by Daphne Clair
She restrained herself from crushing the brim in her fingers as she brushed by him and walked away without hurry, resisting the urge to flee in haste, and annoyed that her legs felt shaky.
The nape of her neck prickled. She would not look back to see if Jase Moore was watching her retreat.
A boor and a bully, huh? Jase grinned with sardonic appreciation as Samantha Magnussen, her back straight and shining blonde head held high, rounded a bend in the path that took her out of sight.
Water off a duck’s back, lady. He’d been called worse, though never in such frigidly polite tones. And if the ice princess knew what was good for her, she’d take heed of his warning.
Rachel wouldn’t have thanked him for acting the big brother on her behalf—if she ever found out she’d tear strips off him. But the lifelong habit of looking out for his fiercely independent little sister hadn’t been obliterated by her years away from her family, nor by her decision to marry Bryn Donovan. The uncertainty in her eyes when Samantha Magnussen kissed Bryn and called him darling in that come-hither voice of hers had set all Jase’s protective instincts into overdrive.
And they hadn’t been appeased in the least by the woman’s enigmatic remark about never thinking Bryn would get married, or the measuring glance she’d given Rachel, as if sizing up a rival. After that kiss, which to Jase’s sharpened eye had seemed to last a fraction of a second too long, she’d trailed her hand down Bryn’s body in an almost proprietary gesture. Or perhaps she just hadn’t been able to keep herself from touching him.
Bryn had seemed oblivious, at least on the surface, to the fleeting but unmistakable regret on the blonde’s perfect oval of a face, and he’d have missed the Mona Lisa smile with which she’d turned from the happy couple.
It was the smile that had made Jase pursue her once the photographers had finished with the family. A smile like that could mean anything—and if it meant she wasn’t yet finished with Bryn Donovan, that she had hopes of enticing him away from Rachel, someone had to set her straight.
CHAPTER TWO
THE formal part of the reception over, evening drew in and Samantha meant to quietly leave, and approached Bryn’s mother to thank her and say good-night.
“But you must stay for the dancing!” Lady Pearl insisted. A small, pretty woman, she had a knack of getting her way without seeming at all pushy. The big front room and adjoining formal dining room had been cleared, with a three-piece band set up in a corner, and once the newlyweds had circled the floor it quickly became crowded. “There are some nice young men without partners,” she said. “I’ll introduce you.”
Before Samantha could make a graceful excuse her hostess had laid one light but determined hand on her arm and lifted the other to signal someone. “Let me take your purse. I’ll put it on the hall table for you. Did you leave your lovely hat there?”
Samantha had, along with her jacket, revealing a sleeveless matching separate bodice held by thin beaded straps, the beading continuing around the low neckline and repeated at the hem just below her waist. A woman in a plain black dress relieving guests of surplus jackets and accessories had hung the hat and jacket on a brass coat-stand for her.
Reluctantly she allowed Lady Pearl to take her purse, not realising which nice young man had responded to their hostess’s summons until she felt an instantly recognisable male presence at her side.
“Jase,” the older woman said, “is Rachel’s brother. And Jase, this is—”
“We’ve met,” he told her.
“Oh, good! You know each other.” Apparently oblivious to the abruptness of his interruption, and Samantha’s frozen expression, Lady Pearl benignly ordered, “Well, then, get out there and enjoy yourselves.”
She stood expectantly beaming, and after a moment Jase lifted his brows and held out a hand that Samantha finally took, allowing him to lead her into the crowd.
“You don’t have to do this,” she muttered as he turned her to face him. “It wasn’t my idea.”
“Didn’t think it was.” His free hand settled on her waist and he brought the other, enclosing hers, close to his chest. “I’m doing it for Pearl.”
So was she, not wanting to appear rude. Somewhat to her surprise he led her into a smooth ballroom step rather than the more energetic dancing favoured by the younger guests. Automatically she leaned against his guiding hand as he took her into a smooth turn, his thigh brushing hers, and the slight contact awoke a peculiar sensation deep within her.
As if he’d felt it too, his eyes met hers, then he blinked fantastically long, thick lashes and turned his gaze over her shoulder.
Samantha swallowed, and said, simply for something to fill the silence between them and banish the odd intimacy of that moment, “Where did you learn to dance?”
He shrugged. “My mother, when I was about to attend my first high-school ball. She said the girls would be dressed up and looking their prettiest, and if I was going to step all over their toes it would spoil their evening.”
“I’m sure the girls appreciated it.” She kept her tone light and a little dry. They’d probably appreciated his appearance too. Even in his schooldays he must have had female classmates a-flutter.
She herself had always preferred men to be clean-shaven with neatly groomed hair. Yet on this particular man the unkempt look seemed entirely natural and somehow added to his…charm was hardly the word. To whatever it was that had made all her senses annoyingly spring to full-alert when he’d taken her hand and swept her onto the floor. A reaction so rare that it alarmed her.
He’d discarded the jacket and tie altogether now. In white shirt and grey trousers he looked relaxed, his movements assured and imbued with masculine grace.
“And,” he was saying, a glint of humour—mixed with something else—in the eyes again meeting hers, “it was a pretty neat way to get a girl into my arms.”
It was the something else—the suppressed but unmistakable spark of masculine awareness that made her realise she wasn’t the only one finding their forced proximity unsettling.
Rachel and Bryn danced by them. Rachel was smiling up at her new husband, and he bent to fleetingly kiss her lips, then said something to her as he drew back.
Rachel laughed, shaking her head.
And Jase’s hand hardened on Samantha’s waist, bringing her closer as he said in her ear, “Don’t even think about it. About him.”
Her head snapped backward and she glared into the hard olive-green gaze, no trace left of humour. “I wasn’t thinking about anything, except how soon I can decently get away.”
“From me?”
“That too,” she said frostily, an annoying heat in her cheeks as it occurred to her that if she said any more he’d assume she wanted to leave so she could nurse her supposedly broken heart.
Which, she assured herself, wasn’t broken or even chipped. Maybe a tiny bit cracked, but that would heal. She said, “I’m not fond of crowds.”
One dark brow twitched upward, and something new came into his eyes. Something she hoped wasn’t pity. Quickly she added, “It’s hot in here.” An excuse for the guilty, girlish flush.
Jase nodded curtly, and before she could guess his intention he’d steered her through open French doors, propelling her to the back terrace.
A group of smokers indulging their habit were the only people there. At an unoccupied table for two Jase pulled out a chair and said to Samantha, “Sit. I’ll get you a cold drink. What do you want?”
“I don’t need a drink.” Then it occurred to her that the offer was an excuse. He could leave and not come back. A way out for them both from their hostess’s misguided pairing. “I’ll be fine, if you—” leave me here was on the tip of her tongue, but unexpectedly he shrugged and dropped into the chair opposite hers.
“Okay,” he said. “Probably a wise decision.”
“I’m in no danger of getting drunk,” she said, more sharply than she’d intended.
“You’ve had at least four glasses of wine,
and haven’t eaten much. Is that how you keep that figure?” He ran a quick, critical glance over her, the expression in his eyes veiled when they returned to hers. “Dieting doesn’t do you any good, you know.”
He’d been watching her? “I don’t diet,” she snapped, then deliberately moderated her voice. “And four glasses in four hours won’t take me over the limit.” Her last two drinks had been apple juice. She never overindulged in alcohol, but had learned to hold her own with business contacts who did, often making one glass last while they downed several.
“You’re driving?” Jase frowned.
“We’re a long way from the city,” she pointed out. Central Auckland was a good hour away from the rural community of Donovan’s Falls.
“You can afford to hire a driver, surely?”
Samantha wondered if he’d been asking questions about her, of the Donovans or their guests. Or had simply recognised her name. “I prefer to drive myself,” she said shortly. “Do you work in construction?” Surely she wasn’t so well-known that many people outside the field would have connected her with the firm that still bore her father’s name, and the wealth he’d accumulated.
“Nope. Well, you could say that now, I guess. Bryn just hired me. Is a timber merchant in the construction business?”
Had he been unemployed? “They can’t do without each other,” she said. “That was good of Bryn.” Presumably he’d offered the job for Rachel’s sake.
Something flickered across Jase’s face and was gone. Then he said, “He’s going to be quite a useful brother-in-law.”
Behind the careless tone she detected a hint of something suspiciously like mockery, reflected in his darkened eyes by the soft light from carriage lamps affixed to the wall of the house.
Even if he didn’t share his sister’s brains or ambition, maybe he’d had some kind of job, and Bryn had offered a better one. In any case, unemployment was no disgrace, though many people were embarrassed to admit to it.
She doubted this man shared that emotion. He was blunt to a fault himself. “What did you do before?” she asked.
He grinned as though for some reason the question amused him. “Mainly messed about with computers in my parents’ garage.”
A geek? That might account for his lack of social niceties.
“And helped out on their farm now and then,” he added.
A man and woman emerged from the house holding glasses of wine. Seeing Jase, they changed direction and walked towards the table. “Hey there!” The man grinned down at them. “Are we interrupting something?”
“No,” Samantha said before Jase could answer. “Actually I was just about to leave.” She made to get up but the man looked dismayed and laid a large, work-roughened hand on her shoulder to stay her. “Don’t move for us,” he urged. “If it’s a private conversation—”
Jase said, “If it was, you’d have just shoved your big manure-covered gumboot so far into it there’d be no hope of continuing anyway. Samantha Magnussen, this is my brother, Ben. And April, who for some unknown reason actually married this big dumb lug.”
Ben aimed a swipe in the general direction of his brother’s ear, expertly dodged by Jase, and then hooked a couple of chairs from an empty table for himself and his wife. After seeing April seated he said, “Nice to meet you, Sam,” and settled his sizeable frame into the other chair.
His grin was engaging, his gaze curious but friendly. Samantha didn’t even mind him shortening her name at first acquaintance. Despite his close-shaven cheeks and short-back-and-sides and the tie he still wore, he reminded her of a big, harmless Labrador. There was some family resemblance to Jase in his eyes and hair colouring, but there it ended.
His wife was dainty and shy and in the conversation that followed Samantha learned that April was from the Philippines, and they had met when Ben holidayed there a year or so earlier. Anyone could see they adored each other.
She felt a stab of envy. It seemed to be her day for it.
Because this was a wedding celebration? Perhaps it had something to do with her thirtieth birthday looming. But many of her contemporaries hadn’t married until well into their thirties, or weren’t going to bother at all, even if they had a partner. It was nothing to be concerned about.
In fact she’d never seriously thought about marriage, even when she’d begun thinking about Bryn in…that way. It had been just something that might happen at some vague future time.
When a pause came in the conversation April turned to Samantha. “A nice wedding,” she said in her prettily accented voice. “Rachel looks very beautiful.”
“Yes, she does.” Samantha tried to inject enthusiasm into the conventional agreement, avoiding Jase’s eyes.
“She’s a lovely girl,” April added. “Very nice.”
Samantha prepared herself to listen to a litany of Rachel’s virtues, but the other woman merely said, “I’m sure Bryn will be a wonderful husband.”
I’m sure too. Samantha didn’t say it aloud.
Ben said to his brother, “I hear you’re going to work for our new in-law. Bit of a change from your flippin’ games, staring at a ruddy screen all day. Ruin your eyes,” he warned.
“Beats staring at the back end of cow and getting covered in sh—ah—dung.”
“Huh!” Ben grunted. “About time you got yourself a proper job, you effing layabout.” He glanced at April as though she might object to the euphemism, but she merely shook her head reprovingly, trying to hide a smile.
“Okay, so I’m not a horny-handed farmer like you,” Jase said, and gave his brother a mock salute. “Backbone of the country and all that.”
“Gonna drive a truck for Bryn?” Ben inquired, grinning. “Stack timber? Do some real work for a change?”
Samantha couldn’t read the glance Jase threw her before answering. “Probably a bit of driving, for a start.”
As the brotherly banter continued, April turned to Samantha. “Take no notice of them. They’re always like this. Just because Jase didn’t want to be a farmer, and Ben can’t imagine doing anything else. But they’re very fond of each other really.”
Jase was lazily grinning at his brother’s teasing, a grin quite different from the guarded teeth-flashes he’d directed at her.
Samantha forced a smile. An only child herself, when young she had watched the sometimes rough-and-tumble interaction of her friends and their siblings with wistful envy. And here she was again, the outsider, the one who didn’t belong.
Attacked by a wave of melancholy, she stirred and stood up. “I really have to go,” she said, directing her social smile at Ben and April. “It was nice meeting you.”
To her surprise Jase rose too. Coming to her side, he touched her arm, saying, “You’re sure you’re okay to drive? I can take you home.”
They were entering the house and she said, astonished, “Why would you do that? Anyway, you must have been drinking too.”
“One glass of bubbly to toast the happy couple,” he replied. “Pearl asked for volunteers to stay cold sober and see that everyone got home safely.”
A consummate hostess, Pearl Donovan had thought of everything.
“I’m fine,” Samantha assured him. When they reached the wide, empty hallway she walked in a rigidly straight line down the centre of the carpet runner to the long hall table and retrieved her things. Stiltedly she said, “Thanks for the offer.”
The solid front door was closed. Jase went forward and laid his hand on the brass handle but didn’t open it immediately, instead surveying her with an assessing gaze.
Samantha took a determined step towards the door. He’d have to open it or move out of the way.
Instead he lifted his other hand and closed it about the nape of her neck, pulling her to him. Then as her mouth parted in startled protest he leaned towards her and she felt his warm lips on hers, a slight pressure parting them further.
Before she had even gathered her wits enough to push him away he released her.
Out
rage at his daring to kiss her, and shock at the unexpected, contradictory sensations he’d aroused held her speechless. Her instinct was to slap his face, but with her hat in one hand and her bag in the other that wasn’t a real option. “What the hell—” she started to say, and stopped as she heard her voice shake.
“You don’t taste of alcohol,” Jase Moore told her calmly. He opened the door and stood waiting for her to pass through. “I guess you’ll be all right.”
Not trusting her voice, she lifted her head and gave him a stare that would have frozen the fires of hell, then swept by him without a word.
Ignorant, sexist opportunist! The man should be dressed in a bearskin and dragging a wooden club.
She negotiated the steps and followed the lights along the driveway to the temporary parking area in a close-shorn paddock. A security guard at the gate nodded to her and added the powerful beam of his torch to the lights set around the perimeter, until she located her car.
The guard waved to her and she drove slowly out of the gateway and accelerated along the road, tempted to put her foot down and express her anger by recklessly breaking the speed limit. She settled instead for calling Jase Moore every insulting name in her vocabulary, under her breath.
Thank heaven, she told herself when she finally ran out of epithets, with luck she’d never see the man again. If he was working as a truck driver for Donovans she’d hardly be likely to run into him at their city premises, even though her firm did a great deal of business with Bryn’s.
Why the hell—she asked herself the question she’d been unable to finish asking in the Donovans’ hallway—why had he kissed her? He certainly didn’t like her.
Had he meant to humiliate, show her she was vulnerable to male physical power? That he had the upper hand and she’d better heed his earlier warning?
And as for that You don’t taste of alcohol, as though he were some kind of human breathalyser…
