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 of guarded superiority. Genevieve wasn’t an invited guest.
Ms Rawleigh had an educated, rather assertive voice. “Have you ever done anything like that before?” she questioned, as though Genevieve’s chances of successfully ghosting a distinguished biography of the Trevelyan family were extremely slim. Her air of general disregard struck Genevieve as very off-putting. In a way it was much like Derryl Trevelyan’s manner. Liane’s tight smile to her was a far different variety from the one bestowed upon the cattle baron Trevelyan. She couldn’t see why, but Genevieve thought there was something vaguely malicious about it. Maybe it was a trick of the heavy-lidded eyes.
Super-athletic in her sapphire T-shirt and skin-tight jeans, she had a high full bust over an enviably narrow waist and slim hips, and as Genevieve was appraising Trevelyan’s exfiancée, Liane Rawleigh was giving her a comprehensive once over. Women were much harder to fool than men. Liane would have checked her eyes, skin, hair, her figure and either consider she had deliberately played down her looks or she had little style to speak of.
“I’m confident I can do the job,” Genevieve responded pleasantly, without actually answering the question.
“Well, I wish you luck.” Liane spoke like a woman who never ceased to be amazed. “Come over and meet Daddy. He wants a word with you, Bret, if you have a moment. I should warn you, I think it’s about Kit.”
Trevelyan responded with an elegant shift of a wide shoulder. He had beautiful, thick raven hair that curled up at the collar of his bush shirt. No time for the hairdresser, like his brother. He didn’t have his younger brother’s insufferable arrogance either—and he was the boss.
“Well, he is having a very tough time of it,” Trevelyan commented.
Genevieve liked his compassion.
“Wallowing in it,” Liane offered derisively.
Trevelyan didn’t respond. He began to move off—a man blessed with vibrant energy.
Lew Rawleigh looked the part of a prominent, prosperous cattle man. The surprise was he was short. No more than five-nine in his high boots. Trevelyan towered over him. But his body was substantial—heavy shoulders, tightly muscled arms, trim through the middle—and he had iron-grey hair, charcoal-coloured eyes. He greeted Genevieve in cordial fashion. Certainly he was friendlier than his daughter.
“Ms Grenville.”
“Please—Gena.”
“Good to meet you, Gena. We hope to see more of you while you’re here.”
“I’d like that.” A white lie. She knew Liane Rawleigh hadn’t taken to her, nor she to Liane.
Genevieve had her hand pumped twice. She just managed not to wince. Trevelyan, a big man, hadn’t subjected her to a bonecrusher, though she was sure Lew Rawleigh was unaware of his vice-like grip. His gaze was keen, as though he was trying to place her. That would be an ever-present anxiety. Some flicker of recognition. She was a woman harbouring a secret. Some might call it a guilty secret. She did bear a resemblance to her great-aunt Catherine. But her colouring was of a different palette. Anyway, Lew Rawleigh was somewhere in his mid-fifties. He would have been a small child at the time.
Nevertheless he would know of that early tragedy on Djangala Station. She supposed everyone in the Outback would have accepted it as a terrible accident. Sadly, people all too frequently stood too close to rocky ledges, shelves of cliffs, even precipices. The thrill was in the danger.
Liane had
