A Reluctant Mistress

by Robyn Donald

  Turning away, she went into the bathroom and removed her make-up. She’d stopped shivering but her hands still trembled, and the tumult Clay’s mouth had kindled in her still raced through her body. In the mirror her eyes glittered and she looked untamed, a creature from a primitive time, uncontrolled and passionate.

  Her breath hissed out. How could it happen like that? Instant attraction was one thing—eventually it would have faded and died. But that…that wild urgency, that helpless, greedy appetite—that was terrifying. She’d been lost to everything but her ferociously carnal appetite for the man who had kissed her with such spellbinding intensity.

  Later, before she slid into a restless sleep, she wondered if her mother had felt like that about her father.

  And whether that appetite had anything to do with love.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A SHRILL, insistent burr cut through her sleep like a buzz-saw. Drugged, bewildered, Natalia groped for the alarm; it took her a moment or two to realise that the noise was the telephone. Muttering, she staggered out of her bed and into the kitchen, her eyes rapidly accustoming themselves to the dark as she picked up the receiver.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Clay demanded harshly.

  ‘Yes.’ The word was thick and clumsy in her mouth. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Just after eleven. Have you got any lights on?’

  ‘No.’ Her brain refused to function. ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t turn any on. What’s that noise?’

  Another sound was clamouring through the chilly air. ‘It’s the alarm in the bedroom,’ she told him. ‘I have to check the hydroponics now.’

  ‘Don’t go outside,’ Clay commanded urgently. ‘Have you heard anything—any sounds outside?’

  Shivering, she stared at the curtains. ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll be down as soon as I can. Don’t set foot outside the house and don’t respond to anything until you hear me. I’ll knock, then call you “Natalia, darling”. Meantime, if anyone tries to get in—or if you hear anything unusual—ring me immediately.’ He gave her the number, made her repeat it, then hung up.

  By then adrenaline had pumped through her body, fully alerting it to some sort of emergency. Natalia pressed a hand to her hammering heart before racing back into her bedroom. Whatever was going on, she needed to be fully dressed. She did it by feel, dragging on jeans and a shirt and jersey, stuffing her feet into socks, her ears straining as she tucked her clothes in. Wide-eyed in the oppressive darkness, large torch in hand, she tiptoed to the laundry and got into her work boots.

  A car swung into the gateway, its headlights sending out two cones of brilliance as it eased along the drive. Her breath locking in her chest, Natalia listened.

  ‘Natalia, darling!’ Clay’s voice just reached her ears, but his knock was firm and unhurried.

  Weak with relief, she opened the door. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked, holding out a hand to pull him inside.

  ‘I’ve been burgled,’ he told her, coming in with a smooth, silent speed and closing the door behind him. ‘I woke and heard a truck go down the hill. I wondered if they’d called in here before they came up to Pukekahu. Or on the way back.’ Enough light came through the uncurtained window to reveal his face, hard-edged and purposeful.

  ‘I haven’t heard anything, and anyway, I’ve got nothing anyone would want.’ She touched his arm in silent concern. It was like touching iron. ‘What did they take?’

  ‘Most of the pile of fencing materials by the road,’ he said briefly. ‘Some stuff’s gone from the workshop too.’

  Natalia repressed a craven shiver at the thought of thieves close by. ‘I’ll check the shed,’ she said immediately.

  ‘You’ll do no such thing. I’ll do it—’

  ‘This is my place. I’ll come with you.’

  He crowded her back against the wall, his eyes gleaming with a feral heat, the scar suddenly livid down his face. ‘Damn you,’ he said in a low growl, ‘you push and push and push—Natalia, you’re asking for trouble.’

  The kiss was fast and punishing, and she kissed him back just as fiercely, moulding her mouth to his, holding his head down with a hand clenched in his black hair. Yet the touch of his mouth transformed her aggression into passion, and when he at last lifted his head she was shaking, her face flushed and her mouth as subtly swollen as his, her eyes drowsy and smouldering.

  ‘You’re going to drive me mad,’ he said with something like satisfaction in his tone. ‘Stay here, please. I’ll worry about you if you come with me.’

  ‘If you heard them drive down the hill they’re long gone. Anyway, I’ll be frantic if you go out there by yourself.’

  He looked at her with narrowed, darkened eyes. She thought she saw the flicker of a muscle in his jaw and braced herself for further argument, but he astounded her by saying, ‘All right. Hold out your hand.’

  Bemused, she obeyed. Something cold was pressed into it. ‘The car key,’ he said briefly. ‘If anything happens, use it to get away. Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’ But she crossed the fingers of her free hand.

  Clay switched off the light then opened the door and went out ahead of her into the dark, stopping on the doorstep until he was convinced there was nothing out there.

  ‘Move as quietly as you can,’ he said almost noiselessly.

  Nodding, she followed, trying to walk as silently as he did—creepily aware of the huge darkness and the trees, the many hiding places. At least the rain had stopped, and the elusive light from a hidden moon revealed enough of the path so that they didn’t stumble.

  Although the toolshed door gaped open, the momentary gleam of Clay’s torch revealed that nothing had gone. ‘I’ll put that padlock on tomorrow, nevertheless,’ he said beneath his breath. ‘Where’s the hydroponics computer?’

  ‘In the first tunnel-house,’ she answered, sudden fear tightening her voice.

  A big hand squeezed hers. ‘It’ll be all right,’ he said.

  But it wasn’t. The thieves had wrenched the equipment free, cut the plastic pipes and taken her father’s expensive, state-of-the-art computer system. Not content with that, they’d rampaged silently through the tunnel-houses and slashed every capsicum plant off at ground level.

  Staring around at the wreckage, Natalia said dully, ‘Well, that’s that, then.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing’s insured, and I can’t afford…’ She let the words trail away and turned aimlessly. ‘I wonder why they wanted it. And why they destroyed the plants.’

  ‘They can sell the computer system,’ he said savagely, pulling her into the heat and the strength of his body, holding her there as his cheek came down on the top of her head. ‘Or use it on a cannabis plantation. As for the rest—mindless vandalism. All I can think of is that you might have come out here while they were doing this. Get a toothbrush and we’ll go to Pukekahu.’

  She shook her head, but his arms tightened until she could barely breathe and he said violently, ‘I’m not leaving you here, Natalia, so you have two choices. I stay here with you, or you come with me. Which will it be?’

  His fierce grip relaxed as she lifted her head. In the ghostly light of the ruined tunnel-house, she made out the outline of his face; the determined features wavered and blurred as she drew a shallow, ragged breath. ‘I don’t care,’ she said, surrendering to a will far stronger than hers.

  ‘You’re coming with me,’ he told her, and released her, but kept a hand at her back as he urged her out of the tunnel-house. They were halfway along the muddy path to the house when she stopped.

  ‘What?’ he asked soundlessly.

  ‘The cattle—and the hens. I have to check them.’

  He was a farmer, so he didn’t object. And this time when they walked he kept her beside him, her hand in his. Nevertheless, he didn’t use his torch until they got to the hen-house; its beam revealed the hens perched safely, gazing sleepily down.

  ‘They’re all right,’ she muttered.


  But the paddock where the cattle had been was empty. Dry-eyed, Natalia bit her lip to hold back a sob as Clay swore beside her.

  His arm came around her shoulders; holding her as though she might fall, he said, ‘Did you see anything of the truck that almost hit us on the main road?’

  ‘No.’ She’d been too focused on him to notice anything more than the sides of the truck.

  ‘They came twice, the bastards,’ he said with such cold fury that her heart quailed. ‘First for the cattle, then the fencing materials. A lucrative night’s work. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes.’ What else could she say? No, my whole life is crumbling around my ears, because now the Ogilvies are going to miss out on the comfortable retirement they deserve?

  ‘Then let’s go. The police should be at Pukekahu by now.’

  At the house he waited while Natalia got a sponge bag and pyjamas and a change of clothes, then took her to the car.

  When she sat huddled in the seat, Clay leaned over and pulled her seat belt across her, clicking it in. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, his voice deep and sure and confident, ‘it won’t look so bad tomorrow.’

  Natalia didn’t say anything. If she opened her mouth she’d probably howl like a banshee.

  A police car had drawn up at the gate of Pukekahu homestead. Stiffening her shoulders, Natalia got out and walked beside Clay over to the constable who stood outside it.

  She was a stranger to Natalia. Brisk, calm, businesslike, she interviewed them both, then said, ‘I’ll get back to you as soon as there’s any news.’ She looked at Natalia. ‘Are you all right? You look pale.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Natalia said.

  ‘She’ll stay here for rest of the night,’ Clay said.

  The policewoman nodded as she got into the car. ‘They’re not likely to come back, so get a decent sleep.’

  The white car turned and disappeared down the road. ‘Where’s Phil?’ Natalia asked quietly.

  ‘I presume he’s spending the night with his girlfriend.’ Clay said crisply. ‘Come on inside. I don’t like that alarming docility.’

  Natalia couldn’t summon a snappy answer. She felt as though something had broken inside her.

  The last three years had all been in vain. Even when she’d sold Xanadu and everything else the Ogilvies would have to kiss goodbye to most of the money they’d saved for their retirement fund.

  Because of her charming, lovable, irresponsible father.

  At the foot of the long flight of steps on to the verandah she stopped, exhausted. Clay scooped her into his arms and strode up, his boots barely making a sound on the wet wood.

  She didn’t protest. Tomorrow she’d deal with everything, but for the moment she was grateful for his decisiveness. With a small sigh of relief she relaxed into his arms, resting her head against his hard shoulder as the jasmine flowers teased her nostrils with their potent musky scent.

  ‘My mother would have cut that jasmine out,’ she murmured. ‘She said it was a terrible, grasping, greedy weed. My father adored it.’

  ‘It’s beautiful and it’s tough—a survivor,’ he said evenly. ‘Like you, Natalia.’

  She didn’t feel like a survivor. She said tonelessly, ‘I’m not capable of holding myself up at the moment, much less a house. This is such a lovely old place; it was wicked to let it go to rack and ruin.’

  ‘Did you know the previous owner?’

  ‘Not very well.’ And it wasn’t a lie. She’d only known—and been deceived by—the persona Dean Jamieson presented to the world: a lying, laughing mask. Compared to Clay, Dean was a shallow excuse for a man. She tacked on, ‘He’s a South Islander.’

  Clay set her down on her feet. Although one arm stayed around her while he unlocked the door, she felt his withdrawal, as palpable as the cold winds of winter. Even his voice was remote when he asked, ‘Can you walk?’

  ‘Of course I can.’ Never mind that her legs felt as though they’d been stuffed with cotton wool.

  ‘All right?’ Clay asked abruptly as the lights flared. He closed the door, locked it, and pulled the curtains to cover it.

  She looked up at him, meeting narrowed, intent eyes; the mouth she’d kissed so passionately was a thin line.

  Unconsciously she straightened her spine. ‘Yes, thank you. Where am I going to sleep?’

  ‘In my bed. I’ll sleep on the sofa.’

  She didn’t realise she’d sighed until he smiled, a humourless, violent smile.

  ‘You really don’t think much of the male sex, do you?’ he asked with an inflection that iced her through to the marrow. ‘You’re shocked and worried—what sort of man would I be to persuade you into making love?’ He touched her mouth, then dropped his hand to rest a fingertip on the hurried tumbling pulse at the base of her throat.

  The same sort of man as Dean, she thought as the caress drove the breath from her lungs.

  With dilating eyes she gazed up while Clay’s fingers curved around her throat, warm, commanding, possessive. In a voice that was deep and potent and sensual he finished, ‘But it’s going to happen, Natalia, because we both want it.’

  It was a simple statement of fact, cool, authoritative. Mesmerised by the compelling heat of his gaze, the subtle fetter of his hand on her skin and the wild tumult that it aroused, Natalia said unevenly, ‘Not yet.’

  Something darkened his eyes, something molten and wholly primitive, but the thick black lashes hid his emotions, and when they lifted again he was once more fully in control.

  ‘Not tonight,’ he corrected. ‘Do you want a drink before you go to bed?’

  Natalia shook her head. ‘I’m tired,’ she said jerkily. ‘I’ll sleep on the sofa, though. It’s not big enough for you.’

  ‘My bed is comfortable,’ he said. ‘The bedroom isn’t anything much, but it’s dry and reasonably warm. I’ll be fine out here.’

  Her brows met. Through her teeth she said, ‘Don’t you ever compromise? I’ll sleep on the sofa, Clay.’

  His laughter, soft and mocking, exasperated her.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who compromised as little as you,’ he drawled, ‘but if it makes you feel better, sleep out here. I’ll get some sheets and a duvet.’

  ‘You’ve got a spare? Good. But you don’t need to make up the sofa—I’ll do it.’

  He said from very close behind her, ‘I’ve compromised, Natalia, now it’s your turn. Go and wash your face or clean your teeth or do whatever you need to do in the bathroom.’

  Some hard, braced part of her dissolved, yielded. ‘All right,’ she said wearily. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Through here.’

  Huge, cold and damp, the bathroom was entirely unwelcoming. Natalia bit her lip as she looked around. It didn’t seem possible that Clay should be camping out in quarters like this. Then she thought of the boy who’d left an unwelcoming home when he was sixteen and made his own way in the world. Legacy or not, he’d probably endured more squalor than this.

  Back in the sitting room he’d made up a bed on the sofa, and very comfortable it looked, with two pillows and a thick white duvet. Tiredness born of shock washed over Natalia, weighing down her bones and her eyelids.

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be warm enough?’ Clay asked, frowning. ‘I’ll leave the heater on just in case.’

  ‘You don’t need to—I’m used to sleeping in a cold room.’ Her face split in a yawn.

  He laughed quietly. ‘Then goodnight, Natalia. If you need me during the night, my bedroom’s directly opposite the bathroom.’

  ‘Goodnight, Clay.’ The words were heavy, almost slurred as exhaustion caught her in its lazy, inexorable grip.

  Once he’d gone she changed into her pyjamas and turned the lights off. Snuggling under the duvet and sheet, she managed two thoughts before sleep claimed her—she didn’t have to get up and check the hydroponics system, and her bedclothes smelt faintly of Clay.

  Some time later in this interminable night she woke, gripped by a name
less dread. Hardly breathing, she angled her head and searched the darkness.

  Yes, that was it.

  A light rattle against the French window, like someone trying a handle, or perhaps seeing if anyone inside responded.

  Although the clouds pressed low, that vagrant moon lent enough light for her to make out a dark silhouette through the thin curtains.

  Fright and fury in equal components gave her speed and silence; she wriggled from the warm nest of bedclothes and inched her way across the door to the rest of the house. Easing it barely open, she slipped through it and groped down the hall. She hadn’t taken more than one step inside Clay’s room when he said in a barely audible voice, ‘Natalia.’

  Low-voiced, she told him, ‘There’s someone trying to get in through the French windows.’

  She didn’t hear him move, but when he spoke next he was much closer. ‘Stay here,’ he breathed. ‘And I mean it— I don’t want to have to worry about you. Here’s my cell-phone—if anything happens to me get the hell out of here and ring the emergency number.’ His hand found her shoulder, slid the length of her arm, and wrapped her fingers around the phone. ‘Stay here,’ he repeated fiercely.

  Shivering, she sat down on the bed, her nervous fingers pleating the bedcover; after several moments she realised exactly what it was beneath her hand. Frowning, she explored further. Clay’s bed was covered only by what seemed to be a coat.

  She bit her lip; he’d stripped the sheets and duvet for her. Oh, why hadn’t she thought of that? In spite of that elegant sitting room, he was only camping in the homestead—of course he wouldn’t have extra bedding.

  She’d deal with that later. Getting up, she tiptoed to the bedroom door and listened. A sudden blinding flood of light through one of the bedroom windows made her wince, but with it came relief. Clay wouldn’t have turned on the verandah light unless he knew—and trusted—the person at the door.

  Nothing moved out there, but she could hear the low grumble of two men speaking. Breathlessly she eased down the hall, stopping just outside the door to the sitting room. Clay hadn’t switched the light on in the room.