just reached the main gate of the compound, a massive wrought-iron affair that fronted the surrounding white-washed walls when a nesting magpie shot out of a tree, diving so low over their heads Rebecca gave an involuntary cry. She was well aware magpies could be a menace when they thought the nest was under threat. The bird wheeled with incredible speed clearly on the attack but this time Broderick Kinross, with a muffled exclamation, pulled her against him with one arm and made a swipe at the offending bird with his black Akubra.
“Go on, get!” he cried, with the voice of authority.
The bird did, keeping just out of range.
To Rebecca’s searing shame her whole body reacted to being clamped to his. It was a dreadful weakness that she thought long buried.
“It can’t hurt you.” He released her almost immediately, staring up at the peacock-blue sky. “They’re a damned nuisance when they’re nesting.”
“You’re all right aren’t you, Rebecca?” Stewart Kinross asked, genuinely solicitous. “You’ve gone rather pale.”
“It was nothing, nothing,” she began to laugh the moment off. “It’s not my first magpie attack.”
“And you’ve told us you’re pretty brave.” Broderick Kinross caught her gaze. A moment that spun out too long.
“I told you I don’t wilt,” she corrected, a tiny blue pulse beating in her throat.
“No.” A ripple of something like sexuality moved like a breeze across his face. “Wasn’t she magnificent, Dad?” he teased.
“You must understand that Broderick likes a little joke, Rebecca,” Stewart Kinross said, a crack appearing in his grand manner.
“Then I generously forgive him,” Rebecca spoke sweetly even though her breath still shook in her chest.
What she wanted out of life was peace. That she intended to guard fiercely even against a cyclonic force. Broderick Kinross had the dark, dangerous power to sweep a woman away.
On the Saturday morning of the polo match, Fee woke late, still feeling weary from insufficient sleep. She turned on her back easing the satin pads from her eyes. Living so long in England she had all but forgotten the brilliant light of her homeland. Now she had these eye pads on hand for the moment when the all powerful sun threw golden fingers of light across the wide verandah and into her bedroom.
She was a chronic insomniac these days. Nothing seemed to cure it. She’d tried knock out pills—get up in the morning and have a good strong cup of coffee advice from her doctor—but she hated drugs, preferring herbal cures, or relaxation techniques, not that she had ever been a great one to relax. Too much adrenaline in the blood. Too many late, late nights. Too many lovers. Too many after performance parties. Too many social events crammed into her calendar. She thought she might be able to unwind once she returned home but it wasn’t happening.
Of course she and Stewart never did get on, as children and adolescents. Stewart so absolutely full of himself. Since birth. Fiona had taken herself out of the jarring environment of playing second fiddle to her swaggering brother, The Heir, by setting sail for England. Of course her beloved dad, Sir Andy, shocked out of his mind at the prospect of losing his little princess had tried to stop her but in the end when faced with her shrieking virago acts sent her off with enough money to keep her in great style while she studied drama in preparation for her brilliant career. She’d managed this through a combination of beauty—let’s face it, even at sixty she could still make heads swivel—lots of luck, the Kinross self-confidence and a good resonant speaking voice, possibly from all that yelling outdoors. She had the lung capacity to fill a theatre like her good friend La Stupenda. And the Gods be praised, native talent. If you didn’t have that you had nothing.
The thing that was really niggling away at her was this new potentially destructive situation with Stewart and Rebecca. God knows she’d seen enough of ageing men wearing pretty things young enough to be their daughters even granddaughters on their sleeves, but she wasn’t at all happy about Stewart’s interest in this particular young woman she’d become so fond of. Apart from the big age difference, part of her wanted badly to warn Rebecca against her brother’s practised charm. How could any young person, a near stranger, know what lay beneath the superbly self-assured manner? No wonder little Lucille, her dead sister-in-law had run off. Lucille so gentle a spirit would have fared badly trying to withstand Stewart’s harsh nature. In the end she’d shrunk from it.
And there was the way Stewart had treated his children, especially Broderick, who had his mother’s glorious eyes although he was clearly a Kinross. Sir Andy had written to her often about his concerns and she had seen for herself Stewart’s coldness towards his children whenever she returned home. Those were the years when her darling Sir Andy was still alive. She wouldn’t be here now much as she loved the place of her birth only for the fact Stewart was trying to talk her into selling her shares in several Kinross enterprises. There were many family interests to discuss. No need for her to run off. This was the home of her ancestors.
Oddly enough it had been Stewart who had begun all the talk about her writing her biography. He had even suggested a possible candidate for the job. A young award-winning journalist called Rebecca Hunt, already the author of a successful biography about another family friend, opera singer Judy Thomas. Dame Judy lest any of us forget. Stewart had read Judy’s autographed book and been impressed. He’d also seen the young Hunt woman being interviewed on one of those Sunday afternoon programs about the Arts.
“Ask her out here, Fee,” Stewart had urged her, laying a compelling hand on her shoulder. “If only to see if the two of you could get along. After all, my dear, you’ve had a dazzling career. You have something to say.”
She’d fallen for it hook, line and sinker, closing her eyes to the past, gratified by his interest, thinking Stewart could be very charming now that he’d mellowed. Clever, clever, Stewart.
She’d done what he wanted. Lured Rebecca into his trap. Stewart had obviously fallen in love with her. On sight. She was just the sort of patrician creature he had always liked with her pure face and haunted eyes. Oh, yes, they were haunted for all Stewart thought they were cool as lakes. Rebecca had a past. Behind the immaculate exterior, Fee suspected Rebecca had her own story to tell. A story involving some very bitter experience. One that lay hidden but not buried. Fee knew all about the wilderness of love.
She threw back the silk coverlet, putting her still pretty bare feet to the floor. Much as she adored the company of her nephew, secretly revelled in watching him outplay his father in all departments on the polo field, she just knew this weekend was going to bring plenty of tension and heartache.
Why had Stewart invited Brod in the first place? He had to know by now Brod outstripped him as a polo player. Then there was the tantalising presence of the beautiful, unusual Rebecca. What middle-aged man, however wealthy, would set out to woo a young woman then expose her to the likes of Brod for goodness’ sake. It didn’t make a scrap of sense unless Stewart was applying yet another test.
Stewart was a great one for putting people through hoops. Such an arrogant man. Perhaps if the seemingly perfect Rebecca didn’t pass the test she would fall from her golden pedestal and be made so uncomfortable she would be forced to leave. Fee was now certain her brother had marriage on his mind and it wasn’t out of the question. Even after all these years. Not that they had been womanless. Stewart had had his affairs from time to time but he had obviously never found the woman he wanted to keep for himself. The prize possession. Lucille lovely as a summer’s day had been that for a time but somehow Lucille had found the courage to run away. The next one wouldn’t be given the
