Outback Doctors/Outback Engagement/Outback Marriage/Outback Encounter Page 19

  ‘Do I what?

  ‘Suffer from occasional feelings of adequacy?’

  The smile lit up her eyes and seemed to produce a kind of radiance beneath her clear, creamy skin.

  ‘Only very occasionally,’ she told him, her tone suggesting it was a secret she was sharing just with him.

  Was it the implied intimacy, or the smile—perhaps the radiance? Cal didn’t know, but he found his body reacting in a way it hadn’t for a long, long time.

  Oh, no!

  Definitely not!

  He brought it under control with the question he should have asked.

  ‘You came to wedding without any spare clothes? What were you going to wear if you didn’t end up as bridesmaid?’

  ‘I didn’t set out without any clothes,’ she told him, her voice weary with the acceptance of bad luck. ‘They just missed the mail plane out of Darwin. Actually, they didn’t so much miss the mail plane as were put on the wrong one. I came to Mount Spec and they went to Tokyo.’

  Cal suspected laughter would be the wrong reaction, so he shook his head while trying to control it, but in the end he lost the battle and the light-hearted chuckle grew until he found himself laughing more heartily than he had for months.

  Since, in fact, his long-lost cousin had arrived in Creamunna on a ‘find her family’ mission and proceeded to fall in love with his boss.

  Not that Mark hadn’t reciprocated the love thing—poor fool that he was.

  ‘When you’ve quite finished enjoying yourself at my expense, perhaps we could return to the homestead. I’m in the shearers’ quarters but Mum’s in a bungalow that has curtains. Perhaps I can do a sarong type thing with one of them.’

  The snappy tone stopped his laughter, although the idea of someone wearing a curtain to a wedding threatened to start it again.

  ‘Mum always has a packet of safety pins in her luggage so you can help me fix it,’ the unusual bridesmaid continued, as if this was a perfectly normal conversation.

  He stared at the woman, unable to believe she was serious. First about the curtain, and secondly about him helping her.

  The dark eyes flashed fire, daring him to refuse.

  ‘After all,’ she said, ‘it was your fault in the first place. If you hadn’t been so rude, I wouldn’t have had to breathe in…’

  Cal shook his head. Perhaps he had had too much to drink the previous night, though he could swear all he’d touched was light beer.

  Maybe someone had spiked it.

  That would explain this increasingly bizarre scenario.

  Though the woman was real enough, sitting there in the beribboned golf buggy, clutching her dress in one hand and impatiently beckoning him to get on board with the other.

  ‘We don’t have all day,’ she told him. ‘I mean, how many photos can they possibly want?’

  He got in and directed the young driver to take them back to the homestead.

  ‘The little blue bungalow, in fact,’ his companion corrected, then she turned to Cal and put out her free hand. ‘By the way, I’m Blythe Jones. If you’re going to be wrapping me up, the least I can do is introduce myself.’

  Cal shook the hand, and introduced himself with a brief ‘Cal Whitworth’.

  He should have added, And I have no intention of being part of the wrapping process, but he suspected she’d ignore him.

  They reached the neatly laid-out settlement that was the heart and soul of the Whitworth cattle empire. The huge old homestead set in lush, borehole-watered gardens dominated the cluster of outbuildings and sheds, while the bungalows gathered around the perimeter fence like chicks around a hen.

  ‘Good! It’s out of sight of the marquee so no one will notice one of the curtains coming down,’ Blythe said, hopping out of the buggy and reaching back to grab his arm. ‘We’ll have to hurry. We don’t want to attract attention by being late.’

  ‘More attention than wearing a curtain will attract?’ Cal muttered at her, but he allowed himself to be dragged inside.

  ‘There—the green one. The colour’s not good but the material looks soft and reasonably drapable. Can you get it down and remove any hooks from the top? Or should I just cut the top off? That might be better. Get it down and we’ll have a look.’

  Cal had a very good idea of what Grace, his ex-wife and current chatelaine of Mount Spec, would have to say about guests cutting up the curtains.

  ‘Couldn’t you borrow a dress?’

  The bridesmaid sent him a look that suggested he was, in her opinion, down in the bottom percentile in the IQ lists.

  ‘I’ve already split the dress I borrowed. I am two sizes larger than anyone in my family, and probably at least one size larger than anyone at the wedding. Now, are you going to get it down, or shall I?’

  Too bemused to argue further, he pulled a chair over to the window and climbed on it. The woman had disappeared, presumably in search of safety pins and scissors.

  And Grace was far too obsessed with possessions anyway!

  He allowed himself a small chuckle as he unhooked the curtain.

  ‘Certainly a cutting job,’ he said, hearing footsteps behind him.

  He turned to find his bridesmaid wrapped in a towel, revealing not only the tops of the soft creamy breasts but considerable length of fine, shapely legs.

  ‘Just pull the other curtains across so you don’t notice it’s missing,’ the legs’ owner ordered. ‘If Mum happens to come back here before the reception, I don’t want her freaking out.’

  He rearranged the remaining material and climbed carefully off the stool, proffering the curtain.

  ‘I can’t cut and hold the towel up,’ she informed him, passing him the scissors but lifting the bottom of the curtain and weighing it experimentally in her free hand.

  With only a slight qualm, he hacked the top folded part off the curtain.

  ‘Great!’ Blythe told him. ‘Now give it to me. I’ll duck into the bathroom and see what I can do, while you stand by with pins.’

  She handed him a packet of safety pins, took the curtain and disappeared again, but a howl of frustration suggested things weren’t going too well.

  ‘You’ll have to help,’ she said, storming back out, this time wrapped in shiny green curtain rather than the towel. ‘See, I can get this round here but it keeps slipping down and I’ll end up falling out into the ice cream. This one-shouldered sarong style is all the fashion, so if you could pin this bit around here…’

  She twisted to show him where and the slippery material slid downward, revealing more of the full breasts—even a shadow of pink aureole.

  ‘Y-you’re not wearing a b-bra!’ he stammered, his eyes drawn inexorably to the beautiful sight.

  ‘Of course I’m not wearing a bra.’ She hitched the material back up before he had time for more than a quick glimpse. ‘Bras one wears under T-shirts have straps—you can’t wear one with a strapless dress. Just pretend you’re a doctor examining a patient and get on with it.’

  He got on with it, an exercise which involved having to slide his fingers inside the wrappings so they pressed against the yielding flesh. And try as he may to think like a doctor, his fingers had never trembled when examining a patient, and other bits of his anatomy never showed an interest in patients.

  ‘Actually, it doesn’t look too bad,’ he admitted ten minutes later when Blythe pronounced herself satisfied with the result. ‘The colour suits you.’

  She’d fluffed her hair around her shoulders with her fingers, producing a carelessly sexy look, and ‘doesn’t look too bad‘ was an understatement. But she seemed unaware of the effect, simply studying the finished result in the mirror for a moment before walking—carefully—away.

  ‘Just as well I’m not a pink person or I’d have had to nick one of the living room drapes from the homestead.’

  She grinned at him and he found himself smiling back.

  ‘Shall we?’ he said, offering her his arm.

  ‘I guess so,’ she replied, slippi
ng her hand into the crook of his elbow, although something in her voice told him she wasn’t nearly as certain about this escapade as she made out.

  But as they walked through the garden, dread at the prospect of spending the rest of the afternoon playing ‘happy families’ overwhelmed all other concerns. He’d be flat out maintaining a polite façade himself, so the bridesmaid would have to fend for herself.

  ‘Oh, did your luggage come?’

  Grace was standing beside her grandfather-in-law, greeting the guests as they entered the marquee. She ignored Cal for the moment, but he saw the way she looked at Blythe and read a level of pique in her expression. Grace liked to outshine all opposition, and to have to compete with a tall, statuesque blonde, even one draped in a curtain, wouldn’t sit well with her.

  Cal felt better immediately.

  Intrigued by the little byplay, he waited for Blythe’s answer, but she managed to avoid answering, merely shaking hands with his grandfather and moving on into the room.

  ‘Grace!’ Cal acknowledged his ex-wife with a polite smile and a kiss on the cheek, then he, too, moved on, shaking his grandfather’s hand, promising to catch up with the old man later, before following his partner further into the reception area.

  It seemed to Cal that males of all ages were making a beeline for his curtain-clad partner, but she obviously had a destination in mind for she swayed gracefully through the crowd until she came to a slim, upright woman standing quietly beside a tall, elegant man.

  ‘Oh, you’re here,’ she said to Cal, after she’d greeted the couple with kisses and hugs. ‘This is my mum, Lorice Bell, and Brian, my stepfather,’ she explained.

  ‘And not a sway back in sight,’ Cal whispered in her ear as he stretched out a hand to greet the older couple. ‘I’m Callum Whitworth.’

  ‘Yes, I knew you were,’ Lorice said. ‘How do you do?’

  The greeting was polite enough but her voice was distracted, and her eyes were focussed on her daughter.

  ‘Did it split?’ she asked with enough resignation to suggest to Cal she’d been expecting just such a disaster.

  Blythe nodded, then began to talk about the ceremony, no doubt anxious to avert questions about the substitute garment. Brian Bell drew Cal aside, and seemed about to ask something when Chris arrived.

  ‘Stood up well to the pressure, old man,’ he said, clapping Cal on the back.

  ‘Brian, you’ve met my brother Chris, have you?’

  Brian nodded but Cal was more interested in Blythe’s reaction. She was glancing from him to Chris, no doubt sizing up the similarities and differences. Though three years apart in age, they’d always been alike enough to have been twins so he’d seen people’s surprise all his life.

  ‘Where are the kids?’ he asked Chris, but before Chris could reply, they arrived. Jenny, slim—too thin?—and elegant even at twelve, while Sam at thirteen was struggling with the onset of adolescence—a brash loudmouth one minute, an uncertain kid the next. He’d spent the morning with them, but they’d been dressed in their usual home clothes of shorts and T-shirts. Seeing them dressed up made him realise how quickly they were growing up.

  ‘Hi, Dad! Good show!’

  Blythe watched as the newly arrived youngsters greeted her partner-for-the-day. She was conscious of a spurt of disappointment when she heard the word ‘Dad’, then, forgetting the insecurity of her clothing, shrugged it off.

  ‘Careful,’ Callum whispered to her, before returning to a conversation with his children.

  Blythe watched the interaction between the three, intrigued by Cal’s intensity—as if he didn’t have a lot of time to spend with them—and a look in his eyes that was a mix of sadness and regret.

  Blythe hauled back her imagination before it got totally carried away. This man’s life—and the time he spent with his children—was nothing to do with her, and his eyes might always look like that.

  She looked around, distracting herself by trying to guess which of the women at the wedding was his wife. Surely she must be here. Why hadn’t she come to lay claim to her husband?

  And how come his brother Chris had greeted Callum as if this was the first time he’d seen him for a while? Perhaps he managed another property. But even if he didn’t live here, surely he’d have been at the pre-wedding dinner the previous evening.

  She tried to remember an earlier conversation—had he said he’d arrived late last night?

  The man called Chris was saying something, but Blythe missed it, too busy regretting her refusal to join the family at the same dinner where she might have been able to sort out who was who in the Whitworth dynasty.

  But with nothing suitable to wear, grabbing a snack from the well-stocked kitchen in the shearers’ quarters had seemed the best option, no matter how much her mother had protested.

  ‘Come on, we’re due on stage again.’ Cal touched her arm and she realised the children had moved on and the guests were being gently herded towards tables.

  He held her elbow to steer her through the crowd, then parked her behind a chair at the main table, at the top of a horseshoe-shaped arrangement of smaller tables.

  ‘Who else is sitting here?’ she asked, peering at the place-cards for a clue.

  ‘Mark’s parents beyond me, and on the other side the groom, then bride, then your parents, my grandfather and Grace.’

  ‘The woman I met as I came in? Is she a later wife? She’s very young.’

  ‘She’s thirty-five and his granddaughter-in-law,’ Callum said, and added, ‘Twice over.’

  ‘Twice over?’ Blythe turned to him as she repeated the cryptic remark, and saw a shadow of something she couldn’t understand flicker in his eyes. Then he smiled, lips tilting more on one side than the other.

  ‘Here comes the bride,’ he whispered, sidestepping her question.

  The quartet, now installed in a corner of the marquee, began to play, and a hush descended as the gathering awaited Mark’s and Lileth’s entrance. They made their way through an aisle of clapping and cheering guests, finally reaching the table.

  ‘I won’t ask where it came from,’ Lileth whispered to Blythe, ‘but thanks.’

  Rendered speechless by the expression of gratitude, Blythe took her place, sinking into the chair Cal held for her.

  CHAPTER TWO

  AS THE guests took their seats, waiters attended the main table, offering a choice of wines and non-alcoholic drinks.

  ‘Champagne! We’ll all have champagne!’ Lileth announced to the others at the main table.

  ‘I’ll have mineral water,’ Blythe murmured to the waiter, ‘but if you’d pour it into my champagne glass I’d be grateful.’

  ‘Cheating?’ Callum asked.

  She flashed a smile at him, but she noticed he’d also had his glass filled with water.

  ‘I’m thinking of the pins,’ she told him in an undertone. ‘As long as Lileth thinks I’m having a drink she won’t make a fuss, and as long as I don’t have a drink I should be able to get myself out of this garment later and not have to call on you to unpin me!’

  The arrested look in his grey eyes sent a flutter of apprehension down Blythe’s spine.

  You can not be attracted to a married man, she reminded herself.

  Out loud—and for safety’s sake—she asked, ‘Where’s your wife?’

  ‘I don’t have one,’ he said calmly, then he lifted his hand to acknowledge his daughter’s wave.

  Blythe considered this statement and amended her silent command.

  You can not be attracted to a man you’ll probably never see again. She sought refuge in flippancy.

  ‘Just children? Are there more than two? Do you have them scattered across the countryside?’

  ‘Well, I’m glad to see you’ve recovered your acidity!’ he remarked. ‘For a while there I thought the evening was going to degenerate into polite exchanges of bland social niceties.’

  Ouch! Blythe thought, sneaking another look at the man to whom she had no intention of
being attracted.

  ‘I can do social niceties as well as the next person,’ she informed him, then rather spoilt the lofty remark by adding, ‘When I so desire!’

  He laughed—splintering the air between them with the rich melodious sound.

  Distracted from his bride by the laughter, Mark turned to Blythe.

  ‘That must have been some joke,’ he said, his blue eyes warm and friendly. ‘Haven’t heard Cal laugh like that the whole year he’s been in Creamunna.’

  ‘But—’

  Blythe began to protest that it wasn’t a joke, then frowned as several remarks and assumptions bumped together in her head, presenting her with pieces of a puzzle that certainly didn’t fit together.

  ‘You…’ she began, then realised she’d lost Mark’s attention once again, so she turned to Cal.

  ‘Lileth said something earlier about you working with Mark, and he says you’ve been together a year. Together doing what? Mark’s a doctor!’

  The smile that tilted one side of his lips more than the other put in a fugitive appearance.

  ‘And I couldn’t possibly be? Too slow? Not enough neurones to synapse effectively?’

  ‘No doubt you have your full compliment of neurones,’ Blythe said sniffily. ‘But you’re a Whitworth—land barons, cattle kings, all that stuff! Why work your butt off being a doctor?’

  This time the smile held a touch of steel. ‘Land barons and cattle kings also work their butts off, and under far worse conditions than most doctors.’

  ‘Not when they’re on twelve-hour shifts in A and E,’ she challenged. ‘A bit of dust and heat can’t compare with the blood and anguish.’

  ‘Cynical and argumentative!’ he responded, but Cal’s eyes were studying her intently, as if trying to figure something out. ‘And what makes you an expert in the conditions in A and E?’

  ‘Been there and done that!’ Blythe told him, echoing the phrase he’d used earlier.

  ‘Been a doctor?’

  She grinned at him.

  ‘Now who’s being incredulous? Why shouldn’t I have been a doctor? In fact, it’s present tense, not past. I still am a doctor, if temporarily unemployed.’