Heart of the Outback (2 page)

He released a long shuddering breath, opened his eyes, stepped over to the bed and picked up the page of the newspaper that Stacey had been reading from. A quick cursory glance was enough to dismiss the doubt he had nursed. He hadn’t misheard. The name leapt out at him.

Alida Rose.

So what if she was there tonight, he asked himself savagely. She didn’t mean anything to him any more. It had been finished when Kate had died. There was no point in thinking about Alida Rose. She had moved on and up in the world. He would soon be going back to his. They would merely be ships passing in the night, ships that had passed before, five years ago. As Stacey would say, a lifetime ago.

Gareth Morgan!

Alida stared at him, feeling as though she had just been punched in the heart. Five years had not diminished the charismatic impact of the man. At this distance he didn’t look a day older.

A sick kind of compulsion made her glance around the party of people who had accompanied him into the crowded ballroom. She recognised his sister, Deborah Hargreaves, one of Perth’s leading socialites. There was no woman in a wheelchair. He had not brought his wife.

Alida wrenched her gaze away. Her whole body began to churn with turbulent emotions. Why was he here? Why did he have to turn up tonight of all nights? She had been feeling happy, excited at having her designs displayed in front of such a glittering collection of stars in the fashion world, and even secretly hopeful she might win the award. Reaching this pinnacle in her career was what she had dedicated most of her life to over the last five years. It was her future.

Seeing Gareth Morgan again made all she had worked for seem meaningless. And that was wrong!

She couldn’t let him do this to her. Hadn’t she been through enough hell because of him?

“Gareth Morgan!”

Alida struggled to control her reaction to Jill’s surprised identification. She should have been prepared for it. Jill had been giving a wickedly witty commentary on everyone in the ballroom. The new arrivals were not about to miss her keen eye. As a publicity agent, Jill Masters prided herself on knowing everybody who was anybody, and she certainly knew Gareth Morgan.

All her companions around the table looked in the direction of Jill’s gaze, all except Alida. She concentrated on pulling herself together to weather the conversation bound to follow.

“Which one?” Suzanne asked, avidly scanning the string of people who were undoubtedly being ushered to their table by now. Although Suzanne Day was Alida’s work manager, she had not made that fateful trip to Riordan River with them. They had been cutting all unnecessary costs in those days.

“Escorting his sister, Deborah Hargreaves,” Jill supplied.

They all knew the wife of Max Hargreaves. As he was one of Perth’s more prominent entrepreneurs, Max Hargreaves was news. His wife liked to consider herself a trendsetter, and that made her news as well.

“That’s Gareth Morgan?” Suzanne asked with awe.

“That’s him,” Jill affirmed.

Alida did her best to project a calm composure as both women turned their eyes to her. It was painfully obvious that her closest associates had talked about Gareth Morgan among themselves. Natural enough, she supposed, considering what had happened and how it had affected them. All of it could be dated to the time spent at Riordan River, and Jill had been there.

Jill Masters was no fool. Putting two and two together was child’s play to her. Yet she had held her tongue where Alida’s personal life was concerned. Discretion was an important asset in an agent, Alida thought appreciatively. Probably the most important.

“What a great hunk of macho man!” Ivan Poletti pronounced with admiring relish. “Lovely. Do tell me about him, Jill. Why haven’t we seen him on the social scene if he’s the delicious Deborah’s brother?”

Alida tensed. Ivan adored gossip. He was Perth’s most fashionable interior designer, a dynamic, robust little man with a flamboyant personality. His bright brown eyes gleamed expectantly as he waited to be enlightened.

“He owns and runs the Riordan River cattle station in the Macdonnell Ranges,” Jill supplied matter-of-factly. “He used to attend operas and classical concerts many years ago. Then his wife developed some disease—multiple sclerosis, I think—and their life narrowed down to Riordan River.”

“Sad,” Ivan commented, trying to look socially mournful while not really caring. He was cogitating other things. “Riordan River. Why does that name seem familiar to me?” He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

Alida knew it would click any minute. Ivan Poletti had a mind like a ferret, sharp and darting and acquisitive. “We took some location shots there for our first catalogue,” she said, trying to make it sound unimportant. “Jill arranged it.”

“Yes. That was the catalogue that got our foot in the door,” Jill said with a triumph grin. “All we needed was the right gimmick, and what better than Outback settings?”

Ivan raised a finger in acknowledgment. “I remember. Fabulous photographs.” He turned his attention to the newcomers.

Alida couldn’t. She had too many memories.

The Riordan River Station, Alida thought bitterly, one of the largest cattle stations in the world, measuring thousands of square miles in the red heart of Australia, and every mile of it owned by Gareth Morgan. If only Jill had told her he was married before they had gone there… Or if his wife had been at the homestead instead of having treatment in hospital… But would it have made any difference to how she had felt about Gareth?

The attraction had been compelling from the moment she had first seen him. It had clutched at her heart: that air of indomitable male who could endure any adversity, a face carved with strength and a hard austere beauty, hair as black as midnight, piercing blue eyes that saw the far horizons, skin perpetually tanned from a merciless sun. One look at him and she had been his, to take as he willed. Madness…

Alida tried to shake her mind free of him, concentrate on the life she had made hers. The conversation had moved on. Suzanne was telling her live-in boyfriend how the tourist boutiques on the East Coast had found Alida Rose Creations a bonanza for sales, and how the unique range of clothes had gradually become a top fashion line. It was Suzanne’s job to see that all quotas got to market outlets on schedule. She was very good at it.

She was also a good friend. So was Jill. So was Ivan. Good, reliable friends. Although they only knew one side of her, the public side of Alida Rose who was on display tonight, not the Alida Rose Gareth Morgan had used without conscience because she was of the fashion world. And everyone knew that the fashion world had no morals.

She supposed if she was judged by her company tonight, she was damned on every score. Jill, a very sophisticated woman of forty odd years, had already discarded two husbands and was working on the third with her current lover. Yet as an agent, she had worked tirelessly and fruitfully to promote Alida’s designs.

Suzanne was honest and trustworthy and dedicated to her job, but she was thirty-three and her private life was a mess. Her escort this evening was a toy-boy artist who lived off her.

As for Ivan, there was probably no more blatant homosexual in the city. He had an astute business brain and had persuaded Alida to branch out into fabric design. Ivan’s companion, Jonathan Lee, owned a string of hairdressing salons, and had joyfully had his way with Alida’s hair for tonight, styling it into a rippling mass of soft waves.

Perhaps they all had their own self-interest at heart in being her friends because she had served them well in their careers. Nevertheless, they had stood by her when Alida had needed their support. Whenever she had called upon them for anything, they had responded generously, and she would never forget that.

Yet they were city people. Not one of them understood what it was to be Outback born and bred. They thought her designs marvellous, but they had no appreciation of the life behind them. They would never understand what she had grown up with, the timeless link with land and nature so pervasive that it seeped into one’s consciousness and stayed there forever.

Impossible to explain, and Alida didn’t try. That was the private Alida Rose, the one who had been so overwhelmingly attracted to the man who had only seen her as a body.

Gareth Morgan hadn’t recognised that knowledge in her, hadn’t sensed the love they could have shared. His mind had not accepted anything beyond the fact she was a woman. And what was worse, a woman of modern fashion, with modern ideas and modern morals. Fair game for any man!

Why had he come here tonight? Why was he mixing with the kind of society he scorned? Was he simply obliging his sister by being her escort for the evening? It was through Deborah Hargreaves that Jill had arranged their visit to Riordan River for the location shots. He had obliged his sister then. And got what he wanted out of it. Perhaps he was obliging his sister now for the same purpose, scouting for another easy woman to take the edge off his needs.

The lights dimmed. A spotlight lit the compere as he strode across the stage to the microphone placed ready for him. For the next two hours the crowd in the ballroom was entertained by a fast-moving kaleidoscope of fashion designs mixed with top-level entertainment. It was a highly professional exhibition.

Alida appreciated it, yet she felt strangely numb. She clapped when she was supposed to. She responded to her friends’ comments. But there was no stir of excitement inside her, not even when it came to the final announcement, the one she had been waiting for all night. She felt the rise of tension in her friends, knew that they wanted her to win. Somehow she couldn’t bring herself to care.

“And the award, Australian Designer of the Year, goes to—” the compere paused for dramatic effect “-Alida Rose!”

Everyone at her table erupted with excitement, Suzanne with emotional tears in her eyes, Ivan clapping and shouting “Bravo!”, Jill beaming triumph as she gave her characteristic thumbs-up sign.

Alida knew she should feel wildly elated. Apart from the tremendous honour of winning the much-coveted award, the resultant publicity would boost her recognition enormously and increase sales. Such acclaim from the fashion industry was certainly a hallmark in her career.

All evening, since seeing Gareth Morgan again, a flat emptiness had been growing inside her, and not even this moment of triumph erased it. She pasted a smile on her face and forced herself to her feet, acknowledging the thunderous applause from the ballroom.

Conscious of the television cameras and knowing commentators would be describing the action to viewers all around Australia, Alida concentrated on walking up to the stage with dignity and grace. Pride held her head high, not so much pride in her success, but the deep personal pride of showing Gareth Morgan that her life was perfectly complete without him.

It was a lie, of course. It had been a he from the moment she had met him five years ago. But she would never let him know that.

Black is the colour of my heart, she thought savagely. It seemed very appropriate that she was wearing black tonight, although no one else would see any significance it in. A ripple of ironic amusement ran through her mind as she imagined how the commentator would be describing her outfit.

“Alida Rose is wearing one of the elegant culotte suits she is so well-known for. The silk pants are a swirl of sensuous pleats. The figure-moulding vest—curves are definitely in this year—features the kind of border design that is the trademark of so many Alida Rose creations. Inspired by Aboriginal art, the intricate border pattern is depicted in a bold arrangement of gold, silver and amber beads.”

She remembered some fanciful columnist had once described her long blonde hair as rich caramel with streaks of melted butter, and her eyes the colour of still green pools. A serene, sensual beauty with warm golden skin, she had been called, but Alida felt no serenity tonight. As for sensuality, Gareth Morgan had killed that quality in her five years ago.

Was he watching her? Was he remembering how she had looked in the heat of passion? Or had there been too many women since then for him to recollect any personal details from one particular encounter?

It wasn’t as if he had loved her. He had wanted her only as a release from sexual need. She would never, never forget the shame and humiliation she had felt on realising that was all she meant to him.

She fiercely wished he weren’t here, spoiling this night for her.

The applause gradually faded as she mounted the steps to the stage. The compere extended his hand to her, presenting her to the crowd. Spotlighted for all eyes, Alida increased the voltage of her smile. She was the winner, and winners always smiled. What they felt inside didn’t matter.

The compere made a little ceremony of passing over the statuette before inviting her to the microphone. A sea of faces looked up at her from the packed ballroom. The cream of Perth’s society had flocked here tonight to enjoy the glittering event. Not often did it take place in Western Australia. Almost invariably one of the capital cities on the East Coast hosted the yearly event. The applause had been all the more enthusiastic because one of their own, a Perth designer, had won the top award.

Alida didn’t know where Gareth Morgan was seated. She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to see him again. She fastened her gaze on the people at her table, the people who had helped her to this success, and gave her speech of thanks to them.

More applause accompanied her exit from the stage. Alida was intensely grateful to be out of the spotlight. Pride insisted she see this evening through to its end. Celebration was certainly in order, so celebrate she would, no matter how hollow it felt.

“Darling, I shall find the most perfect pedestal for that sweet, sweet statuette,” Ivan declared the moment she returned to her table.

Alida cocked a teasing eyebrow at him. “A little pretentious, don’t you think?”

“For you, dear girl—” he reached out and stroked the statuette in one of his extravagant gestures “—one is allowed to be pretentious.”