by Robyn Donald
His brows met in a formidable frown. ‘I wouldn’t leave you stuck here,’ he said shortly as he straightened, and hefted the tyre effortlessly into the shop.
‘Hi, Nat,’ the man who came out from behind the counter said. ‘Did you have a good time last night?’
‘Wonderful, thanks, Mr Stephens. Can you order me a tyre for this wheel?’
Mr Stephens looked at it. ‘It’s buckled,’ he pointed out unnecessarily. ‘Do you want another wheel too?’
‘No, I’ll send the good wheel in to you on Monday so you can fit the new tyre.’ In spite of her attempt to sound her normal cheerful self, her words emerged clipped; Clay’s silent presence tugged at her nerves like a comb over wool.
Mr Stephens looked at Clay. To Natalia’s outrage Clay gave a short nod; relieved, the older man turned to her and said, ‘All right, then. I’ll put it on the rural delivery on Tuesday.’
Clay said nothing until they were back in the car. Then, as he turned the key to start it, he said, ‘All your tyres are shot—they’re dangerous, and even if another doesn’t blow out, you’re not going to get a warrant of fitness next time you take the truck in.’
Colourlessly Natalia said, ‘Quite possibly. I’ll contact my insurance company on Monday—no doubt they’ll be in touch with you soon afterwards. I’m really sorry about the door.’
His low laugh had a savage note in it. ‘I understand pride—sometimes it’s been the only thing that’s kept me going. I presume you can’t afford to pay for a new wheel.’
‘You presume too much,’ she said frostily.
There was a moment’s taut silence. Then he said quietly, ‘Point taken. We need to talk about fences. Boundary fences, to be specific.’
That was when Natalia remembered she’d be liable for half the cost of any new boundary fence between Xanadu and Pukekahu Station. She drew in a quick, jolting breath and tried to relax shoulders aching with sudden strain. ‘Yes, of course.’
He said, ‘Come up to dinner tomorrow night. How does seven o’clock sound?’
With rigid precision she said, ‘I’d rather discuss business more formally.’
In a tone that nudged too close to contempt, he said, ‘I don’t discuss business at social occasions. However, if you feel so strongly, come to the office at the homestead at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon.’
Which left her with nothing to say but, ‘Yes, all right.’
He nodded. Biting back hot, unwise words, Natalia sat in tense silence that lasted until they drove past the truck.
Clay asked laconically, ‘What are you going to do about that?’
‘It’ll be OK here,’ she said, hoping she was right. ‘It’s well off the road, so a driver would have to try hard to hit it.’
A stray beam of sun outlined his forceful profile, reinforcing the arrogant cut of his jaw and the symmetrical, autocratic bone structure as he nodded. Natalia looked straight ahead, her expression held under stony discipline.
When he drove into her gateway she said steadily, ‘You can put me down here, thank you.’ The last thing she wanted was for him to see inside her home.
‘You’ll get wet before you’re halfway there—it’s trying to rain.’
Sure enough, one of early winter’s soft showers was gathering around the ridges, ready to billow down the hills and across the narrow coastal flats to lose itself in the wide expanse of the Pacific Ocean.
‘Rain won’t melt me,’ Natalia said, hiding her defensiveness with unemphatic words and a flat tone.
‘So you’re a tough, hard woman.’ The drawled comment was meant to be sarcastic, and succeeded. ‘Why are you so prickly, Natalia?’
‘I have no idea what you mean,’ she said, each word so clearly articulated it could have sliced through ice. As the car drew up outside the ramshackle shed that was both garage and packhouse, she unclipped her seat belt.
His eyes narrowed and his mouth tilted into a mirthless smile, his keen gaze lingering on her hot cheeks. A feverish shiver pulled her skin tight.
‘Your eyes fire up brilliantly when you’re angry,’ he said, the words smooth and taunting.
‘Whereas you become offensive.’ She should be intimidated but she wasn’t; adrenaline pumped through her in a singing, exhilarating flood.
‘What makes you think I’m angry? This offensiveness could be my normal attitude.’
‘I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt,’ she retorted sweetly.
Swift as a striking bird of prey, Clay caught her tense hand and kissed the palm. Lean, tanned fingers tightened around her wrist; Natalia felt their controlled power like a fetter. Then he released her.
As she snatched back her hand Natalia thought she could feel the sensuous touch of his lips still burning on her skin.
‘Don’t dare me,’ he said evenly, his eyes dwelling on the soft curves of her breasts for a heart-stopping second before lifting to trap her gaze. Heat lit the tawny depths to gold, yet she couldn’t see emotion there, nothing but an intense, primal hunger.
‘How interesting your life must be—full of dares and challenges unrecognised by other people,’ she retorted in a brittle voice. ‘If I ever dare you, I’ll do it deliberately. And this isn’t a dare, either—I don’t want to flirt with you, or be the recipient of your approaches.’
‘You have a charming, old-fashioned turn of phrase,’ he said, mockery quirking the corners of that beautifully cut mouth, so chiselled that its strength wasn’t immediately noticeable. ‘Is that a heritage from your mother? I believe she was Russian.’
Liz must have told him.
Willing her pulses to slow down, Natalia drew in a swift breath. That kiss had been meant as a small punishment, and by overreacting she’d reinforced it. Pride transformed her embarrassment into a stony inflection. ‘My mother was born in New Zealand, but her parents were Russian refugees who’d learned their English from Victorian novels. She spoke more formally than most New Zealanders, so possibly I inherited it. And now,’ she said idiotically, ‘I have to go. Thank you for your kindness.’
She scrabbled behind her for the door handle and jerked it open, intent only on getting out of there.
The window on the passenger’s side of the car wound magically down. He said, ‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow afternoon.’
‘No, thank you,’ she said evenly, and when he frowned added curtly, ‘I prefer to walk.’
He gave her a long, considering stare, followed by an abrupt nod. The window wound up and the car drew away.
Natalia stepped back against the gate, leaning on it until the big car had disappeared. ‘Damn,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, damn.’
And turned into the house, walking up the path, barely noticing the burgeoning spires of redhot pokers or the last apricot trumpets of the datura.
Kicking off her boots in the laundry, she tried to estimate how much her half of a new boundary fence would cost; added to the other outgoings she’d racked up over the past couple of days, it came to an appalling amount of money.
‘Oh, Dad,’ she whispered, resting her forehead against the cool glass of the window. ‘You really left me in a mess, didn’t you?’
Twenty-four hours later, as she walked up to Pukekahu, Natalia was still worrying. But because she’d spent most of her waking hours trying to decide which clothes to wear for this interview, she was disgusted with herself.
In the end she’d settled on an elderly pair of black trousers that made the most of her long legs, and a poplin shirt the same green as her eyes. For luck she’d twisted around her wrist a thin gold chain her grandmother had given her. Because it wasn’t worth much it was the only thing she’d kept. Possibly the chain was a little dramatic for a business interview, but with any luck Clay would put it down to her Russian blood.
It took her fifteen minutes to walk through the cloudy afternoon to Pukekahu; as she approached the homestead Natalia sped up, hoping that the heavy clouds on the horizon stayed there.
Once Pukekahu homestead had be
en a glorious Victorian villa set in luxuriant subtropical gardens, but years of neglect had transformed the huge wooden building into a ruin, and the garden to a wild, overgrown tangle.
Natalia looked around. Although old Mr Freeman had let the place run down, it had been Dean Jamieson who’d allowed it to disintegrate. He’d told her he simply didn’t have enough money—and because she’d been temporarily infatuated she’d tried to believe him. No doubt the station had been a bargain for Clay, although it would cost a huge amount of money to make the house livable again.
Where was the office? She hesitated at the foot of a wide, high set of stairs that led up on to a wooden verandah, its balustrade entwined with clinging loops of jasmine, the red buds already opening to white flowers that exuded a scent almost cloying in its musky intensity.
Setting her mouth firmly, she began to climb the steps. At the top she headed towards an open door. As her feet clattered over the long unpainted boards Clay appeared in the doorway.
Natalia’s unwilling gaze was snared by a sudden blaze of gold. It vanished immediately, hidden by the fringe of his lashes as he said her name.
Swiftly, gripped by a chill of foreboding, she said, ‘It’s a pity the garden’s so overgrown. It has some stunning trees in it.’
‘Most of them are dying,’ he said smoothly. ‘Come in.’
Once inside she looked around and said, ‘Oh!’
‘What did you expect—ruins and dampness, decay and degradation?’ An undertone in his voice flicked across her nerves.
‘Well—you have to admit the outside looks pretty dilapidated!’
In front of her stretched an oriental carpet, its rich copper and blue hues subtly interwoven, and beyond it flames jumped in an embellished Victorian fireplace. Comfortable modern furniture picked up the paler colours in the rug, and a huge desk was set up with what was surely the latest in computer equipment.
Clay had taken over one of the sitting rooms for his office, and had clearly been in residence for some time.
‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘It’s not really cold enough for a fire, but it always looks welcoming.’
‘It’s lovely,’ Natalia said, studiously keeping her eyes averted from his handsome, authoritative face. ‘I hadn’t realised the house had been renovated.’
‘It hasn’t. This is the only livable room in it, and the engineer I commissioned to see if it was worth saving warned me it could easily collapse under me. In fact, it’s probably only held together by the jasmine.’
Natalia sat down. To fill the silence she remarked, ‘I was surprised to hear that Pukekahu had been sold. And no one knew who had bought it—you kept things very quiet.’
‘I don’t make a habit of talking about my business affairs,’ he said smoothly. ‘Didn’t Phil tell you he had a new boss?’
‘I haven’t seen him much lately,’ Natalia responded, too aware of those leonine eyes on her face. Phil had taken her refusal to go out with him again badly; in the end she’d told him as gently as she could not to contact her again. Hastily she asked, ‘What are you going to do with it?’
‘The homestead? It will have to be demolished; so will that hovel Phil’s living in. I’ll build a decent manager’s house. And then I’ll set about turning the station into a productive unit.’ He spoke tersely, a thread of steel running through his voice.
What would it be like to have that sort of money? Natalia looked down at her hands, the fingernails short and unpolished, still showing—in spite of hearty scrubbing—signs of her day’s work.
‘Can I get you some tea?’ Clay asked. ‘Or coffee?’
Natalia looked up, her eyes widening as they met the challenge in his. Dry-mouthed, she said, ‘I’d rather talk about the boundary fence.’
Something about Clay tugged at her senses and scrambled her brain. She needed a clear head, and she needed to get out of here.
‘I’ve done a costing of the fence between Xanadu and Pukekahu,’ he said calmly, walking across to the desk and picking up a sheet of paper. ‘You’d better have a look at it.’
Wishing she’d had the sense to remain standing, Natalia took the paper and stared at the figures. Bold, black numbers wavered before her eyes; she blinked surreptitiously and concentrated on adding them up.
It came to less than her estimate, but not much.
Holding herself very still, she said, ‘I can’t afford to pay half of this. Furthermore, I don’t really need a fence—I keep my animals in with an electric one. However, I’ll put it up if you provide the materials.’ She tried to sound matter-of-fact, impersonal, but the words emerged flat and defensive.
Black brows drew into a formidable frown. ‘Can you?’ he asked, not attempting to hide his scepticism.
Her smile was spiced with a fierce enjoyment. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said lightly, handing back the sheet of paper. ‘My skills might be unsophisticated, but they are useful.’
His eyes never left her face. Not a muscle moved in the big, poised body—the sheet of paper in his hand stayed steady. Primitive instinct locked Natalia in stasis. She didn’t even breathe until he said indifferently, ‘Forget about the fence—it doesn’t matter.’
Natalia’s head lifted. ‘I pay my way.’
‘I don’t prey on the poor,’ he interrupted, a swift, brutal irritation edging his voice. ‘Pukekahu doesn’t need any sacrifice from you.’
Her skin felt clammy as heat seeped from it, to be replaced by a fierce tide of colour when humiliation hit home.
Before she could speak he said with a cool smile, ‘If it will appease your pride, I’ll make a condition.’
‘What?’ she asked, suspicion hiding her dread.
Aware of her thoughts, he smiled narrowly. ‘No, I don’t have to bribe or blackmail women into my bed,’ he said with a silky tinge of menace. ‘But if you ever want to sell your place, come to me first.’
‘Of course,’ she said stiffly. ‘Do you want me to sign something?’
When he hesitated, honesty compelled an admission; forcing the words between reluctant lips, she added, ‘Not that I’ll sell Xanadu.’
His eyes quizzed her. “‘In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree,”’ he quoted. ‘That Xanadu?’
No doubt he was laughing at the idea that the small, neglected house she lived in, with its pervading smell of damp, could represent anyone’s idea of paradise. ‘That’s the one,’ Natalia said, using cynicism to conceal her raw pride. ‘My father was a dreamer, you see.’
‘The children of dreamers usually turn out to be severely practical.’
He was pushing, but she wasn’t going to give. Getting to her feet, she said in a hard, emotionless voice, ‘I have to go.’
Rain pelted suddenly down on the iron roof, invading the room with thunder. After a hooded scrutiny of her face, Clay walked across to the door and looked out, almost filling the opening. In spite of her bitter shame, something stirred deep inside Natalia, something treacherous and hungry.
‘How old are you?’ he asked abruptly.
Startled, she told him.
‘You don’t look twenty-three.’ Golden eyes scanned her face, assessing her in a dauntingly impersonal survey that lifted her hackles. After a moment he said quietly, ‘Perhaps you do—it’s your confidence that makes you seem more mature than most women of your age.’
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘How old are you?’
‘Thirty.’
‘It must be that confidence thing again. I’d put you as a few years older.’
He grinned. ‘Touché,’ he said softly, somehow making the fencer’s acknowledgment of a hit an intimate, teasing observation.
Astonished, Natalia’s lashes dropped. His face hardened and he said, ‘I’ll take you home. This rain isn’t going to stop in a hurry.’ He smiled without humour. ‘Unless you’d like to stay here until it does.’
A reluctant, feverish excitement leapt across her nerve-ends. It was humiliating and she hated it. Pasting a smile to her face, she said
brightly, ‘Thank you, but I have things to do.’ Capsicums to pick and pack, cattle to move, hens to feed and shut up.
Something of her turbulent emotions must have shown in her face because his mouth curved in another brief, ironic smile. ‘Now that I think of it, you could do me a favour.’
CHAPTER FOUR
DISDAIN curled through Natalia’s voice and iced her eyes, hiding, she hoped, the savage thrust of disappointment. A stupid disappointment, because there was nothing but powerful sexual attraction between them. ‘On my back? I thought you said you weren’t interested? Forget it—I’m not that desperate. Or that poor.’
‘You,’ Clay said pleasantly, ‘have either a dirty mind or a mercenary one. If you think sex is merely a favour, you are, of course, entitled to your opinion. However, just to set the record straight, I don’t ask for sex in return for favours. And when we make love there’ll be no question of payment.’
‘There’s no question of mak…making…of anything,’ she flared, both angered and excited by his calm assumption that it was going to happen. ‘I told you, half an hour of light flirtation at a masquerade ball is no basis on which to build a relationship.’ With cutting finality, she ended, ‘Any sort of relationship, even the most basic one of satisfying an itch.’
His black brows shot up. ‘And you’re making sure there’s nothing else to build it on. I’ve never seen anyone back-pedal so fast. Been burned, Natalia?’
‘Who hasn’t?’
‘Not over it yet?’
She gave him a smouldering, defiant stare. ‘Of course I am—not that there was much to get over!’
‘It’s odd, then, that your reaction is so explosive.’ With one stride he invaded her comfort zone, his fingers insultingly possessive as they found the hammering pulse at her wrist.
‘The signs of temper are almost the same as arousal,’ he murmured, regarding her with calculating eyes. ‘Your eyes are green and glittering, and that pretty flush along those elegant cheekbones could be anger. But angry people tighten their lips…and yours are soft and full.’ He lifted her wrist to his mouth.