To the left, a man was standing alone

He was staring at her with single-minded concentration. It wasn’t simple curiosity in his gaze, and the quality of it locked her in place. For a weird moment she thought she was falling over the balustrade right into his arms.

Even now his eyes didn’t let go. In fact, the connection grew stronger. They might have been illicit lovers or sworn enemies, so strong was the focus each had on the other. A shiver passed through her; it was as though no man had ever looked at her before. She wanted to move away, but the hypnotic nature of his gaze blocked her every attempt.

Was he sizing her up and finding her wanting? Why should that be? She felt dizzy, as though not enough oxygen was getting to her brain. It was clear she had to do something to break the deadlock.

She closed her eyes tightly. When she opened them again, the man was gone. She was shocked by the impact a stranger had had on her, especially when neither had spoken a word. Who was he? She didn’t know him and had no desire to. Her intuition told her he would be dangerous.

Dear Reader,

The Horseman completes my four-book series entitled MEN OF THE OUTBACK. I do hope you’ve kept with me so far, as the stories are linked not only in their setting, the Northern Territory, the remotest and wildest part of the continent, but also by the lives of the interlinked families who call this fascinating place home. If you’re one of my longtime readers you’ll know “family” is a recurring theme in my books. (And if you’re not, a big welcome to you!)

I like to portray family with the petals and the thorns. Families anywhere in the world don’t differ all that widely. They have secrets, running feuds and personal histories that often contain more than a grain of fiction. As I have frequently written, the sort of family you grow up in affects you throughout your life, sometimes to the very end. The strong and resilient will break free; others are doomed to carry the conflict forward into succeeding generations. I’m sure many of you can name a family—perhaps even from your own street—that runs the risk of being called dysfunctional. But I like to bring balance to such families by writing of hopes and dreams, and to introduce heroes and heroines who focus their energies on making a bright future for themselves and those they love.

My warmest wishes to you all. Happy reading!

Margaret Way

The Horseman
Margaret Way

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Margaret Way was born and bred in the river city of Brisbane, Australia. Said to be able to read at three, she hasn’t had her head out of a book since. When she wasn’t reading she was playing the piano. She turned to writing when she was unable to practice while her infant son slept. She sold that first book—which she wrote longhand—and has gone on to publish over eighty books with Harlequin.

CONTENTS

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 ONE

The Moreland Mansion

Darwin

Northern Territory

Australia

CECILE MORELAND sat in front of her dressing table making final adjustments to her bridesmaid’s headdress, a garland of silk flowers and foliage scattered with sparkling crystals. Excitement, like a swarm of butterflies, fluttered in her stomach. She wondered how much more excited Sandra was for this was Sandra’s day of days, the day she and Daniel were to be married.

The weather was perfect. No bride could have asked for more. Cobalt skies of perfect clarity, a light cooling breeze off the harbor, the mansion’s extensive gardens coaxed to perfection, ablaze with flower beds that dripped gorgeous blossoms. Brilliantly colored parrots, chittering and chattering as if they, too, were caught up in the excitement, flashed through the great shade trees that formed a canopy over the long drive, from the massive wrought-iron gates at the entrance up to the house. Everywhere smelled of flowers and cut grass. It was absolutely intoxicating.

Cecile swallowed a rush of emotion she couldn’t afford to indulge; she was all made up and just about ready to join Sandra and the other bridesmaids, but she was still experiencing an overwhelming sense of gratitude and amazement. Daniel, who had grown to manhood with his origins uncertain, had been discovered to be a Moreland; in fact, her first cousin. It was especially hard to believe, because it was less than a year since she had become aware of his existence, let alone that he was part of her family.

They shared a grandfather, Joel Moreland, known throughout the Territory as the Man with the Midas Touch. Daniel, it turned out, was the son of her uncle Jared, who had been killed as a young man in a freak accident at the Alice Springs annual rodeo when Daniel was still in his mother’s womb. Whether Jared had been aware of the pregnancy no one would ever know, but the consensus of opinion was, Jared would never have let the mother of his child disappear from his life; it was alien to his nature. Now, Daniel and Sandra’s meeting was a wonderful example of synchronicity, the connections that govern human life. Cecile felt moved by that thought. If ever two people deserved to be happy, it was those two.

Softly humming Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” beneath her breath, Cecile rose from the small gilded chair, satisfied with the positioning of her headdress. She smoothed the lovely floor-length skirt of her strapless silk and satin gown, happy in the knowledge it suited her beautifully. The lustrous material was the color of a silver-gray South Sea pearl that under lights, appeared to be shot through with rays of color from her headdress, a mix of pinks, yellows, lilacs and amethyst with accents of palest green. The maid of honor, Melinda, Sandra’s friend from her university days, would be wearing an intense shade of pink, the other two bridesmaids, Eva and Denise, sunshine-yellow and a complementary deep lilac respectively. Sandra had taken her inspiration from the exquisite pastel plumage of one of her favorite birds of the Red Centre. This was the elusive Princess Alexandra parrot, named in honor of the Danish princess Alexandra who later became consort to Edward VII of England. Sandra, herself, had been christened Alexandra Mary after her Scottish great-great-grandmother, so it was easy to see the connection. The garlands they all wore on their heads took their theme from the infinite varieties of wildflowers that cloaked Sandra’s desert home after the rains. The five of them had settled on their outfits over one very happy get-acquainted weekend on Moondai, the historic station Sandra had inherited from her late grandfather, Rigby Kingston. All four bridesmaids were brunettes, which made a striking contrast with the buttercup blondness of the bride, Cecile thought. She felt honored that Sandra had chosen her to be part of the bridal party. After all, she was a newcomer to Sandra’s life, but their rapport, established before the big engagement party on Moondai, had been instant, which is about as gratifying as it gets.

Cecile drifted onto the balcony to look over the extensive gardens, ten acres in all. Huge white marquees with pink pelmets and tassels had been erected in the grounds: one for the banquet; another to house drinks of all kinds, from French champagne to Coca-Cola; the third for the lavish selection of desserts and coffee. Hundreds of circular white tables and chairs, their backs adorned with huge ivory satin bows, had been set out on the lush green lawn, which swept down to a delightful spring-fed lake that glittered under the tropical sun. Ever since she could remember the lake had been home to a pair of black swans called Apollo and Daphne. Though she recalled how Daphne, initially trying to escape Apollo’s attentions, had turned herself into a tree, the two had mated for life.

The surrounds of the small lake were densely planted with continuously flowering white arum lilies and gorgeous Japanese iris, the water and the boggy conditions ideal for both plants. The actual ceremony would take place not far from the lake in a sheltered glade where countless heads of blue hydrangea were in big showy bloom. The glade had been a favorite haunt of hers as a child, mainly because of the large pentagonal-shaped summer house with its exotic pagoda-like roof. Under that magical roof Daniel and Sandra would be married.

When she was younger—Cecile was now twenty-six and the despair of her mother, who thought twenty-six high time she was married off and carrying her first child—she had thought the glade was where she would like to be married. Stuart, her fiancé, didn’t care for that idea at all. He wanted a big cathedral wedding with lots of pomp in their hometown of Melbourne. Stuart was big on pomp and the symbols of success: the grand house; stable of luxury cars; beautiful wife; two perfect kids, boy first, then girl; rich in-laws highly respected in society. A lot to ask for and obviously not yet attained, but she had said yes to his proposal almost a year before. Why, then, was she having difficulty naming a wedding date? Both Stuart and her mother had been pressing her of late to do so—she didn’t blame them—but still she couldn’t bring herself to commit. She was beginning to realize there was something profoundly significant in that, though she continued to berate herself for her intransigence as though intransigence were a dirty word. She was certain Stuart loved her. She loved him. She did, didn’t she? Why this awful doubt? Why now? Their architect-designed house in Melbourne was already undergoing construction. The exclusive site was a gift from her parents. She and Stuart had known one another for years and years. Their families approved, especially her mother, who continued to try very hard to dictate her only child’s every move.

Thinking of her mother, Cecile gave an involuntary sigh. Her mother wasn’t a happy woman. She was a good woman who had tried all her married life to be the perfect wife. She fussed over her husband who was, in fact, a distant Moreland kinsman, so she’d never had to change her name. She was a tireless worker for charity. She kept a beautiful house and a legendary garden. For decades she had devoted herself to endless dinner parties run like military maneuvers to further her husband’s business and social status. Cecile’s father was now CEO of Moreland Minerals, a position he held for more than fifteen years. It was confidently expected he would one day take over from her grandfather as chairman. Her mother should have been happy, achieving so much. Instead she was a rather driven woman, taking pride but no joy in her accomplishments. Cecile knew for a sad fact that her father had sought physical and mental balm in the occasional discreet affair. For years she had been terrified her mother would find out, but eventually she realized her mother would never question her father until the day she died. Instead, she had made an art form of blocking out any unpleasantness. Her mother’s headstone might well read: Here lies a woman who never delved too deeply.

Cecile caught back another sigh as the old troubles and tensions of her childhood and adolescence began to creep over her. It was essential she throw off these unhappy thoughts, indeed obligatory, on this happy day, but they kept invading her mind. It saddened her deeply that there was no crucial spark of love between her parents, no special looks they gave one another as Stuart’s parents did. There were no intimate, loving glances indicative of a happy shared life, certainly no private let alone public displays of affection. They were more like colleagues who rubbed along comfortably together. There must have been a spark at the beginning surely? Or had her father—as her razor-tongued great-aunt Bea had occasionally suggested—considered that there were more important considerations in marriage than romantic love? Her father was brilliant at business transactions. Were she and Bea too cynical? On such a day as today it was difficult not to contrast what Daniel and Sandra had with what love was in her parents’ marriage. Maybe that blaze of love happened only rarely. Maybe her mother wasn’t destined ever to know it. Maybe, for all her so-called beauty, she wasn’t even the kind of woman who inspired passion. Physical beauty certainly didn’t reflect all the manifestations of the psyche. There were far more important traits that allowed one to take that enormous step forward.

It was Daniel and Sandra who had been so blessed. In less than an hour they would exchange their marriage vows. It was truly a love match. A fairy story that offered the promise of living happily ever after. Cecile hoped and prayed that promise would come true. Although Sandra was about to become Mrs. Daniel Moreland, the press was still calling Sandra the Kingston Heiress. Probably that label would stick to her all her life. The couple who had wanted a quiet wedding with only family and close friends had a big society wedding on their hands. It couldn’t be otherwise with the bridegroom having Joel Moreland for a grandfather. The top journalist from the nation’s leading women’s magazine was numbered among the guests. The hefty fee for sole coverage of the wedding would go to the charity closest to Sandra’s heart, a foundation doing research into childhood leukemia. Sandra had once had a little friend called Nicole, who had lost her life to that cruel disease.

At his death over a year before, Rigby Kingston, Sandra’s grandfather, one of the Territory’s most prominent and influential cattlemen, had shocked the entire Outback by doing what had never been done before. He had bypassed his son and his grandson to leave Moondai and the bulk of his estate to his estranged granddaughter, daughter of his deceased firstborn son and acknowledged heir, Trevor, who had been killed when the station Cessna plowed into the purple ranges that lay at Moondai’s back door. That tragedy had marked the family forever. When Trevor’s daughter inherited, many believed it was Kingston’s effort to “make things right.” Moondai would have gone to Trevor had he lived. That his daughter inherited was seen as reparation for Kingston’s having banished her and her social-butterfly mother shortly after the tragedy. At that time Sandra had been ten going on eleven—not the best time to be banished. Sandra had suffered because of it, but it was apparent to everyone who knew her that she hadn’t broken. Rather, she had grown strong in adversity, a sign of her strength of character. Cecile greatly admired her for it.

What happened after Sandra arrived on Moondai to take up her inheritance was the stuff of romantic fiction. Destinies converged when she met Daniel. He had been Rigby Kingston’s overseer at the time of his death, and Kingston’s right-hand man. With the future of Moondai at stake, Kingston had left Daniel a substantial legacy to ensure he would remain in place until such time as his granddaughter, Alexandra, could find a suitable replacement to help her run the historic station should Daniel wish to leave. Her uncle and cousin would be no help to her. Something Kingston had clearly taken into account. Neither by their own admission were cattlemen. They had no taste for the job, let alone the talent. Daniel, however, was highly regarded by everyone in the industry. Some thought having the brains and the sheer authority to run a vast cattle station had to be in the blood.

And so it had proved. Daniel had grown up in humble circumstances not knowing the identity of his father. His mother, physically and emotionally fragile, had been badly affected. She had gone to her grave never revealing his name. Daniel, not surprisingly, grew to manhood despising the man who had abandoned his vulnerable mother in her time of need. His mother’s fate had always rankled him far more than his own rejection at his father’s hands. Daniel was tough. But blood, like the truth, will out eventually no matter how long it takes. Daniel in maturity carried the stamp of a Moreland—the looks, the voice, the manner—and the double helix, the DNA that binds blood. A deathbed confession had led to an investigation that in the end established Daniel’s identity. Daniel, born posthumously, was the son of Jared Moreland.

It was their grandfather Joel who had acted on that staggering deathbed confession made by his own wife, Frances. Now Daniel had taken his rightful place within the Moreland family. It had come as a further shock to Cecile to discover she and Daniel shared the “family face.” Indeed anyone seeing them together could easily mistake them for twins. Both were happy to settle for first cousins, and she had the honor now of being in his bridal party.

Weddings, she reflected, had a miraculous way of bringing everyone together. She rejoiced in the mantle of happiness that had fallen over the Moreland household. Their grandfather Joel was in splendid form. All those long years without his beloved son, Jared! Now the wheel of fortune had turned full circle. It had restored to him his grandson. All the Morelands were gathered here today, happy to share in this joyous occasion. Three hundred guests from around the country and overseas had already arrived. A great many were roaming all over the grounds like butterflies that flew around the great banks of lantana, pink, white and gold.

It had been decided in a family conference that the logistics of holding the wedding at isolated Moondai in the Red Centre were much more difficult than holding the wedding at “Morelands” in Darwin. Sandra had had no objection; the guests could attend and find accommodation. She wanted nothing more than to marry her Daniel. But then, too, Sandra had grown close to Joel Moreland. She knew intuitively that a wedding held at Morelands would have very special meaning for him. Cecile couldn’t have been more pleased. Her grandfather was as good and kind and brave a man as one could ever wish to meet. That Daniel shared many of their grandfather’s characteristics had made her warm to him at once.

Graceful as a swan in her bridesmaid’s regalia, Cecile glided over to the white wrought-iron balustrade, dazzled by the scene in front of her. Everyone looked resplendent in their wedding finery—many a dashing morning suit among the well-dressed men, glamorous gowns, gorgeous hats, the glitter of expensive jewelry. The children, too, were decked out in formal dress, the little girls adorable in silks and taffetas and organzas, with shining hair drifting down their backs, though no one could stop them from darting all over the grounds, calling to one another, ignoring the pleas of their parents as they hid behind billowing bushes of hibiscus, frangipani and oleander. She could remember doing exactly the same thing with her friends at the innumerable functions her grandparents had held in the grounds.

It was a few moments before that special sense of hers told her she was under surveillance. There were no words to explain where that sense came from; it was just there. She stayed perfectly still, though she was aware her breath was coming unevenly. Then, not making a business of it, she shifted her gaze slowly…slowly…following the magnetic beam.

To the left of her, a man was standing alone in a little pocket of quiet. He was staring at her with single-minded concentration. It wasn’t simple curiosity in his gaze, and the quality of it, indeed his whole body language, locked her in place. For a weird moment she thought she was falling…falling…plunging over the balustrade right into his arms.

Wedding hysteria? The delusion of falling lasted no more than a second or two, yet she remained in a state of confusion, steadying herself with one hand on the wrought-iron banister. She was positive he had been staring at her for some time. Indeed he inclined his head in what she interpreted as a sardonic bow to which she found herself giving him the smallest nod in response. It was a graceful but essentially aloof acknowledgment that wouldn’t have been amiss in royalty.

Heat burned in her cheeks. Even now his eyes didn’t let go. In fact, the connection, which defied interpretation, grew stronger. They might have been illicit lovers or sworn enemies, so strong was the focus each had on the other.

He was impressively tall. As tall as Daniel, which meant well over six feet, with a similar athletic build. He was dressed in a beautifully tailored camel-colored suit, a deep blue shirt with a white collar beneath, and a wide blue silk tie with broad white stripes banded in either black or navy; she couldn’t at this distance tell which. A shaft of dappled sunlight was shining directly on his thick, springy hair, picking out blond strands in the dark caramel. She couldn’t see the color of his eyes. She thought dark. What she knew for certain was that they were holding her in place while he took his fill of her.

She registered the strong bone structure, the high cheekbones, fine straight nose, beautifully sculpted jawline. It was a face not easily forgotten. His skin had the dark tan of a man who spent long hours in a hot sun. He looked to be around thirty, thirty-two, no more. She had never seen him before in her life, but she thought she could pick him out of thousands. He exuded power and vitality as though at any moment he could morph into a man of action, striding across the desert or tackling the world’s highest mountains.

A shiver passed through her; it was as though no man had ever looked at her before. She wanted to pull away from the balustrade, but the hypnotic quality of his gaze blocked her every attempt to move. It seemed like an age but it could only have been moments. She couldn’t believe this was happening. It shouldn’t be happening, yet she stood there as if she wanted to do nothing other. What was his expression? It wasn’t relaxed. It wasn’t smiling or even pleasant. For an odd moment she thought his gaze was judgmental. Was he sizing her up and finding her wanting? Why should that be? They were perfect strangers. She felt a little dizzy as though not enough oxygen was getting to her brain. It was clear she had to do something to break the deadlock.

She closed her eyes tightly in an act of defiance, wishing Stuart was by her side. Did she think herself in need of protection?

When she opened them again, the man had moved into the cool green shadows of a feathery poinciana, where he was joined by a trio of attractive young women with their arms interlaced with one another. She could hear their laughing voices as they introduced themselves. One took hold of his sleeve, gazing up into his face, while the others talked excitedly. But then, a man who looked like that would have a steady stream of women beating a path to his side.

At last she felt free to move away from the balustrade. She was shocked by the impact a total stranger had had on her, especially when neither had spoken a word. As she moved back into her bedroom, a ripple of something approaching antagonism passed through her. She made a real effort to control it. Who was he? She didn’t know him and had no desire to. Her well-honed intuition told her he would be dangerous to know. Perversely she speculated on who he might be. He had to be a guest of Sandra’s or someone from Daniel’s past. She knew just about everyone on the Moreland side. She couldn’t remember a time any man had so caught her attention. Whoever he was, he was a force in his own right.

SANDRA’S HUGE BEDROOM WAS abuzz with excited young women in beautiful gowns, but none more beautiful than the bride, who was executing a dreamy little waltz around the room, her arms raised as if to her groom. Sandra was wearing traditional white, an exquisite high-necked Edwardian style lace-and-silk bodice, with dozens of seed pearls hand-applied, the full-length sleeves a continuation of the bodice lace, pegged down the arm. The tightly fitted sashed waist emphasized the billow of the silk skirt. The style suited her petite frame and the blue and gold of her looks. On her head she wore, set straight on her forehead, a garland similar to her bridesmaids’, only her flowers were in shades of ivory and cream with the addition of a short shimmering white tulle veil.

The excitement in the room was palpable. Cecile thought she could reach out and grab a handful out of the perfumed air that had as its top notes a floral bouquet of rose, gardenia and lily of the valley.

Sandra flashed a radiant smile. “Ceci, you look wonderful!”

Cecile hurried to her, hugging her with real affection. “I couldn’t possibly rival you. You’re as lovely as a tea rose.” Cecile could feel tears rise to her eyes.

“Don’t you dare cry!” Sandra warned, not very far away from bursting into emotional tears herself.

Cecile bit her lip, calling to the other bridesmaids in warm tones, “You look great, too!”

“It’s the wedding of the year, my dear,” Denise answered, with a flourish of her skirt.

“Ladies, please!” The hairstylist who had been employed to do their hair clapped his hands to get their attention, but that proved impossible. For Sandra’s mother, Pamela, looking as glamorous as a film star in a short-skirted Chanel suit and a sexy fascinator on her blond head, chose that moment to walk into the room carrying the beautifully wrapped gifts from Sandra to her bridesmaids. She presented one to each young woman in turn while they exclaimed in delight.

Melinda lost the least time pulling off the elegant wrapping. What she saw made her suck in her breath. “Oooooh!” Slowly she withdrew from the jeweler’s box a rope of freshwater pearls fashioned into a choker with a large central clasp of deep pink tourmaline. “Sandy, is this for me?” Her voice wobbled in a mix of awe and delight.

“No one else!” Sandra smiled. “As you can see—” she looked at each of her bridesmaids in turn “—each clasp was chosen to coordinate with your gowns. Pink tourmaline for Melinda, topaz for Eva, amethyst for Denise, pave diamonds for Cecile.”

“How absolutely gorgeous, and so generous!” Denise rushed to the long pier mirror to put on her choker. Once fastened, she stared at herself wide-eyed as the big central amethyst caught the light.

“I’m going to treasure this all my life!” Eva was poring over her gift, her fingers caressing the lustrous rope of pearls.

“Here, let me help you put it on,” the hairstylist offered, thrilled he had been chosen for what was a big society wedding, one that would get national coverage.

Denise moved away from the mirror to allow Cecile her turn. Beautiful before, the choker with its sunburst of pave diamonds complemented Cecile’s gown dramatically and drew attention to the silver shimmer of her eyes.

“Perfect!” Sandra murmured in satisfaction, smiling at Cecile’s shoulder.

“Heavens, don’t blind us, Cecile!” Denise joked, wishing she could look like Cecile Moreland if only for one day. “Hey, Sandy,” she addressed the bride, “you’ve got to have something old now, something borrowed, something new…”

“And something blue,” Melinda chimed in.

Sandra waved her magnificent sapphire-and-diamond engagement ring in the air. “Here’s the blue. Mama—” she pointed to her youthful-looking mother “—supplied the something old, but that’s a closely guarded secret.”

“A very fancy garter, I bet,” Denise giggled.

“Nooo, Denise,” Pamela dragged out the word humorously, “not a garter. So are we all ready?” Pamela picked up her daughter’s exquisite trailing bouquet and passed it to her. “You look beautiful, darling. I’m so proud of you.” Pamela hugged her daughter one last time. “We’re going to get through this splendidly. That means no tears to ruin your makeup. All right, girls, the bridegroom, his attendants and hundreds of guests await!”

Laughing happily, they moved in succession out of Sandra’s bedroom, excitement alone lending them all a special loveliness. Weddings spread their own magic, Cecile thought. This was a day when nothing could go wrong. Or nothing would dare go wrong. So why did she feel something already had?

CHAPTER TWO

THE CEREMONY WAS one of high emotion. Family and guests were infused with the bliss that surrounded the bride and her groom. As the couple came together for the ceremonial kiss, many of the women guests yielded to an emotional tear, remembering their own wedding day or perhaps the wedding of a beloved son or daughter. Taking her new husband’s arm, Sandra led the way to the wedding banquet, which turned out to be brilliant. The food and drink were superb. There were speeches, short and entertaining, that had people laughing; others were deeply touching, such as Joel Moreland’s welcoming the bride into the family, an event he said couldn’t have taken place had his grandson, Daniel, not have been restored to him.

Afterward there was a great deal of catching up to do as relatives who hadn’t seen one another in ages came together and friends from either side of the bridal party were introduced to one another. Professional photographers were on hand to record the happy occasion. The press photographer, with a large video camera in hand, worked his way through the throng while guests took photographs destined for private albums. The bride found herself surrounded by old friends all wanting to embrace her; the groom found he had even more cousins than he had ever dreamt of. There were people everywhere: inside the flower-decked house, with all the French doors standing open to the garden; in the main reception rooms, the huge living room, dining room, library, garden room at the rear of the house. Young people sat all over the steps of the grand staircase, eager to make new friends and, who knows? meet the love of their life. Or dancing to the excellent band had already begun on the broad stone terrace that wrapped the rear of the mansion. Many more guests, champagne flutes in hand, were wandering about the beautiful grounds, admiring the flowers and the antique statuary. Some of the children had stripped off their wedding finery to dive near naked and shrieking into the lake, with inevitably a few adults who’d had too much to drink falling in to join them.

Cecile roamed freely with Stuart, the two stopping frequently to converse with family and guests. Invariably someone, most often a woman, told them archly, “You two will be next!” At such times Stuart always drew Cecile close, dropping a kiss on her temple beneath the lovely garland of silk flowers. “Can’t come soon enough for me!” was his most favored response.

It was an answer that should have made Cecile glow. Instead something twisted inside her and on this day of days she found herself badly unsettled. Was it being witness to the love between Daniel and Sandra that had crystallized her long-growing uncertainties? Or was it having that man look at her as he did? She wasn’t a temperamental woman—she rather prided herself on her composure—but that look had shaken her. To think that out of the wild blue yonder she had been plunged into what amounted to panic! Such things didn’t happen to her. It didn’t seem possible that a mere look could turn her world upside down. The answer presented itself. Because it was so primitive, so much man-woman, so irrevocably physical. She might as well have been standing on the balcony with her gown transparent. She had to force herself to stop quivering

For a fraught moment Cecile felt like slumping onto one of the stone garden benches, head in hands. There would be a terrible backlash from Stuart and his family if she ever thought to break her engagement. They, who were all so much for her, would overnight turn against her. Bitterness and anger would take hold, never to let go. She would be made to feel their public humiliation. In her heart she knew part of her appeal for Stuart and his family was her being Joel Moreland’s granddaughter. She had grown up knowing that being the only granddaughter of one of the country’s richest men affected her relationship with others. Some actively pursued friendship, others, motivated by envy became detractors behind her back. She was never one hundred percent sure who actually liked her for herself except for a trusted few, whose friendship she cherished. Even Stuart, by his own admission, was a man on a mission. He wanted to be a real player. He was already on his way. A very bright associate in a leading law firm, Stuart Carlson was looking at being made a full partner within a year or two. He had political aspirations, as well, perhaps borne of his longing to be in the spotlight. She had often teased him about his ambitions. Now she thought they were too overriding. Even in the past year Stuart had become increasingly bent on cultivating the right people and discarding those he judged as not really going anywhere. It seemed to her sadly false, though she realized Stuart wasn’t alone in setting his goals on climbing the social ladder to the top rung. Marrying a Moreland greatly increased his chances.

And what of her mother? Cecile had spent her life trying to appease and placate her nerve-ridden mother, so she knew Justine would be devastated by any change of plan. For reasons she had never really been able to fathom, Stuart and her mother were huge allies. Of course, Stuart had always gone out of his way to charm her—very attentive, bringing wine and flowers, the special handmade chocolates her mother loved—but even that didn’t explain it. She knew her mother saw Stuart as someone on side with her; a young man who would make a good son-in-law, who with her guidance could develop into a pillar of society; steady and reliable, a one-woman man who could be depended upon to honor his marriage vows. A judgment Justine knew in her heart of hearts didn’t fit her husband.

ALL THE WHILE they were roaming, Cecile was very much aware of Stuart’s arm clamped possessively around her waist. She couldn’t bring herself to hurt him by breaking free, but it struck her that she wanted to walk alone, not linked to the man she had chosen to marry.

It will make it so much easier for you to find the stranger, said a harsh little voice inside her head. It was excruciating to have to acknowledge it, but it was true. She was actively searching for his tall striking figure among the milling crowd.

You idiot! the harsh little voice whispered on. He’s trouble. You know that. He’s someone who can upset your whole life.

She couldn’t claim she had no portent of this. Every nerve in her body was shrieking a warning. Wasn’t it extremely foolish then to ignore that warning when she should be listening? It was out of character for her to behave this way, but she found she couldn’t stop.

Stuart told her repeatedly how beautiful she looked. “There’s not a woman here to touch you!” Pride transformed his smooth, self-assured face, his lawyer’s face as she thought of it. They were standing in the dappled shadows of a shade tree, he playing with her fingers. Slowly, almost reverently, he lifted the hand that bore his splendid diamond engagement ring to his mouth.

“Ceci?” He looked longingly into her eyes. “You have to marry me very soon. I’m crazy about you, don’t you know?”

“I do, Stuart, I do!” Her heart felt as though it could break. How could she possibly betray him and his love? How could she even think about it? She had given her solemn promise to marry him. She’d had any number of admirers to choose from since the age of sixteen, but none she’d been able to take as seriously as Stuart. She wanted to marry. She wanted children. She loved children. She would be a good mother, shielding any child of hers from all the pressures that had attended her own childhood. There wasn’t going to be any grand passion for her. No use waiting around for it. The knowledge was a factor in her decision to marry Stuart, who had many attractive qualities and, she believed, genuinely loved her. Everyone knew lightning strikes were dangerous, anyway.

There was absolutely no way out.

Stuart threw back his dark head and laughed triumphantly. “That’s the very thing I’m desperate for you to say—‘I do.’ A June wedding would be perfect, wouldn’t it, darling? We need to be together, man and wife. I know you love the idea of Morelands for the wedding, but surely you’d want to be married from your own home? You couldn’t possibly disappoint Justine. Or my mother, for that matter, though she’s neutral. She thinks the world of your grandfather. Morelands is an incredible venue, no denying that, but Justine and I have our hearts set on Melbourne. Tell me that’s what you want, too, Ceci. I’ve known you for a dozen years and more, but sometimes I think I don’t know you at all.”

She had the eerie feeling that was true. She couldn’t tell him that many changes were taking place inside her. In retrospect she realized she rarely confided in him. Stuart was a little like her mother in that he had a tendency to close his ears on what he didn’t wish to hear. “Let’s just enjoy today, Stuart,” she begged gently. “I can’t always do what you and my mother want. Oh, look—” she shifted her gaze gratefully “—there’s Sasha Donnelly calling to us.”

“I say, she’s looking very glamorous.” Stuart was distracted by the shortness of Sasha’s skirt and the sassiness of the gala confection she had on her head.

“She is, and she’s still carrying a torch for you,” Cecile pointed out lightly.

JUST WHEN SHE THOUGHT the stranger must have left early, she saw him standing with a knot of older guests. Profound disappointment, even despondency, was transformed into soaring spirits. They rose alarmingly, threatening to make her airborne.

You fool! You’re not even putting up a struggle.

She ignored the little voice. At the center of the group was her grandfather. Her mother and father flanked him, both of them looking extremely stylish; they were handsome people. With them were close friends of the family, Bruce and Fiona Gordon and the Ardens. Bruce Gordon and George Arden were among her grandfather’s oldest friends and business partners. All of them were smiling warmly.

“Ceci, darling! Stuart!” Joel Moreland caught sight of them, gesturing them over. When they were close enough, he put out his arm to gather his much-loved granddaughter to his side. “I don’t think either of you have yet met Señor Montalvan, who is visiting us from Argentina. When Fiona told me she and Bruce had a houseguest, I insisted he come along with them today.” Joel turned his aristocratic silver head to smile at the well-to-do couple.

“Cecile, my darling—” he beamed down at her as he began the introductions “—may I present Señor Raul Montalvan from…”

She didn’t hear another word for the roaring in her ears. Every dormant cell in her body fired into life.

Damn it, damn it! This isn’t like you. Get a grip!

She might have been standing at a distance, looking at her double. The tide of feeling she was experiencing was not untainted with remorse, even shame. There was Stuart, her fiancé, proud and smiling by her side. She wore his ring. She should only be thinking of Stuart, while all the while she was racked by her attraction to another man.

He was even more stunning close up. Indeed he could have stepped out of a bravura painting. The bronze of his skin was in striking contrast to the dark caramel of his hair with its glinting golden strands. How dark his eyes were! Not black, but a brilliant dark brown with gold flecks. Their expression was very intense. She didn’t think she had seen such intensity in a man’s eyes before. They made her feel more conscious of herself as a woman than at any moment of Stuart’s most passionate lovemaking. It was as though that dark seductive gaze pierced right through her breast to her heart.

“Miss Moreland, I’ve heard so much about you.” He spoke with exquisite gentleness. “The whole of it glowing!”

This drew a smile from her grandfather, who Cecile guessed correctly had been singing her praises.

There was an intriguing hint of an accent. No more. It was a cosmopolitan voice, coming from deep in his chest, the timbre dark, beguiling, with a faint cutting edge.

Good manners demanded she extend her hand. “My grandfather has a very natural bias, señor. I’m very pleased to welcome you to our country.” Her skin seemed to sizzle at his touch. She thought she flushed. He didn’t shake her hand as she expected, but bowed over it in a way that showed his heritage. It was an entirely natural and elegant ritual courtesy that didn’t demand his lips touch her skin. She didn’t think she could have borne that given what the mere touch of his hand could do. His hands were as elegant as the rest of him, but she could feel calluses on the pads of his fingers and the palm. Was that the cause of that extraordinary surge of electricity?

Then it was Stuart’s turn. He gave a hearty, “Happy to meet you, Mr. Montalvan.” To Cecile’s ears that didn’t quite ring true. Stuart hadn’t taken to the newcomer, she could tell, but he was shaking the other man’s hand vigorously. “What brings you to the Territory?” he asked.

Montalvan gave a very European shrug. “Pleasure, business. I have always wanted to come to Australia.” He spoke in a relaxed fashion, but the gentleness, it seemed, had been reserved for Cecile. “Your Top End is not so very different to my home in Argentina. Very beautiful, very isolated, hot and humid, plenty of rain when it comes, glorious vegetation, vast open spaces.”

Joel Moreland nodded his agreement. “This is still largely frontier country, Señor Montalvan.”

“Please, do call me Raul!” Montalvan turned to his host with a charming half smile.

“Raul it is,” Joel Moreland responded, his expression revealing that unlike Stuart, he had taken a fancy to this young man. “Raul is in the ranching business,” he informed Cecile and Stuart, “so we have a lot in common. His family have been in ranching for many generations. Ranching and mining, isn’t that so? He’s also a very fine polo player, I’ve been told.”

“Not surprising, when he hails from a country that has won the World Cup every year since 1949,” Cecile’s father, Howard, contributed with an admiring laugh.

“True.” Montalvan gave another elegant shrug of his shoulder. “But you have some wonderful players here,” he added appreciatively. “I’m hoping I’ll be invited to participate in a few matches during my stay. Australia is nearly as polo mad as Argentina, I believe.”

“It’s the great sport of the Outback,” Moreland confirmed, “but we can’t challenge your world supremacy. Don’t worry, Raul, I’m sure we’ll be able to arrange something. I used to be a pretty good player myself in the old days.”

“I’m certain that’s an understatement, sir.” Montalvan gave a respectful inclination of his head.

“My father was absolutely splendid!” Justine, who adored her father, spoke proudly. “We have two polo fields on Malagari.”

“That’s my flagship cattle station toward the Red Centre,” Moreland explained before turning to his daughter with a teasing smile. “The polo fields, my dear, are still there. You should come and visit sometime.”

“I will, I will, I promise.” Justine flushed slightly. “When I get time. Father breeds some of the finest polo ponies in the country,” she added.

“So I believe.” The Argentinian’s expression lit up with interest. “My family breeds fine ponies, too, but nothing like Señor Moreland’s operation, which we do know about in Argentina. I believe, sir, you sold ponies to our famous Da Silver brothers?”

“So I did,” Joel Moreland said with great satisfaction. “A heroic pair! I’ve seen them play. Their team won the World Cup no less than four times, the last time—that was in the mid-90s—riding Lagunda ponies. That’s my horse stud in the Gold Coast hinterland of Queensland where the climate, the terrain and environment are ideal.”

“I’d love to visit it sometime,” Montalvan replied. “It would be a great honor.”

“And I’d be delighted to show you, Raul. Both Malagari, which is in the Territory and very dear to my heart, and Lagunda, way across the border. The flame for the game still burns very bright, but inevitably time has sidelined me. I still ride, of course. Now my son, Jared, was far more talented. He had effortless style, the physical strength and power to excel at the game. He had a physique like yours.” Moreland had been speaking with spontaneous enthusiasm but he stopped abruptly.

“Very sadly, Uncle Jared died young,” Cecile told their guest softly. She knew the comment had simply slipped out, borne of her grandfather’s obvious liking for their visitor. Her grandfather rarely spoke his dead son’s name. Nearly thirty years later, the pain was too great.

“I am so sorry,” Montalvan answered quietly, briefly raising his hand to touch Joel Moreland’s shoulder.

“Thank you.” Moreland bowed his silver head.

“So where are you staying, Señor Montalvan?” Cecile asked with a return to her normal fluent poise.

“Why, with us, Ceci dear,” Fiona Gordon, who had been Justine’s chief bridesmaid and was in fact one of Cecile’s godmothers, smiled fondly.

“Bruce and Fiona have been very kind to me.” Montalvan flashed the couple a smile that was simply marvelous, Cecile thought. It had much to do with his fine white teeth against his deep tan, but it went further, lighting up his whole face.

Yet another powerful tool in his seductive armory, she thought, listening to him say he couldn’t impose on Bruce and Fiona much longer.

“I’m thinking of leasing, perhaps buying an apartment overlooking the harbor,” he told them. “As I’ve come this far, I intend to make my stay fairly lengthy.”

“You have no one at home demanding your presence?” Stuart asked with the faintest lick of challenge. “Not married, I take it?”

No wife in her right mind would allow this man to roam at will, Cecile thought, acutely aware she was hanging on his answer.

“I’m still waiting for the coup de foudre, as the French say.” Oddly, Montalvan echoed Cecile’s earlier thoughts. “May I congratulate you on your engagement.” He returned Stuart’s gaze directly.

“You may,” Stuart answered, blue eyes very bright. “Getting Cecile to say yes wasn’t all that easy, but she’s made me the happiest man in the world. Or at least as happy as Daniel on this day of days. It’s been the perfect wedding.”

“Indeed it has!” Justine gave a voluptuous sigh of satisfaction. “I can’t wait until Cecile and Stuart tie the knot. You’ve no idea, Mr. Montalvan, how long I’ve been planning it in my head.”

Cecile, glancing across at her father, caught the rueful expression in his eyes. Planning was Justine’s forte. What she planned had to come off.

THE CELEBRATIONS WENT ON long after the bride and groom had left for Darwin airport on the first leg of their honeymoon trip, which would take them to Hong Kong for a few days, then on to the great capitals of Europe. Sandra had thrown her beautiful bouquet from the upstairs balcony into a sea of smiling, upturned faces and waving, raised arms. There was a great deal of laughing and scuffling, especially on the part of the chief bridesmaid, Melinda, who had her eye on a certain someone in the bridal party, but despite the fact Cecile had just stood there smiling, the bouquet flew to her as though carried on guided wings. Because she made no move to catch it, it came to land on someone directly behind her who, with a swift movement of the hand, sent it back over Cecile’s bare shoulder and into the arms she hastily raised. Sandra’s bridal bouquet was much too precious to allow to fall to the ground.

“Oh, good for you, Ceci!” Melinda, disappointed, declared.

“Isn’t that sweet? You’ll be next, Ceci darling!” An elderly Moreland relative flashed her an arch smile.

There were shouts of delight, exaggerated groans of disappointment. Stuart, who had been cheering the loudest threw his arms around her and kissed her mouth. “That settles it, Ceci. We are next!”

Cecile kept her eyes fixed steadily on the beautiful waving bride on the balcony.

She knew exactly who was behind her, it wasn’t her mind that told her. It was her body. She could feel him, feel his aura the warmth off his skin, the unique male scent of him that she inhaled into her nostrils. Jubilant at her side, Stuart got into a long, laughing exchange with another guest about where the bouquet had actually landed before being catapulted over Cecile’s shoulder. “All’s well that ends well!” he cried, and swooped to kiss Cecile again, reveling in the knowledge he was a much-envied man.

She ought to turn around. She had to turn around. She managed to do so, her eyes locking on his. The graceful little remark she made sounded quite natural and perfectly composed. It was important she did not let him see how much he affected her. Of course he did know.

She could weep for her own susceptibility. Especially now when she had given up thinking any man could evoke such a response. How could such things happen so fast? Nothing seemed real. Nothing was as it had been before. It was as simple and as momentous as that.

WITH THE BRIDE AND GROOM GONE, the party kicked up several more notches. Moet flowed like the water from a great fountain. Inside the house, the older guests settled into comfortable armchairs and sofas, relishing the opportunity for a good long chat away from the boisterous young ones. Youth was so wearing. Outside the music from the band was so compulsively toe tapping it had couples everywhere up and dancing: on the brightly lit terrace and in the grounds where the trees had been decked with thousands and thousands of fairy lights, around the huge pool area where they risked getting splashed. There was a lot of hilarity, a lot of flirting, abandoned kisses in the scented darkness, holding hands. Everyone clung to the magic of the day, the marvelous haze of pleasure. No one wanted it to end.

CHAPTER THREE

CECILE KNEW the moment he would come to her, though her head was turned away. She had, she realized, been waiting for him, as though she waited for him every night of her life. She had even deliberately engineered the moment she would be alone, by sending Stuart off for a cold drink she didn’t want. She could see Stuart in the distance being detained by a group of their friends, which included a slightly tipsy Sasha who was holding on to his arm as if she didn’t intend to let him get away. Her grandfather, who was enjoying himself enormously, was a good distance away from her, as well, his handsome silver head thrown back as he laughed at something one of his cronies said.

So finally, they were alone.

She hoped he couldn’t see she was trembling. She moved back into the protective shadows, realizing every defense she had consciously or unconsciously raised over the years to protect herself lay demolished.

“A pretty spectacle?” He indicated the nighttime scene with a turn of his hand. It was a dazzling kaleidoscope of brightly colored dresses, many of them full-length and sweeping the grass. The illuminated gardens were extravagant in their beauty, their intoxicating fragrance unleashed by the warm air. The great shade trees stood like beacons of light, covered all over with tiny white bulbs that pulsed like stars.

“Yes, it’s beautiful,” she agreed quietly, thinking the man beside her added his own element of splendor. “Everything has gone so well. Granddad waved his magic wand and it all happened.”

“The Man with the Midas Touch!”

Something in the way he said it, a barely perceptible nuance, wasn’t quite right. She turned her head toward him. “So you’ve heard that already?”

He gave her a slight smile. “I couldn’t tell you how many times.”

“I’m very proud of my grandfather,” she said, startled he had thrown her onto the defensive when, really, he had said nothing out of place.

“And he adores you.” Was there the barest trace of mockery in that fascinating voice? She had the idea there was.

“That’s fine by me. I adore him.”

“I saw that very plainly. Would you care to dance?” he asked, not taking his eyes off her face. “I would have asked you earlier, but your fiancé has never left your side.”

Until you sent him away!

She recognized that uncompromising little voice, resisted the accusation though her stomach gave a lurch. How could she say to him she was afraid to dance with him? It was a very strange sensation having a man’s aura wrap her like a flowing cloak.

“I’m a little out of breath from the last dance,” she said in a low voice, mortified there was a throb in it.

His eyes dropped for a mere moment to the rise and fall of her breasts. “Come, Ms. Moreland. I regard that as an excuse.”

“It is an excuse.” What was the point of saying otherwise? The silent communication between them was as keen as a blade’s edge.

“You ought not refuse me,” he told her ever so gently. “I’m a visitor to your shores. I think I can say I have your grandfather’s approval. But most especially because I was the one who caused the bridal bouquet to fall right into your arms.”

“I realize that, Señor Montalvan.” She couldn’t laugh or smile.

“Please…Raul, I insist. Señor Montalvan is much too formal. I freely admit I maneuvered the bouquet because I was intrigued you weren’t making the slightest effort to catch it. Why is that?” He held out his hand. “Come, you can’t plead fatigue. You look like you could dance right through the night.”

She was so acutely conscious of him she almost wished she were wearing gloves. Once again skin on skin proved so electric it was as though one or the other had thrown a switch. She had never experienced anything like it in her life. There had to be some scientific explanation. Did he feel it? She was certain he did. She felt once again the rough calluses. Why wouldn’t he have them, a cattleman and an experienced polo player? They moved out of the shadows and he pulled her near, very quiet about it, yet she had the strangest sensation her body was unfurling like a flower. Where was Stuart now? Stuart, her safety net?

She had to say something, anything. This entire sizzling scenario couldn’t be happening to her, but it was. “The party doesn’t appear to be winding down.” She was grateful her voice wasn’t shaking like her hands. Dancing was a source of innocent pleasure and relaxation. It could also be a potent form of lovemaking with a certain person.

“Even the children are still running around.” There was a note of amusement in his tone. “I wouldn’t dare guide you anywhere near the pool. It’s fun watching them splash, but I couldn’t bear to see your lovely gown marked. Not many could wear a gown the color of crystal rain unless they were beautiful and had eyes like the diamonds you wear at your throat.”

Her heart skipped many dangerous beats. “A charming compliment, but the color of my eyes is genetic. Both Daniel and I inherited our gray eyes from our grandfather.”

“Gray doesn’t say it,” he said, studying her face so intently he might have been trying to discover her whole history.

She had half hoped closer contact might lessen some of his mystique, anything so she could regain her balance, but the excitement was fierce.

They were moving in a dream, their steps melding and matching as though their bodies were no surprise to the other. Indeed she fit so perfectly into his arms she wondered if those strong arms would leave an imprint on her. It was so wonderful, so exciting, so scary, she grasped as she had never done before how attraction could overpower. And with such violent attraction came the potential to destroy lives and ruin reputations.

The band segued into a haunting romantic ballad that struck a chord deep inside her. The blood coursing through her body was full of sparkles, hot sparkles from all the electricity that raced up and down her spine. She felt a dull heavy ache in the pit of her stomach as though she was about to start her period, which she wasn’t. She knew what it was: powerful sexual desire that acted like an erotic charge. It brought on a physical change in her, like deep contractions in the womb. She, who had been brought up to be a fluent conversationalist as befitting a cultured young woman, could say nothing. Excitement was growing inside her at a tremendous rate. She couldn’t shut it off. She was in thrall, so much less of herself, much, much, more of him.

Once his cheek touched her temple as he whirled her away from another couple, also intent on each other. She felt the faint rasp of his beard on her soft skin. He was a beautiful dancer. She might have known that from the way he moved. Did they have golden pumas in Argentina? she wondered. She was taken by the image. He was beautiful as a man can be beautiful, with an undeniably exotic air, but she couldn’t see his Spanish heritage. His eyes were more a velvety brown than black. His hair so thick, and well-groomed, was a warm caramel softened by those sun-kissed streaks. If she hadn’t known he was Argentinian and heard for herself that fascinating hint of accent, she wouldn’t have known exactly where to place him. If Daniel had introduced an adventurous friend back from wandering the world, she would have accepted it readily. Suddenly there were many questions she wanted to ask him.

Not a good idea, Cecile! Her warning voice struggled to get through again. He’ll only be here for a short time. Then he goes back to where he belongs. Much wiser to keep your distance.

Too late to tell her that now. She had moved into a new, potentially dangerous dimension.

Her grandfather had taken a strong liking to him—she knew her grandfather well—which meant lots of invitations would be issued to the visitor. Her own time in Darwin was short. When her vacation with her grandfather was over, she would have to return home to Melbourne to her work. For the past four years she had achieved her ambition, practicing as a child psychologist in a large private hospital that had excellent accreditation. It was work that was important to her, a career choice perhaps influenced by her own struggle in childhood. At any rate she had another life.

But how to shut him out?

Look on it as a brief encounter, the voice in her head instructed.

One could live a lifetime in an hour.

“So quiet?” he murmured. She had removed her lovely headdress, revealing a waterfall of raven hair that flowed straight and glossy down her back to her shoulder blades. From a central parting, the sides were secured behind her ears by two glittering leaf-shaped diamond clasps. It was a classic style that greatly appealed to him.

“I’m not usually.” She allowed herself one roving glance across his face. His mouth was beautifully cut, firm but sensual. She wanted to reach out and touch it very gently with her finger, trace its outline. “You understand,” she murmured, “weddings are very moving occasions.”

“This one in particular,” he agreed, drawing her, unprotesting, closer.

Thousands of twinkling lights from the trees poured over them. There was a cry from a night bird somewhere close by. Two perfectly pitched notes, in a descending cadence.

It was repeated.

God! She could hardly bear it! Her heart was thudding so hard it had to be moving the bodice of her gown.

The ache in her stomach wasn’t fading—it was growing. It tormented her she could feel this hungry for sex. It was no romantic longing and so relatively harmless. She wished for sex with a perfect stranger. The very thought threatened her ordered life and disassociated her from her engagement. She could have been one of her own patients: an adolescent whose hormones raged out of control.

“One doesn’t always see such a true love match,” he remarked after a long pause. “It’s commonplace in Argentina and many parts of the world for material considerations to be put first. Fiona explained to me how your cousin came to be restored to his family. It’s an extraordinary story, though many families have dark secrets and tragic histories. Still…incredible to think it took all this time before his identity came to light. Your cousin deserves his great happiness.”

“He does. Blood is very binding,” she agreed in a low voice.

“No matter the separation.” Again there was a certain nuance that caused her to look up at him.

“You sound as though you know all about the trials of separation.”

“What gave you that idea?” He stared down into her eyes.

“You do know though, don’t you?”

He was silent a moment. “You’re obviously a woman of admirable perception. Separations happen all the time. Some perhaps in a way that others do not. Some separations bring misery and trauma, others make us, as they say, fonder. You and your cousin are very much alike. Anyone seeing the two of you together would assume you were sister and brother. You don’t have a brother of your own?”

She shook her head with deep regret. “I’m an only child. I would have liked a brother, preferably brothers and sisters, but my mother had difficulty having me, so no more family! It was wonderful when Daniel came into our lives, and now Sandra. We’ve become good friends. And you, señor, you have siblings?”

“Didn’t I beg you to call me Raul?” His tone dropped low into his chest. It was almost a deep purr. “After all, I intend to call you Cecile.”

He pronounced it in the French fashion. It sounded… lovely. Like being stroked. Featherlike strokes all over her face and up and down her body. He was using his voice like the finest of instruments. One could fall in love with such a voice, she thought shakily, even if the owner were plain.

That night bird called again. Was it serenading them? The scent of gardenias was heavy in the air, their waxy white flowers dazzling in the dark. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing much of each other, however.”

“You say it like it cannot be,” he challenged. “Your distinguished grandfather has already invited me to a dinner party he’s giving Wednesday of this coming week. Perhaps you are wrong. I might be often on your doorstep. I understand you are staying with your grandfather for a month? There is much you could show me if you would only be so kind to a stranger to your country.”

Kind? Kindness wasn’t what he wanted from her, of that she was sure. Though he mesmerized her with his charm, the idea that he might have an agenda of his own wouldn’t have shocked her. He could even be exploiting her. Such attempts had been made before, but she had easily staved them off. “I’m sure there are many others who would be delighted to play that role,” she said with a slight air of irony.

He didn’t appear to notice.

“But you’ll have some time on your hands, Cecile. I could at least be some company, as your fiancé has to return to Melbourne.”

She stopped dancing, aware of her burning cheeks. “My grandfather told you that?”

“He did when he issued his invitation.”

A curious thing—he kept hold of her hand. “He also told me your fiancé is a lawyer with a prestigious Melbourne firm.”

“He is,” she said, defeated and unnerved by the thought that Stuart didn’t mean as much to her as he should. How, if she loved Stuart, could she put herself into Raul Montalvan’s hands? “He should make full partner in a year or so.”

“You see yourself as the perfect wife to a man of law?”

“What’s behind that question, Raul?” She withdrew her trembling hand and walked on.

“Ah. So I’ve made you a little angry.” He caught her up easily, bending his head as if to search her expression.

“You would know if I were angry.”

He only smiled. “Fire and ice. However, I don’t think your eyes could sparkle any more dangerously than they do now. I apologize if I’ve somehow given offense. I never meant to. You asked if I had siblings. I have. A younger brother, Francisco, and a sister, Ramona, who is so beautiful she turns heads. But then you would know all about that.” The resonance of his voice deepened. “So tell me, do you feel rewarded working with children who are in much mental pain? Your grandfather told me you were a child psychologist. I’d very much like to hear why you chose such a profession. It seems to me to reveal a deeply maternal streak, does it not?”

In her high heels she stumbled slightly over an exposed tree root and he swiftly steadied her. “Thank you,” she murmured, fathoms deep in awareness.

“So?” he prompted with what sounded like real interest.

She made an effort. “I do love children. I want children of my own. My guiding star is to help ease the pain. It’s greatly rewarding to be able to steer badly hurting young people through very real and sometimes just perceived crises in their lives.”

He nodded agreement. “There are so many areas of conflict to contend with, especially during adolescence.”

“Children are far less secure these days than ever before. Marriages break up, and the fallout can be very damaging. Some children tend to blame a particular parent for the breakup of the marriage. Usually the mothers. Daddy’s gone and Mummy drove him away. This can lead to profound upset for the parent who has to bear the blame. Then again, I find a lot of the time that problems originate with the parents’ behavior. They have one another and kept the children at arm’s length. That can make change very difficult. Other parents persist in keeping up a front. They disguise, disown or actively lie about the part they play in these conflicts. Children are so helpless. They suffer loneliness, excessive stress and acute depression just as we do. I have a little ten-year-old patient at the moment, a girl called Ellie. I’m trying very hard to help. In fact, she’s been constantly on my mind while I’m here on holiday. Ellie has a good many behavioral problems that are getting her deeper and deeper into trouble both at home and school. In some ways she’s a contradiction. I’m prepared to back my initial impression she’s highly intelligent, yet she’s earned the reputation for not being very bright, even with her parents.”

“Good people?” he questioned, frowning slightly.

“Good, caring people at their wits’ end,” Cecile confirmed. “So far I haven’t been able to make a breakthrough, either, though it’s early days.”

“Then I wish you every success with young Ellie,” he said, sounding earnest. “Perhaps she’s grieving about something she can’t or won’t talk about? The innocent grieve. It is so very interesting, your choice of a profession. Surely you wouldn’t have known suffering or conflict in your privileged life? A princess, Joel Moreland’s granddaughter?”

She felt a moment of unease. “Is that your exact interest in me, Señor Montalvan? I’m Joel Moreland’s granddaughter? I have to tell you I’m long used to it, consequently forewarned. I saw how you were secretly studying me while I was standing on the balcony.”

“Perhaps I was only thinking how beautiful you were,” he answered, smoothly turning her into his arms again. “As serene as the swans that glide across your lake.”

She had little option but to continue dancing. “Somehow I don’t think that was it. The look wasn’t at all an admiring glance or even friendly.”

“What was it, then?” he asked, his wide shoulders blocking the light.

She wished she could see his expression more clearly. “Extremely disconcerting.”

“Perhaps that was only an illusion. I was simply admiring a woman exquisite in her beauty and outward appearance of serenity.”

She couldn’t fail to pick up on the outward. “You think something entirely different goes on inside me?”

“Would it be so strange if I did? I, too, am a student of psychology. No one could say it’s a simple life any more than we are simple beings. The inner person and the outer person can be significantly different.”

“Of course. It’s no easy thing to become a well-integrated adult. We all continue to harbor the fears and anxieties we had as children, but we’ve had to learn how to master them or seek help. I see young patients in terrible self-destructive rages because they’ve had to live through years of conflict and unhappiness. I see a great deal worse, physical and sexual abuse sometimes where one least suspects.”

“That must be extremely upsetting?”

“It is.” She drew a deep breath. “I’ve seen children sent back to the care of the very people who’ve abused them and I’ve been helpless! Some of it I’ll never get out of my mind. It’s ghastly stuff. That’s one of the reasons I needed this holiday with Granddad. It’s not easy what I do and I can’t always stand aloof. In childhood we all assemble the building blocks that go into making the adult.”

“So when the building blocks are in extremely short supply and the conflicts never resolve themselves, one is left scarred and without an inner haven to shelter.”

“Exactly.” It was obvious he was following her words closely. “The violent pattern most frequently repeats itself.”

He sighed, his breath warm and sweet. “It’s difficult to disassociate oneself from intense traumas in childhood. Didn’t William Faulkner once say something about the past not being over or even past?”

“I’m not going to disagree with the great man.”

“Me, neither. So you see we do have much to talk about, Cecile, if only our mutual interest in the development or the destruction of the human psyche. The great human values of love and honor coexist with hate and evil. Now, I must surrender you to your fiancé. He’s heading very purposefully in this direction. I don’t know that I would care to see my beautiful fiancée in another man’s arms, either.”

CHAPTER FOUR

STUART TOOK HIS LEAVE at noon the following day. Exactly one minute after Cecile drove her grandfather’s Bentley through the front gates of Morelands, the argument broke out just as she knew it would, when there was no one around to overhear.

“Damn it all, I wish you were coming back with me!” Stuart exclaimed, his handsome face marred by an angry expression.

“You don’t begrudge me my vacation, surely?” She winced. Even with her sunglasses on the sunlight was much too bright.

“I simply want you with me.”

“I know.” Stuart had been simmering ever since he’d joined her and Raul Montalvan the previous night, leaving her with the sensation she was caught in the eye of a storm. Even when they met up at breakfast, she’d sensed the continuation of his mood, but as a guest in her grandfather’s house he could scarcely vent feelings of outrage or jealousy. She was very much aware he’d had to make a huge effort in the final hours of the party. The celebrations had continued unabated until after two in the morning. When they’d left the mansion, the grounds were thronged with the staff of the firm that supplied the huge marquees and the tables and chairs, among other things.

Cecile tried to remain calm. Inside she knew she was approaching her own crisis point in life. It was a real struggle to hide it; harder yet to fight back.

“I just hate the idea of your being away from me,” Stuart said tersely, equally off balance.

“Goodness, it’s only a month!” She tried a soothing, sideways glance. “We’ll be speaking to each other every day.”

“Count on it.” He stared moodily out the window. “That bloody Raul made a hit with your grandfather.”

“That’s not very nice, is it, bloody Raul.”

“I know it isn’t, but I can’t help it. He’s too suave, too charming by half.”

“That’s his Latin blood,” she offered by way of explanation. “You’re not going to blame him for being charming?”

Stuart had the grace to look embarrassed. “I just wish he hadn’t turned up. He’s the sort of guy that stirs everything up.”

God help her, hadn’t Stuart put his finger right on it? “You are in an odd mood, Stuart. No sleep?”

“Not when you wouldn’t join me,” he said, sounding painfully rebuffed.

“Not with a house full of relatives, Stuart. I told you that wasn’t likely to happen.”

He gave an angry snort. “Sometimes I think you don’t give a damn if you sleep with me or not.”

Her heart was beating painfully fast. She hadn’t asked for any of this. It had just happened. Anyone could become madly infatuated. It was what one did about it that counted. “That’s not true, Stuart.” Even to her own ears her response didn’t sound terribly convincing, yet she enjoyed their lovemaking. Stuart was a considerate lover, able to give satisfaction and not lacking finesse. “Do we really have to ruin a beautiful day with all this? I promised to marry you, didn’t I?”

“But, Ceci—” Stuart twisted in the passenger seat to stare at her “—you won’t set the date. You’ve no idea how insecure that makes me feel. Hell, it’s like Justine says. We should be married and expecting our first child by now. You told me you loved children. I’m no longer sure.”

Normally slow to temper, she felt intensely irritated. “What an alliance you and my mother have formed! Both of you pushing me into marriage and motherhood like I was the wrong side of forty. I do love children, Stuart. I think my choice of a profession proves that. If you and my mother continue to hound me—” She broke off, breathing a sharp sigh of frustration.

“It’s not like that.” Stuart reached out to stroke her arm. “Darling, it’s not like that,” he said softly.

Nothing. She felt nothing. She was greatly shocked.

“We would never be guilty of that.” Stuart faced front again as though he thought it crucial he, too, mind the road. “Justine just wants the best for you, Cecile. You can be very difficult sometimes.”

That was grossly unfair. She shook her head weakly. “I thought I rarely gave trouble. In fact, I was the model child. Ask anyone. I always did exactly what was expected of me. I had to be top in everything, grades, sports, ballet, piano. I worked so hard to keep my mother proud of me. I was never under that kind of pressure from my father, thank God. I was always obedient and respectful. I’ve never played around. I’ve never touched drugs. My mother wants her idea of the best for me, Stuart. I’m not my mother. I love her, but I’m not like her. She means well, but she spends every day of her life making plans for me. She had to give up on Dad. I want her to stop. I’m twenty-six, but she continues to act as though one day I’ll screw up. Maybe she’s right. Now there’s a thought! My mother has always been too focused on me as her only child. I wish to God I’d had brothers and sisters. Anyone to take the heat off me. It won’t stop even after we’re married. Not with you encouraging her. Or is that going to stop when you’ve finally won the prize?”

Stuart’s whole face turned stony, an expression she rarely saw and decided she didn’t like. “I don’t deserve that, Ceci,” he said coldly. “Of course you’re a prize, but I’m genuinely fond of your mother. She’s a marvelous woman.”

“It’s a pity you didn’t meet someone like her,” Cecile shot back. “You have so much in common.”

Censure was in his voice. “You sound pretty darn resentful, do you know that? As a psychologist, you ought to know it. Justine and I do have a lot in common. We both love you. Look, I don’t want to argue, Ceci. I’m like a bear with a sore head today. I had way too much to drink last night and I’m no drinker, as you know. It’s just that I’m worried about leaving you here, especially with that bloody Argentinian hanging around. They fancy themselves as great lovers, you know.”

Cecile took a deep breath, trying to rein in her anger. “Well, he certainly gives the impression he might be. You don’t trust me, is that it? You were furious I was dancing with him. Your coldness to him made it pretty apparent. You didn’t get the opportunity to take it out on me, not with a party going on. You’re acting as though I can’t conduct myself in an appropriate manner if you’re not around, just like you’re bloody well braking now with your foot while I’m driving the car. Do you think I’m going to fling myself at a complete stranger like in some fruity melodrama?”

“You want the straight answer? Yes,” he said in a goaded voice. “There’s so much about you, Ceci, that’s beneath the surface. You act so cool and composed, but that could be your training. There was something between you, Ceci. You’re trying hard to deny it, but I’m not a complete fool. I’m your fiancé, the man you’re going to marry. Need I jog your memory? I have the right to question you.”

“Really? I might have to start questioning if you’re the right man for me. I hate people who go on about their rights, Stuart, unless it’s the right to life, liberty and freedom. So to hell with your right to interfere with my freedom.”

Stuart scowled. “You’re being childish, Ceci. It’s not like you to rebel. Maybe you were on too tight a leash as a child. My aim is to protect you. I’ve always trusted you in the past.”

“How sad, then, I’ve committed a very serious breach.”

“Ceci, you of all people appeared to be encouraging him.” He turned to her, his expression deadly serious.

She groaned. “You just can’t leave well enough alone, can you?”

“You think I want to speak like this?” His voice was a rasp. “I feel I have an obligation to point certain things out. I do respect your high moral standards, my darling. It’s Montalvan I don’t trust. You don’t have much vanity, but you’re a very beautiful woman. Who could blame him if he was attracted to you?”

“How the heck do you know he was?” she demanded, her anger fueled by feelings of guilt.

“Oh, he’s attracted all right!” Stuart declared with great conviction. “You could have been alone on an island. Forget there were three hundred bloody guests all around you.”

“You have to stop this, Stuart,” she said. “My head is starting to pound. Jealousy is a terrible thing. Lots of relationships can’t survive jealousy. So we were enjoying the dance. No big deal. I reserve the right to choose the men I wish to speak to or dance with without consulting you, fiancé or not!”

Observing the hectic flush in her cheeks, Stuart backed down. “Of course you can, Ceci. It was the way the guy was holding you, looking at you, that put me in a rage. He knows bloody well you’re my woman.”

She felt like stopping the car and jumping out. It would be so much easier than trying to push him out. “Don’t you love to get your tongue around the word my,” she fumed. “You’ve got a whole list starting with my career, my ambitions, my political aspirations, my new house, my new Beemer, my fiancée. I’m right down the list.” She realized in her agitation she was over the speed limit and quickly slowed. “Raul Montalvan is a beautiful, natural dancer. Why not? Argentina is the home of the tango after all.”

“Ahhh, Ceci,” he groaned, “You’re making quite an effort to put me off the scent, but there was a little more to it than that. Even Sasha noticed.”

“Sasha?” Cecile gave an incredulous laugh. “The two of you were spying on me?”

“Of course not.” Stuart spoke in an aggrieved tone. “It was only by chance she spotted you.”

“I bet!” She swung her head toward him. “Sasha always was a troublemaker.”

“Actually she’s very fond of you. She wouldn’t want to see you put a foot wrong any more than I would. Women are very sharp. You catch on to things we men don’t. But the way the two of you moved together it would have crossed anyone’s mind, even trusting ol’ me. There was just some aura for all to see.”

“Could it have been an alcoholic haze?” she asked with some sarcasm. She was rebelling against the accusations, even as she knew she was in denial. “Sasha was sloshed. I could equally well point out you had no objection to Sasha’s clinging on to your arm.”

Stuart grimaced. “She doesn’t mean a thing to me and you know it. I bet you weren’t a bit jealous of Sasha even though she’s a damned sexy girl. Doesn’t that tell you something about our relationship?”

“I’ve learned to trust you, perhaps?” Cecile maneuvered the big car into the busy right lane so she could take the freeway turnoff.

“You can trust me. I don’t want anyone else but you, Ceci. And I have some ethics, if that bloody Argentinian doesn’t. Who is he, anyway? He appears out of nowhere and makes a beeline for you.”

She felt like she wanted to sleep for hours. Shut it all out. “One dance!” she said sharply. “You call that making a beeline?”

Stuart sat straighter, rubbing his trousered knees. “Steady on.”

Cecile gritted her teeth. “Do you want to miss your plane? I’ve had a license since I was seventeen, Stuart. I’ve never had an accident, which is more than I can say for you.”

“Don’t be so touchy!” He raised his brows. “I know you’re a good driver, very controlled and decisive about what you do, but this is a big powerful car. Women shouldn’t really drive big powerful cars in my view, and you do have a worrying tendency to be impetuous, especially if you’re running late. As for my one accident, how was I to know a bus was going to pull out in front of the car ahead of me?”

“By studying the road well ahead,” she said tartly. “Look, let’s stop this, shall we?”

“Certainly. I’m sorry, darling. I apologize. I was jealous. I freely admit it, but I can only say what I fear. To get to know this Montalvan would be to court danger. Knowing your grandfather, the guy’s bound to be offered plenty of entertainment while he’s here. He’s not a suitable companion, that’s all. I’m five years older than you. I work in an area where I see a lot more suspect characters than you.”

“To hell with that!” she said hotly. “Do you see children and adolescents who’ve been sexually, physically and mentally abused? Do you see suffering on the grand scale? Little people who’ve been beaten, burned, tied up with rope or whatever is to hand, had their bones broken, their bodies violated and infected, been threatened with weapons? The most you see, Stuart—you’re so bloody pompous at times—is white-collar crime. The socially prominent scoundrels you help beat the charges.”

“Well, really, that’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?” Stuart’s voice was taut with shock. “And there’s no need to swear. It scarcely suits you. I’ve never heard you call me pompous before.”

“Clearly, sometimes you are!”

“This is too much, Ceci,” he complained. “Personally I don’t believe attack is the best form of defense. All I was saying is I don’t think business-pleasure is all there is to it with this Montalvan guy.”

“Why don’t you have him investigated?” she suggested, suddenly very aware of Stuart’s tendency to patronize her. “That should solve the problem.”

Stuart, the lawyer, took the suggestion seriously. “It could be done,” he said, nibbling hard on his lip. “All that charm, the expensive clothes, the handmade shoes, the solid gold watch, the meticulous grooming—it could all be window dressing. He could be an experienced con man, for all we know. There’s nothing would suit a con man more than to latch on to a beautiful heiress. Seduce her if he could. He certainly latched on to you and your grandfather.”

So he did, said that harsh little voice in her head. He made a huge attempt to reach you and succeeded. As a man, Raul Montalvan was very, very seductive. It was one way to cut across all borders.

“You can’t deny it’s a possibility.” Stuart frowned as he searched her tense profile.

“Fascinating if you were writing a novel, Stuart, but I haven’t the slightest doubt Señor Montalvan is who he says he is. I think you’ll find he comes from a wealthy well-respected family. Bruce and Fiona must know all about him. I’m sure you could find the Montalvan estancia on the Internet, as they breed polo ponies.”

“Maybe he’s using someone else’s identity,” Stuart suggested, still frowning hard. “It’s been done before today. Australia is a long way from Argentina.”

She clicked her tongue angrily. “Nowhere is a long way from anywhere these days. Granddad would soon discover if Raul knew little about ranching, and polo isn’t the sport for a man without means. Besides he has all the graces expected in the son of a cultured family. He’s bilingual. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he didn’t speak other languages, as well. Italian, French, who knows?”

“I’m getting the strong impression you admire him,” Stuart said angrily.

“I’d say a lot of people admire him,” she said dryly. “Actually, Stuart, I’m on side with you. For all his charm, there’s something mysterious about Raul Montalvan. Something steely, possibly dangerous? He’s an enigma.”

Stuart reeled back at some note—perhaps betrayal—in her voice. “Aw, bugger that!” he said with a burst of violent jealousy. “All I know is, such men are best left alone.”

Such a pity, then, you’ve already burnt your fingers!

CHAPTER FIVE

CECILE GAZED DOWN the beautifully appointed dinner table, her eyes on her grandfather, who was swirling a deep ruby wine around his crystal goblet before drinking it and nodding to Robson, the major domo responsible for running the domestic affairs of the mansion smoothly. Her grandfather had always kept an excellent cellar, the best wines from home and around the world. The conversation at a table for fourteen guests eddied around her, her grandfather at one end, Great-aunt Bea at the other. The guest of honor for the evening was a well-known political figure, Senator Brendan Ryan. He sat to her grandfather’s right, her mother to his left. She herself sat a few chairs away with Raul Montalvan sitting opposite her across the gleaming table, set with the finest bone china, sparkling crystal and solid silver flatware. A set of six beautiful caryatid candlesticks, her favorites, supporting tall white tapers were set at intervals down the table. Her late maternal grandmother, Frances, had acquired them in London when she and her grandfather were on their honeymoon. Grecian goddesses rose from domed circular bases to support the wax pans and sconces above their heads. Her grandmother had always promised them to her. Frances had doted on her, whereas Justine claimed she had spent a lifetime trying to gain her mother’s love and attention. Sadly, from all accounts it was true. It was her uncle Jared, her mother’s late brother, who had been the apple of Frances’s eye. She had adored him to the exclusion of her daughter, a deprivation that had badly affected Justine and perhaps explained her unswerving, single-minded focus on her only child.

The scent of the wines mingled with the scent of the flowers in the low, very beautiful central arrangement of white lilies and orchids. Montalvan wasn’t looking at her. He was talking to her friend Tara Sinclair, his tone too low for her to hear, but it was easy enough to read Tara’s expression. She looked enthralled.

There, what did I tell you? It’s not difficult for any woman to become infatuated with an exciting man. Possibly he doesn’t even realize his hypnotic powers. Then again he most assuredly does.

Tara threw back her blond head and laughed. She was wearing a red silk dress cut low to show the upward swell of her breasts. She had lovely creamy skin, not a conventional beauty but attractive and vivacious. She and Raul appeared to be drawn together in an intimate joke. A peculiar feeling akin, not to jealousy, but to rejection rose in her. She had made a fool of herself the other night. She had quarreled with Stuart, sending him back home to Melbourne with no harmony between them. Of course he had since rung any number of times from his apartment and from work, but during these intervening days she had agonized over, not whether, but when to call off the engagement. She knew her mother’s reproaches would go on forever, Stuart being her mother’s idea of an excellent match.

I can’t believe what you’re thinking, girl!

She was beginning to tire of her inner voice. She hadn’t really done anything stupid, thank God. She took a sip of her wine, no more, quickly turning to one of her old beaus, an architect, newly married, as he asked for her impressions of a recent showing of aboriginal art they had both attended. She was happy to tell him. It took her mind off Raul and Tara.

After dinner her grandfather asked her to play for them, as she’d known he would. She was a gifted pianist. Glad, in the end, her mother had forced many long hours of practice on her, so that she had collected a clutch of diplomas, all high distinctions, even before she left school. Ordinarily she was happy to perform for dinner guests, but tonight his presence made her incredibly nervous when nervousness had been bearing down on her all day.

Everyone took their seats in the living room, all in wonderfully mellow spirits, induced by good conversation and a truly memorable dinner. It had been definitely on the sensual side, with superb oysters topped by caviar, succulent garden-fresh asparagus to accompany the melt-in-your-mouth beef and small pots of velvety smooth, ever-so-seductive chocolate mousse to finish. Certainly Raul Montalvan appeared to have enjoyed it. She had the idea that in nineteenth-century France a bridegroom was encouraged to eat several helpings of asparagus before joining his bride in the connubial bed, just as Montezuma consumed copious amounts of hot chocolate before visiting his harem. Just looking across the table had been enough for her to be devoured by her senses.

Her grandfather went to the big Steinway grand, lifting the lid. It was a small task he loved. Her mother played, or rather, had played until her daughter’s abilities had overtaken hers. After that, Justine never touched the piano again, which was an awful shame, because Justine desperately needed the relaxation. The magnificent Steinway her grandfather had bought Cecile some ten years back replaced the fine old Bechstein her mother had learned on.

Cecile settled herself on the ebony piano seat already adjusted to her height and particular requirements. Knowing she would be asked to play, she had spent an hour or so of the preceding days practicing. Her hands were slender, long-fingered, deceptively strong. Her technique had never let her down. Tonight, unfortunately, her emotions were all over the place. Should she not play well, her mother would be deeply disappointed in her and make a point of telling her so afterward.

Cecile bowed her head over the keys, her long graceful neck revealed by her hairstyle for the evening, an updated chignon. Normally she was very comfortable in this setting, surrounded by family and friends, none of them, outside of her mother, critical. For a moment her nervousness threatened to overwhelm her. She glanced up at the ceiling; the ceiling stared back. God, she was nothing without her confidence. No performer was. Someone was laughing, a soft little giggle. Sounded like Tara. Etiquette demanded an audience be quiet, but it was hard to quiet Tara, who wasn’t a music lover, anyway.

What was happening to her? Stage fright? Panic attacks could happen right out of the blue. She had seen them with sad regularity in the course of her work, but she had never actually experienced one until she’d laid eyes on Raul Montalvan.

Play something easy. Start with a couple of Chopin waltzes. Everyone just wants to enjoy themselves.

She glanced down at her hands, wondering if she had simply lost it.

Then suddenly he was approaching the piano, asking her very charmingly if the Spanish composer Albeniz was included in her repertoire. He pronounced the composer’s name in the Spanish fashion. She had never heard it sound so good. She had intended to start with a Brahms rhapsody, but Spanish music had always captivated her. She had kept up the repertoire. Why, given he was South American, had she not thought of it herself?

“As long as you don’t expect me to measure up to the great Alicia De Larrocha,” she said, finding she was able to breathe again.

“You’re an artist, I’m sure.” He looked deeply into her eyes. Then he moved back to his position on the sofa between Tara and Great-Aunt Bea, who claimed to have been in her youth—she was now seventy-eight—a regular love goddess. Bea certainly liked good-looking men, never depriving herself of their company.

The lights turned on again in her brain. Normally she would never have started with the very difficult “Malaga,” one of the most passionate pieces of Albeniz’s great work for piano, Iberia, but the fact he had come to her aid—his eyes told her that—fired her blood. She turned with a smile to announce to the room what she intended to play. She saw her grandfather clap with delight, turning his head to say a few words to his Argentinian guest. Bea gave her such an animated wave of her heavily bejewelled hands, Cecile thought for a moment she might get up and dance; her mother sat with a slight frown as though doubting whether, without practice, she could pull it off.

Thank you, Mother, for the vote of confidence.

She knew well how difficult it was to treat children whose parents, especially the mothers, were overly demanding. Her old professor at the Conservatorium had always refused to let her mother sit in on any lesson, even rehearsals for exams. Helicopter mothers, Cecile, forever hovering over their children. I cannot abide them!

She sat quietly for a moment before the keyboard, bringing all her concentration to bear. Then when she was ready she launched into the piece that in essence represented the wonderful dance rhythms of the malaguena.

NEVER FOR A MOMENT had he allowed his purpose for coming here to fade from his mind. What he wanted was revenge. It was a kind of mania, really. Sometimes more than others—when he was riding alone far out on the pampas—he saw himself as a grown man bound by the vows of his youth. A boy lost, his face hot and flushed with tears for all the misfortune coming his beloved grandfather’s way. It was obvious even to him forces were at work to drive them off their land. Land that one day would be his. Land was everything. It spoke to him with a passion. There was an explanation for what was happening.

The Morelands.

“They’re determined to ruin us!” He wasn’t sure how he was going to achieve revenge—strip a powerful man of at least some of his prestige—but he was hoping ways and means would present themselves as he was drawn deeper and deeper into their world. He had achieved his prime objective of working his way in with little difficulty. It had turned out to be so easy he could scarcely believe it. He had the motivation, now he needed the necessary guile. There would be opportunities. This family, like all families, had secrets. Dark, damning secrets that needed to be exposed to the light of day and public censure. Since he’d been a boy he had dreamed of striking a blow at the family responsible for his own family’s long years of suffering and exile: the Morelands, with their powerful army of sympathizers and supporters.

His mother had found peace in her second marriage, giving birth to Francisco, his stepfather Ramon’s heir, then two years later, little Ramona. His own father, who had been enticed to Argentina to play polo and was later employed by Ramon to help breed his polo ponies, was long dead, dying in hospital a few days after taking a bad fall at a home match. He would have survived the fall, only it was his blighted destiny to be trampled by his agitated pony. Polo, the way the gauchos played it, was dangerously fast in what was the fastest game in the world. What had happened to his father should have put him off playing polo for life, but he, too, thrived on the element of danger. Horsemanship was in his blood. He had inherited his father’s speed and finesse and his near-complete range of strokes. Unlike his father when he played it was with one objective in mind: to win. He knew Joel Moreland had been a fine, enthusiastic player. He knew his son Jared rode as hard and fearlessly as the best. He knew a great deal about Jared Moreland, the predator, canonized in death.

What he hadn’t anticipated was meeting this beautiful creature, Jared Moreland’s niece. She couldn’t be allowed to get in his way. Then again, he knew he had her at his mercy. If he could only bring himself to be so ruthless, she could play a big part in showing the all-powerful Morelands what it was like to suffer. He relived the moment he’d looked up to see her standing above him on the central balcony of the mansion. She had appeared in her wedding finery like some splendid apparition or a beautiful illustration out of one of Ramona’s golden books of fairy tales. Her gown was a lustrous silver. She wore a crown of flowers on her head. That first sight of her might well haunt him the rest of his life, he thought bleakly. Just the sight of her had made him think for the first time he should be building his own life, not forever seeking revenge for a past that was gone. Were the vows he had made eternally binding? Why had she made him feel they no longer meant anything?

For long moments he’d been a stranger to himself. She hadn’t been aware of him, so he continued to stare with this queer hunger, as a man might stare at the unattainable. She shone in her bridesmaid’s gown. Her skin gave off a lovely, luminous glow. Her effect on him was unprecedented in his experience, when his family’s adopted Argentina was full of beautiful women, his for the asking. He had not dreamed of this, when it was essential he remain true to himself.

She had turned her head; stared down at him, her beautiful face unsmiling. Impossible to smile at that moment. He remembered he’d saluted her in some way. She had acknowledged him, regal as a princess. He’d wanted to climb up to her, using the thick, flowering trumpet vine that wreathed the white pillars as purchase for his eager feet. He was a passionate slave to beauty in all its forms, but for no woman had he been aflame with a terrible desire. It was unimaginable she should be a Moreland.

He had known that at once. She was Cecile Moreland, very much her grandfather’s princess and heiress. She was far more beautiful in the flesh than in her photos in newspapers and the social pages of magazines, arresting as they were. He’d made it his business to find out everything there was to be learned about the Morelands. He already knew much, since he had lived with that hated name since his childhood. He had started his updated research with the Man with the Midas Touch, Joel Moreland. He now knew where every member of the entire clan lived, what they did for a living, the circles they moved in, their particular friends, their habits. He might have been commissioned to write an unauthorized book on the family, entitled A Study of the Morelands. Joel Moreland, the patriarch, father of the dead Jared, was way up there with the richest men in the country. His interests were vast. He doted on the young woman who now sat at the piano, her raven head bent over the keys.

She could complicate things drastically if he allowed it. Or she could become the all-powerful pawn. He had no stomach for causing grief to a woman—certainly not one who had so easily ensnared him—but he couldn’t forget how much the women of his family had suffered. His grandmother, his mother, his aunts. The entire family had been forced off the land as his grandfather went deeper and deeper into debt. Land that one day his grandfather had promised would be his. Land was everything. Only, his grandfather had gone bankrupt. His creditors had moved in and they had moved out. Exile was like an amputation. There was an explanation for it all, the never-ending problems and misfortune. The way the family was ostracized.

Moreland wrath.

“They’re determined to ruin us, boy!” his grandfather had said, shaking an impotent fist at the clear blue sky. The memory would always remain with him: the boy and the old man. The boy’s face hot and flushed with tears, his heart as heavy as his grandfather’s. What was to be his was no more. His inheritance, his future hopes had been swept away on a wind straight from hell.

Even in the middle of his tortured thoughts, Raul had sensed Cecile was under some strain, as intensely nervous as he was intensely on edge. He’d been observing her closely all through dinner even with her charming but frivolous friend’s voice buzzing like a bee in his ear. He rose when Tara began to giggle softly, walked to the piano knowing intuitively he could restore her nervous energy. It was all part of their subterranean communication.

The instant Cecile’s hands touched the keys, the magic of the wonderful opening bars put his somber thoughts to rest. He sat back simply to listen, to absorb the music and the spectacle of her beauty as she sat at the grand piano in her lovely chiffon dress. The color put him in mind of the jacarandas, native to the high deserts of adjoining Brazil. They grew everywhere in Argentina and in flower lit up the Montalvan estancia. He knew they flourished, too, in many parts of temperate and subtropical Australia.

She played beautifully, powerfully. More important, she had mastered to perfection the particular rhythms of Spanish music. His stepsister, Ramona, was an accomplished pianist, but nothing like this. He knew the piece she was playing. He knew practically every piano piece the composer had written, the Iberia suite well, although Ramona always said the “Malaga” was too hard for her. Ramona had played the “Suite Espanola” so often over the years he could have whistled every note. In fact, he did whistle the catchy melodies as he rode the pampas. Ramon had been the kindest and most generous of stepfathers, adopting him and lending him his name. But Ramon had his heir, Francisco, who would soon turn twenty-one. Stepbrothers, they had never grown close. There was the big difference in age. He was nearly eleven years older, and Francisco was burdened by an intensely jealous nature that came much between them. With him out of the way, perhaps Francisco could find himself and become a better man.

AS IT WAS A WEEKDAY, all the guests were ready to take their leave not long after midnight. The senator as he was leaving complimented Cecile on “a wonderful performance.” The other guests, too, as they moved out the front door expressed their enjoyment. Tara, who had come with her parents, grasped Cecile’s arm rather painfully, drawing her swiftly aside.

“He’s not married, is he?” she asked excitedly, color in her creamy cheeks.

“You mean Raul?”

“What’s wrong with you all of a sudden? Of course I mean Raul. He’s devastating!” Tara rolled her eyes.

“Don’t get your hopes up, girl. I understand he has six children. Argentinians marry early.”

Tara elbowed her in the ribs. “You’re joking! He’s not married at all. Is he?”

“He says not. Do you think we can believe him?”

“Well, I intend to.” Tara readjusted the bodice of her dress to better show off her cleavage. “Listen, Ceci, I need to see more of him. Can you arrange it? Don’t tell me now,” she whispered hurriedly. “Here he comes. I don’t want him to know we’re talking about him. Have coffee with me tomorrow, okay? I’ll ring you.”

“Fine. I look forward to it.”

Tara directed a brilliant smile and a little flutter of her hand at Raul Montalvan, calling sweetly, “Hope to see you again, Raul!”

“Is someone giving you a lift?” Cecile inquired of him politely. Fiona and Bruce had had a previous engagement, so they weren’t able to attend the dinner party.

“I don’t need a lift.” He looked down at her gravely. “Your grandfather has already asked. I intend to walk back to the house. It’s a beautiful night, and only a couple of miles to the residence. I’m used to very long treks, so a couple of miles could scarcely bother me. That said,” his handsome mouth twitched, “perhaps you can walk me to your front gate? I’ve been wanting to tell you for close on two hours how much excitement I heard in your playing. It gave me enormous pleasure.”

“Thank you.” She inclined her head. “And thank you for helping me through a nervous moment. Somehow I froze when I’m used to playing for company.”

“Perhaps I inspired the nerves, so it was necessary for me to take them away.”

“You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?” There was a spirited flash in her silver-sheened eyes.

“I could scarcely answer, sure of you!”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Only if you’ll respond.” He smiled. “Come…” He didn’t wait for her to agree to accompany him, but gently took her arm.

“Where are you off to, Ceci?” her mother called brightly from the bottom of the grand staircase.

“Ah, the mother ever ready to watch over her chick,” he sighed softly, bending his head to Cecile’s ear.

“Only to the front gate, Mother,” she replied just as blithely.

“Some mothers never really see their daughters as grownup,” he said.

“Please don’t tell anyone, okay?” she said coolly when she felt a fever coming on.

THE LAST OF THE GUESTS’ cars were in line to pull out of the open front gates, their rear lights glowing a hot red. In silence they walked down the short flight of stone steps that led away from the huge three-story, colonial-style mansion with its towering vine-wreathed white pillars and second-floor central balcony. Cecile’s heart was racing ninety to the dozen, as adrenaline poured into her blood. Now she knew what being on a “high” was. She didn’t need any drugs; she was sizzling with the fever of sexual attraction. She felt she was doing something tantalizingly illicit, yet at the same time she couldn’t and wouldn’t stop herself from going with him. There was simply no chance of stopping. It wasn’t that she was so much afraid of him. She was afraid of herself. And why not? She didn’t know herself anymore. The outwardly serene Cecile people were used to had been replaced by someone quite different. She was now a woman who was ready to take dangerous chances.

The night sky was glorious, crowded with stars that hung over the harbor. The sea breeze stirred the leaves of the trees and shook out the perfume of a million tropical flowers. They had moved beyond the wide semicircle of exterior lights from the house, but the huge lantern lights set into the massive stone pillars that supported the wrought-iron gates showed the path clearly.

“You grandfather has very kindly asked me to his flagship station, as he called it, Malagari.”

“When will this be?” She lifted her head in surprise. She didn’t know how to take it—things were moving so fast.

“Would you believe toward the end of next week?” he said smoothly. “He had to consult his diary. He told me he had promised you a trip also, that Malagari is one of your favorite places.”

“The favorite,” she said.

“I expect he will want you to come along as well.” His voice dropped deep into his chest. “Perhaps we could enjoy some marvelous Outback adventure together?”

The very thought sent cascading ripples down her spine. “There’s absolutely no way I can do that, Raul. You know I can’t!”

“But you can!”

The way he said it thrilled her. This was the moment she should pull back, but he had the speed and grace of a big cat. With one arm around her he whirled her off the driveway into the dense shadow of the trees.

“Wait! Wait, Raul! What are you doing?” Her voice shook; her body trembled violently. She might have been stripped naked.

He ran a finger down her satin cheek. “Cecile, my behavior is wholly known to you.”

It was a waste of time denying it. “That doesn’t mean it’s not wrong.” She felt herself flush deeply.

“I know that, too—” his answer was clipped “—but I can’t seem to help myself.”

“Raul, I’m engaged!” She despised herself for using it as a shield.

“I remember,” he said quietly.

“Then you must realize this shouldn’t happen.”

“Astonishingly it has!” He pulled her close. “And engaged isn’t married. I don’t much like your fiancé. I feel strongly he isn’t the man for you.”

Her agitation intensified. “I don’t know what I’m expected to say to that. He’s my fiancé. I love him. You don’t know anything about Stuart. He’s—”

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