CHAPTER ONE

      SHE was about five feet six and in her early twenties, he judged, with a fine carriage that displayed a slender neck, straight shoulders and breasts that bounced beneath the yellow silk of her shirt like tantalising fruit as she jumped out of a dusty Land Rover. Her waist was small, her hips compact, her legs, in blue jeans, long. She also had an imperious air and glorious toffee-coloured hair. Then she spoke, and there was absolute assurance in her cultured vowels—the inborn ease of someone who had been used to having all and sundry do her bidding from her cradle...

      Raefe Stevensen narrowed his eyes then raised a wry eyebrow. So it’s true, he mused. She has been up on Wirra. He paused and watched the girl toss her head as she spoke to the man who had driven her. I can guess why she’s here—and expecting me to drop everything, no doubt. He watched a moment longer, then deliberately reached for the telephone.

      Francesca Valentine jumped down from a battered Land Rover and looked around intently. There was not a lot to see—one prefabricated building, a hangar, one runway with a limp airsock, two light planes and a helicopter parked on the apron. Her deep blue eyes brightened at the sight of the aircraft, however, and she turned to the driver of the Land Rover, flicking her toffee-coloured hair back. ‘This’ll do, Jim. You don’t need to wait around. You’ll be wanting to get back to the station before the road is flooded anyway.’

      ‘Well...’ The driver, a dusty, middle-aged man, hesitated. ‘I don’t like to leave you, Miss Valentine. Your father—’

      ‘Jim, so long as there are planes, I can get myself flown out.’

      ‘But just in case you can’t,’ Jim persisted. ‘This is a very small town, Miss Valentine. There’s only one pub where you could stay and you wouldn’t—well, it’s not what you’re used to. Cattlemen, drovers, truckies and the like,’ he added with deep significance. ‘Your father—’

      ‘If you mention my father once again, Jim, I’ll scream. It was his idea that I spend some time on Wirra Station; therefore, even if indirectly, it’s his fault that I’m all but stranded here!’

      ‘He couldn’t have organised this flood,’ Jim replied reasonably. ‘And it wasn’t his fault the chopper conked out on us at a time like this.’

      ‘Don’t you believe it,’ Francesca said darkly, but added, ‘Look, surely it’s easier for you not to have me to worry about on top of everything else? I mean, you’re going to have enough on your plate as it is, what with moving stock around let alone yourselves if the waters get up to the homestead.’

      Jim sighed and said cautiously, ‘We could be cut off for weeks, I guess.’

      ‘Exactly! The other thing is, once I get home, I can pull all sorts of strings towards getting you parts flown up to repair the helicopter,’ Francesca finished triumphantly.

      ‘OK, Miss Valentine, if you say so,’ Jim relented suddenly, and got out to heave her bag off the back seat. ‘I’ll just carry this to the office for you.’

      ‘I can do it.’ Francesca wrested her bag from him and held out her hand. ‘Goodbye, Jim. I do appreciate your concern, and I hope I wasn’t too much of a... time-waster for you. I shall certainly report back that Wirra is in good hands.’

      ‘Cheerio, Miss Valentine. As for being a time-waster—well, I doubt if those lads have enjoyed themselves as much for years once they got used to...certain things, so don’t you worry your pretty head about it.’ As he shook her hand vigorously he appraised not only her pretty head but also her shapely figure with a genuine and kindly appreciation that gave no offence. ‘You’re a right card at times, Miss Valentine,’ he added. ‘A real chip off the old block—and it’s been a pleasure.’

      ‘Not too much of a chip, I hope,’ Francesca murmured, but beneath her breath, and then she stayed to wave Jim off before turning once more to survey the landscape of this tiny airfield in the middle of North Queensland’s Cape York Peninsula.

      The rain depression that had blown in off the Gulf of Carpentaria had not yet hit, although the sky was heavy. But the floodwaters generated by the depression were creeping inexorably down the channels and river beds and, according to all predictions, it wouldn’t be long before this wild country that was home to some huge cattle stations would not only be awash from those creeping waters but deluged by the skies above. The northern part of Wirra Station was already under water.

      Wirra, Francesca mused, and thought back briefly over the last two weeks that she’d spent on the newest acquisition of the diverse, powerful and immensely wealthy Valentine empire.

      There