Catch of The Day: Destiny Romance (7 page)

Olive hunched her shoulders in response. ‘No-one knows much about his past. He’s as mysterious as that gossipy columnist from the local rag who hides behind a pseudonym. Alex just breezed into town one day, was good at fishing – vital in this town – and no-one asked him any questions.’

‘Yeah, I gather fishing’s a pretty lucrative industry around here,’ Winnie remarked distractedly. She’d been hoping to find out a little more about Alex– the man himself was useless – but she’d once again hit a dead end.

‘It
is
lucrative,’ Olive agreed. ‘I’ve learned a bit about the industry since moving here. They can get about fifty bucks a kilo wholesale for their catch. Know how much it costs for a commercial licence for one cray pot alone?’

The poor critters. ‘How much?’

‘Fifty thousand dollars.’

‘You’re kidding me? For
one
pot?’

Olive nodded. ‘Yup, and most of the fishermen – the ones who own the boats – have about sixty or seventy pots each. Not that they would have paid those prices back in the day. Little wonder there are only about fifteen cray fishermen working out of neighbouring Cape Jaffa and twenty from Robe.’

Winnie whistled through her teeth. ‘Indeed. They’re like pots of gold.’

The sun beat down overhead. Flicking away a fly with one hand, Alex wished he’d worn a hat like the wizened farmers. He was freelancing for the local cattle breeders association at the beef field day and while there was usually a divide between the farmers and fishermen in town, he was happy to do whatever work paid the bills. Moving into the shade of a tree near the cattle yard, he nodded at a local breeder he recognised, then swivelled back to where sales were due to start. Slow-paced chatter merged with the sound of bellowing livestock. Just a few more snaps and he’d be off duty for the rest of the day.

Out of the corner of his eye, Alex noticed a blur of colour and movement and a few heads swinging in the other direction. It wasn’t long before he discovered the object of the disturbance: Winnie, attempting to scale a fence into the farm in some sort of wedge heels, flashing a little too much cleavage as she did so. Bloody hell. Her frock and heels couldn’t have been more out of place amid the sea of akubras, check shirts and elastic-sided boots.

Irritated that he felt protective of her again – in a purely professional sense – he powered in her direction, his camera on its strap knocking against his side. He wasn’t one to leave a damsel in distress, even a vacuous, girl-about-town type.

Unfortunately, he was too late to extend a helping hand before her foot had landed in cow dung. She kicked her left heel up behind her for closer inspection and blew strawberry-blonde strands from her face. ‘My luck,’ she muttered darkly.

Halting just short of her, Alex coughed and swallowed. ‘Uh, don’t think heels and field days are really a match made in heaven.’

Her pretty head tilted upwards and her eyes met his. Instantly, her expression became pained, as though she’d just banged her funny bone – hard. ‘Oh . . . hi.’

Alex scratched his stubble. ‘It’s probably too late to tell you there’s a gate a few metres down. Might have been an easier mode of entry.’

She sighed. ‘It figures.’ Savagely, she wiped her heel on the grass. ‘Why are you here anyway?’ she asked a little rudely, as though it were his fault he’d caught her in a compromising situation. At least the curious eyes had slid away again.

He gestured at his camera, bristling slightly. ‘I do work for other people, you know. Besides, I should ask the same thing of you.’

Winnie pulled a face, which didn’t diminish the attractiveness of her features, if city social climbers were your thing. ‘I’m trying to find a farmer for a story – Chester Wyatt. Not that I have a clue what he looks like. I’ve left numerous messages on his answering machine to no avail, which is why I’m here. There was no other way around it. You don’t happen to know Chester?’

‘I’ve met him once or twice, but I haven’t seen him around today.’ Alex shrugged. ‘He must be pretty important for you to get your high heels dirty, though.’ He couldn’t help teasing her, even when she was down in the dumps. It was like a curse.

‘Yeah, the big-time cattle breeder is about to become a reality-TV star. Though he’s a total enigma, by all accounts.’ Winnie’s eyes suddenly glinted. ‘Speaking of enigmas, I had another idea for a
Beach Life
story on the drive over.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ he asked hesitantly. Already he didn’t like where her train of thought was headed.

‘Yeah, I thought a good piece would be for me to go on a cray-fishing boat and document a morning’s work – preferably your boss’s boat, seeing as he’s a contact of yours. Don’t you reckon it would make a fantastic photo spread, too? Cray fishing
is
a major industry of the town.’

Alex tightened his jaw. The last thing he needed on a busy morning’s fishing was Winnie draping herself over the deck, moaning about seasickness and asking like a whiny kid when they’d be back on land. The confined space and long hours at sea together weren’t worth contemplating.

‘Uh-uh.’ He shook his head. ‘I’d be too busy fishing to take photos. I don’t exactly rest on my laurels out there. It wouldn’t work.’

Winnie rested a hand on her narrow hip. ‘Well, you must have taken some pics on board already. I didn’t think you’d be able to help yourself as a photographer, with all the sunrises and marine life you’d see. So it would only mean taking a few extra pics of the skipper in action – surely that’s possible. And I’d just come along for the ride to observe.’

Alex kneaded his shoulder. ‘I doubt my boss’d agree.’

Winnie stuck out her bottom lip, which looked more succulent than he cared to admit. ‘But I’m desperate for stories and you’re part of
Beach Life
’s team. Couldn’t you at least try to persuade him? I’m vegetarian, so I’d be putting myself out on a limb, too.’

Alex was silent for a moment, wondering how to untangle himself this time, before conceding gruffly, ‘I guess I could ask.’

‘Fantastic.’ Winnie clapped her hands together, as though the decision was already made. She was a wily one. How did he keep getting roped into her misadventures? ‘Just think what a good day’s work it’ll be for you – you’ll get paid two times over for the morning.’

‘Great,’ he murmured unenthusiastically.

Sidestepping more cow dung, Winnie leant to pat the snout of a brown and white cow that had lumbered closer behind a railing. Alex had to swallow a laugh. None of the locals treated the livestock like pets.

‘Winnie!’

A whirlwind of pearls, ironed denim and vanilla perfume hurtled in Winnie’s direction.
Eden Delaware.
She leant in to air-kiss Winnie before pecking Alex on the cheek. He shouldn’t have been surprised that the pair were already acquainted – Eden liked to make herself known to all the ‘right’ people, including the local media.

Eden’s fiancé, Flynn Hilton, was at her side. Alex shook his hand. Apparently Flynn, with his clean-cut, movie-star looks, had broken many a local girl’s heart when he asked for Eden’s hand in marriage. To Alex, though, Flynn was just an all-round nice guy, and pretty decent on the football field.

Eden introduced Flynn and Winnie, then asked Winnie the same question Winnie had asked Alex: what she was doing there.

‘Oh, I’m actually looking for a guy called Chester Wyatt.’ Winnie wrung her hands. ‘For a story for
Beach Life
. Apparently he’s going to be on
The Farmer Wants a Wife
. I haven’t had much luck tracking him down, though.’

‘Chester Wyatt?’ Eden trilled. ‘We’re having our reception on his cattle property.’ She darted glances around the crowd. ‘Oh, look, there he is. In the red-check shirt.’ Which didn’t exactly narrow things down, but she hadn’t finished, calling, ‘Chester, yoo-hoo!’

Seconds later, the hulking farmer was striding in their direction, thumbs in his belt loops and an oversized black akubra shading his face. Winnie looked bug-eyed with excitement as he paused to nod his greeting at the group.

‘Chester,’ Eden purred, ‘Winnie here is new to town and would absolutely love to do a story on your reality-TV debut for the launch issue of
Beach Life
magazine. You’d be in fabulous company, too. Our wedding’s going to feature in the publication. Sound like something you’d be up for?’

Chester looked at Eden and Winnie beneath heavy-set brows, assessing them as slowly as a cow might chew on grass. Finally, his gaze paused on the strawberry blonde. ‘Hi. I got your phone messages. Sorry I didn’t get back to you. I’m not much of one for interviews, but if you’re a friend of Eden’s, I s’pose it’d be okay.’

‘Yes, I’m a friend,’ Winnie exclaimed, seizing on the moment. ‘Maybe – maybe I could even ask you a few quick questions now and get Alex here to take a few snaps? Then it’d all be over before you know it – like a flu shot!’

Chester shrugged, drawling, ‘‘Kay.’ The bloke was going to make great TV talent. Not. Even if he was filthy rich. Winking in the background, Eden slid away, her arm linked with Flynn’s.

‘Um, great, thanks,’ Winnie yelped, rummaging helplessly in her handbag. ‘I just need to find a pen, then we can get started.’

Coolly, Alex reached into his jeans pocket, located a pen and extended it in Winnie’s direction. ‘Never seen a journalist without a writing utensil before,’ he couldn’t help commenting dryly.

Winnie grimaced at him. ‘My saviour.’ Turning back to Chester, her features brightened with an encouraging smile. ‘So tell me – how did
Farmer Wants a Wife
come a-knocking?’

A red Lancer coupé with a pink numberplate reading
Cyndi 86
held pride of place outside the main street’s beauty salon. Winnie figured it was the property of the salon owner she’d just phoned. Her name was Cyndi too.

Sailing past it, Winnie pushed on the salon’s front door, its bell tinkling. She was in desperate need of a Brazilian wax. She didn’t usually like to bump into the person who waxed her privates at the supermarket, but she had little choice in this town. Besides, she didn’t have much to do that afternoon. Her keyboard had died following the peppermint tea debacle and she couldn’t ask Olive for help – the ad manager had disappeared to her eye appointment.

At any rate, Winnie was still buzzing from the Chester Wyatt coup, so the beauty salon trip was a celebration of sorts – an indulgence. Christa didn’t have to know her every move.

Inside the salon, nail-product fumes and Bananarama’s ‘Venus’ assaulted her senses. She could see the back of a diminutive blonde at a manicure table, coral-coloured nail polish drying on extended fingertips. A lollipop-pink wall glared behind her.

The customer turned to smile at Winnie, dimples creasing her cheeks. ‘Hiya. You’re looking for Cyndi?’ She had a European lilt to her voice.

‘Yes . . . I have an appointment with her.’

‘No probs. She’s just out the back. Shouldn’t be long.’ The blonde stood up, cupping a hand to her mouth, and Winnie’s gaze was drawn to her unexpectedly gargantuan stomach – the lass was pint-sized everywhere else. ‘Yo, Cyndi, you’ve got a customer!’ Turning back, the blonde caught Winnie mid-stare.

‘Sorry,’ Winnie stammered. ‘Just guessing you’re . . .?’

‘Pregnant, yes. With twins.’ The blonde grinned. ‘Bought one and got two. They’re fraternal. My name’s Honey, by the way. I’m a friend – and customer – of Cyndi’s.’

‘Nice – nice to meet you. I’m Winnie. Uh, know what you’re having yet?’

Honey shook her head. ‘Nah, having twins was enough of a shock for the moment, so we’re keeping their sexes a surprise.’

In the archway near the front counter, a curvy woman with dark-blonde shoulder-length waves and pale, freckly skin emerged. Her nametag read
Cyndi
. She blinked navy-blue eyes at Winnie. Her face was pretty but strangely stony, though she’d sounded quite friendly on the phone.

‘You must be my three o’clock,’ Cyndi said.

‘Yes . . . yes, I am.’

‘Follow me,’ the beautician snapped, turning sharply.

Oh dear. This scary woman was about to put scalding hot wax where it was sensitive? Unfortunately, it was too late to back out. ‘Uh . . . sure.’

Following Cyndi down a white-painted hall, Winnie found herself in a similarly pale room. The beautician, her eyes elsewhere, barked at Winnie to strip off, then flung a disposable G-string at her and stabbed a finger in the direction of a robe on the door handle.

‘I change into that?’ Winnie dared ask. ‘I – I can’t leave my top on for a bikini wax?’

‘Everything off,’ Cyndi snarled before disappearing.

Sheesh. Wiggling out of her clothes and into the G-string and white, fluffy robe, Winnie hoped the beautician would be as tough with any errant hairs as her bedside manner suggested. Lying on the treatment bed, she stared up at a watermark on the ceiling. It reminded her of a cat’s head – and the stray that was still hanging around her unit like a bad smell. Seconds ticked by, then minutes, then, before she had a chance to turn and look, Winnie heard the door click open, a swish of fabric, women giggling, then the door was slammed shut again. What the?

Sitting up, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, her gaze immediately falling to the chair where she’d thrown her clothes. They weren’t there. Nor were her shoes. Only her handbag remained. What was going on? Was this meant to be some kind of initiation prank for the new girl in town? Slipping on fluoro-yellow pedicure thongs and grabbing her bag, Winnie, still robed up, padded to the front room.

‘Cyndi? Honey?’ she called out, but all was silent – apart from the Bangles, who were now on rotation. The front door sign, she noticed, had been turned to
Closed
.

Adrenalin galloped through Winnie’s veins. She could unlock the door from the inside, but she could hardly venture outside in a fluffy white robe, near naked underneath. Not right across the road from the bloody
Herald
office. She was really knee-deep in dung now – as if stepping in manure that morning hadn’t been bad enough. Cyndi was obviously seriously – 
scarily
 – unhinged. The blonde with the Trixie Belden-esque name had seemed nice, but she must be in on the game, too, whatever it was exactly.

Desperately looking around the salon, Winnie spied a Barbie-pink retro phone on the counter, which gave her an idea. She’d call Olive on her mobile. She could pick her up in no time and get Winnie out of this mess.

Dialling quickly, Winnie heard Olive’s chirpy voice reverberate down the phone. Voicemail. Bugger. What to do now? A vein pulsed at her temple. She only had the number of one other person in town she knew well enough to phone, though the prospect made her feel sicker than ever.

With fumbling fingers, she made the call and listened to it ring once, twice, three times. On the opposite wall, a
Miss Showgirl 2006
certificate, printed with Cyndi’s name, stared at her. Perhaps the beautician had peaked too soon and was now taking out her woes on the rest of the world.

‘Hello?’ a groggy voice finally answered. The sound sent a peculiar cocktail of relief and horror rocketing through Winnie’s bloodstream.

‘For a fashion person,’ Alex mused as Winnie slid into his Falcon’s passenger seat, ‘you don’t have much of a handle on the dress code around here.’

‘Ha ha,’ she said without a trace of humour, tightening the belt of her robe. She stared straight ahead, keen to look anywhere but at him.