Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | Rich, Ruthless and Secretly Royal

Rich, Ruthless and Secretly Royal
Robyn Donald
Nights of royal passion. . . and pleasure. . . Prince Kelt, Duke of Vamili, knows the weight of responsibility a title brings. So the brooding royal keeps his privileged birth well hidden. Until one glance at mysteriously alluring Hannah Court threatens to shatter his defences. . .Exotic beauty Hani has never known a man who excites her as quickly as Kelt. He's achingly persuasive and thrillingly powerful. But the chiselled god who pleasures her at night is holding a secret. . . one almost as dark as her own!


‘If you’re afraid, Hannah, all you have to do is pull away.’ Kelt loosened his already relaxed grip.
Something—a wild spark of defiance—kept Hani still. A basic female instinct, honed by her past experiences, told her she had nothing to fear from Kelt.
‘I’m not afraid of you.’
Kelt’s expression altered fractionally; the glittering steel-blue of his gaze raked her face.
Hani held her breath when his mouth curved in a tight, humourless smile.
‘Good.’
And then he bent his head the last few inches and at last she felt his mouth on hers, gentle and without passion, as though he was testing her.
The warnings buzzing through her brain disappeared in a flood of arousal. Kelt tasted of sinful pleasure, of erotic excitement, of smouldering sexuality focused completely on her and the kiss they were exchanging—a kiss she’d never forget.
Robyn Donald can’t remember not being able to read, and will be eternally grateful to the local farmers who carefully avoided her on a dusty country road as she read her way to and from school, transported to places and times far away from her small village in Northland, New Zealand. Growing up fed her habit; as well as training as a teacher, marrying and raising two children, she discovered the delights of romances and read them voraciously, especially enjoying the ones written by New Zealand writers. So much so that one day she decided to write one herself. Writing soon grew to be as much of a delight as reading—although infinitely more challenging—and when eventually her first book was accepted by Mills & Boon
she felt she’d arrived home. She still lives in a small town in Northland, with her family close by, using the landscape as a setting for much of her work. Her life is enriched by the friends she’s made among writers and readers, and complicated by a determined Corgi called Buster, who is convinced that blackbirds are evil entities. Her greatest hobby is still reading, with travelling a very close second.
Recent titles by the same author:
THE MEDITERRANEAN PRINCE’S CAPTIVE VIRGIN
HIS MAJESTY’S MISTRESS
VIRGIN BOUGHT AND PAID FOR
INNOCENT MISTRESS, ROYAL WIFE
THE RICH MAN’S BLACKMAILED MISTRESS

RICH, RUTHLESS AND SECRETLY ROYAL
BY

ROBYN DONALD

MILLS & BOON
Pure reading pleasure™
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/)

CHAPTER ONE
DRUMS pounded out into the sticky tropical night, their vigorous beat almost drowning out the guitars. Her smile tinged with strain, Hani Court surveyed the laughing, singing crowd from her vantage point at the other end of the ceremonial area.
The village people had thrown themselves into the celebrations with typical Polynesian gusto, the occasion their way of thanking the group of New Zealand engineering students who’d fixed and upgraded their derelict water system.
First there had been feasting, and now they were dancing. A teacher at the local school, Hani wasn’t expected to join them.
Instead, watching the whirling, colourful patterns the dancers made, she resisted aching, nostalgic memories of Moraze, her distant homeland. There, beneath a tropical moon every bit as huge and silver as this one, men and women danced the sanga, an erotic expression of desire, without ever touching.
Here, half a world away on Tukuulu, the dancing was purely Polynesian but it shared the graceful hand movements and lithe sensuality of the sanga.
Six years ago Hani had accepted that she’d never dance the sanga again, never laugh with her brother Rafiq, never ride a horse across the wild, grassy plains of Moraze. Never hear her people cheer their ruler and his sister, the girl they’d called their little princess.
Never feel desire again…
Unfortunately acceptance didn’t mean resignation. Pierced by longing for everything her stupidity had thrown away, she glanced around. She wasn’t on duty, and no one would miss her if she sneaked back to her house in the teachers’ compound.
A prickle of unease scudded down her spine. She drew in a breath, her stomach dropping into freefall when her eyes met a steel-blue scrutiny.
Transfixed, she blinked. He was taller than anyone else and the stranger’s broad shoulders emphasised his height; hard, honed features provided a strong framework for a starkly handsome face. But what made him stand out in the exuberant crowd was his formidable confidence and the forceful authority that gave him an uncompromising air of command.
Every sense on full alert, Hani froze. Who was he? And why did he watch her so intently?
Quelling an instinctive urge to run, she felt her eyes widen as he walked towards her. Her tentative gaze clashed with a narrowed gleaming gaze, and a half-smile curved his hard, beautifully cut mouth. Colour swept up through her skin when she recognised the source of his interest.
Sexual appraisal.
OK, she could deal with that. But her relief was rapidly followed by shock at her body’s tumultuous—and entirely unwelcome—response.
Never—not even the first time she’d met Felipe—had she experienced anything like the surge of molten sensation in every cell as the stranger came nearer, moving through the crowd with a silent, lethal grace. Her skin tightened, the tiny hairs lifting as though she expected an attack.
Warned by that secret clamour, she stiffened bones that showed a disconcerting tendency to soften and commanded her erratic heart to calm down.
Cool it! she told herself. He probably just wants a dance. Followed by a mild flirtation to while away the evening?
That thought produced an even faster pulse rate, pushing it up to fever pitch.
Perhaps he thought she was a local; although she was taller than most of the islanders her black hair and softly golden skin blended in well enough.
He stopped beside her. Bewildered and shocked, Hani felt his smile right down to her toes; it sizzled with a sexual charisma that emphasised the aura of controlled power emanating from him. With a jolt of foreboding she realised he was being eyed covertly or openly by most of the women within eyeshot.
Antagonism flared inside her. Here was a man who took his powerful masculine attraction for granted.
Just like Felipe.
But it was unfair to load him with Felipe’s sins…
He said in a voice that made each word clear in spite of the background noise, ‘How do you do? I’m Kelt Gillan.’
Struggling to dampen down her wildfire response, Hani smiled distantly, but she couldn’t ignore the greeting or the fact that he obviously thought a handshake would be the next step.
Nor could she pretend not to feel the scorching along her cheekbones when she looked up and found his gaze on her mouth. Hot little shivers ran through her at that gaze—darkly intent, too perceptive.
‘Hannah Court,’ she said, hoping the aloof note in her voice would frighten him off.
Of course, he didn’t scare easily. One black brow lifted. Reluctantly she extended her hand, and his fingers closed around hers.
Hani flinched.
‘Did I hurt you?’ he demanded, frowning.
‘No, no, not at all.’ He had, in fact, judged to a nicety exactly how much strength to exert. Fumbling for a reason she could give him at her involuntary reaction, she hurried on, ‘Just—I think someone walked over my grave.’
It took every shred of her fragile control not to snatch back her hand. His fingers were warm and strong—the hand of a person who worked hard.
But it wasn’t his calluses that sent another bolt of sensation through her, so fiercely intense it numbed her brain and left her with nothing to say.
Rescue came from the band; abruptly, the drums and music fell silent. The dancers stopped and turned to the back of the dance floor.
The stranger looked over her head, his eyes narrowing as Hani found enough voice to warn, ‘The elders have arrived. It’s polite to be quiet.’
He didn’t look like someone who’d care about the rituals of Polynesian society, but after a quick nod he watched the aristocratic council of men and women who ruled Tukuulu file past.
Hani dragged in a deep breath. The leaders would produce their best oratory to thank the group of students, and on Tukuulu it was an insult to leave while they spoke. So although she was stuck beside this man for some time, at least she wouldn’t have to talk to him.
She’d have time to subdue the wild confusion attacking her. And then she’d think up some innocuous conversation. Not that she cared if he assumed she was a halfwit, she decided defiantly.
Willing herself to keep her gaze on the elders as they positioned themselves in front of the crowd, she wondered where he’d come from and what he was doing here. Although his height and those burnished eyes, the cold blue of the sheen on steel, hinted at a northern-European heritage, his olive skin spoke of the Mediterranean.
Perhaps he was Australian, or from New Zealand, although she couldn’t recall an accent.
As for what he was doing here—well, right next door was the big nickel mine, Tukuulu’s only industry, so possibly he had something to do with that.
If so, Hani thought trenchantly, she’d try to persuade him that the mine company needed to accept some responsibility for the school that educated its workforce.
About half an hour into the speeches, Hani blinked, then closed her eyes against the light from the flaring torches.
Not here, not now, she prayed fervently. Please!
Cautiously she lifted her lashes, only to blink again as the flames splintered into jagged shards that stabbed into her brain. Heat gathered across her temples, while a dragging ache weighted her bones.
The fever had returned.
Don’t panic—just stay upright. Once they finish you can go.
For almost two months—ever since the last bout—she’d been so sure she’d finally managed to shake off this wretched bug. Fear hollowed her stomach; the last time she’d been ill with it the principal had told her that another bout would mean some months spent recuperating in a more temperate climate.
But she had nowhere to go, and no money…
Acutely aware of the silent woman at his side, Kelt Crysander-Gillan concentrated on the speeches. Although he couldn’t follow all the allusions, the Tukuuluan dialect was close enough to Maori for him to appreciate the sentiments and the aptness of the songs that followed each speaker.
Pity the council hadn’t waited another ten minutes or so to arrive. Then he’d have had time to introduce himself properly to the woman with the intriguing face and the aloof, reserved air.
Looking down, he realised that she was sneaking a glance at him from beneath her lashes. When their eyes clashed she firmed her luscious mouth and looked away, providing him with an excellent view of her profile.
Kelt switched his gaze back to the orator, but that fine line of brow and nose, the determined little chin and the sleek gloss of exquisite skin stayed firmly lodged in his mind.
An islander? No. Not if her eyes were as green as they seemed to be. And although her silky fall of hair gleamed like jet, a quick glance around the room confirmed that not a single Tukuuluan shared the red highlights that gleamed across the dark sheen. A staff member? Probably. When he’d come in she’d been talking to one of the teachers.
He’d already ascertained she wore no rings.
More than an hour after they’d arrived, the elders finally sat down, giving the signal for the celebrations to continue. Immediately the hall exploded in chatter, swiftly overwhelmed by the renewed staccato thump of the drums.
And the woman beside him turned without speaking and walked away.
An ironic smile pulled at the corners of Kelt’s mouth as he watched her. So much for the notorious Gillan pulling power! He couldn’t recollect any other woman flinching when he shook hands.
His gaze sharpened when she appeared to stumble. She recovered herself and stood with bowed head and slumping shoulders.
Without volition, Kelt took two steps towards her, stopping when she straightened up and set off into the hot, dark embrace of the night.
But something was definitely wrong. She wasn’t so much walking as lurching down the avenue of coconut palms, and while he watched she staggered again, managed another few steps, and then collapsed heavily against the trunk of the nearest tree.
Kelt set off after her, long legs eating up the distance. Once within earshot he demanded, ‘Are you all right?’
Hani tried to straighten up when she heard the deep, cool, aloof voice—very male. Even in her distress she was pretty sure she knew who was speaking.
Weakly she said, ‘Yes, thank you,’ humiliated to realise she sounded drunk, the words slurred and uneven. She probably looked drunk too, huddled against the palm trunk.
‘Can I get you anything?’ This time he sounded curt and impatient.
‘No.’ Just go away, she pleaded silently.
‘Drink or drugs?’
She longed for her usual crisp, no-nonsense tone when she responded, ‘Neither.’
Instead the word dragged, fading into an indeterminate mutter. Closing her eyes, she tried to ignore him and concentrate on staying more or less upright.
He made a disgusted sound. ‘Why don’t I believe that?’ Without waiting for an answer he picked her up as though she were a child and demanded, ‘Where were you going?’
Fighting the debilitating desire to surrender and just let him look after her, she struggled to answer, finally dredging the words from her confused brain. ‘Ahead—in house.’
He set off silently and smoothly, but by the time they reached her door Hani’s entire energy was focused on holding herself together long enough to take her medication before the fever crashed her into nightmare territory.
‘Where’s your key?’
‘B-bag.’ Her lips felt thick and unwieldy, and she said it again, but this time it was an inarticulate mutter. Dimly Hani heard him say something else, but the words jumbled around in her head.
Chills racked her shaking body as she whispered, ‘Cold…so cold…’
Unconsciously she curled into the man who held her, striving to steal some of his warmth. Kelt’s unruly body stiffened in automatic recognition and, swearing silently, he took the bag from her limp fingers. His arms tightened around her and he said, ‘It’s all right, I’ll get you inside.’
She didn’t appear to hear him. ‘B-bedside,’ she said, slurring the word.
She was shivering so hard he thought he heard her teeth chattering, yet she was on fire—so hot he could feel it through his clothes.
Kelt set her on her feet, holding her upright when she crumpled. He inserted the key and twisted it, picking her up again as soon as he had the door open. Once inside the small, sparsely furnished living room he found the light switch and flicked it on.
The woman in his arms stiffened, turning her head away from the single bulb. Her mouth came to rest against his heart, and through the fine cotton of his shirt he could feel the pressure of her lips against his skin.
Grimly, he tried to ignore his body’s consuming response to the accidental kiss.
Guessing that the open door in the far wall probably led to a bedroom, he strode towards it. Through the opening, one comprehensive glance took in an ancient institutional bed. A rickety lamp on the chest of drawers beside it seemed to be the only illumination.
He eased her down onto the coverlet, then switched on the lamp. Hannah Court gave a soft, sobbing sigh.
His first instinct was to call a doctor, but she opened her eyes—great eyes, darkly lashed, and yes, they were green.
Even glazed and unseeing, they were alluring.
‘Pills.’ Her voice was high and thin, and she frowned, her eyes enormous in her hectically flushed face. ‘T-top drawer…’
Kelt’s expression lightened a fraction when he saw a bottle of tablets; although he didn’t recognise the name of the drug, the dose was clearly set out, headed rather quaintly For the Fever.
He said harshly, ‘I’ll get you some water.’
When he came back her eyes were closed again beneath her pleated brows. She’d turned away from the light, rucking up her skirt around her hips to reveal long, elegant legs. Setting his jaw against a swift stab of desire, Kelt jerked the fabric down to cover her.
‘Hannah.’ Deliberately he made his tone hard and commanding.
Still lost in that region of pain and fever, she didn’t answer, but her lashes flickered. Kelt sat down on the side of the bed, shook out the right number of pills, and repeated her name. This time there was no response at all.
He laid the back of his hand against her forehead. Her skin was burning. Perhaps he should call a doctor instead of trying to get the medication inside her.
Medication first, he decided, then he’d get a doctor. ‘Open your mouth, Hannah,’ he ordered.
After a few seconds she obeyed. He put the pills onto her tongue and said in the same peremptory tone, ‘Here’s the water. Drink up.’
Her body moved reflexively, but she did as she was told, greedily gulping down the water and swallowing the pills without any problems.
She even managed to sigh, ‘OK—soon…’
Kelt eased her back onto the pillow and slipped the sandals from her slender, high-arched feet. She wasn’t wearing tights, and her dress was loose enough to be comfortable.
To his surprise she made a soft protesting noise. One hand came up and groped for him, then fell onto the sheet, the long, elegant fingers loosening as another bout of shivering shook her slim body with such rigour that Kelt turned away and headed for the door. She needed help, and she needed it right now.
He’d almost got to the outer door when he heard a sound from the room behind him. Turning in mid-stride, Kelt made it back in half the time.
Hannah Court had fallen out of the bed, her slim body twisting as guttural little moans escaped through her clenched teeth.
What sort of fever took hold so quickly?
When he picked her up she immediately turned into him, unconsciously seeking—what? Comfort?
‘Hannah, it’s all right, I’ll get a doctor for you as soon as I can,’ he told her, softening and lowering his voice as though she were a child.
‘Hani,’ she whispered, dragging out the syllables.
Honey? A play on Hannah, a pet name perhaps? She certainly had skin like honey—even feverish it glowed, delicate and satin-smooth.
His arms tightened around her yielding body and he sat on the side of the bed, surprised when the close embrace seemed to soothe her restlessness. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the intense, dramatic shivers began to ease.
But when he went to lie her down she clutched weakly at him. ‘Stay,’ she mumbled so thickly it was difficult to make out the words. ‘Stay. Please…Raf…’ The word died away into an indeterminate mumble.
Rafe? A lover? Surprised and irritated by a fierce twist of what couldn’t possibly be jealousy, Kelt said, ‘It’s all right, I won’t let you go.’
That seemed to soothe her. She lay quiescent, her breathing becoming more regular.
Kelt looked down at her lovely face. His brother Gerd would laugh if he could see him now. This small, stark room couldn’t have been a bigger contrast to the pomp of the ceremony he’d just attended in Carathia, when their grandmother had presented Gerd, their next ruler, to the people of the small, mountainous country on the Adriatic.
His brother had always known that one day he’d rule the Carathians, and Kelt had always been devoutly thankful the fishbowl existence of monarchy wasn’t his fate. His mouth tightened. His own title of Prince Kelt, Duke of Vamili, had been confirmed too. And that should put an end to the grumblings of discontent amongst some of the less educated country people.
Last year their grandmother, the Grand Duchess of Carathia, had come down with a bout of pneumonia. She’d recovered, but she’d called Gerd back to Carathia, intent on sealing the succession of the exceedingly wealthy little country. The ceremonies had gone off magnificently with the world’s royalty and many of its leaders in attendance.
As well as a flock of princesses.
With a cynical movement of his hard mouth, Kelt wondered if their grandmother would have any luck marrying her heir off to one.
He suspected not. Gerd might be constrained by centuries of tradition, but he’d choose his own wife.
And once that was done there would be children to seal the succession again. He frowned, thinking of a Carathian tradition that had complicated the existence of Carathian rulers. It had surfaced again—very inconveniently—just before the ceremonies. Someone had resurrected the ancient tale of the second child, the true chosen one, and in the mountains, where the people clung to past beliefs, a groundswell of rebellion was fomenting.
Fortunately he’d spent very little time in Carathia since his childhood, so his presence was no direct threat to Gerd’s rule. But he didn’t like what was coming in from his brother’s informants and his own.
Instead of a simple case of someone fomenting mischief, the rumours were beginning to seem like the first step to a carefully organised plan to produce disorder in Carathia, and so gain control of over half of the world’s most valuable mineral, one used extensively in electronics.
The woman in his arms sighed, and snuggled even closer, turning her face into his neck. Her skin no longer burned and she’d stopped shivering.
He registered that the distant throb of the music had stopped, and glanced at the clock on top of the chest of drawers. He’d been holding her for just over an hour. Whatever the medication was, it worked miraculously fast.
He responded with involuntary appreciation to her faint, drifting scent—erotic, arousing—and the feel of her, lax and quiescent against him as though after lovemaking. Cursing his unruly body and its instant reaction, he moved her so that he could see her face.
Yes, she was certainly on the mend. The flush had faded, and she was breathing normally.
A moment later beads of perspiration broke out through her skin. Astoundingly fast, the fine cotton of her dress was soaked, the fabric clinging like a second skin, highlighting the elegant bowl of her hips, the gentle swell of her breasts, the vulnerable length of her throat and the long, sleek lines of her thighs.
Desire flamed through him, an urgent hunger that disgusted him.
He eased her off his lap and onto the bed. Once more she made a soft noise of protest, reaching out for him before her hand fell laxly onto the cover and she seemed to slip into a deeper sleep.
Frowning, he stood and surveyed her. He couldn’t leave her like that—it would do her no good for her to sleep in saturated clothes.
So what the hell was he to do next?
The next morning, a little shaky but free from fever, Hani blessed modern medications and wondered who her rescuer—so very judgemental—had been. Kelt Gillan…
An unusual name for an unusual man. She could vaguely remember him picking her up, but after that was a blank, though with an odd little shiver she thought she’d never forget his voice, so cold and unsympathetic as he’d—what?
Ordered her to do something. Oh yes, of course. Swallow the pills. She gave a weak smile and lifted herself up on her elbow to check the time.
And realised she was in one of the loose cotton shifts she wore at night.
‘How—?’ she said aloud, a frown pleating her forehead. She sat up, and stared around the room. The dress she’d worn to the party was draped over the chair beside the wardrobe.
Colour burned her skin and she pressed her hands over her eyes. Her rescuer—whoever he was—must have not only stayed with her until the fever broke, but also changed her wet clothes.
Well, she was grateful, she decided sturdily. He’d done what was necessary, and although she cringed at the thought of him seeing and handling her almost naked body, it was obscurely comforting that he’d cared for her.
But for the rest of that day his angular, handsome face was never far from her mind, and with it came a reckless, potent thrill. Trying to reason it into submission didn’t work. Instead of her wondering why she reacted so powerfully to the stranger when any other man’s closeness repulsed her, the thought of his touch summoned treacherously tantalising thoughts.
Dim recollections of strong arms and a warmth that almost kept at bay the icy grip of the fever made her flush, a heat that faded when into her head popped another vagrant memory—the contempt in his tone when he’d asked her if she was drunk or drugged.
Although she’d never see him again, so she didn’t care a bit what he thought of her…

CHAPTER TWO
THREE weeks later and several thousand kilometres further south, standing on a deck that overlooked a sweep of sand and a cooler Pacific Ocean than she was accustomed to, Hani scanned the faces of the five children in front of her. Though they ranged from a dark-haired, dark-eyed, copper-skinned beauty of about fourteen to a blond little boy slathered with so much sunscreen that his white skin glistened, their features showed they were closely related.
What would it be like to have a family—children of her own?
Her heart twisted and she repressed the thought. Not going to happen, ever.
It was the small blond boy who asked, ‘What’s your name?’
‘Hannah,’ she said automatically.
Her accent must have confused them, because the older girl said, ‘Honey? That’s a nice name.’
And the little boy nodded. ‘Your skin’s the same colour as honey. Is that why your mum called you that?’
In Tukuulu she’d been Hannah; she liked Honey better. Stifling the hard-won caution that told her it might also confuse anyone too curious, she said cheerfully, ‘Actually, it’s Hannah, but you can call me Honey if you want to. Now I’ve told you my name, you’d better tell me yours.’
They all blurted them out together, of course, but six years of teaching infants had instilled a few skills and she soon sorted them out. Hani asked the older girl, ‘Kura, where do you live?’
‘At Kiwinui,’ she said importantly, clearly expecting everyone to know where Kiwinui was. When she realised it meant nothing to Hani, she added, ‘It’s in the next bay, but we’re allowed to walk over the hill and come down here to play if we ask nicely. So we’re asking.’
It would take a harder heart than Hani’s to withstand the impact of five pairs of expectant eyes. ‘I need to know first how good you are at swimming.’
‘We’re not going to swim because we have to have a grown-up with us when we do that,’ Kura told her. ‘Mum said so, and The Duke told us off when he caught us only paddling here, and the water only came up to our ankles.’
The Duke? Her tone invested the nickname with capitals and indicated that nobody messed with the man, whoever he was.
Curious, Hani asked, ‘Who is the duke?’
They looked almost shocked. Kura explained, ‘That’s like being a prince or something. His nan wears a crown and when she dies his brother will be a duke too and he’ll live in a big stone castle on a hill.’ She turned and pointed to the headland behind them. ‘He lives up there behind the pohutukawa trees.’
The Duke’s brother, or The Duke? Hani repressed a smile. ‘I’m happy for you to play here. Just come and tell me when you’re going home again.’
With a whoop they set off, except for the small blond boy, whose name was Jamie. ‘Why have you got green eyes?’ he asked, staring at her.
‘Because my mother had green eyes.’ Hani repressed a familiar pang of pain. She and her brother had both inherited those eyes; every time she looked in the mirror she thought of Rafiq.
Surely she should be reconciled to never seeing him again by now!
Jamie nodded. ‘They’re nice. Why are you staying here?’
‘I’m on holiday.’ The day after her last attack of fever the principal had told her that if she didn’t take up the offer to go to New Zealand—‘long enough to get this fever out of your system’—the charity that ran the school couldn’t accept responsibility for her welfare. Her air fares would be paid, and the beach house where she’d convalesce was rent-free.
Without exactly stating that they’d terminate her employment if she didn’t go, he’d implied it so strongly she’d been persuaded to reluctantly leave the safety of Tukuulu.
Curiosity satisfied, Jamie said nonchalantly, ‘See you later,’ and scampered off to join the others.
Hani sat back down in the comfortable wicker chair on the deck. Airy and casually luxurious, the beach house was surprisingly big, with glass doors in every room opening out onto a wide wooden deck that overlooked the cove. Her landlord, an elderly man, had met her flight the previous night and driven her here to what he’d called a bach.
Remembering his very English accent, she smiled. No doubt those cut-glass vowels were why the children had decided he must be some sort of aristocrat.
After introducing himself very formally as Arthur Wellington, he’d said, ‘The refrigerator and the pantry have been stocked with staples. If you need anything else, do ring the number on the calendar beside the telephone.’
Hani thanked him for that, but realised now that she’d missed telling him how much she appreciated being given the opportunity to stay here.
She’d do that when she paid him for the groceries he’d supplied.
On a long, soft sigh she took her gaze away from the children long enough to examine the cove. Sand like amber suede curved against the kingfisher expanse of water. Squinting against the bright sky, Hani eyed the headland where the landlord lived. Its steep slopes were hidden by more of the dark-leafed trees that lined the beach, their massive limbs swooping down over the sand.
A formal house to match her landlord’s formal manner? She hoped not. It would look incongruous in this pristinely beautiful scene.
Loud shrieks from the beach dragged her attention back to the game taking place in front of the bach, one that involved much yelling, more laughter, and some frenzied racing around. For the first time in months she felt a stirring of energy.
Smiling, checking that little Jamie didn’t get too close to the water, she failed to notice an intruder until he was almost at the cottage. The soft clink of harness alerting her, she swivelled around and saw a horse—a fine bay, strong enough to take its tall, powerfully built rider without effort.
Her startled gaze took in the rider. He sat easily on his mount—but that wasn’t why her pulses revved into overdrive.
For a second—just long enough to terrify and delight her—he reminded her of her brother. Rafiq had the same coiled grace of strength and litheness, the same relaxed control of his mount.
The same air of authority.
Then she recalled when she’d seen this man before, and an odd, baseless panic froze the breath in her throat. In spite of the bout of fever she’d been suffering when she met him on Tukuulu, those hard-hewn features and hooded eyes were sharply etched into her memory.
As was the feel of his arms around her…And the knowledge that he’d stripped her saturated clothes from her and somehow managed to get her into the loose shift she wore at night.
What the hell was he doing here?
He swung down, looped the reins over a fencepost and opened the gate to come towards her. Subliminally intimidated by the arrogant angle of his head and the smooth, lethal grace of his stride, Hani forced herself to her feet, stiffening her spine and her knees.
Although tall for a woman, she couldn’t match him. Her chin came up; unsmiling, breath locking in her throat, she watched him approach while a feverish awareness lifted the invisible hairs on the back of her neck.
He was—well, gorgeous was the only word she could come up with. Except that gorgeous made her think of male models, and this man looked like no male model she’d ever seen. That effortless, inborn air of command hardened his already bold features into an intimidating mask of force and power, emphasised by a cold steel-blue gaze and a thinning of his subtly sensuous mouth.
He was handsome enough to make any woman’s heart shake—even one as frozen as hers—but something uncompromising and formidable about him set off alarms in every nerve.
He had to be The Duke. A swift stab of apprehension screwed her nerves even tighter. Felipe, the man she’d once thought she loved, had called himself a French count.
It was stupid of her, but the children’s innocent misconception seemed somehow ominous.
Hani knew she should be relieved when he looked at her with a total lack of male interest. Scarily, she wasn’t.
OK, so the last thing she wanted was a man to see her as a sexual being, but…On Tukuulu he’d noticed her as a woman; now he looked at her with complete indifference.
And that stung.
Trying to keep this meeting on a sensible basis, she said warily, ‘Hello. I didn’t realise that you owned this place. Thank you so much for letting me stay here.’
‘I hoped to see you looking a bit better,’ he said curtly.
‘I am much better.’ Yes, her voice was fine—crisp, just as cool and impersonal as his, a far cry from her slurred tone that night at the ceremony. Meeting his merciless survey with an assumption of confidence, she hid her uncertainty with a shrug. ‘Another thing I have to thank you for is your rescue of me.’
One black brow lifted. ‘It was nothing; I happened to be the closest person around.’
Heat tinged her skin. Trying to sound professional and assured, she said crisply, ‘It was very kind of you. I don’t remember much—’ only the sound of his voice, calm and reassuring, and the wonderful comfort of his arms when he’d held her until the shivering stopped ‘—but I know I didn’t change myself.’
His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Once the fever had broken I went back to the school dance floor, but everyone had gone by then. It didn’t seem a good idea for you to sleep in wet clothes, so I removed your dress.’ In a coldly formidable tone, he finished, ‘I behaved as a brother might have.’
Colour burned into her skin. Hoping her words mingled the right blend of gratitude and distance, she said, ‘Yes—well, I thought as much.’ And then, changing the subject without finesse, ‘Thanks again for being generous enough to let me stay in this lovely place.’
‘You’ve thanked me enough,’ he said a little curtly, adding with a faint smile, ‘I went to school with your principal. When he asked if his teachers could use this bach I agreed. It’s not used very often, and it seems a waste to have it sit here empty. You’re the third teacher to come here, and I expect there will be others.’
So that was the connection. And he was making sure she didn’t think she was special.
She said with cool assurance, ‘I’m grateful. But to make things very clear, I was neither drunk nor drugged that night in Tukuulu.’
One straight black brow lifted. ‘I wondered if you’d remember that. I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions—it didn’t take me long to realise you were ill.’
For some reason she wasn’t prepared to explore, she didn’t want his apology. ‘I sent you a letter thanking you for your help.’
‘Yes, your principal passed it on.’
He hadn’t answered. Well, for heaven’s sake, she hadn’t expected him to.
Without inflection, he said, ‘I’m glad I was there when you needed someone. I’m Kelt Crysander-Gillan—although I don’t use the first part of my surname—and I live just up the hill.’
Nothing about being some sort of aristocrat, she noted. Clearly The Duke was just a nickname, perhaps because of the double-barrelled name. They mightn’t be common in New Zealand.
And he looked like a duke, someone of importance, his very presence a statement of authority. A very sexy duke, sexier than any other duke she’d ever met…
One who’d taken her clothes off and seen her naked…
Firmly she tamped down a sizzle of adrenalin. ‘And of course you know that I’m Han-Hannah Court.’
Oh, he’d really unnerved her! For the first time in years she’d almost given him her real name, catching it back only just in time. Startled, she automatically held out her hand.
‘Welcome to New Zealand,’ he said gravely, and his long, lean fingers closed around hers.
Her heart picked up speed. Cool it, she commanded her runaway pulse fiercely while he shook hands.
There was no reason for the swift sizzle of sensation that shocked her every nerve. Acting on pure blind instinct, Hani jerked her hand free.
Kelt Gillan’s brows met for a taut second above his blade of a nose, but he turned when the children chose that moment to surge up from the beach, their shouted greetings a melee of sound.
He silenced them with a crisp, ‘All right, calm down, you lot.’
She expected them to shuffle their feet, but although they obediently stayed silent their wide smiles told her he was popular with them.
Amazing, she thought, watching as he said something to each of them. And again she remembered Felipe, her first and only lover. He’d had no time for children; there was no profit to be made from them…
Kelt Gillan said, ‘Miss Court has been ill and needs a lot of rest, so I want you to play on the homestead beach until she’s better.’
Their attention swivelled back to her.
Into the silence Jamie said earnestly, ‘I was sick too, Honey. I had mumps and my throat was sore and I couldn’t eat anything ’cept ice cream and jelly and scrambled eggs.’
‘And soup,’ the lovely Kura reminded him officiously.
He pulled a face. ‘And some soup.’
‘I’m getting much better now,’ Hani said, smiling at him. ‘And I’m lucky—I can eat anything I like.’
‘Honey?’ Kelt said on an upward inflection, that taunting brow lifting again as his cool gaze inspected her face. ‘I thought your name was Hannah?’
‘I’ll have to learn to talk like a New Zealander,’ she said lightly, irritated by the colour that heated her cheekbones. In the last six years she’d worked hard to banish any vestige of the soft cadences of her birth country.
‘Actually, it suits you,’ he said, a sardonic note colouring his deep voice. He turned back to the children. ‘All right, off you go.’
They turned obediently, all but Jamie. ‘Where do you live?’ he asked Hani.
Nowhere…‘On a hot little island called Tukuulu a long way over the sea from here.’
An older girl, Jamie’s, sister—cousin?—turned. ‘Come on, Jamie,’ she commanded importantly, and the boy gave Hani a swift grin and scampered off.
‘What charming children. Are they siblings?’ she asked into the suddenly oppressive silence.
‘Siblings and cousins. In New Zealand the term whanau is used to denote the extended family,’ the man beside her said.
‘You didn’t need to warn them off,’ she told him. ‘I like children.’
Kelt Gillan said succinctly, ‘Honey or Hannah or whoever you are, you’re here to convalesce, and it’s no part of that healing process to act as unpaid babysitter. Your principal asked me to make sure you didn’t overexert yourself.’
His words set off a flicker of memory. The night he’d unhooked her from the coconut palm and carried her home he’d spoken in exactly that controlled, uncompromising tone. As though she were an idiot, she thought angrily.
She didn’t care what Kelt thought, but it wasn’t fair to spoil the children’s pleasure. ‘Both you and he are very thoughtful, but I’m quite capable of making decisions like that for myself. Believe me, it didn’t hurt me or tire me or worry me to sit in the sun and watch them. I enjoyed it.’
‘Perhaps so,’ he said inflexibly, ‘but that’s not the point. You’re here to rest and regain your strength. I’ll make sure their parents understand that they stay in Homestead Bay. Don’t fret about curtailing their fun—they’ll play quite happily there.’
Behind him his horse lifted its head from lipping the grass and took a step sideways, its powerful muscles fluid beneath satiny skin.
In Moraze, her homeland, herds of wild horses roamed the grassy plateau country that surrounded the central volcanic peaks. Descended from Arabian steeds, they’d been brought there by her ancestor, a renegade French aristocrat who’d settled the island with a rag-tag train of soldiers and a beautiful Arabian wife.
Hani’s parents had given her one of those horses for her third birthday…
Long dead, her parents and that first gentle mount, and it was years since she’d ridden.
Hani was ambushed by a pang of homesickness, an aching sense of loss so fierce it must have shown in her face.
‘Sit down!’ Kelt said sharply, unable to stop himself from taking a step towards her.
One hand came up, warning him off. Apart from that abrupt gesture she didn’t move, and the flash of something tight and almost desperate in her expression disappeared. Her black hair swirled around her shoulders in a cloud of fiery highlights as she angled her chin at him.
Looking him straight in the eye, she said in a gentle voice with a distinct edge to it, ‘Mr Gillan, I’m neither an invalid nor a child. I make my own decisions and I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.’
He examined her closely, but her lovely face was shut against him, that moment of despair—if that was what it had been—replaced by aloof self-assurance.
Kelt chose to live in New Zealand for his own good reasons, one of them being that Kiwinui had been in his grandfather’s family for over a hundred years, and he felt a deep emotional link to the place. But as a scion of the royal family of Carathia he’d been born to command. Backed by their grandmother, the Grand Duchess, he and his brother had turned their backs on tradition and gone into business together as soon as he’d left university. Between them they’d built up a hugely successful enterprise, a leader in its field that had made them both billionaires.
Women had chased him mercilessly since he’d left school. Although none had touched his heart, he treated his mistresses with courtesy, and had somehow acquired a legendary status as a lover.
Women were an open book to him.
Until now. One part of him wanted to tell Hannah Court that while she was on Kiwinui she was under his protection; the other wanted to sweep that elegant body into his arms and kiss her perfect mouth into submission.
Instead, he said crisply, ‘And I’ll do what I consider to be best for the situation. If you need anything, there’s a contact number by the telephone.’
Hani looked at him with cool, unreadable green eyes, the colour of New Zealand’s most precious greenstone. ‘Thank you; Mr Wellington told me about that.’
Kelt shrugged. ‘Arthur works for me.’
Her head inclined almost regally. ‘I see.’
‘Tell me if another bout of fever hits you.’
‘It’s not necessary—I have medication to deal with it.’ Another hint of soft apricot tinged her exotic cheekbones when she continued, ‘As you found out, it works very quickly.’
Clearly, she had no intention of giving an inch. He wondered how old she was—mid-twenties, he guessed, but something in her bearing and the direct glance of those amazing eyes reminded him of his grandmother, the autocratic Grand Duchess who’d kept her small realm safe through wars and threats for over fifty years.
Dismissing such a ridiculous thought, he said, ‘Do you drive?’
‘Of course.’ Again that hint of appraisal in her tone, in her gaze.
‘Any idea of New Zealand’s road rules?’ he asked, making no attempt to hide the ironic note in his voice.
‘I’m a quick learner. But how far is it to the nearest village? If it’s close enough I can walk there when I need anything.’
‘It’s about five kilometres—too far for you to walk in the summer heat.’
Warily wondering if he’d given up any idea of looking after her—because he seemed like a man with an over-developed protective streak and a strong will—she pointed out, ‘I’m used to heat.’
‘If that were true, you wouldn’t be convalescing here.’ And while she was absorbing that dig, he went on, ‘And somehow I doubt very much that you’re accustomed to walking five kilometres while carrying groceries.’
Uneasily aware of the unsettling glint in his cold blue eyes, Hani shrugged. ‘Don’t worry about me, Mr Gillan. I won’t be a bother to anyone.’
A single black brow climbed, but all he said was, ‘Call me Kelt. Most New Zealanders are very informal.’
She most emphatically didn’t want to call him anything! However, she’d already established her independence, so, hiding her reluctance, she returned courteously, ‘Then you must call me Hannah.’
He lifted one black brow. ‘You know, I think I prefer Honey. Hannah is—very Victorian. And you’re not.’
The slight—very slight—pause before he said Victorian made her wonder if he’d been going to say virginal.
If so, he couldn’t be more wrong.
Far from virginal, far from Victorian, she thought with an aching regret. ‘I’d prefer Hannah, thank you.’
His smile was tinged by irony. ‘Hannah it shall be. If you feel up to it, I’d like you to come to dinner tomorrow night.’
Caution warned her to prevaricate, fudge the truth a little and say she wasn’t well enough to socialise, but she’d already cut off that avenue of escape when she’d made it clear she didn’t need to be looked after by—well, by anyone, she thought sturdily.
Especially not this man, whose unyielding maleness affected her so strongly she could feel his impact on every cell. Even politely setting limits as she’d just done had energised her, set her senses tingling, and every time she looked into that hard, handsome face she felt a hot, swift tug of—of lust, she reminded herself bitterly.
And she knew—only too well—what that could lead to.
However, he was her landlord. She owed him for several things; his impersonal care on Tukuulu, the refrigerator full of groceries.
Changing her wet clothes…
Ignoring the deep-seated pulse of awareness, she said, ‘That’s very kind of you. What time would you like me to be there?’
‘I’ll pick you up at seven,’ he told her with another keen glance. ‘Until then, take things slowly.’
His long-legged strides across the lawn presented her with a disturbing view of broad shoulders and narrow hips above lean, heavily muscled thighs. He dressed well too—his trousers had been tailored for him, and she’d almost bet his shirt had too.
Very sexy, she thought frivolously, quelling the liquid heat that consumed her. Some lucky men were born with that it factor, a compelling masculinity that attracted every female eye.
And she’d bet the subject of her letting someone know if she had another attack of fever would come up again.
A few paces away he swivelled, catching her intent, fascinated look. A challenge flared in his narrowed eyes; he understood exactly what effect he was having on her.
Hot with shame, she wanted to turn away, but Kelt held her gaze for a second, his own enigmatic and opaque.
However, when he spoke his voice was crisp and aloof. ‘If you need anything, let me know.’
It sounded like a classical double entendre; if he’d been Felipe it would have been.
It was time she stopped judging men by Felipe’s standards. The years in Tukuulu had shown her that most men were not like him, and there was no reason to believe that Kelt Gillan wasn’t a perfectly decent farmer with a face like one of the more arrogant gods, an overdeveloped protective instinct and more than his share of formidable male presence.
‘Thank you—I will,’ she said remotely.
And produced a smile she held until he’d swung up onto his horse and guided it away.
Her face felt frozen when she took refuge in the cottage and stood listening as the sound of hooves dwindled into the warm, sea-scented air. She shivered, crossing her arms and rubbing her hands over her prickling skin.
Again? she thought in mindless panic. The unbidden, unwanted surge of sensual appetite humiliated her. Why on earth was she attracted to dangerous men?
Not that she’d realised Felipe was dangerous when she first met him. And for some unfounded and quite illogical reason she couldn’t believe Kelt would turn out to be like Felipe.
As well, the heady clamour Kelt Gillan summoned in her was different—more earthy and primal, nothing like the fascinated excitement she’d felt when Felipe had pursued her. He’d seemed such a glamorous, fascinating man, with his French title and his famous friends. At eighteen she’d been so green she’d run headlong into peril without a second thought.
Six years older, and much better able to look after herself, she sensed a different danger in Kelt Gillan—a more elemental attraction without the calculation that had marked Felipe’s seduction.
Desperate to take her mind off her enigmatic landlord and his unnerving effect on her, she went across to the kitchen and put on the electric kettle.
‘Displacement activity,’ she said aloud, a mirthless smile curling her mouth as she spooned coffee into the plunger.
Wrapping her attraction to Felipe in a romantic haze had got her into deep trouble; this time she’d face her inconvenient response to Kelt Gillan squarely. Coffee mug in hand, she walked out onto the deck and stood looking out over the sea.
No emotions, no fooling herself that this was love, no silly claptrap about soulmates. She’d already been down that track and it had led to humiliation and heartbreak and terror. Felipe had played on her naivety, setting himself out to charm her into submission.
And succeeding utterly, so that she’d gradually been manipulated into an affair without fully realising where she was heading. When she’d realised what sort of man he was she’d tried to break away, only to have him bind her to him with the cruellest, most degrading chains. To free herself she’d had to sacrifice everything—self-respect, love for her brother, her very future.
Closing her eyes against the dazzling shimmer of the sun on the bay, she thought wearily that she hadn’t planned for her sacrifice to last the rest of her life.
In fact, she hadn’t planned on any further life.
Well, a Mediterranean fisherman with smuggling as a sideline had seen to it that she’d survived. She shivered, and for a foolish few seconds wondered if Kelt Gillan had brought on another attack of fever.
No, her chill was due to memories she wished she could banish.
Only right now she needed them to remind her that no person could ever see into the heart of another, especially when they were blinded by lust.
Ruthlessly she dragged her mind back to the present, and concentrated on the problem at hand—her feelings for Kelt Gillan.
‘Just think rationally,’ she told herself.
What she felt when she looked at Kelt was a powerful physical attraction for a man both formidable and enormously attractive—a primal arousal with a scientific basis. Humans instinctively recognised the people they’d make superb babies with.
Logic played no part in it, nor did common sense. But both could be used as weapons against it, and if she’d learned anything these past six years it was that any relationship between lovers needed much more than desire to be a success.
And there would be no babies for her, ever.
So she’d have dinner with Kelt and then she’d stay well away from him.
Hani missed the children the next day, and not for the first time wondered what on earth she was going to do for three months. Too many empty weeks stretched before her, leaving her far too much time to think, to remember. Without the steady routine of school she faced more than simple boredom; she’d have to deal with emptiness.
At least the cottage had a set of bookshelves stuffed with books of all ages and quite a few magazines. After a brief walk along the beach that reminded her again how unfit she was, she sank into a chair on the deck with a cup of tea and a volume on New Zealand that looked interesting.
She flicked it open and saw a bookplate. Kelt Crysander-Gillan, it stated.
‘Unusual,’ she said aloud. There was an inscription too, but she turned the page on that, feeling as though she was prying.
With a name like that, and if Kelt’s air of forceful authority had led to a nickname like The Duke, imaginative children could well come up with a crown-wearing grandmother somewhere in Europe.
At precisely seven o’clock he arrived to collect her as the sun was dipping behind the forest-covered mountains that ran down the central spine of Northland’s long, narrow peninsula. He drove a large, luxurious four-wheel-drive, which gave Hani a moment of heart-sickness; her brother used to drive the same make…
Hani pushed the thought to the back of her mind. Rafiq thought she was dead, and that was the way she had to stay.
And then Kelt got out, lithe and long-legged, powerfully magnetic and urbane in a short-sleeved shirt that echoed the steely colour of his eyes, and casually elegant trousers, and the bitter, heart-sick memories vanished, replaced by a reckless excitement.
When he opened the gate she went hastily out into the serene evening. The bach might be his, but she didn’t want to sense his dominating presence whenever she walked into the living room.
She knew she looked good. For an hour that afternoon she’d pored over her scanty wardrobe, startled to find herself wistfully remembering her favourites amongst the designer clothes she’d worn in her old life.
In the end she’d chosen a modest dress she’d found in a shop in Tukuulu’s small capital city. Although it was a little too loose on her, the clear salmon hue burnished the gold of her skin and the warm highlights in her dark hair.
Tempted to go without make-up, she decided after a critical survey of her reflection that a naked face might make her look conspicuous, and her security depended on blending in. So she compromised on lipstick a slightly deeper shade than her dress, and pinned her badly cut hair off her face with two frangipani clips made from the moonbeam shimmer of pearl shell.
Kelt waited for her beside the gate. Her shoulders held a little stiffly to hide an absurd self-consciousness, she walked towards him, sensing a darker, more elemental level beneath his coolly sophisticated exterior. Trying to ignore the smouldering need in the pit of her stomach, she saw him as a warrior, riding his big bay gelding into battle…
Not, she thought with an inner shiver, a man to cross swords with.
With a carefully neutral smile she met his gaze, and in a charged moment her wilful memory sabotaged the fragile veneer of her composure by supplying a repeat of how it had felt when he’d carried her—the powerful litheness of his gait, the subtle flexion of his body as he’d lifted her, his controlled strength…

CHAPTER THREE
KELT examined her face with the impersonal keenness of a doctor. ‘How are you?’ he asked, opening the door of the car.
Hani’s smile faded. His persistent view of her as an invalid was—demeaning, she decided on a spurt of irritation that didn’t quite mask a deeper, more dangerous emotion. After all, in the light of her unexpected attraction, it was far safer if he saw her as an invalid than as a woman.
A desirable woman.
With a hint of frost in her tone she answered, ‘Fine, thank you.’ And met his scrutiny with head held high and an immobile face that belied the unsteady rhythm of her heart.
‘You still have dark circles under your eyes. Lack of sleep?’
Strangely enough, for the first time since she’d come to this side of the world all those years ago she’d slept deeply and dreamlessly, waking with an energy that seemed alien.
‘No, not at all,’ she told him evenly. Steering the conversation away from her illness, she asked, ‘How far away is your house?’
‘About a kilometre by road; half that distance if you walk across the paddocks—which I don’t want you to do.’ He set the car in motion.
‘Why?’
He sent her a narrow glance. ‘You could spook the cattle.’ After a pause, he added, ‘Or they might spook you.’
Hani examined some large, square animals, their coats glowing deep red-gold in the rays of the evening sun. ‘They don’t look excitable, but your point is well taken.’
Not that she planned to be going cross-country.
‘And you?’ he asked levelly, turning across a cattle grid.
She waited until the rattling died away before saying, ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Are you excitable?’
Startled, she looked across at him, saw an enigmatic smile tuck in the corners of his hard mouth, and was shocked again by a fierce tug of arousal, sweet as honey, dangerous as dynamite.
Surely he wasn’t flirting with her?
She felt winded and fascinated at the same time until a moment’s reflection produced sanity. Of course he wasn’t coming on to her. Not unless he was the sort of man who indulged in meaningless flirtations with any available woman.
Somehow she didn’t want to believe he’d be so indiscriminate. A man with Kelt Gillan’s effortless masculinity could have any woman he wanted, and he must know it. And unlike Felipe he had nothing to gain from seducing her.
In her most sedate tone she said, ‘Not in the least. Teachers can’t afford to be volatile. It’s very bad for discipline.’
That should tell him she wasn’t in the market for a holiday affair. To clinch it, she said, ‘Don’t worry, I won’t walk in your fields or excite your cattle.’
‘Paddocks,’ he said laconically, explaining, ‘New Zealanders call anything with animals in it a paddock. Fields are what we play sport on, and as far as we’re concerned meadows don’t exist.’ He nodded at the setting sun. ‘And that range of hills to the west is covered in native bush, not forest or woods.’
Intrigued, she said, ‘I do know about bush. One of the Australian teachers at the school explained it to me. It’s fascinating how countries colonised by the same power could develop such different words to describe things. In South Africa—’
She stopped suddenly, her mind freezing in dismay, then hastily tried to cover the slip by asking the first question that came to mind. ‘What are those trees, the ones that grow in groups in nearly all your f—paddocks?’
‘They’re totara trees.’
‘Oh. Do they flower?’
‘Not noticeably—they’re conifers. As for terminology—well, the world would be a boring place if we were all the same. Settlers in different countries adjusted to different conditions.’ He paused a beat before adding casually, ‘You’re not South African, are you?’
‘No,’ she said, dry-throated.
‘But clearly you’ve been there.’
Trying to banish any reluctance from her voice, she admitted, ‘I spent a holiday there when I was young.’
He accepted that without comment. ‘So what made a young Englishwoman decide to spend years teaching in a village school in a place like Tukuulu? The lure of tropical islands I can understand, but once you’d got to Tukuulu and realised it’s really nothing but a volcano with a huge mine on it—beaches of dead coral, only one fleapit of a hotel, no night life—what kept you there?’
A little shudder tightened her skin, but she kept her gaze fixed steadily ahead. Let him probe as much as he liked; she had her story down pat.
‘I wanted to help. And they were desperate for teachers. It’s really hard for them to keep staff. But the principal is your friend so you must know that.’
After a moment’s pause he said, ‘How long do you plan to live there?’
‘For several years yet,’ she evaded.
‘I imagine it’s unusual for anyone to stay for long in a Pacific backwater like Tukuulu.’ Let alone a young Englishwoman, his tone implied.
‘You’re a sophisticated man but you don’t seem to mind living on a remote cattle station in a Pacific backwater like New Zealand,’ she retorted sweetly.
He gave her swift, ironic smile. ‘Don’t let any New Zealander hear you call the place a backwater. We’re a proud people with plenty to be proud of.’
‘The Tukuuluans are proud too, and doing their best to move into the modern world without losing the special things that make their culture so distinctive.’
‘I suspect that’s an impossible task,’ he said cynically.
‘I hope not. And I like to think I’m helping them in a small way.’
They crossed another cattle grid and drove through a grove of the big trees she’d noticed before, their great branches almost touching the ground.
‘Oh,’ she exclaimed in involuntary pleasure, ‘the leaves are silver underneath! From a distance the trees look so sombre—yet how pretty they must be when there’s any wind.’
‘Very, and when they flower in a month or so they’ll be great torches of scarlet and crimson and maroon. I’ll take you over the top of the hill so you can look over Kiwinui and get some idea of the lie of the land.’
Kelt slowed the vehicle to a stop, switching off the engine so that the silence flowed in around them, bringing with it the sweet scent of damp grass and the ever-present salt of the sea.
Gaze fixed in front of her, Hani said on an indrawn breath, ‘This is glorious.’
‘Yes.’
That was all, but his controlled voice couldn’t hide the pride of ownership as he gazed out at his vast domain.
At the foot of the hill a sweeping bay fronted a large, almost flat, grassed area with what appeared to be a small settlement to one side. More huge trees fringed the beach and a long jetty stitched its way out into the water towards a sleek black yacht and a large motorboat.
‘The working part of Kiwinui,’ Kelt told her. He leaned slightly towards her so he could point. ‘Cattle yards, the woolshed, implement sheds and the workers’ cottages.’
Hani’s breath stopped in her throat. He was too close, so near she could see the fine grain of his tanned skin, so close her nostrils were teased by a faint, wholly male scent. Hot little shivers snaked down her spine, and some locked, previously untouched part of her splintered into shards.
Desperate to overcome the clamour of her response, she scrambled from the car and took a couple of steps away. When Kelt joined her she didn’t dare look at him.
Several measured breaths helped calm her racing heartbeats, and as soon as she could trust her voice she waved a hand at the nearest hill. ‘What’s that mown strip over there?’
‘An airstrip. Kiwinui is too big to fertilise except from the air.’ His words held a lick of amusement, as though he had sensed her stormy reaction to him and found it entertaining.
Mortified and bewildered, Hani wondered if the forced intimacy of their first meeting had somehow forged this—this wild physical reaction.
Yes, that had to be it. Relief eased her shame; her response was not some weird aberration or a frightening return to the servitude of her affair with Felipe. Kelt had held her closely, given her comfort while she fought the fever—changed her clothes—so naturally her body and mind responded to his presence.
Well, they could stop it right now. Discipline was what was needed here. She didn’t want to feel like this every time she saw him, completely unable to control herself!
Trying to block out his presence, she concentrated on the view. To the north a series of ranges scalloped the coast, the lower-slopes pasture, the gullies and heights covered by forests—no, native bush—that reminded her of the jungles of Moraze. Between them she glimpsed a coast of sandy beaches and more green paddocks.
Stretching to the eastern horizon was the restless sea, its kingfisher-coloured expanse broken by a large, high island that formed an offshore barrier.
And, to cap it all, she heard the high, exquisite trill of a bird, joy rendered into song that soared into the golden light of the setting sun. Pierced by sudden delight, Hani dragged in a long breath.
And even as she thrilled to it, she knew that the man beside her somehow intensified her mood, her appreciation, as though his presence had the power to magnify her responses.
Felipe had never done that.
Hani swallowed. ‘It’s so beautiful,’ she managed. ‘What’s the bird that’s singing?’
He gave her a sharp look. ‘It’s a thrush,’ he said. ‘They were introduced here by the early settlers. He’ll be perched on top of one of the pohutukawa trees.’
Bother, she thought on a surge of irrational panic, oh, bother and double-bother! Too late she remembered a poem she’d learned at school; if she were as English as her accent she’d probably recognise a thrush’s song…
On the other hand, why should Kelt be suspicious? And even if he was, he wouldn’t be able to find out who she was. Once she’d escaped Felipe she’d covered her tracks so well that even he, with all his resources in brutal men and tainted money, hadn’t been able to hunt her down.
Kelt told her, ‘The original homestead was down on the flat, quite close to the workers’ cottages you can see, but when it burned down early in the twentieth century the new one was built up here.’
Hani filed away the fact that in New Zealand—at least in the countryside—substantial houses were called cottages. ‘What’s the difference between a cottage and a homestead and a bach?’
‘A bach is a holiday cottage, always casual, very beachy. They used to be small and primitive, but nowadays that isn’t necessarily so.’
‘No indeed,’ she said, thinking of the bach she was staying in.
He gave her an ironic smile. ‘My grandmother made quite a few renovations to it. She enjoyed the simple life for a short time, but had no intention of giving up any comfort.’
His grandmother had clearly been a sophisticate. Well, Kiwinui was a big farm, and Hani didn’t need to know the size of his bank balance to accept that Kelt was a wealthy man.
Kelt said, ‘As for workers’ cottages, the term’s a hangover from the days when they were fairly basic. Nowadays no worker would be happy with basic housing, and even if he was his wife certainly wouldn’t be, so they’re usually good-sized family homes.’
‘And a homestead is where the owner of the farm lives?’ she guessed.
‘Either the owner or manager’s house on a farm or station.’
Hani nodded. ‘Is this estate—Kiwinui—a farm or a station? What’s the difference?’
‘Basically a station is a larger farm—usually settled early in New Zealand’s history. The first Gillan arrived here about a hundred and forty years ago. And yes, Kiwinui is a station.’
Hani looked down at the bay, frowning at the abrupt change of colour in the water. ‘It looks as though it gets deep very quickly there,’ she observed. ‘Surely my cove—’ colouring, she hastily corrected herself ‘—I mean, the one with the bach, would be safer for the children? I truly don’t mind them coming, and I’d be happy to supervise their swimming. And young Kura seems very capable.’
‘We’ll see how things go.’ His tone was non-committal. ‘When those dark circles disappear then perhaps the children can pay you visits.’
Hani sent him a sharp look. ‘The darkness under my eyes will go in its own good time. And I enjoy children’s company.’
‘You’ll enjoy it more when you’re stronger.’
His tone left no room for negotiation. Fuming, Hani decided that autocratic wasn’t emphatic enough to describe him. Clearly he was accustomed to giving orders and seeing them obeyed.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/robyn-donald/rich-ruthless-and-secretly-royal-42468551/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.