Australian Bachelors, Sassy Brides

by Margaret Way

  “Of course, Contessa.” Nyree sprang to the Contessa’s aid. In a very strange way it was like seeing Miss Em’s ghost. The two women couldn’t have been more dissimilar in appearance, but it seemed to Nyree they cast over her a similar mantle of womanly protectiveness.

  His grandmother had made no move to correct Nyree over using her title, Brant observed, watching the two of them bond so easily. Alena Hollister she might be to the rest of the world, Alena Kalenin for her books, but his grandmother had accepted Nyree’s “Contessa” as her due. Of course his grandfather had often called her Countess if she sounded especially regal. It had been playful. But no one else outside of Nyree had attempted the same. Yet his grandmother seemed more than happy with Nyree’s use of her long relinquished title.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “I THINK that’ll do for today!” Dolly whipped out a huge red handkerchief and mopped her sweating brow. “Come on, ducky, stop now before you drop.”

  “I’m sorry I told you my nickname, Dolly,” Nyree said, going to the back door and emptying her bucket into the ferns. Afterwards she washed her hands at the shining kitchen sink, dried them, then slumped wearily into a chair opposite Dolly.

  They had been working all day, and now the two of them were spent. The “Big Heat” was mounting. The Weather Bureau was monitoring a cyclone off the coast of Fiji. The cyclone season was underway, with the town and the entire district making preparations for any possible onslaught.

  “At least we’re getting there,” Nyree breathed with satisfaction. “I can’t thank you enough, Dolly, for being so supportive.”

  “You’re Howie’s great-niece, aren’t you?” Dolly said, pouring them both home-made lemonade and adding chunks of ice. “Besides, you’re a real lovely kid.”

  “I’m a woman, Dolly,” Nyree stressed. Would anyone see her as that? Was it her height? Or lack of it? Even the Contessa called her “child”, though she must seem a child when the Contessa was approaching eighty.

  “Not yet, sweetheart,” Dolly said slyly. “ I know a little virgin when I see one. Pure as the driven snow.”

  Well, even Dolly had been a virgin once. “That obvious, is it?” Nyree moaned.

  “No greater allure for a man,” Dolly pronounced in her lascivious contralto. “Brant has been taking a far more than kindly interest in you. Look at all the help he’s given you. Staying at the big house. Meeting Alena. I’ve always been terribly, terribly jealous of her, you know,” Dolly abruptly confided. “Haven’t seen her for years. Is she still beautiful? Couldn’t be. She must be eighty. Years older than me.”

  “Why would you be jealous, Dolly?” Nyree frowned her puzzlement.

  “I was jealous of every woman Howie looked at,” Dolly said, fixing Nyree with an intense gaze. “Especially in the early days. He was a very handsome man. The women fell for him in droves.”

  “Isn’t that what hippies did? Fell for one another in droves? I’ve read about the big love-ins. But what does that have to do with the Contessa?” Nyree couldn’t disguise her curiosity.

  Dolly looked away guiltily, as though she’d been caught off guard. “Nothing. Nothing at all. He painted her portrait, you know.”

  Dolly had clearly decided to back off. “I haven’t seen it as yet.” Although she and the Contessa had become amazingly close over the past month, Nyree still hadn’t been invited to see the portrait—and she hadn’t had the temerity to ask again. She had, however, been shown the Alma Tadema in the Contessa’s sumptuous bedroom, and noted the resemblance to herself.

  “I only saw it the once. Even then I wasn’t meant to.” Dolly’s painted red mouth stretched into a wry grimace. “I had to steal a look.”

  “So what are you implying? Great-Uncle Howard was in love with the Contessa?” Nyree’s voice rose a full couple of tones.

  “You and this Contessa bit!” Dolly retorted, looking incensed. “No one calls her that. Not even Howie. How did you get into it?”

  “She is a Russian Countess, Dolly. That’s why. She looks and acts like the true aristocrat she is. She’s been in this country God knows how many years, yet she still retains a Russian accent. Brant has quite a look of her—those cheekbones that give him such an exotic air.”

  “Oh, he’s exotic, all right!’ Dolly cried, tempestous feelings unleashed. “If I was only thirty years younger I’d give that Lana Bennett a run for her money.”

  Nyree felt actual pain in her chest. “Brant says she’s only a friend.”

  Dolly broke into a rich cackle. “Listen up, kiddo,” she snorted. “Lana Bennett has gone most of her life believing one day she’ll be Brant’s wife. Struth, they were an item not all that long back. She told me herself.”

  “Maybe she was fantasising.” Nyree clung tightly to the idea. “I’ve seen them together. Brant doesn’t act in the least lover-like around her.”

  “It’s money, my girl,” Dolly said. “Money marries money. Don’t you get that? Lana’s dad has been in partnership with Brant’s father on many a project. He’s on the board of DHH. You’re in the wrong dream, my darling, if you’ve got a hankering for Brant Hollister. You’re too young and innocent for Brant. He likes a sophisticated woman.”

  “I don’t think Lana is all that sophisticated,” Nyree returned with spirit. “She’s not terribly well read. She didn’t even know the heroine’s name in War and Peace. The last time I saw her—it was at a dinner party at the house—she told me I looked like a shampoo ad. Laughed while she said it. I thought her very rude.”

  Dolly twirled at the hair curling wildly around her ears. “Jealous.” As she spoke, Dolly glanced at her watch. “You have a magnificent head of hair. As do I.” She tossed back the rest of the lemonade, then rose to her feet, straightening her off-the-shoulder blouse. “Now, ducky, I’m off. I’m due at the restaurant tonight. A special fiftieth wedding anniversary dinner for old friends of mine. You’re going to be all right here by yourself? I do wish you wouldn’t do it, but all my efforts to stop you have failed.”

  Nyree pulled herself to her feet. “Stop worrying, Dolly. I have the dogs. They’d eat anyone who tried to do me harm.”

  “I’m sure glad I’m a friend.” Dolly, who normally wasn’t the least nervous around dogs, rolled her eyes.

  They walked out onto the verandah and Juno and Jupiter, sleek Dobermans, rose to accompany them out to Dolly’s four-wheel drive. Quarrelling lorikeets with their gorgeous display of plumage were bursting in and out of the grevillea blossom in an orgy of feeding.

  Brant had insisted on bringing Juno and Jupiter over to act as Nyree’s guard dogs. She had been powerless to stop him. It had appeared to be a condition of her staying at the farmhouse on her own. It had worked well. An animal lover, she was beginning to really enjoy their company. Though ferocious when on guard, they were proving affectionate companions.

  She waved Dolly off—noticing she had a rather painful blister on her right forefinger—then stayed out on the verandah, surveying her wild kingdom. She loved it here—especially since miracles had been wrought. And it was all due to Brant. He gave the orders. Things happened. Not in due course. Right away. She knew in her heart he was only humouring her until such time as she chucked it in. But for now he was allowing her to have her little adventure. He had so much money it really didn’t matter.

  A great sweep of grass had been slashed and mown right around the house, protecting it from snakes. The rampant climbing morning glories had been pulled off the tall tank stands. The jungle was subdued, except for the wonderful bank upon bank of day lilies she absolutely loved. Brant had even sent a man to cut some of the branches of the great coral trees so she could have her view of the sea. The corrugated iron roof had been fixed, the orchids relocated in the pots and hanging baskets she kept on the verandah. The weatherboards had been repainted a soft moss-green, and most of its timber boards had been renewed, as had all the broken windowpanes and the timber shutters on the French doors, repainted pristine white, fixed securely in place.
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  The temperature hadn’t dropped. It looked very much as if they were in for an electrical storm, although the sky was still a dense but sultry blue. She rather liked thunderstorms. She had lived through plenty of them in sub-tropical Brisbane.

  Towards dusk, she heard the sound of a vehicle coming down the private road. Quickly she bound her freshly washed hair in the delicate hair ornament the Contessa had given her: four fine gold loops encrusted with crystals that fitted over her head. It was quite beautiful, classical in design. Nyree treasured it because it had been a gift.

  “Much like what the young girl in my Alma Tadema paintings is wearing,” the Contessa had said. “I’d like you to have it.”

  It suited her so well Nyree had taken to wearing it much of the time, unaware the sparkling crystals were actually diamonds. It kept her hair bound, and away from her neck.

  She wasn’t expecting visitors—Brant was in Cairns for a few days on business, and it had made such a difference to her world—so she had pulled on a short blue and yellow patterned smock, not bothering with a bra in the humid heat.

  The dogs gave the identity of the driver away. They went mad but in a welcoming way. It was Brant in the Range Rover! Excitement took wing. She had thought to set herself against him, yet in no time at all he had undermined all her defences.

  You’ve got a job in front of you, girl. Brant Hollister is the last man in the world to fall in love with.

  Why wasn’t she listening to the voice of common sense?

  She saw he was heading for the double car port at the sheltered side of the house. Since she had been under the shower the sky had changed to an extraordinary glittery gunmetal. Flocks of birds were flying overhead, homing in to their resting place, their screeching clear warning of the storm to come. The palm trees that had been waving their fronds stood motionless in the strange lull. It was like being in the eye of a storm. For the first time she got an inkling of the terrible power of storms this far north of Capricorn.

  Swiftly she ran about, turning on a few lights. The interior of the house had turned gloomy, and she wanted him to see all the improvements she and Dolly had made.

  He came up the short flight of front steps accompanied by the dogs, calling her name.

  “I’m here—here,” she announced, quickly running to the open doorway. “I thought you’d still be in Cairns?”

  God, wasn’t it wonderful to have him back? Not only was he part of her waking life, he had become part of her dreams. It was as though she was on the edge of some great revelation. Whether good or bad she had yet to find out.

  “I’m here now,” he retorted crisply. “I thought you told me you knew all about tropical storms? Your shutters should be closed.”

  “So, okay, I was about to shut them. And I’m well. Thanks for asking.”

  “First things first,” he clipped out. “Put the dogs in the laundry. They hate storms. Then get cracking inside the house.” He turned about and went back onto the verandah. “It’ll be on us in another few minutes.”

  How right he was!

  It began with dramatic suddenness. One minute there was an odd waiting silence, then hell broke loose.

  “Oh, my God!” She rushed to his side and caught hold of his arm.

  He put his arm around her waist and drew her close to him. “I hate you being out here in this isolated place,” he said with a subdued rage. “I hate it. Alena hates it.”

  “Well, I love it!” Despite herself, her voice was shaky. The wind was roaring outside, as if monstrous howling wolves were trying to blow the house over. Its primal voice was rattling the strongly built shutters. The rain was coming down in a ferocious torrent, slanting in to the front of the house, crashing down like Victoria Falls on the iron roof. A flash of lightning, truly terrifying, lit up the interior like a film set. Brant had turned off the electricity. If the worst came to the worst she would have to rely on candles. There were stacks of them in the pantry.

  Moments after the lightning came the thunder. It was loud enough to wake the dead. Nyree actually jumped, and his arm tightened around her.

  “It’s okay. I’ve seen a lot worse.” He had to shout to be heard.

  “How long will it last?” she shouted back, lifting her head to him, immensely grateful he was with her. She had seen plenty of storms, even the odd violent storm, but nothing to compare with the velocity and the sheer power of this! It was actually making her feel ill.

  Just as Brant had feared, down came the hail. As they were later to find out, much of it was as large as golf balls, providing a temporary snow field. Hail smashed its way across the verandah, striking at the shutters. They held. The windows on one side of the house were still unprotected. Sure enough they heard a crack, sharp as a rifle shot, then the sound of breaking glass.

  “Stay there,” Brant ordered. The safest spot was the core of the house.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “Not in bare feet, you’re not.”

  “I am too.” In all truth she didn’t want to be separated from him. Not for a moment. It was like being under fire on a field of battle.

  The broken window was in the smallest bedroom, the one least sheltered by the great mango tree. The curtains were sopping wet, blown back and torn. Glass fragments, glittering like diamond squares and triangles, lay all over the polished floor and the rug.

  “Back to the other room,” Brant waved her away, noting her pallor. “This will have to wait.”

  The romance of her wild kingdom had shown its turbulent face.

  Fifteen minutes later it was all over. Just like that! Great arrows of sunlight were piercing the mushroomed cumulus clouds that were shot through with iridescent veins of silver, livid green and gold. Brant had gone out onto the verandah to open the shutters. Now a glorious blast of air heavily perfumed by mountains of crushed blossom—jasmin, gardenia, ginger, frangipani and oleander—rushed into the house.

  Nyree didn’t venture out. She stood framed in the open doorway, brushing damp strands of hair away from her heated face. The grass was covered in hailstones, and there was shredded blossom everywhere, lying in rainbows against the ice. One of the palm trees had taken a lightning strike. The trunk was snapped off at an angle of forty-five degrees. There were circles of blue forming in the grey sky.

  She put a finger into her ear. “I think I’m deaf.”

  “That was nothing,” he said, returning to her, glad her bright colour had come back—although she was warily watching him, as though expecting a lecture. She had tried to remain stoic but she hadn’t fooled him one bit. Not with his arm around her trembling body. The storm had frightened her—as well it might.

  “Let’s have a cup of coffee,” he said.

  “Good idea. My nerves are shot.”

  “I didn’t think you’d admit to it.”

  “Pretending wouldn’t work,” she answered wryly.

  “Not with my arm around you.”

  “Well, it was scary,” she flashed.

  “Give me a broom and I’ll clean up the broken glass. The window will have to be patched up with a piece of plywood for the time being.”

  She took the broom out of the closet, then passed it to him. “There’s plenty of unused timber out in the car port.”

  “I know.”

  To her infatuated eyes his stunning bone structure seemed more prominent than usual. Even his expression was a bit on the daunting side. “I’ll make the coffee,” she said, her nerves at an exquisite pitch.

  “Let the dogs out first.”

  “Very well, Mr Hollister.”

  Later they sat in the living room, freshly painted her favourite yellow, with a high-gloss white trim. Great-Uncle Howard’s Pearl in the Ocean took pride of place, dominating the room and adding tremendous panache to what was now a very inviting space.

  “You’ve done wonders,” he said, more tersely than he’d intended.

  He knew she had style. She had done a great job turning much of the abandoned farm
house back into an attractive home. But being with her, having his arm around her during the storm, holding her to him, conscious she was wearing very little under the pretty smock, was making even his iron control falter. Her attraction was so powerful it was all he could do to keep his hands off her. He knew he was judged by everyone—those who knew him, those who only knew of him as David Hollister’s heir—to have everything he wanted. What he wanted was right here. He didn’t want anything else as long as she stayed near. This was a rare moment for him—a moment of acute revelation.

  Nyree set her coffee cup down, unnerved by his manner. “But you’re angry, aren’t you? Not pleased at all.”

  “What do you expect, Nyree?” He frowned. “First and foremost you’re living a dream. An unsustainable dream.”

  Of course she was. But she wasn’t ready to admit it. “Don’t start, Brant,” she said in quick defiance. “Please don’t. I’m a bit on edge.” A bit hardly said it. The atmosphere inside the house was as electric as any storm.

  “You’re not the only one,” he felt forced to say. “What about me? I feel responsible for you.”

  She jumped up in a temper. “I don’t need you to be responsible for me.”

  “That’s ridiculous and you know it. I’m happy to do whatever you want.”

  “Anything to indulge me, you mean. You have so much money you don’t care one way or the other. You think I’m just some poor deprived kid who should be allowed to play house.”

  “Well, aren’t you?” He was acutely aware of the danger that was flying all around them. Hot passions mixed up with a supercharged sexual hostility. “You lost the parents you adored at a very vulnerable age. You had years with your ghastly grandmother until Miss Em stepped in to save you.”

  “Pop psychology!” she cried out in scorn.

  He ignored her. “Then you lost your mentor. Howard’s legacy has set you free—but only if you sell the damned place. Surely you can see that? We expected to acquire it when Howard died. You’re right,” he admitted tautly. “You’ve got me all confused—and I’m a guy who doesn’t confuse easily. I am letting you play house. You know why? You and your history have got to me. Does that make you happy? It would have been so much easier to deal with an older woman, a settled person. These days I find myself ready to do anything you want, even though I know it’s a kind of madness. I’m indulging you in what I know to be a fantasy.”