by Robyn Donald
Ten minutes later Sanchia put the receiver down and stood staring blindly at her hands until a knock on the door propelled her across the room. ‘Come in,’ she said thinly.
Of course it was Caid, his face hardening as he saw her. ‘What’s the matter?’ he demanded, striding across the room.
‘The bach is not insured.’ She cleared her throat and shrugged. ‘Apparently Great-Aunt Kate stopped paying the premiums a couple of years ago.’
Caid said something short and unrepeatable under his breath, then stunned her by walking behind her. Lean hands massaged her neck and shoulders until her knotted muscles began to relax. He pulled her back to rest against him; for a few precious moments she let herself relax against his heat and strength, but almost immediately she straightened up.
He said, ‘You’d better sleep on it before you even think about what to do next. For now, come and have some afternoon tea.’
He was kind to her for the rest of the day, a little aloof, but pleasant; he didn’t mention the bach or the Bay.
That night Sanchia went to bed early. She tried to read, but eventually put the book down and wondered whether the Caid she’d seen that day, a man with a social conscience, was the real Caid. Had he taken her to Macgregor’s Bay and the marae hoping to change her mind about him, hoping she’d decide that he was a suitable owner for Waiora Bay?
She realised she was flipping the pages of the book as though looking for a certain word, a certain scene. ‘Will the real Caid Hunter please stand up?’ she murmured satirically, closing the volume and putting it on the bedside table.
She’d never know whether he’d tried to manipulate her, just as she’d never forget what it felt like to be kissed by him.
Three years previously she’d learned to love him, only to discover that the terror embedded in her past doomed any chance of sexual fulfilment.
She still loved him. And it was still utterly hopeless.
Aching with despair, she turned over and pushed her face into the pillow, trying to empty her mind of everything. But after a while she set her jaw. All right, so she had to give up her forlorn hope of a sexual relationship, but she could at least overcome this childish terror and tell Caid the reason she couldn’t make love with him.
And once she’d done that—after she’d met the man from the District Council tomorrow, she promised herself—she’d go back to Auckland and never see him again.
She switched off the light and lay back against the pillows, only to slide into dreams of cruel masculine laughter and grasping hands, of her desperate, panic-stricken fighting, and then of Cathy screaming at her…
Shaking with revulsion, almost suffocating with old fears and rage, she clawed her way out of bed and staggered across the room and out onto the terrace. It took a moment for the crackling sounds—gunshots?—to register.
No, not gunfire; a heavy stench of smoke made her cough, and behind the trees a weaving, bobbing patch of light—vivid scarlet and gold—warned of fire.
She was running across her bedroom when the door from the passage was wrenched open. Caid said curtly, ‘The bach is on fire. I’ve rung the brigade.’
A low, indistinct sound burst roughly from her throat. At the sudden blast of the centre light she clamped her eyes shut, blocking out the sight of him in jeans and nothing else.
‘They’ll be too late,’ she said hoarsely.
‘I suppose it’s no use asking you to stay here?’
She sent him an anguished look and he nodded, his face a grim, hard mask. ‘No, I thought not. Get dressed, then—jeans, and something long-sleeved so you don’t get burned by sparks.’
‘A sweatshirt?’
‘All right,’ he said, as though giving her permission, and turned and left her.
By the time she got outside the bach had become an inferno. But more alarming than that were the glinting sparks that swirled high into the hot air. Wherever they landed thin, golden lines of fire began to eat greedily through the grass—and soon the bush, the pohutukawas and the butterflies would burn.
She raced along the terrace; ahead of her the mingled silver and scarlet of moonlight and firelight washed across Caid, glimmering across his hair and the smooth, powerful curves of his shoulders when he ran down the steps. Stifling a half-sob, Sanchia followed him.
As they came out onto the beach a car roared down the hill, closely followed by another, and then, thank God, a fire engine.
Caid grabbed her. ‘Damn it, Sanchia, stay back!’
‘There’s no water!’
‘They’ll run a hose from the fire engine down to the beach.’ Ruthlessly he held her in the hard circle of his arms. ‘I’ve got sacks—we’ll wet them in the sea and put the grassfire out.’
At that moment the roof fell in a chaos of fire and flames and noise. A searing wind drove a hissing cloud of sparks across the grass.
‘Will’s bringing shovels, and Pat will be here soon with more shovels and a horde of relatives,’ Caid said harshly. ‘Pull yourself together; we’ll concentrate on saving the bush and the pohutukawas.’
‘Yes,’ she said numbly. ‘I’m sorry.’
He dropped a fierce kiss on her mouth. ‘It might look like the end of the world, but it’s not,’ he said. ‘Let’s get to work.’
Sanchia never really remembered the order of events after that. All she could summon were images of Mrs Hunter and Terry and Molly Henley running up and down beneath the pohutukawas, wetting a never-ending stream of dry sacks in the sea, of neighbours arriving with spades and shovels, of smoke and fire, harsh and acrid in her nose and throat, of the weariness that eventually turned to pain in her shoulders and arms as she beat out flames. She could recall men working under Caid’s direction to contain the avid rivulets of fire that threatened the bush and the trees, and Caid, always Caid, seemingly tireless, working like a demon…
In the end they saved the bush and the pohutukawa trees, but that was all.
‘I’ll leave a group to watch in case there are any hotspots,’ the fire chief said, her face streaked with grime after drinking the last of the coffee and eating two of the sandwiches Mrs Hunter and Terry had organised.
She looked around at the volunteer firefighters and the neighbours who’d come to help, their teeth gleaming in soot-darkened faces as they demolished the coffee and food.
‘I’ll stay,’ Sanchia croaked.
Caid said, ‘You will not.’ He laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘You’ve done enough.’
‘More than enough,’ the fire chief said.
Sanchia said, ‘If I’d noticed that the guttering had failed there’d have been water in the tank.’
‘It wouldn’t have saved the bach,’ the older woman told her. ‘That went up like a rocket.’
Something in her tone alerted Sanchia; she looked up sharply, but before she had time to speak Caid asked curtly, ‘Do you suspect arson?’
The woman looked at him, then nodded.
‘Why?’
‘I’d rather not say at the moment. It’ll be inspected tomorrow and we’ll know for certain then.’
The hand on Sanchia’s shoulder tightened. ‘I’ll stay down here tonight too,’ Caid said.
‘No need,’ the fire chief said. ‘My lot know what to do. You’ve worked like a Trojan, you and Sanchia. All of you.’ She gave a tired smile. ‘Thanks. Now go home to bed. Just watch for any signs of smoke inhalation—if you have any difficulty breathing in the next few hours, get to the hospital straight away.’
Back at the house, Mrs Hunter said firmly, ‘Bed for you, Sanchia.’ She took Sanchia’s arm and led her to her room. ‘My poor girl, this is a sad time, but don’t worry, Caid will make sure everything is all right for you.’
What would it be like to trust someone so much?
Dutifully Sanchia showered again, washing her hair with the expensive shampoo she found beneath the basin, lathering herself with an exquisitely perfumed soap that melted the soot and ashes and smoke from her body. For long moments
she stood with the water beating onto her shoulders and arms, soothing the smart of stretched and aching muscles, although tomorrow she’d be so stiff she probably wouldn’t be able to do more than hobble, and she had a couple of sore patches where sparks had landed.
Naked, she switched on the hairdryer, slowly lifting the black strands with a brush until they fanned out around her head. Almost groaning with pleasure at the thought of collapsing into bed, she pulled her nightgown over her head and lay down. Sleep engulfed her like a dark tide.
She didn’t dream, although in her sleep she was aware of an intense, aching loneliness and emptiness so cold and dark she shuddered with it. Eventually images began to form in the void of her mind—of the cyclone, the hideous noise of the screaming wind, the spume of the towering waves above the broken, beaten hull of the yacht, the dwindling figures of her parents on the deck as she wept silently in the sling beneath the helicopter because she was never going to see them again…
And then warmth enveloped her, and comfort. Astonished, joyous, she saw her parents get up from the deck; the killing waves died down to a moonpath across a gentle sea. Smiling, waving to her, her mother and father blew a final kiss before turning away and walking hand in hand along the glimmering pathway.
She wept again, but this time it was with something like happiness, and in her exhaustion she thought she heard them say goodbye, tell her to be happy, that they loved her and always would.
Slowly, her muscles protesting even in sleep, she turned to the source of the warmth that enveloped her, and in the way dreams work, her parents faded into the brilliant blue of a summer’s day, the blue of Caid’s eyes.
Even in her sleep Sanchia recognised this for wish-fulfilment, and smiled. In her dream she lay in Caid’s arms, against Caid’s chest, his warmth enveloping her like a blanket, and in her dream she felt not the slightest flicker of fear. No, in her dream she was bold, she was passionate, she was a worthy mate for such a virile man.
Freed by imagination from the prison of reality, she whispered his name and kissed the hard line of his jaw, her lips lingering over the fascinating abrasion of his beard before moving. Although his heart beat heavily, unevenly, against her, he lay still in the cocoon of the bedclothes, his long, powerful body hers and hers alone in the sanctuary of her mind, of her sleep.
Nuzzling, seeking, she moved her mouth over his face, learning the angular features by touch, sinking into heated hunger as she kissed the fans of his lashes, the straight black brows, the arrogant sweep of his cheekbones.
His scent filled her nostrils, his taste her mouth, all male with a hint of soap, a hint of smoke. Beneath her questing lips his skin was hot and taut.
Finally, when she had imprinted his face, she touched his mouth slowly, softly, shaping its contours with tiny kisses before tracing them with the tip of her tongue. His lips softened beneath hers, matched the kisses she gave him, slow for her slow, fast for her fast, gentle when she wanted them that way, and hard and swift when she plucked up the courage.
Because this was a dream she had all the courage in the world!
She opened her mouth onto his; his immediate, open response sent a jolt of unashamed desire through every cell in her body. Only in a dream, she thought dazedly as she explored the depths of his mouth, could she surrender that small advantage and take his surrender—only in a dream could she thrill to this pure charge of sexuality. It rocketed through her like a maddening hunger, like a charmed delirium.
Made bolder, she touched his chest, felt his skin tighten beneath her fingers. Smiling, she spread her fingers through the tangle of fine hair there, rejoicing at the uneven, heavy thud of his heart against her palm. It travelled through her fingertips and up her arm to reach her own heart, joining it in a rhythm as old as time, as old as passion.
His chest lifted abruptly and then fell; she heard his harsh breath, and lowered her head to kiss the place her palm had rested against, then kissed him again, explored the strong, tense cage of his ribs with her lips and her hand.
Slick, taut beneath her mouth, his skin tasted like Caid—darkly mysterious, the taste of love. Apart from the movement of his breathing, he didn’t stir. But why should he? This was a dream, a passionate enchantment she controlled. The realisation gave her the fresh courage to explore further, to push down thin cotton shorts and discover lean hips, strongly muscled flanks.
And between them a shaft of iron sheathed in the slickest silk.
Snatching her hand away, Sanchia sucked in her breath and waited for terror. None came; instead her body thrummed with excitement, with eager, urgent anticipation that ran like heated, spicy wine through her veins, so pleasurable it came close to torment. She ached for something, and her body knew what that something was.
This was her dream, she thought staunchly. She could do what she liked in it. Breathlessly she brushed that strong shaft again. Caid flinched, but he didn’t move.
Driven by instinct, by need and love, she sat up and pushed the bedclothes back. With night-accustomed eyes she gazed at him; his eyes were closed, his face harshly shadowed, but his hands lay beside his sides.
Obscurely reassured, she straddled him, hugging his muscled flanks with her thighs. Still he stayed motionless. Slowly, carefully, she lowered herself onto that proud shaft. Her breathing echoed raggedly in the room, drowning out everything but the sound of her heart drumming in her ears.
She slid slowly, deliciously down, astonished at how simple it all was. Simple—yet not easy. She gasped as the unused muscles in her inner parts stretched around him, easing, shifting to give him complete access.
For several frowning seconds she froze, until some instinct persuaded her to rock back and forth a little. That set up a delicious subtle friction that brought another gasp to her lips. Tentatively, carefully, she moved her hips again. Sensation simmered through her, no longer carefully wooing but urgent, hot and heavy and demanding. Using her hips and her thighs and those un-suspected inner muscles, she pulled him into her and clasped him, and moulded him deep inside her.
Caid opened his eyes; his arms, so lax at his sides, moved with shocking suddenness to grab the headboard of the bed. By now totally in thrall to passion, Sanchia watched as cords stood out on either side of his neck, as his arms and shoulders flexed in what seemed an agony of waiting. A feverish tide surged through her, gathering up every sensation, every hint from every nerve-end, joining and weaving them together into an overwhelming current of pleasure.
And yet she wanted more, and more, and more.
Her breath broke hard and fast through her lips as she coaxed that tide along until it became an irresistible force. Dimly, almost as though she was awake, she heard herself cry his name, and then rapture surged through her, spinning her out of this world into some unreachable peak of existence.
As she hit that height she felt Caid stiffen beneath her, and he groaned, a long, savage sound that tipped her over the edge and into ecstasy.
Exhausted, her limbs locked, she came down with him, her eyelids already closing, her mind overdosed on pleasure and so thick and woolly she could barely form the words. ‘Ironic, isn’t it? I can only do this in dreams…’
She woke late, the angle of the sunlight through uncurtained windows indicating that half the morning must have gone by while she lay in the aftermath of the first erotic dream she’d ever had.
Stretching limbs still painful from the night’s work on the fire, she wondered how on earth she was ever going to look Caid in the eye, let alone tell him why she had to leave, why there could never be any sort of future for them.
More than anything she wanted to take refuge in sleep, but after allowing herself a painfully pleasurable memory of that incredibly erotic dream she got up and showered.
Clad in her thin cotton dressing gown, she was halfway across the room when a sharp tap on the door froze her in mid-step; with her breath bottled in her lungs, she listened.
Make it Mrs Hunter, she prayed childishly. Or Terry. �
�Yes?’
‘Open up.’ Neither Mrs Hunter nor Terry.
Biting her lip, she went across and pushed the door barely open.
Barefoot, clad only in clean jeans and a thin white T-shirt, Caid looked her over unsparingly before asking, ‘How are you?’
‘My eyes are red and my throat feels like sandpaper, but apart from that I’m fine.’ She yawned, a primitive protection against the intensity of his gaze. Adrenalin mainlined through her, banishing tiredness. Dizzily she reined back her reaction to the faint fragrance of soap and clean man, the overt male presence.
He looked tired, as though he’d spent the night awake—or making love. Colour surged up through Sanchia’s skin.
His eyes narrowed. ‘You’re burnt.’ A long forefinger hovered above a tender welt on her jawbone, indicated another on her shoulder by the hollow of her throat.
It said a lot for instinct, especially the one concerned with perpetuating the species, she thought wildly, that every cell in her body leapt to meet his touch. Or perhaps she was still lost in the hazy delights of that powerful dream. ‘They’re nothing—just a few sparks. I ran cold water over myself for five minutes or so last night.’
‘I’ll get some aloe vera gel. It will stop them blistering.’
She should have spent the time he was away scrambling into some clothes, but that draining lethargy slowed her down so that when he returned she was still in her dressing gown. He was carrying a tray on which was a glass half filled with amber liquid, and a pot of green jelly.
‘Lemon and honey,’ he said calmly, putting the glass into her hand, ‘for your throat. Old Greek recipe, according to my mother. Drink it up and I’ll put gel on the bits you can’t reach.’
Gratefully she sipped the tangy liquid, sweet and sour combined, letting it run down her arid throat. Caid moved behind her and began to smooth the green gel onto the spark spots on her shoulder; when she shivered he said cryptically, ‘Odd how it’s always icy, isn’t it? It’s extremely good for preventing scars.’
Nothing would fade the scars from her past, she thought bleakly. But she’d deal with it, as she’d dealt with everything else in her life—as she’d deal with this ferocious awareness that was roaring through her now, submerging grief and aching tiredness in a desire that threatened to rage into another sort of fire, even more dangerous than the one that had swallowed the bach.
