Read Online His Brand of Beautiful by Lily Malone - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lily Malone
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female voters to listen to my policies, not ask me where you bought your shoes.
Alexander’s wife swears by pant suits from Betty Lee. He said navy is TV‐friendly.”
Navy ! The nose in the mirror wrinkled. Pant suits !
She dried her hands on a paper towel, screwed it up and aimed for the bin.
Damn .
Hitting the shot would have improved her mood.
****
The Jabiru rocked in the crosswind as Tate pushed the plane from the hangar.
He saw Christina emerge around the corner of the building, one hand clamping a cream‐coloured beanie to her head, the other batting at her grey‐striped dress to stop the skirt flying up. The scowl on her face deepened with every step. Twin tails of tortoiseshell scarf whipped behind her like Medusa’s snakes and every fourth pace she brushed her cheek against the shoulder‐strap of her handbag to keep her hair from tangling in her sunnies.
Tate hauled on the chains to close the hangar door and tried to hide his smile. The metal runners squealed.
“So you’re still game?” He indicated the Jabiru.
“I’m so not diving with Great White Sharks. If your idea of broadening my horizons involves swimming with Jaws , save yourself the fuel.”
“I’m not taking you swimming with sharks.” He opened the cockpit passenger door.
She took several deep breaths and when she pulled herself up, the knuckles gripping the support bar were bone white. He didn’t like the colour of her face.
“There’s air‐sick pills in the console.”
She dropped the cream beanie near her feet. “Lay off the loop the loops and I promise I won’t puke.”
He walked around to the pilot’s side and leapt up. Once in, he checked her harness, leaned over to help her fit the unfamiliar headset; smelled her shampoo and that rainforest scent that was pure Christina.
Could be a long flight . He strapped himself in, re‐ran his pre‐flight checks. “Ready?”
Her fingers hooked into the seat. A silver ring, shaped a bit like an eye, glared at him from the middle knuckle of her right hand.
“Not a fan of flying?”
“I like a big Boeing just fine. I can pretend it’s a bus.”
Twin propellers concussed the air. He taxied the Jabiru to the take‐off point, waited for Parafield Tower’s okay, then opened the throttle. The engine roared. Then he had the Jabiru’s nose up, streaking into the teeth of the wind, feeling better about the world with every foot he climbed. He’d been caged up in the city too long.
The buffeting eased. He adjusted course north, north‐west and looked at Christina out the corner of his eye. She was staring out the window as if fascinated by the brick and tile boxes diminishing below, her eyes half‐closed, silky lashes so long, they almost brushed her cheek.
The Gulf of St Vincent, then the upper reaches of Spencer Gulf—tide out—vanished beneath the plane. They flew over a windfarm, white turbine arms cartwheeling like a three-pronged showground ride.
Once she asked: “Who told you my brother’s nickname was Muddy?”
“Google. I found it in an online meet‐the‐winemaker forum, way back when you first contacted me about taking on your account.”
She lapsed into silence.
Mile by mile, paddocks of winter wheat yielded to patches of purple‐brown saltbush and blocks of white that might have been big flocks of sheep, or small salt pans. Then even those tapered away. Wider and wider expanses of unbroken orange earth spread north, east, west and soon, south behind the plane, like a rust‐coloured blanket.
Lily Malone
“You can’t seriously be taking me to Alice Springs for lunch, Tate. So where the heck are we going? There’s nothing else out here.” It was the first words she’d spoken in more than an hour.
“Some people would say there’s nothing. I’m not one of them. The Australian outback is filled with more life than most places you’ll ever see.”
“Great. I’ve been kidnapped by Bear Grylls.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
Alexander’s wife swears by pant suits from Betty Lee. He said navy is TV‐friendly.”
Navy ! The nose in the mirror wrinkled. Pant suits !
She dried her hands on a paper towel, screwed it up and aimed for the bin.
Damn .
Hitting the shot would have improved her mood.
****
The Jabiru rocked in the crosswind as Tate pushed the plane from the hangar.
He saw Christina emerge around the corner of the building, one hand clamping a cream‐coloured beanie to her head, the other batting at her grey‐striped dress to stop the skirt flying up. The scowl on her face deepened with every step. Twin tails of tortoiseshell scarf whipped behind her like Medusa’s snakes and every fourth pace she brushed her cheek against the shoulder‐strap of her handbag to keep her hair from tangling in her sunnies.
Tate hauled on the chains to close the hangar door and tried to hide his smile. The metal runners squealed.
“So you’re still game?” He indicated the Jabiru.
“I’m so not diving with Great White Sharks. If your idea of broadening my horizons involves swimming with Jaws , save yourself the fuel.”
“I’m not taking you swimming with sharks.” He opened the cockpit passenger door.
She took several deep breaths and when she pulled herself up, the knuckles gripping the support bar were bone white. He didn’t like the colour of her face.
“There’s air‐sick pills in the console.”
She dropped the cream beanie near her feet. “Lay off the loop the loops and I promise I won’t puke.”
He walked around to the pilot’s side and leapt up. Once in, he checked her harness, leaned over to help her fit the unfamiliar headset; smelled her shampoo and that rainforest scent that was pure Christina.
Could be a long flight . He strapped himself in, re‐ran his pre‐flight checks. “Ready?”
Her fingers hooked into the seat. A silver ring, shaped a bit like an eye, glared at him from the middle knuckle of her right hand.
“Not a fan of flying?”
“I like a big Boeing just fine. I can pretend it’s a bus.”
Twin propellers concussed the air. He taxied the Jabiru to the take‐off point, waited for Parafield Tower’s okay, then opened the throttle. The engine roared. Then he had the Jabiru’s nose up, streaking into the teeth of the wind, feeling better about the world with every foot he climbed. He’d been caged up in the city too long.
The buffeting eased. He adjusted course north, north‐west and looked at Christina out the corner of his eye. She was staring out the window as if fascinated by the brick and tile boxes diminishing below, her eyes half‐closed, silky lashes so long, they almost brushed her cheek.
The Gulf of St Vincent, then the upper reaches of Spencer Gulf—tide out—vanished beneath the plane. They flew over a windfarm, white turbine arms cartwheeling like a three-pronged showground ride.
Once she asked: “Who told you my brother’s nickname was Muddy?”
“Google. I found it in an online meet‐the‐winemaker forum, way back when you first contacted me about taking on your account.”
She lapsed into silence.
Mile by mile, paddocks of winter wheat yielded to patches of purple‐brown saltbush and blocks of white that might have been big flocks of sheep, or small salt pans. Then even those tapered away. Wider and wider expanses of unbroken orange earth spread north, east, west and soon, south behind the plane, like a rust‐coloured blanket.
Lily Malone
“You can’t seriously be taking me to Alice Springs for lunch, Tate. So where the heck are we going? There’s nothing else out here.” It was the first words she’d spoken in more than an hour.
“Some people would say there’s nothing. I’m not one of them. The Australian outback is filled with more life than most places you’ll ever see.”
“Great. I’ve been kidnapped by Bear Grylls.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
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