by Diana Fraser
“You still own all this land?”
“Not all of it.” His voice had dulled suddenly. “But I will.”
She looked at him sharply, trying to discern the meaning behind the edge to his words. But before she could say anything further, he’d moved on.
“Come on, I’ll show you around.”
Callum showed her through reception rooms, designed to impress, through to the rear of the property, which was obviously where he spent most of his time. The rooms were still on a large scale, but the furnishings were more comfortable, less lavish.
“I’ve never seen anything like this place.”
“My great, great grandfather did things on a grand scale.”
Gemma wandered over to the French windows. As opposed to the formality of the front of the house, the garden at the back was designed in a natural style, with paths disappearing into the woodland.
He dropped her bag to the floor. “I’ll have Maria take your bag upstairs for you.” He turned around just as the door opened and a middle-aged woman appeared.
“Good morning Mr. Mackenzie. Morgan received your message and has sent people down for Miss Winters’ car.”
Gemma raised her eyebrows.
“Good. Maria, this is Gemma Winters. She’ll be staying with us a while.”
Would she? Something inside her sent a loud warning signal through her system.
“Certainly, sir. I’ll have a room prepared.”
“And we’ll have something to eat now in the Orangerie.” He glanced at Gemma, a wicked gleam sparking in his eyes, as he looked her briefly up and down. “A lot to eat.”
As Maria left the room, Callum’s cell phone rang and she watched him stride over to the window, his gaze focused on the mid-distance as he concentrated on the phone call. He was so obviously lord and master of all he surveyed. How could she have thought otherwise? A cowboy? A shepherd? How could she have been so stupid? Here, back in the real world, he was a wealthy businessman—same toys, same arrogant commands over the phone. What the hell had she agreed to? She checked where her bag was and backed away from him. She’d get a taxi and return to civilization.
He looked up, switched off his phone and stared at her.
“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I think maybe I have.”
He was beside her immediately. “I know this has all happened quickly, but I want you to stay.”
“But—”
He stopped her words with a kiss, so gentle that it stunned her more than anything else he could have done. More than the passion they’d shared, more than any words he could have uttered.
“Stay, at least for something to eat. Then decide. Besides, it’ll give my people a chance to locate your car.”
She wondered if she’d be able to get a taxi to come all this way, even if she could afford it. “I’ll get another rental.” She winced, suddenly realizing that her finances weren’t up to paying for another car.
“No.” He sighed. “You can use one of ours if you need to. Look. Just have something to eat while we sort out a car for you.”
She nodded jerkily. “Okay, thanks.”
He placed his hand in the small of her back and ushered her into the Orangerie that ran the length of the rear of the house. The large exotic plants created screens and separate hidden areas. In the center was a table and chairs beside a small fountain.
“Geez, things don’t seem to have changed here since the Victorian times.”
“I hardly notice it. I leave the inside up to mother. She lives in Christchurch but visits regularly and what she says goes for the interior. I have no interest in it.”
“It’s beautiful. What was it like growing up here?”
Callum’s gaze narrowed as he looked out to the trees that rose sharply behind the house. “Difficult. My parents didn’t get on. How about you? Where did you grow up?”
“London. My upbringing was difficult, too, but for different reasons. My mother left my father and me when I was a baby. My father traveled a lot so we didn’t see much of each other. I was really raised by my nanny. Then my father died and everything changed. It turned out he’d spent all the money.”
“How old were you?”
“Seventeen.”
“And you had no one you could turn to?”
“No, not at first. I did waitressing for a while and then… well…”
“And then when the old lady died, you came here.”
Gemma started to deny it but bit her lip and nodded.
“What relation exactly was she to you?”
Gemma hesitated. “Distant cousin.”
“When she died, you inherited Blackrock.”
“I came to Blackrock, that’s right.”
“But your name’s different.”
“Er, yes.” Damn right it was. “It came to me through my grandmother who married a Winters.” Gemma looked at him anxiously, but the slight tension, the frown, disappeared as he obviously rationalized it to himself. “Right. So why did you come here?”
A thousand thoughts ran through her mind but she was saved by the entrance of Maria and the delicious smell of a homemade soup and fresh bread.
“Better?”
Gemma sat back. “Much, thank you.”
His phone rang. Callum put it to his ear, listened, but barely spoke before switching it off once more.
“Any news on the car?”
“They’ve found it.”
“Can it be saved?”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll sort it out.”
“And it’s okay to borrow a car to take me to Blackrock?”
He frowned as his phone rang again. He glanced at the screen. “I have to take this call.”
She rose, picked up her bag and stood by the open door looking out at the huge landscape. The longer she delayed, the more her resolve faltered. Eventually he finished his phone call and came over to her.
He lifted her chin and kissed her gently, persuasively.
“I want you to stay, Gemma. You don’t belong in a rotting house in the middle of nowhere in the Mackenzie country. You wouldn’t last two minutes. Stay here with me.” Gemma didn’t know whether he was talking about an overnight stay or something more permanent. And, from the frown that lingered on his forehead, he wasn’t so sure himself. Either way she wasn’t interested, no matter how much his kisses threatened to destroy her resolve.
“No, I have to go.”
He frowned. “And where are you going to go?”
“Blackrock.” She turned around, looking every which way but at him, and pushed her hands through her hair in confusion. “Just… got to go. I’m sorry, it’s hard to explain.”
Suddenly, he brought his mouth to hers once more and the kiss deepened as his hands slipped around her hips and bottom, drawing her closer still to him. The seconds extended into minutes during which Gemma’s fears seemed to float away on a cloud of sensuous exploration of tongues and hands. With their bodies pressed so close together she was in danger of forgetting her own name.
Eventually he pulled away. “You’re not going alone.”
A cold shiver ran down her spine. Suddenly she remembered her name. Suddenly she remembered why she was here. Suddenly she remembered everything—too vividly. They were the exact same words Paul had spoken to her as she’d left him. She closed her eyes in disbelief at her stupidity. She was drifting into a relationship with another controlling man.
She pulled herself away from his arms. “Yes, I am.”
He searched her eyes as if trying to make sense of her refusal. “Come on, you don’t know your way there. I’m simply offering a lift, no strings attached—just a lift to Blackrock.”
And she needed one. Because she’d got herself stuck in the middle of nowhere with a stranger and she needed his help to get to her new home. She sucked in a deep breath. “Okay. Thanks.”
He frowned. He didn’t have a clue what was going through her mind and she couldn’t tell him. She cou
ldn’t tell him anything of her fears. She couldn’t talk about Paul, couldn’t mention she’d lied to him about being heiress of Blackrock. If there was one thing she’d learned in life, it was that a secret is best kept if you tell as few people as possible. Certainly not a stranger.
“I don’t know what’s going on, Gemma. You seem scared. Can’t you tell me?”
She bit her lip and shook her head, willing her eyes to convey to him the words her mouth couldn’t speak.
“Okay.” He dropped her hands abruptly. “We’d better get going then. I’ll take you to Blackrock and you can see for yourself what you’re getting into.”
She could see how she’d missed it. The small copse of trees hid its treasure well. As they ascended the overgrown track—indistinguishable from the surrounding tussock grass—the trees thinned and Gemma caught sight of a picturesque colonial cottage peeping out from behind a stand of huge pine trees.
She’d never considered the expression “love at first sight” as something real. But that’s exactly what she felt now, for that lost house. She also felt a stab of regret because it wasn’t actually hers.
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s a wreck.”
She got out the car and walked up to the old verandah. She pulled at a piece of dead wisteria and tossed it onto the overgrown garden. “Nothing a bit of hard work won’t remedy.”
“You can’t be serious, Gemma. It hasn’t been lived in for years. The old lady who used to live here has been in a nursing home for nearly twenty years. And it was practically derelict when she was here.”
She pulled out a key from her bag. “Just as well I put the key in my bag, and not the car.”
“You stopped off at the lawyers first then.”
“Yeah.” She didn’t want to talk about that. She’d given the lawyers Sarah’s letter with the instructions that Gemma would be staying there indefinitely and to give her every assistance. The lawyers had been curious but hadn’t quizzed her.
She pushed open the door and went inside. The too-long-closed-up smell of dusty emptiness filled her lungs. The floorboards creaked and groaned as they stepped onto them.
“At least no one could come in here without you knowing.” Callum raised his eyebrows. A shiver ran down her spine. “Seen enough to convince you this is a bad idea yet?”
“No.” She walked through the hall, opening doors as she went. The rooms were large. It was nothing on the scale of Glencoe but the rooms had high studs and good proportions. But he was right. It needed a lot of work. But something had happened as she’d walked into the house. She’d felt an overwhelming sense of relief. It was a wreck. But, for all intents and purposes, it was her wreck. She turned around to find Callum standing close. He reached out and gripped her hands firmly within his. She shivered, both from the memory of what they’d experienced during the night and at his sense of possession as he held her hands tight.
“You have nothing here. No bed, no furnishings, no power.”
“I’ll manage.”
“Well, there’s some kerosene in the garage to fuel your oil lamps. But be careful about fire.” He sighed. “At least you have water from the water tank.” He shook his head in disbelief. “How are you going to cope, Gemma? You’re hardly a country girl. Just tell me why you want to stay?”
“Instinct. It feels right here. It’s what I’ve come to New Zealand for. To be free of things.”
“Things? Like me, like men you mean? Perhaps you should have thought of that before we made love.”
“I tried. Believe me I tried. But it was something…”
“Special. Wasn’t it?”
She nodded. “But it’s not what I came here for.” She bit her lip. She had to tell him something of the truth. She owed him that. “I need to be free.” She looked down at his hands that still gripped her tightly. “You make me feel trapped, controlled.” He followed her gaze and slowly released his fingers. He stepped away.
“I don’t mean to.” He shrugged. “It’s who I am. I’m in charge of the estate, I own it, I control it. It’s who I need to be.”
“You don’t need to control me. I don’t want you to.”
“So I’m just meant to let you go and make a huge mistake?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
They stared at each other in an impasse that she knew went deeper than words.
“It’s my land, Callum, and I’m going to live here.” He still didn’t look as if he’d got the message. What the hell could she say to make him see? “Callum! I don’t need you!”
It worked. Something like the shock of recognition passed over his features. He looked at her with a brief bewilderment that nearly undid her. She flexed her hands to stop herself from reaching out to him.
He stepped away. “Perhaps I was wrong. I thought you’d fit in. I thought you were different. But you’re not, are you? You’re just like all the rest.”
She shook her head wondering what the hell he was talking about, but his sudden coldness took her breath away, robbing her of speech.
“Morgan will drop off a car for you later today,” Callum continued. “Tell him if you need anything, because it’s obvious you’re not going to tell me.”
She nodded. “Thanks.” She followed him out into the bright sunshine, blinking lightly as if awaking from a sleep.
As she watched Callum drive away, out towards the hills, framed by the vast snow-capped mountains and rolling plains, she felt desperately sad. For a brief time she’d thought she’d found something she’d dreamed of her whole life through—a soul mate. But the dream had twisted into the old nightmare of possession and ownership. If Callum now believed her to be like every other woman, she believed him to be too like Paul for comfort.
She turned away abruptly and gazed up at the decrepit homestead. She could deal with sadness. So long as she had her freedom, she could deal with anything.
CHAPTER FOUR
Five months later…
Gemma pulled up in front of the house, switched off the car engine and waited for the dust and quiet to settle. It was mid-summer and, although patches of rusting iron still peppered the roof and the weatherboards were in dire need of repainting, the house looked like home. There was an old sofa on the shady verandah and the blowsy white blooms of a climbing rose, uncovered after a ruthless attack on the overgrown garden, dangled heavily over the verandah, their petals covering the deck and garden like snow. She might not own the house, but, after a long shift at The Lake House Café in Tekapo, it was both home and haven to her.
Particularly now she’d discovered she was pregnant.
It had been a total shock when the pregnancy had been confirmed by the over-the-counter test. She’d managed to ignore all the signs, fooled herself into believing that her one slip-up had had no lasting consequences. But not any more. Now the signs were all too obvious. She was five months pregnant and showing.
She slammed shut the car door and felt the full force of the mid-afternoon sun on her head. Once inside she walked through the dark hallway to the rear of the house where sunshine streamed into the kitchen and dining room.
She dropped the paper bag of groceries onto the kitchen counter, and plucked a postcard from her handbag and tapped it thoughtfully against the worn Formica. All the time she’d been here she hadn’t received any mail. And now this. A postcard from London, with no words, nothing except her name and the name of the café. Was it Paul? Had he somehow found her? She couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t his style. He’d be over here on the next plane if he knew where she was. No, it must be Sarah, keeping in touch. She’d told Sarah she’d intended working in a café and there weren’t that many to choose from so she must have hazarded a guess. But why didn’t she send it to the house? Why no message? She sighed and propped the card up on the plate rack. She had no idea and no way of finding out. She couldn’t risk writing to Sarah. Particularly now she had more to think about than herself.
She made herself a cup of herbal tea and
walked into the dining room. The scent of lavender filled the air from the huge bunch of clippings she’d gathered together in an old tin fish kettle she’d found in one of the outbuildings. It was a large, high-ceilinged room simply furnished—by necessity—with a rickety table liberated from the curbside, a speaker system for her iPod and an old deckchair positioned in front of the French windows that looked out to the mountains.
But what dominated the room were the paintings. They were huge, rough canvases made of whatever she could find or afford, with sweeping wide brushstrokes courtesy of the paintbrushes she’d discovered amongst the century-old clutter in the shed. She wasn’t happy with any of them but each of them expressed something of the sense of peace and freedom she’d found here, in this house, in this country.
She switched on her iPod and the haunting strings of Vaughan Williams’ Thomas Tallis filled the air. She turned the volume up higher, sipped her tea and stood looking critically at the painting she was currently working on. She picked up the brush and soon became absorbed in putting paint to canvas, creating sense from chaos, forgetting her worries.
Time must have slipped past because her tea was cold as she sipped it and the sun had dropped lower in the sky, its beams enriching the unvarnished wood floor and cheap watercolor paints she was using. She stood still for a moment as she tried to think what had disturbed her. She turned down the music and stood motionless, listening. Then she heard it again—the creak and crack of the floorboards as it came into contact with heavy feet. Fear sliced into her gut and she spun around.
It was Callum. He stood before her, just as she’d imagined him so many times, his hair as golden as the sun-bleached grasses that covered the valley floor and his body, tall and broad, bigger than she remembered. And she remembered often. The fear fractured and transformed into butterflies.
“What are you doing here?” She wiped the paint off her brush and stood tall, making sure to hide her stomach.