Sanchia's Secret. Robyn Donald

head to feet.

      Although his glance didn’t linger enough to be impertinent or threatening, intent male interest smouldered like a shuttered flame behind it.

      Terrified and exhilarated, she wished she’d worn jeans instead of exposing her long legs in shorts. Using a deliberately formal tone to distance herself, she said crisply, ‘I’m very well, thank you.’

      ‘I was sorry to hear that your great-aunt had died.’

      The deep, almost harsh voice with its sensual undertone even sounded sorry. The Hunters had been very kind; his mother had sent flowers with a sympathetic note that had made Sanchia cry, Caid had written a brief but genuine letter of condolence, and a representative from the Auckland office of his firm had attended the funeral.

      ‘It’s the way she’d have chosen to go,’ Sanchia returned gruffly.

      ‘Dying peacefully in your sleep the night after your eightieth birthday party is the way we’d all choose to go,’ Caid Hunter observed, ‘but it’s hard on the ones left behind.’

      ‘I’m fine,’ she said, as though saying it often enough could make it true.

      ‘Grief takes time, but eventually it becomes bearable.’ There was an odd pause, a kind of hesitation in the atmosphere, before he resumed blandly, ‘So here you are, Sanchia, all grown up and more lovely than ever.’

      And again he let his gaze wander, if such a leisurely survey could be likened to anything as indecisive as wandering. Heat and ice chased each other across her skin when his blue eyes narrowed and turned molten.

      Apart from good skin and long legs, and her eyes, big and darkly green in their fringe of black lashes, Sanchia knew she had no claim to beauty, so the interest and speculation in his scrutiny were false. Although he couldn’t guess at the darts of excitement arrowing through her, he understood the effect he had on the opposite sex. It was there in his stance—formidable, self-confident—in the smile that tucked up the corners of his mouth, in the amusement glinting in the dense blue depths of his eyes.

      ‘So,’ she said sweetly, ‘have you. Grown up, I mean. And very nicely. Your mother must be proud of you.’

      ‘Mothers are noted for their pride in their offspring.’ The half-closed eyes darkened. ‘What did I say?’

      He saw far too much. Sanchia let her lashes droop and infused her voice with mock innocence. ‘Simply that mothers are noted for pride in their children. I agree.’

      His expression hardened. A glint in his eyes sent an unmistakable warning as he said silkily, ‘Mockery gives your mouth an entirely too seductive pout, did you know? So why did you flinch? Wasn’t your mother proud of you?’

      In a reflex action as automatic as the emotion that caused it, Sanchia stiffened her spine. ‘She died before I was interested in anything except her love.’

      His mouth straightened but he left the subject, although she’d bet he’d filed her response somewhere in that formidable brain. Under ‘To be Revisited’ probably.

      Glancing at the back seat of her car, piled high with three weeks’ necessities, he asked smoothly, ‘Can I help you carry that inside?’

      A smile pasted onto her lips, Sanchia said, ‘It’s no use, Caid; I’m not going to sell Waiora Bay to you.’

      There was a moment’s silence. His thick black lashes focused the glance that cut through her defences like the blue blade of a sword, lethally probing. Any show of weakness might awaken an instinct for conquest. A chilly trickle of sweat inched down Sanchia’s spine. Caid hadn’t made a success of a huge international business without being a very keen predator indeed, and it was in the nature of the beast to hunt down anything that ran.

      Crisply, her face still and proud, she added, ‘Not now, not ever.’

      ‘Why not?’

      Sanchia bit off the words hesitating on the tip of her tongue. Summoning her flattest, most uncompromising tone, she said, ‘Because it’s not for sale.’

      His cobalt eyes grew even keener. ‘I’ve made you a fair offer. I don’t plan to raise it.’ His voice stood the hairs across the nape of her neck to attention.

      ‘Whether you raise it or not is irrelevant,’ she stated, snatching back her composure as it took to its heels. A heady sexual attraction warred with prudence; she ignored both to say recklessly, ‘I hate the thought of the Bay being carved up so rich people can build ostentatious beach houses that are only used a couple of weeks each year.’

      ‘My mother and I spend more than two weeks a year here.’

      Heat stung her skin. ‘I know. I didn’t mean you—’

      He interrupted, ‘It doesn’t matter. I don’t intend to develop the Bay.’

      ‘You won’t develop it because I’m not selling it.’

      ‘Are you planning to live here?’ He flicked a razor-sharp glance at the cartons in the back of the car.

      Gently, each word clear enough to shatter crystal, Sanchia said, ‘I work in Auckland. I’m up here on holiday.’

      ‘Sanchia, why don’t we forget that three years ago I wanted to make love with you and you ran away as though you’d found yourself wanting to go to bed with a werewolf?’ he said, his deep voice rasping across her nerves with shaming erotic effect. ‘The letter you left made it quite clear that you didn’t want to go down that road. It’s over, and I don’t bear you any ill will. Let’s move on from there.’ He held out a strong, long-fingered hand.

      Even though Sanchia had always known she’d been merely a summer diversion, his acceptance of her abrupt decision to leave had shattered some vulnerable part of her. For a couple of months—oh, why not admit it? For at least a year!—she’d hoped that he might care enough to follow her. But he hadn’t.

      This, however, was different; this was business, and he wanted more than her untried body.

      Great-Aunt Kate had always said that a gentleman waited until a woman indicated she wanted to shake hands. If the slow, heart-shaking smile Caid gave her was any indication, his mother had taught him the same thing, but his hand remained steadily out-thrust until Sanchia reluctantly put hers into it.

      He didn’t mash her bones together as some men did, and neither did his clasp linger, yet the touch of those lean, powerful fingers reached all the way to secret places inside her body, sent a mysterious knowledge shivering through her.

      Damn, she thought frantically. Oh, damn! It was happening again, and even though she knew her response was a pathway to disillusionment, she couldn’t control it.

      When he released the swift, sure pressure, it felt like deliverance and abandonment at the same time.

      Sanchia’s weighted lashes lifted. He wasn’t smiling; his blue gaze was fixed on her mouth. Beads of sweat sprang out at her temples, dampened her palms.

      Lazily, almost noiselessly, he murmured, ‘I have an odd desire to see my name on your lips, to hear your throaty, summery voice say it again.’

      Caid wondered how she’d respond to the open provocation in his tone, his words, even as he wondered what the hell had got into him.

      No, he knew what had got into him. From the moment he’d watched her long, long, superb legs unfold from the car he’d been ridden by a need so brutal he’d barely been able to control his own mind.

      Not that his mind had much to do with this elemental aberration prowling his body with all the deadly determination of a tiger on the hunt. Why didn’t she take off her sunglasses? By hiding those exotic green eyes, the dark lenses concentrated his attention on her luscious mouth.

      What would it taste like now? What would she taste like? Incredulously he realised that his skin was tightening in a primitive warning, his muscles flexing in readiness. Fighting to subdue the