Claimed by Her Billionaire Protector

by Donald Robyn

  As she had every day when he’d contacted her. He should have emailed her instead of testing his ability to resist this sensuous attraction. Emails were safe and emotionless. Seeing her smile at him from the computer screen had only intensified his desire for her, eating away at his self-control.

  He’d missed her. Right now he was gripped by an emotion he’d never experienced before—a sense of rightness, of finding his way, of—of homecoming...

  Dismissing such a sentimental thought, he said abruptly, ‘Whoever took your car abandoned their own vehicle—probably a stolen one—on the corner just before your gate. Either it’s broken down, or they ran it out of petrol.’

  Elana winced and stood back. ‘I heard nothing. Thanks for ringing me.’ After a moment’s hesitation she said more sturdily, ‘I’ll let you know what happens.’

  It was a definite dismissal.

  Tough. Niko had no intention of leaving her. She was trying hard to sound fiercely independent, but her face was white and she needed support. He said, ‘I told the police I’d stay here until they contacted you.’ Ignoring her startled expression, he turned to scan what he could see of the garden. ‘Where do you keep the car?’

  ‘In the carport—up the drive a bit.’ She gestured towards a tumbledown shed some distance towards the road.

  ‘So that’s why you didn’t hear it going.’

  Suddenly vulnerable, Elana hid a shiver at the thought of sleeping while someone stole her car. ‘You don’t have to stay—’

  He interrupted, ‘We’ve already had this conversation.’

  ‘What?’

  His smile was sardonic. ‘The night we met. Let me in. I’m not leaving here until we know what’s happened. Do you have any other vehicles?’

  ‘Yes. My stepfather’s car.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘I need a cup of coffee. What would you like—coffee or tea?’ Although her voice was level, he could tell it took an effort.

  ‘Coffee, thank you.’ He asked tersely, ‘You’ve got insurance?’

  ‘Comprehensive.’

  Clearly she wasn’t going to confide in him. Well, why should she? Their computer conversations had been face to face, but they’d both carefully avoided any intimacy. As for this elemental hunger raging through him—hell, any man would respond to the gentle swell of her breasts beneath her loose cotton T-shirt and the curve of her buttocks as she turned into the house.

  Every muscle in his body flexed. Startled and chagrined, he told himself to cool down. For some bewildering reason the thought of any other man watching her and feeling this heady, sensual response affected him with a stark possessiveness as primitive as it was unexpected.

  Elana had told him her home had started out as a bach, a basic holiday cottage. It showed its origins. The front door opened into a sitting room with a dining area beyond, separated by a counter from the small kitchen towards which she was heading. The sitting-room furniture looked as though it had been reclaimed from a junk shop, and the wooden dining table was an elderly, highly polished relic of Victoriana, the chairs around it a comprehensive collection of cast-offs.

  Yet in spite of its near-shabbiness it was warm and cheerful, and radiated comfort. Flowers picked from the garden were arranged casually in vases, several watercolours clearly by a local artist with some talent hung on the walls, and photographs—one of Elana in cap and gown, beaming radiantly—were displayed on shelves.

  The splash of water filling a kettle brought his attention back to the kitchen.

  * * *

  Elana turned and opened the door of an elderly refrigerator, groped inside and turned back, a jug of milk in her hand.

  ‘Do sit down,’ she said with a strained smile. ‘You’re too tall for this place. I’m afraid you might hit your head on the beams.’

  ‘I’m not quite two metres tall,’ he said, glancing up. ‘There’s plenty of room between me and the ceiling.’

  It wasn’t just his height Elana found overpowering—it was the whole essence of the man. And that owed little to his height, or to his wide shoulders and long legs. His strong personality made the Mediterranean good looks he’d inherited from his mother unimportant. When they’d met he’d reminded her of a warrior king, ruling by sheer force of character. Now, standing in her home, that impression was reinforced.

  Abruptly she said, ‘I believe your mother’s country is very mountainous?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said calmly, although his eyes had narrowed slightly.

  Wondering why on earth she’d blurted such a foolish observation, she turned away to take down a couple of mugs from the cupboard. ‘Were the original inhabitants forced into the mountains at some time by war?’

  She could hear the shrug in his voice when he answered. ‘No, they chose to live there. San Mari is a beautiful place; it’s close enough to the sea for the climate to be reasonably moderate, and the soil is fertile. It provided the first settlers with everything they needed, and the surrounding mountains afforded them protection from the ambitions and wars of others.’

  Keep talking, she thought feverishly. Talking means you don’t have to think about how amazing he looks and how he affects you... ‘Do you know who they were?’

  ‘They believe they’re descended from the first people ever to arrive in Europe.’

  Intrigued, she looked up from pouring boiling water over the coffee in the plunger. ‘That’s interesting.’

  He shrugged. ‘No. There might be some truth in their belief that they settled San Mari very early. Archaeologists have been digging in various parts of the country for years. They’ve made some amazing discoveries and the further they dig, the more excited they get.’

  ‘I suppose Kiwis find this sort of thing interesting because we’re such a new country.’ She gave a small laugh and expanded, ‘That sounds silly, as though New Zealand’s just popped up from the depths of the ocean! But humans have been here for such a short time. Maori settlers arrived about eight hundred years ago, and nobody else in the world knew the place existed until two or three hundred years ago.’

  ‘Do you think the isolation is why travelling overseas is such a rite of passage for young New Zealanders?’

  Relaxing a little, Elana nodded. ‘Yes—we try to get our fill of antiquities while we’re experiencing the great OE. Overseas Experience,’ she elaborated.

  ‘Is that your ambition? To travel?’

  ‘One day, yes.’

  He was good at small talk, but his deep voice and penetrating eyes were undermining her composure. Glancing at the clock, Elana realised it wasn’t as late as she’d thought. She willed the telephone to ring, for someone to tell her what was happening to her car.

  That would break this headlong compulsion to reach out to him, the disturbing desire to connect in the most intense and compelling way. She needed to get him out of the house before she forgot that he was the scion of some ancient family famed for their wealth, and that he’d bedded some of the most beautiful women in the world.

  And before she embarrassed herself by revealing, in some way, just how strongly she was affected by his compelling presence.

  ‘Sugar?’ she asked, her voice almost breaking on the word. She had to swallow before she could go on. ‘And milk?’

  ‘Neither, thanks. Like you with tea, I drink it black.’

  His remark brought back memories of the night she’d spent at Mana.

  And how it had felt to be in his arms, held against his chest...

  Heat burned through her, and with it something akin to recklessness. He’d wanted her then.

  And all that was female in her had responded, temporarily blocking out everything but the urge to surrender.

  Fortunately, she’d recognised it for what it was—a sexual pull based on the primitive instinct to reproduce. And even more fortunately a spark of common sense had asserted itself before either of them could give in to it.

  But desperately, dangerously, she longed to rediscover the sensations she’d felt in his arms for that brief tim
e, that wildly exciting arousal strangely underpinned by a sense of total security.

  Carefully she poured the coffee and asked, ‘Would you like something to eat?’

  Banal and commonplace, the small courtesy went some way to re-establishing her equilibrium.

  ‘No, thank you.’ His voice was cool, the dismissive undertone like a shower of freezing water. Her father’s tone... Even when he’d been angry enough to hit her mother, he’d never raised his voice.

  Elana hated it. But at least it silenced the heady clamour in her body, her tumbling thoughts.

  Still tense, she handed Niko the mug and led the way into the sitting area. Once he’d finished his coffee he’d go. In the meantime, she’d stick to small talk.

  ‘Do sit down,’ she said, but he stayed standing until she lowered herself into Steve’s favourite armchair.

  Once there she searched for a sensible topic, anything to take her mind off the fact that Niko was far too close to her. In the end she asked, ‘Are you planning a long stay at Mana this time?’

  And could have kicked herself. Hardly impersonal...

  ‘Only a couple of weeks,’ he told her crisply.

  Presumably to make sure the manager he’d installed was doing his job properly. Although the brutal removal of Greg Percy had revealed a ruthlessness she found abhorrent, she had to admit that Mana Station was already looking much more prosperous.

  Of course Niko was spending a lot of money to achieve that. Much more traffic—often local tradesmen’s vans—went past her gate now, and from the road she could see fences being replaced and young native trees newly planted beside the small creeks that wound their way down into the estuary. Its pastures were already looking better.

  Perhaps he could read her mind, because he said, ‘You’ll have noticed the traffic. Sorry about the dust, but that will continue until the new houses are finished.’

  ‘Houses?’ The station already had several houses on it.

  Curtly he said, ‘The existing houses—except for the one the manager lived in—are shacks that have had no maintenance for years. It’s cheaper to knock them down and put new ones there.’

  ‘I see. The previous owner—’

  His shoulders lifted. In a voice that could have frozen Niagara Falls he said, ‘The total mismanagement of the place was not entirely due to the previous owner.’

  Which meant what? Was he blaming Greg Percy? She glanced up, met eyes of glacial blue, and decided she’d chosen the wrong topic for this conversation. ‘Actually, the traffic doesn’t bother me. The trees between the house and the road keep this place free of most of the dust.’

  And was hugely relieved when the telephone rang. ‘That must be the police,’ she said hastily, scrambling up and grabbing the handset. ‘Hello?’

  Niko got to his feet, his gaze fixed on her face.

  ‘Oh, hi, Phil,’ she said, turning slightly away.

  * * *

  For some reason Niko wasn’t prepared to examine, her withdrawal caused a tight stab of anger.

  As though she recognised it she stiffened, then shot him a swift glance before turning away even further. ‘OK,’ she said quietly. ‘Are they all right?’

  Damn, did that mean that the idiots who’d stolen her car had wrecked it? And why did Phil the policeman keep turning up all the time? Surely there was more than one cop in Waipuna?

  Frowning, Niko saw her stance ease a little.

  ‘Phil, I’ll manage,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ve still got Steve’s car. Thanks for letting me know. Say hello to Jenny, won’t you?’

  Who was Jenny? The cop’s wife? And why the hell, Niko thought sardonically, should he care?

  Because he wanted Elana.

  There, he’d admitted it. He’d wanted her from the moment he’d seen her at the ball, and since that night everything he’d discovered about her—her sturdy independence, her intelligence and sense of humour, her acceptance of more grief than anyone her age should have to cope with—had increased his regard for her.

  He waited while she finished her goodbyes and replaced the telephone.

  She paused a few seconds as though gathering strength, then turned and said bluntly, ‘The car is a mess. The two men who stole it are either drunk or high on drugs.’ She paused, as though collecting her thoughts.

  ‘And you have insurance to cover the costs of getting your car fixed.’ Niko kept his voice level, refusing to make it a question.

  Nodding, she covered a yawn with her hand. He thought she braced herself before she produced a smile with very little humour. ‘I’m sorry—I think reaction’s settling in. Thanks very much for coming in to tell me what happened.’

  Yet another very definite dismissal, Niko realised, assailed again by a stab of something more than irritation. It faded when he noted ivory skin paler than normal, and that sensuous mouth compressed into a tight line. Lowered lashes shielded her eyes, making it impossible for him to read her thoughts.

  Shaken by a powerful desire to protect her, he wasn’t going to leave her like this. ‘It was nothing,’ he said calmly. ‘Sit down and finish your coffee.’

  The glance she directed at him glittered with irritation, but she lowered herself into the chair. ‘I’m all right.’

  Niko sat down opposite her, and began to ask questions about her work on the documents. She followed his lead, and as she spoke some of the colour seeped back into her skin. After he’d drained his coffee mug he asked, ‘How long is it since you used your stepfather’s car?’

  She gave him a baffled glance. ‘A while. Why?’

  ‘Car engines need to be used every so often.’

  Elana nodded, her brow wrinkling as she calculated. After a swift glance at a calendar on the kitchen wall, she said, ‘It must be about a month since I tried the engine.’ After a moment’s pause she added, ‘It hiccupped a bit, but it started.’

  ‘How long since it’s been on the road?’

  ‘A couple of years.’ The gaze directed his way was direct and more than a little challenging. ‘Why?’

  ‘We’d better make sure it actually goes. If it doesn’t, you’ll have to organise transport to work tomorrow.’

  She shrugged, but got to her feet. ‘OK, I’ll try it.’

  And wasn’t surprised when he stood and said, ‘I’ll go with you.’

  * * *

  Leading him along the dark path to the shed where Steve’s car resided, Elana wryly recalled Fran’s observation that she liked the fact that Niko Radcliffe clearly had a strong protective attitude.

  Could be, but more probably it was simply that because of his upbringing he was accustomed to telling people what to do.

  The wavering light of the torch picked out her mother’s herb garden and the citrus trees, each one protected by a trap from marauding possums. The waves on the beach whispered a soft background to the scent of growing things and the salty tang of the estuary, and above them stars blazed against a sky so intensely black the immensity of the universe ached through her.

  In an oddly flat voice Elana said, ‘Here it is,’ and handed the torch over, explaining, ‘There’s no light in here, so if you hold it I’ll try the car.’

  And shivered when their fingers collided as he took the torch.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he said in the coolly dismissive tone she hated.

  It was a warning—a necessary one. Otherwise the forbidden response that scudded through her might have transmuted into something infinitely more dangerous.

  Once in the car, she turned the key. Apart from a click, nothing happened. Tensely, she tried again.

  Still nothing.

  ‘The battery must be flat,’ she said weakly, and twisted the key once more, willing it to work. Instead it clicked and died.

  A dark form against the greater darkness of the night, Niko said, ‘Possibly, or it could be the starter solenoid. Hold the torch and I’ll take a look.’

  What on earth was a starter solenoid? Reluctantly Elana climbed out, took the torch from
him and held it while he lifted the bonnet.

  ‘Aim it here,’ he said. ‘Do you have a screwdriver?’

  ‘Screwdriver?’ she asked numbly. Where had he become so familiar with the working of car engines? Not in a palace, surely.

  ‘Yes. If it’s the solenoid we’ll be able to start it with a screwdriver across the points.’

  ‘Oh. Steve kept his tools here,’ she said and turned away, directing the torch to where the battered metal box should have been.

  Unfortunately there was no sign of it. And for some reason this threw her more than anything else that had happened that night. The beam of light wavering across the rusty corrugated iron wall of the shed, she said in a voice she had to struggle to keep steady, ‘It’s not here.’

  ‘Leave it,’ Niko commanded. ‘You’re tired. Give me the torch.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ she told him abruptly.

  It wasn’t exhaustion that weighed her down. An overdose of adrenalin, made dangerous by a reckless, headstrong hunger, had been building swiftly since the moment she’d opened the door to him.

  The conversations they’d shared while he was away had somehow sparked—or reinforced—an emotion she’d never felt before. The realisation terrified her and, in some strange way, exhilarated her too, as though she were poised on the edge of a high precipice, gazing over a beautiful, unknown landscape filled with hidden dangers.

  ‘You’re not all right. We need to get back to the house. I gave my cell-phone number to the police, but they may be trying to ring you.’

  She snapped, ‘I wish you’d stop telling me how I feel. And what to do.’ And had to stop herself from finishing petulantly, I’m the best judge of what I want.

  Only to realise with stunned shock and a surge of blatant anticipation that what she wanted right now was Niko Radcliffe. In every way...

  Wanted him so much it actually hurt.

  She dragged in a deep breath, but no longed-for serenity washed through her; she still throbbed with that hungry, terrifying need.