Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

Copyright

“It’s seduction time?” Flynn inquired.

Perplexed, Danielle frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Nice try,” he said, stretching out a hand.

“I wouldn’t…”

“You wouldn’t try and seduce me into letting you write an article?” Flynn drawled.

“No!”

“You lust after me…”

“No,” Danielle vowed.

“Yes, you do. I lust after you, too.”

Danielle looked up at him with large uncertain eyes. “You do?”

ELIZABETH OLDFIELD’s writing career started as a teenage hobby, when she had articles published. However, on her marriage the creative instinct was diverted into the production of a daughter and son. A decade later, when her husband’s job took them to Singapore, she resumed writing and had her first romance novel accepted in 1982. Now hooked on the genre, she produces an average of three books a year. She and her family live in London, England and Elizabeth travels widely to authenticate the backgrounds in her books.

Imperfect Stranger
Elizabeth Oldfield

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

‘THERE are two seasons in the rainforest, the wet season and the wetter season,’ the tour guide said, as the cable ferry started off on its unhurried journey across the brown sun-gilded waters of the Daintree River. He chuckled at his own joke, then continued, ‘And, this being November, the wetter season’s about to start. Or, at least, it should be.’ Squinting up from beneath the brim of his bushranger hat, the young Australian surveyed the cloudless azure sky. ‘But it’s two years since the last prolonged spell of heavy rain and…’

As he launched into a soliloquy on the dangers which a continued drought would pose, Danielle’s concentration began to flicker and her eyes went beyond him, wandering idly over the small ferry and the people who had left the other ten or so vehicles to stand in the sunshine. Abruptly her gaze stopped. Focused. At the front of the boat, a tall, thirty-something man in sunglasses was leaning against a battered, dust-caked jeep. His arms were folded across his chest and he was looking pensively out along the river. With blue-black stubble which said he could not have shaved for the past two days, glossy dark hair curling over his collar, and clad in a navy polo shirt, well-worn jeans and scuffed desert boots, the man looked hard-bodied, strong, tough. Danielle’s pulse-rate broke into an involuntary canter. He oozed testosterone.

Riveted by his presence and by the command he had of his own quiet space, she assessed him intently and thoroughly. With high cheekbones, broad brow and a full sculpted mouth, he promised to be, not Greek-god handsome—a beaky shark’s fin of a nose excluded that—but an arresting-looking man. If only he would remove those dark glasses and allow her to see his eyes. A minute or two later, when he lifted a long-fingered hand, Danielle gazed at him in surprise. Her wish was about to be granted? Well, thank you, kind sir. But instead he swiped back the untidy swath of jet-black hair which fell over his brow and then, as if sensing himself under inspection, turned his head to look along the length of the ferry and fix his gaze pointedly on her.

Danielle swallowed. She felt the heat seep into her cheeks. His eyes might be masked, but the almost insolent shifting of the man’s stance—muscled arms leisurely refolded, long legs spread a little wider apartmade it clear that the look which emanated from behind the dark glasses was cool and direct and challenging. He knew she had been staring. Her brow puckered. After just one day in the balmy heat of Northern Queensland, she appeared to be going troppo! She was not in the habit of ogling strange men. On the contrary, strange men usually ogled her. In any case, rough diamonds were not her type; she preferred cultured, civilised, wellgroomed males.

Deciding that the best way to rescue herself from her embarrassment—and to make amends—would be to shine a quick smile, receive one in return, then turn away, Danielle wiggled the corners of her mouth. A moment of time ticked by, and another, but the man remained straight-faced. Her smile collapsed. Danielle felt flustered. When she smiled at members of the opposite sex she invariably elicited an identical—and a delighted—response, but the continued coolness of his stare made it plain that on this occasion she had misjudged and the recipient was not in the market for seduction. Her charm offensive had received the big chill.

Standing taller, Danielle gazed defiantly back. She was an independent, sophisticated and poised young woman, she told herself, and she refused to be flustered by some graceless hick. She refused to turn away. She refused to draw down her own sunglasses, which had been pushed on to the top of her blonde head, no matter how tempting it might be. She had been looking at him, but so what? As the saying went, a cat could look at a king or, more aptly in this case, a lady could look at a tramp, Danielle thought caustically. She was breaking no rules, committing no crime. Besides, for all he knew, he could have simply reminded her of someone.

Her chin lifted, Danielle stared into the impenetrable black depths of the man’s lenses. He had become an adversary and this was a battle, one which she intended to win. She would not be browbeaten. After what felt like ten minutes, but which common sense insisted could be no more than thirty seconds, doubts began to creep in. Why had she embarked on such a fatuous and juvenile course of action? Just what was she proving? She might be in a rebellious mood this morning, but to engage in optical warfare with a stranger ranked as bloodymindedness gone berserk. Danielle was desperately wondering how she could back off and keep some shred of dignity intact when her adversary straightened and, with an air of becoming bored with a pesky child, swung open the door of his jeep to vault athletically inside. As the door clanged shut behind him, Danielle balled her fists. He might have made an exit, yet it was she who had been dismissed

‘So, although you wouldn’t want it to rain while you’re here, the region is in dire need of water,’ she became aware of her companion saying beside her.

Danielle snapped back to attention. ‘Oh…yes,’ she replied brightly.

When she had drawn up at the tail-end of the queue of vehicles waiting to board the ferry, she had parked behind a minibus filled with Japanese holiday makers off on a day’s safari. As she had got out of the Land Rover to stretch her legs, so the driver had jumped out too, and started to talk. And once on the ferry, Phil—he had amiably introduced himself—had made a beeline for her and chatted again. Danielle shone him a dazzling smile. This fresh-faced young man would never be so impolite, nor so arrogant, as to give her the brush-off—unlike some, she thought darkly.

‘Which place are you booked into?’ Phil enquired, pushing his hands into the pockets of the khaki shorts which, with a khaki shirt and the badged hat, comprised his tour guide uniform.

‘The Fan Palms Lodge,’ she replied.

‘The accommodation’s a bit basic, but the staff are real matey. You’ll like it there,’ he declared.

‘I hope so,’ Danielle said.

A secretary at the newspaper she worked for had fixed the reservation, so all she knew was that the hotel featured wooden bungalows set amongst trees and was located several miles from the coast. But what did ‘a bit basic’ mean? she wondered, and felt a flutter of apprehension. Maybe it would be advisable not to ask.

‘You’ve got around a couple of hours’ drive through the rainforest,’ Phil went on. ‘Still, since last year all of the road to the Lodge has been sealed, so it’s easy travelling.’

Danielle cast a glance behind her at the hired Land Rover. ‘Good. What kind of people live in the rainforest?’ she enquired, deciding that this was an opportunity to start gathering a few snippets of local information.

Phil eased his hat back from his brow and grinned. There were times when the tourists’ endless questions bored him rigid, but he would be happy to talk to this girl on any subject she desired for hours. She was a beaut. Thick, shoulder-length corn-coloured hair which swung in a polished curtain when she moved, huge dark blue eyes, a dimpled smile. His gaze fell. And as for that body in the white and yellow striped top and short white skirt, and those deliciously long legs…

‘Well, obviously some folk are here because of the tourist trade: guys like me, motel employees and such,’ he said, dragging his thoughts back to a more mundane level, ‘but so far as residents go you get the odd writer, naturalist, film-maker, a painter or two.’

Danielle had decided that from now on the jeep and its occupant would be ignored, yet as Phil had spoken her gaze had slid in its direction. The driver’s window was wound down and she could see the man’s shoulder and his arm resting casually along the lower edge. His arm was firm-muscled and powerful, sprinkled with dark hairs which glinted in the sunshine. It reminded her of the kind of arm which, in days of old, would have brandished a cutlass or controlled the reins of a fast-galloping steed.

‘Painters?’ she muttered. ‘That’s interesting.’

‘There’re also some pretty weird types,’ Phil continued.

The man flexed his hand, drawing her gaze to his fingers. They were long, blunt-tipped fingers which promised to be competent and confident in whatever they did, whether it was planing wood or easing a hook from a fish or stroking a woman. Danielle hastily switched her gaze and her attention—her full attention-back her companion. One glimpse of an arm and she was winging off into flights of fantasy? She must be going troppo.

‘Weird?’ she queried.

‘Like hippies, down-and-outs, drop-outs. What we call the feral people.’

‘Why feral?’ Danielle asked curiously.

‘Because they exist on their dole cheques and go kind of wild. North of the Daintree is a great place for disappearing into and it’s reckoned that folk often come here because they’ve got a story in their background or they’re running away from something. Better get ready to go,’ Phil declared, with a nod at the concrete ramp on the riverbank which they were approaching and the ferryman who waited there. ‘Have a great stay and—’ he lifted hopeful brows ‘—who knows, we could meet again.’

‘Perhaps,’ she said, being deliberately vague, for liaisons, no matter how fleeting, were of no interest. She turned towards her Land Rover. “Bye.’

When the ferry docked a few minutes later, the dustcovered jeep was first off. As it accelerated up on to the road and disappeared into the thick wedge of trees, Danielle’s brow furrowed. His unshaven state and ramshackle vehicle indicated that the man was not a holiday maker, so could he be one of the drop-outs whom Phil had mentioned? It was possible, and yet she had perceived an inner steel and a sense of energy about him. As for being a down-and-out, that did not exactly fit either because his sunglasses had almost certainly been an expensive pair of latest model Ray-Bans. Danielle tapped out an impatient staccato on the steering-wheel. Forget theorising, she ordered herself. Forget Mr Macho. She had. She had. He might be one of the most physically compelling males she had ever seen, but she was damned if she would allow him to become mentally compelling too.

One by one the vehicles disembarked from the ferry, with Danielle bringing up the rear. Ahead, Phil tooted his horn in a cheery farewell and, as she gave an answering blast, the Land Rover’s engine cut out By the time she had managed to re-start it, she was alone.

North of the river the road was narrow, shaded by a spreading green canopy of gigantic trees, among which grew lush ferns, looping, twisting creepers and a myriad palms. At first, Danielle concentrated on driving and the possibility of oncoming traffic suddenly speeding at her from around the bends, but after a few miles when all she met was a single car, she settled down. Now there was time to think, and now she brooded on the reason for her rebellious mood—the pointlessness of her journey.

Danielle scowled. She had been despatched on what could be transparently and insultingly recognised as a wild-goose chase. Back in London, when she had been offered a three-month assignment working for The Hour, an Australian sister newspaper, she had jumped at the chance, but she had never imagined that a mere fortnight after arriving she would find herself deep in the remote, rural mañana world of tropical Queensland. Her fingers tightened around the steering-wheel. It was not fair. As an experienced political reporter—a damn good one, Danielle thought belligerently—her supposed role had been to add a more international flavour to The Hour’s political columns, but had Clive Bredhauer, the editor, acknowledged her skills and made use of them? No. Instead, on the day before she was to conduct her first interview with an Australian government minister, he had summoned her into his office, spouted some halfbaked tale about rumours of the clandestine growing of marijuana up north and ordered her to investigate. Like now. And no protests, please, poppet. So she had been forced to pass over the interview to a male windbag of a journalist with a noxious line in blue jokes, and fly more than fifteen hundred miles to what was called the Wilderness Coast. Wilderness! Danielle’s lip curled in disgust. She did not appreciate being banished to the back of beyond; she wanted to be in Melbourne where things happened. She ought to be there. She deserved to be there. It was her right to be there.

‘The last seizure of marijuana was over two years ago,’ the officer in charge had told her, when she had dutifully visited the local police station that morning. ‘Whispers of further stashes have floated around here ever since, but we’ve yet to find a single piece of evidence.’

Danielle’s dark blue eyes glittered. The obvious assumption was that harvesting of the drug had ceased, though if by some exceedingly long shot it had continued, any resultant story would not be political. The truth was that the editor had been getting rid of her, she thought resentfully. Ignoring her track record and the commendations which had accompanied her from London, he had decided that, because she was young, blonde and female, she lacked the gravitas to handle serious interviews. But his decision had been wrong.

‘Take your time looking into the story, poppet,’ the goatee-bearded Clive Bredhauer had said, with a benevolent smile. ‘Take up to three weeks if necessary.’

Danielle pushed a wing of glossy fair hair back behind one ear. As the editor had been so determined to get rid of her, ‘poppet’ had a good mind to do as he suggested and stay here for three weeks. That would show him! Her professionalism demanded that the first week must be devoted to making enquiries—futile ones, she thought acidly—but the subsequent fortnight could be more relaxed. Looking out through the windscreen at the lavish sun-dappled foliage, Danielle wrinkled her nose. For all its natural beauty, a World Heritage national park would not be her choice of holiday venue—she preferred more activity—but, if nothing else, she could get up late, swim a little, soak up the sun. After all, as James was constantly complaining, she dedicated far too much of her time and her energy to work.

James. Danielle’s expression became pensive. Her boyfriend had been one of the reasons—perhaps the reason—why she had accepted the Australian assignment with such alacrity. It had enabled her to get away, put space between them, and start to consider calmly and logically…

The rumbling of her stomach brought an end to her reverie. She was hungry. Peering at the watch strapped to her slim wrist, Danielle saw that it had gone one o’clock. The Port Douglas motel where she had stayed last night had provided a picnic lunch and it was high time she stopped to eat it. But where? On occasions the road had snaked close to the coast to give views of a spectacularly turquoise-blue sea and palm-fringed shores, though now it had curved inland back into the jungle. Should she wait in the hope of returning to the ocean and picnicking on a beach, yet how far on would that be?

A glimpse through the trees of water flowing over rocks thrust Danielle into snap decision. She would eat here, now. Off ahead a dirt track conveniently led down and, as she drew level, she swung abruptly on to it. Too abruptly, for the track proved to be a hard-baked, deceptively steep slope of peaks and deep ruts and the Land Rover rode them like a bucking bronco. Bounced violently up and down, airborne one second and her backside slamming hard on to the seat the next, Danielle made a desperate stab for the brake but stamped on the clutch instead.

‘Aarrghh!’ she screeched in alarm, as the vehicle shot forward in gathering, freewheeling speed.

Simultaneously struggling to steer and find the elusive pedal, she careered down the track like a cross-country rallyer gone mad. As the Land Rover hit a bonecrunching width of grey stones which edged the stream, Danielle caught sight of a movement, a blur, in the corner of her eye, but the next second she was charging into the water and, at last, her foot made contact with the brake.

With a protesting shriek of bodywork and a jolt the Land Rover halted; halted in the middle of what had once been a sizeable creek, but which was now, due to the lack of rain, reduced to a mercifully shallow stream. Her fingers shaking, Danielle switched off the ignition. For a moment her only awareness was of the frantic pounding of her heart and the ripple of the water, then she remembered that blur. It had been a figure, dangerously close to the vehicle. She went hot and cold. Gooseflesh prickled her skin. Had she hit whoever it was? Had she hurt them? Fractured their arms, legs, spine—killed them?

Scrabbling at the handle, Danielle wound down her window to lean out and peer fearfully back. Her brows soared. On the edge of the stream stood the tall, dark arrogant stranger from the ferry. Earlier she could willingly have throttled him, but now relief rushed over her. He was all in one piece.

CHAPTER TWO

‘SORRY about that,’ Danielle called, a touch offhandedly, for, while some apology for her dramatic appearance on the scene was necessary, she had no intention of grovelling to him.

‘So you damn well should be!’ the man hollered, and it registered that while the sunglasses might continue to conceal the expression in his eyes, every other part of him breathed pure, unadulterated fury.

Her relief vanished. His anger made it clear that she had done him some damage, caused him some harm. Danielle felt a spiralling, quaking panic. Just because he was standing upright and there were no visible signs of blood or broken bones, it did not mean…

‘What—what’s the matter?’ she faltered.

An olive-skinned arm sliced down the air, indicating a plastic carrier bag, buckled aluminum drink can and various other items of debris which lay scattered around. ‘You’ve flattened my bloody lunch!’

‘Your lunch?’ Danielle echoed, and was gripped by an immediate, acute and manic desire to giggle.

She had been terrified that she might have caused him grievous bodily injury, while he was hopping mad over what had probably been no more than a couple of cheese sandwiches. Correction, beef sandwiches. From the look of him, he fed on a constant diet of red meat.

‘I’d just set everything out,’ the man thundered, in a growly baritone laced with a biting Australian accent, ‘then you drove over it!’

‘I’m very sorry,’ Danielle replied, and, finding it difficult to keep her face straight, withdrew hurriedly back into the Land Rover.

She swallowed down one, two steadying, gigglequelling breaths, turned the key and pushed the gear stick into reverse. For a moment the wheels spun then, finding a grip, the vehicle shot back out of the stream with a little more speed than she had anticipated and on to the side. Switching off the engine, Danielle pinned on what was intended to be a suitably remorseful smile.

‘On the ferry you were selecting your victim for the day,’ the man said, as she opened the door of the Land Rover and started to climb down. He gave a humourless laugh. ‘Now why didn’t I work that out?’

‘Victim?’ Danielle queried, but when her feet hit the ground and she turned, she gaped. Diamond droplets sparkled among his thick black hair, rivulets ran down the taut angles of his face, water dripped from his stubbled chin. The front of the navy shirt was sodden and his jeans were spattered from leather-belted waist down to the knees. ‘You’re wet,’ she said, in astonishment.

He dried off his chin with savage swipes from the back of his hand. ‘Your powers of observation astound me.’

‘So when I reversed—’

‘You spurted back plumes of water which would have put the fountains at Versailles to shame,’ the man said stingingly, and, stepping towards her, he snatched off what had become water-speckled dark glasses. ‘I’d have been grateful if you could have given me just a small break in the form of a word of warning. One word,’ he rasped.

His eyes were a silvery pale grey, fringed with thick black lashes. They were beautiful eyes. He was very arresting. Danielle bit deep into the soft flesh of her lip. Earlier she had been eager for him to remove the RayBans, but now, caught beneath the naked hostility of his glare, she would have preferred him to keep them on. He was making her feel negligent and stupid…and a little scared. ‘Feral people’—the tour guide’s phrase resonated in her head. This man was wild, she thought, wild with anger.

Danielle shone a smile of meek and profuse repentance. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

‘You bestowed your gracious apologies a minute ago and then proceeded to laugh,’ the stranger retorted, in a scathing condemnation.

She eyed him warily. He was too astute.

‘I—I didn’t laugh,’ she faltered.

‘You were bloody close.’ The dark glasses were folded and thrust into a hip pocket. ‘Are you amused now?’

Danielle swallowed. ‘Not at all,’ she replied, for with him standing a yard away, muscular and censorious and intimidating, amusement had absolutely no chance among her emotions.

Alarm bells started ringing and she sneaked a look through the trees. Although they were within sight of the road it was an exceptionally quiet road and if, heaven forbid, he should lash out, the chances of anyone coming to her rescue were slim. So what did she do? All she could do was attempt to cajole him with abject apologies and, if those failed, remember what she had once learned at a women’s self-protection class and keep her wits about her and a groin-targeted knee at the ready.

‘I wasn’t raised by wolves,’ the man said curtly, ‘and I’m anti-violence so there’s no need to panic.’

Danielle flushed, disconcerted to find that he had so accurately defined her thoughts. But she had been overreacting. No matter how angry he might be, the stranger was an inherently controlled character, in charge of his emotions and his actions. If he wished to inflict punishment it would not take the form of a wild lashing out It would be something far more deliberate, subtle, lethal.

‘I never…’ she began awkwardly. ‘I mean, I wasn’t—’

‘And far be it from a mere colonial like me to outrage the modesty of a well-brought-up English girl by tanning her backside, no matter how great the provocation.’ He paused. ‘Nor however shapely the backside. If I’d been sitting instead of coming to sit down, you would have driven straight over me,’ the man declared, in terse accusation.

Could his remark about her backside be interpreted as a compliment? Danielle wondered. It would be satisfying to think so, satisfying to know there was one thing about her which appealed. Yet why should she want to appeal to an unshaven low-life like him? she thought, a moment later. She didn’t.

Danielle shook her head, sending the fall of corncoloured hair swaying. ‘I’d have seen you and swerved,’ she protested.

‘You didn’t see my lunch,’ he rapped back.

‘Well..no,’ she was forced to concede, then rallied, ‘but you’re a dam sight bigger. You’re—’

‘Seventy-four inches and one hundred and eighty pounds,’ the stranger enunciated. ‘Though after this morning’s scrutiny you must have every one of my vital statistics carved for ever in your brain.’ He arched a thick black brow. ‘Every possible length of me measured.’

At the inescapable sexual implication, Danielle’s pink cheeks flamed scarlet. Two weeks in the country had already taught her that Australians were often more direct in their speech than the British, yet did he have to be quite so brash, so explicit? She poked the toe of her sandal into the stones. Though he could have said it in order to shock her, shock this girl who he appeared to believe was prim and proper. Danielle frowned. Whichever, it seemed that the object of her interest not only knew she had been staring, but was also aware she had done so for an appreciable length of time. So should she claim that he reminded her of someone, someone asexual and platonic, for instance a cousin? It would let her off the hook.

‘When I was—’ Danielle started, wishing she could lay claim to a castrated cousin. She got no further.

‘You’re a menace in that thing,’ the stranger denounced, flinging first her, and then the Land Rover, a withering look. ‘How long have you been driving it?’

‘I picked it up in Port Douglas this morning from—’

‘Which doesn’t surprise me,’ he said, cutting in again. ‘I noticed how you continually kept stalling when you were attempting to board the ferry.’

Danielle straightened her spine. The shock of charging into the stream was wearing off and her natural spirit had begun to reassert itself. She accepted that her driving had been a little erratic, but she was no longer prepared to submit to being so roundly maligned.

‘I did not stall,’ she informed him crisply. ‘The engine cut out-and only twice. And,’ Danielle added, ‘losing control just now was an isolated and totally uncharacteristic incident. Since passing my driving test on my eighteenth birthday, I have not had one accident nor—’ pride tilted her chin ‘—collected so much as a parking ticket.’

Her critic sluiced a shower of drops from his hair. ‘Wow,’ he said, sounding singularly unimpressed and, at the same time, making her sound as if she had been unbearably smug and righteous. ‘When was your eighteenth birthday?’

‘Er…almost ten years ago, and I’ve been driving ever since.’

‘You’ve driven four-by-fours?’

Danielle gave a silent groan. Why must he ask that? He had called himself a victim—some victim! she thought, when she felt as if he had her handcuffed, tied to a chair and was shining a blinding white interrogatory light into her eyes.

‘I haven’t,’ she confessed. ‘However, the rental guy insisted one was essential for the terrain and he said that mine is a woman’s model, so—’

The man plucked distastefully at his wet shirt, lifting its clamminess from his broad chest. ‘You’re still getting used to it.’

‘Well—yes.’ It was impossible to argue with his flat statement of fact. ‘Look, I have a sizeable packed lunch,’ Danielle hurried on. ‘Perhaps you’d like to share it?’

‘You’re concerned about my welfare?’ he asked drily. ‘Now that makes a change.’

His welfare could go hang, Danielle thought astringently; the reason she had made her offer had been to block any further discussion of her handling of the fourwheel-drive. While she was not about to admit it, she felt uncertain whether the engine’s dying was a mechanical fault or could be due to some lack of competence on her part. Why had she let herself be talked into hiring the vehicle? she wondered, when, from travelling the first few yards, she had felt too high up, at odds and not properly in charge.

‘It’d be a shame if you went hungry,’ she said, shining a fake Good Samaritan smile.

Her critic considered the proposition in silence, then gave a brief nod. ‘OK.’

‘The food’s in the back,’ Danielle told him, and walked round to open the rear door of the Land Rover.

When she looked inside, she grimaced. The bounce down the track had dislodged her luggage and while by some miracle the generously filled cardboard box had escaped damage, a heavy suitcase and travel-bag would need to be shoved aside in order to get to it. Danielle wrenched and rearranged, and, growing hotter and sweatier by the minute in the humid heat, eventually managed to haul the box forward. As she wiped beads of moisture from her brow, her lips compressed. She wished she had never suggested dividing her lunch. The beneficiary had not exactly overwhelmed her with grateful thanks, and now he had ignored her struggles and left her to cope alone. She knew all about equality of the sexes, Danielle thought thinly, but a little strong-arm help and a spot of courtesy would have been appreciated.

Deciding that she would allot the stranger the minimally acceptable portion and promptly depart, Danielle swivelled—to find him standing a yard behind her. Her heart kicked. He had not come to her assistance because, firstly, he had been tidying away the litter of his picnic into the plastic bag, and secondly because he had been shedding his soaked shirt. Her blue eyes wide, she gazed at him. Her earlier inspection had revealed that his shoulders were broad, his torso firm-muscled, his waist slim, but seeing him stripped had a new and far greater impact. A disturbingly sensual impact. What she had not known was that his chest was smattered with curls of black hair which made a horizontal pattern of sultry lace against the smooth olive of his skin, while a narrower vertical strip of hair tapered down to vanish into his jeans. However, he was not too hairy and although he had muscles they were not of the exaggerated bodybuilder kind, but rather his physique was well-toned. Danielle swallowed. Her lungs felt tight. His body seemed to be giving off an intense heat which had engulfed her and was making it difficult to breathe.

‘Let me take that,’ the man said, and, reaching past her, he swung the heavy box effortlessly out and into his arms.

‘Take—take it?’ Danielle enquired, in a choky voice.

He nodded towards a leafily spreading tree, beneath which were several large, flat-topped stones. ‘Why don’t we sit over there?’

‘Sit?’ she echoed.

When she had suggested sharing lunch she had meant him going off with his half, while she went off with hers; but he believed she had been inviting him to join her. Was that why his agreement had been less than enthusiastic? she wondered. Did he find the prospect of her company so repellent? Danielle bridled. Most men would be delighted to spend time with a bright, personable young woman like her, so what made him so darned choosy?

‘We’ll be out of harm’s way should any other kamikaze driver decide to hurtle down here,’ the man said sardonically, and strode off.

For a moment Danielle glared at the golden width of his back but then, as His Majesty had already made the decision, she stomped after him.

‘I’m Danielle Tremayne,’ she announced, as he placed the box down on one of the stones.

In truth, Danielle felt scant inclination to be friendly, but if they were to share a meal some approach at social graces seemed to be required.

Straightening up, the man held out his hand. ‘I’m Flynn,’ he said, and promptly frowned.

Why should he frown? Danielle wondered as his strong olive-skinned fingers curved around her tapered, paler ones. Was it because the giving of his name had been automatic and for some reason he regretted it…or might he be having doubts about shaking her hand? His formal introduction had surprised her. She had not imagined them touching, even in such a matter-of-fact manner, and now the pressure of his palm against hers seemed strangely intimate and unnerving.

She withdrew her hand. ‘Is that Flynn something or something Flynn?’ she enquired, being brightly conversational.

‘Just Flynn,’ he said, and looked down at the box. ‘Going to play hostess, Danny? I’m starving.’

Danny? She winced. ‘I prefer Danielle,’ she informed him.

A black brow twitched. ‘I thought you might,’ he remarked, his tone condemning her as a la-di-da English girl.

Danielle glowered. She was tempted to defend herself and make it plain that, far from being some sniffy character, she was down-to-earth with a remarkably easy disposition, but a defence would take time and she was hungry too. Sitting on one of the stones, she took out packets of crab, ham and avocado, and roast chicken sandwiches, a tray of jumbo prawns with a spicy seafood sauce, a large waxed tub of tropical fruit salad, and a couple of chocolate eclairs. Last came two cans of cola, drinking straws and an assortment of plastic cutlery.

‘Help yourself,’ she said.

Flynn sat down on a flat-topped rock. ‘Thanks,’ he said, and for the first time he smiled.

His smile lit him up. It softened the hard angles of his face, warmed his silver-grey eyes, made appealing vertical creases appear in his cheeks. Beguiled, Danielle grinned back—he had the sweetest smile and the world had suddenly become a wonderful place—but a moment later she chided herself for her stupidity. Reaching for a sandwich, she began to eat. She had allowed a brute who had earlier dismissed her and then accepted her lunch invitation with demeaning reluctance to beguile her? Smarten up, girl.

Having resolved that he would not be allowed to beguile her again, as time passed Danielle found herself becoming increasingly aware of Flynn. She wished he had kept his shirt on. She wished he were not sitting directly opposite her. She wanted to ignore him and yet, try as she might, she seemed unable to keep her eyes from drifting to the width of his shoulders, to the bronze of his skin, to the curling dark hair on his chest. And must he sit with his legs spread wide? It was a position which students of body language would doubtless say conveyed openness, confidence and control, but to her it seemed incredibly sexy.

All of a sudden, and to her alarm, Danielle realised that he was watching her watching him. Heavens, if she was not careful he would be accusing her of measuring him up again!

‘The food’s delicious, isn’t it?’ she gabbled.

‘It’s great,’ Flynn agreed, ‘though I’m sorry to have missed out on my smoked salmon.’

Her brows lifted. ‘You had smoked salmon?’

‘You seem astonished I’d aspire to something so refined,’ he drawled.

‘No, no, I’m not,’ Danielle denied hastily.

Dipping a pink prawn into the sauce, Flynn raised it to his lips. ‘Liar,’ he said, and with a crunch of strong white teeth he bit the prawn in half.

As they progressed from the savouries to dessert, Danielle eyed the Jeep which was parked further along the bank of the stream, watched the stream itself, studied his shirt which had been spread over a low-hanging branch, but, in time and as if drawn by a magnet, her gaze returned to the man opposite. Her nerve-ends screamed. If only his shirt would dry. If only he would cover himself up. If only she had allotted him his share of lunch and gone.

Flynn ate a portion of fruit salad, but refused an eclair. ‘Am I making you uncomfortable?’ he enquired, as he rested casually back against a boulder.

Danielle stiffened. ‘I beg your pardon?’

Raising a hand to his chest, he started to slowly rub. ‘You seem kind of edgy.’

‘Edgy? Me?’ She gave a burst of somewhat shrill laughter. ‘Why should I be edgy?’

Flynn’s fingertips trailed across the coils of coarse dark hair in an idle circle. ‘Perhaps coming from the UK where it’s colder and you’re not so used to it, you have a hang-up about male nudity?’

To her fury, Danielle felt herself blush; yet must she blush, again? While she had done so frequently in her teens, as she had grown older the tendency had declined, ended, and now she resented the ease with which he seemed able to turn her into one of nature’s bright red traffic-lights. But she had never met a man who was so discomfitingly aware or who shot so straight from the shoulder. If anyone else had noticed her unease they would have observed the proprieties and ignored it, but not him!

‘I don’t have any hang-up,’ she said glacially.

A smile played around Flynn’s mouth. ‘You’re sure?’ ‘I’m certain,’ she replied, a little more shortly than she had intended.

His hand moved to the brass buckle on his black leather belt. ‘So you wouldn’t mind if I removed my wet jeans?’

Remove his jeans? Danielle thought, in alarm. But was he wearing anything beneath them? An unholy tension gripped her. Flynn seemed the kind of casually erotic adventurer who might not bother.

‘Carry on,’ she said, and, having no interest in her éclair either, put both of them into the empty fruit salad container and snapped the lid. Far too tardily, his smile, allied with the glint in his grey eyes, had made her recognise that he was baiting her, mocking her, having fun at her expense. Damn him. And by becoming rattled she had played right into his hands. Lifting her shoulders, Danielle gave a supremely indifferent shrug. ‘For me, anything goes.’

A brow quirked. ‘Anything?’

‘Anything,’ she declared stalwartly, then, realising she was in danger of digging a pit to hurl herself into, she made a sudden swerve. ‘Do you live in the rainforest?’

To Danielle’s enormous relief, his fingers fell from the buckle and Flynn reached for his can of cola. His mood had changed, for at her query he had picked up a tension. It was slight, yet in her career she had conducted sufficient interviews with sufficient people under pressure to detect when somebody was wary.

‘At present,’ he replied, and took a swig.

‘You’re here temporarily?’

Flynn nodded. ‘I’m taking time out to think about things and re-evaluate my life.’ Swallowing another mouthful, he frowned down at the can he held in his fist. ‘But there’s one big problem I need to solve.’

Whereas his first sentence had sounded practised, as though he had said it several times before, the second seemed to have been a private reflection slipping out. Her journalist’s antennae started to twitch. Could he have come north of the Daintree because he had a story in his background or might he be escaping from something? Danielle wondered. She waited. Was he going to say more?

‘Problem—such as?’ she enquired, when he remained silent.

Flynn shot her an irritated look. ‘What is this, Twenty Questions?’ he growled. ‘Right, it’s my turn. Have you seen the time? Because wherever it is you’re heading for on your day out, I suggest you get on the road again. It’s gone two o’clock and—’

‘I’m not here for the day,’ Danielle cut in, ‘I’m here for three weeks.’

‘Three weeks?’ he repeated incredulously.

‘Why not?’ she protested.

Silver-grey eyes moved over her silky blouson top and slim-cut linen skirt, both of which bore the label of an élite London store. ‘Because you don’t strike me as the kind of girl who’d be interested in spending that amount of time stuck in a jungle. You’re too much of a class act.’

Normally, Danielle would have been pleased with the description, but coming from Flynn it ranked as a gibe. Her lips blotted together. She knew she was overdressed—more suited for a city office than a steamy rainforest—but it could not be helped. When packing for Australia she had decided to leave her casual summer clothes behind and treat herself to some new ones on arrival; but her first fortnight had been too busy for shopping, and so the short-notice order to head for the tropics had found her woefully unprepared. A hasty visit to the shops in Port Douglas that morning had equipped her with shorts, T-shirts and a bikini, but they languished in their plastic bags in the back of the four-wheel-drive.

‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ Danielle said tetchily.

‘So I’ve heard,’ he drawled.

‘And your perception of women is obviously as expert as your touch with a razor,’ she went on, spearing a disdainful look at his stubbled jaw, ‘because I shall be perfectly content.’

Flynn moved his shoulders in a shrug. ‘Life here is casual and no one dresses for dinner,’ he said, his eyes travelling over her in a leisurely re-run, ‘so I’d advise against sauntering along to the restaurant in your ball gown and tiara.’

‘Thanks for the tip,’ Danielle replied grittily. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

‘You’ve come all the way from England to spend three weeks in the rainforest?’ he said, still sounding sceptical despite her claim.

Danielle hesitated. Should she say that she had only travelled from Melbourne? But if she did, an explanation would be needed for her presence there and, in turn, for her presence here. Then, if he mentioned her raison d’être, it could be picked up by the local grapevine, and, if that long shot existed and somebody did happen to be growing marijuana, ranks would close and access to information be denied her.

‘Correct,’ she replied.

‘You’re here alone?’ he enquired. ‘There isn’t some lover joining you for three weeks of unbridled passion and sexual gratification?’

‘No.’ Danielle gazed coolly back. The gleam in his eyes indicated Flynn was baiting her again, but she refused to be fazed. ‘I don’t consider a woman needs a lover in order to enjoy herself,’ she declared.

‘Which, in translation, means whoever’s slept with you, they haven’t done such a great job of it. Pity. If they had, you’d know that good sex is the ultimate in enjoyment. So,’ he went on, not missing a beat, ‘how do you intend to pass the time?’

‘Er…’ His so careless analysis of her sex life had knocked her thoughts askew. ‘I shall sunbathe, swim, relax.’

Tipping back his head, Flynn drained the can of cola. ‘That’s all?’

Danielle hesitated, aware that to justify travelling halfway around the world for this supposed holiday she needed a more specific motivation. After all, she could sunbathe, swim and relax far closer to home.

‘I also want to learn about the flora and fauna. This is where the forest meets the reef,’ she said, trying to recall paragraphs fleetingly scanned in a guidebook which she had bought at the airport, ‘and it’s a remarkable area. I hope to see orchids and scrub fowl and—maybe a crocodile.’ Darting him a glance, she saw that he remained dubious. It seemed that the only way to convince him of the validity of her journey was to offer a few grains of truth, albeit twisted truth. ‘And I shall be collecting information for some articles which I plan to write,’ Danielle added.

Flynn sat upright. ‘You’re a reporter?’ he demanded.

She looked at him in surprise. His jaw had tensed, his eyes were dark and critical, stony disapproval was etched in his frown. She had been going to say that she worked as a journalist for an English newspaper, but not now. Her career had brought her face to face with sufficient animosity to know when someone harboured a dislike of the Press, and she had had more than enough of him haranguing her for one day.

‘No, I’m a—a secretary,’ Danielle improvised. ‘I write for a hobby and whether any of my articles’ll be published is in the lap of the gods. But I’m going to take masses of photographs to illustrate them,’ she said, hastily embroidering, ‘in the hope that that’ll make them more acceptable.’

‘Best of luck,’ Flynn said.

‘Thanks.’

‘And thank you for lunch, but now, difficult though it is to tear myself away,’ he said sardonically, ‘I must be going.’ As she packed away the remains of the picnic, he walked over to retrieve his shirt and pull it on over his head. ‘Shall I reverse your Land Rover on to the road?’ Flynn offered, when he had raked his dark hair back into unruly order.

Danielle gave a grateful smile. There was insufficient space beside the stream to turn the vehicle around and she had been wondering how she was going to manage such a difficult backward climb.

‘That would be kind,’ she said.

‘It isn’t kindness,’ he responded, ‘it’s called selfpreservation. After experiencing what happens when you reverse, I’ve no intention of putting myself at risk again.’

Danielle’s hackles rose. ‘You wouldn’t be at risk,’ she said forcefully. ‘I’m an excellent driver.’

Flynn chose not to reply—a most effective comment. Picking up the cardboard box, he stashed it away in the rear of the off-roader and strode round to the driver’s seat. As the sound of revs soared, Danielle took her place alongside him.

‘Does the engine feel right to you?’ she asked, her query offhand and throwaway.

He revved up again. ‘It feels fine. Hold on,’ he instructed, and drove up the incline and on to the road without stopping.

As Danielle walked around the front of the Land Rover to take her place at the wheel, her expression was tight. Not only had she hoped Flynn might detect some quirk in the engine, she had also been hoping he would not find the reverse journey quite such kid’s stuff and irritatingly easy.

‘Thank you,’ she said crisply, and placed her foot on the step.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. ‘You must’ve brightened up the lives of a hell of a lot of guys today.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Danielle said, but when she followed the dip of his grey eyes she saw her skirt had ridden high up her thighs; so high that she was in danger of exposing her white lace briefs. Hoisting herself rapidly into the driving seat, Danielle slammed the door. Had her skirt ridden up every time she had climbed into the vehicle? The answer had to be yes. And had Flynn mentioned it in order to embarrass her? Again the answer was undoubtedly yes. ‘Goodbye,’ she snapped.

‘Bye,’ he said.

Flynn had left the engine running and, as she pushed into gear, Danielle frowned at him through the open window. He might be a louse, but he was an attractive louse—and would be more so if he shaved. He did not appeal to her, but his tough, sexy glamour must have a certain sector of the female population salivating. Could he have Latin blood? she wondered. The sultriness of his looks made it possible.

‘That problem,’ Danielle began.

‘Problem?’ he asked.

‘You mentioned a big problem. It’s a woman,’ she hazarded, and Flynn gave a brief nod. ‘Your wife?’

‘I’m not married.’

‘A girlfriend?’ Danielle suggested.

Her enquiries had taken him by surprise and he had answered without thinking, but now his eyes narrowed.

‘You may not be a reporter, but you sure as hell ask questions like one!’ Flynn grated.

‘All women ask questions,’ she replied lightly.

‘But not all men answer them,’ he countered, and jabbed a finger along the road. ‘Now scoot!’

Danielle knew when she was wasting energy on a lost cause. ‘Yessir,’ she said, and, as she accelerated away, a glimpse through her rear-view mirror showed Flynn already striding off down the track.

The Land Rover behaved itself and the rest of her journey passed without mishap. As Danielle turned into a road signposted for the Fan Palms Lodge, she frowned. Earlier in the day she had sworn that Flynn would not be allowed to become mentally compelling, but ever since she had left him he had dominated her thoughts. There was so much she longed to know. Like, why hadn’t he given her his full name? What was it? Who was the woman causing him a problem and in which way? Flipping down the visor, Danielle cut out the glare of the sun. But the most intriguing part was that his evasions made her wonder if there might be a chance, albeit a slim one, that when she had steam-rollered over his lunch she had steam-rollered over the lunch of a man who was connected with the marijuana racket. A man who could alter her journey from a wild-goose chase into something worthwhile!

CHAPTER THREE

DANIELLE revolved the postcard stand. Which card should she send to James? As there were only two scenes, an aerial view of the wooded coastline and a close-up of a drunken-looking platypus, the choice was not large. She plumped for the platypus. James might not be too enamoured, but the aerial view was already being sent to her parents, her brother and his family, and a girlfriend.

It was two days later and, after a breakfast of orange juice, fresh fruit and bread rolls with local honey, Danielle had crossed the lobby and gone into what the Fan Palms brochure described as their ‘gift boutique’ to buy cards. Her eyes skimmed over small pyramids of baked beans, bottles of cough linctus, a solitary can of sunflower oil. In reality, the gift boutique was a not too well stocked general store and the majority of the trade which it attracted came from locals, who ambled in through an outside door, rather than the hotel residents.

As her gaze swung to a middle-aged couple who were talking earnestly to the woman behind the counter, Danielle gave a wry smile. What were they finding fault with now? There were only a dozen guests so personal traits had soon become evident, and the Swiss pair were complainers. They did not care for dining communally at a refectory table in the restaurant—which was, in fact, an alcove off the lobby—nor for the plain cooking, and they strongly objected to having to make their own coffee—instant coffee!—at the end of each meal. Danielle gave a mental shrug. None of this bothered her. She had been worried that ‘basic’ might translate as dirty or broken or stale, but the bed-linen was clean, bungalows and main building were adequately, if simply, furnished, and the food, though unimaginative, was fresh.

When the Swiss couple made an outraged remark about the lack of a swimming-pool and stalked out, she went to pay for her cards.

‘Good morning,’ she said, smiling at the dark-skinned, crinkly-haired assistant.

‘G’day,’ the woman replied, and perched her ample posterior on a stool. ‘Doing anything nice today?’

Whether it was the girl who cleaned the cabins, or the young waiter, or the elderly gentleman owner who acted as receptionist, bartender and part-time trimmer of hibiscus bushes, the staff at the Lodge always had time to chat, and no one chatted more than Wanitta. A plump, part-Aboriginal woman in her mid-forties, she seemed to know everything about everyone in the locality and, as customers were spasmodic and an audience hard to come by, was delighted to gossip to Danielle. Yesterday, after being regaled with stories of the antics of her five children, it had only taken one query about people living in the remoter stretches of the rainforest for Wanitta to proceed to give chapter and verse. No mention was made of marijuana but, as Danielle did not want to appear too noticeably interested too soon, she had let the subject lie. An enquiry could be made later.

The woman had not mentioned the mysterious Flynn either, and again she had not enquired; though her theory about him had been discarded. Danielle had recognised that the chance of her happening upon a drug dealer on her very first day in the forest did not so much rate as slim, but would be an amazing fluke. And life didn’t work that way. Journalistic breaks didn’t occur that easily. The idea had been wishful thinking. All right, the tall Australian was secretive, but his secrecy could be explained by a hundred and one perfectly innocent reasons. A lot of time had been spent speculating on those reasons, too much time, and so this morning she intended to ask Wanitta about him. She would doubtless be told something humdrum, like he was an insurance salesman avoiding the clutches of some predatory female, which would enable her to dismiss the man from her mind. Forever.

‘I thought I’d go for a drive,’ Danielle replied, as she passed over the money for her postcards. She pulled a face. ‘Though I’m wary of the Land Rover.’

‘It’s crook?’

‘Off and on.’

‘The nearest motor mechanic’d be Bruce out at the garage on the coast road,’ Wanitta told her, handing back the change, ‘but the poor bloke’s in hospital with an ulcer, so if you did break down getting things fixed’d be tricky.’

‘Then let’s hope I don’t,’ Danielle said, and drew in a breath. ‘Do you know a man-?’

‘Talking about the garage,’ Wanitta rattled on, ‘if you take the track inland just beyond it and drive up towards the hills, you eventually come to that New Agers’ commune which I was telling you about.’

‘Run by a bearded man?’ she asked, recalling the previous day’s spiel and the notes she had made on her return to her bungalow.

‘Right. Alec—that’s the guy’s name—reckons they want to live in tune with nature and absorb its tranquillity—’ Wanitta rolled chocolate-brown eyes ‘—and they’ll have no trouble doing it way out there. The place was originally set up by a wealthy Texan evangelist as a religious retreat, but he found it too remote and Alec and his lot moved in.’ Her gossiping ceased as the bell rang on the outside door and a tall man in a black openthroated shirt and faded jeans strode in. ‘G’day,’ she said.

He nodded. ‘Hi.’

Danielle looked at the new customer in surprise. It was Flynn. Something jumped inside her. She had persuaded herself that two days ago she must have suffered a brainstorm and that, in reality, her lunch guest had been nowhere near as attractive as she had imagined, but he was just as male, just as virile, packed just as irritating a punch—despite his jaw being covered with even thicker black stubble. Danielle frowned. She could not think who it was, but he reminded her of someone.

Turning to her, Flynn gave a sardonic bow. ‘Why, if it isn’t Miss Tremayne. I can barely conceal my glee. Squashed, starved or drowned anyone recently?’

Danielle’s blood temperature started to rise. As Clive Bredhauer appeared to have written her off as a ‘pretty little thing’, so Flynn clearly regarded her as that most clichéd of beings, the ‘daffy lady driver’. How sexist! How patronising! How mistaken!

‘There’ve been no more casualties,’ she replied, and thrust him a mutinous look, ‘though, if pushed, I could be tempted into a little strangulation.’

‘And risk breaking a manicured nail on those lilywhite hands?’ He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t try it.’

‘Maybe not,’ she agreed. ‘I doubt the management would welcome one of their guests committing murder on the premises.’

His brows soared. ‘You’re staying here, at the Fan Palms Lodge?’ Flynn enquired.

Danielle’s mouth thinned. She might have been surprised to see him, but he was obviously staggered to discover that she was a resident, astounded to find Miss Hoity-Toity slumming it!

‘I am,’ she replied, and looked past him through the shop window to where ten or so timber bungalows were spread out across the hillside. With lots of open latticework, a fan swishing overhead and a shower which spouted only tepid water, the bungalows were simple, but they were also breezy and charming. ‘The Lodge may be a little run-down, but it’s in an inoffensive and lackadaisical kind of a way, and I like it,’ Danielle declared pugnaciously.

If he had argued she would have done battle, but Flynn merely shrugged.

‘Have you taken many photographs?’ he enquired.

Photographs? What was he talking about? Danielle wondered. She was no snapshot addict.

‘None,’ she replied.

He frowned. ‘But I understood you needed them to accompany your articles.’

‘Oh…yes,’ she said, scolding herself for having forgotten her pretence and muffing his question. ‘But before I got busy with my camera it seemed sensible to learn something about the area, so—’ Danielle smiled at the shop assistant who was openly listening ‘—I’ve been talking to Wanitta.’

‘I’ve told her about all the folks who live around here,’ the woman explained garrulously.

Flynn folded muscled arms across his chest. ‘Isn’t it the flora and fauna which you’re interested in?’ he demanded.

Danielle gave a silent scream. Wanitta’s chattering tongue might have provided her with masses of background information, yet it had its disadvantages in that her lies would now need to be extended; and she did not feel comfortable lying. On the contrary, she always told the truth. It was the way her parents had brought her up and the way she operated.

‘Plus the people,’ Danielle declared, crossing mental fingers. ‘I thought that if I heard of anyone with a particularly interesting tale to tell, I could interview them and write something.’

Flynn’s grey gaze narrowed. ‘And have you heard of anyone interesting?’ he enquired.

‘Er—’ she plucked an answer out of the air ‘—the commune could be a possibility.’

He stood erect. ‘Commune? Which commune?’ he demanded, his voice taking on a sharper edge.

‘You’re renting the Mears’ house?’ Wanitta intruded. He nodded. ‘If you continue on down the same track for around another ten kilometres there’s a small commune of New Age types, or flower people, or—’ she waved a vague hand ‘—something. They keep a very low profile which is why hardly anyone’s aware of them.’

‘Do you know who lives at the commune?’ Flynn asked.

‘I haven’t seen them all myself, but I understand there’s a couple of middle-aged women, two youths, and Alec and his wife and their two kids. Maybe you’ve spotted a chunky bloke with a beard driving a large white van?’ He nodded again. ‘That’s Alec, he’s the leading light and does most of the shopping. What can I get for you?’ Wanitta asked, suddenly reminded.

For a moment, Flynn seemed distracted. ‘Do you have any demijohns of water? I usually carry one in the jeep and I’ve run out’

‘No worries, there’re supplies over in the store,’ she told him. ‘How many would you like?’

‘Two, please.’ As the woman disappeared, Flynn turned back to Danielle. ‘You seem to have a flair for getting people to talk to you,’ he remarked.

She did have a flair, which had helped her climb the journalistic ladder so rapidly, but she was not going to own up to it.

‘Wanitta doesn’t need any coaxing to talk,’ she dismissed.

‘But you’ve obviously learned a lot in a short time,’ he persisted. ‘You knew about the commune…’ Flynn stopped, shaking off whatever thoughts he had been thinking. ‘I find it amazing that a little out-of-the way place like the Fan Palms Lodge should have travel agent connections as far afield as England,’ he continued.

So that was why he had been so surprised to find her in residence? Danielle cast a glance out cross the forecourt to the store shed. It was fortunate he had not mentioned her supposed international origin in Wanitta’s presence, because the shop assistant may know she had flown up from Melbourne and could have said so. Eager to forestall any further questions and needing their conversation to take a new direction, Danielle swept a hand down from her shoulder to her thigh.

‘As you can see, today I’m dressed for the rainforest,’ she said brightly, but as his eyes started to travel over her candy pink T-shirt and pale blue denim shorts she found herself wishing she had kept quiet By drawing his attention to her appearance she had given him an open invitation to inspect her, and Flynn’s inspection was cool and deliberate and disturbing. It made her aware of how the pink cotton clung to the high rounded curves of her breasts and that the shorts, bought in a hurry and not tried on, were close-fitting and a touch too short. Danielle longed to tug down on the legs, but refused to give him the satisfaction. He might have amused himself by unsettling her two days ago, but she would not let him realise he had unsettled her again. For what seemed a lifetime Flynn stood motionless and intent, like a scientist examining a specimen, then he raised silver-grey eyes to hers.

‘A cross between a girl scout and Pet of the Month,’ he declared.

Danielle gritted her teeth. Her shorts might be skimpy, but they were not that skimpy. ‘I do not consider—’ she began, with hauteur.

Raising a hand, Flynn fended off her intervention. ‘You’re right and I’m wrong, scrub the girl scout bit. You on your hands and knees would make a delicious centrefold.’

‘What!’

‘With backside turned temptingly towards the camera, of course. Two demijohns are heavy,’ he went on, striding towards the door. ‘I’d better go and help. Have a nice day.’

Danielle answered his grin with a razor of a smile. ‘And you,’ she replied.

A couple of minutes later, she saw him putting the flagons of water into his jeep and handing over money. It must have been the exact amount, for as Wanitta came back into the shop Flynn swung into the driver’s seat, kissed his fingers to her in a devilish farewell, and drove away.

‘Who is that?’ Danielle enquired.

‘He’s only been in a couple of times so I couldn’t tell you his name,’ Wanitta said, and gave her a puzzled look, ‘but I thought you knew him.’

She shook her head. ‘We met briefly when I was on my way here and he said he was called Flynn, just Flynn, that’s all. You mentioned him renting a house,’ she carried on. ‘How long has he been there?’

‘A month, and he’s taken it for three. He’s like the New Age lot, keeps a low profile, though he travels into Port Douglas twice a week, every Tuesday and Thursday,’ the shop assistant informed her, ‘so I guess he’ll be heading there now.’

‘What does he go for?’ she asked.

‘Dunno. At first I thought he might be visiting a bar, but he doesn’t drink. Funny that, in this heat most blokes enjoy a snort or two of blue—of beer—but when I told him we’d had a delivery of tinnies he said he never touched alcohol.’

Danielle’s mind went back. The can she had flattened from Flynn’s lunch had been a soft drink.

‘He reminds me of someone,’ she said, frowning.

‘And me.’ Wanitta perched herself on her stool again. ‘Perhaps he’s an actor.’

Danielle gave a startled laugh. Although when thinking about Flynn she had come up with all manner of lifestyles, his being on the stage was not one of them.

‘He’s got the looks for it,’ the shop assistant declared. ‘He’s a heart-throb now and he must’ve been real pretty when he was young. He’s got the name for an actor too. Flynn, like Errol Flynn—that bloke was Australian, y’know. Course he’s long gone, but I can remember my mother sighing over him and…’ She broke off as the Swiss couple marched into the shop. ‘G’day again,’ she said.

Smiling, Danielle backed away. ‘I’ll see you later.’

* * *

The Land Rover ticked over, coughed and cut out. Danielle muttered an imprecation beneath her breath and tried again. This time a steady thrum was established. As she swung off the Lodge’s gravelled forecourt and on to the road, her brow furrowed. It was now clear that the engine dying could not be blamed on her, but why did it die? Danielle sighed. She did not have a clue and, as there was no motor mechanic available to consult, all she could do was hope that the intermittent problem would somehow solve itself.

She did not have a clue about Flynn either, Danielle mused, as she drove along. Some people you could read like a book, but with him it was impossible even to make out the title. Might he be an actor? To her he did not seem the type—and if he was one of any standing, surely she would know?—yet a desire to avoid identification and thus keep away from the limelight would explain his evasions. Danielle nibbled at her lip. Rather than Flynn reminding her of someone, might she have seen a photograph of him? Suddenly that seemed more likely. But where and when? She had a knack of remembering names and faces, yet, although she tried hard to jog her memory, nothing came.

On reaching the coast road, Danielle turned north. Yesterday she had travelled south, initially heading back in the direction of the ferry before swinging off to explore a succession of dirt tracks. Some had ended at campsites, some at dwellings, while others had gone on for miles before looping back on to the road, but all had cut through dense forest which had seemed bereft of marijuana-growing potential. Today, she planned to drive some of the way up the track which led eventually to the commune. Danielle made a face. It would be another wasted effort, but if Clive Bredhauer should want to know how ‘poppet’ had spent her time, at least she would have something to report.

The track proved to be another of the hard-baked, grossly uncomfortable variety, and after ten minutes of being jounced around Danielle began to wonder if her journey was really necessary or whether she should do a three-point turn at the first opportunity and retreat. She was dithering when, ahead among the trees, she saw a pair of stone gate-posts at the start of a metalled drive. A letterbox was incorporated in one of the posts, with a nameplate fixed below, and, driving up, Danielle peered out at it.

‘Mears’, she read.

Her interest roused, she hesitated for a moment then swung in between the gate-posts. Flynn had gone to Port Douglas, so she would take a quick peek and see what kind of a property it was he had rented. Admittedly she could be accused of nosiness, but the man intrigued her and there was no harm in it. The drive travelled beneath a shadowy archway of trees then curved, bringing her out into a large cleared grassy area in the middle of which stood a house. Danielle blinked against the sunshine. All the other houses she had seen in the rainforest had been relatively humble, corrugated-iron-roofed bungalows and she had assumed that Flynn would be living in yet another, but ahead of her was a pristine white two-storey building, with black shutters framing the windows, shiny black glossed front door, and a separate garage block off to one side. The grass around the house was cut into neat lawns, interspersed with clusters of white frangipani and pink oleander. As Danielle motored on, she frowned. She had underestimated the mystery man.

Halting where the drive spread into a semi-circle in front of the house, she climbed down. The exterior of the Mears’ residence was ordered, affluent and impressive; what did it look like inside? Danielle crossed to a picture window on the right of the front door and raised a hand to her eyes.

‘Tasty,’ she muttered.

She was looking into a spacious L-shaped livingroom, with white walls and satiny wooden floors covered with rich kilim rugs. Three pistachio-coloured sofas formed a seating area around a smoked-glass coffeetable which carried a bowl of exquisitely carved jade flowers. She saw pale shaded Thai celadon lamps, the statue of a golden Chinese horse, and, standing guard at a door which stood half-open into what must be the hall, two enormous filigree brass tusks. Danielle drew back. If Flynn had rented such a chic and expensively furnished house for three months, he could not be short of money. Drug dealers have money, whispered a sneaky little voice inside her head.

At the end of the room was another picture window and, interested to see how the hidden bar of the L was furnished, she made her way around to the rear of the house. A veranda hung with bougainvillaea which exploded in fireworks of purple and pink stretched across the full width, and she stepped gratefully into its shade. Peering in again, Danielle saw a leather-topped desk, swivel chair and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves; the bar of the L was a stylish study area. She tilted her head. There were some typewritten papers on the desk; it would be interesting to know what they said. Walking to the next window which opened on to the dining-room, Danielle gave a wistful sigh. The limed oak table, long low sideboard and oyster velvet upholstered chairs were to die for.

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