‘So you won’t kiss me again?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘Can I ask why not?’

‘One,’ she said, patience personified, ‘I’m not a one-night stand sort of girl. I may have been desperate enough to lurch in here with my dog and my pyjamas, but I’m still respectable.’

‘Right,’ he said faintly. ‘And two?’

‘Two? Two is that I’m not interested in any sort of relationship. If you’re thinking one kiss could signal the beginning of an affair, even a tiddly, inconspicuous affair, I’ll tell you where to put that as well.’

‘Can I ask why?’ He shouldn’t ask—this was the craziest of conversations—but she had him intrigued.

‘Because even though you’re drop-dead gorgeous, and even though the tabloids have you as billionaire and your grandpa’s heir, and you even say you’re hero material, I’m totally, absolutely not in the market for any sort of relationship. It’s taken me months to persuade Rachel to come away with me. You think two days into our journey I’m going to turn around and say, Sorry, Rachel, go back to your books for a while because I have this hot guy in Car Two?’

‘I understand,’ he said, and he did. But what he didn’t understand was his unfathomable sense of loss.

There was an attraction between them. She’d felt it—she must have felt it. He’d intended that kiss to be fast and hot and to leave her flustered enough to look … well, flustered. What he hadn’t counted on was that it would leave him feeling as he’d intended her to look.

Dear Reader,

This year my husband and I set off on the journey of a lifetime, travelling through the centre of Australia on the legendary Ghan Railway, and then onto a boat at Darwin and around the northern Australian coastline to Broome.

We got on and off train and boat. We climbed crags to see art painted seventeen thousand years ago. We rode camels. We met crocodiles. We poked around on a reef that varies from six metres under water at high tide to four metres above at low tide. We came home gloriously, wondrously happy, and aching to share.

So what better way, I thought, than to create two deserving heroines and send them off on an adventure of their own? Not only could they have the time of their lives, as we did, but they could also chance upon heroes as rugged and tough as the landscape they share.

In this, the first of my two Outback books, Amy and Rachel are sisters in deep trouble, travelling to escape tragedy. Major Hugo Thurston—commando, billionaire, solitary soldier—is about to meet his match.

This is Amy’s story, and it’s set on the Ghan and at Uluru, the very heart of Australia’s Outback. Please forgive any slight adjustments I’ve made to the layout of the Ghan and to its timetable. And note that my imaginary Ghan staff bear no resemblance to any of the real staff, all of whom were and are unfailingly fabulous.

Look out for Rachel’s story to come—watch my website, www.marionlennox.com, for release dates.

Enjoy!

Marion Lennox

About the Author

MARION LENNOX is a country girl, born on an Australian dairy farm. She moved on—mostly because the cows just weren’t interested in her stories! Married to a “very special doctor”, Marion writes for the Mills & Boon® Medical Romance™ and Mills & Boon® Cherish™ lines. (She used a different name for each category for a while—readers looking for her past romance titles should search for author Trisha David as well). She’s now had more than seventy-five romance novels accepted for publication.

In her non-writing life Marion cares for kids, cats, dogs, chooks and goldfish. She travels, she fights her rampant garden (she’s losing) and her house dust (she’s lost). Having spun in circles for the first part of her life, she’s now stepped back from her “other” career, which was teaching statistics at her local university. Finally she’s reprioritised her life, figured what’s important, and discovered the joys of deep baths, romance and chocolate. Preferably all at the same time!

Her Outback

Rescuer

Marion Lennox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Elizabeth and for Mary Michele.

Without your friendship, laughter and belief,

my stories would never happen.

I love you both.

CHAPTER ONE

THE Structure and History of Granite looked fascinating reading. He could scarcely imagine the plot.

But plots weren’t on Major Hugo Thurston’s current agenda. As an elite commando with the Australian Armed Forces, Hugo was trained to make fast decisions and he made one now. As reading choice for his dinner companion, the book on granite seemed perfect.

Seemed. Make sure. His training said check the whole scene.

The reader wasn’t alone. She was one of a pair, and both women looked less than thirty. This could mean trouble, especially when Maudie was with him.

But, on closer inspection, things looked even more promising. The book held by the second woman was Prehistory in Stone.

‘We’re sitting here,’ he told the waiter, and before Maudie could object, her grandson shepherded her into the seats opposite the two readers. Hopefully they’d keep their noses in their books for the entire meal.

But even if they did, Hugo still didn’t want to be here. He and his grandmother were travelling Platinum Class on the Ghan, the legendary train running through Australia’s vast outback. Platinum service included gourmet meals served in their private sitting room.

But… ‘Why would I want to eat my meals just with you?’ Maudie had demanded.

‘We have massive windows. You can look at the whole Australian outback while we eat.’

‘The dining car has windows, too, and I like meeting people. If your grandfather was here, he’d have taken me to the dining car.’ Maudie had groped for her handkerchief, and so, of course, the thing was decided. To the dining car they went, where tables were filled to capacity—which meant, Platinum Class or not, they had to share.

With Granite and Prehistory.

At least let this meal be better than lunch, he demanded silently of fate. It could hardly be worse. For their first meal on board they’d been stuck with a middle-aged couple who recognised Maud and exuded sympathy as a form of pleasantry.

‘We read about your husband’s death. Oh, you poor thing. But he had such a fabulous life. You can’t really mourn someone so rich who dies so old, can you?’

Then, as Maudie failed to respond, they’d turned to Hugo. ‘And you’re home to take over your grandfather’s company. It’s about time. The gossip magazines have been wondering about you for years. No one’s ever been able to understand why you’ve stayed in the army so long, and in such awful places. And what a waste when you’re so rich…’

He’d wanted to do violence, but his grandmother’s dignity had made him reply in an almost civilised fashion. Maudie had grown quiet with distress but she was one brave lady. She’d returned for dinner, to take another chance.

With Granite and Prehistory.

‘Would it be an imposition if we sat with you?’ Maudie asked the stone women, deferential, even though in the democracy of the train dining room there was no choice.

Granite gazed up from her book. She was in her late twenties, Hugo thought. Her fair hair was hauled into a scrappy bunch of curls which spoke of little effort, and the smile she offered was perfunctory. She looked… absent, he thought, and he wondered if she’d been ill.

‘Hello,’ she said softly. ‘Of course you can sit here; isn’t that right, Amy?’

The woman beside her—Amy?—lowered her book. They looked like sisters, Hugo thought. They were both slight, maybe five feet four or so. Both had soft blonde curls and clear brown eyes. They were both a little too thin.

What was more important than their appearance, though, was that neither looked gushers. Granite was already returning to her book.

The one called Amy, however, seemed slightly more interested. She glanced briefly at Hugo, and then at Maud.

Maud gazed back, eighty-three years old, recently bereaved and obviously anxious. Despite her assumed bravery, Sir James’s death had devastated her, and the ordeal of lunch had left its mark.

Her eyes locked with Amy’s.

Be nice to her, Hugo silently demanded, but he got no further. No silent demands were needed. Prehistory-transformed-into-Amy made her decision and she beamed a welcome.

And that beam…

She was exquisite, Hugo thought, as stunned as if the sun had come out right over their table. She was simply, gloriously lovely.

Granite, the shadowed one, was wearing jeans, sneakers and a plain white shirt. Amy was dressed for comfort as well, but very differently, in black tights, ballet flats and a soft blue oversized sweater. Her hair was looped into an unruly knot, with wispy curls tumbling free. Unlike her sister, she was wearing a little make-up. Her full lips were glossed the palest of pink and there was a touch of sparkle around her eyes.

But with a beam like hers, Hugo decided, Amy didn’t need sparkle. Maudie was returning her smile, and what a smile.

Amy hadn’t smiled at him, he thought.

Um… so what? He was here to keep Maudie happy, and if Amy could do it…

Please don’t gush, he demanded silently of her. Please don’t do the… Oh, you’re Dame Maud Thurston.

She didn’t.

‘Save me from rocks,’ she said simply.

Maudie smiled back. She slipped into the window seat and Hugo sat beside her, but no one was looking at him. Granite was back in her book and Amy had eyes only for Maudie.

‘Rachel thinks I’ll enjoy this journey more if I understand what I’m seeing,’ she said, still beaming her pleasure at Maudie’s arrival. ‘But rocks…’

‘We’re seeing some interesting rocks,’ Maudie ventured, and Hugo saw a hint of a twinkle in his grandmother’s eyes.

A twinkle. That was what he was here for.

His grandmother had planned this journey with his grandfather, had looked forward to it, had persuaded her ailing husband it was just what he needed to restore his health, but tragically James had died four weeks before departure. Maudie had sunk into desolation so deep it scared him, and taking this journey in his grandfather’s stead had seemed as good a way as any to distract her. So far it hadn’t worked. Hugo hadn’t seen Maudie smile for a month, yet here was her smile again, and he felt a knot unravel in his gut that he hadn’t known had been knotted.

All his life he’d tried to stay detached, but right now he wasn’t detached at all. In the face of his grandmother’s grief he was helpless.

‘You’re a dancer,’ she was saying to Amy in tones of discovery, and Amy’s smile faded a little.

‘Um… yes,’ she admitted as Hugo looked on in astonishment. Rather than the woman recognising Maudie, the situation was reversed.

‘Oh, my dear, you’re Amy Cotton.’ Maudie seemed awed. ‘You danced in Giselle last July. We went backstage and were introduced…’

‘I was only in the corps de ballet,’ Amy said, looking flabbergasted. ‘How did you…’

‘I know all our dancers,’ Maudie said. ‘And you’ve danced many more major roles. You used to be…’

‘A long time ago I used to be,’ Amy said flatly, her beam fading to nothing. ‘And now I’m completely retired.’

‘Oh, of course. Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry.’ Maudie’s twinkle gave way to distress. She reached across the table and touched Amy’s hand, a fleeting touch of genuine contrition. ‘You know my James died a month ago? Everyone keeps wanting to talk about his death and I hate it, yet here I am, the minute I see you, launching into talk of your retirement. At the level you danced, I know it must hurt almost as much as losing James. I’m so, so sorry. Can we talk about rocks again, or would you like to go back to your book?’

There was a moment’s silence. Granite had looked up from her book and was watching Amy with concern. Not Granite. What had Amy called her? Rachel.

‘You don’t have to read it,’ Rachel ventured. ‘I only suggested it…’

‘As a way to distract you?’ Maudie ventured. ‘Like my grandson keeps telling me to look out of the window. “Look, Gran, there’s a camel,” Hugo says, when all I’m seeing is James. But you know, even if it hurts to think of James—and it does—there’s no way camels work as diversionary tactics. I suspect books on rocks might even be worse.’

Silence.

This could go either way, Hugo thought. They could all retreat and he could have the private lunch he craved, or…

Or maybe he was no longer fussed about a private lunch. Maybe these two had him intrigued.

Danger. One hint of interest, he told himself, and Maud would be away on her favourite pastime. Even his grandfather’s death hadn’t deflected her. These were two young women. Young. Women. Once upon a time Maudie had been fussy about who she threw at him. Now she was growing desperate. Young and women were the only two descriptors she needed, and the fact that Amy danced…

He needed, very carefully, to be uninterested. He needed to shut up and let Maudie do the talking—if Amy and Rachel would let her.

And it seemed they’d relented. Amy’s smile returned, not on full beam, as it had been when welcoming an elderly lady to join her, but neutrally friendly now, treating his grandmother as an equal.

‘I’m a bit touchy,’ she admitted. ‘And I’m sorry. I’ve been retired for three months now—you’d think I’d be over it. But your husband’s death…’ This time it was she who touched Maudie’s hand. ‘Sixty years of marriage to a man such as Sir James… You and your husband have done so much for our world. You can’t imagine how grateful we’ve been, and you can’t imagine how much he’s missed.’

She smiled, then, a smile that was neither ingratiating nor patronising to the old. It was, Hugo thought, just right. ‘I guess we all have to learn to cope with loss,’ she said. She glanced fleetingly at her sister and an expression passed between them Hugo didn’t have a hope of understanding. ‘It never stops being gut-wrenching, but maybe we need to give the occasional rock and camel a chance.’

She glanced out of the window and suddenly her smile returned in full. ‘And speaking of camels… Look!’

And out of the window four wild camels were loping along, keeping pace with the train.

Camels had been brought to Australia in the nineteenth century. Made unnecessary now by modern transport, they’d run wild and thrived in places where no other animal could survive.

‘They’re amazing,’ Amy breathed as she watched the wild young camels race.

‘Fantastic,’ Maudie agreed, finally caught by the camels she’d scorned.

‘They have camel races at Alice Springs,’ Amy said regretfully. ‘But there are no races while we’re there. Rachel says we’ll look at rocks instead.’

This was said with such a tone of martyrdom that Maudie laughed, and Rachel laughed—and even Hugo found himself smiling.

And then he thought: a ballet dancer who made them all smile. Uh oh.

Ballet was Maudie’s passion. At six feet in her rather substantial bare feet, Maudie could never, ever, have been a ballet dancer, but she adored it and she had a permanent booking for most major Australian performances.

As a kid, in the many times his father had offloaded him onto Maudie, she’d often taken Hugo with her.

He glanced across at Amy now and he thought: had this woman been one of those sylphlike figures whose movements on the stage were pure grace and beauty?

The last ballet he’d been to was when he’d been about sixteen. He’d been traumatised by the latest of his father’s public scandals. His grandparents were the centre of media attention and, in typical teenage fashion, he’d decided every eye in the theatre was on him. He’d watched, sullen and uncooperative, but, despite himself, he’d found himself caught. He’d thought then, fleetingly, he knew why his grandmother loved it.

But, after that, he’d never been back. Real men didn’t go to the ballet, especially men headed for the army, for the powerful SWAT team, for action in Iraq, Afghanistan, so many of the world’s trouble spots.

Now, at thirty-seven, he was seeing a faint echo of a world he’d last seen twenty years ago.

Amy was talking to his grandmother as if she was already a friend. She’d figured just the right note. They shared sadness, yet both were moving on.

The sister—Rachel?—seemed a shadow on the periphery, polite but looking as if she’d love to retreat to her stones.

The impression of illness intensified.

He’d like to know these women’s stories.

No. No, he wouldn’t. He wanted to get this journey over with, get his grandmother cheered up and get back to his unit. His grandmother was doing everything she could to draw him into her world, and he would not be drawn.

Except the appalling woman they’d met at lunch had been right. Maybe he had no choice.

The camels won. They upped the pace, swept forward until they were a carriage ahead and then veered away, triumphant.

‘I’m guessing they race every train,’ Amy said, and she suddenly sounded wistful. ‘Don’t they look wonderful? Don’t they look free?’

‘They’re young,’ Maudie said, and the wistfulness was in her voice as well. ‘They’ll get aching legs soon enough.’

‘Yep, any minute now they’ll be taking anti-inflammatories and heating wheat bags to take to bed at night,’ Amy said, and Maudie chuckled—and Hugo glanced at Amy and thought: there’s pain behind those words. Pain and courage.

He did not want to be interested in a woman on a train.

Rachel was back in her book.

Amy was slipping steak into her purse.

Amy was what?

He must have imagined it.

He hadn’t imagined it. She’d sliced a sliver, then dropped her hand below the table to where her purse lay on her knee. When she’d raised her fork the steak was gone.

She cut another sliver and ate it, just like normal.

The waiter appeared to take Maudie and Hugo’s order. They were a course behind the girls. They could watch.

Rachel read. Amy and Maudie chatted.

A steak sliver raised to Amy’s lips. Another.

Another went below the table and disappeared.

Hugo was trained to notice small details. Suspicions. Anything out of the ordinary could mean trouble. As tiny a detail as a robe worn slightly askew, or a guy smiling more widely than appropriate meant immediate caution.

He wasn’t in a war zone now. He could hardly drag Amy’s hand up with the offending steak and say, Explain yourself.

Another sliver dropped purse-wards. She glanced up and met his gaze. Their eyes locked.

She knew he’d seen.

She didn’t say a word but there was a message in those clear brown eyes…

Please don’t say anything. This is important. Please…

Curiouser and curiouser. A steak-smuggling, rock-reading ballet dancer.

Okay, he wasn’t interested in women, at least not when he was around Maudie, but this was a mystery and maybe he could enjoy challenge without involvement.

His steak came. His grandmother had ordered fish. In the corner, Rachel had sent her quiche back uneaten.

On impulse, he cut a couple of slivers from the corner of his steak, dropped them into his napkin—then passed it under the table to Amy.

His fingers touched her knee. She met his gaze, startled. His gaze locked, held; a silent message passed between them.

She dropped her hand under the table and found his.

The napkin passed between them and her eyes widened.

‘Is anything wrong?’ Maudie demanded, her sharp eyes missing little but not seeing the exchange. Only Amy’s stillness.

‘I… no,’ Amy managed. ‘Do you like your fish?’

‘It’s excellent,’ Maudie said. ‘Though the servings are too big. They always are.’

‘But you finished all your steak, Miss Cotton,’ Hugo said gravely.

‘Amy,’ she said, sounding distracted.

‘Amy,’ he said, liking the sound of it. ‘I’m finishing mine, too. It’s a long time till breakfast. They should provide midnight snacks. Maybe a steak sandwich in the small hours? I wonder if they have spare bread?’

She glared at him. His lips twitched. He had a mystery here and, despite his vow to stay uninvolved he sat back and started to enjoy himself.

‘I’ve lost my napkin,’ he told the waiter as he went past. ‘Could I have another, please?’

Amy’s glare intensified.

‘So are you two getting off at Alice Springs?’ Maudie was asking. This train went all the way north to Darwin, but many passengers broke the journey halfway to see the fabulous rock formations: Uluru, formerly known as Ayers Rock, The Olgas, Mount Connor…

‘We are,’ Amy said. ‘Of course we are. We’ll spend a few days exploring. So many big rocks… What could make Rachel happier?’

Rachel gave a fleeting smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

‘Will you climb Uluru?’ Maudie asked her, but it was Amy who answered.

‘Uluru’s sacred to the indigenous people. They don’t like anyone climbing. I’d love to climb the Olgas, though. Did you know European explorers named the Olgas after Queen Olga of Wurtenburg, when the local people named it Kata Tjuta thousands of years ago? Then they changed Uluru to Alice Springs, naming it after someone who never even came here. How weird is that?’

‘Weird,’ Hugo agreed, finding himself increasingly drawn into the conversation. This woman was passionate, he thought. There was enough indignation in those few words to show she cared.

And then he looked closer. In Afghanistan he’d trained himself to notice tribal differences. These two women had cute blonde curls, but their skin was darker than the complexion from Irish or English heritage. It wasn’t the dark of fake tan; it was more a beautiful bronze brush. And Amy’s nose, cute and snub, was a tiny bit flattened at the end. Another of those subtle hints.

‘You have native blood,’ he said, and suddenly, wow, here was her beam again. He loved this beam. How could he make it stay on?

‘Well done, you,’ Amy said. ‘We’re three-quarters Irish, but our maternal grandmother was from a tribe near Alice. She was taken away as a child, but she talked about Kata Tjuta and Uluru all our childhood.’

‘She never came back?’

‘Sadly, no. She died when we were still kids, but we always told her we’d come. And now, with Rachel’s rocks…’

‘You’ll climb?’

‘Kata Tjuta? Rachel might not be able to,’ Amy said. ‘She’s been ill. But I will. Rachel wants rock samples, and I’ll take photos.’

‘Which is a problem all on its own,’ Rachel volunteered from her shadows. ‘Amy’s photos tend to be smudgy pictures of clouds or of her trainers.’

‘Oi. I’m better than that,’ Amy retorted.

‘Not much,’ Rachel said darkly.

‘My grandson takes wonderful photos,’ Maudie said, and Hugo realised that, for the first time in the entire trip, Maudie sounded happy. And… thoughtful? Uh oh. He knew that tone. Maudie’s Machiavellian matchmaking was about to go into overdrive. ‘And I expect you need rock samples, Rachel, my dear.’

‘I do,’ Rachel said, and she smiled, too. It was a faint echo of her sister’s smile, but she was no longer looking at her book. ‘Uluru and Kata Tjuta are made of a type of sandstone known as arkose, with shiny crystals of pink feldspar mixed in. There’s controversy about ageing. I have permission to take tiny traces to confirm composition.’

‘Hugo could cart you down boulders,’ Maudie said, in her element now and loving it. ‘He’s very strong. He’s a commando, you know.’

‘I thought commandos carted machine guns,’ Rachel said, mystified.

‘I cart steak,’ Hugo said promptly. ‘That’s been my latest mission. Steak-smuggling.’

Amy choked, and then managed to swallow laughter enough to glare at her sister. ‘We’re not here to age rocks,’ she retorted. ‘We’re here on holiday.’

‘So are we, dear,’ Maudie said serenely. ‘Are you staying at the Uluru resort?’

‘We have a room in the budget hostel…’

‘Oh, no, dear, that’ll never do,’ Maudie broke in, and Hugo thought: uh oh. Uh oh, uh oh, uh oh. But there was no way of stopping Maudie once she was on a mission. ‘Hugo and I are staying at Thurston House, a homestead set up for senior management when they need a base out here. It’s a lovely self-contained house complete with pool, staff and staff quarters. But Hugo may need to visit one of our mines and I hate being there alone. But you, dear…’ She fixed her suddenly gimlet eyes on Rachel. ‘Do you play Scrabble?’

‘I… yes,’ Rachel admitted, sounding confused. ‘But…’

‘No,’ Amy said firmly. ‘We don’t.’

‘We do,’ Rachel said, even more confused.

‘Well, yes,’ Amy said, exasperated. ‘Rachel loves words almost as much as she loves rocks. When I walk out of a room, I leave, but Rachel absquatulates. And if you think I’m making that up, she added ab and ulate to my pathetic squat and achieved untold fame in the Great Cotton Scrabble Challenge of 2007. But if you’re offering us alternative accommodation, thank you very much but Rachel and I are self-sufficient.’

‘But if your sister’s been ill, she’ll feel bad that she can’t go off and do things with you,’ Maudie countered. This was like watching a train wreck, Hugo thought. It was about to happen, whether he jumped onto the tracks or not. ‘Like I feel bad when I can’t accompany Hugo. You’ll be doing us a huge favour if you stay with us. There are four bedrooms and they’re massive. Hugo’s organised a car to meet the train. We could travel down there together, the four of us, and have fun.’

‘Maud!’ Train wreck or not, he did step into the line of impending disaster then. ‘We can’t…’

‘Neither can we,’ Amy said faintly. ‘Thank you but…’

‘But we have twenty-four hours to change your mind,’ Maudie said happily. ‘You don’t want to stay in a backpackers’, do you, Rachel?’

‘No, but…’

‘There you are, then. Meanwhile, if you feel like Scrabble in the morning, we’re in Platinum Cabins Car Two, Cabins Four and Five, with a nice little sitting room in the middle. There’s a butler person who guards our privacy but just ask for us and Hugo will okay it. He’ll more than okay it. It’ll be lovely.’

Maudie beamed and her beam almost matched Amy’s, only Amy’s wasn’t on. Amy was now looking trapped—which was pretty much how Hugo was feeling.

‘I need to go to bed,’ Rachel said, still sounding confused. ‘If you’ll excuse me…’

‘If you’ll excuse us both,’ Amy said with alacrity and stood. ‘Thank you for the lovely offer, Dame Maud, but, of course, we can’t accept. Our accommodation’s already paid for, and we’re content. Goodnight.’

She backed to leave the table, but there was something Hugo needed to say. He’d been slicing for a while now. ‘Amy?’

Amy paused. ‘Yes?’

He shouldn’t say anything. He should simply let things finish right now, but this was irresistible.

‘Here’s a little something for midnight,’ he said, and he handed over his second carefully wrapped napkin.

Amy stared down at it. If it was possible for her to look any more hunted, she did.

‘Thank you,’ she said and stuffed it into her purse.

She turned and fled, with Rachel following limply behind.

‘What nice girls,’ Maudie said as they retreated.

‘Yes.’ But needy. He’d kind of like more steak.

‘It’ll be nice to have company at Uluru.’

‘They refused.’ Praise be.

‘They don’t mean it. Amy’s worried about Rachel. You can see it. She’ll like Rachel having a nice quiet time with me while you take her off exploring. You’ll have time. I know you’re thinking of visiting the mine, but there’ll be days to spare. I wonder what’s wrong with Rachel?’

‘It’s none of our business.’

‘Of course it’s our business. Amy’s part of the ballet company your grandfather and I practically founded. I usually keep track of the members of our company and it was a shock to hear she’s retired. Since James fell ill, of course, I haven’t heard a thing. I need to get back in touch. But then, it’s her sister who looks ill. She’s not in the ballet scene. If I wasn’t on this train I could make some phone calls…’

‘It’s not our business!’ he repeated.

‘Of course it is,’ she snapped. ‘They’re two nice girls and anyone can see they’re in trouble. It’s our job to help them. And it was very nice of you to give Amy your steak.’

‘I…’ She’d seen, then. He might have known.

No. Not worth arguing.

‘Though cold steak will be horrid as a late night snack,’ Maudie said, and he could tell she’d already included the girls in her list of responsibilities. Maudie’s principal skill was picking people up and making them feel better. Hugo loved her for it, but every now and then it got her into trouble. And now, like always…

Now he hadn’t a snowball’s chance in a bushfire of stopping her.

‘If Amy wants to bully Rachel into eating later on, she’d be better with sweets,’ she was saying thoughtfully. ‘We have complimentary chocolates in our sitting room. Do you think you should take them some?’

‘No. I don’t know where to find them.’

‘You can find them if you want to.’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘Hugo…’ Her voice was filled with reproach.

‘No.’

‘What a waste,’ she said sadly. But her indomitable spirit had been stirred and it wasn’t about to settle. ‘Still,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘We’ll probably see them at breakfast and if we don’t then I’ll track them down. And the house at Uluru… The more I think of it, the more perfect it seems.’ She smiled again, the smile that Hugo had wanted to return, but the smile that now meant trouble. ‘We might just have some fun, and heaven knows we all need it.’

Fun, Hugo thought.

He’d wanted his grandmother to have fun, but now he wasn’t too sure what fun entailed. Trouble?

Two single women and Maudie? Trouble indeed.

CHAPTER TWO

‘SO TELL me who they are,’ Rachel demanded.

To say Amy was disconcerted was an understatement. She needed to catch her breath, get her composure back and feed Buster.

Instead, for the first time in this trip, for the first time in months, she had her sister asking questions.

But Buster first. She locked their compartment door, opened the wardrobe and Buster nosed out.

Buster was a tiny fox terrier, the size of half a cat. He was fourteen years old, he was missing an ear and he had one gammy leg.

Rachel had found him over twelve years ago. He’d been tossed from a car like litter, and Rachel had come home holding the bedraggled creature as if he were diamonds.

‘Amy, we have to keep him. We have to. Please let me…’

They’d been staying with the last of their succession of foster parents and, as usual, Amy had pleaded on behalf of her younger sister.

‘He’ll stay outside. I can build him a kennel. We can use my allowance to feed him. I swear he’ll be no trouble.’

The couple they’d been staying with had been one of their kinder sets of foster parents and he’d been allowed to stay. At night they’d sneaked him in through their bedroom window. He’d slept with them then, and he’d been with them since.

Rachel had left him behind two years ago—he’d stayed with Amy during her sister’s doomed marriage—but they were together again now, and it was Rachel who needed Buster rather than the other way round.

The little dog nosed out of the tiny wardrobe and looked around with caution, as if he understood he was in hiding. Then his ears pricked and his disreputable tail started to wag.

He’d been on dog pellets for two days. He was clever. The smell from Amy’s purse was not dog pellets.

‘It’s rump steak,’ she said, and grinned. ‘With a tiny smear of béarnaise sauce for m’lor’s satisfaction.’ She set it on the table napkin on the floor.

Buster looked up at them first, his great brown eyes adorably expressive. His wagging tail meant he wagged his whole body. Joy was Buster and rump steak, and even Rachel was smiling.

But… ‘So who are they?’ she asked again and Amy thought: nope, she wasn’t about to be deflected.

‘The old lady’s Dame Maud Thurston,’ she told her sister. ‘She’s been a major patron of the Australian ballet for as long as I can remember. She’s a gem, and her husband was just as lovely. He made a fortune from mining—you must know Thurston Holdings—and together they’ve run one of the biggest charitable foundations in Australia. It’s not just the ballet that benefits.’

‘And the guy?’

For some reason Amy wasn’t sure of talking about the guy. He’d made her… edgy. ‘That’d be her grandson,’ she said.

‘So tell me about him.’ Rachel perched on her seat and hugged her knees.

Rachel? Interested in a guy?

A waft of remembrance flooded back, making Amy wince. Two years ago, Rachel had come backstage after a performance, her normal prosaic, academic self starry-eyed about the Spanish dancer who’d danced opposite Amy. ‘Tell me about him. Can you introduce me?’

It was the beginning of a tragedy which had left Rachel with shattered dreams and aching loss. Now… She must have seen what Amy was thinking because she rushed in.

‘I don’t mean that,’ she said, sounding angry. ‘He’s gorgeous but you needn’t think I’m ever going down that path again. And it’s you he’s interested in.’

‘He isn’t.’

‘He is.’

‘Rachel…’

‘Okay, he isn’t,’ Rachel said, and astonishingly she was smiling. ‘But you know about him. Tell me all.’

‘We’re not staying with them at Uluru.’

‘Of course we’re not,’ Rachel said equably. ‘But tell me about him all the same.’

‘I don’t know much. Only what’s spread in ballet circles and that’s only as much as affects the ballet. We’re a self-centred lot.’

‘But you do know something.’

She nodded, strangely reluctant. What was it about the guy that made her want to shut up, not probe further? But Rachel was interested and, the way Rachel had been for the last twelve months, any interest at all was to be encouraged.

‘The family’s been in the media for ever,’ she said, thinking it through as she spoke. ‘I don’t read gossip mags but because they’re important to the ballet world, I can’t help but keep up with them. Sir James owns… owned… Thurston Holdings. You know it’s one of the biggest mining corporations in the world? It’s also the most principled. Thurston’s has a reputation for fair dealings, for treating their people right, for restoring land after mining’s finished. Sir James and Dame Maud have tried to keep a low profile but, with that much money, that much power, it’s impossible.’

‘I have heard of them,’ Rachel admitted, which was a huge concession from someone who spent her life in books. ‘I did hear Sir James had died—it was all over the papers. So Hugo’s the grandson. Is his dad taking over the reins?’

‘That’s just it,’ Amy told her. ‘He’s dead. Bertram was a disaster but we know nothing about this guy.’

‘We?’

Amy flushed. She was no longer part of the Australian ballet scene, she told herself. Move on.

But Rachel wanted to know, and this wasn’t ballet. She could force herself to gossip a little.

‘The Thurston Corporation sponsors so much—the ballet, the theatre, sports for the disabled, medical research… So many organisations rely on them. But when Bertram was alive and we thought he’d inherit, it seemed like it’d all stop as soon as Sir James died.’

‘So Bertram was Hugo’s dad?’

‘Yep.’ Amy settled back onto her seat-cum-bed and decided she might as well recall all she knew. ‘According to gossip, Bertram was wild. Really wild. He was into parties, gambling, drugs, all the things his parents weren’t. His marriage lasted about two minutes—rumour is his wife suicided later on, but it could have been an overdose. She was a media bimbo. That set a pattern for Bertram. He moved from woman to woman, every one of them media darlings, every one of them self-destructing on the lifestyle. It must have broken his parents’ hearts, but there was no way they could stop him. He finally did the same.’

‘Why did I not know this?’ Rachel demanded.

‘Because most of it happened when we were kids,’ Amy said patiently. ‘I only know because Bertram died in unsavoury circumstances about eight years ago. By then he was so burnt out that even the gossip mags weren’t interested, except to up their interest in Hugo. But I was a baby dancer then, and I heard the relief in dance circles. Our director was trying hard not to be ecstatic. His take was that we’d have more chance of continued support from an unknown grandson than we ever had from Bertram. But Hugo didn’t come home, even then. He’s been in the army since he was a teenager, in some secret unit no one knows about. He’s made a couple of flying visits since and the press has gone nuts every time—Australia’s most eligible bachelor, that sort of thing—but he’s always looked like he hates it. There was a fuss when he came home for his grandfather’s funeral, but then he went to ground again. Everyone’s wondered what will happen to Thurston Holdings—and lo, here he is, on our train.’

‘Home to pick up where his grandfather left off?’ Rachel said doubtfully. ‘He doesn’t look like a businessman about to sponsor the ballet. He looks… tough.’

‘Like a warrior,’ Amy agreed, starting to enjoy herself. They were safely back in their cabin. Why not let herself wallow? ‘I was thinking that,’ she confessed, letting her mind meander over the man she’d just met. ‘That gorgeous, deep black hair, sun-bleached at the tips. All those muscles… And he’s weathered and so fit it’s scary. The bone structure of his face—it’s like it’s sculpted. It must be from years of living hard. And did you see the way his shirt strained? No shirt’s ever been built to accommodate that type of chest.’ She grinned at Rachel, enjoying startling her. ‘And those blue eyes with crinkles at the edges like he spends his time looking into the sun… Whew.’

‘You really did look at him,’ Rachel breathed, stunned.

‘Um… yep. There’s no harm in admiring beauty,’ she admitted. ‘A girl can admire—from a distance.’

Rachel’s smile widened. Maybe she was starting to enjoy herself as well.

‘I guess he’ll have spent his life looking into the sun through machine gun sights,’ she suggested. ‘That’d make anyone’s eyes crinkle.’

‘I bet you’re right,’ Amy agreed. ‘And field glasses. He’ll have stood in dugouts in the searing sun, field glasses trained for the enemy…’

‘Or on hilltops?’

‘I don’t think you look for the enemy on hilltops,’ Amy said doubtfully. ‘Wouldn’t you get shot? It’d be such a shame to shoot a body like that.’

‘It would,’ Rachel said definitely. ‘No one could shoot such a man. Did you see the muscles on his arms?’ Rachel was following on with relish. ‘Maybe that’s from hand-to-hand combat?’

‘With sumo wrestlers,’ Amy guessed. ‘I’d imagine he takes on ten every morning before breakfast.’

‘And now we’ve taken his steak,’ Rachel said mournfully. ‘Buster, how could you?’ She giggled and Amy thought wow, her sister was giggling. She giggled back and it was a gorgeous moment.

And then a camel hove into view. Another one, racing the train.

But only one?

In the dining car they’d been able to see out both sides of the train. Now, back in their tiny compartment, they could only see the right side of the train.

Rachel was looking out, entranced, at the lone camel and Amy couldn’t resist; she opened the door to the corridor to see if more camels were racing on the far side.

There were. Five of them.

‘Oh,’ Rachel breathed. ‘I wonder if Maudie’s seeing…’

‘Buster!’

And for one fatal moment they’d been distracted. For one moment they’d had the door wide open and had been staring in delight at camels.

And Buster, fourteen years old, sleeping out his days content to be with the people he loved and the occasional sunbeam, had just had rump steak for dinner—and he’d looked up and seen camels!

The camels were gaining on the train. They were stretching out away from the near windows.

And Buster, a tiny dog in spirit but a guard dog at heart, went flying along the corridor in pursuit, barking as if he were a hound in full cry.

No!

Amy flew along the corridor after him, her heart in her mouth. Luckily, the end of the carriage was the door through to the next car. He could go no further—but he was still barking.

No!

She reached him and scooped him up and tucked him under her sweater, just as compartment doors started to open.

‘A dog…’ An elderly man with a walking stick was staring in horror in both directions. ‘Did you see a dog? Who’s barking?’

‘It must have been outside the train,’ Amy said, beetling past him with her bulge held away. Praying his eyesight wasn’t good.

‘I heard a dog.’ It was a young mother. ‘I hate dogs. Our Polly’s allergic.’

‘I didn’t see a dog,’ Amy lied and bolted for their compartment.

‘Did you see a dog?’ the young woman demanded of Rachel, who was outside their compartment looking worried.

‘It was racing the camels,’ Rachel managed, trying to retreat as well. ‘I think it was a dingo.’

‘But it sounded like it was in the train,’ the woman said.

‘I think you should report it to the conductor.’

‘I need to go to bed,’ Rachel said, and retreated into the compartment after Amy.

She slammed the door, still giggling.

But Amy wasn’t giggling. That had been too close for comfort.

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.

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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