Cattle Baron: Nanny Needed

“A Cattle Baron!” Jono shrieked, throwing up his hands. “Not a redneck, I hope?” He set the coffee to perk. “Rich?”

“Without a doubt. And he’s no redneck. He’s very cultured. His grandpop is Sir Clive Erskine.”

Jono’s face fell. “Then he can’t be good-looking. There’s always a downside.”

“Oh, I don’t know. How does Clive Owen-ish sound?”

Jono’s jaw dropped. “You’re joking.”

“You can meet him if you like,” Amber promised. “He’s picking me up at nine. We’re going out to dinner.”

Jono whistled in admiration. “And I thought I was a fast worker! As I’m very fond of saying, love, life’s an adventure. One chapter finishes, another begins.”

The Cattle Baron had a limousine waiting. “You look ravishing.”

Hugely gratified, she could see that he meant it. She had picked out a short, glittery gold dress that showed off her long limbs and, if she said it herself, a tantalizing décolletage.

“Thank you. Hard to get away?” He was still wearing his formal wedding suit. It was absurd how well it suited him.

“It wasn’t that easy. But I’m here.”

“So, what you promise you deliver?”

“I really do like it that way.”

The uniformed chauffeur held the door while Amber slipped gracefully into the back seat. A moment more and the Cattle Baron joined her. She was almost shivery with the intimacy. He was just so physical , the quintessential man of action.

“So Jono and Jett are your friends?” he asked when they were underway.

“Jono for years now. He’s a very clever, very gentle man. He likes to keep an eye out for me.”

“You must feel good about that. He couldn’t have approved of you know who.”

“I don’t have a clue who you’re talking about,” she said airily, gazing out of the window at the glittering cityscape, above it a starry sky.

“Right. I admire the way you’ve disposed of that problem.”

“Where are we going, by the way?”

“The best establishment in town. Where else?”

Where else, indeed? It dawned on her that she was looking forward to spending a few hours with the Cattle Baron. In fact, she was excited. Didn’t that underscore her poor judgement about Sean?

The restaurant was seriously good. Wonderful ambience, excellent, discreet service. She had dined there a number of times. Always as a guest, not the one footing the bill. No one in their right mind could say the price was right. But the food—inspirational stuff—was superb, the wine list a long selection of the very best the world’s top vintners could offer, the upper end pricey enough to give even the well-off a heart attack.

“Tell me what wine you like?” the Cattle Baron asked, looking across a table set for two. One of the best positions in the room. How had he managed it on a Saturday night?

“And put you at my mercy?” she joked. “You’ve seen the prices.”

“We can forget the prices for tonight,” he told her calmly. “What if we start with a nice glass of champagne? Can’t go past Krug. You have to celebrate your lucky escape.” His cool green eyes glittered.

“Let me make it perfectly clear that I’m still upset.”

“Of course you are. But the Krug will help.” It was all too tempting.

She had thought she never would again, but she laughed. Really laughed. She hadn’t expected him to be so entertaining, but he was a born raconteur. He kept telling her wonderful stories about Outback life—hilarious incidents, interposed with the tragic and poignant realities of life in a harsh, unforgiving land. It was what gave him the heroic image, she suddenly realised. It was emblazoned all over him. Hero figure .

From the arrival of the amuse bouches , tempting little morsels to tease the palate, the starters, a carpaccio of tuna and swordfish garnished with a delicious little mix of green herbs, the main course of fillet of barramundi with a sweet-and-sour pepper sauce over risotto, the rim of the plate decorated with baby vegetables, he kept her enthralled. So much so she was eating with abandon. It struck her that they liked the same food, because independently they came up with the same choices. Even to the bitter chocolate mousse with coffee granita and gingered cream.

“That was superb,” he said, laying down his dessert spoon.

“I know it. Good thing you’re paying. There’s a poor soul over there choking over the bill.”

He laughed. “I daresay it takes a lot to run a three star restaurant and make a nice profit. Coffee?”

“Absolutely. I need to sober up.”

“You won’t be wanting a liqueur, then?” There was a twinkle in those mesmerizing green eyes.

“I didn’t say that.”

“So, feel ready to tell me a little about you,” he said, settling back to enjoy his coffee.

“I knew there was a catch.”

He leaned forward slightly, aware that they had been under scrutiny since they had walked into the restaurant. She was obviously well known. He wasn’t. But he was wearing wedding gear. A big clue. “I didn’t ask if I could sleep at your place.”

“Where are you staying?’ She circled the rim of her coffee cup with a forefinger, not daring to look up and perhaps give her living dangerously self away.

“Why, with Grandpop, of course.”

“He does have a mausoleum.”

“And he insisted I stay over. I know it’s not a nice thing to say, but I do my level best to avoid Rosemary.”

“Look, I don’t blame you. As soon as I got home I had to lie down to recover from her evil eye. So, your uncle and aunt and dear little Georgie—up until her dicey marriage—live with Grandpop?”

“You’ve got it.”

Those distracting little sexy brackets at his mouth again. “So it’s more than likely Georgie and Sean will move into the mausoleum when they return from Europe?” She was able to raise a blasé brow.

“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. It’s a ‘till death us do part’ situation with Georgie and her mother.”

“Poor thing! Even I can feel sorry for her. But not for Sean. How did he pass muster with your people anyway? Your grandfather is rumoured to have the hardest nut in town. Rosemary could have been a pushover. Sean can be very good at buttering up the women.” Even a Brunhilde.

“Forget them,” he said. “It’s you I want to hear about. From the beginning. You must have been an extraordinarily pretty baby.”

“My dad thought so.” She couldn’t stop a tender smile breaking out when tears still ran down the walls of her heart. “It was he who named me Amber. My mother wanted to call me Samantha.”