Indiscretions

by Robyn Donald

  His lashes were long and thick and dark, darker even than hers. They drooped for a second, then rose to reveal a cool, unreadable stare. “I have an interest—purely advisory—in a trust that deals with venture capital for ideas, some of which are exported.”

  She met the challenge of his glance with a glinting, blue-eyed one of her own. “What will happen to the interpreter? Will he be sacked?”

  Unhurriedly he drank some of the whiskey, his expression guarded but assured. In his dinner jacket he was the epitome of elegance, perfectly at home in this luxurious place. “I doubt it very much,” he said with an indifference that came close to being insulting. “He’ll just get extra training. However, that’s not the point. This is an important meeting, and we need the best. You can take his place.”

  “No!” The word was out before she was able to stop it.

  “Why not?” he asked, that concentrated gaze speculative as he studied her face.

  Resisting the compulsion of those gleaming eyes, she parried, “How do you know I’m any better?”

  “Just before I came down to dinner I got a fax from Tokyo congratulating me on getting a Japanese secretary,” he said dryly. “That’s good enough for me.”

  Any further objection would have been suspicious; it might even give rise to questions. And although eight years ago when she’d done her first job for the hotel the security check had turned up nothing, she wasn’t perfectly safe. She never would be. She knew, none better, that every new person who checked it could turn up a small piece of information that would, if followed through, eventually damn her.

  But she said feebly, “I’m hired by the hotel.”

  His hard, beautifully chiselled mouth curved into a mirthless smile. “Somebody will contact the hotel management,” he said smoothly.

  Neither Liz Jermain, the manager, nor her formidable grandmother would refuse his request. The hotel’s reputation had been built on just such extra services. And that, she told herself sternly, was what she was there for, after all—to make sure that everything went perfectly.

  “Well, I was hired as a backup, so it will be all right,” she said, trying not to sound as reluctant as she felt. “I was a bit worried about the other guy. He’s good, but just not quite good enough. I wouldn’t like anything I did to lose him his job.” She stole a sideways glance, wondering whether she had appeased the curiosity her first instinctive refusal must have aroused.

  It was impossible to tell. Although he smiled, no warmth reached his eyes, and there was an air of calculation about him that chilled her.

  “Nothing you did would lose him his job,” he said enigmatically. “If that happens—and it seems highly unlikely because good Japanese interpreters are fairly thin on the ground in New Zealand—it will be his own inadequacy that does it. So forget about him and think of this as your patriotic duty.”

  Did he see the tiny, momentary flicker of pain in her eyes, the sharp, deep inner reaction to his words? “What did Edith Cavell say just before she was shot? ‘Patriotism is not enough.’ I prefer to think I owe my loyalty to humanity.”

  “Naturally. However, it’s almost impossible to grow up without feeling some sort of emotion for the country one was born in. Especially one as beautiful as New Zealand. How old were you when you left?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “And where did you go then?”

  “To Japan to teach English for a year.”

  He gave her another of those assessing glances. “That’s a long way from home and a totally different culture. Were you homesick?”

  “Not really,” she said cautiously. “I was lonely, though, for a while.”

  “You were an adventurous eighteen-year-old.”

  “No more so than most.” She stopped. “You can’t be interested in this.”

  His smile had a spark of self-derision in it. “Oh, I’m always interested in a beautiful woman.”

  “Then you’re lucky, because there are several in this room who seem more than interested in you,” she said calmly, picking up her bag as she rose to her feet. She’d been conscious of those looks, some surreptitious, more quite open, since she’d been in the bar. For some reason they set her teeth on edge. It must have been this that added the sting to her tone as she went on, “Each one is much more beautiful than I am, I assure you.”

  “Sit down.” He didn’t touch her, didn’t even move, but for a moment the breath stopped in her throat. “That was crass,” he said stiffly. “I’m sorry.”

  He even looked sincere. Why, then, was she almost certain that he was lying, that his remark had been made intentionally?

  It was impossible to imagine him being so insensitive unless he did it deliberately. Behind the spectacular face was a cold, incisive brain, and for some reason he was trying her out.

  “Let’s start again,” he said. “What happened after your stay in Japan?”

  She could walk away. It would be immensely satisfying, but it would be overreacting, and it would be stupid. Whoever Nicholas Leigh was, he was a guest.

  And the resort paid her extremely good money to give the guests what they wanted. If he’d been rude or suggestive, Liz would have been the first to expect her to leave, but he hadn’t.

  Silently acquiescing, Mariel resumed her seat and gave herself time to calm down by picking up her drink and sipping it. She was being too sensitive, foolishly so.

  “I joined a hotel chain as a management trainee,” she said. “But when they discovered I had a talent for learning languages, they decided I should be an interpreter.”

  “Do you do a lot of travelling?” he asked.

  Her shoulders moved slightly. “Yes, although not as much now as I used to.”

  “Where else have you been?”

  “Oh, I had a wonderful six months in Paris honing my French accent, then I spent a couple of years in a Beijing hotel. I’ve been in Malaysia and Russia and Germany, but I’m based in America now.”

  “A well-travelled woman,” he observed dryly, his eyes resting on her mouth for a heart-stopping second before flicking up to capture her gaze. “Where do you live?”

  “In New York.”

  “Why there? I’d have thought Washington was a lot closer, and there’d be more call for your services there surely.”

  Lacking the rude intrusion of Peter Sanderson’s earlier catechism, he sounded no more idly interested, yet she was sure he was by far the more dangerous of the two.

  “I like New York,” she said defensively. “And I deal mostly with business matters, not the diplomatic service.” Impelled by the need to stop this inquisition, she said, “Where do you live?”

  “In London at the moment. Why are you wearing a colour that doesn’t suit you?”

  Startled, she flashed him an indignant look. “I’m paid to fade into the wallpaper,” she said, then wondered whether perhaps she shouldn’t have admitted her reasons for dressing badly.

  Somehow it seemed to give him an advantage she sensed he wouldn’t hesitate to exploit.

  “So you wear clothes that make that glorious ivory skin sallow and drain those astonishing teal blue eyes and red-brown hair of colour.”

  Although his tone was detached, almost indifferent, she detected strong emotions smouldering beneath his elegant, sophisticated exterior. She fought down a keen curiosity, a fierce, consuming awareness that fretted her nerve ends and eroded her hard-won self-sufficiency.

  That, of course, was what had caused her first instinctive reaction when he’d suggested she interpret for the New Zealand party. She’d been afraid that if she became more intimately involved with the delegation, she would see too much of him for her peace of mind.

  That was what she was still afraid of. The last thing she wanted was to get tangled up with Nicholas Leigh, who was all man and too clever by half.

  And a diplomat.

  Mutinously she kept silent, relaxing by force of will the hands that gripped her bag.

  His glance lingered on the white kn
uckles as he asked casually, apparently giving up on the previous subject, “So what part of New Zealand did you grow up in?”

  “A small town,” she said evenly, trying not to sound evasive, adding, when it was obvious he wasn’t satisfied, “in the King Country.”

  “You have family there still?”

  “No. My family are all dead.”

  “I’m sorry.” Oddly enough he sounded it.

  She shrugged. “I’m sorry, too, but it happened a long time ago.”

  “So you are entirely alone?” His tone made it a question.

  The temptation to invent a lover was almost irresistible, but the hard-won knowledge, gained over the years, that the fewer lies she told the less likely she was to be caught out, stopped such a panicky decision. “Yes,” she said remotely.

  He didn’t pursue it. “Do you enjoy your job?”

  “Very much. I’ve met some fascinating people, I work in very luxurious surroundings, and I get paid well.”

  “You don’t look like a cat,” he said, smiling as she stared at him. It was a subtle smile, complex and enigmatic, and she didn’t know how to deal with it, especially when he went on, “Oh, you move well, but your body is more athletic than sinuous, and the faint hint of intransigence about you is not the smug, slightly taunting feline variety—it appears to be the result of your Viking ancestry.”

  “So why a cat?” she asked steadily.

  His eyes, his face, his voice, issued a challenge. “Because you sound like one. That’s what a cat asks—comfort, a few novelties to tease the brain, and security. And I doubt if a cat cares who provides for its wants.”

  It was an oddly intimate conversation, and he was frighteningly perceptive. Mariel smiled ironically as she raised her brows. “My looks must be deceiving,” she said lightly. “I don’t think I’m in the least intransigent—”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he interrupted, mocking her.

  She’d had enough. Any desire for a cup of tea had long since departed, and she ached with the deep, languid weariness of exhaustion.

  “I’m tired, I’m afraid,” she said, smiling, her eyes and face as candid as she could make them. “If you don’t mind, I’ll leave you now. Stay and finish your drink,” she concluded as he rose with automatic courtesy. Hastily she leapt to her feet—too hastily, for she swayed slightly and must have lost colour.

  Instantly he was beside her, his hand a hard support against her back. “Are you all right?” he demanded.

  No, she was not; her head was spinning, and she wished she could blame lack of food. Biting her lip, she drew away as quickly as she could, her nostrils flaring at the faint, barely discernible scent of him, an insidious, inciting mix of musk and salt.

  “I’m fine,” she said steadily. “Just tired.”

  He made a swift sound of irritation. “You haven’t had dinner, have you?”

  “I had a substantial snack before drinks. I’m not in the least hungry,” she told him, hoping that her words convinced him. If anyone presented her with food she might well throw up, because her stomach was churning with something that definitely wasn’t hunger.

  His expression unreadable, he looked keenly into her face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was totally inconsiderate of me. I’ll order you a bar meal.”

  Something of her revulsion must have shown in her face, for before she could answer he said autocratically, “Then I’ll see you to your room.”

  She shook her head. “I sleep in the staff quarters, a hundred yards or so away.”

  “I’ll see you there.”

  “Mr. Leigh—Nicholas—there is no need. The security here is watertight.”

  “My mother,” he explained calmly, “would never forgive me. She had few rules, but those she had were cast in iron and drummed into me as a child. One of them was that when you’ve bought a drink for a woman you see her to her door. And you should know by now that security is never watertight.”

  Mariel cast him a wary, exasperated glance. Although he was smiling there was a determination in his expression that told her it was no use; this man would do what he wanted regardless of how she felt.

  “Very well then,” she said coldly, walking out before him.

  The staff who lived on-site were housed in the old stables, which had been converted into a neat complex behind the main hotel. At the end of a wide pathway that curled away beneath magnolia and live oak, the old brick building was sheltered behind a low wall. Between the hotel and staff quarters was a formal garden, where beds of azaleas bloomed beneath the still flowerless branches of crepe myrtles. It was April and, while winter had barely loosened its grip on New York, here the night air was cool, but the days were warm and getting warmer.

  “A pretty setting,” Nicholas said, looking around.

  Pretty? Compared to some of the quarters Mariel had slept in, the compound was palatial! “The owner’s husband is a keen gardener,” she said quietly.

  Perhaps Nicholas Leigh was right; perhaps she did like her creature comforts too much. Surely anyone who’d been brought up in comparative luxury, then faced at the age of eight with a sudden descent into poverty and austerity, could be excused for enjoying such beautiful surroundings.

  The gentle hush of waves on the beach backgrounded Nicholas Leigh’s voice as he said, “This reminds me a little of Auckland. The same scent—salt and flowers and green growing things.”

  “And humidity?”

  “You don’t like the Auckland climate?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve never lived there.”

  “And you never want to.” He let that sink in before asking, “Is it just Auckland you dislike or New Zealand as a whole?”

  The words were delivered mildly, but she felt the taunt as clearly as though he’d snarled at her. “There’s nothing for me there now,” she said dismissively, glad they had reached a door of the middle block. “This is as far as you are allowed, I’m afraid,” she said, and held out her hand.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, smiling narrowly.

  She shivered, wincing at the spark of electricity that flashed between them again, fierce and fathomless. It took willpower to retrieve her hand without jerking it from his.

  “It’s a damned nuisance, isn’t it?” he said almost conversationally. “However, I’m sure we’re both strong-minded enough to resist it.”

  She stared at him.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know what it is.” An oblique smile barely disturbed the corners of his mouth. “You felt it the moment I did.”

  “I did not!” And then, because her indignant response had given her away, she said angrily, “Look, I’m not interested—”

  “You challenged me,” he said with a forbidding curtness, “and you knew you were doing it. I could be tempted to take you up on it, but I don’t think it would be sensible.”

  There was contempt in his voice, contempt, she realized, directed not only at her. Nicholas Leigh saw this attraction as a weakness and despised himself for it.

  Wordlessly she turned, her emotions perilously close to the surface, and slipped through the door, closing it behind her. His frankness had shocked her, and yet a dangerously capricious part of her heart thrilled, because he, too, had no defence against the overwhelming intensity of that physical reaction.

  Damn, she thought, Nicholas Leigh was turning out to be a real threat to her peace of mind. Fortunately she was only here for four days.

  Nothing could happen in four days.

  As she took out her room key, Elise hurried past. “Have you seen Caitlin?” she demanded.

  Mariel brought her head up sharply. There had been a real note of fear in the woman’s voice. “No. Why?”

  “Oh, God. I’ve looked and looked and looked for her, but she’s not here. One of the housemaids said she saw her hanging around outside. I think she might have run away.”

  “Runaway?”

  Elise drew in a deep breath and calmed down. “To her father. I’ll have
to go and look for her.”

  “Just wait a moment while I change my shoes and I’ll come and help.”

  Mariel came back outside in time to hear Elise say in carefully controlled tones, “Yes, honey, I know you don’t like living here much, but we have to stay here for a while.”

  Caitlin’s voice, the whine not entirely hiding her real un-happiness, floated on the humid air. “If you let my daddy come back, we could live in our old house.”

  “Oh, darling, we can’t ever go back.”

  “We can go and live with him!” Caitlin shouted. “He said so. I heard him. I don’t want to live here, I want to go to California to live with Daddy.”

  Mariel hesitated, then, her heart aching for them both, went into her room. Poor Elise was going to have to deal with this herself.

  By the time she arrived at the main building the next morning, the New Zealand interpreter had been shipped out. Mariel was told by Liz Jermain that she was to do whatever was required of her.

  After stashing her computer in the business centre, she walked briskly along to the room that had been set aside for the delegation to breakfast in, and suffered with as much composure as she could the introductions Nicholas Leigh made. Mr. McCabe, the trade minister, received her with professional affability, and the aides and various other underlings accepted her presence without much comment. Susan Waterhouse gave her a cool nod. Peter Sanderson watched her with an avidity she found both irritating and upsetting.

  The morning, she discovered as Nicholas handed her a cup of coffee, was to be spent on the golf course, and as the Japanese interpreter was busy with documents she was on duty.

  Nicholas was also a member of the golfing group. He played well, she decided acidly, keeping her eyes away from the controlled line of shoulder and thigh, the smooth skill and grace with which he swung. He certainly had excellent rapport with the Japanese trade minister and his aides, one of whom asked Mariel if she played.

  “I’m afraid not,” she said, meeting Nicholas’s eyes without a blink. She most emphatically did not want to display her mediocre golfing skills in such company.

  “A pity,” the man said, smiling.

  From then on she took care to stay as far out of the way as she could. She didn’t need the attention.