Six Australian Heroes. Margaret Way

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       PROLOGUE

      RHIANNON FAIRFAX shared a taxi one day with a man to die for. She was twenty-two at the time.

      It was during a massive Sydney thunderstorm and it was to prove a memorable ride.

      They met on a rain-drenched pavement in the city. He had an umbrella, she was smothered in a bright yellow hooded plastic raincoat. He’d been there first, but when she and a taxi arrived almost simultaneously she wiped the rain out of her eyes and asked him above the din of the downpour if they could share it. Because her other options appeared to include being washed away and she was also running late.

      He agreed and they went through the awkward business of getting his umbrella down and getting themselves into the taxi while the driver grumbled about them flooding the back seat.

      ‘Phew!’ Rhiannon pushed her hood back, uncovering a navy beret pulled down over her ears with all her hair tucked up into it. She didn’t normally wear it like that but she was cold and that was the only way she could keep it on under the hood. ‘What a day!’

      Her companion regarded her quizzically. ‘At least you’re dressed for it.’

      She fingered the beret and grimaced. ‘Warmth and dryness take precedence over looks at the moment. So where are you headed?’

      He told her and they consulted the driver and worked out that he would be dropped off first.

      Then she sat back as the taxi, its windscreen wipers working overtime, pulled out into the slick grey canyon of the street and she looked at her companion properly for the first time.

      Rhiannon’s eyebrows rose slowly, almost until they were touching the beret, as she took him in. Tall, dark and handsome multiplied by a factor of ten summed it up, she decided. Thick dark hair, deep blue eyes, slightly hollow cheeks and aquiline features that gave him an aloof air, broad shoulders beneath the jacket of a superbly tailored though now damp charcoal suit.

      He looked to be in his early thirties. He looked—she tried to sum it up—the embodiment of someone who wielded power in a boardroom. Yet there was a tantalising aura of a man who would be good at other things.

      What things, she wondered? And how had she got that impression? From his physique, his long, strong hands, his tan?

      Then she realised he was returning her gaze enigmatically.

      ‘Sorry,’ she murmured with a rueful little smile, ‘but you must be used to it.’

      His lips twisted. ‘I could probably say the same for you, except there’s not a lot to see.’ His gaze drifted down the voluminous raincoat that fell almost to her feet.

      She wasn’t sure why she felt so chatty with a perfect stranger, except for the fact that her life had taken an upward turn only about half an hour ago. ‘i suppose you’re very much spoken for?’

      He settled those impressive shoulders against the seat. ‘I’m not, as it happens. I’m actually sworn off being “spoken for” at the moment and possibly the duration.’

      ‘Oh, dear, what a shame.’ Rhiannon eyed him concernedly. ‘If you’re serious?’

      For a fleeting moment his mouth hardened then he shrugged and turned the question. ‘How about you?’

      ‘Actually,’ Rhiannon looked away and pleated the yellow plastic of her raincoat, unaware of the air of vulnerability that overcame her, ‘I’m pretty sure I’m sworn off men for life.’

      He watched her busy fingers. ‘How come?’

      ‘You wouldn’t want to know.’ She made a determined effort not to go down that road again. ‘So what were we talking about before?’

      He looked into her sparkling brown eyes. ‘I was trying to pay you a compliment in return for the one you paid me.’

      ‘Well, I don’t think I’m a ten,’ she replied, ‘but I do have some good points. My figure’s not bad, I’m actually a natural blonde under this thing,’ she pointed to her beret, ‘if you go for them—but if there’s one thing I’m sinfully proud of maybe, it’s my legs.’

      He raised an eyebrow. ‘Why sinfully?’

      ‘Legs is as legs does,’ she recited and rubbed the bridge of her nose. ‘It’s your soul that counts.’

      ‘Let me guess, the preaching of your convent school?’ he hazarded.

      Rhiannon laughed. ‘In my last year at my convent school, my Mother Superior was convinced my legs were going to lead me on a downward path. On the other hand, my next school took a different view. They were of the opinion they were a great asset.’

      ‘Next school?’ He frowned.

      ‘I had a rather extended education,’ she said quickly.

      ‘If I could see your legs, I might be able to—settle the dispute. That is,’ his deep blue eyes were grave but not so grave as to hide the wicked little glint in them, ‘advise you whether it’s sinful to be proud of them or not.’

      ‘Well,’ she said, ‘if nothing else I think we should take the driver’s sensibilities into account, don’t you?’

      They’d left the city and were driving down a dripping, classy, tree-lined street in Woollahra, her companion’s destination. When the driver didn’t respond, it was only because, as they realised moments later, he’d lost control of the taxi as it planed through a sea of water.

      They mounted the pavement and hit a tree. They bounced off the tree and crunched through a fence behind it and came to rest precariously at the top of a rocky incline that led down to a park.

      The next few minutes were chaotic. The passengers discovered themselves to be uninjured but the driver was knocked out. How long they would balance at the angle at which they were tilted was a moot point.

      So they scrambled out into the rain, used a mobile phone to call for help and began to get the driver out before the car rolled down the incline.

      It was no easy task. The impact had buckled the driver’s door and, had Rhiannon’s companion not been very strong but also extremely quick-thinking and resourceful, they’d have lost the driver and his taxi down the rocks.

      They laid him on the grass, still out cold, on a waterproof sheet they’d found in the boot and Rhiannon ripped off her raincoat and covered him with it.

      They were both, by this time, muddy, scratched, dirty and soaked.

      The taxi settled then quite slowly slid down the rocks to bury its nose in the park.

      ‘Thank heavens we got him out!’ she breathed. ‘Are you all right? You’ve cut your hand and you’ve ruined your jacket.’

      ‘I’m OK. I—Ah!’ They both turned СКАЧАТЬ