Her Man with Iceberg Eyes

by Kris Pearson

  The print in her novel wavered on the page. Something—or someone else—had all her attention. From his current cold manner, she saw very little chance of him softening toward her again.

  So one day and night would be all there was.

  A teasing trip to buy the dress...the amazing flight over the Southern Alps...the time on the boat where he’d demanded her kisses, and dropped the wonderful bombshell of his availability.

  Then the sweet caresses and sizzling embraces here at the house.

  One night in his bed and goodbye.

  Well, she had her pride. She would somehow manage to put on a good enough show for the evening, even if she crashed and burned once it was over.

  Remembering his jibe about elastic marks across her back, she slipped her bra off in good time.

  She showered. She carefully made up her face. She pinned up her hair and pulled down some tendrils. Applied plum-coloured nail enamel to match her dramatic lipstick. And slid into her dream of a dress.

  She’d never looked better or felt worse.

  His cold eyes blazed hot for an instant when she stepped from the twilight of the hallway into the glow of the main living room, but the heat was gone in a second, smothered in ice again.

  Kate’s heart lurched at his betrayal. Matthew stood tall and furious in an impeccable tuxedo. Impossibly gorgeous and hopelessly out of reach. The snowy evening shirt and black velvet bow tie were the ideal foil for his hard face and big lean body. He looked, quite simply, amazing. He held out his arm, taunting her with the illusion of affection. “Lottie wants a photograph,” he said, with barely controlled sarcasm.

  Kate drifted across and positioned herself next to him, avoiding his iceberg eyes. What emotions seethed deep under the surface? Nothing that he cared to show or share with her.

  Iceberg eyes. How utterly appropriate. Glittering like ice in sunshine when he was amused or playful, but with turbulent emotions hidden fathoms deep in the freezing sea below.

  Lottie used the iPad and took several shots, holding it out to show them how they looked. Matthew turned on his heel and ignored his sister. Kate shook her head and sent her a sad smile.

  The air was biting cold...snow still on much of the ground...icy fur on every level surface. Lottie produced a dramatic black cape for Kate to wrap herself in. Matthew donned a cashmere overcoat. Lottie chuckled and admitted to a thermal vest under her thin blouse. She added only a handcrafted wool shawl for the trip to the vineyard.

  Hamish had reserved a parking space close to the front door because of Lottie’s ankle, so the extra layers were dispensed with as soon as they’d wheeled her inside.

  Kate decided she was on wheelchair duty. It would keep her out of Matthew’s way.

  She gazed around the rustically styled house with appreciation. Pools of light from black iron sconces flooded the mellow ivory walls. Polished native timber floors gleamed under jewel-toned patterned rugs. Chunky exposed beams supported an open gallery around the second storey. It was relaxed and different.

  Diana greeted them with glasses of spicy mulled wine. “Hamish says it’s a great way to ruin a nice red, but I think it’s festive,” she said, laughing and apparently noticing nothing amiss.

  The hot wine raced right down to Kate’s toes. Blissful warmth invaded her body, giving her much needed extra confidence.

  Matthew introduced her to one of his friends as ‘our spy from the north’.

  “Checking out our wine industry, are you?” the sandy-haired friend asked.

  “Checking out jobs,” Kate said evasively. “But the working conditions in Auckland are more straightforward.”

  “But do they have the same ‘compensations’?” Matthew asked with exquisite emphasis.

  “The ‘compensations’ can sometimes be attractive. But that changes very fast, I’ve found.” Her eyes held his in cool defiance.

  “May I get you another drink?” the friend asked. Kate moved away with him to escape.

  She returned to Lottie as soon as possible. Hamish squatted on his haunches beside her, enquiring about the ankle.

  Kate touched a tentative hand to his shoulder. “Happy Birthday, Hamish. Lovely party.”

  He looked up at her, raising his eyebrows appreciatively at her tall body in the spectacular dress. “My brother is a fool,” he said. “You weren’t seriously searching his office, were you?”

  Kate tried not to take offence. “I was searching, but not seriously,” she muttered. “For something that was much more mine than his.”

  He sent her a very speculative look.

  “Truly,” she added.

  “If you say so, Kate.” He rose to his feet and moved away, unwilling to take sides.

  “Where shall I wheel you?” she asked Lottie with false brightness. She’d have to survive somehow—the house was too far away to flee back there.

  “Now here’s someone,” Lottie said, beckoning to a serious boy carrying a plate of tiny pastries. “Kate, this is Alistair, one of Diana and Hamish’s sons.”

  He nodded and held out the food so they could make their choices.

  “Alistair and Ben are twins,” Lottie continued. They look the same as Matthew and me.”

  “Like nothing at all the same,” the boy said gruffly.

  He was as blond as Diana. Kate presumed his brother must be dark. “Do you mind being twins?” she asked.

  “I’m pleased we’re not identical,” he mumbled, trying not to stare at Kate’s cleavage.

  She smiled and took another morsel before he moved away.

  “Fourteen,” said Lottie, as though that explained everything. “Good boys. Nice boys. Home from boarding school for this weekend.”

  Across the room, Matthew’s tall presence had become the centre of attention for three women. Kate clenched her jaw.

  One had taken hold of his hand and laughed, head thrown back. The second flipped her rippling blonde hair around rather obviously. The third reached for his free arm to steady herself so she could fiddle with her shoe. She returned her foot to the ground but retained the arm. He glanced down at her, but did nothing to shake himself free.

  Kate tried to ignore them, but his face, his body, his scent had all sunk deep into her psyche now. Her eyes wandered to him every few minutes. She could have throttled the whole group. Her relief was palpable when he moved away from the trio.

  Not that she lacked for company herself. The ‘spy from the north’ man stuck close for a while. The other twin—darker and much more self-assured—arrived with nibbles and a good line of chat. Several of Lottie’s art admirers clustered around, including Kate in their conversation.

  Soon after eight, the dinner gong rang out and Hamish called for silence. After cheerful abuse, the animated conversation faded away.

  “My dear friends,” he began pompously. Someone popped a couple of balloons and general laughter broke out. “Look—dinner is ready. Do go through and help yourselves, and find a seat wherever you can. We’ve spread them around all over the place.”

  Diana threaded her way through the guests and took his arm. He smiled down at her and said something meant for her alone. Then he raised his voice again. “Thank you Di and the rest of my family for going to all this trouble for me. And thank you all for the horribly offensive cards and good wishes. It’s almost worth turning forty to have you here tonight. Now eat up all the lovely food you’ve brought us.”

  Kate drew a regretful breath. They were such nice people. Relaxed and cheerful and interesting. They’d made her feel so welcome. And she would never see them again.

  Guests gave way to the wheelchair. Kate pushed it around the laden table and Lottie chose her food. Matthew appeared beside her and took over the handles. “Get some for yourself.” His tone was ungracious.

  “I’m not all that hungry, thanks.”

  “That makes two of us, then.”

  Lottie glanced up, but when she started to remonstrate with him, he turned the chair aside, excluding Kate from any fu
rther conversation.

  She served out as much as she felt like eating and went to top up her glass. Not far away, another man was looking to do the same. He moved closer. “Now why would a pretty girl like you be finding her own drink?” He had a soft Irish accent, with twinkling Irish eyes to match. Such an obvious come-on that Kate couldn’t resist. She looked at him from under her lashes, and batted them. “Because the chap who drove me here has other things on his mind right now.”

  His mouth quirked. “I’m Patrick Donovan.”

  “Kate Pleasance.”

  He reached for her hand and held it a little longer than necessary. “And you’re not from round these parts, that I can tell. You’re a girl from the city for sure.”

  Kate laughed at his blarney and retrieved her hand to pour the wine.

  “Good guess,” she said. “Auckland. Some for you?”

  He held his hand over hers to steady his glass. Definitely one of the touchy-feely brigade. She glimpsed Matthew watching from across the room. She avoided his eyes and smiled at Patrick. “How do you know Di and Hamish?”

  “There’s a bit of a story to that,” he said, bending close. Closer than he needed to be. Kate retreated a fraction. “Some years ago now—” and he embarked on a long rambling description of a trip through vineyards in the south of France.

  Kate nodded along, sipping her wine and forking up her food. Although she stood next to Patrick, it was Matthew who kept drawing her attention. Every now and again, he glowered across in her direction. With nothing to lose, she transferred her weight from one foot to the other so the long split skirt revealed an equally long leg. And turned her sinuous sweep of back on him.

  It took perhaps thirty seconds before he strode across and poured himself another drink.

  “Better go easy if you’re driving,” she said sweetly.

  He gave her a withering look, opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, snapped it closed, and departed.

  “A friend of yours?” Patrick asked.

  “A lover from the past,” she dismissed.

  He leaned a little nearer.

  She shrank a shade away. “I must attend to Lottie, if you’ll excuse me?”

  She took her glass across to the wheelchair and bent to speak, well aware Matthew had a generous view of her breasts from that angle. “Can I get you anything else? Or will you wait for dessert? More wine maybe?”

  “Dessert I think, Katie. Another little drink until then.” Kate stepped away with the empty glass and a strangling grip on her wrist pulled her up short.

  “I’ll do it.”

  “I’m happy to, Matthew.”

  “I said I’ll do it. Stay here.”

  As if! She glanced at Lottie to find delight in her eyes and a half-hidden smile on her lips. Kate raised her eyebrows.

  Lottie relaxed into a cheeky grin as soon as Matthew turned away. “Serve him right,” she said. “I think he bites off his nose.”

  Kate snorted at the half-phrase, and grinned back.

  “Why do men do this?” Lottie demanded. They both cast their eyes down and hid their smiles at Matthew’s rapid return.

  So—he didn’t want her himself, but neither did he want anyone else taking over. Victory of a kind, she supposed.

  There was a renewed surge toward the table once the selection of decadent desserts appeared. Tea and coffee followed, and then the men cleared the floor for dancing. They rolled the rugs up and pushed the furniture to the extreme edges of the big room. Hamish cranked up a party compilation on the stereo. Alistair circled seriously, shaking talcum powder. Ben slid and whooped across the floor to spread it around.

  The music soon had toes tapping and heads nodding. Diana and Hamish were first on the floor, encouraging everyone to join them.

  “Now this I cannot do,” Lottie said with regret.

  “Just once around,” Matthew insisted, scooping her up, protesting, in his strong arms. He managed a good imitation of a man dancing with a partner for a couple of minutes and returned her to the chair.

  “That was kind,” Kate said. He nodded curtly.

  The Irishman headed her way again. She didn’t fancy his touchy-feely act on the dance floor.

  Neither did Matthew, apparently. “Our turn, Miss Pleasance,” he said, giving her no option as he swung her out onto the floor seconds before Aerosmith gave way to the Blue Danube waltz.

  “Something for everyone,” Hamish confirmed as he and Diana circled by.

  Matthew drew Kate closer, cursing softly, refusing to look at her. He curved a hand around her waist; the other enclosed her fingers. She rested her left hand tentatively on his shoulder.

  She would have been so much happier bopping around to the rock music. Untouched. Further apart. Impersonal. It was agonising being held like this. His cologne drifted across the small gap between them, pumped into the air by the throbbing pulse she saw in his strong neck.

  She’d licked him there last night. Kissed him and smoothed her fingers very close to there, and then slid down and spread her hands wide to knead his firm flesh.

  He’d laughed and tensed his pecs for her, and his chest had become hard and perfect. Now he held her just close enough to look polite, but much too far away to be the least bit friendly. He was as icy as the weather.

  Kate wanted no part of this stiff chilly charade of a dance. “That’s enough,” she hissed, trying to pull away. But he clamped her rigidly into position as she attempted to escape. They circled on around the floor, together but apart.

  “Let me go, Matthew. This is no sort of a dance. You may as well be holding a broomstick.” She tried to escape his grasp again. Still he confined her with his iron hands.

  He looked down at her with the oddest expression. “Broomstick?” he queried, suddenly pulling her hard in against him. She was shocked to find him stiff with desire. Long with lust. Hidden under his beautifully cut tuxedo, a whole different story lurked. The civilized man the others saw was wildly, potently, ready to mate. And one big hand now clutched the small of her back so they rubbed and chafed together as they danced amid the throng of unsuspecting party guests.

  “I don’t like what you were trying to do, but it seems I still want you,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “I wasn’t trying to do anything, and I don’t like you either,” she ground back.

  “But do you want me? That’s a whole different question, isn’t it Katie.” He stared at her intently, so snug against her she easily imagined every detail of him.

  The music finished.

  “No,” she lied, wrenching herself away from him, escaping just barely alive.

  She somehow lasted through the rest of the party. Matthew occupied himself elsewhere, which both relieved and destroyed her.

  Lottie was happy to depart quite early; they drove back to the house in near-silence.

  And it seemed to Kate that she spent every hour of the long night tossing and turning as she re-lived the party, and the contradictory messages he’d sent her as they danced.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  He spoke exactly thirteen cold words to her the next morning: “I’ve booked a taxi to take you to the airport. I’m going flying.” He turned and left.

  Lottie watched with concern. “Katie—still not good? You looked so beautiful in that dress, and I saw you and Matthew dancing close?”

  Kate shook her head. “Punishment, not forgiveness,” she muttered. “Your brother doesn’t know what he wants.” She closed her mouth before she said anything further that might offend Lottie.

  “My brother wants someone to love him.”

  Kate laughed—a sharp little snort. “He has a funny way of showing it, then. You have to trust someone before they’ll love you.”

  “His first marriage ended badly. No children, thank heavens. But his wife was—what you say—mercenary? After money?” Lottie nodded at her choice of word. “Ya – it went badly. He was hurt.”

  “It doesn’t excuse him, Lottie. I wasn�
��t after money. He kept trying to spend it on me, but it was his choice, not mine. The clothes. That party dress. And I’m not taking any of them with me. He can throw the stuff away, for all I care.”

  After breakfast, Kate scrupulously packed exactly what she’d brought with her: one spare blouse, one pair of panties, one pair of shoes, one red jersey, her makeup and nightgown. All of his clothes she left in the wardrobe. All of his lingerie she left in a drawer.

  To pass the rest of the long morning she helped Lottie. There were letters to prepare. Exhibition details to confirm. A painting had been commissioned by one of the big corporations for their boardroom; money and timing needed discussing. Notes for a prestigious lecture had to be located amongst the clutter in the studio.

  “Katie, I wish you could stay. It would be so good to have you here.”

  Kate shook her head. “I know, Lottie. I’d enjoy it enormously.”

  “When I travel you would be such a help, too. Not so easy on my own these days. And I cannot expect Matthew to be always with me.”

  “It’s not possible for me to stay. Not with him like this.”

  “I know. The only decision you can make right now.” Lottie sighed and glanced across at her easel. “He’s out of our way if he’s flying. We could have one more little session for your painting, maybe?”

  Kate agreed. Her fight was not with Lottie. Once again, she collected and placed the bedroom lamps, and after inspecting the painting so far, stripped to her panties and resumed the pose. She wondered if she’d ever see the finished work. “Send me a photo when it’s done?” she asked.

  “I Polaroid it for you,” Lottie agreed as she began to squeeze the paints onto her palette.

  This time there was no excitement; no darkly handsome visitor, no feverish distraction or nerve tingling inspection from intrusive silver-grey eyes. Kate tried very hard not to imagine him sitting just feet away, watching and sketching, feeding her sandwiches and snapping the elastic of the tiny panties he’d bought her. She saw it all in a different light now, knowing he was not Lottie’s husband.