Heir to Danger Read online

  Forcing herself not to sigh for the luxuries back home was as useless as trying to keep her thoughts from returning to Tom McCullough.

  In his own way, Tom was as forceful as Jamal, but Shara hadn’t resented his attitude, aware that Tom spoke out of concern for her, not out of a desire to control her.

  He would have more subtle means of getting his way. A shudder of possibility shook her as her imagination worked overtime. In her country, women had a saying about men—Stillness Cloaks The Tiger Within.

  Where Jamal’s inner tiger was a rampaging beast, seldom cloaked, Tom’s, she sensed, was immensely more powerful than that.

  What would his tiger be like, once unleashed?

  HEIR TO DANGER

  VALERIE PARV

  Books by Valerie Parv

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  Interrupted Lullaby #1095

  Royal Spy #1154

  ††Operation: Monarch #1268

  **Heir to Danger #1312

  Silhouette Romance

  The Leopard Tree #507

  The Billionaire’s Baby Chase #1270

  Baby Wishes and Bachelor Kisses #1313

  *The Monarch’s Son #1459

  *The Prince’s Bride-To-Be #1465

  *The Princess’s Proposal #1471

  Booties and the Beast #1501

  Code Name: Prince #1516

  †Crowns and a Cradle #1621

  †The Baron & the Bodyguard #1627

  †The Marquis and the Mother-To-Be #1633

  ††The Viscount & the Virgin #1691

  ††The Princess & the Masked Man #1695

  ††The Prince & the Marriage Pact #1699

  VALERIE PARV

  With twenty million copies of her books sold, including three Waldenbooks bestsellers, it’s no wonder Valerie Parv is known as Australia’s queen of romance and is the recognized media spokesperson for all things romantic. Valerie is married to her own romantic hero, Paul, a former crocodile hunter in Australia’s tropical north.

  These days he’s a cartoonist and the two live in the country’s capital city of Canberra, where both are volunteer zoo guides, sharing their love of animals with visitors from all over the world. Valerie continues to write her page-turning novels because they affirm her belief in love and happy endings. As she says, “Love gives you wings, romance helps you fly.” Keep up with Valerie’s latest releases at www.silromanceauthors.com.

  For Lulu, Sunny and Merry with love and appreciation

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  The woman’s scream reverberated around the steep canyon, dragging Tom McCullough’s attention away from the deserted car he’d stopped to investigate. It was one of the old cars used for work around Diamond Downs, but why was it sitting in the middle of nowhere with plenty of gas and no obvious damage?

  Tom’s head snapped up. A scream wasn’t a sound he expected to hear on a cattle property in the middle of nowhere, either.

  Neither could he ignore it. As a ranger, he was sworn to protect both the unique environment of the untamed Kimberley region of northwestern Australia, and the people who came to marvel at it, from themselves if necessary.

  Even as his mind raced through the list of possible threats, from deadly king brown snakes to wild dingoes and man-eating crocodiles, his long legs scaled the cinnamon-colored rock wall that rose like a submarine emerging from an ochre ocean. His feet skidded on the tangle of creepers and tree roots cascading over the jagged, layered rocks.

  The difficult terrain made the shriek of terror even more disturbing. This wasn’t a place where the unwary wandered. Usually the only people who made the climb were the Aboriginal custodians of a ceremonial site located among the rocks. He could see the entrance to the narrow gorge now, festooned in greenery.

  Surely the scream hadn’t come from the gorge? What would a woman be doing in a place reserved for initiated men only? The scream must have come from somewhere close to the rock enclave rather than inside it, he thought, knowing wishful thinking when he expressed it.

  Tom braced himself to find some lost backpacker lying on the ground, staring in bewilderment at a snakebite on her leg or ankle. When his scan of the surroundings revealed nothing, he plunged into the greenery, coming up short at the sight of the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, being held at spear point by a tribal elder with murder in his expression.

  “What’s going on, Andy?” he demanded. As well as being one of Tom’s best friends, Andy Wandarra worked as a stock-man on Diamond Downs. In the shadow of the rock wall decorated with ancient paintings, he had shed his veneer of civilization along with everything but a loincloth. Here, he was the upholder of eons of tradition stretching back in an unbroken thread to the dawn of creation, the Dreamtime.

  The man brandished the spear at the woman who faced him down with a defiance Tom found admirable if foolhardy. “I found this one looking at the paintings. No woman can see them. The cave spirits say she must be speared in the leg as punishment,” Andy said.

  Tom’s blood chilled. The cave spirits were embodied in the eerie figures adorning every surface of the rocks. Wandarra knew them as the creative beings of the Dreaming, makers of the world and everything it contained. According to his people, these spirit beings governed all aspects of human behavior, along with the rituals that were vital for living in harmony with the land.

  It was Andy’s responsibility to keep their images in good repair as his forebears had done for thousands of years. Without the benign influence of the spirits, his people believed, the land would dry up and the game would vanish.

  “This little-bit woman didn’t mean any harm. She’s not from around here,” Tom said, as if the woman was hardly worth his friend’s notice.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw her draw herself up. She didn’t like being described so dismissively, he gathered. If the situation hadn’t been potentially lethal, he would have been amused. In contrast to his six-two, she was a little bit of a thing.

  She stood about five-seven and wouldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and twenty pounds wringing wet. Hair as dark as midnight hung halfway down her back. Her skin was the color of milky coffee and her violet gaze locked with his in silent challenge. She definitely wasn’t from around here. Her cream shirt and tailored jeans, even caked in red dust, screamed European designer. The jeans were tucked into calf-hugging leather boots that Tom would bet were worth several months of his salary.

  He sighed inwardly. Now he had an explanation for the deserted car, if not for its lovely occupant.

  “I didn’t mean to trespass by coming in here,” she said in a cultured voice tinged with an exotic accent.

  Tom struggled to place it. Where had he heard that voice before? “I’m Shire Ranger Tom McCullough. Who are you?” he asked quietly.

  He detected the slightest hesitation before she said, “My name is Shara.”

  Had she been about to say Mrs. Somebody? He knew he’d have been disappointed if she had. No, she’d hesitated as if she wasn’t accustomed to having to explain her identity. Who was she and what the devil was going on?

  “This place is off-limits to all women, Shara,” he said. “You’re breaking indigenous law b
y entering.”

  “It wasn’t intentional,” she assured him. “I was merely—driving around. A kangaroo hopped in front of my car and I bumped it very slightly. I didn’t think it was injured but I followed it up here to make sure. When I saw the opening in the rock and the paintings, I decided to take a closer look.”

  As a ranger, Tom knew a lie when he heard one. Not about the kangaroo, but what she was doing in the area in the first place. “Driving where?” he asked.

  “Just—around.”

  There it was, that hesitation again. The growing impatience in Andy’s body language put an end to Tom’s probing. Not even their long friendship would stop the other man from doing his sacred duty, Tom knew.

  He looked at the spear held unwaveringly on her. “She didn’t know any better, Andy. Let me take care of this. I’ll see she never makes a mistake like this again.”

  The other man’s frown deepened. “You know our laws, Barrak.”

  Hearing his clan name used, Tom’s heart sank and with it his hope of salvaging the situation.

  To Wandarra’s people, the cave spirits weren’t gods, watching the people from on high. They walked among their people, controlling the natural world. If they were offended, they could turn nature against the people, causing untold misery and hardship. If Andy allowed her to walk away, the clan elders could hunt her down and possibly kill her for defiling the sacred place. Andy would also suffer for his part in the transgression.

  Tom was uncomfortably aware of Wandarra waiting. “We’ve known each other long enough that you know some things can’t be handled the traditional way anymore,” he said carefully. He sensed the other man’s resolve, but he had to try. “When someone does wrong, I talk to the wrongdoer, make sure they understand their mistake so they don’t do it again.”

  Wandarra shot him a look of anger. “Talk won’t help. This is sacred clan business.” He tapped Tom’s chest hard. “Your business, Barrak.”

  “What does he mean, your business? And why does he call you Barrak?” Shara asked. Her voice was thin with fear but held steady, earning his grudging admiration. Whoever she was, she didn’t spook easily.

  He grasped the lapels of his khaki uniform shirt and pulled them apart, hearing her breath catch as he revealed a pattern of whorls and cicatrices, the result of long-healed scars cut into his chest.

  “The name means white dingo. I’m an honorary member of Wandarra’s clan,” he said.

  “But you’re not Aboriginal.”

  “Not entirely.” Like many people in the Kimberley, he had a thin trickle of Aboriginal blood in his veins and sometimes wished he had more. It would have been an improvement on the heritage he did have.

  As boys, he and Wandarra had been initiated into manhood together. For Andy, it had been a necessary rite of passage. No one had expected Tom to participate, but as teenagers he and Wandarra had been so close, he’d wanted to do everything his friend did. When the elders sent Andy into the desert for three days to survive on his own, existing on what food and water he could find, Tom insisted on undertaking his own survival trek, returning tired, hungry and dehydrated, but triumphant.

  His feat had so impressed the elders that they’d agreed to include him in the final initiation rites. His foster father had tried to talk him out of it but Tom had refused to believe Des’s description of the ceremony, thinking the older man meant to scare him out of doing what he wanted to do. When Des realized Tom was determined to undergo the ritual, he had locked the boy in his room.

  Tom had slid a sheet of paper under the door, jiggled a pen-knife in the lock until he dislodged the key. When the key dropped onto the paper, he’d pulled them both through to his side and escaped.

  By the time he found out that Des hadn’t exaggerated the ordeal ahead, it was too late. Along with Andy and the other boys on the brink of manhood, Tom had forced himself to endure the grueling physical challenges, nightmarish confrontations to test his courage and the agony of having tribal markings carved into his chest. The alternative was to remain forever a boy in his friend’s eyes, and that would have been far worse.

  The elders had gone easy on him, he knew now. Andy’s markings were far more extensive than Tom’s own. Nevertheless, he had been a mess, feverish and delusional by the time Des found him and carried him back to the homestead. Without recrimination, Des had tended the cuts on Tom’s chest until they healed into the pattern that now identified him as a man of Wandarra’s clan.

  A man with frightening responsibilities.

  Shara recognized it in his face, and he saw the color leave her features. “What is this man going to do?” she asked.

  “What he must,” Tom said tautly. He saw Andy lift the spear as if testing the weapon’s weight.

  Her eyes saucered as she caught the gesture. “You’re as mad as he is. You can’t let him put a spear through me. This is the twenty-first century. There are laws even in the wilderness.”

  “Outback Australia has its own laws.”

  “And I’m to be punished for my ignorance by being speared?”

  To her credit, although her voice faltered, she held herself proudly, her chin lifted.

  “It is the traditional penalty,” Tom said, remorse tingeing his tone.

  She eyed the insignia on his shirt. “You’re an officer of the law. Can’t you stop this?”

  “The outback has more than one kind of law. I try to uphold both kinds, white and traditional.”

  Disbelief shadowed her violet eyes. “You really mean to let him do this, don’t you?”

  His gut twisted. He had never seen eyes quite that shade before. They were ringed with some dark makeup that made them look huge in her heart-shaped face. He felt as if he was about to kick a puppy. “I have no choice.”

  He grasped her shoulder, noting how fragile her body felt beneath the thin shirt. Feeling the delicate outline of her bones, he amended his assessment of her weight downward by a few pounds. She felt as slender as a child. And she was shaking.

  She was putting on a good act, but he felt her trembling like a leaf.

  His throat felt dry as he pressed her back against the sandstone wall. “Brace your palms against the rock, and whatever happens, don’t move an inch. Understood?”

  The lambent gaze she turned on him was almost his undoing. “Please don’t do this.”

  He roughened his tone, not wanting to drag this out. “Understood?”

  A ragged breath escaped her full lips, making him feel even more brutal. “Yes.”

  “It might help to close your eyes,” he said.

  Wandarra made an angry sound of impatience and Tom knew he couldn’t stall any longer. If he didn’t take care of this, the other man would, and it would be far worse for Shara.

  Her heart beat so hard Shara thought it would fly out of her chest. Some of her own country’s older customs seemed barbaric to her, but this was a nightmare. First a man in a loincloth had threatened to spear her after finding her looking at the ancient cave paintings. When the ranger had arrived she’d expected him to intervene. Instead he seemed to condone the cruel ritual. What kind of men did this country breed?

  Awesome ones, she concluded reluctantly. Primitive they might be, but both men were incredible examples of masculine perfection. Wandarra’s loincloth hid almost nothing of his physical beauty. Tom’s uniform was more concealing, thank goodness, but when he’d ripped open his shirt to reveal the tribal markings, she’d glimpsed solid muscle under the uniform.

  Not that it was any help to her now.

  Desperately she cast about for a way out, but Wandarra stood between her and the narrow entrance. The other end of the gorge was blocked by collapsed rock and only a shaft of sunlight penetrated the gloom. The walls were too steep to climb.

  Could she try to fight her way out using the basic self-defense skills she’d learned as a teenager? The answer was obvious. She might have been able to tackle one man successfully, but not both. She was trapped.

  As a studen
t of primitive art, she understood that she’d broken Wandarra’s law and she was prepared to make amends. But dear heaven, not like this.

  Panic swirled through her but she resisted by focusing on how much she despised Tom for allowing his friend to act as judge and jury over her.

  Her inner tension reached boiling point as Tom said something to Wandarra in an Aboriginal language. Probably deciding the finer points of her fate, she thought as a strange sense of disconnection settled over her, as if her mind was floating away from her body. Why didn’t they just get on with it, she wondered from this new vantage point? Wandarra argued furiously, but Tom held his ground. She saw Wandarra give a grudging nod and back away, hefting the spear.

  Then a shadow fell across her, jerking her back to full awareness as Tom stepped between her and the other man.

  Finally, she understood.

  Tom intended to take the spear meant for her.

  “I won’t let you do this,” she said.

  “You’re not exactly in a position to stop me.”

  A moment ago she’d thought him despicable. Now she could hardly believe he was prepared to endure the penalty that would have been hers. In her own country she had bodyguards whose job was to put themselves in harm’s way for her. But Tom didn’t know who she was. He wasn’t from her country. Yet she couldn’t mistake his intention. His demeanor showed that nothing would dissuade him from following his chosen course.

  “Why?” she asked, needing to know this at least.

  “The cave spirits must be placated,” he said.

  She wondered if he’d deliberately misunderstood her question. “Is there no other way?”

  “None,” he stated. “Trust me. This is for the best.”

  For her, not for him. She couldn’t let him suffer for her mistake. But moving past him was like trying to shift solid rock. He’d planted himself so she had no space to maneuver. All she could do was hold her breath and wait.

  Over her shoulder she saw Wandarra balance the spear lightly in his hand, sunlight glinting off the tip. Tom had told her to brace herself against the rock wall. She was pressing so hard the grit drove itself into her palms but she hardly noticed. Her rubbery legs felt as if they wouldn’t hold her up much longer but she refused to give her nemesis the satisfaction of fainting at his feet.