The Cattleman

It was the first time she’d been given a commission on the basis of her looks and ancestors.

UP IN HER BEDROOM, Robyn paced the perimeter of the Persian rug, as a lioness might pace the perimeter of her cage. She was utterly enraged. For B.B. to humiliate her in front of a complete stranger left her wanting to kill someone. Though she had done everything in her power to fit into this family, she fumed, she would never be regarded as a true daughter of the house. Like that old witch Lavinia, who smiled so lovingly on Cyrus, had said, Robyn wasn’t a true Bannerman. No unshakable bond of blood; the belonging was only on the surface. Scratch the surface and it was as clear today as it had been from the outset when she’d first come to Mokhani with her mother, she was an outsider. Her mother, not capable of getting both oars in the water, had nevertheless shoehorned herself in, always sweet and unassuming, dutiful and deferential to her rich and powerful husband.

Their marriage had been a big lie. B.B. had married her mother, an old school chum of the incomparable Deborah, only to beget more sons. But poor Sharon couldn’t rise to the challenge, though she had looked like “lust on legs,” as a guy she knew put it. The sad reality was that Sharon hadn’t been very fertile, and her marriage to B.B. seemed to render her completely barren. Her daughter, Robyn, her only child, was her sole achievement. Needless to say, B.B. was bitterly disappointed in her mother and had all but ignored her, unceremoniously bundling her out of the master suite and into a room on the other side of the house, causing Sharon to curl up and simply fade away. B.B. had wanted a long succession of heirs, not just Cy, the son of the only woman he had ever loved, that paragon Deborah who, for all the cups and ribbons she’d won, had gone hurtling over the neck of her horse.

Robyn had sensed quickly, as an animal might, B.B.’s deep-seated fear of his own son, as though one day Cy would overshadow him, and hell, wasn’t it already happening? Though she hated to have to say it, Cy was remarkable. Cy was the future. She didn’t know anyone apart from B.B. who didn’t wholeheartedly admire Cyrus. As for how people regarded B.B., they mostly feared him, called him a bloody bastard—but never within B.B.’s hearing. B.B. would regard such a thing as a declaration of war, then order a preemptive strike.

But he was a bastard, nevertheless. A ruthless bastard. It was that more than anything that kept Robyn in line. In the odd moment when she choked up on memories of her mother—she really had loved her, or at least as much as she could, given Sharon’s single-digit IQ—she realized with great bitterness just how badly B.B. had treated her mother. Sharon had had everything material she’d wanted, but she had missed out totally on what she really wanted—tenderness and affection. Sharon had realized from the beginning there was no way she was going to get love.

Ironically, this beast of a man seemed to inspire all kinds of women, from the innocent needy like her mother to gold diggers, to give matrimony with him their best shot. B.B. hadn’t married any of them, but he certainly hadn’t been celibate since her mother’s death. Lord, no! There had been various affairs, all very discreet. Even with young women, who found the sexiest thing about a man was his bank balance. The one thing Robyn hadn’t been prepared for when B.B. had announced he was calling in an interior designer to decorate the mansion, was that she would be so young and ravishingly pretty. Attractive would have been okay, but not a bloody aphrodisiac for men.

The shock had been ghastly. She didn’t think Cy had expected it either, nor had he been pleased. But here she was among them, this Jessica Tennant.

B.B. had first seen her on national television. Robyn had missed the program herself, as had Cy, so they’d had no warning. They knew only that she was shortlisted for some big prize, which meant she had to be good at what she did, but at twenty-four she couldn’t have had much experience. Add to that, she was a bloody siren. Robyn had seen the look B.B. had given the woman. It had been as rapt as a sixteen-year-old boy’s.

Robyn halted in her frenzied pacing, and her blood turned to ice water. What if B.B. had it in his head this time to take another wife? Why should that shock her? He had plenty of money, after all. So what if they were decades apart in age? B.B. was a secretive man, but he didn’t do anything without a reason. No one had ever seen him make a false move. Now Ms. Jessica Tennant, in the guise of an interior designer. What had seemed incomprehensible started to appear perfectly clear.

I have to protect myself, Robyn thought. I’m no loser like Mum.

A FEW MINUTES BEFORE THE TIME scheduled for the grand tour, Jessica made her way downstairs. Best not be late, when Bannerman was famous for bawling people out. Robyn had dropped out of sight, no doubt slamming her palm against her forehead in mortification, but Mrs. Patterson, who turned out to be a very pleasant woman, had been on hand to show Jessica to her room.

There, she had changed her outfit, settling for something cool, cotton pants with a gauzy multicolored caftan top decorated with little crystals and beads over with tiny buttons down the front. Usually she did up just enough to cover her bra, but with the way Broderick Bannerman had been looking at her, she decided to do them all up.

The dazzling play of late-afternoon light falling through the beautiful leaded panes and fan lights on the front door held her immobile for a moment. The kaleidoscope of color unlocked some lovely fragment of memory from her childhood. Before she could move, the door opened, letting in a wave of hot air.

And Cyrus Bannerman. The look he gave her held her transfixed.

“Hi!”

“Ms. Tennant. We meet again.”

At first glance, he could have been a particularly sexy and virile escapee from the TV show Survivor. His darkly tanned skin glowing with sweat and grimed with red dust gave him a startlingly exotic appearance. Red dust had thrown a film over his jet-black hair, which was tousled and fell onto his forehead. There was a stain of brownish-red—blood—across his bush shirt, and his eyes seem to blaze a hole through her.

They continued gazing at one another for what seemed an inordinate amount of time. Was it the atmosphere? she wondered. The old homestead certainly had an air about it.

“Sorry,” he said finally. “I must look a mess. One of the men took a bad fall off his motorbike. Head injuries. We didn’t want to move him. I had to call in the RFDS. That’s the Royal Flying Doctor Service, as I expect you know. God knows what we’d do without them. They didn’t take long.”

“Is he going to be all right?” Only now could she take a few more steps down the stairs, reassured that an injured employee so clearly mattered to him.

“We have to wait and see with head injuries. I’m worried about him.” Cy’s remarkable eyes made another sweep over her. “Meanwhile, what have you been up to?”

“Why, nothing.” She stopped where she was on the stairs. “Change of clothes is all,” she said sweetly. “Now your father is taking me on a tour of the new house.”

“I see.” He pulled at the red bandanna at his throat, exuding so much powerful masculinity she felt in need of oxygen.

“That’s good. For a moment I thought you’d missed something along the way. Your father has hired me to handle the interior design.”

“Indeed he has. Forgive me if it takes a little time to get used to it.” He came close to her, so commanding a presence, Jessica remained where she was, two steps above him. A dubious advantage.

“You must be extremely clever, Ms. Tennant. Dad was compelled to hire you after seeing you for about ten minutes on a TV program? Have I got that right?”

He was suspicious of his father’s motivation, she suddenly realized. It was emblazoned on his smug, handsome face. “You have. What’s so amazing?”

“The pure chance of it.” His eyes shifted to the little beads and crystals on her top and he gave a leisurely verdict. “Very pretty.” He paused, then said, “Look, Ms. Tennant, I’ll level with you. I’m concerned about this. I’m sure you’re talented, but it doesn’t automatically follow you should be given such a big commission. At this stage of your career anyway.”

She leaned forward slightly, her voice mock confidential. “Be that as it may, it was your father who hired me, Cyrus. He’s the man I have to answer to. Not you.”

“Say that again.” Suddenly he smiled into her eyes. Night into day.

“I’m sure you took it in the first time. Your father hired me—”

“Not that!” he scoffed. “The Cyrus bit. I really liked the sound of my name on your lips.”

She knew she blushed, but she couldn’t control it. “Calling you Cyrus is the easy bit. Getting on with you appears to be quite another. What exactly is it you and your sister—”

“I don’t have a sister,” he corrected.

“That’s odd. I’ve met her.”

“You’ve met Robyn,” he pointed out suavely. “Robyn is my father’s adopted daughter.”

“Which surely means legally she’s your stepsister?”

“Ah, you’re turning into a hotshot lawyer before my very eyes. Robyn is my stepsister, forgive me. She must be. She lives here.”

“Not your average loving family, then?” She forced her breath to stay even.

“Unfortunately, no.”

“I’m sure there are reasons.”

“There always are. Are you going to come down from those stairs?”

“Not for the moment. I like us to be on the same level.” She was attracted to this man. Powerfully attracted. It was the very last thing she needed or wanted. She was here to do a job, not play at a dangerous flirtation.

“That would never be unless you grow a few inches.”

“Or own some very fancy high-heeled shoes, which I do. Well, it’s nice chatting with you, Cyrus, but I’m supposed to meet your father.”

“I’m not detaining you, surely?” He made an elaborate play of backing off, his ironic smile putting more pressure on her. She felt slightly giddy as she descended the last two stairs to pass him. Something he undoubtedly noticed and chalked up as a small victory.

Her nerves were stretched so taut she actually jumped when Broderick Bannerman, a look of barely suppressed impatience on his face, suddenly appeared in the entrance hall. He looked from one to the other as though they were conspiring in a plot against him. “There you are, Ms. Tennant. I did say four o’clock, didn’t I?”

“I’m so sorry—” Jessica was tempted to mention it could only have been a few minutes after four, but Cyrus intervened.

“She was chatting with me, Dad. Okay?” He lifted a hard-muscled arm and glanced at his watch. “How time flies! It’s three minutes past.”

“And you’re back early,” B.B. clipped off.

“Surely there’s not a note of disapproval in that. I don’t clock on and off, Dad. Eddie Vine took a bad spill off his motorbike. He’s been airlifted to the hospital.”

“I’m not surprised to hear that,” B.B. said with a frown. “He’s a bad rider.”

“No.” Cyrus jammed his hands into his jeans pockets. “You’re the one we all have to get out of the way for, Dad. Now, I’m off for a good scrub. Enjoy the tour.”

“We shall,” his father replied curtly.

At that moment, a middle-aged attractive woman with soft gray eyes and long dark hair pulled back into a severe French twist hurried into the entrance hall. “Excuse me, B.B. I’m sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Kurosawa is on the line. I know you want to speak to him.”

B.B. all but snarled. “Dammit!” Then, more mildly, he added, “Okay I’m coming, Ruth.” He turned back to Jessica with a surprisingly charming smile. The many faces of Broderick Bannerman in less than half a minute she thought. “I’m sorry, my dear, this is going to take time. I’ll have to postpone our tour until tomorrow.”

In the background, Cyrus Bannerman spoke up. “If Ms. Tennant will give me ten minutes, I can show her around the place.”

“I prefer to do it, thank you, Cyrus.”

“No trouble, Dad,” Cyrus insisted smoothly.

There was a silence as B.B. responded to what seemed like a challenge.

“Very well,” he barked, turning abruptly on his heel.

Cyrus Bannerman stood, lean elegant frame propped against the cedar post of the staircase. “By the way, Jessica, you haven’t met Ruth, have you? Ruth is Dad’s secretary. Ruth this is Jessica Tennant, Dad’s new interior designer.”

“Pleased to meet you, Jessica.” B.B.’s secretary gave Jessica a sweet, flurried smile, clearly anxious to follow her master. “I must go. B.B. might want something.”

“Best not keep him waiting, Ruthie,” Cyrus warned, his blue eyes full of mischief. “Now suddenly it’s up to me, Ms. Tennant, to give you the grand tour.”

“Why is it I’m thinking you’re trying to score points in a competition with your father?”

“God, is it that obvious?” He shook his head. “Why don’t you wait for me on the veranda? It’s nice this time of day. I’ll only be ten minutes.”

“I beg you. Don’t hurry on account of me.”

“You should thank me for rescuing you,” he said blandly.

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