Saw that fuckin' fist coming fast, saw the beer fly outta my hand before I felt the pain. Bugger caught me right at the chin and almost knocked my lights out! Thudded back to the wall and onto my arse, shakin' my head for some semblance of clarity. It was a six bloke scuffle, and I would've stayed clear, 'cept one of those blokes wasn't a bloke. It was Estra, that silly American gone Aussie bartender I'd been eyein' up for days.

In my muddled lucidity I remember thinkin', 'Fuck mate, you started comin' here to meet a nice local girl, not get into a bloody brawl.' Then I heard her screm and that pretty much . . . was that.

Nana Glen police are a nice crew of blokes. They charged in, started with shouts but of course that didn't bloody help at all. I was already into the thick of things, takin' my chance to pummel the fucker who'd decked me when that copper, O'Malley caught my arm and tossed me into the men's room. Poked my head out to watch. O'Malley and his mates were settling things, but just barely. Then I saw Estra jump away from one crazy drunk fuck and managed to get her by the hand and toss her behind me. So now there were two of us hiding in the dunny and I started to wonder . . . why the hell can't I just have a normal life?

While the fight raged on, I could hear her panting behind me. "What the fuck started this?" I asked without turning, too entertained by the man doing an awkward back flip over the bar to tear my eyes away, wondering if I could do a stunt like that in my next movie. But hearing his wrenching cry of agony I winced, figuring that some things just gotta be left to those stunt blokes. She didn't answer so I turned.

Poor sheila was sitting on the floor by the sink, her lip bleeding and tears runnin' down her face. "Aw, darlin'." Pulled all my attention from the scuffle and helped her stand, then lifted her to sit on the edge of the sink. Grabbed a wad of those rough brown paper towels and wet it, then eyed that bloody lip. "Christ," I said, pressing the wet paper to her fetching wound. Fetching, hell. The lip was swelling like a prize fighter's cauliflower ear, looking far from attractive.

"Ow! Ow! Owww!"

"Sorry."

A huge crashing sound drew our attention and we both turned to the door. Silence. Silence. And more silence. I had just pressed on her lip to expose the worst of the cut she'd most likely gotten from her own tooth when O'Malley opened the door.

"Everyone in here okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. We're bonzer," I groaned, Estra's blood trickling down my fingers.

He nodded with one of those patented tolerant copper scowls. "Stay in here till we get the rest in the wagon, Mr. Crowe." And he left.

Mr. Crowe. A copper callin' me Mr. Crowe. That still amazed me. Fuck, Mr. Crowe is my dad, not me. But those guys had been bloody great since I bought the farm down the road. My guess is that the acreage taxes alone paid their annual salary. Just takin' care of their own, I suppose.

"Ew, God! I hate blood," Estra squealed and I pulled more clean paper towels, tossing the red stained ones into the rubbish bin.

"It's fine, love. Just press that, it'll stop."

She hopped off the sink and did as told, pacing a circle around me. Fuck she was pretty. Tight jeans, long crazy curly red hair. Freckles spattered across her little nose. Those blue eyes were all scrunched up. Couldn't help but laugh. That got me a nasty glower. And me, I laughed more.

"What the fuck started all that?" I asked, spinning in a circle to keep my eyes on her. Bloody swollen lip and all, she was something to look at. Why would I be comin' night after night to that shabby pub if she wasn't?

"Football," she spouted.

"Ahh." I put out a hand to stop her. "Hey, getting' dizzy here." She huffed, tossed back her hair and finally looked into my face.

"What is it with men?"

"Dunno," I took the paper towel from her shaking hand, tossed it away. The bleeding had stopped. "But ya didn't need to get yourself into the middle of it, did ya?"

"Well, I had something to say about football too, you know! American football is -- "

"Fuckin' pussy play," I interrupted, confirming that I too am one of those men, but I was grinning and finally Estra laughed.

I helped her do a bit of straightening around the place. It was a real fuckin' shambles. I righted the tumbled chairs and tables while she swept broken glass, muttering that she was sure she'd be fired over it.

"Maybe not," I said, holding the dust pan for her and lookin' up. Shit, this girl took my fuckin' breath away. There was a drop of blood on her pale pink blouse that grabbed my attention. Right there, at her nipple. That was hard because the place was so cold, doors opened to clear out the stale smell of beer vomit and sweat from the pub. It was a bonzer brawl, for sure. "Ah," I stammered when she caught me staring. "Maybe we should close the doors, love."

"Why can't I just have a normal life?"

Mate, laughed so hard I thought I'd piss myself. At least I knew she and I had something in common. The same fuckin' mantra. Stood and looked around. It was as good as it was gonna get and I hoped I was right and she wouldn't be canned over it all. Fuck, if every barmaid got fired over a footy brawl, there'd be no barmaids left in all of Australia.

I brushed off my hands. "Where do ya live, love. I'll take ya home."

She tossed glass shards into the bin with a clanking rattle. "At the Colbin's place. They have an apartment built -- "

"Yeah, over that garage. Lived there a while myself, waiting to get into my place." I pulled the Harley keys from my pocket. "I'll take ya."

"I can walk. It's not far, Mr. Crowe."

Rolled my eyes. "Christ, my name's Russ."

She turned a swift glare. "Fine. I didn't know that . . . Russ." Jesus, she looked like she was angry or something.

"Hey," I stepped closer and held her trembling shoulders. Poor thing wasn't mad, she was still shaken. "Darlin', you've had a rough night. Let me take ya home. Drop ya off at the door, nice and polite. Won't even ask for a kiss."

"That's a pity," she jerked outa my grasp and stomped to the door, turning a teasing grin over her shoulder. "So?"

We were outside her place for almost two hours, me leaning against the bike and Estra just standin' there. We talked. It was nice. So nice I didn't notice the cold much, but I did often notice those perky nipples pressing hard against her blouse. Trying for chivalry, I offered her my leather jacket.

"Nah, I'm not cold. Guess I haven't been down here long enough for my blood to thin."

"Are ya sayin' Aussie blokes have thin blood?" I teased; more than grateful I could keep my jacket.

"Yes I am, Russ. Thin blood and no clue what real football is."

This sheila made me smile. Real playful. "So, Estra. Unusual name."

"Yeah, I know. But it's better than my real name."

"Which is?"

She sighed. "My whole name is Ernestina Rosella Amanda Renaldo Travis. Sick parents, huh?"

I rolled the long name over my tongue. "Pretty. Italian? Hispanic? Scott? What?"

"Oh, I'm a real mix, sort of like a mutt in the pound. You don't even want to know," she chuckled. Her toe traced the dirt at her feet and I shuffled against the bike saddle.

"What's that accent?" I asked, desperate to keep the convo going.

"What accent? I have no accent. Absolutely no accent."

That made me laugh. "Oh, you got an accent all right. I just can't place it. Been to the States a few times and I've heard it before. Never figured out where it's from."

"No, really. I have no accent. No matter where I travel or how long I live someplace, I can never seem to pick up an accent."

"Where ya from?"

"Indiana. The great Midwest wastelands of America. You'd call it buggerall country. Someone once told me that the Midwest is like a soup pot. Water but no chicken, no seasonings, no flavor, no color . . . no accent."

I looked up at the stars, thought about that. There definitely was an accent. It was an easy, smooth one and I kinda liked it. "How'd ya end up in Australia?"

"Oh, very, very long story."

"I got time."

She was silent, her eyes doin' a serious examination of the chrome spokes at my front wheel.

"All righty then, let's move on to another subject. How long ya been down here?"

"The southern hemisphere?"

"Let's narrow that down a bit. Here, Australia."

"Three years, two in Sydney. But I hate big cities, so I thought I'd find someplace quiet."

"So, a rowdy pub in Nana Glen fit the bill, then?" I teased.

She shrugged. "You? How long have you lived here?"

"Assumin' you mean the southern hemisphere, right?"

"Duh." Her blue eyes sparkled in the moonlight.

"Most of my life in Australia, but I'm actually a Kiwi. I travel a lot too." I smiled. "And I do pick up accents very well." I said that in my very best cowboy drawl, perfected while filming in Arizona.

"Nice. Can you do New York City?"

"Coffee, regula'."

"Maine?"

"Cold night, ay?"

"Oh, how about San Diego?"

"Hola, senorita."

Fuck but she had a pretty laugh. "Lemme see that lip," I stood, leaned closer, took her chin in my hand and lifted it into the glow of a nearby lamp post. "It'll heal." Took everything in me not to kiss it.

"Yeah, wounds do that, don't they?" She took a step back and I returned to my perch against the bike.

"Heal? Yeah they do." I blinked, observing her touch and go mannerism, the way she would physically and verbally advance then retreat, but never so far I felt like a predator. "You got a few that haven't yet, don't ya love?"

"Um, how about Indiana. Can you do an Indiana accent?"

"I'd need to spend a little more time with you to get that one right."

She wrapped her arms around herself, looking off into the distance.

I turned. "Like that view?"

"Yes I do, it's such a beautiful place. Big."

"That's my place," I said with a little more pride than I'd intended. "Why don't ya come by tomorrow? I'll show you around."

"Maybe . . . I'll have to think about it . . . I might."

I turned and straddle the bike. No point in pushing the issue. "I'll be there all day, just come up to the house." I started the engine. "Had a nice time with ya, Estra."

She smiled and nodded and I drove away. When I turned into the lane, I slowed and looked over my shoulder. She was still standing there, a small figure glowing pink, all alone under the lamp. I waved. She waved back.

w

The next morning, I crouched and glared into the antique mirror leaning against the wall in my bedroom. The fucker got more than my chin. My left eye was bloodshot and almost shut for the swelling. Ah well, nothin' so bad. It wasn't the first time and wouldn't be the last. Wasn't wasting time worrying about it. I had a full day planned.

I had to put the lounge and kitchen in order, clean up a bit in the bedroom, maybe change the sheets. Hell, they were due for a fresh batch. Grinned all through the work, thinkin' about Estra, wondering if she'd show.

Bloody hell, I'd become a slob, living like a bachelor who never entertained. Well, I did entertain. Often. Just other slobs. The house was startin' to look like my hovel back when Dean and I were buskin' for rent money. Dust and rubbish everywhere. Mum always said, 'Poor people are poor, love. Not dirty'. Made me chuckle to know that the only reason I was cleaning up was because I didn't want a woman to know I could be such a slouch. "Ah well, Mum. You're right and I know it. I'm dirty, not poor."

Odd though, I still felt poor. As a matter of fact, I actually was kinda poor, everything I had was tied up in the farm, repairs and the bike. Hadn't bought a stitch of clothes since I got there. My favorite blue flannel was the worst, but every other shirt I owned was staring to look just as bad. Sleeves get torn on wooden posts, rusted nails and tools, right? Took some serious searching to find something that didn't appear as though it came from the rubbish bin . . . or belong there.

All neat and clean throughout the house, I showered and dressed. Then I waited. And waited. Waited as long as I cared, then shuffled into my scruffy shirt and headed to the barn. A ride on Honey would make me feel better. After all, nobody said she had to like me, right? Estra might be the kinda sheila that liked taller men. Maybe blonde with Sun Valley white teeth and no calluses. I smoke, work a farm most of the time, and would look like a fuckin' pussy with yellow hair. Fuck it.

Rode through most of the afternoon, still exploring the boundaries of my land. My land. God that felt good. And the way things were lookin' it would remain mine. I loved it there. Had so many plans for the place. I was already seeing things the way they would be, even though it wasn't there yet. Bigger house, nicer barns and lots more animals. There was construction to the east, the house for my folks, far from finished. That would be completed after I got back from the next film. My brother was living in the small place down the dirt road and always helping out, especially when I couldn't be there. It was kinda cool, having family close and I often wondered about who else I could get to live on the property. Maybe I could build my own fuckin' village. I laughed. Strange aspirations for a struggling actor at my age. Christ, I could just hear the interview:

Mr. Leno: So, how ya doing?

Me: Great. Great.

Mr. Leno: What's new?

Me: Well the village is coming along grand. Built a church last week outta some fallen branches and three rotted corral posts. It's real nice, mate.

Got Honey back to the barn and brushed her down. I was running a sleeve over my sweaty face and walking toward the house when I saw her. Estra was sitting on the porch stoop. Fuck, how long had she been waiting? I jogged to her.

"Hey! Sorry."

"It's okay," she stood, brushed off her sweet denim covered arse and grinned. Cleared her throat.

"Well, uh." Jesus, hadn't I had a plan? "Come on inside. I need a shower. Got some soda, or how 'bout a beer?"

"I'm fine," she perched on the edge of the sofa and glanced around, her eyes finally landing on me. "Oh, that eye looks nasty."

"Yeah, but your lip looks better."

"I still say American football is --"

"Takin' a shower," I teased and turned. "Make yourself comfortable, won't be but a few tics."

How fast can a man shower? Bet I broke records. Found Estra in the kitchen, looking for a glass, soda in hand. I reached over her and pulled one from the cabinet, got a whiff of her hair. Smelled like roses. It was nice to be that close, but just like I expected, she ducked and dodged the eminent hug, slinking away to the far side of the kitchen. I leaned back against the sink.

"You afraid of me, Estra?"

"Nope," she cracked opened the soda and poured. "And that's the problem." There was that smile, fucking radiant.

"Why is it a problem?" Pulled a beer from the fridge and she sat at the table. The far end of the table, so I slumped into the chair closest to me.

"Russ, I have a history of getting myself tangled up with the wrong men. Over and over and over again."

Okay, so the image in my head had nothin' to do with what she was saying. I know. "What if I'm not the wrong man?"

"Better chance of you being an alien," she chuckled grimly.

"Okay, so let's say we table the 'tangled up' issue. Say I was an alien, from . . . Venus."

"Women are from Venus. Men are from Mars. Don't you read?"

"Ah, need the required list, love. Seem to have misplaced the curriculum." Did I sound as brusque as I felt? Oh, hell yeah.

"Maybe this was a bad idea. I should go." And she left. Fuckin' walked out of the kitchen and out of my house. Bloody hell, when did I get so bad at this? Finished my beer and headed into the lounge. Fuck if she wasn't standing there, right outside the screened door.

Stood lookin' at her; had no clue what to do next. This sheila had my head twisted in knots. "What're ya doin'?" I finally asked.

"Trying to figure out how to start over. I'm . . . ah . . . sorry?"

"Sorry works, but what do you got to be sorry about?" I stepped closer, the screen between us. "You don't have to like me, Estra. I understand."

"But I do, dammit!"

My turn. "Sorry. Not sure why, but I am."

"Can I come in?"

"If ya promise to stick around a while, yeah."

She pulled opened the squeaky door but I stayed put, wondering what she'd do about that. Fuck, I could feel the heat of her body. Still didn't make way. "I promised you a tour, didn't I?"

Estra slowly looked up at me. Her hand rested on my bruised face. Rising up on tiptoes, her lips met mine. "Can we start in the bedroom?" She whispered.

And you will not believe what I said. "No."

"Okay," her face flushed with embarrassment but my arms wrapped around her, making sure she wasn't gonna escape again.

"I'm thinkin' maybe you and me, we need to move a little slower, love." Her face dropped, forehead against my chest and I smiled, rubbed her back. "I might be figuring out why you keep getting tangled up with the wrong blokes. I could have easily been the wrong bloke with that spectacular offer. Taking all my strength not to drag ya down the hall."

"It would be okay if you did, Russ." Her voice was muffled, her breath hot against my shirt.

"No, it probably wouldn't. Sex is good, real good. But I was thinkin' about maybe getting to know you. I know it's a novel idea for an Aussie, but what do ya say we give it a go?"

And thus began a courtship I never imagined myself involved in. Oh no worries, celibacy didn't last all that long, less than a week, but it was an interesting approach. I've often wondered why I did that. It's one thing to woo a woman who isn't necessarily interested. It's one thing to get in as many good hard roots whenever and where ever offered. And it's a completely different thing when you're courting a local girl. After all, I live here for fuck's sake.

Yeah, yeah, I know. Estra wasn't really a local girl, but she was as close as she could be to one. And she was as sweet as if I'd found her born and bred right on the farm. Bright and well read to a fault, always challenging my brain. Always makin' me laugh . . . or think . . . or worry. See not touching her made me listen a lot harder; hear things I'm not sure she meant for me to discover. It was only our second day together when I started to suss it all out. Not clear as a bell, mind you. It's not like she was giving me details or even solid information for that matter. But I knew. Someone had done one bloody hell of a job on her heart. Broke it so bad, I was sure it was still in pieces. By the third day, I fuckin' knew I'd end up being the one paying for it. I knew that because I was falling hard for that quirky American.

Day five and we were cooking dinner together, something we did a lot since she had in fact lost her job at the pub. I know she was concerned about money, but I kept a little distance there. If it was up to me, she'd be living with me, not worrying about rent, but it wasn't time for such things yet. Not nearly time. You'd think sex would come before cohabitation, wouldn't ya?

Estra was a good cook, really good and I was eating well. As I made a salad, she chattered on and on about her older sister in Indiana. Like always, I pretended like I was just marginally listening. That seemed to work better than giving her my full attention. If I wasn't lookin' right at her, she seemed to say more, talk longer. I'd grunt and nod and watch how I used the knife carefully, as if I couldn't yield a chef's knife like a fuckin' pro. Bloody hell, my parents were caterers, if I couldn't use a knife, I most likely wouldn't get to eat. Helping in the kitchen was second nature in our house. A requirement.

"When she was in that accident, all hell broke loose for them," she was saying. "You absolutely never know how precious vertical mobility is until you no longer have it, that's for sure."

"Paraplegic?" I asked, slicing a tomato.

"Quadriplegic. Russ, it was horrible." She turned to me. "But Melanie was amazing! Such an inspiration. Just phenomenal. She was so strong and held it together. It was everyone around her who fell apart."

I nodded, looked down and noticed the fuckin' blood. Did I say like a pro? Most pros aren't listening for information about the woman who's got their heart in a tether. Cool as hell, I ditched the tomatoes, rinsed my nicked thumb and applied an adhesive bandage. "What happened?"

"Well," she set the table with a sigh. "Her husband left her, my dad had a stroke over the whole thing . . . not a bad one though . . . then my niece Pammy . . . just fifteen years old . . . ."

Our eyes locked and I reached out a hand, she grasped it but not a tear dropped. "Suicide. So fucking sad. That's when I left Bloomington, Indiana. Forever. Let's eat."

Let's eat, just like that. "So, ya just left? What about your mum? Didn't she need ya?"

"Mom left us when I was twelve. Mel was well taken care of and Dad had nothing to say that would keep me there . . . so."

"So ya left. Where'd ya go first?"

Estra put down her fork. "Are you really sure you want to hear all this crap?"

A nod before shoveling a forkful into my mouth.

"I was with a man at the time. He was a banker turned pot smoking imbecile and well, like always, he was the wrong sort. He wanted to go to live with some friends in Key Largo, so I figured, what the hell, right?"

Another nod, my ears perked and burning.

She gave a strange chuckle. "Never made it to the Florida Keys. I came out of the rest room on interstate near Jacksonville and he was gone."

Swallowed hard. "He just left ya there?"

"Yeah. Like yesterday's newspaper and trust me, I felt like the dog had already taken a crap on me. So, I took all my money and bought a bus ticket that would take me as far as the cash would go. Ended up in Houston, Texas."

I leaned back and blinked. "What did ya do there?"

Estra shrugged. "Learned how to tend bar. Worked there for eight months till I met the next worthless piece of shit. This one was a liar, through and through. I'm not even sure if he told me his real name. I am sure that the car he drove me to Los Angeles in was stolen, because we were arrested and held for grand theft auto. I got off. Seems he did that sort of thing a lot. Picked up women and used them as decoys. I was just lucky it didn't get ugly when the police showed up."

"Bloody hell, Estra." That was it, I had no more appetite. "Then what?"

"Another year of bartending, then I met Sergio. Oh man, talk about Latin lovers. This guy swept me off my feet! Took me to Mexico City, set me up in a beautiful apartment, treated me like a queen. But it turned out that what I really was, was his mistress. He had a wife and four kids. So . . ."

"You need to write a book, love."

"No shit. From Mexico to Panama, to Sydney, to this very kitchen. Dessert?"

"What?"

"I made a chocolate mousse pie."

"No, no pie. Fuck Estra. And each time it was a bloke?"

Her face flushed with embarrassment and she turned away to cut a wedge of the pie for herself.

"Okay, okay. Who brought ya to Nana Glen?"

She sat and finally smiled; the first in hours. "Nobody. I came here myself."

At least there wasn't a bloody prick somewhere nearby I'd have to damage. "Wow."

"Yeah, wow. Estra's first smart decision since shortening my name. You sure you don't want some pie? It's good."

"I'm sure it is. Can I ask you a question?"

"I don't know. Do I have to answer it?"

"Well, no, but I'd like it if ya did."

She scraped the last of the chocolate mouse from her plate and licked the fork. "Okay, ask away."

"Who broke your heart?"

She blinked. "No."

I had no choice but to let that one go.

w

That night we were slouched on the sofa, bare feet up on the coffee table and watching the telly. One of my own Australian films was playing on another channel, but I had no interest in viewing it, even less interest in bringing into our comfort that which was gonna prove to be eminently uncomfortable. But of course, the subject did come up, even though I was conscious of making sure it wouldn't.

"Got a suggestion, Estra." I shuffled lower in the cushions and took her hand in mine.

"What suggestion?" To my delight, she leaned close and settled her head on my shoulder.

"Why don't ya come and stay here with me. Forget about the rent and be my personal chef."

"Will the chef have bedroom privileges?" She teased, but I knew we were ready for that step, so I took the bait.

"Why not?"

"What if I said the bedroom privileges are a great perk, and I'd love to be your personal chef, but I'd rather take care of my own money problems, myself?"

"I'd have to ask you why? I mean how many pubs are there in this little town that need a bartender?"

"Especially one who enflames the patrons into pure destruction, huh?"

"I'm serious."

She sat up and looked down at me. "So am I. Russ, I am very willing to advance our relationship past the kitchen, but I think it's probably wisest for me to hold on to my independence. You are leaving, after all."

"That's not for months."

"But it is leaving." She returned to her snuggle but I could feel her frustration.

"So," took a deep breath. "Come with me."

"Don't think so. I keep finding myself left in places I don't care to be. I kind of like it here."

"Then stay at the house while I'm gone. You can keep an eye on it for me."

"Terry does that for you."

Fuck! "Jesus, Estra, I don't think there's any way on the fuckin' planet that I'll figure you out."

"Maybe you're trying too hard." She climbed up and straddled me, lowering a sweet kiss on my lips and I couldn't help but hold her. "What do you want from this?"

"What to you want from it?" I watched her face.

That gorgeous grin. "I asked first."

"All right, fair 'nough, love. Ready for brutal honesty?"

She blinked, those blue eyes glowing. "From you? Always."

"I want everything," I said softly. "Can't get that without moving ahead. Ya need to know me . . . in there," I nodded toward the bedroom. "And in here." Placed her hand over my heart. "Ya need to know what my life is about and what it's really like. This farm is my refuge, Estra. It's not everything. Someday it could be, but till then it's an escape from the hurricane my work creates. I want it all. And I wanna start moving toward that." I leaned up and kissed her, an easy, welcoming kiss; an invitation into my whole life. "Now, what do you want from this?"

Her head settled on my shoulder. "Christ, Russ. Why the hell do you have to be like that? So damn opened that it sucks my soul into you? The truth is . . . I don't know what I want. I know that you make me want whatever you are, whatever you see for the future. I'm falling in love with you. Did you know that?"

"Yeah, I did."

"Well, I'd like to just feel that for a while, if that's okay. Just till I feel safe with it. Don't make me move in here right now. Don't make me go to the States with you this time. Don't ask too much or I will have to run. I'm sorry, but that's how I am."

I groaned, hugged her tight. "Will ya be here when I get back?" I was expecting her to hedge, to change the subject or just ignore the question. Closed my eyes and readied for the worst.

"Yes," Estra whispered. "I'll be here when you get back."

w

We walked to the bedroom, arm in arm like an old fuckin' married couple. It felt really comforting, but I gotta admit, it was disturbing too. I was afraid we'd waited too long, lost the heat of the passion, ya know? Let the fire pass or something. I was wrong, but that unsettling sensation was there. Always there, just under my skin, like things were not quite like I wanted them to be.

Loving Estra was not bland or without ardor by any means. I'm kind of a private bloke where this stuff is concerned; no you'll get no details. But I will tell ya a few things. Over the following weeks, she was an amazing partner. Estra was physically opened and willing and offered her body in any way I wished. She was probably the most exciting lover I'd ever had. And there were a few moments between us that I know, without a doubt could never, ever be recreated with another soul. Moments when I was as deeply physically and emotionally connected to her, as humanly possible. Pressing flesh to flesh and lookin' down into those beautiful eyes. Joined in a way that there was no beginning of me or ending of her. I'd still everything, my heart, my mind, even my breath and let my heartbeat be the only guide. The first time it happened I thought I was imagining it.

I was like that, deep and motionless and I whispered into her ear. Don't even remember what I said, but as I talked I felt it. Her. Trembling, tightening around me. Coming without the stimulation of movement; just thought, hopes, words. And I knew this was something special, Estra was something special . . . and quite possibly something far too damaged for me to ever fully have.

Weeks passed. Happy times when we played and talked, even dared to plan for things. Gotta tell ya, I'm not psychic or gifted that way, but I was certainly in tuned with what was happening. The night before I left for L.A. and a film I was excited to do, I remember feeling sad, lost in the reality that nothing would ever be the same when I got home. That's when my true, obsessive controlling colors came shining through. I guess that somewhere through the whole relationship, I might have lost track of what I was doing, what I really wanted and what I could actually have. Leave it to Estra to put me back on bloody track.

It was a rainy afternoon and we were in bed, just doing the things ya do, relaxing and enjoying each other's touch, the sound of our voices. Then out of the blue I did it.

"I want ya to come with me."

She turned, her brows high, surprised. I hadn't mentioned it once since the first time almost three months earlier. "You're kidding, right?"

"No. I'm dead fuckin' serious. I want you with me there. Every day and every bloody night. Bugger this fuckin' idea. What the fuck are you gonna do while I'm gone? What am I gonna do without you? It just isn't gonna work that way. You come with me." And that was that. I was finished with the agony of mulling it over and over in my head. Decision made.

And the consequences were immediate. My beautiful local girl shrugged back her glowing red hair and looked down into my eyes. Fuck I thought I was gonna cry. It wasn't that I'd pressed her to anger or maybe even out of my life for good, it was that I was forcefully pushing us both to a place we would never be able to go together and I knew it. Knew it before I even opened my mouth. Her head tilted and I buried my hand in those soft curls. Pulled her mouth to mine, and we made love for the last time ever. We said our goodbyes in the best possible way and the next morning I left for the Sydney airport alone.

w

Go with him? Just like that? Well hell, of course it was what he wanted. It was what I wanted too, more than I could ever put into words. But I couldn't. See, Russ Crowe was one spectacular gift to a girl like me. He was a whole man, complete with flaws and insecurities, high standards and positive human qualities, passion and light. Really, light. He was such a good man that he shined like a beacon. And he could have lit the way, if only I was worthy of him, but I had a lot of solid reasons why I wasn't.

I lied to him. Told so many lies that it would take a lifetime to explain or correct, and ten lifetimes for him to ever forgive me. Here's the truth.

It wasn't my sister who'd nearly died in an auto accident. It was my husband; my fucking, cheating husband driving his girlfriend for their weekly Wednesday tryst. It wasn't my mom who left when I was a kid; it was my dad. My dad who was my whole life just disappeared one night without a word, not even a goodbye kiss. Silly. Foolish. But that brokenhearted little girl runs every decision I have ever made since.

I'm a coward. Pure and simple. I couldn't face my husband's grim future, and even though he needed me desperately, needed my love and forgiveness, I ran as fast and far as I could. There was no little niece who'd committed suicide. I made that up too. Maybe I was trying to kill off that selfish inner child who was out to ruin everything Russ was offering. I'm so twisted with all the lies, sometimes I'm not even sure where to start the clean up. Yes there were men along my journey to Nana Glen. Plenty of men and they were all pretty much as I'd described. But it was never them who left me; it was the other way around. I'm not a victim. I am the predator. My God, the man who was holding me close deserved someone a hell of a lot better.

As his arms snaked around me, taking me to him in an embrace we both knew was our final farewell; I did something I'd never done. I fully, willingly gave myself to him. For months I'd been the façade of a woman, used humor and evasion as my chosen tools for protection, but what the hell was I protecting myself from? The first good man to look at me since, maybe forever? I'm not sure if it worked or if he'd ever know it, but in those last few hours I had told him all the ugly truth, told him with my body, divulged it with my eyes and my tears. Maybe he didn't understand, but it doesn't matter.

What I remember most of that last night is the physical, the tactile, the deep emotion. And his marvelous hands. So big, calloused but gentle. I remember his eyes and thinking about how many women all over the world would fall in love with the intensity in them. Thinking about how far he'd go. And I remember his lips. His mouth. His heat.

Always a tremendous lover, that night he was even more, as though something had possessed our joining, making it stronger and even more real. So real it tore painfully at my aching heart. His mouth rested over my nipple, nursing like an innocent babe, sucking and nipping until I could hardly hold my hips still and I groaned, a cry from deep inside, far beneath everything I'd been hiding from him. His palms caressed and soothed along my body, tracing a sensation I will never forget. Admiring, loving like only he could do.

And he knelt as if in prayer between my thighs, his eyes watched mine and his lips blessed a trail to the center of everything. His tongue licked and loved, his lips kissed and moved. His fingers, thick and filling dove, working tirelessly to bring me to his level, his heights . . . and I permitted it, sinking my past and my pain deep into the mattress, into the soil beneath the house, into that wonderful Australia that had given me so much.

Colors were brighter, sound, deafening. Even the pressure of my own heartbeat had become a thunder to match any raging storm across the rainforest. Pounding and pummeling inside my ears, forcing my tears out until they soaked my hair, the pillow, his face when he reached for my lips. It was a dance we were doing, one done since the beginning of time, only mine was tainted with sins. Lies. And I wanted to tell him everything, pour it out between us so that Russ could sweep them away with a wave of his arm. Make me clean and worthy, but I didn't say a word. Not even the words pressing at my throat. The words 'I'll love you forever, I will, I will'.

Entering me, moving with and against me, filling my path and making me whole, this remarkable man used all of his innate tenderness and tempered the power that could have crushed me. He had brought me out and helped me bloom. Would he ever know that? For an eternity he watched me and I watched him, read the anguish in his eyes and the gentleness written in every line of his face. His hips moved smooth as silk, slow, slow. So painfully slow, keeping me to him as long as possible. But it could only last so long. His grunts were animal, his sweating face against mine, his gasps hot and steamy into my ear. Russ too had said not one word. After all, were words really important?

Leaving Russ was the first noble thing I ever did in my life. I, Ernestina Rosella Amanda Renaldo Travis have a lot of work to do before I could ever deserve a man like him. When he left the old house at Nana Glen, I packed my bags and went home. Home to my broken ex-husband in Bloomington, Indiana. It was time to repent and be replenished.

Oh, and over our few amazing months together, Russ had perfected an accent that is distinctively . . . not an accent. The great American Midwest bland enunciation was now a part of his extensive repertoire.

I only wish I could have left him with something more valuable.