Australian Outback Kings / The Cattle King's Mistress / The Playboy King's Wife / The Pleasure King's Bride (28 page)

“What force is that?”

Wicked teasing in his eyes. “The force that turns a witch into a princess.”

Samantha! But how serious was he about claiming her as his perfect partner?
“Does this force last beyond the spell of the wedding?” she asked, keeping her voice tuned to light banter.

“Who knows? Will the prince turn back into a frog?”

“I've always thought faith could work miracles.”

“Only if it's strong enough and never wavers.”

“You've never been weak, Tommy. You can make it strong if you want to.”

“If the ghosts stay away. Many ghosts, Mother dear. Many, many ghosts.”

Yes, she thought. They'd both inflicted scars that weren't easy to push into the past.

“Take care, Tommy.”

His eyes glittered down at her. “No. Taking care is not what tonight is about. What's the old saying…there's a tide in the affairs of men? Tonight I ride it. I ride it for all it's worth. And if it tosses me up on a desolate island…then it's done, isn't it?”

Such fierce, reckless passion…it was in his eyes, in his voice, in his words. All or nothing. Pride. That had always been the devil in him.

“You are now invited to join the King family on the dance floor,” the master of ceremonies announced.

“Back to Jared,” Tommy lilted, and passed her on to his younger brother before Elizabeth could think of anything to say that might temper the course he was bent on taking.

She looked back.

He was masterfully gathering Samantha into a dance hold that pressed every intimacy that had once banned the waltz from respectable gatherings. And the princess went willingly.

Elizabeth knew in that moment there
was
nothing she could do or say to change anything.

Good or bad…they held their own destiny in their hands.

CHAPTER NINE

F
OR
S
AM, IT
was definitely the best evening of her life. She'd been the main focus of Tommy's attention ever since they'd entered the marquee—warm, considerate, charming, flattering attention—with only the occasional teasing remark. But it wasn't put-down teasing, more wickedly sexy, sparking a wonderfully intimate sense of fun that was more intoxicating than the champagne they drank.

And dancing with him was more thrilling than she'd ever imagined. All these years, whenever she'd seen him dance with other women, envy had been like a knife in the heart. Quite simply, he was the best, so attuned to rhythm he could create his own version of steps, adding an exciting challenge to the sheer pleasure of moving with him.

Often she'd meanly called him a flashy show-off, though she knew it was only because he didn't ask her to partner him. There wasn't a woman alive who wouldn't love to dance with Tommy King. He made the music come alive so physically, it was as though her whole body, and his, were instruments, too, pulsing to the beat, expressing the melody, making it mean more than it ever had before.

Best of all, was the sense of being one with him, and not just in moving around the dance floor. It was marvellous not to feel inhibited by the close body contact, to revel in Tommy's strong masculinity without any fear of his pulling away or rejecting her for some other more desirable woman. For tonight, at least, he was willingly, happily hers.

As the evening wore on, the band wound up, rolling out great sets of rock numbers from each decade—Bill Haley, Elvis, the Beatles, Abba, Neil Diamond, Michael Jackson. Everyone was singing and clapping. The men discarded jackets and ties as the party really began to swing.

At first, Tommy was fairly conservative in throwing himself into the jazzier numbers, waiting to see if Sam was comfortable with where he led. When she easily matched him and started throwing in a few little innovative movements of her own, he laughed and moved into top gear, challenging her in an exhilarating mutual contest that ended up with the rest of the dancers standing back to watch and clap and urge them on to wilder feats.

Sam was barely aware of them. She was totally captivated by the sexual energy pouring from Tommy, the sense of being stalked, tantalised, his dark eyes wickedly telling her he could take her whenever he wanted, but not yet…not yet because he wanted to revel in every anticipatory move, wanted to watch her responding to him, wanted to build the excitement, to savour it, to exult in it.

And she was possessed by the same energy, her heart pumping a wild pagan beat, her body moving with provocative intent, her arms beckoning, retreating, pretending an aloof self-containment while her eyes flirted with the burning purpose in his, and her feet glided and stamped and twirled.

Finally he pounced, trapping her legs between his, bending her over his arm in a deep swoop. His face hovered above hers, a triumphant grin on his face. Then while she was helpless to prevent it, he snatched the lilac rose from her hair with his teeth. As the band brought the number to a loud drumming end, echoing the mad drumming of her heart, Tommy lifted her upright again, stepped back to sketch a gallant bow, and presented her with the rose in a chivalrous gesture of homage, to huge applause and cheers from the onlookers.

“Champagne for my lady?” Tommy twinkled at her, sweeping her off the dance floor towards the bar which had been set up near the exit from the marquee.

Sam nodded, laughing breathlessly, still exhilarated and loving him for the very playboy qualities she had told herself she despised. Which had never been true. She knew that now. It had simply been a case of wanting him to play with her.

The barman poured their drinks. Tommy clicked his glass against hers. “To the perfect partner,” he murmured, his eyes still hot from the mating ritual they'd so blatantly started.

“For me, too,” she answered huskily, bubbling with an excitement that had more to do with the champagne of this night with Tommy than with the bubbly liquid she sipped.

“I didn't know you could dance like that, Samantha,” he commented quizzically. “You never have at the few parties we've both attended.”

“There aren't many men who can dance like you,” she answered, stating the honest truth. Then with a little shrug, denying it mattered right now, she added, “And you chose other women to partner you.”

His mouth curled with irony. “I did ask you once. You told me you didn't care to make an exhibition of yourself.”

She flushed, vividly remembering that one wretched occasion. It was the opening of the wilderness resort party, and Tommy had been high on the successful completion of his dream tourist venture, his exuberant spirits bursting to be expressed. He'd grabbed her hand, arrogantly commanding as he said, “Come on, Sam. Let's pound the floor. Show 'em how fantastic we feel about this.”

And she'd baulked, knowing how inept she would be in matching him, lacking the confidence to try, afraid of looking awkward and foolish, spoiling his desire to express all she didn't know how to express.

“I couldn't do it then, Tommy,” she confessed, grimacing at the memory of how she'd refused him, her wayward tongue tripping out that harsh defence. “I'm not a natural like you,” she explained. “I had to learn.”

“Learn?” he repeated, frowning at what was obviously an alien idea to him.

She nodded. “When the Big Wet came that year, I went to Darwin and took a course of dance lessons. All the modern stuff. Jazz ballet. I had to learn to loosen up, go with the flow.”

He shook his head in bemusement. “You could have asked me to teach you.”

She returned his ironic smile. “I thought you'd make fun of me. Or get impatient, exasperated…”

“No,” he cut in, his face tightening, his eyes glittering with bitter accusation. “You couldn't bear not being competitive. That's the truth of it, isn't it?”

Her heart stopped, and all the pumped-up excitement drained away. “Maybe it was,” she admitted flatly. “I don't know anymore. All I know is…you never asked me to dance with you again…until tonight…and I wasn't competing with you just now. I was…”

Despair clutched her mind. Would they never understand each other? Always be ships passing on contrary courses? Her eyes pleaded against the harsh judgment in his and she heard her voice wobbling as she begged his understanding.

“This probably sounds crazy…but I wanted to…to share things with you…to be able to do what you could…and…and have you feel proud of me.”

Tears blurred her eyes. She fumbled the glass down on the bar table. “Excuse me,” she gabbled, and virtually blundered her way outside, her heart aching with the burden of always getting it wrong, somehow destroying the very thing she most wanted. And it
was
her fault. She had said those miserable things to Tommy, casting him in a lesser light because of her own sense of inadequacy, of never seeming to measure up in his eyes.

Tears of hopelessness trickled down her cheeks. She turned up towards the house, forcing her tremulous legs into the necessary action to get her to a safe refuge. Impossible to face anyone right now. Her mascara was probably running. Best to pin the stupid rose back in her hair and armour herself again to see the wedding reception through as a good bridesmaid should.

She was never going to make it with Tommy. All this evening…just a fool's paradise…a bubble of fragile happiness too easily broken. Underneath the charm she'd been basking in, Tommy had such a deep store of anger against her, and rightly so. She'd never done anything to make him feel good about himself, tearing strips off him, shunning him in favour of his brothers…the sins were endless.

How could he forget them?

She kept trudging up the long lawn, dying a little with every step, knowing she couldn't turn back the clock, wishing Tommy would come after her, accepting there was no real chance with him anyway.

Vulnerable!
Tommy stood in a shocked daze as that word—his mother's word for Samantha—drummed through his mind. He hadn't believed it. He'd scorned the very idea of Samantha Connelly having any soft underbelly to be ripped open…revealing such naked hurting.

He'd been wrong.

All these years he'd been wrong.

She'd been fighting to win his admiration, wanting approval, appreciation, and he'd seen it as—he shook his head—everything else but that…turning to other women to get what she didn't give…only it was never enough because he wanted it from her.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned
… The jibes about his affairs…they were understandable if she wanted him and thought he didn't see her as good enough. Had she wanted him all along? Had they both trodden a path of misconceptions about each other?

Her eyes filling up with tears…

She'd never cried…too strong, too proud, too gritty to show any womanly weakness. But today had been different. Tonight had been different. And be damned if he was going to lose that difference now!

Gripped by the need to act, Tommy set his glass on the bar table and headed straight for the exit, determined on following Samantha, catching her, straightening things out between them. He was waylaid, his arm clutched, with a drunken Janice Findlay swinging on it, lurching around to face him and grab a handful of his shirt.

“Hold it, lover!” she slurred, leering at him as she added, “You and I need to talk.”

“Not now!” he clipped out, trying to pluck her hand away without offensive force.

She dug her nails into the fabric and snarled, “Don't think you can throw me off, Tommy King.”

She was dangerously drunk, he belatedly recognised, and cast a quick glance around for Greg, hoping for handy assistance in disentangling himself.

“Hot to hump Sam Connelly, aren't you?” Janice taunted. “But she's given you the slip and I've got you. Been waiting all night for this.”

No Greg in sight, but he caught Jared's eye and aimed a frown towards Janice, indicating a problem. Taking a deep breath and telling himself to calm his sense of urgency, he met his ex-playmate's venom with as much reasonableness as he could muster.

Stroking the grasping hand to relax the grip she had on him, he spoke in a gentler tone. “What is it you want, Janice? You know it's over between us. Holding me like this won't lead anywhere. What more is there to say?”

“Think you can get off scot-free, don't you?” she jeered. “One of the great Kings of the Kimberly.” She released his shirt to throw off the touch of his hand in a gesture of contempt. “You're going to pay for the pleasure you took with me. I'll make your name dirt if you don't.”

“I hope you'll think better of that in the morning, Janice. In the meantime…”

“Ah, there you are…” Jared smoothly scooped her aside, a strong, purposeful arm around her waist. “…Greg was worried you might get lost going to the loo. I said Christabel would accompany you, make sure…”

Tommy didn't hear the rest. He was out of the marquee and moving fast, head swivelling, looking for a lilac gleam to follow. No sight of anything likely along the riverbank. How big a start did Samantha have? What with sorting himself out and Janice delaying him, several minutes must have passed.

His heart kicked into a greater sense of urgency as he scanned the lawn leading up to the house. There, close to the bougainvillea hedge… He broke into a run, uncaring what anyone who saw him thought. It might be his life on the line here—as good as—if what he'd worked out was right.

She was heading for the front gate, in the dark shadows thrown by the trees beside the circular driveway. Was it her? Instinct insisted it had to be. His feet pounded over the grass. She obviously couldn't hear him coming. There was no pausing from her, no turning around. Was he pursuing a ghost?

Struck by an uncharacteristic stab of anxiety, he called out, “Wait!”

Tommy's voice? Sam's heart contracted. She looked back towards the marquee. A black and white figure was pelting up the lawn, making a beeline to where she was. It had to be Tommy…having decided he should fetch her back no matter what, mend the ruction, see the night through, hold the happy family line, the dutiful best man.