Outback Wife and Mother

But as for the deportment and grace of the models slinking and strutting along the runway—he barely noticed them. His eyes were squinted with his efforts to read his watch in the darkened room. But his attempts were futile so instead he began scanning the audience, searching for Lucette. After several fruitless minutes, he tried the watch again. No use. When could he safely slip away?

Restlessly, he squirmed in his seat. His elbow bumped the thin woman sitting beside him and she glowered at him from beneath her wide-brimmed hat.

About to scowl back at her, his attention was suddenly captured by a woman emerging down the runway. Dressed in the simplest of short gowns in deep purple, the colour of crushed violets, she stood out in stark contrast to the whites, creams and beiges worn by the models surrounding her.

‘Ladies and gentleman, our very own Alexandra Fraser.’

So this was the designer of the first collection. She was bowing as the crowd applauded her. Cries of ‘Bravo’ could even be heard, so obviously she was being well received.

She smiled out into the audience and at that precise moment, the simple, two syllable word woman took on an entirely new level of meaning for Fletcher Hardy.

This woman was like no other he’d ever seen before. An unnerving tension seized his body. His hands gripped the upholstered arms of his seat and incredibly, this hardened man of the land’s throat tightened over a huge lump of unexpected emotion as his gaze remained transfixed by the figure on the catwalk.

She was surrounded by tall, willowy models, but his eyes were drawn from their almost asexual leanness to ber startling femininity. Her gleaming dark hair and pale skin were a perfect foil for the rich colour of her oneshoulder dress and the delectable curves it barely concealed. Her slender legs and the graceful movement of her dainty hands as she acknowledged the models were utterly fascinating. Spellbound, he watched this dark-haired, enchanting designer.

She was the most exquisite female he had ever seen.

Her features were delicate yet determined and her thickly lashed grey eyes sparkled with intelligence and spunk. Surrounded as she was by models looking as vacant as dolls in a shop window, this woman looked vibrant, incredibly alive, undeniably sexy.

And then she was gone, tossing a final smile over her one bared shoulder before disappearing with the models back through Lucette’s golden arches.

Another group of models bounced onto the runway accompanied by wild heavy metal music. Fletcher had a vague impression of a kaleidoscopic mix of lace and satin teamed with psychedelic stockings and electric blue lips, but his mind was still totally absorbed by Alexandra Fraser. If only he had bothered to pick up a catalogue on his way in, he might have discovered more about her.

Restlessly he sat through the gyrations and outlandish creations of the second collection but as soon as its designer, a young man whose bald head was wildly tattooed, appeared to receive his applause, Fletcher rose from his seat and made his way quickly to the back of the ballroom.

He found a stack of catalogues on a small side table and hurriedly snatched one up, leafing through it impatiently. Reading by the light of a dimmed wall lamp, he found little to satisfy him. There was a brief description of Alexandra Fraser’s collection and a list of several awards she had won and then a quoted comment.

‘Alexandra says of fashion design, “I keep to simple tines, neat silhouettes, no frills or fluffiness, but this doesn’t mean my clothes cannot be soft or reveal the body. For me design is a passionate experience. It fu161s me totally—mind, body and soul.”’

To his annoyance Fletcher Hardy did not find the scraps of information at all comforting and he skulked around the back of the ballroom as the show continued, feeling startled and miserable. How could fashion fulfil such a beautiful woman?

And he knew then that, after the show, his next move would be to dismiss the waiting limousine, courtesy of the Cattlemen’s Union.

And then he would be heading backstage.

Ally Fraser made her excited way through the backstage confusion. Around her, models were changing, some removing wigs or false eyelashes, while assistants gathered up costumes and shoes. As she passed, nearly everyone looked up to smile or to openly congratulate her. She was trying not to grin too widely, but her collection had clearly drawn the most enthusiastic audience response of the entire Quintessential show and she was over the moon. More importantly, she’d noticed at least two fashion journalists nodding and smiling at her when she’d taken her bow.

She stopped to check that several of her garments were being stored away properly and thought fleetingly of how wonderful it would be to be able to head straight for home and an early night. But although she was dead tired after the hectic pace of the past few weeks, she steeled herself to go outside to join in the cocktails and to be particularly pleasant to the fashion editors.

Quickly she glanced around the crowded room, making sure everything was under control before she left.

However there was a rather uncontrolled and excited babble erupting from the models in the far corner as a strange man walked into their midst. Ally stared, intrigued. These girls were so used to having all kinds of people wander in and out of their changing areas that they usually took no notice. But they were paying a great deal of attention to this good-looking stranger.

To her surprise, Ally saw that he was ignoring the girls’ varied stages of undress as he advanced purposefully across the room. Most newcomers, especially males, couldn’t keep their eyes from straying frantically. To her even greater surprise, she realised that the tall, dark intruder appeared to be heading straight for her. In his sleek, black tux, marching head and shoulders above the models, he advanced, staring at her so intently she felt her pulses begin to race.

‘I’m looking for Lucette Hardy,’ he said, as soon as he reached her.

His voice was deep and resonant and his claim sounded quite plausible and yet Ally found that she couldn’t believe him. She had never considered herself to have telepathic insight, but this man’s eyes were so fiercely fixed on hers that she knew straight away that he was seeking her out. And the knowledge held her, standing before him, mesmerised by his height, his strong, handsome face and his piercing blue eyes which looked exactly as if they had been made from summer skies.

As those eyes continued to explore every detail of her face, she struggled to speak. ‘Poor Lucette’s come down with flu,’ she said. ‘She’s devastated to miss the show.’

‘So that’s what happened.’ He looked away briefly and then his eyes found hers once again. ‘You are—’ he began and then cleared his throat as he corrected himself. ‘Your designs are absolutely exquisite.’ With a sweeping gesture, he indicated the racks of her clothes. ‘The simple lines ...’ He paused, apparently lost for words.

‘And neat silhouettes?’ she supplied, her lips curled in sudden amusement.

He grinned then, a cheeky grin that totally transformed his face. ‘OK, I read your comments in the catalogue. But honestly, I like the dress you’re wearing best of all.’

‘Thank you,’ she replied. It was certainly not the first ime she had received a compliment, but most of the praise that came her way was delivered with such a pracised smoothness that it smacked of insincerity and slipped over her like an old, warm blanket that she took for granted. This evening her heart pounded erratically in espouse to his clumsy admission and she stared back at he sun-tanned, ruggedly handsome face knowing that she had never met a man like him. In contrast to her world of image-makers and haute couture, his masculin ,ty seemed to be stripped of all pretension.

He frowned and she was surprised at the way his gaze iropped to his work-toughened hands as if he were sudienly shy. With a totally unexpected jolt of disappointment, she thought, soon he’ll say it was a pleasure to meet me and then he’ ll be gone.

In the awkward silence, she looked back at him, taking in his broad shoulders, thick, black hair, rugged features and vivid blue eyes and wondered how someone who embodied the fantasies of half the women on the planet could make such a hash of what was clearly meant to be i simple pick-up.

‘We haven’t really met you know,’ she heard herself saying a little too eagerly. ‘You haven’t even told me your name.’

He grinned again and visibly relaxed, his strong fea ures turning so sunny that for a moment Ally thought the technical crew were playing tricks with the lighting.

‘I’m Fletcher Hardy, Lucette’s cousin. In Melbourne on business. I actually came to admire Lucette’s work.’ She half expected him to trot out something trite about ending up admiring the designer instead, but to her relief he didn’t. Instead he asked, ‘When do you finish here?’

‘I’m afraid I’ve got to do my duty out there first.’ She grimaced, pointing to the ballroom. ‘Meet the press, that sort of thing.’

He pulled a face. ‘You have my sympathy. I’ve had a day of that sort of thing myself.’

‘Really?’ She looked at Fletcher Hardy contemplatively. ‘Now let me guess. You do something in the outdoors. A ski instructor? No, the press wouldn’t bother you about that. Perhaps a mountaineer? Are you about to conquer something generally considered unconquerable?’

Fletcher laughed, throwing back his head and drawing sharp glances from others in the room, then he looked her over slowly and said softly and with wicked audacity, ‘I’d say I might be in with a chance.’

The ripple of excitement that raced up her spine shocked Ally. This cousin of Lucette’s was losing his shyness with breathtaking speed.

‘I never was much good at guessing games,’ she said quickly to cover her sudden self-consciousness. But she didn’t mind his cheek. She’d never before felt such an immediate connection with another person, especially a man. No one else, on first meeting, had accelerated her heartbeat to such a heady, scampering pace. ‘You’ll have to remain a mystery for now,’ she added. ‘I really must go to this party. Why don’t you join us?’

‘Sure. Lead the way.’

Ally was aware of many eyes watching as Fletcher followed her into the cocktail party. As they helped themselves to champagne cocktails, Derek Squires, the baldheaded, much-tattooed designer rushed over to them.

‘Darlings,’ he crooned.

‘Hello, Derek. I’d like you to meet Fletcher Hardy.’

‘And hello-o, darling,’ smiled Derek, eyeing Fletcher with open interest Fletcher nodded politely.

‘How’s it all going?’ Ally asked.

‘Just keep me away from that dreadful woman,’ shuddered Derek.

‘Who’s that?’

‘Phoebe Hardcastle. She had the cheek to criticise my lovely blue lipstick. Said my girls looked half drowned.’ He trembled in horror. ‘She has the creative imagination of a fruit fly.’