The Australian Tycoon's Proposal. Margaret Way

When she had first come here Gilly had cleaned them out so she could use Ludwig for a cubby house. The greatest miracle of all was she had never been bitten by a snake though she had seen plenty and took good care to tread carefully.

      On her right were the magnolias and palms galore. Fan palms with fronds four feet across. There were always shrubs blooming; oleander, frangipani, hibiscus, gardenia, tibouchina, Rain of Gold, the colourful pentas grown en masse, as were the great clumping beds of strelitzias—Bird of Paradise, and the agapanthus. The unbelievably fragrant but poisonous daturas, called the Angel’s Trumpets, were in flower, the enormous white trumpets dangling freely from the branches.

      Through the trees she could see the dark emerald waters of the lily pond. A lagoon really, a natural spring. Dozens of glistening cup-like sacred lotus and their pads decorated the glassy surface. A small sturdy bridge had been built across the pond many years ago. Now the latticed sides hung with a delphinium-blue vine, the long trails of flowers dipping down to the water.

      The banks of flowering lantana hadn’t been touched. The pink lantana attracted the butterflies, gorgeous specimens, lacewings, birdwings, cruisers, spotted triangles, the glorious iridescent blue Ulysses. They flew around the great sprawling masses of tiny clustered flowers, wings beating in a brilliant kaleidoscope of colour. In the back garden grew every tropical fruit known to man. Mangoes, paw-paws, bananas, loquats, guavas, passionfruit, custard apples, and all the citrus fruits, too, lemons, limes, mandarins, grapefruit, cumquats. There was even a grove of macadamias, the now native Queensland nut transported from Hawaii by an enterprising businessman.

      “I love this place,” she breathed. “It’s always been my sanctuary.”

      He glanced at her, taking in her dreamy expression. “We all need a sanctuary at certain times. Otherwise we have to get out there into the world.”

      Her mood was broken. “Are you implying Gilly didn’t?”

      “I was thinking more of you.”

      “I don’t follow.”

      “Don’t sound so cross,” he answered. “It just struck me in passing you might be harbouring thoughts of turning into a recluse.”

      “I prefer to think of it as finding a life of Zen-like purity and simplicity.”

      Bronte turned her head away pointedly.

      “You’re a bit young for that yet,” he said. “Solitude is great from time to time, but there are hardships associated with living in isolation.”

      “I’ll bear that in mind.”

      The driveway opened out into a wide circle that enclosed a very charming three-tiered fountain, the largest bowl supported by four swans. The fountain had been out of action for years, now it was actually playing. “Have we you to thank for the massive clean-up?” She didn’t sound at all grateful and was rather ashamed of the fact. But she intended to stick to her guns.

      “I feel better if I can do a good deed now and then,” he said. “I told you, Gilly is my friend. She’s remarkably sprightly but she’s seventy-six years old.”

      Was that a dig? “No need to remind me. Did she pay you?”

      His green gaze was lancing. “I told you, it was a good deed.”

      “You mean it was a big project.” It must have taken weeks, even months.

      “So? I could handle it. Are we going to get out? You first. I’ll follow.”

      Ordering her around already. In the act of opening the door Bronte turned back sharply. “Are you coming in?”

      “Fear not,” he mocked. “It’s only for a short time, I have Gilly’s provisions in the back. Cold stuff in the esky that needs to go into the fridge. I thought I told you?”

      “I have a short attention span, I’m afraid,” she announced haughtily, standing out on the drive where her toes suffered another assault from the gravel. She stared up at the house. A green and white timber mansion. Of course it had been built for a large prominent family who had loved entertaining. These days its upkeep was a monstrous burden to Gilly though she’d rather die than admit it. The house was perched a few feet off the ground on capped stumps, a deterrent to the white ants. In her childhood one could scarcely tell where the jungle finished and the homestead started. Today the old colonial was revealed in all its enchantment.

      Low set, with verandahs on three sides, twin bow windows flanked the front door. Their position was matched by the hips on the corrugated iron roof. The verandahs were enclosed by particularly fine white wrought-iron lace visible at long last because the rampant creepers that had obscured it for many years had been stripped off. The house had been recently repainted its original glossy white. The iron roof had been restored to a harmonious green matching the shutters on the French doors.

      “Your work, too, no doubt?” She turned her head over her shoulder to where Action Man was unloading the 4WD.

      “Like it?”

      “I love it!” she muttered. “Either you’re a philanthropist on the grand scale or you have an ulterior motive.”

      “Believe as you will, Bronte.” He shrugged as if he didn’t care a jot.

      Picturesque as the homestead undoubtedly was, what made it so unique was the spectacular setting. In the background, on McAllister land was the unobstructed view of an emerald shrouded volcanic plug. It rose in a cone-shaped peak with a single curiously shaped hump. Gilly had always called it Rex as in Dinosaurus Rex. Rex stood sentinel over the house. The peak wasn’t high, only around four hundred feet but it looked magical against the peacock-blue sky.

      “If you’re finished admiring your inheritance you might like to take a box or two,” he called. “Some of them aren’t heavy.”

      “Let me get these sandals off first,” she responded tartly. “They looked great when I first set out. Now they’re killing me.”

      He carried the bulk of the provisions in and he wasn’t even puffing. Sometimes it must be good to be a man. There were quite a lot of cardboard boxes. Obviously Gilly had stocked up for her visit. She never did remember Bronte didn’t eat nearly as much as she used to as a child when she’d been unfillable. Not that she’d ever put on an extra ounce. Of course as a child she’d been in touch with her legs. The modern child rode in cars and sat cross-legged in front of the television. She and Gilly had tramped the forest. Every morning, except in the rain, she had walked the track to catch the school bus. Every afternoon the bus driver left her at the same spot.

      Yes, she was ideally suited to a Spartan existence.

      “So, why don’t you freshen up while I put these away?” he suggested.

      What a cheek! She swept her long wavy hair off her nape. “Go to the devil!”

      He raised a mocking brow. “Do you mind! You’re a prickly little thing, aren’t you? Not a bit like our Gilly.”

      “I’m not little at all,” she flashed. “And she’s not your Gilly. I just look little beside you. What are you, six-six?”

      “Not even in high heeled boots. It’s a good thing you’re not in search of another husband, Bronte.”

      More insults. “You don’t think I could get one?” She was amazed to see a man in Gilly’s kitchen. A man so at home there.

      “Easily, for the pleasure of looking at you. But…”

      She bristled at what he left unsaid. “Well, you don’t have to worry. Or are you married?”

      “Married, no. But I’ve been Best Man.” His eyes swept over her. The high-bred face, so touchingly haughty, the delicate height, the silky masses of her long hair, curling up in the heat, the wonderful colouring. “I’m a committed bachelor at the moment. I have to notch up a few achievements before I’m ready to ask a woman to marry me.”

      “Really?”