Princes of the Outback Bundle

by Bronwyn Jameson

“I wasn’t going to ask.” Carmel paused, her hands filled with plates, her gaze narrowed on his face. “All the while I cooked your breakfast I’ve been trying to work out why you look familiar, and I just can’t work it out.”

  Alex gave a casual shrug. “I get that a lot.”

  “You’re not on the television then?”

  “Not that I know.”

  “Huh.” She shook her head. “You must look like somebody famous.”

  “I guess that’s it.” He eyed his empty cup. “Could I trouble you for another coffee, Carmel?”

  “That won’t be any trouble at all. How about you, love? More tea?”

  “Lovely. Thank you,” Zara replied but she continued to study him intently, her frown now about curiosity more than confusion. “Do you get recognized often?”

  He tracked Carmel’s exit to the kitchen. “She only thought I looked familiar.”

  “Hardly surprising. Your picture’s always in the papers for some reason or other. I recognized you as soon as you stepped out of that car yesterday!”

  “You had reason to.”

  She dismissed that with a wave of one hand, then sat in silence while Carmel filled his coffee and muttered something about his TV face.

  “Why didn’t you tell her who you were?” she asked when they were alone again. “That would have made her day.”

  “I suspect my generous tip will do that,” he said dryly.

  “Well, yes, but a celebrity sighting would have been the cherry on top.”

  “She wanted a TV star.”

  “Oh, I think royalty would have done just as nicely.”

  Royalty? Alex made a disparaging sound and shook his head, but her eyes continued to shine with unfulfilled curiosity.

  “Does it bother you, the way the magazines love to label you and your brothers with those Aussie royalty tags?”

  “No.”

  Her huh sound could have been acceptance. Or disbelief. “You don’t mind being referred to as one of the ‘Princes of the Outback’?”

  “I don’t read that garbage.” He reached for the sugar bowl. “That’s not what bothers me about media interest.”

  “What does bother you?”

  “When someone gets hurt.”

  For a second he concentrated on stirring sweetness into his coffee, ignoring the bitter taste of experience that rose to coat his senses. But he could feel her sharpened gaze on his face, could feel her curiosity change from teasing interest to serious attention. “Anyone in particular?” she asked.

  “My mother.” Across the table he met her eyes, sincere and unwavering, and he realized that for once he didn’t mind talking about this. He wanted her to know the truth instead of the half-truths and outright lies that had been printed by the gutter press. “They gave her hell when she lived in Sydney, after our sister died of SIDS. Not a great time to have a dozen lenses trained on your face everywhere you went, but they loved capturing Maura Carlisle looking less than glamorous.”

  “I’m sure they loved the whole story,” she said softly. “A beautiful model married to one of Australia’s richest men, suffering the same as any grief-stricken mother.”

  “Couldn’t get enough of it,” he confirmed. “In the end Chas moved us all to the outback station where he grew up. Mau’s rarely left there since.”

  “Is that why your father wanted this grandchild?” she asked after a thoughtful length of pause. “Because of what losing her baby girl cost your mother?”

  “Cost?” Alex frowned at that choice of word.

  “She lost a child, a part of her, a piece of her heart. And she also lost her freedom to live where she chose.” Her eyes, astute and serious, held his across the table. “I can’t help wondering if your father maybe felt some guilt over that. I mean, if he weren’t so high profile, the press wouldn’t have cared and your family wouldn’t have been uprooted.”

  “She was famous in her own right.”

  “Ah, but never so much as when she married ‘King’ Carlisle,” she said with an edge of wryness. “Then she became the next best thing to royalty.”

  It bothered him, that sarcastic bite in her voice. Bothered him because this was his family. His parents. “Sounds like you read too many tabloids.”

  “I try to avoid them, actually. I know how bloody they can be.”

  “Are you speaking from personal experience?”

  She gave the merest shrug, not offhand, not casual. Then she lifted her gaze and the expression in her eyes, fierce and dark as if she were fighting to keep emotion at bay, drove the air from his lungs. “Would you believe my mother suffered at their hands once, too, a long time ago?”

  “She was famous?”

  “She had her fifteen minutes.” A smile drifted across her lips, a lopsided smile tinged with irony and with a sadness that squeezed tight in his chest. “Nothing in the Carlisle mold, of course.”

  He didn’t smile back. “Was she an actor or—”

  He broke off when Carmel returned for their cups, tidying and wiping and asking if they needed anything else. “Just the bill,” Alex told her, his eyes not leaving Zara’s face. And when Carmel finally left he leaned forward, intent on finding out what had happened in that fifteen minutes. “Tell me about your mother.”

  “Oh, that’s a long story,” she said with another smile.

  “It’s one I want to hear.”

  Something shifted in her expression, opened and softened for a singular second. Then she gathered herself and shook her head. “Don’t you think we should be going?”

  “I’m not in that big a hurry.”

  “You’re not afraid Carmel will suddenly look up in the middle of washing dishes and go, ‘I remember now. It’s Alex Carlisle. One of those filthy-rich princes!’”

  “All right,” he said agreeably after a short pause. He saw her surprise in the slight widening of her eyes and smiled as he got to his feet and walked around to pull out her chair. Then, when she was on her feet, he looked right into those eyes and said, “You can tell me the whole long story another time. When we’re alone and won’t be interrupted.”

  Zara told herself it was a throwaway line. He didn’t mean that he intended seeing her again, but that didn’t prevent the swift grab of longing that shadowed hard on the heels of his words. Not that it mattered. There would be no “another time.” No more sharing of confidences or beds.

  No more desiring what she could not have.

  The ride back to the city, unfortunately, only served to intensify the potent physicality of that desire. Mile after mile, she became more aware of his solid presence at her back, his hands spread over her rib cage, the vibration of the bike between her legs.

  Oh, God.

  Heat shuddered through her. Heat and memories and the knowledge that only inches separated their bodies. No. She huffed out a quick breath. She did not need to think about the intimacy of his body hard against hers. Or the edge of vulnerability she detected deep in his storm-gray eyes when he talked about his mother’s loss.

  She needed to picture him looking ridiculously out of place riding pillion in a business suit. She needed to picture him looking out of place on her bike and in her life. In the living room of her tiny Brunswick terrace, for example, among the eclectic mix of furniture slung together from estate sales and secondhand shops.

  She needed to picture him sitting on her red leatherette sofa surrounded by her mother’s collection of cushions, a rainbow palette of silky fabrics and girlie adornments, while she told him the story of Ginger Love, the stripper. Except she wouldn’t because after she dropped him at his hotel, she would never see him again.

  Providing Susannah doesn’t change her mind.

  The possibility fluttered through her consciousness, then lodged tight in her brain and her throat. If Susannah changed her mind and married this man, how could she face them? Her best friend—her only known family—and the man she’d fallen in lust with.

  Last night he’d told her he couldn’t marry
someone who didn’t want him, but what if Susannah returned ready to wed him and have this baby that mattered so much to his family? How could he refuse?

  Sucking in a hard breath, she forced herself to grab hold of the wild black churn of resistance before it spun out of control. She had no business craving Alex Carlisle, even if Susannah didn’t want him back.

  His home was in Sydney, hers in Melbourne. Their lifestyles were diametrically opposed, their goals in conflict. He needed an immediate family, she needed her degree. She barely kept up with study and the work necessary to pay her bills without thinking about a relationship.

  She told herself all this, silently reciting the logic point by point as the miles whizzed by, as the landscape changed from bushland to paddocks to suburbia. Less than twenty-four hours since they’d met, so why did she feel as if she’d known him so much longer? Why did she feel a gathering anxiety as the suburbs turned to cityscape, as they drew closer and closer to their destination?

  To the moment when she would say goodbye.

  That restless stir of nerves and blood and mind made her drive a little too fast, zipping in and out of traffic and taking side streets to avoid the lights. But no matter how many turns she made, she could not escape the pervasive sense that this last twenty-four hours had changed something key to her happiness.

  Oh, the scientist in her scoffed. The cynic sneered and the realist just shook her head and suggested she couldn’t afford a speeding ticket.

  And when she pulled up outside the elegant facade of the Carlisle Grande Hotel, on the terra-cotta pavement under the gleaming stretch of awning, she still hadn’t shaken that unsettling anxiety from her body. It bugged her, the unaccustomed sense of nervous uncertainty, enough that she gave the throttle a half turn, amplifying the high-pitched roar for a few revs, before she turned off the engine.

  A liveried doorman started toward them, his face a stern mask of disapproval, but then she saw him double-take. Alex had stepped from the bike and removed the helmet and jacket he’d borrowed from Carmel. The doorman dipped his hat and asked if everything was all right, sir, and various other staff lurked nearby, obviously awaiting instructions.

  Alex lurked, too, obviously waiting for her to…what? Because of the broken stand, she couldn’t get off the bike but after a couple of seconds she did take off her helmet and shake out her hair. Hard to say goodbye through a Plexiglas visor.

  Hard, too, to meet his eyes with her usual directness and to find the words to broach the awkward silence.

  “It’s been—” Was there an adjective to describe this last day? “—interesting. You are not what I imagined, Alex Carlisle.”

  His gaze slid over her, her bike, the helmet resting on the tank. Back to her eyes. “Likewise, Zara Lovett.”

  Zara moistened her lips. Her fingers played over her helmet, lifting and releasing the hinged visor, as she struggled over what to say. Goodbye seemed vastly inadequate, yet what else was there?

  “I thought you would be ruthless and arrogant and full of yourself.”

  “What makes you think I’m not?”

  For a second she stared back at him, knocked off balance by the impact of that question. Low, quiet, dangerous. “Last night,” she told him, recovering. Lifting her chin. “You know you could have had me.”

  Heat flashed in his eyes. “I know.”

  Behind them a car pulled up, a distraction, a reminder of where they were and a focus for her thoughts. There wasn’t any point extending this. There wasn’t anything to say. “Well, you have a fiancée to find and I have study to catch up on. I’d best get moving.”

  But when she reached for her helmet, he put a hand on her shoulder. She felt the charge right through her leather. “I want to see you again. Is night the best time to call?”

  “Don’t call,” she said quickly. “It’s pointless. You’re in Sydney and I’m in Melbourne. You want a wife and family. I don’t even have time to date. I’m not the woman you want, Alex.”

  “I’m not asking you to marry me, Zara.”

  And while she was still dealing with all the conflicting implications of that statement, his hand slid from her shoulder to cup her neck. Then he leaned down and kissed her.

  Oh, man. He kissed her, and after the first shocked second of pressure from those unexpectedly cool, amazingly supple lips, she kissed him back.

  The response was instant. Her brain shut down. Her complete sensory system quivered with pleasure.

  Against the sensitive skin of her nape, his fingers moved infinitesimally, their touch as soft as the finest silk, the effect a lightning streak of fire in her skin and her veins. Her nostrils flared, drawing in his scent. Not yesterday’s cologne but just the musky impression of man.

  Not the filthy-rich tycoon, not the ruthless groom, just the man.

  Dimly, that registered as significant. Dangerous. And then his tongue stroked her bottom lip and her whole body embraced the glorious idea of danger, heat, him. Starbursts of pleasure peppered her senses as she opened her mouth to deepen the kiss, as she silently acknowledged the overpowering sense of rightness that tightened in her chest, then unraveled in a swift silken flow of delight.

  Then it was over, gone, a shift of air against her heated face and the blare of a horn from the street. She’d been completely lost in that kiss, and yet she wasn’t surprised. Some part of her had known they would be like this together.

  His hand slid from her nape to cup her cheek for a moment, and he looked right into her eyes.

  “I do want you, Zara. Make no mistake about that.”

  “We can’t always have what we want,” she said softly and a muscle ticked in his cheek.

  “I know that.” He straightened, and as his hand slipped from her face, she felt an intense sense of loss. It wasn’t only the breaking of that physical bond, but the sudden grimness she saw in his eyes.

  Then he turned and was striding away before she could say the one word she’d been so intent on saying.

  Goodbye.

  Six

  Not having his hands on something he wanted didn’t usually perturb Alex. If he wanted that something badly enough, he devised a plan and went after it. In the case of wanting Zara Lovett, however, his hands were tied.

  By lunchtime Monday he’d determined that no one knew Susannah’s whereabouts and short of implementing a search—he put an investigator on standby, in case she didn’t turn up soon—he could do nothing but wait.

  And that inactivity, that lack of action, perturbed the hell out of him.

  So did the tick of the clock counting down on the deadline for conceiving a baby.

  During the long, dark stretch of Monday night, while he stared at the shadows on his bedroom ceiling with the taste and texture and heat of Zara’s mouth alive in his senses, he could hear the time passing in endless pulsing beats of his blood. The frustration of knowing he might fail kept him awake. The conflict over what he wanted—Zara—and what he needed—a wife—brought him close to howling.

  If Susannah returned wanting to be that wife, what then?

  He could go ahead, marry her, and still not make a baby within the tight time frame. And if he did succeed on that front, would it really count as success if no one was happy?

  His mother had made her feelings clear when he’d called with the news of his non-wedding. “I watched you together, darling, the night you brought Susannah to Kameruka. I’m so glad she was sensible enough to see what you’re too stubborn to admit.”

  Not stubborn, Alex contended. Just focused on what had to be done. His duty, his responsibility, his contribution to the family that meant everything to him.

  Even if that makes no one happy?

  Tuesday morning dawned without any answers, and Alex took his simmering frustration to the racetrack to watch his favorite horse gallop. When he saw his brother strolling toward him in the pale, early morning light, he swore softly. He’d learned to deal with Rafe’s smart-aleck observations over the years. He no longer let th
em get under his skin and wind his temper as they’d done in his youth.

  Not after his mother had sat Alex down and told him about his biological father, about the tearaway temper that had destroyed his career, his reputation, his every relationship. Alex didn’t want any part of the man who’d abandoned his mother. He couldn’t do a damn thing about his coloring or the set of his eyes or the distinctive mouth he’d inherited, but he could control his wildness.

  And, with Charles Carlisle’s steady influence, he had controlled it and mastered it. Most days now Alex didn’t even have to try. Today, if Rafe was true to form, it might take some effort.

  “Morning, bro.” Rafe thumped him on the back in greeting. “Has Irish galloped yet?”

  “About to go. Your timing’s inspired.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” Rafe often made it to early morning track work, but grumbling and yawning and complaining about the godforsaken hour. This morning he practically hummed with bonhomie.

  “Why are you in such a good mood?” Alex asked, lifting his binoculars toward the far side of the track and remembering his brother’s distraction the previous week over his brand new wife. “I thought you were having marital problems.”

  “We were.” Rafe sounded happy and smug. “But we spent the weekend making up.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “You too. Although I gotta say I didn’t expect to see you this morning. Shouldn’t you be honeymooning?”

  Although he gripped his binoculars tighter, Alex managed to keep his voice even, his tone conversational. “It appears you haven’t heard my news. The wedding didn’t go ahead.”

  “No shit.”

  “None,” Alex confirmed dryly, binoculars trained on the group of horses milling on the far side of the racetrack and the trainer giving instructions to the jockeys. “She’s about to send them off.”

  Side by side they watched a trio of thoroughbreds set off on their training run, tracking their progress through the whispery threads of mist that curled up from the thick, damp turf.

  “Glad to hear you came to your senses,” Rafe said after several seconds.