Zane: The Wild One. Bronwyn JamesonЧитать онлайн книгу.
around her presence. Because Julia needed a husband. Because Julia never went anywhere to meet the “right kind of man.” Because no man or machine could stop Chantal when she was on a mission, and Mission: Marry Julia had assumed top priority since New Year’s.
It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate Chantal’s efforts or her motivation. Purely and simply, her sister would do anything to make her happy, even if that meant acting in direct contradiction to her own beliefs. Marriage, according to Chantal, invited heartache. Career, on the other hand, provided respect, challenge and fulfillment.
Julia didn’t agree. She had been married once, and if they hadn’t followed Paul’s career to Sydney, if she hadn’t hated the isolated loneliness of big-city living—and if he hadn’t gone and fallen in love with another woman—she would likely still be married.
For better or for worse.
Because despite her parents’ lofty ambitions, despite her siblings’s stellar success, despite all the vocational testing and you-can-do-so-much-more-with-your-life advice, Julia had never wanted anything except to be married, to make a home and a garden and the babies she knew would fill the empty corners of her soul.
Unfortunately the children she had yet to have weren’t going to help her out of this fix. Fortunately her legs now felt as if they were up to supporting her, especially if she got rid of the three-inch heels borrowed from her housemate, Kree. And the stockings. And the slip that clung to her legs like seal-wrap.
That done, she made her way to the center of the road and looked around. There wasn’t a lot to see. Enough roadside eucalypts to make her grateful the drain had stopped her progress, and a century-old fence that wouldn’t have stopped a bicycle’s progress. Behind her stretched acres of rolling grassland, punctuated with the scattered dots of grazing cattle and bisected by the curling ribbon of road she had just driven down. Ahead, uncleared scrub marked the start of the Tibbaroo Nature Reserve.
Drat. She couldn’t have picked a more isolated spot. The nearest farmhouse was miles away, and already she could feel both sharp-edged gravel and the baked-in heat of a long summer day biting into her soles. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other as she pondered which would be perceived as the most stupid course of action. A: walking several miles in bare feet. B: walking the same distance in stilettos. Or C: waiting for help.
A low persistent buzz permeated her thoughts and she swatted at the lone fly circling her head. The fly decamped, but the buzz persisted. Julia groaned as she identified Option D as the correct answer to her question.
The most stupid course of action would be forgetting her mother’s car phone.
She picked her way back to the car, slid into the driver’s seat and rescued the squawking instrument.
“Julia? Where in heaven’s name are you?” It sounded as if Chantal had worked up a full head of steam. “I know I said seven-thirty, but you’re usually early, and I need you to fix this cursed sauce. I followed your recipe, but something’s not work—”
“Actually,” Julia managed to interject, “I’ve had an accident of sorts.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes. I’m fine, but the car—”
“Oh, my God, you didn’t mangle Mother’s car?”
“No, it’s not damaged. Much.” She closed her eyes and crossed her fingers, although it wasn’t really a lie. “But it’s going to need towing.”
Julia gave her location, and Chantal swung straight into organizational mode. That was, after all, her forte.
“With all this food on the go, I can’t come and get you, but I’ll send Dan as soon as he gets here.”
“Dan?”
“He’s a new dentist in Cliffton. He seems a little on the quiet side, so do try to get him talking. I’m sure you’ll find plenty in common if you give him a chance.”
He’s a little dull, so you two will get along famously, Julia translated.
“Just sit tight and wait. Oh, and I’ll call a tow truck.”
“It’s Friday night. Please, don’t drag Bill out.” But she was talking to dead air. Everything organized to her satisfaction, Chantal had hung up.
With her gaze fixed on the rearview mirror, Julia saw the tow truck crest Quilty’s Hill, then zoom in and out of sight as it traversed the winding descent.
“Where’s the fire?” she murmured, sitting up straighter and pushing her dark glasses to the top of her head.
Fast wasn’t like old Bill. The laconic garage owner typified the pace of the small town that had been home for most of Julia’s life. But old Bill owned the only tow truck in Plenty, drove the only tow truck in Plenty….
Except on those rare occasions when Zane O’Sullivan was in town.
By the time the truck rocked to a halt, Julia’s heart was pounding. The pall of dust that had trailed the vehicle down the hill caught up with its quarry, circled, then settled in a thick brown shroud. Dry-mouthed, Julia heard the thunk of a closing door, the crunch of brittle herbage under heavy boots, and then he was right there, anchoring hands spread wide on the roof as he hunkered down to her open window.
Zane O’Sullivan. In the flesh.
“Helluva place to park your car,” he drawled, his tone as dry as the summer road.
That smoke-and-whisky voice had always unsettled Julia—made her pulse beat a little quicker, her breath come a little shallower—but it usually didn’t render her incapable of speech…but then, usually she only encountered it on the distant end of a phone line. In fact, this was the first time Kree’s footloose brother had ever spoken to her face-to-face.
Back in high school she had found his shining good looks and tarnished bad attitude so contradictory, so intimidating, that she had literally fled from any chance encounter. More than a decade later, and some things hadn’t changed. Up close, Zane O’Sullivan still unnerved her—although now that she had regained her equilibrium, she noticed that some things had changed after all.
Defined by a close-fitting white T-shirt, his chest was definitely broader, deeper, stronger. His hair was the same sun-tinged blend of honey and gold, still worn longer than regulation, still finger-combed back from his broad forehead. His face looked leaner, his cheekbones more sharply chiselled, and a network of well-etched lines radiated beyond his aviator shades.
Those squint lines deepened as if he had narrowed his gaze. “You okay? You look a bit stunned.”
He straightened to open her door, and she quickly looked away, but not quickly enough to avoid an eyeful of denim-encased male groin. Suddenly she felt more than stunned. She felt breathless, dizzy. The heat, she reasoned, as she hastily slapped her own sunglasses into place.
As if they could dim such glaring good looks. A hundred pair and she would still be mesmerized. A picture formed in her giddy head—her, pulling on pair after pair of sunglasses, one on top of the other, in a vain attempt to dilute his male beauty—and she laughed out loud. The laughter evaporated when she realized how loony her behavior must seem to a bystander.
She turned in her seat to find the only spectator frowning down at her. One hand rested on the door frame; his long fingers drummed an impatient beat. He looked as though he wished he were somewhere else. Anywhere else. Good grief, she hadn’t said a word in the several minutes since he’d arrived, hadn’t answered his concerned question.
“I’m fine.” She swung her head from side to side. “See? No visible signs of head injury.”
He didn’t look convinced. In fact, as she slid out from behind the wheel, he looked downright bemused. Best to get the towing sorted out before he decided she truly was crazy and made good his escape.
“I’m not sure how much damage I’ve done. See this tire?