Captured by the Billionaire. Robyn Donald
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to trust her?
Because what she felt for him—all she could allow herself to feel—was a mad, wild, unreasonable desire. Just thinking of him made her body spring into instant life, as though charged with electricity, and when she was with him she teetered on the most deliciously terrifying tenterhooks, so aware of his every movement that it was almost a relief to walk away.
Lust, she told herself sternly. Not love…
‘Forget about him,’ she told herself, startling a small bird with a tail like a fan into darting upwards. It landed on a tall stem a few feet away and surveyed her with black button eyes, scolding her with high-pitched chirps as it flirted its tail at her.
Smiling, she lifted her camera and got a shot of it, using it to get some pointers on how to deal with the bright, clear light.
But, try as she did to concentrate on photographic techniques, her obstinate mind kept replaying the way Alex had held her hand as they’d walked back to the Land Rover.
Somehow, that most casual of caresses meant more—just more, she thought in confusion.
Not more than his kisses, which had rocked her world, yet in a strange way that casual linking of hands satisfied something she didn’t recognise in herself, a kind of yearning…
For what?
She shook her head. Romance?
Giving up, she went inside and inspected her shots, relieved when several showed up really well—so well, she emailed a couple to her editor as a sample of what was in store for her.
Then she surveyed her clothes, finally choosing a little black dress. Discretion itself, she thought satirically. Ladylike and quite forgettable, although it did nice things for her skin and eyes.
And it was useless to wish now she’d brought something more daring, something that would subtly signal the change in her. Pulling a face at her reflection, she combed back her hair and caught it behind her head with a neat, unobtrusive clip. It didn’t seem likely that for a quiet dinner for two at home Alex would dress too formally, but she had no idea what New Zealanders wore for such occasions.
Or even if it mattered. Last night she’d changed into a pair of tailored silk trousers and a simple soft blouse, relieved when Alex had been equally casually attired. And it was foolish to think anything had altered just because he’d kissed her again, and she’d somehow—she hoped—managed to convey how much she wanted him.
Butterflies swirled through her stomach when she left her room, setting up a frenzied internal tornado when Alex came through a door a few metres along the wide hallway. To her relief, he was clad informally in a well-tailored linen shirt and narrow-cut trousers that set off the powerful body beneath.
Without trying to hide the gleam of appreciation in his eyes, he said, ‘Tell me, is it training or do you somehow just know the perfect way to look for any occasion?’
Colour heated her skin, but she managed to say demurely, ‘What a lovely compliment.’
He laughed and opened a door into a room that looked more like a library than a study. Standing back to let her go in first, he said, ‘That is no answer.’
‘Because your question was unanswerable. I choose what I hope will be appropriate for the occasion and leave it at that.’
He surveyed her through his lashes. ‘And an elegant, very chic that it is tonight.’
His response washed a deeper tinge of colour through her translucent skin. For a moment the violet eyes were clouded by an emotion Alex couldn’t define.
They cleared almost instantly and she said, ‘I wonder why I have the feeling you’re testing me in some subtle way I don’t understand?’
He already knew she wasn’t the stock princess he’d first thought, but he was surprised she’d dropped her usual reserve for such a forthright statement. Ignoring a sharp rush of adrenalin, he said, ‘You have an overactive imagination. I like to see you blush—it’s a charming reaction.’
How many other men had summoned that swift, rapidly fading heat? The photographer who’d been cruel but helpful? That thought brought with it a fierce, baseless anger that startled him.
He asked, ‘What would you like to drink?’
After a cool glance she said, ‘Wine would be great, thank you.’
To her surprise, he opened a bottle of champagne-style wine. Pouring it for her, he said, ‘This is from the Hawkes Bay, a big wine-growing region. Like Aura and Flint, most Northland vineyards tend to concentrate on growing for red wines. Some vintners buy in grapes to make their white wines. In the far north there are several vineyards, some of them with magnificent grounds. I’ve included them in a list of places you might find interesting. You can look at it after dinner, and tomorrow I’ll contact any you’d like to see.’
She took a sip of the liquid. Alex watched the curve of her artfully coloured mouth as it kissed the glass, and felt his gut tighten. Cynically he thought that for someone who’d never put a foot wrong, never figured in any scandal, she certainly knew all the tricks.
And she kissed like a houri. She’d learned that from someone. Or several someones. So his Princess was nothing if not discreet.
For no reason—because she wasn’t his Princess—the thought burned like acid.
Serina set her champagne flute down and met his eyes, her gaze level. ‘You’re being very helpful,’ she said, ‘but I’d feel better if I contacted them.’
‘People here know who I am,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Like it or not, it does make a difference.’
A steely note in her voice, she answered, ‘I realise that, and of course I’m grateful for the offer, but I’m not accustomed to being sponsored.’
Alex had researched her work, concentrating on places he’d visited himself, and been surprised to discover she had a rare skill for evoking the soul of a garden. For a reason he wasn’t going to inspect too deeply, her refusal to accept his help sparked his temper.
‘With respect,’ he said sardonically, ‘I suggest you stop cutting off your nose to spite your face. This is New Zealand, and although I’m sure the magazine you write for has some readers here, it’s probably not enough to make you famous.’
‘I didn’t—’
He overrode her protest. ‘It will be much easier for you if I do stand sponsor to you—and at least the owners will know you won’t be casing their properties for a future robbery.’
Her head came up proudly. ‘As if that’s likely to happen,’ she retorted scornfully, her eyes sparkling with outrage.
Alex shrugged. ‘New Zealand has a low level of crime, but we’re not free of it. You can’t blame people if they are a little suspicious of an unknown person who not only asks if she can come and check out their properties, but brings a camera with her.’
She frowned, and before she could speak he went on levelly, ‘In your world, Princess, you’re very well known. Here, you’re not. I am.’
He waited while she absorbed that, watching her frown smooth out and her thoughtful nod.
Slowly, she said, ‘Of course. I didn’t mean to be presumptuous.’ She looked at him. ‘I’ve just realised I have a confession to make—I took photographs of your garden and sent them to my editor as an indication of what gardens are like here. I’m sorry, I’ll get her to delete them.’
Irritated, he said shortly, ‘Just make sure she doesn’t publish them.’
‘She knows they’re not for publication.’
She took another sip of her wine and this time he watched deliberately, noting the way she tasted—as though she was an expert.
Perfectly trained, he thought, and wondered why,