And Liane’s way with him was vastly different from her way with anyone she didn’t consider important in the scheme of things.

“What was his wife’s first name?” Was it because of Catherine she had instantly identified with the drowned young woman, as if they had once been friends? Was she already drawing a connecting line?

“Sondra. Silly name.”

“I like it.”

“You would.” Liane gave an acerbic laugh.

“And so would countless numbers of people,” Genevieve said, torn by an urge to rattle Liane Rawleigh’s cage.

Here was a woman potentially dangerous. A snap judgement, but she was pretty sure her instincts were spot-on. Liane Rawleigh was a proud woman, a vengeful woman. A woman who barely beneath the surface was filled with discontent, possibly a total dissatisfaction with her life. And why not? She still loved Trevelyan. The break-up of any engagement was an emotionally wrenching turn of events. No one knew that better than she. She started to look for excuses. Maybe the abrasive manner was a cover-up? It wasn’t easy dealing with a sense of failure, hurt and humiliation. But where was the compassion for Sondra Wakefield, let alone the grieving living Kit? Liane sounded as if she despised Sondra Wakefield. That telling catch-as-catch-can. What could have inspired that?

“Are you certain it was a marriage on the rebound?” she found herself asking, in perhaps too probing a voice.

“I should be.” Liane’s glare was hard and intense. “Who are you, anyway? Some sort of counsellor? As far as I know you’ve been employed by Hester to do the job of ghostwriting.”

“I merely asked a question.” Genevieve’s reply was mild, though she felt exposed to this woman’s dark side.

Liane lifted a haughty chin. “To answer your question, I turned Kit Wakefield down at least twice.”

“Oh, I see.” Genevieve spoke as though she’d been offered a more than adequate explanation. “I understood you were engaged to Bret Trevelyan at one time?”

What did she have to lose by asking a few pertinent questions—or impertinent questions for that matter? She needed to know a great deal more about everyone within the Trevelyan circle. Throw out a few challenges if she had to.

“Nothing to do with you.” The startling blue eyes flared like the sun off ice.

“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Genevieve spoke with what she hoped was an appropriate note of apology.

Liane shrugged, a bitter smile running across her mouth. “What happened was that I got tired of waiting for Bret to set a date for our wedding. It’s always Djangala. He’s married to the place. I admit it’s a huge responsibility. Too much has been put on his shoulders right from when he was a kid. But I wasn’t going to take second place. Not me!”

She wasn’t speaking the truth. No way had Liane Rawleigh decided to break off the engagement. She was still crazily in love with him. Liane was also sure Trevelyan wouldn’t talk about it, allowing her to put whatever spin she liked on their split.

“So how long do you think you’ll be here?” Liane’s eyes returned to fixating on Trevelyan’s tall, commanding figure. Obviously every moment of time with him was precious.

“I have six months at my disposal.” Genevieve felt a stab of pity for her.

Liane’s head snapped back. “Surely it won’t take that long?” She looked as if she was struggling to come to terms with it. “Hester has gathered all possible documentation. You won’t have to conduct any searches. She’s been at it like a bower bird for years on end. She has the Trevelyan family history at her fingertips—both from Cornwall and Australia.”

“Six months isn’t a long time,” Genevieve pointed out. “I’m surprised you would think it is. The first draft must be completed. The final draft can be done elsewhere, but I’ll have my work cut out even then.”

“Well, that’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?” Liane asked with cold rationalisation. “To work?”

“Certainly. But I intend to take my time off. I want to see Uluru and the Olgas again. Bret did say he would make that possible.”

The finely arched black brows shot to her hairline. “Bret did?” Liane’s stare could have drilled a hole in a steel door. She actually looked quite savage. They might have been enemies on a battlefield.

“I imagine he could organise it,” Genevieve responded with composure. “He didn’t say he would take me, of course. I appreciate he’s a very busy man. Maybe Derryl?”

A look of amusement crossed Liane’s high-mettled face. “You’re not Derryl’s type, my dear. Derryl likes glamour girls, not academics. Besides, Derryl can’t fly the Beechcraft. I wouldn’t go making any plans either. Hester will keep you extremely busy. She’s a very domineering old b—biddy.” She’d nearly said bitch—stopped just in time. “Thinks she’s far more important in the scheme of things than she is. We never did get on. I tried, but pretty soon I didn’t bother. I know she did her utmost to influence Bret against me. Unforgivable in my book. Don’t worry, Ms Grenville, you’ll be expected to toe a fine line.”

“I assure you I haven’t thought differently.” Genevieve’s answer was mild. “Nevertheless, I’m entitled to my time off. That was part of our agreement.”

“Make sure Uluru and the Olgas are your only distractions.” Liane’s stare was very direct.

It was an unequivocal warning.

“What are you saying?”

“You know what I’m saying,” Liane answered bluntly. “You’re not that dumb.”

Genevieve gave a faint laugh. “I’m not dumb at all.”

“No, just dull.”

Genevieve didn’t respond to the jibe. “So why are you worried?” She decided to have a crack at Liane. It wasn’t as though she was in any danger of becoming Liane’s next best friend.

“Worried?” Liane sounded furiously affronted.

Genevieve pressed on regardless. “You have no need to be. I promise I won’t lose sight of why I’m here.”

It was as well Trevelyan was coming back. She’d had about enough of Liane, who would have her work cut out, constantly warning off any young woman she perceived to be a threat.

Even a dull ghostwriter who just happened to be hiding in plain sight.

GENEVIEVE had never seen anything like the remote splendour of Djangala. The sun blazed down on innumerable lagoons, creeks, swamps, and billabongs, the water throwing back reflections of thousands of small suns and glittery pinpoints of diamond-like light. Anyone would have been thrilled by it all. She was conscious of nature and its power as she had never been in the city. Nature was sublime—whether it worked for you or catastrophically against you.

All the waterways were bordered by verdant trees and vegetation in striking contrast to the rust-red of the plains that stretched away to the horizons. Desert oaks dotted the vast empty terrain, and acacias more abundant than gums in arid areas, with large areas of mulga woodlands that abounded with what seemed like thousands and thousands of small yellow wildflowers.

A hundred or more emu—Australia’s endemic flightless bird—disturbed by the descending aircraft, were streaking across the landscape at a rate of knots. She knew when threatened they could reach speeds of up to sixty miles per hour. It was fascinating to watch their flight. The kangaroos had to be taking their midday siesta. She could only spot ten or so, in a loosely knit group. Some were standing upright like a man, balancing on powerfully muscular hind legs and long tail, others were attending meticulously to their grooming,licking their forearms. It was an endearing sight to see the two wild animals that held the nation’s coat of arms aloft in their natural habitat.

The great Djangala herd, like that of its neighbouring station, Kuna Kura Downs, was strung out across the open plains. Large sections were being driven towards waterholes to drink.