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Taken by the Pirate Tycoon
Daphne Clair
Melting the ice princess!Jase Moore is determined to shake Samantha Magnussen’s touch-me-not façade. Could this ice princess really be out to steal his sister’s new husband? This pirate tycoon will distract her – the only way he knows how! Why does this provocative stranger have such a low opinion of her?Jase’s angry contempt gets under Samantha’s protective shell. While his voice – dark, and full of unspoken sinful promise – storms her heart and offers temptation too hard to resist…



Excerpt
The solid front door was closed. Jase went forward and laid his hand on the brass handle, but didn’t open it immediately, instead surveying her with an assessing gaze.
Samantha took a determined step towards the door. He’d have to open it or move out of the way.
Instead he lifted his other hand and closed it about the nape of her neck, pulling her to him. Then as her mouth parted in startled protest he leaned towards her and she felt his warm lips on hers, a slight pressure parting them further.
Daphne Clair lives in subtropical New Zealand, with her Dutch-born husband. They have five children. At eight years old she embarked on her first novel, about taming a tiger. This epic never reached a publisher, but metamorphosed male tigers still prowl the pages of her romances, of which she has written over forty for Harlequin Mills & Boon®, and over sixty all told. Her other writing includes non-fiction, poetry and short stories, and she has won literary prizes in New Zealand and America.
Readers are invited to visit Daphne Clair’s website at www.daphneclair.com

Taken By the Pirate Tycoon
By

Daphne Clair



MILLS & BOON®
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/)

Chapter One
IT WAS Auckland’s society wedding of the year. Although the bride had come from nowhere, the daughter of a former employee of Sir Malcolm and Lady Donovan, the groom was the Donovans’ only son—and until today one of New Zealand’s most eligible bachelors.
Following the ceremony in the historic missionary church at Donovan’s Falls, Sir Malcolm’s widow had organised a lavish reception at Rivermeadows, the family’s gracious nine-teenth-century homestead.
Samantha Magnussen had dressed for the occasion in a superbly designed rich-cream silk summer suit. Her naturally blonde hair was styled to a shining cap that swung forward at her earlobes. A hot-pink wide-brimmed hat trimmed with huge gauze roses shaded her face from the sun and reflected a subtle warmth to her complexion. The slim purse she carried and the elegant Italian-made shoes on her narrow feet perfectly matched the colour of the hat.
Samantha had never been able to acquire a suntan, but the expertly sprayed salon version gave her bare arms and legs a convincing golden glow.
She might find the light blue eyes she’d inherited from her Scandinavian forebears colourless and uninteresting, the refusal of her hair to thicken or take any kind of curl frustrating, and certainly her mouth lacked the lush fullness that many women would endure the pain of injections to achieve. But Samantha knew she was fortunate in having regular features and smooth, fine skin. With skilful application of the right makeup her nondescript looks could pass for a kind of beauty.
And today she wanted to look her best.
Approaching the bridal couple where they stood at the top of the wide steps leading to the long veranda and the homestead’s massive front door, she stifled a stab of jealousy as Bryn Donovan bent his handsome dark head to his bride and smiled at her with an intimacy that Samantha had never experienced. Not with Bryn, not with any man.
He was still talking to the last person to shake his hand when his new wife raised her brown eyes to Samantha.
Noting the difference in height between herself and Bryn’s bride, she asked herself with a touch of cynicism why tall men seldom chose women close to their own stature.
There was only one way to get through the next several hours—slip into her Society Event persona. Pinning on her well-practised social smile, she introduced herself to Rachel, and as Bryn turned at the sound of her voice, added, “Bryn’s a very good friend.” Reminding herself: And that’s all.
She put a hand on his shoulder and kissed him, a brief, non-sexual peck on his warm but unresponsive lips, surely allowable on his special day. Some people routinely greeted close friends this way.
Then she stepped back, her hand involuntarily sliding down the front of his jacket before returning to her side.
“Congratulations, darling,” she said lightly, making Bryn’s brows lift a fraction, his smile turn quizzical. “I never thought you’d do it. I guess even the tallest tree in the forest has to fall sometime.” But not in my direction. Her smile, hiding piercing disappointment, didn’t waver.
Bryn laughed, easily. “Very philosophical.” He hooked an arm about Rachel’s waist and pulled her closer. “I’m a lucky man.”
Samantha had seen other intelligent and good-looking—and wealthy—men snared by women with little to offer beyond a pretty face and a passable pedigree. Still, although Rachel might lack the pedigree, apparently she wasn’t short of brains—a historian and author, no less.
Studying the young woman for a moment, Samantha saw wariness in the dark eyes, perhaps uncertainty, but also determination in the tilt of her chin. Maybe Bryn had met his match. “You know,” she told him, with reluctant respect for his choice, “I’m sure you’re right. Does she know what she’s taking on?” Bryn could be a formidable presence.
“I do,” Rachel answered firmly. “I’ve known Bryn since I was five.”
So keep off the grass? Samantha couldn’t help but be intrigued. Even with Bryn’s ring newly on her finger Rachel Donovan wasn’t convinced of her husband’s love.
Squashing a temptation to whisper in the bride’s ear, Don’t be such a goose! He’s all yours now, so make the most of it! Samantha said with genuine sincerity, despite the pang it cost her, “Well, I wish you all the best. I hope you’ll both be very happy.” She certainly wanted it for Bryn. Her gaze shifted to him, but already Rachel had recaptured his attention—the man couldn’t keep his eyes off her for a minute.
Samantha turned to walk away, her mouth unconsciously curving again in a wry, self-mocking smile, her eyes clashing with a deeply green, brown-flecked masculine stare no more than a metre or so away, that startled her with its glittering suspicion and animosity.
The eye contact lasted only long enough for a fleeting impression of a hostile storm-sea glare under lowered brows, a strong nose with flared nostrils, a clear-cut upper lip and a fuller, sensuous lower one, and a couple of weeks of dark growth lightly framing a wide, stubborn and very masculine chin.
The designer-stubble, just-got-out-of-bed look had never appealed to Samantha, yet despite his smouldering glare the beard shadow seemed to emphasise instead of detract from the man’s striking good looks.
She moved through the crowd on the spacious lawn, skirting chattering groups of guests holding champagne flutes or coffee cups.
Glad she’d had the forethought not to wear stiletto heels that would have sunk into the ground and impeded her progress, she paused only to take a full glass from one of the circulating waiters before coming to a stop under the shade of a huge old magnolia, and realised she was almost panting, as if she’d been running across the short-cropped grass instead of walking at a perfectly normal pace.
She’d not even looked round to see whom she should be making small-talk with. It might be a private occasion, but many business decisions had their genesis in chance—or not-so-chance—meetings at gatherings like this. There were movers and shakers here, potentially important contacts.
None of them impinged on her consciousness, her inner eye still focused on the stranger who had stared at her with such inexplicable ferocity.
His hair had been a shoulder-length mane of unruly dark brown, shot with streaks that glinted golden-red in the sun. She’d have assumed he’d had it professionally highlighted, except that the luxuriant, uneven waves looked as if they’d been trimmed with hedge clippers and pushed back from his forehead with impatient fingers. Like the other men here he was dressed formally, yet despite the pearl-grey suit of impeccable cut and fit, a snowy-white shirt and olive-green silk tie, he seemed totally out of place.
The tree cast a broad, protective shadow over chairs set about small tables holding plates of gourmet hors d’oeuvres. A quick glance at the guests seated there showed her no one she knew, and right now she felt unsettled, not up to making polite conversation with strangers.
Perhaps she should have brought along a partner—any of a number of male friends would have been happy to oblige. But she hadn’t wanted the bother of maintaining at close quarters a pretence of enjoying herself, and making sure a companion actually did.
Anyway, she didn’t need a crutch, or a smokescreen. No one would imagine that Samantha Magnussen was without an escort for any reason but her own choice.
Taking a few steps out of the shade, she paused to admire the Donovan mansion. Beautifully maintained, it had stood the test of time with its white-painted timbers and long windows, gabled roofline and tall chimneys.
She was the daughter of a man who had made a fortune erecting much-admired public buildings and some very exclusive private homes. Throughout her childhood the family had moved from one show house to another, each bigger and more opulent than the last, superb advertisements for her father’s burgeoning business.
Yet she had a special liking for beautifully crafted old houses like this one, with its air of permanence and grace, home to successive generations of one family.
She had been curious to see Rivermeadows for herself. That her first chance to do so had been Bryn Donovan’s wedding invitation was perhaps ironic.
He and his bride were posing for photographs now on the wide steps, along with their attendants and various family members, the groups shifting from one take to the next.
The man who had fixed his inimical glare on Samantha mounted the steps with others for several shots, and Samantha wondered where he fitted in.
For a second time his eyes found hers. Even at this distance she felt the full force of his hostility, as if something had thumped her in the chest.
What was with the man? She was certain she’d never seen him before in her life. He surely had no reason to dislike her at first sight.
Even this late in the afternoon, perspiration was forming on her forehead under the brim of her hat. Looking away from the group on the steps, she caught sight of a path leading to the rear of the house. It would be cooler there, and the guests had been given carte blanche to enjoy the gardens for an hour while the wedding party was photographed, before a formal meal.
Slowly she made her way to the rear of the house where people gathered on a shaded terrace. Past the swimming pool, an archway invited a stroll under tall trees with flowers and plants beneath them. No one seemed to be taking up the opportunity and Samantha was alone as, sipping at her champagne, she followed the winding path until she found a small summerhouse shrouded in flowering climbers.
Removing her hat, she stepped into the dim, shady interior and sat down on a narrow bench. Then she leaned her head against the latticed wall and closed her eyes, allowing the peace and privacy to quiet her confused emotions.
She hadn’t expected to feel so despondent about Bryn Donovan’s marriage. It wasn’t as though he’d ever shown the slightest sexual interest in her, even before Rachel Moore returned from working overseas and apparently bowled him over. For as long as Samantha had known him Bryn had been involved with some other woman, any hiatus between female companions soon filled.
For the past three years he and Samantha had been business associates, becoming firm friends. She wasn’t sure when she’d begun to hope that friendship might one day morph into something more. And now it was too late.
Since the announcement of his engagement she’d tried to banish fruitless might-have-beens, persistent fantasies of how it would feel to be loved by a man like him.
Almost thirty years old and in good health, in charge of the very successful firm she’d inherited from her father, Samantha had the respect of the commercial community, the loyalty of a select circle of friends, and her choice of several undemanding and pleasant men whenever she needed one at her side for social reasons, or simply felt like enjoying male company.
Everything she needed or wanted was hers, and yet…
Something alerted her—perhaps a shadow falling across the doorway, a soft sound, or a change in the air around her.
Reluctantly opening her eyes, she recognised with a start the looming masculine bulk that blocked the entrance. He’d un-knotted the green tie that matched his eyes, and it hung loose, the collar of his shirt unbuttoned and showing a vee of sun-browned skin. He was watching her, unsmiling, leaning on the doorframe with arms crossed, one black-leather-shod foot angled across the other ankle.
A pirate, she thought fancifully. Or a brigand. With his raffish beard-growth and untameable hair he seemed not to belong in the twenty-first century.
She sat up straighter, the movement sending her hat sailing silently from its perch on her knee to the leaf-strewn floor of the summerhouse. “Are you following me?” she demanded.
Someone had told her once that she had a smoky note in her voice, although apart from a brief teenage fling with cigarettes she’d always been a non-smoker. For some reason, at this moment the slight huskiness was more marked than usual, and she wished she could start over, make the question sharp and clear.
It didn’t appear to have impressed this man. The way a corner of his mouth twisted was almost a sneer. “Are you running from me?” he countered.
“Of course not. I don’t even know you. Do I?” She supposed it was possible they’d met somewhere before—a long time ago in a land far away? Mentally she shook herself. The champagne must have gone to her head. She should have eaten some of the delicious-looking finger foods being offered.
The man answered, “You don’t know me.” His voice was velvet underlaid with gravel, dark and full of unspoken, sinful promise. He straightened, then swooped forward to pick up the hat that lay between them, holding it in his left hand as he introduced himself. “Jase Moore. Brother of the bride.”
Samantha put down the empty champagne flute and stood, wanting to leave but she’d have had to step round him. Well-inculcated good manners made her offer her hand. “I’m Sa—”
“I know.” Jase Moore didn’t crush her bones as some men did, but his clasp was strong. “Samantha Magnussen, a very good friend of Bryn’s.”
She had always used a firm grip, but her fingers when his closed around them seemed about to melt. Releasing her, he said, “I wouldn’t be the first man to follow you.”
How could she answer that remark? From someone else it might have been an attempt at flirtation, but this man’s bluntforce manner seemed to preclude anything as light and inconsequential as flirting.
A shiver ran through her, for no reason except that Jase Moore, although no longer touching her, was standing so close she could hear the quiet sound of his breathing, see the amazing length of his thick black lashes. The unfathomable green of his eyes looked darker here in the leafy shadows, the pupils enlarged. He was taller than she’d thought, his eye level higher than hers.
She stepped back, her legs coming up against the seat behind her. “Why did you?” she asked. “Follow me? It wasn’t because…” because you like me. All too obviously he didn’t. Although she still couldn’t figure out why his dislike seemed to have such force, let alone why it had been so instant.
Realising it would sound like part of some playground tiff, she didn’t finish the sentence.
He did it for her. “…because of the usual reason?” A sort of smile flashed briefly, more like a half-snarl. “No.” He was blocking her way out of the small space that held them, his head tilted to one side while he inspected her. “Whatever your relationship might have been in the past with Bryn, it’s over now. He’s married to my sister, and that makes him offlimits to you or any other woman.”
Samantha’s cheeks burned. Humiliation and shock fed a searing, swift anger. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” she said, but her voice shook and she knew she sounded less than convincing, appalled that he’d read her so easily and quickly.
“You do,” he argued. “So watch your step, lady.”
Her head lifting, she steadied herself, regaining a semblance of her normal detached composure, and said precisely, “Whatever might or might not have been between Bryn and me is none of your business.” Damned if she was going to explain herself to this arrogant jerk. “And if you don’t trust your new brother-in-law, you’d better take it up with him.”
“I don’t see him carrying a torch,” Jase Moore replied with infuriating calm. “All the heat was coming from you. The ice princess look is only skin deep. Interesting.”
Inwardly Samantha was quivering, feeling exposed, naked. How could this stranger have divined in seconds her most private, well-protected secrets, without even exchanging a word or a touch? But she wouldn’t crumble under the assault.
She directed her chilliest stare into his watchful, probing eyes. Strong men had wilted under that look. “Either you’re drunk and delusional,” she said, “or you have an overactive imagination. You know nothing about me, and I certainly have no desire to know anything more about you. That you’re a boor and a bully is unfortunate for your sister, but we don’t choose our relatives. For the first time I’m grateful I don’t have brothers. Now, may I have my hat, please? I’d like to go back to the party.”
Something sparked in the dark eyes that maintained their steady regard, and for a moment she thought he wasn’t going to comply. Then a grim smile touched his mouth and he gave a small nod, as if acknowledging an adversary. He stepped aside and held out the hat to her, allowing her to reclaim it.
She restrained herself from crushing the brim in her fingers as she brushed by him and walked away without hurry, resisting the urge to flee in haste, and annoyed that her legs felt shaky.
The nape of her neck prickled. She would not look back to see if Jase Moore was watching her retreat.
A boor and a bully, huh? Jase grinned with sardonic appreciation as Samantha Magnussen, her back straight and shining blonde head held high, rounded a bend in the path that took her out of sight.
Water off a duck’s back, lady. He’d been called worse, though never in such frigidly polite tones. And if the ice princess knew what was good for her, she’d take heed of his warning.
Rachel wouldn’t have thanked him for acting the big brother on her behalf—if she ever found out she’d tear strips off him. But the lifelong habit of looking out for his fiercely independent little sister hadn’t been obliterated by her years away from her family, nor by her decision to marry Bryn Donovan. The uncertainty in her eyes when Samantha Magnussen kissed Bryn and called him darling in that come-hither voice of hers had set all Jase’s protective instincts into overdrive.
And they hadn’t been appeased in the least by the woman’s enigmatic remark about never thinking Bryn would get married, or the measuring glance she’d given Rachel, as if sizing up a rival. After that kiss, which to Jase’s sharpened eye had seemed to last a fraction of a second too long, she’d trailed her hand down Bryn’s body in an almost proprietary gesture. Or perhaps she just hadn’t been able to keep herself from touching him.
Bryn had seemed oblivious, at least on the surface, to the fleeting but unmistakable regret on the blonde’s perfect oval of a face, and he’d have missed the Mona Lisa smile with which she’d turned from the happy couple.
It was the smile that had made Jase pursue her once the photographers had finished with the family. A smile like that could mean anything—and if it meant she wasn’t yet finished with Bryn Donovan, that she had hopes of enticing him away from Rachel, someone had to set her straight.

Chapter Two
THE formal part of the reception over, evening drew in and Samantha meant to quietly leave, and approached Bryn’s mother to thank her and say good-night.
“But you must stay for the dancing!” Lady Pearl insisted. A small, pretty woman, she had a knack of getting her way without seeming at all pushy. The big front room and adjoining formal dining room had been cleared, with a three-piece band set up in a corner, and once the newlyweds had circled the floor it quickly became crowded. “There are some nice young men without partners,” she said. “I’ll introduce you.”
Before Samantha could make a graceful excuse her hostess had laid one light but determined hand on her arm and lifted the other to signal someone. “Let me take your purse. I’ll put it on the hall table for you. Did you leave your lovely hat there?”
Samantha had, along with her jacket, revealing a sleeveless matching separate bodice held by thin beaded straps, the beading continuing around the low neckline and repeated at the hem just below her waist. A woman in a plain black dress relieving guests of surplus jackets and accessories had hung the hat and jacket on a brass coat-stand for her.
Reluctantly she allowed Lady Pearl to take her purse, not realising which nice young man had responded to their hostess’s summons until she felt an instantly recognisable male presence at her side.
“Jase,” the older woman said, “is Rachel’s brother. And Jase, this is—”
“We’ve met,” he told her.
“Oh, good! You know each other.” Apparently oblivious to the abruptness of his interruption, and Samantha’s frozen expression, Lady Pearl benignly ordered, “Well, then, get out there and enjoy yourselves.”
She stood expectantly beaming, and after a moment Jase lifted his brows and held out a hand that Samantha finally took, allowing him to lead her into the crowd.
“You don’t have to do this,” she muttered as he turned her to face him. “It wasn’t my idea.”
“Didn’t think it was.” His free hand settled on her waist and he brought the other, enclosing hers, close to his chest. “I’m doing it for Pearl.”
So was she, not wanting to appear rude. Somewhat to her surprise he led her into a smooth ballroom step rather than the more energetic dancing favoured by the younger guests. Automatically she leaned against his guiding hand as he took her into a smooth turn, his thigh brushing hers, and the slight contact awoke a peculiar sensation deep within her.
As if he’d felt it too, his eyes met hers, then he blinked fantastically long, thick lashes and turned his gaze over her shoulder.
Samantha swallowed, and said, simply for something to fill the silence between them and banish the odd intimacy of that moment, “Where did you learn to dance?”
He shrugged. “My mother, when I was about to attend my first high-school ball. She said the girls would be dressed up and looking their prettiest, and if I was going to step all over their toes it would spoil their evening.”
“I’m sure the girls appreciated it.” She kept her tone light and a little dry. They’d probably appreciated his appearance too. Even in his schooldays he must have had female classmates a-flutter.
She herself had always preferred men to be clean-shaven with neatly groomed hair. Yet on this particular man the unkempt look seemed entirely natural and somehow added to his…charm was hardly the word. To whatever it was that had made all her senses annoyingly spring to full-alert when he’d taken her hand and swept her onto the floor. A reaction so rare that it alarmed her.
He’d discarded the jacket and tie altogether now. In white shirt and grey trousers he looked relaxed, his movements assured and imbued with masculine grace.
“And,” he was saying, a glint of humour—mixed with something else—in the eyes again meeting hers, “it was a pretty neat way to get a girl into my arms.”
It was the something else—the suppressed but unmistakable spark of masculine awareness that made her realise she wasn’t the only one finding their forced proximity unsettling.
Rachel and Bryn danced by them. Rachel was smiling up at her new husband, and he bent to fleetingly kiss her lips, then said something to her as he drew back.
Rachel laughed, shaking her head.
And Jase’s hand hardened on Samantha’s waist, bringing her closer as he said in her ear, “Don’t even think about it. About him.”
Her head snapped backward and she glared into the hard olive-green gaze, no trace left of humour. “I wasn’t thinking about anything, except how soon I can decently get away.”
“From me?”
“That too,” she said frostily, an annoying heat in her cheeks as it occurred to her that if she said any more he’d assume she wanted to leave so she could nurse her supposedly broken heart.
Which, she assured herself, wasn’t broken or even chipped. Maybe a tiny bit cracked, but that would heal. She said, “I’m not fond of crowds.”
One dark brow twitched upward, and something new came into his eyes. Something she hoped wasn’t pity. Quickly she added, “It’s hot in here.” An excuse for the guilty, girlish flush.
Jase nodded curtly, and before she could guess his intention he’d steered her through open French doors, propelling her to the back terrace.
A group of smokers indulging their habit were the only people there. At an unoccupied table for two Jase pulled out a chair and said to Samantha, “Sit. I’ll get you a cold drink. What do you want?”
“I don’t need a drink.” Then it occurred to her that the offer was an excuse. He could leave and not come back. A way out for them both from their hostess’s misguided pairing. “I’ll be fine, if you—” leave me here was on the tip of her tongue, but unexpectedly he shrugged and dropped into the chair opposite hers.
“Okay,” he said. “Probably a wise decision.”
“I’m in no danger of getting drunk,” she said, more sharply than she’d intended.
“You’ve had at least four glasses of wine, and haven’t eaten much. Is that how you keep that figure?” He ran a quick, critical glance over her, the expression in his eyes veiled when they returned to hers. “Dieting doesn’t do you any good, you know.”
He’d been watching her? “I don’t diet,” she snapped, then deliberately moderated her voice. “And four glasses in four hours won’t take me over the limit.” Her last two drinks had been apple juice. She never overindulged in alcohol, but had learned to hold her own with business contacts who did, often making one glass last while they downed several.
“You’re driving?” Jase frowned.
“We’re a long way from the city,” she pointed out. Central Auckland was a good hour away from the rural community of Donovan’s Falls.
“You can afford to hire a driver, surely?”
Samantha wondered if he’d been asking questions about her, of the Donovans or their guests. Or had simply recognised her name. “I prefer to drive myself,” she said shortly. “Do you work in construction?” Surely she wasn’t so well-known that many people outside the field would have connected her with the firm that still bore her father’s name, and the wealth he’d accumulated.
“Nope. Well, you could say that now, I guess. Bryn just hired me. Is a timber merchant in the construction business?”
Had he been unemployed? “They can’t do without each other,” she said. “That was good of Bryn.” Presumably he’d offered the job for Rachel’s sake.
Something flickered across Jase’s face and was gone. Then he said, “He’s going to be quite a useful brother-in-law.”
Behind the careless tone she detected a hint of something suspiciously like mockery, reflected in his darkened eyes by the soft light from carriage lamps affixed to the wall of the house.
Even if he didn’t share his sister’s brains or ambition, maybe he’d had some kind of job, and Bryn had offered a better one. In any case, unemployment was no disgrace, though many people were embarrassed to admit to it.
She doubted this man shared that emotion. He was blunt to a fault himself. “What did you do before?” she asked.
He grinned as though for some reason the question amused him. “Mainly messed about with computers in my parents’ garage.”
A geek? That might account for his lack of social niceties.
“And helped out on their farm now and then,” he added.
A man and woman emerged from the house holding glasses of wine. Seeing Jase, they changed direction and walked towards the table. “Hey there!” The man grinned down at them. “Are we interrupting something?”
“No,” Samantha said before Jase could answer. “Actually I was just about to leave.” She made to get up but the man looked dismayed and laid a large, work-roughened hand on her shoulder to stay her. “Don’t move for us,” he urged. “If it’s a private conversation—”
Jase said, “If it was, you’d have just shoved your big manure-covered gumboot so far into it there’d be no hope of continuing anyway. Samantha Magnussen, this is my brother, Ben. And April, who for some unknown reason actually married this big dumb lug.”
Ben aimed a swipe in the general direction of his brother’s ear, expertly dodged by Jase, and then hooked a couple of chairs from an empty table for himself and his wife. After seeing April seated he said, “Nice to meet you, Sam,” and settled his sizeable frame into the other chair.
His grin was engaging, his gaze curious but friendly. Samantha didn’t even mind him shortening her name at first acquaintance. Despite his close-shaven cheeks and short-back-and-sides and the tie he still wore, he reminded her of a big, harmless Labrador. There was some family resemblance to Jase in his eyes and hair colouring, but there it ended.
His wife was dainty and shy and in the conversation that followed Samantha learned that April was from the Philippines, and they had met when Ben holidayed there a year or so earlier. Anyone could see they adored each other.
She felt a stab of envy. It seemed to be her day for it.
Because this was a wedding celebration? Perhaps it had something to do with her thirtieth birthday looming. But many of her contemporaries hadn’t married until well into their thirties, or weren’t going to bother at all, even if they had a partner. It was nothing to be concerned about.
In fact she’d never seriously thought about marriage, even when she’d begun thinking about Bryn in…that way. It had been just something that might happen at some vague future time.
When a pause came in the conversation April turned to Samantha. “A nice wedding,” she said in her prettily accented voice. “Rachel looks very beautiful.”
“Yes, she does.” Samantha tried to inject enthusiasm into the conventional agreement, avoiding Jase’s eyes.
“She’s a lovely girl,” April added. “Very nice.”
Samantha prepared herself to listen to a litany of Rachel’s virtues, but the other woman merely said, “I’m sure Bryn will be a wonderful husband.”
I’m sure too. Samantha didn’t say it aloud.
Ben said to his brother, “I hear you’re going to work for our new in-law. Bit of a change from your flippin’ games, staring at a ruddy screen all day. Ruin your eyes,” he warned.
“Beats staring at the back end of cow and getting covered in sh—ah—dung.”
“Huh!” Ben grunted. “About time you got yourself a proper job, you effing layabout.” He glanced at April as though she might object to the euphemism, but she merely shook her head reprovingly, trying to hide a smile.
“Okay, so I’m not a horny-handed farmer like you,” Jase said, and gave his brother a mock salute. “Backbone of the country and all that.”
“Gonna drive a truck for Bryn?” Ben inquired, grinning. “Stack timber? Do some real work for a change?”
Samantha couldn’t read the glance Jase threw her before answering. “Probably a bit of driving, for a start.”
As the brotherly banter continued, April turned to Samantha. “Take no notice of them. They’re always like this. Just because Jase didn’t want to be a farmer, and Ben can’t imagine doing anything else. But they’re very fond of each other really.”
Jase was lazily grinning at his brother’s teasing, a grin quite different from the guarded teeth-flashes he’d directed at her.
Samantha forced a smile. An only child herself, when young she had watched the sometimes rough-and-tumble interaction of her friends and their siblings with wistful envy. And here she was again, the outsider, the one who didn’t belong.
Attacked by a wave of melancholy, she stirred and stood up. “I really have to go,” she said, directing her social smile at Ben and April. “It was nice meeting you.”
To her surprise Jase rose too. Coming to her side, he touched her arm, saying, “You’re sure you’re okay to drive? I can take you home.”
They were entering the house and she said, astonished, “Why would you do that? Anyway, you must have been drinking too.”
“One glass of bubbly to toast the happy couple,” he replied. “Pearl asked for volunteers to stay cold sober and see that everyone got home safely.”
A consummate hostess, Pearl Donovan had thought of everything.
“I’m fine,” Samantha assured him. When they reached the wide, empty hallway she walked in a rigidly straight line down the centre of the carpet runner to the long hall table and retrieved her things. Stiltedly she said, “Thanks for the offer.”
The solid front door was closed. Jase went forward and laid his hand on the brass handle but didn’t open it immediately, instead surveying her with an assessing gaze.
Samantha took a determined step towards the door. He’d have to open it or move out of the way.
Instead he lifted his other hand and closed it about the nape of her neck, pulling her to him. Then as her mouth parted in startled protest he leaned towards her and she felt his warm lips on hers, a slight pressure parting them further.
Before she had even gathered her wits enough to push him away he released her.
Outrage at his daring to kiss her, and shock at the unexpected, contradictory sensations he’d aroused held her speechless. Her instinct was to slap his face, but with her hat in one hand and her bag in the other that wasn’t a real option. “What the hell—” she started to say, and stopped as she heard her voice shake.
“You don’t taste of alcohol,” Jase Moore told her calmly. He opened the door and stood waiting for her to pass through. “I guess you’ll be all right.”
Not trusting her voice, she lifted her head and gave him a stare that would have frozen the fires of hell, then swept by him without a word.
Ignorant, sexist opportunist! The man should be dressed in a bearskin and dragging a wooden club.
She negotiated the steps and followed the lights along the driveway to the temporary parking area in a close-shorn paddock. A security guard at the gate nodded to her and added the powerful beam of his torch to the lights set around the perimeter, until she located her car.
The guard waved to her and she drove slowly out of the gateway and accelerated along the road, tempted to put her foot down and express her anger by recklessly breaking the speed limit. She settled instead for calling Jase Moore every insulting name in her vocabulary, under her breath.
Thank heaven, she told herself when she finally ran out of epithets, with luck she’d never see the man again. If he was working as a truck driver for Donovans she’d hardly be likely to run into him at their city premises, even though her firm did a great deal of business with Bryn’s.
Why the hell—she asked herself the question she’d been unable to finish asking in the Donovans’ hallway—why had he kissed her? He certainly didn’t like her.
Had he meant to humiliate, show her she was vulnerable to male physical power? That he had the upper hand and she’d better heed his earlier warning?
And as for that You don’t taste of alcohol, as though he were some kind of human breathalyser…
Automatically dimming the headlights as another car crested a rise and sped towards her, she gave a tiny, scornful laugh.
She remembered the feel of his mouth on hers, the tang of pine and another unnameable, somehow seductive scent in her nostrils. The strength of his fingers curling about her nape.
And she remembered too, that when he drew back and released her, within the curve of the light beard his cheeks had showed a subtle colour along the bones.
Something stirred inside her. A peculiar mixture of fierce satisfaction and an unwanted but not unpleasant thrill replacing mortified fury.
He’d kissed her because he’d wanted to. Because he couldn’t help himself. And then he’d had to excuse it somehow. Because…
Samantha bit her lip. No use denying, ignoring it. Because despite his suspicion, his antagonism, and her own justifiably furious reaction, despite the hostility that arced between them like an alternating electrical current, something else sizzled under the surface. Something primordial, elemental.
Something sexual.
When Jase rejoined his brother and sister-in-law, holding a glass of amber liquid, Ben gave him a quizzical look. “Moving in high-flown circles now, eh, mate? She doesn’t seem your type.” “She isn’t,” Jase answered shortly. “Bryn’s mother set us up.”
April asked, “Is that why she was uncomfortable?”
Jase looked at her in surprise. “I suppose.” He hadn’t thought anyone else would have noticed. He and Samantha had been unwillingly thrown together but good manners prevailed.
He’d expected Samantha would dance like a mannequin from a store window, looking great but stiff and haughty. Instead she’d been fluid and warm, supple and sinuous, easily following the slightest pressure of his hand, her steps matching, even anticipating his every movement.
For a moment or two he’d found himself wondering if she’d respond like that in bed, what it would be like to make love to her.
Not that he was likely to ever find out. Nor really want to, he assured himself.
Ben said, “She’s a looker.” Then grinned. “Too classy for the likes of you.”
“Uh-huh,” Jase grunted and picked up his glass to drink. The taste didn’t erase the memory of Samantha Magnussen’s soft lips, the warmth and sweetness of her mouth—so at odds with her aloof manner. Even the kiss—an impulse he should never have given in to—had only had the effect of making her amazing, almost translucent blue eyes turn glacial.
“Hey, that went down fast.” His brother broke in on Jase’s thoughts. Ben’s brows curved upward. He’d gathered his own and his wife’s empty glasses and pushed back his chair. “I thought you weren’t drinking.”
“Ginger ale,” Jase replied, and declined Ben’s offer to get him another.
“Do you like her?” April inquired quietly as her husband disappeared inside the house.
“Hardly know her,” Jase said. “We had one dance, she was feeling hot so I brought her out here.”
She certainly doesn’t like me.
Hardly surprising. She’d wanted to hit him after he’d kissed her. He had seen the reflexive movement of her arm before she dropped the hand holding that absurd hat to her side. He’d almost hoped she would, that at last she’d show some loss of her unwavering control.
Like what he had glimpsed when she greeted Bryn, a moment of real human emotion behind the lightly spoken words with their ambiguous undercurrent. But there was nothing ambiguous about the brief but telling betrayal of her feelings. She hadn’t been a happy guest at the wedding.
After the confrontation in the summerhouse he’d watched her from a distance, seen her greet several people, exchanging hugs with some of the women, one of whom did so with a piercing, “Samantha, darling! I haven’t seen you in an age!” From some of the men she’d accepted a kiss on the cheek, but never offered her lips. Once she laid a hand on a man’s arm for a second or two, making some laughing remark. The man—sixty-ish, grey-haired but still good-looking—smiled at her with unconcealed admiration and said something in return at which she laughed again.
The ice princess could turn on the charm when she wanted to. But when the man leaned closer she moved almost imperceptibly back, though keeping her smile intact. Not the way it had been with Bryn, as if she couldn’t stop herself touching him.
Showing a capacity for pain and passion under the Nordic cool. The woman was a walking contradiction.
Should he care? His only concern was for his sister. He wouldn’t allow anyone to hurt Rachel.

Chapter Three
SAMANTHA was unable to put the disturbing, infuriating Jase Moore out of her mind. For weeks, then months, she’d scarcely seen Bryn. She let her managers deal with him when business made contact necessary, and kept away from gatherings he might be expected to attend—with his wife at his side. Her social life was reduced to close friends and inescapable obligations, giving herself time to get over the surprisingly deep hurt of losing a man she’d had no claim on in the first place.
It couldn’t be that hard to return to viewing him as a friend and business colleague whose company she enjoyed. And her circumspection had nothing to do with Jase Moore and his misguided attempt to frighten her off.
It wasn’t as if Bryn had ever appeared to notice her perhaps too-tentative attempts to signal her growing interest—the lingering handshakes, the sincerity and warmth of her smile, the occasional fleeting touch. Now she wondered, if a perfect stranger could pick it up at first glance, had Bryn known all along? Known and not given her any encouragement because he simply didn’t find her sexually attractive? The thought made her inwardly squirm. Another reason to avoid him for a time.
She immersed herself in carrying on her father’s business, his life’s work. A brilliant builder, he had employed the very best workers, even poaching them without conscience from other firms, but had remained staunchly attached to traditional practices. He had never learned to use a computer himself, although conceding the need for them and paying his Information Technology Manager a handsome salary.
Samantha felt it was important to keep up-to-date if her firm was to maintain its premier position in a crowded industry. She booked for a one-day seminar on Future-Proofing Your Business, the star attraction being an American speaker whose books about the changing face of management she’d admired.
After seeing his name she hadn’t bothered to read the rest of the programme, sure the steep fee would be worth it just to hear him.
His keynote speech, first on the programme, convinced her she’d been right, but she was puzzled when before the next session she saw none other than Jase Moore carry a laptop computer onto the stage.
Her first thought was, It can’t be. Her second that he was there as a technician. Maybe he’d left Donovan’s already or been shifted from the transport department to one more to his liking.
He placed the computer on a table beside the microphone and lifted the lid. His white shirt, worn with dark trousers, was open at the collar, the sleeves rolled to the elbow. Obama casual, and it suited him.
Then the chairwoman stepped forward and began to introduce him. Samantha looked down at the programme in her hand, passing over a glowing CV of the guest speaker to the next page. Among a list of names and subjects, she saw “The Future of the Interfaced Workplace.” Speaker: J.S. Moore.
“Mr Moore,” the chairwoman was saying, “began his career in computer games, hitting the jackpot before he was out of his teens with his popular pirate series, ‘Pinnaces, Pillage and Plunder,’ and ‘Hunters of the High Seas.’”
Samantha’s mouth fell open and she quickly shut it again. She’d never played computer games, nor even looked at those included with her office programme, but she had seen TV ads touting the virtual environment games, and no one could miss the ubiquitous posters, T-shirts and novelty items emblazoned with the titles and characters.
“At the same time,” the chairwoman continued, “he was experimenting on his father’s farm, marrying farm machinery and electronics, leading to designing revolutionary systems for the agricultural sector, which are now used worldwide.”
The woman glanced at the notes in her hand. “Recently he’s been developing systems and machinery for industrial use, with a particular interest in safety and the use of virtual reality simulations for training, and the integration of office and workface into a seamless digital environment.”
Jase’s deep, confident voice woke Samantha from a whirling daze. She dimly recalled glancing through a couple of news articles mentioning the ubiquitous pirate games and their spin-off merchandise, and being somewhat surprised that their creator was apparently a multi-millionaire, fast catching up to the top ten richest people in the country.
His name hadn’t stuck. And she had no interest in agricultural machinery, so that too had passed her by.
Helped by computer-generated images on a large screen behind him, Jase clearly and fluently described a future of machinery and even surgical instruments controlled by operators simply thinking their commands to specialty computers.
Already Samantha used computer programmes to show clients three-dimensional “plans” for buildings, but he promised “a real-time physical walk-through of virtual buildings,” then went on to describe more ground-breaking work in fields that once were the domain of science-fiction.
When he was done, in answer to a query he quoted statistics about production losses due to industrial accidents, and called on Bryn, whom Samantha hadn’t seen seated in the front row, to come to the microphone and describe how Jase had improved production and safety at Donovan’s Timber.
At morning tea, among the throng around the tables bearing scones and muffins to go with their tea and coffee, Bryn caught her eye and made his way to her with Jase in tow.
Bryn kissed her cheek and said, “Haven’t seen you for a long while. What did you think of my brother-in-law?” He put a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “You met Jase at my wedding, didn’t you?”
Samantha gave Jase a nod of recognition. “Your presentation was very interesting.” She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of expressing surprise that he was not the idle loser he’d allowed her to imagine.
His “Thanks” was preceded by a faint twist at the corner of his mouth, as though he knew she found the compliment difficult, and that amused him.
Bryn said, “Some of the systems he put in place for us would probably work for you. In fact if we used the same programmes it could cut time and effort—even expense—for both our companies.”
Samantha just stopped herself from physically recoiling. Jase must have noticed. The curl at the corner of his mouth grew, and the hint of a dimple creased his cheek. She said, “I’ll think about it.”
A tubby man in a brown suit joined them, loudly quizzing Bryn about his experience with Jase’s services.
Jase moved closer to Samantha’s side and said sotto voce, under the chatter all around them, “Glad you took my advice.”
Something prickled along her spine. “I don’t remember you giving me advice.”
“Bryn hasn’t seen you for a while?” He nodded as if in approval, making her hackles rise further.
She clipped out, “We’re both busy people.”
Casting her a penetrating glance, he said, “How are you doing?”
Tempted to retort, What do you care? or preferably, Get lost! Samantha said shortly, “Fine, thank you. And Rachel?” she inquired pleasantly, trying to be civil as well as deflect the conversation from herself.
His eyes narrowed for an instant, becoming even greener, then he said evenly, “Happy. And I mean her to stay that way.”
“Surely that’s up to Bryn?” Samantha’s eyes went to his brother-in-law, still in conversation with the other businessman. “And Rachel. Who’s a grown woman,” she reminded him. From her own brief encounter with Rachel, the woman was no wilting flower. She’d seemed entirely capable of protecting her own marriage.
“She’s still my sister,” Jase said. “Getting married doesn’t change that. And I warn you, if necessary I’ll play dirty.”
She cast him a glance that would have refrozen the melting icecaps of the Antarctic, hiding a shocking flash of temper that made her palm itch to slap his head from his shoulders.
She wasn’t answerable to him for her feelings, or his misconceptions. “You’re the only one playing games,” she said. “They don’t interest me.”
Bryn turned to confirm something with Jase, and as the conversation continued between the three men she thought of slipping away, but hesitated, not wanting to appear to be running from Jase.
Then the other man reclaimed Bryn’s attention, and it was too late. Following on from their discussion, she asked dryly, “How much driving did you do before you were allowed to play with Donovan’s computers?”
For a moment he looked blank, before apparently recalling the conversation with his brother at the wedding reception. Then he laughed. “Quite a bit—travelling round the country to all the branches so I’d know how they operated and what was needed. Bryn wanted me to start with his sawmills, designing systems to increase safety.”
“That sounds like him,” she said, recalling Bryn’s almost haggard face after a near-fatal accident in one of Donovan’s mills when a worker in a careless moment forgot to observe its stringent safety rules. Her gaze strayed to him, still listening patiently to the man in the brown suit.
Jase’s brows drew together. Before he could say any more the crowd about them parted and someone touched Jase’s arm. A pretty brunette with bright lipstick on her mouth, she wore a black suit over a white blouse.
“Mr Moore,” she gushed, “that was a wonderful presentation. I’d love to have you come and talk to my executive staff.”
Samantha edged aside, and the man who had been monopolising Bryn turned his attention to the newcomer.
Bryn smiled at Samantha and said, “How about we get out of this scrum and find a place where we can catch up while we finish our coffee?”
Still riled at Jase, she let Bryn lead her to an empty lounge bar where the counter was closed. He sat at a small table across from her, and relaxed into the tub chair.
He was one of the few people with whom she felt safe lowering her guard. Taking over Magnussen’s after her father’s death hadn’t been easy. Bryn too had become head of a family business on his father’s death, and their similar experiences had given them a unique bond. Unlike her, he had spent years within the family firm before it became his, yet instead of taking advantage of her lack of experience, as some shrewd operators had, he’d offered advice and support.
And she wouldn’t kowtow to his brother-in-law’s erroneous view of her, give up a friendship she valued, simply because Jase Moore didn’t believe she could control her feelings.
Ironic, considering she’d spent a lifetime learning to do just that.
Twenty minutes went by quickly, and she slipped into the familiar territory of stress-free friendship, with only a slight lingering discontent that she’d missed her chance of something deeper.
At her last board meeting one of the members had resigned due to illness. Not so long ago Bryn would have been at the top of her shortlist for a suggested replacement, but she’d not put his name forward, afraid her feelings for him would be reactivated. Now she made a decision and put the invitation to him, firmly dismissing a twinge of trepidation. If Jase found out…
When they returned, the area outside the hall was nearly deserted, a few people hastily finishing their coffee or tea, and Jase lingered near the double door, one half already closed. Samantha saw the sharp look he directed at her and his brother-in-law, and instinct made her move closer to Bryn, her shoulder brushing his arm.
Jase’s eyes narrowed dangerously as Bryn put a light hand on Samantha’s waist to usher her into the big room before him.
They slipped into seats at the rear, Jase next to Bryn at the end of the row. As Samantha put her bag out of the way under her seat and straightened up she saw him fold his arms and stretch out his long legs.
For the rest of the seminar he was never far away each time she looked around her. She avoided him at lunch by sitting with a couple of other women, swapping war stories about sexism in business, but later, as she seated herself at the closing dinner, Jase slid into the chair beside her.
Apart from a cool nod of greeting she tried to ignore him, concentrating on the food and the other diners around the table. But she was conscious of his hands picking up his knife and fork, his voice when he spoke to others at the table, his laugh when someone cracked a joke, his leg brushing against hers as he reached for one of the bottles of wine on the table.
“Samantha?” He poised the bottle over her glass.
“Thank you.” She nodded without looking at him, and watched as with a steady hand he poured ruby-red wine into her glass before refilling his own.
He replaced the bottle and said in a low voice, “Where did you and Bryn get to during the tea break this morning?”
Her stomach clenched, remembering the look he’d directed at her on their return. He didn’t have the right to interrogate her, and she wasn’t going to be intimidated. “Somewhere private and quiet,” she said, driven by an obscure urge to needle him, because he certainly had no compunction about provoking her.
“Why?” Jase’s hand curled around the stem of his glass but he didn’t lift it.
“To talk,” she said. “Privately and quietly.” She turned to stare into his eyes, daring him to inquire further.
She might have known it would have no effect. He said, “What about?”
A knot of resentment had lodged in her chest. “If you really need to know,” she drawled, keeping her own voice down, “we made plans to run away together and set up house somewhere and have wild, uninhibited sex for days on end.”
The flash of shock and anger in Jase’s eyes, the sharp breath he drew gave her a moment of fierce satisfaction. Then she recalled his renewed warning earlier—If necessary I’ll play dirty—and a shiver slithered down her spine.
His eyes ominously glinting, Jase said flatly, “Not funny.”
“It wasn’t really meant to be. And what else isn’t funny is the way you’ve been stalking me all day.”
“Stalking?”
“Yes. Give it a rest, will you? It’s beginning to get on my nerves.”
“I didn’t think you’d be so easily rattled, ice lady.” His eyes had turned speculative, curious. “What are you hiding beneath that touch-me-not cool of yours?”
Her heart gave a heavy thud as though she’d just been confronted by a physical threat. “I’m not sure what you mean,” she said coolly. “What do you hide behind that fuzz on your face?”
He laughed. “Laziness, I guess. Can’t be bothered shaving every day. You don’t like it?”
“It’s nothing to do with me,” she told him. Any more than her friendship with Bryn was anything to do with Jase.
She ought to lay his suspicions to rest instead of goading him. But by making excuses she’d be tacitly admitting she was in the wrong. Besides, there was a certain pleasure in unsettling Jase Moore, a secret revenge for his low opinion of her.
He’d been right when he said the ice was only skin deep. Again today he’d made her angry—and frightened. She didn’t want him—anyone—to know how thin and fragile her protective coating was. That underneath the composed and confident business leader with a reputation as a gutsy and unflinching negotiator was a flesh-and-blood woman who hurt like anyone else.
But who didn’t dare show it. Jase Moore was one of the very few people who had seen through the brittle surface she presented to the world, and the only one who had done so without her permitting it.
That was why he made her so nervous.
Jase drove through the night to his home, an hour or so away near the provincial city of Hamilton, his mind annoyingly fixed on Samantha Magnussen. No woman had got under his skin the way she did.
Kissing her after the wedding had been a mistake. Irritated by the distant contempt with which she’d met his warning, he’d wanted to shake her chilly control. And figured that was a surefire way to do it.
Or so he’d tried to explain it to himself. After the fact.
At the time he’d simply done what seemed a damn good idea—for five seconds. And then justified it with that implausible comment about not tasting alcohol.
What he’d tasted had been unexpectedly warm, soft lips, feminine and sweet, that left him wanting more. The memory was still amazingly vivid.
Seeing her today, he’d wanted to do it again. At the same time, when she looked at Bryn and spoke of him with a note of affection in that sexy voice of hers, he’d wanted to shake her.
The small, mysterious smile on her lips when she’d turned away from the other man on his wedding day had set off warning bells in Jase’s head, and then she’d looked straight into his eyes, her poised, cool beauty concealing hidden fires. That kind of understated allure could drive any man wild.
It hadn’t escaped him that despite his warnings she’d made no promises not to try seducing Bryn, made no assurance that she had given up hope.
An old school friend of Samantha’s had organised a fundraiser for the Red Cross. “A kind of upmarket market,” she’d told Samantha enthusiastically. “A fun night for bargain hunters, with live music and a bar—to get the punters in the mood for spending,” she added, with a shrewd grin.
The big room was filled with Auckland’s art lovers, tycoons and socialites sipping champagne, peering at the donated goods and simply chatting—or in many cases networking.
Samantha had donated one of her father’s investment paintings to the cause, and dressed for the occasion in a plain black sheath with subtle silver threads in the weave. A fine silver chain around her neck held a single black pearl.
She saw Bryn, his wife by his side, an arm about her waist while they talked with another couple. Rachel wore an amber satin dress, and her thick dark curls were swathed atop her head in a way that Samantha’s pale, straight hair would never achieve.
Of course it was inevitable that someday—or night—she and Rachel would be in the same place at the same time. The only real surprise was that it hadn’t happened sooner.
While she hesitated about approaching the couple, Jase appeared from behind them, holding between his hands three wineglasses, two of which he adroitly passed to his sister and her husband.
Then, as if he’d felt Samantha’s gaze, he shifted his stance and his eyes found her despite the crush of people between them.
Someone touched her arm, and she turned gratefully to greet an older couple she’d known since childhood. They’d been among the first to arrive offering sympathy and help after her mother’s death, and had made an effort to console the bewildered and stricken thirteen-year-old. Although hardly able to respond to their kindness at the time, she’d kept in touch with them ever since.
They drifted off after obtaining a promise from her to visit in the near future, and she found Jase at her elbow. Although many of the men were in black ties, he was tieless, a crisp white shirt open at the neck under an out-of-fashion unbuttoned waistcoat.
He still favoured the unshaven look, but the dark shadow on his chin had never been allowed to develop into a full beard. She suspected his style, if it could be called that, owed more to an uncaring attitude than deliberation, yet his dressed-down appearance amounted to a sort of dishevelled chic that few men could have carried off.
His eyes held hers with the intensity of a high-end laser. “Samantha.” His gaze dropped over her low-cut, clinging black dress before his eyes returned to her face. The glitter that had appeared in the darkened depths evoked contradictory emotions in her—wariness mixed with disconcerting pleasure because he couldn’t hide the fact that, unwillingly or not, he found her attractive.
He said, “You look…very glamorous.”
“Thank you.” She realised she was holding her glass in a death grip, and loosened it, giving him her accomplished social smile. “What are you doing here?”
“Supporting a good cause. Like you, I guess. Bryn’s here too with Rachel.”
He was watching her closely—she supposed looking for a reaction. Keeping her expression serene, her voice neutral, she said, “Yes, I saw them.”
It wasn’t the first time since she’d stopped avoiding him that she had run into Bryn. They went on as if nothing had changed. She even listened with only a small hitch in her heartbeat when he mentioned Rachel, although the note in his voice might have made a lesser woman weep with envy.
Jase still held her eyes, and to her surprise quiet laughter escaped from his throat. “You’re something else, ice lady.” There was a note almost of unwilling respect in the enigmatic remark.
Samantha was on the brink of a retort when the subject of their discussion entered her field of vision behind Jase, and she hastily closed her mouth.
Then Bryn was there, his lips brushing her cheek as he greeted her, and Rachel said, “Nice to see you again, Samantha.”
They exchanged chitchat, and then moved as a group to compare opinions on the wares being offered. Rachel looked beautiful but was there a tiny shadow in her brown eyes, and behind the wide smile? An expert in putting on a good face herself, Samantha recognised one when she saw it.
Jostled by punters eager to inspect the goods, somehow Samantha and Jase got separated from the other two, and she found herself standing next to him while he examined a carved jade abacus with a hefty price tag.
“That’s beautiful,” she said involuntarily, admiring the intricate patterns on the beads. “I suppose it’s worth the asking price.” Which was rather steep.
“It is to me,” he answered, then put down the abacus and pulled out a credit card to hand to the person behind the table.
For someone in the forefront of an almost unimaginable technological future, it seemed an odd choice. Curiosity getting the better of her, she said, “What will you do with it?” She didn’t suppose he was going to use it for his calculations, when he had his pick of state-of-the-art computers.
“Enjoy it,” he said. “And admire it, as a fine example of early computing.”
“Oh? I never thought of an abacus as a primitive computer.” And she hadn’t thought of him as a sentimental collector.
“Not so primitive. An example of true genius. Whoever invented the abacus way back sometime BC, when he first spun his beads in a row he was setting us on the road to the computerised society.”
“Or she,” Samantha suggested.
He inclined his head. “Or she,” he agreed, picking up his purchase and nodding thanks to the cashier. “Are you an ardent feminist?”
“I suppose. Ardent may be pushing it a bit.”
“I guess,” he murmured, even as she continued,
“I’m no banner-waving activist.”
He said, “No, you just get on with doing it rather than shouting about it, don’t you?”
“I’m not knocking those who do the shouting,” she told him. “We need them—people passionate enough to fight and suffer for what they believe in.” She picked up a silver Georgian coffeepot, smoothed a hand over its elegant shape and put it down again.
“What are you passionate about, ice lady?” Jase asked. He sounded genuinely curious, and a voice inside her whispered caution.
She shrugged. “My company, my father’s legacy.”
Making to move on again, she found him blocking her with the immovability of a stone statue. “That’s all?” he queried.
“Isn’t it enough?”
“You had your own business in Australia, didn’t you?”
“A small one.” She wondered where he got his information, although it was no secret. “We specialised in renovations, with an emphasis on sustainability and energy saving.” Things her father had dismissed as “airy-fairy greenie-babble.”
“And you left it to come back and run your father’s company.” He sounded almost disapproving.
“Of course,” she said, oddly angry. “I always knew it would be mine one day. My inheritance.”
He looked as though he wanted to say more, but then he nodded, and shifted so she could step by him.
Jase let her move away, but his eyes followed her for minutes afterwards. He knew she was aware of his concentrated gaze. It was in the set of her head, the tension in her bare, smooth shoulders. Not looking back, she took cursory interest in several things before leaving the tables without buying any of them.
She’d greeted Bryn tonight showing none of the unguarded emotion Jase had seen the first time he’d laid eyes on her. But he hadn’t missed the uncharacteristic warmth of her smile, nor the searching look she directed at Rachel, fleetingly revealing something strangely like sympathy.
That thought brought his brows together and his mouth into an obdurate line as he watched Samantha greet someone else with what he’d come to think of as her company face—the serene, synthetic smile, not reaching the topaz-blue eyes with their enigmatic gaze.
What was going on behind that beautiful, frustratingly emotionless facade? Why would she be sorry for Rachel? Surely that spelled trouble.
His sister might seem to be a mature, successful woman—hell, she was. But there was a touching innocence about her all the same. He suspected she’d been so busy with her studies and career for the past ten years that she’d let personal relationships—male/female relationships anyway—pass her by. And she’d had a crush on Bryn Donovan since she was barely fifteen, something her whole family knew but had never mentioned to her.
Jase was pretty sure that when the family moved away from Rivermeadows after Rachel’s last year at high school, his mother had been relieved. Not that she wouldn’t have trusted Bryn, but a pretty girl with her heart in her adoring big brown eyes must be a temptation to any red-blooded young man. Jase and his brother had found it rather hilarious that Bryn seemed to be the only one at Rivermeadows who hadn’t noticed how she felt about him.

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