Lindsay Armstrong - The Socialite and the Cattle King

Then it occurred to her that she was once again being summed up in that inimitable way of his.

The slender line of her neck, the outline of her figure beneath the little black dress, the smooth skin of her arms above her gloves, her trim ankles—they all received his critical assessment. And they all traitorously reacted accordingly, which was to say he might as well have been running his hands over her body.

‘Actually,’ she said airily—not a true reflection of her emotions as she was battling to stay cool and striving to take a humorous view of proceedings, ‘You make a trés arrogant Spaniard.’

‘I do?’

‘ Oui. Summing up perfectly strange women with a view to ownership is what I would call arrogant. Could it be that there is little difference between you and the pirate with the parrot, monsieur ?’

‘Ownership?’ he queried.

‘Of their bodies,’ she explained. ‘Tell me this was not so a moment ago?’ She tilted her chin at him.

He pushed his hands into his pockets and shrugged. ‘It’s a failing most men succumb to. But unlike the pirate I would never attempt to maul you, Miss Golightly.’

He paused and allowed his dark, masked gaze to travel over her again. ‘On the contrary, I would make your skin feel like warm silk and I would celebrate your lovely, slim body in a way that would be entirely satisfactory—for both of us.’

Holly stifled a tremor of utmost sensuousness that threatened to engulf her down the length of her body—at least stifled the outward appearance of it, by the narrowest of margins.

All the same, she went hot and cold and had to wonder how he did it. How did he engender a state of mind that could even have her wondering what it would be like to be Brett Wyndham’s woman. How dared he?

Despite his arrogance, did that dark, swashbuckling presence do it to most women he came in contact with?

Her mind swooped on this point. Would it be a relief to think she was just one of a crowd when it came to Brett Wyndham? Or would it make it worse?

She came to her senses abruptly to find him studying her intently now and rather differently. ‘You have a problem, señor ?’

‘No. Well, I just have the feeling I’ve met you before, Miss Golightly.’

Holly took the bit between her teeth and contrived a quizzical little smile. ‘Many men have that problem. It is a very—how do you say it?—unoriginal approach.’

‘You feel I’m making a pass at you?’ he enquired lazily.

‘I am convinced of it.’ She presented him her half empty champagne glass. ‘Thus, I will return to my party. Au revoir. ’

But he said, ‘Were you riding a camel when your sheikh propositioned you?’

Holly, in the act of sweeping inside, stopped as if shot.

‘Or a donkey, when the Mexican approached you?’ he added softly.

‘You knew!’ she accused.

‘The accent and the outfit threw me for a while, but I’m not blind or deaf. Is it all made up? And, if so, why?’

Holly walked back to him and retrieved her champagne. ‘I’ve got the feeling I might need this,’ she said darkly and took a good sip. ‘No, well, Tahiti was true—a bit. I’ve just come back so it seemed like a good idea to—’ she gestured airily ‘—to…’ But she couldn’t think of a suitable way to cloak it.

‘Help pull the wool over my eyes?’ he suggested.

Holly choked slightly on a second sip of champagne but made a swift recovery. ‘Why would I want to be recognized by you? All you ever do is query my motives, accuse me of appalling posturing and make passes at me!’

‘You have to admit it all sounds highly unlikely,’ he drawled. ‘Are you here with your mother?’

Holly opened her mouth but closed it and stamped her foot. ‘Don’t you dare make fun of my mother! She—’

A flash of pale colour registered in her peripheral vision and she turned to see her mother coming out onto the balcony. Her mother was dressed as Eliza Doolittle at the races, complete with huge hat and parasol. ‘We might as well both reprise Audrey Hepburn roles,’ Sylvia had said upon presenting the idea to her daughter.

‘Mum!’ Holly said. ‘What—’

But her mother interrupted her. ‘There you are, darling! And I see you’ve met Mr Wyndham.’ Sylvia turned to Brett. ‘How do you do? I’m Sylvia Harding, Holly’s mother—yes, her real name is Holly, that’s why we thought of Holly Golightly!’ Sylvia paused and took a very deep breath. ‘But I feel sure there was some misunderstanding at the shelter lunch, and she didn’t have the opportunity to tell you that she’s a journalist and would love to interview you.’

There was dead silence on the balcony but Sylvia went on, apparently oblivious to the undercurrents. ‘I also know she’d do a great job; she’s not her father’s daughter for nothing. He was Richard Harding, incidentally—perhaps you’ve heard of him?’

‘Yes, I have. How do you do, Mrs Harding?’ Brett said courteously.

‘I’m fine, thank you. You may be wondering how I recognized you, but as soon as I saw you with Sue it clicked. She’s such a lovely person, your sister. Well, I’ll leave you two together.’ She hesitated then walked back inside.

Holly let out a long breath then finished the champagne with a gulp. ‘Don’t say a word,’ she warned Brett, once again presented him with her glass. ‘I did not arrange that, and anyway I don’t believe leopards change their spots, so I have no desire to interview you.’

‘Leopards?’ he queried gravely but she could see he was struggling not to laugh. ‘On top of camels, asses, Mexicans and sheikhs?’

‘Yes,’ she said through her teeth. ‘I believe they can be cunning, highly dangerous and thoroughly bad-minded into the bargain. If anyone should know that, you should.’

‘I do,’ he agreed. ‘Uh—where is this analogy leading?’

‘I have no faith in you not making any more passes at me, that’s where.’

‘I’d be demolished,’ he said. ‘But I’m pretty sure it isn’t all one-sided.’

Another deadly little silence enveloped the balcony.

Holly opened her mouth but had to close it as no inspiration came to her. In all honesty, how could she deny the claim? On the other hand, every bit of good sense she possessed told her that to acknowledge it would be foolhardy in the extreme.

So, in the end, she did the only thing available to her: she swung on her heel and walked away from him.

‘How was the ball?’ Mike Rafferty enquired of his boss the next morning.

Brett lay back in his chair and appeared to meditate for a moment. ‘Interesting,’ he said at last.

‘Well, that’s got to be better than you expected,’ Mike replied and placed some papers on the desk. ‘The lead up to the wedding,’ he said simply.

Brett grimaced and pulled the details of Mark’s pre-wedding festivities towards him. ‘I just hope it’s not a three-ring circus. Oh hell, another ball!’

‘But this one’s just a normal ball,’ Mike pointed out.

Brett did not look mollified as he read on. ‘A soirée, a beach barbecue, a trip to the reef—da-da, da-da.’ Brett waved a hand. ‘All right. I presume they’ve got someone in to organize it all properly?’

Mike hesitated and then coughed nervously.

Brett stared narrowly at him. ‘Who? Not…? Not Natasha?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

Brett swore.

‘She is the best—at this kind of thing,’ Mike offered.

‘But I believe they had someone else to start with who made a real hash of things, so they called on Ms Hewson and she saved the day, apparently. She and Aria are friends,’ he added.

‘I see.’ Brett drummed his fingers on the desk then looked to have made a decision. ‘Mike, find out all you can about a girl called Holly Harding. She’s Richard Harding’s daughter—the well-known writer—and I believe she’s a journalist herself. Do it now, please.’

Mike stared at his boss for a moment as he tried to tie this in with Mark Wyndham’s wedding.

‘What?’ Brett queried.

‘Nothing,’ Mike said hastily. ‘Just going.’

On Monday afternoon Glenn Shepherd called Holly into his office, and hugged her. ‘You’re such a clever girl,’ he enthused. ‘I might have known I was laying down the gauntlet to you when I mentioned his name, but how on earth did you pull it off? And why keep it such a secret?’ He released her and went back behind his desk.

Holly, looking dazed and confused, sank into a chair across the desk. ‘What are you talking about, Glenn?’

‘Getting an interview with Brett Wyndham, of course. What else?’

Holly stared at him, transfixed, then she cleared her throat. ‘I—wasn’t aware that I had.’

Glenn gestured. ‘Well, there are a few details he wants to sort out with you before he gives his final consent, so I made an appointment for you with him for five-thirty this afternoon.’ He passed a slip of paper to her over the desk. ‘If you’ve got anything on, cancel it. This could be your big break, Holly, and it won’t do us any harm, either. Uh—there may be some travel involved.’

‘Travel?’

‘I’ll let him tell you about it but of course we’d foot the bill where necessary.’

‘Glenn…’ Holly said.

But he interrupted her and stood up. ‘Go get it, girl! And now I’ve got to run.’

At five-twenty that afternoon, Holly glanced at the piece of paper Glenn had given her and frowned. Southbank was a lovely precinct on the Brisbane river, opposite the tall towers of the CBD. It was made up of restaurants, a swimming lagoon and gardens set around the civic theatre and the art gallery. It was not exactly where she would have expected to conduct a business meeting with Brett Wyndham.

Then again, that was the last thing she’d expected to be doing this Monday afternoon, or any afternoon, so why quibble at the venue?

She parked her car, gathered her tote bag and for a moment wished she was dressed more formally. But that would have involved rushing home to change, and anyway, she didn’t want him to think she’d gone to any trouble with her appearance on his behalf, did she?

No , she answered herself, so why even think it ?

Because she might have felt more mature, or something like that, if she wasn’t dressed as she usually was for work.

She looked down at her jeans, the pink singlet top she wore under a rather beloved jacket and her brown, short boots. This was the kind of clothes she felt comfortable in when she was traveling, as well as at work.

As for her hair, she’d left it to its own devices that morning and the result was a mass of untamed curls.

There could be little or no resemblance to the girl at the shelter lunch or Holly Golightly, she reasoned, which should be a good thing.

But, she also reasoned, really her clothes and hair were nothing compared to her absolute shock and disbelief at this move Brett Wyndham had made. What was behind it?

She shook her head, locked her car and went to find him.

It took a moment for Brett Wyndham to recognize Holly Harding. He noticed a tall girl in denims and a pink singlet with a leather tote hanging from her shoulder, wandering down the path from the car park. He noted that she looked completely natural, with no make-up, from her wild, fair curls to her boots, as well as looking young and leggy. Then it suddenly dawned on him who she was.

He saw her look around the restaurant terrace—their designated meeting place—and he raised a hand. He thought she hesitated briefly, then she came over.