A Millionaire For Molly

A Millionaire For Molly Marion Lennox Molly Farr can see why millionaire businessman Jackson Baird is called Australia's most eligible bachelor! He's charming, handsome, successful…and if Molly can't close the deal on a huge property with him she'll lose her job. So the last thing Molly needs is to be distracted by an inconvenient attraction to her most valued client!Especially since Jackson has a reputation for dating only the most gorgeous, glamorous types - what could a man like him ever see in an ordinary woman like her? Molly doesn't know - but Jackson does…. She heard the note of caring in his voice and it made her blink back tears. Drat the man. He had the capacity to get under her skin. And why? Because he was big and handsome and gentle and…. And a millionaire—or even a billionaire! And as such he was right out of her league, even as a friend. Men like Jackson weren’t friends. If they were anything at all, then they were trouble. Marion Lennox was born on an Australian dairy farm. She moved on—mostly because the cows weren’t interested in her stories! In her nonwriting life Marion cares (haphazardly) for her husband, teenagers, dogs, cats, chickens and anyone else who lines up at her dinner table. She fights her rampant garden (she’s losing) and her house dust (she’s lost). She also travels, which she finds seriously addictive. As a teenager Marion was told she’d never get anywhere reading romance. Now romance is the basis of her stories. Her stories allow her to travel, and if ever there was an advertisement for following your dream, she’d be it! A Millionaire for Molly Marion Lennox CONTENTS CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER ONE OF ALL the times for Lionel to escape… The reception area at Bayside Property was crowded and it was very, very noisy. Molly’s cleaning team had declared an owner’s wolfhounds were dangerous and they wouldn’t go near her properties. Sophia, one of Molly’s most valued landladies, was noisily furious that anyone could criticise her dogs. Jackson Baird was closeted with Molly’s boss. And now… ‘Lionel’s gone,’ Molly said in a voice that caused an instant hush. She was staring at her empty box in horror. ‘Angela, did you…?’ And Angela had. ‘I just showed Guy.’ Molly’s fellow realtor stared down at the empty box and her face reflected Molly’s dismay. ‘I swear that’s all I did. Guy dropped in for coffee and he didn’t believe you had a frog in your desk.’ ‘But you put the top back on, right?’ Angela caught her breath, thinking it through and becoming more appalled by the minute. ‘I was just showing him when Jackson Baird walked in. Well, it was Jackson Baird!’ Enough said. Jackson Baird… The guy just had to enter the room and half the women present would forget their own names! What was it about the man? Oh, sure, he was good-looking. He was tall, superbly fit and deeply tanned. And his face… You’d expect arrogance with Jackson’s stature and reputation, but the man’s face was almost Labrador-puppyish. It was a take-me-home-and-love-me sort of face, with laughing grey eyes and a wonderful white smile. Take-me-home-and-love-me? Molly read the society pages enough to know that women did just that. With inherited millions from Australia’s copper mines, and a fierce business acumen of his own, the man had a reputation almost as vast as the number of zeros in his bank account. So this morning he’d arrived and the whole office had stopped dead. Molly had just returned from inspecting Sophia’s property, and even that voluble lady had been silenced as Jackson and his lawyer were ushered through. ‘That’s Jackson Baird,’ Sophia had breathed as the entourage swept past into Trevor’s inner sanctum. ‘I’ve never seen him in the flesh. Is he a client of yours?’ The elderly landlady had clearly been immensely impressed. If he was a client it’d do the place an enormous amount of good, Molly had thought, and wondered which of their properties Jackson could possibly be interested in. They had some lovely bayside properties for sale, but surely none palatial enough to suit a man of his wealth. ‘Jackson made me forget your frog,’ Angela admitted. ‘Well, you have to admit he’s gorgeous.’ ‘Sure he’s gorgeous,’ Molly acknowledged, and then, more frantically, ‘But where’s my frog?’ ‘He must be here somewhere.’ Angela dropped to her knees, her fair curls merging with Molly’s dark ones as they met under the desk. They were both in their late twenties, and they were both extremely attractive, but there the resemblance ended. Angela treated the world as if it was there to give her a good time whereas Molly knew it would do no such thing. ‘I mean, where can he have gone?’ Plenty of places. Trevor Farr’s real estate agency was a small firm, and its owner, Molly’s cousin, was a muddler. The place was crammed with files almost to the ceiling. Somewhere among them was one green frog. ‘Sam will kill me,’ Molly wailed. ‘We’ll find him.’ ‘I should never have brought him to work.’ ‘You hardly had a choice,’ Angela retorted. No. She hadn’t had a choice. Molly and Sam travelled on the same train—her eight-year-old nephew to Cove Park Elementary and Molly to Bayside Property. Their journey had almost been complete this morning before she’d realised why Sam’s school bag was bulging, and she’d been horrified. ‘You can’t take Lionel to school.’ ‘I can.’ Sam’s bespectacled face creased into defiance. ‘He misses me at home.’ ‘But the other kids…’ Molly sighed. She knew only too well the social structure of the school. Hadn’t she been in to see the headmaster only last week? ‘Sam’s being bullied,’ she’d told him, and the man had spread his hands. ‘We do our best,’ he told her. ‘Most kids in Sam’s position would keep their heads down and stay out of trouble. But, even though Sam’s about half the size of most third-graders, he matches it with the best of them. I’m afraid some of the children retaliate rather brutally. But of course you’re right. The kid has pluck and we’ll see what we can do.’ Which wasn’t much, as Molly had thought when Sam had come home with yet another set of bruises. He laid himself open to pain, and if he took his frog to school there were kids there who’d delight in taking his pet from him. Who knew what would happen after that? ‘It’s too late to take him home now,’ Sam told her, his chin jutting forward in the Sam-against-the-world look she knew only too well. It had been too late, so she’d brought Sam’s frog to work. Molly’s job was very new. Her cousin had been reluctant to take her on in the first place, she’d had an appointment with Sophia at ten and was in no position to arrive late. So she’d arrived with Lionel’s cardboard box under her arm and this was the result. ‘Sam’ll never forgive me.’ Both girls were scrambling under the desk, oblivious to those above. ‘Excuse me?’ Sophia’s tones from above the desk declared she was clearly not amused. ‘Do I understand you’re looking for a frog?’ ‘It’s Sam’s frog.’ Molly’s voice was almost a sob. She pushed her dark curls out of her face and started hauling the filing case from the wall. ‘Help us.’ ‘I refuse to wait because of a frog. And as for helping…’ Angela reacted then. Molly was hauling furniture as if her life depended on it but Angela rose and put her hands on her hips. In the weeks Molly had worked for the agency she and Angela had become fast friends, and Angela would defend her friend to the death. ‘Do you know who Sam is?’ she demanded. ‘Of course I don’t, girl. Why should I?’ ‘Do you remember that awful accident about six months back?’ Angela demanded. ‘A truck came off the overpass and there were people in the car below. The adults were killed outright but there was a little boy trapped for hours.’ The woman’s jaw dropped in horrified memory. ‘Was that Sam?’ ‘Yes. And he’s Molly’s nephew.’ ‘Oh, no.’ ‘And now we’ve lost his frog.’ There was deathly silence. The three cleaners and Sophia all let the enormity of this sink in, and then cleaners, landlady, Molly and Angela—everybody started searching. Unaware of the drama being played out in his outer office, Trevor Farr was growing more flustered by the minute. At first he’d been delighted. He hadn’t been able to believe his luck. Hannah Copeland had telephoned this morning and her call had stunned him. ‘I’ve heard Jackson Baird is thinking of buying a property on the coast. There aren’t many people I’d consider selling Birraginbil to, but Jackson may be one of them. My father used to deal with your grandfather, I believe—so you may contact Mr Baird on my behalf and if he’s interested then I’ll sell. That is, if you want the commission?’ If he wanted the commission? Birraginbil… Such a sale would set him up for life, Trevor had thought, dazed, and he’d made a phone call to Jackson’s lawyer at once. He still hardly believed it, but now here was Jackson Baird in person, dressed for business in an Italian suit that screamed expensive, his eagle eyes cool and calculating, and waiting with polite patience for details. The only trouble was, Trevor didn’t yet have details. So he did the best he could with what he had and tried to buy time. ‘The property is on the coast, two hundred miles south of Sydney,’ he told Jackson and his lawyer. ‘It’s Friday today. I’m otherwise engaged at the weekend, but would it be convenient if we drove down together on Monday?’ ‘I would have thought you’d at least have photographs.’ Jackson’s lawyer seemed deeply displeased. Like Trevor, Roger Francis had been caught on the hop, and the lawyer had reason to be unhappy. He’d had a property in the Blue Mountains lined up for Jackson’s inspection, one where he’d pocket the sizeable commission himself and a bit more on the side. Unfortunately his secretary had taken the call about the Copeland place when he was out and the girl had taken it on herself to ring Jackson. Stupid woman! Now the lawyer was in a foul temper and Trevor’s delaying tactics didn’t help. ‘Phone us when you have the details,’ the lawyer snapped. ‘If I’d known you had so little information we would never have come this far. You’re wasting Mr Baird’s valuable time.’ And then he paused. He stared down at the plush carpet in time to see a small green object. It jumped. It was a small green tree frog—nature personified—and the lawyer knew exactly what to do with nature trying to edge its way into civilisation. He lifted his foot. ‘Do you think he could have jumped into Trevor’s office when they opened the door?’ Molly was staring in despair at the frogless back of the filing cabinet. ‘Where else could he be?’ ‘I suppose he might have,’ Angela said doubtfully, sitting back on her heels. ‘I mean…everyone was staring at Jackson.’ Of course. Idiots. ‘I’ll look.’ Molly rose. ‘Trevor will kill you if you interrupt, Molly. He has Jackson Baird in his office.’ ‘I don’t care if he has the Queen of Sheba in there. I’m going to look.’ Molly put her nose against the glass pane in Trevor’s door. And what she saw made her move faster than she’d ever moved in her life. And Jackson? One minute he was sitting between an irate lawyer and a confused realtor, trying to get some sense out of the pair of them. The next there was a flash of green against the beige carpet, his lawyer’s polished brogue raised to strike—and a mop-headed, mini-skirted young woman launched herself through the door and down at the carpet in what he could only describe as a rugby tackle. His lawyer’s foot fell, but there was no longer a frog underneath—instead there was a pair of hands, grasping and cradling and protecting one small green frog as Roger’s foot stamped down. ‘Ow!’ ‘Molly!’ ‘What the—?’ ‘Did you get him?’ ‘He stomped on him. He stomped on Sam’s frog. Oh, you brute!’ Sophia Cincotta, breathing fire, was first into the room after Molly, and she took one look at what was happening and raised her handbag. She swiped at Roger Francis. ‘Murderer!’ Angela came next, gazing down in horror. Molly was lying full-length on the carpet, clutching Lionel as if her life depended on it. ‘Molly—your hand. Your hand’s bleeding.’ ‘He’s broken her fingers!’ Sophia’s handbag swiped again, and the lawyer retreated fast to the other side of Trevor’s desk. ‘Is Lionel okay?’ Angela demanded. ‘He’s squashed,’ Sophia retorted, bearing down on the hapless lawyer. ‘Of course he’s not okay. Didn’t you see this brute step on him?’ ‘I thought those things were protected,’ one of the cleaners volunteered. ‘It’ll be a toad, stupid,’ someone else retorted. ‘You’re supposed to kill them.’ ‘Not on my carpet.’ Trevor’s voice rose in bewilderment. ‘Is this a frog? A frog? Molly, is this your doing?’ ‘Of course it’s my doing,’ Molly managed, peering between her bleeding fingers. ‘And it’s not a cane toad. Oh, heck, his leg looks… His leg looks broken.’ ‘Your fingers look broken,’ Angela retorted, kneeling beside her and casting a murderous glance up at Roger Francis. ‘It’s him who’s the toad.’ ‘Of all the unprofessional…’ Roger was practically spluttering as he backed away from the handbag-wielding Sophia. ‘Mr Baird, I suggest we look for a property elsewhere.’ Trevor collected himself at that, and moved between Molly and Jackson. He could see thousands of dollars worth of commission going up in smoke here. ‘Mr Baird, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. This is normally the most efficient of offices.’ He glared down at Molly. ‘My father persuaded me to employ my cousin because he felt sorry for her. But if she’s going to offend major clients…’ He tried for bluster, a weak man attempting importance. ‘Molly, get up. You can collect your severance pay and leave.’ But Molly wasn’t listening. She was still staring between her fingers. Lionel’s leg was indeed hanging at an odd angle. It must be broken. She thought of the impossibility of mending broken legs on frogs. What on earth was she going to tell Sam? ‘Molly, get out.’ This time Trevor’s desperation broke through. ‘You mean my frog’s going to die and now I’ve been given the sack?’ she managed, her voice a distressed whisper. Oh, great. How would they manage now? ‘If you’re going to upset Mr Baird—’ ‘She deserves to be sacked,’ the lawyer hissed from the other side of the desk, and Sophia’s handbag was raised again. ‘Just a moment.’ Jackson Baird rose and raised one hand. His voice was a soft and lazy drawl, but it had the capacity to halt everyone in their tracks. It was a voice of one born to command. He rose from where he’d been sitting and knelt by Molly, gently moving Angela out of the way. Immaculately dressed in his superbly fitted business suit, his night-black hair just casual enough for effect, his presence took over the room. ‘What is he—a tree frog?’ he asked Molly gently, and Molly wiped angry tears away with the back of her free hand. She sniffed and nodded. ‘Yes.’ ‘And Mr Francis, here—my lawyer—has injured it?’ ‘I don’t like insects,’ Roger muttered. ‘He’s not an insect—’ Molly started, but Jackson was still in control. Once again his voice cut through. ‘It does seem hard that Miss Farr should injure her hand, see her pet hurt and lose her job all on the one day.’ Carefully he opened Molly’s hand and took the frog into his own. Then he stood, solidly big, immaculately groomed—with a tiny green tree frog cradled in his palm. A swipe of black hair flicked over his eyes and he brushed it back. The man needed a haircut—or maybe he didn’t. There weren’t many women who’d complain about how Jackson Baird looked. And he looked amazing now. The tiny green frog, gazing upward with frog-like incomprehension, accentuated the sheer size and raw strength of the man. And yet he was all gentleness as his fingers carefully examined the tiny creature. Trevor stared down at the frog in disgust, his expression squeamish. Wildlife had never been his strong point. ‘Of all the ridiculous… Give it to me, Mr Baird, and I’ll find a brick.’ But Jackson was concentrating entirely on the frog. ‘You know, it looks a simple break, and there doesn’t appear to be any more damage. I think we can fix this.’ Molly took a deep breath. And then another. She sat up, pulled her skirt down over her tights until she was almost respectable, and gazed up at Jackson in disbelief. ‘You’re kidding.’ He looked down at her… And then looked again. She really was extraordinary, Jackson thought, taking her in for the first time. She had pale, almost translucent skin, a mop of glossy dark curls that clung around her face, huge brown eyes… Frog! Concentrate on the frog, Baird, he reminded himself. ‘Really,’ he told her. ‘We can’t put it in a cast—’ ‘That’d be something!’ Ever the clown, Angela interrupted from behind. Now that Lionel looked as if he might live, Molly’s fellow realtor was appreciating the humour of the situation. ‘We could make him crutches like Tiny Tim carries in the Muppet Christmas Carol.’ ‘Shut up, Angela.’ Molly glowered as she struggled to her feet, and she hardly noticed as Jackson’s free hand came out to steady her. This was serious. ‘You were saying, Mr Baird?’ ‘I’m sure he can be fixed.’ Two heads were now bent over one tiny green tree frog, and had no thoughts of anything else. ‘We need to splint it,’ Jackson told her. ‘Crutches!’ Angela chortled. ‘I won’t be content with anything less.’ Then her laughter died. ‘Molly, you’re dripping blood on the carpet.’ ‘It’s nothing.’ Molly shoved her fist into her skirt but Jackson’s hand came out and grasped hers. He held it up. The skin had split over the knuckles and it was sluggishly bleeding. His face darkened. ‘Damn you, Roger.’ ‘I was stamping on the frog. I didn’t expect the stupid girl to—’ ‘It needs attention.’ ‘It does not.’ Molly snatched her hand away and shoved it behind her back before he could see it further. ‘It’s only grazed. If Lionel can really be fixed—’ ‘Lionel?’ ‘My frog,’ she told him, and he nodded with all the gravity in the world. ‘Of course. Lionel. I see. And, yes, he can really be fixed.’ Molly looked up at Jackson as if he might be trying to trick her. ‘How do you know?’ ‘There was a dam on our property when I was a kid,’ he told her, taking in the look of strain around her eyes and puzzling a little over it. ‘I spent my holidays raising tadpoles.’ And escaping his parents. ‘Anything you need to know about frogs, ask me.’ ‘It can heal?’ ‘It can heal.’ She took a deep breath and some of the tension eased. ‘Then I’ll take him to the vet.’ ‘I can splint it here, if you’ll let me. But I can’t fix your hand.’ ‘I’ll take her to the hospital to fix that,’ Angela said, putting in her two bobs’ worth again and moving to hug her friend. ‘If you fix the frog, then I’ll fix Molly.’ ‘Angela!’ Trevor’s voice was an angry whisper, but Angela directed him one of her very nicest smiles. ‘Mr Baird likes Molly’s frog,’ she said demurely. ‘And we’d hate to upset Mr Baird, now, wouldn’t we?’ At the look on her cousin’s face Molly almost choked. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake…’ She took a deep breath and moved out of the protective circle of Angela’s arm. ‘Thank you all very much, but I’ll take my frog to the vet and my hand just needs a sticking plaster. That’s all. So I can take care of everything myself. And it doesn’t matter if I leave.’ She looked at her cousin and sighed. The man really was an idiot. Maybe it would be better if she walked away. ‘After all, I’m sacked anyway.’ ‘You can’t be sacked,’ Jackson growled, and once again there was the stillness that his voice seemed to engender. He turned to Trevor, his finger lazily stroking Lionel’s green back as he spoke. His eyes fixed Molly’s cousin, impaling him like an insect on a pin. ‘I came here to find out about a property. The information I have is tantalising, but it’s scarcely detailed. I need more. And I need to see it. You say you’re busy over the weekend?’ Trevor was totally flummoxed. ‘Yes, but—’ ‘I’ve an option on another property until Monday, so I’d like to come to a decision before then. And I leave the country on Tuesday. Seeing the place for the first time on Monday hardly leaves time for negotiation.’ Trevor thought this through and backtracked fast. Negotiation—a wonderful word. It meant the man was a serious buyer. ‘Of course. I’ll just have to reschedule—’ ‘I don’t believe I’ll bother you,’ Jackson told him, his voice cool and direct. ‘I don’t need you to show me the place. One of your employees will do just as well—’ ‘You still have time for another tour of the Blue Mountain property,’ his lawyer interrupted, and was shot a look of dislike for his pains. ‘Thanks, but I’m more interested in the Copeland place. Now, seeing as Miss Farr has just suffered an injury and a shock, what better way to help her recover than to take her away for the weekend? Mr Farr, I assume you weren’t serious about sacking an employee for something so minor as bringing a frog to work?’ ‘No…’ Trevor thought it through, and for Trevor thinking was a chore. ‘Yes. But—’ But Jackson was no longer listening. ‘Miss Farr, I would very much appreciate it if you could escort me to the property. Mr Farr, if your employee was to make such a sale I feel sure you’d be in a position to offer her her job back.’ Trevor gasped, but he wasn’t completely stupid. Once again he could see a fortune in commission flying out of the window, and he grabbed at it with both hands. ‘Maybe not. But I’ve just remembered I can come after all.’ ‘I don’t wish to bother you.’ Jackson’s eyes were chilling. He turned to his lawyer. ‘Or Mr Francis, for that matter. If the Copeland place is the farm I’m thinking of, then frogs are the least of the temptations for Mr Francis’s ruthless shoe. So I believe Miss Farr and I will dispense with the middle men. Miss Farr, can you escort me to the Copeland property at the weekend?’ Molly took a deep breath. She stared wildly around—at Trevor—at the lawyer—and then at the tiny green frog sitting pathetically in Jackson Baird’s big hand. Jackson’s eyes were gentle—kind, even—and she had no choice. Obnoxious cousin or not, she needed this job, and Jackson was offering her a way to keep it. ‘It’ll be my pleasure,’ she told him. And she couldn’t believe that she’d done it. There was no disputing who was in charge. Ineffectual at the best of times, Trevor was completely overruled. Jackson was in organisational mode, and he hadn’t been declared Australia’s Businessman of the Year for nothing. The man exuded power. ‘I’ll meet you at Mascot Airport tomorrow at nine,’ he told her, and she blinked. ‘Um…we’re flying?’ ‘I’ll charter a helicopter.’ Oh, of course. ‘You’ll have a Section Thirty-Two prepared?’ A Section Thirty-Two… It would be a miracle if their lawyer could finalise the title and bill of sale by tonight, Molly thought, but Jackson Baird was expecting expertise to match his. ‘Of course,’ she told him. ‘The house is set up so we can stay?’ ‘I believe there’s a skeleton staff.’ Trevor was fighting to stay in charge of a situation he had no control over. ‘Mrs Copeland did say they’d welcome you, but I—’ Jackson wasn’t in the mood for buts. ‘Then that’s fine.’ ‘I’m not happy about Molly going,’ Trevor blurted out, and Jackson raised a mobile eyebrow. ‘Isn’t she competent?’ ‘She’s extremely competent,’ Angela shot at him, and received a look of approval from the millionaire for her pains. ‘Maybe you’re worried about the propriety of the situation?’ Jackson’s smile eased all before him. ‘I should have thought of that. Miss Farr, if you’re concerned about the propriety of escorting me to an unknown farm for the weekend I suggest you bring a chaperon. But no middle men. No cousin. An aunt, perhaps? Especially if she’s another frog-lover?’ He was laughing at her, Molly thought, but she was too stunned to react. A chaperon. Where on earth would she find one of those overnight? But Jackson had moved on. ‘That’s all, then. Mascot airport, nine tomorrow, with or without a chaperon.’ His eyes glinted suddenly with wicked laughter. ‘Is that enough to take your mind off your sore hand and your frog?’ He thought it was, Molly thought numbly. He thought he just had to say jump and she’d put everything else aside and purr with pleasurable anticipation. And maybe normally she would. But there was still Lionel. Sam had trusted her with his frog. How was she going to tell him what had happened? ‘Fine,’ she said tonelessly, and his brows furrowed. ‘You’re still worried about your frog?’ ‘Of course.’ ‘You know, frogs do die.’ Damn the man, he was still laughing. ‘You said you can fix him.’ ‘I did. And I can.’ He turned to Angela. ‘Will you take your friend to have her hand attended to now?’ But Molly wasn’t moving. ‘After Lionel is fixed.’ ‘You know…’ His eyes were still puzzled. ‘I hate to seem callous, but he is just a frog.’ ‘Just fix him,’ she said wearily. Her hand was starting to throb and the shock of the last half-hour had taken its toll. Sure, Lionel was just a frog, but to Sam he was everything. Lionel had produced the first flicker of an outside interest she’d seen in the child since his parents’ death, and that was so important. ‘Just fix him,’ she said again, and Jackson’s dark eyes probed hers with something akin to confusion. What he saw in her face didn’t help at all. But he had a job to do. ‘Okay, Miss Farr, I’ll concede that your frog is important.’ He put out a hand and touched her cheek. A fleeting gesture of reassurance. Nothing more. ‘But so are you. If you won’t go and get your hand seen to straight away then I’ll do it for you. And then I’ll fix your frog.’ ‘My frog first.’ ‘Your hand first,’ he said in a voice that brooked no argument. ‘Lionel’s not dripping blood on the carpet. So sit and be cared for. Now!’ It was the strangest sensation. Sit and be cared for… How long had it been since she’d done just that? Since her sister’s accident the caring had all been on her side, and the sensation of cares being lifted from her shoulders was almost overwhelming. ‘It’s not deep.’ Ignoring her protests, he was probing the abrasion on her knuckles, approving what he saw. ‘I’m sure it doesn’t need stitches.’ He’d sent Angela down to the nearby dispensary and she’d come back with his requirements—lint, antiseptic, bandages and a soft reed—then stayed on to watch. As did the rest of their audience. The cleaners had departed, as had Sophia Cincotta, but Trevor and Jackson’s lawyer were going nowhere. Both of them, for different reasons, were bristling with disapproval. But Molly was oblivious. She sat while this big man with the gentle eyes and the even gentler fingers knelt before her and probed and cleaned and carefully dressed her hand. It was unnerving, to say the least. It was… Heck, she didn’t know what it was. This man had a reputation a mile long where women were concerned and she was starting to see how he’d acquired it. He just had to touch her and… ‘There. Okay?’ He looked up at her and smiled, and she felt her heart do a crazy shift beneath her ribcage. Oh, for heaven’s sake! ‘Yes. Thank you. Now—’ ‘Now your frog.’ He was still smiling at her, and it was a killer smile. Angela handed over Lionel’s box, where he’d been placed for safekeeping. She looked at her friend strangely as she did so. It wasn’t like Molly to be this flustered. Interesting… But Molly was still oblivious to anyone but Jackson. He had her mesmerised. He placed Lionel into her good hand and proceeded to do exactly what he’d promised, whittling a tiny splint, adjusting the leg so it was straight against the reed and then tying it carefully in place. ‘It’s as if he knows you’re helping him,’ Molly said, awed, and Jackson cast her another curious glance. ‘Yes.’ ‘How long does he need to wear it?’ ‘Maybe a couple of weeks. You’ll see the leg heal over.’ ‘I can’t thank you enough.’ ‘My lawyer did the damage.’ He lifted Lionel’s box and seemed to approve of what he saw. Sam had lined the box with plastic and soggy plant litter for the frog’s bed. ‘This is a great little recuperation unit.’ He lowered Lionel in and closed the box. ‘All done.’ ‘Fantastic.’ ‘And now you. You’ve had a shock. Would you like Mr Francis and I to drop you home?’ But enough was enough. The man was starting to seriously unnerve her, and she had a business relationship to maintain. ‘Thank you, but I’ll be fine.’ ‘She’d like you to take her,’ Angela volunteered, but got a glower from Molly. Molly took a deep breath and took hold of the situation. Somehow. ‘I’ll see you at nine tomorrow,’ she told him. He paused and looked down at her, still with that trace of confusion in his eyes. ‘With a chaperon?’ There was only one answer to that. ‘Certainly with a chaperon.’ He smiled at that, and once again his hand came out and touched her cheek. ‘Very wise. Okay, Miss Farr. I’ll see you tomorrow at nine. Take care of your hand. And your frog.’ And with that he was gone, leaving everyone in the office staring after him. ‘Molly, can I come? Please, can I come? You’ll need help and I can help you. I won’t even cramp your style.’ Jackson was no sooner out of the door than Angela’s clutch on her arm intensified. ‘I’d make a great chaperon.’ ‘Thanks, but I’ll find my own chaperon.’ Molly managed a smile, albeit a weak one. ‘I need to go with you,’ Trevor told her. ‘This is my real estate firm.’ It might be, but it didn’t seem like it. The family firm had been handed down to this, the third Trevor Farr, and under his expert guidance it showed every sign of heading for bankruptcy. Trevor’s father had spoken to Molly at her sister’s funeral and persuaded her to give the place a try. ‘If you need a job in the city then I’d be grateful if you could join the family firm. Work under Trevor for a while as you get used to the city. You can learn the city trade from him—and he can certainly learn things from you. You’re the best.’ Until then she’d worked selling farms from her base on the south coast. Selling city property was a very different thing, she’d discovered, and her cousin was proving to be a millstone around her neck. Weak and ineffectual, he’d resented her competence from the start. ‘I can cope on my own,’ she told him now. She gave him a sympathetic smile. ‘I have a strong feeling that Mr Baird doesn’t want you or Mr Francis involved, and if his preferences mean a sale… How much did you say Mrs Copeland has on the place?’ Trevor swallowed. ‘Three million.’ Molly practically gaped. Three million. Whew. ‘Don’t mess it up.’ ‘I won’t.’ ‘Do you have someone respectable to take as a chaperon?’ Trevor might be a dope but he wasn’t completely heartless. Or he knew he’d have his father to answer to if anything went wrong. ‘The man’s got a reputation a mile long. Angela’s not suitable.’ ‘Angela’s definitely not suitable,’ she agreed, managing a twinkle at her friend. ‘You have someone in mind?’ ‘I do.’ Trevor paused, baffled at her lack of communication. ‘I suppose it’s all right, then.’ ‘I suppose it is.’ ‘Your hand’s not too sore to keep working? You’d better get moving if you want a Section Thirty-Two prepared.’ ‘I’ll do it now.’ She flexed her fingers and winced, but Trevor was the only other person here capable of sorting the paperwork for such a property, and help from Trevor was the last thing she’d get. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Let’s get on with selling Mr Baird a farm.’ CHAPTER TWO THANK heaven Lionel wasn’t dead. Sam was stoic, as Molly had known he would be. He’d been stoic for six months now. He’d taken every bit of dreadful news on the chin. Now his face was pinched, but blank, and when Molly tried to hug him he held back. As always. ‘I shouldn’t have kept him in the first place,’ he said miserably. No. But then there was a no pets rule in their highrise apartment, so Sam had had nothing. They’d found the frog while they’d been crossing a busy Sydney street. It had been raining, there had been traffic everywhere, and Lionel had been sitting right in the middle of the road. He was a suicidal frog if ever there was one, and when Sam had pocketed him Molly hadn’t protested. Where he’d been, the frog would have been doomed. May he not be doomed now, she thought, looking at the intricate arrangement of ponds Sam had rigged up on the bathroom floor. ‘I’ll have to clean all this up when he dies.’ The little boy put his hands in his pockets and tucked his chin into his chest. Molly knew there were tears waiting to get out. They’d wait a while. Molly cried. Sam didn’t. ‘He won’t die. Mr Baird said so.’ ‘I guess frogs don’t live very long anyway.’ Darn, it was so unfair. If Molly had her way, frogs would live for ever. But she had to be truthful. ‘I guess they don’t,’ she agreed, and laid a hand tentatively on his arm. But, as always, he pulled away. He was such an isolated child. It was as if losing his parents had made him afraid to trust. And why should he trust? Molly thought bitterly. She couldn’t even keep a frog safe. ‘We’ve been asked to go to a farm for the weekend,’ she said, trying to divert him. ‘We’ll take Lionel. It can be a convalescent farm.’ ‘A farm?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I don’t like farms.’ ‘Have you ever been to one?’ ‘No.’ ‘Then—’ ‘I don’t like them. I want to stay here.’ Sure. And lie on his bed and stare at the ceiling as he did in every spare minute. ‘Sam, Mr Baird has invited both of us.’ ‘He doesn’t want me.’ ‘I’m very sure he does.’ ‘I don’t want to go.’ ‘You’re going,’ Molly said with more determination than she felt. ‘We’re both going and we’ll enjoy it very much.’ A weekend with Jackson Baird. Could she enjoy it? There was a dangerous part of her mind that was telling her she could enjoy it very much indeed. ‘Cara?’ ‘Jackson. How nice.’ Cara might be on the other side of the Atlantic but her pleasure was tangible. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’ ‘I think I might have found a property that could suit both our needs.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Really. It’s been used as a horse stud in the past. It’s in a magnificent location and it sounds wonderful. Do you want to get on a plane and come and see it?’ Silence. Then, ‘Darling, I’m so busy.’ When was she not? Jackson grinned. ‘You mean you’ll leave it to me?’ ‘That’s the one.’ ‘And if I buy it and you don’t like it?’ ‘Then you’ll just have to buy me another one.’ ‘Oh, right. Cara—?’ ‘Darling, I really can’t come. There’s something… Well, there’s something happening that’s taking all my attention, and I daren’t say anything about it yet in case it evaporates in the mist. But I trust you.’ He grinned again. Another scheme. His half-sister always had schemes, but he trusted her implicitly, as he knew she trusted him. ‘Millions wouldn’t,’ he told her. ‘But you’re one in a million. And don’t you know it?’ ‘Yeah, and I love you, too.’ A chuckle and the line went dead, leaving Jackson staring down at the receiver. Was this really a good idea? ‘Okay, I give up. You’re not going to ask me, are you?’ ‘Sorry?’ Her friend stood on the doorstep late that night and Molly blinked. Angela was wearing a slinky, shimmery dress, her beads reached her waist and her hair was done up in some kind of fantastic arrangement of peacock feathers. Now she spun around for inspection. ‘I’m off to a Roaring Twenties party. Guy is turning thirty, poor lamb, so we’re having a last gasp at celebrating the twenties for him. Do you like my outfit?’ ‘I love it.’ ‘You know you could come.’ ‘And you know I can’t.’ It was impossible, Molly thought. Social life was impossible. Until Sarah died Molly had been running her estate agency on the coast. She’d been one of the most successful realtors in the business, going from strength to strength. Her love life, too, had been exceedingly satisfactory. Michael was the local solicitor and everyone had said they made the perfect couple. Their combined life plans hadn’t included Sam, though. ‘Put him in a boarding school,’ Michael had decreed when Sarah died, but Molly hadn’t. Nor had she torn Sam away from his home in inner Sydney, though she was now starting to question the wisdom of moving here. The city property market was hard to break into. Her cousin was a toad. Sam’s school was less than satisfactory, and she couldn’t afford to change him to a better one. Sam was miserable, and she was so darned lonely herself! But leaving Sam with babysitters wouldn’t solve anything. He woke with nightmares and she had to be there. After all, she was all he had. ‘Hey, cheer up,’ Angela told her, watching her face. ‘You’re about to spend the weekend with Australia’s most eligible bachelor.’ She was, but the crazy thing was that she didn’t want to go. Like Sam, Molly still felt like closing all doors. Since Sarah’s death the world had become a dangerous place. The newspapers hurled bad news at her, television shows seemed dark and threatening—and if it was like this for her, how much more so for a small boy who’d lost everything? ‘Is the frog okay?’ Angela asked. ‘He seems great.’ ‘Thanks to Jackson.’ ‘If it wasn’t for Jackson, Lionel wouldn’t be injured.’ But Angela was determined to state his case. ‘It was Jackson’s lawyer who did the damage. Jackson himself was kind.’ ‘The man’s dangerous. He has a reputation to put Casanova to shame.’ ‘Lucky you.’ Angela sighed theatrically. ‘My Guy is boring.’ ‘Boring is safe.’ ‘Now, that…’ Angela tottered into Molly’s living room on ridiculously high heels and fell onto a settee ‘…is why I’m here. To stop you being boring. To get back to my original question: you’re not going to ask me, are you?’ ‘To do what?’ ‘To be your chaperon.’ ‘No.’ ‘You intend to take Sam, right?’ ‘Right.’ Angela took a deep breath. ‘Well, I’ve decided to forgive you for not taking me. Though why I should, I don’t know. Because with me there you wouldn’t get a look-in. I’d sweep the man off his feet in two seconds flat.’ ‘But you have Guy. Your fianc?, remember?’ Angela grinned. ‘That’s right. I have Guy, and as nobility is my middle name—’ ‘Oh, please!’ ‘Don’t interrupt me when I’m being noble. I’ve decided to offer my services as babysitter. For Sam. And for Lionel. There.’ She beamed. ‘How noble’s that?’ ‘Very noble.’ Molly winced. Her hand hurt, she was dead tired and she had mountains of paperwork to plough through before bedtime. And what her friend was suggesting was impossible. ‘Angela, thanks for the offer, but you know I can’t leave Sam.’ ‘He’ll be fine with me.’ ‘He’ll be stoic. He’s always stoic and it breaks my heart.’ Angela’s face softened. ‘So share the care. I love the kid too, you know.’ ‘I know you do.’ Angela’s heart was huge. ‘But, Angie, there’s only a chink of room for loving anyone left in him, and that chink’s for me. And that’s only because I look like his mother.’ ‘And where does that leave you?’ ‘Right here. With him. Where I want to be.’ ‘So what are you doing now?’ ‘I’m going to bed.’ It was a lie. She needed to ring Hannah Copeland for the property details, read everything she could find on the place and sort out the Section Thirty-Two. But if she told Angela that she’d drop everything and help. ‘It’s only nine o’clock.’ ‘I’m injured.’ ‘Not very injured. Come to our party.’ ‘And leave Sam? I don’t have any choice in this, Angie, so let it be.’ Angela glared at her friend. ‘It’s so unfair.’ ‘Life’s not fair.’ ‘It should be. You sure you won’t change your mind about going alone? Leave Sam with me for just this once?’ ‘I’m sure.’ ‘Then I’ll be here on Sunday night and I want a blow-by-blow description. Leaving out nothing.’ ‘You and Trevor both. He’s already demanded a Sunday night debriefing.’ ‘He would.’ Angela hesitated. You know…’ Her face changed and Molly knew what she was about to say. It would achieve nothing. ‘Angela, don’t.’ ‘Don’t what?’ ‘Try to solve the problems of the world.’ Molly gave her friend a push towards the door. ‘Go on. Back to Guy.’ ‘Well, at least tell me what you’re wearing tomorrow,’ Angela demanded as she was propelled into the foyer. ‘Boring. Business. Black suit. White shirt.’ That stopped Angela in her tracks. ‘You’re never wearing boring for Jackson Baird?’ ‘No. I’m wearing boring for me.’ ‘This is the opportunity of a lifetime.’ ‘To get myself seduced? I don’t think so.’ ‘Molly, there’s seduced and there’s seduced. Boy, if Jackson Baird wanted to put his boots under my bed…’ Angela chuckled. ‘And honestly, Moll…’ She turned and faced her friend. ‘When I saw you both looking down at that little frog…’ Molly grinned at the picture that conjured up. ‘Romantic, wasn’t it?’ ‘It was,’ Angela said firmly. ‘You looked like you could be the future Mrs Jackson Baird.’ ‘Oh, yeah. In your dreams.’ ‘Well, why not? He’s single. You’re single. He’s rich. That’s a recipe for marital bliss if ever I heard one.’ ‘Angie, go!’ ‘Only if you promise you won’t wear your business suit.’ ‘Maybe I should wear jeans.’ ‘No!’ ‘What would you suggest?’ ‘Something short. And slinky.’ She chuckled again and looked down at her very slinky dress, complete with slit almost to her thigh. ‘Something like this.’ ‘Sure. Complete with ostrich feathers. To show a man over a farm and to care for an eight-year-old.’ ‘And to marry a millionaire,’ Angela added. ‘Or a billionaire. Think big, girl.’ ‘I’m thinking goodnight,’ her friend managed, and pushed her out through the door before she could say another word. Jackson wasn’t sure who he’d expected as Molly’s chaperon. In fact if he’d thought about it at all—which he hadn’t—he would have said that he didn’t expect her to bring anyone—but the bespectacled child at her side was a shock. As was Molly. She looked stunning, he thought, watching her approach over the tarmac. There was no other word to describe her. She was about five feet four and neatly packaged, with a handspan waist and a halo of dark curls that bounced about her shoulders. Yesterday she’d worn a business suit. Today she was wearing jeans and a soft white shirt that buttoned to the throat. It should have made her look prim, but instead it just made her look inviting. She looked fresh as a daisy, and as she got within speaking distance and smiled up at him it took a whole five seconds before he could answer. ‘Good morning.’ She was still smiling, but somehow he forced himself to ignore her lovely smile and tackle the issue at hand. Which was speaking. It should be easy, but it wasn’t. ‘Good morning,’ he managed. Unknown to Jackson, Molly was doing her own double take. Yesterday in his dark business suit Jackson had seemed very much an urbane man of the world—handsome, but completely out of her league. Dressed today in soft moleskin pants and a short-sleeved shirt, his throat and arms bare, he looked… Well, he might be having trouble keeping to the business at hand, but so was she! At least she could concentrate on Sam. ‘Mr Baird, this is my nephew, Sam. Sam, this is Mr Baird.’ So she wasn’t a single mum, Jackson thought. But if not why bring a child? It wasn’t the sort of thing any woman he’d ever dated had done before. But then this was business, he reminded himself. Business! Not a date. ‘Sam’s brought Lionel along with us.’ Molly motioned to the box under Sam’s arm. ‘We hope you don’t mind, but we thought a convalescent farm was just what Lionel needed.’ ‘Right.’ The frog. He took a grip, and held out a hand to Sam. They were standing on the helicopter pad and any minute now the machine would roar into life, drowning out all conversation until they wore headsets. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Sam.’ Sam looked gravely up at him as they shook hands, his eyes huge behind his glasses. ‘Are you the man who trod on my frog?’ ‘I told you he wasn’t,’ Molly said gently. ‘Mr Baird is the man who bandaged Lionel.’ ‘Molly says he might die anyway.’ ‘I didn’t say that.’ Molly sighed. ‘I just said frogs don’t live very long.’ She cast a despairing glance at Jackson. ‘I expect he will die,’ Sam said sadly, clasping his box as if there were only a few short frogbeats left to his beloved Lionel. ‘Everything dies.’ Jackson’s gaze flew to Molly’s, and Molly gave an inward shrug. There was nothing like getting to the hub of things fast. ‘Sam’s parents were killed in a car accident six months ago,’ she told him. If she’d had her way she would have warned Jackson, but it was impossible now. Her eyes didn’t leave his, searching for the right response. ‘Since then he’s had a pessimistic outlook on life.’ Jackson nodded gravely, and to her relief his response was curt and to the point. ‘I can understand that. I’m sorry about your family, Sam.’ Move on, Molly’s eyes warned him, and she led the way. ‘I told Sam that Lionel might live for ages yet.’ ‘I had a pet frog when I was eight,’ Jackson said thoughtfully, rising to the occasion with aplomb. ‘He lived for two years and then he escaped to find a lady frog. Maybe Lionel will do the same.’ Sam stared at him, disbelief patent. Silence. Let the helicopter start, Molly thought. This silence was desperate. But Jackson and Sam were eyeing each other like two opponents circling in a boxing ring. Then Jackson seemed to come to a decision. His fast brain had worked overtime and now he stooped so his eyes were at Sam’s level. Man to man. ‘Sam, I’ll tell you something else you might like to know.’ His gaze met the little boy’s and held. Molly was totally excluded. He was focused only on Sam. ‘When I was ten years old my mother died,’ he told him. ‘I thought the end of the world had come, and, like you, I expected everything else to die. I expected it and expected it. It made me desperately frightened. But you know what? No one else died until I was twenty-eight years old. Ancient, in fact.’ Silence while Sam thought this through. Then he said, ‘Twenty-eight’s the same age as Molly.’ Jackson’s deep eyes flashed up to Molly and there was the trace of laughter behind his serious gaze. ‘There you go, then. I told you. Ancient. My grandpa died when I was twenty-eight, but for the time between being ten and being twenty-eight not a sausage died. Not even a frog.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Really.’ He grinned. ‘So maybe you’ll be that lucky.’ ‘Maybe I won’t.’ ‘But maybe you will.’ Sam considered. ‘I’ve only got Molly left. And Lionel.’ ‘They both look healthy to me.’ ‘Yeah…’ ‘You’re keeping them well fed? Lionel looks good and plump to me, and so does Molly.’ ‘Hey!’ That was Molly, but she was far from minding. For the first time Sam let himself relax. The corners of his mouth twitched into a quickly suppressed smile. ‘That’s silly.’ ‘Good feeding is important,’ Jackson told him seriously. ‘You can never overlook it. That and plenty of exercise. I hope you don’t let Molly watch too much TV.’ Sam was grinning now, and the tension had disappeared like magic. ‘She watches yucky programmes. With love and stuff.’ ‘Very unhealthy. I’d put a stop to that at once.’ Jackson grinned with the wide, white smile that made Molly know exactly why the women of the world fell in love with him. Oh, for heaven’s sake, the way he was treating Sam she was halfway to falling in love with him herself! She felt like hugging the man! He rose and held out his hand again to Sam. ‘You want to come in my helicopter?’ Sam considered, and the whole world seemed to hold its breath. Then, as if coming to a major decision, Sam put out his hand and placed it in Jackson’s. ‘Yes, please,’ he said. Molly smiled and smiled, and Jackson looked at her smile and thought suddenly, It’s going to be a great weekend. He hadn’t expected efficiency. From the time he’d walked into Trevor Farr’s office, Jackson had suspected if he wanted to find anything about Hannah Copeland’s property he’d have to do it himself. But Molly’s preparation stunned him. As soon as they were in the air she handed over titles, building plans, profit and loss statements, staff lists… ‘How did you do this?’ ‘We do the same for all our clients.’ ‘Now, why don’t I believe that?’ She threw him a wry grin. In truth this was the sort of property deal she loved—a farm with broad acres. She’d had to work until three this morning, but the presentation he had was first rate. Just like old times. ‘Stop casting aspersions and read,’ she ordered, so he did. But more and more he was aware of Molly and Sam in the seat opposite. Woman and child against the world…that was how they seemed, and their presence touched him as he hadn’t been touched in a long time. They? She was a business acquaintance, he told himself, and Sam was nothing to do with him at all. The Copeland place was stunning. The pilot took them on a wide sweep of the property. The farm started where the mainland formed a narrow strip and then broadened out to a vast spit reaching into the sea. ‘The whole spit’s the Copeland place,’ Molly told him through the headsets, and he smiled and held up her printed plans. He already knew. But no plans or photographs could do justice to this place. The sea lapped around the spit in sparkling sapphire glory. The beach was a wide ribbon of golden sand, and the hills and plains, dotted with placidly grazing cattle, looked lush and wonderful. From the helicopter they saw streams trickling through hilly bushland towards the sea. There were waterfalls and tiny islands. As they came in to land a mob of kangaroos bolted for cover, and Jackson thought—This is paradise! Paradise or not, he had to be businesslike, he told himself. This was a future for him and for Cara. He didn’t make decisions with his heart. He made them with his head. ‘It looks…well kept,’ he said, and his words sounded lame even to him. He looked back to find Molly and Sam both gazing at him in surprise. ‘Didn’t you see the waterfall?’ Sam demanded. ‘It looks ace. Don’t you think it looks ace?’ ‘Ace,’ he agreed, and Molly grinned. ‘I won’t have to be a saleswoman if Sam’s here.’ She gazed out as the helicopter blades whirled to a halt. ‘In fact, I don’t think I have to be a saleswoman at all. If you have the money then this place will sell itself.’ Her eyes danced, teasing. ‘And if you don’t have the money I can arrange a very appealing finance package.’ ‘I’m sure you can.’ He said it dryly, but he was impressed for all that. She’d done her homework. ‘There’s no other property like this on the market anywhere else in Australia,’ she told him. ‘I don’t know what you want this place for…’ She let the question hang, but she wasn’t enlightened so she let it slide. ‘But whatever it is I think you’ll find Birraginbil will provide it.’ ‘Birraginbil?’ ‘You know that Birraginbil is the name of the property?’ She grinned. ‘Now, ask me why I haven’t put that in big letters at the top of your presentation.’ He looked at her, considering. She looked supremely self-assured, he thought and it hit him suddenly that she was doing something she loved. Despite the appalling Trevor, the woman before him was an astute professional. He grinned back at her, joining the game. ‘So tell me what it means.’ ‘Place of leeches.’ She chuckled at the look on his face, and the matching look on Sam’s. ‘Don’t tell me you’re scared of a few itty-bitty leeches!’ She foraged in her handbag. ‘Look.’ She held out a small canister. “‘Be prepared” is what they taught us in property sales school. Salt. If there’s leeches here I’m ready for them.’ ‘Wow!’ He was growing more and more impressed. She was some saleswoman! ‘Are there really leeches?’ Sam’s voice was tremulous and Molly hugged him close. ‘Yes, but only in the low-lying swamp. The estuaries around the beach are clear, and the deeper dams by the homestead are great for swimming.’ ‘And for frogs?’ Jackson asked, and Molly raised her eyebrows. She smiled, grateful for his bringing Sam into the equation. ‘I’ll bet for frogs.’ ‘Can we show Lionel?’ Sam was immediately interested. ‘Yep.’ She turned away from Jackson and he was aware of a sense of… He wasn’t sure. Pique? Jealousy? Surely not. He thought he’d brought the frog into the conversation to make Sam smile, but now knew that he’d done it so Molly would smile. It was a strange way of getting a woman’s attention—but women’s attention was something Jackson didn’t usually have to work at. And now Molly had turned away. Molly was only giving him the business side of her while the personal side was directed purely at Sam. Which was fair enough. Sam needed her and Jackson didn’t. So why the sense of pique? ‘We’ll ask the farm manager to take Mr Baird on a sightseeing tour. While he does that we’ll find out where the frogs live,’ she told Sam, and the irrational sensations Jackson was feeling only deepened. He tried to make it rational. After all, Molly was a realtor; surely it was her job to show the client around… He’d work on it, he decided. And suddenly it seemed almost as important as seeing the farm. Seeing the farm with Molly… CHAPTER THREE THE arrangement was that the helicopter would collect them the following day, and no sooner had it lifted from the pad and roared off into the sun than an elderly couple appeared. At the sight of Jackson, Molly and Sam, their faces almost split with delight. ‘A family,’ the elderly lady breathed, and she gripped her partner’s hand. ‘See, Gregor, what did I tell you? A family!’ ‘We’re not a family.’ Molly spoke swiftly and Jackson felt an irrational pang of disappointment. Misconception or not, it had felt good—for a moment. Which was irrational. Wasn’t it? But of course Molly was right. If he was seriously interested in this property then he had to get off on the right foot from the start. ‘Miss Farr’s acting as realtor for Miss Copeland,’ he told them. ‘I’m Jackson Baird, the potential buyer.’ He smiled at Sam, half hidden behind Molly. ‘And this is Sam, Molly’s nephew. He and his pet frog, Lionel, have come along for the ride.’ The elderly woman took a deep breath and made a recovery. ‘Then, family or not, we’re very pleased to meet you,’ she told them. ‘I’m Doreen Gray, Miss Copeland’s housekeeper, and this is my husband, Gregor. Come on in. I’ll make us a cup of tea and we can get to know each other.’ And that set the tone for the weekend. Doreen and Gregor had no concept of formality. Jackson, Molly and Sam were treated as very special guests. Indeed, they might have been family for the welcome they received. ‘You don’t see many people?’ Molly ventured over her third scone, and she knew straight away that she’d hit the nail on the head. ‘No, dear, we don’t,’ Doreen told her. ‘Time was when the Copelands used to have every important family in Australia staying here. We have nineteen bedrooms, would you believe? And we filled them all. But Mr and Mrs Copeland passed away almost thirty years back and Miss Copeland never was one for socialising. She moved to Sydney ten years ago and the place has been almost abandoned.’ ‘Is it run down?’ Jackson’s brows creased, but Doreen’s face stiffened and she offered him another scone as if to say—Does this look like the product of a farm let go? ‘It most certainly isn’t. Miss Copeland would never stand for that. We run over three thousand head of cattle. At mustering we have over a dozen men. And once a month I have a girl in from town to do the house from stem to stern. If you wanted to fill those bedrooms tomorrow you’d find nothing amiss.’ ‘I’m sure I wouldn’t.’ Jackson looked appreciatively about him. The kitchen was just as farm kitchens ought to be—big and warm and welcoming, with a vast firestove that stretched almost from wall to wall. It gleamed with cleanliness—no mean feat, he guessed, when the house was well over a century old. Cara would like this kitchen. No, she wouldn’t. He gave a rueful inward grimace. What was he thinking of? Cara wouldn’t step foot in a kitchen unless she was dragged. But she’d love the rest of the place. The house was fabulous. Vast bluestone walls were ringed by a wide veranda that ran the full perimeter of the house. Every room seemed to have French windows. The curtains wafting outwards in the breeze looked fresh and new, and the whole place had instant appeal. He looked across the table and found Molly’s eyes on him, assessing, and he guessed she was right in business mode. ‘It’s great, isn’t it? You know, you’re the first person we’ve shown it to.’ ‘I know that.’ ‘You won’t be the last.’ She turned to Mrs Gray and smiled. ‘I hope you bake scones every time I bring prospective buyers down here. These are delicious.’ It was a tactful way of saying Jackson was first in a queue and there were others who’d be interested if he wasn’t. He smiled, acknowledging she had a point but refusing to be hurried. ‘But I have first option, right?’ ‘I believe you have first option until Monday.’ ‘Very generous.’ ‘We aim to please.’ She smiled across the table at him, and he found himself staring. She was charming. Intelligent. Organised. Beautiful… He found himself looking down at the ring finger on her bandaged left hand—just in case—and felt a ridiculous twinge of pleasure when he discovered it was bare. And then he had to jolt himself back to hear what she was saying. ‘Mr Jackson would like to see over the farm,’ she told Gregor. ‘Can you show him around?’ ‘Oh, my dear…’ The elderly farmer’s face fell. ‘Is there a problem?’ ‘I can’t do it,’ Gregor said heavily. ‘My legs won’t take me.’ ‘I didn’t mean walk,’ Molly told him. ‘I assume there’s a vehicle?’ ‘The Jeep’s in for a service. If we’d known you were coming… But Miss Copeland only rang last night to tell us you were on your way.’ ‘There’s the farm bike,’ Doreen said. ‘But it only holds one. Then there’s the horses, but Gregor’s hip can’t take it.’ It nearly killed them, Molly saw, to admit that they were getting old and needed help. Gregor’s face was anguished. ‘I can go by myself,’ Jackson said gently, reacting to the old man’s distress. ‘Miss Farr…’ He cast Molly a sideways look and decided on informality. ‘Molly’s given me excellent maps, and if you have a horse then I can ride.’ ‘But you could fall off.’ Doreen was practically wringing her hands. ‘There’s rabbit holes and heaven knows what else. You’ll want to see everything, and the only way to see it properly is by horse, but…’ ‘You can’t go alone,’ her husband added. He turned to Molly and she could see what an effort it cost him to ask. ‘Unless you ride, miss?’ ‘I ride,’ she said briefly, and received another look of astonishment from Jackson. One surprise after another… City realtors, it seemed, were not expected to ride. She hesitated. Sam was right beside her, pressing close. His insecurity was almost tangible. ‘But Sam can’t.’ ‘We’ll look after Sam.’ Doreen beamed at this easy solution to the problem. ‘It would be our pleasure.’ Then she addressed Sam, adult to adult. ‘I’m making a pavlova for supper,’ she told him. ‘Have you ever made one?’ Sam hesitated. ‘No, I…’ ‘Would you like to learn? I need help to pick the strawberries for the top.’ ‘And we’re hand-rearing a calf,’ Gregor added, seeing where Doreen was headed and putting in his two bobs’ worth. ‘She needs bottle-feeding. Seems to me you’re just the sort of lad who’d be able to do that.’ ‘And did you say you have a frog in that box?’ Doreen asked. ‘After we’ve done our jobs, Gregor and I will walk you to where there are a thousand frogs. And tadpoles to match.’ It was too much. Sam gave a shy nod and the tension in the room eased like magic. Molly let her breath out in a rush. Darn, everywhere she looked there were conflicting demands, but these two lovely old people had given her time off. Wonderful… ‘Can you really ride?’ Jackson demanded. ‘Or do you mean you can sit on a riding school hack?’ The toad! ‘Try me,’ she retorted, and turned to Gregor, excluding Jackson nicely. He deserved to be excluded. ‘According to my livestock lists you have some fine horses.’ ‘They’ll be frisky,’ Gregor warned. ‘They haven’t been ridden since muster.’ ‘The friskier the better,’ she told him. ‘I can’t wait.’ And the thing was settled. ‘It’ll take you the best part of the day to get around,’ Doreen added. ‘I’ll put together a picnic for your saddlebags. You have a lovely day for it.’ She beamed. ‘There. That’s settled. You have a lovely ride and see the property and Sam will have fun with us. Isn’t that lovely?’ What was her story? Jackson watched as Molly helped catch and saddle the horses, and by the time they were mounted he knew she hadn’t spoken lightly when she’d said she could ride. She looked as if she’d been born in the saddle. Her roan mare was skittish as be damned, but she held her as steadily as Jackson held his bay. Then, as Gregor let them go and the mare skittered sideways, she turned a laughing face towards him. ‘They won’t settle until they’ve had a gallop, and the home paddocks are safest. Race you to the far gate.’ Before he knew what she was about she was off, the mare galloping like the wind and Molly riding her with an attitude that spoke of sheer joy at being alive. Or more. Of release. It was quite a sight. It took Jackson about ten valuable seconds before he recovered himself enough to turn his attention to his own horse—by which time she had an unassailable lead, and she’d paused and was waiting when he reached her at the far end of the paddock. ‘What kept you?’ she demanded. ‘I thought businesswomen always let their clients win,’ he complained, and received another of her lovely, throaty chuckles. ‘Whoops. But I’m on a sure thing here. If the rest of this property is as good as this then it’ll sell itself.’ She had a point. The more he saw the more he liked. But he wasn’t just assessing the property! ‘You’re not a bad horseman,’ she was saying, and it drew a grin. ‘Gee, thanks,’ he told her dryly. ‘If I didn’t just know that flattery was good for business…’ ‘Didn’t I tell you this wasn’t business? The property will sell itself, with no need for idle compliments to get a buyer in the mood.’ Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». 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