair or just avoiding the real reason because he thought she would buy it? “If that’s a prompt for a goodnight kiss, Adam, I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

His dark voice mocked. “But you know you won’t.”

He didn’t kiss her mouth at first, he kissed her eyelids. Then her cheek. Beneath her ear. She couldn’t summon up the strength to stop him. She was already in too deep.

“Why did I wait so long?”

She didn’t want him to wait. It was mad, perhaps ill advised, but she was wild for him.

His mouth found her own. His kiss, slow and very thorough. It robbed her of breath. She broke it with a little gasp but instead of releasing her he pulled her even closer, folding her petite body into his like a piece of origami. “You’re interfering with my work, Ms McIvor,” he said huskily.

“How is that?” Her own voice was ragged.

“It’s hard to get a grip on a client’s problem when you’re thinking of someone else.” He bent his head to her again. The tip of his tongue traced the outline of her tender mouth, then the soft inner cushion.

Her whole body, her entire network of nerves, was thrumming like high voltage electricity wires. “I can’t believe you think of me, Adam?” She fought from going under. In too short a time Adam Maynard had gained a real hold on her. There was an inherent danger in that.

“Why is that?” He continued to taste her mouth and her skin as though they were ambrosial.

“A certain way you look at me hasn’t changed.” She voiced her deep concern.

That gave him pause. “Explain.”

Tension began to vibrate like plucked strings. “The way we began. The lack of trust.”

“We’re not back to that,” he groaned. “I was just trying to do my job, Courtney.”

“Perhaps, but the fact is, the look’s still there. It slips out from time to time. It distresses me.”

Anger blazed up unexpectedly. “What else about me distresses you? Obviously not being in my arms. You let me kiss you like you couldn’t live without it.”

It was true. She opened up to him like a flower. But she wasn’t thinking. She was feeling. “How do I know you’re not on track to seduce me?” She had a sudden impulse to turn the tables. “It would be worth your while. I’m sure you make a lot of money as a full partner in your firm, but I’m an heiress, aren’t I?” Immediately as she said it she was ashamed of the ploy. It was unworthy. A last ditch attempt to regain a little control. Adam wasn’t a dishonourable man.

“Don’t say any more, Courtney,” he said tightly. “You’ve gone far enough.” Never had a woman got to him so hard and fast. Never had a woman so insulted him.

It was a blow at his manhood. He hauled her back into his arms. Held her captive. This time the kiss punished.

Next morning Adam left on his journey back to Brisbane, leaving them both estranged.

It was 8:40 before Casey woke with brilliant sunlight streaming in from the verandah. For a few disoriented moments she couldn’t think where she was. She’d never slept in such a beautiful room in her life. Never slept between crisp white sheets that puffed up an exquisite aroma as she moved. It wasn’t any fragrance she knew. Not the usual lavender, gardenia or rose. She would have to ask what it was.

She swung her long legs out of the bed, curling her toes on the pale green carpet. The guest room had such a fresh airy feel. It had only just been redecorated, she’d been told. The wallpaper was a wide cream and pale green stripe. The drapes a cream sheer that moved gently in the breeze. The circular bedside tables were covered in the same soft green, almost a lime. Taffeta decorated around the hem with silk tassels, matching the shades on the bedside lamps. The quilt and the scatter cushions introduced harmonious pinks and blues. Very good watercolours hung on the walls. There was a daybed, near the French doors and an upholstered bench at the end of the bed. A little writing table with a chair.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.