Maybe his whole life had been building to this kiss.

It was a crazy thing to think—but how could he think it was crazy when his hands were cupping her face and he was drawing her in to meet him? How could he think he was crazy when his mouth was lowering to hers and she was so sweet, so beautiful, so right?

She wanted him. He felt her need and his whole body responded. Their kiss was suddenly urgent, hard, demanding. It was as if a magnetic field had been created, locking them to each other, two force fields meeting, as they must, with fire at the centre.

He wanted her. He wanted her fiercely, with a passion that rocked him. He felt…out of control. Maybe he was out of control. It was Christmas Eve. He was with a woman he’d thought he’d known but he now realised he hadn’t known at all.

His Meg.

Christmas With Her Boss

By

Marion Lennox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

Sigh. As I write this, Christmas is over for another year, and there’s a mixture of relief and regret as I pack up the decorations. I can still hear my grandma muttering, “It’s not worth packing them up. It comes round so fast that before you know it you’ll be pulling them out again.” And of course Grandma’s right, but from here it seems a long time till I get my next hit of Santa Clausing, carols and eggnog.

Anyway, just to keep me going until next year, I’ve indulged in the next best thing to Christmas, which is a Christmas romance for you to enjoy as you take the decorations out again. My story has all my favourite things: a hero to die for, drama, fun, dogs, cows, a birth—oh, and did I mention eggnog?

I loved locking my heroine on her farm with her to-die-for boss. A billionaire boss—what greater gift could a girl find in her stocking on Christmas morning?

Enjoy!

Marion Lennox

About the Author

MARION LENNOX is a country girl, born on an Australian dairy farm. She moved on—mostly because the cows just weren’t interested in her stories! Married to a “very special doctor”, Marion writes Mills & Boon® Medical™ romances as well as Mills & Boon® Cherish™ (she used a different name for each category for a while—if you’re looking for her past Mills & Boon® romances search for author Trisha David as well). She’s now had over seventy-five romance novels accepted for publication.

In her non-writing life Marion cares for kids, cats, dogs, chooks and goldfish. She travels, she fights her rampant garden (she’s losing), and her house dust (she’s lost).

Having spun in circles for the first part of her life, she’s now stepped back from her “other” career, which was teaching statistics at her local university. Finally she’s reprioritised her life, figured what’s important and discovered the joys of deep baths, romance and chocolate.

Preferably all at the same time!

Chapter One

‘ALL scheduled flights have been cancelled until after Christmas. Charter planes are no exception. I’m sorry, ma’am, but nobody’s going anywhere.’

Meg replaced the phone as if it was about to shatter. The air around her felt sharp and dangerous. She was trying hard not to breathe.

The door to her boss’s inner sanctum was open. W S McMaster was clearing his desk, filing vital documents into his lovely calfskin briefcase. Suave, sleek and almost impossibly good-looking, the man looked what he was—a billionaire businessman moving on to the next important thing.

But the next important thing was in New York, and W S McMaster’s personal assistant was about to tell him there were no planes for at least three days.

No-o-o-o-o-o.

‘Oh, Meg, I’m so out of here.’ Josie, Meg’s assistant, was tugging off her office shoes and hauling on six-inch stilettos. ‘Dan’s meeting me in five minutes and I’m free. How cool to have Christmas fall on Monday. I have two solid days of partying until I need to sober up for the family Christmas Day.’

Meg didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

Josie and the rest of the office staff departed, calling Christmas greetings as they left. Yes, Christmas was on Monday. It was Friday afternoon. The corporate world closed down, right now.

Except for Meg, whose job it was to be at hand as Mr McMaster’s personal assistant at any time he was in Australia.

Mr McMaster was only in Australia for maybe ten or twelve weeks of the year, and there was little administration she had to do outside those times. It was a fabulous job. She’d been so lucky to get it. If she’d messed this up…

Don’t go there. Focus on now. Focus on getting her boss out of the country. She gave a weak little wave to the departing staff and tried one last phone call.

Her boss was too far away to hear, but there was little to hear anyway; just more of the same.

‘Helicopters depend on air traffic controllers too?’ she asked bleakly. ‘No, thank you; I understand. And there’s no way the strike can be resolved until after Christmas? Of course I know the whole country closes down from five tonight, but this is vital. Can we…I don’t know, take off from a paddock while no one’s watching? Island hop to Indonesia and find a flight from there? I’m serious; I’ll do anything.’

No and no and no.

She replaced her phone and stared at it as if it had personally betrayed her—and Mr McMaster was standing in the doorway, ready to go.

He looked ready to take on the world.

He always did, she conceded. William McMaster was thirty-six years old; he’d been born into money and he’d inherited the gene for making it. He headed a huge family corporation and the McMaster empire was growing by the day. For the last three years he’d spent two or three months a year here, growing the part of the firm that was opening mines all over Australia. He flew from one business meeting to another. While he was in Australia Meg flew with him, and as she did she realised why he had a different PA in every country. He’d wear one out in weeks.

She was worn out now, and he was ready to leave. He was leaning against the door, waiting for her attention. He was wearing a dark Italian business suit that screamed money and taste, with a crisp white shirt, new on this morning because the hotel laundry had sent his shirts back slightly yellowed. She’d had a frantic scramble to get new ones. His hotel was supposed to be the best in Melbourne—how could she top that? The hotel also had the best gym in Melbourne. He insisted on hotels with great gyms and his body proved it. Tall, dark, and far more good-looking than any man had a right to be, he was watching her now through dark, hooded eyes, as if he knew something was wrong.

Of course he knew something was wrong. You couldn’t get to where he was without intelligence and intuition, and William McMaster had both in spades.

‘My car to the airport?’ he queried, but softly, as if he already suspected the answer.

‘There’s a problem,’ she said, not looking at him. Her new three year contract was on her desk, waiting for her boss to sign on his way out. She shoved it under her fax, as if somehow hiding it could protect it.

She so wanted to keep this job. While Mr McMaster was overseas she wasn’t needed, but when he was in the country she moved to total commitment. Seven days out of seven. Twelve hour days, or more.

He worked like this all the time, Meg knew. She was in touch with his three other PAs, one in London, one in New York and one in Hong Kong. Wherever he went, the work of a dozen people followed. The man was driven and he drove everyone around him.

He couldn’t drive her now. She must go home.

‘There’s a delay,’ Meg managed, trying desperately to sound as if this was a mere hiccup to be sorted by six. Six, the time his plane took off and she could catch the train home and be free.

He didn’t respond. He simply waited, his dark eyes barely flickering. He was a man of few words. He expected his people to anticipate his demands and sort them.

That was what she was paid to do, but this time she’d failed.

She couldn’t hire a private jet. Helicopters needed airspace too. How long would it take a boat to get to New Zealand so he could fly from there? A week at least. No.

And hotels…They’d been booked out for months for this holiday weekend. When she’d settled his account this morning the manager already sounded tired in anticipation.

‘It’s great he’s booked out early. I have people queuing. There’s not a room to be had in the whole city. I have people offering bribes…’

‘Are you intending to tell me?’

His eyes had narrowed—he knew by now that the problem was serious. To her surprise, though, there was a gleam of suppressed amusement in his dark eyes, as if he guessed the mess her thoughts were in.

‘There’s been a snap strike by air traffic controllers,’ she said, feeling ill. ‘The conciliation meeting ended twenty minutes ago, with no result. All airlines are grounded indefinitely.’

She could see the airport from this office. Meg snatched a fleeting glance outside. This was the penthouse suite of the most luxurious office block in Melbourne. The view was almost all the way to Tasmania, and normally there were planes between here and the sea.

Now the sky was empty, and her boss’s gaze had followed hers.

‘No planes,’ he said slowly.

‘Nothing that needs airspace until after Christmas. There’s no guarantee even then. This is…’

‘Absurd,’ he snapped. ‘A private jet…’

‘Requires airspace.’ She managed to meet his gaze full on. He liked direct answers; hated being messed around. She’d worked with him for three years now and she knew enough not to quail before that steely gaze. Sometimes this man demanded more than was humanly possible. When that happened she told him and he simply moved on.

He wasn’t moving on yet.

‘Organise me a car to Sydney. I’ll fly from there.’

‘The strike’s Australia-wide.’

‘That’s impossible. I need to be in New York for Christmas.’

Why? There was enough space in her muddled thoughts to wonder what—or who—was waiting for him at home.

The gossip magazines said this man was a loner. He’d been an only child, and his parents were wealthy to the point of obscenity, long divorced and enmeshed in society living. As far as Meg knew, he never saw them. There’d been an actress on his arm last time he’d been in London but the tabloids had reported her broken heart at least three months ago. And it hadn’t been very broken, Meg thought wryly. She knew how much the woman had received during their short relationship—‘Send this to Sarah…Settle Sarah’s hotel bill…’ and now Sarah had already moved on to the next high-status partner.

So who was waiting in New York?

‘I can’t get you to New York,’ she said, trying to stay calm. To tell it like it was.

‘You’ve tried everything?’

‘Yes, sir.’

He stared at her for a long moment and she could see his cool brain assessing the situation. He trusted her—he’d trusted her from the moment he’d hired her—and she could tell by his expression that already he was in Melbourne for Christmas and making the best of it.

‘I can work here,’ he said, angry but seemingly resigned. Frequent flyers knew that sometimes factors moved out of their control, and she wouldn’t be fired for this. ‘I’ll need to make some fast arrangements, though. We can use the time to sort the Berswood deal. That’s urgent enough.’

Deep breath. Just say it.

‘Mr McMaster, the Australian corporate world closes down at five this afternoon,’ she said, meeting his gaze square on. ‘This entire building will be shutting down. There’ll be no air conditioning, no servicing; the place will be locked. The business district will be deserted. You pay me to be in charge of this office and I’ve already let the staff leave. And you can’t sort the Berswood contract. There’ll be no one at Berswood to sort it with.’

She was meeting her boss’s gaze, tilting her chin, trying to sound calmly confident instead of defiant and scared.

She was definitely scared.

McMaster’s gaze was almost blank, but she knew there was nothing blank about what he was thinking. This man sorted multi-million business deals in the time it took her to apply lipstick. Not that she had time to apply lipstick when he was around.

‘Very well,’ he conceded. ‘You and I can work from my hotel suite.’

You and I can work from my hotel suite…

Her face must have changed again. He got it. He always knew.

‘There’s a problem there, too?’

‘Sir, there’s no rooms.’

‘If I have to change hotels I will,’ he snapped, but she shook her head. This was why she’d be fired. It was something she should have foreseen. At the first rumour she should have booked, but she’d missed the rumours.

She’d been frantic in the Christmas lead up, and she’d done her shopping in one crazy rush last night. The shops had been open all night. McMaster had let her go at eleven and she’d shopped until three. Then she’d fallen into an exhausted sleep—and been woken to a demand for clean shirts. She’d sorted it and been back in the office at seven, but her normally incisive scheduling had let her down. She’d missed listening to the morning news.

Fallback position…What was that?

There wasn’t one.

‘There really are no rooms,’ she said, as calmly as she could. ‘The country’s full of trapped people. You left your hotel before seven this morning. Most people book out later. By eight the rumours had started and people simply refused to leave. If I’d figured this out this morning…I didn’t and I’m sorry. There’s a major Hollywood blockbuster being filmed on location just out of Melbourne. All the cast were due to fly out tonight. They’ve block-booked every luxury hotel in Melbourne and they’re prepared to pay whatever it takes. The cheap places are overwhelmed by groups who can’t get home. People are camping at the airport. There really is nothing.’

She hesitated, hating to throw it back to him, knowing she had no choice. ‘Sir…Do you have friends? Your parents…There must be people you know?’

There was a moment’s loaded silence. Then, ‘You’re telling me to contact my parents’ friends?’ The anger in his voice frightened her.

‘No, I…’

‘There is no way I will contact any friend of my parents—or anyone else. You’re suggesting I ask for charity?’

‘Of course not, but…’

‘To impose myself on someone else’s Christmas…I will not.’

‘Sir…’

‘So, taking away the personal option, where,’ he said in a voice that dripped ice, ‘do you suggest I stay?’

‘I don’t know,’ she whispered.

‘You’re paid to know,’ he snapped, his face dark with fury. He glanced at his watch. ‘You have fifteen minutes. I’ll get documents faxed from Berswood to give me work to do over the weekend. Meanwhile, find me something. Somewhere I can work in peace. Now.’

He turned and slammed back into his office and, for the first time in her entire life, Meg felt like having hysterics. Serious hysterics.

Hysterics wouldn’t help. Where? Where?

Somewhere he could work in peace?

She could organise a mattress and a sleeping bag here, she thought, feeling more and more out of control. But even this office…without air conditioning…

No. Her job was so ended.

And more…In a little more than an hour, the train to Tandaroit would leave without her. Christmas was waiting. As well as that, there was hay waiting, ready to spoil if it wasn’t harvested. She must go home.

She made one more miserable phone call, to a dealer in hotel rooms. Unless she’d take the absolute dregs there was nothing, nothing, nothing.

She sat and stared at her hands until exactly fifteen minutes later, when the door slammed open again.

‘Well?’ he demanded. His anger was back under control. He was icy calm, waiting for her solution. And there was only one solution to give.

‘There are no hotels.’

‘So?’

So say it. Just say it.

‘So you can come home with me,’ she said, trying desperately to make her voice bright and confident. ‘It’s the only solution, and it’s a good one. We have a comfortable private spare room with its own bathroom, and we have the Internet. I’ll be on call for your secretarial needs. We can’t have you trapped in the city over Christmas. My family and I would be pleased if you could spend Christmas with us.’

If her boss’s face had been thunderous before, it was worse now. It was as if there were a live hand-grenade ticking between them. The pin had been pulled. Who knew how long these things took to explode?

‘You’re offering me charity,’ he said at last, slowly, carefully, as if saying the word itself was like taking poison.

‘It’s not charity at all,’ she managed, feeling a faint stirring of anger. ‘We’d love to have you.’ Oooh, what a lie.

But what was the choice? Sleeping bags here was a real possibility, awful as it seemed. She could spend Christmas trying to make this office liveable, working around a situation which was appalling. Or she could try and resurrect Christmas.

If he accepted, then he’d spend the whole time in his room with his computer, she thought. Thank the stars she’d set up Internet access on the farm. It cost more than she could afford, but it had made Scotty jubilant and maybe…just maybe it would be the decider.

‘I do not want to be part of anyone else’s Christmas,’ he snapped.

‘You don’t need to be. You can stay in your room and work. I can even bring your meals to your room, if you want to take it that far.’

‘I can’t believe this is the only solution.’

‘It’s the only one I can think of.’

No matter what she did, no matter what she offered, she would lose her job over this, Meg thought miserably, and then she thought—why don’t I quit now? She could walk away and leave this man to do whatever he wanted over Christmas.

But this was the best job. And maybe…maybe he’d even enjoy it. Letty put on a great Christmas. Miracles could happen.

Send me a miracle, she pleaded, starting her Santa list right now.

‘It will work,’ she said, managing to sound much more calm than she felt. ‘This is a genuine offer and we’d be very pleased to have you.’ She glanced at her watch, acting as if it was time to move on. Acting as if the thing had already been decided. ‘You will be able to work. The room has a lovely view.’ Not exactly like this one. ‘You will be comfortable and you will be left alone. If you accept my offer, then my train leaves in an hour. I’m sorry you can’t get home but this is the best I can do.’

His face was still dark with fury.

If he was so angry, why didn’t he contact someone else? she thought. Any socialite in Melbourne would be pleased to be his friend. He was invited everywhere. Surely he didn’t wish to spend Christmas with her.

But it seemed he did.

‘Your house is large?’

That was easy. ‘Yes, it is.’

‘No young children?’

‘No.’ Scotty was fifteen. Surely that didn’t count as young.

‘And I will have privacy?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Right,’ he said roughly, angrily. ‘I’ll pay your family for my accommodation and I’ll work from there.’

‘There’s no need to pay.’

‘This is business,’ he snapped. ‘Business or nothing.’

‘Fine,’ she said, accepting the inevitable. ‘I’ll get changed. We can walk to the station.’

‘Walk?’

‘It’s Christmas,’ she said. ‘Traffic’s gridlocked and it’s four blocks.’

‘I will have privacy at this place?’ he demanded again, suddenly suspicious.

‘At my home,’ she said, goaded. ‘Yes, you will.’

He hesitated. ‘And your family…’

‘They’ll be glad of the extra income,’ she said, knowing that this at least was true.

And it seemed it was the right thing to say. He was moving on.

’Don’t think I’m accepting this with any degree of complacency,’ he snapped. ‘We’ll discuss this debacle after Christmas. But for now…let’s just get it over with.’

Chapter Two

Where was she taking him?

Maybe he should have paid attention, but he’d stalked back into his office and worked until she’d decreed it was time to go. Then he’d walked beside her to the station and stayed silent as she organised tickets. He’d been too angry to do anything else, and too caught up in work. The Berswood faxes had come through just as he left, and he’d spotted a loophole that would have his lawyers busy for weeks.

Had they really thought he wouldn’t notice such a problem?

As he walked to the station he was planning his course of attack—and maybe that was no accident. Burying himself in work had always been his way to block out the world, and he was not looking forward to the next three days. Three days immersed in his work, with little to alleviate it, with no hotel gym to burn energy…And missing Elinor and the kids…That hurt.

At least he had the Berswood contract to work on, he told himself as he strode beside his PA, trying to think the legal implications through as she purchased tickets and hurried to the train. Then as the train pulled out, the announcement came through that the train destination was four hours away. What the…?

He and Meg had been forced to sit across the aisle from each other. He looked across at her in alarm. ‘Four hours?’

‘We get off earlier,’ she called. ‘Two and a half hours.’

Two and a half hours?

He couldn’t even grill her. He sat hard against the window with barely enough room to balance his laptop. Beside him, a woman was juggling two small children, one on her knee and one in a carrycot in the aisle. Meg had someone else’s child on her lap. There were people squashed every which way, in a train taking them who knew where?

He was heading into the unknown, with his PA.

She didn’t even look like his PA, he thought as the interminable train journey proceeded, and even the Berswood deal wasn’t enough to hold his attention. It seemed she’d brought her luggage to the office so she could make a quick getaway. Once he’d grudgingly accepted her invitation, she’d slipped into the Ladies and emerged…different.

His PA normally wore a neat black suit, crisp white blouse and sensible black shoes with solid heels. She wore her hair pulled tightly into an elegant chignon. He’d never seen her with a hair out of place.

She was now wearing hip-hugging jeans, pale blue canvas sneakers—a little bit worn—and a soft white shirt, open necked, with a collar but no sleeves.

What was more amazing was that she’d tugged her chignon free, and her bouncing chestnut curls were flowing over her shoulders. And at her throat was a tiny Christmas angel.

The angel could have been under her corporate shirt for weeks, he thought, stunned at the transformation. She looked casual. She looked completely unbusinesslike—and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like being on this train. He didn’t like it that his PA was chatting happily to the woman beside her about who knew what?

He wasn’t in control, and to say he wasn’t accustomed to the sensation was an understatement.

William McMaster had been born in control. His parents were distant, to say the least, and he’d learned early that nursery staff came and went. If he made a fuss, they went. He seldom did make a fuss. He liked continuity; he liked his world running smoothly.

His PA was paid to make sure it did.

Meg had come to him with impeccable references. She’d graduated with an excellent commerce degree, she’d moved up the corporate ladder in the banking sector and it was only when her personal circumstances changed that she’d applied for the job with him.

‘I need to spend more time with my family,’ she’d said and he hadn’t asked more.

Her private life wasn’t his business.

Only now it was his business. He should have asked more questions. He was trapped with her family, whoever her family turned out to be.

While back in New York…

He needed to contact Elinor, urgently, but he couldn’t call her now. It was three in the morning her time. It’d have to wait.

The thought of contacting her made him feel ill. To give such disappointment…

‘There’s less than an hour to go,’ Meg called across the aisle and, to his astonishment, she sounded cheerful. ‘Dandle a baby if you’re bored. I’m sure the lady beside you would be grateful.’

‘I couldn’t let him do that.’ The young mother beside him looked shocked. ‘I’d spoil his lovely suit.’

He winced. He’d taken off his jacket but he still looked corporate and he knew it. He had suits and gym gear. Nothing else.

Surely that couldn’t be a problem. But…

Where were they going?

He’d had visions of a suburban house with a comfortable spare room where he could lock himself in and work for three days. He’d pay, so he wouldn’t have to be social; something he’d be forced to be if he stayed with any of Melbourne’s social set. But now…Where was she taking him?

He was a billionaire. He did not have problems like this.

How did you get off a train?

There was a no alcohol policy on the train, which was just as well as the carriage was starting to look like a party. It was full of commuters going home for Christmas, holidaymakers, everyone escaping the city and heading bush.

Someone started a Christmas singalong, which was ridiculous, but somehow Meg found herself singing along too.

Was she punch-drunk?

No. She was someone who’d lost the plot but there was nothing she could do about it. She had no illusions about her job. She’d messed things up and, even though she was doing the best she could, William McMaster had been denied his Christmas and she was responsible.

Worse, she was taking him home. He hadn’t asked where home was. He wasn’t interested.

She glanced across the aisle at him and thought he so didn’t belong on this train. He looked…

Fabulous, she admitted to herself, and there it was, the thing she’d carefully suppressed since she’d taken this job. W S McMaster was awesome. He was brilliant and powerful and more. He worked her hard but he paid magnificently; he expected the best from her and he got it.

And he was so-o-o sexy. If she wasn’t careful, she knew she stood every chance of having a major crush on the guy. But she’d realised that from the start, from that first interview, so she’d carefully compartmentalised her life. He was her boss. Any other sensation had to be carefully put aside.

And she’d learned from him. W S McMaster had compartments down to a fine art. There was never any hint of personal interaction between employer and employee.

But now there needed to be personal interaction. W S McMaster was coming home to her family.

He’d better be nice to Scotty.

He didn’t have to be nice to anyone.

Yes, he did, she thought. For the next few days her boundaries needed to shift. Not to be taken away, she reminded herself hastily. Just moved a little. She needed to stop thinking about him as her boss and start thinking about him as someone who should be grateful to her for providing emergency accommodation.

She’d made a start, deliberately getting rid of her corporate gear, making a statement that this weekend wasn’t entirely an extension of their work relationship.

He could lock himself in his room for the duration, she thought. She’d sent a flurry of texts to Letty on the subject of which room they’d put him in. The attic was best. There was a good bed and a desk and a comfy chair. It had its own small bathroom. The man was a serious workaholic. Maybe he’d even take his meals in his room.

‘He’s not singing,’ the elderly woman beside her said. Meg had struck up an intermittent conversation with her, so she knew the connection. ‘Your boss. Is he not happy?’

‘He’s stuck in Australia because of the airline strike,’ Meg said. ‘I suspect he’s homesick.’

Homesick. She’d spoken loudly because of the singing, but there was a sudden lull between verses and somehow her words hit silence. Suddenly everyone was looking at William.

‘Homesick,’ the woman beside Meg breathed, loud enough for everyone to hear; loud enough to catch William’s attention. ‘Oh, that’s awful. Do you have a wife and kiddies back home?’

‘I…no,’ William said, clearly astonished that a stranger could be so familiar.

‘So it’ll just be your parents missing you,’ the woman said. ‘Oh, I couldn’t bear it. Where’s home?’

‘New York.’ The two syllables were said with bluntness bordering on rudeness, but the woman wasn’t to be deflected.

‘New York City?’ she breathed. ‘Oh, where? Near Central Park?’

‘My apartment overlooks Central Park,’ he conceded, and there was an awed hush.

‘Will it be snowing there?’ someone asked, and Meg looked at her boss’s grim face and answered for him. She’d checked the forecast. It was part of her job.

‘The forecast is for snow.’

‘Oh, and the temperature here’s going to be boiling.’ The woman doing the questioning looked as if she might burst into tears on his behalf. ‘You could have made snowmen in Central Park.’

‘I don’t…’

‘Or thrown snowballs,’ someone added.

‘Or made a Snowman Santa.’

‘Hey, did you see that movie where they fell down and made snow angels?’

‘He could do that here in the dust.’

There was general laughter, but it was sympathetic, and then the next carol started and William was mercifully left alone.

Um…maybe she should have protected him from that. Maybe she shouldn’t have told anyone he was her boss. Meg looked across at William—immersed in his work again—and thought—I’m taking my boss home for Christmas and all we’re offering is dust angels. He could be having a white Christmas in Central Park.

With who?

She didn’t know, and she was not going to feel bad about that, she decided. Not until he told her that he was missing a person in particular. If he was simply going to sit in a luxury penthouse and have lobster and caviar and truffles and open gifts to himself…

She was going home to Scotty and Grandma and a hundred cows.

That was a good thought. No matter how appallingly she’d messed up, she was still going home for Christmas.

She was very noble to share, she told herself.

Hold that thought.

Tandaroit wasn’t so much a station as a rail head. There’d been talk of closing it down but Letty had immediately presented a petition with over five thousand names on it to their local parliamentarian. No matter that Letty, Scotty and Meg seemed to be the only ones who used it—and that the names on the petition had been garnered by Letty, dressed in gumboots and overalls, sitting on the corner of one of Melbourne’s major pedestrian malls in Scotty’s now discarded wheelchair. She’d been holding an enormous photograph of a huge-eyed calf with a logo saying ‘Save Your Country Cousins’ superimposed.

Tandaroit Station stayed.

When Letty wanted something she generally got it. Her energy was legendary. The death of her son and daughter-in-law four years ago had left her shattered, but afterwards she’d hugged Meg and she’d said, ‘There’s nothing to do but keep going, so we keep going. Let’s get you another job.’

Meg’s first thought had been to get some sort of accountancy job in Curalo, their closest city, but then they’d found Mr McMaster’s advertisement. ‘You’d be away from us almost completely for three months of the year but the rest we’d have you almost full-time. That’d be better for Scotty; better for all of us. And look at the pay,’ Letty had said, awed. ‘Oh, Meg, go for it.’

So she’d gone for it, and now she was tugging her bag down from the luggage rack as William extricated himself from his wedged in position and she was thinking that was what she had to do now. Just go for it. Christmas, here we come, ready or not.

Her bag was stuck under a load of other people’s baggage. She gave it a fierce tug and it came loose, just as William freed himself from his seat. She lurched backward and he caught her. And held.

He had to hold her. The train was slowing. There were youngsters sitting in the aisle, she had no hope of steadying herself and she had every chance of landing on top of a child. But her boss was holding her against him, steady as a rock in the swaying train.

And she let him hold her. She was tired and unnerved and overwrought. She’d been trying to be chirpy; trying to pretend everything was cool and she brought someone like her boss home for Christmas every year. She’d been trying to think that she didn’t care that she’d just ruined the most fantastic job she’d ever be likely to have.

And suddenly it was all just too much. For one fleeting moment she let her guard down. She let herself lean into him, while she felt his strength, the feel of his new-this-morning crisp linen shirt, the scent of his half-a-month’s-salary aftershave…

‘Ooh, I hope you two have a very happy Christmas,’ the lady she’d been sitting near said, beaming up at them in approval. ‘No need for gifts for you two, then. No wonder you’re taking him home for Christmas.’ And then she giggled. ‘You know, I married my boss too. Best thing I ever did. Fourteen grandchildren later…You go for it, love.’

And Meg, who’d never blushed in her life, turned bright crimson and hauled herself out of her boss’s arms as if she were burned.

The train was shuddering to a halt. She had to manoeuvre her way through the crowds to get out.

She headed for the door, leaving her boss to follow. If he could. And she wouldn’t really mind if he couldn’t.

The train dumped them and left, rolling away into the night, civilisation on wheels, leaving them where civilisation wasn’t. Nine o’clock on the Tandaroit rail head. Social hub of the world. Or not. There was a single electric light above the entrance, and nothing else for as far as the eye could see.

‘So…where exactly are we?’ William said, sounding as if he might have just landed on Mars, but Meg wasn’t listening. She was too busy staring out into the night, willing the headlights of Letty’s station wagon to appear.

Letty was always late. She’d threatened her with death if she was late tonight.

She couldn’t even phone her to find out where she was. There was no mobile reception out here. And, as if in echo of her thoughts…

‘There’s no reception.’ Her boss was staring incredulously at his phone.

‘There’s a land line at the farm.’

‘You’ve brought me somewhere with no cellphone reception?’

Hysterics were once again very close to the surface. Meg felt ill. ‘It’s better than sleeping at the airport,’ she snapped, feeling desperate.

‘How is it better?’ He was looking where she was looking, obviously hoping for any small sign of civilisation. There wasn’t any. Just a vast starlit sky and nothing and nothing and nothing.

‘She’ll come.’

‘Who’ll come?’

‘My grandmother,’ Meg said through gritted teeth. ‘If she knows what’s good for her, she’ll come right now.’

‘Your home is how far from the station?’

‘Eight miles.’

‘Eight!’

‘Maybe a bit more.’

‘It’s a farm?’

‘Yes.’

‘So Tandaroit…’

She took a couple of deep breaths. Hysterics would help no one. ‘It’s more of a district than a town,’ she admitted. ‘There was a school here once, and tennis courts. Not now, though. They use the school for storing stock feed.’

‘And your farm’s eight miles from this…hub,’ he said, his voice carefully, dangerously neutral. ‘That’s a little far to walk.’

‘We’re not walking.’

‘I was thinking,’ he said, ‘of how long it might take to walk back here when I decide to leave.’

That caught her. She stopped staring out into the night and stared at her boss instead. Thinking how this might look to him.

‘You mean if my family turn into axe-murderers?’ she ventured.

‘I’ve seen Deliverance.’

Her lips twitched. ‘We’re not that bad.’

‘You don’t own a car?’

‘No.’

‘Yet I pay you a very good wage.’

‘We have Letty’s station wagon and a tractor. What else do we need?’

‘You like sitting on rail heads waiting for grandmothers who may or may not appear?’

‘She’ll appear.’

‘I believe,’ he said, speaking slowly, as if she was ever so slightly dim, ‘that I might be changing my mind about travelling to a place that’s eight miles from a train which comes…how often a day?’

‘Three or four times, but it only stops here once.’

‘Once,’ he said faintly. ‘It stops once, eight miles away from a place that has no mobile phone reception, with a grandmother who even her granddaughter appears to be feeling homicidal about.’

Uh-oh. She ran her fingers through her hair and tried to regroup.

‘Not that it’s not a very kind invitation,’ he added and she choked. She was so close to the edge…

‘I thought it was kind,’ she managed.

‘Kind?’

‘I could have left you in the office.’

‘Or not. It was you,’ he reminded her, ‘who got me into this mess.’

‘You could have listened to the news on the radio this morning as well as me,’ she snapped and then thought—had she really said that? What little hope she had of keeping her job had finally gone.

‘That’s what I pay you for,’ he snapped back.

Well, if she’d gone this far…‘I left the office at eleven last night. I was at your hotel just after six. I don’t get eight hours off?’

‘I pay you for twenty-four hours on call.’

‘I’m not fussed about what you pay me,’ she snapped. The tension of the last few hours was suddenly erupting, and there was no way she could keep a lid on her emotions. ‘I’m fussed about the ten minutes I spent washing my hair this morning when I should have been listening to the radio and hearing about the airline strike. I’m fussed about being stuck with my boss, who doesn’t seem the least bit grateful that I’m doing the best I can. And now I’m stuck with someone who has the capacity to mess with my family Christmas if he doesn’t stop making me feel guilty and if he spends the rest of Christmas playing Manhattan Millionaire stuck here, and it’s All My Fault.’

She stopped. Out of breath. Out of emotion. Out of words. And it seemed he was the same.

Well, what could he say? Should he agree? He could hardly sack her here, right now, Meg thought. If he did…she and Letty really could be axe-murderers.

Or they could just leave him here, sitting on the Tandaroit station until the next train came through late tomorrow.

‘Don’t do it,’ he growled, and she remembered too late he had an uncanny ability to read her mind. He hesitated and then obviously decided he had no choice but to be a little bit conciliatory. ‘It’s very…clean hair,’ he ventured.

‘Thank you.’ What else was there to say?

‘This…grandmother…’

‘Letty.’

‘She’s backed up by other family members? With other cars?’ He was obviously moving on from her outburst, deciding the wisest thing was to ignore it.

‘Just Letty.’

‘And…who else?’

‘Scotty. My kid brother.’

‘You said no children,’ he said, alarmed.

‘Fifteen’s not a child.’

‘Okay,’ he conceded. ‘Who else?’

‘No one.’

‘Where are your parents?’

‘They died,’ she said. ‘Four years ago. Car crash.’

He was quick. He had it sorted straight away. ‘Which is why you took the job with me?’

‘So I could get home more,’ she said. ‘Ironic, isn’t it?’

But he was no longer listening. Had he been listening, anyway? ‘Could this be Letty?’ he demanded.

Oh, please…She stared into the darkness, and there it was, two pinpricks of light in the distance, growing bigger.

Headlights.

‘Deliverance,’ she muttered and her boss almost visibly flinched.

‘Just joking,’ she said.

‘Don’t joke.’

‘No jokes,’ she agreed and took a deep breath and picked up her holdall. ‘Okay, here’s Letty and, while you may not appreciate it, we really are safe. We’ve organised you a nice private bedroom with Internet. You can use our telephone if there are people you need to contact other than over the Web. You can stay in your room and work all Christmas but Letty is one of the world’s best cooks and here really is better than camping in the office.’

‘I imagine it will be,’ he said, but he didn’t sound sure. ‘And I am grateful.’

‘I bet you are.’

‘It’s lovely hair,’ he said, surprisingly. ‘It would have been a shame to leave it dirty for Christmas.’

‘Thank you,’ she managed again. Cheering up, despite herself.

Letty was coming. She could send W S McMaster to his allocated room and she could get on with Christmas.

Anger was counterproductive. Anger would get him nowhere. Yes, his PA had messed up his Christmas plans but the thing was done. And no, he should never have agreed to come with her to this middle-of-nowhere place. If he’d thought it through, maybe he could have rung a realtor and even bought a small house. Anything rather than being stuck at the beck and call of one wiry little woman called Letty who seemed to own the only set of wheels in the entire district.

They hadn’t passed another car. The car they were in sounded sick enough to be worrying. There was something wrong with its silencer—as if it didn’t have one. The engine was periodically missing. The gearbox seemed seriously shot. They were jolting along an unsealed road. He was wedged in the back seat with both his and Meg’s gear and Letty was talking at the top of her lungs.

‘I’m late because Dave Barring popped over to check on Millicent. Millicent’s a heifer I’m worried is going to calve over Christmas.’ Letty was yelling at him over her shoulder. ‘Dave’s our local vet and he’s off for Christmas so I wanted a bit of reassurance. He reckons she should be right,’ she told Meg. ‘Then I had to pick up three bags of fertiliser from Robertson’s. Robby said if I didn’t take it tonight the place’d be locked up till after New Year. So I’m sorry it’s a bit squashed in the back.’

‘I’m fine,’ he said. He wasn’t.

Anger was counterproductive. If he said it often enough he might believe it.

‘We can swap if you want,’ Meg said.

‘You won’t fit in the back,’ Letty said. ‘Not with Killer.’

Letty was right. The combination of Meg and Killer would never fit in the back seat with the baggage.

Killer looked like a cross between a Labrador and an Old English sheepdog. He was huge and hairy and black as the night around them. He’d met Meg with such exuberance that once more William had had to steady her, stopping her from being pushed right over.

While Killer had greeted Meg, Letty had greeted him with a handshake that was stronger than a man’s twice her size. Then she’d greeted her granddaughter with a hug that made Meg wince, and then she’d moved into organisational mode.

‘You in the back. Meg, in the front with Killer. I told Scotty I’d be back by nine-thirty so we need to move.’

They were moving. They were flying over the corrugated road with a speed that made him feel as if he was about to lose teeth.

‘So what do we call you?’ Letty said over her shoulder.

‘I told you; he’s Mr McMaster,’ Meg said, sounding muffled, as well she might under so much dog.

‘Mac?’ Letty demanded.

‘He’s my boss,’ Letty said, sounding desperate. ‘He’s not Mac.’

‘He’s our guest for Christmas. What do we call you?’ she demanded again. ‘How about Mac?’

Do not let the servants become familiar.

Master William.

Mr McMaster.

Sir.

Once upon a time a woman called Hannah had called him William. To her appalling cost…

‘How about Bill?’ Letty demanded. ‘That’s short for William. Or Billy.’

‘Billy?’ Meg said, sounding revolted. ‘Grandma, can we…’

‘William,’ he said flatly, hating it.

‘Willie?’ Letty said, hopeful.

‘William.’

Letty sighed. ‘Will’s better. Though it is a bit short.’

‘Like Meg,’ Meg said.

‘You know I like Meggie.’

‘And you know I don’t answer to it. We don’t have to call you anything you don’t like,’ Meg said over her shoulder. ‘I’m happy to keep calling you Mr McMaster.’

‘You are not,’ Letty retorted. ‘Not over Christmas. And why are you calling him Mr McMaster, anyway? How long have you worked for him? Three years?’

‘He calls me Miss Jardine.’

‘Then the pair of you need to come off your high horses,’ Letty retorted. ‘Meg and William it is, and if I hear any sign of Ms or Mr then it’s Meggie and Willie for the rest of Christmas. Right?’

‘Okay with me,’ Meg said, resigned.

‘Fine,’ William said.

Define fine.

He was expecting hillbilly country. What he got was Fantasia. They sped over a crest and there it was, spread out before them, a house straight out of a fairy tale.

Or not. As he got closer…

Not a fairy tale. A Christmas tableau.

The farmhouse, set well back from the road among scattered gums, was lit up like a series of flashing neon signs. It was so bright it should almost be visible from the next state.

‘Oh, my…’ Meg breathed before William could even get his breath back. ‘Grandma, what have you done?’

‘We both did it,’ Letty said proudly. ‘Me and Scotty. You like our sleigh?’

The house had two chimneys, with what looked like an attic between them. The sleigh took up the entire distance between chimneys. There was a Santa protruding from the chimney on the left. Or, rather, part of Santa. His lower half. His legs were waving backwards and forwards, as if Santa had become stuck in descent. The movement wasn’t smooth, so he moved gracefully from left to right, then jerked back with a movement sharp enough to dislodge vertebrae.

The house was Christmas City. There were lights from one end to the other, a myriad of fairy lights that made the house look like something out of a cartoon movie.

‘It took us days,’ Letty said, pleased with the awed hush. ‘When you rang and said there was a chance you couldn’t get home tonight Scotty and I were ready to shoot ourselves. We’ve worked our tails off getting this right.’

‘I can see that you have,’ Meg said, sounding as stunned as he was. ‘Grandma…’

‘And, before you say a word, we got it all over the Internet,’ Letty informed her. ‘Scotty found it. It was a package deal advertised in July by some lady cleaning out her garage. She’d just bought the house and found it, and she practically paid us to take it away. Some people,’ she said, slowing the car so they could admire the house in all its glory, ‘have no appreciation of art.’

‘But running it,’ Meg said helplessly. ‘It’ll cost…’

‘It’s practically all solar,’ Letty cut in. ‘Except Santa. Well, there’s not a lot of solar Santa Claus’s backsides out there. We haven’t quite got the legs right, but I’ll adjust them before Christmas. Still…What do you think?’

There was suddenly a touch of anxiety in her voice. William got it, and he thought maybe this lady wasn’t as tough as she sounded. She surely wanted to please this girl, Meg, sitting somewhere under her dog.

‘You climb up on that roof again and I’ll give all of your Christmas presents to the dogs. But I love it,’ Meg said as the car came to a halt.

‘Really?’

‘I really love it.’ Meg giggled. ‘It’s kitsch and funny and those legs are just plain adorable.’

‘What do you think?’ Letty said, and she swivelled and looked straight at him. ‘Will?’

‘William. Um…’

‘No lies,’ she said. ‘Is my Meg just humouring me?’

Meg swivelled too. She was covered in dog but somehow he managed to see her expression.

Mess with my grandma and I’ll mess with you, her look said, and it was such a look that he had to revise all over again what he thought of his competent, biddable PA.

His hostess for Christmas.

‘Adorable,’ he said faintly.

‘You’re lying,’ Letty said, and he found himself smiling.

‘I am,’ he agreed, and he met Meg’s glare square on. ‘There’s nothing adorable about a pair of crimson trousers stuck in a chimney. However, it’s fantastical and truly in the spirit of Christmas. As soon as we came over the crest I just knew this was going to be a Christmas to remember.’

‘Better than being stuck in the office?’ Meg said, starting to smile.

‘Better than the office.’ Maybe.

‘Then that’s okay,’ Letty said, accelerating again. ‘If you like my decorations then you can stay. The pair of you.’

‘You’re very generous,’ William said.

‘We are, aren’t we?’ Meg agreed, and hugged her dog.

And then the car pulled to a halt beside the house—and straight away there was more dog. Killer’s relatives? William opened the door and four noses surged in, each desperate to reach him. They were all smaller than Killer, he thought with some relief. Black and white. Collies?

‘Fred, Milo, Turps, Roger, leave the man alone,’ Meg called and the dog pack headed frantically for the other side of the car to envelope someone they obviously knew and loved. Meg was on the ground hugging handfuls of ecstatic dog, being welcomed home in truly splendid style.

William extricated himself from the car and stared down at her. Any hint of his cool, composed PA had disappeared. Meg was being licked from every angle, she was coated with dog and she was showing every sign of loving it.

‘Killer’s Meg’s dog,’ Letty said, surveying the scene in satisfaction. ‘Fred and Roger are mine. Turps and Milo belong to Scotty but they all love Meg. She’s so good with dogs.’

Meg was well and truly buried—and the sight gave him pause.

In twenty-four hours he should be entering his apartment overlooking Central Park. His housekeeper would have come in before him, made sure the heating was on, filled the place with provisions, even set up a tasteful tree. The place would be warm and elegant and welcoming.

Maybe not as welcoming as this.

He would have been welcomed almost as much as this on Christmas Day, he thought, and that was a bleak thought. A really bleak thought. The disappointment he’d felt when he’d learned of the air strike hit home with a vengeance.

He didn’t show emotion. He was schooled not to show it. But now…

It wasn’t any use thinking of it, he thought, struggling to get a grip on his feelings. Elinor would make alternative arrangements. The kids were accustomed to disappointment.

That made it worse, not better.

Don’t think about it. Why rail against something he could do nothing about?

Why was the sight of this woman rolling with dog intensifying the emotion? Making him feel as if he was on the outside looking in?

Back off, he told himself. He was stuck here for three days. Make the most of it and move on.

Meg was struggling to her feet and, despite a ridiculous urge to go fend off a few dogs, he let her do it herself, regain her feet and her composure, or as much composure as a woman who’d just been buried with dogs could have.

‘No, down. Oh, I’ve missed you guys. But where’s Scotty?’

Scotty was watching them.

The kid in the doorway was tall and gangly and way too skinny, even allowing for an adolescent growth spurt. He had Meg’s chestnut curls, Meg’s freckles, Meg’s clear green eyes, but William’s initial overriding impression was that he looked almost emaciated. There was a scar running the length of his left cheek. He had a brace enclosing his left leg, from foot to hip.

He was looking nervously at William, but as soon as William glanced at him he turned his attention to his sister. Who’d turned her attention to him.

‘Scotty…’ Dogs forgotten, Meg headed for her brother and enveloped him in a hug that was almost enough to take him from his feet. The kid was four or five inches taller than Meg’s meagre five feet four or so, but he had no body weight to hold him down. Meg could hug as much as she wanted. There was no way Scotty could defend himself.

Not that he was defending himself. He was hugging Meg back, but with a wary glance at William over her head. Suspicious.

‘Hi,’ William said. ‘I’m William.’ There. He’d said it as if it didn’t hurt at all.

‘I’m Scott,’ the boy said, and Meg released him and turned to face William, her arm staying round her brother, her face a mixture of defensiveness and pride.

‘This is my family,’ she said. ‘Letty and Scotty and our dogs.’

‘Scott,’ Scott said again, only it didn’t come out as it should. He was just at that age, William thought, adolescent trying desperately to be a man but his body wasn’t cooperating. His voice was almost broken, but not quite.

And, aside from his breaking voice, his leg looked a mess as well. You didn’t get to wear a brace that looked like scaffolding if the bones underneath weren’t deeply problematic.

Meg had told him her parents had died four years ago. Had Scott been in the same car crash? The brace spoke of serious ongoing concerns.

Why hadn’t he found this out? William had always prided himself on hiring on instinct rather than background checks. A background check right now would be handy.

‘Did the car get you here all right?’ the kid asked, and William could see he was making an effort to seem older than he was. ‘It needs about six parts replacing but Grandma won’t let me touch it.’

‘You mess with that car and we’re stuck,’ Letty said. ‘Next milk cheque I’ll get it seen to.’

‘I wouldn’t hurt it.’

‘You’re fifteen. You’re hardly a mechanic.’

‘Yeah, but I’ve read…’

‘No,’ Letty snapped. ‘The car’s fine.’

‘I tried messing with my dad’s golf cart when I was fifteen,’ William said, interrupting what he suspected to be a long running battle. ‘Dad was away for a month. He came back and I’d supplied him with a hundred or so extra horsepower. Sadly, he touched the accelerator and hit the garage door. The fuss! Talk about lack of appreciation.’

Scott smiled at that—a shy smile but a smile nonetheless. So did Letty, and so did Meg. And his reaction surprised him.

He kind of liked these smiles, he decided. They took away a little of the sting of the last few hours. It seemed he could put thoughts of Deliverance aside. These people were decent. He could settle down here and get some work done.

And maybe he could try and make Meg smile again. Was that a thought worth considering?

‘The Internet’s down,’ Scott said and smiling was suddenly the last thing on his mind.

‘The Internet…’ Meg said, sounding stunned. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘There’s been a landslip over at Tandaroit South and the lines are down. They don’t know when it’ll be fixed. Days probably.’

He was having trouble figuring this out. ‘Lines?’

‘Telephone lines,’ Scott said, an adolescent explaining something to slightly stupid next-generation-up.

‘You use phone lines for the Internet?’

‘I know, dinosaur stuff and slow as,’ Scott said. ‘But satellite connection costs heaps. Mickey has satellite connection, but Meg’s only just figured out a way we can afford dial-up.’

‘And…’ He checked his phone. ‘There’s no mobile reception here either,’ he said slowly.

‘No,’ Meg told him.

‘And now no fixed phone?’

‘No.’ Meg sounded really nervous—as well she might.

‘So no Internet until the line’s fixed?’

‘Well, duh,’ Scott said, sounding adolescent and a bit belligerent. Maybe he thought his sister was about to be attacked. Maybe she was.

But William wasn’t focused on Meg. He was feeling ill. To be so far from contact…He should have rung Elinor before he left Melbourne. He should have woken her.

He had to contact her. Her entire Christmas would be ruined.

‘I can’t stay here,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘The airport’d be better than this.’

‘Hey!’ Letty said.

He didn’t have time or space to pacify her. All he could think of was Elinor—and two small kids. ‘I need to use a phone,’ he snapped. ‘Now.’

‘I have supper on,’ Letty said.

‘This is important. There are people waiting for me in New York.’

‘But you’re not due there until tomorrow,’ Meg said, astounded. ‘They’ll hardly be waiting at the airport yet.’

‘I still need a phone. Sort it, Jardine,’ he ordered.

He watched her long thoughtful stare, the stare he’d come to rely on. This woman was seriously good. He depended on her in a crisis.

He was depending on her now, and she didn’t let him down.

‘Supper first,’ she said at last. ‘If it can wait that long.’

Maybe it could, he conceded. ‘Supper first. Then what?’

‘Then I’ll take you over to Scotty…to Scott’s friend, Mickey’s. Mickey lives two miles north of here and his parents have satellite connection. You can use the Internet or their Skype phone for half an hour while I catch up with Mickey’s mum. The weekend before Christmas she’ll probably still be up.’

‘I need it for more…’

‘Half an hour max,’ she said, blunt and direct, as he’d come to expect. ‘Even that’s a favour. They’re dairy farmers and it’s late now. But you should be able to talk to New York via Skype. Mind, it’ll be before seven in the morning over there, so trying to wake anyone up…’

‘She’ll wake.’

‘Of course she will,’ she said, almost cordially, and he looked at her with suspicion.

‘Miss Jardine…’

‘I’m Meg,’ she said. ‘Remember? Meg until I’m back on the payroll, if that ever happens.’

‘I don’t believe I’ve fired you.’

‘So you haven’t,’ she said. ‘And Christmas miracles happen. Okay, I’ll take you over to Mickey’s and I will try and get you in touch with New York but let’s not go anywhere until we’ve had some of Letty’s mango trifle. You have made me mango trifle, haven’t you, Grandma?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then what are we waiting for?’ she demanded, and she grabbed her bag, manoeuvred her way through her dog pack and headed inside. ‘Trifle, yay.’ Then she paused. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, sir,’ she said, looking back. ‘I mean…William. Do you want your mango trifle in your room? Do you want me to take you straight there?’

‘Um…no,’ he said weakly.

‘That’s a shame,’ she said. ‘If you’re sitting at the kitchen table you’ll want seconds. There’s less for us that way, but if you’re sure…Lead the way, Grandma. Let’s go.’

Chapter Three

AN HOUR later, fortified with a supper of huge ham sandwiches and a mango trifle which seemed to have stunned William, they were in the car again, heading for Mickey’s. It was almost eleven but Meg knew enough of Mickey to believe he’d still be awake, Net surfing.

This was the only option for her boss to contact home. It had to work.

Who did he have waiting for him in New York? He wasn’t saying, and she wasn’t asking. They drove in silence.

She pulled up outside a farmhouse a lot less startling than Letty’s. Instead of knocking, though, while William watched from the car, she tossed gravel at the lit end window.

Mickey hauled up the window. ‘Bruce?’

That one word deflected her thoughts from her own problems. Once upon a time, Mickey would have expected Scott, Meg thought bleakly. The kids were the same age and they lived barely two miles apart. Four years ago, their bikes had practically created a rut in the road between.

But the rut had long been repaired. Tonight Scott had been too tired to come with them. He was always tired. He’d hardly touched his supper. His school work was slipping; he was simply uninterested. There were problems apart from his physical ones, she thought. In the New Year she’d have to talk to his doctors again about depression.

But how could she sort depression for a kid facing what Scott was facing? How long before he could ride a bike again? He believed he never could.

She hadn’t accepted it, though. She’d fight it every inch of the way. But that meant staying employed so she could pay the bills. It also meant being nice to her boss over Christmas, or as nice as she could. Which meant throwing stones at a neighbour’s window three days before Christmas.

‘Bruce?’ Mickey called again and she hauled her attention back to here and now. ‘It’s Meg,’ she called to the kid at the window.

‘Meg?’ Mickey sounded pleased, and she liked that. She liked coming home. She liked it that every person in the tiny shopping town of Tandaroit East knew her, and she could go into every house in the district and find people she knew.

‘The phones are out and I have a guest here who needs to contact New York,’ she said. ‘Scotty…Scott said you have Skype.’

‘Hey, I do,’ Mickey said, sounding inordinately pleased. ‘I’ve never used it for New York, though. I don’t know anyone there.’

‘Would it be all right if Mr McMaster used it?’

‘William,’ said William.

‘Hi, Will.’ Mickey was clearly delighted to have company.

‘Are your parents asleep?’ Meg asked.

‘Dad is. He’s gotta milk at five. But Mum’s making mince pies. You want me to tell her you’re here?’

‘Yes, please,’ Meg said thankfully. ‘I don’t want to be caught creeping round the place at night without your parents knowing.’

‘Yeah,’ Mickey said in a laughing voice that said such an action had indeed been indulged in on more than one occasion before now.

And Meg thought sadly of how much of a normal kid’s life Scotty was missing.

So her boss used Skype while Meg helped Mickey’s mum scoop mincemeat into pastry shells. Jenny wasn’t much older than Meg, but while Meg had gone to university and then to a career, Jenny had married her childhood sweetheart at seventeen and had Mickey nine months later.

She could have done the same, Meg thought, feeling nostalgic and a bit jealous as she took in the cosy farm kitchen, the muddle of Christmas baking, the detritus of a farming family, with twin girls of nine as well as Mickey.

‘This place looks gorgeous,’ Meg said, sitting on an ancient kitchen chair and scooping mincemeat.

‘Nope,’ Jenny said and grinned. ‘Gorgeous is what’s up in Mickey’s room right now.’ Jenny had been introduced before Mickey had taken William off to link him with the other side of the world, and Meg could see her friend adding two and two and making seventeen.

‘You mean my boss.’

‘I mean the man you’ve brought home for Christmas. Yum. I’ve seen him in the gossip rags and he’s even more gorgeous in the flesh. He’s a squillionaire. He’s your boss. And you’ve got him for Christmas.’

‘You can have him if you want him,’ Meg said morosely. ‘He might be happier here. You have a computer.’

‘Yeah, and I have twins and Ian’s extended family arriving tomorrow to stay for a week. There’ll be eight kids in the house. Heaven help us.’ But she was smiling as she said it and Meg thought, even though she had never understood Jenny’s decision to marry and make a home so early, maybe…just maybe it made sense.

‘You’re not getting clucky,’ Jenny demanded, following her gaze, and Meg realised she was staring at a pile of paper chains at the far end of the table. She remembered making them as a kid.

‘I have spare paper,’ Jenny said happily. ‘You can help your boss make paper chains. Very bonding.’

‘Very funny.’

‘No, I think it’s lovely,’ Jenny said, getting serious. ‘To have him here for Christmas…Oooh, Meg. But does he have a girlfriend?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘No idea?’

‘Well, I’m his PA and I haven’t been told to send flowers to anyone lately. But he was desperate to use the phone.’

‘So who’s he ringing?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘I’ll ask Mickey.’

But Mickey, who wandered into the kitchen two minutes later, was no help at all.

‘Yeah, he’s talking but I put my headset on and left him to it. Nah, I didn’t hear who to. Mum, you reckon it’s too late to put another CD on my Christmas list? I’ve just found this sick new band…’

‘Forget it,’ his mother said. ‘Santa asked for a list a month ago and you couldn’t think of anything except a farm bike, which you know we can’t afford. So what are you giving William for Christmas, Meg, love?’

Uh-oh. Here was yet another problem she hadn’t thought through.

On Christmas morning she sat under the Christmas tree and opened presents. Lots of presents.

Meg’s mother had always believed in…excess. She’d loved Christmas with a passion and Meg had still been getting a Santa stocking at twenty-five.

The next year, with her parents dead, Meg had over-compensated, and so had Letty and, to their delight, so did Scott. He’d plundered his piggy bank and asked the nurses to help him.

They’d had a silly, over-the-top Christmas in Scotty’s hospital ward, and the tradition had thus continued.

So Meg’s last minute Christmas spree had filled her baggage with gifts but there wasn’t a lot she could recycle for William.

‘He has everything,’ she said, feeling hopeless.

‘He hasn’t got Skype,’ Mickey said.

‘He will next week when he goes back to New York.’

‘So buy him a satellite dish for the weekend,’ Mickey said cheerfully. ‘Then Scotty can use it after he leaves.’

Right. With what?

‘That’s just a bit more money than I had in mind to spend,’ she retorted and Mickey screwed up his nose and sloped off to watch television in the other room. Grown-up problems. Not his.

‘So how’s the debt reduction going?’ Jenny asked. Jenny had been one of the many who’d come to Meg’s aid after the crash. She knew of Meg’s debt. Scott’s medical expenses were colossal, and on top of that they’d had to keep the farm going when there was no one to run it.

‘It’s okay,’ she told her friend. As long as I’m not sacked, she added under her breath. But I’m probably sacked, so let’s not go there.

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