A Passionate Proposition

by Susan Napier

  ‘Thank you,’ she muttered grudgingly, as she swallowed the rest of her mouthful. She looked down at the apple in her hand, suddenly having lost her appetite.

  ‘Fair exchange.’ Scott laid his handkerchief over her sticky hand and took the apple, taking a slow bite from where she had left off. He stretched out on his side, propping his chin on his hand, and Anya hurriedly curled her bare legs the opposite way, tucking the hem of her dress securely around her knees. ‘So, what have you two been talking about?’ he asked, watching her smooth the dark green fabric down over her slender thighs.

  Predictably, Petra chose not to talk about schoolwork. ‘Miss Adams has been telling me how she used to come here when she was little and this was her uncle’s farm. She got to feed pigs and see them get born, and milk cows with her hands and stuff like that.’

  Scott didn’t demand to know what that had to do with the fourth-form syllabus. He grinned at Anya from behind his apple.

  ‘I see the sophisticated young Sydney-sider isn’t sure whether to be impressed or grossed-out.’ He squinted at her as he took another bite and she knew he was going to say something provocative. ‘So…you were a pink-cheeked milkmaid before you became a teacher…’

  His smile mocked her with the clichéd traditional image of a plump, glowing-skinned young woman of earthy good humour and easy virtue.

  ‘I was only a child at the time, but actually I wouldn’t have minded being a farmer,’ she reproved him, sprinkling her tacky fingers with water from the bottle which she had lain in the shade of the tree-trunk, and wiping them dry with his handkerchief.

  ‘Or a farmer’s wife? Is that why you moved out here to the country, to improve your prospects with the local yeomanry?’

  ‘I don’t happen to see marriage as a valid method of achieving my career goals. I have more respect for the spirit of the institution than that,’ she told him, tilting her nose and for once having the luxury of being able to look down on him.

  ‘Huh?’ Petra’s gold-tipped fringe tickled her wrinkled brow.

  ‘Miss Adams holds to the romantic view—she wants to marry for love, not money,’ her father extrapolated. ‘Though I suspect, like most people, she might find mutual respect and liking a more durable prospect.’

  ‘That’s a very cynical view—’

  ‘As you’ve pointed out before, I’m a product of my experience—as you’re obviously a product of yours. I take it your parents still have a strong marriage…?’

  ‘As far as I’m aware, yes,’ she said firmly, wondering if he was going to pick on her privileged background again as he had at her interview. ‘They spend a lot of time apart because of the demands of their careers, but it doesn’t seem to have weakened their relationship.’

  ‘All that travelling and performing can’t have left much time for bringing up a child.’

  ‘Miss Adams had a nanny and tutors and music teachers from when she was a baby ’til she went to boarding school,’ supplied Petra eagerly.

  ‘Accelerated learning?’ murmured Scott, and Anya gave an involuntary laugh.

  ‘Not in my case. My parents realised pretty quickly that I was never going to set the world on fire with my genius.’

  ‘Did you want to?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. No…funnily enough I never did. I was shy, and often sick when we were travelling. All the fuss and emotional drama that my parents created wherever they went made me happy to be left in the background. I was glad not to be trotted out to show off my budding accomplishments. The only thing I was any good at was reading, but, as I was telling Petra, if you love books then the world is your oyster.’

  ‘I used to read with a torch under the blankets,’ said Scott, and Anya slipped him a surprised smile of fellow-feeling.

  ‘My nannies always used to search my bed before they turned the lights out.’

  ‘You had more than one?’

  ‘Only one at a time. But, as I said, we moved about a lot, and my mother was always very…particular about personal staff. They had to have the right vibes. She always seemed to be in the throes of hiring or firing someone.’

  ‘But you didn’t bring a nanny whenever you came here?’ said Petra, waving at the house.

  ‘No, my aunt and uncle looked after me.’

  ‘And Cousin Kate…’ murmured Scott in a neutral voice that made her give him a wary look.

  ‘Cousin Kate soon worked out that I thought it was great fun to do the farm chores that she hated,’ she said lightly.

  ‘Don’t tell me…she had you whitewashing the picket fence.’ Scott surprised her with a rich chuckle, adding to his mystified daughter, ‘If you want to know what we’re talking about, I suggest you try reading some Mark Twain.’ He finished off the apple and tossed the core in the same direction that Petra had chosen, but to a considerably greater distance.

  Anya watched with a poignant sense of wistful yearning as he and his daughter talked, fascinated by the mixture of boldness and tentativeness on both sides, the hunger and hesitation that tangled their lines of communication.

  A little while later, encouraged by Scott’s relaxed responses into further reminiscences about life on the farm and how, a few years after her aunt and uncle’s death, she had been happy to come back to boarding school in Auckland while Kate had remained with her parents in New York to continue her intensive music studies, Anya suddenly realised that she had just been the victim of a very subtle form of cross-examination.

  ‘I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have let me run on like that,’ she said, reaching for a taste from the drink bottle, her dry throat telling her she had been doing far too much talking and too little listening.

  ‘So you and your cousin were sort of born to the wrong set of parents, and then you swapped lives, except that you never got to live at Riverview again until now,’ Petra worked out.

  ‘You obviously had a far greater sentimental attachment to the farm than Kate,’ said Scott quietly. ‘It must have been quite a wrench when she sold it, but at least you knew she still owned The Pines up until five years ago.’ He sat up to face her with a smooth tightening of his internal muscles, draping one long arm over a bent knee, his other leg still outstretched. ‘Did you ever consider the possibility of buying the house yourself when she told you she was putting it on the market?’ He watched her grey eyes skate away from his and performed one of the intuitive leaps that made him such a formidable lawyer. ‘Or didn’t she tell you until after the deed was done?’

  Anya shrugged, her finger tracing one of the dark red flowers at the hem of her dress where it was drawn taut across her knees. ‘It wasn’t as if I could have afforded to pay what she was asking, she knew that—’

  ‘But she was family.’ Petra hit the nail on the head. ‘Wouldn’t she have sold it to you on the cheap or something, if you’d told her you wanted it?’

  ‘It would have saved her several thousand in real estate fees for a start,’ commented Scott. ‘Did you ever ask her to give you first refusal, or hold the mortgage for you, Anya?’

  ‘It was her inheritance from her parents. I couldn’t expect her to forfeit that. At the time she sold she was facing a hefty bill for back taxes; she needed the money up front—’

  ‘You offered what you could, but it wasn’t enough,’ he guessed shrewdly. ‘Wouldn’t your parents help you out? They must be loaded.’

  ‘The lifestyle they lead is also extremely expensive to maintain. I’ve been self-supporting since I left school and I like it that way. Of course they’ve paid for trips for me to visit them, and are generous with gifts, but my parents and I inhabit completely separate lives. Anyway, regardless of how much money they have, it’s appallingly bad manners to treat one’s parents as if they’re a bank—’ She missed the flash of discomfort on Petra’s face, preoccupied as she was with Scott’s infuriating expression of knowing sympathy.

  ‘So you asked, but the folks turned you down.’

  ‘Will you stop trying to turn me into Little Orphan
Annie?’ she said in exasperation, stiffening at the slight hint of sympathy. ‘They would have given me the money towards an apartment in the city, but I didn’t want that. I’m perfectly happy in the house that I’ve got! The Pines would have been way too big for me, and I never could have afforded the renovations it obviously needed on top of everything else—’

  ‘So you don’t resent me for owning it?’

  ‘That would be as pointless as you resenting me for being related to the person who sold it to you.’

  ‘Touché.’ He saluted her with a finger to the centre of his broad temple.

  ‘When you used to stay here, which was your room?’ asked Petra, looking up at the wall from which the creeper had already been pruned ruthlessly back to first-floor level.

  ‘The upstairs has changed around since I was here—there were never any en suite bathrooms for a start—but Kate and I used to share a corner room where that gable looks out over the back, one with a trapdoor to the attic.’

  ‘Sam’s room,’ said Scott, saving her from the frisson it would have caused her to know that it was now his.

  ‘This house has an attic?’ Petra said. ‘Cool! What’s up there?’

  Anya could feel the blood throb guiltily in her veins. She had tried to push Kate’s problem to the back of her mind, but every now and then it loomed oppressively large in her thoughts. Scott had provided her with both alibi and opportunity when he had invited her to tutor Petra, but the moment Anya moved to act on her cousin’s request she would be crossing an invisible line, violating a code of ethics that was integral to her self-respect.

  ‘A lot of dirt, cobwebs and boring old furniture, I expect,’ Scott replied. ‘That’s all that seemed to be up there when I did my first tour of inspection and I never bothered to have it cleaned out. I suppose the builders added a bit of extra debris of their own.’

  A series of high-pitched squeals and boisterous splashing rose from the other side of the house and Petra heaved a huge, martyred sigh.

  ‘It sounds as if Sam and her friends are having a good time in the pool. Why don’t you go around and join them?’ suggested Scott.

  She had leaped to her feet even before he’d finished his sentence, but then she hovered briefly, looking at Anya.

  ‘But what about Miss Adams?’

  He smiled and a small shiver went up Anya’s spine. ‘I’ll look after Miss Adams.’

  Petra’s pang of conscience evaporated on the instant. ‘OK. Thanks, Dad. See ya!’

  ‘See you tomorrow, Petra. And don’t forget to read that biology chapter!’ Anya called after her.

  ‘I won’t!’

  ‘Will she?’ asked Scott settling back. ‘Perhaps accidentally on purpose?’

  Anya shook her head. ‘She’s been pretty good. Once she sets her mind to something she does it. She’s very quick on the uptake.’

  Scott’s mouth adopted a wry twist. ‘I’ve noticed.’ He watched his daughter round the corner of the house. ‘She’s incredibly sophisticated in some ways and terrifyingly naive in others. I just don’t get why she needs all that defensive bravado—the black clothes, the hair, the ears, the nose, for God’s sake. I suppose I should be grateful that she isn’t sporting a tongue-stud and tattoo!’

  He turned his head and glimpsed the tail end of Anya’s secret smile. ‘What?’

  She shook her head, starting to gather up the books that were scattered on the grass. ‘Nothing.’

  Her blatant nonchalance made his eyes narrow. ‘Yes, it is. You’re wearing that damned Mona Lisa look. You know something that I don’t. What is it?’

  ‘Mona Lisa?’ Anya murmured, her grey eyes wide.

  His hand closed around her arm as she reached for a folder, his expression dangerously playful. She had learned to beware that devilish look. ‘That enigmatic smile that tiptoes around your mouth when you think you have me at a disadvantage. What aren’t you telling me that I ought to know?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say—’ she began demurely, and then squeaked as he tumbled her backwards onto the grass, pinning her wrists on either side of her head.

  ‘Are you ticklish, Miss Adams?’

  A horrified giggle of nervous anticipation bubbled up in her throat as she looked up into his teasing face. ‘No!’

  He had lowered his hard body to press against her side, and registered her ripple of tension at his question.

  ‘I think you’re lying,’ he murmured, his eyes insufferably smug. He slowly drew her wrists above her head, gathering them into one of his large hands. The other he allowed to trickle lightly down her ribs. ‘Shall we test my theory?’

  Anya bit back another betraying giggle. ‘This is highly inappropriate behaviour,’ she said sternly, as he stilled her squirming by sliding a heavy calf across her ankles.

  ‘Inappropriate to what?’ The smell of crushed grass mingled with the spicy scent of warm male skin, overlaid with a tang of sweet apple as his face hovered sinfully close.

  ‘T-to our relationship,’ she quavered as his fingertips stirred against her ribs, and watched as a sultry spark began to smoulder in his blue eyes. Now it was his body that was invaded with tension, chasing out some of the playfulness.

  ‘And what exactly is our relationship?’ His words whispered across her lips. ‘Partners in a hostile deal? Coconspirators? Combatants? Friends?’

  ‘I—we—’ The stirring of his hips against her slender thigh brought her faltering to a stop, her smoky grey eyes filling with a fatal curiosity that was irresistibly alluring to the predatory male who held her captive.

  ‘Perhaps it’s time we found out…’

  His hand contracted with deliberate intent, surprising a gasp of laughter from her that parted her lips for his sensuous pleasure and he immediately settled in to stake his claim, his hand stroking back up her body to cup the side of her face, guiding her deeper into the kiss, his chest crushing her breasts as he moved over her, slanting his head to seek greater access to her silken surrender.

  Anya’s fingers curled helplessly into her leashed palms as her curiosity was stunningly satisfied, and then swiftly transmuted into a fierce craving that arched her trembling body against his dominating weight. She murmured under his mouth and he recognised the heated encouragement of a woman desirous of greater pleasures, his nostrils flaring at the piquant scent of her startled arousal, his tongue dipping further into the moist interior, delicately teasing the slick satin walls of her most sensitive inner surfaces, his hand relaxing on her captive wrists, sliding sensuously down her slender bare arms to fold them one by one around his powerful shoulders.

  The sun shone through the leafy branches overhead, creating a dancing dazzle against her closed eyelids as Anya sank beneath rippling waves of ever-widening pleasure, utterly open to his demanding passion, her breasts aching as they rubbed against his chest. Her short, sensible nails dug desperately into the back of his polo shirt and he seemed to know instantly what she needed, his big hand seeking out the slight weight of her breast, cupping it through the thin fabric of her dress, his long thumb circling the hardened nipple, teasing at it until her breath sobbed in his mouth and he rewarded her eagerness with a gentle twist of thumb and forefinger that sent a gush of hot pleasure pooling between her thighs.

  In spite of her enthralment she felt a tiny nudge of shock at the intensity of her feelings. For the first time in her life she appreciated the validity of the excuse ‘swept away by passion’. Her eyes flew open to glimpse his, brilliant with reckless male triumph and a slightly dazed wildness that made her heart melt.

  ‘Scott—’

  His hard mouth curved against her lips. ‘Hush…I know…it feels good, doesn’t it…?’ She could taste his rising hunger, hear the husky rasp of his breath, feel the urgent thrust of his desire as he nipped and suckled at her lower lip, his hands moving down to shape her slim hips to his need, his fingers curving into her soft bottom.

  It felt more than good. Anya pushed at his shoulders. ‘Stop…We can’t do
this,’ she panted.

  For a moment she feared that he wasn’t going to pay any attention to her protest, but then he rolled off her with a groan, lying flat on his back in the grass, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in a shallow, uneven rhythm.

  Anya sat up, shakily rearranging her twisted dress and tidying her hair.

  ‘Why don’t you take it down?’ Scott had opened his eyes and was watching her with unblinking curiosity. ‘What’s the point of having long hair if you never wear it loose?’

  ‘It’s cooler like this,’ she said.

  ‘You mean more schoolmarmy. If you think you’re turning me off you’re mistaken. Or maybe you’re trying to remind me of my historical weakness for schoolteachers?’

  His sly reference to Petra’s mother made her flush and his chuckle was low and taunting.

  ‘You don’t look in the least cool any more. You look deliciously hot and bothered.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have grabbed me like that—’

  ‘Why?’ He pushed himself up on his hands. ‘We both enjoyed it, didn’t we? Where’s the harm in a couple of adults having a little harmless frolic in the sun?’

  Harmless? Anya felt faint.

  ‘You have impressionable teenagers around,’ she told him severely. ‘What would their parents say if some of them went home and told them that they’d seen you…that you….’

  ‘Were rolling in the grass with some brazen hussy?’

  ‘We’re trying to rehabilitate my reputation, not give people even more to gossip about,’ she reminded him.

  He tilted his head. ‘Then you shouldn’t have kissed me back with such enthusiasm.’

  She was stumped for a crushing answer. ‘I—you took me by surprise.’

  He shouted with laughter. ‘I see, so when you’re prepared to be kissed, you don’t kiss back. That must make your dates with Mark Ransom pretty disappointing for the poor guy.’

  How he would crow if he knew they had only got as far as a swift peck on the cheek! ‘What makes you think that he doesn’t surprise me?’

  He ticked her a lopsided grin. ‘He’s the boy scout type—he’d make sure you knew what was coming. I bet, to Ransom, every woman’s a lady…’