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“Not me!” Rosie shook her head. “My experiences have made me anything but frivolous. To get back to the subject, you’re saying you’ll have dinner with us?”
“Stop it. Too easy. You’re persuasive, all right. I can well imagine your getting all your interviewees to spill the beans, but guys like Marley and I don’t hang out together.”
“You’ve got to meet him all the same. I think he’s on to something with this theory of his. He’s obsessed with the whole idea.”
“A rich fantasy life, it’s called. I have an uncle just like him,” Chase scoffed.
“Actually, I’ve met him. Porter Banfield?” Rosie’s eyes studied his profile, seeing the family resemblance, but still not able to believe it. Could any two people be less alike?
Now she had surprised him. “Where?” he asked sharply. “Porter doesn’t get his kicks talking to young women, however scintillating. I don’t know what happened to him, but he’s one miserable bastard. A confirmed misogynist.”
“I think you’re right,” Rosie answered, nodding. “A misogynist may be misguided, emotionally bankrupt, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s stupid. He’s a Banfield, after all.”
He realized he was being thoroughly entertained. “Stop trying to butter me up, Miss Summers,” he warned. “Others have tried it before you.”
“Evidently without success.”
“You haven’t figured me out, either.”
“True, but I’m not defeated. Besides, I think you owe me something for saving my life.”
He laughed, a rich chuckle. “That kind of reasoning is beyond me. Anyway, someone would eventually have found you. I’m even coming around to thinking you could have saved yourself.”
She turned to him engagingly. “Just an hour. I swear you won’t regret it.”
Silence. “You’re doing this for Marley?” he asked finally.
“Hell, no,” Rosie crowed. “I’m doing this for myself. This is my baby. My big scoop.”
“In that case,” he told her. “I’ll come.”
BY SEVEN O’CLOCK Rosie was bathed and dressed. She hadn’t had a lot of time because Chase Banfield had insisted on dropping her at the local doctor’s to have her “checked out.” It was easier not to argue. And it was rather nice being cared for. She hadn’t had that kind of attention since she’d left home. As expected, the doctor confirmed her own evaluation of herself—she was tough, even if she didn’t look it.
Tonight she’d gone to a lot of trouble with her appearance. Banfield had wanted to see her dressed up, so dressed up she’d be. Within limits. This was a little frontier town, after all. No need for the basic black and pearls. Not that she ever wore such garb. Her mother, who was a classic dresser, always said she got her outlandish taste from Great-aunt Hester, distinguished spinster in the family, now in her ninetieth year and still painting her much-sought-after nudes. Rosie’s outfit for the evening was the best she could come up with on short notice. A hot-pink skirt and, wonder of wonders, it didn’t clash with her hair. The top, sleeveless with a V-neck that showed just a hint of cleavage, was dark-green satin. She needed something rich to go around the middle, finally settled for a Thai-silk turquoise sash that fortuitously matched the turquoise sandals she’d brought with her. She’d long ago decided not to play down her unusual looks. For most of her early life, she’d been the clumsy duckling to her mother’s elegant swan. Her height had always been a worry; her hair, a cheerful orange. Then there was the bird’s beak of a nose, the wide sweep of her jaw. Again, inherited from Great-aunt Hester. There was no way she could be like her mother. Once she understood that, she had come into her own.
“There you are, Rosie,” she applauded her reflection. “A woman every man would desire.” It even seemed as if her hair would behave. She had arranged it in a thick upturned roll at the back, making far more of an effort than she had the previous night, when she’d pulled it into a ponytail for dinner with Graeme Marley. She sprayed her wrist again with a gardenia-based perfume. Mmm, fabulous! She was feminine enough to love perfume. “Oh, Roslyn you’re such a bohemian!” She shook her head several times, but she could still hear her mother’s voice. Rosie flashed herself another one of her saucer-size smiles. Why, oh why, did she have such a wide mouth? Well, nothing she could do about that.
She was almost out of her room, feeling extraordinarily excited, when she suddenly made the decision to wear The Necklace. It was a knockout. No one besides Marley and perhaps the hawk-eyed Mr. Banfield would know what it was. Reverently, in case some long-dead ancient Egyptian lady might take it into her head to lay a curse on her, Rosie withdrew the necklace from its soft leather pouch and draped it over her hand. Wonderful workmanship using multicolored, multitextured gold, combined with the semiprecious stone lapus lazuli—the “eyes” of the flowers, five in all, shaped like the sacred lotus, which were appended from the smooth coil that encircled the neck.
She turned back to the full-length mirror, put it on. She knew she was very privileged to wear it.
She went downstairs, smiling at the owner, Lyn Delaney, an interesting woman good for an interview, although she acted a bit cagey for all her friendliness. Rosie won a “You look marvelous” from Lyn that sounded perfectly genuine. She considered that a compliment, particularly given the exotic stylishness of this little back-of-beyond pub. But then, Banfield had said he owned most of the town.
She walked beneath the gleaming fretted timber arch into the small lounge, finding it almost full. The locals all glanced up curiously. Nobody pointed, not one expression conveyed that she looked a little freakish. They all seemed friendly and cheerful, so Rosie gave them her encompassing smile.
Banfield and Marley were already seated at a table to the rear of the room, along with a third man she didn’t know. All three rose gallantly at her approach.
Marley, to her acute annoyance, bowed to kiss her cheek in much too intimate a fashion. Rosie felt like popping him one, but had to settle for discreetly moving off. Chase Banfield’s tiger eyes settled on her, moving gently, very slowly, over her face and then her body. Not transfixed by the wonderful necklace but drifting past it, as if it was just the sort of thing he expected her to wear. Introductions were made. The third man, very thin, all mustache, looked burned up inside, but charming for all that. He was one Mick Dempsey, longtime friend of the Banfield family, himself the owner of a huge cattle station called Derrilan, which he told her meant “falling stars” in the Aboriginal language. Rosie pitied him and warmed to him at the same time. A tragedy there, she thought. She was sure of it.
“All pioneering families seemed to have dreamed up romantic names for their properties,” Marley said in an indulgent voice. “Falling Stars. Three Moons!”
“Chase tells me you had quite an exciting ride this afternoon.” Dempsey turned to Rosie with his still-attractive grin, as good as ignoring Marley, who looked irritated at not being in control of things.
Again Marley intervened, from long practice. “It’s a miracle she didn’t kill herself.” He shook his head with as much vehemence as amazement. “Women and machinery simply don’t mix.”
Banfield threw him a contemptuous look. “I wonder how well you’d have survived the ride. Miss Summers did an extraordinary job behind the wheel.”
“Ah, but she’s not the average female,” Marley said with the air of someone who knew. He touched Rosie’s hand, let his fingers linger.
What was this? Marley was allowing the others to assume an intimacy that didn’t exist. She’d have to warn him about it in a hurry. Like before they retired to their separate rooms later that night.
Rosie removed her hand carefully. “I realize my reaction was foolish, but it’s an instinctive thing to try to avoid hitting an animal.”
“There isn’t anything else to do, my dear,” Dempsey told her kindly, pulling at the rather dashing red bandanna tucked into his white shirt. “I had a good friend run into a tree avoiding a brolga that popped down in front of him.”
“I hope your friend survived,” Rosie said.
“He did, miraculously. His car was a write-off. Bull bar saved it from being ripped apart. You were very lucky Chase was driving back into town.”
“My hero!” Rosie exclaimed. “I intend to include him in my nightly prayers.”
“Include me, too, my dear,” Dempsey only half joked. “I could do with the prayers of a good woman.”
Marley, looking slightly bored, picked up the menu. “The food here is surprisingly good,” he said, the light catching the show of silver at his temples. “A bit unusual for such a remote neck of the woods.”
Patronizing idiot, Rosie thought, but Banfield said suavely, “Even our little country town can rise to a decent chef. You should try the crocodile fillet tempura, snow peas and chinois salad with a kakadu plum and wasabi dressing.”
“I’m impressed!” Rosie searched in vain for it on the menu.
“Crocodile! You’re joking.” Marley’s heavy shoulders moved beneath his summer-weight jacket.
“You’d probably think it was a delicious cut of pork,” Banfield said as he helped Rosie out by pointing to the exact spot on the menu. “Or there’s the tournedos of kangaroo,” he added smoothly.
Rosie raised her eyebrows. “I don’t fancy eating one of our national symbols. The kangaroo and the emu hold up the coat of arms.”
“They’re a bloody menace in the bush,” Mick growled, “pardon my French, and not much we can do about it. Millions of them. I figure the best way to preserve the species, and that goes for the croc, too, is to come up with some commercially viable industry. Like cattle. The public are going to get pretty intolerant of crocs otherwise. Kangaroo, by the way, tastes good. A bit gamy to some, but very tasty. I’ve had it many a time and enjoyed it, but I prefer our prime beef. We produce the world’s best.”
“So it’s tournedos of beef with potato barigoule béarnaise,” Rosie said, sounding definite. “As you’re the expert, perhaps you can enlighten me as to what a barigoule is. My French doesn’t rise to it. I can handle the béarnaise.” She turned to Banfield with a smile. He was looking incredibly handsome, not to say alluring in a sand-colored, softly constructed linen suit that sat wonderfully on his wide shoulders with a casual black cotton T-shirt beneath. The big-time cattle baron with a sophisticated edge.
He held her gaze, somewhat spellbound by her appearance, as well. This was a woman for all seasons. “A barigoule, and I know this only because I’ve had it, is a potato that’s been steeped in saffron bouillon, then scooped out and filled with béarnaise sauce,” he explained. “I can recommend it. It’s very good. Our chef is a young Vietnamese. Lyn won’t keep him long. He’s too good. Some luxury hotel down the tourist coast will offer him more scope and more money, but for the time being we’re dining out in style. I’d recommend the crab cream or the steamed scallops for starters, and as you’re obviously a girl who doesn’t have to watch her figure, the Moroccan orange tart is great.”
“I’m for the ginger ice cream,” Mick said gleefully. Chase could tell he was feeling better than he had in a long, long while. “You’re paying, aren’t you, Dr. Marley?”
Marley looked pained. “Of course.”
By the time it came to coffee, they retired to the lounge, which was now almost empty. Marley stared at Mick, obviously hoping he’d go, but Mick stayed on with reckless disregard for what the doctor wanted.
“Miss Summers tells me you have something to show me.” Banfield decided to get the ball rolling, giving Mick a quick, almost warning look.
“This mightn’t be the moment,” Marley managed, his mouth still full of a liqueur chocolate.
“You can speak in front of Mick,” Banfield assured him.
“I’m not sure I can.” Marley’s smile was a little grim. “No offense, Dempsey, but this is fairly hush-hush.”
“Would it have anything to do with Rosie’s necklace, then?” Dempsey asked, affecting an Irish brogue. “Egyptian, isn’t it? And isn’t she just the girl to wear it? That Nefertiti neck. I’ve actually seen a handmade glass amulet in a pyramid shape with Egyptian hieroglyphics on all sides that was dated by the Department of Mines at five thousand years old. How old is the necklace?”
Marley seemed angered by such an approach. “Banfield, this is a private matter. I can’t have too many people in on it.”
“In on what?” Banfield asked in an easy voice. “All of us here have lived with the story of an ancient Egyptian presence in the Far North. My uncle Porter has tried many times to mastermind an exploration. Unfortunately for him he needs my authority to do so. I don’t have time for games. I have a big station to run.”
“That’s right! Chase is a key player in the industry,” Mick said proudly, sipping his coffee. “Used to be myself until I lost Bridget. My wife, you know.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mick.” Rosie’s green eyes lit with sympathy. “When was this?”
Mick looked down, smoothed his luxuriant mustache. “Three years, six months and ten days. Bridget would have liked you,” he told Rosie a little harshly. “Bridget loved a woman with character.”
Marley leveled his penetrating blue gaze on Rosie. “I extend my sympathies too, of course, Dempsey, but I wonder if we could keep to the agenda.”
“I thought the agenda was getting me here.” Banfield’s expression must have instantly alerted Marley that he’d said the wrong thing. “It took Miss Summers to persuade me.”
“Call her Rosie, for God’s sake, Chase,” Mick implored, frowning at Chase in amazement.
“Miss Summers is a media power, Mick,” Chase explained. “One must show respect. But getting back to King Tut, talk of an ancient Egyptian presence is old news, like the forgotten race of Pygmies that hang out in the rain forest. Someone’s always sighting one.”
“Someone always does if they have a mind to,” Rosie said, “but there were Negritos, weren’t there?” She threw herself into the argument. “I know I’ve read about them somewhere.”
“Just a small type of Aborigine, I would suggest,” Banfield said. “About five feet tall with short tight curls.”
“Actually they were first officially noted in 1958,” Marley intervened rather shortly, a veritable font of knowledge. “Anthropologist by the name of Birdsell. There were hundreds of these people in the rain forest at that time. There is evidence the so-called Negritos arrived about seven thousand years ago, while the Aboriginal presence in Australia goes back at least forty thousand years. This is all very interesting, but it’s not what we’re here to talk about.” Exasperation bit into his tone.
Banfield swiveled slightly in his chair, looking to Rosie impossibly handsome and just a touch daunting. “Not if the necklace is the best you can do. I know Porter has little items like that up his sleeve. How he got hold of it I wouldn’t know. He’s been a collector for many years. He finds ‘things’ for the very rich and gets a reward. I know he has dealings with a wealthy collector based in London. My uncle is…something of an opportunist.”
Marley tried unsuccessfully to cover up his resentment at the way the conversation had gone. “I realize that. Give me credit, Banfield. As deeply involved as your uncle is, he’s not a professional, any more than you or Roslyn here. I, however, am highly respected in my field. My views must be taken seriously.”
“C’mon,” Banfield frowned. “Tell me why I should take you seriously. You’ll have to come up with something more concrete than what you’ve got.” His tone lightened. “Are you asking us to believe the necklace Miss Summers is wearing was found on Three Moons? Did my uncle lead you to understand this? Unlike me, he has the time to play games—always for his own ends. He may be using you.”
“I can control people like your uncle.” Marley finished his drink with a grimace. “I have other things—”
“We’re going around in circles, Doctor,” Banfield said, cutting him off. “Porter wants to get back on Three Moons for some reason. Maybe he has something hidden somewhere in the house. Under the big banyan tree. Anything’s possible. It could even be gold. My family benefited greatly from the gold strikes in this area.” He paused, shaking his head. “My parents were taken from me literally overnight. I was only a boy. There was no time to fill me in on all the family secrets. I know there have to be a few. Lost hopes. Lost dreams. This part of the world might be an opulent paradise, but terrible hardships went into our pioneering past. Isn’t that so, Mick?”
“Plenty of early deaths,” Mick said. “But there are so many things you mightn’t know, Chase, that Porter would.” He brightened. “Stuff he’d make sure you’d never find out.”
Marley seized on that. “Then there’s a good chance your uncle’s right. All I’m asking is that you give me a couple of weeks….”
“To hare off on your own?” Banfield said with a flash of his brilliant eyes. “You could be killed if you’re heading up-country.” He transferred his gaze to the slender, very womanly Rosie, his attitude almost explosive. “It could be quite terrifying to get lost in the jungle.”
Rosie nodded, breaking the tension. “You’ve sold me.”
Despite himself, Banfield laughed, studying the dangerous magic of her, the warmth of her, the challenge in her almond eyes, the gorgeous clash of colors, the gleaming magnificence of the necklace around her proud throat.
“You might even run into one of those Negritos,” he drawled. “I think they were cannibals.”
“Really?” Rosie picked up her liqueur.
“He’s joking, love,” Mick assured her lightly. “He’s always joking. But I’ve been thinking—I could help out.” He looked around the table, not at all disconcerted by Chase’s quick penetrating glance. “I’m as good a bushie as your dad,” Mick pointed out.
Banfield nodded. Quite true, but Mick hadn’t handled things well for quite a while. “What about Derrilan? How does it get on?” he asked in a measured voice.
“Hell, Chase, Arnie runs the place,” Mick said sheepishly. “He’s been as good as runnin’ it since I lost Bridget. No, this sounds exciting, and I could do with a little excitement these days.”
Banfield’s eyes settled on his friend with a private message. There aren’t any pubs up-country.
“It might help me out.” Mick leaned forward to stare into Banfield’s stern but caring face.
“And it could do you a lot of harm.” Banfield wondered how long it would take Mick to hit the bottle.
“Once, you used to have great faith in me, Chase,” Mick said gruffly.
“I learned a lot from you, Mick.” In this instance, Banfield had to try not to weaken, when he normally wasn’t a man who gave way easily. “So what’s your proposal?” he asked Marley. “Is my uncle along on the trip?”
Marley’s rich voice developed a sudden coaxing charm. “I had to include him.”
“Oh, perfect!”
“And I’ve been in war zones,” Rosie reminded Chase. “If that counts for anything.”
He gave her a brief smile. “You’re forcing my hand?”
“It’s a beautiful hand.” She glanced at his right hand on the table. “Strong, lean, elegant…”
“Calluses on the other side,” he mocked, turning his hand over. “I’m a cattleman, Miss Summers.”
“Hell, yes! None better.” Mick spoke with affection and pride. “His mum and dad would’ve been so proud of him. Wonderful, just wonderful what he’s accomplished in these last years after Porter bloody near—”
Banfield leaned toward him. “Mick, we won’t waste time on Porter for the moment. I have to think about this.”
“What harm could it do?” Rosie’s eyes lit with green fire. “If your uncle can lead us to this pyramid—he swears it’s somewhere on the station—Graeme can identify it, date it. Even if it’s a wild-goose chase, which it probably is, I could turn it into a good story. Even a short documentary.”
“Get Paul Hogan back and turn it into Crocodile Dundee 3,” Banfield suggested, sitting back, his mouth twitching. “You want to fool around with crocodiles?” he asked Rosie.
“I haven’t got the nerve.” She shivered. “But Mick here seems to think he has.”
Mick crowed, but Marley was in no mood for frivolity. “A joke has its limits,” he said, sounding very professorial. “This will be a very serious expedition. Headed by me.”
Rosie picked up a liqueur chocolate, as if she was still famished. “Well, I wouldn’t want to be leader.” She shrugged. “What about you, Mick?”
Mick was enjoying this, his blue eyes brighter and more focused than Banfield had seen in a couple of years. “No way, m’dear. I’ll act as your guide. It’ll be grand!”
