Kissed By a Stranger

‘He only did it once, to get an award-winning aerial photo. In any case, I’m involved with Kevin now. He’s a cinematographer at the film studios.’

This time Sarah’s laugh was genuine. ‘Ian, then Jeff and now Kevin. Still working your way through the alphabet?’

Kitty grinned. ‘Maybe. And you know what comes after K? L—as in Luke.’

‘Remember what you told me. He may not even live on the coast.’

‘Neither did Jeff or Kevin. It doesn’t have to be a handicap—especially at the speed a man like Luke moves.’

Surprise jolted through Sarah, but Kitty was referring to Luke’s racing career, not to what had happened on the highway earlier. Still, the comment had hit so close to home that Sarah shuddered.

‘He used to have a pretty wild reputation,’ Kitty went on. ‘He’s supposed to have settled down after he got into some trouble in Europe—enough to make him give up racing, since he came back to Australia four years ago. So it might pay you to be a bit cautious.’

Kitty meant well, Sarah knew. But she sensed that nothing Luke could have done could be so terrible. But it had made him give up a sport he loved. She chewed her lower lip. ‘How do you know so much?’ she asked Kitty.

‘Gavin, who came before Hedley, was a pit-man on the Grand Prix circuit. When we were together I spent some time trackside. How do you think I got that shot of Luke?’

Sarah nodded. ‘I’m glad you did.’

‘What will you do now? Use your journalistic skills to track your hero down?’

‘You never know.’ Sarah looked at her watch and started. ‘But not right now. I was due in make-up half an hour ago.’ Throwing her thanks over her shoulder, she flew out of the building and hailed a taxi to take her to the studio.

Donna Blake, the producer of Coast to Coast, was tearing her hair out. ‘Didn’t the guys tell you about the accident?’ Sarah asked, allaying the woman’s censure.

Immediately the producer looked concerned. ‘You went to a doctor?’

Sarah squirmed uncomfortably. ‘Not exactly. But the delay did involve the accident.’ It was the truth, Sarah told herself.

The producer looked severe. ‘Sarah, the contest for the job of permanent anchor on this show is down to you and Richard Nero. Unless you buckle down and work like mad, you’re practically handing him the job.’

Sarah was only too aware of it. ‘Sometimes I feel like making him a present of it,’ she retorted. But it wasn’t entirely true. The anchor job on Coast to Coast would be the culmination of years of commitment and hard work on her part.

Starting as a newspaper journalist, she’d progressed to on-air reporter, occasionally filling in as anchor when the show’s regular front-person, Angela Fordham, was on holidays.

Angela had been head-hunted by a national network six months before. Since then, the anchor job had been shared between Sarah and Richard Nero. The two of them spent alternate weeks in the job while management and the ratings made the decision.

So far Sarah felt she was ahead on points, but it was no reason to be complacent. Office gossip had it that management favoured a male presenter, although they couldn’t admit to any such thing, and Richard’s main strength lay in his ability to play corporate politics, which Sarah hated.

Somehow she managed to get through the show, reading the solar energy story from the autocue over the film they’d taken that morning at the Hinterland community.

The final story was almost her undoing. One of the roving reporters threw to a late story and suddenly Sarah’s monitor showed the film Rick had taken at the scene of the accident.

It was a shock to see film of herself lying on the ground, intercut with shots of the mangled car, and also to see Luke’s powerfully male form bending over her, his lips pressed to hers in the so-called ‘kiss of life. Her heart sank. So much for Luke’s belief that the studio wouldn’t screen such a traumatic moment. He had reckoned without the news value of his ‘patient’.

Her face was white beneath the studio make-up by the time they cut back to her for her closing remarks. For the life of her, she couldn’t recall what she said, although it must have been acceptable because nobody commented once the on-air light went out and everyone relaxed.

The producer came up to her. ‘You looked pale when we did the accident story. Brought it all back, huh?’

It had, but not for the reason Donna suspected. ‘Yes, it did,’ she admitted, disturbed to hear how shaky she sounded.

‘Just as well Richard’s in the chair tomorrow,’ the producer commented. ‘Go home and get some rest. You look like you need it.’

She went home, but she was much too keyed-up to rest. She had vowed not to look at the videotape of the show she automatically recorded every day. But, as if in a dream, she found herself replaying the accident segment, freezing the tape when the camera lens closed on Luke’s broad back. His face wasn’t visible, as he’d ensured, but she felt a sudden strange longing to reach out a hand and run it across those corded muscles.

She already knew how it felt to be kissed by him. What would it be like if there was genuine passion in the kiss?

Hold it, she told herself, drawing a deep breath. What did she know about the man—other than his name and occupation, and Kitty’s suggestion that there had been some scandal attached to his departure from motor racing?

And the fact that he excited her beyond anything she’d ever experienced before.

Minutes later she was seated at her computer, fingers flying over the keyboard as she chased any remnant of information about the mysterious Luke Ansfield.

He had said he owned property near the solar energy community, so she started by accessing council records of neighbouring landholders. Most of the names were familiar, from various news stories or local events, but one very large property was registered in the name of a holding company whose name she didn’t recognise. She would bet her last dollar that company was owned by Luke Ansfield.

Noting the address, she made an effort to suppress her rising excitement and get at least a few hours’ sleep. Tomorrow she would go in search of her reticent rescuer.

By morning her certainty had receded a little. What if he did own the land but didn’t welcome visitors? She considered telephoning ahead but rejected the idea. If she turned up unannounced, he could hardly tell her not to come.

Having covered the Sunville story, she knew the area in the Gold Coast Hinterland where the property was located. The narrow road wound through the foothills near Nerang to the Beechmont Plateau.

Around her, rolling green slopes were dotted with beef cattle farms. She kept her pace slow and her eyes open for horseback riders. One accident for the week was quite enough.

The turn-off to Luke’s land was so overgrown that she almost missed it. She wasn’t sure whether she’d expected high wrought-iron gates and electric fences, but it certainly hadn’t been the inconspicuous post-and-rail entry that she found. A small sign identified the property as Hilltop.

If you wanted to be discreet this was a good way to go about it, she thought, although the deeply rutted dirt track winding up the face of an almost vertical mountain seemed like overkill.

She had just about given up on reaching any human habitation when the road opened onto a clearing among the forest trees. In the centre was a colonial-style house of substantial proportions.

Care had been taken to incorporate traditional materials and colours. The building had wide verandahs surrounding its U-shaped design. What looked like a natural rock-pool, but probably wasn’t, served as a swimming pool off to one side of the clearing. Picturesque was the first word which sprang to Sarah’s mind.

At least here was a residence befitting Luke Ansfield’s status, she thought, feeling her spirits lift. She had begun to have serious doubts after traversing that daunting driveway.

Fresh doubts assailed her as she spotted a man polishing a jade-green Branxton cabriolet. Just the sort of car she’d imagined Luke Ansfield driving, but the man working on it wasn’t Luke.

The man met her halfway from her car. ‘Are you lost?’

Her reflection stared disconcertingly back at her from the car’s glossy finish. She looked away. ‘Is this your place?’

The man’s face hardened slightly as he sensed her evasion. ‘I live here, yes.’

Sarah also had an instinct for evasiveness. He hadn’t exactly answered her question. She took the plunge. ‘I’m looking for Luke Ansfield.’

The man frowned. ‘What makes you think he’s here?’

‘It is his property, isn’t it?’ she persisted.

The man dropped the chamois leather he was wielding and came closer. ‘I think you’d better leave.’