“You’re not here to tell me how to live my life,” Jake growled.

“I’m trying to help you.” Angelica laid a hesitant hand on his arm. “Moreover, I’m trying to help myself. You give me the impression you think I’m the sort of woman who might hurt you.”

She was so beautiful, with that abundant hair flowing around her face, and her eyes as dark as night. He wanted to kiss her, deeply, lavishly, with all the passion that beat in his blood.

“I never believed in a witch until I met you,” he said, wondering what it would be like to keep her forever.

“Yet you still call me Angel? I have to tell you that no one else has called me that.” It seemed important to bring that fact to his attention. “You need to think about that, Jake McCord. Because I can’t be both….”

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

Outback Angel
Margaret Way

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER ONE

THE heat and clamour of the day had been frightful, Jake reflected. Truly exhausting even for him. It had been easy enough rounding up the mob on the spinifex plains at the height of the Dry, fields of burnt gold like an endless harvest of wheat, but galloping after cattle in rough terrain was no fun. And dangerous.

Last year his Brit jackeroo, Charlie Middleton, had sustained a back injury as a result of his boundless derring-do and yen for action and had to undergo surgery, which mercifully turned out fine. Charlie, the Honourable Charles Middleton, no less, was back on the job a whole lot less inclined to go swashbuckling around the bush. He really liked Charlie and mostly looked on his enthusiasm and sense of adventure with favour, but the ever-present hazards had to be taken seriously. Driving cleanskins, the unbranded cattle, out of their hiding places was one of them. The horned beasts, dangerous on that count alone, buried themselves deep in the vast network of lignum thickets that wrapped themselves around the waterways and billabongs, finding green havens after the semidesert with its scorching red sands.

This was the final muster before Christmas. The Big One, though work procedures had been revolutionised since he was a boy. Today on the station good chopper pilots—and he was one of them—matched the skills of the pioneer stockmen when it came to moving cattle. The name of the game was efficiency and the use of helicopters had greatly increased the speed of the musters as well as cutting the workforce. But there were some places the choppers couldn’t safely go, so the horses got involved, every last one of them well trained. That was his job. Overseeing their management. A man had to be multi-skilled these days to survive on the land. He was a smart businessman, too. He had a degree in commerce behind him. A man for all seasons you might say.

And speaking of seasons, the Wet had officially begun in the tropical north of his giant state of Queensland, but not one drop of rain had fallen on his neck of the woods; the far south-west of the state, the Channel Country, riverine desert with some of the loneliest, most dramatic landscapes on the planet. Home to the nation’s cattle kings. He guessed he had to be one of them now.

Jake McCord. Cattle king. Jake was grittier than Jonathon, his real name. Of course his father had come up with the alternative. He supposed it was reasonably close. Only his mother had called him Jonathon. Three years after his father’s premature death—Clive McCord had been bitten in the leg by a poisonous copperhead while out on one of his solitary desert walkabouts—he still thought of himself as the heir apparent. The man in waiting. He supposed it was to his credit he had never thought of himself as being overshadowed by his father when his father had clearly enjoyed cracking the whip as a means of keeping everyone around him under control.

Especially his son. However, in his case, his father had never tasted success. Some inbred fighting spirit had allowed him to shrug and take it. He knew a lot of people in their far-flung Outback community put the discord between father and son down to Clive McCord’s not unrare jealousy of his heir and his deep-seated bitterness. The fact was, both of their lives had been tragically disrupted by the death of beautiful, much loved, Roxanne, wife and mother, in a riding accident on the station when Jake was barely six. From then on his father had turned into another person, with hardly a nodding tolerance for others, not drawing closer to his bereft child, but seeming to blame him for living when his wife hadn’t. There was ample proof that sort of thing sometimes happened.

The total lack of love and approval had left him damaged he supposed. It had certainly charged him with a lot of hurt and anger and an almost chronic wariness that even extended into his love life. He supposed it was all about his mother and his idealisation of her. It had been very hard on his girlfriends because one way or another they had all fallen short. Or perhaps he believed that love was an illusion. Yet he had known love when his mother was alive. He was still capable of remembering. Her loss had been overwhelming and it had come at a bad time in a child’s life.

Two years after his mother’s death, Stacy had come along. Stacy, his stepmother, his father’s second wife. Poor Stacy! God what a life she’d had with such a hard strange man who’d only married her because she was nothing like his late wife, but she was young, gentle and tractable and could provide from her delicate body more sons to work the giant station. All Stacy could manage was his half sister, Gillian, who had proved as easy to dominate as her mother, flinching whenever her father’s hard gaze fell on her. It would have been easier for Gillian had she been a McCabe in appearance. His clan tended to be really handsome people with a surplus of self-confidence. Gillian favoured her mother. Pretty, sure, but living life under a modern-day despot who never saw her as any kind of asset had clipped Gilly’s wings. Sometimes he thought it hadn’t helped anyone when he’d come so repeatedly to their defence. It had only made his father look more harshly on all of them.

McCord’s sudden violent death was an appalling shock when they all thought he was going to live forever, but in the end he hadn’t been mourned. Stacy and Gillian had made a pretence at grief—surely it was expected—but it wasn’t in Jake to play the hypocrite. All of them after the initial shock had felt a vast sense of release. For such a rich and powerful man, his father had had few genuine friends except for an old aboriginal called Jindii, an Eaglehawk man, who sometimes joined McCord on his wanderings. Jindii, a desert nomad, had passed back and forth across the station for as long as anyone could remember. In fact the old man had to be at least one hundred and looked every minute of it. Jindii still wandered the Wild Heart. So did his father for that matter. In spirit anyway. He had scattered his father’s ashes in a high-noon ritual, watching them disappear in a sea of mirage to become part of the eternal shifting sands.

So now he was McCord, the master of Coori Downs. Coori was an aboriginal word meaning flowers. And vast vistas of desert flora was what the first Scottish-born McCord settler in Australia had seen when he and an explorer friend had passed through the Channel Country on their journey to the Central Queensland plains in the early 1800s. Jake had whole sections of his ancestor’s diaries off pat….

“Wildflowers marching to the horizons!” His ancestor had written. “Mile after mile of them, as far as a man can see. A sight that gave me a sense of God; of great kinship with this ancient earth. Under those infinite desert gardens, surely the mightiest on earth, lay the bones of the explorers who had perished. Men like Kingsley and me. Ordinary men but adventurers, too. Men of vision. It seemed impossible such displays could exist under the blazing sun. There were countless millions of daisies with white and gold petals like paper. Pink succulents, yellow poppies, delicate, fragrant indigo, purple, brilliant red bushes that looked like they’d caught fire. And grasses of lilac, silver and pale green were waving their feathery plumes before the wind. A wonderful, wonderful sight, breath-taking in its unexpectedness. It was like entering Paradise after the savagery of the country through which we had passed, harsh and unforgiving enough to break a man’s spirit. The temptation to stay in this flowering wilderness was enormous but Kingsley rightly reminded me we had to meet up with the main party at an isolated settlement eight days hence.”

His intrepid ancestor had returned ten years later, to almost the exact spot, this time with his family, his wife and four sons, to lay the foundation for the McCord dynasty. It had proved a hard life with undreamed-of tribulations, but the family had survived and triumphed. The days of the pioneers had been meticulously recorded in several diaries.

It was a harsh code Jake had lived under himself. Not materially, the reputed family wealth was no fiction. His father deserved respect for the management of his heritage. Coori had prospered under his stewardship, but somehow from a twisted soul his father had set about trying to deplete his only son’s resources. But in the best tradition of his forefathers, it had only made Jake tougher. Survival of the fittest was the name of the game. A man still had to contend with the rules of the jungle.

As for Stacy? She hadn’t had much of a life. Married off at eighteen to a man of difficult character almost twenty years her senior. Just to add to it, Stacy had to live with the fact she was in a triangular marriage, even if her rival was a tragic ghost, the memory of his mother, Roxanne.

Her portrait had never come down. It continued to hang above the mantelpiece in the Yellow Drawing Room. A study of a beautiful young woman on the eve of her marriage to one of the most eligible young men in the country, Clive McCord of the McCord pioneering dynasty. He tried to remember his father as a young man. Certainly his early childhood memories had been filled with happy times. Enough to sustain him.

But the young Clive McCord had all but disappeared the day they brought his wife in on a stretcher, slender neck broken in a fall from her beloved Arabian mare, Habibah, though she’d been an experienced horsewoman. His father had shot Habibah where it stood, sweating and trembling. Jake remembered that bright, shining, beautiful animal crashing to the ground as vividly as though it were yesterday. He remembered his screams of protest, rushing to his father, grasping him around the legs in an effort to divert his aim. Habibah was his mother’s horse. She would never have wanted it destroyed. It was an accident, but it may as well have been murder so far as his father was concerned. Despite the agony of his son, Clive McCord had pulled the trigger, his insides burning with grief and rage.

I’ve such a memory, he thought, feeling a moment of depression, it burdens me. He stopped on his journey from the stables to the house to eye a falcon about to drop on its prey. He clapped his hands, looking skyward at the blazing desert sunset.

“Scat!” Immediately the falcon flew off with a sharp, predatory and mournful cry that startled the family cat, Tosca, who had the same colouring as Jake. It amused him, though Stacy always said he was more like a lion. He bent to the cat, as it purred in contentment and wound itself around his leg, stroking and murmuring a few endearments that Tosca seemed to enjoy. He loved all animals though he’d had his arguments with wild camels and dingoes. He loved horses especially, it was a love born and bred in him. Horses were essential to his unique way of life. He was highly skilled at educating them and keeping them fit and sound in tough conditions. He couldn’t help knowing that he was widely regarded as a superb rider and polo player, as well.

The truly frustrating thing was while he was a damned good judge of a horse’s character, he hadn’t had such luck with women. One in particular had hurt him, but that was in his university days. Her name was Michelle. She was a few years older, and a smooth, smooth, operator. She played games when one thing he prized in a relationship was trust. And he didn’t share. He was still waiting like a fool for that thunderbolt from the heavens, the perfect woman, or perfect for him, and he was twenty-eight years old. A man of strong passions, but he made damn sure they didn’t appear too near the surface. How different life would be with that one woman. He still hadn’t closed his mind on the idea he would find her. Or she would find him. God knows he had little time to go courting. That was the curse of the man on the land.

He heaved a weary sigh. He found sweet and endearing his stepmother and half sister. He loved them for their gentle caring natures but even at the best of times they weren’t women to lean on. They had an excellent housekeeper in Clary. Clary had her own little band of household staff, part aboriginal girls born on the station, gone away to school, but happy to come back. Still, the homestead by any standards was a mansion and Clary wasn’t getting any younger. The house girls needed direction. He certainly didn’t need Stacy and Gilly to help him run the station and their two out-stations hundreds of miles away in Central Queensland, but it would have been brilliant had they been more confident and competent, able to run things, order up supplies, manage the domestic staff, all the sorts of things women traditionally did on an Outback station.

Like Dinah, for instance. He could just picture Dinah Campbell running the Christmas functions Coori would be hosting this year, although he had given the job to his cousin, Isobel, who ran a very successful catering business for the well-heeled in Brisbane. Even so, Dinah had come close to telling him she would have been just as good at the job, humming softly to herself as she explored all the reception rooms of the house, making suggestions as to what needed changing, a seriously desirous expression in her eyes; laughing right under his nose about Stacy’s “problems” until she saw she was making him furious.

Dinah, a genuine platinum-blonde with pale green eyes, was a good-looking, totally capable and assured young woman but her strong point wasn’t tact or understanding, maybe you couldn’t have one without the other, and he didn’t care at all for her patronising his family. He’d known Dinah since they were children. Like him, she was Outback royalty, grand-daughter to his McCord grandfather’s closest friend. He had even romanced her on and off. Dinah could be good fun, as well as being good in bed. He knew she valued their long friendship, but there was something about her he couldn’t really cotton on to. Could it be her lack of feeling for others? God knows he’d had enough of that, though she was always incredibly sweet to him. He was aware Dinah and her family had high hopes that one day he would “pop the question” though he had never led Dinah to believe it was only a matter of time.

Yes, he could picture Dinah organising everything perfectly, compulsively methodical, looking glamorous while she savoured playing Coori’s hostess, circling the guests using all her practised charm, and supreme self-confidence that came with having a rich man for a doting dad. So why had he rejected her? In many ways she had fit the bill. She was strong, with energy to burn. She was Outback born and had lived his way of life. Moreover he needed someone. A woman he could love and live with for the rest of his life. Where the hell was she? If she ever turned up he knew he would recognise her right off.

Some of his more delicious dreams stirred… He kept seeing a pair of dark eyes. A wonderful fall of dark curly hair, glossy as a magpie’s wing. Even thinking about it drew all the blood into his loins. But he didn’t know a single girl with large lustrous dark eyes and a beautiful soft body that drew a man like a magnet. At one point he thought he had actually seen her someplace. Somewhere outside his dreams. Then he decided she was simply a figment of his imagination.

Stacy was waiting for him the moment he set foot in the homestead. Even after all these years she still had the capacity to surprise him. She was sitting cross-legged on the parqueted floor, flanked by the two coal-black Labradors, Juno and Jupiter, tails thumping in an ecstasy of greeting.

“What on earth are you doing down there?” He braced himself as the dogs bounded towards him.

Stacy smiled sweetly and shrugged. “Why not? It’s nice and cool. Besides I’ve never felt comfortable in those chairs.” She nodded at two very imposing and valuable antique carved mahogany hall chairs with sphinx-like figures for arms. At forty Stacy was in great shape. She still looked like a girl, with her fair hair and skin and large cloudy blue eyes. She’d lived a lifetime of constantly trying to please, but somehow she didn’t show the burden of endless stress.

Arrested development, one of the acerbic McCord aunts had observed. No one in the extended family could ever work out why the high-handed, difficult and demanding Clive had married such a consistently shy and ineffectual little thing. Stacy wasn’t considered interesting or exciting at all. Why, she couldn’t be more different to the beautiful, vivid Roxanne whom everyone had adored and greatly mourned.

Now Stacy stood up, swaying a little because she had pins and needles in her left foot, a neat figure in her cotton shirt and jeans, the great crystal waterfall that was the hall chandelier putting highlights into her short cap of fair hair.

“Isobel called,” she announced, as though conducting a conversation with his dynamo of a cousin had left her vaguely distraught.

“Oh?” At this time of year Isobel’s business was running full-tilt, but she had come to his rescue yet again. Isobel, married to a well-known Federal M.P. was particularly sensitive to his plight. Kinder than most of the McCord clan, even Isobel found Stacy’s lack of social and organization skills extremely unfortunate.

“So what did she want?” he prompted as Stacy seemed to have come to the end of her speech.

“Malcolm had a sick turn in the P.M.’s office.” She said it like it was the high point of Malcolm’s career. “He’s going into hospital in the morning so they can run a few tests.”

“Oh, Lord, I’ll have to call her.” He ran a hand through his thick hair, dismayed on two counts. He really liked Malcolm, and this could put paid to the up-coming Coori festivities. “Maybe exhaustion,” he mused, hopefully. “Malcolm works harder than most.”

“I didn’t know any of them really worked,” said Stacy who had no insight into a busy politician’s life at all. “But I’m sorry about Malcolm. He’s one of the few to never be nasty to me. And they’re such a compatible couple.”

“I guess some marriages have to work out,” he offered distractedly, his mind ticking over. Even his rock-solid cousin would be a mess if anything was really wrong with Malcolm, God forbid. And it would put paid to Isobel’s indispensable services. Maybe he would have to turn to Dinah, after all. She’d really love that.

“What if Isobel can’t handle our functions?” Stacy asked thoughtfully, not considering for a minute she should have a go. “You might have to fall back on Dinah. I hope you don’t have to.” She cast him a quick look. “Isobel flusters me, I almost have to run to catch up with her, but Dinah makes me feel an utter fool.”

“Why don’t you tell her off?” he suggested briskly, no longer embarrassed by his stepmother’s inadequacies. “That might give both of you a good shake-up. Eventually, Dinah might even stop.”

“But she’s your friend!” Stacy stared at him incredulously, as if somehow that gave Dinah free rein. “I’m not game to say a word to her,” she confessed, thinking even Dinah’s smile had a sneer in it. “I must be such a disappointment to you, Jake.” Stacy brushed her wispy fringe from her forehead. “I was certainly cut from a different cloth than the likes of Isobel and Dinah.”

Wasn’t that the truth! From his childhood his role had been to be supportive of Stacy. Even now Stacy couldn’t speak his mother’s name, though he had often caught her staring up at Roxanne’s portrait. Roxanne, who even as a young bride had handled the role of mistress of a great historic station with brilliant aplomb.

“From all McCord accounts an imbecile.” From nowhere tears suddenly rolled down Stacy’s cheeks, though he knew from long experience anything could trigger them.

After all these years it didn’t break him up. “Cut it out now,” he braced her automatically, feeling it would be wise to get Gillian started on some course or other. He didn’t want his half sister feeling such confusion about herself and her life. “Organising and running functions isn’t the only thing in the world.” The Lord is my strength and my shield, he thought wryly. He had been relying on Isobel to get them through.

“I’m really, really sorry, Jake.” Stacy’s tears stopped on the instant. It was taking time for her to remember with his father gone there was nothing to fear.

“Don’t worry, we’ll manage,” Jake reassured her.

Stacy sighed with relief. Nothing ever rattles him, she thought gratefully, looking up into her stepson’s dynamic face. Even terrible things. She supposed that was keeping up the McCord tradition, when the McCord tradition had beaten her down. As often happened, she had the sense of looking at his mother. The beautiful young woman her husband had never forgotten. Jake had the same glorious tawny colouring. The thick, thick, wavy hair, amber, streaked with gold. Roxanne, in the portrait, had great coils of it. Jake’s was a lion’s mane. They both had amber eyes to match, which were spectacularly beautiful, full of sparkle and life. The passionate nature of mother and son showed in the vitality of their expressions, the cut of the beautifully defined sensuous mouths. Mouths you couldn’t look away from. Jake was tall, as had been Roxanne. At six-three, even taller than his father, young-man lean, wide shoulders narrowing to a trim waist, long taut flanks. He was superbly fit from his hard outdoor life. Jake was a wonderful-looking young man, exotic in his tawny splendour. His mother, Roxanne, had been incandescent in her beauty. Even dead, she’s more alive than I am, Stacy thought ironically. She was quite quite certain she would never have survived living with Clive McCord if it weren’t for his son.

Malcolm as it turned out required surgery. An ultrasound confirmed he would have to have his gall bladder removed. It would be keyhole surgery with a minimum recovery time, but his devoted wife couldn’t think of leaving him. Isobel apologised to Jake twice. Jake said not to worry. But even then, worried Isobel took charge. By midmorning of the next day she left a message that she had found someone she thought would be perfect to take over her job. A wonderful young woman she had taken under her wing, with a background in fine food. Her parents owned and ran a prizewinning restaurant. Her protégée was a food writer with the up-market magazine, Cosima, sometimes she guested for other highly regarded magazines. She wasn’t a chef as such, but a darn good cook—she had helped Isobel with several important functions. Isobel could highly recommend her. The paragon whose name was Angelica De Campo, would ring Jake that very night. If he liked the sound of her, the deal could be stitched up. There was little time to lose.

Jake received all this information when he returned to the homestead at sundown. He started to relax as his worries began to fall off him. Isobel wouldn’t recommend anyone she didn’t have the utmost faith in. He was at his desk in the study looking over an industry report when Miss De Campo’s call came through.

“Mr. McCord?”

Her voice was so mellifluous, so much like honey, he actually slumped back in his leather chair, feeling a delicious lick of it on his tongue. “Miss De Campo. How good of you to call.” He on the other hand sounded quite sardonic. Sometimes, he thought ruefully, he even sounded like his father, which really bothered him.

“Isobel will have told you about me?” Honey Throat was asking. Hell, the effect on him was fantastic! He had to control the force of his exhalation.

“The only thing she omitted to do was send a picture. I’m sure, though, you’re most attractive.” God, he wanted her to be. That voice and good looks. A winning combination! And she could cook, and handle big functions anyplace, even the middle of the Outback. What a joy! He was stunned to think there were women like that out there. Maybe she also had huge dark eyes, and beautiful, womanly breasts. Of course, being a great cook there was more than a slight possibility she could be overweight and sensitive about it. He mustn’t place too much importance on a great voice.

“You can decide when you see me,” she laughed. “I hope I pass. That’s if you want me to take over from Isobel, Mr. McCord. You might like to ask me a few questions?”

“Indeed,” he answered, trying and succeeding in sounding the tough businessman. “My first. You’ve never handled functions of this size by yourself?”

“No, not as big, but that’s fine,” she returned with pleasing poise. “Size is no problem. I’ve had a lot of experience in catering to numbers. Isobel would have told you my parents are in the hospitality business. They run an excellent restaurant. I know all their sources, the top people to contact. I’ve done a lot of P.R. I’m currently working on a pre-Christmas party for Billie Reynolds, the millionaire stockbroker?”

She said it like it was a question and he nearly answered, “Bah!” Shades of his father again. “I do recognise the name.” Billie Reynolds fell into the serial-womanising category. Trying to count his ex-wives would be like trying to count sheep. “How do you think it will turn out?”

“Wonderful, even if I say so myself.” She sounded convinced. “Billie wouldn’t have hired me if I couldn’t deliver. He’s a perfectionist.”

“So you’re brilliant then?” he lightly mocked, positive she was.

“I work hard at what I do,” she told him modestly. “I’ve learned a great deal watching my parents and Isobel, of course. I admire her tremendously. She’s enormously successful. I was quite upset when I heard about Malcolm.”

“Then you’ll know his surgeon is speaking about a quick recovery.” She had obviously drawn herself into the family circle.

“Yes. Belle and I are constantly in touch.”

Well listen to that! Belle. “I gather you’re something of a protégée?” Another deadpan delivery. Just like his dear dad. What if this thing grew and grew? The thought was downright scary.

“Belle is very good at spotting talent.”

Was it possible she was having a go at him? He didn’t actually mind.

“I’m very flattered she recommended me,” she added.

“And I have to say I’m enormously relieved.” He whisked away the rest of his Scotch. “At this time of year I’m nearly running on empty. You realise how isolated the station is?” There would be plenty of opportunities for showing her around.

“Isobel has described everything,” she answered, totally unfazed. “As I understand it, you’ll be hosting the finals of the Marsdon Polo Cup with a luncheon followed by afternoon tea. Finishing up with a gala ball that evening. The following week, there’ll be a barbecue for all the staff and their families. And the Saturday before Christmas you’re hosting a large party for all your relatives and friends.” She sounded like she was ticking them off; she seemed a young woman of considerable competence who could handle things on her own.

Aside from Dinah, who didn’t have a voice like strawberry-flavoured brandy, he had never had such an experience.

“Do I have that right?” she asked.

“I should throw in it’s my birthday, as well.” That might faze her.

“Is it?”

He heard the smile in her voice, resolved to hold on to his cool. “No, but I’ve waited all my life to have one. A party, that is.”

A pause. “That sounds a little sad. But you’ve got plenty of time.”

“How could you know I’m twenty-eight?”

“Isobel must have mentioned it.”

“Then you also know I’m a bachelor?” It was perfectly clear they were flirting. Or at least he was. It amazed him. Proof positive he needed a woman clever enough to get under his skin. “My birthday’s in August by the way. I’m the definitive Leo.”

“That’s interesting. So am I. Shall I write a party down under Future Projects?”

He swung around in the swivel chair. “Well, you’d best work for me first, don’t you think?”

“Great idea! Say the word and I can start. You won’t find me a disappointment.”

“How expensive are you, Miss De Campo?” She told him. Wow! Pulling in money like that was something to brag about. On the other hand Isobel, even if she was his cousin, didn’t come cheap, either.

“Everything will be the best,” she explained. “That means expensive, but I say pay it every time. There’s no substitute for quality.”

“Sure,” he agreed laconically. “You must take your pay home in an armoured van.”

“No, but a security guard walks me to my car. Now, why don’t we discuss what you plan over Christmas?”

Why not? Maybe by August they’d be married. He let his sense of humour take over. If this woman had beautiful dark eyes he’d fall into her arms. He needed a really great love affair to free him up. It was so long since he’d had one. Hell, he’d never had one. They spoke back and forth for another ten minutes, both adopting a no-nonsense manner as they got down to detail. He asked many more questions of her, she gave all the right answers. Isobel knew her stuff. Miss Angelica De Campo was hired.

After he put the phone down, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. It struck him Miss De Campo’s effect on him had been dangerously seductive. Either that or it was the effects of a glancing blow to the head in the scrub.

CHAPTER TWO

JUST over a week later Angelica stepped onto the tarmac of an Outback airport terminal into a shimmering landscape of heat. Waves of it bounded up from the ground at her. For an instant it almost took her breath away, like a sudden blast from an oven, until she decided to confront it head-on, moving her long legs purposefully, eyes straight ahead, not drawing in all the admiring glances, so she was among the first to reach the air-conditioned cool of the terminal building. There she snapped her dark mane of hair back from her heat-pricked forehead. She thought of the challenging weeks ahead of her; the amount of work she had to do even with help.

Isobel had cautioned her about the heat but she didn’t quite understand until it hit her. She was thankful for her olive skin and Mediterranean heritage, otherwise she thought her skin might have melted. Not that she wasn’t used to heat, living in Brisbane. But there it was the languid golden heat of the tropics, with high humidity. This heat was different. It felt more like a dry bake. Still, it couldn’t diminish her excitement about the project.

She was exuberant about the whole thing. She couldn’t wait to get to Coori Downs, which she’d heard was remarkable. Isobel had been meaning to show her a magazine which featured quite a spread on the historic homestead but Malcolm’s hospitalisation had naturally preoccupied her mind. Pity! There was supposed to be a great shot of the current cattle baron, a man, from all accounts, to turn heads. Promising!

The scope of the functions would establish what she could do, enhancing her career, but she had to say as well as the Outback venue, she’d been mightily attracted by the prospect of meeting Isobel’s cousin, Jake. He’d sounded so sexy over the phone, the memory still made her knees go weak. His father, according to Isobel, had been a regular fire-eater, but the son sounded very easy in his power, as though it fitted him like a great pair of jeans. The nicest, most considerate thing was, he was actually flying in from his desert stronghold to pick her up. She had been expecting to catch a charter flight but it was Jake who suggested he collect her. She loved people who did favours.

In the rest room she freshened up, piling her extravagant mass of hair into a knot of sorts at the back. She had no idea how long it would stay there. Her hair had a mind of its own. For the trip she’d kept her outfit simple. A white sleeveless top in a softly clingy fabric, teamed with her favourite denim mini. It showed yards of leg but she wore it unselfconsciously.

She had learned to take comfort in her jaunty thoroughbred legs even if their length did turn her into a very tall woman. She stood six feet in high heels and she wasn’t one for flatties. Her height had made her a basketball star in high school. Even so she never slumped—for that she had to thank her mother who was also tall—and she held her head high even though there were lots of guys who had to look up to her. The man to sweep her off her feet, and she just knew he was out there, would have to be a latter day John Wayne. Despite that, she’d been hotly pursued for years. What did they call her in the columns? The luscious Angelica De Campo. Not that she carried an ounce of fat but she had inherited an eye-catching bust from the Italian side of the family.

Men saw her as a challenge. She remembered one in particular. A married man, a powerful, destructive, merchant banker—she had helped out catering a party for his wife—who simply wouldn’t take no for an answer. As he saw it, he could have anyone with his fat wallet. In the end, exercising her discretion—God knows what boundaries her father would have crossed for his “little” girl—she told her brother, Bruno, who was six-six. Bruno managed to convince the banker to stay away or the outlook would be lousy. She hadn’t asked Bruno to explain his methods. Whatever they were, they’d worked. Probably the banker thought Bruno was a paid-up member of the Mafia. Still the experience had left a nasty taste in the mouth.

Certain men could be quite frightening when they developed a fixation on a woman. Mr. Merchant Banker had been one of them, but that was a few years back. She did occasionally agonise over it, if only because she and the banker had been caught out getting physical in a near frenzy of a wrestle, she, even at her superior height fighting hard for her honour. She wished she’d seen that guy again. The one who’d looked at her so contemptuously from his extraordinary lion’s eyes. She’d soon put him straight. Only she never laid eyes on him again. Not once during the intervening years and she had to admit she’d never grown tired of looking.

Embarrassments and scandals. She was very careful these days men being what they were. It seemed they only had to look at a well-endowed woman. And she came from a decent, normal, well-adjusted family.

Jake saw her before she saw him. She was staring out the plate-glass window, watching a private jet fly in. Even if the excited female attendant hadn’t pointed her out—apparently Miss De Campo had made any number of appearances on television—he’d have picked her. Despite the extreme simplicity of her dress—her skirt seemed to end at her armpits—he couldn’t fail to recognise the quality people generally called style. It oozed out of her and he was only looking at her side-on. She looked incredibly sexy in that unique way European women had, she seemed innocently seductive without being sultry, with her lashings of dark, mahogany hair with a decided curl. She had to have dark Italian eyes. She couldn’t have looked better had he dreamed her up. He didn’t even mind her height, which would have her towering over Stacy and Gillian. She wouldn’t tower over him. This was a woman he could meet face-to-face.

“Miss De Campo?”

She reacted instantaneously, as if he had pushed a button, swinging around, a lovely buoyant smile on her face, sparkle of beautiful teeth; a smile that ludicrously…froze.

They stared at one another transfixed. Horror, fascination, disbelief flitted across both their faces. To put it mildly, both were shocked into a near paralysis as they began to track one another down. That party! One of those horribly mortifying incidents that reverberate forever.

She was the last woman in the world he expected. Jake was suddenly, violently, fathoms deep into the past. He felt anger and disappointment along with the most profound scarcely rational disillusionment. After all, she hadn’t arrived as his mail-order bride. But over the phone she had intrigued him to the extent he had gone about his work all week with a warm secret feeling lurking in his heart; the idea she just could be the woman to fulfil his dreams. He still believed in the idea. Now all his daydreams had been swept away. Miss Angelica De Campo had a very bad habit. She played erotic games that got out of control. Memory clicked in, all the more mysterious because such picture of her he had, had only lasted a few moments. Afterwards, defiantly he had blocked her out, but other images of her were locked in his subconscious.

This was another one of those woman who drew men like bees. Women like Michelle who these days scarcely seemed to count. Even Michelle had never looked like this! Such women often gave exquisite joy before they delivered the body blows. His big problem was Miss De Campo, like Michelle, didn’t adhere to his idea of decent principles. Miss De Campo was a home wrecker. A woman who got an emotional fix out of seducing married men.

It had to be almost three years since he’d attended that party thrown by Trevor and Carly Huntley. He’d had little to do with Huntley, barely making a connection. Trevor Huntley was a wealthy merchant banker, but Carly was a relative. He was in town on business. Carly had run into him coming out of his hotel, expressed her delight and surprise at seeing him, and invited him to their party that night. He’d had nothing else to do, so he’d gone along, waiting until the party was well under way before he made an appearance.

The Huntleys lived in style in a mansion on the river. Theirs was an over-the-top splendour he didn’t envy. Although he’d met Huntley several times over the years, he’d never liked him, probably due to an abiding disgust with hypocrisy. Playing the part of devoted husband in public, it was common knowledge within the McCord family Huntley gave Carly a hard time. No one knew why she stayed with him. Apparently she was pretty much still in love with him. He was certainly impressive in his way, with his big, burly, dark hair, ice-blue eyes he had looks of a fading film star…

People were milling all over the house, drinking, standing, talking, dancing and generally having a good time. A very vivacious redhead—he swore she never touched a drink—had made a beeline for Jake as soon as he’d arrived. He didn’t mind that as a matter of fact—she was attractive—but as the night wore on it became apparent the redhead had the vision of the two of them finishing up the evening in bed. It wasn’t going to happen. He’d never said he was available.

At one point he sought refuge in what was presumably a study because the moment he opened the door, he saw a wall of books and trophies, dozens of them. A moment later he felt his insides contract as his eyes were led to where two people were locked into passionate lovemaking on the sofa.

He could hear the man’s grunts of pleasure. See the rough way his hands moved. The woman was gorgeous, like something out of the Arabian Nights. She was dark-haired, great dark doe eyes. One beautiful breast with its dusky peak was totally exposed. The glimpse was blink-of-an-eye brief, yet he felt the heat of a flush spread like fire over his skin. Huntley was fondling the other breast, working the nipple, his harsh cries abruptly cutting off.

Carly’s devoted Trevor. My God! He remembered the terrible sense of déjà vu. Huntley stood up staring, trying to adjust his clothing, unable to hide his arousal.

The woman buried her face in her trembling hands. Guilt? Shame? More likely she didn’t want him to know her identity. “Disturbed you, did I?” He remembered his own voice, dripping acid. “Stupid of me not to knock.” Hadn’t the very same thing happened with Michelle? And Michelle had later claimed she wasn’t even interested in the guy.

Huntley had actually given him a smile of undisguised insolence, the lust gleaming out of his eyes. “Welcome to the real world, my boy,” he’d drawled, still fumbling with his clothing. “Don’t look so shocked. I’m a man who always gets what he wants.” He gestured to the young woman who was now sitting up on the sofa, pulling the thin strap that held up her bodice onto her shoulder, showing him only the naked gold satin of her back. “Do you blame me?”

How could he? He imagined his own hands on her. Felt instant self-disgust. He remembered he was badly shaken, alive with contempt. Now he was face-to-face with her.

The shock was so extreme he felt almost numb. This was the woman who had caused Carly so much suffering. Carly knew her husband had been having an affair, although, oddly, it wasn’t this young woman who had figured in their spectacular divorce—Carly had used the family lawyers to secure a record settlement—it was a hard-faced blonde with the body of a stripper who was now the second Mrs. Huntley.

Jaw clenched, he forced himself to speak. “So you didn’t go into hiding?”

“From you?” Angelica, too, was so traumatised she hardly knew what she was saying. Neither of them had made the slightest attempt to feign ignorance of the other. Both of them were instantly seized up by that shameful incident years before. Angelica’s recollection of this man, however brief, was so acute, so agonising, she had to work hard to cope. Here was the tawny lion with a mane of deeply waving gold-streaked copper hair brushed back from a broad forehead. Could she ever mistake those distinctive amber eyes, or the condemnation in them? What inner trauma prompted that response?

This was the man who billowed in and out of her dreams. A man in full possession of himself and his world.

By a strange stroke of fate, Jake McCord. Her knees bumped together. “I wonder if I could ever convince you—” she began, turning away from the huge window.

The full glare of the sun was hitting her like a spotlight, finding no fault in her golden-olive skin. He cut her off swiftly. “Really, Miss De Campo, I don’t want to know.” She was still staggeringly beautiful, so lusciously ripe and alive, her skin so healthy and glowing it begged to be touched. How could a woman like that have allowed herself to be mixed up in such a murky demeaning affair? How could she have allowed herself to be mauled by a callous womaniser like Huntley?

She looked at him, upset, but very ready to defend herself. After all, she had done no wrong. She, like many another woman, had been the victim of a predatory man. “You’re very judgmental, aren’t you?” she said. “You really know nothing about what you saw years ago. I’m amazed you even remembered.”

“You did, didn’t you?” he countered, horrified by the harshness of his own tone, which in essence was an intertwining of past and present events. “I certainly didn’t see you fending him off. God knows it couldn’t have been that hard.” His eyes swept her tall, svelte body. “Anyway, it no longer matters. Carly is re-making her life. Huntley’s welcome to the ex-hooker he married. Didn’t he want you after all?” He wondered why he asked, but was forced to confront the fact he really wanted to know. “Or didn’t you want him?”

Her hair had come out of its too casual arrangement, dark masses of it atop her slender body. She put a hand to it. “You’re taking this very hard, aren’t you?”

“Hell, yes,” he drawled. “Carly is part of my extended family.” And his mood was pervaded by a sense of deep disappointment.

“Have you ever tried to check out your theory with her?” she questioned bluntly, not knowing any other way to put it.

“That you were having an affair with her ex-husband?” he scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. God forbid I should have added to her worries.”

“You really should do something about your habit of jumping to conclusions, Mr. McCord,” she suggested, seemingly unaware she was filling the air around them with her femininity and fragrance. “One of these days, when you’re prepared to listen, I’ll tell you what it was all about.”

He laughed, ashamed of the swift desire he felt for her, though he had the wit to realise it was a matter outside his control. “But, Miss De Campo, can’t you see there’s no way I’ll listen. I regret the fact you’ve had to travel all the way out here, but I need to make a decision. In view of what we both know, and find embarrassing, I have to say you’re not the woman I need to run our functions. I guess you’re what most men would call a femme fatale. That’s great up to a point, but I’m not paying for one to come out to Coori. Who knows how many guys might be prepared to make fools of themselves over you. There will be plenty around. Two polo teams, and you don’t play by the rules. The womenfolk might hate you. I don’t want to bump into you half-naked on a couch again either.”

“Why would you?” she asked silkily. “You couldn’t handle it the first time. It seems to have burnt itself into your brain.”

“I’ll get over it.” He stood in front of her, shielding her from view, his face almost stern. “You do understand my position?”

“Frankly, no.” She tossed her exuberant mane, putting him in mind of a high-strung filly. “We had a deal, Mr. McCord, and I’m going to hold you to it. I’ve put off other functions to come out here.”

“I’m quite prepared to compensate you for your trouble.”

“I’m sorry. I’m too full of pride. Right up to here!” She stepped forward and levelled a hand just beneath his arrogant nose. “I can’t let you walk away from a commitment and I won’t!”

“Really?” He raised a supercilious brow, hiding his unwilling admiration for her spirit. What would she be like if she were really angry? “Do you mind if we walk outside? We appear to be attracting quite a bit of attention.” People were indeed looking their way, which might have a lot to do with her glorious appearance or the hostility of the body language.

“Well you will turn this into a crisis situation.”

They walked out into the spiralling heat, the aromatic smell of baked earth and baked eucalyptus leaves blowing on the wind.

“Good grief, there’s a kangaroo,” she said, sounding as excited as a child about to make a spectacle of herself by running after it.

“You’ll see plenty of them out here,” he told her dryly, lulled by the lovely crooning quality of her voice.

“So I’m staying?” She turned to him hopefully, staring into his eyes. Playing him for all he was worth.

“It’s hard to know what to do with you.” His answer was therefore curt. At least it kept him from falling at her feet. If a latter day Cellini needed a model for the Roman goddess Venus, she was it. “I know in my bones, you’re good old-fashioned Trouble.”

“Would it help if I put on my half-moon reading glasses?” she asked with a kind of tart sweetness.

“You need glasses?” He felt a little shock. He didn’t think she had a single flaw.

“Going on your masculine logic they might help,” she answered with some of his own dryness.

“Well I’ve pretty much approved the mini-skirt,” he told her coolly. “You don’t feel self-conscious wearing it?”

“I’m not ashamed of my legs.” She looked down at their slender length, then at him. “Have you finished checking them out?”

Not half finished, he thought. “You’re certainly very forthright, Miss De Campo.” He glinted, inevitably reminded of the shy reticence of his stepmother and sister.

“What’s good for the goose is good for the gander,” she pronounced philosophically. “I insist now we hold to our agreement. From all accounts you need me.”

“What do you mean?” For a moment hostility held sway. Had she heard some unkind comments about Stacy’s lack of organisational skills?

“No need to bite my head off. I’m only saying, there’s very little time to find my replacement even if I’d allow it. And I do have your initial cheque. Banked,” she stressed.

“Is there any possibility you might accept it as compensation?” His expression hardened while he waited for her answer.

“None whatever. I’ve come, Mr. McCord, and I’m going to stay,” she announced, exuding determination. “What’s more, you’ll find no fault with me. I intend to work as hard as I know how.”

“Better yet you might think of a uniform.” He glanced meaningfully at her well-endowed body, fighting down those unwelcome flares of excitement. “Keep it simple. Nothing revealing.”

“You’re very timid around women, aren’t you?” She glanced at him sidelong. The man had sex appeal coming out of his ears. “Possibly you’ve had a bad experience?”

“One, but it was a long time ago. A femme fatale like you,” he countered suavely, not allowing her to take a rise out of him. “You must understand your staying depends on true-blue behaviour, Miss De Campo.”

“Angelica, please,” she begged. “Angelica. Angie. I get both. But I’m not sure I know what true-blue behaviour is.” She widened her beautiful eyes.

“It’s not playing around,” he explained. “Excuse the expression.” To his consternation he found he was unable to look away from her luscious mouth.

Surprise flickered into her eyes. “You know you’ve got it all wrong.” She gazed back with considerable appeal. “Huntley grabbed me,” she told him simply. “I was such an idiot to go with him.”

“Were you attracted to him?” It seemed both monstrous and bizarre.

“Lord, no!” She shuddered, making the clingy little top climb higher around her golden midriff. “Men like that I don’t give the time of day.”

“Really?” He’d heard something like this before. “Forgive me if I have to wonder why you were allowing him to maul you?”

“He was, wasn’t he?” she agreed dismally. “All that grappling. I still remember the tumble on the couch. It wasn’t my fault, I swear. But the way you were looking at me made me feel quite worthless. Odd to be innocent but found guilty.” She pushed back tight little damp curls, marvelling at the heat. “He found an excuse to get me into the study. I was working with a colleague that night doing the catering.”

“Did he send you a little note?”

“He spoke to me. He was the host. He was a big burly man who’d been tossing drinks down.”

“I wouldn’t call you little.” Extravagantly beautiful, maybe.

“Mr. McCord, I’ve been insulted about my height all my life,” she groaned.

“I don’t believe that at all.” She had to be fishing for compliments.

“Everyone called me Shorty at school. I know they were only joking but it hurt at the time.”

“I suppose being so beautiful you needed the odd remark.” The heat of the day wasn’t bothering him, he was used to it, but he indicated they should move further under the shade of the trees. God help him if he actually touched her. She was dynamite. “Miss McCord, I don’t feel in the least sorry for you,” he told her briskly. “You’re gorgeous. Have no doubts. One reason why I’m extremely anxious about taking you out to Coori.”

“So when do we get started?” she asked with a surge of hope, absent-mindedly crumbling a dry eucalyptus leaf between her fingers, so she could enjoy the sharp nostalgic scent.

“The plane is over there.” He pointed back through the trees to the light aircraft strip. It just so happened his was the only one there.

“My goodness! Unreal!” She gave a little gasp of admiration. “Your own private jet.”

“It’s not a jet, as you very well know. It’s a Beech Baron.”

“It’s beautiful,” she said, absolutely fascinated.

“Thank you.” A shower of dry gum leaves suddenly fell from the trees, but he resisted the powerful impulse to brush them from her hair.

She shook her head, dislodging the burnished leaves herself. “Pardon my asking, but you don’t have a lady friend to pull this off?”

“What off?” he retaliated sharply.

“Why, your functions, of course,” she answered mildly. “I understand your stepmother and your sister, Gillian, are a little nervous about handling something so big?”

“Nice of Isobel to tell you.” So they’d discussed it. Why not?

“She had to tell me,” she answered with mild reasonableness, obviously a sunny-natured woman. “Not every woman wants to plunge into lots of catering activities. Fortunately for you, it so happens I love it.”

“So I can point the finger at Isobel for telling you about my so-called lady friend?” He unleashed a certain toughness.

“Don’t get cross,” she coaxed. “You probably have no idea how ferocious you can look.”

That rocked him. “I’ve hardly said a word.” He imagined a situation where he could simply pick her up and carry her off, caveman-style.

“You obviously don’t mind getting personal?” She came a step further, strangely appealing in her tallness.

“I fail to see what’s personal about that.”

“Talking about the length of my skirt was. Your lady friend is a fellow rancher, I understand?”

He marvelled at her cheek, giving her a cool stare. “You’re not getting paid to ask questions like that, Miss De Campo. As it happens, I’m a committed bachelor.”

She didn’t know if he was telling the truth or having her on. Not the time, really, to tell him he could very well be the man of her dreams. That would come later. Now she settled for, “You don’t look like one.” Indeed he looked like the hero of some big-budget adventure movie. The sort who kept a woman’s eyes glued to the screen.

He didn’t appear to be taking her seriously. In fact he moved off abruptly in the direction of his lovely plane, causing her to utilise some of what she thought of as her beanstalk height to catch up.

Equally abruptly, he turned back, smiling so tigerishly, he surprised her into slamming into him. Multiple little shocks like a charge of electricity rippled through her; a little sound suspiciously like excitement escaped her. The big cat’s eyes swished over her.

“And you know them all?”

Angelica felt his condemnation like an actual burden. She didn’t care how long it took, she’d convince him there’d been absolutely nothing between herself and Trevor Huntley, no matter what his eyes had deceived him into thinking. Things weren’t always what they seemed yet he’d already brought in a verdict. It was awful to be accused of a crime like indecent exposure when one was perfectly innocent.

“So what about my luggage?” she prompted, although she’d just remembered it herself. Some measure of proof her customary aplomb had collapsed. “Surely you don’t intend taking off without it?”

He laughed, a sexual sardonic sound. Something he was good at. “If all your clothes are as brief as what you’re wearing,” he observed, “I’m surprised you’re not carrying it over your shoulder.”

Good-natured as she was, she couldn’t contain a flicker of temper. “Obviously you don’t realise what’s going on in women’s fashions. I expect it comes with the landscape. You’re a very long way from the big city.”

“Which doesn’t mean I don’t get there part of the time to catch up.” He hesitated a moment, his gleaming gaze speculative. “Any chance you’ve packed a few things a couple of inches longer?”

She responded sweetly though sparks were crackling between them. “To bring all this off successfully, and I so want to, Mr. McCord, perhaps I could arrange a showing of my wardrobe for you. You could tell me what you like and what you don’t. The kind of thing a nice girl wears. We could talk about it.”

His amber eyes sparkled with half malice, half amusement. “Which calls for time I don’t have. You are the same woman I spoke to on the phone?”

“You have doubts?” She seemed to be gravitating towards him, drawn by his powerful magnetism.

“It is a concern,” he mocked. “You don’t seem like my initial choice.”

“I’m me, I can vouch for it.”

The handsomely defined mouth compressed. “In that case, you’d better come along. Your luggage, unless it’s been stolen, should be beside the plane by now. I know the guy who drives the van.”

“Let’s hope he’s not a cross-dresser,” she joked.

“I beg your pardon.” He paused to look down at her, eyes narrowed.

“I said—”

“I know what you said.” Despite himself he had to laugh. Whatever else the ravishingly wanton Miss De Campo might prove to be—and he just knew she was going to be an extravagant handful—she wouldn’t be dull. That’s what he had liked about her in the first place.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

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

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