The Heiress Bride. Laurey Bright

general—but he didn’t have a choice in her case. The newspaper was a family institution, and Alysia was the only family he had. When she told him she wanted to first gain a commerce degree and then study journalism for a year, he had talked approvingly about the value of qualifications.

      “I’m starting at the Clarion after the New Year,” she said. “Hasn’t my father mentioned it?”

      “He suggested we make a place for you.”

      Alysia guessed from the reserve in his voice that Chase Osborne didn’t approve of nepotism. Too bad. It might be old-fashioned, but it was the way the Clarion had always operated, each generation succeeding the last. One day the newspaper would pass to her. Her father couldn’t deny her that.

      Her hands clasped almost painfully together. “I’m qualified.”

      She willed away a nasty, sick feeling in her stomach. She was an adult now. Time she acted like one, instead of like some scared little schoolgirl.

      Chase made a sound like a short, scornful little laugh. “You have a brand-new diploma.”

      “Even you must have been a beginner once.” She knew she sounded snippy. “I don’t mind starting at the bottom. Like my father.” Though heir to the business, he’d begun as a junior reporter, straight from school.

      “He’s a good journo,” Chase conceded. “I’ve learned a lot from him.”

      “And so will I be,” Alysia asserted.

      “You mean it’s in the blood?”

      The mockery in the remark stung, although he couldn’t know how it reached a particularly sensitive place in her heart. Her throat tightened. “Anyone can learn.”

      They reached the house and she was out of the car before Chase came round it to open the door for her.

      “I’ll see you inside.” He followed her up the wide path to the front door and waited while she opened her bag, fumbling for her keys. She let out a short, annoyed exclamation and he said, “What’s wrong?”

      “I assumed I’d be coming home with Dad. I’ve left my house key on the ring with the car keys.”

      “So you can’t get in.”

      “Damn! How stupid!” She glared at the firmly locked front door as if that might miraculously open it.

      “No hidden keys?”

      “We don’t do that.”

      “Probably wise. What about open windows?”

      “The bathroom, maybe. But it’s too high.”

      “Show me.”

      “You can’t…” But she showed him all the same, and then watched as he swung onto the roof of the veranda.

      He moved with grace and economy and Alysia was unwillingly fascinated by the play of muscles under his shirt, the lithe masculinity of his body. Sternly she thrust away the stirring of sexual curiosity.

      Chase made surefootedly for the slightly open window, thrust it wide and hoisted himself through the narrow space.

      A few minutes later lights went on and he opened the door for her, stepping back to allow her in. He was fishing in his pocket with his left hand, holding his right hand up while blood trickled from the knuckles.

      “What have you done?”

      “Grazed myself getting the window open properly. There wasn’t much room. It’s nothing.” He’d found a handkerchief and was clumsily trying to wrap it about his bleeding hand. “I don’t think I’ve messed the carpet. Can you tie this for me?”

      “Come upstairs again and I’ll get a plaster for it. Come on,” Alysia insisted as he looked about to argue.

      She led him to the main bathroom, placed her bag on the floor and took a first-aid box from the cupboard under the hand basin. She unscrewed the cap on a bottle of disinfectant. “Is it dirty?”

      “No. Just pour a bit of that on,” he said, holding his hand over the basin. “It’ll kill any lurking germs.”

      He winced slightly as she did so, and she murmured, “Maybe we should have diluted this. It stings.”

      “I noticed.” He seemed very close, watching her as she swabbed the wound dry with a piece of gauze and pressed a plaster over it. Although he shifted back a little while she replaced the disinfectant and plasters, she was conscious of him right behind her.

      When she turned he didn’t move, and she found herself trapped against the basin. She raised wary eyes, and caught a strange look in his. A look that seemed attentive and faintly puzzled. Without speaking he lowered his head, pressing a quick, warm kiss on her mouth.

      It was over before she had a chance to either reciprocate or protest, or even decide which she wanted to do.

      “Thank you,” he said. And still he didn’t move away, his steady gaze questioning.

      She stared back, refusing to evade the challenge.

      He was too adept at finding vulnerable areas of her psyche. A reporter’s instinct, she guessed, that told him where to dig for what lay under the surface. For what people preferred to keep hidden.

      He knew that since the kiss in the garden she’d been unwillingly attracted to him. No doubt the knowledge gave him great satisfaction. But that didn’t mean she’d give in to the attraction.

      His smile widened a little, and then his head dipped again.

      Alysia whipped her own head back, her hands clutching at the cold porcelain of the basin behind her.

      Chase straightened. Alysia tried to keep her eyes steady and indifferent. She still felt a tingle of surprised pleasure on her lips. But mingled with the pleasure was hostility, resentment that this man could produce that sensation.

      At last Chase took a step away, then another. Blocking the doorway, he cast a lightning glance over her, and she realized that she was taut as a bowstring, her body curved so that her breasts and hips were thrust forward. Hastily she readjusted her stance, releasing her grip on the basin to bring her arms protectively across her midriff.

      Chase laughed then, his eyes going glittery. She must have imagined that fleeting tenderness, there was no sign of it now. The thought pierced her, unexpectedly poignant.

      “That cocktail,” he said conversationally, “was it chilled?”

      Alysia blinked at the non sequitur. “Yes. There was ice in it.”

      “I thought so.” He stood there a moment longer, surveying her in a not unfriendly way but with a hint of sarcasm in his slight smile. Then he sketched her a salute. “Tell your father he ought to get a burglarproof catch on that window. Good night—I’ll find my own way out.”

      She heard his quick footsteps on the stairs, and the forceful closing of the front door, and then the distinct sound of whistling as he went on down the path.

      Pink and sweet—and cold. That’s what he thought of her, Alysia acknowledged irritably. Translated it meant insipid and uninteresting.

      It didn’t matter. What Chase Osborne thought of her was a matter of total indifference to her. Wasn’t it?

      Chapter Three

      Alysia and her father spent Christmas Day with his sister in Auckland. Aunt Patricia’s children were all married but some of them brought along their families for Christmas dinner.

      Perhaps because she’d been an only child herself, Alysia enjoyed the children, willingly keeping them amused while their parents relaxed after a too-large midday meal.

      At the end of the day she helped her cousin Valda pack children and their paraphernalia into the family station wagon.

      Stuffing