Robyn Donald – The Temptress Of Tarika Bay (страница 6)

His eyes glinted beneath their heavy lids. ‘I’m not going to ignore the mutual interest we have in each other, but as we’re neighbours I’d like to get to know you socially.’

Morna dithered. It was only a dinner…

If she agreed he might be bored with her, and that would be an end to it.

‘I’m sure Cathy and Nick will be more than adequate chaperons,’ he murmured, the gravelly note in his voice very pronounced as he smiled again.

It was a killer, that smile, and he knew what effect it had. Her heart skidded to a stop and then began to beat again, swift and uneven. ‘All right, I’ll be there,’ she said, regretting her surrender the moment the words left her lips.

Suckered by a million-dollar smile—and a crazy fascination that had smashed across her life, roaring in like a comet from outer space, bent on destruction.

So when she went to dinner tomorrow night, she decided after he’d left, she’d keep in mind the last time she’d felt like this—shooting stars in her stomach, feet not touching the ground, unbearable anticipation.

When she’d first met Glen.

Morna eyed her glass of New Zealand Riesling and took another tentative sip. Although they’d finished a superb dinner, she was still on her first drink because she needed to keep her head.

Even now she wasn’t going to admit that part of the reason she’d accepted Hawke’s invitation was sheer, blatant curiosity—some of which had been satisfied. Over dinner she’d discovered that he actually lived at his small, exclusive and very luxurious resort.

Excellent pickings for a good-looking man here, she thought, trying hard to be cynical. Quite a few eager unattached women were strolling about, not to mention jaded trophy wives. Scattered around the dining room, several of each watched the men at her table with the secret, starving intensity of a dieter tantalised by forbidden food.

Not that she blamed them. Tall, dark and handsome might be a cliché, but men who matched the description were rare—and to see two of them at the same table was probably unique outside Hollywood.

Stick to Hawke, she advised the avid watchers silently. Nick has given his heart.

Yet the thought of Hawke with anyone else summoned a hollow outrage that scared her. Her first instinct had been right—she should have refused to come. If he asked her again she’d turn him down.

Not that she could fault him tonight; he’d been a superb host. She slid a glance sideways to scan his striking profile with unwilling appreciation.

Music drifted into the dining room through double doors, slow and smokily suggestive above the low hum of conversation. Morna’s heart began to beat in time to the tune; hastily she put the glass down and got to her feet.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, and retreated to the cloakroom.

She renewed her lipstick and ran cold water over her wrists before straightening her animal print top, its dramatic contrast of black and white somehow suiting her mood. The black wrap skirt that revealed her legs needed adjustment too, but eventually she had to leave her refuge and set off back to the dining room.

Halfway there she was waylaid by an elderly man Nick had introduced to her at the show.

‘Nice to see you again,’ he said, seizing her hand and pumping it up and down. ‘How did you enjoy your day in the country?’

‘I had a great time,’ she said, smiling. ‘I loved those magnificent cattle of yours—even though I can’t remember what breed they are!’

Just outside her field of vision she sensed the approach of another person. She knew who it was; every cell in her body thrummed with a mixture of apprehension and a steamy, elemental excitement.

The voice of the old man as he informed her what esoteric type of cow she’d admired buzzed in her ears.

Her companion broke off to say cheerfully, ‘Hello, young Hawke. Didn’t take you long to find the best-looking woman in the place, did it?’

CHAPTER THREE

HAWKE grinned, a smile that altered in a thousand subtle ways as he transferred it to Morna. Moving on from respect and comradeship, it somehow transmuted into a molten, masculine appreciation of her femininity that sizzled along her nerves and stopped the breath in her throat.

‘I have excellent instincts,’ he said modestly. ‘I note, however, that it didn’t take you long to find her either.’

Through the clamour of fierce awareness Morna heard the other man’s snorting laugh. ‘I yield my place,’ he said.

‘Oh, no,’ she objected quickly.

But although the older man looked pleased, he said with a knowing twinkle, ‘Morna, I’ve got a good opinion of myself, but I’m certain you’d rather spend time with Hawke than an old codger like me. I’m going to collect a brandy and discuss cattle with Brian over there.’

He smiled at them both and walked away.

Composing her expression, Morna turned to face Hawke. ‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ she observed, her voice so bland it was a subtle insult.

Hawke’s measuring, dangerous smile disappeared, replaced by cool assessment. ‘Thank you.’

The band struck up a new tune, and he offered his arm. ‘Cathy and Nick have gone next door to dance. Would you like to?’

The challenge in his voice wasn’t blatant, but she heard it. He expected her to refuse.

So she would. ‘Not tonight, thank you,’ she said politely.

‘Then come and have coffee while we wait for them.’

She nodded, and they went together into a room with tables and upholstered chairs arranged around the edges of a small dance floor. While Hawke ordered, Morna kept her eyes on Cathy and Nick; although neither carried their hearts in their faces, they moved in an aura of utter happiness.

Blinking, she looked away. ‘What made you decide to build a resort and golf course here?’ she queried, scanning the skilfully crafted decor. Casual and comfortable, like the dining room it showcased pale timber, natural fabrics and a palette of neutral colours that combined restraint with a muted luxury to appeal to ultra-sophisticated tastes.

‘It’s the perfect place,’ Hawke told her with the calm confidence that set her teeth on edge. ‘Close to Auckland, yet with complete privacy and superb scenery. And the land is almost useless for agriculture—old worked-over kauri swamplands, drained fifty years ago but still only growing scrub.’

Her quick burst of laughter eased the tension. ‘There speaketh the farmer,’ she said mockingly, glancing up from beneath her lashes. ‘If land doesn’t produce grass it’s a desert.’

Their eyes met, fenced, and clung. Anticipation fizzed through her, glinting in her eyes, softening her mouth.

‘I am a farmer,’ he agreed, leaning back into his chair and watching her with an intentness that sent kamikaze bumblebees dive-bombing through her bloodstream. ‘You’ve got something against agriculture?’

‘Of course not!’ Calm down, she commanded. He’s just flirting—I’ll bet he was born knowing how to do this to susceptible women. ‘I like to eat as much as the next person, and without farmers we wouldn’t have food.’

Hawke’s green eyes darkened, and for some reason every cell in her body stood to attention.

He said evenly, ‘Some land should never have been cleared of bush; I have a programme for replanting native trees in appropriate places on all my properties.’

So in his own way he was a conservationist, which irritated her because she didn’t want to believe anything good about him.

Before she had time to comment he changed the subject with smooth obliqueness. ‘Do you ever wear anything but black and white?’

‘No,’ she said baldly. If you stuck to basics it made buying in charity shops much simpler. ‘Most women in business and the professions choose from a limited range of basic colours. Black and white both suit me so I wear them a lot.’

His brows lifted. ‘It’s certainly striking.’ The intriguing roughness in his voice had been transformed into a taunting purr. ‘And I like the animal print—does it indicate a strain of wildness hidden beneath that very controlled exterior?’

Morna resisted the impulse to check that her skirt hadn’t fallen away to reveal her legs. ‘It indicates that animal prints have been recently fashionable,’ she said pleasantly. ‘My work satisfies my taste for colour and drama.’

‘According to an article I read recently you’re making quite a splash with innovative ways of using your raw materials.’

‘I like to think so.’ Her shoulders squared and she kept her gaze steady.

Hawke said lazily, ‘The little I’ve seen of your work was exquisite.’

Flooded by alarming pleasure, she wondered if he’d bought a piece—for whom? The actress?

He spoilt it by finishing, ‘You’ve come a long way in a very short time.’

Morna stiffened. ‘Thank you,’ she said with cold formality.

A recent article in the business press had insinuated that her business had been staked by two rich men—Glen and Nick.

Her angry rebuttal of the lie—and, more probably, Nick’s cold fury and power—had won a somewhat snide apology, but she had no illusions. Most people who’d read the original article wouldn’t have read the apology, so they’d believe the insinuation that she was—to use an old-fashioned term—a gold-digger.

Probably Hawke did too, with his hard green eyes and uncompromising mouth. And for some obscure reason that hurt. Which was a danger signal; she was too susceptible to him.