by Robyn Donald
“I’ve been here several times.”
“Where did you live in New Zealand before you broke hearts by moving off?” he asked with an attempt at urbanity.
“In the King Country,” she told him.
“Then we’re probably related,” he said, and when she looked up, startled, he gave her a sly smile. “I’ve got relatives in Te Kuiti. The Sparrows. Do you know them? No, it’s not likely.” The glance that accompanied this managed to combine appreciation of the way she looked with resentment. “Don’t look so surprised. You must know that most New Zealanders are either related or have lived next door to each other. Are you from diplomatic circles, Mariel?”
“No,” she said levelly, not daring to trust her voice to more than the monosyllable.
“Oh, I thought you were.”
Swallowing surreptitiously, she asked, “Why?”
“I’m sure I heard someone say you seemed familiar, but perhaps it’s just a general Kiwi aura. Although I don’t know of many New Zealanders who look like you—I wish there were more!”
She didn’t like his heavy-handed gallantry, but common courtesy brought a smile to her lips. “You’re very kind,” she said automatically, and turned toward the back of the hotel.
“Where are you off to?”
“The business centre, Mr. Sanderson. I’m on duty.”
“Oh. I thought we might have a drink.”
So he could pump her some more, no doubt. “I’m sorry, we aren’t supposed to drink with the guests.”
His face went rigid for all the world as though she had insulted him. Then he seemed to relax. “Only with Nicholas Leigh,” he said a little too heartily.
Mariel’s brows shot up. “And even then,” she said gently, “only when ordered to.”
For a moment he looked taken aback, until disbelief overrode it. “I wonder why he did that,” he said in a significant tone. “I suppose I could always order you to have one with me.”
It took an effort, but she managed to keep her voice pleasantly polite. “We were discussing business. And it was the minister who ordered it, not Ni—Mr. Leigh.”
His shoulders moved. “Oh, I see,” he said buoyantly, still smiling, although she could see the wheels revolving in his brain. “Are you on duty tonight?”
She nodded, hiding her unease. “Yes.”
“Then I’ll see you at dinner.”
Her smile was becoming mechanical, but she said, “Of course,” and walked away from him. That driven intensity worried her. Such men had the potential for instability, especially when they took every rebuff, even one as courteously delivered as hers had been, personally.
Down at the golf course, his dislike of Nicholas had seemed mere ranting; now she took it more seriously. And although it was ridiculous, she wished she hadn’t been coming out of Nicholas’s room as he was passing by.
Why had Nicholas been so angry when he opened the door and saw them talking together?
The query stayed with her all through the afternoon. From somewhere, the hotel had managed to rustle up a set of foils and two heavy, decorative and superbly balanced weapons that she recognized as Samurai swords. Just another example of the service for which Bride’s Bay was famous, Mariel thought with irony.
With the anticipation of children promised a treat, both ministers went off to the gym in the spa to indulge in a spot of swordplay.
The two men had a great time, showing off a little, admiring and then attempting to learn something of each other’s arcane art. Mariel was fascinated, because, in spite of some swift swotting in her Japanese dictionary, Mr. Wa-tanabe used terms she’d never come across before, and there was nothing she enjoyed more than furthering her skills.
Red-faced and sweating, they eventually decided to call a halt, to the not-quite-concealed relief of the two security men—one Japanese, the other a member of the New Zealand delegation—who had watched the bouts with the same stony faces. They’d probably spent the entire time, Mariel thought with a small, inner smile, composing excuses to use with their superiors if one of the ministers managed to pink the other.
As she didn’t know whether she’d be needed further, Mariel wandered across to the window to wait while the ministers showered. Moving purposefully, the New Zealand security man joined her. Middle-aged, with the hardbitten lack of distinction that served his kind so well, he had sharp eyes.
“I keep thinking I know you,” he said without preamble. “Have we met before?”
An icy needle of caution worked its way down her spine. “I don’t think so, but it’s not impossible. I do a lot of this sort of work, although it’s usually with businessmen.”
“Do you work at the United Nations?”
“I have, but not lately.’’ Not since David.
He frowned. “I’d have thought that would be more lucrative than free-lancing.”
“There’s not as much variety,” she said noncommittally. “I like to travel.”
Eyes never leaving her face, he nodded. She didn’t know whether he was deliberately trying to intimidate her, or whether this was his normal manner.
“Perhaps I saw you there,” he said, but without much conviction. “Although I keep thinking I’ve seen your photograph.”
She shrugged. “I doubt it. They usually clear the interpreters away when it comes to taking photos. Unless it’s been a photo on an ID tag somewhere.” From somewhere she summonded a light laugh. “On the other hand, you’ve probably gone through Howard Forsythe’s files. He has dossiers on everyone, and I’m sure mine has a shocking photo.”
Howard Forsythe was the head of security at the resort.
“Yes, that’s probably it,” the New Zealander said.
Relieved, she saw the ministers come back into the room. “Here they are,” she said, adding, “I spent the afternoon hoping neither of them had a heart attack.”
He closed his eyes briefly. “Don’t even think of it,” he said as they both moved toward the two men.
Some hours later, in the foyer, she saw him earnestly talking to Sanderson. As she moved to let Mr. McCabe walk in front of her, Sanderson looked up, and she realized from some small change in his expression that she was the subject of their conversation.
Banishing the tumbling seeds of worry from her mind, she forced her attention back to the man who spoke to her. “I won’t need you any more this evening,” the minister said, smiling.
Although he was a politician, he was a nice man.
“Thank you for your efforts this afternoon.” His smile widened into a grin. “When you took up interpreting I don’t suppose you ever thought you’d find yourself discussing the more esoteric points of seventeenth-century Samurai swordplay.”
“No, sir, I didn’t,” she said. “It was fascinating.”
He looked at her with benign shrewdness. “Was it? I’ll bet you were bored to tears.” He looked around. “Definitely above and beyond the call of duty. Ah, Nicholas.”
And he materialized, tall and overpowering, the lights warming his hair to bronze, green-gold eyes self-possessed above his hard, arrogantly outlined mouth. Mariel willed her smile to hold steady.
“Nicholas, why don’t you take Ms. Browning out to dinner?” the minister suggested. “It’s too early for her to go to bed.”
“Oh, but—”
“I’d very much like that,” Nicholas interrupted blandly. He nodded to Mariel, those eyes holding her prisoner. “If you don’t mind waiting, Ms. Browning, until I see someone?”
She did mind, but faced With the minister’s cheerful smile of complicity—did he know how she felt whenever Nicholas Leigh came within sight of her?—she had to stay there.
“Not at all,” she said courteously. She waited until he left them before saying, “I am on duty this evening, Mr. McCabe.”
“We don’t need you.” Observing Nicholas’s tall, lithe figure as he made his way across the room, the minister confided, “He’ll go far, that man. A brilliant future—ambassador material at
the very least. I wouldn’t be surprised if you interpret his speech at the United Nations one day.”
“Neither would I,” Mariel murmured, not knowing what else to say.
“He was a Rhodes Scholar at Oxford, you know. Ph.D., great athlete and a leader. Yes, the world’s his oyster.”
Mariel said neutrally, “Rather overwhelming.” Of course the world was his oyster; the only children of very rich men grew up with an inborn confidence that swept everything before them.
The older man’s astute gaze came to rest on her carefully composed face. “Very attractive to the opposite sex, I believe, but not a womanizer.”
Why was he telling her this? She called up her most remote expression and said woodenly, “That would be a massive character flaw.”
“Absolutely.” The minister surveyed Nicholas’s returning form. “A very clever man. Just like his father.”
Nicholas had heard the comment, as perhaps he was meant to. Nothing altered in the hard, compelling face, but Mariel wondered why he objected to being compared to his father.
Her conviction was reinforced when the minister said, “I was just telling Mariel how like your father you are.”
In a completely colourless voice Nicholas returned, “You flatter me.”
“Nonsense.” The minister smiled. “He was a good man, your father, did a lot for New Zealand.” He gave a short nod, said his good-nights and walked briskly with his small entourage across the floor.
Nicholas looked down at Mariel, his eyes glittering like jewels beneath his lashes. He was, she realized with a shock, starkly, uncompromisingly furious. “Let’s go,” he said.
Silently she accompanied him out of the room, but once they were out of sight she said politely, “He seems to think I need entertaining, and really, I don’t. I certainly don’t want to feel that I’m imposing on you. Or being imposed on you.”
“You know better than that,” he returned lightly. His mouth curved in a mirthless parody of a smile. “Neither of us has an option. We’ve been more or less ordered to go out to dinner together, and I’m a good corporate player.”
No protestations that he’d enjoy it, that he hadn’t been shanghaied into it. Piqued, even though she was telling herself that at least he wasn’t a hypocrite, she snapped, “I find that hard to believe.”
“Why?”
“Oh, merely that you seem to be the sort of person who makes up his own mind about things rather than letting other people make the decisions.”
“Eventually,” he said with an assurance that set her blinking, “I intend to be the one making the decisions.”
“You’d have to be a politician to do that.” Her voice was edged with a fine scorn.
He said on a note of mockery, “I gather you don’t think much of politicians.”
“I like Mr. McCabe.”
“An intelligent man, and one who has the welfare of his country truly at heart,” he agreed dispassionately. “Come on, Mariel. We’ll have a drink first and then go in to dinner.”
She hesitated, but the gleam of determination in his eyes warned her it would be simpler if she just gave in and went with him.
Besides, humiliating though it was, she wanted to.
They had almost reached the staircase when the security man who had spoken to her in the gym came up and said to Nicholas, “I’m sorry, can I see you for a moment? Alone, I’m afraid.”
At Nicholas’s frown Mariel said swiftly, “It’s all right, I’ll wait here.”
Nicholas gave a sharp nod and walked off with the security guard farther down the corridor. Mariel looked down at the antique desk against the wall, with its skillfully arranged bouquet of flowers and clever placement of objets d’art, trying to hide the cold dread in her stomach.
Somehow she wasn’t surprised when she heard Peter Sanderson say, “Ah, there you are, Mariel.”
Fatuous remark, she thought, trying hard not to dislike him. Of course she was there. Turning, she smiled.
His glance flicked from her face to her hands, sideways, and then back to her face again. “I wondered whether you’d like to come to a nightclub on the mainland tonight,” he said, adding, “Several of us decided we needed a chance to let our hair down. And as it appears you are not on duty after all...”
Nicholas had left the security man and was striding toward them, his expression set in formidable lines. Hastily Mariel said, “I’m sorry, I—”
“Ms. Browning and I are going to dinner,” Nicholas interrupted. He smiled down at the shorter man and said with a pleasantness that was intended to be offensive, “However, it was a nice thought, Sanderson. Perhaps we’ll join you later.”
For a moment Mariel thought the other man would respond to this gratuitous patronage with an explosion, but although the effort was obvious he managed to rein in his temper. He even smiled, saying, “My loss, then. Good evening,” and left them with his dignity more or less intact.
“That,” Mariel said as Nicholas slipped his hand under her elbow and turned her toward the stairs, “was egregiously rude. You’re a diplomat—you’re supposed to know how to behave.”
“I don’t like poachers.”
“He didn’t know. And I don’t like being compared to a rabbit or a pigeon—I’m not prey.”
“Aren’t you?” His smile was chilling, impersonal. “I think you are—soft and tender prey, very elusive and enigmatic, always on your guard.” He paused, and then continued, “I have no right to ask this or even suggest it, but I’d keep away from Peter Sanderson if I were you. He doesn’t do things without an ulterior motive.”
Mariel shrugged. “Perhaps he just likes the look of me,” she said coolly. “Men do, I find. It’s something to do with the reputation redheads invariably get landed with. I’m sure Ms. Waterhouse could tell you how very irritating it can be.”
“Of course he likes the look of you,” Nicholas said obliquely. “However, he dislikes me enough to make that a secondary consideration.”
“The last thing I want,” she said with quick forceful-ness, “is to get caught up in the feud you appear to be fanning so assiduously.”
“Anything for a quiet life?” His tone told her that he didn’t believe it. “Yet you look like someone who has already been at the heart of more storms than most women enjoy in a lifetime.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Her heart squeezed still. Surely he didn’t know—if he did he wouldn’t be directing enigmatic comments at her. He’d be confronting her with the facts.
Warmed by the returning pulse of life through her veins, Mariel found herself wishing that fate didn’t have such a black sense of humor. Of all the talents she could have been born with it was ironic that hers was one that periodically brought her into such close proximity with diplomats.
Although the bar was full, the conversation was generally muted, only occasionally punctuated by laughter. Mariel smiled at the bartender, a young man being trained to the most exacting standards by Desmond, nodded soberly at Desmond as he took in her escort with a serious look, and allowed herself to be seated.
“He doesn’t approve,” Nicholas said when Desmond had taken their order. His eyes glinted in the subdued lighting. “The hotel must be very strict about fraternizing. Will you get into trouble?”
“No, I’m not an employee, and anyway, Liz Jermain knows I don’t make a habit of drinking in the bar—with or without guests. If anyone does tell tales, she’ll know I’m here for the same reason you are, because your boss told you to ask me.”
He leaned back, scanning her face with a smile at once sardonic and interested. “Does that rankle?”
“Not in the least,” she said calmly.
“So, tell me why you don’t see me as a pattern diplomat. Apart from my tongue, of course.”
She said uneasily, “I don’t recollect saying that, exactly.”
“That was what you meant.”
“Oh, I suppose it’s because you’re more...noticeable than most diplomats,” she said
crossly, irritated with him for pinning her down.
“Noticeable?”
Good. She’d surprised him. “Diplomats are usually like security men,” she said, giving caution the toss. “They develop the ability to blend into the background. I doubt very much whether there’s any background that would let you blend into it. You stand out, you make waves, people watch you when you come into a room. They listen to you automatically without questioning your right to talk. Those are not diplomatic attributes, although I’m sure if anyone can turn them into assets, you can. And when you lose your temper that smooth, assured judiciousness goes out the window.” She couldn’t prevent the slight twist of cynicism in her tone.
“You’ve been reading too many romantic novels,” he said caustically.
Delighted that her observation had loosened his grip on his self-sufficient perch, she grinned. “I read them,” she admitted cheerfully. “I read lots of other things, too. And you haven’t addressed the issue—excellent diversionary tactics.”
A humorless smile barely lifted the corners of his mouth. “Just for the record,” he said, his very lack of emphasis catching her attention more swiftly than a shout would have, “I’ve wanted to be a diplomat since I was about twelve. In fact, I can’t remember ever wanting to be anything else.”
“Not even the driver of a fire engine?”
His smile didn’t warm. In the dim light of the bar the shadows claimed him so that he was all hard edges and angles, his eyes gleaming beneath dark lashes, his hair black, his skin swarthy copper. “Not that I can remember,” he said. “But then, my mother would probably have had a fit if any child of hers had suggested such a plebian ambition.”
Memories of the overheard conversation about his childhood circumstances surfaced like scum on a pond. Mariel said hastily, “You haven’t any brothers and sisters, I believe.”
“No.” He knew she’d heard gossip; she could tell by the swift whiplash of a glance he gave her, but his expression didn’t alter. “Do you?”
“I was an only child, too,” she said. Plowing heavily on, she asked, “Do you like your job?”
“It satisfies my idealistic streak,” he said offhandedly. “Common sense tells me that whatever I do adds only a small amount to the sum of human happiness, but at least it’s on the side of good. I do my best. It uses all my intelligence, keeps me at full stretch. I can’t think of any other career that would do that for me.”
