The B4 Leg

by Various

  Here at last was the McAlpine stronghold.

  Presumably in times of torrential cyclones McAlpine could offer shelter to the entire population of Darwin beneath the homestead roof, Olivia thought, her breath taken by the spectacle beneath her. The base of the stand-alone cliff appeared to be in permanent shadow. It was marked by a border of lush green where water must gather and never entirely dry out. All else was a million square miles of uninhabited desert—a beautiful, savage place unlike anything she had ever seen. She could well imagine the most superbly engineered four-wheel drives sinking into the bottomless red shifting sands, never to be seen again. There was a great deal to be feared about this environment.

  But goodness! One could well find passion and romance here.

  Astounded by her flight of fancy, she endeavoured to get a grip even though her pulses were jumping wildly. It had to be one of her increasingly mad moments, or alternatively it could be taken as an indicator she had at long last become aware life was shooting by like a falling star. That’s what came of having to play the archetypal earth mother to her siblings. She was starting to imagine herself as a woman standing at the edge of a cliff like the one that towered beneath them. Either she could totter for ever as she had done all her life or take a spectacular dive. Truth be told, she was sick to death of being sensible. Bella was never sensible. Indeed a lot of her escapades had been hare-brained, but at least Bella had fun.

  McAlpine landed the helicopter to the right of a giant hangar at least a mile away from the home compound. The interior looked as though it could well hold a fleet of Airbuses. The station insignia—Kalla Koori—was emblazoned in chrome yellow and cobalt blue on the roof. The Australian flag that stood on a tall pole nearby only moments before hanging limp suddenly whipped to attention, unfurling its length. Probably as much honouring McAlpine’s arrival as the buffeting from the chopper’s rotors, Olivia thought a touch sharply.

  They were met by a tall bearded man in a check shirt and jeans, a huge white Akubra tilted back on his head. “Boss!” he said, straightening up. He had been leaning nonchalantly against a four-wheel drive, its metallic Duco throwing off iridescent lights. Again, the station insignia in blue and gold was on the door panel.

  “Norm.” Briefly McAlpine introduced them. This was Norman Cartwright, who with his wife, Kath, ran the domestic affairs of the station—Kath with her team in the house, Norm with his team in the extensive compound grounds. She liked Norm on sight. She expected the same would go for his wife. Australians with the exception of McAlpine were warm and friendly. She bore in mind she was yet to meet the terrifying ex-wife, Marigole. Not that she hadn’t met her fair share of enormously pretentious women dripping hauteur. It was unsettling to remind herself McAlpine had called her an ice princess. She wasn’t an ice princess at all; she had simply perfected faking it.

  McAlpine handed her into the back seat of a Range Rover, big cat eyes glistening, while he sat up front with his man, asking him a series of questions for which Norm very wisely had the answers. From long experience with her father she knew employees had all necessary information to hand or they were out the door.

  Splendidly wrought iron gates hung on immense stone piers. They opened inwards as they approached, forming an impressive doorway in the ten-foot-high walls washed in a bright yellow-ochre that mirrored elements in the landscape. These walls surrounded the compound in a most protective manner; not from human invasion mercifully but the power of the elements. The massive height and the vivid desert colour put her in mind of Luis Barragán, the great Mexican architect and garden designer. An extraordinarily beautiful pink-tangerine bougainvillea of great arching sprays and green trailing vines all but covered them. She had never seen that exact colour in a bougainvillea before.

  Inside the courtyard was paradise in isolation. Something right out of an Arabian romance.

  Olivia looked about her in fascination. As her father’s daughter, she had been surrounded by all the trappings of wealth and power from birth, but she was quickly learning there were all kinds of excellence in architectural design. What confronted her was a far cry from Balfour Manor and its beautiful cool temperate English gardens. Balfour’s garden design had, in fact, been widely copied in Europe. Here the sun reigned supreme, just as it did in Arabia, the Middle East, Mexico, South America. What spread before her had a look of a garden the Arab world might have developed from unsurpassed Persian models.

  Water rippled from a great stone central fountain and splashed over the edges of several large basins into a very long but relatively narrow water-lily-strewn pond almost large enough to be called a canal. A broad circular drive led to the desert mansion, allowing for multiple parking. The big house itself washed in a darker ochre than the walls, and could easily be taken for the Moroccan pavilion. A series of colonnaded arches, with beautiful coloured tiles wrapped around the columns, framed a two-storey central portico with the traditional arch that led to the front door.

  Given such a large space to work with the designer had offset the broad drive with a series of irrigation channels, or rills, which formed a grid of sparkling water. The grid ran back and forth across much of the length and breadth of the great courtyard. She was aware the grid she was looking at was developed from an ancient tradition. The very sight and sound of the rippling waters was sufficient to cool the atmosphere.

  Truly magnificent date palms had been perfectly placed, their enormous shooting heads in themselves resembled fountains. Looking up at them she recalled what the prophet Mahomet was said to have told his followers: Honour the date palm for it is your mother. In the desert fringes of the world that ran across North Africa through the Middle East to Pakistan, the date palm was life. It signalled oases and water beneath the sand, provided food, wine, sugar, oil, shelter, even stock fodder. The date palm obviously thrived in the great desert areas of Australia.

  McAlpine broke into her train of thought, his voice as seductive as dark molasses. “I do hope everything is to your liking, Ms Balfour?”

  She unbent sufficiently to show her pleasure. “This is a magical place.” She had to push away the thought he possessed more than a dash of magic himself, with his boundless self-confidence, and acute awareness as though he was reading her mind.

  “High praise for a woman not easily pleased!” he said very drily. “When we landed on Naroo you kept throwing glances my way, suggesting I might at some stage be tempted to throw you to the crocodiles.”

  “What nonsense!” She thought she had hidden her panic rather well.

  “Well, don’t get too complacent,” he warned, observing the way her classic blonde head was perched so elegantly on her long swan’s neck. “We do have plenty of crocs on Kalla Koori, but I won’t introduce you to them until you’re ready. Now shall we go inside? You must find it hot standing the sun.”

  “Oddly enough I’m getting used to it. That or the fountain and the running water are creating a wonderful illusion of coolness. The design, the massive walls and the vivid colours bring Moroccan architecture to mind. Then maybe the Mexican architect—”

  “Luis Barragán?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sure you’ve visited Marrakesh, but have you ever been to Mexico?” It surprised him the odd unexpected pleasure she gave him. At their last meeting he’d as good as told her she was a genuine pain in the neck. She was in a way, but he realised even then he had wanted to know more. What lay behind the arctic mask, for instance? Except back then he was a married man on the verge of divorce.

  “Not as yet,” she was saying in her lovely voice. A saving grace even when it was caustic. “But I’d love to go. I know the Caribbean where Daddy has his island. I’ve visited Cuba, stayed at a friend’s villa in Havana. But I do know the architect’s work. He won the equivalent of the Nobel prize for architecture?” She looked up at him for confirmation, surprising him studying her as intently as a scientist might study a rare butterfly.

  McAlpine shifted his gaze. Even in str
ong sunlight she had the most beautiful flawless skin. “The Pritzker Prize. My parents and I were allowed to see his house and garden and one other, Casa Antonio Gálvez. Barragán treated the house and garden as one. My mother, in particular, fell madly in love with the soaring walls, the stunning colours and the marvellous sense of intimacy within the houses. She never did like huge plate-glass windows—‘glass boxes’ she called them. Inappropriate for here anyway,” he said. “We have all the nature we need right outside the compound gates. We don’t need it inside the house. My mother thought the vivid blocks of colour would be perfect for Kalla Koori. Colours that could stand up to the brilliant sunlight. When you think about it, Barrigán’s colours are echoed in the striations of the sandstone cliff up there.”

  “So they are!” She pressed her hands together in silent applause. “The cliff is a wonderful landmark. It adds enormously to the atmosphere. Spiritual, I feel. Tell me, when was the homestead built?”

  He took a moment to answer. “My parents started it,” he answered rather sombrely. “I finished it. My mother finds it too painful to visit often but she does come. The original homestead took a battering with Cyclone Tracy. What we have here has been built to withstand another cyclone of that magnitude.”

  “And it’s splendid! I can’t wait to see inside.”

  “Well, why don’t we do that now,” he invited smoothly. “You can’t imagine how happy you’ve made me.”

  The mocking golden gaze stabbed her through. “Do not try to patronise me, Mr McAlpine, thank you very kindly.” She had the fearful notion he was hypnotising her, because everything else was being shut out.

  “I’m not trying to patronise you, Ms Balfour,” he assured her suavely. “How could I when you yourself have developed it to an art form. I’m merely trying to colonise you on the run as it were. Turn you into an impromptu Aussie.”

  “It might take longer than five months.” Her tone was back to lofty.

  “Oh, my heaven!” Brackets offset the generous, sexy mouth. “I’d all but forgotten you were going to be with us for such a short time. What a pity! You might have blotted your copybook first up but I have to say you’re perking up.” They were moving beneath the tall double-storey portico lined with magnificent clumping palms with slender stems and pinnate-leaf plants in huge terracotta pots. “You ride?”

  Near outraged by such a question Olivia lowered her head from inspecting the inlaid domed ceiling. “What do you mean!” she asked shortly. “Of course I ride.”

  “I mean seriously?” He was teasing her. Couldn’t help it. She was incredibly starchy.

  “Only something very, very quiet,” she returned sarcastically. “Oh, come on! Like you, I was practically born in the saddle. I know you’re only trying to take a rise out of me. Just like the other times we’ve met.”

  “You remember, do you?”

  His smile twisted her heart. In fact, the man was starting to make her feel as if she had been hibernating in a nunnery all her life.

  Being a Balfour she was able to respond coolly. “I didn’t know if you hated women or it was just me.”

  “More my ex-wife,” he supplied very bluntly. “She was making life very difficult at the time. If I made you unhappy, if only for a few seconds, I apologise.”

  “Not to worry.” Olivia waved a hand, though she was experiencing an unfamiliar sensation of heat through her blood. “A few seconds can seem rather a lot.”

  “And you don’t take kindly to any form of criticism?”

  “It was rather more than that as I recall.” She needed a cold drink to quench the heat. It was coming from inside, not from out.

  “Oddly enough I did like you.” He took her arm, moving with languid near-animal grace. “So what was Oscar thinking about sending you to me?”

  She spoke tartly. “All I can say is he likes the weirdest people.”

  “And that’s how you see me?” He burst out laughing—a genuine laugh, not in the least put out.

  “No, not weird precisely. I do apologise. But you were provoking me which was rather terrible because I thought I did nothing to warrant it.”

  “Maybe you need time to take a good hard look at yourself?” he suggested.

  “Might I remind you of the same thing?” She looked pointedly away, taking the opportunity to study her surroundings. It was all so very, very unexpected. “This really is the most fascinating place. Its fascination is increased ten times over by the extraordinary location. I should tell you I haven’t the faintest idea what you require of me.” She brought her blue eyes back to him “You seem to have confirmed my strong suspicion to see me grounded.”

  “As opposed to looking down from your lofty pedestal?” His tone was challenging.

  “I don’t know why you had that silly idea. It’s talk. Just talk. I’m really a very down-to-earth person.”

  A scoffing sound came from deep in his throat. “What you definitely aren’t is down-to-earth, Ms Balfour. And why would you be? You’ve lived a life of enormous wealth and privilege. You wouldn’t have the slightest idea how ordinary people live.”

  “And I suppose you would?” she retorted, stung. She knew her blood pressure was soaring.

  “Ms Balfour, the only way we’re going to survive the next five months is to try to be tolerant of each other.”

  “And that’s your idea of tolerant, is it?” She had to shield her eyes from him. The man was so dazzling, he was dangerous.

  “Well, you must concede I’ve had to work very hard to measure up to what my father expected of me. Harder still to take over from him. You, on the other hand, unless I’m mistaken, have been solely occupied opening a fete or two and drinking endless cups of tea.”

  The blue blaze in her eyes spoke volumes. “I’d go much further than that. I’ve worked hard on my charities. As well, I’ve acted on any number of occasions as hostess for my father,” she pointed out icily. “No easy job either.”

  “So there we have it, a starting place. As it happens I’ll be needing an experienced hostess to organise and run several functions I’ll be holding over the coming months. You could very well be roped in to that. Also—surprise, surprise—you might have to run the house for a while. Piece of cake after the manor. I’m planning on sending Norm and Kath off on a well-earned vacation. Don’t panic.” He held up a staying hand as she went to voice a protest. “That’s if they want to go.”

  With an effort she calmed her rapid breathing. “You mean you expect me to take over as housekeeper?”

  “Remind yourself you seek the common touch. No need to be outraged. Besides, you’re here to work for me, in any capacity I choose. I haven’t gone overboard and asked you to pretend you’re my English fiancée. Though that would solve a few problems. Possibly create a whole lot more. Anyway, you work for me. That was the deal. We have plenty of staff. I scarcely expect you to do the vacuuming, but I haven’t the slightest doubt you’re an excellent organiser.”

  “I told you not to patronise me.” She gritted her white teeth.

  “Need I patronise you? Oh, there’s another thing. You know I have a daughter?”

  “I do. Georgina. I thought you might have told me long before this.”

  “I’m telling you now. Georgy is beautiful. She resembles her mother. In looks. She’s my favourite person in the whole world. I love her dearly. But I have to warn you—she’ll be here a week on Saturday—that she’s going through a most difficult stage. But then you’d be used to that with all your sisters?”

  All her sisters? Well, she did have rather a lot. “Do you want me to tick them off one by one?” she asked acidly.

  “Not necessary. It’s just reassuring to me to know you’ve had all that experience playing the cool, competent, sensible big sister.”

  “So you’re asking me—telling me—I’ll be your difficult young daughter’s babysitter while she’s here? She could well dislike and resent me.”

  “What’s to dislike?” His mouth quirked. “I’m hoping y
ou’ll be her friend. She’s had a lot of trouble accepting the divorce. She used to be a straight-A student but her grades have slipped of recent times. She’ll be staying on for a good month or so.”

  Olivia frowned. “Given that her grades are falling why is she’s being allowed to have so much time away from school?”

  His expression turned serious. “She hasn’t been all that well. Not eating. That kind of thing. The school counsellor thinks she would benefit from a prolonged stay. A study program has been arranged so don’t worry about that. The thing is, she’s missing me. She needs me around.”

  “Why ever not?” Olivia huffed. “But then you would be an extremely busy man.”

  His gaze narrowed. “One can easily see you’ve had big issues with your own father, Ms Balfour. Might I be allowed to put in a word for him? Oscar would have had to spend a great deal of his time rebuilding and greatly expanding the Balfour business empire. You may have felt neglected but I’m sure you realise you and your many sisters have reaped the reward.”

  She swallowed hard at his tone. Obviously a reprimand. “Of course we do.”

  “It’s not easy being the man at the top. Anyway, my ex-wife, Marigole, and her current partner will be bringing Georgy here to me. To make things easier all-round I’ve invited a few house guests to act as a buffer. They’ll be arriving on the Saturday morning and leaving Sunday afternoon. We’ll have a small dinner party, ten of us in all. Georgy won’t be attending. Too young.’

  “And your housekeeper knows all about it?” Olivia queried. “I would think she’s superefficient?”

  “Indeed she is,” he agreed, “but I’m sure she’d be delighted if you could impart some of your own splendid expertise. Menus, table settings, flowers and so forth. Kath isn’t quite in your league. She doesn’t need to be, of course. My mother was a wonderful hostess. So is my aunt Buffy aka Lady Venetia Massingham. But Buffy isn’t up to it these days and my mother can’t abide my ex-wife.”

  “May one wonder why?” She couldn’t resist the touch of sarcasm. “You must have loved her when you married her?”