knew she was deliberately trying to draw him out. “Surely she loves you and your sister?”
“Yes. Romayne’s married. Happily, thank God. Not much happiness in our family. Aunt Hester never took any notice of Romayne and me. Romayne is the image of our mother. Know about her?”
She answered with care. “Not really, Derryl. I know your father is dead. I know your parents were divorced. Is that right?”
He shrugged a shoulder. “You’re going to hear it anyway. A pretty shabby affair, but it happens—even with royalty. Mother ran off with a family friend. Apparently she longed for a different life. Our father got custody. Our mother allegedly begged for Romayne, her girl. Dad told her to push off. There was no question of Bret’s going to live with her. Bretton was the heir. Our father’s longed-for Number One Son. Even as a kid Bret knew what his life was going to be. His destiny, if you like.”
“You don’t sound all that happy with your lot, Derryl?”
His answer was a curl of the lip. “Not so easy to get away. Bret holds the purse-strings. He administers the family trust. Sometimes I feel trapped in a wasteland. At least Bret sent Romayne off with a splendid dowry, just like in the olden days. Not that her husband can ever get his hands on it. Bret saw to that. Romayne is financially secure for life, no matter what. Needless to say she worships the ground Bret treads upon.”
To inspire such love Bret Trevelyan couldn’t be all that bad, Genevieve thought. She shifted the conversation on to more general topics. Derryl evidently liked wallowing in self-pity.
Even at a distance, Bret Trevelyan radiated a powerful charisma. He broke away from a small all-male group as they pulled up, coming towards them. He was tall, very lean, but powerfully built, with straight wide shoulders and a body naturally endowed with virile grace. The group of cattlemen stood beside a very impressive twin turboprop she recognised as a Beechcraft King Air. One of her father’s most important clients was a retail magnate who had recently bought the eight-seater, and employed a regular pilot. The Trevelyans’ little run-about had cost millions.
That wasn’t fair. She knew the King Air was the toughest aircraft in its class. It could take off from both major airports and short gravelled runways, which would be a big plus in the Outback. There was another important factor: it could operate effortlessly at high altitudes and under extreme weather conditions, which it no doubt would encounter.
Up close, the Trevelyan lineage was apparent in both brothers. Only Bret Trevelyan appeared to be a man of a higher order. It was in the way he held himself, the way he moved. Indeed, it was hard to take her eyes off the man. She found him to be wonderful-looking. He had such an air of authority,such presence. Moreover, he had all the toughness she had found wanting in his younger brother.
“Ms Grenville?”
There was total composure in his voice, a self-assurance that would instantly inspire great confidence in him. He was inches taller than his brother—well over six feet. More disturbingly, he was looking down at her with the most brilliant dark eyes she had ever seen. She was someone who looked at eyes first. His eyes were so dark they were almost black, his gaze so powerfully searching she had the unnerving notion he was able to see right through her. In which case she might be sent packing. Only just thirty, he was an arrestingly handsome man, with an elegance about him and more than a touch of sensuality in the chiselled mouth and the strong, perfectly balanced bone structure. The air of command was that of a much older man. One seldom saw it in one so young, unless he was a truly exceptional person.
It came as a complete shock to realise she was attracted to him—and all in a matter of moments. That couldn’t be. It rendered her vulnerable. On the reverse side of instant attraction lay the abyss. Catherine had found that out, if her claim of a serious love affair with Geraint Trevelyan were true. And why would it not be? Catherine hadn’t lied.
She paused briefly to collect herself. “Genevieve, please. Or Gena, if you prefer.”
They had extended hands at much the same time. Now a chain of little tremors ran down her spine as his long callus-tipped fingers fell over the soft skin at the back of her hand. Contact sparked a reaction akin to an electric thrill. She certainly felt a tingling right up her arm, and an odd thump of her heart. It was an extraordinary feeling, but nothing could be served by it. Whatever a woman felt for this man, she would just know it would be fathoms deeper than anything she had hitherto experienced.
“Genevieve it is.” His brilliant eyes appeared to glitter for a single moment. Deeper, darker-toned than his brother’s, his voice was similarly cultured. No ordinary “bushies” the Trevelyans. “Have you travelled to the Outback before?”
Derryl hadn’t asked that question. “Uluru and the Olgas, Katajuta—but that was years ago. An unforgettable experience I want to renew.”
“I’m sure we can arrange it,” he said smoothly. “Now, I’d like you to come aboard.” He shot a look over Genevieve’s head to where his self-alleged badly-done-by brother was standing watching them—not with detachment, but with frowning interest. “Derryl, could you bring Genevieve’s luggage? We need to get away as soon as possible.”
Derryl’s muffled reply held irritation, which his brother ignored. Obviously Derryl thought his position in the scheme of things put him far above hauling luggage.
It was hard to stop herself from being thrilled. She was going on a journey that might take her to the brink of discovery. Potentially dangerous or not, she was on her way. Plenty of women would fall down in unabashed adoration before Bret Trevelyan. She was not going to be one of them. Every moment, every minute, every day she had to keep in mind her kinswoman Catherine, who had lost her young life on Djangala Station. Had she made a fatal mistake falling in love with Geraint Trevelyan, a man beyond any doubt the wrong man for her? Falling in love with the wrong man could be dangerous. Historically, there were mountains of evidence of that.
Trevelyan would be dropping the cattlemen off along the way. He made brief introductions, and all four men responded with genuine friendliness and courtesy.
Less than five minutes later they were all seated in a superior styled and fitted-out cabin. She could see that the very comfortable fully articulated club seating had been configured for the cattlemen to continue their discussions in private. She sat farther back in the aircraft, pretty well on her own, which suited her, marvelling at the state-of-the-art technology—fingertip controls, an audio-visual system, LED lighting, etc. Aft was a restroom, no doubt offering toilet, vanity and other upmarket amenities.
They were underway. The aircraft was taxiing down the runway, then within moments, smooth as silk, it gained height, fast climbing into the dazzling blue air. There was no loud drone from the twin turbo props. Inside the aircraft it was remarkably quiet. She could even darken the window, if she so chose. Derryl had elected to take the trip in the cockpit with his brother, which told her he wasn’t about to waste time on her. She was grateful for that.
Some change in the aircraft woke her. A change in altitude. She straightened up, amazed to find she had drifted off. Smoothing her hair, she stared out of the window. Trevelyan was bringing the King Air around in a slow tilting curve, making a descent onto what appeared to be a fairly large settlement in the middle of nowhere. A whole collection of buildings sprawled beneath her, and further off mobs of cattle browsed peacefully on a lushness she had not expected to see. But then this was Australia—a continent of searing drought and raging floods.
The great irony was that the arid red landscape had turned into a wild paradise. The Three Great Rivers system
