Chas drew a deep breath into her lungs and swung her free hand so that it connected with his cheek, hard.
He didn’t even flinch, but jerked her into his arms. ‘If that’s how you like it, rough, two can play that game,’ he said barely audibly.
His arms felt like iron bars around her. The look in his eyes, of serious contempt, frightened the life out of her but what was even more frightening was the real-isation that, contemptuous or not, he intended to kiss her…
‘Don’t, don’t—don’t!’ she warned.
‘Don’t kiss you? Why not? You may have an avaricious little soul but your body is another matter.’ He loosened his arms slightly and looked downwards. ‘Another matter entirely.’
Chas twisted like an eel and managed to free herself, but only momentarily. She was just about to slip off the bed when he caught her wrist again. ‘Oh, no, you don’t, sweetheart,’ he drawled. ‘We haven’t finished what you started yet.’
She was breathing tumultuously. ‘L-look—I mean, l-listen to me,’ she stammered. ‘I am Chas Bartlett. It’s short for Charity. There’s only me in the wedding consultancy—you’ve got it all wrong. And I did lose my way! What’s more, if you lay another finger on me I will scream rape and blue murder.’
A little silence developed as they faced each other. He was still holding her wrist but he pushed himself up on his elbow and studied her. Her hair was gloriously disarrayed, she was flushed and still breathing heavily, but her blue eyes were deadly serious.
He rubbed his knuckles along his jaw and pulled the sheet up.
‘So you were a woman all along?’ He frowned. ‘Why did Birdie think you were a man?’
‘People assume Chas is short for Charles.’
‘What’s wrong with Charity?’ he queried.
‘Nothing, unless your grandmother is Faith and your mother Hope. I think I was about nine when I decided that Charity was a bit much.’ She stopped and eyed him with extreme frustration. ‘What’s that got to do with anything? I’m quite sure this is a madhouse now. And who the hell are you?’
‘I just happen to live here.’ He smiled fleetingly. ‘What makes you think this is a madhouse? I mean…’ he shrugged those magnificent shoulders ‘…I’m tempted to agree with you at times, but how would you know?’
Chas sent him a smouldering look. ‘I’ll tell you. I was hired by someone called Thomas Hocking, who brought me all this way specifically so he could meet me, then didn’t even have the decency to turn up tonight, apparently because according to his own family he’s too busy womanising. And now I’m told that he, the man paying for the wedding, would much rather have a registry-office do!’ This time her eyes flashed scornfully. ‘That’s not the kind of wedding I put together, and it makes me wonder why I’m here and if he can afford me. It just doesn’t make sense.’
‘Oh, he could.’
Chas blinked a couple of times as she tried to put this in context. ‘He could what?’
‘Afford you.’
The way he said it caused Chas to stir uneasily. ‘I meant afford my services, naturally,’ she said.
‘That too.’ His grey gaze rested on her mouth.
‘What—? Are we talking about the same thing?’
His lips twisted. ‘I don’t think so. I happen to know Thomas Hocking is—how to put it—between mistresses at the moment, and I’ve got the distinct feeling he’d be very happy to afford you in that capacity.’
‘Let me go!’ Chas said furiously and struggled to free herself.
All she achieved was to lose control of her side of the sheet as he swept it aside, although his action did at least reveal that he was wearing a pair of sleep shorts. At the same time it left her completely exposed to him again, and he made the best of it.
‘Mmm…’ he murmured, studying her from head to toe and all the curves, the expanse of pale, skimpily-draped-with-cranberry-silk skin, in between. ‘Love the legs. Definitely mistress material.’
‘Who…who are you?’ she stammered as she tugged her nightgown down as far as she could.
‘Tom Hocking, ma’am. No one calls me Thomas, except Birdie.’
Chas gasped as all sorts of things fell into place. One of them being her sheer stupidity. Who else but the man controlling the purse strings would have what definitely looked like the master bedroom? Why hadn’t she thought of that? Because she’d had a mental vision of an elderly profligate uncle or something! Which was not to say that this Thomas Hocking wasn’t profligate. His intentions only minutes earlier would have certainly fallen into that category.
‘Of all the…’ she said with deep outrage. ‘How could you do this?’
‘Do what? Fall asleep peacefully in my own bed, on my own, until you climbed into it? That’s all I recall.’
Her breasts heaved. ‘No it’s not! You misrepresented yourself, you won’t believe me and you’re keeping me here against my will!’
He opened his mouth then appeared to change his mind. ‘If you got to the bathroom safely, how come you ended up here?’
Chas winced. ‘It is a strange house, and with no lights it’s not so surprising. Anyway, I don’t have a great sense of direction and I didn’t have my watch on.’
He stared at her. ‘Would that have helped? What is it? A luminous compass as well as a watch? A miniature GPS?’
‘Very funny,’ Chas said stiffly. ‘No, but it does help me tell my right hand from my left.’
‘You got to your—mid-twenties,’ he hazarded, ‘without being able to tell your right from your left? That certainly explains it.’
Chas set her teeth at the irony in his eyes. ‘It can happen, believe me.’
He looked as if he wanted to say you learn something every day!, and ruffled his hair. ‘Well, where do we go from here, Aphrodite?’
‘So no one calls you Thomas?’
‘I can’t remember the last time anyone did, apart from Birdie. Why?’
Chas wrenched her wrist free and tumbled off the bed. ‘Where do we go? Back to Brisbane first thing, for me at least. I don’t appreciate being made a fool of like this!’ She grabbed her robe and sponge bag and ran from the room.
Breakfast was a help-yourself affair.
Juice and coffee were set on a buffet table as well as cereals, yoghurt, fruit and a frosted jug of milk. Several silver-lidded warming dishes were lined up and there was a basket of rolls and bread.
The only person in the dining room when Chas entered was Rupert. There was one word that summed up Rupert Leeton, Lord Weaver, and that was diffident. He wasn’t particularly good-looking, he was of medium height, he could most easily disappear in a crowd but, despite his obvious reticence, he was nice.
A good match for Vanessa Hocking? Chas had wondered. Perhaps only time would tell.
She’d calmed down somewhat since her encounter with Tom Hocking but she wasn’t feeling particularly charitable towards any of the Cresswell Lodge inhabitants, so she murmured a cool greeting.
Rupert, however, rose courteously to pull out a chair for her and offered to fetch her a glass of juice.
‘Thank you.’
‘As a matter of fact I feel like saying that to you!’ Rupert placed a glass of orange juice in front