To Wear His Ring

by Diana Palmer

  Ethan stopped and stared disbelievingly. She swung herself up into the driver’s seat of the Land Rover and leaned over to unlock and push open his door. After a few seconds of hesitation, his hand snaked around the passenger door to pull up the lock on the back. Lucy heard the slide of his bag in the back while she gave the passenger seat a quick and ineffectual swipe. Grimacing, nose twitching, he eased himself in beside her and settled back.

  She put the key in the ignition and then turned to face him. “You see, I was supposed to order you a car. But I got the times mixed up.”

  “Yours?” he asked, staring at the dust-covered dash, the mud and plant matter under his expensive shoes, the barely transparent windscreen. Preparing to rest his arm along the doorframe, he thought better of it and leaned forward to stare at a dubious dark stain running along the bottom of the window.

  “No. Mine is—indisposed at the moment,” Lucy told him, backing out of the parking space. “Mrs. Seymour’s horrible little bichon frise indisposed it this afternoon.” Her mouth turned down as she recalled the whining woman from Auckland and her grotty little dog, whom she had gratefully delivered to the airport just a few hours ago. When she glanced at him his brows were raised in query. “Put it this way,” she told him with a wry smile. “You think this smells bad…”

  The Land Rover shuddered to a halt before the arm of the exit station. “By the time I found out about the car mix-up, it was too late to find any other vehicle. Normally, I wouldn’t dream of picking up a client in the Beast.”

  Lucy laboriously wound the window down, then entered the ticket into the slot and watched the barrier arm rock and bounce up. The vehicle lurched forward unsteadily while she rewound the stubborn window. She could feel his gaze on her but kept her eyes on the road ahead.

  “You pick up all your guests looking like that?” His tone had lost the sleepy, lazy quality of before.

  “We’re having cocktails tonight in honor of a VIP. The other guests are welcome to attend. It’s sort of a meet-and-greet thing.” She shot him a welcoming look. “If you’re not too tired.”

  His eyes flashed over her. “Wide awake, suddenly,” he told her enigmatically.

  Lucy felt her face flame in a burst of pleasure and focused on the road. It was nice to be noticed, especially after the day she’d had. A million errands, the loathsome dog and her error over Ethan’s ETA meant she’d only had time for the quickest of showers and a lick of makeup to go with the cocktail outfit that was supposed to impress tonight.

  “McKinlay,” he said, dragging his seatbelt over his shoulder. “You’re part of the Summerhill family.”

  Lucy nodded.

  “What’s your role in the operation?”

  “I run errands. Pick-ups, drop-offs. And I look after the wives and partners of the guests.”

  Ethan squinted at her, nodding slowly. “You look after the trophy wives of the trophy hunters.” It wasn’t a question.

  Lucy was surprised at the disdain in his voice. “We don’t put it quite like that,” she said carefully.

  “No? What would you call a woman who is married—or not—to someone thirty years older and loaded?”

  “Lucky?” Lucy quipped, but judging from the compression of his mouth, he didn’t appreciate her joke.

  She’d have to tread carefully during the next few days and restrain her occasionally irreverent perspective. The VIP they were wining tonight was Magnus Anderson, the founder of the exclusive club that Summerhill was part of. There were fewer than twenty-five lodges worldwide recommended by the club’s bi-annual publication, the revered Global List.

  Magnus and his wife had landed yesterday. They were supposedly here for a week’s delayed honeymoon, but their guest had indicated his displeasure at certain rumors regarding the quality and financial stability of the Summerhill operation. Lucy would do or say nothing to jeopardize their place in the organization.

  If Summerhill were ousted from the club, there was nowhere to go but down.

  “What does entertaining the wives involve?”

  Again, Lucy pondered. “Whatever they want to do to stop them from getting bored and lonely and intruding on their husbands’ hunting. I can provide information, or an itinerary. Transport.” She saw his eyes flick around the filthy cab. “Make bookings. Or I can escort them places.”

  One of his dark brows arched curiously.

  Lucy shrugged. “Shopping. Bungee-jumping. Lunch. Whatever…”

  Ethan frowned out the windscreen. She got the distinct impression that she and her clients had just gone down a notch in his estimation. But an instant later she felt his raking gaze again. “Like a professional companion.”

  “I suppose I am.” She smiled brightly and nodded. “Some like company, but sometimes they just want bookings made or suggestions.”

  “Enjoy it?” he asked, rather tersely.

  Lucy nodded. “Most of the time.”

  He was silent as the big motor swept a roundabout and eased into the light flow of traffic. Several minutes passed until she hit the city limits and headed toward the west coast. Dusk had done its worst and the city lights behind cast a softly mauve glow.

  Ethan stretched back in his seat and yawned widely.

  “Sleep if you want,” she offered. “It’s over an hour’s drive.”

  He rubbed his hands together and leaned forward to peer at the instrument panel. “Colder than I expected. I left forty degrees.”

  “What were you doing in the Middle East?”

  “Developing a tourist resort.” He fiddled with the heating dial. “Winter in New Zealand should be a refreshing change.”

  Suddenly a cloud of chaff puffed out from the vents. Her breath caught in her throat as she watched the millions of particles rise up to the cab’s ceiling and then settle, painfully slowly, onto his expensively clad knees.

  Lucy bit her bottom lip and forbade herself to smile. When she dared glance at him again, he was shaking his head.

  “Dare you to laugh,” he murmured, but his mouth had pursed into a reluctant grin.

  Now that was worth waiting for. She allowed her own smile to form. The glint in his pale eyes and a flash of white teeth lit up his face, revealing the leanness of his cheeks and no-nonsense jawline, the straight length of his nose, and his lips—not full but not ungenerous either.

  At least there was a semblance of humor there. The situation wasn’t hopeless. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she told him, rolling her eyes. “Sorry.”

  His wry grunt reassured her. “I know little about Summerhill,” he commented. “It used to be a high-country station, didn’t it?”

  Lucy automatically recited a brief history of her heritage. “The house was built in the late 1860s by a wealthy Scotsman who farmed, at that time, about one hundred thousand acres. Over the years, parts of the land were sold off—to other farmers, to the conservation department. The original family sold the remaining forty thousand acres to my grandfather.”

  She paused as the familiar ache settled over her heart. Her own father had continued to farm in the very toughest high-country conditions to provide for his young family. Until her mother had left when Lucy was eight.

  “Only about half of it is arable. The rest is…” she broke off, a lump in her throat. How to describe it? Unbearably beautiful? Savage and remote? Her own special kingdom? “Mountains, forest, a gorge…” Pride and regret swelled the lump in her throat, rendering her voice uncharacteristically thready. Her heritage had long suffered her indifference. And now, when its importance to her transcended everything else, it might be dangerously late and dependent on others.

  She felt Ethan’s interested gaze and shook her head, knowing whatever words she chose would be inadequate. “Well, it’s something. Wild and remote.”

  She ventured a glance. He nodded as if he understood.

  “My half brother, Tom, changed the dynamics of the farm about five years ago to incorporate luxury accommodation and a restaurant, and he set up mountain
hunting safaris, trekking and adventure tours.”

  What she didn’t say was that Tom had set up the lodge against their father’s wishes. But her father had no fight left in him and Lucy was off overseas, enjoying herself.

  “Who are your main clients?”

  “Americans. Germans. Indonesians. And you Australians.”

  “What sort of adventure tours?”

  “Jet-boating. White-water rafting is popular. Heliskiing. Fishing—the Rakaia River that flows through the farm is famous for salmon. Have you been to the South Island before?”

  He shook his head. “My mother owns a small kiwifruit holding in North Island. I try to get over once or twice a year.”

  “It’s quite different,” Lucy explained. “North Island farms seem so…civilized in comparison.”

  “What do you farm?”

  “Beef.” She’d do well to change the subject. The farm wasn’t high on Tom’s list of priorities at the moment. And Tom’s priorities were a mystery to all. “Are you warm enough?”

  As if she’d reminded him, he grunted and absently brushed at the debris on his trousers.

  “How long is your holiday?” she ventured.

  He stifled a yawn and shrugged. “Undecided. Few days, maybe a week.” He faced her and she felt his gaze move over her like a slow burn. “Problem?”

  “No. We’re not too busy at the moment.” If we get kicked out of the club, she thought, business will slow permanently.

  “Perhaps I’ll make use of your escort service.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Just think of me as a trophy wife.”

  She laughed. “I think that might be a bit difficult.”

  “Why’s that, Ms. McKinlay?” he asked in that wonderful baritone that washed over her skin like a caress.

  Lucy kept her eyes on the road, but her lips tightened at the effect his deep gravelly voice, slow and so masculine, had on her nerve endings. Calm down, Flirty Luce; he’s out of bounds…“Why don’t you call me Lucy?” Ethan only nodded and she felt a girlish kick of pleasure at the knowledge that he would be staying and might be needing company.

  “Who lives at Summerhill?”

  “My half brother, Tom. And Ellie, the housekeeper. She’s been with us forever.” Lucy’s voice softened fondly. “She was Dad’s primary caregiver when he had the stroke.” She glanced at Ethan. “My father died three months ago.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” he murmured.

  You wouldn’t be if you had seen him, Lucy thought. Dying was preferable to living the way Thomas McKinlay Senior had lived those last few months after the stroke. He’d been totally incapacitated: unable to walk, talk, feed or bathe himself. She couldn’t bear it…

  “And you?”

  Ethan’s question startled her. “What?”

  “Do you live at Summerhill?”

  “A lot of the time. I have an apartment in town. It’s handy if I have late pick-ups or drop-offs.”

  “You look like a city girl.”

  Lucy laughed. “I can’t decide if that’s a compliment or not. What does a city girl look like?”

  He took his time answering. “Too delicate to be a farm girl, I suppose.”

  “Delicate? Looks can be deceiving. I delivered my fair share of lambs and calves as a kid. And I like to ride. Do you? We have horses.”

  Ethan nodded and, undeterred by his earlier experience, he reached his hand out to the instrument panel again. “Haven’t ridden in years. I’d like that.”

  Techno music blared out from the ancient radio. The alacrity with which the volume was turned down prompted a smile from Lucy. “I bet you’re a jazz man.”

  Another flash of white teeth. “Now, how would that be obvious?”

  Oh, I dunno. The slow stroke of your fingers over your jaw. The black-velvet voice. And eyes that should, by rights, freeze hell over, but instead crackle with heat. Aloud, she told him she had once caught the New Orleans Mardi Gras, and they discovered they had actually been there the same year.

  The conversation progressed onto a range of artists. Ethan was obviously an aficionado, whereas Lucy had a wide range of tastes and wouldn’t be pinned down to specifics.

  She smiled into the night. It was fun to pass the miles in good-natured banter. The next few days promised to be interesting.

  But Ethan took issue when Lucy lamented that she could not dance to jazz. “There’s dancing, and there’s dancing,” he told her, and the warmth inside the car seemed to wind up a notch. “Jazz is sultry. Music for hot nights.” He paused, then took a soft hissing breath. “Or cold nights and a big fire.”

  His voice sizzled along the back of her neck. Lucy imagined that voice spilling into her ear millimeters away, pressed up close in the light of a leaping fire.

  Her throat went dry. “Are you warm enough?” she asked, forgetting she had already inquired.

  “Plenty.”

  They passed the last half hour in silence. He hunkered back in his seat with his head on the rest and appeared to drift off to sleep. There was little traffic and the silence wasn’t at all awkward. Lucy had learned these last six months to read people well and act accordingly. There were times to fill every second with conversation, and times to sit and let the other person take the lead. She could be quiet, if that’s what the client wanted. Funny, when she remembered always being in trouble at school for excessive chatter. Always being in trouble at school for everything…

  She glanced often at the man at her side. He was as delicious as a Chocolate Thin biscuit, she decided, then changed her mind with a grin. Lean, not thin, shoulders that broad, or legs—as far as she could decently tell—that looked long, strong and robust could never be termed thin. No way, no how.

  So far, she liked everything about him. He had an honest, appreciative way of looking at her. He digested every word spoken to him and considered every word he spoke back. It showed in the long pauses punctuating his conversation, as if he were listening intently for the truth in your voice.

  His voice: lazy, deep and gritty. Slow, almost a drawl. John Wayne! Lucy almost gasped when she realized he sounded just like the cowboy in the movies. “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do…”

  Altogether an intriguing package. She wondered what his marital status was. He wore no ring, but that meant little.

  She turned off at the sign to the nearby ski village and began the gentle incline, flashing through the tiny settlements that nestled beside the Rakaia River in the shadow of the Southern Alps. With nothing but the drone of the engine in her ears, it seemed she was the only person awake in the world.

  Finally they turned into a long driveway. Lucy checked her watch. Seven-twenty. The cattle stop at the start of the gravel drive caused Ethan to stir and rub his face briskly.

  The house made a picture. Against a black canvas, the rambling two-story structure glittered impressively from every room. Summerhill was a kilometer from the road and flanked by the Rakaia River, about three hundred metres away, with sturdy foothills to the back. Slender poplars lined the driveway and marched on to meet the willows Lucy’s grandfather had planted alongside the river.

  Lucy pulled to one side, turned the ignition off, and they stepped out into the cool night air. Ethan stretched and retrieved his bag from the back.

  “I’ll show you to your room.”

  He followed her up the steps to the entrance. She stopped at the top and gestured for him to precede her into the house.

  They stepped into the wide entrance, a massive area itself, yet dominated by a huge stairway. An imposing wapiti stag head with fourteen-point antlers stared balefully at an early twenties portrait of the house on the opposite wall. The old Oriental rug under their feet was faded now, but with enough color to give the kauri wood of the paneling and floorboards a lift.

  The hallway was deserted.

  “Follow me, Mr. Rae.”

  “Ethan,” he murmured, looking around, seemingly in no hurry. He followed her up the staircase,
head swiveling as she pointed out where to find the dining room and bar, the covered swimming pool and other outside amenities.

  She stopped by a closed door with a key in the lock and pushed her way into a large and sumptuously decorated room. She noted with satisfaction that the rich velvet drapes were closed and the gas fire, housed in the best of all the antique fireplaces in the lodge, glowed cozily. Moving to the huge bed, she flicked the bedside lamps on.

  It was a handsome room with great views through the floor-to-ceiling double doors out to the balcony. A little masculine for her taste—but comfortable, with two sofas to relax on, a good sized desk, table and chairs and an adjoining bathroom with shower and spa-bath.

  Ethan tossed his bag onto the bed and made a quick inspection of the facilities then came to stand right in front of her. “Looks comfortable.” He nodded approvingly.

  She offered him the key and began to turn away, but then hesitated. “Please do join us for drinks, if you’re not too tired. The trophy room is left at the bottom of the stairs. If not, call room service and they can send up anything you wish.”

  He inclined his head. “Thanks. I’ll freshen up, see how I feel.”

  Lucy stared up into eyes that could melt the coldest heart. How could ice-blue eyes be so warm? A buzz of sensual awareness lifted the hairs on the back of her neck.

  Cause and effect. Bemused, she felt her belly clench and the skin of her exposed cleavage prickle. Knowing full well what that signaled, she took a quick step back, drawing the folds of cool silk closer. A raging red flush clawing up her chest and throat would look fetching in the glow of the fire. Not.

  She nodded and turned on her heel. A small smile curved her lips as she sashayed down the hallway. Of course he would come down for drinks. He had to.

  He made her feel reckless. He made her want to flirt. But then, she had always been flighty. Everyone said so.

  Chapter Two

  Ethan expelled a lengthy breath as the door closed behind her. Her fresh scent still clung to his nostrils, but the rustle of the fabric of that stunning outfit was gone.