Her Outback Rescuer. Marion LennoxЧитать онлайн книгу.
was Maudie’s passion. At six feet in her rather substantial bare feet, Maudie could never, ever, have been a ballet dancer, but she adored it and she had a permanent booking for most major Australian performances.
As a kid, in the many times his father had offloaded him onto Maudie, she’d often taken Hugo with her.
He glanced across at Amy now and he thought: had this woman been one of those sylphlike figures whose movements on the stage were pure grace and beauty?
The last ballet he’d been to was when he’d been about sixteen. He’d been traumatised by the latest of his father’s public scandals. His grandparents were the centre of media attention and, in typical teenage fashion, he’d decided every eye in the theatre was on him. He’d watched, sullen and uncooperative, but, despite himself, he’d found himself caught. He’d thought then, fleetingly, he knew why his grandmother loved it.
But, after that, he’d never been back. Real men didn’t go to the ballet, especially men headed for the army, for the powerful SWAT team, for action in Iraq, Afghanistan, so many of the world’s trouble spots.
Now, at thirty-seven, he was seeing a faint echo of a world he’d last seen twenty years ago.
Amy was talking to his grandmother as if she was already a friend. She’d figured just the right note. They shared sadness, yet both were moving on.
The sister—Rachel?—seemed a shadow on the periphery, polite but looking as if she’d love to retreat to her stones.
The impression of illness intensified.
He’d like to know these women’s stories.
No. No, he wouldn’t. He wanted to get this journey over with, get his grandmother cheered up and get back to his unit. His grandmother was doing everything she could to draw him into her world, and he would not be drawn.
Except the appalling woman they’d met at lunch had been right. Maybe he had no choice.
The camels won. They upped the pace, swept forward until they were a carriage ahead and then veered away, triumphant.
‘I’m guessing they race every train,’ Amy said, and she suddenly sounded wistful. ‘Don’t they look wonderful? Don’t they look free?’
‘They’re young,’ Maudie said, and the wistfulness was in her voice as well. ‘They’ll get aching legs soon enough.’
‘Yep, any minute now they’ll be taking anti-inflammatories and heating wheat bags to take to bed at night,’ Amy said, and Maudie chuckled—and Hugo glanced at Amy and thought: there’s pain behind those words. Pain and courage.
He did not want to be interested in a woman on a train.
Rachel was back in her book.
Amy was slipping steak into her purse.
Amy was what?
He must have imagined it.
He hadn’t imagined it. She’d sliced a sliver, then dropped her hand below the table to where her purse lay on her knee. When she’d raised her fork the steak was gone.
She cut another sliver and ate it, just like normal.
The waiter appeared to take Maudie and Hugo’s order. They were a course behind the girls. They could watch.
Rachel read. Amy and Maudie chatted.
A steak sliver raised to Amy’s lips. Another.
Another went below the table and disappeared.
Hugo was trained to notice small details. Suspicions. Anything out of the ordinary could mean trouble. As tiny a detail as a robe worn slightly askew, or a guy smiling more widely than appropriate meant immediate caution.
He wasn’t in a war zone now. He could hardly drag Amy’s hand up with the offending steak and say, Explain yourself.
Another sliver dropped purse-wards. She glanced up and met his gaze. Their eyes locked.
She knew he’d seen.
She didn’t say a word but there was a message in those clear brown eyes…
Please don’t say anything. This is important. Please…
Curiouser and curiouser. A steak-smuggling, rock-reading ballet dancer.
Okay, he wasn’t interested in women, at least not when he was around Maudie, but this was a mystery and maybe he could enjoy challenge without involvement.
His steak came. His grandmother had ordered fish. In the corner, Rachel had sent her quiche back uneaten.
On impulse, he cut a couple of slivers from the corner of his steak, dropped them into his napkin—then passed it under the table to Amy.
His fingers touched her knee. She met his gaze, startled. His gaze locked, held; a silent message passed between them.
She dropped her hand under the table and found his.
The napkin passed between them and her eyes widened.
‘Is anything wrong?’ Maudie demanded, her sharp eyes missing little but not seeing the exchange. Only Amy’s stillness.
‘I… no,’ Amy managed. ‘Do you like your fish?’
‘It’s excellent,’ Maudie said. ‘Though the servings are too big. They always are.’
‘But you finished all your steak, Miss Cotton,’ Hugo said gravely.
‘Amy,’ she said, sounding distracted.
‘Amy,’ he said, liking the sound of it. ‘I’m finishing mine, too. It’s a long time till breakfast. They should provide midnight snacks. Maybe a steak sandwich in the small hours? I wonder if they have spare bread?’
She glared at him. His lips twitched. He had a mystery here and, despite his vow to stay uninvolved he sat back and started to enjoy himself.
‘I’ve lost my napkin,’ he told the waiter as he went past. ‘Could I have another, please?’
Amy’s glare intensified.
‘So are you two getting off at Alice Springs?’ Maudie was asking. This train went all the way north to Darwin, but many passengers broke the journey halfway to see the fabulous rock formations: Uluru, formerly known as Ayers Rock, The Olgas, Mount Connor…
‘We are,’ Amy said. ‘Of course we are. We’ll spend a few days exploring. So many big rocks… What could make Rachel happier?’
Rachel gave a fleeting smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
‘Will you climb Uluru?’ Maudie asked her, but it was Amy who answered.
‘Uluru’s sacred to the indigenous people. They don’t like anyone climbing. I’d love to climb the Olgas, though. Did you know European explorers named the Olgas after Queen Olga of Wurtenburg, when the local people named it Kata Tjuta thousands of years ago? Then they changed Uluru to Alice Springs, naming it after someone who never even came here. How weird is that?’
‘Weird,’ Hugo agreed, finding himself increasingly drawn into the conversation. This woman was passionate, he thought. There was enough indignation in those few words to show she cared.
And then he looked closer. In Afghanistan he’d trained himself to notice tribal differences. These two women had cute blonde curls, but their skin was darker than the complexion from Irish or English heritage. It wasn’t the dark of fake tan; it was more a beautiful bronze brush. And Amy’s nose, cute and snub, was a tiny bit flattened at the end. Another of those subtle hints.
‘You have native blood,’ he said, and suddenly, wow, here was her beam again. He loved this beam. How could he make it stay on?
‘Well done, you,’ Amy said. ‘We’re three-quarters Irish, but our maternal grandmother was from a