She was beautiful.

  Damn it to hell!

  Matt shook his head.

  And shut his mouth.

  Opened it again. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he managed to ask at last.

  Her pretty pink lips tilted ever so slightly into a nervous smile. ‘I’m Charlie Bell.’

  ‘The devil you are.’

  She held out a slim hand. ‘You must be Mr. Lockhart.’

  Her hand felt cool and super-soft as Matt, somewhat reluctantly, shook it. He dropped it quickly and shoved his own calloused palms deep into the pockets of his jeans. And he glared at her as he tried to come to terms with this latest disaster. ‘Why didn’t anybody tell me you were a woman?’

  Her gaze dropped to the floor and he watched her cheeks grow an amazing shade of pink. But when she looked back at him again, her eyes held his steadily. ‘I thought there was a very good chance you wouldn’t be interested in me if you knew I was female. Especially as I’m an English woman.’

  ‘You’re dead right,’ Matt snapped back at her. He was getting over the shock and his anger was flooding back. He turned and kicked the metal leg of the bed. ‘Hell! What a mess!’

  ‘I hope not, Mr Lockhart. If you’ll give me a chance to prove myself’, I’m sure you won’t regret taking me on.’

  Her voice was cool and calm, very polite and plummy, reminding Matt of the BBC television programs his mother used to watch. On second thoughts, he scratched polite. Who was she trying to kid? He swung back to her. ‘It was damn rude the way you jumped on the mail truck instead of waiting for me.’

  ‘Again, I must apologise,’ she said softly. Pearly white teeth played with her pouty lower lip. ‘I was afraid that if we met at Camooweal airport, as you suggested, you would put me straight back on the plane.’

  ‘Damn right I would have.’ Matt thrust an angry jaw forward. ‘Listen, Miss Bell.’ He glanced quickly at her left hand. ‘I presume it’s Miss?’

  ‘I’m not married, if that’s what you’re asking.’

  ‘You seem to be very sneaky about protecting your own interests. I don’t like that. This might be some little party trick you’ve dreamed up to tell over dinner when you get home –’

  ‘No!’ Charlie interrupted. She stared at him, appalled. How could she make Matt Lockhart understand? ‘This is very important to me.’

  ‘And it’s damn serious for me. You were told to wait. That was the agreement.’ His dark eyes speared her with deadly, no-nonsense intent. ‘Now listen. I’m used to having my instructions carried out to the letter. If I tell someone to wait somewhere for me, he waits. Out here, you have to do what you’re told. If you can’t follow instructions, people’s lives can be at risk.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Lockhart.’

  ‘I don’t want a tourist. I need a skilled man. Someone who knows the job and is prepared to work hard. Being a ringer is no picnic. It’s rough, hard and hot.’

  ‘I was hoping it would be.’

  Matt blinked. His dark brows drew together in a puzzled frown as he studied her. ‘You were hoping it would be –?’ For a shade too long, he let his eyes travel over her. ‘Are we both talking about mustering work?’

  Charlie gulped. Sudden awareness of the molten, brown heat of Matt Lockhart’s unflinching gaze and the leashed in power of his hard, work-toughened body flustered her. Rough, hard and hot? What in heaven’s name was she thinking?

  What did he think she was thinking?

  She wiped a trickle of sweat from her face with the back of her hand. ‘I – I know work in the outback is tough. It’s what I want.’

  ‘Why?’ Matt challenged.

  For months she’d had so many answers at her fingertips, but at this crucial moment, they deserted her.

  ‘Is your life lacking excitement?’

  Charlie took a deep breath, hoping it would hold back the blushes his question triggered. Her life’s lack of excitement was exactly why she was here, but Matt Lockhart posed his question so scornfully that she had no intention of admitting to such failings.

  His gaze switched to her pack, open on the floor, revealing an assortment of clothing – mainly underwear. With her foot, Charlie tried to flip the bag’s canvas flap over the exposed items. Best not to provide this man with too many images of her femininity.

  Straightening her shoulders, she returned his steady gaze. ‘Thank you for your concern, Mr Lockhart, but my life is fine. Exactly how I want it. And I do understand your anger, but is there something you feel I don’t understand?’

  ‘Of course there is.’ For a moment, he sighed and lowered his head. Raising his hand, he kneaded the back of his neck. Then, without warning, his gaze flicked back to her. He straightened and his hand fell to his side. ‘We don’t play games out here. We’ve got to rely on each other, so we need to be able to trust everyone. A con artist is quickly caught out.’

  A con artist? Charlie stifled a gasp of dismay. If Matt Lockhart knew her real identity, would he consider her a fraud?

  Her stomach tightened, but she wouldn’t let this man intimidate her. She was sure she could do the work, if only she had half a chance. And she certainly hadn’t been brought up as Lady Charlotte Bellamy, daughter of an Earl, to be put down by a disagreeable, young Australian cattleman.

  She held his gaze. ‘Mr Lockhart, I’m not going to beg for this position. But I understand that you need to employ someone and your chances of getting another stockman on short notice, at this time of year, are limited. I happen to be available and I believe I’m suited to the job.’

  The silence that greeted her speech stretched to an uncomfortable length, but eventually Matt’s face softened into an amused grimace. ‘You put together a persuasive case.’

  She’d been holding her breath and now she released it in a heartfelt huff of relief.

  Too soon. He was frowning again. ‘You can stay on a galloping horse?’

  ‘I certainly can.’ She’d been riding since she was five years old.

  ‘Let me see your hands.’

  Oh, dear. Nervous once more, Charlie held out her small, delicate hands. Thank goodness she’d cut her nails very short. Matt touched them tentatively with his fingertips and turned them over, palms up. She hadn’t applied the tanning lotion to her hands for fear it would look too artificial, so they were still milky white and her wrists were ridiculously slim with fine blue veins, making them look even more fragile.

  As Matt stared, she realised they smelt of the flowery hand cream she’d used night and morning, every day since she was fifteen. Now she regretted the habit.

  He was frowning and looking rather put out, almost as if he’d read her future in her palms and hadn’t liked what he discovered. ‘You won’t be much use throwing bullocks,’ he said after some time.

  ‘You need me to throw bullocks?’ It was impossible to keep the squeak of panic out of her voice.

  ‘I might. And how are you at castrating calves?’

  ‘Castrating?’ she parroted dully, her stomach churning at the very thought.

  The faint creases around his eyes deepened. ‘I’m afraid we can’t let every baby bull grow up to be a daddy.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Charlie blustered. She realised Matt was still holding her hand and he was smiling.

  The realisation must have struck him at the same moment. He dropped her hands and stepped back. The smile vanished.

  ‘There was no mention of tasks like that when I applied,’ she said.

  ‘Most blokes know what’s expected of a ringer.’

  Charlie’s hopes plummeted. It would be terrible to be turned away now, after the long flight north and the hot and dusty drive across from Camooweal. She’d made it this far and she didn’t want to go back. She’d never seen country like this – wide, flat, sundried plains, cut every so often by the most beautiful deep, blue waterways, and fringed by red rocks and huge trees teeming with bird life.

  ‘I’ve hired women to work as jillaroos on this property before,’ Matt admitted slowly. ‘They’ve all been good workers. Of course, they weren’t poms – er – I mean English and they knew what they were in for.’ He propped his hands on his hips. ‘But as you’ve kindly pointed out, on this occasion, I haven’t much choice.’

  Charlie chanced a small smile.

  ‘But what’s the real reason you’ve come here?’

  Oh, boy. She needed to take this carefully. Charlie wet her lips. ‘I’ve dreamed about this since I was a little girl.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Don’t you have dreams, Mr Lockhart?’

  He looked startled by her question. There was an awkward silence. ‘We leave for the first mustering camp in the morning. I guess you’d better come with us.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘But if you don’t shape up, we can’t afford to have you slowing us down. You’ll be sitting around, all by yourself, waiting for that mail truck to take you out again.’

  Turning abruptly, he disappeared through her doorway.

  ‘Thank you,’ Charlie called after his retreating back, although she was feeling so rocked by the encounter, she could hardly remember what she was thanking him for.

  Scant seconds later, he was back in her doorway, his big brown hand gripping the lintel. ‘Just thought I’d better warn you. Don’t bother bringing those fancy, pale-coloured jodhpurs.’ His eyes rested on her lower regions for a shade longer than was polite. ‘This isn’t a gymkhana and they’ll only get ruined.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said again, feeling strangely better.

  CHAPTER THREE

  IT WAS pitch black when Charlie heard the loud banging and a dog barking. Struggling to surface from a particularly pleasant dream, she rolled over and settled more comfortably, hugging her pillow closer. Now, what had she been dreaming? A strong, tanned hand was holding hers... leading her somewhere enticing... and she was tingling with delicious expectation... amazing excitement...

  More noises roused her, and the moment that trembled on the edge of bliss was swept roughly aside. Now she realised she heard bedsprings creaking, boots echoing on wooden floorboards, doors opening and shutting...

  Good grief. She shot up in bed. She had no idea what time it was, but the sounds were enough to alarm her. The ringers were up. It was morning.

  Next, there was a sharp rat-a-tat on her door and a strong Australian accent called through the dark. ‘Ready, Charlie? Breakfast’s on.’

  In one movement, her feet hit the floor as she dragged off her nightshirt. ‘Hurry!’ she urged her fumbling fingers as she pulled on a bra, shirt and jeans. Throughout the cottage there was silence now. Had all the others left already? She was the last one? Stumbling across the room, she tried to drag on her high-sided riding boots as she ran. Impossible. She had no choice but to sit in the middle of the floor and pull them on carefully.

  Done! She dashed down the hallway, roughly braiding her hair with frantic fingers. Across the stretch of dying grass to the homestead kitchen. From inside she could see the yellow spill of light and hear the low hum of men’s voices. Oh, no. She hoped she wasn’t noticeably late. She stepped through the kitchen doorway.

  Sudden silence. Ten pairs of masculine eyes swung in Charlie’s direction. Her heart pumped fretfully as she tucked her shirt into the waist of her jeans. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Morning, mate.’

  ‘Morning.’

  There was a muttered chorus of greetings and the men quickly returned to the serious business of devouring sausages, bacon and tomatoes. As Charlie quietly approached the stove and piled her plate with fried tomatoes and toast, only one pair of eyes from the far end of the table continued to watch her. Dark, wary eyes in a tanned, ruggedly handsome face – the face of her boss.

  The sight of him caused Charlie’s own eyes to widen. Last night, she’d noticed Matt Lockhart was good looking, but she’d been far too busy fighting for her right to stay on his property to dwell on the matter.

  But now, as he sat with a group of other men, his looks stood out, the way a masterpiece claims attention in an art gallery. Beneath his dark, rough and tumbling hair, his face presented a pleasing balance between the strong lines of his cheekbones, nose and jaw and the sensitivity in his dark eyes and enticing mouth. The deep blue, open necked, cotton shirt did little to conceal the breadth of his shoulders. He had a natural beauty that was intensely masculine.

  Realising she was staring, Charlie quickly dropped her gaze, took a spare seat between two ringers and began to eat. She glanced at a clock on the opposite wall. Five fifteen.

  Her first day in the bush had begun.

  ‘Hey, Dinga,’ someone called.

  Curious, Charlie looked around.

  A skinny fellow with a missing tooth grinned at her. ‘That’s you, isn’t it? Charlie Bell? Dinga-ling Bell?’

  ‘I guess it must be.’

  ‘How long have you been in Australia, Dinga?’

  ‘Two weeks.’

  Her answer was greeted by a knowing smirk followed by a chuckle.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Charlie said as she smiled back politely. ‘I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘Crocodile Dundee,’ the fellow replied with another self-satisfied grin.

  The young fellow opposite snorted with nervous laughter, but the man beside her said quietly, ‘Don’t take any notice of him, Charlie. He’s Ted Smith and he thinks he’s a comedian.’

  Charlie resumed eating, but all around her, the men seemed to be finishing their meal, swilling down coffee and scrambling to their feet. Her appetite had only just swung into gear and now she looked sadly at her untouched coffee and half-eaten tomatoes.

  ‘You need a bit longer?’ Matt called to her as he strode past, looking businesslike.

  ‘No, no. I’m ready.’ Jumping to attention, she joined the line of men as they filed out into the pale dawn outside.

  Matt spoke to her again. ‘Have you put your swag and your gear in the back of the truck?’

  Charlie looked at the truck, parked just beyond the ringers’ quarters. Its tray-back was piled with canvas swags, packs, saddles and horse blankets. ‘Um – no. My stuff’s still in my room. Shall I run and get it?’

  ‘Might be an idea.’ His growl was edged with sarcasm. ‘We need to get going.’

  Cursing herself for not asking enough questions on the previous evening, Charlie dashed into her room and snatched up her pack. She shoved her hairbrush and nightshirt into it and wrenched the zipper shut. Hoisting it onto one shoulder, she crammed her wide-brimmed hat on her head, grabbed the swag she’d been given the night before and gripped it tightly between her arm and her body. It was surprisingly heavy. Finally, in her other arm, she took up the saddle the head stockman had given her. Staggering under the weight and bulk of her load, she struggled back outside, feeling like an ungainly, overloaded camel.

  Charlie refused to make eye contact with any of the men as she wobbled towards the truck. A metal stirrup banged painfully against her shin as she went.

  Matt fell in beside her. ‘Here, let me take something,’ he offered.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she answered stiffly, keeping her chin high and her eyes focused on her destination – the waiting back of the truck. Of course, she didn’t see the pothole right in the middle of her path. Stepping into it was enough to upset her precarious balance and send her toppling sideways.

  Landing fair and square on top of Matt Lockhart.

  The pack the swag, the saddle and Charlie – an avalanche of leather, canvas and woman bowled Matt flat on his back. For seconds, he lay stunned as he came to terms with his horizontal position. A thick braid of soft hair filled his mouth and a struggling, gasping body pinned him to the ground. Sharp gravel dug through his shirt and into his back.

  ‘If I can just get rid of this pack I’d be able to move,’ he heard Charlie mutter close to his ear. She grunted, wriggled and squirmed in an effort to untangle herself. It was an unfortunate series of movements and Matt couldn’t help his reaction. With her sweet smell filling his nostrils and her soft curves pressing and thrusting wildly against him, his body literally sprang to attention.

  He held his breath, hoping she wouldn’t notice. Hoping the circle of grinning witnesses wouldn’t guess.

  But Charlie noticed all right. Her desperate movements came to a sudden halt and her green eyes, inches from his, stared at him with an expression at first stunned and then alarmed. Her cheeks grew an even deeper shade of that amazing pink he’d witnessed yesterday.

  This was beyond ridiculous. Matt gripped her by both shoulders and levered her and her gear away from him, but he was acutely aware as he did so, of her warmth deserting him. Jerking his head sideways in the direction of a row of dusty riding boots, he barked, ‘Somebody help her.’

  At last there was action. Boots moved forward. Items were lifted. Charlie was helped to her feet. Rolling sideways, Matt grabbed his hat from the ground and jumped upright. ‘Let’s get moving. We’ve wasted enough time,’ he growled, not wanting to think about the strange sense of loss he’d felt as he pushed Charlie away from him.

  Without looking at anyone else, he swung his long legs up into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Ahead of him, Arch started up the horse truck and the cook moved off with the ute. Ringers climbed into whatever spots were available in the backs of vehicles. It was only as he accelerated and rolled the truck forward that Matt wondered if perhaps he should have offered Charlie the spare passenger seat beside him.

  Five minutes later, the convoy halted.

  By then, Charlie had been through a painful cavalcade of emotions from embarrassment, through anger to frustration. She couldn’t have begun her stint on Sundown on a worse footing.

  She’d done her best to squash memories of Matt Lockhart lying beneath her and she certainly didn’t want to think about the sudden quickening of her response when she found herself pinned against his muscle-packed length.

  Her body had played cruel tricks on her. Matt’s arousal had sent an explosion of heat, plus a flaring of totally inappropriate desire to taste the sun-drenched skin suddenly so temptingly close.

  These reactions had shocked her. She’d come here for adventure, not to harbour lurid thoughts about her new boss.

 

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