The Australian Tycoon's Proposal

“I hated going away,” Bronte told her. “I’d been hoping my mother had forgotten about me. Why do you suppose she suddenly remembered she had a daughter?”

“I don’t know.” Gilly yanked on the gear stick. “Maybe she thought you might finally be an asset. You got prettier and prettier every time she saw you.”

“Which was like once a year,” Bronte’s mouth turned down. “I wanted to ask you. Would you mind if Max came to visit in his school holidays?”

Gilly shot her a slightly chastening look. “Of course I wouldn’t mind. But I can’t see your mother letting him come. Just for spite. She’d hate for him to enjoy himself up here.”

“Maybe she might.” Hastily Bronte adopted the brace position as Gilly floored the accelerator to tackle another ditch head on.

“Made it!” she whooped in triumph as they bounced high then plunged deep across. “Why don’t you write to the boy? I don’t suppose you can ring him at the school. We’ve got plenty of room. I suppose we’d better start getting back to the house. What are we going to give Steven for dinner?”

“What do you usually give him?” Bronte asked in a supercilious voice.

“Have you forgotten? I’m a terrible cook. I was hoping you would do the honours.”

“Really! You’ve got me up here to cook for Steven Randolph. In that case there’ll be a choice of cured kangaroo,” Bronte offered, deadpan, “or fricassee of baby crocodile’s tail with stir fried noodles.”

“You’re joking, aren’t you?” Gilly asked, alarmed. Gilly’s all time favourite was boiled eggs.

“Don’t you worry,” said Bronte. “I’ll put on a great meal. What time is Action Man arriving?”

“I know you’re going to be nice to him?” Gilly asked, mildly nervous. “I said, six-thirty for seven o’clock. Drinks on the verandah before we move in for dinner. Steven’s great company and you’re going to enjoy yourself, love. That’s a promise!”

Bronte looked at her sceptically. “I only know one thing for sure, I’ll be keeping a very sharp eye on Steven Randolph at all times.”

Bronte had difficulty deciding what to wear. She wasn’t going to dress up for the man, Gilly’s heartthrob or not. For one thing he might get the wrong idea. On the other hand she couldn’t offend Gilly who considered it impolite not to dress up for the rare guest. She’d only brought a couple of dresses with her anyway, trousers being de rigueur in the jungle. She looked at the two pretty summery dresses on the bed. One was a floaty white chiffon printed with big red flowers and swirls of green leaves. The other was a simple slip top with an asymmetrical skirt in imperial purple. Of course she’d bought it because of the colour. It did wonders for her eyes.

Steven Randolph was going to miss out on the pleasure of seeing her in those. She ought to be able to get away with what she called her pyjama outfit—a halter neck top with slinky long pants. The fabric was an understated gunmetal, but in certain lights it looked silver.

“What’s that you’re wearing?” Gilly asked, when she walked into the huge, old-fashioned kitchen. “You look gorgeous!” Gilly rolled expressive black eyes. “You’ve got just the right figure for trousers. I’ll have you know I had a great figure in my day. Great hair and skin, too. Hell, I don’t know why I lost my fiancé, I was a lotta woman.”

“You still are, Gilly,” Bronte smiled. “I love your caftan. Very Marrakech. Your fiancé couldn’t have been terribly smart.”

“He wasn’t,” Gilly snorted. “I think he’d planned to take me for every penny I had then found most of it was tied up with the land which I’d never sell. But I was in love with him at the time. He used to sing to me, you know, accompany himself on the guitar.”

“Good grief! That’s the first I’ve heard of it,” Bronte said, trying to visualize the young Gilly being serenaded by her caddish fiancé.

“Well I have to keep one or two things up my sleeve. Speaking of which, what are we having for dinner?”

“It’s a wonder we’re having anything,” Bronte said. “This kitchen might be as big as a football field but it wouldn’t thrill a serious cook. In fact, Gilly, the major appliances would make a serious cook seriously unhappy.”

“That’s all right, love,” Gilly said complacently. “Cooking isn’t my passion.”

“Whilst I on the other hand undertook an excellent cooking course to prepare myself for being a good wife to Nat.” Bronte moved over to the hob. “Controlling the heat on this is downright impossible. There’s no such thing as a simmer, no moderate heat, it’s all a raging boil. But I haven’t let you down. We’re having something nice but simple. The whole barramundi is in the oven as we speak. It should take around forty-five minutes. I’ve stuffed it with prawn meat, egg, cream, sherry, mushrooms, and surrounded it with cubed vegetables. It’s going to be delectable. The seafood certainly came in handy. Obviously your Steven knew he was coming to dinner. There’s a little dill sauce to finish. I couldn’t begin to tackle an elaborate dessert, but as the oven’s on, we’re having baked paw paw in coconut milk with toasted shredded coconut on top. There’ll be mango ice-cream, too, and I’ve already roasted a bowl of nuts, mostly our own macadamias to nibble on with drinks. Tomato and mozzarella for an appetizer with anchovies draped on top. I think he’ll go home a happy man.”

“Any complaints and we’ll push him out the door,” Gilly joked, obviously in high spirits. She placed a lovely pottery bowl full of avocados on the sideboard then made for the door, the dozen or more silver bracelets on her arm setting up a jingle. “When you do get really serious about someone, Bronte, you’ll make a wonderful wife.”

“That’s not my idea, Gilly,” Bronte called after her.

Not my idea at all!

Steven Randolph arrived bearing gifts. Wine, Belgian chocolates, and something in a cardboard box tied with a brown-gold striped ribbon.

“Thought it might come in handy,” he said, kissing Gilly on both cheeks and slanting Bronte a smile. Not a serious smile. A quirky one, that uptilted the corners of his shapely mouth. “I’ll take these into the kitchen, shall I?”

“You know you didn’t have to do that.” Gilly beamed on him.

“A pleasure, Gilly. You look great!”

Next he’ll be saying the two of us look like sisters, Bronte thought waspishly, leading the way to the kitchen. He certainly had Gilly hooked. Was he the second man in Gilly’s life trying to take her for every penny she had? Over my dead body, Bronte privately fumed.

“Don’t you want to see what it is,” Steven Randolph asked her, as Bronte set the cardboard box down on the long narrow pine sideboard. He was busy putting the wine away in the fridge. Gilly, excited and happy, had drifted out onto the candlelit verandah, no doubt pushing them together.

Bronte smarted. “Give me a minute, can’t you?”

“I’m sorry. How are you?” He allowed his eyes to move over her. She was so beautiful with those enormous black fringed blue-violet eyes but as spiky as a cactus. A cactus in an outfit like liquefied silver. It looked almost like lingerie. It took a huge effort not to reach out and caress it…her. But he’d never met a girl who so clearly signalled keep your distance!

“I’m fine, thank you.” Bronte fought her way through the ribbon which securely tied the box. “Gosh, this looks good!” The comment flew out of its own accord.

“Gilly loves chocolate.”

“I know that!” She flashed him an irritated glance which he met with a quirky one of his own. He looked really cool. She had to admit that. He was wearing a very smart black shirt with a cream stripe teamed with beige trousers. He really did have a great body. That aggravated her.

You better be darned careful, Bronte, she told herself. This man is dynamite!

“Why are you so desperate to put me in my place?” he was asking in an entirely reasonable voice.

“Put you in your place?” Bronte raised supercilious brows. “I thought I was only talking to you. Where did you get this scrumptious looking confection?”

“It’s a fruit and chocolate brandy cake, by the way.” He turned away to find a plate.

“Thank you,” she said pointedly, accepting it. He knew where everything was kept.

“Be careful getting it out.”

She knew he was trying to get a rise out of her. For a moment she considered dropping his offering. Instead she calmly and efficiently removed the large cake from the box. It was covered with a glistening chocolate icing and decorated with silver balls.

“I made it myself, actually,” he said, getting a finger to a tiny dollop of chocolate icing left inside the box and putting it slowly into his mouth.

She looked away from him, determined to keep her reactions on ice. “You did not!”

He laughed. “I had to say something to get you down off your high horse. The truth is, Bronte, I know a very nice lady I can turn to when I want something special.”

It wasn’t the question to ask, but she did. “Do you sleep with her?”

“What?” He rolled his clear green eyes upwards. “Bronte, you shock me. This lady makes cakes for heaps of people.”

“That’s all right then. The thing is we don’t know very much about you, do we, Steven Randolph.”