Outback Wives Wanted!

Wedding at Wangaree Valley

Bride at Briar’s Ridge

Cattle Rancher, Secret Son

MARGARET WAY

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Three eligible bachelors…

Outback Wives Wanted!

Three dramatic and enticing love stories from one beloved Mills … Boon author!

About the Author

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

WEDDING AT WANGAREE VALLEY

CHAPTER ONE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Could they possibly hold on?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alan Callaghan would never forgive himself.

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

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

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

“Morning, Miss Lana.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It fell to her to be the odd woman out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They mounted the short flight of front stairs.

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

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

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

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

“Will do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If I’m up to it? I like that!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s too sexy for his own good.”

There I go again!

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

“Don’t be stupid,” Alana said.

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

CHAPTER TWO

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

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

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

“About what?” Alana had asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You look gorgeous!” Simon mouthed reverently.

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

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

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

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

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

With that, however, came a warning.

Fall in love with him at your peril!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No use channelling your charm on me, Guy Radcliffe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps her foundation was all wrong? Oh, hell—what did it matter?

Guy took her hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cool. Keep cool.

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

“Who says we ever were?” he challenged.

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

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

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

“I’m always serious with you, Alana.”

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

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

“So you admit it?”

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

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

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

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

“Violette reads romances? How delicious!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It might be an idea,” he cautioned.

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

He didn’t answer.

Silence had never seemed to say so much.

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

“I won’t terrify you and say you.”

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

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

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

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

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

“And you’re scared of that?”

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

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

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

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

“Have you just noticed?”

“I’ve always noticed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wouldn’t let her.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t think you do.”

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

“Wait.” She placed a shaky hand against the snowy-white of his dress shirt Immediately his expression turned to concern. “What is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He said it so decisively it had the power and authority to stop her in her tracks. She rose to her feet, not knowing how to continue.

“Is that a warning?”

“No, of course not!” His brooding expression almost immediately lightened. “I’m simply stating my feelings. Leave it, Alana, please. There’s nothing to be gained. Tell me how you feel now.”

Rocked to my soul!

Her old self seemed to have disappeared for ever. “Much better,” she lied.

The playful breeze sent a long golden strand of hair flying across her cheek. Guy reached out to smooth it back, his fingers making contact with her skin, electrifying it.

She inhaled sharply.

“Alana,” he said, his hand slipping to the nape of her neck.

The depth of feeling in his voice dazed her. For a crazy minute she thought something cataclysmic was about to happen, something that would change her life. Was he going to draw her into his arms? Was he going to kiss her? Kiss her in front of all these people? Unbelievably, it felt like it. Her feelings were rubbed raw. She had a sudden overpowering urge to lift her mouth to him, but instead she moved back, the flutter in her voice betraying her state of agitation. “What am I getting myself into, Guy?” she whispered.

His answer was equally quiet and equally intense. “I guess it’s about time to find out.”

“You’ll have to tell me what you mean.” Her voice was charged with tension.

“Just let yourself go with it,” he said, in a near-hypnotic voice.

Neither of them was moving. They were standing perfectly still, staring at one another; two people who were finally admitting they were powerfully drawn to each other. Alana felt her mind and body beginning to reel. She wanted to lie down. With him. She wanted his arms around her. Some part of her had always been tamped down. Now it was breaking out. Or trying to. She could feel it beating strongly against her ribcage. The safe option was to break the link—

only she wanted whatever it was between them to bind them closer together. The ambivalence that had been in her was no more than a defence. How long had she expected to hide behind those defences? She knew they wouldn’t protect her anyway.

“Are you trying to hypnotise me?” The tension in her voice betrayed the emotional storm that was in her.

“I think you could be hypnotised,” he said gently. “Are you brave enough to let me?”

“I don’t think I’m ready …”

“Some part of you has always fought me.”

“I can’t deny it.”

He smiled. “But it hasn’t lasted. Are you going to enter The Naming?”

She dropped her head. “I like to keep a low profile. You know that. Besides, the competition is fierce. It’s not fair that Alex has never been able to enter.”

“Alex is family,” he explained. ‘Besides, she doesn’t need a prize trip.”

“But Alana Callaghan does?” She couldn’t prevent the flare of resentment.

“All I meant is, you ought to do something different, Alana. Win a trip overseas. Enjoy yourself.”

She didn’t look at him. She turned her luminous head away, unaware that even in the semi-dark it glowed. “ I couldn’t enter even if I wanted to. I couldn’t take up any prize even if I won—which is a long way from certain. I’m a working girl. I have to be around to give Dad and Kieran a hand. I have to keep my eye on Dad.”

“How is he?”

Although his voice was full of real interest and concern, she was immediately on the defensive. Guy was a man of immense kindness, who did things for people without drawing attention to it, but she didn’t want to talk about her father, burdened for so long with the worry, the hurt and humiliation of what he had become.

“You know darn well how he is, Guy,” she said, soft vehemence covering her compulsion to cry. “Dad’s a mess.”

“Don’t! I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.” His hand shot out to encircle her wrist.

She didn’t have the strength to pull away. This man touched her in every way. “I’m not going to embarrass you!” Her pretty teeth were gritted. The light caught the sparkle of tears.

“Do I look like I’m embarrassed?” he challenged.

On the contrary, he radiated a richly sensual tenderness.

“I’m not ever going to cry in front of you,” she vowed.

“You’ll have to take the consequences if you do,” he said enigmatically, not releasing her hand, but stroking her palm with his thumb.

She swallowed hard. Consequences?

“Your father has always resisted grief counselling.” There was regret in his voice. “That’s a pity. There are very good people who can help him. One in particular I’d like him to at least meet.”

She bit her lip. “He won’t do it, Guy.”

“What if I talk to him one more time?”

She made a sad little face. “Dad thinks the world of you, Guy. And I have an awful suspicion you’ve been helping us out financially, but I know you won’t tell me. Even so, I don’t think your trying would do any good. Kieran and I have had to give up. Dad can be very stubborn. Sometimes I think he has a death wish.”

Guy’s hand tightened over hers, causing her to close her eyes at the mounting excitement.

“Don’t say that,” he told her quickly. “There’s been enough tragedy.”

How could she feel comforted and yet delirious with excitement at the same time? It was a fantasy. Did he know what it was doing to her, his thumb on her hand, skin on skin?

“My mother was tremendously upset when your father was killed.” Once again she had strayed into dangerous territory. “When I think back, it was like something deeply personal.”

“Your mother was a truly beautiful and compassionate woman. Leave it at that, Alana.” His striking features were taut.

“I wasn’t … Of course I wasn’t … I wouldn’t dream of …” A disdainful drawl came out of the shadows, causing them to break apart.

“So there you are, Lana,” Violette called. “Simon is looking everywhere for you.”

“Why? Is there some emergency?” Guy turned his dark head as Violette, emanating a powerful jealousy, stalked up to them.

She gave Guy a playful smile. “Why, Guy, you know Simon can’t let her out of his sight for a minute. He’s mad about the girl. Goodness, they already look married. And I’m not the only one to think so.”

“You are the busy little bee, spreading all these rumours,” he pointed out dryly.

“Darling!” Violette protesting took his arm. “I think it’s cute. Those two have been sweethearts almost from the cradle.”

A scream felt like an appropriate response to Alana. Instead she found a smile. “Pardon me if I just run along.”

Once she was inside the house, Simon dived back to her side. “How did the dance go?” he asked eagerly. “You and Guy were really, really good. Everyone was watching you.”

“I loved it,” she confirmed, in a massive understatement. “But actually I crave a cold drink.”

“There’s champagne,” Simon suggested, smiling helpfully. ‘It’s really flowing.”

“Cold water would do nicely.”

“I’ll get some. What about club soda?’

“Fine.” She nodded her head.

“There’s not a thing Guy can’t do.” Simon, his voice full of admiration, steered her towards the drinks table

“He’s The Man, all right!” she agreed laconically.

“He sure is. Look, do you suppose we could get out of here soon? It’s a lovely event, but I’m not much good with parties. I soon run out of chit-chat.”

“You want to go?” Alana looked around for her brother. She spotted him, yet again with Alex.

They obviously preferred talking to dancing, and it was no trivial chit-chat either. They might have been about to face a firing squad together. Another mystery there. She hadn’t seen them dancing together all night. But what perfect foils they were for each other! She supposed that might equally well apply to her and Guy. The striking difference in colouring, of course, the gold and the ebony. She had a presentiment that she should follow Kieran’s direction and take a separate path from the Radcliffes. It wouldn’t have escaped her so-proud brother’s attention that Alex was an heiress. It pretty well put a sign around her neck that read, strictly off-limits. Besides, when Alex was at home she was never without Roger Westcott in tow. A lot of people thought they would marry. The Westcotts were old squattocracy. It was the same old story. Money married money. People with a position in society married their own kind. It helped keep the family fortunes intact.

“Look, I’ll stay if you want to,” Simon was saying selflessly, though he didn’t really enjoy himself when Alana wasn’t around. And all the fellows he knew were looking their way, no doubt awaiting an opportunity to dance with her. “You’re so good with people. I envy you. I always get the feeling people don’t know what I’m saying. The only person in the world I can really relax with is you.”

Sadly, it was true. Rebecca’s brand of mothering had had a disastrous effect on him. Simon had made reticence an art form.

“And I worship Guy,” he tacked on, quite unnecessarily.

“Simon, dear, I don’t have the slightest doubt of that!” She wondered for the first time in her life if she didn’t worship Guy herself?

“Yet I always feel I should recharge the batteries when I’m around him. He’s so vital, so focused. And Alex is a lovely person, but I don’t really know her—she’s so deep. Kieran always gives me the impression he’d like to see me do a stint in the army. Little Rose, now, is sweet. I can see a little bit of you in her.”

Here was an opportunity. Alana seized it. “Well, isn’t that what I keep telling you? You have to get to know Rose better.”

“Let’s go. Let’s get out of here,” Simon said by way of an answer.

When they arrived at Briar’s Ridge, Simon, very properly, got out of the Range Rover to escort her to the door. “I won’t see you tomorrow if you’re going to Wangaree for lunch. You could come over for tea?” he suggested, giving her a beseeching look.

“Doesn’t your mother require a month’s notice?” Alana put up a hand and pinched his cheek, something she’d been doing since the First Grade.

“What about fish and chips down by the river?”

“My very favourite place! Down by the river it is.”

She reached up to kiss his cheek, before sending him on his way, only Simon decided it was his moment to act. The light of battle was in his sky-blue eyes.

“Simon!” she gave a warning wail, not wanting to hurt him, her dearest friend, yet at the same time possessed of a fierce urge to push him away.

But Simon wasn’t about to be put off. He was all buoyed up. “Lainie, I love you,” he declared. “I’ll kill myself if you don’t let me kiss you. You’re the most beautiful girl in the entire world!” He was almost choking with emotion. “Please … please … a proper goodnight kiss.” He placed his hands on her shoulders—she could feel his arms trembling as he gripped her—and dipped his dark head.

What followed was actually quite sweet. In fact Alana nearly thanked him. She’d had a lot of kisses worse than Simon’s. He could easily find a girl to love him, she thought, but no way were they on the cusp of a grand passion.

“I think I hear Dad,” she whispered, thinking that was a sure-fire way to get Simon mobile. Simon was marginally terrified of her father.

“I’d better go, then,” Simon whispered back. “Promise me I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’ll ring you.” Inside the darkened house there was a noise, as if something fairly light had toppled over. Alana latched on to it. “Could be Dad!” she warned, knowing full well it was most likely their cat.

“Night, then!” Simon took off down the short flight of front steps, then broke into a run.

CHAPTER THREE

BRIAR’S Ridge was into its first week of shearing. For most of the preceding week the brunt of getting the barracks ready for the shearing team had fallen on Alana. The men brought their own cook, and there was a kitchen, bathrooms, and a large communal shower room, but it all had to be cleaned, swept and dusted, mattresses aired, then beds made up with fresh sheets. Alana had had to dig deep to get through it all, but the last sheep was expected to be shorn by the end of the following week.

Wangaree, by far the biggest property in the valley, was already underway, with its shearing expected to go on for weeks.

Alana had loved shearing time from when she was a little girl, and the itinerant shearers—all regulars to Briar’s Ridge—had made a little mascot of her. An extra bonus for this week was the gratifying way her father had managed to remain sober and on the job.

When Alana wasn’t droving sheep to the shed, or taking shorn sheep back to the paddocks, part of her time was spent with the shearers—much to the delight of the men, in particular a newcomer to their ranks, with an excellent reference from a big Western Queensland station.

Even dressed in unisex jeans and a cotton shirt, there was no mistaking Alana for anything else but a beautiful, vibrant young woman with a powerful sex appeal that was entirely natural. Admiring glances came her way aplenty, but no man was fool enough to look at her directly with lust in his eyes. Alan Callaghan was still a daunting presence in the sheds and around the yards. There was her brother Kieran too, a great bloke, but fiercely protective of his sister. And then there were Alana’s dogs, a formidable pair. The upshot was that Alana went where she pleased without a moment’s hassle.

Apart from her golden beauty, the men admired her for her proven abilities and capacity for hard work. Alana could shear a sheep with the best of them. Maybe she didn’t have their strength and endurance, and she couldn’t keep up the count or the pace—she was a woman after all, very fit and in splendid shape but at the end of the day no match for a man—but she came into her own instructing her dogs to draft the sheep through the yards. It was fascinating to watch the dogs in action. Up, under, around, running along the sheeps’ backs. In the shed Alana worked hard, picking up the shorn white fleece the instant it was ready, then throwing it in a smooth arc onto a long slatted table.

That particular day when the men were more than ready for their mid-morning break—although there were no smokers any more, like in the old days, no pollution of human lungs let alone the wool—Thommo, their best and fastest shearer, even if he was the oldest, let her have a go finishing off the last sheep. Thommo had given her and Kieran lots of tips about shearing over the years, which they had taken on board.

“Come on, love. Your go,” Thommo said encouragingly.

“Thanks, Thommo.” There was still plenty to learn.

Beneath her blue shirt Alana was wearing a sports bra and a yellow singlet. All the exterior doors and windows were open, but it had grown very hot in the shed. Without a thought, unselfconsciously she ripped off her cotton shirt.

“Sheep-o!” Thommo yelled as he pulled a fairly hefty ewe from the pen. “You’re on the clock, love.”

And this, then, was how Kieran and Guy found her, when they walked down to the shed to check on how the wool was coming.

“Well under four minutes!” Thommo congratulated her, well pleased.

He took a closer look. She had freed the wool cleanly in one piece, nice and close to the loose kinky skin. He threw her a clean towel and she moved forward to catch it. Sweat was running down the side of her face from her temples, trickling into her cleavage. She was positively glowing.

Guy gave no indication of it, but he was deeply rattled. This wasn’t the Alana he had seen a few weeks back, at the party for the Hartmanns. She had been so beautiful then, in her golden-green dress, hair and make-up immaculate. This was the tomboy Alana Callaghan Guy remembered from only a handful of years before, but the luminosity she had inherited from her mother was a thousand times more potent. She didn’t seem at all uncomfortable, yet the tight yellow singlet drew attention to her small, beautifully shaped breasts, her taut midriff, tiny waist, and the slender strength of her arms. Her lovely, glossier-than-satin skin was dewed with sweat, the ponytail at her nape a damp honey-gold tangle. She looked incredibly erotic.

Guy felt a hard knot tightening in his chest. He felt a powerful impulse to strip off his own shirt and cover her up. His eyes whipped around the shed. Most of the men he knew. They were regulars on the circuit. One fellow he didn’t: young, heavy build, heavy wrists and shoulders, good-looking in a rough sort of way, dark overnight growth on his face. His response to Alana was showing only too starkly.

Guy found himself jamming his hands so they came together like fists. He loathed violence. He’d never had to employ it—he knew he commanded a lot of respect that precluded it—but he had a driving urge to run the shearer not only out of the shed but off a property that wasn’t even his. He had to force himself to calm. If he had his way, Alana would be barred from the shed.

His sister Alex had been treated like a princess from birth. Alex had never been allowed to wander at will around the shearing sheds when the men were there working. She certainly didn’t know how to shear a sheep and class the wool, much less work energetic sheep dogs. Alex’s place had been at the homestead with their mother. She had gone on to university, after which, armed with an arts degree majoring in Fine Art, she had been offered a job at arguably the best art gallery in the country, owned and run by a family friend. A smooth ride—as Alex would be the first one to admit.

Alana too had had her chance at university, but when her mother had been killed there had been nothing else for it but for her to come home. For the past three years she had been a full-time, hard-working farm girl, coping valiantly with a guilt-ridden father with a potentially fatal drinking problem. No easy life for a twenty-two-year-old girl. It came to Guy, not for the first time, that he was powerfully protective of her.

The shearers’cook, a wiry little Chinese man, entered a side door, calling out, “Smoko!” to the men. Morning tea was ready, which meant a mountain of sandwiches, fresh dampers with butter, golden honey or strawberry jam, and a gallon of billy tea.

As she towelled herself off, Alana caught sight of the two men in the main doorway. Their tall, lean figures, wide in the shoulders, narrow in the hips, were silhouetted against the brilliant sunlight.

Guy! He had only to appear and she came unstuck. Settle down, her inner voice advised. She shouldn’t let him do this to her, but so much of life just happened.

Totally unselfconscious only a few minutes before, now she threw the towel down and made a hasty grab for her shirt, pulling it on but letting it hang loose.

“Hey, Lana—want to organise some morning tea for us?” Kieran called to her in a cajoling voice. “I’ll have a few words with Thommo, then I’ll join you both back at the house. Don’t worry about Dad. He and Buddy are flat out at the Second Paddock.”

“Fine. I’ll wash up first.” She walked towards Guy, while Kieran followed the shearers outside into the sunlit courtyard.

“Morning, Guy,” she managed brightly, although her throat had gone bone-dry. “This is a surprise.” She led him off on the shortest route to the house.

Brilliantly enamelled parrots squawked overhead; and a fresh gust of wind sent spent petals flying from the seductive smelling flowers.

“I wanted to have a word with your father.”

“Oh?” She looked up at him quickly, trying to decipher what lay behind those fathomless dark eyes. He sounded very distant for Guy. Indeed, he looked daunting. His eyes were clouded—but with what? Some strong feeling, that was for sure. It unnerved her. Was it anger that overwhelmed him? If so, about what? She kept her head tilted towards him, feeling enormously heated—and it wasn’t just from her recent physical activity. Emotions were running dangerously high. She had never seen Guy this way. She tried to cover her inner agitation with whatever veneer she could muster. “What about?”

“We want to keep it to ourselves.” His expression lightened, but it still troubled her.

“Now you’ve got me really interested.”

“While keeping you out of the loop?” He gave her a faint sideways smile. “No, it’s just private stuff, Alana. Nothing to worry or concern you.” His glance swept her, increasing her jitters.

She was wearing some light gloss that made her heart-shaped mouth look moist and luscious, Guy thought. He knew there were many young men in the Valley in love with her, his own cousin included, but she wasn’t looking to get rescued from the farm. She loved Briar’s Ridge. She was a true country girl, but just too damned desirable to work with the men.

“Shearing is gruelling work,” he said, hearing it come out a lot more tersely than he’d intended.

“You mean you don’t approve of my taking part?” She stared up at him with a little questioning frown. His attitude had taken her by surprise.

He was silent a moment. “Actually, I don’t. There’s a new fellow on the team. What’s his name?”

She gave a little laugh. “Gosh, you worked that out pretty fast. He’s a New Zealander, and he’s good. Great co-ordination. I can’t remember his name. I think it’s Dean.”

“Then Dean had better keep his eyes off you.”

It was preposterous. He was jealous. “I never thought you so arrogant, Guy Radcliffe!”

His mouth compressed. “It’s not that I’m arrogant. To put it simply, I’m older and wiser than you.”

“Oh, yes! You’re my superior in every way.”

“At various times I might be. You should consider keeping your shirt on around the men.”

She made a sound of intense irritation. “What a sensible suggestion! You’re really jealous, huh?”

He shrugged a shoulder. “No, just concerned. Your father and Kieran can’t keep their eye on you all the time.”

Alana could feel her temper go from simmer to boil. “Gee, Guy, it’s so nice you called in. Don’t you think I can look after myself?”

“Sorry, Alana. You can—better than most. But I wouldn’t like to see anyone bothering you.”

“What would you do?” she challenged, thinking that the elegant Guy Radcliffe, who never raised his voice, wouldn’t be the man to cross. At that very moment the Lord of the Valley looked mighty tough.

He held a bougainvillaea bough freighted with hot pink blossom away from her head. “You’ve seen me cracking a whip haven’t you?” he asked. Whips were used by stockmen to assist in the mustering process. Alana knew better than most that it wasn’t anywhere as easy as it looked. Guy was wonderful to watch.

“I’ve got a big brother, Guy,” she pointed out sweetly.

“I don’t feel in the least brotherly.”

It took a full minute for her to respond. “How about cousinly?” she suggested.

“Not even close. Kieran is enormously protective of you, and he worries when he has to go away.”

It was the truth. “You Valley men are all so old fashioned. Don’t deny it. You are.”

He surprised her by coming to a halt, then turning her towards him. “Men have always been attracted to beautiful women, Alana. Most are civilised and keep their admiration within prescribed bounds. Some don’t.”

Her hazel eyes sparkled as she lifted her chin. “You sound like you want to sack my new man on the spot?”

“I’m going on instinct.” His dark gaze was very serious.

“What was he doing?” She broke away angrily.

“It’s called arousal,” he responded bluntly.

Alan couldn’t control her flush. “Listen, Guy,” she said tightly, “I’m confident I can handle the men, thank you very much. Our regulars wouldn’t let any new man get out of line. Besides, Dad is sober these days. He’s out and about, and Kieran is always around. I have three favourite men in my life. And, no, one of them isn’t you.”

“Lord of the Valley?” he queried, very dryly.

The fact he knew mortified her. “Okay I admit I call you that sometimes.”

“You’ve been calling me that for years,” he jeered softly.

“Be that as it may, my three favourite men are Dad, Kieran and Simon—in that order.”

He didn’t look in the least slighted. In fact he laughed, showing his beautiful even white teeth. “Then, Ms Callaghan, you’re in the best of all possible hands.”

Inside the house, Alana excused herself quickly. “I won’t be more than a few minutes. I’ll just wash up. Go into the living room. Make yourself at home.”

“Is that one of Kieran’s?” Guy made a beeline to the wall hung with a huge, unframed canvas. It was an abstract, yet unmistakably the light-filled Australian bush. It sang of it. It even seemed to smell of it. “Of course it is,” Guy muttered to himself. “Couldn’t be anyone else’s. It’s astonishing! It radiates!” He suddenly wanted to buy it, knowing if he suggested such a thing Kieran would have the painting off the wall in no time, gift-wrapped and delivered to him.

“Tell him that,” Alana called, dashing away.

God knew, Alex had tried often enough to tell him, Guy thought, studying the work of art even more intently. How did Kieran get so much light into it? Annabel Callaghan had not painted, to the best of his knowledge, but she had been a very “arty” woman, enormously gifted at craftwork. One of Annabel’s Denby cousins was a well-known painter, Marcus Denby, who had lived in England for the past thirty years. So it was in the genes, in their nature, Guy thought. Though it was only since his mother’s death that Kieran had found release in these riveting landscapes, “knocked up”—in his own words—in one of the farm sheds. Kieran painted. Alana read books. Alan drank himself to death.

Guy had known Kieran all his life. Kieran was clever, insightful, extremely hard-working but he wasn’t meant to be a sheep farmer. It was at Alex’s instigation that Guy had discovered Kieran Callaghan’s great gift. He simply hadn’t known. But Alex had. He knew Alex and Kieran, remarkably close in their teens, had long since gone their separate ways. Something hadn’t worked out, and he often felt that was a great pity. He had tried at one time to find out what the big rift had been, but both, independently of one another, had let him know he was breaching boundaries. After that he had backed off. Alex had more than her share of admirers anyway. He just hoped she wouldn’t settle for poor old Roger. Roger Westcott was a good man—they had gone to school and university together—but he wanted someone with a lot more going for him for his beautiful, artistic sister.

Guy was still standing in front of the painting when Alana flew down the staircase.

“There—what did I tell you? A few minutes!” she announced breathlessly.

He let his eyes rest on her, aware of a powerful desire to reach for her, fold her in his arms, let what might happen, happen. Instead he said lightly, “You look like you’ve had a shower.” She was wearing different clothes—a red tank top and beige shorts that showed off her long beautiful legs. Her honey-blonde hair was damp, little tendrils curling around her hairline like golden petals.

Her face lit up with a smile so beautiful it took his breath. “Just a quick one. In and out. Come through to the kitchen,” she invited, almost dancing ahead. “You like that painting of Kieran’s, don’t you?” she asked over her shoulder. The delicious scent of boronia wafted to him in her wake. Probably the soap she had used. No wonder that new shearer was drooling over her. Was there ever such a bloom on a woman?

“Kieran might be on the wrong track, sticking to wool production,” he risked saying. “He has it in him to be a very fine artist. To make it his career.”

Alana considered that quietly. “Of course he has,” she agreed, very proud of her brother’s outstanding ability. “Do you think I haven’t told him that? And I’m sure Alex is tired of telling him. I think they had a big bust-up about it.”

“When was this?” He frowned.

She met his eyes. “I have an idea Kieran might have taken to looking in on Alex whenever he’s in Sydney. They could have made up, but if they have he’s not saying. He goes there a lot at the weekends. He was there recently.”

“And he doesn’t tell you if he sees her?” Guy’s frown deepened.

“Kieran plays his cards very close to his chest when it comes to your beautiful sister,” Alana said. “There was a time they were close, but then she moved away, and now Roger Westcott is always in the picture. Alex will never be short of men in love with her. But the specific occasion I’m referring to was last Easter, when we were all in Sydney for the Royal National. They were feinting around one another like a couple of boxers.”

“Don’t they always?” Guy asked laconically. “Over the years both of them seem to have built up an impenetrable wall. Now, can I help you with anything?”

Alana laughed. “Please sit down. I’m not short, but you tower over me.”

“Kieran and I are of a height,” he pointed out reasonably, pulling out a chair. “Your dad is a big man.”

“That’s all very well, but you’re different somehow. Kieran started painting just after Mum died, when the pain was almost too much to bear. He’s very artistic, like Mum. She always used to encourage him with his drawing, from when we were kids. Kieran can draw anything. He’s marvellous with trees. A few strokes and he’s created a whole hillside of eucalypts.”

“Alex is right. He’s brilliant.”

“Hey, I’m right too,” she reminded him, pausing in what she was doing. “I know good art when I see it, thank you, Guy.”

“Of course you do.” His tone soothed. “It’s one of the reasons I admire you. You’re getting to be a woman for all seasons. All of us are right about Kieran, but Alex is the one in an ideal position to help him.”

Alana’s expression was sad. “Kieran doesn’t want to be helped, Guy.”

“What does your dad think?”

Alana set out cups, saucers and plates from her mother’s best Royal Doulton dinner set. This was Guy Radcliffe, after all. “Dad does his best to understand, but he can’t critique Kieran’s work. He can’t relate to abstract depictions. He doesn’t want to see the soul of a tree, or the spirit of the bush. He wants photographic realism. Dad is a bit out of his depth with art. He’d be the first to admit it. What do you want to talk to him about?” She changed the subject to what was really on her mind. “He hasn’t borrowed money off you, has he?” She was very fearful he had.

Guy looked back at her directly. “I thought we’d agreed it was a private matter?”

“You know everything—we’re in a lot of trouble,” she said bitterly.

“If your father needs help, I’ll give it to him,” Guy responded. “Are you going to put the coffee on?” “You’re here to give orders, are you?” “No, only trying to be helpful.”

“Dad has put his whole life into Briar’s Ridge,” she said, doing just as he suggested. “We were doing just fine until Mum died. Since then, of course, Dad has made a few really bad mistakes.”

Guy knew about all of them. “Forgive him for them, Alana. Grief is a terrible thing. The mind doesn’t function as well as it should.”

“I do forgive him,” she said, flashing her beautiful glittery eyes at Guy. “He’s my father. I love him. But Kieran and I know we may be forced to sell if we don’t do well at the coming sales. The two of us have poured so much hard work into the place—” She broke off to look at him. “I had an idea we could do something like Morgan Creek, in the next valley. What do you think?” She had intended talking to Guy about this at some stage—why not now?

“You mean offer day trips to a working station? Show tourists and visitors the ropes, let them learn about our oldest and biggest industry, give them a great barbecue lunch, let them enjoy whip cracking and boomerang-throwing and then send them on their way?”

“I’m ready to try my hand at it.”

“Alana, you’re ready to try your hand at anything,” he said, rather quellingly.

“Like Superwoman?” Her response was sharper than she intended.

“You already work far too hard. Have you given any thought as to how you’re going to fund it?” he challenged.

She gave him a look that was hurt and disgusted. “Guy, we have to fight to save this place.”

He saw behind her aggression to the pain. “Maybe your father has lost the will to fight?” he said gently. “Maybe Kieran would like a crack at another life? And you? What about you, Alana? Are you going to fight to save Briar’s Ridge, and then settle down some place else? You’ll marry. I’d be surprised if you weren’t married by this time next year.”

That made Alana grit her teeth. “Are you nuts?”

He laughed. “I can’t believe someone else hasn’t ever suggested it.”

She waved that fact away. “If you mention Simon, I tell you, you’re on very dangerous ground.”

“In that case I’d better back off. I’m fond of my cousin, Alana, but no way is he a match for you. You like bossing everyone around.”

It took her half a minute to see he was teasing. “I have to confess to bossing Simon,” she said wryly. “But in my own defence I had to do it. If you’re so fond of him, why don’t you get him away from his mother?”

Guy looked back with his usual calm concentration. “Alana, I could get him away from Rebecca—but it would take a miracle to get him away from you. Simon has invested everything in you. I don’t mean this unkindly, but he’s rather like your favourite Border Collie, Monty. He’s one-woman loyal. You’re Simon’s dearest friend, his greatest interest in life—his only love.”

She slumped into the chair opposite him, unaware that the oval neck of her tank top had dipped into her lovely young cleavage. “Once upon a time I would never have believed you. Now I think it’s scary. Simon can’t channel all his love into me. Suppose I fall in love with someone? Suppose Dad has to sell the farm and we have to move away? Suppose I die? People get killed all the time. We know that better than most people. He can’t love me. Besides, his mother wouldn’t stand for it. She’s drilled it into him that she doesn’t even approve of me as a friend. I know she’s a relative of sorts, but she’s a horrible woman. She’s all but broken Simon’s spirit.”

“Then he ought to hit on some motto—like Be A Man. Simon has to develop a little backbone, Alana,” he offered crisply, wondering if Simon had ever worked up enough courage to kiss her.

“That’s all very well for you to say. Simon is scared of his mother.” She hesitated a moment, then soldiered on, “You know Rose quite likes Simon …”

The brackets around his mouth deepened in amusement. “I can see the wheels turning in your golden head. But you can’t play matchmaker.”

“Why don’t you try your hand at it, then?” she shot back. “You’re so highly successful at everything you do.”

“Okay!” He leaned back, considering, linking his strong tanned arms behind his crow-black head. “Why don’t I show a little interest in you?” he suggested.

The expression on Alana’s face abruptly changed. “What? Pretend a romantic in … ter … est?” She stumbled over the word.

“Why make it sound like there’s more chance of getting struck by lightning?” His tone mocked. “Surely it wouldn’t be all that difficult? You’re a smart girl.”

“Men don’t like smart girls,” she said bluntly.

‘Ah, yes, but you’re as beautiful as a dream. That helps.”

Her eyes looked frightened. “Would you like to walk that by me again? I’m beautiful?”

“Would you settle for sexy?”

His gaze tantalised her. “Thanks, but no, thanks, Guy.” She whirled up from her chair. “I’ll do anything in the world for Simon except fall in love with you.”

Kieran was greeted by the incomparable aroma of rich, dark roasted coffee. Alana had made a stack of sandwiches that looked really good, as well as producing a plate of triple chocolate brownies she had made only the night before. Alana was a good cook. Their mother had seen to that. The brownies were a favourite with their father, who nowadays mostly preferred to drink than eat.

Kieran poured himself a cup of coffee, then sat down beside his sister. The pair of them were so golden they delighted the eye. “It’s good to see you, Guy.” Kieran spoke with warm sincerity. “You don’t get over often enough.”

“Things will start to slacken off as winter approaches,” Guy said. “I was admiring your new landscape in the hallway. It’s quite something.”

“It’s yours!” Kieran declared, strong white teeth biting into a ham sandwich with relish.

It was just as Guy had expected. “I’d be very happy to own it, Kieran, but I’m speaking to you as a buyer. I’d like to pay for it.”

Kieran shook his leonine mane. “That’s not going to happen. You’ve been too good to us, Guy.”

“Could you elaborate on that?” Alana looked quickly from one to the other.

“Haven’t you noticed all the nice things I do?” Guy told her smoothly. “I’ve lent you various equipment from time to time. I’ve sent wine, table grapes, our very best extra virgin olive oil. I’ve given Kieran here plenty of advice when he’s asked.”

Kieran spread his arms wide. “You’re brilliant, Guy. No wonder Lana’s little puppy dog Simon calls you The Man. If you like the painting, Guy, it’s yours. I can knock up another one.”

But Guy was minded to be serious. “You know you have a considerable gift?”

Kieran’s smiling face sobered. “My talent for painting won’t keep Briar’s Ridge going, Guy. You know that.”

“But your talent for painting might carry you far.”

“You sound just like Alex.” Kieran gulped rather than sipped at his steaming hot coffee. “If Alex had her way I’d be mounting an exhibition before the end of the year. She’s guaranteed me a sell-out.”

“Alex knows what she’s talking about,” Guy pointed out, in his quiet, authoritative voice. “She can help you.”

Kieran kept silent.

How mysterious were the connections of the heart, Guy thought.

Alana looked across the table, feeling bewildered. “Do you two know something I don’t?”

Guy managed a lazy smile. “Lots of things I expect.”

Kieran too grinned. The smiles didn’t fool her. Alana turned to her brother. “Are we in deeper than you’ve told me?” she asked, sounding worried.

“We’ll know more after the sales, Lana.” Kieran picked up another sandwich.

She drew a quick breath. “I’ve spoken to Guy about my idea of turning Briar’s Ridge into a show farm, like Morgan Creek.”

Kieran glanced across the wide pine table at Guy, then back at his sister. “Lana, we’ve been over this. It might work with a big influx of money, but even if by some miracle we could borrow it, Dad wouldn’t sit still for it. You know that. He wouldn’t want people wandering around the property. He’d hate it.”

“So we go under? Is that it?” She blinked furiously, amazed she was so emotional these days.

Kieran laid an arm around his sister’s shoulders. “We haven’t gone under yet, kiddo!” Brother and sister stayed that way for a moment, then Kieran rose, pocketing a couple of brownies. “That was great. Just what I needed.” He looked at Guy with his extraordinarily blue eyes. “Dad’s in the Second Paddock, if you want to find him. We’re supposed to have a meeting with Bob Turner at three.” Bob Turner was the local wool representative. “Want me to drop you out there?”

Guy shook his head. “I won’t keep you. I know you’ve got plenty on your hands. Any of the other locals been around yet?” he asked. The local wool growers usually turned up to check out the quality of their neighbours’ clip.

Brother and sister nodded golden heads in unison. “Harry Ainsworth and Jack Humphrey,” Kieran said. “The stack’s growing, but it’s nothing like our best quality. Dad is disappointed, though he really should have been expecting it. I’m keen to see what’s happening on Wangaree.”

Wangaree’s clip always attracted enormous interest. At the important wool sales in Sydney buyers representing the leading woollen mills and the famous fashion houses of the world usually found their clip close to perfection, which meant Guy had a good idea of what Wangaree’s clip would bring even before it was auctioned off. No matter the slump in prices, wool of the quality produced by Wangaree could be eagerly snapped up.

“Why don’t we make it one day next week?” Guy suggested. “The clip will have grown even taller by then. It’s superfine, and unbelievably white. Bring Alana. Stay to lunch. Your father is very welcome too, but I’ll speak to him myself when I drive out to see him.”

Kieran moved off with the grace of a trained athlete. “That’ll be great! By the way, I meant what I said about the painting. It’s yours. I refuse to take money for it.”

“Then I’ll just have to find another way to pay you back,” Guy called after him. “I’ll have it framed.”

“Sure.” Kieran waved a hand. “I couldn’t run to a frame. Good ones cost the earth.”

“After which I’ll hang it in a prominent place at the house,” Guy promised. “In the years to come I’ll be able to say, Yes, that’s a Callaghan. He’s a good friend of mine. I was one of the lucky ones. I got in on the ground floor.”

CHAPTER FOUR

THINGS didn’t go well for Briar’s Ridge at the sales. Brother and sister sat together at the Wool Exchange in a tense silence as wool worth millions and millions of dollars was sold off. The market was down. No big surprise. Everyone had anticipated that. But mercifully it kicked up quite a bit when the first of the Wangaree Valley clip came up for sale.

“This is awful—the waiting.” Alana was so anxious she felt sick to her stomach.

“Listen, it’s not that bad.” Kieran, nervous himself, but hiding it extremely well, tried to comfort her, even though he had the gut-wrenching feeling it was going to be. This sale represented twelve months’ growth of wool and a hell of a lot of hard work from him and Alana. They had virtually carried their father, once such a dynamo.

Wangaree’s clip, one of the star attractions of the sale, was recognised as superb. Everyone in the Valley had seen it, marvelling at the quality. Another top producer from the adjoining State of Victoria had called it perfection. Guy’s comment had been, “It’s better than that. It’s damned good!” One didn’t hear him say that all that often. Guy wasn’t one to commit himself, but the Exchange was abuzz with excitement. People in the know were predicting a record price for Wangaree’s clip, and as a spin-off maybe others in the Valley.

If she turned her head she would be able to see him, Alana thought. He was sitting with the top people of the industry. In his group would be her uncle Charles—her mother’s brother, Charles Denby. Uncle Charles was as good as a stranger to her and Kieran, though their resemblance to their Denby mother was most apparent. In fact, Uncle Charles was so remote he mightn’t have been their relative at all. It was no secret he had been deeply shocked when his beautiful sister, Annabel, the apple of everyone’s eye, had married a struggling sheep farmer, an Irishman, “rough diamond” Alan Callaghan. And Denby brother and sister had been near enough estranged since the day of the wedding, which unhappily no Denby had attended. A lasting wound.

The three Denby sisters, Violette, Lilli and Rose, dressed to kill and turning heads, fresh from a splendid lunch at one of Sydney’s top restaurants, had been present at the inspection earlier, but two had since disappeared—most likely to hit the fashion boutiques. Only Violette remained with her father and—need it be said?—Guy. Violette wouldn’t want to miss out on the Denby sales, let alone miss the frenzy of bidding when Wangaree’s clip came up.

“I’m glad Dad’s not here,” Alana sighed, her spirits wilting. Their father had been too nervous to come. Once upon a time he had been right in the thick of it, so proud of having his beautiful wife and family beside him, receiving handshakes and congratulations when his sale prices were good.

An hour later Wangaree’s lot came up. It was sold, as predicted, in the blink of an eye, once again to a leading European fashion house. Italian designers had a wonderful way of mixing wool with silk. Alana loved the top designers, their work cut and tailored by people whose ancestors had been handling the finest fabrics for hundreds of years. She remembered how her untrained mother had cut and woven fabric so it fell into the most beautiful soft folds.

By four o’clock the sale was over, with hundreds of lots having gone under the hammer. Alana and Kieran, though heartsore over Briar’s Ridge’s downspiralling fortunes, remained behind to shake Guy’s hand. All eyes were on him as he stood in the centre of the floor, surrounded by prominent people within the industry, head and shoulders above most of them, clearly The Man. Simon had been spot on when he had found this name for his illustrious cousin.

“Don’t look now, but Uncle Charles and Vindictive Vi are coming our way,” Kieran muttered. “Of course there’s the strong possibility they’ll spot us and shoot off in the opposite direction.”

“And who would care?” Alana asked wearily, fully expecting to be ignored. Charles Denby knew nothing about the milk of human kindness. He was a civilised monster.

“When do you suppose dear old Charles is going to make the transition to a real person?” Kieran asked, with a flash of black humour. “I mean, I’ve never understood a damned thing about the big estrangement. What was so shocking about Mum breaking with family tradition and marrying Dad? The Denbys aren’t Royalty, for goodness’ sake. Even hell bent on wrecking himself, Dad’s still a handsome man. So he was a nobody on the social register? He must have been really something when he was young. Big, handsome, strong. He was hard-working, perfectly respectable. People liked him. He’d even managed to buy himself Briar’s Ridge, though it was mortgaged up to the hilt. He didn’t take Mum to a hovel. And she loved him. Wasn’t that all that mattered?” Kieran broke off angrily, visibly upset.

“One would have thought so!” Alana sighed.

“Oh, no—they haven’t spotted us,” Keiran groaned in dismay.

Charles and Violette were so busy talking, heads together, probably planning a night out on the town with Guy’s party, they all but walked into Alana and Kieran.

“Oh, it’s you two!” Violette reacted with her usual hateful disdain. She looked Alana up and down, her gaze deliberately pitying, as though Alana were dressed by charity shops instead of a smart-casual designer.

Alana, well used to her cousin’s intended put-downs, took no notice. What consumed her was the look in her brother’s eyes. Slow to anger, Kieran had been known to go off like a rocket if sufficiently provoked. It was their father’s temper—nearly always under control, but always there. She gave her brother a beseeching look. It would do no good at all for Kieran to lose his temper right here and now.

Ignoring Violette, she addressed her distinguished-looking, ultra-remote uncle. “How are you, Uncle Charles?” she asked politely. “You look well. Congratulations on the Denby prices.”

A tall man, Charles Denby stared down at his niece with the strange intensity he always bestowed on her. “Everything we wanted,” he announced with ice-cold suavity. “You, on the other hand, mustn’t have liked what you heard for the Briar’s Ridge lot? I saw it myself. Not up to scratch, my dear. Or rather it’ll make up darn scratchy.”

Kieran broke in, the heat of anger coming off his powerful, lean body. “Why, sir, do you go out of your way to be so damned cutting?”

Violette’s breath exploded in shocked indignation. “I beg your pardon, Kieran?” she huffed. “You apologise to my father this instant.”

Kieran gave her a sidelong look that blazed with contempt. “Tell me, Vi, you silly, pretentious creature, what is there to apologise for? All our civility, all our polite overtures, get met with freezing dislike. My mother and your father were brother and sister. I could never treat my sister the way your father treated his—no matter what! And my mother did absolutely nothing but marry the man she loved.”

Charles Denby’s only reaction was a narrowing of his glacial blue eyes. “Your mother brought disgrace on herself and the family,” he said finally. “Alan Callaghan was a nothing and a nobody who put my sister in her coffin. Now the whole Valley knows him as a hopeless drunk. Get out of my way, young man. I have better things to do than talk to an upstart like you.”

Upstart? The irony was that Kieran looked more like their uncle than he did their own father. Alana sucked in her breath, fully expecting the rocket to launch.

Only Kieran surprised her. He spoke quietly, but his body language was immensely threatening. “There’s plenty of room for you to walk around me, sir. Another word and I can’t guarantee your safety.”

Alarmed, Alana took hold of Kieran’s hard-muscled arm—but not before Guy, aware of a mounting crisis, moved swiftly to join them.

“It might be an idea to cool it, Kieran.” He came alongside the younger man, keeping his voice low and level. “This is the Wool Exchange, and every eye is on us. You’re my friend, and I don’t want to see you get into trouble.”

Kieran shook his leonine head, as if to clear it. “This man here—” he gritted.

“It might be time, Charles, to walk away.” Guy glanced meaningfully at Charles Denby.

“That’s the trouble with people like you Callaghans,” Violette sneered, hot red colour staining her cheekbones. “You simply don’t know how to behave. Come on, Daddy, they’re not fit to speak to.” She spoke as though Alana and Kieran’s natural habitat was the gutter.

“Yes, run away!” Kieran told her in a furious undertone, looking as if he was about to give her a good shove. “It’s my sister who’s the lady around here. Never you!”

“Kieran, please—if not for our sakes, for Mum’s,” Alana implored. She was excruciatingly aware a number of people were turning to stare. “Wouldn’t she have been horrified to see us make a spectacle of ourselves?”

“Sadistic man!” Kieran rasped, as Charles Denby and his daughter stalked off. He turned his burning blue gaze on Guy. “What have we ever done to them to warrant such treatment?”

Guy’s answer was immediate. And it sounded as if it came from the heart. “Your uncle has never been able to face down his demons, Kieran. Charles Denby is a very bitter and unhappy man. It has to be said there was a time he adored his sister, and he continued to do so though he became warped and bitter. What you have to do is let your anger settle. There’s nothing you can do to change your uncle. His rigid attitude has deprived him of so much happiness in life. You can’t hope to engage his liking or sympathy.” He spread his hands. “Charles hasn’t anything left to give. He’s to be pitied, really.”

“I don’t pity him,” Kieran fumed. “We’re sick to death of being ignored and humiliated, Guy, of having our father spoken about with such contempt. How callous can a man get? If he weren’t an old fogey I’d have socked him.” He stared at his friend, so angry there was a red mist in front of his eyes. “Listen, would Lana be all right with you?” It came out in a plea. “There’s someone I must see.”

“But of course,” Guy answered, as though surprised Kieran would even have to ask.

Alana looked at her brother in consternation. “Who is it? Where are you going?” They hadn’t planned anything but a quiet evening, most likely pondering their losses.

“I feel bad, Lana.” He looked to her for understanding. “But I need to see someone.”

“A woman?” Alana stared at her brother, thinking it quite possible Kieran had a secret life.

“Yes. Of course a woman.” He bent to kiss her cheek. “You’ll go back to the hotel? I really don’t know what time I’ll be in. It could be an hour or hours. But we’ll leave as scheduled—first thing after breakfast.”

Alana kept her head tilted to him. “What’s happening here, Kieran? Who is this mystery woman? She sounds pretty important to you.”

“Well, I’m not much use to her,” Kieran said with great bitterness. “Look, I have to get out of here.”

“Then go,” Guy urged him gently. “I’ll look after Alana.”

“I don’t need anyone to look after me.” Alana turned on Guy, her own temper going up a dozen notches. “Anyway, Guy, you must have plans of your own.”

“Which just so happen to include you.” He rested his hand briefly on her shoulder. “Off you go, Kieran. Everything’s okay here. You, however, look like a man who’s in dire need of comfort.”

Kieran’s blue eyes flashed. ‘Thanks, Guy.” He transferred his gaze to his sister. “I’ll make it up to you, Lana.” With that he turned on his heel and stomped away, his tall, powerful body all tightly coiled fury.

They were out on the street, and strong sunlight, even at late afternoon, bounced off the pavement. The sidewalk was busy with people hurrying to and fro; traffic streamed bumper to bumper.

“There’s no need for you to bother about me, Guy,” Alana said, trying to keep her enormous upset down. Who exactly did her uncle think he was? The next Pope? “Your mother brought disgrace on herself and the family!” What did that mean? Some words, once uttered, could never be called back. The man was paranoid about family, and insufferably sanctimonious. “I’m perfectly all right on my own.”

“I don’t think so.” He was finely tuned to her mood, and deeply sympathetic.

“You’ll want to be with your friends,” she persisted doggedly.

“I regard you and Kieran as my friends.”

“Gosh, I don’t know if we’re fit to be your friends,” she muttered bitterly. “What the hell was my uncle on about? You know everything that goes on in the Valley. I adored my mother. She was a beautiful, dignified, gracious woman. How could she have brought disgrace on herself? Forget her awful family. They’re the real disgrace. They act like the enemy—except for Rose. How did Rose miss out on their worst characteristics? My mother marrying my father can’t possibly explain Uncle Charles’s attitude.”

“I told you. Charles is a tortured soul. And his wife and daughters have been affected to a greater or lesser degree. Rose, the youngest, is the most fortunate. Most of it has rubbed off on Violette, for which I pity her. Now, why don’t we go and grab a cup off coffee?”

“I don’t want one,” she said mutinously, unaware that the sparkle in her eyes and the colour in her cheeks made her look extraordinarily beautiful.

“Okay—a stiff drink. Don’t argue. I want one, even if you don’t. You can’t do anything about your mother’s family, Alana. Don’t even try.”

“Why do you just pick up and then drop Violette?” she accused him. “You sound on side with her, yet she’s so horrible. Could it be you’re only interested in her body?”

He glanced down at her rebellious face. “I’ll forget you said that, because you’re so upset. Here—this will do.” He drew her off the pavement into the foyer of one of the city’s leading hotels.

“Why don’t we check in while we’re at it?” she suggested, putting her hand out to catch his arm. “Kieran has a mystery woman. I’m going to get myself a mystery man.”

“Well, that lets me out,” Guy said evenly.” I’ve known you all your life.”

In the handsomely appointed lounge, Alana sank into a comfortable chair. Only a few tables were occupied. Smiles and quiet conversation. It would be another hour before the regulars and the after-work crowd arrived.

“What will it be?” Guy remained standing, his face showing its own brooding tension.

If anything, it only made him look even sexier, she thought, feeling angry, nervy and very, very physical. No one brought it out in her like this man.

“Perhaps it’s time I took to the whisky?” she said.

“Let’s settle for a gin and tonic—or a glass of white wine?”

“It really ought to be champagne. For you, anyway. Congratulations, Guy.” She lifted her hazel eyes to him, angry, unshed tears making them diamond-bright. “Kieran and I were waiting behind to tell you that when my awful, awful, malevolent relatives walked into us. I have to say it was by mistake. I think they were discussing what was happening tonight.”

“It definitely wasn’t happening with me,” Guy said. “Just try to relax. You’ve got enough burdens without taking your relatives on board. I’ll be back in a minute.” He walked away to the bar, with every female eye in the vicinity tracking him. A woman would have to be blind to miss him.

An animal lover, Alana always saw her brother as a golden lion and Guy as a sleek black panther. And where was Kieran going, so completely and utterly furious? It had been blindingly obvious. Of course he had a woman in Sydney. He was a virile young man. Sydney was little over a two hour drive from the Valley. The big hurt was that he hadn’t confided in her. She tried to accept that, but the hurt gnawed deep at her. Why hadn’t he told her about something so important? He told her just about everything else. Was it possible the mystery woman was married? Oh, that was so risky. She would be beautiful, of course. The artist in Kieran would be drawn like a magnet to a beautiful woman. But she couldn’t be more beautiful than Alexandra Radcliffe. Alex was really and truly a classic beauty. Although Alex and Kieran operated on different planes.

Guy returned empty handed. “What about my G&T?” she asked in surprise. “Not even a bowl of nuts or a packet of potato chips?” She tried to fight her edginess with banter.

He sat down in the chair nearest her. “There you go again! I’ve ordered a bottle of champagne.”

“Good heavens! Isn’t that a dumb thing to do? I’m just so angry and despondent I might get drunk.”

“I won’t let that happen.” He very gently patted her hand, his dark eyes glinting. “You had a good lunch, didn’t you?’

“Not as good as yours, I bet.” It was usual for the pastoral houses to take the big wool producers to lunch on sales day. “Oh, God, what a day!” she lamented. “We’re going to lose Briar’s Ridge, Guy. We needed good sales. We’re drowning in debt—as if you didn’t know.”

“Something can be worked out,” Guy said.

She looked at him with a sharp sense of humiliation. “You’ve been propping us up, haven’t you? I feel it in my bones.”

“You didn’t want me to try and save you?” He studied her face intently.

She glanced away. Wherever his eyes touched her she felt little jolts of electricity. Even when he took his dark eyes from her, she still felt the after-shocks. “I’d much prefer it if we saved ourselves,” she said, in an agony of helplessness, hopelessness—and, it had to be admitted, burning resentment.

“Well, let it go for the moment,” Guy advised. “You’re right on the edge. So, for that matter, am I.”

“Never! Not Guy Radcliffe?”

“You don’t even know me.”

“Yes, well, I know as much as is safe to know. Ah—here comes the champagne.”

“Two glasses and I’ll take you back to your hotel. I’d like you to have dinner with me tonight.”

Her heart almost leapt into her mouth. “You can’t be serious? I expect Uncle Charles and Vi will have muscled in?”

“I had the pleasure of Charles and your cousins at lunch.”

“If I didn’t know better I’d say you found ‘the pleasure’ quite an ordeal. Has Uncle Charles ever turned the conversation to wedding bells?”

“Nothing so alarming.” A waiter, who bore more than a passing resemblance to a well known English comic, arrived with the bottle of champagne, presenting it for Guy’s inspection like a character in a skit. After a quick glance, Guy nodded.

“Surely you’ve sown your wild oats by now?” Alana asked, after the waiter had waltzed his way back through the tables. Was it possible the comedian really was in town and there was a hidden camera?

“Dinner for two,” Guy said, watching the waiter’s comic progress himself. “Just you and me. I’d much rather listen to you—even if you do like to cross swords.” He lifted his glass. Their flutes clinked. “Loosen up, Alana. There are always some compensations available.”

She took a quick sip. It was delicious. “Believe me, I want to. But I can’t. I’d love to have dinner with you, Guy—not that I’ve got anything halfway decent to wear—but I suddenly feel I’m wanted at home.” She spoke with such urgency she might actually have received a phone call. “Kieran did ring Dad to let him know how things went. Dad’s been good for weeks, but I fear he won’t be able to handle this. He’ll start drinking again.” She sought understanding in his eyes. “You couldn’t possibly drive me back tonight, could you?” She was so nervous her tongue seemed to be cleaving to the roof of her mouth. “I understand perfectly if you can’t. You probably have commitments. Not to mention breakfast with Violette,” she added, even though she recognised it was foolish.

“Is this the right way to go about asking me?” He looked steadily back.

“I guess not. But I’m nervous. It’s difficult not to be nervous around you.”

His mouth compressed. She had a mad urge to lean forward and kiss it, though neither of them were acting in the least flirtatiously.

“I have to say you hide it remarkably well. There’s nothing that can’t be taken care of at a later date. You really want to go home? You’re absolutely sure?”

She took a deep, fluttery breath, then nodded her head. “If you’d be good enough to take me, Guy,” she said meekly.

Now he smiled—half-amused, half-mocking. “I rather enjoy seeing you this way, sweet and pleading. But just how do you think you can help your father?”

She stayed quiet, took another sip. “At least I’ll be there. You know how he is. I can’t help worrying. I’ll ring Kieran. Let him know. He has his mobile with him. I’m guessing he won’t be able to drag himself away from his mystery woman. That’s if he finds her. You wouldn’t happen to know who she is?”

Guy’s eyes were brilliant, but unreadable. “The whole thing is pretty damned weird. But, whoever she is, she clearly has a lot of power over Kieran.”

CHAPTER FIVE

SHE wasn’t in the apartment when he arrived. Kieran hadn’t expected her to be. It would probably be another hour before she got home. He considered ringing her, decided not to. He had his key. He let himself in, instantly inhaling the lovely scent of her. He could almost see her floating towards him. Sometimes he got so frustrated he could punch a hole in the wall.

He turned on a few lights. It was a beautiful apartment. No minimalist approach here. Everywhere one looked there was something beautiful to admire. The colours were white and a delicate shade of green, with accents of sunshine-yellow; there were lots of silk cushions with expensive fringes, tall famille vert porcelain vases, valuable antiques someone had turned into lampstands for her. Lampstands, mind you. The rich really were different. A glorious cyclamen orchid with five bracts sat in another deep famille vert bowl on a glass-topped table.

A beautiful setting for a beautiful woman. He crossed to the sliding glass doors, opened them. Beyond the plant-filled balcony set with a circular table and chairs was Sydney’s magnificent harbour, the breeze fresh off it. She had a splendid view, fanning three hundred and sixty degrees. And why not? The apartment had cost millions. Well, they had it. He shrugged. Old money. Nothing ostentatious.

He ripped off his jacket and threw it down over the back of a sofa. He loosened a couple of buttons at the neck of his shirt, jerked his tie down. Next he moved to the cabinet where he knew the drinks were housed. God, how he needed one! He almost began to see how their father had made the tragic slide into alcoholism. Yet hadn’t love been the cause of it? The intensity of that love? Surely there was something a little noble about that? He hadn’t just lost his money or his farm. He’d lost a woman—his beloved wife. Their father was grieving so profoundly over the loss of their mother he couldn’t seem to face life without her. How would it feel to love someone like that and know you could never have them, let alone have them back? Kieran thought he knew.

Whisky came to hand. Great! He poured himself a good shot of it, then walked through to the bright and open kitchen for a little crushed ice from the refrigerator door. This was one neat woman. Not a thing out of place, and lovely little feminine touches everywhere. She loved flowers. He had never seen the apartment without flowers in every room, and that included the en suite and the guest bathroom. Today there were yellow tulips on the glossy black granite flecked with gold. There were lots of crisp white cupboards, some glass-paned to show off fancy bone china, but the pièce de resistance of this beautiful apartment, with all its art works and objets d’art was always her.

Gradually, under such a benign influence, he was calming. What a terrible day! No way could they afford to hold on to Briar’s Ridge now. The bank would foreclose on them. And what then? He had come to realise the farm wasn’t everything in life to him, as it was to their father and Alana. Alana was a true country girl. She revelled in life on the land. He had always enjoyed it too, but in his heart of hearts he knew he wouldn’t mourn the loss of it deeply. He could always visit it when he wanted. He could always paint it when the urge took him.

The truth was, he recognised inside himself that he had a gift. His mother had always told him he did.

“Why, I do believe, my darling Kieran, one day you’ll have it in you to become a fine painter. I’d be interested to see what Marcus thinks of all these drawings. Next time he’s in the country I’ll ask him.”

He might never rise to Marcus Denby’s lofty heights, but then he had a different vision. He wouldn’t mind struggling for a while. Just about everyone had to struggle for a while. His abrupt laugh sounded strangely harsh in the silence of the lovely room. He wouldn’t have to struggle with Alex by his side. Alex was a Radcliffe, an heiress, a glittering, impossible prize. He threw back the whisky with one gulp. A vision of Alex flashed before his eyes. Skin like a pearl. Eyes and hair like ebony. The pure face of a Madonna, yet she had sinned deeply. He walked to one of the upholstered custom-built sofas and eased his long body into it, staring sightlessly at the exquisite spray of cyclamen orchids. He felt his heart contract with his own kind of grief. That whisky had gone down too quickly. He’d have another …

Immediately he heard the key inserted into the deadlock he jumped to his feet. His heart was thudding, picking up knots. It was dark now. He had turned the lights on. How many times had he entered her apartment before she’d arrived home? He couldn’t begin to count.

She must have realised he was there, because she called softly, “Kieran?”

He covered the distance that separated them in a couple of long strides, watching her drop her leather handbag to the silk rug. He reached for her, pulling her into his arms, kissing her feverishly, hotly, hungrily, forcing open her softly cushioned lips.

“I’m crazy about you!” he muttered “Crazy. Is it ever going to stop?” He didn’t seem to care that he was overwhelming her with his intensity.

He had her moaning in his arms. To hear her moan meant everything to him. Somehow he had lifted her clear of the ground, crushing her in his powerful grip. She was tall, but so slender, she was a featherweight to him. Her beautiful pale pink suit had little covered buttons down the front. She wore a white silk camisole beneath the jacket. His hand swept rapaciously across her breasts as though it had a life of its own. “Alex, Alex,” he whispered. “What am I going to do about you?”

She breathed into his neck. “Just keep on putting me through hell?”

His response was to swing her off her feet, carrying her down the passageway into the master bedroom. He was desperate to be inside her. He couldn’t see straight until he was. He threw her down on her marvellous big bed, pausing for a moment to stare down at her as she lay back against the opulent cream and gold quilt. Oh, the ache in him! Every time he laid eyes on her he had the sensation that his heart was breaking. Her wonderful dark eyes were huge with emotion. He never felt guilty at seeing her drowning in it. She was the one who should feel guilty but refused to. Her arms were thrown back above her head, outstretched, imploring, pleading. She was imperceptibly trembling. Her long silky hair that had been arranged in some elegant knot was coming loose. A skein fell like a black satin ribbon across her pearly cheek.

“How beautiful you are,” he rasped. “Too beautiful!” But she could never wipe the slate clean.

He reached down to her, his long fingers beginning to burrow at all those little buttons. She made no effort to stop him. She lay quietly while he undressed her, wondering if there was ever going to be an end to this unquenchable desire.

“Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?” she whispered.

He made no reply. Instead he pulled her up so he could release the catch on her rose lace bra and expose her exquisite white breasts. How incredibly seductive a woman’s breasts were. Every time he undressed her it was like the first time. Such beauty! Always for him.

“Kieran—Kieran, do you love me?” Tears filled her large oval eyes.

He kissed them. “How can I love you after what you did to us?” he answered jaggedly. “I want you. I need you. Be content with that.”

They had everything and nothing. All the world lost. “How easily you’ve condemned me all these years. You had no difficulty at all, even when I told you the truth.”

He choked off a bitter laugh. “Don’t, Alex,” he said. “I’m supremely indifferent to your lies. They’ve all been done to death anyway.”

A glistening tear slid down her cheek. She arched her back to make it easier for him to take off her panties—rose lace to match her delicate bra. She always wore the most beautiful underwear. He thrilled to strip the delicate garments off her.

Finally she was naked, her white body as remarkably virginal as when he had first seen it when they were innocent teenagers. There had been no adolescent yearning, no clumsy gropings. It had been full on, wildly passionate sex—she surrendering herself completely, he taking her, penetrating her, as if he wanted his whole self to disappear inside her. Neither of them had been able to get enough of the other. Drunk on sex. Drunk on love. Alex had been his sun, moon and stars.

But almost seven years had passed. Years spent apart. Time they could no longer spend together. He wanted her more now than he had then—barely believable but utterly true. Not only that, he knew how to get more of her. Oh, yes, he did. Alex was his. His incurable addiction.

He fell to his knees beside the bed, still fully clothed, taking a coral pink nipple sweet as a fruit into his mouth, lightly between his teeth … “Alex, Alex, Alex …” he whispered, his voice fierce even to his own ears.

She shaped his golden head with her hands, sinking her fingers into his thick mane of hair. Her eyes were filled not only with an overwhelming desire, but with a deep, dark tenderness. She would have died for Kieran. He knew that. But he didn’t care.

He put one strong hand beneath her back, raising her to him.

“Why do I let you do this to me?” she gasped.

He pressed his open mouth all over her. “You know why,” he muttered, without a shred of sympathy. “Because neither of us can stop.”

The big car ate up the miles. Alana thought she might close her eyes briefly, but was stunned when she heard Guy’s voice murmur near her ear. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.”

She blinked and sat straight, looking around dazedly. “I can’t believe that! I fell asleep.”

“I’d say you needed it.” He didn’t mention she had been making little distressed whimpers that smote his heart.

“We’re home!”

“Right at your door, my lady!” Guy looked very soberly towards the darkened homestead. There appeared to be only one light on, towards the rear of the house. “I’ll come in with you.” He released his seat belt.

Voices said such a lot about a person, Alana thought. Who you were. What you were. Where you lived, even how you lived. Were you confident, self-assured, charming? Warm or cold, diffident, abrasive, a person to steer clear of. Her father was right. Guy Radcliffe was a prince.

They were walking towards the front steps when Buddy, stick-thin no matter how much he ate, emerged from the interior of the house and moved out onto the verandah. He lifted a hand to turn on the verandah light, splashing himself in a dull golden light.

“Miss Lana, I didn’t know you’d be comin’ home,” he called, then tiptoed over to the timber balustrade. “Good evening, Mr Radcliffe,” he added respectfully.

“Evening, Buddy.” Guy’s tone was warm and approving. He knew that approval gave the loyal youngster pleasure and confidence. “Everything okay here?”

They all knew it was nothing of the sort. Alana ran on ahead, up the steps, disappearing into the house.

Buddy’s liquid black eyes cut to Guy. “Mr Alan—he start drinkin’ a few hours back,” he confided in an unhappy voice. “I came to check on ‘im. He likes me around.”

“I know he does, Buddy.” Guy nodded, feeling the keenest sympathy for Alana. “You’re a good man to have around.”

“I do me best.” Buddy glowed at Guy’s praise. “I’m afraid Miss Lana is going to find her dad collapsed in his armchair. I wanted to shift him into bed, but he’s a big man.” He spread his arms an unbelievable distance, to demonstrate just how big. “Didn’t have a chance of lifting ‘im. It’s all so sad.”

It’s that! Guy thought to himself. What had happened to Alan Callaghan came under the category of “survivor’s guilt.” Callaghan blamed himself terribly for surviving when the wife he adored hadn’t.

“Mrs Annabel, she’s up there.” Buddy pointed towards the glittering river of diamonds that was the Milky Way. “She’s fine. She’s not alone. Mr Alan should find somethin’ good.”

Guy couldn’t help but agree. It would allow the man some release. “You can go along now, Buddy,” he said. “And thank you. I should be able to get Mr Callaghan into bed.”

“Need a hand?” Buddy, thin as a whippet, even in riding boots only five-five, was desperate to help in any way he could.

“Thanks, Buddy, but I’ll manage.” Guy made a movement to go inside, paused. “Have you eaten yet?”

“No, sir. Been here.” Buddy’s coal-black curls bobbed as he shook his head. “I had to attend to Mr Alan first.”

“Do this for me?” Guy said, as though asking a favour. “Drive out to the estate restaurant and get yourself a really nice meal? Whatever you want—three courses. You can take it away if you feel shy being on your own. I’ll ring ahead so they’ll know you’re coming.”

Buddy gave a funny little whoop. “Me?”

“Yes, Buddy,” Guy confirmed. “You must be starving by now.”

“I am a bit hungry,” Buddy admitted. Actually, he had a growling stomach. But the Radcliffe Estate restaurant! He’d only poked his head in a couple of times. Never been in there, of course. It was way too grand for the likes of him. Could he really order up a three course meal? Maybe oysters and a fillet steak? Some crazy wicked chocolate dessert? Mr Radcliffe said he could, and Mr Radcliffe owned the place. Cool!

Alana knelt beside her father’s armchair. Alan Callaghan sat in it, looking hellish, one large brown hand resting on the top of her shining head.

“Guy!’ Recognition leapt into the bleary red-rimmed eyes as Guy approached. “God, I’m sorry.” Her father’s normally attractive voice was nothing more than a slurred croak.

“Why don’t we get you to bed, Alan?” Guy said, calm as a stone Buddha on the outside, deeply perturbed on the inside. He stripped off his checked jacket.

“Sall right!” Alan Callaghan made a pathetic attempt to heave himself out of the armchair and fell back, looking worse than ever.

“Come on—we’ll help you, Dad.” Alana fiercely wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand.

“It’s okay, Alana. Just get out of the way,” Guy told her, in a kindly but authoritative tone.

She didn’t argue. Guy said he could do it. Simple. She did what she was told, running ahead to make sure her father’s bed was ready and the room was fit to be seen. She was agonisingly embarrassed, but at least she always did her best to make sure her father’s bolt hole—for that was what it was—was clean.

They came slowly down the hallway, Guy supporting her father by the shoulders as though Alan Callaghan were a drunken dancing partner. Both dark heads were bent towards their feet. Her father was muttering incoherently to himself. Guy wasn’t even breathing hard. It only took a few minutes for Guy to lower the older man onto the narrow bed.

“What is he doing in here?” Guy looked about him. “It’s a monk’s cell.”

“With Dad the penitent?” Strain and mortification were showing on Alana’s face. “I’m only surprised he doesn’t scourge himself.”

“I’ll undress him,” Guy said. “Or at least make him more comfortable. No problem. Go along now.”

Alana turned, but hesitated near the door. Her father blew out a harsh, spluttering moan, then seemed to come alive. He lifted one still powerful arm and began to wave it with a vigour that surprised her.

“She was in love with him, you know,” he said, in voice that was almost normal. “I’m telling the truth here. I made her pregnant. I made my beautiful Belle pregnant. Can’t say anything in my own defence. I did it. I did it. “ Alan Callaghan made a futile grab for the front of Guy’s shirt. “You’re a gentleman, aren’t yah? And your dad was a gentleman. I’m just a bog Irishman. Anything to say?”

Guy’s expression transfixed Alana. It had turned from compassionate to granite. Would this man who had always been so kind to her father now turn and condemn him for being a pitiful drunk? “You’re shocking your daughter, Alan,” Guy said quietly.

Alan Callaghan stared blearily past Guy, the full weight of what he had just said seeming to fall on him. “Are yah still here, darlin'?” he asked in dismay.

Alana didn’t answer. She stood frozen on the spot, more vulnerable than she had ever been in her life.

“Leave this to me, Alana,” Guy repeated, putting his tall rangy body between her and her father.

“What?” She stared at him dazedly. “You know what Dad’s saying. You know—don’t you, Guy. And my uncle knows. That’s why he hates us.”

“Doesn’t he just?” Alan Callaghan suddenly bellowed. “He’s never tried to conceal it. Idolised her, he did, his beautiful sister. Loved his dear friend David. But I didn’t care how I got her. I was mad for her. Just couldn’t back off. I always had a touch of the prize fighter in me.”

“You’re not putting up any fight now, Alan.” Guy’s dark eyes were blazing with light. “I see no sign of the fighter. Look at you. A big man—what? Fifty-five, fifty-six years of age?—collapsed in your bed like you’ve been defeated.”

Alana was seized by agitation. “Dad’s no coward, Guy!” she cried. “He has courage.” Or once he had had it, she thought mournfully. But now her father had lost all direction.

Guy bent his gaze on her. “Someone once said courage in a man is enduring in silence whatever heaven sends him.”

“What about what heaven takes away?” she retorted fierily. “Takes away so you can never get it back?”

Guy sighed deeply. “We all bear the weight of our losses, Alana. I miss my father every day. He was a fine upstanding man. The finest.”

At that, Alan Callaghan’s broken laugh exploded. “That he was!” he roared, and then, as though all played out he rolled away without another sound. Face to the wall.

It was the worst of all possible scenarios. Alana sat rigid, arms clasped around her, in the living room, waiting for Guy to come out of her father’s room—the cell of the condemned man.

What had her father done all those years ago? What tricks had he used to get the woman he had always looked at so adoringly? How had her mother agreed to marry him, have his baby, when she’d been meant for somebody else? Had loved somebody else? Or was there little truth in that either? What else could she hope to find out when her father was drunk?

Guy had known what had been hidden from her and Kieran all along. He had never breathed a word. Surely other people in the Valley knew of the old love triangle? Why had everyone, including her uncle, kept the old story so deeply hidden? And the stark way Guy had spoken! Should he have rubbed in her father’s defeat? Could she forgive or forget that? The real nightmare was that Guy himself might hate them underneath. How would she know? What really lay in the depths of his unfathomable dark eyes? And what of Guy’s mother, always civil, but maintaining her distance? Guy loved his mother. Sidonie would have known about an old love affair of her husband’s, surely? It hadn’t gone as far as an engagement, but it now appeared to have been serious. Maybe her mother and David Radcliffe had never patched up a violent quarrel? It happened. Maybe they had argued about the Irishman Alan Callaghan? Was the truth more shocking yet? Whatever it was, it haunted her father—maybe to the grave. It was his choice to walk a self-destructive path.

“He’s dead to the world,” Guy announced when he returned.

It couldn’t have sounded more grim. “Who? The coward?” she retorted, feeling the stinging heat of humiliation.

“I didn’t use that word, Alana,” he said almost wearily. “You did. But isn’t he, in a fashion?” Guy’s tone was extraordinarily bitter for him.

He sank onto the leather sofa opposite her, the teak chest that served as a coffee table between them.

“And I thought you were a compassionate man.” She stared at him with deeply wounded eyes.

“Compassion isn’t working, Alana,” he responded bluntly, finally convinced of the fact. “Your father has taken a tremendous blow in life, losing his beloved spouse. But so have others in the Valley—including my own mother. The world is full of people who have had massive blows to overcome. Your father calls himself a fighter? Well, as a fighter, he has hit the mat. Anyone can forgive him that. But he’s never tried to get up, Alana. That’s the thing. He has you and Kieran. He has Briar’s Ridge. He’s as good as lost it.”

Her voice shook with emotion. “You think I don’t know that?’

He leaned forward, focusing on her distressed face with its large expressive eyes. “You’ve put your heart and soul into the farm, Alana. Don’t you deserve some consideration? And Kieran has worked like a slave. Though Kieran will fall on his feet. Kieran has inherited the Denby gift.”

“No sign of any gift in me?” She flashed him a look that was more poignant than bitter. Did he despise her?

“Alana, you’re beautiful, and gifted in so many ways,” he said with a curious sadness. “What I hate is that so much weight has been put on your shoulders. You should be enjoying a better life, not spending your time fighting off ruin.”

The humiliation of it all rendered her abruptly furious. “I love my life, Guy!” she said, leaping to her feet. “The last thing I need from you is pity! I hate it! And never, never from you!” Easier that the entire world should pity her.

His response came fast. In a single explosive movement he was on her side of the table, towering over her, his own disturbed emotions in full view. “That’s how you see it? Pity?”

She stared up at him with a thudding heart, knowing that a challenging answer would change everything in one indelible second. Still she threw out the challenge. “What else is it?” She lifted her chin, trying to hold her nerve, yet knowing she was in some kind of jeopardy.

Black eyes that smouldered caught fire. “Well, here’s where we find out!”

She couldn’t look away The intensity of his expression chopped off her breath. She had set herself against him for years now, but he was about to prove who was in control.

He hauled her to him so her head snapped back, then seemed to fall in slow motion into the crook of his arm. Her hair spilled everywhere in a wild golden mass.

She had the disorienting sensation she was falling … falling … toppling from a very high place with no way to stop. Or would he save her? But this was a wholly different Guy. One she had barely glimpsed. She was confronted by the dominant male pushed that little bit too far. The hunter in him was about to take what he wanted. She couldn’t get her breath for the overwhelming excitement.

“Guy—please don’t!” It would be the end of their relationship as she had known it.

“Stop me if you can!”

Pulses of electricity were running up and down her thighs, pooling in the delta of her body, alive with raw nerve-endings.

“Guy!” Her voice shook with panic. She felt the force of him, the inner energy, the demands he was going to make on her. Everything about him gave her to understand beyond any possible doubt that he desired her above anything else.

Her heart beat as if wings were unfurling in her chest. It was as though she had never been up close to a man in her life, had never known the violent eroticism of a man’s hard body, so powerful, so aggressive, so very different from her own.

He was deaf to her involuntary cry—if he even heard her. This was all about getting what he wanted. His mouth, poised over hers, abruptly came down, opening her lips beneath his, pressing without crushing, gaining control and then mastery. She had no defence against him. Not even the desire to protect herself. What was happening was ravishing, far from gentle, and deeper than hunger. What could it be? The only possible answer was passion. She had no recourse but to yield to it—because in the end wasn’t this what she craved? All she could do was cling to him, trapped by a sexual pleasure that was nigh on unbearable.

The scent of him was in her nostrils. She felt the indescribable warmth of his mouth and his mating tongue, the taste, the texture, the faint rasp from his tanned polished skin on her tender flesh. She thought dazedly that their mouths were refusing to part. Refusing to surrender the fabulous thrill. Her back arched at the same time as she let out a whimper. What she feared that was she would lose all coherent thought.

His voice, strangely laboured, came from above her head. “Not much pity there, Alana,” he said, with unfamiliar harshness.

She thought if he took his encompassing arms away she would simply fold. “No …” She couldn’t deny it. There were tears in her eyes. “What was your intention?” she whispered. “To teach me a lesson?”

His spread fingers pressed along her spine. “I don’t want to discuss it.”

“You’re so very good at it. Would you like to feel my heart?”

She hadn’t believed for one moment that he would respond to what was no more than a taunt. Instead he confounded her. He pushed his hand inside the printed silk of her shirt, the palm of his hand taking the weight of her breast, thinly covered by her bra.

She gasped, instantly suffused in heat. His fingers, manlike, sought her naked flesh. She gripped his wrist tight. She had to stop him, even though she desperately wanted him to keep going. It filled her up with a reckless passion she had never experienced before. Where was her life going? She thought wildly. She had never thought of him as a lover.

Liar, said that inexorable voice inside her.

“Your heart’s racing,” he murmured, continuing to caress her. His expression was drawn taut, intent, as if he had started on a long-awaited voyage of discovery of her body.

Speech was impossible. Indeed, how could they ever speak to each other after this? The tips of his fingers had found her sensitised nipple, full of colour, were rolling it between them so it became a swollen bud of pure want. With one arm he brought her closer into him, staring down into her flushed face.

“You’re a beautiful, beautiful woman, Alana!”

“One you shouldn’t be putting at risk.”

“Close your eyes. I won’t hurt you,” he promised. “I only want to make love to you a little.”

Couldn’t he see her agitation? Her flesh was threatening to catch fire. “And if I say you can’t?”

“I know I can.” His kisses moved to her throat. “Your father will sleep well into the morning. I want to take you home with me.” His voice was so low and seductive it could have melted stone.

She knew if she went with him it would be momentous turning point in her life. “Don’t think I’m so foolish.” Caution welled. She was a virgin. She had no protection.

“I won’t do anything you don’t want. Instinct tells me you’re a virgin?” He came at it directly.

A groan escaped her. “What am I, anyway? An open book?” She tried to pull away, but he held her tighter.

“A book I desperately want to read,” he said, the note in his voice making her senses swim. “I’ll call the house. You’ve had nothing to eat. I’ll get Gwen to make us something.”

“And for the rest of the night?” She threw back her golden head, the spirit of challenge showing in her eyes.

‘I’ll make love to you a little,” he said softly. “Though the time’s fast approaching to make it real.”

“It’s real enough for me now,” she said, feeling her every last defence had been shaken loose. “Besides, I’m not in such a hurry. I should stay here—where I belong.” Her feelings were so intense, so out of control, she felt she had little option but to push the panic button.

“You’re too frightened to come with me?” He looked deeply into her eyes.

Insane as it was, it was true. “I have to think ahead, Guy,” she answered, grappling with her heart’s desire. “If I go to Wangaree with you, the whole Valley will know by the morning.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “My people will see you for exactly what you are. A lifelong friend.”

“Of course—you would command absolute loyalty. Is that how I’ve never heard even a whisper about my mother and your father? Were they lovers?” She stepped closer, staring into his eyes.

“What would be the point of discussing it?” he said sombrely.

“Point being some people are feeling the shock waves to this day. How did your mother manage to live her life with such a secret in the background?”

He didn’t answer for a moment, his striking face taking on a daunting expression. “Why don’t we leave my mother out of this, Alana?”

“I’m sorry,” she apologised. “But can’t you see I have a need, indeed a right to know? I’m not a child. I can’t be kept in the dark. You wouldn’t accept being shut out for a half a minute. Why should I? Your mother must have known. For that matter, when did you first find out? Does Alex know? Or was she kept in the dark like me?”

“Keep probing and you’ll finish up in a dark forest,” he warned, reaching for his jacket. “For the last time—are you coming?”

She braced herself against the intolerable weight of longing. She knew she couldn’t resist him. And, to make her position even more vulnerable, she knew of the powerful forces that had gathered in him.

“No, Guy,” she said, as though she had sworn an oath. She turned away with a little broken laugh. “I can’t think any woman has said no to you before.”

“Is that why you’re doing it?” he asked, his black eyes glittering.

She struggled to frame the right words. “You know why I’m doing it, Guy. You say you don’t want to hurt me, but I fear somewhere deep down inside of you, you do!”

CHAPTER SIX

KIERAN returned from Sydney, strained and on edge. Although he apologised to Alana for having disappeared on the day of the sales, the name of his mystery woman remained a secret.

So many secrets, Alana thought, herself so troubled in her mind that she left her brother well alone. Kieran would confide in her when he was ready, she reasoned. Until then she would keep out of his private affairs. They only appeared to hold anger and pain. Besides, hadn’t her own life turned into a mess?

Like Kieran, she couldn’t bring herself to discuss it. She couldn’t imagine what Kieran would think if she suddenly confided she was totally in love with Guy Radcliffe. She thought after the initial shock he would advise her to leave well alone. That was the way it must have been with him and Alex. Leave well alone. Clearly Kieran believed the Radcliffes were out of reach. The Radcliffes were rich folk. The Callaghans were battlers.

Their father had fought his way out of his binge, but he had lost so much weight for a man previously so strongly built that Alana began to worry his alcohol addiction over the past three years had done significant damage to his body—in particular, his liver. She began to read up all she could about the chronic liver disease cirrhosis, and found her way to an important medicinal herb, St Mary’s Thistle, which had been used to good effect for liver ailments, indeed all sorts of ailments, since the time of the ancient Greeks and Romans. Her father refused point-blank to see a doctor and undergo any tests, but he did consent to swallowing the liquid extract the long-established village pharmacist recommended.

“Your dad really needs to see one of the doctors at the clinic, Alana.” Kindly eyes were fixed on her. “Don Cameron is a good man. This Milk Thistle here could be no help at all.”

Alana thought it was worth a try.

Out of the blue her cousin Rose rang to invite her to lunch at the hugely popular Radcliffe Estate Restaurant.

“I have some news for you!” Rose trilled excitedly down the phone. “I’m up in the air about it, actually. See you Tuesday—say about one p.m.? My shout. I’ll make the reservation. It’s usually packed out.”

Tuesday morning, Alana dressed with care in a brilliantly white linen shirt with a small stand-up collar, over narrowly cut black pants. She had just the legs for the cut, and the right kind of derrière. Around her waist she slung a wide patent leather black belt with a big silver buckle, and she slipped on a pair of high heeled black sandals—her best. Her mother’s black bag was dateless, never out of fashion. She thought she looked pretty good. She had inherited her mother’s chic, and that actually meant a lot. Money wasn’t synonymous with style.

She was looking forward to seeing Rose. All dressed, she presented herself to her father, who was sitting aimlessly in a planter’s chair out on the verandah, staring up at the blue hills.

“How do I look?” She struck a model’s pose, trying to get a smile out of him. Off the wagon, Alan Callaghan was more morose than on it.

“Beautiful!” he said, putting his arm out to her and gathering her in around her slender hips. “Remember me to little Rosie. Some people just suit their names.”

Alana remained in her father’s embrace. “Like some people look exactly what they are.” Of course she was thinking of Guy—The Man. “What are you going to do with yourself, Dad?”

He grimaced. “Well, let’s see. Where shall I start? I thought I might go into town.”

“Really?” Alana was pleasantly surprised. Her father rarely wanted to go anywhere. “Why didn’t you say? I could have run you in and picked you up later.”

“Only just thought of it,” he said. “Might call in on Father Brennan. Make me confession.”

“Dad?” Alana bent to stare into her father’s face, feeling a shock of alarm.

“Only jokin', darlin'.” He raised the ghost of a grin. “I haven’t been to confession for many years. Hardly time to be starting up again now. But I like Terry Brennan. He’s a good bloke.”

“Mum thought so.” Her mother had been raised a Catholic.

“God bless her!” Alan Callaghan sighed. “She was a saint to put up with me.”

“You weren’t so bad!” Alana shook him lightly. In fact in the old days their father had been full of fun and good cheer—the most affectionate of fathers. “Mum loved you.”

“Did she?”

That struck a badly discordant note. “What are you saying, Dad? Of course she did.”

“There’s love and there’s love,” Callaghan pronounced flatly.

“So what are you trying to tell me?” Alana asked in distress. Oh, God!

“I let a dream rule my life, me darlin'. The dream that your mother loved me. I know she settled for me. I know she was absolutely loyal to me. But I wasn’t what she wanted.”

Pain slashed all the way through her. “Who was? I’m really confused about all this, Dad. We were a happy family. It wasn’t a dream. It was a reality. And Mum did love you. She had to. She laughed at all your jokes. Don’t shatter what we had with maudlin thoughts. Maybe she was in love with David Radcliffe at some stage, when they were very young. But she didn’t marry him, did she? She married you.”

Alan Callaghan let out a strangled sigh. “Things happen, Alana.”

“Tell me.” She waited, breathless. “It’s obviously eating away at you, whatever it is.”

“Sorry, darlin'!” Her father sat up straight. “I’m a bit hazy on it myself. You go off now and enjoy yourself. God knows, you deserve a bit of pleasure.”

Alana glanced at her watch. She had to go, or she would be running late. She had intended taking the car—the air-conditioning in the ute was on the blink—but now she changed her mind. “I’ll take the ute. You take the car,” she suggested, in her usual generous fashion. Her father didn’t know the air-conditioning in the ute was shot. There was so much he didn’t know or care about.

“Doesn’t matter to me, darlin',” Alan Callaghan said. ‘You’re all dressed up. You take it.”

“The car will suit you better,” she replied. Alan Callaghan was six-three, like his son, and his skin had a peculiar flush. “I’m fine in the ute.” She bent to kiss his cheek, resting one hand on his shoulder. “You have clean shirts in your wardrobe, all ironed. Blue always looks so nice on you. Take care now, Dad. Love you.”

“Love you too, my darlin',” Alan Callaghan said, rising to his feet, then going to the verandah balustrade to wave her off.

Alana saw pleasure leap into Rose’s eyes as she walked towards her. Rose was already seated at the table, having arrived some minutes earlier. She jumped up to hug and kiss her cousin.

“Oh, isn’t this great? I’m so happy to see you, Lana,” she said in her affectionate way. “You look gorgeous—as usual. Très chic! You’re easily the most stunning girl in the Valley. It puts Vi’s nose out of joint I can tell you.” She giggled.

“Is it any wonder I love you so much?” Alana asked indulgently. Rose herself looked a picture, in a designer dress that must have cost the earth. Her Italian handbag alone would have set her trust fund back a few thousand dollars. With maybe another thousand or more tied up in the shoes. The Denby girls weren’t cheap dressers. They were fashion icons. In fact Alana rarely saw them in the same thing twice.

Predictably, they had been allotted one of the restaurant’s best tables, beside the huge floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows. The building was shaded by extensive covered verandahs that commanded a splendid view over the sun drenched vale of vines that marched in precise lines right up to the base of the green foothills. What a visual delight! Alana felt herself calming. It was marvellous paintable country! The ripened chardonnay grapes were to be harvested at any moment, which accounted for the palpable air of expectancy that permeated the air, and it was a sparkling scene laid out for their delectation beneath a shimmering blue sky.

“You’re going to have a glass of wine, aren’t you?” Rose asked, fixing her cousin with her huge, heavily lashed blue eyes.

Rose was so very, very pretty, Alana thought. Rather like the pin-up girls of old, with her thick blonde hair cut in a bob and her rosebud mouth painted fire-engine-red. And she was sweet. She’d be perfect for Simon. Even the Draconian Rebecca couldn’t object that much to Rose Denby.

“Just the one, Rose,” Alana said with a smile. “I’m driving.”

“Simon is going to run me home,” Rose confided, looking just the faintest bit anxious, as if Alana might have some objection. “We’ll soon be working together.” She held up a hand. “You can’t tell him yet, it’s not set in stone, but Guy has offered me a job.”

“That’s your news?” Alana wondered at the reason behind Guy’s sudden action.

“Yes!” Rose came across as thrilled. “I think it’s right down my alley, but I wanted to get your take on it. You’re the one with the good head on your shoulders. I’m a twit.”

“That’s not right, Rose,” Alana protested right away. Pretty as she was, Rose didn’t have a lot of self-esteem. “When did you stop believing in yourself? You were an excellent student.”

“Sure!” Rose sighed, looking away, across the luxuriant vineyard. “It’s hard to believe in yourself with sisters like mine. They gang up on me, those two. I know I was good at school but I’ve never amounted to anything, have I? You’ve been working your butt off since Aunt Belle died. People speak of you with such admiration. They dismiss me with a little knowing nod—airhead, featherbrain, fluttery little playgirl.”

“Hey, that’s not true!” Alana caught her cousin’s hand and shook it. “You’re so hard on yourself, Rose. You’re not reaching out, that’s all. You can do things. You don’t have to party all the time. I think it’s great Guy has offered you a job. I’m so happy for you.”

“You always did have a lot more faith in me than anyone else.” Rose leaned across the table, speaking in such a confidential voice that all the people in the huge room might have been dead set on eavesdropping. “I’ll be the PR person. I wouldn’t be waiting tables or anything like that. Mummy and Daddy would have a fit. It’s the social scene I’m good at, but I suddenly realise I want a job. I think it’s a dumb mistake, the way I’ve been living the life of a playgirl. Just like you said, I want to do something. Not something terribly serious, or really hard work, like you, but something I can enjoy. Something I can shine at. I’m good with people. Unlike my snooty sisters, people seem to like me.”

“Well, there’s a very good reason for that, Rose,” Alana said. “You have charm. You’re lovely to look at. You’re warm, friendly, intelligent. If you knew anything about mustering sheep I’d hire you myself. But you know everything about the Valley. And you’ve been just about everywhere in the world, so you can relate to all the overseas tourists. I think you’d be great! Congratulations. I’m proud of you.”

Guy’s hand is behind everything, Alana thought.

Rose blushed. “Gosh, it makes me happy to hear you say that, Lana. Guy has faith in me too. That means such a lot. I won’t let you down. I’ll be organising tours of the estate, making sure everything is working smoothly. I expect my duties will grow—Guy said it’s up to me. And I can help Simon in the office when I have the time. I’ve always had a soft spot for Simon, but he can’t see anyone outside you,” she lamented.

Alana shook her head. “Rose, it’s high time I told you I have no romantic interest in Simon. None whatsoever. We’re pals.”

Rose blinked, clearly having difficulty accepting what Alana had just said. “But Vi has been telling everyone you two are just biding your time before you get married. Simon’s mother is a bit of a pain in the neck, no?” Rose looked at Alana sympathetically. Rebecca Radcliffe, The Widow, had terrified her as a child. Rebecca looked just like the wicked stepmother in her illustrated book of Snow White.

“You’re not listening, Rosie.” Alana placed her hand over her cousin’s, giving it several little emphasising taps. “I-am-not-and-never-will-be-in-love-with-Simon.”

“Oh, thank you—thank you!” Rose put a hand to her breast, as if she was about to have a heart attack. “Just when I thought you were two steps away from the altar.”

“I’m two steps away from punching Vi in the nose,” Alana said as though ready to do it.

“But he worships you.” Rose could barely take in this new development.

“He would worship you if you played your cards right.” Alana looked her cousin directly in the eye.

“But this is crazy! Lana, don’t torture me. I’m already hyperventilating. You really don’t want him?”

Alana picked up the leatherbound menu, which was quite extensive. She studied it for a moment before answering. “As a husband, no; as my lifelong pal, yes. I’d be excited to be a god-mother, though. Maybe chief bridesmaid before that. Don’t take any notice whatsoever of anything Vi says. She’s a born trouble-maker, I’m afraid.”

“You’re telling me!” Rose huffed. “And Lil’s just the same. It will blow up in their faces one day.”

Simon was thrilled to have the opportunity of seeing Alana in the middle of his working day. He kissed her on both cheeks with Gallic aplomb, and smiled benignly on little Rose, who was looking remarkably pretty and flushed.

“Good lunch?” he asked, walking them to the parking lot.

“Great lunch!” both young women said together, then laughed.

“Well, the restaurant boasts a much-lauded chef,” Simon pointed out with satisfaction. “What did you have?”

“Rose will tell you in the car.” Alana lightly touched his arm. “She says you’re driving her home?” Actually, Alana could easily have done that, but Rose obviously didn’t want to miss out on a little private time with Simon.

“I wouldn’t want her to drive after a few drinks,” Simon said. “Our Rose can be quite naughty!”

“I like to enjoy myself, Simon, darling,” said Rose, suddenly feeling free to take his arm. “We had a brilliant time.” She puckered up to kiss Alana goodbye. “Just double-checking—you’re entering The Naming, of course?” she asked. “Will I ever get a chance to shine? Everyone thinks I’m pretty cute, but you’re something else again.”

“I’m not entering, Rosie,” Alana said firmly. “And I’m thinking it would be absolutely wonderful if you won.”

“Truly? You want me to win?” Rose’s big blue eyes widened.

Alana nodded. “I’ll take loads of photos of you wearing the crown.”

Simon, however, was searching Alana’s face with a frown. “You’re joking, aren’t you, Lana?”

“No, Simon, I’m not,’ she said sweetly, resisting the urge to pinch his cheek.

“But I’ve already entered you,” Simon burst out, near broken-heartedly.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Simon. It’s my decision not to enter.”

“Well, that’s good news of a kind.” Rose was looking on the bright side. “It gives the rest of us a chance.”

Alana was walking, head down, to the ute, when a tall figure loomed up in front of her, his height blocking out the sunlight. “Hi,” Guy said in a perfectly calm voice. “Lost in thought?”

She was glad her eyes were hidden behind the dark lenses of her sunglasses. “Why, hello, Guy. Is this the way it’s going to be from now on?”

“And how’s that?” He took her arm with unbearable gentleness and moved her into the shade of a trellis that was covered in a prolifically flowering white vine.

“We’re not friends any more?”

“Were we ever friends?” he asked ironically, his dark eyes moving slowly over her.

She averted her head. “Maybe not. I’ve just had lunch with Rose.”

“So I heard,” he answered smoothly. “She thinks the world of you, Alana.”

“And I’m very fond of Rose. It’s Violette I like to keep a million miles from. Violette is still telling anyone who will listen Simon and I are two minutes from the altar. At least that’s what Rose just told me.”

He was looking at her white shirt, at the first three buttons undone, allowing a mere glimpse of the shadowed cleft between her breasts.

She felt she was burning alive, unable to lock out the memories of his hands on her.

“Well, I do hope you put her right!” he said.

Alana gave in to a wry laugh. “You should have seen her rush off with Simon. She told me about the job. She’s thrilled. It’s wonderful you’re giving her a chance, Guy. It’s what she needs. Rose is capable of so much more.”

“I did it for you, Alana, as you well know,” he returned bluntly.

“Excuse me?” She threw back her head, aglitter in the sunlight.

“Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you in the least. I did what you suggested. I set it up so Rose and Simon are thrown together. I understood that’s what you wanted?”

She heard the birds calling to one another, the bees droning, inhaled the nearly overpowering sweet scent of the cascades of white flowers. “Do you want me to go down on bended knee and thank you?”

He smiled. “Actually, that could be nice. Why don’t I drive you home instead? It’s damned hot, and I know for a fact the air conditioning in your ute has broken down.”

“Is there anything you don’t know? Anyway, there are such things as windows,” she pointed out. She who had been forced to spend several minutes fixing her windblown hair when she’d arrived.

“If you could manage a smile, I’ll get someone to fix it and deliver it back to the farm. Probably by tomorrow afternoon.”

She would be a fool to turn such an offer down. “I can’t let you do it, Guy.”

“But you can let me play matchmaker to get Simon off your back?”

She smarted—just as he’d intended. “I love Simon.”

“As a friend. Simon needs to be strong about recognising that fact. I’m sure Rose will do her very best to offer sympathy. I like Rose. As you say, there’s so much more to her than she’s been allowed to show. I think she can do this job, and do it well.”

“So do I!” Her note was overly emphatic, as though he might change his mind. “She’s ecstatic about it.”

His mouth twitched. “I think she’s more ecstatic about coming into daily contact with Simon. They’re both gentle people. I need hardly say you’re not!”

“Neither are you!” she shot back, affronted.

“You are going to let me drive you home, though?”

She stared up at him. “You’re an intimidating man when you want to be, Guy Radcliffe.”

He took her arm, leading her off to the reserved parking area, under shelter, where his car had pride of place. Once there, he opened the passenger door for her—but before she could make a move to slide into the leather seat he suddenly caught her chin, turned her face up to him and kissed her mouth.

She didn’t know if it was fierce or tender or a combination of both, but her legs turned as wobbly as a toddler’s.

“Lucky for you I’m not intimidating all the time,” he said, placing a hand on the top of her head and guiding her down into the passenger seat as though she were his prisoner.

The countryside revealed itself in gentle swells of hill and dale, in every possible shade of green. Alana was very sensitive to all the different shades of nature. Graceful, broad-domed shade trees lined the valley road, and in the huge paddocks some species of wattle had already begun to burst into the glowing masses of golden blossom that outstripped the display turned on by the red and pink flowering gums.

Alana stared through the window of the gently purring car as the Valley landscape flashed by. The interior was beautifully cool. The top-of-the-range car was a far, far cry from the farm utility or indeed anything she was used to.

It was the bluest of blue days. A day to rejoice in—though if the truth be known numerous anxieties were tugging at her heart. A few shape-shifting white clouds were gathering over the hills. One looked like the dove of peace, with its wings outstretched. She didn’t feel in the least peaceful. She was trying hard to resist the urge to touch her still pulsating mouth. Every kiss he gave her was more devastating than the last. If only she could read their true meaning. Tease away her doubts.

“Dad said such a strange thing to me before I left,” she confided.

Guy glanced at her with a quick frown. “Oh? What?”

“He said he was going to see Father Brennan to make his confession.”

Guy, being Guy, cut right to the heart of the matter. “What are you afraid of?”

“I believe Dad has a death wish.” Her tone betrayed her sorrow.

“It’s possible,” Guy agreed quietly. “Kieran and I are always on guard, but we can’t be with him all the time.”

“Where is Kieran today?”

She rested her head back. “He’s gone over to the Mangans to give them a hand. Mr Mangan isn’t properly on his feet after his operation.”

“Yes, I know,” Guy murmured, his mind clearly on other things. “You know your farm will have to go?”

She nodded in abject resignation. “Maybe you can give me a job, like Rose?” She heard the bitterness in her voice, then felt appalled by it. “I’m sorry. I know how that sounded.”

“I could buy Briar’s Ridge,” Guy said.

She turned her head to look at him in amazement. He had sounded serious. “You don’t need it.”

“No.”

“So why would you do it?”

A muscle clenched along his clean jawline. “I’d do it if it would get your father back on his feet.” So she did mean something to him. But what?

“I don’t believe it would,” she answered, on reflection. “Dad is sunk in—not apathy, it’s despair. He tried to make that ‘confession’ a joke but he can’t fool me. He told me, ‘There’s love and there’s love.‘ He said he’d let a dream rule his life. That he wasn’t the one my mother wanted.”

“Isn’t that a confession?” Guy said with a strange note in his voice.

“You know it all, Guy. That’s why I’m telling you. In a way, your family and mine are bound together The richest family in the Valley, descendants of the old squattocracy, and an Irish immigrant who arrived in this country as a penniless boy with only a kindly great-aunt to take him in. Why did my mother choose the man she did? Why did my mother choose my father when even my father believes he wasn’t her heart’s choice?”

Guy took his time before he answered. “Your mother was pregnant at the time of her marriage, Alana. She married the father of her child. It’s as simple as that. She did what she believed was right.”

Tears choked her throat. “Do we even know that for sure? Why do Kieran and Alex act so strangely whenever they see one another? If I didn’t know better, I’d say Alex was Kieran’s woman of mystery. She certainly looks the part. Maybe they think they’re related? Maybe that’s what they’re afraid of?” She broke off, emotionally exhausted.

Guy’s dark eyes cut to her distraught profile. “Alan Callaghan was the father of Annabel’s child.” His voice had the ring of certainty. “Don’t make yourself sick toying with a fantasy. Although there is something odd in Kieran’s relationship with my sister. Whatever it is, it’s definitely not what you’ve just thrown in. You can get that out of your head right now. However your father won your mother—whatever method he used—it has haunted him. Believe me, Alana, Kieran is his son. Do you really think my father would have let his own child get away from him? Your mother alone made the decision to marry your father. She could not be dissuaded. Anyway, as a family you always gave the appearance of being happy. You were happy. Leave it at that, Alana. There’s nothing to be gained by asking too many painful questions to which you might never get an answer.”

Even so, immense frustration was building in her chest. “When I was a girl I used to hero-worship you,” she said in a tight voice.

He kept his eyes on the road. “You said that with such a mix of emotions. Am I going to have to do battle for you, Alana? You know I want you. I’m having trouble thinking of anything else but wanting you.” He lifted a hand off the wheel to touch her cheek.

Her body was swept by the sharpest aches and longings. Don’t you dare cry, she admonished herself. But her feelings were reflected in the melancholy tone of her voice. “So we start an affair? Is that it? Because you want me? For how long? What happens when it’s all over?” She turned her head to stare at him. “What could be the terrible result? For that matter, how do you know I won’t trap you into marriage? Even for you, someone renowned for never making a mistake, it wouldn’t be difficult. I could swear to be on the pill when I wasn’t. It’s been done before today. We both know of cases in the Valley.”

“You could never trap me,” he said. “The man who gets you, Alana, will be walking off with a prize. And let me correct you. I’ve made plenty of mistakes. Not, however, with women. Anyway, that’s not the way you are. You don’t have a dishonourable bone in your body.”

“I hope not.” Everything about him went deep with her. It was so much worse since they had crossed that dividing line. This man had the power to break her heart. She might be like her father. Some broken hearts never mended. “Do any of us truly know what we are until crisis time?” she asked. “Was Kieran’s conception just an accident?”

Guy’s face darkened. “Please, Alana, forget it.”

“Easier said than done. Maybe much of life is a series of accidents? What do you really want of me, Guy? I must tell you I’m no plaything to be enjoyed and then thrown away.”

“You think I see you as a plaything?” he asked with a flare of anger. “I don’t fall into the emotionally screwed up category, Alana. And in case you’ve started thinking revenge; forget it. Revenge is not in my heart. We both know we’ve always had a connection, though I suppose both of us have done our best to cover it up. I was older when you were just growing up. It made a difference. Then.”

Hadn’t his position, his charisma, his experience and sophistication kept her in awe for a long time? She stared out of the window for a few moments. “Were you ever sleeping with Violette?” she asked finally. She couldn’t stop herself. That was the other thing. His relationship with her cousin.

Guy’s mouth twisted. “Okay—yes! I was for a while. I won’t lie to you. My mother was very much in favor of Violette. I guess you don’t understand why. I don’t know that I do myself,” he said wryly. “But Violette can be very charming when she puts her mind to it. She knows how to insinuate herself with the right people. I’m sure you know what I mean. But our relationship couldn’t go beyond a certain stage. We’re very different people. Violette will find someone to suit her. I’ve had plenty of girlfriends. You know that. Most of them are still my friends. I’ve never deliberately hurt a woman. The very last person I want to hurt is you.”

“But despite your best intentions it could all turn out very differently,” she said quietly. “If we became close, our differences might stand out.’

“Does that worry you?” he asked. “I’ve known you all your life, Alana. I haven’t seen any essential differences. We’re not opposite poles. We both love the land. Not everyone sees it as we do. We need this life. We love Nature. We feel its healing power.”

“It hurts me to know you slept with Violette,” she admitted. “Your affair—whatever it was—lasted quite a while. She must be good in bed.”

A groan came from the back of Guy’s throat. “Alana, even for you I can’t kiss and tell. Did you want me to lie to you? Sex happens. I made no promises to Violette. I didn’t lead her astray. We really weren’t half as close as you seem to think. There’s a thousand times more excitement in touching your cheek.”

“So we’re going to have a sexual relationship?” If so, she might lose herself for ever!

“That’s what I want! I think we’ve gone past the stage where we can remain good friends.”

“Would you like it if I said I’ve slept with Simon?”

He turned his head briefly. “No, I wouldn’t,” he said, unmistakably emphatic. “But you haven’t. I’m thinking Simon has to be the Sir Galahad of the Valley. He adores you. It must have been very hard for him, treating you all this while as his best pal.”

“He is my best pal, that’s why!”

“What would I be, then?” He shot her a challenging glance. “Come on—tell me, so I’ll know.”

She began to count out on her fingers. “You’re a man with a lot of influence. You have a lot of power. And, yes, you have loads and loads of money.”

“Would you marry me for my money?”

“Of course I wouldn’t. Anyway, I’m not thinking of marriage at this stage.”

“What about six months from now?”

“You’re fooling,” she said shortly. She could see the sparkle in his eyes. “Go on, have your fun.”

“You never know! Anyway, you and Simon are wrong for each other.”

A little wave of sadness swept through her. “Simon is going to be dreadfully hurt.”

“I know that, and I’m sorry. Simon is my cousin—he’s family. But we both know Simon and Rose are much better suited. Besides, Rebecca will take a completely different view of Rose.”

Alana gave a brittle laugh. “Rose is a Denby.”

“So are you. Rebecca is an odd person,” he commented unexpectedly.

“My mother used to say Rebecca ‘wasn’t quite right.’”

“And she was being kind. Keep away from Rebecca as much as possible.”

She turned her head in surprise. “Why do you say that? Anyone would think I was considering moving in.”

“Well—” Abruptly, Guy broke off what he’d been about to say. He further startled Alana by putting a warning hand on her arm. “Looks like there’s been an accident up ahead. I can spot skid marks, and there’s a gouge in that big tree that looks fresh. A vehicle might have skidded on the gravel, hit the tree, then flipped. We’ll need to take a look.”

Instantly Alana was riven by dread. Some part of her recognised that she had always been prepared for something like this. Her mother had lost her life not very far from here. Her father had told her he intended driving into town. That meant he would have had to travel this very road. Full-blown panic entered her bloodstream. The beauty of the day gave way to nightmare.

Guy stopped his car at the top of the rise, a few feet from the towering gum. An area of bark had been gouged out of the trunk, long strips of it lying around the base. Swiftly Guy got out of the car and came round to her. “Stay where you are. I can smell petrol.”

She responded by trying to get out. “I’m coming too. You can’t stop me.”

“I can and I will,” Guy said, looking grim and well capable of using force if he had to. “This is a dangerous situation, Alana. Stay put. You’re needed to ring the police and an ambulance.”

“Just tell me it’s not our car,” she implored, her hopes dimming.

Guy lifted his hand, then dropped it as if in futility. Despite himself he too was giving in to a peculiar dread. He moved off while Alana sat there, door open, making heartbreaking little keening sounds.

He was back to her in moments. “It is your car,” he said, a world of regret in his voice. “I can see your father slumped over the wheel. The petrol fumes are strong. I have to get him out of there.”

“But, Guy, the danger!” She stared up at him, wild-eyed. Could she lose Guy and her father too?

“I’ll be fine,” he insisted. “Just do what I tell you. Make those calls. There’s no real help you can give. You’ll only be in the way.”

Urgently he moved down the woody slope. The smell of petrol was worrying him dreadfully. Alan Callaghan could be incinerated—a fate not to be borne. He was either unconscious or dead.

Guy reached the vehicle, tugging with all his might at the door handle. Finally he got it open. He reached in over Alan Callaghan’s dark head to turn off the ignition, his heart flipping at the moan that issued from the injured man’s throat.

Thank God!

Guy withdrew his head for a split second, shouting back to Alana, who was standing at the lip of the slope, staring down at the crash scene. “He’s alive!” But in what condition?

Blood was running from a wound high up on Alan Callaghan’s temple. Working swiftly, fearing the situation, Guy released the seat belt, then got his arm around the man. There was no way he could leave Alan Callaghan where he was.

The car could catch fire at any minute. It would explode. Too gruesome a death! One to be avoided at all costs. There was nothing else for it but to carry the semi-conscious man up the slope. To Guy’s immense relief, Alan Callaghan roused himself, then made a definite effort to stand on his own two feet.

“I’ve got you, Alan!” Guy cried. “We have to get up the slope as quickly as we can.”

Just as he had done once before, Guy slung his arm around the big man, half pulling, half dragging him up the slope, which mercifully wasn’t steep.

Oh, Dad—Dad, what’s to become of you? Alana shook her head, her nerves raw. Was this an attempted suicide? Or had her father simply lost control of the vehicle when he’d skidded on the gravel? Going on the strength of the petrol fumes, she was terrified he and Guy wouldn’t make it up the slope until it was too late. And she was in danger herself, standing so close to the lip. But she couldn’t bring herself to move away.

I can’t face life without these two.

If anything bad happened now it would break her. There had been so many losses, her spirit would simply call it quits.

“There’s a rug in the boot,” Guy called to her. “Be quick, Alana. Get it and drape it over the back seat. I’ll put your father there. We can get him to hospital much faster than waiting for the ambulance.”

Alana ran.

Less than a few minutes after that, with Guy’s car speeding back towards the town, the Callaghan’s car exploded. It went up in a solid wall of orange flame, with sections of buckled steel flying like missiles through the sulphurous air.

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