by Margaret Way
“I was jealous of you, Luke. You can’t possibly know how it was.” She sat back in her chair, pushing her freshly washed hair over her shoulders. “I could hear myself shouting but it was like a voice in the desert. Dad had such power over me and he used it. To my shame I have to admit I was terribly jealous. But you wouldn’t turn your back on me now? You wouldn’t leave me when I desperately need you?”
He stared into her black-fringed emerald eyes. “When my life to date has been Winding River? I’ll stay on until I can find someone to take my place. I’m not irreplaceable, Storm.”
She gave a little wry smile. “Dad seemed to think so and he would know. I’m not about to crawl even for you. I don’t want to insult you, either, but I have no idea what Dad was paying you.”
“Storm, darling, a lot,” he drawled, tossing off his wine.
“Knowing Dad you must have earned it,” she retorted, her heart jumping at the endearment even if it was sardonic. “I’ll pay more.” What was she doing talking about money? The mistress in the Big House! Without Luke she’d be lost in more ways than she could yet imagine or fully understand.
“Don’t let’s talk about this tonight,” he said.
“Why not?” She met the molten blueness of his eyes. “It diverts my mind when I’m full of grief and panic. Were you ever in love with Carla?” She had struggled not to ask that, but lost the battle.
“That’s my business,” he pointed out calmly, the light falling on his clean, chiselled facial bones.
But once started, she found it difficult to stop. “I thought it was all over. She says it’s not.”
“I thought your involvement with Alex was over?” he countered, preserving his cool front in an excess of strong emotion.
“It is but that doesn’t mean we’re not still friends.”
“The same goes for Carla and me.” He shrugged.
Restlessly she pushed her plate away, her heart labouring. “You’d better tell her that. She’s madly in love with you, Luke.”
He heard the combined note of worry and jealousy with a rush of pure joy. “You know I think you’re probably right but I made no promises to Carla.”
“You were lovers?” She put it to him too fervidly, betraying the extent of her own involvement.
“And you and Alex and the guy before him weren’t?” he asked dryly. “Don’t let’s get into an argument.”
She bit her lip, then shook her head. “Not me. I’m going to be good from now on.”
He reached over, caught her hand and lightly shook it. “Well then, you can try. We can’t go on as we did before. You know that, don’t you?” His voice was deep, quiet and steady. It carried great conviction.
Some of the great pain eased within her but she didn’t answer. Storm hadn’t yet learned to reveal her secret heart.
The wine made her drowsy; gave her a few hours heavy sleep. She awoke in the early hours, thinking she heard footsteps; her father’s heavy, uneven tread along the corridor before he retired for bed. She sat up quickly, for one long, dislocated moment thinking the last terrible week hadn’t really happened. It had all been a nightmare. If she got up now, opened her door and called to him, “Everything all right, Dad?” he would answer, “I’m fine, darling. Go back to bed.”
Except he would never speak to her again.
Storm found the bedside light switch, her breath ragged over the trip-hammering of her heart.
“Dear God!” she said aloud. It was neither a prayer nor an outpouring of despair. Perhaps a bit of both. The digital clock read 1:40 a.m. With trembling fingers she pushed back the top sheet and the light coverlet walking through to the ensuite and turning on the light. She was bone-white, her eyes bruised and shadowed. She turned on the cold water, splashed her face several times, patted it dry, drank a long glass of water, then began to retrace her steps. Chanting carried on the wind. She listened with a kind of wonder. The aboriginal people who moved freely across the station had organised their own wake. Athol McFarlane had always treated them so well and respected their culture.
It was a beautiful moonlight night but Storm was almost blind to it. She padded out onto the verandah listening to the mournful singing from the camps. It had stopped at some point but started up again. Death, the final crisis of the life cycle, was always associated with ritual, she thought. For the white man and the aboriginal. In the Dreamtime death wasn’t always inevitable, but someone in the beginning had taken the fatal step that set the precedent; like the story of Adam and Eve. Like her own people death, too, despite belief in an afterlife, was an extremely upsetting affair for the aboriginals. Athol McFarlane’s death had affected every last man, woman and child on the station and the news had been communicated far in the desert tribes. The mourning ritual had gone on for many hours of the burial day, but after the wailing a great stillness would fall over the bush. The chants weren’t only to accompany her father to the spirit world and see him safely settled, they were meant to give comfort to her. In a way they did but the mournful singing marked by clap sticks and sand drums added to her acute emotional distress. She found her heart breaking and breaking all over again. Grief would stay a long time in her veins.
Desperation carried her down the verandah to the large guest room where Luke was sleeping. There had been no talk of his returning to the bungalow. Storm hadn’t wanted to be alone; Luke was very upset himself, so it had been agreed without words that he would stay in the house.
She cared nothing for her flimsy attire, too distracted by her need for comfort. The only person in the world she could look to for comfort now was Luke. Luke had known her all her life. Her father had loved him like a son. Probably in ways she as a female could never have attained. At any rate, more than her. But Luke at this moment was her only salvation. He, too, had been dealt a terrible blow by her long-adored father’s death. So at the end a very complex but unbreakable bond held them fast.
Luke woke out of a fitful sleep to see her framed in the doorway.
For an instant he was blinded as if by an apparition. The radiant moonlight streamed through her long gauzy gown, delineating the lovely curves of her body, edging them in silver. Her wonderful glossy raven’s wing mane tumbled over her shoulders dishevelled by sleep. She was the absolute essence of woman, the beauty, the mystery, the boundless allure.
While he watched spellbound she called pleadingly. “Are you awake, Luke?”
He felt like saying he was immediately awake every time she came into his orbit.
“Storm, what’s wrong?” He got up very fast, the moon illuminating his lean, hard body, naked except for a pair of navy boxer shorts.
“I know it’s crazy, but I’m a little scared. I thought I heard Dad’s footsteps coming down the hall.”
He didn’t blame her. It was a very strange night and the chanting at the camp was so melancholy it could push anyone over the edge. “Your father would never hurt you,” he said gently. “It’s your overwrought mind playing tricks.”
“Oh, Luke,” she said. “I can’t believe he’s dead.”
“Do you want to go downstairs?” he asked, his blood running hot just looking at her.
“I want to stay here. Can I? I won’t bother you in any way.”
Her voice was as sweet as a little girl’s. My God, could she really believe that? But helpless tears glittered in her beautiful eyes.
“Sure.” He spoke with a kind of asexual comforting tone. “You take the bed. I’ll take the armchair over there. You’ll probably need your own pillows. I’ll go back and get them.” He went to move out onto the verandah but she plunged almost desperately past him into the room.
“I want you to put your arms around me. It’s wonderful sometimes to have a man by your side.”
He could have groaned aloud but he didn’t. “Hey, Storm, this is going far beyond our usual exchanges. I can handle them.”
“I’ve been awful to you all my life but I’m going to make it up to you. Carla even said she thought of us a
s almost brother and sister.”
“Yeah?” he rasped. “Carla was simply trying to fool herself and she’s no fool.”
“All right, I know it’s never been like that but you’re the only one I’ve got. I’m only going to lie down.” She turned towards the bed and slipped beneath the thin cover. “Look at it, it’s big. There’s plenty of room. I’ll be myself again tomorrow. Promise.”
To take advantage of her would be the ultimate betrayal. He knew he could never do it. To his utter horror he agreed. “Okay. You’re going to have to go off to sleep now because I have to make my usual pre-dawn start. No matter how terrible this week has been the work never stops.”
“You’ve made it endurable,” she whispered, as he moved onto the bed, lying down and tucking his arm beneath his head, his heart knocking so loudly against his chest surely she must hear it, but she turned her body towards him, a sorrowing child again, not a woman aware of her own extraordinary power. She lay barely covered by the thin sheet. He made extra sure he lay on top of it, though if it were an iron barrier, his body temperature would have melted it.
“Good night, Luke,” she said softly, lifting her head slightly and kissing his cheek. “You couldn’t be cruel to me if you tried.”
She wasn’t faking anything as another woman might have done. Not Storm though she was very seriously in need of him. His silence, however, contained grief, wonderment and the fiercest inflammable frustration that kept him very still, every muscle rigid with tension. He was a man like any other man. Not a superman. Didn’t she know anything might set him off? A slender arm flung across his chest in sleep? Her satiny face burrowing into his neck? The scent of her assailed his nostrils, full of so much allure, so much sexual intoxication, he made a near infinitesimal movement of withdrawal.
She stirred. “Oh, Luke, don’t pull away,” she begged, her heavy eyelashes already falling. Pull away? When he wanted to bind her so tightly she would never get away!
It took her two minutes to fall into a light sleep, her body relaxed, as though she knew even in her subconscious being with him kept her safe.
He loved her of course. He loved her fire. Her quick temper. He loved her in all her dimensions; the sweetness, the zest for life, her artistry. He loved her capacity for deep feeling. Her love of the land. He even loved the flashes of lightning that went off when they were on the verge of a huge argument. It was impossible to capture her yet here she was in his bed, sleeping on his shoulder, his arm going a little numb from supporting her head. It could fall off for love of her, he thought. Damn you, Storm!
Ten minutes later he dared to look down at her sleeping face. She was fast asleep now, lashes still. The room was almost stage lit bathed in moonlight. The deep V of her lace trimmed nightgown revealed the exquisite shape of her breasts. By this time he was feeling a little wild and he was a man who had long since learned tight self-control.
Time to move to the chair. But she seemed to feel his intentions even in her sleep. She flung out one arm just as he feared, turning her body further to be nearer his.
God, you’ve got to help me through this, Luke prayed. I’m a decent man. But I’m a man in love.
So appealed to, God heard. Eventually Luke slept.
Storm opened her eyes with a start, wondering briefly, wildly, where she was. The air hung with a pre-dawn silence that would soon be dispersed by the songs of a trillion birds. A soft, misty light was entering the bedroom, pearling down on her and a man’s long muscled back, the skin polished bronze, velvet in texture. He was turned so far away from her he was on the very edge of the bed. The head on the snowy pillow glowed like a dark flame.
Luke.
He looked utterly beautiful. A marvellous man. She’d been afraid of him for most of her life, so powerful were her feelings of coming second best. The mystery was how she had retained so much confidence in her personal worth. She and Luke hadn’t got on at all. She knew now it was because she’d always been in jealous competition for her father’s attention. It was her father’s doing; though he had been genuinely unaware he was causing such damage. The result was she had elected to take it out on Luke. Himself a victim of tragic circumstances.
Desire such as she had never known spiralled in her. Up…up…making her feel light-headed. She wanted to stroke him, so badly she couldn’t control it. Her fingers reached out, feathering along his skin. It seemed like some kind of miracle—he was here with her until she recalled she had begged him to stay in case her grief and sense of dislocation carried her away.
“Luke…”
She held her breath, her fingers deepening the pressure, so she was caressing his warm flesh.
He came awake at once, slicking his hair back with his hand. He turned towards her, with such a rush of joy it lit him up like a torch. Such naked longing was in her beautiful green eyes he didn’t hesitate. He pulled her down to him with strong, powerful arms, pressing her to him. Blinding desire drove out any other consideration but having her. God hadn’t he imagined it? Too frequently. This was unstoppable.
“Luke—”
Just saying his name was a release. Her voice broke, but he muffled her murmurs with his mouth, kissing her so deeply and in such a fashion, she gasped once forbidden little endearments into his mouth, her fingernails digging into the bare skin of his back.
Inhibition vanished like puffs of sand on the desert wind. “I want you desperately,” he muttered, his voice half smothered by her cushioned lips. “Lord, don’t you know that?”
She tried to draw back a little, overwhelmed by the magic, her cheeks flushed with body heat. She stared into his taut face, her eyes enormous, dark green. “Make love to me, Luke,” she whispered. “I can’t fight you any more.” The haunting was over.
If only that were true! He wished it with all his heart, but doubt pursued him. He had lived through long years of rejection by this beautiful creature.
But she kissed him. A kiss that transcended his fears. The initiative entirely hers, the kiss lingered on with such bewitching seductiveness he felt the blood beat hot and heavy in his veins and pool in his loins. He would never forget the touch of her lips, the irresistible softness, the satiny texture. His hands moved compulsively in a great, primitive yearning to know her body, finding first the pearly mounds of her breasts, feeling the wild beating of her heart beneath his palm. Her nipples were tightly crushed berries, the electric tingling his fingers induced in her, transmitting itself to him.
To be with her was ecstasy. He felt as though he was drowning in a tumult of sensation. That in itself was a frightening thing. For him to give so much power to this woman. It was an enormous risk yet he was so violently aroused, in such a frenzy of intoxication; he was unable to resist the magnitude of the temptation. There was no past. Perhaps no future. He only knew there was the here and now.
She was reciprocating, her slender limbs spread and writhing in a high state of excitation as he went about exploring her body passionately, deliberately, intimately. She was perfect. Everything he had ever dreamed about. He would always have her…if only in his dreams.
Excitement mounted to a kind of rage. Delirium. He could hold back no longer, the hard trembling starting up in his arms. But he had brought her to the very peak of rapture so she was guiding him irresistibly into her body, her movements swelling, her rhythm matching his. He was taking her away; far into that enchanted world inhabited only by lovers.
The rising sun brightened the sky. Rosy light stole across the bed, bathing the beautiful, naked bodies curved and fused as one.
CHAPTER SIX
WONDERMENT shielded her from the worst of her grieving. The residual mists of magic clung to her through the morning and helped her rejoice in the celebration of life. After the dawn’s transforming experience she had fallen asleep, awakening long after Luke had left. She hadn’t had a chance to speak to him about how she wanted him to be in attendance at Robert Bloomfield’s visit. However, it had been agreed over supper the night before he
would greet the solicitor at the airstrip and drive him up to the house. Senior partner in the family firm of Bloomfield, Bloomfield and Merrick, Robert had been her father’s solicitor ever since she could remember. He would arrive in time for lunch. After that they would retire to her father’s study where Robert would read the will. Storm wanted Luke to be with her. Luke was sure to be a beneficiary. He had a right to be there and she would probably have some expert advice.
Storm felt certain of the will’s contents. Bequests to charities, extended family members, goddaughter, two godsons, lifelong employees, that sort of thing. Certainly Noni would receive something. Noni had been a wonderful support. But the bulk of her father’s estate, which had to be considerable—though she had no real knowledge of his affairs—would go to her as his only child. She had no great interest in becoming a very rich woman probably because she had been an heiress all her life. Privilege was part of her background, not that she didn’t thank God every day for it. She would continue the practice of family philanthropy. Get involved.
She went about the business of preparing lunch, dreaming a little, feeling guilty as though she had had no right to dream with her father so newly dead but the height of intimacy she and Luke had attained had given her strength. She set the table, three places, in the formal dining room, overlooking the rear garden with its groves of native trees, dense plantings of agapanthus and silver and grey foliaged plants all of which withstood the rigours of the Dry. A small pond fed by an underground spring was full of perfect water-lilies the colour of the sunrise. Tiny black native bees hung like clouds above the huge blooms drunk on the nectar. She could smell the heady perfume as it floated through the open windows.
The station was synonymous with water-lilies. They floated every billabong, every lagoon, their beautiful showy heads standing high above the water, the blue, the violet, the purple, the exquisite fragrant pinks and the hardy white with their deep golden centres. She stood for a moment staring out, a little awed by the depth of her feelings, wanting to protect them. They were so very new, so tender, like a newborn babe. Feelings only Luke had been able to call up so effortlessly.