A Bush Christmas Read Free

gave her a frisson of pleasure. Ha! Nothing like a bit of girl power. And, after all, what did he expect? A simpering little city chick to fall at his feet? She’d show him she wasn’t a woman or doll to be ordered around.
    She held out her hand imperiously. Beckoned for the lingerie with a fluttering of her outstretched fingers.
    â€˜I said, say please. Don’t they teach manners in the big bad city of Melbourne?’ he said.
    She sucked in a breath, threw back her shoulders and tried to stand tall, which was a bit hard in flat shoes. ‘I’ll have you know I went to one of the finest private schools, best university and, yes, my parents did teach me manners, unlike yours. Now give me my G-string.’
    He still didn’t hand it over.
    Jaime clenched her teeth, rolled her eyes and then purred, ‘Plea ssseeee …’ Anything to get the damn thing out of his big paws and back in the case where it belonged.
    He flung the dainty scrap in her direction, cast another look at the black ominous clouds shifting and swirling overhead, and said, ‘You better choose your stuff quick. Leave the rest with Blue. We’ve got to go now unless you want to get wet.’
    His eyes narrowed in on her clinging top and then just as quickly shifted away. She’d swear he coloured a little, but couldn’t be sure as just then he pulled a helmet over his head.
    Hmmm … interesting. Maybe Mr Stirling wasn’t made of marble after all.
    Â 
    She sat on the speeding motorbike, curled in behind the man’s back. His broad, hard, very male back. And she was grateful for its bulk and warmth because it had got cold quickly. Very chilly, in fact. She could have sworn she’d seen a drop or two of rain on her helmet visor until the wind whipped it away. The big black machine under her throbbed with power as it bowled along, eating up the tar and the kilometres as they climbed the hills out of Lake Grace.
    Six weeks ago, while sitting with her friends, sipping an espresso in Lygon Street, this was the last place she’d have imagined she’d be. Of course, that was before the big R, when she had fitted in with her girlfriends as they all sat tapping on their smartphones and iPads, discussing the latest in apps.
    Her new pre-paid mobile didn’t even work in this Godforsaken place.
    But somehow, just at this moment, none of that seemed to matter because despite the cold, she had the crisp and clean wind blowing against her face (she’d risked pulling up her visor), and the most incredible mountain range splayed out on both sides of the road. A river, with adjacent green and gold flats abutting its banks,snaked its way across the valley floor way down below them. The green-blue mountains above were shrouded in curtains of grey fluffy cotton balls of cloud.
    As they flew along, she felt she could reach out and touch the gum trees, the rocks, the hills and the bush speeding past. She hadn’t felt this free and so close to nature in a long time. She tried to think how long and was shocked to realise the last time was when her father had taken her fishing on Christmas Day.
    The day before he died. She choked back a sob.
    The man in front of her must have felt something as he tapped her on the leg she had tucked in behind his and signalled with his hand: Are you okay?
    No, she wasn’t okay. She would never be okay with her father’s death. But somehow she just had to push through it.
    She signalled back, hoping he got the message. Yeah, sure .
    And it was about then that the bike started to weave and sweep around the corners that led up through the mountain range towards Burdekin’s Gap. Stirling leant into the turns and rode the machine with a dexterity even she, a novice, could appreciate. She found herself pushed hard up against the man, her limbs instinctively reacting to the deft weave of the bike, her body moving as one with his. The only thing holding her on the bike