the moment he met them. As for him, he realised at this stage of his life he wanted marriage, even as he feared some wild cat still prowled within him.
He glanced at the time on the dash. He had told Guy he would be arriving mid-afternoon, so he had plenty of time. Hunger pangs were starting up again. He would stop to eat somewhere—the Hunter abounded with fine restaurants. He knew Guy owned an award-winning restaurant on the Radcliffe Wine Estates, but what he was looking for was more like a good café; a fresh ham and salad roll would do, with a nice cup of coffee. A man needed a good café or restaurant run by Italians for that.
Australia had become almost a second Italy, which was okay by him. He had spent an entire year in Europe after he had left university, and been back many times since. Paris was Paris—unique—but he absolutely loved Italy. Italy appealed to the exuberant side of his nature. He was not a quiet man. Neither was he the hell-raiser he had once been. The hell-raising had really got a kick start with the death of his mother and the escalation of the abrasive relationship he had with his father. He had been overlong in kicking free, but then Gilgarra had needed him.
By one-thirty he was driving through Wangaree’s town centre. It was a very pretty town, a showpiece for rural Australia. There were some well-preserved classic heritage buildings on wide, tree-lined streets, and from what he could see a few lovely little parks. He was almost at the end of the main thoroughfare, Radcliffe Drive, when he spotted a place called Aldo’s. With a name like that it was sure to offer good Italian fare and a decent cup of coffee. He was very fussy about his coffee. His long stay in Rome had assured that. There was even a parking space just outside.
He drove up beside a shiny black SUV, then put the sports car into reverse, slotting it in as neat as a pin between the SUV and an old battered ute with the obligatory bull bar.
He was a long way from home and he couldn’t feel happier.
A few moments later, he opened the handsome glass-panelled door to the bistro, inhaling the fragrant fug of good coffee, strong and fresh. There was a small curved foyer, and beyond that two steps leading down to a seating area. The area was barred by a young woman wielding a broom.
Casual, seeking nothing but a meal, he was now jolted into full alertness. In its way it was like being slammed up against a wall. He had grown cynical about a woman’s beauty. But this! He had to drag in a breath as a force more powerful than he reached for him and held him in place.
The very air trembled!
The impact this young woman was having on him seemed to be dictating his every move, or lack thereof. He found it thrilling and disquieting at one and the same time. He knew he was staring—but then weren’t beautiful women used to stares? This woman was his idea of physical perfection. Even his lungs were scrambling for a breath. Damned if it wasn’t like a mystical experience. The thought amused and awed him.
Just as he was deciding how best to proceed, the Dream turned, enabling him to study her full-on.
Sensation rushed through him with the speed of light.
She didn’t speak. Neither did he. He couldn’t think of anything to say anyway. Neither of them made a move. Instead they looked across the span of brightness, staring at each other for what seemed an awfully long time. It was one of those moments that go on for ever, locking a man in. For all his reputation as a ladies’ man, he had always held a pretty effective shield against woman magic. In no way was he guaranteed protection now. He didn’t relish the thought. There was nothing wrong with being fascinated. Unless it reached the point where it upset his emotional balance. At the moment that was pretty precarious. He had sworn off women while he got his life on track. Yet here he was, caught like a moth in this creature’s golden glow.
How had she arrived in this country town anyway? She looked more as if she had stepped out of a medieval painting. Her beautiful classical features were absolutely symmetrical. Wasn’t that rare?
He canted a black brow, unaware his silvery green eyes held a mocking challenge. ‘I hope you’re not going to take that to me?’
If he was expecting an answering smile—a lightening of the fraught atmosphere—he got none. There was more than a touch of dismissive-ness in her great dark eyes. It sent the silent message that she had met his like before.
‘Don’t worry, you’re safe.’ She spoke for the first time.
Daniela had, in fact, taken swift note of the stranger in town even before he entered the bistro. What she decided now was to disregard the dimpled smile, however sexy, and the languid, yet highly athletic set of the stranger’s tall, rangy body. Six-footer-plus. Copper-skinned. Jet curls. Startling contrasting eyes.
Linc, for his part, had no difficulty registering that he had been summed up and found wanting. It didn’t, however, temper the shock of sexual excitement. It was like a hot wire in the blood. He felt the sizzle, the palpable thrill that stroked the hairs on his nape, causing him to shiver. The thrill moved to his scalp. Hell, what a reaction—and with such speed and power! He liked pretty women, sure, but not one of them had ever affected him like this. He was even having difficulty not reaching out just to touch her.
She had only the faintest suggestion of an accent, but he had spotted it right off.
‘Buon guiorno!’ he said. His Italian was fairly fluent and he had kept it up. Italian-speaking communities were all over Australia. He held her gaze—indeed he couldn’t look away—plotting how he could get her to smile. He was used to smiles. He began to picture her smile in his mind. ‘Like me out of the way?’ He gestured beyond, to the main room.
‘If you would.’ Daniela inclined her head. ‘A customer accidentally knocked an ornament off the counter here.’
‘I’m relieved to hear it. You look the type that throws things.’
‘Me?’ She eyed him, letting him know she was questioning his impertinence. He was probably well-used to women fawning on him. She wasn’t about to join the ranks. Daniela was far less trusting of men than she had once been.
‘Just a joke, ma’am. I see you don’t like jokes,’ he said, with a touch of self-derision.
‘I have to get the joke first.’ She put a little more distance between them. ‘Unusual—a cowboy who drives a sports car?’
She spoke as though the vehicle might be a serious rite of passage for a guy like him. Cowboys obviously weren’t high on her wow scale. ‘I’m a sheep man, actually.’
‘Really?’
He watched her press her beautifully cut lips together—fine, sensitive upper lip; full, sensuous lower lip—as though she feared she would burst out laughing. He was only surprised she didn’t say, How absurd!
‘Don’t you like sheep men?’ he challenged, hardly giving a thought to lunch now. Conversation was way better.
‘I have to confess you struck me more as a cowboy.’ She didn’t mention her first impression had been that of a rock star. He had that same air of glamour, wearing his vibrant masculinity like a second skin. He would fit neatly into the Outback as well. Not as your average stockman. Dear me, no! Boss Man was more like it. Young as he was—and he couldn’t yet be thirty—he had the command presence, the easy male authority. It was written all over him. Then there was the educated accent, the self-assurance he wore like a cloak, the pulsating energy. A bit of a dynamo, she thought; the kind that loved women but didn’t really need them.
Linc thought he was holding up well under the judgmental waves that were coming full at him, but he was a little baffled by her attitude. He wasn’t that bad, surely? He glanced down at himself wryly. He was wearing black designer jeans, an upmarket bush shirt, elastic-sided boots. Maybe his hair was too long. He never paid a lot of attention to his jet-black curly hair. It sort of looked after itself. And he hadn’t missed the little flashes of antagonism either. This was a woman who could erupt! And, hell, she was the rarest of creatures: a woman who had taken an instant dislike to him. He liked