The Marriage Trap (Book 2, The Mackenzies)

by Diana Fraser

  “No.”

  “But,” she smiled patiently, “I’d like one now.” She plucked at her saturated clothes.

  “Not yet.”

  He stood up. She wished he hadn’t. Her eyes were on a level with his chest, visible through the open neck of his shirt. She swallowed and lifted her chin to meet his gaze. It was equally determined. There would be no argument. He was obviously used to getting his own way. But not this time, not with this woman. She’d had enough of being ordered around.

  She took a step closer to him, trying to hide the flutter of nerves. “And why not?”

  “Because we’ve got no hot water until the fire’s warmed it. Shower later, but you need to get out of those clothes now.” His gaze traveled the length of her body.

  Her skin tingled and she folded her arms across her breasts, suddenly aware of how her wet clothes revealed the flood of sensations that swept through her.

  “You should find whatever you want in the cupboard,” he added.

  “Right.” She opened the cupboard and pried open the lid of a huge chest. “Is there anything you haven’t got in here?” She pulled out a towel and continued to explore the chest. “Spices, biscuits, caviar, pasta, whisky.”

  “I could do with a glass of that now.”

  She passed him the bottle and some glasses, grabbed the towel and padded over to the bathroom, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind her.

  “You’d be better off stripping in front of the fire. You’ll freeze your butt off in the bathroom.”

  Rather a frozen butt than an exposed one, she thought. “I’ll survive.”

  “Then there’s the mice.”

  Gemma stopped dead in her tracks. “Mice?”

  “Sure. Why do you think I keep everything in the chest?” He twisted off the lid and poured two generous glasses of whisky before passing one to her.

  “Mice?” She repeated. The chills that ran down her spine had nothing to do with her soaking clothes.

  “Yep. They can’t get into the chest but the rest of the place is fair game.” He gave her a wry smile. “Especially the bathroom.”

  Gemma sat down quickly. She hated mice. Hated them. From their soft furry bodies to their long slithering tails. She looked up at him suspiciously. Was he having her on? Trying to get her to strip in front of him?

  “The rain could bring them inside in droves.” He passed her the glass of whisky.

  “You’re doing this on purpose.”

  He shrugged. “Get changed in the bathroom if you want to.”

  She took a big gulp of her whisky and coughed as it hit her throat before igniting a fiery trail down to her stomach. “I think I’ll pass on the mouse-infested bathroom.”

  “Come over here by the fire and I’ll get us some food. You like pasta?”

  “Yes. Love it.”

  He extended his hand as she approached the stove. “A bit late, but I’m Callum Mackenzie.”

  She took his hand. “Gemma Winters.”

  “Gemma Winters.” He rolled the syllables around his mouth as if he was tasting them. “So, Gemma Winters, why choose the Mackenzie country to explore your family tree? Why not Christchurch library? They have electricity there, I believe. Heaters even.” He grinned for the first time and she melted.

  “Very funny.”

  “Seriously, why here?”

  She looked at him suspiciously. She was in for a long night. She didn’t want to bare her soul. She didn’t want to tell him her life story and she couldn’t face telling any more lies. “It’s a long story.”

  “We have a long night ahead.”

  “Tell me about you first.”

  He shrugged. “Sure. I’m from here—born and bred. This is my country.” He downed his whisky in one gulp and took both glasses to refill them, topping hers up with the hot water that had just boiled on the stove.

  “I guessed you were. You look like you belong here.”

  “Just as you look like you belong in London.”

  She shook her head. “Not any more. I’ve been left a house here somewhere by a distant cousin. It’s called Blackrock. Doesn’t sound inviting and I haven’t found it yet. But whatever’s it’s like will be fine with me.”

  “Blackrock,” Callum repeated, frowning.

  “Yes, do you know it?”

  “Yep. You must have passed it before you crossed the river. I’m not surprised you didn’t see it—it’s lost amongst the trees now. It’s pretty derelict and it’s not livable.”

  “I don’t care what state it’s in, I’m living there.”

  His lips tightened thoughtfully. “You’d be better off letting the house fall down and selling the land. Won’t be of any use to you in the middle of nowhere.”

  Gemma hesitated. Sarah had told her she wasn’t able to sell the land because of the house. It had been some bizarre condition of the will. “How do you know about the caveat on the will?”

  “It’s common knowledge. The owner was eccentric with a grudge against people round here. Didn’t want it sold to anyone who might actually profit from it.” His mouth tightened more grimly. “Anyhow, what plans do you have for the place?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. I need to see it first. If it’s in as bad a state of repair as you say, I’ll need to fix it up.”

  “You’ll need money for that. Do you have any?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll get a job.”

  “Do you have permanent residency?”

  “Not yet. I’m on a visitor’s visa, but my work doesn’t usually involve much paperwork.”

  “What kind of work do you do?”

  “I’m a waitress.” Or at least she had been before she’d met Paul.

  “I’ll ask around for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Gemma suddenly felt uncomfortable. He was looking at her in a different way since she’d mentioned Blackrock. “So, how long will this last—the storm, that is?”

  “Hard to tell. Twelve to twenty-four hours. We’ll be here for a night at least.”

  “Right.” She eyed the lone double bed warily.

  He’d followed her gaze. “Uncomfortable with that?”

  “Well, I just wondered... what the sleeping arrangements were going to be. Where should I sleep?”

  He nodded to the bed. “In there.”

  “But…what about you? Where will you sleep?”

  “In there—with you.”

  “Well, hang on a minute. I don’t know what you take me for but I’m not in the habit of sleeping with strangers.”

  A smile flickered on his lips. “Perhaps you mistook my meaning. It wasn’t an invitation for sex, just sleep.”

  “Er, right. Of course.” She guessed it wasn’t too late to learn that there were men out there not like Paul, men who saved her from disaster and who didn’t expect sex in return.

  “You go ahead and strip while I make the bed.” Again the little tweak at the corner of his mouth. “I promise not to look.”

  Perhaps he didn’t expect sex, but he was certainly enjoying the situation. She watched him closely as she pulled the huge towel loosely around her, clutching it with one hand while she peeled off the soaking jeans with the other.

  Just the sight of him making the bed was enough to divert her mind from her predicament. His shirtsleeves were rolled up now the cottage was warm, revealing a haze of golden hairs on his tanned arms, covering the contours of his bunched muscles. And then there were his hands, large, strong and, she knew from experience, capable.

  Somehow she managed to slip off her t-shirt and keep the towel in place. She threw it on top of her wet jeans. Then she looked down at her soaking underwear and across at Callum who’d found some pillows from a cupboard and had tossed them on the bed. Should she leave her underwear on? Soaking wet, she felt the chill of them in contrast to the warmth of her exposed skin. No choice.

  She didn’t let her gaze leave Callum. She couldn’t—it was the only way she could make sure he didn’t wat
ch her. But her eyes dropped from his face, noticing the way his shirt hung from broad shoulders and fell over his faded jeans, which were soaked where his coat had failed to cover them.

  She kicked away her bra and panties, hiding them under the rest of her sodden clothes. She was naked now under the towel.

  She watched as he flung the large duvet onto the bed. There was a control and restraint about his movements, made all the more impressive by his obvious strength. He didn’t look like the kind of man you’d want to get on the wrong side of. She knew his name now but he was still a stranger. She just hoped that by morning he would still be a stranger.

  Callum sat back in the hard upright chair, took a mouthful of whisky, stretched out his legs in front of him and watched Gemma hop about, as she clutched a towel and shot him furtive looks. He probably shouldn’t have told her about the mice but he was glad he had. It wasn’t a lie exactly. Just because he’d never seen any, it didn’t mean there weren’t any. And to think all he had planned was a quiet night working on the accounts. What was that saying about an ill wind? Whatever it was, it was wrong.

  The heiress of Blackrock. Perfect, in so many ways. She bent over to push the mound of wet clothes out of his sight and he grinned. There was something intriguingly innocent about her. She was trying to hide her underwear while at the same time pushing out her behind. He narrowed his eyes as he focused on her bottom, nicely rounded despite her slim figure. And her hair. She’d described it as ginger but that didn’t begin to describe the depth of color. It was like… His mind groped for words to describe what it was like. A copper beech in autumn? The tawny sheen of his favorite stallion after a brisk gallop? No, her hair wasn’t like dying leaves or a sweaty horse. He sighed. He’d never been good with words.

  All he knew was her hair was just right—despite his life-long love of blondes—and she had curves in all the right places. That she was the new owner of Blackrock—land his family had coveted for two generations since his grandfather had lost it in a gambling session—only added to her attractions. It was going to be an interesting night.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Callum frowned in concentration as he sent a text, his large fingers stabbing the phone. Gemma took advantage of the momentary distraction to admire the strong planes of his face, shadowed in the muted light. She had a curious feeling she knew what it would feel like to run her fingers lightly over his stubble-roughened skin: stimulating and yet quieting at the same time. She shivered in anticipation.

  He looked up and caught her watching him. Her stomach contracted and a thrill ripped through her body as his eyes, dark in the dim light, narrowed.

  “Cold?”

  “A little.” But it wasn’t cold that made her shiver. Watching him had stirred a desire she’d never felt with Paul.

  “Umm, I can see that.”

  His voice was a low rumble that she felt through her body, as much as heard. She was overwhelmed by a compulsion to run her hand down his strong neck to his chest, revealed by the open shirt—tanned, sprinkled with golden hair. She had a strong desire to press down on the springy hair and feel the heat and muscle that lay beneath. She remembered his masculine smell when he’d held her tight to his body. Her body responded. She wanted to smell him again.

  “You might feel warmer when you’re dressed.”

  She tightened the towel. “Sure.” She took a deep breath. She had to get a grip. He was a man, like any other, and she hadn’t come to New Zealand to find a man. “Any suggestions? My clothes are all soaked.”

  He rose slowly and walked towards her, his eyes fixed on hers, a small smile curling at his lips. What was he going to do? Rip her towel off her? Warm her with his body? But she didn’t run away as she should have done. She stood still, and waited. His grin broadened as he walked past her and opened the cupboard. He took out a t-shirt and tossed it to her.

  “Try this for size. Not much point giving you a pair of my jeans.”

  She let the breath she was holding slide out of her body. She shook her head. She was losing the plot. “Thanks.” She slipped it on. It was huge. Only her breasts stopped it falling off completely, but at least it covered from her knees up. She yanked both shoulders up and let the towel drop to the floor. “It’s, er, better than nothing.”

  He grinned and turned to the stove—pouring a stream of pasta into the now bubbling water. His smile continued to play around his lips and she felt a blush rise through her body as she imagined the cause of the smile.

  “Okay. I’ll let you make the sauce—there’s plenty of ingredients—while I check everything’s secure outside and get changed.”

  “Right then.” She smiled hesitantly, wondering how on earth she was going to make a sauce when she hadn’t the first idea how to cook.

  “Umm.”

  There was something in the way that Callum uttered the word—through a mouth that was glued together with a determination not usually seen when eating—that made Gemma look up to see his brows knitted together.

  “Anything wrong?”

  “No. I’m just wondering how long you boiled the pasta for?”

  Gemma frowned as she tried to recall. “Not sure. Twenty minutes or so.”

  “‘Or so’ being another ten or more minutes judging by the consistency.” Callum’s lips curled as he pressed down with his fork onto a layer of pasta that disintegrated into one mushy lump.

  “Yeah.” She frowned and stirred her own plate of congealed mess. “At least.”

  “Right.” He raised his eyebrows as if trying to understand something before lowering them and bracing himself for another mouthful. “I take it that, as well as not being able to light a fire, you can’t cook either.”

  She sighed and pushed the plate away, relieved she didn’t have to pretend any more. “Unfortunately not. Sorry about that.” She twisted her mouth in an effort to suppress a smile. It mustn’t have worked because she saw an answering grin in Callum. He pushed his plate away too.

  “Just as well I had a big lunch.” He sat back in his chair and looked at her consideringly. “You know, not many people can get away without cooking unless they’re rich or spoiled. Which one are you?”

  “I was rich.”

  “Figures.”

  “Why?”

  “No sense. Driving into a storm and nearly killing yourself.”

  “That’s not lack of sense, that’s just…”

  “Ignorance?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “So, are you returning to your rich family now you’ve lost everything?”

  “No, I’m not rich any more. That all changed when my father died. Now all I have is in that bag.”

  He frowned. “Is there no one who can help you?”

  She took her plate to the ancient sink. It was always easier to tell people that she had no family, if she didn’t face them, if she didn’t see their pity. “No. No one.” She turned and crossed her arms around her body. She was surprised to see he had no sappy look of sympathy on his face. “Besides, I don’t need help. I’ll find a job, I’ve got somewhere to live, I can sort myself out.”

  “Blackrock, you said.” Callum sat back in the chair, the light of the flickering fire warming his steely blue gaze. “You mean to live there? The house hasn’t been lived in for years.”

  She frowned. It was what Sarah had been afraid of. “Is it habitable?”

  He shrugged. “No, you’d be best off letting it fall to ruin. Move into town.”

  She shook her head. “No. I can work on it. Blackrock’s where I want to be.” Away from prying eyes, she wanted to add, but couldn’t. Suddenly she felt very tired. She pushed her hair from her face and yawned and sat down once more.

  “It’s been a long day for you. You should get to bed.”

  Bed. It lifted the veil the warmth and whisky had created. “You’ve no idea.” She leaned back, tossed her hair over the back of the chair so it could dry better, and closed her eyes.

  “You have beautiful hair, Gemma
.”

  She opened her eyes to see his gaze travel down its length.

  “Thanks.” Suddenly uncomfortable, she coiled it into a knot and stuffed it into the t-shirt. “I usually wear it tied back.”

  “It’ll dry better loose.”

  Despite her better judgment she found herself letting her hair fall back over the chair.

  He moved his chair closer to her, stretching out his long, muscular legs in front of the fire—his faded jeans pulling tightly across his thighs—and took another drink of whisky. She hastily took another sip of hers in an effort to distract herself from the disturbing effect of his nearness, and kept her eyes focused on the swirling amber liquid.

  Callum Mackenzie wasn’t like anyone she’d met before. He was a physical man who made no attempt to hide behind a veneer of politeness. What you saw was what you got. With Paul, everything had been hidden—dangerous, treacherous, like shifting sands beneath a calm, beautiful sea.

  But it wasn’t only Callum’s physicality. It was the way he made her feel that signaled his difference from Paul. When Callum turned his blue eyes to hers, he was looking, really looking at her, and her body responded to his interest of its own accord.

  She felt his eyes on her now. She tried to contain the acceleration of her heart, tried to keep her breathing steady, tried to keep in check her wayward thoughts. Instead she licked her suddenly dry lips and turned to find his gaze resting on her. It wasn’t an intense gaze, it was honest, interested, very interested. They didn’t move for long seconds. She had no idea what he was thinking but if it was anything like what she was thinking, she was in trouble.

  “We should go to bed.”

  God, he was thinking her thoughts.

  “You go to bed first. I want my hair to dry.” She couldn’t care one way or the other about her hair but she couldn’t bring herself to jump into bed with him yet because she didn’t trust herself.