At the Cattleman's Command

The way he said it caused Chas to stir uneasily. ‘I meant afford my services, naturally,’ she said.

‘That too.’ His grey gaze rested on her mouth.

‘What—? Are we talking about the same thing?’

His lips twisted. ‘I don’t think so. I happen to know Thomas Hocking is—how to put it—between mistresses at the moment, and I’ve got the distinct feeling he’d be very happy to afford you in that capacity.’

‘Let me go!’ Chas said furiously and struggled to free herself.

All she achieved was to lose control of her side of the sheet as he swept it aside, although his action did at least reveal that he was wearing a pair of sleep shorts. At the same time it left her completely exposed to him again, and he made the best of it.

‘Mmm…’ he murmured, studying her from head to toe and all the curves, the expanse of pale, skimpily-draped-with-cranberry-silk skin, in between. ‘Love the legs. Definitely mistress material.’

‘Who…who are you?’ she stammered as she tugged her nightgown down as far as she could.

‘Tom Hocking, ma’am. No one calls me Thomas, except Birdie.’

Chas gasped as all sorts of things fell into place. One of them being her sheer stupidity. Who else but the man controlling the purse strings would have what definitely looked like the master bedroom? Why hadn’t she thought of that? Because she’d had a mental vision of an elderly profligate uncle or something! Which was not to say that this Thomas Hocking wasn’t profligate. His intentions only minutes earlier would have certainly fallen into that category.

‘Of all the…’ she said with deep outrage. ‘How could you do this?’

‘Do what? Fall asleep peacefully in my own bed, on my own, until you climbed into it? That’s all I recall.’

Her breasts heaved. ‘No it’s not! You misrepresented yourself, you won’t believe me and you’re keeping me here against my will!’

He opened his mouth then appeared to change his mind. ‘If you got to the bathroom safely, how come you ended up here?’

Chas winced. ‘It is a strange house, and with no lights it’s not so surprising. Anyway, I don’t have a great sense of direction and I didn’t have my watch on.’

He stared at her. ‘Would that have helped? What is it? A luminous compass as well as a watch? A miniature GPS?’

‘Very funny,’ Chas said stiffly. ‘No, but it does help me tell my right hand from my left.’

‘You got to your—mid-twenties,’ he hazarded, ‘without being able to tell your right from your left? That certainly explains it.’

Chas set her teeth at the irony in his eyes. ‘It can happen, believe me.’

He looked as if he wanted to say you learn something every day!, and ruffled his hair. ‘Well, where do we go from here, Aphrodite?’

‘So no one calls you Thomas?’

‘I can’t remember the last time anyone did, apart from Birdie. Why?’

Chas wrenched her wrist free and tumbled off the bed. ‘Where do we go? Back to Brisbane first thing, for me at least. I don’t appreciate being made a fool of like this!’ She grabbed her robe and sponge bag and ran from the room.

Breakfast was a help-yourself affair.

Juice and coffee were set on a buffet table as well as cereals, yoghurt, fruit and a frosted jug of milk. Several silver-lidded warming dishes were lined up and there was a basket of rolls and bread.

The only person in the dining room when Chas entered was Rupert. There was one word that summed up Rupert Leeton, Lord Weaver, and that was diffident. He wasn’t particularly good-looking, he was of medium height, he could most easily disappear in a crowd but, despite his obvious reticence, he was nice.

A good match for Vanessa Hocking? Chas had wondered. Perhaps only time would tell.

She’d calmed down somewhat since her encounter with Tom Hocking but she wasn’t feeling particularly charitable towards any of the Cresswell Lodge inhabitants, so she murmured a cool greeting.

Rupert, however, rose courteously to pull out a chair for her and offered to fetch her a glass of juice.

‘Thank you.’

‘As a matter of fact I feel like saying that to you!’ Rupert placed a glass of orange juice in front of her. ‘Vanessa’s like a new person since your session last night. They were getting all bogged down and it was definitely getting on Tom’s nerves,’ he confided. ‘But your ideas have breathed new life into the old girl!’

‘Ah, Tom,’ Chas murmured, and flicked the bridegroom a reproachful glance.

‘Of course!’ He tapped his forehead. ‘You have no idea who Tom is, do you?’

‘She does now.’

Chas froze as Tom Hocking strolled into the room and poured himself a cup of coffee at the buffet. He sat down opposite Chas with it. ‘Don’t you, Ms Bartlett?’ he added.

Chas swallowed. ‘Yes.’

Tom Hocking smiled and turned to Rupert. ‘What’s this you’ve been telling her about me being a womaniser, as well as all sorts of weird things?’

Rupert grimaced and attempted several garbled explanations. ‘It was the Thomas that did it,’ he finished. ‘It sort of took us by surprise, and then—the girls were just feeling a bit highly strung, I suppose.’

‘Is that so?’ Tom murmured.

Chas studied him. In contrast to Rupert, who was clean and crisp, Tom Hocking had dark shadows on his jaw. He was in his socks, he wore faded jeans and a stained khaki work shirt but—this surprised her—he was not unimpressive.

‘Lord Weaver,’ she said coolly, rather than dwelling on the physical properties that made Tom Hocking stand out even in his work clothes, ‘didn’t start it. He defended you if anything.’

‘Thank you, Rupe,’ Tom said with obvious irony. He rose, picked up his cup and said to her, ‘I’d like to see you in my study when you’ve finished your breakfast, Ms Bartlett. It might be a good idea to get someone to show you right to the door.’

He strolled out.

Rupert clicked his tongue. ‘Sorry about that. It obviously led to a misunderstanding.’

Chas started to say something about a monumental understatement but confined herself to murmuring, ‘You could say so. I get the feeling he’s not an easy person to handle at the best of times, however.’

Rupert considered and shrugged. ‘He does have the final say around here. He is very successful.’

‘Perhaps he needs more than a cup of coffee for breakfast?’ she suggested with a tinge of frivolity she was far from feeling.

‘Oh, he would have been up and about hours ago. He always breakfasts first then goes out to the horses.’

‘I see. One of those?’

Rupert smiled. ‘In a word.’