by Robyn Donald
‘And you,’ he said pleasantly, as he came towards her, ‘are very beautiful.’
Every instinct she possessed urged her to flee, to run before the threat which he offered her. But she could not move.
And when she spoke it was to ask in a kind of croak, ‘How old are you?’
He looked amused. ‘Twenty-nine. And yes, I’ve acquired a lot of experience too. One tends to, you know, if one has the money. There are very few women who aren’t prepared to sell their virtue—dearly in some cases, but it’s usually on offer.’
He was close to her, so close that she thought she could feel the warmth of his body beating against hers. His finger touched her ear, pushing the black drift of silk back from it. Arminel had never thought of the ear as an erogenous zone before; now she realised that when the right man—no—when a man of vast experience ran the tip of his finger lightly around the edge, tugged at the lobe and then began to explore the circular crevice—she winced, jerking her head sideways while her breath came in thick short gasps between lips which had fallen a little apart. Strange little rills of pleasure were threading their way along her nerves. Her brain felt woolly and thick, so intent on processing the information her senses were feeding it that it could not think.
‘Beautiful,’ Kyle repeated, not touching her now but somehow holding her in submission before him. ‘With a strange, disturbing, sensual beauty that would tempt a saint. Rhys is no saint. Nor am I.’
It was difficult to concentrate when her eyes told her brain that his shoulders were wide and held tensely, that there was a quality of stillness about the superb athlete’s body so close to hers which hinted at the use of great self-control. His warm, tormentingly masculine scent teased her nostrils and intensified the strange mixture of sensations that were crowding in on her. The deep voice played on her nerve-ends; without lifting her eyes she knew that whatever he might think of her he was just as affected as she was by this strange sensual lethargy which held them prisoner.
I—must—not— she thought, forcing herself to overcome the shackles of the body. Deliberately she bit her lip until the pain cleared her brain. Then she stepped back, arms once more coming defensively to cover breasts which suddenly seemed heavy.
‘Well,’ she said, coolly, pleasantly ironic, ‘now that you’ve warned me perhaps you would like to go? I really am quite tired.’
It hurt to look up into his face, see the magnificent bone structure suddenly prominent as the skin above it tightened. Just for a moment something ugly flickered deep in his eyes. Then he smiled and said just as pleasantly, ‘Sleep well, Arminel.’
CHAPTER THREE
Surprisingly she did, waking the next morning to the sound of another tap at the door.
But this one heralded Mrs Caird, bearing a superbly set breakfast tray.
‘Oh, but you mustn’t,’ Arminel protested through her yawns. ‘I’ll get up. You mustn’t go to all this trouble.’
‘Well, Mrs Beringer thought that as you’d had a tiring day yesterday this would give you a little longer sleep.’
The housekeeper deposited the tray across Arminel’s knees. She didn’t exactly smile, but she certainly looked a lot more friendly than she had the day before.
So Arminel smiled warmly and said, ‘That looks delicious. Tell me, do the men get eggs Benedict for breakfast as well, or is this just a treat for me?’
‘You and Mrs Beringer.’ Mrs Caird relaxed even more. ‘The men have a proper meal at breakfast time— well, at every mealtime. They work hard.’
She pulled the curtains back to reveal a sunny day outside. Through the French doors there was a terrace of split sandstone bordered by daisies, white and gold and pink, and beyond them a stretch of lawn, tree-shadowed, with a path which led to an arbour hung with the starry white flowers of clematis.
‘That’s our native one,’ said Mrs Caird, following the direction of Arminel’s appreciative gaze. ‘Pretty, isn’t it?’
‘It’s beautiful. But then New Zealand is beautiful—at least, the little I’ve seen of it. So green and lush, and so little.’
‘Wait till you see the Southern Alps before you talk of size.’ But the older woman was not annoyed. She continued, ‘Every country has its own beauty. Me, I like the shops in Sydney and Melbourne!’
‘Well, yes,’ Arminel agreed, smiling. ‘Who doesn’t?’
‘I’ll come and collect the tray—’
But Arminel shook her head. ‘No, you’ll do no such thing! I can find my way back to the kitchen. I don’t want to make any extra work.’
That got a faintly sceptical look along with the thanks, which led Arminel to wonder exactly what sort of female guests the Beringers were used to.
As she ate she found herself hoping that after all this might be a pleasant holiday. Certainly the surroundings were beautiful enough to ravish the eye; if she could only tread a careful path through the minefield of human relationships that surrounded her she might yet enjoy herself here. Resolutely pushing away the memory of a perfectly satisfactory job abandoned for a deceptive rainbow trail of romance, she set herself to counting over her blessings. In a way it served her right for being so impulsive. Not even to herself did she admit how much she had wanted to love Rhys; it was easier to think about cutting her losses, repaying Rhys for his hospitality and learning from the situation.
How the rich live! she thought cheerfully; she was never likely to move in circles like this again, so she might as well soak up as many impressions as she could while she was here. Old money, and the house and its occupants revealed it. And if Mrs Beringer was a snob—well, at least she was human enough to enjoy the stories about the first Kyle, who must have been a rip-roaring old reprobate. Two wives!
Chuckling, Arminel slid from the bed and made her way to the bathroom. Half an hour later, dressed in warm slacks and a woollen blouse, for although sunny it was still a lot cooler than at home, she made her bed and tidied away the few signs of her occupancy in both rooms, then opened a French door out on to the terrace. Immediately a large cat, patchworked in an interesting pattern of ginger and black, came purring in.
‘Well, hello,’ Arminel smiled, bending to rub him in just the right place behind the ears.
‘That,’ Mrs Caird told her in the kitchen a few minutes later, ‘is Smitty. He’s not quite sure whether he’s a dog or a human being.’
Arminel chuckled as she watched the housekeeper load the dishes into the dishwasher. ‘He seems all cat to me.’
‘He spends quite a bit of his time down in the yards helping the dogs with the sheep. And he thinks he should have every privilege we have, including bathing in my bath.’
Arminel laughed at the same moment that the door opened.
‘Oh, there you are,’ came in a masculine voice. ‘Would you like to come for a drive? I’m going around the place and Mama thought it would give you some idea of the place if you came with me.’
And got her out of Mrs Beringer’s hair. Mrs Caird had already explained that the older woman didn’t usually rise until nine or so. But the hair on the back of Arminel’s neck rose at the thought of once more sharing the cab of a vehicle with Kyle. After that unsettling scene last night she didn’t want ever to see him again.
Still, after a hesitation so slight that she hoped it wasn’t noticed, Arminel accepted.
‘Then come on,’ he said, almost impatient. ‘Got that thermos ready, Judy?’
The vehicle that waited was the Land Rover, with two interested dogs in the back.
‘Run and get a jacket,’ Kyle ordered. ‘We’re pretty sheltered here, but the wind is keen on the hills.’
He wore jeans and boots and a checked shirt with long sleeves rolled up beyond his elbows to reveal corded muscles. And he looked every inch a sex symbol, Arminel thought reluctantly, hating the effect his intense masculinity had on her. Remember, he thinks you a gold-digging little tramp, she reminded herself.
But it was hard to remember it when from the moment she climbed up
into the seat beside him he seemed to set himself out to charm her. And everything was so new, and so interesting, from the great Hereford stud bulls in a paddock close to the house to the gorgeous little white-faced calves and their mothers, so that after a short time she forgot her wariness. Sheep, silly, pretty things on thin legs, grazed in paddock after paddock. Kyle answered her questions with patience, revealed the difference between ewes and wethers and hoggets, and explained the mysteries of docking and crutching and shearing, even appalled her with a quick resume of the diseases to which sheep were prone.
There was a herd of Angora goats, too, delectable things with enchanting kids which came racing up to greet them when they came into the paddock.
‘Oh—oh, how lovely!’ Arminel bent to stroke one impatient little head, found another butting at her knee, and two others pushing eagerly for a place.
‘Part of a diversification programme,’ Kyle said somewhat shortly, his face expressionless as his eyes rested on the vivid, glowing face lifted to his. ‘Goats eat stuff the sheep won’t touch—gorse, blackberry, weeds of all sorts. We have a milking herd, too; there’s a good market for goat milk here in New Zealand and for goat meat in the Pacific’
She nodded, realising for the first time that a farmer such as Kyle must be part entrepreneur, part man of the land, all combined with a talent for organisation.
Too soon they had to leave the adorable Angoras behind to head on up a narrow but well-made track, one of a system of roads that ran all over the station. As they climbed the sea gradually occupied more of the panorama until Kyle stopped the Land Rover and said simply, ‘There.’
Almost half of the horizon was filled by the sea, green and silver-blue, glittering in the rays of the sun. Far, far out in the shining boundary between sea and sky hung the faint blue shapes of islands; to the north the land curved in a series of hills and bays and capes until a blue-purple range of mountains cut off the view. ‘Well, hardly mountains,’ Kyle told her. ‘They’re only a thousand or so feet high.’
‘Mountains to me, although inland from Surfers the mountains go up to three thousand feet,’ she returned.
He grinned, teasing her, hostility forgotten. ‘In New Zealand we call them hills until they reach three or four thousand feet.’
She repressed a sudden surge of pleasure perilously akin to delight. ‘How high is Te Nawe? The actual hill, I mean.’
‘Fifteen hundred feet.’
They were standing on its flank. Above them rose further heights, the stark outline blurred by a thick mantle of rain forest, lush, brooding, almost hiding the scar which had given the hill its name. Below the land fell away in folds and bush-lined gullies, its clean bare lines beautiful and satisfying to the eye.
And filling the lungs was the air, fresh and cool with the rich smell of the bush and the clean crispness of growing things.
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Arminel half beneath her breath. ‘It has a kind of awesomeness about it. Did we really come all the way up that tiny track?’
‘We did, indeed. You’re not afraid of heights?’
She looked at him. ‘Apparently not. Why?’
‘Quite a few people blench at that track. I’ve even had to let several out.’
‘Is that why we came up here?’
He lifted a quizzical brow at her. ‘Now, what reason could I possibly have for frightening you?’
‘None, I hope,’ she retorted, unable to rid herself of the feeling that he had brought her here for exactly that purpose. Before she could change her mind she asked, ‘Where’s Rhys today?’
‘Suddenly remembered him? He’s repairing a fence down there—you should be able to see him—no, not there. Down there.’ He moved behind her, positioned her face in the right’direction and pointed, the hard muscle in his arm pushing against her cheek.
For a moment her vision blurred. She could feel his heart beat steadily into her shoulder, was acutely aware that as hers began to pick up speed so did his.
‘Yes, I can see,’ she said harshly, stepping away from him.
‘Can you?’
He was right to sound sceptical, for she was unable to see anything but a vision of herself lost in his arms. Blinking fiercely, she managed to banish it, but the colour that rolled up through her skin could not be controlled so easily.
‘Why, Arminel!’ his voice mocked, and she felt his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him.
Perhaps she should not have resisted. Her instinctive withdrawal seemed to act as a goad. The next moment she was enfolded, and Kyle’s mouth was moving with practised seduction over hers. It was warm and hard, as pleasant as his brother’s, persuasively tempting her to part her lips beneath his.
Arminel jerked her head back, ashamed and disgusted with herself. For a moment she had forgotten Rhys.
‘No,’ she muttered as his mouth moved erotically over the contours of her face. ‘Rhys.’
‘Oh, damn Rhys!’ he breathed, and when she tried to push him away stopped her by the simple expedient of crushing her lips beneath his in a kiss that forced them apart.
After that intimate, intense exploration she was unable to resist any longer. Indeed, she had no conception of what was happening to her. Reason, logic, even thought fled; she was totally at the mercy of the sensations which he was arousing with his deep kisses and the slow movement of his hands beneath her jacket as he explored the length of her spine before finally pulling her hard against him.
He was as aroused as she; his body was tense, thrusting, making her aware of his hunger and her own wildfire response. And this had never happened before. Dimly she was conscious of the gasping sound that broke from her swollen lips, and then her hands slid across his back and she pressed herself against him, offering him that which she had passively let him take before.
She was trembling, her skin suffused with heat as sensations of indescribable pleasure arose from every nerve end and swamped her in the first real rush of passion she had ever experienced. Opening her eyes, she drowned in the pale blaze of his as their mouths clung in a kiss which forced her head back on to his arm. Then his lips moved to the arc of her throat, the heated pressure tormenting her, making her body ache.
And quite suddenly she knew what was happening. He was beyond control, and if she could not stop him he would take her here, a perfect stranger making himself master of her body.
Rhys, she thought drowningly. Rhys. And knew that she must bring an end to it without angering him.
As if she dealt with a madman she released her hands from their grip on his shoulders, slid them slowly across the wide taut expanse of skin and muscle and waited until his mouth lifted from its sensuous exploration of her throat before pulling back in his embrace.
He did not prevent her. Like her, he was breathing heavily, his eyelids drooping above the pale glitter of his eyes. As she fought for self-command the mouth that had wreaked such damage firmed slowly into a straight line.
After a moment he dropped his arms, permitting her to step away. Arminel shivered, terrified at the onslaught of desire which had engulfed her. Her skin prickled, but deep in her body she felt the painful ache of passion denied, the bitter pangs of frustration.
‘So now,’ Kyle said in thick tones, ‘what do we do?’
‘Nothing!’ She turned away as she spoke, pulling her jacket to her with quick, nervous movements.
‘Just pretend it never happened?’
She winced at the sardonic inflection in the deep voice, but replied as steadily as she could, ‘Yes.’
Forget everything, the sudden remorseless desire which had kindled in them both at that first kiss, the primitive, unreasoning sexuality which had shaken them into each other’s arms—forget, too, the wild response he had called forth from her body.
‘Well, you may be able to,’ he observed with satirical emphasis, ‘but I’m damned if I can. You wanted me as much as I wanted you, Arminel.’
‘I know, I—’ She couldn’t go on. Miserably rem
embering the promise she had given Rhys, she said weakly, ‘Oh, can’t we just leave it? I—I must have been mad!’
‘A fairly common madness.’ He had recovered much more quickly than she, for his voice was judicious, coolly detached. ‘Most people call it sex. But you recognised it, I’m sure, the minute we set eyes on each other, just as I did.’
‘No!’ She made a swift negatory gesture, hunching her shoulders. ‘No, it wasn’t—I didn’t—’
‘Try and convince yourself if you want to.’ Now he sounded bored. ‘But don’t try it on me. I knew as soon as I saw you that you were a hot little wanton. No wonder you gave Rhys such a pleasant holiday! Shall I tell him that you respond equally fervently to any man who kisses you?’
Whirling, hand raised to strike the sneer from his mouth, Arminel was caught and held, the magnificent mask of his face cold with disdain as his fingers tightened to pain on her wrist.
‘Don’t be silly,’ he said, and kissed her again, using his masculine strength to force her into accepting the domination of his mouth.
Arminel gave a convulsive shudder, then concentrated on fighting, not him but herself. For the flame caught her again, running through her brain and her blood until all reality was that burning, searching kiss and her response to it.
‘See?’ he taunted, releasing her. ‘Enjoy your holiday here, Arminel. Just don’t go thinking of it as one that will last a lifetime. That way no one will get hurt. And if you don’t want to end up in my bed keep out of my way!’
She could not reply. Her mouth opened, but no words would come and she had to turn away from the derisive contempt of his face. One of the dogs pressed himself against her knees; absently she bent and stroked the woolly forehead while brown intelligent eyes blinked up at her. Offering sympathy? Comfort? He was the only one on Te Nawe likely to.
