by Margaret Way
"It's taken time," she said. "I've certainly mastered sushi rice, but the rice only lasts a day. You can only serve it once. The biggest problem is getting in fresh fish-frozen simply won't do. Most times I have to make do with canned salmon and crab, but our plentiful beef is the basis for sukiyaki, teriyaki, kushi-age. I've even bought special serving ware-bowls, plates, platters. They're white. Food always looks good on white. Not to mention accessories like omelette pans. Japanese omelettes need a special rectangular pan. I'm good with thin and thick omelettes, and I'm not bad with presentation."
He smiled at her enthusiasm. "I'll have to visit some time," he said, making a decision to do just that. "I seem to recall you had an artistic streak at school. Didn't Miss Crompton keep all your drawings?"
"She did." Shelley felt a tingle of pleasure. "Fancy your rrnicmhcring that. I still have my drawing and my watercolours, whenever I get the time for relaxation. I'm a thwarted botanical artist. You'd be surprised at the remote areas I've ventured into when all the wildflowers are out."
"You sound like you really love what you do." She looked so happy he wanted to reach over and take her hand. Seemingly so fragile, she sizzled with life.
"Of course. I'm not as certain as Miss Crompton my watercolours are that good, but she seems to think so. She taught me art and its appreciation in the first place. Encouraged me every step of the way. Told me I was way better than she was years ago! She's been trying to get me to mount an exhibition. She even offered to have it here."
Shelley glanced about the courtyard and into the packed main room. "Imagine my watercolours all over her walls,
like a gallery."
"That sounds like an excellent idea." Brock realized with surprise he was getting a considerable lift out of Shelley's
company, when beautiful, experienced women with languorous eyes had come close to boring him. "I'm quite sure
Miss Crompton is an excellent judge."
Shelley smiled. "That's what gives me confidence. Harriet has done me such a lot of good. I love painting on silk as well. One of these days I'm going to find my way up to the Daintree. 1 want to paint the rainforest flora and the butterflies. The brilliant electric blue Ulysses and all the lacewings. Butterflies are so romantic! But, there; you're making me talk too much."
"Believe me, I'm enjoying it. Keep going." The tension hod all but drained out of him. He might even see if he couldn't organise a trip to the Daintree for her some time.
"Stop me at any time," she advised. "I'll never run out of things to paint. There's a whole world of tropical birds, and all the fruits of the rainforest.
"How are you going to fit all this in?" he mocked.
"Heaven knows! Most times I'm run off my feet."
"There's certainly nothing of you." He controlled his lone, but he could tell just by looking at her she'd be exquisite to make love to. He had a finely honed instinct about such things.
"Don't be fooled," she replied. "I'm strong and I eat properly-as you can see. It's a lot of work, but I really enjoy the tourist parties. I get a huge amount of pleasure out of my work, too. It was a Japanese lady who spent a lot of time showing me how to wield a vegetable knife to make all the beautiful garnishes that adorn Japanese food platters. Now, she was an artist. She could make anything of simple vegetables, flowers, leaves, little ornaments-you name it. Just give her a lemon or a lime, a cucumber, a radish, mushroom, zucchini, baby squash. It was marvellous just to watch her."
"I expect it took her years to master the technique."
She nodded. "Getting to know the Japanese and their language has been a real experience. Learning to prepare Japanese food is one good way of entering the culture."
"So you're open to all outside influences? Though Australia nowadays is very much part of Asia. You really are the hostess with the mostest!"
"I try to be. We desperately need our paying guests. I've been trying to talk one of our aboriginal stockmen, a tribal elder, into taking the guests for bush walks to the Wybourne caves. They're so careful and appreciative of the fragile environment. So far Dad has kept him busy, but it would take a lot off me."
"It sounds like you relish a challenge, Shelley?" Brock tilted his wine glass, watching the fine beads rising.
"Especially when the challenge pays off. I suppose it's far too early for you to formulate any plans-unless you intend to return to Ireland?" She prepared herself to be tremendously disappointed if he said yes.
"My plan is to take over the Kingsley chain."
At his tone she inhaled deeply. There was such bitterness in his brilliant eyes. "Forgive me, Brock, but is that possible?" she dared ask. "There's Philip after all."
"I don't take partners," he said, with a very sardonic expression.
Something about him scared her. "Then I'll pray for you."
"Do that." Suddenly he smiled, an illuminating flash like a ray of sunshine through storm clouds. "I may need it. Please don't look at me with fear in your eyes, Shelley Logan."
"I'm fearful for you," she said. "How could your grandfather possibly change?"
He gripped the stem of the wine glass so tightly she though it might shatter. "Maybe he's discovered he's got a conscience after all."
"You believe he means to reinstate you in his will?" She was very aware of the shift in his mood.
He nodded, though his mouth had a sceptical twist. "I'm always troubled by my grandfather's motives, Shelley. On the face of it he's told me he wants a reconciliation, but he's always been the most devious of men. Maybe it's another cruel joke. Maybe he's a little mad these days. Pain is tearing his body to pieces. Guilt his mind. He was even talking of going to Ireland to visit my mother's grave. He'll never get there."
"He's that bad?" Shelley waited quietly for his reply.
"Even if he survived the journey he knows what kind of a reception he'd get from my mother's people and all the friends we made. He put my mother through dreadful anguish. Though she eventually found peace I'm sure all those terrible years took their toll."
"He must have loved her once."
His answer was suave and cutting. "My grandfather knows nothing about love, Shelley."
"I'm so terribly sorry, Brock. Maybe you shouldn't have dime back when there's so much turbulence inside you."
"There was no alternative," he answered, as though her comment had touched a raw nerve. "Can you see it? The turbulence?"
"I'm sad to say yes!" She spoke truthfully, even if it wasn't something he cared to hear. "I've been watching you all night." It was there in the tautness of his features, the way his hands tended to clench whenever his grandfather's name was mentioned.
"Then no doubt you're right!" His voice was suave. "'There's no help for my bitterness, I'm afraid, but Mulgaree is part of me. It's my turn to close in. And no way am I going to allow Philip and Frances to cut me out."
"Am I saying the wrong thing every time I open my nuwth?" she asked wryly. "I do understand your feelings, Brock, but you must have considered Philip has a legitimate claim? He's Rex Kingsley's grandson too. You really couldn't tolerate sharing Mulgaree?"
He reached out suddenly and grasped her hand. It sent shock waves racing down her arm. "Philip, my dear Shelley, isn't competent to run Mulgaree, let alone the whole chain. Consider that. I've only been back a couple of days and it's perfectly plain Philip can't manage. He doesn't know how to use his power, position or money. He's no good with the men. You can't demand respect; you have to earn it. It wouldn't take him long to lose what Kingsley has built up. Using part of the Brockway fortune, I'll remind you." His jaw looked tight enough to crack.
"Brock, you're hurting me."
"I'm sorry." He released her hand immediately, still with the glint in his eyes.
"How bad is your grandfather?" She well remembered a big, handsome, scowling, arrogant man.
He glanced away. "He tells me his heart has got a hell of a big leak in it, his brain's on the edge and cancer is eating away at his stomach. His deat
h could be any time, damn him."
She gave an involuntary little shudder. "That sounds so harsh and unforgiving."
His eyes burned over her. "If it is, it's the result of his treatment of me and my mother. Sorry, Shelley." He shrugged. "I'm too far gone for a sweet little thing like you to reform me."
"I'm not all that sweet," she said briskly. "Not for a long time. Like you, I'm capable of holding deep resentments. I'm only saying don't let your grief and your bitterness gobble you up. Then your grandfather will win. You could even end up like him."
"What a thought!" he said tautly. "And yet you can say it to my face!"
"The truth isn't always what we want to hear. I'm sorry if I upset you, Brock. It wasn't my intention."
His handsome mouth twisted. "It wasn't? For a little bit of a thing you pack quite a punch. But then I expect you know as much about bitterness as I do. Didn't your family condemn you?"
It was her turn to suffer. "You have a cruel streak." She gazed at him with expressive green eyes.
"So be warned."
"And don't you intrude upon my inner world either," Shelley continued, doing her best to ignore the sexual tension that simmered between them.
He answered in an ironic voice. "Shelley, both our lives might just as well have been splashed across the front pages of the town gazette. Everyone knows our history."
"How could they not?" she countered, with a touch of his own bitterness. "Sometimes I think I'll never be free. Losing my twin in such tragic circumstances has coloured my life grey."
"Then you have to change it." He spoke emphatically. "No one with flame-coloured hair should ever lead a dull life. You can't let your family cage you. You're entitled to u life of your own. But hopefully not with my cousin. That would be too, too awful."
Brock looked up, and as he did so vertical lines appeared between his black brows.
"Speak of the devil!" he groaned. "You're not going to believe this, but Philip is on his way over to our table."
"No!" Mechanically she turned her head. "Oh, my goodness!"
"Exactly," Brock muttered, a hard timbre to his voice.
Philip Kingsley made it to their table. He was a tall, sober young man, his shoulders slightly stooped, as if under a weight. He had the well-cut Kingsley features that would have been striking had they had some edge to them. As it was he was merely good-looking. Beside his cousin Brock, with his dark, handsome smoulder, Philip looked decidedly soft.
He looked down at her with an expression like betrayal in his hazel eyes.
"Evening, Shelley! You're the very last person I expected to see here with Brock!" He employed an accusatory tone that irritated Shelley immensely, then, without being asked, pulled a spare chair to the table and sat down. "Why in the world would you be having dinner with Brock?" he asked, looking at her in dismay.
She reacted with a lick of temper. "Philip, do me a favour. It's none of your business." The air was so electric it crackled with static.
"I thought you'd given me to understand it was?" he retorted, moving his chair even closer.
"I certainly have not." She spoke quietly, but through clenched teeth.
"I'm sorry. I thought you had," he persisted, which she knew was his way. Persistence would win the day.
Brock held up a silencing hand "For heaven's sake, Phil, stop hassling the girl. You heard what Shelley said. What would she want with a pompous stuffed shirt like you?
~ Come to that, what in hell are you doing here? I don't recall inviting you to sit at our table." There was a distinctly aggressive edge to Brock's voice, a warning darkening his expression.
"Is something wrong at home, Philip?" Shelley swiftly cut in. "Is that it?" Clearly there was no love lost between the cousins.
Philip looked directly at her, his soul in his eyes. "Grandfather has had a bad turn. He's asking for Brock. I would have explained if you'd given me time."
Shelley's sparkling gaze softened. "You should have spoken right off, instead of taking me to task. So that's the purpose of your trip?"
"If it's true." Brock shrugged. "It's probably Kingsley's way to get me back to the house. He wants us all closed up together. Preferably at each other's throats."
Philip shook his narrow head. "Can't you try to be a little bit more compassionate towards Grandfather?" he said, his face flushed.
"No, sorry. He used up all the compassion I had long ago."
"The great wonder is that he wants you home at all," Philip said with a censure Shelley found quite bizarre and certainly dishonest. Every time she and Philip had been together Philip had been very vocal regarding his own load of resentment against his grandfather. He had always seemed desperate to win her sympathy-which, up until now, he'd received in good measure.
Brock treated his cousin to a cynical smile. "Phil, you old hypocrite!" he scoffed.
"We're talking about our grandfather." Philip lifted a sanctimonious hand. "He was a Colossus. Now he lies in bed, just staring at the ceiling. I hate to see him cut down like that. He's been so strong. Invincible. It's awful to see him so terribly reduced." His voice was low and husky. "It's killing me."
Brock's mouth twitched. "Hell, it's a wonder you're not gushing tears."
"You're such a heartless bastard!"
"And you're such a phony you make me want to puke."
"You have no sense of family," Philip flashed back, as though Brock had left a black stain on the Kingsley good name. "It's no wonder Grandfather sent you and Aunt Catherine packing."
The colour seemed to drain from Brock's dark polished skin, and for a ghastly instant Shelley wondered whether he would leap for his cousin's throat.
"Take no notice, Brock." She made a grab for his hand, holding it as tightly as she could. "Why don't you leave, Philip? You've delivered your message."
Philip's whole body stiffened. "I can't believe you're taking Brock's part against me. You're my friend. Not his."
"You make that sound like Shelley's your property," Brock drawled, somehow moving back from furious anger. Who would have thought a small, feminine hand could hold him in such a hard crunch? Shelley Logan had to be taken seriously, he thought, abruptly amused.
"We have plans for the future," Philip announced. "I'm very different to you, Brock. I want to make something of my life."
A look of disdain came into Brock's eyes. "Then you'll have your work cut out, because you're a gutless wonder. You hate that man just as much as I do. He's made your life hell, but here you are trying to portray yourself as his noble, grieving grandson. No bets on what you and your mother are after. Kingsley Holdings. That's why you set out to discredit and undermine me. God knows how you can shake off the guilt and the shame."
"I've no idea what you're talking about," Philip said sharply, but he was unable to meet his cousin's challenging stare.
"The plotting, Phil. The stories you carried to Kingsley. What did it matter that you couldn't prove them? God, you two must have held a big party when we left."
"Got kicked out, don't you mean?" Philip sneered. "Grandfather gave you every chance. No one plotted against you. It was you who deliberately set out to anger and upset him. The sooner you realize that, the better. You didn't know how to conduct yourself as a Kingsley should. You were wild. Wild from childhood."
"Then you and your mother had nothing to worry about, did you? Except she had the brains to cotton on that you couldn't measure up. Wild old me was cramping your style. I had to go. In retrospect, I'd call it an escape. It seems to me you're the one who's led the soul-destroying life. And thoroughly deserved it, don't you think?"
"Grandfather wants you home," Philip replied doggedly, his face stiff and expressionless.
"Surely you're not here to collect me?" There was a shade of amusement in Brock's eyes.
"I have the helicopter." Philip glanced at Shelley, and then swiftly glanced away, as if the sight of her gave him pain.
"I've no intention of going back with you." Brock was direct. "I'l
l come back to Mulgaree when I'm ready. That'll be tomorrow."
"What if tomorrow's too late?" Philip was roused to ask, leaning forward with his elbows on the table.
"C'est la vie!" Brock gave a truly Gallic shrug, his accent confirming he'd devoted time and attention to learning the French language. "But I don't imagine that it will be. Kingsley will chose his exact moment to die. Only a handful of people can do that," he added, with grudging admiration.
"You realize what it cost me to make this trip?" Philip complained. "To track you down here?" He threw another despairing glance in Shelley's direction, as though she were guilty of serious disloyalty.
"Why the desperation?" Brock's luminescent eyes narrowed. "Wouldn't it be in your interests to report that I've said I'll come when I'm good and ready?"
