LITMIR.BIZ

      MILLS & BOON

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      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      EPILOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      BRISBANE in June. Sky meets the bay in an all-consuming blue, glorious in the sunshine. Brilliant flights of lorikeets dart in and out of the blossoming bottlebrushes, drunk on an excess of honey. Chattering parties of grey and pink galahs pick over the abundant grass seeds on the footpaths, not even bothering to fly off as someone approaches. The twenty-seven larkspur hills that surround the river city glow with wattles, the national emblem, a zillion puffballs of golden yellow flowers drenching the city in irresistible fragrance.

      In the parks and gardens, the ubiquitous eucalyptus turn on an astonishing colour display as do the bauhinias, every branch quivering with masses of flowers—bridal white, pink, purple and cerise—like butterflies in motion, a foil for the pomp of the great tulip trees with their scarlet cups. All over suburbia, poinsettias dazzle the eye while the bougainvillea, never to be outdone, cover walls, fences, pergolas and balconies with sweeping arches of pink, crimson, purple, gold and bronze, but none more beautiful than the exquisite bridal white. A surpassing sight.

      It was on just such a June afternoon, beloved by brides, Broderick Kinross, master of the historic cattle station Kimbara, in the giant state of Queensland’s far southwest, was married to his beautiful Rebecca in the garden of the graceful Queensland colonial Rebecca’s father, a retired airline captain, had bought when he and his second family returned home from his long-time base in Hong Kong. The wedding ceremony and reception were deliberately low key in accordance with the bride’s and groom’s wishes, with family and close friends, but a huge Outback reception was planned on Kimbara when the couple returned from their honeymoon in Venice.

      Now in the rear garden bordered by the deep, wide river, some seventy guests were assembled, revelling in the sparkling sunshine and the stirring uplift of emotions. Even the breeze gave off soft tender sighs, showering blossom out of the trees like so much confetti. All faces wore smiles. Some like the bridegroom’s aunt, the internationally known stage actress, Fiona Kinross, superbly dressed in yellow silk with a marvellously becoming confection on her head, registered transports of rapture. This was a wonderful day; the family wedding, the culmination of a great romance.

      As the hour approached, everyone looked expectantly towards the house when quite suddenly the bride’s four attendants, three bridesmaids and one little flower girl, the bride’s enchanting little stepsister Christina, appeared, moving down the soaring palm-dotted lush sweep of lawn to some wondrous floating music by Handel.

      Each bridesmaid was a natural beauty. Each had fabulous long hair, sable, titian and blonde, left flowing over bare shoulders, with tiny braids at the sides and back woven with seed peals, miniature silk roses in the same shade as their gowns with flashes of gold leaves. Their ankle-length sheath gowns of delustred satin showed off their willowy figures to perfection, the strapless bodices decorated with delicate pearl and crystal beading that glittered in the sunlight, the precise shades of the gowns chosen to be wonderfully complementary, rose pink, jacaranda blue, a delicate lime green.

      In their hands they carried small trailing bouquets of perfect white butterfly orchids on a bed of ferns. The little flower girl dressed in lilac silk organdie with a wide satin sash, was smiling angelically, scattering rose petals from her beautifully decorated flower basket. All four of them shimmering in the radiant light, irresistible in their youth and beauty.

      “Oh, the magic of being young!” Fee whispered with a catch of emotion to the tall, distinguished man standing next to her. “They might have stepped out of a painting!”

      A sentiment apparently shared by the other guests who broke into cries of delight and a great wave of “Aahs.”

      Only one person felt strangely alone, almost isolated, but no one would have ever guessed it. Rafe Cameron, best man, with his golden leonine mane, fine features and air of authority and pride. Rafe had his own thoughts, far-ranging yet fiercely close. Thoughts that stirred an unwelcome rush of bitterness that had no part in this wonderful day. But Rafe was human. A strong man of correspondingly strong emotions who had known rejection and heartache and never got used to it.

      Now he stood rooted, staring up at the ravishing tableau, his eyes drawn hypnotically towards the chief bridesmaid in her

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