Bargaining with the Billionaire. Robyn Donald
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is a perfectionist,’ he observed, ‘and like her mother, she’s ruthlessly efficient. We’re not going out tonight, so you can go to bed early if you want to.’
She took another mouthful of water, letting it slip down her throat. ‘I thought the idea was to show ourselves off.’
‘Not tonight,’ he said.
She stared at him. ‘Why?’
‘Think, Peta,’ he drawled in the tone she had come to hate. ‘We haven’t seen each other for three days. Why would we want to go out when we can spend the evening alone together?’ He invested the final sentence with a mocking tone that didn’t hide the underlying purr of sensuality.
‘Oh,’ she said numbly. Something twisted in the pit of her stomach, a sharp urgency that played havoc with her concentration. She took another sip and swallowed it too quickly.
Curt said, ‘I thought you might want to ring and make sure that everything’s all right at home.’
‘Yes, I’ll do that.’ She began to stand up.
‘Finish your drink first. Joe won’t be in yet.’
Slowly she drank down the rest of the water while he spoke of the latest entertainment scandal. From there they moved on to books, discovering that although they liked different authors, they had enough in common to fuel a lively discussion.
Then Curt poured a glass of cool, pale gold wine for her, and somehow they drifted into the perilous field of politics. To Peta’s astonishment he listened to her, and even when he disagreed with what she said he didn’t resort to ridicule.
It was powerfully stimulating.
Laughing over his caustic summation of one particularly media-hungry member of parliament, she realised incredulously that she was fascinated by more than his male charisma. And this attraction of the mind, she thought warily, was far more dangerous than lust.
He was watching her, his eyes sharply analytical, waiting for her to answer. Dry-mouthed, she said, ‘I suppose you have to deal with people like that all the time.’
His brows drew together in a faint frown. ‘Most of them are reasonably decent people struggling to juggle a hunger for power with a desire to do some good for the country,’ he said, and glanced at his watch. ‘Do you want to ring Joe now?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ The sun was already setting behind the high, forested hills on the western horizon.
He took a sleek mobile phone from his pocket and handed it over. Their fingers touched, and the awareness that had merely smouldered for the past half-hour burst into flames again.
‘You need to put the number in,’ Curt said softly.
‘Yes.’ Start thinking, she told herself, and clumsily punched in her number, staring at the harbour through the screen of the trees.
Five minutes later she handed back the telephone, taking care to keep her fingers away from his. ‘Everything’s fine,’ she said lightly, addressing his top shirt button. ‘Laddie’s decided that as Joe is feeding him, he’d better obey Joe’s calls. Which is good going on Joe’s part, because a lot of the time Laddie doesn’t take any notice of me.’
He asked her about training a cattle dog. Later she thought that he couldn’t have any interest in the trials of coaxing an adolescent dog to deal sensibly with calves, but he seemed interested, laughing when she confessed some of the mistakes she and the dog had made.
They ate dinner out on the veranda while the summer evening faded swiftly into a night filled with the sibilant whisper of waves on the beach below, and the fragrance of flowers in the gathering darkness. Fat white candles gleamed in glass cylinders, their steady flames catching the velvety petals of roses in the centre of the table, winking on the silver and the wineglasses.
And picking out with loving fidelity the strong bones and dramatically sensual impact of the man opposite.
The whole scene was straight out of House and Garden, Peta thought cynically, trying to protect herself from succumbing to the seductive promise of romantic fantasy.
She managed it, but only just. And only, she admitted once safe in her room, because he didn’t touch her at all.
That night she didn’t sleep well, waking bleary-eyed and disoriented to a knock on the door and the shocked realisation that it was almost nine o’clock.
‘Coming,’ she croaked, and scrambled out of bed.
The housekeeper said with a smile, ‘Mr McIntosh suggested I wake you now. He asked me to remind you that Ms Shaw is collecting you at ten, and that he’s meeting you for lunch at twelve-thirty.’
‘I’ll be down in twenty minutes,’ Peta told her.
Liz took her to a salon, where a woman gave her a facial, then checked out the cosmetics she used. ‘Good choices, but I think I’ve got better. Try this lipstick.’
Peta opened her mouth to say she didn’t need any more cosmetics, then closed it again. Being groomed like a prize cow for showing revolted her, but she’d agreed to it.
And when she left Auckland, once Ian was utterly convinced that she and Curt had had a blazing affair, she’d leave this whole deal behind and never, ever think of Curt McIntosh again.
If she could…
Liz dropped her off outside the restaurant. ‘Curt’s always on time,’ she said with her ready smile. ‘He’ll be waiting for you.’
Just how well did she know him? Peta mulled the question over as she walked up the steps, but inside the foyer she forgot everything else. At the sight of Curt a smile broke through, soft and tremulous and entirely involuntary.
His brows drew together, accentuating the powerful framework of his lean face, and then he smiled, and when she came up to him he took her hand and kissed it.
The unexpected caress jolted her heart until she remembered he’d done the same to Granny Wai.
Eyes fixed on her face, he tucked her hand into his arm and said in a voice pitched only for her, ‘That was brilliant. Keep it up.’
His observation slashed through her composure with its cynical reminder of the reason she was there. ‘I hope I’m not late,’ she said, pronouncing each word with care.
‘Dead on time.’ His smile held a predatory gleam. ‘And smelling delicious.’
‘The perfume was horribly expensive,’ she said crisply. ‘I’m glad you think it’s worth it.’
He walked her towards the doors of the restaurant. The head waiter appeared as if by magic, frowning at the hostess who’d come forward to deal with them. ‘Mr McIntosh, this way, please.’
Walking through the restaurant was purgatory; eyes that gleamed with curiosity scrutinised her, and unknown faces hastily extinguished an avid interest. Several people nodded at Curt. Although he acknowledged them, he didn’t stop until the waiter delivered them to a table partially shielded from the rest of the room by a tree in a majestic pot.
With a flourish the waiter produced two menus and recited a list of specials, asked if they wanted drinks, and left them to consider their orders.
‘If you want wine with your meal their list is particularly good,’ Curt told her.
She shook her head. ‘Wine in the middle of the day makes me sleepy. But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t have some.’
‘I don’t drink in the middle of the day either.’
It was a tiny link between them, one she found herself cherishing for a foolish moment before common sense banished such weakness.
Peta opened the menu and scanned its contents with a sinking heart. ‘You’re going to have to translate,’ she said evenly. ‘I can understand some of this,