Книга - The Rich Man’s Royal Mistress

The Rich Man's Royal Mistress
Robyn Donald


Princess Melissa Considine of Illyria is instantly captivated by billionaire Hawke Kennedy. She throws caution to the winds and lets Hawke teach her how to love…and be loved. But Melissa is virginal and innocent. How can she handle a man of the world like Hawke?And she's been brought up to put duty before love. But to leave Hawke's bed is to leave his life—what should she do?












Robyn Donald

The Rich Man’s Royal Mistress















Contents


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Coming Next Month




CHAPTER ONE


THE CHINA on the trolley rattled a little as Melissa Considine pushed it along the wide glassed-in corridor that gave privacy to the royal suite. Biting her lip, she slowed down, hoping that the guest in the most palatial rooms in the extremely exclusive lodge wasn’t a stickler for punctuality.

Most of the guests she’d met since starting her internship at this fabulous place in New Zealand’s Southern Alps had been very pleasant, but she’d discovered that people who should know better could be condescending, haughty and just plain ill-mannered.

And that the staff who served them had to take all that in their stride.

‘Although there’s a subtle but obvious difference between rudeness and abuse,’ the manager explained during the orienting session, ‘New Zealanders, including those paid to serve the rich and influential, have a very good sense of their own dignity. Don’t take abuse from anyone—and that includes the chef!’

A wry smile curved Melissa’s lips. Her mother, who’d made sure her children appreciated the prestige that went with the famous name of Considine, borne by the ruling house of Illyria for a thousand years or so, had also been insistent on exquisite manners and true grace. She’d have been shocked out of her elegant shoes by some of the stories her daughter had heard in the lodge staff-room.

But Melissa was five minutes late, so if the man in the royal suite complained she’d be politely deferential and apologetic, even if she had to bite her tongue.

She stopped at the heavy wooden door and knocked.

‘Come in,’ a male voice said from the other side.

On sudden full alert, Melissa froze. She knew that voice…

The command was repeated, this time with an undertone of impatience. ‘Come in.’

Melissa swallowed to ease a suddenly dry throat, and used her key to open the door. Keeping her gaze on the trolley, she pushed it into the room and stopped just inside, heart skipping nervously.

Nothing happened. After a couple of uncomfortable seconds she looked up. Her pulse lurched into agitated urgency.

Big, totally dominant, the man silhouetted against the windows didn’t move. The long southern dusk had tinted the lake and the mountains behind in subtle shades of blue and grey, but he was concentrating on the papers in his hand.

It was Hawke Kennedy—she’d know him anywhere. Melissa fought back the feverish excitement that roared into life from nowhere.

With a decisive movement he flicked the papers together and put them into a briefcase on the nearby table. Only then did he look up.

His tough, arrogantly featured face didn’t alter, but she registered the change in his amazing eyes the moment he recognised her—about a second after he’d started his cool, deliberate survey. Stupidly, she was pleased, even though she knew Hawke probably hadn’t met many women tall enough to look him almost straight in the eyes—except for a ravishing model he was occasionally seen with.

Knowing herself to be far from ravishing, Melissa straightened her shoulders and said tonelessly, ‘Dinner, sir.’

‘Well, well, well,’ he said softly. ‘Melissa Considine. No, as of a couple of weeks ago—Princess Melissa Considine of Illyria, only sister of the Grand Duke of Illyria. What the hell are you doing pushing a dinner trolley two stops past the furthest ends of the earth?’

‘I’m an intern here,’ she said stiffly, irritated and embarrassed by the heat in her cheeks.

How did he know that her older brother, Gabe, had had his right to their ancestors’ title confirmed by their cousin, the ruling prince? Illyria was a small realm on the Mediterranean coast and the ceremony had been private, of interest only to Illyrians.

Beneath lifted black brows, Hawke’s green gaze travelled from her face to the trolley she’d pushed in front of her like a shield. A slow throb of sensation reverberated through Melissa like the roll of distant drums.

In a voice textured by sardonic inflection, he enquired, ‘You’re doing an internship in waiting on hotel guests? What do your brothers think of that?’

‘I’m doing a master’s in management. This is part of it.’ Flustered, she folded her lips firmly together. It was none of his business what she was doing there.

Another long, considering stare sent prickles across her skin. ‘Waiting on guests?’

She allowed irony to tinge her smile. ‘It’s good for me to find out what it’s like at the coalface.’

Of course he picked up on the subtle criticism. His lashes drooped, lending a saturnine cast to his features.

In response, more colour burned along the high cheekbones Melissa had inherited from a mediaeval Slavic princess. Reminding herself that he was a guest, she added hurriedly, ‘But this isn’t normally part of my job. I’m filling in for one of the staff who’s ill.’

‘I see.’ Metallic red highlights gleamed in his charcoal hair as he reached into his pocket. ‘Thank you.’

It gave her great pleasure to be able to say, ‘Tipping isn’t necessary in New Zealand, sir, unless the waiter has done something out of the ordinary.’

Only to recall, too late, that he was a New Zealander. The proffered tip must have been a deliberate attempt to humiliate her.

No, she was being paranoid. Why would he do that? He barely knew her. He was probably finding his handkerchief!

Straight black brows drew together. ‘Indeed,’ he drawled after a tense second. ‘Thank you, Melissa—or should I call you Your Highness?’

‘No,’ she said, without trying to smooth her tone. ‘That’s Gabe’s title, not mine.’

One dark brow rose. ‘But you are officially a princess of Illyria.’

Reluctantly she nodded. ‘It’s just a courtesy title because I happen to be Gabe’s sister. The real Princess of Illyria is Ianthe, because she is our cousin Alex’s wife.’ She hesitated, then asked, ‘Would you mind not telling anyone here about it?’

His broad shoulders lifted a little. ‘If you don’t want them to know, of course I won’t tell them,’ he said. ‘But New Zealanders are quite forgiving of foreign royalty, you know. Your real Princess Ianthe is one of us, after all.’

In her most colourless tone she insisted, ‘I’m not royalty.’

He ignored that. ‘Tell me what an Illyrian princess—even one majoring in management—is doing working at the Shipwreck Bay Lodge in New Zealand.’

Her head came up. ‘Plenty of princesses work for their living.’

‘Not usually those who can boast an ancestry as old as Europe, scattered with the names of every royal house that’s existed since the beginning of the millennium.’ Green eyes narrowed and intent, he surveyed her. ‘And one with two brothers who have the power and money to cocoon you in luxury. So why aren’t you enjoying all that wealth and privilege can offer you?’

The cynical note in his voice rocked her poise. She knew Hawke Kennedy’s story—he’d left school as soon as he could, worked in the construction business for a couple of years, then made a fortune in property development in the Pacific area before broadening his financial interests and conquering the world.

If she said she wasn’t interested in living an aimless, self-indulgent life, she’d just sound smug. So she shrugged and said flippantly, ‘Because boredom’s not my thing.’

‘Very worthy.’ His beautifully sculpted mouth curved in a coolly quizzical smile. ‘But hotel management? I’d have thought you’d have chosen a career more in keeping with your position in society—a career that gave you plenty of time off for house parties and travel.’

‘Until a month ago I had no position in society,’ she returned crisply. ‘Yes, my grandfather was the Grand Duke of Illyria, but both he and the ruling prince were killed fighting the usurper. The first thing the dictator did once he was in power was abolish all titles and withdraw citizenship from everyone who’d managed to escape. America granted my father refugee status, and he lived and died plain Mr Considine. I was born Melissa Considine, and that’s who I am still.’

Her tone should have silenced him, but Hawke kept on probing. ‘However, your brothers are now both citizens of Illyria, and Gabe is Grand Duke—third in importance to Prince Alex after his small son.’

‘Alex is very persuasive,’ she admitted wryly. ‘Once he’d been crowned, he persuaded us all to renew citizenship, and then convinced Gabe to accept the title of Grand Duke, which automatically made Marco a prince and me a princess. It means nothing to anyone except the Illyrians.’

His hooded gaze sent an odd tingle through her, but all he said was, ‘I’ve no doubt you’ll carry it off very well.’

The practised compliment chafed her pride. Appalled, she realised she wanted much more from him than meaningless flattery. ‘It doesn’t change who I am, or what I am.’

A cynical smile curved his hard mouth, but he left the subject. ‘So tell me why the sister of two of the most respected commercial brains in the world is planning a career in hospitality.’

Although an inner caution warned her to be circumspect, she opted for the truth—mainly, she admitted reluctantly, driven by a desire to make him understand her. ‘Like Alex and my brothers, I want to help Illyria regain prosperity and peace. We can earn overseas currency through tourism, but the industry will have to be managed very carefully so that we don’t lose what makes Illyria special.’

He inclined his dark head. ‘Exclusive lodges in the mountains.’

‘Yes.’ Dangerously pleased that he’d understood, she smiled.

‘It makes sense. And of course with your brothers to back you, success is assured.’

Over the years Melissa had learned to hide her shyness with a veneer of composure, but for some unfathomable reason Hawke Kennedy had only to look at her to crack her normally self-sufficient mask.

Still, she wasn’t going to let him insinuate that she wasn’t capable of carrying out her plans. ‘Given hard work and some luck, I hope so,’ she said evenly. ‘Is there anything else you need?’

‘No, that’s it for now,’ he said, an undercurrent of amusement in his tone chipping away even more of her poise.

‘I hope you enjoy your meal,’ she said automatically, before escaping to the corridor, huddled in the tattered remains of her poise.

Halfway to the kitchen her steps slowed. In front of one of the big windows overlooking the lake, she stopped to give her racing heart and jumping nerves time to slow down.

Fixing her gaze on the sombre symphony of mountains and lake outside, she blew out a long, shaking breath. Of all the coincidences in the world, this had to be the most incredible! She’d known Hawke for several years; he was a friend of her older brother, Gabe—although she didn’t think they’d seen much of each other lately. His buccaneering good looks and formidable presence always made a powerful impression on her, but instinct warned her to keep her distance. The first time she’d met those enigmatic green eyes she’d known she’d be no match for him.

And he’d treated her with a kind of avuncular friendliness that made her feel very young and raw and totally lacking in sex appeal.

Which she was, compared to the model in his life—the exquisite Jacoba Sinclair, who seemed not to care about his occasional brief affairs with other women. Melissa had no illusions about her own looks.

A year previously she’d danced with Hawke at the wedding of one of her French cousins. She’d accepted his invitation only because to refuse would have been flagrantly rude.

A few months before, he’d broken a young actress’s heart, callously discarding her after a whirlwind affair to go back to his off-again, on-again mistress. The poor woman had tried to commit suicide, and for a few weeks her tragic, beautiful face had been in all the tabloids. Hawke had remained silent about the affair and eventually the fuss had died down, but it left a sour taste in Melissa’s mouth.

She despised philanderers.

So it had been a huge shock to feel a silkily sensuous shudder tighten her skin when his arms closed around her and he swung her onto the dance floor. She’d parried his coolly satirical observations with a few inconsequential words and kept her eyes averted from his speculative green gaze. Of course he’d danced like a dream, holding her close enough to brush against the lean, honed strength of his big body, yet far enough away to tantalise a part of her into eager, forbidden awareness.

It had been a ridiculously overblown response; with two extremely handsome brothers she was accustomed to male beauty.

Yet five minutes ago in the royal suite exactly the same thing had happened again, and to her shock she realised that the lazily seductive tune they’d danced to on that romantic Provençal night was winding sinuously through her mind.

Melissa blinked fiercely, forcing herself to banish the memory of a candlelit château ballroom and the heavy, sensuous perfume of roses. She pressed the palms of her hands to her eyes, then opened them and stared angrily at the dark bulk of the mountain across the lake, dotted now with tiny twinkling lights as the snow-groomers worked.

‘All right, so he’s gorgeous,’ she muttered, horrified to find that her voice slurred the words as though she were drunk. She dragged in a deep, deliberate breath. ‘And he’s taller than you, which has to be a bonus.’

Not many men were.

And gorgeous wasn’t exactly the right word to describe Hawke Kennedy. Oh, he pleased her eyes—‘Too much,’ she muttered—but his boldly chiselled features were more forceful and intimidating than handsome.

Something about him set alarm bells jangling through her in primal, instinctive response. He looked like a man who’d make a very bad enemy.

Well, not precisely alarm bells—more a rush of adrenalin that kindled a volatile, reckless fire deep in the pit of her stomach.

His strong impact had a lot to do with his height and his powerful, athletic presence, but it was more basic than that. She’d met other men as tall without even a tingle of awareness. Melissa shivered, foolishly letting herself recall the romantic waltz they’d shared.

In spite of her antagonism, for the first time in her life she’d felt sexy and light, like someone made dizzy by champagne. Her mind had spun, and she’d been glad he hadn’t kept talking, because it was all she could do to keep her feet moving and her face composed.

And when she’d looked up into his tough, compelling face she’d realised his eyes were a dark, disturbing green lit by gleaming starbursts of gold around the pupils.

That had been a year ago, yet she still remembered every sharp, astonished perception, each addictive shaft of sensation.

Which was humiliating, because when the dance was over Hawke had smiled at her, thanked her without trying to hide the note of irony in his voice, and delivered her to her group, staying to chat for a few minutes.

Then the next dance had been announced, and he’d left them. Five minutes later she’d seen him with a luscious American divorcée. He’d been smiling again, but this was an entirely different smile. Cool yet dazzling, dangerously intent, its predatory glint had made Melissa realise just how detached he’d been with her.

A fierce, bleak envy had consumed her and she’d had to look away. So of course she’d tried very hard to forget him, yet the effect he’d had on her hadn’t faded; sometimes she even dreamed about him.

How stupid was that!

Startled, Melissa realised she was still standing in front of the window. Although darkness had finally enveloped the mountains, starshine burnished the waters of the lake, and from behind the peaks a soft glow proclaimed an imminent moon.

A perfect night for lovers, she thought, a strange desolation aching inside her.

Hawke Kennedy was as far out of her reach as any man could be. She was a virgin, for heaven’s sake! If he kissed her she’d probably faint. And his type was definitely not innocent; Jacoba Sinclair, a glorious redhead, oozed sensuous confidence, as had the other women he’d been linked to, including the actress, now a minor star. Lucy? Yes, Lucy St James—and she’d better get back to work!

Guiltily Melissa scurried into the noisy, clattering kitchen, letting the scents and sounds and intense activity banish the memories.

When she finally made it to her bed she stared at the ceiling for what seemed hours before giving in and turning on the light to catch up on her required reading. But the words in her book danced in front of her eyes, refusing to make sense, so she swapped it for a novel. Even that failed her; in the end she switched off the light and lay there until sleep overtook her hours later.

And woke to someone hammering on her door. ‘Hey, Mel, you want breakfast?’

‘I’ll be there in ten minutes,’ she called after a horrified glance at her alarm clock.

She was still scrambling to make up time when the manager asked her to drop in to see him. Startled, she presented herself at his office.

‘Come in,’ he said, looking up with a slight frown that intensified when he saw her. ‘Sit down, Mel.’

What sin of commission or omission was she guilty of? She arranged her long legs and tried to look serene.

After shuffling some papers on his desk, the manager said neutrally, ‘I believe you know Hawke Kennedy.’

‘I’ve met him before. I wouldn’t say I knew him.’ Fantasising about a man didn’t count. Hoping fervently that her skin wasn’t as hot as it felt, she asked, ‘Does it matter?’

The manager relaxed into a smile tinged by perplexity. ‘If it doesn’t matter to you, then it’s fine by me. And you can certainly have dinner with him; Lynne’s over her cold so you won’t be needed to fill in for her again.’

Dinner with Hawke Kennedy? Melissa reined in her astonished response. In a colourless voice she said, ‘Oh, right. I’ll get back to work, then.’

He nodded, but when she went to stand up he said, ‘By the way, I’ve just finished reading your submission on the glowworm caves. You’re right—they’re an asset we’ve more or less ignored. I still don’t know what anyone sees in going underground in dank, dark caves—’

‘A sense of adventure,’ she broke in eagerly. ‘And the glowworms are exquisite. It wouldn’t just be the caves—if you turned it into an expedition by taking guests out on the lake and giving them cocktails, then showing them the caves and having dinner afterwards on the boat, it would be great. Especially if there’s a moon.’

He laughed. ‘OK, draw up a plan. Keep costs as low as you can; we want the guests to feel that no expense is spared, but the accountants at Head Office will go over it with a fine-tooth comb.’

She noticed a certain withdrawal in his tone in the last sentence as though he’d thought better of what he said. Of course; he now had her slotted in with the super-rich world of Hawke Kennedy.

Her telephone was ringing when she opened the door of the cupboard she’d been given for an office; she made a dive for it, then had to juggle the receiver until she’d grasped it firmly enough to say abruptly, ‘Melissa.’

‘Hawke.’

Of course she recognised the coolly confident tone. Her stomach clenched and she said inanely, ‘Hello.’

‘Have dinner with me tonight.’

Why? A simple courtesy on his part? That galled her stubborn pride. She didn’t want courtesy from him; she wanted fire and passion and flash and thunder.

Oh, why not aim for the moon? She had a better chance of getting that. And she had to tamp down her first instinct to refuse; he was a guest. Keeping her voice as level as she could, she replied, ‘I’ve already been told that I’m having dinner with you.’

And then flushed, because she’d sounded petulant and—horrors—deprived, as though she wanted this to be a real date! Of course it wasn’t; he was merely being polite to the sister of one of his friends. And she had to accept for the same reason.

‘Sorry if that offended you.’ But he didn’t sound sorry; he sounded amused. ‘I checked with the manager first to make sure it wouldn’t upset his staff roster.’

Very considerate of him! In a wooden voice she said, ‘That would be lovely, thank you.’

‘I’ll see you at eight, then.’ Now he sounded crisp and businesslike.

Yes, definitely a duty meal. After tonight he’d probably ignore her. Not that she saw much of the guests, anyway. ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ she said, repressing the rebellion that threatened to curdle each word.

His deep laughter was shaded by more than a hint of irony. ‘I won’t take up much of your spare time.’ And he hung up.

Slowly she replaced the receiver.

She’d really enjoyed being at Shipwreck Bay. No one had expected her to be anything other than what she was—plain Melissa Considine.

With, she thought gloomily, the emphasis on plain. Love them though she did, in some ways having two outrageously handsome brothers had been a cross for her to bear. People expected another magnificent Considine, only to be taken aback when introduced to a lanky woman with strongly marked features and brown hair. Apart from her height, there was absolutely nothing interesting about her; she hadn’t even inherited the famous blue Considine eyes. Hers were a boring light brown.

And she’d totally missed out on the unconscious aura she envied in her brothers. Hawke Kennedy had it too—that powerful pulse of authority and confidence, as though there wasn’t anything in the world he couldn’t deal with.

So what on earth was she going to wear to dinner with him?

A year ago she’d have asked Gabe’s fiancée for advice; Sara had been easy to talk to, and she had impeccable taste—something else Melissa had missed out on.

However, the engagement had broken up in a blaze of publicity, leaving Gabe bitterly unhappy behind an armour of grim control. And she hadn’t seen Sara since.

Think duty, Melissa advised herself curtly. And wear the little black dress you bought in Paris.

It was difficult to keep her mind on her work; during that interminable day she found herself drifting off into daydreams interspersed with periods of painful anticipation that brought heat to her skin, and made her chide herself for her stupidity.

But eventually she was ready. Dissatisfied, she turned away from the mirror. The black dress might be sophisticated, but it drained the colour from her skin so that the blusher she’d used stood out like two streaks of paint on her cheekbones.

Why had she never noticed that before?

Because it had never mattered. Under the tutelage of a tiny, exquisite mother, a true Frenchwoman with superb grooming and clothes, she’d learned to minimise her height and stay in the background. Until tonight she hadn’t wanted to impress any man enough to worry about whether a colour suited her or not.

Or whether she looked sexy.

Disgusted with herself for caring so much about Hawke’s opinion—a man who’d never given her any reason to indulge this stupidly adolescent reaction—she wrenched off the black dress and wiped away her blusher.

She surveyed her scanty wardrobe before setting her jaw and taking down a top in darkly bronze silk with fake bronze and gold ‘jewels’ around the V-neck. Sara had given it to her, along with velvet jeans in the same rich colour. Melissa had never worn them; she’d only packed them because she’d been told New Zealanders were noted for their informality.

So she’d be informal for Hawke Kennedy.

She scrambled into the top and jeans, then surveyed her long, narrow feet in despair. Not one pair of shoes suited the sleek jeans. Eventually she set her jaw and pulled on a pair of high-heeled boots in black.

Her mother would have called the whole outfit vulgar, and told her that the long, slim lines made her look taller. Well, she thought robustly, she didn’t care. At least she looked a little more alive in it. Although that was probably because the twisting and turning of getting dressed had produced a flush in her cheeks.

Frowning, she stared at her reflection. No foundation, she thought defiantly. Her skin was pretty good, even if she did say so herself. What lipstick? Her favourite peach didn’t go with the rich bronze of her clothes. She examined her lip gloss, a shade of soft coppery-pink. If she used that on its own it might look good with the clothes.

It did.

Eyes? Distastefully she examined the open eyeshadow palette. Normally she used muted greens, but tonight something compelled her to pick out a smoky golden brown and apply it with a slightly unsteady hand.

‘Actually, that’s not bad,’ she said slowly, after scrutinising herself.

The rich colour around her eyes intensified their almond shape and gave them a heavy-lidded smoulder that startled her. It also picked up hitherto unnoticed golden highlights in her irises.

And the soft sheen to her lips looked…well, slightly provocative.

Or had she just made a fool of herself? Would Hawke take one look at her with cynical eyes and realise that she’d gone to an awful lot of trouble to make herself look good for him?

Her mother’s voice echoed in her ears. That colour’s too bright for you, Melissa. It makes you look vulgar and brassy. Stay with classic colours and lines. With your height you need to be subtle, not blatant.

Melissa took a deep breath. Although her mother had rarely commented on her tall daughter’s lack of beauty and grace, Melissa knew she’d always been a disappointment.

Setting her too obvious jaw, she pulled her hair away from her face and pinned it severely at the back of her neck. There, that should show Hawke she hadn’t tried to be seductive.

Stifling a familiar sense of inadequacy, she said flippantly, ‘Sorry, Mama.’

But at the door she turned back, seized by a painful sense of her own inadequacy. She couldn’t go out like this. It would only take her ten minutes to change back into the little black dress…

A glance at her watch told her she was running too late for that. For a second she hesitated, then set her jaw.

She couldn’t face walking through the lodge and down the long, glassed-in corridor that led to the suite. Instead, she took the path along the lake edge, hoping that the serenity of the water and the mountains would calm the erratic pounding of her heart.




CHAPTER TWO


FROM the window Hawke watched Melissa stride into sight, tall and lithe and confident as a young goddess, her wide shoulders and long legs emphasising the graceful curves of breasts and hips. The glowing light of the setting sun played like a nimbus around hair the colour of dark honey, tied back to reveal the striking contours of her face.

A severe goddess, he decided—more Minerva than Venus. But then, he’d always preferred the challenge of intelligence to overt, eager sexuality.

Something stirred into life inside him, a lazily predatory instinct that startled him.

He ignored it. Desire could be inconvenient, and over the years he’d learned to manage it.

He’d known from their first meeting four years ago that Melissa Considine wasn’t a suitable candidate for an affair. Apart from the fact that Gabe was a good friend, she simply wasn’t his type; refreshingly down-to-earth, she exuded a simple, straightforward innocence that suggested a charming lack of experience.

However, because he never took anyone on trust, he had run a search on her during the day. Interestingly, it had turned up precious little; perhaps that innocence was real.

Or perhaps, he thought cynically, noting the subtle, sexy sway of her hips as she turned to look at the mountains, she’d just been remarkably discreet.

He could have contacted his head of Security, who’d probably have been able to dig deeper, but for some reason he hadn’t.

Still, he’d found out a few things. He ticked them off as he watched her come towards him along the lakeshore. Her father had died when she was nine, her aristocratic French mother five years later. She’d gone to a top-grade boarding-school in England, a finishing school in Switzerland. With an excellent degree in marketing under her belt she was now taking her master’s at a prestigious university in America. So she had a good brain—probably a first-rate one.

She stooped to pick up some small thing. Hawke’s eyes narrowed and the tug of hunger sharpened into a goad when she straightened and an errant little breeze moulded the thin material of her jacket around her magnificent breasts.

Heat kindled in his loins. Damn, he wanted her…

Tough, he told himself ruthlessly. She was only twenty-three, ten years younger than he was, and she’d been sheltered all her life. He shouldn’t have asked her to dinner. Hell, his one experience of an ingénue—an actress-debutante who’d developed a crush on him with no encouragement whatsoever and made a damned nuisance of herself when he’d let her down as gently as he could—had taught him not to take anyone at face value.

Young she might have been, but Lucy St James had thought nothing of weeping all over the tabloids about an affair that had never happened. He liked his lovers experienced and too sophisticated to demand any more than a passionate affair; that way, when they parted no one got hurt.

Just lately, however, he’d been thinking it might be time to consider marriage.

But not, he told himself caustically, watching Melissa stare out across the lake as though searching for a lover in the gathering dusk, with someone he’d asked to dinner purely as a courtesy to her brothers.

And that was a lie.

The invitation had been a direct result of the dance they’d shared almost a year ago. Until then she’d been Gabe’s younger sister, notable only for her height, her coltish grace and her reserve.

Don’t forget her eyes, his photographic memory prompted—heavy-lidded and topaz-gold, set under fly-away brows. And the mouth that made him wonder if she ever let her full lips relax into lush sensuousness.

Skin like magnolia petals, and a voice all crisp coolness on the surface but with an intriguing hint of huskiness…

Hawke said something succinct and irritable beneath his breath. All right, so for some reason she’d stuck like a burr in his memory, and that dance in Provence was still as fresh and new as it had been the following day.

Probably because he’d never danced with anyone who’d stayed so silent, practised no tricks, merely followed his lead as though caught in some bewitched time out of time!

He hadn’t wanted to talk either, in case words shattered the tenuous enchantment that surrounded them that night. Content to waltz with her in his arms, he’d watched her grave, absorbed face, the soft mouth tender as though she’d strayed into a dream…

It had been an oddly moving experience, so moving that he hadn’t gone near her for the rest of the night. Although, he remembered, he’d known when she and her brothers left the ballroom.

He walked out onto the stone terrace, disconcerted at his satisfaction when she turned as though his presence had impinged on some sixth sense. After a moment’s hesitation she came towards him.

Hawke drew in a sharp breath. His previous thought that she looked like some goddess of old came back to him; instead of the unsophisticated student he knew her to be, she projected a potent physical radiance.

Her smile, tentative and fleeting, banished it instantly, thank God.

Quelling the slow growl of sexual hunger in his gut, he said more sternly than he’d intended, ‘Good evening, Melissa. I’m glad you could come.’

‘Thank you,’ she said a little breathlessly.

Once they were inside he held out his hand. ‘Can I take your jacket?’

‘I…Yes, thank you.’

After the crisp coolness of the air outside the room was warm, but she felt oddly reluctant to surrender her outer layer. The silk of her top felt suddenly thin and too revealing, the fake jewels obvious and cheap.

Nevertheless, she’d look a total idiot if she wore the jacket all evening. And Hawke clearly wasn’t in the least interested in what lay beneath it; a swift glance revealed no emotion at all in the forceful features.

His closeness, emphasised by the light touch of his hands on her shoulders as he took the garment, produced gentle tremors of tantalising energy through her. The world froze, suspending them in a fragile bubble of silence and stillness so that her senses lingered obsessively on each tiny, heart-jerking stimulus.

A faint, almost subliminal scent, masculine and wholly disturbing, set her pulse rate soaring. Did his hands linger on her shoulders as though staking a claim she didn’t dare recognise?

No, she told herself sternly, while her body swayed slightly and she had to control an urge to hyperventilate. Of course not; he was merely being polite.

And she was behaving as foolishly as a fifteen-year-old in the throes of her first crush!

He dropped her jacket onto the back of a chair. Masking her dilating pupils with her lashes, Melissa took a swift step away and tried to reassemble the shreds of her self-confidence by examining the table with a professional interest.

The staff had done him proud, setting the white damask with flowers from the warmer North Island—rich apricot and cream roses with a softly intimate perfume. Wine glasses sparkled in the light of candles, and the silver gleamed richly, burnished by the gentle flames.

‘I hope you’re enjoying yourself here,’ she said laboriously.

OK, so pedestrian was all she could summon, but she was damned well going to stick to the conventions.

The problem was, she didn’t want to, and she had the feeling that Hawke Kennedy wasn’t a man who thought much about convention at all.

‘Very much,’ he said gravely.

A molten undercurrent of anticipation robbing her of caution, Melissa looked into Hawke’s enigmatic eyes. ‘I believe you went heli-skiing today.’

And could have bitten out her tongue. Now he’d think she was keeping tabs on him.

Not that he showed it. ‘And thoroughly enjoyed it,’ he said, a faintly cynical tone bringing helpless colour to her skin.

The guide who’d accompanied Hawke to make sure he didn’t ski over a bluff on the way down the mountain had told her there was nothing he could teach his charge about skiing in the Southern Alps.

‘Or anywhere. Good as a professional,’ Bart had said admiringly.

Melissa wasn’t surprised. Hawke Kennedy breathed the sort of competence that attracted instinctive trust.

‘Interesting guy, too,’ Bart went on. ‘Good company, although he doesn’t suffer fools gladly. You should have heard him lay into a snowboarder who thought he had right of way. Never raised his voice, but the kid came away with one less layer of skin. He’ll remember his manners from now on.’

Through her lashes Melissa watched Hawke go across to a tray on a sideboard. He moved with the spare, relaxed grace of an athlete, his big body supple and strong and sexy.

Something shockingly hot and wild twisted inside her. She looked away and started to speak in a voice she expected to sound bright and conversational. To her surprise each word emerged with a husky intonation.

‘You were lucky with the snow. Spring is definitely here.’ She stopped, swallowed and pinned a small, desperate smile to her lips. ‘The forecasters are saying that this will be the last dump of powder for the season.’

‘Almost certainly. I ordered champagne, but would you rather have something else?’

‘No, thank you.’ Already dizzy at just being there, she watched him open the bottle with the minimum amount of fuss, and pour the wine into two crystal flutes.

Handing her one, he said with a smile made dangerous by a hint of challenge, ‘Here’s to meetings.’

Stop fantasising, Melissa told herself sturdily. He is not flirting with you. Or if he is, he probably does it with everyone, including elderly dowagers.

Especially elderly dowagers…

Acknowledging the challenge with a lift of her chin, she raised her glass. ‘To meetings.’

Like her, he barely sipped the delicious liquid before saying, ‘Come and sit down and tell me how you’re getting on here.’

Flames shot up in the huge stone fireplace as she settled into a chair and watched Hawke take the opposite one. He leaned back like a king on his throne, and looked across at her, the austerity of his angular features increased by a trick of the firelight. Melissa felt like the logs in the fire—burning with a mixture of sensations.

Sedately she said, ‘Fine, thank you.’

But that didn’t satisfy him, and before long she was telling him about her experience at the lodge, relishing it when she made him laugh a couple of times. In the next half-hour she found herself settling into something perilously like ease, keenly stimulated by his sharp brain and wide knowledge. Several times she was surprised to catch herself laughing; to her bemused astonishment, she discovered that they shared a similar sense of humour.

The peal of the doorbell interrupted that.

‘Dinner,’ Hawke said, getting to his feet.

Startled, she realised that she’d drunk most of her glass of wine. Not that she could hold the champagne solely responsible for her heightened senses; when she heard Hawke’s voice as he spoke to whoever had delivered the dinner, her insides clenched and that fire smouldering in the pit of her stomach flamed more brightly, burning away another layer of self-control.

This swift, uncompromising attraction had to be based on nothing more than his appearance. She had no idea of his character beyond what she’d read in the newspapers—that he was a brilliant, hard-headed businessman who enjoyed beautiful women.

And who had broken several hearts.

So it appeared that she was one of those shallow women who judged men by their looks. If their positions were reversed, she’d despise him. She despised herself.

Yet he was more than a handsome man. She blinked fiercely, trying to clear her mind of the exhilarating haze that clouded it. The sound of the door closing refocused her churning thoughts, and she realised with an odd jolt that while the two of them had been talking over their wine night had fallen outside, enclosing the lodge in darkness.

‘I’ll pull the curtains,’ Hawke said from behind her.

She took a deep breath and got to her feet. ‘You don’t have to pull them. Look, there’s a button by the door—press it and they’ll close automatically.’

Before she could get there he’d found the button and the drapes swept across the windows, obliterating the lake and the mountains, cocooning the room in warmth and an intimacy that suddenly seemed much too intense.

Melissa came to an uncertain halt, wishing for the thousandth time that she had more poise, yet feeling alive in a way she’d never experienced before. Poised on a knife-edge of stimulation, she felt as though the last half-hour had altered her in some fundamental way.

Rubbish, she told herself sternly. It’s infatuation, just like the monumental crush you had on that French pop star—hormone-driven and mindless.

Her mouth twisted wryly. For a birthday treat, her brother, Marco, had organised a meeting with that singer. Talk about instant disillusion!

He’d been six inches shorter than she was, and resented every inch of that difference. Awed and worshipful, she’d barely been able to articulate, but the mockery in his eyes had stung. The only reason he’d been polite was that Marco owned a massive number of shares in the huge musical empire that held his contract.

Then he’d sworn at a fan who’d approached with an autograph book. And later that evening Melissa had overheard him describe her to a friend.

‘A giraffe with no style,’ he’d said scornfully. ‘But one has to be polite to the rich men—and their clumsy sisters!’

OK, so she could smile now, but at the time she had been cut to the quick.

This had to be the same sort of temporary reaction. Perhaps she should have expected it; she was a late developer. Most of her friends had already moved on from their first affairs to embark on other, hopefully more satisfying relationships, while she’d been far too cautious to allow anyone close to her. Her mother had warned her against fortune hunters prepared to overlook her height and lack of beauty for the lure of access to her brothers.

She had enough self-esteem to make sure that didn’t happen! But the fact that she’d never fallen in love was because she’d never met anyone who reached her brothers’ standards.

Now she wondered if she had.

‘Come and eat,’ Hawke said smoothly.

He put her into her chair, and served a superb soup made from green peas and lettuce.

Melissa picked up her spoon and said, ‘The chef will be pleased you ordered this—it’s one of his specialities, and he says most New Zealanders refuse to eat cooked lettuce.’

‘I’m afraid I followed my own inclination when I ordered; I knew I’d be hungry after a day on the mountain, so I made sure of a solid, sustaining meal.’

When Melissa smiled a small dimple winked into existence beside her mouth, calling attention to her lips. Sheened by a sheer film of colour into pure sensuousness, each small smile sent reckless impulses through Hawke.

He defied any man to look at that mouth and not imagine just what it would feel like on his body. His reacted to the thought with violent appreciation not unmixed with a dangerous craving.

Possibly she’d noticed, because the dimple disappeared. She said primly, ‘The lodge specialises in hearty meals because so many of the guests spend their days on the mountains or fishing the river. But because they often bring their wives, it also caters for the appetites of those who decide to spend the day in the spa.’

The soup was delicious, as he’d expected, but although it disappeared from his plate he barely tasted it; he was too busy enjoying the open, delicate greed with which she demolished hers. Did that frank appetite denote an equal enjoyment of sex?

Hawke reined in his enthusiastic body. She had an untouched air; with two heavyweight brothers he suspected that any suitor had been met with an intensive grilling that would put off all but the most determined. Even during the fuss last year when Gabe Considine’s broken engagement had occupied the front pages of every tabloid in the world, little had been printed about her.

So—no lovers?

A heated pleasure caught him by surprise. Last night he’d detected a latent sensuality, an aura of unrealised—and possibly unsuspected—passion in her.

Pity he wasn’t going to be the one to tap into it.

He said casually, ‘How long do you plan to be here?’

‘I leave at the end of the week.’

‘Snap. I’m staying until then too.’

Melissa’s heart jolted, and the knot of anticipation in her stomach tightened. Was that a decision he’d just made?

It was probably part of his charm to keep his full focus on his dinner partner, but Melissa found it intoxicating. Her confidence flowered, spiced by sharp awareness and his interest. She drank very little of the superb Riesling he poured to accompany the next course, a meatloaf surprisingly redolent of Asian flavours and scents, but excitement burned through every cell in her body.

Candlelight flickered lovingly over his bronze face as he leaned back in his chair and surveyed her with an ironic quirk of his brows. ‘So where do you want to be in five years?’

She laughed. ‘Probably working in some hotel chain to get the practical knowledge I’ll need to make a success of Gabe’s vision.’

‘Aim high,’ he advised. ‘You should be at executive level by then, or managing your own tourist venture in Illyria. And I thought it was your vision, not your brothers’?’

Without hesitation she said, ‘It was my idea. I don’t think Gabe is quite sure I’ll make it happen, but I will.’

Yes, she would, he thought, noting the determined angle to her jaw. ‘Would you have thought of making a career in that field if it hadn’t been for Illyria?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. We were brought up to believe that it was our duty to help the principality in any way we could. My father never forgave himself for being out of Illyria when the prince was overthrown; all his life he did what he could for his country and his people.’

Did that include marrying a half-French, half-American heiress, Hawke wondered cynically, to keep him in the style to which he’d been accustomed? Not that it had been an ideal match; although there had never been any prospect of divorce, it was fairly common knowledge that her mother had indulged herself with a string of lovers.

He watched Melissa sip the wine, and that disturbing, rash attraction geared up another notch. She’d been brought up in a milieu where both parents had pragmatically made the best of an unsatisfactory marriage, staying together while seeking what private happiness they could in discreet affairs.

Did Melissa have the same outlook?

She looked up and caught him scrutinising her. Colour burned along her cheekbones and her tawny-gold eyes darkened. A hot satisfaction took him by surprise as he watched the muscles in her slender throat quiver.

When he looked at her with those half-closed green eyes and an enigmatic smile, Melissa’s mind shut down. Summoning her best imitation of her mother’s social manner, she asked, ‘Did you grow up in this area of New Zealand?’

‘No,’ he said, and the iron control was back like a slap in the face. ‘I come from north of Auckland.’

Determinedly Melissa asked questions about the country’s northernmost area, slowly relaxing while they picked up the strands of conversation.

By the end of the evening those oddly tense moments had been smoothed over, although Melissa knew she wasn’t ever going to forget them. He fascinated her, his incisive intelligence stimulating her into a conversation that almost—but not quite—blotted out her overwhelming physical response to his formidable, almost arrogant male authority.

But she took the first chance to get away, saying with what she feared was a too obviously regretful note in her voice, ‘I’ve had a lovely evening, but I should be going.’

He didn’t try to dissuade her, rising to his feet in a swift, lithe movement. ‘I’ll see you to your room.’

‘Oh, no,’ she protested. ‘There’s no need. It’s not far away—just in the staff quarters on the other side of the building, and I can walk through the lodge to get there.’

‘So?’ he said, and smiled at her, and the urgent, driving beat of sexual attraction blazed bright and hungry through her body.

Because she didn’t trust her voice, she contented herself with a half-shrug and a nod of acceptance.

The summons of the telephone startled both of them. He frowned. ‘Excuse me. That will be an emergency.’

‘I’ll wait outside.’

‘Nonsense.’

But she walked through the door into the wide corridor that joined the suite to the rest of the lodge. The lighting was muted to showcase the immeasurable splendour of the scenery, so she pretended to study the mountains while she waited.

Hawke joined her less than a minute later, carrying her jacket. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, dark eyes unreadable.

‘I hope it wasn’t a real emergency.’

He shrugged and said obliquely, ‘Time will tell.’

Instead of handing her the jacket, he held it out for her to put on. Swift blood scorched her skin and she felt profoundly grateful for the dim lights. How many other women had shivered with pleasure and heady anticipation at the closeness the small, intimate courtesy allowed?

Plenty, she thought scornfully.

He said, ‘Are you cold? I’d rather walk outside than through the lodge.’

So they wouldn’t be seen?

Stop this right now, she commanded that cynical little voice inside her. He’s been perfectly polite the whole evening and now he’s going to make sure you get back to your lonely bed because he’s a protective alpha male. That’s all.

‘I’m not in the least cold,’ she told him brightly.

Together they walked out into the night, its spring crispness tempered by a hint of the summer to come. Melissa glanced up, startled to see Hawke scan the grounds with the swift, far-from-cursory survey of a warrior.

‘It’s perfectly safe here,’ she protested.

‘Nowhere is perfectly safe,’ he told her as he took her arm. ‘The world is full of predators.’

She shivered, partly because his touch fired every nerve cell in her body, but also because she knew he was right. Although she’d never been forced to endure a bodyguard’s constant presence, after Gabe and Sara cancelled their engagement her life had been made hideous by importunate reporters and photographers whenever she’d set foot outside the campus.

She loved the feeling of anonymity in this distant corner of the world.

‘The security is excellent,’ she reassured him.

‘It had better be,’ he said uncompromisingly.

Silently they walked beside the lake until she indicated the screen of trees that hid the staff quarters from the main lodge. ‘My temporary home. Thank you for a very pleasant evening.’

In spite of the prosaic subject, her voice sounded too low and breathy.

A breeze swept over the lake, bearing the scent of this uplifted land with it—the cool savour of green rainforest, of ancient rocks and snow, of distance and isolation. Illyrian mountains had been traversed by men for untold thousands of years; humankind had left their stamp on their flanks, wearing tracks, cutting forests, making farms. Until less than a thousand years previously these southern mountains had known only the call of birds and the sounds of wind and water.

Melissa shivered, awed by the sublime indifference of the natural world to the small creatures who thought they ruled it.

‘You’re cold,’ Hawke said, and released her so he could shrug out of his jacket. Before she realised what he intended to do he dropped it around her shoulders.

‘No, no,’ she said, confused and charmed, trying to struggle free of its warmth and that sexy, purely male scent that set her pulse skipping. ‘It’s only a short distance—I’ll be fine.’

Hard hands clamped onto her shoulders. He didn’t hurt her, just showed her his strength. ‘Don’t be silly,’ he said as though speaking to a child.

‘But you’ll get cold,’ she protested, adding foolishly, ‘And you’re a guest here!’

He laughed softly, the reflected starshine from the lake highlighting the forceful contours of his face.

‘Under this sky that doesn’t matter at all,’ he said, uncannily echoing her thoughts of a few minutes previously.

Something in his tone stopped the breath in her throat. With a stripped, ruthless smile that set her heart pounding, he finished, ‘To the mountains I’m just a man. And you’re a woman.’

Astonishment and a keen, fierce anticipation froze Melissa. Wide-eyed and incredulous, she watched him bend his head, only closing her eyes when she was certain that he was going to kiss her.

His mouth was warm and seducing. Unable to think, she held her breath, her lips softening without volition under the light pressure of his.

Later she thought that neither of them moved during those first seconds. She was aware of a turmoil of sensation—the comfort of his jacket around her shoulders, the heat of his mouth on hers contrasting with the freshness of the air, the subtle clamour of desire in her blood.

And then everything was consumed in a surge of frantic, almost agonised need.

Hawke lifted his mouth, but only for a fraction of a second. Before she had time to anticipate rejection he gathered her close against his big, athletic body and his mouth came down on hers again.

He took the kiss with an intensity of hunger that plunged her into a world she’d never experienced—a place of stark, raw passion that shut down everything but the primal urge to lose herself in it. For the first time in her life Melissa understood desperation.

Everything dwindled, narrowing to focus on this man and the heated, dangerous sensations his kisses summoned from her eager body. She couldn’t have resisted even if she’d wanted to; her bones had dissolved and the only thing she wanted was to stay locked like this in Hawke’s arms.

But eventually he raised his head and rested his forehead on hers. The sound of his breathing mingled with hers, harsh and impeded as though they’d run a marathon.

In a rough, driven voice, he said, ‘If we don’t stop this right now I’m going to make a huge mistake.’




CHAPTER THREE


DAZED, Melissa lifted heavy eyelids to stare into Hawke’s face. His striking features were honed by hunger into a starkness that sent a frisson of fear through her. For the first time she understood the power of her femininity.

But that cowardly flash of fear was banished by bold, elemental satisfaction because she had done this to him.

Of course he noticed. His eyes narrowed, but his hold relaxed so that she wasn’t clamped so tightly against the formidable power of his aroused body. He didn’t release her entirely; against her taut, expectant breasts his chest lifted and fell when he took and released a deep breath.

‘Princess, you pack a hell of a punch,’ he said, his cheek against her forehead.

In his raw, intense voice, princess sounded like the most erotic endearment ever spoken in any language. And in his arms Melissa felt dangerously safe. Nothing, she thought dreamily, nothing in the world could ever hurt her again.

But pride drove her to unscramble her brain and assemble her thoughts into something like order. However, she couldn’t think of anything to say beyond a lame, ‘So do you.’

Then she cringed at her muted, shocked tone.

His voice was cool and self-possessed. ‘You’d better get inside. You’re shivering.’

But not from the cold! Nevertheless she made no protest when he dropped his arms, although she felt bereft, as though something precious had been torn from her.

Grimly she drove herself to step away from him, to turn on the path, to head towards the door, so acutely conscious of him beside her that she felt his presence in every cell.

Just concentrate on getting there, she told herself fiercely. You can think about it all you like soon, but now you need to shut the door on him so you can find yourself again.

Because although they had been the most sensuous, shattering kisses she’d ever experienced, she could see that they hadn’t been anything so earth-shaking to Hawke. Oh, he’d enjoyed it, and he’d wanted her, but in spite of her inexperience she knew that most men responded in a physical fashion to a warm female body against them and a seeking, hungry mouth beneath theirs.

The gravel under their feet crunched loudly; every sense was still stretched to its limit, so that her ears picked up the hushed lap of water against the lakeshore, and her skin tingled at the soft wind on her face.

She could taste Hawke on her lips, and her tongue, and her body was hot and eager, every nerve throbbing with frustration.

At the doorway he said abruptly, ‘I’m leaving tomorrow.’

A kind of sick panic hollowed out her stomach. She bit back the words that threatened to tumble out and betray her.

Squaring her shoulders, she said in a voice that she hoped sounded nothing more than amused, ‘Not on my account, I hope.’

‘No,’ he said, his tone echoing hers. ‘The phone call just before we left.’

An excuse, but nicely done.

Melissa’s head weighed heavy on her neck as she nodded. ‘I know about emergencies—my brothers Gabe and Marco spend a lot of time dealing with them,’ she said, forcing a wry note into the words. She turned and held out her hand, hugely relieved when it didn’t waver. ‘Goodbye. I hope yours turns out to be not too big a problem.’

He took her outstretched hand with a humourless smile. ‘So do I,’ he said, and hauled her into his arms.

For a second he looked down into her startled face, his eyes gleaming in the most basic of challenges before he bent and kissed her again, claiming her mouth with hard, fierce possessiveness.

Eventually he lifted his head and gave her a narrow, dangerous look. ‘This isn’t goodbye, Melissa.’

She gazed into his smouldering eyes and felt her heart tumble endlessly in space, infinitely joyous because Hawke wanted to see her again.

‘Then safe journey,’ she managed.

‘I’ll catch up with you soon.’

Cold, reliable common sense returned to blot out her anticipation with uncompromising logic. She shrugged out of his jacket and held it out, knowing in her innermost heart that his vague promise—if that was what it was—meant nothing. However much he’d enjoyed those few kisses she was no sophisticated beauty, not at all the sort of woman Hawke would pursue.

When he took the jacket she managed a smile. ‘Goodbye,’ she said again, and turned and let herself inside, moving quickly because if she stayed he might see the desolation in her eyes.



For the rest of the week Melissa waited for him to come back. Of course he didn’t, and after days of echoing silence and slowly fading hope she told herself desperately that it was all for the best.

Kisses meant little, except that her response had been embarrassing enough to send him running. Her heart wasn’t broken—slightly cracked, maybe, but still intact; sinking into a decline like a gently-bred Victorian maiden simply wasn’t an option to a woman of the twenty-first century.

And the erotic dreams that ambushed her in the night were just figments of her sex-starved imagination.

Viewing the situation sensibly, she should be glad she’d learnt something more about the complexity of relationships—if dinner and a few kisses could be called a relationship!—between men and women.

With a last glance at the mountains, she settled back into her seat on the plane. Half an hour from now she’d have left behind her time at the lodge, with its memories of a job she’d enjoyed and a man she’d never forget. She thought bleakly that she now understood what had led her tough brother Gabe into his catastrophic affair with Sara Milton.

Sex had a lot to answer for!

The plane banked, turned away from the lakes and the mountains and set a purposeful course for the North Island. Melissa closed her eyes and tried to convince herself that Hawke’s kisses had not changed her fundamentally, as though he had the power to alter her basic cellular construction.

The thought was utterly ridiculous.

So she wouldn’t consider it. She’d sink herself into her life and not ever think of him again.

But first she’d have a week in Northland, a long, narrow peninsula thrusting towards the tropics, where spring was edging into summer and white beaches warmed under a hot sun.

‘Why?’ Gabe had demanded when she’d rung him the previous night.

‘You might be able to work twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, but I can’t. I’m taking time out to collate my notes for the paper I’m doing on the internship while the whole experience is fresh in my mind.’

‘You could go to the house in Honolulu.’

‘I want to see a bit more of New Zealand. I’ve been told Northland is just as stunning as the southern lakes district, but in an entirely different way.’

‘It is.’ He sounded resigned. ‘Where will you be staying?’

She told him the name.

‘That sounds like a backpackers’ lodge.’

‘It is, but an upmarket one—I’ve reserved a room to myself.’

‘If you need money I’ll organise—’

She broke in without compunction. ‘You were the one who decided that I should live on my allowance. And you were right—it’s not only extremely good for me to stick to a budget, but I also enjoy doing it. I’m fine, Gabe, don’t fuss.’

After a moment’s silence, he said reluctantly, ‘New Zealand’s safe enough, I suppose, but take care.’

‘I always do,’ she said, smiling.

‘E-mail me the address,’ he commanded. ‘And your room number.’

‘Yes, sir!’

He laughed. ‘All right, I know you’re a big girl now. Have fun.’

Sometimes big brothers—even adored ones—could be a darned nuisance, but although their protectiveness rubbed her independence the wrong way, neither Gabe nor Marco would ever change.

The little town of Russell in the Bay of Islands was busy with tourists and holidaymakers drawn to the region by its rich history, both Maori and European, and its beauty. Built along a beach, its small wooden houses were constrained by hills covered in dark, vigorous forest that Melissa knew was always referred to as ‘the bush’. Neither the vegetation nor the setting reminded her in the least of Hawke Kennedy.

No memories here.

In her small, sparsely furnished room she set up her laptop on the desk and settled down to work. For the next two days she resisted the temptations of cruises with dolphins, of sightseeing and diving, of wine and heritage tours. Every evening she went for a walk along the beach then up a steep hill topped by a flagpole.

And every night in bed she lay awake staring into the darkness.

Soon she’d be over this undignified infatuation. It was just a matter of refusing to surrender to it; she was being obsessive and stupid and girly, but at least no one else knew how silly she was.

The third morning bloomed in soft, fresh splendour, the sun beaming down from a sky so blue and bright it made her blink. However, a tentative dabble in the sea convinced her that it was too cold to swim, so she celebrated the good weather with breakfast at the café along the road and settled down with her notes.

Towards midday she pushed them aside and got up to stretch. ‘A walk,’ she said out loud. ‘I need a walk before lunch.’

She craved solitude, so of course she met a family on the beach—a smiling, vociferous group who engulfed her when she snatched one small daughter out of the way of a particularly boisterous wave. Tourists from Peru, they sorted out into a middle-aged couple, their very handsome son called Jorge, and a married daughter with her husband and two enchanting little girls.

Melissa knew she wasn’t looking her best; unlike the South American women she hadn’t bothered with make-up that morning, and she’d set out without changing her T-shirt and jeans.

Not that it seemed to matter. Jorge gave her a dazzling smile and fell in beside her as they began to move along the beach. By the time they’d reached the other end of the bay he’d invited her to lunch with them at one of the restaurants, an invitation eagerly seconded by his mother.

Her first instinct was to refuse, but why not? Defiance mightn’t be a pretty emotion, but it was better than a nagging sense of humiliation. She was tired of her constant fixation on Hawke. This cheerful, noisy family would keep the useless memories at bay for an hour or so.

So she said, ‘That sounds lovely—thank you very much.’

The Lopez clan wouldn’t hear of her leaving them to change her clothes for something a little more elegant.

‘No, no,’ the señora said briskly. ‘Here is very casual, so we all wear our beach clothes.’

Melissa hid a smile. Their beach clothes had been bought, she was sure, in the most elegant boutiques in Lima. Beside them she must look a peasant.

Lunch was protracted and happy and delicious, and by the end of it the children were sweetly nodding and Melissa also was ready for the siesta that so clearly beckoned the rest of the family.

They insisted on escorting her back to the lodge, then waved goodbye and trooped off in the direction of their hotel. The son lingered, however, just inside the gate.

‘Perhaps you would like to have dinner with us also?’ he suggested, examining her with such open interest and pleasure that a tinge of heat coloured her cheeks.

Melissa was opening her mouth to refuse tactfully when a voice from behind her said, ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’

The deep, even tone displayed no emotion whatsoever, but each word was buttressed by steel. Heart jumping, Melissa turned to meet eyes as green and cold as glacier ice. Hawke, she thought, and a wave of pure happiness overwhelmed her.

The South American looked from her face to Hawke’s; with a wry smile he said courteously, ‘But of course. It has been a pleasure meeting you, Melissa.’

And symbolically relinquishing any claim to her, he gave a slight bow and turned away.

Struggling to control her wayward heartbeat, Melissa asked crisply, ‘You had no right to refuse an invitation for me.’

Hawke lifted an arrogant eyebrow. ‘Then go after him.’

‘I will not,’ she returned, furious yet wondering whether he was jealous. Or overly possessive. ‘I was about to refuse him myself. And this is the second time you’ve gone over my head.’

Silence burned between them, taut and filled with unspoken emotions. All she could think of was that if only she’d known he was coming she’d have worn clothes that suited the occasion. Festival gear, she thought with a touch of hysteria, because skyrockets were exploding in the pit of her stomach and she was sure she could hear fairy music—dangerous, seductive, wildly irresistible—in her ears.

Hawke didn’t pretend not to understand what she was referring to. ‘At Shipwreck Bay I consulted the manager before I asked you to dinner because I thought you might have been working again that night,’ he said coolly. ‘As for today—you’re perfectly correct, I had no right to answer for you. I’m sorry.’

‘I should think so.’ She angled her chin at him. ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but I met the whole family—mother, father, sister and husband as well as Jorge, plus two sweet little girls—late this morning and had lunch with them all. What are you doing here?’

This time both straight brows went up. In a voice that held more than a little impatience he said, ‘I came here because you’re here. Why the devil did you leave Shipwreck Bay?’

A car started up with a series of minor explosions that effectively killed the fairy music. Woodenly Melissa said, ‘I told you I was due to leave at the end of the week.’

‘And I told you I’d be back.’ He frowned down at her. ‘Why didn’t you wait?’

‘You didn’t ask me to, which was another assumption,’ she said, much more calmly than she felt. Anticipation pierced her, and an exhilarating pleasure. ‘How did you find me?’

Narrow-eyed, he said harshly, ‘If you hadn’t booked this place through Shipwreck Bay Lodge I might not have.’

‘I know that judicious amounts of money, carefully targeted, can buy almost anyone, but I’d have thought the staff at the Bay would show some loyalty.’

He gave a short, mirthless laugh. ‘They did. I own Shipwreck Bay.’

Stunned, she said, ‘You what?’

‘I thought you knew.’

‘No.’ She drew in a sharp breath, wondering why it was important to convince him of that. ‘No,’ she repeated, ‘I didn’t know.’

Did he believe her? Or did he think she’d wanted him to run after her as some kind of sick, thoughtless ploy to keep him interested? It was impossible to tell from his expression; he was an expert at hiding his thoughts and his emotions.

And what, she wondered feverishly, did he want from her? She didn’t even know how to ask. If only she had some idea of how this game between the sexes was played.

Without thinking, she blurted, ‘Do you own this one too?’

‘No.’ He gave her an edged smile that reinforced the flinty note in his voice. ‘I have a house a few kilometres away. Is Northland living up to your expectations?’

‘It’s glorious.’ She sent him a sideways glance and finished demurely, ‘But I suppose you prefer the mountains.’

Hawke wondered if she had any idea just how provocative he found those occasional slanting glances—the flash of topaz fire between the thick lashes, and the tiny smile that accompanied each one.





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