The Cattleman

In the distance, the broad, deep river that wound through the city’s heart glittered in the afternoon sunlight. Nature stirred her, gave her strength. Comforted, she tried to work out what she was going to say to Brett. Her uncle, trained as an architect from whence, becoming bored, had branched out into interior design, had given her the commission. She was desperate to show him she measured up, but despite her best efforts, things weren’t going very well. She’d lavished a lot of time and effort on her designs for the Siegals’ resplendent new river-front home. But the Siegals were proving to be rather difficult clients. At least the wife, Chic, a fixture at charity functions, was. Couldn’t be her real name, Jessica suspected, though she stood by Mrs. Siegal’s decision to make one up. She must have considered Chic had impact. After all, she was only five-two standing fully erect.

But it was hell trying to deal with her. The fact that her husband was a multimillionaire might have had something to do with her endless waffling. De Vere’s Design Studio had a few millionaires on the books, but most of its clients staved off mini-heart attacks by having a firm budget in mind. Her uncle Brett was in his late forties and had reached the point in his career when he could handpick his clients. Such a shame, then, he’d let Chic Siegal through the door.

About ready to join her uncle, Jessica checked herself over in the long narrow wall mirror. The lime-green suit and the fuchsia-pink-and-lime camisole beneath it had cost a month’s pay, but Brett was a stickler for looking good, considering it was part of the job. He, himself, was polished perfection. In her entire life, Jessica had never seen her uncle slide into sloppiness. She winked at her reflection then walked down the corridor to his office, waggling her fingers at Becky, a senior designer, and stopping at her door. Becky’s desk was awash with swatches of gorgeous new fabrics she was tossing around with abandon. Turquoise, aquamarine, malachite. Jessica smiled. Malachite sounded much better than olive. As a schoolgirl hired for the holidays, Jessica had adored being in Becky’s office. She still did. The space was a veritable Aladdin’s cave.

Becky beamed back. “Love your suit, kid! Watcha pay for that?”

“Not telling.”

“We’re friends, aren’t we?” Becky, fifty for a few years now, in her youth powerfully pretty and still hanging in there, peered over the top of the glasses she had finally made the decision to wear.

“Sure. I just can’t get my tongue around the price tag.”

“Well, you look like a million dollars.” Becky gave her a thumbs-up.

“Thanks, Beck.”

Jessica resumed walking, smiling left and right at staff, eight in all, clever, creative people very loyal to the firm. She had joined De Vere’s Design Studio soon after completing her fine-arts degree with honors. As a result of her degree, she’d been offered a position at the Queensland art gallery, with good prospects for advancement, but she’d turned it down. A decision about which her eminent lawyer father, a pillar of society, a man who thought he had a perfect right to speak his mind at all times, had been most unhappy. “Working for your uncle is a very frivolous decision, Jessica. Your mother and I had high hopes for you, but our hopes don’t seem to mean anything to you.” Her father generally spoke with all the authority of the pope.

The fact that her stunningly handsome and gifted uncle was gay might have had something to do with it. Brett’s sexual orientation made quite a few people in the family a tad uncomfortable, but she had dealt with the issue by moving out of the family home into a nice two-bedroom apartment in a trendy inner-city neighbourhood. She was able to do so thanks to the nest egg that Nan, her beloved maternal grandmother—Brett’s mother, Alex—had left her. Jessica had been very close to Alex. In fact, her full name was Jessica Alexandra Tennant. Christening her Jessica had not been her mother’s decision. She had wanted the name Alexandra, after her own mother, for her newborn, but such was her deference to her husband that she had given in to Jessica after her baby’s strong-minded, paternal grandmother, a large imposing woman who wore so many layers of clothing that one never knew exactly what sort of body lay beneath. It was she who had descended on the young couple like a galleon in full sail, for frequent, unscheduled visits. Jessica’s mother had once confided to her daughter that the early days of her marriage had been like living in a police state.

Jessica had been devastated when her beloved nan, with never a complaint, had died of cancer when Jessica was eighteen. She knew Brett greatly missed his mother. Nan had offered that rare thing—unconditional love. Jessica’s formidable maternal grandfather, much like her own father, had great difficulty accepting Uncle Brett’s homosexuality, seeing it as a blot on the family escutcheon and a major hurdle in life. The hurdle part Jessica was forced to concede had come into play; she had seen it in action. But she loved and admired her uncle, and she got on famously with his partner of twenty years, both in business and in life, Tim Langford. Tim was a sweet man, exceptionally creative, with a prodigious, largely self-taught knowledge of antiques. Tim handled the antiques-and-decorative-objects side of the business.

Brett was working at his desk, smooth blond head bent over an architectural drawing, but when she tapped at his door, he looked up with his faintly twisted, rather heartbreaking smile. Very few people saw the full picture of Brett De Vere. “Hi! How did the lunch go?”

She took the seat opposite him. “Perfectly awful! Thanks for asking. At least it didn’t amount to a scene. Sean’s a really nice person, but I couldn’t let him go on thinking sooner or later we were bound for the altar. That wouldn’t have been fair to him. Besides, I like my independence.”

“How could you fall in love with someone like that, anyway?” Brett, who had never hit it off with Sean, asked. “He could never make you happy. He’s so damned ordinary.”

“Maybe, but it took me a while to see it.”

“At least you have,” Brett said dryly.

“Next time I’ll go for a Rhodes scholar,” she joked. “I’m not ready to settle down yet. I’m enjoying my life just the way it is.”

“Until the right guy comes along,” Brett murmured, sitting back and making a steeple of his long, elegant fingers. “Then you’ll change your mind. Have you managed to get that truly silly woman who never shuts up on side?”

“Ever so slowly,” she sighed. “The trouble with having too much money is it opens up too many options. Mrs. Siegal spends her time trolling through design magazines to the point she simply can’t decide whether she wants classical, traditional grandeur, lots of drama, ultramodern or a hybrid of the lot.”

“Give her pure theatre,” Brett advised. “The only trouble with that is De Vere’s puts its name to it. Maybe I should make an attempt to help her decide?”

Jessica looked at him. Her uncle was an elegant, austerely handsome man with fine features and an air of detachment. Extremely intelligent, he was inclined to be sharp-tongued, even caustic at times. His eyes were green. Like hers. His hair ash blond, again like hers. They shared the family face. Alex’s face. Alex’s coloring.

“Well?” he prompted breaking into her brief reverie.

“Why not? She fancies herself in love with you.” Indeed Brett’s air of unattainability drove some women wild.

“A lot of good that will do her,” he said with biting self-mockery.

“What I don’t get is they know you’re not interested, yet they fall in love with you all the same.”

“A bitter pill no woman worth her salt can swallow,” he returned. “It’s the Liz Taylor–Montgomery Clift syndrome. Women always want the man they can’t have.”

“Is that what it is?” Jessica swiveled a quarter turn in her black leather chair. “Be that as it may, at this point I need help.”

“Surely not the talented young woman short-listed for Best Contemporary Residential Project!” Brett raised a brow.

“It would be quite a coup to win it.”

“A coup, yes, but not beyond you. You’re good, Jass,” he said, giving his professional, uncompromised opinion. “I haven’t handed over a client who hasn’t been delighted with your services. In fact, I could say with some confidence that my mantle, when I go to the angels, will fall on you. You’re developing a following with your watercolor renderings of our clients’ favourite rooms. They love them. Single-handedly you’re reviving the old genre. Oh, and remember it was my idea.”

“Don’t I always give you credit?”

“Of course you do.”

It was Brett who had encouraged Jessica to turn her hobby of painting interiors in watercolors, an art project carried on from her student days, into a lucrative sideline. For the past year, she’d worked very successfully on half a dozen commissions, along with the major commission of designing the stage sets for the Bijou Theatre’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Maybe one day she would follow her uncle into designing stage and movie sets.

“Is that what you wanted to speak to me about, the Siegals?” she asked.

“That was the second thing. First—” Brett ruffled through his papers again, this time finding a long fax “—what do you know about Broderick Bannerman?”

“Bannerman…Bannerman…rings a bell.” Jessica sorted through her memory bank. “Hang on. Don’t tell me.” She held up a hand. “He’s the cattle baron, right? Flagship station, one of a chain, by name of something starting with an M…M…M…Mokhani, that’s it. Bannerman always figures in the Bulletin’s Rich List.”

“The very one.” Brett looked at her with approval. He leaned forward to hand over the fax, murmuring something complimentary about her powers of recall. “And he remembers you! He saw that interview on TV with the ubiquitous Bruce Hilton when he so easily could have missed it. That was just after you’d been short-listed for your award. Apparently he was so impressed he wants you to handle the interior design for his new temple in the wilds—‘temple’ is how some magazine described it. Lord knows what’s wrong with the original homestead. I’m sure I read somewhere it was magnificent, or at the very worst, eminently livable.”

Jessica, busy concentrating on the contents of the fax, lifted her head in amazement. “I don’t get this. With all the established interior designers in the country, let alone you, purely on the basis of the proverbial fifteen minutes of fame on a talk show, he’s singled out little ol’ me with scant history in the business and only twenty-four?”

“It would appear so,” Brett replied blandly. “Obviously he’s a man who can sum up someone on the spot. Remember, you’re a sophisticated twenty-four with natural gifts.”

“How could he want me when he could have you?” Jessica asked in some wonderment.

“How sweet you are, Jass.” Brett smiled. “In addition, you’re respectful. Look, just believe in yourself. Take risks. I’ve taught you everything you know. Between you and me and the paper bin, I’m the best in the business. If I tell you you’re ready, you’re ready. I’m thrilled he wants De Vere’s. I’m thrilled he wants you. For one thing, I love you, for another, there’s no way I’m heading off for the Northern Territory. The great Outback isn’t my scene, splendid though it is. Parts of it are downright eerie. Tim and I were quite spooked on our trip to the Red Centre. Wandering around the Olgas was a thoroughly unnerving experience. I could have sworn we were being watched by guardian spirits none too happy we were invading their territory. It was an extraordinary feeling and I’m told it’s not that unusual.”

“Well, it is sacred ground,” Jessica commented, having heard numerous tales about the Outback’s mystical ability to raise the hairs on the back of one’s neck. “‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’” she quoted. “Getting back to the cattle baron, or should I say, king? Did you know Nicole Kidman is a descendant of Sir Sydney Kidman, the original Cattle King?”

“Few of us have your mastery of trivia, Jass. No, I didn’t. Neither of them short of a bob.”

“Unlike us, Nicole has a wonderfully supportive family,” Jessica said. “Do you really think I’m ready for a project of this size?” she asked very seriously. The word had got around she was good, but she never thought an immensely rich Territorian would seek her services. Not for years and years.

Brett interlocked his hands behind his head, stretching his long, lean torso. “Are you doubting yourself?”

“I’m doing my best not to, but as I recall, Mr. Bannerman has a reputation for being ruthless. Who knows? Some of my designs mightn’t suit him. He could turn nasty. I read an article about him a year or two ago. A lot of people interviewed weren’t very fond of him, though most wisely insisted on having their names withheld. Word was, he did terrible things to them in business. His cattle stations represent only a fraction of Bannerman holdings. He’s into everything.”

“Don’t let that worry you. As long as he’s not into drugs. Then we’d have a problem.” Brett straightened, shoving a file across the table. “On the plus side, he makes large donations to charity. Might help with his tax, but apparently he wants to, so he can’t be all bad. He owns Lowanna Resort Island on the Great Barrier Reef. High-rise apartment blocks on the Gold Coast and the tourist strip in North Queensland, mining and exploration developments, foreign investments. He’s loaded.”

“Excessively rich clients are a pain in the neck,” Jessica said from very recent experience. “We must consider he might be even more impossible to work with than Chic Siegal.”

“Surely you’re not going to turn the commission down.” Brett shifted position, apparently trying, ineffectually, to make himself comfortable in his antique captain’s chair.

“I have no intention of turning it down. I want lots and lots of commissions. Still, before I sign up, there’s the small matter of crocodiles. They insist on getting their long snouts into the news.” In a recent event on a remote beach in far North Queensland, one had waddled up from the water, crossed the sand and entered a camper’s tent, dragging him out. All that had saved the hapless man was the incredibly brave action of a fellow camper, a grandmother in her sixties, who without hesitation had jumped on the crocodile’s back, then another camper had shot it.

Brett grimaced. “It was a remote beach. One must treat crocodiles with respect like the Territorians do. We talk about their crocs. They talk about our traffic accidents. I don’t imagine Bannerman has given crocs an open invitation to waddle around the station, anyway. Just think what could happen.”

“You don’t have to look so ghoulish. Speaking of which there was a big mystery on Mokhani many years ago.” Jessica frowned, dredging her memory for more information. “Surely it’s been the subject of articles over the years?”

“‘The Mokhani Mystery,’ as it came to be called,” Brett said, having read a few of the articles.

“Didn’t a governess disappear?”

“So she did,” Brett said briskly, apparently not really wanting to talk about the old story. “It made front-page news at the time. But for years now everything about it’s been quiet, though I’m surprised someone hasn’t written a book about it. Horrible business, but not recent. It must be all of fifty years ago. Which reminds me my big five-oh is coming. Aging is not fun.”

“Don’t take it to heart. You’ve never looked better.” Jessica was sincere. “Anyway, you can always do what Becky does. Birthday every three years like the elections.”

“Women can get away with these things. What’s the old saying? ‘If a woman tells you her age, she’ll tell you anything.’ I look after myself and I don’t smoke. At least not for years now. Couldn’t do without my wine cellar, but wine in moderation is good for you. I’ll be very angry if the medical profession suddenly disputes it. But back to Bannerman. You can be sure he’s put up plenty of signs warning visitors about nomadic crocodiles.”

“You think a crocodile may have taken the governess?” Jessica asked with some horror.

“How can one not hate them?” Brett shuddered. “Poor little soul. I can just see her picnicking without a care in the world beside a lagoon and up pops a prehistoric monster. There have been a few cases of that in North Queensland in recent times.”

“More likely in one particular case the husband pushed her into the lagoon,” Jessica offered darkly, having come to that conclusion along with a lot of other people, including the investigating police officer, who just couldn’t prove it. “I can’t believe you’re sending me up there.”

“Sweetie, you’re at no risk.” Brett took her seriously when she was only teasing. “I’ll be very surprised if you even lay eyes on a crocodile. I understand the station is a good way inland.”

“I hope so, but I’m sure I’ve read it’s within striking distance of Kakadu National Park, World Heritage area, reputed to be fabulous and home of the crocodile.”

“I’m quite sure you’ll be safe. The very last thing in the world I want is to have my favourite niece vanish into the wilderness. I love you dearly.”

“I love you, too,” Jessica answered. She resumed reading the fax. “He’d like me to be in Darwin by Monday, the twenty-second where I’ll be picked up at Darwin airport and taken to the station. The twenty-second! That’s two weeks away.” Her green eyes widened.

“I know. Doesn’t leave you much time.” Brett gazed past her linen-clad shoulder, a smile transforming the severity of his handsome features. “Not more junk, Tim?” he drawled. “You’re hooked on it.”

Jessica swiveled around, a big, welcoming smile on her face. “Hi, Timmy. How did it go in Sydney?” Her eyes settled with considerable curiousity on a large canvas he was carrying beneath his arm. “What have you got there?”

“My dears, you’ll never believe!” Tim, thick black hair, deep dark eyes, extraordinarily youthful-looking and dressed casually in T-shirt and jeans, staggered through the open doorway.

“We don’t need any more paintings, Tim dear,” Brett warned.

“You’re going to love this one,” Tim promised, his voice reflecting his excitement. “I had one hell of a battle to get it. Some crazy old bat I swear was in costume was after it. No manners whatsoever. We nearly had a fistfight right there on the floor of Christie’s.”

“If you’ve bought some bloody flower painting, I’ll kill you,” Brett said. Tim had excellent taste but he did overly favor flower paintings.

“Voilà!” Tim rested the painting against the wall of built-in cabinets, gesturing as if at a masterpiece.

There was total silence.

Then a stunned. “My God!” blurted out from Brett.

“Where in the world did you get this?” Jessica was equally transfixed.

“I told you. Christie’s auction.” Tim whipped a satisfied grin over both their stunned faces.

“That’s one of the most haunting paintings I’ve ever seen,” Brett murmured, standing up the better to examine it. “The girl could be Jass.”

“Now you know why I wanted it.” Tim suddenly slumped into a chair as though his legs were giving out. “It made my hair stand on end.”

“So everyone has a double, after all,” Brett muttered. “What can you tell us about this? What’s the provenance?”

“I took a chance on this one,” Tim admitted, addressing his partner, the dominant of the two. Both men were devoted to each other, though Brett had strayed a few times over the years, causing much suffering. Tim brimmed over with charm and good humor, far more comfortable in his own skin than the at-war-with-himself Brett.

“No one knows anything about the artist. It’s signed in a fashion in the lower right-hand corner—H.B. It came in on consignment with a batch of paintings by established artists. There was comment about its beauty, but the serious collectors only buy names. The old girl I’m talking about was after it, I can tell you that. She even offered me far more than I paid for it.”

“It’s beautifully painted,” Jessica observed, making her own close inspection. “Perhaps the artist was in love with her. It has a decidedly erotic quality, don’t you think? I wonder who she was?”

“No date on it?” Brett asked.

“Nothing. From how she’s dressed I’d say late fourties, early fifties.” Jessica, who had studied fashion through the ages, remarked. “She’s very young. Seventeen, eighteen?”

“It’s a particularly fine example of color and light,” Brett said. He had excellent critical judgment. For some inexplicable reason he wasn’t comfortable with the sudden appearance of this remarkable painting. The work struck him as decidedly odd.

“Notice the background,” Jessica was saying. “It’s fairly loose. No clear outlines, but I’d say it’s definitely the great outdoors. Not a suburban garden. The long, curly blond hair is marvelous. So are the green eyes staring right at you. It’s quite powerful, actually. Sort of mesmeric. Don’t you feel that?” She looked back at the two men.

Brett nodded, turning to Tim. “How much did this set us back?”

“Twenty thousand,” Tim said, looking like he was about to get up and run.

“Wh-a-t?” Brett snapped. “An unknown artist?”

“But plenty of panache! That old girl knew him. Or of him,” Tim said defensively. “I’m sure of it. Besides I couldn’t let it go anywhere else. It belongs here.” His dark eyes appealed to Jessica. “She, the girl in the portrait, wanted me to buy it. She moved me to do it. You understand that, Jass. You’re so sensitive. For all we know, she could be a relation.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We know all the relations, more’s the pity,” Brett said acidly, giving his partner a sharp look.

“Well, we all agree Jessica is extraordinarily like her.”

“Proving as I said, we all have a doppelgänger, nothing else. Next time you go off to these auctions I’m coming with you.”

“I’d love that.” Tim grinned.

“Actually, we could put it up in a prominent place in the showroom.” Brett was starting to come round. “It’ll certainly generate discussion.”

“I thought that, too,” Tim was suddenly all smiles. “Besides, what’s twenty thousand? You’ve got plenty.”

“That’s because I spend little time at auctions,” Brett said dryly, returning to his desk. “By the way, I can’t come to terms with this chair. It looks good, but it’s not kind to my tailbone. Find me something else, will you, Tim?”

“Sure. I’d remind you that I did say it wouldn’t be all that comfortable, except you don’t like being reminded.”

“Thank you for that.” Brett lowered his long, lean length into the mahogany chair. “Now, you’ve shown us your big surprise. Hopeless to top that, nevertheless we’ll try. We’ve got a surprise for you.”

“Do tell.” Tim slipped Jessica something he’d taken out of his pocket.

“What is it?”

“Just a little prezzie.” Tim smiled at her.

“If you’d be so good.” Brett raised a supercilious eyebrow, then continued. “Broderick Bannerman, the cattle baron. Hails from the Northern Territory—”

“How absolutely thrilling!” Tim broke in enthusiastically. “I know the name.”

“It gets better. He’s offered De Vere’s a huge commission. Specifically he wants Jass to handle the entire interior design for his new Outback temple.”

Tim’s expression turned to one of amazement. He stared from one to the other. “You’re making this up, aren’t you?”

“No, Tim, we’re not,” Brett replied, somewhat testily this time. “Hand him the fax, would you, Jass. Bannerman saw her interview with Bruce Hilton and was so impressed he shot off that little lot.”

Tim scanned the fax quickly, then looked up. “Good grief, I’m blown away. So is she going? It’s a big job.”

“One never knows what one is capable of until one tries,” said Brett. “Of course she’s going. There’s plenty we can do to help and advise. It’s a huge commission. There’s bound to be good coverage and flow-ons for us.”

Tim’s brow furrowed. “Are you comfortable about sending Jessica by herself? She’s our baby. Now I think about it, wasn’t there some murder up there? Passed into Outback folklore? Remember, we found the Outback one scary place.”