Captured by the Billionaire. Robyn Donald
Читать онлайн книгу.
answered his unspoken proposition by lifting the flower to her lips, still tender from his kisses. The petals were warm and smooth and she inhaled their sweetly provocative perfume.
Hastily, she said, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a rose exactly this shade of red before. And, as it seems perfectly happy growing in a pot, I’d like to buy one for myself when I get back home. It should enjoy living on my balcony, and it would be a charming reminder of my visit here.’
‘If you want a true reminder of New Zealand, a native plant might be more appropriate. You can buy sealed packets of seeds that are acceptable to most countries now.’
How could he switch so abruptly—from the passionately demanding kisses of a few minutes ago to this pleasant, conversational courtesy?
With ease, clearly. Emotion and sensation were still churning through her, but Alex was once more fully in control.
‘I’ll look out for them.’ She turned to go, but remembered something. ‘What time do you plan to leave this morning?’
He paused, as though remembering something. ‘There’s been a change of plan—if you’re happy with it. I met friends at the dinner last night who live not far north of here in a vineyard. Their garden is beautiful—a showpiece. Today they’re launching their latest red with lunch and a reception there. They invited me and, when I mentioned you were with me, they extended the invitation to you.’
‘That’s very kind of them,’ she said uncertainly.
His brows lifted. ‘How is it that in your conversation I so often hear a but coming?’
The ironic question brought a smile. ‘I’d love to meet them, and the launching of a new wine is a very special occasion…’
Her voice trailed away. How could she explain that she didn’t want to appear to his friends as his latest conquest, arm candy for a successful man?
Before she could go any further, he said, ‘New Zealanders are notoriously informal, and I can promise you the invitation is genuine. Aura suggested we come for lunch and look around their garden as that’s your interest.’ And, when she hesitated anew, he added, ‘She recognised your name and has read some of your columns.’
Somehow that appeased her uncertainty. ‘I’d love to go,’ she said quietly.
He glanced at his watch. ‘Then we’d better move. Breakfast will be in about twenty minutes.’
‘I’ll be there,’ she promised and headed back into her bedroom.
Once inside, she stood still in the middle of the room and took several deep breaths, trying to clear the fog of confusion and frustrated desire from her brain.
The perfume from the rose drifted up, softly seductive, and she said beneath her breath, ‘That’s enough of that, thank you! I need a clear head right now.’
She filled a glass with water and popped the flower into it, ruefully examining a tiny bead of bright blood where a thorn had broken the skin on her thumb.
For some reason she didn’t want to analyse what had happened out there on the terrace. Tiny tantalising prickles of sensation ran across her skin as she remembered…
Stop it, she commanded her wayward mind. So she enjoyed Alex’s kisses—too much—and, judging by his initial reaction, he’d enjoyed her response.
And then he’d shut down. Again.
Why? And where—if anywhere—did they go from here?
She stared at the mirror, absently taking in the luxurious cream and gold opulence of the bathroom. Very feminine. And she’d better not forget that other women would have used this room.
The thought tarnished the residual excitement of his kisses, her pleasure in the day, in the rose.
Once she’d been the unwilling witness to a scene between her mother and her father, when her father had said impatiently, ‘It means nothing, my dear. You are and will always be the only woman I love—any others are mere entertainment.’
Her mother had asked wearily, ‘Do all men feel that way?’
And her father, probably made uncomfortable by his wife’s unspoken grief, had blustered a little before replying, ‘Yes. All the ones I have met, anyway. It is simply the way men are.’
Serina’s experience had backed up her father’s words. Many men—and women—didn’t need to love, or even like someone to want them.
Serina knew she wasn’t that sort of person. She’d promised herself that she’d wait for someone special, someone who would make her feel things she’d never felt before, someone she could respect…
And a year ago that imaginary someone became concrete when she’d met Alex. Now she understood that her wildfire physical response to him had made that decision, rather than anything she knew of his character. In danger of letting passion override everything else, she needed to be absolutely sure of her feelings. And to do that she’d have to learn more about him, respond to him intellectually and emotionally as well as with this consuming, elemental hunger.
Only then could she take the next step.
And by then, she thought with an inward quiver of excitement, she’d understand what that next step should be.
In the meantime, she’d better work out what she should wear to a lunch and reception to launch a new wine.
She chose a sleek, sophisticated suit of fine wool in a deep crimson.
When she emerged in it Alex looked at her and asked, ‘Did you choose that to match the colour of the wine?’
‘It never occurred to me,’ she said, half-laughing.
They drove to the vineyard, where his friends made her welcome. The Jansens were a few years older than Alex, and they lived with their four children in a magnificent house overlooking a wide valley braided with vines that ran down to an estuary. They were a striking couple, interesting and informative, and their garden was superb, a blend of native plants and subtropical exotica that transfixed Serina.
The guests at the launch were an equally international selection; Serina enjoyed chatting with the local residents, and was delighted to see an old friend, daughter of the royal house in a Mediterranean island, now living in a vineyard in the South Island with her handsome husband.
There were others she recognised too. As she sipped an exquisite champagne-style wine at the reception, she caught the eye of another old friend making his way towards them. The handsome scion of a famous French champagne house, Gilberte swooped on her, kissing her on both cheeks.
‘Dearest Serina,’ he said extravagantly, ‘what on earth are you doing here in the uttermost ends of the earth?’
‘She’s with me,’ Alex said from behind her.
Smile widening, Gilberte looked up. ‘Ah, Alex, I should have known you’d be with the most beautiful woman here—apart from our hostess, of course!’
Serina laughed. ‘Same old Gilberte—a compliment for every woman,’ she said affectionately, aware of a prickle of tension that had nothing to do with Gilberte. ‘What are you doing in the den of the opposition?’
‘Oh, Flint and I are old friends,’ he told her, ‘and I come often to New Zealand—just to keep a watch on what they are doing, you understand, but also because I love the place. And because we still sell a lot of champagne here.’
Later, she looked from the window of the small commercial aeroplane as they flew the length of the long, narrow spine of Northland.
Beside her, Alex said, ‘Admit it—you were surprised by the people you met at Flint and Aura’s launch.’
‘A little,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘Because New Zealand is so far from anywhere—and looks so small on the map, lost in a waste of ocean—I