The Australians' Brides. Lilian Darcy

by years of sun and wind. “I have this novel somewhere,” she confessed. “Not finished. Miles from finished. A few early chapters and some notes, and snatches of dialogue from a couple of big scenes later on.”

      “Was it any good?”

      “Listen to you, asking me something like that!” She laughed and leaned her hip against the wood. They were like two strangers propped at a bar, trading life stories with loosened tongues.

      “It’s a really naive question, isn’t it?” he said. “Sorry.”

      “No, no, it’s not naive. Well, I guess it is. But it’s good naive. No one in L.A. would ever ask that question because of course I’m going to say it’s good. I’m trying to sell it, aren’t I? I’m going to put the right spin on it, package it into a sound bite. Do you know there are people in the industry there who can talk up a project so well that they get development money for script after script even when they’ve never actually written a word?”

      “They’re the ones who sound like they’re not writers.”

      “Truth is, Callan, I have no idea if my novel is any good. I have no idea if it’s important. Finishable. Remotely saleable. I just have no idea.”

      “But you must have known, once.”

      “I think it’s been dying inside me for a long time.”

      “But you think dawn in the North Flinders Ranges might bring it back.”

      She shook her head again.

      “Yes.” He rolled his body ninety degrees so that they faced each other. “Because that’s where this started. You were telling me why you loved our dawn, and why you needed to see new things. Because you’re a writer.”

      “Let’s find Lockie’s Game Boy.”

      “You hope you can get it back. Being a writer, I mean.” He put his hand on her arm. “You really want to get it back. It’s important to you.”

      “It’s not your problem, Callan.”

      “No, but I can understand—” He stopped suddenly. “No, you’re right, it’s not my problem.”

      She knew there was more he wanted to say. Or didn’t want to say, but could have said. The words stayed locked inside him, powerful and important in some way.

      Stuck.

      Too scary.

      Her thigh was pushing lightly against his. They weren’t pretending anymore. He held her softly, weighing their options as he weighed her in his arms. Let each other go, or pull tighter? Hey, Jac? What do you want? The same as me? Yes, I know what you want ….

      She looked up into his face.

      New.

      She hadn’t known him at all two months ago, and even after the magazine article and the cocktail party, this face had only existed in her memory like a few snapshots and video clips. E-mailing him, she had remembered the first smile of relief he’d given her when he’d realized she wasn’t serious about the Outback Wives thing, either, and his quiet good manners the following evening when he’d brought her and Carly the gift and the flowers.

      She’d kept his picture from the magazine and, to be honest, she’d looked at it a couple of times. Learned it by heart, along with all the things the picture said about him.

      New, but fascinating.

      He wasn’t smiling. His mouth was flat and closed and smooth. She liked its shape. She loved his eyes, and the lines of his brows and jaw. Above his mouth, she found a small stretch of skin that he’d missed this morning when he’d shaved. She brushed it with the ball of her thumb, the way she’d have brushed a streak of dirt from Carly’s face, and it felt rough.

      She waited for him to make the next move—it sounded too clinical and cold, putting it like that—but he didn’t. He didn’t let her go, either, just kept that light hold, and watched her watching him. She could still feel the roughness of the beard stubble on her thumb, long after she’d taken her hand away. The tension built and became unbearable. He bent his head, suddenly, and pushed his forehead against her neck, whooshing out a breath into the soft angora of her sweater.

      “Oh, Lord, Jacinda!”

      “I want to kiss you,” she blurted out, because someone had to say it, someone had to take some action.

      “I want to kiss you, too.”

      “So do it. Please?”

      He was so tense, she could feel it, every muscle knotted tight enough to hurt. He breathed against her neck this time, then touched his mouth to her skin there, the movement dry and soft. He made a sound deep in his chest, imprinted his lips on her skin once again. They were so warm.

      She waited.

      For more.

      Oh, Lord, this was unbearable.

      Wonderful and unbearable.

      Why didn’t he move?

      You might have thought he was holding a grenade with the pin already pulled. They both stood turned to stone … except that stone was never as warm and alive as his body. She couldn’t hold on to this any longer; she wanted to force that mouth to move on her neck, to come and find her.

      Tilting her jaw, she rubbed her face against him like a cat. She tightened the press of her body, rocked her hips a little. He was aroused. She could feel it. Finally—finally!—he moved to find her lips, only brushing them at first, then softening his mouth, tasting her.

      “Yes,” she said. The word was part of the kiss. “Like this.”

      It was such a relief to get there at last, such a release. She wrapped her arms around his neck, parted her lips, felt the pleasure spinning through her, tasted the faint notes of peach and vanilla in his mouth. He wanted this, so she didn’t disguise her own need, deepened the contact until they were drinking each other and tangling their tongues. She gave him everything with her kiss—thanks and hunger and happiness and hope.

      That was what you had to do, at some point. You just had to give yourself to it and wait until afterward to see how it felt, what you wanted next, what the repercussions might be.

      Yes, she and Carly were leaving in three and a half weeks, going back to Sydney. Two days after that, they’d fly out of the country, to a future she hadn’t begun to work out yet. But none of that was enough of a reason never to kiss this man, never to give or to explore.

      She gave some more, slid her hands around and ran them down his back, over the tight curve of his denim-clad backside. She pulled him closer. Mmm. Their legs pressed harder together, and she knew he would feel her breasts, too, not Hollywood huge but neat and nice and female.

      Mmm, Callan.

      She let the hot mound at the top of her thighs squash against his hardness, the denim of two pairs of jeans diluting the intimacy. Oh, but she wished the denim wasn’t there! She wanted his fingers dragging aside the lace edge of her underwear, wanted everything he could do to her, wanted the words he would say, and the convulsive tensing of his whole body.

      It was like jumping into the water hole. You started, you ran, you yelled, and you didn’t want to stop. She just hadn’t expected the idea of stopping to feel so impossible and wrong. She didn’t care that the air had started to chill, that the sand would be hard and scratchy and cold, that they might get spied on by mythical bunyips, she just wanted.

      Him.

      The escape.

      The heat.

      The newness.

      How long did it take her to understand that he hadn’t traveled toward the same place?

      Too long.

      He had to drag his mouth and his legs away before she realized, before she sensed