by Robyn Donald
And then she was shaken so vigorously her teeth chattered.
‘Wake up, Serina,’ a deep, hard voice commanded. ‘Come on, Princess, you’re having a night mare. Wake up and it will be over.’
Still in thrall to the dream, she huddled away from the imperative hand on her shoulder and catapulted towards the other side of the bed, only to be imprisoned by long fingers fettering her wrist.
Her lashes flew up; she stared at Alex Matthews’ grim face and, to her horror and shock, tears burned behind her eyelids.
‘It must have been a stinker,’ he said harshly, his arms tightening around her so that she was hauled up into the refuge of his powerful body, her cheek against the open neck of his shirt.
Warmth enveloped her, and his faint sexy fragrance. Gratefully, she curved into him, soaking up the bone-deep security of his vitality. She could hear his heart, fast and heavy, and anticipation burst into full flower inside her, so shameless and sudden she shuddered at the intensity of it.
Until she realised he was as aware of her as she was of him. Shocked, she jerked upwards, and this time Alex let her go.
‘Oh, good lord,’ she muttered, despising her lack of self-control. ‘Sorry—I didn’t mean to disturb you.’
And then her words registered. Heat washed her entire body in a flood of colour, and she had to stop her instinctive dive under the nearest pillow. Instead, she stared belligerently at him.
‘It’s all right,’ he said shortly. He got to his feet and looked down at her. ‘Do you have night mares often?’
Serina managed to rally enough fragments of her usual composure to say in a voice that was almost level, ‘Occasionally—but doesn’t everyone?’
Not Alex Matthews, she’d be prepared to wager.
He said, ‘Want to talk about it?’
‘No,’ she returned abruptly, then flushed. ‘Sorry again; that was rude of me.’
‘Sometimes talking about something will banish the fear.’
He sounded only mildly interested but after one rapid glance at him she looked away, her nerves stretched so taut she could feel them twanging.
However, he had comforted her so he deserved some sort of explanation. Reluctantly, she said, ‘I think it’s a standard night mare—I was being chased, running like crazy but not being able to escape whoever or whatever was after me. I can never see what it is I’m afraid of, which is idiotic.’
If only she could see it she’d be able to face it and deal with it, but the terrifying menace had never revealed itself to her.
She should have outgrown it years ago. Her mother had told her it was a growing-up dream, a fear of leaving child hood behind and becoming an adult, but Serina no longer believed that. She’d had to grow up the year she’d turned eighteen, the year her parents had died.
‘Expecting dreams to follow any sort of logic sounds like a recipe for futility,’ Alex said casually.
She tried a pale smile. ‘Oh, well, it’s over. Thank you very much for rescuing me.’
There was no immediate answer, and she looked up again to catch a frown before he asked in the same impersonal tone, ‘Can you think of any reason for having it now?’
With an attempt at her usual crispness she said, ‘No. But then, as you’ve just pointed out, dreams don’t necessarily have a reason.’
His brows smoothed out, leaving his bold face un readable. ‘A meal will be ready soon. If you’d like a shower, feel free to use the bathroom.’
‘I’d like that very much.’ As he turned to go, she added, ‘Thank you. You’ve been very kind.’
‘No problem,’ he said over his shoulder as he left.
For a few seconds Serina sat very still, deliberately allowing her shoulders to sag while she breathed slowly and steadily in an attempt to relax.
What a fool she’d been! Dear heaven, the moment Alex lifted her she should have pulled away and found the self-control to reject his well-meant comfort politely but definitely.
Instead, she’d snuggled—yes, snuggled—into him as though he were her last refuge in a dangerous world.
And it had been wonderful—strong arms around her, that faint disturbing scent that was his alone, his body quickening into life against hers…
Until she’d realised what she was doing—what she’d been begging for.
Humiliation roiled through her in a sick flood. Biting her lip, she opened the door into the small, luxurious bathroom and turned the shower onto cold.
Alex looked up when she emerged, every hair in place, cosmetics subtly renewed. The mask was back, he thought sardonically, and this time set in concrete. A piercing twist of hunger took him by surprise. Irritated, he tried to banish it.
Why did she exasperate him so much? Because she’d turned a defunct royal connection into a life style? A clearly profitable life style, if her wardrobe was anything to go by.
No, that was unfair; her clothes were almost certainly advertisements for the designer she’d been a muse for.
What the hell did a muse do? Nothing, he suspected, beyond attracting attention and showing off the couture clothes made for her. If so, the designer had chosen well; Serina of Montevel had connections to royalty all over Europe, and she looked superb in the subtly sensuous clothes that draped her elegant body.
Which didn’t alter the fact that Alex despised people who played on their heritage, their title or their position.
Yet he didn’t seem to be able to despise Serina— Princess Serina, he reminded himself. He’d not only invited her to stay with him, he’d organised a holiday for her brother to keep him out of mischief, and promised him holiday work for a year.
So why was he pushing his way into her life? Be cause she was a challenge?
He dismissed that thought; he’d never regarded women as trophies, the harder to win the more prestigious. As for her kid brother—well, he quite liked the boy, and keeping him away from the pack of wolves he’d inadvertently fallen in with would be to Gerd and Rosie’s advantage because Montevel and Carathia shared a border.
And the Princess? She intrigued him.
Reduced to the most basic level, he wanted her. And it cut both ways—he was too experienced to misread the quick fluctuations of colour in her exquisite skin, the subtle alterations in her breathing, the tiny physical signals she couldn’t control.
Fight it with everything she had—and she was certainly doing that—the elegant Princess Serina couldn’t hide her response to him. Yet she’d made it plain she resented the mindless tug of desire and had no intention of acting on it. Which probably meant that just as the attraction was mutual, so was the exasperation.
It seemed a waste, but it was her decision to make.
He glanced at her serene face as she lowered herself gracefully into the chair and picked up a magazine.
Last night the woman who’d finally wrecked her parents’ marriage and possibly caused their deaths had insinuated that Serina was on the lookout for a rich husband. He despised the woman—and himself for not being able to banish her words from his mind.
Perhaps Serina was saving herself for marriage, although he’d heard rumours of a couple of serious relationships. Since when had he allowed himself to worry about rumours? The elegant, intelligent, exquisitely mannered Princess with social kudos to spare would be the perfect wife for any man who could afford her.
With Gerd’s marriage a sure thing, had Serina seen Rosie’s half-brother—certainly not royal, but rich and well-connected—as a possible second-best?
And if Serina knew more about her brother’s conspiracy than Gerd’s security men had been able to uncover, then a wealthy, besotted husband would be a definite asset in their plans.
Mentally he shrugged. It wouldn’t be the first time a woman had pursued him for reasons of her own, and he doubted if it would be the last. And if Princess Serina thought she could manipulate him into anything with coyness she was hugely mistaken.
He might find her very attractive, but he was fully in control of
his sexual urges. If she had wondered whether he was good husband material, she was clearly now having second thoughts. On that bed she’d catapulted out of his arms as though he’d been the unknown, terrifying pursuer of her dream.
Or perhaps, he thought cynically, she’d decided that giving in too soon would lower her value in his eyes…
He was surprised at his relief when the arrival of the steward offering drinks before the meal interrupted his thoughts.
After she’d eaten Serina opened her elderly laptop to map out several future columns. The previous night she’d spent some of her sleepless hours on the Internet researching New Zealand and its plant life.
‘Anything I can help you with?’ Alex asked casually.
‘I don’t know.’ But he seemed interested, so she went on, ‘I emailed my editor, and she’s quite excited about my visit to New Zealand. Europeans know all about formal and English country gardens, but she and I are sure the readers will enjoy something different and new.’
Alex said, ‘Most of the gardens will be very informal, and you won’t be able to give your readers a titillating glimpse into the private lives of the aristocracy. We don’t have one.’
‘Really?’ Serina didn’t try to repress her sarcasm. Was he being deliberately insulting? OK, so he had a point; on occasion she’d inserted innocuous information about the owners in her column, but she hoped that wasn’t the main reason for her readers’ loyalty.
‘Actually,’ she purred sweetly, ‘if you’d ever read my column you’d know that the gardens are the stars, not the people who own them. And to make sure I haven’t inadvertently invaded the owners’ privacy I show them the copy before it goes to the editor.’
‘So it’s a collaborative enterprise?’
Repressing an unusual impulse to snap back, she returned, ‘Besides, if I relied on gossip to sell my work I’d soon find my choice of gardens drying up. I’ve done some research, and it seems that in Northland alone there are several magnificent places that I’m sure would interest my readers.’ Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. ‘How about yours?’
‘I like it,’ he said neutrally, his eyes hardening. ‘But I won’t allow anyone to write about it.’
‘Fine,’ she said, showing her teeth as she bit out the word.
Arrogant man! She hoped very much he wasn’t going to be like this the whole time she was in New Zealand.
However, for the rest of the trip he was thoughtful and pleasant—and extremely stimulating, she thought gloomily as she gazed through a window at the city of Auckland sprawled out across a narrow isthmus.
She’d read, written, taken frequent walks around the cabin that eased the stiffness of the long journey, but refused to nap again in the luxurious sleeping cabin. Awash with industrial quantities of water, she was looking forward to fresh air, and a night in a bed that was firmly anchored to the ground.
She risked a glance at Alex beside her. That now familiar slow burn of sensation in the pit of her stomach made her hesitate a half-second before she said, ‘It’s beautiful—a splendid setting. I hadn’t realised the city was so big.’
He shrugged. ‘New Zealanders like living on their own land. And while we might have only four million inhabitants, a million of them live in Auckland. In area the country’s almost as big as Italy.’
‘How far away is Haruru?’ She pronounced the word carefully.
‘Well done,’ he said, his smile quickening her pulse. ‘It’s half an hour’s flight north. I’m afraid I have a function to attend in Auckland tonight, so we’ll spend the night at my apartment here, then head home tomorrow morning.’
Serina thought she’d hidden her surprise, but a black brow lifted and he said dryly, ‘Perhaps I should have mentioned that before.’
Chagrined, she shook her head and made a mental memo to watch her expression more closely. ‘Of course not,’ she said in her most practical tone.
‘I’m sorry to have to leave you alone for your first night in New Zealand.’
She laughed. ‘Nonsense. The last thing I want to do is go out for the evening.’
For most of the journey he’d worked solidly, except when he joined her for meals. She’d insisted he take the bed when he decided to sleep, pointing out that as she was shorter she’d be more comfortable in the reclining chair. He’d politely accepted.
If he’d been trying to convey his total lack of interest in her, he’d succeeded.
Serina despised the pang that thought produced.
She was far too conscious of Alex to be comfortable in his presence. He made the world seem a larger, more intriguing place, stirring her senses into hyperdrive and awakening reactions—both physical and mental—that were not only in convenient but scary.
She must have been mad to agree to come, but four weeks wasn’t too long. She’d cope.
She hoped…
The plane eased down to a smooth landing at an airport near one of the city’s two harbours. Customs and immigration formalities quickly over, she walked beside Alex to a waiting car.
The driver, a tall, solidly built man, olive-skinned and with finely chiselled features, greeted Alex with a smile. ‘Good trip?’ he asked.
Alex’s return smile made him younger and more approachable than Serina had ever seen him.
‘Excellent, thanks, Craig. How’s the family?’
Craig beamed. ‘Brilliant.’ He took Serina’s bag and manoeuvred it into the boot before announcing, ‘The boy’s walking.’
Alex laughed. ‘So you don’t know what’s hit you?’
‘He’s a hell-child—into everything. It’s total mayhem,’ Craig told him, his proud smile contradicting his words.
Alex introduced Craig Morehu to her. They shook hands and Serina asked, ‘How old is your son?’
‘Ten months,’ Craig said with even more pride, and grinned at her surprise. ‘Yes, apparently he’s advanced for his age.’
Alex said, ‘Serina, if you don’t mind, Craig and I need to talk business so I’ll sit in the front seat with him.’
‘Of course I don’t mind,’ she said politely, and during the journey kept her gaze to either side of the car, ignoring the width of Alex’s shoulders and the incisive tone of his voice as he and the driver spoke together.
Auckland was leafy and green and busy, the motor-way bordered by shrubs and trees, many of which she didn’t recognise. Small volcanic cones, most covered in brilliantly green grass, seemed to pop into view wherever she looked, and the twin harbours wove in and out of the land so that each change of direction revealed a new vista.
Alex’s apartment was richly welcoming, a big penthouse in a solid nineteenth-century building that had been turned into a hotel. Furnished intraditional style with huge timber-framed windows that took in magnificent views of the harbour and cityscape, the rooms were warmed by flowers.
Serina didn’t know what she’d expected—something uncompromisingly minimalist to go with what she knew of Alex’s character?
But the decor had probably been produced by a decorator. All Alex would have had to do was throw money at it.
Then she saw the telescope aimed at the harbour. Her father had had one just like it; it still stood in the tiny back street apartment in Nice she shared with Doran when he was home.
She repressed a swift pang of home sickness as Alex showed her into a large bedroom with its own bath room. This was more feminine, the comfort factor still very evident.
Alex said, ‘If you need anything let me know, or ring the bell. I’ll be with Craig for another half an hour, and after that we could fill in time by either swimming or playing tennis on the residents’ court. Which would you prefer?’
‘Tennis,’ she said instantly, repressing a forbidden image of him stripped down and glistening…
She suspected he was surprised, but could read nothing in his angular face as he said, ‘Then tennis it will be.’
After she’d unpacked she set up her laptop and sent an email to Doran to tell him she’d arr
ived; he’d already sent one to her, brief but enthusiastic. Clearly, he was enjoying himself.
Spirits rising, she spent a long time in the shower, her dry skin luxuriating in the cool water. The shorts and T-shirt she changed into were neat and practical, although when Alex saw her she was suddenly—foolishly—too aware of her bare legs and arms.
He was wearing shorts and a shirt too, and something very odd happened in the pit of Serina’s stomach. Lean and tanned, the lithe power of his body revealed without the sophisticated covering of his more formal clothes, Alex was—overwhelming.
Serina swallowed, heartily glad she’d chosen tennis. If he had this impact on her fully clothed, she’d probably have fainted at the sight of him in swimming trunks, she thought disparagingly.
‘What standard do you play?’ he asked as they went down to the court.
‘Average. You?’
He shrugged. ‘Lousy, I imagine—I haven’t played for years.’
Possibly not, but the powerful coil and flow of muscle beneath his shirt told her he exercised in some way. And she soon discovered he played a fierce game, revealing a natural athleticism that forced Serina onto the defensive. Fully extended, she set her lips firmly and fought back, determined not to let him win easily.
As they walked back to the pent house after her honourable defeat, he commented, ‘You’re a fighter.’
Was that a note of surprise in his voice? Good, she thought.
‘I try very hard not to lose,’ she told him, conscious of her T-shirt clinging to her damp skin and knowing she badly needed another shower.
But she’d enjoyed the hard physical tussle, and the fact that she’d made Alex work for his victory. One of her mother’s favourite sayings had been that a man needed to know he was stronger than the woman in his life. Her mother had been wrong. It might apply to men who were fundamentally weak, but Serina didn’t believe Alex would have been shattered if he’d been beaten. His innate self-confidence came from something much more firmly based than a constant need to prove himself a winner.