by Margaret Way
“Well, I spend little time on it.” His answer held contempt. “You sweet, tender, compassionate, marvellous woman.” Far from being admiring, his voice had a decidedly cutting edge.
“I won’t let you make a fool of me, Brock.” She looked back at him hard.
“That’s what I like about you,” he responded. “We could take this further, however, they’re nearly here. What a shame Phil couldn’t fall in love with your sister. He might take on an entirely different personality. She’s so bubbly—just to cite one of her outstanding assets—while Phil always acts like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.”
“Have a heart, Brock. It must be in there someplace.”
He held up a staying hand. “Stop now, Shelley, or you’ll have me in tears.”
“Not you. You’ve got too much steel in you.”
“How do you actually know?” he challenged her.
“I’m very perceptive,” she said simply. “And why, oh, why is Mandy starting to run in this heat?”
He shrugged, turning to follow her gaze. Amanda was zig-zagging across the boulder-strewn sand. “I suppose it’s because she’s so playful.”
“No. That’s not it,” Shelley said with a worried look. “Philip seems to be taking cover.”
Brock’s scant attention suddenly sharpened. “It’s a kangaroo.” His keen eyes registered movement through the trees. “It’s coming after them. She’s probably got a joey in the pouch.”
“Oh, hell!” Anxious to protect her sister, who was given to panic, Shelley took off, far fleeter of foot than Amanda. Female kangaroos were much smaller than the adult males, but mothers of all species could be dangerous when protecting their young. This kangaroo, a red, must have sought relief from the heat, finding her way down to the cool of the creek to drink and nap.
Why was Mandy screaming? She should know better, but obviously she was frightened. Their father had always taught them not to exhibit fear with wild animals.
Brock, thinking much the same as Shelley, erupted into motion. He took off after Shelley, but the kangaroo, at once aggressive and defending its young, continued to bound after its prime target—Amanda, who was further exciting the wild animal with her shrill squeals.
Shelley reached her sister at last, heart pumping, hair streaming. She brought her crashing to the sand, urgently warning her to be quiet and lie still. It was quite possible the kangaroo would lose interest if they played dead—but Amanda seemed powerless to stop, her whole body shuddering.
Next thing Shelley knew her body was covered by a man’s. Even half smothered and near crushed by his weight she knew with every fibre of her being it was Brock. Mind and body were in total agreement. His arms locked around her, forming a protective shield. They were safe. Safe. But he wasn’t.
“Shut the hell up,” he ordered Amanda fiercely, then took a deep breath. The agitated kangaroo, going much too fast to stop, descended on him with one bone-jarring slam, its animal scent strong, muscles spasming continuously, its fur rank and bristling.
Amanda, on the bottom of the pile, was still making frantic little cries, but though no sound escaped Shelley, pressed hard against her sister, all her muscles were locked tight, her body bathed in sweat. It was Brock who was taking the brunt. A fighting kangaroo, an adult male, could rip a man to shreds, she agonised. An agitated female, with one or more joeys in her pouch, could do a lot of damage with its powerful clawed feet.
Brock felt pain as nails racked him. Cursing to himself, he concentrated on protecting the women. Where the hell was Philip? The kangaroo might take off at the sound of a vehicle or the blare of a horn. But no sound came. Instead the kangaroo squeezed him tight with its flaying front feet but then, finding no resistance, decided to make a break for it. It bounded off, accelerating across the burnished plain, leaving behind it a cloud of fallen leaves and red dust.
Brock gathered himself and stood up. The kangaroo had slashed his right arm and, he realized as he brought his hand around, his back. The fingers of his hand brought away blood. He reached down, pulling Shelley to her feet.
“Okay?” Her elfin face was dewed with sweat but all her concern was for him.
“I’m fine, thanks to you.” She was dismayed by the blood.
“I did nothing out of the ordinary. I wasn’t going to have you or Amanda harmed.” He bent to retrieve Amanda, who came up covered in debris, hot, panting and swearing her head off.
“What were you trying to do? Squash me? Bloody hell, just look at my knees,” she moaned, as though she was a prima ballerina about to go on stage.
“Would you rather we’d left you to get mauled?” Brock didn’t attempt to suppress his disgust.
Amanda glanced up at him, then shook her head. “Why would a kangaroo want to pick on me? I wasn’t doing a thing. They’re such birdbrains!”
“That happens with females,” Brock said pointedly. “Something in the way you were running, certainly the way you were screaming, alarmed it. It was carrying a joey. Maybe it had a couple more in the pouch,” he explained shortly.
This was one selfish, self-centred young woman. She hadn’t breathed a word of thanks to her sister, who had flown to her assistance. If he hadn’t been there it would have been Shelley’s tender flesh that was ripped.
“Brock, you’re hurt,” Shelley said, moving closer to inspect the long bleeding slash on his arm. There were more on his back, judging from the blood seeping through the rents in his shirt. “I’m so sorry this had to happen. We all know kangaroos can be aggressive, but that was a one-off. We have to get back to the homestead so I can clean that up. It must be painful?”
“It’s stinging; that’s about all,” he said impassively. “I’m sorry I had to crush you, but there was no other way.” He whirled around, his eyes narrowed. “Where the hell is Philip? Up a tree? Do you wonder why I love the guy so much?”
Philip, who had crouched down behind a boulder, rose and came towards them, looking overwhelmed by relief. “Thank God you’re all right!” He made a beeline towards Shelley.
“I’m fine, too, thanks for asking,” Amanda ranted, her pretty face full of outrage. “You’ve reached new heights today, Philip. Like the guys on the Titanic—you saved yourself before the women.”
“What did you expect me to do?” Philip flushed. “It happened so fast. Brock was closer to you.”
“Like hell he was!” Amanda, white as chalk, put out a frantic hand and pushed at Philip blindly. “You’re a bloody coward, that’s your trouble.”
“It takes one to know one.” Philip, unprepared and already off balance, staggered back.
Shelley ignored both of them. “I’m truly sorry, Brock. But we can’t stand here talking. Have you had a recent tetanus shot?”
He laughed a shade discordantly. “I’m in no danger, Shelley. Don’t look so worried. It looks worse than it is. And to set your mind at rest I had a shot about six or seven months ago, after I was involved in a minor incident with a guard dog I was attempting to calm.”
“I feel sick,” Amanda said, regarding her scraped knees as though the injuries were life threatening. “I’ve been coming here all my life and nothing like that has ever happened to me.”
“Then you’ve been lucky,” Brock said tersely. “When you’re confronted by wild animals, and they look aggressive, you stand perfectly still. Try not to show fear and never scream. Surely you know that?”
Amanda regarded him with a mixture of habitual coquetry and contrition. She ran her hands provocatively over her body, pretending to dust herself off. “Easier said than done, Brock. I’m not as well bush-trained as Shelley. Thanks, Shel.” Her blue eyes went to her sister. “I’d have done the same for you.”
Philip wasn’t going to let her get away with that one. His eyes sparked with anger. “That’s good, coming from someone who’s let Shelley take the blame for—”
“Please, Philip,” Shelley cut him off. “Let it drop. We’ve all had a fright.”
&nbs
p; “Is that your explanation, Phil?” Brock drawled. “You got a fright?”
Philip was direct in his answer. “I knew you could handle it. We grew up together, remember?”
“So there were no surprises,” Brock said.
It was cool and rather dim in the homestead’s first aid room, so Shelley switched on the light. Her heart was like a racing engine. Even her legs were quivering. Brock had that effect on her.
“You’d better take off your shirt,” she said. “It’s ruined, I’m afraid.” It was difficult to damp down her feelings in the confined space. Brock really filled a room. So high-powered it was intimidating.
“Here—don’t worry about me.” Abruptly he started to strip off the soft blue denim shirt. “I can do it myself.”
The sexual attraction between them was sparking around the room, charging the air. He didn’t know what he’d do if she laid her hands on his bare flesh.
Shelley drew back a little, biting her lip. “As you wish. I’ll just get things ready for you.” She went to the wall of cabinets, assembling a box of cotton swabs, dressings, a bottle of antiseptic, finally a basin and a couple of clean hand towels. “This should do the trick.”
She turned back to face him. That was when she was beset by excitement that verged on panic. Desire. Need. To be held against him!
He had a superb body—that came as no surprise—but naked to the waist his male beauty was sublime. It left her badly shaken. His darkly tanned skin was so polished it almost looked oiled, his wide shoulders tapering to a lean, narrow waist. His body displayed strength, power and perfect proportion. She wasn’t even at a safe distance. She was right in the danger zone. So close she experienced thrill after thrill, primitive and steamy.
God, help me! Heat suffused her veins and panic welled up. She was acutely aware colour had washed up into her face, betraying her. She tensed, and with a great effort freed her eyes, turning to fill the basin with warm water, then pouring in a measure of antiseptic, watching the water cloud. Everything was in slow motion, but she was so agitated she wasn’t aware of it. Normally she was swift and economical in her movements, but nothing was normal around Brock Tyson. He knew perfectly well how fiercely sexual she found him.
The silence was as taut as a highwire. Shelley couldn’t take her eyes off him as he swabbed the long gash on his arm. He made no sound. Didn’t even give the slightest flinch, though it must have stung.
“It doesn’t need stitching?”
He shook his head. “I’ve had worse gashes than this, and I’m a good healer. There won’t even be a scar.”
“That’s good. Your long sleeve saved you.” Though he’d worn it rolled up to the elbow. “I don’t think you’re going to be able to manage your back.” She had to breathe very quietly, so she gave no sign of how she was feeling, but she could see the answering strain in his face.
His gaze rested on her so intently he might have been trying to mesmerize her. “So you do it.”
“Okay.” She recovered her nerve. Cautiously, very gently, as though this man was a panther, she began to clean the long scratches.
She could feel the excitement rising with every passing second. The urge to slip her arms around him was enormous. She wanted to press her lips to his polished skin. She wanted to let her hands travel. His broad shoulders were shielding her face and her body from him, otherwise he would have been able to read her transparent expressions in the long wall mirror facing them.
When she was almost finished he reached around and suddenly grabbed her wrist, an action so surprising she gave a little gasp. “Come here to me.”
She desperately wanted to. Feared to.
Something like an electric current shot through her body, the force of it astonishing. Brock knew exactly what he was doing. He had anticipated her response exactly. Shelley Logan, innocent virgin, a girl from the bush. Never in her life had she felt such a violent reaction. She might just as well have been an unbroken filly he was winding in…winding in…through the silence bouncing off the walls.
“I could love you, Shelley,” he murmured, low-voiced, folding her unresistant body into his embrace.
She shook her red-gold head, catching a glimpse of the conflict and prowling turbulence that was in him. “There would be too many consequences to falling in love with you. We’re not even taking it gradually,” she warned.
“Maybe it’s my nature. And yours.” He drew her ever closer, mindless of his lacerations, the gentleness of his movements not matched by the intensity in his eyes. Slowly, so slowly she was flooded with longing, he brought his mouth down over hers, just barely kissing her, the tip of his silken tongue sliding backwards and forwards over her lips, tracing their contours as though he found them exquisite.
It was wickedly, wickedly seductive.
Her eyes filled with tears. In truth she was dazed at the changes that had come over her, the way she could respond with a passion she hadn’t even known she possessed.
“Shelley, what is it?” He drew back, his face taut.
“Haven’t you got enough to worry about?” she asked, edgy with emotion.
“I forget when I’m with you.” His voice was unfamiliarly tender. “I don’t start out to do this. I don’t determine to kiss you every time I see you. I don’t want to risk hurting you. I can see you think I will.”
She stared back at him. “You told me you’re in a state of deep confusion about your life. Is it possible you’re casting about for someone to ease the pain?”
“And I’ve found you? Surely you don’t think this is a flirtation?” He lifted her triangular face to his, staring into the emerald eyes that glittered with tears. “I’ll stay away, if you’re going to find it easier. But I’ll never let you marry Philip.”
“How could you stop me?” she flared.
“Very easily. I’d make you pregnant so you couldn’t leave me.”
His words shocked her, sending a great charge through her nerves. “You’re still wild, aren’t you, Brock Tyson?” she accused. “You shouldn’t talk to me like that.”
“I shouldn’t. But things happen.” He gave way to his driving need, taking up the soft openness of her mouth again. “How do you know I’m not deadly serious?” he muttered as they came up for breath.
“Heartbreaker.” She felt the faint delicious rasp of his beard against the soft skin of her throat.
He held her, both hands at her waist. He could easily span it she was so slender. “Or is it simply that I care about you? Green-eyed Shelley Logan with hair like flame.”
“But the timing’s bad?” Shelley could almost hear Brock say the words to her.
“So now you know the risk you represent.”
“Especially when you’re a man not noted for your restraint.”
“You’ll pay for that,” he growled, bringing them even closer together.
“Why have you never been passionately in love, Brock?”
“It hasn’t been something I’d allow.” He went back to kissing her throat.
“But surely it’s not a question of what one allows? Doesn’t it just happen?”
“That’s the problem,” he said wryly. “It can happen in moments. Overnight. It can happen with the wrong person at the wrong time. Passion can destroy lives. Then again, it’s a gift. Even if it doesn’t last. Sex isn’t passion. Passion doesn’t happen as often as you might think. It takes a man and woman over, until they’re knocked off their feet.”
“So you know what it’s like to want a woman very badly?”
His smile was a little twisted. “I’ve wanted many women very badly, Shelley. From time to time. Just like they’ve wanted me. But at heart I’m a gentleman. I won’t destroy your life. I won’t even take up your time if I’m going to make you uneasy or afraid.”
“Afraid?”
He caught her chin. “It’s written on your face.”
“What else is written there?” She invited his answer.
He gave her a long, searching look. �
�A kind of dreaming, not untouched by anguish. You’re as powerfully attracted to me as I am to you. We’ve found that out. But at the same time you want to run away and hide your pretty head.”
“I’m a lot stronger than that, Brock.”
A smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “I guess you are. Actually, I want what’s good for you. Philip isn’t, even if your family are pushing for it. Emotional blackmail must be one hell of a strain.”
“Since my parents lost Sean—” she began.
“And you didn’t?” He fixed his eyes on her.
Her face took on a faraway expression. “I lost part of myself.”
“Because you’re a twin. But you haven’t really lost Sean because he continues through you. He’s somewhere around, I bet.”
She swallowed, shaken by his sensitivity, the strong current of communication between them. “He’s there every morning of my life.” Her mouth quivered. “I’ll grow old, but he’s forever a little boy. My little brother. I didn’t do any wrong, Brock. I’m sure of it. Only I can’t remember.”
“You couldn’t have done anything wrong.” He spoke roughly, out of compassion, taking her by the delicate shoulders that had been forced to carry too big a burden. “You were a young child. Six, for the love of God! What about Amanda?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember that day. All I can recall is high-pitched screaming. I suppose that sound will always remain with me. When I was growing up I thought my father hated me because I’d survived, but maybe he just can’t stand the agony of looking into my face.”
Brock knew exactly what she was talking about. Hadn’t his grandfather always turned away from his light eyes? His runaway father’s eyes. “That’s an appalling situation, Shelley. Yet he’s let you step into the role of provider?”
“Oh, no.” She shook her head vehemently. “Dad’s the boss. I know Wybourne is run down, and the income my scheme brings in helps, but somewhere along the line Dad lost the will to keep things going. Maybe even the will to live. He would have continued to work hard for Sean, so he could pass Wybourne on to him. That’s what it was all about. Providing for Sean. Now, probably sooner rather than later, Wybourne will have to be sold.”
