thirty hours for her to struggle against de Montalvo’s powerful sexual aura.
For someone of her age, marital status and background Ava was beginning to feel as though she had been wandering through life with her eyes closed. Now they were open and almost frighteningly perceptive. Everyone had the experience of meeting someone in life who raised the hackles or had an abrasive effect. Their Argentine visitor exerted a force of quite another order. He had roped her, in cattleman’s terms—or she had that illusion.
Dinner the previous evening had gone off very well. In fact it had been a beautiful little welcoming party. They’d eaten in the informal dining room, which was far more suitable and intimate than the grand formal dining room only used for special occasions. She’d had the table set with fine china, sterling silver flatware, and exquisite Bohemian crystal glasses taken from one the of numerous cabinets holding such treasures. From the garden she had picked a spray of exquisite yellow orchids, their blooms no bigger than paper daisies, and arranged them to take central pride of place. Two tall Georgian silver candlesticks had thrown a flattering light, finding their reflection in the crystal glasses.
The menu she’d chosen had been simple but delicious: white asparagus in hollandaise, a fish course, the superb barramundi instead of the usual beef, accompanied by the fine wines Dev had had brought up from the handsomely stocked cellar. Dessert had been a light and lovely passionfruit trifle. She hadn’t gone for overkill.
Both Dev and his guest were great raconteurs, very well travelled, very well read, and shared similar interests. Even dreams. She hadn’t sat back like a wallflower either. Contrary to her fluttery feelings as she had been dressing—she had gone to a surprising amount of trouble—she had found it remarkably easy to keep her end up, becoming more fluent by the moment. Her own stories had flowed, with Dev’s encouragement.
At best Luke had wanted her to sit quietly and look beautiful—his sole requirements of her outside the bedroom. He had never wanted her to shine. De Montalvo, stunning man that he was, with all his eloquent little foreign gestures, had sat back studying her with that sexy half-smile hovering around his handsome mouth. Admiring—or mocking in the manner of a man who was seeing exactly what he had expected to see? A blonde young woman in a long silk-jersey dress the exact colour of her eyes, aquamarine earrings swinging from her ears, glittering in the candlelight.
She was already a little afraid of de Montalvo’s half-smile. Yet by the end of the evening she had felt they spoke the same language. It couldn’t have been a stranger sensation.
Above them a flight of the budgerigar endemic to Outback Australia zoomed overhead, leaving an impressive trail of emerald and sulphur yellow like a V-shaped bolt of silk. De Montalvo studied the indigenous little birds with great interest. “Amazing how they make that formation,” he said, tipping his head back to follow the squadron’s approach into the trees on the far side of the chain of billabongs. “It’s like an aeronautical display. I know Australia has long been known as the Land of the Parrot. Already I see why. Those beautiful parrots in the gardens—the smaller ones—are lorikeets, flashing colour. And the noisy ones with the pearly-grey backs and the rose-pink heads and underparts—what are they?”
“Galahs.” Ava smiled. “It’s the aboriginal name for the bird. It’s also a name for a silly, dim-witted person. You’ll hear it a lot around the stockyards, especially in relation to the jackeroos. Some, although they’re very keen, aren’t cut out for the life. They’re given a trial period, and then, if they can’t find a place in the cattle world, they go back home to find alternative work. Even so they regard the experience as the adventure of a lifetime.”
“I understand that,” he said, straightening his head. “Who wouldn’t enjoy such freedom? Such vast open spaces virtually uninhabited by man? Our gauchos want only that life. It’s a hard life, but the compensations are immense. Kooraki is a world away from my home in Argentina,” he mused, studying Ava as though the sight of her gave him great pleasure. “There is that same flatness of the landscape. Quechua Indians named our flatness pampa—much like your vast plains. But at home we do not know such extreme isolation at this. There are roads fanning out everywhere from the estancia, and the grounds surrounding the house—designed many decades ago and established by one of our finest landscape designers—are more like a huge botanical garden. Here it is pure wilderness. Beautiful in the sense of not ever having been conquered by man. The colours are indescribable. Fiery red earth, all those desert ochres mixed in beneath dazzling blue skies. Tell me, is the silvery blue shimmer the mirage that is dancing before our eyes?”
“It is,” Ava confirmed. “The mirage brought many an early explorer to his grave. To go in search of an inland sea of prehistory and find only great parallel waves of red sand! It was tragic. They even took little boats like dinghies along.”
“So your Kooraki has a certain mysticism to it not only associated with its antiquity?”
“We think so.” There was pride in her voice. “It’s the oldest continent on earth after all.” Ava shifted her long heavy blonde plait off her nape. It was damp from the heat and the exertion of a fantastically liberating gallop with a splendid horseman who had let her win—if only just. “You do know we don’t call our cattle stations ranches, like Americans? We’ve kept with the British station. Our stations are the biggest in the world. Anna Creek in the Northern Territory spreads over six million acres.”
“So we’re talking thirty thousand square kilometres plus?” he calculated swiftly.
“Thirty-four thousand, if we’re going to be precise. Alexandria Station, also in the Territory, is slightly smaller. Victoria Downs Station used to be huge.”
He smiled at the comparatives. “The biggest ranches in the U.S. are around the three thousand square kilometres mark, so you’re talking ten times that size. Argentine estancias are nowhere in that league either. Although earlier in the year a million-acre estancia in north-west Argentina was on sale, with enormous potential for agriculture—even eco-power possibilities. Argentina—our beautiful cosmopolitan capital Buenos Aires—was built on beef, as Australia’s fortunes were built on the sheep’s back—isn’t that so?” He cast her a long glance.
“I can’t argue with that. Langdon Enterprises own both cattle and sheep stations. Two of our sheep stations produce the finest quality merino wool, mainly for the Japanese market. Did Dev tell you that?”
“I believe he did. Dev now has a great many responsibilities following your grandfather’s death?”
“He has indeed,” she agreed gravely, “but he’s up to it. He was born to it.”
It was her turn to study the finely chiselled profile de Montalvo presented to her. He wasn’t wearing the Outback’s ubiquitous akubra, but the startlingly sexy headgear of the Argentine gaucho: black, flat-topped, with a broad stiff brim that cast his elegant features into shadow. To be so aware of him sexually was one heck of a thing, but she strove to maintain a serene dignity, at the same time avoiding too many of those brilliant, assessing glances.
“Your father was not in the mould of a cattleman?” he asked gently.
Ava looked away over the shimmering terrain that had miraculously turned into an oasis in the Land of the Spinifex. The wake of the Queensland Great Flood had swept right across the Channel Country and into the very Red Centre of the continent.
“That jumped a generation to Dev. He was groomed from boyhood for the top. There was always great pressure on him, but he could handle it. Handle my grandfather as well. The rest of us weren’t so fortunate. My father is much happier now that he has handed over the reins.
