At the Cattleman's Command

‘Thanks.’ Loretta shrugged.

The conversation became general then and through it Chas formed the impression that the Darling and the Hocking families had strong ties, and that Will and Tom were in together on the business deal that they hoped to sew up shortly with a Japanese consortium.

Perhaps there was a lot, lot more to the master of Cresswell than met the eye, she mused at one stage. Definitely part of the rich and famous, even if he did go out and help a mare in foaling difficulties…Although that didn’t mean she had to like him.

She made her excuses not long afterwards. Tom didn’t try to detain her and the others of the party said goodbye with genuine warmth.

She became aware as she walked away that the Darling-Hocking-Quinn gathering was the cynosure of all eyes amongst other guests enjoying the gardens.

It really was the most amazing opportunity for her to break into society weddings, she told herself as she drove home. She’d be mad not to pull out all stops to get this wedding absolutely perfect, with some unique touches.

She stopped at a traffic light, and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Does that include a better relationship with the bride’s brother? she asked herself. What if he goes on making remarks about how we met? How can I forgive that?

Her parents came round that evening, on their way home from a bargain-basement sale.

Her father collected LPs—his record player was one of the delights of his life—and he’d picked up a box of LPs for a song. He brought them up to show Chas.

‘And this,’ he said triumphantly, holding a record sleeve aloft, ‘I’ve been trying to track down for years. Herb Alpert. You may not have heard of him, darling, he was well before your time.’

‘I don’t think anyone who grew up in your house could not have heard of Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, Dad,’ Chas murmured, ‘although I’ve never seen that.’

‘Whipped Cream and Other Delights—it came out in 1965,’ her father said. ‘The cover was quite a talking point.’

‘I can imagine.’ Chas stared at the stunning dark-haired girl on the cover with a long-stemmed pink rosebud in one hand and wearing a low-cut mantle of whipped cream…

She moved restlessly in bed that night, finding sleep hard to come by and unable to get the Whipped Cream record sleeve out of her mind’s eye.

I would never allow myself to be smothered in cream for any man’s delectation, she reminded herself sternly, so why does it take me right back to Tom Hocking’s bed? Why does it make me think of being naked in his arms and…other delights?

Why do I feel lonely and unfinished, edgy and aching with that special kind of longing?

Being in his bed and in his arms got to me, she acknowledged after some painful thought. Or he got to me, or a part of me I thought was dead and buried after Rob…

Strange, because he also scared me, and at most other times he annoys the life out of me. Then there’s the long line of peachy blondes his own sister accused him of.

He’s just too damned attractive, too…She stopped and sighed. And she recalled with sudden clarity the speculation she’d seen in three pairs of eyes, speculation to do with how she and Tom might have met in bed, even by mistake, and she shivered. Too attractive, and too clever, and now I think I even hate him, she reflected.

Tom Hocking didn’t go to bed until midnight.

He got up from a table strewn with papers, stretched, and crossed the lounge of his hotel suite to the balcony where he stared over the beach and the sea. There was no moon but in the starlight a line of white surf was breaking on the beach. He could hear its rhythm and smell the salt in the air.

Strangely, since he hadn’t thought of her for the hours since they’d parted, he discovered Chas Bartlett was on his mind.

Something of a surprise, he conceded. He could have sworn she hadn’t been physically unmoved by their encounter in his bed. He’d even tended to take her explanation of how she’d got there with a pinch of salt. Heaven alone knew, he’d come across some extremely ingenious women in his time including one who had done exactly that—smuggled herself into his bed—but now he had to wonder. She was exhibiting all the signs of being an iron maiden. A smile touched his lips as the thought crossed his mind.

Unfortunately—the smile became dry—he’d discovered that he was more moved by that encounter than he’d expected. Or at least, he corrected himself, the mental image of her glorious hair, her smooth, slim body, those tantalising legs in that damned slip of a nightgown had taken to popping into his mind when he least expected it.