by Robyn Donald
She saw the anger leap into his eyes, and noted, with reluctant respect, his instant command of it. ‘I don’t lie and I don’t cheat,’ he said slowly, his heavy-lidded eyes never leaving her face. ‘That bank account isn’t mine and its account number will be in the records.’
‘Would the bank tell you who owns it?’ Sanchia was still bristling. ‘New Zealand has a privacy act. Of course, you could find an unscrupulous hacker to go into their records…’
He shrugged, magnificently dismissive of any privacy act. ‘Or go to the police.’
Sanchia resisted eyes so vividly saturated with blue it was impossible to see into their depths. His almost indifferent voice didn’t hide the cold determination behind it. This time the threat was extremely personal.
Her hand shook as she put the papers down on the table beside her chair. Controlling a driving urgency to get out of there, to leave all this behind, she squared her shoulders and folded her hands in her lap, holding them still with stringent will-power.
‘If you’ve lost that money to a forger I’m sorry,’ she said steadily, ‘but Great-Aunt Kate didn’t sign that document, and I certainly didn’t. So I don’t feel I have even a moral responsibility.’
‘I don’t believe,’ he said, still with that formidable self-assurance, ‘I’ve implied any such thing.’
‘Good.’ Getting to her feet, she drew in a quick, furious breath and stared straight into his angular, impassive face as she finished, ‘I’ll see whether Great-Aunt Kate has any other papers—’
He broke in with a biting flash of temper. ‘You’re not going anywhere near that building until it’s been checked and the source of the gas leak found and dealt with.’
‘Oh—I’d forgotten.’ Feeling foolish, Sanchia shifted her gaze to the document. Who had gone to those lengths? Someone who knew enough about Great-Aunt Kate to do it, who wanted money enough to forge a signature, someone who might even feel entitled to that money…
‘What is it?’ Caid demanded as she snatched up the papers and shuffled through them to stare at the signature.
‘Nothing.’ She said it too hastily.
‘You’ve thought of someone?’ When she didn’t move or answer his voice hardened. ‘Who?’
Silence stretched tautly between them until he probed, ‘What was the name of this aunt you lived with after your parents died? The one you quarrelled with and ran away from before your great-aunt found you sleeping rough in a park and brought you here.’
‘Cathy,’ Sanchia mumbled.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.’
‘Catherine.’ Her face rigid, she dropped the fax sheets with shaking fingers as though they contaminated her. ‘But her name is spelt with a C, not a K.’
‘Catherine Tregear?’
Hideous memories swirled through Sanchia. Controlling her face, her voice with an iron will, she said, ‘Yes.’
Another of those tense, icy pauses. ‘Where is she, this aunt Catherine of yours?’
‘I don’t know.’ Sanchia took a shallow breath. ‘I haven’t seen her for years. We aren’t close.’
Another understatement—so understated, in fact, that it came near to being a lie. Cathy Tregear hated her.
‘How many years?’
Sanchia broke through the cage of her memories to say, ‘Eleven. But why would she—?’
‘I am,’ he murmured, his eyes burning almost hypnotically, ‘a strong believer in hunches. Isn’t twenty thousand dollars a year reason enough? Was she mentioned in your great-aunt’s will?’
‘No,’ Sanchia said stiffly.
‘Unusual, surely? Why didn’t Kate leave her a share of her estate?’
Sanchia rallied her wits. ‘Why should she? Mr Jameson told me that sharing an ancestor with someone doesn’t entitle you to a claim on their estate unless you’re a child or grandchild. And as Cathy is only a niece of Great-Aunt Kate she has no claim to the Bay.’
‘Waiora Bay is worth a lot of money,’ Caid said cynically. ‘If Cathy Tregear was told the same thing—that she had no claim—could she have conceived a method of getting what she might consider her rightful share? Fraud is simpler and less expensive than waiting to contest any will. What sort of person is she?’
‘I don’t really know.’ At his narrow-eyed disbelief she added, ‘I only lived with her for a couple of months.’
‘What made you run away?’
White-faced, Sanchia said raggedly, ‘I told you, we quarrelled.’
‘Why?’
Bile rose into her throat. Swallowing it down she said, ‘That has nothing to do with this.’
A hooded gaze still fixed to her face, he said, ‘Why did you ask your solicitor if Cathy had any rights to your great-aunt’s estate?’
Driven into a corner, Sanchia hesitated before admitting, ‘I thought she might try to contest the will.’
Caid examined her with a chilling, impersonal interest, his handsome face a mask. ‘So you don’t trust her.’
Sanchia jumped to her feet and paced across the room, her hair flying about her clammy face as she shook her head and demanded, ‘What is this, a cross-examination?’
He shrugged, but the hard blue gaze kept her pinned. ‘Do you think she’s capable of deception?’
The cool, merciless inquisition and the formality of his language made him seem distant, an alien, not the man who had kissed her so hungrily. Sanchia said wearily, ‘Deception—yes, I suppose so, but this is forgery you’re talking about! And fraud!’
He looked back at the document. ‘Whatever the truth, I’ll get to the bottom of it.’
His gaze lifted, catching her unawares. Three long strides brought him to stand in front of her. ‘And perhaps you’d like to tell me why the mention of Cathy Tregear drains all the colour from your skin and steals the light from your eyes.’
A note in his voice sent tiny chills across her nerves. ‘You’re imagining things.’
Caid smoothed a tress of silky black hair away from her damp cheek. Was she telling the truth, or ruthlessly sacrificing an aunt she clearly had reason to dislike? His glance shifted to the pulse in her long throat, beating hard and heavily, and a fierce satisfaction rushed through him. She wore some faint perfume glossed with the scent of the sea, heady and altogether too potent. A primitive lust stirred.
And then he met her eyes—all emotions hidden by flat, opaque green enamel. Was she a bloody clever little actress and that fiery passion a fraud, or was she telling the truth?
Did the mysterious Cathy hold the key to Sanchia’s reluctant response to him, to the panic that flared in her whenever he touched her?
Before he started applying real pressure he’d have to dig a lot deeper.
‘Why should that surprise you?’ she asked jaggedly. ‘People often don’t get on, and I wasn’t an easy child to have around after my parents died—I was sulky and traumatised and desperate. Cathy was much younger than my mother, and she didn’t want a twelve-year-old giraffe in her life.’
There was more to it than that, Caid realised. For a taut second she’d looked terrified—the kind of sick, hopeless terror that you saw in kids caught up in the obscenity of war. And she wasn’t twisting away from him as she would normally; she didn’t even seem to realise that he was touching her at all. A fierce, bewildering protectiveness wrenched him.
The fine black strands of her hair slid cleanly across his skin, cool as running water, still damp from the sea, hair like the sultry promise of a tropical midnight. What would it be like to lie on a bed surrounded by that hair, see her great eyes glaze with passion as those long legs gripped his thighs in the most intimate embrace of all? What would it feel like to sate himself with that slim, silken body? Perhaps, he thought with an attempt at cynicism, he wanted her so much because she was the one who’d got away.
Tough common sense reined in his hardening body. Not yet. Not until he knew why she dissolved into flames in his arms, only to reject him a few seconds later. It could, of course, be a plo
y to keep him off balance and stop him thinking too hard about the money he’d lost.
It took all his control to say indolently, ‘I imagine that you were a quiet, well-behaved little girl, eager to love and be loved.’
When she flinched every instinct went onto red alert. Releasing the satiny tress he said, ‘Sorry, did I pull it?’
‘No.’ The word cracked, her natural huskiness emphasised to near-hoarseness. Muscles moved jerkily in her pale throat as she swallowed.
Because he’d touched her hair? His gut tightened as he recalled how astonishingly responsive she was to him, but his instinct, always good, told him she wasn’t reacting to him now.
Calmly, deliberately, he asked, ‘So you don’t know where Catherine Tregear is?’
The answer came too quickly. ‘No.’ Her fingers twined over and under until she’d knotted them together.
Caid strode across the room to stare out at the shimmering garden, limp and golden under the relentless sun, buzzing with bees and insects, while he fought a silent battle with himself.
Never before had he let his healthy male libido tangle his brain. It didn’t seem likely, but if Sanchia was using her smoky eyes and silken skin and exquisite racehorse limbs to cheat him, she’d be dealt with the same way as everyone else who’d headed down that unprofitable path. Without mercy.
And when she’d learned her lesson he’d see that she never forgot it.
He’d also, he decided grimly, find out what trauma in her past imprisoned her. Something, he’d swear, to do with Cathy Tregear.
Sanchia watched him from beneath lowered lashes, wondering at the tension that pulsed through his big, graceful body. She had to clear her throat and suck breath back into her lungs before she could walk over to the table with the faxed sheets on it and gaze down at the signature.
Caid’s voice made her jump. ‘Do you have an address for Catherine Tregear?’ When Sanchia hesitated he said drily, ‘I can find it in the telephone directory.’
He’d do just that. Reluctantly she said, ‘In my address book. I’ll get it from the bach when I can go back.’
‘Thank you.’
She no longer took his indifference at face value. He was going to track Cathy down. She said tautly, ‘I hope the fire brigade gets here soon. Oh, we should have told them—the engine won’t be able to get down the hill.’
‘I imagine they’ll use the smaller engine.’
‘I didn’t know they had two.’
He shrugged. ‘A couple of years ago they had a big fund-raising drive for a new one.’
No doubt he’d contributed largely. Although no amounts had ever been mentioned, the mysterious transference of information in the district meant that everyone knew he was a generous donor to local causes.
Sanchia glowered down at her green shift, noting a grass stain on one side. Banning the memories that ambushed her—the scent of the grass, the heat and leonine strength of his big body, and the panic that had followed her first leaping, fiery response—she said again, ‘I hope they get here soon.’
‘Well, the bach isn’t going to explode right now,’ the fire chief said, her shrewd gaze moving from Sanchia’s face to Caid’s, ‘but I certainly wouldn’t say it’s safe.’
When the volunteer brigade had arrived Caid had wanted Sanchia to wait at his house, but she’d insisted on going down with him.
He must have seen that he’d have to carry out his threat to tie her to a tree if he wanted to keep her away because he’d conceded, ‘You can come if you do exactly as they say.’
She looked at him. ‘I didn’t ask you for permission,’ she said sweetly, ‘and of course I’ll do what they say. I’m not stupid.’
Unexpectedly he gave her a slow, spectacular smile. ‘No, merely stroppy and headstrong,’ he said wryly. ‘All right, let’s go.’
‘The gas bottle is faulty,’ the fire chief told them now. ‘It looks as though someone’s taken to the connection with a heavy implement, perhaps trying to steal it.’
‘Who’d do that?’ Sanchia asked, feeling sick.
Caid said shortly, ‘There have been incidents—people coming down to party on the beach. Terry, Will and Pat chased them away.’
Giving Sanchia a deeply envious glance, the fire chief said, ‘Whatever, it’s not safe. As well as the dodgy gas bottle, the electrical system is completely shot.’ She pointed out a socket that had wobbled and sparked for as long as Sanchia remembered. ‘That’s highly dangerous, and it’s not the only one. I’ve turned the power off; don’t turn it back on.’
‘It’s all right to go inside?’ Caid asked.
‘The place probably won’t explode,’ the older woman repeated, ‘but it’s a fire waiting to happen.’
‘I’ll help you get your clothes,’ Caid said to Sanchia. ‘You can stay with us.’
Sanchia walked in through the open doors. A faint scent of gas still lingered on the hot air. Stepping carefully through the crumbling remains of the happiest years of her life, she led the way into her bedroom.
‘What else do you want?’ Caid asked. ‘Photographs? Keepsakes?’
She stared around. ‘No, I’ve taken all those. I’ll collect the mugs—oh, the car.’ She swung around, just preventing herself from colliding with him. ‘I have to get the car away.’
‘We’ll put everything in it and take it up to the house.’ Caid opened the wardrobe and began to scoop clothes from hangers with a ruthless efficiency that didn’t rob his actions of a false intimacy.
The only way to stop him was to do it herself, so Sanchia emptied the drawers and rescued her toiletries from the bathroom and the food from the kitchen. Also from the kitchen she collected salt and pepper shakers in the shape of perky pigs, so old the glaze had cracked, and Great-Aunt Kate’s mug, with the pukeko striding flamboyantly past a flax bush, and the matching teapot.
Once everything had been deposited in the car, Caid held out his hand. ‘The keys.’
Sanchia said, ‘I’ll drive.’
The fire chief opened her mouth, but before she could speak Caid said, ‘We’ll push it well away from the house before I start it.’
Sanchia dithered, scanning his angular face, hard, totally determined; he wasn’t going to give in.
‘Good idea,’ the fire chief seconded, and yelled for some strong arms from her crew.
Testosterone, Sanchia decided irritably, bending down to help push the car, had a lot to answer for.
It didn’t take long to heave the small vehicle to a safe distance from the house. The fire crew stood at the ready while Caid got in and turned the key. Sanchia’s breath blocked her throat until the engine caught, the car gave its usual little shudder, and the bach remained intact.
Sanchia wiped a suddenly shaky hand across her wet brow and walked swiftly towards the vehicle. Caid got out, holding the door open for her as she slid in behind the wheel. ‘Thank you,’ she said from the car to both Caid and the fire chief. ‘I’m very grateful.’
It was the woman who answered. ‘No problem. Take care.’
‘I will.’
Caid walked around to the passenger’s seat, all long legs and broad shoulders and masculine presence. When the door closed Sanchia put the car in gear and drove across the grassy paddock and up the steep hillside beneath the kanuka scrub and tree ferns.
Halfway back to his house, Caid said in an amused voice, ‘Stop sulking.’
‘I’m not sulking.’ She skewered him with a pointed glance before switching her attention back to the road. ‘I’m working out what I should do next.’
‘Ring your insurance agent and the solicitor,’ he told her promptly. ‘You need to know where you stand with the insurance, and as the will hasn’t been probated you should tell Jameson about the bach.’
Tightening her lips, she negotiated a pothole. ‘I’d already realised that, but Mr Jameson is in the South Island walking the Heaphy Track so it will have to wait until he gets back. I’d better let my flatmates know I’m on my way back to
Auckland.’
‘It would be more convenient if you remained here until you’ve organised everything. There are plenty of spare bedrooms in the house and both my mother and I would enjoy your company.’
Her hands clenched onto the steering wheel; hoping he hadn’t noticed, she straightened the car. Colour burned her cheeks as she said evenly, ‘Thank you for offering—’
‘A bedroom and a few meals,’ he said in a bored voice. ‘No big deal, Sanchia.’
Perhaps not for him, but it was turning into one for her. With this runaway sensual awareness firing her hormones into overdrive, accepting his hospitality could well be an act of foolhardy recklessness.
Nevertheless, he was right. She needed to stay close by because she’d arranged to meet a representative from the District Council in two days’ time. ‘I’ll stay tonight,’ she said, ‘and find a motel tomorrow.’
‘You’ll be lucky.’
Right again; slap in the middle of the holiday season, every motel and bed and breakfast would be booked out. In silence she parked by the house, thinking wryly that her car was probably the oldest, tattiest vehicle ever to insult the gravel forecourt.
The sun heated blue flames in his hair as Caid got out. ‘It’s like driving a sardine tin. How do you manage to fit those long legs behind the wheel?’
Sanchia gave him a cool smile. ‘We peasants get used to such inconveniences.’ She parried his narrowed glance with fortitude.
Smoothly he said, ‘Anyone less like a peasant it would be hard to imagine.’ His gaze burned the length of her throat, settled for a searing milli-second on the thrust of her small, high breasts.
Hot, angry with him, but more with herself for offering him the opportunity and then responding with such pagan vehemence to his insolent survey, she said huskily, ‘Thank you, I think.’
He picked up her suitcase and strode ahead into the quiet house. ‘Try this for size,’ he said, pushing open a door into a room. ‘It looks over the Bay, so you’ll be able to keep an eye on the bach through the trees.’