by Robyn Donald
‘I remember when she brought you here,’ Caid said unexpectedly. ‘You were a tall, skinny kid, all arms and legs with hair that floated like spun silk behind you when you ran. That first summer I don’t think I heard you speak, let alone laugh. My mother worried about you.’
Startled, Sanchia said, ‘Did she? That was kind of her.’
‘Mmm. She’s a very kind woman.’ He ran a forefinger down Sanchia’s arm. Fire followed the light, swift touch.
He knew it too. In a voice that hovered on the border of amusement, he said, ‘You’re hot. I’ll walk you home.’
She didn’t want him back at the bach; struck by inspiration, she countered, ‘Why don’t we go via your place and I’ll sign that option? Then you won’t have to bring it down tonight.’
His mouth curved. ‘Why not? Can I help you over the fence?’
She flashed him a look. ‘No, thanks. I haven’t forgotten how to climb a fence.’
Although under his eye she fumbled it, landing too heavily on the other side.
‘My mother worried about you,’ Caid explained, swinging over with a sure male grace, ‘because she has a strong maternal streak. It’s wasted with only me to lavish it on—she should have had ten kids. You reassured her the following summer when you’d grown a few inches, and we heard you laughing and saw that you were very fond of your great-aunt.’
‘I didn’t think you noticed us much,’ Sanchia said, starting jerkily down the mown track.
Black brows shot up. ‘I noticed you.’ Watchful eyes beneath lowered lashes should have given him a sleepy air. They did nothing of the sort; the half-closed lids intensified both the colour and the speculation in his gaze.
Sanchia lifted her brows in return. With a composed, polite smile she replied, ‘You were busy with your friends, and we hardly ever saw you except when you were sailing or water-skiing or windsurfing, or having a party on the beach.’
She’d seen him enough to fuel some heated fantasies, however! Innocent daydreams—a kid’s crush without the heavy, hard beat of dangerous sexuality that pulsed through her now. That had come later.
The path dived in under the trees, releasing them into welcome shade. Apart from an early cicada strumming his strident little guitar, the foliage muffled and deadened sounds, cocooning them in a heavy, pressing silence.
Caid’s lashes drooped even further. His mouth, an intoxicating combination of power and classical lines, curved. ‘So you ignored us. How unflattering—especially as I was very aware of you,’ he said softly. ‘The first thing I used to do each summer was to impress on my friends that you were absolutely, totally out of bounds, and that if anybody made even a token gesture towards you I’d personally dismember him.’
Sanchia’s mouth dropped open; his tone rearranged the cells in her spine, turning them into jelly.
‘How kind,’ she said, resisting the desire to lick suddenly dry lips. Humiliatingly, the thought of Caid warning off his friends appalled her yet sent shivery, sneaky frissons of excitement through her.
Rallying, she went on, ‘The best sort of big brother—an unknown one.’
‘Yes,’ Caid said easily. ‘It wasn’t so bad until you turned sixteen and developed a figure like a supermodel—the year you hurt your ankle rescuing a butterfly, if you remember. Then I had to get very heavy. So did my mother.’
‘I’m so grateful,’ Sanchia said, striving for a brisk, matter-of-fact tone. Unfortunately she couldn’t stop herself from continuing with the faintest snap, ‘It sounds as though you kept a close eye on me.’
From the corners of her eyes she caught the flash of white teeth in a satirical smile. Infuriated, she stared stonily ahead.
‘Only at the beginning of each summer,’ he said, and added outrageously, ‘To check up on progress, you understand.’
Sanchia snorted.
With infuriating amusement he went on, ‘And then, three years ago, when you came back after university, I discovered you’d more than fulfilled all that coltish promise.’
He was using his voice as an instrument of seduction; its deep timbre and intriguing hint of an accent stroked along her nerves with the sensuous nap of velvet, at once caressing and stimulating.
How many women had lost their heads when he spoke to them like that? Dozens!
‘I—remember,’ she said foolishly, unnerved enough to miss seeing a large spider-web hanging from a manuka branch until it clung to her face, its panicked occupant racing towards the branch in a tangle of black legs.
Sanchia hurled herself sideways, her foot twisting over a root as she cannoned into the man beside her. ‘Sorry!’ she gasped, clutching instinctively at solid muscle.
Caid moved with lethal speed, his strong hands clamping onto her arms, wrenching her away from him as he hauled her upright. When he saw she wasn’t going to fall, he wiped the remnants of the web from her cheek with a sure, gentle touch.
Her breath turned into lead in her chest; her gaze clung to the prominent framework of his face, the potent mouth. Although her hands were empty she could still feel his hot, fine-grained skin searing her palms.
‘Is the spider all right?’ she asked breathlessly.
His hand stilled; she looked up to meet incredulous eyes. Some small part of her brain realised dimly that they were standing a few centimetres apart, his blue gaze fencing with hers through the protective mask of her sunglasses. Pinned by those molten eyes, by his grip, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, and her body sang an irrational song of feverish, primal need.
‘The spider?’ he asked harshly.
When she nodded he gave a hard, humourless laugh. ‘Why don’t you look for yourself?’
Sanchia froze as he whipped off her sunglasses, stepped back and released her, his face impassive.
She forced her glance past him and said, ‘Oh, the spider’s fine. P-probably cursing clumsy p-passers-by.’
With any luck Caid would think it was the close encounter with the spider that pitched her voice too high and caused that betraying hesitation.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked curtly.
She made herself breathe. ‘Yes. Sorry. I hate spider-webs on my face.’ It was all she could trust herself to say because her voice sounded as though it was going to descend into an incoherent, humiliating babble.
‘You’ve experienced them often?’
‘When I ran away in Auckland, before Great-Aunt Kate found me, I slept in a park and one morning I woke with a web over my face.’ She shuddered. ‘I’d dreamed I was dead, and for some reason the web convinced me that it had really happened.’
He took his time about scanning her face. Dazed, she thought she could feel his survey like a laser across her skin.
‘That must have been an appalling experience,’ he said evenly, and smoothed the sweep of one cheekbone with a tantalising thumb.
Fire and ice combined in that touch—at once smooth and abrasive, light yet sinking down into the very centre of her bones.
Summoning every ounce of will, Sanchia stepped back and muttered, ‘As you saw, I still get a bit spooked by them,’ and turned to blunder down the path.
From behind he asked, ‘Don’t you want your sunglasses?’
‘Oh.’ She stopped and held out her hand. ‘Thank you.’
His smile as he handed them over told her that he expected her to stuff them back on. It was exactly what she wanted to do, hide behind them. Why on earth had she blurted out that grisly little experience in the park?
Gritting her teeth, she clutched the sunglasses in hand as she set off again. She was going to have to watch her disconcerting tendency to confide in him.
Caid rejoined her silently, a little too closely because the path was narrow. His bare arm brushed hers, and a bolt of electricity sizzled through her.
‘What have you been doing these past few years?’ he asked. He spoke in a calm, unhurried voice, as though nothing had happened.
Because nothing had. ‘I’ve got a job at one of the tec
hnical colleges in Auckland—in a faculty office.’
He frowned. ‘Why didn’t you use your degree? I know you didn’t want to teach, but people with Asian languages are in high demand all around the Pacific Rim.’
He’d taken two degrees at the same time, a high-powered commerce one and law. Sanchia shrugged. ‘I discovered I had nothing much to offer an employer so I took a computer skills course and was lucky enough to find a clerk’s job.’
‘And is that what you are now?’
‘No,’ she said calmly. ‘I’ve advanced a couple of steps.’ And planned on advancing a lot more.
His keen look indicated that he’d picked up the ambition that fired her. ‘Are you enjoying it?’
‘Very much. Students from all over Asia study there so I’m picking up a good grounding in several other languages. And as I get free tuition I’m working my way through management qualifications.’
The path led to a small gate behind the Hunter house. The thinning trees allowed light to blaze down in golden medallions through the leaves. Caid reached past her and opened the gate, standing back to let her go through first.
Relieved, Sanchia donned her sunglasses as they walked out into the sun’s full power and crossed the closely mown lawn. It looked, she thought, trying hard to be dispassionate, like a picture in an expensive magazine. Shaved green lawn, gardens in full summer array, the house shaded by pergolas, and on two sides the glamour of the sea.
And the man beside her, as handsome as any model she’d ever seen in a magazine and infinitely more formidable. She said clumsily, ‘I should have worn a hat.’
‘You should. That milky skin must burn like tinder.’ Intolerable as the heat from a furnace, his glance touched her bare arms, her face.
‘Everybody burns in this sun,’ she returned swiftly.
Although he probably didn’t—he had his mother’s built-in golden tan along with her black, black hair. Sometimes when he spoke Sanchia could hear Mrs Hunter in a certain intonation, an un-English arrangement of words.
Quickly, before he could give her another of those intimidating looks, Sanchia added, ‘I slather myself with sunscreen every time I go out.’
‘Good. Skin like yours should be cherished.’ Again that cynical, caressing note in his voice mocked the compliment.
Irritated by her heated, mindless response, she said shortly, ‘All skin should be cherished.’
‘No doubt, but yours is a work of art.’
‘Thank you,’ Sanchia replied tautly.
Did he hope that a meaningless flirtation would persuade her to sell Waiora Bay? No, that instant physical response was real enough, and she wasn’t the only one feeling it.
But he could well intend to use it as a weapon.
Side by side they walked into the welcome coolness of a creeper-shaded terrace. Sanchia’s sandals clicked on the ceramic tiles as she followed him between loungers and chairs towards a wall of pushed-back glass doors.
‘Come in,’ Caid told her, standing back so she could go before him into the big sitting room beyond.
Sanchia had never forgotten the atmosphere of casual elegance, of European glamour and comfort that permeated Caid’s house. Reluctantly, feeling she was yielding an advantage, she removed the sunglasses and, without giving herself time to harness the clutch of bumblebees in her stomach, said, ‘I’m not open to persuasion on the future of the Bay.’ Fixing her gaze on a blur of flowers in a magnificent vase, she underlined her statement as delicately as she could. ‘It will probably save a lot of time and useless manoeuvring if I tell you that you won’t coax Great-Aunt Kate’s estate from me.’
He said in a voice so cold it froze her every cell, ‘I don’t do business that way, Sanchia.’
‘I wasn’t meaning—’
‘Then what were you meaning?’
Sanchia faced him, her chin angling up as she grabbed for her scattered wits. ‘I’m not going to be won over by an appeal to greed, either. Why offer me a couple of thousand for an option to buy the Bay when I’d made it obvious I didn’t want to sell? You know perfectly well that an option is usually sealed by a coin.’
For a racing moment she thought she saw a hint of respect in the vivid eyes.
‘There’s no set legal fee,’ he said drily. ‘An option to buy is a business decision, and the amount offered to cover it is decided on by the two people concerned.’
‘But it’s usually no more than a token—a dollar. You were testing me.’ She held his gaze a second longer. ‘You can pay me a dollar for the option, but I’m not going to change my mind about selling.’ And because his smile flicked her on the raw, she finished with a foolish bravado, ‘However much you try to intimidate me, or however charmingly you flirt with me.’
His smile vanished, but before she had time to exult he advanced on her, his silent grace a threat. Although Sanchia’s stomach lurched, she refused to back away.
‘This,’ he said, resting his thumb on the jumping pulse in her throat, ‘has nothing to do with the document you made the decision to sign.’
Gently, without pressure, his hand curved around her throat, the fingertips moving slightly against the sensitive nape of her neck, producing a tiny friction as purposeful as it was erotic. ‘Neither has the fact that your eyes are a smokier, more sultry green than I remember, and that your mouth is a miracle…’
Sanchia looked up into metallic eyes and saw the effort he had to put into relaxing his fingers. Inside her a latent hunger uncoiled, began to move through her veins like the tide of life greeting an arctic spring, long-awaited, unrestrainable.
‘Nothing to do with business at all,’ Caid repeated dispassionately, his voice deep and hard. ‘I find you very attractive, very appealing—I have ever since you turned sixteen. But I do not intimidate women, nor force them into my bed, and I don’t use lies to seduce them into making decisions either. Am I forcing you now?’
‘No.’ The word splintered with repressed emotion—terrifying emotion—a passionate, wild desire that warned of sensual meltdown.
Slowly, whispering across the surface, his fingertips tantalised her skin as his thumb noted the increased thudding of her pulse. Sanchia shivered.
Bending his head, he said fiercely, ‘You can walk away if you want to.’
She lifted heavy eyelids. ‘I don’t want to.’
Triumph flashed in the blue eyes. ‘Good,’ he said, and kissed her.
It was like an earthquake: the foundations of her world shifted and she no longer had any reference points for normality as sensation stormed through her. Shattered by the violence of her response to Caid’s seeking, demanding mouth, Sanchia gave up trying to think and surrendered to the astonishing pleasure his kiss summoned.
Some time later she surfaced; locked in his arms, she was pressed against him from shoulder to thigh so that his arousal was more than obvious.
Appalled, she tried to pull away, but he lifted his head and said harshly, ‘It’s too late for that.’
‘Oh, no, it’s not,’ she muttered, beating back the first icy trickle of fear. ‘I must be mad. Caid, let me go!’
‘So nothing has changed,’ he said coldly, releasing her immediately. ‘Kissing is all right but I must go no further. Why, Sanchia?’
Twisting away, Sanchia ran a shaking hand through her hair and whispered, ‘I won’t let this happen again!’
He showed his teeth. ‘Hell, isn’t it?’ he agreed sardonically. ‘Just one of those mad attractions that shatter kingdoms and ruin lives.’ His eyes glinted. ‘Perhaps you have such a powerful effect on me because I spent several summers watching you grow up. And one infinitely frustrating holiday trying to get past the iron-clad barriers that slammed in my face whenever I touched you. What’s your excuse?’
Weighed down by reaction to the adrenalin overdose, Sanchia blinked and gathered the tattered remnants of her wits about her. ‘Look, produce this piece of paper, I’ll sign it and say goodbye, and we can forget that the—that this ever happened
.’
‘Coward,’ he taunted.
‘Absolutely,’ she agreed fervently, thrumming with thwarted desire now that he’d let her go. ‘I like a peaceful life and you’re very definitely not peaceful. We’ve got nothing in common.’ She dragged her gaze from his enigmatic face to stare around the room. ‘Where is this option?’
‘In the office.’ But even as he nodded towards a door he said caustically, ‘We have one thing in common, Sanchia—a consuming physical passion that’s going to drive both of us crazy unless we do something about it. Why does it scare you so much? I won’t hurt you.’
Sanchia swallowed to ease her arid throat. For a second panic clutched her, and with it a soul-destroying shame. Had he guessed? No, she decided with a swift spurt of relief, not yet. She strode across the room in front of him, flinging over her shoulder, ‘I don’t want an affair with you!’
‘So you said three years ago. Why, Sanchia? Does passion terrify you so much?’
If only he knew…
She said jerkily, ‘I’m not cut out for being a diversion, a pretty toy to be used and then discarded. You forget that while you were checking the length of my legs and whether I laughed or not, I was watching girls chase you. You didn’t run very far, they didn’t last very long—just long enough to break their hearts. I noticed the pattern early and it’s not one that fits me. I need independence—to lead my own life, for myself.’
‘And does your wonderful independence,’ he queried in a dangerously silky voice, ‘keep you sated and warm at night?’
‘There are more important things in life than sex.’
He said something swift and angry in Greek, the language she had stubbornly refused to even consider learning. Switching to English, he said, ‘Or perhaps you work off that violent physical appetite of yours with strangers, with casual affairs?’
She’d kept so much from him she was tempted to add a whopping lie, but she said stiffly, ‘I don’t approve of petty, sordid affairs.’
So unnerved that she barely understood her own words, she yanked the door open and walked through, frowning when she saw she was in a passage. ‘Which way?’