by Donald Robyn
Go away, she commanded silently. Leave me alone, for heaven’s sake.
But the Radcliffe man stayed until the last drop was drained.
‘Thank you.’ She prayed he couldn’t realise how much effort it took to control her voice. ‘You’ve been very kind. I’m OK now.’
‘Do you want me to sit with you until you get back to sleep? Or get Patty West to stay with you until then?’
She shook her head so vigorously she had to push back a swathe of damp hair from her face. Surely he had to be joking! Besides, it was sleep that summoned the nightmare, not wakefulness. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she repeated.
Eyes hooded, he looked down at her and nodded. ‘All right. I’ll see you in the morning.’
Once the door closed behind him Elana tried to relax, to breathe slowly and loosen every tense muscle.
Nothing worked; every sinew, every nerve in her body remained taut, and snatches of thought whirled chaotically around her brain. A glance at her watch told her she’d only had a couple of hours’ sleep, not nearly long enough to sate the voracious tiredness that had gripped her. Yet it had gone, replaced by a sharp burst of energy.
Once again she lay back against the pillow, closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on easing tension, calling on the defence mechanisms she’d developed when she’d been a child trying to block out the sound of her mother weeping.
But disturbing memories forced their way through—not childhood pain nor the phantoms of the nightmare, but that moment when her host had looked down at her in the bed and hunger had flared in his arctic eyes.
Alarmed, she’d had to force herself to resist an answering need, something much stronger than awareness and infinitely more potent than normal feminine admiration for a good-looking man. Niko Radcliffe was much more than handsome; he projected a compelling masculinity that both unsettled and excited her.
Her father had been just such a man. Yet his smooth sophistication had been a cover for violence.
Three years ago she’d fallen in love, only to discover that she was following a familiar pattern. Behind her closed lids she saw her mother’s face, heard her mother’s voice when she’d consoled her daughter after that bitter break-up.
‘I’m so glad you had the courage to walk out on Roland,’ she’d said quietly. ‘I was a coward. It took far too long for me to understand what your father was doing to me—and to you. I was the happiest girl in the world when I married him. I believed he loved me, and I was sure I loved him.’ Tears had sprung into her eyes. ‘But what he felt for me wasn’t love, it was possessiveness, a driving need to control.’ She hesitated, then said, ‘And when he used force to gain that control, he felt it was my fault, not his, that he hit me.’
Elana remembered admitting bleakly, ‘I’ve always vowed I’d never make the same mistake. And at least Roland didn’t beat me. But how can you tell the difference between love and possessiveness early enough—early enough to be able to get away before it’s too late? Before you fall in love.’
Her mother’s face twisted. ‘Oh, darling, if I could give you a set of rules I would. I can’t. But after I left your father and found Steve, I realised that what I’d believed to be love was actually desire. I’d been flattered that your father wanted me, even though he and I had nothing in common.’
Elana turned her head on the pillow and closed her eyes.
Her mother’s words were etched on her brain cells. ‘Desire on its own isn’t enough. You need to be friends too. When you fall for a man who excites you, if you can’t think of him as a friend it’s not love. It’s just lust, and it’s dangerous.’
For her second marriage her mother had chosen her very best friend, and they had all been so happy together...
Steve hadn’t been perfect. A cheerful, slapdash man, he’d made no secret of his adoration for her mother, and he’d met Elana’s childish suspicion with tenderness and understanding until she too had learned to love him, to feel safe with him.
She blinked and opened her eyes, staring across the elegant room. Moonlight seeped through a narrow crack in the curtains, and through the glass she could hear the soft hush of waves, the sound that sent her to sleep at home.
Her mother had been wrong when she’d said she couldn’t give her a set of rules.
...a man you can’t call a friend...
Niko Radcliffe was dangerous. She couldn’t imagine him being a mere friend to any woman.
Her wildfire, tantalising response to him wasn’t—and never would be—anything more than a strong sexual reaction.
Forewarned, she thought sardonically, is forearmed. A good mantra to keep you safe...
* * *
A soft knock on the door woke her. She blinked at the sunlight through the drapes across the window, and for a second wondered where she was.
‘Elana? Can I come in?’ Mrs West asked.
‘Yes, of course.’
The door opened. ‘I thought I’d better wake you now, or you wouldn’t be able to get to sleep at all tonight,’ the housekeeper said as she approached the bed, a plastic bag dangling from her hand.
‘What time is it?’
‘Eleven o’clock.’
Dismayed, Elana blinked at her. ‘Heavens,’ she said faintly. ‘I’ve never slept so late in all my life before. Thank you very much.’
‘You clearly needed the rest.’ Mrs West gave a cautious smile. ‘I’m afraid I broke into your house. The boss suggested it, so I sneaked in here this morning and took your key from your bag, then drove to your place and collected a change of clothes for you. I hope you don’t mind.’
She held out the bag and the key.
After a startled moment Elana replied with real gratitude, ‘Not at all. Thank you so much.’
‘The boss thought it would be better if I did it rather than him. And I was sure you’d feel a lot better in clean clothing. He’s out on the farm right now, but he said to tell you he’ll drive you home whenever you want to go.’
‘Thank you,’ Elana said again, and added, ‘I’m sorry he dragged you away from home last night to look after me.’
Mrs West shook her head vigorously. ‘Oh, he’s a good boss—tough but very fair. My husband and I, we feel very lucky to be here.’
Half an hour later, showered and refreshed and in clean clothes, Elana made her way into the parlour and sat down a little limply in a large armchair. Mrs West had chosen well; a pair of jeans and a T-shirt with clean undergarments gave her strength.
Until the sound of an approaching vehicle set her nerves jangling again.
Stiffening her spine, she scrambled up and walked across to the window to look over what had once been a lawn to the beach. Although the house had been almost fully restored to beauty, the garden scrambled down to the beach, wildly unkempt, a jungle of neglected bushes and trees and a roughly mown lawn. The tide was in, and the sun had turned the estuary into a molten sheet of gold. In summer, just in time for the Christmas holidays, the ancient pohutukawa trees marking the boundary between land and sea would set the water on fire with the threadlike bounty of their dropped flowers.
Normally the view would have lifted her heart. But when she heard her name from behind she jumped and whirled around, a hand pressed to her chest.
‘What the hell—?’ Niko Radcliffe demanded harshly, taking two long strides to grip her shoulders and hold her upright as her knees struggled to support her.
‘I’m all right,’ she said, the words jumbled together. She swallowed. ‘You can let me go.’
He scanned her face with clinical detachment, before releasing her and stepping back, his gaze narrowed and intent.
After a deep breath she stumbled into speech. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise you were so—so nearby. I heard the quad bike but it seemed quite a distance away.’
He shrugged. ‘I wasn’t on it.’
Another sharp breath gave her the strength to say, ‘I’m not normally so neurotic.’ She braced herself. ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done
—including the idea of collecting some clothes for me.’
His brows rose. ‘You surprise me.’
‘Why?’ she asked, startled.
‘I suspected you’d be annoyed at the invasion of your privacy.’
‘Not a bit.’ He was still standing too close, and those hard eyes were too inquisitorial. Why didn’t he back off? Squaring her shoulders, she asked, ‘Have you heard anything about Jordan this morning?’
‘Yes. He’s recovering well, and sent his thanks to us. So did his parents. They were worried about your reaction to the accident.’
‘You didn’t—’
He read her mind. ‘I told them the truth, that you were sound asleep.’
Elana let out a swift breath. ‘Thanks. They’re nice people and they have enough to worry about right now.’ She looked up at him and managed to produce a smile. ‘You’ve been very kind, but if it’s not too inconvenient I’d like to go home.’
‘Mrs West is making lunch for us.’
‘Oh,’ she said inadequately.
‘You must be hungry.’
As though in answer her stomach rumbled softly. She produced a wry smile, and looked up to meet one that almost rocked her back on her heels.
‘Clearly I am,’ she admitted, her voice a little rough.
Niko’s smile was something—a mixture of understanding and genuine amusement that sent a shiver of excitement through every cell in her body. She had a sudden, terrifying insight into her mother’s inability to resist her father.
Her thoughts were interrupted as her host said, ‘Then come and eat.’
His intonation reminded her that although he’d been born in New Zealand he’d spent much of his life in Europe. And the way he offered his arm emphasised that heritage. Elana placed her hand on it, awareness sizzling through her at the hard flexion of the muscles beneath her fingers as they walked side by side down the hall.
He was no effete aristocrat, this man. Into her mind flashed a memory of him carrying Jordan away from the car, and she shivered.
‘What is it?’ he demanded.
‘I was thinking about last night—what might have happened if Jordan’s car had caught fire. I’m so grateful it didn’t.’
‘Indeed,’ he said decisively.
‘I hope Jordan’s learnt something from it.’
‘Especially not to take corners too fast on narrow gravel roads,’ Niko returned, his tone verging on unsympathetic. ‘You said he’s around eighteen years old?’
Elana nodded. ‘About that. Certainly not much older.’ After a silent moment she added, ‘But old enough to know better.’
‘A dangerous age—you tend to believe you’re bulletproof.’
She said quietly, ‘Yes.’ Yet somehow she found it impossible to picture the man beside her flaunting the careless, dangerous arrogance of youth. He was too controlled, so formidably self-contained it was impossible to tell what he was thinking.
Mrs West had set the meal out on a terrace overlooking the beach, the beams overhead festooned in foliage from a vigorous creeper that allowed golden sunlight in shifting patterns on the tiles.
‘Oh.’ Elana stopped and stared around. ‘Oh, this is lovely!’
‘Apart from the surroundings,’ her host said dryly and pulled a chair out for her. ‘I’m looking for a good landscape architect. Do you happen to know of one?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t.’ Elana sat down. ‘Certainly not in Waipuna.’
Niko sent her an ironic glance as he walked around to the other side of the table. ‘I didn’t think there’d be one here.’ He sat down, and in the same tone said, ‘You must have been a charming baby with that amazing hair.’
Startled—both by the abrupt change of subject and the sensation sizzling down her spine and heating her cheekbones—Elana was suddenly intensely aware of his lithe economy of movement, of the strength in those broad shoulders.
Searching for a light response, she managed, ‘Apparently it’s an inheritance from my grandmother, although it skipped a generation. My mother was a true blonde.’
‘Genetics are an interesting study.’ He glanced around the wild tangle of foliage that bordered the overgrown lawn. ‘I’ve been told this was once a superb garden.’
‘It used to be beautiful.’ She added, ‘But even now it has a wild beauty.’
He nodded. ‘It reminds me of a book I had as a child—a book of fairy tales. It had a picture of the garden around Sleeping Beauty’s castle. For some reason it intrigued me.’
Elana looked up, met quizzical blue eyes, and experienced another disturbing jolt of electricity. Hoping her voice was steady, she replied, ‘Perhaps we had the same book. Mine had flowering vines—blackberry vines, I suspect, judging by the thorns—tangled around a tower.’
Niko asked, ‘Do you think that might have had some influence on your decision to work in a florist shop?’
‘No.’ She’d taken the part-time job because it was the only one available in Waipuna at the time, and she needed the money. Shrugging, she finished, ‘Although, who knows? Like genetics, the unconscious works in interesting ways.’
* * *
Half an hour later she set down an empty cup of strong black coffee and looked across the table. Her stomach clenched in unnerving anticipation as a ray of sunlight caught Niko’s face, outlining his features in gold. Deep inside her, something wild and uncontrollable coalesced into heat and fire.
She had to draw breath to say, ‘Thank you, that was just what I needed. I’ll thank Mrs West and then I need to go home.’
He got up. ‘Of course,’ he said calmly. ‘I’ll take you.’
Clearly she had no choice in the matter. Nevertheless, she tried. ‘Thank you, but it’s not necessary. Mrs West brought me a pair of flat shoes as well as my clothes, so I’ll walk home. It’s only a kilometre away.’
And received another ironic smile. ‘I’m sure you could walk it, but my mother would be horrified if I let you.’
A little bewildered, she sent him a disbelieving look. ‘She’d never know.’
His shoulders lifted in a shrug. ‘I’d know.’ His tone confirming that she had no option.
Elana fumed in silent frustration. Some women might find a dominant male an intriguing challenge, but there was a difference between dominant and domineering. Bristling, she realised that Niko Radcliffe came too close to being domineering.
Like her father. And Roland...
Not that it mattered. Once she got home she’d probably never see Niko again. ‘Thank you,’ she repeated sedately.
* * *
Five minutes later, after thanking his housekeeper for her help, she was ensconced in his large car, her discarded clothes from the previous night neatly packed in a plastic bag.
Niko glanced sideways, noting that most of the colour had come back into her ivory skin. Apart from looking a little tired she seemed in good shape. Deliberately keeping the conversation impersonal, he soon had her chatting about the district, enjoying her dry wit as she told him about some of the families who lived and farmed along the peninsula.
As they approached the entrance to Mana he asked, ‘Are you descended from one of the pioneering families here?’
‘Far from it—we first came here on holiday and stayed in a friend’s bach.’ She smiled. ‘A little holiday shack. I believe you South Islanders call them cribs.’
‘I believe they do,’ he said, amused. ‘I’ve never considered myself to be a South Islander. Or a New Zealander, come to that.’
She sent him a startled look, then nodded. ‘That’s understandable. But with dual citizenship you have two countries to call home.’
Surprised, Niko realised he called no place home. Although his mother had taken him back to her father’s palace, the huge, echoing building with its gilt and crimson furniture had been no home to him. And the boarding school and universities he’d attended had been the same. His grandfather and his uncle, the next Prince of San Mari, had always been busy with affairs o
f state.
And although he’d enjoyed them, the holidays spent in the old stone house on the steep, tussock slopes of his father’s merino sheep station had never been long enough to put down roots.
Perhaps that was why he’d bought Mana Station. For a home base?
He dismissed the idea. ‘So your parents fell in love with the area,’ he prompted.
A beam of sunlight fired her hair into an aureole as she nodded. ‘Exactly. They liked it so much Steve—my stepfather—got a job in Waipuna, and they bought the bach. It was just a bunkhouse then, with a primitive kitchen and an outdoor shower. Steve and my mother turned it into a proper home.’
Alerted by a note of reserve in her words, Niko glanced at her again. Her full mouth was held in a straight line, as though talking of the past pained her.
Or made her angry. Had her mother and father divorced?
Hell, he understood how she might feel; the dissolution of a marriage, whether by divorce or death, was hugely bewildering for children. He could just remember his own confusion and anguish when his mother had taken him to San Mari. He’d missed his father immensely. And still regretted that he’d never been able to forge a proper relationship with him before he’d died.
Beside him, Elana said quietly, ‘It’s the next gate on the left. You can let me off there—it’s not very far to the house.’
‘I’ll take you all the way,’ he said calmly.
About a hundred metres down a narrow drive between the slender grey trunks of more kanuka trees, the house and a separate garage appeared. As they drew to a stop Niko realised the house must have been barely larger than a garden shed before Elana’s stepfather added to it.
The buildings snuggled into a flowery garden that stretched towards a low bluff. Sprawling pohutukawa trees formed a green edging to the little cove he knew to be Anchor Bay, its amber curve facing a wide stretch of glittering, island-dotted water. On the far side of the estuary a range of rolling green hills met the sky.
As he got out of the car, Niko looked around. Casual, a little untidy, the garden was humming with bees and bright with flowers. A monarch butterfly flitted through a tangle of low shrubs, brightly orange against green leaves.