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Chas blinked. ‘No. I mean, so would most people probably.’
‘It’s part of me,’ Vanessa said slowly, then changed the subject again. ‘You will come up often, won’t you?’
‘Of course, as often as I can.’
Chas drove home in a slightly better frame of mind than the one she’d started the day in, but she found she had Vanessa Hocking on her mind.
A strange mixture, she thought. Those arrogant Hocking airs her brother could turn on in spades—she broke off and shivered as she recalled the way Tom Hocking had looked at her from time to time—but then a glimpse of vulnerability in Vanessa, which was certainly not in Tom.
The next morning, Monday, she began to make arrangements for the Weaver-Hocking wedding. She engaged caterers, she hired the marquee as well as chairs and tables. She got in touch with her favourite florist and a hairdresser who also did make-up.
It was a slight tussle on account of lack of time to persuade the wedding-dress specialists whose work she really admired to take on the creation of the wedding and bridesmaids’ dresses, until she mentioned that the groom was heir to a peer of the realm. It produced an instant response—not only would they be happy to do the dresses, but they’d also be happy to travel to Gladfield to take measurements and for future fittings.
She put the phone down with a sigh of relief. That had to be so much easier than co-ordinating Vanessa and the bridesmaids to come down to Brisbane.
She remembered then that one thing they hadn’t discussed was music, for the church or the reception, and she made a note to speak to Vanessa about it.
Her next call was to her mother about Harriet and Clare’s outfits plus the bride’s trousseau.
‘The thing is,’ she said down the phone, ‘I’m a little short of time for getting the outfits for the mother and aunt of the bride designed and made, but I’m terrified that if they’re off the rack, someone else will turn up at the wedding in them.’
‘Come and see me at work, darling,’ Hope Bartlett advised. ‘We’re thinking of featuring a new designer, she’s very good and very keen to make her mark. She might well consider a wedding commission, especially a wedding like this—didn’t you say the bridegroom was a lord? Worth her while, despite the short notice. And I can certainly help you out with the trousseau.’
‘You’re a pet, Mum! And what would I do without Rupert?’
‘Come again?’
‘He’s the lord, Rupert Leeton, Lord Weaver. You have no idea what doors that name unlocks!’
On Tuesday, Chas drove down to the Gold Coast for a conference with staff of the luxury hotel where one of her other weddings was to be staged in the ballroom.
At the end of a satisfying talk, she strolled out into the beautiful gardens that gave onto the beach to pick out the optimum spot for the wedding photos.
The last person she expected to bump into was Tom Hocking.
CHAPTER THREE
‘THE wedding consultant, alias Aphrodite,’ he said and paused. ‘But looking as if she needs a handy hole to fall down.’
Chas regained some of her composure. Ignore the Aphrodite reference, she told herself firmly. He’ll only trip me up with it, make me blush or worse. ‘If I’m—surprised, it’s because you’re the last person I expected to see.’
‘Or the last person on the planet you’d like to see?’ he mused. ‘Is that what you really mean?’
She shrugged. ‘You choose, Mr Hocking. What does bring you here? I,’ she supplied conversationally, ‘am here on business, wedding business.’
He stood and looked at her for a moment.
There was little resemblance to the master of Cresswell Stud in his attire of navy trousers and a pale blue linen shirt that could have been Armani. His black leather shoes and belt looked to be hand-stitched, and his brown hair was smooth and sleek.
Mind you, her mental processes told Chas, none of it hid the ruggedly elegant frame beneath his clothes. None of it changed the disturbing power of that grey gaze as it rested on her thoughtfully.
In fact, she was even prompted to wonder whether she and Tom Hocking would ever be able to be in each other’s company without the fateful memory of those minutes together in his bed coming between them.
He certainly took his time about his appraisal of her.
She wore three-quarter hot-pink trousers and a white T-shirt beneath a burnt-orange short-sleeved jacket. Her high sandals matched her jacket and her patent bag matched the trousers. It was a chic, colourful outfit and she had a heavy gold bracelet on her right hand. Her hair was loose and riotous. Despite a fairly intense conference with the hotel staff, she looked as fresh as a daisy.
‘Mmm…’ he said at last, but whether it was approval or not, Chas had no idea. ‘Uh—I’m staying here. I have one or two people to see, and a business deal to close. Let me buy you a drink, Ms Bartlett.’
‘Oh, there’s no need for that. I mean, thank you,’ Chas rephrased, ‘but I do have to drive back to Brisbane.’
‘What about an iced coffee, then?’ He turned to a passing waiter and placed the order for two iced coffees. ‘How about that table over there?’ he suggested to Chas. ‘Under the umbrella.’
Chas contemplated telling him he was the absolute limit, but he took advantage of the pause to stroll over to the table and pull out a chair for her.
Short of making a scene, there wasn’t much she could do but take her seat.
‘This is nice,’ he said, and gestured to the view of the sea beyond the gardens.
‘It is,’ she agreed, ‘although that’s hardly the point. Never mind, perhaps we can talk business,’ she added, and began, detail by minute detail, to advise him of the arrangements she’d put in place for his sister’s wedding, until he laughed and put up a hand in defence.
‘No more, please, Chas, you’re making me dizzy.’
‘I just thought you might like to know how I’m spending your money,’ she replied innocently.
‘Rather than paying me back for calling you Aphrodite? Of course.’ He paused as their coffees were served, then he asked the waiter to pass on to Reception where he was, since he was expecting some guests.
‘Certainly, Mr Hocking, sir,’ the waiter said defer-entially.
The silence between them lengthened after the waiter’s departure.
‘What?’ Tom Hocking said at last.
Chas shook her head. ‘I don’t know. There’s something about you that—’ She stopped and gestured with both hands.
‘Annoys you?’ he suggested.
‘So it would seem.’ Chas spooned some of the swirled cream atop the iced coffee into her mouth.
‘It’s probably because of how we met.’ His eyes were full of satanic amusement.
‘I know that,’ she murmured, and flinched as his bedroom returned to her mind’s eye.
‘Do you really have trouble telling your right from your left, Chas?’
‘I really do,’ she replied, and felt automatically for her watch. ‘Whether you like to believe it or not,’ she added. ‘Of course, it’s worse in the dark.’
All the same, how could she have been so careless? she wondered. And how was she going to cope with continued references to it? Maybe a cool, humorous touch was called for?
‘That’s a pretty spectacular bedroom you have.’ She gestured. ‘You could almost say it was designed for seduction.’
He lifted an eyebrow. ‘I’m not into “designer” seduction so you’ll have to blame the interior decorator my mother got in. No…’ He rubbed his knuckles across his jaw and looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Come to that, I’m not into seduction at all. I prefer things to be mutually spontaneous. How about you?’
She stared at him frostily and made a mental note to strike all future humorous touches. ‘Naturally,’ she said, but it didn’t sound right, it didn’t sound soignée, it sounded just like someone who had been bested at her own game. She bit her lip.
He smiled lazily. ‘You have a little speck of cream on the corner of your mouth.’
Chas fished her napkin out from below the coffee glass and wiped her mouth.
‘That’s better,’ he drawled then lifted an eyebrow. ‘Well, I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean?’ She frowned.
‘It’s an eminently kissable mouth even without a speck of cream.’
Chas stared at him, her eyes widening and her colour fluctuating.
He started to laugh, with genuine amusement. ‘It’s OK, that’s not a fantasy I’m partial to along with a seduction-guaranteed bedroom. I just couldn’t resist it.’
It occurred to Chas that shock, horror and condemnation were becoming all too frequent reactions from her, and could even be fuelling Tom Hocking’s desire to shock her. But how to respond otherwise? To her amazement she heard herself having another go at cool amusement.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said smoothly, ‘although there might be plenty of girls willing to smother themselves in whipped cream for you—who knows?’
‘And you couldn’t care less?’ he murmured.
‘No!’ She smiled. ‘I’m only the wedding consultant. Maybe, if I get Vanessa’s wedding right, you’ll consider me for your own?’
‘I doubt it.’ He smiled back. ‘I think I’d be far better off with someone who didn’t remind me of Aphrodite rising out of my bed, I really do.’
‘You’d probably need a man, then,’ she suggested.
He said softly with those mesmerising grey eyes glinting, ‘You’re showing your claws, Chas.’
‘Don’t provoke me.’ She looked at him exasperatedly. ‘I—’ She stopped as three people came up to the table.
‘Ah!’ Tom rose. ‘My guests. Chas, meet Will Darling, Heather, his wife, and Loretta Quinn. This is Chas Bartlett.’
Chas recognised Will Darling immediately. He was a captain of industry seen frequently in the papers and on television. His wealth was legendary; his wife, Heather, was almost as legendary for the parties she gave and an extremely forthright manner.
As for Loretta Quinn, in her late twenties and stunningly beautiful, she played the harp and had just released a solo album that had rocketed to the top of the charts. There was something almost fey about her trademark long, curly fair hair, her pointed little chin and her eyes that were the colour of eucalyptus leaves. She wore all white, a loose, lovely dress with a handkerchief hem.
Both she and Heather Darling kissed Tom with obvious affection before turning to Chas.
‘How do you do?’ Heather said. ‘Are you Tom’s new girlfriend? I do hope so. You look rather nice, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘Heather!’ Will Darling looked heavenwards, and he shook Chas’s hand. ‘Take no notice of her, my dear. Mind you, she’s right about the last bit—Tom?’
‘No, although we did meet in bed,’ Tom said, and the absolutely wicked laughter in his eyes caused the faint pink in Chas’s cheeks to deepen. ‘Sadly,’ he added as everyone stared at Chas with a kind of fatal fascination, ‘it was by accident. No, she’s a wedding consultant extraordinaire. I hired her for—’
‘Not Vanessa’s wedding?’ Heather broke in excitedly. ‘Are we talking Vanessa’s wedding? I’m so looking forward to it! Has she actually set a date?’
Chas nodded, revealed the date and murmured that the invitations were due to go out shortly.
‘Look here, Will, darling—’ Heather turned to her husband ‘—don’t you dare be anywhere else on that day! What about you, Loretta?’
Loretta looked injured. ‘Would I do that to Vannie? I promised I’d play the “Wedding March” for her.’
Chas took a breath, most of her discomfort melting at this news. ‘That…that would be so lovely!’
‘Thanks.’ Loretta shrugged.
The conversation became general then and through it Chas formed the impression that the Darling and the Hocking families had strong ties, and that Will and Tom were in together on the business deal that they hoped to sew up shortly with a Japanese consortium.
Perhaps there was a lot, lot more to the master of Cresswell than met the eye, she mused at one stage. Definitely part of the rich and famous, even if he did go out and help a mare in foaling difficulties…Although that didn’t mean she had to like him.
She made her excuses not long afterwards. Tom didn’t try to detain her and the others of the party said goodbye with genuine warmth.
She became aware as she walked away that the Darling-Hocking-Quinn gathering was the cynosure of all eyes amongst other guests enjoying the gardens.
It really was the most amazing opportunity for her to break into society weddings, she told herself as she drove home. She’d be mad not to pull out all stops to get this wedding absolutely perfect, with some unique touches.
She stopped at a traffic light, and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Does that include a better relationship with the bride’s brother? she asked herself. What if he goes on making remarks about how we met? How can I forgive that?
Her parents came round that evening, on their way home from a bargain-basement sale.
Her father collected LPs—his record player was one of the delights of his life—and he’d picked up a box of LPs for a song. He brought them up to show Chas.
‘And this,’ he said triumphantly, holding a record sleeve aloft, ‘I’ve been trying to track down for years. Herb Alpert. You may not have heard of him, darling, he was well before your time.’
‘I don’t think anyone who grew up in your house could not have heard of Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, Dad,’ Chas murmured, ‘although I’ve never seen that.’
‘Whipped Cream and Other Delights—it came out in 1965,’ her father said. ‘The cover was quite a talking point.’
‘I can imagine.’ Chas stared at the stunning dark-haired girl on the cover with a long-stemmed pink rosebud in one hand and wearing a low-cut mantle of whipped cream…
She moved restlessly in bed that night, finding sleep hard to come by and unable to get the Whipped Cream record sleeve out of her mind’s eye.
I would never allow myself to be smothered in cream for any man’s delectation, she reminded herself sternly, so why does it take me right back to Tom Hocking’s bed? Why does it make me think of being naked in his arms and…other delights?
Why do I feel lonely and unfinished, edgy and aching with that special kind of longing?
Being in his bed and in his arms got to me, she acknowledged after some painful thought. Or he got to me, or a part of me I thought was dead and buried after Rob…
Strange, because he also scared me, and at most other times he annoys the life out of me. Then there’s the long line of peachy blondes his own sister accused him of.
He’s just too damned attractive, too…She stopped and sighed. And she recalled with sudden clarity the speculation she’d seen in three pairs of eyes, speculation to do with how she and Tom might have met in bed, even by mistake, and she shivered. Too attractive, and too clever, and now I think I even hate him, she reflected.
Tom Hocking didn’t go to bed until midnight.
He got up from a table strewn with papers, stretched, and crossed the lounge of his hotel suite to the balcony where he stared over the beach and the sea. There was no moon but in the starlight a line of white surf was breaking on the beach. He could hear its rhythm and smell the salt in the air.
Strangely, since he hadn’t thought of her for the hours since they’d parted, he discovered Chas Bartlett was on his mind.
Something of a surprise, he conceded. He could have sworn she hadn’t been physically unmoved by their encounter in his bed. He’d even tended to take her explanation of how she’d got there with a pinch of salt. Heaven alone knew, he’d come across some extremely ingenious women in his time including one who had done exactly that—smuggled herself into his bed—but now he had to wonder. She was exhibiting all the signs of being an iron maiden. A smile touched his lips as the thought crossed his mind.
Unfortunately—the smile became dry—he’d discovered that he was more moved by that encounter than he’d expected. Or at least, he corrected himself, the mental image of her glorious hair, her smooth, slim body, those tantalising legs in that damned slip of a nightgown had taken to popping into his mind when he least expected it.
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