station they called home. And she learnt that the red-basalt soil in the area produced grass that cattle thrived upon—quite beside the point. Well, the treacherous little thought crept into her mind, not so much beside the point if she ever got to interview the man!
She also learnt that Brett Wyndham was a powerful figure in other ways. The empire was no longer based solely on pastoralism. He had mining interests in the area, marble from Chillagoe, zinc and transport companies. He employed a significant amount of people in these enterprises, and he was respected for his environmental views, as well as views on endangered species.
Then she turned up gold, from her point of view—a rather bitchy little article about one Natasha Hewson, who was described as extraordinarily beautiful and extremely talented. Apparently she ran an agency that specialized in organizing events and functions down to the last exquisite detail for the rich and famous. But, the article went on to say, if Natasha had hoped to be last in the long line of beautiful women Brett Wyndham had squired when they’d got engaged, her hopes had been dashed when they’d broken off the engagement recently…
Holly checked the date and saw that it was only nine months ago.
She sat back and tapped her teeth with the end of her pen. She had to admit that he’d got to her in a way that had reawakened her from a couple of years of mental and physical celibacy—but had she wanted to be reawakened? Not by a man who could have any woman he wanted, and had had a long line of them, she thought swiftly.
Mind you—she smiled a rueful smile—there was no hope of her getting an interview with him anyway, so it was best just to forget it all.
Brett Wyndham wondered how soon he’d be able to leave the ball. He’d come partnerless—well, he’d come with his sister. True to her word, she was looking stunning in a lavender crinoline, but otherwise apart from her tiny mask was quite recognizable as Sue Murray. Moreover she was putting a brave face on even if her heart was breaking and, whether it was his presence or not, no-one appeared to be making a laughing stock of her.
He watched her dance past—he’d left their table and was standing at the bar—and he found himself pondering the nature of love. Sue felt she shouldn’t be able to love Brendan Murray now but was that all it took in matters of the heart? Dictating to yourself what you should or should not feel?
Which led him in turn to ponder his own love life. The nature of his life seemed to ensure that the women in it were only passing companions, but there had been no shortage of them. The problem was, he couldn’t seem to drum up much enthusiasm for any of them.
Not only that, perhaps it was the inability of those partners to disguise their expectations that he was getting tired of, he reflected. Or the fact that none of them ever said ‘no.’ Well, one had quite recently, now he came to think of it. His lips twisted with amusement at the memory.
He shrugged and turned to watch the passing parade.
He’d come, courtesy of Mike Rafferty, as a masked Spanish aristocrat with a dark cropped jacket, dark, trousers, soft boots and white, frilled shirt, complete with scarlet cummerbund and black felt hat.
Dinner was over and the serious part of the evening under way—the serious dancing, that was. They were all there, strutting their stuff to the powerful beat of the music under the chandelier: the Cleopatras, the Marie Antoinettes, the belly dancers, the harem girls, the Lone Rangers, the Lawrences of Arabia, the three Elvises, a Joan of Arc and a Lady Godiva in a body stocking who looked as if she was regretting her choice of costume.
Some of them he recognized despite the masks and towering wigs. All of them, he reflected, bored him to tears.
He was just about to turn away when one girl he didn’t recognize danced past in the arms of an eager pirate complete with eye patch, one gold earring and a stuffed macaw on his shoulder.
She was quite tall, very slim and dressed almost all in black. Something about her, probably her outfit, stirred something in his memory, but he couldn’t pin it down.
‘Who’s she supposed to be?’ he enquired of an elderly milkmaid standing beside him. He indicated the girl in black.
The milkmaid beamed. ‘Isn’t she perfect? So different. Of course, it’s Holly Golightly—don’t you remember? Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. That gorgeous black hat with the wide, downturned brim and the light, floaty hat-band; the earrings, the classic little black dress and gloves—even the alligator shoes. And to think of using her sunglasses as a mask!’
‘Ah. Yes, she is rather perfect. You wouldn’t happen to know who she is in real life?’
The milkmaid had no idea and Brett watched Holly Golightly dance past again.
She looked cool and detached, even slightly superior, but that could be because the pirate was having trouble containing his enthusiasm for her.
In fact, as he watched she detached herself from her partner as he attempted to maul her, swung on her heel and swept away towards the ballroom balcony with a hand to her hat.
The pirate looked so crestfallen, Brett could only assume he was either very young or very drunk.
Without giving it much thought, he took a fresh glass of champagne off the bar and followed the girl onto the balcony.
She was leaning against the balustrade, breathing deeply.
‘Maybe this’ll help to remove the taste of the pirate?’ he suggested and offered the champagne to her.
Holly straightened and wondered if she was imagining things. She’d been rather darkly contemplating the fact that she’d been right about very young men such as the pirate who was the son of her mother’s friend; he hadn’t been able to keep his hands off her!
But could this tall, arrogant-looking Spaniard be who she thought he was? Could you ever forget Brett Wyndham’s voice, or his athletic build? Or the pass he’d made at her? More importantly, did she want to be recognized? As a serious journalist, perhaps, but like this? As a serial socialite…?
In a lightning decision that she did not want to be recognized, she lowered her voice a notch and assumed a French accent. ‘Merci. I was of a mind to punch his parrot.’
Brett laughed then narrowed his eyes behind the mask. ‘You sound as if you’ve just stepped out of France.’
‘Not France, Tahiti.’ It wasn’t exactly a lie. She’d returned from her last travel assignment, Papeete, a bare week ago.
‘So, a Tahitian Holly Golightly?’
‘You may say so.’ Holly sipped some champagne. ‘What have we with you? An Aussie señor?’
He looked down at his attire. ‘You could say so. Are you into horses, Miss Golightly?’
Holly gazed at him blankly.
‘It is the kick-off to the Winter Racing Carnival, this ball,’ he elaborated.
‘Of course! But no, you could say not, although I have done some riding in my time. Generally, though, on inferior beasts such as asses and camels.’
Brett’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Camels? In Tahiti? How come?’
‘Not,
