By Request Collection 1. Jackie Braun

are—almost—beyond the black stump.’

      ‘Now you tell me,’ she quipped, and closed herself into the cabin.

      She immediately discovered that Haywire might be remote, and might resemble a safari camp in some respects, but its cabins were sturdy, beautifully appointed and had very modern bathrooms.

      The double bed had a sumptuous thick-looking but light-as-air doona covered in an intricately embroidered cream-linen cover, with four matching pillows. It was also a four-poster bed. There were paintings on the dark-green walls and the carpet was the kind your feet sank into in a soft sea-green. There was a beautiful cedar chest, two armchairs and a delicate writing-desk with cabriole legs. The bedside lamps had porcelain bases and coral-pink linen shades.

      The bathroom was a symphony of white tiles, black floor and shiny chrome taps. Lime-green and lemon-yellow was echoed not only in the towels and the robes that hung behind the door but in the cakes of soap and toiletries all provided in glass bottles, with an ornamental ‘H’ for Haywire entwined with a ‘W’ for Wyndham.

      She took a hot shower and changed into a pair of clean jeans and a long-sleeved blue blouse that matched her eyes. She thought about wearing her heavy shoes as protection against any snakes on the loose, but decided her feet needed a change, and slipped them into her ballet pumps.

      As usual she spent a few minutes grappling with her hair; she’d washed it, but in the end merely pushed her fingers through it and left it to its own devices. She’d discovered that very few people with curly hair actually appreciated it, whilst many who did not have it thought it would be marvellous to do so. She grimaced at her reflection as she recalled the agonies in her teens when she would have given her eye teeth to have straight smooth hair.

      That Brett Wyndham didn’t seem averse to it occurred to her—and, since she had five minutes to play with, she sat down in one of the armchairs and thought about him.

      In particular she thought about that charged little moment out in the ute when their gazes had locked and she’d been so aware of everything about him. Not only that, but she’d sensed it was mutual. Where could it ever lead? she wondered. There was something about him she couldn’t put her finger on. Yes, she’d decided he was a loner—it was pretty obvious he lived the kind of life that didn’t go well with domestic ties—but was there something even more remote about him?

      If so, did it come from his broken engagement to Natasha Hewson or did it go deeper than that?

      She frowned as she suddenly remembered what he’d said this morning about going into areas he didn’t want to go to. What could that be about? she wondered as she cast her mind over all the material she’d collected from him the previous evening. None of it had been especially riveting, mostly family history, history of the area and some anecdotes…Hang on!

      She paused her thoughts as it struck her that those few anecdotes from his formative years had included his brother Mark, his sister Sue, his mother, who was a doctor, and his grandparents but not one word about his father. Wasn’t that a little strange?

      She shook her head, more than ever conscious that Brett Wyndham was an enigma. She also had to concede that there was a spark of chemistry between them—more than a spark. She couldn’t deny there were times when she loved his company, even though he’d so incensed her at the beginning, but she also couldn’t deny her wariness.

      Of course, some of that was to do with what had once happened to her, but who would wittingly fall in love with an enigmatic loner? She posed the question to herself.

       Chapter Five

      SHE didn’t encounter any snakes or frogs on the way to dinner. In fact, Bella came to meet her as she opened her door and escorted her.

      ‘You are a lovely dog,’ she said to Bella as they arrived, then, ‘Wow—this looks amazing!’

      Oil lamps hung from the rafters, shedding soft light. The table was set with colourful, linen place mats, pewter and crystal, and a bowl of swamp lilies. There was a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket, and there was the tantalizing smell of roast beef in the air.

      Brett had obviously showered too; his hair was damp and spiky and he’d changed into khaki trousers and a checked shirt. He looked devastatingly attractive, Holly thought privately.

      ‘Champagne?’ he invited, lifting the bottle by its neck and starting to ease the foil off.

      ‘Yes, please.’ Holly looked around. ‘I must say this is amazingly civilized for beyond the black stump.’

      ‘We do our best. Champagne, Sarah?’ he called.

      ‘No, thanks,’ Sarah called back. ‘I’m in the midst of dishing up; I’ll have one later.’

      ‘Has it always been like this—Haywire?’ Holly asked, and lifted her glass in a response to Brett’s silent toast.

      ‘More or less,’ he replied and shrugged. ‘Ever since I can remember, although the cabins have been renovated and more mod cons put in. But I never wanted to change this.’ He gestured comprehensively.

      ‘I’m so glad; it’s magic,’ Holly said enthusiastically.

      Not a great deal later Holly said to Sarah, ‘That was fantastic,’ as she put her knife and fork together and pushed her plate away. ‘Not only roast beef but Yorkshire pudding.’

      ‘I am a Yorkshire lass,’ Sarah revealed as she stood up and began clearing plates. ‘There’s fruit and cheese to come, and coffee.’

      ‘Please, let me help,’ Holly offered.

      ‘No way! I am being paid to do this. You and Brett relax,’ Sarah ordered.

      Holly breathed a little frustratedly. She didn’t really want to be left alone with Brett—well, she did and she didn’t, she decided. But she felt tense about it; she felt jittery.

      On the other hand, she didn’t want to force herself on Sarah in the kitchen. Some cooks hated having their space invaded with offers of help.

      She got up, but stood undecided beside her chair, and it seemed to show in her face.

      She saw Brett watching her rather narrowly and wondered what he was thinking. Then she realized, as his dark gaze flicked up and down her figure, that he was thinking of her in a particular context—the awareness that continued to spring up between them—and she felt herself colour; she turned away, biting her lip.

      He was the one who solved the problem. He said, ‘I’ve got a few things to do, a few calls to make. Why don’t you look through the albums? It might give you more background material.’

      She turned back. ‘Albums?’

      He indicated the library area and some thick albums arranged on a teak table. A comfortable armchair stood beside the table and a lamp above it shed light.

      ‘There are photos going way back; there are visitors’ comments and press cuttings.’

      ‘Oh, thank you! I will,’ she said eagerly, but didn’t miss the ironic little glance he cast her. In fact, it caused her to bridle as she stared back.

      But he only shrugged and drew her attention to a drawer in the table that contained pens and paper, if she wanted to make notes.

      ‘Thank you,’ she said stiffly. Feeling foolish, which didn’t sit well with her, she waved her hands and recommended that he go away and leave her alone.

      ‘By all means, Miss Harding,’ he said with soft sarcasm. ‘By all means.’

      Holly ground her teeth.

      An hour later she looked up as he came back into the library area, then put her pen down and stretched.

      ‘Finished?’ he enquired.

      ‘No.