With a heavy sigh, Darcie came clean about her last-night lover. She sank gratefully onto a bench in Hyde Park that afternoon then stared down the allée of eucalyptus trees opposite the center fountain in front of her, not really seeing their silvery trunks or feathery branches. Not smelling their heady scent every time those limbs moved in the light breeze. Not hearing the splash of water, the twitter of birds. Not even responding to the name she’d finally uttered to Walt Corwin. “He farms sheep?” He’d been pressuring her all day. Hank Baxter in disguise. She said, “Like a million other Aussies with millions of sheep, yes.” Walt scowled harder. “And you just had to go to bed with him our first night in Sydney?” “Gee, I didn’t know you missed me.” “Very funny.” “I was off duty. You were brain dead from the trip, already asleep. WLI—Wunderthings—had no claim on me from 5:00 p.m. yesterday to nine this morning.” At which point she and Walt had met for a quick breakfast in the Westin club lounge before their morning meeting with a group of Aussie businessmen and representatives from city government, all of whom seemed concerned with a U.S.
