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There was absolutely no way out.
Stuart threw back his dark head and laughed triumphantly. “That’s the very thing I’m desperate for you to say—‘I do.’ A June wedding would be perfect, wouldn’t it, darling? We need to be together, man and wife. I know you love the idea of Morelands for the wedding, but surely you’d want to be married from your own home? You couldn’t possibly disappoint Justine. Or my mother, for that matter, though she’s neutral. She thinks the world of your grandfather. Morelands is an incredible venue, no denying that, but Justine and I have our hearts set on Melbourne. Tell me that’s what you want, too, Ceci. I’ve known you for a dozen years and more, but sometimes I think I don’t know you at all.”
She had the eerie feeling that was true. She couldn’t tell him that many changes were taking place inside her. In retrospect she realized she rarely confided in him. Stuart was a little like her mother in that he had a tendency to close his ears on what he didn’t wish to hear. “Let’s just enjoy today, Stuart,” she begged gently. “I can’t always do what you and my mother want. Oh, look—” she shifted her gaze gratefully “—there’s Sasha Donnelly calling to us.”
“I say, she’s looking very glamorous.” Stuart was distracted by the shortness of Sasha’s skirt and the sassiness of the gala confection she had on her head.
“She is, and she’s still carrying a torch for you,” Cecile pointed out lightly.
JUST WHEN SHE THOUGHT the stranger must have left early, she saw him standing with a knot of older guests. Profound disappointment, even despondency, was transformed into soaring spirits. They rose alarmingly, threatening to make her airborne.
You fool! You’re not even putting up a struggle.
She ignored the little voice. At the center of the group was her grandfather. Her mother and father flanked him, both of them looking extremely stylish; they were handsome people. With them were close friends of the family, Bruce and Fiona Gordon and the Ardens. Bruce Gordon and George Arden were among her grandfather’s oldest friends and business partners. All of them were smiling warmly.
“Ceci, darling! Stuart!” Joel Moreland caught sight of them, gesturing them over. When they were close enough, he put out his arm to gather his much-loved granddaughter to his side. “I don’t think either of you have yet met Señor Montalvan, who is visiting us from Argentina. When Fiona told me she and Bruce had a houseguest, I insisted he come along with them today.” Joel turned his aristocratic silver head to smile at the well-to-do couple.
“Cecile, my darling—” he beamed down at her as he began the introductions “—may I present Señor Raul Montalvan from…”
She didn’t hear another word for the roaring in her ears. Every dormant cell in her body fired into life.
Damn it, damn it! This isn’t like you. Get a grip!
She might have been standing at a distance, looking at her double. The tide of feeling she was experiencing was not untainted with remorse, even shame. There was Stuart, her fiancé, proud and smiling by her side. She wore his ring. She should only be thinking of Stuart, while all the while she was racked by her attraction to another man.
He was even more stunning close up. Indeed he could have stepped out of a bravura painting. The bronze of his skin was in striking contrast to the dark caramel of his hair with its glinting golden strands. How dark his eyes were! Not black, but a brilliant dark brown with gold flecks. Their expression was very intense. She didn’t think she had seen such intensity in a man’s eyes before. They made her feel more conscious of herself as a woman than at any moment of Stuart’s most passionate lovemaking. It was as though that dark seductive gaze pierced right through her breast to her heart.
“Miss Moreland, I’ve heard so much about you.” He spoke with exquisite gentleness. “The whole of it glowing!”
This drew a smile from her grandfather, who Cecile guessed correctly had been singing her praises.
There was an intriguing hint of an accent. No more. It was a cosmopolitan voice, coming from deep in his chest, the timbre dark, beguiling, with a faint cutting edge.
Good manners demanded she extend her hand. “My grandfather has a very natural bias, señor. I’m very pleased to welcome you to our country.” Her skin seemed to sizzle at his touch. She thought she flushed. He didn’t shake her hand as she expected, but bowed over it in a way that showed his heritage. It was an entirely natural and elegant ritual courtesy that didn’t demand his lips touch her skin. She didn’t think she could have borne that given what the mere touch of his hand could do. His hands were as elegant as the rest of him, but she could feel calluses on the pads of his fingers and the palm. Was that the cause of that extraordinary surge of electricity?
Then it was Stuart’s turn. He gave a hearty, “Happy to meet you, Mr. Montalvan.” To Cecile’s ears that didn’t quite ring true. Stuart hadn’t taken to the newcomer, she could tell, but he was shaking the other man’s hand vigorously. “What brings you to the Territory?” he asked.
Montalvan gave a very European shrug. “Pleasure, business. I have always wanted to come to Australia.” He spoke in a relaxed fashion, but the gentleness, it seemed, had been reserved for Cecile. “Your Top End is not so very different to my home in Argentina. Very beautiful, very isolated, hot and humid, plenty of rain when it comes, glorious vegetation, vast open spaces.”
Joel Moreland nodded his agreement. “This is still largely frontier country, Señor Montalvan.”
“Please, do call me Raul!” Montalvan turned to his host with a charming half smile.
“Raul it is,” Joel Moreland responded, his expression revealing that unlike Stuart, he had taken a fancy to this young man. “Raul is in the ranching business,” he informed Cecile and Stuart, “so we have a lot in common. His family have been in ranching for many generations. Ranching and mining, isn’t that so? He’s also a very fine polo player, I’ve been told.”
“Not surprising, when he hails from a country that has won the World Cup every year since 1949,” Cecile’s father, Howard, contributed with an admiring laugh.
“True.” Montalvan gave another elegant shrug of his shoulder. “But you have some wonderful players here,” he added appreciatively. “I’m hoping I’ll be invited to participate in a few matches during my stay. Australia is nearly as polo mad as Argentina, I believe.”
“It’s the great sport of the Outback,” Moreland confirmed, “but we can’t challenge your world supremacy. Don’t worry, Raul, I’m sure we’ll be able to arrange something. I used to be a pretty good player myself in the old days.”
“I’m certain that’s an understatement, sir.” Montalvan gave a respectful inclination of his head.
“My father was absolutely splendid!” Justine, who adored her father, spoke proudly. “We have two polo fields on Malagari.”
“That’s my flagship cattle station toward the Red Centre,” Moreland explained before turning to his daughter with a teasing smile. “The polo fields, my dear, are still there. You should come and visit sometime.”
“I will, I will, I promise.” Justine flushed slightly. “When I get time. Father breeds some of the finest polo ponies in the country,” she added.
“So I believe.” The Argentinian’s expression lit up with interest. “My family breeds fine ponies, too, but nothing like Señor Moreland’s operation, which we do know about in Argentina. I believe, sir, you sold ponies to our famous Da Silver brothers?”
“So I did,” Joel Moreland said with great satisfaction. “A heroic pair! I’ve seen them play. Their team won the World Cup no less than four times, the last time—that was in the mid-90s—riding Lagunda ponies. That’s my horse stud in the Gold Coast hinterland of Queensland where the climate, the terrain and environment are ideal.”
“I’d love to visit it sometime,” Montalvan replied. “It would be a great honor.”
“And I’d be delighted to show you, Raul. Both Malagari, which is in the Territory and very dear to my heart, and Lagunda, way across the border. The flame for the game still burns very bright, but inevitably time has sidelined me. I still ride, of course. Now my son, Jared, was far more talented. He had effortless style, the physical strength and power to excel at the game. He had a physique like yours.” Moreland had been speaking with spontaneous enthusiasm but he stopped abruptly.
“Very sadly, Uncle Jared died young,” Cecile told their guest softly. She knew the comment had simply slipped out, borne of her grandfather’s obvious liking for their visitor. Her grandfather rarely spoke his dead son’s name. Nearly thirty years later, the pain was too great.
“I am so sorry,” Montalvan answered quietly, briefly raising his hand to touch Joel Moreland’s shoulder.
“Thank you.” Moreland bowed his silver head.
“So where are you staying, Señor Montalvan?” Cecile asked with a return to her normal fluent poise.
“Why, with us, Ceci dear,” Fiona Gordon, who had been Justine’s chief bridesmaid and was in fact one of Cecile’s godmothers, smiled fondly.
“Bruce and Fiona have been very kind to me.” Montalvan flashed the couple a smile that was simply marvelous, Cecile thought. It had much to do with his fine white teeth against his deep tan, but it went further, lighting up his whole face.
Yet another powerful tool in his seductive armory, she thought, listening to him say he couldn’t impose on Bruce and Fiona much longer.
“I’m thinking of leasing, perhaps buying an apartment overlooking the harbor,” he told them. “As I’ve come this far, I intend to make my stay fairly lengthy.”
“You have no one at home demanding your presence?” Stuart asked with the faintest lick of challenge. “Not married, I take it?”
No wife in her right mind would allow this man to roam at will, Cecile thought, acutely aware she was hanging on his answer.
“I’m still waiting for the coup de foudre, as the French say.” Oddly, Montalvan echoed Cecile’s earlier thoughts. “May I congratulate you on your engagement.” He returned Stuart’s gaze directly.
“You may,” Stuart answered, blue eyes very bright. “Getting Cecile to say yes wasn’t all that easy, but she’s made me the happiest man in the world. Or at least as happy as Daniel on this day of days. It’s been the perfect wedding.”
“Indeed it has!” Justine gave a voluptuous sigh of satisfaction. “I can’t wait until Cecile and Stuart tie the knot. You’ve no idea, Mr. Montalvan, how long I’ve been planning it in my head.”
Cecile, glancing across at her father, caught the rueful expression in his eyes. Planning was Justine’s forte. What she planned had to come off.
THE CELEBRATIONS WENT ON long after the bride and groom had left for Darwin airport on the first leg of their honeymoon trip, which would take them to Hong Kong for a few days, then on to the great capitals of Europe. Sandra had thrown her beautiful bouquet from the upstairs balcony into a sea of smiling, upturned faces and waving, raised arms. There was a great deal of laughing and scuffling, especially on the part of the chief bridesmaid, Melinda, who had her eye on a certain someone in the bridal party, but despite the fact Cecile had just stood there smiling, the bouquet flew to her as though carried on guided wings. Because she made no move to catch it, it came to land on someone directly behind her who, with a swift movement of the hand, sent it back over Cecile’s bare shoulder and into the arms she hastily raised. Sandra’s bridal bouquet was much too precious to allow to fall to the ground.
“Oh, good for you, Ceci!” Melinda, disappointed, declared.
“Isn’t that sweet? You’ll be next, Ceci darling!” An elderly Moreland relative flashed her an arch smile.
There were shouts of delight, exaggerated groans of disappointment. Stuart, who had been cheering the loudest threw his arms around her and kissed her mouth. “That settles it, Ceci. We are next!”
Cecile kept her eyes fixed steadily on the beautiful waving bride on the balcony.
She knew exactly who was behind her, it wasn’t her mind that told her. It was her body. She could feel him, feel his aura the warmth off his skin, the unique male scent of him that she inhaled into her nostrils. Jubilant at her side, Stuart got into a long, laughing exchange with another guest about where the bouquet had actually landed before being catapulted over Cecile’s shoulder. “All’s well that ends well!” he cried, and swooped to kiss Cecile again, reveling in the knowledge he was a much-envied man.
She ought to turn around. She had to turn around. She managed to do so, her eyes locking on his. The graceful little remark she made sounded quite natural and perfectly composed. It was important she did not let him see how much he affected her. Of course he did know.
She could weep for her own susceptibility. Especially now when she had given up thinking any man could evoke such a response. How could such things happen so fast? Nothing seemed real. Nothing was as it had been before. It was as simple and as momentous as that.
WITH THE BRIDE AND GROOM GONE, the party kicked up several more notches. Moet flowed like the water from a great fountain. Inside the house, the older guests settled into comfortable armchairs and sofas, relishing the opportunity for a good long chat away from the boisterous young ones. Youth was so wearing. Outside the music from the band was so compulsively toe tapping it had couples everywhere up and dancing: on the brightly lit terrace and in the grounds where the trees had been decked with thousands and thousands of fairy lights, around the huge pool area where they risked getting splashed. There was a lot of hilarity, a lot of flirting, abandoned kisses in the scented darkness, holding hands. Everyone clung to the magic of the day, the marvelous haze of pleasure. No one wanted it to end.
CHAPTER THREE
CECILE KNEW the moment he would come to her, though her head was turned away. She had, she realized, been waiting for him, as though she waited for him every night of her life. She had even deliberately engineered the moment she would be alone, by sending Stuart off for a cold drink she didn’t want. She could see Stuart in the distance being detained by a group of their friends, which included a slightly tipsy Sasha who was holding on to his arm as if she didn’t intend to let him get away. Her grandfather, who was enjoying himself enormously, was a good distance away from her, as well, his handsome silver head thrown back as he laughed at something one of his cronies said.
So finally, they were alone.
She hoped he couldn’t see she was trembling. She moved back into the protective shadows, realizing every defense she had consciously or unconsciously raised over the years to protect herself lay demolished.
“A pretty spectacle?” He indicated the nighttime scene with a turn of his hand. It was a dazzling kaleidoscope of brightly colored dresses, many of them full-length and sweeping the grass. The illuminated gardens were extravagant in their beauty, their intoxicating fragrance unleashed by the warm air. The great shade trees stood like beacons of light, covered all over with tiny white bulbs that pulsed like stars.
“Yes, it’s beautiful,” she agreed quietly, thinking the man beside her added his own element of splendor. “Everything has gone so well. Granddad waved his magic wand and it all happened.”
“The Man with the Midas Touch!”
Something in the way he said it, a barely perceptible nuance, wasn’t quite right. She turned her head toward him. “So you’ve heard that already?”
He gave her a slight smile. “I couldn’t tell you how many times.”
“I’m very proud of my grandfather,” she said, startled he had thrown her onto the defensive when, really, he had said nothing out of place.
“And he adores you.” Was there the barest trace of mockery in that fascinating voice? She had the idea there was.
“That’s fine by me. I adore him.”
“I saw that very plainly. Would you care to dance?” he asked, not taking his eyes off her face. “I would have asked you earlier, but your fiancé has never left your side.”
Until you sent him away!
She recognized that uncompromising little voice, resisted the accusation though her stomach gave a lurch. How could she say to him she was afraid to dance with him? It was a very strange sensation having a man’s aura wrap her like a flowing cloak.
“I’m a little out of breath from the last dance,” she said in a low voice, mortified there was a throb in it.
His eyes dropped for a mere moment to the rise and fall of her breasts. “Come, Ms. Moreland. I regard that as an excuse.”
“It is an excuse.” What was the point of saying otherwise? The silent communication between them was as keen as a blade’s edge.
“You ought not refuse me,” he told her ever so gently. “I’m a visitor to your shores. I think I can say I have your grandfather’s approval. But most especially because I was the one who caused the bridal bouquet to fall right into your arms.”
“I realize that, Señor Montalvan.” She couldn’t laugh or smile.
“Please…Raul, I insist. Señor Montalvan is much too formal. I freely admit I maneuvered the bouquet because I was intrigued you weren’t making the slightest effort to catch it. Why is that?” He held out his hand. “Come, you can’t plead fatigue. You look like you could dance right through the night.”
She was so acutely conscious of him she almost wished she were wearing gloves. Once again skin on skin proved so electric it was as though one or the other had thrown a switch. She had never experienced anything like it in her life. There had to be some scientific explanation. Did he feel it? She was certain he did. She felt once again the rough calluses. Why wouldn’t he have them, a cattleman and an experienced polo player? They moved out of the shadows and he pulled her near, very quiet about it, yet she had the strangest sensation her body was unfurling like a flower. Where was Stuart now? Stuart, her safety net?
She had to say something, anything. This entire sizzling scenario couldn’t be happening to her, but it was. “The party doesn’t appear to be winding down.” She was grateful her voice wasn’t shaking like her hands. Dancing was a source of innocent pleasure and relaxation. It could also be a potent form of lovemaking with a certain person.
“Even the children are still running around.” There was a note of amusement in his tone. “I wouldn’t dare guide you anywhere near the pool. It’s fun watching them splash, but I couldn’t bear to see your lovely gown marked. Not many could wear a gown the color of crystal rain unless they were beautiful and had eyes like the diamonds you wear at your throat.”
Her heart skipped many dangerous beats. “A charming compliment, but the color of my eyes is genetic. Both Daniel and I inherited our gray eyes from our grandfather.”
“Gray doesn’t say it,” he said, studying her face so intently he might have been trying to discover her whole history.
She had half hoped closer contact might lessen some of his mystique, anything so she could regain her balance, but the excitement was fierce.
They were moving in a dream, their steps melding and matching as though their bodies were no surprise to the other. Indeed she fit so perfectly into his arms she wondered if those strong arms would leave an imprint on her. It was so wonderful, so exciting, so scary, she grasped as she had never done before how attraction could overpower. And with such violent attraction came the potential to destroy lives and ruin reputations.
The band segued into a haunting romantic ballad that struck a chord deep inside her. The blood coursing through her body was full of sparkles, hot sparkles from all the electricity that raced up and down her spine. She felt a dull heavy ache in the pit of her stomach as though she was about to start her period, which she wasn’t. She knew what it was: powerful sexual desire that acted like an erotic charge. It brought on a physical change in her, like deep contractions in the womb. She, who had been brought up to be a fluent conversationalist as befitting a cultured young woman, could say nothing. Excitement was growing inside her at a tremendous rate. She couldn’t shut it off. She was in thrall, so much less of herself, much, much, more of him.
Once his cheek touched her temple as he whirled her away from another couple, also intent on each other. She felt the faint rasp of his beard on her soft skin. He was a beautiful dancer. She might have known that from the way he moved. Did they have golden pumas in Argentina? she wondered. She was taken by the image. He was beautiful as a man can be beautiful, with an undeniably exotic air, but she couldn’t see his Spanish heritage. His eyes were more a velvety brown than black. His hair so thick, and well-groomed, was a warm caramel softened by those sun-kissed streaks. If she hadn’t known he was Argentinian and heard for herself that fascinating hint of accent, she wouldn’t have known exactly where to place him. If Daniel had introduced an adventurous friend back from wandering the world, she would have accepted it readily. Suddenly there were many questions she wanted to ask him.
Not a good idea, Cecile! Her warning voice struggled to get through again. He’ll only be here for a short time. Then he goes back to where he belongs. Much wiser to keep your distance.
Too late to tell her that now. She had moved into a new, potentially dangerous dimension.
Her grandfather had taken a strong liking to him—she knew her grandfather well—which meant lots of invitations would be issued to the visitor. Her own time in Darwin was short. When her vacation with her grandfather was over, she would have to return home to Melbourne to her work. For the past four years she had achieved her ambition, practicing as a child psychologist in a large private hospital that had excellent accreditation. It was work that was important to her, a career choice perhaps influenced by her own struggle in childhood. At any rate she had another life.
But how to shut him out?
Look on it as a brief encounter, the voice in her head instructed.
One could live a lifetime in an hour.
“So quiet?” he murmured. She had removed her lovely headdress, revealing a waterfall of raven hair that flowed straight and glossy down her back to her shoulder blades. From a central parting, the sides were secured behind her ears by two glittering leaf-shaped diamond clasps. It was a classic style that greatly appealed to him.
“I’m not usually.” She allowed herself one roving glance across his face. His mouth was beautifully cut, firm but sensual. She wanted to reach out and touch it very gently with her finger, trace its outline. “You understand,” she murmured, “weddings are very moving occasions.”
“This one in particular,” he agreed, drawing her, unprotesting, closer.
Thousands of twinkling lights from the trees poured over them. There was a cry from a night bird somewhere close by. Two perfectly pitched notes, in a descending cadence.
It was repeated.
God! She could hardly bear it! Her heart was thudding so hard it had to be moving the bodice of her gown.
The ache in her stomach wasn’t fading—it was growing. It tormented her she could feel this hungry for sex. It was no romantic longing and so relatively harmless. She wished for sex with a perfect stranger. The very thought threatened her ordered life and disassociated her from her engagement. She could have been one of her own patients: an adolescent whose hormones raged out of control.
