Her Outback Rescuer

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.

CHAPTER THREE

TO SAY she was shocked would be an understatement. To say she was thrown into a dimension she hadn’t known existed would still be an understatement.

One minute Amy was figuring out how she could face a livid train conductor with her illegal dog. The next… Hugo Thurston’s mouth was on hers.

There was no permission asked or granted. His hands were hard on her shoulders and he was kissing her whether she wanted to be kissed or not. His mouth was claiming hers. He was drawing her into him and he was possessing her with power and heat and sheer magnetic lust.

She was being kissed by Hugo Thurston?

How had this happened? She had no idea. She should struggle—but that’d mean somehow she had to figure out what was going on, and right now all she could think of was this kiss.

The heat. The power. The sheer magnetic pull.

She was melting into a man she’d met only hours ago. He was kissing her as if she was the most desirable woman… and she was responding?

Of course she was responding. How could she fail to respond? From the moment his mouth touched hers, from the moment his arms tugged her close, through shock she felt herself melt.

It was as if every nerve in her body was short circuiting. The heat from her lips was arcing out, up, down, around her body, causing every nerve-ending to cease functioning.

No. They were still functioning, she thought, dazed beyond belief. It was just that they were totally centred, totally focused, totally fused on this mouth that was claiming hers.

Such a kiss…

She’d been kissed before—of course she had—but never by a great weathered warrior of a man, a guy who oozed testosterone, whose strength was like an aura around him. A man whose eyes had gleamed once at her as he lowered his head, his gleam a dare, a challenge shooting from those blue, blue eyes.

She wasn’t thinking straight. How could she think straight? His mouth was plundering hers. His tongue was searching for entry and discovering a response in her that almost overwhelmed her.

She felt herself arch a little, her body automatically demanding to be nearer. Instinctively, involuntarily, her hands reached and found the thick thatch of his sun-bleached hair and she felt herself glorying in the silkiness, the strength. As if she was another woman, someone she didn’t recognise, couldn’t recognise, she felt herself deepen the kiss, and she felt a low burn start in her body. The flicker flared and built.

And then the contact broke, just like that.

He put her away from him, the gleam still in his eyes. He was laughing at her, she thought. Laughing!

His hand went to his belt buckle and twisted it undone—and then he turned to the door.

As he tugged it open he was fastening his belt again. He was glancing around at her, as if checking she was… respectable?

She wasn’t respectable. He’d set the scene, she thought, stunned beyond belief. He’d made it look like…

She knew what it looked like. He was re-fastening his belt clumsily. She was sprawled, stunned, in the armchair, her pyjamas only just decent. She was flushed and dazed and her mouth felt bruised.

She felt—and she looked, she suspected—thoroughly, totally kissed.

She couldn’t help it. She raised her hand to her lips and Hugo’s smile deepened. He winked—the toe-rag winked!—before turning back to the men at the door.

It was Henry and the conductor from her carriage.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, urbane and polite. But his annoyance was unmistakable for all that. ‘How can I help?’

The scene was being played out to a nicety, Amy thought, unable to move. No one could doubt what had been happening in this room. No one could doubt why it had taken Hugo so long to answer the door.

‘I’m so sorry…’ Henry started, but the conductor behind him was made of sterner stuff. Maybe he wasn’t quite as intimidated by the Thurston billions.

‘The girl you’re with,’ he growled, and pointed to Amy. ‘That woman. We have reason to believe she’s carrying a dog.’

‘A dog?’ If they’d announced life on Mars, Hugo could hardly have sounded more stunned. ‘Amy has a dog?’

‘Miss Cotton,’ the conductor snapped. ‘She’s budget class.’

Hugo froze.

Once upon a time Amy had seen a frail, elderly Sir James Thurston escort his wife through a crowd of post-ballet revellers. A photographer had suddenly emerged from the throng and shoved his camera so close to Dame Maud that she’d spilled her drink.

Frail, elderly Sir James had suddenly been frail and elderly no longer. If there was ever any proof needed about the power needed to make the billions, it was there in that moment, when one blustering photographer was reduced to a whimpering puddle of humiliation.

And here it was again: the Thurston power. The stance of the man. The single glance, cold as flint.

‘Budget class,’ Hugo repeated, and the two words could have cut glass.

‘That’s… that’s where she’s from,’ the conductor managed. ‘I’ve searched her compartment and when I couldn’t find the dog…’

‘You searched my Amy’s compartment?’

My Amy. She should be pleased, Amy thought. Here he was, her hero, defending her. Instead… My Amy. She felt like standing up and saying Oi!

But now was not a time for feminist principles. Somehow she managed to subside. Her job was to sit and look kissed.

That wasn’t hard. She was kissed.

‘She’s brought the dog here,’ the conductor said, but instead of sounding sure, he was now sounding sulky and defensive. Henry the butler was glancing at him as if he suspected he’d lost his mind.

Woman coming to billionaire’s bedroom at dead of night—understandable. Woman smuggling dog to billionaire’s bed… Not so much.

But the conductor knew his job and was intent on carrying it out. ‘It’s in there,’ he said, and pointed straight at Amy’s purse. He darted forward—and then he hesitated. ‘Does it bite?’

‘Does what bite?’ Hugo demanded, still at his autocratic coldest.

‘The dog.’

‘You’re saying a dog’s in Miss Cotton’s purse.’

‘Yes.’

Hugo closed his eyes. He visibly counted to ten, and then he opened them again.

He looked at Henry and hauteur gave way to sympathy. ‘Are you okay with this?’

‘Please…’ said the miserable Henry. ‘If you could just open the purse we could all just go back to…’ he glanced at Amy ‘…to whatever we were doing.’

Indulge the lunatic and you’ll be left alone, his tone said, and Hugo sighed and nodded.

‘Okay. Let’s do this. No, it won’t bite,’ he assured the conductor, and a commander approaching a shell-shocked soldier couldn’t have achieved a more sympathetic tone. ‘But let’s make absolutely sure. Miss Cotton, would you open your purse for us?’

But Amy didn’t move, or not instantly. Things were happening too fast—and she wasn’t helped at all when, instead of handing her the purse, Hugo stooped and kissed her again, hard, fast, on the mouth.

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