In July you met

Australia’s Most Eligible Bachelor,

Corin Rylance.

Now read Corin’s sister Zara’s story in:

CATTLE BARON NEEDS A BRIDE

by Margaret Way

THE RYLANCE DYNASTY

The lives & loves of Australia’s most powerful family

Growing up in the spotlight hasn’t been easy, but the two Rylance heirs, Corin and his sister Zara, have come of age and are ready to claim their inheritance.

Though they are privileged, proud and powerful, they are about to discover that there are some things money can’t buy…

…And from cattle ranching to campaigning, the race is on in:

SPARKS FLY WITH MR MAYOR by Teresa Carpenter

But will it end at the podium or…the altar?

Cattle Baron Needs A Bride

BY

Margaret Way

Sparks Fly with Mr Mayor

BY

Teresa Carpenter

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Cattle Baron Needs A Bride

BY

Margaret Way

MARGARET WAY, a definite Leo, was born and raised in the subtropical River City of Brisbane, capital of the Sunshine State of Queensland. A Conservatorium-trained pianist, teacher, accompanist and vocal coach, she found her musical career came to an unexpected end when she took up writing—initially as a fun thing to do. She currently lives in a harbourside apartment at beautiful Raby Bay, a thirty-minute drive from the state capital, where she loves dining al fresco on her plant-filled balcony, overlooking a translucent green marina filled with all manner of pleasure craft: from motor cruisers costing millions of dollars, and big, graceful yachts with carved masts standing tall against the cloudless blue sky, to little bay runabouts. No one and nothing is in a mad rush, and she finds the laid-back village atmosphere very conducive to her writing. With well over one hundred books to her credit, she still believes her best is yet to come.

Chapter One

THIRTY minutes out of Brisbane, dark silver-shafted clouds, billowing like an atomic mushroom, began to roll in from the east. A veteran of countless flying hours, he watched in familiar fascination as the pluvial masses began to bank up in spectacular thunder heads that spiralled into the stratosphere. Nature at its awesome best, he thought; unimaginable power that could pick up a light plane, roll it, drop it, strike it with lightning, or miraculously allow it to pass through.

This afternoon’s pyrotechnic show was one he knew he could handle. But spectacular or not, a line of raging thunderstorms wasn’t what he needed right now. He felt a knot of frustration tighten in his chest. Abominable weather inspired trepidation in any pilot but he hadn’t got the luxury of giving into it. The Baron nosed into the dense grey fog. It closed in on all sides like a wet, heavy blanket, swallowing the aircraft up. Streams of tarnished silver shot through with silent lightning like tracer bullets flew past the wings.

He couldn’t accept another disruption to his long journey in stoic silence. He let out a few hearty curses that steadied head and hand, effectively reducing the build-up of tension. As the man behind the controls, he had to remain passive. It was the only way to stay in command. He was an experienced pilot. It was a long time since he had gained his licence—as it happened, immediately he was eligible. His father, Daniel, had been so proud of him, clapping a congratulatory hand on his shoulder.

“You’re a natural, Garrick. You do everything with such ease. I couldn’t be more proud of you, son!”

Surely the answer lay in inherited skills? His father had been his role model for everything. He had taken to flying the same way his father had. Naturally. But he was no fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants pilot. He was meticulous. Flying was the stuff of life for him. It was also the stuff of death. He could never forget that. Not for a moment. There had been far too many light aircraft crashes in the Outback. Yet he loved flying with a passion! The roar down the runway, then lifting up like an eagle into the wild blue yonder with only the clouds for company. The incredible freedom of it! It was marvellously exhilarating and marvellously peaceful at one and the same time. Yet over the years he had flown through countless bad and often frightening situations. One need only consider the perilous weather—far worse than what he was encountering now—over the stifling hot and humid immensity of the Top End savannahs in the middle of the wet season!

His brief moment of frustration over, he found fresh energy, bringing his concentration to bear on winding the plane in and out of a series of down draughts, the sort that always left passengers seriously sick and shaking; there was comfortable seating for four passengers aft. But, for him, there was a weird kind of rush negotiating the thermal traffic. The Beech Baron was a beautiful machine—a symbol of what his pioneering family had attained—from the twin Continental engines to the state-of-the-art avionics. The Baron was religiously maintained to keep it as safe and airworthy as humanly possible. Even so, at one point severe turbulence began to toss the 2500 kilogram aircraft around like a kid’s toy. Mercifully, it cut out before it became a real nuisance.

All in all it had been one hell of a trip. First up, he had agreed to take on a medical emergency flight for a neighbouring station owner who had been without wings for some time. Big financial setbacks were the cause he knew. It was his grandfather, Barton, who had made Rylance Enterprises one of the first pastoral companies to diversify to the extent that Coorango was only one of a number of major income earners. The dicey situation that had faced Garrick on this flight was to land on a sealed Outback road. A road that cut through the middle of the uninhabitable wilds: risky at the best of times, given the width of the road and the danger the kangaroos in the area posed. Kangaroos were easily spooked by noises, never mind the hellish din made by the descending Beech Baron’s engines. Generally they went into a blind panic, hopping all over the road and near vicinity, presenting a range of hazards. Some would plonk down on an airstrip as if overtaken by acute arthritis, turning soft dark glossy eyes that said, don’t hurt me. Kangaroos didn’t do common sense well.

At least there had been no danger of the makeshift airstrip being too short. The bush highway went on into infinity, cutting a straight path through a fiery rust-red landscape densely sown with billowing clumps of spinifex bleached a burnt gold, stunted shrubs with branches like carvings, innumerable dry watercourses that the nomadic Aborigines used as camps and here and there life saving waterholes that gleamed a molten gold in the sunlight.

Sand. Spinifex. Claypans. Such was the Interior.

The station hand, poor guy, had been grey-faced, sweating, in all sorts of agony. Not that to his everlasting credit, he uttered a single word of complaint. At best guess, a gall or kidney stone. The station owner and two of his men had brought the patient by ute to the highway, where they’d loaded him aboard the Beech Baron on a stretcher. It was his self-imposed task to fly the man to the nearest RFD Base. The Royal Flying Doctor Service at that particular point in time was pushed to the limit with an unusually high number of young mothers going into labour and all kinds of serious station injuries, like having a shoulder run through by a bull’s horn for one. Apparently the poor beggar had been pinned to the rail for a good twenty minutes.

His Good Samaritan act had set back his time log. He didn’t think he deserved the barrage of thanks he had received from the grateful group.

“You’re a marvel, you are, Rick, old son!” Scobie, the station owner, a giant of a man with the girth of a beer barrel, had slapped his back in admiration. A lesser man would have lost his balance and toppled to the ground. “Takes one hell of a pilot to land a Beech Baron worth well over a million dollars, dead square at 180ks on a bush highway. Can’t thank you enough, mate. Whitey here had his eyes covered the whole time you were landing!” Scobie looked across at the whipcord-lean stockman, who grinned sheepishly.

“Never seen nuthin’ like it, Mr Rylance!” volunteered Whitey. “Word is, you’re an ace!”

“An ace with a lot of luck, Whitey!”

By the time he reached Brisbane, the storm was over as if it had never been. A brazen brassy sun slanted through the massed cloud display, swiftly dispersing it. The sky was washed a vigorous opal-blue. It was coming on to sunset, the usual tropical glory, but soon after the indigo dusk of the tropics would fall like a curtain. He landed the aircraft as smoothly as any blue crane landing on water, parking it behind a Gulfstream jet. Time would come when he’d get around to buying one outright himself. After flight checks were done, he disembarked from the plane, making his way across the concrete apron to the chauffeur driven limousine waiting to take him to the Rylance riverside mansion.

“Good flight, Mr Rylance?” the chauffeur asked, tipping two fingers to the smart grey cap of his uniform.

“I’ve had better.” He smiled, keeping his hand on his one piece of luggage, a large suitcase which he swung into the boot. He didn’t need the chauffeur to do it for him, for goodness’ sake.

A moment more and they were underway, keeping to pleasant small talk. The purpose of his long journey was to act as best man for his kinsman, Corin, at his wedding in two days’ time. This was to be a great occasion after the extremely traumatic months following the deaths of Dalton Rylance, Corin and Zara’s father, and his glamorous second wife, Leila in a plane crash in China. It was an event that had shocked the nation. Dalton Rylance had been an industrial giant. But life went on and one had no recourse but to go with it. Or go under. Corin was a warrior. He was now to receive his reward, marrying the love of his life, Miranda Thornton.

Garrick had met petite, silver-blonde Miranda at Dalton’s funeral and taken to her immediately. Not only was she enchanting to look at, she was highly intelligent—she planned to become a doctor—so that engaging manner might come in handy at some patient’s bedside. Corin was lucky. And deserved to be. Life hadn’t been easy for him, or Zara either, after the premature death of their mother, the first Mrs Rylance, universally adored by the extended family. Not so the second Mrs Rylance. She certainly hadn’t won his mother’s heart. Garrick’s mother from time to time had a scathing tongue. He had met Leila on isolated family occasions and found her unexpectedly warm and charming. Or at least she had turned on the charm which she had in abundance for him.

“You’re a rich, handsome young man, my darling.” His mother had offered an astringent explanation. “Goes a long way with women like Leila.”

Be that as it may, Leila Rylance had been a stunningly glamorous woman and she had made the arrogant and demanding Dalton happy. So, tragedy all round. Even the super-rich couldn’t escape it.

Dalton Rylance and his father Daniel had been second cousins. His own branch of the family had been sheep and cattle barons since colonial days. His father was a wonderful man, a truly inspirational figure and a hero to his family. Tragically, for the past few years he had lived out his life in a wheel-chair after suffering severe spinal injuries in a riding accident, caused when he went to the assistance of a foolhardy jackeroo on the station.

Dalton and Daniel had never been close, though his father held a substantial block of shares in Rylance Metals. Dalton Rylance had not been a man who inspired liking, never mind affection, but he had been a brilliant businessman, a larger than life character and a major pioneer of the State’s mining industry.

As happened far more often than he cared to dwell on, Garrick’s thoughts turned to Zara. She who had abandoned him to an emotional hell. Once upon a time, he and Zara had been passionately in love. Correction. He had been passionately in love. Zara had been spreading her wings. Trying out her prolifically blossoming womanly powers in sexual exploration. Their lovemaking had lifted his heart clear of his body. He had been wild for her. He would have done anything for her. Made any sacrifice, short of abdicating his inheritance. He had always known, as his father’s only son and heir he had huge responsibilities waiting for him—just as did Corin, Dalton’s heir.

Zara was the Rylance heiress. Dalton, the quintessential chauvinist, had expected little else of her than to look beautiful and in time marry the scion of another enormously rich family and produce heirs. Dalton Rylance had carried the banner loudly proclaiming that women had no head for business.

“Big business can only be run by men.”

Predictably, Rylance Metals was male orientated. So, for that matter, was Rylance Enterprises, though that was fast changing. His mother, Helen, sat on the board of all of their companies, taking an active not passive role. It was she who had recommended, then had brought in another two key businesswomen who had proved their worth. His mother was quite a woman. And a great judge of character, which had often made him often wonder how she had slipped so badly with Zara.

His beautiful, beautiful Zara. His dark angel. The stuff of dreams.

At twenty-eight, two years younger than he, she was still unattached when everyone had thought she would marry early and brilliantly. Any young woman as beautiful and radiant as Zara, let alone an heiress, would attract a great deal of male attention. She had never been without her long line of admirers. Only, to her credit, Zara was no spoilt little rich girl. She had turned herself into a highflyer in the business world. Dalton hadn’t reckoned on his only daughter’s cleverness. But Zara had inherited the Rylance business brain. Even so, Dalton had never offered her a job within Rylance Metals.

One of his few big mistakes. But then Dalton Rylance had been a man of his time. For some years now Zara, armed with a Masters Degree in Business—Dalton had allowed that to protect the inheritance that was to come to her—had called London her home. That was where she lived and worked. And formed dangerous relationships. Some time back, she had been embroiled in a huge scandal over there. A cause célèbre involving a notorious and extremely rich European businessman, Konrad Hartmann, a man with vast multinational interests, who, after a lengthy undercover operation, had been found guilty of fraud on a massive scale. Hartmann was currently awaiting trial—these things took time—but no doubt he would enjoy the good life in jail, where he could buy plenty of protection. When the story first broke, the less respected section of the British press had dubbed Zara Hartmann’s beautiful young Australian mistress. The seed, not so subtly planted, was that she could have been privy to Hartmann’s dubious and convoluted business dealings, or must have had her suspicions. She was, by all accounts, something of a financial whiz-kid herself as well as the daughter of Australian mining magnate, Dalton Rylance. All grist for the mill! The media had a field day, skating as close to libel as they could.

The threat of legal action had called off the hawks. Zara’s distinguished and enormously influential boss at the time, Sir Marcus Boyle, had gone in to bat for her. Corin hadn’t wasted any time, flying to London to arrange top legal representation. Later, when things settled, he had brought Zara home. Apparently, she had been all too willing to come.

He found no pleasure in the knowledge that Zara had had her fingers badly burned. An ill-advised love affair with a billionaire white-collar criminal, no less, though she had denied any serious ongoing relationship right from the start. But was that strictly true? Only Zara and Hartmann would know. What he knew for a fact was that he would never forgive Zara for how she had treated him. His heart might leap at the sight of her. His eyes might forever be dazzled. But a broken heart didn’t easily mend. Heartache more often than not hatched hatred. Obsessive relationships were inherently of extremes. Only he didn’t have it in him to hate Zara. All he could do was prevent her from ever again finding a chink in his armour.

Part of him had wanted to refuse Corin’s invitation to be his best man. As Zara was to be chief bridesmaid, he knew he was taking an almighty risk. Even the sound of her name had the power to hurt him. Not that anyone would ever know. He had become expert at hiding his feelings. In the end, he’d decided he couldn’t possibly let Corin down. It was, after all, an honour. Corin didn’t know the full story of his betrayal at Zara’s hands. Nor would he ever. He and Zara had that secret in common. He and Zara would sit together at the bridal table. Pass for kin on the friendliest of terms.

He had done a lot of living since Zara had fled him. One unsuccessful attempt at putting the past behind him. He and Sally Forbes had become engaged at a big party her parents had thrown for them. The Forbes were a long established pastoral family and close friends. He had known Sally since forever. She was everything a young man in his position should choose. Outback born. A fine equestrienne. Phenomenal energy. Very attractive—lustrous nut-brown hair, dancing hazel eyes, well educated, confident and outgoing. Trained from girlhood to take her place as mistress of some large pastoral establishment. Like Coorango. It might have worked if the thought of Zara and what he had felt for her—what he had felt for a woman—hadn’t dogged his every step. In the end he and Sally had broken up. She had since married a mutual friend, Nick Draper, some said on the rebound. He hoped not. Sally and Nick remained his friends. Better yet, they looked happy with each other.

“Too much of you goes on inside your head, Rick. I never really know what you’re thinking.”

He felt bad about that. He couldn’t get past Zara. Or the ache in him.

Sometimes he couldn’t believe the passage of years. Could it possibly be five? Zara had made an attempt at bridging the deep gulf between them, writing many letters. The latest had been sent from London. That was shortly before she’d started to appear on the front page of the London newspapers. The temptation to read her letters had been powerful. He’d had to wrestle long and hard with the urge to slit the envelopes and devour the contents but he had come to think of it as a betrayal of himself. Of his self-esteem. Accordingly, the letters, tied in a thick bundle and shoved away in the back of a bureau drawer, had finally been consigned, not to the shredder, but fire. Fire seemed appropriate.

The past was off-limits.

Such a pity he couldn’t erase memory.

Chapter Two

THE Rylance Mediterranean-style mansion was some house. Dauntingly vast, it was set in five acres of landscaped gardens that at the rear led past a turquoise swimming pool and a pool house big enough to hold a family, down to the river, deep, broad and thrillingly dangerous in flood. In spring and summer the banks were overhung by prolifically blossoming trees. The front of the house sat at the centre of a sweeping cul-de-sac with only two very expensive estates to either side.

He had been a boy when he first visited the house. At ten, Outback children—at least those whose parents could afford it—were sent to boarding school to receive the best possible education. It was a tradition. He and Corin had been enrolled at birth in the same prestigious boys’ college their fathers and their grandfathers before them had attended. They were to start Grade Five together in the coming year.

His bonding with Corin had been one of those instant things. Friends and kinsmen right from the start. Corin’s beautiful little sister, Zara, had appeared to him like the princess in his own little sister Julianne’s fairy stories. For one thing, she wore a white dress with embroidery all over it, the like of which he had never seen. Her long gleaming dark hair had been pulled back from her face, held with a wide blue satin ribbon but left to slide like a waterfall over her shoulders and down her back. For Jules, who was six at that time everyday gear was asexual—T-shirts, shorts or jeans, boyish cap of dark curls. That was the norm on the station for all the kids.

He had been irresistibly and utterly captivated by Corin’s sister, who even then had dizzying power over him. He had a theory that she had established herself so early and so vividly that it had been impossible for him to see her as she really was. But, for all the excitement and attendant dangers of living on a vast Outback station, meeting little Zara Rylance, a cousin of sorts, had been one of the big moments of his childhood.

“This is Zara, Garrick. My jewel of a daughter!”

Corin and Zara’s beautiful mother Kathryn had smilingly introduced them, perhaps amused by his open-mouthed reaction. The little girl, to his astonishment, had sweetly and composedly given him her hand. How graceful was that? How adult!

Of course her mother had taught Zara her polished manners. Kathryn Rylance had been such a gracious woman of luminous poise. Who could possibly have imagined that not all that many years later she would be dead, killed in a spectacular crash when her powerful sports car became airborne and went over a bridge? The entire extended family had been stunned and saddened. He remembered his own strong-minded, highly articulate mother loudly deploring the fact that Dalton Rylance had remarried a relatively short time later.

“Young enough to be his daughter, Daniel, would you believe?” she’d addressed his father, her eyes the deep and brilliant blue she had passed on to her son sparkling in condemnation. “What is to happen to those children, so deprived of their loving mother? That callous monster Dalton will be no comfort at all. Little Zara will be the one to suffer the most. Mark my words. Are you listening to me, Daniel? With Zara around, Dalton and this new Mrs Rylance will never be able to forget Kathryn. I know you don’t like my saying it, but I’ve always believed our dearest Kathy was in such distress—”

At that point his mother, who had gained a reputation for looking ageless, had broken off, quickly swivelling her burnished head.

His father had caught sight of him, hovering at the door, and called out his name. “It’s all right, Garrick. Come in.”

Just as he was hanging on what his mother was about to say! Everyone knew his mother had not been impressed by Leila Rylance. She made no secret of it. In fact she was very outspoken. Not surprising perhaps when she’d had considerable affection for the tragic Kathryn who Zara so closely resembled.

The spectacular hand-forged iron gates, ebony offset with gleaming brass scrolls, parted on command. Then slowly closed behind them. They were cruising up the broad driveway lined by towering Cuban palms. An extraordinarily dramatic display of bromeliads flowered at their feet in long narrow beds that formed an allee that reached to the circular drive. Manicured lawns spread away to either side, a lush green never seen in the Outback.

Nearer the mansion, his eyes were enchanted by the sight of the box-edged rose gardens he remembered. The roses, his mother’s favourite plant, reigned without attendants. No other plants or under-plantings shared the beds. He approved of that. The rose, after all, was the Queen of Flowers. Now, in early summer, they were in exquisite bloom, each bed devoted to a particular colour—all the pinks from pale to deep, the whites, the yellows and oranges, a hundred iridescent shades of red, crimson, scarlet, ruby, carmine furthest away. The whole aura was one of peace and tranquillity.

He knew Kathryn Rylance had taken great personal interest in the garden. It was she who had worked closely with the head gardener at that time, a transplanted Englishman by the name of Joshua Morris. Josh was a man with a great love and knowledge of roses. It had been his job to enlarge the rose gardens. To no one’s surprise, Josh had resigned almost immediately after the news of Kathryn Rylance’s death had broken. He was said to have been devastated.

The gardens remained as Kathryn’s memorial.

Garrick’s fatigue had vanished. Nevertheless, he was acutely aware he was on edge. He wasn’t sure whether Zara was staying at the house or not. He knew she had a city apartment. But, with the wedding so close, it was possible she would be staying at the mansion. God knew it could accommodate an army. He understood Zara and Miranda had grown close. But then Zara had enormous charm at her disposal.

Corin had confided he was in two minds about keeping the property. Memories, of course. But, even with any amount of money at his disposal, he would be hard pressed to find a more valuable or better sited property with a superb view of the river to the rear. The estate was a major asset. It had to be worth many millions and state-of-the-art security would already have been put in place by Dalton. It was all up to Corin. Quite possibly, Miranda wouldn’t care to live in the house, although she had only met Leila Rylance, the last chatelaine, briefly. Miranda would be in for a lot of exposure as Corin’s wife. In the ordinary course of events, medical students didn’t get to marry billionaires. From what he had seen of Miranda, he was sure she could hold her own.

He knew, even before the door opened, it would be Zara. That warning tightness in his chest. The first of the shock waves?

Kathryn Rylance had passed on her exquisite features to her daughter. Zara looked up at him with a tremulous smile—no doubt uncertain of his reaction—but her wonderful eyes were already working their spell like some medieval witch. “Hello, Garrick.”

Just the sight of her! Did she know how it hurt? A thousand electrifying volts of recognition. The accompanying sense of futility for ever having loved someone beyond reach. Would he never get over the tortured angst he had carried around as a young man?

You’re carrying a torch you can’t put down, let alone put out, you fool.

He was older, wiser. His heartache had morphed into steely resolve. He didn’t fully realise it but he was radiating sexual antagonism. “Zara, I wondered if you’d be here.”

She flushed at his cutting tone. “I don’t expect a hug.”

“I’m not a big hugger any more, Zara,” he offered very dryly, when his heart was beating like a bass drum. “You cured me of that. Am I allowed to come in?’

“Of course.” Her flush deepened, like the pink bloom on a rose. She stood back, a willowy young woman with an entrancingly slender silhouette. Her gleaming dark hair was caught back in some elaborate knot, emphasizing her swan’s neck and the set of her pretty ears. She was dressed in a white sleeveless blouse with gauzy ruffles down the front and narrow-legged black pants. Tall as she was, above average in height, she still wore high heeled slingbacks on her feet. A simple enough outfit albeit of the finest quality. Zara enhanced everything she wore.

“Corin’s been delayed,” she told him, clearly showing her nerves. She had to look up at him. He, like Corin, was inches over six feet. “Miri is with him. Just a quick drink with friends. They’ll be home for dinner, which is at seven.”

“I remember,” he said, slightly relaxing the tension in his voice.

“Shall I show you to your room?”

She gave him another shaky smile. She sounded very gentle, very anxious to please. “Where are the staff?” he asked briskly, as if he would much prefer one of them to do the job.

“They’re about. I wanted to greet you myself.”

“Really?” He raised a black brow. “I suppose we do have to sort out how best to handle the next couple of days.’

His expression must have been harsh because she said, “You still hate me?” Her own expression was one of deep regret.

He didn’t have to consider his response. It was automatic. “Don’t kid yourself, Zara.”

Don’t let those big dark eyes drag you in.

“If you ever haunted my dreams, those days are long past.”

“You still haunt mine,” she said very simply.

Great God! The cheek of her! His answer was so stinging it made her flinch. “You always were good at putting on a show. But surely you’re not over Hartmann already?”

She visibly recovered her poise, her tone unwavering. “You’re talking utter nonsense, Garrick. I was never involved with Konrad Hartmann. There was no relationship as such. A few dinner dates. A couple of concerts.”

“I guess I can accept that.” He shrugged. “Goddesses don’t fall in love with mere mortals. But you had a sexual relationship?”

“Hardly any of your business,” she said with considerable reserve.

“Of course you did.”

He glanced away from her beautiful face into the sumptuous formal living room. It had been redecorated since he had last seen it. Now its palette was gold, turquoise and citrine-yellow, with the walls painted a shade of terracotta impossible for him to describe. This grand room had once been walled in with a graceful curving arch that matched the arch on the other side. Now both huge reception rooms were open to the entrance hall.

It was a real coup! In fact it was stunning. The entrance hall remained floored in traditional black and white marble tiles but, as he lifted his head, he saw the new white coffered ceiling. In place of the arches, four Corinthian columns soared to left and right, acting as a splendid colonnade.

So who had inspired the magic? Some high-priced designer with impeccable taste? Miranda? Very possibly, Zara. It looked like her—the refinement—he decided. Zara always did have tremendous style.

She was standing a short distance away, appearing lost in her own thoughts. “I can’t talk about Konrad Hartmann,” she was saying. “I was the victim there.”

He lowered his coal-black head, his expression highly sceptical. “His beautiful Australian mistress?”

“Believe that, you’ll believe anything!” She spoke tautly. “I was sorry to hear your engagement to Sally Forbes broke up. I do remember her. She was a very attractive girl. And very suitable.”

He shrugged. “Well, she’s happily married to Nick Draper now. Remember him?”

“I remember your other friend, Nash, better.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” He laughed, a dry and bitter sound. “Nash fell in love with you as well. One way or the other, you left lasting impressions. Corin must have spent a fortune redecorating the place.”

“You like it?”

“Someone has superb taste,” he said, lowering his dazzling blue gaze to hers. “Was it Miranda? I would have thought she was too preoccupied with her studies. I greatly admire her ambition, by the way.”

“As do we all.” She spoke tenderly, as if Miranda were a much loved sister. “Miri and I decided on things together. Of course we had a very talented professional team in as well. We didn’t want any reminders of—” She stopped short, biting her lower lip. It was fuller than the sensitive upper lip. She had a beautiful mouth. Once he could have kissed it all day. All night. Pretty well did.

“Go on,” he urged in a clipped tone, thinking he might never have any real protection against this woman. “You didn’t get on with your stepmother, did you? I suppose it’s understandable. You couldn’t bear another woman to take over from your mother, let alone steal your father’s attention away from you.”

She put her hand to her throat as though such a charge caused her great pain. “What would you know about it, Garrick?”

“I don’t pretend I know a great deal,” he confessed. “After all, we’ve lived over a thousand miles apart for nearly all of our lives. But I do recall your telling me any number of times how Leila had come between you and your father. Not that we spent much time talking, or indeed talking about anyone else but ourselves and our plans for a future together,” he tacked on with marked bitterness.

“She did more than that,” Zara pointed out, keeping her face as expressionless as she could. “But one isn’t supposed to speak ill of the dead. Suffice to say, it was Miranda more than anyone who wanted big changes.”

“What? Wasn’t what was already in place good enough?” he asked in genuine surprise. “No one could say poor tragic Leila lacked style.”

Zara half turned away, showing him her lovely profile. “Let’s get off the subject, shall we? It’s really not your concern.”

“Of course it isn’t,” he agreed suavely. “But, tell me, what exactly is my concern?” He picked up his suitcase. “I’m Corin’s best man.”

“Corin thinks the world of you.” She began to lead the way to the double height divided staircase that swirled upward to left and right at the end of the entrance hall.

“The feeling is mutual,” he said. His eyes were on her delicate shoulders and straight back. “It’s you who seriously messed up. By the way—” he paused, wanting to know the answer “—Corin doesn’t know about us, does he? Or the dubious us we were.”

She didn’t stop, knowing he was baiting her. “No need to bring your suitcase,” she said. “Someone will bring it up.”

“Just answer the question,” he returned curtly.

Now she turned to face him, feeling racked with emotion. His height and strength, the grace and vibrant life. If only one could wish for one’s time over again! Had she known it, her eyes, huge and haunting, dominated a magnolia-pale face.

She was the most desirable woman in the world, despite the way she had treated him, Garrick thought, struggling against a rush of fever and remembered passion.

She messed you up once. Don’t let her do it again.

“You didn’t read my letters, did you?” she asked sadly, one slender hand holding on to the gleaming brass handrail, as if for support.

Anger was driving him now. He made a grab for it. Got it under control.

Don’t let her see she’s getting to you.

“What was the point? You were never coming back to me. You made that abundantly clear. You were just spreading your wings. Taking advantage of all I felt for you.”

“I was scared of my father,” she said, superb actress that she was, managing to still look upset and frightened. “He called. I jumped.”

Garrick fired up, his voice like a whiplash “Oh, rubbish! Your father gave you everything! You wanted for nothing.” He knew he was betraying far too much emotion.

“Only in some ways,” she said. Garrick didn’t even know the half of it. “Ever since I was a little girl—even when our mother was alive—my father was such a controlling man. He controlled her.” Tears pooled in her beautiful dark eyes. Resolutely, she blinked them back. “I never had the courage to challenge him. That shames me now. I should have been braver. But my father scared strong men witless. You might consider that. Tough business people, not just servants or the like. Only Corin could stand up to him. I had to pay the price for so closely resembling my mother. Corin was the heir. I was the daughter. A nothing person. Daughters were nothing. But he would never forfeit control. You didn’t really know my father, Garrick, any more than you knew Leila. You remember her as a charming, super-glamorous woman, warm and friendly. The reality was very different.”

“I thought you weren’t going to speak ill of the dead,” he reminded her harshly. “And you weren’t a handful, I suppose?” he challenged. She was standing on the first step. They were almost eye to eye. He could have reached out and pulled her into his arms. “Your father confided he was greatly disturbed and disappointed in the way you did everything in your power to make life extremely unpleasant for your stepmother. Leila, according to him, and her, incidentally—though she said little against you—tried over and over to please you, to establish a connection, but you weren’t having any. As I say, it was understandable, but don’t lay all the blame on Leila, who isn’t here to speak for herself.”

“Well, it appears she has you,” she retorted sharply, visibly stung. “You feel my father and Leila were more trustworthy than me?”

“God, yes!” he freely admitted. “Why would they lie? They appeared most sincere. I know there was a lot of conflict.” He frowned. “We all more or less knew that. Bringing a beautiful, much younger wife into the family was bound to have repercussions.”

“It did that.” She turned away, as though realizing it would do no good whatever trying to enlist his sympathy. “I’m sorry, but I don’t want to talk about it. You’ve obviously made up your mind. You don’t seem to appreciate that you were blessed, Garrick. Both of us might have been born into wealth and privilege but you grew up with wonderful parents. To most people, being the Rylance heiress meant everything was within my grasp. That wasn’t so. Being wealthy carries its own burdens. You know that. One can buy relationships. People want to know you, be seen with you. But one can never buy love. It’s not for sale, when love is everything in life.”

He gave vent to a theatrical groan. “Oh, please! I had love for you, Zara. Do you dimly remember that? You didn’t want it. I knew at the time I wanted you more than you wanted me, but that was okay. What you gave me filled my life with radiance. Hope for a glowing future. In reality, there was no hope. What you actually did was expose me to a lot of wasteful unhappiness. You weren’t worth it. I detest devious, dishonest behaviour above everything.”

Colour swept her face in a rosy tide. “Then your memories are distorted. I wasn’t playing any game, Garrick.”

He found himself gritting his teeth. “Please do shut up, Zara,” he said. “We have a history of heartache, but we can’t turn this weekend into a battlefield now, can we? What’s past is past.”

Her gaze turned inward. “What did the American author, Faulkner say? The past is never dead; it’s not even past. You and Julianne suffered no family traumas like Corin and I did. You had a wonderful mother and father. Your father is the loveliest man—I’m hoping to see him. He invited me to Coorango.”

That piece of information came like a king hit “What?” He couldn’t control the fierceness of his tone. He went after her, taking hold of her arm. And there it was again. The zap of electricity that raised the short hairs on his nape. His eyes blazed, bluer than the finest back-lit sapphires. “Dad couldn’t have done that without telling me.”

“He’s still master of Coorango, isn’t he?” she challenged, her whole body trembling in his grasp. “Your mother would like to see me too,” she swept on. “Helen and I always did get on. She loved my mother. She told me so.”

That, at least, was true. For an instant he felt as though his structured life was imploding. “And when is this supposed to be happening?” he rapped, releasing her as though her touch burned him. Which, indeed, it did.

She spread the long pale fingers of her hands. “I think they thought—please be calm, Garrick—” she begged,”—I could fly back with you.”

“You can’t be serious.” He spoke flatly. “Neither of them said a word of this to me.” Shock was enveloping him. His parents told him everything. There were no secrets. They had been invited to the wedding as a matter of course. Only his father wasn’t anywhere near well enough for the long journey and his mother wouldn’t leave her adored husband. Perversely, he now realised some part of him wanted Zara to come, amply demonstrating his stupidity where she was concerned.

“So there’s a story behind this, is there?” he accused her. “You asked could you come. My parents wouldn’t refuse you. No doubt Coorango is as far away as you can get. I suppose people are still talking about your involvement with Hartmann.”

She moved swiftly away from him to the first landing. A portrait of a very elegant auburn-haired woman in a pink silk gown, late nineteenth century, hung on the wall directly behind her, a stunning backdrop. “A section of the media did their best to destroy me. Mud sticks. I have to live with it. But no one who knows me or loves me doubts my word. Konrad’s vast business dealings were under suspicion for a long time. We all knew that. But it took a lengthy, painstaking undercover operation to reveal the truth.”

“Look, I don’t want to hear about your conman ex-lover. Let’s go upstairs,” he said dismissively, picking up his suitcase again.

“Of course.”

They didn’t speak until she stopped outside a bedroom door a distance down the wide corridor, hung with more valuable giltframed paintings. Antique chairs and tall Chinese porcelain vases atop carved mahogany stands were set at intervals.

“I hope you’ll be comfortable here.” She opened the door, gesturing with a graceful movement of her arm that he should go in.

“Nice,” he muttered. It was way better than nice. The bedroom was large—and he was used to large—with a lofty ceiling opening onto the massive plant-filled rear terrace. There was a wrought iron setting where one could get a great view over the rear garden, the swimming pool area and, of course, the deep river. Inside, classic, sophisticated custom furnishings; king-size bed, colour scheme elegantly subdued—cream, bronze, ivory. “The most harmonious bedroom any male guest could ask for,” he said without looking at her. He was so close to her his muscles were tensed like steel springs.

“There’s an en suite, of course.”

“Of course!” he echoed with sarcasm.

She gave him a long searching look. “You’ve become very hard, haven’t you, Garrick?” she said, studying his superbly lean figure. Hardened or not, he was more devastatingly handsome than ever. The heat in his brilliantly blue eyes made her feel consumed. “You’ve quite lost your smile.” He had such a beautiful dazzling smile, like sunshine breaking out.

“Only with you, Zara,” he shot back with easy mockery.

“Your voice is deeper too,” she continued. “You sound more and more like your father. Once I used to think Rick will be like that, with all your father’s gravitas and wisdom. His wonderful sense of humour and his understanding of human nature, our strengths and our weaknesses. Now, I’m not so sure.”

“I’ll never be my father,” he said. “But I try my best. I never knew you, Zara,” he countered. “I fell for you when we were kids, out-landish as that may seem. I thought you were as beautiful on the inside as you are on the outside. I was so wrong. Anyway, it’s all ancient history now. A man can only afford to make a fool of himself once.”

“Did you not love Sally at all?” she asked with a serious questioning look.

His blue eyes raked her. “Do you really want to know?”

“Very much. I only ever wanted your happiness, Garrick.”

He gave her a glower that would have outdone Jane Austen’s Mr Darcy. He had developed a real talent for it. Sadly, the glower was intensely sexy.

“Zara, give me a break,” he groaned. “You cared nothing for me. You were just wallowing in a young man’s worship. Sally was a breath of fresh air after you. It was mutual, our breaking up.”

Her great eyes flashed prior knowledge. “Not what I heard.”

Someone was bound to have told her. “Sally deserved a different kind of partner,” he said. “I admit I have grown…harder. Sally needed someone who would suit her better—Nick. So put me in the picture. For a woman who was expected to marry early and brilliantly, you’re damned near on the shelf. What happened to all the guys before Hartmann?” His expression could have stripped her to the bone.

“No one measured up to you!”

He was so angry he spun about and caught her by the shoulders, shocking himself with the violence of his reaction. He wanted to pick her up bodily. He wanted to…damn…damn…damn…

“Don’t do this, Zara,” he warned. “I’m not sure what lies at the centre of this new campaign—if that’s what it is—but, I have to tell you, you disgust me.”

She stared back at him with absolute calm. That was a major point in Zara’s favour. She could keep her calm. “Feels good, does it, shaking me?”

Instantly he dropped his hands. God, around Zara he needed a keeper. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “You’d do well not to provoke me. Which you’re doing deliberately.” He could feel the heat running along his arms to his shoulders, down the length of his body. The slightest physical contact and he was on the verge of losing it. He wanted to pull her back into his arms. Kiss her senseless…

For God’s sake, remember all you’ve learned.

Not easy when his emotions were in chaos. Another shock to absorb. For the first time in a long time he had come alive in a way he hadn’t experienced since she had left him. The powerful sexuality that was in him, so long dormant, was frantic to break free. Now the big question was—just how long was he going to be able to hold out? Weddings were very special occasions. Weddings did things to people. They filled the air with magic. He would have to spend the entire time smothering his instincts to death.

She had slipped one hand to her shoulder, massaging it gently.

Shame overwhelmed him. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he apologised again, not fully aware how daunting his physical presence was—a stunningly fit male, well over six feet, emanating a fierce anger.

“I think you did,” she said, but in a low accepting voice. “It’s going to be very difficult these next few days if we can’t appear to be friends.”

He couldn’t help it. He threw back his head and hooted, the sound mocking and derisive. “Friends?”

“Maybe not—” she wavered in the face of his contempt “—but we’re both adults. Surely we can play the part?”

He shrugged a languid shoulder. “I don’t see why not. You’re a superb actress, and the last thing I want to do is upset Corin and his lovely bride. What I don’t see is why you want to come back with me to Coorango? I’ve made it quite clear what I think of you.”

Her midnight-dark eyes were pinned to his face. “I haven’t seen your parents for some time. They like me. They want to see me even if you don’t. I admit I’d like to get out of town for a while. Your father and mother understand that. You’ll be out and about the station for most of the time. I know how hard you work. I can only say I’ll do my best to keep out of your way. I could be a help to your mother, with Jules in Washington, expecting a baby.” Julianne Rylance had married a young career diplomat some years back. His current posting, an upgrading, was in Washington.

“I have to think about this,” he said. It came from the depths of his being. Take her back to Coorango? Kill or cure? His whole attitude was forced, that was the worst part. A defence mechanism; a way of controlling his emotions. “I like my life the way it is,” he told her, not bothering to keep the anger away. “I don’t want you back in it. Leave me alone, Zara. Whatever was between us, it’s long over.”

The “friendship”, curiously enough, lasted right through a delicious dinner and well after. They retired with coffee to the rear terrace, where the river breeze was circulating, shaking out all the myriad scents of the garden. The sky was ablaze with brilliantly blossoming stars. The exterior lights lit the grounds—the huge sapphire pool and the landscaped gardens with their spectacular banks of densely blue hydrangeas, a flower his mother loved but could not grow on Coorango. Even at the rear of the house the air was infused with the fragrance of the roses that mingled with the familiar scent of Zara he was drawing in.

He didn’t have to force his smooth easy manner. It came without effort. He was, after all, well schooled and the happiness Corin and Miranda so obviously felt flowed very sweetly and calmingly over him. It lifted his spirits and lowered his entrenched cynicism. Corin adored his Miranda. Miranda adored him. A man should be so lucky!

But then hadn’t he once thought the gates of Paradise had been opened to him? Zara had seduced him with all her ravishing little overtures. Or had he seduced her? Who could tell which way it had been? He had made love to her over and over so passionately. She had let him. Or had it been the other way around? Whatever way it had happened, it was as though it was meant to be. Cruel as the outcome had been, he would remember it all his life.

Tonight, both young women were wearing ankle-length summery dresses that fell from shoestring straps. Maxi dresses, Miranda told him when he complimented her on her enchanting appearance. Miranda’s dress was in a beautiful stand-out turquoise to match her amazing eyes; Zara’s was closely patterned all over with pink and coral flowers outlined in black. Two beautiful young woman, perfect foils for one another. It was clear Zara had worked her charm on her soon-to-be sister-in-law. Miranda’s manner with Zara was soft with affection.

Pity she didn’t use her winning ways on the tragic Leila.

Zara turned her head. Their eyes met. He took a deep breath that was like a knife thrust. He realised, too late, he had just been sitting there staring at her.

A million miserable damns!

He couldn’t change how she affected him.

He couldn’t unmake the past.

Ecstasy and betrayal often went hand in hand.

Workmen were swarming all over the grounds when he went down to do a few quick laps of the pool. It was a magnificent blue and gold day with the prediction of plenty more perfect days to come. A great omen for the wedding. He woke in the predawn, as was his habit, but for the initial few seconds he couldn’t think where he was. His dreams had been anything but restful. Predictably filled with a Zara who kept walking steadily away from him up a rising slope. She was even managing to dominate his unconscious. At one point in the early hours he had woken with one hell of a start, thinking her body was curled around his.

How crazy could a man get?

Getting through the wedding was going to be a lot tougher than he’d thought. The trick was to focus on Corin and his beautiful Miranda and forget his own problems. He wasn’t proud of the fact that the woman who had betrayed him still had immense power over him. No wonder men got so angry when they were treated like fools.

By the time he pulled himself out of the pool two splendid white marquees had been erected, with a third underway. Buffet tables were being put swiftly in place with several women waiting to drape them with white damask tablecloths and, he understood, gold moire over-cloths to match the elegant gilt chairs. Excitement was in the air. No doubt about it. He had never seen Corin happier. That counted for a lot.

He was towelling himself off when Zara surprised him by materialising at his shoulder. He hadn’t heard her. He’d been too busy watching the proceedings as she had come across the plush emerald grass.

“You were up early,” she said, slipping off her flimsy cobalt blue and white cover-up and placing it neatly around the back of a chair.

“Wow!” It came without volition. For a few moments arousal closed his throat.

“Wow?” she questioned, raising her brows.

“Yes, wow, wow, wonderful wow!” he said shortly, angry with himself for making any comment. He felt the predictable blood rush to his loins; more heat from the sight of her than the sun. There was an element of déjà vu in it too. How many times had he and Zara swum together in Coorango’s Blue Lady Lagoon? Sometimes with swimsuits, sometimes without. Acting wild. He could still visualise her naked body, her long black hair streaming down her back, creamy skin that never tanned, huge eyes locked on his, each hypnotised by the other.

I love you, Rick. I always will!

And I adore you! We’re perfect together.

Every atom of his being—his whole psyche—had told him it was true. Zara was the only girl in the world he wanted to marry.

But that was another time. Another place. Only deep, deep memories would never fade.

“Well, thank you,” she said and smiled. “You don’t look so bad yourself.” A priceless piece of understatement.

“Hard work tends to keep one in shape,” he snapped.

“Still tanned all over?”

“That you’ll never know.”

“Don’t make statements that might be used against you,” she said softly.

“And don’t you try flirting with me,” he warned. “You’ve had your day. Full stop.”

“And every day since I’ve died a little.”

He swung on her then, blue eyes blazing.

“Okay, okay!” She held up the palms of her hands in surrender, head held high and proud. “I disgust you. But you haven’t found anyone. Neither have I.”

“Maybe we damaged one another. Leave it, Zara.”

Showing a little agitation she withdrew a long hairpin from her hair; the sun made it gleam, like a thoroughbred’s coat polished high for a race. What a glorious thing was a woman’s mane, thick and sleek and straight. Her white one-piece swimsuit was cut high at the leg to make the most of her beautiful graceful limbs. The plunging halter neckline revealed a tantalizing glimpse of the sides of her small but perfectly shaped breasts. The top section of the swimsuit was printed with cobalt blue and silver. Plunging neckline or not, she projected her innate refinement and elegance.

He forced himself to look away. He picked up his discarded towel, giving his thick hair a vigorous once over.

“You’re not going, are you?” She raised a hand to block the sun from her eyes.

“I’ve had my swim.” He wouldn’t look at her.

“Stay, please,” she begged. “Miri is coming down. It will make her happy to see us together. You know—friends.”

His eyes shot over her then, narrowing, intensely blue against his darkly tanned skin. “Ex-lovers. Friends has nothing to do with it. Anyway, I thought I fulfilled my obligations last night.”

“We had a lovely time,” she said, more a statement than a question.

“And you were so sweet,” he mocked. “I’m supposed to feel good?”

“Well, at least you look good.” Her face softened. She gave a little shaky laugh. “Here’s Miri now. Please stay on a while, Garrick.”

“Okay, I will, for Miranda’s sake. Her New Zealand family are arriving before lunch, aren’t they?” He ran a hand through his hair, quickly drying in deep crisp waves. A slight frown appeared on his forehead. “I didn’t even know until last night that Miranda had a family in New Zealand. But then I know very little about her. I even had the notion that side of her family was darn near a closed topic.” He gave her a searching look, not all that surprised when she turned her beautiful head away from him. It seemed to him—he could be wrong—there was a story there.

“Well, her distinguished grandfather will be giving her away and her cousin Isabel will be one of the bridesmaids. There was a family rift. Sadly, that went on for many years, but all’s well now. That’s the main thing.”

“I guess it is,” he agreed, “but there’s a lot you’re not telling me. Broad outline. Not enough detail.”

“Why would you say that?” She spoke too quickly, too intensely. A dead giveaway.

“Zara!” He stopped her with a look. “I can read you like a book. Anyway, leave it for now. I very much like Miranda. Corin is a lucky man.”

Chapter Three

EVERYTHING went exactly as planned. The church ceremony was so beautiful, so much a celebration of the heart, many a married woman abandoned herself to a gentle nostalgic tear that often escaped onto the cheek, while the young and the not so young but ever hopeful vowed to make up for lost time and get working towards achieving a magical wedding of their own. As an occasion, nothing could beat a wedding. This one was glorious, a real fairy tale affair, the legendary once in a lifetime. Excitement was running high. Great swirls of genuine emotion, impossible to describe, but it enveloped them all. At least for a time.

Miranda was the living fulfilment of the radiant bride. Her whole countenance, her extraordinary turquoise eyes, shone with love and joy. Here was a bride her groom could worship. Her beautiful silk wedding gown, traditionally white, was strapless, the bodice encrusted with crystals and tiny faux pearls, the silk endowed with a wonderful luminescence. The style, cut by a master, suited her petite figure perfectly. The skirt flared just enough from a tiny waist so as not to over-whelm her. There was a short train at the back. The lustrous fabric of the billowing skirt had been intricately woven with silver thread that formed a pattern of roses; tightly closed buds, half open buds, roses in full bloom, all in perfect botanical detail.

It was gorgeous!

Miranda had chosen the rose as the symbol of her wedding. It was a tribute to Kathryn Rylance, her beloved Corin and Zara’s late mother. The gesture was said to have reduced Zara to tears. A full circle of white silk roses held the bride’s short sunburst tulle veil in place. Around her throat was a necklet of Paspaley South Sea pearls, an incredibly beautiful offering from her adoring groom. Diamond and pearl earrings dropped from her ears, the pearls swinging gently with every movement.

All four bridesmaids were tall and very slim. They dared not be anything else with their closely fitting silk gowns. All wore their hair long, flowing over their shoulders. The bodice of the one-shouldered form-fitting gown was caught by a sparkling jewelled strap. A half-moon of silk roses scattered with Swarovski crystals to represent dew drops was tucked at the most flattering angle behind the ear. As headpieces, they were very beautiful, very flattering, the colour matched to their gowns, which were, in turn, the exact shade of the bride’s favourite roses from the garden, all of them prize blooms.

Zara, the chief bridesmaid, wore a glorious deep Peace pink. The shade acted as a wonderful foil for the second bridemaid’s lovely lavender-pink gown. Shimmering sunshine-yellow was chosen for the third dark-haired bridesmaid and, on the bride’s blonde cousin, the beautiful soft apricot of the old-fashioned musk rose. Miranda and Zara had spent a lot of time poring over fabrics before selecting the luminous silks in precisely complementary shades. The outcome was a triumph. Bride and all four of her bridesmaids moved as if bathed in pools of light.

The luxurious bouquets were composed of roses with a fine tracery of green. In themselves, works of art and, again, the bride’s favourites, large fragrant garden roses with their buds—not the hothouse variety. Afterwards, a great deal was spoken about the beauty and success of the bride’s and her bridesmaids’ outfits and truly lovely bouquets, but the groom and his attendants certainly didn’t miss out. It had to be accepted that the wonderfully handsome groom was now taken, the other guys were very attractive, but what about the best man? Brooding good looks like that and those blue eyes could drive a girl beserk! At least that was the general opinion.

It was obvious to all that Garrick Rylance was going to be targeted at the reception by all those young women, already fuzzy with emotion, who dared to dream the dream. Fortune was known to favour the daring. Clearly, he would be able to take his pick.

“Let the battle for the attention of the Cattle Baron begin!” one society matron whispered waggishly to another. “I’ve never seen a sexier action man in my life!”

“And not a thing you can do about it, darling!” whispered the other, who just happened to be her sister-in-law.

“Nothing wrong with looking, even for a grandmother!” was the swift retort. “There’s the hero of any girl’s dreams! Bit on the dangerous side, maybe!”

Guests were ferried from the picturesque church, which had been packed to overflowing, to the sumptuous reception in the Rylance mansion’s luxuriant gardens. Zara felt so tremulous, her inner voice had recourse to speak sternly to her.

You can’t allow your emotions to overcome you. Breathe deeply. Restore your calm.

Not so easy when what she had witnessed was the union of soulmates. Her heart was filled with happiness for her brother and for Miranda, her new sister-in-law—sister. Of course it was. But there was emotional upheaval as well. Only once during the ceremony had Garrick’s gaze locked with hers. Just the space of a few searing seconds, both of them standing immobile. The brilliant blue of his eyes, bluer than the deep vibrant blue of the sky, seemed to be mocking her. She had been the first to look away. It was as if he was telling her she had let her only chance of real happiness slip away from her.

Ah, the piercing ache of loss!

She couldn’t allow it to claw at her heart. Not today. Today was one of celebration. She was the chief bridesmaid. She had an important role to play. Feeling as she did, Zara would have been surprised to learn she looked the very picture of beauty and serenity, her great dark eyes eloquent with the love and happiness she felt for the bridal couple. Her family. As chief bridesmaid, she sat to Corin’s right. Garrick, as best man, was seated beside Miranda, so they were a good few feet apart. The other bridesmaids and the groomsmen alternated down the long rectangular bridal table, positioned centre front, so all the guests had a clear view of them. Exquisite garlands of gilded organza and chenille roses ran the perimeter of the table, framing it, with strands of gold beads and faux white pearls that had an amazing sheen. The bride and her bridesmaids had used their lovely bouquets to deck the table instead of arrangements.

The food was sumptuous; the drink the finest vintage champagne. Corin offered a deeply touching speech to his bride that moved many to tears. Garrick’s speech created a fine balance. A moment or two of high seriousness, as was to be expected, then his speech moved to the entertaining, with highlights from his and Corin’s boyhood. In particular an incident when they were ten, when he had talked Corin into an adventure; catapulting themselves out into the river by means of a stout rope, he had slung from one of the overhanging trees. It wouldn’t have been so bad, only the river was running a thrilling white foaming banker at the time.

“An Outback kid, you see,” he explained, to indulgent general laughter.

Bring on the Outback, sighed every last female.

“We both lived to tell the tale.” A flashing grin from Corin. Both of them had gotten into a lot of trouble. Garrick was a “wild bush boy, as headlong as a brumby” his father had thundered, all the more furious because Garrick wasn’t flustered or fearful. In fact, Garrick had been remarkably cool for a ten-year-old kid.

Zara remembered too. Their mother had been perturbed—the river, after all, was deep and swift, and in flood—but she had withheld any show of anger. Both boys were excellent swimmers but her father had gone to town, dressing them down for the reck-lessness of their actions. Garrick had told him repeatedly that he was the instigator, but to no avail. Garrick had looked suitably chastised, but no way had he been in awe of her father and his lashing tongue. Even then, her heart had been stirred by admiration. Perhaps her father had decided that very day that Garrick would forever be on the outer. Dalton Rylance had been so used to people kowtowing to him he would accept nothing less.

At last it was time for the married couple to leave. They were spending a night in Sydney. From there they would fly to Los Angeles, stay a week or so on the West Coast, then fly to New York. To much excitement, waving arms, a little light shoving and non-stop pleas to “throw it to me!” Miranda let her exquisite bouquet soar like a bird from the upstairs balcony into the blossoming field of beautifully dressed young women, themselves like flowers.

Zara kept her hands down and her eyes lowered. The man she yearned for, now standing only a few feet away, was laughing at the antics of one of the bridesmaids who, right from the wedding rehearsal, had made no secret of the fact that she found the best man “absolutely gorgeous—a guy a girl would follow anywhere!”

She, on the other hand, had played her part as chief bridesmaid with grace and dignity, but in no way did she lose her head, even slightly, or her sense of occasion. After the Hartmann affair, when she had been so falsely accused of being, at best, his mistress, at worst, privy to his business dealings, she had felt like a woman who lived in a house with glass walls. Those who had wanted to for a variety of reasons, mostly because she was an heiress—rolling in money—threw rocks.

She had told herself a thousand times she was too sensitive for her own good. She was so much like her mother and what had happened to her mother was a great weight on her shoulders. Some women were more vulnerable than others.

Like a bird on guided wings, Miranda’s bouquet, aimed at Zara, landed with a burst of fragrance against Zara’s breast. There were groans of disappointment, many more congratulatory cheers. There was great goodwill towards Zara within the extended family and beyond. Zara was so beautiful yet so modest, with the sweetest possible nature. Just like her late mother, Kathryn, beloved of them all and sadly missed.

“You’re next, Zara!” a soft voice fluted in her ear. Chloe, one of her young cousins.

Her grandmother, Sibella De Lacey, looking stunning in royal blue silk with a striking broad-brimmed hat, came up to her, taking her arm. “Is this a happy omen, my darling?” she whispered, full of protective love for her granddaughter.

“Nan, Miri aimed this at me deliberately,” Zara said wryly.

“And she’s a darn good shot.” Sibella laughed. “What you have to do now, my darling, is put your life in order. There’s a whole new life, a whole way of being, open to you. As a Christian, I should say God rest his soul, but your father had a lot to answer for. He failed you on so many levels.”

Zara knew the ocean of tears her grandmother had wept for her mother. No easy way out of grief. Sometimes no way at all. “You can’t forgive him, can you?”

“No, I can’t,” Sibella bluntly confessed. “Not for my Kathryn. Not for all eternity. And for shutting you out. When you appeared to have found happiness, he decided to inflict more suffering. He banished the young Garrick from your life. Such an intensely ambivalent man, your father. He really did love your mother in those early years but, gentle though she was, Kathryn refused to fit the mould. The other one did that.”

“She took great care to do it,” Zara said.

“Of course. Leila was prepared to do anything to get Dalton. Afterwards, I believe Dalton came to hate himself. He couldn’t look back on what he’d done. How Leila came to have that very special child, one would never know.”

“Good grandparents, Nan!” Zara said. “They would have been lovely people. Leila was a one-off.”

“Dazzling, yet nothing to her!” Sibella said sardonically. “She did everything in her power to sideline you. Jealousy. So much like your mother, you see. This may not have been obvious to you, my darling, but Dalton had a powerful jealousy of Garrick.”

Zara looked at her grandmother in astonishment. “Garrick? Don’t you mean Corin? Dad’s dominant characteristic was keeping control.”

“Bullying, don’t you mean?” Sibella said. “Splitting you and Garrick up was your father’s revenge. In no way was Garrick the kind of son-in-law he had in mind. He wanted a yes, sir, no sir man, someone who would conform. Someone he could take into the business so he’d have you both beneath his eye and under his control. He could never do that with Garrick. What did Dalton call him again?’ She sought Zara’s dark eyes. Eyes that Kathryn, then Zara had inherited from her.

Zara had to smile. “The wild bush boy! Garrick never went in awe of Dad. His attitude was even more pronounced than Corin’s. Even as a boy of ten, Garrick was a man in the making. I turned out a real wimp by comparison. Dad’s domination of me should have ended with my adolescence, Nan. I should have been strong enough to break free. Why wasn’t I?” she agonized. “I’ll tell you why!” Sibella had to hold down her wrath. “We’re talking about a tyrannical man here. Control was a compulsion. Here was a man who made tough competitors crack. It would have been easy to strip my daughter of all her confidence. She should never have married him, but she wanted him at the time. He was very cunning, determined to win her, whatever the cost. Kathryn, as a girl and a young woman, had a wonderful inner contentment and her own strength. That was the sad part. Yet, within a few years, your father had drained it. Stripped her of her happiness. You children were everything to her.”

Zara felt such a wave of pain that she hid her face in Miranda’s fragrant bouquet. “Dad robbed me of my confidence as well. He pretended—he was so convincing and I was thrilled he was even paying me attention—he was acting in my best interests. He convinced me no way would I fit into Garrick’s way of life. He told me I simply wouldn’t be able to handle any future role as Garrick’s wife and mistress of Cooranga. He pointed out to me that Mummy had felt pushed to the limit, having to assume the role of wife and partner of an important industrialist like himself. That’s what was responsible for the breakdown in the marriage, he said.”

“Not Leila, then,” Sibella commented bitterly. “Dalton was in all areas of his life a control freak.”

“He couldn’t control Corin.”

Sibella nodded with understanding and pride. “Not my Corin. But don’t forget, my darling, there was a marked contrast in how Dalton treated Corin and how he treated you, his only daughter. You were too young to lose your mother. Kathryn acted as the buffer between you children and your father. You in particular because you shared her gentle nature. She angled herself between you and Dalton. We lost her, Zara, but she never meant it She would never have deliberately left you.”

“No!” Zara nodded when she didn’t really know at all. Some questions would forever remain unanswered. But no way was she going to add to her grandmother’s grief.

Sibella spoke very quietly. “She’s here today, you know.”

“I’ve felt her,” Zara said in an equally quiet voice. “Corin told me he did too.”

“Every day of my life I pray for her and for you, Zara. You are so much like Kathryn, it’s as though she’s still with us. Now, I want you to do something for me. Garrick is standing only a few feet away. The two of us are going to stroll over for a chat. Garrick and I always did get on well. He might be smiling at that very frisky girl in the lovely blue dress, but I know where his thoughts are. You must try for a reconciliation, Zara. Too many years have been wasted.”

Beneath the silk of her beautiful bridesmaid’s dress, her heartbeat was urgent. “I’ve told you, Nan. He hates me.” Her grandmother had long since pried out of her her short-lived love affair with Garrick and its disastrous end.

“Garrick is a proud man.” Sibella glanced once more in Garrick’s direction. Garrick Rylance, so tall, bold, bronzed, vividly handsome! He could not have been more striking. His brilliant blue eyes framed by thick sooty lashes any girl would die for. A challenging man was Garrick. Never a devil like her late son-in-law, Dalton. “Garrick has it firmly in his head you threw him over, no matter how often you tried to explain. But I’ve caught him watching you. Garrick might still be angry with you, my darling, but hate you? Never! Neither of you has settled for anyone else, I notice, when both of you could have just about anyone. I find that very telling, don’t you?”

Garrick knew Zara and her grandmother were coming his way. There had scarcely been a second when he hadn’t been aware of Zara, despite the audacious attentions of several young women so hell-bent on flirtation one would have thought their lives depended on it. The one he was with now fitted the bill. She was a real stayer. The sad thing was, he only had eyes for Zara. That was his bitter fate. Being anywhere near her was like being electrified. She looked so beautiful in that pink silk gown, her long dark hair falling like a bolt of shining silk down her back. He loved the exquisite pink roses that dipped in under her ear. It had been a monumental effort trying to keep his eyes off her.

You’re totally messed up, Rylance. He’d told himself that repeatedly. Didn’t do much good. His feelings for Zara would never die. They wouldn’t even die down and it was years later. Maybe he ought to arrange a session with a really good shrink, he thought with a flash of humour.

How to cure obsession—for one particular woman.

He had already spoken to Sibella, of course. He greatly admired her. Zara was very much like her in appearance. Sibella De Lacey, nearing seventy, remained a beautiful woman. She looked after herself and dressed superbly, no doubt aided by the fact that she had retained her slender figure. He knew Sibella liked him. He knew that if Sibella could wave her magic wand she would make everything come right between himself and Zara. That was if Sibella could ever find her lost magic wand.

Zara, still holding Miranda’s lovely bouquet like some magic charm, drew a deep breath. Said a silent prayer. Perhaps she and Garrick could never get back to what they had had, but she had to try.

Her time was running out.

Celebrations continued on into the night, with couples dancing on the rear terrace to a great band who were enjoying themselves as much as anyone else. Others roamed the extensive gardens, which were lit by thousands and thousands of white fairy lights that decked the trees. Flirtations aplenty were going on. A lot of tender hand-holding. Delectable kisses stolen in the scented semidark. One overeager, overenthusiastic young male guest for a bit of fun launched himself into the swimming pool with its flotilla of big beautiful hibiscus blooms, but further silliness on the part of others was swiftly discouraged by an unobtrusive security man, dressed like the other guests, who hauled him out.

Older guests retired to the house, agog at the wonderful renovations. They flowed through the main reception rooms and the library, chattering and exclaiming, coming to settle into the opulent sofas and armchairs to go over the great day in detail and catch up on all the latest news and gossip. Many who had thought of her often that day went to gaze with a moment’s sadness at the life-size portrait of Kathryn Rylance. It hadn’t been seen for quite a while. Certainly not during the reign of the second wife, Leila. Recently it had been taken out of storage, cleaned, reframed and it now hung above the splendid white marble fireplace.

“In its rightful place!” murmured one of Kathryn’s friends to another.

Kathryn Rylance had been such a beautiful gracious woman! How sad that she couldn’t have been here on this day of days, the wedding of her only son. All agreed that Zara was the image of her, both in looks and in manner. All had decided Miranda had deliberately thrown her bouquet to her sister-in-law. Didn’t that declare to the whole world that the two young women were very close? No one had seen such happiness in the Rylance household for far too long.

The King is dead. Long live the King!

By one o’clock in the morning the last of the guests departed in chauffeured limousines that stood waiting for them. This service had been planned well in advance, the thinking being that, very few would be in any condition to drive their own cars. One woman guest was so grateful and maybe so tipsy she started to cry.

“How enormously thoughtful!” she gushed as the chauffeur opened the door for her and her husband.

Her husband, an eminent barrister, agreed. “We’d never get home otherwise, my dear.”

“God bless you, Corin, old son!” another male guest yelled at the top of his voice amid more cheering. “This entire day has been perfect!”

Everyone knew a love match when they saw one. It was enough to make you bawl your eyes out with joy!

At long, long last the house was empty. The army of caterers had attended to every last detail of the clean up before packing their things and leaving. Corin’s housekeeper and the major domo, Hannah and Gil McBride, a very efficient couple in their late forties, taken on by Corin, had retired to their own secluded quarters perhaps an hour ago. Their comfortable bungalow was set in the grounds screened by a grove of luxuriant golden canes and only a short walk to the main house by way of an adjoining covered path.

Zara now felt free to roam.

Garrick had gone on with a party of revellers who obviously had no intention of allowing the night to end. She had no idea when and if he would be back but if he did he knew how to handle the state-of-the-art security system. Lord knew he’d made a huge impression on a number of young women looking for a rich handsome husband. The one in the beautiful blue dress came to mind—Lisa something. She had overheard Lisa telling a highly interested friend, “Garrick is simply gorgeous! He makes me go weak at the knees!”

She wasn’t the only one.

Include yourself!

Silently, Zara wandered in and out of the huge reception rooms, pausing to admire all over again the glorious flower arrangements. It was she who had suggested the florist to Miranda. Wayne was acknowledged as one of the country’s most creative florists and one of the most expensive by a country mile. Wayne had supplied all the flowers for the wedding, the exquisite bouquets for bride and bridesmaids, church, reception and the house. The effects were stunning. No expense had been spared. He could possibly retire if he so chose.

Someone once said the scent of a flower was its soul. She stooped to inhale the intoxicating sweetness of masses and masses of white gardenias arranged in a very tall famille verte Chinese vase with long trailing sprays of jasmine. The whole arrangement was supported by fig branches with their green fruit. She remembered her mother had often used this particular vase for her arrangements. Out of nowhere, she was assailed by the vision and, strangely, the unmistakable perfume of pink frangipani branches. Her mother had liked to mix them in with pink or red azaleas. She retained a little snapshot of her childhood—she and her mother picking armloads from the garden, the two of them so happy, so much the loving mother and daughter. No one should have to lose their mother. It was an awful business. She had mourned her father and, to a degree, Leila. Death required attention. But in no way had their deaths caused the enormous grief and feeling of utter loss she had suffered when she and Corin had lost their mother. Neither her father nor Leila had had room in their lives for her.

Tears pricked her eyes. One of the first things Corin had done after the death of their father was to go in search of their mother’s portrait. It had been painted by a famous Italian artist, commissioned by their father not long after the marriage. Their father had had it taken down within days of her death. She remembered with a feeling of pride that she had found the courage to volubly protest, Corin even more stridently. The two of them had all but yelled at their domineering, autocratic father. To no avail. Neither of them had had any idea where the painting had been stored. Not in the house. They had looked, risking severe discipline. Corin had finally located the painting in an art dealer’s storeroom.

“You’re so very beautiful, Mummy,” she whispered, looking up at the bravura portrait of her mother in her wedding gown. The irony of it—her wedding gown! “I’m sure you were here today. I felt you. So did Corin. So did Nan. We love you so much.”

For the first time she spotted a single white rose of exquisite form and fragrance tied with a silver ribbon. It lay on the white marble mantelpiece at the base of the portrait. She picked it up, curious to know who had put it there.

The tiny silver and white card said simply: From Miranda.

That a gesture could be so perfect!

Still holding the white rose, she went about quietly turning off banks of switches that controlled the lighting. She would take the rose upstairs with her. Pop it in a bud vase and keep it beside her bed. It was all so extraordinary when one thought about it. Lovely little Miranda, with her essential goodness and brightness, was Leila’s daughter. Hard to realise, given Leila’s cold, calculating, selfabsorbed nature. The connection had not come out—Corin had made sure of that. Not that it was the worst story in the world, but it was somewhat bizarre. No one had commented on the fact that Miranda had been given away by her New Zealand grandfather, a distinguished professor of medicine. Nor that a New Zealand cousin had made a beautiful bridesmaid. Maybe someone would uncover the true story as the years passed. It would make no difference to Corin and Miranda. Nor to her and her grandparents. Garrick was the only one who had raised a question about what appeared to have gone over everyone else’s head. But Garrick didn’t know.

Radiant moonlight was coming in through the many tall windows and the side lights of the front door. She could easily see her way across the entrance hall. She planned to leave a few lights on for Garrick, anyway. He had such a powerful effect on women. Always had, even if he had been genuinely unaware of it. Yet the highly eligible Garrick seemed no more successful at putting back the pieces than she was. The one had altered the life of the other.

She felt anger rising in her at her father’s multiple deceptions. The way he had worked on her to strip her of all confidence. Her father, therefore, had been her enemy. Good fathers affirmed their children’s value. She had received no such validation from him. She had to accept, too, that somewhere along the line Garrick must have become a point of bitter antagonism. When one considered it, her father had shown all the signs of pathological jealousy. Business giant or not, Dalton Rylance had been a very strange man.

She had only walked a few feet towards the grand staircase when the front door suddenly opened. It had to be Garrick. She spun just in time to see his tall, muscular figure outlined against the exterior lights.

“Garrick!” She felt the breathless vibrations of her heart.

“Well, what do we have here,” he mocked, “a welcoming party of one?” He slowly approached, devastatingly handsome in his formal pearl-grey morning suit. He hadn’t bothered to change. That would have been an additional excitement for the young women in his party.

His tone was so sardonic she waved the taunt away with her hand. “Have no fear. I didn’t think you’d even come back. You seemed to be getting along so well with…Lisa, wasn’t it?”

“Louise,” he said with a drawl. “Call me Lou!”

“Well, I was close.” She shrugged, the jewelled strap that held the one-shouldered bodice of her gown giving off sparkles of light. “Didn’t work out?”

“I prefer to do the chasing,” he said, turning back to reactivate the alarm system. Then he recommenced his graceful walk, sleek as a panther, across the expanse of black and white marble tiles. “Still wearing your bridesmaid gown?” There was an oddly seductive note in his voice, given he had done his level best to avoid her the entire evening. One more or less obligatory dance, both of them remaining silent, their bodies locked in tension, the two of them divided even when his arm was tight around her.

“I haven’t been upstairs yet.” The raggedness of her breath betrayed her. “I’m not in the least tired.”

“You should never take that dress off.” He didn’t sound as much admiring as maddened by how she looked. Her small perfect breasts were outlined against the luminous silk. “Why is it you’re so extravagantly beautiful, Zara?” It came out like an unrelenting lament. “Why is it a part of me still madly wants you? God, sometimes I think you nailed me when we were only kids. Zara, the little princess! I’d never seen such a beautiful little girl before or since.”

Her limbs felt heavy, as though heat was bearing down on her. She turned fully to confront him. “Drink has loosened your tongue, Garrick.”

“Maybe it has,” he admitted with a wry laugh, moving ever closer. “How come you got over me just like that—” his fingers clicked “—when I can’t seem to put you behind me?”

She managed a sceptical laugh, tilting her chin. “You’re just wound up.”

And you aren’t?

“You did put me behind you, Garrick,” she said. “Very successfully, I would say.”

“A matter of opinion, my dear,” he drawled. “I’d say not terribly well. More’s the pity! What have you got in your hand?”

She held the white rose up to the shimmering moonlight. “A beautiful little gesture from Miranda. She left it in front of my mother’s portrait.”

“How very sweet!” He smiled, sounding unsurprised. “Corin is a lucky man. Miranda has my full approval. I’d like to drink a toast to your mother, Zara. I had the feeling she was here today—in spirit, anyway. I didn’t see as much of her as I would have liked, but I remember her as the loveliest woman. She was so kind to me when your father lived to bawl me out. I remember my mother receiving the news of her death with tears rolling down her cheeks. She doesn’t cry easily; she’s learned to hide her tears.”

“Some of us have to,” Zara pointed out quietly.

“Did you cry for me?”

She couldn’t bear the hurtful edge to his voice. “A million times!”

“Liar!” He shook his handsome dark head. “Just a mad fling, wasn’t it?”

“It was mad, certainly!” The most exultant experience she had ever had. There was all the difference in the world between being passionately in love and giving and receiving the loving affection that brought a lot of people to marriage. So many degrees of loving! Piled one upon another.

“Well, you got over it soon enough.” In the intimate semi-darkness he reached for her. “Come with me.”

Her legs felt like those of a newborn foal, barely able to support her. Every time he looked at her she remembered the rapture, then the heartbreak. Unsurprisingly, she lost her composure. Emotion could be uncontrollable. At least that was her experience with Garrick. “What is it you want, Garrick?” she asked in a soft ragged voice. “You want to see me cry?”

“Zara, darling, I have seen you cry, remember?” His answer was sardonic. “All crocodile tears.” He drew her into the opulent living room, switching lights back on as they went.

“Why did you never answer my letters?” Her accusation flew at him. Her voice sounded the old heartbreak. Yet he made no response. She dragged back against his strong hand. “Answer me, you ghastly, ghastly man!”

At that, he jerked them both to such an abrupt halt that her body slammed into his. “Do you understand nothing?” he asked harshly. “Sweetheart, I never read any of them.”

She had always held on to the hope that he had at least read some of them. Now she felt shattered. She had poured out her heart in those letters, telling him of her hatred for herself for being such a fool as to be so effortlessly manipulated by her father. “But I sent you so many!” Her expression was eloquent with pain. “God, how many? You never read any of them. You can’t be telling the truth!”

“Even more serious than that, Zara, my lost love; I burnt the lot of them.” There was a bitter twist to his beautifully shaped sensuous mouth. “Had a little bonfire. You made it very plain you were done with me, remember? You revealed yourself for what you were. Probably still are. A woman who has the power to bring a man to his knees. Were you planning on keeping the torture going? Now that’s sick! I wasn’t having any. I have my pride. You ought to consider you’re more like your father than you think.”

“What?” She reacted with horror, stunned that he should say such a thing. Indeed, her shock was so great that the air turned red before her eyes. Anti-violence all her life, without a second’s thought, she brought up her hand and struck him as hard as she possibly could across the face. He could easily have stopped her by grasping her wrist, his reflexes were such. But for some reason, he didn’t. He took the blow. “I’m nothing like my father,” she said very tightly. “He was a cruel, cruel man.”

“You’ll get no argument from me.” His answer was as dry as ash. “You took a chance hitting out at me, Zara.” As he spoke, he was making a production out of rubbing his cheekbone. His skin was so tanned the red imprint of her fingers barely showed. “I could have retaliated.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, when she wasn’t at all ashamed of her actions. He deserved it. There was immense pleasure in connecting, if only in a blow.

“No, you’re not,” he bluntly contradicted. “You loved it!”

“I did!” She admitted to it in a low voice, moving closer and staring into his burning blue eyes.

“Course you did!” he taunted. “So…I’d say what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

Tears of rage filled her eyes but he grabbed her, hauling her into his arms. How many times had he wanted to do that since he’d arrived? It was perilous being around Zara. She could have resisted, but she made no movement to draw back. “Hartmann a good lover?” With an effort, he kept his tone purely conversational.

Diamond pinpoints of light stood in her desperate eyes. He pulled her ever closer. “Did he tell you you have the most beautiful, the most kissable mouth in the world? Don’t bother struggling. You won’t get away.” He held her strongly with his left hand, brought up his right to touch her long hair, tipping her face up to his. “Be careful now how you answer,” he warned.

Anger burned past raw pain. “He did. He did!” She laughed in his face, her own face pale. “Of course he d—” She got no further.

He was under too much strain. Cursing her. Cursing himself. There was no reprieve with Zara.

He opened his mouth wide over hers, claiming it completely, sick to death with wanting her. It was a brutal kind of rapture to be with her, to have her captive in his arms, to kiss her again after such an eternity. The fire would never burn out. He had to believe she was feeling the heat too because her whole body was undulating, as though her tender woman’s flesh was melting at his touch.

Once she tried to draw back, making a sound of dissent as if she were in a rage. But he knew it for what it was. No more than excited defiance. He knew. He definitely knew. She could no more subdue the powerful sexual flame that sprang fiercely between them than he could—a flame that had been ignited years before. He wasn’t going to listen to any play acting. He’d had more than enough of that. He plunged his fingers into her long heavy hair, keeping her face up to him.

“Damn, damn, damn you, Garrick!” she cried, as though her emotions were too powerful to be contained.

“Sounds more like praying to me,” he taunted. “Anyway, I’ve damned you a thousand times.” His tongue worked over and around her closed lips, increasing the pressure, prising them apart. It had to be driving her crazy because her mouth opened fully and her breath mingled with his.

Paradise regained.

He was kissing her the way he wanted to kiss her. The way he kissed her in his dreams. Not tenderly, but a furious combative passion that demanded release. Sensation swirled all around them. Images of them together filled his mind. Now and in the past. He had her back where she belonged. In his arms. He couldn’t seem to care about all the rest. Her flight from Coorango. The betrayal he’d felt. He had her with him right now. He wasn’t going to let her go.

Not tonight. He hadn’t planned it. How so? When he knew it was going to take place.

Zara had a fear she might faint. So much pressure was building in her. In her back, in her stomach, her breasts and her legs. Her body swayed against his, her aching breasts pressed hard against the muscular plane of his chest. She hungered for him so much she was shaking uncontrollably. The strength of his hold on her increased. It came to her belatedly that he was supporting her. The rose had slipped out of her fingers. It was crushed somewhere between them. Its sweet fragrance was scenting the air. She felt trapped. At the same time she felt she was where she belonged.

“I could have picked any other girl in the world,” he muttered, his lips against her throat, “but it had to be you! So let’s choose a bed,” he said with a shuddering laugh. Yours or mine?” He raised his hand, clasping her neck beneath the heavy fall of her hair.

“Don’t sound so cynical, Garrick,” she begged, her voice a jagged whisper.

“Ah, be damned to everything!” he cried, as though the situation was utterly intolerable. He caught her chin, turned her face up to him. “You can’t be crying?” he rasped.

A single tear had escaped, edging down her cheek.

“Do you think your tears make me fair game?” His expression carried no gentleness whatever. It showed tension as tight as a piano wire strung to perfect pitch.

“It’s always about you, isn’t it?” she lashed back. “You and your abominable pride! Well, it cost us.” She closed her eyes against him, realizing he would never forgive her until the day he died. Her heart was drumming in her ears, the beat strong enough to make her deaf. A great flush of sexual excitement was covering her body in a tide. She thought of a dam, its massive walls giving way.

“Drop the tears, Zara,” he advised. “They won’t work. Tonight you’re mine. It will be just like old times!” He put one steely muscled arm beneath her and then swept her off her swooning feet.

There were no words in her mind to stop him. She knew it would happen. They both knew it would happen. Both of them wanted the torture over. If only for a single night. She needed no man in her life. Unless it was Garrick. He needed no woman. Unless it was her. Both of them were in the fierce grip of obsession. A maelstrom of passion that had at its core a fatal flaw.

There could be no real love, no real future without trust.

She could never hope to make him trust her again. He had not even read one of her letters. The pain of it seared her so badly she doubted she would ever mention those letters again. Her father was dead. She couldn’t confront him, make him confess to Garrick what he had said and done to drive them apart.

All she knew was that it was her lot to love Garrick. Every which way. No matter what happened. Until death did them part.

Chapter Four

THEY flew into Coorango at noon on a blazing blue day. It had been a smooth flight, now they were taxiing into the massive silver hangar that housed the Beech Baron and a metallic blue Eurocopter with a broad white stripe. This had to be the latest addition to the fleet, Zara thought. She was familiar with this particular luxury helicopter. Her father, now Corin, retained one for private use. Two other helicopters, chartered aircraft, sat like fat yellow birds just off the concrete apron. Aerial mustering was obviously in progress.

Coming in over the airstrip, she could see Garrick’s mother, Helen, was on hand to greet them. Helen was standing with her back against a four-wheel drive, no doubt to ferry them up to the homestead. She had started waving minutes before they touched down. Zara waved back, appreciative of the fact that Helen had made the effort to come down herself. She could easily have sent someone. It made her feel very welcome. She hoped Garrick’s father, Daniel—lovely man—was having a good day. She knew he lived his life in constant pain, but dealt with it without complaint. Apparently his response to all enquiries regarding his state of health was “getting there!” Garrick had told her rather tensely that his father’s health was a source of great concern to his mother, to him and his sister Julianne, and everyone who knew and loved Daniel Rylance. This was a man greatly respected in the Outback.

Zara found herself wishing for the umpteenth time that her own father had been such a man. How different life might have been! Her beautiful loving mother might still be with them. Her own love affair with Garrick would never have been so brutally severed. She had blamed herself for years for the way things had turned out. But Garrick’s behaviour, she now realized, hadn’t helped. There was anger as well as sadness in that. She could barely take it in that he hadn’t read her letters. If he had, the ongoing pain and estrangement might well have been settled. How lives could be messed up through a lack of communication, she thought. It must happen all the time. People keeping silent when they should speak out. And, as a result, one could be faced with a lifetime of regrets.

“Zara, dear, you have no idea how good it is to see you again!” Helen Rylance, looking amazingly youthful in yellow cotton jeans and a white tank top, her arms wide and embracing, greeted the young woman who was everything she could want in a daughter-in-law.

It had really upset her and Daniel when Zara and Garrick’s blossoming relationship had abruptly foundered. Although nothing had been said, one would have had to be blindfolded not to recognize how passionately in love they had fallen. Yet it was all over—just like that! And no credible explanations either. In time Garrick had become engaged to Sally Forbes, a confident young woman known to them from childhood. They would have settled for Sally, only she and Daniel just knew where their son’s heart lay. Helen also knew intuitively that Dalton Rylance, the master manipulator, had brought about the end of that blossoming relationship.

It had struck her forcibly as revenge—on her. Dalton had disliked her intensely, thought her far too opinionated. A woman wasn’t allowed an opinion contrary to his own. Revenge on Garrick, as her son. Lord knew she had never made any big secret of her wariness where Dalton Rylance was concerned. He had been such a bully! Her dislike and distrust had been well and truly out in the open after Kathryn’s tragic early death. She couldn’t think of that terrible event without a tear escaping. Such a lovely woman Kathryn had been. Zara was the image of her. The resemblance, both in looks and manner, would have added to Dalton’s ferocious guilt. Ruthless billionaire he might have been, an acknowledged captain of industry, but he had been a shocking failure on the home front. A man of notorious temper, he had killed the gentle, sensitive Kathryn’s spirit with his dominance, his aggression and push for total control. He had deliberately set about masterminding his daughter’s life.

Now he was dead and Zara was no longer forced to walk in his shadow. That business with the Hartmann character must have caused Zara endless problems. There were inherent dangers in being a very beautiful, highly desirable woman. No doubt Hartmann had wanted to add Zara to his collection. Zara had from the beginning denied any close relationship. Those who knew Zara believed her. Hartmann had been exposed for what he was—a white-collar criminal who wasn’t quite as clever as he thought.

“I’ll drive, Ellie,” Garrick said to his mother without preamble. “You sit in the back with Zara.”

Helen handed over the keys. She had instantly intuited that her son and Zara had picked up on their complex relationship. It sizzled in the air around them. But resuming their relationship didn’t automatically heal all the wounds of the past. She had been shocked when Garrick, only recently, had reluctantly come out with the dreadfully dismaying news that he had burned all of Zara’s letters. Unread! As a woman, she had sided with Zara and her feelings. One way or another, her proud son hadn’t given Zara a chance to explain herself and her actions. No wonder there were a whole lot of conflicting emotions there. She prayed that Zara’s stay on Coorango would finally uncover the truth. She wasn’t such a fool that she didn’t know Zara still deeply cared for her son. Even the way she looked at him shouted that fact to his mother, if not to him.

Ah, well, one could only hope that the peace and freedom of Coorango would work its magic. There was a rush now for her beloved Daniel to see his only son settled, if not actually married, before he went. In the book of life her beloved husband’s had reached the final chapter. His medical reports didn’t get any better. The prognosis worsened as his medication got stronger. How she was going to live without him, she couldn’t yet face. At any rate, Zara was here—she and Daniel had conspired to invite her without telling their son—their goal being to reunite these two young people they considered perfect for one another. Dalton Rylance had been the one responsible for the huge shift in direction. The invitation to Coorango was to make up for lost time.

Zara rolled down the window so she could inhale the wonderfully aromatic smells of the bush. There was the king of trees, the ubiquitous gum yielding several valuable oils, as well as honey and prolific quantities of blossom in glorious colours. The wildflowers, the native boronia, the scented water lilies which floated like cargo on the surface of the innumerable lagoons. She even loved the smell of the baking fiery red earth, the silver haze of the mirage dancing amid the brilliant sunshine.

“Oh, I’ve missed this!” She gave a deeply voluptuous sigh, eyes shut tight in a kind of bliss, so she was unaware of Garrick’s intense gaze in the rear-view mirror.

“It’s been far too long, Zara.” Helen pressed the young woman’s arm. “Welcome back to Coorango. Daniel is so pleased you decided to come.”

Up front, Garrick gave a sardonic laugh. “Good of you and Dad to tell me.”

“You’re supposed to say thank you, darling.” Helen smiled. “Your father and I wanted to keep it as a big surprise.”

“Take my word for it, it was,” he said very dryly. “You could have knocked me over with a feather.”

“At least you got over the shock fairly quickly,” Zara offered sweetly and, it had to be said, provocatively.

“Just sparring, Ellie,” Garrick told his highly attentive matchmaking mother. “How’s Dad today?”

“Really looking forward to seeing you,’ Helen said. “I hope you’ve brought lots of photographs of the wedding along with all the news. You must have made a very beautiful bridesmaid, Zara.”

Zara, who wasn’t in the least vain, went a little pink. “Not as beautiful as the bride.”

“Of course not. That’s only to be expected.” Helen smiled.

“Looking glorious is nothing new for Zara, Ellie,” Garrick said with the faintest edge. Zara was wearing white—a fine cotton sleeveless shirt with white linen trousers. Her dark mane of hair was arranged in a neat coil on her nape. Her beautiful skin looked as cool and matt as a lily. Imagine that—blossoming beneath the hot Outback sun! “Miranda tossed her the bridal bouquet and, though our Zara did her level best to avoid it, it landed right on target in her arms,” he told his mother.

Zara met his burning blue eyes. “I didn’t think you noticed.”

“Oh, I did. There wasn’t a guy at the wedding who didn’t think you’d make the most glorious catch.”

“But you’re in the market yourself, my dear,” his mother pointed out with more than a touch of mischief.

“Don’t start again, Ellie,” he warned.

“By the way—” Helen abruptly sobered “—I have some news I’d better get out of the way. Sally and Nick are having problems. Thought I should mention it as they’ll be here for the Trophy.”

“That’s the polo finals?” Zara asked, at the same time registering a zap of unease at Helen’s news. The word exfiancée sprang instantly to mind.

Helen nodded. “This year they’re to be held on Coorango.” She patted Zara’s hand. “You couldn’t have come at a better time!”

Garrick cut in crisply. “I’m supposed to believe this about Sally and Nick?”

“Come on, darling,” Helen retorted smartly. “I got it right from the horse’s mouth. Josephine Forbes doesn’t get things wrong. Sally is her daughter after all.”

“But that’s terrible!” Garrick groaned. He sounded stunned. “I had no idea the marriage was in trouble. I thought they were very happy.”

“Not happy enough, apparently.” Helen sighed. “You remember Sally, don’t you, Zara?”

“Of course I do. I thought her very attractive,” she said with genuine warmth. “I’m sorry to hear they’re having problems, but I’m sure they can work things out. They haven’t been married all that long?”

Helen swallowed the word that had flashed into her head—rebound. Sally hadn’t given herself enough time to get over Garrick. She’d thought the best way to solve the tough time she was having was to marry Nick, who was one of Garrick’s closest friends. “Two years,” Helen told Zara rather wryly. “They’ll be here for the Trophy next weekend. Thought I’d better let you know sooner rather than later.”

“Spared me the trouble of having to find out myself,” Garrick said, not bothering to hide his exasperation. “God, poor old Sal!”

“A worrying time for Nick too, dear,” Helen pointed out.

“Of course. It wouldn’t do a bit of good for us to put ourselves in the middle, Ellie.” It sounded very much like a warning. “They have to work it out themselves.” He reflected for a moment, his expression serious. “Sal wanted children. Could that be a problem, do you think?”

“Scarcely a problem yet, darling,” Helen said. “A little suggestion from your mother, though. I wouldn’t find myself alone with Sally if I were you.”

Garrick pinned his mother’s eyes in the rear vision. “For God’s sake, Ellie, what is that supposed to mean?”

Helen shook her burnished head. “I don’t think you need delve too deeply, my darling. Anyway, I’ve told you and that’s the end of that!”

Even as she spoke, Helen knew full well it wasn’t.

So, incidentally, did Zara. So many lessons in life to learn from! One being—marry in haste, repent at leisure. She sincerely hoped that wasn’t going to be the case here. Yet she couldn’t help the most awful suspicion.

Zara had heard all the stories about the swashbuckling George William Rylance who had built Coorango Homestead, a twentyroom mansion, in the late eighteen-seventies. The man was a legend, an Outback icon. Such a splendid house—no matter if it was smack bang in the middle of the Never Never—had put the seal of success on the young English adventurer. The seventh son of a baronet, George had accepted a sizeable stake from his father to make his own fortune in the best way he knew how. Shortly after, he and a like-minded cousin had set sail for Australia, where George fully expected to found his own dynasty and make his fortune in some sort of pastoral enterprise. Sheep, perhaps?

After all, it was a British Army officer, John Macarthur, who had laid the foundations for the country’s wool industry. It was well established by the time Macarthur died in the mid-eighteen-hundreds and George arrived. George had seen over Camden Park, a very handsome Regency-style mansion dreamed of by Macarthur but built by his sons after his death. He, too, had wanted something as substantial.

The homestead, to the Australian squattocracy, occupied much the same position as an Englishman’s castle so George singled out a very fine architect working in South Australia at the time to build him an Outback castle. Never mind it was on the fringe of the great Australian desert. This area, he’d had the vision to see, was destined to become the home of the nation’s cattle kings. George, with all the confidence of a man born to succeed, had already turned his attention to cattle. Becoming a cattle baron—a touch of flamboyancy showed there—suited him much better than farming sheep. Besides, he had become greatly enamoured by the vastness, the extraordinary colourations and the strange and lonely grandeur of the continent’s Interior. Here was where he wanted to put down roots. The Rylances were men of the land. Here, in this extraordinary area of ancient flood plains, criss-crossed by a great maze of water channels, creeks and lagoons, he was going to dig in. Just to be on the safe side, he had invested rather heavily in gold, which soon began returning him healthy profits.

It was just over a mile from the airstrip to the home compound. The drive was lined by gigantic date palms, brought in and planted over a century and a half before by Afghan traders.

Presently, the front elevation of Coorango Homestead came into view. To Zara’s eye, it clearly revealed the architect’s nationality and background, which was Italian. The twostorey building was of grand proportions, but very pleasing. A dynastic home, not a fortress. She particularly loved the pinkishgold sandstone that had been used in its construction. Slender double pillars and wonderfully ornamental white cast iron lace balustrades designed by the architect framed the upper balcony and wrapped around the other three sides of the building. Italian too was the magnificent three-basin stone fountain that featured rearing horses to support the largest bowl.

“It’s playing today in your honour.” Helen smiled with pleasure at her guest. Zara was here. That in itself she considered a coup.

“How lovely!” Zara’s voice lilted. She pointed to the plume of water. “Look, it’s sending rainbow shot spray over the agapanthus.” Masses and masses of the hardy plant, all a deep lavender-blue, encircled the fountain.

Garrick achieved a half wry, half cynical laugh. He knew perfectly well what his mother and father were up to. Matchmaking. Heirs were needed for Coorango. High time he was married. His engagement to Sally had been doomed from the start. But his parents had always been extraordinarily fond of Zara, as they had been of Zara’s mother. Ellie had been truly shocked when he’d finally confessed he hadn’t read any of Zara’s letters.

“But how could you, Garrick?”

He could and he did. His mother hadn’t plumbed the depth of his despair. There had been no slow demise of the relationship. It had been short, sharp and brutally final. Dalton Rylance had ruled Zara’s life. She had let him. Obviously, she had thought she would never find another man as powerful to measure up. Such a shame Hartmann was such a wicked man!

“And how is Daniel today?” Zara asked, hoping to hear it was one of Daniel’s good days.

“So looking forward to seeing you,” Helen said. “He has a male nurse these days, Rolf Hammond. He has been a great help. Daniel really likes him. We’ve sent Rolf off for a short break. You’ll meet him when he returns.”

Garrick drove slowly around the gravelled drive, naturally for Zara’s benefit, bringing the four-wheel drive to a halt at the base of the short flight of stone steps that led to the lower terrace. Its slender columns matched the upper storey but the area had been left open.

Moments later, sunglasses shielding her eyes from the boldest sun imaginable and the bouncing heat, Zara stood out on the drive looking away to left and right. The massive stone walls that bordered the compound and gave it added protection were ablaze with bougainvillea that just had to be the plant for the heat and the dry. She realized that what she was looking at were modern hybrids, not the common magenta. Glorious shades of pink, scarlet, crimson, cerise tumbled riotously to the left, white, orange and bronze to the other. The usual flower beds of a more temperate climate were not in evidence. Too hot! But more dense plantings of the indestructible strelizias, the “Bird of Paradise” their wonderful flower heads rising to easily four feet, decorated the wide beds in front of the lower terrace and along the short flight of stone steps.

Helen linked her arm through Zara’s, pleased with Zara’s unconcealed delight. Zara had always loved Coorango—far more than any city bred girl might have been expected to. Of course Zara painted and extremely well. Her father had ignored her artistic aspirations but she would find plenty of inspiration to paint here. “You’ll love what we’ve done with the gardens at the rear of the house,” Helen said with rising enthusiasm. She was so glad to have a woman’s company. Life could get lonely. Especially of late as Daniel’s cycle of life was coming to an end. “I’ve long since discovered walled gardens work better here. You’ll be amazed at what we’ve managed to achieve.”

“A love of gardens unites people, doesn’t it?” Zara answered with a smile. “I’m looking forward to seeing what you’ve done, Helen. The avenue of date palms is so spectacular. It imparts a wonderful sense of place.”

“Well, one must work with the environment. It determines the character of the garden, don’t you think?” she asked on a rhetorical note. “So many beautiful flowering plants I’ve always loved—impossible to grow here, as you can imagine. Now, come along. You must come in too, Rick. Don’t race away. Dougal will take care of the luggage.”

“A cup of coffee and a sandwich, then I’ll be off,” Garrick said, reaching into the four-wheel drive for Zara’s suitcases. “No need to bother Dougal. This is nothing. Right, Ellie—” he gave the command “—lead the way. There’s something I have to discuss with Dad before I go. We need to get rid of O’Donnell. I need to do that right away. Give the man a promotion, an outstation to manage and he spends most of his time drunk.”

“You know that for certain, Rick?” Helen frowned. Daniel, not Garrick, had been the one prepared to give O’Donnell the opportunity. It seemed such a shame he had botched it.

“Of course I do,” Garrick said with quiet authority. “I’ll take the chopper to Biri Biri tomorrow. I’d invite you to come with me, Zara, but I don’t want you involved in any unpleasantness. O’Donnell could take dismissal hard.”

“Oh, I hope not!” Helen looked anxious.

“No need to worry, Ellie,” Garrick said briskly. “I can handle it.”

“Sure you can! Garrick can be tougher than anyone in the business when it’s necessary,” Helen boasted to Zara, not without good reason.

“I’m sure you’re right!” Zara gave Garrick a dazzling smile that nevertheless had a bite to it.

“Oh, Zara, it’s just so lovely having you here,” Helen exclaimed, having missed that exchange. “Anyway, I’m sure Rick has any number of exciting things lined up.”

“I’m looking forward to the polo weekend,” Zara said, refusing to meet Garrick’s sardonic gaze. “Still the big party Saturday night?”

“Of course, my dear,’ Helen confirmed happily. “I hope you’ve brought a pretty dress.”

“Zara is not short on those, Mother, dear,” Garrick drawled.

At the first sight of Daniel Rylance, sitting in his wheelchair, Zara had to bite down hard on the inside of her lip so not the faintest cry would escape her. She saw that this fine man was dying. His skin was very pale, dry as parchment, stretched tight as a drum over his once strikingly handsome features. The coalblack hair of yesterday had turned silverwhite, as was his neatly clipped beard. Illness had robbed him of his once impressive height, strength and weight. He had lost stones. But his deeply shadowed grey eyes were as penetrating as ever and his smile just as wide. This was a man of great inner strength and courage.

“Zara, my dear, what a treat it is to have you here!” He held up his arms, seeing Kathryn very clearly in her daughter. The same incredibly beautiful dark eyes, so lustrous and full of expression.

“And how good of you to ask me!” Zara moved swiftly across the big beautiful plantfilled room the family had always called the Garden Room. She slipped gracefully to her knees so she could be almost at Daniel’s eye level. She took his hands in hers, squeezing them very gently. “And how are you, Daniel? Your eyes are as bright and perceptive as ever!”

“Getting there, Zara,” he said with a lopsided grin. “I could do with a kiss on the cheek.”

“Kisses on both cheeks,” she said, rising to her feet. “I’m so happy to be here. I bought you some books I hope you’re going to enjoy. The latest from your favourite authors.”

She bent to kiss his cheek, right, then left, then right again as he whispered in her ear, “Welcome home, Zara.”

Home? She felt a painful wrench of emotion she was just barely able to conceal.

“Maybe you can help Ellie read to me,’ Daniel suggested, smiling at his devoted wife. “She’s just so good to me. Glued to my side. It isn’t fair on her. But I’m having a bit of trouble holding books these days and the medication I’m taking is making my eyesight blurry, so I do enjoy having someone read to me.”

“Then Helen and I will work out some shifts,” Zara said, waiting on Helen’s smiling nod of assent. “Actually, I like the idea. I love reading. I’ll love reading to you.”

His father reclined in his wheelchair looking at Zara as if she was an angel sent straight from Heaven, Garrick thought. Both of them wore expressions of great satisfaction.

Daniel looked past Zara to his son, standing there with such eye-catching male grace, so marvellously strong and alive. All he had to do now was survive until Garrick and Zara got back together again. He had no illusions he had much time. “You’re going to stay in for lunch, aren’t you, Rick?”

“Sure, if you want me to, Dad,” Garrick said, although he knew he’d have things to catch up on. Coorango had an excellent foreman, Bill Knox, but Bill tended to get a bit anxious when there were major decisions to be made. Aerial mustering was about to begin and the particular areas of the vast station to be worked needed to be sorted out. He already knew too many of their cattle had strayed over into the desert proper looking for feed. They had to be brought in.

“Of course I want you to! This is a great day,” Daniel exclaimed with real enthusiasm. “I haven’t felt so well in a long time.”

Pray God, the mistakes of the past could be put behind them.

Zara ventured out on her own the following morning. As a horsewoman, she was nowhere in the league of Sally Draper, but she was a lot more accomplished than most city-bred girls. Garrick had flown off to Biri Biri in one of the choppers before she had even had breakfast. But then it was his habit to start the day at sunrise. A typical mustering day, she knew, began well before daybreak. The chartered helicopters had arrived, two of them, because two could cover much more country in less time and control the movement of the cattle so much better.

She was looking forward to watching the muster. She would have to wait until Garrick got back. It was exciting to hear the whap-whap-whap of the rotor blades as they sliced through the hot air. Exciting being part of it all. The choppers swept far and wide, pushing small mobs of cattle at a time into the long makeshift “funnels” that led to the holding yards. One of the big holding yards Garrick had had shifted the previous afternoon, telling them over dinner it hadn’t been in the right place. Running a cattle station the size of Coorango was a big job for a big man. Garrick had had to take command years before he’d expected to, but he had stepped into his father’s shoes with certainty. He had been trained by the best. Operating a vast property was in his blood.

Helen had picked out one of the quieter horses from the stable for her, an exquisitely made little chestnut mare that radiated sweet temper. She was called Satin and Zara could see why. The mare had such an exceptional shiny coat; she might have been groomed for the Melbourne Cup.

“Now, don’t go too far, dear,” Helen cautioned. “It’s quite a while since you’ve been here.”

“Sad to say,” Zara commented, stroking the mare’s neck. “No further than the Blue Lady Lagoon, Helen, I promise. I’ll be home well in time for lunch. Did Garrick say what time he’d be back?”

Helen shook her head. “He’ll stay as long as it takes. I’m really disappointed in Patrick. He’s been an excellent stockman, but he broke up with his girlfriend in the Alice not all that long ago. Must have been the start of it—the drinking, I mean. We didn’t realize she meant all that much to him. He certainly never said. Love affairs that go wrong!” Helen lamented. “They take their toll.”

“Know the feeling!” Zara gave the older woman a wry smile.

“You are in control of your life now, Zara,” Helen said.

As soon as she was out of sight of the main compound and its satellite buildings, Zara gently kicked her heels into the mare’s flanks. The response was immediate. Satin was as keen on a gallop as she was. Sweettempered she might be, but the mare seemed to revel in the opportunity to put on a show. She surged forward, breaking into a smooth, long striding gallop that showed her soundness and quality.

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