Bride at Briar's Ridge

If the trace of accent hadn’t alerted him, her looks did: Northern Italian colouring, wonderful thick, swirling blond hair, side parted, curving in to just below her chin. The colour could have come out of a bottle but he didn’t think so. There wasn’t a dark root in sight. Her complexion was perfect—honeyed Mediterranean. The lovely features were classical, her aura passionate but restrained—as if she deliberately held herself in check. Her eyes were really beautiful beneath arched black brows—so dark the iris rivalled the pupil. She wasn’t tall—maybe five-five in her high wedged heels—but her body was beautiful. Slender, but with shape.

The glory of women, he thought, slowly releasing his breath. ‘You’re beautiful!’ he said, unconsciously investing it with real meaning. He hadn’t meant to say it. It just came out as a simple statement of fact.

‘Thank you,’ Daniela answered him gravely.

She had been called beautiful many times in her life. Unfortunately beauty often came with a high price tag. It didn’t always draw the right people. She had left London and a great job because she was being hounded by a man obsessively attracted to her and her looks. Sometimes, back in London, she had thought she would go mad thinking and worrying about it.

Linc had intuitively tuned in to her wavelength. How men’s eyes must cling to her, he thought. Maybe that was a reason for her being so wary. And she was. No mistaking it. He could actually hear the defences going up. So what was a Renaissance beauty doing in a small country town wielding a broomstick? She obviously worked here. A cute little white apron was tied around a waist he thought he could span with his hands. Her dress, sleeveless with a short skirt—showing off great legs—was navy. A sort of uniform, he thought. She made it look chic. But the aura she gave off was downright patrician, even a touch forbidding, as befitting someone who had stepped out of a medieval masterpiece.

Maybe she owned the place? Maybe she owned a whole chain of bistros? Though she barely looked old enough to be a big success. Twenty-four? Twenty-five? As well as being beautiful, she looked highly intelligent. That had conveyed itself to him. A confident, competent young woman who knew how to keep mere mortals like him in his place.

His gaze came back irresistibly to centre on her face. ‘Do you believe in love at first sight?’ he asked, as though it was the easiest question in the world to answer.

‘Doesn’t everyone?’ Daniela answered, calmly enough, transferring her midnight-dark gaze over his shoulder. ‘Ah, here is my grandfather to take care of you.’ She sounded relieved.

‘You work for your grandfather?’ It really wasn’t like him to hit on a girl in this blatant fashion.

‘In this case I am helping out.’ Clearly she was making an effort to be polite. Far more the principessa than the waitress.

‘So who am I talking to?’ he persisted, watching a big, handsome grandfatherly figure with a crown of tight snow-white curls hurrying towards them.

‘Daniela Adami,’ she informed him, turning to pick up a dustpan filled with pieces of broken china.

‘Carl Mastermann. My friends call me Linc. I’ve come to look over a valley property.’

‘Ah, yes? Which one would that be, Mr Mastermann?’ She spoke as if there were hundreds on the market.

Couldn’t she risk a smile? It was important to him to see her smile. ‘Briar’s Ridge. It’s owned by the Callaghans—brother and sister. Do you know them?’

‘I have that pleasure.’ She dipped her head formally, then made a move to walk by him, a determined action that managed to be enormously seductive at the same time.

He eased back, resisting the strong impulse to swing an arm around her and no doubt receive a painful electric shock for his trouble.

‘Nice to have met you, Mr Mastermann.’

It sounded as if she didn’t want to lay eyes on him again.

But that, Principessa, isn’t about to happen.

CHAPTER TWO

WEDDINGS had a knack of working their magic on everyone. Linc had lost count of the number of weddings he had attended over the years, but the wedding of his old friend Guy, and his beautiful Alana, a luminous creature, with happiness shining out of her eyes, was turning out tops.

Wangaree was one of the nation’s finest historic sheep stations, a splendid estate and one that fitted the courtly Guy right down to a tee. The wedding ceremony had been held in the station’s private chapel—a marvellous place to hold it, Linc thought. Flower-decked for the great occasion, the old stone building was wonderfully appealing within its surrounding rose gardens, all coaxed into full bloom. The chapel had been built way back in the early days and was the perfect place for bride and groom to take their vows. In fact, his own throat had tightened during the moments when the bridal vows had been exchanged. The utter seriousness with which those vows had been exchanged he had found intensely moving.

The good thing was he felt he had absorbed a lot of the happiness that shone out of bride and groom. It had happened without his working at it. The best man was the bride’s brother, Kieran, a terrific-looking guy; the chief bridesmaid was Guy’s beautiful, elegantly refined sister, Alexandra. Guy had told him early on Alex and Kieran would soon be tying the knot themselves. He just hoped Kieran, whom he had only just met, would agree with his sister to sell Briar’s Ridge to him.

He was sure Guy was going to put in a good word. Nevertheless he was feeling a bit nervous the deal might fall through. The property had been allowed to run down—he understood their late father had been ailing for some time before he died—but he knew it could be rescued and brought back to its former high standing. He couldn’t say yet if he would stop at Briar’s Ridge as he had big plans, but it would be an excellent start.

It was as they were coming out of the chapel to the joyous strains of the organ and the peal of the chapel bells that he saw her—with extraordinarily sharp focus.

She was looking exquisite. She stood out from the beautifully dressed crowd around her, as one would expect such a woman to do. Even the glorious multi-coloured lights that were now spilling through a stack of tall stained glass windows sought her out, suffusing her face, her glowing hair and her bare shoulders in radiance.

If his eyes had found her, her eyes had found him.

There was an expression that seemed to fit how he felt: being struck by a lightning bolt from heaven. He couldn’t say if that was a good thing or not, but it sure as hell raised big questions. He didn’t for a moment doubt it.

She looked away, as though she had seen his thoughts on his face, her thick blond page boy falling against her slanted cheekbones. If he were smitten, she was making sure he knew she wasn’t. He had to change that. He didn’t know if it was a wise decision or not. He didn’t care. Despite all his plans he had been shot down in flames. Remarkable it should happen when he least wanted or expected it. He even had an idea he couldn’t return to the man he was. Maybe the right woman might be able to save him, make all the pain go away?

A big might, was the cynical whisper in his head. She had said she knew the Callaghans. What she hadn’t said was she had been invited to Alana Callaghan’s wedding to his friend Guy Radcliffe. Now, why keep that a secret? Why act as though she was never likely to see him again? Perhaps she was as troubled in her way as he was in his?

He found he wanted those maybes resolved. It might shock and amaze him, but he wanted to know all there was to know about this woman. All of it. Even if he wasn’t ready.

Outside in the brilliant sunshine—the sun was blazing out of a cloudless opal-blue sky—the rest of the guests, those not able to fit inside the chapel, were milling all over the manicured green lawn. It was as big a wedding as he had ever attended. There were quite a few children, all dressed up for the occasion—especially the little girls, in their pretty party frocks—laughing and bobbing in and out of the crowds, playing games as children had always done and always would. Massive cream-and-gold marquees had been erected in the extensive home grounds. In the shimmering heat they seemed to float above the emerald grass.

She had to be deliberately holding back, because he didn’t see her again until they were all seated in the bridal marquee.

It didn’t take him long to locate her. She was at a table for eight flanked by two men, one around forty-five, the other his age. Both were dancing attendance on her. The food was superb, as were the wines—lashings of both. He was seated between two cousins of the bride, Violette and Lilli. Both of them were extremely good-looking. Perhaps Violette had the edge, but even she couldn’t hold a candle to her cousin Alana, Guy’s beautiful bride. Linc yielded to their harmless flirtations, effortlessly doing his bit. This kind of thing he was long used to. Both sisters appeared to find him worthy of their attentions, but in reality his antennae was constantly twitching, almost completely given over to tracking her. By some magic means he was now a woman-watcher. And that was just plain dumb. He was a guy who liked to hold the whip hand.

The speeches were over—all of them excellent, hitting just the right note. Guy had very movingly opened his heart to his bride and all the guests were applauding, everyone was so touched. Looking down the bridal table, decked with what looked like thousands of exquisite white orchids flown in from Thailand, Linc could see a little tear run down Alana’s cheek. He knew it for what it was—a tear of overwhelming happiness. Weddings were times of high emotion. What he hadn’t expected was to get all emotional himself. He tried to stand back from that kind of thing. Much better to keep all the emotions locked up inside. Grief, abandonment… As a boy he had been so crazy he had even blamed his mother for dying, for going away and leaving him. And his highly confrontational relationship with his father he had to paste over. He couldn’t bear to think about that poor silly creature Cheryl.

At last the formalities were over, and everyone was free to roam from table to table, meeting up with old friends, making new ones, joining in the dancing. A great five-piece group was playing. The guy on the sax was so good—the sound, the form, the phrasing—he would have been happy just to sit there, listening, champagne glass topped up regularly. Only Lilli caught hold of his shoulder, urging him to his feet. Someone with a professional-looking video camera started to film them. He guessed the Radcliffe-Callaghan wedding would make it into the glossy magazines. He might even make it himself. He didn’t look too bad in his classy suit, with a pink rose with a bluish tint in his buttonhole to match Lilli’s sexy satin gown. All four bridesmaids were wearing drop earrings of large Tahitian pearls with a fair-sized diamond above—a very generous gift from Guy.

‘This is wonderful, isn’t it?’ Lilli gushed. ‘Alana is my favourite cousin!’

He wondered about that.

After a while he felt as if he had danced with every girl inside the marquee except her. Every time he made a move towards her some other guy beat him to it, or one of the sisters clamoured for another dance. The elder one, Violette, was being rather forceful about it. Lilli had confided in him that Violette had been a long-time girlfriend of Guy’s.

‘He nearly married her, you know.’

He took that with another cup of salt. He had a feeling Guy was a one-woman man, and that woman was now his wife.

She must have moved outdoors.

Pleasant as it was, he was continually trapped by pretty girls, eyes shining, cheeks flushed. He couldn’t be rude and turn them down. He needed to keep up his role as groomsman.

‘Don’t disappear on me,’ Lilli begged, her bright blue eyes locking on his. ‘I promised Mike here another dance.’

It was his moment to make a move. His decline into sheer neediness was so dramatic, it was mind-blowing. He actually needed to see the woman. He actually wanted to see her smile.

A lovely gentle breeze was blowing, carrying the mingled scents of Wangaree’s spectacular gardens. A lot of other guests had drifted outside, most still hugging their champagne glasses.

Where was she? She couldn’t have gone home. Guy and Alana hadn’t left yet. Alana, as tradition demanded, hadn’t yet thrown her bouquet. The honeymoon was to be spent in Europe, but the happy couple were staying overnight in a suite at one of Sydney’s luxury hotels, before flying out to Paris via Dubai the next day.

Obviously she had decided to lose herself. It didn’t make him mad, but intrigued. He continued on his way, skirting the main paths bordered by banks of azaleas and rhododendrons, a positive sea of them, pink, white, ruby-red. He traversed a small ornamental bridge that spanned a glittering dark green lily pond before heading towards what looked like a secret garden. He was enormously impressed with the way Guy kept the place. The maintenance of the gardens alone was a huge achievement. Wangaree was a country estate in the grand manner. Even Gilgarra, though a top New England property, couldn’t match it.

The fringing trees along the path kept the light a cool subdued green, even on this brilliant sunny day. His mother had kept a lovely garden, continuing to work in it even as she’d sickened. He remembered the delight she’d had in her roses. She’d adored the English roses in the walled garden. David Austin roses, he remembered, luxurious and wonderfully fragrant. Perfume had been a big priority with his mother. Her David Austin roses had done well for her. As a boy he had spent many hours helping her, doing what he had called the ‘hard yakka’, all the while drunk on perfume and contentment. He had an eye for beauty.

Cheryl, now, had no interest in gardens at all. Jewellery was her big thing. Chuck had shown a lot of spunk, demanding their father turn over to him their mother’s engagement ring—a large emerald surrounded by diamonds. Their mother had always said it should go to her firstborn’s bride. Whenever she’d said it she had always caught hold of Linc’s hand, as if she had something else lined up especially for him. He thought it would have been her pearls, a gorgeous necklet her parents had given her for her twenty-first birthday. If he ever saw them around Cheryl’s neck he thought he might die.

Gradually the stone path was narrowing—he supposed to enhance its secret quality. He had to bend his head beneath a glorious shower of blossoms from a free-standing iron arch that was wreathed in a delicate violet-blue vine. It might be easy passage for most people, but not those topping six feet. He could be following entirely the wrong path, but somehow he didn’t think so. He fancied the spell that had been put on him was luring him on.

As he stepped inside the entrance to the walled garden, flanked by two huge matching urns spilling extravagant flowers, there she was: the only other one to find that enchanted glade.

He had followed in her footsteps. He didn’t know whether to be troubled or amused by the fact he was utterly besotted with some aspect of her. Maybe when he got to know her it would pass. There was that cynical voice again. She was seated on a garlanded swing that was suspended from a sturdy tree branch. Wasn’t that exactly where one might expect such a beautiful creature to be, in her beribboned short dress? The dress was exactly the same colour as the flowers of the vine that grew so profusely up the swing’s support chains, a porcelain pink.

He paused, looking towards her. ‘You couldn’t have found a more bewitching spot.’

‘Hello,’ she said simply. She didn’t seem at all surprised to see him. ‘You’re right. How did you know where to find me?’

He gave a self-mocking smile. ‘I just followed the magic petals. You did strew them for me, didn’t you?’

‘If that’s how you want to interpret it.’ Her glance held faint irony, as though she thought it wouldn’t hurt him to be taken down a peg.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said, moving over the daisy-flecked green turf towards her. ‘I did find you.’

‘You were looking.’ It wasn’t a question.

No point in denying it. He ran a hand through his shock of black hair, pushing back the unruly lock that had fallen forward onto his brow. ‘I’ve been trying to get to your side for hours.’

She began to swing, very gently. ‘How could you possibly fit me in between partners? You were never short of one.’ The minute it was out of her mouth, Daniela regretted it. It sounded as if she had been keeping an eye on him. She hadn’t been. Well, maybe she had directed a few glances.

‘That thing actually works?’ he asked, his gaze on the swing, wondering if it was safe. It looked more like a marvellous decorative element in the garden than functional.

‘You can see it does.’ She began to swing higher. ‘The garlands are a lovely idea, don’t you think? The flowers spring from these little planter boxes fixed to the base of the swing. See?’ She slowed to point them out. ‘It’s the most amazing garden. I love it. I expect fairies with wonderful sparkling wings hold midnight parties here.’

He could feel the impact of her—her beauty and mystique—in every cell of his body. ‘Do you suppose they ask mere mortals to join in? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to the wedding?’

She flew a little higher. ‘It didn’t seem to me we would meet again.’

‘Oddly, I don’t believe you.’ A good thing she was a featherweight, but he was still getting anxious. He didn’t want to see her fall.

Abruptly she slowed again. ‘Perhaps you’re too sure of yourself?’ She knew she sounded touchy, prickly, but she couldn’t seem to control it.

‘And the idea upsets you? What sort of man do you like?’ He moved, his hands reaching out for the flower-decked chains, testing them. They held very firm under pressure and he began to propel her forward.

‘I’ll recognise him if I ever find him!’ she exclaimed, sounding a little breathless.

‘Tell me. What’s a young woman like you doing here all by yourself on a swing?’

‘All by myself?’ Briefly she met his eyes. ‘I thought you were with me, pushing me?’

‘Aren’t I expected to in such a situation? Hold still for a moment,’ he cautioned, as on a downward motion a thick green tendril sprang out from the vine and hooked into her hair.

Immediately her small high-arched feet in their pretty high-heeled gilded sandals anchored her to the ground.

He freed her. A small thing, but it hit him hard. She put up a hand to smooth her hair a mere second before he drew his away.

Skin on skin. He could have been wrong, but it seemed like an effort for both of them to pull away. Was he crazy? He wanted to pull her off that swing, pull her into his arms, make love to her there and then. Such was his physical turmoil.

Perhaps something of what he was feeling got through to her, because she gave him a look that came close to a plea. ‘It’s better if we return to the reception.’

‘As you wish.’ He inclined his head. ‘Is there any particular reason you don’t want to be alone with me, Daniela?’

His use of her name affected her. He had a good voice. A voice to listen to. Voices were important to her. She slid off the seat of the swing, then stood to face him. ‘You flatter yourself, Mr Mastermann.’

‘I think not,’ he contradicted. ‘And it’s Linc. Or Carl, if you prefer.’ His mother had been the only one to call him Carl. ‘Lincoln was my mother’s maiden name. It’s something of a tradition within pastoral families to include the mother’s maiden name among the baptismal names.’

She tilted her luminous head. ‘I have heard of it, though I’ve never had the pleasure of mixing in such elevated circles. You say your friends call you Linc? I’ll call you Carl.’ She knew she was being perverse, but she felt a powerful warning to keep her feet very firmly on the ground. Linc Mastermann was a charmer, and a dangerous one. Not for a minute could she forget that. He wasn’t an easy man, either. She had already taken soundings of his depths.

‘So tell me about you?’ he was asking as they moved out of the glade. ‘All I know so far is you’re Daniela Adami. You’re home from London—your grandfather told me—where you were sous chef in a famous three Michelin star restaurant. Why did you come home, given you had such a great career going for you? Or do you plan to go back some time soon?’

She took her time answering. ‘I’m here to see my family. I’d been missing them so much. Italian families are like that. They crave togetherness. Besides, I haven’t had a vacation in quite some time.’

He wondered briefly, cynically, if his family were missing him. Chuck would be, but Chuck had found himself a girlfriend—Louise Martin. He couldn’t have been more pleased for them. Louise was a great girl. ‘You were born in Italy?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘I’m first-generation Australian. Everyone in my family loves Australia. We feel at home here, but my parents and my grandfather like to make a trip home to Italy at least every couple of years to see relatives.’

Again he had to bend his head beneath flowery boughs, while she passed beneath them unscathed. ‘I spent a whole year in Italy after I finished university. Rome, mostly,’ he told her.

‘They do say all roads lead there.’

‘Ecco Roma!’ he exclaimed, falling back effortlessly into Italian.

She paused to look up at him. He was so very much taller she had to tilt her head back. ‘Your accent is good.’

‘I must have a good ear,’ he said. ‘At least that’s what I was told. For someone born in Australia, you still retain a trace of your accent.’

‘I know.’ Just the merest flash of a smile. He all but missed it. ‘We’re bilingual as a family. Actually, I speak French as well. It’s been a big help to me in my line of work.’

‘As a chef?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m surprised you don’t speak fifteen languages.’ He made an attempt to get a bigger smile from her. Longer. ‘Sing, paint, play the piano, maybe even the harp? What you don’t look like is you eat much of your own cooking!’ he mocked gently. ‘You’re what? One hundred and two, one hundred and four pounds?’ His downbent gaze lightly skimmed her petite figure.

He loved her dress, just a slip of a thing that left her golden arms and lovely legs bare. Low oval neck, short skirt—simplicity itself. Only what it was made of turned it into a work of art.

‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ she asked, turning her great dark eyes on him almost with censure.

‘Actually, I was looking at your dress. What is it made of? Beribboned lace?’

She kept walking, twirling a perfumed pink blossom in her hand. ‘If you must know it’s embroidered crocheted cotton by a top designer.’

‘Okay, I’m impressed.’ He laughed in his throat.

‘Thank you.’ She coloured just a tiny bit. ‘I bought it in London. It wasn’t cheap.’

‘Worth every penny, I’d say,’ he said dryly. ‘You should never take it off. So, how long is the vacation going to be?’ How much time did he have? God, was he mad? This woman was drawing him deeper and deeper beneath her spell.

‘I’m in no hurry to go back,’ she said.

She couldn’t tell him she feared to go back. She had told no one. Not even her family. Gerald Templeton, the only son of a very wealthy and influential upper-class family, a man about town in swinging London, had in a short period of time become obsessively attracted to her—to the extent he had turned into a stalker when she’d told him she no longer wanted to see him. It wasn’t beyond him to follow her to Australia if he could track her down. All it took was a plane ticket.

He saw the shadow that crossed her face. ‘Sounds like this vacation is more like an escape?’ He was following a gut feeling. Chuck always did say he was good at interpreting vibes. Besides, one could learn crucial things through instinct and gut feelings.