A Reluctant Mistress. Robyn Donald

fiercely male, filled her nostrils; her fingers tingled, seeking slick, tanned skin. And sensation flowed through her, glowing, fiery, merciless as lava, devouring everything in its path.

      This is simple lust, Natalia thought disdainfully, nothing more. Intensely relieved when at last the music died on a flourish, she pulled free of his arms, turning her head away in the hope of disguising the hasty flutter of her breathing.

      ‘It cuts both ways,’ Clay Beauchamp said unhurriedly, tawny eyes glittering as he held out his arm.

      If only her mother hadn’t been so determined to bring up her daughter as a lady! Reluctantly Natalia put the tips of her fingers on his sleeve, straightening her spine as they walked across to the side of the room.

      Liz was already sitting there; horrified, Natalia endured a sharp stab of jealousy at her friend’s sunny, unaffected smile at Clay.

      Woodenly, she introduced them. ‘Liz, this is Clay Beauchamp, who has bought Pukekahu Station. Clay, Liz Kaiwhare. Her parents own the Tourist Lodge in Manakiwi Bay.’

      Dimpling, Liz held out her small hand. With a smile that indicated more than appreciation, Clay took it. Another spear of jealousy rankled through Natalia.

      ‘You looked wonderful together,’ Liz said with a rare lack of tact. ‘Everyone was watching you—you’re really well matched.’

      ‘Just what I’ve been trying to convince Natalia,’ Clay said outrageously, mockery glimmering in his golden eyes.

      Liz laughed. ‘And I’ll bet she told you she didn’t have time.’ She glanced at Natalia’s unresponsive face, then back to Clay. ‘She works far too hard,’ she said firmly.

      Fortunately Mr and Mrs Kaiwhare arrived back then, and the ensuing bustle of introductions silenced Liz.

      A little later, however, Natalia—carefully ignoring Clay Beauchamp, still with their group—said half under her breath, ‘Stop trying to matchmake.’

      ‘Not interested?’ Liz’s eyes widened further. ‘Truly, Nat?’

      ‘Truly.’ Natalia picked up her glass of water with a jerk that almost spilled it.

      Liz grinned. ‘Then you won’t mind if I try my luck, will you?’

      The icy water sizzled down Natalia’s throat. Meticulously she put the glass down and contemplated the green-skinned wedge of lime decorating its rim. ‘Not in the least,’ she said tersely, stiffening slightly as she heard Clay laugh.

      ‘Liar,’ Liz said cheerfully. ‘You’re fascinated by each other. Nat, give yourself a break. One rotten apple doesn’t mean you have to retire to a nunnery.’

      ‘I haven’t got time for romantic entanglements.’ Or unromantic ones.

      Liz leaned forward, her pretty face vengeful. ‘I could throttle Dean Jamieson. He might belong to an old, stiff, rich family with a lot of old, stiff, rich power, but he is a nasty piece of goods. Keeping quiet about his wife, and then spreading it around the district that you tried to break up his marriage was a totally rotten thing to do. Not that it matters—everyone knows he was lying.’

      The embarrassment of being warned off only an hour or so previously by yet another wife sprang to Natalia’s mind. ‘Not everybody,’ she said cynically. ‘Thanks to his malice, I’ve now got a reputation.’

      ‘Only with nasty-minded creeps,’ Liz said with trenchant, partisan bias. ‘They’re jealous because you’re so stunning and you don’t give a cent for the men who try to hit on you.’

      Natalia stifled a yelp of laughter. ‘You make it sound as though I’ve cut a swathe through the district!’

      ‘You could if you wanted to.’ Liz leaned closer and dropped her voice. ‘And you’d better accept that you’re as attracted to Clay Beauchamp as he is to you or you’re going to find yourself in deep trouble. I suspect he’s the bulldozer sort! And as he’s living only a mile away—’

      Natalia’s lip curled. ‘He’s not a farmer, Liz, he’s an agri-businessman, so naturally he lives in Auckland with all the other rich entrepreneurs.’

      ‘Pity,’ Liz said pragmatically.

      ‘So no more matchmaking, all right?’ Natalia said with emphasis. The band struck up again, a much more modern foxtrot. Gratefully she accepted an invitation from Greg.

      ‘You’re looking a bit flushed,’ he said, studying her with a professional eye.

      ‘It’s hot in here,’ she returned. ‘You wouldn’t think it was the first month of winter, would you? I wonder when it’s going to get cold?’

      Greg snorted. ‘This is north of Auckland—it never gets cold here. In Dunedin it freezes.’

      ‘Poor darling,’ she said, primming her mouth. Greg was in his last year at medical school in New Zealand’s exquisite southernmost city. Lifting a hand, she patted his cheek. ‘I remember the first year you went away, and your parents kept getting anguished faxes about the cold—Liz and I knitted you a jersey each for your birthday, and your mother shipped you off an electric blanket. Did you ever wear those jerseys?’

      ‘Both together, if I remember correctly,’ he said with a grin.

      Laughing, Natalia looked over his shoulder and met a blaze of gold. Clay Beauchamp was dancing with Liz; as Natalia’s brows climbed he deliberately looked away from her and into Liz’s small, mischievous face. It felt like a blow.

      ‘…saved my life,’ Greg was saying. ‘I honestly thought my blood would freeze that first winter.’

      Awkwardly she dragged her gaze away from the two striking black and white figures. ‘Good,’ she said vaguely.

      Greg frowned. ‘Sure you’re all right? You sound a bit disassociated.’

      ‘I’m fine,’ she told him crisply.

      Within a few moments she’d almost managed to put Clay Beauchamp out of her mind. She and Greg were friends; several years previously he’d fancied himself to be in love with her, only giving up when she told him gently that although she did love him, it was as a brother rather than a lover.

      Now they were both satisfied with the way things were between them. When the dance ended, and they were called by friends to the other side of the elegant Victorian ballroom, she went happily with him, staying snug within his arm for the intermission. The next dance was a tango, and she and Greg enjoyed themselves enormously, hamming it up, one of the few couples who dared try it.

      Clay Beauchamp, she noticed reluctantly, wasn’t dancing; he’d deposited Liz back with the rest of her party and was talking with a group of the major players in the district, including their host.

      ‘Nat, I love showing off with you,’ Greg said when it was over and they were the centre of a laughing, clapping group. ‘You dance like a dream!’ He hugged her extravagantly.

      ‘So, best-beloved, do you.’

      Well pleased with each other, they came off arm in arm. Still smiling, Natalia realised that in spite of the disturbing, unsettling, far too intriguing Clay Beauchamp, she was glad she’d come; secure with friends who knew her and loved her she could forget the worry that hung over her like her own private thundercloud.

      Back with the rest of their party, she laughed off the compliments and sat down beside Liz, picking up her glass of water. ‘Gosh, I enjoy a good tango!’

      ‘You were born to do it,’ Liz told her enviously. ‘Well, go ahead and ask me.’

      ‘Ask you what?’

      ‘What he said.’

      Colour whipped along Natalia’s cheekbones. Had she been so obvious? ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said haughtily.

      Her friend half closed her eyes and pursed her mouth. ‘He’s