by Susan Napier
'The sooner you let me alone to get on with my work, the sooner you'll get fed,' said Grace in her usual abrupt way, and Deverenko grinned.
'Certainly, Grace. My apologies for getting in your way. Come along, Clare.' He took her coffee out of her hand and carried the two cups out into the hall. 'Which way to the dining-room?'
Clare led the way. The dining-room was a long, narrow room along the front of the lodge. Every table had a window-seat, overlooking the lake, and french doors at regular intervals along the room opened out to a veranda where, weather permitting, the guests could have their meals. Early-morning mist wreathed the lake, making alfresco dining an unappealing prospect, and Clare showed Deverenko to a table at the far end of the room where the weak morning sunlight added to the warmth of the room. The thick beige carpet and natural wood panelling on the walls and exposed-beam ceilings were the same throughout the lodge, creating the kind of spartan luxury that Moonlight was famous for.
'Aren't you going to join me? Grace told me that it's accepted practice for staff and guests to dine together,' he said smoothly, as Clare retrieved her coffee and began to turn away.
'I… thought that you and your daughter might prefer to eat alone,' ventured Clare hopefully.
'Tamara has ordered breakfast in bed.'
Still hovering, trying to think of a good reason to refuse his invitation, she offered him a meaningless smile. 'I suppose she's at the age to discover that just because you wake up, it doesn't mean you have to get up.'
'I rather think it's more of a case of wanting the opposite of what her father wants,' he said wryly. 'Her way of making sure I don't take her for granted.' Clare still hovered, and his dark eyes fell to the small menu consideringly as he added casually, 'Also to punish me for spending so long with your son this morning. He came to visit and welcome us to the lodge.'
Clare sat down with a thump, her coolness compromised by annoyed embarrassment. 'Did he wake you? I'm terribly sorry. I did tell him he wasn't to annoy you…'
'He didn't annoy me in the least, and I was already awake when he knocked—'
'Still, he knows he isn't supposed to disturb guest? '
'Relax, Clare, I told you, I didn't mind. I enjoyed talking with him again.' Deverenko picked up another menu and put it in her hands. 'And, after all, I'm not the normal type of guest. I came down here to see you and Tim. He at least was pleased to see me. In fact, come to think of it, it was Tim who suggested I come to Moonlight, so I guess he feels a proprietorial interest in looking after me.'
Clare pretended to be studying the menu she knew off by heart, having typed it herself, while she resolutely fought a blush. She was definitely going to have a talk with Tim! When she felt confident that she had defeated the advance of blood to her cheeks, she looked up again. Deverenko was studying her expression with vague disappointment. Clare's- confidence rose. He had deliberately tried to embarrass her for his own entertainment.
'I can recommend the fish with melon.'
'I'll have that, then,' he said, tossing aside his menu, giving up his own pretence of interest. 'Would you object, Clare, if while I'm here I give Tim a few lessons?'
'I suppose you've already mentioned the possibility to him, so the question is rather redundant,' said Clare tightly.
'No, I haven't. I wouldn't be so underhand.'
'Really?' Clare's scepticism made his muscles along his jaw tighten aggressively.
'Really. It's up to you. But I should say this: Tim will probably ask me to hear him, and I won't lie about my interest for your sake.'
'As I said, the question is rather redundant, then. Just don't go making any more statements about him to the Press.'
'You never let me explain about that.'
Clare was about to make a curt reply when they were interrupted by Grace asking whether they'd made up their minds about their choice. Normally Grace's niece, Trina, did the waitressing, but Miles had given her her annual holidays while the lodge was semi-closed for the alterations. Grace wouldn't let Deverenko get away with a single course, and bullied him into starting with a terrine of fresh fruit and finishing with her 'special' coffee, the recipe for which was a closely guarded secret.
'If I stay here too long, I'll run to fat,' said Deverenko with the carelessness of one who knew it wasn't true.
'Just think of the advantages. If you grow a double chin, you won't need a chin-rest on your violin, you can just tuck it into the rolls of fat. You're fairly solid now.' Clare allowed her eyes to run over him critically.
He stiffened. 'I have an artist's discipline. I would never allow myself to be overweight. It's my Russian heritage—strong bones and solid flesh. To be a violinist requires endurance and fitness; this is muscle, not fat.' He flexed an arm to show her.
Clare could believe it. Her long lashes hid her satisfaction at his annoyance. He had a very healthy ego, but he was obviously as much a perfectionist personally as he was professionally, and thus sensitive to any hint of serious criticism.
'If you say so,' she said meekly, and there was a brief silence in which she thought she might have gone too far. But, if he guessed she had been leading him on, he did not say so. Instead he returned to the conversation they had been having before the interruption.
'To set the record straight, Clare, I didn't make any statement as such to that reporter; I merely agreed with his assessment that Tim showed extraordinary capability for his age. I refused to make any further comment. I was something of a prodigy myself, as you may know, and I realise the damage that intrusive publicity can do, the unfair expectations it can create.'
'I see,' Clare murmured, unable to bring herself to apologise for her misconception. She badly needed the barriers that her resentment had created. At close quarters his personality was oppressively warm. Relaxed and male, he looked very much at home in his surroundings, as if he belonged there, across the table, her breakfast companion.
'So, I have your permission for the lessons?'
'Of course. As long as they don't interfere with his schoolwork or regular lessons.'
'I should like to meet his teacher.'
'I'm sure she'd be thrilled to meet you,' said Clare with dry resignation. It was an understatement, and they both knew it. Cheryl Tyson would be over the moon at a personal introduction to one of the world's great violinists.
'I'll be delighted to meet her,' Deverenko said with a demureness that didn't suit him.
'I don't doubt it. She's small and dark and rather beautiful.'
'I prefer blondes with legs that go on forever,' said Deverenko with an innocence that had Clare choking in her orange juice.
'Your wife was a brunette,' she pointed out when she had recovered.
'Nina was an aberration…' The light flirtatiousness took on the warmth of reminiscence. 'A much-loved aberration.'
'I heard her play once, with the NZSO. She was marvellous.'
'Mmm. For a while, after she died, some of the music died with her, but she would have hated that. She hated me to be anything less than I could be. She was a perfect partner for those struggling years.' He appeared lost in thought for a few minutes—then, as he attacked his terrine with gusto, he said, 'So you went to a concert of Nina's and enjoyed it. I'm glad at least one of my family managed not to bore you to sleep during a performance.'
This time the blush couldn't be withheld and he chuckled, but his humour had a slightly malicious edge to it that told her he was truly offended.
'Oh, so you noticed…'
'Yes, I noticed. It was difficult not to: you were practically in the front row and your snores had the first violins fighting to keep tempo.'
'I wasn't snoring!' cried Clare, appalled at the possibility.
'And the boyfriend whose lap you were draped across was so busy leering down your cleavage that I doubt he heard a note, either.'
'He wasn't my boyfriend. I'd never seen him before. You only gave us three tickets, remember.'
'Then all I can say is that you a
llow strangers a great deal of latitude with your person. Next time you go to a concert, wear a high-necked dress. I suppose I should be thankful that you didn't come complete with Walkman to enliven the leaden evening.'
'I told you, I was tire—' She was about to placate his bruised sensibilities by telling him about her wretched flu, when Tim found them.
'Good morning, Mr Deverenko,' he said, as he slid his slight form into the seat beside his mother.
Clare opened her mouth to remonstrate with him for his early morning call, and then closed it again when she caught the faint shake of Deverenko's head.
'Have you told Grace what you want?' she asked instead.
'Of course I have.' Tim gave her an impatient look. 'What are you going to do today?' he asked the dark man who was studying mother and son together.
'Give the man a chance, Tim. He hasn't had his breakfast yet.'
'I thought you might have some suggestions,' said Deverenko. 'I've done the tourist route in Rotorua before, and I thought you might be able to recommend something a little different that doesn't involve too many other people.'
'Miles could take you hunting,' suggested Clare meanly.
'He doesn't want to hunt,' scorned Tim. 'He doesn't like hunting. He's a conservationist, aren't you, Mr Deverenko? It's in the book… that one you took off me, Mum, the one you were looking at—'
Clare avoided laughing brown eyes, hoist with her own petard.
'We could go out on the lake, though. Miles has this neat luxury launch.'
Clare winced inwardly at the 'we'. 'Mr Deverenko has his daughter with him, Tim. They're here to spend some time together.' It wouldn't hurt to let Tim know that he didn't have first claim on his hero's attention. 'He and Tamara may not want anyone else along.'
'He and Tamara would welcome the buffer,' said Deverenko blandly, as if he knew her fingers were crossed under the table. 'But three is an awkward number. If we go out, I think it would be better if both you and your mother come along with us.'
'I do have some work to do,' Clare murmured, and found herself the focus of two sets of reproachful eyes.
'On a Sunday?' Deverenko asked.
'A hotel is a hotel every day of the week,' Clare pointed out.
'Don't you want to come?' asked Tim bluntly, and Clare quailed slightly under that direct regard. Trust Tim to cut to the heart of the matter with childishly adult perception! 'Why?'
'Yes, Clare, why?' Deverenko gently mimicked her son's question, leaning back in his chair, flustering her with his knowing smile.
'Don't encourage him,' she snapped.
'To be enquiring?' he wilfully misunderstood her. 'I have an enquiring mind myself. For instance, I begin to wonder why you're so reluctant to relax in my company. What are you afraid will happen if you do?'
Conscious of Tim's grave curiosity, Clare strove to appear amused. 'Perhaps I'm just awed by your august presence.'
'You hide it well. People in awe of me usually bow and scrape. But perhaps you're like my daughter in that respect: offence is the best defence. You're at your most bold when you're at your most insecure…'
It was such a terrifyingly apt assessment that Clare instantly regained her poise. 'Then Tamara must be in dire need of the reassurance of your attention. Perhaps you had better turn your enquiring mind to identifying her needs rather than those of perfect stranger—' She stopped as he gave a short, growling laugh, realising that she had just confirmed his statement with her attack.
'Mum?' She also realised that Tim was disturbed by the subtle undertones in the exchange. No more disturbed than she!
'It's all right, Tim,' to her chagrin it was Deverenko who eased the moment, 'your mother and I are just teasing each other, aren't we, Clare?' She gave a weak smile. 'If I promise to be good, will you come with us? If I promise to be very, very good?'
The sexual boast implicit in the innocent phrase was revealed in the wickedness of his attractive smile. Clare's feminine instinct told her that it was no idle boast, either. There was an animal vitality about him that she found both attractive and repellent, hinting as it did of a sensual appetite that was alien to her experience. She had loved Lee, but due to her reserve and Lee's tender protectiveness there had been no wild excitement in their sexual relationship, although it had been warm and completely fulfilling to the woman she had been. She didn't welcome the thought that she might have changed since his death, that she might have physical desires unrelated to her emotional need for security.
Later that morning, helping Kerry unload the groaning hamper and stock the fridge in the small galley of the launch, Clare wondered if she would have had the strength to continue to resist the dual pleas if Miles hadn't come into the dining-room at that moment and swept all before his enthusiasm.
'Great! Great!' he boomed when Deverenko told him of the suggestion. 'The launch could do with a run— waste of money just sitting there. Drive you myself— blow a few cobwebs away—make a day of it. And if you don't mind, Davey, I'll ask Doug Fallon to tag along— he needs a few lake shots of the lodge for his book.' He explained that Doug was a wildlife photographer of international repute, working on a book which combined travel information for birdwatchers with studies of New Zealand birds in their natural habitats. Doug was the other chalet occupant, usually absent at breakfast be-cause he spent his nights pursuing the elusive kiwi with his lens and generally never surfaced until noon.
Clare's feeble protestations of work had been overridden, and Deverenko had tipped her a smug smile as he had gone off to inform Tamara of the scheme. If his daughter was intent on being difficult, Clare wondered what technique Deverenko would use to convince her to join them, but when she waved Kerry off the boat and watched the newest guests walk down from the lodge to the long wooden jetty she had her answer. It was Deverenko who was lagging, hands thrust sullenly in his jeans pockets while his daughter, inappropriately dressed in a bright red dress that, although long-sleeved, looked very thin and more suited to a shopping expedition than a winter boat ride, strode haughtily ahead. Clare turned away to hide her rueful smile. She had used such child psychology herself, pretending reluctance to encourage interest, although she and Tim were so attuned that it was becoming increasingly difficult to fool him.
Doug Fallon, tall, blond and softly-spoken, was the last to arrive, loaded down with camera bags. Clare helped him store them while Deverenko, Tamara and Tim joined Miles on the top deck as he switched on the engines and spun the wheel to ease the sleek blue and white launch away from the jetty. When Doug was ready, he called up instructions to Miles and leaned over the bow rail to take his shots. The original sixty-year-old homestead that formed the basis of the lodge was constructed in weathered stone, and the extensions made over the years were in the same stone. Nestling in the bush, the wooden chalets almost out of sight among the trees, Moonlight looked like a natural outgrowth of the lava rock that formed the shores of the lake. Lake Romata was on the northern edge of Rotorua's volcanic centre, the highest of the mosaic of lakes in the region created by massive eruptions and lava flows over hundreds of thousands of years. Although Romata had none of the geysers and mudpools and spectacular thermal effects that drew tourists to other lakes in the Rotorua region, Clare thought its peace and beauty a joy in itself. Because there was no road right around the lake, most of the native bush was unspoiled—small, secluded beaches around the shoreline a delight to discover only by boat. The lake was very deep and correspondingly cold and brilliant of colour, and on days like today, when there was little breeze, reflected bush and sky with mirror-like clarity.
After Doug had got the shots he wanted, Miles aimed the launch at the far shore and Deverenko allowed Tim to show him the galley and cabins below. Tamara, who was obviously having second thoughts about the whole thing, looked for a moment as if she might join them, but then flounced over to one of the deck-chairs and sat down, a picture of boredom. Clare joined her with a sigh.
'You don't have to sit with me, you know. I do
n't need a baby-sitter,' the girl said in a hard little voice. 'I know where you really want to be.'
'Oh? Where's that?' asked Clare in surprise. Had Deverenko told her of Clare's reluctance to come, as part of his psychology?
'With my father. All the women drool over him. Only he doesn't want any of them, so you're wasting your time if you think he'd be interested in you.' Tamara's dark brown eyes slid insolently over Clare's warmly track-suited figure, well-padded against the cold. Although the sun was shining, its rays were weak, and Clare knew that if it clouded over the temperature over the lake could drop quickly and markedly.
'Have you been to Rotorua before?' asked Clare, deciding to ignore her rudeness.
'Of course I have. I used to go everywhere with Mum and Dad. I've been all over the world.'
'What about your schooling?'
'I had tutors.'
'But you're at school now?'
The question didn't go down well. 'I was for a while.' She named a very prestigious English girls' school. 'But I've left. I'm going to be going on tour with Dad from now on.' She looked challengingly at Clare, as if she would welcome a chance to argue.
'You're very lucky. I've never been out of New Zealand. I planned to save up and travel when I became a secretary, after I left school, but I met Lee and got married instead. We did travel around New Zealand a lot, though.' Clare smiled. 'Touring, like your dad.'
'Your husband was a musician?' Tamara demanded narrowly.
'He was lead guitarist and vocalist with a rock band, Kraken.'
'Never heard of them,' Tamara carelessly dismissed.
'I guess you wouldn't have,' said Clare mildly, 'if you haven't been in New Zealand much. They were only just achieving a following when Lee died and the band broke up. Their last hit was a couple of years ago.' The record company had shrewdly released the album just after Lee's death, and taken great advantage of the resultant publicity. Clare hadn't agreed with Virginia's accusation that it had been a morbid, mercenary act. She had preferred to look on the Myth album as a very fitting memorial to a very talented man. That Lee was the driving force and inspiration for the band was confirmed when Kraken had disbanded seven months later without having produced another record.
