by Valerie Parv
“And I took my shock out on you. I have a short fuse, Jo. I wish I could promise it won’t happen again over something else, but it might.”
“At least I’ll know where to look for you—wherever there are tigers or crocodiles.”
“You won’t have to because from now on, I want us to be a team.”
What was he suggesting? “You mean work together?”
“I mean be together. Working with the tigers gave me time to think things through and reach a decision I should probably have made long before. I want to ask you something but this isn’t the right time or place, so you don’t have to say anything until I ask you properly. And I would like to find the right place to ask you my question. Since this is your town, name the most romantic restaurant in Perth?”
She didn’t hesitate. “My place.”
She saw him expel a heavy breath. “All right, provided you let me send out for food. I don’t want you cooking tonight.”
“I’m sure we can arrange something.” Already her pulse was double-timing. She didn’t regret nominating her apartment over a fancy restaurant. For what she suspected he had in mind—a proposal of marriage—anywhere would be romantic. He had said he didn’t want her answer yet, but she was tempted to blurt it out anyway. Only the thought of spoiling the anticipation held her back.
This was turning out to be an amazing day. First, the bomb-shell of discovering Blake’s birth family, then almost losing him through mistrust, and now the prospect of a happy ending to beat the band. No wonder her emotions felt as if they were on a roller coaster.
To steady herself, she reached for the box of photographs. “Since Bob gave us access to these, the least we can do is look through them.”
She took a handful and passed another lot to Blake. As Bob had said, they were mostly from the early days of Tiger Mountain. Comparing the barren setting he’d taken on with the lush and successful attraction spread out below them today was like a metaphor for her relationship with Blake, Jo thought.
“Hey, there are even a few from Diamond Downs,” she said, recognizing some of the settings. “They look to be fairly old.”
“Before I became part of the Logan family, Bob mounted an expedition to relocate a rogue crocodile from the river system below Cotton Tree Gorge,” Blake explained. “For a long time, he kept up the crocodile activity to fund his development of Tiger Mountain. After I came to work for him, he took me along on some of those expeditions. These days, he concentrates on tigers and leaves the crocodile-chasing to me.”
Thinking of Blake with Amulya and her cubs, Jo had a vision of him one day passing the baton to his child. Not that she wasn’t daunted by the idea of her son or daughter being involved with wild animals, but if genes were any guide, she’d have little say in the matter.
On the other hand, they could inherit her genes and become writers rather than action types, she thought. Talk about getting ahead of yourself. Blake hadn’t proposed yet, and already she was planning their children’s futures.
Suddenly, her eye was caught by a fading photo she was sure she recognized. She held it out to show him. “Isn’t this the river below the Uru cave?”
He looked at it thoughtfully. “Judging by the water level, this was taken in the wet season,.”
“What was Bob doing up there?”
“I can answer that,” the older man said, coming in. “I’d finished capturing Des’s rogue crocodile, and wanted to photograph some ancient rock art of a style I hadn’t seen before.”
“The paintings attributed to the Uru people,” Blake speculated. “We found a gallery of them not far from where you took this photo.”
Bob nodded. “I read about that. I never made it that far because The Wet was setting in, but I came across an old bark canoe wedged on a floating island in the lower reaches of the Bowen. There’s a picture here somewhere. Ah, yes.”
He pulled out a grainy, almost sepia-tinted shot of what looked to Jo like a tangle of undergrowth. Gradually she made out the bow of a canoe. “Why does it have JV written on it?”
Blake looked thunderstruck. “Let me see. My God, it isn’t JV, it’s J for Jack, and the V is the bottom half of the diamond shape Jack Logan used as his mark. The top part probably weathered away. This was the canoe belonging to Des’s grandfather.”
Bob massaged his chin. “I’ve had that photo for twenty-five years and never connected it with your great-grandfather’s disappearance. Too bad there’d be nothing left of that old canoe by now.”
“Probably not, but if we can identify the location, we might get closer to finding out what happened to him,” Blake said.
“Can we get a copy of this photo?” Jo asked.
“I’ll have my assistant scan it for you when she brings the coffee. Does this mean you’ll be too busy solving a mystery to write about Amulya’s cubs?”
On impulse, Jo jumped up and kissed him on the cheek. “If you’ve given us the key to Jack Logan and his lost mine, your tigers can have the front page.”
A flush sprang to the older man’s cheeks. “You really think an old photo could be that important?”
Blake nodded. “We won’t know until we get back to Diamond Downs and check it out.”
Chapter 16
“I thought you’d be itching to catch the first plane back to the Kimberley,” Jo said in the cab as they drove to her apartment. Copies of Bob’s precious photos were safely tucked in her bag.
“The first plane isn’t until tomorrow and, unlike Judy, I don’t have a friend handy with his own plane.”
“So that’s the only reason you’re staying in Perth tonight?”
He leaned across and kissed her. “What do you think?”
With his mouth on hers, she could barely think at all. “Karen wants to tell you more about your mother. Wouldn’t you rather spend time with her?”
“I’ve waited over thirty years. I can wait a little longer. For now, I’m happy knowing who she was and why she did what she did.”
“Does it help?”
He nodded. “It helps.”
She couldn’t begin to imagine how much. All his life he’d believed he’d been unwanted, never guessing that his mother had tried to leave him with people she thought would take better care of him than she could.
They pulled up outside a handsome art deco building. Hers was one of the top two of four apartments with a balcony overlooking the Swan River, the reason she’d fallen in love with the place. Stairs just outside her own back door leading down to a garden was another.
Inside, Blake looked around. He had imagined modern, functional furniture piled with a writer’s paraphernalia. The richness of black lacquer furniture and burgundy Chinese carpets; a squat porcelain planter, topped with glass and serving as a coffee table; and framed calligraphy on the walls revealed yet another side of her personality. “You like oriental design?”
She put her bag on a side table. “Mad about it.”
“You’d love shopping in Broome, especially Chinatown. The shops date back over a century.” He saw himself fastening a strand of Broome’s famous pearls around her neck. The furnishings in his home at Sawtooth Park would also have to change to suit her taste, he decided, finding the idea appealing. The idea of her in his home appealed even more.
“Can I get you a drink? I have sake, beer or wine.”
“Beer’s fine, thanks.”
“You can take the man out of the outback,” she said as she went into the kitchen. Through the open door, he saw more oriental touches and a gleaming stainless steel stove. A shelf of well-thumbed cookbooks explained her deft touch with the bush bread.
In an alcove off the living room a computer sat on a lacquered desk. When she returned with two beers, he was inspecting the calligraphy above it. “What does this say?”
“‘Beware of the dog.’”
“You’re kidding?”
She shook her head. “A friend I interviewed did it for me for fun. I should have her do one about crocodile
s.”
He sipped the beer. “Do all your story subjects become friends?”
He saw her breath hitch. “A rare few become more than friends.”
He put the glass down and moved toward her. Before he could do more, the doorbell rang. The oriental curse springing to his lips was a long way from “Beware of the dog.”
“Who can that be? Only a few people know I’m back in Perth.” She put her own drink down and went to the door.
Blake leaned against the desk, irritated at recognizing Nigel’s voice. Didn’t the man know when to quit?
Nigel didn’t look any happier to see Blake, giving a nod in token greeting and then ignoring him. “I went into the magazine today and Karen told me you were in town, Jo. I was hoping we could spend the evening together.”
Not in this lifetime, Blake wanted to say, preferably as he escorted Wylie out. Jo’s glare warned him she preferred to handle this herself. “I’ll see about organizing dinner—for two,” he said pointedly and took his cell phone into the kitchen.
A dial-up service put him through to a local Chinese restaurant that delivered and could be encouraged to include a bottle of champagne after he volunteered his credit card number. He didn’t particularly care what they ate, but he wanted to do this right. So he hunted around the kitchen until he found wineglasses, candles and matches, woven straw place mats, bowls and chopsticks.
Murmurs were still coming from the living room, so he called Diamond Downs. Cade answered. Blake brushed aside discussion about his birth mother for the moment, although he wasn’t surprised that Judy had already spread the news of his quest. He would rather share the details with his family—the people he still thought of as his real family—face-to-face. Instead, he filled Cade in on the discovery of the photo.
“That’s interesting,” Cade said. “When I was updating Des’s bookkeeping, I came across some old family photos in a file in his office. I’ll hunt them out. I’m sure I saw something about Jack and a canoe in there.”
“How is Des?” Blake asked.
“You can’t slow him down with an ax.”
Not good, but refusing to take things easy, Blake translated. What else was new? He told his foster brother he and Jo would be returning on the next day’s flight and hung up before Cade could ask about Blake’s plans for tonight.
Turning his attention back to Jo, Blake tried not to eavesdrop on her conversation, but Nigel’s voice carried from the other room. The man was practically pleading for a second chance. Hearing her firmly reject her ex, Blake smiled. Kiss, kiss, goodbye, he said in his head. No, forget the kiss part. Just goodbye.
He got his wish. The front door slammed. When he returned to the living room Jo was sitting on the sofa looking shaken.
“Shall I go after him and punch his lights out for you?” he offered.
Her smile bloomed wanly. Better. “My hero.”
“I’ve ordered dinner and champagne to arrive in another thirty minutes,” he said in an attempt to change the subject.
She shook off Nigel’s visit like a dog shedding water. “What will we do in the meantime?”
Blake completed the move he’d started before they were interrupted. “We could pick up where we left off.”
“Half an hour isn’t much time.”
He brushed a hand over her hair. “You’d be surprised what’s possible in half an hour.”
And he proceeded to show her.
The time constraint meant their clothes ended up strewn over the floor; the bedroom seemed too far to go. The sofa was more than adequate, being the width of a bed when he pushed the cushions together at one end. And he made sure they used the space wisely by taking turns being on top.
They’d reached Jo’s turn when the doorbell rang. She muffled her laughter against his chest. “What should we do now?”
“Answer it together?” he suggested.
She lifted her head. “We’d get arrested.”
He buried his face in her hair and thrust his hips upwards.
The doorbell rang again more insistently.
“Coming,” she called and shook with laughter again. “If that poor delivery person only knew.”
How she had any energy left to talk, far less move, Blake didn’t know. Too sated to stir, he watched her roll to her feet. A fringed silk throw was draped over a chair. She wound the fabric sarong-style around herself, tucking the ends in under one arm.
Moments later, she came back with a fragrant carrier bag she placed on the coffee table. Hands on hips, she surveyed him. “Just as well the delivery boy couldn’t see into this room. You look like an emperor after an orgy.”
“As long as you’re the empress, subject to my whim,” he said. “Come here, woman.”
She laughed. “Being subject to your whim isn’t much good if I faint from hunger. In case you haven’t noticed, the coffee and pastries we had in Bob’s office were the only food between me and breakfast. I’m sure his tigers get better fed than that.”
Resignedly Blake swung his legs to the floor. He was hungry, but not for food. “You’re wrong. They only feed the tigers five days out of seven.”
Poking through the containers, she asked, “Economy measure?”
“Imitating their natural diet in the wild.”
“Well, mine is to eat seven days out of seven, preferably three times a day.”
Admiring her trim behind outlined by the delicate silk, with the fringes brushing the backs of her legs, he wondered where the food went. Definitely not to her slender hips.
On the table, she set out the place mats, chopsticks and bowls he’d rounded up earlier, and lit the candles, casting a pleasant glow over the room although it was still daylight. By that time he’d dressed, even though he’d convinced her to stay in the sarong. “You look gorgeous,” he said, kissing the top of her head.
“And convenient,” she said, not sounding too put out.
The champagne was chilled and of a reasonable vintage. He handed her a glass and took one, linking wrists with her while holding the glass. “To us.”
Keeping her wrist curved around his, she brought the glass to her lips, her gaze meeting his over the rim. “To us.”
He drank and lowered the glass. “I think you know what I want to ask you.”
“Yes.”
“That sounds like an answer.”
“It is. I love you, Blake. I want us to be together always.”
“In spite of my short fuse and convoluted family history?”
She pressed a kiss to his mouth, her tongue darting out to catch a droplet of champagne at the corner. “If you had a different history, you wouldn’t be the man I’ve come to love.”
“Then you’ll marry me?”
“Provided we don’t have to share our honeymoon with crocodiles.”
He pretended dismay. “Darn. I had the expedition all planned. Now we’ll have to stay at home in bed.”
Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “Poor baby.”
He sipped champagne. “Speaking of babies, how many shall we have?”
“One,” she said.
“But I thought…”
“At a time,” she added. “If you want, we can keep up the Logan family tradition and become foster parents, as well. My parents have been nagging me about marrying and providing them with grandchildren. They will be thrilled when I contact them and tell them our news.”
“From the moment we met, I knew you were a woman after my own heart.”
She finished her champagne and put it down. “I like to get what I’m after.”
Liking the sound of that, he nevertheless felt a frown settle. “What about working your way up to publisher?”
“Karen won’t want to lose touch with you, and she’s already said she doesn’t want to lose me. For starters, I can telecommute. Later, I might do what I’ve always dreamed of doing, and write a book. The Logan family alone should keep me in material for years.”
“Now the truth comes out. You’re marrying
me for my material.”
“Can I help being shameless?”
To prove it, she untied the sarong and let the silk pool at her feet. He drained his glass and put it aside, regretting the time he’d wasted dressing as he hastily reversed the process.
Then her feverish mouth was on his and he felt himself stirring again, although moments before, he’d have sworn it was impossible.
She made the impossible possible, he thought, lifting her against him. She hooked her legs around his hips and linked her hands behind his neck. He carried her across the room to the sofa. His last coherent thought was that he should make a note of the brand of champagne they were drinking. The maker should patent whatever was in it.
A considerable time later, she said, “I think the food’s cold.”
“Unlike the two of us.” He kissed her along the inviting angle between her neck and shoulder. “Why do you think microwaves were invented?”
“For lovers,” she said and then dissolved into silvery laughter.
He propped himself up on one arm, studying her. “What’s so funny?”
“I was wondering what we’ll tell our children when they ask how you proposed marriage to their mother.”
“We’ll say we were practicing to have them. By then, they’ll probably have toddler picture books on the subject and be telling us how it’s done.”
“I think they do now.”
He grinned. “See, I’m perfect father material. Already a fuddy-duddy.”
Running a hand across his muscular flank, she said, “You’ll never be a fuddy-duddy. But you are perfect.”
His grin faded. “Hardly, after learning the truth about my mother. It’s not the legacy I hoped to hand on to my kids.”
“Not knowing doesn’t change the reality. Would you rather have gone on wondering?”
“Do you need to ask?”
She wriggled out from under him and reached for the sarong. “Then let’s reheat and eat. My energy level’s practically zero.”
He pulled on his pants, but didn’t bother with the rest of his clothes this time. Wishful thinking? Learning from experience, he told himself. Barefoot, he padded to the table and was surprised at how hungry he was.
