Francey took everything in as she joined Les by the water’s edge. The moonlight cast a silver beam across the water’s surface, the reeds were being rustled by a slight breeze and at the other end of the billabong a mist had begun to rise off the water. It looked primeval yet serene.
“There’s a legend about this billabong.” He chuckled under his breath. “I reckon there’s some kind of story about every billabong in existence.” He could see that she was waiting for him to continue. “There were two Aboriginal lovers. Jenna was married to an old man, a tribal elder called Marrani, but she had fallen in love with a young warrior named Yarramong, who came from another tribe. They used to meet at this billabong. One night the old man followed Jenna and found them together. He stabbed the young man to death and threw his body in the water.
“Look,” he pointed to the thickening mist, “see how the top layer of the mist has a pinkish tinge to it. That’s supposedly his blood. The young wife was distraught and so the story goes, she took her revenge on Marrani by slowly poisoning him.”
Francey thought there was probably a scientific explanation for the pink mist but she went along with him. “That’s sad.” She watched the mist thicken and the pink colour become more noticeable. Suddenly she shivered and wrapped her jacket tighter to her.
Les noticed the gesture and casually draped his arm around her shoulders. “That’s not the end of it. You see, Jenna was with child, Yarramong’s child. Her tribe thought the son she had was the old man’s and welcomed him into the tribe. When he grew up, Pilaroi became the tribe’s greatest warrior and a tribal elder. But Jenna, feeling guilty about what she’d done to Marrani confessed to her son and instead of forgiving her he had her shunned — no-one in the tribe was allowed to talk or to help her. Legend has it that she returned to the billabong, where the spirit of Yarramong supposedly lived, and threw herself into the deepest part to be with him.
“None of the Aboriginals swim in this billabong. It’s deep in the middle and those who’ve swum across it, according to the legend, have felt icy fingers trying to pull them down.”
Francey looked up and shook her head at him. “That’s not a pleasant bedtime story. I’ll probably have nightmares about your billabong ghosts.”
He swivelled her body around to face him and stepped a little closer. “I can think of something more pleasant for you to dream about.” Slowly, so that she knew his intent, his head dipped to kiss her.
Les’s action took her by surprise. His kiss was pleasant if not toe curling or shattering but as soon as it ended she diplomatically extricated herself from his embrace.
“No apologies,” he said, his voice deeper than usual. “I’ve wanted to do that for some time.”
“Les, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. About us …”
“So far I haven’t got any idea,” he countered. “I’m fancy-free and you’re not engaged. We’re two adults who, I hope, find each other attractive. I’m happy to leave it at that and see where it leads.”
“I see.” The trouble was, and she didn’t quite know how to say it without hurting his feelings, that she wasn’t at all attracted to him. But she realised wisely that this wasn’t the time to tell him. Better to do it once they were back in the safer precincts of the Murrundi homestead.
The stood together for a few more minutes in compatible silence then Francey yawned. “Well, it’s bed for me. Goodnight.”
Les watched her walk back to the camp and climb into her sleeping bag. He wanted to chase after her, wanted to talk to her but he had sensed her withdrawal at his embrace and instinctively knew the timing wasn’t right. No matter, he was a patient man. He would court her subtly and he began to look forward to trips to Sydney — though he loathed the city — to entrench himself in her heart.
CHAPTER TEN
“It’s bloody marvellous. Magnificent! Just what I wanted. Congratulations.” CJ’s deep voice boomed across the glass walled conservatory to Francey Spinetti. The three sets of plans competing for his proposed conference centre were strewn across the table for all to see. Lisa Dupre and Shellie stood together, with Les and Francey on the other side.
Francey critically appraised the competition. The first competitor had striven for a very different, ultra modern, almost space-age look. The second had gone traditional — not overly imaginative. She studied her own plans and a flush of pride raced through her. They had been worth the extra time she had spent, the long hours worked into the night. Her design harmonised beautifully with the surrounding homestead and buildings of Murrundi Downs.
“Well done, Francey,” CJ enthused as he patted her on the back. “As always, it pays to get the best. What do you think, Les?”
Les was still studying the plan, shaking his head in admiration. How had she so cleverly managed to make the planned conference centre look almost like a carbon copy — but not quite — of the homestead itself? The roof line was similar, the building stood up off the ground with steel pillars and had a concrete slab base underneath. There were wide verandahs around the accommodation area, but the master stroke was the inclusion of a glass roofed courtyard garden and spa with several of the function rooms opening onto it. Underneath stood the kitchen and the staff facilities. It all blended well, and the coloured artist’s sketch, done by Francey herself, showed a good relationship between the conifers, the pool and the tennis court.
“I agree,” Les said in a slow drawl. “I don’t know how Francey managed it but it looks fabulous.”
“Sure does,” Lisa chipped in.
“You’ll note that I’ve stipulated in the specifications that materials used should be of the low maintenance type and that the use of solar panels will help to offset electricity costs,” Francey pointed out.
“How long will it take to build?” CJ asked. Full of enthusiasm, he wanted to start straightaway. He’d known instinctively, almost straight after he had met her that she’d come up with the goods. Not only was she a fine-looking woman but she had a good brain too. Soon he would put plan B into action and it helped to know that he had Aden Nicholson’s blessing. The man was astute when it came to business dealings. But more importantly, it would allow him to get the best architect — Francey Spinetti — for the job.
“Oh, between six to nine months, maybe longer. It depends on several factors. Weather, readiness of materials, labour. First, you’ll need to get a peg out survey and council permission. Then you’ll have to advertise for tenders. I suggest you try and get someone local, if you can. That way it should get built quicker.”
“Someone with intimate knowledge of building construction should supervise and coordinate the project,” Les suggested.
“It might,” Lisa ventured, unaware that Les was subtly suggesting Francey, “be something Pierre could do. He worked for a large construction company in Marseilles, before he came here. He knows a lot about building.”
“That sounds good, but surely the architect would make the best supervisor,” Les stated pointedly.
Francey laughed. “Aren’t you jumping the gun a bit? One step at a time. Survey, council approval, tenders. That’s usually the order of things.”
“Council approval’s a matter of form,” CJ said confidently. The mayor and half the other councillors owed him big time. “I’d like to think we could get a good deal of the project under way before the wet.”
“Which usually starts in November, right?”
“It starts when it starts,” Shellie advised cryptically. She liked this young architect and not just because she’d stood up for her against CJ. She could talk to Francey and had often bent her ear for half an hour or so while she’d worked away at her drawings. She also knew that Les liked her, a lot. That was interesting. Somehow she didn’t think Francey was Les’ type but time would tell. And she had, almost miraculously, mellowed her brother. CJ seemed more affable and less cantankerous and impatient when young Francey was around. He sought her out too, to ask her opinion on the odd business matter, even though sh
e had little experience in business. Funny, she had never seen him do that before, not with Richard or Natalie or herself. Somehow Francey seemed to have won a special respect and affection from him and she knew that CJ was a hard man who gave little of either lightly.
CJ gestured and Shellie poured champagne into the five glasses and handed them around. He held up his flute and made a toast. “To Francey. Congratulations. Your company has won the project design hands down. I hope your boss intends to give you a nice bonus for this.”
“Thank you,” Francey replied. She smiled modestly at CJ’s praise, then followed up with, “He’d better if he knows what’s good for him.”
“I suppose this means you’ll be heading back to Sydney soon?” Lisa said.
“‘Fraid so. I’m running out of excuses to stay on.” She looked at CJ. “I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you, CJ, in fact all of you for your hospitality. I have enjoyed my time at Murrundi and will treasure the memories.” She meant it. The weeks here had been enjoyable. It had not only widened her business horizons but allowed her to see a different way of life other than what she had experienced. Meredith and her mum, as well as her cousins Rosa and Daniella would stare goggle-eyed when she told them about roughing it on a muster and the other bits of exploring she had done.
CJ drained his glass. “Not so fast, my girl. You won’t be packing your bags yet. I want you to look something over at Cooktown. Come into the study and we’ll talk about it.”
So … Cooktown was on the agenda. Les smiled, satisfied as he watched CJ and Francey head off down the hallway to his study. Good. Very good.
Trish Pentano watched Natalie replace the phone receiver with a resounding bang. Her dark eyebrows lifted in apprehension as she followed the tall woman’s long, angry strides to the picture window from which an unparalleled view of the Brisbane River could be seen. While she contemplated whether to risk asking what was up, her gaze roamed about the luxurious penthouse apartment.
Off-white thick pile carpet, a sea-green leather lounge in a futuristic modern style, two white lacquered wall units and strategically placed ceramics, paintings and lithographs adorned the walls. It was like a miniature version of Natalie’s art galleries. She thought of her own modest one bedroom unit — even though she spent more time here — with a touch of envy. The best of everything was Natalie’s motto. She had it all.
“What’s wrong?” Trish asked finally, as she was meant to. She joined Natalie by the window. “More trouble with your builder mate, Nick?” Natalie had told her that Nick had behaved like a lamb ever since their confrontation and that the new gallery at Port Douglas was almost finished. What else could it be?
Natalie remained silent but inside she was fuming. Myriad doubts and confusion bombarded her brain and her senses which caused her stomach to tighten up until it almost cramped. And she could feel another tension headache coming on. Something strange was going on at Murrundi Downs, she felt it deep within her and it had the potential to affect her personally.
“What is it?” Trish encouraged. Running her arm across her lover’s shoulders she gave her a hug. “Tell mamma, hey?”
Grey eyes that had darkened to slate turned on Trish. “You are not my mother,” she spat. She ran her right hand agitatedly through her short hair as she tried to control the black mood which threatened to engulf her. These moods were becoming more frequent of late, clouding her reason, altering her disposition. She had to fight hard to keep the darkness at bay. Stay calm. Think, Natalie, think. Breathe. The darkness began to lighten, the racing of her pulse eased and her breathing relaxed.
Seeing that Trish had moved away to regard her pensively, she pirouetted about and chameleon-like, gave her a brilliant smile. “Sorry, love, didn’t mean to snap.” She shook her head and her features lost their bleak, angry expression. Softened. “Sometimes … I…”
This wasn’t the first time Trish had witnessed Natalie’s mercurial mood changes. One minute light-hearted and laughing, the next, contorted with an unreasoning and unreasonable anger. “It’s all right, forget it. I’ve got to go down to the Courier Mail to pick up a cheque. We’re still on for the theatre tonight, aren’t we?”
Natalie looked at her blankly. “The theatre?” Then she remembered. “Yes, of course.”
“Good.” Trish picked up her jacket and headed for the door.
“I’ll be going back to Murrundi tomorrow. First flight to the Isa if I can get a seat.”
Astonished, Trish turned. “But the Whiteley exhibition. The Lord Mayor’s opening it tomorrow night. Surely you want to be there?”
Natalie shrugged as if it wasn’t important. “Hugh can manage, I’m sure. There’s something’s going on at Murrundi and I have to find out what it is.”
“What do you mean?”
“Francey Spinetti, the architect, she’s still there. The woman should have gone back to Sydney a week ago. I think something funny’s going on.” Seeing Trish’s uncomprehending look, she added with a meaningful lift of an eyebrow, “Between CJ and Francey. She’s pretty, in a foreign sort of way, and intelligent. CJ’s filthy rich and hasn’t looked at a woman since Mumsie died. He likes her. I’ve seen how he looks at her, how Les looks at her too,” she ran her tongue around her lips, “as if he could eat her right up. So, do you get my drift?”
“CJ and Francey!” Trish’s eyebrows lifted in turn. An item. She laughed nervously, then realised she shouldn’t. Oh God, Natalie in a black mood wasn’t to be underestimated or trifled with. She had seen her flashes of rage and cruelty first-hand, even been on the receiving end once or twice and had the scars to prove it. “There’s such an age difference, I can’t believe it.”
“I’m going to check things out. I’ll put an end to it if they’re having an affair.”
“Why not just let things run their course?”
Suddenly Natalie’s features twisted. “You fool!” she screamed, “what if he wants to marry her? Where does that leave me? On the outer, that’s where.” Stalking from the window to the lounge, she chewed furiously on her lower lip as her mind conjured up all types of scenarios. Francey walking down the aisle in white, maybe another child, a new heir. “I won’t allow it to happen, I … I won’t. I can’t.” She stared wild-eyed, almost trance-like at the other woman. “The Ambrose inheritance belongs to me. Me.”
Seeing that her lover was working herself into a frenzy again, Trish tried to calm her down. “Get a grip, love. What you have is a severe case of fertile imagination. Maybe Francey’s doing more work on the conference project, who knows? I’m sure your suspicions are unfounded.”
This time Natalie managed to get the panic under control and held the demons at bay. “Yes,” she said tight-lipped, “you’re probably right. Still, I’m going home to Murrundi to check the situation out, first thing tomorrow.”
Trish saw that it was useless to try and deal with her in this mood. “Okay, fine. I’ll see you tonight.” Shaking her head she reached for the door knob and exited the apartment.
Natalie barely registered that Trish had gone.
What could she do if it were so, if Francey and CJ were romantically involved? Her gaze narrowed on a ceramic vase displayed on a marble column. Her hands balled into fists and she forcibly uncoiled them, bringing them to rest on the back of the lounge. If her suspicions were found to be true the situation would have to be handled carefully. She didn’t want to get CJ offside. But there were ways.
A sly, contemplative smile spread across her face. She would concentrate on Francey, make it clear to her that she wasn’t wanted at Murrundi. She knew her type; warm-hearted, sensitive. Weak. Yes, she was sure she could convince Francey Spinetti that Sydney was a much happier, healthier place to be.
As he arrived at the Murrundi homestead Steve Parrish saw two bulldozers pushing mounds of earth on the other side of the row of conifers, levelling a huge area. CJ didn’t believe in wasting time. Typical of the man. Once he had something in his line of vision, whether it
be the acquisition of a company, a new project or the destruction of someone’s hard-earned reputation, he went straight for it — like a killer shark.
And she was still here. That was good news as far as he was concerned. He’d talked to Lisa Dupre the other day in town and learned that Francey was staying on to draw up a preliminary design for some newfangled resort project at Cooktown. He didn’t care what kept her here — he’d stopped pretending indifference — so long as he got to see her on whatever pretext he could think up.
As he got out of the police four-wheel drive he squinted against the morning sun. There she was, coming out of the stables. Dressed in faded blue jeans that clung almost indecently to her long, long legs, and a red figure-hugging skivvy, it covered her upper body but gave scant protection against the cool morning. She looked bloody marvellous.
“Good morning,” he tipped his hat to her.
Francey recognised the sergeant the moment she exited the barn. There was no way she could avoid him as she walked towards the homestead. But … why should she try to? If she could only understand why he made her feel uneasy and protected at the same time. Perhaps it was the job thing, or could it be the sheer, intimidating size of him? Or, if she were totally honest with herself, was it because she found him strangely attractive? more so than Les, more so than Aden. Though why that should faze her now that she was almost over Bryan confounded her too.
“Hi, Sergeant. Lovely day.”
“Bit cool, Francey. Nice for a change. Grapevine told me that CJ chose your design. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” She groaned mentally as the telltale flush of pleasure spread through her cheeks and continued on through her body all the way down to her toes.
Steve laboured desperately to keep the conversation going. “You’re staying on, I believe. Doing another project for CJ. You must have an easygoing boss.”
Francey found herself laughing. “Gee, it’s hard to keep a secret around here.”
Heart of the Outback Page 17