by Janine Grey
‘His name’s George.’ Eliza went to him and put her hands on his chest. ‘You’ve been more interesting, more challenging, more everything in the five or so weeks I’ve known you than he was in the entire five months he and I were dating. Besides, he’s not my anything anymore. Felicity has set him up with someone who’s probably a far better fit as the girlfriend to the heir to Marchant Hotels.’
‘The fuck! I’ve stayed in his hotels.’
‘Me too, and, quite frankly, they lack personality. Much like good old George.’
Just like that, the tension between them evaporated. His hands came up to cup her shoulders, and he leant forward until his forehead rested on hers.
‘Even if I find a black opal, I’ll never be in his league. You know that, right?’
‘I know he’ll never be in yours, regardless of opals or anything else.’
Something shifted in his eyes and his hands tightened on her shoulders, kneading. ‘You get under my skin, and hard as I try I can’t seem to get you out.’
‘Then don’t try. Let fate decide.’
He gave a half-laugh. ‘A man will always fight his fate.’
‘Promise me you’ll think about the explosives expert,’ she said. ‘For my peace of mind.’
‘All right,’ he agreed gruffly. ‘I’ll think about it.’ He stepped back. ‘I should head back.’
‘I know it’s full-on at the mine,’ Eliza said. ‘I scored a couple of new contracts when I was in Sydney. I’ve got to get work underway but I’ll carve out some time to drive up later in the week. Maybe we can spend the night.’
‘I’ll come to you.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘I’ll need supplies by next weekend, anyway.’
‘Okay.’ Eliza’s heart sank at the thought of waiting nearly another week before seeing him again but she thought of Mick’s words about a rock and hard place.
‘In December, I’ll be going to Coffs Harbour to visit my mother,’ he said. ‘I hoped maybe you would come too.’
Eliza beamed at him. He wanted her to meet his mother, and she was touched by the request.
‘I’d love to.’
‘Till the weekend, then,’ he said.
A moment later he was gone.
*
The woman at the hotel recognised Len Twomey when he checked in but no one else did. On his own this time, without the idiot threatening to blow their cover every time he opened his mouth, it was easy to maintain the pretence of being just another noodler come to chance his luck. So many drifters came and went from the town that the locals didn’t pay him much attention, except to tell him he’d do well to stay inside between midday and three.
Twomey had worked that one out for himself. It was stinking hot. Even the thought of the heat drew great damp arcs under his arms, and he had a permanent headache. Bannister should be paying him double, even triple, for working in these conditions. The sooner he could get the job done, the better.
Information-gathering wasn’t hard. He’d only had to sit at the bar for an hour to learn that the woman McLeod was hot and heavy with was some city chick called Eliza Mayberry. All the talk was about a scene she’d created in the pub at the weekend and the way he’d carted her out, and what might or might not have ensued after that.
He could have informed Bannister but that meant phoning the bloke, and he’d rather do that once the job was done.
A couple of questions posed to a bloke who’d had a bit too much to drink had yielded plenty of information, even the Mayberry woman’s address. She was living at a house that he already knew well, having paid a visit to the place when it was occupied by Paul Daly. He grinned. The old guy had been surprisingly feisty. Then, when he realised what was at stake, he’d been scared – and very anxious to please. A day later he was on his way out of town. Easy.
Twomey thought about giving the girl a good scare, maybe a wallop or two. From what he’d heard, it would be enough to get McLeod running back to her side, which would in turn allow Twomey ample time to arrange a little surprise for him back at Ruin Flat. Two-for-one fun. That would make McLeod think again about the wisdom of staying on at the mine.
But it was fraught with risk. The girl might be difficult and cause all sorts of trouble. Better to keep it simple and sit back and wait for his opportunity. McLeod was a bloke with a hot young thing happy to open her legs for him. He’d be back in town before too long, and the moment the miner drove into town, Twomey would be on his way to Ruin Flat to prepare the surprise. Bannister would just have to be patient.
*
A week was a hell of a long time to live with sexual frustration. So far Fin had managed four days. Another two would take him to Friday but he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to be able to make it that long without seeing Eliza, touching her, tasting her.
The worst thing about the self-inflicted misery was that it was utterly unnecessary. His conspiracy theories were way off the mark; there were no dark forces to protect Eliza from. Their greatest danger was that they’d screw each other to death once they got their hands on each other.
In the weeks since the attack on Blue, he’d seen not a sign of trouble at Ruin Flat. In fact, he hadn’t seen anyone at all. There were no rednecks or troublemakers and there never had been. The ladder had been rusty, the lizard had fallen victim to a dingo – it was as simple as that. Looking back, Fin realised that he’d been exhausted, isolated and showing all the signs of opal madness. Throw in the paranoia lingering from his MineCorp experiences and it was hardly surprising he’d put two and two together and got a phone number.
When he finally told Eliza about his conspiracy theory at the weekend, he expected she’d get that coolly amused look in her blue eyes and would demand visiting rights, which he’d be glad to give her – as long as she invested in steel-capped boots and a hard hat that fit her before heading into the mine.
No doubt she’d also use the opportunity to press her case for an explosives expert. Maybe she was right. Hell, he knew she was. If he had the money, he would have brought in someone experienced in explosives already. But he didn’t have it, and he wasn’t going to let her pay for it. His pride was pretty much all he had left. Ironically, he couldn’t even get his hands on casual help at the mine, with Mick being too busy to help him out.
So he was back to square one. With backbreaking work he was doing in days what explosives could have done in a matter of minutes. Carefully, with pickaxe and jackhammer he was broadening the northern level, and with each metre he advanced, the itch between his shoulderblades intensified. The formation of the rock was definitely promising, the seams changing to the nodules more typical of black opals.
‘Where are you, you bugger?’ he muttered.
Progress was excruciatingly slow. Several times, he had to down tools and withdraw to the shaft for safety as the jackhammer caused pebbles and sand to rain down. Once the rock resettled, he began the painstaking work of picking through the rubble to see what was what.
Just a few short months ago when he’d first arrived, he’d had no idea what to look for. But now sight, touch and gut instinct performed some strange alchemy. The drabbest-looking piece of potch would call to him, and he’d find himself stopping work to assess it, turning it slowly from side to side under torchlight. Usually, that exercise yielded little clarity, which meant making the journey back along the level and up the shaft into daylight. Sometimes, a rub of his thumb across the surface would be enough to reveal a hint of something magical but mostly the rock had to be washed in the agitator to show its true potential.
It was time-consuming, but he now had a small collection of tiny black opals lined up on his makeshift desk at the camp, all but one flashing with blue pinwheels. The other was a striking blue-and-pink harlequin pattern. They needed cutting to make the most of their brilliant flashes but even without that refinement, they were exquisite pieces. Exquisite but small.
He’d set two of the best blues aside for Eliza. The blue was a perfect match for her eyes, a
nd the size would suit earrings for that black dress of hers that still made his mouth go dry when he thought of it. Fin had no idea when her birthday was. At the weekend, he would ask her. There was so much he didn’t know. Her body he knew intimately, every curve and line and fold and crease. The rest was a mystery only partly revealed.
Realising that he was standing more than ten metres underground staring into space with a sappy grin on his face, he shook himself. He had two days’ work to do before he saw Eliza and he needed to make them count.
CHAPTER 14
Eliza scooped her hair off her neck and tied it up in a loose coil. She had started to dig into one of the case referrals from Lincoln Bassett, and it was particularly absorbing.
The deceased, Laurie Farthing, had been a recluse but not by choice. Her wealth came from a single song she’d written, which had been a huge hit back in the early sixties. But after her husband died, Laurie’s daughter Karen had waged a campaign to create a wedge between her mother and the rest of the world – at least, between her mother and anyone else who might make a claim on the Farthing estate.
Laurie Farthing lived on and so, unwilling to wait any longer for her mother to die, Karen had hastened the process. The murder was disguised as an accident. Fortunately, the crime hadn’t withstood police scrutiny.
After all her years of patient planning, Karen Farthing had forfeited her rights to anything except a goodly time in prison. Now the issue was, who would benefit from a woman everyone had lost contact with decades earlier? It was a terrible story, but as Eliza began to piece together Laurie’s life and family – which so far included three living sisters – she hoped that, in a strange way, the inheritance would help to reunite a family torn apart. Or that, at the very least, they’d do some good with the three million dollars they would probably share.
As the victim was well known, Eliza had begun by piecing together the information that was readily available online as well as the paperwork Lincoln had had copied for her. She then used subscription genealogy sites as her investigations branched out to capture the next generation and, on occasion, more distant relatives. She made phone calls to tap into local council and employment records, sent emails requesting information from electoral rolls and censuses, she pursued overseas leads and encountered a brick wall that would probably require a trip to Melbourne at some stage. It was all in a day’s work.
She wanted to resolve the case quickly, which meant finding proof of kinship for all potential beneficiaries. All the sisters were in their seventies. Karen had not only driven a wedge between Laurie and her sisters, but she had divided the sisters, too. Eliza was determined to give them the chance to bury the hatchet while they still had time to reconnect. Hopefully, Laurie’s sad story would be a salient reminder that there was no time to waste.
So much unhappiness, so many secrets. Both her family and Fin’s were prime examples of people not being able to communicate with those they loved the most. Ernest Weaver came to mind, confined to that grim house with its musty study. Constance would have been in her late eighties if she was still alive but Ernest was a good few years younger, just on eighty, and alone most of the time in a house full of memories that were decades old.
Next visit to Sydney, Eliza resolved to drop by and see him. She would drag Fin with her if money allowed. Even better, she would talk to Fin about whether Mairi McLeod was physically robust enough to visit Ernest in Sydney. The journey might be difficult given her state of health and it might yield little – but there was a chance it would be good for both of them.
Eliza decided to take an early mark as she’d started work before eight in order to speak to a lead before her first meeting. Feeling restless, she tidied her work files and logged off her computer. She thought about pouring herself a glass of wine, but she didn’t like to drink midweek. After prowling around the garden for ten minutes, she thought about going to the pub but she didn’t want a noisy crowd of people around her. She wanted the quiet. She wanted space. She wanted . . . Fin.
He’d called two nights ago just as she was getting ready for bed. His voice, dark and full of sin, had promised he had something to show her at the weekend. Giggling, she’d said that she’d seen it already but wouldn’t object to another look.
What was to stop her driving out to Ruin Flat in that instant? She would take Fin dinner, then they would talk and make love – maybe the other way around – and tomorrow, early, she would leave so he couldn’t accuse her of interrupting his work or meddling or taking risks of any sort.
Before she could think better of it, she rummaged in the fridge, finding leftover roast chicken and salad, half a wheel of brie and some strawberries. She packed it all in a cool bag with some soft drinks and water, grabbed a few toiletries and a change of clothes and slung everything into the car, humming to herself. In an hour, she would be at Ruin Flat.
As she drove out of town, she didn’t notice the man outside the pub, relaxing on a bench in the afternoon sun. But beneath the brim of his hat, he noticed her.
*
It was a rip-off.
Jerry Bragg fumed as he sat alone in his apartment. It was a rort. Daylight robbery. One hundred and fifty dollars that solicitor had charged, just to tell him that he had Buckley’s chance of wresting control of Mairi’s financial affairs from Fin McLeod. Not unless he was family . . .
Family.
Abruptly, Jerry’s rancour evaporated as an idea took hold. Mairi had always said she’d never remarry. But she deserved a last chance at happiness, didn’t she?
Everyone could see that he and Mairi were a devoted couple. A few would have doubts, Fin for one. But as a neglectful son, what weight would his opinion carry?
Why hadn’t he thought of it before? With marriage, finally Mairi would have the husband she should have had all along, and Jerry could make sure she and her affairs were properly looked after.
Jerry loved Mairi; he had since the day Logan had introduced them. And Mairi depended on him, needed him. That was a kind of love, wasn’t it? At their age no one expected a wild passion. No, theirs was a mature love, based on caring and responsibility.
Would anyone deny them that, especially with Mairi in her condition?
Some people would be against it. But they didn’t understand that what he and Mairi had was special. Not the kind of tin-pot love that had couples in the divorce court quicker than they had marched up the aisle, but the kind that endured, the kind that could overcome anything, even Mairi’s terrible decline.
They’d want proof, though. Mairi wasn’t in a position to express her wishes, so he’d have to find evidence of their intentions. He’d get it, he vowed. And then he and Mairi would be married.
*
Dusk fell over the landscape as Eliza approached Ruin Flat, reminding her of the cataclysmic day she’d driven up here, weeks ago, to find Fin standing, looking out at the outback, painted in silhouette by the setting sun. Her pulse beat slow and heavy in anticipation of seeing him again. It had been only four days since last weekend, but it felt like a lifetime since they’d last made love.
Light flickered up ahead, and her heart leapt at the image of the camp fire on her last visit. But it wasn’t a fire. Her headlights picked up Fin on the track, torch in hand. She pulled over as he came alongside.
God, he looked gorgeous in that scruffy, brooding way of his. Jeans rode low on his hips; his tee-shirt was faded and ragged at the hem. The beard was back.
Eliza put an elbow on the open window as the rumble of the car engine went silent. ‘Hi,’ she managed, only a little breathless.
‘I’ve been thinking about you,’ he said, seemingly not at all surprised to see her. ‘You were on my mind, and now you’re here.’
‘Yes, I’m here. I know we said the weekend but I couldn’t wait. I thought . . . just tonight and I can leave early and . . .’ Eliza let out a breath. ‘I’m babbling and I’m not a babbler.’
His mouth twitched, and then moved in for the kill, taking he
rs in one of those long, dangerously addictive kisses that sucked the last of the good sense from her. He smelt of hard work, heat and dust.
When they came up for oxygen, she saw that the pulse in his throat jumped as she knew hers did, and his eyes had that stormy, carnal look of intent that made her feel she was about to suffocate with want and need.
‘Um, I brought food,’ she mumbled. ‘I haven’t had dinner.’
‘Okay, good.’ He stood back and opened the door so she could slide out. ‘I should take a shower. I’d only just come up when I heard the car.’
‘No!’ she said, taking the cool bag from the back. ‘No shower. Not yet. Not until we’ve eaten.’ Showers could be dangerous, dangerous things, and she wanted to keep the illusion of some self-control for at least as long as it took to have dinner.
As he hauled her bag from the back seat, he looked at her questioningly, and then knowingly, but had the good manners not to comment.
‘Whatever you’ve brought has to be an improvement on the sausages and beans I was planning.’
She pushed aside the mess that had crept back into the kitchen area so she could dump the Esky. ‘Roast chicken with potato and green salads, cheese and strawberries.’
He dropped her bag on a chair and all but shoved her out of the way to get to the Esky, unzipped it and inhaled the fragrance of the chicken.
‘Plates,’ she said severely. ‘We need plates. Cutlery too.’
‘Really?’ He looked a little pained. ‘We’re a million miles from civilisation.’
‘Civilisation is wherever civilised people are. You get plates – clean ones – and cutlery, and I’ll serve.’ That was if she could find space. Half the kitchen bench was cluttered with paperwork and bits of rock. ‘I need to put your stuff somewhere.’
She looked around for a spot to put the papers where they wouldn’t blow away, and plumped for a chair.
‘Fin McLeod, you really need a better system for organising your gear.’ She found a tin box to use as a paperweight. ‘If you want, I can sort this out . . .’