Читать онлайн книгу «Bride at Briar′s Ridge» автора Margaret Way

Bride at Briar's Ridge
Margaret Way
Outback heir seeks convenient wife. . .Sought-after bachelor Linc Mastermann is used to women falling at his feet. But past experience has taught this handsome sheep baron that women aren’t to be trusted. Daniela Adami has come to beautiful Wangaree Valley to escape from her life in London. She’s hurt, and her heart is guarded, but when Linc strides into her world he turns it upside down.Linc only wants to marry to produce heirs to his fortune. He isn’t interested in falling in love. Or so he thinks… Barons of the Outback Rich, rugged…and ready to marry!


‘I hardly know you.’
Linc looked across at her without a smile. ‘I understand your concerns. I share them, in a way. But some things—like basic instincts—have a way of cutting through our best intentions. We could act conventionally and take months getting to know one another, but both of us are at a time in our lives when our own instincts override caution. We’re attracted to one another?’
‘Yes.’ Daniela turned her head away, but openly acknowledged it. That attraction had sprung fully formed.
‘So, will you have dinner with me and forget your anxieties? Please say you’ll come.’ He glanced at her, seeing how her long dark eyelashes were quivering against the golden bloom of her cheek. ‘You know you want to.’
She nodded, but her expression was troubled. ‘What I’m wondering is what you really want,’ she said.
He reached out with his left hand and grasped the tips of her fingers.
It was like drowning in a sea of sensuality.
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 musical 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 100 books to her credit, she still believes her best is yet to come.
Recent books by the same author:
WEDDING AT WANGAREE VALLEY*
CATTLE RANCHER, SECRET SON
PROMOTED: NANNY TO WIFE†
CATTLE RANCHER, CONVENIENT WIFE†
*Barons of the Outback duet †Outback Marriages duet

BARONS OF THE OUTBACK
Rich, rugged…and ready to marry!
In the searing heat of Wangaree Valley,
where the rainbow colours of the birds and flowers
mix with the invigorating smell of the native eucalypts,
sheep barons Guy Radcliffe and Linc Mastermann
work hard to be at the very top of their game.
They are men of the earth, strong and powerful!
Their wealth and success mean Guy and Linc
are two of Australia’s most eligible bachelors—
and now they’re looking for brides!
Last month you read all about gorgeous Guy in: WEDDING AT WANGAREE VALLEY
This month, read Linc’s story in: BRIDE AT BRIAR’S RIDGE

BRIDE AT BRIAR’S RIDGE
BY
MARGARET WAY

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
LINC checked out of his Sydney hotel after a late breakfast. An easy two-hour drive later he was cruising through the beautiful Hunter Valley, wedged snugly between the blue-hazed Brokenback Ranges, dominated by the native eucalypts. He had an idea the word eucalypt came from the Greek for ‘covered’. Maybe it had something to do with the way the buds covered themselves, as though seeking shade. There were over six hundred species of eucalypt at the last count—Australia’s gift to the world. It was the fine drops of eucalyptus oil in the atmosphere that gave off that marvellous purplish-blue haze. That was how the beautiful Blue Mountains some forty miles west of Sydney got their name.
To his mind, trees made the landscape. He loved them. He was first and last a man of the land. Sometimes he thought he and the land were one—pretty much the same primal feeling of the first Australians, the aboriginals who had managed the land for 40,000 maybe 60,000 years. The white man, with his need for progress now almost out of control, was doing great harm to nature. The planet was screaming out for urgent change.
It was a brilliantly fine day, all blue and green and gold, and the unfolding landscape was like one of Hans Heysen’s famous rural paintings that found their way on to calendars and postcards and the like. Miles of sun-drenched vineyards met his eyes, expanding to the horizon. Here and there he caught glimpses of glorious big rose bushes, bearing a profusion of flowers. He knew roses were grown in close proximity to the vines because their presence protected the vines from certain blights. Fruit and flower gave off a heady rich perfume and a riot of colour.
The Hunter was Australia’s oldest wine-growing region, probably the most visited, and it produced wonderful wines. In fact the Hunter was a Mecca for those who relished gourmet food washed down with plum-coloured Shiraz, golden Chardonnay, citrusy Semillon or classic Cabernet with its blackberry flavour; a superb wine to complement every type of cuisine. He wasn’t behind the door with the vino, having sunk a bottle or two in his time, but he still had a taste for a good cold beer.
Some parts of the landscape were reminding him of Italy: the imported eucalypts, the golden sun soaking into the fertile soil, the intoxicating aromas of fruit and flowers, the open grassy meadows filled with wild poppies, scarlet and yellow, their papery petals bobbing in the breeze. He was halfway to feeling good when for many years of his life he had been swept by restlessness. He had a dark side to him. Linc had come to accept that. Now he took his time, savouring the laid-back atmosphere of the valley. It held more than a hint of the wild bush he loved. Every country had its own landscape. The Outback was Australia’s, but the real Outback was farther on—the Back O’Beyond.
He slotted in another CD and drove along with it as he continued on to his destination. Wangaree Valley. Wangaree was the legendary stronghold of the mighty sheep barons and their descendants, in particular his old friend, Guy Radcliffe. He and Guy had been through school and university together, and Guy had been a role model for him in those days—a calm, steadying hand when he’d really needed one. He remembered Dr Mallory, the headmaster of their school, describing Guy as ‘the perfect gentleman’. There was no getting away from it. Guy was impressive. Linc, on the other hand, was kind of wild—especially since he and Chuck, his elder brother, had lost their mother to breast cancer a few years into their boarding school stint.
It had torn his heart out. He still wasn’t over the shattering blow. Never would be. He had been very close to his mother, even more so than Chuck. Their father had favoured Chuck. The moment he thought of his mother Linc’s breath caught on a moan. In those last heartbreaking days she had become so wasted—parchment skin stretched tight over delicate bones, hardly a vestige of her beauty left to her. But even at the end she had been so incredibly loving, so selfless and brave, thinking only of them, her two boys, and his heart broke all over again. Suffering seemed to happen to the best people. His mother had been the one who’d held the family together. He was going to miss her until the end of his days.
Right now he had to make an effort to clamp down on his upsetting memories. No one seemed to realise it—he knew he projected the misleading super-confident image of a man right on top of things—but he was a pretty complicated guy, maybe even messed up. Only his mother had truly understood him. His father had been antagonistic even when Linc was a kid. He knew he had always asked too many questions—not trying to be the smart-ass his father had long since labelled him, he had actually wanted to know. He’d always had an enquiring mind. But his father hadn’t seen it that way. To him, being questioned about anything was rank insubordination. Ah, well! He wasn’t the first and he wouldn’t be the last not to get on with his dad. But that was all over.
He was in the valley for the best of reasons. Guy had asked him to be one of the groomsmen at his wedding. Something he had kept from the family. He had wanted to tell Chuck, but Chuck could unwittingly be conned into admissions he would never have made on his own. The wedding was to be celebrated the coming Saturday. Guy was marrying a very special girl by the name of Alana Callaghan—‘the most beautiful girl in the valley’—or so the legend went. Linc had been delighted to accept his friend’s invitation. Besides it would give him the opportunity to view Briar’s Ridge.
Alana and her brother, Kieran, had inherited the sheep farm from their late father. Guy had told him it was a good buy, and Guy was the man in the know. Guy also knew Linc was anxious to strike out on his own. Briar’s Ridge just might work.
It would be a huge challenge, even so. He did have money of his own, plus a nice little nest egg he had inherited from his maternal grandad—God rest his gracious, loving soul. His father, Ben, as tight-fisted as they came, would have refused point-blank to lend him a stake. Giving was out of the question. The only thing his father would have given was a few tips to Scrooge. Except where Cheryl was concerned. Linc felt a burning in his chest at the thought of Cheryl, who could have answered to the name Jezebel. Cheryl was another pressing reason he had to get away from Gilgarra. Cheryl, the third Mrs Ben Mastermann, had taken no time at all to fix her predatory china-blue eyes on him, of all people. He had taken it as a tremendous insult—both to his father and him.
Now nowhere was safe. A woman hell-bent on pursuing a man who in no way wanted her wasn’t a pretty sight. He might have earned himself a bit of a reputation with the ladies, but he considered himself an honourable man. Hell, he was an honourable man. His only option had been to approach his father and let him know of his ambition to strike out on his own. He wasn’t about to tell him that day was at hand. Ben Mastermann had been known to wreck more than one property sale.
‘Your place is right here!’ his father, angry as a bull, had bellowed, veins like cords standing up in his neck. Ben Mastermann had been furious that his younger son was willing to abandon their family heritage, even though everyone in the district knew father and son were nearly always at loggerheads.
What his father didn’t know, and Linc could never tell him, was the problem he was having freezing out Cheryl. Their mother had only been dead two years before their father had taken Valerie Horden, a socialite divorcee and a longtime acquaintances to wife. That hadn’t lasted, although Val hadn’t been a bad sort—kind to him and Chuck in an off-hand sort of way. Not that they’d seen much of her, what with school and university. The marriage was over after six years, with a ritual exchange of insults, laying blame, and a hefty settlement for Valerie. Nothing like marriage to bring out the best and worst in people. Val, a dedicated sportswoman, had plunged in, but had soon found herself way out of her depth with the demanding and autocratic Ben Mastermann.
Then had come a long hiatus, but just when Linc and Chuck had thought they had good reason to believe their father had abandoned any search for another wife, without warning along came Cheryl—who had seriously been searching for a rich husband along with the meaning of life. That had been a little over two oppressive years ago, and even now Cheryl was only a few years older than Chuck, which put her in her early thirties. The two brothers had spotted her as a gold-digger on sight. Chuck had put on a tortured smile for his father’s benefit—Chuck was such a good-natured guy, and he loathed confrontations—but Linc, who had adored his mother, had stood well back, realising there was going to be trouble. Big-time.
Their father still believed Cheryl had fallen as madly in love with him as he had with her. He even joshed her about her ‘chasing him’. That was something Linc and Chuck definitely believed. Not that their dad wasn’t a fine-looking man, but he was in his late fifties to Cheryl’s thirty-two or three, and of course there was the tiny fact their dad was loaded. Some ladies appreciated that sort of thing. A rich older guy was infinitely better than a young guy who wasn’t. There had even been talk of their having a baby. He’d wait for that to happen. The luscious Cheryl was obsessed with her figure, and he’d bet the farm Cheryl had no intention of getting pregnant. She would even convince his dad it was his fault without saying a word. Wasn’t that the way with older guys who had so much to prove?
It was all kind of sad. Worse yet, dangerous. Linc wasn’t a guy who frightened easily, but Cheryl had freaked him out when she had burst into his bedroom.
‘You can’t go, Linc!’ She had thrown herself headlong at him, clutching him around the buttocks, kneading his behind through his tight jeans with her talons, her pretty face contorted with what he’d been supposed to interpret as passion. ‘You can’t go and leave me. Just play it cool, okay, baby?’
Play it cool, baby? He’d marvelled at her language, let alone her damned effrontery. And he hadn’t been able to fault her nerve.
‘You’re married to my father, Cheryl. Or was that just for the money?’
She had looked at him with an injured little smile, indicating that was so unfair. ‘I think you’ll find I’m making him happy,’ she’d claimed, china-blue eyes smouldering not for his dad but him.
He couldn’t disagree with what she had said about making his dad happy. His father was still at the honeymoon stage, and thought all his Christmases had come at once.
What else could a man do? He had pushed her aside, leaving her staring at him like some vamp in a 1940s Hollywood movie. Probably a calculated piece of play-acting. Either way, he hadn’t been able to get out of his bedroom fast enough!
Not that woman trouble hadn’t been a part of his life. He didn’t go looking for trouble; it came to him. Married women had offered—coldhearted, toffee-nosed ones too—but they had never been accepted. Married women were off-limits in his book. Not that he had even met one who had inspired an uncontrollable urge. It was Cheryl who was at the uncontrollable urge stage. She had shelved all caution. It all went to show she didn’t really know his father. Any man fool enough to lay hands on Cheryl would finish up a corpse, with his dad going to jail.
How good it was, then, to make his escape! He’d have made it long, before only the entire district knew he was the one who actually ran Gilgarra. He was the ideas man, the power behind the throne. Chuck was a fine sidekick, a good hard worker, but he wasn’t an ideas man—as he freely acknowledged. Their father had all but retired to give his sole attention to Cheryl. He had left them with it. And not before time.
Wangaree Valley was distant enough from his family turf, in a region called New England in the north of the state, bordering Queensland. It encompassed the largest area of high land in the country. His mother’s family, the Lincolns, had quite a history in the area. They had raised merino sheep and bred cattle for generations. The Mastermanns had come later, and they had prospered on the sheep’s back. Now Linc was looking to raise a dynasty of his own.
He wanted kids. He really liked kids. Two boys and two girls. He didn’t care what order they came in. Just let them be healthy. But he just hadn’t run into the right woman yet—even if he’d never been lacking in girlfriends. There were those who claimed he had broken too many hearts, but that had never been his intention. Some girls just wanted to settle down the moment he met them. As for him, he realised at this stage of his life he wanted marriage, even as he feared some wild cat still prowled within him.
He glanced at the time on the dash. He had told Guy he would be arriving mid-afternoon, so he had plenty of time. Hunger pangs were starting up again. He would stop to eat somewhere—the Hunter abounded with fine restaurants. He knew Guy owned an award-winning restaurant on the Radcliffe Wine Estates, but what he was looking for was more like a good café; a fresh ham and salad roll would do, with a nice cup of coffee. A man needed a good café or restaurant run by Italians for that.
Australia had become almost a second Italy, which was okay by him. He had spent an entire year in Europe after he had left university, and been back many times since. Paris was Paris—unique—but he absolutely loved Italy. Italy appealed to the exuberant side of his nature. He was not a quiet man. Neither was he the hell-raiser he had once been. The hell-raising had really got a kick start with the death of his mother and the escalation of the abrasive relationship he had with his father. He had been overlong in kicking free, but then Gilgarra had needed him.
By one-thirty he was driving through Wangaree’s town centre. It was a very pretty town, a showpiece for rural Australia. There were some well-preserved classic heritage buildings on wide, tree-lined streets, and from what he could see a few lovely little parks. He was almost at the end of the main thoroughfare, Radcliffe Drive, when he spotted a place called Aldo’s. With a name like that it was sure to offer good Italian fare and a decent cup of coffee. He was very fussy about his coffee. His long stay in Rome had assured that. There was even a parking space just outside.
He drove up beside a shiny black SUV, then put the sports car into reverse, slotting it in as neat as a pin between the SUV and an old battered ute with the obligatory bull bar.
He was a long way from home and he couldn’t feel happier.
A few moments later, he opened the handsome glass-panelled door to the bistro, inhaling the fragrant fug of good coffee, strong and fresh. There was a small curved foyer, and beyond that two steps leading down to a seating area. The area was barred by a young woman wielding a broom.
Casual, seeking nothing but a meal, he was now jolted into full alertness. In its way it was like being slammed up against a wall. He had grown cynical about a woman’s beauty. But this! He had to drag in a breath as a force more powerful than he reached for him and held him in place.
The very air trembled!
The impact this young woman was having on him seemed to be dictating his every move, or lack thereof. He found it thrilling and disquieting at one and the same time. He knew he was staring—but then weren’t beautiful women used to stares? This woman was his idea of physical perfection. Even his lungs were scrambling for a breath. Damned if it wasn’t like a mystical experience. The thought amused and awed him.
Just as he was deciding how best to proceed, the Dream turned, enabling him to study her full-on.
Sensation rushed through him with the speed of light.
She didn’t speak. Neither did he. He couldn’t think of anything to say anyway. Neither of them made a move. Instead they looked across the span of brightness, staring at each other for what seemed an awfully long time. It was one of those moments that go on for ever, locking a man in. For all his reputation as a ladies’ man, he had always held a pretty effective shield against woman magic. In no way was he guaranteed protection now. He didn’t relish the thought. There was nothing wrong with being fascinated. Unless it reached the point where it upset his emotional balance. At the moment that was pretty precarious. He had sworn off women while he got his life on track. Yet here he was, caught like a moth in this creature’s golden glow.
How had she arrived in this country town anyway? She looked more as if she had stepped out of a medieval painting. Her beautiful classical features were absolutely symmetrical. Wasn’t that rare?
He canted a black brow, unaware his silvery green eyes held a mocking challenge. ‘I hope you’re not going to take that to me?’
If he was expecting an answering smile—a lightening of the fraught atmosphere—he got none. There was more than a touch of dismissive-ness in her great dark eyes. It sent the silent message that she had met his like before.
‘Don’t worry, you’re safe.’ She spoke for the first time.
Daniela had, in fact, taken swift note of the stranger in town even before he entered the bistro. What she decided now was to disregard the dimpled smile, however sexy, and the languid, yet highly athletic set of the stranger’s tall, rangy body. Six-footer-plus. Copper-skinned. Jet curls. Startling contrasting eyes.
Linc, for his part, had no difficulty registering that he had been summed up and found wanting. It didn’t, however, temper the shock of sexual excitement. It was like a hot wire in the blood. He felt the sizzle, the palpable thrill that stroked the hairs on his nape, causing him to shiver. The thrill moved to his scalp. Hell, what a reaction—and with such speed and power! He liked pretty women, sure, but not one of them had ever affected him like this. He was even having difficulty not reaching out just to touch her.
She had only the faintest suggestion of an accent, but he had spotted it right off.
‘Buon guiorno!’ he said. His Italian was fairly fluent and he had kept it up. Italian-speaking communities were all over Australia. He held her gaze—indeed he couldn’t look away—plotting how he could get her to smile. He was used to smiles. He began to picture her smile in his mind. ‘Like me out of the way?’ He gestured beyond, to the main room.
‘If you would.’ Daniela inclined her head. ‘A customer accidentally knocked an ornament off the counter here.’
‘I’m relieved to hear it. You look the type that throws things.’
‘Me?’ She eyed him, letting him know she was questioning his impertinence. He was probably well-used to women fawning on him. She wasn’t about to join the ranks. Daniela was far less trusting of men than she had once been.
‘Just a joke, ma’am. I see you don’t like jokes,’ he said, with a touch of self-derision.
‘I have to get the joke first.’ She put a little more distance between them. ‘Unusual—a cowboy who drives a sports car?’
She spoke as though the vehicle might be a serious rite of passage for a guy like him. Cowboys obviously weren’t high on her wow scale. ‘I’m a sheep man, actually.’
‘Really?’
He watched her press her beautifully cut lips together—fine, sensitive upper lip; full, sensuous lower lip—as though she feared she would burst out laughing. He was only surprised she didn’t say, How absurd!
‘Don’t you like sheep men?’ he challenged, hardly giving a thought to lunch now. Conversation was way better.
‘I have to confess you struck me more as a cowboy.’ She didn’t mention her first impression had been that of a rock star. He had that same air of glamour, wearing his vibrant masculinity like a second skin. He would fit neatly into the Outback as well. Not as your average stockman. Dear me, no! Boss Man was more like it. Young as he was—and he couldn’t yet be thirty—he had the command presence, the easy male authority. It was written all over him. Then there was the educated accent, the self-assurance he wore like a cloak, the pulsating energy. A bit of a dynamo, she thought; the kind that loved women but didn’t really need them.
Linc thought he was holding up well under the judgmental waves that were coming full at him, but he was a little baffled by her attitude. He wasn’t that bad, surely? He glanced down at himself wryly. He was wearing black designer jeans, an upmarket bush shirt, elastic-sided boots. Maybe his hair was too long. He never paid a lot of attention to his jet-black curly hair. It sort of looked after itself. And he hadn’t missed the little flashes of antagonism either. This was a woman who could erupt! And, hell, she was the rarest of creatures: a woman who had taken an instant dislike to him. He liked that. It put him on his mettle.
If the trace of accent hadn’t alerted him, her looks did: Northern Italian colouring, wonderful thick, swirling blond hair, side parted, curving in to just below her chin. The colour could have come out of a bottle but he didn’t think so. There wasn’t a dark root in sight. Her complexion was perfect—honeyed Mediterranean. The lovely features were classical, her aura passionate but restrained—as if she deliberately held herself in check. Her eyes were really beautiful beneath arched black brows—so dark the iris rivalled the pupil. She wasn’t tall—maybe five-five in her high wedged heels—but her body was beautiful. Slender, but with shape.
The glory of women, he thought, slowly releasing his breath. ‘You’re beautiful!’ he said, unconsciously investing it with real meaning. He hadn’t meant to say it. It just came out as a simple statement of fact.
‘Thank you,’ Daniela answered him gravely.
She had been called beautiful many times in her life. Unfortunately beauty often came with a high price tag. It didn’t always draw the right people. She had left London and a great job because she was being hounded by a man obsessively attracted to her and her looks. Sometimes, back in London, she had thought she would go mad thinking and worrying about it.
Linc had intuitively tuned in to her wavelength. How men’s eyes must cling to her, he thought. Maybe that was a reason for her being so wary. And she was. No mistaking it. He could actually hear the defences going up. So what was a Renaissance beauty doing in a small country town wielding a broomstick? She obviously worked here. A cute little white apron was tied around a waist he thought he could span with his hands. Her dress, sleeveless with a short skirt—showing off great legs—was navy. A sort of uniform, he thought. She made it look chic. But the aura she gave off was downright patrician, even a touch forbidding, as befitting someone who had stepped out of a medieval masterpiece.
Maybe she owned the place? Maybe she owned a whole chain of bistros? Though she barely looked old enough to be a big success. Twenty-four? Twenty-five? As well as being beautiful, she looked highly intelligent. That had conveyed itself to him. A confident, competent young woman who knew how to keep mere mortals like him in his place.
His gaze came back irresistibly to centre on her face. ‘Do you believe in love at first sight?’ he asked, as though it was the easiest question in the world to answer.
‘Doesn’t everyone?’ Daniela answered, calmly enough, transferring her midnight-dark gaze over his shoulder. ‘Ah, here is my grandfather to take care of you.’ She sounded relieved.
‘You work for your grandfather?’ It really wasn’t like him to hit on a girl in this blatant fashion.
‘In this case I am helping out.’ Clearly she was making an effort to be polite. Far more the principessa than the waitress.
‘So who am I talking to?’ he persisted, watching a big, handsome grandfatherly figure with a crown of tight snow-white curls hurrying towards them.
‘Daniela Adami,’ she informed him, turning to pick up a dustpan filled with pieces of broken china.
‘Carl Mastermann. My friends call me Linc. I’ve come to look over a valley property.’
‘Ah, yes? Which one would that be, Mr Mastermann?’ She spoke as if there were hundreds on the market.
Couldn’t she risk a smile? It was important to him to see her smile. ‘Briar’s Ridge. It’s owned by the Callaghans—brother and sister. Do you know them?’
‘I have that pleasure.’ She dipped her head formally, then made a move to walk by him, a determined action that managed to be enormously seductive at the same time.
He eased back, resisting the strong impulse to swing an arm around her and no doubt receive a painful electric shock for his trouble.
‘Nice to have met you, Mr Mastermann.’
It sounded as if she didn’t want to lay eyes on him again.
But that, Principessa, isn’t about to happen.
CHAPTER TWO
WEDDINGS had a knack of working their magic on everyone. Linc had lost count of the number of weddings he had attended over the years, but the wedding of his old friend Guy, and his beautiful Alana, a luminous creature, with happiness shining out of her eyes, was turning out tops.
Wangaree was one of the nation’s finest historic sheep stations, a splendid estate and one that fitted the courtly Guy right down to a tee. The wedding ceremony had been held in the station’s private chapel—a marvellous place to hold it, Linc thought. Flower-decked for the great occasion, the old stone building was wonderfully appealing within its surrounding rose gardens, all coaxed into full bloom. The chapel had been built way back in the early days and was the perfect place for bride and groom to take their vows. In fact, his own throat had tightened during the moments when the bridal vows had been exchanged. The utter seriousness with which those vows had been exchanged he had found intensely moving.
The good thing was he felt he had absorbed a lot of the happiness that shone out of bride and groom. It had happened without his working at it. The best man was the bride’s brother, Kieran, a terrific-looking guy; the chief bridesmaid was Guy’s beautiful, elegantly refined sister, Alexandra. Guy had told him early on Alex and Kieran would soon be tying the knot themselves. He just hoped Kieran, whom he had only just met, would agree with his sister to sell Briar’s Ridge to him.
He was sure Guy was going to put in a good word. Nevertheless he was feeling a bit nervous the deal might fall through. The property had been allowed to run down—he understood their late father had been ailing for some time before he died—but he knew it could be rescued and brought back to its former high standing. He couldn’t say yet if he would stop at Briar’s Ridge as he had big plans, but it would be an excellent start.
It was as they were coming out of the chapel to the joyous strains of the organ and the peal of the chapel bells that he saw her—with extraordinarily sharp focus.
She was looking exquisite. She stood out from the beautifully dressed crowd around her, as one would expect such a woman to do. Even the glorious multi-coloured lights that were now spilling through a stack of tall stained glass windows sought her out, suffusing her face, her glowing hair and her bare shoulders in radiance.
If his eyes had found her, her eyes had found him.
There was an expression that seemed to fit how he felt: being struck by a lightning bolt from heaven. He couldn’t say if that was a good thing or not, but it sure as hell raised big questions. He didn’t for a moment doubt it.
She looked away, as though she had seen his thoughts on his face, her thick blond page boy falling against her slanted cheekbones. If he were smitten, she was making sure he knew she wasn’t. He had to change that. He didn’t know if it was a wise decision or not. He didn’t care. Despite all his plans he had been shot down in flames. Remarkable it should happen when he least wanted or expected it. He even had an idea he couldn’t return to the man he was. Maybe the right woman might be able to save him, make all the pain go away?
A big might, was the cynical whisper in his head. She had said she knew the Callaghans. What she hadn’t said was she had been invited to Alana Callaghan’s wedding to his friend Guy Radcliffe. Now, why keep that a secret? Why act as though she was never likely to see him again? Perhaps she was as troubled in her way as he was in his?
He found he wanted those maybes resolved. It might shock and amaze him, but he wanted to know all there was to know about this woman. All of it. Even if he wasn’t ready.
Outside in the brilliant sunshine—the sun was blazing out of a cloudless opal-blue sky—the rest of the guests, those not able to fit inside the chapel, were milling all over the manicured green lawn. It was as big a wedding as he had ever attended. There were quite a few children, all dressed up for the occasion—especially the little girls, in their pretty party frocks—laughing and bobbing in and out of the crowds, playing games as children had always done and always would. Massive cream-and-gold marquees had been erected in the extensive home grounds. In the shimmering heat they seemed to float above the emerald grass.
She had to be deliberately holding back, because he didn’t see her again until they were all seated in the bridal marquee.
It didn’t take him long to locate her. She was at a table for eight flanked by two men, one around forty-five, the other his age. Both were dancing attendance on her. The food was superb, as were the wines—lashings of both. He was seated between two cousins of the bride, Violette and Lilli. Both of them were extremely good-looking. Perhaps Violette had the edge, but even she couldn’t hold a candle to her cousin Alana, Guy’s beautiful bride. Linc yielded to their harmless flirtations, effortlessly doing his bit. This kind of thing he was long used to. Both sisters appeared to find him worthy of their attentions, but in reality his antennae was constantly twitching, almost completely given over to tracking her. By some magic means he was now a woman-watcher. And that was just plain dumb. He was a guy who liked to hold the whip hand.
The speeches were over—all of them excellent, hitting just the right note. Guy had very movingly opened his heart to his bride and all the guests were applauding, everyone was so touched. Looking down the bridal table, decked with what looked like thousands of exquisite white orchids flown in from Thailand, Linc could see a little tear run down Alana’s cheek. He knew it for what it was—a tear of overwhelming happiness. Weddings were times of high emotion. What he hadn’t expected was to get all emotional himself. He tried to stand back from that kind of thing. Much better to keep all the emotions locked up inside. Grief, abandonment… As a boy he had been so crazy he had even blamed his mother for dying, for going away and leaving him. And his highly confrontational relationship with his father he had to paste over. He couldn’t bear to think about that poor silly creature Cheryl.
At last the formalities were over, and everyone was free to roam from table to table, meeting up with old friends, making new ones, joining in the dancing. A great five-piece group was playing. The guy on the sax was so good—the sound, the form, the phrasing—he would have been happy just to sit there, listening, champagne glass topped up regularly. Only Lilli caught hold of his shoulder, urging him to his feet. Someone with a professional-looking video camera started to film them. He guessed the Radcliffe-Callaghan wedding would make it into the glossy magazines. He might even make it himself. He didn’t look too bad in his classy suit, with a pink rose with a bluish tint in his buttonhole to match Lilli’s sexy satin gown. All four bridesmaids were wearing drop earrings of large Tahitian pearls with a fair-sized diamond above—a very generous gift from Guy.
‘This is wonderful, isn’t it?’ Lilli gushed. ‘Alana is my favourite cousin!’
He wondered about that.
After a while he felt as if he had danced with every girl inside the marquee except her. Every time he made a move towards her some other guy beat him to it, or one of the sisters clamoured for another dance. The elder one, Violette, was being rather forceful about it. Lilli had confided in him that Violette had been a long-time girlfriend of Guy’s.
‘He nearly married her, you know.’
He took that with another cup of salt. He had a feeling Guy was a one-woman man, and that woman was now his wife.
She must have moved outdoors.
Pleasant as it was, he was continually trapped by pretty girls, eyes shining, cheeks flushed. He couldn’t be rude and turn them down. He needed to keep up his role as groomsman.
‘Don’t disappear on me,’ Lilli begged, her bright blue eyes locking on his. ‘I promised Mike here another dance.’
It was his moment to make a move. His decline into sheer neediness was so dramatic, it was mind-blowing. He actually needed to see the woman. He actually wanted to see her smile.
A lovely gentle breeze was blowing, carrying the mingled scents of Wangaree’s spectacular gardens. A lot of other guests had drifted outside, most still hugging their champagne glasses.
Where was she? She couldn’t have gone home. Guy and Alana hadn’t left yet. Alana, as tradition demanded, hadn’t yet thrown her bouquet. The honeymoon was to be spent in Europe, but the happy couple were staying overnight in a suite at one of Sydney’s luxury hotels, before flying out to Paris via Dubai the next day.
Obviously she had decided to lose herself. It didn’t make him mad, but intrigued. He continued on his way, skirting the main paths bordered by banks of azaleas and rhododendrons, a positive sea of them, pink, white, ruby-red. He traversed a small ornamental bridge that spanned a glittering dark green lily pond before heading towards what looked like a secret garden. He was enormously impressed with the way Guy kept the place. The maintenance of the gardens alone was a huge achievement. Wangaree was a country estate in the grand manner. Even Gilgarra, though a top New England property, couldn’t match it.
The fringing trees along the path kept the light a cool subdued green, even on this brilliant sunny day. His mother had kept a lovely garden, continuing to work in it even as she’d sickened. He remembered the delight she’d had in her roses. She’d adored the English roses in the walled garden. David Austin roses, he remembered, luxurious and wonderfully fragrant. Perfume had been a big priority with his mother. Her David Austin roses had done well for her. As a boy he had spent many hours helping her, doing what he had called the ‘hard yakka’, all the while drunk on perfume and contentment. He had an eye for beauty.
Cheryl, now, had no interest in gardens at all. Jewellery was her big thing. Chuck had shown a lot of spunk, demanding their father turn over to him their mother’s engagement ring—a large emerald surrounded by diamonds. Their mother had always said it should go to her firstborn’s bride. Whenever she’d said it she had always caught hold of Linc’s hand, as if she had something else lined up especially for him. He thought it would have been her pearls, a gorgeous necklet her parents had given her for her twenty-first birthday. If he ever saw them around Cheryl’s neck he thought he might die.
Gradually the stone path was narrowing—he supposed to enhance its secret quality. He had to bend his head beneath a glorious shower of blossoms from a free-standing iron arch that was wreathed in a delicate violet-blue vine. It might be easy passage for most people, but not those topping six feet. He could be following entirely the wrong path, but somehow he didn’t think so. He fancied the spell that had been put on him was luring him on.
As he stepped inside the entrance to the walled garden, flanked by two huge matching urns spilling extravagant flowers, there she was: the only other one to find that enchanted glade.
He had followed in her footsteps. He didn’t know whether to be troubled or amused by the fact he was utterly besotted with some aspect of her. Maybe when he got to know her it would pass. There was that cynical voice again. She was seated on a garlanded swing that was suspended from a sturdy tree branch. Wasn’t that exactly where one might expect such a beautiful creature to be, in her beribboned short dress? The dress was exactly the same colour as the flowers of the vine that grew so profusely up the swing’s support chains, a porcelain pink.
He paused, looking towards her. ‘You couldn’t have found a more bewitching spot.’
‘Hello,’ she said simply. She didn’t seem at all surprised to see him. ‘You’re right. How did you know where to find me?’
He gave a self-mocking smile. ‘I just followed the magic petals. You did strew them for me, didn’t you?’
‘If that’s how you want to interpret it.’ Her glance held faint irony, as though she thought it wouldn’t hurt him to be taken down a peg.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said, moving over the daisy-flecked green turf towards her. ‘I did find you.’
‘You were looking.’ It wasn’t a question.
No point in denying it. He ran a hand through his shock of black hair, pushing back the unruly lock that had fallen forward onto his brow. ‘I’ve been trying to get to your side for hours.’
She began to swing, very gently. ‘How could you possibly fit me in between partners? You were never short of one.’ The minute it was out of her mouth, Daniela regretted it. It sounded as if she had been keeping an eye on him. She hadn’t been. Well, maybe she had directed a few glances.
‘That thing actually works?’ he asked, his gaze on the swing, wondering if it was safe. It looked more like a marvellous decorative element in the garden than functional.
‘You can see it does.’ She began to swing higher. ‘The garlands are a lovely idea, don’t you think? The flowers spring from these little planter boxes fixed to the base of the swing. See?’ She slowed to point them out. ‘It’s the most amazing garden. I love it. I expect fairies with wonderful sparkling wings hold midnight parties here.’
He could feel the impact of her—her beauty and mystique—in every cell of his body. ‘Do you suppose they ask mere mortals to join in? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to the wedding?’
She flew a little higher. ‘It didn’t seem to me we would meet again.’
‘Oddly, I don’t believe you.’ A good thing she was a featherweight, but he was still getting anxious. He didn’t want to see her fall.
Abruptly she slowed again. ‘Perhaps you’re too sure of yourself?’ She knew she sounded touchy, prickly, but she couldn’t seem to control it.
‘And the idea upsets you? What sort of man do you like?’ He moved, his hands reaching out for the flower-decked chains, testing them. They held very firm under pressure and he began to propel her forward.
‘I’ll recognise him if I ever find him!’ she exclaimed, sounding a little breathless.
‘Tell me. What’s a young woman like you doing here all by yourself on a swing?’
‘All by myself?’ Briefly she met his eyes. ‘I thought you were with me, pushing me?’
‘Aren’t I expected to in such a situation? Hold still for a moment,’ he cautioned, as on a downward motion a thick green tendril sprang out from the vine and hooked into her hair.
Immediately her small high-arched feet in their pretty high-heeled gilded sandals anchored her to the ground.
He freed her. A small thing, but it hit him hard. She put up a hand to smooth her hair a mere second before he drew his away.
Skin on skin. He could have been wrong, but it seemed like an effort for both of them to pull away. Was he crazy? He wanted to pull her off that swing, pull her into his arms, make love to her there and then. Such was his physical turmoil.
Perhaps something of what he was feeling got through to her, because she gave him a look that came close to a plea. ‘It’s better if we return to the reception.’
‘As you wish.’ He inclined his head. ‘Is there any particular reason you don’t want to be alone with me, Daniela?’
His use of her name affected her. He had a good voice. A voice to listen to. Voices were important to her. She slid off the seat of the swing, then stood to face him. ‘You flatter yourself, Mr Mastermann.’
‘I think not,’ he contradicted. ‘And it’s Linc. Or Carl, if you prefer.’ His mother had been the only one to call him Carl. ‘Lincoln was my mother’s maiden name. It’s something of a tradition within pastoral families to include the mother’s maiden name among the baptismal names.’
She tilted her luminous head. ‘I have heard of it, though I’ve never had the pleasure of mixing in such elevated circles. You say your friends call you Linc? I’ll call you Carl.’ She knew she was being perverse, but she felt a powerful warning to keep her feet very firmly on the ground. Linc Mastermann was a charmer, and a dangerous one. Not for a minute could she forget that. He wasn’t an easy man, either. She had already taken soundings of his depths.
‘So tell me about you?’ he was asking as they moved out of the glade. ‘All I know so far is you’re Daniela Adami. You’re home from London—your grandfather told me—where you were sous chef in a famous three Michelin star restaurant. Why did you come home, given you had such a great career going for you? Or do you plan to go back some time soon?’
She took her time answering. ‘I’m here to see my family. I’d been missing them so much. Italian families are like that. They crave togetherness. Besides, I haven’t had a vacation in quite some time.’
He wondered briefly, cynically, if his family were missing him. Chuck would be, but Chuck had found himself a girlfriend—Louise Martin. He couldn’t have been more pleased for them. Louise was a great girl. ‘You were born in Italy?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘I’m first-generation Australian. Everyone in my family loves Australia. We feel at home here, but my parents and my grandfather like to make a trip home to Italy at least every couple of years to see relatives.’
Again he had to bend his head beneath flowery boughs, while she passed beneath them unscathed. ‘I spent a whole year in Italy after I finished university. Rome, mostly,’ he told her.
‘They do say all roads lead there.’
‘Ecco Roma!’ he exclaimed, falling back effortlessly into Italian.
She paused to look up at him. He was so very much taller she had to tilt her head back. ‘Your accent is good.’
‘I must have a good ear,’ he said. ‘At least that’s what I was told. For someone born in Australia, you still retain a trace of your accent.’
‘I know.’ Just the merest flash of a smile. He all but missed it. ‘We’re bilingual as a family. Actually, I speak French as well. It’s been a big help to me in my line of work.’
‘As a chef?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m surprised you don’t speak fifteen languages.’ He made an attempt to get a bigger smile from her. Longer. ‘Sing, paint, play the piano, maybe even the harp? What you don’t look like is you eat much of your own cooking!’ he mocked gently. ‘You’re what? One hundred and two, one hundred and four pounds?’ His downbent gaze lightly skimmed her petite figure.
He loved her dress, just a slip of a thing that left her golden arms and lovely legs bare. Low oval neck, short skirt—simplicity itself. Only what it was made of turned it into a work of art.
‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ she asked, turning her great dark eyes on him almost with censure.
‘Actually, I was looking at your dress. What is it made of? Beribboned lace?’
She kept walking, twirling a perfumed pink blossom in her hand. ‘If you must know it’s embroidered crocheted cotton by a top designer.’
‘Okay, I’m impressed.’ He laughed in his throat.
‘Thank you.’ She coloured just a tiny bit. ‘I bought it in London. It wasn’t cheap.’
‘Worth every penny, I’d say,’ he said dryly. ‘You should never take it off. So, how long is the vacation going to be?’ How much time did he have? God, was he mad? This woman was drawing him deeper and deeper beneath her spell.
‘I’m in no hurry to go back,’ she said.
She couldn’t tell him she feared to go back. She had told no one. Not even her family. Gerald Templeton, the only son of a very wealthy and influential upper-class family, a man about town in swinging London, had in a short period of time become obsessively attracted to her—to the extent he had turned into a stalker when she’d told him she no longer wanted to see him. It wasn’t beyond him to follow her to Australia if he could track her down. All it took was a plane ticket.
He saw the shadow that crossed her face. ‘Sounds like this vacation is more like an escape?’ He was following a gut feeling. Chuck always did say he was good at interpreting vibes. Besides, one could learn crucial things through instinct and gut feelings.
She said nothing. She reached out to pick another flower, twirling it beneath her small straight nose. ‘You told me you were interested in the Callaghan place—Briar’s Ridge?’ She changed the subject.
He nodded. ‘Very much so. I have Alana’s okay; now I have to get her brother’s. I only met Kieran today, and we haven’t had time to talk. I heard he’s become a real someone in the art world, and I know Alex is involved. Guy and I went to the same school, where he was sort of like my mentor. Anyway, he kept me in check.’
‘You were a bad boy?’ She looked up into his undeniably handsome, charismatic face.
He gave a twisted smile, deepening those dimples. ‘In some ways, yes.’
‘I have observed your dark side,’ she commented, pausing to admire a stone cupid. Someone had placed a mixed bouquet of flowers in the cupid’s lap. A romantic touch.
‘Now, how the heck did you manage to do that?’ he asked wryly.
‘A woman’s instinct,’ she said, turning to allow her eyes to roam his face.
‘Maybe you would have made a good psychologist, had you followed that path.’
‘Maybe I would. Do…do you have a girlfriend? Someone you care about?’
‘Is this simple curiosity, Daniela?’ His silvery green gaze, made even more startling against his darkly tanned skin, openly mocked her.
She walked on, picking up pace. ‘All right, don’t tell me.’
He caught her up easily. ‘Like most guys, I’ve had plenty of girlfriends, but no one in particular. Tell me about the guy in London. The one you’re on the run from.’
She felt a violent thrill of shock. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘It would explain why you’re so wary.’ He spoke tautly, angry at the very thought some guy might have been hassling her.
‘You’re way off the mark.’ She wasn’t going to tell him he had scored a bullseye.
‘Am I? You’re a beautiful woman. A lot of beautiful women feed on their own self-regard. At least that’s been my experience. You’re not like that. You don’t see your beauty as something special, more a danger. Am I right?’
What else had he learned about her? ‘Maybe I’m beautiful only by your set of criteria?’ she suggested evasively.
‘Nonsense,’ he clipped off. ‘You’d warrant a double take anywhere. Unfortunately it’s in some men’s nature to hunt beautiful women.’
She stood looking up at him, trying to hide her emotions. ‘Why are you speaking to me like this? You don’t know anything about me.’
‘You don’t know anything about me,’ he countered. ‘Yet you said I have a dark side. I assure you, hunting beautiful women is not my style. So you can relax. I had a mother I adored. I would hate to throw a scare into any woman.’
She believed him. He would never do so deliberately. ‘You said had?’ She changed the subject again. ‘Your mother is dead?’
‘Breast cancer.’ His tone, considering how he felt, was extraordinarily level—even matter-of-fact.
It didn’t fool her. ‘And after she died you didn’t know how you were going to go on with life?’ she suggested gently. ‘You must have been a boy?’
There was definitely something between the two of them now. ‘Are you deliberately turning the tables, Daniela? I was twelve, my brother Charles eighteen months older. Sad, sad times for both of us.’
She kept her eyes on him, fascinated and disturbed by his dark good looks and magnetic presence. ‘And your father? Was he able to offer much love and support? He, too, must have been devastated.’
‘Oh, he was!’ He could hear the cutting cynicism in his own voice. ‘He remarried barely two years later.’
‘A younger woman?’ She felt his world of anger, pain and bitter resentment.
‘Young women are nectar to older men,’ he said with a twisted smile, ‘but my dad’s second wife, Valerie, was in the same age group. She’d been a long-time acquaintance of both my parents. Cheryl, on the other hand, is around Chuck’s age.’
‘I see,’ she said quietly. ‘It sounds like Cheryl is the wrong kind of woman?’ The raven loop of hair had fallen forward on his tanned forehead again. She saw it annoyed him, but she thought it very dashing.
‘It sounds like your womanly instincts are far too acute,’ he drawled. ‘Are you going to dance with me?’
She shook her head and walked on. Guests were spread out across the magnificent grounds, all laughing and talking, thoroughly enjoying their beautiful surroundings and the magic of the day. ‘No.’
‘Isn’t that a bit harsh?’
‘Maybe,’ she said calmly. ‘But I have serious reservations about becoming too friendly with you, Carl Mastermann.’
That didn’t surprise him. He had concerns himself. ‘Well, at least you don’t fool around. You get right to the point. Is it because I have a dark side?’
Now she did smile at him. The first real smile he had received. It was so beautiful it took his breath away. ‘Because you also have a light side,’ she said. ‘Maybe it’s even brilliant on occasions. You’re a mixture of both.’
‘And this makes it impossible for us to be friends?’
‘Is that what this is? Friendship that is passing between us?’ she asked with a gentle air of melancholy.
‘Maybe not.’ Both of them seemed caught in a whirlpool. ‘But if I’m a mix, so are you.’
‘No, no!’ She shook her blond hair so the heavier side fell forward to hide her profile. ‘I have always been a very happy person, much cared for by a loving family.’
‘Only someone came along to change all that?’
It was a troubling challenge. He saw too much. ‘Let’s drop it, shall we?’
‘Certainly,’ he assented, ‘as it clearly bothers you. Just one condition. You break your newly established set of rules and dance with me. It need only be one time.’
In an instant he knew she was going to consent.
CHAPTER THREE
THE day after the buying of Briar’s Ridge was settled—Kieran had been delighted by Linc’s offer, and because he had a substantial deposit and the bank on side, it took no time at all—Linc drove into town. Not a single night had he slept properly since his friend’s wedding. If he wasn’t lying awake thinking about Daniela, how they had danced together, the way she had let him hold her, she insinuated herself into his dreams. He even felt her in his bed. He woke with her fragrance on his skin.
You’re crazy, Mastermann! His inner voice said in disgust. Give up while you’ve got a chance.
He was so far gone he was indifferent to the voice. There could be nothing remarkable about his calling in at the bistro, he reasoned. Say hello, then ask her if she would like to see over the property he had so very recently acquired. He knew she was resisting him at one level, as if she knew she ought to—wasn’t he feeling something of the same thing?—but they seemed to share a powerful kinship. How was that so? In many ways she was a mystery to him, yet he had been seduced on sight. Drawn closer. He thought he recognised her soul. When they had danced together at Guy’s wedding he’d felt as though she belonged to him. Even their bodies seemed to recognise one another.
That sort of thing didn’t happen often. It had never happened to him, and he had held lots of pretty girls in his arms, made love to them, learned much. But he had never come close to a grand passion, the great enduring love lady novelists liked to write about. He remembered hearing his mother crying quietly during the nights his father was away from home. That had been when he was just a little kid, stealing along the hallway, checking on her but not wanting to intrude on her very private time. He couldn’t have borne to humiliate her, but the sound still haunted him.
What had she been crying about? His old man’s infidelities? The way he had turned from her when she’d first been diagnosed? Or how he never touched her after she had lost a breast and her glorious mane of hair? His dad had an irrational fear of sickness, but that didn’t excuse his cruelty. Linc thanked God he had been around to console his mother. Even Chuck hadn’t wanted to know how sick their mother was, though he’d been heartbroken and contrite afterwards.
Since leaving home, Linc had kept in regular touch with Chuck. Chuck sounded as if he was missing him like hell—especially in running the big sheep farm. But Chuck, good brother that he was, had been genuinely thrilled for him when he’d told him about Briar’s Ridge.
‘Man, I couldn’t be more pleased for you. You always have to do things in your own way. And do them better than anyone else.’
‘For the love of God don’t tell Cheryl where I am.’
Chuck, who had eyes in his head that had been very uncomfortable with their stepmother’s attraction to his younger brother, had assured him he wouldn’t say a word.
‘Dad still mad?’
‘Filthy!’ Chuck had crowed. ‘Maybe he never told you—it would have killed him to do so—but he relied on you one hell of a lot. Come to that, so did I.’
‘I’ll keep in touch, Bro.’
At least Chuck would have his Louise. He wouldn’t be a bit surprised if they didn’t set a wedding date some time soon. And eventually Chuck would inherit half of Gilgarra; he would get the other half. His dad couldn’t do anything about that. It had been Lincoln money, his mother’s dowry, that had given their father his giant step-up. Never let that be forgotten. They were entitled. Linc wouldn’t believe in Cheryl’s providing their father with yet another heir until he held the baby in his own hands.
When he arrived at the bistro he found it crowded with happy customers. Aldo, a most genial man, caught sight of him and hurried towards him, beckoning. ‘Buon giorno, Linc. You want lunch? I can find you a table.’ His dark eyes swiftly scanned the room for a spot to fit in a single table.
Linc smiled, looking around him. ‘Everyone looks happy. Business is booming.’
‘My darling Daniela must take the credit,’ Aldo said, goodnaturedly leaning a hand on Linc’s shoulder. ‘She’s running the kitchen. Word gets around. We’re banked up Wednesday through Friday. We like her to relax at the weekend. She’s a genius in the kitchen. She is teaching us all such a lot.’
‘In that case, it’s lunch.’ He smiled. ‘And I was hoping to speak to Daniela when she’s not busy.’
‘I don’t see why not.’ Aldo looked closely into Linc’s eyes. ‘You’ve bought the Callaghan farm?’
‘All settled. I was hoping Daniela might like to take a look at the homestead. You, too, when it suits. It’s good to have a woman’s opinion on furnishings. Especially one with such style.’
Aldo blew a gentle breath. ‘The man who wins my Daniela will be getting a goddess,’ he said.
‘Lovely thought!’ Linc smiled back.
For the next hour Linc enjoyed food the gods might order. Aldo was right. His little Daniela was one hell of a chef. He didn’t have to wonder why she had chosen that particular career. Her family had always been involved in restaurants, Aldo had told him. It had been a big upheaval coming to Australia, and they had arrived with little money, but in the end it had been well worth it.
Linc had found that eating and drinking was a national pastime in Italy, and that little bars, cafés and bistros were the mainstay of Italian life. He had loved the markets and all the wonderful fresh produce. Every city, every town, every village had at least one. He remembered how the women had appeared to spend a large part of their day—every day—going to the markets. Food and its preparation was a very serious business.
Daniela would have gravitated to a chef’s career naturally. Not that what was on the menu here was solely Italian food. Definitely no pizzas. Linc started off with smoked eggplant with a marvellous crab sauce, followed by abbacchio alla Romana, which simply meant baby lamb, Roman-style. It melted in his mouth. He thought he couldn’t fit in a dessert—he wasn’t used to eating a big meal midday, or even stopping work a lot of the time—but a slice of the mascarpone sponge with a berry and rum sauce looked irresistible. A man could fall in love with Daniela for her cooking alone, though she looked as far away from being a chef as he could imagine.
Aldo beamed at him, staying to share a glass of wine, treating him as a favourite customer. At least he was in favour with Daniela’s grandad. The mother and father—the Adamis—were an exceptionally good-looking couple but, although charming, weren’t quite so warmly welcoming as Aldo. Linc supposed they were wondering about him. Who he was. What he wanted. On the couple of occasions he had called in he must have betrayed his interest in their beautiful daughter.
He was lingering over his coffee when Daniela surprised him by coming to his table. Most of their customers had left by now, expressing very positive comments and indicating they would be coming back.
‘You wanted to see me?’
That was the biggest understatement of all time, he thought, overtaken by dense emotion, fierce in its strength.
He stood up immediately, his heart wrenching yet again as he looked on her beautiful face. There was such grace about her, such refinement, sensitivity, the promise of passion. She was dressed very simply, in a crisp white shirt and black skirt, her lustrous hair clipped back behind her ears.
‘I did, as a matter of fact,’ he said. ‘Could you join me for a minute?’ He moved swiftly to hunt up another chair.
‘I’m finished for the afternoon,’ she said, sitting down and looking up at him—half expectantly, half what? He wasn’t sure, but her great eyes glittered. ‘So I take it the deal went through?’
He resumed his seat. ‘It was settled yesterday. I am now the master of Briar’s Ridge.’
‘Now, why does that sound like Briar’s Ridge is the first in a chain?’ she asked.
He was a bit startled. ‘I like a challenge.’
‘I know you do.’
‘More of that woman’s intuition?’ His eyes locked on hers. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not knocking it. I have ambitions, Daniela. But you must know all about ambition. You’ve studied and worked hard. Le Cordon-Bleu, wasn’t it, in Paris? Then London? You’re rising to the top of your game. And you’re what—twenty-four, twenty-five?’
‘Does that matter?’ She gave an expressive shrug of her delicate shoulders.
‘Yes,’ he answered bluntly. ‘I can tell you I’m twenty-eight, so why can’t—’
‘Twenty-five,’ she supplied. ‘It is as you’ve said. I did have to study and work extremely hard to rise to the top in a very tough business. There was a time when I wanted other things.’
‘Like what?’ he asked, needing to know.
Her beautiful eyes were distant in thought. ‘I wanted to go to university full-time. I was a good student. I could have got into any course I wanted. I was very interested in art history, psychology, the law—oh, lots of things. I wanted to stretch my wings. But there simply wasn’t the money. I had to accept that. All of us have had to work hard. We’ve had to make a go of things. I was needed at home. It was actually an elderly relative who eventually became my benefactor and sent me to Paris. I had four years of schoolgirl French, which was a help. The deal was it had to be food. I was to become a chef.’
‘Well, do you enjoy it?’ His family had lacked lots of things, but not money.
Her lovely mouth curved in a smile. ‘Of course I do. I’m Italian. I’m a woman. You could say my career was clear cut. My benefactor, for instance, wouldn’t have advanced the money had I wanted to study Fine Arts.’
‘How strange,’ he said, thinking it was. ‘But going on the reaction of your lunchtime customers you’re a big hit. I was one of them, and what I had was superb.’
She gave a little laugh. ‘I can do better. Lots better. I have to consider what our customers would like.’
‘So you’re telling me I don’t know the best?’
‘No, no.’ She shook her head, looking embarrassed. ‘I’m just saying…’
‘I know.’ He relented.
‘You went to university?’ She stared at him, unable to help herself. He was almost a stranger, yet she had a real sense of familiarity.
‘I have a degree in Economics,’ he told her. ‘Not entirely useless.’ Abruptly he caught hold of her fingertips. He hadn’t meant to. It had just happened. ‘Who’s been cruel to you?’
She tried to withdraw her hand.
He held on. ‘Well?’ The tormented look on her face stopped him. He let her go.
‘This is a mistake, Carl,’ she said.
‘Please don’t go.’ He was terrified she would. ‘I’m sorry. I came to ask if you would like to see over Briar’s Ridge.’
She paused uncertainly. ‘What? Out of curiosity?’
‘Not at all.’ There was a brilliant sparkle in his light eyes, neither silver nor green, but a blend of both. ‘There’s another reason. I want a woman’s opinion. Your opinion. You’re a smart woman, a woman of taste. The homestead doesn’t come with furnishings. I wouldn’t want them in any case. I want to start out afresh. I want the place to be my own.’
She studied him strangely. ‘How can that be, with my taste?’
‘To be honest, I believe with you I can’t go wrong. You have style. You’ve had time to acquire sophistication on top of your own inherent polish.’
‘You flatter me,’ she said. She put up a hand to remove a gold clasp from her hair, so one side went for a silken slide.
He watched in fascination. Everything about her was just so damned romantic, even exotic. ‘I don’t think so. I’m certainly not trying to.’
‘It’s a bad time,’ she announced, suddenly losing her composure.
‘Not a bad time at all. Please—no more excuses, Daniela. Aldo told me you’re always free at the weekend. Please say you’ll come.’
Again she hesitated. ‘You’ve asked me first?’
He frowned. She seemed to be making some point. ‘Who else?’
‘I really don’t know.’ She shook her head, looking as if she had concerns. ‘You appeared to be getting along very well with Alana’s cousins, Violette and Lilli.’
‘So?’ He gave her another puzzled frown.
‘One of them might be perfect for you,’ she said, really looking into his face. ‘They come from your world—pastoral families, establishment, that kind of thing.’
He sat back, caught in a moment of empathy. ‘I think I’m a lot wiser than that, Daniela. The people I most admire are those who make something of themselves, like you. You have ambition. You’re a fighter. You’re twenty-five. You haven’t stepped back. You’ve stepped forward. I happen to know Violette and Lilli haven’t done a day’s work in their lives. In my book even rich girls have to do something.’
She began toying with one of the wine glasses. ‘Sometimes I’d like to be rich,’ she said with a brittle laugh.
‘Would you do things differently?’
‘What a question!’ She stared away.
‘Riches don’t bring happiness, Daniela. A lot of the time money brings conflict. Anyway, a beautiful young woman like you would find it easy to attract a rich man. He need only see you. Maybe one of them did? Maybe he saw you often? It would be normal for you to have many admirers.’
‘All these questions,’ she said, returning her gaze to him.
‘And no answers,’ he said crisply. ‘Will you come with me tomorrow? I’ll pick you up.’
‘I need to think about it.’ The words implied she wasn’t sure if she wanted to see him again. Only he knew differently.
‘Okay, that’s fine.’ He sat back. ‘I’m not doing anything in particular.’
She started to run a slender finger around the rim of the unused white wine glass, bringing a certain solemnity to it. ‘Tomorrow afternoon,’ she said at last.
‘I’ll pick you up at two?’ His gaze pinned hers.
‘Yes, two is fine.’ She rose with faint agitation, as though if she stayed a moment longer she would change her mind.
At the same time he knew they couldn’t get enough of each other.
Either something wonderful would come of it, or nothing good.
After breakfast at the truly excellent Hunter Valley motel where he was staying, Linc hopped in his car and drove out to Briar’s Ridge.
A foreman, appointed by Guy, had been left in place to oversee the farm until he took over. Guy had told him he could, if he wished, take on this foreman, whose name was George Rankin. In his fifties George was a gentle giant, quiet but affable, who knew what he was about. George had lived in the valley all his life. He was well known and well liked. A bachelor—he said not by choice, that he had lost his sweetheart to someone else—he and his father had worked a small family property until his father had passed away a year before, after which the property had been sold. George had figured he didn’t need much in the way of money, he had enough to see him out, but he quickly found he didn’t like a lot of time on his hands. When Guy had offered him part-time work he had jumped at it, and Guy had subsequently shifted him across to Briar’s Ridge to work the place until it was sold.
From what Linc had seen of George he did propose to keep him on. Full-time, if George were agreeable. George Rankin was a good man to have on the team. There was a bungalow he could have, so George could live on site as a young aboriginal lad did—Buddy. Alana had told him Buddy came with the place. There had been the sweetest plea in her eyes as she’d said it. It was Buddy’s job to look after the stables complex—only two horses remained, but Linc would get more—and generally help out. What had endeared Buddy to Linc was the fact that the young man had taken it upon himself to look after the late Mrs Callaghan’s rose garden. To Linc that seemed like an incredibly nice thing to do. For that reason alone he would have allowed Buddy to stay put, but he had also found Buddy to be hard working and reliable—in other words an asset.
Some of the stock had been sold off. The best of the flock—the remainder—came with the property. Linc had plans to expand every which way, and that was why he had taken on a mortgage: use the bank’s money while he held on to a good part of his own. He would need it. The homestead—not big, but appealing, with a great view of the rural valley from the upstairs verandah—had to be furnished, and the surrounding gardens had been kept under control. But they needed a woman’s hand to work their magic.
When Linc arrived, both George and Buddy were out mustering the woollies, to bring them down into the home paddock. As he looked up to the high ridges he could see their distant figures. The ridges were dominated by the eucalypts—the reason for the marvellous fragrance in the air, a combination of oils and all the dry aromatic scents of the bush. Briar’s Ridge had once been one of the nation’s premier sheep stations. The Denbys—Alana’s family—had been around for ever, since early colonial days. Landed aristocracy with impeccable credentials. His own mother’s side of the family, the Lincolns, were descendants of the old squat-tocracy too, but the Mastermanns, although highly regarded, hadn’t been in that league. It had been a step up for his dad to marry a Lincoln. It had given him the seal of establishment approval.

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