Книга - The Cattle Baron

The Cattle Baron
Margaret Way


The Place: North Queensland, Australia. A land of fierce contrasts, of astonishing beauty - and fatal dangers. A land of secrets…The Man: Chase Banfield. A true Australian aristocrat - the master of Three Moons, a historic cattle station.The Woman: Rosie Summers. A reporter known for her fearlessness - and her stunning looks.What brings Chase and Rosie together is a search for Egyptian artifacts. There's reputed to be two-thousand-year-old evidence of an ancient Egyptian presence on Banfield land, and despite his reservations, Chase agrees to an expedition. What keeps him and Rosie together, though, is something very different….






“You’re going to say no.”


Rosie felt a surge of disappointment. Not least because it meant she’d be losing all contact with him.

Chase shook his head. “I can’t bury my disquiet,” he said. “I’m of two minds about whether or not to allow an expedition like this on Three Moons. Still, it was great to see Mick show such enthusiasm. He’s always been on about the Egyptian connection. A lot of people up here still are.”

She stared up at him. “And you?” she asked.

He threw her a sidelong smile. “I’ll admit this is all fascinating stuff. I do have an imagination—but I also have a cattle station to run.”

“Yet you’re afraid to let us go off by ourselves?”

He answered with some force. “I’m afraid to let you go off, Miss Summers. I appreciate that you’ve had terrifying times covering your war stories, but you can equally well get lost or killed in the jungle.”

“I’m game,” she said with a shrug. “But let me point out that you, Mr. Banfield, are the ideal man to head this expedition.”

“What would I get out of it?” he demanded.

A nearly audible chord of excitement vibrated in the air between them as attraction assumed real shape and substance.

Rosie had never felt so vulnerable in her life, literally quaking. “You can hardly be suggesting we become lovers.” Even saying it aroused her….


Dear Reader,

For years now, I’ve wanted to write a book about an ancient Egyptian presence in Australia. This is it!

My interest was captured as a young woman when I read in the paper about a find of hand-forged Egyptian bronze, copper and iron tools, pottery and coins dating back more than two thousand years. This discovery took place on an excavation site less than thirty miles from where we lived. The following year, five hundred miles away in tropical North Queensland, an Egyptian calendar stone, gold scarabs and gold coins were found.

There’s a well-known story of a North Queensland cattleman who used to serve his dinner guests off gold plates fashioned from melted down gold coins found on the station!

Objects that appear to be from ancient Egypt have also appeared in Western Australia and New South Wales.

These finds excited me. I had been an avid student of ancient history in high school, perhaps because of a vivid and romantic imagination, so I knew quite a lot about ancient civilizations. Egypt has always had a strange fascination for me, akin to my love of ghost stories and the supernatural. Perhaps you feel the same way.

So was there an ancient Egyptian presence in Australia? My heroine, Rosie Summers, thinks so, although cattle baron Chase Banfield is skeptical. See what you think!

Margaret Way




The Cattle Baron

Margaret Way









The Cattle Baron




CONTENTS


PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

AN INTERVIEW WITH MARGARET WAY




PROLOGUE


3500 B.C.

The Great South Land

BURU BURU CROSSED the beautiful crystal river without incident, though a gigantic crocodile cruised downstream, its massive head turned Buru Buru’s way. The crocodile’s yellow eyes were open, unmoving, narrowed against the molten brilliance of the sun. Another crocodile almost as monstrous had taken up a position on the white sandy bank of the crossing, steadily watching its territory. Buru Buru was not afraid. He chanted a magic song beneath his breath. These were Dreaming Crocodiles, sacred to his people, keepers of the tribe’s secrets, its ancient rituals.

Inside the enormous reptiles lived mythical beings, spirits from the Eternal Dreamtime, which held every black man in its stream. The black man’s culture had existed since time began; now it was pressed to desperation by the arrival of the copper skins, who worshiped strange gods and turned everything to fear and anguish. These frightening newcomers had come from the sea. Not on rafts or in the small long-nosed bark canoes the men of Buru Buru’s tribe used to hunt fish and turtles, but in large painted vessels that moved swiftly like the clouds.

In the early days of the terrible invasion, many of his people had been captured and killed, too bewildered by what was happening to run and hide. The people of Buru Buru’s tribe were gentle, peace-loving, unused to violence. The dreadful debbil-debbils came from a different world. A world where men killed fiercely for no reason Buru Buru could understand. They even killed one another, laying their victims on a great ceremonial stone slab as though proud of the blood that dripped from the sorcerer’s dagger. These tall invaders with their cruel sharp features and beaks of noses, not wide at the base like Buru Buru’s own but thin and straight. The lips were cold slashes over strong white teeth. More frightening, they were strong. Bigger, heavier, than the men of Buru Buru’s clan, their tall lean bodies wrapped from waist to knee in something softer and more supple than the finest woven grasses. The women, unlike his own women, covered their breasts, their heavy long hair swinging to their shoulders, bound around the forehead with shining ornaments unfamiliar to Buru Buru’s eyes. The women of Buru Buru’s tribe wore flowers or the colorful feathers that fell from the wings of legions of birds. Like Buru Buru’s people, the newcomers were constantly in search of food, and they had better weapons for the hunt. They protected their bodies, too, with heavy glinting shields fashioned from something Buru Buru could not divine. But even the best of them lacked his own people’s skills, especially with the spear, which was shorter than the newcomers’. Worse, they had dared to take and keep many of the tribe’s boomerangs, which only the black man had the right to carry. This and other punishable sins, such as the desecration of a sacred site for their place of worship, had called down the wrath of the Great Ancestors, whose power was far beyond that of the debbil-debbil’s gods.

The Great Ancestors governed the land and everything on it: man, animals, vegetation. The Great Ancestors owned the bright yellow gibber stones the newcomers hunted so avidly along the mighty river’s banks, even risking the spirit crocodiles who crushed many for their transgression between powerful jaws. Still, the invaders courted such death. And for what? To make their pretty ornaments? Their little figures? These yellow stones washed down by the yearly floodwaters had been known to Buru Buru’s people since the beginning of time. They saw little value in them, except perhaps for the children, who liked to make them skip across the stream, watching the bright pebbles skim the waters before sinking beneath them. The black people knew the great source of these riverine fragments. The mother lode was buried in sacred rock walls, veins of it like jagged lightning on the dark stone. Much as the newcomers sought this sacred place, they would never find it. Let them continue to wash the stones of river sand in their vessels. They could never obtain the bright ribbons embedded in the sacred rocks.

But the worst offense of all, and for which the invaders had been condemned to die, was the bringing of sickness to Buru Buru’s people. Before the invaders arrived, diseases had been few among the tribes; now there were many, many deaths. The Great Ancestors had shown their wrath in the night skies. This was the time. As an important ritual leader, Buru Buru had sat in council. Punishment by death except in extreme cases, like violations of sacred law, was itself a terrible offense. But because of the great grief and chaos the debbil-debbils had caused, the council had spoken.

He, Buru Buru, who could move like a shadow, had been instructed to scout out the camp, to choose the exact moment. Deliberate killing would come hard to his men. Physical violence was not an accepted code of behavior. But the black man would be merciful. The end would come quickly and without warning. Under the cloak of night, the potent drink the copper skins used in their ceremonies would be laced with the juice of certain magic berries collected by the women of Buru Buru’s tribe. The juice did not kill but induced a strange state where a man could see visions or enter a trance during which he would be rendered incapable of retaliation. Then the fighting men would move into the enemy camp. Great in number, the whole of Buru Buru’s clan had been called in from the mountain rain forests, the coastal streams, the offshore islands, all along the blue sea with its wondrous beauty. Great hunters, all of them, with intimate knowledge of the land and its creatures. His chest heaving, Buru Buru climbed up onto the bank at the very moment the great crocodile on the flood plane drove its massive claws into the sand, propelling itself down a smooth slide into the river, where it sank below the sparkling surface amidst a silver spray of water. Buru Buru understood its significance. The Great Spirit inside the crocodile would join forces with the clans to drive the invader out.




CHAPTER ONE


BY THE TIME Rosie reached Finnigans, the bar where she’d arranged to meet Dr. Graeme Marley, distinguished archaeologist from the Sydney Museum, she was already twenty minutes late. He wouldn’t like that, the doctor, although she knew from experience that he was the sort of man who liked to make other people wait. But her lateness couldn’t be helped. Getting through the late-Friday-afternoon traffic had almost wrecked her, held up as she’d been by her interview with a visiting film star who had a well-deserved reputation for minor rages if the questions didn’t go right. Rosie knew how to get the questions right. The meeting had been so successful it had lasted right through a late lunch and well into the afternoon, with Rosie, at least, sticking to mineral water.

Eliciting hitherto undivulged but real information from the famous was her forte. Something that had won her a swag of awards and her own byline with the Herald. She had also done her stint in several war zones, using her skills to inform people at home of the terrible suffering that went on in infinitely less-fortunate parts of the world. The rape and murder of the innocents. Stints like that tore off every layer of skin and caused sweat-soaked nightmares, but she still kept going back. A warrior. Or so she liked to think.

A few journalists she knew were ranged around the bar, exchanging gossip and news, nursing their cold beers while they held vigorous postmortems on yesterday’s headlines and the quality of reportage. They waved her over. Rosie flashed her high-wattage smile, indicating with a little pantomime of her fingers that she was meeting someone else. All of them to a man, and every other male in range, regardless of whether he was with a female companion or not, paused to take her in.

The verdict was unanimous. Rosie Summers was all Woman. She was also a great “bloke,” a respected member of a tough profession. At five-nine she was a bit tall for a woman but had a beautiful willow-slim body. A cloud of naturally curly marmalade hair burst like fireworks around her face; a scattering of marmalade freckles dotted her bone-china skin. In days gone by, Rosie Summers might have been considered plain, all cheekbones, planes and angles, but the sum total fit right into the modern idiom. She had a lovely mouth to balance the high-bridged aristocratic nose and the wide uncompromising jaw, good arching brows, but it was the eyes that got you. Moss-green, they were mesmerizing enough to dive into, full of sparkling intelligence, understanding and humor. She wore her unconventional clothes haphazardly, a bit of this and a bit of that, combinations of unexpected colors and fabrics—like now, with her orange silk shirt, brilliantly patterned scarf, ultra-skinny purple jeans guaranteeing attention to her long, long legs and big burgundy leather bag slung over her shoulder. Yet the whole effect was one of great dash. All in all, Rosie Summers added up to dazzle if you liked her, a little too much of a challenge if you didn’t.

While others speculated about her, Rosie sailed on. It took her a moment to locate Marley, which was odd. He was a man who lived to be seen. Maybe he was hiding from the plebs, she thought, tucked as he was into a banquette at the far end of the room. His heavy handsome head was bent and he was staring into his glass, apparently transfixed by what was in it. He hadn’t aged a minute since she’d last seen him. In what, two years? A brilliant academic, just as brilliant in the field, he had at first refused to be interviewed by her after his important discovery and dating of the Winjarra cave paintings in Arnhem Land in the Northern Territory. From what Rosie could gather, Dr. Marley considered women the very worst interviewers. According to him, they never stuck to the facts. She learned also that he’d read one of her pieces, an interview with a leading politician, and thought it quite dangerous. In his view, politicians had to maintain a facade, not let journalists take the scissors to them. Only when they actually met did Marley turn into “an old sweetheart,” as Rosie later phrased it satirically to her boss. The article, a good one, with Marley saying far more about himself than he’d ever intended, appeared in a national publication and was so well received it spawned a number of television appearances for the doctor, plus a few big donations from the seriously wealthy.

Rosie had met Marley’s wife, surprised that Mrs. Marley had so few obvious attractions when her husband was so striking. Helen was a quiet, almost weary youngish woman who let her husband do all the talking. Rosie figured Helen found it a lot easier that way. The odd time Mrs. Marley had opened her mouth, offering something that Rosie recalled always had a point to it, Marley had turned on her with a tight smile that quickly squashed further intelligent comment. Strangely enough, he had appeared very taken with Rosie, who was nothing if not forthright and highly articulate to boot.

“Dr. Marley?” Rosie approached the banquette. Marley didn’t look up. “Rosie Summers,” she said, wondering not for the first time if Marley did everything for effect. Either that or he’d developed a hearing problem.

But his surprise, as it turned out, was quite genuine. “Roslyn!” He tried to stand up, found the banquette too cramped for his height, sat down again after quickly paralyzing her outstretched hand. “How marvelous to see you. Thanks for coming. I know I was terribly secretive.” For some reason he gave a hearty laugh.

“So you were!” Rosie responded brightly on cue, slipped into the banquette opposite, leaned forward, smiled. “Just enough to fan my interest, at any rate. How are you? You look well. It must be all of two years.” That made him around forty-five, she evaluated.

He nodded, clearly pleased with himself, too. “Hard to believe. I’m glad you were able to come. You’re often in my thoughts. You look terrific, by the way. The very picture of sparkling good health.”

“I make sure I get my full quota of vitamins,” Rosie answered dismissively. “What about you?” She let her eyes rove over him, waiting. There was a story here for sure.

“Things haven’t been all that good for me, Roslyn,” he told her, his nose pinched. “Helen and I have split up.”

Rosie glanced around the room. Anything to avoid eye contact. Good for Helen! Rosie’s spontaneous reaction was based on what she’d seen with her own eyes, but she could scarcely not show sympathy. “I’m so sorry. What happened?”

He took a deep breath, making no attempt to disguise his outrage, a big handsome man important in his field, charming when he had to be. He had a crest of thick dark hair with distinguished silver wings, penetrating light-blue eyes, cared-for supple skin despite all the hours digging up the great Outback, a really fit toned body from regular visits to the gym. On the face of it, his wife should have been mad for him. Obviously she had been, until rebellion kicked in.

“It’s all terribly sad and I suppose predictable.” He shrugged. “Helen was always a retiring sort of girl. An only child of older parents. Quite eminent academics. Helen could have had a career herself, but she chose to marry me.”

“Couldn’t she have had both?” Rosie’s voice was a shade dry. “You have no children?”

He shook his head, brushing the difficulties of parenting aside. “Children need time and commitment. Helen and I decided early in our marriage that we needed to devote all our energies to my career. I suppose you could say she sacrificed herself for me. Of course I asked nothing of the kind. She could have found part-time work at the museum. Cataloging for our extensive library. She was an excellent student.” He shrugged again. “But things didn’t work out. The simple truth was, she came to bitterly resent my success, though I have to admit she tried very hard to keep it to herself. She wasn’t much good with people, either. Poor social skills. You’ll understand I have to attend so many functions, fund-raisers, that sort of thing. I get invited everywhere.”

And revel in it. “Those television appearances certainly helped put you in the public eye.” All of a sudden Rosie realized she had never liked Marley, for all his suave charm.

“Haven’t I always given you credit?”

“So you have,” Rosie agreed. “For a while. So, where’s Helen now?”

He frowned so ferociously that Rosie wondered if quiet little Helen had lost all sense of good conduct and moved in with another man. “Would you believe she’s gone back to university?” He spit the word out as though it was an accusation. “Good God, she’s nearly forty.”

Rosie swept flying wisps of hair from her face. Ah, yes, the superior male. What arrogance! Hadn’t that been her first impression? “I’m sure you regard yourself as a man in his prime, Dr. Marley. Helen hasn’t hit hers yet. I’m sorry you’ve broken up,” she lied. “Perhaps it’s not final? Helen may want to establish herself. She can’t always do what you want.”

Another tight smile. “There’ll be no reconciliation, if that’s what you mean. Helen chose to leave me when I’ve done everything for her. End of story. I’m forced to face the fact that our marriage was a mistake in the first place.”

“I guess Helen thought so, too,” Rosie offered wryly, completely on the unworthy Helen’s side. She was surprised Helen had it in her.

Marley glared at her. “You know, you might be a bit more sympathetic, but then, women always stick together. It’s been a very unpleasant few months. Toward the end, Helen was almost a basket case. Yet her parents had the nerve to tell me it was my fault. I’d been neglecting their little darling. Didn’t I know she’d desperately wanted children?”

“I thought that was one of the things the two of you had discussed,” Rosie reminded him, looking amazed. “Anyway, I’m sorry. I can see it’s really hit you.” High time to change the subject. “So, any more fabulous finds up your sleeve? World scoops for me?”

He brightened instantly, penetrating eyes entirely focused, taking her back to the first time she’d met him, full of pride in his latest achievement, lionized by the academic world. “That’s why I wanted us to meet, Roslyn.” He reached across the table, took her hands, mercifully not using his bone-crusher grip. “I have in my possession a thrilling object. I’ve used the latest testing to date it at some five thousand years old. It was dug up on a far North Queensland cattle station.”

Rosie was less than riveted. “Well. Okay.” She gestured with one hand. “It can’t be Aboriginal, then? You yourself have dated beautifully finished objects many, many thousands of years older than that. Not to mention the Winjarra paintings.”

“They’re not Aboriginal,” Marley snapped. “Give me some credit, my dear. You’ll easily identify the object just by looking at it.”

“Do you have it with you?” Rosie asked more respectfully, deciding to play along.

Marley raised a dark mocking brow. “You surprise me, Roslyn. I need to be very quiet, very careful about this. Oh, I trust you. I trust your integrity. I couldn’t stand to share my secret with any other person. Certainly not a journalist. I am offering you a great scoop, but what I really need from you is your persuasive power. You seem able to influence people. All sorts of people. I’ve made it my business to study your essays, your articles, your reviews. You have the ability to get highly sophisticated people to tell you what you want. More importantly, to get them to do what you want. That’s not easy. It’s a real gift.”

“More or less,” Rosie agreed modestly. “So, who is this you want me to work on? It might help if you put all your cards on the table, Dr. Marley.”

“Please, call me Graeme.”

He gave her a sort of we-understand-one-another smile Rosie wasn’t altogether comfortable with. Although Graeme Marley was undoubtedly an impressive-looking man, she had never felt an attraction. Perhaps it related to his utter self-centeredness. Besides, he hadn’t mentioned divorce, so he was still legally married to the rebellious Helen, who was at this moment throwing off her years of brainwashing. Still, calling him Graeme was hardly a sin.

He sat back, presenting her with an unexpectedly boyish grin. “Lord, I haven’t asked you if you’d like something to drink.”

She went to say, Not for me, settled for, “A Coke will be fine.”

His snort was almost contemptuous. “Really?” He sounded as if she was having him on.

Rosie shrugged. “I don’t drink when I drive.” Though she was starting to feel pretty desperate for a scotch. “I’ve got the trip home, then I have a dinner lined up. I promise you I won’t be driving myself home, however.”

“Anything changed in that department?” he asked smoothly, signaling a passing waiter, giving his order. A Coke with ice for her. Another scotch for him.

“Meaning?” Rosie quickly said. He made it sound as though they were closer than they were.

“One doesn’t think of a woman like you without a man.” He tried a seductive smile, leaving Rosie to believe he’d drunk too much.

“I’m quite happy on my own,” she said simply.

“No disastrous encounters?” The raised eyebrows suggested there was a story.

Rosie lifted her arm to glance at her watch. “I don’t usually discuss my private life. And listen, I don’t have a lot of time. If you could just let me see what you’re talking about?”

He leaned forward, his rich well-oiled voice just above a whisper as though he was about to impart illicit information. “It’s ancient Egyptian,” he said, blue fire in his eyes. “A magnificent stone scarab.”

“I love it!” Rosie wondered if Helen’s defection had affected his sanity. Speculation about whether there’d ever been an ancient Egyptian presence in Australia had been going the rounds for at least a century. Still, it would pay to listen. For now. “So it was found on this cattle station?” she asked.

The light-blue eyes were those of a religious fanatic. “I’m told there’s a pyramid hidden in the rain forest,” Marley said urgently. “Some parts of this station are jungle. There’s a river running through it with its fair share of crocodiles. The nasty beggars have been protected for too long. Some wannabe Crocodile Dundee ought to start up safaris. Let our adventure-loving tourists shoot a few. Anyway, I’m very serious about this. Egyptology may not be my particular area of expertise, but I’m extremely well-informed. I have other objects, as well. Coins, artifacts, jewelry. A cache, no less. I’ve seen with my own eyes rock paintings showing Egyptian hieroglyphics and pictograms, and I’ve spoken to a trusted colleague in the Museum of Antiquities in Cairo regarding translations. Others have blundered around in the past. Rank amateurs, mere enthusiasts who didn’t know how to get a body of evidence together. Academic interest here has always been in Aboriginal rock paintings. Not non-Aboriginal.”

Rosie shrugged, surprised by the intensity of expression on Marley’s face. “Well, I’m no Egyptologist, either!” she said. “Although I was fascinated enough to study ancient history in high school. I know there was a set of gold boomerangs discovered by Professor Carter in the tomb of Tutankhamen.”

“Indeed there was!” Marley smiled at her encouragingly. “There’s also significant evidence that the ancients were well aware of the Great South Land. It’s also certain that the ancient maritime civilizations were quite capable of undertaking extensive ocean voyages. Who’s to say an entire fleet didn’t land in our far North?”

“Certainly not me.” Rosie smiled, momentarily shaking off her skepticism. “May I ask how you acquired your…cache?”

Marley glanced around to check on the waiter’s whereabouts. Obviously a touch paranoid in his current state. “My dear.” He leaned forward, raising his hand to the side of his cheek. “If that got out, I’d have tourists tramping around a sacred site.”

Rosie looked at him thoughtfully. “The cattle station—which one is it?”

The archaeologist knit his fine brows, gaze intent. “My dear, can I swear you to secrecy?”

Rosie sat back, put a hand on her heart. “I swear I won’t tell anyone. But don’t expect me not to check it out.”

“Good for you!” Marley beamed at her admiringly. The waiter set down their drinks and turned to Rosie, giving her an exaggerated wink. Once he’d left, Marley continued. “You’ve probably heard of the place. Three Moons?”

That changed everything. “Now, why didn’t I think of it!” she exclaimed, rubbing her tall frosted glass. “Legendary station and all that. Cattle barons of the Far North. Give me a minute and it’ll come back to me. Something to do with a tragedy.” She picked up her Coke. “I was one of those who covered Senator Lamont’s trip to that part of the world some years back. Banfield. I remember. I met the owner at a fund-raiser.”

Marley looked absolutely delighted. “God, you know him?”

“Met him, Dr. Marley. As in shook hands, exchanged a few words. A largely aloof man, as I recall. Projected a great sense of distance, of incredible detachment. Very refined, wealthy, classy in an iceberg way. Older than you. Early fifties. At that time.”

“But, my dear, he’s not the owner at all,” Marley lamented, all but grinding his teeth. “That’s Porter Banfield. The uncle. He was Chase Banfield’s guardian after his parents were killed.”

Rosie had to think no more. It all came back. “That’s it! A fire.” She shuddered at the very word, plagued by her own coverage of fires over the years. The ferocity of the orange flames, the smoke, the soot, the terrible odors, the human fallout. A fire at Three Moons. How shocking it must have been. The agony, especially for the boy. That could have easily accounted for the coldness of Porter Banfield’s manner. She recalled that, for the brief time they’d spoken, she’d had the sensation they weren’t really speaking at all. But he’d had no hesitation in throwing his money around. The Banfields were royalty in the North. The senator hadn’t qualified for an invitation to Three Moon’s homestead, but it was said to be quite a place, a tropical mansion no less. “That’s okay, then, if Porter Banfield isn’t the person you want me to talk to,” she said with relief. “To tell you the truth, I don’t think he’s very interested in women. Not gay—I think I’d have sensed it. More that he’s one hell of a misogynist.”

“Actually,” said Marley, sounding as if he quite liked the man, “I’ve met Porter Banfield on a number of occasions connected with my work. He’s very well educated, with an encyclopedic knowledge of ancient Egyptian civilization. He’s also a great collector of antiquities.”

Now it was Rosie’s turn to cock a brow. “I thought governments didn’t like their antiquities disappearing out of the country. Like the Elgin marbles,” she added. “I really do think the British Museum should give them back. I’m on Greece’s side.”

“Hardly surprising, with Australia having the biggest Greek population outside Greece,” Marley said facetiously. “Now, if we could concentrate on the matter at hand?”

Rosie frowned at his condescension. “You don’t think I’m capable?”

There was a pause while Marley took another look at her glittering cloud of hair, gold, amber, topaz. “Roslyn, Roslyn, I didn’t say that,” he told her. “I’m just eager to enlist your aid.”

“I hope you don’t want me to be a snoop?”

“I want you to somehow get to Chase Banfield.” Marley gazed earnestly into her face. “He’s not willing to entertain me or even listen to my theories. The station isn’t exactly accessible. The man even less so. He likes his privacy. I have it from his uncle that he strenuously disapproves of any kind of search on his property.”

“I guess he regards the idea of an ancient Egyptian presence in Oz a romantic notion?” Rosie said a little flippantly.

Marley’s handsome face took on a brooding expression. “Probably he has no sense of history. No adventure in his soul.”

“Well, what do they say on the grapevine? For me, I’m just hoping he’s a handsome dashing guy.” Rosie smiled. “Why don’t we just write him a letter? Tell him what you’ve discovered so far. Request his cooperation. I’ve never met anybody—and I’ve met a lot of very rich people—who can’t do with a bit more money. Mention a big reward. The admiration and respect of your peers all around the world. A great scoop for me. A great adventure for him. He’s a frontiersman, after all. But before we really get under way, maybe I’d better look at your findings.” As opposed to your etchings. Rosie’s direct sparkling gaze made that point clear.

“How about dinner tonight?” Marley asked.

Rosie waved away the winking waiter, wondering if he was trying to deliver some message. “Can’t make it. I told you I have a function.”

“Sorry, I’d forgotten. Tomorrow, then,” Marley persisted. “You’ll have to come to my home.”

Rosie was surprised by her wariness of him. A kind of careful take-care instinct—one that didn’t fool her often. “I can’t believe you’ll do the cooking?”

“Come after dinner,” he said. “I think you’ll be particularly interested in a certain piece of jewelry,” he said, as if intoxicated by his mental picture. “It would look marvelous around your throat. Some women can’t wear important jewelry, but you…you just exude presence.”

Rosie gave him a deadpan look. “I got it from my dad. He’s a Supreme Court judge.” No harm in going back to the good doctor’s abode, she supposed. She didn’t anticipate any sexual overtures, although from the odd flash here and there she couldn’t entirely rule it out. Anyway, she had insurance; her mother, who played a wonderful game of golf and tennis, had insisted she learn karate her first year of living away from home. Like her mother, she was the kind of woman who preferred to excel. Weekly classes eventually culminated in a black belt.

Marley put out his hand, clinging to her answer like a drowning man to a raft. “Well?”

“I’m intrigued, as you well know.” Rosie looked at him with her clear moss-green eyes. “But what really mystifies me, given that you know Porter Banfield, is why the man who must have reared his nephew can’t use his influence on your behalf. How could I possibly be more effective than Chase Banfield’s uncle? Surely he would be your best ally?”

“It’s amazing to me that he’s not.” Marley’s expression clouded over. “But by all accounts they’re not close.”

Rosie sipped from her Coke. “Well, that tells us a lot. What kind of men are the Banfields? Both brushed with the same coldness?” she speculated. “Is it a family trait? Or are they victims of the past? One would have thought they’d become very close—unless they were both too terribly scarred.”

Marley waved away Rosie’s musings as womanly affectation. “I really don’t know,” he said, suggesting he didn’t care, either, “but there’s been a whole legacy of strife. Apparently, as soon as he turned twenty-one, Banfield turfed his uncle out.”

“Maybe Chase Banfield had a reason,” she said. “I feel we ought to be fair. Either that, or he’s an ungrateful so-and-so. I can easily do some research on the Banfields. They’re landed gentry. There’s got to be a story, and it doesn’t sound like a fairy tale.”

Marley rolled his eyes. “There’s always a story. Unfortunately it doesn’t help me. Chase Banfield doesn’t share his uncle’s interests. Not in the least. In fact, he derides them. The problem is, if I can’t get to Chase Banfield, I can’t get onto Three Moons.”

“Where this cache was found.” Rosie phrased it as a statement, not a question.

“I didn’t exactly say that, Roslyn.”

“I think you did. If you want my help, there shouldn’t be secrets between us. Presumably Porter Banfield unearthed the scarab and the rest of the stuff on the station and approached you as an eminent archaeologist. What’s in it for him?”

Marley sighed, as though he wished he didn’t have to choose her as his partner in this enterprise. “The thrill of the find, Roslyn.” He reverted to testiness. “I told you he’s an Egyptologist.”

“And nothing would please him more than sharing the limelight with you,” she said, a touch sarcastically. “Perhaps the two of you going on a lecture tour. As I remember, he was very conscious of his own importance.”

“He’s a scholar, Roslyn,” Marley muttered. “Don’t lose sight of that. Antiquities are his passion.”

“As long as he can explain where he got them.”

“That’s not our business, my dear.”

Rosie rested both elbows on the table, trying to think it out. “And he was exploring Three Moons back when his nephew was a boy? He sounds like a man obsessed.”

“Why not?” Marley stared at her with that strange look in his eyes. “Are you trying to tell me, my dear, that you don’t care?”

Rosie stroked her forehead. “I’m fascinated, Dr. Marley—if it’s all genuine.”

He blinked hard. “Surely you don’t think I’d be party to a hoax.”

“Oh, no.” Rosie emphasized the no. “There’s your integrity, your reputation. I don’t mean that the objects aren’t genuine. After all, finds of ancient Egyptian origin have been turning up for many, many decades. They’ve been reported in newspapers and magazines from the turn of the century. The big question is, where did these objects come from? Can Porter Banfield be telling the truth about where he acquired his treasure trove? Obviously, if his interest is antiquities, he knows all the dealers. One or two are probably shady.”

“Dear God!” Marley shook his head in disbelief. “Allow me to judge the man’s qualifications. With all due respect, I think I’m a better judge than you. I wouldn’t have set up this meeting if I didn’t think we were really onto something big. Banfield claims he knows the site of the ancient Egyptian village. He said his brother knew. Their father before them. They knew the site of the pyramid.”

“And Chase Banfield doesn’t? I refuse to believe it.”

“Hell, why?” Marley looked rattled. “He was only ten when his parents died. For years he was pretty traumatized.”

“His father and uncle never shared the family secret? I think he has to know. You’ve got to admit, Doctor, this is fairly hard to buy.”

“Does everything have to make perfect sense?” Marley quivered in outrage. “There are many things out there one can’t explain.”

“True,” Rosie acknowledged. “Particularly if the bait you’re dangling is such a marvelous scoop.”

Marley nodded. “It is marvelous, and it’s real. And you’re the only person I could think of who might get through to Banfield. A combination of skill and charm. Porter swears that what he says is true. The cache he left in my keeping was unearthed on Three Moons. As to how it got there? Banfield believes with every particle of faith in him that there was an ancient Egyptian village on the station. For one thing, rock paintings on the property depict papyrus, two-stem and three-stem. Papyrus was the swamp plant of ancient Egypt, as I’m sure you know. It’s not indigenous to Australia. As well, there are Egyptian-like figures and glyphs depicted. I haven’t seen these caves. I can’t get onto the property to see them, which is enormously frustrating to someone in my position. They’re almost inaccessible, so I’m told, but until I study the paintings, I can’t give a definite answer as to their date or their origin. Banfield says they’re very old Aboriginal drawings.”

“And who’s going to brave the crocodiles?” Rosie asked, stirring abruptly as though one was hiding under the table.

Marley rubbed his shapely hands together. “I don’t think they’re going to attack us if we don’t attack them.”

“Maybe not the average crocodile,” Rosie said with a shudder, “but there are plenty of rogues.”

Marley gave a dismissive little wave of his hand. “Forget the crocodiles.”

“Hell, no!”

“Nothing bad’s going to happen to you,” Marley assured her. “I’ve been Outback hundreds of times. Admittedly most of my experience has been with the fresh-water variety.”

Rosie groaned. “Don’t West Australians keep them as pets? We’re talking the saltwater variety, Dr. Marley. The ones that take you down into a death roll and shove you under a log until they’re ready to party. Whichever way you look at it, saltwater crocodiles are part of your package.”

“But you look like the adventurous type,” Marley joked. “Anyway, maybe you can get Chase Banfield himself to play great white hunter. He must know his own property like the back of his hand.”

At those words, Rosie pounced. “Isn’t that proof there’s nothing there?”

For the first time doubt sprang into Marley’s eyes, yet he plowed on. “A huge slice of it is jungle. He doesn’t know where to look for the site. Three Moons is vast. Some ten thousand square kilometers. Fifty thousand or more Brahmin-based cattle roam the open savannahs and the hill country. There’s a farming project, as well, forage sorghum, different varieties of hay. That kind of thing. I’m no farmer.”

“Neither, apparently, was Porter Banfield.” Rosie pushed glinting wisps of hair from her temples. “Not a cattleman, either. Which might account for a lot of Chase Banfield’s problems,” she added perceptively. “From the little knowledge I gained when I was up there, Three Moons station some ten years ago was almost at the point of collapse.”

“Well, that’s far from the case now,” Marley said irritably. “I understand it’s back to full production.”

“So Chase Banfield is no slouch,” Rosie offered with admiration.

“Apparently not,” Marley responded, unsmiling. “Porter may have been a failure in some areas, but he knows his ancient history. The pyramid exists, although it’s covered with eons of vegetation, hidden away in the back country. Lonely, isolated, scary country.”

“Where you want to go trekking?” Humor sparkled in Rosie’s eyes.

“I’d go trekking in hell if I could unearth an ancient civilization,” Marley returned bluntly. “What I want to know is whether you’re prepared to help me make my discovery.”

“Porter Banfield’s discovery, surely.”

Marley didn’t so much as blink. “He’s had his cache for a while. He might be something of an Egyptologist, but he doesn’t have the expertise to excavate anything, let alone an ancient ruin. Wise man, he knows his limitations. It takes an archaeologist of my training to successfully carry out a project like that. What I’m asking of you is a pact of mutual trust. If you can get to Banfield, persuade him to sanction our plan to uncover this ancient village, it might turn out to be the greatest assignment you’ll ever have. To be part of an exploration group that would prove once and for all that there was an ancient Egyptian presence in Australia! Think of it. A fact, not just an interesting possibility.” Fire welled up in his eyes.

“You’re really serious about all this, aren’t you.”

“Oh, yes.” Marley nodded. “And you will be, too, once you feel that necklace touching your skin.”




CHAPTER TWO


MORE THAN TWO THOUSAND MILES away in tropical North Queensland, Chase Banfield, prince among his fellows, sat in the surprisingly opulent cattlemen’s club, enjoying a cold beer. It was the end of a long hard day. He’d made the trek from his cattle station, Three Moons, into the small rain-forest township of Isis. Now he just wanted to sit and relax before going into the town center to the pub, where he planned to stay overnight. Like most fervent hopes, it was about to be dashed. He’d barely been at the club ten minutes when Mick Dempsey lurched onto the veranda, swirling the drink in his tumbler, making the ice cubes rattle.

Chase shook off his initial dismay and waved an acknowledging hand. Dempsey, a big man who, until the untimely death of his wife, Bridget, a few years earlier, had been one of the most popular members of the cattlemen’s club, was now much diminished, his black-Irish good looks eaten away by grief and the bottle. He was bone-thin, and his bush shirt and jeans hung on him, though to his credit his clothes were always clean. But when he was sozzled, which was pretty much all the time, he could be harrowing company. Even for Banfield, who had a lot of sympathy for the man. It was just that he had precious little free time these days to unwind. Three Moons, in his family since the mid-1880s took all his energy, and God knows he’d grown as tough as old boots. Now Mick was heading straight for him, ignoring the scatter of members at the other tables, who stepped up the intensity of their conversations as Mick hove unsteadily into sight.

For a split second, Banfield considered getting up, making an excuse and going on his way, but pity and genuine affection kept him in place. Mick knew all about the savage pain of grief. Most significantly, Mick had been a close friend of his father’s since boyhood. Both heirs to vast cattle stations. Both frontiersmen. Things like that counted.

A sad shadow of Mick’s once-famous grin crossed his face. He thrust out his huge hand, looking at Banfield with unfeigned pleasure. “Chase, m’boy! This is great! Hardly ever see you these days.”

Banfield hooked out a chair for the older man, at the same time half rising and gripping Dempsey’s outstretched hand. “How’s it going, Mick?”

Mick sank down gratefully, eyes filmed over. Such a big forlorn man with enough black mustache to stuff a sofa, Banfield thought, torn between sympathy and a desire to bawl Mick out. Mick was smiling wanly, nursing his neat whiskey, at least the fifth since he’d come in on that torrid afternoon. “Same as always, son. I continue in my fashion.”

Chase tossed off his ice-cold beer, then set the glass down on the table. “You’ve dug yourself into a pit, Mick. You have to climb out of it.”

“Easier said than done, my boy.” Mick shook his heavy dark head, still thickly thatched though the once-gleaming blue-black curls were grizzled.

“I don’t dispute that. But you can do it. There’s help at hand.”

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” Mick intoned. “I was someone, wasn’t I, in another life? Before I lost my girl. That shattered me. Showed me for what I really am. A hollow stick.”

“Listen to me, Mick—”

“Goddammit, Chase, you know it’s true.” Mick slumped in his chair, looking much older than his years. Fifty-eight, the same age as Lew Banfield, Chase’s father, had he lived.

“You’re better than this, Mick,” Banfield said quietly. “None of us likes to see what’s happened to you.”

“I’m not a fighter like you, mate. You’re a real stayer. I know I need help. I know I’ve got friends like you I can count on, but life doesn’t mean a monkey’s without my girl. She was everything to me. My better half. No question. I tried for a while. Maybe if the kids had stuck around, but neither of them liked the life. Bridget held us all together.”

“She was a fine woman, Mick, a good woman.” Banfield understood how he felt. “Why she had to die so young, I don’t know. Don’t ask questions. There aren’t any answers.”

“You’d know, son.” Mick continued to swirl the whiskey in his glass without drinking. “Losing your mum and dad the way you did. Having that bastard of a Porter run your life for so long. I suffered that bloody Porter for your dad’s sake. Could two brothers have been less alike?” He sighed. “Bridget and I always had a big interest in you. Always knew you’d get Three Moons back to what it was.”

“Hardly that yet, Mick.” Banfield grimaced. “Porter might’ve been born into a cattle dynasty, but he didn’t know the first thing about running Three Moons.”

“Never woulda had to, I expect,” Mick said in a lugubrious tone. “Second son and all that. Who would ever have thought your mum and dad would go so early? A tragedy if ever I heard one. You’d have been a goner, too, except for old Porter. Reckon saving you was the one bloody thing he’s ever done in his life. If he did it.” Mick snorted. “Always had an idea m’self it was Moses.” Mick referred to Three Moons’ leading stockman, a full-blooded Aboriginal and the finest tracker in the Top End.

“Moses denied it unequivocally. Does to this day,” Banfield said calmly, unwilling to give Mick any encouragement. He raised a hand in greeting to a member on the veranda who, about to bound over, caught sight of Mick and abruptly veered off.

“Why the hell wouldn’t he?” Mick shot back with some of his old fire. “Porter would have kicked him off the place. Off his tribal land. What the hell did it matter if Three Moons lost a loyal employee and supreme stockman? Porter had to play the hero.”

“Don’t work yourself up,” Banfield said. He’d heard Mick rant on in this vein many times before. “The police accepted Porter’s version of events. No reason not to. He is my uncle. I was overcome by smoke inhalation. I knew nothing until they found me staggering around in the bush. Hell, I was only ten. I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t do anything,” he repeated, all these years later still caught up in the old anguish. “If only I’d been older…stronger.”

Mick screwed up his face, breathing heavily. “I know, my boy. I know the grief and the rage. But bloody Porter! The bastard spent a fortune. Your money, son. Your inheritance.”

Banfield’s face took on a somber cast, though he spoke matter-of-factly. “The west wing had to be rebuilt. Anyway, let’s not talk about Porter, Mick. He’s pretty much out of my life. He only comes to Three Moons now and again. It’s no secret we have a poor relationship, but I can’t lose sight of the fact that he saved my life.”

“I dunno, Chase. He certainly took the credit, the old vulture. How come the fire was confined to the west wing? Your mum and dad’s private wing. Why didn’t it start down at Porter’s end of the home?”

“You’re talking murder, aren’t you, Mick.” Banfield looked directly into the older man’s eyes. “Porter may be many things, but I can’t see him doing away with his own brother.”

“I guess not,” Mick said, hanging his head and taking a deep reflective breath. “But he had a compelling reason. Your dad inherited just about everything from your grandfather. The station, the investment portfolio, most of the money.”

“Porter got enough. Why dredge it up now? There was plenty of money for both of them. Porter always knew he wasn’t going to be the heir.”

“I reckon it twisted him.” Mick was nothing if not persistent. “Anyway, it wasn’t about your bloody uncle I wanted to speak. Some doctor guy arrived in town today, askin’ after you. Him and his girlfriend. ’Struth, what a looker!” Momentarily Mick was released from the chasm of grief, kissing his fingertips. “Masses of orange hair. Eyes like a new leaf, plenty of dash to her. The sort of woman a man would fight for. He’s a distinguished-looking bloke, but they don’t seem to match up somehow.”

“So you still notice, Mick?” Banfield sent him a sardonic glance.

“Hard not to. A man doesn’t see exciting women all that often. Anyway, it appears they want to meet you.”

“The hell they do.” Banfield glanced at his watch. “I don’t have time for this. I’m betting we’re talking about a Dr. Graeme Marley. He rang me some time back. Wanted us to meet up then. He’s an archaeologist with the Sydney Museum. Very respected. Published a lot of stuff.”

“So I believe!” Dempsey actually chortled. “He was the guy who discovered those cave paintings in the Territory. Winjarra, wasn’t it?”

“How do you know all this stuff, Mick?” Banfield asked, genuinely wanting to hear the answer. There was Mick, sozzled most of the time, yet he always knew what was going on.

“I asked Lyn at the pub, of course. Lyn knows everything. Makes it her business.”

“Like you.” Banfield chuckled, and the sound made Mick laugh. Not altogether happily.

“For a while there, after Bridget died, Lyn thought she’d latch on to me, poor deluded woman. I found the one woman to love and I lost her.”

“But you did know love, Mick, didn’t you?” Banfield murmured. “You and Bridget lived for each other. Not everyone’s so lucky. You ought to let the good memories come. It might help.”

Mick’s veined blue eyes glistened, though he gave the younger man a cagey look. “I know I make you mad. Your dad would probably have dealt with it, but I’m not ready yet, son. Not yet. If ever. Anyway, I don’t want to go upsetting you. You have a big job on your hands.”

“Tell me about it!” Banfield let out a pent-up breath. “I’d sue the pants off Porter if he had anything left, but he went through his inheritance, as well as a fair bit of mine. God knows what on. A partial rebuild can’t account for it. My mother had refurbished the whole place only a few years before….”

“Those bloody antiquities.” Mick pulled his chair closer. “The whisper is, he’s got a lot of stuff he shouldn’t have all locked away from prying eyes. Remember how he was always going on about the ancient Egyptians having some sort of village on Three Moons?”

Again Banfield’s face changed. Became full of humor. “He believes it, too.” He rolled his eyes. “I think he’d have dug up every inch of Three Moons if he’d been allowed to.”

“Well, he did find those coins and the bits of pottery.” Mick smoothed down his magnificent mustache.

“Ptolemy IV.” Banfield nodded. “A couple of hundred years before Christ. Someone could easily have brought them into the country.”

“Who?” In the old days Mick had been fascinated with the whole question of an ancient Egyptian presence in Australia. “Spanish or Portuguese explorers?”

“Why not? The station fronts onto the sea,” Banfield pointed out. “They came in ships.”

“Why not the Egyptians, then?” Mick sounded a lot more focused now. “’Struth, they’ve found amulets, scarabs, hieroglyphics on cave walls. They’re there to be seen. The Aboriginal cave paintings show characters in Egyptian-style dress. They’ve found silver and bronze jewelry, even gold figures.”

“I know, Mick.” Banfield gave the older man a lazy smile. “It’s all very fascinating, but I’m far too busy to hare off after treasure, even if you and Porter are hooked on the old stories. And maybe this Marley guy. My uncle left Three Moons in pretty bad shape. I don’t know what would’ve happened without our old faithfuls like Moses and his crew to hold the fort. I know how many times you tried to offer Porter advice.”

“Porter just hated taking advice,” Mick said with considerable disgust. “If you ask me, he became drunk on power. Bloody near certifiable. He always wanted power and money, but without the responsibilities.”

Both men fell silent for a while, lost in their reflections. Both never quite free from the past.

Mick was the first to rouse. “Let me shout you another beer, son,” he said, turning. “I won’t have another scotch, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

Banfield answered quietly but with genuine feeling. “Nothing would make me happier than to have you back, Mick. And yes, I will have that beer. I’m not planning to drive home tonight. I thought I’d stay over at the pub.”

“Bonza!” Mick clapped a big friendly hand on Banfield’s arm, signaling a very unsure-looking waiter. “You can have dinner with me.”

“I didn’t know you ate anymore,” Banfield said dryly.

“I will tonight. And no more booze. Count on it.” Mick spoke earnestly. “That’s if you’ll honor your dad’s old mate.”

“Suits me fine,” Banfield said with more kindness than truth. He’d heard Mick’s promises before.

“Then we might get to meet this doctor guy.” Mick perked up. “Take a closer gander at the girlfriend. Never seen a woman as striking in me life, unless it was your mum. You’ve got your father’s rangy height and his strong cast of features, but you have your mother’s eyes. Tiger eyes, Bridget used to call them. Never saw a tiger in her life. Pure gold.” He shook his head. “The things we hand down to our children. You were the son of privilege, Chase. Heir to a great station. And wealth. But I reckon you’d give it all up to have your mum and dad back.”

Banfield leaned back in his chair, memories piercing his heart. “You’re right about that, Mick.”

“It’s the same with me.” Mick suddenly stood up and pitched the rest of his whiskey into the lush tropical garden. “Are you sure you can’t listen to what this professor has to say?” he asked. “I’ve got the funniest feeling it’s something to do with that cache old Porter dug up years ago. The coins and the pottery.”

“You and your treasure, Mick,” Banfield scoffed. “There is no treasure. There was no village. The ancient Egyptians were never on Three Moons.”

Mick plonked down again and summoned the hovering waiter. “How do you know?” he countered gleefully. “You weren’t there.”



MICK STUCK to his promise for the hour they stayed on at the club, drinking soda water with a dash of bitters, wincing with every mouthful as though it was poison. As the place filled up and the other members became aware that Mick was as close to sober as he’d been in years, a lot of the old camaraderie returned.

Banfield was a generation younger than most of the others, but as his father’s son he’d had been granted full membership as a matter of course. Being heir to a vast station was one thing. Running it when Porter Banfield had almost brought it to the brink was another. It didn’t take Chase Banfield long, three years at most, to establish that he could take his place with the best of them. From the day he returned home from university with an honors degree in economics and business administration, he had taken to calling in at the club. Not to drink, although he always had time for a quick beer, but to talk to his fellow cattlemen. Or, as he admitted openly to much friendly banter, to “pick their brains.” These were top cattlemen like his father. He had much to learn. A month later he turned twenty-one, and his uncle Porter’s guardianship was over. John Chase Banfield was in full control of his inheritance—his trust fund, his father’s business portfolio and historic Three Moons station. It was also the day he evicted his uncle. At last he was free to take over the reins and restore Three Moons to its former position as one of the great cattle stations of the world’s leading beef-producing country. He was afire to succeed. He had the brains, the strength, the determination, and he was a very fast learner.



IT WAS ONLY a short four-mile trip from the club into the town of Isis, the drive winding through towering banks of bougainvillea gone wild. A veritable jungle of the ubiquitous cerise and deep-purple flowers, with their dangerous hooked thorns. A drawback certainly but they looked magnificent, brilliant foils for the soaring palms and vivid orange-scarlet of the flame-of-the-forest that lit up the bush. In this part of the world, an enormous range of bougainvillea cultivars, the Thai golds, the pinks, the bronzes, the burnt oranges and scarlets adorned home gardens, showy and relatively easy to handle, but they never assumed the incredible height and splendor of the original bougainvillea gone wild. His mother had planted bridal white when she first came to Three Moons, training it over walls and pergolas and the balustrades of the veranda. Now great billowing veils of it made an unforgettable sight.

His mother! Would he ever in his lifetime be released from the grief? The might-have-beens? But grief had to be lived with. He was a Banfield and it was up to him to carry on a proud tradition, which Porter had almost wrecked. He’d never seen his uncle grieve, but perhaps he had in private. Porter was a strange one, with his own inner life, layers and layers of secrets. He was incapable of showing affection, if indeed he actually felt emotion outside his love of precious objects, especially antiquities. Inanimate possessions were the thing, not human relationships. Chase couldn’t begin to understand his uncle. He had long since stopped trying.

The sun had lost the worst of its heat, the cloudless cobalt sky giving way to another glorious tropical sunset. There were Mick’s Spanish galleons sailing majestically above, sweeping down the sky, their sails billowing crimson and gold. Poor old Mick! He held out no real hope that Mick would show up for dinner. Probably someone would let him sleep it off at the club.

After he’d gone a mile, he turned off the side road and onto the highway, saluting as always his grandfather, the town’s founding father who’d had the foresight to line the route with royal palms. They soared a uniform eighty feet, forming a superb entry into the little rain-forest town. Then the poincianas suddenly replaced them, forming an interlocking canopy over the main street, turning the air rosy when they were in bloom. North of Capricorn was a fantasy world, a paradise, a celebration of nature. He had visited other parts of the world, sailed around the glorious South Pacific with two of his university friends, but there was nowhere on earth he’d rather be than the place he was born. Three Moons. His great-great-grandfather, Patrick Banfield, an Englishman in search of adventure, had named it after the three almost perfect moon-shaped lagoons on the vast selection he’d taken on from the colonial Queensland government. Their characteristic feature was magnificent water lilies, and Patrick Banfield had realized they would be easily seen from the Malaysian-style homestead he planned to build.

All kinds of water birds still thronged to the lagoons—ibis, egrets, pelicans, ducks, magpie geese, pygmy geese, the brolgas, the blue cranes that mated for life. There were no beautiful water lilies farther back, in the swamp country. There the surface was completely overgrown with aquatic plants, the thick vegetation hiding the waterfowl and the crocodiles. The common crocodile mostly, freshwater, harmless, living mainly on fish. But the big stream the Aborigines called Gongora, the place of the sacred crocodile on Three Moons coastal border, was home to a few estuarine crocs that weren’t particular about what they ate. Anything and everything that might come to drink at the water’s edge. Birds, reptiles, mammals, tortoises, cattle, men.

The station had suffered three crocodile-related disasters over the years, which was close to a miracle, considering no one seemed to heed the warnings. Victim one at the turn of the century—an unwary stockman. Another in the 1930s when a visiting English cousin deliberately went after the legendary Munwari, the gigantic sacred crocodile said to be thousands of years old. Ah, the thrill of the kill! Everyone had warned him not to interfere with the crocodiles, a species that had survived unchanged for more than 150 million years, but according to the cousin, this was even better than hunting rhino in Africa. He’d made it to the upper reaches of Gongora, deep into country few white men had ever traveled; he’d never returned. A large search had been mounted, but it was as though he’d vanished from the face of the earth. The Aboriginal version of events was that the earth and not the Great Spirit guardian had swallowed him up; either way, he was never seen again. His story was part of the saga of the Wilderness Coast. A zoologist, the author of many scientific papers on reptiles, including crocodiles, lost a leg right up to the thigh in the course of his study of Munwari. That was in his father’s day. Porter had never allowed anyone else onto the station after that. Chase didn’t intend to, either, and that included Dr. Graeme Marley.

The last time, and it had to be two years, Marley had tried calling him. No go, especially when Marley had used Porter for a reference. Now Marley had decided to show up in person with his girlfriend in tow.

Girlfriend? Surely he’d seen a photograph someplace of Marley and a wife? A little brown hen to Marley’s peacock. It could even have been on TV. Marley had made quite a few appearances after he’d discovered and dated the Winjarra paintings. Ah! He remembered now. There was a journalist involved. A young woman. Banfield started to make the connections. A redhead. His mind ranged back over Mick’s description. Masses of orange hair. Obviously she wasn’t bothered by the fact that Marley was a married man.

Well, time hadn’t changed his mind. He had no intention of allowing Dr. Marley and his girlfriend to run around Three Moons uncovering more bric-a-brac. Probably stuff buried by poor old Porter, whose imagination worked on overdrive. Porter might be obsessed with “proving” the existence of some ancient Egyptian village in the wilds of the up-country, a real no-man’s-land; Chase was far more interested in what was happening on Three Moons here and now. The mustering had to be completed before the onset of the Wet between December and March. They were well into September, spring in the state capital, Brisbane, more than a thousand miles away. Life at Three Moons was dictated by the season. The Wet and the Dry. A creek that was little more than a trickle in the Dry could become a raging torrent in the Wet. If a cyclone blew in from the Coral Sea to the east, the Timor to the north, the Indian Ocean to the west, all hell broke loose. It was either one thing or the other—drought or flood—presided over by the timeless culture of the Aborigines. Banfield had great respect for the Aborigines and great sympathy for them as they coped with the problems that beset them as traditional life broke down. It wasn’t easy trying to adapt to the white man’s culture, almost diametrically opposed to their own. Aborigines were intimately attuned to the land. They weren’t terribly receptive to material gain. But they were the backbone of the big stations, splendid stockmen, trackers, horse breakers. The bush owed them a great debt. His childhood mentor had been Moses, not his uncle Porter. Moses was Three Moon’s leading stockman, the most loyal of employees and a tribal elder. Moses had been asked to look out for him in his childhood days when he’d been running wild. Moses had taken the job very seriously. Banfield didn’t know what he would’ve done without him in those first terrible years after he’d lost his parents and Porter had withdrawn to a place inside himself that could not be reached. Moses was a remarkable man. In many ways a foster father. It was men like Moses who had helped him win the battle to reestablish Three Moons.




CHAPTER THREE


HE WAS NOSING down a sharp rise when he was snatched out of his reverie by one hell of a sight. A small white car in the distance suddenly swerved off the road and took off down the thickly vegetated slope facing the sea. He saw at once why. A wallaby was still standing foolishly on the center line. The driver of the vehicle equally foolishly had swerved to avoid the animal. Just how far should you put yourself at risk? He felt a rush of anxiety for the driver, gunning the accelerator and covering the distance in record time. The main business of life was staying alive. No one would deliberately want to hit a harmless animal, but when the alternative was careering off the road, the only safe option was to hold course. If this accident had happened a mile back, the car would have hurtled down into an old volcanic crater. As it was, with the slope nowhere near so steep, the driver had a good chance of surviving. Still, it would be one hell of an experience, crashing wildly into the brush.

His four-wheel drive with its formidable bull bar slammed to a halt at the spot where he’d seen the small car go over. The tires had left skid marks on the road, and the trail led straight over the side. God! He pushed trailing branches of bougainvillea aside, taking the blood-raising lash as they snapped back, and looked down, wincing at what he might see. Instead, he felt a rush of relief and, it had to be said, admiration. The small car had come safely to rest in a dry gully with a bed of glittering stones, narrowly missing a huge boulder a few feet away. No sign of the driver, but then, he was looking at the passenger side.

Swiftly he got on his mobile and passed a message to Chipper Murray, the local police constable, then he reached into his vehicle for a good strong rope, knotting it securely to the bull bar. He touched his neck, felt a smarting, bleeding raised welt. Mercifully the gully was bone-dry. He went over the side, working his way down in a series of jumps much like the rappelling he used to enjoy. He got down easily, covering the small clearing to the car. The birds were singing. The sky was a cloudless peacock-blue. The air was sweet with the scent of the many species of wild herbs his boots had crushed.

He was almost at the driver’s door when it suddenly opened and a young woman swung her long jean-clad legs to the ground and leaned out. “Hi!” she said in a husky but otherwise perfectly focused voice. “What did I do wrong?”

He laughed over a hard wave of relief. This was a remarkably composed woman. “Regardless of what you did wrong, you’re obviously one hell of a driver.” He approached, studying her with considerable interest. Masses of marigold hair, skin as white as a snowflake, a sprinkling of freckles standing out in high relief, extraordinary eyes, green with gold flecks in them like sunlight on a deep lagoon.

“Skills get sharpened when you’re interested in staying alive,” she answered wryly. “It was the wallaby. No one warned me the darling little thing was out there waiting for me.”

“Next time slow right down, beep your horn and let it cross,” he advised, keeping an eye on her, afraid that she might pass out from delayed reaction.

Instead, she tried ineffectively to smooth down her magnificent hair. “It happened much too fast for that.”

He nodded in appreciation. “How are you feeling?” From the look of it, shock hadn’t yet set in. Either that or she was downright fearless. Just about anybody would have been a mess.

“I’ll be fine when the adrenaline levels out.”

“Good,” he replied. “Can you stand up? I want to see if you’re still in one piece.”

He put out his arm to assist her, but she rose unaided, tried a smile and stumbled. He caught her, hauling her along his chest.

“Okay, rest a minute.” His hand somehow found the back of her head, shaping its contours as though it had found a will of its own. She smelled of sunlight, fresh air, a bowl of limes.

She wasn’t about to argue, letting her marigold head fall against his shoulder. Tall for a woman. Slight, but he could feel the luscious press of her breasts. He couldn’t decide if she was teetering on plain or was the most striking woman he had ever seen. Either way, his reaction to her was strong and immediate, or maybe he was swept up in the sheer romance of it all.

She stirred after a moment and he murmured, “Take your time. Look on the bright side.”

“Which is?” At that she lifted her head, stared up at him with sparkling eyes.

“It could have been a lot worse. In the Wet that gully runs a torrent.”

“I have to get my thrills somehow.” She leaned back slowly and steadied herself by gripping his strong rugged arms. “Where did you spring from? Thanks for coming to my rescue, by the way.”

“I was right behind you when it happened.”

“So you saw the whole thing?”

He nodded. “I pretty much had a heart attack. I’m feeling a lot better now that I know you’re safe. Look, why don’t you slip back into your car? Rest quietly. The ambulance should be here soon.”

She did a double take. “What ambulance?” Her voice, which had been vibrant and musical, turned sharp and dismayed.

He stared down at her, raising his eyebrows. “The one that’s going to take you into town. I know you’re a defensive driver at the highest level, but you’ve had one hairy ride. Shock will set in. Believe me.”

She laughed, although her temples were beaded with sweat and her skin was whiter than white. “Get on your mobile. Tell them not to come.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“I’m talking to you, aren’t I? I’m quite rational.”

“Hold out your hands,” he ordered gently.

She did so without an instant’s hesitation.

“They’re trembling.” They were, too. Beautiful hands, long-fingered, elegant, the nails unpainted, but a nice length.

“I’m a bit shaken up, that’s all.” She shrugged, more easily able to size him up now. Her first impression was of someone larger than life, a man of mythic proportions. Hercules, Apollo, a bit of both. “Listen, I don’t want any fuss. You can drive me back to town, can’t you?”

Frowning, he studied her face. “If that’s what you want, but I have my doubts I’d be doing the right thing.”

“I’ve been in worse situations.”

“Yeah? When?” he asked skeptically.

“Try East Timor. Or dodging bullets in Afghanistan when you’re trying to talk on camera.”

He gave a devastating smile of approval, looking good enough to play the hero in a big adventure movie.

“Well, that doesn’t leave me with much else to say. Hang on a second and I’ll see if I can stop the ambulance. I’m Chase Banfield. And you’re…?”

One quirky eyebrow shot up. He probably knew exactly who she was, but she identified herself, anyway.

“Roslyn Sum-m-mers.” She’d briskly put her hand in his, then dragged out her name as a jolt of electricity flared through her body. Chase Banfield. Who else? She watched him as he half turned away, punching numbers into his mobile. He was wearing jeans and a bush shirt, and James Bond couldn’t look as good in a tuxedo. Tall. A lot taller than she. About six-three. Wide-shouldered, lean-hipped. A mane of deeply waving bronze hair. A wonderful gold tone to his skin. Beautiful topaz eyes, resembling a tiger’s. A strong distinctive face, sculpted, not chiseled like her own. High cheekbones, brackets around a handsomely cut mouth. Thirty, thirty-two. A man in full possession of his space. A man on his own territory. A fighter. A cattleman with the polished speaking voice of the elite. After Porter she wasn’t prepared for his maleness, his virility and splendor.

Chase Banfield. What else was there to say? The fates had thrown them together.

“So that’s okay,” he said, pushing the mobile back into the pouch on his belt. “No ambulance. Chipper is going to take a run out, though, and see what you’ve done.”

“Whoever Chipper is.” She could feel her heartbeat gradually returning to normal.

“Chipper Murray is our local police constable,” he explained. “A good man. He sees that nothing much goes wrong around here.”

“What’s he going to do? Arrest me for creating this mess?”

“Arresting people is part of the job, but no, you have nothing to fear. He’ll have enough on his hands trying to retrieve the car. Hire car, isn’t it?”

Rosie turned her head, kicked a tire lightly. “This is going to cost a pretty penny.”

“At least it didn’t kill you. So, Roslyn, what do we do now?”

Enterprising though she was, she didn’t think she could handle Chase Banfield. He was dynamite. Rosie took a long look up the slope. “I saw the way you got down. Piece of cake.”

He groaned. “Are you serious? A piece of cake for me. I don’t know about you.”

“Watch me.”

He was beginning to wonder if he could ever stop watching her. She was dressed like him in jeans and a shirt, only, he was never so entrancingly violently colorful. Her cotton shirt was a bright saffron. She had a couple of strings of multicolored glass beads around her neck and an ornate beaten-silver belt around her narrow waist. She reminded him of a field of wild poppies waving in the sun.

“Hang on,” he said, grasping her arm. “I can’t let you go just like that.”

“Of course you can. You wouldn’t believe some of the places I’ve been and the things I’ve done.”

“It’s my rope, girl.” He spoke softly, yet she listened.

“I’m sure I can make it up that slope.” She changed tack, smiled at him appealingly.

“There’s bougainvillea at the top.” He spoke almost with disgust. “It could rip you to shreds.”

“Then you’ll just have to go up first and cut it off. I’ll bet you’ve got something to do it with.”

He nodded grimly. “That’s right.”

“I would’ve put a thousand bucks on it. Anyway, if you can get up there so can I. All I need is a hand.”

He stroked his lean bronzed cheek, taking a moment to verbalize his thoughts. “The problem is, what do we do if you faint?”

“I never faint.” She had once, but he didn’t have to know that.

“Tough girl.”

She put her hands on her slim hips. “Believe it.”

In fact, her color was coming back. Bone china as opposed to snow. “I guess I can haul you up.” He continued to stand over her. “You know anything about knots?”

Her face brightened. “Do I ever! I used to sail with my dad around Sydney Harbour.”

“Perfect!” He could see her in a T-shirt and white shorts. A tomboy with a woman’s body.

“You want me to knot the rope around my waist?”

“Uh-huh,” he drawled laconically. “Don’t rush. We’ve got time.”

Actually, they had very little time. Soon the brilliant sunset would fade to a brief mauve twilight, then total darkness would set in.

Rosie watched as he made short work of hauling himself up the slope, hand over hand, obviously a man who spent his life outdoors, rain or shine. She could never hope to emulate his prowess, but she sure as hell was going to try.

Moments later, he’d reached the top, walking to a big powerful-looking four-wheel drive with a really scary bull bar just in view. She laughed out loud when she saw him return with a yellow chain saw.

“Take care,” she called lightly, although she was serious. Not that she had reason to worry. She’d rarely met anyone who inspired such confidence.

In no time at all, he’d cleared an area of the spectacular purple bougainvillea with its lethal thorns. He gave her a brisk wave.

“Do you still want to do this?”

She looked up at him outlined against the flame-colored sky. “As long as you can,” she shouted.

“I think I’m up to it.”

“Right!” The rope firmly knotted around her waist, Rosie went forward, trying not to think about snakes. This was the Garden of Eden. There were bound to be a few lazing around. Okay, Rosie, you can do this, she urged herself. Part of the job. She had to make a huge effort all the same. She was feeling very shaky. Still, it felt good just to be alive.

Twice on the way up she lost her footing, dangling in space, swearing mildly while he held her weight and called out words of encouragement. “Come on, kid. You can do it!”

“Kid?” She was twenty-nine. Nearly an old maid, if her mother was to be believed. What she wanted, she thought suddenly, was a husband, children. Obviously, it took dangling off a precipice for that realization to hit.

At the top he grabbed her as though were she a feather pillow, while she, in an excess of joy, flung her arms around him. “Rosie,” he drawled, throwing back his bronze head and laughing. “You’ve made me proud.”

She returned his wonderfully infectious smile. “How did you know to call me Rosie?”

“Seems to suit you better than Roslyn,” he said, topaz eyes lighting on her hair. “Is that for real?”

“Goes with the freckles, doesn’t it?” she challenged.

“It’s quite possible you’ve painted them on, they’re so fetching. What are you doing here in Queensland, Rosie Summers?” All of a sudden he sounded like a detective with a suspect. Even the drawl had a sharp edge.

“Would you believe looking for you?” She’d been an investigative reporter too long not to know when it was time to be direct.

“So this was a setup?” His eyes glinted as he gazed down at her.

She considered that, rubbed her cheek. “Hey, I’m inventive, but this was sheer coincidence. It’s glorious country up here. I wanted to have a look around.”

“Then I’d advise you to have a damned good look for wallabies, kangaroos, brolgas and wild boar while you’re at it.”

“You mean they all cross the road?”

He moved abruptly, fighting a brief violent desire to kiss her. “I can’t take you to task now. You’re still very pale.”

“I know,” she answered almost apologetically. “I’ve been cursed with very white skin.”

“I’d say blessed.” His comment was as dry as ash.

“Would you?”

For the first time he got the full effect of her smile. “Spare me the seduction, entrapment, whatever,” he told her shortly, bending his strong fingers to untie the knot at her waist. He slipped the rope free, walked back to his vehicle, unfastened the other end from the bull bar and wound it into a neat coil, which he stashed away in the rear. “Come along.”

She started after him obediently. “You make me feel I should ask you what the charge is.”

“That’s because you are guilty of something, aren’t you, Rosie?” He rounded on her, making her feel incongruously as small as a marmalade kitten.

“I paid for the hire car. I didn’t steal it. Incidentally, is it all right to leave it here?”

He opened the passenger door for her and she hopped in. “It’s not going anyplace,” he muttered.

They were back on the road before he spoke again. “Aren’t you up here seeking permission for a dig? Specifically on my land?”

She swung her head in surprise, caught his accusing glance. “Aha, someone’s been talking. The question is, how did they know, let alone inform you?”

“The answer is, I have spies everywhere. This is my town.”

“You mean you own all the buildings?” she asked brightly.

“I own much of the land the town is built on. Is that enough of an answer?”

“Goodness, yes. The Banfields must be very rich.”

“You have an interest in rich men?”

“Not in cozying up to them. I’m a working girl, after all.” She paused. “Do you think you might listen to what I have to say?”

“Regarding what?” He flicked her a brief daunting glance.

“I’ve heard you’re difficult.” She made it sound like a little grumble.

“Really? I don’t hear that too often. Most people up here think I’m very reasonable.”

“Just being a Banfield might account for that. Listen, I’m not a crank.”

“Thanks for the tip,” he said dryly.

“If you know about me, you must know about Dr. Marley.”

“Aren’t you clever?” he mocked. “Marley’s the boyfriend, isn’t he? Hasn’t he got a wife?”

“He’s not the boyfriend!” Rosie burst out as though he’d offered her an insult. “And not that it’s any of your business his wife recently left him.”

“Oh, nice!” He nodded in cynical fashion. “That gives you a bit more leverage. I guess she wants to live a little, not fade away in Marley’s shadow.”

Exactly Rosie’s reflection. “You know her?” she asked in surprise.

“I once saw a photograph of her and Marley in the paper. A few years back. She seemed a repressed little soul. Too sheltered.”

Rosie had no words to deny it. “Right! But Dr. Marley is very highly regarded in his field. You know about his finding and dating of the Winjarra paintings?”

He looked at her hard. “I don’t spend all my life on a horse.”

“I love horses,” Rosie breathed, getting an instant mental picture of Chase Banfield as Alexander the Great.

“Is that so? How are you feeling now?” he added, shocked that he’d almost forgotten what she had endured.

“Light-headed.”

“When we reach town, you can get a good meal into you.”

“I could go for that,” she said, leaning her head back. “A nice dinner…”

“With Marley?” He couldn’t resist it.

Her eyes flew open. “I told you I’m not involved with him in any way other than professionally.”

“Okay.” His voice soothed. “So why are you tagging along with him?”

“I should have told you. Dr. Marley thinks highly of my persuasive powers.”

He gave a brief laugh that made her squirm. “Don’t kid yourself.”

“You’re not being very complimentary. You know what my accident means, don’t you? The fates have chosen to throw us together. I doubt if I’d have got back up the hill without you.”

“You’re dead right,” he said, sounding pretty final.

“Of course, I could have screamed for help.”

“Why do I have the feeling no one would have heard you? Though I suppose Marley would have noticed when you didn’t show up.”

She wished he’d accept that the situation with Marley was not as it obviously seemed. “Can’t we forget Dr. Marley for a minute?” Rosie asked wearily.

“No.” His answer was flat. “I had one conversation with the man. It could last me all my life.”

“Is there a reason you’re not being cooperative?” Rosie complained. “What I need from you—”

He chopped her off. “Do you honestly believe Three Moons was the site of an ancient Egyptian village?” he asked, exasperation in his tone.

Rosie had learned a long time ago to tell the truth. “I honestly don’t, but it would be one heck of a discovery if it was. As I see it, Marley’s not a fool. He’s a brilliant scholar, a renowned archaeologist. And he has something in his possession I think you should see.”

“Don’t tell me, a mummy.” A mocking smile touched his face.

Rosie shuddered. “I wouldn’t be too happy about a mummy. No, this is a scarab.”

His look clearly conveyed I could have told you that. “So where did he get it? One of his mates in Cairo?”

“Are you willing to be open-minded?” she implored.

“No.” He shook his head. “Plain enough, Rosie?”

“Something tells me you haven’t lost the spirit of inquiry, of adventure.” She turned to him earnestly. “Despite your stubbornness.”

“The answer is still no.”

Now she clicked her tongue, folded her arms across her chest. “You’re letting your dislike of the man overrule your intelligence.”

At that he laughed spontaneously. “You know I’m intelligent, do you?”

She patted his arm encouragingly. “I’m not one of those who thinks brawn can’t be matched by brain. Let him talk to you. No more than an hour. There’s only one pub in town, unless you’re staying with a friend. You have to have dinner. We’ll throw in dinner.”

His amusement was still evident. “That’s mighty generous of you, Miss Summers. I take it this dinner will be with Dr. Marley and you?”

She nodded. “And what you see might surprise you,” she said in warm inviting tones.

“What I’d like to see, Rosie, is you dressed up to dine. Not that you wouldn’t be eye-catching at any time.”

“Well, I couldn’t be beautiful, so I went for offbeat.”

“I think you managed a bit of both.”

“You’re being kind,” she said lightly, not considering her appearance a big issue.

“I hate women who push for compliments,” he teased.

“Not me!” Rosie shook her head. “My experiences have made me anything but frivolous. To get back to the subject, you’re saying you’ll have dinner with us?”

“Stop it. Too easy. You’re persuasive, all right. I can well imagine your getting all your interviewees to spill the beans, but guys like Marley and I don’t hang out together.”

“You’ve got to meet him all the same. I think he’s on to something with this theory of his. He’s obsessed with the whole idea.”

“A rich fantasy life, it’s called. I have an uncle just like him,” Chase scoffed.

“Actually, I’ve met him. Porter Banfield?” Rosie’s eyes studied his profile, seeing the family resemblance, but still not able to believe it. Could any two people be less alike?

Now she had surprised him. “Where?” he asked sharply. “Porter doesn’t get his kicks talking to young women, however scintillating. I don’t know what happened to him, but he’s one miserable bastard. A confirmed misogynist.”

“I think you’re right,” Rosie answered, nodding. “A misogynist may be misguided, emotionally bankrupt, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s stupid. He’s a Banfield, after all.”

He realized he was being thoroughly entertained. “Stop trying to butter me up, Miss Summers,” he warned. “Others have tried it before you.”

“Evidently without success.”

“You haven’t figured me out, either.”

“True, but I’m not defeated. Besides, I think you owe me something for saving my life.”

He laughed, a rich chuckle. “That kind of reasoning is beyond me. Anyway, someone would eventually have found you. I’m even coming around to thinking you could have saved yourself.”

She turned to him engagingly. “Just an hour. I swear you won’t regret it.”

Silence. “You’re doing this for Marley?” he asked finally.

“Hell, no,” Rosie crowed. “I’m doing this for myself. This is my baby. My big scoop.”

“In that case,” he told her. “I’ll come.”



BY SEVEN O’CLOCK Rosie was bathed and dressed. She hadn’t had a lot of time because Chase Banfield had insisted on dropping her at the local doctor’s to have her “checked out.” It was easier not to argue. And it was rather nice being cared for. She hadn’t had that kind of attention since she’d left home. As expected, the doctor confirmed her own evaluation of herself—she was tough, even if she didn’t look it.

Tonight she’d gone to a lot of trouble with her appearance. Banfield had wanted to see her dressed up, so dressed up she’d be. Within limits. This was a little frontier town, after all. No need for the basic black and pearls. Not that she ever wore such garb. Her mother, who was a classic dresser, always said she got her outlandish taste from Great-aunt Hester, distinguished spinster in the family, now in her ninetieth year and still painting her much-sought-after nudes. Rosie’s outfit for the evening was the best she could come up with on short notice. A hot-pink skirt and, wonder of wonders, it didn’t clash with her hair. The top, sleeveless with a V-neck that showed just a hint of cleavage, was dark-green satin. She needed something rich to go around the middle, finally settled for a Thai-silk turquoise sash that fortuitously matched the turquoise sandals she’d brought with her. She’d long ago decided not to play down her unusual looks. For most of her early life, she’d been the clumsy duckling to her mother’s elegant swan. Her height had always been a worry; her hair, a cheerful orange. Then there was the bird’s beak of a nose, the wide sweep of her jaw. Again, inherited from Great-aunt Hester. There was no way she could be like her mother. Once she understood that, she had come into her own.

“There you are, Rosie,” she applauded her reflection. “A woman every man would desire.” It even seemed as if her hair would behave. She had arranged it in a thick upturned roll at the back, making far more of an effort than she had the previous night, when she’d pulled it into a ponytail for dinner with Graeme Marley. She sprayed her wrist again with a gardenia-based perfume. Mmm, fabulous! She was feminine enough to love perfume. “Oh, Roslyn you’re such a bohemian!” She shook her head several times, but she could still hear her mother’s voice. Rosie flashed herself another one of her saucer-size smiles. Why, oh why, did she have such a wide mouth? Well, nothing she could do about that.

She was almost out of her room, feeling extraordinarily excited, when she suddenly made the decision to wear The Necklace. It was a knockout. No one besides Marley and perhaps the hawk-eyed Mr. Banfield would know what it was. Reverently, in case some long-dead ancient Egyptian lady might take it into her head to lay a curse on her, Rosie withdrew the necklace from its soft leather pouch and draped it over her hand. Wonderful workmanship using multicolored, multitextured gold, combined with the semiprecious stone lapus lazuli—the “eyes” of the flowers, five in all, shaped like the sacred lotus, which were appended from the smooth coil that encircled the neck.

She turned back to the full-length mirror, put it on. She knew she was very privileged to wear it.

She went downstairs, smiling at the owner, Lyn Delaney, an interesting woman good for an interview, although she acted a bit cagey for all her friendliness. Rosie won a “You look marvelous” from Lyn that sounded perfectly genuine. She considered that a compliment, particularly given the exotic stylishness of this little back-of-beyond pub. But then, Banfield had said he owned most of the town.

She walked beneath the gleaming fretted timber arch into the small lounge, finding it almost full. The locals all glanced up curiously. Nobody pointed, not one expression conveyed that she looked a little freakish. They all seemed friendly and cheerful, so Rosie gave them her encompassing smile.

Banfield and Marley were already seated at a table to the rear of the room, along with a third man she didn’t know. All three rose gallantly at her approach.

Marley, to her acute annoyance, bowed to kiss her cheek in much too intimate a fashion. Rosie felt like popping him one, but had to settle for discreetly moving off. Chase Banfield’s tiger eyes settled on her, moving gently, very slowly, over her face and then her body. Not transfixed by the wonderful necklace but drifting past it, as if it was just the sort of thing he expected her to wear. Introductions were made. The third man, very thin, all mustache, looked burned up inside, but charming for all that. He was one Mick Dempsey, longtime friend of the Banfield family, himself the owner of a huge cattle station called Derrilan, which he told her meant “falling stars” in the Aboriginal language. Rosie pitied him and warmed to him at the same time. A tragedy there, she thought. She was sure of it.

“All pioneering families seemed to have dreamed up romantic names for their properties,” Marley said in an indulgent voice. “Falling Stars. Three Moons!”

“Chase tells me you had quite an exciting ride this afternoon.” Dempsey turned to Rosie with his still-attractive grin, as good as ignoring Marley, who looked irritated at not being in control of things.

Again Marley intervened, from long practice. “It’s a miracle she didn’t kill herself.” He shook his head with as much vehemence as amazement. “Women and machinery simply don’t mix.”

Banfield threw him a contemptuous look. “I wonder how well you’d have survived the ride. Miss Summers did an extraordinary job behind the wheel.”

“Ah, but she’s not the average female,” Marley said with the air of someone who knew. He touched Rosie’s hand, let his fingers linger.

What was this? Marley was allowing the others to assume an intimacy that didn’t exist. She’d have to warn him about it in a hurry. Like before they retired to their separate rooms later that night.

Rosie removed her hand carefully. “I realize my reaction was foolish, but it’s an instinctive thing to try to avoid hitting an animal.”

“There isn’t anything else to do, my dear,” Dempsey told her kindly, pulling at the rather dashing red bandanna tucked into his white shirt. “I had a good friend run into a tree avoiding a brolga that popped down in front of him.”

“I hope your friend survived,” Rosie said.

“He did, miraculously. His car was a write-off. Bull bar saved it from being ripped apart. You were very lucky Chase was driving back into town.”

“My hero!” Rosie exclaimed. “I intend to include him in my nightly prayers.”

“Include me, too, my dear,” Dempsey only half joked. “I could do with the prayers of a good woman.”

Marley, looking slightly bored, picked up the menu. “The food here is surprisingly good,” he said, the light catching the show of silver at his temples. “A bit unusual for such a remote neck of the woods.”

Patronizing idiot, Rosie thought, but Banfield said suavely, “Even our little country town can rise to a decent chef. You should try the crocodile fillet tempura, snow peas and chinois salad with a kakadu plum and wasabi dressing.”

“I’m impressed!” Rosie searched in vain for it on the menu.

“Crocodile! You’re joking.” Marley’s heavy shoulders moved beneath his summer-weight jacket.

“You’d probably think it was a delicious cut of pork,” Banfield said as he helped Rosie out by pointing to the exact spot on the menu. “Or there’s the tournedos of kangaroo,” he added smoothly.

Rosie raised her eyebrows. “I don’t fancy eating one of our national symbols. The kangaroo and the emu hold up the coat of arms.”

“They’re a bloody menace in the bush,” Mick growled, “pardon my French, and not much we can do about it. Millions of them. I figure the best way to preserve the species, and that goes for the croc, too, is to come up with some commercially viable industry. Like cattle. The public are going to get pretty intolerant of crocs otherwise. Kangaroo, by the way, tastes good. A bit gamy to some, but very tasty. I’ve had it many a time and enjoyed it, but I prefer our prime beef. We produce the world’s best.”

“So it’s tournedos of beef with potato barigoule béarnaise,” Rosie said, sounding definite. “As you’re the expert, perhaps you can enlighten me as to what a barigoule is. My French doesn’t rise to it. I can handle the béarnaise.” She turned to Banfield with a smile. He was looking incredibly handsome, not to say alluring in a sand-colored, softly constructed linen suit that sat wonderfully on his wide shoulders with a casual black cotton T-shirt beneath. The big-time cattle baron with a sophisticated edge.

He held her gaze, somewhat spellbound by her appearance, as well. This was a woman for all seasons. “A barigoule, and I know this only because I’ve had it, is a potato that’s been steeped in saffron bouillon, then scooped out and filled with béarnaise sauce,” he explained. “I can recommend it. It’s very good. Our chef is a young Vietnamese. Lyn won’t keep him long. He’s too good. Some luxury hotel down the tourist coast will offer him more scope and more money, but for the time being we’re dining out in style. I’d recommend the crab cream or the steamed scallops for starters, and as you’re obviously a girl who doesn’t have to watch her figure, the Moroccan orange tart is great.”

“I’m for the ginger ice cream,” Mick said gleefully. Chase could tell he was feeling better than he had in a long, long while. “You’re paying, aren’t you, Dr. Marley?”

Marley looked pained. “Of course.”

By the time it came to coffee, they retired to the lounge, which was now almost empty. Marley stared at Mick, obviously hoping he’d go, but Mick stayed on with reckless disregard for what the doctor wanted.

“Miss Summers tells me you have something to show me.” Banfield decided to get the ball rolling, giving Mick a quick, almost warning look.

“This mightn’t be the moment,” Marley managed, his mouth still full of a liqueur chocolate.

“You can speak in front of Mick,” Banfield assured him.

“I’m not sure I can.” Marley’s smile was a little grim. “No offense, Dempsey, but this is fairly hush-hush.”

“Would it have anything to do with Rosie’s necklace, then?” Dempsey asked, affecting an Irish brogue. “Egyptian, isn’t it? And isn’t she just the girl to wear it? That Nefertiti neck. I’ve actually seen a handmade glass amulet in a pyramid shape with Egyptian hieroglyphics on all sides that was dated by the Department of Mines at five thousand years old. How old is the necklace?”

Marley seemed angered by such an approach. “Banfield, this is a private matter. I can’t have too many people in on it.”

“In on what?” Banfield asked in an easy voice. “All of us here have lived with the story of an ancient Egyptian presence in the Far North. My uncle Porter has tried many times to mastermind an exploration. Unfortunately for him he needs my authority to do so. I don’t have time for games. I have a big station to run.”

“That’s right! Chase is a key player in the industry,” Mick said proudly, sipping his coffee. “Used to be myself until I lost Bridget. My wife, you know.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mick.” Rosie’s green eyes lit with sympathy. “When was this?”

Mick looked down, smoothed his luxuriant mustache. “Three years, six months and ten days. Bridget would have liked you,” he told Rosie a little harshly. “Bridget loved a woman with character.”

Marley leveled his penetrating blue gaze on Rosie. “I extend my sympathies too, of course, Dempsey, but I wonder if we could keep to the agenda.”

“I thought the agenda was getting me here.” Banfield’s expression must have instantly alerted Marley that he’d said the wrong thing. “It took Miss Summers to persuade me.”

“Call her Rosie, for God’s sake, Chase,” Mick implored, frowning at Chase in amazement.

“Miss Summers is a media power, Mick,” Chase explained. “One must show respect. But getting back to King Tut, talk of an ancient Egyptian presence is old news, like the forgotten race of Pygmies that hang out in the rain forest. Someone’s always sighting one.”

“Someone always does if they have a mind to,” Rosie said, “but there were Negritos, weren’t there?” She threw herself into the argument. “I know I’ve read about them somewhere.”

“Just a small type of Aborigine, I would suggest,” Banfield said. “About five feet tall with short tight curls.”

“Actually they were first officially noted in 1958,” Marley intervened rather shortly, a veritable font of knowledge. “Anthropologist by the name of Birdsell. There were hundreds of these people in the rain forest at that time. There is evidence the so-called Negritos arrived about seven thousand years ago, while the Aboriginal presence in Australia goes back at least forty thousand years. This is all very interesting, but it’s not what we’re here to talk about.” Exasperation bit into his tone.

Banfield swiveled slightly in his chair, looking to Rosie impossibly handsome and just a touch daunting. “Not if the necklace is the best you can do. I know Porter has little items like that up his sleeve. How he got hold of it I wouldn’t know. He’s been a collector for many years. He finds ‘things’ for the very rich and gets a reward. I know he has dealings with a wealthy collector based in London. My uncle is…something of an opportunist.”

Marley tried unsuccessfully to cover up his resentment at the way the conversation had gone. “I realize that. Give me credit, Banfield. As deeply involved as your uncle is, he’s not a professional, any more than you or Roslyn here. I, however, am highly respected in my field. My views must be taken seriously.”

“C’mon,” Banfield frowned. “Tell me why I should take you seriously. You’ll have to come up with something more concrete than what you’ve got.” His tone lightened. “Are you asking us to believe the necklace Miss Summers is wearing was found on Three Moons? Did my uncle lead you to understand this? Unlike me, he has the time to play games—always for his own ends. He may be using you.”

“I can control people like your uncle.” Marley finished his drink with a grimace. “I have other things—”

“We’re going around in circles, Doctor,” Banfield said, cutting him off. “Porter wants to get back on Three Moons for some reason. Maybe he has something hidden somewhere in the house. Under the big banyan tree. Anything’s possible. It could even be gold. My family benefited greatly from the gold strikes in this area.” He paused, shaking his head. “My parents were taken from me literally overnight. I was only a boy. There was no time to fill me in on all the family secrets. I know there have to be a few. Lost hopes. Lost dreams. This part of the world might be an opulent paradise, but terrible hardships went into our pioneering past. Isn’t that so, Mick?”

“Plenty of early deaths,” Mick said. “But there are so many things you mightn’t know, Chase, that Porter would.” He brightened. “Stuff he’d make sure you’d never find out.”

Marley seized on that. “Then there’s a good chance your uncle’s right. All I’m asking is that you give me a couple of weeks….”

“To hare off on your own?” Banfield said with a flash of his brilliant eyes. “You could be killed if you’re heading up-country.” He transferred his gaze to the slender, very womanly Rosie, his attitude almost explosive. “It could be quite terrifying to get lost in the jungle.”

Rosie nodded, breaking the tension. “You’ve sold me.”

Despite himself, Banfield laughed, studying the dangerous magic of her, the warmth of her, the challenge in her almond eyes, the gorgeous clash of colors, the gleaming magnificence of the necklace around her proud throat.

“You might even run into one of those Negritos,” he drawled. “I think they were cannibals.”

“Really?” Rosie picked up her liqueur.

“He’s joking, love,” Mick assured her lightly. “He’s always joking. But I’ve been thinking—I could help out.” He looked around the table, not at all disconcerted by Chase’s quick penetrating glance. “I’m as good a bushie as your dad,” Mick pointed out.

Banfield nodded. Quite true, but Mick hadn’t handled things well for quite a while. “What about Derrilan? How does it get on?” he asked in a measured voice.

“Hell, Chase, Arnie runs the place,” Mick said sheepishly. “He’s been as good as runnin’ it since I lost Bridget. No, this sounds exciting, and I could do with a little excitement these days.”

Banfield’s eyes settled on his friend with a private message. There aren’t any pubs up-country.

“It might help me out.” Mick leaned forward to stare into Banfield’s stern but caring face.

“And it could do you a lot of harm.” Banfield wondered how long it would take Mick to hit the bottle.

“Once, you used to have great faith in me, Chase,” Mick said gruffly.

“I learned a lot from you, Mick.” In this instance, Banfield had to try not to weaken, when he normally wasn’t a man who gave way easily. “So what’s your proposal?” he asked Marley. “Is my uncle along on the trip?”

Marley’s rich voice developed a sudden coaxing charm. “I had to include him.”

“Oh, perfect!”

“And I’ve been in war zones,” Rosie reminded Chase. “If that counts for anything.”

He gave her a brief smile. “You’re forcing my hand?”

“It’s a beautiful hand.” She glanced at his right hand on the table. “Strong, lean, elegant…”

“Calluses on the other side,” he mocked, turning his hand over. “I’m a cattleman, Miss Summers.”

“Hell, yes! None better.” Mick spoke with affection and pride. “His mum and dad would’ve been so proud of him. Wonderful, just wonderful what he’s accomplished in these last years after Porter bloody near—”

Banfield leaned toward him. “Mick, we won’t waste time on Porter for the moment. I have to think about this.”

“What harm could it do?” Rosie’s eyes lit with green fire. “If your uncle can lead us to this pyramid—he swears it’s somewhere on the station—Graeme can identify it, date it. Even if it’s a wild-goose chase, which it probably is, I could turn it into a good story. Even a short documentary.”

“Get Paul Hogan back and turn it into Crocodile Dundee 3,” Banfield suggested, sitting back, his mouth twitching. “You want to fool around with crocodiles?” he asked Rosie.

“I haven’t got the nerve.” She shivered. “But Mick here seems to think he has.”

Mick crowed, but Marley was in no mood for frivolity. “A joke has its limits,” he said, sounding very professorial. “This will be a very serious expedition. Headed by me.”

Rosie picked up a liqueur chocolate, as if she was still famished. “Well, I wouldn’t want to be leader.” She shrugged. “What about you, Mick?”

Mick was enjoying this, his blue eyes brighter and more focused than Banfield had seen in a couple of years. “No way, m’dear. I’ll act as your guide. It’ll be grand!”

“And what will your duties be, Miss Summers?” Banfield asked suavely, knowing she would be highly capable, intelligent, resourceful, remarkably cool in a tight spot. His expression, however, suggested that at some stage they could expect hysterics.

She put a hand to the glittering necklace, aware he was being deliberately provocative. “To show the flag,” she said airily. “To be of any help I can. Which probably comes down to the cooking, but I could run to a bit of first aid.”

“And where do you intend to stay during the planning stage, the initial forays?”

Mick jumped in without a thought, munching yet another pretzel, never touching his light beer.

“What’s a bunch of people at Three Moons?” he asked Banfield, as if a great idea had just come to him. “Dammit, I know you don’t want crowds marching all over the place, but this is different. And I’ll be there to look after your interests.”

Between one binge and another, Banfield thought, then chided himself for not showing Mick some confidence. “You’re a real romantic at heart, aren’t you, Mick.” He smiled as he said the words.

Mick sighed. “Bridget used to say that.” For a moment, his expression sagged.

Banfield saw that he’d have to make a decision based not on what he wanted, but on what Mick wanted—and that scintillating, unlikely femme fatale, the amazing Miss Summers.

“I’ll admit the homestead is big enough.” His tone was brusque with an underlying hint of humor.

“So you agree?” Rosie and Mick spoke together, picking that moment to slap a high five.

Banfield glanced at them both repressively. “I said I have to give this a lot of thought.”

Mick nodded, laughing. “What a character you are, Chase.”

“I am that,” he answered dryly, catching Rosie’s sparkling eyes.

“So do you reckon you’ll know by mornin’?” Mick asked with glee.

“Does it mean so much to you, Mick?” Banfield looked at the older man with sympathy.

“Who knows what we might find, son?” Mick’s blue eyes glowed. “Although I don’t like the idea of havin’ old Porter around, I can tell you that. ’Struth, the man’s a fanatic.”

Marley held up his large palm. “Mr. Dempsey, you yourself are not included in our party.”

“I’m in if Chase says so,” Mick answered stoutly. “Am I in, Chase?”

Banfield laughed. “I don’t think I’ve agreed to anything yet, Mick. But I don’t see why you couldn’t go if it actually comes to that. You certainly know your way around. Dr. Marley is more familiar with central Australia and the Kimberly than he is with this area.” He turned to Marley. “Wouldn’t that be right, Doctor?”

Marley wasn’t about to acknowledge it. “Even so, I’m an experienced bushman.”

“And I watched every episode of The Bush Tucker Man,” Rosie chimed in as though that settled everything. In reality she was trying to keep her excitement down. Every time Chase Banfield’s eyes lighted on her, the most dramatic things happened to her body. Adrenaline pumped. Pulses raced. Even her nipples tightened. Normally she didn’t react sexually to a man’s mere presence.

“I’d appreciate it if I could get a decision,” Marley said, clearly angered by the sizzling undercurrent that ran between Banfield and Roslyn.

“Don’t push it, Graeme,” Rosie warned with a speaking glance. “I’m sure Chase will tell us when he’s good and ready.”




CHAPTER FOUR


THEY BROKE UP shortly after eleven, Banfield citing his dawn return to Three Moons as an excuse.

“Couldn’t drop me off on the way, Chase?” Mick asked hopefully, following them all out into the foyer with its wealth of huge jewel-colored cushions over teak furniture.

Banfield stopped in his tracks, gazing at Mick in surprise. “How did you get here, Mick?” He’d assumed Mick had driven in from Derrilan.

“Arnie had to come into town for some supplies.” Mick referred to his head man, now the manager. “Dropped me off at the club.”

“I see. And how’d you get here from the club?”

Mick waved a hand. “One of the blokes drove me.”

One way or the other, Mick fell on his feet. Banfield clapped a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Sure, I’ll drop you off. No trouble.” In fact it would take him twenty miles out of his way, but what was distance up here? Mick was bound to start again with that business about the wild-goose chase.

“Well, I’ll say good-night, then.” Mick smiled happily. “It’s been a great pleasure meeting you, Rosie,” he said. “Some people you feel you’ve known all your life.”

“Same here, Mick.” Rosie returned the smile, giving him her hand, which he bowed over quite gallantly.

“Take care of that necklace now,” he warned. “It might have belonged to a very important Egyptian lady. A beautiful woman of high social standing. It suits you to a T. Good night, Dr. Marley.” Mick nodded in Marley’s direction, his charming Irish voice flattening out.

“Good night, Dempsey.” Marley sounded equally unimpressed. As Mick moved off to the stairs, relatively sober for once, Marley turned to Banfield with his trademark imperious expression. “There are other things you haven’t seen. A magnificent scarab!”

“Probably out of Porter’s safe, as well.”

“I take it I may expect your answer in the morning?” He visibly fought down his irritation. “I’ve come all this way, not without good reason. I believe we have sufficient evidence to proceed. With all due respect, I might point out that I’m the expert. This expedition could mean great things for all of us. I beg you to take that into consideration.”

Banfield’s eyes slid to Rosie, catching her in contemplation. “Would you care for a short stroll before bed?” he asked. “A breath of fresh air after so much talk of an ancient civilization. Kind of a sick one, at that. Too much emphasis on death. The ancient Egyptians built their great monuments to the dead. I’m for building monuments to the living, like the ancient Greeks or the Romans did.”

“Nevertheless, we’re speaking about a mighty civilization with twenty-five hundred years of great triumph and glory,” Marley broke in before Rosie, uncharacteristically breathless, had a chance to respond.

“I appreciate the fascination, Doctor,” Banfield said smoothly. “I’m just mentioning their strange ways. As I said earlier in the evening, I need time to think this over. You surely didn’t expect a decision tonight. Let’s say by the end of the week. I’m sure you can fill your time profitably. You’d probably like to visit my uncle. It may seem a harsh thing to say, but I don’t want him back on Three Moons. I have my reasons.”

“And I don’t want to interfere in any way.” Marley hastened to make his position clear. “But Porter is the one who claims to know where the pyramid is, or at least the general direction.”

Banfield nodded. “A number of people over the years have claimed to know where pyramids are sited. I’ll say good-night, Dr. Marley. We’ll be in touch.”

It was as much as Marley could hope for. He transferred his gaze to Rosie, who was standing quietly at Banfield’s shoulder, enjoying the sensation of having a man tower over her. “I’ll see you, Roslyn, when you come up.” His tone implied he’d be waiting for her in bed.

It was time to put things straight. She turned around fully to face him. “No more talking tonight, Graeme,” she said firmly. “I’ll be going straight to my room—to sleep. See you at breakfast.”

“Is this little affair very hush-hush at the moment?” Banfield asked as they walked out into the glorious tropical night. A big languorous copper moon sailed above the tall palms; the breeze was like incense.

“You’re not getting to me, Chase Banfield,” she scoffed, although the man drew her like a magnet. “There’s no affair. I told you.”

“You’d better tell Marley,” he suggested with more than a touch of irony.

“He’s married.”

He laughed, taking her arm and steering her in the direction he wanted to go. “I’d like a dollar for all the extramarital affairs in this state alone.”

“Let me put it more plainly. I don’t like him. He’s an elitist, and he’s sexist and arrogant, possibly a bigot.”

“Charming.”

“He’s also at the very top of his profession. His book on the life and culture of Australian Aborigines is a classic. His fieldwork attracts big grants. In a word, he’s got to be taken very seriously.”

Banfield considered briefly. “Speaking of grants, who’s funding this?”

“Presumably Graeme’s department.”

“Really? Well, surely they realize that even the most brilliant scientists can have a few bats in the belfry. My concern is that Porter’s using him, and Marley’s making it easy because he has this burning desire to keep confounding his peers. Finding the Winjarra paintings was a huge success. But success can’t stand still. Next, a tremendous discovery confirming once and for all that there was an ancient Egyptian presence in Australia.”

Rosie lifted her face to the heady perfume of the night. It seemed to be coming from the cascades of gardenia-scented white trumpet vine that smothered the lattice screens. “But is it so impossible?” she asked. “How did all the relics get here? The jewelry, the artifacts, the coins—some of them were apparently buried for four thousand years. Then there’s the pottery, the bronze and copper tools, the amazing hieroglyphics carved into rocks. Graeme thinks Australia was actually the Land of Punt, the mysterious southern continent referred to in Egyptian carvings. They could even have mined gold and silver and left their relics behind. Look at this gold necklace.” She fingered the gleaming lotus flowers.

“I’ve been looking at it all evening, oddly enough.”

“Where did this necklace come from?”

He glanced down at her, all his senses alive. “Again, try Porter’s safe,” he said wryly. “Speaking of gold, there could be gold deposits on Three Moons, for all I know. There were rich lodes up here in the old days. Tin. Collecting is an obsession with my uncle. He’s run through most of his own fortune and now he has to find ways of making more. If there is gold on Three Moons—and one of my people, a tribal elder, believes there is—Porter as a Banfield would have a claim.”

“So it’s more complicated than I thought.” Rosie picked a flower, then stuck it carelessly in her hair.

“It always is, especially with my uncle around.”

“And you’re worried about Mick, aren’t you?” Her voice was quiet and sympathetic.

He stopped, took her by the shoulders, turned her around to face him. “How did you know?”

“Easy.” She smiled. “I’m sensitive and highly intelligent.”

And she had a strong, very womanly sexuality. It enveloped him like the perfume of the gardenias. Once again he had that hard wild urge to kiss her, taste that luscious, full-lipped mouth. He was a passionate man, but of necessity he kept it under control. There was no point at all in starting something with Miss Roslyn Summers, despite the attraction between them. Slowly he dropped his hands, walked on. “Mick has suffered badly since he lost his wife,” he said levelly. “He loved her dearly and she loved him. Mick’s feelings go deep. At some stage he took to the bottle to ease the pain. He’s not a natural drinker. He doesn’t really enjoy it. But it serves to keep his mind anesthetized.”

“And you’re concerned that after the initial enthusiasm wears off, he’ll return to heavy drinking?”

Banfield sighed heavily. “He’s not the man to mastermind an exploration of the up-country. Only a few years ago, he would have been. But I have good reason to believe he’s not going to reform overnight.”

“You’re going to say no.” She felt a surge of disappointment. Not the least of it because she’d be losing all contact with him.

“I can’t bury my disquiet. I’m of two minds about everything, which doesn’t suit me at all. On the one hand, it was great to see Mick show such enthusiasm. He’s always been on about the Egyptian connection. A lot of people up here still are. My own grandfather claimed to have seen massive ruins of stone walls in the wilds of Cape York, which is as remote a place as one can get.”

She stared at him in amazement, struck by the male beauty of his strong features. Michelangelo would have loved him. “You never mentioned that before.”

He threw her a sidelong mocking smile. “There are lots of things I haven’t mentioned, Miss Summers, much as you’ve tried to beguile them out of me. You wouldn’t know, but the old Aboriginal witch doctors around here used ‘knot magic,’ much like the ancient Egyptians did. The knots represented blessings or curses. Where do you suppose they learned it? How did the ancient Egyptians come by their golden boomerangs, for that matter? Why did the Torres Strait natives mummify their dead using the Egyptian method? It’s all fascinating stuff, I agree. I do have some imagination, but I also have a big enterprise to run.”

“And you’re afraid to let us go off by ourselves with only Mick and, I presume, your uncle for guides?”

He answered with some force. “I’m afraid to let you go off, Miss Summers. I appreciate that you’ve had terrifying times covering your war stories, but you can equally well get lost or killed in the jungle. No joke. Where you’re going, the river is teeming with crocs. There are wild boar, pythons, snakes, spiders, among the deadliest in the world.”

“I’m game.” She’d have to take good care that nothing happened to her.

“I thought you might be.” He looked down at her moodily. “And all you expect to get out of this is a story? A world scoop?”

“What’s wrong with that?” She didn’t add she was mad keen to know him better. Instead, she stopped to stare at a bed of Indonesian torch ginger with its fantastic ten-inch red flowers. Such a clump of them! Unbelievable! “I also get to keep this necklace,” she added with a self-satisfied little smirk.

“Really?” His voice was very dry. “Porter has never been known to give anything away.”

“One of the perks of the job. An inducement, obviously.” She shrugged with apparent nonchalance. “It’s a pity you’re such a busy man.”

“You’re so good at this,” he groaned.

“Well, you are the ideal man to head this safari.”

“So what would I get out of it?” he demanded.

A nearly audible chord of excitement vibrated in the air between them as attraction assumed real shape and substance.

Rosie couldn’t laugh. She had never felt so vulnerable in her life, literally quaking. “You can hardly be suggesting we become lovers.” Even saying it aroused her. Inside her head. All over her body.





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