Welcome to the intensely emotional world of USA TODAY bestselling author Margaret Way in her thrilling new duet The Langdon Dynasty A family torn apart by betrayal, brought together by love

In book one, follow Dev Langdon on his mission to

succeed his father as the Cattle King of

Kooraki Station and win back the heart of

his childhood sweetheart, Mel.

THE CATTLE KING’S BRIDE May 2012

In book two, read Ava Langdon’s story of ignited

passion and love reawakening when she meets an

exotic and dangerously sexy Argentinian rancher.

ARGENTINIAN IN THE OUTBACK August 2012

A few moments later she felt without seeing when Varo came to stand directly at her shoulder. He was greeted warmly by everyone, but it was Ava he had come for.

“I hope you realize, Ava, as I am the captain of the winning team, you owe me a dance. Several, in fact,” he said, with his captivating smile.

“Of course, Varo.”

She turned to him, her eyes ablaze in her face, brilliant as jewels. Inside she might feel pale with shock, but outside she was all color—the golden mane of her hair, dazzling eyes, softly blushed cheeks, lovely deep pink mouth. She was determined now to play her part, her only wish to get through the night with grace.

For all he hadn’t been completely honest with her, Juan-Varo de Montalvo would never leave her memory—even when he disappeared to the other side of the world.

About the Author

MARGARET WAY, a definite Leo, was born and raised in the subtropical river city of Brisbane, capital of Queensland, Australia, the Sunshine State. A conservatorium-trained pianist, teacher, accompanist and vocal coach, she found that her musical career came to an unexpected end when she took up writing—initially as a fun thing to do. She currently lives in a harborside apartment at beautiful Raby Bay, a thirty-minute drive from the state capital. She loves dining alfresco 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, and she finds the laid-back village atmosphere very conducive to her writing. With well over one hundred books to her credit, she still believes her best is yet to come.

Argentinian
in the Outback
Margaret Way

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CHAPTER ONE

THE French doors of her bedroom were open to the cooling breeze, so Ava was able to witness the exact moment the station Jeep bearing their Argentine guest swept through the tall wrought-iron gates that guarded the main compound. The tyres of the vehicle threw up sprays of loose gravel, the noise scattering the brilliantly coloured parrots and lorikeets that were feeding on the beautiful Orange Flame Grevilleas and the prolific White Plumed species with their masses of creamy white perfumed flowers nearby.

As she watched from the shelter of a filmy curtain the Jeep made a broad half-circle around the playing fountain before coming to a halt at the foot of the short flight of stone steps that led to Kooraki’s homestead.

Juan-Varo de Montalvo had arrived.

She didn’t know why, but she felt excited. What else but excitement was causing that flutter in her throat? It had been a long time since she had felt like that. But why had these emotions come bubbling up out of nowhere? They weren’t exactly what one could call appropriate. She had nothing to get excited about. Nothing at all.

Abruptly sobered, she turned back into the room to check her appearance in the pierglass mirror. She had dressed simply: a cream silk shirt tucked into cigarette-slim beige trousers. Around her waist she had slung a wide tan leather belt that showed off her narrow waist. She had debated what to do with her hair in the heat, but at the last moment had left it long and loose, waving over her shoulders. Her blonde hair was one of her best features.

Cast adrift in the middle of her beautifully furnished bedroom, she found herself making a helpless little gesture indicative of she didn’t know what. She had greeted countless visitors to Kooraki over the years. Why go into a spin now? Three successive inward breaths calmed her. She had read the helpful hint somewhere and, in need of it, formed the habit. It did work. Time to go downstairs now and greet their honoured guest.

Out in the hallway, lined on both sides with gilt-framed paintings, she walked so quietly towards the head of the staircase she might have been striving to steal a march on their guest. Ava could hear resonant male voices, one a little deeper, darker than the other, with a slight but fascinating accent. So they were already inside the house. She wasn’t sure why she did it but, like a child, she took a quick peek—seeing while remaining unseen—over the elegant wrought-iron lace of the balustrade down into the Great Hall.

It was then she saw the man who was to turn her whole life upside down. A moment she was destined never to forget. He was in animated conversation with her brother, Dev, both of them standing directly beneath the central chandelier with all its glittering, singing crystal drops. Their body language was proof they liked and respected each other, if one accepted the theory that the distance one maintained between oneself and another said a great deal about their relationship. To Ava’s mind these two were simpatico.

Both young men were stunningly handsome. Some inches over six feet, both were wide through the shoulders, lean-hipped, with hard-muscled thighs and long, long legs. As might be expected of top-class polo players, both possessed superb physiques. The blond young man was her brother, James Devereaux Langdon, Master of Kooraki following the death of their grandfather Gregory Langdon, cattle king and national icon; the other was his foil, his Argentine friend and wedding guest. Juan-Varo de Montalvo had flown in a scant fifteen or so minutes before, on a charter flight from Longreach, the nearest domestic terminal to the Langdon desert stronghold—a vast cattle station bordered to the west and north-west by the mighty Simpson, the world’s third-largest desert.

In colouring, the two were polarised. Dev’s thick hair was a gleaming blond, like her own. Both of them had the Langdon family’s aquamarine eyes. De Montalvo’s hair was as black and glossy as a crow’s wing. He had the traditional Hispanic’s lustrous dark eyes, and his skin was tanned to a polished deep bronze. He was very much a man of a different land and culture. It showed in his manner, his voice, his gesticulations—the constant movement of his hands and shoulders, even the flick of his head. Just looking down at him caused a stunning surge of heat in her chest that dived low down into her body, pretty much like swallowing a mouthful of neat whisky.

There was far too much excitement in her reaction, even if it was strictly involuntary. She was a woman who had to defend her inner fortress which she had privately named Emotional Limbo. Why not? She was a woman in the throes of acrimonious divorce proceedings with her husband Luke Selwyn who had turned nasty, even threatening.

She had long reached the conclusion that Luke was a born narcissist, with the narcissist’s exaggerated sense of his own importance. This unfortunate characteristic had been fostered from birth by his doting mother, who loved him above all else. Monica Selwyn, however, had pulled away from her daughter-in-law. Ava was the woman who had taken her son from her. The pretence that she had been liked had been at times more than Ava could bear.

When she’d told Luke long months ago she was leaving him and filing for divorce he had flown into a terrible rage. She would have feared him, only she had tremendous back-up and support from just being a Langdon. Luke was no match for her brother. Why, then, had she married him? She had thought she loved him, however imperfectly. Ava knew she couldn’t go on with her life without asking herself fundamental questions.

In retrospect she realised she had been Luke’s trophy bride—a Langdon with all that entailed. Her leaving him, and in doing so rejecting him, had caused Luke and his establishment family tremendous loss of face. That was the truth of the matter. Loss of face. She hadn’t broken Luke’s heart, just trampled his colossal pride. But wasn’t that a potentially dangerous thing for any woman to do to a vain man?

Luke would mend. She was prepared to bet her fortune on that. Whereas she now had a sad picture of herself as a psychologically damaged woman.

Maybe everyone was damaged—only it came down to a question of degree? Some would say one couldn’t be damaged unless one allowed it, furthermore believed it. Unfortunately she had. She felt she was a coward in some ways: afraid of so many things. Afraid to trust. Afraid to stand her ground. Afraid to reach out. Almost afraid to move on. That hurt. For all her lauded beauty, at her core was painfully low self-esteem. Her skin was too thin. She knew it. Pain could reach her too easily.

Ava had lived most of her life feeling utterly powerless: the granddaughter, not the all-important grandson of a national icon. In her world it was sons who were greatly to be prized. But surely that was history? Women through the ages had been expected to make as good a marriage as possible, to honour and obey her husband and bear him children. In some privileged cases for the continuation of the family dynasty.

She didn’t give a darn about dynasty. Yet she had found enough courage—perhaps courage was the wrong word and defiance was much better—to fly in the face of her authoritarian grandfather’s wishes. He had despised Luke and warned her off him. So had Dev, who’d only had her happiness and wellbeing at heart. She had ignored both of them—to her cost—she had got it badly wrong. Proof of her poor judgement.

It would take her some time before she was able to pick herself up and walk back into mainstream life. She had so many doubts about herself and her strength. Many, many women would understand that. It was a common pattern among besieged women trying so hard to do the right thing, with their efforts totally disregarded or held in contempt by their partners. She sometimes wondered if genuine equality between the sexes would ever happen. Women were still receiving horrific treatment at the hands of men all over the world. Unbearable to think that might remain the status quo.

To be truthful—and she believed she was—she had to own up to the fact she had never been passionate about Luke, or indeed any man. Certainly not the way Amelia was passionate about Dev. That was love—once in a lifetime love. In Ava’s eyes, one had to be incredibly blessed to find it. Ava was an heiress, but she knew better than anyone that although money could buy just about anything it couldn’t buy love. Her marriage, she acknowledged with a sense of shame, had been an escape route from her dysfunctional family—most particularly her late grandfather.

Her grandfather’s death, however, had brought about swift changes. All for the better. Dev now headed up Langdon Enterprises, of which Kooraki, one of the nation’s leading cattle stations and beef producers, was but an arm; their estranged parents were back together—something that filled her and Dev with joy; and Sarina Norton, Kooraki’s housekeeper for many years and her grandfather’s not-so-secret mistress, had taken herself off to enjoy la dolce vita in Italy, the country of her birth.

And last but not least Sarina’s daughter—the long-suffering Amelia—was putting the seal on her life-long unbreakable bond with Dev by getting married to him. Ava had long thought of Dev and Amelia as twin stars, circling a celestial field, never far apart. Now at last they were coming together, after delaying the wedding for some months as a mark of respect for Gregory Langdon’s passing.

She now had the honour and privilege of being Amelia’s chief bridesmaid—one of three. Together the lives of Dev and Amelia had gained their ultimate purpose. They would have children—beautiful children. Mel was strong. Ava had always been stunned by Mel’s strength. Beside Mel she was very conscious of her own frailty. Despite the fact that all her own hopes had vanished like a morning mist she couldn’t be happier for them. Dev was gaining a beautiful, clever wife who would be a great asset to the family business enterprises, her parents were gaining a daughter-in-law, and she was gaining the sister she had longed for.

Triumphs all round for the Langdon family. The past had to make way for a bright future. There had to be a meaning, a purpose, a truth to life. So far it seemed to Ava she had struggled through her existence. How she longed to take wing! She had suffered through the bad times—surely things could only get better?

From her vantage point it was plain to see their visitor projected the somewhat to be feared “dominant male” aura. Man controlled the world. Man was the rightful inheritor of the earth. In a lucid flash of insight she realised she didn’t much like men. Her grandfather had been a terrifying man. But at the end of the day what did all that power and money matter? Both were false idols. Strangely, the dominant-male image didn’t bother her in her adored brother. Dev had heart. But it put her on her guard against men like Juan-Varo de Montalvo. He looked every inch of his six-three—the quintessential macho male. It surrounded him like a force field. Such men were dangerous to emotionally fragile women wishing to lead a quiet life. In her case, she came with baggage too heavy to handle.

De Montalvo, she had learned from Dev, was the only son and heir of one of the richest land-owners in Argentina—Vicente de Montalvo. His mother was the American heiress Caroline Bradfield, who had eloped with Vicente at the age of eighteen against her parents’ violently expressed disapproval. Not that Vicente had been all that much older—twenty-three.

The story had made quite a splash at the time. They must have been passionately in love and remained so, Ava thought with approval and a touch of envy. They were still together. And Dev had told her the bitter family feuding was mercifully long over.

Why wouldn’t it be? Who would reject a grandson like Juan-Varo de Montalvo, who made an instant formidable impact. He had the kind of features romance novelists invariably labelled “chiselled”. That provoked a faint smile—but, really, what other word could one use? He was wearing a casual outfit, much like Dev. Jeans, blue-and-white open-necked cotton shirt, sleeves rolled up, high polished boots. Yet he still managed to look … the word patrician sprang to mind. That high-mettled demeanour was inbred—a certain arrogance handed down through generations of a hidalgo family.

Dev had told her the Varo side of the family had its own coat of arms, and de Montalvo’s bearing was very much that of the prideful Old World aristocrat. His stance was quite different from Dev’s New World elegant-but-relaxed posture, Dev’s self-assured nonchalance. Only as de Montalvo began moving around the Great Hall with striking suppleness a picture abruptly flashed into her mind. It was of a jaguar on the prowl. Didn’t jaguars roam the Argentinian pampas? She wasn’t exactly sure, but she would check it out. The man was dazzlingly exotic. He spoke perfect English. Why wouldn’t he speak perfect English? He had an American mother. He would be a highly educated man, a cultured world-traveller.

High time now for her to go downstairs to greet him. She put a welcoming smile on her face. Dev would be expecting it.

The wedding was in a fortnight’s time. The bride-to-be, Amelia, was still in Sydney, where she was finishing off work for her merchant bank. Dev was planning on flying there to collect her and their parents and some other Devereaux guests. That meant Ava would be playing hostess to Juan-Varo de Montalvo for a short time.

The season was shaping up to be absolutely brilliant for the great day: the sky was so glorious a blue she often had the fancy she was being drawn up into its density. Despite that, they were all praying the Channel Country wouldn’t be hit by one of its spectacular electrical storms that blew up out of nowhere and yet for the most part brought not a drop of rain. For once rain wasn’t needed after Queensland’s Great Flood—a natural disaster that had had a silver lining. After long, long punishing years of drought, the Outback was now in splendid, near unprecedented condition.

Kooraki was a place of extraordinary wild beauty, with every waterhole, creek, billabong and lagoon brimming with life-giving water that brought an influx of waterbirds in their tens of thousands. So the station was in prime condition—the perfect site for the marriage between her brother and her dear friend Amelia.

Guests were coming from all over the country, and Juan-Varo de Montalvo was, in fact, the first overseas visitor to arrive. In his honour Dev had arranged a polo match and a post-polo party for the coming weekend. Invitations had gone out, generating huge interest. Most Outback communities, with their love of horses, were polo-mad. De Montalvo would captain one team, Dev the other. The two men had forged their friendship on the polo field. Dev had even visited the de Montalvo estancia—a huge ranch that ran Black Angus cattle, located not all that far from the town of Córdoba. So here were two polo-playing cattlemen who had every reason to relate to each other.

How Juan-Varo de Montalvo would relate to her was an entirely different matter. As she moved, her heart picked up a beat a second. Sometimes the purely physical got the better of the mind. She consoled herself with that thought.

Both men looked up as Ava began her descent of the curving staircase, one slender hand trailing over the gleaming mahogany banister. Ava, herself, had the oddest sensation she was walking on air. Her blood was racing. She felt in no way comfortable, let alone possessed of her usual poise. How could feelings run so far ahead of the rational mind?

“Ah, here’s Ava,” Dev announced with brotherly pride.

Dev’s eyes were on his sister and not on Juan-Varo de Montalvo, whose dark regard was also fixed on the very fair young woman who was making her way so gracefully to them. He had known in advance she was beautiful. Dev had boasted many times that he had a beautiful sister. But the reality far exceeded his expectations. He was used to beautiful women. He was a man who loved women, having grown up surrounded by them—doting grandmothers, aunts, female cousins. He adored his mother. He had three beautiful sisters—one older, very happily married with a small son, his godchild, and two younger, with legions of admirers—but something about this young woman sent a jolt of electricity shafting through his body.

He could see beneath the grace, the serene air and the poise that she was oddly vulnerable. The vulnerability seemed inexplicable in a woman who looked like an angel and had grown up as she had, with every material advantage. Dev had told him about her failed marriage. Maybe she saw it as a humiliation? A fall from grace? Maybe she was guilty of heedlessly breaking a heart—or worse, inflicting deliberate pain? He had been brought up to frown on divorce. He had lived with two people—his mother and father—who had made a wonderful life together and lived side by side in great harmony.

She had to tilt her head to look up at him. There was a curiously sad look in her jewel-like eyes, the same dazzling aquamarine as her brother’s. She had flawless skin, with the luminescence of a pearl. Few women could claim a face so incandescent.

It was in all probability a symptom of jet lag, but he felt a distinct low-pitched hum in his ears. Her smile, lovely and effortlessly alluring, seemed to conceal secrets. He had a certainty it was she who had ended her marriage. A cruel thing for an angel to do. One would expect such coldness only of a young and imperious goddess, who would only be loved for as long as it suited her.

Ava released a caught breath. “Welcome to Kooraki, Señor de Montalvo,” she said with a welcome return of her practised poise. Heat was coming off the Argentine’s aura. It was enveloping her. “It’s a pleasure to have you here.” It was necessary to go through the social graces even when she was en garde and taking great pains not to show it.

“Varo, please,” he returned, taking her outstretched hand. His grip was gentle enough not to crush her slender fingers, but firm enough not to let her escape. “It’s a great pleasure to be here. I thought it impossible you could be as beautiful as Dev has often described, but now I find you are even more so.”

She felt the wave of colour rise to her cheeks but quickly recovered, giving him a slightly ironic look, as though judging and rejecting the sincerity of his words. “Please—you mustn’t pander to my vanity,” she returned lightly. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had caused her to flush. She didn’t like the enigmatic half-smile playing around his handsome mouth either. The expression in his dark eyes with their fringe of coal-black lashes was fathoms deep. She was angry with herself for even noticing.

“I had no such thought,” he responded suavely, somehow establishing his male authority.

“Then, thank you.”

There was strength behind his light grip on her. As a conductor for transmitting energy, his touch put her into such a charged state it caused an unprecedented flare of sexual hostility. It was as though he was taking something from her that she didn’t want to give.

The warning voice in her head struck up again. You have to protect yourself from this man, Ava. He could burn down all your defences.

That she already knew.

“I find myself fascinated with Kooraki,” de Montalvo was saying, including Dev in his flashing white smile. “It is much like one’s own private kingdom. The Outback setting is quite extraordinary.”

“From colonial times every man of ambition and means came to regard his homestead as the equivalent of the Englishman’s country manor,” Dev told him. “Most of the historic homesteads were built on memories of home—which was in the main the British Isles.”

“Whereas our style of architecture was naturally influenced by Spain.”

Dev turned his head to his sister. “As I told you, Estancia de Villaflores, Varo’s home, is a superb example.”

“We have much to be proud of, don’t we?” de Montalvo said, with some gravitas.

“Much to be grateful for.”

“Indeed we do.” Brother and sister spoke as one.

Ava was finding de Montalvo’s sonorous voice, with its deep dark register, making her feel weak at the knees. She was susceptible to voices. Voice and physical aura were undeniably sensual. Here was a man’s man, who at the same time was very much a woman’s man.

He was dangerous, all right.

Get ensnared at your peril.

They exchanged a few more pleasant remarks before Dev said, “I’m sure you’d like to be shown your room, Varo. That was a very long trip, getting here. Ava will show you upstairs. I hope you like what we’ve prepared for you. After lunch we’ll take the Jeep for a quick tour of the outbuildings and a look at some of the herd. An overview, if you like. We have roughly half a million acres, so we’ll be staying fairly close in for today.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” de Montalvo returned, with a sincere enthusiasm that made brother and sister feel flattered.

“Your luggage is already in your room, Varo,” Ava told him, aware she was struggling with the man’s magnetism. “One of the staff will have brought it up by now, taking the back entrance.” Although de Montalvo had travelled a very long way indeed, he showed no signs whatever of fatigue or the usual jet lag. In fact he exuded a blazing energy.

“So no one is wasting time?” De Montalvo took a small step nearer Ava. An inch or two above average height, Ava felt strangely doll-like. “Please lead on, Ava,” he invited. “I am all attention.”

That made Dev laugh. “I have a few things to attend to, Varo,” he called as his sister and his guest moved towards the grand staircase. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

“Hasta luego!” De Montalvo waved an elegant hand.

Ava had imagined that as she ascended the staircase she would marshal her defences. Now, only moments later, those defences were imploding around her. She had the sense that her life had speeded up, entered the fast lane. She had met many high-powered people in her life—none more so than her grandfather, who hadn’t possessed a shining aura. Neither did Montalvo. It was dark-sided, too complex. It wasn’t any comfort to realise she had been shocked out of her safe haven. Worse yet to think she might be shorn of protection.

How could any man do that in a split second? The impact had been as swift and precise as a bolt of lightning. Maybe it was because she wasn’t used to exotic men? Nor the way he looked at her—as if he issued an outright challenge to her womanhood. Man, that great force of nature, totally irresistible if he so chose.

The thought angered her. Perhaps it was borne of her sexual timidity? Luke had early on in their marriage formed the habit of calling her frigid. She now had an acute fear that if she weren’t very careful she might rise to de Montalvo’s lure. He was no Luke. He was an entirely different species. Yet in some bizarre way he seemed familiar to her. Only he was a stranger—a stranger well aware of his own power.

As he walked beside her, with his tantalising lithe grace, glowing sparks might have been shooting off his powerful lean body. Certainly something was making her feel hot beneath her light clothing. She who had been told countless times she always appeared as cool as a lily. That wasn’t the case now. She felt almost wild, when she’d had no intention let alone any experience of being any such thing. To her extreme consternation her entire body had become a mass of leaping responses. If those responses broke the surface it would be the ultimate humiliation.

His guest suite was in the right wing. It had been made ready by the household staff. Up until their grandfather’s death the post of housekeeper had been held by Sarina Norton, Amelia’s mother. Sarina had been most handsomely rewarded by Gregory Langdon for “services rendered”. No one wanted to go there …

The door lay open. Varo waved a gallant arm, indicating she should enter first. Ava had the unsettling feeling she had to hold on to something. Maybe the back of a chair? The magnetic pull he had on her was so strong. How on earth was she going to cope when Dev flew off to Sydney? She was astonished at how challenging she found the prospect. What woman reared to a life of privilege couldn’t handle entertaining a guest? She was a woman who had not only been married but was in the process of divorce—she being the one who had initiated the action. Didn’t that qualify her as a woman of the world?

Or perhaps one could interpret it as the action of a woman who didn’t hesitate to inflict pain and injury? Perhaps de Montalvo had already decided against her? His family of Spanish origin was probably Roman Catholic, but divorce couldn’t be as big a no-no now as it had been in the time of Katherine of Aragon, Henry VIII’s deposed, albeit lawfully wedded, wife. Not that taking Katherine’s place had done Anne Boleyn much good.

Ava put the tension that was coiling tighter and tighter inside her down to an attack of nerves. It was all so unreal.

The guest room that had been chosen for de Montalvo was a grand room—and not only in terms of space and the high scrolled ceilings that were a feature of Kooraki’s homestead. The headboard of the king-sized bed, the bed skirt and the big cushions were in a metallic grey silk, with pristine white bed-coverings and pillows. Above the bed hung a large gold-framed landscape by a renowned English-Australian colonial artist. Mahogany chests to each side of the bed held lamps covered in a parchment silk the same colour as the walls. A nineteenth century English secretary, cabinet and comfortable chair held pride of place in one corner of the room. The rest of the space was taken up by a gilded Louis XVI-style sofa covered in black velvet with a matching ottoman. All in all, a great place to stay, with the added plus of a deep walk-in wardrobe and an en suite bathroom.

He said something in Spanish that seemed to make sense to her even though she didn’t know the language. Quite obviously he was pleased. She did have passable French. She was better with Italian, and she even had some Japanese—although, she acknowledged ruefully, keeping up with languages made it necessary to speak them every day. She even knew a little Greek from a fairly long stint in Athens the year after leaving university.

De Montalvo turned back from surveying the landscaped garden. “I’ll be most happy and comfortable here, Ava,” he assured her. “I’m sure this will be a trip never to be forgotten.”

She almost burst out that she felt the same. Of course she did not. She meant to keep her feelings to herself. “I’ll leave you in peace, then, Varo,” she said. “Come downstairs whenever you like. Lunch will be served at one. Dev will be back by then.”

“Gracias,” he said.

Those brilliant dark eyes were looking at her again. Looking at her. Through her. She turned slowly for the door, saying over a graceful shoulder, “Nuestra casa es su casa.”

His laugh was low in his throat. “You make a fine attempt. Your accent is good. I hope to teach you many more Spanish phrases before I leave.”

Ava dared to face him. “Excellent,” she said, her tone a cool parry.

CHAPTER TWO

THEY set out after breakfast the next day, the horses picking their way through knee-high grasses with little indigo-blue wildflowers swimming across the waving green expanses. Dev had flown to Sydney at first light, leaving them alone except for the household staff. She would have de Montalvo’s company for a full day and a night and several hours of the following day before Dev, Amelia and co were due to fly back. So, all in all, around thirty hours for her to struggle against de Montalvo’s powerful sexual aura.

For someone of her age, marital status and background Ava was beginning to feel as though she had been wandering through life with her eyes closed. Now they were open and almost frighteningly perceptive. Everyone had the experience of meeting someone in life who raised the hackles or had an abrasive effect. Their Argentine visitor exerted a force of quite another order. He had roped her, in cattleman’s terms—or she had that illusion.

Dinner the previous evening had gone off very well. In fact it had been a beautiful little welcoming party. They’d eaten in the informal dining room, which was far more suitable and intimate than the grand formal dining room only used for special occasions. She’d had the table set with fine china, sterling silver flatware, and exquisite Bohemian crystal glasses taken from one the of numerous cabinets holding such treasures. From the garden she had picked a spray of exquisite yellow orchids, their blooms no bigger than paper daisies, and arranged them to take central pride of place. Two tall Georgian silver candlesticks had thrown a flattering light, finding their reflection in the crystal glasses.

The menu she’d chosen had been simple but delicious: white asparagus in hollandaise, a fish course, the superb barramundi instead of the usual beef, accompanied by the fine wines Dev had had brought up from the handsomely stocked cellar. Dessert had been a light and lovely passionfruit trifle. She hadn’t gone for overkill.

Both Dev and his guest were great raconteurs, very well travelled, very well read, and shared similar interests. Even dreams. She hadn’t sat back like a wallflower either. Contrary to her fluttery feelings as she had been dressing—she had gone to a surprising amount of trouble—she had found it remarkably easy to keep her end up, becoming more fluent by the moment. Her own stories had flowed, with Dev’s encouragement.

At best Luke had wanted her to sit quietly and look beautiful—his sole requirements of her outside the bedroom. He had never wanted her to shine. De Montalvo, stunning man that he was, with all his eloquent little foreign gestures, had sat back studying her with that sexy half-smile hovering around his handsome mouth. Admiring—or mocking in the manner of a man who was seeing exactly what he had expected to see? A blonde young woman in a long silk-jersey dress the exact colour of her eyes, aquamarine earrings swinging from her ears, glittering in the candlelight.

She was already a little afraid of de Montalvo’s half-smile. Yet by the end of the evening she had felt they spoke the same language. It couldn’t have been a stranger sensation.

Above them a flight of the budgerigar endemic to Outback Australia zoomed overhead, leaving an impressive trail of emerald and sulphur yellow like a V-shaped bolt of silk. De Montalvo studied the indigenous little birds with great interest. “Amazing how they make that formation,” he said, tipping his head back to follow the squadron’s approach into the trees on the far side of the chain of billabongs. “It’s like an aeronautical display. I know Australia has long been known as the Land of the Parrot. Already I see why. Those beautiful parrots in the gardens—the smaller ones—are lorikeets, flashing colour. And the noisy ones with the pearly-grey backs and the rose-pink heads and underparts—what are they?”

“Galahs.” Ava smiled. “It’s the aboriginal name for the bird. It’s also a name for a silly, dim-witted person. You’ll hear it a lot around the stockyards, especially in relation to the jackeroos. Some, although they’re very keen, aren’t cut out for the life. They’re given a trial period, and then, if they can’t find a place in the cattle world, they go back home to find alternative work. Even so they regard the experience as the adventure of a lifetime.”

“I understand that,” he said, straightening his head. “Who wouldn’t enjoy such freedom? Such vast open spaces virtually uninhabited by man? Our gauchos want only that life. It’s a hard life, but the compensations are immense. Kooraki is a world away from my home in Argentina,” he mused, studying Ava as though the sight of her gave him great pleasure. “There is that same flatness of the landscape. Quechua Indians named our flatness pampa—much like your vast plains. But at home we do not know such extreme isolation at this. There are roads fanning out everywhere from the estancia, and the grounds surrounding the house—designed many decades ago and established by one of our finest landscape designers—are more like a huge botanical garden. Here it is pure wilderness. Beautiful in the sense of not ever having been conquered by man. The colours are indescribable. Fiery red earth, all those desert ochres mixed in beneath dazzling blue skies. Tell me, is the silvery blue shimmer the mirage that is dancing before our eyes?”

“It is,” Ava confirmed. “The mirage brought many an early explorer to his grave. To go in search of an inland sea of prehistory and find only great parallel waves of red sand! It was tragic. They even took little boats like dinghies along.”

“So your Kooraki has a certain mysticism to it not only associated with its antiquity?”

“We think so.” There was pride in her voice. “It’s the oldest continent on earth after all.” Ava shifted her long heavy blonde plait off her nape. It was damp from the heat and the exertion of a fantastically liberating gallop with a splendid horseman who had let her win—if only just. “You do know we don’t call our cattle stations ranches, like Americans? We’ve kept with the British station. Our stations are the biggest in the world. Anna Creek in the Northern Territory spreads over six million acres.”

“So we’re talking thirty thousand square kilometres plus?” he calculated swiftly.

“Thirty-four thousand, if we’re going to be precise. Alexandria Station, also in the Territory, is slightly smaller. Victoria Downs Station used to be huge.”

He smiled at the comparatives. “The biggest ranches in the U.S. are around the three thousand square kilometres mark, so you’re talking ten times that size. Argentine estancias are nowhere in that league either. Although earlier in the year a million-acre estancia in north-west Argentina was on sale, with enormous potential for agriculture—even eco-power possibilities. Argentina—our beautiful cosmopolitan capital Buenos Aires—was built on beef, as Australia’s fortunes were built on the sheep’s back—isn’t that so?” He cast her a long glance.

“I can’t argue with that. Langdon Enterprises own both cattle and sheep stations. Two of our sheep stations produce the finest quality merino wool, mainly for the Japanese market. Did Dev tell you that?”

“I believe he did. Dev now has a great many responsibilities following your grandfather’s death?”

“He has indeed,” she agreed gravely, “but he’s up to it. He was born to it.”

It was her turn to study the finely chiselled profile de Montalvo presented to her. He wasn’t wearing the Outback’s ubiquitous akubra, but the startlingly sexy headgear of the Argentine gaucho: black, flat-topped, with a broad stiff brim that cast his elegant features into shadow. To be so aware of him sexually was one heck of a thing, but she strove to maintain a serene dignity, at the same time avoiding too many of those brilliant, assessing glances.

“Your father was not in the mould of a cattleman?” he asked gently.

Ava looked away over the shimmering terrain that had miraculously turned into an oasis in the Land of the Spinifex. The wake of the Queensland Great Flood had swept right across the Channel Country and into the very Red Centre of the continent.

“That jumped a generation to Dev. He was groomed from boyhood for the top. There was always great pressure on him, but he could handle it. Handle my grandfather as well. The rest of us weren’t so fortunate. My father is much happier now that he has handed over the reins. My grandfather, Gregory Langdon, was a man who could terrify people. He was very hard on all of us. Dad never did go along with or indeed fit into the crown-prince thing, but he was a very dutiful son and pleasing his father was desperately important to him.”

“And you?”

Ava tilted her chin an inch or so. “How can I say this? I’m chiefly remembered for defying my grandfather to marry my husband. Neither my grandfather nor Dev approved of him. It soon appeared they were right. You probably know I’m separated from my husband, in the process of getting a divorce?”

Varo turned his handsome head sideways to look at her. Even in the great flood of light her pearly skin was flawless. “I’m sorry.” Was he? He only knew he definitely didn’t want her to be married.

“Don’t be,” she responded, more curtly than she’d intended. He would probably think her callous in the extreme.

He glimpsed the flash of anger in her remarkable eyes. Obviously she longed to be free of this husband she surely once had loved. What had gone so badly wrong?

“I too tried very hard to please my grandfather,” she offered in a more restrained tone. “I never did succeed—but then my grandfather had the ingrained idea that women are of inferior status.”

“Surely not!” He thought how his mother and sisters would react to that idea.

“I’m afraid so. He often said so—and he meant it. Women have no real business sense, much less the ability to be effective in the so-called ‘real’ world. Read for that a man’s world—although a cattle kingdom is a man’s world it’s so tough. Women are best served by devoting their time to making a good marriage—which translates into landing a good catch. Certainly a good deal of time, effort and money went into me.”

“This has led to bitterness?” He had read much about the ruthless autocratic patriarch Gregory Langdon.

Ava judged the sincerity of his question. She was aware he was watching her closely. “Do I seem bitter to you?” She turned her sparkling gaze on him.

“Bitter, no. Unhappy, yes.”

“Ah … a clarification?” she mocked.

“You deny it?” He made one of his little gestures. “Your husband is not putting up a fight to keep you?” Such a woman came along once in a lifetime, he thought. For good or bad.

Ava didn’t answer. They had turned onto a well-trodden track that led along miles of billabongs, creeks and water-holes that had now become deep lagoons surrounded on all sides by wide sandy beaches. The blaze of sunlight worked magic on the waters, turning them into jewel colours. Some glittered a dark emerald, others an amazing sapphire-blue, taking colour from the cloudless sky, and a few glinted pure silver through the framework of the trees.

“One tends to become unhappy when dealing with a divorce,” Ava answered after a while. “My marriage is over. I will not return to it, no matter what. Dev at least has found great happiness.” She shifted the conversation from her. “He and Amelia are twin souls. You’ll like Amelia. She’s very beautiful and very clever. She holds down quite a highflying job at one of our leading merchant banks. She’ll be a great asset to Langdon Enterprises. Mercifully my grandfather didn’t pass on his mindset to Dev.”

“Dev is a man of today. He will be familiar with very successful women. But what do you plan to do with yourself after your divorce comes through?”

She could have cried out with frustration. Instead she spoke with disconcerting coolness. “You are really interested?”

“Of course.” His tone easily surpassed hers for hauteur.

She knew she had to answer on the spot. Their eyes were locked. Neither one of them seemed willing to break contact. They could have been on some collision course. “Well, I don’t know as yet, Varo,” she said. “I might be unequal to the huge task Dev has taken on, but I want to contribute in any way I can.”

“Then of course you will.” A pause. “You will marry again.”

It wasn’t a question but a statement. “That’s a given, is it? You see it as my only possible course?” she challenged.

He reached out a long arm and gently touched her delicate shoulder, leaving a searing sense of heat. It was as though his hand had touched her bare skin.

“Permit me to say you are very much on the defensive, Ava. You know perfectly well I do not.” The sonorous voice had hardened slightly. “Dev will surely offer you a place on the board of your family company?”

“If I want a place, yes,” she acknowledged.

He gave her another long, dark probing look. “So you are not really the businesswoman?”

She shook her head. “I have to admit it, no. But I have a sizeable chunk of equity in Langdon Enterprises. Eventually I will take my place.”

“You should. There would be something terribly wrong if you didn’t. You want children?”

She answered that question with one of her own. “Do you?”

He gave her his fascinating, enigmatic half-smile. “Marriage first, then children. The correct sequence.”

“Used to be,” she pointed out with more than a touch of irony. “Times have changed, Varo.”

“Not in my family,” he said, with emphasis. “I do what is expected of me, but I make my own choices.”

“You have a certain woman in mind?”

It would be remarkable if he didn’t. She had the certainty this dynamic man had a dozen dazzling women vying for his attention.

“Not at the moment, no,” he told her with nonchalance. “I enjoy the company of women. I would never be without women in my life.”

“But no one as yet to arouse passion?” She was amazed she had even asked the question, and aware she was moving into dangerous territory.

Her enquiring look appeared to him both innocent and seductive at one and the same time. Did she know it? This wasn’t your usual femme fatale. There was something about her that made a man want to protect her. Possibly that was a big mistake. One her husband had made?

“I don’t think I said that,” he countered after a moment. “Who knows? I may have already succumbed to your undoubted charms, Ava.”

She raised a white hand to wave a winged insect away—or perhaps to dismiss his remark as utterly frivolous. “It would do you no good, Varo. I’m still a married woman. And I suspect you might be something of a legend back in Argentina.”

“Perdón—perdonare!” he exclaimed. “Surely you mean as a polo player?” He pinned her gaze.

Both of them knew she had meant as a lover. “I’m looking forward to seeing you in action at the weekend.” She declined to answer, feeling hot colour in her cheeks. “It should be a thrilling match. We’re all polo-mad out here.”

“As at home. Polo is the most exciting game in the world.”

“And possibly the most dangerous,” she tacked on. “Dev has taken a few spectacular spills in his time.”

He answered with an elegant shrug of one shoulder. “As have I. That is part of it. You are an accomplished rider,” he commented, his eyes on her slender body, sitting so straight but easy in the saddle. Such slenderness lent her a deceptive fragility, contradicted by the firmness with which she handled her spirited bright chestnut mare.

“I should be.” Ava’s smile became strained as memories flooded in. “My grandfather threw me up on a horse when I was just a little kid—around four. I remember my mother was beside herself with fright. She thought I would be hurt. He took no notice of her. Mercifully I took to riding like a duck to water. A saving grace in the eyes of my grandfather. As a woman, all that was expected of me was to look good and produce more heirs for the continuation of the Devereaux-Langdon dynasty. At least I was judged capable of expanding the numbers, if not the fortune. A man does that. I expect in his own way so does Dev. Every man wants a son to succeed him, and a daughter to love and cherish, to make him proud. I suppose you know my grandfather left me a fortune? I don’t have to spend one day working if I choose not to.”

“Why work at anything when one can spend a lifetime having a good time?” he asked on a satirical note.

“Something like that. Only I need to contribute.”

“I’m sure you shall. You need time to re-set your course in life. All things are possible if one has a firm belief in oneself. Belief in oneself sets us free.”

“It’s easier to dream about being free than to accomplish it,” she said, watching two blue cranes, the Australian brolgas, getting set to land on the sandy banks of one of the lagoons.

“You thought perhaps marriage would set you free?” he shot back.

“I’m wondering if you want my life story, Varo?” Her eyes sparkled brightly, as if tears weren’t all that far away.

“Not if you’re in no hurry to tell me,” he returned gently, then broke off, his head set in a listening position. “You hear that?”

They reined in their horses. “Yes.” Her ears too were registering the sound of pounding hooves.

Her mare began to skip and dance beneath her. In the way of horses, the mare was scenting some kind of danger. De Montalvo quietened his big bay gelding with a few words in Spanish which the gelding appeared to understand, because it ceased its skittering. Both riders were now holding still, their eyes trained on the open savannah that fanned out for miles behind them.

In the next moment they had their answer. Runaway horse and hapless rider, partially obscured by the desert oaks dotted here and there, suddenly burst into full view.

De Montalvo broke the fraught silence. “He’s in trouble,” he said tersely.

“It’s a workhorse.” Ava recognised that fact immediately, although she couldn’t identify the rider. He was crouched well down over his horse’s back, clinging desperately to the flowing black mane. Feet were out of the stirrups; the reins were flailing about uselessly. “It’s most likely one of our jackeroos,” she told him with anxiety.

“And he’s heading right for that belt of trees,” De Montalvo’s expression was grim. “If he can’t pull up he’s finished. Terminado!” He pulled the big bay’s head around as he spoke.

The area that lay dead ahead of the station hand’s mad gallop was heavily wooded, dense with clumps of ironwood, flowering whitewoods and coolabahs that stood like sentinels guarding the billabong Ava knew was behind them. The petrified rider was in deep trouble, but hanging on for dear life. He would either be flung off in a tumble of broken bones or stay on the horse’s back, only to steer at speed into thick overhanging branches. This surely meant a broken neck.

“Stay here,” de Montalvo commanded.

It was an order, but oddly she didn’t feel jarred by it. There was too much urgency in the situation.

She sat the mare obediently while de Montalvo urged the powerful bay gelding into a gallop. Nothing Zephyr liked better than to gallop, Ava thought with a sense of relief. Nothing Zephr liked better than to catch and then overtake another horse. That was the thoroughbred in him.

The unfortunate man had long since lost his hat. Now Ava recognised the red hair. It was that Bluey lad—a jackeroo. She couldn’t remember his surname. But it was painfully clear he was no horseman. One could only wonder what had spooked his horse. A sand goanna, quite harmless but capable of giving a nervous horse a fright? Goannas liked to pick their mark too, racing alongside horse and rider as though making an attempt to climb the horse’s sleek sides. A few cracks of the whip would have settled the matter, frightening the reptile off. But now the young jackeroo was heading full pelt for disaster.

Ava held up a hand to shield her eyes from the blazing sun. Little stick figures thrown up by the mirage had joined the chase, their legs running through the heated air. She felt incredibly apprehensive. Señor de Montalvo was their guest. He was a magnificent rider, but what he was attempting held potential danger for him if he persisted with the wild chase. If he were injured … If he were injured … She found herself praying without moving her dry lips.

Varo had been obliged to come at the other horse from an oblique angle. She watched in some awe as he began to close in on the tearaway station horse that most likely had started life as a wild brumby. Even in a panic the workhorse couldn’t match the gelding for speed. Now the two were racing neck and neck. The finish line could only be the wall of trees—which could prove to be as deadly as a concrete jungle.

Ava’s breath caught in her throat. She saw Varo lean sideways out of his saddle, one hand gripping his reins and the pommel, the other lunging out and down for the runaway’s reins. A contest quickly developed. Ava felt terribly shaken, not knowing what to expect. She found herself gripping her own horse’s sides and crying out, “Whoa, boy, whoa!” even though she was far from the action. She could see Varo’s powerful gelding abruptly change its long stride. He reined back extremely hard while the gelding’s gleaming muscles bunched beneath its rider. Both horses were acting now in a very similar fashion. Only a splendid horseman had taken charge of them, bringing them under tight control.

The mad flight had slowed to a leg-jarring stop. Red dust flew in a circling cloud, earth mixed up with pulped grasses and wildflowers. “Thank God!” Ava breathed. She felt bad enough. Bluey was probably dying of fright. What of Varo? What an introduction to their world!

The headlong flight was over. She had a feeling Bluey wasn’t going to hold on to his job. She was sure she had heard of another occasion when Bluey had acted less than sensibly. At least he was all right. That was the important thing. There had been a few tragic stories on Kooraki. None more memorable than the death in a stampede of Mike Norton, Sarina Norton’s husband but not, as it was later revealed, Amelia’s actual father. Sarina Norton was one beautiful but malevolent woman, loyal to no one outside herself.

Ava headed off towards the two riders who had sought the shade to dismount. Her mare’s flying hooves disturbed a group of kangaroos dozing under one of the big river gums. They began to bound along with her.

It was an odd couple she found. Bluey, hardly more than a madcap boy, was shivering and shaking, white as a sheet beneath the orange mantling of freckles on his face. Varo showed no sign whatsoever of the recent drama, except for a slick of sweat across his high cheekbones and the tousling of his thick coal-black hair. Even now she had to blink at the powerful magnetism of his aura.

He came forward as she dismounted, holding the mare’s reins. They exchanged a measured, silent look. “All’s well that ends well, as the saying goes.” He used his expressive voice to droll effect. Far from being angry in any way, he was remarkably cool, as though stopping runaway horses and riders was a lesson he had learned long ago.

Ava was not cool. He was their guest. “What in blue blazes was that exhibition all about?” she demanded of the hapless jackeroo. She watched in evident amazement as the jackeroo attempted a grin.

“I reckon I oughta stick to motorbikes.”

“I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?” Ava asked with a frown.

“Yes, miss.” The jackeroo sketched a wobbly bow. “I’m Bluey. This gentleman here did a great job of saving me life. I’d have broken a leg, for sure.”

“You’d have broken a great deal more than that,” Varo pointed out, this time making no attempt to hide the note of reproof.

“It was a mongrel goanna.” Bluey made a wild gesture with his skinny arms. “About six feet long.”

“Nonsense!” Ava shook her head. “It was probably a sand goanna, half that size. You must have alarmed it.”

“Well, it rushed me anyway,” Bluey mumbled, implying anyone would have reacted the same way. “Sprang up from under a tree. I thought it was a damned log, beggin’ your pardon.”

“Some log!” It was all Ava could do not to tell Bluey off. “You could have frightened it off with a few flicks of the whip.”

“Couldn’t think fast enough,” Bluey confessed, looking incredibly hot and dirty.

The expression on Juan-Varo de Montalvo’s handsome face conveyed what he thought of the jackeroo’s explanation. “You’re all right to mount your horse again?” he addressed the boy with clipped authority in his voice.

“Poor old Elvis.” Bluey shook his copper head. “The black mane, yah know? I thought his heart would burst.”

“The black mane?” Varo’s expression lightened. He even laughed. “I see.”

Ava was finding it difficult to keep her eyes off him. He looked immensely strong and capable, unfazed by near disaster. His polished skin glowed. The lock of hair that had fallen forward onto his tanned forehead gave him a very dashing, rakish look. He wore his hair fairly long, so it curled above the collar of his shirt. She tried not to think how incredibly sexy he was. She needed no such distraction.

As they paused in the shade small birds that had been hidden in the safety of the tall grasses burst into the air, rising only a few feet before the predatory hawks made their lightning dives. Panicked birds were caught up, others managed to plummet back into the thick grass. This was part of nature. As a girl Ava had always called out to the small birds, in an effort to save them from the marauding hawks, but it had been an exercise in futility.

“What were you doing on your own anyway, Bluey? You should have been with the men.”

Bluey tensed. “Headin’ for the Six Mile,” he said evasively. “You’re not gunna tell the boss, are you?” he asked, as though they shared a fearful secret.

Varo glanced at Ava, who was clearly upset, her eyes sparkling. He decided to intervene. “Get back on your horse. I assume the red hair justifies the nickname! We’ll ride with you to the house. You’ll need something for those skinned hands.”

“A wash up wouldn’t hurt either,” Ava managed after a moment. “Think you’ll be more alert next time a goanna makes a run for your horse?”

“I’ll practise a lot with me whip,” Bluey promised, some colour coming back into his blanched cheeks. “I hope I didn’t spoil your day?”

“Spoil our day?” Ava’s voice rose. “It would have been horrible if anything had happened, Bluey. Thank God Varo was with me. I doubt I could have caught you, let alone have the strength to bring the horses under control.”

“Sorry, miss,” Bluey responded, though he didn’t look all that troubled. “I could never learn to ride like you.” Bluey looked to the man who had saved him from certain injury or worse.

“You can say that again!” Ava responded with sarcasm.

“Thanks a lot, mate.” Bluey leaked earnest admiration from every pore.

Varo made a dismissive gesture. “M-a-t-e!” He drew the word out on his tongue.

“Well, that’s one version of it.” Ava had to smile. Did the man have any idea what a fascinating instrument his voice was? “Well, come on, Bluey,” she said, giving the jackeroo a sharp look. “Get back up on your horse.”

Bluey shook himself to attention. “Dunno who got the bigger fright—me or Elvis.” He produced a daft grin.

As they rode back to the homestead Ava couldn’t help wondering if Bluey would ever make it as a station hand. His derring-do could prove a danger to others. From fright and alarm he had gone now to questioning his hero about life on the Argentine pampas, confiding that everyone—“I mean everyone!”—would be turning up to see him play polo at the weekend. “You got one helluva lot of strength inside you,” Bluey told the South American visitor with great admiration.

“Just as well. It was a titanic struggle,” Ava said, resisting the impulse to call Bluey the derogatory galah. “Common sense goes a long way. If I find you’ve used up eight lives …?” She paused significantly.

“Please don’t tell the boss, miss,” Bluey begged. “One more sin and he’ll kick me out.”

“And there goes your big adventure.” Ava shrugged, thinking admonition might well fall on deaf ears. “It could be later than you think, Bluey. Now, let’s get you cleaned up.”

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