by Robyn Donald
She didn’t blame Caid for hating the prospect of a reserve next door to his house. With public access came noise, and mess, and occasional wanton destruction; the temptation to give him the Bay was so strong she could feel the bittersweet taste of surrender in her mouth. That final kiss—long, piercingly sweet and textured with peril in spite of the anger behind it—had warned her that she had to get away before she yielded so much to him that she’d never find the way back to herself.
She’d let herself fall into the trap of hope. If he felt anything at all for her beyond a wildfire physical attraction edged by years of repression, he’d have tried to understand why carrying out Great-Aunt Kate’s wish was so important to her.
But he didn’t want to know. He’d enjoyed her, and no doubt he’d have been happy to indulge in an affair until the novelty palled. Then he’d get on with his life with no regrets.
Just as she had to. Overcoming this secret love was just a matter of distance and time and will-power. Today—right now!—she’d start chiselling away at the image she’d secretly harboured in her heart.
Although she teetered on the edge of an echoing, empty abyss, she had to somehow summon the courage to cross it. In time she might even be able to thank him for so comprehensively demolishing her terror of sex.
Her head jerked up and she squared her shoulders. She’d survive.
Three long, hot weeks later, in Auckland, an assertive peal on the front doorbell brought Sanchia in from the terrace, a fugitive, unbidden excitement channelling through her.
So stupid, because although her brain told her it would never be Caid, her heart still hoped.
She dropped the newspaper she’d been pretending to read onto the sofa in the sitting room. After her flatmates had left for work this hot, humid Auckland day, she’d opened every window and French door and indulged in an orgy of cleaning—anything to take her mind off the reverberating loneliness. It hadn’t helped—how did you kill a longing rooted in the very cells of your body?—but at least it had given her something to concentrate on.
Yet although an aching emptiness overshadowed her, she’d achieved a small measure of peace. Since she’d had to choose between Great-Aunt Kate’s wishes and Caid’s, she understood the fundamental clash of loyalties that had led her mother to die with her husband in the howling wastes of the Pacific. Sanchia had chosen to walk away from the man she loved, but her new understanding appeased a heart-deep sense of abandonment she’d never acknowledged or accepted until then.
Because if Caid had loved her she might have made the same decision and abandoned Great-Aunt Kate’s sacred trust.
Another impatient peal on the doorbell urged her along the passage. She opened it, and was pushed back into the hallway. Two people advanced on her—her aunt Cathy, a glittering smile curving her wide, sensual, lightly coloured mouth, eyes as green as Sanchia’s opaque in her beautiful face, and Robert Atkins.
‘Hello, Sanchia,’ Cathy purred.
Afterwards Sanchia would ask herself why on earth she’d let them herd her down the passage, but locked in a hideous replay of the past she couldn’t resist. Slim, honed body swaying beneath a floating white linen dress, Cathy kept smiling and advancing. Beside her, her husband smiled too, but in his face Sanchia read real malevolence.
‘What do you want?’ The words rasped; she was twelve again, terrified.
‘You great, stupid bitch,’ Cathy said sweetly, her smile still fixed to her lovely face. ‘You couldn’t wait to blame me for that annuity, could you? No, you opened that ugly mouth of yours and told Caid Hunter all about your wicked aunt—’
Sanchia swallowed. ‘I did not.’
‘So who else would have?’ Robert Atkins sneered.
Cathy ignored him. ‘I’m quite sure Aunt Kate wouldn’t have discussed me with Mr Hunter, so it had to be you.’
‘And because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut,’ her husband said savagely, ‘we’re in the can. You’re going to get us out of it, or you’re going to pay.’
Until that final gloating word Sanchia had backed away from them, so caught up in the past that she couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything more than respond with a complete shut-down of intellect and determination.
But she was no longer twelve, alone and afraid. Calling on every shred of will-power she possessed, she turned into the sitting room, walking ahead of them. With a retreat available through the open French windows, she stopped and swung to face them.
A rapid rush of adrenalin revived her as they too halted. ‘What the devil do you mean by that?’ she demanded, furious with herself for giving them the opportunity to intimidate her. ‘I can’t get you out of trouble, and there’s no way I’m going to pay.’
Robert Atkins said loudly, ‘You’re going to do what you should have done—what any normal person would have done!—when Kate Tregear died. You’re going to sell Caid Hunter the Bay so that he can deduct the money from the purchase price.’
‘I’ll do no such thing!’
Cathy’s smile danced along her mouth. ‘Then I’ll start proceedings to make a claim on Kate’s estate. Think, Sanchia, how much time and money that’s going to take—time you can’t afford, and money you don’t have. Sell to Caid Hunter, and I won’t need to do it.’
‘You have no legal right to her estate,’ Sanchia retorted, ‘and you’ve got a damned nerve, coming here and telling me what to do.’ She looked at them with contempt. ‘Caid must have really scared you.’
‘You little bitch—’ Swift as a snake, Robert Atkins grabbed at her.
Sanchia leapt backwards, narrowly avoiding those clutching fingers. Her heart raced, yet that first paralysing terror had vanished completely, replaced by cold, watchful anger. This man, she realised with a wild, reviving thump of relief, the ogre who’d tainted years of her life, was an inch shorter than she was. The years had greyed his head and carved lines into his weakly handsome, dissipated face.
She was no longer afraid of him.
In her curtest tone she said, ‘What on earth made you think you could get away with stealing from Caid Hunter, of all people? Did you honestly think he wouldn’t find out that he’d paid a hundred and twenty thousand dollars for a fake annuity? Or that when he found out he’d let you get away with it? Caid Hunter, known the world over for his killer instinct?’
Cathy said viciously, ‘If you’d done what you were supposed to do when Kate died—sell the place—no one would have ever been any wiser.’
‘I’d have found out.’
‘You wouldn’t, and neither would Caid Hunter, because he’d have offered you a price that took the annuity into consideration, and because he’s the sort of upright man who’d have obeyed what he believed to be a proud old lady’s plea for secrecy. I had everything worked out, and if it hadn’t been for you we’d all have been happy. But no, you had to dig in your heels…’
‘Fortunately, we know how to apply pressure,’ her husband said, smiling, his pale eyes dilating as he eyed Sanchia’s breasts.
Remnant fear shivered down her spine, but she asked with cool disdain, ‘What pressure can you apply?’
Cathy said tensely, ‘I’ve got nothing to lose, do you understand, you stupid slut? I’m not going to spend years locked away because of your ridiculous devotion to a crazy old woman’s whim. If you don’t sell the Bay to Caid Hunter I’ll make sure you suffer—I’ll take everything you value from you, and if that means I have to burn this place down and firebomb your car, that’s where I’ll start.’
It could have been an empty threat, but there was an edge of desperation to her tone and in her face that brought up the tiny hairs on the nape of Sanchia’s neck. Trying for time, she asked, ‘How did you find out what Great-Aunt Kate wanted to do with the Bay?’
‘Caid Hunter told us.’ Robert Atkins’s mouth worked as though he’d tasted something foul.
Her composure recovered, Cathy gave her a smug glance. ‘He suggested that we come and see you,’ she purred.
Surely Caid hadn’t sent them here to threaten her—no! No, he wanted the Bay, but not that much.
Steadily Sanchia said, ‘Even if I wanted to save you from the results of your own greed, I couldn’t. I’m not going to sell the Bay and I’ve got no influence over Caid.’
Cathy gave a tinkling little laugh. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, you’re no raving beauty, but you’ve got all the equipment! There’s no accounting for tastes—even the sexiest magnate might want to go slumming now and then—and it’s a rare man who’ll turn down what you’ve got to offer.’
Sickened, Sanchia said evenly, ‘Nothing I could do or say would make Caid Hunter change his mind.’
‘You haven’t changed a bit,’ Cathy spat, her façade cracking. ‘And all for a measly hundred and twenty thousand dollars. He’s a multimillionaire—probably a billionaire by now. He probably spends that amount each year on his handkerchiefs. As for you, you’re still a bloody sanctimonious—’
Something behind Sanchia caught Cathy’s attention. Her voice stumbled and died, her eyes widening and her skin blanching into a sick pallor.
Sanchia swung nervously around, her incredulous gaze registering the man silhouetted in the open French windows.
She dragged in a deep, ragged breath. The angular lines and planes of Caid’s face were like a mask, expressionless, coldly perfect.
‘Caid?’ she said, her voice mirroring her uncertainty.
Ignoring her, his cold blue gaze fixed on Cathy, he walked into the room and said in a voice so soft it froze Sanchia’s blood, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Although her cosmetics stood out so that she looked like a little painted doll, Cathy attempted her usual confident tone. ‘We’re having a family discussion.’
‘It didn’t sound like that to me,’ he said, with a glance at Robert Atkins that made the other man step back involuntarily. ‘You threatened Sanchia.’
Sanchia said unevenly, ‘Why are you here?’
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘This morning I had an interesting interview with your aunt—’ his voice emphasised the word with contempt ‘—and her husband. After they left me they were overheard deciding to visit you.’
He hadn’t come alone. The man who stood behind him was so inconspicuous that his profession, security expert, was obvious.
Negligently, not trying to hide his cold disdain, Caid continued, ‘Get out, you two, and don’t come back. I should have expected you to try and force Sanchia to repay the money you owe me, but it’s not going to work.’
Cathy and her husband looked at each other.
‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to hand you over to the police,’ Caid told them with chilling disgust. ‘Get within fifty yards of Sanchia again, or contact her in any way, and that’s what will happen.’
Cathy summoned a smile, a clever blend of respect and female appreciation that paid subtle homage to his overpowering maleness as well as his status.
She kept it pinned to her mouth even when Caid looked at her with eyebrows raised, visibly unimpressed.
Before she could speak Robert Atkins blustered, ‘You have no proof.’
‘I have a paper trail leading right to you,’ Caid said. He looked at the anonymous man, ‘Perhaps you could escort Mr and Mrs Atkins out.’
Again Cathy and her husband exchanged glances. After a tight pause Cathy said with a sketch of shrug, ‘All right, we’ll go quietly.’
‘I’ll see you later,’ Caid said.
Sanchia shivered. He hadn’t raised his voice, hadn’t altered his stance, but the aura of menace around him had thickened, become almost palpable in the warm, sunny room.
‘If it means so much to you,’ Cathy said coolly, her eyes flicking to Sanchia’s stunned face, ‘we’ll get out of the country and stay out.’
‘An excellent idea,’ Caid said. When the room had emptied, he asked, ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’ Sanchia kept her voice level. ‘What will you do with them?’
‘Don’t worry about them,’ he said, coolly courteous. ‘Promise me that if they get in touch with you again you’ll contact me.’
Anything to get him out of there so that she could listen to the sound of her heart breaking in private. ‘Certainly,’ she said politely.
She even walked with him to the door. But once there she blurted, ‘If Cathy’s spent all the money she got from you I’ll sell you the Bay. At a price that takes the money you’ve already spent into account.’
Caid’s dark brows drew together above unreadable blue eyes as he surveyed her.
She’d expected him to demand the reason for her sudden change of heart, but instead he said, ‘It no longer matters,’ and left, walking lithely down the path, tall and big and supremely confident.
Clammy with reaction, Sanchia forced the door closed and turned, stumbling along the passage like a sleepwalker. Uncaring, unseeing, she walked into her bedroom and across to the dressing table. ‘Oh, Great-Aunt Kate,’ she said hoarsely as she picked up the only photograph she had of her, ‘I’m sorry.’
Late that afternoon she walked out of the house and down the path. Heat moistened the flyaway strands of her hair, clung to her temples, settled weightily over her. She couldn’t bear to stay in the silent house alone with her thoughts; even worse was the prospect of her two flatmates’ return.
She’d drive to one of Auckland’s beaches and watch people enjoying themselves. Although it was a weekday the summer holidays meant that the beaches would be full of kids and parents. She needed, she decided, to sit mindlessly in a crowd and let the noise and the fun and the sheer humanity of it wash over her.
A horrified glance in the mirror had persuaded her to apply cosmetics to hide the shadows under her eyes; nailing her colours to the mast of pride, she’d chosen to wear tailored linen trousers the same smoky green as her eyes and a silky white singlet top that slid sensuously across her breasts. She might feel like something found on the beach after a spring tide, but there was no need to look like it.
The gate clicked behind her; she turned and began to walk along the hot, petrol-scented footpath towards her car, ignoring the rush-hour traffic.
She hadn’t taken more than three steps when a car drew up beside her. Even before she recognised the driver, she knew who it was. She stopped and watched in frozen silence as the door opened and Caid got out.
For a moment she stared at him, almost convinced she’d summoned him by sheer force of will and longing, but her imagination hadn’t produced the tall, compelling force of nature that was Caid Hunter.
‘You’re crying!’ he said curtly, grasping her elbow.
A short toot brought both their heads up. ‘Who’s that?’ Caid demanded.
‘Rose—the woman who owns the house.’ Sanchia waved in a distracted way as Rose drove into the gateway.
Before she was able to unscramble her mind enough to think a coherent thought he’d bundled her into the front seat of his car.
‘I am not crying,’ she snapped, but he slammed the door on her and strode around the front of the car.
Once behind the wheel, he pulled away from the pavement. ‘You look as though you have been,’ he grated.
She swallowed and demanded, ‘What’s going on?’
‘We need to talk, but not now, not here. Leave it until we get home.’
He meant his home—or one of his homes; in this case, the top floor of a graciously refurbished apartment building on the harbour. Sanchia accompanied him into the private penthouse lift, waited in numb silence as it rose noiselessly, and stepped out with him into a lobby.
After a glittering glance at her Caid unlocked the door and stood back.
The decorator had clearly used Caid as inspiration for the colour scheme, choosing a quiet golden beige as the basic colour with dramatic touches of black, bronze and blue—pale ceramic tiles on the floor, pale walls, bronze and blue sofa, and two magnificent Eames chairs in black. Doorframes of polished wood warmed the ro
om, as did plants selected for their sculptural qualities. Austere yet sensual, the apartment reflected his personality.
‘What a stunning place,’ Sanchia said, trying desperately to put a gloss of normality on the occasion.
‘Thank you.’ Eyes watchful in an inflexible face, he pulled his tie loose and dropped it over the back of the sofa. He’d already shed his jacket. The white shirt clinging to his broad shoulders was tucked into superbly cut trousers that measured narrow hips and long, muscular thighs in a purely male statement.
Sanchia’s heart clamped into a knot of pain. Turning away, she stared through a window. ‘You have a fantastic view.’
The westering sun laid a wash of rich amber over the scene. Beyond the wide deck stretched the harbour, a sleek, anchored warship on the far side denoting the naval base on the North Shore. A fat little ferry chugged towards the suburb of Devonport, rapidly overtaken by a large white catamaran on its way to one of the outer islands.
So peaceful, so Auckland—and so completely alien to the turmoil of apprehension that churned inside her. Acutely vulnerable, as though someone had taken to her emotions with a food mixer, Sanchia inhaled slowly and carefully before composing her features into a cool, questioning mask.
‘What exactly do you want to talk to me about?’ she asked in a stiff voice.
‘First of all,’ he said, watching her closely, ‘how did it feel to confront Robert Atkins?’
‘At first I was scared witless,’ she said, carefully not looking at him, ‘and then—he just looked sleazy and cheap and useless. A nothing of a man.’
Because for her now Caid was the standard she used to measure all other men.
‘Are you still afraid of him?’
‘No. I despise him, but—I’m not twelve any more. I find it hard to believe that I demonised him all those years.’
Caid nodded, his keen gaze fixed onto her face. ‘You did it because he brutalised you when you were twelve and vulnerable.’
‘Well, it’s over now, thank God.’ And thank Caid, she thought.
‘Why did you say you’d sell the Bay to me?’