This beautiful young woman wasn’t in the least what he wanted as a governess.
He had to be mad. Yet Carrie’s light fragrance filled the interior of the car with such images of spring blossom and sweet breezes.
Carrie glanced out of the window. “My stepmother is under the impression you and I are having a secret affair.”
“So what did you tell her?”
“Only that you were a friend. That you were divorced and you have a little girl.”
“Nothing about coming back with me to Maramba?”
She was shocked by the effect of his words on her. “I wasn’t totally sure you wanted me,” she confessed.
“You really want this job?”
“At the moment I desperately need it,” she admitted frankly.
Margaret Way takes great pleasure in her work and works hard at her pleasure. She enjoys tearing off to the beach with her family at weekends, loves haunting galleries and auctions and is completely given over to French champagne “for every possible joyous occasion.” She was born and educated in the river city of Brisbane, Australia, and now lives within sight and sound of beautiful Moreton Bay.
Master of Maramba
Margaret Way
MILLS & BOON
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER ONE
SHE didn’t see the car until it purred right up to her. A big opulent Jaguar. Platinum. This year’s colour. Only seconds before she had scanned the jacaranda-lined street: traffic moving at a clip along the terrace, nothing in this narrow side street where she always tried to park when visiting her favourite uncle, in fact her only uncle. James Halliday of Halliday, Scholes & Associates, solicitors and tax advisers to the seriously rich. The busy professional area which included architects, engineers, town planners, and two very trendy but non-flashy interior designers, was fully parked except for the spot she’d had the great good fortune to drive into as another driver moved out. There was a space of sorts behind her suitable for a pokey little car like her own. She’d tried that in the past with the rear end showing the scars. No way could the driver of the magnificent Jag, she could see it was a man, squeeze into the spot. The thought gave her a certain perverse satisfaction.
Carrie locked her car, hoping the Jaguar would glide past, instead the occupant drove alongside, coming so close she could feel the familiar agitation start up inside her. She flattened her whole body against the side of her own car watching in sick fascination as the driver turned his coal-black head over his shoulder preparatory to putting the limousine into reverse.
The usual male derring-do. This one had more than his share.
No way could he miss hitting the trunk of the jacaranda tree unless he knew the exact dimensions of the Jag and the spot down to the last millimetre. She knew she was staring after him, her upper body now slumped sideways giving every appearance of a woman who had narrowly missed being run over. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She only knew she couldn’t control her reactions. Ever since her accident she’d lost her emotional equanimity becoming almost a stranger to herself, fearful, wary, her nerves running on overdrive.
While she awaited the ker-uuun-ch the driver confounded her by manoeuvring that great big car into that teeny little space, startling her into unwilling admiration. But it happened sometimes. Especially with men. Even the total idiots among them seemed to know exactly how to reverse park. Had it been another woman she would have burst into applause but no such luck for his lordship.
Carrie looked away, pretending utter indifference. Her heartbeats had quietened now she was free to go about her business, realising at the last minute she’d forgotten her sunglasses and the spring sunshine was dazzling. Shafts of it flashed through the lacy canopy of the trees. Another month and they would be out in glorious lavender-blue flower, an event the whole subtropical city of Brisbane looked forward to. Except maybe the students. Jacaranda time. Exam time. She knew all about that. An honours graduate from the Conservatorium of Music. Winner of the Gold Medal for outstanding achievement. Winner of the National Young Performers’ Award for her playing of the Rachmaninoff 2nd Piano Concerto. Accepted into the prestigious Julliard Academy in New York. A young woman with a very bright future.
Until the accident.
With an unhappy shrug, Carrie opened the door, reached in, and picked up the glasses, before giving the door a good healthy slam to work off excess energy, panic, irrational hostility, whatever. She’d have a lifetime to come to terms with her broken dreams. A whole world opened to her. Now shut.
She turned, watching the man get out of the car. He was looking straight at her, something questioning in his expression as though he saw things going on in her face. Or her heart. The thought shook her. She had instant impressions of her own. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark tanned skin but with a healthy glow. As tall as Mount Everest and just as impressive. Very likely a huge source of income. An aura like that only came with tons of money. But he wasn’t deskbound. Too powerful. Hard muscles rippled beneath his beautiful, elegant city clothes. The walk was purposeful, athletic, the action as superlative as the powerful cylinders of the Jag. If a halo of light had surrounded him she wouldn’t have been a bit surprised. The tan hadn’t come from lying around on the beach, either. He put her more in mind of some godlike explorer gazing off into sun-scorched infinity. The Red Centre. The Dead Heart. She particularly liked that image. It seemed to suit him yet she stared back as though he were transparent. She had to find someone to hate today. He was it. Mr. Heartbreak, Mr. Trouble, Mr. Larger than Life. Men who irradiated their surroundings always were.
“Have
