A Parisian Proposition. Barbara Hannay
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too big to punch. ‘How about you clean your ears out and listen, mate?’ she said slowly and loudly and with what she felt was an impressive degree of menace. ‘I came out here because you reneged on your agreement with Girl Talk magazine. I have absolutely no interest in you as a date.’
She flung her arms out in a wide, sweeping gesture to take in the mud and the cattle. ‘Could you honestly believe I would be way out here splashing around in mud and muck if I had a choice? It’s certainly not my idea of fun. As for boyfriends, I have as many guys in Sydney as I—as I need. And the last—the very last—kind of man I’m looking for is a cowboy!’
For good measure she added, ‘And I haven’t the slightest interest in getting married. Not ever. Not to anyone. In case you haven’t caught up with the latest statistics, there’s a whole generation of girls like me who are not desperate to sacrifice ourselves on the matrimonial altar.’
His obvious surprise gave her a measure of satisfaction. And for the first time she thought she saw a hint of amusement lurking in the depths of his hazel eyes.
‘I think I believe you,’ he said.
‘Well, hallelujah!’ Nodding towards the cattle, she finished her speech. ‘You might also be able to accept the fact that buying these guys was a complete accident that’s turned a rotten day for me into a total disaster.’
A suspicion of a smile played around his mouth. ‘Did you pay a good price for them?’
‘I wouldn’t have a clue. But that’s not the point.’
‘It’s very much the point. And so is whether or not you have the money to pay for them.’
‘But I don’t want them.’ Camille scowled at him and then at the cattle standing meekly in their pen. ‘I’ve no idea if I can afford them,’ she admitted. ‘How much are they?’
He shrugged. ‘Fifteen weaner steers…at a good weight. I’d say you’re looking at somewhere around six thousand dollars.’
‘No way!’ She suppressed an urge to add a few swear words. ‘I’m saving for a trip to Paris and that’s almost my entire savings! I’m not going to blow it on a pen of cattle.’
She’d been saving madly over the past twelve months. Hadn’t bought any new clothes in all that time! Well…hardly any. And now her dreams were toppling like a collapsed football scrum.
All her lovely dreams…of travelling to see her father again after twelve long years, of discovering her favourite sculptures in the Musée Rodin, of hunting for exciting little cafés in the back streets of Montmartre, or buying something chic and extravagant on the Champs-Élysées…
In a few short minutes those dreams were gone, to be replaced by a nightmare…a pen of fifteen weaner steers in outback Queensland.
Desperate, she rounded on Jonno. ‘How can I get out of this?’
He shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘Can I sue someone?’
‘The vendor could probably sue you if you don’t honour the bid.’
‘Oh, hell!’ Camille closed her eyes and tried to calm her rising panic. She needed to think clearly. There had to be a solution to this crazy situation. Her head was spinning. ‘I can’t think about this without coffee.’
‘There’s a canteen.’
She opened her eyes and squinted at him. ‘Good. Let me shout you a coffee.’ When he didn’t answer, she added, ‘Just coffee, Jonno. Not a date. Not a marriage proposal. I just want you on one side of a table, me on the other, a cup of coffee in my hand and a little market advice. If you were struggling to find a taxi in Sydney, or if you were out of your depth in Kings Cross, I’d do the same for you.’
He looked at her quizzically for a moment or two, but then to her relief he nodded. ‘The canteen’s this way.’
He led her down several muddy lanes lined with pens of bellowing beasts until they reached concrete paths and buildings that housed various administrative offices for the sale yards. After they scraped their boots on a rough outdoor mat, Jonno pushed open large glass doors.
Inside, the canteen was crowded with hungry cattlemen and their wives, but it was warm and clean and Camille could see a counter with shiny urns spouting steam and she could smell the fragrant aroma of coffee at last.
Jonno wouldn’t let her pay and she accepted that country guys were probably still old-fashioned about things like that. With her hands wrapped around a warm mug, she inhaled the familiar aroma of her favourite beverage and took a quick, fortifying sip before they reached their table near a window in the corner. Jonno had bought two packets of sandwiches as well. Wholesome, grainy, country bread filled with cold roast meat, pickles and salad.
‘So you want help to get rid of your cattle,’ he said, once they were settled.
Camille nodded. ‘Yes, please.’ Then she took another deep sip of coffee before setting down her mug. ‘You wouldn’t like to buy them, would you?’
His mouth tilted into the familiar, crooked smile that had caused so much of a stir in the Girl Talk office. She noticed that the hazel in his eyes was a fascinating mixture of brown and gold with little flecks of green.
‘No, thanks,’ he said. ‘I came to these sales today to sell, not to buy. It’s not exactly a buyers’ market.’
She sighed. So much for a simple, straightforward solution. ‘Can I throw them right back on the market and sell them tomorrow?’
His smile faded as he looked thoughtful. ‘It’s possible…But before we get too worried about that, why don’t you tell me why you’ve come all the way up here from Sydney?’
Camille’s breath escaped on a gasp of surprise. Buying a pen of cattle had a good side? It got Jonno Rivers talking? Wow! She hadn’t expected this breakthrough moment, but she might as well cut straight to the chase. ‘I’m here to find out what game you’re playing.’
‘I’m not playing anything.’
‘You know you’ve been playing games with our magazine. You haven’t answered our letters or phone calls.’
He showed no sign of apology. ‘Why should I cooperate with totally irresponsible journalism?’
‘Irresponsible?’ Her right eyebrow lifted, but she willed herself to stay calm. Now that she had him in her sights, she had to take extra care not to frighten him off. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘You expect me to fuel the dangerous illusions of a mob of silly, gullible women, who believe these bachelors you’ve unearthed are desperate for marriage and commitment.’
‘We never gave the impression our bachelors are desperate. Heavens, Jonno, they’re all heartthrobs.’ After a beat, she added, ‘Like you.’
He looked distinctly uncomfortable.
‘We chose gorgeous, well-heeled guys, who for some reason—whether it’s geographical isolation or twenty-four-seven commitment to their brilliant careers—are still single, but seeking a wife.’
When he didn’t respond, she added, ‘The reaction from readers has been amazing. We had no idea there were still so many women actively hunting for husbands.’
‘Unlike you,’ he challenged. ‘That’s another thing. How can someone who doesn’t even believe in marriage pretend that it’s so damn wonderful?’
‘How do you know what I think of marriage?’ Camille asked, then flinched. ‘Oh, yeah. It was the seminal text of my sermon in the cattle stalls, wasn’t it?’
She felt strangely caught out—embarrassed to realise that in the heat of the moment she’d aired her personal views about relationships to this man. This too, too sexy man.
She jabbed