Александр Суворов. Сергей Тимофеевич Григорьев

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.”

      She was grateful for that small mercy. Taking charge of the smaller suitcase herself, she pushed the large suitcase through the front gate.

      “That the lot?” he asked, as though his back had seized up.

      “It’s not exactly a lot.” For the first time she looked directly into his face. He was handsome. Thick dark hair, clear tanned skin, eyes neither brown nor green but a mix of the two. “If I need anything else it can be sent on.”

      “Nice place you’ve got there.” He was looking back at her contemporary single-storey home. It had great street appeal. She had lived in it, furnished to her tastes, for the past three years. Her father had given her the substantial deposit. He would have bought the house for her but she had insisted she pay it off. “Is it yours?” he asked, as though she were renting.

      “It will be when I pay it off,” she answered dryly.

      During the drive to the airport he made little attempt at conversation. He did, however, deign to ask what she did.

      “I’m a schoolteacher.”

      “Schoolteacher, eh?” He made it sound jaw-crackingly dreary.

       “Well, up until fairly recently. I enjoyed teaching, but now I want to concentrate on my writing.”

      “That won’t bring you in much,” he commented, with droll disdain.

      “Perhaps not.” She was struck by his young-man arrogance. “And what about you? You’re a cattleman?” He didn’t look it. He might have been a male model. He didn’t look tough either, in the way she imagined a man of the land would look.

      “Bret’s the cattle baron,” he offered, all sarcasm now. “I’m the second son—the off-sider.”

      He made it sound like a drop-out. “Does that bother you?”

      He shot her a sharp sideways glance, as if reassessing her. “I wouldn’t change my life. Bret is the boss. I lag a long way behind. I wouldn’t want the job anyway.”

      Most probably he couldn’t handle it.

      “Too much hard work, too much responsibility. No downtime. We all know all work and no play makes for a dull guy. I wouldn’t want to handle the business side of things either. Bret is the brain.”

      Which let him off the hook. His brother Bret wasn’t a dull guy, Genevieve was prepared to bet. Despite Derryl’s claim he didn’t want the job, and his feigned nonchalance, she had an intuitive grasp on the nature of the brothers’ relationship. Bret Trevelyan would be the strong one—Master of Djangala.

      “And you have a sister? Romayne?” She got off what she recognised as a touchy subject. “Such a beautiful name. One doesn’t hear it often.”

      “Ah, I see you’ve read up on us.”

      “A little. I am coming to live on the station for some months.”

      “Working for dear Aunt Hester.” Sardonic emphasis on the dear. “She’s got it into her head she wants a history of the Trevelyan family. Only problem is she’s not a writer. That’s where you come in. She used to be a very good pianist. Studied here and in London. Can’t play now, which I count as a blessing. She used to go on and on for hours. Mercifully she has arthritis in her hands.”

      “That’s a shame,” Genevieve said with genuine sympathy. “Her playing would have given her great pleasure and comfort. Music has such power to soothe. You’re fond of your great-aunt?”

      He gave a theatrical sigh. “Impossible! Aunt Hester is a real old tartar. I’m not surprised no one wanted to marry her, for all the dowry she could have brought to a match. You’d think she was the Grand Duchess Anastasia, the way she acts. The only one she loves and listens to is Bret. He’ll get her money as well—not that he needs it.” His tone couldn’t conceal a raft of hidden resentments.

      She knew she was deliberately trying to draw him out. “Surely she loves you and your sister?”

      “Yes. Romayne’s married. Happily, thank God. Not much happiness in our family. Aunt Hester never took any notice of Romayne and me. Romayne is the image of our mother. Know about her?”

      She answered with care. “Not really, Derryl. I know your father is dead. I know your parents were divorced. Is that right?”

      He shrugged a shoulder. “You’re going to hear it anyway. A pretty shabby affair, but it happens—even with royalty. Mother ran off with a family friend. Apparently she longed for a different life. Our father got custody. Our mother allegedly begged for Romayne, her girl. Dad told her to push off. There was no question of Bret’s going to live with her. Bretton was the heir. Our father’s longed-for Number One Son. Even as a kid Bret knew what his life was going to be. His destiny, if you like.”

      “You don’t sound all that happy with your lot, Derryl?”

      His answer was a curl of the lip. “Not so easy to get away. Bret holds the purse-strings. He administers the family trust. Sometimes I feel trapped in a wasteland. At least Bret sent Romayne off with a splendid dowry, just like in the olden days. Not that her husband can ever get his hands on it. Bret saw to that. Romayne is financially secure for life, no matter what. Needless to say she worships the ground Bret treads upon.”

      To inspire such love Bret Trevelyan couldn’t be all that bad, Genevieve thought. She shifted the conversation on to more general topics. Derryl evidently liked wallowing in self-pity.

      Even at a distance, Bret Trevelyan radiated a powerful charisma. He broke away from a small all-male group as they pulled up, coming towards them. He was tall, very lean, but powerfully built, with straight wide shoulders and a body naturally endowed with virile grace. The group of cattlemen stood beside a very impressive twin turboprop she recognised as a Beechcraft King Air. One of her father’s most important clients was a retail magnate who had recently bought the eight-seater, and employed a regular pilot. The Trevelyans’ little run-about had cost millions.

      That wasn’t fair. She knew the King Air was the toughest aircraft in its class. It could take off from both major airports and short gravelled runways, which would be a big plus in the Outback. There was another important factor: it could operate effortlessly at high altitudes and under extreme weather conditions, which it no doubt would encounter.

      Up close, the Trevelyan lineage was apparent in both brothers. Only Bret Trevelyan appeared to be a man of a higher order. It was in the way he held himself, the way he moved. Indeed, it was hard to take her eyes off the man. She found him to be wonderful-looking. He had such an air of authority,such presence. Moreover, he had all the toughness she had found wanting in his younger brother.

      “Ms Grenville?”

      There was total composure in his voice, a self-assurance that would instantly inspire great confidence in him. He was inches taller than his brother—well over six feet. 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