Читать книгу A Reluctant Mistress - Robyn Donald - Страница 8

‘LIZ, I can’t go.’ Natalia Gerner rubbed at her brows, erasing a frown. The other hand clenched more tightly around the telephone.

‘Why not?’ her best friend demanded.

‘I haven’t got a partner, for a start.’ Let alone a dress suitable to wear to a masquerade—a masquerade ball, for heaven’s sake! What had possessed the Rotary and Lions Clubs to sponsor a masquerade ball? Reining in her frustration, Natalia tried to sound reasonable and practical. ‘This is New Zealand, not Regency England, and here in Bowden we entertain with barbecues. If we can cook we do dinner parties. Whatever, we don’t do balls.’

Her friend laughed. ‘Don’t be so curmudgeonly—it doesn’t sit well on twenty-three-year-old shoulders. It’ll be a real hoot. Mum and Dad have organised a party, and you have to come. You won’t need a partner; Greg’s home, and he adores dancing with you. Mind you, so does everyone else—you dance like a dream.’

‘I used to do a mean tango,’ Natalia admitted. Her heavy-lidded gaze lifted to the window, dwelt a moment on the curved, half-moon tunnels covered in white plastic and packed full of capsicum plants, then moved on to the paddock where a very small herd of beef cattle grazed placidly in the winter sun.

Liz had never been one to give up easily. ‘We’re not going to do minuets and country dances, for heaven’s sake. And you—of all people—can’t have forgotten how to foxtrot and stuff.’

‘I probably have.’

Trenchantly, Liz retorted, ‘It’s like swimming and riding a bike—you never forget—so stop wimping out. Your father would hate to hear you say no to an evening of fun. And so would your mother.’

Natalia closed her eyes. One of the disadvantages of their long friendship was Liz’s unerring aim at her weakest spots.

With ruthless accuracy Liz went on, ‘And don’t tell me you haven’t got a dress to wear. Remember the silk one I bought in Auckland last year because I hoped it would make my eyes the same colour as yours? Well, you can wear that.’

‘You have beautiful eyes,’ Natalia said feebly, knowing she was losing the battle.

‘Possibly, but we both know they’re not in the same league as yours! I was going to give you that dress before I went to England, anyway.’ Her voice altered. ‘Nat, do come. We’ll have a great time. The Barkers have opened their ballroom and—’

‘I can’t afford it,’ Natalia interrupted.

After a short silence, Liz said, ‘We’ll pay. Nat, please don’t let pride stand in your way—you know you’d do the same for me.’

Natalia chewed her lip. ‘That’s not fair.’

‘Vowing to be eternal best friends on our first day of school gives me the right to be unfair. Ever since your father died you’ve buried yourself up on your hill like Rumpelstiltskin.’

‘You’ve got the wrong fairy tale. I don’t ask riddles and threaten to kidnap babies. And I certainly don’t spin straw into gold.’ Which would have been immensely useful these past three years.

Liz, being Liz, didn’t accept her unspoken capitulation, but insisted on dotting ‘i’s. ‘You held my hand through a couple of broken hearts and assorted childhood traumas—won’t you at least let me do this?’

‘That’s two hundred per cent not fair!’

‘But you’re going to give in to emotional blackmail, aren’t you?’

Natalia unclenched her fingers from the telephone. ‘How much are the tickets?’

‘I’m not going to tell you.’ Real exasperation snapped through Liz’s tone. ‘If you’re determined to be sticky about it, consider yours a birthday present.’ She laughed. ‘Come on, Nat—stay the night, and we’ll get ready together and giggle and pretend we’re seventeen instead of twenty-three, and that I’m not heading off to Oxford to bury myself in mediaeval English texts, and you’re not stuck in Bowden working your heart out because of some quixotic belief that you’re responsible for your father’s debts. For one night we’ll pretend that our lives are going to be the way we wanted them to be when we planned them at high school. Do you remember—I was going to marry Jason Wilson and have his children? And you were going to be a botanist and paint exquisite pictures of native plants. That, of course, was before you fell in love with Simon Forsythe in the seventh form!’

Natalia had to force a laugh. ‘All right, all right, I’ll come,’ she said, ‘but only because I want to see Mr Stephens from the garage in a mask. And I’ll get dressed at your place. I won’t be able to stay, though, because I’ve got to catch the early transport to the markets.’

‘I knew you’d do it,’ Liz said warmly. ‘You need some fun, and we’ll have it, I promise. And don’t worry about a mask, either—I’ve got the perfect one for you!’

Sequinned and frivolous, the exact green of her eyes, the perfect mask flaunted exotic feathers that winged out against Natalia’s black curls. It matched Liz’s discarded silk dress, the most glamorous thing Natalia had ever worn. Demure of neckline in the front, the back swooped down past her shoulder blades towards a nipped-in waist, below which the skirts frou-froued, stopping short enough to reveal a lot of Natalia’s legs.

‘Stop jittering!’ Liz commanded. ‘No, you can’t wear a bra with it, but you look great without one, and, yes, it’s short, but you’ve got truly excellent legs. It’s very, very sexy—I knew it would suit you.’ Without chagrin, Liz smoothed her own slinky black dress before adjusting her black and white mask. ‘But then, everything does. It’s those fine, aristocratic features. They fool everyone into thinking you’re a sweetly pretty girl—until they get a load of those wicked, come-hither eyes.’

‘Come-hither! In other words, I’ve got heavy eyelids. You’ve been reading Regency books again,’ Natalia accused, laughing. ‘I’ll bet your supervisor didn’t know you devoured popular fiction when she steered you into firstclass honours with your MA.’

‘I like Regencies,’ Liz told her unrepentantly. ‘I have this thing for tall, dark, handsome, very rich aristocrats.’

‘You might find one in England.’

Liz sighed. ‘I don’t think they breed them any more.’

As they walked into the splendid ballroom in the district’s biggest homestead, Natalia said, ‘How mysterious and interesting we look. Perhaps we should go around in masks all the time!’

The rest of their party trooped in after them in a cloud of laughter and conversation. ‘Hmm, yes, very mysterious—and ultra-sexy. Even Greg,’ Liz added, casting a quick glance at her brother.

‘He’s a very handsome man,’ Natalia said lightly.

‘But not for you.’ Liz had made no attempt to hide her wish that her favourite brother and her best friend might one day fall in love.

‘No.’

‘Ah, well, perhaps you’ll meet some gorgeous hunk tonight.’ Liz gazed openly around, waving to friends, smiling. ‘I can’t see one,’ she murmured, ‘but there’s Mr Stephens with the Barkers, Nat—and he looks pretty good in a mask!’

Halfway through the evening Natalia admitted that Liz had been right to nag her to come. She’d had a great time, dancing with old friends and flirting lightly with several newcomers, talking to people she hadn’t seen for months.

Waiting until her latest partner had set off to rejoin his wife, Liz hissed, ‘He’s here!’

‘Who?’ Natalia lifted her glass of iced water.

‘The hunk we ordered. Sidle a look towards the door. You can’t miss him.’

More to humour her than anything, Natalia set her glass down and turned her head.

The stranger was definitely unmissable, partly because he was a head above most of the other men. At least six foot three, Natalia estimated, with shoulders in proportion and an air of cool command that dominated the room.

Severe black and white evening clothes contrasted magnificently with golden skin. Light gleamed on wavy black hair, highlighted an autocratic, hawk-nosed face with a square, slightly cleft chin and a wide mouth. Long-legged, narrow-hipped, a conventional black mask emphasising those strong features, the stranger could have walked out of one of Liz’s Regency novels—or an X-rated myth.

He was talking to a woman Natalia didn’t know, a well-rounded creature whose scarlet mask—scattered with tiny chips of mirror glass—couldn’t conceal her look of desperate anticipation, as though she’d just found water in the Sahara.

Natalia didn’t blame her. The stranger’s height and archetypal, dangerous good looks made him stand out, but what compelled attention was his air of vibrant, vital sexuality, a coiled, dynamically masculine magnetism. He had the invisible aura of a man who knew he was attractive to the opposite sex—an inbuilt confidence that set her teeth on edge.

Fanning herself with vigour, Liz made a noise like a vocal leer. ‘I need a cold shower,’ she growled. ‘Do you know him?’

‘Never seen him before.’

Liz grinned. ‘He’s looking at you.’

‘Hope he likes my profile, then,’ Natalia said, turning to smile ironically at her friend. ‘Yes, he’s gorgeous, but men like that have wives, or very glamorous girlfriends who work in television. Guaranteed. Perhaps the woman with him?’

‘A cynical little statement, but you could be right, alas.’ Liz sighed. ‘However, if he asks me to dance I’m not going to let any possible girlfriend concern me. I don’t think he looks married.’

‘Neither did the last hunk I met at a party,’ Natalia said softly, icily.

Liz sighed. ‘Sorry, love, I’d forgotten about Dean Jamieson. Which is what you should do.’

‘I try, but it’s not often a man thinks that the excitement and privilege of sleeping with him should outweigh a few inconveniences like a wife.’ Natalia reined in the anger that still fired her temper whenever she thought of the man who owned the property next door. ‘The only thing that comforts me about that situation is the look on his face when I said, no, thank you, I have this strange, old-fashioned idea that marriage means trust and fidelity, so although you’re a very sexy man I’m not going to bed with you!’

‘He was a rat,’ Liz soothed. ‘You know, I suppose it never occurred to Dean that you’d find out he was married. Just as well my mother has this network of old friends the full length of New Zealand, or you might have been really hurt.’

Natalia shrugged. ‘He hurt my pride and dented my heart a little, that’s all.’

‘More than a little, I think.’

Natalia looked down at her restless fingers in her lap. ‘I was an idiot,’ she said quietly. ‘I suppose I thought he was Prince Charming, and that he might be the one to whisk me off and marry me and rescue me from my life of drudgery. He was funny and intelligent and very attractive, and he seemed genuine.’

‘I’m sure he was genuine.’ Liz’s tone was both understanding and crisp. ‘He saw a woman he wanted, and he didn’t care whether he broke your heart provided he got you.’

‘He didn’t break my heart,’ Natalia said steadily.

‘I know,’ Liz said. ‘You’ve got too much sense to let an attack of wishful thinking blind you for too long.’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’ But Liz didn’t know just how close she’d come to succumbing to Dean Jamieson’s practised charm.

‘Think nothing of it.’

Natalia said evenly, ‘What really makes me mad is that he told everyone in Bowden that I knew he was married.’

‘It was a lousy, malicious, petty thing to do, but at least you know what sort of man he is.’

‘You’re so right. A snake. One I came perilously close to falling for, which gives me a very low opinion of my intelligence!’

Liz primmed her mouth and endeavoured to look affected—difficult when her small face was alight with laughter. ‘Anyone can be taken in once. The important thing is to not let it happen again.’ She relaxed into a sly grin. ‘So I’ll do my best to find out who the newcomer is, and whether he’s got an encumbrance. I don’t think the woman with him is his—she’s too hungry. And he doesn’t look like a man who believes in abstinence.’

Half an hour later, as Natalia was coming back into the ballroom after a swift visit to the cloakroom, she was hailed by an old friend, a man who’d been a couple of classes ahead of her at school. They were laughing together when his wife of six months arrived with the speed, determination and subtlety of a mother rhinoceros seeing a lion examine her infant.

Cold-eyed, proprietorial, she snapped out a thin smile. ‘Hello, Natalia, nice to see you. Max, why don’t we dance this one?’

He looked embarrassed, and suddenly shifty. ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ he said. ‘See you around, Nat.’

Natalia’s lashes drooped as his wife all but dragged him away. Damn Dean Jamieson and his lies. How long was it going to take her to live down the reputation he’d deliberately saddled her with?

‘He might see you around,’ a disturbing masculine voice murmured from behind her, ‘but not if she sees you first.’

Stiff with pride, Natalia turned abruptly, only to collide with a large, immovable object. Before she had a chance to trip, hands clamped just above her elbows. Powerful fingers held her for a moment, startlingly tanned against her pale skin.

Of course she knew who it was.

‘Sorry,’ she muttered, lifting her head to look the stranger in the eyes.

Their impact drove the breath from her lungs. Behind the black silk mask, narrowed tawny-gold slivers were fringed by black lashes in a watchful, almost calculating scrutiny. In spite of that, Natalia was left in no doubt that he liked what he saw.

On the right-hand side of his face a thin, faded scar slashed downwards to the point of his jaw. Although it heightened the forceful, uncompromising power of his honed features, Natalia had to stop herself from tracing it with a finger.

Latent sensation flamed into life inside her—a volatile mixture of fire and ice, honey and gall, velvet and steel that combined in a fierce, terrifyingly elemental hunger.

‘I’m sorry—I knocked you,’ the unsmiling stranger said.

‘No, it was my fault—I wasn’t looking where I was going,’ she returned, reckless in her desire to get away.

One hand slid down her forearm. As she stared, dumbstruck, lean fingers rested on her pulse, testing the rapid, heavy throbbing of her heartbeat in the fragile blue veins.

Face hot, she wrenched free; he didn’t try to hold her.

‘You can feel mine if you like. It’s beating just as fast as yours,’ he purred, his devil-dark voice pierced by a shockingly intimate note.

She couldn’t breathe. Perhaps this was an asthma attack; she’d heard they could come on like this, unexpected, terrifying…

‘No, thanks,’ she said, appalled by her unsure tone.

His laughter shivered through her, stroked her slowly, as sensuous as sleek fur against her skin.

‘Dance with me,’ he said, and without waiting for her answer took her hand in his and led her to the floor.

Later she wondered what on earth he’d done to her, why she hadn’t walked away from him back to her own party. Perhaps the old-fashioned waltz had cast some old-fashioned spell on her, melting her into docility.

Turning her into his arms with practised skill, he swept her on to the floor. Of course he was a brilliant dancer.

As ravishing Viennese music filled the room, Natalia’s brain switched off. For the first time in her life she experienced the mindless pull of desire, existing only through her senses—senses swamped by the man who guided her through the crowds on the floor. Lost in a silent, erotic fantasy, they danced the whole set without speaking.

Until the music changed she’d begun to think he was never going to speak; then, as though that wordless, fiercely intent communion had never happened, he said, ‘I’m Clay Beauchamp, and you’re Natalia Gerner.’

Like its owner, his voice had immediate impact. Its masculine depth—emphasised by an undertone of raw strength—lifted the hair on the back of Natalia’s neck as she retorted, ‘And I don’t like being ordered to dance.’

Although she was staring rigidly over his shoulder she caught a flash of white teeth when he smiled. ‘I’ll remember that in future.’ The fingers around hers tightened fractionally, then loosened.

Natalia stiffened and almost missed a step. ‘Sorry,’ she said tonelessly.

‘My fault,’ he said, and pivoted with a lithe masculine grace.

As they spun she realised he’d used the steps to pull her a little closer. Clay Beauchamp was too sophisticated for the usual overt manoeuvres of men looking for a cheap thrill and a taste of sexual power. His grip was relaxed enough to allow her the illusion of freedom, yet for a suffocating second she felt as though he’d caged her.

It gave her such a shock she lifted her head and pulled back.

When he smiled one corner of his mouth lifted a little higher than the other, giving him a slightly lopsided look that should have reduced that potent male attraction. At the very least he should have looked endearing.

Except that ‘endearing,’ she thought, watching the hard curve of that classically carved mouth, was not a word she’d ever associate with this man.

For the first time in her life, Natalia tripped on the dance floor.

‘Sorry,’ Clay Beauchamp murmured, gleaming topaz eyes raking her face as he supported her. ‘And we were doing so well, I’d even stopped counting one-two-three.’

He waltzed as though he’d been born in Vienna. And he was really getting to her. Time for damage control.

With the cool politeness her mother had drummed into her, she asked, ‘Are you a visitor here, Mr Beauchamp?’

‘Temporarily.’ Amusement deepened his voice.

Natalia hoped she wasn’t spoiled or over-confident, but she’d never been laughed at before. It was a challenge she should refuse.

Unfortunately she’d always found it almost impossible to back away from a dare. Lifting her lashes, she surveyed the powerful, angular face with a glinting appreciation. ‘But surely all visitors are temporary?’ she asked demurely, knowing the moment she’d spoken that she’d made an error of judgement.

This man wasn’t the sort you teased.

‘Not in this case. I’ve bought Pukekahu Station,’ he said indolently.

Guilt roiled with anger and settled icily in her stomach. Resisting it—for what had she to feel guilty about?—Natalia directed a slanting glance at the angular face above hers. ‘How appropriate. You’ve got the right eyes for a place that’s called the Hill of Hawks.’ She was dicing with danger, yet she couldn’t have banished the mockery that flicked through her words.

Outlined with sinister exactness by the black mask, those golden eyes narrowed. ‘And the right nose too.’

Common sense kicking in too late, Natalia forced her voice into an approximation of friendly interest. ‘It’s going to take you a while to bring Pukekahu into profit again. Even the house is falling down. Are you planning to live there?’

‘I live in Auckland.’

She didn’t like the silences: they sizzled with tension. ‘Unusual place for a farmer to live,’ she said lightly.

‘I’m not exactly a farmer. More an agri-businessman.’

‘Ah, one of the new breed of absentee landlords,’ she returned affably. ‘As I said, temporary.’

Her hand—loose on his shoulder—registered a sudden tightening of muscles beneath the superb cloth of his dinner jacket. It lasted for a second only, but she was recklessly pleased that she’d got through his formidable armour.

‘I’ve never heard myself described as an absentee landlord before,’ he drawled. ‘I prefer to think I’m part venture capitalist, part restorer of over-stocked farmland.’

‘How altruistic.’ Her tone oozed blandness, but he’d have had to be stupid not to recognise the caustic lash to each word. And Natalia would bet her next year’s income that Clay Beauchamp wasn’t stupid.

‘You’re an entrepreneur yourself, I believe,’ he said obliquely. ‘Bowden’s capsicum queen, who just happens to share a boundary with Pukekahu.’

It took all her will to say in a bright voice, ‘I’m flattered, but “capsicum queen” doesn’t quite cut it. There’s something inherently unromantic about peppers, don’t you think? Perhaps it’s their shape—so sturdy and blocky.’

‘Are you a romantic, Natalia?’ Clay Beauchamp asked with a subtle, predatory inflection.

Her fault; she’d given him the perfect opening. ‘Not in the least,’ she returned crisply, smiling with sunny nonchalance into his face.

For several seconds he and Natalia duelled, using those most potent of weapons, the eyes. Natalia refused to lower her lashes; in the end he won by the simple trick of dropping that tawny gaze to her mouth.

Not fair, she thought, irrationally elated—but not surprising either. Clay Beauchamp probably never played fair.

‘Good,’ he said enigmatically. ‘Romantics are a real nuisance. And, speaking as an unromantic male, do you wear contact lenses to brighten the colour of those magnificent eyes?’

Until then she hadn’t realised that she was rather proud of her eyes, but what really flicked that pride was that he’d noticed.

Well, she could salvage something. With a deliberate sweep of her lashes, she allowed her gaze to rest a significant moment on the hard line of his jaw and purred, ‘You can’t really expect me to admit to that. However, I’ll confess that I wear lipstick.’

‘So you’re a tease,’ he said, his smile a swift, savage punishment. ‘I’m disappointed—you seem more direct, more open.’

Anger glittered in the depths of her eyes, licked in a flame across her cheekbones. With that cat-like smile still pinned to her lips, she said, ‘I’m every bit as frank as you are.’ There, that should shut him up, because if ever a man held secrets close to his chest this one did.

‘I doubt it.’ Beneath the silk mask his intent stare was pure gold. Without breaking eye contact he pivoted gracefully, and this time the hand across her back came to rest on the heated skin just above her waist.

Although Clay released her almost immediately, and his hand left her skin for a more discreet position, its imprint burned like a brand. Tension sawed through her nerves, producing a feverish need.

Calmly he said, ‘I want you, Natalia. I wanted you as soon as I saw you glimmering like a serpent woman across the room. I give you fair warning—I’m hunting.’

Her jaw dropped. Stunned, she stared at him, imprisoned by the implacable, leashed hunger of his eyes.

‘Not so open, after all,’ he murmured, a taunting amusement not warming his expression. ‘At least you didn’t say that you wouldn’t sleep with me if I were the last man on earth.’

Her brain began to work again, overriding the violent pulse of desire. ‘You’re accustomed to that response?’ she asked, arching her brows in pretended surprise. ‘Then it’s time you moved up to a better class of mistress. Not me— I’m sorry, I’m too busy at the moment—but I can introduce you to several women who might be interested.’ In spite of her attempt at sophisticated repartee she couldn’t banish the bite from her words.

What was it about her that made men think she was easy? Dean had expected her to fall into bed with him, been angry when she refused.

Clay’s long black lashes half covered his eyes. He laughed, a sound that battered the remnants of her composure. ‘So much for honesty,’ he said ironically, and once more tightened his arms so that for a second she was held inexorably against him. Still dancing with a lithe masculine grace, still in perfect time to the music, he forced her to accept the reality of his lean, aroused body.

To her intense humiliation, Natalia’s betrayed her. In her hidden, inner reaches desire worked its physical magic, overwhelming her in a smooth, heated tide. Although superhuman will held back her rash impulse to signal a surrender, she had to fight a bitter battle with untamed need—and he, damn him, knew it!

She’d been attracted to Dean—but this was a wilder, fiercer response, and it scared her. This, she thought, trying desperately to regroup her defences, was the sort of thing that toppled kingdoms.

Clay relaxed his grip. ‘Physical evidence is more trustworthy than words. They often deceive—the body never does.’

If there had been the slightest satisfaction—the faintest note of smugness—in his voice, Natalia would have twisted free and stalked across the crowded dance floor to the other side of the room. What stopped her was the raw catch to his words, the harsh, startled edge he couldn’t conceal. When she looked up, darkness prowled the golden eyes.

And that made her angrily, foolishly confident. Carefully she uncurled the fingers that had dug into his upper arm. Carefully she positioned her gaze over his shoulder.

People moved in a bright kaleidoscope of colour around the floor, the masks turning familiar faces to strangers. Chatter and laughter echoed in her ears, backed by the succulent, achingly poignant sound of a turn-of-the-century waltz—one of her mother’s favourites.

Coolly, deliberately, she asked, ‘Is this your usual mode of attack? A pre-emptive strike with no attempt at subtlety? What follows now—all-out war?’

His tight smile revealed strong white teeth that snapped out one word. ‘Surrender.’