Александр Суворов. Сергей Тимофеевич Григорьев
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One seldom saw it in one so young, unless he was a truly exceptional person.
It came as a complete shock to realise she was attracted to him—and all in a matter of moments. That couldn’t be. It rendered her vulnerable. On the reverse side of instant attraction lay the abyss. Catherine had found that out, if her claim of a serious love affair with Geraint Trevelyan were true. And why would it not be? Catherine hadn’t lied.
She paused briefly to collect herself. “Genevieve, please. Or Gena, if you prefer.”
They had extended hands at much the same time. Now a chain of little tremors ran down her spine as his long callus-tipped fingers fell over the soft skin at the back of her hand. Contact sparked a reaction akin to an electric thrill. She certainly felt a tingling right up her arm, and an odd thump of her heart. It was an extraordinary feeling, but nothing could be served by it. Whatever a woman felt for this man, she would just know it would be fathoms deeper than anything she had hitherto experienced.
“Genevieve it is.” His brilliant eyes appeared to glitter for a single moment. Deeper, darker-toned than his brother’s, his voice was similarly cultured. No ordinary “bushies” the Trevelyans. “Have you travelled to the Outback before?”
Derryl hadn’t asked that question. “Uluru and the Olgas, Katajuta—but that was years ago. An unforgettable experience I want to renew.”
“I’m sure we can arrange it,” he said smoothly. “Now, I’d like you to come aboard.” He shot a look over Genevieve’s head to where his self-alleged badly-done-by brother was standing watching them—not with detachment, but with frowning interest. “Derryl, could you bring Genevieve’s luggage? We need to get away as soon as possible.”
Derryl’s muffled reply held irritation, which his brother ignored. Obviously Derryl thought his position in the scheme of things put him far above hauling luggage.
It was hard to stop herself from being thrilled. She was going on a journey that might take her to the brink of discovery. Potentially dangerous or not, she was on her way. Plenty of women would fall down in unabashed adoration before Bret Trevelyan. She was not going to be one of them. Every moment, every minute, every day she had to keep in mind her kinswoman Catherine, who had lost her young life on Djangala Station. Had she made a fatal mistake falling in love with Geraint Trevelyan, a man beyond any doubt the wrong man for her? Falling in love with the wrong man could be dangerous. Historically, there were mountains of evidence of that.
Trevelyan would be dropping the cattlemen off along the way. He made brief introductions, and all four men responded with genuine friendliness and courtesy.
Less than five minutes later they were all seated in a superior styled and fitted-out cabin. She could see that the very comfortable fully articulated club seating had been configured for the cattlemen to continue their discussions in private. She sat farther back in the aircraft, pretty well on her own, which suited her, marvelling at the state-of-the-art technology—fingertip controls, an audio-visual system, LED lighting, etc. Aft was a restroom, no doubt offering toilet, vanity and other upmarket amenities.
They were underway. The aircraft was taxiing down the runway, then within moments, smooth as silk, it gained height, fast climbing into the dazzling blue air. There was no loud drone from the twin turbo props. Inside the aircraft it was remarkably quiet. She could even darken the window, if she so chose. Derryl had elected to take the trip in the cockpit with his brother, which told her he wasn’t about to waste time on her. She was grateful for that.
Some change in the aircraft woke her. A change in altitude. She straightened up, amazed to find she had drifted off. Smoothing her hair, she stared out of the window. Trevelyan was bringing the King Air around in a slow tilting curve, making a descent onto what appeared to be a fairly large settlement in the middle of nowhere. A whole collection of buildings sprawled beneath her, and further off mobs of cattle browsed peacefully on a lushness she had not expected to see. But then this was Australia—a continent of searing drought and raging floods.
The great irony was that the arid red landscape had turned into a wild paradise. The Three Great Rivers system of the Outback—Georgina, Diamantina, Cooper Creek—now mostly dry, had run with water in some places fifty miles wide. What lay beneath her was the nation’s fabled Channel Country in the remote south-west. It was the country’s leading producer of beef, the home of the cattle kings.
The Great Flood, as it was now called, had filled every channel, billabong, waterhole, and clay pan. The floodwaters had even reached the ephemeral Lake Eyre at the continent’s centre, the lowest point. Lake Eyre filled rarely—maybe twice in a century. She had seen pictures published in all the newspapers of the thousands and thousands of birds, including the wonderful pelicans that had flown thousands of kilometres to breed there. How did the birds know? They had to fly continual reconnaissance missions. But this was Australia—a land of ten-year droughts and monstrous floods. Somehow the land and the people came back.
She found herself gritting her teeth as they prepared to land on the all weather airstrip. She had never been ecstatic about flying, even in the Airbus. This flight had been remarkably smooth, but she wasn’t at home in light aircraft, however splendid. Landing was more dangerous than taking off. The four cattlemen were ready to disembark, all four remembering her name, doffing their akubras politely. Painted on the corrugated iron roof of the hangar below, she had seen the name of the station: Kuna Kura Downs.
Derryl Trevelyan followed the disembarking cattlemen, talking all the while, Trevelyan came last. He beckoned to her, brilliant dark eyes continuing to measure her, the sort of person she was.
“Opportunity to stretch your legs,” he said, a smile deepening the sexy brackets at the sides of his mouth.
“Thank you.” God, how a smile could challenge one’s composure! “But the seating is anything but cramped.”
“You enjoyed the flight?”
She nodded. “I have to admit it was so smooth I fell asleep.”
“Flying conditions were excellent,” he said. “Come along. You might like to meet our friends and closest neighbours to the north-east—the Rawleighs. We won’t be staying more than ten minutes. I want to get home.”
She did what she was told. Trevelyan commanded. People obeyed. She felt a touch jittery, as though he knew all about her but had still allowed her to come. Surely that couldn’t be so? He couldn’t know about Catherine and the family connection? A man like that would be too busy to check out a mere ghostwriter. Something he might think akin to a ventriloquist’s dummy.
A tall, athletic young woman, with long dark hair worn in a thick plait down her back, detached herself from the small group, running towards Trevelyan, arms uplifted in greeting, her lightly tanned face wreathed in welcoming smiles.
All hail the conquering hero!
Genevieve guessed he was long used to it.
“Bret!” the young woman exclaimed in a kind of ecstasy, launching herself at him.
Genevieve waited with great interest for Trevelyan’s response. He didn’t draw her to him, as the young woman clearly hoped. He didn’t go so far as to give her the salute with a kiss on both cheeks either, but he did dip his handsome head to brush her cheek. “How are you, Liane?”
Information started to drill through Genevieve’s brain. Rawleigh? Hadn’t he once been engaged to a Liane Rawleigh?
No time to ponder. There were introductions to be made. Up close, Liane Rawleigh put her in mind of a sleek thoroughbred. She was exceptionally good-looking, with ice-blue eyes in stunning contrast to her dark hair. She appeared unable to extricate herself from Trevelyan—indeed she was clinging to him with possessive pride. The engagement might well be off, but it was obvious Liane hadn’t fallen out of love with him. So who had ditched whom? How had it come about?
Liane continued to hang off his arm while he introduced Genevieve as the writer his great-aunt had hired to help her with her book. Liane regarded her with what Genevieve interpreted as an expression