Indiscretions. Robyn Donald
Читать онлайн книгу.
relaxing by force of will the hands that gripped her bag.
His glance lingered on the white knuckles as he asked casually, apparently giving up on the previous subject, “So what part of New Zealand did you grow up in?”
“A small town,” she said evenly, trying not to sound evasive, adding, when it was obvious he wasn’t satisfied, “in the King Country.”
“You have family there still?”
“No. My family are all dead.”
“I’m sorry.” Oddly enough he sounded it.
She shrugged. “I’m sorry, too, but it happened a long time ago.”
“So you are entirely alone?” His tone made it a question.
The temptation to invent a lover was almost irresistible, but the hard-won knowledge, gained over the years, that the fewer lies she told the less likely she was to be caught out, stopped such a panicky decision. “Yes,” she said remotely.
He didn’t pursue it. “Do you enjoy your job?”
“Very much. I’ve met some fascinating people, I work in very luxurious surroundings, and I get paid well.”
“You don’t look like a cat,” he said, smiling as she stared at him. It was a subtle smile, complex and enigmatic, and she didn’t know how to deal with it, especially when he went on, “Oh, you move well, but your body is more athletic than sinuous, and the faint hint of intransigence about you is not the smug, slightly taunting feline variety—it appears to be the result of your Viking ancestry.”
“So why a cat?” she asked steadily.
His eyes, his face, his voice, issued a challenge. “Because you sound like one. That’s what a cat asks—comfort, a few novelties to tease the brain, and security. And I doubt if a cat cares who provides for its wants.”
It was an oddly intimate conversation, and he was frighteningly percsptivs. Mariel smiled ironically as she raised her brows. “My looks must be deceiving,” she said lightly. “I don’t think I’m in the least intransigent—”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he interrupted, mocking her.
She’d had enough. Any desire for a cup of tea had long since departed, and she ached with the deep, languid weariness of exhaustion.
“I’m tired, I’m afraid,” she said, smiling, her eyes and face as candid as she could make them. “If you don’t mind, I’ll leave you now. Stay and finish your drink,” she concluded as he rose with automatic courtesy. Hastily she leapt to her feet—-too hastily, for she swayed slightly and must have lost color.
Instantly he was beside her, his hand a hard support against her back. “Are you all right?” he demanded.
No, she was not; her head was spinning, and she wished she could blame lack of food. Biting her lip, she drew away as quickly as she could, her nostrils flaring at the faint, barely discernible scent of him, an insidious, inciting mix of musk and salt.
“I’m fine,” she said steadily. “Just tired.”
He made a swift sound of irritation. “You haven’t had dinner, have you?”
“I had a substantial snack before drinks. I’m not in the least hungry,” she told him, hoping that her words convinced him. If anyone presented her with food she might well throw up, because her stomach was churning with something that definitely wasn’t hunger.
His expression unreadable, he looked keenly into her face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was totally inconsiderate of me. I’ll order you a bar meal.”
Something of her revulsion must have shown in her face, for before she could answer he said autocratically, “Then I’ll see you to your room.”
She shook her head. “I sleep in the staff quarters, a hundred yards or so away.”
“I’ll see you there.”
“Mr. Leigh—Nicholas—there is no need. The security here is watertight.”
“My mother,” he explained calmly, “would never forgive me. She had few rules, but those she had were cast in iron and drummed into me as a child. One of them was that when you’ve bought a drink for a woman you see her to her door. And you should know by now that security is never watertight.”
Mariel cast him a wary, exasperated glance. Although he was smiling there was a determination in his expression that told her it was no use; this man would do what he wanted regardless of how she felt.
“Very well then” she said coldly, walking out before him.
The staff who lived on-site were housed in the old stables, which had been converted into a neat complex behind the main hotel. At the end of a wide pathway that curled away beneath magnolia and live oak, the old brick building was sheltered behind a low wall. Between the hotel and staff quarters was a formal garden, where beds of azaleas bloomed beneath the still flowerless branches of crepe myrties. It was April and, while winter had barely loosened its grip on New York, here the night air was cool, but the days were warm and getting warmer.
“A pretty setting,” Nicholas said, looking around.
Pretty? Compared to some of the quarters Mariel had slept in, the compound was palatial! “The owner’s husband is a keen gardener,” she said quietly.
Perhaps Nicholas Leigh was right; perhaps she did like her creature comforts too much. Surely anyone who’d been brought up in comparative luxury, then faced at the age of eight with a sudden descent into poverty and austerity, could be excused for enjoying such beautiful surroundings.
The gentle hush of waves on the beach backgrounded Nicholas Leigh’s voice as he said, “This reminds me a little of Auckland. The same scent—salt and flowers and green growing things.”
“And humidity?”
“You don’t like the Auckland climate?”
She shrugged. “I’ve never lived there.”
“And you never want to.” He let that sink in before asking, “Is it just Auckland you dislike or New Zealand as a whole?”
The words were delivered mildly, but she felt the taunt as clearly as though he’d snarled at her. “There’s nothing for me there now,” she said dismissively, glad they had reached a door of the middle block. “This is as far as you are allowed, I’m afraid,” she said, and held out her hand.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, smiling narrowly.
She shivered, wincing at the spark of electricity that flashed between them again, fierce and fathomless. It took willpower to retrieve her hand without jerking it from his.
“It’s a damned nuisance, isn’t it?” he said almost conversationally. “However, I’m sure we’re both strong-minded enough to resist it.”
She stared at him.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what it is.” An oblique smile barely disturbed the corners of his mouth. “You felt it the moment I did.”
“I did not!” And then, because her indignant response had given her away, she said angrily, “Look, I’m not interested—”
“You challenged me,” he said with a forbidding curtness, “and you knew you were doing it. I could be tempted to take you up on it, but I don’t think it would be sensible.”
There was contempt in his voice, contempt, she realized, directed not only at her. Nicholas Leigh saw this attraction as a weakness and despised himself for it.
Wordlessly she turned, her emotions perilously close to the surface, and slipped through the door, closing it behind her. His frankness had shocked her, and yet a dangerously capricious part of her heart thrilled, because he, too, had no defense against the overwhelming intensity of