returned home.
More amazement at Koomera Crossing. More long considering stares. More unsolicited advice not to attempt to travel after dusk, which made it even more dangerously irresistible, but she wasn’t a complete fool. She booked into the pub for the night. She could start out fresh in the morning.
By seven o’clock she was starving. She felt sure the pub didn’t run to room service but if she went down to the dining room she might run into Troy Connellan. Just the thought of him made the adrenalin kick in. His wasn’t a soothing presence. In fact, he was particularly challenging. She could still feel that steely grip on her. She supposed he had every reason to think she was a lanky young man from the back. There was her height, her long legs and her dusty cowboy garb. Her hair—what had he called it?—a fiery torrent, was pushed under her hat. So his daddy owned the schoolmaster’s house. He owned a place called Vulcan Plains and another station in the Northern Territory. Daddy had to be a rich man. A cattle baron.
Spare me from them.
Hunger got the better of her. There was a lot of her to fill. She prettied herself up with a fine cotton shirt the colour of her eyes and brand-new designer jeans, tight as leggings, slinging one of her very fancy belts around her waist. This was the sort of outfit she adopted in the pubs when she sang. People seemed to like it. Her hair she brushed until it crackled and left it to hang loose over her shoulders and down her back in deep thick waves. McIvor’s hair. She sighed and a flush of anger appeared in her cheeks. A few things he had passed on to her. As a child she had wondered where she got her red curls from. Her mother’s hair had been dark and glossy until she started not taking care of herself. Her mother had never forgotten McIvor but he had forgotten her overnight. Had her mother ever tried to contact him to tell him about the pregnancy? Casey never knew. He might have sent money or advised her mother to have an abortion. He would pay for it. He was a married man.
Her poor little mother had a higher morality.
She was hardly settled in her chair before a plump, middle-aged woman reminiscent of someone’s mother on a sitcom came up to her, beaming. “I thought it was. You’re Casey McGuire, aren’t you? I’m a fan of yours. I’ve heard you sing back in Brisbane and the Gold Coast. I’m on holiday staying with my niece. She’s over there.” She gestured towards a table. “Dee Walker, that’s my name.” She held out her hand.
What else could a girl do. Casey shook it. “Thanks for the kind words, Dee, but I won’t be doing any singing around here.”
Dee’s double chin quivered as if she might cry. “Not even if I asked you? Folks would love it.”
Casey stared up at the woman’s plum-hued hair. “I’m like you, Dee, I’m on vacation.” Dee wore a plum lipstick as well.
Dee wasn’t the sort of person who took no for an answer. She leaned her hands on the table. “Look, I’ve set myself the little task of getting you to sing. I bet hubby I could.”
“Dee, I’m about to order. I’m very hungry.”
“Later then?” Dee was nothing if not persistent. It had worked countless times in the past. People just folded before they got a migraine.
Casey wasn’t one of them. She was about to put a stop to Dee, only a voice she knew breathed over her shoulder. “Hey, sorry I’m late!” Next minute Troy Connellan dropped an audacious kiss on her cheek before taking the chair opposite her.
“Oh, I’m intruding,” Dee Walker said, looking pleasantly flustered.
“Nice to meet you, Dee,” Casey gave her a big bright smile. “Bye now.”
Dee left reluctantly while Connellan rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me. She wanted to know if that hot hair was real?”
“You’ve heard about wigs in the sticks?”
“Hell, yes. What did she want?”
For some unknown reason she told him. “She wanted me to sing a song.”
“Imagine that!” One bronze eyebrow shot up. “What are we talking about here? Grand opera, pop, rock and roll, maybe the blues?” He had already noted her speaking voice, low and rich, full of sexy modulations.
She looked at him through narrowed, hostile eyes. “I’m sorry I told you.”
He shook his head. “Contrary to what you may believe, any one of those styles is possible. You have a voice people would want to listen to. So did Jock come to think of it. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone spin a yarn like McIvor. That voice of his could weave spells.”
“Can we leave McIvor out of this?” she asked sharply
“Sounds like you don’t have a good opinion of him?”
“Go on. Dig a bit further,” she challenged.
Again he shook his head. “I’m here for a nice chat and to have a good dinner. Have you ordered yet?”
“Dee got in the way,” she said sarcastically.
“Allow me.” He held up a hand. Immediately a pretty young waitress with dyed platinum hair curling around her head, hurried to their table.
“Yes, Troy?”
He smiled up at her. “How are things with you, Debby?”
“Just the same as when you left, Troy. Pretty tame, but I have dreams.”
It looked very much like Connellan was one of them, Casey thought, sitting back and listening to the exchange. It went on for a minute more before they ordered. Fresh barramundi had arrived from the Gulf, so what else? French fries, green salad on the side.
“Thanks, Debby.” Connellan handed her the menus. “We’ll let you know if we want dessert.”
“Thank you, Troy,” she said, eyes glowing, cheeks pink.
“One of your girlfriends?” Casey asked. “Or not high enough up the social scale?”
“Debby’s just a kid,” he frowned. His white shirt revealed a glimpse of broad bronzed torso, a gold ring in his ear would have finished the look off perfectly. Even his thick hair curled up from his collar.
“A kid with a crush,” Casey pointed out.” Whereas you’re exactly the age Debby is attracted to. You did a good job making her want to grow up. Fast.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. Another signal of the hand. “What’s it to be?” He turned back to Casey. “Beer or wine? I guess a glass of wine wouldn’t kill me.”
“Perhaps you should go sit at another table?” she suggested sweetly.
“Don’t be like that, McGuire. Waiter’s coming. What’s it to be?”
“A nice crisp Riesling,” she said.
The generous mouth compressed. “If they’ve got it. Crisp Riesling drinkers don’t come in all that often.”
“Try them,” she said.
The owner of
