Elizabeth Oldfield - Imperfect Stranger

‘Bye,’ he said.

Flynn had left the engine running and, as she pushed into gear, Danielle frowned at him through the open window. He might be a louse, but he was an attractive louse—and would be more so if he shaved. He did not appeal to her, but his tough, sexy glamour must have a certain sector of the female population salivating. Could he have Latin blood? she wondered. The sultriness of his looks made it possible.

‘That problem,’ Danielle began.

‘Problem?’ he asked.

‘You mentioned a big problem. It’s a woman,’ she hazarded, and Flynn gave a brief nod. ‘Your wife?’

‘I’m not married.’

‘A girlfriend?’ Danielle suggested.

Her enquiries had taken him by surprise and he had answered without thinking, but now his eyes narrowed.

‘You may not be a reporter, but you sure as hell ask questions like one!’ Flynn grated.

‘All women ask questions,’ she replied lightly.

‘But not all men answer them,’ he countered, and jabbed a finger along the road. ‘Now scoot!’

Danielle knew when she was wasting energy on a lost cause. ‘Yessir,’ she said, and, as she accelerated away, a glimpse through her rear-view mirror showed Flynn already striding off down the track.

The Land Rover behaved itself and the rest of her journey passed without mishap. As Danielle turned into a road signposted for the Fan Palms Lodge, she frowned. Earlier in the day she had sworn that Flynn would not be allowed to become mentally compelling, but ever since she had left him he had dominated her thoughts. There was so much she longed to know. Like, why hadn’t he given her his full name? What was it? Who was the woman causing him a problem and in which way? Flipping down the visor, Danielle cut out the glare of the sun. But the most intriguing part was that his evasions made her wonder if there might be a chance, albeit a slim one, that when she had steam-rollered over his lunch she had steam-rollered over the lunch of a man who was connected with the marijuana racket. A man who could alter her journey from a wild-goose chase into something worthwhile!

DANIELLE revolved the postcard stand. Which card should she send to James? As there were only two scenes, an aerial view of the wooded coastline and a close-up of a drunken-looking platypus, the choice was not large. She plumped for the platypus. James might not be too enamoured, but the aerial view was already being sent to her parents, her brother and his family, and a girlfriend.

It was two days later and, after a breakfast of orange juice, fresh fruit and bread rolls with local honey, Danielle had crossed the lobby and gone into what the Fan Palms brochure described as their ‘gift boutique’ to buy cards. Her eyes skimmed over small pyramids of baked beans, bottles of cough linctus, a solitary can of sunflower oil. In reality, the gift boutique was a not too well stocked general store and the majority of the trade which it attracted came from locals, who ambled in through an outside door, rather than the hotel residents.

As her gaze swung to a middle-aged couple who were talking earnestly to the woman behind the counter, Danielle gave a wry smile. What were they finding fault with now? There were only a dozen guests so personal traits had soon become evident, and the Swiss pair were complainers. They did not care for dining communally at a refectory table in the restaurant—which was, in fact, an alcove off the lobby—nor for the plain cooking, and they strongly objected to having to make their own coffee—instant coffee!—at the end of each meal. Danielle gave a mental shrug. None of this bothered her. She had been worried that ‘basic’ might translate as dirty or broken or stale, but the bed-linen was clean, bungalows and main building were adequately, if simply, furnished, and the food, though unimaginative, was fresh.

When the Swiss couple made an outraged remark about the lack of a swimming-pool and stalked out, she went to pay for her cards.

‘Good morning,’ she said, smiling at the dark-skinned, crinkly-haired assistant.

‘G’day,’ the woman replied, and perched her ample posterior on a stool. ‘Doing anything nice today?’

Whether it was the girl who cleaned the cabins, or the young waiter, or the elderly gentleman owner who acted as receptionist, bartender and part-time trimmer of hibiscus bushes, the staff at the Lodge always had time to chat, and no one chatted more than Wanitta. A plump, part-Aboriginal woman in her mid-forties, she seemed to know everything about everyone in the locality and, as customers were spasmodic and an audience hard to come by, was delighted to gossip to Danielle. Yesterday, after being regaled with stories of the antics of her five children, it had only taken one query about people living in the remoter stretches of the rainforest for Wanitta to proceed to give chapter and verse. No mention was made of marijuana but, as Danielle did not want to appear too noticeably interested too soon, she had let the subject lie. An enquiry could be made later.

The woman had not mentioned the mysterious Flynn either, and again she had not enquired; though her theory about him had been discarded. Danielle had recognised that the chance of her happening upon a drug dealer on her very first day in the forest did not so much rate as slim, but would be an amazing fluke. And life didn’t work that way. Journalistic breaks didn’t occur that easily. The idea had been wishful thinking. All right, the tall Australian was secretive, but his secrecy could be explained by a hundred and one perfectly innocent reasons. A lot of time had been spent speculating on those reasons, too much time, and so this morning she intended to ask Wanitta about him. She would doubtless be told something humdrum, like he was an insurance salesman avoiding the clutches of some predatory female, which would enable her to dismiss the man from her mind. Forever.

‘I thought I’d go for a drive,’ Danielle replied, as she passed over the money for her postcards. She pulled a face. ‘Though I’m wary of the Land Rover.’

‘It’s crook?’

‘Off and on.’

‘The nearest motor mechanic’d be Bruce out at the garage on the coast road,’ Wanitta told her, handing back the change, ‘but the poor bloke’s in hospital with an ulcer, so if you did break down getting things fixed’d be tricky.’

‘Then let’s hope I don’t,’ Danielle said, and drew in a breath. ‘Do you know a man-?’

‘Talking about the garage,’ Wanitta rattled on, ‘if you take the track inland just beyond it and drive up towards the hills, you eventually come to that New Agers’ commune which I was telling you about.’

‘Run by a bearded man?’ she asked, recalling the previous day’s spiel and the notes she had made on her return to her bungalow.

‘Right. Alec—that’s the guy’s name—reckons they want to live in tune with nature and absorb its tranquillity—’ Wanitta rolled chocolate-brown eyes ‘—and they’ll have no trouble doing it way out there. The place was originally set up by a wealthy Texan evangelist as a religious retreat, but he found it too remote and Alec and his lot moved in.’ Her gossiping ceased as the bell rang on the outside door and a tall man in a black openthroated shirt and faded jeans strode in. ‘G’day,’ she said.

He nodded. ‘Hi.’

Danielle looked at the new customer in surprise. It was Flynn. Something jumped inside her. She had persuaded herself that two days ago she must have suffered a brainstorm and that, in reality, her lunch guest had been nowhere near as attractive as she had imagined, but he was just as male, just as virile, packed just as irritating a punch—despite his jaw being covered with even thicker black stubble. Danielle frowned. She could not think who it was, but he reminded her of someone.