The Socialite and the Cattle King

by Lindsay Armstrong

  She paused to take several breaths.

  ‘There’s more?’ he queried with some irony.

  ‘A bit more. You’ve got to be interesting—you’ve certainly captured the public’s imagination—so, on a purely professional level, I can’t turn it down.’

  ‘Am I expected to be flattered?’

  Holly searched his eyes and could just detect the wicked amusement in their dark depths. ‘Yes,’ she said baldly. ‘I’m usually no pushover.’

  ‘OK, take it as read that I’m flattered.’ He stopped, flagged a passing waiter and ordered a bottle of champagne.

  ‘Oh. No!’ Holly protested. ‘I didn’t mean…’

  ‘You don’t think we should celebrate?’ He looked offended. ‘I do. It’s not every day I score a coup like this. Besides, I thought you liked champagne.’

  ‘You’re making fun of me,’ she accused.

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Well, yes and no. You can be quite an impressive twenty-four-year-old. Thanks,’ he said to the waiter who delivered the champagne and carefully poured two glasses.

  He handed one to Holly and held up his own. ‘Cheers!’

  Holly reluctantly raised her glass to his. ‘Cheers,’ she echoed. ‘But I’m only having one glass. On top of everything else, I’m driving.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ he said idly.

  ‘Isn’t that a waste of champagne? Or are you going to drink it all?’

  ‘No. I’m meeting someone else here shortly. She also likes champagne.’

  Holly took a hurried gulp. ‘Well, the sooner I get going the better.’

  ‘No need to rush; she’s my sister.’

  Holly looked embarrassed. ‘Oh. I thought…’ She tailed off.

  ‘You thought she was a girlfriend?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry. Not that it matters to me one way or the other.’

  ‘Naturally not,’ he murmured.

  She eyed him over her glass. ‘You know, I can’t quite make you out.’

  He allowed his dark gaze to drift over her in a way that caused her skin to shiver of its own accord. She’d been inwardly congratulating herself on not having this happen to her during this encounter—an involuntary physical response to this man—but now it had.

  ‘The same goes for me,’ he said quietly. ‘Can’t quite make you out.’

  Holly made an effort to rescue herself, to stop the flow of messages bombarding her senses. How could it happen like this? she wondered a little wildly. Out of the blue across a little glass-topped table on a terrace in the fading light of day.

  But her rather tortured reflections were broken by a canine yelp, a squeal then howls of pain as, limping badly, a dog skittered across the terrace and disappeared into the shrubbery.

  Chapter Three

  HOLLY jumped to her feet but Brett Wyndham was even quicker.

  He plunged into the shrubbery, issuing a terse warning to her over his shoulder to be careful because the dog, in its pain, could bite.

  The next few minutes were chaotic as Brett captured then subdued the terrified dog, a black-and-white border collie. How, Holly had no idea, but he did, and a lot of people milled around. None of them was its owner, or had any idea where it had come from, other than it must have got loose from somewhere and possibly got run over as it had crossed the road.

  ‘OK.’ Brett pulled his phone out and tossed it to Holly. ‘Find the nearest vet surgery.’ He pulled out his car keys and tossed them to her. ‘And drive my car down here as close as you can get. It’s the silver BMW.’

  Holly grabbed her tote and did so, and ended up driving the four-wheel-drive so Brett could attend to the dog on the way to the surgery. He was staunching a deep cut on its leg with his handkerchief and she heard him say, ‘You’re going to be all right, mate.’

  She found the surgery with the aid of the GPS and helped carry the dog in. ‘Is he really going to be all right?’ she asked fearfully as they handed it over.

  ‘I reckon so.’ He scanned her briefly then looked more closely. ‘You better sit down; you look a bit pale. I’m going in for a few minutes.’ He turned to the receptionist, who was hovering. ‘Could you get her a glass of water?’

  ‘Of course. Sit down, ma’am.’

  Holly was only too glad to do so. A mobile phone with an unfamiliar ring sounded in her tote. She blinked, remembered it must be Brett’s phone and after a moment’s hesitation answered it.

  ‘Brett Wyndham’s phone.’

  ‘Where is he and who are you?’ an irate female voice said down the line.

  Holly explained and added, ‘Can I give him a message?’

  ‘Oh.’ The voice sounded mollified. ‘Yes, if you wouldn’t mind. It’s his sister, Sue. I’m waiting for him at Southbank, but I’m going out to dinner so I won’t wait any longer. Could you tell him I’ll catch up with him tomorrow?’

  Ten minutes later Brett reappeared and held his hand out to Holly. ‘Let’s go. He’s got a broken leg, as well as the cut, but he’ll be fine. He’s in good hands, and he’s got a microchip so they’ll be able to track down his owner.’

  ‘Thank heavens.’ She got to her feet.

  ‘How are you?’ he queried.

  ‘OK.’

  He studied her narrowly. ‘You don’t altogether look it.’

  ‘I…I once lost a dog in an accident. He was also a border collie. I called him Oliver, because as a puppy he was always looking for more food. He was run over, but he died. It just took me back a bit.’

  Brett released her hand and put an arm around her shoulder. He didn’t say anything, but Holly discovered herself to be comforted. Comforted and then something else—acutely conscious of Brett Wyndham.

  She breathed in his essence—pure man—and she felt the long, strong lines of his body. She was reminded of how quick and light on his feet he’d been, how he’d used the power of his personality and expertise to calm the dog—but above all how he’d impressed her on a mental level, and now on a physical one.

  ‘Better?’ he queried.

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  They stepped out onto the pavement, but he stopped. It was almost dark. ‘My sister,’ he said with a grimace and reached for his phone, but it wasn’t there.

  Holly retrieved it from her bag and gave him the message.

  ‘OK.’ He steered her towards his car.

  ‘If you drop me off at the parking lot…’ Holly began.

  He shook his head. ‘You still look as if you could do with a drink.’

  ‘No. Thanks, but no. Anyway, we left the restaurant without paying!’

  He shrugged and opened the car door. ‘They know me. In you get—and don’t argue, Holly Golightly.’

  Holly had no choice but to do as she was told, although she did say, ‘My car?’

  ‘Mike will collect it.’ He fired the engine.

  ‘Who’s Mike?’

  ‘The miracle worker in my life.’ He swung out into the traffic. ‘The PA par excellence.’

  Not much later, Holly was sitting on a mocha-colored leather settee in what was obviously a den. The walls were café au lait, priceless-looking scatter rugs dotted the parquet floor and wooden louvres framed the view of a dark sky but a tinsel-town view of the city lights.

  Brett had poured her a brandy then she’d washed her face and hands and handed her car keys over to his PA. Brett had gone to take a shower.

  She’d only taken a couple of sips but she was thinking deeply when he strolled back into the room. He’d changed into jeans and a shirt; his hair was towelled dry and spiky.

  ‘Will you stay for dinner?’ he queried as he poured his own brandy.

  ‘No thank you,’ Holly said automatically. ‘You know, it’s just struck me—this could look strange.’

  ‘What could?’ He sat down opposite her.

  ‘Me flitting around with you.’

  ‘In what respect?’

  She glanced at him then looked away a little awkwardly. ‘People might wonder if I’ve joined the long li
st of, well, perhaps not beautiful—I mean they were all probably stunning—but the long list of women you’ve squired around.’

  ‘What long list is that?’ he enquired in a deadpan kind of way that alerted her to the fact he was secretly laughing at her.

  Holly went slightly pink but said airily, ‘Just something I read somewhere. But, believe me, I have no ambition to do that. Unless…’ she stopped, struck by a thought, and relaxed a bit. ‘I’m not stunning enough or upmarket-looking enough to qualify? Don’t answer that,’ she said with a lightning smile. ‘I’m just thinking aloud.’ She sobered and contemplated her drink with a frown.

  Does she have no idea of how unusually attractive she is? Brett Wyndham found himself wondering. Maybe not, he conceded. She certainly didn’t appear to expect him to counter her claim that she wasn’t stunning enough to qualify as someone he would “squire around”.

  On the other hand, she’d had to fight off a bandit and a sheikh, if she was to be believed, so…

  He shrugged. ‘I never bother with what people think.’

  ‘You may be in a position not to bother—your reputation is already set,’ she retorted. ‘Mine is not.’ Then she took a very deep breath. ‘Please tell me why you’re doing this.’

  He rolled his glass in his hands then looked directly into her eyes. ‘I’m intrigued. I can’t believe you’re not.’ He paused. ‘And I guess that’s brought out the hunter instinct in me. At the same time, I don’t ever force myself on unwilling women, if that’s what’s worrying you.’

  Holly looked away. She paused and pressed her palms together tightly. ‘And if I told you I don’t have any interest in…Well, the thing is, I got my fingers pretty badly burnt once due to “chemistry”. It’s—it hasn’t left me yet. I don’t know if it ever will.’

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘Not the bandit or the sheikh, I gather?’

  Holly waved her hand. ‘Oh, no,’ she said dismissively.

  ‘I think you better tell me.’

  She glanced at him from under her lashes, then smiled briefly. ‘I don’t think I should. It’s supposed to be the other way round—you telling me stuff. And you have no intention of going into your private life.’ She looked at him with some irony.

  A silence lingered between them.

  ‘So, should we just leave it there?’ she suggested at last.

  He stared at her pensively. ‘Don’t you want the interview now?’

  ‘I thought you might have changed your mind.’

  His lips twisted. ‘Because I got my wrist slapped metaphorically? No, I haven’t changed my mind.’

  ‘But you won’t—I mean—bring this up again?’ she queried, her eyes dark and serious.

  ‘Tell you what,’ he drawled. ‘I won’t say a word on the subject.’

  Holly frowned. ‘That sounds as if there’s a trap there somewhere.’

  ‘Sorry, it’s the best I can come up with. So, are we on or off?’

  She hesitated then put down her glass, stood up and walked over to the louvres that framed the city view. She was in two minds, she realized. She sensed an element of danger between her and Brett Wyndham, but she had to admit he’d been honest, whereas she hadn’t—not entirely, anyway.

  On the other hand, her career was vitally important to her. It had been her mainstay through some dark days.

  She turned back to him. ‘On. My journalistic instincts seem to have won the day,’ she said ruefully. ‘Can I go home now?’

  ‘Of course.’ He stood up, called for Mike Rafferty, and when he came asked him if he’d found Holly’s car.

  ‘Sure did,’ Mike replied, and handed Holly the keys. ‘It’s parked downstairs, Miss Harding.’

  ‘Thank you,’ She hesitated then turned back to Brett Wyndham. ‘Well, goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, Holly,’ he said casually, and turned away.

  After he’d dined alone, Brett took his coffee to his study, where he intended to work on his next trip to Africa, only to find himself unable to concentrate.

  The fact that it was a girl coming between him and his plans was unusual.

  He swirled his coffee and lay back in his chair, Well, a change of direction in his life was on the cards; whilst he knew it was one he needed to make, would he ever be able to resist the call of the wild? Was that why he was unsettled?

  It was a juggling act holding the reins of all the Wyndham enterprises based here and being away so frequently. Also, there was something niggling at him that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but he suspected it was the need to establish some roots.

  In the meantime—in the short term, more accurately—a girl had come to his attention. A girl he wasn’t at all sure about.

  A girl who continued to hold him at arm’s length, now with the claim that she’d had her fingers burnt due to “chemistry”. How true was that? he wondered.

  Could it all be part of a plan to hold his interest? He’d come across many a plan to hold his interest, he reflected dryly.

  None of that changed the fact that she was attractive in a different kind of way—when did it ever? Good skin, beautiful eyes, clean, very slim lines; at times, sparkling intelligence and a cutting way with her repartee…

  He smiled suddenly as he thought of her ‘Holly Golightly from Tahiti’ act.

  He finished his coffee and contemplated another possibility. It was so long since any woman had said no to him he couldn’t help but be intrigued. Especially as he could have sworn there’d been that edgy, sensual pull between them almost from the moment they’d first crossed swords.

  Why, though, he wondered, had he gone to the lengths of dangling an interview before her?

  Because she was likeable, kissable, different?

  He drummed his fingers on the desk suddenly; or did he have in mind using her to deflect his ex-fiancée?

  ‘I’m off to Cairns—well, Palm Cove—then the bush for a few days tomorrow,’ Holly said to her mother that evening over a late dinner. She pushed away the remains of a tasty chicken casserole. ‘You’re not going to believe this, but I got the Brett Wyndham interview after all.’

  Sylvia uttered a little cry of delight. ‘Holly! That’s marvellous. I wasn’t sure I did the right thing. I know you tried to gloss over it, but I wasn’t sure whether you really approved.’ Sylvia paused and frowned. ‘But why do you have to go to Cairns?’

  Holly made the swift decision to gloss over that bit and murmured something about Brett being short of time.

  Sylvia mulled over this for a moment, then she said, ‘He’s very good-looking, isn’t he? I mean he has a real presence, doesn’t he?’

  ‘I guess he does.’

  ‘Holly,’ Sylvia began, ‘I know that awful thing that happened to you is not going to be easy to get over. Actually, you’ve been simply marvellous with the way—’

  ‘Mum, don’t,’ Holly interrupted quietly.

  ‘But there has to be the right man for you out there, darling,’ Sylvia said passionately.

  ‘There probably is, but it’s not Brett Wyndham.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  Holly moved the salt cellar to a different spot and sighed. ‘It’s just a feeling I have, Mum. For one thing, he’s a billionaire, so he could have anyone and there’s nothing so special about me. And, for me, I suppose it started with the way he behaved that day of the lunch. Then I read that he’d broken off his engagement to a girl who would have thought she was the last in a long line of women he’d escorted. And it seems,’ she said bitterly, ‘He’s a master at getting his own way.’

  ‘In view of all that,’ Sylvia replied a shade tartly, ‘I’m surprised you’re going to Palm Cove and the bush.’

  Holly shrugged. ‘I once made the decision I wouldn’t be a victim, and what really helped me was my career. I can’t knock back this opportunity to further it.’

  Glenn Shepherd said to Holly the next morning, ‘So it’s all set up?’

  ‘Yes. But there’s no personal side to it,
Glenn, other than “ancient history”—I guess that means how he grew up—and he wants to have final say. It’s his work he wants to talk about, and some new project.’

  ‘Even that’s a scoop. So, you’re off to Palm Cove and points west?’

  Holly nodded then looked questioningly at her editor. ‘How did you know that? I mean, so soon?’

  ‘His PA has just been on the phone. They offered to pay for your flights; I knocked that back, but they will provide accommodation in Palm Cove—they own the resort, after all.’

  Holly grimaced. ‘I’d rather stay in a mud hut.’

  ‘Holly, is there anything you’re not telling me?’ Glenn stared at her interrogatively.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘No,’ Holly replied. ‘No.’

  ‘Enjoy yourself, then.’

  Cairns, in Far North Queensland, was always a pleasure to visit, Holly reflected as she landed on a commercial flight and took the courtesy bus out of town to Palm Cove. With its mountainous backdrop, its beaches, its lush flora, bougainvillea, hibiscus in many colours, yellow allamanda everywhere and its warm, humid air, you got a delightful sense of the tropics.

  It was also a touristy place—it was a stepping-off point for all the marvels of the Great Barrier Reef—but it wasn’t brash. It was relaxed, yet still retained its solid country-town air.

  Palm Cove, half an hour’s drive north of Cairns, was exclusive.

  Lovely resorts lined the road opposite the beach and there was a cosmopolitan air with open-air cafés and marvellous old melaleucas, or paper-bark trees, growing out of the pavements. There were upmarket restaurants and boutiques that would have made her mother’s mouth water. The beach itself was a delight. Lined with cottonwoods, casuarinas and palms, it curved around a bay and overlooked Double Island and a smaller island she didn’t know the name of. On a hot, still, autumn day, the water looked placid and immensely inviting. Whilst summer in the region might be a trial, autumn and winter—if you could call them that in the far north—were lovely.