Red Dirt Duchess Page 2

  ‘That’s my room?’ The raised eyebrow almost reached his hairline.

  ‘There’s a problem?’

  He stared at her open-mouthed. ‘I hardly know where to start.’

  That ‘ha’ sound really got on her nerves. ‘It’s a donga, mate.’ She slapped a little more outback around her answer than was strictly necessary – she didn’t have time for princesses. It had been good enough for her and Cliff, so it would have to be good enough for Jon.

  He took the key, holding the string between two fingers. ‘Donga,’ he repeated faintly, dropping his bag and reaching for a small notebook in his pocket.

  She leaned back against a wooden post and folded her arms. ‘That’s d-o-n-g —’

  ‘I know how to spell,’ he said, grimacing as he tucked the notebook back in his pocket. ‘I’m just struggling to come to terms with the fact that I am sleeping in a site shed. Bloody Caro.’

  ‘Who’s Caro?’ Whoever she was, she wasn’t too popular right now.

  His lips thinned, although there was a slight twinkle in his eyes. ‘Trust me, you don’t want to know.’

  ‘Now I remember. You’re from a magazine, right?’ She knew there had to be a reason someone like this had dropped into the middle of nowhere. ‘You’re doing an article on the floods.’

  ‘So it seems,’ he said through gritted teeth. He looked a little wild-eyed right now as his eyes tracked over the concrete path, the battered plastic chairs and back to her with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

  Charlie decided to cut him some slack. She straightened and gave him a smile. ‘You look like you could use a beer. Drop your gear and come back inside and I’ll shout you a coldie.’

  Jonathan watched the cute little bartender head back inside the main building. She obviously thought he was some kind of tosser, the way that faintly amused smile had played around her mouth. He fished the key from his pocket and stared at the worn piece of string that constituted a key ring. Just three weeks ago he’d returned from an exclusive Caribbean island resort. The handle of the key to his room had been a gold-plated seashell of stunning simplicity and after the shaft had slid easily into the lock, the door had opened into sumptuous luxury.

  But that had been before the small problem with Caro.

  Now he jiggled the key in the lock until the door opened with an alarming creak. He gave it a shove and stepped inside. The walls were formica with a faux timber finish and a nasty sheen. He supposed they were easy to wipe down. That was if they did wipe them down. It was like standing in an oversized 1960s kitchen cupboard. The floor was springy as he stepped across and tested the bed with a flattened hand. Hard as a rock.

  He placed his bag on the floor and moved to the window, pushing aside the net curtain to gaze at the view out to the back of the pub. It was no different to the front: miles and miles of nothing. A few yards away, a mangy-looking dog nosed around in a tangle of weeds and broken-down car parts. That wasn’t a dingo, was it? There were at least twenty ways to die in the outback and he had no intention of exposing himself to any of them. He turned to face the room again and let out a dejected breath.

  It wasn’t sex that had got him into this. That had been mindless and uncomplicated, and he was certain Caro had enjoyed it. But how was he to know that she would want more? He could have sworn she was on the same wavelength. Publishing was a tough game; things happened. Caro had been tracking him ever since she’d arrived as managing editor of Aristo, watching him with her predatory, heavy-lidded eyes, marking him as one of her crowd.

  She’d called him a lot of names. Tiger, at first, and he thought he’d heard Spanky moaned in the heat of the moment, but afterwards, when he’d failed to follow through with anything approaching a relationship, it had been cad, scoundrel, boor. Her almost old-fashioned outrage had been qualified by some creative invectives. As a journalist, he’d had to admire her grasp of language.

  And before he knew it she’d spun a globe, found a story and sent him as far away as possible. He pulled his notebook from his pocket, scanning his itinerary, mentally recalibrating for the time difference. He was here for twenty-four hours before he could move on. He needed to interview someone about the flood and get out there to have a look at it, but apart from that there was nothing to do in this godforsaken place.

  His thoughts skittered back to Charlie. She seemed like one of those typical carefree, tanned Australian girls, the sort who lobbed into London and got temping jobs, partied hard and then moved on. Uncomplicated, fun-loving girls.

  Tempting.

  But it was that sort of temptation had gotten him into his current fix. And right now, according to his family, he was meant to be thinking of the future – correction, the family’s future – not just indulging himself in typically self-centred fashion. He closed his eyes against the vision of his mother’s imploring face and his brother’s embarrassed one. He tried not to think of the spirits of his Hartley-Huntley ancestors, all swirling around him, demanding that he shape up and save the family.

  He pulled his shirt free from his trousers and looked around for the door to the bathroom. There was a bathroom, wasn’t there? Then his eye fell on a handwritten sign taped to the wall.

  This is an outback hotel. Bathrooms are out back.

  Note: 2 min showers. Please keep towel for reuse.

  His shoulders slumped and he picked the towel up off the bed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was a long time since Charlie had heard an accent like Jon’s, and it brought memories crashing back. Sure, there’d been plenty of English tourists through here over the years, but none of them had had the sort of cut-glass accent that Jonathan Hartley-Huntley possessed. There’d been East-Enders, Geordies and Scousers. She knew their accents because her father had identified them all. They’d come in tour buses and campervans. Drunk beer, bought T-shirts and souvenired the beer coasters. But none had had that same crisp, educated accent as her father.

  Until now.

  She slid behind the bar and pulled a beer for a customer, allowing the excess foam to wash over the sides of the glass before passing it across and picking up the coins from the counter.

  Funny, she’d never thought of Cliff as English. Then again, they hadn’t been the kind of family to talk much about where people came from. Or even where they were heading, because heaven knew that had been about as easy to predict as next week’s winning lotto numbers. But now a small niggle of curiosity started in the back of her mind, something that poked and prodded at compartments she hadn’t known existed. She’d never asked Cliff about where he’d come from, the things most people knew about their family; the generations of family traits and secrets that heaped up one upon another to make a person who they were.

  It was as though the Hughes family had sprung from nowhere.

  Now, one clipped and polished accent had started her thinking. She scratched the back of her neck, her finger tracing over the delicate tattoo, and cursed the Englishman.

  It unnerved her a little, the idea of this upper-crust, out-of-place man lurking around the hotel for a whole twenty-four hours – there was only so much amusement to be had inside a small outback pub.

  She wiped a towel down the bar, scowling. He’d need someone to take him out to the river, probably to the waterhole as well. What had he been expecting, a booth out front with flyers and brightly painted four-wheel drives ready to take his money in return for a tourist adventure? Things didn’t work that way out here. She shrugged a shoulder. Not her problem. It was just the accent that had unnerved her. He was so not her type. Then again, she wasn’t too sure what her type was, exactly. Most of the men in the district were more like brothers: easygoing and hugely protective. Especially since Cliff had died.

  In the last three years, the pub had been full of blokes looking out for her. Sure, one or two of the newer ones had tried it on. The boys would let the decent ones have a crack but she’d been too busy running the place to get involved with anyone. Twice a year she travelled d
own to Sydney for medical and dental check-ups, shopping and to just sit and have a beer she hadn’t pulled herself. And she’d had romances there – more like short flings, really, because she knew she’d be going home to Bindundilly.

  On those trips to Sydney, she’d occasionally gone to Surry Hills and walked past the houses they’d lived in all those years ago. They were mostly done up now, the front doors brightly painted and the tiny front gardens sporting neat box hedges and urns full of petunias. When they’d lived there, the family had been just a step above squatters, finding the cheapest inner-city accommodation they could. It could be squalid as long as it had good light. Cliff had to have good light.

  Those were the good days, when they were a tight little unit of three: Cliff, her mother Maddie and Charlie. Until things had started to go wrong.

  Charlie slammed her mind shut on that thought and lifted a rack of clean glasses out of the dishwasher and onto the counter. It was no use dwelling on it now. She had the pub and good mates, even if there was a nagging sense that she was missing something, that occasionally kept her awake at night.

  The back door banged and moments later Jon strolled into the bar. His hair was damp, sitting in dark, tousled licks close to his head. He hadn’t shaved and it gave him an edgy look that took the pretty out of just-about-perfect. Which was probably a good thing. Not many men could carry off the shirt he was wearing. Charlie sighed. It was going to be a long twenty-four hours.

  He paused, eyes tracking slowly around the walls as though looking for a magic escape route, anything to get him out of there. Boredom oozed from every pore. It was in his stance, the tilt of his head, the way his eyes scanned the room and seemed to find it wanting. Finally, they lit upon Charlie and she saw the flicker of interest; like a cat spying a ball of wool, he’d found something to play with. She stiffened as he sauntered over to the bar.

  She’d be nice to him – but whatever she was missing, it certainly wouldn’t be found in Jonathan Hartley-Huntley.

  After an interesting couple of minutes in the external shower block, which appeared to have its own thriving ecosystem, Jon wandered back towards the bar. This had to be a nightmare. Twenty-four hours spent between this bar and his so-called room would seem like a week.

  The bar was emptier now that the entertainment was over. Small groups had settled in on stools gathered around hokey-looking tables made from old wine casks, while some men stood on the verandah outside, cigarettes dangling from their lips, their profiles dark and ominous against the blinding light beyond. He knew he should approach a group, try to coax a story from them somehow, but none of these groups looked particularly welcoming.

  His gaze shifted and took in the bar. A long sheet of corroded and rusted corrugated metal ran the length of its front and was topped by a battered, stainless-steel counter. Overhead, the pressed-metal ceiling had given up. Curled flakes of no doubt noxious paint hung by mere microns, waiting for the next breeze. He tipped his head to one side, considering. In London or New York, in some trendy, dingy loft bar cunningly situated so that only the cognoscenti could find it, people would be lining up to drink in squalor like this. Here, it just looked depressingly unappealing and rundown.

  Except for the girl behind the bar. He felt Charlie’s scrutiny and his spirits lightened as he looked in her direction. Those bright-blue eyes regarded him steadily as the girl ran a tea towel around the outside of a glass, then reached up to shelve it, her T-shirt riding up to reveal an alluring wedge of tanned flesh. She was smiling at him, an inviting, broad grin that reached her eyes, so he ambled up to the bar and pulled out a stool.

  ‘Pink. You’re game.’ She let out a tiny snort of laughter.

  Oh. He glanced down at his shirt with its neat polo-player insignia, then around at the men in the bar. There was an awful lot of plaid and denim in this room. So maybe pink polo shirts were best suited for a day on the green, Pimms in hand, rather than an outback pub, but he didn’t have the time to arrange fancy dress for every place he visited. He shrugged and slid onto the stool.

  ‘Okay. What’ll it be?’ Her long fingers wrapped around the tap in a way that brought entirely carnal thoughts to mind, and for a moment, caught in the beam of those laughing blue eyes, Jonathan had a very good suggestion. But that was obviously not on her mind. He cleared his throat and looked at the array of beers on offer. ‘Whatever you’d suggest.’

  She grabbed a frosted glass tankard and held it under a spigot. ‘Settled in?’

  ‘Yes, I had a lovely long bath and my valet is currently unpacking.’ He gave her a what-do-you-think look.

  She ignored him and placed the brimming glass on the bar towel. ‘Cool. Here you go.’ She leaned forward, arms crossed on the bar. ‘So, what are you going to do while you’re here?’

  ‘You need to ask?’ As though anyone in their right mind would come all the way out here if it wasn’t for that flood. The problem was, there didn’t seem to be anything to do until he could find a tour operator to take him out. ‘I’m just trying to sort through the endless possibilities,’ he said, pulling his mobile phone from his pocket. ‘I presume you have wi-fi here?’

  ‘Of course. New password every day and we’ve just changed it. Today’s is toff double oh seven’. She straightened, gave the bar a slap with the palm of her hand and sashayed further along to serve another customer.

  He narrowed his eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his mouth. She was a feisty thing, that was for sure. He watched the way her hips swayed, allowing his mind to travel pleasurable paths for a couple of seconds, before dragging his eyes away. He punched his password into the phone, logged onto the wi-fi and opened his email. Nothing from Caro; he raised his eyes heavenwards. Thank you, God. And nothing from his family with the insistent demands he’d had been avoiding for the last year.

  He breathed a sigh of relief and took a long sip of beer. Two pairs of glass-fronted fridges lined the back of the bar, flanking a shelf loaded with a clutter of bottles, can holders and souvenir caps. Above it all sat a truly alarming mounted boar’s head, with its pointed yellow teeth bared. He shuddered, and swivelled around on his stool until he was facing back into the room.

  The walls were covered with old akubra hats, cattle whips and what looked like rusted rabbit traps. Set-dressing. They’d done the same thing at Hartley Hall when they’d opened it to the public two years ago. He remembered the dreary weekend the family had spent covered in dust in the attics, dragging down old moth-eaten cavalier hats, a half-complete, dinged-up suit of armour, and all kinds of old rubbish to adorn the place.

  The punters loved it. And it had saved Hartley Hall.

  This was really no different, just set-dressing for tourists. He eased off the stool, taking his beer with him.

  A shelf beside the front door supported several large glass jars. Jon leaned down to inspect the contents and read the attached labels. Various preserved snakes and spiders were on display, and the high toxicity of their venoms seemed to be almost gleefully detailed. One of the exhibits looked suspiciously like a spider he’d seen in the shower block earlier. He suppressed a shiver and moved on.

  Beside the shelf a large noticeboard was pinned with computer printouts detailing weather forecasts and road closures and, as though to point out the idiocy of ignoring either or both, there were several yellowed newspaper clippings about a German who’d gotten lost eight years ago and been rescued within minutes of death. Jon took a deep swallow of his beer as he noticed that the temperature outside was set to soar over the next two days. A flood was one thing, but without the people it affected it was hardly a story. So there had to be an angle here somewhere. How could he make a story out of a boar’s head, several jars of preserved poisonous wildlife, and a girl with a deadly aim, both physically and metaphorically? His eyes swivelled back to Charlie. Was she the story? Except that would be pure human interest, not really his area. He was about discovering new places, spots tourists might want to visit. A depressing idea
slowly formed in his mind. Maybe Caro had set him up to fail. He could imagine her scanning a map of the world, deliberately searching for the most remotely located place in which something vaguely interesting was happening. He’d been sent, like a convict, to atone for his sins on the other side of the world, and would return empty-handed.

  No one was going to travel this far for a bunch of old akubras and rabbit traps. He sighed and returned to the bar. Charlie moved along to serve him again, snagging a fresh glass from the fridge and pulling another beer. ‘Here, you look a little peaky. This one’s on the house, too.’

  He took a long swallow, savouring the ice-cold bitterness while he watched Charlie attend to another customer, who could have been talking another language as far as Jon was concerned. The man’s conversation, littered with verbal shortcuts and strange Australian words, displayed an easy jocularity that set Jon’s teeth on edge. Charlie slid onto a stool behind the bar a couple of metres away when the customer had finally bid her ‘hooroo’.

  Jon twisted the glass around in front of him for several moments before glancing at her. ‘So, I’ve walked all over town and I still can’t find the tour company,’ he joked.

  She gave him an incredulous look. ‘You mean you didn’t make any arrangements?’ She shook her head as though he were beyond hope, a cretin. Maybe she was right.

  ‘No.’ He tried for nonchalance but heard the defeat in his voice.

  ‘Never mind. You probably had the best view from the air anyway. Pretty spectacular, isn’t it?’ She joined him, leaning forward with her arms crossed on the bar. She had a dusting of light freckles across her cheeks he hadn’t noticed before.

  That was it? He’d come all this way to see the floods from the air? Caro would have his gonads on toast if he didn’t come back with a detailed story. She’d want him to get close to nature and be copiously bitten by flies and mosquitos. A little case of dengue fever or a near-fatal snake bite wouldn’t go astray either. He knew how she rolled.