by Margaret Way
"I suppose we could put a stop to it," Frances said very slowly, not meeting her son's dismayed eyes.
"I'll ignore that, Mother. Grandfather might be on his deathbed but I'd never underestimate him or his faculties, or even think of perhaps hurrying things along. His nurse rarely leaves his side."
"As if I couldn't handle that woman." Frances thrust a hand through her dark hair, which she continued to wear in a perfect side-parted pageboy. "You're the one underestimating the urgency-"
"Of what?"
Brock startled them greatly by suddenly appearing in the room. A tiger couldn't have trodden more noiselessly, Philip thought, wondering how much his cousin had heard.
As it happened, nothing save the last remark. But Brock caught a flicker of something like fear in Frances's dark eyes.
She smiled icily. "You should pay more attention to your manners, Brock. You never did have any. This is a private conversation."
"Obviously about Grandfather." Brock barely concealed his contempt for her. His mother's enemy.
Philip glared at him. "Grandfather, is he now? He was always the old man or Kingsley."
"Careful of what you say, Phil," Brock drawled, fixing his shining gaze on his cousin. "In fact, you ought to be careful about everything."
"I... don't know what you mean."
"Of course you do," Brock replied dangerously.
Frances shifted her chair out of a strong ray of sunlight that fell into Rex Kingsley's huge dark-panelled study, with its scores of books, mostly non-fiction, filling the shelves from floor to ceiling, its pageantry of blue ribbons for prizewinning stock, gleaming trophies, the collector's treasure trove of guns in a locked glass-fronted cabinet.
"What is it you want, Brock?" she asked angrily.
"Don't bet ahead of yourself, Frances." he warned. "Actually, it's my business, not yours. But I don't mind if you know. I want the keys for the helicopter. I have a little trip in mind."
Philip, who had been sitting crouched in a rich claretcoloured leather armchair, shot to his feet. "Well, you darned well can't have it!" Colour rose alarmingly beneath his tanned skin.
"Dear me!" Brock glanced at his cousin as though he fully expected his reaction. "It's already been cleared with the old man."
"I don't believe this. Since when did you learn to fly a helicopter?" Philip made it sound insurmountably difficult.
"You think I'd try without a licence? It'd be safer to walk. Relax, Phil. I have notched up five thousand hours on a helicopter in Ireland. I regularly flew my boss and his friends and colleagues across to England and France."
"How clever you are, Brock," Frances sneered. There had never been anything the boy couldn't do. Now he was a man. That meant big trouble. Brock was clever. He understood ambition even if he had got into the absurd habit of putting his mother's wellbeing before his own. Now Catherine was gone and Brock's ambitions had free rein.
"This helicopter is a completely different machine," Philip muttered, taking a few -steps towards a long rack behind the massive partner's desk that held many bunches of keys, all clearly labelled.
"I can handle it," Brock said in a level voice, blocking his cousin's way. He was taller, heavier, superbly fit and looking it.
"So where are you taking it?" Philip challenged, giving in reluctantly, inevitably, as he always had with Brock.
"Over to Wybourne. I told Shelley I'd like to look in on her tourist operation."
"Shelley?" Philip almost yelled in a great surge of emotion. "Shelley's mine!" he insisted, like a petulant child.
"Wishful thinking, pal." Brock's tone was quiet, a touch contemptuous.
"Stop this now, Philip," Frances thundered, looking wrathfully at her son, who was standing there gritting his teeth. "The Logans are nobodies. Absolute nobodies. They tell me Paddy Logan has turned into a heavy drinker. The mother stays in her room all day, and the elder girl, Amanda, is little more than a slut. As for Shelley-"
"You can't sling any mud at Shelley!" Philip dared to give his mother a nakedly hostile stare. "She's beautiful. She's good and sweet and smart."
"I'd almost forgotten you had a decent streak in you, Phil." Brock gave his cousin a half-mocking, half sympathetic smile. "You're right about Shelley. She's it saint. In fact, she's damned near perfect."
"You keep your hands off her," Philip warned, hazel eyes flashing. "She's my girl. When the time comes I'm going to ask her to marry me."
"Over my dead body!" Frances cut in violently. "There's a huge gap between the Logans and us. All right, I apologise about Shelley, but she's the only member of her family one could invite to the house."
"God, Mother, you're such a snob!" Philip exclaimed, looking as if he was on the verge of crying.
"With no real basis for your snobbery," Brock said. "Aren't I right in thinking Grandfather believed Uncle Aaron married beneath him?"
Frances turned a bright shade of crimson. "How dare you, Brock? My family is perfectly respectable. I won't hear a word against them. I didn't shock them by running off with a penniless adventurer, like your precious mother."
"Of whom you were excessively jealous. How my father's memory has been tarnished," Brock said. "But he wasn't a Judas, which is more than I can truly say for you, Frances. Now, pleasantries over-you must excuse me." Brock reached out a long arm for the keys to the helicopter.
"You could have told me. I could have taken you," Philip said unexpectedly.
"Come, if you like."
Philip's face reflected his shock. "You're serious?"
"I never waste time saying things I don't mean." In fact it was Shelley who'd suggested it. Probably at pains to put him in his place, he thought with bleak amusement.
Frances closed her eyes as if in pain. When she opened them she glared at her son. "I forbid you to go, Philip. Your place is here. Grandfather could slip away in your absence."
"He'd better not," Brock said with the faintest touch of menace. "Grandfather won't go until he has straightened out his affairs. He's waiting for Gerald Maitland to arrive. Good old Gerald! The two of you still good friends, Frances?" Brock fixed her with cynical eyes.
Frances, already wary, was suddenly afraid of him. "I have no idea what you're getting at, Brock." But her olive skin had reddened. "I've known Gerald for many years. I was at his wife's funeral. She passed away almost two years ago." She stared back at him with loathing. "Philip will inherit. Make no mistake."
"Have you ever thought Phil mightn't want the job?" Brock asked. "Take time off to think about it, Frances. We'll be back late afternoon, I expect."
Brock set the chopper down on the large front lawn of the Wybourne homestead.
"You shouldn't have done that!" Philip remonstrated. "Mr Logan won't like it-not to mention the noise of the rotor! "
Brock, being Brock, ignored him. "Might wake him up," he replied harshly.
Amanda was waiting for them, waving prettily from the verandah, but her bright blue eyes were focused entirely on Brock.
Gosh, what a sexy walk, she thought, unable to take her eyes off him. A few steps behind was Philip, his slight stoop made more noticeable by comparison with his cousin's head up, shoulders back stance, and that lithe, cat-like coordination. She was pleased Philip had tagged along. Now he could team up with Shelley while she was free to concentrate on Brock, who appeared more gorgeous than ever.
With both young men now joining her, Amanda reached up and threw her arms effusively around Brock's neck, kissing his cheek as if they'd once been the greatest of friends.
"Welcome back, Brock! I'm absolutely thrilled you'vr come to visit." She spared Philip a sideways glance. "How's it going, Phil?" Phil always looked as if he w&, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. God, he was a bore! He always looked depressed.
"I've had better times. Grandfather is failing fast."
"I'm so sorry," said Amanda, managing to sound sympathetic when in fact she was busy thinking the sooner the better.
"Wher
e's Shelley?" Brock asked, wondering how he could prise Amanda's pretty white hand off his arm without actually detaching her fingers one by one. He glanced over his shoulder into the dim interior of the house. It didn't look cool. It looked gloomy. Or maybe that was the pervading atmosphere.
"She'll be here shortly," Amanda said, her pleasure going a little sour at the expression on Brock's face. "She's getting lunch ready." She indicated an area on the verandah with a long table set attractively for alfresco dining.
"Maybe you should go and help her?" Brock suggested with a mocking smile. "We'll sit here, if we may." He moved back to a planter's chair. "Are we to have the pleasure of saying hello to your father and mother? It's a very long time since I've seen them."
"Actually, Brock, Dad has taken Mum into Koomera Crossing," Amanda lied, like a true professional. Which in many ways she was. Her father had a serious hangover he would surely die of cirrhosis of the liver-and her mother was too darn neurotic to make an appearance. "Mum has an appointment with Dr Sarah. They'll stay overnight at the pub."
"Maybe next time," Brock said, his keen antennae sensing he wasn't being given the truth.
Some fragrance floated past him, like a burst of orange blossom. He turned his head expectantly as Shelley found her way out onto the verandah.
"Sorry I wasn't here to greet you!" She tried to suppress her excitement, flashing a smile at both cousins, her smile impartial She thought it best to keep her attraction to Brock well hidden for a good number of reasons-including selfpreservation. She didn't want to make trouble for him either, especially not now, when his grandfather was dying and there was so much resentment at Mulgaree. "I heard the chopper."
"Who wouldn't?" Philip grumbled, putting a possessive hand on her arm. "I'm sorry. I told Brock not to land (here." He made it sound as if Brock was a rank amateur. "Thank goodness your father and mother aren't at home."
"Actually, it's a good idea," Shelley answered, avoiding having to repeat the lie. "It's foolish to land too far away. You always have too big a hike to the house, Philip. It's not as though we don't have plenty of room."
She gestured to the great open space in front of the homestead, the broad acres of grass, sun-scorched to a bright apricot, a scattering of majestic date palms, stands of grey and blue gum trees, blazing shrubbery that could withstand the dry heat and massive indifference. It was now hard to believe that her mother, in the early days of her marriage, had been devoted to the task of keeping a large area of dry climate garden and a vegetable patch alive.
"We didn't want to put you to the trouble of making lunch." Brock looked straight into Shelley's emerald eyes, pinning her in place.
What was happening with this girl was too swift, he thought with sudden disquiet. He had a powerful impulse to kiss her again. Not her cheek, but her mouth. He could still feel it trembling under his. Shelley Logan's effect on him was far more radical than he could allow. He'd long trained himself to be self-sufficient, but now he found the sight ul this little Outback girl as fascinating as finding a delicately petalled wildflower in a rock crevice.
She wore a pink shirt with tiny pearly buttons over hey jeans, and if anyone thought a redhead shouldn't wear pink they should think again-or maybe Shelley's beautiful skin changed the rules.
"It's no trouble at all." Shelley appeared bright anal friendly, despite the turbulent feelings that were sweeping through her. Fronting up to Brock again took every ounce of her poise and self-confidence. "It's all ready."
"Isn't there something I can do to help?" Brock enquired. Why the heck had he brought Philip? he asked him self angrily. Unless to protect her... From himself.
He wasn't a harmless kind of guy. There was such a torrent dammed up inside him that it wouldn't make life easy for any woman, let alone an innocent like Shelley.
Philip pushed away from the wrought-iron balustrade. "Let me," he said eagerly. "You stay here and talk to Amanda."
"We'll have plenty of time for that." Brock took charge, smoothly turning Shelley in the direction of the hall. "I came over to talk about this Outback Adventures operation, remember? Who knows? I might decide to run one myself."
Amanda, offended, nevertheless decided to follow. Only Philip, hot and thirsty, chose that precise moment to request a drink. He could see a big glass jug, frosty with condensation, which he knew would be full of Shelley's excellent home-made lemonade, with slices of lemon floating in it and tiny sprigs of mint.
"So, Amanda, what have you been doing with yourself since I saw you last?" he asked, with a determined effort to be sociable though he didn't like Amanda at all.
He settled his long length into a planter's chair, moving another companionably closer. Was there nothing he could do to beat Brock to the jump? Brock not only didn't obey the rules, he didn't even know them. His grandfather behaved in the same way...
In the kitchen, bright and attractive given the dullness and relative sparseness of the rest of the house, Brock leaned against the sink and watched Shelley moving about. She didn't appear the least bit self-conscious under his gaze. Those blazing kisses might never have happened.
But then he saw her outstretched hand faintly tremble. Deep inside her she was throwing out a challenge. He admired that. She moved swiftly and gracefully, at ease if not with him with what she was doing.
"That was an excuse, wasn't it?" she asked, looking up at him. "You don't want to know about my tourist scheme?"
He shook his head. "Of course I do. I respect resourceful people who know how to make a go of things."
"But you've absolutely no intention of doing something like it yourself?"
He eased away from the flood of sunlight coming in the large window. Sunlight that drew plum-coloured highlights from his raven hair. "I wouldn't have the time. Running the Kingsley empire will be a full-time job."
"Are things already determined?" she asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Has your grandfather said something positive to you?" In her urgency she came so close to him they were almost touching.
"None of your business, Miss Shelley."
"I'm sorry." She flushed under his brilliant gaze.
A long lock of her beautiful hair had fallen out of its upswept arrangement, provoking him to reach out and hook it behind her ear. For all her attempts at calmness and detachment he was very conscious that the attraction between them would take very little to ignite. His hand, tanned and bronzed against her white skin, brushed her cheek. It was a brief almost accidental contact that turned suddenly electric.
"Remember your vows." Suddenly challenge sparkled out of her green eyes.
"Damned near impossible around you," he grunted, clamping down on a rush of desire.
"I can see you're a man who loves women.
"I certainly loved my mother."
"I know, Brock." She turned away.
"I think you do. The thing is, my grandfather is not a man I can trust, Shelley. He's a devil, a twister and a tormentor. He's a man living in a world of his own making. The only thing I can trust is the fact he wouldn't want his world destroyed."
"That doesn't say much for poor Philip." Sympathy gathered around her eyes.
"I guess it doesn't." Brock gave her a brooding stare.
"He's worked so hard. Suffered so much humiliation at his grandfather's hands. I know what straining to please is like."
"Stop acting like Philip is precious to you," he said with a decided edge.
"What can it possibly mean to you, Brock? Anyone would feel sorry for him."
"Not me, Shelley girl."
"Then why did you bring him?" she asked, thoroughly puzzled. "I know I suggested it, but I didn't think you would."
"Are you disappointed or pleased?" He watched her, narrow-eyed. "Actually, I had no intention of asking him right up until the last minute. But strategy dictated I keep him right under my nose."
"Strategy?" For some reason she winced. "Of course you'd have a strategy. In a way you're almost as imp
erious as your grandfather."
A flash like lightning came from his remarkable eyes. "Don't say that, even in fun. For your information, I hardly make a move without a strategy, so don't go judging me."
She was unrepentant. "Far from judging you, I'm on your side. At least, I think I am. Though obviously you're not overwhelmingly friendly today, I don't want to see you get hurt or cause hurt, Brock. Which I know you're capable of. Like exacting revenge, for instance, for the way you and your mother were treated. It might rebound on you. Eat away at your soul. Besides, Philip's not the problem. He's very much influenced by his mother."