by Robyn Donald
Sarah stirred, looking from one to the other, apparently aware of the fine threads of tension spun out of the conversation. ‘Can I go up on the flying bridge?’ she asked tentatively.
‘Of course you can.’ He boosted her up the steps. Over his shoulder he finished, ‘We’ll be landing on one of the islands for lunch in half an hour or so.’
The island they chose was popular, with other boats in most of the bays, so Blaize took them around until they found a tiny beige crescent that was empty, a smooth melon slice of sand with great pohutuka was creating pockets of dense shade and coolness. When the muted roar of the powerful engines died away, the shrill violins of the cicadas rose in a throbbing crescendo, the sound of summer.
Oriel had repacked the food along with plates and cutlery and a blackened kettle, which was obviously a survivor of similar picnics, and organised sun-hats and screen and insect repellant as well as bathing-suits. Blaize stacked both provisions and people into the inflatable dinghy and he and Simon rowed them ashore.
‘You have to row in,’ Sarah told Oriel seriously, ‘it’s not a picnic if you put the engine in the dinghy. You might frighten the pirates.’
Oriel grinned. ‘Fair enough. But were there pirates in New Zealand?’
‘Oh, yes, Bully Hayes was a pirate, nearly. Some of his desc-grandchildren still live around here, you know. Up north.’
‘I can see I’ll have to brush up on my history,’ Oriel mused. ‘How about treasure?’
‘Well, in Whangaroa harbour there’s the treasure of the Boyd. No one’s ever found that.’
‘No one knows if there was a treasure,’ Simon interpolated.
‘Of course there was!’ His sister was indignant. She was also a realist, as she proved by continuing, ‘No one can prove there wasn’t, anyway. I don't care, I like to think there was.’
Oriel dragged her eyes away from the smooth power of Blaize’s movements, and said comfortingly, ‘Of course there was. And if there wasn’t, we can imagine our own. Black pearls from Tahiti and Fala’isi.’
‘Sandalwoodand gold from Fiji.’ That was Blaize.
Simon chipped in. ‘Opals and diamonds from Australia.’
Sarah laughed excitedly. ‘And beautiful greenstone from New Zealand!’
‘Where do you think they buried it?’ Simon entered into the spirit of the thing with gusto. ‘They’d be intending to come back for it, so they’d mark it with sightings that needn’t be permanent.’
Sarah scanned the tiny bay, her eyes narrowed as she rejected various sites. Finally, just as the dinghy crunched on to the sand, she pointed with a dramatic finger at a large rock on one side. ‘They’d use that,’ she said. ‘It’s the easiest thing to see here.’
Simon shipped his oars. ‘Yep, they probably would. Come on, let’s-’
‘Just a moment.’ Blaize’s voice was amused but firm. ‘You have work to do. Oriel got all this ready without your help, so you can carry it up, both of you, while I work out where we make a campfire. Then we’ll need wood.’
Without demur both children gave up any idea of pursuing the game just then. They helped Oriel carry the cool-box and the equipment up into the shade of one of the sheltering trees, then suggested sites for a campfire, taking into account wind and tide. When that decision was made Simon arranged some stones to contain the fire, and Sarah and Oriel went gathering driftwood from a tiny cove around the headland. It had been scoured clean of sand by the tide, so they had to walk gingerly over the wave-worn stones to collect bleached, salty, sea-burnished twigs and branches.
It was profoundly satisfying. Revelling in the caress of the sun on her shoulders and legs, Oriel searched diligently, occasionally stopping at Sarah’s behest to admire a particularly beautiful pebble. She should have been appalled at the predicament she was in, but the perfect weather and the simple, satisfying task and the pleasure of being a part of this family unit, with the man she loved, lifted her spirits so that they showed in the glow in her smoky eyes and a smile that trembled brilliantly on lips suddenly soft and tender.
A yell from behind turned them. Simon and Blaize came towards them, with identical frowns.
Blaize said crisply, ‘You shouldn’t be hobbling over this uneven surface, Oriel. Go back.’
‘Oh, dear,’ she sighed. ‘Relegated to the boring womanly things.’
He gave her a teasing, not entirely humorous smile. ‘Never mind-when your foot is better I’ll let you do anything you want,’ he promised. A note of lazy sensuality threaded smooth as silk, hot as flame, through his voice.
Without a word she walked back to the picnic area, berating herself for her susceptibility to a pair of grey eyes, and a flexible, deep voice, a smile that was like a blade in her heart.
By the time they returned with armfuls of wood she had regained some of her composure, but it sat uneasily on her so that it only needed a smile, the touch of his hand on hers as she handed him kindling, the subtle yet overpowering tug of her senses, to overset it.
The fire burned, hot but oddly pale in the sunlight, and while water boiled in the blackened billy they ate a superb lunch-roast chicken pieces, a magnificent veal and ham pie into which Simon made great inroads, a pasta salad that was Sarah’s favourite, as well as lettuce and tomatoes and avocados, and a jar of Kathy’s secret French dressing.
‘You’re not eating much,’ Simon observed, frowning at Oriel. ‘Here, have a piece of this pic. It’s delicious.’
‘I’m sure it is. Thank you.’
Sarah said earnestly, ‘Sea air’s supposed to make you hungry. Mummy used to say-’ Her voice wobbled, but she ploughed on valiantly, ‘Mummy used to say she could eat a horse out in the boat, didn’t she, Simon?’
‘Yeah.’ His voice was muffled as he stowed away some more pie, but Oriel saw the pain darkening his eyes.
She said calmly, ‘Your mother was quite right, but I haven’t got much of an appetite. That’s why I’m so thin.’
Simon’s jaw dropped. ‘You’re not thin,’ he said, grief forgotten. He turned to his uncle, appealing to the expert.
‘Oriel’s not skinny, is she? She looks like the models in those awful fashion magazines some girls read all the time. I’ll bet if you put all that gunk on your face you’d look just like them, Oriel. Kind of leggy, and-well, kind of pretty.’
Oriel said in a voice she only just managed to keep steady, ‘That’s the nicest thing I’ve ever had said to me, Simon.’
‘True, too,’ Blaize said, enjoying both his nephew’s confusion and Oriel’s attempts to carry the situation off with savoir-faire. He smiled provokingly at her, laughter gleaming slyly in his eyes. ‘I couldn’t have said it better myself.’
And he took advantage of Simon’s innocent compliment to run his eyes down Oriel’s body from her high, heated cheekbones to her curling toes, lingering a second on the small upthrusts of her breasts against her shirt, to follow the length of her legs, tanned and smooth and long even when she was sitting with her arms around her knees.
‘Very leggy,’ he murmured, ‘but I don’t think pretty is the exact word, Sim. Striking-unforgettable, perhaps. Those eyes are definitely exotic, with their sulky, heavy lids, and such a fascinating shade of blue. And that wild hair seems to have a life of its own, especially when it’s salty, as it is now.’
‘Still,’ Simon said doggedly, ‘I reckon she’d do in those magazines, don’t you?’
‘Oh, I’m sure she would.’
Ignoring the curls of colour along her cheekbones, Oriel returned woodenly, ‘You’re wrong, I’m afraid. My mother works for one of those model agencies, and she’d have known if I had any potential.’
‘Sometimes parents are strangely blind when it comes to their children,’ Blaize suggested.
She lifted her head and challenged him. ‘Not my mother. She’s very astute. She’d have adored a model daughter, and she tried hard to get me up to scratch. She insisted on ballet and gymnastics, had me taught elocution, the piano, drama-you name i
t, I suffered through it!’
To no avail, her tone implied. Blaize’s lashes hid any emotion in his eyes but his voice held only idle curiosity as he asked, ‘Did you enjoy any of the lessons?’
‘Some.’ She put her chin down on to her knees to avoid that too-perceptive gaze and said quietly, ‘I loved fencing. I had a friend who used to fence, and I wanted more than anything to do that. But Mother felt it was unfeminine-riding too.’ She grimaced. ‘Riding gives you big thighs, and swimming masculine shoulders. Not what a young girl needs.’
‘Did you try to persuade her to change her mind?’
‘I did, but she had strong views. It wasn’t worth it.’
‘You could,’ he pointed out, ‘have done some of them after you left home.’
She lifted her shoulders. ‘The fact that I didn’t probably means that she was right when she said the only reason I wanted to do them was to be contrary.’
‘What’s contrary?’ Sarah’s little voice impinged. With a shock Oriel realised that they had an audience.
Smiling, she explained what contrary meant, and after that it was time for the billy tea, which she drank gratefully, enjoying the distinctive, strong yet pleasant taste. Then they tidied up, the children gleefully pouring buckets of water over the ashes. After that Blaize took them for a walk.
With half-closed eyes Oriel watched them disappear into the cicada-shrill depths of the trees, pretending that they were her family, then told herself -firmly not to be an idiot and lay on her stomach and dozed. She must have slept properly, because she woke with some alarm at the sound of their voices, suddenly louder as they came out from beneath the trees on to the sand.
‘All right,’ Blaize agreed. ‘For half an hour. Then we’ll have a swim, and then, pirates, we’ll have to go back home.’
She had been woken from the middle of an erotic dream, one that made her face flush guiltily; she didn't move, hoping he would go with the children. However, she felt his silent approach across the sand with every cell in her body, every tiny hair in her skin lifting in primitive reaction.
Concentrating hard on keeping her breathing regular, she lay still, her back turned to him. For long, prickly moments she knew he stood there, watching her. His gaze on her back, on her legs, on the back of her neck, was like the searing breath of a forest fire. She stiffened at the soft sounds that denoted he was sitting down. The rug gave as he came down. Too close... A shiver ran down her spine.
She couldn’t bear this! It was far easier to face him than to be made so acutely conscious of him. She thought she could smell the faint masculine tang of him in the air-salty, musky, an intangible scent that denoted the man. Her thoughts lurched wildly to pheremomes- wasn’t that what they called the faint olfactory signals given out by some male insects to attract females, and vice versa? Or was it pheremones? Pheronomes? Only a scientist would call scent an olfactory signal. Whatever, perhaps that was the source of Blaize’s attraction. Unusually potent olfactory signals. Put like that, it was a far cry from the ravages of unrequited love.
He said silkily, ‘I know you’re awake.’
If he hadn’t before he certainly did now. At the first sound of his voice she had jumped, giving herself away in that reflex action.
Forgetting to yawn, she sat up and scrambled away from him.
‘Why were you pretending to be asleep?’
‘I was hoping you’d leave me alone. I’m tired,’ she said virtuously, refusing to meet his eyes as she tried to drag her tangled hair into some sort of order.
‘You were as wound up as a spring.’
She gave him a scathing look and burrowed in her bag for a comb, found it and proceeded to use it ferociously on her hair.
‘Don't do that,’ he commanded, holding out his hand.
Stunned, she passed it over. He moved so that she sat between his outstretched legs with her back to him, and began to untangle the thick locks, using the comb with care and a smooth sweeping motion that should have been soothing.
She attacked, ‘Did you want to be a hairdresser when you were young?’
He chuckled. ‘No, but I’ve been wanting to touch this hair of yours ever since I saw it. It’s springy, almost quivering with life, with strands like living silk.’
Unbearably stimulated by his nearness and his touch and the caressing note in his voice, she said stiffly, ‘Like living barbed wire!’
‘Rubbish. It’s beautiful. So are you, for that matter.’
She snorted. ‘Oh, yes, and pigs can fly!’
‘Where did you get this thumping great inferiority complex?’
She turned and faced him down fiercely, her eyes snapping and vivid with anger. ‘It’s called being realistic,’ she said curtly. ‘I know I’m not beautiful because I’ve seen beautiful women all my life-I lived with one until I left home! -and I bear no resemblance to them. I have good skin, and that’s it.’
‘You have superb skin,’ he told her lazily, his eyes examining as much of it as he could. ‘More silk. As for beautiful, what’s your idea of beauty?’
You, she thought achingly. You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, so magnificently confident in your masculinity, so kind to the children you took responsibility for, so physically splendid.
Aloud she said, ‘Well, good skin, of course, and delicate bones, and a decent figure. Big eyes, long lashes. A sense of style, and graceful carriage.’ Feminine hips. A bust that looks like a bust, not two insignificant mounds. And definitely not a height of just under six feet, and long, thin hands and feet.
‘Is that what your mother looks like?’
She looked startled. Slowly, she said, ‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’
‘All right, let’s go through them. We’re agreed on the skin. Delicate bones-what is delicate? Fine, slender, fragile framework?’
It described her mother perfectly. ‘Yes,’ she said, even more slowly because she mistrusted the gleam in his eye. She stayed very still as he reached across to push the slightly sticky locks away from her face. His touch was doing strange things to her breathing.
‘I admire delicate-looking women, but you know, I like a woman to match me as much as she is able. One has to be so careful with these fragile types. I like strength.’ His hand slid caressingly along her cheek. ‘Yes, it’s there in the sweep of your jaw, your pointed, impertinent chin, the lovely high are of your cheekbones-I wonder if a distant ancestor from Tartary gave you those? And your forehead, broad and serene, with your wild, wanton hair curling around it.’
As he spoke his fingers smoothed over the features he was enumerating. Entranced, Oriel sat without breathing, lashes drooping, her whole being concentrated on the touch of those gentle, knowledgeable fingers. His voice was deep, the crispness transformed into a smooth, sensual note, intimate, exciting.
‘And your mouth,’ he said, his thumb outlining the trembling contours. ‘Do you know what that wide, soft mouth does to me every time I look, at it, Oriel? I want to feel it on me, tasting me, warm and predatory and eager, doing the very things I want to do to you. I forget that I promised to leave you alone, I forget that until now my word has always been my bond. I wonder if you follow through on the assurances you don’t even know you give. You look at me from under those heavy eyelids and my body clenches with need.’
Her heart almost stopped; she sat bathed in an aura of danger so pulsating with emotion that she thought she might faint.
He foiled her headlong flight by grabbing her wrist and hauling her down on to her knees, facing him. ‘Good strong wrists,’ he mused, capturing her other one and imprisoning them in a shackle of his lean hands. ‘All that piano and tennis, no doubt. You’d make a good fencer. You have the grace and the style to carry it off.’
He was too close. Beneath lashes that were long and dark-and now she could see that they were not black, but darkest brown, with intriguing bronze tips-his eyes were startlingly grey with no hint of blue or green, a ring of darker grey about each dilated pupil. She y
earned to touch the grain of his skin; the smooth, oiled silk of it was irresistibly tactile, and there was a fascinating roughness where his beard began. Her fingers itched to know whether it felt as interesting as it looked. His mouth, that conferer of intense pleasure, was beautifully sculptured, the upper lip a little narrower than the lower, both corners tucked in, a masterful combination of strength and beauty.
His jaw was clean and hard; more strength. Her fascinated gaze fell the length of his tanned throat to the Adam’s apple, not inordinately prominent as some men’s were. As her eyes surveyed it he swallowed.
Instantly her gaze flew back, to be snared by his. She flushed and tried to wrench free of his grip, saying in a constricted voice, ‘Don’t! I’m sorry.’
His hands tightened, holding her prisoner. ‘Why? Because you looked? Or because you liked what you saw?’
Her tongue stole out to touch dry lips, then fled when she saw the flicker in his eyes as they followed the tiny movement. ‘Blaize, don’t,’ she said, so softly that-he had to bend his arrogant head to hear her.
‘Don’t what? Don’t touch you?’ His smile was without humour, a baring of the teeth that threatened more than it soothed. ‘That’s just it, Oriel. I want to touch you.
And you want to touch me, don’t you? I didn’t force you to look at me, but you enjoyed it, just as I enjoy looking at you. It’s about time you faced some facts. You've spent most of today flinching every time our eyes meet and looking away as though you'd just been introduced to Quasimodo.’ I
More colour licked across her skin. She thought feverishly that she could feel it rising from the pathetic mounds of her breasts right up to her hairline.
Swallowing, she returned valiantly, ‘Don’t be an idiot. I find you very attractive, you must know that.’
‘I do know it,’ he said savagely. ‘What I can’t under- stand is why you so obviously are terrified by the whole thing. Although I think I’m beginning to. Any woman with a head full of inaccessible standards of physical beauty, standards it’s physically impossible for her to reach, is bound to have trouble with her self-image. However, just in case you don’t understand, I’ll tell you again. And again, until at last you believe me. I find you profoundly, shatteringly attractive.’