The Man from the Past

THE MAN FROM THE PAST Dorothy Cork

THE BUSINESS OF LOVE When Ferris returned home to claim the winery her father had left her, she knew she would have to face Martin Varenay again and, even after three years, his rejection still burned in her heart. Instead of Martin, though, it was his cousin Cleve who sought Ferris out. It was Cleve who took her in his arms. And it was Cleve who proposed a marriage of convenience so she wouldn't have to sell her beloved winery. But by then, Ferris wanted more than a business partner. If she accepted Cleve's proposal, she would be marrying for love total, all-consuming love.

Chapter One "Mr. Varenay's downstairs, Ferris." She was dreaming, of course, but her heart had begun to thud, and Ferris opened her blue eyes wide and sat up abruptly in the narrow, once-familiar bed. The door creaked softly, and her gaze flitted across the room. She hadn't been dreaming. Ilse, who had kept house for her father for years and years, ever since Ferris's mother had left him, looked unsmilingly into the room. "You're not dressed. I'll ask him to wait," she said and vanished silently. No, don't. Tell him I can't see him, Ferris wanted to say. But what was the use? She'd known when she told her father she would come back to Angels- mount that it was likely she'd see Martin Varenay again. She'd dreaded it, and yet the thought had a fearful fascination. Almost as if she believed it possible for the clock to be turned back, for him to ask her to marry him, instead of Livvie. All the same, it was something of a shock to have him turn up the very day she arrived back in the Barossa Hills. She just wasn't ready yet to cope with her past, particularly right on top of the trauma of visiting her father's grave. She'd driven back to the house exhausted and escaped into sleep, and it was just too much to be wakened and told he was here. With an effort, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and felt the worn, still velvet-soft bedside mat beneath her bare feet. She stood up, pushing back her fair hair that was sun-bleached almost to silver. From the gilt mirror over the big chest of drawers that had been made long ago by her great-grandfather, her reflection looked across the room at her. Her face was still pale from the

illness that had stopped her from coming to her father's funeral. The tan she'd acquired during a year of bush nursing in the Northern Territory had faded, and the white lace-trimmed slip she was wearing showed all too clearly that she'd lost quite a lot of weight. All in all, she thought, as she turned away to the suitcase that lay open on the floor, she looked nothing like the twenty-year-old girl who'd been so passionately in love with her father's wine maker three years ago. Scarcely knowing what she was doing, she dragged a cornflower blue dress out of her suitcase and pulled it on, her fingers clumsy, her mind in a turmoil. She'd never properly come to terms with losing Martin, and if he'd come to offer her his sympathy— and of course that was why he had come—then she'd better beware. He'd always been demonstrative, and if he should put his arms around her and call her Angelabella, she could easily go to pieces. Which she definitely didn't want to do. So she'd better be cool and aloof, and let him know that she'd completely got over him. Though she was by no means sure that she had. Brushing her hair at the mirror, using makeup to restore her selfconfidence, she smiled crookedly. She'd told herself a thousand times that she'd gotten over Martin, yet she still dreamed of him, and she'd scarcely looked at another man in three years. She wished rather desperately that she could ask Aunt Iris or Aunt Rose to come and make a threesome, but her father's sisters worked in the winery, one in the office and the other in the salesroom, and they'd be there till five o'clock. There was no one to protect her but herself. It was herself she needed protection from, of course, not him. She didn't imagine he'd still have any sentimental feelings about her,

no matter what he'd said at the wedding. Besides, she'd changed too much. She'd been so pretty, so soft. And so utterly gullible. When she'd deferred her nurses' training course after the death of her half brother, David, in a small plane crash, and come home to stay with her father, she'd naively fallen in love with Martin practically at first sight and never thought their relationship would end in any other way but in marriage. Martin would fit in perfectly at Angels- mount Winery, and Ferris had envisaged their children growing up to carry on the family tradition, her father gradually getting over the blow of losing David. But it hadn't worked out that way. One night, Martin broke the news to her that he was going to marry someone else—a girl who'd been overseas for some months and was now back home in Adelaide. Livvie Jamieson, who'd followed up her art studies with a year in France. He'd tried to soften the blow by telling Ferris that he loved her, too, but that had done nothing to help her accept it. She couldn't understand, and she was completely shattered. All the same, she'd kept hoping desperately, right up to the wedding day, that some miracle would happen, that Martin would change his mind and the wedding would be called off. But of course it wasn't. The bride turned up at the church and so did the bridegroom. At the wedding breakfast—a terrible ordeal for Ferris, but pride demanded that she should see it through—Martin had kissed her passionately and whispered that he'd always love her, and she had run away to hide in the Jamiesons' garden where she'd cried and cried. One of the guests, Martin's cousin Cleve from Melbourne—tall and dark and ugly was how she remembered him— had followed her and told her brutally, "There's no future in crying over a married man, my dear. That's not going to change anything." How hard he'd sounded, and how she'd hated him!

She was staring unseeingly at her reflection, but now she suddenly saw the look of hurt and humiliation in her eyes. She turned away abruptly. If she didn't get a move on, Martin was likely to come upstairs and knock on her door the way he used to do when he'd lived at Angelsmount and was taking her out somewhere. Her legs trembled as she went down the stairs, and she held on to the banisters, feeling the wood smooth and satiny under her fingers. This rail had known the touch of Howard hands for over a hundred and twenty years, but would know that touch no more now that the male line had run out. It had been a bitter disappointment for her father to know that Angelsmount was finished as a family winery. In his will, he'd left everything to Ferris and her younger sister Claudia, and since his death, Ferris had vowed she'd hang on to the vineyards and winery and run Angelsmount herself. She only wished she'd been able to reassure her father about that. He must have known he was ill when he'd asked her to consider coming home again. Perhaps he'd even decided that a woman, after all, could take control of Angelsmount. If only he'd told her he'd already had a stroke, she thought futilely, she'd have come back long ago, but she'd never dreamed, when she'd insisted she must finish her year of bush nursing, that there was any urgency. In fact, she had been puzzled that he wanted her home. She reached the foot of the stairway and found the big living room empty. Ilse had probably asked Martin to wait on the terrace, coolly shaded by grapevines. She hesitated, even at this last minute wanting to escape back up the stairs. But she had to face Martin some time, and with an effort she pulled herself together. As she moved into the hall, the sound of music drifted in from the library, which was really a small sitting room. Someone was

playing the piano—a Chopin nocturne. Who on earth could it be? Martin didn't play the piano. She drew a deep breath and headed for the door and, as she looked into the room, her mouth opened speechlessly. Hearing her footsteps, the man at the piano had stopped playing, and he stood up and turned towards her as she stood in the doorway. It was that tall, dark, ugly cousin of Martin's. Cleve Varenay. He was smiling at her a little quizzically, looking at her as though he remembered her well. And knowing exactly what he must be remembering, Ferris felt herself colour hotly. Unable to think of a thing to say, she stood, trying to cope with the fact that she'd got all churned up over nothing. She didn't have to face up to the trauma of meeting Martin yet after all. Unsure whether she felt relief or a sense of anticlimax, she simply stared blankly at Cleve Varenay. The way he stared back at her was far from blank. His eyes, greygreen and darkly lashed, were making a rapid but thorough search of her as if he had some special interest in Ferris Howard. They skimmed over her slight figure, took in her fair hair, lingered on her face. Noting, she didn't doubt, the shadows under her eyes, her lack of sparkling good health. She felt as if she were ten years older than she'd been the one and only time they'd met, and she was positive he must be thinking that she'd lost her looks. Conversely, he was almost exactly as she remembered him. Tall, broad shouldered, his hair thick and dark and well groomed. She wasn't sure now why she'd thought of him so definitely as ugly. He wasn't conventionally good looking, and there was something about him that disturbed her, though she didn't know what it was.

His nose was slightly flattened, slightly off centre, as though it had been broken at some time, and the curving upward tilt at one corner of his wide mouth gave him a rakish air, as did the fact that one eyebrow was decidedly higher than the other. After what seemed an endless moment, but was probably only a matter of a few seconds, she drew her eyes away from him and, murmuring some sort of a greeting, indicated the settee and asked him to sit down. "You were resting," he remarked as he sat down, and she took a chair with her back to the long windows that looked across the verandah to the tennis court. "I'm. afraid I've disturbed you. You should have told Ilse to send me away." I would have if I'd known it was you and not Martin, she thought wryly, but aloud she told him, "It doesn't matter. It was time I woke up anyhow." "I came to offer you my sympathy," he said. He stretched out his long legs, and she noticed abstractedly the fine quality of the light beige pants he wore with his black silk shirt. "It's a great shame you couldn't have come home sooner. Owen was looking forward to having you back here with him." Owen? Ferris's eyes widened, and she suddenly wondered what this man was doing here in South Australia when he lived, presumably, in Victoria, where the Varenays, one of the big vigneron families of Australia, had their headquarters. Or had he taken over Varenays' Barossa Valley winery, Chateau Varenne? she wondered. That could mean that Martin had been moved somewhere else, and though the possibility should have been a relief, it wasn't. She'd reached the stage now where not to see Martin again would be worse than to see him. It was as if by

meeting him again she could somehow come to terms with the past, start again emotionally. And, heaven knew, she needed to do that. "I didn't realise you knew my father well enough to call him Owen," she said a little unsteadily. "Do you live hereabouts these days?" He shook his head. "Didn't your father tell you I've been spending some time in the district?" "No," Ferris said. She wondered vaguely why he was in the Barossa since obviously he hadn't taken over from Martin. Her father had never mentioned him in his letters and as far as she knew there was no reason why he should have, but out of politeness she said, "My father wasn't a great letter writer ... I suppose you're here on business of some sort— buying up more vineyards for Chateau Varenne." She saw a flicker of annoyance in his eyes and realised that she had sounded rude. Well, she couldn't help that now and she wasn't going to mate it worse by apologising. She jumped to her feet and exclaimed brightly, "I'll see if Ilse is making tea. Or do you want to go now that you've said what you came to say? About my father's death," she finished, her voice a little more subdued. "No. I'd like to stay awhile now I'm here," he said, obviously suppressing his annoyance. "If you can spare me a little more of your time, there's something I want to talk to you about." Such as what? Ferris wondered. Because, quite frankly, she couldn't think of a thing she'd want to talk to him about. She nodded and hurried away.

In the kitchen, she discovered that Ilse had already made tea and was on the point of loading it, with some plain cake, onto a tray. "Do you want it inside, Ferris, or shall I take it through to the terrace?" "Oh, we'll have it outside," Ferris decided, and then rather wished she hadn't. There were too many memories waiting for her on the terrace. Evenings shared with Martin, while they murmured together until it grew dark and the marble angel that presided over the garden glimmered white as a ghost, and the moonflowers— angels' tears, her father had called them—began to open ... Oh well, it wasn't anywhere near dark yet, and she was quite sure Cleve Varenay's rather intimidating presence would keep her mind from wandering into dangerous places. She went back to the sitting room and opened the door on to the verandah. "Ilse is taking a tray onto the terrace," she said briefly, then went outside and left him to follow her. As she made her way along the white gravel path between the verandah and the tennis court, she could hear voices coming from beyond the house where the cellars and salesrooms were situated. They belonged to tourists and wine buffs who came to the Barossa all through the year to visit the many wineries in the district— tasting, buying, discussing wine quality. Angelsmount was off the beaten track, but the reputation of its wines persuaded eager visitors to seek it out. It was in the low hills east of the Valley, where the wineries were few, the soil poor—and the grape and wine quality excellent. Or so her father had said. There was the added attraction, too, she'd discovered, of Aunt Rose's entertaining dissertations on the early history of the Howard family. Visitors

were charmed by the stories she remembered her grandfather telling her. Ferris had seen them listening enraptured when she'd helped her aunt in the salesroom that year after David was killed. How long ago it seemed! And yet being here again how it all came flooding back. The happiness of being in love, and the pain—the unimaginable pain—when she found she wasn't to have what she wanted. She turned to wait for Cleve and almost collided with him. He put out a hand to steady her, and an unexpected tremor ran along her nerves. Disconcerted, she moved away from him quickly and told him nervously, "Please find yourself a seat." "Thanks. You certainly have a great view from up here," he commented, indicating with a sweep of his hand the green vines that covered the slopes beyond the garden and now belonged to Ferris and Claudia. The two aunts owned even more extensive vineyards farther into the hills and sold their vintage to Angelsmount, and Ferris, having murmured something to that effect, discovered that Cleve already knew. "You haven't spent a great deal of your life here, have you?" Cleve continued as he took one of the white wrought-iron chairs made comfortable by padded covers. "I guess I haven't," Ferris agreed, still uneasily aware of her unexpected reaction to the mere touch of his fingers on her arm. She reached for the teapot and, as she poured the tea, she told him, "It wasn't actually from choice. My sister and I were sent away to school in Adelaide when we were quite small— before our parents were divorced." She didn't add that her mother had remarried, leaving herself and Claudia to be cared for by their grandparents in Adelaide. He

might know that already, but he couldn't possibly know how much she'd missed her father, how much she'd wanted to come back to Angelsmount. Or that her grandmother had dampened her ardour by telling her, "Your father's completely wrapped up in his own life, in his wine making, Ferris. If he wanted you with him he'd send for you. Your brother is all the family he needs." "So obviously you don't feel your roots are here," she heard Cleve saying, and she raised her eyes from the cup of weak black tea she was sipping and looked at him quickly. Her roots were here all right, though she hadn't really known it until the year of her brother's death, when she had come home to find her father broken up now that he had no son to take over Angelsmount from him. It was then that Ferris realised how strongly her Howard blood flowed, and she began to wish she'd ignored her grandmother and simply come home when she left school. As it was, she scarcely knew her father, but she'd made up her mind to convince him that the Angelsmount tradition mattered to her even though she was a girl. Falling in love with Martin, who was a wine maker and came from a family of vignerons, had given her every chance of success. Until it all went wrong . . . "I was born a Howard and I'm still a Howard," she told Cleve flatly, and left him to make what he liked of that. He merely nodded. He was watching her through narrowed eyes, and she turned her head away from him slightly, conscious again of the effect his physical presence had on her and unnerved by it. She had the feeling he was summing her up, making up his mind about something. About her? But if so, why? And what was it he

had to say to her? she wondered, suddenly remembering why he'd stayed. "What were you going to talk to me about?" she asked, forcing herself to look fully at him. He finished his tea and set his cup down before he answered. "About Angelsmount. I believe your father left the vineyards—the winery, the house, everything, in fact—to you. Is that right?" "To me and Claudia, my sister," she corrected him. "You see, my mother remarried, and my brother was killed some time ago." "Yes, your father told me that," he said, frowning. He leaned forward and refilled his teacup absently as he added slowly, "I wasn't aware your father had decided to divide his estate between you and your sister. I thought she'd allied herself to your mother's family. However, what are you two girls planning to do?" Ferris hesitated. For some crazy reason she was tempted to tell him what she hoped to be able to do, though she hadn't talked over her ideas with anyone yet. In fact, she hadn't even contacted Claudia, who lived in Adelaide, and of whom she'd seen very little during the past four or five years. "I can't tell you that," she said finally. "I haven't seen Claudia yet. I've been ill; that's why I didn't come home sooner. I thought you knew that. I thought you could—could see for yourself," she faltered, aware that she was too self-conscious about her looks. "I heard you'd been in hospital," he agreed. "And, by the look of you, you should have taken a longer convalescence. You have a good few problems to face here, I imagine . . . You had some sort of a virus, didn't you?"

"Yes. I had influenza complicated by bronchitis that developed into pneumonia," she said and saw his eyebrows rise. "Pneumonia? I thought that was a thing of the past. I thought modern drugs dealt with pneumonia before it could really develop." "Then you're out of date with your information," she said with a faint smile. "It's not as easy as it used to be. But I'm perfectly well again now. It's just that I don't carry the weight I did when I was twenty." He looked amused. "I don't recall you carried all that much weight then. And, no matter what you say, I'm quite positive you should have stayed with your friends for a while before you tackled the sorting out of your father's affairs." Stayed with her friends? What on earth was he talking about? Before she could ask him, he went on, "Your father told me about the Camdens—isn't that their name?—on some cattle station up north. They'd have taken care of you for a while surely." Oh dear! The Camdens! A flood of colour rushed to Ferris's cheeks. She'd rather misled her father about her friendship with the Camden family when she wrote to him. He'd been concerned about her isolating herself in the Outback, and she'd thought he'd feel better if he felt she had friends and a social life. Actually, her life at the Aboriginal Settlement had been austere to say the least of it, and though she saw the Camdens occasionally on her fortnightly trips into Katherine for medical supplies, drugs arid food, she wasn't really on social terms with them. She'd been to their property a couple of times when they'd held parties there and that was about all. They were nice people with three sons, two of them still at school, but she certainly hadn't known them well enough to

have them take care of her while she convalesced. But she didn't have to explain all that to Cleve Varenay. "I wanted to get home as soon as I could," she said awkwardly. Her colour was subsiding, and she wondered what he'd made of her quick flush. "I'm perfectly well, really, and Ilse will look after me. Besides, my aunts are here." "But living several kilometres away," he reminded her. "And Ilse goes home to her husband in Nuriootpa every evening. I take it she's still housekeeping for you?" "Oh yes," Ferris assured him. "And that's really all the help I need. I can look after myself." "Well, that may be so, but it's a different matter when you've been ill. However, you're the nurse," he concluded. He got to his feet and paced along the terrace to look out across the rows of vines. "I hope you realise the winery won't run itself," he said over his shoulder. "Of course I do! But don't worry, my uncle comes over several days a week to keep an eye on things," Ferris said mildly, wondering if he took her for a fool who thought—who thought wine grew on trees. "Everything's under control; I assure you nothing's being neglected." He smiled wryly. "You think it's not my business, don't you, Ferris? Well, the point I'm trying to make is simply that you and your sister are going to have to consider very carefully what you're going to do with the property you've inherited." Ferris widened her eyes. He must take her for a fool, she decided. Of course they'd consider carefully what they were going to do. They'd have to if they were going to devise ways and means of

running the winery themselves. She told him quizzically, "I do have a few ideas about it, but since I've only just arrived home, I haven't had time to discuss them with anyone yet." "Exactly," he agreed, his voice clipped. "And that's more or less why I want to talk to you now—before you rush into anything, Ferris. I don't know whether you'll be surprised to hear it, but I want to buy you out." Ferris couldn't believe her ears. It was as if he'd said something in a foreign language, something totally incomprehensible. He wanted to buy Angelsmount! Her family's winery! How insensitive could he be? And didn't he have any idea yet how she felt about the place? "What on earth makes you think we'd put Angelsmount up for sale?" she exclaimed hotly. "I—we wouldn't dream of selling! Not to you or to anyone. Not ever!" He pulled a chair close to hers and sat down and looked at her hard. Returning his look, she noticed again that his nose was just a little crooked and wondered rather ridiculously how he'd managed to break it, whether he'd been in a fight. Her eyes went to the breadth and power of his shoulders covered by the black silk shirt, and she caught herself thinking that he was much more muscular than Martin. Not like him in any way, either physically or in character, would be her guess. And certainly not nearly as good looking. Yet. . . Yet what? She flicked her lashes down, aware that her heart was hammering, and that it was not because of the unexpectedness of what he'd had to say to her. "Now look, Ferris," he said softly, "you might feel that way just now, so soon after your father's death, but when you've discussed the pros and cons with your family, you'll see things more

realistically. You'll understand that you'll have to sell, that you have no other choice." "But we have!" she argued, a quiver of anger in her voice. "We— we can run it ourselves." He smiled sceptically, and her colour rose. "And don't tell me we don't know anything about it. We can learn. Women have done it before this, when the man of the family has died. Besides, Uncle Tom will help us." "Don't count on it," he said, his voice hard. "Your uncle's over seventy. He told me he's retiring at the end of the year and he and your aunt are going to Adelaide to live. Your other aunt, too. Elderly ladies can't go on working forever," Ferris bit her lip. Was that true, that they were all retiring? And why did she know nothing and this— this interfering stranger know everything? And what did her aunts mean to do with their vineyards? Because she did know that her father had depended on buying grapes from their properties. Well, she was not going to panic, she just wasn't. She and Claudia would work something out. For a start, they'd find someone to manage the winery for them. Cleve Varenay wasn't going to stampede her into selling, and she was positive Claudia would agree. She'd dropped out of her course at the university and, as far as Ferris knew, she was unemployed. Not that it mattered, since their maternal grandmother had left Claudia the house in Adelaide when she died, and Claudia had sold it. The two of them together could take over the work their aunts had done. Ferris raised her head and found Cleve Varenay looking at her steadily. Waiting for her to capitulate, she thought. Maybe even to cry.

"I expect we'll put in a manager," she said calmly. "That should be quite simple." "You might find it's not as simple as you imagine," he said cynically. "And there's another thing I want to tell you, Ferris. Evidently your father didn't mention it to you, but for some time before he died, he and I had been discussing the possibility of my buying Angelsmount." "You can't expect me to believe that!" Ferris exclaimed. "My father was wrapped up in this place. It's belonged to our family for over a hundred years. He'd never dream of selling; it meant everything to him. Oh, you wouldn't understand—Varenay's is so big and impersonal. But Angelsmount is different.. The family's always been personally involved. Always." She stopped, aware that circumstances had changed drastically, but resentful when a moment later he put the facts into words. "You're not talking sense, Ferris. The Howard family's just about run out. Your aunts are leaving shortly, and your cousins are all girls, all married and living elsewhere. Neither they nor you or your sister have ever shown the least concern about the family property or family traditions." "That's not true!" she said, stung. "I'm concerned. I'm interested. I agreed to come home when my father asked me, and I understand why he wanted me now. He must have known he was likely to have another stroke. He wanted to prepare me to take over." She took a deep breath and looked at him antagonistically. His green eyes were intent, and she imagined he was looking for something killing to say that would crush her completely. Because he wanted Angelsmount and because she was a girl and ignorant of

the wine business, he thought he could override her and have it all his own way. But he couldn't. "You're trying to bluff me, Mr. Varenay," she accused. "I know perfectly well my father would never have considered selling Angelsmount to anyone, let alone to a big concern like Varenay's. I know how he felt about it. You don't. Daddy's whole life was dedicated to Angelsmount, and when my brother was killed, he was shattered. That was why I came back three years ago if you want to know. I intended to stay here, but—" She broke off. She wasn't going to tell him what she'd hoped when she fell in love with Martin. That she'd dreamed she and Martin would marry and raise a family here, carrying on the traditions just as her father had. That she'd planned to give all her sons the middle name of Howard ! . . Nor was she going to admit that she'd run out on her father because it had been too painful for her to contemplate living in the Barossa after Martin had married Livvie. Martin would be too close, because the Varenays were appointing him to their Chateau Varenne Winery in the Valley. He'd merely been gaining experience at Angelsmount before taking up that appointment. Of course, if he and Ferris had married, it would have been different. "But what?" Cleve asked, and she bit her lip. "I thought I should finish my nurses' training," she said lamely. He must have guessed why she'd left, of course. He'd seen her crying at the wedding. She'd hated him then, and she hated him more than ever now. But if she'd imagined he'd have any comment to make, she was wrong. He got to his feet and stood with his hands on his narrow hips looking down at her.

"Well, then, it seems there's no more to be said, doesn't it?" he said pleasantly. "Forget I trod on your toes by imagining you'd be interested in selling out. I'm sorry I upset you and I hope you'll forgive me. If there's any way I can help you, then let me know." She stared at him puzzled. What an about-face! She just didn't believe it, didn't trust him. But if he were prepared to help her, then he must be living here, although he'd said he wasn't. . . . She asked without really meaning to, "Where are you staying, Mr. Varenay?" The minute she asked it she knew she needn't have. He'd be staying with Martin, of course, in the Spanish-style house that belonged to the Chateau Varenne Winery. "At the motel," he said, and when she looked back at him blankly, he elaborated wryly, "The Motel Varenne. I can see you're unaware we've expanded into motels. It's new since you were here. We retain a suite of rooms there for the use of any member of the family who happens to be in the district." Why wasn't he staying with Martin and Livvie? she wondered, but she didn't like to ask him. For all she knew, they might not be particularly friendly . . . She got to her feet. It seemed as though they'd come to the end of anything they had to say to each other, and she didn't want to detain him. Definitely not. Together they strolled back along the terrace, and she glanced covertly at the statue of the angel, who looked down on the flowering plants at her feet, her hands extended, her fingers spread delicately. One of them had been broken off, long ago when Ferris and Claudia had been playing ball. She'd cried, but Claudia hadn't. "Will you be staying in the Barossa much longer, Mr. Varenay, now that—"

"Now that my hopes have been dashed?" he provided, half humorously, when she paused. "Oh, I think I'll stay on for a while. I'd intended doing so, and I don't see any reason to change my mind. I like it here, and I can get to Renmark or Adelaide or Melbourne, if necessary, without much trouble. Perhaps you'd care to have dinner with me one night. Would you?" "I—I don't know," she stammered, disconcerted, and immediately wished she'd politely declined. She didn't really think she wanted to have dinner with Cleve Varenay. There was something too disturbing about his personality. "Please do. I meant what I said about helping you," he said, his eyes meeting hers. "I can at least offer my advice." "You won't need to," she said, knowing she sounded ungracious. "My uncle hasn't left yet, you know." "I do know," he agreed dryly, and she had the idea he was insinuating that she had yet to find out what it would be like without her uncle. He didn't come back into the house but went straight to his car—-a sleek, silver grey model that somehow suited him, she caught herself thinking fancifully. "I'll be in touch," he said as he opened the door and took his seat behind the wheel. "I'll give you a few days to rest and to put a bit of fat back on your bones. But call me if you want to, won't you?" Meaning if she changed her mind about selling, she thought, nettled, and decided quite definitely that she wouldn't be calling him.

When he'd gone, she went back to the terrace and sank down in one of the chairs. Ilse had come and taken the tea tray away, and any minute now would be taking her departure for the village in her old car. Ferris leaned back in her chair and, determinedly putting Cleve Varenay out of her mind, stared at the angel. She felt what she always had, a mixture of awe and sadness. To her, for some reason she couldn't explain, the angel had always represented Aimee, her father's first wife, who had died when David was very small. Ferris had the idea that her father had never ceased to grieve for his first wife. He hadn't loved her mother as he had loved Aimee, of that she was certain. She couldn't remember her parents ever seeming to be really happy. "We're cut off from civilisation," her mother used to complain, and in time, Ferris had come to think that it must be true, that it was why they'd packed up and gone to Adelaide. Cut off from civilisation here! After nearly a year in the Outback, Ferris found that amusing. Her mother had never known what it was to be cut off from civilisation. Her thoughts veered to Cleve Varenay. How right she'd been when she'd asked him if he'd come to the Barossa with the intention of buying more vineyards! It was no wonder he'd looked at her the way he had, considering what he had in mind. Buying Angelsmount. . . Her eyes clouded at the thought. He'd disturbed her with his insistence that she and Claudia couldn't possibly cope, and she was mystified by his statement that her father had talked of selling to him. She just couldn't believe it. Her father's feeling for his property had been so strong. Meanwhile, she had to face the prospect of her uncle and aunts leaving—if that was true. It was something she certainly hadn't taken into account when she'd made up her mind to take her place as head of the Howard family winery.

Presently she went inside, glancing at her watch. It was after five o'clock, and Aunt Iris, who worked in the office, was in the big central living room stirring cream into a glass of iced coffee. "What did Cleve Varenay want?" she asked as Ferris came in. Ferris hesitated. She didn't know that she wanted to tell her aunt about the conversation she'd had with Cleve Varenay. She didn't want to be told that she should have snapped up his offer and been thankful, and somehow she had the idea that was what she would be told. "Oh, he just came to offer his sympathy," she said evasively and added hurriedly, "I drove out to the cemetery to see Daddy's grave after lunch." She leaned on the end of the long solid table that her great-grandfather had made out of red gum. "I had a rest when I came back. I suppose Ilse has gone?" "Yes, she's gone. You'd better come home with me and Tom tonight. Have dinner with us, discuss things. Stay the night. You won't want to be alone." Ferris shook her head decisively. "No thank you, Aunt. I'm rather tired, and I'm quite used to being independent. It's not going to bother me to be on my own." Her aunt shot her a sharp look. "You're not thinking of staying here for any length of time, are you, Ferris? You won't be able to run Angelsmount —to take your father's place. You'll have to—" She paused, and Ferris didn't ask her to finish what she'd been about to say. She said lightly, "I'll have to talk it over with Claudia. I'd like to give her a ring tonight."

"Well, I suppose you must, since Owen willed his property the way he did. More's the pity." Aunt Iris, who was a large, rather plump woman, got to her feet and went over to the big sideboard. As she opened one of the drawers and rummaged in it, Ferris noticed that her legs were swollen and that she'd kicked off her shoes. Cleve Varenay was right. She was an elderly lady, and she couldn't be expected to go on working at the winery indefinitely. "Here," her aunt said, turning and handing over a battered notebook. "You'll find Claudia's number in this. I got it from enquiries when your father was ill, but she didn't come home. She didn't even come to the funeral, you know. Rose was very upset about that. I hope you won't listen to any hare-brained schemes she may have now she owns half of Angelsmount. Tom will give you all the advice you need as to what you should do." Ferris bit her lip. Not even Tom was going to tell her what she should do. She was an adult, not a child, and she had ideas of her own. "I'll certainly tell Uncle Tom about my plans when I've talked to Claudia," she said carefully and was relieved when at that moment her other aunt appeared. Comments were made on her "delicate" look, as Aunt Rose, who was romantically inclined, called it, and she was told she needed feeding up. "She insists she's staying here in this big house all on her own," Aunt Iris said, and Rose tut-tutted. Their concern for her was warming, but Ferris didn't want to be taken over, and she wasn't sorry when they took their departure and left her alone, after ascertaining that there was plenty of food in the fridge.

Once they'd gone, she telephoned Claudia, though she felt like nothing more than falling into bed and sleeping. Claudia received her call enthusiastically. "Ferris! So you've arrived. I was going to ring through in a day or so to find out what was happening. Are you okay again? The aunts said you were ill. Or did you feel like I did about the funeral? That you just couldn't face it. After all, it's not as if Daddy had been a real father to us, is it? Thinking of nothing but his precious wine making for years and years." "Oh, Claudia!" Ferris protested. "How can you say that? It wasn't Daddy's fault that Mother left him." "No? Then whose fault was it? What sort of a life was it for her, coming second to a vat of fermenting grapes?" Ferris sighed. "Don't let's argue. What I rang for was to ask if you have time to pay Angelsmount a visit. Or do you have work that you can't leave?" "Work? That's a laugh," Claudia scoffed. "I've been hunting for work for months, but it doesn't seem to exist as far as I'm concerned. It's all very well for you. You're a nurse. I don't have any qualifications. I've started going to sculpture classes in selfdefence. It's frightfully expensive, but I don't want to die of boredom yet. I'm too young." "Then you can come?" Ferris asked when she managed to get a word in. "Darling, I intend to," Claudia said. "Just give me a few days. And keep your fingers crossed, will you? With luck, I'm going to give you a marvellous surprise."

"What kind of a surprise?" Ferris asked, a little impatient that Claudia should be so wrapped up in something else just now. "I'm not going to tell you," her sister said gaily. "But I hope to be bringing someone with me to Angelsmount. A man. So you can expect two house- guests, not one," she added with a little giggle. "Try to have everything looking nice, won't you? I hope the place isn't too dilapidated. I seem to remember it was somewhat shabby years ago, but I expect Daddy's replaced the carpets and chair covers and so on by now." "No, he hasn't," Ferris said. She'd found the old house much more in need of repair than she'd expected. A beautiful wreck. The inside walls in need of painting; the furnishings and rugs worn; the big slabs of slate that formed the verandah floors no longer satiny, though they'd revive with polishing; the white woodwork outside dilapidated . . . "But, Claudia," she asked her sister in exasperation, "do you have to bring someone home just now? We need to talk about Angelsmount, and what we're going to do." "Don't worry," her sister broke in. "We'll talk about it all you like, I promise. Now look, I have a date. I really must go. 'Bye for now. Look after yourself." She rang off, and Ferris hung up thoughtfully. She supposed Claudia must be in the midst of a love affair, and she wondered how serious it was. She found it difficult to realise that her sister was fully adult. She was a very attractive girl, dark-haired and fairskinned like their mother, and she'd been thoroughly spoiled by their grandparents. But surely by now she'd grown out of believing the world revolved around her, and if she were in love then Ferris wished her luck. All the same, the thought of entertaining her sister's boyfriend just now was a bit much. She'd far sooner

Claudia gave her mind to Angelsmount and how they were going to cope. As she went out to the kitchen to see what Ilse had left her for supper, she thought of Cleve Varenay, who had stressed the fact that she was a helpless female. Well, she wasn't, and she was going to prove it. If she did have dinner with him, it wouldn't be to listen to his advice.

Chapter Two A week passed before Ferris heard either from Cleve Varenay or from her sister Claudia. And during that week she heard nothing at all from Martin. It was frustrating, and it was also hurtful, but there was not a thing she could do about it. Martin was married— he probably never even thought of her. It might be better not to see him, she told herself in an effort to be sensible, but it was terribly hard to accept, knowing he was so close. She tried not to think of him but found it impossible, though she kept as busy as she could, sorting through her father's things, tidying the house in readiness for Claudia and her boyfriend and learning what she could from her Uncle Tom, who, although he didn't come to the winery every day, had designated himself custodian of the estate for the time being. Cleve had been quite right, of course. Her uncle was retiring to Adelaide at the end of the year, and he advised her to find a buyer before then. "It's the only thing for you and Claudia to do," he insisted. "It's no use being sentimental about it under the circumstances. You two girls know nothing about wine production, and I'm sure you'd sooner see Angelsmount thriving than going bankrupt." Ferris didn't argue, but she couldn't see why she and Claudia couldn't get someone to manage the winery for them. She'd wait till she'd talked to her sister, and then they'd tell Tom what they'd decided, and she was sure he'd do what he could to help them. He was a big, pleasant-faced man, balding and agreeable, and she'd gone with him while he inspected some of the vines that had recently been sprayed by the men who worked in the vineyards. Most of the tiny flowers on the vines had fallen off and minute

bunches of grapes were beginning to form, and the sight of those tiny green clusters both fascinated and frightened Ferris. She knew she and Claudia couldn't possibly accept the responsibility for their care, their development into fat, juicy, wine-producing grapes—for deciding exactly when they were to be picked. They'd have to find someone experienced to take over long before then. With luck, her Uncle Tom might still be there, and she had asked him about that as they had returned to the winery, where some of last year's reds were being brought out of their oak casks to be prepared for bottling. And that was when he'd told her his plans and advised her to sell. "I don't want to sell, Uncle," she said quietly, "but it's not just sentimentality. Angelsmount has always belonged to the Howards, and if Claudia agrees, I don't see why she and I shouldn't carry on the tradition. Oh, I know you and Aunt Iris can't be expected to stay on, but surely we can find someone trustworthy to take charge before you go." They had paused outside the big doors of the ivy-wreathed stone cellars, in the shade of an old white cedar whose lilac-coloured flowers scented the air. Her uncle looked down at her and shook his head positively. "Better sell out, sweetheart. It'll only be a headache to you. You'll never find anyone to take your dad's place, to put into it what he did. Not a man who's just in your employ. It's not a big concern, you see. The wines are prestigious, but your father never made a fortune from them—didn't want to. Angelsmount needs a family to take an interest in it. Cleve Varenay's been up to the house to see you, hasn't he?" he asked unexpectedly.

Ferris frowned. "Yes, he called in the other day to say he was sorry about Daddy." "Was that all he came about?" he asked shrewdly. "He's very keen on Angelsmount, you know." "Is he?" she asked and refrained from adding that so was she. She wondered for the first time if Cleve were married. But even if he were, all he'd want of Angelsmount would be to make it part of the Varenay empire. "Is he what you'd call a family man?" she asked a little sceptically, and her uncle gave her a quizzical look. "Well, he's not married yet. But he's the right man for here ... I suppose he told you he's been keeping an eye on the cellars, the wines, for me? Those things are outside my range, I'm afraid. I've been grateful for his help. I couldn't handle the wine making without his advice, you know." Ferris felt a flash of resentment and knew she was being unfair. But the thought that Cleve Varenay already had a finger in the pie was distinctly unpalatable. Besides, she'd been under the impression that her Uncle Tom could manage quite well without the help of an outsider. Unpaid help at that, she thought uneasily. But before she could ask any questions, Ilse called her from the back door. "Ferris! You're wanted on the telephone." Ferris marched inside, somehow expecting it to be Cleve, perhaps because her uncle had been speaking of him. Instead, it was Claudia, and she mentally threw cold water on the flames that were flickering in her mind and calmed herself down.

"Ferris, I've got everything lined up at last," Claudia said, sounding pleased with herself. "We'll be driving up tomorrow afternoon in Lance's car. I hope the house will be looking nice." "Don't worry. It always does," Ferris said. It did to her, but for all she knew, Claudia might be used to something rather smarter and more sophisticated these days. If so, she was in for a disappointment, because this old house was definitely—though lovably—shabby. "Anyhow, tell me about Lance, Claudia. I haven't the faintest idea who he is or—" "You'll find out all about him in good time," Claudia interrupted teasingly. "His name's Lance Hartley-Robertshaw, by the way, and he's chairman of a big earth-moving company. Ve-rry wealthy. You'll be really impressed." Impressed? In what way? Ferris wondered. She wondered, too, if her sister was thinking of marrying this mysterious man. "Well, money's not everything, Claudia," she offered hesitantly and hoped she didn't sound as if she were playing the heavy parent. Evidently she didn't, because her sister said brightly, "No, darling, but it's so handy, isn't it? Anyhow, give him that big downstairs bedroom, will you? The one that has its own bathroom." The room that had been Martin's when he'd been wine maker here, Ferris thought with a pang. "All right," she agreed. "I'll do what I can to make it really welcoming. But I wish you'd tell me more about this man. He must be pretty important for you to be bringing him here just now when we have things to discuss." "He is," Claudia said with a laugh. "Just wait until tomorrow and then we'll reveal all."

Ferris had to be content with that, and a little irritated by Claudia's secrecy, she went straight away to make up the bed in the downstairs bedroom. She thought of Martin as she did so and wondered again why she'd had no word from him. Not even a phone call to say he was sorry her father had died. There had been a sympathy card from him—though not addressed to her specifically—in the pile of mail the aunts had kept for her. All of them answered, Aunt Rose had assured her. "We knew you wouldn't feel like dealing with them, Ferris, and so many of them are from people you don't even know. And of course"— apologetically—"they were all addressed to us." Surely Martin must have heard she was back, Ferris thought restlessly, absently smoothing the faded bedspread into place. Cleve must have mentioned it. She crossed to the window to look out at the angel on the terrace and stood twisting the curling ends of her blond hair around her fingers. She was on edge, a mass of nerves, desperately wanting—needing—to see Martin again. Wishing somewhere at the back of her mind that it was for him she was preparing this room. But what on earth would she do if they met again and she discovered she was still in love with him, that she hadn't got over him at all? She—she'd have to sell up, after all. Run away again. Hand Angelsmount over to Cleve Varenay. Well, that was something she had no intention of doing, so she'd better pull herself together. Martin was married, and it wasn't realistic—it was childish —to keep carrying a torch for him. She turned back into the room and determinedly dragged her thoughts back to Claudia and her wealthy boyfriend.

In the morning, she took the car that had been her father's and went shopping in Nuriootpa. She'd have to cook dinner for Claudia and Lance that night, and she'd spent an hour the previous evening working out a menu that she could manage that would still make a good impression on Claudia's important friend. Ilse couldn't be expected to stay on and help her, as she had to make dinner for her husband, who worked at the cement factory near Angaston, but Ferris was quite capable of producing an attractive meal. During the year she'd been back at Angelsmount when Martin was there, she'd really put herself out to please him, she reflected nostalgically. Her father had liked simple fare with a glass of wine, but Martin had really appreciated good food. And so, probably, would Lance Hartley-Robertshaw. For tonight, she'd decided on fresh asparagus followed by veal in a white wine sauce, which she could start preparing after lunch. For dessert, she'd make a simple lemon sorbet. She'd consult her uncle during lunch regarding the best wines to serve. When her shopping was finished, she decided to give her ego a boost and have her hair shampooed and trimmed. She arrived home rather later than she'd planned, but with no regrets at all, because her visit to the hairdresser had improved her appearance, and also her morale, considerably. Once home, she unpacked her purchases and, keeping out of Use's way, set to work on the sorbet in the room they called the larder. It opened off the kitchen and was used for storing food and for serving up meals when there were a lot of people. She'd put the sorbet in the freezer and was about to cut up the veal when the doorbell rang. Heavens! Surely it couldn't be Claudia and Lance already.

"Answer that, will you, Ilse?" she said from the kitchen door. "If it's my sister and her Mend, don't worry about lunch. We'll go out somewhere." She thrust the meat back in the fridge and ran upstairs to wash her hands, touch up her lips and reassure herself about her hair and the dark blue skirt and lilac-coloured blouse she was wearing. Then she hurried down the stairs again and stopped short as she reached the bottom. Cleve Varenay stood there, and her heart began to pound. She hadn't really expected to see him again, and her whole physical being seemed affected by the sight of him. As if—as if she'd had a shot of adrenaline or something. Her eyes were riveted on his, and she was shatteringly aware of their magnetism. She swallowed audibly, and her gaze slipped to the cream silk shirt he wore part way open to reveal his darkly tanned chest. "What's the trouble, Ferris?" he asked, moving towards her. "Were you expecting someone else?" "I... I just didn't expect you," she stammered. "What do you want, Mr. Varenay?" "Cleve," he said. He smiled down at her, and she noticed he had good teeth: white, strong and even. "I'm surely not so old you have to address me formally. I called in to see if you were free tonight to take up that dinner date I suggested the other day." "Oh." She wasn't free, of course, and she stared at him blankly. The unexpected thought flashed into her mind that she could invite him to join them for dinner at Angelsmount, but she discarded the idea quickly. It might give Claudia and Lance the wrong impression, and besides, she wanted to talk to her sister about their

plans for the future—providing Claudia wasn't too excited about her own personal life to take any interest. "No, I'm not free," she stammered. "My sister's arriving this afternoon with her—with a friend." "Then tomorrow?" he suggested, his green eyes holding hers. Ferris wrestled with herself. Why shouldn't she have dinner with him tomorrow? But did she want to? Did she want to get involved—even slightly— with another Varenay? Definitely not, she told herself. All the same, she thought weakly, he might have something to say about Martin, and she'd find out how much it hurt to hear about him and Livvie. But what was there for him to say— unless Martin sent her a message of sympathy? And it didn't look as if he were going to do even that. He must know she was back in the Barossa. Cleve would have told him, surely. In which case it was hurtful that he had ignored her. Though what could she expect? He's married, happily married, she reminded herself. I'll just have to get him out of my mind. She moved uneasily towards the long dining room table and laid a caressing hand on its smooth surface, now gleaming softly from the polish she'd applied to it. She glanced up at Cleve through her lashes and moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. It would be wiser to steer clear of all the Varenays. And this one—Cleve— she had the instinctive feeling that any association with him would disturb her peace of mind some way. "I can't make any arrangements," she said finally. "I don't know how long Claudia's staying, and we have a lot of things to discuss." He raised one eyebrow. "Surely not so much it will take up the whole of your time. Why don't the three of you come over to the motel restaurant tomorrow night as my guests? We won't make the

subject of Angelsmount taboo. In fact, I'll be interested to hear what you've decided." "I've told you that already," she said uncompromisingly. "We're not selling. . . . And if you'll excuse me, I have some cooking to do." She began to move towards the door, and he took the hint at once, but as he was about to step onto the porch, he turned towards her. "What do your friends the Camdens think of your staying down here in South Australia, Ferris?" "I don't know," she said, surprised. "I haven't been in touch with them since I came home." "And will you be in touch?" he asked after a moment. Ferris didn't think she would. The Camdens would be stunned if someone they knew as slightly as they knew her suddenly wrote them a newsy letter about what she was doing. But why should it matter to Cleve Varenay one way or the other? "What makes you ask?" she said curiously, and he smiled quizzically. "I'm fishing—and not very successfully. I had the idea from one or two remarks your father made that there might be a romance brewing between you and one of the sons." Ferris stifled a laugh. If he only knew it, the eldest of the Camden sons was only nineteen, and that was a little too young even for a girl of her age!

"You must mean Mark," she said, keeping a straight face. "Well, he hasn't actually asked me to marry him. Yet," she added for good measure. "And if he does, will you be interested?" "I don't think so," she said with a smile, and then suddenly realised why he wanted to know. If she married Mark, she'd go back to the Northern Territory and, he no doubt hoped, decide to get rid of Angelsmount after all. Well, he could forget that, and she told him positively, "I'm staying right here, Mr. Varenay. I have no plans to go north." "I'm pleased to hear it," he said, and Ferris looked at him suspiciously. That she did not believe. "If you do decide to join me for dinner tomorrow night, let me know, won't you? I'd very much like you to come, preferably on your own." "Would you? I—I can't imagine why." Ferris met his eyes, and something she discovered in their dark greenish depths made her heartbeats quicken. "Can't you?" he said enigmatically. He held her gaze for a long moment and then his eyes went to her mouth and lingered there. An unexpected tremor of excitement ran along her nerves. It was as though he were mentally kissing her—more than that, because his attention shifted in a leisurely way to her breasts before it returned to her mouth. She moved abruptly to break the tingling response her body was making to something she was most likely merely imagining. "I suppose you think you can persuade me to do whatever you want, over dinner and a glass of wine," she said jerkily.

His mouth curved upwards at one corner. "Exactly what do you think I might want you to do?" he asked, lounging back against the door frame and looking at her narrowly. Ferris blushed scarlet. "Sell you my father's estate, of course," she said furiously. "I'd have thought that was obvious." "Not as obvious as all that." He took a couple of strides towards her and stood looking down into her eyes. "Why don't we forget about your father's estate, Ferris? I know what you feel about it now, and I've accepted your decision. There are other things to talk about besides that—and that's why I want you to have dinner with me. I'd like to hear what you've been doing with yourself since my cousin's wedding. I don't know if you're aware of it, but you've changed a great deal since then. There's a lot more than tears in those intriguing blue eyes these days. You've definitely grown up." He was searching her face in a strangely intimate way as he spoke, and then she felt the warmth of his hands as he grasped her by the upper arms and told her intently, "I've done nothing but think about you since the other day. I had the feeling you didn't particularly want to see me again, but I'm afraid I couldn't help myself." He moved suddenly, pulling her so close to him that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her forehead, and though she'd flicked her lashes down she was still aware of the intimacy of his gaze. She stayed where she was, trembling slightly, asking herself what she was doing here, allowing—this, whatever it was—to happen. Was it the strength of this man's personality that made her submit? Or was it because she needed something—some kind of physical contact with a man—now she was back in the Barossa, simply to release her from her too-vivid memories of Martin's kisses, from the knowledge that his love was lost to her forever. . . .

She felt Cleve draw her closer still, so close she could feel the rise and fall of his chest, feel his heart beating, and with an effort she jerked herself away from him. She really must be mad standing here in a daze, crushed against this man's body. "Don't!" she exclaimed and couldn't look at him. The thought flashed through her mind that only minutes ago she'd felt excited at the thought of him kissing her. But she didn't want it to happen. And besides, she had a gnawing suspicion that he was manipulating her some way. He wasn't forgetting Angelsmount. . . . Ilse chose that moment to appear and ask prosaically if Mr. Varenay wanted to stay to lunch. Ferris said no, and Ilse disappeared discreetly. "I'd better let you get back to your cooking, Ferris," Cleve told her dryly. "But see what you can do about dinner tomorrow. And don't forget I'm ready to help or advise you in any way you want." "I won't forget," she said stiffly, then turned and fled before anything else could happen. It had been a crazy encounter, she thought as she paused in the hallway, trying to still her quivering nerves. She didn't know what to make of Cleve Varenay—or of herself, come to that. He was the last person she'd have expected to disturb her in that particular way. Sexually, she meant, and she forced herself to admit it. He wasn't frightfully good looking, nor was he in the least like Martin, which was just as well or she might have lost her head completely. In the larder, she discovered it was too late to carry on with her dinner preparations after all. Ilse had already begun to dish up lunch. She helped her carry the plates into the small informal room where they always ate at midday just as her aunts and Uncle Tom

came in through the verandah door and took their places at the table. "Wasn't that Cleve Varenay's car I saw outside just now?" Aunt Rose asked archly as they all began on their roast beef. Unlike her sister, Rose was small and thin, always exquisitely dressed and inclined to be romantic. She'd dabbled in watercolours at one time, and many of her paintings still hung on the walk of Angelsmount. "Well begin to wonder what's going on if he keeps calling on you this way, Ferris!" "You needn't wonder, Aunt Rose. Nothing's going on." Ferris lowered her head to hide the colour that had rushed to her cheeks. Because something had gone on, and she wished it hadn't. "He's a very fine man," her aunt mused, ignoring her remark. "He and your father got on so well together. What did he want, dear?" "Don't pester the girl, Rose," Uncle Tom put in. "She'll tell us when she's ready. Let her manage her own affairs." Ferris frowned. For heaven's sake, what was he expecting? It had better be nothing, because she wasn't selling Angelsmount. She said innocently, "There's no mystery, Uncle. All Mr. Varenay wanted was to ask me if I'd like to have dinner with him tonight. He thinks I need cheering up, I expect. But I explained that Claudia and Lance would be here, and that was that." Rose smiled and looked quite unconvinced. "He'll ask you another evening. You're an attractive girl, Ferris. I was really shocked when I saw you a week ago, but you look very sweet today. You've had your hair done, haven't you?" She had, but what had that to do with the conversation? Surely they weren't expecting a romance! She changed the subject swiftly

by wondering aloud what time they could expect Claudia and Lance. She knew her aunts weren't particularly fond of Claudia, who'd come back to Angelsmount only once or twice since she was a child. They scarcely considered her part of the family, and in fact, Aunt Iris didn't think she should even have been left a share in the estate. Now she warned Ferris, "Don't let Claudia talk you into doing anything rash, will you, my dear? You'd be best to keep your two feet on the ground and be guided by Tom." "Don't worry, Aunt. I won't lose my head," Ferris said mildly. "And I don't really think Claudia is likely to have any crazy schemes in mind. I'm sure everything will work out just fine." Famous last words, she was to think not very much later. . . .

She'd just whipped up her frozen lemon sorbet that afternoon when Claudia and Lance Hartley-Robertshaw arrived. Ferris heard the car, stared wildly around her at all the things that had yet to be done, then with a shrug of resignation hurried to the front door. A luxurious- looking red Mercedes had pulled up in the white gravel drive, and a man with silvering hair was helping Claudia out of the passenger seat. Was that Lance Hartley-Robertshaw? Somehow, he was not in the least what she'd expected. Though what should she have expected, when she'd been told he had loads of money and was chairman of a big earth-moving company? If she'd really thought about it, she'd probably have been surprised if he wasn't fiftyish. But he was smoothly handsome and very well dressed in light beige linen pants and a brown silk shirt.

"Hi, Ferris!" Claudia exclaimed, catching sight of her. Ferris transferred her attention swiftly to her sister to discover that she was as slim and lovely as ever, her black hair gleaming, her wide mouth laughing. She wore an off-white crepe suit, and the snakeskin handbag she carried matched her elegant shoes. She made Ferris feel like a gauche country cousin. Claudia made bright introductions. "Ferris, this is Lance, the fabulous man I was telling you about. Lance, my sister, Ferris, who's been leading a wildly adventurous life in the depths of the Northern Territory." That was hardly an accurate description of the way she'd been living, but with a mental shrug, Ferris kissed the slightly flushed cheek Claudia proffered and smiled at Lance, who was definitely suave, definitely a charmer. His eyes, electric blue, made a quick assessment of her, and she knew from something in their depths that he was aware she wasn't used to dealing with men as worldly as he was. She turned away quickly, a little disconcerted. "Come along inside." She waited for them to move, but Claudia looked at Lance. "I know you want to take a look around, Lance, but would you object if I said I'd like a long cold drink first?" "Not at all." Lance glanced around as he spoke. Critically, Ferris thought, suddenly aware that the garden was rather wild. She liked it that way, but some people wanted everything cut back, everything in its place, all the plants trained to do exactly what they were told. She instantly suspected he was like that and felt a twinge of hostility.

"You've changed, Ferris," Claudia remarked as they went into the house. "You look older. What have you been doing to yourself?" "Nothing." Ferris flushed. "I guess I am older. . . . You're looking marvellous," she added with a smile, and Claudia murmured smugly, "Thank you, darling." Her sister, Ferris reflected, certainly didn't look like one of the mass of unemployed. Of course, she had the money from the house she'd sold, and Ferris hoped she'd invested most of it and wasn't squandering it all on snakeskin accessories and so on. Though if captivating Lance Hartley-Robertshaw was a result of looking expensive, then presumably she knew what she was doing. Providing he wasn't already married, she concluded her thoughts wryly. She showed Lance into his room and, as he set down his smart leather suitcase, she saw that same critical look she'd seen in the garden. Well, the room was shabby, the walls did need repainting, the carpet was thin and the beamed ceiling, as in many big old houses, was high. But the view from the window on to the terrace where the marble angel stood—that was lovely. If he'd only notice it. "I'm upstairs I suppose," Claudia said, and she, too, looked around the room as if she saw every one of its shortcomings. Ferris bit her lip. Martin had never looked at it like that. "I'll see Ilse about some drinks," she said a little abruptly. "Your room is the second along from the top of the stairs, Claudia." "Fine. Lance can come up with me and have a peep around. You won't mind?"

"Not a bit," Ferris said, though she found she did mind. She loved this house, but she could see that Lance didn't, and she hoped a little desperately that he didn't have too much influence on Claudia. She carried out the tray of drinks to the terrace a few minutes later. Nothing alcoholic, it was too early in the day, so she hoped Claudia's friend wasn't expecting to sample the Angelsmount wines yet. He'd have to wait until dinner, and that was that. She was pouring orange juice into three tall glasses when her sister and Lance came onto the terrace. "What—no chilled white wine?" Claudia commented, sinking languidly into a chair. "If you really want it, you can get a bottle from the tasting room," Ferris said, but Claudia put on her sunglasses and said it didn't matter. "Shall we tell her now, Lance?" she asked as she took the glass he handed her. "Go ahead," Lance said agreeably and smiled into Ferris's eyes as he waited for her to sit down before taking a chair himself. Ferris looked away from him quickly. "Tell me what?" she asked and felt her heart sink. They were going to be married, she guessed, and somehow she didn't like the idea of that one little bit. It would mean—it would mean he'd be involved in Angels- mount, too. And he just didn't belong. She knew it instinctively. But her guess was wrong, as she soon found out.

"Lance is going to buy Angelsmount!" Claudia announced triumphantly. She looked at Ferris expectantly. "Are you surprised, Ferris?" For a moment, Ferris was too stunned to utter a word. Surprised? She was more than surprised. She was incredulous. She was—she was furious. In fact, the strength of her feelings shocked her. And Lance Hartley-Robertshaw was not going to buy Angelsmount. She'd never consent to it—never in a fit. "Angelsmount's not up for sale, Claudia," she said, her voice shaking. She tried to smile but couldn't, and she hid her trembling mouth by taking a long drink from her glass. Lance looked at her intently, his eyes hard and speculative. He was definitely not pleased, and that was probably because he was used to having his own way. Which was just too bad for him. "Ferris!" Claudia exploded, sitting up straight. "What's biting you? Of course it's for sale! What else is there for us to do with the place?" Ferris set down her glass carefully. "I thought that's what we were going to talk about while you were here." "And I thought we were going to talk about finding a buyer," Claudia said hotly. "Honestly, Ferris, I can't understand you. I thought you'd be as pleased as punch about Lance, and instead, you— you clam up. Grandmother always said you were contrary, and I'm beginning to think she was right." Lance listened with no sign of being embarrassed. He was aloof and unruffled, and as Claudia paused, glaring at Ferris, he said reasonably, "Darling, your sister's quite right. You jumped the lights when you said what you did just now. I have yet to make

sure I want to buy—that's why I'm here—and your sister has to show her willingness to sell. Moreover, we have to talk money, agree on a price. Isn't that so, Ferris?" Ferris shook her head. She wasn't falling for that. "I don't want to sell. As far as I'm concerned, there's just nothing to talk about. Claudia should have told me what was in her mind when we were talking on the phone." "And that cuts both ways!" Claudia exclaimed. "You should have told me what was in your mind. And it seems to me it's a lot of stupid nonsense." She took off her sunglasses and glared at Ferris, her darkly lashed blue eyes challenging. Lance ignored her and told Ferris smoothly, "I'm prepared to offer a very good price, Ferris. I've made extensive enquiries about property values here and in the Southern Vales. I'll admit that what attracts me to Angelsmount is that it's an old, well-established concern. And that its wines are prestigious," he concluded with a smile that Ferris found too fulsome. If the wines were prestigious, that was because her father had made them so, and she didn't care a fig about Lance Hartley-Robertshaw's approval. He wasn't a wine maker. "I'll confess I'm disappointed in the house," he went on after a moment. "But then I think you'll find anyone would be. It's appallingly old-fashioned, and the bathrooms . . . well, they're verging on the archaic. I took it for granted there'd have been extensive renovations, modernisation, over the years." He smiled as he spoke, looking steadily at Ferris, who noticed that his eyes weren't smiling. She wasn't used to business, but she had an idea that everything he said was calculated to have some effect

on her. He'd praised the wines, now he was saying things to shake her confidence, to make her unsure of herself, of Angelsmount. "I should explain that my idea was to find a good manager cum wine maker and to reserve a few rooms in the house, a suite, for myself. I'm sure you'll agree that as things are that would be totally impractical. I'd have to make a clean sweep—rebuild completely, which would mean considerable extra expense. However—" He got to his feet and smiled again. "I'll have a good look around, if I may. And after that, we can get together and have a heart-to- heart discussion." Ferris looked back at him woodenly. Look around all you like, she thought, incensed at his talk of making a clean sweep. There'll still be no discussion, let alone a heart-to-heart one. Claudia jumped to her feet. "I'll come with you, Lance." She turned to Ferris and asked her coldly, "Who is there around the place to explain everything to Lance?" "I expect you'll find Uncle Tom in the cellars," Ferris said evenly. "Are you coming with us?" Claudia asked, and Ferris said, "No." Lance put his head a little on one side. "I know how you feel, Ferris. It's like an amputation, isn't it? Knowing your father's home's about to pass out of the family." "Oh, it's nothing like that!" Claudia exclaimed impatiently. "We haven't lived here since we were little children. We never saw Father except when he came to Adelaide—and that wasn't very often."

They disappeared in the direction of the cellars, and Ferris gathered up the glasses and went inside. She was smouldering. And her father's house was not about to pass out of the family. She'd—she'd die rather than let that man get his hands on it. She ran upstairs to her room and stood at the window. She wished now that she'd agreed to go out with Cleve Varenay. What sort of an evening was she going to put in with Claudia and Lance who, no matter what she said, still seemed to think that Angelsmount was up for sale? The trouble was, when she came to think of it, Claudia had as much right as she to decide about that. One of them was going to have to give in, and she had a nasty feeling it wouldn't be her sister.

Chapter Three She was tying on her back on the bed staring at the ceiling when Claudia came in. "Uncle Tom's showing Lance around and I thought I'd better come and see if I could talk some sense into you." She stood at the mirror and stared at herself, tilting her head, leaning forward to examine her eyeshadow. She'd taken off the jacket of her suit to reveal a sleeveless blouse of poppy red with a low-cut neck that showed off her white skin, and suddenly she swung around and came to sit on the edge of Ferris's bed with its rather limp lemon yellow bedspread. "It might interest you to hear that Uncle Tom welcomed Lance with open arms, Ferris. He knows it's not all that easy to find a buyer for an old place like this. It would be different if it were closer to Tanunda—right in the valley. It's just lucky I happen to know Lance and that he mentioned he was interested in investing in a winery. I thought you'd be tickled pink, and instead, you have to go and put on this 'won't sell' act. It's really unintelligent," she finished, casting Ferris a cold look, then studying her brightly coloured nails. Ferris sat up. "But, Claudia, can't you see? We mustn't sell. Angelsmount's belonged to the Howards for a hundred and twenty years. We've got to hang on to it—it's what Daddy would have wanted." "Oh fiddle," Claudia retorted. "Daddy knew after David was killed that there'd be no one to take it on. You and I can't be expected to do that. We don't know anything about making wine."

"No, but we could employ a wine maker. And you and 1 could at least take over the cellar sales and things like that. It could be fun," Ferris said persuasively. "Fun!" Claudia snorted. She got up from the bed and drifted across to the window to stand with her back to it. "I'm not interested in burying myself in the country, and I wouldn't take on the cellar sales in a fit. It's all right for someone ancient like Aunt Rose, but it would send me round the twist. I'd rather sell the place and have the money. Half of it is mine, after all, and that's what I want. There's a little crafts gallery in Melbourne Street that I've had my eye on; I could buy into that. One of the partners wants to get out, and the opportunity's there. That's what I want—not to be lumbered with an old house and a whole lot of problems." Ferris bit her lip. What Claudia said was true. Half the place was hers, and Ferris had no right to insist on having her own way. All the same . . . "Haven't you enough for that from the sale of grandmother's house?" she asked hesitantly. "No, I haven't," Claudia snapped. "It wasn't exactly worth a fortune, you know, and I've had rent to pay, and high living expenses. You have to keep up appearances even if you are out of work. If I let myself look a real grot I wouldn't have a hope of getting into this gallery. The people there are really trendy." "I see," Ferris said slowly. Deep down she knew that she was going to have to give in. But the thought of selling Angelsmount to a man who'd think nothing of pulling the lovely old house down— that really stuck in her throat. She couldn't do it. She got up from the bed wearily. Tears had come to her eyes and she blinked them back. "Well, I guess I'll have to do some

rethinking, Claudia," she said. "Let's leave it for a while, shall we?" "Okay. But don't make it too long. Lance has to get back to Adelaide in a couple of days," Claudia said, brightening up and then catching sight of the tears Ferris was refusing to shed. "You won't be sorry when it's all settled. That's a promise, Ferris. Just think of it—no more slogging away in some dreary old hospital. You could come back to Adelaide, buy some nice clothes and pick up with some of your old friends. I met a guy only the other day who was asking after you—knew you when you were doing your, training. I forget his name. He was a surgeon or something." Ferris forced a smile. "I'll think about it. I'd better go downstairs and fix something for dinner." "Don't bother," Claudia said. "Lance wants to take us out; he said so on the way here. He was going to ask Uncle Tom to recommend a restaurant. That'll be nice, won't it? Come on, Ferris, cheer up. Think of all that lovely money. That's what I'm doing."

Over dinner they talked about anything but Angelsmount. Ferris knew it was only the lull before the storm; she was certain that Claudia had told Lance she'd talked her round, and she simply didn't know what she was going to do. Sitting at the candlelit table in the restaurant, she glanced uneasily at Lance and felt panic rising in her. He and Claudia between them were going to wear her down, and she wished she could vanish. Or that something miraculous would happen and everything would be changed. Lance had ordered champagne and had it served while they considered the extensive menu. To Ferris, the gesture implied a celebration of his victory, and as he raised his glass in a silent toast

and smiled into her eyes, she shrank inwardly. The restaurant her uncle had recommended was Varenay's, and she glanced quickly around, actually hoping to catch a glimpse of Cleve Varenay. Anything for a diversion. Anything to stop Lance from talking business. However, it seemed he was in no hurry. Or was he like a cat playing with a mouse? she wondered fancifully. While they ate, he set out to be an agreeable host. He told some entertaining anecdotes about the glamorous cities of Europe, which he seemed to have visited many times, although Ferris found it hard to concentrate on what he was saying. Later he asked her about her "adventurous life" in the Northern Territory, and she ad-libbed about picnic races, rodeos, cattle stations, crocodiles. Her everyday work at the settlement—the interminable paperwork, the heat, the loneliness, the nights disturbed by calls to sick Aborigines, the women in labour—those were things she didn't mention. She didn't think they'd interest either Lance or her sister. It was not until dinner was over and they were going outside to have their coffee at the poolside that Cleve Varenay suddenly materialised. Ferris felt a mad surge of relief and was on the point of rushing up to him when she realised he was not alone and pulled herself up with a jolt. He was standing in the cool, fern-decorated foyer, his head bent as he talked to a tall, red-haired girl in a sleeveless dress of soft creamy suede. It gave her an odd feeling of affront at finding him so immersed in someone else, when only a few hours ago she'd been in his arms. Of course she'd known it had meant nothing, that he was probably soft-soaping her. Yet all the same . . . Letting Lance and Claudia go on towards the patio doors, she took a long look at the girl with Cleve. Obviously several years older than herself, she was slim and lively, and the way she looked up at

Cleve, straight into his eyes, gave the impression that they knew each other intimately. So that was what he was like, she thought cynically. He played the field. Like most men. If she'd accepted his invitation, she could have been the one to enjoy his company tonight. But she wouldn't have looked as glamorous as that other girl, that was for sure. The black georgette dress she wore was a couple of years old, and it had never been very exciting. She hadn't been particularly interested in after-dark clothes for a long time. The black had seemed good enough when she was dressing, and she'd answered Claudia's question, delivered with raised eyebrows, "For heaven's sake, are you going to wear a mourning dress?" with a shrug and an indifferent, "I'm afraid it's the best I can do at the moment." It hadn't bothered her—not until now, seeing Cleve talking to that girl and looking so distinguished in his light jacket and black pants. He looked stunning, she thought, staring helplessly. He might lack conventional good looks, but there was some quality about him that was compelling, an air of knowing where he was going, of being in complete control of his life. Quite the opposite to her, in other words. She was about to move on when he turned his head and looked fully at her. He smiled briefly, then went on talking to his woman friend as though she, Ferris, didn't really exist, which she obviously didn't as far as he was concerned, she thought, stung. Or only when it suited him, as for some reason it had this morning when he was being so—so studiedly demonstrative. She hurried on to catch up with Claudia and Lance, who had vanished through the glass doors. Her heart was hammering, and she had no idea whether she'd smiled back, or not. Who was that girl? "He's not married—yet," her uncle had said. Which meant

exactly what? That he'd be married soon? To a girl with red hair? So who cared? Certainly not Ferris Howard. He could marry a hula girl for all she cared. Her mind was still a whirlpool of confusion when she joined the others, who were already settling into comfortable chairs around a low, glass-topped table. Their coffee arrived, with Benedictine for Claudia and a cognac for Lance, and Ferris dragged her thoughts back to the present moment. "Sure you wouldn't like a liqueur?" Lance pressed her, and she shook her head. He didn't insist but almost immediately broached the subject that was on all their minds: Angelsmount. "I liked what I saw this afternoon, Ferris. I won't pretend to be an expert on grape growing or wine production, but Tom Nichols gave me a pretty fair coverage of the whole show. Some of the equipment's not the most up-to-date, and there's room for improvement in many directions, but the fact that there's a plant for bottling—and labelling—is gratifying. By and large, I'm tempted. In fact, I feel something could be made of it." He paused and smiled at Ferris, who lowered her lashes and drank some of her coffee while she did a slow burn. So something could be made of Angelsmount, could it? It was all she could do not to give Lance Hartley-Robertshaw a piece of her mind. She glanced at her sister to see how she was reacting to such ignorant patronage, but Claudia, sitting back in her celadon green dress and showing a lot of leg, was looking quite happy. And thinking no doubt of all that lovely money. "Your uncle gave me a rough idea of what he considered would be a fair price," Lance continued, "and I'll base my offer on that. But

one must take into consideration, and I'm sure you'll understand, both my requirements and the age and condition of the dwelling." The dwelling. That was all it was to him, and Ferris had to bite back an indignant exclamation. She moved restlessly and fiddled with her coffee cup, and Claudia said irritably, "Well, come on, Ferris. Say something." What was she expected to say? Certainly not what she wanted to say—that the very idea of his taking possession of Angelsmount was hateful, and she hadn't the faintest desire to discuss terms with him. She looked around her wildly and suddenly saw Cleve Varenay, blessedly alone this time, standing with his back to the blue waters of the lamplit pool and looking—or so it seemed to Ferris—straight at her. He'd offered to advise her, to help her, hadn't he? On impulse, she jumped to her feet. "Excuse me. There's someone I have to speak to." Lance turned his head, vaguely annoyed at the interruption, and Claudia's eyes grew wide as she followed the direction of Ferris's gaze. "Who is that man?" she demanded. "I noticed him a while ago, when we were coming out here." "He's a friend of mine," Ferris said abruptly and, without waiting for farther questions, hurried off.

She was mad, of course, but she had to escape somehow. At least the red-headed girl wasn't around, and she only hoped she wouldn't suddenly appear from nowhere and foul up the lines. She didn't, and only seconds later Cleve was coming to meet her, to put his hand on her arm .and look down into her face. She looked back at him and felt her nerves tingle as she encountered the dark grey-green of his eyes. "Ferris, I was just about to come and ask you to introduce me to your sister and her friend," he said. "I'd like you all to have a drink with me." "Please, no," she said quickly. "I—I want to talk to you. You said you'd help me—" "Of course," he said instantly and gratifyingly, then added to her consternation, "shall we go to my suite?" She shook her head, feeling faint alarm. "Couldn't we just walk around or something?" "Why not?" he said agreeably. He put his arm lightly around her shoulders, and at his touch—and the infuriatingly instant physical reaction it evoked from her—she remembered she wasn't the' only pebble on the beach and drew away a little. He didn't attempt to touch her again, and in silence they strolled away from the lighted area around the pool in the direction of the garden and some flowering cedar trees. "Well, what's your problem, Ferris?" he asked a little dryly, and she tensed nervously. The fact was, her problem was an insoluble one. There was no advice he could give her that would be the least use, and she was beginning to wonder what had possessed her to run after him as she had. Escaping from Lance and Claudia for a

few minutes—for half an hour—wasn't going to make any difference at all in the long run, and she walked on in silence, as if tongue-tied. "Have you changed your mind about selling Angelsmount?" he suggested when she'd still said nothing and they'd reached the shelter of the trees. The night air was full of the soft scent of the cedar blossoms, and as he spoke he reached out and pulled her round to face him. Ferris had an unnerving feeling that he was going to take her in his arms and kiss her again. But she hadn't run after him for that, whatever he thought, and she burst out, "Of course I haven't changed my mind. But—but that man—he wants to buy us out." "Your sister's friend?" he said, the sharpness of interest in his voice, so that she knew he must have been watching, taking it all in. "But you're not selling, are you?" "It looks as if I'll have to," she said bitterly, lowering her head. "Claudia wants to buy a gallery in Adelaide and she needs the money." Her voice quavered suddenly. "They're trying to push me into it and I—I don't know what to do." "What sort of a price is he offering you?" Cleve asked, and Ferris widened her eyes and looked at him accusingly. "Do you think I care? We haven't discussed it. He seems to have plenty of money anyway." "He s a wine maker?" "Oh no. He'll employ someone. But he wants to keep a suite for himself so he can visit. And he says the dwelling will have to go," she added impassionedly. "Just because it's old. He has no heart— no feeling. My father would have hated it."

"Well, I have no intention of pulling the house down," he said sardonically. "I want to live in it." He sounded coolly reasonable, and Ferris was infuriated. "Can't you understand?" she exclaimed violently. "I don't want to sell. Not to anyone." "Then you do have a problem," he said with a sympathy she didn't trust. "Can't you persuade this sister of yours to see things your way?" "I've tried. But she has her own life to live." "And she doesn't agree you have yours?" Penis felt her spirits sag. What was the use of talk, of sympathy, whether sincere or false? "I don't know why I'm bothering you. There's nothing you can do. It's not as if my father will ever know what happened. Who's tearing the house to pieces or—or what wines are being bottled under his labels ..." Cleve had taken her arm, and she pulled away savagely, feeling tears spring to her eyes. "Now listen, Ferris," he said roughly, giving her a shake that was less than gentle. "Don't commit yourself to anything yet. I might be able to come up with a solution." "There's no solution," she said sharply. "I'll have to sell, that's all. And I suppose you'll take the opportunity and—and try to cash in," she finished, aware that she was being unfair and rude as well. "No. I shan't do that and you damned well know it," he said tautly. "You've asked me to help you and that's what I intend doing. For a start, you can introduce me to your sister and her friend, and we'll take it from there."

Ferris caught her lower Hp between her teeth. She had a lot of nerve, running to him the way she had and then insulting him. "I'm sorry," she said huskily. "But—but there's really nothing you can do." "Let me decide about that," he said and tilted her face up to his so that she was staring into his glittering eyes. "I'll want payment, of course," he murmured, his wide mouth curling upwards at the corners. "What do you mean?" she whispered. Ridiculously, because he was already drawing her towards him and his face was coming down to hers. His mouth was unexpectedly gentle against her own, and after a brief moment she stopped resisting. Payment. A kiss. The words floated absurdly through her mind and then for a long moment she didn't think at all. She closed her eyes and felt pleasure flooding through her body. She'd expected him to be demanding, coldblooded, but he wasn't. Not in the least. His kiss was nothing more than a kiss, a meeting of his lips with hers, a sensual experience that was entirely delightful. Yet when slowly, reluctantly, he let her go, she knew he'd somehow done more than kiss her. He'd worked some magic on her that wasn't altogether fair. She wanted to be casual about it, to ask lightly, "Is that enough payment to make an effort worthwhile?" but she found she couldn't, and in silence they made their way back to the others. But if he imagined he was going to persuade Lance HartleyRobertshaw not to pull down her house, she thought, when she'd recovered herself somewhat, he hadn't the remotest chance.

Claudia seemed unable to keep her eyes off Cleve when she introduced them. Which was just as well, Ferris thought, sitting trembling in her chair and hoping Claudia wouldn't notice. Since the name of Varenay was well known, the two men talked about wineries, and presently Lance remarked that he was in the Barossa Valley to buy a business for himself and that he was interested in Angelsmount. "I suppose you're in charge of the Varenay Vineyards here, Cleve?" Claudia asked, using his name easily and smiling at him beguilingly. "No. That's Martin, one of my cousins." Cleve flicked a quick glance at Ferris as he spoke, and she felt the colour rush to her face at the shock of hearing Martin's name mentioned. "Since my father's death I've been the company chairman." He turned to Lance. "You've seen the residence at Angelsmount, of course. Very beautiful, isn't it? Owen, Angel's father, was planning to have some renovations done on it before he died." Angel! Ferris hadn't recovered from the first shock when she received another. Her father had called her Angel. Cleve must know that, and from the way he spoke, he made it sound as if he knew the family—including herself—intimately. Had her father really been planning renovations? she wondered. She hadn't the least idea and didn't know whether Cleve had either. "Frankly, I see no sense in preserving something that's outlived its day," Lance said forthrightly. "From what I've seen, I've reached the conclusion that renovations would be a waste of money. Better to get a good architect on the job and start again. I want the best man I can find to run the place and I don't expect to interest anyone worthwhile unless I have a first-class residence to offer."

"I wouldn't advise you to start any balls rolling yet," Cleve said pleasantly. "You're going to be up against a bit of competition, you know." Lance looked taken aback, and Ferris was a little amused. "What do you mean? The property hasn't even been advertised. I'm first on the scene, I have the cash and I'm pretty sure these two ladies and I can agree on a price. I've already had a rough estimate from Tom Nichols as to what it's worth." "A rough estimate?" Cleve's dark eyebrows went up. "That's hardly good enough. Before they make any commitment, I'd advise the, er, two ladies to have a professional assessment made of the value of the property—the land, the house, the winery equipment. And of course the stock. There are some valuable wines in those cellars." He got to his feet and turned to Ferris. "I must go. I'll ring you tomorrow, Angel. Good night for now." He moved behind her chair and clasping his arms around her breast, leaned over and kissed her sensually and lingeringly on the mouth. Ferris went crimson. The pressure of his arms against the softness of her breast made her breathing quicken, and she was shaken when he withdrew his arms and straightened up again. With a murmured "Good night, nice to have met you" to the others, he strolled away. Why on earth had he done that? she wondered, her cheeks still burning. And what on earth must Claudia and Lance be thinking? What did she think herself? Kissing her was becoming something of a habit with Cleve. As for his help, she didn't really think he'd accomplished anything at all. Lance, a thoughtful and far from pleased look on his face, was watching Cleve walk away, and Claudia was staring hard at Ferris.

"I thought you said he was a friend. He gave me the impression of being rather more than that." "Not—not really," Ferris said. Her mouth was throbbing, and she felt almost indecently conscious of it. She got to her feet awkwardly. "I think it's time we went home," she muttered and began to walk away quickly. Anything to stop Claudia from staring at her, from asking her questions. But she couldn't stop her from asking questions when they reached home that night and she and her sister went up to their rooms, leaving Lance downstairs in his own private, if archaic, quarters. "I've been thinking," Claudia said, lingering in Ferris's doorway. "Is that Varenay man the one there was all that talk about a few years ago when I was still at boarding school?" "All what talk?" Ferris sat down and took her shoes off. "There are masses of Varenays, you know, scattered all over three states." "Oh sure, but you know perfectly well who I mean," Claudia persisted. "The one who was wine maker or something here ... Grandmother had the idea you were in love with him, but he went and married someone else." Ferris didn't want to talk about it, and she busied herself turning back her bedspread and wished Claudia would go away. ''Well, tell me," Claudia said with sisterly abruptness. "There's nothing to tell. Cleve Varenay never worked here and he—he's not married," Ferris said with sudden inspiration.

"Oh, well then." Claudia unexpectedly abandoned the topic. "He's madly handsome, isn't he?" she remarked, and Ferris stared. Cleve was madly handsome? That was news to her. He'd broken his nose, his mouth was too wide, his chin too aggressive. Martin was the good-looking one with his near-blond hair and blue eyes, the cleft in his chin, his warm smile. Oh yes, she was quite sure of that. She could visualise his face very clearly, and she closed her eyes as if to examine it. Instead, infuriatingly, Cleve's face appeared, and she flicked her lashes up quickly. "And what's all this about competition?" Claudia pursued. "Your friend Cleve isn't interested in buying Angelsmount by any chance, I suppose?" "He could be," Ferris said. Certainly he had been, but at this minute she had no real idea what his feelings were about Angelsmount. "He's been in the Barossa for some time—he saw a lot of Daddy—" "So what's that supposed to mean? I never heard anything about Father wanting to sell up. And didn't he say Daddy had been making plans for renovating this old house? Anyhow, Lance was first here, and we know exactly where we stand with him. You do realise he wants to have everything more or less straightened out by tomorrow, I hope?" "Yes, I realise that," Ferris agreed with a sigh. "And you're going to be sensible, aren't you, Ferris?" Claudia said sweetly. "I'll do my best," Ferris said, reflecting that she didn't seem to be very sensible about anything just now. She yawned. "If you don't mind, Claudia, I really would like to go to bed."

"Yes, well, sleep on it," Claudia said and vanished. Ferris got into bed, but it was a long time before she went to sleep. Maddeningly, her mind dwelt on Cleve and his kisses, his—his public embrace. She didn't trust him, she thought. Not for a minute. She should never have run to him for help. But she had, and now she couldn't stop thinking of him. She could still feel the warmth of his arms against her breasts, and unconsciously she put a hand to .her mouth as if to discover what his kisses had done to it. She could hear him calling her Angel and telling her he'd ring her tomorrow. . . . That would be about any ideas he'd come up with, she reminded herself. But she doubted there'd by any. If only Martin hadn't married Livvie, she thought, turning on her side restlessly. Then none of this would have happened. She closed her eyes cautiously, and this time, with a feeling of relief, it was Martin's face she saw. She dreamed of Martin. A dream so vivid that she woke still feeling the pressure of his lips on hers. Or—or had it been Martin she'd dreamed of? she wondered confusedly. Anyhow, the dream was gone, and she didn't pursue it. She was on edge all morning waiting for Cleve to ring. Yet suppose he did ring—what was the point? There was nothing he could do, she reminded herself irritably. Moreover, she didn't really think she could take any more of his odd behaviour. Or of her own . . . Lance and Claudia spent part of the morning in the cellars and part of it in the office, and before they all went in to lunch, Aunt Iris drew Ferris aside. "Make sure this friend of Claudia's has the money before you sign anything, Ferris. And don't agree to a price without consulting

your uncle and a solicitor. You don't have to hurry. This is a lovely estate, and there'll be plenty of people interested. Cleve Varenay, for instance," she added. "Has he said anything to you about it yet?" "Not much," Ferris said evasively. "Then wait," Aunt Iris said. Ferris nodded. It seemed to be taken for granted 'all round that Angelsmount was to be sold and to pass out of the family, she reflected gloomily and she supposed that was what would happen. In the afternoon, to her relief, Lance and Claudia went out for a drive around the district—"To see if it has the kind of ambience that appeals to me," Lance said in a way that Ferris found insufferably egotistical. "I want to know what there is to offer when I entertain my friends here." Which will be never, Ferris vowed silently as they left the house. It was four-thirty, and she'd practically given up expecting to hear from him, when Cleve telephoned. "Angel? I'll be over to fetch you in half an hour. Will you be ready?" Ferris said yes, and then wished she hadn't been so eager. Where was he planning to take her? And the way he called her Angel. She should protest about that. It was disconcerting to say the least. Not just because her father had called her Angel but because of the way he said it. Because of something it did to her. Martin used to call her Angelabella, but somehow that had been quite different. It had never made her heart turn upside down, and that was what her heart seemed to be doing right now.

"Wait," she heard herself exclaim, as if she were afraid he'd hang up on her. "Where are we going?" "We're coming back here—to the motel," he said briefly. "I have an idea that I hope will interest you." "What is it?" she demanded and heard him laugh. "For heaven's sake, you don't expect me to go into that over the telephone, do you?" Ferris shook her head. She could imagine the way his eyebrows went up when he said that—and the slightly crooked smile he'd be wearing. And that was rather absurd. Almost as if she were beginning to be familiar with his gestures, his little habits . . . "Are you there, Angel?" "Yes," she said huskily. "I'll see you in half an hour. Try to be ready." He hung up, and Ferris stared at the telephone blankly. So he had an idea that he hoped would interest her. About Angelsmount. She glanced at her watch and ran up the stairs. In her room, she stripped off her jeans and shirt and changed into a soft cream voile dress with a narrow blue trim around the armholes and a scoop neckline. She'd bought it in Adelaide before she went to the Northern Territory, and though it was passable, it was far from exciting. She thought of Cleve's elegant red-haired girl friend as she fastened the narrow blue belt around her waist. Well, everyone couldn't look glamorous. And did it matter all that much? It wasn't as if she were going on a date. Not exactly, anyhow, she amended, remembering the change in the relationship between herself and Cleve Varenay.

She brushed her smooth gold hair until it shone, made up her face lightly and was ready before the half hour was up. Claudia and Lance hadn't come back from their tour of discovery yet, and she left a message, hastily scribbled on a sheet of notepaper: "Claudia—I'm going out for a while. See you later. Ferris." The doorbell rang when she was halfway down the stairs, and a moment later she and Cleve were face to face. She was conscious of his quick and very male assessment of her appearance as they greeted each other, and she wondered if he were remembering— as she was—the feel of being in each other's arms. If they'd been in love, they'd have kissed, but they weren't in love, and she said brightly, stepping outside and pulling the door shut behind her, "I'm ready on time." "So I see. It looks like a very good sign." "What do you mean?" She flushed deeply and frowned up at him. "That you want to hear what I have to suggest," he said with a smile that made her colour deepen even more. "What did you think I meant?" What had she thought? That he imagined it was because of his irresistible charm that she was ready and waiting for him? And quite positively it wasn't. He was really big-headed if he thought she was falling in love with him or something, and she had a good mind to tell him so. But she'd probably make a mess of that too, she thought, and decided that silence was the best tactic to use. With a shrug, she walked quickly down the steps and towards his car.

Chapter Four She climbed into the car without waiting for him to open the door for her and sat staring ahead as he took his seat behind the wheel. Then, as they drove off, she couldn't keep from asking, "What is this idea of yours that you seem to think will help me out of the spot I'm in?" "You sound sceptical, Angel," he said, his voice faintly drawling. "And perhaps you're right. It hinges entirely on your agreement and I have the impression you're feeling more than a little contrasuggestible today." "No I'm not," Ferris said. "I just don't happen to—to like your innuendos." His eyebrows shot up, and she wished she'd kept quiet and rushed on, "Let's hear your famous idea, anyhow." "I'll tell you when we can give our whole minds to it," he said flatly. Piqued, Ferris decided on silence. And soon discovered that she couldn't maintain it. They drove fairly fast down the gently winding road and, as they passed through a small village, she remarked, "I went to school here when I was very small." He sent her a brief glance. "Do you remember much about it?" "I was happy," she said and groped in her mind. "Lots of the children had parents who spoke German, and I didn't understand why." "But you know all about it now?"

She nodded. Of course she did. She knew that the bulk of the early settlers in the Barossa Valley in the eighteen forties had been religious refugees from Silesia, and as they'd battled to make a living, they'd clung to their culture—and had held on to it ever since. The German language wasn't heard in the Valley nearly so frequently these days, but she'd already noticed that the beautiful Lutheran churches were still there and that the bakeries were still filled with pretzels and German breads and specialties. "There's a wonderful community spirit here," Cleve remarked after a moment. "It's an excellent place to live and to bring up children. Don't you agree?" "Yes," Ferris murmured, and the thought shot into her mind that possibly Martin and Livvie had a family by now. She sighed and looked out of the car window again. They'd left the hill slopes behind, and ahead of them and on either side, vineyards stretched away, incredibly green under a blue sky where white clouds swarmed. "It's hard to realise that most of the state's suffering from drought, isn't it?" Cleve commented, as if his mind had gone along with hers. "This lovely valley's like an oasis of plenty. Can you wonder I want to settle here?" She didn't answer. He was working on her, she decided. And this marvellous idea of his was going to amount to nothing but a renewed offer to buy Angelsmount and a promise not to pull down the house. "I think it's time you explained your idea, Mr. Varenay," she said dryly, and he shot her an ironic look. "So it's still Mr. Varenay, is it, Angel?"

She flushed uneasily. "I wish you wouldn't call me Angel." "Because your father called you that? It suits you, you know." That remark was quite unanswerable. No way could she persuade herself she'd been acting like an angel, and whatever his object was, if he only knew it, flattery would get him nowhere. At the motel, they went straight to his suite, and Cleve settled her into a comfortable sofa, upholstered in pale watery green leather that was soft and pliable. While he went to the cocktail cabinet to get her a drink, she looked around her nervously, noticing first of all a small modern piano and wondering if it was his personal property. Two doors, apart from the one that led into the square entrance hall, opened off the room. Two bedrooms or a bedroom and a kitchen? Most likely the former, but she wasn't going to ask him. One wall of the big room was entirely of glass and had a breathtaking view over the valley and the unending rows of vines that were to be seen everywhere in the Barossa. The suite was pleasantly air-conditioned, and before he brought her drink over to her, Cleve switched on some soft, taped piano music that sounded somehow intimate, romantic, and made her nervousness increase. She forced a smile as he raised his glass, murmured "Cheers!" and sat down on the other end of the sofa. Ferris looked at him expectantly and he looked back at her. It was a long steady look, and in three seconds flat her pulse rate had quickened alarmingly. She could see her hand trembling and set down her glass on the coffee table with a little thud. That smouldering look in his eyes had nothing to do with a business talk. If she had any sense she'd get up and leave, and she'd actually parted her lips to tell him she didn't have time to waste, or

something like that when he said sardonically, "Relax, Ferris. I won't pretend there aren't other things I'd rather do, but I'll play fair and tell you about this idea of mine first." First? And after that—what? Nothing, she assured herself. She hadn't come here to be seduced. Nor was she going to sit here staring at him like a frightened rabbit, and with an effort she picked up her glass and said as coolly as she could manage, "I wish you would. You might have other ideas, Mr. Varenay, but that's what I'm here for. To—to hear this suggestion you have to make. About Angelsmount," she added hurriedly and to her annoyance saw him suppress a smile. "Yes. Well, I'll get on with it," he said. He studied his glass for a moment and then looked across at her. "To begin with, it might help if I set out the facts as I see them. Firstly, you own a half share in Angelsmount and your sister owns a half; secondly, she wants to sell and you don't. Finally, she has a buyer whom you find unsympathetic. Those are the basics, aren't they?" Ferris nodded. She felt calmer now that he'd begun to talk sense. And yes, those were the basic facts, so how on earth did he intend to deal with them? She couldn't think of a single way out, and she asked him cynically, "So where do we go from there?" "To the additional fact that you have a strong feeling about Angelsmount—a family feeling—plus the desire to do what your father would have wished." Ferris nodded again, sipped her drink, and wondered if it was that which made her feel, at this minute, slightly off-centre as she looked at Cleve Varenay and met his eyes. "You don't have the money to buy Claudia out," he said, and it was half a question.

"No," she said briefly. She didn't add that even if she had, she was beginning to have second thoughts about running Angelsmount herself. She didn't want to admit to feminine weakness. Not in these days when it was accepted that a woman could take on anything at all, no holds barred. "Another fact," he said after a second. "I want Angelsmount." Yes. Ferris sat back. That was the crux of the matter. He wanted Angelsmount. Hence the kisses, the flattery. She looked at him levelly and discovered that meeting his eyes didn't help her to stay calm and rational. She looked down at his hands instead and said huskily, "That doesn't interest me, Mr. Varenay." "I'm afraid it might have to," he said. "And if you're picturing Angelsmount becoming an insignificant part of Varenay Wines Proprietary, forget it. My interest in Angelsmount is strictly personal." "And so is mine," she flashed. "But I suppose that doesn't matter to you, does it?" He raised his eyebrows. "It does, as a matter of fact. I saw a lot of your father during the last couple of months of his life, and I know what he hoped when he asked you to come home this year. He wanted to make amends. He blamed himself bitterly for alienating you—for the fact that you went back to Adelaide when you could have stayed on at Angelsmount." Ferris blinked. Her father hadn't been in the least to blame for her running away when Martin had married another girl. Surely Cleve knew that. Hadn't it been all too plain at the wedding what she was feeling? She looked up from under her lashes and discovered that he was staring not at her but at the contents of his glass in an abstracted kind of way. Then unexpectedly, he glanced up and

their eyes locked. "At this point your reasoning should lead you to the obvious solution to your problem," he murmured. Ferris stared at him. "I—I don't know what you mean." "Don't you?" His green eyes moved quizzically to her fair shining hair and then to her mouth as he said with slow deliberation, "Ferris Howard marries Cleve Varenay. It's as simple as that." Ferris felt the blood rush to her cheeks. Marry him! How could she? And—why should she? "I'll buy your sister's share, of course," he went on, "and you and I will be equal partners." "But—but that's crazy," she stammered. "We—we could be partners without marrying." "I think not," he said flatly. "Presumably you want to live in the house, and so do I. And do you really imagine we could sleep under the same roof and still maintain a platonic relationship?" "I don't see why not," she said, then reddened and bit her lip, remembering his kisses, her own acquiescence. "We couldn't, could we?" he said with a slight smile. "Besides, what would happen if one of us should marry?" "I don't want to marry," Ferris said quickly. "But I do," Cleve retorted. "And isn't it rather pointless for you to cling to your inheritance so tightly if you don't intend to marry? To have sons to carry on after you?"

Ferris sank back on the sofa feeling defeated. It would be pointless. All the same, she couldn't possibly marry Cleve Varenay. It was Unthinkable. She couldn't just marry anyone at all to get what she wanted. Though Cleve probably didn't think of himself as "anyone at all." And no doubt this was what he'd had in mind all the time he was flattering her, kissing her. It might be the kind of thing he could do, but she wasn't the sort of girl to go into a marriage cold, for practical reasons. Maybe other women did it— married for money, married because they needed a man, married because they had children who needed a father. But to Ferris, marriage should be for love, though she didn't have all that much faith in love since Martin had dropped her the way he had. In that case, her reason whispered naggingly, why not take the bit between your teeth and marry Cleve? She wanted Angelsmount and she wanted children. His children? She swallowed down the rest of her drink and looked at him apprehensively. Martin's cousin. Tall and dark and ugly—though Claudia had said he was madly good-looking. She'd be Ferris Varenay after all. . . . Her eyes moved over Cleve's face, already growing so familiar it was almost frightening. He wasn't in the least like Martin. Green eyes instead of blue; dark hair instead of fair; a hard mouth instead of a good-humoured, smiling one. Though just now it wasn't really hard. There was a quizzical curve to it. He reached out and took one of her hands in his. His thumb stroked the inside of her wrist, and then his fingers slid down and intertwined with hers. Perhaps he meant to be persuasively reassuring, she didn't know. But to her it was like a caress—an intimate caress—to feel his fingers, so cool and firm, twining with

hers. Her tongue came out to touch her upper lip, and as if at a signal his eyes released hers and moved to her mouth. Ferris pulled her hand away from his and leaned her elbow on the arm of the sofa, her heart thudding. She was suddenly too much aware of him as a man. She didn't want him to kiss her now, and she was sure that was what he had in mind. She didn't trust that kind of persuasion. She wanted to make up her mind sensibly and rationally. "I know you'd like some time to think this through," he said, apparently unconcerned by her withdrawal. "But you'll have to make up your mind fairly quickly under the circumstances. You don't find the thought of marrying me totally insupportable, do you, Angel?" Perhaps she didn't, she thought with a little shiver of apprehension, but she wasn't going to admit as much to him. Besides, there was more to marriage than physical attraction—than sex. There was love. "Is it Mark Camden?" he asked when she made no comment. "Are you in love with him?" "Oh no," she said with an embarrassed laugh. "Then somebody else?" She dropped her lashes and thought of Martin. But Martin was married, and it was time she got that into her head and accepted that he was out of reach. She glanced up. "I suppose what you suggest is the only way out. When must I decide?"

"That's up to you," he said, not quite smiling, but sure she was going to capitulate, she thought uneasily. "I don't really know how fast your mind works." It wasn't working very fast just now. In fact, Ferris didn't seem able to think clearly at all while he was looking at her the way he was, and she got to her feet nervously. "I'll think about it, but—but don't hurry me." He stood up, too, and put his hands on her shoulders. She felt them warm and firm against her bare skin, as if they were compelling her to give way, to jump when he said jump. She didn't dare look up. He was close enough for her to feel the faint movement of his breath, and she couldn't deny that, ugly or not, he had a positive, dynamic personality. Very masculine, very sexy. It would be terribly— fatally—easy to say yes. "Don't kiss me," she said jerkily when he moved fractionally. "Why not?" he murmured, his fingers sliding down the smoothness of her arms to her wrists. "Because it won't make any difference to what I decide," she quavered. "Won't it? Well, never mind," he soothed. "I'm going to kiss you just the same." Still holding her wrists, he drew her hands firmly against the sides of his thighs so that their bodies were touching full length. Ferris caught her breath as his mouth captured hers, and with a helplessness she couldn't believe, she submitted to his exploration of the contours of her lips. The feel of his lips moving against hers was so delicately sensual that her breathing seemed to be suspended, and little fiery messages flickered along her nerves, tormenting her senses deliciously.

She didn't know whether it was minutes later or mere seconds that she drew herself tremblingly from his clasp. "Don't do that," she said huskily. She was breathing fast and her lips were tingling, and she raised her eyes as far as his mouth and saw it curve in a faintly mocking smile. "I'm not trying to get you into bed," he said deliberately. "But I'm not going to think of you as untouchable until you're my wife." "I haven't said I was going to be your wife yet," she muttered, her cheeks red. "I told you—I have to think about it first." "And my kisses don't help?" She shook her head and stepped further away from him. "I can't think when you're doing that sort of thing." "No? Well, that could be a compliment. And perhaps it will remind you—when you are thinking about it—that it's marriage I'm proposing, not separate rooms. Or had you already concluded that?" he finished ironically. "I suppose so," she said faintly. She had known, of course, but somehow she hadn't thought it through to imagining sharing a bed with him, having him make love to her—really make love . . . She turned away abruptly. "I'd like to go home." "Of course," he agreed. "You have a lot to think about, haven't you?" About whether Angelsmount was worth all this trauma, she thought confusedly.

At her request he let her out of the car at the foot of the drive. She thanked him briefly and hurried up to the house, her mind a turmoil. What would he think of her if she agreed to marry him? That she was mercenary? Plenty of girls would have grabbed at his offer, she was sure. After all, the Varenays were wealthy people. But that didn't matter a rap to Ferris. Money was not everything, as she'd told Claudia. She wanted to marry for love. So why was she even considering his proposal? Why hadn't she told him outright that she wasn't interested? Because she was interested, she admitted reluctantly. The fact was, she did find him physically attractive and, disconcertingly, was finding him more and more so. But it wasn't because of that, she thought, biting her lip. It was because she so desperately wanted to keep Angelsmount in the family. That was the main thing, the thing she had to remember. And if there was a single solitary straw floating by, then she was duty bound to clutch at it. All the same, she hadn't meant to clutch at it quite so desperately as she did—because before she went up to bed that night, she'd gone mad and told Claudia and Lance that she'd promised to marry Cleve Varenay. Standing in the middle of her bedroom and staring across at her reflection—her flushed cheeks, her bright eyes—she wondered what had got into her. It wasn't as if she'd even made up her mind. She'd just gone and blurted it out. And now the thought of what she'd said appalled her. "Cleve Varenay's asked me to marry him. We're going to live here, at Angelsmount."

There had been a stunned silence. Claudia had stared at Ferris with her mouth open. And Lance. . . Ferris had very nearly laughed at the look of outrage on his face. They were sitting at one end of the long dining room table, the three of them. The asparagus, the veal in wine sauce, the lemon sorbet had come and gone. They were drinking coffee, sipping Angelsmount port. Ferris was sipping port, too, and perhaps that was what had made her reckless enough to make her announcement. It had just seemed to burst out of her when Lance began holding forth on his ideas for Angelsmount, on the figure he had in mind, on the factors that had brought him to that figure—a decidedly lower one than Tom Nichols had mentioned. Listening to him, Ferris had felt infuriated that he should ignore her so completely and continue to take it for granted that Angelsmount was his for the asking. She could feel adrenaline pouring into her bloodstream, and when he'd paused for a moment, she'd burst out with her announcement, and they'd stared. "What do you mean, you're going to live here?" Lance demanded at last. "You're the one who's jumping the lights this time, Ferris, forgetting your sister has to be consulted before any decision can be made. Angelsmount's not yours to live in." He turned to Claudia. "Do you know anything about this, Claudia?" "Not a thing!" Claudia said, looking at Ferris as if she'd never seen her before. "I hadn't the faintest idea there was anything as serious as that between you and Cleve Varenay, Ferris. Or that you'd been making all these arrangements behind my back." "I haven't been making any arrangements behind your back," Ferris said with heightened colour. "I—I'm telling you now what Cleve and I want to do. He'll buy your share, of course, and you can negotiate a price yourself. You'll get your money, Claudia. I'll

be able to stay here, and you'll be able to buy your gallery. Isn't that what you want?" "Yes," Claudia agreed suspiciously. "But it's not very fair to Lance, is it? Just when we—he thought it was all settled. I really don't understand you." "I think I do," Lance broke in, his smile thin and unpleasant. He turned to Ferris. "Tell me, Ferris, is Varenay buying your share in Angelsmount, too, or are you to keep it?" "I'm keeping it," Ferris said, flushing. "We'll be partners." "I see," he said with a little sneer. "But marrying you is to be part of the deal. Or is he in love with you?" Ferris had felt the blood go from her face. "Yes he is," she lied, her voice shaking. She had pushed back her chair and walked out. Now she sank down on the edge of the bed and wished miserably that Lance hadn't asked that question. Of course Cleve wasn't in love with her. Marrying her was, as Lance had so bluntly put it, part of the deal. Well, she'd known that all along, so why in heaven's name had she gone and said what she had? Not because she was in love with him. Though for all she knew, he might think she was. He was the sort of man who attracted women, despite his lack of conventional good looks. But now she wished she'd held her tongue, because of course she couldn't go through with it. Cleve could have Angelsmount; she'd have to make up her mind to that. But marrying him was not going to' be part of the deal. She'd tell him so tomorrow, and he and Lance could fight it out between them—and she knew who'd win.

She'd got into her pyjamas and was at the mirror brushing her shining gold hair when Claudia came into the room. "Lance and I have been talking. You're crazy, Ferris, if you're going to marry a man like Cleve Varenay just because you're sentimental about Angelsmount. Daddy wouldn't have wanted you to do that. Lance is going to stay another day or so till everything's sorted out. He's sure the family will bring you to your senses. The aunts won't allow you to do anything so dopey, and neither will we." Ferris put down her brush and turned round. "What do you mean, a man like Cleve Varenay?" Claudia grimaced. "He's not your type. Oh I know he's a wine man, but you're a romantic, and he's so calculating. You surely don't think he's in love with you—or didn't you see him last night with that red-haired woman? If you ask me, he's had his eye on Angelsmount and he could see it vanishing from under his nose if he didn't do something drastic. So he's done just that—and you've fallen for it, hook, line and sinker. I'd step very carefully if I were you, Ferris. He may not even mean to marry you." She narrowed her eyes, and Ferris looked back at her steadily. If Claudia only knew it, she agreed with almost everything she'd said. "I'll work it out for myself," she said, managing to sound calm. "Cleve will probably talk to you about it tomorrow."

After breakfast next morning, she took the car and drove to Cleve's motel. Overnight her courage had gone—or maybe her common

sense had returned—and she'd decided to tell Cleve he could have Angelsmount with her blessing, providing he could better Lance's offer. She was sure he could because, as Claudia had said, he'd set his heart on the winery. He was in the pool swimming. She saw him as she made her way in the direction of his suite, and she stood watching him, admiring the smooth, powerful movements of his arms, the gleam of his tanned shoulders as his body glided through the water. The thought of dragging him out to talk business didn't appeal to her at all, nor did the thought of handing Angelsmount over to him. As she stood hesitating, he reached the end of the pool and saw her. She watched him climb out and stand dripping on the tiles for a moment before he came towards her. Stripped, wearing only brief white swimming trunks, he looked to be in top physical condition. Lean but not sinewy, narrow- hipped with broad shoulders and strong muscular legs. A mat of dark hair on his chest, a body that was lightly tanned all over. Good looking? She no longer knew. Or cared, she reminded herself quickly. For a moment, as she took him in at her leisure, she seemed to forget completely what she'd come here for. He was smiling as he came towards her, looking her over quickly from her sun-bleached hair to her sandalled feet, his glance lingering on the slight curves of hip and breast, as the stuff of her dress blew against her body in the light breeze. "Not the verdict already?" he asked, stopping in front of her and looking down at her. His dark lashes were stuck together in points by the water, and his green eyes, screwed up slightly in the

sunlight, disconcerted her with the frankness of their appraisal of her. She nodded speechlessly. Now that she was actually here, she no longer felt as positive as she had when she left home. "Then let's hear it." He took her arm and guided her to a table shaded by a pink sun umbrella. His fingers were cool from the water, and a shiver ran along her arm. "Sit down, Angel," he said. Ferris sat down, and he sat opposite her, leaning across the table and looking at her intently, his eyes dark and searching. Ferris stared back at him, very much aware of his masculinity, of his naked chest contrasting with the white tabletop. And then, to her own stunned amazement, instead of doing as she'd planned, she went through a kind of repeat performance of last night and spoke off the top of her head. "I've told them," she said. "Lance and Claudia, I mean." "Yes? Exactly what have you told them?" "About us," she stammered. "That I'm—that we're—" "That we're going to be married? Well then, that's just fine." His teeth gleamed white as he leaned back and smiled at her. Ferris wondered if he could actually see her heart beating—banging away in her breast as if she were just about to jump off a precipice. Which she had more or less done already. "And your aunts and uncle," he said after a moment. "Have you broken the news to them?"

She shook her head. Though possibly by now Claudia might have told them, and added what she'd said last night—that Cleve had only asked her to marry him because of Angelsmount. "Claudia doesn't think they'll like it." "Oh, I'll butter them up," he said half jokingly. "They'll soon think it's a marvellous idea. When do you want me to present myself?" "Present yourself?" she repeated, staring at him blankly. "Well, shouldn't I do that? Tom will want to make sure my intentions are honourable and that I'm not robbing you or your sister, I'm sure." "Claudia won't let you rob her," Ferris said with a nervous laugh. "She has her head screwed on the right way," Cleve agreed. "Look, suppose I get dressed and we go back to Angelsmount together." A little to Ferris's surprise, the aunts and Uncle Tom were absolutely delighted with the news that she and Cleve were to be married—news they took almost as if they'd been expecting it. There was much beaming and kissing and shaking of hands while Lance looked on cynically. "You must be disappointed, Mr. Hartley-Robertshaw," Ferris heard Aunt Rose say sympathetically. "But you understand why we're pleased, don't you? It's lovely to think there will still be Howards here after all these years." Two bottles of the best wine were produced, and toasts were drunk at the lunch table. "How happy .Owen would have been today," Aunt Iris remarked.

Cleve turned his head and smiled at Ferris and put his hand over hers on the table. Her cheeks crimsoned, and she looked away from his hastily. Suddenly it was all terribly unreal, and she felt a pang of the deepest doubt, remembering how once she'd dreamed of perfect happiness when she and Martin were married and her father had grandchildren to carry on the Howard tradition. . . . Now her children would be fathered by Cleve, a man she scarcely knew, a man who wasn't even in love with her. A calculating man, as Claudia had said. Lance disappeared to his room to pack immediately after lunch was over. Ferris was sorry about his disappointment, but Claudia should never have brought him here without discussing it with her first. "I guess I'd better pack up, too," Claudia remarked as she, Cleve and Ferris wandered out of the dining room. Cleve had put his arm possessively around Ferris's waist, a gesture that disturbed her even though she knew it was calculated. "You two certainly believe in surprise tactics," Claudia went on. "I'd never have thought it of you, Ferris, being so secretive." She smiled at Cleve. "Would you believe my sister never breathed a word about being in love with you? But don't think because you're marrying into the family you're going to get Angelsmount at a budget price." Ferris saw Cleve's eyes flash sardonically as he told her good humouredly, "No, I won't think that, Claudia. I can see that you're an astute businesswoman with an eye to her own interests. I'm sure our respective lawyers will manage to iron out any problems to both our satisfactions. What do you say?" Claudia laughed. "What do you expect me to say? I wouldn't dream of making a move without my lawyer's advice. I'm not like

Ferris. This transaction's not going to provide me with a husband. More's the pity," she added, widening her eyes flirtatiously. One way or another, it was a relief to Ferris when Lance and Claudia left for Adelaide. But before they did so, Lance managed a few words for Ferris's ears alone. "If this deal falls through, Ferris, contact me." Ferris flinched at the word deal. And yet, that was what it was. But if it did fall through, if she found she just couldn't go through with it, the last thing she'd do would be to turn to Lance. Everyone congregated on the drive to bid farewell to Claudia and Lance, and then, when the car had disappeared, Cleve dropped his arm from Ferris's waist and disappeared with Tom in the direction of the cellars. Just like that, she thought, staring after him and feeling resentful and hurt. The audience had gone, so there was no longer any need to put on a show. At that rate, what was he going to be like when they were married? A couple of tourists' cars had pulled up in the shade of the old pines that lined the drive, and on the point of hurrying back to the salesroom, Rose told Ferris, "I'm very happy for you, dear. You couldn't do better than to marry Cleve Varenay. He has manners, looks, maturity. He's a wine man as well, and as particular as Owen. Your father would have been delighted." So someone was happy, but not Ferris. That she'd agreed to marry him so quickly—so eagerly, he probably thought—made her feel quite sick. When he came to join her on the terrace later she was still smarting from the way he'd walked out on her, so casually, without even a word.

"Oh, you're still here, are you?" she said indifferently. "What do you want? To look around the house—your house—now everyone's gone?" "I thought you might like my company, Angel," he said, raising his eyebrows quizzically. She blinked angrily. That hadn't hurt at all and she tried again, determined to get some reaction from him. "Yours?" She gave a brief laugh. "I guess I'll have enough of that if I marry you." "If? You've made it quite clear to everyone that you're going to do exactly that. For God's sake don't start acting like a shrew the minute we're alone. It's the last thing I'd have expected of you." Ferris was the one who was hurt now, and it was all the worse because she knew she'd deserved it. "You can hardly expect me to act like a—a loving wife if you drop me like a hotcake when it suits you," she muttered, her mouth trembling. He stood looking down at her intently as if he were trying to make sense of what she said. His nostrils were dilated, and his mouth was set in a hard line, and glowering up at him, Ferris decided she'd been right. He was ugly. And she was positively not going to apologise for her rudeness, not until he realised he had something to apologise for too. Which would possibly be never. She was taken by surprise when he said pleasantly, "Go inside and change your clothes, and I'll take you out to dinner. We need to get to know each other."

She stared at him speechlessly, her mouth falling open. To her dismay, her eyes were suddenly swimming in tears. "I'll find myself a drink, if I may, while you get yourself dressed up," he said, as if he'd noticed nothing. "Yes, do that," she was appalled to hear herself quaver. "Make yourself at home—Angelmount's as good as yours now." She jumped to her feet and ran inside. She was trembling and she couldn't think what had gotten into her. She felt thoroughly ashamed that she was behaving so badly. She couldn't really blame it all on Cleve. She could hardly expect him to be constantly falling all over her, their engagement being what it was. All the same, she wasn't stupid enough to go on acting like a badtempered child until there was no way out but a hysterical scene. She'd pull herself together and make a fresh start. She'd do what he said—get dressed up—and convince him that she did have some manners, some sophistication. But it wasn't going to be all that easy. Rummaging through her clothes, she soon reached the dismal conclusion that she hadn't a thing that would knock anyone's eyes out. Certainly not Cleve's. He was used to elegant, glamorous women, judging from that redhaired girt he'd been with the other night. She held up her black dress and remembered Claudia asking her if she was supposed to be in mourning. That would never do, and with sudden inspiration she grabbed up dark blue cotton pants and a blue strapless top, an outfit she used to wear when she drove in to Katherine for supplies. If she couldn't look sophisticated, then she'd look casual. He could take her to Otto's Restaurant, where this kind of gear was the usual thing. If it wasn't smart enough for him then that was just too bad. He'd— he'd have to make up his mind to a simple wife.

She didn't know until some time later that her decision was going to lead her head first into a whole heap of trouble.

Chapter Five Cleve didn't demur when she told him where she wanted to go, and as they drove to the restaurant she told him brightly that it was run by a German woman and her son and that she'd been there before. However, the minute she went down the steps into Otto's with Cleve, she was aware that it must have changed hands. The diners were too noisy, the lights were too dim. The solid wooden chairs and tables that had looked so good before with white tablecloths, tall candles and flowers now looked dull and heavy and cumbersome against the changed decor: dark red walls, olive green tablecloths, squat orange candles. Taped music was playing, and it was too loud, too rollicking. Glancing at Cleve apprehensively, Ferris found his face impassive. All the same, her heart was sinking. She'd had such good intentions, but he'd probably think she'd brought him here, where it would be practically impossible for them to have any kind of a conversation, out of pique. The waitress, a pretty, rather plump Australian girl in Bavarian costume, took them to a corner table, and as Ferris sat down she recalled that the last time she'd been here it had been with Martin. Well, he wasn't likely to bring Livvie here now that it had changed hands and was full of tourists eagerly getting themselves merry on the local wine. "I asked if you'd like a drink before dinner, Ferris," Cleve said, raising his voice, and she blinked and looked across the table at him. "No, thank you," she said quickly and lowered her eyes to the menu the waitress had handed her. She wasn't particularly hungry and, passing over some rather hearty German dishes, decided on

grilled whiting with a salad. Not very enterprising, not very adventurous, but neither was the steak Cleve ordered. It was certainly not a good place to get to know each other. Their meal arrived remarkably quickly, and Ferris began to eat. She waited for Cleve to take the initiative and begin some kind of conversation, but he didn't bother, and she didn't really blame him, the din was so loud. Nor could she think of anything to say. She had the sinking feeling that his opinion of her must by now be so low that it had disappeared through the ground. When later he bestirred himself to persuade her to have some apple strudel, she agreed with pathetic eagerness, though she didn't really want it. After the waitress had brought their desserts, the group of diners at the next table left, and suddenly Ferris had a clear view across the restaurant. She'd barely taken up her spoon and fork when she saw with a shock that Martin Varenay was sitting alone at a small table on the far side of the room. There was an almost empty carafe of red wine at his elbow, and he was staring broodingly into space. Ferris sat transfixed, her spoon halfway to her mouth. She didn't know what she felt. The moment that had to come was about to arrive, and soon she and Martin would be renewing their acquaintance. He'd be making polite conversation, excusing himself for not offering his personal sympathy. And she—it was crazy, but she wanted to run away. She forced her attention back to her meal, but she was totally unable to eat. "You don't like it?" Cleve said, raising his eyebrows as she pushed her plate aside. "I shouldn't have talked you into it. Shall I order you an ice instead?"

"No, thank you." Ferris smiled stiffly. "I—I've had enough. I'm not really hungry." "Coffee, then?" Cleve asked, and she nodded dumbly. Her eyes strayed to Martin again. He was pouring some wine into a glass, still with that brooding look on his face. He looked different, she thought. Not as she remembered him. Still terribly good looking but older. He looked married, she thought ridiculously, and suddenly realised that he didn't want to be bothered with her. After all, he hadn't even telephoned her out of politeness. She turned away quickly before he should look up and find her staring at him. If he caught sight of her and thought she hadn't seen him, then he could pretend he didn't know she was there. He could quietly disappear, if that was what he wanted, she decided, swallowing as though the thought were some unpleasant kind of a pill. As it was. And Cleve was watching her swallow it, his eyes narrowed. "Have you seen someone you know, Ferris?" he asked. She told a lie without thinking. "No, I—I just thought I did." "It must have been a ghost," he said, leaning towards her and smiling slightly. "You look quite shaken." She felt shaken, too, and she wished she hadn't said she'd have coffee. It was too nerve wracking sitting there and knowing that Martin was on the other side of the room and that he didn't want to see her. She was about to tell Cleve she wanted to go home when the waitress brought the coffee. And almost at the same moment,

out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone else coming up to their table and she thought she'd faint. It was Martin. ... He rested his hand on the back of Cleve's chair and looked at her fixedly. "Ferris Howard! I can't believe my eyes! What are you doing here? Why didn't you tell me you were back?" His eyes looked straight into hers, and she went scarlet and then white. So he didn't want to avoid her, and he hadn't known she was back. That was why he hadn't been in touch. A terrible weakness had come over her limbs at the sight of him so close, at the sound of his voice—at the memories that were evoked. Her mouth was trembling, and she didn't know what to say. Cleve turned his head. "Sit down and have some coffee with us, Martin. You're alone, are you?" He sounded so calm, so unsurprised, so totally unaware of her own inner turmoil. It wasn't a traumatic situation for him. He could say "Sit down and have some coffee" just as though this sort of thing happened every day. But surely Martin knew different. Surely he wouldn't stay. He did though. "Good God!" he exclaimed, dropping down in a chair. "I didn't realise it was you, Cleve. Sure I'm alone." The waitress, at a murmured request from Cleve, hurried away for another cup and more coffee. Martin leaned towards Ferris, who tried desperately to pull herself together.

"It was rotten luck about your father, Angelabella," Martin said. "I'd have liked to contact you, but I didn't know where you were. How long have you been home?" "Not very long. I didn't get here for the funeral. I was ill, you see, I had pneumonia and—" Ferris stopped, afraid she was babbling. He wouldn't want to know all the details of her life; she didn't mean a thing to him. Yet once she had. Once they'd been so close . . . The waitress was fussing over the coffee, and Ferris sat back feeling embarrassed. Why didn't Cleve say something? she thought wildly. Why didn't he come to the rescue? Hadn't he any idea of the tension she was feeling? He'd seen her at the wedding. But now he stirred sugar into his coffee and said nothing, and she was infuriated. "What are you doing with yourself these days, Martin?" she asked at last, with a bright, forced smile. "Nothing out of the ordinary." His eyes looked into hers suddenly, so intimately that her breath caught in her throat. "If I'd known you were around things would have been different . . . How come you didn't let me know, Cleve?" Cleve raised an eyebrow. "I saw no reason for it. . . . Ferris and I have just decided to get married, by the way. You can be among the first to congratulate us." Oh God! Ferris felt her nerves jump. She had the strange feeling that what Cleve had just said simply couldn't be true. She lowered her head and concentrated on moving the cream jug to a different position on the dark green tablecloth. With part of her mind, she knew she should smile, but she felt quite incapable of putting on a happy fiancée act. She wished she could. She wanted Martin to know she'd arranged her life perfectly well without him, because

by the way he'd been looking at her, she was positive he thought she was still mad about him. He certainly wasn't looking pleased. He glared first at Cleve and then at her and, instead of congratulating them, he demanded, "How the heck did you two manage to get together? You've been somewhere in the middle of the outback for the past year or so, haven't you, Ferris? You can't possibly know each other well enough to marry." No, of course they couldn't, and Ferris bit her lip and wondered how she was going to explain. It would have been easy if she and Cleve could have reached for each other's hands and said they were in love. But they weren't. She was stunned when Cleve said dryly, "There's such a thing as love at first sight. Anyway, Ferris and I met at your wedding." "Yes, that's right," Ferris heard herself exclaim shakily. "Three years ago," Martin said, and added savagely, "Well, I suppose the right thing is for me to order some champagne and drink a toast to the happy lovers. I suppose I can drown my sorrows at the same time." He glanced around for the waitress, and Ferris suddenly felt she'd had enough. She couldn't possibly sit here with these two men, drinking champagne and pretending everything was wonderful. And exactly what did Martin mean about drowning his sorrows? She pushed back her chair. "I really don't want any more to drink, Martin. It—it's very nice of you, but I have a headache. It's getting so stuffy in here."

She got to her feet and began to stumble away from the table and instantly the two men were behind her, Cleve's hand under one elbow, Martin's under the other. When Cleve stopped to pay the bill, she and Martin continued on up the stairs. Outside, the night air was warm and soft, and when Ferris murmured something about the scent of the cedar flowers, Martin unexpectedly pulled her into his arms. "My God, I wish this hadn't happened, Angelabella," he muttered. "What do you mean?" she breathed, struggling against his embrace, and more aware than she'd ever been that he was married, that he shouldn't be doing this. A pink neon sign above the restaurant softened his features so that he looked more the way she remembered him, and suddenly something inside of her collapsed. The feel of his arms around her was so familiar that she gave in and leaned against him weakly, closing her eyes. "What do you think I mean?" he said, and she held her breath as he kissed her hair. "I've found you again, and you're all mixed up with Cleve. It's so hideously wrong. Tell me it's not true, tell me you love me still—" She pulled away from him. She couldn't tell him that—not possibly. And he shouldn't ask it of her. She said stiffly, "How's Livvie, Martin? I should have asked before." "Livvie?" he repeated, looking at her as if she were out of her mind. "Don't you know? She's in New Zealand—has been for nearly a year. She and I have split up. We're going to get a divorce." For a moment she couldn't take it in and then the world seemed to spin. Martin's marriage was over— finished—and no one had told

her. Not her father in his letters, not Cleve or her aunts. She knew now why he was alone, why he'd talked of drowning his sorrows. ... "I'm sorry," she murmured and heard him make an impatient exclamation. "You needn't be. I'm the one who's sorry. About you. You can't love Cleve—I just don't believe it. How much have you seen of each other since the wedding?" "We haven't seen each other," she whispered. Her mind was racing. Did he mean he still loved her, wanted her? Was that what he was telling her? She grasped his arm urgently. "You don't understand, Martin. It's all just happened. You see, my father left Angelsmount to me and Claudia, and there's been a terrible mixup. Claudia wanted to sell out to this awful man—Father would have hated him—and then Cleve—" She stopped abruptly. Cleve had emerged from the restaurant and she knew enough about him to know he wouldn't like what he saw. She dropped her hand guiltily, but Martin put his arm around her waist. "Ferris and I want to catch up on the news," he told Cleve aggressively. "You don't have any objections to lending her to me for an hour or two, do you? We're old friends, you know." "Maybe you are, but I don't lend my fiancée to anyone at this hour of the night," Cleve said, his voice clipped. "I'm taking Ferris home. She has a headache. Come along, Ferris." He grasped her arm and she pulled away, staring up at him. The same soft pink neon light shone on him, but his face was hard and she could hear the steel in his voice. "Well?" he said. "Are you coming?"

On the point of refusing, she weakened. After all, she was supposed to be engaged to him, and he'd just taken her out to dinner. . . . "Yes, I'm coming," she said impatiently. "I'll see you later, Martin. You can telephone me." "Sure. I'll be in touch tomorrow," Martin agreed and added sardonically, "Unless you're not allowed telephone calls." Cleve ignored the gibe and the minute Ferris had said good night, he hustled her off in the direction of his car. They drove almost the whole of the way back to Angelsmount without speaking. Ferris's thoughts were in confusion. It didn't seem possible that Martin was free now—or almost free—that her dreams of marrying him could have come true after all, if only she hadn't rushed into this engagement with Cleve. She glanced nervously at the man beside her, taking in his strong chin, his slightly flattened nose, the firm line of his mouth. What was he thinking about? And—and suppose she told him that she wanted to break off their engagement—how would he take it? She licked her upper lip. Somehow she knew he wouldn't make if easy for her. But he couldn't do a thing about it; he'd just have to let her go. So why not tell him now—get it over with? Because it was too soon, she answered her own question. She had to think about Angelsmount, for one thing. She couldn't expect to arrange everything to suit herself. Martin might not be interested in buying into the winery—might not even have the money, for all she knew. Also, she wasn't sure . . . "What are you thinking about, Angel?" Cleve asked, breaking into her thoughts.

"Nothing," she said quickly. His voice had sounded mocking, and she had an uneasy feeling that he knew perfectly well she was thinking about Martin. They'd reached the long, curving drive that wound up the hill to Angelsmount, and she stared out, frowning, at the tall pines that stood dark and straight against the night sky, which was flooded now by brilliant moonlight. Beyond them the vineyards spread out, every leaf on every vine startlingly clear in the moonlight, their shadows making fantastic patterns on the pallid earth. To one side, the ground sloped down to Angel Creek and she suddenly realised that instead of continuing on to the house, Cleve had turned on to the graded track that ran down to the creek. "Where are you going?" she asked, her heart rate accelerating slightly. He glanced at her enigmatically. "Haven't you ever been down by the creek on a moonlit night? It's far more romantic than that rowdy restaurant we've just been in, and you'll soon get rid of your headache in the fresh night air." "But—" Ferris began protesting. "We were going to talk, Ferris, to get to know each other," he interrupted impatiently. "God knows for what perverse reason you took me to that restaurant; you must have known we'd hardly be able to hear each other speak. I'm afraid you'll just have to put up with my choice of milieu for the rest of the evening." Ferris grimaced in the dark. All right then, if he insisted. Perhaps she could tactfully let him know she felt she'd been rather hasty about agreeing to marry him. The fact was, she was in a tremendous muddle. Everything had happened the wrong way around. If she'd known before this that Martin and Livvie had split

up, she would never have been mad enough to rush in and promise to marry Cleve. Not that she was going to tell him exactly that, of course . . . Down by the gums that shaded the creek, Cleve pulled up, then got out of the car and reached into the back for a soft cotton rug. He was spreading it on the ground under the trees as Ferris climbed out of the car, and she watched him with a feeling of trepidation as she reluctantly walked over to join him. For several minutes they simply stood there, listening to the sound of the creek as the water bubbled over the stones and to the soft rustling of the leaves in the night wind. It was infinitely soothing, and Ferris felt she could have stood there forever, silent, untroubled. But in spite of herself, she soon felt compelled to glance at the mar. beside her. His eyes were shadowy in the moonlight, and dark leaf patterns moved eerily across his features as the trees swayed gently. She had an odd feeling in the region of her heart as she looked at him. What was it? She felt—she felt a little ashamed that she was going to try to back out of her engagement, she decided. That was it. And she altered her expression quickly to a smile as he turned towards her. "Headache gone?" he asked, smiling, too, and she nodded. "I thought it would be." He reached out, locking his hands behind her waist and pulling her to him, It was the prelude to a kiss and a shiver went through her. It would be unfair to encourage him when she was in the process of making up her mind to tell him she wanted out, and yet there was something irresistible about the strength of his arms as she leaned back against them. It wasn't until he drew her closer and she felt his lips brush hers that she pulled away.

"Don't," she said sharply, and immediately had the feeling she'd done something drastic, especially when he released her so abruptly she staggered. "What's the matter?" he asked harshly, and she dropped down on the rug and sat hugging her knees to her. She said nothing, and he came down beside her, his body stretched out as he leaned on one elbow and looked at her piercingly. "Well?" he persisted. "Don't you think you owe me an explanation for that rebuff?" She felt her mouth tremble as the tip of her tongue explored it nervously. She did owe him an explanation, of course, and yet what did he expect from a girl who'd agreed to marry him for purely practical reasons? And didn't he know how much it had churned her up to see Martin again? She'd have thought he'd been around enough to have at least an inkling. She hugged her knees to her harder and rocked slightly. "I—I think I rushed into all this too fast," she burst out. "I hadn't thought it out properly." "You hadn't?" he said mockingly, his eyebrows rising. "I imagined you were perfectly clear as to what it was all about. Isn't hanging oh to Angelsmount the big thing in your life? You're going to be able to do that, so what do you want now?" What did she want? She wanted to go back to the beginning, when he'd put the idea to her. She wanted to have held her peace last night instead of bursting out with the news that she was going to marry Cleve Varenay. She wanted not to have told him this morning that she accepted his proposal, not to have been so impressed when she saw him at the swimming pool. She knew, to her discomfort, that the sight of his near-naked body, so brown and

healthy and virile, had somehow upset her judgment, made her lose her head more than a little. She wanted time to find out the truth about her feelings for—for Martin, for Angelsmount. For him—Cleve. She looked at him through her lashes. There was enough light for her to see that his mouth was set in a grim line and that his eyes were just about boring holes in her, as if he could hypnotise her or something, she thought, and had to swallow down a nervous laugh. "I—I guess I want to go back to the beginning," she said shakily. "Going back to the beginning is something that life doesn't allow," he said brutally. "You can't have it all over again and if you could, nine times out of ten you wouldn't want it. Three years should be ample time to grow out of a youthful love affair. However, I agree we have been too hasty—both of us. I guess I overestimated your attachment to Angelsmount. Maybe it would be wise to do a bit of rethinking." "What do you mean?" She wondered if he were going to withdraw his offer for Angelsmount on the spot, which really wouldn't be fair. "I—I do care about Angelsmount," she stammered. "And Lance would pull the house down." "So you told me," he agreed unfeelingly. "But don't blame me for that. Exactly what did Martin say that's put you into such a ferment anyhow? And don't tell me it's not my business, because it damned well is." "He told me he and Livvie are being divorced. You knew that— and you didn't tell me," she flared and saw his eyebrows rise. "I saw no need to tell you," he said shortly. "In any case, as far as I know, divorce proceedings haven't even been started yet. Nothing

might come of it, in fact. People part, but they also come together again. Do you think three years of marriage can vanish overnight, like a burst bubble? Or that Ferris Howard can materialise, stir up the ashes of a long-dead love and have a fire going within minutes?" Ferris went white. She was furious with him. Incredible though it might seem, Martin had as good as told her he was in love with her. Hers were the feelings that were confused. If she'd been falling over herself to get into Martin's arms, or if she'd found she'd gone completely cold on the whole affair, it would have been a whole lot easier. But she needed time to sort herself out—as well as the business of Angelsmount. That, until just lately, had been the most important thing in her life. Now she wasn't quite so sure. "I—I don't want to talk about it," she said stiffly. "Then that's a pity. Because a little straight talking might clear your mind. However, you'd better think about it pretty hard," Cleve said. "Meanwhile we'll forget about our engagement." "Forget about it? You mean—you mean it's off?" she exclaimed, somehow taken aback that he was offering her more or less what she'd been afraid to ask for. "What else would I mean? When you're ready to talk about it, you can let me know. For the time being, we won't blab it out to all and sundry that our plans to marry have been cancelled. After all, we can't very well tell your loving aunts that we're engaged to be married one day and that we're not the next, can we?" No, they couldn't. Even Ferris, confused though she was, could see the sense in that.

"All right," she agreed. It seemed fair enough, and yet she couldn't help thinking there must be a catch in it somewhere. Cleve had sat up and reached out a hand to her and, with the vague idea that they were about to shake hands on their agreement, she took it, only to have him pull her into his arms. A second later they were lying entwined on the rug, and she could feel his breath on her forehead. It was mad—it was crazy, considering that he'd just said they'd forget their engagement. And she was mad, too, because her heart was racing and she didn't even want to escape from the pressure of his body against hers. His lips found the lobe of her ear, and then he was touching the side of her slender neck with his tongue in a way that excited her intensely. Her body reacted in its own way to his warmth, his hardness, his touch, and she moved against him sensually. One of his hands slid over the smoothness of her shoulder down to the curve of her breast, and when he bent his head and she felt his mouth moistly on her flesh she forced herself to protest. "Don't, Cleve," she said weakly. "You said we—" He gave a throaty laugh. "I said we'd forget our engagement. But that doesn't mean I don't want to kiss you, Angel—and more than that. If it's of any interest to you, I was as jealous as hell when I came out of that damned restaurant and found you with Martin's arms around you." Jealous? Ferris thought she must be imagining things. Or was he making fun of her? The question drifted unanswered through her mind as he pulled her slender body closer to his own, one hand going to the back of her head to tangle in her silky hair, while his lips brushed moth-soft against her temples. She trembled as his lips traced a line down to her mouth, then moved teasingly over it,

lingering at its corners. She didn't resist when the pace of his lovemaking quickened and his insistence made her part her lips. Without being aware of it, she gave herself up totally to the seduction of his caresses. She'd never been kissed the way he was kissing her now, and the danger she sensed in his obvious arousal excited her to an even deeper response. Her feelings were getting completely out of control, and she uttered a little moan as she returned kisses that were devastatingly sensual. Her head fell back, and a sweet ache invaded her body as his hands found the softness of her breasts, and his mouth on hers drew her into desire for him. She could feel the pounding of her heart as his fingers caressed her, and she clung to him in an agony of sensual delight. . . . An eternity passed before she somehow dragged herself out of the madness of virtual surrender, opening her eyes as he released her lips to whisper her name. Her heart still throbbed against his hand, and the heavy pounding of his own heart vibrated like some primitive drumbeat through her body. "Look at me, Angel," he murmured. His face was close to hers, and his mouth came down on hers again in another passionate onslaught. When he unexpectedly rolled away from her and lay on his back on the rug, she wanted to beg him to come back to her and had to stifle the impulse against her hand. She could hear his deep breathing and she turned her head aside and closed her eyes. How had she come to lose control of herself so easily? she wondered. Now, of all times, when she'd just met Martin again. It was—it was incomprehensible. With trembling hands, she straightened her ribbed cotton top, then got unsteadily to her feet and walked down towards the creek. There she stood staring dazedly at the glittering water tumbling

over the stones, her mind completely blank. She just wasn't ready yet to think about anything at all. She was shocked when Cleve spoke calmly from close behind her, his voice controlled as though nothing at all had happened. "By the way, one of the things I'd intended to tell you tonight in that impossible restaurant was that I plan to go down to Adelaide tomorrow. I want to see my solicitors. And Claudia, of course." Ferris swallowed and tried to think coherently. It was ludicrous to have to remind herself that her engagement to this man no longer existed when her body was still burning from its contact with his and her mouth was swollen from his kisses. "But you—you won't go now," she murmured, her voice, in contrast with his, unsteady and indistinct. "Of course I shall," he contradicted her. "We want to make sure nothing disastrous happens to Angelsmount while you're deliberating, don't we? But I shan't take you with me. I had thought you might like to meet my mother." To meet his mother! Had he really thought she might like that? She saw his mouth curl at the corners as she looked at him doubtfully. Madly good looking, Claudia had said. A strange feeling of uncertainty crept through her as he took her arm and they went back to the car. On the way up the narrow gravel track towards the pine trees and the dark house, she murmured, "If I went to Adelaide, I could visit Claudia." "Better not," he said firmly. "She just might catch on that all isn't as it seems between you and me. And we don't want that, do we?"

He was right, Ferris supposed wearily, and she wished that life wasn't so complicated, that it could somehow be the middle of next year when everything had been resolved. Though where she'd be by the middle of next year she was incapable of imagining just now. Cleve insisted on seeing her right to the house and, as she switched on the light and turned to say good night to him, he remarked thoughtfully, "I don't like leaving you all alone in this big house, Angel. Will you be all right?" "I'll be quite safe," Ferris said, then added, "when you've gone." He smiled wryly. "All the same, are you going to kiss me good night?" He pulled her towards him, and she felt a tremor run along her nerves. How fatally easily she responded to his touch! She really couldn't understand her own reactions. She was conscious of his eyes on her face and she knew her cheeks were still flushed from his lovemaking. What must he think of her? She had protested that she wanted to go back to the beginning and then had let him make love to her with barely a protest. She disengaged herself from him firmly. "No, I—I'm not." She turned away quickly. "Good night, Mr. Varenay." His hand shot out and he spun her round to face him. "How the hell can you call me that after the half hour we spent down by the creek?" She bit her lip. "That wasn't my fault," she said, and he laughed. "Wasn't it? I think you're just as much attracted to me as I am to you, Angel. And that, if you want to know the truth, is why I didn't bring you back here earlier tonight, where the bed is so handy."

She turned away, her cheeks crimson. "I wish you'd go. I need some sleep even if you don't." "Then good night and sweet dreams," he said and brushed his lips tantalisingly across her forehead. "And may they be of me." "That's not likely," she retorted and waited pointedly for him to leave, shutting the door after him with a slight bang. The sweet dreams didn't come for a long time. She lay awake for what seemed hours, living through the evening again, going over and over everything Martin had said to her—his impassioned protest at her engagement to Cleve, his revelation that he and Livvie had broken up. It was disconcerting to find that she really had no feeling of elation. In fact, she felt sorry for Livvie and sorry for Martin, too. He'd looked lonely, and she was sure he'd been drinking too much. Soon her mind drifted to Cleve and those passionate moments as she lay in his arms in the moonlight. She was still thinking of him when at last she fell asleep—to dream, predictably, of him.

Chapter Six "I expect Cleve will be along today," Aunt Rose remarked the next morning, and Ferris said awkwardly that he'd gone to Adelaide. "Oh, then you should have gone with him, dear," her aunt exclaimed, looking both surprised and disappointed. "You must see about your wedding dress and you'll need to go to Adelaide for that. You'll be married here, of course—in the garden, don't you think? Or would you rather we held the reception in that small convention room at the motel? I'm sure Cleve could arrange it." "Aunt Rose," Ferris exclaimed, "I'm not being married next week. We—we haven't even discussed anything like that yet. We might not be married for ages." Then, before Rose could say anything more, she escaped into the garden. She was on edge all day, remembering that Martin had said he'd telephone her. But it was not until afternoon that she heard from him, and fortunately, she was alone when she answered the phone. "Angelabella?" He sounded confident, even possessive, and it gave her a curious feeling that was more guilt than pleasure. "You'll have dinner with me tonight, won't you?" "I'd like to," Ferris said. She reminded herself a little anxiously that she was no longer engaged to Cleve, that he knew Martin wanted to see her again and that he was in Adelaide in any case.. "Great," Martin said. "I'll pick you up at seven. I know a really exclusive little restaurant where we'll be able to talk all we like. I didn't sleep last night thinking of you—and cursing myself for letting you go off with Cleve the way you did. God knows what you must have thought of me."

What had she thought of him? Ferris couldn't remember. But she certainly hadn't wanted—or expected—him to fight over her. She murmured something vague, and he said cheerfully, "I'll see you at seven. Okay?" "Okay." The minute she hung up she felt depressed that she had nothing suitable to wear to an exclusive restaurant. And she did want to look her best. After only a slight hesitation, she ran upstairs for her handbag and a few minutes later was in the car and on her way to Nuriootpa. At a boutique in Murray Street she bought a skirt of crushed taffeta in soft blue and lilac tones and a lilac silk blouse with a low cross-over neckline, then she hurried home to wash her hair. To her relief, her aunts had gone by then. She didn't want any questions about where she was going or what she'd been buying in Nuriootpa. Later on, as she put the finishing touches to her makeup and surveyed herself in the mirror, she was aware of a sense of nervous excitement. She'd be alone with Martin tonight. They could sort things out; she'd discover what she felt about him—and what he felt about her. Then she'd know what to do about Cleve, about Angelsmount. She began to feel quite cheerful. It was simple after all. All she had to do was make up her mind one way or the other, and then let Cleve know. "I'd forgotten you were so beautiful," Martin greeted her when she came out of the house to meet him promptly at seven o'clock. Ferris felt a glow and wondered why she hadn't gone to Nuriootpa long ago and replenished her wardrobe. Looking good did make a difference to the way one felt.

As they drove off, Martin told her jubilantly, "We have the whole night to ourselves. But I suppose you know that." Ferris looked at him uncertainly. She'd thought this was a dinner date and nothing more. "What do you mean?" she asked warily. "Well, Cleve's sure to stay the night in Adelaide. It's the usual thing with him." "Is it?" Ferris wondered what he was implying. "How do you know he's in Adelaide, anyhow? Did he—have you two been talking?" "Good Lord, no." Martin sent her a brief glance. "I just happened to see him and Mish getting into his plane at the winery airstrip, that's all." Mish? Of course she knew there was a private airstrip at Chateau Varenne and she wasn't surprised to know that Cleve had his own plane, but who was Mish? Pride forbade her to ask, but she didn't have to. Martin told her. "I suppose you know all about his girl friend," he remarked conversationally. Ferris swallowed and thought instinctively of that girl with the red hair. She could feel Martin's eyes on her curiously and flinched when he said, "Good Lord, I don't believe you do know. Well, I'm going to tell you because I think you should." He glanced at her again. "Shall I go on?" "If you want to," Ferris said, her lips stiff. She knew she shouldn't care whether Cleve had a girl friend or not—and she didn't care, of course. "I—I suppose she's the one with the red hair?"

"So you've seen her," Martin remarked. "They've been pretty thick for quite a while, which is another reason I was so surprised to hear he was going to marry you. I don't know what he told you, but he's been staying in the Barossa largely on her account." Ferris's heart was thudding. She wanted to cover her ears and she heard herself say, "I'm not really interested." "Then you can't be much in love," he commented. Ferris didn't answer. They reached the restaurant then and for a time nothing more was said, but Ferris found she was walking in a kind of daze as the hostess conducted them to the table that had been reserved for them. She sat down opposite Martin, furious with herself. For heaven's sake, what did it matter to her if Cleve did have another girl friend, if he was in Adelaide with her tonight? She—she'd be through with him soon. And it wasn't as if she'd ever fooled herself for one minute that he was in love with her. She knew perfectly well why he'd asked her to marry him. It was a good move on the part of a man who was more interested in wine making than he was in personal relationships. "Remember when I brought you here before?" she heard Martin asking her, and she tried to drag her thoughts off the treadmill they'd got onto. "We had this very table." Had they? Ferris smiled palely. She hadn't the least recollection of ever having been here with Martin before, and yet she'd imagined that she remembered every moment she'd spent with him. Which implied—what? That she'd been building her romance up in her mind? Not liking the thought, she discarded it and picked up the menu.

They gave their order to the waiter, and Martin had a bottle of champagne brought. They raised their glasses and drank a silent toast, and then Martin leaned forward and asked, "What was it you started to tell me last night about Angelsmount, Ferris? I know Cleve's dead keen on making his own wines away from the company, and that he was trying to get your father to sell out to him, but what's happened about the property? You said your father had left it to you and Claudia, didn't you?" "Yes." She suddenly didn't want to talk about it, but there was no way out, and she went on with deliberate brevity, "He—Cleve—is going to buy it. Claudia's share, that is." "And what about your share?" he asked, a frown on his goodlooking face. "I—I don't want to sell." Martin laid down his knife and fork and stared at her for a long moment. She knew just what conclusion he was reaching before he said it and she writhed inwardly, "Good God! You mean you're marrying my cousin because of that? You're crazy! You can't sacrifice yourself for a winery." Sacrifice herself? She didn't see it that way. She was a Howard, and Angelsmount meant something special to her. Didn't Martin understand that? Apparently not. "Your father's dead now," he was persisting. "You can forget Angelsmount, you can do what you like. And Cleve's not right for you, Angelabella. You'd be miserable married to him. He's as hard as iron. All head and no heart. You and I are better suited, surely you know that," he finished persuasively, reaching across the table to her.

She moved her hand away as if she didn't know what he'd intended and, with a lift of her shoulders, she changed the subject. "Tell me about Livvie, Martin. I'm truly sorry your marriage didn't work out. What happened?" He grimaced. "The usual sort of thing. Disagreements. We got on each other's nerves. I wanted children, and she didn't, and we were always rowing over it." He smiled wryly. "I should have married you, Angelabella." "Then why didn't you?" she Ventured. He gave her a long, thoughtful look. "Because it was pretty clear you expected me to-take over from your father. I was mad about you, but I just couldn't come at that. I didn't fancy the idea of being tied up for life to a small family winery—with your father around, as well. Oh, he was okay," he added hastily, "I don't mean I didn't like him." No? Then what else did he mean? Ferris looked at him as if she didn't really know him. She'd never had the least suspicion that he didn't like her father, didn't want to stay on at Angelsmount. "So what did you want, Martin?" she asked a little coolly. "More or less what I have now. A part in the firm, the prospect of an executive position in one of the big cities." He talked on about his plans, and Ferris's mind wandered to Cleve, who'd flown to Adelaide with his girl friend. It was one thing to accept that he wasn't in love with her, but it was quite another thing to know there was someone else, and she suddenly wondered if Mish was the real reason why he'd said they'd forget their engagement. Perhaps he'd never really intended to marry her at all. But he did intend to have Angelsmount. She was sure of that. He'd

actually admitted that he was seeing his solicitor today. For all she knew, half of Angelsmount could be his already. Oh, how naive she'd been! She'd be no match for him once he was part owner of Angelsmount, and now she'd played right into his hands, vacillating about whether or not she'd marry him. Well, he just wasn't going to have it all his own way, she decided. She wasn't going to be bluffed into handing over Angelsmount. While she'd been deep in her thoughts, the waiter had taken their plates away and she found herself confronted by a beautifully presented fruit dessert. She took up her spoon and smiled stiffly as Martin remarked, "Looks good enough to eat, doesn't it? Anyhow, darling," he went on as if he were continuing with something he'd been saying, "you won't go on with it, will you? This crazy idea of marrying Cleve. You can't barter your body like that." Ferris flinched. She hadn't seen it like that when she'd made her pact with Cleve. Her body hadn't come into it, though last night . . . She checked her thoughts. The simple fact was that they both wanted Angelsmount. And that was all. "Wait for me, Angelabella." Martin leaned across the table, his eyes looking meltingly into hers. "We've always loved each other. We should have married long ago. Once my divorce comes through, we can go ahead. You don't want to hang on to Angelsmount. Forget it. Let Cleve have it." She looked at him without speaking. Once, she'd have died of delight to think she could marry him after all, but now the magic had gone. Completely. She wasn't in love with him anymore. Possibly she hadn't been for a long time, but she'd had to see him again to realise it, and to her shame she felt irritated by the soulful way he was looking at her.

"Let's go back to the beginning," he murmured, and Ferris wanted to tell him they couldn't—that life didn't allow it. That was what Cleve had said, and he'd been so right. "Don't you remember how close we used to be, you and I?" So close I didn't even know Livvie existed, she thought with unexpected cynicism. So close I had no idea Angelsmount didn't appeal to you or that you didn't much like my father. It was ironical that she should see it that way now, because in her dreams when he asked her to marry him she'd fallen into his arms, married him and lived happily ever after. And now that it could all become a reality, it was too late. And somewhere deep in her heart she just .vaguely suspected why. They finished their dinner, then- sat over their coffee while a violinist played romantic gypsy music. Martin smoked, ordered another liqueur, and Ferris thought how strange it was that it should all end like this. Three years of yearning for a lost love—a love that had disappeared without a trace. Vanished. She remembered Cleve's phrase—stirring up the ashes of a dead love. She had been doing exactly that, but she wasn't going to do it anymore. She was—she was going to play with real fire, she thought with a sudden quickening of her pulses. . . . Driving home later, Martin pulled the car off the road and turned towards her. "You didn't answer my question, Angelabella. Are you going to wait for me?" She shook her head. "It's too late, Martin. I've promised to marry Cleve and that's what I'm going to do. Besides, Livvie might come back—you two could get together again. After all, you're still married."

"For God's sake!" he exploded. "I've told you— Livvie and I are through. All she wants is to spend her whole time on her damned silkscreen printing. I didn't marry her for that. I want a family. And, in case you haven't caught on, I'm in love with you." Despite her protests, he reached for her and pulled her into his arms. His kisses were rough, and when she felt his fingers dragging at her silk blouse, she wrenched herself away from him desperately. "Take me home, please. I've given you my answer, and I wish you'd accept it. Because I mean it—I really do, Martin." She was surprised at her own positiveness and relieved when he started up the car and drove off, even though he did so angrily. Once they were on their, way, she straightened her clothes, then peered into the courtesy mirror on the sun visor and raked her fingers through her hair. "What are you worrying about?" Martin asked irritably. "Cleve's in Adelaide with Mish. I'm not fooling. It's a fact. Doesn't it worry you that he doesn't care a snap of his fingers for you? That probably he's in bed right now with another girl, making love to her?" Ferris felt slightly sick. She knew that what he said could be true. Cleve was a virile man. And what did she really know about him, after all, except that her aunts, her uncle, thought highly of him? And her father had, too. She also knew that their marriage, if it ever eventuated, would be for purely practical reasons. So why had she made up her mind so firmly that she was going to marry him? That was really perverse, when she came to think of it, particularly as she now had the choice of two men—one of whom said he

loved her. But she just was not going to think about it anymore, she decided wearily. "I'm going to see you again, Ferris," he said when she insisted that he let her out of the car at the foot of the drive into Angelsmount. "I'm not taking no for an answer as easily as that. I'm damned if I'm going to stand by meekly and let you marry Cleve." She got out of the car quickly. "It's not your business what I do, Martin. And don't ask me to go out with you again; it will be better if we don't meet. You aren't really in love with me—not after all this time. I'm sure if you and Livvie could get together again you could compromise some way. Isn't it worth at least a try?" He laughed shortly. "What would you know about it? Wait till you're married to Cleve. You might find out then that it's easy to talk. I'm going to telephone you, anyhow, Ferris. And, in the meantime, I hope you'll think things over and come to your senses." He sent her an enigmatic smile and drove off. Ferris began to walk slowly up the long, curving drive, barred with the shadows of the old pine trees. Her long-awaited reunion with Martin was over, and what a farce it had been! She would never have believed she'd be so thankful to get away from him, and she only hoped he wasn't going to make a nuisance of himself. Putting him out of her mind, she began to think about her decision to tell Cleve she wanted to make their engagement a real one again. That she was ready to marry him, in fact. Could she really do that? Marry a man who didn't love her, who was sleeping with another woman? All for the sake of Angelsmount? Or—or wasn't it ail for the sake of Angelsmount? At all events, she was going to find out from Claudia—discreetly—exactly what Cleve had been up to today. Whether any papers had been signed.

She hoped not. It was somehow impossible to think of Cleve as tricky, dishonest. Yet wasn't it dishonest to continue a love affair with another woman when he was going to marry her? She shook her head impatiently. Their engagement was off. And she hadn't thought of herself as exactly dishonest in going out with Martin tonight. It had served a purpose, anyhow, it had proved to her that she'd grown out of him, that she was free of him at last. Oh, the relief of that! As she emerged from the pine trees and reached the gravel parking area near the garden, she saw the gleam of a silver grey car in the shadows, and her heart bumped. It was Cleve's! Martin had assured her that Cleve would be staying overnight in Adelaide, but obviously he was wrong, and suddenly aware of the mussed state of her clothes after their slight struggle in the car, she stood as though turned to stone. Oh God, was he sitting in the car waiting for her? Well, she couldn't stand there all night, and if he was in his car then he would have seen her by now. With an effort, she began walking again and found to her relief that the car was empty, which could mean that he was waiting for her on the terrace. After a moment's thought, she slipped around to the other side of the house and went in through one of the verandah doors. Groping her way through the darkness, she emerged into the big central living room to discover that there was a light on in the library and that Cleve was playing the piano. Damn! She held her breath. She couldn't possibly let him see her until she'd tidied herself up, so she tiptoed cautiously across the room towards the stairs. Halfway there, she tripped on the curledup edge of one of the worn rugs and grasped wildly at the table.

The next second, the light was flicked on, and Cleve was glaring at her. She moistened her lips nervously. She knew that her cheeks were flushed and her hair needed combing—and that her lilac silk blouse had been crushed by Martin's groping fingers. She had to quell a desire to smooth her hands over it and suffered the experience of having Cleve's eyes, dark green and smouldering, take in her appearance in detail. "Hello! What are you doing here at this time of night?" Her voice emerged nervous and high- pitched, and she forced a smile to try to cover it. "I—I thought you were in Adelaide." She nearly, but not quite, added, with Mish. "I can see you thought that," he said tersely. "I won't ask you what you've been doing—or why you were tiptoeing about in the dark. It's obvious. You've been out with my cousin." "Yes. I had dinner with him," she said, putting her chin up. "Have you any objections? I thought you said our—our engagement was off. I'm not asking you what you did in Adelaide," she added smartly, though her spirits had sunk more than a little. No one would dream that she'd made up her mind to marry him the way she was going on. But this precise moment hardly seemed the time to tell him that. He took three swift strides across the room and glared down into her face. His dark green eyes seemed to touch her mouth physically so that she wanted to cover it with her hand, and she felt a fiery trail where his glance travelled down to her breast. "You had more than dinner with him, by the look of you," he bit out, ignoring anything else she'd said. "As for our engagement, the

fact that it's in abeyance was to be kept strictly between ourselves. Exactly what did you tell my cousin about us?" Ferris drew back jerkily. "Nothing," she said, her face paling. The truth was, she'd told Martin very definitely that she and Cleve were engaged and that she was going to marry him, which suddenly seemed so ludicrous that she couldn't believe it. As if she'd ever voluntarily tie herself up to a man like Cleve Varenay, who was glaring at her with eyes as fierce and hard as a jungle animal's! "Then he should damned well leave you alone," he bit out. "He's a married man." "He's not," she flashed. "I mean, he and Livvie are getting divorced." Cleve expelled his breath exasperatedly. "Don't you know better than to count your chickens before they're hatched? You keep out of it. Give them a chance to get together again, for pity's sake." If he only knew, she thought, her nostrils dilating with resentment, that she'd suggested to Martin that they should try to do just that. "You don't know what you're talking about," she breathed. "Oh yes, I do. I'm telling you to leave Martin alone instead of putting temptation in his way." "Temptation?" she repeated. "What do you mean?" "What do you think I mean?" He reached out and flicked the crumpled front of her blouse. "Your charms are obviously irresistible to a man who's missing his wife in his bed."

"How dare you say that?" she gasped. "You don't know a thing about Martin and me, and I wish you'd mind your own business." She looked at him angrily, trying to find something hurtful to say, her eyes darting over his black silk shirt and the black pants that accentuated his narrow hips and muscular thighs. What had he been doing in Adelaide with his girl friend? And, if she asked, was he likely to tell her? She whirled around, aware of sudden tears. "I'm going up to bed," she said, flinging the words over her shoulder. "No, you're not," he said implacably. "Go up and wash your face— tidy yourself—whatever it is you want to do. And then you can come back here again. I have something to talk to you about." "I'm not interested," she said, already halfway up the stairs: In her room, she switched on the light over the mirror and looked at her reflection. She wanted to cry—about the mess everything was in, about this whole disastrous evening, about the wrong impression Cleve had of her. At this exact moment, she felt she was through with men forever. She didn't want to see Martin again, or Cleve either, and she wasn't going downstairs. Cleve could disappear. He could boil in oil for all she cared, she told herself. She peeled off her clothes, took a shower and got into her neat blue cotton pyjamas. She'd had several pairs of those when she was working at the Aboriginal Settlement and was likely to be wakened at any hour of the night with an urgent summons to a pregnant woman or a sick child. Suddenly she wished she were back there working, her life uncomplicated by love or the loss of it, and she shed a few tears.

The tears had dried on her cheeks and she was turning back her bedspread when Cleve appeared at the door. "What the devil have you been doing all this time?" "What do you think?" she retorted. "Getting ready for bed." She met his eyes as she said it and blushed scarlet. He muttered something under his breath, then leaned against the door frame and looked at her steadily. She had no idea what to do. She could hardly get into bed and put out the light. After a moment, she went to the mirror, picked up her brush and started brushing her hair with her back to him. "Very pretty," he commented. "Are you trying to seduce me, by any chance?" She flung her brush down. "No, I'm not. I—I hate you, Cleve Varenay. I wish you'd go away." "Do you? I think I could persuade you pretty quickly to change your mind about that," he said negligently and stepped into the room. "How?" she demanded, her eyes darkening angrily. "How?" "You'll find out if ever the time comes," he said mockingly. "Meanwhile, I'm beginning to think it's not a good idea to leave you alone in this house. I have a good mind to move in—appoint myself your bodyguard." "Have you?" she snapped. "Well, I don't want you here. This is not your house yet. It—it's mine."

He raised his eyebrows comically, and she found she was staring at him fascinated. Despite the irregularity of his features, there was something about his face—about the whole of him, in fact—that was warm, sexy. Well, she already knew that. But just now, coming so fast on top of her feeling of hostility, the thought frightened her and she turned away quickly. She'd have had more sense after all to have gone downstairs. "What do you want, anyhow?" "I thought you might be interested to know I saw Claudia." She perched herself on the side of the bed. "And did she take the money and run?" He moved across the room to stand in front of the dressing table and look down at her. "Legal transactions take time, Angel. And Claudia won't do anything unless you're there in any case. But she was interested to know how high I was prepared to go. I don't know if her friend Lance has upped his offer, but I assured her I'd improve on anything he had in mind, which made your sister's pretty blue eyes open wide. She's beginning to think it's an excellent idea for you and me to marry. More money in the bank for little Claudia." Ferris smiled slightly. That was exactly what Claudia would think! And she was infinitely relieved to know no papers had been signed. "Now you've told me that, do you think I might be allowed to get into bed and go to sleep?" "Not yet." To her consternation, he came and sat on the bed beside her and fished in his pocket. "I bought you a ring, Ferris." "But we—we're not engaged," she said, flustered.

"Oh, it's just a friendship ring," he said lightly. "Give me your hand." A friendship ring! She felt an odd sense of disappointment. "No, thank you," she said ridiculously. "1 don't want it." She put her hands behind her and leaned back on them, yet she couldn't help watching as he opened the small jeweller's box and took out a ring. She saw the flash of gold, the gleam of a sapphire, and she stifled a gasp. "Yellow gold to go with your hair," he said. "A sapphire because your eyes are blue and they're beautiful." Ferris thought she must be hearing things. And what did he mean? Sapphires were beautiful? Or her eyes? "I couldn't take it," she said, not looking at him, not looking at the ring, so fragile against the brown of his hand. "I—I'd prefer not to accept anything like that from you." He frowned in annoyance. "Why on earth not? I don't expect anything in return for it. I want you to keep it whether we decide to marry or not." Ferris clasped her hands and stared at them. She didn't want his gifts. Or was this more in the nature of a bribe? Because Claudia wouldn't do anything unless she, Ferris, were there. If only she knew what he felt about Mish, she thought suddenly. "About your trip to Adelaide today," she began cautiously. "Martin said you—you—" She came to a full stop. She couldn't tell him what Martin had said about Mish—it was too undignified. It would make him think she was jealous or something. She said instead, "He says you're determined to have Angelsmount."

She saw his nostrils whiten with anger as he swung around to grab her by the arms and glare down at her. "I don't want to hear a damned thing about what Martin said. It's your wishes I've been thinking of, in case that little fact has escaped your attention. I worked out a plan to please you, but maybe you and I had both better forget Angelsmount. Then we just might be able to communicate at something like a normal level." "For what reason?" she said quiveringly. Seconds went by before he answered, and then he said tensely, "For what reason do you think, for God's sake?" Suddenly she was no longer sitting up straight but had been thrust back on the bed with Cleve's powerful body covering hers. His mouth was on hers as he smothered her with impassioned kisses, and in seconds she was all too aware that her pyjamas, practical though they were, made a very frail barrier between herself and his desires. Yet she made no attempt to stop him when he thrust open her jacket and sought the softness of her breast. She heard the swift intake of her breath and, as if she couldn't help herself, she let him caress her as he pleased, kiss her lips, her throat, her breasts. She didn't want it to stop, and she lay in a delicious mindlessness, aware of nothing but the sensual pleasure his lovemaking was giving her. Then gradually, almost imperceptibly, his insistence eased off, and he shifted his weight from her and sat up, his back to her. She watched the movement of his broad shoulders and knew he was breathing deeply, and a wild tremor of excitement shook her nerves. What was he thinking? Was he going to ask her to go to bed with him? And would she? She knew, helplessly, that she

would, and the unexpectedness of the thought frightened her. She'd never gone to bed with a man before; she wasn't promiscuous, and since Martin, she'd never even been tempted. So why this time? Why with Cleve Varenay? Anyone would think she was falling in love with him. And perhaps she was. Just a little. But enough for that? And then would she marry him? Yes, she guessed she would. But he didn't ask anything of her. When he turned towards her again, his eyes were still dark with passion, but his voice was fully under control as he told her, "I'm sorry about that, Angel. You won't believe me if I say I had nothing more in mind tonight than to give you a pretty present and talk to you." He smiled, but it was a brittle smile that didn't touch his eyes. "Making love's not always the best way to reach conclusions, I guess," he went on wryly. He stood up and paced restlessly across the room, and she sat up quickly, glancing down to see if she were respectable. She saw him drop the-jeweller's box on the dressing table before he faced her again. "I shan't repeat that performance, I promise you. You have enough problems already, and you'll sort them out better without my interference. . . . Forget all this, won't you? Good night." He sent her a swift and penetrating glance and then, before she knew it, he'd gone. Ferris stared after him, bewildered and just a little humiliated. Forget all this! As if she could! Having a man make such passionate love to her wasn't a daily occurrence in her life . . . She heard him go down the stairs, heard the muffled thud as he shut the front door behind him, and then she collapsed back on the bed and lay staring at the ceiling.

He was right. She certainly did have problems. At least she'd sorted out her feelings for Martin, but when it came to Cleve, she didn't know what she wanted. Right now, she didn't know if she loved him or if she hated him. With a little groan, she switched off the light, slid under the sheet and lay staring into the darkness. She wished now she'd asked him about Mish instead of chickening out. Said something—anything. Heard what he had to say. It was infuriating not to know anything but what Martin had told her. The fact was that Cleve baffled her. She had no idea what he felt about her or why he'd made love to her tonight—whether it was because he had a passionate nature or whether she attracted him. Well, she must. Physically, that was . . . She closed her eyes as if to shut him out, but a thousand things kept going round and round in her head: his suggestion that Martin was interested in her only because he was missing his wife in his bed, his confident assertion that he could make her change her mind about wishing he'd go away. Well, he'd certainly done that, she mused. She hadn't wanted him to leave her. But did he know that? He was sure to. He wasn't as inexperienced as she was. On the contrary. She turned on her other side. Only to think of that ring. Yellow gold to go with her hair, sapphires for her eyes . . . It was romantic. And that was something that everyone insisted Cleve was not. Mercenary, worldly, hard as iron . . . Even Aunt Rose hadn't called him romantic, though she'd endowed him with all sorts of other admirable qualities. Sitting up abruptly, she turned on the bedside lamp, got out of bed and crossed the room to the dressing table. She hadn't really

looked at the ring Cleve had left there so casually. She only knew it was a sapphire that, curiously enough, happened to be her birthstone. The little box was red with a fine gold design on it, and she opened it almost with a feeling of guilt. The ring, fitted snugly into its plushy black interior, was breathtakingly beautiful. Its setting was utterly simple, and the jewel was flawless. It was a star sapphire, cabochon cut and unfaceted so that, as she turned it in her hands, a six-pointed star emerged magically from its depths. Unable to resist, she slipped it on. How exquisite it looted on her slender finger! She turned her hand this way and that in the light, watching the star come and go. • Why had he given it to her? He'd called it a friendship ring, a pretty present. And to accept it, to wear it, was a great temptation. But she knew she wouldn't wear it, and with a sigh, she replaced it in the box and got back into bed. If only it had been an engagement ring, she thought painfully. If only she hadn't talked about going back to the beginning. If only she hadn't gone out with Martin tonight. If only there were no such person as Mish . . . If only.

Chapter Seven Cleve kept his promise during the next few days, and Ferris had a growing sense of frustration. Perhaps he was leaving her to sort out her problems alone, as he'd promised, but somehow his being no more than pleasant to her didn't help, nor did it help that he positively never went out of his way to be alone with her, even though he put in an appearance at the winery every day. She managed to fill her time with work. It was better than mooning about the place, obsessed by the dilemma she seemed to be in, and she knew Aunt Rose was only too delighted to have her help in the salesroom. Iris, too, was very willing to clue her in about what went on in the office: how the records were filed, how the pay sheets and working hours were made out, how to go about hiring seasonal workers and how many were needed at different times of the year. She spent some time in the cellars as well, mainly because it was an opportunity to be with Cleve, who was usually there with her uncle. There she observed the blending of wines, the transfer of the reds from the huge stabilising vats to oak casks for further maturation and the bottling and labelling of white wines, which local women were hired to do. She began to realise that there was a great deal more to producing quality wines than she'd ever imagined and that her father had carried a terrific work load. He'd been not only wine maker but cellar master and vineyard manager as well, and it was no wonder he'd been devastated when David was killed. Listening to her uncle and Cleve talking one morning, she discovered that Cleve had studied wine making in Europe for four years after he'd completed his course at Raceworthy. He'd worked

at Montpelier and at the University of Bordeaux, and she was secretly impressed. It was a fact that there'd be no one better than he to take over the Howard family winery. And for that reason, she'd be mad not to marry him. Her father would definitely have approved! So what did she want? Something more than a business arrangement, of course. Martin had stopped by uninvited and unheralded the previous evening, and she'd spent a far from pleasant hour with him, unable to get rid of him, unable to make him accept that it was no use hoping she'd marry him. He'd made a point of reminding her more than once of Cleve's torrid love affair, as he called it, with Mish. "But you'll do just as well as anyone for a wife, I daresay," he'd finally said cruelly. "Cleve puts his wine making first, just like your father did. So I suppose if that's good enough for you—" Soon after that, he'd slammed out of the house, leaving her quivering. He was a bad loser, and she wondered if he'd been very different three years ago or if love had made her blind to his faults. At all events, she knew with absolute certainty that whatever decision she made about Cleve, she could never go back to Martin. Deep in thought, she trailed automatically out of the storage rooms with the two men and stood listening in the shade of the cedar tree as they continued to discuss various matters. "The climate is one of our main problems in Australia," her uncle was saying. "There's a lot of damage done to the grapes when they're picked in the heat of the day. Mechanical harvesting's the answer, I suppose. It can be done after sundown, in the cool of the night."

"I shan't be able to do much about that for the time being," Cleve said, his eyes straying to Ferris, who instantly pretended she was more interested in the cedar blossoms than in him. "The trellis system here isn't suitable for mechanical harvesting, and the vineyards I'm acquiring from Iris and Rose are too hilly for it to be economical. But you can be sure I'll give some thought to it in the future." Ferris's eyes widened in surprise. So he'd arranged to buy her aunts' vineyards already! That was news to her. And from the way he was talking, anyone would think he'd bought Angelsmount as well. Was he so Sure she was going to marry him? Or didn't it matter anymore? Had he in fact lied to her about his dealings with the solicitor in Adelaide? Maybe the ring he'd given her had been to placate her when he dropped her—for Mish, she thought with a pang as bitter as jealousy. And now he was actually smiling at her, as if she meant something special to him. For her uncle's benefit, of course. Her cheeks felt pale and pinched and, sending him an unresponsive look, she hurried inside. She'd ring Claudia, find out the truth of what was going on. But when she tried a few minutes later, there was no reply, and then Ilse announced lunch. Sitting opposite Cleve at the table, Ferris could hardly keep her eyes off him. She longed to ask some pointed questions that would force him to reveal—in front of her uncle—exactly what had been done so far about the transfer of Claudia's share in Angelsmount. She had a vivid mental picture of him and Mish moving into the house—and of herself disappearing as fast as she could, running away for the second time. But this time it would be for good. She'd

never come back. Never, she thought with extraordinary vehemence. But she was getting a jump ahead of herself. She didn't really believe Cleve could be planning to make any such move. "About the date for your wedding, Cleve," she suddenly heard Aunt Rose murmur, and her heart gave a thud of fright, and colour rushed to her cheeks. "Yes?" Cleve had raised his eyes from his plate, a look of interest—of politely simulated interest, it seemed to Ferris—in his greenish eyes. He said nothing more, and a puzzled expression crossed Rose's rather pretty face. "Well, Iris and I thought—hoped—to have the wedding before the end of the year. As soon as possible, in fact. So that we can take care of everything here while you two are on your honeymoon." She smiled coquettishly at Cleve, and he nodded gravely. "That sounds like a great idea," he said to Ferris's amazement. 'It would certainly be practical to do the deed before the grapes need daily watching. That is if I'm the one who's going to have to keep an eye on them. But as a matter of fact"—he paused and looked at Ferris ruefully—"I don't think Ferris is quite ready to talk wedding plans yet. Are you, Angel?" Her eyes met his, and she nearly choked on her bread-and-butter custard, one of Use's most favoured puddings. "I—I—" she stammered helplessly, the already bright colour in her cheeks deepening. Oh God, what on earth was she to say? Maybe she wasn't ready to set a date yet, but she was positive that was not

worrying Cleve. If he were interested, he could have asked Ferris to suggest a possible date, which she supposed she could have done. But to do it now, in the face of such a dampening attitude was completely beyond her. "I guess not," she finished lamely. Aunt Iris looked at her critically, Tom looked surprised, and when she glanced again at Cleve, it seemed to her there was a mocking light in his eyes. "But, Ferris dear, why not?" Aunt Rose protested. "I know it's rather soon after your father's death, but Owen would want you to be happy. You won't have a thing to worry about—Iris and I will see to everything. We've talked it all over. Our plans are all ready to put into action, subject to your approval and to Cleve's, of course." "That's right," Aunt Iris agreed. "We know you both want a quiet wedding, just a few guests. That's the only thing you and Cleve will have to let us know about. So really, Ferris, I can't understand what's worrying you." Her aunt would have fallen over if she'd told her that what was worrying her was the fact that the prospective bridegroom was unwilling, Ferris thought wryly. He'd shown his hand very plainly just now in refusing to have definite plans made. She'd thought she was supposed to be the one who was making up her mind, but she was beginning to think she was wrong. Cleve would push her whichever way he wanted her to go, and at the moment it looked like out, unless she was overreacting to what he'd said out there under the cedar tree. "Ferris is fine," Cleve said coming to her rescue and actually smiling at her. "But she's been working too hard, haven't you, Angel? How about relaxing for a change and joining me at the

motel pool this afternoon? A swim and a lazy loaf around in the sun is what I've been planning." "That sounds a splendid idea," -Aunt Rose said eagerly. "You have been working too hard, dear. You need more time to get over your illness and the shock of your father's death. I should have noticed you were looking peaky again. A quiet afternoon together will give you and Cleve a chance to talk things over, to get them sorted out." Maybe it would, Ferris thought, but she didn't really look forward to it. She'd go, of course. Something had to be done about this thing that was building up in her mind about Cleve. And it would give her a chance to ask him one or two very direct questions. Such as what papers had been signed, and whether he'd still have room in his life for Mish after he and Ferris were married. "Run upstairs and get your swimming gear, Ferris," he said as they left the table, and she felt her pulse race alarmingly at the look of purpose on his face. Suddenly, she didn't feel she could cope. Why couldn't she have an ordinary sort of love affair like other girls? Marry a man who loved her for herself and wasn't interested only in acquiring her property? "I don't know that I can be bothered going to the pool," she told him perversely as he followed her to the foot of the stairs. His eyebrows shot up. "No? Well, that's how I've planned my afternoon and I'm inviting you to come along. Is it all that much to ask? Or do you have time to spare only for your other boyfriend? You had quite a session with him last night, didn't you? Is it a regular thing?" Her face went scarlet.

"No, it's not," she muttered. "And—and if you came to see me last night, then why didn't you ring the bell? You'd have been perfectly welcome." "Would I?" he said, his mouth twisting. "Well, I wasn't to know that. And under the circumstances, I didn't want to interrupt anything." "There was nothing to interrupt," she said, then gave in and ran up the stairs. In her room, she gathered up her swimming gear. She'd have to fall in with his arrangements, otherwise the aunts would be asking a lot of questions. Moreover, things couldn't just drift on forever. Something had to happen . . . They changed in Cleve's suite at the motel, and when Ferris emerged from the bedroom he'd appointed for her use, it was to find he'd gone. He was in the water when she reached the pool area, and she dumped her makeup kit and towel on one of the umbrella-shaded tables and dived into the water. He came to join her and they swam a couple of lengths together, Cleve slowing his pace to match hers. She felt a glow when he complimented her on her stroke, and as he swam off, she turned on her back and floated, her eyes closed. It was very relaxing, and she was glad she'd come. Somehow she knew they were going to reach an understanding of some sort this afternoon. When she finally opened her eyes, Cleve had just climbed out of the pool; she trod water and watched him as he stood on the tiled surroundings, his back half turned to her. Her glance moved slowly over his narrow hips and muscular buttocks, over his strong suntanned thighs. No one in their right mind could deny that he had a handsome, virile body, and she knew that physically at least,

it would be heaven to be married to him. She had a sudden vision of herself in her blue pyjamas, lying on her bed half covered by his weight and, disturbed, she started to swim furiously again. She was quite exhausted when finally she pulled herself out of the pool and stood blinking the water from her eyes and pushing her dripping hair from her face. She looked around for Cleve and found him sitting at the table where she had left her things. But he wasn't alone. Her heart seemed to miss a beat as she saw that the red-haired girl she'd seen him with the night she'd come here with Lance and Claudia was with him. They were smiling at each other and talking animatedly. Their shoulders were close, and one of his hands was on hers. Mish. Ferris had a sick feeling in her stomach. She turned away, looked blindly around for somewhere to sit and finally dropped down on the grass and put her hands over her face. She'd done too much swimming, she told herself frantically. And the sun was so hot... She couldn't bear to look in Cleve's direction again. How on earth could she go and join him now? Interrupt him . . . He'd forgotten all about her and was completely wrapped up in another woman. In fact, he'd probably arranged to meet her here today, she told herself bitterly. She had a good mind to get dressed and disappear. But her clothes were in Cleve's suite and she didn't have a key. Besides, she didn't have the car here with her. She was completely at Cleve's mercy, in fact. I hate him, she thought, clenching her fists. So what was she going to do? Break up that intimate twosome in the shade of the pink-and-white umbrella, she decided suddenly.

She had a perfectly legitimate excuse. After all, her towel and her makeup kit were right there at the table almost under his girl friend's elbow. Her mind made up, she marched across the grass in Cleve's direction, and he didn't even glance her way. By now, there were two tall glasses on the table, and he and the redhead were completely absorbed in their conversation. Quite obviously he couldn't have cared less whether Ferris fell into the pool and was drowned or whether she was carried off by an eagle. Or by one of the handsome men lounging around in the shade. She just wished that some male would make a pass at her—invite her to have a cool, frosty drink. That would give her quite a bit of pleasure—to sit under some other umbrella and send Cleve a casual wave if and when it suited her. When she dropped into the chair beside him and reached for her towel, they both looked at her in surprise. She pushed her dripping hair back and hoped her eyes weren't too red from the water. As she wiped her face and arms on her soft blue towel, the other girl's eyes ran over what she could see of her figure in the black, onepiece swimsuit before she glanced enquiringly at Cleve. "Oh, you've finished your swim," Cleve commented. "I didn't see you coming. I guess you'd like a drink. You two don't know each other, do you? Ferris, this is Michele Rayner. She manages our restaurant here. Mish, this is a friend of mine from Angelsmount. Ferris Howard." The two girls smiled at each other, and Ferris thought smoulderingly, A friend! Not "my fiancée." Yet he was the one who'd insisted they should continue to let everyone think they were still engaged. Everyone except Mish, the girl who'd gone to

Adelaide with him, the girl who'd been in his life long before Ferris Howard turned up. "Lemon squash?" Cleve was asking her. "Or do you want some gin with it?" "Yes, I'll have some gin," she said. Right now she felt she needed it. Michele Rayner got to her feet, and Ferris caught a drift of the tantalising fragrance she was wearing, a fragrance that somehow seemed perfectly suited to her personality. "I'd better go. I'll see you later, Cleve." "I hope I'm not driving you away," Ferris said with a stiff smile as Cleve signalled to one of the waiters that he wanted service. "Not at all," Michele said, smiling back at her confidently. She had light brown eyes and a sprinkling of pale powdery freckles across the bridge of her nose. Ferris couldn't help thinking that out here in the sun she looked even more attractive than she had under the flattery of artificial light. And her hair was beautiful. Ferris was suddenly super-conscious of her own hair clinging to her head, flattened down by water. And of the fact that she was burning with something very like jealousy. Michele dropped a light kiss on Cleve's cheek, raised her hand to Ferris and floated off. Cleve conferred with the waiter, and Ferris found her mirror and her comb. Oh God, what a fright she looked! Her eyes were red and her hair looked hideous, and she couldn't have made the

corners of her mouth curl upwards if her life depended on it. If she'd been alone, she'd probably have wept. The minute the waiter had gone, she put her comb and mirror away and demanded. "Why did you introduce me as a friend?" He raised his eyebrows quizzically. "What did you expect me to do?" She bit her lip. "I thought I was supposed to be your fiancée." He shrugged. "There's no point in spreading the news any further than it's already gone. Not at this stage." "And, of course, it might spoil your fun if your girl friend thought you were engaged," Ferris said, hoping he didn't notice her trembling mouth. She saw a gleam of anger in his eyes, but he said nothing. The waiter brought her gin squash, and she started to drink it hurriedly. She was still burning with jealousy and wondered if it showed. She was determined that it mustn't. It was just too stupid anyhow, being jealous. Anyone would think she'd fallen in love with Cleve Varenay. She looked at him cautiously over her glass and felt herself go weak inside. She had fallen in love with him, of course. And he was so hard, so unreachable. "What are you thinking about, Ferris?" he asked, and she gave a start and discovered she was still staring at him. She drank down the rest of her gin squash and set down her glass carefully. "I was wondering why you'd arranged to buy my aunts' vineyards when you said we'd forget our engagement."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "Maybe I'm an optimist. In any case, I don't have to remind you that Varenay's have a winery in the district and are in the habit of buying grapes from vineyards in the hills. But don't worry, if Angelsmount is still depending on them, they'll be available on the same terms as before. Even you must have worked it out that someone was going to buy those vineyards. Or did you imagine your aunts were going to employ a manager?" Ferris bit her lip. She hadn't thought about it at all; that was the truth, and her head was beginning to swim. She wished futilely that she hadn't swallowed down that gin so quickly. It wasn't helping her to think. And of course ail he said was quite reasonable. "Anyhow, let's not talk business," he said after a moment. "That wasn't the idea when I invited you here this afternoon. Lean back and relax, and let's talk about more pleasant things. Do you realise we don't know very much about each other?" Oh, she did, and she looked at him through her lashes to see if he was mocking her when he said that. But he was perfectly serious, and she said reluctantly, "Yes. I do. But it takes time to get to know someone." "True, so don't you think we should get started?" he said when she paused. She laughed, a little embarrassed, and he said easily. "Tell me what books you enjoy reading. I'm partial to biographies myself." "So am I," Ferris admitted with a smile. "And anything to do with the Outback sends me wild." Before she knew it, she was talking about her year in the Northern Territory, telling him things she would never have dreamed of

telling her father. Then they were exchanging opinions on land rights for Aborigines and from there it was a short step to Aboriginal beliefs and the Dreamtime. It was with something of a shock that she realised the sun was beginning to set, and she jumped to her feet. "I'd better change and go home." He got up from his chair lazily. "Don't run away now, Angel. Stay here and have dinner with me." "I can't," she protested. "I only have my shorts and shirt." He made a wry face. "So you have. Then suppose I run you home presently so you can change. Won't that do?" "All right," she agreed a little tremulously. She slung her towel around her shoulders, conscious of his eyes on her body, and held out her hand. "If you'll let me have the key to your suite, I'll go and dress." Instead of giving her the key, he thrust his arm through hers and steered her in the direction of the building. When they reached his suite, he let her in ahead of him, then shut the door firmly before following her into the big living room. She'd begun to move towards the bedroom where she'd changed when he spoke softly from behind her. "Angel." Oh heavens! That thrilling masculine voice and the way he said her name! Ferris's heart stood still.

The next instant his arms were around her waist and he was pulling her back against his body. She let out a little gasp of pleasure as she felt the pressure of his bare thighs against her buttocks and the upper part of her long legs. Her heart was pounding, and she had an insane desire to lean back against him, to draw his hands up to cover her breasts, to beg him to kiss her, to hold her in his arms, to do anything he liked with her. . . . Then her eyes closed as he swept her up in his arms and carried her into the bedroom. He paused beside the bed, but instead of laying her on it and coming down beside her, he let her slip down till her bare feet were on the thick, soft blue carpet. He still held her body intimately close to his own, and she trembled slightly, raising her lashes to look into the darkness of his eyes. "I promised you I wouldn't do this sort of thing again, didn't I? But you're not struggling," he said softly. "What am I to infer from that, Angel?" That I'm crazily in love with you and I want to go to bed with you, she thought shockingly and heard herself say coolly, "That I expect you to come to your senses and let me get dressed." His smile was full of amusement. "If that's what you're expecting, you'd better stop looking at me the way you're doing." One of his hands slid down her body caressingly as he spoke, then rested on the smoothness of her bare thigh just below the edge of her swimsuit. A shiver went through her, and she whispered, "Don't," though she didn't mean it for an instant.

"Why not? Your skin's like silk—cool and smooth and delightful. And here"—he pressed his hand to the curve of her breast in the deep V of her costume—"here, it's even more tempting." His hand moved lower, and she stood motionless, her eyes closing again. She felt, as she had once before when she was in his arms, the swift uprush of desire in her own body and the stirring of his sexual need as his thighs moved against hers. When she looked up again, she saw that his eyes were dark with desire, and she felt a deep answering chord within her. She didn't resist when he drew down one narrow shoulder strap to expose her white breast. Then, with a quick indrawn breath, she tried to pull up the black swimsuit, but he drew her hand away easily, and his fingers stroked her tantalisingly. They were smooth and seductive and infinitely arousing, and she gave herself up to the pleasure of having him touch her. Nobody had ever made love to her like this, and little fires were creeping gently and warmingly through her body, affecting her not only physically, but mentally and emotionally as well. Cleve murmured her name, and the filmy curtains at the long windows moved slightly in the breeze. Sounds drifted in from outside—a splash from the swimming pool, a burst of music. She knew that soon he was going to strip her swimsuit away from her body, and with every part of her being she wanted it to happen. She longed to feel his bare skin against her own, to have him make passionate love to her, to teach her all the things she didn't know. She was experiencing again that sweet, urgent feeling of intense sexual desire. It was the easiest, the most pleasurable thing in the world to abandon herself to his caresses, to let him make love to her. She'd marry him, bear his children, live wherever and however he asked

her to. Nothing—no one—mattered anymore. Only Cleve and his kisses that were becoming more and more passionate, his caresses that grew more and more intimate, his fingers seeming to know just where and how to touch her to evoke the deepest response . . . "Angel," he said softly, his lips no longer teasing her so deliciously, his face close to hers. "Has anyone made love to you before? Not just this way, but really made love to you?" Her lashes flew up, and she stared straight into his eyes and shook her head. With a faint sigh, she relaxed against the hardness of his body, feeling the rough texture of his body hair on her bare breast. She turned her head slightly and put her soft, parted lips to the smooth tanned skin of his muscular shoulder. A surge of excitement ran along her nerves as she waited for what was going to happen next. "Ferris," he murmured, his fingers still caressing her breast, "God knows I don't want to stop, but I think I should. I don't want to influence you unfairly. I know you haven't made up your mind about me yet, and I want you to be perfectly free—with no guilt feelings. Do you understand? I'm going to leave you to shower and dress, and then we'll talk some more, have dinner together." She nodded, though at the moment she hardly understood what he was saying. His arms had dropped slowly from her, and he moved silently across the floor on his bare feet. She heard the click as the door shut behind him, and then she sank down on the bed and sat there thinking about him— thinking about what had happened, thinking of the tenderness in his voice. "Oh Cleve, Cleve, I love you," she whispered soundlessly. Everything was wonderful—he did want her to marry him. He was merely waiting for her to give him the green light. And that was

exactly what she was going to do, the minute she'd had her shower and got back into her shorts and shirt. It was when she was combing her hair at the mirror above the dressing table that she saw the pretty blue-and-silver box there, containing a bottle of perfume. She picked it up curiously. What was a perfectly new bottle of perfume doing in this bedroom in Cleve's suite? Perhaps he'd bought it for her; the thought flew on butterfly wings into her head, because she was quite drunk from his love- making. With fingers that trembled slightly, she took the expensive little bottle out of its box, drew out the glass stopper and dabbed a little of the fragrance on her wrist. Instantly the truth burst upon her. This was the perfume Michele had been wearing! With the stopper still in her fingers, she met her eyes in the mirror. Exactly what did that mean? That Cleve had bought the perfume for Michele? Or that Michele used this room? Either way, it was enough to bring her romantic dreams to a dead end. She felt suddenly and desperately sick, and the mad thought entered her mind that Claudia had refused to sign any papers until after the wedding. Oh, what a fool she'd been ever to get embroiled in this kind of a situation! The fact was that she didn't know Cleve well enough to trust him utterly. Or maybe her lack of trust was a long-term result of her experience with Martin. As she made up her face abstractedly, she could hear him playing something on the piano in the next room. She recognised it as Debussy and she listened, her bones melting in spite of everything. He had too many tricks, had Cleve Varenay, and Ferris Howard seemed to be susceptible to all of them. But she wasn't going to lose sight of reality, and for once she was going to ask questions. All the same, she discovered it needed a lot of courage to go into the living room. The very sight of Cleve sitting at the piano,

handsome and virile in dark pants and a cream silk shirt, brought back unnervingly what had happened in the bedroom. He glanced up and smiled faintly as she came into the room, then went on playing, and she drew a deep breath and sat down to listen. Leaning back in her chair, she studied him intently. Why had she ever thought he was ugly? she mused. His lashes were thick and dark against his cheeks, and his mouth at this moment was curving gently as he concentrated on the music he was playing. She felt her blood begin to race. She thought of the questions she meant to ask him— about Michele, about that bottle of perfume. Then, unable to help herself, she indulged in a brief fantasy in which he told her he loved her, implored her to marry him . . . She raised her eyes and discovered that he was looking at her, and it was almost as though he could see into her mind. There was that sexy, worldly look in his eyes . . . Her cheeks crimsoning, she looked quickly away. Not many moments later, Cleve reached the end of the piece he was playing and rose to his feet. "I'll run you home now and you can change, Angel," he said, crossing the room to stand looking down at her. "In a moment," she said and swallowed hard. "I know it's none of my business, but that bottle of perfume in the bedroom—" His eyebrows rose. "What about it?" "I just wondered whose it was," she said with a shrug.

"It's Michele's," he said at once. "She acquired it in Adelaide the other day and left it in the car when we came back to the motel. I just haven't got around to returning it yet." Ferris looked at him steadily, as if she could somehow see into his mind, which she soon realised she hadn't a hope of doing. "You didn't tell me she was going to Adelaide with you." "No. It was a last-minute decision on her part." He thought for a moment and then went on, "Michele and I are old friends. She was a typist at Varenay's years ago before she decided to study catering management. She's an ambitious girl." Again he paused and then asked with a lift of one eyebrow, "Is there anything else you want to know?" Yes, there was. She wanted to know exactly how much Mish meant to him; she wanted to know if they were lovers, but she couldn't bring herself to ask the question, and she shook her head and looked away from him. There was a short, tense silence and then he said, "I've asked you to marry me, Angel, not Michele." But why? Because Michele didn't happen to be part owner of a desirable winery, she thought in despair. And at that minute, she wished with all her heart that she didn't either.

Chapter Eight By the time he'd taken her home, she was feeling limp and exhausted and in no mood to go out to dinner. Cleve repeated his invitation, but she excused herself, pleading that she was too tired. She felt she needed time to think this thing out, to decide whether Michele Rayner was a reality she could live with. It was all very well for Cleve to pass her off as an old friend, but Ferris would have been naive if she hadn't taken that with a grain of salt. He accepted her excuse, kissed her briefly, promised to see her the next day and departed. Once he'd gone she paced about the empty house trying to snap out of the depression she'd sunk into. She was no longer in any doubt as to whether he'd marry her or not. She was quite certain he would—and part of the reason could be that Mish was a career woman. But would there be any happiness in being married to a man for whom, as Martin had said, one woman would do as well as another, so long as he got what he wanted— the winery. The ringing of the telephone broke into her thoughts, and she hurried across the room to answer it. It was Claudia, wanting, of all things, to know when she was coming to Adelaide so that the business of Angelsmount could be settled. "Cleve won't do a thing unless you're there. He made that plain the other day. And I can't wait forever. If you're having second thoughts about marrying him, Ferris, I wish you'd tell me so I can pass the news on to Lance. It will suit me just as well if he buys us out, you know," she added. "I'm not having second thoughts, Claudia," Ferris heard herself say firmly. "I. . . Cleve and I will be coming to Adelaide in a day or so to fix everything up."

"Oh! Then you've fixed a date for the wedding, have you? Lance and I had practically decided it was off. I hope you're not making a mistake." "I'm not," Ferris said rather shortly. "I'll see you soon, anyhow, Claudia. And, er, would you like to be my bridesmaid?" she asked with mad inspiration. "Why not? It will be an excuse for a new outfit," Claudia said with a laugh. "And don't forget to ask Lance to the wedding, will you?" The wedding! Ferris was shaking when at last she hung up, and she sank down in a chair and stared into space. She'd done it again. Rushed in and said things off the top of her head—done everything the wrong way around. But somehow she was glad. There was no going back now, and in her heart she knew that if she refused to marry Cleve—no matter what the conditions—she'd regret it for the rest of her life. After all, he might come to love her in time. Especially if they had children ... She was about to go upstairs and change out of her shorts when she heard a car pull up in the drive, and the next moment the doorbell rang and Martin walked in. Her spirits sank. A visit from Martin was something she could do without just now. "So you're home," he greeted her. "I tried to ring you earlier, but Ilse said you were out. I've got to talk to you." "Then it can only be for n few minutes," Ferris said and added untruthfully, "I was just about to get changed to go out. What do you want to talk about?" He followed her into the living room and threw himself down in one of the armchairs, his blue eyes moving over her slowly,

lingering on her long bare legs, revealed by the brief shorts she wore. "Listen, Ferris, I've had a letter from Livvie. She's on her way back to Australia and she's coming here." "That's great, Martin," she exclaimed. "Perhaps she wants to patch things up, to start again." "Perhaps she wants to talk about our divorce," he retorted. "I'm not interested in patching things up. Not since you and I have met up again." Ferris sighed impatiently. "Don't start that again. I've told you it's no use. I'm going to marry Cleve." "And I've told you you're off your head. Break it off, Ferris. You'll never regret it." She hadn't sat down, hoping to indicate that he definitely wasn't staying for long, and she looked back at him exasperatedly. "Stop trying to run my life, Martin. I've made up my mind what I want to do." He got to his feet and stood looking down at her. "Are you trying to fool yourself that Cleve's fallen in love with you? He just hasn't a romantic bone in his body. Business and wine making are the things that come first in his life. You'll come nowhere. It would be different if you married me." Her eyes flashed with annoyance. "Honestly, Martin, I wish you'd stop sentimentalising over me and think about your own marriage for a change. That's what Livvie's thinking of—"

"I doubt it," he interrupted. "But why don't you stop sentimentalising over Angelsmount and start thinking what it will be like to be married to a man who wants you only for what you have and is in love with another woman in the bargain?" "I suppose you're talking about Michele," she said quiveringly. "Cleve's not in love with her; he hasn't asked her to marry him." He smiled cynically. "She's not the marrying kind. But she's sexy." He let that sink in—it did and it hurt—and then said persuasively, "Why don't you forget Angelsmount and admit you're still in love with me? I knew it straight away that night in the restaurant—and outside afterwards, before Cleve came out. I only had to touch you and you trembled." She had trembled. That was true, hut it had been no more than the result of encountering him again after three years. "I didn't know what I felt about you that night, Martin. We hadn't seen each other for a long time. But I know now, and it's all over. You can talk to me till you're blue in the face, and it won't make any difference. I don't think you can just forget about Livvie like that anyhow, especially now she's coming back." "I tell you nothing will have changed," he insisted. "She doesn't want children. Full stop." "At least you can wait and see," she said. "And you'll really have to go now. I want to get dressed, and there's nothing more to be said because I'm going to marry Cleve." "And I'm going to see you don't," Martin said. Ferris shrugged and moved towards the staircase. "Good night, Martin."

He gave her one last thoughtful look and then, to her relief, he left. She continued up the stairs slowly. He was becoming an absolute nuisance with his persistence. If Livvie didn't want to come back to him, then the sooner she was married to Cleve and out of his reach the better. Which reminded her that she still had to face the ordeal of telling Cleve she'd sorted out her problems.

As it happened, he made it unexpectedly easy for her, though as she waited restlessly on the terrace the next morning, she began to wonder if he was ever coming. Oh heavens! Suppose he'd gone to Adelaide! Then he was quite likely to hear from his solicitor—or from Claudia—that the marriage was on, and Ferris felt she'd die of embarrassment. Her heart gave a leap that was half from fear, half from relief, when she heard his car, and she hurried to the end of the terrace to intercept him before he disappeared in the direction of the cellars. Though surely after what had happened—or hadn't happened—at the motel yesterday, he'd want to see her first. She almost ran into him, and he grasped her by the shoulders to steady her. "What's the hurry? Are you trying to run away from me? Or were you coming to meet me?" "I. . . neither," she stammered, every coherent thought immediately going out of her head at the mere touch of his hands. "Well, I was looking for you." He steered her back in the direction of the chairs. "I've just had a •call from my solicitor." She groped for a chair and sat down. So he'd heard already. She prepared for some mocking comment, but it didn't come.

"He tells me your sister is getting very impatient. She's talking of selling her share of the estate to HartleyRobertshaw if I don't do something positive. That would leave you in an unenviable position, wouldn't it?" He looked down into her face as he spoke and, staring back at him, she felt a tremor go through her. His eyes were beautiful when they looked at her the way they were doing now—softly, kindly, as if he really cared about her being in an unenviable position. She smiled, and he rested one hand on the back of a chair as he went on, "It looks as though you'll have to make up your mind one way or the other, Angel. So which is it to be? Do we marry or don't we? Think carefully; be quite sure it's what you want." "I—I'll marry you," she said softly. "That's what I want." His green eyes narrowed as he looked back at her and then he said quietly, "I'll do my best to see you don't regret it. I know you don't want Lance to get hold of this lovely old house." No, she didn't. But that wasn't why she was going to marry him, and for a moment she hovered on the point of telling him so. If he only knew, Angelsmount no longer obsessed her. Her desires had changed radically. Oh, she loved the old house, the statue of the angel, the wildness of the garden. She loved the little creek that tumbled over its stones down at the foot of the slopes. And she loved the sight of the rows of green vines with their bunches of tiny grapes that were gradually filling out. There were a lot of things here that she loved, but she didn't love any of them enough to give her soul for them. Quite simply, she loved him more, and she wondered if he'd believe her if she told him so.

She looked at him through her lashes and moistened her lips, but she couldn't say it. She could only pray that once they were married, it would be different. Once he'd made love to her, he'd know how she felt. And maybe he'd start to feel the same way. "I suggest we get married in two weeks' time," she heard him say. "I'll arrange the details, and you can confer with your aunts. They want to give you a happy wedding day. Do you want a big reception, Angel? Should I start telegramming my many relatives?" "Oh, please, no," she said. "Just a few people—" "That suits me. It's a good omen, isn't it, that we agree on something as important as that. The only people I particularly want to ask along are my mother and my brother Rupert, who also lives in Adelaide. I'd like him to be best man. And I have a cousin about your age, Caroline. She's studying medicine, so you two should have something in common. What about you?" Ferris shook her head. "I lost touch with most of my friends when I went outback. I'd like Claudia to be my bridesmaid, and I'm sure my aunts would like to have their daughters and their families." She paused and then said hesitantly, "Would you like to ask Michele, Cleve?" He smiled crookedly. "That would be nice. And how about Martin? Shall we invite him?" he suggested dryly. No, she didn't want to invite Martin, but it might make him seem too important if she refused. "Martin, and Livvie, too," she said awkwardly. "I suppose she'll be back by then." There was a tiny silence before he asked, "When did you hear that?"

"Last night," she said and added rashly, "Martin came in to tell me after I came home." "After you decided you were too tired to have dinner with me," he said, his eyes hardening. "So that's what made up your mind for you just now, is it? Knowing that Livvie's coming back, that the marriage hasn't ended after all—" "No," she said biting her lip and looked at him anxiously. "It—it's not that." He smiled sceptically and raised one eyebrow. "Angelsmount pure and simple?" Plus the little fact that I happen to have fallen in love with you, she thought. But how could she say it? He looked at her for a moment longer as if he, too, had something on his mind, then" turned on his heel and strode off. Ferris sighed and went in search of her aunts.

When she and Cleve flew to Adelaide the next day in his plane, Ferris was wearing the sapphire ring. They were to stay with his mother in Joslin, a suburb in North Adelaide. Ferris was nervous about it, but to her intense relief she found Claire Varenay very easy to get on with. She was a slender, fair- haired woman, with grey-green eyes a little like Cleve's and a quietly assured manner. She welcomed Ferris warmly but not effusively, and apart from suggesting a specialty boutique where Ferris might like to look at wedding gowns, she didn't interfere in their plans.

Their first obligation was, of course, to see the solicitor. There, everything was arranged quickly and amicably, but Ferris was more than a little shocked at just how much Cleve was paying to become part owner of Angelsmount. No wonder Claudia had talked about all that lovely money! Once that was out of the way, Cleve left her to do her shopping. "I'd like to come with you, but isn't it supposed to be bad luck for the groom to see the wedding dress before the wedding?" he said half humourously as they sat over their smorgasbord lunch at the Buckingham Arms. "You'd probably be bored, anyhow," she said with a smile. "I don't think I would be," he said lightly, and the way he looked at her set her heart thumping. "I like pretty women in pretty clothes. Which reminds me, I thought we might spend our honeymoon on one of the Barrier Reef islands. Does that appeal to you? I want to make the bookings this afternoon." "It sounds romantic," she agreed, then bit her lip. She wasn't sure at this stage whether or not theirs was going to be a romantic honeymoon. Cleve hasn't a romantic bone in his body, Martin had said, but why on earth did she have to keep remembering his unwelcome comments? She'd soon have a chance to decide for herself whether her husband was romantic or not. She spent two days and a lot of money on her shopping. Claudia came with her the second day, full of enthusiasm now that she knew she was to get her lovely money and a little envious of Ferris's good fortune in getting such a fabulous man for herself, in spite of the disparaging remarks she'd made on other occasions.

"Lance will drive me up for the wedding," she said as they made their way to the boutique where she was to see Ferris's dress and find something for herself. "We've been seeing a lot of each other lately, and I've been thinking I could do worse than marry him." "You don't think he's too old for you?" Ferris queried, and Claudia tossed her head. "I like mature men. He hasn't actually asked me to marry him yet, but he will. He adores me. He's a widower, you know, not divorced. And there are no children," she added with a little smirk. That meant, Ferris couldn't help thinking, that there would be no one to compete for his favours— or his money. And that would suit her greedy little sister. Claudia approved of the gown Ferris had chosen— an elegant dress in pale cream slub silk, very simply made with a drop waist and long, cuffed sleeves. There were cream shoes to match and, instead of a veil, Ferris had chosen a flimsy romantic hat with pale blue flowers under the droopy brim. "Pretty!" Claudia said. "Cleve will fall in love with you when he sees you in that." In other words, she didn't think he'd fallen in love with her already. And she was right, of course, Ferris thought, a little sadly. Claudia chose a pale blue dress with accessories to match. It was very expensive, but, as she admitted, she just loved spending money! They parted company outside the boutique, Claudia to meet Lance, Ferris to finish shopping for her honeymoon. Cleve had said he liked pretty women in pretty clothes, and she was determined to please him. She bought two maillots, one black with a coral-

coloured sea snake curling seductively upwards from the hip line, the other pale violet and perfectly plain. She hoped they'd work some magic for her when she and Cleve were spending the lazy days of their honeymoon in the sun. To complete her wardrobe, she chose floaty skirts and feminine blouses in soft cotton, three pairs of white linen shorts and a variety of beach tops, plus some informal outfits for the evenings. And finally, a going-away dress in pale terracotta with a fine black trim. After the hectic hours of shopping in the city, she was satisfied with a quiet evening in Claire Varenay's home. Cleve played the small piano in the drawing room, and his mother tactfully disappeared early to bed, leaving them together. For a while he went on playing the piano as if completely absorbed. It was something she liked in him, this ability he seemed to have to lose himself in his music, and she sat listening bemusedly. He was a romantic man, she thought. He'd been so tender, so passionate that night in his suite at the motel. And then there was her ring. She looked at it dreamily, its blue star flashing in the soft lamplight. He'd thought of her when he'd chosen it, and she loved it. She glanced across at him and wished— wished he were more aware of her. That he'd stop right in the middle of a phrase because he wanted to be near her. He hadn't done more than kiss her since they'd set the date for their wedding, and now she was hungry for his touch, for the reassurance that there was something between them that could be tended, cherished, until it grew into love . . . At that moment, almost as if he were aware of her thoughts, he left the piano abruptly and came to pull her to her feet. She gazed up at him, her eyes wide and expressive, willing him to make love to her—just a little.

With a sudden exclamation, he crushed her to him and began kissing her in the way she longed to be kissed. His mouth was passionately demanding and soon they were melded together, her body close against his, her heart beating madly, excitement rising in her. "I'd better let you go," he muttered at last, pulling himself away from her with an obvious effort, but Ferris clung to him. "Not yet. Cleve—I—" "I love you" was what she wanted to say, but before she could say it his mouth was on hers again, and she felt another upsurge of desire that made her ache with longing. Her back was pressed to the wall and the weight of his body was so hard against her that she could scarcely breathe. His mouth moved from hers to trail downwards, and she tilted her head back as he caressed her throat, then moved lower to her breast. She had a mad desire to beg him to come to her bedroom with her, to make love to her—just a little or maybe a lot. Did it matter all that much when they were to be married so soon? Twining her arms around his neck, she whispered huskily, "We'll be married soon, Cleve. We—we don't have to wait—" The last words were inaudible, and she realised almost at once that he'd misinterpreted what she was trying to say. Gently disentangling himself from her arms he told her wryly, "Don't worry, Anger I can wait. I'm just getting you used to the idea of marrying me. I'll let you go to bed now. You've had a couple of trying days, haven't you?" He looked down at her unsmilingly, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders. "We'll go back to the Valley tomorrow afternoon and you can take it easy until the wedding. How will that suit you?"

She nodded, disappointed that she'd inadvertently brought his lovemaking to an end, but glad they were going back to Angelsmount. They could see each other every day, spend their evenings talking on the terrace in the moonlight. By the time their wedding day arrived, she'd have reached a better understanding of him, be more assured . . .

Cleve went into town on business after breakfast next morning, and Ferris did some of her packing and then went outside to join Mrs. Varenay in the garden. She asked Ferris intelligent questions about Angelsmount and talked a little about her own life as a Varenay wife. Later, she remarked that it had always been Cleve's ambition to make his own wines, but Ferris had the impression she believed their marriage was nonetheless a love match, pure and simple. And she was certainly not going to undeceive her. It was after three when Cleve finally came home. Ferris had finished packing her bags and was in her room putting the final odds and ends into a small handcase when she heard him come into the house and speak to Mrs. Varenay. A minute later, he came to her room and told her almost curtly, "Something's come up with the company, Ferris. I have to fly over to Melbourne for a few days. But don't worry, I'll drop you off in the Valley first. I'll arrange to have someone pick you up at the airport. I'm sorry about it, but it can't be helped." Ferris looked at him in dismay, but before she could make any comment, Claire Varenay came to the door and said mildly, "Don't you think Ferris might like to go with you, Cleve? It could be enlightening for her to have the experience, a little taste of what's to come. And she could meet some other members of the family as well."

Cleve frowned. "I won't have time for socialising. I may have to go on to Riverland. In fact, it's going to be all I can do to get through in time for the wedding. Otherwise, I'd certainly take her along." "It doesn't matter," Ferris said brightly, not wanting to add to his worries. "I'd just as soon see a little more of my own family before they leave the Valley for good." He gave her a narrow look, and she had the uncomfortable feeling that he was thinking of Martin. But she couldn't think of a thing to say to reassure him. To mention Martin would merely show that she was thinking of him, too, and she settled for silence. Before evening she was back at Angelsmount to find that Aunt Rose had decided to move into the house until after the wedding— or, if it pleased Ferris and Cleve, until they came back from their honeymoon. It was a relief not to be alone, and Ferris explained that Cleve had to be away on business for a few days and hadn't been able to take her with him. "I should think not," her aunt said. "You'd be worn out before your wedding day. It will be much better for you to have a good rest.'' That night after dinner, Ferris unpacked her cases and showed Rose the clothes she'd bought, starting with her wedding dress. "It's beautiful, Ferris," her aunt enthused. "Extremely elegant. And you'll be able to wear it afterwards. You'll be a lovely bride. I only wish Owen was still alive." She sighed and reached into the wardrobe for a hanger, which she handed to Ferris. "You knew that Martin Varenay's wife was coming back, didn't you?" she said after a second. "I meant to ask you about that when you gave me the list of guests you and Cleve had made."

"Yes, Martin told me he was expecting her," Ferris said awkwardly. "Well, she's here. I saw her with him yesterday in Tanunda," her aunt said, watching as Ferris unpacked her things and spread them on the bed. "I was always glad Owen didn't let you marry that man." "What on earth do you mean, Aunt?" Ferris asked, stopping what she was doing and looking at Rose in puzzlement. "My father didn't interfere. It was just that Martin preferred Livvie." Rose shook her head ruefully. "Oh no, dear. Martin would have married you. But your father never really liked him, and when he discovered he'd been cheating him, that was the finish." Ferris stared at her disbelievingly, and Rose went on, "I don't know the ins and outs of it, but Iris suspected there was something wrong when she was doing the books. Owen might have been a dreamer in some ways, but he wasn't a fool and he did some investigating. What he discovered made him really angry. The upshot of it was that Martin was to leave Angelsmount at the end of the month, and your father agreed to say nothing to old Mr. Varenay on the condition that Martin left you alone. Well, he seems to have mended his ways since then, and it didn't break your heart, did it, dear? After all, you were very young." Ferris shook her head vaguely. So that was why her father had felt he was to blame for her leaving Angelsmount, as Cleve had said he did. And Martin —he hadn't dropped her for the reason he'd given her. It was because he'd been cheating her father and didn't want to be exposed. The thought was an unpleasant one, but it didn't upset her as it might once have done.

"I was unhappy at the time, Aunt," she murmured, minimising her three years of difficult adjustment. "But it doesn't matter now." "Because you're in love with Cleve," Rose said, reaching for more clothes hangers. "Owen hoped so much that you two would be attracted to each other. I know he intended altering his will completely in your favour if it worked out the way he wanted." "What are you talking about, Aunt Rose?" Ferris asked bewilderedly. "Do you mean my father actually wanted Cleve and me to marry? That that's why he asked me to come home?" Rose nodded. "Owen talked to me about it only a few days before he died; he and I were always close. I didn't breathe a word about it to you before because I didn't want to influence you. I thought it was a wild hope, but a romantic one. And it's all turned out so happily, hasn't it? Both of you falling in love with each other. I was afraid you might get mixed up with Martin again, since he and Livvie had parted and your father wasn't there to oppose it. But I suppose 1 needn't have worried," she finished with a happy smile. "No," Ferris said slowly, though she was not at all sure about that. If Martin had had his way, she'd have been very much mixed up with him. Anyhow, Livvie was back now, and she tried to convince herself that everything would come right. "Tell me about the wedding arrangements, Aunt," she said, changing the subject. "The reception—" "Iris and I decided to have it here at Angelsmount," her aunt said eagerly. "It's such a lovely setting, and with so few guests we can cope quite easily with Ilse and two other women from the village to help. It will be a simple buffet," she chattered on, "with the minimum of speeches and toasts since you and Cleve won't have all that much time to spend with your guests. I know it's too late

for advice now, Ferris dear, but you really should have insisted on a night in Adelaide. You're going to be very tired after travelling all the way to the Queensland coast." Ferris flushed and turned aside, and her aunt began to reminisce about her daughters and their weddings, and she stopped listening. She felt suddenly exhausted.

The next few days went by slowly. Her aunts insisted she mustn't think of doing any work, so she walked by the creek, did some gardening, or sat on the terrace and read. Twice she drove to Varenay's Motel to swim in the pool, and each time she hoped to find that Cleve was back. But he wasn't. She didn't see Michele either, and when on an impulse she asked for her at Reception, she was told that Miss Rayner was on holiday for a week. Ferris drove back home wishing she hadn't asked, hating the suspicions that lurked in the back of her mind, telling herself firmly that Cleve was away oh business, that his absence was completely unconnected with Michele's holiday. But she couldn't help thinking that when he'd come to Angelsmount to see her the day she arrived, he'd taken one look at her and proposed not marriage, but that he should buy Angelsmount, which hardly gave the impression that he was smitten with her. In fact, it hadn't happened at all as Rose had imagined, and she had yet to find out if everything would turn out happily, as her aunt had so fondly put it. She'd certainly feel a whole lot more hopeful if she could persuade herself that Cleve was at least a little in love with her. As it was, she had the unhappy feeling that his enthusiasm when he made love to her was merely an indication that he was a virile man with strong sexual urges. . . .

The night before her wedding she'd still heard nothing from him. Was he with Michele, she wondered, hating herself for her suspicions. She had visions of him not turning up at the church, and she knew with despair that it was not impossible. What would she do then? Oh, she'd die of a broken heart, she thought melodramatically. But all the same, her tears were real. It might have helped if she could have talked to someone, but there was no one. Rose seemed blissfully unaware of the state of her nerves and attributed her "fidgetiness" to pre-wedding excitement. She spent a restless night, sleeping only fitfully and waking at four o'clock in the morning from a brief and distressing dream in which she was waiting endlessly for Cleve at the end of a huge hall, wearing not her wedding dress, but her nurse's uniform. He didn't come, and she knew he never would.

Chapter Nine It came at last. Her wedding day. Cloudless and bright and beautiful, except for the fear in her heart, which she managed to hide from Rose only because her aunt was so caught up in the final preparations for the reception. Ferris had a light breakfast, took a bath and went to her room to dress. She was feeling limp and ragged and very much in need of some moral support, but Claudia hadn't put in an appearance and there was nothing to do but battle on alone. Not that Claudia would have been much help, and Ferris certainly couldn't have told her what was on her mind—that Cleve might not turn up at the church! She told herself over and over that he wasn't the kind of man who'd do such a callous thing, that if he were going to walk out on her he'd have had the good manners to let her know. Or did she have an entirely wrong idea of his principles? She stared at her pale face in the mirror, her darkly shadowed eyes, and a vivid picture of Michele Rayner in a wedding gown flitted through her mind —radiant, composed, everything a bride should be—whereas she stood here looking like some pathetic Cinderella without a fairy godmother. Well, it was no use moping, she told herself determinedly. Whatever was going to happen, she might as well be dressed for it. Rose had laid out her wedding gown for her while she was in the bathroom and, discarding her robe, she began to dress. She'd got as far as her cream silk slip with its deep band of lace at the hem when she heard a car door slam outside. Claudia at last, coming to help her dress. Footsteps sounded in the room below, and someone came up the stairs. She looked hopefully towards the door, ready to force a smile, but to her utter amazement it was

Martin, and she stared at him speechlessly. He wasn't dressed for the wedding, but wore blue jeans and a jacket, and as he stood looking at her without speaking, the thought flashed into her mind that he'd come to tell her something had happened to Cleve. "What do you want?" she whispered, her voice cracked, her heart pounding with fright. "Is it—is it Cleve? Has something happened—?" Martin shook his head and moved into the room. "Not that I know of. Ferris—" The blood rushed to her face as relief flooded through her and anger took its place. "Then what are you doing here? What do you want?" she asked, suddenly aware that his eyes were running hungrily over her half-clad figure. "I'm making a last desperate attempt to persuade you not to marry a man who doesn't love you," he said, raising his eyes and looking straight at her. "Dice it, Angelabella. Your life will be hell. Come with me. My car's outside, grab your things and let's elope. I know it's melodramatic, but—" "Melodramatic!" Ferris . repeated, incensed. "You're—you're crazy, Martin. Apart from anything else, I happen to know Livvie's back. And besides—" "She was back," he interrupted. "Just long enough to collect some of her precious pictures and so we could get ourselves properly sorted out. Our marriage is finished—kaput. She left yesterday. She's in love with someone else, and I wish her luck. So come on, Ferris, forget about Cleve and Angelsmount. You and I can start all over again, the way it should have been." He stepped towards her, and she moved back quickly.

"But I don't love you, Martin," she said frantically. "I'm sorry about your marriage, but I'm not the least bit interested in eloping with you. Why can't you leave me alone? Go away and let me finish dressing. You have no right to come here now—" "No?" he said, looking at her from under lowered brows. "But you might think again about that when I tell you that your precious fiancé has just come back from a holiday with his girl friend." "That's not true," she broke in swiftly. "I know where Cleve's been. He's been away on business. He explained to me." Martin was looking at her pityingly. "The old, old story . . . Darling, I saw them come back this morning, just this morning. Together. I saw the plane land at the airstrip; I saw them coming by the house in Cleve's car. Of course, if you're still determined to marry him, then there's nothing more I can do, but personally I think it will be pitiable if you turn up at the church knowing what you know." Ferris stared at him quiveringly, her face pale, and he suddenly pulled her into his arms and held her against him. "I don't wish you any harm, Ferris, I don't want to hurt you. I love you, that's all. I wish you'd listen to me." For a moment she leaned limply against his shoulder. What was she going to do? Was it true? Had Cleve been away with Michele for a final fling? Or a not-so-final fling? It was at that moment that Claudia chose rather belatedly to arrive on the scene. "Oh, I'm sorry," she exclaimed, standing in the doorway. "I never dreamed I'd be interrupting anything. Who, er—?"

Ferris drew away from Martin quickly, her cheeks staining with slow, guilty colour. Claudia was looking ravishing in her pale blue bridesmaid's dress, but Martin was apparently unimpressed as he said aggressively, "I'm Martin Varenay, the bridegroom's cousin. Who the hell are you?" Ferris wanted to laugh hysterically because for once her sophisticated sister seemed to be at a loss and simply stared at him, her mouth half open. She still hadn't gathered her wits about her when Martin strode past her and went back down the stairs. Claudia came out of her daze and said perkily, 'You're certainly giving yourself a wedding day to remember, Ferris. Who on earth is Martin Varenay, apart from being Cleve's cousin?" The words were scarcely out of her mouth when a look of comprehension dawned on her face. "Good Lord! Of course! Your heartthrob from the past—Daddy's one-time wine maker! Am I right?" "Yes, you're right," Ferris agreed reluctantly. She turned away and groped for her wedding dress, her hands trembling. "I'd really better finish dressing." She began to pull the dress over her head and Claudia helped her, but persisted as she did so, "What was he doing here, holding you as if he was the one you were going to marry?" "You're jumping to conclusions." Ferris could scarcely think straight. Cleve had been away with Michele. She'd been right. Oh, it was unbelievably nightmarish! And here she was struggling with her wedding dress, preparing to put her head into the lion's mouth. She stood still while Claudia did up the small buttons on the back of her dress, thinking feverishly that she couldn't go on with it. That he could stand at the altar waiting for her forever . . .

"But what was he doing here?" Claudia was persisting. "What did he want? I mean men don't just pop in and out of bedrooms when the bride's dressing." "He—he just came to tell me that his wife's left him," Ferris said. "She's in love with somebody else and he—he wanted to talk about it," she finished lamely. Claudia laughed aloud. "Oh, Ferris! Do you think I was born yesterday? He wasn't crying on your shoulder. He's in love with you, isn't he? And my God, he's handsome! I'm beginning to think these Varenays are really something. Good looking and wealthy with it. Is he coming to the wedding?" "He was invited, and so was Livvie," Ferris said distractedly. She wished Claudia would go away. She wanted to think. But perhaps it was best not to think. The point was, was she going on with the wedding? Or was she going to take off this dress and throw it in the cupboard and—and disappear? Helplessly, she knew she was going on with the wedding. She sat down in front of the mirror, and Claudia began to arrange her hair and then to attend to her makeup, brushing her cheeks with blusher, enhancing the blue of her eyes with soft, blue grey shadow and darkening her long lashes with mascara. Ferris watched the transformation like a sleepwalker. It was all totally unreal, and she could hardly bear the thought of seeing Cleve again, knowing he'd been away with Michele the night before their wedding. . . By the time her makeup was complete and she'd put on the pale cream hat with its delicate blue flowers, Claudia was exclaiming that she looked a real picture-book bride. She didn't have a notion that Ferris was dreading the ordeal ahead of her.

Twenty minutes later, Ferris walked down the aisle of the little church on her Uncle Tom's arm. She was half an hour late, desperately pale under her makeup and terribly unsure of herself. She had no idea who was there, who smiled at her or what music was played. But at least the bridegroom was there waiting for her at the end of the aisle. He turned slightly and watched her walking towards him, his expression cool and enigmatic. Tall and dark and not ugly, but stunningly handsome. Too handsome, she thought. He wore a pale beige suit, with a wine-coloured tie, and his face looked dark against the white shirt. He didn't smile; he simply watched her—as if she were a stranger, she thought, clinging to her uncle's arm and stifling a mad desire to run away. She tried not to think of what Martin had told her , not to think of what Cleve had been doing during the last few days, as at last she stood by his side, the creamy roses of her bouquet trembling. She knew he was glancing down at her, but she didn't look back at him. The ceremony proceeded, Claudia took her bouquet, Rupert produced the ring and Cleve slipped it onto her finger. In the vestry, she and Cleve signed the church register, and the marriage certificate. Uncle Tom and Cleve's mother made pleasant remarks, and it was all as unreal as a dream. She was shatteringly conscious that he didn't touch her unless he had to, and she wondered what he and Michele had been plotting together as they enjoyed each other's company. Obviously, this marriage meant nothing to him. So why had she persisted in coming to the church? For her aunts' sakes? Or because if she hadn't come, she'd have wished ever after that she had? As they walked back down the aisle, she looked about her, her cheeks slightly flushed. It amazed her to see that everyone was smiling at her as if she were a beautiful, radiant bride—her aunts,

her cousins and their husbands and children; Lance, suave and worldly but still admiring. There was even a handful of people from the village who'd turned out to watch the Howard-Varenay wedding. And Michele, of course. Her step faltered as she saw Michele, lovely in palest green, smiling at her, at Cleve. If she'd been in her place, she didn't think she'd have had the effrontery to come to the wedding. But then she wasn't nearly as sophisticated as Michele. She didn't see Martin and she wasn't sorry about that. In the bridal car driving to Angelsmount, Cleve said in a low voice, "You look very beautiful, Ferris. And a little tragic. I must admit I thought you were going to walk out on me; you were so damned late turning up at the church. What happened? Did you begin to have second thoughts?" "Didn't you?" she countered; he smiled crookedly and didn't pursue the subject.

Afterwards, she remembered very little about the reception, which was held indoors and overflowed onto the terrace. She drank some champagne and ate practically nothing. The speeches, as Rose had promised, were brief. If Cleve, who stayed at her side most of the time, noticed that Martin and Livvie weren't there—as of course he must have—he didn't remark on it. In fact, no one did, except Rose—and Claudia, who murmured to Ferris that she was disappointed that the man from her past wasn't around. "I'd dearly love to see more of that guy," she added, then smiled at Lance who was bringing her another glass of champagne and dancing attendance on her so ardently that Ferris was sure his intentions were either honourable or the opposite.

Ferris's cousins and their children swarmed around exclaiming how lovely she looked, and she shrank inwardly when Michele, smilingly, came to tell her as she and Cleve stood together, "if marriage was my big ambition, I could be really jealous of you, Ferris." She handed her champagne glass to one of the hovering children and kissed Cleve on the mouth. Ferris felt her stomach turn over. Was this what life was going to be like from now on? Ferris moved away to speak to Caroline Varenay and saw that Claudia had broken in on the conversation Cleve and Michele were having. Presently Aunt Rose came bustling up. "Ferris dear, I hate to say it, but hadn't you better run upstairs and change? You and Cleve will have to leave presently. I'll tell Claudia to go up and help you." Ferris nodded and, as she went up the stairs, Claudia came running up behind her, full of high spirits, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright. "I've been flirting with your husband, darling," she said facetiously, following Ferris into her bedroom and going straight to the mirror to admire herself. Her husband! It sounded like a joke, she thought confusedly and began to struggle with the tiny buttons on the back of her dress. "Any time you get tired of him, just let me know," Claudia said gaily, coming to her aid. "In the meantime, I'm going to call in at Chateau Varenne. And not just to sample the wines," she added with a giggle. "I'm beginning to develop quite a taste for your Varenays." Ferris smiled at her palely and reached for her going-away dress.

In next to no time, she was leaving the house with Cleve and was nervously aware that soon she'd be quite alone with him. Their car was in the drive, and as they went outside everyone crowded around to say good-bye and to wish them good luck. Before she had gone down the steps, Ferris had thrown her bouquet, and it was Michele who dashed forward and caught it, then looked at Cleve and laughed. Meaning what? Ferris wondered, wishing now she hadn't thrown her flowers and hoping she didn't look as miserable as she was feeling. Rupert drove them to the little airstrip at Chateau Varenne where they transferred to Cleve's small plane. Ferris had been on edge, wondering if Martin would put in a last-minute appearance, but thankfully he didn't, and she climbed into the plane and waved to Rupert as they took off. In spite of everything, it was just a little thrilling to be alone with Cleve at last, and she listened wide- eyed as he told her that they were going to Melbourne, where they'd take the jet to Townsville. "I've chartered a small plane to fly us out to the island from there," he added, "so we'll be settled in our own little bungalow by the time it's dark." He glanced at her and added enigmatically, "I hope it's not going to be too much for you.". She murmured that it wasn't, but she wondered what he meant. The long plane trip? Or the honeymoon? She stole a glance at him a moment later and found his profile hard and withdrawn. What was he thinking about? Piloting this plane or Michele? she wondered involuntarily and knew she'd have to forget about Michele. She wished Martin hadn't paid her that unsettling visit this morning. After all, she was the one who was married to Cleve, even though at this moment she didn't want to go into the reason for that.

At Melbourne airport, they boarded the jet almost immediately and, while Cleve settled down to relax and read the paper he'd bought, she had a struggle to keep her eyes open. After a while she stopped trying and slept. It was seven-thirty when they reached Townsville, and from there a tiny plane took them out over blue green waters and islets tinged with the colours of sundown, to their honeymoon island. . The daylight had all but gone and the sky was a smoky red with restless grey and purple clouds floating low on the horizon when they touched down on the airfield on the island. A car had been driven out from the hotel to meet them, and minutes later they were being transported along a narrow sandy road lined with tall palms to the hotel complex. The front door of their cottage opened straight into a big, beautiful room, and Ferris stood blinking in the light and looking around her. The ceiling was high for coolness, the furnishings were simple and elegant, and while two of the walls were papered to look like bamboo, the other two were made of glass. One side of the bungalow looked onto the lighted gardens of the hotel resort, the other side faced the sea; and on a low table, supper had been laid out, the dishes on a big, silver tray covered by a fine, white muslin cloth. She wandered across to look through an open door and discovered a bedroom with an enormous double bed, then bit her lip and turned away hastily. "The bathroom's off the bedroom if you want it," Cleve told her, and though the lines of his face were softened by the pinkish wall lamps, his voice was not so much warm as polite, unless she was imagining things, she thought worriedly. "Have a wash up and then you might feel like some supper."

Ferris nodded. A few minutes later, she brushed her hair and stared at her reflection in the huge wall mirror in the bedroom. She looked— and felt—out of her depth. Her very first honeymoon, she thought with an attempt at lightheartedness, and it was more as if she were on a blind date. With somebody else's man. That was the kind of thing she'd better stop thinking or this marriage would never get off the ground. Meanwhile, should she change out of her dress and put on a negligee? It was what any ordinary bride would do, she supposed, but she didn't do it. She wasn't an ordinary bride and she needed a little more encouragement than she'd so far been given before she could be provocative. When she went back into the sitting room, Cleve had removed the cover from their supper and taken a bottle of champagne from the small fridge. She managed a smile, but it was an effort. She was quite sure if she had one more glass of wine of any sort she'd fall asleep on the spot. "No?" he said, raising his eyebrows. She shook her head, and he went back to the fridge for some fruit juice. Strictly non-alcoholic, as she soon discovered, and exactly what she wanted. "Sit down, Angel," he urged. "I'm sure you must be famished. You hardly ate a thing at the reception and nothing on the plane." "I am a little hungry," she agreed as she took a chair and glanced at the supper revealed by the removal of the muslin throw-over. It was very light—a pretty green salad and a platter of chicken and crab decorated with raw tropical fruits. There was also an exquisite little posy of tiny pink roses accompanied by a card from the

management, wishing Mr. and Mrs. Varenay every happiness in their married life. She picked up the posy and looked at Cleve through her lashes, but he was taking no notice of her. He poured her a drink, switched to some soft music on the intercom and came to sit down opposite her. She laid down the flowers and helped herself to some of the delicious-looking food and then found that, hungry or not, she was too tensed up to eat. Cleve, on the contrary, was soon intent on his supper, and was so silent and uncommunicative that she felt excluded. Surely he should be more interested in his bride than in his stomach. The thought made her swallow down a nervous laugh, and she didn't dare look at him. She played with her food and listened to the soft hush-hush of the sea, the shivering of the palm leaves in the night wind. Drifts of flower scents came into the room through the wire screen that formed the whole of one wall when the glass had been pushed aside, and Cleve ate his meal and had nothing to say. It was nerve-wracking. Was he brooding over Michele? What was wrong? She longed to ask but didn't dare, and instead began to talk about anything at all. Once she'd started it seemed as if she were afraid to stop. She chattered on about the wedding, about Claudia and Lance, about her cousins' children. She talked about Caroline's dress, about her uncle's speech. Then with a feeling of horror she heard herself ask when he'd got back from his business trip. Dangerous ground better left alone, she thought, grabbing her glass and drinking down some of the fruit juice. "This morning," he said, raising his eyes and looking at her penetratingly. "Just in time to get ready for the wedding. Did you miss me?"

She blushed deeply but was too confused to answer and said instead, "I'm sorry it was all such a rush for you." "Yes. I think we've both had about enough for today," he agreed with a cool smile. He got up from his chair. "I'm going outside to stretch my legs. I suggest you go to bed."

Chapter Ten She couldn't pretend she liked the way he'd said that, and she stared back at him puzzled. What did he mean, they'd both had enough? And wasn't he coming to bed, too? Or was he just giving her a chance to shower and change into her nightgown? She wouldn't have expected him to be so conventional. In her not very wide experience of him, he was impatient, passionate. However . . . She forced a smile, and he raised one eyebrow, turned away and went outside. Not very eagerly, she went into the bedroom and began to unpack some of her belongings: her nightgown and negligee, her brush and comb and makeup. She hung some of her clothes in the big built-in wardrobe with slatted doors and then glanced doubtfully at Cleve's suitcase, lying unopened on the wall bench. Should she unpack for him, too? Perhaps not, she decided, and began to undress. She got as far as taking off her shoes and her panty hose when her feeling of uneasiness became too much for her. It all seemed so wrong starting her honeymoon like this, and she crossed the room quickly and looked through the windows that faced on to the beach. The sea was shimmering as the moon, huge and warm and golden, lifted itself from the horizon. She could see Cleve out there, silhouetted against the sequinned water, tall, slim-hipped, broadshouldered. A shiver ran through her, and again she wondered what he was thinking about. Her? Or someone else ... As she watched, he began to walk towards some palm trees and a moment

later she saw him open up one of the loungers stacked there and stretch out on it in the shadows. An icy feeling of fear took hold of her heart. He couldn't possibly be going to spend the night out there! Though by the look of him he was settling down for a long stay, making sure she'd be asleep before he came in. If he came in. Oh God, what was she going to do? She looked around her wildly, her mouth dry, and suddenly common sense came to the rescue. Of course! He did think she was tired. That was why he was leaving her alone. It must be, she assured herself, though she didn't really believe it. But she wasn't as tired as all that. She knew very well that he had only to take her in his arms, kiss her, caress her, and she'd come wide awake. So what was she going to do? She certainly wasn't going to bed. She'd never sleep with the feeling that her marriage was hanging over an abyss, for whatever reason. In the past, Cleve had always been only too ready to make love to her and yet now, on their wedding night, he was all set to sleep by himself under the stars. Well, she was going to sleep under the stars, too. She'd find herself a lounger and join him, and if he didn't like it he could tell her why. After all, it was marriage he'd proposed, not separate rooms. Her heart was beating fast as she left the bungalow and went swiftly across the beach. From the hotel, the sound of music drifted across on the night wind, and far off along the sand two lovers walked. Otherwise, there was not a person in sight except Cleve, stretched out on the lounger, his hands clasped behind his head. She wondered if he was asleep, but he wasn't. He must have heard the sound of her bare feet squelching through the fine sand

because he twisted round to look at her as she paused under the palms and began to drag out one of the loungers from the stack there. "What the devil are you doing, Ferris?" he demanded, swinging his feet to the ground and sitting up. He wore beige pants, and his dark shirt was open to the waist. His hair was rumpled, and his eyes were unreadable shadows. Her heart began to thump in her breast, and she opened out one of the loungers with a jerk as she told him nervously, "I came out to join you. I—I don't want to stay all by myself in the bungalow." It cost her an effort to say it, and she saw his mouth tighten. "I told you to get to bed and go to sleep," he said unfeelingly, and her eyes widened. Was he really so insensitive as to think she could do that on her wedding night? Even if he didn't know how she felt about him . . . "So why don't you run off and do just that?" he added as she stared at him wordlessly. He stood up and looked down at her, his hands on his hips, his mouth curving unpleasantly. Ferris swallowed. What was the use? He seemed to have turned into a different person. AH the same, she asked him quaveringly, "Why don't you come in, too, Cleve? After all, we are married—" "Not quite." He said it savagely. "And I have no intention of making our marriage a reality. If you know what's good for you, you'll run inside as fast as you can and not try to tempt me." He paused and then finished with deadly deliberation, "An annulment is quicker than a divorce, Angel."

An annulment? She couldn't take it in for a moment and then she went deadly pale. Was that what he wanted—to finish their marriage before it had even begun? But why? Why? Had she been right after all when she'd suspected that he'd married her merely because Claudia was threatening to sell out to Lance? Oh, it was all so sordid, and she wished with all her heart that her father had never left her a share in his estate. What heaven it would be to be married simply and wholly for love. But Ferris Howard—Ferris Varenay, she corrected herself ironically—had no such luck. Love, for the second time, hadn't come her way. She thought crazily of Michele catching her bouquet, of the way she'd smiled at Cleve, and wondered if she'd changed her mind about marriage after all, in spite of what she'd said at the wedding. If it had been too much for her to think of Cleve married to somebody else. If she and Cleve, during the time they were away together, had hatched up some plan. She called a sudden halt to her thoughts, which were threatening to get so far out of hand she was ready to scream. "If you feel like that," she stammered, "then why—why did you go on with it? Why did you come to the church?" "I damned nearly didn't come," he gritted. They stood facing each other, and she could see the glitter of his eyes and feel the hectic colour in her cheeks and the mad hammering of her heart. "I hardly expected you to be there, after what I'd heard. I can only conclude that you turned up because of the winery. Or did your family— your aunts—pressure you into it? I don't suppose they knew what was going on while I was away."

What was going on? She was completely bewildered. Did he mean they didn't know about himself and Michele? But that didn't make sense. "I don't really know what you're talking about," she quavered, and he made an impatient gesture. "Forget it. Talking's not going to mend anything. The best thing for me to do will be to take the plane back to the mainland tomorrow morning. You can tell anyone who asks that I've been called away on a business trip." Ferris stared at him helplessly. It was like a nightmare—it couldn't be real. He was going to leave her, just like that. In his mind, their marriage was a write-off already. Tears filled her eyes, and she blinked them back furiously. She felt so helpless and she hated him. Hated him. She wanted to throw herself at him and pummel his chest with her fists— to scream at him . . . "I know all about your business trips," she said bitterly. "And as far as I'm concerned you can go off on another one just as soon as you like. Tomorrow won't be any too soon for me. But just don't expect me to be here waiting for you when—if—you come back," she faltered. "That would be the very last thing I'd expect—or want," he said savagely. Ferris swallowed hard. She was going to burst into tears at any minute now, and with a swift movement she turned away from him and began to run. Blindly. Anywhere. Anywhere to get away from this hateful monster who was supposed to be her husband. The tears streamed down her face and she wanted to die.

A minute later, she felt the shock of cold water on her legs and realised she'd run straight into the sea. Well, who cared? She ran on, splashing noisily through the shallow water, not even pausing as she drew her hand hard across her eyes to dispel the tears that were half blinding her. Ahead of her, the moon-spangled water reached out glitteringly into the darkness, and quite suddenly, as she waded recklessly on, she stepped down into nothingness. The salt water closed over her head and she came up gasping, her arms flailing. Hampered by the weight of her dress, she swished back her hair and tried to angle herself towards the beach. Was Cleve watching her? she wondered, and reflected bitterly that he was probably not. Then from nowhere a hand reached out—two hands, grasping her under the armpits far from gently and dragging her up out of the deep water. "What the hell are you trying to do, you little idiot? Drown yourself?" Cleve muttered close to her ear. She didn't answer. Pushing him away, she regained her balance and began to stagger erratically back towards the sand. She'd made an utter fool of herself, and she knew that if she tried to say something smart, or anything at all, she'd burst into tears. She waded on, her wet dress clinging to her body, salt water running down her face and into her eyes. She'd given herself a shock, and she was trembling as she gulped back her tears with a sound that she knew Cleve couldn't help hearing. She hadn't the will to resist when he suddenly swept her up in his arms and carried her towards the palm trees and the loungers. She could feel the warmth of his body through her sodden clothes—her

lovely going-away dress, she thought with an extra sob—and she could hear the strong steady thumping of his heart as he held her close to him. She wanted to laugh now, hysterically, at the thought that this was her wedding night. But at least she was in his arms, and though it was hardly in the conventional way it was comforting. . . . Under the trees, he let her go, but as her feet touched the warm sand and she would have run away, he pulled her back to him almost savagely, winding his arms around her crushingly and putting his lips hotly against her temple. She raised her face, her mouth warm and trembling, and then he was kissing her dementedly. She felt his desire for her flare, and she responded shamelessly as their mouths merged and their bodies were moulded together. She was dead tired, only half awake, dreaming, swooning—and all she wanted was that he should go on kissing her, making love to her until she came back to life like the sleeping princess. It was happening quickly, almost alarmingly. Her fingers tangled in his hair, she pressed her body to his passionately, and when his mouth left hers she could hardly bear it. "Oh God, Angel," she heard him mutter. "I can't stop now, you'll have to take the consequences—" Then somehow they were in the bungalow; he'd kicked the door shut and stood looking at her hungrily in the lamplight. Her eyes wide, she looked back at him, no longer hating him, loving every line of his face, everything about him. He moved to draw his fingers roughly through the darkened strands of her wet hair, to stoop and kiss her salty mouth until she could hardly breathe.

He'd begun to undo the fastening of her dress when suddenly he pushed her roughly from him. "Leave me, for God's sake," he muttered harshly. "It's beyond me to take my cousin's leavings." She staggered a little, her eyes darkening with fear at his tone. "What do you mean, your cousin's leavings?" she half whispered. "I—I don't understand—" "I think you do," he said thickly. "Or do you imagine I'm still in blissful ignorance of your relationship with Martin? He made sure I knew all about it when he came to see me after I got home this morning. And if you wondered why he didn't turn up at the reception, it's because he wasn't fit to be seen." He smiled crookedly, humourlessly, his eyes so black and unfeeling that she couldn't believe he'd just been making love to her. "I'm not partial to physical violence as a rule, but I'm not afraid of it. I didn't get my broken nose for nothing." Ferris paled. They'd had a fight. Over her. The thought of it made her blood run cold. What in heaven's name had Martin told him about her— about their relationship—to make him so angry? It wasn't hard to guess, of course, and now, remembering the things he'd told her about Cleve and Michele, she began to suspect she'd been incredibly stupid to listen to him. If he could lie to them both as he had, then he'd deserved to be beaten up, she thought. She looked at Cleve through her lashes, not to see if he bore any scars from the fight, but for quite another reason. Because if he thought she was worth fighting over, then didn't it mean . . . But his eyes were still implacable, and he laughed shortly. "Look all you like. I'm all in one piece, Angel. And I intend staying that way. I've never fooled myself that you were in love with me, but I don't enjoy the thought of having a wife who has no intention of being faithful. I was angry enough to decide to hold you to your

promise this morning, but I've cooled down since then. Or had, until you came outside looking for trouble. I'll sleep in here on the couch tonight, and I'll leave in the morning. And that's final." He turned his back, and she suddenly roused herself from the halfmesmerised state into which she'd fallen. "Cleve, listen, please . . . please. You can't go —you mustn't. None of that's true. I've never let Martin make love to me, I've never wanted it. I'm not in love with him. I'm—" She broke off as he swung round again, his glittering eyes only inches from her blue ones. "Save your breath, Angel," he said through his teeth. "I don't go around with my eyes shut. Haven't you been hankering for Martin ever since that night at the restaurant? Wasn't it because of him you called off your engagement to me—and because of Livvie coming back that you finally decided you'd marry me after all? And now she's gone for good—and God knows I don't blame her—you think you can eat your cake and have it. Well, I'm not coming to the party. I've lost interest in you and Angelsmount. My share in both of you is on the market as of tomorrow." Suddenly it was all too much, and Ferris began to cry helplessly. "I don't care what you do about Angelsmount," she muttered and, scarcely knowing what she was doing, she flung herself at Cleve, clasping her hands tightly behind his back, clinging to him, pressing her face against the hardness of his chest. "All I care about is you. I love you, Cleve—that's why I married you. Not for any other reason: I can't help what you believe, and I know you don't love me, but couldn't we try? I—I can't bear it if you go away—"

She felt him go still, and then he said hoarsely. "What the hell are you saying, Angel?" He tilted her face up and looked deeply into her tear-drenched eyes. "Say it again. Look at me and say it—" Ferris found she couldn't utter a word. There was a lump in her throat, and she simply looked back into his eyes, trying to say what she felt without words. As his eyes searched hers, their hard blackness seemed to be dissolving; their darkness grew warm and soft and welcoming, and it was like—like watching a flower unfold. Her lips parted, and she drew a deep, quivering breath as he said unsteadily, "Ferris, my Angel, you're so wrong. I love you madly, passionately. I've loved you and wanted you ever since I came to see you that day and you told me you wouldn't sell Angelsmount." He pulled her to him and kissed her trembling mouth softly and brushed away the tears that clung to her lashes. "Now, at last, we're married and you're standing here half drowned and crying your eyes out. My God! Something will have to be done about it. What do you suggest?" "That we both get out of these awful wet clothes," she said tremulously. "And then?" he prompted. But instead of answering, she slipped away from him and ran across to the bedroom. Everything was incredible and wonderful, and she was sure she must be dreaming, but later, as they lay together in the big bed, with the moonlight making a silver swathe across the floor, she knew that if it was a dream, it was a dream come true. They made love a little, and slept a little, then woke in each other's arms and made love again. And then talked till dawn.

Safe in his arms, she told him what she'd feared about Michele, and he held her close and kissed her. "Darling, I've told you all you need to know about Mish. She has a man in Adelaide now, as a matter of fact, and she's very happy with their relationship. I just happened to give her a lift back to the Valley. That's absolutely all that happened." "I believe you, Cleve," she assured him, taking pleasure in the feel of his naked body against her own under the fine cotton sheet. "But tell me about that day you came to buy Angelsmount; tell me about' falling in love with me." "I hadn't meant to," he murmured. "Your father tried to plan it, hoped we'd get together, but I was sceptical, to say the least. When he asked you to come home, he had this crazy idea that we might marry. However, if you had fallen in love with one of those Camdens from the cattle station, then he'd agreed to sell out to me." She laughed softly. "Cleve, Mark Camden is only nineteen, and the others are younger. I'll tell you about them another time. Isn't it strange that my father had this idea and that it's all happened so— so perfectly." "More than strange," he agreed. "I assure you, I never thought anything would come of it. I remembered you from Martin's wedding. I thought you were fascinatingly pretty but thoroughly spoilt—not the sort of girl I wanted to marry at all." "And I thought you were ugly, Cleve," she broke in with a little laugh. "Tall and dark and—ugly. Oh, how could I have, when you're so—" His kiss stopped her from finishing what she was saying, but she pulled away from him and said firmly, "Handsome. Now go on, tell me the rest."

"I don't know that I shall," he said teasingly. "There are other things I could do with my time. Still, I suppose we have plenty of that, so all right. That day, when you came back, I took one look at you and I knew you were the woman I was going to marry. When you wouldn't sell, I decided to stay around until you fell in love with me. I was that sure it would happen. But it all went haywire when you met Martin again and practically told me you were still in love with him." "I didn't know what I was talking about," she said dreamily. "I just opened my big mouth too wide, too soon, which I seem to do with horrible regularity." She rested her head against his bare chest and listened to his heart beating. "But I think I've been cured of that. I know exactly what I want now—and I've got it." "Me, too," he said, turning to her and enclosing her in his arms.