The Blackmail Bargain. Robyn Donald
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anxious eyes searched his face. ‘I—well, probably not. Nobody, especially not Ian, would believe that you’d find a girl like her attractive.’ She gave a twisted smile. ‘Your preference for beautiful women is too well known. But there must be some way out of this, because I’m certain she’s not in love with him.’
‘How do you know?’ Curt asked ironically. ‘And don’t tell me it’s women’s intuition.’
‘Ha! That’s rich coming from you!’ Now that he’d agreed she was confident again, her eyes gleaming and her smile reckless. ‘Everyone believes you dragged Dad’s sinking firm out of the mire and into the stratosphere with brilliance and sheer force of will, but you told me once that most of the time you followed your gut instinct.’
‘And sometimes I ignored it,’ he said sardonically.
‘Well, intuition’s got nothing to do with this. You got to the top because as well as being brutally clever you’re good at reading body language,’ she said crisply. ‘So am I. And her body language tells me Peta Grey is not in love with Ian. She wants out of being stuck away on a little farm miles from the nearest village, with no money, no prospects except hard work, and no chance of meeting a decent man. Except married ones!’ she finished bitterly.
Curt glanced down at the photographs, his gaze caught and held by Peta Grey’s challenging face with its lush, firmly disciplined mouth. His protective affection for Gillian warred with a darker, more subtle instinct that warned him of danger if he didn’t keep out of this.
But looking after his sister was a habit too strong to be broken. He leaned over and wrote something in his desk diary. ‘All right, I’ll see you next week.’
She let out a long sigh. ‘Thank you,’ she said in a voice that quivered. ‘I’ll be eternally grateful.’
‘I’m not promising anything,’ he said abruptly. ‘Can I take you out to lunch?’
‘I’d love to go out to lunch with you, but I’m already booked with a couple of old girlfriends. Besides, I bet you’ve got some high-powered meeting with important people.’
‘Guilty,’ he agreed, with the rare smile that dazzled even his sister. ‘But I’d have cut it short if you needed me.’
She came up to him in a small, scented rush and pulled his head down to kiss his lean cheek, then rested her head on his chest for a second. ‘I knew I could rely on you,’ she said, and gave him a gallant smile and left.
Frowning, Curt watched her go, then called his secretary. ‘Have John Stevens contact me as soon as possible,’ he said, hard eyes missing nothing of the traffic heading towards the magnificently columned Museum. Shining like a white temple in the summer sun, Auckland’s tribute to its war dead crowned a hill that commanded the city and the harbour.
At any other time he’d look forward to a week on Tanekaha, but even apart from the loss of time with Anna he didn’t expect to enjoy this stay. He swivelled and picked up the photographs again, gazing not at his brother-in-law but at the woman so nearly in Ian’s arms. The sun shimmered in lazy golden fire across her head; at her feet he could see a hat, as though an ungentle hand had pushed it off.
To make it easier to kiss that sensuous mouth?
Probably; there had been no kiss, but that didn’t mean one hadn’t been planned.
His mouth compressing, he dropped the photographs as though they burned his fingertips. Think possible gold-digger, he advised himself, and find out everything you can about her so you know which strings to pull.
If he had to he’d even buy her off, although it would go against the grain. Still, he’d part with anything if it would save Gillian’s marriage; apart from his natural affection for his sister, he owed her more than he could ever repay.
CHAPTER ONE
PETA’S head came up sharply. Hoof-beats coming up the hill? Who the hell could it be? Not Ian, who’d be driving his ute. Her mouth tightened into a straight line. So it had to be Curt Blackwell McIntosh—the owner of Tanekaha Station, hunk, tycoon, and adored brother of Gillian Matheson.
A convulsive jerk beneath her hands switched her attention back to the calf.
‘Just stay still,’ she told it in her most soothing tone while she eased a rope around it, ‘and we’ll have you out of this mud in no time—oh, damn!’ as the dog let out a ferocious fusillade of barks.
‘Shut up, Laddie,’ she roared, but it was too late; thoroughly spooked, the calf found enough energy to thrash around wildly, spattering her with more smelly mud and water and embedding itself even further in the swamp.
Muttering an oath, she lifted its head so that it could breathe, then snapped a curt order to ‘Get in behind’ at the chastened dog.
If Curt McIntosh was as big as he looked in photographs, he was just the man to help her drag this calf out!
Her mouth relaxed into a scornful smile. ‘Not likely,’ she told the calf, now quiescent although its eyes were rolling wildly. ‘Far too messy for an international magnate. Still, he might send a minion to help.’
And that would be fine too, provided the minion wasn’t Ian.
She squinted against the sun. Like a storm out of the north, Curt McIntosh and his mount crested the hill and thundered towards her, a single, powerful entity both beautiful and menacing.
An odd chill of apprehension hollowed out her stomach. To quell it, she sniffed, ‘Take a good look, Laddie. That’s what’s known as being born to the saddle!’
But Curt McIntosh hadn’t been. He was an Aucklander, and the money that financed his pastoral empire came from the mysterious and inscrutable area of information technology; his firm was a world leader in its field. He might ride like a desert warrior, but his agricultural and pastoral interests were a mere hobby.
Horse and rider changed direction, slowing as they came towards the small patch of swamp. A primitive chill of foreboding shivered across Peta’s nerve ends; as well as being a brilliant rider, Curt McIntosh was big. Quelling a crazy urge to abandon the calf and get the hell out of there, she watched the horse ease back into a walk. At least Curt Etc McIntosh and his horse weren’t pounding up with a grand flourish that would scare the calf into further suicidal endeavours.
‘Of course it’s black,’ she murmured to the dog bristling with curiosity at her heels. ‘Raiders always choose black horses—good for intimidation. Not that he’s going to find any loot here, but I bet you an extra dog-biscuit tonight that horse is a stallion.’
She’d heard enough about Curt McIntosh to be very wary; his reputation for ruthlessness had grown along with his fortune, but he’d been ruthless right from the start. Barely out of university, he’d manoeuvred his father out of the family firm in a bitterly fought takeover, dragged the company into profitability, then used its resources to conquer the world.
‘The dominant male personified,’ she stated beneath her breath. It hurt her pride to remain kneeling in the mud as though waiting for a big strong man to come and rescue her and the calf, but she didn’t dare loosen her grip on its slippery hide to grab the rope.
‘Hang on, I’ll just tie the horse.’ A deep voice, cool, authoritative, completely lord-of-the-manor.
It should have set Peta’s teeth on edge; instead, it reached inside her and tied knots in her system. Without looking up she called, ‘OK.’
Cool; that’s all she had to do—act cool. She had no need to feel guilty; for all McIntosh’s toughness and brilliance he couldn’t know that his brother-in-law had touched her cheek and looked at her with eyes made hot by unwanted desire and need.
Thank heavens for that pigeon in the puriri tree! Its typically tempestuous interruption had stopped him from doing anything they’d both regret.
Until then she’d had no idea