Sydney, the Temptress (The Delaneys of Killaroo)

by Fayrene Preston

  Sydney, The Temptress

  The Delaneys of Killaroo

  Part of the Delaney Family Series

  Fayrene Preston

  © 1987 by Fayrene Preston.

  Digital publication 2017, Fayrene Preston

  Cover art © 2017 by Tammy Seidick.

  Digital design by A Thirsty Mind Book Design

  Smashwords Edition, 2017

  All rights reserved

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

  To my agent, Denise Marcil, for all the hard and dedicated work required for the Delaney projects, for always being there for me, for caring, thank you.

  And to Kay Hooper and Iris Johansen, for the friendship, for the support and understanding, for the fun!

  Table of Contents

  About the Delaney Dynasty...

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  List of Titles

  About the Author

  About the Delaney Dynasty...

  When William Delaney was born in 1855, men were men and the West was wild. There were Indian troubles for settlers, but not for the Delaneys; old Shamus had cannily invested one of his sons in a marriage to the daughter of an Apache chief a year or so before young William’s birth, which quieted things considerably.

  Of course, William, like his uncles before him, gleefully borrowed the Indian custom of counting “coup” and on occasion rode pell-mell through peaceful Apache camps screeching madly and attempting to touch as many braves as possible before they angrily chased him back to Killara, the Delaney homestead.

  If he had run true to form, old Shamus, never one to spare the rod, would have punished his grandson severely, but he didn’t. He’d learned it was useless in dealing with William. Trees were scarce in southern Arizona, and more than one eastern-made Addie had been worn out on William’s unrepentant bottom.

  William’s father, Desmond, second of Shamus’s nine sons, was killed in the Civil War in 1862, leaving seven-year-old William in the care of his mother, Anne, his grandparents, and various uncles, aunts, and cousins. If he had lived, perhaps Desmond would have controlled his son, for the boy had worshipped him.

  Of those left to guard him, only his grandfather had any sort of control over the boy, and that was little enough. Old Shamus, loving his grandchildren as he had his sons, certainly tried. Since William possessed the Delaney charm and was smart enough to turn it to good effect, even Shamus found himself easing up on the boy and remarking that his misdemeanors were products of high spirits.

  The Apaches, understandably annoyed, disagreed; good Irish whiskey was called for then to ease the pain of lacerated temper.

  But as William grew, it began to require more than a friendly drink to repair the consequences of his reckless actions. William rode wild horses, searched far and wide for wild women, and discovered both cards and drink a good ten years before he should have.

  At the age of sixteen William had perfected the rather dangerous art of escaping out bedroom windows, enraged husbands and loaded guns one step behind him. He had, with forethought, trained his savage mustang to stand just so beneath those windows, and husbands in jealous pursuit found themselves choking on dust and listening to hearty laughter carried away by fleet hooves.

  By the time he was eighteen William had searched out and conquered women within a two-hundred-mile radius of Killara. Indeed, betting in saloons held that a pair of his boots could be found under the bed of every woman under thirty except those William was kin to.

  And since old Shamus was no fool, he was well aware of why his grandson often arrived home sketchily attired in only his trousers. Shamus could forgive the womanizing, merely remarking somewhat irritably that he could have raised all nine of his sons and shod them handsomely in the boots William had left behind him.

  However, men were men then, and the West was still somewhat wild. And, inevitably, William was a bit lazy in leaving a warm bed one night. The jealous husband had burst in prepared, gun in hand and temper raging. William wasted no time with his pants, but grabbed his own gun instead, and when he left that window there was a badly wounded man behind him.

  William might have stood his trial: he might even have been acquitted. But he was a gambler, and he knew the odds; at least half the men on any jury would be men he had wronged. So he climbed aboard his bad-tempered mustang and headed west.

  He took with him little in the way of material things, confident of his luck, but he did “borrow” a single treasure from the Delaney family coffers. As treasures go, the necklace was worth little. It consisted of three silver medallions, each bearing a turquoise stone. Perhaps William was thinking of his grandfather’s lucky number: in any event, he took the necklace.

  On the Barbary Coast he found men even more dangerous than those he had left behind him; though there were warm beds aplenty, there were also eager guns and short tempers. William, ever ready to conquer virgin territory, cocked his eye still farther west and boarded a ship.

  He wound up, somewhat to his own surprise, in Australia, and liked it enough to remain for a while. He worked when he had to and gambled when he could, arriving at last on a sheep station—where he hired on happily after a glance at the boss’s very pretty daughter.

  It was in 1877 when William went to work there, and he lost no time in leaving yet another pair of boots under yet another bed. But William had reckoned without Matthew Devlin, the quiet man whose only child was his daughter, Mary. William went to his wedding as lighthearted as always, unperturbed by the shotgun that guided his steps to the altar.

  William remained for a short time, long enough to tell his bride all about his family in Arizona, about Killara. Truly of Shamus’s blood, he wove a splendid story about the relatives half a world away, gifting them with even more wealth and power than what was actually theirs at the time. Then, being William, he cheerfully abandoned his bride and sailed for home, trusting of forgiveness behind him, welcome before him, and having no idea that he had left in Australia something more than a pair of boots and an old necklace.

  William found, at Killara, that there was indeed welcome, and that past misdeeds, if not forgotten, were at least viewed as dim and unimportant. He returned to the bosom of his family and never thought to mention the small matter of a wife left behind in Australia’s outback.

  Unfortunately, none of William’s adventures had taught him to curb his recklessness, and he lost no time in reminding people of why he had left Arizona years before. He went his charming way from bad to worse, until even his loving grandfather freely predicted that he would end by getting his neck stretched.

  Which, regrettably, is exactly how things turned out.

  Mary Delaney was not surprised by William’s abandonment; she had loved him and, perhaps remarkably, understood him. She would have as soon attempted to chain the wind as tie William to her side. And she was a strong woman, a proud woman. So she bore her son, Charles, and raised him on the station alone after her father died. She told him often the story of Killara an
d the Arizona Delaneys, that and a necklace being the only birthright William had left his son.

  In his turn, Charles married and fathered a son, passing on the tales of Killara—which was, in reality, by that time, all that William had described and more.

  As with many families, the Australian branch of the Delaney clan could boast at least one mystery, and William’s son, Charles, was responsible for theirs. At some point in his young life, he attempted to mine gems, and having barely fathered his own son, he was murdered because of a fabulous gem it was believed he had found. His killers were never caught and the gem, if it existed, vanished.

  By the time Spencer Delaney, William’s great-grandson, was born in 1935, Killara had become a legend; with news spreading worldwide overnight because of advanced technology, hard facts upheld the legend.

  And pride being a strong Delaney trait, Spencer did not turn to his wealthy American relations when he found himself in financial trouble. Instead, he sold off the larger part of the station to a neighboring station, requiring only that his family be given a two-month option to repurchase the land if it came up for resale.

  Killaroo, as the station had been renamed by Mary, was small, and the sale of the land was only temporarily helpful to the family. Spencer, realizing too late what he had given up, worked his fingers to the bone to see his family prosper so the land could be restored to them. As the years passed, it became his obsession. He suffered two minor heart attacks and, ignoring warnings by his doctor that a third would be likely to kill him, continued to work and scheme to get his land back.

  Since Delaneys tended to sire male children, it was somewhat surprising that Spencer had fathered three girls. And though Spencer may well have felt the lack of a son, he loved his girls and wanted the best for them. Sydney, Matilda, and Adelaide, however, wanted their father healthy and free from worry.

  And so, when the land once belonging to them came up for sale, the girls resolved to raise the staggering price. They knew, of course, of their American cousins, but none of them even suggested that those strangers be applied to.

  Each had a scheme. Each had a talent, or a means to make money quickly. And each was driven, as never before in her life, to attain a very specific goal. They were fighting for their birthright, but, even more, they were fighting for their father’s life.

  They had two months. Sixty days to do the impossible. And if they knew it was impossible, the knowledge was unimportant to them. They were Delaneys, and it was bred into them to know that even the impossible road was traveled one step at a time.

  And so they began.

  Prologue

  Her father would never agree to her plan if he knew, Sydney thought as she watched him through the kitchen window. Excessive gambling right after her mother had died had lost him the large portion of the Killaroo land he was now striving so desperately to earn back.

  But short of embezzling from the bank where she worked, gambling was the only plan she could come up with. It was a wild, perhaps even dangerous scheme, but it could work. She had a fine mind, with a penchant for mathematics, and if she had never actually gambled herself, she could certainly learn, she told herself.

  She and her sisters were sitting at the kitchen table of the place that had been her home all her life, the homestead of her family’s sheep station in New South Wales. The kitchen of Killaroo was a place of warmth and happy memories. She could still remember her mother, so loving and beautiful, busy at the stove. It was a place where family crises, big or small, were worked out. Now they had gathered for the biggest crisis they had ever faced.

  Her eyes were drawn back to the window and her father beyond, bent over the old tractor, trying to fix it one more time.

  Illness and age had diminished his once tall, lanky frame, and suffering had marked his craggy face. Over the past twenty-six years of her life, there had been countless times when she had run to him with her problems. His strength had been her support. His gentleness had eased her tears. His advice and warm humor had gotten her over the toughest times, when the humiliation her stutter was causing her threatened to swamp her. If she was in any way a success today, it was because of him.

  Now it was her turn to help him.

  With renewed resolve, Sydney turned back to her two sisters. “So we’re agreed?”

  “Right. We’ve got to keep our individual goals in mind, but if one of us needs help, the others will come running,” Manda said. “We’ve got to remember this is a joint project. We all must succeed.”

  Addie nodded in agreement. “But what about Dad? It’s important to keep this a secret. There’s potential danger in all our plans, and we can’t worry him.” She made a face. “You two have it a hell of a lot easier than I do. He’s bound to hear what I’m doing.”

  “Do the best you can,” Sydney said. “And if you need help, ring us.”

  “I’ll be on the move, so I’ll check in often,” Addie said. “And since I’ll be closest to home, I’ll keep an eye on Dad.”

  “Good,” Sydney said. “Be sure and let us know if anything changes with him.”

  Manda drew a deep, shaky breath. “Lord, I’m scared. What if we blow it?”

  “I’m scared too.” Addie said softly.

  Sydney couldn’t stand the fact that her two younger sisters might be frightened—Addie, who looked so fragile but in reality was as strong as the sun that shone over Australia, and Manda, who viewed life as one long grand adventure. She reached for her sisters’ hands and clasped each one tightly. “We all are,” she said. “But we won’t fail, because we can’t.” She smiled with an effort. “This isn’t another one of Manda’s trips to the sea. This dream has to become a reality.”

  As she held her sisters’ hands, Sydney felt the warmth and strength flowing between the three of them. To an outsider, it might appear that the odds were against them. After all, one million five hundred thousand dollars was an enormous sum of money for three young women to earn in such a short period of time. But an outsider would be reckoning without their love of their father and for one another. They would succeed.

  One

  One floor above the casino, from behind the one-way glass, Nicholas Charron watched her, as he had every night for the past three nights.

  Her name was Sydney Delaney. He had gotten this information from the registration card she had filled out when she had arrived on the island three days ago. Alone.

  With each night that passed, his curiosity about her grew. She seemed intensely interested in the games, but she had yet to place a bet. And he had seen several men approach her, but with scarcely a look she had sent them on their way.

  From his remote observation post he had a complete view of the entire casino. Men and women dressed in their evening finery milled below him in a rhythm of bright color and swirling motion, uncaring that just beyond the casino’s wide expanse of windowed walls lay the wonder and the glory of the Great Barrier Reef. Their disregard of the natural beauty of the reef and the star-brilliant night above it amused him. While most casinos were windowless, his was not. He deliberately had had the windows included in the design as his own private joke—just as he had had giant seawater aquariums set in the long wall that ran across the back of the casino. Although the aquariums featured the vividly patterned fish that swam in the waters of the reef, he knew that to the majority of the people in the casino, the fish provided little more than an exotic backdrop for the real reason they had come to the island—the gaming.

  He understood people, their vices, their greed. Soon, Nicholas promised himself, he would understand Sydney Delaney.

  He turned away from the window and walked to the long row of monitors that provided coverage of the entire casino. With a quick flick of a series of switches, four screens glowed simultaneously with her image.

  Sydney Delaney was clearly beautiful, but there were many women in his casino tonight who were as beautiful, if not more so. Yet there was something about her that had drawn his attention to her a
nd had kept it there. Unprecedented for him.

  Once, a long time ago, he had seen a figurine of a young girl in a Chicago store window, so fine and delicate, she appeared translucent, so fragile and expensive, a glass dome had protected her. He had wanted the figurine. The woman below reminded him of that figurine.

  He looked closer, trying to decipher, to take apart and thus explain, the pull she was exerting on him. Her hair seemed a dark burgundy and hung in a lustrous mass to her shoulders. He frowned for the color seemed to contain a depth that the screen of the monitor couldn’t satisfactorily register.

  In the monitor that caught her profile he saw a straight nose and a clean sweep of jaw. Another monitor showed him finely shaped brows arched over wide, light-colored eyes of an undiscernable shade and a disconcerting mouth, full and perfectly formed to fit under a man’s lips.

  A third monitor revealed a full-length picture of her. The long dress she wore was of cream-colored slipper satin. The neckline was high, but the back dipped to the waist, exposing skin that, on the monitor at least, appeared flawless. In involuntary anticipation of the time when he would touch that flawless skin, his fingers curled, one by one, into his palm.

  Experience told him that most of the gowns on the women in the casino revealed more and cost more than the one she wore, but it didn’t matter. Any clothing would look marvelous on her, he concluded.

  There was an elegance about her and a grace, even as she remained still, and motion and noise swirled around her—like the sea that surrounded the island... his island, the Isle of Charron.

  Did she have that much command over her emotions and nerves? he wondered. The question intrigued him.

  His mind returned briefly to the glass dome that had surrounded the fragile figurine years before. Glass could be broken.

  * * *

  If a panther could live on a tropical island, his name would surely be Nicholas Charron, Sydney decided. She had never seen him, but she could feel him—like a violent disturbance in the atmosphere.