by Margaret Way
I’m in control, Trevelyan castigated himself sternly. For now.
He barely knew this woman. He was not at all sure of her or her motivations. He couldn’t think of a time his instincts had misled him. The confounding thing was—and it came like a revelation to him—he actually wanted this woman. He had wanted her at first sight. He wanted to make love to her, to feel her passionate response. He knew she had passion in her. Hadn’t she pierced his armour without even trying? Liane even at the beginning, the best time of their relationship, hadn’t even come close.
The conclusion: he had to keep a tight rein on himself or the devil take him. Chances were she was deliberately doing a job on him with those alluring sea-green eyes. It certainly felt like it. And it was much, much too quick. Much, much too soon.
He had to play it above and beyond safe.
He let go of her, feeling almost totally back in control.
Genevieve, thoroughly unnerved, was shifting her weight from one foot to the other, holding the hard hat in her hand. You didn’t get to choose the man who aroused your deepest, most powerful emotions, she thought. It just happened. In this case disturbingly out of the blue. With Catherine so much on her mind, a statistic came to her. In most countries of the world two out of three crimes were crimes of passion, jealousy the motivating factor. She had clear evidence Liane Rawleigh was a vengeful woman.
Who was the woman who had hated Catherine?
“You’re sure you’re all right?” he questioned with a frown, not about to be lured into touching her.
Genevieve snapped back to reality. “I’m fine.” She didn’t look at him. It was much safer that way. “Why haven’t you told off Zimraan?” she asked. “The gelding was the one who propped. A horse recognises a good dressing-down as much as I do.”
“The horse wasn’t at fault,” he said, acknowledging that his anger had been a result of fright.
It was a long time since he had thought of Catherine Lytton, but for reasons he couldn’t understand she was now like a shadow, passing through his line of vision. There were no known photographs of her, but he had learned she was very beautiful. Like this woman, who had the power to slow his breath. He had intuited she hadn’t come here solely to work. Work had been a key handed to her to gain entry. There was too much going on with and about her. She had come to unearth Djangala’s secrets.
Could she possibly have some connection to Catherine Lytton? Catherine had died tragically not all that far from here. It wasn’t unknown for the ledges of escarpments to suddenly crumble. One couldn’t survive stepping off a cliff. Oddly, the fingers of his hands were tingling—as if exposed to extreme cold, not the desert’s baking heat. So was the nape of his neck. It was like a moment outside time.
He pressed on, stopping Genevieve’s progress with a firm hand on her shoulder, fanning out his fingers. Her shirt was at least a size too big for her, hiding her breasts. The fabric bunched beneath his hand. “Who are you?”
His voice cracked like a whip. Genevieve whirled in shock, lifting startled green eyes. “What an extraordinary question!”
“So why are you taking in gulps of air?” He held her gaze for the longest time. This man used to far horizons.
“Because you’re frightening me.” It was the absolute truth.
The air around them was so heated it all but caught fire. “Could that be because I want to know your game?” he asked, with a decided edge.
“You have no cause whatever to believe there is one.” His tall shadow fell over her. She was starting to lose her temper. God knew he was deliberately provoking her.
“I’m someone who has faith in his gut feelings.”
He spoke quietly, yet his tone rather scared her. This was Trevelyan. He could have her off the station in less than a day.
“They’ve never let me down.”
“Really?” She was straying dangerously, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. Tension was in her body language. And his.
He was still holding her in his searing gaze. “It could help to establish one thing. You’re here to ghostwrite Hester’s book. Is that correct?”
“Of course it is!” She couldn’t look away even as she wanted to. She felt violently pinned—yet he wasn’t even touching her except with his eyes. She had never known a gaze so intimate. She felt naked. Exposed.
“So why don’t I think that’s the exact truth?”
“Surely it’s truth enough?” she retorted. “I come with excellent references.”
“I know that.” He shrugged off the excellent references as of no account. “I’ve seen them. But please don’t underestimate me, Ms Grenville.”
She couldn’t hold back a provocative laugh. “As if I’d dare.”
“It’s risky, but you would.” There was no answering gleam of humour in his eyes. “There’s something else going on, isn’t there, Genevieve? A hidden agenda? You can’t or won’t tell me because it could demolish your cover.”
It was hard to think straight with him looming over her. Dominated was how he made her feel. Very female. She would hate to have him as an enemy. “Gosh, anyone would think I was a spy,” she said, with more than a hint of sarcasm.
“Given sufficient motivation you’d make a good one,” he clipped out. “You really should have let me know you’re an expert rider, as opposed to competent. That was quite a performance. I loved the winning jockey bit. And you know exactly how to roll in a fall. You know how to get up and get back in the saddle. You can gallop like the wind even when controlling a horse that’s actually too big for you. We’ll have to change that.”
“Oh, no!” She didn’t want that.
“Oh, yes. You come to us hiding behind very unbecoming and quite unnecessary glasses. The clothes you wear—purposefully selected—are downright dull. One could weep for that. And I have to say they’re too big. Even your hair!” His hand shot out unexpectedly to catch one long thick shining strand that had escaped the schoolmarmish bun she effected. He held it over his hand, seeing how it flashed copper and rose-gold in the sunlight. “With a mane like that any other woman would have her crowning glory on show,” he commented, giving the escaped lock a slight tug before twisting it back into the mass of her hair.
It seemed to her that her whole body rose to his hand. “I’m delighted you approve of my hair, at least. On the other hand Ms Trevelyan doesn’t much like carrot-tops. I might well have missed the job had I flaunted a fiery mane. Is that so hard to understand?”
He gave her that half-smile that lifted her heart. “The short answer is yes.”
“I don’t see why. I’m in no way preoccupied with my appearance.” Which was true. “I’m modest.”
Mockery flared across his stunning face. “So you claimed once before. We both know it’s not true. You can’t turn beauty into something bland, Genevieve, however much you try. You thought there was a cleverness to it, perhaps?”
She looked away towards the horses, standing so quietly, their ears pricked as though they were listening in to their conversation. Then she returned her gaze to his. “I admit I wanted to fit in with Ms Trevelyan’s request for a sober young woman. I needed to be taken seriously—not to be perceived as someone looking for a husband.”
“So who have you left behind?” he asked, with such suddenness it shocked her. “I can’t help wondering.”
They were moving onto even more dangerous ground. “What would you say if I told you I have a broken engagement behind me? Like you.”
Stop, stop. You’re going way too far. Remember who he is.
Only she couldn’t stop. Strong emotion was pressing her into crossing swords with him.
“You might be just the right person to speak to about how to cope with the fall-out.”
A complex intimacy was binding them inexorably together. There wa
s more than a touch of sexual hostility to it: two people powerfully attracted, both knowing such attraction came at a price.
“Want to talk about it?” he invited, his tone sardonic and faintly acid.
“No more than you do. Let’s say the past is the past. It’s a big gamble, handing over one’s heart.”
“Is that what you did?” He asked the question as if he really wanted to know.
She sighed, dropped her shoulders. “That question has begun to nag at me. Did I or did I not hand over my heart?”
From her reaction it was painfully clear to Trevelyan the answer was a resounding no.
“Is that what you did?” It emerged like a direct challenge, though instinct had warned her against it. She wanted to rattle him. Shake him up as he was disturbing her. It was truly a thrill, stepping close to the edge. And there was that other thing: the change of manner was undermining her role.
Proof of that came like a great crested wave. “Why don’t we put paid to all those nagging questions?” he suggested, his brilliant eyes hooded.
Time slowed to a halt. Years might have passed as she stood there, like a woman who knew something momentous was about to happen.
It did. The wave rolled slowly and powerfully over her. Once it entered the bloodstream sexual desire drove out all rational thought. She knew a fleeting moment of alarm. Her hard hat rolled out of her nerveless hands onto the fiery sand.
When his kiss came there was no gentleness, no tenderness, not even a glimmer of it. Only hard evidence of a man’s hunger. Was this ecstasy or despair? Somewhere in between? Genevieve was beyond such reflection. She was somewhere up in the stars. Yet this could be the start of yet another catastrophe. History repeated itself endlessly. Humanity couldn’t seem to learn.
All the while Genevieve didn’t utter a single word of protest. One of his strong hands encircled her nape, drawing her close into him. The other took hold of her around her waist. Her body had ceded control with frightening ease. She might as well have saluted him for his victory. She hadn’t thrown herself at him. He had taken her.
When Trevelyan finally released her, her heart was thudding and her blood was roaring through her body. She felt pure jewelled sunlight on her face and in her head; she inhaled the clean male scent of him, felt the hard muscular contours of his body, his arousal. She had let herself go, swept away by the great crested wave. Now she felt tormented by wildly conflicting emotions, and beyond and above all that a sense of tremendous liberation. Gone for ever was all thought of Mark and his betrayal. Nothing in their shared experience had been anything remotely like this. She did, in fact, put a hand to her fast-beating heart—as though it might break out of her chest.
Neither of them spoke. They were both quiet, both knowing they had surrendered to an explosive passion. Time now to think.
He retained a light hold on her shoulder, sensing without words that she was so dizzy she thought she might fall.
He was the first one to speak, releasing a hard exhalation and looking out over her head. “We have to think of that as an answer of sorts, I guess. But surely there’s a measure of comfort in knowing you can move on? What was your fiancé’s name?”
“I’m darned if I can remember!” She managed a wry flash of humour. “What about you?”
He turned her face up for a moment. “I could almost wish I trusted you, Genevieve.”
“You don’t?”
“Still waters run deep. Your emotions run deep. For God’s sake give up the disguise. I don’t like it.” He bent to retrieve her hard hat, passing it back to her. “Put it on.”
“Yes, sir!” she answered with mockery. “Maybe it’s a good thing you don’t trust me. Though why you entertain notions I’m concealing something, I don’t know.”
He considered that for a moment. “Now, that, Ms Grenville is a deliberate lie. You are concealing something and sooner rather than later I’m going to find out. In the meantime we’ve got a bit of a problem.”
“Which is?” She looked questioningly at him, though the urgent clamouring in her blood had scarcely abated. Every muscle in her body, every nerve-ending, was drawn taut.
“Chemistry,” he offered simply. “From a single kiss anyone would think we were both starved of love. I feel we should look on it as an experiment, like we did at school. You need the right ingredients to achieve a reaction, but only if you have the—”
“Catalyst?” she supplied. “You’re saying that kiss was a catalyst?”
“You put your finger right on it.” He was back to mocking. “But don’t worry, Genevieve, I’m a man with an armoured heart.”
“Good to hear. That makes two of us,” she responded with asperity. “I’m not contemplating let alone hoping for a repeat experiment.”
“Very wise,” he answered. “And now that we’ve settled that small matter, I have many things to do.” He was all business. “Think you can find your way back to the home compound without resorting to a wild gallop?”
She put a hand over her palpitating heart. “You have my word,” she promised coolly.
CHAPTER SIX
INCREDIBLY Genevieve was finding her way through the masses and masses of material Ms Trevelyan had provided. Hester crept up on her from time to time, silent as a ghost in her ballet shoes. No doubt such visitations were to check on progress or, better yet, catch her out. Sometimes Genevieve thought that was what Hester really came for. To catch her out. Maybe send her packing. Only she couldn’t. Then again, Hester wouldn’t consider she had to abide by such things as contracts. Hester wasn’t what one could call a comfortable person. In her heyday she would have been capable of just about anything, Genevieve thought. Which was monstrous, really, if Hester were innocent of any wrongdoing.
But she wasn’t.
Unspoken words hung on the air.
The dynamic Trevelyan, that god among men, had flown off to check on Djangala’s outstations. Pleasure-loving Derryl had had his friends fly in for a long weekend. Ideal with his brother away. Genevieve had sighted but not been introduced to a good-looking young couple she’d learned from Nori were recently married; the leggy blonde—Derryl preferred blondes—was his copine du jour.
Early breakfast was therefore on her agenda. She had to be up and away before Derryl’s guests sauntered in. She lunched at the outdoor seating area, with the white marble Buddha for company, and had dinner in her room, brought up and taken away by one of Nori’s housegirls. She was getting to know their names. She liked to use names. It was friendly, and the girls had lovely, unusual aboriginal names.
Some of the original letters and records were damaged to the point they were illegible, but she had reams of material to go on. She was finding the history of the Trevelyans in their adopted country so fascinating it was hard to break away from her desk. But Catherine’s story—her all-important reason for being on Djangala—continued to colour her every thought and mood.
She had believed Hester Trevelyan would be an endless source of additional information, but Hester was leaving her to it. Genevieve had checked and double-checked all the old photographs, thinking one of Catherine with her friend Patricia—perhaps copies of the ones her grandmother had had in her possession—might come to light if only she looked long and hard enough. It was Catherine who sustained her all through the many long hours she sat poring over material.
Much would have to be rejected, but she had put a lot of what she considered necessary for inclusion to one side. If the book was to be a success, the Trevelyan story would have to make an impact. It would have to resonate with readers who didn’t want cold facts and figures. They wanted personal things, real-life stories, to admire, gasp and wonder at. The text would have to be embroidered with a lot of rich detail. Readers would want to know all about the famous personalities who had visited the historic sta
tion.
Maybe she could winkle out a passing mention of Catherine Lytton, who tragically had lost her life in a terrible accident on Djangala? Tragic as it was, that would titillate interest. Readers would want to hear about Trevelyan love stories, the happy and the not-so-happy marriages, the births and deaths, warts and all. Along with the best and clearest of the old photographs. They would want to become involved with and fascinated by Trevelyans as pioneers of the great Outback. Anyone who had ever played an important role had to be mentioned. Nothing truly relevant should be glossed over.
The problem was Hester Trevelyan was the gatekeeper of the family secrets.
This book was for Hester’s own ends. A lasting memorial?
Hester had known Catherine. Genevieve had learned Hester had been present on the station at the time of the accident. And Nori had many interesting things to offer. But Nori would know nothing about a tragedy so far back. Or would she? She could scarcely start throwing out hints. Nori, quite innocently, would speak of it to Trevelyan. But she certainly wouldn’t be asking Hester.
It upset her that Hester’s manner with the charming and dignified Nori was little short of bitterly sarcastic and rude. Genevieve knew she wouldn’t have been able to tolerate the imperious nineteenth-century duchess act for long. Most of the time Hester barely deigned to acknowledge Nori, but Nori, so highly regarded by Trevelyan, and more or less inured to such behaviour, combated Hester’s arrogance with a serenity quite marvellous to see.
There was so much drama about these people and their desert fortress. Inspiration had not simply stirred in her, it had gushed into full flow. She knew she could pack the most fascinating and salient aspects of Trevelyan lives between the covers of an interesting book. She already had an opening sentence. Opening sentences were important. They had to capture the reader’s interest.
What drove a man to the opposite end of the earth to found his own dynasty?
She would start with Richard Trevelyan, naturally. He must have been quite a man to quit his native Cornwall and set sail for the oldest continent on earth, half a world away, vast, empty, and so very strange. And she would be learning a great deal about Trevelyan’s grandfather, Geraint Trevelyan, the man who had allegedly told Catherine he loved her when he was more or less promised to another woman—Catherine’s friend Patricia. The Trevelyans couldn’t escape Catherine, however hard they tried. Sooner or later Genevieve would get to the bottom of that tragic tale.