Claimed By Her Billionaire Protector. Robyn Donald

flushed. ‘I hope you find it interesting.’

      ‘Are you a historian as well as a librarian?’

      ‘I did a history degree,’ she said.

      And wasn’t surprised when he asked, ‘Why?’

      ‘Because I’m interested in history.’ She added, ‘After that my stepfather insisted I take a business course.’

      ‘Very sensible of your stepfather,’ Niko Radcliffe said dryly. ‘From your tone, I gather you didn’t want to do it. Was he right to insist?’

      Elana didn’t like the way he emphasised the word stepfather. Steve had been as dear to her as any father could be—infinitely dearer than her own father. She said briskly, ‘Yes, he was right. It’s been very useful.’

      Especially over the past couple of years, after a friend had asked her to tape her great-grandmother’s reminiscences and transcribe them so they could be bound into a book to mark her hundredth birthday. Elana found the task absorbing, enjoyed the whole experience and had been astounded when her friend’s family insisted on paying her for the time she’d spent.

      Even more astonishing, word had got around the district, and soon she was repeating the process. Then the editor of the local weekly newspaper commissioned her to write articles on the history of the district. As she was working for only three days a week at the florist’s shop, the money came in handy, and she loved the research.

      To her relief the music drew to a close. Niko Radcliffe released her and offered an arm. Forcing herself to relax, she took it, trying to ignore the sudden chill aching through her—a bewildering sense of abandonment.

      How could a man she’d only just met have that effect on her?

      Be sensible, she told herself robustly as they walked across the hall towards Mr and Mrs Nixon. So you’re attracted to him? So what? You’re probably not the only one here tonight to be so aware of him...

      Over the centuries women had learned to recognise an alpha male. For probably most of humankind’s existence, a strong capable father to one’s children gave them a much better chance of survival.

      And, tall and good-looking, with that indefinable magnetism—not to mention the fact that he was rich, she thought sardonically—everything about him proclaimed Count Niko Radcliffe a member of that exclusive group.

      Which was no reason to fantasise about feeling strangely at home in his arms. When the next dance was announced he’d choose a different woman to partner him, and that woman might well feel the same subliminal excitement, a reckless tug of sexuality both dangerous and compelling.

      Together they walked to where the Nixons had just finished chatting to another couple. Acutely aware of sideways glances, Elana was surprised by an odd regret when they arrived.

      Mrs Nixon observed, ‘Good evasive action, Niko. For a second I thought we might need to call on my first-aid skills, but you saved the day with that sidestep. Young Hamish and his partner are going to have to practise jiving a bit longer before they’re safe enough to do it in public.’

      His smile held a tinge of irony. ‘Fortunately I had an excellent partner.’

      The older woman sighed. ‘My grandmother was a great dancer—she could still do a mean Charleston when she was eighty, and her tales of balls and parties used to make me deeply envious. Then rock and roll came onto the scene when my parents were young. I always felt I missed out on being wild and rebellious.’

      ‘Surely punk must have been wild and rebellious enough,’ Elana teased.

      Mrs Nixon chuckled. ‘A bit too much for me, I’m afraid,’ she confessed. ‘And now I find I’ve turned into my father—when I hear the hit songs today I mutter about their lack of tune and how they don’t sing clearly enough for me to understand the words.’

      ‘Possibly a good thing,’ Niko observed coolly. ‘Tell me, why did the committee choose the Twenties as a theme for tonight? I believe the hall was built in the early twentieth century, so you should have been celebrating its centennial some years ago?’

      Mrs Nixon smiled. ‘Nobody was interested in running a ball to celebrate the centennial then, but a year ago a group of us decided Waipuna deserved a Centennial Ball. So we called it that. It meant that people who’d give an ordinary dance a miss came for it—some from overseas,’ she finished proudly. ‘It’s been a lovely reunion.’

      He laughed, and Elana’s heart missed a beat. ‘Good thinking. So why the Twenties theme?’

      ‘Comfort.’

      Brows lifting, he echoed, ‘Comfort?’

      ‘Comfort,’ Mrs Nixon repeated firmly. ‘In the early twentieth century women were still confined to elaborate clothes and corsets. We decided unanimously that comfort is more sensible than historical accuracy.’

      ‘To every woman’s relief,’ Elana observed. ‘As well, it’s a lot easier to sew a Twenties shift than the gowns they wore twenty years previously.’

      * * *

      Niko glanced down, struck by the way the lights shimmered on her gleaming hair. Freed from the neat knot at the back of her neck it would look like silk. Into his mind sprang an image of the soft swathe spread out across a pillow—of her lithe, ivory-skinned body against white sheets, green-gold eyes heavy-lidded and beckoning...

      Strange how exotic eyes and a fall of bright hair could lend spice to an occasion...

      Irritated by a fierce surge of desire, he suppressed the tantalising thought and concentrated on the conversation.

      He’d expected little entertainment from this evening. If his presence at the ball went some way to convincing the district that he intended to return Mana Station to full production again—which would mean jobs for local people—it would make the new manager’s position easier.

      Above the babble of conversation and laughter he discerned a rapidly approaching roar as some idiot drove past the hall, achieving as much noise as he could from a badly maintained engine.

      When the noise had faded Mr Nixon told him laconically, ‘One of the local hoons. Like all young kids with an attitude, they like to stir up the district periodically. No harm to them, by and large.’

      Niko nodded. The band struck up for the next dance, and some young guy in evening clothes slightly too big for him came up and asked Elana Grange for it. Smiling up at him, she accepted.

      Watching them dance, Niko resisted a swift emotion that veered dangerously close towards possessiveness. Startled by its intensity, he secured one of the matrons Mrs Nixon introduced him to, and guided her onto the floor. But although his partner was a brilliant dancer, and had a sharp, somewhat acerbic wit, he had to force himself to concentrate on her and not allow his gaze to follow Elana Grange around the room.

      As the evening wore on he noted she was a popular dance partner, but seemed to favour no particular man, apparently enjoying her turns with middle-aged farmers as well as with younger men.

      * * *

      Keeping her eyes firmly away from Niko Radcliffe, Elana chatted with old friends and acquaintances, grateful that he didn’t approach her for any more dances.

      By the time midnight arrived she was strangely tired, but she managed to hide any yawns until she slid into her car, pulling out to follow his car. It suited him—big enough to be comfortable for a tall man, super-sophisticated yet tough...

      Stop this right now, she told herself grimly. You’re being an idiot. OK, so he looks like some romantic fantasy, all strength and good looks and seething with charisma, but that’s no reason for you to feel as though you’ve overdosed on champagne.

      Frowning ferociously, she stifled another yawn and concentrated on the road as it narrowed ahead. Some time during the ball it had rained and the tarseal shone slickly in the headlights. After a few kilometres