Captured by the Billionaire. Robyn Donald
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rose she’d packed so carefully—so foolishly—in her luggage. She opened her bag and picked up the bloom, limp and already fading in the tissue she’d wrapped around it, and made to throw it into the rubbish bin.
But something stayed her hand. Smiling wanly at her weakness, she put it back into the case.
‘A shower,’ she told herself.
As though she could wash away the memory of their kisses! She had a feeling they’d stay with her all her life—the first time she’d discovered such a depth of passion in herself that she literally had no control over her emotions.
The en suite bathroom was small but superbly fitted, and again she wondered how many women had been accommodated in this room, this house—in Alex’s arms.
He certainly wasn’t considered a playboy but, apart from Ms Antonides, his name had been linked with several other women, all beauties, and mostly women with high-flying careers in various fields.
About as far removed from her as anyone could be, Serina thought, turning off the water with a vicious twist of her wrist.
Then she shook her head. OK, so she didn’t have a proper career, but she’d had to put any hopes of that on hold when her parents had been killed. Left with an estate that was a total mess, she’d salvaged what she could, ruthlessly selling everything of any value so Doran could finish his education at his expensive school. And becoming Rassel’s muse—backed by years of serious scrimping—had provided her with enough to pay for his university studies.
Which was why she found his near-obsession with that game so infuriating. Once, when she’d taxed him with it, he’d told that one day he’d be looking after her and, although she was touched, she tried to convince him that it wasn’t likely. Some research on video gaming had convinced her it was big companies who came up with profitable new franchises, not rank amateurs.
But Doran was clearly having a fabulous time in Vanuatu, so she could stop worrying about him. For the moment, anyway.
She paced around the room, admiring the delicate, exquisitely precise watercolours on the walls. Alex’s grandmother had had huge talent, and her heart warmed at this further evidence of his thoughtfulness.
Her gaze drifted to the laptop. After dinner she’d make notes about what she’d seen so far while the memories were fresh.
Her heart raced when someone tapped on her door. Bracing herself, she opened it and found Alex, his expression coolly non-committal as he gave her a swift glance that encompassed her bare arms and throat.
‘You might want a wrap or a cardigan.’
‘I’ll get one,’ she said, wishing she’d thought of it herself. That impersonal survey had hurt a vulnerable part of her she’d never known she possessed.
Collecting a light wrap, she thought indignantly that being kissed by Alex had somehow turned her into a different person—a woman irritatingly sensitive to his every look, to every inflection in his deep voice. A woman who found herself sighing over the way the corners of his mouth turned up whenever he smiled—even the shape of his ears and the fact that the sun struck glints of red from his black hair!
Neither she nor Alex wanted a drink before dinner, so they went straight in to their meal. The woman who brought in the dishes was introduced as Caroline Summers, the housekeeper. In her mid-thirties, she had a pleasant smile and a briskly competent manner that Serina liked.
And she was a brilliant cook. Suddenly hungry, Serina applied herself to an entrée of grilled mussels with bacon and almonds.
‘It’s one of my favourites,’ Alex said, ‘and I noticed you enjoyed seafood at the dinner for the wedding party, so I assumed you’d like this.’
After one mouthful she said enthusiastically, ‘It’s delicious. Is it a New Zealand favourite?’
‘I don’t know where Caroline found the recipe, or if she made it up. Ask her when she comes back. One of these days I’m probably going to lose her to a restaurant, but in the meantime she seems content enough to stay here while her children are young. Her husband is the livestock manager on the station.’
‘The station?’ she enquired.
‘In New Zealand and Australia a large farm is called a station.’
Grateful for the neutral subject, Serina asked questions diligently while they ate, enjoying the sound of his voice, the sight of his lean, tanned hands across the table, the warmth from the flames in the fireplace, the silence of the darkening countryside…
She learned that Haruru had been his father’s inheritance, that his mother had been the link through which Alex was related to Gerd and his brother Kelt—they shared the same New Zealand great-grandfather. And she deduced that, while Alex called the station home, the corporation he ran kept him too busy to spend much time there.
She learned that Haruru in Maori meant rumbling.
‘There’s a waterfall in the hills that can be heard rumbling through the ground for some distance,’ Alex told her.
‘How?’
‘It’s volcanic land, and it’s probably a trick of acoustics.’
Above all, she learned that the delicious irritant of her attraction to him had deepened, turning into something darker and more dangerous—something that might teach her the meaning of heartbreak…
THAT night Serina slept well and the next morning Alex showed her around his garden, but for the first time ever she couldn’t fully concentrate on the beauty and harmony of flowers and foliage and form. Her attention was fixed on the man beside her.
She wondered dismally if this—whatever—she felt for Alex was going to destroy her pleasure in gardens.
Not that it could be love. The mere thought of that shocked her.
She couldn’t afford to love him. He’d made his attitude brutally clear; the unfulfilled desire that pulsated between them indicated a relationship, nothing more.
It was a relief to get into the Land Rover for a quick overview of the station. The track wound up to an airstrip along a ridge, providing a magnificent view over green hills and bush-clad gullies and the Pacific Ocean, a wide stretch of brilliant blue under the bright winter sky.
‘Tomorrow we’ll go down to the nearest beach,’ he told her on their way back to the homestead. ‘I hope you have some warm clothes with you?’
‘Of course I have,’ she returned crisply. ‘But you don’t need to entertain me, you know. Tomorrow I’ll see about hiring a car so I can visit some of the gardens in the guidebook you found for me.’
He gave her a narrow glance. ‘Have you ever driven on the left?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said absently, trying not to look down the hill. Although the track was well-maintained, the ground fell away sharply on her side without any barrier and she refused to let him see how nervous she was. Heights intimidated her.
But he must have sensed it because he slowed the Land Rover down. ‘When? And how much?’
Warmed by his unspoken consideration, she said, ‘I used to visit Doran at his school in England. Also, when our nanny was ill I drove down to Somerset quite frequently to visit her.’
And on other occasions when she’d been checking out gardens and interviewing their owners.
He said, ‘So you’re experienced on both sides of the road.’
‘And I’m a careful driver.’ Scrupulously, she added, ‘I did once set off from an intersection and head straight towards the wrong side. I was lucky—there was no other traffic, but it scared me and I’ve been supercautious ever since.’
‘If