by Robyn Donald
‘That is a very fetching blush,’ Alex said softly.
Their gazes met, lingered, and he reached across the table and carried her hand to his lips. Little rills of excitement zinged through her at the touch of his mouth on her palm, and her breath came quickly.
‘I have a bach,’ he said and smiled at her in comprehension. ‘That’s what North Islanders call small beach houses.’
‘Do you have dialects?’ she asked in astonishment.
‘No, just the occasional different word. South Islanders use the word crib to describe the same thing. The Maori language has dialects, although it’s mutually intelligible right through the country—and through the parts of the Pacific colonised by Polynesians. My bach is beside one of the prettiest beaches on the station. Would you like to spend some time with me there?’
When she hesitated, he added, ‘It’s not far away, so we can go out each day to check up on gardens.’
And they’d be private—no chance of Lindy Harcourt interrupting. Uncertainly, Serina asked, ‘Can you afford the time?’
‘I’ll be in contact if I need to be. The bach is set up for communications.’
So she’d be able to keep in touch with Doran—not, she thought wryly, that he was missing her at all. She looked across the table, thrilled at the impact of cool blue eyes, and made up her mind. ‘Yes, thank you, it sounds lovely.’
‘I don’t think lovely,’ she said wryly when they arrived at the bach, ‘was exactly the right word.’
Alex looked at her. ‘So what is the right word?’
‘If I were writing about this I’d use breathtaking,’ she told him, her stunned glance travelling along a beach of amber sand, curved like a slice of melon between headlands made sombre by the huge silver-edged domes of trees she knew were called pohutukawas.
‘And as you’re not writing about it?’ he said coolly, unloading the Land Rover.
She stiffened, then shrugged, some of her delight in the cove evaporating. ‘Breathtaking still does it for me,’ she said lightly, reaching for a refrigerated box.
‘That’s too heavy for you,’ Alex said, handing her a bag of groceries. ‘Take this.’
Packing the contents away would take her mind off his casual strength as he hefted her case and the box of food out of the Land Rover.
The bach was larger than she’d imagined and extremely comfortable, furnished in a style that breathed a sophisticated beach side ambience. It certainly didn’t lack amenities.
As she looked up from a swift inspection of the kitchen he asked, ‘Can you cook?’
Her brows shot up. ‘Of course. Can you?’
‘Several dishes extremely well, scrambled eggs being my forte. And I can do labouring stuff like peeling potatoes. Where did you learn?’
‘I took lessons.’
‘While you were at finishing school?’ His voice was satiric.
‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘After my parents died. When Doran came home during the holidays I realised I’d have to do better than the few meals and techniques I’d mastered, so I learnt how. My god mother paid for the course.’
He said, ‘Losing your parents must have been tough.’
‘Yes.’ She added, ‘But you lost your mother early so you know what it’s like. At least I had mine for longer.’
To her astonishment, he came and pulled her into his arms. She stiffened, but he held her close and because there was nothing sexual in his embrace she relaxed, taking comfort from the solid thump of his heart and the warmth of his body.
He said quietly, ‘There are several bedrooms here. Do you want a room to yourself?’
Stunned, Serina kept her head down. How to deal with this? With courage, she told herself.
She looked up into narrowed gleaming eyes. ‘No,’ she said, heart thumping erratically. ‘I don’t need a room to myself.’
Four days later Serina woke early, her head pillowed on Alex’s shoulder, and faced the stark fact that she’d made the wrong decision. Coming to the bach with Alex had been more than a mistake—it had been stupid. It would have been far safer to stay at the home stead, where the house keeper was a sort of chaperone, someone to make sure emotions didn’t run riot.
Alone here with him, Serina had fallen deeper and deeper in love, become happier than she’d ever been in her life.
Lax after a strenuous night’s loving, completely adjusted to the sleek strength of his body against hers, she had never felt so secure.
The past days had been…
She searched for the right word to describe them, but for once her mind failed her. Her life before Alex seemed faded and dim, like an old photograph left in the sun too long. With him, everything was more vivid, her emotions in finitely more intense, her physical reactions richer, so that the colours of the world around her almost hurt her eyes.
Even food tasted better, she thought, amused by the thought.
But then that could be because Alex’s scrambled eggs were superb.
And he was certainly appreciative of the simple French country cuisine she knew so well. He enjoyed helping, too. A smile curled her lips as she recalled his expertise with a potato peeler.
Carefully still, she lay soaking up the quiet delight of these moments. The muted hush of wavelets on the glowing sand made a serene back ground to the quiet sound of his breathing.
She glanced up at his sleeping face, her eyes caressing the uncompromising sweep of cheek bones, the blade of his nose, the compelling forcefulness of the features that would keep him a handsome man all his life.
Her heart contracted and she fought back the desire to reach out and touch him, reassure herself that she was truly with him. Loving Alex had added a different dimension to her life.
For as long as it lasted.
Wincing, she urged her thoughts in a less painful direction. These past days he’d taken her to small gardens and large ones, gardens overlooking the sea and gardens high in the hills that ran up the central spine of Northland’s narrow peninsula.
Some of the houses had been in tensely luxurious, their owners clearly wealthy folk who employed gardeners to take care of extensive grounds; other owners lived in comfortable farm houses and did all their own work. A couple of cottages had been almost spartan in their simplicity, but without fail every owner had been hospitable and pleasant, eager to show off their hard work and the driving inspiration that had led to their superb gardens.
Because of Alex. They all knew him, admired him and responded in their various ways to his inbuilt authority.
The previous morning they’d visited a particularly idiosyncratic garden overlooking a long white beach. Native shrubs had clothed the hills around, and in their shelter a middle-aged woman with an eye for amazing colour combinations had made herself a stunning gar den, assisted by a husband wryly resigned to ever more of his farm being co-opted as she dreamed up new schemes. A passionate follower of growing organically, their hostess produced her own vegetables and tended an orchard filled with fruits Serina had never seen before.
It had been fascinating and fun; the couple knew Alex well, and the warmth of their welcome was genuine and open.
As well, they had an enchanting granddaughter, a solemn little girl of about six called Nora, who shyly showed Serina her favourite places in the garden and, when she realised Serina could speak a different language, begged to be taught a French song. They’d spent a laughing ten minutes while she learned a simple nursery rhyme under the indulgent eyes of Alex and her grandparents.
After that Nora had stuck close to Serina, watching as she took photographs and having to be coaxed to go with her grandfather and Alex to see some new calves when Serina had settled down in the sun to inter view the owner.
That too went off extremely well and their hostess insisted on them staying for lunch, a superb spread she’d cooked herself.
As they drank coffee afterwards, Nora edged up to Serina and said, ‘Grandma said you’re a princess. Why aren’t you wearing your crown?’
‘Nora!’ her grandmother said swiftly. ‘Darling, that’s not very polite.’
Serina said, ‘It’s all right. I expect Nora’s seen a lot of pictures of princesses with crowns. But princesses only look like princesses when they’re wearing their crowns. Once they take them off, they’re just ordinary people.’
Nora frowned. ‘In my fav’rite book Princess Polly wears her crown even when she’s riding her pony.’
‘Ah, but that’s in a book,’ Serina said. ‘And I’m not really a princess because you have to belong to a country to be a true princess, and I don’t.’
Nora considered that, then said, ‘You could belong to us.’
Touched, Serina said, ‘Even if I did, I wouldn’t wear a crown very much. They only come out for special occasions—like balls and big parties. They’re like high-heeled shoes—you don’t wear them when you go to visit friends, or lovely gardens like your grandma’s.’ She leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘Actually, they’re quite heavy.’
Nora’s eyes widened and a thought struck her. ‘Well, if you married Uncle Alex you could be our princess and then you could wear your crown when you came here, couldn’t you?’
Colour burned a trail along Serina’s cheek bones. What on earth could she say to that—certainly not that it was something she didn’t dare hope for!
Alex said, ‘Serina lives on the other side of the world, Nora. She might be wanting to marry someone there.’
Serina managed a laugh. ‘Not right at this moment,’ she said and smiled down at Nora, whose face had fallen. ‘Before we go, why don’t you write out your name and address on a piece of paper and give it to me? When I get home I’ll send you a postcard of the place I live. It’s very beautiful, but quite different from here.’
Nora’s face brightened but she said seriously, ‘You could come and see us a lot if you married Uncle Alex.’
Alex inter posed smoothly, ‘How would it be if Princess Serina sent you a photo of herself wearing her crown?’
After a moment’s hesitation and a glance at her grandmother, Nora clearly recalled her manners. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said unconvincingly.
Recalling the conversation now, Serina’s skin burned again. Until the little girl’s artless suggestion, she hadn’t even considered marriage—and she wasn’t going to consider it now, she told herself sternly.
Because it was never going to happen.
But, in spite of her resolution, she allowed herself a moment or two of imagining herself walking down the aisle on Doran’s arm towards Alex…picturing happy domesticity with perhaps a little girl like Nora one day.
He’d been good with the child, and Nora clearly loved him.
Stupid, she scolded and ruthlessly banished the fantasy, ignoring the bleak ache in her heart and concentrated on how nice the New Zealanders she’d met had been…
From outside a seagull called, its harsh screech overriding the muted hush of the waves only a few steps from the bach. Alex’s breathing altered and the arm about her tightened, but after a moment he relaxed and the regular rhythm of his breaths resumed.
Serina relaxed too, setting her mind to assess whatever it was about him that had made her fall so far and so headlong into love.
Nice was the last word she’d use for him—it was far too pallid a description of his keen mind and charged energy, a word totally unable to convey the authority with which he harnessed both attributes to an iron-clad will.
As for the particular sexual charisma that made him stand out in any crowd…
She gave a voluptuous little wriggle. Without opening his eyes, Alex said, ‘No.’
‘No what?’ she asked cautiously.
‘No to anything.’ He lifted lashes that were unfairly long for a man and skewered her with a long considering stare. ‘I’m exhausted.’
Serina pretended belief. ‘In that case, I suppose we’d better get up.’
‘Mmm,’ he murmured and clamped her more closely to his side. ‘How many more gardeners did I misguidedly contact for you?’
‘Seven,’ she returned promptly. ‘Why misguidedly? That was the whole purpose of my visit, remember.’
In one swift movement that took her by surprise, Alex turned and pinned her underneath him. He certainly didn’t feel exhausted, she decided, her body responding with unrestrained eagerness.
‘Because, if it weren’t for all those phone calls, we could be spending the day in bed together,’ he said calmly and kissed her.
When she melted beneath him, already hot and yielding, he lifted his head so his breath fanned across the tender curves of her lips in a way that made her wriggle again.
Breaking the kiss, he murmured, ‘So I suppose we’d better get up and sally forth.’
‘You dare,’ she breathed, linking her hands across his back and narrowing her eyes.
He laughed, challenge glinting blue and brilliant in his eyes. ‘How are you going to stop me?’ he said, and startled her by turning onto his side, and then onto his back so he could gaze up at the ceiling.
Serina absorbed the arrogant lines of his profile against the sunlight outside. ‘I’m not going to,’ she said demurely. ‘If you’re exhausted you’d be no use to me anyway.’
‘Of no use to you?’ he said in a tone that made her instinctively try to sit up.
He forestalled her by stretching a languid arm across her waist—languid until she tried a little harder, when it turned to steel and pinioned her to the bed.
‘Let’s see, shall we?’ he said thoughtfully, and turned to face her again.
Her breath blocked her throat and she surrendered to the slow glide of a hand from her throat, across her breasts and onwards, inching by painfully exciting increments to that certain spot between her thighs where he knew a welcome awaited him.
Held a willing prisoner, she sneaked a seething glance from half-closed eyes. His expression a mixture of amusement and lust, he was clearly enjoying his sensuous exploration, his fingers brushing at the satin skin, tracing an old scar.
‘What was this?’
‘Appendix,’ she said vaguely as those tormenting, tantalising fingers drifted closer…closer…closer…
Heat burned through her and her wilful body arced off the sheet.
Alex looked down at her with a wicked gleam. ‘Useless?’ he enquired, and let his hand drift back up to her breasts. ‘It’s unusual for anyone to have their appendix out nowadays.’
‘It wasn’t nowadays.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Six. My father believed that a grumbling appendix should always be removed—his grandmother had died from appendicitis.’ Serina’s voice sounded vague and fluttery, the words jumping out unevenly as her breath came in swift pants.
Alex bent his head. Her breasts had already peaked, the small aureoles standing proud and expectant, eager for the warm stimulation of his mouth.
But, to her astonishment and intense frustration, he kissed the scar.
‘What—?’ she muttered.
The imperative summons of a cell phone jerked her out of the sensuous haze he’d summoned so swiftly.
Alex said something under his breath and got out of bed to pick it up. Gaze fixed on her face, he barked, ‘Yes?’
Serina lay still, intent on the way the morning sun glowed on his bronze skin, turning it gold, picking out the swell of each muscle, the long powerful lines of his torso and legs.
An alteration in his tone whipped her attention back to his face. It had set like stone and the heat had vanished from his eyes, leaving them hard and cold.
‘When?’ he demanded, turning abruptly and striding out of the room.
Serina hauled the sheet over her and listened to his voice in the next room, crisp and decisive, clearly giving orders. A swift fear chilled her.
CHAPTER NINE
SERINA wondered uneasily if she should get up. Judging by the icily formidable tone of Alex’s voice, something had gone seriously wrong. But, before she had
a chance to move, he came back in and said, grim-faced, ‘Your brother has left Vanuatu.’
She sat upright. ‘What?’
‘You don’t know?’ He scrutinised her face with a flat, lethal gaze.
She shook her head to clear it, then went to fling back the sheet. ‘I’ll check my email.’
‘In a moment,’ Alex said curtly. ‘You told me he was having a great time there.’
It sounded too close to an accusation for her to be comfortable.
Spiritedly, she said, ‘He is—was. But he’s always been impulsive—and I’ve been surprised his passion for diving has lasted so long. I think I told you that. He probably got tired of the heat, or there weren’t enough pretty girls there to flirt with…’
Her voice trailed away under Alex’s cold, uncompromising survey. This was a man she didn’t know—but one whose existence she’d always suspected. No longer a lover, he was the ruthless warrior she’d sensed beneath the cool sophistication.
He said sternly, ‘Serina, if you value your brother’s life and safety, tell me everything—anything—you know about this so-called game he’s been involved with.’
Bewildered, she said, ‘I’ve already told you.’
‘Not enough.’
Panic kicked beneath her ribs and she demanded urgently, ‘What is going on? Why should you be so concerned about Doran leaving Vanuatu, and what is it about that stupid computer game?’
‘Because he’s heading for the border region between Carathia and Montevel, and the game you’ve been so blithely un concerned about is no video fake; it’s for real.’
Serina stared at him, reacting with a pang of fear to the uncompromising conviction in his expression. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, but half-heartedly. ‘What do you mean—for real?’
‘This is no joke. Face it. You’ve been fed a fairy tale—a very clever fairy tale—to keep you quiet while Doran, his friends and several others finalised their plans to foment a popular uprising in Montevel in the hope that they’ll eventually be able to take over the country.’
Stomach clenching as though to ward off a blow, she blurted, ‘That’s ridiculous! It sounds as though someone’s been feeding you—or Gerd—a fairy tale.’
