Was that Paul?' Catherine asked with casual innocence.
`No, it was Susan ringing from New Plymouth. She says Aunt Laura's sick and they could do with a little extra help. They're wondering if I'll give them a hand.'
`Of course you must go at once,' said Catherine as if it was already settled. 'Take my large suitcase from the boxroom. You might stay longer than you expect.'
`Susan said to be sure and bring a couple of party dresses, and something about having their own dance floor—'
`Really? That's nice,' Catherine murmured.
Mary looked at her suspiciously. 'You don't sound a bit surprised that they have their own dance floor? Did you know?'
`It's not surprising at all,' Brett cut in sharply.
`They're enterprising girls who don't waste their time mooning over idiots who consider themselves to be God's gift to women.'
Mary sent him a baleful glare, then disappeared towards the boxroom, which was next to the laundry.
Next morning she left immediately after breakfast.
They waved goodbye, and as the small car disappeared along the drive Catherine heaved a sigh of relief. 'Thank goodness that plan worked well,' she said.
`A most satisfactory effort on your part, Cathy dear,' Brett put in dryly. 'I congratulate you. Well now, what are your plans for today?'
`I'll be busy with my usual Sunday letter-writing stint. I've thought of several people who could help me contact the descendants of further pioneer women. Why do you ask?'
`I wondered if you'd like to come with us,' he said casually.
`Oh? You're taking Lisa out somewhere?' Catherine looked surprised but sounded pleased.
`Yes. We're going along the coast road west of the mountain to see a stock-breeder who has a new line of pedigree Jersey bulls.'
Catherine's brows rose with a hint of disapproval. `You're taking Lisa to look at bulls? Isn't that ratherer—indelicate?'
Brett laughed. 'We're out of the Victorian era now, Cathy, even if your head's full of what your pioneer women would see fit to do. However, Lisa can wait in the car while I examine this animal—but a new bull is something I must have. Old George will be coming back on his own progeny if I don't get him off the place.'
`I understand,' Catherine said hastily. Then, to Lisa, `You'll enjoy seeing the coast road—it's rather primitive.'
Lisa's surprise was still apparent as she said. 'This is the first I've heard of the trip. I had intended getting on with the job in the library.'
Brett smiled easily. 'A little tiger for work, aren't
you? You're forgetting I said you wouldn't be working on Sundays.'
`You're being very highhanded,' she retorted with a touch of indignation. 'How come you're examining a bull on Sunday?'
`Because it suits me to do so,' he declared loftily. `However, if you're so madly keen on work you can bring something to do while I look at the bull.'
`Very well, I'll do that,' she replied quietly, at the same time secretly scorning herself for not having the willpower to refuse to accompany him. She knew she didn't have to go with him, yet it seemed as though an unseen electrical force pulled her towards him. I suppose it's because I love him, she thought helplessly, then, fearful that it might be revealed in her face, she lowered her head and went to the library where she put together a neat pack of scribbling paper and manuscript pages.
They had lunch early and it was still only one o'clock when the plates were stacked into the dishwasher. Brett drove the Holden to the back door, and as Lisa took her seat beside him he leaned over to make sure her seat-belt was correctly adjusted.
She revelled in his attention, a small sigh of contentment escaping her, and although she was unaware of it a faint smile played about her lips.
`You're comfortable?' he asked solicitously.
Lisa nodded. 'Perfectly, thank you.' She breathed deeply, taking in the pleasant odour of his aftershave.
`The seat-belt isn't too tight?'
She shook her head. 'No, it's fine.'
Nevertheless he ran his hand beneath its length to judge the tension, and in doing so his fingers lingered momentarily on her breast.
`You're resigned to coming out with me?' he teased.
`Quite resigned.' She smiled happily and her eyes shone. She was going out with Brett, so, at the moment, what more could she wish for?
CHAPTER EIGHT
BRETT was about to turn the ignition key when Catherine called to him from the back door. 'Wait, you'd better take this—you might like to have a picnic at some place.' She carried a basket towards the car and put it on the back seat. It contained a thermos of tea, cups and a cookie jar.
`Thank you, Cathy—that's thoughtful of you,' said Brett.
She regarded them both with a look of pleased speculation. 'You're sure to want a hot drink. You might even find a nice cosy place to park—somewhere secluded.'
`Thank you—you're very kind,' said Lisa. She met the hazel eyes and was suddenly startled by the expression they held. It was almost as though Catherine was trying to send her a secret message.
`Good luck—have a happy—a very happy afternoon!' The older woman's smile was almost roguish.
Lisa was puzzled. There seemed to be a depth of meaning behind the words, and as she pondered them a slight flush rose to her cheeks. Good luck? What on earth did Catherine mean by that remark? Her colour deepened as she wondered if Catherine suspected her feelings towards Brett. Was it her way of saying she approved? And—horror of horrors—had Brett caught any hint, or noticed the expression in his stepmother's eyes? She peeped at him as the car swung on to the road, but his face betrayed nothing.
They drove in silence while her mind continued to question Catherine's wish for good luck, and the more she thought about it the more embarrassed she became. Of course Catherine had guessed she was in
love with Brett, and while she'd tried to keep it from being written all over her face Catherine's shrewd eyes and womanly instinct had glimpsed the truth.
And in that moment Lisa realised she had been deliberately brought to Lynton to be laid across Brett's path. She, too, had been manipulated into becoming part of one of Catherine's matchmaking schemes.
Nevertheless she felt compelled to ask, 'What did Catherine mean by—by good luck?'
Brett shrugged. 'Who knows? Cathy's good at making enigmatic remarks. In this case she was probably wishing me luck in the purchase of a good bull. Sometimes a bull can be disappointing.'
`Oh, I see.' Lisa stared straight ahead. She was not at all convinced that this was what Catherine had meant.
The road headed westward towards the southern end of Cape Egmont passing through several small settlements as it skirted the lower slopes of the mountain. And as the car glided along the tarsealed surface Brett chatted amicably, pointing out places of interest along the route.
Lisa listened in silence, making little or no comment until she was startled by an abrupt question.
`Am I boring you?'
`No, of course not. I'm interested to see the places mentioned in Catherine's manuscript.'
He thought for a moment, then asked, `Do you intend to stay and help her with the book about the early women?'
The suggestion surprised her. 'Oh no, I don't think Catherine expects me to do that. After all, it's her book—and in any case Mr Bishop expects me to be back in the office as soon as possible.'
She peeped at him, longing to hear him utter words giving reasons why she should prolong her stay, but they did not come.
Frowning at the road ahead, he said, 'I can't see that Mountain Memory is Catherine's book any longer, and I'm beginning to suspect she now looks upon it as being your book.'
`That's ridiculous,' she protested. 'I've merely reorganised the material she spent years in gathering. It needed editing, and that's all I'm doing. Perhaps you could say I'm a little like a ghost writer,' she smiled.
His dark eyes flashed a sweeping glance over her slim form. 'A more attracti
ve ghost I've yet to meet,' he commented dryly.
The unexpectedness of the compliment sent her spirits soaring upward, and a wave of quiet contentment caused her to relax. A warm companionship seemed to spring up between them, and as they drove in silence the car radio offered soft music. A soothing male voice sang about Memories—and although their hours together had only begun, instinct told Lisa that the afternoon would be unforgettable.
At last she glanced at him, a slight smile playing about her soft lips. Did he also feel relaxed and contented? Was it possible she was filling his thoughts even as he filled hers? 'You're very quiet,' she remarked.
`Am I? Actually my thoughts have been with Dreaming Sam.'
She felt nettled. 'Dreaming Sam? Who on earth is he?'
`He's the bull I'm about to purchase—providing he appears to be a satisfactory animal.'
`Oh.' Lisa felt deflated as she realised the bull had held priority over herself in his thoughts.
`George Jones assures me he comes from an excellent line. Jones is the breeder, you understand,' added Brett as he reduce speed to turn along a side ride.
A short time later the car turned into a drive that led
towards a white timber-built homestead. Brett drove into a large yard at the rear, and as he did so a short sturdily-built man came through the back door of the house.
Lisa was introduced briefly to George Jones, who wasted no time in handing a stud book to Brett. The two men left the car and she sat watching as they moved through a gate and began to cross a field towards a set of railed yards where a large animal stood waiting. That must be Dreaming Sam, she thought.
Her eyes rested on Brett's athletic form striding across the grass, and she noticed that the stock-breeder's short legs had to move swiftly to keep up with him. Then, dragging her mind away from Brett, she reached over to the back seat for the work she had brought with her.
Fifteen minutes later she raised her eyes from the papers on her knee and was in time to see the men returning through the gate. The look of satisfaction on George Jones' face seemed to indicate that he had made a sale, and as they crossed the yard towards the house she saw Brett take his cheque book from his inner breast pocket. However, another ten minutes passed before he took his seat behind the wheel.
She replaced her work on the back seat. 'You've bought him?' she asked as he turned on the ignition.
`Yes. He's a well-grown two-year-old—a perfectly balanced bull, with all his points in good proportion.
`What do you look for?' She found herself genuinely interested.
`A nice straight back, good deep shoulders and a head that's neither too large nor too small. And there's also his breeding in the stud book to be considered. This fellow's been bred in the purple. I presume you know what that means?'
She shook her head. Not really.'
`It means the top line of today's breeding. Dreaming
Sam was sired by Sleepy Samson who'd been sired by Dozy Joe—whose dam had been the famous Josephine.'
`I'm glad the females get a little recognition,' she smiled.
`You can bet they do! They're very important and have to be excellent producers of milk that's high in quality and quantity. Dairy cows are not allowed to luxuriate on the best pastures for no reason at all. They have to earn the privilege of delivering the goods to go into the milk tanker.'
Lisa looked at the herds grazing in the fields. 'They look so peaceful and contented,' she remarked.
`You're sure you're not bored with all this talk about cows and bulls? I dare say you'll be glad to leave it all behind when you return to Auckland.'
His words were like a douche of cold water, but she managed to say quietly, 'I'm not bored, nor am I aching to return to Auckland.'
Brett glanced at the papers on the back seat. 'I see you did some work while you waited. How is it all progressing?'
`Aren't you really asking when do I think I'll be finished and on my way?'
Not at all—but what stage have you reached?' His voice held mild curiosity.
`I'm working on Catherine's material about this western side of the mountain, so I'm interested to see the formation of the land and the way the ridges and valleys sweep down to the sea. Thank you for bringing me.'
`It's a pleasure.' He reached over and patted her hand, and the action coupled with the smile he gave her made her breath quicken. He added, 'Perhaps I should show you the actual coastline. It's not too far away.'
He drove in silence for several minutes, then turned along a side road which eventually ended at a wide
grassy plateau above the sea. To the left and right stretched long lines of sheer dark-faced cliffs that dropped down to a bleak and lonely shore where waves pounded against ominous rocks embedded in black sand.
They left the car and he guided her to where a nearby break in the cliffs formed a valley. A rough track descending along one side enabled them to make their way down to the sands, where they walked for a distance between large rocks and rounded stones.
The breeze whipped colour into Lisa's cheeks and blew her hair into a dark auburn halo through which the afternoon sun shot glints of red. Yet despite the sun's warmth she shuddered. 'It all looks so forbidding—a nightmare coast!'
As the wind became stronger Brett took her arm and drew her towards the shelter of a sandbank at the foot of the cliffs. It protected them from the gusts, and as they sat down beside it he pointed towards the distant bare faces. 'The Taranaki coast is noted for its perpendicular shoreline,' he told her. 'Some of the cliffs have caves beneath them.'
`But the sand is so black,' she complained, allowing a handful to trickle through her fingers. 'I like sand to be golden—it's cleaner, and somehow so much more romantic.'
He stared out to sea. 'Romantic? I know very little about romance. As for the black sand, one becomes accustomed to it, especially when its value is realised,' he added dryly. 'It's used for the production of steel and is mined for export, mainly to Japan. Doesn't Catherine's book mention it?'
`No. Black sand into steel is something the early settlers failed to dream about.'
He gave a small sound of impatience, at the same time lying back and stretching his length against the lower contour of the sandbank. 'Forget the early settlers—they've gone. Switch your mind to the
present—it's ours.' The words came abruptly. It was a command, and he turned to watch its effect on her.
`You're right,' she agreed. 'My mind has become so entangled I don't know whether I'm in today or yesterday.'
`Then lie beside me and relax.' It was a further command, and his hand came up to draw her down to the sand.
Lisa lay back obediently, listening to the roar of the surf and gazing at clouds that scudded across the sky. At the same time she made an effort to stem her own inner turmoil which had been stirred by the realisation that she was actually lying beside him on the beach. It seemed incredible. Take it calmly, Lisa, she warned herself silently. Don't make a fool of yourself.
They lay in silence for several minutes until Brett made a sudden move to raise himself on one elbow to stare at her. 'There now, isn't that more comfortable?'
She nodded without meeting his eyes, although she knew they raked her face, examining every feature as they glided from her brow to her mouth, then from her throat to the rounded rise of her breasts.
`You're very beautiful, Lisa,' he said at last.
She accepted the compliment gracefully. 'Thank you. I never trouble to think about it.' His words had fired an inward glow.
`I suppose Paul has mentioned the fact on numerous occasions?'
She gave a slight shrug. 'It's possible. I really can't remember. Do we have to talk about him?'
`Really finished with him, are you?'
A sigh of exasperation escaped her. 'How many times do I have to tell you?' Frustrated, she closed her eyes and turned her face away from him.
`Okay, okay, I'd just like to be assured of the fact.' She felt his fingers stroking the h
air at her temples. They traced the fine arches of her brows before
wandering to follow the contour of her cheeks, then moving to rest near her lips.
`Look at me, Lisa,' he persuaded gently.
She was afraid to, fearing that her love for him would blaze from her eyes and speak for itself.
The firm strength of his hand forced her face towards him. 'Look at me, Lisa,' he repeated quietly.
Her lids fluttered open and as her confused gaze met the intensity of his eyes his arms gathered her body to him, pressing and moulding her against his own. His head bent slowly until their lips met, softly at first and then with increasing passion.
A surge of happiness engulfed her, sending tingles of joy racing through her entire being. Did Brett love her? Surely he couldn't possibly hold her like this, kiss her like this, unless he loved her. It remained only for him to tell her, to ask her to marry him
His hand unzipped her jacket and she made no protest as it found its way beneath her jersey to cup her breast. His thumb stroked her raised nipple gently, sending spasms of primitive desire shooting through her veins, twitching at nerves that were as taut as violin strings.
`I want you, Lisa,' he murmured huskily against her lips. 'You know I want you.'
She nodded wordlessly, her heart too full for speech. There was no need to be told of his burning male longing that cried out to reach and mingle with her own yearning. And she knew that at any moment now he would tell her loved her.
`I know you want me, Lisa. You're a woman, with a woman's needs. I know you're on fire—' His lips found their way to her breast, causing her to give a small strangled cry as she felt all control melting like mist in the sun. But still he hadn't said he loved her—the all-important words hadn't been uttered.
`Tell me you want us to make love—' His voice was a deep husky murmur, vibrant with emotion.
Lisa stirred in his arms. 'You mean here, on the sand?'
`The beach is isolated. What better place than beneath the sky, the only sound being the breaking of waves and the cry of a gull?' His hand slipped beneath the belt of her track-suit, feeling the smoothness of her hips.
Call of the Mountain Page 13
