Imperfect Stranger

‘Well, obviously some folk are here because of the tourist trade: guys like me, motel employees and such,’ he said, dragging his thoughts back to a more mundane level, ‘but so far as residents go you get the odd writer, naturalist, film-maker, a painter or two.’

Danielle had decided that from now on the jeep and its occupant would be ignored, yet as Phil had spoken her gaze had slid in its direction. The driver’s window was wound down and she could see the man’s shoulder and his arm resting casually along the lower edge. His arm was firm-muscled and powerful, sprinkled with dark hairs which glinted in the sunshine. It reminded her of the kind of arm which, in days of old, would have brandished a cutlass or controlled the reins of a fast-galloping steed.

‘Painters?’ she muttered. ‘That’s interesting.’

‘There’re also some pretty weird types,’ Phil continued.

The man flexed his hand, drawing her gaze to his fingers. They were long, blunt-tipped fingers which promised to be competent and confident in whatever they did, whether it was planing wood or easing a hook from a fish or stroking a woman. Danielle hastily switched her gaze and her attention—her full attention-back her companion. One glimpse of an arm and she was winging off into flights of fantasy? She must be going troppo.

‘Weird?’ she queried.

‘Like hippies, down-and-outs, drop-outs. What we call the feral people.’

‘Why feral?’ Danielle asked curiously.

‘Because they exist on their dole cheques and go kind of wild. North of the Daintree is a great place for disappearing into and it’s reckoned that folk often come here because they’ve got a story in their background or they’re running away from something. Better get ready to go,’ Phil declared, with a nod at the concrete ramp on the riverbank which they were approaching and the ferryman who waited there. ‘Have a great stay and—’ he lifted hopeful brows ‘—who knows, we could meet again.’

‘Perhaps,’ she said, being deliberately vague, for liaisons, no matter how fleeting, were of no interest. She turned towards her Land Rover. “Bye.’

When the ferry docked a few minutes later, the dustcovered jeep was first off. As it accelerated up on to the road and disappeared into the thick wedge of trees, Danielle’s brow furrowed. His unshaven state and ramshackle vehicle indicated that the man was not a holiday maker, so could he be one of the drop-outs whom Phil had mentioned? It was possible, and yet she had perceived an inner steel and a sense of energy about him. As for being a down-and-out, that did not exactly fit either because his sunglasses had almost certainly been an expensive pair of latest model Ray-Bans. Danielle tapped out an impatient staccato on the steering-wheel. Forget theorising, she ordered herself. Forget Mr Macho. She had. She had. He might be one of the most physically compelling males she had ever seen, but she was damned if she would allow him to become mentally compelling too.

One by one the vehicles disembarked from the ferry, with Danielle bringing up the rear. Ahead, Phil tooted his horn in a cheery farewell and, as she gave an answering blast, the Land Rover’s engine cut out By the time she had managed to re-start it, she was alone.

North of the river the road was narrow, shaded by a spreading green canopy of gigantic trees, among which grew lush ferns, looping, twisting creepers and a myriad palms. At first, Danielle concentrated on driving and the possibility of oncoming traffic suddenly speeding at her from around the bends, but after a few miles when all she met was a single car, she settled down. Now there was time to think, and now she brooded on the reason for her rebellious mood—the pointlessness of her journey.

Danielle scowled. She had been despatched on what could be transparently and insultingly recognised as a wild-goose chase. Back in London, when she had been offered a three-month assignment working for The Hour, an Australian sister newspaper, she had jumped at the chance, but she had never imagined that a mere fortnight after arriving she would find herself deep in the remote, rural mañana world of tropical Queensland. Her fingers tightened around the steering-wheel. It was not fair. As an experienced political reporter—a damn good one, Danielle thought belligerently—her supposed role had been to add a more international flavour to The Hour’s political columns, but had Clive Bredhauer, the editor, acknowledged her skills and made use of them? No. Instead, on the day before she was to conduct her first interview with an Australian government minister, he had summoned her into his office, spouted some halfbaked tale about rumours of the clandestine growing of marijuana up north and ordered her to investigate. Like now. And no protests, please, poppet. So she had been forced to pass over the interview to a male windbag of a journalist with a noxious line in blue jokes, and fly more than fifteen hundred miles to what was called the Wilderness Coast. Wilderness! Danielle’s lip curled in disgust. She did not appreciate being banished to the back of beyond; she wanted to be in Melbourne where things happened. She ought to be there. She deserved to be there. It was her right to be there.

‘The last seizure of marijuana was over two years ago,’ the officer in charge had told her, when she had dutifully visited the local police station that morning. ‘Whispers of further stashes have floated around here ever since, but we’ve yet to find a single piece of evidence.’

Danielle’s dark blue eyes glittered. The obvious assumption was that harvesting of the drug had ceased, though if by some exceedingly long shot it had continued, any resultant story would not be political. The truth was that the editor had been getting rid of her, she thought resentfully. Ignoring her track record and the commendations which had accompanied her from London, he had decided that, because she was young, blonde and female, she lacked the gravitas to handle serious interviews. But his decision had been wrong.

‘Take your time looking into the story, poppet,’ the goatee-bearded Clive Bredhauer had said, with a benevolent smile. ‘Take up to three weeks if necessary.’

Danielle pushed a wing of glossy fair hair back behind one ear. As the editor had been so determined to get rid of her, ‘poppet’ had a good mind to do as he suggested and stay here for three weeks. That would show him! Her professionalism demanded that the first week must be devoted to making enquiries—futile ones, she thought acidly—but the subsequent fortnight could be more relaxed. Looking out through the windscreen at the lavish sun-dappled foliage, Danielle wrinkled her nose. For all its natural beauty, a World Heritage national park would not be her choice of holiday venue—she preferred more activity—but, if nothing else, she could get up late, swim a little, soak up the sun. After all, as James was constantly complaining, she dedicated far too much of her time and her energy to work.

James. Danielle’s expression became pensive. Her boyfriend had been one of the reasons—perhaps the reason—why she had accepted the Australian assignment with such alacrity. It had enabled her to get away, put space between them, and start to consider calmly and logically…

The rumbling of her stomach brought an end to her reverie. She was hungry. Peering at the watch strapped to her slim wrist, Danielle saw that it had gone one o’clock. The Port Douglas motel where she had stayed last night had provided a picnic lunch and it was high time she stopped to eat it. But where? On occasions the road had snaked close to the coast to give views of a spectacularly turquoise-blue sea and palm-fringed shores, though now it had curved inland back into the jungle. Should she wait in the hope of returning to the ocean and picnicking on a beach, yet how far on would that be?

A glimpse through the trees of water flowing over rocks thrust Danielle into snap decision. She would eat here, now. Off ahead a dirt track conveniently led down and, as she drew level, she swung abruptly on to it. Too abruptly, for the track proved to be a hard-baked, deceptively steep slope of peaks and deep ruts and the Land Rover rode them like a bucking bronco. Bounced violently up and down, airborne one second and her backside slamming hard on to the seat the next, Danielle made a desperate stab for the brake but stamped on the clutch instead.

‘Aarrghh!’ she screeched in alarm, as the vehicle shot forward in gathering, freewheeling speed.

Simultaneously struggling to steer and find the elusive pedal, she careered down the track like a cross-country rallyer gone mad. As the Land Rover hit a bonecrunching width of grey stones which edged the stream, Danielle caught sight of a movement, a blur, in the corner of her eye, but the next second she was charging into the water and, at last, her foot made contact with the brake.

With a protesting shriek of bodywork and a jolt the Land Rover halted; halted in the middle of what had once been a sizeable creek, but which was now, due to the lack of rain, reduced to a mercifully shallow stream. Her fingers shaking, Danielle switched off the ignition. For a moment her only awareness was of the frantic pounding of her heart and the ripple of the water, then she remembered that blur. It had been a figure, dangerously close to the vehicle. She went hot and cold. Gooseflesh prickled her skin. Had she hit whoever it was? Had she hurt them? Fractured their arms, legs, spine—killed them?

Scrabbling at the handle, Danielle wound down her window to lean out and peer fearfully back. Her brows soared. On the edge of the stream stood the tall, dark arrogant stranger from the ferry. Earlier she could willingly have throttled him, but now relief rushed over her. He was all in one piece.

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_9b31772f-99a4-5324-a3d5-c2cb34079ee1)

‘SORRY about that,’ Danielle called, a touch offhandedly, for, while some apology for her dramatic appearance on the scene was necessary, she had no intention of grovelling to him.

‘So you damn well should be!’ the man hollered, and it registered that while the sunglasses might continue to conceal the expression in his eyes, every other part of him breathed pure, unadulterated fury.

Her relief vanished. His anger made it clear that she had done him some damage, caused him some harm. Danielle felt a spiralling, quaking panic. Just because he was standing upright and there were no visible signs of blood or broken bones, it did not mean…

‘What—what’s the matter?’ she faltered.

An olive-skinned arm sliced down the air, indicating a plastic carrier bag, buckled aluminum drink can and various other items of debris which lay scattered around. ‘You’ve flattened my bloody lunch!’

‘Your lunch?’ Danielle echoed, and was gripped by an immediate, acute and manic desire to giggle.

She had been terrified that she might have caused him grievous bodily injury, while he was hopping mad over what had probably been no more than a couple of cheese sandwiches. Correction, beef sandwiches. From the look of him, he fed on a constant diet of red meat.

‘I’d just set everything out,’ the man thundered, in a growly baritone laced with a biting Australian accent, ‘then you drove over it!’

‘I’m very sorry,’ Danielle replied, and, finding it difficult to keep her face straight, withdrew hurriedly back into the Land Rover.

She swallowed down one, two steadying, gigglequelling breaths, turned the key and pushed the gear stick into reverse. For a moment the wheels spun then, finding a grip, the vehicle shot back out of the stream with a little more speed than she had anticipated and on to the side. Switching off the engine, Danielle pinned on what was intended to be a suitably remorseful smile.

‘On the ferry you were selecting your victim for the day,’ the man said, as she opened the door of the Land Rover and started to climb down. He gave a humourless laugh. ‘Now why didn’t I work that out?’

‘Victim?’ Danielle queried, but when her feet hit the ground and she turned, she gaped. Diamond droplets sparkled among his thick black hair, rivulets ran down the taut angles of his face, water dripped from his stubbled chin. The front of the navy shirt was sodden and his jeans were spattered from leather-belted waist down to the knees. ‘You’re wet,’ she said, in astonishment.

He dried off his chin with savage swipes from the back of his hand. ‘Your powers of observation astound me.’

‘So when I reversed—’

‘You spurted back plumes of water which would have put the fountains at Versailles to shame,’ the man said stingingly, and, stepping towards her, he snatched off what had become water-speckled dark glasses. ‘I’d have been grateful if you could have given me just a small break in the form of a word of warning. One word,’ he rasped.

His eyes were a silvery pale grey, fringed with thick black lashes. They were beautiful eyes. He was very arresting. Danielle bit deep into the soft flesh of her lip. Earlier she had been eager for him to remove the RayBans, but now, caught beneath the naked hostility of his glare, she would have preferred him to keep them on. He was making her feel negligent and stupid…and a little scared. ‘Feral people’—the tour guide’s phrase resonated in her head. This man was wild, she thought, wild with anger.

Danielle shone a smile of meek and profuse repentance. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

‘You bestowed your gracious apologies a minute ago and then proceeded to laugh,’ the stranger retorted, in a scathing condemnation.

She eyed him warily. He was too astute.

‘I—I didn’t laugh,’ she faltered.

‘You were bloody close.’ The dark glasses were folded and thrust into a hip pocket. ‘Are you amused now?’

Danielle swallowed. ‘Not at all,’ she replied, for with him standing a yard away, muscular and censorious and intimidating, amusement had absolutely no chance among her emotions.

Alarm bells started ringing and she sneaked a look through the trees. Although they were within sight of the road it was an exceptionally quiet road and if, heaven forbid, he should lash out, the chances of anyone coming to her rescue were slim. So what did she do? All she could do was attempt to cajole him with abject apologies and, if those failed, remember what she had once learned at a women’s self-protection class and keep her wits about her and a groin-targeted knee at the ready.

‘I wasn’t raised by wolves,’ the man said curtly, ‘and I’m anti-violence so there’s no need to panic.’