by Margaret Way
“Whatever suits you, Mr. McQuillan.” It was not said provocatively yet little lights sprang into his eyes.
“It was Royce the other night,” he retaliated, rolling his own name off his tongue.
“This is different,” she pointed out. “You’re my boss now.”
“Well, I don’t care. As long as it’s all right with me you can keep on calling me Royce.”
“With a title perhaps? Mr. Royce?”
He shot her a slow, admonishing look. “Okay, have fun, Catrina. I may yet call you Cat. You have claws.” At the door he turned. “I won’t keep you waiting long. Give me twenty minutes. I booked a table when I came in. A lot of monied tourists are in town.”
I’ve only known him a handful of hours and already I’m in too deep, Carrie thought, torn between excitement and dismay.
When they walked into the dining room people nodded and waved from all directions. Obviously he was very well known. In fact it appeared when he was in town he was the hotel’s number one diner. Curious eyes flickered over Carrie. Men and women, prompting her to say governesses didn’t normally get invited out to dinner.
“You’re not invited out,” he said, one black brow arched. “You just happen to be here and you’re hungry. You’re also the one who got me to drive in hell-for-leather after a long hard day. I really should have sent you off to bed without dinner.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.” She blushed.
“What were you thinking all the hours you were waiting?” He lifted his eyes from the menu to ask.
“Life is never meant to be easy,” she said sweetly.
He laughed beneath his breath. “I wonder if I can get you to sample one of this restaurant’s best dishes?”
“Not kangaroo. Please not kangaroo,” she begged.
“You wouldn’t know what you were eating if I didn’t tell you.”
“But I do trust you to tell me. I guess it has to be crocodile?” Her amber eyes sparkled.
“How clever of you, Catrina. There’s a marvellous tian of smoked crocodile and corn-fed chicken on the menu served with a lettuce leaf mixture, diced apple and avocado in a dressing topped off with tomato coulis. You could have that as an entré.”
“Sorry, I’m going to have the crab and paw paw salad,” she murmured. “And seeing I’m in cattle country privileged to be dining with the local cattle king, I should try the beef tenderloin with red wine shallot sauce and sautéed mushrooms.”
“I’m pleased you said that, Catrina,” Royce cautioned. “It’s all Maramba beef.”
Afterward they went for a short stroll along the seafront, the water glimmering with luminescence, a drench of sweetness from the flowering shrubs, a heavenly sea breeze blowing, setting the fronds of the great palms in motion, seductive pockets of shadow that filtered out the street-lights. It was bliss after the brilliant glare of the day, the starry fastness of the night sky so beautiful it made Carrie ache to see it. She realised with a profound sense of shock from the moment Royce McQuillan had come into her life her internal focusing had shifted. Her preoccupation with him had set up some kind of a pain barrier. She had stopped thinking about her accident or what it had done to her life carrying her from a peak into a deep trough. Instead she was thinking almost exclusively about him. About how women fell madly in love with certain men. What was it about, then? Their overwhelming masculinity? Their physical beauty? Virility? Their toughness, their lean hard bodies as compared to a woman’s soft yielding satin flesh?
There was a real buzz about this man. Like electricity in the air. Sex appeal, they called it. He had it in abundance. Yet his marriage hadn’t worked out. She had seen his handsome face set in sombre lines when he spoke about it. She had seen the glitter of obsession in his ex-wife’s ice-blue eyes. Carrie just knew Sharon McQuillan would come back into the picture. At least there was no bitter struggle for custody of Regina. Peculiar as it was, Sharon McQuillan, according to her ex-husband, had never wanted her own child. It was one of those things that happened occasionally, leaving anguish in its wake.
They walked in harmony, hardly talking, each ostensibly enjoying the night, yet deep down intensely aware of each other. Feelings were gathering like a storm. Each realised this sudden violent attraction that had sprung up between them had to be crushed. Yet to Carrie it seemed as though the world had changed. She felt slightly wild, out of control, yet ready to sheer off like the cat he had called her.
“I suppose we’d better go back,” Royce murmured eventually as they came to a small resting point along the promenade, the water lapping peacefully. “Fairly early start in the morning. I won’t get you up at dawn but you should set your alarm for six, with breakfast at six-thirty. Ring room service. We’ll take off after that. I have a couple of buyers flying in the afternoon. I have to be there.”
“Your uncle couldn’t handle it?” she asked, wondering how much he delegated.
“Better if I’m there,” he said briefly, a touch of his hand turning her.
They were a short distance from the hotel, walking out from beneath a huge poinciana surrounded by a bed of cool ferns, when a lone flying fox on its nocturnal haunt all but dive-bombed them flapping its leathery wings. It shrieked so strangely for a moment, Carrie who was well used to the sight and familiar whirring sound of fruit bats invading their own fruit trees, scarcely knew what manner of bird it was. But it was as aggressive as a nesting magpie.
“There’s one bat looking for trouble,” Royce rasped, one arm around Carrie who had her head bent to protect her face, the other still holding the long twig he had snatched up as a defensive weapon.
“Maybe it just got lost?” Carrie’s voice quavered, almost drowning in sensation having him so overpoweringly close.
“The damn thing was huge!” He sounded both amused and outraged. “You’re okay, aren’t you?”
When every muscle, every sinew, was twitching under her treacherous skin. “Of course I am!”
Yet she was as poised and alert as a dancer, he thought, ready to spring away across a stage. The breeze had begun to play with her hair, skeining it like a cloud of silk across his cheek. Perfumed, buoyant, so soft and warm. He caught a handful in his fist, relishing the texture. Her slender form was wedged against his hip, alluringly female. Shining skin so beautiful it begged to be touched.
God, this was madness, he thought, trying to abide by common sense. It had taken him too long to get control of life to fall into the labyrinth again. Catrina Russell, the new governess. Poised and controlled one moment, a panicked little girl the next. He was half horrified by the extent of his own desire. It was unimaginable the way it had all happened. Outside forces ruling one’s life.
She straightened, trying to joke. “I’m sorry, you must think me a real cream puff.”
“Ice cream,” he corrected with a self-mocking half laugh. “Vanilla and apricot.” He could taste her soft mouth against his. The upper lip was finely cut, the lower enticingly full. Her body was in silhouette as the darkness beneath another poinciana deepened. She was increasing her speed, long lovely legs moving easily over the ground, carrying her away from him. “No need to apologise, Catrina,” he called after her dryly, “the damn thing startled me, too.”
She paused beneath a streetlight, her hair billowing, doubled by the breeze into a gleaming mane so it resembled a bright satin cloak haloing her face. Her eyes had a glittery look to them and her cheeks were darkened with blood. She had a high mettled look to her, a capacity for passion she must bring to her music. He could imagine what she would be like under his hand….
When he reached her he was so moved by her beauty he pulled her into his arms, wondering if his life was ever going to be normal again. Desire was like an avalanche thundering down a mountain. You couldn’t get out of the way. Acutely aware of her stillness, her intoxicating fragrance all around him, he all but seized her up, his breathing a little harsh. “Maybe if we get this over, we can settle down,” he suggested with acid self-mockery
.
Boundless excitement spread rapidly all over her body, flooding her. She felt dizzy with shock and unbearable tension, her open mouth soft and vulnerable, waiting for his as though her body was in sole charge and her mind had gone numb. In her whole life for all her small triumphs on the concert stage there was nothing to measure against this. This excitement was so extreme.
He drew her back into the shadows, shifting her weight onto his heart, taking her mouth in a kiss that went on…and on…and on…the most ravishing invasion, Carrie totally submissive as though forbidden fruit was all the sweeter. He kissed her until her wildly beating heart was ready to explode, then he released her from the spell, his dark vibrant voice bizarrely normal, even conversational.
“We both wanted that, Catrina,” he said briskly, “even if it might have been the worst thing I could have done. If it’s any consolation, I promise it won’t happen again.”
She was shaken to the core, but years of conquering nerves stood her in good stead. “Which is a blessing,” she managed calmly even if her voice was very soft. “I really don’t think I could handle it.”
“Me, either,” he said smoothly, still trying to analyse his complex feelings. Kissing her was akin to a storm blowing up inside him. It had taken every ounce of his self-control to let her go, when he couldn’t get enough of her. Something so dangerous he instinctively had to step back from it. He thought of her vulnerability at this time when she was attempting to build a new life for herself. It would be callous to threaten her further.
Carrie didn’t have to rely on an alarm as a safety net. Dawn cracked open to frantic birdsong, sweet, melancholy, warbling, the reckless cackle of the blue-winged kookaburras in the trees beneath her room. It was impossible to go back to sleep, though her night had been disturbed by broken dreams. Her subconscious was so in thrall, Royce McQuillan had figured in them all, his presence so deliriously strong at one time she awoke heart thudding, thinking he was in the bed with her, his hand on her breast. Small wonder she felt too keyed up to eat much breakfast—orange juice, tropical fruit salad, coffee—but she was dressed and waiting when he knocked on her door.
“All set?”
She was almost relieved to see his brilliant gaze was impersonal as it ran over her, checking out her attire for the long trip. She had dressed coolly but sensibly in a navy T-shirt with a designer label worked into the front, white cotton jeans, and navy sneakers. Because of the heat, she had caught her hair back into a gold clasp at the nape. She followed his cue, speaking as though not one moment of passionate intensity had passed between them. “I hope I didn’t bring too much luggage?” She indicated the three pieces.
“Does a princess take too much luggage?” He pretended to lift one of her suitcases with difficulty.
“I can take one.” She wanted to be helpful.
“That’s a relief!” His mouth quirked. He was determined to start the day off lightly. Cut the fuse that ran directly to dynamite. “No, I can manage, Catrina,” he told her casually. “We don’t need to bother with room service. You’ve only got the three pieces. I’ll tuck one under my arm.”
She watched him, as he went about doing it, his movements lithe and economical, while he told her to leave the keys on the small circular table and the door open. He’d settled the bill the night before.
“I hope you’ve got a wide-brimmed hat?” he paused to ask.
“Of course.” She reached behind her for the straw hat lying on the bed.
“Plenty of sunscreen?”
“Never leave home without it. Believe it or not, I don’t burn.”
“Let’s keep it that way,” he said briefly, his striking face as calm and inscrutable as a mask.
Ten minutes later they were underway, driving out of the large prosperous town and picking up the main highway, Carrie in the passenger seat of the Range Rover, Royce behind the wheel. At this hour the heat of the day was diffused, the morning incandescent. Open savannahs rolled away from the highway to the range, the lush green strip of coastline overlooking a sea ablaze in blues, ultra-marines, cerulean, turquoise, cobalt.
“Do you mind if I put the window down?” she asked a few miles on.
“You don’t get car sick do you?” He glanced at her. “Or does the air conditioning bother you?”
“Neither. I wanted to smell the bush. I love the way the sun warms the leaves on the gums! It releases the most marvellous aroma.”
“It’s the distinctive scent of the Australian bush.” He lowered his own window only a short way so he wouldn’t create a cross draft, letting in the fragrance of the flowing morning. Across the grasslands, Carrie glimpsed kangaroos bounding as silently as spirits into the shade of the trees. Their benign presence gave her such a warm feeling. The Range Rover was moving smoothly at speed, on the two-hour journey that would take them into the heart of Maramba. Once an emu paced the 4WD showing a short but fantastic turn of speed—60 m.p.h., Royce told her.
All along the route Carrie was fascinated by the towering purple and cerise banks of bougainvillea gone wild. It rose like brilliantly coloured ramparts to either side of the highway. A veritable jungle with those dangerous hooked thorns, but magnificently showy. In the gardens at home a whole range of cultivars thrived, the Thai golds, the hot pinks, the scarlets, the bronzes and burnt oranges, showy and relatively easy to handle, but they never attained the incredible height and splendour of their bush cousins. Away to the west rose the ragged peaks of the Great Diving Range, mauvish purple against the cloudless deep blue sky.
“They really do look like larkspur,” Carrie observed, harking back to a famous Australian poem listing the beauties of the homeland.
“At this time of day,” he agreed. “Later on they turn to grape. The truly spectacular changes occur in the Red Centre. I don’t think any other region can rival it, glorious as our tropics are. Those uncompromising ochres. The primeval beauty. You’ve been to Ulura and the Olgas?”
She shook her head regretfully. “Even to an Australian it’s so far away! I’ve been studying most of my life. There has never been time. But I would adore to go.”
“Then you might make it,” he surprised her by saying casually. “We have stations all over. From the Channel Country in the far southwest up to the Gulf of Carpentaria. Jimboola in the Channel Country would be the best jumping off point. I fly down fairly frequently. You can come with me for the trip. But in the months ahead it’s going to get damned hot. You could very well melt away.”
“I won’t. I know how to keep my cool.”
His white smile gleamed. “I’ve noticed that.” He made a brief gesture toward the ever-present ranges that rose like a great barrier between the verdant benevolent coastal strip and the sun-scorched vast inland. “The most dominating geographical feature of our continent,” he pointed out, “rambling way down the eastern seaboard, some 500 kilometres. From the tropical tip of our own state of Queensland, through rain forest, semi-desert, snowy alps and beautiful pastoral country to end in the Victorian Grampians two states away.”
Carrie saw it, as it must have been. “A very frightening and daunting obstacle to the first settlers in Sydney,” Carrie said.
“Twenty-four years to cross the Blue Mountains and open the great western plains to the infant colony. What Blaxland Lawson and Wentworth must have looked out on? In any man’s language, the Promised Land. The pastoralists lost no time taking up their grand selections. My own family included. The first McQuillan to arrive in Australia was one James Alastair McQuillan who arrived in the colony with his wife Catriona—which is one reason I like to call you Catrina—and their two young children. That was Christmas 1801. They must have nearly died of the heat after Scotland. James, a younger son, was the only member of the McQuillan family to come to the new colony. He wanted to make his fortune. And he did. From all accounts he was very friendly with Governor Macquarie. Anyway he was granted a big parcel of land outside Sydney at Parramatta. The old homestead is still there, very well
looked after, incidentally, by the family who took it over some hundred years later. James’ son, Bruce, had a difficult and strained relationship with his father. He migrated to Queensland in the mid-1800’s. James himself was killed in a shootout with a band of escaped convicts.
“How terrible!” Carrie was a little shaken by the thought.
He shrugged. “I don’t think James McQuillan, though a ‘gentleman’ and a free settler, would have been classed as a kindly man. Desperate times produce desperate men. I can’t help feeling sorry for a whole class of so-called ‘convicts.’ Poverty and starvation begets all sorts of crimes. Ferocious cruelties play a big part. The brute with the whip, savage guards, harsh overseers on pastoral properties. Some sixty percent of the convicts who were sent out here had never before committed a crime. And such crimes! Petty theft. Stealing a loaf of bread. Apples from over a wall. Poaching a rabbit from some rich landowner. Theft of any kind was always punished by transportation. Those crimes would hardly earn a fine in today’s society, but criminal law in Georgian England was brutal.
“Then there was the wave of ‘political’ and ‘agricultural protester’ crimes. The ‘utterings’ in the streets, voices raised against the government. The dissidents quickly found themselves transported. The irony is as an English historian pointed out, the worst criminals remained in England while a whole class of ‘victims’ men, women and children, suffered being torn from their country, their families and sent to our wild shores. No wonder the ones who survived were tough. Many of the emancipists, the risen convicts, became very powerful and wealthy with immense land holdings.”
“Yes, I know. It’s an extraordinary story,” Carrie agreed. “My own family on both sides hailed from England. Strangely they all migrated at the same time. After World War I. The men had fought in France and managed to survive. They and their wives decided they wanted to get as far away from Europe as they could.”
“Then Australia would have done it,” he said dryly.
