was one good thing, however. She had slept like the proverbial log. And he had let her. Until 9:00 a.m., that is, when he had called her hotel room to instruct her to come down for breakfast without delay, after which they were flying on. At least he had had the decency to enquire whether she had slept at all.
“Thank you for asking about the quality of my sleep.” She willed herself to be cool. Not easy when there was some extraordinary heat at her centre. “I slept very well, Mr McAlpine.” Even as she answered she had thrown back the light bedclothes and leapt to her feet. “I hope you weren’t worrying about me?” She couldn’t prevent the note of sarcasm in her voice.
“Not in the least, Ms Balfour. But it’s time to put a little pressure on you. I’m sure being a Balfour you’re up for it. We’ll have breakfast—I’ve already taken the liberty of ordering—then we must be on our way. Business beckons. I’m sure you’re well used to that kind of thing from your father. See you in the foyer.”
She had showered, dressed and was downstairs in under twenty minutes, a positive record for her. Unfortunately she hadn’t had time to arrange her hair in its customary neat pleat. She had to knot the billowy blonde masses with a gold clasp at the nape. The foyer was surprisingly busy, people going back and forth, all acting happy to be there. No sign of McAlpine; he had to be dead easy to spot with his looks and height. But no, he was nowhere about. No fan groups circling in tight knots.
“Ms Balfour, I presume.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” She actually backed into him. Or had he let her? She spun, acutely embarrassed, feeling the crescendo of heat that arose from his hands momentarily on her shoulders. A light pressure actually, yet she felt it right down to her toes. They instantly turned up.
“Let’s go in, shall we?” he suggested suavely.
He was appraising her with faint incredulity, as though she was made of strawberries and whipped cream, Olivia thought crossly. “It might have been an idea to meet up inside the restaurant,” she pointed out loftily, regaining her habitual cool.
“So what are you saying?” He rounded on her, so tall that for the first time in her life she felt dwarfed.
“Why, nothing.” She was determined not to let him rattle her.
An experienced traveller she had laid out what she would be wearing the next day before collapsing into the hotel’s very comfortable bed. White silk-cotton top with an oval neck, and long sleeves she had pushed up in a concession to the heat. White linen trousers—lovely flattering cut—and white-and-tan loafers. Borrowing a bit of Bella’s dash she added a studded tan leather belt to break up the all-white.
He was wearing an outfit only a notch up from yesterday. A torso-hugging black T-shirt with a white logo—I Love NY, of all things, the love represented by a red heart. She supposed he had been to New York many times. Brought the T-shirt back from a recent trip. Black tight-fitting jeans. He looked about as fit as a man could possibly get. Fit and disgracefully sexy. And goodness, the way he moved! She was right about the big jungle cat, she thought, swallowing on a slight obstruction in her throat.
“Don’t be so nervous,” he bid her, almost kindly, when they were seated. “I’m sure you’re fully expecting a giant Territory T-bone steak, sausages, fried eggs, fried tomatoes and a pile of hash browns?”
“I’m sure it’s a breakfast you frequently indulge in?” she countered sweetly. But how could he with that body? Next thought: as a cattle baron he would most probably work the calories off.
“You can hold the hash browns,” he said, with a twist of a smile. “Though I doubt very much if you could put such a breakfast together.”
Such a sensuous mouth! The four women at the table to the right of them couldn’t tear their eyes off him. “What do you know of me really, Mr McAlpine?” She concentrated her attention away from him.
“Hardly a thing,” he conceded. “Why don’t we get matters out in the open? I didn’t want you here, Ms Balfour, any more than you want to be here. But you can’t escape. Neither can I. Both of us are doing this for your father. I want to keep him on board and you want to redeem yourself as I hear it?”
“Redeem myself?” Her blue eyes glinted. “Spoken by a man who listens to gossip. I’m not here to redeem myself—”
“Take it up with your father,” he briskly interrupted, turning his arrogant head as a bestarched young waitress approached, wheeling a trolley.
“Good morning, Mr McAlpine,” the waitress trilled.
“Good morning, Kym.” That careless, megawatt smile. “What have you got for us there?”
He had a darn good voice too. Deep and dark, slightly grainy like polished teak, rather thrillingly vibrant, if one responded to that sort of thing.
“Just what you ordered, sir.” Pretty dimples flickered in the waitress’s cheek.
“No surprises, then,” Olivia remarked, utilising her caustic tone.
Only then did the waitress turn her big brown eyes on Olivia. “Hope you enjoy it, ma’am.”
Ma’am? Olvia allowed no one to see her reaction. She might have been taken for his maiden aunt. Cheek of the girl!
The waitress began setting out freshly squeezed fruit juice in frosted glasses—grapefruit for both—slices of a lush-looking papaya with quartered limes, leaving the remaining boiled eggs and piping hot toast under cover on the trolley. Tea or coffee would be served at the table. McAlpine had only to raise a lazy finger.
“Nice to see you again, Mr McAlpine,” the young woman gushed by way of farewell, injecting all she had in the way of oomph. As it happened, rather a lot.
“Another admirer?” Olivia enquired, after the waitress had gone, allowing the scoff to show.
“Do you mind, Ms Balfour?” He picked up his glass of fruit juice, toasted her with it. “Hope everything is to your satisfaction?”
“Thank you, yes,” Olivia admitted, deciding to be gracious.
“So eat up because we’re outta here!” His dynamic features tightened. Abruptly he had sprung into tycoon mode right before her eyes. Not that she hadn’t seen it all before. But had her father seriously considered in sending her to Clint McAlpine he had sent her in fathoms deep. Not that she wasn’t an excellent swimmer. She had come to Australia determined on setting her mind to the task and in so doing reaffirming her self-worth. It would hardly do to give up at the outset.
Onward Christian soldiers.
At school they had used to sing that in chapel. And, oh, yes. “Amazing Grace.”
Even so it would be a titanic effort.
He came to her room just as she was wondering what to do with all her luggage. In retrospect she had brought rather a lot. Probably what she really needed was some khaki bush clothes, a slouch hat and stout boots to ward off possible snake attacks. She had read all about the snakes, the dingoes, the wild buffalo and the wild pigs, not to mention the crocodiles. Maybe she should tell him she had some experience of the African bush, though the place she and Bella had stayed at—the owner was the father of one of Bella’s admirers—was extremely comfortable. No magnificent wild animals were shot when they had been taken out on safari. She couldn’t have tolerated that. But she and Bella had adored the sightseeing.
Now the Northern Territory, the Top End. Terra incognito!
She swung her head at the peremptory tap on the door, shocked that she felt nervous of the man.
“Do you usually travel so light?” he asked, his gleaming eyes on the pile-up of Louis Vuitton.
“Only when I’m on safari.”
“No chance, then, of seeing you naked?”
She