by Margaret Way
“Nonsense!” Zara reacted smartly. “No matter what Rick thought of me I know him too well to believe what you say.”
“Oh, God, don’t kid yourself,” Sally sneered, immense jealousy in her eyes. “He told me you were totally devoid of regret or remorse. You promised to marry him—strung him along—then you bolted like a thief in the night.”
Zara stared back at Sally for a few moments. “I did. I made the worst possible mistake. But you don’t know the real truth of the matter.”
“I know you were too gutless to tell him you were just playing around,” Sally said, a touch of hysteria in her eyes. “The over-privileged, over-pampered Daddy’s little girl.”
Zara released a pent-up sigh, wondering if there was any backup within call. Not that she wanted Helen or the housekeeper, Madge Jensen, to hear quarrelling voices. The day had started so well. “You’re nowhere near the truth, Sally. Not even a close approximation. I was never a Daddy’s girl. I do wish you’d stop trying to stir things up. It’s so sad.”
Sally stood defiant, a bitter jealousy lodged like a tumour near her heart. “There are plenty of things I could tell you that you wouldn’t want to hear.”
“Watch your own back, Sally,” Zara advised. “You really shouldn’t be bringing your problems to the Trophy Weekend. This is one of the big highlights of the year. It might help you to remember that.”
Sally bunched her fists together; the knuckles showed white. She looked strong, very fit, tall like Zara, but with a lethal twist. “Stop trying to play the countrywoman,” she said with a tight malicious smile. “You could never manage out here. Not in a million light years.” She moved a foot or two back, suddenly plonking down on the king-size bed. “I still love him, you know,” she said and grabbed a silk cushion as though she wanted to pitch it at Zara’s head. “I’ll always love him.”
Sadly, Zara believed her. “Yet you married Nick?” What a rough deal Nick got, then!
Sally gave a bitter laugh. “Nick is an admirable guy, but he’s no Garrick. Garrick takes out the honours for everything. Makes a man impossible to forget. But you!” She looked up at Zara with near hatred. “I knew in my bones you were going to turn up. Sooner or later. You’re the sort of femme fatale who marks her territory.”
Here we go again. The femme fatale label.
Zara said a silent prayer. Dear Lord, keep me calm. “Sally, you’re going too far now,” she said, firming up her voice. “Seriously, I don’t want to listen. In fact, the very last thing I want is to have this painful discussion with you. The femme fatale label is a piece of nonsense. I’m just like any other woman.”
“Yeah?” Sally continued to glare back. “Well, we all know what happened to you in England. Got yourself mixed up with a world class crook. The word mistress springs to mind.”
Zara gave a heartfelt sigh. “Anyone that knows me didn’t buy that. I had no special relationship with Konrad Hartmann—I just got caught up in the media frenzy. The media don’t have strict rules like sticking to the truth. Anyway, let me point out again, it’s none of your business. I’ve half a mind to get Rick up here to straighten things out.” It was an empty threat. She had no such intention. But Sally was really getting to her. She felt herself undeserving of the insults Sally was throwing around.
“No problem!” Sally retorted with extraordinary intensity. She didn’t appear at all fazed. It was more a bring it on! “You’re as shallow as they come, Zara Rylance. Oh, you might be beautiful and clever in the Rylance way, but you’re the sort of woman who goes through life causing a lot of damage. Garrick fell hard for you but he deserved a whole lot better.”
“Like you?” Zara asked somberly, not raising her voice.
Sally had been spitting words out so vehemently she was short of breath. “We could have worked things out,” she muttered, frustration and unhappiness boiling in her.
Zara shook her head. This was one unhappy, bitter young woman. “Far better, Sally, to make your marriage work, don’t you think? You have moved on. Garrick has moved on. You have no chance of winning him back. I say this to spare you any humiliation. I know what it’s like to suffer.”
“Ah, come on, I don’t believe that,” Sally jeered. “You’ve got everything! But you won’t get Garrick. There’s no shortage of girls out there dying for Garrick to look at them. Plenty of them are here today, looking their very best. A lot of them will be at the Ball. You walked away from Garrick. Correction, you flew away from him. He’ll never trust you again. He told me. You have quite a history, Zara Rylance.”
“None of which is your problem.” Zara turned to walk to the door. “I’m here on Coorango because Daniel and Helen want me here. I’m here because Garrick wants me here.”
Sally all but leapt off the bed. “A sexual relationship doesn’t mean much if he doesn’t ask you to marry him,” she challenged, a furious light in her eyes. “Put it any way you like—you don’t belong out here. An opinion based on fact. You have no real idea what Outback life is like. I took that very point up with Garrick when we were engaged. He agreed. You’re the original hothouse flower. We don’t grow hothouse roses in the desert. So here’s a piece of advice for you, now you’re so kindly handing advice around. You have your bit of fun but go away. Just like you did the last time.”
Walking back down the corridor, Zara couldn’t help thinking that Sally’s visit brought bad karma.
She had plenty of time to count the good-looking husband-hunting young women who sat on folding camp chairs beneath the shade of the trees or under the specially installed green and white striped awnings, watching the match of the day. Polo was an elite sport, difficult and dangerous, with rules much like hockey. Each team tried to score goals by hitting the ball through the opponents goalposts using long mallets. The game had a huge following in the Outback. That afternoon the crowd abandoned themselves to highly enthusiastic bravos that resounded around the grounds, inciting each team to do their darnedest to gain supremacy.
Garrick, as captain of the Blue Team playing on his home ground, was causing much of the excitement. Apart from being compulsively watchable, he looked outrageously sexy in his polo gear—dark blue helmet, blue and white jersey piped with black, snowy-white breeches, high glossy black boots. His contribution was suffused with a kind of animal excitement. The crowd adored him, especially the female spectators with their minds simultaneously on the Gala Ball, when they would be wearing their most glamorous evening dresses. They rarely found a better opportunity to show off.
Moss Northrop, a superior player with a wide range of strokes who played far more regularly than Garrick, stood six foot five in his socks. Not surprising then that he had tremendous power play. Moss came in for his fair share of encouraging calls and strenuous clapping. Many in the crowd were wearing either blue or red rosettes to show their allegiance to their particular team, so a good deal of good-natured joshing was going on. Moss was doing his level best to disrupt the opposing captain’s play or, at the very least, slow him up. He had quite a job on his hands. Garrick’s play that afternoon was quite simply heroic—wrists like steel, his speed in thought and action unmatched.
The goal that won the match—a wonderful full free swing—brought every last spectator to their feet, ablaze with admiration. It had been a thrilling finish. The Blue Team had won by a margin of just one.
Well played! Well played!
Onya, Rick!
Onya, Mossie!
Helen, amid more vociferous cheering, presented the cup to her beloved son with a very proud Daniel watching from his wheelchair.
“Intelligence did it,” Daniel told Zara in a proud aside. Zara had been watching the match alongside Helen and Daniel and a group of their closest friends. “Intelligence and speed,” Daniel said. “Finesse beats rough house every time. Garrick would have made a professional player under different circumstances. I don’t think I’ve seen him play a faster game.”
“I’m sure I haven’t,” Zara said. “Here or anywher
e else, for that matter. But I have to admit I had my heart in my throat at times.” She managed a little laugh, but she had felt a weight come off her when the game finished. An interested and informed spectator of many games of polo at home and in England, it hadn’t been a whole lot of fun for her watching Garrick in such dangerous action. She didn’t think she would ever learn to take in her stride his pounding down field, his brilliant polo pony in the last chukka, a bay gelding, its burnished hide buffed to perfection, only two legs on the ground, with Garrick half out of the saddle, swinging his mallet. There was too much pressure when the player was a loved one. Or for her anyway.
Daniel, on the other hand, a wonderful player himself in his day, looked so much better for all the excitement. There was colour in his sunken cheeks. “Well, I don’t know about you, Zara, my dear, but I’m ready to celebrate,” he announced. Always fond of Zara, they had grown ever closer.
“And so we should.” Zara bent to kiss his cheek. “It’s been a great day.” Turning the wheelchair preparatory to pushing off to the nearest marquee, Daniel stopped her, a finger up, beckoning her down to him. “I would have thought Sally would go up to Nick first,” he said very quietly.
“That’s a bit worrying,” Zara agreed.
“Indeed it is. There she is, beaming at Garrick. Hello!” He released a whistling breath. “She’s kissing him.”
Zara nodded solemnly, far from blind. “So she is.” And not on the cheek either. Fair and square on the mouth, tightening her arms around his neck. Sally appeared animated, vibrant, brimming with life. Almost ecstatic. She might as well have shouted aloud, I still love him…love him…love him!
“Goodness me, that must be hard on poor old Nick,” Daniel said with considerable sympathy for the man. “No way to save a foundering marriage. That was no ordinary congratulatory kiss. I think I’ll have a word with Garrick. Advise extreme caution. Poor Sally is still carrying a torch for him”
“More like waving a flag,” Zara made the wry comment. Nick Draper, who had played extremely hard for the Red Team, was standing towelling his damp head. For the moment he was quite alone. No proud wife had rushed to his side. “Nick does look a bit miserable,” Zara said and meant it.
“And I don’t think it’s because his team lost.”
There was a reply to that. Zara didn’t make it. Didn’t need to. Any number of people in the large crowd who hadn’t as yet headed off to the marquees had observed that kiss in jaw-dropping amazement. Sally might have been engaged to Garrick at one time but that was history. She had taken the next step and married Nick Draper.
“What Nick ought to do is march his wife off,” said Daniel with a frown.
“I was going to say the same thing.” She thought Garrick had drawn back. Infinitesimally, maybe. Had he? She had to remember Sally had once lain in Garrick’s arms. They had been lovers. Could all that feeling simply drain away?
“Great minds think alike, my dear.” Daniel sighed, then rallied. “Well, come on now. We both deserve a glass of champagne. Ellie and Garrick will join us presently.”
“Ten dollars Sally tries to join in?”
Daniel laughed. “That’s a considerable sum, my girl. All right, you’re on. It’s up to Nick to take the next step. No man delights in public humiliation.”
The Ball was in full swing by ten o’clock.
“God, you look wonderful. Totally wonderful!” Nash Beresford, a member of Garrick’s team, exclaimed dramatically the instant he saw her. “It’s great to see your beautiful face around here. There’s not a woman here tonight to touch you.” Nash had felt compelled to race to her side the instant she was free. Time now for all those other guys to lay off.
“Still talking hyperbole, Nash?” Zara smiled, not taking him seriously. There were many very pretty young women in lovely evening dresses to light up the Great Hall where traditionally the station’s big functions were held.
“The truly astounding thing is you’re not in the least vain. How is that?” Nash asked, all fired up just to be back with her. He had never forgotten Zara Rylance.
“I’m not altogether sure I have anything to be vain about, Nash.” Zara smiled.
“And the dress!” He stood back to admire it. “It works wonderfully if you have the figure for it, which obviously you have, you lucky girl! Haute couture, of course?”
“Vintage Christian Dior,” Zara said proudly. “I came by it in Paris. Paid quite a price, but I had to have it.”
“And it was worth every penny,” Nash said, his eyes moving very slowly over her.
Zara’s gown was indeed beautiful and very feminine in the Dior style. The chiffon material was a lovely shade hard to describe. Perhaps a misty lilac—palest pink? It was cut like a slip with wide shoulder bands. It clung all the way to the hips where it flared into a floaty handkerchief hem. The bodice plunged to a subtle low, requiring small perfect breasts, the chiffon appliquéd with beaded and sequinned lace in a delicate seashell motif. Another wide band began at the hips and extended to within a foot of the hem. She wore her hair loose, the way Garrick liked it, but much fuller and more dramatic for the evening, as was her flawless make-up. Stunning pink diamonds from Western Australia’s famous Argyle diamond mines swung from her ears, a twenty-first birthday present from her maternal grandparents. Normally not a fusser, she had fussed and fussed over her appearance, needing Garrick to find her beautiful. She hadn’t felt any flash of jealousy when Sally had launched her breathless kiss, yet somehow she felt put on her mettle.
“You’re going to dance with me?” Nash asked, watching her with open fascination.
“I’d love to.” It was true. Up to a point. Across the broad expanse of the lavishly decorated Great Hall there was a non-stop, palpable explosion of female interest around Garrick. Not a woman at the Ball who didn’t feel the sheer electric impact of the man. It was a black tie affair but the colour of the dinner jacket was optional, black or white. Garrick wore summer white against which his dark colouring and brilliant blue eyes were startling. So far he hadn’t danced with Sally, who wore a strapless sequinned sage-green designer creation that arguably wasn’t quite her colour. Zara thought a deeper shade of green but the dress was striking. Without appearing to, she had been keeping a close eye on proceedings. Sally and Nick had, in fact, arrived fairly late, Sally as though she was handcuffed to her husband. Zara feared they might have had a serious argument.
“So exactly what circumstances bring you back to Coorango?” Nash asked, gutting his arm around Zara’s narrow waist and leading her out onto the dance floor. He felt absolutely chuffed. Zara Rylance always had been a knockout. If possible, she was even more beautiful. And an heiress to boot. If those two things didn’t work for a girl, what would?
“Well, we are kin,” she pointed out lightly. “Helen and Daniel invited me.”
“What about Garrick?” Nash asked with keen interest.
“What about Garrick?” she returned sweetly.
He fastened his light blue eyes on hers. “I always had the idea you and Garrick sort of…”
“Sort of?” She didn’t help him out.
“Well, you know. That was before he got engaged to Sally, of course. But what could Sally possibly offer after you?”
She gave him a surprised look of censure. “How ungallant! I thought you were friends with the Drapers?”
“So I am.” Nash, a good-looking well-built young man, coloured slightly. My point is, Zara, you and Garrick were perfectly matched. Know what I mean? There are lots of good things to be said about Sally. Can’t think of a lot offhand. Nick’s no fool, you know.”
“Why don’t you get it off your chest?” Zara said with a challenge hard to miss.
“You must have seen them come in,” Nash defended his position. “I’d have said a serious marital contretemps. I’m surprised there wasn’t a black eye in sight. Not many people missed Sally’s fiercely joyous and, I have to say, proprietorial kiss. Those that missed it heard about it.”
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br /> “Excitement, nothing else.” Zara was determined to downplay the incident. “Sally is a renowned horsewoman. She loves the game.”
“Watch her,” Nash advised. “That’s my advice.”
Zara felt a slight tremor. “Oh, you think she’s planning something?”
“Just having a bit of fun!” Nash backed off somewhat. “Don’t go riding with her. She could look for a way to make you come a cropper.”
That would be easy enough for Sally to do if ever she were fool enough to join Sally in a gallop. As it was, Zara responded lightly, “However did you get to be so suspicious, Nash?”
He looked at her with genuine concern. “Zara, sweetie, I saw the way she kissed him. Poor old Nick could well be the casualty of this marriage. He’s a really nice guy. Maybe too nice.”
“No point in our dwelling on it, Nash. It isn’t really our business. At best, it was excitement on Sally’s part. At worst, she forgot herself.”
“Exactly!” said Nash. “There are some really big changes going on in society. A lot aren’t bothering to get married at all these days. Everyone has a partner. Others can’t hack more than about eighteen months after tying the knot. Can’t say I’m surprised here. Sally got married on the rebound.”
As Garrick approached Nash handed Zara over with a single request. “Promise me another dance?”
“I think I can manage that.” Zara smiled back at him.
“You’re always surrounded,” Nash reminded her. “I promise,” she said, going smoothly into Garrick’s arms. He was much taller than Nash. Held her very differently. More securely. In the old days, when they had attended quite a few Outback balls, Garrick had been a marvellous dancer. A natural with innate rhythm, his tall body imbued with male grace.
The music from a top group especially flown in for the occasion was eddying all around them, spilling from a grand piano, a double bass, drums, a great clarinet and sax and, for a lot of the numbers, a fabulous guitar. “Flirting your head off with Nash?” Garrick drew her in close with a sigh of pleasure that bordered on deep relief. “He’s always had a crush on you.”