A Parisian Proposition. Barbara Hannay
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moment while they stood staring at each other without speaking. While she remembered that look in his eyes. Oh, crumbs, he was gorgeous.
He had to be one of the hunkiest guys she’d ever met, and that was an opinion shared by half the women in Australia. But, putting all that aside, now that she was on the point of departure, the spectre of her editor-in-chief’s wrath loomed larger.
‘Was there something else you wanted to discuss?’ he asked when she didn’t walk away. ‘You’re not having second thoughts, are you?’
She sighed. ‘I can’t help feeling I’m letting you wriggle out of this too easily.’
With a shake of his head, he released a scoffing, disbelieving laugh. ‘How can you say that?’
‘Well…all you have to do is put those calves into a paddock and then you can relax with your feet up while they eat grass and grow fat and make easy money. Meanwhile, I have to face my boss and try to explain how I lost you from the project!’
To her surprise, he flushed dark red. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides and he looked mad enough to grab her and shake her.
But he didn’t move. He stood rock still, while his face slowly regained its natural colour and set into hard lines. His cheekbones looked more chiselled than ever and his eyes grew cold as marble. ‘We struck a deal,’ he said quietly. ‘We shook hands. Maybe city folk haven’t heard of a gentleman’s agreement? But, sorry, there’s no going back on it now.’
‘I was afraid of that,’ she said.
‘How you keep up your end of the bargain is your problem.’
He marched out of the canteen without waiting for her response and without looking back.
Mullinjim was too remote for Camille’s mobile phone to pick up the network, so she called Sydney from a phone box in the sale yard’s car park.
‘Oh, my God!’ Edith shrieked. ‘It’s so good to hear from you, Camille. I’ve been fretting that we’d lost you in the outback! Did you make it to Mulla-what’s-its-name?’
‘Yes, I’m in Mullinjim, and I’ve been talking to Jonathan Rivers.’
‘You little star! I knew you’d pull us out of this.’
Camille grimaced. ‘Yeah—well—’
‘I’ve been so stressed about our reluctant cowboy. He’s the key to the whole project.’
‘Edith, I’ve got to tell you it hasn’t been easy. I’m afraid I’ve had to strike a kind of a—a deal with him.’
‘OK, OK. We’ll do whatever we’ve got to as long as we secure his story.’
‘But—’
‘No rampant cheque-book journalism, mind you. Don’t go overboard, Camille. If he wants big money, he’ll have to deal directly with me. Let me do the negotiating.’
Camille heard the faint click of a cigarette lighter on the other end of the line. Edith scorned rules about smoking in the office and Camille could picture her boss’s long white fingers with their bright red nails lifting a cigarette to her painted lips.
‘Edith, you don’t understand. It’s nothing to do with money.’
‘Oh, my God, he wants to sleep with you?’
‘No!’ Camille sank against the side of the phone box and pressed a hand to her forehead. This was going to be even harder than she’d feared. ‘He’s simply not available.’
‘He’s already married?’ Edith screeched.
‘No, listen to me. It’s all been a mistake.’
‘He’s not gay.’ Edith groaned. ‘Camille, tell me our cowboy’s not gay.’
‘He’s not gay.’ That was one thing she was sure of. Jonno had shown too much interest; she’d caught him checking her out too many times. But Camille almost flinched as she added, ‘The mistake was that he never agreed to be part of the project in the first place.’
This was greeted by silence. Stony, bristling silence. Camille could picture Edith drawing deeply on her cigarette as the news sank in. She fancied she heard her exhale.
‘Repeat that very slowly,’ Edith said, her voice dropping several decibels but sounding twice as threatening. ‘I hope I misheard you.’
Camille gulped. ‘The bottom line is he wants out and I don’t know if we can hold him.’
Suddenly she wished she could offer Edith a definite, valid reason. If only she’d forced Jonno to give her concrete evidence that he’d been framed.
‘I’ll explain when I’m back in Sydney, but he’s completely uncooperative, Edith. I’m sorry. I did my best. You know I don’t give up easily, but I hit a brick wall. We’re not going to get anything out of him, so I’m on my way back. I should be home by tomorrow night.’
‘Camille,’ Edith thundered, her voice at full throttle again, ‘you’re not going anywhere. You’ll stay right there, my dear, and you’ll get me the Jonathan Rivers story.’
‘But I told you—’
‘I don’t care what you have to do.’ There was a brief pause while Edith let out a deep, noisy breath. ‘You know I don’t like making wild threats. Our relationship’s above that. But there’s more going on with the publishers than you realise and it’s vital—you’d better believe me when I say it’s vital, honey—that we pull this one off. Now, you get back to work on this lonesome cowboy. I’ll expect a call tomorrow night with an update.’
She hung up.
Oh, help! I’m dead meat.
Camille dropped the receiver into the cradle and covered her face with her hands. She was toast. She’d already struck her bargain with Jonno, her gentleman’s agreement, and her parting attempt to renegotiate had made him so furious she’d left herself no room to manoeuvre.
How on earth could she accommodate Jonathan Rivers’s insistence on privacy and satisfy her editor?
Pushing the door of the phone box open, she stepped outside. Despite bright sunshine, a chill, wintry gust whipped at her coat and she dug her hands deep into her pockets and began to pace. She often thought better when she was walking.
What could she do? Dig until she found the truth behind Jonno’s entry into the project? Would that really help? Perhaps her only hope was to come up with a great alternative story. If she could write a top piece of journalism…about life on a cattle station, perhaps…a woman’s perspective about a cattleman’s world…
She’d include thoughts about romance and marriage…a ‘City Girl in the Bush’ story…
Her enthusiasm warmed a little as her imagination kicked in. She’d have to make it good. She’d have to knock their socks off.
Hands deep in his coat pockets, Jonno stomped through the parking area next to the sale yards, trying to shake off his anger. Camille Devereaux’s parting comment about the laid-back, effortless life of a cattleman had him riled. Easy money be damned!
He knew he shouldn’t let anything she said bother him. She didn’t have a clue about what was involved in raising cattle. She was an airhead from the city who didn’t know squat about the way he earned a living—couldn’t even tell a cow from a steer.
And she called herself a journalist?
But he shouldn’t have let her go without setting her straight. He should have taken her outside that canteen and given her an earful…
Or kissed her senseless.
He stopped pacing. Was that his problem? Would he have cared two hoots what Camille thought if he hadn’t found her so damned attractive? Was he angry because of what she said, or because