Bride at Briar's Ridge. Margaret Way

began to swing higher. ‘The garlands are a lovely idea, don’t you think? The flowers spring from these little planter boxes fixed to the base of the swing. See?’ She slowed to point them out. ‘It’s the most amazing garden. I love it. I expect fairies with wonderful sparkling wings hold midnight parties here.’

      He could feel the impact of her—her beauty and mystique—in every cell of his body. ‘Do you suppose they ask mere mortals to join in? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to the wedding?’

      She flew a little higher. ‘It didn’t seem to me we would meet again.’

      ‘Oddly, I don’t believe you.’ A good thing she was a featherweight, but he was still getting anxious. He didn’t want to see her fall.

      Abruptly she slowed again. ‘Perhaps you’re too sure of yourself?’ She knew she sounded touchy, prickly, but she couldn’t seem to control it.

      ‘And the idea upsets you? What sort of man do you like?’ He moved, his hands reaching out for the flower-decked chains, testing them. They held very firm under pressure and he began to propel her forward.

      ‘I’ll recognise him if I ever find him!’ she exclaimed, sounding a little breathless.

      ‘Tell me. What’s a young woman like you doing here all by yourself on a swing?’

      ‘All by myself?’ Briefly she met his eyes. ‘I thought you were with me, pushing me?’

      ‘Aren’t I expected to in such a situation? Hold still for a moment,’ he cautioned, as on a downward motion a thick green tendril sprang out from the vine and hooked into her hair.

      Immediately her small high-arched feet in their pretty high-heeled gilded sandals anchored her to the ground.

      He freed her. A small thing, but it hit him hard. She put up a hand to smooth her hair a mere second before he drew his away.

      Skin on skin. He could have been wrong, but it seemed like an effort for both of them to pull away. Was he crazy? He wanted to pull her off that swing, pull her into his arms, make love to her there and then. Such was his physical turmoil.

      Perhaps something of what he was feeling got through to her, because she gave him a look that came close to a plea. ‘It’s better if we return to the reception.’

      ‘As you wish.’ He inclined his head. ‘Is there any particular reason you don’t want to be alone with me, Daniela?’

      His use of her name affected her. He had a good voice. A voice to listen to. Voices were important to her. She slid off the seat of the swing, then stood to face him. ‘You flatter yourself, Mr Mastermann.’

      ‘I think not,’ he contradicted. ‘And it’s Linc. Or Carl, if you prefer.’ His mother had been the only one to call him Carl. ‘Lincoln was my mother’s maiden name. It’s something of a tradition within pastoral families to include the mother’s maiden name among the baptismal names.’

      She tilted her luminous head. ‘I have heard of it, though I’ve never had the pleasure of mixing in such elevated circles. You say your friends call you Linc? I’ll call you Carl.’ She knew she was being perverse, but she felt a powerful warning to keep her feet very firmly on the ground. Linc Mastermann was a charmer, and a dangerous one. Not for a minute could she forget that. He wasn’t an easy man, either. She had already taken soundings of his depths.

      ‘So tell me about you?’ he was asking as they moved out of the glade. ‘All I know so far is you’re Daniela Adami. You’re home from London—your grandfather told me—where you were sous chef in a famous three Michelin star restaurant. Why did you come home, given you had such a great career going for you? Or do you plan to go back some time soon?’

      She took her time answering. ‘I’m here to see my family. I’d been missing them so much. Italian families are like that. They crave togetherness. Besides, I haven’t had a vacation in quite some time.’

      He wondered briefly, cynically, if his family were missing him. Chuck would be, but Chuck had found himself a girlfriend—Louise Martin. He couldn’t have been more pleased for them. Louise was a great girl. ‘You were born in Italy?’ he asked.

      She shook her head. ‘I’m first-generation Australian. Everyone in my family loves Australia. We feel at home here, but my parents and my grandfather like to make a trip home to Italy at least every couple of years to see relatives.’

      Again he had to bend his head beneath flowery boughs, while she passed beneath them unscathed. ‘I spent a whole year in Italy after I finished university. Rome, mostly,’ he told her.

      ‘They do say all roads lead there.’

      ‘Ecco Roma!’ he exclaimed, falling back effortlessly into Italian.

      She paused to look up at him. He was so very much taller she had to tilt her head back. ‘Your accent is good.’

      ‘I must have a good ear,’ he said. ‘At least that’s what I was told. For someone born in Australia, you still retain a trace of your accent.’

      ‘I know.’ Just the merest flash of a smile. He all but missed it. ‘We’re bilingual as a family. Actually, I speak French as well. It’s been a big help to me in my line of work.’

      ‘As a chef?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘I’m surprised you don’t speak fifteen languages.’ He made an attempt to get a bigger smile from her. Longer. ‘Sing, paint, play the piano, maybe even the harp? What you don’t look like is you eat much of your own cooking!’ he mocked gently. ‘You’re what? One hundred and two, one hundred and four pounds?’ His downbent gaze lightly skimmed her petite figure.

      He loved her dress, just a slip of a thing that left her golden arms and lovely legs bare. Low oval neck, short skirt—simplicity itself. Only what it was made of turned it into a work of art.

      ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ she asked, turning her great dark eyes on him almost with censure.

      ‘Actually, I was looking at your dress. What is it made of? Beribboned lace?’

      She kept walking, twirling a perfumed pink blossom in her hand. ‘If you must know it’s embroidered crocheted cotton by a top designer.’

      ‘Okay, I’m impressed.’ He laughed in his throat.

      ‘Thank you.’ She coloured just a tiny bit. ‘I bought it in London. It wasn’t cheap.’

      ‘Worth every penny, I’d say,’ he said dryly. ‘You should never take it off. So, how long is the vacation going to be?’ How much time did he have? God, was he mad? This woman was drawing him deeper and deeper beneath her spell.

      ‘I’m in no hurry to go back,’ she said.

      She couldn’t tell him she feared to go back. She had told no one. Not even her family. Gerald Templeton, the only son of a very wealthy and influential upper-class family, a man about town in swinging London, had in a short period of time become obsessively attracted to her—to the extent he had turned into a stalker when she’d told him she no longer wanted to see him. It wasn’t beyond him to follow her to Australia if he could track her down. All it took was a plane ticket.

      He saw the shadow that crossed her face. ‘Sounds like this vacation is more like an escape?’ He was following a gut feeling. Chuck always did say he was good at interpreting vibes. Besides, one could learn crucial things through instinct and gut feelings.

      She said nothing. She reached out to pick another flower, twirling it beneath her small straight nose. ‘You told me you were interested in the Callaghan place—Briar’s Ridge?’ She changed the subject.

      He nodded. ‘Very much so. I have Alana’s okay; now I have to get her brother’s. I only met Kieran today, and we haven’t had time to talk. I heard he’s become a real someone in the art world, and I know Alex