Master of Maramba Read online

  This beautiful young woman wasn’t in the least what he wanted as a governess.

  He had to be mad. Yet Carrie’s light fragrance filled the interior of the car with such images of spring blossom and sweet breezes.

  Carrie glanced out of the window. “My stepmother is under the impression you and I are having a secret affair.”

  “So what did you tell her?”

  “Only that you were a friend. That you were divorced and you have a little girl.”

  “Nothing about coming back with me to Maramba?”

  She was shocked by the effect of his words on her. “I wasn’t totally sure you wanted me,” she confessed.

  “You really want this job?”

  “At the moment I desperately need it,” she admitted frankly.

  Margaret Way takes great pleasure in her work and works hard at her pleasure. She enjoys tearing off to the beach with her family at weekends, loves haunting galleries and auctions and is completely given over to French champagne “for every possible joyous occasion.” She was born and educated in the river city of Brisbane, Australia, and now lives within sight and sound of beautiful Moreton Bay.

  Books by Margaret Way

  HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®

  3595—A WIFE AT KIMBARA*

  3607—THE BRIDESMAID’S WEDDING*

  3619—THE ENGLISH BRIDE*

  3664—HUSBANDS OF THE OUTBACK

  special 2 stories in 1 book with Barbara Hannay

  MARGARET WAY

  Master of Maramba

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER ONE

  SHE didn’t see the car until it purred right up to her. A big opulent Jaguar. Platinum. This year’s colour. Only seconds before she had scanned the jacaranda-lined street: traffic moving at a clip along the terrace, nothing in this narrow side street where she always tried to park when visiting her favourite uncle, in fact her only uncle. James Halliday of Halliday, Scholes & Associates, solicitors and tax advisers to the seriously rich. The busy professional area which included architects, engineers, town planners, and two very trendy but non-flashy interior designers, was fully parked except for the spot she’d had the great good fortune to drive into as another driver moved out. There was a space of sorts behind her suitable for a pokey little car like her own. She’d tried that in the past with the rear end showing the scars. No way could the driver of the magnificent Jag, she could see it was a man, squeeze into the spot. The thought gave her a certain perverse satisfaction.

  Carrie locked her car, hoping the Jaguar would glide past, instead the occupant drove alongside, coming so close she could feel the familiar agitation start up inside her. She flattened her whole body against the side of her own car watching in sick fascination as the driver turned his coal-black head over his shoulder preparatory to putting the limousine into reverse.

  The usual male derring-do. This one had more than his share.

  No way could he miss hitting the trunk of the jacaranda tree unless he knew the exact dimensions of the Jag and the spot down to the last millimetre. She knew she was staring after him, her upper body now slumped sideways giving every appearance of a woman who had narrowly missed being run over. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She only knew she couldn’t control her reactions. Ever since her accident she’d lost her emotional equanimity becoming almost a stranger to herself, fearful, wary, her nerves running on overdrive.

  While she awaited the ker-uuun-ch the driver confounded her by manoeuvring that great big car into that teeny little space, startling her into unwilling admiration. But it happened sometimes. Especially with men. Even the total idiots among them seemed to know exactly how to reverse park. Had it been another woman she would have burst into applause but no such luck for his lordship.

  Carrie looked away, pretending utter indifference. Her heartbeats had quietened now she was free to go about her business, realising at the last minute she’d forgotten her sunglasses and the spring sunshine was dazzling. Shafts of it flashed through the lacy canopy of the trees. Another month and they would be out in glorious lavender-blue flower, an event the whole subtropical city of Brisbane looked forward to. Except maybe the students. Jacaranda time. Exam time. She knew all about that. An honours graduate from the Conservatorium of Music. Winner of the Gold Medal for outstanding achievement. Winner of the National Young Performers’ Award for her playing of the Rachmaninoff 2nd Piano Concerto. Accepted into the prestigious Julliard Academy in New York. A young woman with a very bright future.

  Until the accident.

  With an unhappy shrug, Carrie opened the door, reached in, and picked up the glasses, before giving the door a good healthy slam to work off excess energy, panic, irrational hostility, whatever. She’d have a lifetime to come to terms with her broken dreams. A whole world opened to her. Now shut.

  She turned, watching the man get out of the car. He was looking straight at her, something questioning in his expression as though he saw things going on in her face. Or her heart. The thought shook her. She had instant impressions of her own. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark tanned skin but with a healthy glow. As tall as Mount Everest and just as impressive. Very likely a huge source of income. An aura like that only came with tons of money. But he wasn’t deskbound. Too powerful. Hard muscles rippled beneath his beautiful, elegant city clothes. The walk was purposeful, athletic, the action as superlative as the powerful cylinders of the Jag. If a halo of light had surrounded him she wouldn’t have been a bit surprised. The tan hadn’t come from lying around on the beach, either. He put her more in mind of some godlike explorer gazing off into sun-scorched infinity. The Red Centre. The Dead Heart. She particularly liked that image. It seemed to suit him yet she stared back as though he were transparent. She had to find someone to hate today. He was it. Mr. Heartbreak, Mr. Trouble, Mr. Larger than Life. Men who irradiated their surroundings always were.

  “Have a problem?”

  Like the rest of him his voice riveted her attention. Overly authoritative from where she was coming from. Super-confident, super-resonant, dark in colour. A man of substance and it showed. She assumed he was the boss of a huge corporation. A guy who gave orders all day while other people jumped. Not her. She prided herself on kowtowing to no one, though her body carried the odd conviction something significant was happening to her. Why was he looking at her like that? She was feeling the impact right through her body.

  Yet she answered coolly giving off her own aura. “Not in the least. I share your enthusiasm for parking in cramped spaces. Only I didn’t think you could make it.”

  “Why not? It wasn’t difficult.”

  He sounded amused. Carrie watched him approach her, billowing that male aura. He stopped just before it completely enveloped her. Above-average height for a woman he made her feel like a doll with a slight case of hysteria. It was way too humbling. And it stiffened her backbone.

  His brilliant eyes—how could black eyes be filled with such light?—continued to sweep her, missing absolutely nothing including the tiny heart-shaped beauty spot above the swell of her right breast.

  “I had the decided impression you thought you were about to be run over?”

  “What, on the basis of a raised eyebrow?” she parried.

  “Actually you appeared to crumple. You couldn’t really have been frightened. Were you?”

  “Of course not.” She tasted a faint bitterness at the back of her throat.

  “I’m glad,” he answered. “You were in absolutely no danger. Perhaps you h
ave a thing about male drivers.” He answered mildly, she considered. For him. “Pretty much all of us can park better than our womenfolk. Your left rear tyre is rammed into the gutter by the way.”

  Carrie didn’t give him the satisfaction of turning to look. “I’m not one of the world’s greatest parkers I admit.” She made it sound as if one only needed to be if one drove an armoured truck.

  “That’s perfectly clear,” the vibrant voice lightly mocked. “Be assured I’m not sore at you.”

  “I didn’t imagine you were.”

  “Then confess. Why so nervous? I’m almost positive you’re nervous. Why? It’s broad daylight. I don’t normally make women uneasy.”

  “Are you sure?” He couldn’t fail to hear the astonished irony in her tone.

  “It’s obvious you don’t know me.” The jet-black eyes glinted over her as though no one but no one spoke to him this way. “Look there’s no traffic,” he pointed out in an unexpectedly gentle voice, glancing up and down the street. “Would you like me to escort you to the other side?”

  And let him touch her? This dominating man. She didn’t dare. She held up her two palms, then dropped them in one graceful gesture.

  “Surely you jest?” She spoke sweetly when she could cheerfully have pushed him over. An enormous not to say impossible job.

  “I jest not.” His mouth was handsome, sensual in cut, but very firmly held. “You on the other hand seem to be kneading the hem of your skirt.”

  She glanced down. She was, too. Another nervous habit. “All right, if you must know I thought you came much too close to me.”

  “You should talk to somebody about it.”

  “About what?” Colour whipped into her cheeks, antagonism into her tone.

  “I suppose the best word would be phobia.” He looked squarely at her.

  It was a big mistake to have spoken to him at all. “You’re saying I have a phobia?” She gave him what she thought of as her dagger look. “That’s a bit much for a complete stranger?”

  He seemed mightily unimpressed, shrugging a nonchalant broad shoulder. “Seems very much like it to me.”

  That was the final straw. To be caught out. So easily. By a stranger. Carrie turned away so tempestuously her thick silky amber hair whipped around her like a pennant in a sea breeze. “Have a nice day,” she clipped off.

  “You, too.” He sketched a brief salute, watching her stalk away, on her beautiful long legs. Sort of angry. And it showed. She was muttering something to herself as she went.

  Then abruptly she turned, like a woman determined on having the last word. Point of honour. He almost laughed aloud.

  “I hope you’re not planning on parking there too long?” she threw at him with that rather tantalising hauteur. “An inspector might just wander by. It’s not actually a parking space, you know. I should warn you. I might be forced to back into you in order to get out. You’ve virtually jammed me in.”

  “Not at all.”

  He moved with dark energy to double-check, giving her a sudden smile that did strange things to her. Formidable in height and demeanour—his employees probably addressed him staring at his feet—that smile was extraordinary, making nerves twitch all over her skin.

  “Anyway I’m not worried,” he pronounced casually. “Just leave your name and address under the wiper should anything go wrong.”

  “I’ll try very hard to see it doesn’t.”

  How could he be enjoying this? he thought. He almost never got into conversations with strange young women. And this one was not only hostile, but intriguingly familiar. A firehead to match her rare colouring. Hair like a good sherry with the light glinting through it. Beautiful clear skin with an apricot blush. Golden-brown eyes, almost a topaz. Her hadn’t seen a woman with such clarity for years. And she was just a kid. She carried the beautiful scent of youth with her. Probably ten or more years his junior. He would be thirty-two his next birthday. A thirty-two-year-old divorcee with a child, Regina. He cared about her deeply. But the devastating fact was Regina wasn’t his child. She was the result of one of Sharon’s affairs. Funny the young woman who was stalking away from him had put all thought of Sharon out of his mind.

  “Take care!” he called after her. “You city girls are so damned aggressive.”

  Carrie despite her avowed intention found herself stopping. Wasn’t that strange. City girls. “So where do you hail from?” she challenged, wondering what imp of mischief had taken possession of her. He was Someone. She was sure of it.

  “A long way from here,” he drawled.

  “And here was I thinking you’re the sort of man who always knows what to expect.”

  “Careful,” he said. “I might be still here when you get back.”

  Carrie waved a backward hand as though everything he said was of no real importance. She supposed she was being very rude but crossing swords with that man had helped to bring a little pleasure into her blighted young life. She’d never had an experience quite like that. But then as far as she knew, he hadn’t, either. Maybe he would be there when she returned. The little flurry of excitement made her furious at herself.

  James Halliday’s secretary announced her arrival like an aide might announce a candidate for a court investiture, Carrie thought. She’d known Ms. Galbally since she was a little girl but the secretary had never once veered from the very formal. As a child and adolescent she’d always been Catrina, not Carrie. Once she turned eighteen she became Miss Russell. Ms. Galbally was a middle-aged saturine woman of handsome appearance and Carrie knew other people found her intimidating, but according to her uncle she was just about “perfect.” So much for appearances, Carrie thought trying but not succeeding in looking honoured.

  “Carrie, sweetheart!” Her uncle himself opened the door, handsome, genial, charming, fifty and looking nothing like it, four years older than her late mother but very much like her in appearance which was to say like herself, ushering her into an office as big as Central station but cosy as a den. It had a great view over the river; the walls were mahogany-panelled, lined with deep antique bookcases holding leather-bound legal tomes, a series of excellent quite valuable architectural drawings took up the rest of the wall space along with a few striking oil paintings, seascapes in gilt frames. James Halliday was a well-known yachtsman.

  A magnificent Persian rug, all wonderful dark blues and rich rubies adorned the discreetly carpeted floor. Glass display cabinets set off a few choice pieces of James Halliday’s collection of Ming dynasty Chinese porcelain, heralding the fact James Halliday was a collector, as well. An enormous partner’s desk held centre court with a splendid high-backed chair ranged behind it. It was abundantly clear her uncle was doing very well. But not as well as her father who owned a large city electrical firm.

  The two men did not get on. Different personalities; different interests; different callings. Carrie loved both of them but from her mother’s side of the family she had inherited a great love of the “arts,” a sphere that held little interest for her father, her stepmother Glenda and her stepsister, Melissa, three years her junior.

  “Like some coffee, darling?” James Halliday asked, looking at his niece searchingly but with great affection. She had suffered a devastating blow and in many ways it showed. Her characteristic sparkle had banked down but he knew in his heart she had the inner resources to pull through this major setback to her life’s plans.

  Carrie sank into a plush, leather-upholstered armchair, sighing gently. “I’d love it. No one drinks coffee at home anymore,” she added after James put through his request. “Glenda has convinced Dad it’s bad for him. Bad for everyone. She doesn’t like my buying it, either. I’ll have to move out. It was always going to happen. Now I’m not going to New York, the sooner the better. Dad won’t be happy but he’s not around much to know just how things are between us.”

  “It’s the greatest pity you and Melissa aren’t close,” James mourned.

  “Isn’t it? Glenda’s fault, I’m sur
e. Mel would never have felt the way she does if Glenda hadn’t stirred up such feelings of jealousy.”

  “I know your stepmother has made life difficult for you.” James confined himself to a single remark when he wanted to say lots more.

  “She never wanted me, Jamie. She didn’t want a ready-made child who just happened to be the image of her husband’s first wife. I swear to this day she’s jealous of my mother.”

  James nodded his agreement. He’d seen too many upsetting signs of it. “She can’t help it. It’s her nature. We both know, too, she’s deeply resented your talent. All the attention you got because of it, prizes and awards. It singled you out.”

  “And not Mel. Still, she doesn’t have to worry now,” Carrie said wryly.

  “You’re still a highly accomplished pianist,” her uncle reminded her, himself devastated by the crushing results of her accident.

  “It doesn’t seem like much of a compensation. To think I had to be involved in a car crash the very day I got news I’d been accepted into the Julliard. Fate taking a nasty turn.”

  “It was a tragedy, sweetheart, but you can’t let it ruin your life,” James warned. “You need time to recover, then you have to pick up the pieces. It could have been very much worse than broken ribs and a crushed little finger.”

  “That won’t stand up to the rigours of a career. I know. I’m trying, Jamie. Really I am, but it’s hard. The funny part is, Dad is sad for me but he’s relieved, too. He didn’t want me going off overseas. He wants me at home. Safely married. He wants grandchildren in time.”

  He wants. He wants, James thought. He’d wanted my beautiful sister but never made her happy. Trying to confine her fine spirit as he had never succeeded with his daughter.

  “Your father has many good qualities but he isn’t musical.”