Читать книгу Her Outback Rescuer - Marion Lennox, Marion Lennox - Страница 8

‘SO TELL me who they are,’ Rachel demanded.

To say Amy was disconcerted was an understatement. She needed to catch her breath, get her composure back and feed Buster.

Instead, for the first time in this trip, for the first time in months, she had her sister asking questions.

But Buster first. She locked their compartment door, opened the wardrobe and Buster nosed out.

Buster was a tiny fox terrier, the size of half a cat. He was fourteen years old, he was missing an ear and he had one gammy leg.

Rachel had found him over twelve years ago. He’d been tossed from a car like litter, and Rachel had come home holding the bedraggled creature as if he were diamonds.

‘Amy, we have to keep him. We have to. Please let me…’

They’d been staying with the last of their succession of foster parents and, as usual, Amy had pleaded on behalf of her younger sister.

‘He’ll stay outside. I can build him a kennel. We can use my allowance to feed him. I swear he’ll be no trouble.’

The couple they’d been staying with had been one of their kinder sets of foster parents and he’d been allowed to stay. At night they’d sneaked him in through their bedroom window. He’d slept with them then, and he’d been with them since.

Rachel had left him behind two years ago—he’d stayed with Amy during her sister’s doomed marriage—but they were together again now, and it was Rachel who needed Buster rather than the other way round.

The little dog nosed out of the tiny wardrobe and looked around with caution, as if he understood he was in hiding. Then his ears pricked and his disreputable tail started to wag.

He’d been on dog pellets for two days. He was clever. The smell from Amy’s purse was not dog pellets.

‘It’s rump steak,’ she said, and grinned. ‘With a tiny smear of béarnaise sauce for m’lor’s satisfaction.’ She set it on the table napkin on the floor.

Buster looked up at them first, his great brown eyes adorably expressive. His wagging tail meant he wagged his whole body. Joy was Buster and rump steak, and even Rachel was smiling.

But… ‘So who are they?’ she asked again and Amy thought: nope, she wasn’t about to be deflected.

‘The old lady’s Dame Maud Thurston,’ she told her sister. ‘She’s been a major patron of the Australian ballet for as long as I can remember. She’s a gem, and her husband was just as lovely. He made a fortune from mining—you must know Thurston Holdings—and together they’ve run one of the biggest charitable foundations in Australia. It’s not just the ballet that benefits.’

‘And the guy?’

For some reason Amy wasn’t sure of talking about the guy. He’d made her… edgy. ‘That’d be her grandson,’ she said.

‘So tell me about him.’ Rachel perched on her seat and hugged her knees.

Rachel? Interested in a guy?

A waft of remembrance flooded back, making Amy wince. Two years ago, Rachel had come backstage after a performance, her normal prosaic, academic self starry-eyed about the Spanish dancer who’d danced opposite Amy. ‘Tell me about him. Can you introduce me?’

It was the beginning of a tragedy which had left Rachel with shattered dreams and aching loss. Now… She must have seen what Amy was thinking because she rushed in.

‘I don’t mean that,’ she said, sounding angry. ‘He’s gorgeous but you needn’t think I’m ever going down that path again. And it’s you he’s interested in.’

‘He isn’t.’

‘He is.’

‘Rachel…’

‘Okay, he isn’t,’ Rachel said, and astonishingly she was smiling. ‘But you know about him. Tell me all.’

‘We’re not staying with them at Uluru.’

‘Of course we’re not,’ Rachel said equably. ‘But tell me about him all the same.’

‘I don’t know much. Only what’s spread in ballet circles and that’s only as much as affects the ballet. We’re a self-centred lot.’

‘But you do know something.’

She nodded, strangely reluctant. What was it about the guy that made her want to shut up, not probe further? But Rachel was interested and, the way Rachel had been for the last twelve months, any interest at all was to be encouraged.

‘The family’s been in the media for ever,’ she said, thinking it through as she spoke. ‘I don’t read gossip mags but because they’re important to the ballet world, I can’t help but keep up with them. Sir James owns… owned… Thurston Holdings. You know it’s one of the biggest mining corporations in the world? It’s also the most principled. Thurston’s has a reputation for fair dealings, for treating their people right, for restoring land after mining’s finished. Sir James and Dame Maud have tried to keep a low profile but, with that much money, that much power, it’s impossible.’

‘I have heard of them,’ Rachel admitted, which was a huge concession from someone who spent her life in books. ‘I did hear Sir James had died—it was all over the papers. So Hugo’s the grandson. Is his dad taking over the reins?’

‘That’s just it,’ Amy told her. ‘He’s dead. Bertram was a disaster but we know nothing about this guy.’

‘We?’

Amy flushed. She was no longer part of the Australian ballet scene, she told herself. Move on.

But Rachel wanted to know, and this wasn’t ballet. She could force herself to gossip a little.

‘The Thurston Corporation sponsors so much—the ballet, the theatre, sports for the disabled, medical research… So many organisations rely on them. But when Bertram was alive and we thought he’d inherit, it seemed like it’d all stop as soon as Sir James died.’

‘So Bertram was Hugo’s dad?’

‘Yep.’ Amy settled back onto her seat-cum-bed and decided she might as well recall all she knew. ‘According to gossip, Bertram was wild. Really wild. He was into parties, gambling, drugs, all the things his parents weren’t. His marriage lasted about two minutes—rumour is his wife suicided later on, but it could have been an overdose. She was a media bimbo. That set a pattern for Bertram. He moved from woman to woman, every one of them media darlings, every one of them self-destructing on the lifestyle. It must have broken his parents’ hearts, but there was no way they could stop him. He finally did the same.’

‘Why did I not know this?’ Rachel demanded.

‘Because most of it happened when we were kids,’ Amy said patiently. ‘I only know because Bertram died in unsavoury circumstances about eight years ago. By then he was so burnt out that even the gossip mags weren’t interested, except to up their interest in Hugo. But I was a baby dancer then, and I heard the relief in dance circles. Our director was trying hard not to be ecstatic. His take was that we’d have more chance of continued support from an unknown grandson than we ever had from Bertram. But Hugo didn’t come home, even then. He’s been in the army since he was a teenager, in some secret unit no one knows about. He’s made a couple of flying visits since and the press has gone nuts every time—Australia’s most eligible bachelor, that sort of thing—but he’s always looked like he hates it. There was a fuss when he came home for his grandfather’s funeral, but then he went to ground again. Everyone’s wondered what will happen to Thurston Holdings—and lo, here he is, on our train.’

‘Home to pick up where his grandfather left off?’ Rachel said doubtfully. ‘He doesn’t look like a businessman about to sponsor the ballet. He looks… tough.’

‘Like a warrior,’ Amy agreed, starting to enjoy herself. They were safely back in their cabin. Why not let herself wallow? ‘I was thinking that,’ she confessed, letting her mind meander over the man she’d just met. ‘That gorgeous, deep black hair, sun-bleached at the tips. All those muscles… And he’s weathered and so fit it’s scary. The bone structure of his face—it’s like it’s sculpted. It must be from years of living hard. And did you see the way his shirt strained? No shirt’s ever been built to accommodate that type of chest.’ She grinned at Rachel, enjoying startling her. ‘And those blue eyes with crinkles at the edges like he spends his time looking into the sun… Whew.’

‘You really did look at him,’ Rachel breathed, stunned.

‘Um… yep. There’s no harm in admiring beauty,’ she admitted. ‘A girl can admire—from a distance.’

Rachel’s smile widened. Maybe she was starting to enjoy herself as well.

‘I guess he’ll have spent his life looking into the sun through machine gun sights,’ she suggested. ‘That’d make anyone’s eyes crinkle.’

‘I bet you’re right,’ Amy agreed. ‘And field glasses. He’ll have stood in dugouts in the searing sun, field glasses trained for the enemy…’

‘Or on hilltops?’

‘I don’t think you look for the enemy on hilltops,’ Amy said doubtfully. ‘Wouldn’t you get shot? It’d be such a shame to shoot a body like that.’

‘It would,’ Rachel said definitely. ‘No one could shoot such a man. Did you see the muscles on his arms?’ Rachel was following on with relish. ‘Maybe that’s from hand-to-hand combat?’

‘With sumo wrestlers,’ Amy guessed. ‘I’d imagine he takes on ten every morning before breakfast.’

‘And now we’ve taken his steak,’ Rachel said mournfully. ‘Buster, how could you?’ She giggled and Amy thought wow, her sister was giggling. She giggled back and it was a gorgeous moment.

And then a camel hove into view. Another one, racing the train.

But only one?

In the dining car they’d been able to see out both sides of the train. Now, back in their tiny compartment, they could only see the right side of the train.

Rachel was looking out, entranced, at the lone camel and Amy couldn’t resist; she opened the door to the corridor to see if more camels were racing on the far side.

There were. Five of them.

‘Oh,’ Rachel breathed. ‘I wonder if Maudie’s seeing…’

‘Buster!’

And for one fatal moment they’d been distracted. For one moment they’d had the door wide open and had been staring in delight at camels.

And Buster, fourteen years old, sleeping out his days content to be with the people he loved and the occasional sunbeam, had just had rump steak for dinner—and he’d looked up and seen camels!

The camels were gaining on the train. They were stretching out away from the near windows.

And Buster, a tiny dog in spirit but a guard dog at heart, went flying along the corridor in pursuit, barking as if he were a hound in full cry.

No!

Amy flew along the corridor after him, her heart in her mouth. Luckily, the end of the carriage was the door through to the next car. He could go no further—but he was still barking.

No!

She reached him and scooped him up and tucked him under her sweater, just as compartment doors started to open.

‘A dog…’ An elderly man with a walking stick was staring in horror in both directions. ‘Did you see a dog? Who’s barking?’

‘It must have been outside the train,’ Amy said, beetling past him with her bulge held away. Praying his eyesight wasn’t good.

‘I heard a dog.’ It was a young mother. ‘I hate dogs. Our Polly’s allergic.’

‘I didn’t see a dog,’ Amy lied and bolted for their compartment.

‘Did you see a dog?’ the young woman demanded of Rachel, who was outside their compartment looking worried.

‘It was racing the camels,’ Rachel managed, trying to retreat as well. ‘I think it was a dingo.’

‘But it sounded like it was in the train,’ the woman said.

‘I think you should report it to the conductor.’

‘I need to go to bed,’ Rachel said, and retreated into the compartment after Amy.

She slammed the door, still giggling.

But Amy wasn’t giggling. That had been too close for comfort.

She knew it had been a really bad plan to bring Buster, but what choice did she have? Rachel had hugged Buster since she’d come home from hospital. Rachel’s life was hugging her dog and reading her textbooks.

The Ghan had been a dream they’d shared since they were children, to travel through the outback, to see their grandmother’s birthplace, to see the rocks Rachel loved.

It might just haul her out of her misery, Amy had thought, and it was starting to, but ooh, Buster-smuggling could cause complications. Rachel was giggling, but at what price?

‘She won’t go find the conductor,’ Rachel decreed. ‘She won’t leave those appalling children. I’ve met them in the bathroom and they’re awful.’

‘The other guy might.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Buster’s hidden now. He’s safe.’ Rachel looked fondly at Buster, who was peering innocently out from under Amy’s sweater. ‘What a good thing you wore that.’

‘It has its uses. But if anyone searches…’

‘They won’t. And they don’t need to come in here. It’s not like we’re in a classy cabin that has turn downs.’

They weren’t. They’d requested their beds stay up all the time—’as Rachel needs to rest’. No one needed to come near them.

And Rachel was smiling.

Okay, she could live with this.

‘Bed,’ Rachel said. ‘Buster can come under the covers with me. If anyone looks in, we’re fast asleep.’

‘I’d like a shower,’ Amy said doubtfully. ‘But I might wait for a few minutes, just to be sure.’

‘You do that,’ Rachel said and retired to her bunk, Buster with her.

Amy waited for half an hour, holding her breath the whole time.

Nothing.

Rachel and Buster fell asleep.

Okay, they were fine.

She took her towel and pyjamas to the bathroom at the end of the carriage. She showered and washed her hair. She also tried, weirdly, not to think about Hugo. Which was nuts. She had enough to think about without worrying about Hugo Thurston.

She’d seen Rachel smile. She should be happy.

She was happy. She emerged from the bathroom feeling clean and determinedly cheerful.

The conductor was emerging from the second compartment.

‘Miss,’ he said as he saw her, ‘have you seen a dog?’

Miss stopped in her tracks. To say she felt at a disadvantage was an understatement. She was wearing pink satin pyjamas with cream lace trimming, with fluffy pink flip-flops to match. She’d bought Rachel beautiful nightwear when she’d moved from hospital to rehab. Normally Amy slept in a T-shirt and knickers, but on the train, with a shared bathroom, Rachel had decreed they’d share her pretty ones.

So she was respectable—almost—but she didn’t feel respectable. She felt numb with panic. She stared down at her pink-painted toenails in her fluffy pink flip flops and tried to decide what to say.

Had she seen a dog?

‘Urn… no,’ she lied.

‘We’ve had a report there’s a dog in this carriage,’ the man said. ‘I’ve had orders to search.’

‘Ooh,’ Amy managed. ‘Have you searched us?’

‘You’re in?’

‘Compartment Seven.’

‘I’ve done One and Two,’ the guy said grimly. ‘I’ll get to you in a minute.’

‘There’s no need. My sister’s asleep. She’s been ill. Please don’t disturb her.’

‘Orders are to search the whole carriage.’

‘But…’

‘No exceptions.’

‘Okay,’ Amy said faintly. ‘Just search quietly in Seven. Oh, and I might not be there. I have… I have a date.’

It was ten o’clock and Hugo was going stir crazy.

Maudie was exhausted. She’d headed straight to bed after dinner, to her lovely little bedroom just through the sitting room door. Hugo had a similar bedroom. They had their own palatial bathroom. Luxury.

But Hugo didn’t do luxury. He was accustomed to swags on the ground, to sleeping rough. He’d had over a month of soft living since his grandfather’s death had brought him home, and he wasn’t enjoying it any better now than he had at the start.

He was also bored out of his mind, aching to be back with his unit.

He had a television. Who wanted to sit on the Ghan and watch telly?

He had a murder mystery to read but he’d already figured out the murderer. What fun was there in that?

He could go to the lounge car and meet people.

Yeah, right.

Scrabble was the last of an appalling list of alternatives but he found himself organising letters. Trying to remember how to spell absquatulate.

Thinking of a brown-eyed dancer with an appetite for cold steak.

He found himself grinning, and he hauled himself back from the brink with a jerk. If Maudie even suspected what he was thinking…

He was not thinking.

A knock on the door. Yes! Anything to escape this boredom. He flung the door wide, so hard the man behind stepped back in alarm.

It was Henry, the Platinum butler. I bet his name’s not really Henry, Hugo thought. I bet all Platinum butlers are Henry.

The guy was struggling. He wanted to say something but was having trouble getting it out.

‘Yes,’ Hugo said encouragingly.

‘Sir…’

‘Can I help you?’

‘There’s a woman,’ Henry said, sounding torn. ‘In pyjamas. She says you’ve invited her to your room.’

There was a moment’s stillness while they both took that in.

‘A woman,’ Hugo said at last. ‘In pyjamas.’

‘A young woman.’ He might sound the same if he was announcing the arrival of aliens.

‘Did she give a name?’ Hugo asked cautiously.

The man’s face cleared. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, she did. She says her name is Amy Cotton and she’s a friend of Dame Maud. She says you’re expecting her. She’s carrying a large purse and she says she has something Dame Maud needs.’

‘And she’s wearing pyjamas.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the guy said. ‘Pink ones.’ He groped for his dignity and managed to look disapproving. ‘My job’s to protect your privacy, sir. Shall I tell her to go away?’

It’s Amy, Hugo thought. It’s a brown-eyed girl who made his grandmother’s eyes twinkle. It’s Amy, in pink pyjamas, carrying a purse.

Should he tell her to go away?

He definitely ought to. But…

‘I expect she’s bringing my grandmother notes on cooking steak sandwiches,’ he said at last. ‘Maybe even ingredients. We were… discussing it at dinner. Where is she now?’

‘At the end of the carriage. No one’s allowed past the butler’s pantry without authorisation.’

‘Then she has my authorisation,’ Hugo said. ‘Go on, man, let her through.’

What did the guy think she was? A call girl operating on the train? A woman carrying her credit card facilities in her oversized purse as she wandered from carriage to carriage in her satin pyjamas?

Crazy or not, she had no choice but to be here.

By the time she’d got back to the compartment she and Rachel shared, the conductor had reached Compartment Four. She’d grabbed Buster, shoved him into her huge purse, waited for the conductor to come out of Compartment Four and go into Five, and then fled.

Successfully? Only if Hugo let her in. Only if he helped.

But the conductor had seen her go. She’d just reached the end of the carriage when she’d heard him call, ‘Miss…’

She hadn’t stopped.

The Thurstons were in Car Two. She and Rachel were in Car Six. She’d practically run the length of the train. And now here she was, stuck in the butler’s pantry, waiting for Hugo to say yes he’d receive visitors. If not, she was facing disaster.

What would they do if they found Buster? Put him off the train? Put her and Rachel off as well?

What was the penalty for dog-smuggling?

The authorities could hardly toss them to the camels, she thought, but there’d be bleak little settlements in the middle of nowhere where they could be put out. There’d be a long wait for the next train, dubious accommodation and an expensive cartage fee to get Buster home.

Then what?

They needed to get to Darwin. She didn’t have the money to pay for flights.

She was stuck in the Platinum butler’s pantry waiting for the Thurston billions to decide her fate.

Maud would help her, she thought, but Maud might be asleep by now.

And Hugo? The warrior? Would he help—or not?

The longer the wait, the worse she felt. This was ghastly.

She wanted clothes. She wanted out of here. Of all the stupid…

‘Miss Cotton?’

She looked up and blessedly, magically, Hugo was striding along the corridor towards her. The butler was bustling behind him.

‘M… Mr Thurston?’ Her voice was practically a squeak.

‘I believe you have a delivery for me.’

‘I…’ She gazed down at her purse and prayed Buster wouldn’t wriggle. ‘Yes.’ If he demanded she hand it over here she was in real trouble.

‘Excellent,’ he said gravely. ‘Would you like to bring it to our sitting room yourself? I’m sure my grandmother will want to thank you. If you’ll excuse us, Henry, I can take care of Miss Cotton from here.’

She was in a billionaire warrior’s domain. She was wearing pink pyjamas and fluffy flip-flops, and she was carrying a dog in her purse.

Hugo was looking at her as if she were an unexploded bomb. As well he might.

He’d closed the door behind them. Somewhat wildly, she looked about her.

She’d read about these suites when she’d booked. The compartment was gorgeous—railway opulence at its most fabulous. If she’d had the money she could have booked a beautiful sitting room that turned into a bedroom at night, and if she’d had even more money she could have hired separate bedrooms so the sitting room stayed as it was.

This guy would have even more money. This man was a Thurston. He wouldn’t get kicked off the train and have to rely on camels for transport.

‘I’m thinking you brought me back my steak,’ Hugo said, gently now. He was watching her bag with fascination. Buster had just wriggled.

‘Sort of,’ she managed. ‘I mean… well… your steak is definitely inside there. In a fashion. Look, I’m really sorry, but I’m desperate.’

‘Really?’ A twinkle was lurking deep in those weather-creased blue eyes. Man amused by idiot.

But then… ‘How can I help?’ he asked, and she almost fell on his neck. Of all the words she most wanted to hear, these were the sweetest.

‘Hide my dog?’

‘Your dog.’ His lips twitched again. He had the most expressive mouth, she thought. At dinner he’d spent most of his time trying not to look grim. Now… She might be the village idiot but he found her amusing and if she could use that…

‘We smuggled our dog on board,’ she said.

‘You know, I was starting to figure that, though I wasn’t actually sure of the species. Cat? I wondered. Or python? Maybe taking your python back to his ancestral home.’

‘Just a dog.’ There didn’t seem anything else to say.

‘A purse-sized dog.’

‘I can hardly fit a St Bernard in here,’ she snapped and then bit her lip. ‘Sorry. I’m stressed.’

‘I can see that you are,’ he said, even more gently. ‘Can I see your dog?’

She looked into his face and saw laughter—and knew suddenly that there was no way she’d be thrown to the camels when this guy was around. She took a deep breath and opened her purse.

Buster’s nose appeared, then his whole head. He bobbed up and gazed around with interest, noted the proximity of the plush armchair and dived neatly downward. He sat, the picture of innocence, inspecting the Scrabble board as if he could read the letters.

‘He… he looks a well-trained dog,’ Hugo said faintly.

‘I… yes.’

‘Can he spell absquatulate?’

The tension faded a little. Not too much, though. This man was big. Seriously big.

In the dining car he’d worn a jacket and tie, in deference to his grandmother, she guessed, but here… His silver-grey silk tie had been tugged loose and the top buttons of his shirt were undone. His chest was as brown and sun-weathered as his face, and his muscles were clearly delineated under the soft cotton of his shirt.

He filled this tiny sitting room. And he was so close…

She was accustomed to lean, fit men—she lived in a world of dancing, where strength and fitness were everything—but in this man there was an extra dimension.

Sheer, tough grit.

She’d joked about it with Rachel. Suddenly the jokes faded.

She was in a tiny sitting room, in her pyjamas, with a man who looked what he was. A warrior.

Where was she? she thought wildly. What had he asked? Buster. Spelling. Absquatulate. She was out of control anyway, and the dumb question made her feel dizzy.

‘He could if he wanted to,’ she managed. ‘But he may not bother. He has a well-honed instinct for what’s important.’

‘Like keeping away from butlers.’

‘Yeah,’ she managed. ‘But not for keeping his head below the parapet. I… he decided to chase a camel.’

‘A camel…’

‘He didn’t understand,’ she said, aware she was sounding hysterical but there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. ‘The camels were outside the train and he was in. We opened the door out into the corridor to see them and he went haring out after them. And he barked.’

‘As any well-trained dog would with a camel,’ Hugo said gravely, but his mouth twitched in a way she was starting to recognise. And like. Like a lot.

She was trying to explain. She had to focus really hard on what she was saying. This man was seriously disconcerting.

‘I grabbed him and stuck him under my sweater,’ she continued valiantly.

‘I did wonder why you were wearing a sweater on a heated train.’

‘My sweater’s just for emergencies. He’s great in my purse.’

‘You’re leaving him in your purse for the whole trip?’

‘No,’ she said, indignant. ‘We leave him out in our little compartment. We have a pet mat for him to pee on and he’s very good. I just take the pet mat to the bathroom when I need to.’

‘Under your sweater?’ He sounded fascinated. At least he hadn’t thrown her out yet, she thought, feeling a tiny bit less desperate.

He was humouring the lunatic.

‘He’s neat,’ she said, sounding defensive. ‘It’s easy.’

‘Until it comes to camels.’

‘Yes,’ she admitted and met his gaze—and then looked down at Buster. Because for some reason she couldn’t hold that gaze.

What was it with this guy?

She’d danced with some of the best-looking males in the world. As a ballerina, she was accustomed to being skin-close. Here, she wasn’t even skin-close to this man, but her body, for some weird reason, was starting what seemed a slow burn.

He had her totally disconcerted. He was still gazing at her dog. His dark hair was thick and wavy, and she had the most absurd desire to touch it, to run her fingers through and see how it felt.

Was she out of her mind? This guy was a billionaire. She was here in her pyjamas to ask for his help. A sexual come-on was maybe—just maybe—totally, absolutely, unquestionably out of the question.

‘They’re great pyjamas,’ he said inconsequentially. ‘Cute.’

‘They’re Rachel’s.’ What else was a girl to say?

‘She has great taste. Tell me why you have a dog on the train.’

And he’d turned from fun to serious, just like that. The twinkle had faded and he wanted answers.

He deserved them.

He was looking at her again—at her—and his gaze was implacable. Not harsh, though, she thought, or even judgemental. She had a feeling she knew how this guy would operate in action; how he’d ask for answers from his men.

His underlings could come to this man if they were in trouble, she thought. But if they’d been stupid?

Stupid or not, she needed his help and he deserved the truth.

Why did she have a dog on this train? The answer was simple—and dreadful.

‘My sister was in a car crash twelve months ago,’ she told him baldly, not trying to conceal the emotion she still felt. ‘Her husband was drink-driving and Rachel was seven months pregnant. She broke her pelvis and lost her baby. Her marriage ended. She’s a trained geologist but her pregnancy and accident meant she lost her job. She’s spiralled into depression and I was desperate to do something to distract her. We’ve decided to move to Darwin and somehow I managed to talk her into taking the trip on this train first. But Buster has been with us since childhood. We couldn’t come without him.’

She glanced down at the little dog and her smile returned, just like that. Buster did that for her. ‘Buster’s our one true thing,’ she said. ‘He’s old and placid and no trouble to anyone. So…’

‘There are kennels and carrier companies to fly animals.’

‘There are,’ she agreed. ‘But you try talking Rachel into using them. We’ve both ached to see Uluru. Rachel’s research means she should see these places. This train’s been a dream for a long, long time, but she won’t leave Buster to do it.’

‘So you gambled.’

‘Yes,’ she said and tilted her chin. ‘And it’s worth it. Rachel’s smiled this trip, and her smile’s reached her eyes for the first time since she lost the baby. Even if we get thrown off now, it’s still been worth it.’

‘I doubt they’ll throw you off.’

‘We’re budget passengers. Of course they’ll throw us off.’

He fell silent, watching her with those cool blue eyes. He was weighing her story, she thought. Weighing her?

‘And you came to me why?’ he asked at last.

‘You and your grandmother are the only people I know on the train.’

‘You don’t know us.’

‘Dame Maud knows me.’

‘Maud’s asleep.’

She stared down at her pink flip-flops and tried to make herself think. Tried to figure a way out of this mess that didn’t involve this guy.

Tried to figure why she’d ever run to him in the first place.

A knock sounded on the door and she jumped.

‘Yes?’ Hugo sounded wary—as well he might.

‘Mr Thurston, we need to speak to you.’

We. Uh oh. Amy’s heart sank. It was the Platinum butler’s voice but we meant a deputation. She must have been seen.

Criminal sighted fleeing carriage in pink pyjamas, carrying dog-sized purse.

When all else failed, face the music. She squared her shoulders and turned towards the door but, before she could take a step, Hugo had scooped Buster up and opened the inner door to the bedroom beyond. ‘Don’t move,’ he hissed.

‘Give us a moment, gentlemen,’ he called, and disappeared. She heard an urgent murmur from within, and then he was back, without dog.

Don’t move? She’d have to be stupid to move. Whatever was happening, whatever he intended, she wasn’t getting in his way.

She watched, stunned, as he upended her purse, brushing out stray dog hairs. He thrust a book inside and a couple of magazines as well, manoeuvring them so they made the purse bulge.

‘Sit,’ he told her, and she didn’t have a choice, for he put his hands on her shoulders and forced her downward.

She sat.

For one millisecond he gazed down at her, his eyes a question. Then he seemed to answer himself. He undid a couple more buttons of his shirt. A wicked grin flickered beneath the set purpose of his gaze and, before she could stop him, he’d flicked open the top buttons of her pyjama top as well. He exposed cleavage. He exposed enough cleavage to make her almost indecent!

‘Wh…’

‘Hush,’ he said, and then more firmly, ‘hush, my lady of the night. You need to look…’ He stood back and looked at her, considering. ‘I know how you need to look.’

He stooped and placed his mouth on hers.

He kissed her.