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“I’m over you, Chrissy,” Mitch said very softly, putting his hands on her shoulders, tangling his fingers in her dark abundant tresses.
“Then why kiss a woman who’s been nothing but trouble?” Christine couldn’t resist the urge to taunt him.
“Could be I just think of it as fighting fire with fire.”
“So what are you waiting for?” She felt a sudden violent rush of exhilaration in her blood as the weight of his wonderful curvy mouth came down over hers.
It was meant to be a light, mocking kiss that would convey to her she was no longer in his blood. No longer able to drive him to distraction. Only, the kiss changed character….
Dear Reader,
This third story in my KOOMERA CROSSING miniseries continues the theme of families and bonded lives, the unique relationships that are formed in isolated outback life. We all belong to a family, and how we fared in childhood and adolescence has a powerful effect on our lives. Some have the great good fortune to be reared in a loving, stable home where the young are encouraged to approach life from a positive angle and are always given a helping hand. Others are always struggling to win acceptance, to be loved, knowing it’s not going to happen. Eventually, they are forced to make a life far from their families in order to protect themselves.
Christine is one such heroine who is forced into fleeing her desert home. In running away she must leave behind the love of her life, her kindred spirit, Mitch Claydon. He nurses a bitter hurt and disillusionment while she travels the world as a glamorous fashion model, but she’s unable to forget the man she’s left behind….
The first book in my KOOMERA CROSSING miniseries was the Harlequin Superromance® novel Sarah’s Baby. This was followed by Runaway Wife in Harlequin Romance®. Look for Outback Surrender, December 2003, also in Harlequin Romance®.
Outback Bridegroom
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
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS funny about love, he thought. It never died. Or his particular kind of love didn’t: his was unconditional, irreversible. He’d had it once. He’d never found it again. Not since Christine. Always, always, Christine!
If he lived to be one hundred he doubted if he could ever forget his childhood sweetheart, the love of his life, the impossibly beautiful Christine Reardon. Such was their bond right through childhood and their teens—his wretched and—let’s face it—unrequited love for her was never going to leave him. He was still spellbound by the very sight of her, though she had used him shamefully. For a man with guts and pride aplenty, that made him feel really bad.
He had learned to love early. Both he and Christine were Outback born and reared. Both were the children of pastoral dynasties—bush aristocracy, as it were. That in itself had forged a powerful connective link. He was Mitchell Claydon, heir to Marjimba Station, she was the granddaughter of the so recently late, unlamented Ruth McQueen, whose wake he and half the Outback were at present attending.
The interment, under a blazingly hot sun, was mercifully over, but the wake, held at the McQueens’ historic homestead Wunnamurra, dragged on and on as it befell everyone to pay their respects to such a powerful pioneering family.
For two hours now he had stood suffering blackly—he hoped it didn’t show—longing to cool off with a cold beer, not endless cups of tea or the whisky the boys in the library were having. An irreverent thought, maybe. Ruth’s funeral was a momentous day in their part of the world—vast Outback Queensland, an endless source of fascination to most of the country who led city lives. Ruth, ex-matriarch of the McQueen dynasty, was not your normal much mourned grandmother. Ruth in her lifetime had had a patent on seriously ruthless behaviour, but she’d had the aura and financial muscle to somehow pull it off.
He’d never liked her. In fact he’d come close to loathing her, so how could he be expected to mourn her passing? Wasn’t the reason Christine had run away from him to escape her grandmother’s clutches? Or so Chrissy had claimed. One way or the other, Christine’s flight had been swift and terrible for a girl who up to that time had declared her endless love for him. The fervour with which she’d said it still rang in his heart like a bell.
“How I love you, Mitch!” That tone should have been kept for worship. Her face had been luminous as a pearl above him, her thick braid undone, silken hair glistening even in the scented darkness of their special place, a pink lily pond few other people came to or even knew. Her beautiful hands had always smelled of boronia, caressing his naked chest, spiralling downwards, in delicate stroking circles that had made his blood run molten, his body shaking with the fine tremors of blind passion.
An inferno of desire! He would have done anything for her. She had power, great power, in the age-old manner of beautiful seductive women. It was this that had mesmerized him. Kept him captive so he never saw all the other girls who tried to win his attention.
Christine. Always Christine.
Her ardent declarations had turned out to be utter lies. She had betrayed him and played him, scorning the love she’d proclaimed so sublime. The grief and the anger Mitch felt had gone so deep they still burned brightly. So why, then, couldn’t he forget her? Wash his hands of her? Get on with his life?
It hadn’t worked out like that at all. God knows he’d tried. And now he stood in
