The Socialite and the Cattle King

by Lindsay Armstrong

  ‘I came with my mother.’

  A glint of amusement lit his dark eyes. ‘That sounds as if it came from a list of excuses the Department of Transport publishes occasionally: “my mother told me to hurry up, that’s why I was exceeding the speed limit”.’

  If she hadn’t been so annoyed, if it hadn’t been so apt, Holly would have seen the humour of this.

  ‘Clever,’ she said coldly. ‘But I have to tell you, I’m already regretting it. And, for your further information, I don’t approve of this kind of fund-raising.’

  He lifted a lazy eyebrow. ‘Strange, that. You look so very much the part.’

  ‘What part?’ she asked arctically.

  He shrugged. ‘The professional, serial socialite. The embodiment of conspicuous philanthropy in order to climb the social ladder.’ He glanced at her left hand, which happened to be bare of rings. ‘Maybe even in the market for a rich husband?’ he added with soft but lethal irony.

  Holly gasped, and gasped again, as his gaze flickered over her and came back to rest squarely on her décolletage; she had no doubt that he was mentally undressing her.

  Then she clenched her teeth as it crossed her mind that she should have stuck to her guns. She should not be sitting there all dolled up to the nines, with her hair strangled up and starting to give her a headache, all to support a cause but giving off the wrong messages entirely. Obviously!

  On the other hand, she thought swiftly, that did not give this man the right to insult her.

  ‘If you’ll forgive me for saying so,’ she retorted, ‘I think your manners are atrocious.’

  ‘Oh. In what way?’

  ‘How or why I’m here has nothing whatsoever to do with you and if you mentally undress me once more who knows what I might be prompted to do? I am,’ she added, ‘quite able to take care of myself, and I’m not wet behind the ears.’

  ‘Fighting words,’ he murmured. ‘But there is this—’

  ‘I know what you’re going to say,’ she broke in. ‘It’s chemistry.’ She looked at him scornfully. ‘That is such an old, dead one! Even my Mexican bandit didn’t use that one although, come to think of it, the sheikh did. Well, I think that’s what he was saying.’ She tipped her hand as if to say, ‘you win some, you lose some’.

  He blinked. ‘Sounds as if you have an interesting life.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You’re not making it all up?’

  ‘No.’ Holly folded her arms and waited.

  ‘What?’ he queried after a moment, with utterly false trepidation.

  ‘I thought an apology might be appropriate.’

  He said nothing, just gazed at her, and after a pensive moment on her part they were exchanging a long, telling look which came as quite a surprise to Holly. The luncheon and its environs receded and it was if there was only the two of them…

  Whatever was happening for him, for Holly it became a drawing-in, not only visually but through her pores, of the essence of this man and the acknowledgement that his physical properties were extremely fine. He was not only tall, he was tanned, and he looked exceedingly fit, as if sitting at charity luncheons did not come naturally to him. His hands were long and well-shaped. His dark hair was crisp and short, and the lines and angles of his face were interesting but not easy to read.

  In fact, she summarized to herself, there was something inherently dangerous but dynamically attractive about him that made you think of him having his hands on your body, his exciting, expert, mind-blowing way with you.

  That’s ridiculous, she told herself as a strange little thrill ran through her. That’s such a girlish fantasy!

  Nevertheless, it continued to do strange things to her.

  It altered the rate of her breathing, for example. It caused a little pulse to beat rather wildly at the base of her throat so that her pearls jumped. To her amazement, it even caused her nipples to become sensitive and make the lace of her black bra feel almost intolerably scratchy.

  Her lips parted, then she made a concerted attempt to gather her composure as his dark gaze raked her again, but he broke the spell.

  He said very quietly, ‘I don’t know about the bandit or the sheikh, ma’am, but I can’t help thinking chemistry is actually alive and well—between us.’

  Holly came back to earth with a thud and rose to her feet. ‘I’m leaving,’ she said baldly.

  He sat back and shrugged. ‘Please don’t on my account. I’ll say no more. Anyway, what about your mother?’ he queried with just a shadow of disbelief.

  Holly looked around a little wildly. ‘I’ll take her with me. Yes!’ And she strode away from the table.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ Holly said as she clutched the steering wheel and started to drive them home. Her mother still looked stunned. ‘But he was—impossible, the man sitting next to me! Talk about making a pass!’ she marvelled.

  ‘Brett Wyndham made a pass at you?’ Sylvia said in faint accents as she clutched the arm rest. ‘Holly, slow down, darling!’

  Holly did more, she stamped on the brakes then pulled off the road. ‘Brett Wyndham,’ she repeated incredulously. ‘That was Brett Wyndham?’

  ‘Yes. Sue Murray’s his sister. We can only assume that’s why he’s there. I told you, she’s having husband troubles, and perhaps he’s providing moral support or something like that. I’ve never seen him at such a function before, or any kind of function for that matter.’

  Holly released the wheel and clutched her head, then she started shedding hairpins haphazardly into her lap. ‘If only I’d known! But would I have done anything differently? He was exceedingly—he was—That’s why he was watching her.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘His sister. In between watching me,’ Holly said bitterly. ‘On the other hand, I could maybe have seen the funny side of it. I could have deflected him humorously and—who knows?’

  ‘If I had the faintest idea what you were talking about I might be able to agree or disagree,’ her mother said plaintively.

  Holly turned to her then hugged her. ‘I am sorry. On all counts. And don’t mind me; it’s just that an interview with Brett Wyndham could have been the real boost my career needs.’

  Chapter Two

  A COUPLE of days later, Holly found she couldn’t get out of the masked fancy-dress ball she’d agreed to attend with her mother, much as she would have loved to.

  When she raised the matter, Sylvia pointed out that it would make the table numbers uneven, for one thing, and for another wasn’t her costume inspired—especially for a girl called Holly?

  ‘So, who are we going with?’ Holly queried.

  ‘Two married couples and a gentleman friend of mind, plus his son: a nice table of eight,’ Sylvia said contentedly.

  Holly had met the gentleman friend, a widower, but not the son. In answer to her query on that subject, she received the news that the son was only twenty-one but a very nice, mature boy. Holly digested this information with inward scepticism. ‘Mature and twenty-one’ in young men did not always go together, in her opinion, but then she consoled herself with the thought that her mother couldn’t have any expectations of a twenty-one-year-old as in husband material for Holly, surely?

  Still, she wasn’t brimming with keenness to go—but she remembered how she’d probably embarrassed the life out of her mother a few days ago, and she decided to bite the bullet.

  Unfortunately, the memory of the lunch brought Brett Wyndham back to mind and demonstrated to her that she didn’t have an unequivocal stance on the memory. Yes, she’d been outraged at his approach at the time—who wouldn’t have been? He’d accused her of being a serial socialite and a gold-digger.

  Of course, there’d been an intrinsic undercurrent to that in his own fairly obvious distaste for the lunch and all it stood for. Why else would he challenge her motives for being there? But—another but—how did that fit in with his sister being the patron of the shelter society?

  Ironic, however, was the fact that two t
hings had chipped away at her absolute outrage, making it not quite so severe: the undoubted frisson he’d aroused in her being one. Put simply, it translated into the fact that he’d been the first man to excite her physically since, well, in quite a long time…

  She looked into the distance and shivered before bringing herself back to the present and forcing herself to face the second factor that had slightly lessened her outrage. Had she mucked up a golden opportunity to get the interview that would have boosted her career?

  Yes, she answered herself, well and truly mucked it up. But there was no way she would have done anything differently so she just had to live with it!

  All the same, militant as she felt on the subject of Brett Wyndham on one hand, on the other she had an impulse, one that actually made her fingers itch—to look him up on the Internet.

  She shook her head and fought it but it was a fight she lost, and her fingers flew over the keys of her laptop, only to find that not a lot personal came to light. He was thirty-five, the oldest of three. There was a brother between him and his sister Sue, a brother who was getting married shortly. In fact, there was more about this brother Mark, his fiancée Aria and Sue Murray than there was about Brett Wyndham, so far as personal lives went.

  She dug a bit further and established that the Wyndhams had been pioneers in the savannah country of Far North Queensland where they’d established their cattle stations. She learnt that Haywire, situated between Georgetown and Croydon, was the station they called home. And she learnt that the red-basalt soil in the area produced grass that cattle thrived upon—quite beside the point. Well, the treacherous little thought crept into her mind, not so much beside the point if she ever got to interview the man!

  She also learnt that Brett Wyndham was a powerful figure in other ways. The empire was no longer based solely on pastoralism. He had mining interests in the area, marble from Chillagoe, zinc and transport companies. He employed a significant amount of people in these enterprises, and he was respected for his environmental views, as well as views on endangered species.

  Then she turned up gold, from her point of view—a rather bitchy little article about one Natasha Hewson, who was described as extraordinarily beautiful and extremely talented. Apparently she ran an agency that specialized in organizing events and functions down to the last exquisite detail for the rich and famous. But, the article went on to say, if Natasha had hoped to be last in the long line of beautiful women Brett Wyndham had squired when they’d got engaged, her hopes had been dashed when they’d broken off the engagement recently…

  Holly checked the date and saw that it was only nine months ago.

  She sat back and tapped her teeth with the end of her pen. She had to admit that he’d got to her in a way that had reawakened her from a couple of years of mental and physical celibacy—but had she wanted to be reawakened? Not by a man who could have any woman he wanted, and had had a long line of them, she thought swiftly.

  Mind you—she smiled a rueful smile—there was no hope of her getting an interview with him anyway, so it was best just to forget it all.

  Brett Wyndham wondered how soon he’d be able to leave the ball. He’d come partnerless—well, he’d come with his sister. True to her word, she was looking stunning in a lavender crinoline, but otherwise apart from her tiny mask was quite recognizable as Sue Murray. Moreover she was putting a brave face on even if her heart was breaking and, whether it was his presence or not, no-one appeared to be making a laughing stock of her.

  He watched her dance past—he’d left their table and was standing at the bar—and he found himself pondering the nature of love. Sue felt she shouldn’t be able to love Brendan Murray now but was that all it took in matters of the heart? Dictating to yourself what you should or should not feel?

  Which led him in turn to ponder his own love life. The nature of his life seemed to ensure that the women in it were only passing companions, but there had been no shortage of them. The problem was, he couldn’t seem to drum up much enthusiasm for any of them.

  Not only that, perhaps it was the inability of those partners to disguise their expectations that he was getting tired of, he reflected. Or the fact that none of them ever said ‘no.’ Well, one had quite recently, now he came to think of it. His lips twisted with amusement at the memory.

  He shrugged and turned to watch the passing parade.

  He’d come, courtesy of Mike Rafferty, as a masked Spanish aristocrat with a dark cropped jacket, dark, trousers, soft boots and white, frilled shirt, complete with scarlet cummerbund and black felt hat.

  Dinner was over and the serious part of the evening under way—the serious dancing, that was. They were all there, strutting their stuff to the powerful beat of the music under the chandelier: the Cleopatras, the Marie Antoinettes, the belly dancers, the harem girls, the Lone Rangers, the Lawrences of Arabia, the three Elvises, a Joan of Arc and a Lady Godiva in a body stocking who looked as if she was regretting her choice of costume.

  Some of them he recognized despite the masks and towering wigs. All of them, he reflected, bored him to tears.

  He was just about to turn away when one girl he didn’t recognize danced past in the arms of an eager pirate complete with eye patch, one gold earring and a stuffed macaw on his shoulder.

  She was quite tall, very slim and dressed almost all in black. Something about her, probably her outfit, stirred something in his memory, but he couldn’t pin it down.

  ‘Who’s she supposed to be?’ he enquired of an elderly milkmaid standing beside him. He indicated the girl in black.

  The milkmaid beamed. ‘Isn’t she perfect? So different. Of course, it’s Holly Golightly—don’t you remember? Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. That gorgeous black hat with the wide, downturned brim and the light, floaty hat-band; the earrings, the classic little black dress and gloves—even the alligator shoes. And to think of using her sunglasses as a mask!’

  ‘Ah. Yes, she is rather perfect. You wouldn’t happen to know who she is in real life?’

  The milkmaid had no idea and Brett watched Holly Golightly dance past again.

  She looked cool and detached, even slightly superior, but that could be because the pirate was having trouble containing his enthusiasm for her.

  In fact, as he watched she detached herself from her partner as he attempted to maul her, swung on her heel and swept away towards the ballroom balcony with a hand to her hat.

  The pirate looked so crestfallen, Brett could only assume he was either very young or very drunk.

  Without giving it much thought, he took a fresh glass of champagne off the bar and followed the girl onto the balcony.

  She was leaning against the balustrade, breathing deeply.

  ‘Maybe this’ll help to remove the taste of the pirate?’ he suggested and offered the champagne to her.

  Holly straightened and wondered if she was imagining things. She’d been rather darkly contemplating the fact that she’d been right about very young men such as the pirate who was the son of her mother’s friend; he hadn’t been able to keep his hands off her!

  But could this tall, arrogant-looking Spaniard be who she thought he was? Could you ever forget Brett Wyndham’s voice, or his athletic build? Or the pass he’d made at her? More importantly, did she want to be recognized? As a serious journalist, perhaps, but like this? As a serial socialite…?

  In a lightning decision that she did not want to be recognized, she lowered her voice a notch and assumed a French accent. ‘Merci. I was of a mind to punch his parrot.’

  Brett laughed then narrowed his eyes behind the mask. ‘You sound as if you’ve just stepped out of France.’

  ‘Not France, Tahiti.’ It wasn’t exactly a lie. She’d returned from her last travel assignment, Papeete, a bare week ago.

  ‘So, a Tahitian Holly Golightly?’

  ‘You may say so.’ Holly sipped some champagne. ‘What have we with you? An Aussie señor?’

  He looked down at his attire
. ‘You could say so. Are you into horses, Miss Golightly?’

  Holly gazed at him blankly.

  ‘It is the kick-off to the Winter Racing Carnival, this ball,’ he elaborated.

  ‘Of course! But no, you could say not, although I have done some riding in my time. Generally, though, on inferior beasts such as asses and camels.’

  Brett’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Camels? In Tahiti? How come?’

  ‘Not, naturally, Tahiti,’ Holly denied regally. ‘But I have a fondness for some out-of-the-way places you cannot get to by other means.’ She gave the word “other” a tremendous French twist.

  ‘So do I,’ he murmured and frowned again as his masked gaze roamed over her.

  Holly waited with some trepidation. Would he recognize her beneath the Holly Golightly outfit, the wide, downturned hat-brim and the French accent? She’d recognized him almost immediately, but that deep, mesmerizing voice would be hard to disguise. For that matter, so were those wide shoulders and lean hips.

  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.