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Instead of working in the garden that evening she’d poke around the motor and see what she could find. And if it wasn’t something she could fix it would have to wait, because she couldn’t afford any repairs this month.
But during the careful trip down to the calf-shed, she wasn’t working out what she could do if the knock in the engine was too much for her basic mechanical skills. Her mind dwelt obsessively on Curt McIntosh, whose touch had sent her hormones on a dizzying circuit of every nerve in her body.
And whose relentless authority and aggressive, arrogant masculinity reminded her so much of her father she had to unclench her jaw and rein in a storm of automatic resentment and anger.
He controlled her future.
If he refused to renew the lease she’d have to get rid of her own stock, the ones she was rearing for sale in two years’ time to finance a new tractor. Because Ian’s calves—Tanekaha’s calves, she corrected hastily—were covered by contract, their needs were paramount. Without the leased acreage she had barely enough land to finish them off and send them back in good condition.
But she desperately needed a new tractor. Hers had to be coaxed along, and six months ago the mechanic told her it wasn’t going to last much more than a couple of years—if she was lucky.
She braked and got out to open a gate. Without the income from her stock she’d be in real trouble; extra hours pumping petrol at the local service station wouldn’t cover the cost of a new tractor.
Swallowing to ease her dry throat, she got back into the ute and took it through the gate. And there was little chance of more casual work at Kowhai Bay; the little holiday resort sank back into lethargy once the hot Northland sun headed for the equator.
After she’d closed the gate behind the ute, she leaned against the top bar and looked out over countryside that swept from the boundary to the coast.
Her smallholding was insignificant in that glorious panorama, yet the land she could see was only a small part of Tanekaha Station. Blue hills inland formed the western boundary, and the land stretched far along the coastline of beaches and stark headlands, shimmering golden-green in the bright heat.
Lovely in a wild, rugged fashion, serene under the midsummer sun, it represented power and wealth. If it came to swords at sunrise, Curt McIntosh had every advantage.
Perhaps she should give up the struggle, sell her land for what she could get, and go and find herself a life.
She bit her lip. All she knew was farming.
‘And that’s what I like doing,’ she said belligerently, swinging back into the vehicle and slamming the door behind her.
Once she’d settled the calf undercover in a temporary pen made of hay bales, she glanced at her watch and went inside.
After a shower and a change of clothes, she went across to the bookshelves that bordered the fireplace, taking down her father’s Maori dictionary.
‘“Tanekaha”,’ she read out loud, and laughed ironically as a bubbling noise told her the kettle was boiling. ‘How very apt!’
Tane was the Maori word for man, kaha for strong. Ian Matheson was a strong man, but his brother-in-law was out on his own.
‘And whoever chose his first name must have known what sort of baby they were dealing with,’ she decided, pouring the water into the pot. ‘Curt by name and curt by nature.’
Grimly amused, she returned to the bookshelves and found another elderly volume. “‘English and Scottish Surnames”,’ she murmured as she flipped through it. “‘McIntosh—son of the chieftain”! Somehow I’m not in the least surprised!’
In the chilly bedroom she’d converted into an office, she pulled out a file and sank down at the desk, poring over the lease agreement in search of loopholes.
Curt glanced around his room. The old homestead, now the head shepherd’s house, had been transported to another site on the station. In its place Gillian had spent the last two years—and a lot of money—supervising the building of the new house, and then decorating it. Her innate artistry meant that each exquisite room breathed good taste, but she’d paid only lip-service to the homestead’s main function as the administrative head of a substantial pastoral concern.
At least she’d kept the integrity of its rural setting and hadn’t gone for stark minimalism, he thought drily.
He scanned the photograph on the chest of drawers, taken on the day Gillian married Ian. His sister glowed, so radiantly happy she seemed incandescent with it, and Ian was smiling down at her, his expression a betraying mixture of tenderness and desire.
Almost the same expression with which he’d looked at Peta Grey in those damned photographs.
What the hell had gone wrong?
It was a rhetorical question. Several things had gone wrong; an urbanite born and bred and a talented artist, Gillian had found it difficult to adjust to life in the country as Ian had worked his way up to managing the biggest station in what Gillian referred to as ‘Curt’s collection’. She’d stopped painting a couple of years previously, about the time she’d discovered she couldn’t have children.
A disappointment Ian clearly shared, Curt thought sternly.
Gillian’s suspicions were probably right. In the woman next door, Ian had seen the things his wife lacked—the promise of children and an affinity for the land.
As well, he’d seen something Gillian had missed entirely—a tempting sensuality. Curt swore beneath his breath. Ian’s wandering eyes were no longer so startling. Barely concealed beneath the layer of mud and her suspicious antagonism, Peta Grey radiated a vibrant, vital heat that had stirred a dangerous hunger into uncomfortable and reckless life.
It still prowled his body. Not that she was beautiful; striking described her exactly. Her skin, fine-grained as the sleekest silk, glowed in the sunlight, its golden tinge echoed by an astonishing golden tracery across her green eyes. Tall and strong, when she walked her lean-limbed, supple grace was like watching music materialise.
Perhaps it was simply her colouring that had got to him; all that gold, he thought with a mocking twist to his smile. Skin, eyes—even the tips of her lashes were gold. Not to forget the golden-brown hair, thick and glossy as a stream of dark honey.
His brain, not normally given to flights of fancy, summoned from some hidden recess a picture of that hair falling across his chest in silken disorder, and his breath quickened.
Hell! He strode across the room to the desk, stopping to flick up the screen of his laptop. While the state-of-the-art equipment purred into life, he sat down and prepared to concentrate on the task ahead.
But work, which usually took precedence over everything else, didn’t do the trick today. When he found himself doodling a pair of sultry eyes and remembering the exact texture of her skin beneath his knuckles as he’d hauled her back from the swamp, and the tantalising pressure of her full breasts against his forearm, he swore again, more luridly this time. After putting down the pen with more than normal care, he crumpled the sheet of paper into a ball and lobbed it into the waste-paper basket with barely concealed violence.
Other women had made an impact on him, but none of them had taken up residence in his mind. He resented that sort of power being wielded by a simple country hick on the make, someone he neither knew nor trusted.
He got to his feet. He was, he realised contemptuously, aroused and unable to control it.
The word ‘jealousy’ floated across his consciousness, only to be instantly dismissed. There had to be some sort of connection for jealousy to happen.
‘Accept it,’ he said with cool distaste. ‘You want Peta Grey—reluctantly—but you’re not going to take up Gillian’s suggestion and make a play for her.’ His main concern was to get her out of his sister’s life, and that process had already begun.
Relieved by the summons of his mobile telephone, he caught it up. His frown wasn’t reflected in his voice when he answered the query on the other end. ‘Working, but you knew that.’
His lover said something teasing, and he laughed. As Anna spoke he noted the long line of dark trees on the northern horizon. They hid, he knew, the small cottage where Peta Grey lived.
Anna’s seductive voice seemed to fade; he had to force himself to concentrate on her conversation, and found it difficult to look away from that row of trees.
‘…so I’ll see you next Friday night?’ Anna asked.
‘Yes.’
She knew better than to keep him talking; he hung up with a frown.
Time to put an end to their affair. Anna was trying subtly to work her way into his life, and although their relationship was based on more than sex it would be cruel to let her cherish any false illusions. She wasn’t in love with him, but in him she probably saw an excellent chance to establish herself.
As Peta no doubt saw Ian.
His expression hardened. It was time Peta Grey learned that actions always had repercussions.
A knock brought his head up. ‘Come in.’
Gillian peered around the door, a gallant smile hiding her tension. ‘Lunch in fifteen minutes.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll be there.’
Once she’d closed the door he glanced at his watch before dialling his lawyers in Auckland.
Peta scanned the cloudless sky, then walked back inside. It was going to be a hot, dry summer and autumn; she could feel it in her bones. Each morning she woke to heat and walked across dewless grass that was slowly fading from green to gold. The springs were already failing, the creeks dwindling. The wind stayed serenely in the north-west, pushing humid air from the tropics over the narrow peninsula that was Northland. In the afternoons taunting clouds built in the sky, huge masses of purple-black and grey, only to disappear over the horizon without following through on their promise.
If no rain came she’d need money for supplemental feed for the calves—money she didn’t have, and wouldn’t get from the bank.
Moving mechanically, she picked up her lunch dishes and washed them. She just had time to shift the older calves into another paddock, then she’d drive to Kowhai Bay for her stint at the petrol station. Once there she’d ask Sandy if she could work longer hours.
That morning the mail had brought a letter from an Auckland firm of solicitors telling her that it was possible the lease would not be renewed. However the contract to raise calves for Tanekaha Station’s dairy herds would remain in effect, although if she decided to sell her farm some agreement could be made in which she wouldn’t come out the loser.
The cold, impersonal prose removed any lingering hope that Curt Blackwell McIntosh might change his autocratic mind.
Last night she’d sat over the figures until too late, juggling them as she tried—and failed—to find ways of increasing her income.
And when she’d finally gone to bed she couldn’t sleep; instead she lay in bed listening to the familiar night sounds and wondered how much her land would be worth if she put it on the market.
In Kowhai Bay’s only petrol station, Sandy shook his head when she asked about more work. ‘Sorry, Peta, but it’s just not there,’ he said, dark eyes sympathetic. ‘If I give you extra hours, I’ll have to sack someone else.’
‘It’s OK,’ she said quickly. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ But her stomach dropped and the flick of fear beneath her heart strengthened into something perilously like panic.
Her shift over, she called into the only real-estate agency in Kowhai Bay, and asked about the value of her land.
‘Not much, I’m afraid—although I’d need to come out and check the house and buildings over.’ A year or so older than she was, the agent smiled sympathetically at her as she picked up a volume of district maps, flipping the pages until she found the page she wanted.
Pride stung, Peta held her head high.
‘It’s a difficult one,’ the agent said simply. ‘No access, that’s the biggie—really, you depend on Tanekaha Station’s goodwill to get in and out. I wonder what on earth they were thinking of when they let the previous owners cut that block off the station and sell it to your father.’
‘There’s an access agreement,’ Peta told her.
She didn’t look convinced. ‘Yes, well, there are other problems too—livestock isn’t sexy at the moment, and with last month’s trade talks failing, beef prices won’t rise for at least a couple of years. Anyway, you don’t have enough land to make an income from farming. If you planted olives on it, or avocados, you might attract the lifestyle crowd, but it’s too far out of town for most of them. They usually prefer to live close to a beach or on the outskirts. And let’s face it, Kowhai Bay hasn’t yet reached fashionable status.’
‘I hope it never does,’ Peta said staunchly.
The agent grinned. ‘Come on now, Peta, admit that the place could do with a bit of livening up! For a while after Curt McIntosh bought Tanekaha I thought it might happen, but I suppose it’s just too far from Auckland—OK if you’re rich enough to fly in and out, but not for anyone else.’ She looked up. ‘If you’re thinking of moving, the logical thing to do is ask McIntosh to buy your block.’
CHAPTER TWO
LOOKED at objectively, the land agent’s advice was practical—more or less exactly what Peta had been expecting. But how much would Curt pay for her few hectares? As little as possible, she thought, rubbing the back of her neck in frustration; after all, he held all the cards.
‘How much do you think it’s worth?’ she asked, and sucked in her breath as the woman shrugged.
‘You’d need to get it valued properly, but off the top of my head and without prejudice, no more than government valuation.’
‘I see.’ If it sold for government valuation she’d be able to pay off the mortgage she’d inherited from her father. Nothing more; she’d be adrift with no education, and no skills beyond farming.
Peta left the real-estate office so deep in thought that she almost bumped into someone examining the window of Kowhai Bay’s sole boutique.
‘Peta!’
‘Oh—Nadine!’ Laughing, they embraced. Peta stepped back and said admiringly, ‘Aren’t you the fine up-and-coming city lawyer! I guessed you’d be home for Granny Wai’s ninetieth birthday.’
‘Absolutely. She’s so looking forward to it, you can’t imagine!’
That night Peta saw for herself. The big hall at the local marae was crowded with people, many of them the matriarch’s descendants, mingling with neighbours, local dignitaries, and visitors from points around the world.
Surrounded by flowers and streamers and balloons, relishing the laughter and the gossip and the reunions, Granny held court in an elegant black dress, heirloom greenstone hei-tiki pendant gleaming on her breast.
Nadine pushed politely past a couple of elderly men to say with envy, ‘That honey-gold colour suits you superbly. Did you make your top?’
‘Yes.’ Peta enjoyed sewing, and the silky, sleeveless garment had only taken a couple of hours to finish.
‘Thought so.’ She turned and waved to her great-grandmother. ‘Isn’t she amazing? You watch—as soon as the band strikes up she’ll be on the floor. Pino’s threatened to jive with her, and Mum’s terrified she’ll break her hip, but if Granny wants to jive, Granny will! She’s as tough as old boots, bless her.’
A subdued stir by the door caught their attention.
‘Uh-oh,’ Nadine said beneath her breath. ‘Speaking of tough, the Tanekaha Station clan has just arrived.’
Peta opened her mouth then closed it again. Of course the Mathesons and Curt would have been invited.
Her friend sighed elaborately. ‘You know, Curt McIntosh is a magnificent, gorgeous man. Pity he’s got the soul of a shark.’
‘A shark?’ Jolted, Peta glanced across the room, in time to see Curt lift Granny’s hand to his mouth and kiss it.
The gesture should have looked stagy and incongruous, but he carried it off with a panache that sent heat shafting down her spine. Dragging her gaze back to Nadine’s face, she asked, ‘A shark as in being dishonest and sleazy?’
‘Oh, no, never that! He’s got a reputation for absolute fairness; deal well with him, and he’ll deal well with you. Just don’t expect any loving kindness,’ her friend said drily. ‘Of course, sharks can’t help being the most lethal predators in the sea. It’s inborn in them, like being cold-blooded and dangerous.’ She peered across the intervening crowd. ‘I thought he might bring along the latest very good friend, Anna Lee, but clearly no. This wouldn’t be her scene, anyway.’
‘Hmm, I deduce that you know her and don’t like her.’ Peta refused to wonder why discovering that Curt had a lover seared into her composure as painfully as an acid burn.
Her friend rolled her eyes. ‘I saw them together a couple of nights ago at her art exhibition. She is very chic. She is very artistic. She does installations. And she thinks lawyers—especially those who haven’t yet clawed their way off the bottom rung—are Philistine scum.’
Laughing, Peta shot another glance across the hall, something inside her twisting as her eyes were captured by an enigmatic grey-blue gaze. Curt McIntosh’s dark head inclined in a nod that had something regal to it.
Not to be outdone, she responded with an aloof smile before turning back to Nadine. ‘Don’t tell me you told her you didn’t like her installations?’
‘Of course not!’ Nadine primmed her mouth. ‘I have much better manners than that. My expression must have given me away. But when I buy an installation it will be more substantial than a collection of found objects depicting the primordial rhythm of creation.’
Peta grinned. ‘Urk!’
‘Just so,’ Nadine said smugly. ‘But she’s very beautiful, so I don’t blame the fabulous Curt for falling for her, even though I’d have expected more from him. He’s completely brilliant.’ She sighed and added with a smirk, ‘It’s a pity men are such superficial beings. Yet they’ve got the gall to claim that we’re driven by hormones!’
It was almost impossible to imagine Curt at the mercy of his hormones, Peta decided. He might behave like a shark, but he was fully in control.
On the other hand what did she know about the other sex? Nothing much, just enough to be certain that she was never going to marry a dominant man. Her father’s rigid insistence on being head of the family had been enough for her; when—if—she married, she’d choose a kind, decent man who understood that women had needs and brains and the right to have an opinion.
‘Evolution has a lot to answer for,’ she said brightly, and for the next half-hour or so managed to ignore Curt and the Mathesons.
