скачать книгу бесплатно
‘When P—Mr McAlpine isn’t here I’ll get my own meals,’ Jacinta said.
Fran gave her an approving glance. ‘Good. There’s always salads and stuff like that in the fridge.’
Back in the bedroom, fortified by a salad sandwich and a banana, Jacinta unpacked her suitcases and set out her books along the back of the desk. Then, obscurely comforted by her familiar things, she changed into shorts and a light shirt and slathered herself in sunscreen. With a wide-brimmed straw hat crammed over her ginger curls, she set off to explore.
About three acres of garden dreamed around the house, sheltered by the hedge on all sides except the seaward one. Even the salt winds couldn’t get directly at it; pohutukawa trees leaned over both lawn and sand, forming a wide, informal barrier that would save Paul McAlpine from the indignity of having stray yachties peer into his house.
Seen between the swooping branches and dark, silver-backed leaves, the bay glittered, as blue as his eyes and as compellingly beautiful.
Jacinta wandered across the lawn and found a flight of steps that led out onto the sand, already sizzling under the hot November sun. Some people, she thought, remembering with a shudder the grim little house in which she’d spent most of the past nine years, had all the luck.
She didn’t regret giving up her studies to care for her mother. In spite of everything there had been laughter and joy in that farm cottage. Still, she couldn’t help thinking wistfully that her mother’s long, pain-racked purgatory would have been more bearable in a place like this.
Fishing a handkerchief from her pocket, she blew her nose. The last thing she wanted was for Cynthia Lyttelton to be still enduring that monstrous, unbearable agony and complete loss of autonomy, but her death had left an enormous gap.
For years Jacinta had made all the decisions, done all the worrying. Grief, and relief that it was all over, and guilt about that relief, and exhaustion, had formed a particularly potent cocktail, one that had rendered her too lethargic to realise that Mark Stevens had begun a campaign to control her life.
Picking up a stone, she straightened and skipped it across the water.
Looking back, her slowness to understand the situation still astonished her It had taken her three months to realise what was happening and leave the flat.
Another stone followed the first across the water.
With Gerard’s help she’d got through that with very little trauma, and doing his housework three days a week had helped her save enough money to see her through the summer holidays without working.
All in all it had been a hard year; she was probably still not wholly recovered from her mother’s death, but the crying jags were over, and the stress of trying to find some sort of balance, some firm place to stand, had gone. She’d come a long way in the last six months.
Oh, there were still problems, still decisions to be made. She had to work out what sort of life she wanted, and of course there was always money...
But for the moment she didn’t have to worry about any of that. She had another promise to her mother to fulfil, and three months in this perfect place to do it.
Lifting her face and half closing her eyes, she smiled into the sun. Light danced off her lashes, the film of moisture there separating the rays so that they gleamed like diamonds.
Living in the bach would have been perfect. She’d probably only have seen Paul once or twice in the three months, instead of finding herself practically cheek by jowl with him.
Still, she’d manage. She was much stronger than she’d been before, much better able to look after herself. And it didn’t really matter that she lusted a bit after Paul McAlpine. So, no doubt, did plenty of women. At least she recognised what she felt as straightforward physical hunger and didn’t mistake it for anything more important.
The ringing of small, melodious bells filled the air. Jacinta stopped, watching and remembering. Outside the window of the cottage where she’d lived with her mother was a cherry tree, and each spring her mother had waited for the tuis to come and glut themselves on the nectar.
Just ahead, beside a transparent veil of water that ran over the sand, stood a clump of flax bushes. Strappy leaves supported tall stems with bronze- and wine-coloured flowers, mere tubular twists of petals with dark stamens protruding from the tip.
Yet in those flowers glistened nectar, and a tui, white feathers bobbling at its throat, sat on the stem and sang his spring carillon.
When Paul said her name Jacinta yelped, whirling to say angrily, ‘Don’t do that, for heaven’s sake!’
Paul frowned. ‘Your nerves must be shot to pieces.’
‘No! I just wasn’t—I didn’t—’
‘It’s all right,’ he said, his voice deep and sure and strangely soothing.
As the tui broke off its song to indulge in a cacophony of snorts and wheezes, interspersed with the sound of a contented pig, Paul put a hand on her shoulder, grounding her until the sudden surge of panic died away to be replaced by a slow combination of emotions—keen pleasure, and peace, and an oblique foreboding.
Swiftly she stepped away. ‘Unusual birds you have here,’ she said, snatching at her composure. ‘Penguins that bray like donkeys, tuis that mimic pigs...’
‘That’s normal for both of them. Is it normal for you to jump like that whenever anyone comes up behind you?’
‘No, but I didn’t hear you and I suppose I am a bit tense. I thought that by now I’d be nicely ensconced in a bach with just the sea for company. Instead, I’ve been hijacked.’ She smiled tentatively and his frown disappeared, although his gaze was still keenly perceptive as it rested on her face. ‘Where is the bach, by the way?’
Dropping his hand, he nodded to where a road left the main one and ran over the headland to the south. ‘In the next bay,’ he said.
She nodded too, not quite knowing what to say. The tui forgot its barnyard imitations and went back to foraging for nectar. Jacinta enjoyed the iridescent sheen of its plumage as the thin stem swayed in the sunlight—greens and purples, blues and bronzes, brighter by far than oil on water.
Every sense she possessed was at full stretch, so that she heard with keen pleasure the susurration of the waves on the beach, felt the heat and the wind on her tender skin, inhaled salty air and tasted her own emotions in her mouth, a sharp delight edged with wanness.
Paul didn’t seem in a hurry to leave, so they watched the bird until Jacinta was unnerved enough by the silence to ask, ‘What’s the name of this bay?’
‘Homestead Bay.’
She laughed a little. ‘Of course. What a glorious place to grow up in.’
‘I’m sure it would be,’ he said calmly, ‘but I’ve only owned it for five years or so.’
A note in his voice steered her well away from that topic. Too late she remembered that he’d bought it after he’d been jilted by the lovely Aura. Stumbling slightly, she asked, ‘Is that the Coromandel Peninsula on the skyline?’
‘And Great Barrier Island.’
Gloating, her eyes dreamy, she murmured, ‘It’s so beautiful.’
‘I think so,’ he said smoothly.
Jacinta stiffened. However banal and ordinary his words, there always seemed to be a subtext, some oblique intonation or cool, fleeting amusement adding an extra meaning to what he said.
She couldn’t help but feel that in some subtle way Paul McAlpine neither liked nor trusted her.
And that was ridiculous, because she didn’t know the man well enough to interpret either his tone of voice or expression. As well, he was a lawyer, trained to keep his features under control.
Although she was prepared to bet that they’d never been exactly open and candid. There was too much self-discipline in that beautiful mouth, and in spite of their vivid colour his blue eyes were surprisingly opaque, hiding Paul McAlpine’s emotions very well.
She said abruptly, ‘Gerard said you’re a lawyer.’
‘Most of my work is in international law,’ he told her, a hint of reserve flattening his tone.
So he didn’t want to talk about it. Neither had Gerard. ‘Very high-powered,’ he’d said. ‘He deals with governments.’
Whatever that meant. As Paul’s career seemed to be off-limits, she said, ‘And is this a working farm?’
‘Certainly. It’s a stud; we breed Blonde d’Aquitaines, French beef cattle. We’d better go for a short tour to orient you.’
That not-quite-lazy, assured smile sizzled from the top of her head down to her toes, curling them involuntarily in her sandals. He knew very well the effect he had on women.
She returned his smile, pleased by the slight narrowing of his eyes as she said courteously, ‘A good idea. I don’t want to end up in the bull paddock.’
‘Our bulls are normally placid enough,’ he said. ‘However, it is a good idea to keep away from them. Any large animal can turn dangerous.’
Like the man who owned them, she thought, startled by the insight. Ignoring a mental image of that easy self-reliance transformed by violent emotion into something much darker and infinitely more hazardous, she asked dulcetly, ‘Do you think that pastoral farming has any future in a world that appears to be going green and vegetanan?’
A slight lift of one dark brow recognised the provocation in her question, but he gave a reasoned, restrained reply. This man would scorn an emotional response, an argument based on anything but facts.
Legal training again.
Another thought slipped so stealthily into her mind that it had taken possession before she realised its existence. Had he been hurt by his emotions, hurt so badly that he no longer indulged them?
Not that he looked like someone too wounded by love to risk it again, she thought after a snatched glance at the strong, clear-cut profile. Still, she suspected that his pleasant, approachable attitude was armour. She didn’t know what lay beneath it, but she’d be prepared to bet that it would take intense goading to penetrate his shield of self-contained authority.
Gerard, who seemed to still have a mild case of hero-worship for his older cousin, had once told her that Paul never lost his temper.
Not even when Aura had told him she was going to marry his best friend?
As they walked past woolsheds, and an implement shed where brightly coloured monsters lurked, and beneath darkly needled macrocarpa trees along a fenced, metalled race that led to other paddocks, they talked objectively, intelligently, about the world and where it was possibly headed.
Jacinta filed little snippets of information away like hiding treasure. Paul McAlpine moved with a tightly leashed vitality that was at odds with his indolent appearance. He looked at each topic of conversation from both sides; he had a sharp, incisive mind; he enjoyed discussing issues, but when the conversation became personal he blocked.
He needn’t worry, she thought when at last they came back to the house. She’d be as detached and dispassionate as he was.
But these next three months would have been a lot simpler if those penguins hadn’t decided to take up residence beneath the bach...
If only she had the money to say thanks, but no thanks, and walk away.
Unfortunately, her mother’s legacy covered only her tuition fees—although since their rise ‘covered’ was hardly the word, and if they rose again next year she’d be in trouble. Her student’s allowance paid the rent and bought her soap and shampoo and other necessities.
And she was being silly, letting Paul get to her.
She’d certainly make sure she paid her way here. Even if she did look and feel like an unsophisticated hick, she thought ironically as they turned back, she had her pride.
Inside the cool house, Paul said pleasantly, ‘Dinner is at seven-thirty. If you’d like a drink first I’ll be in the conservatory around seven.’
‘Thank you,’ she said non-committally, giddily aware of herself, of the way her long limbs moved, of the way her hips swayed, and the fact that her hair had once more slipped free of its clip and was clinging to her hot cheeks.
Back in her bedroom, she switched on the computer, opened a file, typed ‘CHAPTER ONE’, and then hesitated, before picking up a very old dictionary of quotations she’d bought for fifty cents in a garage sale. She found the lines quickly, from Shakespeare’s Richard the Second.
Mine honour is my life; both grow in one
Take honour from me, and my life is done.
A hard creed, she thought; a creed for a strong man who held to a spartan belief.
Thoughtfully she closed the book, sat down in front of the computer screen and began to write.
At first the words came easily. She’d told the story so many times to her mother that she almost knew it by heart. The unicorn snorted, its blue eyes shimmering in the moonlight, she wrote. ‘Very well then,’ it said smugly. ‘Don’t blame me when the Master realises what you’ve done. I did my best to stop you.’
But after she’d typed a page she stopped and read it, frowning. It looked—clumsy. And whenever she tried to summon the unicorn’s image, its blue eyes had a disconcerting trick of changing to other eyes—quite different ones, cool and distant and enigmatic.
She got to her feet and glowered out of the window. The garden looked very desirable, the lounger eminently appealing.
Doggedly, Jacinta sat down at the desk again. She had promised her mother she’d write this and she was going to do it, even if it did look raw and childish and unformed on paper.
An hour later she got up and walked across to the French windows, trying to recall the look in Paul McAlpine’s eyes when she’d told him that the computer equipment had been Gerard’s.
Perhaps, she decided, trying to be fair, he had reason to worry about his cousin She knew and Gerard knew that she wasn’t trying to sponge off him, but to an outsider it could look that way. He’d lent her his car, would have lent her money if she hadn’t refused it, and out of the kindness of his heart had organised this chance to fulfil one of the promises she’d made to her mother. He didn’t know anything about the other promise she’d made, the one she was actually working on now. She owed him a lot.
And, talking of the car, she’d better see where she could garage it, because salt winds were notorious for causing rust. But before she bearded the lion in whatever den he was ensconced she’d go for a quick walk to the gate and back.
Out in the garden she smiled and clipped a leaf from the lemon verbena Her mother had loved its citrus perfume, sharp and delightful, and always had a bush of it in the garden. And now she was dead, but the world was still beautiful beyond belief, and it was an insult to her not to enjoy it.
Blinking, Jacinta unlatched the gate and walked through it straight into a pair of hard, masculine arms.
For a moment she thought she’d managed to stumble into Paul McAlpine’s grip, but the voice that said, ‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t know you were there,’ was younger than his and lighter, the New Zealand drawl more pronounced.
‘No,’ she said, stepping backwards, ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking...’
Dark eyes rested on her face with unmistakable appreciation, and the smile he gave her was open and guileless and very infectious.
‘Dean Latrobe,’ he said. ‘I’m Paul’s farm manager.’
Jacinta returned his smile and told him her name, adding after a short pause, ‘I’m staying here.’
‘Oh, yes, the lady who’s supposed to be spending the summer in the bach,’ he said, and grinned again. ‘Paul was ropable when I told him no one would last a night there.’
‘I imagine he would have been,’ she said, laughing a little. ‘But he very kindly offered me a bed for the holidays just the same.’
‘If you’ve got the keys,’ he said, ‘I’ll put your car in the garage. It is your car, isn’t it?’
She said hastily, ‘No, it belongs to Paul’s cousin. He’s in America at the moment.’
‘Yeah, thought I recognised it.’ He ran a knowledgable glance over it. ‘He was up a month or so ago. Got the keys?’
‘I’ll get them from my room,’ she said. ‘But there’s no need for you to put it away—if you’ll just show me where the garage is...’
‘All right,’ he said obligingly.
Jacinta hesitated. ‘I’d better ask Paul first.’
‘Why? There’s room in the garage. Trust me, he won’t throw his cousin’s car out.’
Well, no, he hadn’t thrown his cousin’s protégée out, but that didn’t mean he wanted her there.
‘He’s a hard man,’ Dean Latrobe said cheerfully, ‘but he’s not unreasonable.’
