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At the Cattleman's Command
Lindsay Armstrong
Rugged Australian Tom Hocking's reputation is legendary throughout the Outback–as a breaker of horses and a wooer of women. So wedding planner Chas has made up her mind to keep out of his way while she organizes his sister's wedding.But there's nowhere to hide at the Hocking homestead. And from the get-go theirs is a love/hate relationship as Chas tries to resist Tom's intoxicating good looks. She's got far too much to lose to place herself at this cattleman's command!
“So, were you sent to secure the deal in the time-honored way?”
She stared at him with her mouth open.
“Don’t play the innocent with me,” he advised softly. “It happens. So what exactly does The Perfect Day wedding consultancy supply? Your services in my bed, as well?”
Chas drew a deep breath into her lungs and swung her free hand so that it connected with his cheek, hard.
He didn’t even flinch, but jerked her into his arms. “If that’s how you like it—rough—two can play that game,” he said, barely audibly.
His arms felt like iron bars around her. The look in his eyes, of serious contempt, frightened the life out of her. But what was even more frightening was the realization that, contemptuous or not, he intended to kiss her….
At the Cattleman’s Command
Lindsay Armstrong
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Lindsay Armstrong was born in South Africa, but now lives in Australia with her New Zealand-born husband and their five children. They have lived in nearly every state of Australia and have tried their hand at some unusual—for them—occupations, such as farming and horse-training—all grist to the mill for a writer! Lindsay started writing romances when her youngest child began school and she was left feeling at a loose end. She is still doing it and loving it.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#u5f2ce16c-b131-572c-b471-7bc8ffceedba)
CHAPTER TWO (#ua873ebfd-0c51-5e83-b0e5-be8a709926e8)
CHAPTER THREE (#ufc0b4713-6cc6-558a-964e-5c8279239bb6)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
‘CHAS BARTLETT?’ Tom Hocking frowned. ‘Are you suggesting a man to organise this wedding, Birdie?’
‘Not so strange when you think about it,’ his secretary, Birdie Tait, offered.
They were talking to each other over the phone, Tom from his stud outside Warwick, Birdie from the office in Toowoomba.
‘Men do design clothes,’ Birdie continued down the line. ‘They also make great chefs and interior decorators, so—why not? Chas Bartlett certainly comes highly recommended.’
‘You’ve met him?’
‘No. But I spoke to a very satisfied customer. All Laura Richmond could say was Chas did this; Chas organised that; Chas was a dream! And her daughter’s wedding was a howling success.’
‘Laura Richmond,’ Tom repeated thoughtfully. ‘Talk about a raging snob if ever I’ve met one. Mind you, things are getting hairy up here, so…’ He paused and shrugged. ‘Go ahead and hire the guy, Birdie, for a consultation at least.’ He pulled his diary towards him. ‘Am I right in thinking I’m free next weekend?’
‘Yes, Mr Hocking.’
‘Then see if you can get him to drive up and stay overnight on Saturday; we’ll all be here, which may not be that easy to arrange over the next few weeks. Explain that to him if he objects to working weekends.’ He paused. ‘It mightn’t be a bad idea to drop the hint that my sister is marrying the heir to a peer of the realm.’
‘A very good idea, Mr Hocking.’
‘Thanks, Birdie. If I don’t hear otherwise from you, I’ll expect him at—say—four o’clock on Saturday afternoon?’
‘I’ll do my best, Mr Hocking.’ Birdie put the phone down.
She was well-named but, although frail and diminutive in appearance, she had the heart of a lioness when it came to guarding and promoting her employer’s interests. In many ways she looked upon Tom Hocking as the son she’d never had—she’d worked for his father Andrew and had been wildly and hopelessly in love with him.
Truth be told, she would have been much more interested in seeing Tom marry and settle down rather than his sister, Vanessa, whose wedding they’d been discussing—but here she often paused and sighed.
At thirty-three and six feet four in his socks with a rock-hard body, Tom attracted women in droves. It wasn’t only that. He was equally at home riding a horse or flying a plane, and his business acumen had seen him advance the Hocking empire with a vengeance when he’d taken over from his father.
He now held executive positions on the boards of several companies that were Australian icons. He mixed—but then the Hockings always had—with the cream of society.
But was there more than the occasional tinge of impatience in his grey eyes, eyes that were often amused as well as devastatingly acute, these days? His sense of humour had always been wicked and irreverent, but when he lost his temper the wisest course was to take evasive action. Not that it happened often but—was it happening more often these days?
Birdie sighed again. She could tell that her boss wasn’t a hundred per cent happy but there was nothing she could do to help.
She might like to pin it down to the lack of the right woman in his life but that was simplistic, she knew. On the other hand, finding the perfect woman could be part of the problem. Even at his best, Tom Hocking was a handful. He was a born leader and capable of sheer arrogance. One suspected a prospective wife would need the patience of a saint, but would a saint be what Tom was looking for?
Tom Hocking also took a moment to ponder after talking to Birdie on the phone.
It so happened he liked the heir to the peer of the realm to whom his sister, Vanessa, was engaged, but he wasn’t totally convinced Rupert Leeton, Lord Weaver, was what she needed. Vanessa was as head-strong as an unbroken filly at times, whereas Rupert was a thinker and a dreamer.
His mother was ecstatic about it, though. Even his aunt Clare, a dedicated, rather eccentric spinster who lived with them, was delighted.
However, the run-up to these nuptials looked set to provide a maelstrom of confusion and turbulence.
Vanessa and his mother were already arguing over wedding-dress designers, venues and bridesmaids. Clare and Vanessa were at loggerheads over the choice of minister to perform the service. Rupert was starting to look strained and his slight stammer was becoming more pronounced.
Tom was of the opinion that it promised to be a rare bun fight, unless he took a hand, hence his decision to call in a wedding consultant.
He pushed his fingers through his hair then rubbed his jaw as he contemplated his household and his lifestyle.
He’d stepped into his father’s shoes five years ago. At that time Cresswell Lodge, on Queensland’s Darling Downs, had been the main family enterprise. An historic thoroughbred stud pioneered by one of his ancestors, its beautiful old homestead was still a showpiece.
The stud sold yearlings all over the world and, in consequence, the Hocking family rubbed shoulders with the élite of the thoroughbred world: sheikhs, royalty and self-made billionaires from all continents.
Not only had he continued that tradition but he’d also branched out. He’d put his love of flying, brought with him from the air force, to good use, for example, and turned a small crop-spraying business into a private airline. Most of his customers were pastoralists, graziers or mining and exploration companies, but he’d recently opened a deluxe charter wing for anyone who wanted to get from A to B in style and privacy. It was going well. So were his other non-thoroughbred enterprises.
Not that his mother, Harriet, approved entirely. She gave the impression that anything tainted with commercial overtones, which encompassed just about everything that didn’t have to do with horses, was beneath her. She lived and breathed horses. She had been a champion dressage rider in her day with an Olympic medal to her credit.
That was how Cresswell had acquired Rupert Leeton. The son of a friend of a friend of Tom’s mother, he’d come ‘down under’ to further his Olympic equestrian aspirations by taking tutelage from Harriet Hocking—and he’d never left.
A frequent source of irritation for Tom was the way his mother, and his sister come to that, simply refused to recognise that Cresswell Stud was a highly commercial enterprise, even if it did rely on horses. It was his father’s judgement in mares and stallions, and now his own, that kept an awful lot of dollars rolling in, without which they wouldn’t be able to scour virtually the whole world for horses.
Vanessa was also horse-mad. She was a showjumper, with extremely expensive tastes in all areas but little appreciation of how it was all funded. Both Harriet and Vanessa were passionate about Cresswell…but did Rupert, he often wondered, understand this trait in his future bride?
And there was Clare, his paternal aunt. He was very fond of Clare, despite her sometimes daffy ways, but even she had a very expensive hobby. She collected paintings and antique porcelain.
They all, with the possible exception of Lord Weaver, had very decided ideas.
He got up and went over to the mantelpiece. There was a framed photo of himself on it staring out over a vast, untamed landscape. He studied it for a long moment. It epitomised the call of the wild he’d had to resist for the last five years, which he’d spent nurturing the Hocking empire and his mother, aunt and sister. Then he turned away and dragged his thoughts back to his sister’s wedding.
‘Here’s hoping you have a solid constitution, Chas Bartlett, wedding consultant,’ he said to himself. ‘What you really need to be is a battering ram in a velvet glove.’
Charity Bartlett, nicknamed Chas from childhood, did not tend to make the people who knew her think of her in ‘solid’ or ‘battering ram’ terms, even within a velvet glove.
She was twenty-six, with deep blue eyes, pale skin and a mass of rich brown shoulder-length hair with a slight kink in it. She was five feet four, leggy and slender, with narrow hands and feet.
One did discover, if you got to know her, that she was warm and friendly, extremely active and energetic. She was a good lateral thinker but she had trouble telling her left hand from her right without the large round gold watch on a sturdy leather band, which she always wore, and possessed a poor sense of direction.
None of this interfered with her sheer artistry in putting together that ‘one perfect day’. She credited her parents’ genes for this. Her father, a cordon bleu chef, owned and ran a gourmet delicatessen and extremely ‘in’ café. Her mother, Hope, the head buyer for a chain of fashion stores, travelled overseas twice a year and was au fait with all the latest fashions. Her mother, Chas’s grandmother, Faith, had owned an antique shop and taken interior-design commissions. For as long as she could remember, Chas had been exposed to wonderful food, elegant clothes and lovely homes.
Since her father and grandmother could also be classified as highly excitable people, it was her mother who must have passed on to Chas some practical genes. It was these genes, added to her innate sense of style, that had enabled Chas to build up a wedding-consultancy business and make a go of it.
She’d called her consultancy The Perfect Day and ran it from her apartment in Brisbane. Thanks to the Richmond-Dailey wedding in Toowoomba, eighty miles west of Brisbane, Chas’s reputation had spread, she discovered as she took a call from one Birdie Tait, on behalf of someone called Thomas Hocking.
‘May I speak to Chas Bartlett?’ Birdie said down the line.
‘Speaking,’ Chas replied.
‘But—is this The Perfect Day wedding consultancy?’
‘Yes, it is, and I am Chas Bartlett, which is a bit confusing, I know. Chas is actually short for Charity.’
‘I see,’ Birdie said slowly.
‘Is that a problem, me not being a man—uh—Ms Tait?’
‘Well, no.’ Birdie sounded a bit confused, however. ‘It’s just that Laura Richmond gave me to understand—the thing is, she only ever mentioned you by name, not by gender, now I come to think of it, so…’ She trailed off.
Chas looked heavenwards. The Richmond-Dailey wedding had been a nightmare to organize, thanks to the bride’s mother, whom Chas had privately nicknamed Attila the Hen. Yet now it sounded as if Laura might have recommended her to someone.
You’re a genius, kid! Chas complimented herself with a grin.
‘Well,’ Birdie said again, ‘would you be interested in organising another wedding on the Darling Downs, Ms Bartlett?’
Ten minutes later Chas put the phone down and studied the notes she’d made.
Cresswell Lodge, the Hocking family, a peer of the realm—no, the son of a peer of the realm, but still a lord. Lord Weaver to be exact.
Chas stopped reading her notes at this point and got up to waltz around her studio. You beauty!
When Birdie Tait put down her phone, she studied it unseeingly for a long moment, then she shrugged.
Tom had found the idea of a man organising Vanessa’s wedding surprising, so he was not likely to take issue with Chas Bartlett being a woman, was he?
She had sounded rather young, though. Still, anyone who’d survived Laura Richmond must be quite tough, so why was she, Birdie, worried?
It came to her. Surviving Laura Richmond and surviving Tom Hocking were two entirely different matters…
Birdie bit her lip. But sounding young didn’t necessarily mean you were young and impressionable in that regard, did it? All the same, for all concerned, it would probably be a good thing if Chas Bartlett wasn’t young, impressionable—and pretty.
She pulled the phone towards her again and rang the stud but all she got was the answering machine. She left a message for Tom, telling him it was all set up for next Saturday and correcting her mistaken information on the wedding consultant’s sex.
Then she tried his mobile but it was unattended so she left a short message saying that Miss Charity Bartlett was arriving on Saturday, and asking him to either call her or check his emails. She then posted him an email message.
More, other than take to carrier pigeons, she thought exasperatedly, I cannot do.
Once she’d started to make money, Chas had invested in a royal-blue Range Rover. She’d had the back seat taken out so there was plenty of space for samples, dress boxes, boxes of invitations and the like.
It was a clear Saturday afternoon as she drove west of Brisbane and via Cunningham’s Gap towards Gladfield, the address of Cresswell Lodge.
The flat-topped vertical striations of the Great Dividing Range stood out rocky, grand and tinged with blue in the clear air. The bellbirds were calling as she drove through the Gap.
On the top of the range, the scenery changed to mostly flat and the temperature dropped a bit. It was early spring so the landscape of vast paddocks was still tending towards dry and old gold or raw and ploughed.
She’d been told to arrive around four and she was running on time. To help with her often non-existent sense of direction, she’d got detailed instructions from Birdie and drawn herself a large-scale map in thick black felt-tip pen.
She turned off the highway as instructed and took a few back roads through the paddocks. She turned right into Cresswell Lane and it ended at the gates of the lodge. Pretty impressive gates too, with horses rampant on each gatepost.
Horses, Chas thought, and—carriages. I haven’t done a horse and carriage wedding yet but this mob might be perfect for it!
She drove on between well-fenced paddocks, past a lovely old barn with a central cupola, then the drive climbed a bit and as she breasted the rise she took a quick, excited breath. Cresswell Lodge homestead was a gem as it spread out below.
Beneath a vast green roof, the walls were of honey-coloured stone. The house was L-shaped with paved verandas. Some of the walls and posts were creeper-hung, and a smooth lawn flowed down to a creek flanked by graceful old willow trees.
Curls of smoke were coming from the chimneys and two dogs were gambolling on the lawn—a large Great Dane and a miniature fox terrier. They stopped gambolling and streaked towards the Range Rover as she pulled to a stop.
A woman in her sixties, all kitted out in riding gear, came round the corner of the house and called the dogs to order as Chas got out of the car. They took no notice of her.
‘Hello! Who are you? Don’t worry about Leroy and Piccanin, they don’t bite.’
