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      CHAPTER ONE

      THE French doors of her bedroom were open to the cooling breeze, so Ava was able to witness the exact moment the station Jeep bearing their Argentine guest swept through the tall wrought-iron gates that guarded the main compound. The tyres of the vehicle threw up sprays of loose gravel, the noise scattering the brilliantly coloured parrots and lorikeets that were feeding on the beautiful Orange Flame Grevilleas and the prolific White Plumed species with their masses of creamy white perfumed flowers nearby.

      As she watched from the shelter of a filmy curtain the Jeep made a broad half-circle around the playing fountain before coming to a halt at the foot of the short flight of stone steps that led to Kooraki’s homestead.

      Juan-Varo de Montalvo had arrived.

      She didn’t know why, but she felt excited. What else but excitement was causing that flutter in her throat? It had been a long time since she had felt like that. But why had these emotions come bubbling up out of nowhere? They weren’t exactly what one could call appropriate. She had nothing to get excited about. Nothing at all.

      Abruptly sobered, she turned back into the room to check her appearance in the pierglass mirror. She had dressed simply: a cream silk shirt tucked into cigarette-slim beige trousers. Around her waist she had slung a wide tan leather belt that showed off her narrow waist. She had debated what to do with her hair in the heat, but at the last moment had left it long and loose, waving over her shoulders. Her blonde hair was one of her best features.

      Cast adrift in the middle of her beautifully furnished bedroom, she found herself making a helpless little gesture indicative of she didn’t know what. She had greeted countless visitors to Kooraki over the years. Why go into a spin now? Three successive inward breaths calmed her. She had read the helpful hint somewhere and, in need of it, formed the habit. It did work. Time to go downstairs now and greet their honoured guest.

      Out in the hallway, lined on both sides with gilt-framed paintings, she walked so quietly towards the head of the staircase she might have been striving to steal a march on their guest. Ava could hear resonant male voices, one a little deeper, darker than the other, with a slight but fascinating accent. So they were already inside the house. She wasn’t sure why she did it but, like a child, she took a quick peek—seeing while remaining unseen—over the elegant wrought-iron lace of the balustrade down into the Great Hall.

      It was then she saw the man who was to turn her whole life upside down. A moment she was destined never to forget. He was in animated conversation with her brother, Dev, both of them standing directly beneath the central chandelier with all its glittering, singing crystal drops. Their body language was proof they liked and respected each other, if one accepted the theory that the distance one maintained between oneself and another said a great deal about their relationship. To Ava’s mind these two were simpatico.

      Both young men were stunningly handsome. Some inches over six feet, both were wide through the shoulders, lean-hipped, with hard-muscled thighs and long, long legs. As might be expected of top-class polo players, both possessed superb physiques. The blond young man was her brother, James Devereaux Langdon, Master of Kooraki following the death of their grandfather Gregory Langdon, cattle king and national icon; the other was his foil, his Argentine friend and wedding guest. Juan-Varo de Montalvo had flown in a scant fifteen or so minutes before, on a charter flight from Longreach, the nearest domestic terminal to the Langdon desert stronghold—a vast cattle station bordered to the west and north-west by the mighty Simpson, the world’s third-largest desert.

      In colouring, the two were polarised. Dev’s thick hair was a gleaming blond, like her own. Both of them had the Langdon family’s aquamarine eyes. De Montalvo’s hair was as black and glossy as a crow’s wing. He had the traditional Hispanic’s lustrous dark eyes, and his skin was tanned to a polished deep bronze. He was very much a man of a different land and culture. It showed in his manner, his voice, his gesticulations—the constant movement of his hands and shoulders, even the flick of his head. Just looking