CHAPTER ONE

      ‘CHAS BARTLETT?’ Tom Hocking frowned. ‘Are you suggesting a man to organise this wedding, Birdie?’

      ‘Not so strange when you think about it,’ his secretary, Birdie Tait, offered.

      They were talking to each other over the phone, Tom from his stud outside Warwick, Birdie from the office in Toowoomba.

      ‘Men do design clothes,’ Birdie continued down the line. ‘They also make great chefs and interior decorators, so—why not? Chas Bartlett certainly comes highly recommended.’

      ‘You’ve met him?’

      ‘No. But I spoke to a very satisfied customer. All Laura Richmond could say was Chas did this; Chas organised that; Chas was a dream! And her daughter’s wedding was a howling success.’

      ‘Laura Richmond,’ Tom repeated thoughtfully. ‘Talk about a raging snob if ever I’ve met one. Mind you, things are getting hairy up here, so…’ He paused and shrugged. ‘Go ahead and hire the guy, Birdie, for a consultation at least.’ He pulled his diary towards him. ‘Am I right in thinking I’m free next weekend?’

      ‘Yes, Mr Hocking.’

      ‘Then see if you can get him to drive up and stay overnight on Saturday; we’ll all be here, which may not be that easy to arrange over the next few weeks. Explain that to him if he objects to working weekends.’ He paused. ‘It mightn’t be a bad idea to drop the hint that my sister is marrying the heir to a peer of the realm.’

      ‘A very good idea, Mr Hocking.’

      ‘Thanks, Birdie. If I don’t hear otherwise from you, I’ll expect him at—say—four o’clock on Saturday afternoon?’

      ‘I’ll do my best, Mr Hocking.’ Birdie put the phone down.

      She was well-named but, although frail and diminutive in appearance, she had the heart of a lioness when it came to guarding and promoting her employer’s interests. In many ways she looked upon Tom Hocking as the son she’d never had—she’d worked for his father Andrew and had been wildly and hopelessly in love with him.

      Truth be told, she would have been much more interested in seeing Tom marry and settle down rather than his sister, Vanessa, whose wedding they’d been discussing—but here she often paused and sighed.

      At thirty-three and six feet four in his socks with a rock-hard body, Tom attracted women in droves. It wasn’t only that. He was equally at home riding a horse or flying a plane, and his business acumen had seen him advance the Hocking empire with a vengeance when he’d taken over from his father.

      He now held executive positions on the boards of several companies that were Australian icons. He mixed—but then the Hockings always had—with the cream of society.

      But was there more than the occasional tinge of impatience in his grey eyes, eyes that were often amused as well as devastatingly acute, these days? His sense of humour had always been wicked and irreverent, but when he lost his temper the wisest course was to take evasive action. Not that it happened often but—was it happening more often these days?

      Birdie sighed again. She could tell that her boss wasn’t a hundred per cent happy but there was nothing she could do to help.

      She might like to pin it down to the lack of the right woman in his life but that was simplistic, she knew. On the other hand, finding the perfect woman could be part of the problem. Even at his best, Tom Hocking was a handful. He was a born leader and capable of sheer arrogance. One suspected a prospective wife would need the patience of a saint, but would a saint be what Tom was looking for?

      Tom Hocking also took a moment to ponder after talking to Birdie on the phone.

      It so happened he liked the heir to the peer of the realm to whom his sister, Vanessa, was engaged, but he wasn’t totally convinced Rupert Leeton, Lord Weaver, was what she needed. Vanessa was as head-strong as an unbroken filly at times, whereas Rupert was a thinker and a dreamer.

      His mother was ecstatic about it, though. Even his aunt Clare, a dedicated, rather eccentric spinster who lived with them, was delighted.

      However, the run-up to these nuptials looked set to provide a maelstrom of confusion and turbulence.

      Vanessa and his mother were already arguing over wedding-dress designers, venues and bridesmaids. Clare and Vanessa were at loggerheads over the choice of minister to perform the service. Rupert was starting to look strained and his slight stammer was becoming more pronounced.

      Tom was of the opinion that it promised to be a rare bun fight, unless he took a hand, hence his decision to call in a wedding consultant.

      He pushed his fingers through his hair then rubbed his jaw as he contemplated his household and his lifestyle.

      He’d stepped into his father’s shoes five years ago. At that time Cresswell Lodge, on Queensland’s Darling Downs, had been the main family enterprise. An historic thoroughbred stud pioneered by one of his ancestors, its beautiful old homestead