Outback Angel

“Great idea! Say the word and I can start. You won’t find me a disappointment.”

“How expensive are you, Miss De Campo?” She told him. Wow! Pulling in money like that was something to brag about. On the other hand Isobel, even if she was his cousin, didn’t come cheap, either.

“Everything will be the best,” she explained. “That means expensive, but I say pay it every time. There’s no substitute for quality.”

“Sure,” he agreed laconically. “You must take your pay home in an armoured van.”

“No, but a security guard walks me to my car. Now, why don’t we discuss what you plan over Christmas?”

Why not? Maybe by August they’d be married. He let his sense of humour take over. If this woman had beautiful dark eyes he’d fall into her arms. He needed a really great love affair to free him up. It was so long since he’d had one. Hell, he’d never had one. They spoke back and forth for another ten minutes, both adopting a no-nonsense manner as they got down to detail. He asked many more questions of her, she gave all the right answers. Isobel knew her stuff. Miss Angelica De Campo was hired.

After he put the phone down, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. It struck him Miss De Campo’s effect on him had been dangerously seductive. Either that or it was the effects of a glancing blow to the head in the scrub.

CHAPTER TWO

JUST over a week later Angelica stepped onto the tarmac of an Outback airport terminal into a shimmering landscape of heat. Waves of it bounded up from the ground at her. For an instant it almost took her breath away, like a sudden blast from an oven, until she decided to confront it head-on, moving her long legs purposefully, eyes straight ahead, not drawing in all the admiring glances, so she was among the first to reach the air-conditioned cool of the terminal building. There she snapped her dark mane of hair back from her heat-pricked forehead. She thought of the challenging weeks ahead of her; the amount of work she had to do even with help.

Isobel had cautioned her about the heat but she didn’t quite understand until it hit her. She was thankful for her olive skin and Mediterranean heritage, otherwise she thought her skin might have melted. Not that she wasn’t used to heat, living in Brisbane. But there it was the languid golden heat of the tropics, with high humidity. This heat was different. It felt more like a dry bake. Still, it couldn’t diminish her excitement about the project.

She was exuberant about the whole thing. She couldn’t wait to get to Coori Downs, which she’d heard was remarkable. Isobel had been meaning to show her a magazine which featured quite a spread on the historic homestead but Malcolm’s hospitalisation had naturally preoccupied her mind. Pity! There was supposed to be a great shot of the current cattle baron, a man, from all accounts, to turn heads. Promising!

The scope of the functions would establish what she could do, enhancing her career, but she had to say as well as the Outback venue, she’d been mightily attracted by the prospect of meeting Isobel’s cousin, Jake. He’d sounded so sexy over the phone, the memory still made her knees go weak. His father, according to Isobel, had been a regular fire-eater, but the son sounded very easy in his power, as though it fitted him like a great pair of jeans. The nicest, most considerate thing was, he was actually flying in from his desert stronghold to pick her up. She had been expecting to catch a charter flight but it was Jake who suggested he collect her. She loved people who did favours.

In the rest room she freshened up, piling her extravagant mass of hair into a knot of sorts at the back. She had no idea how long it would stay there. Her hair had a mind of its own. For the trip she’d kept her outfit simple. A white sleeveless top in a softly clingy fabric, teamed with her favourite denim mini. It showed yards of leg but she wore it unselfconsciously.

She had learned to take comfort in her jaunty thoroughbred legs even if their length did turn her into a very tall woman. She stood six feet in high heels and she wasn’t one for flatties. Her height had made her a basketball star in high school. Even so she never slumped—for that she had to thank her mother who was also tall—and she held her head high even though there were lots of guys who had to look up to her. The man to sweep her off her feet, and she just knew he was out there, would have to be a latter day John Wayne. Despite that, she’d been hotly pursued for years. What did they call her in the columns? The luscious Angelica De Campo. Not that she carried an ounce of fat but she had inherited an eye-catching bust from the Italian side of the family.

Men saw her as a challenge. She remembered one in particular. A married man, a powerful, destructive, merchant banker—she had helped out catering a party for his wife—who simply wouldn’t take no for an answer. As he saw it, he could have anyone with his fat wallet. In the end, exercising her discretion—God knows what boundaries her father would have crossed for his “little” girl—she told her brother, Bruno, who was six-six. Bruno managed to convince the banker to stay away or the outlook would be lousy. She hadn’t asked Bruno to explain his methods. Whatever they were, they’d worked. Probably the banker thought Bruno was a paid-up member of the Mafia. Still the experience had left a nasty taste in the mouth.

Certain men could be quite frightening when they developed a fixation on a woman. Mr. Merchant Banker had been one of them, but that was a few years back. She did occasionally agonise over it, if only because she and the banker had been caught out getting physical in a near frenzy of a wrestle, she, even at her superior height fighting hard for her honour. She wished she’d seen that guy again. The one who’d looked at her so contemptuously from his extraordinary lion’s eyes. She’d soon put him straight. Only she never laid eyes on him again. Not once during the intervening years and she had to admit she’d never grown tired of looking.

Embarrassments and scandals. She was very careful these days men being what they were. It seemed they only had to look at a well-endowed woman. And she came from a decent, normal, well-adjusted family.

Jake saw her before she saw him. She was staring out the plate-glass window, watching a private jet fly in. Even if the excited female attendant hadn’t pointed her out—apparently Miss De Campo had made any number of appearances on television—he’d have picked her. Despite the extreme simplicity of her dress—her skirt seemed to end at her armpits—he couldn’t fail to recognise the quality people generally called style. It oozed out of her and he was only looking at her side-on. She looked incredibly sexy in that unique way European women had, she seemed innocently seductive without being sultry, with her lashings of dark, mahogany hair with a decided curl. She had to have dark Italian eyes. She couldn’t have looked better had he dreamed her up. He didn’t even mind her height, which would have her towering over Stacy and Gillian. She wouldn’t tower over him. This was a woman he could meet face-to-face.

“Miss De Campo?”

She reacted instantaneously, as if he had pushed a button, swinging around, a lovely buoyant smile on her face, sparkle of beautiful teeth; a smile that ludicrously…froze.

They stared at one another transfixed. Horror, fascination, disbelief flitted across both their faces. To put it mildly, both were shocked into a near paralysis as they began to track one another down. That party! One of those horribly mortifying incidents that reverberate forever.

She was the last woman in the world he expected. Jake was suddenly, violently, fathoms deep into the past. He felt anger and disappointment along with the most profound scarcely rational disillusionment. After all, she hadn’t arrived as his mail-order bride. But over the phone she had intrigued him to the extent he had gone about his work all week with a warm secret feeling lurking in his heart; the idea she just could be the woman to fulfil his dreams. He still believed in the idea. Now all his daydreams had been swept away. Miss Angelica De Campo had a very bad habit. She played erotic games that got out of control. Memory clicked in, all the more mysterious because such picture of her he had, had only lasted a few moments. Afterwards, defiantly he had blocked her out, but other images of her were locked in his subconscious.

This was another one of those woman who drew men like bees. Women like Michelle who these days scarcely seemed to count. Even Michelle had never looked like this! Such women often gave exquisite joy before they delivered the body blows. His big problem was Miss De Campo, like Michelle, didn’t adhere to his idea of decent principles. Miss De Campo was a home wrecker. A woman who got an emotional fix out of seducing married men.

It had to be almost three years since he’d attended that party thrown by Trevor and Carly Huntley. He’d had little to do with Huntley, barely making a connection. Trevor Huntley was a wealthy merchant banker, but Carly was a relative. He was in town on business. Carly had run into him coming out of his hotel, expressed her delight and surprise at seeing him, and invited him to their party that night. He’d had nothing else to do, so he’d gone along, waiting until the party was well under way before he made an appearance.

The Huntleys lived in style in a mansion on the river. Theirs was an over-the-top splendour he didn’t envy. Although he’d met Huntley several times over the years, he’d never liked him, probably due to an abiding disgust with hypocrisy. Playing the part of devoted husband in public, it was common knowledge within the McCord family Huntley gave Carly a hard time. No one knew why she stayed with him. Apparently she was pretty much still in love with him. He was certainly impressive in his way, with his big, burly, dark hair, ice-blue eyes he had looks of a fading film star…

People were milling all over the house, drinking, standing, talking, dancing and generally having a good time. A very vivacious redhead—he swore she never touched a drink—had made a beeline for Jake as soon as he’d arrived. He didn’t mind that as a matter of fact—she was attractive—but as the night wore on it became apparent the redhead had the vision of the two of them finishing up the evening in bed. It wasn’t going to happen. He’d never said he was available.

At one point he sought refuge in what was presumably a study because the moment he opened the door, he saw a wall of books and trophies, dozens of them. A moment later he felt his insides contract as his eyes were led to where two people were locked into passionate lovemaking on the sofa.

He could hear the man’s grunts of pleasure. See the rough way his hands moved. The woman was gorgeous, like something out of the Arabian Nights. She was dark-haired, great dark doe eyes. One beautiful breast with its dusky peak was totally exposed. The glimpse was blink-of-an-eye brief, yet he felt the heat of a flush spread like fire over his skin. Huntley was fondling the other breast, working the nipple, his harsh cries abruptly cutting off.

Carly’s devoted Trevor. My God! He remembered the terrible sense of déjà vu. Huntley stood up staring, trying to adjust his clothing, unable to hide his arousal.

The woman buried her face in her trembling hands. Guilt? Shame? More likely she didn’t want him to know her identity. “Disturbed you, did I?” He remembered his own voice, dripping acid. “Stupid of me not to knock.” Hadn’t the very same thing happened with Michelle? And Michelle had later claimed she wasn’t even interested in the guy.

Huntley had actually given him a smile of undisguised insolence, the lust gleaming out of his eyes. “Welcome to the real world, my boy,” he’d drawled, still fumbling with his clothing. “Don’t look so shocked. I’m a man who always gets what he wants.” He gestured to the young woman who was now sitting up on the sofa, pulling the thin strap that held up her bodice onto her shoulder, showing him only the naked gold satin of her back. “Do you blame me?”

How could he? He imagined his own hands on her. Felt instant self-disgust. He remembered he was badly shaken, alive with contempt. Now he was face-to-face with her.

The shock was so extreme he felt almost numb. This was the woman who had caused Carly so much suffering. Carly knew her husband had been having an affair, although, oddly, it wasn’t this young woman who had figured in their spectacular divorce—Carly had used the family lawyers to secure a record settlement—it was a hard-faced blonde with the body of a stripper who was now the second Mrs. Huntley.

Jaw clenched, he forced himself to speak. “So you didn’t go into hiding?”

“From you?” Angelica, too, was so traumatised she hardly knew what she was saying. Neither of them had made the slightest attempt to feign ignorance of the other. Both of them were instantly seized up by that shameful incident years before. Angelica’s recollection of this man, however brief, was so acute, so agonising, she had to work hard to cope. Here was the tawny lion with a mane of deeply waving gold-streaked copper hair brushed back from a broad forehead. Could she ever mistake those distinctive amber eyes, or the condemnation in them? What inner trauma prompted that response?

This was the man who billowed in and out of her dreams. A man in full possession of himself and his world.

By a strange stroke of fate, Jake McCord. Her knees bumped together. “I wonder if I could ever convince you—” she began, turning away from the huge window.

The full glare of the sun was hitting her like a spotlight, finding no fault in her golden-olive skin. He cut her off swiftly. “Really, Miss De Campo, I don’t want to know.” She was still staggeringly beautiful, so lusciously ripe and alive, her skin so healthy and glowing it begged to be touched. How could a woman like that have allowed herself to be mixed up in such a murky demeaning affair? How could she have allowed herself to be mauled by a callous womaniser like Huntley?

She looked at him, upset, but very ready to defend herself. After all, she had done no wrong. She, like many another woman, had been the victim of a predatory man. “You’re very judgmental, aren’t you?” she said. “You really know nothing about what you saw years ago. I’m amazed you even remembered.”

“You did, didn’t you?” he countered, horrified by the harshness of his own tone, which in essence was an intertwining of past and present events. “I certainly didn’t see you fending him off. God knows it couldn’t have been that hard.” His eyes swept her tall, svelte body. “Anyway, it no longer matters. Carly is re-making her life. Huntley’s welcome to the ex-hooker he married. Didn’t he want you after all?” He wondered why he asked, but was forced to confront the fact he really wanted to know. “Or didn’t you want him?”

Her hair had come out of its too casual arrangement, dark masses of it atop her slender body. She put a hand to it. “You’re taking this very hard, aren’t you?”

“Hell, yes,” he drawled. “Carly is part of my extended family.” And his mood was pervaded by a sense of deep disappointment.

“Have you ever tried to check out your theory with her?” she questioned bluntly, not knowing any other way to put it.

“That you were having an affair with her ex-husband?” he scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. God forbid I should have added to her worries.”

“You really should do something about your habit of jumping to conclusions, Mr. McCord,” she suggested, seemingly unaware she was filling the air around them with her femininity and fragrance. “One of these days, when you’re prepared to listen, I’ll tell you what it was all about.”

He laughed, ashamed of the swift desire he felt for her, though he had the wit to realise it was a matter outside his control. “But, Miss De Campo, can’t you see there’s no way I’ll listen. I regret the fact you’ve had to travel all the way out here, but I need to make a decision. In view of what we both know, and find embarrassing, I have to say you’re not the woman I need to run our functions. I guess you’re what most men would call a femme fatale. That’s great up to a point, but I’m not paying for one to come out to Coori. Who knows how many guys might be prepared to make fools of themselves over you. There will be plenty around. Two polo teams, and you don’t play by the rules. The womenfolk might hate you. I don’t want to bump into you half-naked on a couch again either.”

“Why would you?” she asked silkily. “You couldn’t handle it the first time. It seems to have burnt itself into your brain.”

“I’ll get over it.” He stood in front of her, shielding her from view, his face almost stern. “You do understand my position?”

“Frankly, no.” She tossed her exuberant mane, putting him in mind of a high-strung filly. “We had a deal, Mr. McCord, and I’m going to hold you to it. I’ve put off other functions to come out here.”

“I’m quite prepared to compensate you for your trouble.”