by Susan Napier
“I don’t need you, Ryan. I’m willing to put up with you, that’s all!”
“Oh, I think there’s more to it than that, Nina. Much, much more…”
The trailing tip of thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, which parted in alarm.
When had he moved so close? “Don’t touch me!”
“Why not?” His voice dropped to a bittersweet tenderness. “What are you so afraid of? What will happen if I do?”
“Nothing will happen!”
“All right. I won’t—” he turned back to the house “—for now.” He gave her a smoldering smile over his shoulder. “But we both know that I don’t have to touch you for you to be touched by me, don’t we…Nina, darling?”
Amnesia
What the memory has lost, the body never forgets
An electric chemistry with a disturbingly familiar stranger…. A reawakening of passions long forgotten…. And a compulsive desire to get to know this stranger all over again!
A brand-new miniseries from Harlequin Presents® featuring top-selling authors: Penny Jordan, Susan Napier and Lynne Graham
In November don’t miss The Sicilian’s Mistress
by
Lynne Graham
#2139
Susan Napier
SECRET SEDUCTION
Amnesia
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ONE
ANOTHER salt-laden blast of wind funnelled past the low cliffs at the entrance of the bay and howled across the seething waves to dash itself against the ragged row of houses along the beachfront. In the back room of her rented cottage Nina Dowling flinched as the windows rattled violently in their sun-warped frames and the woodwork creaked and groaned in protest at the assault.
Hunching protectively over her desktop drawing board, she dipped her brush into the narrow-mouthed water jar at her elbow and meticulously reshaped the sable bristles, trying to block out her awareness of the growing tumult outside by concentrating on the intricate task at hand.
So what if she had just heard the radio weather bulletin issue an overnight gale warning for the Hauraki Gulf? Despite its ramshackle appearance, this sturdy bungalow had weathered more than fifty years of winter storms. And, anyway, Shearwater Island was in the southern reaches of the gulf, less exposed to the full force of the storms that regularly blew in from the Pacific Ocean than many of the other hundred or so islands that were scattered off the coast of Auckland.
A few minutes later, Nina gave up pretending that she was going to get any more work done. The ominous crack of approaching thunder was the last straw. Trying to etch the delicate path of a minute leaf vein with the moistened edge of her chisel-shaped brush tip was impossible when her nerves were braced against the next assault of nature. She pursed her ripe mouth as she surveyed what she had just done, her sea-green eyes narrowed with dissatisfaction, her silky dark brows drawn together in a rippling frown. Instead of abrading away the wash of green pigment to expose a hair-thin line of white paper, the nervous jerks of her clenched fingers were in danger of creating a major new vein at the margin of the leaf.
Such botanical incorrectness would give George palpitations! she thought ruefully as she set aside the unfinished illustration and replaced the labelled pot containing the original plant specimen on the crowded shelf by the window. While Nina freely employed a great deal of artistic licence in her own paintings, the bread-and-butter commissions she executed for the local botanist demanded strict biological accuracy. It was exacting work but Nina enjoyed the challenge, and the flat fee that George paid her for each completed watercolour was sufficient to support her in very modest style.
Fortunately, there were few temptations to frivolous spending on Shearwater Island. Most of the islanders were laid-back alternative lifestylers, eccentric loners, or descendants of original owners who either commuted to Auckland to work or merely used their properties during weekends and holidays.
Part of the island was a nature and marine reserve, and the locals jealously guarded their relatively unspoiled environment by enduring rudimentary public services and supporting by-laws that precluded commercial development. That meant there were no chic beach cafés or hotels, or well-serviced moorings for glitzy yachts on Shearwater Island, no flash millionaires’ mansions or noisy helipads.
The only store, at the wooden ferry jetty on the other side of the island from Puriri Bay, stocked little more than the basic necessities of life—except during the summer months, when the resident population of a few hundred was swollen by holiday-makers, visiting boaties who dropped anchor in the deepwater bays and daytrippers who made the hour-and-a-half ferry ride from Auckland.
In the nine months that she had lived on the island, Nina had been pleased to discover that there was nothing that she couldn’t buy, barter, mail-order or stoically go without.
Another shuddering gust of wind buffeted the house on its foundations as Nina cleaned her brushes with the speed and efficiency of long practise and covered her palette of watercolours with a damp cloth to prevent the shallow pans from drying out overnight. She carried the squat jars of stained water into the kitchen to rinse them out for the next day, flicking off the fluorescent lights in the cramped studio. Usually she preferred using the natural light from the sloping skylight and small, southerly facing window for her studio-based paintings, but the dense cloud cover had made artificial illumination necessary for most of the day.
Leaving her clean jars draining upside down on the bench, Nina hurried through the sprawling, three-bedroom cottage, making sure that all the external door and window latches were secure, and checking that there was nothing loose outside that high winds might turn into a potential missile.
In the last big storm, Ray Stewart, who lived in the sun-bleached weatherboard house next door, had almost been skewered in his rocking chair by an unsecured water-ski that had blown off someone’s deck and cartwheeled along the wide strip of interconnecting front yards to spear through his window. The grizzled old man, who also happened to be Nina’s landlord, had taken his near impalement in his stride, more angry at his neighbour’s carelessness than frightened by his brush with mortality, but to Nina it had been a graphic warning of the awesome power of nature.
Now, standing in her living room, looking out at the deserted, wind-scoured beach, she wrapped her arms around her waist in an unconsciously self-protective gesture. The sliding glass door, misted with salt and sand, framed a panoramic view of the tempest. Along the grassy public foreshore, the huge, gnarled puriri trees that gave the bay its name were writhing, their twisted limbs semaphoring the rising strength of the wind, the thick, evergreen foliage tossing in sympathy with the storm-whipped sea.
Spray was thick in the swirling air and even the hardiest of seabirds, the squalling gulls, had taken cover. The tide was nearly full in, the greedy waves chewing more than halfway up the wide curve of sloping sand towards the low bank on which the puriri trees perched, their venerable roots knitted deep into the sandy clay.
Farther out, the deep swells pushing in from the gulf boomed onto the rocks at the base of the cliffs, exploding upwards in sheets of ghostly white foam that instantly dissolved into the jagged cliff face. Within the semicircle of the bay itself, the murky sea was a frenzy of whitecaps, the few boats still anchored there pitching and rolling as they strained at their moorings. Clumps of dirty white foam broke away from the building crest at the high-water line and swirled up onto the back of the beach, rolling and t
umbling over moisture-darkened soft sand still pockmarked from earlier showers.
Although sunset was officially still hours away, it was already almost dark outside, the dense black clouds continuing to sweep in from the north-east, bringing with them forked flashes of lightning and a thick band of rain that blurred the gap between turbulent sky and tumultuous sea until they were indistinguishable from each other in the intensifying gloom.
The artist in Nina revelled in the visual drama of the scene. It was beautiful, wild…dangerous….
A cool frisson shivered up her spine and Nina hugged herself more tightly, glad that she had earlier lit the fire in the big stone hearth that dominated the open-plan living area. The temperature had been dropping all day, and even in her red polar-fleece sweatshirt, black jeans and sheepskin boots, she had shivered at the penetrating chill in the damp air when she slipped out to fetch a few armfuls of dry driftwood from the stack under the broad eaves on the leeward side of the house. Now the comforting crackle and hum of the burning wood provided a cheerful contrast to the eerie wail of the wind.
Nina didn’t consider herself superstitious, but something about this storm was making her more than usually apprehensive. She didn’t think it was just that she had always hated thunderstorms, nor was it fear of being alone in the cottage. She preferred it that way. In choosing to settle in such an out-of-the-way place, not easily accessible to the rest of the world, she had eagerly accepted a largely solitary way of life that enabled her to devote herself entirely to her painting.
Nine months ago, she had arrived on the island rootless, drifting, searching…In Puriri Bay she had found what she believed she had been looking for: a quiet refuge where she could rediscover her passion to paint. Here she could work long hours with no interruptions, no petty distractions…
Well, almost none, she thought as she stooped to switch on a lamp and spotted the damp black nose cautiously parting the fringed hem of the ivory throw rug that draped the elderly couch.
‘You feel it, too, huh?’ she murmured, snapping her fingers invitingly. The only response was a swift withdrawal of the quivering nose back under the sagging couch. ‘It’s probably just the build-up of static electricity in the air,’ Nina reassured them both loudly, dismissing her vague premonition as the product of her overactive imagination.
As she straightened, she caught sight of her reflection in the glass door and pulled a wry face. She had pinned her hair up out of the way while she worked, but now she saw that the humidity had frizzed her wavy, dark chestnut locks into a mass of corkscrew curls that had sprung from her careless topknot.
Hands on hips, she studied her slightly pear-shaped outline in the darkened glass. In the relaxed island environment, Nina had quickly lost the knack of worrying about her appearance. Dressing for comfort rather than style saved her both time and money. Fortunately, the casual, fresh-scrubbed look seemed to suit her although she didn’t consider herself more than ordinarily pretty.
At twenty-six she was resigned to the fact that her five-foot-six-inch frame had a genetic predisposition to carrying a little extra weight around her hips and thighs. But at least she had the consolation of knowing that the layer of padding was muscle rather than flab, she thought, twisting sideways and slapping a taut, denim-covered buttock, smugly confirming the lack of wobble. She did a lot of walking and cycling around the hilly island, and the fact that there was no fast-food joint within twelve nautical miles was a major encouragement to maintaining a healthy diet!
Thinking about food made her suddenly realise that she was peckish, and she wondered what she could come up with for dinner. Nina usually cooked for Ray, as well, but since he was away visiting his married daughter for the weekend, she could eat on a whim. She didn’t feel like making a meal from scratch, but maybe cooking would cure her attack of the jitters. There might be some leftovers she could throw together to create something interesting.
She crossed to the kitchen to see what was left in the fridge. Perhaps she would have a light snack now and a hot supper later. It wouldn’t do to eat too early and then have the evening stretch endlessly ahead of her. At this rate she could be up all night. She might be able to read or listen to music if she turned the stereo up to full volume, but there was no point in going to bed while the storm was still blowing, not if she was going to just lie there in the dark, obsessing over every huff and puff that shook her house of sticks.
As soon as she opened the refrigerator door, there was a scrabble of claws on polished wood, and she glanced over her shoulder to see a speeding black-and-white bullet shoot out from beneath the couch and trace a curving trajectory around the bench that divided the kitchen from the rest of the room. Nina slammed the door again just in time to prevent the missile imbedding itself in the lower shelves of the fridge where she usually thawed frozen packs of meat and the occasional meaty bone.
‘No!’ she said sternly to the long-haired Jack Russell terrier, who was quivering with outrage at being deprived of his plunder. She pointed to the bowl on the floor by the back door that contained a few crumbs of rice-flecked dog biscuit and a forlorn fishbone. ‘You’ve already had plenty to eat today. You’ll get fat if you’re fed on demand.’
The wiry little dog looked supremely unimpressed. He plunked his hindquarters down on the cold, patterned-vinyl floor in front of the fridge, his beady black eyes fixed hungrily on her face.
‘It’s no use looking at me like that,’ she told him.
He raised one limp front paw and uttered a single, pitiful whine.
Nina rolled her eyes. ‘Hollywood!’ she scoffed.
He sank slowly down on his stomach, his muzzle settling on his crossed paws with what sounded suspiciously like a deep sigh. The jaunty white tail lay flaccid on the dark green floor as if too weak to wag.
Nina echoed his doggy sigh with one of her own. They both knew who was going to crack first. They had played this game many times before. Oh, well…she might as well throw him his tidbit now and stave off the reproachful looks and pathetic whines long enough for her to fill her own belly.
Before she could reopen the fridge, there was a particularly strong gust of wind and she heard the first flurry of raindrops tattoo against the corrugated-iron roof. The dog’s drooping tail and ears pricked up, and the listless waif suddenly turned into an energised ball of barks, hurtling himself at the back door and scratching at the panels.
‘Zorro!’
The little dog glanced back at Nina, the two oblong patches of black fur that surrounded his eyes looking uncannily like the mask of his dashing namesake as he ignored her compelling cry and continued to leap in front of the closed door, barking madly.
Nina almost preferred him cowering under the couch.
‘For goodness’ sake, Zorro, calm down. It’s only the rain.’ She pulled aside the kitchen curtain to peer outside as she spoke, then saw what the dog must have sensed—a shadowy figure coalescing out of the darkness.
Someone was stumbling down the narrow, dead-end road that provided the only vehicle access to the bay. It was a steep, zigzagging road that turned sharply at the bottom of the hill just behind Nina’s cottage and then ran along the flat to the public parking area at the far end of the beach.
Nina cupped her hand to the side of her face and squinted through the rain-smeared glass, her breath fogging the cold surface. Wrapped in a long, flapping coat and bent over against the wind, one hand lifted to protect against the rain that was driving in under the overhanging trees, the tall, bulky figure could have been either a man or a woman.
It obviously wasn’t one of Nina’s neighbours. A local would have been walking along the middle of the road, regardless of the risk of traffic, rather than on the unstable margin. Even in dry weather the ungraded road was inclined to be slippery along the edges where loose gravel collected in drifts. Nina only hoped that the visitor didn’t end up sliding into the open ditch that ran alongside the road.
‘Forget it, Zorro. No-one’s going to com
e visiting us in this kind of weather,’ she said to the cacophony of barks. ‘It’s just someone on their way to the Petersons or the Freemans—or maybe they just want to check on a boat.’
The barking stopped abruptly, and she was pleasantly surprised at this unprecedented act of instant obedience until she looked around and saw the flapping cat door. The round hinged panel had been installed by some past resident who owned an obviously hefty feline, and Zorro had been quick to appreciate its advantages.
‘Dammit, Zorro!’ Out the window she could see the little dog scampering past the letterbox and up onto the road, staggering sideways with each pummelling gust of wind. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ Nina yanked open the door to call the dog back, and as she did so, two things happened simultaneously.
A sizzling bolt of blinding white light exploded out of the sky, striking the tallest roadside tree in a shower of sparks; and the rain flurries suddenly turned into a torrential deluge.
Momentarily dazzled by the lightning and disorientated by the ear-shattering thunder that followed barely a split second later, Nina didn’t at first register the danger. But then, through the dark blur of the sheeting rain, she saw the smoking top of the puriri tree begin to peel away from the main trunk, leaving a pale, jagged stump pointing accusingly at the sky. As it toppled, gravity took over and the heavy thicket sheered completely off, plummeting through the threshing branches towards the puny human on the road below.
Her scream of warning was ripped away from her lips, lost to the wind and rain and the echoing roll of thunder as another lethal lightning bolt ripped into the ground farther up the hill. The flash of incandescence momentarily illuminated the ghastly scene, and Nina was forced to watch helplessly as the treetop crashed to the ground, obliterating its victim from view. At the last moment, the rain-lashed figure became aware of what was about to happen but dodged too late to escape the crushing impact.
