So this is Cyrus Bannerman

This was as good as it got. The fact that he was so striking in appearance didn’t come as a surprise. His father was an impressive-looking man. What she hadn’t been expecting was the charisma, the air of authority that appeared entirely natural. Obviously Cyrus Bannerman was ready to take over his father’s mantle, when many a son with a tycoon for a father finished up with a personality disorder. Not the case here, unless that palpable presence turned out to be a facade.

He was tall, maybe six-three, with a great physique. The loose-limbed long-legged stride was so graceful it was nearly mesmerizing. He had thick, jet-black hair, strong distinctive features, his eyes even at a distance the bluest she had ever seen. She knew instinctively she had better impress this guy with her professional demeanor. No contract had yet been signed.

“Ms. Tennant?”

Though every instinct shrieked a warning, she offered him her hand. It was taken in a firm cool grip. Jessica let out her breath slowly, disconcerted by the thrill of skin on skin. “How nice of you to meet me.”

“No problem. I had business in Darwin.” The startling blue eyes continued to study her. She had already grasped the fact that despite the smoothness of manner, he hadn’t taken to her. Was it wariness in his eyes? A trace of suspicion? More’s the pity! she thought. Anyone would think she had coerced his father into hiring her. Not that it mattered. She didn’t altogether like him. She did, however, like the look of him. A teeny distinction.

Dear Reader,

It is with much pleasure I introduce to you the first in my four-book series MEN OF THE OUTBACK. The setting moves from my usual stamping ground, my own state of Queensland, to the Northern Territory.

The Northern Territory is arguably the most colorful and exciting part of the continent. Even today it is frontier country. The Territory comprises what we call the Top End and the Red Centre. The Top End has as its capital Darwin, the gateway to Australia and a hop, step and a jump from Southeast Asia. The chief town of the Red Centre is Alice Springs, which lies in the middle of the fantastically colored MacDonnell Ranges, the setting for one of the stories. The Top End lies well above the Tropic of Capricorn. The Red Centre is the desert, the home of our most revered monuments, Uluru and Kata Tjuta. Thus we have in a vast area two extreme climatic and geographical divisions. World Heritage–listed Kakadu National Park, crocodiles and water buffalo to the Top, the Dead Heart to the Centre (though not dead at all, only lying dormant until the rains transform it into the greatest garden on earth).

The pervading theme of the series is family. It can be a difficult and provocative subject because many highly dysfunctional families are out there—fighting, loving, hating, struggling, exploiting, betraying. Family offers endless opportunities for its members to hurt and be hurt, to love and support or bitterly condemn. What sort of family we grew up in reverberates for the rest of our lives. Were we blessed with a rock-solid foundation or left with memories that plague us? One thing is certain—at the end of the day, blood binds.

I invite you, dear reader, to explore the lives of my families. Not all of it is invention. Such people as I write about do inhabit families. What sort of family is yours? Now and then.

Margaret Way

The Cattleman
Margaret Way

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

PROLOGUE

Mokhani Station

Northern Territory, Australia

1947

ALL THE WHILE THEY WERE riding, Moira felt a stab of anxiety as sharp as a knife beneath her breastbone. She tried to tell herself not to be afraid, but it did no good. A sense of foreboding weighed on her so oppressively, she slumped in the saddle, her hands trembling on the reins. If her companion noticed, Moira saw no sign. It was another hot, humid, thundery day on the verge of the Wet, or the Gunummeleng, as the station Aborigines called it. There were only two seasons in the Territory, she’d learned. The Wet and the Dry. The Wet, the time of the monsoon, extended from late November to March, the Dry lasted from April through October. It was mid-November now. She had arrived on Mokhani in early February of that year to teach the Bannerman twins, a boy and a girl aged seven. Nearly ten months of sharing her life with extraordinary people; the ten most life-changing months of her life. Ultimately, they had turned her from just out of adolescence into a woman. Her great fear was she had chosen a tragic path.

Nearing eighteen and not long out of her excellent convent school, she’d craved adventure. Mokhani had offered it. After years of hard study and obeying strict rules, she’d been ready for a liberating experience. It was understood that at some time she had to continue her tertiary education, but if her parents hadn’t exactly encouraged her to take a gap year, they’d put up no great objection when they’d seen how much she’d wanted it. As a much-loved only child, “the wonderful surprise” of her parents’ middle years, their only wish was for her to be happy. The family solicitor, a good friend of her father’s, had come up with the answer. His legal firm handled many Outback clients’ affairs. It just so happened, the Bannerman family, pastoral pioneers with huge cattle interests in the Northern Territory and Queensland’s Gulf country, wanted a governess for their children, someone of good family and proven academic ability, a young woman preferably, to better relate to the children.

She qualified on all counts. Her father was a well-respected family doctor. Her mother, an ex-nurse, helped out several days at his surgery. Moira had been a straight-A student, winning a scholarship to university. The Bannermans, for their part, were rich, powerful, influential. The present owner and heir to the Bannerman fortune was Steven Bannerman—ex-Squadron Leader Steven Bannerman, seconded to the Royal Air Force during the war, survivor of the Battle for Britain, who’d returned home a war hero. His wife, Cecily, was a niece of the South Australian governor. In short, the Bannermans were the sort of people to whom her parents felt no qualms about sending her.

The great irony was, they might have been signing her death warrant.

Moira lifted one hand, pressing it hard against her heart to stop it from bursting through her rib cage. If her companion addressed a stray comment to her, she heard nothing of it. There were too many demons clamouring inside her head. She knew she wasn’t very far away from a breakdown. In a sense, it was another version of the Aboriginal kurdaitcha man, the tribal sorcerer, pointing the bone. Yet nothing had been said to her. Her throbbing fears were virtually without proof, but like all victims, she had the inbuilt awareness there was threat ahead.

It was deliriously hot. That alone caused profound dislocation. Temperature nearing a hundred and rising. A thunderstorm was rolling in across the table-topped escarpment that from a distance always appeared a deep amethyst. The storm revealed itself as magnificent. Majestic in cloud volume, black and silver with jagged streaks of livid green and purple that intensified the colors of the vast empty landscape and made the great cushions of spinifex glow molten gold. Even she knew it was risky taking this long ride. If it poured rain, the track could become slippery and dangerous and they would have to walk the horses. But it wouldn’t be the first time a thunderstorm had blown over, for all the fabulous pyrotechnics.

Nearly everyone on the station, even the Aborigines, the custodians of this ancient land, were feeling the peculiar tension the extremes of weather created. Heat and humidity. The humidity alone left one gutted. The monsoon couldn’t come soon enough even if it brought in a cyclone. Not that she had ever lived through the destructive cyclones of the far north. Still she understood what the Territorians meant when they talked about going “troppo,” a state of mental disturbance blamed on extreme weather conditions.

Was that it? For one blessed moment, she felt a lightening of her fears. Was she going troppo? Were her fears imaginary rather than real? No one meant her any harm. It was all in her mind. Her companion appeared almost serene, hardly the demeanour of an avenger. The heat did dreadful things to people, especially those not born and bred to the rigours of the inland.

We’re white people living in the black man’s land.

Steven Bannerman had said that to her when she’d first arrived, looking down at her with a strange intensity, his handsome mouth curved in a rare smile. Steven Bannerman was not an easygoing man. Many attributed that to his traumatic experiences during the war. Steven Bannerman was the symbol of power and authority on the station, as daunting in some moods as a blazing fire.

Steven!

She’d been destined to fall in love with him. Her heart leaped at the sound of his name. It resonated in her head and through the caverns of her heart. If she never saw him again, his image would remain etched on her mind, his touch imprinted on her skin. It was truly extraordinary the bearing one person could have on another’s entire life.

She had felt it such an honor to work for a war hero. She had handled the high-spirited, mischievous little imps of twins who had seen off not one but two governesses remarkably well. Everyone said so. Particularly Mrs. Bannerman, Cecily, a benign goddess who, at the beginning, had sung her praises. Not that she had ever been invited to call the Missus, as the Aboriginal house girls called Mrs. Bannerman, by her Christian name. Steven, too, was only Steven when they were alone. At all other times, he was Mr. Bannerman.

A prince in his own kingdom; everything in the world to her. He had been since the first moment she’d looked up into his beautiful, far-seeing blue eyes—though it hadn’t been revealed to her then. But each week, each month that passed, they’d grown closer and closer, learning so much about each other. Nothing had happened until a short time ago when their feelings for each other had broken out in madness.

Fate had delivered her like a sacrificial lamb right into his arms.

She had gone from innocence to womanhood all in one sublime destructive day. She was certain in her heart neither had deliberately chosen it. It had just happened, like an act of God; a flood, a drought, an earthquake, a deadly bolt of lightning from the sky. Acts of God were merciless.

The voice inside her head started up again. She let it talk. It was the next best thing to a conscience.

You know what you have to do, Moira. You have to get out of here. Leave before tragedy overtakes you. Worse, overtakes Steven. A scandal that would be talked about all over the Outback, affecting everyone, even the children.

She couldn’t bear that. She had to make her decision. She had to put a thousand miles between herself and Steven. Steven had made his decision years ago before God and man. He had a wife and children. He would never leave them. Not that she’d dreamed for a single moment he would. His role had been drummed into him from childhood. He was the master of Mokhani Station. Outback royalty. She was nothing more serious than a passing affair.

Only, that wasn’t true. Both of them knew it wasn’t true. She had lain awake far into the night searching the corridors of her soul. There was a strong two-way connection between them, an instant bonding. Steven had told her she was his other half. His reward for what he had suffered during the war. They shared a dangerous kinship of body and spirit that opened the doors to heaven, but also to hell. Steven was passionately in love with her, as she was with him. Hadn’t he told her he didn’t know what love for a woman was until she’d come into his life? The admission hadn’t been merely an attempt to break down her defenses; it had been wrenched from deep down inside him, causing him agony. A war hero, yet he had stood before her with tears in his eyes. Tears she understood. She too was on a seesaw.

Love and guilt. Their love was so good, so pure, yet she knew it could be equated with shameful, illicit sex. Women of other cultures had been murdered for less. When it came to dire punishment, the women were always the victims. Men were allowed to go on exactly as before. Except for the Aborigines, who meted out punishments equally.

Whether he loved her or not, Steven’s marriage couldn’t be counted for nothing. It was his life. He had married Cecily in a whirlwind ceremony before he’d gone off to war. He’d told Cecily he had wanted to wait. They’d been living through such tumultuous times and he could very easily lose his life. But Cecily had become hysterical at the thought of not becoming his wife there and then. She’d wanted his children, and what was more, she had conceived on their brief honeymoon. Cecily was a cousin of his lifelong friend, Hugh Balfour. Hugh had introduced them, and then been best man at their wedding. The tragedy was that after the horror and brutality of war, Steven had come home a different man. So had Hugh, once so full of promise, now well on the way to self-destruction. “A full-blown alcoholic” Cecily scathingly labeled him. “Hugh can’t cut it as a civilian!” Cecily Bannerman, Moira had quickly learned, was extremely judgmental, like many who had lived only a life of ease and privilege.

But the tragedy hung over both families. She saw it clearly the first time Hugh had visited Mokhani after her arrival. Hugh idolized Steven. Steven in turn always welcomed his old friend, defending him even when Hugh’s own family had written him off. Hugh had been so charming to her, offering friendship, asking her all sorts of questions about herself and her family. He’d made every attempt to get to know her, he had even painted her. Many times. Until, strangely, Steven had put a stop to it. She couldn’t think about that now.

Moira plucked a long strand of her hair from her cheek. It glittered with drops of sweat. She had been so happy at first. Lost in the uniqueness of this exciting new world. This was real frontier country where nature in all its savage splendour dominated everything. A city girl, born and raised, she had grown to love this strange and violent place. It revealed itself to her every day, this paradise of the wilds. The space and the freedom! The absolute sense of grandeur. She loved the incredible landscape, saturated in Aboriginal myth and legend. The blood-red of the soil, the cobalt-blue of the sky. She looked up at it briefly. It started to spin above her.

They were heading up the escarpment, the track littered with rubble and orange rocks the size of a man’s fist. The promontory overlooked the most beautiful lagoon on the station, lily-edged Falling Waters. No crocodiles were thought to swim this far inland, though they had done so in the past. Nowadays it was argued that from numerous rock slides the neck of the canyon had become too narrow. Besides, it was a known drinking place for the great rainbow snake, owner of all water holes in the vast arid inland.

She could hear the falling of water now. It grew louder, sighing, hissing, splashing. From the track, the lagoon appeared like giant shards of glittering mirror lost in the thick grove of trees. White-trunked paperbarks and graceful red river gums adorned the water hole, the sun turning their gray-green leaves metallic.

She remembered the first time Steven had brought her to this magical place. The two of them alone. Her heart contracted at the memory, one she would cherish until the day she died: how with a tortured oath he had pulled her body close…how her lips had opened spontaneously under his…how his hand on her naked breast had made an indelible brand. She would remember the way he’d picked her up and laid her on the warm golden sand. She had given herself to him willingly, overtaken by a great tide of passion, her blood sizzling, as he played her virgin body, his hands so knowing, so masterly, in turn demanding and tender. One could surrender the world for such lovemaking. Hadn’t she? She had abandoned the tenets of her faith, honor, loyalty, cold reason. So many codes of conduct on the one hand. On the other?

Steven.

A world lost for love.

THEIR ARRIVAL ON THE PLATEAU, heralded by a miniature landslide of eroded earth and rocks, caused a huge congregation of waterfowl to rise from the glittering waters with a thunder of wings. They dismounted. Moira removed her wide-brimmed hat, shaking out her thick blond plait. Her body was soaked in sweat, not only from the heat and exertion. Dark forces were at play and she knew it. She had gone way beyond anxiety, moving toward acceptance. She followed her companion nearer the edge, acutely aware they were keeping their distance from one another as if a contagion were upon her.

The view from the top was sublime. There was nothing, nothing, like the vast burning landscape. The sacred land. It stretched away into infinity and beyond. She could see the length of the rocky, winding corridor of the gorge, the terraced walls glowing a rich, deep red with bands of black, rose-pink and ochre-yellow. The creek bed was little more than a chain of muddy water holes in the Dry, but the permanent lagoon, an extraordinary lime-green was very deep at the centre. There was an Aboriginal legend attached to it; the Aboriginals had a legend for everything. A beautiful young woman, called Narli, promised to a tribal elder, had drowned herself in the lagoon following the killing of her lover for having broken the tribal taboo. Narli’s spirit was said to haunt Falling Waters, luring young men to their deaths. There was danger in being young, beautiful and seductive, Moira reminded herself. Beauty inspired obsession. Obsession inspired violence.

Half fainting, she drew breath into her parched lungs. Her tongue was dry. It tasted of dust, making it difficult for her to swallow. She wondered what lay ahead, in part, knowing she had already surrendered. The air still quivered with fierce vibrations. Not by nature timid, she’d allowed herself to be brought low by shame and guilt. She had a sudden image of Steven and her deliriously locked together, his mouth over her, cutting off her ecstatic cries. In her defense it could be said she was incapable of withstanding him.

The waterfall tumbled a hundred feet or more to the pool below, sending up a sparkling mist of spray, as intoxicating as champagne. In the rains, she’d been told, the flow that today ran like a bolt of silver silk down the blackened granite turned into a spectacle of raw power, with a roar that could be heard from a great distance. At those times, the breadth of the falls widened dramatically as it thundered down the cliff face, tiered like an ancient ziggurat to drop countless tons of water into the lake. So augmented, the lagoon broke its banks, engulfing the floodplains with enormous sheets of water—which become huge swamps that were soon crocodile rich. People and cattle had to be moved to higher ground. Afterward, the earth responded with phenomenal abundance—lush green growth and an incredible profusion of wildflowers, native fruits and vegetables. She’d been so eager to witness that sight. Now she felt she never would.

There was no redeeming breeze. Nothing swayed. No petals of the wild hibiscus scattered. All was quiet save for the tumbling waters and the heavy thud, thud, thud of her heart. Even the birds that fed on the paperbarks and the flowering melaleuca trees—the honeyeaters, the gorgeous lorikeets and parrots—normally so restless, were strangely silent. Moira dared to look across at her companion, who could at that very moment be settling her fate. Despite all outward appearances of calm, violence simmered just below the surface. Violence generated by perhaps the most dangerous and deadly of sins.

Jealousy.

GOD HELP ME! MOIRA WAS BEYOND all thought of trying to escape. Escape to where? This land was hostile to those on the run. She hadn’t seen her parents in many months. The tears started to trickle down her cheeks as their dear, familiar faces swam into her mind. She loved them. Why had she never told them just how much? She should have stayed at home with them where she was safe. Instead, she had betrayed them. Betrayed herself. Betrayed Cecily, who had been kind to her in her fashion. She had inspired a devouring love that overwhelmed all else. In exchange, she had inherited consuming hate. She could feel that hate everywhere, even to the tips of her shaking fingers.

Moira lifted her unprotected face to the burning sun as if there were good reason to blind herself to what was coming. If she survived this, she would have to live with her sins for the rest of her life. It she didn’t…if she didn’t…

Hadn’t Sister Bartholomew, in what seemed another lifetime, said to her whenever she landed herself in trouble, “Moira, you have no one to blame but yourself!”

Slowly her companion turned away from the lip of the precipice, jaw set, grimacing into the sun. The distance between them dramatically narrowed. “I’ve been waiting for this, Moira,” came the chilling words.

What could she answer? Words died on her lips. There was no chance. None at all.

Moira’s knees buckled under her. She was tired. So tired. The matter had to be decided. She was guilty. She deserved what was coming to her. She sank to the ground, for one extraordinary second so disoriented she thought there was someone else besides her and her companion on the escarpment. If only she could turn around…

CHAPTER ONE

The Present

RETURNING FROM LUNCH—no fun at all, she loathed hurting people—Jessica found a note from Brett De Vere, her uncle, summoning her to a meeting in his office. It was probably about the Siegal place, she thought, carefully hanging up her new Gucci handbag. It had cost an arm and a leg. She felt a tiny spasm of guilt, but she had decided she must have it.

And why not? She was single. She had a great job, a challenging, exciting life. Swiftly she took a hairbrush from the bottom drawer of her desk and ran it briskly through her long blond hair, which was naturally curly but straightened at the moment. The action freed her a little from thoughts of the upsetting lunch with Sean, who really was a thoroughly nice guy, as wholesome as rolled oats. Most girls would be over the moon having a guy like Sean love them. The sad fact was he hadn’t found a way to her heart.

Jessica stowed her hairbrush away, then turned to stare out the huge picture window directly behind her desk. It offered a tranquil view of the quiet leafy street. It was the bluest day. A day to hold in the memory. She loved the location of their offices, the avenue of mature jacaranda trees that in November, six months away, broke out in blossom. At that time, the whole city of Brisbane became tinted with an exquisite lavender-blue no sooner spent than the great shade trees, the poincianas, turned the air rosy. She loved life in the subtropics. Not too hot. Perfect!

In the distance, the broad, deep river that wound through the city’s heart glittered in the afternoon sunlight. Nature stirred her, gave her strength. Comforted, she tried to work out what she was going to say to Brett. Her uncle, trained as an architect from whence, becoming bored, had branched out into interior design, had given her the commission. She was desperate to show him she measured up, but despite her best efforts, things weren’t going very well. She’d lavished a lot of time and effort on her designs for the Siegals’ resplendent new river-front home. But the Siegals were proving to be rather difficult clients. At least the wife, Chic, a fixture at charity functions, was. Couldn’t be her real name, Jessica suspected, though she stood by Mrs. Siegal’s decision to make one up. She must have considered Chic had impact. After all, she was only five-two standing fully erect.

But it was hell trying to deal with her. The fact that her husband was a multimillionaire might have had something to do with her endless waffling. De Vere’s Design Studio had a few millionaires on the books, but most of its clients staved off mini-heart attacks by having a firm budget in mind. Her uncle Brett was in his late forties and had reached the point in his career when he could handpick his clients. Such a shame, then, he’d let Chic Siegal through the door.

About ready to join her uncle, Jessica checked herself over in the long narrow wall mirror. The lime-green suit and the fuchsia-pink-and-lime camisole beneath it had cost a month’s pay, but Brett was a stickler for looking good, considering it was part of the job. He, himself, was polished perfection. In her entire life, Jessica had never seen her uncle slide into sloppiness. She winked at her reflection then walked down the corridor to his office, waggling her fingers at Becky, a senior designer, and stopping at her door. Becky’s desk was awash with swatches of gorgeous new fabrics she was tossing around with abandon. Turquoise, aquamarine, malachite. Jessica smiled. Malachite sounded much better than olive. As a schoolgirl hired for the holidays, Jessica had adored being in Becky’s office. She still did. The space was a veritable Aladdin’s cave.

Becky beamed back. “Love your suit, kid! Watcha pay for that?”

“Not telling.”

“We’re friends, aren’t we?” Becky, fifty for a few years now, in her youth powerfully pretty and still hanging in there, peered over the top of the glasses she had finally made the decision to wear.

“Sure. I just can’t get my tongue around the price tag.”

“Well, you look like a million dollars.” Becky gave her a thumbs-up.

“Thanks, Beck.”

Jessica resumed walking, smiling left and right at staff, eight in all, clever, creative people very loyal to the firm. She had joined De Vere’s Design Studio soon after completing her fine-arts degree with honors. As a result of her degree, she’d been offered a position at the Queensland art gallery, with good prospects for advancement, but she’d turned it down. A decision about which her eminent lawyer father, a pillar of society, a man who thought he had a perfect right to speak his mind at all times, had been most unhappy. “Working for your uncle is a very frivolous decision, Jessica. Your mother and I had high hopes for you, but our hopes don’t seem to mean anything to you.” Her father generally spoke with all the authority of the pope.

The fact that her stunningly handsome and gifted uncle was gay might have had something to do with it. Brett’s sexual orientation made quite a few people in the family a tad uncomfortable, but she had dealt with the issue by moving out of the family home into a nice two-bedroom apartment in a trendy inner-city neighbourhood. She was able to do so thanks to the nest egg that Nan, her beloved maternal grandmother—Brett’s mother, Alex—had left her. Jessica had been very close to Alex. In fact, her full name was Jessica Alexandra Tennant. Christening her Jessica had not been her mother’s decision. She had wanted the name Alexandra, after her own mother, for her newborn, but such was her deference to her husband that she had given in to Jessica after her baby’s strong-minded, paternal grandmother, a large imposing woman who wore so many layers of clothing that one never knew exactly what sort of body lay beneath. It was she who had descended on the young couple like a galleon in full sail, for frequent, unscheduled visits. Jessica’s mother had once confided to her daughter that the early days of her marriage had been like living in a police state.

Jessica had been devastated when her beloved nan, with never a complaint, had died of cancer when Jessica was eighteen. She knew Brett greatly missed his mother. Nan had offered that rare thing—unconditional love. Jessica’s formidable maternal grandfather, much like her own father, had great difficulty accepting Uncle Brett’s homosexuality, seeing it as a blot on the family escutcheon and a major hurdle in life. The hurdle part Jessica was forced to concede had come into play; she had seen it in action. But she loved and admired her uncle, and she got on famously with his partner of twenty years, both in business and in life, Tim Langford. Tim was a sweet man, exceptionally creative, with a prodigious, largely self-taught knowledge of antiques. Tim handled the antiques-and-decorative-objects side of the business.

Brett was working at his desk, smooth blond head bent over an architectural drawing, but when she tapped at his door, he looked up with his faintly twisted, rather heartbreaking smile. Very few people saw the full picture of Brett De Vere. “Hi! How did the lunch go?”

She took the seat opposite him. “Perfectly awful! Thanks for asking. At least it didn’t amount to a scene. Sean’s a really nice person, but I couldn’t let him go on thinking sooner or later we were bound for the altar. That wouldn’t have been fair to him. Besides, I like my independence.”

“How could you fall in love with someone like that, anyway?” Brett, who had never hit it off with Sean, asked. “He could never make you happy. He’s so damned ordinary.”

“Maybe, but it took me a while to see it.”

“At least you have,” Brett said dryly.

“Next time I’ll go for a Rhodes scholar,” she joked. “I’m not ready to settle down yet. I’m enjoying my life just the way it is.”

“Until the right guy comes along,” Brett murmured, sitting back and making a steeple of his long, elegant fingers. “Then you’ll change your mind. Have you managed to get that truly silly woman who never shuts up on side?”

“Ever so slowly,” she sighed. “The trouble with having too much money is it opens up too many options. Mrs. Siegal spends her time trolling through design magazines to the point she simply can’t decide whether she wants classical, traditional grandeur, lots of drama, ultramodern or a hybrid of the lot.”

“Give her pure theatre,” Brett advised. “The only trouble with that is De Vere’s puts its name to it. Maybe I should make an attempt to help her decide?”

Jessica looked at him. Her uncle was an elegant, austerely handsome man with fine features and an air of detachment. Extremely intelligent, he was inclined to be sharp-tongued, even caustic at times. His eyes were green. Like hers. His hair ash blond, again like hers. They shared the family face. Alex’s face. Alex’s coloring.

“Well?” he prompted breaking into her brief reverie.

“Why not? She fancies herself in love with you.” Indeed Brett’s air of unattainability drove some women wild.

“A lot of good that will do her,” he said with biting self-mockery.

“What I don’t get is they know you’re not interested, yet they fall in love with you all the same.”

“A bitter pill no woman worth her salt can swallow,” he returned. “It’s the Liz Taylor–Montgomery Clift syndrome. Women always want the man they can’t have.”

“Is that what it is?” Jessica swiveled a quarter turn in her black leather chair. “Be that as it may, at this point I need help.”

“Surely not the talented young woman short-listed for Best Contemporary Residential Project!” Brett raised a brow.

“It would be quite a coup to win it.”

“A coup, yes, but not beyond you. You’re good, Jass,” he said, giving his professional, uncompromised opinion. “I haven’t handed over a client who hasn’t been delighted with your services. In fact, I could say with some confidence that my mantle, when I go to the angels, will fall on you. You’re developing a following with your watercolor renderings of our clients’ favourite rooms. They love them. Single-handedly you’re reviving the old genre. Oh, and remember it was my idea.”

“Don’t I always give you credit?”

“Of course you do.”

It was Brett who had encouraged Jessica to turn her hobby of painting interiors in watercolors, an art project carried on from her student days, into a lucrative sideline. For the past year, she’d worked very successfully on half a dozen commissions, along with the major commission of designing the stage sets for the Bijou Theatre’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Maybe one day she would follow her uncle into designing stage and movie sets.

“Is that what you wanted to speak to me about, the Siegals?” she asked.

“That was the second thing. First—” Brett ruffled through his papers again, this time finding a long fax “—what do you know about Broderick Bannerman?”

“Bannerman…Bannerman…rings a bell.” Jessica sorted through her memory bank. “Hang on. Don’t tell me.” She held up a hand. “He’s the cattle baron, right? Flagship station, one of a chain, by name of something starting with an M…M…M…Mokhani, that’s it. Bannerman always figures in the Bulletin’s Rich List.”

“The very one.” Brett looked at her with approval. He leaned forward to hand over the fax, murmuring something complimentary about her powers of recall. “And he remembers you! He saw that interview on TV with the ubiquitous Bruce Hilton when he so easily could have missed it. That was just after you’d been short-listed for your award. Apparently he was so impressed he wants you to handle the interior design for his new temple in the wilds—‘temple’ is how some magazine described it. Lord knows what’s wrong with the original homestead. I’m sure I read somewhere it was magnificent, or at the very worst, eminently livable.”

Jessica, busy concentrating on the contents of the fax, lifted her head in amazement. “I don’t get this. With all the established interior designers in the country, let alone you, purely on the basis of the proverbial fifteen minutes of fame on a talk show, he’s singled out little ol’ me with scant history in the business and only twenty-four?”

“It would appear so,” Brett replied blandly. “Obviously he’s a man who can sum up someone on the spot. Remember, you’re a sophisticated twenty-four with natural gifts.”

“How could he want me when he could have you?” Jessica asked in some wonderment.

“How sweet you are, Jass.” Brett smiled. “In addition, you’re respectful. Look, just believe in yourself. Take risks. I’ve taught you everything you know. Between you and me and the paper bin, I’m the best in the business. If I tell you you’re ready, you’re ready. I’m thrilled he wants De Vere’s. I’m thrilled he wants you. For one thing, I love you, for another, there’s no way I’m heading off for the Northern Territory. The great Outback isn’t my scene, splendid though it is. Parts of it are downright eerie. Tim and I were quite spooked on our trip to the Red Centre. Wandering around the Olgas was a thoroughly unnerving experience. I could have sworn we were being watched by guardian spirits none too happy we were invading their territory. It was an extraordinary feeling and I’m told it’s not that unusual.”

“Well, it is sacred ground,” Jessica commented, having heard numerous tales about the Outback’s mystical ability to raise the hairs on the back of one’s neck. “‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’” she quoted. “Getting back to the cattle baron, or should I say, king? Did you know Nicole Kidman is a descendant of Sir Sydney Kidman, the original Cattle King?”

“Few of us have your mastery of trivia, Jass. No, I didn’t. Neither of them short of a bob.”

“Unlike us, Nicole has a wonderfully supportive family,” Jessica said. “Do you really think I’m ready for a project of this size?” she asked very seriously. The word had got around she was good, but she never thought an immensely rich Territorian would seek her services. Not for years and years.

Brett interlocked his hands behind his head, stretching his long, lean torso. “Are you doubting yourself?”

“I’m doing my best not to, but as I recall, Mr. Bannerman has a reputation for being ruthless. Who knows? Some of my designs mightn’t suit him. He could turn nasty. I read an article about him a year or two ago. A lot of people interviewed weren’t very fond of him, though most wisely insisted on having their names withheld. Word was, he did terrible things to them in business. His cattle stations represent only a fraction of Bannerman holdings. He’s into everything.”

“Don’t let that worry you. As long as he’s not into drugs. Then we’d have a problem.” Brett straightened, shoving a file across the table. “On the plus side, he makes large donations to charity. Might help with his tax, but apparently he wants to, so he can’t be all bad. He owns Lowanna Resort Island on the Great Barrier Reef. High-rise apartment blocks on the Gold Coast and the tourist strip in North Queensland, mining and exploration developments, foreign investments. He’s loaded.”

“Excessively rich clients are a pain in the neck,” Jessica said from very recent experience. “We must consider he might be even more impossible to work with than Chic Siegal.”

“Surely you’re not going to turn the commission down.” Brett shifted position, apparently trying, ineffectually, to make himself comfortable in his antique captain’s chair.

“I have no intention of turning it down. I want lots and lots of commissions. Still, before I sign up, there’s the small matter of crocodiles. They insist on getting their long snouts into the news.” In a recent event on a remote beach in far North Queensland, one had waddled up from the water, crossed the sand and entered a camper’s tent, dragging him out. All that had saved the hapless man was the incredibly brave action of a fellow camper, a grandmother in her sixties, who without hesitation had jumped on the crocodile’s back, then another camper had shot it.

Brett grimaced. “It was a remote beach. One must treat crocodiles with respect like the Territorians do. We talk about their crocs. They talk about our traffic accidents. I don’t imagine Bannerman has given crocs an open invitation to waddle around the station, anyway. Just think what could happen.”

“You don’t have to look so ghoulish. Speaking of which there was a big mystery on Mokhani many years ago.” Jessica frowned, dredging her memory for more information. “Surely it’s been the subject of articles over the years?”

“‘The Mokhani Mystery,’ as it came to be called,” Brett said, having read a few of the articles.

“Didn’t a governess disappear?”

“So she did,” Brett said briskly, apparently not really wanting to talk about the old story. “It made front-page news at the time. But for years now everything about it’s been quiet, though I’m surprised someone hasn’t written a book about it. Horrible business, but not recent. It must be all of fifty years ago. Which reminds me my big five-oh is coming. Aging is not fun.”

“Don’t take it to heart. You’ve never looked better.” Jessica was sincere. “Anyway, you can always do what Becky does. Birthday every three years like the elections.”

“Women can get away with these things. What’s the old saying? ‘If a woman tells you her age, she’ll tell you anything.’ I look after myself and I don’t smoke. At least not for years now. Couldn’t do without my wine cellar, but wine in moderation is good for you. I’ll be very angry if the medical profession suddenly disputes it. But back to Bannerman. You can be sure he’s put up plenty of signs warning visitors about nomadic crocodiles.”

“You think a crocodile may have taken the governess?” Jessica asked with some horror.

“How can one not hate them?” Brett shuddered. “Poor little soul. I can just see her picnicking without a care in the world beside a lagoon and up pops a prehistoric monster. There have been a few cases of that in North Queensland in recent times.”

“More likely in one particular case the husband pushed her into the lagoon,” Jessica offered darkly, having come to that conclusion along with a lot of other people, including the investigating police officer, who just couldn’t prove it. “I can’t believe you’re sending me up there.”

“Sweetie, you’re at no risk.” Brett took her seriously when she was only teasing. “I’ll be very surprised if you even lay eyes on a crocodile. I understand the station is a good way inland.”

“I hope so, but I’m sure I’ve read it’s within striking distance of Kakadu National Park, World Heritage area, reputed to be fabulous and home of the crocodile.”

“I’m quite sure you’ll be safe. The very last thing in the world I want is to have my favourite niece vanish into the wilderness. I love you dearly.”

“I love you, too,” Jessica answered. She resumed reading the fax. “He’d like me to be in Darwin by Monday, the twenty-second where I’ll be picked up at Darwin airport and taken to the station. The twenty-second! That’s two weeks away.” Her green eyes widened.

“I know. Doesn’t leave you much time.” Brett gazed past her linen-clad shoulder, a smile transforming the severity of his handsome features. “Not more junk, Tim?” he drawled. “You’re hooked on it.”

Jessica swiveled around, a big, welcoming smile on her face. “Hi, Timmy. How did it go in Sydney?” Her eyes settled with considerable curiousity on a large canvas he was carrying beneath his arm. “What have you got there?”

“My dears, you’ll never believe!” Tim, thick black hair, deep dark eyes, extraordinarily youthful-looking and dressed casually in T-shirt and jeans, staggered through the open doorway.

“We don’t need any more paintings, Tim dear,” Brett warned.

“You’re going to love this one,” Tim promised, his voice reflecting his excitement. “I had one hell of a battle to get it. Some crazy old bat I swear was in costume was after it. No manners whatsoever. We nearly had a fistfight right there on the floor of Christie’s.”

“If you’ve bought some bloody flower painting, I’ll kill you,” Brett said. Tim had excellent taste but he did overly favor flower paintings.

“Voilà!” Tim rested the painting against the wall of built-in cabinets, gesturing as if at a masterpiece.

There was total silence.

Then a stunned. “My God!” blurted out from Brett.

“Where in the world did you get this?” Jessica was equally transfixed.

“I told you. Christie’s auction.” Tim whipped a satisfied grin over both their stunned faces.

“That’s one of the most haunting paintings I’ve ever seen,” Brett murmured, standing up the better to examine it. “The girl could be Jass.”

“Now you know why I wanted it.” Tim suddenly slumped into a chair as though his legs were giving out. “It made my hair stand on end.”

“So everyone has a double, after all,” Brett muttered. “What can you tell us about this? What’s the provenance?”

“I took a chance on this one,” Tim admitted, addressing his partner, the dominant of the two. Both men were devoted to each other, though Brett had strayed a few times over the years, causing much suffering. Tim brimmed over with charm and good humor, far more comfortable in his own skin than the at-war-with-himself Brett.

“No one knows anything about the artist. It’s signed in a fashion in the lower right-hand corner—H.B. It came in on consignment with a batch of paintings by established artists. There was comment about its beauty, but the serious collectors only buy names. The old girl I’m talking about was after it, I can tell you that. She even offered me far more than I paid for it.”

“It’s beautifully painted,” Jessica observed, making her own close inspection. “Perhaps the artist was in love with her. It has a decidedly erotic quality, don’t you think? I wonder who she was?”

“No date on it?” Brett asked.

“Nothing. From how she’s dressed I’d say late fourties, early fifties.” Jessica, who had studied fashion through the ages, remarked. “She’s very young. Seventeen, eighteen?”

“It’s a particularly fine example of color and light,” Brett said. He had excellent critical judgment. For some inexplicable reason he wasn’t comfortable with the sudden appearance of this remarkable painting. The work struck him as decidedly odd.

“Notice the background,” Jessica was saying. “It’s fairly loose. No clear outlines, but I’d say it’s definitely the great outdoors. Not a suburban garden. The long, curly blond hair is marvelous. So are the green eyes staring right at you. It’s quite powerful, actually. Sort of mesmeric. Don’t you feel that?” She looked back at the two men.

Brett nodded, turning to Tim. “How much did this set us back?”

“Twenty thousand,” Tim said, looking like he was about to get up and run.

“Wh-a-t?” Brett snapped. “An unknown artist?”

“But plenty of panache! That old girl knew him. Or of him,” Tim said defensively. “I’m sure of it. Besides I couldn’t let it go anywhere else. It belongs here.” His dark eyes appealed to Jessica. “She, the girl in the portrait, wanted me to buy it. She moved me to do it. You understand that, Jass. You’re so sensitive. For all we know, she could be a relation.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We know all the relations, more’s the pity,” Brett said acidly, giving his partner a sharp look.

“Well, we all agree Jessica is extraordinarily like her.”

“Proving as I said, we all have a doppelgänger, nothing else. Next time you go off to these auctions I’m coming with you.”

“I’d love that.” Tim grinned.

“Actually, we could put it up in a prominent place in the showroom.” Brett was starting to come round. “It’ll certainly generate discussion.”

“I thought that, too,” Tim was suddenly all smiles. “Besides, what’s twenty thousand? You’ve got plenty.”

“That’s because I spend little time at auctions,” Brett said dryly, returning to his desk. “By the way, I can’t come to terms with this chair. It looks good, but it’s not kind to my tailbone. Find me something else, will you, Tim?”

“Sure. I’d remind you that I did say it wouldn’t be all that comfortable, except you don’t like being reminded.”

“Thank you for that.” Brett lowered his long, lean length into the mahogany chair. “Now, you’ve shown us your big surprise. Hopeless to top that, nevertheless we’ll try. We’ve got a surprise for you.”

“Do tell.” Tim slipped Jessica something he’d taken out of his pocket.

“What is it?”

“Just a little prezzie.” Tim smiled at her.

“If you’d be so good.” Brett raised a supercilious eyebrow, then continued. “Broderick Bannerman, the cattle baron. Hails from the Northern Territory—”

“How absolutely thrilling!” Tim broke in enthusiastically. “I know the name.”

“It gets better. He’s offered De Vere’s a huge commission. Specifically he wants Jass to handle the entire interior design for his new Outback temple.”

Tim’s expression turned to one of amazement. He stared from one to the other. “You’re making this up, aren’t you?”

“No, Tim, we’re not,” Brett replied, somewhat testily this time. “Hand him the fax, would you, Jass. Bannerman saw her interview with Bruce Hilton and was so impressed he shot off that little lot.”

Tim scanned the fax quickly, then looked up. “Good grief, I’m blown away. So is she going? It’s a big job.”

“One never knows what one is capable of until one tries,” said Brett. “Of course she’s going. There’s plenty we can do to help and advise. It’s a huge commission. There’s bound to be good coverage and flow-ons for us.”

Tim’s brow furrowed. “Are you comfortable about sending Jessica by herself? She’s our baby. Now I think about it, wasn’t there some murder up there? Passed into Outback folklore? Remember, we found the Outback one scary place.”

“Hell, Tim, don’t say that to anyone else,” Brett begged. “What would people think?”

“Who cares what people think?” Tim said. “On the other hand people might agree if they’d been there. Those Olgas, they were fantastic, if kinda forbidding.”

“Look—” Brett tried to be patient “—forget the Olgas, okay? Incidentally, they’ve been renamed Kata Tjuta. A governess disappeared. A tragedy certainly, but no murder. An accident befell her some fifty years ago, but alas there was no body. Bannerman is perfectly respectable. He’s one of the richest, most influential men in the country. He’s not a drug lord. I’m certain Jass will be safe. I’d never let her go if I thought otherwise. She’s young for such a big commission, but that shouldn’t be a deterrent. She’s genuinely gifted and she’ll have plenty of backup. If for some reason Bannerman turns out to be straight out of a Stephen King novel, she can come home.”

“You want to do this, Jessica?” Tim still looked unsettled.

“Hey, of course I do.” She shook his arm. “I’ll be able to brag about it for the rest of my days. Don’t worry, Timmy. It should be quite an adventure.” She started to unwrap his little present. “Ooh, earrings. Aren’t they lovely?” She leaned over and kissed him. “Victorian.”

He nodded. “I knew you’d like them. I picked them up at Maggie Reeves. She has some really nice stuff.”

“You spoil her,” Brett said, sitting forward to look.

“You should talk!” Tim shot back.

“I’m her uncle.”

“And I’m her honorary uncle.”

“Stop, you two. These are lovely, Timmy. Thank you.” Jessica was delighted with the gift—drop earrings, peridots set in gold. She had a jewelery box filled with the little gifts Tim had given her since she was a child. Bracelets, gold chains, pretty pendants, a crystal-encrusted sea horse that she still loved and wore as a pin. “They’ll go beautifully with that vintage dress of mine. The green chiffon.” Sometimes she felt very sad that neither her uncle nor Tim would have children. They were loving, caring people. They had been wonderful to her.

“My pleasure, love.” Tim smiled, picking up Bannerman’s fax again. “They reckon there’s a dark side to this Bannerman?”

“Tim, dear, there’s a dark side to us all,” Brett responded. “Not even you are nice all the time. If you’re concerned, maybe you can fly up with Jass.”

“Both of us? I would go, but I’m sure they don’t want me.”

“Not to mention how having a babysitter would make me look,” Jessica protested. “What else do we know about this man?”

“Well—” Brett drew another piece of paper, hitherto unseen, from the pile on his desk “—he has a son, Cyrus. His mother was the heiress, Deborah Masters. Masters Electronics.”

“You said was? She’s dead?” Jessica inserted one of the earrings in her right earlobe, remembering Tim had gone along with her for support when she’d had her ears pierced a few years back and had been a little fearful of needles.

“A riding accident,” Brett informed them. “That was in the early 1990s. Bannerman remarried. A woman with a child of her own. A daughter, Robyn. Neither wife was particularly lucky. The second suffered from some rare syndrome—I don’t know exactly what. She died two years ago.”

“How very bizarre,” muttered Tim, trying to grapple with all this. “It’s right up there with the Olgas.”

“Don’t be silly, Tim.” Sternly, Brett held his partner’s gaze. “Tragedies happen.”

“Indeed they do. But Bannerman could be looking for a new wife. He could fall in love with Jessica on sight.”

Jessica laughed, but Brett blustered testily, “God almighty, Tim! I think you’re losing it. Bannerman has to be nearing sixty.”

“That’s not a good answer.” Tim resolutely dug in. “He could live for years and years. Aging men often turn to young women. Especially rich old men.”

“He’s hardly an old man,” Brett said caustically. “You’re nearly fifty.”

“Forty-eight, thank you. Same as you. Keep it up and you’ll really hurt my feelings.”

“Stop it, you two,” Jessica intervened again. “I’m not in the running for Wife Number Three.” She took Tim’s hand in hers. “Broderick Bannerman is old enough to be my father. Grandfather, if he were exceptionally precocious.”

“For all we know, temptation could be overwhelming in the Outback,” Tim said. “There’s a real shortage of women. Besides, men never get falling in love with the young and beautiful out of their system,” he warned. “I know I sound overanxious, but there’s something a little odd here, Jass. You know how intuitive I am. No matter how gifted you are, you’re young and inexperienced. I know you’ve won that nomination and you deserve to carry off the prize, but why not Brett, for instance? He’s a colossus in the industry. Well, he thinks so.”

“I know so.” Brett was pleased to see Jessica elbow Tim hard. “For God’s sake, Tim, what are you on about?” Brett was irritated that some of Tim’s concern was starting to rub off on him.

“I’m not sure.” Tim shook his head. “I live by my intuitions.”

“And your intuitions tell you Bannerman has an ulterior motive in choosing Jessica?”

“Amazing, but true. I should join a training class for psychics. Seriously, I just had to get it off my chest. I don’t actually know why.”

“Then why are you trying to put us off?”

“I’m not,” Tim protested. “I’m only trying to say Bannerman mightn’t be quite the man he seems. Sounds to me like he’s been struck by lightning.”

“Lightning!” Brett said irritably. “How you give yourself over to the sensational!”

“Sensational?” Tim protested. “Men have been making complete asses of themselves over young women since forever. Besides, what man ever thinks he’s too old?”

“Look, Timmy, I’ve dreamed about doing something like this.” Jessica sought to calm Tim down. “You know you tend to worry about me too much.”

“True.” Tim’s face broke out in his easy smile again. “I wouldn’t mind if you were working within shouting distance, or even Sydney. But the Northern Territory! Hell, you might as well be rocketing off to Mars.”

“Tim, dear, stop talking,” Brett advised. “It’s all fevered nonsense, anyway. Jass wants the job. I want her to have it. It’ll be a considerable step up the ladder. If the slightest thing happens to cause her concern, she’s to drop everything and come home.”

“Hear that, sweetheart? You get on the phone right away. I’ll be there like a shot. I wonder what the son’s like?” Tim asked speculatively, then answered his own question. “Probably a dead ringer for his godawful father.”

“Okay, enough’s enough!” Brett lunged to his feet. “Where are we going to hang this painting?”

“Maybe above the console in the entrance,” Jessica suggested, giving the painting a tender, welcoming look for its own sake and not because the subject bore an uncanny resemblance to her. “She’ll be right at home there.”

CHAPTER TWO

FROM THE TOP OF THE ESCARPMENT, Cy had a near aerial view of the valley floor, semidesert in the Dry except for the ubiquitous spinifex and the amazing array of drought-resistant shrubs, grasses and succulents that provided fodder for Mokhani’s great herd, one of the biggest in the nation and thus the world. Today, four of his men were working flat out to round up of some forty marauding brumbies that were fast eating out the vegetation they desperately needed for the cattle until the blessing of rain. The wild horses had to be moved on. Not only that, two of the station mares were running with the mob, seduced by the leader, a powerful white stallion the men had christened Snowy. Snowy was too nice a name for a rogue, Cy figured. More like Lucifer before the fall. The stallion was so clever, it had long evaded capture, though Cy doubted the wild horse could ever be broken. He’d been close up to Snowy when they’d both been boxed into the canyon, so he knew he was dealing with a potential killer. There were few station pursuits as dangerous as trying to cut off a wild horse from its precious freedom. Ted Leeuwin, the station overseer, had lived to tell the tale of his encounter with Snowy. Just as Ted had been attempting to rope the stallion, it had closed in, terrifying Ted’s gelding before biting Ted on the shoulder. Not once but several times. Vicious hard bites that forced Ted, as tough as old boots, to give up.

Cy was aware of his own excitement as whoops like war cries resounded across the valley. He knew the thrill of the chase. The men were right on target to herd the wild horses into the gorge. Two of the station hands were on motorbikes; jumping rocks and gullies with abandon, another two were on horseback. He’d put one of the station helicopters in the air to flush the brumbies out and guide the men.

He’d have to leave them to it. His father, known as B.B. wanted him to fly to Darwin to pick up the interior designer, Ms. Jessica Tennant if you please, he was hell-bent on hiring. As usual, they’d argued about it. Any suggestion that amounted to a differing opinion caused his father rage. B.B. wasn’t a man to listen. Not to his only son, anyway. Often after such arguments, his father hadn’t spoken to him for long periods, by way of punishment. But punishment for what? There could be a hundred things, and Cy had narrowed it down to two: for daring to cross a living legend and for being alive when his mother wasn’t. He understood his father loved him at some subterranean level, but the very last thing B.B. would do was show it. Needless to say, they weren’t close, but they were blood. That counted.

As far as this latest development went, his father had taken them all by surprise. What would a young woman of twenty-four be expected to know about furnishing from scratch what was virtually a palace? For that matter, what was wrong with the old homestead even if Livvy, his great-aunt, claimed it was haunted? He was sick to death of it all. The old story distressed him. He’d grown up with it, had been taunted about it in his schooldays. Poor tragic Moira, the governess, had most probably been taken by a croc or she had fallen, her body wedged into some rocky crevice in a deeply wooded canyon, never to be found. God knows it happened. People going missing wasn’t exactly a rare occurrence in the Outback. So why had journalists over the years continued to rake up the old story, when all the family wanted was to bury it? No one had ever been able to unearth any proof as to what had happened to her that fatal day.

His mind returned to Jessica Tennant. She might work for a top design studio, but surely there were many people more experienced and more qualified in that firm to do the job? He couldn’t figure it out. B.B., who only dealt with the top people, never underlings, a man renowned for always making smart moves, had done something totally un-smart. He had hired a mere beginner to take charge of a huge project.

“She’s coming here, Cyrus. I’m still making the decisions around here. As for you, Robyn—” B.B. had turned to his stepdaughter “—I don’t want to hear one unpleasant word pass your lips when she’s here. Is that understood?”

In that case, Robyn had better take a crash course on manners, Cyrus thought. For a moment he almost felt sorry for Ms. Tennant. She would be living in the same house as a very dysfunctional family. Perhaps not for long, though. Cy could still hope Ms. Tennant might decide the project was beyond her. There was no way, however, to avoid meeting her. He’d agreed to pick her up because he had business in Darwin, anyway. Otherwise, he’d have said he was far too busy, which not even B.B. could dispute. These days he ran Mokhani while regularly overseeing the other stations in the Bannerman chain. Unlike everyone else directly under B.B.’s control, he didn’t toe the line unless there was substantial reason to. He had to accept his father was different. Never relaxed, never friendly, as though in doing so he would diminish his aura. The older he got, the more controlling B.B. became. Cy couldn’t remember a time when he and his father had been in accord. Not even in childhood. The precious days when his mother, Deborah, had been alive. A few years back, after a particularly bad clash, he had stormed off, thinking his absence would solve the problem of their angst-laden relationship. In the process, he’d realized he could be throwing away his chance of inheritance. But what the hell! He had to be his own man, not the yes-man his father wanted. The sad fact was that B.B. liked grinding people into the ground. He had treated Robyn’s mother, Sharon, like the village idiot. His own mother, who had won the love and admiration of everyone around her, had apparently been highly successful at standing up to her autocratic husband—a man given to unpredictable bouts of black moods—but a riding accident had claimed her when Cy was ten and away at boarding school. A riding accident, when she’d been a wonderful horsewoman. Cy was constantly struck by the great ironies of life.

On that last bid for freedom he’d been gone only a couple of months when his father had come after him. It’d been a huge backing down for B.B., who’d come as close to begging as that man ever could. After he’d had a chance to cool down, B.B. had seen the wisdom of not letting him go. For one thing, for B.B. to deny his own son would go down very badly in the Outback. Even he, Outback legend though he was, was afraid of that. And for another, B.B. knew that Cy was not only the rightful heir to the Bannerman empire, but he was needed. Cy’s skills had been tested and proven. Many thought him the man of the future, serious, influential people who for years had muttered about B.B. and his ruthless practices. Things could be done right without throwing honesty and justice aside.

The conniving Robyn, though she was an excellent businesswoman and owned a very successful art gallery and a couple of boutiques in Darwin, couldn’t hope to replace him. Though she’d try. Robyn wasn’t a Bannerman, though she bore the name and fully took advantage of its clout. Robyn had a real father around someplace, but no one had heard of him for years. She was a year younger than Cy. She and Sharon had come to Mokhani two years after his own mother’s death. Sharon had been sweet and kind. Robyn was anything but, though she trod very carefully around B.B. It was no big secret to insiders that Robyn’s greatest ambition was to somehow usurp Cy and inherit Mokhani. He, the heir apparent, was the only obstacle in the way. Once, a good friend of his, Ross Sunderland, looking uneasily at Robyn, had suggested he watch his back. “Robyn likes shooting things, Cy,” he’d said.

Cy had responded with a practiced laugh. The reality was he’d been watching his back for years. Right from the beginning, Robyn had been a strange one. Cy had divined even as a boy that in Robyn he had an unscrupulous rival.

But for once, he and Robyn had joined forces against B.B.’s decision to hire Ms. Tennant. His decision had been based on Jessica Tennant’s age and inexperience, not her gender; his own mother, after all, had been a very creative woman. But Robyn was violently opposed to the idea of having another woman do the job she’d tried to convince B.B. she could do. She had reacted with the bitterest resentment not even bothering to conceal her hostility from B.B. A big mistake.

“Be careful, Robyn. Be careful.” B.B. had turned on her coldly. “I have hired this young woman. I don’t want second best.”

Finality in action.

THEY WERE MAKING their descent into Darwin airport when the slightly tipsy nuclear physicist beside Jessica leaned into her to confide, “We’re landing.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Darwin airport has one of the longest runways in the southern hemisphere.”

“Really? I’m not surprised to hear that.” She kept staring out the porthole. The guy had been hitting on her in an in-offensive way ever since they’d left Brisbane. At one point she’d even toyed with the idea of asking the flight attendant to move her, but the plane was full. In a few minutes she’d be able to make her getaway from Mr. Intelligence.

It was not to be. He followed her every step of the way into the terminal, making like an overzealous tour guide, pointing out areas already clearly marked. He topped it all off by offering to give her a lift to wherever she wanted to go.

“Thanks all the same, but I’m being picked up.”

“You never said that.” He turned to her with such an aggrieved look the image of Sean floated into her mind.

“No reason to,” she smiled. “Bye now.” If her luck held…

It didn’t. “At least I can help you with your luggage.”

Drat the guy! He was as hard to brush off as a bad case of dandruff.

“So what say we meet up for a drink sometime?” he suggested. “I live here. I can show you all the sights.”

“That’s kind of you, but I’ll be pretty busy.”

“Doin’ what?” He looked at her as though she were playing hard to get.

Irritation was escalating into her as much as the heat would allow when she suddenly caught sight of a stunning-looking guy, head and shoulders over the rest, maybe twenty-eight or thirty, striding purposely toward her.

It was to her, wasn’t it? She’d hate him to change his mind. What’s more, the milling crowd fell back as though to ease his path. How many men could carry that off?

“For cryin’ out loud, you know Bannerman?” Her companion did a double take, his gravelly drawl soaring toward falsetto.

Bannerman wasn’t Count Dracula surely? She nodded.

“He’s a friend?”

This was starting to belong in the too-hard basket. “He’s meeting me,” Jessica said.

“Well, I’m movin’ outta here.” Her annoying companion, a full six feet, all but reeled away. “I wouldn’t want to get in that guy’s way. Good luck!”

Jessica held her breath. So this is Cyrus Bannerman, she thought tracking his every movement. This was as good as it gets. The fact that he was so striking in appearance didn’t come as a surprise. Broderick Bannerman was an impressive-looking man—she’d seen numerous photos. Obviously good looks ran in the family. What she hadn’t been expecting was the charisma, the air of authority, that appeared entirely natural. Obviously Cyrus Bannerman was ready to take over his father’s mantle when many a son with a tycoon for a father finished up with a personality disorder. Not the case here, unless that palpable presence turned out to be a facade.

He was very tall, maybe six-three, with a great physique. The loose-limbed, long-legged stride was so graceful it was near mesmerizing. It put her in mind of the sensuous lope of a famous Pakistani cricketer she’d had a crush on as a child. Bannerman, as well he might be, given his lifestyle, was deeply tanned. In fact, he made everyone else’s tan look positively washed out. He had thick, jet-black hair, strong distinctive features, his eyes even at a distance the bluest she had ever seen. “Sapphires set in a bronze mask,” the romantically inclined might phrase it, and they’d be spot on. She knew instinctively she had better impress this guy with her professional demeanor. No contract had been signed as yet.

“Ms. Tennant?” Cyrus, for his part, saw a young woman, physically highly desirable, with a lovely full mouth and a mane of ash-blond hair springing into a riot of curls in the humid heat. Her tallish, slender body was relaxed. She had beautiful clear skin. Her large green eyes watched him coolly. Young she might be, but there was nothing diffident about her. She looked confident, clever, sizing him up as indeed he was sizing her up. They could have been business opponents facing each other across a boardroom table for the first time.

“Please, Jessica,” she said. Her voice matched her appearance, cool, confident, ever so slightly challenging.

“Cyrus Bannerman. I usually get Cy.”

“Then Cy it is.” Though every instinct shrieked a warning, she offered him her hand. It was taken in a firm, cool grip. Jessica let out her breath slowly, disconcerted by the thrill of skin on skin. “How nice of you to meet me.”

“No problem. I had business in Darwin.” The startling blue eyes continued to study her. She had already grasped the fact that, despite the smoothness of manner, he hadn’t taken to her. Was it wariness in his eyes? A trace of suspicion? More the pity! Anyone would think she had coerced his father into hiring her. Not that it mattered. She didn’t altogether like him. She did, however, like the look of him. A teeny distinction.

Baggage was already tumbling onto the carousel. He looked toward it. “If you’ll point out what’s yours, I’ll collect it. I’d like to get away as soon as possible. We’re going by helicopter. Hope that’s okay with you. You’re assured of a great view.”

So much for the big dusty Land Cruiser complete with a set of buffalo horns she’d been expecting.

THEY LIFTED OFF, climbing, climbing, into the blue June sky, climbing, climbing. Jessica tried to stay cool even though her heart was racing. This was a far cry from traveling in a Boeing 747. Outside the bubble of the cockpit, a mighty panorama opened up. Jessica caught the gasp in her throat before it escaped. Below them was the harbor. The immensity of it amazed her. She hadn’t been expecting that. Aquamarine on one arm of the rocky peninsula, glittering turquoise on the other. She knew from her history books that Darwin Harbour had seen more drama than any other harbor in Australia. The Japanese Imperial Air Force had bombed it during World War II turning the harbor into an inferno. Every ship, more than forty, including the U.S. destroyer Peary that had arrived that very morning, had been destroyed before the invaders had turned their attention to the small township itself, standing vulnerable on the rocky cliffs above the port. The invasion of Darwin had always been played down for some unknown reason. The town had been devastated again by Cyclone Tracy, Christmas Day 1974. Even her hometown of Brisbane, over a thousand miles away, had suffered the effects of that catastrophic force of nature.

Today, all was peace and calm. Jessica’s first impression was that Darwin was an exotic destination. A truly tropical city, surrounded by water on three sides, and so far as she could see the most multicultural city in the country. The Top End, as the northern coast of Australia was right on the doorstep of Southeast Asia, and there was a lot of traffic between the two. She was really looking forward to exploring the city when she had time. The art galleries, she’d heard, particularly the galleries that featured the paintings of the leading Aboriginal artists were well worth the visit.

The helicopter trip was turning into probably the most exciting trip of her life. As they banked and turned inland—Mokhani was a little over 140 kilometers to the southeast—just as Cyrus Bannerman had promised, she had a fantastic view of the ancient landscape. Such empty vastness! So few people! She’d read recently, when she’d been researching all she could about Broderick Bannerman, that although the Northern Territory was twice the size of Texas, it had one percent of the population. She’d also read that the population of Darwin was less than eighty thousand, while the Territory covered over two million square kilometers, most of which lay within the tropics. The Red Centre, fifteen-hundred kilometers south of Darwin and another great tourist mecca, was the home of the continent’s desert icons, the monolith of Uluru and the fantastic domes and minarets of Kata Tjuta, which had thrown such a scare into Brett and Tim. She realized in some surprise she knew more about overseas destinations, London, Paris, Rome, Vienna, New York on her last fabulous trip, than she did about the Top End and the vast interior of her own country.

That was about to change. She watched the rolling savannas and the vivid, vigorous pockets of rain forest give way to infinite flat plains, the floor of which was decorated with golden, dome-shaped grasses she knew were the ubiquitous spinifex that covered most of the Outback. The great glowing mounds made an extraordinary contrast to the fiery orange-red of the earth, and the amazing standing formations, she realized, were termite mounds. From the air, they looked for all the world like an army on the march.

Silvery streams of air floated beneath them like giant cushions. At one point, they flew low over a herd of wild brumbies, long tails and manes flowing as they galloped across the rough terrain. It was such a stirring sight, the breath caught in her throat. She wouldn’t have missed this for the world.

“Camels dead ahead.” Bannerman pointed. A very elegant hand, well-shaped, the artistic Jessica noticed. Hands were important to her. “Very intelligent animals.” Despite himself, Cy was mollified by her high level of response to the land for which he had such a passion. She was young enough to be excited, and that excitement was palpable, indeed infectious. His own blood was coursing more swiftly in response. She didn’t appear in the least nervous even when he put the chopper through its paces, whizzing down low. There was much more ahead for her to enjoy. Falling Waters, a landmark on Mokhani, looked spectacular from the air. He planned a low pass over the gorge. It would allow her to see the wonderful, ever-changing colors in the cliff walls.

THE FLIGHT INSIDE the magnificent canyon, carved by countless centuries of floodwaters, was the ultimate thrill. Here below her was a verdant oasis in the middle of the desert. The colors in the cliff walls were astonishing. All the dry ochers were there, pinks, cream, yellow, orange, fiery cinnabar, purples, thick veins of brown and black and white. She felt a strong urge to try to paint them. Tier upon tier like some ancient pyramid was reflected perfectly in the mirrorlike surface of the lagoon. To either side lay broken chains of deep dark pools, but it was the main lagoon with its flotilla of pink water lilies that held the eye. It directly received the sparkling waterfall that cascaded from the plateau-like summit of the escarpment, littered with giant, orange-red boulders in themselves marvelously paintable.

“Beautiful, isn’t it,” Bannerman said, his voice betraying his pride in his Outback domain.

This was one lucky guy, Jessica thought. He appeared to have it all. Looks, intelligence, a vibrant physical presence, a rich if ruthless tycoon for a father, and one day all this would be his. Some three million glorious savage acres, and that was only Mokhani. She knew from her quick study of Broderick Bannerman’s affairs that several other stations made up the Bannerman pastoral empire. It had to be an extraordinary experience to have millions of acres for a backyard, let alone a spectacular natural wonder like the gorge. Both sides of the canyon were thickly wooded with paperbarks and river gums; the lagoon and water holes were bordered by clean white sand.

“Can you swim there?” She pointed downward.

He nodded. “I have all my life. The pool is very deep at the centre. Perhaps bottomless.”

A little frisson ran down Jessica’s arms.

FROM THE AIR, MOKHANI STATION was an extraordinary sight, a pioneering settlement in the wilds. Bannerman’s ancestors had carved this out, living with, rather than conquering, the land. Jessica, with her capacity for visualization, saw monstrous saltwater crocodiles inhabiting the paperbark swamps and lagoons that were spread across the vast primeval landscape. Not for the first time on this adventure did she consider the fate of Mokhani’s governess who had vanished without a trace all those years ago. It was, after all, a haunting tale that had never found closure.

The station was so large it sent a shock of awe through her; miles of open plain interspersed with large areas of dense scrub, through which she could see the sharp glitter of numerous creeks and lagoons. It would be terrifyingly easy to get lost in all that. The table-topped escarpment that towered over the canyon and dominated the landscape was another major hazard. Although she didn’t suffer from vertigo, Jessica was certain one could easily become dizzy if one ventured too near the lip of the precipice. It would be all too easy to topple over. Easier still to get pushed.

I’ve got an overactive imagination, she thought, a strange taste of copper in her mouth. Could it be that was what had happened? A young woman, too frantic to be afraid groping at thin air, skin ripped as she bounced off rock to rock. Did Moira go into the water alive? A body carried into the deep lagoon would make a succulent meal for a man-eating crocodile. Surely no one could say for sure that one didn’t lurk there….

She was rather ashamed of her lurid thoughts. There were always suspicions when no body had been found. But if she’d been pushed, it would have been murder.

She longed to question Cyrus Bannerman about the unsolved mystery, but sensed she would only anger him. Such tragedies, though never forgotten, would have resonated unhappily down the years. He could well have been the butt of a lot of taunts in his school days. Like most Outback children, he would have been sent away to boarding school at around age ten. Looking at him now, she felt, boy and man, he had coped.

They flew over a huge complex of holding yards where thousands and thousands of cattle were penned. Probably awaiting transport to market by the great road trains. Clusters of outbuildings surrounded the main compound like a satellite town. The silver hangar with MOKHANI emblazoned on the roof was enormous. It looked as if it could comfortably house a couple of domestic jets. Two bright yellow helicopters were on the ground a short distance from the hangar, as well as several station vehicles. Up ahead, across a silver ribbon of creek, she could see the original homestead, very large as even large houses go, and some distance away what appeared to be a great classical temple.

Broderick Bannerman wanted her to furnish that? Hatshepsut, queen of ancient Egypt, no mean hand at decorating, might have called in the professionals. Should she, Jessica, return to ancient Egypt for inspiration or settle for pre-Hellenic? Smack-bang in the middle of the wilderness, either option seemed a mite excessive, not to say bizarre. Obviously Broderick Bannerman, like the kings of old, had built his temple as a monument to himself. She wondered what role his son had played in it. There was an elegant austerity about Cyrus Bannerman that suggested none.

Another employee was on hand to drive her up to the house.

“I’m needed elsewhere, but Pete will look after you,” Cy said, his eyes resting on her with what seemed like challenge.

“Many thanks for such an exciting trip,” she responded, giving him her best smile. “I feel like I’m starting a new life.”

“And yet at the end of a few weeks, you’ll return to your old life.” He sketched a brief salute and went on his way.

THEY DROVE PAST THE MULTITUDE of outbuildings she had seen from the air, then topping a rise, she had her first view of Mokhani homestead. The original homestead that had withstood the fury of Cyclone Tracy, being miles from the epicenter. It was a most impressive sight, approached by an avenue of towering palms. Jessica wondered why Bannerman had wanted to build another. Two-storied, with a grand hip roof and broad verandas on three sides, the upper story featured beautiful decorative iron-lace balustrading. The extensive gardens surrounding the house no doubt fed by underground bores, were full of trees: banyan, fig, tamarind, rain trees, the magnificent Pride of India, flamboyant poincianas and several of the very curious boab trees with their fat, rather grotesque bottle-shaped trunks. Tropical shrubs also abounded. Oleanders and frangipani, which so delighted the senses, agapanthus, strelitzias, New Zealand flax plants with their dramatic stiff vertical leaves, giant tibouchinas and masses of the brilliant ixoras. The slender white pillars that supported the upper floor of the house were all but smothered by a prolifically flowering white bell flower.

She had arrived! It all seemed wonderfully exciting, dramatic really. And Cyrus Bannerman had had a considerable effect on her when she’d grown accustomed to distancing herself from any physical response to men, as it made her job easier.

As Pete collected her luggage, Jessica walked up the short flight of stone steps to the wide veranda. It was obviously a place of relaxation, she thought looking at the array of outdoor furniture. Low tables, comfortable chairs, Ali Baba–style pots spilling beautiful bougainvillea. A series of French doors with louvered shutters ran to either side of the double front doors, eight pairs in all. She hoped she looked okay, though she was well aware that her hair, which had started out beautifully smooth and straight, was now blowing out into the usual mad cloud of curls. She was wearing cool, low-waisted Dietrich-style pants in olive-green with a cream silk blouse, but no way could she put on the matching jacket. It was just too hot! Her intention had been to look businesslike, not like a poster girl for amazing hair.

Jessica hesitated before lifting the shining brass knocker with the lion’s head. Wasn’t anyone going to come to the door? They had to be expecting her. Just as she reached out her hand, one of the double doors with their splendid lead-light panels and fan lights suddenly opened. A tall, gaunt, ghost of a woman, with parchment skin, violet circles around her sunken eyes and as much hair as Jessica, only snow-white, stared back at her. The vision was dressed in the saffron robes of a Tibetan monk, an expression of dawning wonder on her face.

“It’s Moira, isn’t it? Moira? Where have you been, dear? We’ve been desperately worried.”

The extraordinary expression on the old lady’s face smote Jessica’s tender heart. She took the long trembling hand extended to her and gave it a little reassuring shake. “I’m dreadfully sorry, but I’m not Moira,” she explained gently. “I’m Jessica Tennant, the interior designer. Mr. Bannerman is expecting me.”

“Jessica?” Recognition turned to frowning bemusement. “Absolutely not.”

“Lavinia, what are you doing there?” A young female voice intervened, so sharp and accusatory it appeared to rob Lavinia of speech. “Lavinia?”

Lavinia feigned deafness, though Jessica could see the little flare of anger in her eyes. She leaned forward, clutching Jessica’s hand to her thin chest and whispering into her face, “Always knew you’d come back.” She grinned as if they were a couple of coconspirators.

“Silly old bat! Take no notice of her.” An ultraslim, glamorous-looking young woman, with her glossy sable hair in a classic pageboy, and the long, dark brown eyes of an Egyptian queen, came into sight.

“Silly old bat, am I?” the old lady shouted. “You just leave me alone, Robyn. I’m the Bannerman, not you!”

The young woman cast Jessica a long-suffering look. “Excuse us. You forget, Lavinia, Dad adopted me. I’m as much a Bannerman as the rest of you. Perhaps you could do us all a favor and retire to your room. I know how much you like to read. What is it now? Let me guess. Gibbon’s The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire?”

“Bitch!” the old lady muttered sotto voce.

“So nice to have met you, Miss Lavinia,” Jessica smiled into the troubled old face. What was it, Alzheimer’s, dementia? The bane of old age. So sad. Lavinia had to be well into her eighties, though she didn’t look in the least demented. More an eccentric living in the past.

Lavinia kept hold of Jessica’s hand as though unwilling to let her go. “You’ve not come near the house for years and years,” she said, looking as though she were about to weep.

“I expect I had to wait for an invitation,” Jessica whispered back.

“My dear, don’t you care that you put us through such an ordeal?” The sunken eyes filled with tears.

“I didn’t mean to,” Jessica found herself saying. Anything to calm the old woman.

“Livvy, that’s quite enough!” The young woman swooped like a falcon. Her long-fingered hand closed over Lavinia’s bony shoulder. “You’re embarrassing Ms. Tennant. I suggest you go to your room before Dad finds out.”

Lavinia threw off the hand with surprising strength and adjusted her robe. “It was Broderick who brought her here,” she said. “I’ve never liked you, Robyn, though I tried hard. You were a frightful child and you’re a frightful woman. She pinches me, you know.”

“Lavinia, dear.” Robyn Bannerman smiled tightly, obviously trying to retain her patience. “If I’ve hurt you, I’m sorry. Your skin is like tissue paper. Now, Ms. Tennant is here to see Dad. He’s not a man to be kept waiting.”

Lavinia nodded fiercely, setting her abundant hair in motion. “Dear me, no.”

Robyn Bannerman lifted beautifully manicured hands. “She’s quite gaga,” she told Jessica softly.

There was nothing wrong with Lavinia’s hearing. “Not gaga, Robyn. Ask me who the prime minister is. I’ll tell you. John Howard. I didn’t vote for him. Ask me about the war in Iraq. I guarantee I’m better than you at mental arithmetic, let alone music, the arts and great literature. I speak fluent French. I had to give up on Japanese. I’m not reading The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire by the way. And it’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. I’m reading My Early Life by Winston Churchill. Quite delightful!”

“I couldn’t imagine anything worse,” Robyn sighed. “Please go to your room, Livvy. You’ll be happier there.”

Looking quite rebellious, Lavinia spun to face Jessica who said in a soothing manner before the whole thing got out of hand, “I’m looking forward to seeing you later, Miss Lavinia. I hope I may address you that way?”

The old lady gave her a startlingly sweet smile. “You always did call me Miss Lavinia. I have trouble sleeping, you know. But you always come into my dreams. I’ve had no trouble remembering you. Until later, then, dear.”

Lavinia moved off serenely, while Robyn Bannerman stood, rather inelegantly biting the side of her mouth. “I’m sorry about that,” she said after Lavinia had disappeared. “Poor old dear has been senile for years. She usually stays upstairs in her room, rereading the entire library or listening to her infernal opera. Some of those sopranos know how to screech, or it could be Lavinia. She had a brief career on the stage. She only ventures down for dinner, thank God. I’m Robyn Bannerman, as you will have gathered. Come on in. My father is expecting you.” Robyn’s dark eyes swept Jessica’s face and figure. “I must say you look absurdly young for such a big project.”

Jessica frowned and was about to respond when Robyn continued, “What you want to do is enjoy yourself for a few days, then head back to Brisbane. My father rarely if ever makes mistakes, but there’s a first time for all of us. Though I must say, I’m dying to hear what you come up with.”

A lot better than this, I hope, Jessica thought, glancing around in surprised disappointment. Although opulent, the interior of the homestead did not so much impress as overwhelm. The furnishings were far too formal for the bush setting, the drapery, though hellishly expensive—Jessica knew the fabric—too elaborate. This was, after all, a country house. It didn’t look lived in. In fact nothing looked even touched. There were no books lying around, no flowers, not an object out of place.

The air-conditioning, however, was a huge plus, utterly blissful after the blazing heat outside. Jessica felt that given what she had seen so far, she wouldn’t be right for the job. Not if Broderick Bannerman wanted more of this. Brett wouldn’t be happy, either, unless Bannerman gave her carte blanche. The homestead had a vaguely haunted air about it, or so it seemed to her, but she could see how it could be brought back to life.

“I see you’re admiring the decor,” Robyn said, as though they were gazing at perfection. “I did it all a couple of years back. I hoped to do the new place, but I can’t be expected to do everything! I practically run the domestic side of things here and I have businesses in Darwin that have to be looked after. If I do say so myself, I’m a hard act to follow.”

Jessica managed a smile, but she couldn’t for the life of her act impressed. In fact, she could hear Brett’s voice saying, Dump the lot!

CHAPTER THREE

SHE WAS SHOWN INTO A LARGE, luxuriously appointed study. There was no one inside.

“That’s funny. Dad was here ten minutes ago. I’ll go find him,” Robyn said, giving Jessica another of her dubious looks. “Take a seat. Won’t be long. You’d like tea or coffee?”

“Coffee would be fine. Black, no sugar.”

“Looking after your figure?” Robyn asked with a slightly sarcastic smile.

“I do, but I’ve grown to like coffee that way.”

Alone, Jessica stared around the room, thinking how one’s home environment reflected the person. It had to be the one place from which Robyn Bannerman’s decorating talents had been banned. It certainly looked lived in. Going by the faint film of gray on the wall of solid mahogany bookcases, Jessica doubted if anyone was game to go around with a feather duster. Behind the massive partner’s desk hung a splendid three-quarter portrait of an extraordinarily handsome man, not Broderick Bannerman, though the resemblance to Cyrus Bannerman was striking. He was painted in casual dress, a bright blue open-throated bush shirt the color of his eyes, a silver-buckled belt, just the top of his riding pants, the handsome head with crisp dark hair faintly ruffled by a breeze, set against a subdued darkish-green background. The eyes were extraordinary. Because of her own deep involvement with art, she stood up for a closer look, wanting to study the fluent brush strokes, which she had the strangest feeling she’d seen before.

“My father,” a man’s deep, cultured voice said from behind her. He startled her, as she felt sure he had meant to.

She turned quickly toward the voice, surprised he was standing so close to her. She hadn’t heard him come in. “It’s a wonderful painting,” she said. “I was just going to check on the name of the artist. I’ve a feeling I’ve seen his work before and—”

“You couldn’t have,” Broderick Bannerman cut her off, his appraisal of her intense, as though he wanted to examine every inch of her. “The artist was a nobody. Just a family friend.”

“He may have been a nobody, but he was a very good painter,” Jessica said, determined not to be intimidated by the great man. “Excellent technique.”

“Would you know?” His icy gray eyes beneath heavy black brows didn’t shift. Had he been a horse fancier, he might have asked to check her teeth.

“I think so. I have a fine-arts degree. I paint myself. I started with watercolors, which I love, but I’ve moved on to oils and acrylics.”

“It’s a wonder you’ve found the time,” he said. “You’re twenty-four?”

“Yes, but you already know that, Mr. Bannerman.” Jessica held out her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, sir,” she said, though aspects of the man had already started to worry her. His gaze was so piercing, she felt she needed protection.

Bannerman took the slender hand, thinking most people had to work hard at containing their awe of him, but this chit of a girl showed no such deference. He stared into her large green eyes. Memories speared through him, for a moment holding him in thrall. “Please, sit down,” he said after a moment, his voice harsher than he intended. On no account did he want to frighten her away. “Has Robyn organized some coffee?” With an impatient frown, he went around his desk, sitting in the black leather swivel chair.

“Yes, she has,” Jessica answered, thinking intimidation was something this man would do supremely well. He had been born to power. Clearly, he took it as his due. Broderick Bannerman had to be nearing sixty, but he looked at least ten years younger. He didn’t have his son’s amazing sapphire eyes, but his icy glance was remarkable enough. His hair was as thick and black as his son’s with distinguished wings of silver. All in all, Broderick Bannerman was a fine figure of a man with a formidable aura. Why in the world would a man like this choose her to handle such a big project? Brett would have been the obvious choice.

“Speaking of watercolors,” he said, “my aunt Lavinia loves them. She’s a very arty person, so you should get on well.”

“I had the pleasure of meeting her momentarily,” Jessica said, thinking it best to say. It would come out sooner or later.

“Really? When was this?” The frosted gaze locked on hers.

“She happened to be in the entrance hall when I arrived.”

“Good. I don’t want her to hide. Then you’ll know she’s somewhat eccentric?”

“I found her charming,” Jessica said.

“She can be a handful,” Bannerman said, with a welcome trace of humor. “Most people think she’s senile, but she’s not. She likes wearing weird costumes. She had a brief fling as an opera singer in her youth. Still daydreams about it. You’ll no doubt get to see the costumes. Tosca’s my favourite. She’s a Buddhist at the moment. She’s actually had an audience with the Dalai Lama. Regretfully she has arrived at the point where we can’t let her go out alone, though she managed to get to Sydney recently—but I’d sent along a minder for her and she stayed with relatives. Don’t be too worried by anything she says. Livvy never really knows what time frame she’s in.”

Wary of his reaction, Jessica didn’t tell him Lavinia had called her Moira.

Bannerman was still talking when a middle-aged woman in a zip-up pale blue uniform wheeled a laden trolley into the room without once lifting her head. Robyn was standing directly behind her, looking very much as if one false move and the tea lady would get a good rap on the knuckles.

“Thank you, Molly,” Bannerman said. “This is our housekeeper, Mrs. Patterson, Jessica. You’ll be seeing quite a bit of each other.”

The two women exchanged a smile, Jessica saying a pleasant hello.

“I’ll pour, shall I?” Robyn asked.

Bannerman looked back at her coolly. “This is a private conversation, Robyn.”

Jessica felt mortified on Robyn’s account. Was this his normal behavior?

Robyn colored, as well she might. “I thought you might need a little help.”

“Thank you, no.”

Not the nicest man I’ve ever met, Jessica thought.

In the end, she poured the coffee, which turned out to be excellent. To her surprise, instead of getting down to business, Bannerman began to question her, albeit in a roundabout way, about her family, listening to her replies with every appearance of interest. One might have been forgiven for thinking before matters progressed any further she had to establish her family tree. Surely he didn’t talk to everyone this way, did he? Not everyone would expect to be quizzed about their ancestors, unless they were marrying into European royalty.

In the middle of it all, the phone rang. At least she was off the hook for a while, she thought wryly. Bannerman turned his intense pale gray stare on the phone as though willing it to stop. Finally he was forced to pick it up. “I thought I told you to hold the calls,” he boomed into the mouthpiece.

He certainly has a way with the staff, Jessica thought. That sort of voice would make anyone gulp, let alone damage the ears.

“All right, put him on.”

Jessica made to jump to her feet to give him privacy, but he waved her back into the seat, launching into a hot, hard attack on the poor unfortunate individual on the other end of the line. How people of wealth liked to make lesser mortals quake! Afterward, satisfied he had made himself clear and beaten one more employee into the turf, Bannerman centered Jessica with his lancing eyes. “Look, you haven’t had time to settle in and I have to attend to some fool matter. You have no idea the amount of nonsense I have to put up with. Some of my people can’t do anything on their own. What say we met up again at four? It will be cooler then. I can take you on tour of the new house.”

“I’m looking forward to it, Mr. Bannerman,” Jessica said. He might be shaping up to be an ogre, but no need to call home yet.

“You’re hired, by the way.” He flashed her an odd look, impossible to define.

“Wouldn’t you prefer to wait until I submit some designs or at least hear my ideas? They’d be off the top of my head, of course. Better, when I’ve had time—”

“No need,” he said dismissively. “You’ll do very well.”

It was the first time she’d been given a commission on the basis of her looks and ancestors.

UP IN HER BEDROOM, Robyn paced the perimeter of the Persian rug, as a lioness might pace the perimeter of her cage. She was utterly enraged. For B.B. to humiliate her in front of a complete stranger left her wanting to kill someone. Though she had done everything in her power to fit into this family, she fumed, she would never be regarded as a true daughter of the house. Like that old witch Lavinia, who smiled so lovingly on Cyrus, had said, Robyn wasn’t a true Bannerman. No unshakable bond of blood; the belonging was only on the surface. Scratch the surface and it was as clear today as it had been from the outset when she’d first come to Mokhani with her mother, she was an outsider. Her mother, not capable of getting both oars in the water, had nevertheless shoehorned herself in, always sweet and unassuming, dutiful and deferential to her rich and powerful husband.

Their marriage had been a big lie. B.B. had married her mother, an old school chum of the incomparable Deborah, only to beget more sons. But poor Sharon couldn’t rise to the challenge, though she had looked like “lust on legs,” as a guy she knew put it. The sad reality was that Sharon hadn’t been very fertile, and her marriage to B.B. seemed to render her completely barren. Her daughter, Robyn, her only child, was her sole achievement. Needless to say, B.B. was bitterly disappointed in her mother and had all but ignored her, unceremoniously bundling her out of the master suite and into a room on the other side of the house, causing Sharon to curl up and simply fade away. B.B. had wanted a long succession of heirs, not just Cy, the son of the only woman he had ever loved, that paragon Deborah who, for all the cups and ribbons she’d won, had gone hurtling over the neck of her horse.

Robyn had sensed quickly, as an animal might, B.B.’s deep-seated fear of his own son, as though one day Cy would overshadow him, and hell, wasn’t it already happening? Though she hated to have to say it, Cy was remarkable. Cy was the future. She didn’t know anyone apart from B.B. who didn’t wholeheartedly admire Cyrus. As for how people regarded B.B., they mostly feared him, called him a bloody bastard—but never within B.B.’s hearing. B.B. would regard such a thing as a declaration of war, then order a preemptive strike.

But he was a bastard, nevertheless. A ruthless bastard. It was that more than anything that kept Robyn in line. In the odd moment when she choked up on memories of her mother—she really had loved her, or at least as much as she could, given Sharon’s single-digit IQ—she realized with great bitterness just how badly B.B. had treated her mother. Sharon had had everything material she’d wanted, but she had missed out totally on what she really wanted—tenderness and affection. Sharon had realized from the beginning there was no way she was going to get love.

Ironically, this beast of a man seemed to inspire all kinds of women, from the innocent needy like her mother to gold diggers, to give matrimony with him their best shot. B.B. hadn’t married any of them, but he certainly hadn’t been celibate since her mother’s death. Lord, no! There had been various affairs, all very discreet. Even with young women, who found the sexiest thing about a man was his bank balance. The one thing Robyn hadn’t been prepared for when B.B. had announced he was calling in an interior designer to decorate the mansion, was that she would be so young and ravishingly pretty. Attractive would have been okay, but not a bloody aphrodisiac for men.

The shock had been ghastly. She didn’t think Cy had expected it either, nor had he been pleased. But here she was among them, this Jessica Tennant.

B.B. had first seen her on national television. Robyn had missed the program herself, as had Cy, so they’d had no warning. They knew only that she was shortlisted for some big prize, which meant she had to be good at what she did, but at twenty-four she couldn’t have had much experience. Add to that, she was a bloody siren. Robyn had seen the look B.B. had given the woman. It had been as rapt as a sixteen-year-old boy’s.

Robyn halted in her frenzied pacing, and her blood turned to ice water. What if B.B. had it in his head this time to take another wife? Why should that shock her? He had plenty of money, after all. So what if they were decades apart in age? B.B. was a secretive man, but he didn’t do anything without a reason. No one had ever seen him make a false move. Now Ms. Jessica Tennant, in the guise of an interior designer. What had seemed incomprehensible started to appear perfectly clear.

I have to protect myself, Robyn thought. I’m no loser like Mum.

A FEW MINUTES BEFORE THE TIME scheduled for the grand tour, Jessica made her way downstairs. Best not be late, when Bannerman was famous for bawling people out. Robyn had dropped out of sight, no doubt slamming her palm against her forehead in mortification, but Mrs. Patterson, who turned out to be a very pleasant woman, had been on hand to show Jessica to her room.

There, she had changed her outfit, settling for something cool, cotton pants with a gauzy multicolored caftan top decorated with little crystals and beads over with tiny buttons down the front. Usually she did up just enough to cover her bra, but with the way Broderick Bannerman had been looking at her, she decided to do them all up.

The dazzling play of late-afternoon light falling through the beautiful leaded panes and fan lights on the front door held her immobile for a moment. The kaleidoscope of color unlocked some lovely fragment of memory from her childhood. Before she could move, the door opened, letting in a wave of hot air.

And Cyrus Bannerman. The look he gave her held her transfixed.

“Hi!”

“Ms. Tennant. We meet again.”

At first glance, he could have been a particularly sexy and virile escapee from the TV show Survivor. His darkly tanned skin glowing with sweat and grimed with red dust gave him a startlingly exotic appearance. Red dust had thrown a film over his jet-black hair, which was tousled and fell onto his forehead. There was a stain of brownish-red—blood—across his bush shirt, and his eyes seem to blaze a hole through her.

They continued gazing at one another for what seemed an inordinate amount of time. Was it the atmosphere? she wondered. The old homestead certainly had an air about it.

“Sorry,” he said finally. “I must look a mess. One of the men took a bad fall off his motorbike. Head injuries. We didn’t want to move him. I had to call in the RFDS. That’s the Royal Flying Doctor Service, as I expect you know. God knows what we’d do without them. They didn’t take long.”

“Is he going to be all right?” Only now could she take a few more steps down the stairs, reassured that an injured employee so clearly mattered to him.

“We have to wait and see with head injuries. I’m worried about him.” Cy’s remarkable eyes made another sweep over her. “Meanwhile, what have you been up to?”

“Why, nothing.” She stopped where she was on the stairs. “Change of clothes is all,” she said sweetly. “Now your father is taking me on a tour of the new house.”

“I see.” He pulled at the red bandanna at his throat, exuding so much powerful masculinity she felt in need of oxygen.

“That’s good. For a moment I thought you’d missed something along the way. Your father has hired me to handle the interior design.”

“Indeed he has. Forgive me if it takes a little time to get used to it.” He came close to her, so commanding a presence, Jessica remained where she was, two steps above him. A dubious advantage.

“You must be extremely clever, Ms. Tennant. Dad was compelled to hire you after seeing you for about ten minutes on a TV program? Have I got that right?”

He was suspicious of his father’s motivation, she suddenly realized. It was emblazoned on his smug, handsome face. “You have. What’s so amazing?”

“The pure chance of it.” His eyes shifted to the little beads and crystals on her top and he gave a leisurely verdict. “Very pretty.” He paused, then said, “Look, Ms. Tennant, I’ll level with you. I’m concerned about this. I’m sure you’re talented, but it doesn’t automatically follow you should be given such a big commission. At this stage of your career anyway.”

She leaned forward slightly, her voice mock confidential. “Be that as it may, it was your father who hired me, Cyrus. He’s the man I have to answer to. Not you.”

“Say that again.” Suddenly he smiled into her eyes. Night into day.

“I’m sure you took it in the first time. Your father hired me—”

“Not that!” he scoffed. “The Cyrus bit. I really liked the sound of my name on your lips.”

She knew she blushed, but she couldn’t control it. “Calling you Cyrus is the easy bit. Getting on with you appears to be quite another. What exactly is it you and your sister—”

“I don’t have a sister,” he corrected.

“That’s odd. I’ve met her.”

“You’ve met Robyn,” he pointed out suavely. “Robyn is my father’s adopted daughter.”

“Which surely means legally she’s your stepsister?”

“Ah, you’re turning into a hotshot lawyer before my very eyes. Robyn is my stepsister, forgive me. She must be. She lives here.”

“Not your average loving family, then?” She forced her breath to stay even.

“Unfortunately, no.”

“I’m sure there are reasons.”

“There always are. Are you going to come down from those stairs?”

“Not for the moment. I like us to be on the same level.” She was attracted to this man. Powerfully attracted. It was the very last thing she needed or wanted. She was here to do a job, not play at a dangerous flirtation.

“That would never be unless you grow a few inches.”

“Or own some very fancy high-heeled shoes, which I do. Well, it’s nice chatting with you, Cyrus, but I’m supposed to meet your father.”

“I’m not detaining you, surely?” He made an elaborate play of backing off, his ironic smile putting more pressure on her. She felt slightly giddy as she descended the last two stairs to pass him. Something he undoubtedly noticed and chalked up as a small victory.

Her nerves were stretched so taut she actually jumped when Broderick Bannerman, a look of barely suppressed impatience on his face, suddenly appeared in the entrance hall. He looked from one to the other as though they were conspiring in a plot against him. “There you are, Ms. Tennant. I did say four o’clock, didn’t I?”

“I’m so sorry—” Jessica was tempted to mention it could only have been a few minutes after four, but Cyrus intervened.

“She was chatting with me, Dad. Okay?” He lifted a hard-muscled arm and glanced at his watch. “How time flies! It’s three minutes past.”

“And you’re back early,” B.B. clipped off.

“Surely there’s not a note of disapproval in that. I don’t clock on and off, Dad. Eddie Vine took a bad spill off his motorbike. He’s been airlifted to the hospital.”

“I’m not surprised to hear that,” B.B. said with a frown. “He’s a bad rider.”

“No.” Cyrus jammed his hands into his jeans pockets. “You’re the one we all have to get out of the way for, Dad. Now, I’m off for a good scrub. Enjoy the tour.”

“We shall,” his father replied curtly.

At that moment, a middle-aged attractive woman with soft gray eyes and long dark hair pulled back into a severe French twist hurried into the entrance hall. “Excuse me, B.B. I’m sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Kurosawa is on the line. I know you want to speak to him.”

B.B. all but snarled. “Dammit!” Then, more mildly, he added, “Okay I’m coming, Ruth.” He turned back to Jessica with a surprisingly charming smile. The many faces of Broderick Bannerman in less than half a minute she thought. “I’m sorry, my dear, this is going to take time. I’ll have to postpone our tour until tomorrow.”

In the background, Cyrus Bannerman spoke up. “If Ms. Tennant will give me ten minutes, I can show her around the place.”

“I prefer to do it, thank you, Cyrus.”

“No trouble, Dad,” Cyrus insisted smoothly.

There was a silence as B.B. responded to what seemed like a challenge.

“Very well,” he barked, turning abruptly on his heel.

Cyrus Bannerman stood, lean elegant frame propped against the cedar post of the staircase. “By the way, Jessica, you haven’t met Ruth, have you? Ruth is Dad’s secretary. Ruth this is Jessica Tennant, Dad’s new interior designer.”

“Pleased to meet you, Jessica.” B.B.’s secretary gave Jessica a sweet, flurried smile, clearly anxious to follow her master. “I must go. B.B. might want something.”

“Best not keep him waiting, Ruthie,” Cyrus warned, his blue eyes full of mischief. “Now suddenly it’s up to me, Ms. Tennant, to give you the grand tour.”

“Why is it I’m thinking you’re trying to score points in a competition with your father?”

“God, is it that obvious?” He shook his head. “Why don’t you wait for me on the veranda? It’s nice this time of day. I’ll only be ten minutes.”

“I beg you. Don’t hurry on account of me.”

“You should thank me for rescuing you,” he said blandly.

CHAPTER FOUR

HE WAS BACK ON THE VERANDA in fifteen minutes flat. “Did you time me?” he asked. “I’m a bit late.”

“Actually I’d forgotten you,” she said casually, which was a long way from the truth. “I was breathing in the air and the exotic scents. It’s another world up here. I’ve never felt so connected to the earth. It’s rather a profound experience. Thanks again for the helicopter trip. It was a revelation, and one of the highlights of my life.”

“I think you mean that.” There was an appraising look in his eyes.

“How could you doubt me?” Jessica stood up, trying to hide the excitement he engendered in her.

“There’s plenty more I can show you,” he said. “How come you’ve never visited the Red Centre?” Something she had mentioned. “Or Kakadu, which is the jewel in the Top End crown—maybe a little off the beaten track—but Alice Springs? It’s quite a tourist destination these days. Our desert monuments, Uluru and Kata Tjuta, are world-famous.”

“Maybe when you have the time you can take me.” She gave him a sidelong glance.

“Jessica, we don’t know yet if you’re staying.”

“Why does it bother you so much? My staying, that is.”

“I have my reasons.”

“That sounds intriguing. So what are you going to do to frighten me off?”

“Whatever it is I have to act fast.” He met her eyes, a gleam of mockery in his. “No. It’s going to be your decision.”

“Your father’s, surely,” she said. They walked down the flight of stone steps together, Jessica acutely conscious of his height and pure, animal magnetism.

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