by Margaret Way
Now Stacy stood up, swaying a little because she had pins and needles in her left foot, a neat figure in her cotton shirt and jeans, the great crystal waterfall that was the hall chandelier putting highlights into her short cap of fair hair.
“Isobel called,” she announced, as though conducting a conversation with his dynamo of a cousin had left her vaguely distraught.
“Oh?” At this time of year Isobel’s business was running full-tilt, but she had come to his rescue yet again. Isobel, married to a well-known Federal M.P. was particularly sensitive to his plight. Kinder than most of the McCord clan, even Isobel found Stacy’s lack of social and organization skills extremely unfortunate.
“So what did she want?” he prompted as Stacy seemed to have come to the end of her speech.
“Malcolm had a sick turn in the P.M.’s office.” She said it like it was the high point of Malcolm’s career. “He’s going into hospital in the morning so they can run a few tests.”
“Oh, Lord, I’ll have to call her.” He ran a hand through his thick hair, dismayed on two counts. He really liked Malcolm, and this could put paid to the up-coming Coori festivities. “Maybe exhaustion,” he mused, hopefully. “Malcolm works harder than most.”
“I didn’t know any of them really worked,” said Stacy who had no insight into a busy politician’s life at all. “But I’m sorry about Malcolm. He’s one of the few to never be nasty to me. And they’re such a compatible couple.”
“I guess some marriages have to work out,” he offered distractedly, his mind ticking over. Even his rock-solid cousin would be a mess if anything was really wrong with Malcolm, God forbid. And it would put paid to Isobel’s indispensable services. Maybe he would have to turn to Dinah, after all. She’d really love that.
“What if Isobel can’t handle our functions?” Stacy asked thoughtfully, not considering for a minute she should have a go. “You might have to fall back on Dinah. I hope you don’t have to.” She cast him a quick look. “Isobel flusters me, I almost have to run to catch up with her, but Dinah makes me feel an utter fool.”
“Why don’t you tell her off?” he suggested briskly, no longer embarrassed by his stepmother’s inadequacies. “That might give both of you a good shake-up. Eventually, Dinah might even stop.”
“But she’s your friend!” Stacy stared at him incredulously, as if somehow that gave Dinah free rein. “I’m not game to say a word to her,” she confessed, thinking even Dinah’s smile had a sneer in it. “I must be such a disappointment to you, Jake.” Stacy brushed her wispy fringe from her forehead. “I was certainly cut from a different cloth than the likes of Isobel and Dinah.”
Wasn’t that the truth! From his childhood his role had been to be supportive of Stacy. Even now Stacy couldn’t speak his mother’s name, though he had often caught her staring up at Roxanne’s portrait. Roxanne, who even as a young bride had handled the role of mistress of a great historic station with brilliant aplomb.
“From all McCord accounts an imbecile.” From nowhere tears suddenly rolled down Stacy’s cheeks, though he knew from long experience anything could trigger them.
After all these years it didn’t break him up. “Cut it out now,” he braced her automatically, feeling it would be wise to get Gillian started on some course or other. He didn’t want his half sister feeling such confusion about herself and her life. “Organising and running functions isn’t the only thing in the world.” The Lord is my strength and my shield, he thought wryly. He had been relying on Isobel to get them through.
“I’m really, really sorry, Jake.” Stacy’s tears stopped on the instant. It was taking time for her to remember with his father gone there was nothing to fear.
“Don’t worry, we’ll manage,” Jake reassured her.
Stacy sighed with relief. Nothing ever rattles him, she thought gratefully, looking up into her stepson’s dynamic face. Even terrible things. She supposed that was keeping up the McCord tradition, when the McCord tradition had beaten her down. As often happened, she had the sense of looking at his mother. The beautiful young woman her husband had never forgotten. Jake had the same glorious tawny colouring. The thick, thick, wavy hair, amber, streaked with gold. Roxanne, in the portrait, had great coils of it. Jake’s was a lion’s mane. They both had amber eyes to match, which were spectacularly beautiful, full of sparkle and life. The passionate nature of mother and son showed in the vitality of their expressions, the cut of the beautifully defined sensuous mouths. Mouths you couldn’t look away from. Jake was tall, as had been Roxanne. At six-three, even taller than his father, young-man lean, wide shoulders narrowing to a trim waist, long taut flanks. He was superbly fit from his hard outdoor life. Jake was a wonderful-looking young man, exotic in his tawny splendour. His mother, Roxanne, had been incandescent in her beauty. Even dead, she’s more alive than I am, Stacy thought ironically. She was quite quite certain she would never have survived living with Clive McCord if it weren’t for his son.
Malcolm as it turned out required surgery. An ultrasound confirmed he would have to have his gall bladder removed. It would be keyhole surgery with a minimum recovery time, but his devoted wife couldn’t think of leaving him. Isobel apologised to Jake twice. Jake said not to worry. But even then, worried Isobel took charge. By midmorning of the next day she left a message that she had found someone she thought would be perfect to take over her job. A wonderful young woman she had taken under her wing, with a background in fine food. Her parents owned and ran a prizewinning restaurant. Her protégée was a food writer with the up-market magazine, Cosima, sometimes she guested for other highly regarded magazines. She wasn’t a chef as such, but a darn good cook—she had helped Isobel with several important functions. Isobel could highly recommend her. The paragon whose name was Angelica De Campo, would ring Jake that very night. If he liked the sound of her, the deal could be stitched up. There was little time to lose.
Jake received all this information when he returned to the homestead at sundown. He started to relax as his worries began to fall off him. Isobel wouldn’t recommend anyone she didn’t have the utmost faith in. He was at his desk in the study looking over an industry report when Miss De Campo’s call came through.
“Mr. McCord?”
Her voice was so mellifluous, so much like honey, he actually slumped back in his leather chair, feeling a delicious lick of it on his tongue. “Miss De Campo. How good of you to call.” He on the other hand sounded quite sardonic. Sometimes, he thought ruefully, he even sounded like his father, which really bothered him.
“Isobel will have told you about me?” Honey Throat was asking. Hell, the effect on him was fantastic! He had to control the force of his exhalation.
“The only thing she omitted to do was send a picture. I’m sure, though, you’re most attractive.” God, he wanted her to be. That voice and good looks. A winning combination! And she could cook, and handle big functions anyplace, even the middle of the Outback. What a joy! He was stunned to think there were women like that out there. Maybe she also had huge dark eyes, and beautiful, womanly breasts. Of course, being a great cook there was more than a slight possibility she could be overweight and sensitive about it. He mustn’t place too much importance on a great voice.
“You can decide when you see me,” she laughed. “I hope I pass. That’s if you want me to take over from Isobel, Mr. McCord. You might like to ask me a few questions?”
“Indeed,” he answered, trying and succeeding in sounding the tough businessman. “My first. You’ve never handled functions of this size by yourself?”
“No, not as big, but that’s fine,” she returned with pleasing poise. “Size is no problem. I’ve had a lot of experience in catering to numbers. Isobel would have told you my parents are in the hospitality business. They run an excellent restaurant. I know all their sources, the top people to contact. I’ve done a lot of P.R. I’m currently working on a pre-Christmas party for Billie Reynolds, the millionaire stockbroker?”
She said it l
ike it was a question and he nearly answered, “Bah!” Shades of his father again. “I do recognise the name.” Billie Reynolds fell into the serial-womanising category. Trying to count his ex-wives would be like trying to count sheep. “How do you think it will turn out?”
“Wonderful, even if I say so myself.” She sounded convinced. “Billie wouldn’t have hired me if I couldn’t deliver. He’s a perfectionist.”
“So you’re brilliant then?” he lightly mocked, positive she was.
“I work hard at what I do,” she told him modestly. “I’ve learned a great deal watching my parents and Isobel, of course. I admire her tremendously. She’s enormously successful. I was quite upset when I heard about Malcolm.”
“Then you’ll know his surgeon is speaking about a quick recovery.” She had obviously drawn herself into the family circle.
“Yes. Belle and I are constantly in touch.”
Well listen to that! Belle. “I gather you’re something of a protégée?” Another deadpan delivery. Just like his dear dad. What if this thing grew and grew? The thought was downright scary.
“Belle is very good at spotting talent.”
Was it possible she was having a go at him? He didn’t actually mind.
“I’m very flattered she recommended me,” she added.
“And I have to say I’m enormously relieved.” He whisked away the rest of his Scotch. “At this time of year I’m nearly running on empty. You realise how isolated the station is?” There would be plenty of opportunities for showing her around.
“Isobel has described everything,” she answered, totally unfazed. “As I understand it, you’ll be hosting the finals of the Marsdon Polo Cup with a luncheon followed by afternoon tea. Finishing up with a gala ball that evening. The following week, there’ll be a barbecue for all the staff and their families. And the Saturday before Christmas you’re hosting a large party for all your relatives and friends.” She sounded like she was ticking them off; she seemed a young woman of considerable competence who could handle things on her own.
Aside from Dinah, who didn’t have a voice like strawberry-flavoured brandy, he had never had such an experience.
“Do I have that right?” she asked.
“I should throw in it’s my birthday, as well.” That might faze her.
“Is it?”
He heard the smile in her voice, resolved to hold on to his cool. “No, but I’ve waited all my life to have one. A party, that is.”
A pause. “That sounds a little sad. But you’ve got plenty of time.”
“How could you know I’m twenty-eight?”
“Isobel must have mentioned it.”
“Then you also know I’m a bachelor?” It was perfectly clear they were flirting. Or at least he was. It amazed him. Proof positive he needed a woman clever enough to get under his skin. “My birthday’s in August by the way. I’m the definitive Leo.”
“That’s interesting. So am I. Shall I write a party down under Future Projects?”
He swung around in the swivel chair. “Well, you’d best work for me first, don’t you think?”
“Great idea! Say the word and I can start. You won’t find me a disappointment.”
“How expensive are you, Miss De Campo?” She told him. Wow! Pulling in money like that was something to brag about. On the other hand Isobel, even if she was his cousin, didn’t come cheap, either.
“Everything will be the best,” she explained. “That means expensive, but I say pay it every time. There’s no substitute for quality.”
“Sure,” he agreed laconically. “You must take your pay home in an armoured van.”
“No, but a security guard walks me to my car. Now, why don’t we discuss what you plan over Christmas?”
Why not? Maybe by August they’d be married. He let his sense of humour take over. If this woman had beautiful dark eyes he’d fall into her arms. He needed a really great love affair to free him up. It was so long since he’d had one. Hell, he’d never had one. They spoke back and forth for another ten minutes, both adopting a no-nonsense manner as they got down to detail. He asked many more questions of her, she gave all the right answers. Isobel knew her stuff. Miss Angelica De Campo was hired.
After he put the phone down, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. It struck him Miss De Campo’s effect on him had been dangerously seductive. Either that or it was the effects of a glancing blow to the head in the scrub.
CHAPTER TWO
JUST over a week later Angelica stepped onto the tarmac of an Outback airport terminal into a shimmering landscape of heat. Waves of it bounded up from the ground at her. For an instant it almost took her breath away, like a sudden blast from an oven, until she decided to confront it head-on, moving her long legs purposefully, eyes straight ahead, not drawing in all the admiring glances, so she was among the first to reach the air-conditioned cool of the terminal building. There she snapped her dark mane of hair back from her heat-pricked forehead. She thought of the challenging weeks ahead of her; the amount of work she had to do even with help.
Isobel had cautioned her about the heat but she didn’t quite understand until it hit her. She was thankful for her olive skin and Mediterranean heritage, otherwise she thought her skin might have melted. Not that she wasn’t used to heat, living in Brisbane. But there it was the languid golden heat of the tropics, with high humidity. This heat was different. It felt more like a dry bake. Still, it couldn’t diminish her excitement about the project.
She was exuberant about the whole thing. She couldn’t wait to get to Coori Downs, which she’d heard was remarkable. Isobel had been meaning to show her a magazine which featured quite a spread on the historic homestead but Malcolm’s hospitalisation had naturally preoccupied her mind. Pity! There was supposed to be a great shot of the current cattle baron, a man, from all accounts, to turn heads. Promising!
The scope of the functions would establish what she could do, enhancing her career, but she had to say as well as the Outback venue, she’d been mightily attracted by the prospect of meeting Isobel’s cousin, Jake. He’d sounded so sexy over the phone, the memory still made her knees go weak. His father, according to Isobel, had been a regular fire-eater, but the son sounded very easy in his power, as though it fitted him like a great pair of jeans. The nicest, most considerate thing was, he was actually flying in from his desert stronghold to pick her up. She had been expecting to catch a charter flight but it was Jake who suggested he collect her. She loved people who did favours.
In the rest room she freshened up, piling her extravagant mass of hair into a knot of sorts at the back. She had no idea how long it would stay there. Her hair had a mind of its own. For the trip she’d kept her outfit simple. A white sleeveless top in a softly clingy fabric, teamed with her favourite denim mini. It showed yards of leg but she wore it unselfconsciously.
She had learned to take comfort in her jaunty thoroughbred legs even if their length did turn her into a very tall woman. She stood six feet in high heels and she wasn’t one for flatties. Her height had made her a basketball star in high school. Even so she never slumped—for that she had to thank her mother who was also tall—and she held her head high even though there were lots of guys who had to look up to her. The man to sweep her off her feet, and she just knew he was out there, would have to be a latter day John Wayne. Despite that, she’d been hotly pursued for years. What did they call her in the columns? The luscious Angelica De Campo. Not that she carried an ounce of fat but she had inherited an eye-catching bust from the Italian side of the family.
Men saw her as a challenge. She remembered one in particular. A married man, a powerful, destructive, merchant banker—she had helped out catering a party for his wife—who simply wouldn’t take no for an answer. As he saw it, he could have anyone with his fat wallet. In the end, exercising her discretion—God knows what boundaries her father would have crossed for his “little” girl—she told her brother, Bruno, who was six-six. Bruno managed to convi
nce the banker to stay away or the outlook would be lousy. She hadn’t asked Bruno to explain his methods. Whatever they were, they’d worked. Probably the banker thought Bruno was a paid-up member of the Mafia. Still the experience had left a nasty taste in the mouth.
Certain men could be quite frightening when they developed a fixation on a woman. Mr. Merchant Banker had been one of them, but that was a few years back. She did occasionally agonise over it, if only because she and the banker had been caught out getting physical in a near frenzy of a wrestle, she, even at her superior height fighting hard for her honour. She wished she’d seen that guy again. The one who’d looked at her so contemptuously from his extraordinary lion’s eyes. She’d soon put him straight. Only she never laid eyes on him again. Not once during the intervening years and she had to admit she’d never grown tired of looking.
Embarrassments and scandals. She was very careful these days men being what they were. It seemed they only had to look at a well-endowed woman. And she came from a decent, normal, well-adjusted family.
Jake saw her before she saw him. She was staring out the plate-glass window, watching a private jet fly in. Even if the excited female attendant hadn’t pointed her out—apparently Miss De Campo had made any number of appearances on television—he’d have picked her. Despite the extreme simplicity of her dress—her skirt seemed to end at her armpits—he couldn’t fail to recognise the quality people generally called style. It oozed out of her and he was only looking at her side-on. She looked incredibly sexy in that unique way European women had, she seemed innocently seductive without being sultry, with her lashings of dark, mahogany hair with a decided curl. She had to have dark Italian eyes. She couldn’t have looked better had he dreamed her up. He didn’t even mind her height, which would have her towering over Stacy and Gillian. She wouldn’t tower over him. This was a woman he could meet face-to-face.
