A Reluctant Mistress

by Robyn Donald

  And that made her angrily, foolishly confident. Carefully she uncurled the fingers that had dug into his upper arm. Carefully she positioned her gaze over his shoulder.

  People moved in a bright kaleidoscope of colour around the floor, the masks turning familiar faces to strangers. Chatter and laughter echoed in her ears, backed by the succulent, achingly poignant sound of a turn-of-the-century waltz—one of her mother’s favourites.

  Coolly, deliberately, she asked, ‘Is this your usual mode of attack? A pre-emptive strike with no attempt at subtlety? What follows now—all-out war?’

  His tight smile revealed strong white teeth that snapped out one word. ‘Surrender.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  NATALIA should have laughed in his face. She should have said, Really? with every ounce of sarcasm she could muster, lifted her brows in scorn and disdain and left Clay there in the middle of the dance floor.

  Instead her mouth dried and she felt as though she’d fallen into a black hole and was being torn apart by forces she couldn’t fight. Beneath that succinct word there had been a controlled, menacing determination, the remorseless patience of the hunter he’d likened himself to.

  She was frightened. She was exhilarated. And that reckless excitement wasn’t tempered by common sense or pragmatism. He’d issued a challenge, one she was so tempted to take up she could taste the wanting—keen, enticing, insistent, dangerous as a drug.

  ‘I’m not into surrender,’ she parried, surprised to hear a steady voice.

  Clay swung her around a couple who’d forgotten their neighbours were watching and were swaying together in an embrace that came close to being embarrassing. ‘Perhaps I am,’ he said, and laughed quietly at the swift flash of fire in her glance. ‘Yes, you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Natalia,’ he said, reading her so perfectly that it was a statement, not a question.

  ‘I’m very into power,’ she said offhandedly.

  But that terrifying, untamed desire stirred again. She felt as though he’d put his mark on her; his scent, fiercely male, filled her nostrils; her fingers tingled, seeking slick, tanned skin. And sensation flowed through her, glowing, fiery, merciless as lava, devouring everything in its path.

  This is simple lust, Natalia thought disdainfully, nothing more. Intensely relieved when at last the music died on a flourish, she pulled free of his arms, turning her head away in the hope of disguising the hasty flutter of her breathing.

  ‘It cuts both ways,’ Clay Beauchamp said unhurriedly, tawny eyes glittering as he held out his arm.

  If only her mother hadn’t been so determined to bring up her daughter as a lady! Reluctantly Natalia put the tips of her fingers on his sleeve, straightening her spine as they walked across to the side of the room.

  Liz was already sitting there; horrified, Natalia endured a sharp stab of jealousy at her friend’s sunny, unaffected smile at Clay.

  Woodenly, she introduced them. ‘Liz, this is Clay Beauchamp, who has bought Pukekahu Station. Clay, Liz Kaiwhare. Her parents own the Tourist Lodge in Manakiwi Bay.’

  Dimpling, Liz held out her small hand. With a smile that indicated more than appreciation, Clay took it. Another spear of jealousy rankled through Natalia.

  ‘You looked wonderful together,’ Liz said with a rare lack of tact. ‘Everyone was watching you—you’re really well matched.’

  ‘Just what I’ve been trying to convince Natalia,’ Clay said outrageously, mockery glimmering in his golden eyes.

  Liz laughed. ‘And I’ll bet she told you she didn’t have time.’ She glanced at Natalia’s unresponsive face, then back to Clay. ‘She works far too hard,’ she said firmly.

  Fortunately Mr and Mrs Kaiwhare arrived back then, and the ensuing bustle of introductions silenced Liz.

  A little later, however, Natalia—carefully ignoring Clay Beauchamp, still with their group—said half under her breath, ‘Stop trying to matchmake.’

  ‘Not interested?’ Liz’s eyes widened further. ‘Truly, Nat?’

  ‘Truly.’ Natalia picked up her glass of water with a jerk that almost spilled it.

  Liz grinned. ‘Then you won’t mind if I try my luck, will you?’

  The icy water sizzled down Natalia’s throat. Meticulously she put the glass down and contemplated the green-skinned wedge of lime decorating its rim. ‘Not in the least,’ she said tersely, stiffening slightly as she heard Clay laugh.

  ‘Liar,’ Liz said cheerfully. ‘You’re fascinated by each other. Nat, give yourself a break. One rotten apple doesn’t mean you have to retire to a nunnery.’

  ‘I haven’t got time for romantic entanglements.’ Or unromantic ones.

  Liz leaned forward, her pretty face vengeful. ‘I could throttle Dean Jamieson. He might belong to an old, stiff, rich family with a lot of old, stiff, rich power, but he is a nasty piece of goods. Keeping quiet about his wife, and then spreading it around the district that you tried to break up his marriage was a totally rotten thing to do. Not that it matters—everyone knows he was lying.’

  The embarrassment of being warned off only an hour or so previously by yet another wife sprang to Natalia’s mind. ‘Not everybody,’ she said cynically. ‘Thanks to his malice, I’ve now got a reputation.’

  ‘Only with nasty-minded creeps,’ Liz said with trenchant, partisan bias. ‘They’re jealous because you’re so stunning and you don’t give a cent for the men who try to hit on you.’

  Natalia stifled a yelp of laughter. ‘You make it sound as though I’ve cut a swathe through the district!’

  ‘You could if you wanted to.’ Liz leaned closer and dropped her voice. ‘And you’d better accept that you’re as attracted to Clay Beauchamp as he is to you or you’re going to find yourself in deep trouble. I suspect he’s the bulldozer sort! And as he’s living only a mile away—’

  Natalia’s lip curled. ‘He’s not a farmer, Liz, he’s an agri-businessman, so naturally he lives in Auckland with all the other rich entrepreneurs.’

  ‘Pity,’ Liz said pragmatically.

  ‘So no more matchmaking, all right?’ Natalia said with emphasis. The band struck up again, a much more modern foxtrot. Gratefully she accepted an invitation from Greg.

  ‘You’re looking a bit flushed,’ he said, studying her with a professional eye.

  ‘It’s hot in here,’ she returned. ‘You wouldn’t think it was the first month of winter, would you? I wonder when it’s going to get cold?’

  Greg snorted. ‘This is north of Auckland—it never gets cold here. In Dunedin it freezes.’

  ‘Poor darling,’ she said, primming her mouth. Greg was in his last year at medical school in New Zealand’s exquisite southernmost city. Lifting a hand, she patted his cheek. ‘I remember the first year you went away, and your parents kept getting anguished faxes about the cold—Liz and I knitted you a jersey each for your birthday, and your mother shipped you off an electric blanket. Did you ever wear those jerseys?’

  ‘Both together, if I remember correctly,’ he said with a grin.

  Laughing, Natalia looked over his shoulder and met a blaze of gold. Clay Beauchamp was dancing with Liz; as Natalia’s brows climbed he deliberately looked away from her and into Liz’s small, mischievous face. It felt like a blow.

  ‘…saved my life,’ Greg was saying. ‘I honestly thought my blood would freeze that first winter.’

  Awkwardly she dragged her gaze away from the two striking black and white figures. ‘Good,’ she said vaguely.

  Greg frowned. ‘Sure you’re all right? You sound a bit disassociated.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she told him crisply.

  Within a few moments she’d almost managed to put Clay Beauchamp out of her mind. She and Greg were friends; several years previously he’d fancied himself to be in love with her, only giving up when she told him gently that although she did love him, it was as a brother rather than a lover.

  Now they were both satisfied with the way things were between them. When the dance ended, and they were called by
friends to the other side of the elegant Victorian ballroom, she went happily with him, staying snug within his arm for the intermission. The next dance was a tango, and she and Greg enjoyed themselves enormously, hamming it up, one of the few couples who dared try it.

  Clay Beauchamp, she noticed reluctantly, wasn’t dancing; he’d deposited Liz back with the rest of her party and was talking with a group of the major players in the district, including their host.

  ‘Nat, I love showing off with you,’ Greg said when it was over and they were the centre of a laughing, clapping group. ‘You dance like a dream!’ He hugged her extravagantly.

  ‘So, best-beloved, do you.’

  Well pleased with each other, they came off arm in arm. Still smiling, Natalia realised that in spite of the disturbing, unsettling, far too intriguing Clay Beauchamp, she was glad she’d come; secure with friends who knew her and loved her she could forget the worry that hung over her like her own private thundercloud.

  Back with the rest of their party, she laughed off the compliments and sat down beside Liz, picking up her glass of water. ‘Gosh, I enjoy a good tango!’

  ‘You were born to do it,’ Liz told her enviously. ‘Well, go ahead and ask me.’

  ‘Ask you what?’

  ‘What he said.’

  Colour whipped along Natalia’s cheekbones. Had she been so obvious? ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said haughtily.

  Her friend half closed her eyes and pursed her mouth. ‘He’s far too sophisticated to discuss one woman with another, is Clay Beauchamp. Although I must say I felt him not looking at you, if you know what I mean. He was utterly charming. We talked about a lot of things and he didn’t lose concentration once, which I thought was pretty clever of him because he just hated seeing you dance with my big brother.’

  Natalia put her glass down. ‘Liz, don’t.’

  Her friend’s smile disappeared. ‘All right, but it’s such a waste. I hate to go off to England for years and know that once I’m gone you won’t let anyone make you go out and have fun. Sometimes I look at your stubborn, tired face and I could kick your father for leaving you in this situation. OK, sermon’s over.’

  Natalia’s eyes stung. ‘I have to keep going, Liz.’

  Liz opened her mouth, then closed it.

  ‘Yes,’ Natalia said with a wry twist to the words, ‘his friends were foolish to lend money to him, but you know how persuasive he could be. He really believed he’d make everyone’s fortunes with the tunnel-houses.’

  ‘I know. Promise me one thing?’

  ‘What?’ Natalia eyed her warily.

  ‘Just have dinner with Mum and Dad once a fortnight, will you? They love having you, and you’ve cried off their last few invitations.’

  ‘All right,’ Natalia said. ‘Damn, I’m going to miss you.’

  ‘I’m going to miss you too.’

  The band struck up again, and within seconds both were back on the floor. As the evening lengthened, Clay Beauchamp danced with the wives and daughters of the men he’d been speaking to, the district’s most solvent and powerful citizens. Bowden wasn’t exactly cliquey, but it usually took time for newcomers to be accepted so it was mildly unexpected for him to be welcomed into the fold with such enthusiasm.

  Although piqued by his apparent lack of interest, Natalia recognised a ploy as old as time: make your interest known, then pull back to whet the appetite of the person you want.

  It was disappointing; she’d expected him to be more subtle.

  She set herself to enjoying the rest of the evening, and succeeded so well that the last dance came as an unwelcome surprise. Much more unwelcome was that she found herself in Clay’s arms, waltzing.

  ‘Who taught you to dance?’ he asked casually.

  ‘My father.’

  He nodded. ‘He knew what he was doing.’

  ‘Indeed he did.’

  ‘What did I say wrong?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she parried. ‘Why?’

  His eyes were narrowed, the golden fire concentrated and intense. ‘He left you in debt, I gather.’

  ‘You have been talking,’ she said with a false brightness.

  That aloof, tilted smile scorched through to her toes. ‘And I didn’t even have to initiate it. The tango you did with the boyfriend was blatant enough to catch everyone’s eye. People were only too eager to talk about you.’

  Oh, I’ll just bet they were, she thought bitterly. She fought with temptation, but it wasn’t fair to embroil Greg in this. ‘Greg’s a friend—almost a brother—not a boyfriend.’

  Dark, straight brows lifted. ‘That wasn’t what I heard. They were close to taking bets on how long it would take him to get you into bed. Apparently he’s been trying for years.’

  Grittily, her eyes sparking, she said, ‘I’m sorry that men I’ve known and respected for years should be dirty-minded, lying rumour-mongers.’

  Although he laughed, no humour glinted in his eyes. ‘It’s a human prerogative to be envious of those younger and better-looking, and to wish young women a happy marriage. Especially when the two they’re talking about are practically making love on the dance floor.’

  ‘Greg and I were spoofing that tango—as I’m sure everyone else but you realised. And the next time the subject arises,’ she said between her teeth, ‘you can tell them from me that I have no intention of marrying anyone. If I ever decide to, I’ll send a notice to the local newspaper.’

  Beneath her hand his shoulder went taut. She felt heat, and a purely male power, and a threat, but his voice was cool and self-contained as he said, ‘There won’t be a next time. At least not while I’m around.’

  ‘Why?’

  He looked over her head, the arrogant features uncompromising. ‘Because I indicated that I don’t find that sort of speculation interesting.’

  ‘So they just shut up,’ she said with sweet cynicism. ‘How wonderful to have that sort of authority.’

  His smile was formidable. ‘You’ve got an acid tongue. I like that.’

  Shrugging, Natalia turned her head away and closed her eyes. Just once—just for a moment—she’d allow herself the illusion that she was safe and protected and in good hands. The green, glittering mask concealed her emotions; no one would know she was listening to the driving beat of Clay’s heart, responding helplessly to the strength of his big body against her, breathing in his faint, purely masculine scent.

  Neither spoke until the music stopped.

  ‘I’ll follow you home,’ Clay said as they made their way across the floor.

  Natalia bestowed a glittering smile on her old school fellow and his possessive wife. ‘That’s not necessary, thank you.’

  ‘Possibly not,’ Clay agreed with an infuriating inflexibility, ‘but I’ll do it nevertheless.’

  After saying goodbye and thanking her hosts, after arranging a time to get together before Liz left for Oxford, after defiantly accepting Greg’s kiss goodnight, Natalia drove her small utility truck carefully away in procession with fifty or so other vehicles. Most of them eventually turned towards Bowden, but one stayed behind her all the way to the intersection of the main highway and the corrugated gravel road that led to her patch of land, and ultimately to Pukekahu.

  The dipped lights in her mirror made her jittery. When at last the Xanadu gateway came into view, Natalia put on her indicator and ducked down the drive, glad that she’d left the gate open.

  Puddles shone ahead, eerily reflecting the headlights back at her like a series of tiny fallen moons. She knew where the potholes were, but the man who followed her didn’t. Hiding a kick of nervousness with a muttered curse, she stopped outside the big shed that acted as a garage.

  The car behind stopped; telling herself she was being an idiot, Natalia banged down the lock on the truck door and waited with her hand hovering over the horn, eyes stretched almost painfully as Clay’s tall figure unfolded from the car.

  Her breath whooshed through suddenly relaxed lips. Quickly she unlocke
d the door and opened it. ‘Why did you follow me in?’ she asked, trying to rein in a swift, unusual fury.

  ‘Because I wanted to,’ he said caustically, and shocked her by lifting her down.

  Alarmed at the strength of the hands that bit into her waist, she grabbed his shoulders to steady herself. Beneath the black cashmere of his dinner jacket she felt muscles curl and flex. He suddenly seemed very large and far too strong. ‘Thank you,’ she said in a brittle, tense voice.

  He settled her on to her feet and let her go. ‘I’ll go in with you.’

  ‘Thank you again, but I really don’t need you to see me to my door.’

  ‘I don’t see how you’re going to stop me.’

  Now was the time to finish this once and for all. Trying to sound both patient and composed, she said, ‘Clay, I’m sorry if the very light flirtation we indulged in made you hopeful of going to bed with me tonight, but I don’t do one-night stands—’

  ‘That “light flirtation”,’ he interrupted with nervetightening self-assurance, ‘was a pleasant, mildly exciting preliminary. As you’re being so frank, let me tell you that when we make love it won’t be a one-night stand. I want you, and I know perfectly well that you want me.’

  ‘How do you know?’ she blustered, his blunt statement exploding an unbidden, erotic charge in the pit of her stomach.

  Pale light from the hidden moon sifted through the thick cloud pall, revealing the forceful angles and planes of his face. Clay’s mouth twisted into a smile; Natalia was already stepping back when he caught her wrist and pulled her against him; still holding her wrist, he bent his head. Unerringly his mouth found hers, shaped it to his own.

  Made prisoner by the firmness of his mouth, its warmth, its hunger, Natalia sank into suffocating, humiliating need. Her lips softened, parted slightly in the signal of surrender—and Clay straightened.

  ‘That’s how,’ he said levelly.

  Shame washed the heat and carnality out of her, stiffened her spine, hardened her resolve. ‘Clay, I’m not getting involved with you.’

  Against the heavy, turbulent sky she saw his head move. Panic warred with exhilaration. More than anything else in the world she wanted him to kiss her again, and that terrified her. She’d never felt like this before, as though everything she’d built her life on was worth nothing without Clay’s kisses.