by Margaret Way
He could never try the same game with McClelland. Drake McClelland, unlike his wimp of an uncle, would be on to him at once. Even his hatred was mixed up with respect. He had to think of something else. After all, he specialized in ideas.
THEY DROVE THROUGH Shadow Valley, avoiding the area littered with boulders, traveling along the cliff face with its numerous wind-carved caves, until Nicole pointed to one of the largest. The hollowed-out entrance was almost entirely decorated with the feathery green plumes Outback people called pussytails. The plants were whipped about in the driving wind that had suddenly sprung up, companion to the rapidly advancing storm.
The sky was spectacular, shafts of brilliant sunlight like spotlights piercing the towering giants’ castles of livid charcoal, purple and metallic green with slashes of silver. Rather like the palette she used in her own canvases, Nicole thought, finding great excitement in a scene that mirrored her tempestuous feelings. Anywhere else but the desert one would have battened down against an onslaught in the face of that savage sky, but both of them had witnessed countless desert spectacles in the past that had never yielded a drop of precious rain.
They parked beneath a broad overhang in the cliff face, reaching the entrance to the cave just as the sky released the first heavy drops.
For long moments neither of them took shelter, Nicole holding up her face in ecstasy at the long-awaited shower burst.
“Rain!” she cried. “It’s actually rain. Isn’t it wonderful!”
“And it’s coming down harder!” He laughed heartily, a man of the land sharing her joy and relief, then drew her back into his arms. Neither cared they were getting wet. It was only when the sky was ripped asunder by a dangerous fork of lightning so lurid and intense it burned itself on the retina, followed by a barbaric clap of thunder, that he hauled her into the cave, shouting to her above the wind to mind her head.
Even then the storm and the rain lured them to the entrance to rejoice in the spectacle. They knelt in the soft sand, staring out at the valley lit up intermittently by extraordinary incandescence. Lightning seethed and spat, the smell of the rain intoxicating to both of them.
He turned his head to soak her in like the rain. She was so achingly beautiful, so begging to be touched. “Take off your clothes,” he said, face taut, reaching out to help her with her shirt. “I want to make love to you. I don’t want it to ever end.”
Within moments, the storm raging outside the cave, she was naked. As she lay back on the powdery dry sand, he began to stroke her body—her shoulders, her arms, her throat, the rounds of her breasts, the slight curve of her stomach, her delicate hips—marveling at the color and texture of her skin.
“God, I’m a caveman compared to you,” he murmured wryly, conscious of the dark mat of hair that covered his chest and ran in a thin deep V into his groin and down his long legs.
“I should be terrified of you, in that case.” She smiled back at him, astonished by her abandon.
“I thought you were.”
“Not at times like these.”
He smiled and reached back for his hat; crystal-clear rainwater was still trapped in the wide brim. “Where would you like this?”
Before she could answer, languidly, erotically, he began to pour little streams of rainwater across her breasts and stomach, watching it run like a silken banner.
Her mouth pursed in a delighted gasp. The sensation was irresistibly delicious. He leaned into her, kissing her deeply. Scores of kisses. Soft. Tender. Fierce. Slowly he lowered himself over her, all male splendor and dark energy, his sex heavy at his groin. He bent his head so he could lick her rain-slicked skin with his tongue.
Her answer was a slow groan. Radiance spread through her. She could feel herself starting to enter another dimension. Her every nerve jumped as her muscles contracted. Sparks exploded behind her tightly shut lids.
Tiny rivulets of rainwater ran down over her thighs and into her cleft, soaking the light whorl of rose-tinted hair.
His eyes followed the water’s progress, burning a sizzling trail. He gripped her slender hips, hands electric, then lowered his head, his tongue slipping deeper into her with every sharp catch of her breath.
“Drake!” Her back arched up from the sand as she called her lover’s name. She was trying ineffectually to hold his head from her, startled beyond belief by the degree of sexual pleasure. The excitement was too primitive, too deliriously high. She felt she was losing her grip on reality. She was lost, craving all the things he was doing to her. He had shattered her illusions that she was a low-key, cool person with a take-it-or-leave-it attitude toward sex.
Drake acting quite naturally had raised lovemaking to an art form, and such was the force of her passion she couldn’t argue with it. It devoured her, changing her inner landscape forever.
Little pulses flicked here and there all over her body. He felt the shock of her beauty, her nakedness, take his breath away. Her luminescent skin gleamed in the dimness of the cave, and her masses of auburn hair formed a halo around her face. This was the woman straight out of his dreams. Miraculously, mysteriously Nicole. Both of them had traveled a long way.
The muscles in his forearms rippled as he lifted her supple legs to his shoulders.
All around them like incense was her fragrance, a powerful aphrodisiac. He inhaled it deeply, but desire was the sweetest scent of all. Now that he had found her, he knew he could never be denied her.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BY THE TIME he returned to the homestead, life seemed almost too difficult to bear. His sense of oppression—he’d developed it early in his godawful childhood—had never been stronger, the pressure on his aching temples like screws holding his brain together. The pain was unbearable. He’d had to drive with the storm raging all around him, despite the very real danger the chain lightning presented, pulling into makeshift shelters when visibility was next to nothing. It had been all he could do to control the vehicle, slipping and slewing, the wheels fighting for purchase in the mud.
He’d made it back to the homestead, pretending he’d been out near the JumpUp, miles away from the escarpment. God knows where they were. They weren’t back yet, though the storm had settled to light rain and then the sun was out again in all its incredible brilliance. That was the Outback—drama, extremes, drought and floods, no in-betweens. His mouth tightened into an ugly line. They’d probably found themselves a nice little cave where they could shelter. At least that’s what they’d tell the rest of them. He knew what they were about. Bloody sex. Even from a distance, kissing madly on the escarpment, they’d reeked of it. Lovers. She hadn’t tried at all to stop McClelland disrupting their world. She’d offered herself up to him, as wanton as her mother.
God, how he hated her! He’d renounced every other feeling.
Fifteen minutes later he began to relax when he learned one of the stockmen had been attacked and badly gored by a feral boar. This wasn’t the first time that particular animal had threatened a stockman who found himself in its territory. A shooting party was to be organized for the next day. Wild boar were vermin, and a real danger.
The shooting party also offered an opportunity for some unfortunate young woman known for her recklessness to be caught in the crossfire. It was almost certain McClelland could be talked into taking part. Harder to involve Nicole, who hated killing, but the powerful desire to be with her lover might swing things in his favor. He’d have to direct his attention to getting the two of them involved. In the old days Heath, a true hunter, had relished going after feral pigs. These days Heath would find it difficult even to sit on a horse. He’d come to understand life must have been very hard for Heath, as well. The Cavanaghs knew how to treat people badly.
A HALF A DOZEN stockmen waited for them at the Five Mile.
Nicole, like the rest of them, was a good shot; her grandfather had taught her how to handle herself around firearms. The Outback wasn’t the city. Danger from feral animals was a fact of life. So was the danger presente
d by a trespasser, a man on the run, perhaps. Most dangerous of all were cattle “duffers”—cattle thieves—a constant threat to the industry.
“I don’t know that I want you here, Nic,” Drake said, eyes narrowing at her. She was busy tying a sapphire-blue bandanna around her throat, tucking it into her cotton shirt.
“Well, I’m coming. I’m experienced. Don’t worry. I’ll keep out of the way. You men can do the shooting. I’ll stick to my camera. I’m squeamish about killing a living thing. Even a dingo or a rogue camel.”
“Then keep behind the rest of the party and the line of fire. I’ll be watching out for you.”
“I feel safe.” She meant it. With him along—
“All set?” Joel rode up to them, apparently eager to be off on the hunt. “Watch yourself, Nikki,” he cautioned her, casting her an intent look she couldn’t define. “It’s been a long time since you’ve been involved in anything like this.”
“I’ve never been involved in a boar hunt,” she reminded him. “Chasing brumbies is more my style.”
“A long time since you’ve done that, as well,” Joel pointed out.
“Relax, Joel. I’ll keep an eye on her,” Drake promised. “I’m surprised your father decided to join us. He didn’t seem at all keen last night.”
“He needs the fresh air,” Joel answered, looking as though he’d undergone a transformation, more focused than Nicole had seen him in days. “Dad’s stuck too much behind a desk.”
“You could’ve fooled me,” she murmured sweetly.
“Well, he’s a damn good shot,” Joel answered with a wry smile. “He’s a better shot than me.”
“I didn’t even know he could handle a gun,” Nicole said, looking her surprise.
“You’ve been out of things for quite a while, Nikki. Dad’s a dark horse. I said he was a good shot. I didn’t say he was a sportsman. Stay well behind the guns where Drake and I can see you.”
“Right, Sarge!” She gave him a mischievous salute.
Alan sat his bay gelding twenty feet away, talking to Judah, who was carrying a beautifully decorated spear, the traditional Aboriginal way of hunting wild boar. All of them were dressed in everyday bush gear, but Alan was straight out of a magazine: checked sports jacket—much, much too hot—moleskins, glossy boots, a bandanna tucked into his cream shirt. The only thing he was wearing in common with the rest was a cream akubra, but with a very fancy crocodile-skin band. Both sides were rolled up, a rakish style that offered less protection for his face and neck. Alan had retained his good English skin. Nicole thought he’d be very pink by the end of the day.
He saw Nicole looking at him and rode toward her, a smile on his unreadable face. “Take care now, young lady,” he advised.
“Why, Alan, how considerate you are!”
“Always the smart answer!” He shook a playful finger at her. “Keep away from the guns. Do you have one, by the way?”
“I do.” Nicole gestured to her side. “Only for my protection, but I do know how to use it. Granddad made sure of that.”
“Absolutely!” Alan said in his strangely jarring plummy voice. “Sir Giles was very thorough. I’m quite looking forward to feeling the wind on my face. I was going to let this chase go by, but Joel persuaded me. Take care now, my dear. You’re very precious to us.” He gave her another of his enigmatic smiles, touching the sleek flank of his gelding, oddly enough called Shotgun.
They were under way!
Forty minutes later they were still in hot pursuit. The boar wasn’t in his usual haunt, in the lignum swamps, but there were birds everywhere. Eden’s swamps in the Wet were vast breeding grounds for nomadic waterbirds, ibis, shags, spoonbills, herons, egrets, water hens, whistling tree ducks. The torrential storm had overnight filled the creeks and swamps, and the birds, sensing it with their fantastic antennae, had arrived in big colonies.
The members of the party were fairly scattered by the time they came on at least two dozen pigs, sows, young ones, piglets, mostly black or gray-black. No sign of the big powerfully built boar. As soon as the pigs heard the riders, they bunched up and made a run for it, plunging without hesitation into the water and swimming furiously farther down the swamp. Exhaustion would soon overcome them. Their swimming was only good over short distances, but then, the hunters were really only after the boar.
When they finally sighted the animal, it was deep in the lignum thickets, wallowing in swampy mud. Nicole felt her stomach lurch. The creature looked mad. As it lumbered onto its short legs, exposing its full power, she could see how huge and ferocious it was. It had to weigh at least four hundred pounds. From its lower jaw, two powerful tusks protruded, tusks that had landed their stockman in Koomera Bush Hospital.
“Back! Get back!” Drake shouted to her, unable to disguise the flash of excitement in his face.
Men! Nicole thought. They just loved excitement and danger. She needed no second warning. Drake and the others charged ahead, the horses’ hooves sending up spouts of murky water and thick splodges of mud. Suddenly the huge brute, instead of running, decided to charge. The taste of human blood must have made it frantic to have it again.
One of the party prematurely pulled the trigger and missed, or maybe the bullet ricocheted off the animal’s thick mud-coated bristles, tough as armor. Birds, shrieking their outrage, burst into the sky, a teeming cloud overhead.
“Leave it. I’ll take it!” Drake called, his voice loud and authoritative over the screaming birds.
Dread and excitement had sharpened all her senses. Despite the confusion and cacophony of sound, she heard with absolute clarity the metallic click of a rifle safety catch.
Behind her? To the side? Panic ripped through her like an electric shock. Every sense of self-protection screamed she was in danger. She spun her head, anticipating a shot. A shot that had only one purpose. To kill her. She had moved right into the trap.
“Drake!” She screamed his name at the top of her lungs, not knowing he had dropped the boar with one clean shot to the brain. She heaved herself desperately out of the saddle, lunging with a loud splash into the churning waters of the swamp. The shot that was intended for her sliced directly over her horse’s head, causing it to bolt. Had she not flung herself well away, the mare’s flying hooves undoubtedly would have killed her. She thrashed in the water, kicking herself farther into the swamp. She was covered in mud and slime, aquatic vegetation. The stench filled her nostrils.
Up ahead, the men exploded into action, two of them giving chase to the terrified mare, another, stunned by what was happening, holding a bleeding arm that had apparently been grazed by the bullet intended for her.
Oh God, oh God… She turned her head with the most profound sense of fatalism, not all that surprised to see her assassin raise his gun to his shoulder. No doubt at all of his intentions. That was death in his eyes.
It was almost time. No one could alter the course of fate. He was taking aim at her, mouth set in the most determined line. All he wanted now was to wipe her from the face of the earth. What had caused such hatred? He looked deadly. Incredibly sinister. The blond hair, the cold pale eyes. His real self revealed. No pretense. No sweet poison.
This was it. No life hereafter. No Drake, no children, no Eden. She had found herself too late. She was to die just like her mother. At the same hands. She knew that now. At this point, the moment of death, she was utterly alone. She could feel herself bleach white as if she were already dead, the blood pooling in her limbs.
She didn’t flinch or look away. Maybe courage counted for something. Let him kill her in cold blood. Let him kill her with her eyes trained on him. Even now she felt a strange compassion. She wondered how Drake would take her death. How many years he would have without her. She kept the image of him firmly in her mind. Something to hang on to.
As she awaited her fate, an eternity when it was mere seconds, another shot erupted before her assassin had time to pull the trigger. She watched as he screamed in agony or frustration, pitc
hing forward into the vine-tangled thicket, clearly snarling the single word: “Bitch!”
“Hold on, Nic. I’m coming for you.”
She didn’t register Drake striding through the muddied waters like a colossus berating himself aloud for not being prepared for the danger. She was disbelieving still. Part of her knew she was saved; part of her was waiting for her assassin to rise back up and finish the job. Everything seemed unearthly quiet, though in truth it was pandemonium. She remained right where she was, half-submerged in the water, going into shock.
DRAKE REACHED HER, sweeping her up into his arms. “Hold on, my love.” At her extreme pallor, the dazed look in her eyes, he thought his heart would break.
He made for the bank. Once there, a rock underfoot caused him to stumble, but he righted himself almost immediately, hearing Judah shout a frenzied warning to him.
He saw the dark shape emerge from the screen of trees. The man was upright, blood gushing profusely from his gut, but still holding the rifle. The face was vicious. Merciless. Beyond reason.
Incredible! He was still alive. The devil looked after his own.
Drake did the only thing he could do, he leaped to one side, energized by fear and an impotent rage. As he went down painfully, Nicole still in his arms, he saw a tribal spear heading like a missile straight for the enemy. Unerringly it found its target, sinking into the man’s neck, cutting off all possibility of future breath.
