The Man From Southern Cross. Margaret Way
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of marital war. His father had applied for custody of their only child, with the considerable weight of the family’s power and influence behind him, and had emerged triumphant, just as everyone had known he would. He had been the heir, the helpless six-year-old victim who’d never been prepared for the emotional devastation. Even now, sometimes, in some deep place inside him, it hurt like hell. He’d had such love for his mother. Enormous love. He’d worshiped her. For years he just couldn’t take in her treachery. She had left them both for a man she hadn’t even bothered to marry.
His father had engineered it so that he rarely saw his mother. On those few occasions, he’d been full of hurt and hostility, very difficult to handle. He hadn’t seen his mother in many years now, though Sasha persisted in trying to shove photographs in the glossies under his nose. She was Lady Vandenberg now, wife of Eric Vandenberg, the industrialist. His mother had tried to make contact with him after his father’s death, but feeling as he did, he couldn’t bring himself to see her. She was the one who had made an art form of rejection.
He decided to enter the house through the front door. It was the quickest route upstairs, where he had the entire west wing to himself. Sasha and the twins shared the east wing. The house was so big they could all rattle around in it without even seeing each other. The Hon. George Clifford Mountford had begun work in the early 1860s on what was to become a thirty-five room mansion. The complex of surrounding buildings included a picturesque old stone church built for the master, his family and servants. No way could it accommodate 250 wedding guests, but the big reception rooms at the homestead could.
He had barely moved across the threshold when the sound of footsteps along the gallery made him look up. A young woman was descending the staircase at a rush.
His first thought was she had strayed out of a painting. Something by John Singer Sargent. Her image stamped itself indelibly on his mind. She was a waking dream, a creature of incredible light and grace. She kept moving…floating…. Colors shimmered. She had long dark hair with a burnish of purple, luminous white skin, large faintly slanted blue or green eyes. He couldn’t be sure. Her full mouth, so fresh and tender, was smiling in some kind of pleasurable anticipation. She was wearing what had to be her bridesmaid’s gown. A sumptuous champagne silk creation with a neckline cut to reveal bare sloping shoulders. The rich material gleamed. The beading and embroidery on the bodice and the full sleeves flickered and flashed in the light from the chandelier. She was tantalizing…tantalizing….
Something like a wave of heat broke over him. It was as though his skin caught fire. Just as he thought no woman could move him, he felt a shock of desire so powerful his fists clenched instinctively until the knuckles showed white. For an instant he was the helpless male again. Bitter and powerless in the face of a woman’s sheer magic. He was no match for her. The thought appalled him, influencing his attitude drastically.
She looked down. Saw him. Became arrested, unsure of her next movement. She’d been hurrying down the staircase, one hand holding up the skirt of her long billowing gown, the other trailing along the banister. Now she stood immobilized.
Adrenaline pumped through him, energizing his tired body and keying up his senses. Experience had taught him to be a very careful man. But here she was! Out of nowhere, a crisis in his life. And more than anything he wanted her away. Back to the city and the hothouse where she belonged. Such women couldn’t bloom in the desert. They only brought heartbreak and trouble.
He saw her make a visible effort to speak. A soft ripple moved her throat. “You must be David. We’ve never met, have we? How do you do? I’m Roishin.”
She had a lovely voice, warmly pitched, self-possessed. Or it would have been except for the faintest tremor. Perhaps his appearance frightened her? The wild hair, the dark stubble of beard, his stained clothes. She pronounced her name Roh-sheen with the accent on the second syllable. Appropriately, it sounded like a name from myth and legend.
Any civilized man would have moved to greet her, but he stood perfectly still, making her come to him. No one had ever called him David except his mother. He’d been Mont to his father, as he was to Sasha and the twins. Mountford to just about everyone else, including family.
She went to give him her slender white hand, but he evinced cool surprise. “Welcome to Southern Cross,” he said, aware his voice sounded curt and formal. “I won’t take your hand. I’m covered in grime and it’s important not to mark your beautiful gown.”
There was a fraught little silence as if she realized he didn’t want to touch her. Her iridescent eyes darkened, glistened as though stung by tears.
I want her, he thought. This is the woman who will change my life.
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