Welcome to the intensely emotional world of
Margaret Way
where rugged, brooding bachelors meet their match in the burning heart of Australia …
Praise for the author
“Margaret Way delivers …
vividly written, dramatic stories.”
—RT Book Reviews
“With climactic scenes, dramatic imagery
and bold characters, Margaret Way makes the Outback come alive …”
—RT Book Reviews
“Your early life was hard, Josh. I could never know how hard. But these days as a highly successful businessman you’ve gained a reputation for honesty and integrity. You always were smarter than the rest of us,” she added drolly.
“You learn a lot of skills in juvenile detention,” he told her very bluntly.
“How to beat someone up?”
His blue eyes were like missiles programmed to make a direct hit. “Now, why aren’t I shocked? You’ve been reading up on my files, Clio.”
“No, no!” Rapidly she shook her head. Not that she hadn’t wanted to.
“So who was it? Your dad? Your father would love me to disappear overnight. Why is that, do you suppose?” he asked, knowing full well the answer.
“He thinks there’s a worrying connection between the two of us. A bond that was forged years ago.”
“Wasn’t it?” he asked, without missing a beat. “I was your hero for a day.”
She waited for a moment, not even certain what to say. From that day on Josh Hart had found a place in her heart and mind. “What I thought of you hasn’t changed, Josh. You cover up what you feel. I cover up what I feel. It’s safer that way.”
“For whom, exactly?” he asked flatly. “Your family? The entire community? I’m still the bad boy in town. That won’t change.”
About the Author
MARGARET WAY, a definite Leo, was born and raised in the subtropical River City of Brisbane, capital of the Sunshine State of Queensland. A Conservatorium-trained pianist, teacher, accompanist and vocal coach, she found her musical career came to an unexpected end when she took up writing—initially as a fun thing to do. She currently lives in a harbourside apartment at beautiful Raby Bay, a thirty-minute drive from the state capital, where she loves dining alfresco on her plant-filled balcony, overlooking a translucent green marina filled with all manner of pleasure craft: from motor cruisers costing millions of dollars, and big, graceful yachts with carved masts standing tall against the cloudless blue sky, to little bay runabouts. No one and nothing is in a mad rush, and she finds the laid-back village atmosphere very conducive to her writing. With well over one hundred books to her credit, she still believes her best is yet to come.
Australia’s
Maverick Millionaire
Margaret Way
PROLOGUE
Now
CLIO was having the dream that had haunted her for years. One half of her was held prisoner by it; the other half was struggling to break free. Eventually she awoke in a sweat, her legs bound by the tangle of bedclothes. She kicked the top sheet away, rolled onto her back, trying to ease her breathing. Her heart was beating so hard and fast it was making her ears pound. Fourteen years since her little cousin Ella, strapped into her stroller, had plunged headlong into Paradise Lagoon but it might have been yesterday her memories were so vivid. Everyone had back alleys in their subconscious: hers had stored away the near tragedy, so it could rerun it at frequent intervals. Sometimes she thought her memories would never recede into shadow—the breathless terror of that day, the sheer disbelief that such a thing could happen, most of all the paralysing panic. Aunt Lisa, now mother of three bright and beautiful teenagers, including Ella, of course, still had her dark moments of recrimination and guilt. She often said she would never forgive herself for her momentary lapse when she’d forgotten to apply the brake to baby Ella’s stroller.
It would have been a life-shattering disaster if it hadn’t been for Josh Hart, the bad boy of the town, who paradoxically had looked like a golden-haired archangel. Josh Hart had a tragic history that had caused many compassionate souls to turn a blind eye to his many misdemeanours, which had been pretty well a daily occurrence. His mother from all accounts had died of a drug overdose when he was five. His father’s identity was unknown.
Joshua had been taken into care, eventually becoming a foster-child who had been shunted from one home to another, arriving in the town less than a year before the Ella incident to live with a distant relative of his mother’s, a kindly widow of sixty who’d had little chance of controlling him and had eventually given up. Josh had run wild for much of the time; shoplifting anything that took his eye, flouting authority at every turn, taking joy rides in fancy cars—there wasn’t a thing he didn’t seem to know about motors or locks—yet amazingly had never damaged let alone crashed said cars. Once he’d taken a high-powered speedboat from the marina in Moon Bay, returning it after a thirty-minute spin. In between times he’d managed a couple of days a week at school, smarter than all the rest of the kids put together. Only if there were defining moments in life when one showed what one was really made of, Josh Hart at age thirteen had shown it that day. Displaying remarkable bravery, he had saved Ella’s life without a single thought for his own safety.
Even then he had thrilled and frightened Clio.
Nothing had changed.
He still thrilled and frightened her. Only these days he was an admired and respected entrepreneur with a law degree, first-class honours, hanging on his office wall, courtesy of her own grandfather who had made it all possible.
Then
The day had begun brilliantly. It had been the start of the long Christmas vacation and the tropical North had been on the verge of the Wet. Troppo time, as it was known, but the arrival of the monsoon had also coincided with a prodigal paradise. Nature had shown itself at its most glorious and extravagant best. The vast tropical landscape had budded, swelled then burst into flamboyant flower accompanied by scents so sweet and aromatic they had filled the immediate world. The great crimson arches of the poincianas had lent welcome shade while colouring the air. The tulip trees had broken out their lovely orange cups, and the cassias had spilled yellow blossom in a wide circle beneath them. It was like being caught in a spell.
It was Aunt Lisa who decided they would go on a picnic. “What do you think, Paradise Lagoon?”
Where else?
Aunt Lisa had chosen the town’s most beautiful cool haven, a lush, park-like reserve dominated by a deep emerald lake with its gorgeous mantle of a thousand tropical waterlilies, all blue and all planted by her family, recognized experts on waterlilies and all manner of tropical plants. There was the Whitaker with its gigantic lavender blue blossoms and bright yellow stamens; the Trickett, a Campanula blue and her dead grandmother’s favourite; the star-shaped Astraea that held its lovely head so high above the water the flowers could be seen from quite a distance. Even the low stone wall topped by tall wrought-iron railings was a living glory with bridal white bougainvillea in foaming extravagance vying with the lagoon’s glorious lilies.
They set off happily in Aunt Lisa’s car, feeling not a shadow of