The irksome thing was that Francey was still at Murrundi when she shouldn’t be. She should be back where she belonged, in Sydney. She guessed that the architect could just as easily work on the plans for Cooktown in her office, as at Murrundi. So why wasn’t she? What was the big attraction to staying with CJ? Was she trying to slowly worm her way into his confidence? Did she want to make herself indispensable to him? God, that had been done before, countless times by women throughout the ages. Well, she didn’t intend to sit around and watch that situation eventuate. There was too much at stake.
“Would you like to dance, Natalie?”
Natalie blinked twice to clear her thoughts. Mike Hunter was standing right in front of her and she hadn’t even noticed him. “Dance? Oh, yes, Mike, that would be nice.” As they approached the dancing crowd she saw Sam Bianchini cut in on Steve and then whirl Francey away to the other side of the dance floor.
It shouldn’t be too hard to think of a way to get rid of Francey Spinetti. Maybe she could discredit her in CJ’s eyes. That would be best, but it might also be difficult to achieve, and she couldn’t risk getting her stepfather offside. Still, there were other methods, ideas and … she smiled broadly at Mike and he smiled back, thinking she was enjoying being with him. A plan began to form in her devious mind.
CJ heard Francey’s sigh as they sped towards Murrundi in the Rolls in the early hours of the morning. He grinned in the darkness. “You seemed to have a good time tonight. Plenty of male attention.”
“I did. I thought country men were laid back and shy. I didn’t find too many of those guys at Pierre’s party.”
“Some are, particularly if they’re from remote stations and don’t get to talk to a pretty girl too often. You might find it hard to believe, but when I was a youngster, I used to be painfully shy of talking to women.”
She stole a look at his profile. “I do find that hard to believe.”
He chuckled at her dry response. “I had a female teacher, her name was Belinda Marshall. We had composite classes in the country back then, in a small tin-pot kind of school. I thought Miss Marshall was beautiful. My first crush, I guess. I loved to bring her things. Wildflowers, an apple, even little poems that I’d written. Made a real fool of myself over her, for a couple of weeks.”
“A couple of weeks! What happened?”
“I thought she’d wait a few years, ten or twelve, until I grew up.” He chuckled. “You see, I was only eight at the time. But then her husband came to join her and I realised it was a lost cause.”
“Poor CJ,” she said, laughing with mock sympathy. Her thoughts harked back to the party, to those she’d met, but mostly back to her time with Steve. Safe in the car’s darkened interior, she allowed herself a dreamy smile, and let the wave of warmth course through her for several minutes. But all too soon came reality. Nothing could come of it, more the pity. She wasn’t going to be at Murrundi long enough for a relationship to develop. Still, she told herself as she sighed again, it was nice to dream.
“You know,” CJ said out of the blue, “the Isa’s a growing township, what with the mining and cattle. The mine’s the largest producer of silver and lead in the world, and amongst the top ten producers of copper and zinc. Over twenty-four thousand people live there. It’s thriving and growing, the mayor reckons the town could double in population in the next twenty years. An architect could make herself or himself a comfortable living up here.” He let her digest that. “There’d be commercial projects and home building, and even graziers need new buildings from time to time.”
“Are you suggesting that Nicholson, Drew and Carlyle open an office in the Isa?”
“I’m not. All I’m saying is that an enterprising architect could do well here if he or she wanted to grab the opportunity.”
“That’s food for thought,” she answered enigmatically. It was. And she had thought of it, fleetingly, casually. One day as she’d sat at the drawing board looking out on the expanse of countryside through the window it came to her that she had fallen in love with the land, with its harshness, its vast empty spaces. Almost as if it drew her magnetically to it in some inexplicable way. She had told Alison Wontow and Shellie and they had nodded in understanding, as if the same thing had happened to them many years ago.
The outback, wresting a living, making a home with its blatant inhospitability was a challenge that strangely aroused an emotional response in her. A fact all the more startling because it was unexpected. She knew that this land was unforgiving and unfeeling — it didn’t play favourites or care about the survival of individuals — yet she found its very intractability appealing although she didn’t quite understand why. It came from some feeling deep inside her, for which she had no explanation.
But should she contemplate such a radical change? Leave Sydney, for good? The muscles around her heart tightened at the thought of it. Her parents and her lovable, noisy bunch of relatives, the friends she’d have to leave behind, could she bear to?
Francey stared at the bedside clock. Three a.m. Sleep eluded her. Her mind was too worked up, over the party, over Steve, over CJ’s tantalising suggestion about going it alone as an architect in the Isa. Oh that CJ, he was a cunning character. He had deliberately put the provoking thought in her head, knowing she couldn’t resist analysing the pros and cons of it. The man was getting to know her too well. She yawned and stretched, rolled over and closed her eyes tightly.
Ten minutes later she sat up in bed. Damn. Maybe a glass of warm milk would settle her.
Putting on her robe she padded barefoot through the homestead to the kitchen and flicked on the light. Alison kept a shipshape kitchen, everything sparklingly clean and in its rightful place. She poured a little milk into a cup and placed it in the microwave.
She looked up as a noise at the back door caught her attention. Les was punching in the security code to open the back door. Looking the worse for wear he came into the kitchen. He held a bottle of whisky in his left hand and a glass in the other.
“Aahh, the party girl,” he said in a slurred tone as he wobbled towards her.
“Hi, do you want some milk?” she asked though she knew he wouldn’t and that it would probably curdle in his alcohol-soaked stomach. She watched him shake his head vigorously then stop. He put a hand to his forehead and rubbed it hard, as if something hurt. She was sure something did!
“D’ja hav’ a good time?”
“Yes. The party was very nice.”
“Saw ya dancin’ with lotsa men.”
“Not lots,” she corrected, “three or four maybe.”
Les moved closer, listing slightly to the left. He put the bottle down noisily on the counter top. “Spent a lot of time with Parrish, didn’t ya?”
She shrugged but didn’t answer. Her gaze moved to the microwave, willing it to hurry up. It did. She took the cup out and added a teaspoon of sugar, then she stirred the contents noisily. “Goodnight, Les, see you in the morning.”
“Don’t go.” He put his hand on her arm as she turned away. “Wanna talk ta ya.”
“We both need to get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“No. Wanna talk now!”
His hold on her arm tightened. A niggle of alarm spread through her. Alcohol did strange things to some men: some reverted to real pussycats, others became belligerent and aggressive. It wasn’t difficult to work out which way Les went when he had a few under his belt.
“Ya shouldn’t waste yer time on Parrish. He’s a loser, a quitter.”
“Because he left Sydney over a certain situation? I don’t think that makes him a loser,” she was stung enough to defend. “Sometimes making a fresh start is the only sensible thing to do.”
“I’m more your type, Francey. We’re two of a … a kind,” he said with a grin that was more of a leer. “We’re smart, ambitious. I’ve got plans. In another couple of years I’ll have enough money to do great things by myself. I’ll not have to be CJ’s lap-dog then.”
“That�
�s nice,” she said, trying to extricate herself from his hold. “I wish you every success.”
Getting impatient, he shook her a little. “Don’t ya get what I’m trying to say?” He shook his head as if to clear the fogginess inside it. “You and me, together. Give us a chance, Francey. Please.” He drained the remainder of the amber fluid in his glass and plonked the vessel so hard on the counter top it cracked.
“Look, I don’t think —”
Before she could finish he pulled her into his arms and began to rain kisses on her forehead, her cheeks, her chin, desperately seeking her mouth, which she wouldn’t allow. She twisted her head away both from the reek of him and his unwelcome attention.
“You know,” he whispered thickly, close to her ear. “If ya didn’t want a bloke ta get the wrong idea ya shouldn’t traipse aroun’ in see-through gear. Turns a bloke on, it does.”
“You’re drunk. Let me go, Les.”
She hadn’t realised how strong he was. His arms were like bands of steel and she could feel the evidence of his arousal as he ground his groin against her stomach. One hand moved to the knot of her robe, trying to loosen it. A wave of disgust and then anger rushed through her. Who the hell did he think he was? She hadn’t asked for this or encouraged him at all. She wasn’t going to take it.
Remembering the training she’d taken in self-defence — to please her father — she thought she wasn’t in a good position for an effective response, but she had to do something. She wriggled her arm free and it came up in a flash. She struck him hard across the side of his head, hoping the shock of the blow would knock some sense into him. His hold loosened, enough for her to bring the flat of her hands down hard on his wrists and break the hold.
“Ya hit me!” His hand went to the side of his face, rubbing the imprint of her blow. “All I wanted was a little kiss and cuddle, ta tell ya how I feel,” he slurred the words reproachfully, “ya didn’t hafta hit me.”
Francey retreated, putting a few paces between them. There was little point trying to talk sense to him when he was this drunk. “Look, we’d better call it a night.”
“Oh.” A voice came from the kitchen doorway. “I wondered who was making all the noise,” Shellie said as she bustled into the kitchen.
From the look in her eyes, Francey saw her instant assessment of the situation. She gave her a relieved smile. “I was warming some milk to help me sleep.”
“So I see. What are you doing here, Les Westcott? You look a disgrace.” Her gaze took in his mussed up hair, his shirt half hanging out of his trousers, and the red welt across his cheek, which she ignored. “Go on, off you go to bed.”
“What a good idea,” Francey said and with a wink at Shellie made a quick getaway, leaving the older woman to attend to Les.
Minutes later, sitting up in bed as she sipped her milk, she was surprised by the gentle tap on the door.
Shellie poked her head around. “You okay, Francey?” Seeing that the young woman wasn’t too sleepy she came in and sat at the end of the bed. She prefaced her words with a shake of her head. “He didn’t mean any harm, you know. Les is a good man. Sometimes though, when he’s had a few too many he goes off the rails, or when Natalie baits him he can lose his temper.” She patted Francey’s feet under the blanket. “He’s fond of you, you know, so don’t be too hard on him.”
“It’s all right, Shellie. Les isn’t the first man to make a pass at me and wear my mark as a result.”
Shellie nodded. “Yes, I saw that you could defend yourself. He was quite hurt that you’d slapped him, though no doubt he deserved it. You’ll see,” she gave a gentle chuckle, “tomorrow, when he’s over his hangover, he’ll be most apologetic. He was like that with his wife. Always apologising after a row no matter who was at fault. Not that it did him much good in the end.” She got up and retraced her steps to the door. “So long as you’re not too upset by his bad behaviour, that’s the main thing.”
“I’m fine,” Francey assured her as she left. But was she? she asked herself as she looked at the closed door. Les’ behaviour had been unexpected. It would be hard to look him in the eye and act as if nothing had happened. Tomorrow they needed to sort things out, for both their sakes. Especially as they’d be spending quite a lot of time together over the next week.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Francey eased back in the leather chair, the whistling hum of the jet barely audible, and closed her eyes. What a week it had been. The first time she had sat in this seat in CJ’s Learjet she had secretly admitted to being nervous, for more than one reason. There had been a noticeable tension between her and Les since the incident in the kitchen, even though he had come to her the next day and apologised abjectly as Shellie’d said he would. But where once she had been relaxed with him, now a wariness prevailed and she knew it would take time for that to settle down, if it ever did. At least she knew that alcohol plus Les equalled a combustible situation and as they jetted around, checking out the resorts on CJ’s list, she would be cautious of him.
She had also been apprehensive about flying. After all, she had never flown before and here she was strapped into a super-expensive private jet, with Les at the controls, about to fly to their first port of call, Cairns. She had hoped she wouldn’t embarrass herself by being airsick. She hadn’t. In fact she had enjoyed every second of the flight and when Les put the engine on autopilot and beckoned her up to the cockpit to show her how the plane worked and for a better view, she reverted to being an adventurous kid, wanting to know about everything.
Her parents said she had been born with a wide streak of curiosity which had got her into a few scrapes when she’d been young. Like when she’d wanted to see the view from the roof of a boatshed down by the harbour’s edge. She and Meredith had clambered to the top, skinning their knees and elbows, and then sat on the painted galvanised tin with their sweaters underneath them so the tin wouldn’t burn their backsides. They’d enjoyed the spectacle of various crafts plying their way up and down the waterway, but when it came to climbing the eight or ten metres back to the ground, their adventurous nature had deserted them.
Eventually one of the workers in the boatshed had to call the fire brigade to get them down. Recalling it all, she smiled to herself. They’d only been eleven and she still remembered the sore bottom — her father had been very angry with her for causing such a fuss — she’d had for several days because of that escapade. When they’d arrived in Cairns the sultry tropical climate had almost taken her breath away, as had the white, chauffeured limousine that met and took them to the Hilton Hotel. Over the next three days the limousine drove them around several exclusive resorts and up the coast to Port Douglas and back.
Francey was definitely stretching the description to call it all work! Drinks by the pool late in the afternoon after being shown around the resort complexes by deferential managers, a pleasant dinner either at the hotel or one of the many restaurants where Les was well-known. Real tough! And Les. He’d been such a gentleman, not a word or a glance out of place.
If only her parents could see her. The greengrocer’s daughter from Glebe enjoying the pampering, the mild bowing and scraping because they were in CJ’s employ. How easy it would be to become seduced by the good life. But, she’d kept her perspective, and resisted the thought of being over-impressed. Lucia Spinetti had instilled that down-to-earth trait in her and it prevailed, though for a short while she had enjoyed the game of pretending she was someone important.
Then the same procedure had been repeated in Surfers Paradise. When they wound up their tour of inspection on the Gold Coast, the limousine took them to Coolangatta airport, the best surprise had come. After take off and levelling out at six thousand metres, Les said there’d been a change of plans. CJ had radioed that they were to fly to Sydney, where they had overnight accommodation booked at the Regent Hotel. This was so Francey could visit her parents, check her apartment and get more clothes if she wanted to. A nice gesture.
She hadn’t expect
ed CJ to be so thoughtful. And … she did miss her parents a little. Regular phone calls home made it less lonely, but sometimes she just wanted to see them, talk to them, tell them what she’d experienced and what she was doing. And intimate that her life and expectations were changing — the change so subtle that some of the time even Francey herself was unaware of it.
Her parents had been surprised and delighted to see her. Lucia had fussed far too much, tut-tutted that she’d lost more weight — which she hadn’t — and both wanted to know everything about CJ, the multimillionaire. Even her father’s eyes had widened impressively when she’d described the home and the extent of the Ambrose empire. But she’d scowled when she had seen the gleam in his eye and teasingly said that CJ was much too old for her. They shared a wonderful four hours together before she’d gone off to stay overnight at the Regent.
The next morning she fitted in a two hour session with Aden Nicholson, to bring him up to speed on the Cooktown development. She shifted restlessly in the seat, hearing the leather squeak against her back as she remembered the time in his office. The staff at Nicholson, Drew and Carlyle had been delighted to see her. Aden had given her a bear hug welcome. Then it was down to business! He’d wanted to know about the development of the mini conference centre and, more importantly, how the plans were coming along for the multimillion dollar project at Cooktown.
With a sinking heart she realised that whatever her feelings and expectations of Aden had been in absentia, they had shrivelled up and died. She thought that he knew it too but tried to avoid any mention of their personal relationship. What, she wondered as she sat opposite him, had she seen in him? A surface handsomeness, intelligence, sophistication. Why hadn’t she noticed his hard, business edge? How had he disguised it and taken her in? The reality of seeing him differently made her experience a sense of loss for what might have been, yet, in another way, it made her feel completely free.
Heart of the Outback Page 19
