Heart of the Outback

by Lynne Wilding

  The letter trailing in his hand, Aden rose from his desk and made his way to Francey’s office.

  “It seems that lately I’ve made a habit of bringing you good news,” he said as he entered and took up his usual position on the corner of her desk. “What do you know about CJ Ambrose?” he asked out of the blue.

  Francey blinked as her concentration disengaged from the floor plan of the multistorey office block on which she had been working. She swivelled away from the drawing board to look at him. “Ambrose?” She pursed her lips for maybe ten seconds, thinking. “He’s that Queensland man who franchised shoe stores.”

  Aden grinned and then shook his head. “Not quite. That’s R.M. Williams. CJ Ambrose is one of the wealthiest, most influential men in Queensland. Has huge cattle interests and —”

  “Oh, yes,” the penny dropped. “I remember. He’s into all sorts of things. A resort island, condominiums at Surfers Paradise, exports, foreign investments … Does business from his cattle station somewhere up north. I read about him in a recent edition of The Bulletin.”

  “Good girl!” his grin widened. “I’ve just talked to his CEO, Les Westcott. CJ wants you to tender a design for some sort of building for him. A mini conference centre on his property. Interested?”

  Francey blinked again, a habit she had when she was deep in thought and then, having taken it in, her eyes widened with delight. “Of course. Why me in particular?”

  “Publicity from the award, I guess. You’re the architectural flavour of the month. How are you placed, work-wise?”

  Blue-green eyes twinkled at him. “Well, if I work day and night for the next eight days or so I could clear most of my projects. Eddie, in the draughtsman’s pool, can do the basic section plans. But,” she added with a cheeky smile, “it means cutting out sleeping, eating, dates and all leisure time.” The corners of her mouth tucked in to control the smile as she saw his disconcerted expression. “Why? Is the Ambrose project urgent?”

  Aden’s shrugged his shoulders noncommittally. “As with our Mr Monroe, I’ve found it a wise policy not to keep excessively wealthy clients waiting. They’re used to first-class attention and get impatient if they don’t get it.” He studied her desk with its mess of rolled up plans, clients’ folders and architectural manuals. “Maybe we can lighten your load a bit.”

  Another multimillionaire. It seemed that the richer they were the more difficult they became. Then a thought came to her. “Where do I have to go?”

  “Les Westcott has offered to fly you up in Ambrose’s private jet. You’ll board at Mascot and be there in a couple of hours. Murrundi Downs station, Ambrose’s headquarters, is south-east of Mt Isa.”

  For a moment she was flattered by the unexpected attention, then she said, “That far! I’ve never been farther north than Dubbo.” She had an uncle, Guiseppe Favorito, on her mother’s side, who owned a cafe in the township. Twice a year Carlo and Lucia closed their fruit shop on Sunday and left before dawn to visit him. Guiseppe, a widower, was getting older and all his children had moved to the city and were increasingly busy with their own lives.

  Unlike most of her contemporaries, Francey hadn’t travelled or holidayed much since finishing university and getting a job with Nicholson, Drew and Carlyle. She had saved every dollar she could put her hands on until she had enough for a deposit on a modest one bedroom unit at Potts Point. Getting ahead career-wise and having the security her parents still strived for as they approached old age, drove her need.

  “Okay.” Aden handed over the faxed letter. “Read it. It’s self-explanatory as to what Ambrose wants. I’ll get you a copy of what we have on him in the VIP future customers file — my secretary’s brainchild of an idea. Hopefully the more you know about the man, the better you’ll deal with him.”

  “Good idea. Pity it didn’t work for Monroe though.”

  “Yes, well … there are exceptions.” He sighed. “It shouldn’t take you more than a few days, a week at the most, depending on how finicky Ambrose is.” His hand moved to the pile of folders. “Now, which projects can wait till you get back and which ones have to be dealt with expeditiously?” Then, in a softer tone he added, “There’s no way you’re getting out of tonight’s dinner date. Right?”

  “You’re the boss.” As she smiled she couldn’t control the touch of colour that warmed her cheeks. They’d been dating twice a week for a month now and it was delightful. No, Aden was delightful. But she conceded that she was the one continuing to hold back from taking the final step of moving into a full relationship with him. Damn Bryan Steinberg and the memories. When would she be free of him and the pain? She thanked God that Aden was a patient man; he hadn’t pressured her to sleep with him but she knew he wanted to, very much. What had her friend Meredith said once? That some women loved too much, and too deeply. She had wondered from time to time over the past few years whether she was such a woman. Contrarily, part of her hoped so, and part of her hoped not.

  Grey eyes followed the naked woman’s progress as she padded over the tiled floor of the Mirage suite. Of average height, she had a near perfect figure, nipped and curved in all the right places. Shoulder-length brown hair bobbed up and down as she walked, as did her firm up-tilting breasts. Bending and at the same time revealing perfect, round buttocks, the woman picked up a pile of discarded clothes. The response to the view was instantaneous. A heavy throb began low in the stomach and long, tapered fingers twitched in anticipation of caressing the woman’s bare skin and bringing her passion to fever pitch.

  “You’re up early,” Natalie said. She stifled a yawn as she plumped herself up on an extra pillow.

  “Thought I’d go for a jog, then maybe a swim, before it gets too hot,” Trish Pentano replied. Automatically she folded Natalie’s slacks over the chair.

  “You and your physical fitness program. You’re supposed to be on holiday.”

  Trish laughed. “I know.” She sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m not going to the gym for a two hour work-out, just a jog. For me that’s being indecently lazy.”

  Natalie moved forward and put both hands around Trish’s neck. She pulled her forward and kissed her, teasing Trish’s mouth with her tongue until she responded. At the same time one hand strayed to her breast to stroke and caress the softness, moulding and working the nipple until it hardened. In a whispering tone, Natalie coaxed, “Stay here. I’ll give you an indecent work-out and,” she laughed throatily, “you’ll enjoy it more than a jog around the hotel grounds. I promise.”

  Smiling at the offer, Trish’s hand reached up to trace the contours of Natalie’s sharp features and to run her fingers through her platinum hair. She moistened her lips with her tongue, knowing full well that it turned her lover on. “You always keep your promises, don’t you, love?”

  With surprising strength Natalie pulled an unresisting Trish onto the bed. “You know I do.”

  Half an hour later and mutually sated, both women lay on their backs, the sheet twisted around their limbs, their fingers lovingly entwined.

  In a voice still husky from lovemaking, Trish said, “You never got around to telling me how you went with that builder. Nick Pola … what’s his name?”

  “Nick Poladouris.”

  Yesterday Natalie had spent several hours inspecting the building renovations for her proposed art gallery. The work was going slower than expected, which didn’t please her. She wanted it finished so she could cash in on the coming high season. Nick, she’d decided, was on a deliberate go-slow to up the price. Thought he could get away with charging her the earth for materials and labour too. Well, she’d sorted him out.

  “We had an enlightening session. Nick gave me the grand tour. He pointed out how expensive everything had got, claimed that there was so much work around the tradesmen were being picky over the best jobs, and that’s why costs were escalating. Bastard! Had his greedy Greek eyes all over me too, mentally stripping me.” She chuckled. “Nick must have thought he had a chance because as he showed
me my office, he went for the grope. Pushed me up against the wall, hands all over me like a bloody octopus. He said he knew I wanted it and maybe we could do a deal on the costs.

  “I let him get steamed up then I returned the compliment and grabbed his balls. You should have seen his face.” The laugh that erupted from her was tinged with menace. “At first Nicky boy thought all his Christmases had come at once. You know, the man has no finesse — he wanted to do it there on the floor.” She watched Trish’s eyebrows flutter upwards in distaste. “No bloody way was that pencil dick of his getting anywhere near me. I put the squeeze on him. Literally. Ever seen a Greek tan pale? Little rivers of sweat began to run down his forehead.” Enjoying the memory she thought for a moment, “It’s interesting how the right kind of pressure on a certain part of a man’s anatomy can reduce him to a snivelling wreck. Then I told him what I wanted. That he wasn’t going to screw me physically or financially and he’d better think twice about the escalating costs.”

  “How did he take that?”

  “Nick wasn’t in any position to argue otherwise, believe me. As you know, I have very strong fingers. But, for backup I told him who my stepdaddy was — in case he’s the only man in Queensland who doesn’t know. I said CJ would be only too happy to send several of his more interesting friends — the type who make the mafia look like wimps — around to visit him.” She chuckled as she stroked Trish’s hair. “That made Nick go white as a ghost. And then I remembered CJ’s advice. I’d heard him once tell Richard that when your opponent’s down you don’t help him up, you kick him again to let him know who’s really the boss. So … after I kneed Nicky boy in the groin, I walked out.” Then she added in a mock solicitous tone, “Must call in today to see how he is, mustn’t we?”

  “You are deliciously wicked,” Trish said with some admiration.

  “Thank you. I’m just practising for when I run CJ’s empire.” Natalie stretched her long limbs and sat up. “I’m starving. Let’s drive to Mossman for breakfast. A little cafe there serves scrumptious apple muffins.”

  “Okay.” Trish sighed. “It’s a shame we only have two days here. I could stay a week.”

  “I agree.” Then Natalie had an idea. “Come back to Murrundi with me. CJ won’t mind. He likes my friends to visit. Livens the place up.”

  “Perhaps I could interview him?”

  “I don’t know,” Natalie mused, thinking out loud. “He’s a bit journo shy since The Bulletin did that job on him. Negative bastards. It took three months, but CJ managed to get the journo who wrote the piece fired.”

  Trish bit her lower lip. At thirty she was too street-smart to want to get on the wrong side of either Ambrose. “Perhaps not.”

  “CJ’s all enthused about building some cock-a-mammy conference centre at Murrundi. Says big business can come to him for a change. I can’t see the sense in the outlay myself but I guess he wants to play the big shot landowner. He’s had architects coming and going, one’s due up from Sydney. There might be a story in that.”

  “Maybe. Anyway, I’d love to see Murrundi. I’ve read about how your mother built and decorated the place.”

  Natalie quietened for a moment. Mention of Mumsie did that to her even after three years. She blinked back a threatening rush of tears and suddenly her voice took on an artificial brightness. “Good. I’ll phone Les. He’s taken a few days off to check out the Reef casino. I’ll ask him to make space for another passenger on the plane.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Francey stared at her plate and the huge breakfast her mother had placed before her. “Mamma, I can’t eat all this. I’ll feel like a stuffed sausage all day.”

  “Pah, a little stuffing wouldn’t do you any harm, you’re too skinny by far.” Lucia’s brown eyes took on a mischievous sheen, “Your boyfriend, Aden, he got to have something to grab onto, hasn’t he?”

  “He hasn’t complained so far,” Francey responded with a wink. “Besides, I’ll be driving most of the day. A big breakfast will sit like lead in my stomach.”

  “Va bene, va bene,” Lucia gave up. “Eat what you can. Your papà, he will finish the rest.”

  Carlo paused in his steady munching to look up from his plate. “I don’t like the idea that you drive all the way to Mt Isa. Such a long way, it’ll take you three to four days. Why you no take the plane like Aden suggested? It’s free, it’s quick.”

  “I considered it. Seriously. But then I thought, what an opportunity for me to see some of the country. Why, you and Mamma have seen more of Australia than I have. From Perth to Adelaide, then Melbourne before you settled in Sydney. By comparison I haven’t been anywhere. I’ll call in on Uncle Guiseppe on the way, and see places I’ve only read about. Bourke and Charleyville, Longreach and Cloncurry. All that country. Think of the photos I’ll be able to take.” Her VW beetle was already parked and ready to go at the front of the shop, loaded up with two suitcases, her cameras and film.

  “You and your photos. Mamma,” Carlo looked across the kitchen table to Lucia, “how did we manage to raise such a strong-willed, independent daughter? She will worry me into my grave.”

  “Aahh, Carlo, give it up. You know our Francesca will do what she wants, hasn’t she always?” She thought fleetingly about her university days and her buying that little flat up near the Cross. Yes, an independent miss was her Francesca. Then she remembered something else and slapped her hands together with glee. “Be happy that she has met a nice young man and that she seems to like him.”

  “He’s nice and he has money,” Carlo admitted, then he shook his head, “but he’s not Italian.”

  Francey had been waiting for that remark. “He’s part Italian, Papà. He had a maternal grandmother who was half-Italian, half-French. Her maiden name was Simonet.”

  Mollified by that information, Carlo muttered, “Si! I had my suspicions. Somehow I thought he might be. An Italian can always tell another Italian.”

  Mother and daughter nodded and exchanged glances but made no further comment.

  Carlo cleaned up the food on his plate and took some off Francey’s, finishing his meal in silence. After drinking his coffee he heaved himself up from the table and said, “I must open the shop. That Mrs Duchofsky likes to come early. Always she is my first customer.” He kissed Francey on the top of her mop of dark curls. “Have a safe journey, cara. Don’t take any risks on the road. And you show that big man, Mr CJ Ambrose how you can make him a wonderful building. Magnifico, sì?”

  “I’ll give it my best shot, Papà, you can count on it.”

  The drive would be long but she was looking forward to it. It was her first adventure. And then she recalled that Aden hadn’t been impressed when she’d asked for two weeks off, to cover the drive up and back, plus a few days at CJ’s property, Murrundi Downs. It meant she’d be away from the office longer than he wanted her to be but she reminded him that she hadn’t taken a holiday since starting work and, in her book, she was entitled to a reasonable break. Smiling to herself she recalled his put-out expression. He liked to think of himself as the boss, which he was, but sometimes it felt good to do the unexpected, just to see his reaction. When she had put forward her reason for wanting to drive all the way he’d had no choice but to acquiesce, grudgingly though. She sighed a little sigh. On her return it would be decision time as to which way their relationship went.

  The muscles in her body tightened and a warmth stole through her as she remembered last night’s passionate kisses. Being celibate for almost four years hadn’t bothered her because there hadn’t been a man she’d been attracted to. Till now. It was getting harder to say no and she didn’t really want to any more, but the fear of being hurt remained too strong to risk it. Yet.

  “I’ve made sandwiches and almond biscuits for you to put in your cooler,” Lucia said, bustling around the kitchen tidying things up.

  “Thanks, Mamma. I’d best make a start. ‘I’ll call you tonight from wherever I’ll be staying.’

  “Stay safe, cara
mia.”

  In the midmorning sunlight Steve Parrish watched waves of heat rise off the bitumen on Camooweal Street, one of the main roads through Mt Isa. Lounging comfortably against an awning upright, the position allowed him to passively patrol a long stretch of the road. A mixture of cars, trucks, utilities and station wagons were parallel parked on either side of the street. Shoppers moved sluggishly, chasing shady awnings, from shop to shop to get their supplies, talking to neighbours or simply walking about minding their own business. A pleasant rural scene. On the surface. But Steve Parrish’s eyes, honed by years of detection in the NSW Police Service, knew differently.

  It didn’t take undue observation on his part to spot the fact that Mrs Hitchener, who ran one of the takeaway shops at the northern end of town, had two black eyes — they showed because the woman refused to wear sunglasses. Which meant Bill Hitchener had visited the Buffalo Club last night and swallowed a gutful. The wife had probably chipped him and he’d laid a couple on her. And over on the other side of the street Sam Bianchini slyly ogled pretty Michelle Mason, the wife of one of the foremen at the Isa mine. Rumour had it that they were in the midst of a red-hot affair. Trouble brewing there — when Mason found out. Three male teenagers, dressed for school, were loitering outside a shop when they should have been in class. Most likely trying to decide whether they were brave enough to do a little shoplifting with him so close. He reckoned they wouldn’t. Didn’t have the stomach for the consequences, the little pricks. Yes, scratch the surface of any village, town or city anywhere and it was astounding what shone through. He could just about write a book on it.