by Robyn Donald
The implication wasn’t lost on Sanchia. ‘I can promise you I haven’t burnt it,’ she said. Stony-faced, she swung on her heels and strode into her aunt’s bedroom. One hand hefted the marquetry box; she carried it out and unlocked it, then tipped the contents onto the rickety table against the wall. The westering sun sneaked in beneath the verandah roof and smouldered across her bare skin as she flicked through the small pile of papers.
‘Birth certificates,’ she snapped, pushing a long envelope to one side after a cursory glance. ‘Her passport. My school reports. Some extremely old letters in a rubber band. Nothing else—and her other papers went to the solicitor. I’m sure he’d have noticed if there’d been any sort of agreement to sell the Bay. Just as I’m certain Great-Aunt Kate would have told me if she’d known about such a thing.’
Her hands shook slightly as she slapped the papers back in the box and turned the key in the padlock. ‘Nothing,’ she repeated, and turned to face Caid. ‘Unless you can show me an agreement with her signature, then I’m afraid I can’t believe you.’
He covered the distance between them in two long strides and grasped her shoulders. His fingers didn’t tighten but she froze. Green eyes clashed with blue, neither giving nor demanding quarter.
His mouth hard, his tone silkily menacing, he said, ‘When the fax comes through I expect to be able to discuss some sort of deal with you.’
He waited, and when she said nothing he went on more gently, ‘It’s no use, Sanchia. I have the documents. I admire your loyalty to your great-aunt, but I’m afraid she didn’t deserve it.’
Sanchia called on her will-power and took a difficult step backwards, removing herself from the influence of that deep voice, those intensely-coloured eyes, that overwhelming aura of beautiful, dangerous masculinity.
Angry, strangely hurt, Sanchia gave way to a treacherous urge to explain why she had to fulfil her great-aunt’s last wish. ‘She deserved it. She saved my life.’
‘How?’
He spoke lazily, almost indifferently, but she sensed his interest. Regretting the impulse to confide, she said quietly, ‘She rescued me from an—from hell.’
His brows drew together. Quick and savage, he demanded, ‘What sort of hell?’
Sanchia shrugged and resisted the temptation to go any further. He used those pauses like weapons, and she wasn’t going to fall for it again. ‘Just a bad scene,’ she said woodenly.
‘I’m glad she saved you,’ he said, and it was impossible to tell whether he believed her melodramatic statement or not, ‘but she extracted a hundred and twenty thousand dollars from me while apparently not intending to follow through on her legal obligations. Not only that, but she put you in an untenable position.’
Sanchia picked up Great-Aunt Kate’s box and headed into the house. ‘She’d never have lied to me,’ she said coldly over her shoulder. ‘Not even by omission.’ She stopped in the doorway, her eyes opaque and dismissive. ‘Goodbye, Mr Hunter. Get off my land before I have you thrown off for trespass and harassment.’
To her astonishment he laughed. Nonplussed and insulted, Sanchia stared haughtily at him.
Something gleamed in the depths of his eyes. ‘I should ask you to work for me,’ he said. ‘I could make use of that splendid arrogance.’
Was that a hint of a bribe, an offer of a job in his organisation if she sold the land to him? ‘Thank you, but I’m perfectly happy in my present job.’
He’d been watching her, but his attention suddenly shifted. Looking past her, he asked sharply, ‘What’s that smell?’
‘I don’t—’ But she too could smell it now.
‘Gas,’ he said, and surged towards her in a silent, ferocious rush, half-carrying, half-forcing her out of the bach.
By the time he pushed her face-down onto the grass behind the concrete tank her chest was heaving and her blood drumming in her ears. His weight pinned her to the ground as he rolled slightly, manoeuvring her so that he shielded her with his big body, covering her entirely, his long legs clamping hers. Gasping, she gave way to the panic surging icily through her.
‘Stop struggling, damn you,’ Caid commanded, holding her still with carefully controlled strength.
Sanchia dammed the scream that threatened to tear her vocal chords, repeating like a mantra that this was Caid, who had never hurt her…
‘Are you all right?’ he asked suddenly, and in an instant she was free, able to roll over onto her back and take in deep, shuddering breaths.
Forcing her breath evenly through her lips, she relaxed every tense muscle and flung her arm up over her eyes, concentrating with every shred of self-possession she could muster on the reason for that suspicious, frightening trace of gas.
‘Sanchia, answer me!’
Wetting her lips, she croaked, ‘I’m fine. Just a bit winded—I didn’t expect you to fling me down like that.’ Hastily she changed the subject. ‘There must be a gas leak—perhaps it’s a loose connection to the stove.’
There was a tight moment of silence before he said grimly, ‘Your great-aunt obviously let things go—that guttering didn’t rust away overnight, or even in the past six months. And if the gas bottle is damaged, or just too old, the bach could blow up any minute.’
‘My car,’ she said, wrenching her arm away from her eyes to stare into a face so harshly outlined she blinked. The emotion—rage?—that darkened his eyes vanished, replaced by the usual vivid opacity.
He caught her hand and held it firmly. ‘You’re not going anywhere near the bach.’
‘I need that car, and it’s parked within six feet of the gas bottle!’
‘It’s too risky. In this heat, starting a car could provide enough of a spark to send the place up,’ he said harshly. Lean fingers slid from her wrist to her elbow, supporting her as she hauled herself upwards. ‘Better the car than you.’
Furiously, helplessly, she snapped, ‘So what do I do, then?’
His eyes dropped to the smooth expanse of leg exposed by her rucked-up shift; white-lipped, Sanchia tugged the material down to cover her thighs.
‘I know danger is supposed to act as an aphrodisiac, but it doesn’t with me,’ he drawled. ‘You’re quite safe. I’ll collect those papers—you might need them later. Stay here.’ He set off towards the bach.
Assaulted by a complex mixture of emotions, Sanchia scrambled to her feet; before she’d taken two steps after him he swung around and demanded savagely, ‘Do I have to tie you to a bloody tree with my belt?’
‘If it’s safe enough for you to go in there it’s safe enough for me.’
‘And if I need to run for it you’ll be in the way,’ he retorted roughly.
‘I’d rather the bach and the car went up in flames…’ She stopped, then said with a wry smile, ‘Or, as you put it, better the car and the bach than you. And you’ll have a real problem on your hands if you try to tie me to a tree.’
She was no match for him and they both knew it. His eyes narrowed. ‘In that case we’ll leave now and go up to the house. I’ll organise someone who knows what they’re doing to check it out.’
Sanchia dragged her gaze away from his to stare at a clump of agapanthus, blue and white starbursts of flowers poised like huge dandelion heads above the strappy leaves. Her conversation with the tanker driver’s wife in her mind, she said, ‘It’s not likely you’ll get anyone to come during the holidays.’
‘Of course I will,’ he said with such confidence that she blinked.
‘Well, naturally,’ she drawled. ‘For Caid Hunter, any expert would drop everything to come running!’
He shrugged, but ignored the snide little remark. ‘Come on, we’ll go home. I don’t think there’s any immediate danger of the gas exploding, but the further away we are the safer I’ll feel.’
‘Me too,’ she said with a shiver.
Keeping the bulk of the bach between them and the gas bottle, Caid set off so fast her long legs struggled to keep up with him. Although she knew it was almost certa
inly safe, Sanchia could hear her heart beating in her eardrums, and halfway along the hot sand she rubbed eyes that were unaccountably blurred, then fished out her handkerchief and blew her nose.
‘What’s the matter?’ Caid asked instantly.
‘Nothing.’ But her voice cracked on the word and she couldn’t stop shivering.
‘You’re shocked,’ he said roughly, and she was abruptly enfolded in warmth, held against a lean body, safe in strong arms. ‘My blood runs cold when I think you could have been killed any time since you arrived here.’
His hooded blue gaze met hers. Her breath blocked her throat as he bent his head, and her body refused to obey her urgent signals to get the hell out of there.
She even lifted her face to his, shivering at the flash of triumph she saw there. And then he kissed her and she was lost in the dark enchantment his mouth wreaked, in a world where the only thing that mattered was the male scent in her nostrils, the pressure of his mouth on hers, the hot, lithe power of the body against hers.
Sensation—piercingly sweet yet languorous, dangerously decadent—poured through her, sapping her will-power, driving her with the delicate lash of sexuality towards an erotic trap.
Gasping, she tried to pull away, and Caid took swift, expert advantage, probing into the tender depths. Sanchia had no way of controlling the electricity that melted her bones and heated the exquisitely sensitive area between her thighs.
Through the humming in her ears she heard a low, stifled groan; horrified, she realised that it came from her own throat. And almost immediately the black panic surged up from its hiding place deep in her psyche, and she began to struggle.
His arms dropped from around her. Watching her closely, he asked, ‘What’s the matter?’
Was that amusement in his voice, in the curve of his mouth? She’d never been able to read him. Green eyes glittering, lips clamped in a humiliating mixture of fear and frustration, she muttered, ‘It was just reaction.’
‘Was it?’ he asked, blue eyes probing. ‘Reaction to what?’
Sanchia took an involuntary step backwards. ‘The prospect of being blown up in a gas explosion, of course.’ She tried for a coolly dismissive stare before stiffening her sinews and forcing one foot in front of the other.
Without comment Caid strode along beside her.
More than anything in this world she wanted to go back to the bach, pack up and flee to the safety of Auckland. Instead she couldn’t even think; her brains rattled loosely around her head.
Loose. Oh, yes, that was the right word. Shameless, loose, wanton…
And then the hideous kick of terror. Nothing had changed.
Once in the house Caid installed her in a chair with a glass of heavily sugared lime juice before ringing the fire brigade.
As he spoke he saw Sanchia’s hands curve around the glass as though seeking comfort from it. Nausea hollowed his stomach. She could have been killed in an inferno—all that beauty, her lively mind, her tart tongue, that indefinable appeal blown away in a senseless accident.
A few concise explanations later, his gaze drifted back to Sanchia. Her face was almost serene, if you could discount the faint shadows beneath her eyes, and the long fingers clasping the glass seemed still and relaxed; only the shimmer on top of the liquid gave her away.
Yet that impeccable control splintered whenever he touched her; each time he’d kissed her the erotic, sensual intensity of her response had been so arousing he’d had to stop himself from taking her luscious mouth up on the promises it made, making himself master of that elegant, slender body.
Until the barriers slammed into place. Why had she frozen beneath him on the grass, her green eyes blank with terror, then gone berserk?
Although she still wanted him with potent, sensuous passion, she was as unwilling as she had been three years previously. Mixed signals—and he was beginning to suspect the reason for them.
Dragging his attention back to the fire chief, he said grimly, ‘All right, we’ll wait for you to come and check it over. Thank you.’
Sanchia’s green gaze lifted and fixed onto his face with painful intensity. ‘What’s happening?’
‘They’ll be out immediately. In the meantime we’re not to go anywhere near the bach.’
Her lashes fell. ‘Well, no,’ she said vaguely.
He said, ‘Wait there,’ and left the room.
Sanchia watched him go, her eyes dwelling with bitter appreciation on the breadth of his shoulders, the way he moved, all lithe male grace and alertness.
She took another sip of sweetly tart lime juice and cursed her susceptibility. Yet Caid wasn’t just muscles and testosterone and that heart-twisting face; as well as high-handed and forceful and uncompromising, he’d been protective and thoughtful and careful of her…
He came back through the doorway. Dark blue eyes checked her face. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes,’ she said thinly. ‘What’s that?’
He paused, then said, ‘It can wait.’
It was a faxed document. Her eyes flew to his, met an unreadable barrier of cobalt; she said, ‘I’d like to see it now.’
After another searching glance he gave the sheets of paper to her; she looked down, and to her astonishment felt his hand on her shoulder. Solid, warm, almost possessive, it stayed there.
Biting her lip, she bullied her mind to concentrate on the document.
It verified what he’d told her. Twenty thousand dollars was to be paid to Katherine Tregear each year until the agreed price had been reached or Katherine Tregear died, when any excess value of the land at Waiora Bay was to be paid to her estate. Caid’s name was written in a slashing hand, saved from flamboyance by a disciplined control.
Sanchia’s eyes rested on the other signature: ‘Katherine Tregear’.
Sanchia closed her eyes for a moment. A violent mixture of relief and foreboding churned her stomach as she opened them again and focused on the date.
‘That isn’t Great-Aunt Kate’s signature,’ she said evenly.
CHAPTER FIVE
CAID’S fingers tightened only fractionally on her shoulder, yet when he let her go and stepped back Sanchia could feel the marks burning into her skin.
‘How do you know she didn’t sign it?’ he asked with an unsettling detachment.
‘Because her name was Kate.’ She spelt it for him. ‘Not Katherine.’
His dark brows drew together over his arrogant nose as he looked down at the faxed document with its forged signature. ‘Kate is short for Katherine, surely?’
‘Not in her case, and I can prove it,’ she returned crisply. ‘In fact, I can show you her birth certificate—it’s in her box. Her father said that if they were going to call her Kate then Kate she’d be registered and Kate she’d be christened, so her legal name was Kate. She’d never have signed anything “Katherine”.’
Sanchia was suddenly acutely aware of how big Caid was, how heavily muscled, of the difference between his hard strength and her slender litheness. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t even looked at her, yet she felt a primitive apprehension as strong as it was unexpected.
But when he spoke his voice was non-committal, almost indifferent. ‘Is that her writing?’
‘It looks like it.’ She felt sick. ‘But it’s not, Caid. After she died I had to give the funeral director her details for the death notice. He wanted to see the birth certificate. Her name was just Kate Tregear. Not even a second name; her father thought they were useless appendages.’
There was a significant silence. ‘If this is true,’ Caid said at last, his tone neutral, ‘and your great-aunt did not initiate or sign this agreement, who did?’
‘I don’t know.’ Someone who’d wanted twenty thousand dollars a year—someone who’d stolen a hundred and twenty thousand dollars from him. The amount buzzed in her head, ominous, terrifying.
Was Caid evil and deceitful enough to set up this scenario so she’d be forced to sell the Bay? Bile rose bitter in Sanchia’s thro
at. It didn’t seem possible, yet what did she know about him except that when he kissed her he stole her mind away, and that he was ruthless enough to run a huge and growing corporation?
And that he was capable of casual kindness.
Sanchia looked down at the papers in her hand; his signature wavered before her eyes. ‘Was this all set up through intermediaries?’
‘Yes. I was overseas, and she asked for discretion—pride, I thought. I understand pride.’ He looked dispassionately at the fax sheets. ‘The negotiations were all done by mail through the Auckland office. You say this wasn’t signed by Kate Tregear, so clearly someone there didn’t do a thorough enough check. I’ll find out who that was.’
That was when Sanchia believed that he’d had nothing to do with the forgery. Her uneasy glance collided with a face of stone. Devoutly glad she wasn’t that careless someone, she said, ‘What will you do?’
‘I’ll get someone onto it right away—and they can start with the solicitor she used,’ Caid said without expression.
‘Not Mr Jameson.’ Sanchia lifted her head sharply, eyes searching the hard angles of Caid’s face. ‘I might just conceive of Great-Aunt Kate being a party to fraud if she thought she had good enough reason, but the thought of Mr Jameson—who is elderly and fussy and the soul of rectitude—doing anything illegal is just plain ridiculous.’
‘If your great-aunt didn’t sign that deed, someone has stolen a considerable amount of money from me,’ Caid said evenly. ‘I intend to find out who that someone is and see that they get what they deserve.’
‘Fair enough,’ Sanchia said, setting her chin against a definite and chilling threat, ‘just so long as you accept that it wasn’t Great-Aunt Kate.’
‘But who else,’ he asked on a lethally reflective note, ‘would have known enough about her to organise this?’ He paused and added, ‘Apart from you, of course.’
If he could make unpleasant insinuations, so could she; it was one thing to suspect, another entirely to be suspected. ‘Why shouldn’t the supposed annuity be transferred from one bank account to another, and used to give someone—say, someone interested in buying the Bay—a whole lot of leverage to force that sale?’