скачать книгу бесплатно
‘A hundred and twenty years.
‘It doesn’t show its age.’
‘Spanish Castle has always been well-cared-for,’ the housekeeper said as though she’d been accused of neglecting her duty. ‘Would you like to come in here?’
She led Minerva into a small formal parlour decorated in the same sunny shades, although here the colours were less intense as befitted a room where people spent time rather than passed through.
‘Would you like a cup of tea while you’re waiting for Mr Peveril?’ Mrs Borrows asked punctiliously.
Minerva was already regretting her impulsive decision to drive up that long road from Kerikeri. The house might be welcoming but its inhabitants certainly weren’t. Still, she was here now; she’d have a cup of tea, exchange a few words with Nick Peveril, and then leave.
‘Yes, thank you.’ Her throaty voice was just as impersonally polite as the older woman’s.
She didn’t look around until the older woman had left. The little room could have been too stiff with its delicately formal seats and desk, but the pieces of furniture had the air of having lived so long together that they had settled into an amiable, comfortable companionship.
Outside the French windows an emerald lawn swept to a wide band of sheltering trees thickly planted at the base with rhododendrons and daphne, pieris and more roses. Minerva’s eyes lingered on one particularly glorious golden one until it was blotted out by a thick curtain of rain, heavy and implacable.
She turned away.
Almost immediately the housekeeper returned with a tray; she had barely set it down when her employer walked in, instantly dominating the small, decorous room.
It was the unexpectedness of his arrival that took Minerva’s breath away, nothing else. She hadn’t expected him so soon; he must have taken a short-cut. When her heart had slowed down a bit she realised that he probably wasn’t much taller than her father, only a couple of inches over six feet. But that air of cool authority, allied to the cool, inimical survey of his strange colourless eyes, made her feel small and defenceless.
‘Hello,’ she said, producing a polite smile.
‘So you found your way here.’ He was amazingly handsome, in a remote, arrogantly patrician manner. ‘Welcome to Spanish Castle. Helen, could I have a cup, too?’
‘I’ve put one there for you,’ the housekeeper said.
He looked at her. ‘Any call yet?’
‘No.’ The housekeeper looked excited and worried at the same time.
‘Let me know when it comes through,’ he said.
Smiling, she replied, ‘Yes, of course.’
No formality there, Minerva thought as the older woman left the room.
‘Would you like to pour? Mrs Borrows’s daughter is in labour in Christchurch,’ Nick Peveril explained. ‘It’s the first grandchild, so she’s very excited. How did you enjoy sailing the world on your billionaire’s yacht?’
‘He wasn’t my billionaire,’ Minerva said lightly, smiling with more than a little irony at the memory of the portly, harried man who’d spent no more than three weeks playing in his expensive state-of-the-art toy during the two years she had sailed on it. ‘I was merely the cook. I enjoyed it very much. Do you take milk?’
‘Thank you. No sugar.’
As he took the cup and saucer from her she noted his beautiful hands, strong with long, callused fingers, tanned like his face almost to copper. The sight of those hands dealing efficiently with the elegant china cup made something contract suddenly in Minerva’s stomach.
‘It seems an unusual career for a woman with all your advantages.’
At least he accepted that it was a career! Minerva gave the usual smile and the usual answer. ‘It’s my one talent, and I enjoy doing it.’
‘You don’t stay in any job for very long. Stella said that the longest you lasted was usually a year.’
‘I’m not into the old-retainer bit, so I sign short contracts,’ she said steadily, resenting his comment even though there hadn’t been a hint of censure in the deep voice. ‘That way I get to see the world and experience it a bit more intimately than a tourist does.’
‘You must really have enjoyed it to spend two years on the yacht.’
She had just joined the crew when Stella wrote to tell her she was getting married. Because of a glitch in the postal arrangements the letter hadn’t caught up with her until a month after the wedding. It hadn’t seemed worthwhile to come back then.
And she had been in the middle of the Atlantic, bucketing through a hurricane, when Stella suffered her lonely death. As soon as they reached land she had flown back, arriving too late for the funeral, but able to mourn with Ruth and her father and her half-brother Kane for a couple of weeks before flying back.
Minerva nodded. ‘The billionaire insisted on two-year contracts, and I wanted the job enough to make an exception for him.’
‘The great New Zealand overseas experience.’ He had a beautiful voice, rich and many-layered, but it had remarkably little expression: as little as his face, or the silver-grey eyes. They should have been translucent, but the polished metallic sheen successfully hid any emotion.
This withdrawn, reserved man had retired behind the formidable barricades of his self-sufficiency. Unease slithered the length of her spine, gathered in an unpleasant pool at the pit of her stomach.
‘I suppose it has to do with living on three small islands at the bottom of the map,’ she returned conversationally. ‘To get anywhere at all you have to fly for hours, so why not go the whole hog and see the rest of the world while you’re about it?’
His smile was cynical. ‘And broaden your insular mind.’
She lifted thin eyebrows. ‘Some people merely hone their prejudices.’
‘That’s astute of you.’
‘I suppose you’ve done a fair amount of travelling,’ she said, unable to decide whether he was being sarcastic or not.
‘Yes. But my most vivid memories are of the first time I was on my own. I came overland from India and hitch-hiked around Europe, spent six months in England, then went on one of those truck tours through Africa to Cape Town, before coming back across Canada and America.’
In any other man she would have thought she heard wistfulness in his tone, but it was impossible to think of this man as being wistful. He exuded a self-confidence so imposing and uncompromising that she was more than a little threatened by it.
‘Sounds fun,’ she said neutrally. He had changed from his farm clothes into a pair of well-tailored trousers and a fine cotton shirt. Few men in New Zealand had their shirts made for them, but Minerva was positive that this one had been cut especially to fit his broad shoulders and muscular arms.
It was difficult to imagine the man who lived in this house and wore those clothes backpacking around the world. She flicked a swift glance at his face. The angular features and straight mouth spoke of strength and uncompromising purpose. No matter how hard she tried she couldn’t envisage him as a carefree youth.
Her gaze dropped to her teacup as she was undermined by a sense of dislocation, a shifting of the foundations. Nick Peveril, with his impassive face and deliberate, guarded composure, bore no resemblance at all to the man of whom Stella had written so ecstatically.
When he spoke again Minerva’s cup rattled in its saucer. Watch what you’re doing, she scolded herself, setting it down on the table by her chair.
‘How long are you home for?’ he asked.
‘A month.’ A substantial bonus meant she could afford a lazy summer, but her plans for the future were going to need money, so it would join the rest of her savings.
‘And then what? Stella seemed to think that you intended to settle permanently here sooner or later.’
She shrugged. ‘One of these days I’m going to come back and open my own restaurant, but for the moment I like my life. I’ve been offered a job in the British Virgin Islands with an expatriate family.’
When he smiled one corner of his mouth lifted higher than the other. ‘You’ll be able to work on your tan,’ he said lightly. Something flickered in the frosty brilliance of his eyes.
It made her distinctly uneasy. In a voice that could have starched a dozen tablecloths, she said, ‘The hole in the ozone layer has put an end to roasting in the sun, but I’m looking forward to it. I believe it’s extraordinarily beautiful there.’ Before she had time to wonder whether it was sensible, she added, ‘Stella and I used to promise each other that one day we’d go to the Caribbean and drink rum and play in a steel band.’
‘She wouldn’t have liked it, unless you stayed in a luxury hotel. For some strange reason I expected you to look like her,’ he said, pale eyes opaque. ‘Stupid, I know. You don’t share even a parent in common, do you?’
‘No, we’re a blended family. Stella and I were no relation at all, really, which is why she was beautiful and I’m not.’
The minute she said it she knew it was a mistake. It sounded like a cheap appeal for compliments. She opened her mouth to qualify the statement, then closed it firmly.
‘Yes, she was,’ he said. ‘But you’re very attractive too, as I’m sure you know.’
He wasn’t so crass as to look her over, but an undertone in the enigmatic voice made her aware that he had noticed the long, coltish legs in her jeans, the gentle curves of her breasts, and the indentation of her narrow waist.
A kind of outrage, mingled with a suspicious warmth, sent colour scudding through her white skin. Not for the first time she wished she had Stella’s even tan. For her stepsister a blush had merely been a slight deepening of the apricot skin over her cheekbones; for Minerva it was an embarrassing betrayal.
She strove for objectivity. Men did notice women—it was a simple fact of life. They enjoyed with their eyes. Women did, too.
After all, she had observed that because his mouth was intriguingly lop-sided each rare smile hinted of wryness. She’d registered the thick black lashes and dark brows surrounding those amazingly limpid, guarded eyes, and now that his hair was drying she’d realised it was the colour of manuka honey, a warm, rich amber with golden highlights set there by the northern sun.
She was unreservedly grateful when Mrs Borrows came too quickly in through the door, her face unnaturally disciplined. ‘Nick—oh, Nick! Murray’s just rung,’ she said without preamble, her voice breaking on the last word. ‘Things are not going right. He—he thinks I should come down. As s-soon as I can.’
With the smooth speed Minerva had noticed before Nick got to his feet and went across to the housekeeper, sliding an unselfconscious arm around her shoulders, holding her while she fought for control.
‘Pack your bag,’ he ordered, ‘and I’ll get you to the airport in time to catch the afternoon plane to Auckland. I’ll organise a flight through to Christchurch.’
‘I can’t go,’ she said in muffled tones into his chest.
‘Why not?’
‘The dinner party you’re giving on Saturday night for those Brazilians. This isn’t Auckland, Nick, you can’t just get in caterers, and there’s no one here who could help you out with the cooking. Jillian’s not—’
‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong. Providentially, Minerva is a professional cook,’ he said calmly, silver eyes lancing across to where Minerva sat, frozen with dismay as she realised the implications. ‘She’ll be more than happy to stay and see to it that our South American guests are fed. Won’t you, Minerva?’ It was no question. The icy transparency of his gaze had hardened into a silent command.
Minerva’s brain closed down. She didn’t want to stay here! But of course she nodded. And when she saw Mrs Borrows lift her head to look at her with dawning hope she knew she couldn’t have refused.
‘Yes, I can do it,’ she said.
‘Are you sure?’ The housekeeper was obviously trying hard to be convinced.
Minerva nodded. ‘Tell me what you’ve organised and I guarantee I’ll have it on the table at the right time and cooked properly,’ she promised, her tone revealing such complete confidence that Mrs Borrows relaxed.
Yet she still hesitated. ‘It doesn’t seem right,’ she said, looking from Minerva’s face to Nick’s.
He said calmly, ‘Helen, Minerva is family.’
Minerva smiled. ‘That’s what families are for,’ she supplied. ‘Coming to the rescue. Don’t worry about it, I’ll be glad to help out.’
This was the right note to take. Her voice quivering, the housekeeper said, ‘Oh, thank you. I’ll get a bag packed,’ and hurried from the room.
Half an hour later they were seated in a large green Range Rover, travelling at a fair pace down the road Minerva had inched up so short a time before. Mrs Borrows was giving Minerva instructions, instructions Minerva didn’t need. However, she sat through them, asking questions when it seemed the older woman had run out. For the next two and a half hours until the housekeeper got to Christchurch she’d have nothing to do but worry; Minerva’s questions at least kept her mind occupied now.
Although the rain had eased again, the road was still slippery enough for the Range Rover to skid. That it didn’t was due to the skill of the man driving. Minerva, inclined to be a nervous passenger with a driver she didn’t know, soon gave up keeping her eye on the road ahead. Nick Peveril knew what he was doing.
They were ten minutes late, but the plane waited. Probably even large jumbo jets would wait for this man.
After a hasty goodbye Mrs Borrows ran across to the little aircraft and the door was swung shut behind her.
‘Hello, Nick,’ a laughing feminine voice said from behind. ‘The baby arrived, has it?’
He turned. ‘On its way,’ he said, that powerfully attractive smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.
The woman was one Genevieve Chatswood, thirtyish, smart in jeans and a Liberty print shirt with a navy woollen jersey over it, her slim feet in boots. As Nick made the introductions she eyed Minerva with cool but unmistakable interest.
‘Oh. Stella’s sister? You don’t look much alike.’
‘We were stepsisters,’ Minerva explained, trying to hide the note of resignation in her voice. ‘Her mother married my father.’
After a dismissive look Genevieve transferred her attention to the man beside her. Frowning, she asked, ‘Nick, if Mrs Borrows has had to go, what are you doing for Saturday night?’
‘Ah, that’s where the light hand of serendipity comes in,’ he said blandly. ‘Minerva will deal with it all. She’s a professional chef.’
‘How—fortunate,’ Genevieve said, her voice cooling rapidly. ‘Do you plan to stay long, Minerva?’
‘No.’ Minerva left it at that. She wasn’t going to answer questions from someone who had no right to ask them.
Nick said evenly, ‘Minerva is on holiday in the north. I hope to persuade her to stay on for a few days after the dinner.’ His enigmatic gaze rested a moment on Minerva’s shuttered face.
Genevieve’s green eyes narrowed a second, then opened wide. She flashed a smile at Nick. ‘Well, if you need any help, let me know, won’t you? I’d be quite happy to act as hostess for you again.’ The dazzling smile dimmed noticeably when it was transferred to Minerva. ‘I’d better go. I’ve just put ten boxes of orchids on the plane for Auckland; I’ve got to pick another fifty boxes to catch the flight to Japan tomorrow. See you Saturday!’
She strode away, confident, sure of her attraction and her competence. Minerva watched her departure thoughtfully. Genevieve Chatswood had lost no time in staking her claim. If that was the sort of woman Kerikeri bred, it was no wonder Stella had found it difficult to make friends.
Since knowing Stella she had learned to feel sorry for beautiful people. They never knew whether they were admired for their looks or for themselves.
Not that the man who walked with an easy, effortless gait around the front of the Range Rover seemed to suffer any such problems. Resenting quite irrationally that air of complete and invincible confidence, Minerva hid a cynical little smile as she fastened her seatbelt. Nick Peveril looked like a Regency buck, with all the type’s fabled pride and hauteur and air of self-contained assurance, as well as the elegance and savoir faire.
Perhaps he was too—too intense, too shut in on himself to have stepped from the pages of a Georgette Heyer novel. He was certainly a complex man, not a hearty, extroverted son of the soil.
However, he chose his accoutrements to fit his place in society. The Range Rover was exactly the right vehicle for the seriously rich pastoral aristocrat, and Spanish Castle the right setting. It was a pity the horse wasn’t black; it should rear all over the place, and be called Satan, or Demon, or Devil, and only ever be rideable by the lord of the house, but in spite of that it had looked the part perfectly.
Of course, the dog should be an aristocrat—a wolfhound, or some kind of hunting, shooting and fishing dog, instead of a black and white sheepdog. But it had added the right touch. You couldn’t have everything.
And in spite of his glacial demeanour, Nick made her more aware of her femininity than any other man since Paul Penn had seduced her when she was nineteen.
Which had to signal danger. Minerva looked straight ahead as he got in and switched on the engine.
Five silent minutes later he remarked casually, ‘You won’t have to do any of the housework. Helen has help three days a week from the wife of one of the stockmen. Just concentrate on the cooking.’
‘Oh, I’ll probably be able to manage a few light duties,’ she said, hiding the amusement in her tone with mildness.
He smiled. It was like the sun breaking through storm clouds. Lop-sided, slightly twisted it might be, but the fundamental detachment that seemed to be an integral part of his personality was temporarily in retreat when he smiled.
