by Janine Grey
He got back into the driver’s seat and raised a hand to shake her awake, but dropped it without touching her. In sleep, she’d turned towards him, one palm raised up against the seat back, looking oddly vulnerable; her mouth a soft bow.
Mac expelled a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, sat back in his seat and looked out at the abandoned homestead. Much as he’d like to, he couldn’t just dump her here. It was bloody inconvenient, but it looked like she was coming back to Rosmerta with him tonight. As he turned on the engine again, he took another look at her. Beneath her jacket, her breasts rose and fell in a steady rhythm.
One night only.
She still hadn’t stirred twenty minutes later when he pulled up in front of the Rosmerta Station homestead. Rubbing his neck, he got out of the car. All was quiet except for the snuffling of horses in the stable. Lights were out in the squat timber cabins where the hands slept. The day started before dawn on the station, so the boys tended to save their late nights for their free days.
Mac smiled as a breeze blew across his face, cutting through the humidity. Whenever he was away from Rosmerta, even for a day, coming back always served as a reminder of just how far he’d come. The sprawling homestead, modernised and expanded four years back when he’d finally had the money, hugged the land as if it belonged to it. And out to the west, as far as the eye could see and beyond, was his land – one hundred thousand hectares sustaining more than ten thousand head of prime beef cattle.
A soft sigh from the car drew his attention. Blaze Gillespie shifted in her seat briefly before her breathing regained its steady rhythm. He went around to her side and opened the door carefully, not wanting to jolt her.
‘Ms Gillespie.’
She didn’t answer, but frowned in her sleep and said something he didn’t catch. He shook her shoulder, and although she pulled away in her sleep, her eyes stayed firmly shut.
‘Blaze!’ His voice sharper than he intended, Mac shook her again, more roughly. Her eyelids flickered but she slept on. She was completely out and he guessed she’d taken a sleeping aid on her flight.
Cursing under his breath, he leaned over her and flicked open the seat belt. His arm brushed her breast and in her sleep she flinched, but her breathing didn’t change. Figuring he’d have to haul her inside himself, he pulled her carefully out of the car and into his arms.
Blaze Gillespie weighed little more than a newborn calf, and he had to admit it didn’t take much effort to carry her through the dimly lit house and up the stairs. He got another whiff of vanilla as she snuggled into his shoulder, her skin smooth as silk where it brushed against his rough jaw, and he held her just a little tighter than necessary. Well, it was probably the only time he’d ever get to hold a movie star this close.
Peggy, his housekeeper, always kept a guest room made up. Not that it was up to the six-star digs Blaze Gillespie was probably accustomed to, but it was more than comfortable with an en-suite bathroom and double doors opening on to a large balcony that overlooked the stables and grazing land beyond.
Shifting his burden, Mac pushed the door open. Balancing her carefully against his chest, he whipped back the coverlet and crisp cotton sheet and placed her on the bed. Then he retrieved her bags from the car and laid them at the end of her bed so she’d find them easily when she woke.
Figuring she might be a little disoriented to wake jet-lagged in a strange place, he switched on the bedside lamp, scribbled a quick note explaining where she was and pinned it in place with the lamp.
In its glow, he saw that she’d rolled onto her side, one knee tucked up, an arm outflung. The suede jacket wouldn’t be comfortable for sleeping in, so he slipped her out of it, and then took off her boots. She sighed, one hand slipping beneath her cheek. Her cap slipped off, releasing a rippling wave of dark copper hair that burned with red and gold highlights. Mac’s breath caught in his throat. Blaze Gillespie was well named.
She still wore those ridiculous sunglasses, and before he realised he was doing it, Mac reached out to lift them from her face. And saw the reason for them. Her left temple was a mass of old bruises ranging from green to yellow.
Frowning, he ran his fingers lightly over the discoloured skin, wondering about the injury. He trailed them down to a faint shadow on her surprisingly stubborn-looking chin; another fading bruise. Mac felt his stomach clench at the thought of someone raising a hand to a creature this small and soft, whatever she might have done.
Her boyfriend had been savagely slaughtered a couple of months back, Mac remembered. His young hand, Lewis Mullens, had been bending everyone’s ears about how Blaze Gillespie had been a suspect in her lover’s killing. Given that the bruises on her face were recent, perhaps she had a new lover now, one with a violent streak.
She sure wasn’t a safe lady to know, Mac thought. Since her boyfriend’s murder, a crazy had opened fire at some gala she was attending and a fan had died. If all she had to show for her wild lifestyle was a couple of bruises, she was probably damned lucky.
Placing her sunglasses next to the lamp, he brushed a lock of hair off her forehead. Without the hat and the glasses, she truly was a work of art; a study in contrasts – wholesome yet exotic, innocent yet sultry – a gold-dusted goddess come to life on earth.
Momentarily, he wondered who Blaze Gillespie really was, and why she’d suddenly landed back in Meriwether. He dropped his hand from her hair. He had better things to do than stand here like some star-dazzled groupie. With a dawn start tomorrow, it was past time he turned in for the night. Cattle still needed feeding, drenching, branding and castrating, even if there was a movie star in residence.
Shutting off the light, he quietly let himself out of the room.
The green velvet dress with its slim straps was the most glamorous one that eleven-year-old Blaze had ever owned. She hugged herself in delight at the thought of going to a cool party with grown-ups. As her parents laughed at the picture she made, she twirled, letting the skirt flare out like a dancer’s. As the room blurred, she imagined an audience of hundreds, thousands even, admiring, applauding, whistling in appreciation.
Dizzy, she realised she’d spun right out of the room and into the dark hallway, coming to a halt in front of the mirror.
She smiled, admiring her beautiful party dress . . . her flushed cheeks . . . the hole where her eye used to be, weeping blood . . .
She came violently out of sleep, her fist stuffed into her mouth to stop the scream from escaping.
Oh God. Oh God.
She rocked back and forth to the drum of her heart, until the rhythm soothed the edges of her panic. Carefully, she touched her eye and her shoulders sagged against the pillow in relief. It had seemed so real, so immediate, but it was only a dream – the same one she’d had nearly nightly since the film festival shooting.
As reality seeped back, it struck her that she didn’t know where she was. This wasn’t the bedroom at Sweet Springs she remembered. Instead of the pink patchwork quilt, a navy cotton blanket was folded across the end of the bed. No Raggedy Ann doll sat on a wicker chair in the corner. Instead, there was a wide built-in closet, and next to it, a door left ajar that looked as if it led to a bathroom. Definitely not Sweet Springs, unless her memory was messed up along with everything else; her grandparents hadn’t held with luxuries like ensuites.
Right now, with urgent needs pressing, she didn’t much care where she was as long as that was a bathroom next to the closet. On unsteady legs, she wobbled across the room and pushed it open. Thank God!
After she’d peed, Blaze splashed her face with cool water. There was no drinking glass, so she scooped handfuls of it into her dry mouth, letting rivulets trickle down her chin and neck. Feeling marginally revived, she leaned on the vanity and inspected her face.
She looked pale, the mottled skin around her temple standing out in stark relief, her hair without its usual burnish, the shadows deep under her eyes. What did she expect after the past few weeks? She was probably lucky she wasn�
�t wearing orange overalls in some American high-security facility, instead of her own rumpled shirt and pants somewhere in the vast Queensland outback.
She looked down at her sock-clad feet, not able to recall taking off her boots last night. Or her jacket. The last thing she recalled was the comforting scent of leather, the low rumble of a powerful engine, and the easy movements of the man who’d driven her home. What was his name? Macauley Black. That was it.
Too exhausted to take in much detail at the airport, his height and breadth had nevertheless made an impression. Not to mention an expression to match his name, and the fact that he’d mistaken her for an assistant. That was a first in her experience. Even when he’d been corrected, he’d glared at her as if his mistake had been hers.
Clearly he’d taken her somewhere other than Sweet Springs, but she had no memory of anything after relaxing into the upholstery of his car.
Where exactly was still to be confirmed, but as the last strains of her nightmare fled, she became aware that the sounds outside the window were ones she remembered from her rural childhood. Cattle bellowed and stamped, horses snorted and men swore with an inventiveness and dark humour that made her mouth curl in familiar pleasure.
Blaze slid open the glass door leading to the balcony, and stepped out into the blistering morning heat. She put up a hand to shield her eyes. Squinting was a cardinal sin if you were a woman in Hollywood. As her sight adjusted and the swirling red cloud of dust settled, she saw a wiry, weather-beaten cowboy close the gate of a large corral to the whoops of three younger colleagues on horseback.
‘That’s enough bullshit,’ a commanding voice said, and the pack of younger men parted to reveal Macauley Black’s tall, solid bulk. ‘Pete, Fred and Smithy, get busy checking out the dingo problem like I told you. Lew’s on stable duty.’
Although he was on foot, he seemed to tower over the men on horseback. There was no doubt he was the boss. And the name suited him. Under the slick of red dust, his black hat concealed his dark hair, and although she couldn’t make out his eyes, she knew from yesterday that they were as dark as coal, and burned with impatience and hostility, at least towards her. His uncompromising jaw was emphasised by a moustache and short beard.
As if he’d heard her thoughts, his head jerked up towards the balcony where she stood. While the other men, grumbling, retreated into the shade of a long string of timber buildings, he continued to stand there under the hot sun as if he was in his element.
It was too far for Blaze to see his expression at this distance, but still the raking effect of his unflinching stare flayed her bare skin. Under that compelling examination, Blaze was frozen to the spot, held there by his will until he’d had his fill. Then he casually shrugged and turned to follow his men. The message was clear. She’d been assessed, found wanting and dismissed.
Humiliation scorched her stomach as she returned to the cool bedroom. Oh, she was used to being an object of ridicule. The entire world had been enjoying her spectacular crash and burn over recent weeks. But Macauley Black’s assessment had been nothing to do with career or reputation, but about her as a woman, a person. And he’d made it clear, she was an irrelevance.
Bleakly, she admitted he might be right. She was a mess, and not just on the surface. Like everyone else, she’d blithely accepted her own image as the smouldering sexpot Hollywood wanted her to be. And as long as her star had been rising, she’d been satisfied with her success, if not completely happy with her life. But now, with her life in pieces, and her image a smear of something distasteful on Hollywood’s boulevard of broken dreams, the question had to be asked: who the hell was she?
The painful truth was that she had no idea.
The soft shudder of the air conditioning kicking in finally broke through her thoughts, and she realised she’d been standing in the same spot for endless minutes, staring into nothing. She let out a breath, consciously relaxing her shoulders as though she was about to step out onto a red carpet.
Being on show, the object of stares and smirks and seedy speculation, she knew how to deal with. And if there was one thing Blaze Gillespie had fistfuls of, it was bravado. She was going to need it to brazen through the next few hours. Macauley Black and the rest could think what they liked about her. Didn’t mean they had to know she cared.
Seventeen-year-old Lewis Mullens was sweeping out the stable after lunch when something made him look up. His breath stuck in his throat and his jaw fell open. The broom dropped from his hand with a soft thud, and his palms began to sweat.
‘Well, hi there,’ said the sultry voice of a thousand damp and fevered dreams. Movie goddess Blaze Gillespie sauntered towards him, hips swaying, mouth curving into the kind of smile that would have propelled men into warfare in ancient times.
‘Uh,’ Lewis mumbled hopelessly. He shook his head to clear his vision, and when that didn’t work, his face turned bright red and dark stains dampened his underarms.
‘I’m Blaze. Blaze Gillespie,’ she said, as though there might be a man on the planet who wouldn’t know. As she came forward out of the sunlight into the gloom of the barn, he got the full impact. The wild fall of auburn hair, the golden eyes, rounded breasts inside a tight T-shirt, and jeans that hugged every inch of her spectacular hips and legs. Despite the ten-centimetre heeled boots that were quite clearly not intended to set foot on a working cattle station, she moved with grace and confidence as she extended her right hand.
Lewis had the good sense to wipe his damp palm on his filthy jeans before brushing her fingers with his.
‘I’m looking for the boss,’ she said. ‘Macauley Black. Or at least I assume this is his place. He kind of kidnapped me yesterday.’
‘Kidnapped?’ Lewis stammered, his eyes widening. Not only was he in lust with Blaze Gillespie, he was in awe of Macauley Black. The man was already fiercely admired around these parts for the way he’d built a thriving cattle station out of nothing but belief, balls and sheer bloody-mindedness. If people knew he’d also abducted a movie star like some latter-day pirate, he’d be a dead-set legend.
‘Kind of,’ Blaze continued. ‘Anyway, I need to get to my property, Sweet Springs, and I don’t have transport.’ She looked at him in a way that made Lewis wish he’d succumbed to his father’s nagging to get a haircut. Or at least that he’d washed it this week. He ran a hand nervously through the dirty blond mop.
‘Ah, the boss, he’s —’
‘Actually, you know what?’ She smiled again, looking at him as if he was the only man in the world; more than a man – a champion. Lewis’s puny chest puffed out a little. ‘Seeing as how he’s not here and you are,’ she paused to flick a piece of straw from his shoulder and Lewis felt suddenly light-headed as though he hadn’t had lunch when in fact he’d had two helpings of Peg’s meat pie, ‘maybe you’d be able to give me a lift.’
‘In a car?’ he blurted and died inside. What else would she want a lift in? A pumpkin?
She shrugged, her body language immediately making the question the smartest one in the world. ‘Sure. Car, truck, whatever. I’m not very good on horseback, though.’
‘Uh,’ Lewis responded, panicking. He did have his father’s battered old pick-up, but it was filled with dog hair and empty Coke cans. And as he only had his Ps, he was under strict instructions from his dad not to carry passengers. But he wanted Blaze Gillespie reclining in the passenger seat like he’d never wanted anything before.
‘It would only take a few minutes. No one would even notice we were gone.’ She came a little closer, smiling that smile, her eyes only for him. His chest puffed a little further, and he wondered if he could make it out to Sweet Springs without crunching the gears.
‘Okay, well —’ He came to a halt as the large dark shadow at the barn door materialised into his boss, temper written all over his face.
‘Thank you, Lewis. Amos could do with a hand. I’ll finish up here.’ The polite words did nothing to conceal the fact that he was being dismissed.
&nb
sp; Jerkily, Lewis nodded and brushed past them, tripping over the broom as he went. He caught himself before he fell on his face, looked back briefly and fled.
Mac righted the broom, propping it against the wall where well-worn saddles and tack hung. He took his time. His voice when he spoke was low and cold.
‘You need something, you come to me. You don’t go sweet-talking my men. They’re station hands, not chauffeurs. Is that clear?’ His mouth tightened. ‘Is that clear?’ he repeated.
‘Crystal,’ Blaze snapped back, her chin lifting. ‘My bags are packed. Collect me at the front door in ten minutes.’ She stalked past him as though the stable was the Chateau Marmont and he a doorman.
On her way past he caught her arm, spinning her around, his grip firm but not painful. ‘My place, my car, my time. I say when we go,’ he growled.
‘I’m quite sure you don’t want me here, any more than I want to be here.’ She shrugged free of his hand. ‘Which raises the question: why am I here in the first place?’
‘Sweet Springs is a wreck, lady. You can’t stay there.’
‘I say where I stay.’ She threw the words at him. ‘You had no right to bring me here.’
Despite himself, Mac couldn’t prevent his gaze dropping to where her bosom heaved beneath a white shirt that did nothing to conceal her assets. He couldn’t hold Lew’s befuddlement against the boy. The kid had been playing against a mistress of the game.
Blaze Gillespie today was a million miles from the battered, barely conscious woman of last night. Light make-up concealed the bruising to her face and the shadows beneath her eyes. The tight jeans she’d poured herself into screamed sex, and the free-flowing, gleaming hair made a man want to wrap a hand in it and pull her glistening mouth up to his.
But it was the way she carried herself that truly transformed her. All hint of vulnerability had vanished, and Blaze Gillespie was ready to kick arse – his, specifically.