Rich, Ruthless and Secretly Royal. Robyn Donald

too loose on her, the clear salmon hue burnished the gold of her skin and the warm highlights in her dark hair.

      Tempted to go without make-up, she decided after a critical survey of her reflection that a naked face might make her look conspicuous, and her security depended on blending in. So she compromised on lipstick a slightly deeper shade than her dress, and pinned her badly cut hair off her face with two frangipani clips made from the moonbeam shimmer of pearl shell.

      Kelt waited for her beside the gate. Her shoulders held a little stiffly to hide an absurd self-consciousness, she walked towards him, sensing a darker, more elemental level beneath his coolly sophisticated exterior. Trying to ignore the smouldering need in the pit of her stomach, she saw him as a warrior, riding his big bay gelding into battle…

      Not, she thought with an inner shiver, a man to cross swords with.

      With a carefully neutral smile she met his gaze, and in a charged moment her wilful memory sabotaged the fragile veneer of her composure by supplying a repeat of how it had felt when he’d carried her—the powerful litheness of his gait, the subtle flexion of his body as he’d lifted her, his controlled strength…

      CHAPTER THREE

      KELT examined her face with the impersonal keenness of a doctor. ‘How are you?’ he asked, opening the door of the car.

      Hani’s smile faded. His persistent view of her as an invalid was—demeaning, she decided on a spurt of irritation that didn’t quite mask a deeper, more dangerous emotion. After all, in the light of her unexpected attraction, it was far safer if he saw her as an invalid than as a woman.

      A desirable woman.

      With a hint of frost in her tone she answered, ‘Fine, thank you.’ And met his scrutiny with head held high and an immobile face that belied the unsteady rhythm of her heart.

      ‘You still have dark circles under your eyes. Lack of sleep?’

      Strangely enough, for the first time since she’d come to this side of the world all those years ago she’d slept deeply and dreamlessly, waking with an energy that seemed alien.

      ‘No, not at all,’ she told him evenly. Steering the conversation away from her illness, she asked, ‘How far away is your house?’

      ‘About a kilometre by road; half that distance if you walk across the paddocks—which I don’t want you to do.’ He set the car in motion.

      ‘Why?’

      He sent her a narrow glance. ‘You could spook the cattle.’ After a pause, he added, ‘Or they might spook you.’

      Hani examined some large, square animals, their coats glowing deep red-gold in the rays of the evening sun. ‘They don’t look excitable, but your point is well taken.’

      Not that she planned to be going cross-country.

      ‘And you?’ he asked levelly, turning across a cattle grid.

      She waited until the rattling died away before saying, ‘I don’t understand.’

      ‘Are you excitable?’

      Startled, she looked across at him, saw an enigmatic smile tuck in the corners of his hard mouth, and was shocked again by a fierce tug of arousal, sweet as honey, dangerous as dynamite.

      Surely he wasn’t flirting with her?

      She felt winded and fascinated at the same time until a moment’s reflection produced sanity. Of course he wasn’t coming on to her. Not unless he was the sort of man who indulged in meaningless flirtations with any available woman.

      Somehow she didn’t want to believe he’d be so indiscriminate. A man with Kelt Gillan’s effortless masculinity could have any woman he wanted, and he must know it. And unlike Felipe he had nothing to gain from seducing her.

      In her most sedate tone she said, ‘Not in the least. Teachers can’t afford to be volatile. It’s very bad for discipline.’

      That should tell him she wasn’t in the market for a holiday affair. To clinch it, she said, ‘Don’t worry, I won’t walk in your fields or excite your cattle.’

      ‘Paddocks,’ he said laconically, explaining, ‘New Zealanders call anything with animals in it a paddock. Fields are what we play sport on, and as far as we’re concerned meadows don’t exist.’ He nodded at the setting sun. ‘And that range of hills to the west is covered in native bush, not forest or woods.’

      Intrigued, she said, ‘I do know about bush. One of the Australian teachers at the school explained it to me. It’s fascinating how countries colonised by the same power could develop such different words to describe things. In South Africa—’

      She stopped suddenly, her mind freezing in dismay, then hastily tried to cover the slip by asking the first question that came to mind. ‘What are those trees, the ones that grow in groups in nearly all your f—paddocks?’

      ‘They’re totara trees.’

      ‘Oh. Do they flower?’

      ‘Not noticeably—they’re conifers. As for terminology—well, the world would be a boring place if we were all the same. Settlers in different countries adjusted to different conditions.’ He paused a beat before adding casually, ‘You’re not South African, are you?’

      ‘No,’ she said, dry-throated.

      ‘But clearly you’ve been there.’

      Trying to banish any reluctance from her voice, she admitted, ‘I spent a holiday there when I was young.’

      He accepted that without comment. ‘So what made a young Englishwoman decide to spend years teaching in a village school in a place like Tukuulu? The lure of tropical islands I can understand, but once you’d got to Tukuulu and realised it’s really nothing but a volcano with a huge mine on it—beaches of dead coral, only one fleapit of a hotel, no night life—what kept you there?’

      A little shudder tightened her skin, but she kept her gaze fixed steadily ahead. Let him probe as much as he liked; she had her story down pat.

      ‘I wanted to help. And they were desperate for teachers. It’s really hard for them to keep staff. But the principal is your friend so you must know that.’

      After a moment’s pause he said, ‘How long do you plan to live there?’

      ‘For several years yet,’ she evaded.

      ‘I imagine it’s unusual for anyone to stay for long in a Pacific backwater like Tukuulu.’ Let alone a young Englishwoman, his tone implied.

      ‘You’re a sophisticated man but you don’t seem to mind living on a remote cattle station in a Pacific backwater like New Zealand,’ she retorted sweetly.

      He gave her swift, ironic smile. ‘Don’t let any New Zealander hear you call the place a backwater. We’re a proud people with plenty to be proud of.’

      ‘The Tukuuluans are proud too, and doing their best to move into the modern world without losing the special things that make their culture so distinctive.’

      ‘I suspect that’s an impossible task,’ he said cynically.

      ‘I hope not. And I like to think I’m helping them in a small way.’

      They crossed another cattle grid and drove through a grove of the big trees she’d noticed before, their great branches almost touching the ground.

      ‘Oh,’ she exclaimed in involuntary pleasure, ‘the leaves are silver underneath! From a distance the trees look so sombre—yet how pretty they must be when there’s any wind.’

      ‘Very, and when they flower in a month or so they’ll be great torches of scarlet and crimson and maroon. I’ll take you over the top of the hill so you can look over Kiwinui and get some idea of the lie of the land.’

      Kelt