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The Far Side of Paradise
Robyn Donald
Her awakening in paradise… Instead of the heartless seductress Cade Peredur expected, Taryn’s blue eyes reveal an innocent sweetness clouded by private mystery. Determined to gain her trust and find out the real story, Cade sweeps her away to the dreamy tropical island of Fala’isi, and finds himself unprepared for the raw, passionate power of their steamy nights!A disastrous engagement has left Taryn wary of men, but Cade stirs feelings she’s never known before. However, when Cade’s identity is revealed, will Taryn’s paradise fantasy be washed away with the Pacific tides…?





As though the words were torn from him, Cade said roughly, ‘Damn. This is too soon.’
Taryn froze, every instinct shrieking that this was a bad, foolish, hair-raisingly terrifying idea.
Every instinct save one—the primal, irresistible conviction that if Cade didn’t kiss her she’d regret it for ever.
Her lips parted. ‘Yes,’ she said, in a husky, faraway voice. ‘Too soon.’
‘And you’re afraid of me.’
She dragged in a deep breath. Oh, no, not afraid of Cade.
Afraid—terrified—of being shown once more that she was cold, too cold to satisfy a man …
But she didn’t feel cold. This had never happened before—this wild excitement that shimmered through her like a green flash at sunset, rare and exquisite, offering some hidden glory she might perhaps reach …

About the Author
ROBYN DONALD can’t remember not being able to read, and will be eternally grateful to the local farmers who carefully avoided her on a dusty country road as she read her way to and from school, transported to places and times far away from her small village in Northland, New Zealand.
Growing up fed her habit. As well as training as a teacher, marrying and raising two children, she discovered the delights of romances and read them voraciously, especially enjoying the ones written by New Zealand writers. So much so that one day she decided to write one herself. Writing soon grew to be as much of a delight as reading—although infinitely more challenging—and when eventually her first book was accepted by Mills & Boon® she felt she’d arrived home.
She still lives in a small town in Northland, with her family close by, using the landscape as a setting for much of her work. Her life is enriched by the friends she’s made among writers and readers, and complicated by a determined Corgi called Buster, who is convinced that blackbirds are evil entities. Her greatest hobby is still reading, with travelling a very close second.
Recent titles by the same author:
POWERFUL GREEK, HOUSEKEEPER WIFE
(#ulink_48311cfa-285f-5a4a-85e0-1c563d34bec4) BROODING BILLIONAIRE, IMPOVERISHED PRINCESS THE VIRGIN AND HIS MAJESTY

(#ulink_deda596d-7f8e-59bc-bb34-b5bace095022) part of The Greek Tycoons series

THE FAR SIDE
OF PARADISE
ROBYN DONALD






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CHAPTER ONE
STONE-FACED, Cade Peredur listened again to the tape of his foster-brother’s final call—a frantic, beseeching torrent of words recorded just before Peter Cooper killed himself.
‘Cade, where are you? Where the hell are you—oh, with Lady Louisa, I suppose. Damn it, Cade, I need you more than any woman could—why aren’t you home? Why can’t you be there for me?’
A short pause, broken only by his breathing, jagged and irregular, and then, ‘Cade, I’ve been such a fool—such an idiot.’
Not a muscle of Cade’s face moved at the sound of choked weeping.
At last Peter said in a thick, despairing voice, ‘Taryn was my last—my only—hope. It hurts—so bloody much, Cade, so much …’ Another wrenching pause and then, in a voice Cade had never heard before, Peter said, ‘There’s nothing left for me now. She laughed when I asked … laughed …’
The silence stretched for so long that when he’d first heard it Cade had been sure the call was over.
But eventually his brother whispered, ‘It’s no good, Cade. I’m sorry, but it’s no good any more. I can’t—I just can’t live with this. She’s gone, and she’s not coming back. Tell the parents I’m sorry to be such a useless son to them, but at least they’ll still have you. You’re the sort of man they wanted me to be, and God knows I tried, but I’ve always known I didn’t have what it takes. Get married, Cade, and give them some grandchildren to adore. They’ll need them now …’
He stopped abruptly. Then he said unevenly, ‘Try not to despise me, Cade. I love you. Goodbye.’
Cade switched off the tape and walked across the luxurious room to look unseeingly across the London cityscape, fighting to control the rush of blind rage threatening to consume him. The call had come eight hours before he’d arrived home and by the time he’d got to Peter’s apartment his brother was dead.
Peter had worshipped him, emulated and envied him, then finally grown away from him, but Cade had always been intensely protective of his younger brother.
Hands clenching, he turned and walked into his office, stopping at his desk. The photograph on it had been taken at his foster-parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary a few months before Peter’s death—Isabel and Harold Cooper all smiles for the camera, Peter’s grin revealing a hint of feverish excitement.
As always, Cade was the odd one out—taller than the other two men, his features harsher and his expression unreadable.
His brother’s suicide shattered that secure, tight family unit. A fortnight after the funeral, Harold Cooper had died from a heart attack, and while Isabel was still trying to come to terms with the wreckage of her life she’d stepped out into the path of a car. Onlookers said she’d moved as though in a daze.
She’d wanted to die too, but not before she’d begged Cade to find out what had driven her son to suicide.
He’d held her hand while she’d whispered painfully, ‘If … if I knew why … it wouldn’t be so bad. I just want to know, Cade, before I die.’
‘You’re not going to die,’ he said harshly. ‘I’ll find out what happened.’
Her lashes had fluttered up again, revealing a spark of animation in her gaze. ‘Promise?’
To encourage that hope, that flicker of determination, he’d have promised anything. ‘I will. But you have to keep going for me.’
She’d managed a pale smile. ‘It’s a deal.’
That had been the turning point; valiantly she’d gathered her reserves and struggled back to cope with everything life had thrown at her. It had taken months of rehabilitation, and she was now adjusting to living the rest of her life in a wheelchair.
The letter Peter had left for his parents lay in its envelope on Cade’s desk. He flicked it open and read it again. Unlike the telephone call, it was free of overt grief. Peter had told his parents he loved them, that he was sorry to cause them pain, but his life was no longer worth living.
No mention of the woman who’d reduced him to this depth of despair. He’d never introduced her to his family, only spoken of her once or twice in a casual, throwaway fashion. The last time he’d gone home—to celebrate his first big commission as a sculptor, a work for a public park in a market town—he hadn’t referred to her.
So why that anguished, cryptic mention in his final call?
Cade turned away, his hard, arrogantly contoured face set. What part had Taryn Angove played in Peter’s death?
Had something she’d said, something she’d done, precipitated his final, fatal decision? It seemed possible, although she’d left for her home country of New Zealand eight hours before Peter’s suicide.
Cade had always known that revenge was a fool’s game; he’d seen the hunger for it eat into the intellect, destroy the soul.
Justice, however, was a different matter.
Progress had been infuriatingly slow. He knew now her return to New Zealand had been organised well before Peter’s death. He knew she and Peter had been good friends for almost two years, almost certainly lovers.
He knew Peter’s bank account should have been flush with a large advance to buy materials for his commission. Indeed, the money had arrived—and immediately a substantial sum had been taken out and paid directly to Taryn Angove. But the rest of the money had been siphoned off in large weekly cash payments, so that when Peter had died there had only been a few hundred pounds left.
If—and it was only an if, Cade reminded himself—Taryn Angove had somehow got her hands on it all, that could be why Peter had killed himself. Unfortunately, so far there was nothing, apart from that initial payment, to connect her with its absence.
But now, thanks to dedicated work by his security people, he knew where she was in New Zealand.
Cade looked across at the suitcase he’d just finished packing. His arrangements were all made and his actions from now on would depend on the woman he was hunting.
All day it had been still, the horizon a hazy brush-stroke where simmering sky met burnished sea, the forest-clad hills around the bay drowsing in the fierce glare of a sub-tropical sun. Cade narrowed his eyes against the intense light to watch seabirds made dumb by the heat fight silent battles over their catch.
Even the tiny waves on the shore were noiseless; all he could hear was the thrum of thousands of cicadas vibrating through the forest-covered hills behind the bay—the prevailing summer sound in this long northern peninsula of New Zealand.
The sibilant hum was penetrated by the imperative summons of his cell phone. Only his personal assistant had that number, so somewhere in his vast holdings something had gone wrong.
From halfway around the world his PA said, ‘A few matters pertaining to this meeting in Fala’isi.’
‘What about it?’ Because of his business interests in the Pacific Basin, Cade had been asked to attend a gathering of high-powered Pacific dignitaries to discuss the future of the region.
Dealing with that took a few minutes. His voice a little tentative, Roger, his PA, said, ‘Lady Louisa called.’
Arrogant black brows almost meeting across the blade of his nose, Cade said, ‘And she wanted.?’
‘Your address. She was not happy when I wouldn’t give it to her. She said it was urgent and important.’
‘Thanks.’ Cade didn’t discuss his private life easily, but he did say, ‘We are no longer together.’
A pause, then, ‘You might need to work on convincing her of that.’
His voice hard and cold, Cade said, ‘Ignore her.’
‘Very well.’
Cade’s mouth curved in a sardonic smile. Louisa wouldn’t follow him to New Zealand—it was completely out of her orbit. His ex-lover craved luxury and fashion and the heady stimulation of admiration. This remote paradise couldn’t satisfy her need for the envy of others.
‘Ah … not to put too fine a point on it, but she sounded stressed.’ Roger paused. ‘Actually, desperate.’
Her father had probably refused to pay a bill. Cade shrugged broad shoulders. ‘Not your problem.’ Or his. ‘How is your daughter?’
His PA hesitated before saying in a completely different tone, ‘We hear the results of the first lot of tests tomorrow.’
What the hell did you say to a man whose child could be suffering a terminal illness? ‘If you need leave or any help at all, it’s yours.’
‘I know. Thanks—for everything.’
‘No need for thanks—just let me know what I can do.’
‘Thanks. I will. Keep in touch.’
Cade closed down the cell phone, his eyes flinty. Against the fact that a three-year-old could be dying, Louisa was a very minor consideration. A sensuous, satisfying lover until she’d decided Cade—influential, moving in the ‘right’ circles and exceedingly rich—would make the ideal first husband, she’d been careless enough to let him overhear as she discussed her plans on the telephone.
It had needed only a few questions in the right ears for Cade to discover she’d run through most of the fortune inherited from her grandfather. With no chance of support from a father whose income had been decimated by financial crisis, marriage was the obvious solution.
Like Louisa, Cade didn’t believe in the sort of love poets wrote about. However, although experience had made him cynical, he intended to marry some day, and when he did it would be to a woman who’d value him for more than the size of his assets. He’d choose carefully, and it would last.
Cade’s expression hardened. If Louisa was desperate enough to follow him, he’d make sure she understood that he was not and never would be a suitable husband—first, last or intermediate—for her.
After eyeing the hammock in the dark shade of one of the huge trees bordering the beach, he succumbed to an unusual restlessness that drove him down onto the hot amber sand. He stared out to sea for a long moment before turning. Only then did a drift of movement in the cloudless sky catch his attention.
Frowning, he stared at it. At first nothing more substantial than a subtle darkening of the blue, the haze swiftly thickened into a veil, an ominous stain across the sky.
In the grip of its severest drought in living memory, the province of Northland was under a total fire ban. The manager of the farm he’d rented the holiday house from had impressed on him that any smoke anywhere had to mean danger.
Muttering a word he wouldn’t have said in polite company, Cade headed towards the house, long legs covering the ground at speed. He grabbed his car keys and cell phone, punching in a number as he headed towards the bedroom.
‘I can see smoke in the sky,’ he said curtly when the farm manager answered. ‘South, and close—in the next bay, I’d say, and building fast.’
The farm manager swore vigorously, then said, ‘Bloody free campers probably, careless with a camp-fire. OK, I’ll ring the brigade and round up a posse from here. With any luck, we’ll be able to put it out before it takes hold.’
Cade eyed the growing smoke cloud. ‘I’ll go over and see what I can do.’
‘Man, be careful. There’s a tap in the bay, but the creek’s probably dry. If you’ve got a bucket there, grab it.’ Possibly recalling that the man renting the farm’s beach house was an influential tycoon, he added, ‘And don’t try to be a hero.’
Cade’s swift grin vanished as he closed the cell phone. The smoke suddenly billowed, forming a cloud. Until then there had been no movement in the air, but of course the instant some idiot lit a fire the wind picked up.
The faster he got there, the better. He hauled on a long-sleeved shirt and trousers with swift, economical movements, then wasted precious moments looking for a non-existent bucket before giving up.
Not, he thought grimly as he got into the car, that a bucket would be much help, but it would have given him an illusory feeling of control.
He drove too fast along the track to the boundary gate; unlocking it wasted a few more valuable seconds so he left it open to give the manager and his men easy access. Lean hands tense on the wheel, he swung the four-wheel drive onto a narrow public road that led to the next bay.
It took too long to manoeuvre his vehicle around the tight corners through thick coastal scrub that would go up like a torch the moment a spark got into it. When the car emerged into searing sunlight a glance revealed no tents on the grassy foreshore or beneath the huge trees—nothing, in fact, but an elderly car parked in the deep shade cast by one of those trees.
And a woman in a skimpy bikini far too close to an area of blazing grass.
What the hell did she think she was doing?
Putting his foot down, Cade got there as fast as he could. He turned the vehicle, ready for a quick getaway, and was out of the car and running towards the woman before he realised she was directing a hose at the flames.
Tall and long-legged and young, she had a body guaranteed to set a man’s hormones buzzing in anticipation. Smoke-smeared and glistening with sweat, she exuded unselfconscious sensuality.
At that moment she turned, pushing back a mane of copper-coloured hair that had been fanned across her face by the hot wind from the flames.
A flame flared up only a few inches from her feet and she jumped back, water from the hose splashing gleaming legs that went on forever.
The woman was crazy! Couldn’t she see she wasn’t achieving anything except putting herself in danger?
Cade covered the ground between them in a few seconds, watching the woman’s expression turn to undisguised relief.
She thrust the hose into his hands and commanded brusquely, ‘Keep directing it anywhere the flames try to get away. If they make it to those bullrushes the whole place will go up. I’ll wet my towel and have a go at it from the other side.’
‘Get dressed first,’ he suggested, turning the pathetic dribble of water onto the flames.
She gave him a startled look, then nodded briskly. ‘Good thinking.’
Taken aback and amused by her air of command, Cade watched her race across to her car to haul on a pair of inadequate shorts and a T-shirt and jam her feet into elderly sandshoes. Only then did she sprint down to the waves to wet her towel.
A sudden flare almost at his feet switched Cade’s attention, but as he sprayed water onto it he wondered why on earth he was bothering. It was a losing battle; a wet towel would be as useless as the meagre trickle from the hose. Yet clearly the woman had no intention of giving up and doing the sensible thing—getting out of there before the fire made retreat impossible.
Cade admired courage in anyone, even reckless, blind courage. She might have lit the fire, but she was determined to put it out.
When she came running up from the shoreline she thrust the heavy, sodden towel into his hands. ‘I’ll take the hose—you’re stronger than me so you’ll be more efficient with this. Just be careful.’
The next few minutes were frantic. And hopeless. Working together, they fought grimly to hold back the flames but, inch by menacing inch, the bright line crept closer to the stand of bullrushes, pushing first one way and then, when frustrated, finding another path through the long, dry grass.
‘Get back,’ Cade shouted when flames suddenly flared perilously close to those lithe bare legs. Two long strides got him close enough to put all his power into beating it out.
‘Thanks.’ Her voice sounded hoarse, but she didn’t move, directing that inadequate spurt of water with a stubborn determination that impressed him all over again.
She looked down at the towel, which was beginning to scorch. ‘Go down and wet the towel again.’
‘You go.’ Cade thrust the towel into her hands and grabbed the hose from her.
Sensibly, she didn’t waste time in protest, turning immediately to run across the sand.
His foster-mother’s influence was embedded so deeply he couldn’t evade it, Cade thought wryly, stamping out a tuft of grass that was still smouldering. Women were to be protected—even when they made it obvious they didn’t want it.
He glanced up the hill. No sign of the fire brigade yet. If they didn’t appear damned soon he’d grab the woman and, if he had to, drag her away. It would be too late once the bullrushes caught; they’d be in deadly danger of dying from smoke inhalation even if they took refuge in the sea.
Panting, she ran up from the beach and almost flung the dripping towel at him. Her face was drawn and smoke had stained the creamy skin, but she looked utterly determined. Clearly, giving up was not an option.
Cade said abruptly, ‘The brigade should be here soon,’ and hoped he was right.
His arms rose and fell in a regular rhythm but, even as he beat out sparks along the edge of the fire, he accepted their efforts were making very little headway. No way could they stop the relentless line of fire racing through the grass towards a stand of rushes so dry their tall heads made perfect fuel.
If they caught, he and the woman would have to run, but not to the cars. The beach would be their only refuge.
Once the fire got into the coastal scrub it would take an aerial bombardment or heavy rain to put it out. The cloudless sky mocked the idea of rain, and a helicopter with a monsoon bucket would take time to organise.
And if the wind kept building, the blaze would threaten not only the beach house he’d rented, but the houses and barns around the homestead further up the coast. Cade hoped the farm manager had warned everybody there to be on the alert.
A muted roar lifted his head. Relief surged through him as the posse from the station came down the hill on one of the farm trucks, almost immediately followed by two fire engines and a trail of other vehicles.
‘Oh, thank God,’ his companion croaked, a statement he silently echoed.
Taryn had never been so pleased to see anyone in her life. Smoothly, efficiently the firemen raced from their vehicles, the chief shouting, ‘Get out of the way—down onto the beach, both of you.’
She grabbed a bottle of water from her car and headed across the sand. Without taking off her shoes, she waded out until the water came up to her knees, and only then began to drink, letting the water trickle down a painfully dry throat.
Heat beat against her, so fierce she pulled off her T-shirt, dropped it into the sea and used it to wipe herself down. The temporary coolness was blissful. She sighed, then gulped a little more water.
The stranger who’d helped her strode out to where she stood. ‘Are you all right?’ he demanded.
He was so tall she had to lift her face to meet his eyes. Swallowing, she said hoarsely, ‘Yes. Thank you very much for your help.’
‘Go easy on that water. If you drink it too fast it could make you sick.’
Taryn knew the accent. English, clipped and authoritative, delivered in a deep, cool voice with more than a hint of censure, it reminded her so much of Peter she had to blink back tears.
Not that Peter had ever used that tone with her.
The stranger was watching her as though expecting her to faint, or do something equally stupid. Narrowed against the glare of the sun on the sea, his disconcerting eyes were a cold steel-blue and, although Taryn knew she’d never seen him before, he looked disturbingly familiar.
An actor, perhaps?
She lowered the bottle. ‘I’m taking it slowly.’ Stifling a cough, she kept her eyes fixed on the helmeted men as they efficiently set about containing the flames. ‘Talk about arriving in the nick of time!’
‘I wouldn’t have thought the village was big enough to warrant a fire station.’
A note in his voice lifted tiny invisible hairs on the back of her neck. He was very good-looking, all angles and strong bones and lean distinction. Not exactly handsome; that was too neutral a description for a man whose arrogantly chiselled features were stamped with formidable self-assurance. His aura of cool containment was based on something much more intimidating than good bones. An odd sensation warmed the pit of Taryn’s stomach when she met his gaze.
Unnerved by that flinty survey, she looked away, taunted by a wisp of memory that faded even as she tried to grasp it.
‘They’re a volunteer group.’ She took refuge in the mundane and held out her bottle of water. ‘Would you like some?’ Adding with a wry smile, ‘I’ve wiped the top and as far as I know I have no diseases you need worry about.’
‘I’m sure you haven’t,’ he drawled, not taking the bottle. ‘Thanks, but I’ve already had a drink—I brought my own.’
Stick to social pleasantries, she told herself, rattled by a note in his voice that came very close to mockery. ‘Thank you so much for helping—I didn’t have a hope of stopping it on my own.’
‘Didn’t it occur to you that lighting a fire in the middle of a drought could be dangerous?’
No, not mockery—condemnation.
Controlling an intemperate urge to defend herself, Taryn responded evenly, ‘I didn’t light it. I came down for a swim but before I got that far I noticed someone had had a fire on the beach above high tide mark to cook tuatua—shellfish. They didn’t bother to put it out properly with sea water so I hosed it down, but a spark must have lodged somewhere up in the grass.’
‘I see.’
Nothing could be gained from his tone or his expression. Stiffening, she said coldly, ‘As soon as I saw smoke I rang the emergency number.’
‘Ah, so that’s why they arrived so quickly.’
Screwing up her eyes in an effort to pierce the pall of smoke, she said, ‘It looks as though they’re winning, thank heavens.’
Heat curled in the pit of her stomach when her gaze met his, aloof and speculative. Something in his expression reminded her she’d been clad only in her bikini when he’d arrived. And that the shorts he’d ordered her to get into revealed altogether too much of her legs.
Shocked by the odd, primitive little shiver that tightened her skin and set her nerves humming, she looked away.
He asked, ‘Are you a local?’
‘Not really.’ She’d lived in the small village a mile away during her adolescence.
‘So you’re on holiday?’
Casual talk between two strangers abruptly hurled together …
Taking too deep a breath of the smoky air, she coughed again. ‘No.’
‘What do you do?’ He spoke idly, still watching the activity on the grass behind the beach.
‘I’m a librarian,’ she responded, her tone even.
The brows that lifted in faint surprise were as black as his strictly controlled hair. In an abrupt change of subject, he said, ‘Should you be swimming on your own?’
Taryn parried that steel-blue survey. ‘This is a very safe bay. I don’t take stupid risks.’
How did this man—this judgmental man, Taryn decided—manage to look sceptical without moving a muscle?
In a bland voice, he said, ‘Fighting the fire looked risky enough to me. All it needed was a slight change of wind and you’d have had to run like hell to get to the beach safely. And you probably wouldn’t have saved your car.’
That possibility had occurred to Taryn, but she’d been more afraid the fire would set the coastline alight. ‘I can run,’ she said coolly.
His gaze drifted down the length of her legs. ‘Yes, I imagine you can. But how fast?’
His tone invested the words with a subliminal implication that summoned a swift, embarrassing heat to her skin.
That nagging sense of familiarity tugged at her again. Who was he?
Well, there was one way to find out. Without allowing herself second thoughts, she said coolly, ‘When it’s necessary, quite fast,’ and held out her hand. ‘It’s time I introduced myself—I’m Taryn Angove.’

CHAPTER TWO
CADE’S heart pounded a sudden tattoo, every nerve in his body springing into instant taut alertness. This young Amazon was Taryn Angove?
OK, so courage didn’t necessarily go with attributes like compassion and empathy, but she was nothing like the women Peter usually fell for. They’d all been startlingly similar—slight and chic, with an intimate knowledge of fashion magazines and the latest gossip, they’d pouted deliciously and parroted the latest catchphrases.
Cade couldn’t imagine any of them trying to put out a fire, or throwing commands at him.
Mind racing, he took in the implications.
Did she know who he was?
If she did, she’d suspect that although this meeting was a coincidence, his presence in New Zealand wasn’t. So she’d be wary …
Chances were, though, that Peter wouldn’t have spoken of him. An unpleasant situation some years before, when Peter’s then lover had made a determined play for Cade, meant that Peter rarely introduced his girlfriends to his family. He’d once admitted that although he referred to Cade occasionally, it was only ever as his brother.
Cade knew the value of hunches; he’d learned which ones to follow and which to ignore. One was warning him right now to keep quiet about the connection.
‘Cade Peredur,’ he said smoothly, and shook Taryn Angove’s outstretched hand. ‘How do you do?’
He could see why Peter had fallen for her. In spite of the smoke stains, she was very attractive—beautiful, in fact, with fine features and creamy skin set off by coppery hair.
Not to mention a lush, sinfully kissable mouth …
Ruthlessly, Cade disciplined an unexpected kick of lust. Nowhere near as easily affected as his brother had been by a lovely face and lissom body, it exasperated him that Taryn Angove had a definite and very primal impact on him.
Which he had to suppress.
His investigation team hadn’t been able to turn up a single person who wasn’t shocked and astonished by his brother’s death. The police had been unable to add anything beyond the fact that there had definitely been no foul play.
Peter had taken Taryn Angove to the theatre the previous night. She’d stayed with him that night and then he’d delivered her to Heathrow for the flight home. He’d cancelled an appointment with friends the following evening, but he’d spoken by telephone to them and he’d seemed perfectly normal.
Yet only a few hours later he’d killed himself.
From New Zealand, Taryn been asked to do a video interview with the police, but it revealed nothing; she hadn’t mentioned anything that might have upset him, so they didn’t consider her a person of interest. Although sympathetic, for them there was no doubt that Peter had committed suicide, and so there was nothing to investigate.
So she was the only person who might be able to help Cade find out why Peter had done it.
And there was the question of what had happened to the money …
Looking down into the wide green-gold eyes lifted to his, noting their subtle darkening and the faint flush visible even under a patina of smoke, Cade decided a change of tactics could be in order.
He’d come here determined to use whatever weapons might be necessary to find out what she knew. He’d try appealing to her better instincts—if she had any—and, if that failed, then intimidation might work. Or paying her off.
Now he’d met her, he wondered whether such weapons would be necessary. Taryn seemed nothing like he had expected. In order to choose the best method of persuading her to talk, he’d have to find out what made Taryn Angove tick.
Which meant he needed to get to know her.
Ignoring the electricity his touch zapped across her nerve-ends, Taryn concentrated on his grip—firm but not aggressive and completely confident.
Just her luck to be sweaty and smoky, with stringy hair clinging to her probably scarlet face. How did he manage to look so … so much in control?
Not that it mattered. Too late, she remembered who he was—periodically, she’d seen photographs of him in the press and appreciated his sexy, angular impact. He was a big player in financial circles and appeared occasionally in the gossip magazines a flatmate in London used to devour.
In them, he was usually squiring a beautiful titled woman with very expensive taste in clothes.
When he released her hand she said calmly, ‘Thanks so much for coming to help when you saw the smoke.’
Broad shoulders lifted again dismissively. ‘It was a matter of self-interest.’ At her enquiring look he enlarged, ‘I’m holidaying in the next bay.’
Had he bought Hukere Station? She dismissed the idea immediately. High-flyers like Cade Peredur didn’t invest in remote agricultural areas in New Zealand’s subtropical north; they went to the South Island’s glorious mountains. Anyway, he didn’t look the sort to want a cattle station; from what she remembered, his interests lay in the cutthroat arena of finance and world-shaking deals. And sophisticated English aristocrats.
In that cool, slightly indifferent tone he told her, ‘I saw smoke in the air so I came to see what I could do.’
Taryn looked past him and said with a shiver, ‘I’m so glad you did. I wish the idiots who lit that fire could see what their carelessness has led to. The thought of all these pohutukawa trees going up in flames is horrifying. Some of them are over five hundred years old. In fact, Maori legend says that the big one along at the end of the beach was used to tie up the first canoe that ever landed here.’
His gaze followed her pointing finger. ‘It looks old enough, certainly.’
Taryn shrugged mentally at his lack of enthusiasm. He was English, and on holiday—why should he share her love for the ancient trees? It was enough that he’d come to help.
‘It will take a lot of time before this place gets back to its previous loveliness,’ she said. ‘It’s such a shame. It’s the only good swimming beach close to Aramuhu township, but no one will want to come here until the grass grows again.’ Her nose wrinkled. ‘It looks horrible and it smells beastly, and everything—and everyone—would get covered in soot.’
Cade accepted the opportunity she’d offered—whether deliberately or not, he couldn’t tell. ‘If you’d like to swim, why don’t you try the beach I’m staying at?’ He nodded towards the headland that separated the two bays.
Startled and a little wary, she looked up. Caught in an ironic blue-grey focus, she felt her pulse rate surge and automatically ignored it. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ she said without committing herself.
‘It seems only fair.’
For the first time he smiled, sending languorous heat curling through Taryn. ‘Fair?’ she asked, only just stopping herself from stuttering.
‘You might well have saved the beach house from going up in flames—and me with it,’ he replied, noting that the farm manager was on his way towards them with the fire chief.
Noted too, with something close to irritation, the swift appreciative glances both men gave Taryn Angove.
Not that he could blame them. Those shorts showed off her glorious legs, and her bikini top accentuated her more obvious assets; only a dead man would ignore them.
The thought no sooner formed in his mind than he realised how bleakly appropriate it was. A man as dead as Peter.
‘Hi, Jeff.’ The smile Taryn gave the farm manager was friendly and open, but the one she bestowed on the grey-haired fire chief sparkled with mischief. ‘Mr Sanderson.’
The fire chief gave a brief grin. ‘Why am I not surprised to find you trying to put out a fire with nothing more than a garden hose?’ he asked in a not quite fatherly tone before turning to Cade.
The farm manager introduced them and, as they shook hands, Cade said, ‘It didn’t take you long to get things under control.’
Hugh Sanderson nodded. ‘Easy enough when you’ve got the men and the equipment. However, I’ll leave a gang here to keep an eye on it. Just as well you both kept at it—probably saved a lot of destruction. Do you know how it started?’
‘Ms Angove’s theory seems logical,’ Cade told him. ‘All I saw was smoke in the sky.’
She flashed a green-gold, glinting glance at him as she explained what she thought had happened.
‘Yeah, that would be it.’ The fire chief indicated the sign that announced a total fire ban. ‘Some idiots think a fire on the beach doesn’t count. Thanks for keeping it away from the bullrushes—although I damn near had a heart attack when I saw you two trying to put it out.’ He transferred his gaze to Taryn. ‘No more heroine stuff on my patch, all right? If that fire had got into the rushes you’d have been in serious trouble, both of you. You OK?’
‘Fine, thanks.’ Her radiant smile made light of smoke stains and sweat.
The older man grinned. ‘You never were one for keeping out of mischief. Patsy was just saying the other day she hadn’t seen you for a while. Come and have a cup of tea with us when you’re in town next.’
Cade waited until they’d gone before asking thoughtfully, ‘What sort of mischief did you indulge in?’
She flushed a little, but laughed before explaining, ‘When we first came to Aramuhu I was twelve, and I’d spent the previous eleven years living with my parents on a yacht in the Pacific. Fruit grows wild in the islands and I was used to just picking something off the nearest tree whenever I was hungry. At Aramuhu we lived for a few months next door to Mr and Mrs Sanderson and one day I took a cherimoya from his orchard.’
‘Cherimoya?’
‘It’s bigger than an apple, sort of heart-shaped with bumpy green skin. Cousin to a custard apple.’ Her voice sank into a sensual purr. ‘They have the most delicious taste in the world. My mother marched me over to apologise and offer to work to pay for it. Mr Sanderson decided I could weed the garden for an hour, but once I’d done that he gave me a bag of them to take home. Even when we moved to a new house he made sure we were supplied with ripe ones in season and he still likes to tease me about it.’
Cade wondered if that husky tone was reserved for fruit, or if she murmured like that when she made love. His body tightened—and then tightened again for an entirely different reason at another thought.
No doubt Peter had also found that sleepy, sexy note both erotic and beguiling.
In an ironic tone that banished the reminiscent softness from her expression he said, ‘Ah, small town life.’
‘Where everyone knows your business,’ she agreed with a swift, challenging smile. She focused her gaze behind him and he looked over one shoulder to see a racy red car hurtling boisterously down the road.
When he turned back she was frowning, a frown that disappeared when she asked, ‘Did you grow up in a big city, Mr Peredur?’
‘I was born in one, yes.’ When taken away from his mother, he’d been living in the stinking backstreet of a slum. ‘I’m going back to the beach house now. The invitation to swim is still open.’
And waited, concealing his keen interest in her answer.
She hesitated, then said lightly, ‘I’m sticky and hot and I’d love a swim, thank you. I’ll follow you in my car.’
‘Right.’
Taryn watched him stride towards his Range Rover, long legs carrying him across the sandy ground in lithe, easy paces.
In a word—dominant. He compelled interest and attention by sheer force of character.
The swift fizz of sensation in the pit of her stomach startled her, but what made her increase speed towards her own car was the arrival of the one driven by a journalist for the local newspaper, an old schoolfellow who’d made it more than obvious that he was angling for a relationship.
Although she’d tried as tactfully as she could to show him she wasn’t interested, Jason didn’t seem to understand.
She fought back an odd clutch of apprehension beneath her ribs when she saw the possessive gleam of his smile as he swung out of the car, camera at the ready.
‘Hi, Taryn—stay like that and I’ll put you on the front page.’
‘I’ve done nothing—showcase the men who put out the fire,’ she returned. From the corner of her eye she noticed that Cade Peredur had opened the door of his vehicle, but not got in; he was watching them across its roof.
‘Babe, they don’t look anywhere near as good as you do.’ Jason gave a sly grin and lifted the camera.
‘No.’ She spoke more sharply than she intended.
He looked wounded. ‘Oh, come on, Taryn, don’t be coy—we’d sell a hell of a lot more issues with you in those shorts on the front page instead of old Sanderson in his helmet. How about coming out with me tonight? I’ve been invited to a soirée at the Hanovers’ place and they won’t mind if I bring along a gorgeous girl.’
‘No, thank you,’ she said, keeping her voice even and light.
‘Going to wash your hair, are you? Look,’ he said, his voice hardening, ‘what is it with you? Think you’re too good to go out with an old mate now, do you? I’m not trying to get into your pants, I—’
He stopped abruptly as a deep voice cut in. ‘All right, Taryn?’
‘Fine, thank you,’ she said quickly, adding rather foolishly, ‘Jason and I went to school together.’
‘Hey,’ Jason exclaimed, ever the opportunist, ‘you’re Cade Peredur, aren’t you? Mr Peredur, I’m Jason Beckett from the Mid-North Press. Can I ask you a few questions about the fire?’
‘The person to tell you about it is the fire chief,’ Cade said evenly. He looked down at Taryn. ‘You go ahead—I’ll follow.’
‘OK,’ she said, fighting a violent mixture of emotions.
Cade watched her walk across to her car and get in, then looked down at the reporter. Yet another man smitten by Taryn Angove’s beauty; he should feel a certain amount of sympathy for the good-looking kid even if he was unpleasantly brash.
Instead, he wanted to tell him to keep his grubby hands and even grubbier statements to himself, and stay away from her if he valued his hide.
Shrugging, Beckett said, ‘Well, that’s women for you, I guess.’ He produced an ingratiating smile. ‘Are you planning to buy Hukere Station, Mr Peredur? I’ve heard rumours of development, a farm park …’
‘I’m on holiday, nothing more,’ Cade said evenly, nodded, and strode back to his vehicle.
In her car, Taryn took a deep breath and switched on the engine. The hot air inside the vehicle brought a moment of giddiness, but at least it wasn’t too smoky. Grimacing, she looked down at her legs, stained and sticky with a vile mixture of sea water, perspiration and smoke. The swim she’d been promising herself all week had never seemed so desirable, but she should have said, No thanks, Mr Peredur, and headed back to the small studio unit that was her temporary home.
So why hadn’t she? She turned the key and waited patiently for the engine to fire.
Partly because she’d wanted to get away from Jason. But more because she was curious—and that forbidden tug of response excited her as much as it alarmed her.
Her mouth curled into a wry smile as she eased the car up the hill. It would take a woman made of iron to look at Cade Peredur and not feel something. As well as innate strength and authority, he possessed a brain that had taken him to his present position. Add more than a dash of ruthlessness to that potent mix, and the fact that he looked really, really good …
Yes, definitely a top-of-the-list male.
But not a man any sensible woman would fall in love with.
Not that that was going to happen.
Bitter experience had taught her that although she could feel attraction, when it came to following through on it she was a total failure.
In a word, she was frigid.
Without volition, her thoughts touched on Peter, the jumble of shock and sorrow and bewilderment assailing her as it always did when she recalled his proposal—so unexpected, so shatteringly followed by his death. Guilt lay permanently in wait, making her wonder yet again whether her response had driven him to take that final, lethal step.
If only she’d been a little less incredulous—if she hadn’t laughed—would he have made a different decision?
If she’d stayed in England as he’d wanted her to, instead of coming home, would she have been able to help him get over her refusal?
All those ifs, and no answers …
The car skidded slightly. Feeling sick, she dragged her mind back to driving. Although the station road was well maintained, it still required concentration.
At Anchor Bay she pulled up and switched off the engine. Cade Peredur’s big Range Rover stopped beside hers and he got out, appraising eyes coolly intent as he surveyed her.
Tall as she was, a little more height would be a distinct asset when it came to dealing with this man. Taryn tried to dissipate another tingle of sensation by collecting her bag. As she walked towards Cade she felt embarrassingly self-conscious. She glanced away, gaze skimming a huge flame tree to one side of the bay, and caught sight of the house.
It was a relief to be able to say something impersonal. ‘Oh, the bach is still here,’ she exclaimed. She’d half-expected some opulent seaside mansion, suitable for very rich holidaymakers, against the bush-covered slope that backed the lawn.
‘Bach?’
‘The local term for a small, basic cottage, usually by a beach or a lake.’
Cade said, ‘Obviously you know the place.’
‘When I was at school, the previous owners allowed the school to hold its camps here—it’s a very safe beach. The bach was just a ruin then. Possums used to nest in the ceiling, and I’ve no doubt there were rats under the floor.’ She looked around reminiscently. ‘Over there, under that pohutukawa, when I was thirteen I was offered a cigarette by a boy I was madly trying to impress.’
‘And did you accept it?’
She gave him a mock-scandalised glance. ‘Are you kidding? My parents are doctors! I stopped trying to impress him right then.’
He smiled. ‘Good for you. Would you like to see what’s been done to the house?’
It was difficult to match the abandoned shell she recalled to the house now. It had been almost completely reconstructed, its stone outer walls repaired and the timber ceilings stripped and oiled so that they gleamed.
‘It looks great,’ Taryn said, gazing around the long living room.
Although it must have cost a mint to renovate, it didn’t look glossy or smartly out of place. Comfortable and beachy and cool, it had shelves containing a large collection of books and some seriously good pictures hung on the walls. Somehow it suited Cade Peredur.
He said, ‘There’s a changing room and a shower in the cabana over by the flame tree. You can leave your bag and your clothes there—I’ll join you in a few minutes and bring you down a towel.’
She summoned a bright smile. ‘Thank you. And then I can prove to you how competent I am in the water.’
Cade’s answering smile didn’t soften his face. In fact, Taryn thought as she walked across the coarse warm grass to the beach hut, the curve of his firmly chiselled mouth had made his striking, hard-edged face seem both cynical and forbidding.
Safely in the small building, she wondered if anything ever did soften those arrogant features. When he kissed …?
She tried to imagine being kissed by Cade Peredur. Heat sizzled through her at the thought, but she couldn’t see his face softening into a look of … well, love was out of the question, but what about lust?
The word soften just didn’t fit the man. In his world it took an intimidating blend of brains, courage and formidable will to reach the top of the tree. When he kissed a woman it would be as a conqueror.
Hastily, she stripped off her clothes, pulling a face as she discarded them. They smelt disgusting—a mixture of smoke and sweat. They looked horrible too, both shorts and T-shirt smeared with ashy smudges and black marks. Even her bikini stank of the fire.
So, probably, did her hair and her skin.
Blissfully, she washed it all off in the sea’s warm caress. A few minutes after she waded into the water, she caught movement on the beach from the corner of her eye and inched her head around so she could watch Cade Peredur stride across the sand.
Her heart jumped, startling her. Formidably and blatantly male, he seemed like some potent, elemental figure from the dawn of time—sunlit bronze skin and a perfect male body showing off sleek muscles that proclaimed strength and energy.
Some of which she could do with right now. Deep in the pit of her stomach, that hidden part of her contracted and sent another hot wave of sensation through her.
Lust, she thought, trying to douse it with a prosaic and practical attitude.
Although she’d never experienced anything so powerful before, this keen urgency that alerted every cell, tightening her skin and making her heart race, was merely run-of-the-mill physical attraction.
And if she tried to act on it, she knew exactly and in humiliating detail what would happen next; it would vanish, leaving her cold and shaking with that familiar fear. But even those mortifying memories couldn’t banish the shimmers of sensation that pulsed through her, stimulating and undisciplined.
She turned away when Cade dropped his towel and made a fluid racing dive off the rocks at the side of the bay. An unexpected wave caught her—unexpected because she was too busy drooling over the man, she thought furiously as she inhaled water. Spluttering, she spat out a mouthful of salt water and coughed a couple of times to clear her lungs, opening her eyes to see her host heading towards her, strong arms cutting through the waves.
Oh, how … how inane! She’d probably just convinced him she wasn’t safe in a shower, let alone the sea.
Sure enough, he trod water when he reached her and demanded, ‘Are you all right?’
The sun-dazzled sparkles of water clogging her lashes surrounded him with an aura, a dynamic charge of power that paradoxically made her feel both weak and energised at the same time.
‘Fine,’ she returned, only a little hoarse from the dousing. Her heart was thudding as though she’d swum several kilometres through raging surf.
Get a grip, she commanded.
The last time she’d felt anything remotely like this she’d been nineteen and amazingly naive. She’d decided it had to be love, and became engaged on the strength of it. What a disaster that had turned out to be!
But there was nothing girlishly callow about her response to this man. Her body throbbed with a dark, potent sexuality unlike anything she’d ever experienced before.
She’d deal with that later. Right now, she had to get herself back onto an even keel.
Somehow she managed to produce a smile and said the first thing that popped into her head. ‘Race you to shore.’
Cade’s brows shot up as though she’d surprised him, but he recovered instantly. ‘You get a handicap.’
‘OK,’ she agreed.
However, even with the handicap, he beat her comfortably. At least swimming as fast and as hard as she’d ever done worked off some of that wildfire energy.
When she stood up he said, ‘You’re good.’
‘I was brought up almost in the water,’ she said, breathing fast. He too, she noted with satisfaction, was breathing more heavily than normal. She added, ‘My parents love the sea so much they called me after it.’
‘Taryn?’
‘No, Taryn is apparently derived from an Irish word meaning rocky hill. I had an Irish grandmother. But my second name is Marisa, which is from a Latin word meaning the sea.’
He observed dryly, ‘It’s a very pretty name, but I don’t think it would help if you got cramps and there was no one around to help.’
‘I’ve never had even the slightest twinge of cramp,’ she said defensively, extremely aware of the way water gleamed along the muscular breadth of his shoulders, highlighting the effortless power beneath the skin. ‘Anyway, I know how to deal with it.’
‘Those medical parents?’
‘And a Pacific upbringing,’ she said shortly. ‘Want to know how it’s done?’
He laughed. ‘Like you, I’ve never had cramp, but just in case—yes, demonstrate.’
When he laughed he was really something, she thought confusedly. Trying to speak prosaically, she said, ‘First you change your kick. That often works. If it doesn’t, take a deep breath and float face down, then pull your leg up, grab your foot and yank it upwards.’
She demonstrated, glad to be able to hide her face in the water for a few seconds. When she’d finished, she stood up and said, ‘That almost always does the trick, I’m told.’
But he wasn’t going to let her off so easily. Bumblebees zoomed through her bloodstream when he scanned her face with hooded blue-grey eyes. ‘And if it doesn’t?’
‘Assume the same position and massage the offending muscle,’ she told him succinctly, taking a surreptitious step back before her brain scrambled completely, overcome by all that bronzed skin, sleeked by water and backed by muscles and hard male authority.
He laughed again, teeth very white in his tanned face. ‘Fine, I’ll accept that you can deal with cramp. Are you on shift work to be able to take the day off?’
The abrupt change of subject startled her. ‘I’m not working right now.’
His brows met over the distinguished blade of his nose. ‘Really?’
Was there a hint of disparagement in his tone? Taryn bristled. Parrying a keen, questioning look, she said with cool reserve, ‘I’ve been overseas, and when I came back I took a job selling souvenirs to tourists. It’s getting close to the end of summer and tourists are slackening off, so I’m no longer needed.’
‘Is there plenty of work around here?’ His voice was casual. ‘The village looked to be pretty small.’
Aramuhu was small, and there were very few jobs. But her future was none of his business. ‘I’m sure I’ll find something,’ she said dismissively.
He smiled. ‘I’m sure you will.’
Something in his tone caught her attention. Their gazes met, clashed, and the glint of awareness in his eyes summoned an intense, elemental response from her.
Taryn forced herself to ignore the shiver scudding down her spine, the tingle of anticipation.
Her breath stopped in her throat and she had to fight an odd belief that those few seconds of silent combat were altering the very fabric of her life, fundamentally changing her so that she’d never be the same again.
This unexpected attraction was mutual. Cade felt it too and, if she were willing, he’d probably enjoy a light-hearted, temporary affair.
Taryn didn’t do casual affairs—didn’t do any sort of affair. She’d had more than enough of the stark embarrassment when men realised that, although she could shiver with desire, when it came to actually making love she froze.
Her impetuous youthful engagement had caused such fierce disillusionment she’d been left emotionally bruised, so wary she’d never allowed herself to feel anything more than friendship for the men she’d met. Over the years she’d developed effective methods of brushing off unwanted approaches, yet this time temptation whispered seductively through her.
She’d stay well away from him—not give herself any chance of weakening. Turning away, she dived back into the welcoming water.

CHAPTER THREE
CADE didn’t follow her. Taryn told herself she should be pleased. She’d be prepared to bet her next year’s income—always providing she had one, she thought uneasily—that on his home turf he’d be hip-deep in swooning women. He had to be in his early thirties and he wasn’t married. Most men with his financial and personal assets would enjoy playing the field.
As she hauled herself up onto the rocks she decided acidly that when he did make up his mind to marry he’d probably choose a glamorous model or actress. After five years or so he’d divorce her and marry a nice girl from his own strata of society—whatever that was—who’d give him the required couple of children. And in his fifties he’d divorce the second wife and marry a trophy one thirty years younger.
And she wouldn’t want to be any of those wives.
That thought made her grin ironically before she slid back into the water.
Half an hour later she’d showered and reluctantly got back into her smelly shirt and shorts, emerging from the luxurious cabana to meet Cade, his muscled elegance defined by clothes that made her feel like a ragamuffin.
Only for an instant. The appreciative gaze that skimmed her bare legs did considerable damage to her composure. How on earth could he convey leashed interest with one swift glance—a glance that set her treacherous blood fizzing?
Possibly she’d misread his attitude, because his voice was coolly impersonal when he asked, ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘No, thank you,’ she said at once, squelching a pang of regret. ‘I smell of smoke and I really want to get out of these clothes.’
And could have bitten her tongue out. Would he think she’d made an unsubtle proposition? If he said something about a Freudian slip she’d have to bite back an indignant reply in case he guessed what she’d been thinking.
But he was too sophisticated to take her up on her clumsy choice of words. Not a muscle in his face moved when he said, ‘Then some other time, perhaps.’
‘That would be nice.’ Taryn thought in self-derision that platitudes were so useful for filling in awkward moments.
Then Cade’s smile hit her like a blow to her solar plexus. It turned her thoughts into chaotic, disconnected responses—all of which indicated, He is utterly gorgeous …
And he knew the effect that smile had on the opposite sex too.
Calmly, he said, ‘If you want to swim, come and do it here. Nobody is going to want to swim in the next bay for a while.’
‘I … That’s very kind of you,’ she said automatically. Yet another platitude.
Of course she wouldn’t accept. Yet some traitorous part of her couldn’t help wondering if this surprising invitation was the first step in—what?
Nothing, she thought sturdily, but heat scorched her cheeks and she hastily bent to pick up the bag containing her togs.
‘So that’s agreed,’ he said calmly.
Taryn had never met another man with his uncompromising aura of authority and controlled, potent sensuality. She preferred her male companions to be interesting and unthreatening.
Like Peter.
That memory drove the colour from her skin. She produced a meaningless smile and said, ‘Actually, it isn’t, but it’s very kind of you to offer, and I’ll probably take you up on it.’
She got into the car, frowned as the engine took a sluggish couple of moments to power, waved with one hand and drove off.
Cade watched the elderly vehicle, its persistent rattle deepening his frown. It certainly didn’t look as though she had all Peter’s money; if she did, she’d have been able to buy a brand-new car. The amount he knew for certain she’d received wasn’t enough for that.
Perhaps she was canny enough to save it.
Unfortunately, he didn’t know enough about her to make any reasonable judgement.
But that, he decided, could be dealt with. If she needed a job, he could provide her with one for long enough to find out whether she was a money-grubbing opportunist …
Taryn stopped at the top of the hill to look down into the next desolate bay. One fire engine remained there and a couple of the firemen were checking the perimeters of the burn but, although wisps of smoke still drifted up, the fire had clearly been controlled.
No little red car, either, she noted. Her frown deepened. Jason was becoming rather too pressing, a nuisance.
But not dangerous.
Unlike the man she’d just left.
Dangerous? She gave a snort and muttered, ‘He’s a businessman, for heaven’s sake.’
Tycoons Taryn had seen on television or in the news were sleek, well dressed and well manicured. The thought of them being dangerous anywhere but in the boardroom was laughable.
So what made her foolish mind fix on that word to describe Cade Peredur?
Instinct, she guessed,
And Cade had certainly looked dangerous when he was scotching those greedy tongues of flame. He’d used her wet towel like a weapon, flailing it with an economy of movement that showed great strength as well as determination.
Also, there had been something in his manner when he approached Jason that had indicated a formidable male threat—one Jason had recognised.
OK, Cade was dangerous, as any strong man could be. But he was in complete control of all that strength. And none of it was directed at her.
So she didn’t have to worry or feel intimidated.
Images of his powerful body filled her mind. Water-slicked and gleaming, every long muscle lovingly delineated, he’d stolen her breath away.
Yes, her decision to see no more of him had been the right one. She glanced down, frowning at the sight of the tight fist pressed against her heart, and let her hand drop, spreading out the fingers before shaking them so they relaxed.
Plenty of women must have felt the same surging chemistry when they set eyes on Cade Peredur. Some of them would have ended up in his bed.
‘Lots, probably,’ she said aloud to a fantail flirting its tail from a nearby bush as it kept its beady black eyes fixed on her.
Smiling, she confided, ‘Men like Cade Peredur—men who positively seethe with masculine confidence—al-ways know they’ve got what it takes to make a woman happy in bed.’
Unless she was inherently cold …
But not one of his lovers had managed to make their liaison permanent.
And when—if—she ever fell in love properly, with a man who’d understand her fear of sex and help her overcome it—she wanted permanence, a lifelong alliance like that between her parents. She wanted trust and equality and a family, laughter and commitment and security.
None of which immediately brought Cade to mind.
‘So forget about this love business,’ she told the fan-tail. ‘Because I don’t think the sort of man I want exists in this world.’
And she’d keep away from any more chance meetings with Cade Peredur. Next time she was struck by the urge to go to the beach she’d slake it with a shower. She wouldn’t have to keep it up for long; he had to have things to do and places to go—empires to run, worlds to conquer, women to overwhelm—so he’d soon leave New Zealand.
And, once he was gone, her life would return to normal. No chills, no cheap thrills when those hard blue eyes met hers, no shivering awareness of his sheer physical impact …
For several moments more she stood looking down at the blackened landscape, frowning at the ugly stain across the grass and the rank smell of incinerated vegetation.
Then she stiffened her spine and got into the car and drove back to the sleepout she rented in an orchard a few kilometres from the village. Basic but comfortable, it boasted a miniature kitchen and a slightly larger bathroom, and the wide terrace outside made up for the lack of space within.
Clean once more, and in fresh clothes, she picked up an apple from the bowl on the bench and dropped into the lounger to demolish the fruit, carefully not thinking of Cade Peredur.
She needed to find work. She’d quite enjoyed selling souvenirs to tourists, but the summer wave of visitors through the village had receded, leaving her behind.
Jobless and drifting …
Ever since Peter had killed himself, an aching emptiness made her question the value of her existence.
‘Time to stop it,’ she said out loud, and made a sudden resolution.
Drifting was for slackers, for losers.
It was more than time to find some direction to her life. Before she’d gone to the United Kingdom, she’d enjoyed her work in one of Auckland’s largest libraries. In London she’d worked in a coffee shop run by a New Zealand friend until she met Peter. They’d clicked straight away and he’d introduced her to his friends—a very earnest, intense artistic circle who’d treated her as a kind of mascot.
Peter had even found her a new job; she’d been in her element cataloguing the immense library collected over fifty years by the deceased uncle of one of his acquaintances.
Although she and Peter had become close, there had been no sexual spark between them, so his proposal had come as a shock. She’d thought he was joking and burst out laughing.
Only he hadn’t been. And then she’d had to refuse him as gently as she could.
His death had horrified her. She should, she thought wearily, have realised it wasn’t artistic temperament that caused his bouts of depression, always followed by tearing high spirits. She had wondered if something was wrong, but it had never occurred to her that she might be the cause.
Assailed by questions for which she’d never know the answers, and bitter remorse at not handling the situation better, she’d come back to Aramuhu, the only place she’d ever really called home.
But there was nothing here for her, no answers. So now what? The future stretched before her, featureless and uninviting.
‘I need to make a plan,’ she said aloud, resisting an impulse to give up. Unlike her parents, she was not a born rover. Yes, she wanted some purpose in her life, and she’d like to settle somewhere like Aramuhu, with a steady job in a nice library.
Unfortunately, the village was too small to be able to afford a salaried librarian. Like the fire brigade, the busy little library was run by volunteers.
OK, so if she were Cade Peredur, how would she go about making a worthwhile life?
A list of all the things she had to offer would be a good start. ‘So what’s stopping you from doing that?’ she asked the empty room, and got out of the chair.
The following morning she surveyed the list with a frown. It looked reasonably impressive—she hoped.
Much more impressive than the bank statement she’d just opened. It told her she had enough money to last for two weeks. Something perilously close to panic pooled icily beneath her ribs.
Ignoring it, she sat down and wrote at the bottom of her list: Stay here?
That had to be her first decision. Living was cheap in Aramuhu—but the sleepout was used for kiwi fruit pickers in season, so it was temporary. She could stay there for another couple of months, perhaps.
She could go to her parents in Vanuatu, but she had no medical skills, and they didn’t need a librarian or even a secretary. Besides, it would only ever be a stopgap.

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