LITMIR.BIZ

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Wirra, it might have been quite uncomfortable. But with his help I managed to win them over, I think, she reflected. Am I really a chip off the old block? I know Dad can be immensely charismatic when he sets his mind to it, but there’s a hard, cold side to him I hope I haven’t inherited...

      ‘Oh, well,’ she said aloud, and turned towards the small building that proclaimed from a sign on the roof that it was the home of Banyo Air—the three craft on the tarmac bore the same logo. ‘The sooner I get myself out of here the better!’

      It was an unimpressive office she walked into, with one girl behind a battered desk, two uncomfortable orange plastic chairs in front of it and a view through grimy windows of the airfield. There was a watercooler, a sluggish ceiling fan churning the hot, humid air and a variety of blown-up aerial photos tacked to the walls. Francesca dumped her bag down and said crisply, ‘I’d like to see whoever is in charge, please.’

      The girl, who looked no more than nineteen, blinked and pushed her dark hair back nervously. ‘He’s on the phone at the moment—’ she gestured to an inner doorway behind Francesca ‘—but if you’d care to wait he shouldn’t be too long.’

      ‘What’s his name?’

      The girl blinked again. ‘Stevensen. Mr. Stevensen,’ she said finally.

      ‘Then perhaps you can help me, if Mr Stevensen is too busy. I need a flight to Brisbane—’

      ‘Brisbane?’ the girl echoed, her eyes widening, as if the capital of Queensland were located on the moon.

      ‘Yes, well,’ Francesca said, reflecting that Brisbane was over a thousand miles away. ‘Cairns, then, or at least somewhere where I can get a regular flight. You do fly to Cairns?’

      ‘We could,’ the girl said cautiously, ‘but I’m afraid I couldn’t arrange anything like that.’

      ‘Then would you mind letting this Mr Stevensen know that I am here?’

      ‘Yes. As soon as he finishes his call,’ the girl amended. ‘Would you like to sit down, or perhaps you’d like a glass of water?’

      ‘Both,’ Francesca said with a grin, and helped herself to a paper cup.

      The girl seemed to relax, and she spent a few moments covertly admiring Francesca—her designer jeans and silk shirt, for one thing, and her soft kid tan boots. She gazed at her narrow, elegant hands, and the one ring she wore—an unusual gold signet on her little finger—and the way her toffee hair fell to her shoulders in a beautifully ordered, shining mane. Then she sighed discreetly and picked up the phone.

      Francesca listened idly, because there was no point in trying not to, and discovered that the girl was talking to the Acme Employment Agency in Cairns with a view to hiring a governess for the unseen Mr Stevensen’s motherless seven-year-old daughter. It further transpired that his sister, who usually looked after the girl, had broken her wrist and that the job would entail living on a cattle station.

      ‘Yes,’ the girl said into the phone, ‘Bramble Downs, that’s right. Yes, it is a bit isolated, although it’s very comfortable. But no, no shops handy—no cinemas, no libraries, no television or anything like that—and it can get very hot...’

      Not to mention flooded out—why don’t you tell them that? Francesca thought with a grimace but did not say. And when the call was ended, and there was nothing else to do as the girl began to bang away at an old typewriter, she pondered on the difficulty of getting staff to these remote areas and found herself wishing Mr Stevensen luck in the matter of a governess for his motherless seven-year-old daughter.

      Then she glanced at her watch and discovered that she’d been waiting for twenty minutes, and her goodwill towards the elusive man began to seep away. Another five minutes, she told herself. How busy can he be in this God-forsaken spot?

      She waited for precisely five minutes, then she stood up and said politely to the girl, ‘What is your name?’

      ‘Susan—Look, I am sorry, but he’s still on the phone, although I’m sure he knows you’re here. He would have seen you arrive.’

      ‘Is that so—Susan?’ Francesca said precisely. ‘Well, will you take this message in to your boss? Will you tell him that Francesca Valentine, daughter of Frank Valentine—yes, that one, the multimillionaire,’ she said as Susan’s eyes bulged, ‘would like to see him immediately? Furthermore, will you tell him that if he keeps me waiting any longer I will buy out this tinpot little airline he works for and have him sacked?’

      Predictably, Susan couldn’t find the words to respond, but it was a moment before Francesca realised that she might not be the whole cause of the girl’s distress. Because Susan was in fact staring fixedly at a point over her right shoulder, and she swung on her heel to discover that the inner door must have opened silently during her speech and now a man stood there.

      For once in her life Francesca herself was rendered speechless, although only momentarily, because the elusive Mr Stevensen—if this was he—was not what she’d expected at all. What had she expected? she was to wonder later. Had the unpretentious, grimy office with its poor facilities led her to expect the same of the man in charge? Had the locality, which wasn’t that far from the black stump, led her to expect a slowlyspoken cattleman-type, who would blink in awe at her?

      How wrong could you be? she was also to think later, because this man was certainly not blinking in awe at her. He was eyeing her narrowly and insolently. He was over six feet tall, with fair hair and grey eyes, and he was in his middle thirties, she judged. And as well as being good-looking, and well although casually dressed, in khaki trousers and shirt, he carried an unmistakable aura of savoir-faire directly alongside the aura of a tough and hard man.

      Francesca took an unexpected breath, but opened her mouth immediately. ‘Well, well, is it you at last, Mr Stevensen? To what do I owe this honour, or have I got the wrong man?’

      ‘I am Raefe Stevensen, and if you wish to be flown out of here, Francesca Valentine, daughter of Frank Valentine, I’d advise you not to take that tone with me.’

      ‘How dare you—?’ Francesca began.

      ‘I dare for several reasons,’ Raefe Stevensen said in cool, even tones that barely cloaked the contempt beneath them. ‘You can’t buy me out because I own this airline. You won’t find any other way to get to Cairns today. And, last but not least, your father’s millions mean nothing to me—I can’t stand the man.’

      Francesca’s nostrils flared and a steady little flame lit her blue eyes. ‘Then may I say that I’m sure the feeling would be mutual—if this is the sloppy way you run a business.’ She flicked a scornful hand.

      ‘And may I say that your thoughts on the subject, or any subject, are quite without interest to me, Miss Valentine.’

      ‘Is that so? Well—’

      But he overrode her casually. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, and—’ that cool, insolent grey gaze swept up and down her body ‘—you look about as glamorous and useless as the spoilt little rich girl you are. Why don’t you go away and find someone else to terrorise? I’m not flying you to Cairns today.’

      ‘Oh, yes, you are, mate,’ Francesca said through her teeth. ‘I’ll pay you...whatever you want—you name it. And, on the subject of how useless I am, I’ve just spent the last fortnight on Wirra, doing most of the things all the men did—’

      ‘Yes, I heard about that.’ Raefe Stevensen smiled unpleasantly. ‘But being good on a horse and a motorbike doesn’t mean to say you’re any good at anything else. The other interesting item of news on the bush telegraph was that you’d been banished up to Wirra by your father for some rather sordid indiscretion down south.’ He leant back against the doorframe, folded his arms and studied her mockingly. ‘It’s a pity to be the subject of that kind of gossip at—what—twenty-two?’

      A white-hot gust of anger visited Francesca, and she stepped right up to Raefe Stevensen

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