seem to take his eyes off her while she consolidated her hold over him.
Caroline had beautiful large oval eyes, a deep velvety-brown. They were doubly arresting with her golden hair. Her skin, a tawny olive beneath the big picture hat, was flawlessly beautiful. Her features were delicate, perfectly symmetrical. No more than five-three, she nevertheless had a real presence. At least she was running tight circles around him.
‘James Cunningham!’ The vision smiled at him. A smile that damn near broke his heart. What the heck was the matter with him? How could he describe what he felt? Perhaps they had meant something to each other in another life? ‘Welcome back to Jimboorie. I’m Carrie McNevin.’
Belatedly he came back to control. ‘I remember you, Caroline,’ he said, his voice steady, unhurried, yet he was so broadsided by her beauty, he forgot to smile.
‘You can’t!’ A soft flush rose to her cheeks.
‘I do.’ He shrugged his shoulder, thinking beautiful women had unbounded power at their pink fingertips. ‘I remember you as the happy little girl who used to wave to me when you saw me in town.’
‘Really?’ She was enchanted by the idea.
‘Yes, really.’
Her essential sweetness enfolded him. Her voice was clear and gentle, beautifully enunciated. Caroline McNevin, the little princess. Untouchable. Except now by Harper. That made him hot and angry, inducing feelings that hit him with the force of a breaker.
‘Well, it’s my great pleasure, James, or do you prefer to be called Clay?’ She paused, tipping her golden head to one side.
‘Clay will do.’ Only his mother had ever called him James. Now he remembered to smile though his expression remained serious even a little sombre. Why wouldn’t he when he felt appallingly vulnerable in the face of a beautiful creature who barely came up to his heart?
Carrie was aware of the sombreness in him. It added to the impression he gave of quiet power and it had to be admitted, mystery. ‘Then it’s going to be my great pleasure to be able to present you, Clay, with the Jimboorie Cup,’ Carrie continued. ‘We’ll just move back over there,’ she said, turning to lead the way to a small dais where the race committee was grouped, waiting for her and the winner of the Cup to join them. ‘They’ll want to take photos,’ she told him, herself oddly shaken by their meeting. And the feeling wasn’t passing off. Perhaps it was because she’d heard so many stories about the Cunninghams while she was growing up? Or maybe it was because Clay Cunningham had grown into a strikingly attractive man. She felt that attraction brush over her then without her being able to do a thing about it. She felt it sink into her skin. She only hoped she wasn’t showing her strong reactions. Everyone was looking at them.
Natasha might well continue to denounce her cousin, Carrie thought, but the family resemblance was strong. The Cunninghams were a handsome lot, raven haired, with bright blue eyes. Natasha would have been beautiful, but her fine features were marred by inner discontent and her eyes were strangely cold. Clay Cunningham had the Cunningham height and rangy build—only his hair wasn’t black. It was a rich mahogany with a flame of dark auburn as the sun burnished it. His eyes, the burning blue of an Outback sky, were really beautiful, full of depth and sparkle. He looked like a real man. A man women would fall for hook, line and sinker. So why wasn’t he married already, or actively looking for a wife? If indeed the rumour were true. Something she was beginning to doubt. He had to be four, maybe five years older than she, which made him around twenty-eight. He was a different kind of man from Scott. She sensed a depth, a sensitivity—whatever it was—in him that Scott lacked.
It had to be an effect of the light but there seemed to be sparkles in the space between them. Carrie never dreamed a near-stranger could have this effect on her. Her main concern was to conceal it. Up until now she had felt safe. She was going to marry Scott, the man she was in love with—yet Clay Cunningham’s blue gaze had reached forbidden places.
Their hands touched as she handed over the Silver Cup to the accompanying waves of applause. She couldn’t move, even think for a few seconds. She felt a little jolt of electricity through every pore of her skin. He continued to hold her eyes, his own unfaltering. Had her trembling transferred itself to him like a vibration? She hoped not. She wasn’t permitted to feel like this.
Yet sparkles continued to pulsate before her eyes. Perhaps she was mildly sun-struck? She had the unnerving notion that the little frisson of shock—unlike anything she had ever experienced before—was mutual. She even wondered what life might have in store if he decided to remain on Jimboorie? All around her people were laughing and clapping. Some were carrying colourful balloons. The thrill of the race had got to her. That was it! Her course was set. She was a happily engaged woman. She was to marry Scott Harper in December. A Christmas bride.
And there was Scott staring right at her. Too late she became aware of him. She felt the chill behind his smile. She knew him so well she had no difficulty recognising it. It came towards her like an ice-bearing cloud. He was furious and doing a wonderful job of hiding it. A triumphant looking Natasha was by his side, the two of them striking a near identical pose; one full of an over-bearing self-confidence. Maybe arrogance was a better word. Scott as Bradley Harper’s heir certainly liked to flaunt it. Natasha, as a Cunningham, did too.
Now Scott sauntered towards the dais around which the VIPs of the vast district milled, calling in a taunting voice, ‘You’ll absolutely have to tell us, Jimmy, where you learned how to ride like that? And the name of the guy who loaned you his horse. Or did you steal it?’ He held up defensive hands. ‘Only joking!’
As a joke it was way off, but Clay Cunningham held his ground, quite unmoved. ‘You haven’t changed one little bit, have you, Harper?’ he said with unruffled calm. ‘Lightning Boy was a parting gift from a good friend of mine. A beauty, isn’t he? He could run the race over.’
‘Like to give it another go?’ Scott challenged with an open lick of hostility.
‘Any time—when your horse is less spent.’ Clay Cunningham gently waved the silver cup aloft to another roar of applause.
Bruce McNevin, a concerned observer to all this, fearing a confrontation, moved quickly onto the dais to address the crowd. Even youngsters draped over the railings managed to fall silent. They were used to hearing from Mr. McNevin who was to say a few words then hand over the prize money of $20,000 dollars, well above the reward offered by other bush committees.
Her father was a handsome man, Carrie thought proudly. A man in his prime. He had a full head of dark hair, good regular features, a bony Celtic nose, a strong clean jawline and well defined cheekbones. He was always immaculately if very conservatively dressed. Bruce McNevin was definitely a ‘tweedy’ man.
While her father spoke Carrie stood not altogether happily within the half circle of Scott’s distinctly proprietorial arm. She was acutely aware of the anger and dented pride he was fighting to hold in. Scott wasn’t a good loser. Carrie didn’t know why but it was apparent he had taken an active dislike to Clay Cunningham.
Now Clay Cunningham, cheque in hand, made a response to her father that proved such a mix of modesty, confidence and dry humour that time and again his little speech was punctuated by appreciative bursts of laughter and applause. The crowd was still excited and the winner’s speech couldn’t have been more designed to please. The race goers had come to witness a good race and the Cup winner—a newcomer—had well and truly delivered. Not that anyone could really call him a newcomer. Heavens, he was a Cunningham! Cunningham was a name everyone knew. There was even a chance he might be able to save what was left of that once proud historic station, Jimboorie, though it would take a Herculean effort and a bottomless well of money.
‘Who the hell does he think he is?’ Scott muttered in Carrie’s ear, unable to credit the man ‘little Jimmy’ Cunningham, the urchin, had become. ‘And what’s with the posh voice?’
‘He is a Cunningham, Scott,’ Carrie felt obliged to point out. ‘It’s written all over him. And it may very well be he did get a good education.’
Scott