Claimed by Her Billionaire Protector

by Donald Robyn

  A dangerous world, she realised as they began to move together—a world where the rules no longer applied. Jumping heartbeats took her by surprise and her nostrils flared at the faint, exciting, potently male scent of him and the hard strength in the arms that imprisoned her.

  Imprisoned her?

  What a ridiculous thought!

  Yet the heat of Niko Radcliffe’s hand at her waist was stirring a blatant response. Her dress seemed suddenly far too revealing, the violet silk slithering over acutely sensitised skin in a sensuous massage.

  Of course he danced superbly; she was ready to bet that lean, splendidly physical body would do anything well, from dancing to making love.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  His voice startled her. She had to swallow before she could speak and even then, she sounded hesitant. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ A swift defiance made her glance up to meet hooded, glinting eyes. ‘Why?’

  ‘You seem a little tense,’ he responded coolly, blue gaze unreadable. ‘I rarely bite, and when I do, it’s not to hurt.’

  Heat zinged from her scalp to her toes, lighting fires all the way. That instinctive awareness strengthened into a sensation much more intense, so fiercely tantalising it shocked her.

  Was he coming on to her?

  No sooner had the thought flashed across her mind than she dismissed it. Of course he wasn’t flirting! It was impossible to imagine Count Niko Radcliffe doing anything so frivolous. So was he testing her?

  If so, it was unkind. He was as out of place in Waipuna as she’d be in the rarefied social circles that were his natural habitat. According to Mrs Nixon, gorgeous film stars fell in love with him...

  And probably the occasional princess. Gorgeous too, no doubt.

  She couldn’t care less, she thought sturdily, trying to corral her rampaging senses.

  ‘So you’re quite safe,’ he drawled.

  The note of mockery in his voice stiffened her spine. ‘I’m always glad to have that assurance,’ she retorted.

  ‘Even when you don’t necessarily believe it?’

  Elana tried to come up with some innocuous answer, but before anything came to mind he continued curtly, ‘Whatever you might have heard about me, I don’t attack women.’

  * * *

  As soon as the words left his mouth Niko wondered why he’d said them. He spent more time fending off women than reassuring them of his integrity.

  He had no illusions about the reason behind that sort of feminine interest. Money and power talked, and for a certain type of woman it was enough to seduce. Yet for some reason the note in Elana Grange’s voice had struck a nerve.

  Actually, she struck a nerve.

  When they’d been introduced he’d noticed her fingers, long and slender and bare of rings, and for a moment he’d wondered what they’d feel like on his skin. And as she’d stepped into his arms, his whole body had tightened in swift, primitive response.

  However, elegant though she appeared, he suspected Elana Grange wasn’t sophisticated enough for the sort of relationships he chose. His affairs—nowhere near as many as suggested in gossip columns—had always been between two people who both liked and wanted each other, whose minds meshed. He valued intelligence as much as he did sex appeal.

  And because he drew the line at breaking hearts, his lovers had always understood that he wasn’t offering marriage.

  Whatever sort of mind Elana Grange had, she looked like a dream—and danced like one too, her grace fulfilling the promise of her sinuous body.

  Elana broke the silence between them. ‘Mr Radcliffe, there have been rumours that you plan to develop Mana Station. Is that true?’

  ‘What do you mean by develop?’

  Wishing she’d stayed silent, she told him. ‘Cut it into blocks, sell them off and make a gated community of it—’

  ‘No,’ he interrupted curtly. ‘I’m planning to bring it back into the vital, productive station it once must have been.’

  She couldn’t stop herself from asking, ‘Why?’

  Broad shoulders lifting, he said, ‘I despise waste. In San Mari every acre of land is precious, cherished and nurtured over the centuries, treated with respect. All agricultural and pastoral land should be viewed like that.’ His tone altered as he finished, ‘And call me Niko.’

  Hoping no sign of her reluctance showed in her tone, she said, ‘Then you must call me Elana.’

  He laughed. Surprised, she glanced up, meeting his gaze with raised brows.

  ‘Don’t look so startled,’ he said. ‘When I came back to New Zealand it took me a few weeks to understand that although most people here call each other by their first names, it didn’t necessarily denote friendship.’

  Elana had never previously pondered the intricacies of New Zealand ways of addressing people. Perhaps he was interested because he’d grown up in a royal household, where such things were important?

  Or perhaps not, she thought wryly. Probably he was just filling in a boring experience with smooth small talk.

  She considered a moment before replying, ‘You’re probably right. I think it’s a preliminary to a possible friendship—addressing a person by his or her first name is an indication that you feel he or she might be someone you’d like, once you get to know him or her better.’

  ‘So if you decide you don’t like me, you’ll call me Mr Radcliffe?’

  Elana allowed herself a careful smile. ‘I’d probably avoid you. That way I wouldn’t have to address you at all.’

  ‘So if I notice you fleeing from me, I’ll have to accept that I’ve done something that’s displeased you.’

  * * *

  Bemused, Elana looked up. Their eyes met, and another tantalising rush of adrenalin boosted her pulse rate into overdrive. A point in his favour was the dry amusement in his voice.

  Not that it mattered what sort of person he was—or only so far as he was a neighbour.

  ‘Actually, I’m not into fleeing,’ she told him briskly. ‘And we like to believe we’re an egalitarian society. But—didn’t I read that you’re a New Zealander too?’

  ‘I have dual citizenship,’ he said levelly.

  A swift change of direction startled Elana until she realised she was being skilfully steered around a jitterbugging pair in the centre of the floor.

  ‘Wrong period,’ Niko Radcliffe observed dryly. ‘They should be doing the Charleston.’

  She said, ‘But they’re good.’ The words had barely been spoken when the young man missed a step and stumbled towards them.

  * * *

  Instantly her partner’s arm tightened, forcing Elana against his steely strength so that she was held firmly for a few seconds against the powerful muscles of his thighs. Sensation, so intense and sensuous it drove the breath from her lungs, scorched through her in a delicious, dangerous conflagration.

  Concentrate on dancing, blast you, she commanded her wayward body fiercely, pushing a wilful erotic image into the furthest reaches of her brain and trying to lock the door on it.

  Suddenly dry-mouthed, she breathed, ‘Thanks.’

  ‘It was nothing.’ His voice was cool and uninflected.

  Clearly he wasn’t suffering the same potent response. Indeed, his arm had loosened swiftly as though he found her sudden closeness distasteful.

  Chilled, she had to swallow before she could say, ‘Perhaps we should tell them that jitterbugging arrived some years after the Twenties.’

  ‘They’re enjoying themselves,’ he said dismissively, then surprised her by asking, ‘Are you the local florist?’

  Elana hesitated. He sounded quite interested—which seemed unlikely. Perhaps faking interest when bored out of his mind was another talent developed in that princely court...

  OK, concentrate on small talk now, she told herself. Ignore those pulsating seconds when you were plastered against him, and something weird happened to you.

  Sedately she told him, ‘I work part-time in the florist’s shop in Waipuna.’

  �
��Was that always your ambition?’ he asked, almost as though he were interested.

  ‘No.’ After a second’s pause she added, ‘I’m a librarian and I used to work in Auckland, but a couple of years ago a family situation meant I had to come home to Waipuna.’

  The family situation being the accident that had killed her stepfather and confined her mother to a wheelchair.

  ‘So you decided to stay here.’

  Elana glanced up and met a narrowed blue gaze. Another of those unnerving shivers chased down her spine. In a tone she didn’t recognise, she said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is there no library in Waipuna?’

  ‘Yes, run by volunteers. There’s no need for a professional librarian.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Do you enjoy working in the florist’s shop?’

  Surely he couldn’t be interested in a small-town woman in the wilds of northern New Zealand? He didn’t need to hear that, although she loved Waipuna, she missed the stimulation of her career in Auckland.

  She evaded, ‘I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t fascinated by flowers. My mother was a fantastic gardener and apparently from the time I could toddle I drove her crazy by picking any blooms—’ She stopped abruptly. Any blooms her mother had been allowed to cultivate. ‘Often before they’d opened out,’ she finished.

  He gave the big hall a quick survey. ‘You clearly have a talent for arranging them. Mrs Nixon also mentioned that you wrote the booklet—a short history—of the hall. I haven’t read it yet, but intend to.’

  Elana flushed. ‘I hope you find it interesting.’

  ‘Are you a historian as well as a librarian?’

  ‘I did a history degree,’ she said.

  And wasn’t surprised when he asked, ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m interested in history.’ She added, ‘After that my stepfather insisted I take a business course.’

  ‘Very sensible of your stepfather,’ Niko Radcliffe said dryly. ‘From your tone, I gather you didn’t want to do it. Was he right to insist?’

  Elana didn’t like the way he emphasised the word stepfather. Steve had been as dear to her as any father could be—infinitely dearer than her own father. She said briskly, ‘Yes, he was right. It’s been very useful.’

  Especially over the past couple of years, after a friend had asked her to tape her great-grandmother’s reminiscences and transcribe them so they could be bound into a book to mark her hundredth birthday. Elana found the task absorbing, enjoyed the whole experience and had been astounded when her friend’s family insisted on paying her for the time she’d spent.

  Even more astonishing, word had got around the district, and soon she was repeating the process. Then the editor of the local weekly newspaper commissioned her to write articles on the history of the district. As she was working for only three days a week at the florist’s shop, the money came in handy, and she loved the research.

  To her relief the music drew to a close. Niko Radcliffe released her and offered an arm. Forcing herself to relax, she took it, trying to ignore the sudden chill aching through her—a bewildering sense of abandonment.

  How could a man she’d only just met have that effect on her?

  Be sensible, she told herself robustly as they walked across the hall towards Mr and Mrs Nixon. So you’re attracted to him? So what? You’re probably not the only one here tonight to be so aware of him...

  Over the centuries women had learned to recognise an alpha male. For probably most of humankind’s existence, a strong capable father to one’s children gave them a much better chance of survival.

  And, tall and good-looking, with that indefinable magnetism—not to mention the fact that he was rich, she thought sardonically—everything about him proclaimed Count Niko Radcliffe a member of that exclusive group.

  Which was no reason to fantasise about feeling strangely at home in his arms. When the next dance was announced he’d choose a different woman to partner him, and that woman might well feel the same subliminal excitement, a reckless tug of sexuality both dangerous and compelling.

  Together they walked to where the Nixons had just finished chatting to another couple. Acutely aware of sideways glances, Elana was surprised by an odd regret when they arrived.

  Mrs Nixon observed, ‘Good evasive action, Niko. For a second I thought we might need to call on my first-aid skills, but you saved the day with that sidestep. Young Hamish and his partner are going to have to practise jiving a bit longer before they’re safe enough to do it in public.’

  His smile held a tinge of irony. ‘Fortunately I had an excellent partner.’

  The older woman sighed. ‘My grandmother was a great dancer—she could still do a mean Charleston when she was eighty, and her tales of balls and parties used to make me deeply envious. Then rock and roll came onto the scene when my parents were young. I always felt I missed out on being wild and rebellious.’

  ‘Surely punk must have been wild and rebellious enough,’ Elana teased.

  Mrs Nixon chuckled. ‘A bit too much for me, I’m afraid,’ she confessed. ‘And now I find I’ve turned into my father—when I hear the hit songs today I mutter about their lack of tune and how they don’t sing clearly enough for me to understand the words.’

  ‘Possibly a good thing,’ Niko observed coolly. ‘Tell me, why did the committee choose the Twenties as a theme for tonight? I believe the hall was built in the early twentieth century, so you should have been celebrating its centennial some years ago?’

  Mrs Nixon smiled. ‘Nobody was interested in running a ball to celebrate the centennial then, but a year ago a group of us decided Waipuna deserved a Centennial Ball. So we called it that. It meant that people who’d give an ordinary dance a miss came for it—some from overseas,’ she finished proudly. ‘It’s been a lovely reunion.’

  He laughed, and Elana’s heart missed a beat. ‘Good thinking. So why the Twenties theme?’

  ‘Comfort.’

  Brows lifting, he echoed, ‘Comfort?’

  ‘Comfort,’ Mrs Nixon repeated firmly. ‘In the early twentieth century women were still confined to elaborate clothes and corsets. We decided unanimously that comfort is more sensible than historical accuracy.’

  ‘To every woman’s relief,’ Elana observed. ‘As well, it’s a lot easier to sew a Twenties shift than the gowns they wore twenty years previously.’

  * * *

  Niko glanced down, struck by the way the lights shimmered on her gleaming hair. Freed from the neat knot at the back of her neck it would look like silk. Into his mind sprang an image of the soft swathe spread out across a pillow—of her lithe, ivory-skinned body against white sheets, green-gold eyes heavy-lidded and beckoning...

  Strange how exotic eyes and a fall of bright hair could lend spice to an occasion...

  Irritated by a fierce surge of desire, he suppressed the tantalising thought and concentrated on the conversation.

  He’d expected little entertainment from this evening. If his presence at the ball went some way to convincing the district that he intended to return Mana Station to full production again—which would mean jobs for local people—it would make the new manager’s position easier.

  Above the babble of conversation and laughter he discerned a rapidly approaching roar as some idiot drove past the hall, achieving as much noise as he could from a badly maintained engine.

  When the noise had faded Mr Nixon told him laconically, ‘One of the local hoons. Like all young kids with an attitude, they like to stir up the district periodically. No harm to them, by and large.’

  Niko nodded. The band struck up for the next dance, and some young guy in evening clothes slightly too big for him came up and asked Elana Grange for it. Smiling up at him, she accepted.

  Watching them dance, Niko resisted a swift emotion that veered dangerously close towards possessiveness. Startled by its intensity, he secured one of the matrons Mrs Nixon introduced him to, and guided her onto the floor. But although his partner was a brilliant dancer, and had
a sharp, somewhat acerbic wit, he had to force himself to concentrate on her and not allow his gaze to follow Elana Grange around the room.

  As the evening wore on he noted she was a popular dance partner, but seemed to favour no particular man, apparently enjoying her turns with middle-aged farmers as well as with younger men.

  * * *

  Keeping her eyes firmly away from Niko Radcliffe, Elana chatted with old friends and acquaintances, grateful that he didn’t approach her for any more dances.

  By the time midnight arrived she was strangely tired, but she managed to hide any yawns until she slid into her car, pulling out to follow his car. It suited him—big enough to be comfortable for a tall man, super-sophisticated yet tough...

  Stop this right now, she told herself grimly. You’re being an idiot. OK, so he looks like some romantic fantasy, all strength and good looks and seething with charisma, but that’s no reason for you to feel as though you’ve overdosed on champagne.

  Frowning ferociously, she stifled another yawn and concentrated on the road as it narrowed ahead. Some time during the ball it had rained and the tarseal shone slickly in the headlights. After a few kilometres the road swung towards the coast and the surface turned to gravel as it dived into the darkness of the tall kanuka scrub crowding the verges.

  About halfway home, scarlet tail-lights ahead warned her of trouble. Slamming on her own brakes, she gasped as the seatbelt cut across her breasts.

  When her stunned gaze discerned the cause of the sudden stop, she gulped, ‘Oh, no—’

  CHAPTER TWO

  SHOCKINGLY, THE GLARE of the headlights revealed a stationary vehicle on its side. The driver had failed to take the corner and the car had skidded into the ditch before sliding along the clay bank that bordered the road on the passenger’s side.

  Hideous memories of another accident, the one that had killed her stepfather, and ultimately her mother, flashed through Elana’s mind. Sick apprehension tightened her stomach and froze her thoughts into incoherence until she realised that Niko Radcliffe was already out of his vehicle and running towards the wreck.

  Fingers shaking, she released her seatbelt and opened the door. Her first instinct was to join him, but second thoughts saw her haul the first-aid kit from the glove box.