Claimed By Her Billionaire Protector. Robyn Donald

      NIKO RADCLIFFE HAD expected an unsophisticated band playing unsophisticated country music. After all, this was the northernmost part of New Zealand, a farming region of small villages, ancient volcanoes and stunning coastal scenery. Narrow and sea-bordered, the peninsula thrust north towards the equator, relying on its beauty and its history to attract tourists.

      So the strains of mellow jazz drifting across the car park as he walked towards Waipuna Hall came as a pleasant surprise. Either the Far North had an unusually professional musical culture, or—more likely—the committee who’d organised the Waipuna Centennial Ball had hired the band from Auckland.

      At the doors a middle-aged man stepped towards him. ‘Good evening. Can I see your ticket, please?’

      Niko held it out, and after a quick scan the doorman nodded and said, ‘Welcome to Waipuna, Mr Radcliffe. I hope you enjoy the evening.’

      Niko had his doubts about that, but he said, ‘Thank you,’ and walked into the hall, stopping just inside the doors to survey the crowd.

      The district had done the occasion proud. Garlands of flowers looped around the walls, their faint evocative perfume floating on the warm air. Men in the stark black and white of evening dress steered partners clad in a multitude of colours. Everyone appeared to be having a fine time.

      Whoever had done the decorations had talent, and must have denuded quite a few farm and village gardens of flowers. Their soft, fresh perfume hung in the warm air, the blooms competing in colour with the women’s bright copies of Twenties’ flapper fashions.

      Idly, Niko allowed his eyes to follow one of the dancers. Although she had her back to him, she was above average height, and her sleek head of strawberry-blonde hair made her easy to see amongst the dancers. Her grace should have won her a better partner than the middle-aged man steering her somewhat clumsily through the crowd. When they turned Niko recognised him—Bruce Nixon, husband of the woman who headed the Waipuna Centenary Ball committee.

      The music stopped, the floor began to empty, and the noise changed to a buzz of chatter and laughter. His gaze still held by that bright crown of hair, Niko realised the woman and her partner were walking towards Mrs Nixon, the only other person in the hall he recognised. In spite of his unexpected arrival in Waipuna several days previously she’d tracked him down and welcomed him to the Far North.

      ‘And as the new owner of Mana Station it would be appreciated if you could come to our Hall Centennial Ball and meet some of the local people,’ she’d told him, her tone reminding him of his rather severe first governess.

      He’d agreed to endure the possible boredom of a country ball because his purchase of the cattle station had been a matter of comment in the national media, quite a bit of it critical. The new manager he’d appointed had also informed him of discontent caused by yet another foreign absentee owner buying up a large agricultural holding in New Zealand.

      Especially an owner with his background. The only child of a European aristocrat who’d fallen crazily in love with a rugged New Zealander, Niko could barely recall his early life on his father’s vast tussock-clad hill station in the South Island. He’d been just five years old when his mother had fled with him back to her father’s palace in San Mari, a small European principality.

      So it was logical enough for him to be considered a foreigner. The fact that he’d forged an empire for himself in commerce wasn’t likely to cut much ice—if any—with pragmatic, farming Kiwis.

      Given time, they’d discover that he was nothing like the previous owner of Mana Station, who’d not only stripped the station of every available cent for years, eventually bringing what had once been a profitable farming concern so close to ruin that he’d been forced to sell, but had appointed an inefficient, corrupt farm manager.

      Doubtless Niko’s dismissal of that man would cause more gossip.

      Mrs Nixon looked across the hall, saw him, and smiled, beckoning him across. Noting wryly that he was being openly inspected by at least half of the dancers, Niko set off towards her.

      The strawberry blonde could be Mrs Nixon’s daughter, although that seemed unlikely. Both Mrs Nixon and her husband were short and rather stout, whereas the redhead was slender.

      Niko’s gaze narrowed as he took in the younger woman’s face—fine features and ivory skin, faintly flushed with exertion. Her violet silk shift subtly revealed soft curves and long limbs. She wasn’t beautiful, yet something about her stirred his blood. Her hair was pulled back from her face and confined in a knot at the base of her neck. Ivory-skinned, she turned her head slightly as he walked towards them, revealing slightly tilted eyes and a full, sensuous mouth.

      ‘Mr Radcliffe! I’d begun to think you weren’t coming!’ Mrs Nixon beamed as he arrived.

      ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ he said smoothly. ‘Your ball is obviously a huge success.’

      Her smile widened even further. ‘I hope you enjoy it. You’ve met my husband, Bruce, of course.’

      While the two men shook hands, she went on, ‘And this is Elana Grange, who helped us enormously with the organisation for tonight, and also with the decorations. She’s a neighbour of yours—right next door at Anchor Bay, in fact.’ The smile she directed at her companion was almost mischievous. ‘Elana, this is Niko Radcliffe, the new owner of Mana Station.’

      ‘How do you do, Mr Radcliffe.’

      Her voice was cool, and so was the hand she extended, allowed to lie in his for a brief moment, and then retrieved.

      For the length of a heartbeat, Niko’s initial awareness gave way to a sensation infinitely more primal—a swift, uncontrollable physical response that startled him. Elana Grange radiated a subtly provocative allure that roused him in a way he hadn’t experienced before.

      Yet he sensed contradictions. Slightly tilted eyes of dark green speckled with gold gave her an exotic air, but her level gaze lacked the coquettish awareness he often saw in women’s eyes. And although her mouth hinted at passion, something about the lift of her square chin indicated a controlled reserve.

      Which could, of course, be deliberate. Several bitter experiences in his youth had led to a sardonic appreciation of the various methods of feminine provocation. If Elana Grange expected him to be intrigued by her aloofness, she’d discover she was wrong. Niko had learned to deal with women who viewed him either as a challenge, or a path to social and material advancement.

      Her sophisticated appearance was completely at odds with the dilapidated little shack she lived in, huddled just outside the gates to Mana Station. He’d noticed it from the helicopter as he’d arrived at Mana homestead, and assumed the place was a ruin. Judging by the state of the roof, its owner was going to face a large repair bill some time soon.

      Mrs Nixon said enthusiastically, ‘I’m so glad you could make it tonight, Mr Radcliffe. Or should I call you Count?’

      ‘No. My name is Niko.’

      Another slight smile curved Elana Grange’s soft mouth. It gave her a fey look, an air of cool mystery that summoned another swift, startlingly carnal response in Niko.

      Mrs Nixon smiled. ‘Very well, Niko.’ She glanced at the woman beside her. ‘Elana was just wondering why you’d chosen to buy Mana Station when it’s almost derelict.’

      A faint colour warmed the face of the woman beside her. Embarrassed she might be, Niko thought cynically, but his answer would almost certainly be circulated through the district. So he told her the truth. ‘I spent my early years on a high country station in the South Island, as well as some school holidays, and developed an affection for New Zealand and its stunning countryside. As for Mana—it needs rescuing.’

      * * *

      An interesting and unexpected comment, Elana decided. However, his purchase of the large sheep and cattle station had caused quite a lot of publicity, and he was probably aware that not all of it had been favourable. Pretending to an affection for the country could be a