At the Cattleman's Command

Chas rose. ‘None whatsoever! I happen to be the ultimate career girl.’

‘Who said anything about interfering—’ his gaze drifted down her figure ‘—with your career?’

‘I’m saying it now. I never mix business with pleasure, Mr Hocking—not that I would classify you as pleasure—and I have no intention of joining a long line of peachy blondes!’

He looked askance at her. ‘Peachy blondes?’

‘That was the other detail your family imparted last night. Peachy blondes, such as the riding-school owner who has supposedly taken to haunting this place.’

He opened his mouth to reply but she turned on her heel and walked out.

He said, just before she reached the door, ‘If you’d left your hair loose you could have tossed your head just like an exasperated filly.’

She stayed on for the morning but declined lunch.

She also managed to detach Vanessa from her mother and aunt. And she had the felicity, when she said to Vanessa that above all it was her wedding and the important choices should all be hers, of being spontaneously and gratefully hugged.

They chose the invitations, decided on the bridesmaids’ dresses—there were to be two plus a flower-girl and a page-boy—and what the men of the wedding party would wear. Vanessa selected a colour scheme for the decorations and flowers. They discussed menus and looked through a selection of wedding cakes, and Vanessa promised to send Chas a guest list so the invitations could go out.

At the end of the session, Vanessa looked Chas over curiously. ‘I could never have sorted this all out on my own. I could never have made up my mind! How do you do it?’

Chas grinned. ‘I’m not sure. Perhaps it’s because I love weddings and I love seeing them being the happy, joyful occasions they should be.’

‘Ever had one of your own?’

Chas hesitated. ‘Funnily enough, almost. Then he—We decided to call it off.’

‘Wouldn’t that turn you off weddings for life?’ Vanessa queried.

‘Oh, I was already in the business but—no,’ Chas said slowly and with a faint frown, ‘it didn’t.’

‘Did it turn you off men?’

‘Ah!’ Chas looked humorous. ‘That’s another matter. Dashing, very good-looking men who get away with murder, perhaps. And I’m certainly not into serious relationships now.’

She gathered together all her papers and returned to business. ‘Vanessa, we only have three months, which isn’t a great deal of time for a wedding this size, but if you want to change anything, do let me know. By the way, who is giving you away?’

‘Tom.’ Vanessa grimaced. ‘With unconcealed relief, no doubt—no, that’s not fair.’ She got up and looked out of the window over the garden. ‘We may joke about it and get mad with him sometimes, but without Tom we’d be lost.’ She turned back to Chas abruptly. ‘Do you know how much I love this place?’

Chas blinked. ‘No. I mean, so would most people probably.’

‘It’s part of me,’ Vanessa said slowly, then changed the subject again. ‘You will come up often, won’t you?’

‘Of course, as often as I can.’

Chas drove home in a slightly better frame of mind than the one she’d started the day in, but she found she had Vanessa Hocking on her mind.

A strange mixture, she thought. Those arrogant Hocking airs her brother could turn on in spades—she broke off and shivered as she recalled the way Tom Hocking had looked at her from time to time—but then a glimpse of vulnerability in Vanessa, which was certainly not in Tom.

The next morning, Monday, she began to make arrangements for the Weaver-Hocking wedding. She engaged caterers, she hired the marquee as well as chairs and tables. She got in touch with her favourite florist and a hairdresser who also did make-up.

It was a slight tussle on account of lack of time to persuade the wedding-dress specialists whose work she really admired to take on the creation of the wedding and bridesmaids’ dresses, until she mentioned that the groom was heir to a peer of the realm. It produced an instant response—not only would they be happy to do the dresses, but they’d also be happy to travel to Gladfield to take measurements and for future fittings.

She put the phone down with a sigh of relief. That had to be so much easier than co-ordinating Vanessa and the bridesmaids to come down to Brisbane.

She remembered then that one thing they hadn’t discussed was music, for the church or the reception, and she made a note to speak to Vanessa about it.

Her next call was to her mother about Harriet and Clare’s outfits plus the bride’s trousseau.

‘The thing is,’ she said down the phone, ‘I’m a little short of time for getting the outfits for the mother and aunt of the bride designed and made, but I’m terrified that if they’re off the rack, someone else will turn up at the wedding in them.’

‘Come and see me at work, darling,’ Hope Bartlett advised. ‘We’re thinking of featuring a new designer, she’s very good and very keen to make her mark. She might well consider a wedding commission, especially a wedding like this—didn’t you say the bridegroom was a lord? Worth her while, despite the short notice. And I can certainly help you out with the trousseau.’

‘You’re a pet, Mum! And what would I do without Rupert?’

‘Come again?’

‘He’s the lord, Rupert Leeton, Lord Weaver. You have no idea what doors that name unlocks!’

On Tuesday, Chas drove down to the Gold Coast for a conference with staff of the luxury hotel where one of her other weddings was to be staged in the ballroom.

At the end of a satisfying talk, she strolled out into the beautiful gardens that gave onto the beach to pick out the optimum spot for the wedding photos.

The last person she expected to bump into was Tom Hocking.

CHAPTER THREE

‘THE wedding consultant, alias Aphrodite,’ he said and paused. ‘But looking as if she needs a handy hole to fall down.’

Chas regained some of her composure. Ignore the Aphrodite reference, she told herself firmly. He’ll only trip me up with it, make me blush or worse. ‘If I’m—surprised, it’s because you’re the last person I expected to see.’

‘Or the last person on the planet you’d like to see?’ he mused. ‘Is that what you really mean?’

She shrugged. ‘You choose, Mr Hocking. What does bring you here? I,’ she supplied conversationally, ‘am here on business, wedding business.’

He stood and looked at her for a moment.

There was little resemblance to the master of Cresswell Stud in his attire of navy trousers and a pale blue linen shirt that could have been Armani. His black leather shoes and belt looked to be hand-stitched, and his brown hair was smooth and sleek.

Mind you, her mental processes told Chas, none of it hid the ruggedly elegant frame beneath his clothes. None of it changed the disturbing power of that grey gaze as it rested on her thoughtfully.

In fact, she was even prompted to wonder whether she and Tom Hocking would ever be able to be in each other’s company without the fateful memory of those minutes together in his bed coming between them.

He certainly took his time about his appraisal of her.

She wore three-quarter hot-pink trousers and a white T-shirt beneath a burnt-orange short-sleeved jacket. Her high sandals matched her jacket and her patent bag matched the trousers. It was a chic, colourful outfit and she had a heavy gold bracelet on her right hand. Her hair was loose and riotous. Despite a fairly intense conference with the hotel staff, she looked as fresh as a daisy.

‘Mmm…’ he said at last, but whether it was approval or not, Chas had no idea. ‘Uh—I’m staying here. I have one or two people to see, and a business deal to close. Let me buy you a drink, Ms Bartlett.’