by Margaret Way
He digested this by compressing his quirky mouth. “Not especially in women. They generally travel with mountains of luggage.”
“You’d know, would you?” Another haughty look as like a replay, two more attendants smiled and wiggled their fingers at him while he grinned back, saluting them with a forefinger to the broad brim of his hat already tipped rakishly over his eyes. Not only her overseer but a playboy of sorts though there was something almost mischievous in those grins.
“I’d say so.” He turned back to her.
He used that flashing, faintly crooked white smile like a sex aid she thought looking on him sternly. “Well I’m not staying long.”
“How totally unexpected.” He couldn’t keep the mockery out of a baritone that flowed like molasses. “Seeing you’ve inherited the station and all.”
Sandra’s eyes glowed the blue of a gas flame. “So what are you saying, that’s amazing?”
He shrugged. “No more than if you said you’d climbed the Matterhorn on your own. Still, I’m sure your grandfather had his reasons.”
She gave a cracked laugh. “He did. He hated me. Now he’s gone he wants Moondai to go to wrack and ruin. Then again, my grandfather never could miss an opportunity to cheat the family out of their expectations. How did he come to hire you?” She met his eyes squarely, not bothering to conceal the challenge. “Surely there’s Uncle Lloyd and cousin Bernie to take charge?”
“Both of whom prefer a different lifestyle,” he returned blandly. “No, actually the job got dumped on me.”
“You don’t sound as though you expect to lose it any time soon?” she cut in.
Pretty perceptive! “Now this is the tricky bit,” he explained. “Under the terms of your grandfather’s will I can’t check out for at least twelve months.”
“What?” She rammed both hands into her jeans pockets. Her waist was so tiny he knew he could span it with his two hands.
“You didn’t know about it?” The way she tossed her head reminded him of a high stepping filly.
“My mind went blank after the first few minutes of hearing the will read.”
“Pays to listen,” he commented briefly. “Ah, the baggage is starting to come through. Let’s go.” He grabbed hold of her soft leather hold-all and slung it over his shoulder. “You can point out which suitcase is yours when it arrives. Or is it a backpack?”
“It’s a designer case,” she said flatly.
“Sweet Lord!” Try as he might he couldn’t prevent a laugh.
“Envious?” “Not at all.”
“You’ll be happy to know it’s not mine,” she said waspishly. “A friend of mine lent it to me.”
“That surely means your friend likes you?” he asked, amused by their disproportionate heights. She was a tiny little thing. He could fit her into his back pocket.
“He loves me.” She stared straight ahead, almost trotting to keep up with him and his long, long legs.
“Loves you?” he repeated, as though amazed she was ready for romantic love. “Would this friend be your fiancé?”
“He’s gay,” she said quite patiently, considering how she felt. Outside, all mock toughness and tart banter. Inside, a throbbing bundle of nerves.
Daniel took up a position beside the carousel as the throng miraculously parted for him like the Red Sea for Moses.
“He’s nearly eighty,” she continued, trying to keep her attention on the circling luggage when she felt like flopping in a heap. It had been a long, long trip from Brisbane. Another one faced her. She was terrified of light aircraft and helicopters. With good reason. “He has his Abyssinian cat, Sheba, and he has me. We’re neighbours and good friends.”
“So where do you live?” he asked mock politely, lifting a hand to acknowledge yet another enthusiastic wave from the far side of the luggage carousel.
All these women trying to communicate with her overseer, instead of getting on with their business. Sandra fumed. She didn’t feel in the least good humoured about it. An attractive redhead this time, who seemed to have peeled off most of her clothes in favour of coolness. It was irritating all this outrageous flirtation.
“You don’t need to know,” she told him severely. “But I’m desperately missing my flat already.”
“Like the older man do you?” he asked, rather amused by her huffiness. It was fair to say she didn’t look like a considerable heiress. She didn’t dress like one, either. She was definitely not friendly when he was long used to easy smiles from women.
“The older the better,” she said with emphasis. “You seem awfully young to be overseer of a big station?” She eyed him critically. He radiated such energy it needed to be channelled.
“I grew up fast,” he answered bluntly. “I had a very rough childhood.”
“That’s hard to believe.” He really was absurdly good-looking. Hunk was the word. Stunning if you liked the cocky macho male always ready for the next conquest. “You look like you were born to the sound of hundreds of champagne corks popping … already astride your own pony by the time you were two.”
He smiled grimly. “You’re way off.” He watched the expensive suitcase tumble out onto the conveyor belt, getting exactly the same treatment as the most humble label.
“So there’s a story?” Why wouldn’t there be? He looked anything but dull.
“Isn’t there always? You’ve got one.” He pinned her with a glance and a rather elegantly raised eyebrow.
“Haven’t I just.” There was a forlornness in her eyes before the covers came down.
He hefted her heavy suitcase like it was a bundle of goose down. “Listen, how are you feeling?” he asked, noticing she had suddenly lost colour.
“Quite awful since you ask!”
Such a tart response but he didn’t hold it against her. “Did you have anything to eat on the plane?”
Dammit if he didn’t have a dimple in one cheek. “A big steak,” she answered in the same sarcastic vein. “Actually I had an orange juice. Plane food lacks subtlety don’t you think? Besides, I hate planes. I thought I might throw up. I didn’t really want to precipitate a crisis.”
He pondered for half a second. “Why don’t we grab something to eat now?” he suggested. “There are a couple of places to grab coffee and a sandwich. Come to think of it I’m hungry, too.”
She didn’t bother to argue. He was used to taking charge as well. He didn’t even consult her about what she wanted but saw her seated then walked over to the counter to order.
Two waitresses, one with a terrible hair day, sped towards him so quickly, the younger one, scowling darkly, was forced to fall back to avoid being muscled aside. No matter where you were good-looking guys managed to get served first, Sandra thought disgustedly.
Macho Man returned a few minutes later with a laden tray. “This might help you feel better,” he said, obviously trying to jolly her up.
“Thank you.” She tried to fix a smile on her face, but she was feeling too grim.
He placed a frothy cappuccino with a good crema in front of her, a plate of sandwiches and a couple of tempting little pastries. “We can share. There’s ham and whole grain mustard or chicken and avocado.”
“I don’t really care.”
He rolled his eyes. “Eat up,” he scolded, exactly like a big brother. “You’re not anorexic are you?” He surveyed her with glinting eyes. “Not as I understand it, anorexics admit to it.”
“I eat plenty,” she said coolly, beginning to tuck away.
“Pleased to hear it.” He pushed the plate of sandwiches closer to her. “What did you do to your hair, if it’s not a rude question? Obviously it’s by your own hand, not a day at the hairdressers?”
To his consternation her huge beautiful eyes turned into overflowing blue lagoons.
It made him feel really bad. “Look, I’m sorry,” he apologised hastily, remorse written all across his strongly hewn features. “You have a right to wear your hair any way you choose. It actually looks kinda cut
e and it must be cool?”
She dashed the back of her hand across her eyes and took a gulp of air. This big macho guy looked so contrite she had an urge to tell him. A spur of the moment thing when she’d barely been able to speak of it. “A little friend of mine died recently of leukaemia,” she said, her expression a mix of grief and tenderness. “She was only seven. When she lost all her beautiful curly hair, I cut mine off to be supportive. Afterwards the two of us laughed and cried ourselves silly at how we looked.”
He glanced away, his throat tight. “Now that’s the saddest story in the world, Alexandra.”
“You just want to die yourself.”
“I know.”
The sympathy and understanding in his voice soothed her.
“But your little friend wouldn’t want that,” he continued. “She’d want you to go on and make something of your life. Maybe you even owe it to her. What was her name?”
“Nicole.” She swallowed hard, determined not to break down. She could never ever go through something so heartbreaking again. “Everyone called her Nikki.”
“I’m sorry.” He sounded sad and respectful.
She liked him for that. It was oddly comforting considering he was a perfect stranger. “The death of a child has to be one of the worst things in life,” he mused. “The death of a child, a parent, a beloved spouse.”
A sentiment Sandra shared entirely. She nodded, for the first time allowing herself to stare into his eyes. He had the most striking colouring there was. Light eyes, darn near silver, fringed by long, thick, jet-black lashes any woman would die for. Jet-black rather wildly curling hair to match. It kicked up in waves on the nape. Strong arched brows, gleaming dark copper skin, straight nose, beautifully structured chin and jaw. For all the polished gleam of health on his skin she knew his beard would rasp. She could almost feel it, unable to control the little shudder that ran down her spine. He was the sort of guy who looked like he could handle himself anywhere, which she supposed would add to his attractiveness to women. A real plus for her, however, was that he could be kind. Kindness was much more important than drop dead good looks.
“I know what loss is all about,” he said, after a moment of silence, absently stirring three teaspoons of raw sugar into his coffee. “There are stages one after the other. You have to learn to slam down barriers.”
“Is that what you did?” Her voice quickened with interest, even as she removed the sugar. Obviously he had a sweet tooth and too much sugar wasn’t good for his health.
“Had to,” he said. “Grief can drain all the life out of you when our job is to go on. So how old are you anyway?” He tried a more bantering tone to ease the rather painful tension. “My first thought was about sixteen,” he said, not altogether joking.
“Try again.” She bit into another sandwich. They were good. Plenty of filling on fresh multigrain bread.
“Okay I know you’re twenty.” He concentrated on her intriguing face with her hair now all fluffed up.
“Nearly twenty-one.” She picked up another sandwich. “Or I will be in six months time when I inherit. If I’m still alive, that is. Once I’m on Moondai and at the mercy of my relatives who knows?”
He set his cup down so sharply, a few heads turned to see if he’d cracked the saucer. “You can’t be serious?”
“Dead serious,” she confirmed. “My mother and I left Moondai when I was ten, nearly eleven. She was a basket case. I went into a frenzy of bad behaviour that lasted for years. I was chucked out of two schools but that’s another story. We left not long after my dad, Trevor, was killed. Do you know how he was killed?”
“I’d like you to tell me.” Obviously she had to talk to someone about it. Like him, she appeared to have much bottled up.
“He crashed in the Cessna.”
He sat staring at her. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Her great eyes glittered. “Did your informant tell you the Cessna was sabotaged?”
“Dear oh dear!” He shook his head in sad disbelief.
“Don’t dear oh dear me!” she cried emotionally.
Clearly her beliefs were tearing her to pieces. “Sandra, let it go,” he advised quietly. “There was an inquiry. The wreckage would have been gone over by experts. There was no question of foul play. Who would want to do such a thing anyway?”
She took a deep gulp of her coffee. It was too hot. It burnt her mouth. She swore softly. “You may think you’re smart—you may even be smart—I’m sure you have to be to run Moondai, but that was a damned silly question, Daniel Carson. Who was the person with the most to gain?”
He looked at her sharply. “God, you don’t think very highly of your uncle, do you?” “Do you?”
“My job is to run the station, not criticise your family.”
Tension was all over her. “So we’re on different sides?”
“Do we have to be?” He looked into her eyes. A man could dive into those sparkling blue lagoons and come out refreshed.
“I don’t want Moondai,” she said, shaking her shorn head. “So who are you going to pass it on to, me?” He tried a smile.
She sighed deeply. “I’d just as soon leave it to a total stranger as my family.”
“That includes cousin Berne?”
She put both elbows on the table. “He was a dreadful kid,” she announced, her eyes darkening with bad memories. “He was always giving me Chinese burns but I never did let him see me cry. Worse, he used to kick my cat, Olly. We had to leave her behind which was terrible. As for me, I could look after myself and I could run fast. I bet he’s no better now than I remember?”
“You’ll have to see for yourself, Alexandra.” He kept his tone deliberately neutral.
“I won’t have one single friend inside that house,” she said then shut up abruptly, biting her lip.
He didn’t like that idea. “I work for you, Sandra,” he told her, underscoring work. “If you need someone you can trust you should consider me.”
She continued to nibble on her full bottom lip, something he found very distracting. “I certainly won’t have anyone else. I wasn’t going to offload my troubles onto you, not this early anyway, but I’m a mite scared of my folks.”
He was shocked. “But, Sandra, no one is going to harm you.” Even as he said it, his mind stirred with anxiety. The Kingstons were a weird lot, but surely not homicidal. Then again Rigby Kingston had left an estate worth roughly sixty million. The girl stood between it and them. Not a comfortable position to be in.
Frustrated by his attitude, Sandra dredged up an old Outback expression. “What would you know, you big galah!”
He choked back a laugh. “Hey, mind who you’re calling names!”
“Sorry. Galah is not the word for you. You’re more an eagle. But surely you realise they must have been shocked out of their minds by the will. Uncle Lloyd would have fully expected to inherit. He wouldn’t want to work the place. He’d sell it. Bernie would go along with that. Bernie disliked anything to do with station work. You must know that, too. Where do you live?” she asked abruptly.
“I have the overseer’s bungalow.”
“Roy Sommerville, what happened to him? He was the overseer when we left.”
“Died a couple of years back of lung cancer. He was of the generation that chain smoked from dawn to dark.”
“Poor old Roy! He was nice to me.”
“Anyone would be nice to you.” His response was involuntary.
She grimaced. “I don’t recall Uncle Lloyd ever bouncing me on his knee. His ex-wife, Aunty Jilly, used to dodge me and my mother all the time. No wonder that marriage didn’t work out. Bernie was always so darn nasty. Now they must all think I’m the worst thing that ever happened.”
He couldn’t deny that. “What was your grandfather like with you?” he asked, really wanting to know. “Any fond memories?”
“Hello, we’re talking Rigby Kingston here!” she chortled.
“The most rambunctious old son of a bitch to r
ide out of the Red Centre.”
He shook his head. “When you’d melt any man’s heart.” A major paradox here when Kingston had left her his fortune.
“I don’t want to melt men’s hearts,” she exploded, the blood flowing into her cheeks. “It’s all smiles and kisses one day. Rude shocks the next. I don’t like men at all. They don’t bring out the best in me.”
He held back a sigh. “I think you must have had some bad experiences.”
“You can say that again! But to get back to my dear old grandpop who remembered me at the end, I do recall a few pats on the head. A tweak of the curls before he was out the front door. I didn’t bother him anyway. He was happy enough when my dad was alive. After that, he turned into the Grandad from Hell. He seemed to put the blame for what happened to my dad on my mother.”
“How could she have been responsible?” he asked, puzzled.
“Uncle Lloyd blew the whistle on a little affair she had in Sydney,” she told him bleakly. “Mum used to go away a lot and leave Dad and me at Moondai. Uncle Lloyd said she was really wild, but then he was a great one for airing everyone else’s dirty linen.” She broke off, staring at him accusingly. “You must have heard all this?”
Why pretend he hadn’t when an unbelievable number of people had made it their business to fill him in on Pamela Kingston’s alleged exploits? Lloyd Kingston wasn’t the only one who liked airing the world’s dirty linen. Apparently Sandra’s mother had been famous for being not only radiantly beautiful but something of a two-timing Jezebel. There had even been gossip about who Alexandra’s father really was. Alexandra didn’t look a bit like a Kingston which now that he had seen her Dan had to concede. The Kingstons were dark haired, dark eyed, tall people with no sense of humour. Pamela had routinely been labelled as an absentee wife and mother who spent half her time in Sydney and Melbourne living it up and getting her photo in all the glossy magazines. Dan knew she had remarried eighteen months after her first husband’s death. Wedding number two was no fairy tale, either. It too had gone on the rocks. Pamela was currently married to her third husband, a merchant banker with whom she had a young son. It seemed Sandra had moved out fairly early. He wondered exactly when? Not yet twenty-one the combative little Ms Sandra Kingston gave the strong impression she had looked after herself for some time. And possibly after her mother, the basket case. Hell, he knew as much about female depression and the various forms it took as the illustrious Dr. Freud.
