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Surrender To Seduction
Robyn Donald
Seduction/abduction Geraldine Dacre is beautiful, sophisticated and loved by all, but she has yet to surrender to love. Only one man turns her head - Bryn Falconer. Returning from a business trip, Bryn and Gerry are stranded, and Gerry finally surrenders to her passion. Then she discovers that she has not been so much stranded as abducted, and that Bryn's seduction might have been far from genuine!



Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u103ca0ff-7871-5283-a8f4-de66459ceb40)
Excerpt (#u09a63a68-89d0-5b74-bf8c-653955a07b39)
About the Author (#u33e4fbc0-e812-58c1-8b6a-15e0f5f4c2b2)
Title Page (#u92a9548b-9639-51f6-98f7-6a17112120f9)
CHAPTER ONE (#u04b97d4f-e12f-569a-8dd8-0ac03b7daf69)
CHAPTER TWO (#ufc619c0d-51e1-574f-9ca4-2b3c357c0a0f)
CHAPTER THREE (#u854cc295-07c8-5cf2-a552-e0527eaac4d0)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

She hugged her arms around herself.
She turned slightly so that she could see the face of the man silhouetted against the soft glow of the instrument panels; as well as the powerful contours, the faint light picked out the surprisingly beautiful, sensuous curve of his mouth.

Something clutched at her nerves, dissolved the shield of her control, twisted her emotions ever tighter on the rack of hunger. For the first time in her life she felt the keen ache of unfulfilled desire, a needle of hunger and frustration that stripped her composure from her and forced her to accept her capacity for passion and surrender.

Hair lifted on the back of her neck. This was terrifying; she had changed overnight, altered at some deep, cellular level, and she’d never be the same again.
ROBYN DONALD has always lived in Northland, New Zealand, initially on her father’s stud dairy farm at Warkworth, then in the Bay of Islands, an area of great natural beauty, where she lives today with her husband and ebullient and mostly Labrador dog. She resigned her teaching position when she found she enjoyed writing romances more, and has now written over fifty of them. She spends any time not writing in reading, gardening, traveling and writing letters to keep up with her two adult children and her friends.
Surrender to Seduction
Robyn Donald


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

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_054a8db4-762b-5f09-abab-b51e009324e0)
GERRY DACRE realised that she’d actually heard the noise a couple of times before noticing it. Sitting on her bed to comb wet black hair off her face, she remembered that the same funny little bleat had teased her ears just before she showered, and again as she came back down the hall.
Frowning, she got to her feet and walked across to the window, pushing open the curtains. Although it was after seven the street-lamps were still struggling against a reluctant New Zealand dawn; peering through their wan light, she made out a parcel on the wet grass just inside the Cape Honeysuckle hedge.
The cry came again, and to her horror she saw movement in the parcel—a weak fluttering against the sombre green wall of the hedge.
‘Kittens!’ she exploded, long legs carrying her swiftly towards the front door.
Or a puppy. It didn’t sound like kittens. How dared anyone abandon animals in her garden—anywhere! Anger tightened her soft mouth, blazed from her dark blue-green eyes as she ran across the verandah and down the wooden steps, across the sodden lawn to the parcel.
It wasn’t kittens. Or a puppy. Wailing feebly from a shabby tartan rug was a baby. Little fists and arms had struggled free, and the crumpled face was marked with cold. Chilling moisture clung to its skin, to the knitted bonnet, to the tiny, aimlessly groping hands. So heartbreakingly frail, it had to be newborn.
‘Oh, my God!’ Gerry said, scooping up the baby, box and all, as it gave another weak wail. ‘Don’t do that, darling,’ she soothed. ‘Come on, let’s get you inside.’
Carefully she carried it indoors, kicked the door closed behind her, and headed into the kitchen, at this time of day the warmest room in the old kauri villa. She set the box on the table and raced into the laundry to grab a towel and her best cashmere jersey from the hot water cupboard.
‘I’ll ring the police when I’ve got you warm,’ she promised the baby, lifting it out and carrying it across to the bench. The baby let out another high-pitched wail.
Crooning meaningless words, Gerry stripped the clothes from the squirming body. It was, she discovered, a girl—and judging by the umbilical cord no older than a couple of days, if that.
‘I’m going to have to find you some sort of nappy,’ she said, cuddling the chilly baby against her breasts as she cocooned it first in cashmere and then the warm towel. ‘I wonder how long you’ve been out there, poppet? Too long on a bitter winter morning. I hope your mother gave you some food before she abandoned you. No, don’t cry, sweetheart, don’t cry…’
But the baby did cry, face going alarmingly scarlet and her chest swelling as she shrieked her outrage.
Rocking and hushing, Gerry tried to lend the warmth of her body to the fragile infant and wondered whether she should bathe her, or whether that might make her colder. She pressed her cheek against the little head, relieved to find that it seemed marginally warmer.
The front door clicked open and the second member of the household demanded shrilly, ‘What’s on earth’s going on?’
Two pairs of feet made their way down the hall, the busy clattering of Cara’s high heels counterpointed by a long stride, barely audible on the mellow kauri boards.
It’s not my business if she spends the night with a man—she’s twenty, Gerry thought, propping the baby against her shoulder and patting the narrow back. The movement silenced the baby for a second, but almost immediately she began to cry again, a pathetic shriek that cut Cara’s voice off with the speed of a sword through cheese.
She appeared in the doorway, red hair smoothed back from her face, huge eyes goggling. ‘Gerry, what have you done?’ she gasped.
‘It’s a baby,’ Gerry said, deadpan, expertly supporting the miniature head with its soft dark fuzz of hair. ‘Someone dumped her on the front lawn.’
‘Have you rung the police?’ Not Cara. The voice was deep and cool, with an equivocal note that made Gerry think of a river running smoothly, forcefully over hidden rocks.
Startled, she looked past Cara to the man who followed her into the room.
Not Cara’s usual type, Gerry thought, her stomach suddenly contracting. Her housemate liked pretty television actors and media men, but this man was far from pretty. The stark framework of his face created an aura of steely power, and he looked as though he spent his life dealing with the worst humanity could produce. His voice rang with an authentic authority, warning everyone within earshot that he was in the habit of giving orders and seeing them obeyed.
‘I was just about to,’ Gerry said stiffly. Irritatingly, the words sounded odd—uneven and hesitant—and she lifted her chin to cover her unusual response.
Gerry had perfected her technique for dealing with men—a lazy, flirtatious approach robbed of any element of sexuality. Instinct warned her that it wasn’t going to work with this man; flirting with him, she thought, struggling for balance, would be a hazardous occupation indeed.
A green gaze, clear and cold and glinting like emeralds under water, met hers. Set beneath heavy lids and bordered by thick black lashes, the stranger’s eyes were startlingly beautiful in his harsh, compelling face. He took up far too much room in her civilised house, and when he moved towards the telephone it was with a swift, noiseless precision that reminded Gerry of the predatory grace of a hunting animal.
Lord, but he was big! Gerry fought back a gut-level appreciation of just how tall he was as he dialled, recounted the situation with concise precision, gave a sharp inclination of his tawny head, and hung up. ‘They’ll call a social worker and get here as soon as they can. Until then they suggest you keep it warm.’
‘Her,’ Gerry corrected, cuddling the baby closer. It snuffled into silence and turned its head up to her, one eye screwed shut, small three-cornered mouth seeking nourishment. ‘No, sweetheart, there’s nothing here for you,’ she said softly, her heart aching for the helpless child, and for the mother desperate enough to abandon her.
‘You look quite at home with a baby,’ Cara teased, recovering from astonishment into her natural ebullience.
Gerry gave her a fleeting grin. ‘You’ve lived here long enough to know that I’ve got cousins from here to glory, most of whom seem to have had babies in the past three years. I’m a godmother twice over, and reasonably handson.’
The baby began to wail again, and Cara said uncertainly, ‘Couldn’t we give it some milk off a spoon, or something?’
‘You don’t give newborn babies straight cows’ milk. But if someone could go to the dairy—I know they sell babies’ bottles there; I saw a woman buy one when I collected the bread the other day—we could boil some water and give it to her.’
‘Will that be safe?’ the strange man asked, his lashes drooping slightly.
Gerry realised that her face was completely bare of cosmetics; furthermore, she wore only her dressing gown—her summer dressing gown, a thin cotton affair that probably wasn’t hiding the fact that she was naked beneath it. ‘Safer than anything else, I think. Here,’ she said, offering the baby to Cara, ‘hold her for a moment, will you?’
The younger woman recoiled. ‘No, I can’t, I’ve never held a baby in my life. She’s so tiny! I might drop her, or break an arm or something.’
‘I’ll take her,’ the green-eyed stranger said crisply, and did so, scooping the child from Gerry’s arms with a sure deftness that reassured her. He looked at Cara. ‘Put the kettle on first, then go to the dairy and buy a feeding bottle. My car keys are in my right pocket.’
She pouted, but gave him a flirtatious glance from beneath her lashes as she removed the keys. ‘You trust me with your car? I’m honoured. Gerry, it’s a stunning black Jag, one of the new ones.’
‘And if you hit anything in it,’ the man said, with a smile that managed to be both sexy and intimidating, ‘I’ll take it out of your hide.’
Cara giggled, swung the keys in a little circle and promised, ‘I’ll be careful. I’m quite a good driver, aren’t I, Gerry?’ She switched her glance to Gerry and stopped, eyes and mouth wide open. ‘Gerry!’
‘What?’ she asked, halfway to the door.
Cara said incredulously, ‘You haven’t got any make-up on! I’ve never seen you without it before!’
‘It happens,’ Gerry said, and managed to slow her rush to a more dignified pace. At the door, however, she turned and said reluctantly, ‘She hasn’t got a napkin on.’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time a baby’s wet me,’ he said drily. ‘I think I can cope.’
Oh, boy, Gerry thought, fleeing after an abrupt nod. I’ll just bet you can cope with anything fate throws at you. Ruler of your destiny, that’s you, whoever you are! No doubt he had another expensive dark suit at his office, just in case he had an accident!
In her bedroom she tried to concentrate on choosing clothes, but she kept recalling the impact of that hard-hewn face and those watchful, speculative eyes.
And that smile. As the owner of a notorious smile herself, Gerry knew that it gave her an undeserved edge in the battle of the sexes. This man’s smile transformed his harsh features, honing the blatant male magnetism that came with broad shoulders and long legs and narrow hips and a height of close to six foot four.
It melted her backbone, and he hadn’t even been smiling at her!
Where on earth had Cara found him?
Or, given his aura of masterful self-possession, where had he found her?
The younger woman’s morals were no concern of hers, but for some reason Gerry wished that Cara hadn’t spent the night with him.
Five minutes later she’d pulled on black trousers and ankle boots, and a neat pinstriped shirt in her favourite black and white, folded the cuffs back to above her wrist, and looped a gold chain around her throat. A small gold hoop hung from each ear. Rapidly she applied a thin coat of tinted moisturiser and lip-glaze.
Noises from outside had indicated Cara’s careful departure, and slightly more reckless return. With a touch of defiance, Gerry delicately smoothed a faint smudge of eyeshadow above each dark blue-green eye. There, she told her reflection silently, the mask’s back in place.
Once more her usual sensible, confident self, she walked down the hall to the living room. Previous owners had renovated the old villa, adding to the lean-to at the back so that what had been a jumble of small rooms was now a large kitchen, dining and living area.
The bookcases that lined one wall had been Gerry’s contribution to the room, as were the books in them and the richly coloured curtains covering French windows. Outside, a deck overlooked a garden badly in need of renovation—Gerry’s next project. It should have been finished by now, but she’d procrastinated, drawing endless plans, because once she got it done she might find herself restlessly looking around for something new to occupy herself.
Cara was sitting beside the man on one of the sofas, gazing into his face with a besotted expression.
Had Gerry been that open and easy to read at twenty?
Probably, she thought cynically.
As she walked in the stranger smiled down at the baby lost in his arms. Another transformation, Gerry thought, trying very hard to keep her balance. Only this one was pure tenderness. Whoever he was, the tawny-haired man was able to temper his great strength to the needs of the weak.
The man looked up. Even cuddling a baby, he radiated a compelling masculinity that provoked a flicker of visceral caution. It was the eyes—indolent yet perceptive—and the dangerous, uncompromising face.
After some worrying experiences with men in her youth, Gerry had carefully and deliberately developed a persona that was a mixture of open good humour, light flirtation, and warm charm. Men liked her, and although many found her attractive they soon accepted her tacit refusal to be anything other than a friend. Few cared to probe beneath the pleasant, laughing surface, or realised that her slow, lazy smile hid heavily guarded defences.
Now, with those defences under sudden, unsparing assault—all the more dangerous because she was fighting a hidden traitor in her own body and mind—she was forced to accept that she’d only been able to keep men at a distance because she’d never felt so much as a flicker of attraction.
‘Flicker’ didn’t even begin to describe the whitehot flare of recognition that had seared through her when she first laid eyes on the stranger, a clamorous response that both appalled and embarrassed her.
Hiding her importunate reaction with a slightly strained version of her trademark smile, she asked, ‘How’s she been?’
‘She’s asleep,’ he said, watching her with an unfaltering, level gaze that hid speculation and cool assessment in the green depths.
Something tightened in Gerry’s stomach. Most men preened under her smile, wrongly taking a purely natural movement of tiny muscles in her face as a tribute to their masculinity. Perhaps because he understood the power of his own smile, this man was immune to hers.
Or perhaps he was immune to her. She wouldn’t like him for an enemy, she thought with an involuntary little shiver.
The baby should have looked incongruous in his arms, but she didn’t. Blissfully unconscious, her eyes were dark lines in her rosy little face. From time to time she made sucking motions against the fist at her mouth.
‘We haven’t been introduced,’ Gerry said. Relieved that his hands were occupied with the baby, she kept hers by her sides. ‘I’m Gerry Dacre.’
‘Oh, sorry,’ Cara said, opening her eyes very wide. ‘Gerry’s my agent, Bryn, and she owns the house—her aunt’s my mother’s best friend, and for her sins she said she’d board me for a year.’ She gave a swift urchin grin. ‘Gerry, this is Bryn Falconer.’
Exquisitely beautiful, Cara was an up-and-coming star for the modelling agency Gerry part-owned. And she was far too young for Bryn Falconer, whose hard assurance indicated that his thirty-two or three years had been spent in tough places.
‘How do you do, Bryn?’ Gerry said, relying on formality. ‘I’ll sterilise the bottle—’
‘Cara organised that as soon as she came in,’ he said calmly.
‘Mr Patel said that the solution he gave me was the best way to disinfect babies’ bottles,’ Cara told her. ‘I followed the instructions exactly.’
Sure enough, the bottle was sitting in a special basin on the bench. Gerry gave a swift, glittering smile. ‘Good. How long does it have to stay in the solution?’
‘An hour,’ Cara said knowledgeably. She glanced at the tiny bundle sleeping in Bryn’s arms. ‘Do you think she’ll be all right until then?’
Gerry nodded. ‘She should be. She’s certainly not hungry now, or she wouldn’t have stopped crying. I’ll make a much-needed cup of coffee.’ Her stomach lurched as she met the measuring scrutiny of Bryn Falconer’s green eyes. ‘Can I get you one, or some breakfast?’ Cara didn’t drink coffee, and vowed that breakfast made her feel ill.
The corners of his long, imperious mouth lifted slightly. ‘No, thank you.’ He transferred his glance to Cara’s face and smiled. ‘Don’t you have to get ready for work?’
‘Yes, but I can’t leave you holding the baby!’ Giggling, she flirted her lashes at him.
Disgusted, Gerry realised that she felt left out. Stiffly she reached for the coffee and began the pleasant routine of making it.
From behind her Bryn said, ‘I don’t run the risk of losing my job if I’m late.’
Cara cooed, ‘It must be wonderful to be the boss.’
Trying very hard to make her voice steady, Gerry said, ‘Cara, you can’t be late for your go-see.’
‘I know, I know.’ Reluctance tinged her voice.
Gerry’s mouth tightened. Cara really had it bad; last night she’d been over the moon at her luck. Now, as though a chance to audition for an international firm meant nothing to her, she said, ‘I’d better change, I suppose.’
Gerry reached for a cup and saucer. Without looking at him, she said, ‘You don’t have to stay, Mr Falconer. I’ll look after the baby until the police come.’
‘I’m in no hurry,’ he replied easily. ‘Cara, if you’re ready in twenty minutes I’ll give you a lift into Queen Street.’
‘Oh—that’d be wonderful!’
Swinging around, Gerry said grittily, ‘This is a really important interview, Cara.’
‘I know, I know.’ Chastened, Cara sprang to her feet. ‘I’ll wear exactly what we decided on.’
She walked around Bryn’s long legs and set out for the door, stopping just inside it when he asked Gerry, ‘Don’t you have to work too?’
Cara said, ‘Oh, Gerry’s on holiday, lucky thing. Although,’ she added fairly, ‘it’s her first holiday since she started up the agency three years ago.’
‘You’re very young, surely, to be running a model agency?’
Although neither Bryn’s words nor his tone gave anything away, Gerry suspected he considered her job lightweight and frivolous. Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she gave him her smile again and said, ‘How kind of you. What do you do, Mr Falconer?’
Cara hovered, her lovely face bemused as she looked from one to the other.
‘Call me Bryn,’ he invited, hooded eyes gleaming behind those heavy lashes.
‘Thank you, Bryn,’ Gerry said politely, and didn’t reciprocate. His smile widened into a swift shark’s grin that flicked her on the raw. In her most indolent voice Gerry persisted, ‘And what do you do?’
The grin faded as rapidly as it had arrived. ‘I’m an importer,’ he said.
Cara interrupted, ‘I’ll see you soon, Bryn.’
Bryn Falconer’s gaze didn’t follow her out of the room. Instead he looked down at the sleeping baby in his arms, and then up again, catching Gerry’s frown as she picked up the package of sterilising preparation.
‘Gerry doesn’t suit you,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Is it your real name?’
Gerry’s brows shot up. ‘Actually, no,’ she drawled, emphasising each syllable a little too much. ‘It’s Geraldine, which doesn’t suit me either.’
His smile had none of the sexy warmth that made it so alarmingly attractive. Instead there was a hint of ruthlessness in it as his gaze travelled with studied deliberation over her face. ‘Oh, I don’t know about that. “The fair Geraldine”,’ he quoted, astonishing her. ‘I think it suits you very well. You’re extremely beautiful.’ His glance lingered on the flakes of colour across her high cheekbones. Softly he said, ‘You have a charming response to compliments.’
‘I’m not used to getting them first thing in the morning,’ she said, angry at the struggle it took her to achieve her usual poised tone.
His lashes drooped. ‘But those compliments are the sweetest,’ he said smoothly.
Oh, he knew how to make a woman blush—and he’d made the sexual implication with no more than a rasp in the deep voice that sent a shivering thrill down her spine, heat and cold intermingled. Into her wayward mind flashed an image of him naked, the big limbs slack with satisfied desire, the hard, uncompromising mouth blurred by kisses.
No doubt he’d woken up like that this morning, but it had been Cara’s kisses on his mouth, Cara’s sleek young body in his arms.
Repressing a sudden, worrying flare of raw jealousy, Gerry parried, ‘Well, thank you. I do make excellent breakfasts, but although I’m always pleased to receive compliments on my cooking—’ her voice lingered a moment on the word before she resumed, ‘—I don’t know that I consider them the sweetest. Most women prefer to be complimented on more important qualities.’ Before he had a chance to answer she switched the subject. ‘You know, the baby’s sleeping so soundly—I’m sure she wouldn’t wake if I took her.’
It was the coward’s way out and he had to know it, but he said calmly, ‘Of course. Here you are.’
Gerry realised immediately that she had made a mistake. Whereas they’d transferred the baby from her arms to his in one swift movement, now it had to be done with slow care to avoid waking her.
Bryn’s faint scent—purely male, with a slight, distasteful flavouring of Cara’s favourite tuberose—reached right into a hidden, vulnerable place inside Gerry. She discovered that the arms that held the baby were sheer muscle, and that the faint shadow of his beard beneath his skin affected her in ways she refused even to consider.
And she discovered that the accidental brush of his hand against her breasts sent a primitive, charged thrill storming through her with flagrant, shattering force.
‘Poor little scrap!’ she said in a voice too even to be natural, when the child was once more in her arms. Turning away, she fought for some composure. ‘I wonder why her mother abandoned her. The usual reason, I suppose.’
‘Is there a usual reason?’ His voice was level and condemnatory. ‘How would you know? The mothers in these cases aren’t discovered very often.’
‘I’ve always assumed it’s because they come from homes where being an unmarried mother is considered wicked, and they’re terrified of being found out.’
‘Or perhaps because the child is a nuisance,’ he said.
Gerry gave him a startled look. Hard green eyes met hers, limpid, emotionless. Looking down, she thought, He’s far too old for Cara! before her usual common sense reasserted itself.
‘This is a newborn baby,’ she said crisply. ‘Her mother won’t be thinking too clearly, and could quite possibly be badly affected mentally by the birth. Even so, she left her where she was certain to be noticed and wrapped her warmly. She didn’t intend her to die.’
‘Really?’ He waited a moment—making sure, she wondered with irritation, that she knew how to hold the baby?—before stepping back.
Cuddling the child, Gerry sat down on the opposite sofa, saying with brazen nerve, ‘You seem very accustomed to children. Do you have any of your own?’
‘No,’ he said, his smile a thin line edged with mockery. ‘Like you, I have friends with families, and I can claim a couple of godchildren too.’
Although he hadn’t answered her unspoken question, he knew what she’d been asking. If she wanted to find out she was going to have to demand straight out, Are you married?
And she couldn’t do that; Cara’s love life was her own business. However, Gerry wondered whether it might be a good idea to drop a few comments to her about the messiness of relationships with married men.
Apart from anything else, it made for bad publicity, just the sort Cara couldn’t afford at the beginning of her career.
She was glad when the sudden movement of the baby in her arms gave her an excuse to look away. ‘All right, little love,’ she soothed, rocking the child until she settled back into deep sleep.
He said, ‘Your coffee’s finished percolating. Can I pour it for you?’
‘Thank you,’ she said woodenly.
‘My pleasure.’ He got to his feet.
Lord, she thought wildly, he towers! From her perch on the sofa the powerful shoulders and long, lean legs made him a formidable, intimidating figure. Although a good height for a model, Cara had looked tiny beside him.
‘Are you sure you don’t want one?’
‘Quite sure, thanks. Will you be able to drink it while you’re holding the baby?’
What on earth had she been thinking of? ‘I hadn’t—no, I’d better not,’ she said, wondering what was happening to her normally efficient brain.
‘I’ll pour it, anyway. If it’s left too long on a hotplate it stews. I can take the baby back while you drink.’ He spoke pleasantly.
Gerry tried not to watch as he moved easily around her kitchen, but it was impossible to ignore him because he had so much presence, dominating the room. Even when she looked out of the window at the grey and grumpy dawn doing its ineffectual best to banish the darkness, she was acutely aware of Bryn Falconer behind her, his presence overshadowing her thoughts.
‘There.’ He put the coffee mug down on the table before her, lean, strong hands almost a dramatic contrast to its blue and gold and white stripes. ‘Do you take sugar or milk?’
‘Milk, thank you.’
He straightened, looking down at her with gleaming, enigmatic eyes. ‘I’m surprised,’ he said, his voice deliberate yet disturbing. ‘I thought you’d probably drink it black.’
She gave him the smile her cousins called ‘Gerry’s offensive weapon’. Slow, almost sleepy, it sizzled through men’s defences, one of her more excitable friends had told her, like maple syrup melting into pancakes.
Bryn Falconer withstood it without blinking, although his eyes darkened as the pupils dilated. Savagely she thought, So you’re not as unaffected as you pretend to be, and then realised that she was playing with fire—dangerous, frightening, peculiarly fascinating fire.
In a crisp, frosty voice, she said, ‘Stereotyping people can get you into trouble.’
He looked amused and cynical. ‘I must remember that.’
Gerry repressed a flare of anger and said in a languid social tone, ‘I presume you were at the Hendersons’ party last night?’ And was appalled to hear herself; she sounded like a nosy busybody. He’d be quite within his rights to snub her.
He poured milk into her coffee. Gerry drew in a deep, silent breath. It was a cliché to wonder just how hands would feel on your skin, and yet it always happened when you were attracted to someone. How unfair, the advantage a graceful man had over a clumsy one.
And although graceful seemed an odd word to use for a man as big as Bryn Falconer she couldn’t think of a better one. He moved with a precise, assured litheness that pleased the eye and satisfied some inner need for harmony.
‘I met Cara there,’ he said indifferently.
Feeling foolish, because it was none of her business and she knew it, Gerry ploughed on, ‘Cara’s very young.’
‘You sound almost maternal,’ he said, his expression inflexible, ‘but you can’t be more than a few years older than she is.’
‘Nine, actually,’ Gerry returned. ‘And Cara has lived in the country all her life; any sophistication comes from her years at boarding school. Not exactly a good preparation for real life.’
‘She seems mature enough.’
For what? Gerry wondered waspishly. A flaming affair? Hardly; it would take a woman of considerable worldly experience to have an affair with Bryn Falconer and emerge unscathed.
He looked down at the baby, still sleeping peacefully, and asked, ‘Do you want me to take her while you drink your coffee?’
The coffee could go cold and curdle for all she cared; Gerry had no intention of getting close to him again. It was ridiculous to be so strongly aware of a man who not only indulged in one-night stands, but liked women twelve or so years younger than he was. ‘She’ll be all right on the sofa,’ she said, and laid her down, keeping a light hand on the child as she picked up the mug and held it carefully well away from her.
Sitting down opposite them, he leaned back and surveyed Gerry, his wide, hard mouth curled in a taunting little smile.
I don’t like you at all, Bryn Falconer, Gerry thought, sipping her coffee with feigned composure. The bite of the caffeine gave her the impetus to ask sweetly, ‘What sort of things do you import, Mr Falconer?’
‘Anything I can earn a penny on, Ms Dacre,’ he said, mockery shading his dark, equivocal voice. ‘Clothing, machinery, computers.’
‘How interesting.’
One brow went up. ‘I suppose you have great difficulty understanding computers.’
‘What’s to understand?’ she said in her most come-hither tone. ‘I know how to use them, and that’s all that matters.’
‘You did warn me about the disadvantages of stereotyping,’ he murmured, green gaze raking her face. ‘Perhaps I should take more notice of what you say. The face of an angel and a mind like a steel trap. How odd to find you the owner of a model agency.’
‘Part-owner. I have a partner,’ she purred. ‘I like pretty things, and I enjoy pretty people.’ She didn’t intend to tell him that she was already bored with running the agency. She’d enjoyed it enormously while she and Honor McKenzie were setting it up and working desperately to make it a success, but now that they’d made a good name for themselves, and an excellent income, the business had lost its appeal.
As, she admitted rigorously, had everything else she’d ever done.
A thunderous knock on the door woke the baby. Jerking almost off the sofa, she opened her triangular mouth and shrieked. ‘That’s probably the police,’ Gerry said, setting her cup down and scooping the child up comfortingly. ‘Let them in, will you?’ Her voice softened as she rocked the tiny form against her breast. ‘There, darling. don’t cry, don’t cry…’
Bryn got to his feet and walked out, his mouth disciplined into a straight line. Gazing down at the wrathful face of the baby, Gerry thought wistfully that although she didn’t want to get married, it would be rather nice to have a child. She had no illusions—those cousins who’d embarked on marriage and motherhood had warned her that children invariably complicated lives—but she rather suspected that her biological clock was ticking. ‘Shh, shh,’ she murmured. ‘Just wait a moment and I’ll give you some water to drink.’
The baby settled down, reinforcing Gerry’s suspicion that she’d been fed not too long before she’d been found.
Frowning, she listened as Bryn Falconer said firmly from the hall, ‘No, I don’t live here; I’m just passing through.’
Policemen were supposed to have seen it all, but the one who walked in through the kitchen door looked startled and, when his gaze fell on Gerry, thunderstruck.
‘This,’ Bryn said smoothly, green eyes snapping with mockery, ‘is Constable Richards. Constable, this is Geraldine Dacre, the owner of the house, who found the child outside on the lawn.’
‘How do you do?’ Gerry said, smiling. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’
‘I—ah, no, thank you, Ms Dacre.’ His collar seemed to be too tight; tugging at it, he said, ‘I was supposed to meet a social worker here.’
‘She—or he—hasn’t arrived yet.’ Bryn Falconer was leaning against the doorpost.
For all the world as though this was his house! Smiling at the policeman again, Gerry said, ‘If you have to wait, you might as well have something to drink—it’s cold out there. Bryn, pour the constable some coffee, would you?’
‘Of course,’ he said, the green flick of his glance branding her skin as he strode behind the breakfast bar.
He hadn’t liked being ordered around. Perhaps, she thought a trifle smugly, in the future he wouldn’t be quite so ready to take over.
What the hell was she thinking? She had no intention of letting Bryn Falconer into her life.

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_7503c950-452d-5ad1-a3c4-ca9eeead48de)
HASTILY Gerry transferred her attention to the policeman. ‘What do you want to know about the baby?’ she asked. ‘She’s a little girl, and although I’m no expert I don’t think she’s any more than a day old, judging by the umbilical cord.’
He gave her a respectful look and rapidly became professional. ‘Exactly what time did you first see her?’ he said.
So, very aware of the opening and closing of cupboards in her kitchen, Gerry explained how she’d found the child, nodding at the box with its pathetic little pile of damp clothes. The policeman asked pertinent questions and took down her answers, thanking Bryn Falconer when he brought a mug of coffee.
The constable plodded through his cup of coffee and his questions until Cara appeared in the doorway, her sultry face alive with curiosity and interest.
‘Hello,’ she said, and watched with the eye of a connoisseur as the policeman leapt to his feet ‘I’m ready to go,’ she told Bryn, her voice soft and caressing. ‘Bye, Gerry. Have fun.’
Bryn smiled, the crease in his cheek sending an odd frisson straight through Gerry. Go now, she commanded mentally. Right now. And flushed as he looked at her, a hard glint in his eyes.
Fortunately the doorbell pealed again, this time heralding the social worker, a pleasant, middle-aged woman with tired eyes and a knack with babies. Cara and Bryn left as she came in, so Gerry could give all her attention to the newcomer.
‘I’m rather sad to see her go,’ Gerry said, watching as the woman efficiently dressed the baby in well-worn but pretty clothes, then packed her into an official carrycot while the policeman took the box and its contents. ‘For what it’s worth, I think her mother fed her before she put her behind the hedge—she’s not hungry. And she wasn’t very cold when I picked her up, so she hadn’t been there long.’
The social worker nodded. ‘They usually make sure someone will find them soon.’
Gerry picked up her towel and the still dry cashmere jersey. ‘What will happen to the baby?’
‘Now? I’ll get her checked over medically, and take her to a family who’ll foster her until her mother is found.’
‘And if her mother isn’t found?’
The social worker smiled. ‘We’ll do our best for her.’
‘I know,’ Gerry said. ‘I just feel a bit proprietary.’
‘Oh, we all do that.’ The woman gave a tired, cynical smile. ‘When you think we’re geared by evolution to respond to a baby’s cry with extreme discomfort, it’s no wonder. She’ll be all right. It’s the mother I’m worried about. I don’t suppose you’ve seen a pregnant woman looking over the hedge this last couple of weeks, or anything like that?’
‘No, not a glimpse.’
The policeman said, ‘I’d say she’s local, because she put the baby where she was certain she’d be found. She might even have been watching.’
Gerry frowned, trying to recall the scene. ‘I don’t think so. Apart from the traffic, I didn’t see any movement.’
When they’d gone she lifted the cashmere jersey to her face. It smelt, she thought wryly, of newborn baby—that faint, elusive, swiftly fading scent that had probably once had high survival value for the human race. Now it was just another thing, along with the little girl’s heart-shaking fragility and crumpled rose-petal face, to remind Gerry of her empty heart.
‘Oh, do something sensible instead of moping,’ she advised herself crisply, heading for the laundry.
After she’d dealt with the clothes she embarked on a brisk round of necessary housework that didn’t ease her odd flatness. Clouds settled heavily just above the roof, and the house felt chilly. And empty.
Ruthlessly she banished the memory of wide shoulders, narrow masculine hips and a pair of gleaming green eyes, and set to doing the worst thing she could find—clearing out the fridge. When she’d finished she drank a cup of herbal tea before picking up the telephone.
‘Jan?’ she said when she’d got through. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine,’ said her favourite cousin, mother of Gerry’s goddaughter, ‘and so are Kear and Gemma, but why aren’t you at work?’
‘How do you know I’m not?’
‘No chaos in the background,’ Jan said succinctly. ‘The agency is mayhem.’
‘Honor persuaded me to take a holiday—she said three years without one was too long. And she was right. I’ve been a bit blasé lately.’
‘I wondered how long you’d last,’ Jan said comfortably. ‘I told Kear a month or so ago that it must be time for you to look around for something new.’
‘Butterfly brain, that’s me.’
‘Don’t be an idiot.’ For a tiny woman Jan could be very robust. ‘You bend your not inconsiderable mental energy to mastering something, and as soon as you’ve done it you find something else. Nothing butterfly about that. Anyway, if I remember correctly it was your soft heart that got you into the modelling business. You left the magazine because you didn’t agree with the way it was going—and you were right; it’s just appalling now, and I refuse to buy it—and Honor needed an anchor after she broke up with that awful man she was living with. Whatever happened to him?’
‘He died of an overdose. He was a drug addict.’
‘What a tragedy,’ Jan sighed. ‘If you’re on the lookout for another job, will you stay in the fashion industry?’
‘It’s a very narrow field,’ Gerry said, wondering why she now yearned for wider horizons. She’d been perfectly happy working in or on the fringes of that world since she’d left university.
‘Well, if you’re stuck you can take over from me.’
‘In which capacity—babysitter, part-time image consultant, or den mother to a pack of wayward girls?’
Several years previously Jan had inherited land from her grandfather in one of Northland’s most beautiful coastal areas, and had set up a camp for girls at risk. After marrying the extremely sexy man next door, she’d settled into her new life as though she’d been born for it.
Jan laughed. ‘The camp is going well,’ she said cheerfully, ‘but I don’t think it’s you. I meant as image consultant. You’d be good at it—you know what style means because you’ve got it right to your bones, and you like people. I’ve had Maria Hastings working for me, but she, wretched woman, has fallen in love with a Frenchman and is going to live in Provence with him! And I’m pregnant again, which forces the issue. I sell, or I retire. I’d rather sell the business to you if you’ve got the money.’
‘Well—congratulations!’ It hurt. Stupid, but it hurt. Jan had everything—an adoring husband, an interesting career, a gorgeous child and now the prospect of another. Quickly, vivaciously, Gerry added, ‘I’ll think about it. If I decide to do it, my share of the agency should be enough to buy you out.’
‘Have you spoken to Honor? Does she mind the thought of you leaving?’
‘No. Apparently she’s got a backer, and she’ll buy my share at a negotiated price.’
‘I don’t want to over-persuade you,’ Jan said quickly. ‘I know you like to develop things for yourself, so don’t feel obliged to think about it. Another woman wants it, and she’ll do just as well. You’re a bit inclined to let the people you like push you around, you know. Too soft-hearted.’
‘You’re not over-persuading.’ Already the initial glow of enthusiasm was evaporating. What would happen when she got tired of being an image consultant? As she would. A shiver of panic threaded through her. Surely that wasn’t to be her life? Her mother had spent her short life searching for something, and had failed spectacularly to find it. Gerry was determined not to do the same.
‘Something wrong?’ Jan asked.
‘Nothing at all, apart from an upsetting start to my day.’ She told her about the abandoned baby, and they discussed it for a while, until Gerry asked, ‘When’s your baby due?’
‘In about seven months. What’s the matter, Gerry?’
‘Nothing. Just—oh, I suppose I do need this holiday. I’ll let you know about the business,’ Gerry said.
‘Do you want to come up and stay with us? We’d love to see you.’
‘It sounds lovely, but no, I think I want to wander a bit.’
Jan’s tone altered. ‘Feeling restless?’
‘Yes,’ she admitted.
‘Don’t worry,’ Jan said in a bracing voice. ‘Even if you don’t buy my business a job will come hopping along saying, Take me, take me. I’m fascinating and fun and you’ll love me. Why don’t you go overseas for a couple of weeks—somewhere nice and warm? I don’t blame you for being out of sorts; I can’t remember when New Zealand’s had such a wet winter.’
‘My mother used to go overseas whenever life got into too tedious a routine,’ Gerry said.
‘You are not like your mother,’ Jan said even more bracingly. ‘She was a spoilt, pampered brat who never grew up. You are a darling.’
‘Thank you for those kind words, but I must have ended up with some of her genes.’
‘You got the face,’ Jan said drily. ‘And the smile—but you didn’t get the belief that everyone owed you a life. According to my mama, Aunt Fliss was spoilt stupid by her father, and she just expected the rest of the world to treat her the way he did. You aren’t like that.’
‘I hope not.’
‘Not a bit. Gerry, I have to go—your goddaughter is yelling from her bedroom, and by the tone of her voice it’s urgent. I’ll ring you tonight and we can really gossip. As for a new job—well, why not think PR? You know everyone there is to know in New Zealand, and you’d be wonderful at it. One flash of that notorious smile and people would be falling over themselves to publicise whatever you want.’
‘Oh, exaggerate away!’ Gerry laughed, but after she’d hung up she stood looking down at the table, tracing the line of the grain with one long finger.
For the last year she’d been fighting a weariness of spirit; it had crept on her so gradually that for months she hadn’t realised what it was. The curse of my life, she thought melodramatically, and rolled her eyes.
But it terrified her; boredom had driven her mother through three unsatisfactory marriages, leaving behind shattered lives and discarded children as she’d searched for the elusive happiness she’d craved. Gerry’s father had never got over his wife’s defection, and Gerry had two half-brothers she hardly ever saw, one in France, one in America—both abandoned, just as she’d been.
She sat down with the newspaper, but a sudden scatter of rain against the window sent her fleeing to bring in the clothes she’d hung on the line an hour before.
A quick glance at the sky told her they weren’t going to get dry outside, so she sorted them into the drier and set it going. Staring at the tumble of clothes behind the glass door, she wondered if perhaps she should go overseas.
Somewhere warm and dry, she thought dourly, heading back to pick up the newspaper from the sofa. The model disporting herself beneath palm trees was one she had worked with several occasions in her time as fashion editor; Gerry was meanly pleased to see that her striking face was at last showing signs of the temper tantrums she habitually engaged in.
‘Serves her right, the trollop,’ she muttered, flicking the pages over before putting the newspaper down.
No, she wouldn’t head overseas. She couldn’t really afford it; she had a mortgage to pay. Perhaps she should try something totally different.
She read the Sits Vac with mounting gloom. Nothing there. Well, she could make a right-angle turn and do another degree. She rooted in a drawer for the catalogue of extension courses at the local university, and began reading it.
But after a short while she put it to one side. She felt tired and grey and over the hill, and she wondered what had happened to the baby. Had she been checked, and was she now in the arms of a foster-mother?
Gerry decided to clean the oven.
It was par for the course when halfway through this most despised of chores the telephone beeped imperatively.
An old friend demanded that Gerry come to lunch with her because she was going through a crisis and needed a clear head to give her advice. Heaving a silent sigh, Gerry said soothingly, ‘Yes, of course I’ll have lunch with you. Would you like to eat here?’
Her hopes were dashed. ‘We’ll go to The Blue Room,’ Troy said militantly. ‘I’ve booked. I’ll pick you up in half an hour.’
‘No, I’ll meet you there,’ Gerry said hastily. Troy was the worst driver she knew.

Coincidences, Gerry reflected gloomily, were scary; you had no defence against them because they sneaked up from behind and hit you over the head. Bryn Falconer was sitting at the next table.
‘And then,’ Troy said, her voice throbbing as it rose from an intense whisper to something ominously close to a screech, ‘he said I’ve let myself go and turned into a cabbage! He was the one who insisted on having kids and insisted I stop work and stay at home with them.’
Fortunately the waiter had taken in the situation and was already heading towards them with a carafe of iced water, a coffee pot and a heaped basket of focaccia bread.
Very fervently Gerry wished that Bryn Falconer had not decided to lunch at this particular restaurant. She was sure she could feel his eyes on her. ‘Troy, you idiot, you’ve been drinking,’ she said softly. ‘And don’t tell me you didn’t drink much—it only takes a mouthful in your case.’
‘I had to, Gerry Mrs Landless—my babysitter—had her thirtieth wedding anniversary party last night. Damon wouldn’t go so she saved me a glass of champagne.’
‘You could have told her that alcohol goes straight to your head. Never mind—have some coffee and bread and you’ll soon be fine, and at least you had the sense to come by taxi.’
Her friend’s lovely face crumpled. ‘Oh, Lord,’ she said bitterly, ‘I’m making a total idiot of myself, and there’s bound to be sh-someone who’ll go racing off to tell Damon.’
Five years previously Gerry had mentally prophesied disaster when her friend, a model with at least six more years of highly profitable work ahead of her, had thrown it all away to marry her merchant banker. Now she said briskly, ‘So, who cares? It’s not the end of the world.’
‘I wish I was like you,’ Troy said earnestly and still too loudly. ‘You have men falling in love with you all the time, and you just smile that fabulous smile and drift on by, breaking hearts without a second thought.’
Acutely aware that Bryn Falconer was sitting close enough to hear those shrill, heartfelt and entirely untrue words, Gerry protested, ‘You make me sound like some sort of femme fatale, and I’m not.’
‘Yes, you are,’ Troy argued, fanning her flushed face with her napkin. ‘Everyone expects femmes fatale to be evil, selfish women, but why should they be? You’re so nice and you never poach, but nobody touches your heart, do they? You don’t even notice when men fall at your feet. Damon calls you “the unassailable Gerry”.’
Gerry glanced up. Bryn Falconer wasn’t even pretending not to listen, and when he caught her eyes he lifted his brows in a cool, mockingly level regard that sent frustration boiling through her.
Hastily Gerry looked back at Troy’s tragic face. Tamping down an unwise and critical assessment of Damon’s character, she said firmly, ‘He doesn’t know me very well. Have some coffee.’
But although Troy obediently sipped, she couldn’t leave the subject alone. ‘Have you ever been in love, Gerry? I mean really in love, the sort of abject, dogged, I-love-you-just-because-you’re-you sort of love?’
Gerry hoped that her shrug hid her burning skin. ‘I don’t believe in that sort of love,’ she said calmly. ‘I think you have to admire and respect someone before you can fall in love with them. Anything else is lust.’
It was the wrong thing to say, and she knew it as soon as the words left her mouth. Bryn Falconer’s presence must have scrambled her brain, she decided disgustedly.
Troy dissolved into tears and groped in her bag for her handkerchief. ‘I know,’ she wept into it. ‘Damon wanted me and now it’s gone. He’s breaking my heart.’
Gerry leaned over the table and took her friend’s hand. ‘Do you want to go?’ she asked quietly.
‘Yes.’
Avid, fascinated stares raked Gerry’s back as they walked across to the desk. She’d have liked to ignore Bryn Falconer, but when they approached his table he looked up at her with sardonic green eyes. At least he didn’t get to his feet, which would have made them even more conspicuous.
Handsome meant nothing, she thought irrelevantly, when a man had such presence!
‘Geraldine,’ he said, and for some reason her heart stopped, because that single word on his lips was like a claiming, a primitive incantation of ownership.
Keeping her eyes cool and guarded, she sent him a brief smile. ‘Hello, Bryn,’ she said, and walked on past.
Fortunately Gerry’s custom was valuable, so she and the desk clerk came to an amicable arrangement about the bill for the uneaten food. After settling it, she said, ‘I’ll drive you home.’
‘I don’t want to go home.’ Troy spoke in a flat, exhausted voice that meant reality was kicking in.
‘How long’s Mrs Landless able to stay with the children?’
‘Until four.’ Troy clutched Gerry’s arm. ‘Can I come with you? Gerry, I really need to talk.’
So sorry for Troy she could have happily dumped a chained and gagged Damon into the ocean and watched him gurgle out of sight, Gerry resigned herself to an exhausting afternoon. ‘Of course you can.’
Once home, she filled them both up on toast and pea and ham soup from the fridge—comfort food, because she had the feeling they were going to need it.
And three exhausting hours later she morosely ate a persimmon as Troy—by then fully in command of herself—drove off in a taxi.
Not that exhausting was the right word; gruelling described the afternoon more accurately. Although Troy was bitterly unhappy she still clung to her marriage, trying to convince herself that because she loved her husband so desperately, he had to love her in return.
The old, old illusion, Gerry thought sadly and sardonically, and got to her feet, drawing some consolation from her surroundings. She adored her house, revelled in the garden, and enjoyed Cara’s company as well as her contribution to the mortgage payments.
But restlessness stretched its claws inside her. Gloomily she surveyed the tropical rhododendrons through her window, their waxy coral flowers defying the grey sky and cold wind. A disastrous lunch, a shattered friend, and the prospect of heavier rain later in the evening didn’t mean her holiday was doomed. She wasn’t superstitious.
But she wished that Bryn Falconer had chosen to eat lunch anywhere else in New Zealand.
Uncomfortable, jumpy—the way she felt when the music in a horror film indicated that something particularly revolting was about to happen—Gerry set up the ironing board. Jittery nerves wouldn’t stand up to the boring, prosaic monotony of ironing.
She was putting her clothes away in her room when she heard the front door open and Cara’s voice, bright and lively with an undercurrent of excitement, ring around the hall. The masculine rumble that answered it belonged to Bryn Falconer.
All I need, Gerry thought with prickly resignation.
She decided to stay in her room, but a knock on her door demanded her attention.
‘Gerry,’ Cara said, flushed, her eyes gleaming, ‘come and talk to Bryn. He wants to ask you something.’
Goaded, Gerry answered, ‘I’ll be out in a minute.’
Fate, she decided, snatching a look at the mirror and despising the colour heating her sweeping cheekbones, really had it in for her today.
However, her undetectable mask of cosmetics was firmly in place, and anyway, she wasn’t going to primp for Bryn Falconer. No matter that her dark blue-green eyes were wild and slightly dilated, or that her hair had rioted frivolously out of its usual tamed waves. She didn’t care what he thought.
The gas heater in the sitting room warmed the chilly air, but the real radiance came from Cara, who lit up the room like a torch. Should I tell her mother? Gerry thought, then dismissed the idea. Cara was old enough to understand what she was doing.
But that little homily on messing around with married men might be in order.
Not that Bryn looked married—he had the air of someone who didn’t have to consider anyone else. Forcing a smile, Gerry said, ‘Hello, Bryn. Did you have a good lunch?’
His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Very.’
Gerry maintained her hostess demeanour. ‘I like the way they do lunch there—sustaining, and it doesn’t make you sleepy in the afternoon.’
‘A pity you weren’t able to stay long enough to eat,’ he said blandly.
Despising the heat in her skin, Gerry kept her voice steady. ‘My friend wasn’t well.’ Before he could comment she continued, ‘Cara tells me you want to ask me something?’
‘I’d like to offer you a very short, one-off project,’ he said, and without giving her time to refuse went on, ‘It involves a trip to the islands, and some research into the saleability—or not—of hats.’
Whatever she’d expected it wasn’t that. ‘Hats,’ she repeated blankly.
The green gaze rested a moment on her mouth before moving up to capture her eyes. ‘One of the outlying islands near Fala’isi is famous for the hats the islanders weave from a native shrub. They used to bring in an excellent income, but sales are falling off. They don’t know why, but I suspect it’s because they aren’t keeping up with fashion. Cara tells me you have a couple of weeks off. One week at Longopai in the small hotel there should be ample time to check whether I’m right.’
No, she wanted to say, so loudly and clearly that there could be no mistaking her meaning. No, I don’t want to go to a tropical island and find out why they’re no longer selling their hats. I don’t want anything to do with you.
‘I’d love to go,’ Cara said eagerly, ‘but I’m booked solid for a couple of months. You’re a real expert, Gerry—you style a shoot better than anyone, and Honor says you’ve got an instinct about fashion that never lets you down. And you’d have a super time in the islands—it’s just what you need.’
Gerry looked out of the window. Darkness had already fallen; the steady drumming of rain formed a background to the rising wail of wind. She said, ‘I might not have any idea why they aren’t selling. Marketing is—’
‘Exactly what you’re good at,’ Bryn said smoothly, his deep voice sliding with the silky friction of velvet along her nerves. ‘When you worked as fashion editor for that magazine you marketed a look, a style, a colour.’ He looked around the room. ‘You have great taste,’ he said.
As Gerry wondered whether she should tell him the room was furnished with pieces from her great-grandmother’s estate, he finished, ‘I can get you there tomorrow.’
Gerry’s brows shot up. It was tempting—oh, she longed to get away and forget everything for a few days, just sink herself into the hedonism of a tropical holiday. Lukewarm lagoons, she thought yearningly, and colour—vivid, primal, shocking colour—and the scent of salt, and the caress of the trade winds on her bare skin…
Aloud, very firmly, she said, ‘If you got some photographs done I could probably give you an opinion without going all the way up there. Or you could get some samples.’
‘They deal better with people,’ he said evenly. ‘They’ll take one look at you and realise that you know what you’re talking about. A written report—or even a suggestion from me—won’t have the same impact.’
‘Most people,’ Cara burbled, ‘are dying to get to the tropics at this time of the year. You sound like a wrinklie, Gerry, hating the thought of being prised out of your nice comfortable nest!’
And if I go, Gerry thought with a tiny flash of malice, you’ll be alone here, and no one will realise that you’re spending nights in Bryn’s bed. Although that was unkind; Cara knew that Gerry wouldn’t carry tales to her parents. And she honestly thought she was doing Gerry a favour.
Hell, she probably was.
Green eyes half-closed, Bryn said, ‘I’d rather you actually saw the hats. Photographs don’t tell the whole story, as you’re well aware. And of course the company will pay for your flights and accommodation.’
She was being stupid and she knew it; had any other man suggested it she’d have jumped at the idea. Striving for her usual equanimity, she said, ‘Of course I’d like to go, but—’
Cara laughed. ‘I told you she wouldn’t be able to resist it,’ she crowed.
‘Where is this island?’ Gerry asked shortly.
‘Longopai’s an atoll twenty minutes by air from Fala’isi.’ All business, Bryn said, ‘A taxi will pick you up at ten tomorrow morning. Collect your tickets from the Air New Zealand counter at the airport. Pack for a week, but keep in mind the weight restrictions.’
What did he think she was? One of those people who can’t leave anything in their wardrobe when they go overseas?
Cara headed off an intemperate reply by breaking in, ‘Gerry can pack all she needs for three weeks in an overnight bag,’ she said on an awed note.
Bryn’s brow lifted. ‘Clever Gerry,’ he said evenly, his voice expressionless.
So why did it sound like a taunt?

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_2177cd8c-4e22-5258-b859-8fd648ff90fe)
IT DIDN’T surprise her that Bryn Falconer’s arrangements worked smoothly; he’d expect efficiency in his hirelings.
Everything—from the moment Gerry collected her first-class ticket at Auckland airport to the cab-ride through the hot, colourful streets of Fala’isi with the tall young man who’d met the plane—went without a hitch.
‘Mr Falconer said you were very important, and that I wasn’t to be late,’ her escort said when she thanked him for meeting her.
A considerable exaggeration, she thought with a touch of cynicism. Bryn liked her as little as she liked him. ‘Do you work for the hotel on Longopai?’
He shook his head. ‘For the shipping company. Mr Falconer bought a trader to bring the dried coconut here from Longopai, so it is necessary to have an office here.’
Bryn had said he was an importer—clearly he dealt in Pacific trade goods.
At the waterfront Gerry’s escort loaded her and her suitcase tenderly into a float plane. Within five minutes, in a maelstrom of spray and a shriek of engines, the plane taxied out, broke free of the water and rose over the lagoon to cross the white line of the reef and drone north above a tropical sea of such vivid blue-green that Gerry blinked and put on her sunglasses.
She’d forgotten how much she loved the heat and the brilliance, forgotten the blatant, overpowering assault on senses more accustomed to New Zealand’s subtler colours and scents. Now, smiling at the large ginger dog of bewildering parentage strapped into the co-pilot’s seat, she relaxed.
Between the high island of Fala’isi and the atoll of Longopai stretched a wide strait where shifting colours and surface textures denoted reefs and sandbanks. Gazing down at several green islets, each ringed by blinding coral sand, Gerry wondered how long it would take to go by sea through these treacherous waters.
‘Landfall in distant seas,’ the pilot intoned dramatically over the intercom fifteen minutes later.
A thin, irregular, plumy green circle surrounded by blinding sand, the atoll enclosed a huge lagoon of enchanting, opalescent blues and greens. To make it perfect, in the centre of the lagoon rested a boat, white and graceful. Not a yacht—too much to expect!—but a large cruiser, some rich man’s toy.
Gerry sighed. Oh, she wouldn’t want to live on a place like this—too cut off, and, being a New Zealander, she loved the sight of hills on the horizon—but for a holiday what could be better? Sun, sand, and enough of a mission to stop her from becoming inured to self-indulgence.
After a spray-flurried landing in the deeper part of the lagoon, Gerry unbelted as a canoe danced towards them.
‘Your transport.’ The pilot nodded at it.
Glad that she’d worn trousers and a T-shirt, she pulled on her hat. The canoe surged in against the plane, manned by two young men with dark eyes and the proud features of Polynesians, their grins open and frankly appreciative as they loaded her suitcase.
Amused and touched by the cushion that waited on her seat, Gerry stepped nimbly down, sat gracefully and waved to the pilot The dog barked and wagged its tail; the pilot said, ‘Have a great holiday.’
Yes, indeed, Gerry thought, smiling as the canoe backed away from the plane, swung around and forged across the glittering waters.
New Zealand seemed a long, long way away. For this week she’d forget about it, and the life that had become so terrifyingly flat, to wallow in the delights of doing practically nothing in one of the most perfect climates in the world.
And in one of the most perfect settings!
Following the hotel porter along a path of crushed white shell, Gerry breathed deeply, inhaling air so fresh and languorous it smelt like Eden, a wonderful mixture of the unmatched perfumes of gardenia and frangipani and ylangylang, salted by a faint and not unpleasing undernote of fish, she noted cheerfully. Her cabaña, its rustic appearance belying the luxury within, was one of only ten.
‘Very civilised,’ she said aloud when she was alone.
A huge bed draped in mosquito netting dominated one end of the room. Chairs and sofas—made of giant bamboo and covered in the soothing tans and creams of tapa cloth—faced wide windows which had shutters folded back to reveal a deck. Separated from a tiny kitchen by a bar, a wooden table and chairs stood at the other end of the room. Fruit and flowers burst from a huge pottery shell on the table.
Further exploration revealed a bathroom of such unashamed and unregenerate opulence—all marble in soft sunrise hues of cream and pale rose—that Gerry whistled.
Whoever had conceived and designed this hotel had had a very exclusive clientele in mind—the seriously rich who wanted to escape. Although, she thought, eyeing the toiletries laid out on the marble vanity, not too far.
The place was an odd but highly successful blend of sophisticated luxury and romantic, lazy, South Seas simplicity. Normally she’d never be able to afford such a place. She was, she thought happily, going to cost Bryn Falconer megabucks.
Half an hour later, showered and changed into fresh clothes, she strolled down the path, stopping to pick a hibiscus flower and tuck it behind her ear, where its rollicking orange petals and fiery scarlet throat would contrast splendidly with her black curls. Only flowers, she decided, could get away with a colour scheme like that! Or silk, perhaps…
According to the schedule her escort in Fala’isi had given her, she’d have the rest of the day to relax before the serious part of this holiday began. Tomorrow she’d be shown the hats. As the swift purple twilight of the tropics gathered on the horizon, she straightened her shoulders and walked across the coarse grass to the lounge area.
And there, getting up from one of the sinfully comfortable chairs and striding across to meet her, was Bryn Falconer, all power and smooth, co-ordinated litheness, green eyes gleaming with a metallic sheen, his autocratic features only hinting at the powerful personality within.
Gerry was eternally grateful that she didn’t falter, didn’t even hesitate. But the smile she summoned was pure willpower, and probably showed a few too many teeth, for he laughed, a deep, amused sound that hid any mockery from the three people behind him.
‘Hello, Geraldine,’ he said, and took her arm with a grip that looked easy. ‘Somehow I knew just how you’d look.’
As she was wearing a gentle dress the dark blue-green of her eyes, with a long wrap skirt and flat-heeled sandals, she doubted that very much. Flattering it certainly was—the straight skirt and deep, scooped neckline emphasised her slender limbs and narrow waist—but fashionable it was not.
Arching her brows at him, she murmured, ‘Oh? How do I look?’
His smile hardened. ‘Rare and expensive and fascinating—perfect for a tropical sunset. A moonlit woman, as shadowy and mysterious as the pearls they dive for in one small atoll far to the north of here, pearls the colour of the sea and the sky at midnight.’
Something in his tone—a disturbing strand of intensity, of almost-hidden passion—sent her pulse skipping. Automatically, she deflected.
‘What a charming compliment. Thank you,’ she returned serenely, dragging her eyes away from the uncompromising authority of his face as he introduced his companions.
Gone was the lingering miasma of ennui; the moment she’d seen him every nerve cell had jolted into acute, almost painful alertness.
Narelle and Cosmo were an Australian couple—sleek, well-tanned, wearing expensive resort clothes. Lacey, their adolescent daughter, should have been rounded and sturdy; instead her angular figure indicated a recent illness.
After the flurry of greetings Gerry sank into the chair Bryn held for her, aware that Lacey was eyeing her with the yearning intensity of a hungry lion confronted by a wildebeest. Uncomfortably, Gerry waited for surnames, but none were forthcoming.
‘Isn’t this a wonderful place for a holiday?’ Narelle, a thin, tanned woman with superbly blonded hair and a lot of gold chains, spoke brightly, her skilfully shaded eyes flicking from Gerry to Bryn.
‘Ideal,’ Gerry answered, smiling, and was about to add that she wasn’t exactly on holiday when Bryn distracted her by asking her what she’d have to drink.
‘Fruit juice, thanks,’ she said. After the fiasco with Troy she wasn’t going to risk anything alcoholic in her empty stomach. She smiled at the waiter who’d padded across on bare feet, and added, ‘Not too sweet, please.’
‘Papaya, madam? With passionfruit and lime?’
‘That sounds wonderful,’ she said.
She was oddly uneasy when Lacey said loudly, ‘I’ll have one of those too, please.’
Her mother gave her a sharp look. ‘How about a diet soft drink?’ she asked.
‘No, thanks.’
Narelle opened her mouth but was forestalled by Bryn, who said, ‘Did you have a good flight up, Geraldine?’
Why the devil didn’t he use her proper name? ‘Geraldine’ sounded quite different from her normal, everyday self. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said, smiling limpidly.
If he thought that one compliment entitled him to a more intimate footing, he was wrong. All right, so her heart was still recovering from that first sight of him, and for a moment she’d wondered what it would be like to hear that deep voice made raw by passion, but she was strong, she’d get over it.
‘We’ve been here several times,’ Narelle said, preening a little. ‘Last year Logan Hawkhurst was here with the current girlfriend, Tania Somebody-or-other.’
Logan Hawkhurst was an actor, the latest sensation from London, a magnificently structured genius with a head of midnight hair, bedroom eyes, and a temper—so gossip had it—that verged on molten most of the time.
‘And was he as overwhelming as they say?’ Gerry asked lightly.
Narelle gave an artificial laugh. ‘Oh, more so,’ she said. ‘Just gorgeous—like something swashbuckling out of history. Lacey had a real a crush on him.’
The girl’s face flamed.
Gerry said cheerfully, ‘She wasn’t the only one. I had to restrain a friend of mine when he finally got married—she wept half a wet Sunday and said she was never going to see another film of his because he’d break her heart all over again.’
They dutifully laughed, and some of the colour faded from the girl’s skin.
‘Don’t know what you women see in him,’ Cosmo said, giving Bryn a man-to-man look.
His wife said curtly, ‘He’s very talented, and you saw quite a lot in his girlfriend, whose talent wasn’t so obvious.’ She laughed a little spitefully. ‘He must like fat women.’
Fortunately the waiter returned with the drinks just then, pale gold and frosted, with moisture sliding down the softly rounded glasses.
Gerry had seen more than enough photographs of the woman Logan Hawkhurst had wooed all over the world and finally won; a tall, statuesque woman, with wide shoulders, glorious legs and substantial breasts, she’d looked as though she was more than capable of coping with a man of legendary temper.
Whatever, Gerry didn’t want to deal with undercurrents and sly backbiting. Blast Bryn Falconer. This was not the way she’d envisioned spending her first evening on the atoll.
Even more irritating, Narelle set out to establish territory and pecking order. Possibly Bryn noted the glitter in Gerry’s smile, for he steered the conversation in a different direction. Instead of determining who outranked whom, they talked of the latest comet, and the plays on Broadway, and whether cars would ever run on hydrogen. Lacey didn’t offer much, but what she did say was sharply perceptive.
Gerry admired the way Bryn handled the girl; he respected her intelligence and treated her as an interesting woman with a lot to offer. Lacey bloomed.
Which was more than Gerry did. Infuriatingly, the confidence she took for granted seemed to be draining away faster than the liquid in her glass. Every time Bryn’s hooded green gaze traversed her face her rapid pulse developed an uncomfortable skip, and she had to yank her mind ruthlessly off the question of just how that long, hard mouth would feel against hers…
How foolish of Narelle to try her silly tests of who outranked whom! Bryn was the dominant male, and not only because he was six inches taller than Cosmo; what marked him out was the innate authority blazing around him like a forceful aura, intimidating and omnipresent.
Dragging her attention back, she learned that Cosmo owned a chain of shops in Australia. Narelle turned out to be a demon shopper, detailing the best boutiques in London for clothes, and where to buy gold jewellery, and how wonderful Raffles Hotel in Singapore was now it had been refurbished.
Lacey relapsed into silence, turning her glass in her hand, drinking her fruit juice slowly, as Gerry drank hers, occasionally shooting sideways glances at Bryn. Another crush on the way, Gerry thought, feeling sorry for her.
Politeness insisted she listen to Narelle, nodding and putting in an odd comment, but the other woman was content to talk without too much input from anyone else. From the corner of her eye Gerry noted Bryn’s lean, well-shaped hands pick up his beer glass. So acutely, physically aware of him was she that she fancied her skin on that side of her body was tighter, more stretched, than on the other.
‘You’ve travelled quite a bit,’ Lacey said abruptly, breaking into her mother’s conversation.
‘It’s part of my job,’ Gerry said.
‘What do you do?’
She hesitated before saying, ‘I work in fashion.’
Lacey looked smug. ‘I thought you might be a model,’ she said, ‘but I knew you were something to do with fashion. You’ve got that look.’ She leaned forward. ‘Do models have to diet all the time to stay that slim?’
‘Thin,’ Gerry said calmly. ‘They have to be incredibly thin because the camera adds ten pounds to everyone. Some starve themselves, but most don’t They’re freaks.’
‘F-freaks?’ Lacey looked distinctly taken aback.
Bryn asked indolently, ‘How many women do you see walking down the street who are six feet tall, skinny as rakes, with small bones and beautiful faces?’
Although the caustic note in his voice stung, Gerry nodded agreement.
‘Well—not many, I suppose,’ Lacey said defensively.
‘It’s not normal for women to look like that,’ Bryn said with cold-blooded dispassion. ‘Gerry’s right—those who do are freaks.’
‘Designers like women with no curves,’ Gerry told her, ‘because they show off clothes better.’
Narelle laughed a little shrilly. ‘Oh, it’s more than that,’ she protested. ‘Men are revolted by fat women.’
‘Some men are,’ Bryn said, leaning back in his chair as though he conducted conversations like this every day, ‘but most men like women who are neither fat nor thin, just fit and pleasantly curvy.’
So she was not, Gerry realised, physically appealing to him. Although not model-thin, she was certainly on the lean side rather than voluptuous. His implied rejection bit uncomfortably deep; she had, she realised with a shock, taken it for granted that he found her as attractive as she found him.
Lacey asked, ‘Are you in fashion too, Mr Falconer?’
‘I have interests there,’ he said, his tone casual.
Did he mean the hats?
With a bark of laughter Cosmo said, ‘Amongst others.’
Bryn nodded. Smoothly, before anyone else could speak, he made some remark about a scandal in Melbourne, and Lacey listened to her parents discuss it eagerly.
Illness or anorexia? Gerry wondered, covertly taking in the stick-like arms and legs. Lacey had her father’s build; she should have been rounded. Or just a kid in a growing spurt? Sixteen could be a dangerous age.
Had Bryn discerned that? Why else would he have bothered to warn her off dieting? Because that was what he’d done, in the nicest possible way.
Gerry drained her glass and settled back in her chair, watching the night drift across the sea, sweep tenderly through the palms and envelop everything in a soft, scented darkness. The sound of waves caressing the reef acted as a backdrop; while they’d been talking several other people had come in and sat down, and now a porter was going around lighting flares.
If she were alone, Gerry thought, she’d be having a wonderful time, instead of sitting there with every cell alert and tense, waiting for something to happen.
What happened was that a waiter came across and bent over Bryn, saying cheerfully, ‘Your table is ready, sir.’
‘Then we’d better eat,’ he said, and got to his feet, towering over them. ‘Geraldine,’ he said, holding out his hand.
Irritated, but unable to reject him without making it too obvious, Gerry put hers in his and let him help her up, smiling at the others. He kept his grip until they were halfway across the room, when she tugged her fingers free and demanded, ‘What on earth is going on?’
‘I’d have thought you’d know the signs,’ he said caustically. ‘If she hasn’t got anorexia, she’s on the brink.’
‘I didn’t mean Lacey,’ she snapped. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I discovered I had a few days, so I decided it would be easier for you if I came up and acted as intermediary.’
Impossible to tell from his expression or his voice whether he was lying, but he certainly wasn’t telling the whole story.
‘Just like that?’ she said, not trying to hide her disbelief. ‘You didn’t have this time yesterday.’
‘Things change,’ he told her blandly, pulling out a chair.
He was laughing at her and she resented it, but she wasn’t going to make a fool of herself by protesting. So when she’d sat down she seized on the comment he’d made. ‘What do you mean, you thought I’d have been able to recognise anorexia?’
‘You deal with it all the time, surely?’ he said.
She replied bluntly, ‘Tragically, anorexic young women who don’t get help die. They don’t have the stamina to be models.’
‘I know they die,’ he said, his face a mask of granite, cold and inflexible in the warm, flickering light of the torches. ‘How many do you think you’ve sent down that road?’
His grim question hurt more than a blow to the face.
Before she could defend herself he continued, ‘Your industry promotes an image of physical perfection that’s completely unattainable for most women. From there it’s only a short step to eating disorders.’
‘No one knows what causes eating disorders,’ she said, uncomfortable because she had worried about this. ‘You make it sound as though it’s a new thing, but women have always died of eating disorders—they used to call it green sickness or a decline before they understood it. Some psychologists believe it’s psychological, to do with personality types, while others think it’s caused by lack of control and power. If you men would give up your arrogant assumption of authority over us and appreciate us for what we are—not as trophies to impress your friends and associates—then perhaps we could learn to appreciate ourselves in all our varied and manifold shapes and sizes and looks.’
‘That’s a cop-out,’ he said relentlessly.

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