Sanchia's Secret. Robyn Donald

year she’d turned sixteen she’d noticed the pitiable flapping of a butterfly drowning in the creek. Still unsure of her suddenly longer legs, she’d raced down the hill to its rescue, landed awkwardly on a stone and wrenched her ankle.

      Caid had found her sitting on the bank with the butterfly drying on her finger. Carefully, gently, he’d coaxed the bold orange and black insect from her hand to his, and transported it to a branch. Once he was sure it was going to be all right, he’d ignored her protests, scooped her up and carried her back to the bach.

      She couldn’t recall breathing or talking until he’d deposited her in a deckchair. Now she wondered whether it had been his complete lack of reaction to her, his lazy amusement and casual friendliness that had persuaded her to trust him five years later.

      Or perhaps it had been the feel of his arms, the steady, amazing strength that had seemed so effortless…

      ‘Interesting how much more wary these butterflies are than the ones that over-winter,’ a voice drawled from the other side of the fence.

      Flinching, Sanchia whirled to face Caid. ‘Next time make a noise,’ she retorted curtly, then bit her tongue, aware of her rudeness—and the susceptibility it didn’t hide.

      His black brows lifted. ‘Certainly,’ he said, a note of mockery underlining his words. Casual shorts and a T-shirt as black as his hair failed to strip him of that cool, powerful authority.

      Glad she’d replaced her sunglasses, she muttered, ‘I’m sorry, but you gave me a start. It’s uncanny the way you sneak around.’

      ‘Sneak?’ His sculpted mouth twisted in irony. ‘I resent that. If my presence disturbs you so much I’ll whistle whenever I think you might be in the vicinity. You don’t want to hear me sing.’

      ‘Why not?’ He had a marvellous speaking voice, deep and exciting, a voice that reached right inside and…

      Sanchia stifled that train of thought.

      ‘I can’t carry a tune,’ he told her cheerfully.

      ‘Oh.’ Her doubtful glance caught his smile. Because it stirred up emotions she’d tried very hard to forget, she said hastily, ‘I wonder why these butterflies stay here?’

      ‘They’re foolish and frivolous. Any prudent, farsighted monarch is in a garden somewhere, mating, and laying eggs to continue the species; these ones are wasting the summer heat.’

      There was no suggestiveness in his words, yet her spine tingled.

      ‘Perhaps they sense there’s still time,’ she parried. Disturbed by his narrow-eyed focus on the hair around her shoulders, she pushed the dark cloud back, holding it behind her head with one hand.

      Caid said, ‘A wise butterfly takes its chances quickly. You never know when a cyclone might hurtle down from the tropics.’ He spoke lightly, as though the words meant nothing, but his glance settled on her mouth.

      Sanchia felt the resonance of a hidden meaning. A forbidden sensation exploded in the pit of her stomach. Taking three quick steps into the sombre shade of the tree, she said, ‘Cyclones are very occasional events here. The butterflies have plenty of time to enjoy themselves and still fulfil their evolutionary duty. Besides, it might be a ploy on nature’s part to fill a gap. If they do their egg-laying late in the season the eggs mightn’t be eaten by wasps.’

      ‘There are always predators.’

      Sanchia’s skin contracted as though some of the chilling certainty in his tone had been translated into physical existence. They seemed to be conducting another conversation beneath the words, one depending on feelings and a ferocious physical awareness for its subtext.

      Lightly she said, ‘So your advice to the young butterfly is to grab every chance? Could be dangerous.’

      ‘Life’s dangerous. And butterflies could die at any time.’

      Sanchia bit her lip, heard a soft oath and the sudden creak of the boundary fence as Caid swung over it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said abruptly, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder. ‘That was clumsy and obtuse of me.’

      His touch exploded through her like wildfire, dangerous, beautiful, filled with a hazardous lure.

      ‘It’s all right,’ she mumbled. ‘It wasn’t you—or what you said. It just comes over in waves.’

      ‘I know.’ Strange that the textures of warmth and harshness were mingled in his voice. He lifted a hand to trace the trickle of a tear just below her sunglasses.

      Sanchia’s jerk was instinctive but the imprint of his long, lean fingers, tanned and graceful, burned into her skin as his hand fell to his side. She looked up and saw his beautiful mouth harden as he stepped back, giving her space to breathe.

      ‘Great-Aunt Kate used to love summer,’ she said, knowing it sounded like a peace offering.

      He nodded. ‘I remember her swimming every day, and striding along the beach in the morning looking like some ancient, vital nature spirit. She had such guts, such zest.’

      ‘She didn’t take any nonsense,’ Sanchia said, her heart clenching, ‘and she was brusque and sensible and plain-spoken, but she was infinitely kind.’

      ‘You’ve never told me how you came to live with her,’ he said neutrally.

      ‘It’s a long story.’

      ‘And one you don’t want to talk about.’ Gleaming blue eyes examined her from beneath thick, straight black lashes.

      His words challenged her into revealing more than she intended. ‘My parents died when I was twelve and I had to live with my mother’s sister. She was younger than my mother, and she didn’t like spoilt kids—’ and oh, was that ever an understatement! ‘—so after—after a while I ran away. Great-Aunt Kate found me and brought me here, and we worked out a system of living together.’

      It had taken a lot of patience and love from a woman already elderly, a lot of effort on both their parts, and almost a year for Sanchia to learn to trust again.

      ‘I remember when she brought you here,’ Caid said unexpectedly. ‘You were a tall, skinny kid, all arms and legs with hair that floated like spun silk behind you when you ran. That first summer I don’t think I heard you speak, let alone laugh. My mother worried about you.’

      Startled, Sanchia said, ‘Did she? That was kind of her.’

      ‘Mmm. She’s a very kind woman.’ He ran a forefinger down Sanchia’s arm. Fire followed the light, swift touch.

      He knew it too. In a voice that hovered on the border of amusement, he said, ‘You’re hot. I’ll walk you home.’

      She didn’t want him back at the bach; struck by inspiration, she countered, ‘Why don’t we go via your place and I’ll sign that option? Then you won’t have to bring it down tonight.’

      His mouth curved. ‘Why not? Can I help you over the fence?’

      She flashed him a look. ‘No, thanks. I haven’t forgotten how to climb a fence.’

      Although under his eye she fumbled it, landing too heavily on the other side.

      ‘My mother worried about you,’ Caid explained, swinging over with a sure male grace, ‘because she has a strong maternal streak. It’s wasted with only me to lavish it on—she should have had ten kids. You reassured her the following summer when you’d grown a few inches, and we heard you laughing and saw that you were very fond of your great-aunt.’

      ‘I didn’t think you noticed us much,’ Sanchia said, starting jerkily down the mown track.

      Black brows shot up. ‘I noticed you.’ Watchful eyes beneath lowered lashes should have given him a sleepy air. They did nothing of the sort; the half-closed lids intensified both the colour and the speculation in his gaze.

      Sanchia lifted her brows in