Marion Lennox - Her Outback Rescuer

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.