A Reluctant Mistress. Robyn Donald

in too late, Natalia forced her voice into an approximation of friendly interest. ‘It’s going to take you a while to bring Pukekahu into profit again. Even the house is falling down. Are you planning to live there?’

      ‘I live in Auckland.’

      She didn’t like the silences: they sizzled with tension. ‘Unusual place for a farmer to live,’ she said lightly.

      ‘I’m not exactly a farmer. More an agri-businessman.’

      ‘Ah, one of the new breed of absentee landlords,’ she returned affably. ‘As I said, temporary.’

      Her hand—loose on his shoulder—registered a sudden tightening of muscles beneath the superb cloth of his dinner jacket. It lasted for a second only, but she was recklessly pleased that she’d got through his formidable armour.

      ‘I’ve never heard myself described as an absentee landlord before,’ he drawled. ‘I prefer to think I’m part venture capitalist, part restorer of over-stocked farmland.’

      ‘How altruistic.’ Her tone oozed blandness, but he’d have had to be stupid not to recognise the caustic lash to each word. And Natalia would bet her next year’s income that Clay Beauchamp wasn’t stupid.

      ‘You’re an entrepreneur yourself, I believe,’ he said obliquely. ‘Bowden’s capsicum queen, who just happens to share a boundary with Pukekahu.’

      It took all her will to say in a bright voice, ‘I’m flattered, but “capsicum queen” doesn’t quite cut it. There’s something inherently unromantic about peppers, don’t you think? Perhaps it’s their shape—so sturdy and blocky.’

      ‘Are you a romantic, Natalia?’ Clay Beauchamp asked with a subtle, predatory inflection.

      Her fault; she’d given him the perfect opening. ‘Not in the least,’ she returned crisply, smiling with sunny nonchalance into his face.

      For several seconds he and Natalia duelled, using those most potent of weapons, the eyes. Natalia refused to lower her lashes; in the end he won by the simple trick of dropping that tawny gaze to her mouth.

      Not fair, she thought, irrationally elated—but not surprising either. Clay Beauchamp probably never played fair.

      ‘Good,’ he said enigmatically. ‘Romantics are a real nuisance. And, speaking as an unromantic male, do you wear contact lenses to brighten the colour of those magnificent eyes?’

      Until then she hadn’t realised that she was rather proud of her eyes, but what really flicked that pride was that he’d noticed.

      Well, she could salvage something. With a deliberate sweep of her lashes, she allowed her gaze to rest a significant moment on the hard line of his jaw and purred, ‘You can’t really expect me to admit to that. However, I’ll confess that I wear lipstick.’

      ‘So you’re a tease,’ he said, his smile a swift, savage punishment. ‘I’m disappointed—you seem more direct, more open.’

      Anger glittered in the depths of her eyes, licked in a flame across her cheekbones. With that cat-like smile still pinned to her lips, she said, ‘I’m every bit as frank as you are.’ There, that should shut him up, because if ever a man held secrets close to his chest this one did.

      ‘I doubt it.’ Beneath the silk mask his intent stare was pure gold. Without breaking eye contact he pivoted gracefully, and this time the hand across her back came to rest on the heated skin just above her waist.

      Although Clay released her almost immediately, and his hand left her skin for a more discreet position, its imprint burned like a brand. Tension sawed through her nerves, producing a feverish need.

      Calmly he said, ‘I want you, Natalia. I wanted you as soon as I saw you glimmering like a serpent woman across the room. I give you fair warning—I’m hunting.’

      Her jaw dropped. Stunned, she stared at him, imprisoned by the implacable, leashed hunger of his eyes.

      ‘Not so open, after all,’ he murmured, a taunting amusement not warming his expression. ‘At least you didn’t say that you wouldn’t sleep with me if I were the last man on earth.’

      Her brain began to work again, overriding the violent pulse of desire. ‘You’re accustomed to that response?’ she asked, arching her brows in pretended surprise. ‘Then it’s time you moved up to a better class of mistress. Not me— I’m sorry, I’m too busy at the moment—but I can introduce you to several women who might be interested.’ In spite of her attempt at sophisticated repartee she couldn’t banish the bite from her words.

      What was it about her that made men think she was easy? Dean had expected her to fall into bed with him, been angry when she refused.

      Clay’s long black lashes half covered his eyes. He laughed, a sound that battered the remnants of her composure. ‘So much for honesty,’ he said ironically, and once more tightened his arms so that for a second she was held inexorably against him. Still dancing with a lithe masculine grace, still in perfect time to the music, he forced her to accept the reality of his lean, aroused body.

      To her intense humiliation, Natalia’s betrayed her. In her hidden, inner reaches desire worked its physical magic, overwhelming her in a smooth, heated tide. Although superhuman will held back her rash impulse to signal a surrender, she had to fight a bitter battle with untamed need—and he, damn him, knew it!

      She’d been attracted to Dean—but this was a wilder, fiercer response, and it scared her. This, she thought, trying desperately to regroup her defences, was the sort of thing that toppled kingdoms.

      Clay relaxed his grip. ‘Physical evidence is more trustworthy than words. They often deceive—the body never does.’

      If there had been the slightest satisfaction—the faintest note of smugness—in his voice, Natalia would have twisted free and stalked across the crowded dance floor to the other side of the room. What stopped her was the raw catch to his words, the harsh, startled edge he couldn’t conceal. When she looked up, darkness prowled the golden eyes.

      And that made her angrily, foolishly confident. Carefully she uncurled the fingers that had dug into his upper arm. Carefully she positioned her gaze over his shoulder.

      People moved in a bright kaleidoscope of colour around the floor, the masks turning familiar faces to strangers. Chatter and laughter echoed in her ears, backed by the succulent, achingly poignant sound of a turn-of-the-century waltz—one of her mother’s favourites.

      Coolly, deliberately, she asked, ‘Is this your usual mode of attack? A pre-emptive strike with no attempt at subtlety? What follows now—all-out war?’

      His tight smile revealed strong white teeth that snapped out one word. ‘Surrender.’

      CHAPTER TWO

      NATALIA should have laughed in his face. She should have said, Really? with every ounce of sarcasm she could muster, lifted her brows in scorn and disdain and left Clay there in the middle of the dance floor.

      Instead her mouth dried and she felt as though she’d fallen into a black hole and was being torn apart by forces she couldn’t fight. Beneath that succinct word there had been a controlled, menacing determination, the remorseless patience of the hunter he’d likened himself to.

      She was frightened. She was exhilarated. And that reckless excitement wasn’t tempered by common sense or pragmatism. He’d issued a challenge, one she was so tempted to take up she could taste the wanting—keen, enticing, insistent, dangerous as a drug.

      ‘I’m not into surrender,’ she parried, surprised to hear a steady voice.

      Clay swung her around a couple who’d forgotten their neighbours were watching and were swaying together in an embrace that came close to being embarrassing. ‘Perhaps I am,’ he said, and laughed quietly at the swift flash of fire in her glance. ‘Yes, you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Natalia,’ he said, reading her