Australian Bachelors, Sassy Brides

by Margaret Way

  But it was hot! Very hot. The instant she stood out on the platform at her destination, clutching her capacious tote, she felt the humidity on her skin. She had been wearing a short lime-green bolero over an amethyst singlet top; now she took the bolero off and tucked it into her bag. Her hair was curling riotously in the humid heat. Time to twist it into a knot. Maybe she would have to get her hair cut?

  All around her, faces were baked brown. Everyone was very casually dressed—the young women in skimpy tank tops and really short shorts, the young men in much the same. Older people were a little more on the conservative side. Not much. Lots of colourful tropical shirts. A mix of races. Really good-looking people.

  Curly strands were flying everywhere like corkscrews. She brushed them back impatiently, aware her whole body was dewed with sweat. Another fumble in her bag for her sunglasses. The glare was fantastic! She had never seen such light, even in sub-tropical Brisbane. No wonder artists headed up here. What she had to do now was find a cab. It would probably cost an arm and a leg—unless there was a bus to her destination. Somehow she doubted it. Her house—what elation to be able to say that!—was on the outskirts of the town.

  She watched as the luggage came off. She had marked her suitcase with a length of red ribbon for easy identification. The only problem was quite a few other people had not only had the same idea, but the same choice of colour. Luggage collected, she looked left and right. The passengers and the people who had come to greet them had all but melted away. Time for her to set off. She was all revved up without knowing exactly where to go. Ask someone. The obvious answer. Only the street outside looked deserted. Where the heck had they all gone? Life was full of profound questions. Like where had all the frogs of her childhood gone? Where did the flies go in winter? They had to go somewhere.

  Frangipani trees were in prolific flower, their luscious perfume rising in the hot air like incense. The train station was just outside of this very pretty town’s business centre. Should she head there to catch a cab? In the distance, towards the glittering Coral Sea, she could see cranes and hoardings with “DHH” on them.

  DHH had better not trouble her. She was a woman in possession. No amount of money would induce her to give up her new home. University wouldn’t start up again until late February early March. She was even thinking of finishing her degree at Cook University in Townsville. Not that far away. It offered a broad range of disciplines, even enjoying world leadership in subjects of special importance to the tropics—health, environment, tropical diseases, bio-medical work. She had looked up the full list of faculties, bachelor, post graduate and masters programs on the website. Cook University would suit her very well.

  Nyree stood upright, though it wasn’t easy when she had to hold on to her heavy suitcase with one arm and keep her tote firmly over her shoulder with the other. All of a sudden the town centre seemed a long way off. She could see the importance of acclimatization. The sun was burning a hole in the top of her head.

  She had scarcely crossed one road, heading for the main street, when a big silver Mercedes pulled up alongside her. Temporarily defeated, she dropped her bag, watching with bated breath as the driver swung out of the car, rounded the bonnet and came towards her.

  In those precise moments she experienced the same panic she’d felt as a child that instant before she fell off her bike. This would be a life-changing encounter. She was sure of it. Maybe there was something of the witch in her? Her grandmother, Jessica, still claimed Nyree’s mother had bewitched her son.

  The man moving so lithely towards her was lean, sleek and strongly muscled. He brought to mind the image of a graceful black leopard. To top that he was impressively tall—inches over six feet. Turquoise eyes glittered in his darkly tanned face. He had very distinctive, very precise features. In fact, the definite planes and angles and the high chiselled cheekbones gave him a decidedly exotic look. Some famous guy had had cheekbones like that. Who was it? A name popped up. Rudolf Nureyev. But Nureyev had been Russian. Nevertheless this guy had that kind of face. One you wouldn’t forget in a hurry.

  At any rate, the sight of him was as good as paralysing her. Such a phenomenon did exist. She clasped her tote tighter to her chest. The feeling of panic didn’t subside. If anything it increased, sweeping like brushfire from her head to her toes. The feeling was too powerful to be anything good. She knew it in the primitive depths of her female psyche.

  “Where on earth are you heading?”

  Her ears picked up like radar. The commanding voice, along with the looks and the manner—that did it! Her reaction was instantaneous. Here was the living, breathing, epitome of the supremely self-assured alpha male. It put her on the warpath.

  “Into town,” she answered, in a cool, clipped voice. “No law against it, is there?” She had only just arrived and was already into a skirmish.

  “You didn’t see one written up on the signpost, did you?”

  Nyree swallowed a ready retort. Obviously he was a personage in this one-horse town. “So what now? Why have you stopped me?” She was demanding an answer. Was aggression an antidote to panic?

  “Maybe because it seemed to me you were about to fall over,” he said, studying her petite figure with those extraordinary eyes. “That looks like a heavy suitcase you’re lugging.”

  “Tell me about it!” she burst out in irritation and frustration.

  “Stay calm, Rapunzel,” he said dryly.

  “I beg your pardon!” To her horror, involuntary tears sprang to her eyes. No one was allowed to call her Rapunzel. Her father had used to call her Rapunzel when she was a child, with a long tumble of fair hair—much blonder than it was now.

  He was taken aback by the sudden glitter of tears. They got under his skin much like an injection from a needle. “Sometimes the sun can get to you if you’re new up here,” he offered in a kinder tone. “You are new, aren’t you?”

  “Does it matter?” She gave him a no-nonsense, challenging look.

  “Of course it does.” He moved nearer.

  Her heart jumped and she fell back a pace. “You like to keep tabs on everyone, do you?” She was obliged to tilt her chin because he was so tall. “Maybe you’d be so kind as to tell me where I can find a cab?”

  “Where do you want to go?” He stood still, studying her. Head to toe. Nothing sexual in it. More as he would study a recalcitrant child.

  “I wasn’t asking you.” She knew she was being very ungracious. But this man offered a threat to her psyche, if his powerful effect on her was anything to go by.

  “You’d better accept my help if you want to get out of here,” he suggested in a crisper tone.

  “What about some information instead? Who are you?”

  “This is so sad.” He gave a mock groan. “You don’t know me.”

  “I don’t know if I want to know you,” Nyree snapped, wondering where this was heading. She was acting so out of character. She was usually a pleasant person. What was the matter with her? A touch of sunstroke?

  “Brant Hollister,” he introduced himself. “And you are?”

  She gave a gasp, her real shock hidden under irony. “Brant Hollister! Give me a minute to take that in. Tell me, do I genuflect?”

  “You can skip it for today.” His eyes narrowed. “What say you get in the car? Your cheeks are all flushed. I can drive you wherever you want to go.”

  She needed to have her head examined—because she made a move towards the big Mercedes. “What if I said Alice Springs?” she asked facetiously. Alice Springs was dead centre of the huge continent.

  “You don’t want to go to Alice Springs this time of year. You’d bake.” He held the door for her. “I’ll put your suitcase in the boot.”

  “Shouldn’t I ask for some ID?” She looked up at him. God, he was stunning—in his forceful male way. She recognised it, but she was quite prepared to leave it at that. She definitely didn’t feel at ease with him—though just from looking at him she recognised the fact he was unq
uestionably a gentleman.

  “Too late!” he said mildly, and closed the door.

  As soon as he started the car, state-of-the-art air conditioning kicked in.

  “Oh, that’s lovely!” she burst out in an ecstasy of coolness, putting her two hands under the damp hair at her nape.

  “At least something’s good,” he returned dryly. “So where to, Ms—?” He shot her a glance that held more than a touch of intrigue.

  “Allcott,” she said. “Nyree Allcott.”

  It was his turn to startle her. He gave a disbelieving laugh. “Not Howie Allcott’s great-niece?”

  She swung her head, her neck at a haughty angle. “Howie was a buddy of yours?” She objected to the quality of his laugh.

  “Howie was everyone’s buddy,” he said dryly. “Especially at the pub. Don’t, for the love of God, tell me he left you the farm?”

  There was a pain in her chest a bit like heartburn. “I’m delighted you didn’t already know.”

  “Especially as he made me a promise he would sell out to us,” he shot back.

  That kept her silent for all of two seconds. “All hearsay,” she remarked. “He’s dead, so he can’t confirm or deny it. The farm is mine, Mr Hollister. His will says so.”

  “You’re going to work it?” he asked, with obvious sarcasm. “You surely don’t want me to take you there?”

  “Yes. Unless it would take all day and all night,” she replied sweetly. “How far away is it?”

  “It’s not a question of how far.” His answer was short. “It’s more a question of dropping you off at a derelict old farmhouse that only rampant vegetation is propping up.”

  “You want to nab it all the same,” she pointed out, with swift malice.

  “We want to knock it down,” he corrected, with a clash of his fine white teeth.

  “Well, I don’t!” she came back at him sternly.

  “That’s great—terrific!” he said in disgust. “How old are you anyway? Sixteen? Seventeen?”

  “I’m nineteen, if you must know,” she corrected him wrathfully.

  “Really?” He didn’t look impressed. “You knew the old codger?”

  “I met the old codger once, at my grandfather’s funeral,” she told him in a fever of hostility. “It seems as though my grandmother was right. He was the black sheep of the family.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t rate Howie as that. He liked the drink too much, and it was his ruination. Somewhere along the line life for Howie took a dark turn. But he was a very fine painter.”

  “Just not good at looking after houses,” she said, unable to stifle the note of regret.

  “No. I can safely say Howie never lifted a finger to do anything around the place. As you will see. No mowing. No slashing. No gardening. No maintenance. Once in a while he got one of his ladies in to do a bit of washing up, Hoovering—that kind of thing. So you’ll have lots of tall thick grass. Lots of snakes. You seem such a polished little miss I don’t know that you could possibly cope.”

  “A polished, stubborn little miss,” she amended, perversely pleased with the “polished”. “Anyway, I’m not so little. I’m five-four.”

  “Maybe when you’re standing on a box. I’d say five-three at the outside, and I’m spot-on with measurements. So, what do you do for a living, Nyree? Obviously I can’t use the name Rapunzel for fear of reprisals.”

  “No, you can’t.” She looked steadily out of the window at the lush green landscape. Cuban Royal palms were lining the roadway with many coloured oleanders—pink, white, yellow, apricot and all shades of red. The air conditioning was picking up the delicious perfume.

  “I think it makes you sad.”

  “I’m surprised you noticed.” And she was. Very much. He was a bit of a mix. Arrogant, mocking, but perceptive, maybe even kind.

  “Don’t want to tell me?” He shot her another look, noting the swan’s neck and the riot of curls. She must have been the prettiest baby in the world. She still looked little more than a child if not for the knock-out sexy punch—and he wasn’t blind.

  “No. I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “How can I when you won’t try me?” He employed a reasonable tone.

  “What is it you want, Mr Hollister?” She hated the faint tremor in her voice. “Friendship? To get me on side? Talk me into selling the farm?”

  “I think the state of the farm will do that, Nyree. In fact, I’m damned if I’ll take you there.”

  To her shock he pulled off the road, then switched off the engine.

  “Where are your parents?” His strongly marked brows drew together.

  She threw up her head, readying herself for defiance. “None of your business.” He was making her uncharacteristically aggressive, but she couldn’t seem to stop it.

  “Are they dead?”

  God! Could he see her tragic chaotic past in her eyes? “I don’t need any pity, much less comfort, thank you very much, Mr Hollister.”

  “Come off it. Brant will do. So who do you have? What about this grandmother?”

  Nyree was surprised into a moan. “She doesn’t want me. Never did. My parents were killed in a car crash coming home from a concert when I was thirteen. After that I went to live with my paternal grandparents. My grandfather died a year later. Just gave up the ghost. Can’t say I blame him. My grandmother shoved me off to boarding school just down the road. She didn’t want a child ruining her day.”

  “So you’ve got issues?” he said quietly.

  “Haven’t you?” she retaliated.

  “Hey, what about dropping the hostile tone?” This was one imperious young lady.

  Suddenly Nyree was ashamed. “I swear it’s not like me. Maybe you’re rubbing me up the wrong way?”

  “Maybe we’re doing it to each other. What if I take you back to my house?”

  She laughed. “Are you serious? You’re inviting me to stay with you?”

  “I’m single, but it’s not a bachelor pad,” he told her dryly.

  “You’re still single? A catch like you?” She opened her lustrous eyes wide. “I’m amazed.”

  “You were expecting I had a dozen kids?”

  “Not impossible. Turn the car back on, Mr Hollister. I’m not a party girl.”

  Now he gave a genuine laugh. “I have to tell you, Ms Allcott, you sure don’t look it.”

  “Oh. How do I look?” She touched her hot cheek. What a fool thing to ask. It had just popped out.

  “Hardly more than a schoolgirl,” he told her repressively. Wiser to think of her that way.

  “Well, I have to tell you I’m at university. I intend to become a child psychologist. A good one.”

  “So you’re going for the big picture? But all in good time. So you’ll be going back to Brisbane?”

  “Don’t sound so hopeful. I’m going to put the farm to rights. Then I might enroll at Cook to finish my degree.”

  “I admire your ambition.” He switched on the ignition. “Let me take you back home with me. My grandmother is there. My mother and father have been divorced for years now. My mother has remarried. She couldn’t take the way Dad is—never at home. He has a frenetic lifestyle, and of course he’s a workaholic. He’s in Singapore at the moment, on business, then Beijing. We might see him for Christmas.”

  His right-hand flicker indicated he was about to make a U-turn. Heart pounding, she laid an urgent hand on his. “Stop.”

  Skin on skin. Yet she might have been stripped to the bone! Unnerved, she made a soft, involuntary mewing sound that might have come out of a frightened kitten. Nothing in her nineteen years had prepared her for an electrical charge on contact. Her whole body was flashing sparks.

  “I want to go to the farm.” She made her tone even more combatant, fearing she was losing all connection with her former safe world. “If you don’t want to take me, I’ll wait for a cab.”

  He raised his brows. “What—here? Right here?”

  She looked about. They appeared to have left
civilisation behind. The stupidity of it made her flush deeper. “Take me back into town.”

  “You’re making a big mistake, Ms Nyree Allcott.”

  She didn’t cave in. “So? I’m perfectly within my rights. Have you any idea how much this means to me? Have you?” She was betrayed into showing high emotion. “Of course you don’t. You’ve led a charmed life. I expect everyone dotes on you. Apple of your grandmother’s eye. Your father’s heir and right-hand man.”

  “You’ve been reading up on me.” He looked directly into her brilliant eyes.

  “I’ve been reading up on your father,” she said scornfully. She certainly wasn’t going to tell him that he, the son, had received serious mention.

  It didn’t appear to bother him in the least. “Look, if it will make you happy I’ll run you out to the farm. Let you see what condition it’s in. Then I’ll take you home with me. You can stay for a few days while I get someone in to do some heavy slashing. Do you know anything about snakes?”

  “I’ve never met one,” she said facetiously, pleased he had given in.

  “You’ll see your first in under a minute, once we arrive at the farm.”

  That shut her up like a clam.

  CHAPTER THREE

  HE DROVE slowly down an unsealed road which continued for about half a mile before turning off at a fork. Nyree peered around her. Huge trees were trailing some kind of epiphyte: long curly plants like moss. It was growing so thickly she thought in a fading light it would look quite ghostly. It was gothic enough now, in broad daylight. Surely this sort of stuff decorated trees in the Southern States of America?

  “Gosh, what is this? Frog’s Hollow?” she asked.

  “Not far off. Starting to get cold feet?”

  “You wish!” As though she’d admit it. “What’s the name of the farm? Does it have one?”

  “Hey, you hit it in one. It’s Frog’s Hollow.”

  “It isn’t.”

  “Why so astonished? Actually, it’s Belguardo. The original owners of the sugar plantation—the farm has lost a lot of land since then—were the Pascolis. They’re long gone. The two sons left when the sugar industry hit big reversals. The homestead was quite splendid in its day, I believe. There are photographs. But Great-Uncle Howie let it fall down around his ears.”