by Robyn Donald
The room was large and light, its furniture luxurious yet with a stylishly casual air that fitted well into the relaxed ambience. Decorated in warm shades of cream and subtle dusky apricots and golds, it was the most opulent bedroom Sanchia had ever been in.
‘There’s a bathroom through there,’ he told her, nodding at a door in the wall. ‘If you need anything give Terry a call.’
Terry—housekeeper, dedicated cook and Caid’s employee—was an old friend of Sanchia’s.
Waiting until he’d closed the door behind him, she sat in a comfortable chair, pulled a card from her wallet, and rang through to the company that dealt with her aunt’s insurance.
Ten minutes later she walked out of the room.
Caid must have been listening for her, because before she’d taken three steps he appeared at his office door. He frowned when he saw her face. ‘Trouble?’
She said wearily, ‘Robots passed me on to Whangarei and then to Auckland, I think, although it might have been Head Office in Timbuktu or Outer Mongolia. Whatever, no one is going to communicate. I left a message in someone’s voicemail, and I owe you for the call.’
‘You owe me nothing,’ he said arrogantly.
A low, distant thunder abruptly changed position to erupt a few feet above the house. Sanchia blinked. ‘What on earth—?’
‘A helicopter—my mother must have arrived a day early,’ he told her, black brows meeting across his arrogant nose in a frown that was immediately banished. The noise of the chopper died away to a slow thump, thump, thump as it landed. He smiled at her, brilliant eyes half concealed by heavy lids, his expression so bland she distrusted it immediately. ‘Come on, we’ll meet her.’
Going out with him seemed to imply some sort of intimacy. ‘You’ll want to be alone.’
‘Just her, me and the chopper pilot?’ he asked sardonically. ‘With Terry and Will probably in hot pursuit?’
Foiled, she was reduced to muttering, ‘You know what I mean.’
He touched her shoulder, a light fingertip contact that burned right through her. ‘Stop making problems where none exist. Come on.’
Wordlessly she went with him, shading her eyes with her hand as they walked across the forecourt and into the paddock next door, its concrete pad now graced by a fussy white and red helicopter. No hot, summer-busy roads for the Hunters!
His mother, a trim, short woman with black hair and superb taste in clothes, was already on the ground, supervising the unloading of several large suitcases.
When Caid called out something in Greek she swivelled around, her face lighting up. Although, Sanchia noted with a jolt of dismay, she cast an extremely sharp glance Sanchia’s way before hurling herself open-armed at her son.
After they’d embraced she disentangled herself quickly, saying ebulliently, ‘It is Sanchia, isn’t it? Little Sanchia Smith? I knew it—I’d recognise those legs anywhere, and that glorious hair. And your lovely face, my dear. I was so sad to hear of your great-aunt’s death, but she had such a wonderful life, with you to brighten it for her final years. Now smile at me!’
And when Sanchia broke into surprised laughter, the older woman nodded with satisfaction. ‘Yes, that wonderful, wonderful smile. I remember how difficult it was to coax from you!’
Caid said, ‘Mama, I’m trying to persuade Sanchia to stay with us for a few days. The bach has a gas leak and a very dangerous electrical system, as well as an empty water tank.’
Sending an indignant glance at him, Sanchia said, ‘But I can’t just—’
‘Just what?’ Mrs Hunter’s dark eyes opened wide. ‘Of course you must stay—this is a big house and I won’t bother you, not a bit. I come here each year to rest, to recuperate—ask Caid. He’ll tell you I just lie around and recharge my batteries and practise being a grandmother in my mind.’
Caid flung his head back and laughed while Sanchia said hastily, ‘Oh, that’s not—I mean, of course you won’t bother me! I just don’t want to be a nuisance.’
‘You won’t be a nuisance.’ A small hand fastened onto her arm. With more than a hint of her son’s determination, Mrs Hunter swept her into the house, leaving Caid and the pilot and Will Spence—Terry’s husband, who’d emerged from the garden—to bring in the luggage.
‘It sounds like a chapter of disasters,’ Mrs Hunter said sympathetically, heading for the terrace. ‘Come, let us sit down and you can tell me all about it.’
It was going to be difficult to keep saying no to Mrs Hunter. And surely with Mrs Hunter in residence she’d be safe from this unsettling, primitive urge to forget everything about common sense and self-protection and the secret that made it impossible for her to ever give in to Caid’s intense, sexual charisma.
Her mood a mixture of chagrin and reluctant, guilty anticipation, Sanchia sat down opposite Mrs Hunter in the shade of a jasmine vine.
The older woman regarded her benignly. ‘Now, tell me exactly what has happened.’
Mrs Hunter responded to Sanchia’s explanation with gentle clucks that soothed some raw patch she hadn’t even known her psyche possessed. Although her parents had loved her they’d never been demonstrative, and Great-Aunt Kate had been brisk and unsentimental.
‘Caid smelt gas, and he—’ She swallowed, conscious again of how dangerous that drifting gas could have been. Steadying her voice, she finished on a valiant half-laugh, ‘He almost threw me out of the house and behind the tank and rolled on top to protect me.’
‘He’s always had very fast reactions, very keen senses,’ his mother said, possessing herself of Sanchia’s hand and patting it. ‘What a shock, my poor girl! Of course you must stay here for as long as you’re in Northland.’
Tears clogged Sanchia’s throat. She didn’t know what to do with her hand; it seemed rude to drag it away, so she left her fingers in Mrs Hunter’s clasp, hauled a handkerchief from her pocket with her spare hand and blew her nose.
Apparently considering this a perfectly normal way to deal with the situation, Mrs Hunter made more soothing comments until the tightness in Sanchia’s throat had relaxed and she was able to say gruffly, ‘You’re very kind.’
‘Not at all. What will you do about the bach?’
‘If I can ever speak to someone at the insurance company instead of disembodied voices, I might be able to find out,’ Sanchia said bitterly.
‘Caid will hurry them up,’ Mrs Hunter said with complete conviction in her son’s ability to move mountains.
Caid emerged from the house, overshadowing the magnificent seascape so completely that Sanchia decided his mother was probably right. Moving mountains no doubt rated high on his list of accomplishments.
After a quick glance at Sanchia he began to talk easily of his mother’s trip from New York; Sanchia settled back into her chair, tucking her legs under it as she listened to their undemanding conversation.
Within a few minutes Terry appeared with tea; when they’d drunk it Caid looked across at Sanchia and said pleasantly, ‘Could you give me that address now?’
Although couched as a request, there was no doubt it was a command. Sanchia stared at him in bewilderment.
‘Your aunt’s—Catherine Tregear,’ he reminded her.
Even then she could only think of Great-Aunt Kate, until she remembered Cathy. Mortified, she got to her feet. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said colourlessly, and smiled at Mrs Hunter before walking along the wide, sunny hall to her bedroom.
It took a moment or two of fossicking in her bag to find the tiny book. As her fingers closed on it the hair stirred on the back of her neck and she swung around. Silent as a panther, Caid had followed her to the door. Her heart beating high in her throat, Sanchia read out the address.
‘Can you write it down for me?’ he asked.
She wrote it out, tore the page from her notebook and handed it over.
He glanced at it. ‘You have pretty writing.’
What an odd thing to say. And what a weird response from her—a kind of primal, bone-deep shudde
r as his finger skimmed over the page. ‘Thank you.’
In a way, she thought, striving to be objective, his stunning good looks were a snare; at first impression Caid Hunter was the modern equivalent of a young Greek god, but a second glance revealed that the classical features, the dramatic colouring, the heart-shaking glamour of Caid’s face were based on a tough, implacable framework. In spite of his magnetic sexuality, he bore himself like a ruler.
No one would ever doubt that in the often vicious cut and thrust of the business world Caid Hunter wielded enormous power. It wasn’t just his clothes that proclaimed it, although they bore the stamp of an extremely good tailor. Nor was it the thin gold watch, or the inborn confidence often possessed by the offspring of the very rich; simply, Caid was a man who faced the world on his own terms, a man accustomed to winning.
He folded the scrap of paper and stowed it into his pocket. ‘Why don’t you try to forget about everything but enjoying your holiday?’
It was an order, not a suggestion. ‘As soon as I’ve tracked down a human being at the insurance company I will,’ she said, and wondered why she’d lied.
Enjoyable was the last way to describe this edgy, potent, ambiguous relationship. If she wasn’t extremely careful, Sanchia thought, watching him walk out of the room, she might even fancy herself in love with him again.
And that would be a total disaster, just as it had been three years ago.
CHAPTER SIX
‘I WONDERED,’ Caid said casually over dinner on the terrace, ‘if you’d like to come with me tomorrow.’
Sanchia’s stomach clenched. ‘I—where are you going?’
‘To check out a property development.’ His enigmatic eyes met her wary glance.
To hide the weakness that urged her to agree, she asked crisply, ‘Don’t you delegate that sort of supervision to underlings?’
His brows lifted, but he said mildly enough, ‘This one is special.’
No doubt he wanted to show her how special any development of Waiora Bay would be. Sanchia’s fork stayed poised over her plate. ‘But Hunter’s is famous for its prize-winning, ecologically stringent, exclusive developments.’ Damn, did that sound as though she spent her spare time searching newspapers and magazines for information about him? ‘Your mother—’ she said, too swiftly to be polite.
He interrupted, ‘My mother usually needs a day to recover from jet lag. I’m sure she’d like tomorrow to herself in a quiet house.’
Mrs Hunter had retired early after announcing that her body clock needed silence and a tray in her room and a good night’s sleep to get itself into sync with New Zealand time.
Forking up a delectable piece of lamb, Sanchia said, ‘You don’t have to entertain me, Caid.’
‘I’d rather hoped you might entertain me,’ he told her outrageously. A challenge glinted in his heavy-lidded eyes, in the mocking, beautiful curve of his lips—a challenge he probably expected her to refuse with righteous indignation.
‘Entertaining men is not my strong point, but I’ll come with you,’ she said perversely, and ate the lamb. Served as an entrée with voluptuous purple and cream eggplant slices and the sharp white and green of a minted yoghurt sauce, it had the same effect on her tastebuds as Caid’s smile did on her spine. Meltdown.
Half closing her eyes to shut him out, Sanchia concentrated on her plate. When her employers were in residence the caretaker’s wife, an inventive and dedicated cook, relished the opportunity to show off her skills.
‘Good, I’ll be leaving about ten.’
A raw note in his voice snagged her attention. He was watching her with a deliberately blank face, but leashed emotions smouldered in his eyes.
Swallowing hastily, Sanchia banished a treacherous, wildfire surge of satisfaction. ‘I’ll be ready.’ Because her mind refused to function beyond the most basic inanities, she added, ‘Terry’s outdone herself with this meal. I’ll bet she’s been practising on Will.’
‘He looks remarkably fit on it.’ Caid’s eyes were now limpid and unreadable and his voice revealed nothing but cool, ironic amusement.
Years ago, at a friend’s birthday party, Sanchia had watched a film on television, a vintage swashbuckler where the hero and villain had fought a duel. As their swords clashed in the light of the rising sun the actors had managed to convey deadly artistry combined with a powerful masculine exhilaration at facing a worthy opponent.
Sanchia felt like that now—determined, rash, defiant—and alight with a glinting excitement. An excitement she couldn’t indulge because it would lead to inevitable humiliation, she thought, lifting her square chin and changing the subject. ‘This is a superb setting for dinner.’
Although the sun was low in the western sky, its heat had driven them to eat beneath a creeper-draped pergola. The jasmine’s clustered buds and white, sweetly scented flowers starred the glossy foliage that twined above and around them.
Sanchia tried to blame the drifting, provocative perfume for this consuming, mysterious awareness, this feeling of being exposed and defenceless. Caid didn’t seem affected by it, or by the soft hush of the waves on the beach below, or the drowsy warmth of the evening as it slid lazily, imperceptibly into a summer night.
‘My mother is an incurable romantic.’ Caid’s wry words didn’t hide his affection. ‘She creates settings wherever she goes; this is one of her favourites.’
Sanchia forced her failing brain into action. ‘She obviously makes the trends. When this house was built nobody thought the Mediterranean look would be the next big thing.’
‘The Mediterranean look is in her blood. She grew up on a small island off Corfu and she carries it in her heart wherever she goes.’
Sanchia nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said simply.
‘Is that why you don’t want to sell, even though you can’t live here? Because the Bay is the home of your heart?’
Such acute perception iced through her. Not for the first time she recognised the wrench it would be to give up Waiora Bay. ‘I—yes.’
‘Where did you live with your parents?’
A sip of delicious, tangy Sauvignon Blanc gave her a moment to collect her thoughts. She swallowed the wine and said huskily, ‘On their yacht—the Seabird.’
Caid matched her movement, watching her over the rim as he drank for intimate, disturbingly erotic seconds. Shock waves shivered down her spine to pool in surging disarray in the pit of her stomach.
Fixing her eyes on the pale golden liquid in her glass, she hurried on, ‘We travelled all around the Pacific. My father couldn’t live on land—he was a wanderer.’
‘How did he earn a living?’
‘He wrote articles for magazines and newspapers.’ She let another small mouthful of wine trickle down her throat. ‘And three or four books. Occasionally someone tells me that his books and articles fed their dream of sailing to tropical islands. Most of them knew they’d never get there, so he lived the dream for them.’
‘An interesting childhood,’ Caid observed, that keen gaze never leaving her face. ‘Did you go to school?’
‘Whenever we stayed anywhere for more than a week.’ She set her glass down. ‘Travelling gave me a grounding in languages—you learn to communicate really fast when you’re starved of company. At sea my parents taught me.’
His mouth curved. ‘I’ll bet you wanted to live in a house.’
Sanchia gave him a startled look. ‘How did you guess?’
‘Seems to be the way kids think. We went back to my mother’s family in Greece at least once a year, calling in at London or Rome or somewhere exotic on the way to or from. Yet all I ever wanted was a bach at the beach like the ones my friends went to every summer.’ He turned his dark head and looked through the swooping branches of the pohutukawa trees. ‘Like your great-aunt’s. I was so excited when my father bought this place. When I saw the house I was disgusted because it was just the same as our other houses!’ His mouth curved as Sanchia laughed, then he said idly, ‘Your great-aunt told me
that your parents died at sea.’
‘Yes. In a cyclone off Australia.’ Her voice was steady, almost off-hand. ‘A helicopter arrived but they only had time and fuel for one pass overhead.’
He frowned. ‘What stopped them winching up your parents with you?’
‘My mother wouldn’t leave my father; he was trapped in the wreckage of the mast and the rigging.’ Sanchia looked down at her plate. ‘He’d broken his back, I think, and we couldn’t cut him free.’
His mouth compressed. ‘I see.’
Did he? ‘They were a devoted couple. I’m glad they went together—I don’t think my mother would have survived without him. She worshipped him.’
‘So she abandoned you.’
The note of harsh condemnation in his voice brought a swift response. ‘It’s a decision no human being should ever have to make.’
‘I agree.’ He turned the glass in his hand so that the candles gleamed in small, scintillating flashes in the wine. Deliberately, almost brutally, he said, ‘Yet you were still a child, and a very vulnerable one. Your mother must have known what her sister was like—the sort of life she led.’
He had voiced her hidden, mute resentment, displayed it for her to face in all its ugliness.
Sanchia said quietly, ‘Decisions made after thirty sleepless, terrifying hours at the mercy of a cyclone aren’t always sensible. My father was still conscious; she couldn’t leave him to die alone.’
‘Not even when he knew you’d be living with a woman I wouldn’t entrust with the care of a termite? He should have forced your mother to leave him,’ he said curtly.
Caid would have, Sanchia realised, nerves tensing as she took in his hard, dominating features; he had enormous strength of will. But it wasn’t this realisation that lifted the hairs on the back of her neck. Shaping the words carefully she asked, ‘How do you know so much about Cathy?’
His broad shoulders lifted. ‘I’ve just received a preliminary report about her. It makes interesting reading; she’s notorious in her own small way, your aunt.’ When she swallowed he added coolly, ‘If I accept that you and Kate Tregear had nothing to do with forging that annuity agreement, then Cathy is the only other logical suspect.’