A Forbidden Desire

by Robyn Donald

  It was not a question. Trying to lift the flatness of her tone, she agreed, ‘Oh, they certainly can.’

  ‘It sounds as though you had the ones from hell’

  ‘He—one was not—not congenial.’ She put her cup and saucer down, relieved when they arrived on the table without any betraying chinks.

  Paul said nothing, and after an awkward moment she went on, ‘Gerard found me in the university library one night and realised that I was having a bad time.’

  ‘Ah,’ Paul said smoothly, ‘he’s always found it difficult to cope with tears.’

  She fastened down her indignation. ‘I wasn’t crying,’ she told him firmly, and added, ‘He’s very kind.’

  ‘I’m sure he is,’ Paul said, his voice soothing, almost mesmeric. ‘Why can’t you stay in your flat over the holidays?’

  ‘A friend of the woman who owns it has moved in.’

  When Gerard came back in February he’d go into his new house, a house with a flat joined to it, and she’d have a home once more. There was no reason she shouldn’t tell Paul McAlpine that, but she fenced the words behind her teeth.

  ‘And now you’re waiting for the results of your final exams. Getting your BA has been a long haul. I believe there was a gap between the first two years and the last?’

  Had her mother told him that her arthritis had become so bad after her daughter’s second year at university that Jacinta had to give up her studies and come home to take care of her? No, she’d been a very private woman, so it had to have been Gerard. Hoping he hadn’t coaxed Paul to lend her the bach by implying that she was a deserving case, she said evenly, ‘Yes, nine years.’

  ‘What do you intend to do when you’ve done your Master’s? Teach?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t think I’d be very good at that.’

  Judicially, he observed, ‘I shouldn’t think there’s much call for history masters outside the halls of academe.’

  Why was she so—so nervous about her plans, so secretive? Because she didn’t yet know whether they were possible—and because she didn’t like the prospect of appearing a fool. ‘Probably not,’ she agreed, feeling ineffectual and foolish.

  Goaded by his measuring look, she added, ‘Actually, the Master’s degree is a promise I made to my mother.’

  There, that would show him she wasn’t just drifting.

  ‘And you always keep your promises?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Without haste her unwilling host surveyed her face, his vivid blue gaze roaming the thick, now untidy mass of her hair, its damp curls clinging to the margins of her high forehead.

  Heat burned through her skin. Straight copper brows drawn over her long nose, she met his scrutiny with defiance, knowing that the golden specks in her eyes would be glittering against the green matrix.

  Starry Eyes, her mother used to call her when she was a child.

  She could read nothing in Paul’s scrutiny beyond a cool assessment that prickled her skin and tightened her muscles in a primitive reflex, but when his glance moved to her wide, soft mouth she jutted her chin, fighting back a response in which anger and a forbidden excitement warred.

  She didn’t want this overwhelming physical attraction. It was something she’d never experienced before, and it was dangerous.

  Paul’s enigmatic gaze didn’t drop any further—and that, she thought angrily, was just as well. Although his scrutiny was too impersonal to be a leer, he’d checked her out beyond the bounds of politeness.

  ‘“Mine honour is my life”,’ he quoted.

  Shakespeare, of course. An equivocal note in his voice scratched at her nerves again. ‘Something like that,’ she said curtly:

  Each word dropped into the tense silence that stretched between them—humming, she thought edgily, with unspoken thoughts, with emotions she didn’t intend to examine.

  Just when she thought she was going to have to break it, he drawled, ‘Very worthy.’

  ‘Hardly.’ She wondered why his words should sound like a warning. ‘Every child learns the importance of keeping promises.’

  ‘But children often forget as they grow older.’

  Too late Jacinta remembered Aura, who had broken her vows to him in the most dramatic way. She opened her mouth to say something—anything—then closed it again when a covert glance at his shuttered expression warned her that nothing she could say would help ease the tension.

  He asked her about the new fee structure at the university, and while they discussed the implications Jacinta forgot her reservations, forgot that almost insolent survey of her face. His astute, acerbic sagacity made her think hard and fast, and his understanding of people’s motives startled her with its blend of tolerance and cynicism.

  ‘Gerard seems to think you’ll get honours when you do your MA,’ he said, the blue eyes indolent behind his lashes.

  Some obscure note in his voice made the comment ambiguous. ‘He’s a bit prejudiced,’ she said stiffly. She might be Paul’s guest, but she didn’t owe him any more revelations.

  ‘We’re always inclined to be prejudiced about the people we’re fond of,’ Paul McAlpine said.

  She looked sharply up, but those eyes, so transparent she could drown in them, hid his thoughts very effectively.

  ‘Or those people we’ve taught,’ she returned, just as pleasantly. ‘I’ll unpack now. Shall I take the tray through to the kitchen?’

  ‘I will;’ he said, getting to his feet and lifting the tray.

  Although Jacinta always noticed hands, it was uncanny that the sight of his sent a tiny shudder of sensation chasing down her spine. Walking back along the hall, she felt an odd weight in her breasts, a kind of tingling fullness that embarrassed and irritated her.

  Oh, be sensible, she told herself with self-derisory crispness, trying to be blase and objective. It was hardly surprising that she should be attracted to him. He was magnificent—a splendid figure of a man. There was something about him that made her think of sanity and freedom and enviable, disciplined self-assurance.

  Paul McAlpine would probably never find himself in a situation he couldn’t control.

  Lucky man, she decided crossly, blinking as she stepped from the shaded verandah into the bright light of the sun.

  CHAPTER TWO

  EVERYTHING Jacinta owned except for some stored furniture was contained in two suitcases. In the back seat of Gerard’s car, neatly strapped in by the seatbelts, were a computer and printer, and on the floor several boxes of books.

  Not a lot for almost thirty years, she thought wryly as she began to ease a suitcase out of the boot.

  ‘I’ll take that,’ Paul said from behind.

  Jacinta didn’t quite stop herself from flinching, but hoped that her swift step away hid her involuntary reaction. ‘Oh—thanks,’ she said vaguely.

  The sun gleamed on his fair hair, gilded his tanned skin. When he picked up the second case in one steady lift, muscles flexed smoothly beneath the fine cotton of his shirt. Oddly breathless, Jacinta reached into the back seat, fumbling with the seatbelt that held the computer in place.

  A seagull laughed mockingly, its wings catching the light so that it shone silver, a mythical bow in the sparkling sky. Jacinta hauled the computer out and set off with it after the man who walked so easily up the white path and into the cool shadow of the house.

  He put the suitcases onto the floor of the room she’d chosen and said, ‘I’ll bring in the printer.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I can do it; you must have work to do.’

  ‘Not today,’ he said gravely.

  Frankly helpless, she stood in the centre of the room with the computer in her arms and watched him go. Oh, lord, she thought dismally, walking across to the desk. Biting her lip, she turned and settled the computer into place on the desk.

  He looked like a white knight, handsome and easygoing, a golden man—if you could ignore that strong jaw and the hint of hardness in his chiselled mouth. But from behind he lo
oked like a Viking, walking with steady, long-legged, distance-eating strides across a world that trembled before him.

  And although imagination was a prime requisite for her next venture, at that moment she wished she didn’t possess quite so much of it.

  He brought the printer in, and watched while she set it up. She did that because there was no way she’d open her suitcases in front of him. As it was, she was beginning to think that agreeing to stay here had not been a good decision.

  While the test pattern ran through she said tentatively, ‘I think we should discuss some sort of—of arrangement while I’m here.’

  Those intimidating brows lifted again. He didn’t say anything.

  Jacinta imagined rods of steel going from her head to her heels. ‘Money,’ she said succinctly.

  Eyes the same colour as a winter sky, cold and clear and piercing, moved from the screen to her face. ‘You are Gerard’s guest,’ he said, his voice as unyielding as his expression. ‘He asked me to make sure that you were all right while you were here. Money doesn’t enter into it.’

  She tried again. ‘Nevertheless I’ll pay for my food.’

  He shrugged, his unreadable gaze never leaving her face. ‘If it’s that important to you, work out some sort of board payment with Fran,’ he said negligently. ‘As for anything else, just treat this as your home.’

  She frowned. ‘I don’t want to intrude.’

  ‘Oh, you won’t,’ he said quite gently, and smiled.

  God! That smile was as uncompromisingly explosive as Semtex. Jacinta had to draw in a deep, shaken breath before she could even think. Fortunately the printer whirred and chirruped, letting her know it was ready for work. Turning, she stared blindly at it, swallowed, and said, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘That looks very like Gerard’s set-up,’ Paul observed, his voice almost bland.

  ‘It was,’ she said shortly. ‘When he got a new one he gave me this. They’re obsolete as soon as you buy them, unfortunately. Not worth anything.’ And she stopped because she’d started to babble, to explain, and she’d made a solemn vow that she was never going to do that again. The experience with Mark Stevens had cured her of ever justifying her actions to any man.

  No man was ever again going to believe that he had the right to question what she did or what she thought.

  Ever!

  One brow drifted upwards. ‘Aren’t they? Not even as trade-ins?’ Paul suggested evenly, and went out across the verandah into the sunlight.

  Jacinta glowered after him. Did he think she was sponging off Gerard? Well, she didn’t care! Not even if he did look like something chivalrous from a medieval tapestry, she thought sardonically, opening the wardrobe door and surveying the cavernous depths.

  First of all she’d unpack, and then she’d go for a short walk—no, first she’d go and see the housekeeper and establish some ground rules.

  She was almost in the hall when she realised that Paul was on his way back again, this time carrying a cardboard carton.

  ‘From the weight of this I assume it’s books,’ he said.

  Nodding, Jacinta firmly directed her gaze away as he set the box down on the floor. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll get the others.’

  She knew how heavy those boxes were; Gerard had helped her carry each one out to the car. Yet the weight didn’t seem to affect Paul at all.

  Jacinta looked with respect at his shoulders and said again, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It was nothing,’ he said, and left her, to reappear before she’d opened the first carton.

  Once all the boxes were inside, he showed her the door to the bathroom and said, ‘Make yourself at home,’ before opening a door that presumably led into his bedroom.

  Jacinta stood for a moment staring after him, her stomach gripped by some strong sensation. Hunger, she thought. You didn’t have any lunch.

  On the floor of the front passenger seat there should have been another carton, packed full of food. She’d brought everything in her pantry, supplementing it with groceries and perishables in the small town twenty minutes away, the town where she’d also taken out a temporary membership in the local library.

  It wasn’t there.

  So Paul must have delivered it to the kitchen. Sure enough, when she’d made her way there, she saw the carton on the bench.

  ‘Oh, he did bring it in here,’ she said.

  Busy kneading bread, Fran Borthwick smiled. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell me where to put everything.’

  After the housekeeper had done that, and the food was stacked away in a well-stocked pantry, Jacinta explained that she wanted to contribute something to the housekeeping exchequer.

  ‘Have you talked this over with Paul?’ Fran asked, sounding surprised.

  ‘Yes.’ Jacinta repeated what he’d said.

  Pulling off a chunk of dough, the older woman kneaded it expertly into a loaf and placed it into a baking tin. She said, ‘Well, you pay whatever you feel is right. As far as meals go, breakfast’s at seven. If that’s too early—’

  ‘No, no, that’s fine,’ Jacinta told her hastily.

  ‘OK. Lunch at midday, afternoon tea at four, and dinner at seven-thirty.’

  ‘When P—Mr McAlpine isn’t here I’ll get my own meals,’ Jacinta said.

  Fran gave her an approving glance. ‘Good. There’s always salads and stuff like that in the fridge.’

  Back in the bedroom, fortified by a salad sandwich and a banana, Jacinta unpacked her suitcases and set out her books along the back of the desk. Then, obscurely comforted by her familiar things, she changed into shorts and a light shirt and slathered herself in sunscreen. With a wide-brimmed straw hat crammed over her ginger curls, she set off to explore.

  About three acres of garden dreamed around the house, sheltered by the hedge on all sides except the seaward one. Even the salt winds couldn’t get directly at it; pohutukawa trees leaned over both lawn and sand, forming a wide, informal barrier that would save Paul McAlpine from the indignity of having stray yachties peer into his house.

  Seen between the swooping branches and dark, silver-backed leaves, the bay glittered, as blue as his eyes and as compellingly beautiful.

  Jacinta wandered across the lawn and found a flight of steps that led out onto the sand, already sizzling under the hot November sun. Some people, she thought, remembering with a shudder the grim little house in which she’d spent most of the past nine years, had all the luck.

  She didn’t regret giving up her studies to care for her mother. In spite of everything there had been laughter and joy in that farm cottage. Still, she couldn’t help thinking wistfully that her mother’s long, pain-racked purgatory would have been more bearable in a place like this.

  Fishing a handkerchief from her pocket, she blew her nose. The last thing she wanted was for Cynthia Lyttelton to be still enduring that monstrous, unbearable agony and complete loss of autonomy, but her death had left an enormous gap.

  For years Jacinta had made all the decisions, done all the worrying. Grief, and relief that it was all over, and guilt about that relief, and exhaustion, had formed a particularly potent cocktail, one that had rendered her too lethargic to realise that Mark Stevens had begun a campaign to control her life.

  Picking up a stone, she straightened and skipped it across the water.

  Looking back, her slowness to understand the situation still astonished her It had taken her three months to realise what was happening and leave the flat.

  Another stone followed the first across the water.

  With Gerard’s help she’d got through that with very little trauma, and doing his housework three days a week had helped her save enough money to see her through the summer holidays without working.

  All in all it had been a hard year; she was probably still not wholly recovered from her mother’s death, but the crying jags were over, and the stress of trying to find some sort of balance, some firm place to stand, had gone. She’d come a long way in the
last six months.

  Oh, there were still problems, still decisions to be made. She had to work out what sort of life she wanted, and of course there was always money...

  But for the moment she didn’t have to worry about any of that. She had another promise to her mother to fulfil, and three months in this perfect place to do it.

  Lifting her face and half closing her eyes, she smiled into the sun. Light danced off her lashes, the film of moisture there separating the rays so that they gleamed like diamonds.

  Living in the bach would have been perfect. She’d probably only have seen Paul once or twice in the three months, instead of finding herself practically cheek by jowl with him.

  Still, she’d manage. She was much stronger than she’d been before, much better able to look after herself. And it didn’t really matter that she lusted a bit after Paul McAlpine. So, no doubt, did plenty of women. At least she recognised what she felt as straightforward physical hunger and didn’t mistake it for anything more important.

  The ringing of small, melodious bells filled the air. Jacinta stopped, watching and remembering. Outside the window of the cottage where she’d lived with her mother was a cherry tree, and each spring her mother had waited for the tuis to come and glut themselves on the nectar.

  Just ahead, beside a transparent veil of water that ran over the sand, stood a clump of flax bushes. Strappy leaves supported tall stems with bronze- and wine-coloured flowers, mere tubular twists of petals with dark stamens protruding from the tip.

  Yet in those flowers glistened nectar, and a tui, white feathers bobbling at its throat, sat on the stem and sang his spring carillon.

  When Paul said her name Jacinta yelped, whirling to say angrily, ‘Don’t do that, for heaven’s sake!’

  Paul frowned. ‘Your nerves must be shot to pieces.’

  ‘No! I just wasn’t—I didn’t—’

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said, his voice deep and sure and strangely soothing.

  As the tui broke off its song to indulge in a cacophony of snorts and wheezes, interspersed with the sound of a contented pig, Paul put a hand on her shoulder, grounding her until the sudden surge of panic died away to be replaced by a slow combination of emotions—keen pleasure, and peace, and an oblique foreboding.