CHAPTER ONE

      ‘HOW do you do, Ms Sutherland? Sit down, please.’

      Sarah Sutherland hesitated briefly and blinked a couple of times. She’d just been introduced to Cliff Wyatt and found the experience a little breathtaking. So she sat in front of the old oak desk, unable to think of anything to say, and waited for him to continue.

      He did, after a slight pause, during which she felt as if every detail of her person had been thoroughly scrutinised. He said, directing his gaze back to her rather delicate oval face dominated by a pair of horn- rimmed spectacles, ‘As you know I’ve taken over Edgeleigh Station and, as you’ve probably divined, a few changes will need to be made. A combination of drought, low beef prices, old-fashioned methods and so on have seen the property run at a loss lately so some economies are required. Therefore, can you give me three good reasons for keeping you on?’

      Sarah stared at Cliff Wyatt with widening eyes—he was not sitting as she was now but resting his tall frame negligently against a window-frame behind his chair and he was probably, she thought, still a bit dazedly, the best-looking man she’d seen for years. He had thick, dark hair, dark eyes, good-looking features with a faintly olive skin, a well-cut mouth and the kind of physique that would have done an athlete proud— very wide shoulders, narrow hips, long legs and he had to be at least six feet six.

      And second impressions, she realised, reinforced his good looks, because there was an aura about him, in his impeccable yellow Lacoste shirt and beautifully tailored khaki trousers, of raw power combined with sophistication, the aura of a man you would be foolish to tangle with, of intellect, of charm if you were lucky, scorn if you weren’t. And there was little charm being directed at her at present, she decided. Rather a businesslike and indifferent manner, as indeed his question had conveyed.

      She sat up straighter, remembering that question. ‘I can give you a dozen good reasons, Mr Wyatt,’ she said tartly, ‘plus another recurring dozen or so, but, if you can’t see the advantage of having a proper school and a resident teacher on a property this size and this remote, I could be wasting my time.’

      He raised an eyebrow and murmured, "Spoken like a true school-marm. Well—he pulled out the chair and sat down himself ‘—let’s proceed on your as- sumption that I’m dense and a Philistine. In other words, do enlighten me. But I would just like to state that I’m all for education and my question was not based on an indifference to good schooling.’ He picked up a pen, dangled it between his long fingers and re- garded her with a sort of pensive arrogance that caused her some more annoyance.

      So she said thoughtfully, "I read somewhere that it’s a grave insult to the Philistines to regard them as ignorant, uncultured and unartistic but, since you brought it up in that context and as applied to yourself, all right. The School of the Air does a won- derful job but it’s an alternative when the proper fa- cilities are not available. In this case, the facilities are already here, thanks to the care and consideration of the previous owners.’ She shot him an ironic little look from behind her horn-rimmed glasses and went on evenly, ‘I can also guarantee that all of my pupils have benefited from my personal tuition, and, if you don’t believe me, check with their parents. Of course…’ she paused and regarded Cliff Wyatt steadily ‘… if you can’t afford me, that’s another matter.’

      The expression in Cliff Wyatt’s fine dark eyes didn’t change as he said musingly, ‘You’re handy with, your tongue, I see, Ms Sutherland. I always did believe school-marms were born and not made. Why…’ he paused and looked her over consideringly again, taking in her plain white cotton shirt, her jeans and boots, her lack of make-up and any sort of artifice, her glasses, her long chestnut hair worn with a fringe and tied back with a rubber band ‘… you even look like the kind of spinster that is born so admirably to the vocation. You are, I gather, a confirmed spinster?’ he added, looking fleetingly down at the papers in front of him, and continued before she could speak, ‘Ah, yes, twenty-six and unmarried, never married and never likely to be, perhaps. No, it doesn’t say that here; it’s just my intuition,’ he said gently as her mouth fell open. ‘But you wouldn’t be a bad-looking girl if you took some trouble, you know. A bit thin, a bit intense maybe—the two do often go together— but nice skin and hair and—’He stopped unhur- riedly as Sarah rose and slammed a fist on to the desk so that all his papers jumped.

      Nor did he look at all perturbed as she said through her teeth, ‘How dare you? I should like nothing better than to—punch you in the