by Diana Palmer
He was reminded of his childish pledge, at the age of twelve, that one day he would farm. The land he had grown up on was cruel, endless and dry, spirit-sapping. He and his father had not been good enough to save it. Somehow he had always wanted to put that right.
And his time was coming, he knew. Once Turtle Island was done and dusted, he would have the rest of his life to search for the perfect piece of land, the perfect wife and set about proving he could be a better farmer, husband and father than his own father had been.
The vista soared and roared. He turned to look at Lucy. The wind, stronger here at the edge, lifted her pale hair toward the weak sun. It sparkled and he could not help himself—he who maintained control in every situation, who never lost sight of his goals. He reached out and touched her hair and she turned to face him with a soft cry of surprise that was stolen by the fitful breeze.
It almost burned him, the look on her face of pride and ownership and fierce love for this land of hers. She was part of it. She was nature, but not in a robust way—more childlike. The blue haze of the mountains shone in her eyes. The silver of scree and rock were mirrored in her hair. She moved with the graceful sway of the trees. She would change with the seasons and the ebb of the atmosphere, and he admired that—wanted that—because he and his father had failed so abysmally.
Entranced, he moved toward her, wondering if she realized that he was going to kiss her. His fingers laced through her hair. His other hand pulled on the side of her open jacket, his eyes on hers, clearly signaling his intention.
She did not step back, although her arms seemed to clamp to her sides.
Oh yes, I am going to kiss you, Lucy McKinlay, right or wrong. It was a rare moment in Ethan’s life. He knew he’d spend a lifetime wondering if he did not go with the instinct driving him right now.
His mouth descended onto hers and the first touch of her slowed him down. There was no hurry. If he had to do this, he would do it properly.
With his tongue he traced the shape of her small mouth, lingering in the bow in the center of her top lip. Cool in the morning chill, and incredibly soft. He coaxed her lips apart and thought of nature—cold morning air, snow on your tongue, fresh-cut grass. The swirling sea-colors of her outfit last night as she moved around the bar, bending and straightening, smiling and chatting. That vision had kept him awake for most of the night, so restless that he was compelled to take an early-morning swim. And to knock himself out trying to impress her when he saw her at the door to the pool.
Lucy’s mouth kissed back, warming and accepting. Her tongue did not shy from his, her breath shuddered into his mouth. Her hair was as soft and fine as he had ever felt. His fingers threaded through it, discovering the shape of her skull, making her gasp when he massaged the base of it. He wanted more, but it wasn’t so much carnal or wanting to go farther, as it was just to continue. The taste of her, the feel of her skin, it all combined into a whole delicious addictive feast.
But her arms were rigid at her sides. It was that fact that pricked his comprehension, brought him back through the clouds. His hands moved to her shoulders and ran lightly down her arms, as if to thaw their stiffness. He leaned back slightly, a little breathless but wanting to see her response.
Her eyes remained closed. She captured her bottom lip with small white teeth and drew it into her mouth, inhaling. Then her eyes opened and slowly focused on him.
Heavy-lidded and fringed by light-brown lashes that seemed longer at the outer corners, there was real depth in those lovely blue eyes. Surprise. Embers of heat going up in a little shower of sparks. He’d thought her unresponsive. Afraid, even, when he’d felt the tension in her arms. She wasn’t. A strong tremor rolled through her slender body, still pressed up against his. She was holding back, but she was as affected as he was. Her hands fisted and she pulled them back behind her, as if that might stop the trembling.
Lucy McKinlay might be innocent. She might even be a common gold digger. But he had never wanted to claim and tame someone so much.
“I—we—we’ll be late for breakfast,” she whispered and pulled dazedly from his embrace, took a couple of unfirm steps back.
As if waking from a dream, he squinted at her, wondering what on earth had just possessed him.
“I must get back.” Distance had made her stronger, firmer.
She turned her back on him. He watched her walk to her horse, take some time inspecting the saddle, crooning to the animal. Her hat and gloves were next for a fastidious inspection before being tugged on—and all without looking at him once. Finally she mounted and nudged her horse with the slightest pressure of her legs and moved to Ethan’s mare, leaning down to collect the reins. “Are you coming down now?”
He took the reins she held out and nodded curtly, telling himself he was relieved she did not want to talk about what had just occurred. He needed time to sort it out in his head. Not given to uncontrollable urges, he had to wonder if the magic of the landscape had somehow drugged him.
Chapter Four
Ethan had scheduled a meeting with Magnus after lunch. On the way to the conference facility, he paused by the front door to look out onto the veranda. Juliette lounged on a hammock-chair that rocked gently as she moved her crossed ankles in a lazy circular motion. She read aloud from a glossy brochure or magazine. Lucy listened from the bench seat, her bare feet tucked up under her.
From twenty feet away, she looked like anyone else. You had to get close to appreciate the silky radiance of her skin, the warmth and sparkle of her eyes.
Correction. You had to get close enough to touch her on a hilltop with a magical view to get really carried away. He was still shaking his head over his impetuous actions that morning. Perhaps it was the contrast between her and the type of women he usually came into contact with.
Women like Juliette.
His eyes narrowed as he studied the new Mrs. Magnus Anderson. Growing up in Australia, he was used to tanned and toned athletic girls. As he got older and traveled all corners of the world, he was confronted with more tanned and toned women, but with a subtle difference. They got their tan and their tone from the beauty parlor and the personal trainer.
Sleek and bronzed. Stylishly dressed. Immaculately made-up and coiffed. The perfect companion. He stared hard at her. What was she hiding? And what were her intentions toward Magnus?
With a start, he realised that Lucy was looking right at him. He met her eyes and all thoughts of Juliette were whisked away.
He did not smile in greeting. So they had a secret to share, a bit of a kiss when they’d only just met. Good sense told him to step back. It wasn’t his style to deliberately hurt, confuse or treat women carelessly. With little time to socialize, he made sure his partners knew the score. No romance. No promise of anything more. The few women he dated were of similar disposition to him: ambitious, busy, on the way up with no time to spare.
There was something vulnerable about that doll-like mouth, something that both drew him to her and warned him off. She had not smiled and from where he stood, he could not read her expression. Then she nodded and turned back to Juliette.
Magnus was in an exuberant mood. Ethan tossed his briefcase on the table and poured himself a coffee, and for the next hour or so, they went through every detail of the successful completion of the Middle Eastern resort.
At the conclusion, Ethan stretched and stood to refill his cup. Magnus sorted the sheaf of papers in front of him and fussed in his top pocket for a cigar, which he clamped down on enthusiastically. It was in deference to his doctor, Ethan knew, that he only actually smoked one cigar a day, but he chomped through four or five others.
“Looking pleased with yourself,” Ethan commented, resuming his seat.
Magnus removed the cigar and pointed it at him, his eyes twinkling. “It’s marriage, my boy. You should try it.”
Ethan considered again raising the subject of the newspaper clippings, but he hated to blight his boss’s relaxed good humor. It could wait till
they were back in Sydney. Or until he had something concrete from the P.I. “Just like a newlywed,” he sighed. “You must try and fix up all your poor, miserable, single friends.”
“Uh-huh.” Magnus leaned back in his chair and squinted at him. “Got a bit of a light in your own eye today.”
Ethan pushed the unbidden thought of Lucy firmly away. “There is something else.” He pulled his open briefcase toward him, his mouth tightening into a cautious grin. The Turtle Island file was on top and he lifted it and placed it on the table. Magnus’s big hand landed on the plain manila folder and he slid it closer, flipping back the cover.
While he studied the file, Ethan paced, savoring the anticipation of his boss’s reaction. Turtle Island had historical significance to MagnaCorp. He counted on Magnus jumping at the chance to recoup a substantial loss suffered.
He sat down again, his hand threatening to drum up a tattoo of impatience on the table.
Finally Magnus cleared his throat, his head still bent but the last page of the slim file inching closed. He picked up his cigar, tapped the end of it on the table and brought it slowly to his mouth. The chair creaked as he shifted to face Ethan.
The older man’s eyes were lit up with guarded pleasure. “When did you start on this?”
“Got the tip-off a month ago.”
“You’ve been busy.”
Ethan nodded. “I’m the only player. Clark knows.”
Magnus eyed him, nodding slowly. “Clark’s a good man.”
Ethan leaned back in his own seat, folding his arms. “Is it a go?”
Magnus roused himself. “Your father—” He tapped the file. “He did all the work on this, twenty years ago. Would have clinched it, too, but for the coup.”
Ethan sighed. The old man read him like a book. “Before my time.”
He was well aware of the history. Nearly twenty years ago, before this priceless piece of land had been nationalized, there were only two companies in the Pacific large enough to buy the rights to develop the bay into the world’s most exclusive resort. “You also spent millions,” he reminded him. “Lawyers, surveyors, architects…”
“And we both lost.”
“Here it is. You don’t want it?”
“Hell, yes. It would be the jewel in my crown. I’d be thrilled for you if it wasn’t your father and this island.”
“It’s business,” Ethan told him stubbornly.
“You know, Ethan, you only took the job I offered you to rub his nose in it. Else you’d be running his corporation now, instead of mine. He’d welcome you, and it wouldn’t be like working for someone else. You’re his only son. His rightful heir.”
“I’ve earned my money—sufficient, I think—my way.”
“You’ve done well.” Magnus pursed his mouth thoughtfully. “If you ever decide to call in ownership of all your units at the same time, you’d damn near break me.”
They smiled at the joke. Magnus had been among the top five Australasians on the rich list for the last decade.
From the time Ethan had completed his first project for MagnaCorp, he’d deferred the generous bonuses his boss offered in lieu of a down payment on a small portion of land on every project since. Sometimes this took the shape of a unit to be let out, a small piece of beachfront. In one case, he’d purchased the resort golf course.
“I want you to think about this, long and hard. Jackson’s done well these last few years, even if he didn’t do right by you and your mother.”
“My father doesn’t even feature in my thoughts most of the time. Some families just aren’t that close.”
“Yes but his failures made you what you are today,” Magnus insisted. “Forgive him, Ethan. Don’t allow him to leave this world with regrets. You do, and you’ll do the same.”
Ethan blew out a long breath and leaned toward the table. He picked up the Turtle Island file and saluted his boss with it. “Duly noted. And appreciated. Now, can we get down to business?”
Magnus grinned. “I swear, I’ve never met anyone as single-minded as you. Loosen up, son. Quit ticking things off that interminable list in your head. Come hunting with us.”
Ethan shook his head. “Not my idea of fun, old man. I’ll stick around here, enjoy the scenery.”
A smile nagged the corners of Magnus’s mouth. “Little Miss Lucy does kind of light up a room, even in the middle of nowhere, doesn’t she?” The smile broadened when he saw Ethan’s guarded expression.
“Let me have a go at Turtle Island, Magnus,” he hedged.
Magnus shook his head ruefully. “All right, son. If you think you can swing Turtle Island without causing an irretrievable break between you and your father, then go for it. I have every faith in you.”
Ethan slapped the file on the table in elation. “I’ll call Clark now, get the ball rolling.”
Magnus waved his hand. “Since you’ll be hanging around here, how about doing something for me? I’ve been hearing some disturbing things about Summerhill. It’s why I chose this as a belated honeymoon.”
“What sort of things?” Ethan’s interest piqued.
“Cutbacks. Maintenance issues. The word is, they’re close to the wall. The integrity of the club is paramount. There can be no hint of impropriety.”
The reference to the club made Ethan smile. Now that Ethan managed most of the affairs of MagnaCorp, Magnus had slowed down some, but the club was his pet. “Sure. I’ll ask a few questions. Looks okay, so far.” Better than okay, he thought, almost giving a wolfish grin. Lucy’s tantalizing presence could help him overlook just about anything. “The accommodation is spoton, if a bit faded. Incredible location.”
“Mmm. Keep your ear to the ground. And have a bit of a rest. I’ll be back Wednesday, and we fly out on Friday.” He stood slowly. “Keep tomorrow night free. Tom has offered us some tickets for New Zealand versus Argentina. One of his friends has a corporate box. Whaddya say? It’s compulsory to see a rugby game when in New Zealand.”
Ethan closed his briefcase and picked up his jacket. “Who’s coming?” he asked casually.
Magnus turned to the door, but not before Ethan caught a definite gleam in his eye. “My wife and I. You and Lucy. Sadly, Tom will be busy with arrangements for our safari. We’ll have dinner afterwards and Lucy was going to see about booking a hotel in town for the night, save driving back.”
Lucy allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction. Nothing had gone wrong for once. She had checked the Andersons and Ethan into their hotel and had had time to call in to the apartment and pick up her beloved New Zealand jersey. The real stroke of luck was finding a rare parking spot on the street not three blocks from the stadium. They would be seated in good time.
The atmosphere was festive as thirty-seven thousand people poured in through the gates. A fireworks display sent big puffs of smoke rolling across the field and into the stands. Lucy paused a minute—she loved fireworks—then noticed Ethan had stopped to turn and look at her.
She had planned to avoid him as much as politely possible for the duration of his stay and had managed that nicely since yesterday’s incident on the gorge. But today they had all ganged up on her, even Tom. “Take my SUV,” he’d insisted, when she’d protested that four would be a bit of a squeeze in the Alfa.
Ethan had turned back to say something to Magnus. A body bumped into her and she stepped aside, her eyes intermittently on the fireworks and Ethan’s tall figure a few feet ahead. “Sorry,” she murmured automatically, then felt someone grip her arm.
A face, clean-shaven and loose-looking, peered at her closely. Because of the crush behind, she strove to keep walking but his grip tightened.
“Ms. McKinlay.”
A waft of strong alcohol preceded his words and she stiffened. The face looked vaguely familiar, but distaste muddled her memory. “I’m sorry, I…”
“Joseph Dunn. Friend of your brother’s.”
A small spurt of relief was wiped out by the realization that he still hung on to her arm. �
�Oh. Okay.”
While she stammered, her eyes lifted over the man’s shoulder and she saw Ethan frowning back at her.
“We met at the casino one night, not long after you came home.”
Lucy did not remember but she did know his face. She tried to think of something to say to politely extricate herself from his grasp. “Nice to see you,” she murmured, lifting her arm pointedly. To her confusion, he seemed to grip her harder. Giving up the pretence of politeness, she pulled against him. “Excuse me,” she began icily.
“Where’s your brother?” The fleshy lips were no longer smiling. It was as if he too had given up on diplomacy.
“Tom?” A little scared now, she registered that Ethan was pushing toward her, only a few feet away.
“Yes, Tom.” The tone was now openly belligerent. “I know he’s here. I saw his car.”
Perhaps emboldened by rescue at hand, she tugged sharply to free herself.
“Hey!” She heard Ethan’s voice crack through the din of the crowd. The man checked.
“What do you want?” she hissed.
He glanced quickly over his shoulder then his fingers dug deep into her arm, so hard that tears of pain and outrage sprang into her eyes. He shoved his face very close. “Tell him I’m looking for him.” With that, he gave her a small but quite rough push.
A little dazed and off balance, she heard a louder “Hey!” close now, right in front of her, and then the tang of Ethan’s aftershave blitzed the smell of alcohol and malice away. Her head cleared. He came level with her, moving determinedly in the direction of the departing man. Without thinking, Lucy raised her hand quickly. “Leave it!” She slapped her hand quite forcefully on his chest.
His wide chest.
His hard chest.
His heart beat strongly under her flat palm. He looked down at it, possibly surprised at the force she’d used or perhaps it was the commanding tone of voice. Then he looked at her face.
