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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.
