The Colour Of Midnight. Robyn Donald

the rest of the world while you’re about it?’

      His smile was cynical. ‘And broaden your insular mind.’

      She lifted thin eyebrows. ‘Some people merely hone their prejudices.’

      ‘That’s astute of you.’

      ‘I suppose you’ve done a fair amount of travelling,’ she said, unable to decide whether he was being sarcastic or not.

      ‘Yes. But my most vivid memories are of the first time I was on my own. I came overland from India and hitch-hiked around Europe, spent six months in England, then went on one of those truck tours through Africa to Cape Town, before coming back across Canada and America.’

      In any other man she would have thought she heard wistfulness in his tone, but it was impossible to think of this man as being wistful. He exuded a self-confidence so imposing and uncompromising that she was more than a little threatened by it.

      ‘Sounds fun,’ she said neutrally. He had changed from his farm clothes into a pair of well-tailored trousers and a fine cotton shirt. Few men in New Zealand had their shirts made for them, but Minerva was positive that this one had been cut especially to fit his broad shoulders and muscular arms.

      It was difficult to imagine the man who lived in this house and wore those clothes backpacking around the world. She flicked a swift glance at his face. The angular features and straight mouth spoke of strength and uncompromising purpose. No matter how hard she tried she couldn’t envisage him as a carefree youth.

      Her gaze dropped to her teacup as she was undermined by a sense of dislocation, a shifting of the foundations. Nick Peveril, with his impassive face and deliberate, guarded composure, bore no resemblance at all to the man of whom Stella had written so ecstatically.

      When he spoke again Minerva’s cup rattled in its saucer. Watch what you’re doing, she scolded herself, setting it down on the table by her chair.

      ‘How long are you home for?’ he asked.

      ‘A month.’ A substantial bonus meant she could afford a lazy summer, but her plans for the future were going to need money, so it would join the rest of her savings.

      ‘And then what? Stella seemed to think that you intended to settle permanently here sooner or later.’

      She shrugged. ‘One of these days I’m going to come back and open my own restaurant, but for the moment I like my life. I’ve been offered a job in the British Virgin Islands with an expatriate family.’

      When he smiled one corner of his mouth lifted higher than the other. ‘You’ll be able to work on your tan,’ he said lightly. Something flickered in the frosty brilliance of his eyes.

      It made her distinctly uneasy. In a voice that could have starched a dozen tablecloths, she said, ‘The hole in the ozone layer has put an end to roasting in the sun, but I’m looking forward to it. I believe it’s extraordinarily beautiful there.’ Before she had time to wonder whether it was sensible, she added, ‘Stella and I used to promise each other that one day we’d go to the Caribbean and drink rum and play in a steel band.’

      ‘She wouldn’t have liked it, unless you stayed in a luxury hotel. For some strange reason I expected you to look like her,’ he said, pale eyes opaque. ‘Stupid, I know. You don’t share even a parent in common, do you?’

      ‘No, we’re a blended family. Stella and I were no relation at all, really, which is why she was beautiful and I’m not.’

      The minute she said it she knew it was a mistake. It sounded like a cheap appeal for compliments. She opened her mouth to qualify the statement, then closed it firmly.

      ‘Yes, she was,’ he said. ‘But you’re very attractive too, as I’m sure you know.’

      He wasn’t so crass as to look her over, but an undertone in the enigmatic voice made her aware that he had noticed the long, coltish legs in her jeans, the gentle curves of her breasts, and the indentation of her narrow waist.

      A kind of outrage, mingled with a suspicious warmth, sent colour scudding through her white skin. Not for the first time she wished she had Stella’s even tan. For her stepsister a blush had merely been a slight deepening of the apricot skin over her cheekbones; for Minerva it was an embarrassing betrayal.

      She strove for objectivity. Men did notice women—it was a simple fact of life. They enjoyed with their eyes. Women did, too.

      After all, she had observed that because his mouth was intriguingly lop-sided each rare smile hinted of wryness. She’d registered the thick black lashes and dark brows surrounding those amazingly limpid, guarded eyes, and now that his hair was drying she’d realised it was the colour of manuka honey, a warm, rich amber with golden highlights set there by the northern sun.

      She was unreservedly grateful when Mrs Borrows came too quickly in through the door, her face unnaturally disciplined. ‘Nick—oh, Nick! Murray’s just rung,’ she said without preamble, her voice breaking on the last word. ‘Things are not going right. He—he thinks I should come down. As s-soon as I can.’

      With the smooth speed Minerva had noticed before Nick got to his feet and went across to the housekeeper, sliding an unselfconscious arm around her shoulders, holding her while she fought for control.

      ‘Pack your bag,’ he ordered, ‘and I’ll get you to the airport in time to catch the afternoon plane to Auckland. I’ll organise a flight through to Christchurch.’

      ‘I can’t go,’ she said in muffled tones into his chest.

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘The dinner party you’re giving on Saturday night for those Brazilians. This isn’t Auckland, Nick, you can’t just get in caterers, and there’s no one here who could help you out with the cooking. Jillian’s not—’

      ‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong. Providentially, Minerva is a professional cook,’ he said calmly, silver eyes lancing across to where Minerva sat, frozen with dismay as she realised the implications. ‘She’ll be more than happy to stay and see to it that our South American guests are fed. Won’t you, Minerva?’ It was no question. The icy transparency of his gaze had hardened into a silent command.

      Minerva’s brain closed down. She didn’t want to stay here! But of course she nodded. And when she saw Mrs Borrows lift her head to look at her with dawning hope she knew she couldn’t have refused.

      ‘Yes, I can do it,’ she said.

      ‘Are you sure?’ The housekeeper was obviously trying hard to be convinced.

      Minerva nodded. ‘Tell me what you’ve organised and I guarantee I’ll have it on the table at the right time and cooked properly,’ she promised, her tone revealing such complete confidence that Mrs Borrows relaxed.

      Yet she still hesitated. ‘It doesn’t seem right,’ she said, looking from Minerva’s face to Nick’s.

      He said calmly, ‘Helen, Minerva is family.’

      Minerva smiled. ‘That’s what families are for,’ she supplied. ‘Coming to the rescue. Don’t worry about it, I’ll be glad to help out.’

      This was the right note to take. Her voice quivering, the housekeeper said, ‘Oh, thank you. I’ll get a bag packed,’ and hurried from the room.

      Half an hour later they were seated in a large green Range Rover, travelling at a fair pace down the road Minerva had inched up so short a time before. Mrs Borrows was giving Minerva instructions, instructions Minerva didn’t need. However, she sat through them, asking questions when it seemed the older woman had run out. For the next two and a half hours until the housekeeper got to Christchurch she’d have nothing to do but worry; Minerva’s questions at least kept her mind occupied now.

      Although the rain had eased again, the road was still slippery enough for the Range Rover to skid. That it didn’t was due to the skill of the man driving. Minerva, inclined to be a nervous passenger