every nerve ending wired?
‘Do you believe it?’ He turned his dark head again to meet her eyes.
‘I wouldn’t be here without you, Bryn,’ she said, on a soft expelled breath. ‘I like to think we’re … friends.’
‘Well, we are,’ he replied, somewhat sardonically. ‘I want you to promise me something, Francey.’
Something in his tone alarmed her. ‘If I can,’ she answered warily.
‘You must,’ he clipped out, abruptly steering away from a red-glowing boulder that crouched like some mythical animal in the jungle of green gilt-tipped grasses. ‘If you’re worried or unsure about something, or if you need someone to talk to, I want you to contact me. Will you do that?’ There was a note of urgency in his voice.
‘I promise.’
He shot her a brilliant glance that affected her powerfully. ‘You mean that?’
‘Absolutely. I never break a promise. A promise is like a vow.’
‘So let’s shake on it.’ He hit the brake and brought the vehicle to a stop in the shade of a stand of bauhinias, the branches lavishly decorated with flowers of purest white and lime-green. ‘Give me your hand.’
On the instant her heart began fluttering wildly, as if a small bird was trapped in her chest. She was crazily off guard. She only hoped her face wasn’t betraying the turmoil within her. ‘Okay,’ she managed at last. She gave him her hand. Skin on skin. She had to fight hard to compose herself. Beneath her reserved façade she went in trepidation of Bryn Macallan and his power over her. So much so she feared to be alone with him, even though she spent countless hours wishing she were.
But how did one stop longing for what one so desperately longed for?
Bryn’s hand was gripping hers—not gently, but tightly. It was as though he wanted her to understand what her promise might mean in the days ahead.
To Francesca the intimacy was breathtaking. The heat in her blood wrapped her body like a shawl. Her limbs were melting, as though her body might collapse like a concertina. For glittering moments she accepted her deepest longings and desires. She was irrevocably in love with Bryn Macallan. She couldn’t remember a time she hadn’t been. It was the most important thing in her life. She was off her head, really. And it was so humiliating. Carina was the woman in Bryn’s life. She had to clamp down on the torment.
‘Where will it finally end, Francey?’ Bryn was asking quietly, not relinquishing her hand as she’d thought he would. ‘You know I mean to take over Titan?’
He waited in silence for her response. ‘I’m aware of your burning ambitions, Bryn,’ she said. ‘I know you want to put things right. I don’t know your secrets, and you won’t tell me, but I do know you would probably have the numbers to oust Uncle Charles.’
‘Without a doubt!’ Not the slightest flare of arrogance, just plain fact, though the muscles along his jaw clenched.
‘Grandfather’s dearest wish was for you and Carina to marry.’ She turned to look him squarely in the face. ‘To unite the two dynasties.’
‘I’m well aware of that,’ he answered, his tone suggesting her grandfather’s dearest wish didn’t come into it.
Or so she interpreted it. Was she wrong? ‘And it will happen?’
If for whatever reason the longed-for alliance didn’t eventuate, he knew Carina would become his enemy. He laughed, but there was little humour in it. ‘Why don’t you leave all that to me, Francey? My main concern at the moment is you.’
Heat started up in her veins. ‘Me?’ She was unable to find another word.
‘Yes, you. Don’t sound so surprised. I don’t see much of you. Certainly not as much as I’d like,’ Bryn continued as she remained silent. He firmed up his hold on her trembling hand, then—shockingly—raised it to his lips.
‘“Thus with a kiss I die.”’ he quoted lightly, but Francesca’s heart flipped in her breast.
It was easy to identify Romeo’s final line. What was Bryn thinking, saying that? It bewildered her. So did his darkly enigmatic gaze. Didn’t he know how difficult it was for her, loving him and knowing he was with Carina? But then, how could he know? She did everything possible to hide her true feelings.
‘Break out of your shell, Francesca,’ he abruptly urged. ‘You’ve been over-long inside it.’
She felt a rush of humiliation at the criticism. Doubly so because he was right. ‘I thought it was for my own protection.’
‘I understand all that.’
There was a high, humming sound in her ears. ‘May I have my hand back?’
‘Of course.’ He released her hand on the instant, leaning forward to switch on the ignition. ‘We should get back anyway,’ he added briskly. ‘I want to leave as soon as possible.’
‘I’m ready.’
It wasn’t a good feeling.
She could feel her heart sink.
The Jeep bounded across the vast sun-drenched plain accompanied by a great flight of budgerigars—the phenomenon of the Outback that had materialised again. Francesca gazed up at them, wondering if and when she would see Daramba again. She was certain her uncle would inherit the pastoral chain, but Charles had never much cared for Daramba.
Like all inhabitants of the great island continent, in particular of remote Western Australia, he was used to vast open spaces, to incredible emptiness, but on his own admission something about Daramba spooked him. It was there, after all, that Gulla Nolan had mysteriously disappeared. The verdict after an intensive search at the time was that Gulla had been drunk and had slipped into one of the maze of waterholes, billabongs, lagoons and swamps that criss-crossed the station. Everyone knew Gulla had had a great liking for the booze. Gulla Nolan had been the famous tracker Sir Theodore Macallan and her own grandfather had taken along with them on their expeditions. Gulla had been with them when they had discovered Mount Gloriana.
To this day no one knew Gulla’s fate—although it was Sir Theo who had set up a trust fund which had grown very substantially over the years, for Gulla and his descendants. One of them was a well-known political activist—a university graduate, educated through the Gulla Nolan Trust and—ironically—a sworn enemy of the Forsyths. It was quite possible, then, that her uncle would sell Daramba, if not the whole chain.
CHAPTER TWO
THE funeral of Sir Francis Forsyth was unique in one respect. No one cried. Though it should be said there was no easy way to shed a tear for a man more often described as ‘a ruthless bastard’ than a jewel in the giant State of Western Australia’s crown. Nevertheless, the Anglican Cathedral St George’s—Victorian Gothic Revival in style, and relatively modest compared to the huge Catholic Cathedral, St Mary’s, built on the site that had actually been set aside by the Founding Fathers for St George’s—was packed by ‘mourners’. This covered anyone who was anyone in the public eye: a federal senator, representative of the Prime Minister, the
