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Master of the Outback
Margaret Way
Falling in love with the wrong man could be dangerous… Ghostwriter Genevieve Grenville is trembling, yet excited, as she heads out to Djangala cattle station to finally uncover the mystery that haunts her family. But standing in her way is brooding cattle baron Bret Trevelyan…Bret might look at her with temptation in his eyes, but he’ll do everything possible to stop her digging up the past. Even at a distance Bret radiates a powerful charisma but up close, immersed in the cattle baron’s Outback world, he is the master. If she’s caught snooping, Genevieve will have to answer to him!
Praise for the author:
“Margaret Way delivers … vividly written,
dramatic stories.”
—RT Book Reviews
“With climactic scenes, dramatic imagery and
bold characters, Margaret Way makes the Outback
come alive …”
—RT Book Reviews
It was hard to take her eyes off the man. She found him to be intoxicating. He had such an air of authority, such presence.
“Ms Grenville?” There was total composure in his voice, a self-assurance that would instantly inspire great confidence in him. More disturbingly, he was looking down at her with the most brilliant dark eyes she had ever seen. She was someone who looked at eyes first. His eyes were so dark they were almost black, his gaze so powerfully searching she had the unnerving notion he was able to see right through her. In which case she might be sent packing. Only just thirty, he was an arrestingly handsome man, with an elegance about him and more than a touch of sensuality in the chiselled mouth and the strong, perfectly balanced bone structure. The air of command was of a much older man. One seldom saw it in one so young, unless they were truly exceptional people.
It came as a complete shock to realise she was attracted to him and all in a matter of moments. That couldn’t be. It rendered her vulnerable. On the reverse side of instant attraction lay the abyss …
About the Author
MARGARET WAY, a definite Leo, was born and raised in the subtropical River City of Brisbane, capital of the Sunshine State of Queensland. A Conservatorium-trained pianist, teacher, accompanist and vocal coach, she found her musical career came to an unexpected end when she took up writing—initially as a fun thing to do. She currently lives in a harbourside apartment at beautiful Raby Bay, a thirty-minute drive from the state capital, where she loves dining alfresco on her plant-filled balcony, overlooking a translucent green marina filled with all manner of pleasure craft: from motor cruisers costing millions of dollars, and big, graceful yachts with carved masts standing tall against the cloudless blue sky, to little bay runabouts. No one and nothing is in a mad rush, and she finds the laid-back village atmosphere very conducive to her writing. With well over one hundred books to her credit, she still believes her best is yet to come.
Welcome to the intensely emotional world of Margaret Way
where rugged, brooding bachelors meet their match in the burning heart of Australia …
Master of the Outback
Margaret Way
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS spring. Regeneration was in the air. Parks and gardens across the city were aglow with dazzlingly beautiful massed displays of azaleas, rhododendrons, and an astonishing number of spring-flowering bulbs—gorgeous oriental lilies, iris, hyacinth, heavily scented freesias and jonquils, golden daffodils. Sensual perfumes hung over the city like a bride’s fine tulle veil. The sky had the blue lustre of an opal, and a few puffy white clouds raced on high.
Genevieve Grenville was near skipping along herself, since the current of her life had picked up. It wasn’t all that long ago since she had found herself at a very low point in her life. But that had been then. This was now—the future. Being positive, counting your blessings was the key. Move on and lock down the humiliating past. Pretty soon she just might be able to.
Her career was helping enormously. She was now a published writer, with a bestseller under her belt. She was certain her literary agent and editor, good friend Maggie McGuire, would have approved the final draft of her new book, Lovers and Losers. She was deeply indebted to Maggie for her belief in her, and her expert guidance. Maggie had been with her every step of the way. That included the woeful state of her private life that had left her wondering why she had any ego left.
Her debut novel, Secrets of the Past, had saved her, buoying her up. The hardback was doing a celebratory jig in her tote bag as she strode along, fired up with energy. It was a tremendous confidence booster to know that at twenty-seven she was making a name for herself in the literary world. When one was on a roll one had to stick with it; hence Lovers and Losers as her quick follow-up.
The reviews for Secrets of the Past had been thrillingly good … “A first-rate literary debut …” “A bright new star has appeared on the horizon …” Couldn’t beat that. Even more gratifying was the incoming feedback from her readers. One couldn’t be a successful writer without one’s readership. She had encountered many of her readers wanting to express their appreciation. It was always a pleasure, even a humbling experience, when someone mentioned that reading her book had helped them through a small crisis or a bad patch in their lives.
Genevieve knew all about bad patches.
Secrets of the Past had even made an impact sufficient to carry a well-known magazine’s gold sticker: GREAT READ. What better plug could she want? It had come at exactly the right time.
Her ex-fiancе, Mark Reed—the man she had entrusted with her life’s happiness—had given in to temptation and slept with the young woman most off-limits in the world to him: her stepsister Carrie-Anne. Carrie-Anne was to have been her chief bridesmaid, for God’s sake! She and Mark had been practically at the altar. She didn’t think she would ever get over the treachery. The pain of betrayal still burned in her breast. Nor could she entirely control the image of the two of them naked in bed. They had taken something from her she would never get back.
Trust.
But she was over the worst of it. Stiff upper lip and all that. Writing was her solace. She had learned that living with pain, setbacks, and disappointments was what life was all about. If she had been less trusting she would have recognised pocket-size blonde Carrie-Anne’s destructive potential. She had always been a devious little creature.
Mark’s excuse took the cake. “It was a moment of madness, Gena. It’s you I love. But Carrie-Anne is always trying to get one up on you. It’s your own fault, in a way. You didn’t make enough time for me. Always the damned book!”
What a cop-out! She had always made time for him, but she accepted the fact that spoilt rotten Mark had really wanted a woman like Mum, who spoke like a character in a Victorian novel and lived her life dancing attendance on her husband and her adored only son. Mrs Reed had once referred to it as a “noble sacrifice”.
“Just hormones, Gena.” That had been Carrie-Anne’s excuse, her delicious little face contorted by crippling remorse. “Hormones. They’re so dangerous!”
“Try sky-diving.” Genevieve had advised caustically. “Without a parachute. Better yet, take Mark.”
There were no excuses for despicable behaviour.
Her appointment with Maggie was scheduled for three o’clock. She had never been known to arrive late. When she did arrive there were two hopefuls waiting. Going to Maggie’s was much like going to the doctor’s. One could be assured of a wait. Maggie’s receptionist Rhoda, a large, flat-faced woman, darted a disapproving glance in her direction. She might have been a full thirty minutes late, or committed the cardinal sin of turning up without an appointment.
“Good afternoon, Rhoda.” Genevieve gave the dragon lady a brilliant smile.
Rhoda did not respond. No surprise there. But she did condescend to point a finger at a seat. Here was a woman who wouldn’t win any votes for Receptionist of the Year.
With a smile and a nod to the other two hopefuls, Genevieve found a seat on the other side of the room, so she could take out Secrets of the Past and appreciate it all over again. She liked the cover. It depicted a beautiful young woman’s downbent face above her pen-name: Michelle Laurent. It was the maiden name of her French-born paternal grandmother. “Michelle Laurent” was set in large letters above the title. So much better to have it above than beneath. Such an attractive-looking book would draw attention. She had seen it prominently displayed in a bookshop inside a major shopping mall she had cut through on her way over to Maggie’s.
Secrets of the Past had been written at night, when she’d still been teaching English and French at her old Alma Mater—a prestigious college for girls. She had enjoyed her years of teaching since university, but as soon as her writing career had taken off she’d found herself in the enviable position of being able to write full-time. Her beloved Michelle’s handsome legacy had made that possible.
Grandm?re Michelle had started to teach her French at toddler stage. She had always given love, support and endless encouragement. To Genevieve’s grief Michelle had died very suddenly of complications following a severe bout of influenza. That had been a short time before the manuscript for Secrets of the Past had been completed. It was balm to know Michelle had pored over its drafts and offered valuable insights, which Genevieve had wisely acted upon. Maggie often said Michelle was a better editor than she was—and Maggie was the best.
Genevieve had fully intended using her own name, but that all had changed when Michelle died. To her readership she was Michelle Laurent. A tribute to her beloved grandmother. Her father had entrusted her to Michelle after her mother Celine had been killed in a catastrophic five-car pile-up on the freeway. Genevieve had been ten at the time. Her devastated father had taken a few years before remarrying the divorced socialite Sable Carville. Sable had brought her glamorous, much-photographed self to the marriage, along with her little girl, the adorable Shirley Temple look-alike Carrie-Anne, who soon took her stepfather’s surname Grenville.
So there they had been—the two little Grenville girls, Genevieve and Carrie-Anne. One tall for her age and gawky to boot, with an unmanageable mane of red hair and freckles, the other the adorable Carrie-Anne, always exquisitely turned out by her fashion-plate mother. Genevieve hadn’t received the same attention. Not much point spending time on a stepdaughter who didn’t fit the description of “pretty”. Only her father, a blue chip lawyer, had foreseen the day when the awkward cygnet would turn into a swan like her mother.
Her maternal grandparents were seldom in the country. After the death of their beloved only child they had become world-travellers, never staying anywhere for long. In their own way they were on the run from the tragedy, and from other family tragedies that reached back decades.
A very intense young man with a mop of bushy hair was being ushered out through Maggie’s door, shaking his head in disbelief. From the expression of confusion and outrage on his face, he had discovered his prized manuscript hadn’t been short-listed for the Booker Prize.
Maggie saw him off with an encouraging, “Keep at it, Colin.” It was like a benign pat on the head. One of the other hopefuls spluttered into laughter. That was a bit unkind. Maggie jiggled her fingers at the two waiting hopefuls, and then gave Genevieve a big smile. “Come on in, Gena.”
Genevieve gathered up her tote bag.
Maggie’s office was very spacious, attesting to her success.The floor was carpeted wall to wall in neutral beige, with a luxurious oriental rug. Her desk was substantial—mahogany with curved legs. Two cream leather armchairs were placed in front of it, and there was a separate seating area with a sofa and armchairs grouped around a glass-topped coffee table. Three of the walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with a lot of leather-bound books with gold lettering on their spines. A large portrait of a very handsome man took pride of place directly behind Maggie—looking over her shoulder, as it were. Most people were allowed to believe it was a family portrait, but Maggie had confessed after a drink or two that she’d bought it because it looked like Sir Richard Hadlee, the famous New Zealand cricket player, in his prime. Maggie had made Genevieve promise not to tell anyone.
Waving a hand towards some point on the ceiling, Maggie moved behind her desk. It was littered with so many manuscripts Genevieve always wondered how Maggie could work in such a shambles. Genevieve took a seat, depositing her tote bag on the floor.
Maggie reached for the glasses she was too vain to wear in public. “We’ve got a cracker here, Gena.” She slapped a satisfied hand on top of the thick manuscript. “I thoroughly enjoyed it. Your readers will too. A stirring tale—great romance, extremely touching in places, all those amazing insights, and your usual clever twists.”
Genevieve’s heart lifted. “I’m glad you like it, Maggie. I owe a lot to you.”
“Maybe a bit,” Maggie conceded. “But you’re a born writer.”
“I’ve always had a compulsion to write going back to my childhood.”
“Of course, dear—a prerequisite.” Maggie looked up tosmile. Maggie smiled often—unlike Rhoda. “So what next?” Maggie asked.
Genevieve shifted back in her chair “I think I’ll take a break, Maggie. A complete change of scene—maybe six months or so. I’ve been going at it pretty intensively, as you know. Losing my grandmother hit me very hard, and then there was the debacle of my engagement.”
“You’re well rid of him,” Maggie huffed. Maggie never kept her strong opinions to herself. “So he was a good-looking charmer? He turned out to be a traitor. As for that treacherous creature Carrie-Anne!” Maggie threw up her hands in disgust.
“I’m over it, Maggie,” Genevieve said. Well, not completely. A double betrayal was hard to take.
“As I’ve told you before, dear, you’ve had a lucky break. Think—it could have happened after you were married. He could have betrayed you zillions of times over a lifetime. Honest to God, it brings tears to my eyes. Success puts men off, you know, love,” she confided for the umpteenth time.“I should know.”
Maggie had been twice married, twice divorced. Now she was eyeing Genevieve speculatively across the table, her pearly white teeth—the result of expensive cosmetic work—sinking into her bottom lip.
“You wouldn’t consider a break in our fabled Outback, would you?” She asked on the off-chance, with no real expectation of Gena’s saying yes. “You’d be staying on a famous cattle station in the Channel Country. It’s owned and run by one of our most prominent landed families. I can line someone else up, but I thought you could handle it. Have a well-earned holiday as well—recharge the batteries, maybe get inspiration?
Out of nowhere Genevieve experienced one of those moments of searing awareness that came like a thunderclap. She didn’t understand what prompted these moments, but she had come to think of them as a window opening up in her mind.
“What are we talking about here, Maggie? A working holiday?” Her voice sounded calm, but there was a betraying tension in her face.
Maggie’s alert brown eyes sharpened. She hadn’t missed a bit of it, though she pretended not to notice. “That’s it exactly.” Maggie could sense Gena’s inner disturbance, even if there didn’t appear to be any apparent reason for it. “If you’re interested, of course, Gena. Should be a piece of cake for you, with the bonus of an Outback holiday.”
“More information?” Genevieve requested, knowing in advance what Maggie was going to say. It had been long recognised by the family that Michelle had had an extra sense. She had inherited it. No denying genetics.
“Of course, dear.” Maggie lowered her eyes, giving Gena a little time to gather herself from that all too brief moment of—what, exactly? “A senior member of the family—Trevelyan is the name, Miss Hester Trevelyan, who’s had the sense to avoid marriage—needs a ghost writer to help with the family history. That would be from colonial days. And she might want to bring in their illustrious Cornish family background. Richard Trevelyan emigrated to the free colony of South Australia in the mid-1800s. We know there was a big influx of Cornish migrants from the mid-nineteenth century right up until after World War II. It was actively encouraged by the government, I believe.”
Genevieve made a real effort to calm her agitation. “After the demise of their tin and copper mines. Cornish mines were known to traders as far back as ancient Greece. It was thought that with their wealth of experience and expertise Australia was the place to come for mining families. The New World—a new beginning. We still refer to Yorke Peninsula in South Australia as ‘Little Cornwall’.”
“So we do!” Maggie exclaimed. “These Trevelyans have their own family crest.”
“How very jolly!”
“The Cornish side of the family did own tin and copper mines, as far as I know, but Richard Trevelyan was the last in a line of sons. He wanted to make his own way, so he decided to found his own dynasty in Australia. Apparently he was more interested in sheep and cattle than in getting involved in the mines—though I believe the Trevelyans are heavily involved in the mining industry. Also real estate, hotels, air, rail, and road freight. You name it. A lot of diversification going on there. The current cattle baron is Miss Trevelyan’s great-nephew, Bret Trevelyan. Bret short for Bretton, I guess. Bit of information on him: he’s just thirty, still unmarried, one of the most eligible bachelors in the country. He was once engaged to the daughter of another well-heeled landed family, the Rawleighs. Obviously the grand romance and the unification of two dynasties fell through. His parents divorced when he was in his early teens. An acrimonious split, I believe. The mother ran off with a family friend—tsk, tsk. The father never remarried. He was killed in a bizarre shooting accident on the station. Apparently a guest’s rifle discharged when he was climbing over a fence. I don’t know the full story. There’s a younger brother, Derryl, and a sister, Romayne. Romayne married the Ormond shipping heir two years back—remember? It was a big society wedding. Got a lot of coverage.”
“I remember.” Genevieve sat quietly. She knew all about the Trevelyan family.
“The cattle station is vast—on the Simpson Desert fringe,” Maggie continued. “Djangala, they call it. Aboriginal. No idea what it means. You don’t pronounce the D. They also own a chain of cattle and sheep stations across Queensland, New South Wales, the Northern Territory and the Kimberley. So they’re super-rich and very proud of their heritage.” Maggie sat back, intrigued by Gena’s initial reaction. It was almost as though she had thrown a switch. “Miss Trevelyan is well into her seventies, but apparently still in good health.”
Genevieve concentrated on breathing in and out gently. She hoped she didn’t look as perturbed as she felt.
She had first overheard the name Trevelyan in a conversation between her maternal grandparents when she was twelve. Her grandparents had returned home on one of their periodic visits to celebrate her birthday. She had been about to enter the room to tell them lunch was ready when she was stopped in her tracks by the sound of her grandmother’s voice. It had literally throbbed with pain. Even at that tender age she had known the pain sprang from a deep well of anguish—as if the event Nan spoke of had straddled her life and caused her the deepest torment.
Genevieve had since come to realise what was the past for some people was as yesterday to others.
Nan had been speaking of a tragic event in her youth, the trauma of it still fresh in her mind. Genevieve had hung back, a strange jangling in her ears. She hadn’t been deliberately eavesdropping. She couldn’t have moved even if she had wanted to. One peek had revealed tears pouring down her grandmother’s face. The grief she’d suddenly felt had—incredibly—been a variation on Nan’s own.
Afterwards, she hadn’t dared ask who the Trevelyans were. She’d had to find out for herself years later. She wasn’t about to tell Maggie the story now. She would be agog. But Genevieve knew beyond doubt that she would take on the role of ghostwriter for Hester Trevelyan. It was the only opportunity she would ever get.
CHAPTER TWO
Two weeks later.
HER nightmares came for her by night. Unlike most dreams, they didn’t vanish on awakening; they stayed with her. She knew what caused them. The shock entry of the Trevelyans into her life.
Her maternal grandmother’s first cousin, Catherine Lytton, had died in tragic circumstances on the Trevelyan family’s Djangala Station in the late 1950s. It reassured Genevieve to know any family connection of hers would be difficult to trace. She wrote under the pen-name Michelle Laurent, and she was going to Djangala as Genevieve Grenville. She had insisted Maggie did not mention her blossoming literary career, let alone her pen-name. Maggie hadn’t been altogether happy about it, but had given in to Genevieve’s adamant request. It was essential she go incognito. Everything was organised for her trip.
Djangala had escaped being contaminated by scandal. Catherine’s death had been deemed a tragic accident. A city girl, she had stepped too close to the crumbling edge of an escarpment the better to admire the stupendous view. The ground had abruptly crumbled beneath her, hurtling her to her death on the plain below. The Trevelyans and the police officer who had headed the investigation had been in totalagreement—an accidental death that had devastated them all. A beautiful young woman with her whole life before her!
Not a word of the marriage proposal Catherine Lytton had received from Geraint Trevelyan ever surfaced. Only Catherine had written ecstatically about it to her favourite cousin.
Trevelyan had later gone on to marry Patricia Newell, long stuck in the wings as his future wife. Catherine had been on Djangala as companion for her friend Patricia. The two young women had gone to boarding school together and had kept up their friendship.
Once again the wheels of fate were set in motion.
Geraint Trevelyan was Bret Trevelyan’s grandfather.
Genevieve’s father, who had torn strips off Mark and Carrie-Anne, had given his approval of her new assignment, thinking it would hasten the healing process and that the Trevelyans were a splendid pioneering dynasty. He had no idea of Genevieve’s true motivation. The Grenville side of the family had never learned Nan’s secret. But Genevieve, given such an unforeseen opportunity, was determined on learning the truth about the final days of Catherine’s life. She’d had a burning curiosity since the age of twelve—both because she was family and, it had to be said, due to her nature as a budding writer—to solve this mystery. Mysteries cried out to be solved.
Had Catherine’s death simply been a disastrous accident? Or was there more to it? Had the Trevelyan family buried the truth, as Catherine’s family had had to bury her broken body? The “accident” might well have revolved around the eternal triangle. People did terrible things for love.
Old faded photographs of the two young women revealed they had been physical opposites. Catherine tallish, very slender, with strawberry blonde hair, deep blue eyes and porcelain skin; Patricia petite, a little on the stocky side, with fine dark eyes and an abundance of dark hair. The photographs, all of them taken between the ages of sixteen and twenty-two, showed two young and untested girls.
Derryl Trevelyan, the younger son, was picking her up at her front door. They were to drive to the commercial airfield when the Trevelyan King Air was on standby to fly them to Djangala.
It was almost time to leave. She took one last look in the pier mirror.
Portrait of a serious-minded, bookish young woman, capable of taking on a challenge with no thought whatsoever of being on the lookout for an Outback millionaire.
Maggie had allowed her to read Miss Trevelyan’s curt letter.
Please don’t send me some glamorous young woman. Someone imagining she’s going to have a good time along the way. Such young women annoy me. I want someone dedicated, serious about their work. I will possibly keep odd hours, depending on my health. There will be free time, but this is first and foremost a job. Not an Outback holiday. I don’t need anyone, either, who will run off home when she realises just how isolated we are. A plain young woman would suit, as long as she’s not dull and she knows what she’s about.
Given such parameters, Genevieve had deliberately played down her looks. Her Titian mane was drawn back tightly from her face and pinned into a thick coil at her nape. She wore the lightest make-up. She wore a silk shirt, but the colour was a subdued chocolate, and not her usual skinny jeans, but comfortable tan trousers and tan boots. To further enhance the scholarly look she’d had clear glass put into bookish frames.
She would have laughed at herself, only she felt anything but lighthearted. She was going into the Trevelyan desert stronghold where Catherine had been trapped.
A young man struck a languid pose against the passenger side of a late model hire-car. He was wearing casual clothes, but managed to look the very picture of sartorial elegance.
“Ms Grenville?” He looked her over. No smile. Clearly she was a big disappointment.
“That’s right,” she responded pleasantly. “Would you mind giving me a hand with my luggage?”
A slight hesitation, as though he was above such things. “Certainly.”
