Her Outback Rescuer. Marion Lennox
‘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