The Australian. Diana Palmer

to lunch with his mother, Diane. She kept to herself, and her parents seemed delighted by the sudden maturity in their daughter.

      They couldn’t know that it was killing her not to see John, to think of being thousands of miles away from him. But she was deliberately trying to put him out of her life, so that the parting wouldn’t be so rough.

      The hours and days dragged, but at last Monday came, and she packed for the long drive to Brisbane, where she’d catch her flight to Hawaii. It was the most miserable morning of her entire life.

      “Aren’t you even going to tell John Sterling good-bye?” Renée asked, her face concerned and full of love.

      Priss’s back stiffened a little, but her face was smiling when she glanced at her mother. “I thought it might be better not to,” she said.

      “Why?”

      Priss shrugged. Her eyes went to her folded blouses. She fit them carefully into her carry-on bag. “I don’t think I could stand having him shout for joy,” she said with a nervous laugh.

      Renée went close and put her arms around her daughter. “Not John. John wouldn’t do that to you. He’s fond of you, Priss; you know that.”

      “Yes, but fond isn’t enough,” Priss ground out, fighting tears. She lifted a tortured face to her mother. “I love him,” she whispered.

      Renée hugged her. “Yes, I know. I’m so sorry, darling,” she murmured, rocking Priss as she had years ago, when her daughter was little and hurt. “I’m so sorry.”

      Priss hugged her mother again and smiled wanly. “You’re a terrific mother, did I ever tell you?” she asked. She wiped away the tears. “I’m okay now.”

      “You’re a terrific daughter,” Renée said with a smile. “I’ll leave you to pack. Your father and I are going into Providence for a little while. He’s got to get something or other done to the car.”

      “Okay. Be careful.”

      “We will.” Renée kissed her daughter on the forehead. “It gets better, if that helps,” she added gently. And then she was gone, and Priss stared helplessly at the suitcase, hating it for its very purpose.

      She finished putting in the blouses and went into the kitchen to check the dryer for spare articles. She found a lacy slip and was just pulling it out when she heard a car pull up. Surely it wasn’t her parents, she puzzled; they’d hardly been gone ten minutes.

      She went to the back door, opened it, and looked out. Her heart shot up into her throat at the sight of John Sterling climbing out of his Land Rover.

      He was wearing khaki trousers with a short-sleeve tan bush shirt, and under the wide brim of his hat, he looked even more formidable than usual. Priss, with her hair loose around her shoulders, in her pretty blue shirtwaist dress and white pumps, felt suddenly vulnerable.

      He looked up as he reached the steps and stopped there, just gazing at her.

      “You’ve been avoiding me,” he said without preamble.

      She twisted the slip absently in her fingers and studied the soft pattern in the lace. “Yes.” She glanced up with a forced grin. “Aren’t you relieved? I’ll be gone by afternoon.”

      He hesitated for an instant before he came up the steps. “Got something cool to drink?” he asked, sweeping off his hat. “It’s damned hot.”

      “I think there’s some iced tea in the fridge,” she said. She tossed the slip onto the dryer and filled a glass for him.

      He took it from her, standing much too close. He was scowling, as if his mind was working on some problem. He took a sip of the tea, and her eyes were drawn to his brawny hair-roughened forearms. He was so sexy, and some lucky woman was going to grab him up before she was old enough to.

      She felt more miserable than ever. She’d promised herself she wasn’t going to cry, even if he did manage to get over to say good-bye. But now it was the eleventh hour, and he’d be rushing off any minute. He was probably here to see her father, anyway.

      “Did you want to see Dad?” she asked, turning the knife in her own heart.

      “I wanted to see you,” he corrected curtly. “To say good-bye. Weren’t you even going to bother?”

      She shrugged, staring down at his dusty boots. “I...I don’t like good-byes,” she managed in a voice that was already starting to break. The thought of not seeing him for months was killing her, and this was making it worse. She didn’t know how she was going to live in a world without him.

      “What’s this?” he asked softly. His big hands, cool from holding the tea glass, caught her arms and turned her, forcing her to look at him.

      Her full lips wobbled no matter how she tried to control their trembling, and her big emerald eyes were misty with tears. Silvery blonde hair curled around her oval face, and her cheeks were flushed with emotion. The picture she made held his attention for a long minute. His eyes wandered down to the top buttons of the blue shirtwaist dress, and he studied her body as if he’d only just realized she had one.

      His hands smoothed up and down her arms, slowly, making wild tremors of pleasure shoot through her.

      “Homesick already?” he asked quietly.

      She drew in a sharp breath and tried to smile at him, but he blurred in her vision.

      He was a blur of brown hair with blond streaks through it, sky blue eyes staring curiously at her from that weathered face that she loved so dearly. It was a long way to look up, even though she was wearing high heels. He towered over her like a sunburned giant.

      “You’re so big,” she whispered.

      “To a runt like you, I probably seem that way,” he agreed pleasantly, but his eyes weren’t laughing. They were dark and quiet and oddly watchful.

      She fidgeted under the arousing touch of his hands. “I should finish packing,” she mumbled.

      His thumbs pressed hard into her arms. He moved his callused hands up to enclose her face, and the look in his eyes made her knees weak.

      “Don’t look so tragic, darling,” he murmured, bending his head. “I’ll wait for you.”

      That hurt most of all. He was teasing her, playing with her, because he knew how she felt and was indulging her. Her eyes closed. “John...” she tried to protest.

      He brushed his lips across her forehead, and she wanted to wail. He was trying not to hurt her....

      “Do you want my mouth, little sheila?” he whispered suddenly, unexpectedly, and her heart shot up like a balloon.

      Her eyes opened, full of dreams and hurt pride and aching hunger, and his nostrils flared.

      “Yes, you do, don’t you?” he asked under his breath, and his face was solemn, intent, making her feel years older. He bent his head, letting her feel his warm breath on her parted lips.

      Her body tautened, demanding to feel his against it; her mouth lifted. All her dreams were coming true at once, and the look in his eyes made her heart run wild. Her body pressed against his tentatively, shyly. She loved his warm strength, the powerful muscles tensing where her breasts were flattened slightly against him. He smelled of the outdoors, and cologne and tobacco, and her senses reeled.

      “I’ve only been kissed once,” she whispered nervously, her eyes wide. “Playing...playing spin the bottle. And his mouth was wet and I didn’t like it.”

      His fingers traced soft patterns on her flushed cheek, and they seemed to be the only two people in the world. “Stop dithering, little one,” he said quietly. “I don’t mind kissing you good-bye, if you want it.”

      “If,” she whispered shakily. Tears were stinging her eyes. “Don’t you know that I’d walk across blazing coals to get to you...?”

      His