The Socialite and the Cattle King
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Some of them he recognized despite the masks and towering wigs. All of them, he reflected, bored him to tears.
He was just about to turn away when one girl he didn’t recognize danced past in the arms of an eager pirate complete with eye patch, one gold earring and a stuffed macaw on his shoulder.
She was quite tall, very slim and dressed almost all in black. Something about her, probably her outfit, stirred something in his memory, but he couldn’t pin it down.
‘Who’s she supposed to be?’ he enquired of an elderly milkmaid standing beside him. He indicated the girl in black.
The milkmaid beamed. ‘Isn’t she perfect? So different. Of course, it’s Holly Golightly—don’t you remember? Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. That gorgeous black hat with the wide, downturned brim and the light, floaty hat-band; the earrings, the classic little black dress and gloves—even the alligator shoes. And to think of using her sunglasses as a mask!’
‘Ah. Yes, she is rather perfect. You wouldn’t happen to know who she is in real life?’
The milkmaid had no idea and Brett watched Holly Golightly dance past again.
She looked cool and detached, even slightly superior, but that could be because the pirate was having trouble containing his enthusiasm for her.
In fact, as he watched she detached herself from her partner as he attempted to maul her, swung on her heel and swept away towards the ballroom balcony with a hand to her hat.
The pirate looked so crestfallen, Brett could only assume he was either very young or very drunk.
Without giving it much thought, he took a fresh glass of champagne off the bar and followed the girl onto the balcony.
She was leaning against the balustrade, breathing deeply.
‘Maybe this’ll help to remove the taste of the pirate?’ he suggested and offered the champagne to her.
Holly straightened and wondered if she was imagining things. She’d been rather darkly contemplating the fact that she’d been right about very young men such as the pirate who was the son of her mother’s friend; he hadn’t been able to keep his hands off her!
But could this tall, arrogant-looking Spaniard be who she thought he was? Could you ever forget Brett Wyndham’s voice, or his athletic build? Or the pass he’d made at her? More importantly, did she want to be recognized? As a serious journalist, perhaps, but like this? As a serial socialite…?
In a lightning decision that she did not want to be recognized, she lowered her voice a notch and assumed a French accent. ‘Merci. I was of a mind to punch his parrot.’
Brett laughed then narrowed his eyes behind the mask. ‘You sound as if you’ve just stepped out of France.’
‘Not France, Tahiti.’ It wasn’t exactly a lie. She’d returned from her last travel assignment, Papeete, a bare week ago.
‘So, a Tahitian Holly Golightly?’
‘You may say so.’ Holly sipped some champagne. ‘What have we with you? An Aussie se~nor?’
He looked down at his attire. ‘You could say so. Are you into horses, Miss Golightly?’
Holly gazed at him blankly.
‘It is the kick-off to the Winter Racing Carnival, this ball,’ he elaborated.
‘Of course! But no, you could say not, although I have done some riding in my time. Generally, though, on inferior beasts such as asses and camels.’
Brett’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Camels? In Tahiti? How come?’
‘Not, naturally, Tahiti,’ Holly denied regally. ‘But I have a fondness for some out-of-the-way places you cannot get to by other means.’ She gave the word “other” a tremendous French twist.
‘So do I,’ he murmured and frowned again as his masked gaze roamed over her.
Holly waited with some trepidation. Would he recognize her beneath the Holly Golightly outfit, the wide, downturned hat-brim and the French accent? She’d recognized him almost immediately, but that deep, mesmerizing voice would be hard to disguise. For that matter, so were those wide shoulders and lean hips.
Then it occurred to her that she was once again being summed up in that inimitable way of his.
The slender line of her neck, the outline of her figure beneath the little black dress, the smooth skin of her arms above her gloves, her trim ankles—they all received his critical assessment. And they all traitorously reacted accordingly, which was to say he might as well have been running his hands over her body.
‘Actually,’ she said airily—not a true reflection of her emotions as she was battling to stay cool and striving to take a humorous view of proceedings, ‘You make a tr'es arrogant Spaniard.’
‘I do?’
‘Oui. Summing up perfectly strange women with a view to ownership is what I would call arrogant. Could it be that there is little difference between you and the pirate with the parrot, monsieur?’
‘Ownership?’ he queried.
‘Of their bodies,’ she explained. ‘Tell me this was not so a moment ago?’ She tilted her chin at him.
He pushed his hands into his pockets and shrugged. ‘It’s a failing most men succumb to. But unlike the pirate I would never attempt to maul you, Miss Golightly.’
He paused and allowed his dark, masked gaze to travel over her again. ‘On the contrary, I would make your skin feel like warm silk and I would celebrate your lovely, slim body in a way that would be entirely satisfactory—for both of us.’
Holly stifled a tremor of utmost sensuousness that threatened to engulf her down the length of her body—at least stifled the outward appearance of it, by the narrowest of margins.
All the same, she went hot and cold and had to wonder how he did it. How did he engender a state of mind that could even have her wondering what it would be like to be Brett Wyndham’s woman. How dared he?