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The heavy lids half hiding his eyes imbued his gaze with a disturbing sensuality that set her nerve-ends jangling. However, nothing could conceal the keen perception in the steel-blue depths.
Trying to shake off her debilitating response so that she could speak objectively, she said, ‘We must be related, either through an illegal liaison or a common ancestor back in England before either side emigrated. The Springs have been in Australia for almost a hundred years, which puts any shared ancestor a long way back. And I don’t think any of them crossed the Tasman to New Zealand.’
‘The Pagets have been here for six generations,’ Keane said in a neutral voice. ‘I don’t know about any cross-Tasman voyaging amongst them, but it’s not wholly unlikely. And as we both look like our fathers—and mine looked very like his father—’
‘Mine too,’ she interpolated. ‘I’ve seen old photographs of my grandfather and great-grandfather, and they all have a very strong family likeness.’
He shrugged. ‘There has to be a connection somewhere. I refuse to believe that this uncanny resemblance is just a coincidental arrangement of genes.’
The waiter came over to say smoothly, ‘Your table is ready, Mr Paget.’
After they both got to their feet Keane took Lecia’s arm in an automatic grip, as though he did this with every woman he escorted. Old-fashioned manners, she thought, but he carried them off.
He could carry anything off—inctuding most of the women in this room, if their sideways glances were any indication.
When they’d been seated, the menus scanned and their orders given, Keane said, ‘I already know quite a lot about you, so what do you want to know about me?’
Everything, she thought hollowly. Aloud she said, ‘Are both your parents still alive?’
‘No.’ His expression didn’t alter but she knew she’d hit a nerve. ‘They died just before I turned six.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He drank some water, then set the glass down and said in a coolly dismissive tone that didn’t ring quite true, ‘It happened nearly thirty years ago. I can barely remember them.’
‘That would be about the same time my father died.’
‘The same year. His accident and its aftermath must have been damned tough on your mother.’
‘She doesn’t talk about it much, but yes, I think she suffered as much as he did. Still, she managed.’ Lecia looked up and met his eyes, her unruly heart-rate accelerating as she admitted, ‘I don’t really know what I’m doing here.’
‘Curiosity,’ he told her, his narrow smile not free from self-derision. ‘For both of us. However hard reason tries to convince me that we’re strangers, we wear our shared pedigree in our faces. Architecture is an unusual profession for a woman, surely?’
She shook her head. ‘Not that unusual, although there aren’t many of us yet—I think about four per cent of architects are women. Lots more are coming through university now. I love it.’
‘Do you design houses or commercial buildings?’
With something close to a snap, she said, ‘Surely your dossier tells you all that?’
‘I’m asking you,’ he said coolly, those perceptive eyes noting her defensiveness.
I’d hate to lie to him, she thought, saying aloud, ‘I’ve worked on several commercial developments, but I do enjoy houses. And shopping centres.’ She gave him a set little smile. ‘All very feminine.’
‘Do you have a problem with that?’
‘You sound,’ she said evenly, ‘like a psychologist.’
Although his brows rose, he said nothing, just sat there surveying her with cool self-assurance.
Lecia sighed. ‘Sorry. I’m a bit sensitive, I suppose. Some men—and women too—think that designing domestic buildings is an easy option.’
‘I was in one of your houses yesterday,’ he said. ‘It is charming and serene, and the owner loves it, says she’s never going to move and won’t have a thing changed.’
Her eyes lit up and she smiled. ‘What a lovely compliment!’
‘Especially as the house wasn’t designed for her. My great-aunt has just moved into it.’ He told her the address.
‘I remember it.’ Her expression sobered, because the woman she’d designed the house for had died six months before. ‘I hope your aunt enjoys living there,’ she said.
‘Perhaps you could go and find out,’ he said levelly. ‘She likes visitors.’
Lecia froze. It seemed to her that the invitation was significant, as though he’d decided to accept her into his family, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. After all she had a perfectly good family of her own.
She looked up. Keane Paget was watching her with eyes the colour of the sea beneath a summer cloud. Very steady, those eyes, hard and dispassionate and enigmatic—as unreadable as the rest of his face.
Mesmerised, Lecia listened as he went on, ‘She’s also the family historian. If anyone can fathom out the connection between us, Aunt Sophie can. Furthermore, she’ll love doing it. She has the finer instincts of a bloodhound. I can’t begin to tell you the number of skeletons she’s dragged out into the full light of day and displayed with a relish that’s definitely mischievous. Her motto is: The only good secret is an exposed secret.’
Captivated, Lecia laughed. ‘She sounds like one of the blood-thirstier genealogists.’
‘She likes to do things well. When she first became interested in hunting down ancestors she researched every method of organising information before deciding that the only way to do it properly was on a computer. So she bought the latest laptop.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Almost ninety. The Pagets either die young or live forever.’
‘Is she enjoying her computer?’
‘She’s an expert.’
His wryly affectionate smile slipped through Lecia’ s defences, reaching some inner part of her that had never been touched before. Uncertainly, she said, ‘She sounds fascinating.’
‘She’s certainly an identity. I’ll organise a time for you to meet her.’ He spoke confidently, as though it didn’t occur to him that his aunt might not want a strange young woman introduced to her.
Lecia said, ‘Oh—but—’ then stopped, realising she’d been outmanoeuvred by an expert.
‘But?’
‘Nothing,’ she said lamely.
And was assailed by a sensation of having walked through a forbidden door, one that had closed smoothly yet inexorably behind her.
You weren’t going to do this, her conscience—backed by the big guns of common sense—wailed. Remember—no further steps down that slippery road to obsession? He’s dangerous, and you’re behaving like the idiot you were when you first met Anthony.
The waiter arrived with their lunch—scallops in white wine for her, rare beef salad for him—and over it Keane asked, ‘Where did you get your pretty name?’
‘I think it’s come down through the family. At least I didn’t get lumbered with the name in all its medieval glory—Laetitia! Or worse, Lettice.’
‘It’s from the Latin, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. It means gladness.’
He picked up his water glass. Lecia’s gaze followed the lean, strong hand—long-fingered, tanned and confident. Sensation shivered the length of her spine.
‘And are you glad?’ he asked quietly.
No, terrified.
And even worse, excited.
She managed to produce a shrug. ‘I’m reasonably optimistic—quite even-tempered,’ she said. ‘It probably does describe me.’
‘No highs, no lows, just a pleasant state of wellbeing?’
‘Mostly.’
And she’d fought to achieve that state, had spent years struggling towards it. However intriguing this situation—and this man—she refused to risk her contentment.
Gripped by the uncomfortable feeling that she was admitting things, giving herself away, Lecia embarked on another round of silent warnings. Keane himself was no threat to her. What she had to fear was her helpless, headlong response to the forceful masculinity that prowled behind the bars of his will.
‘How about you?’ she asked, ignoring the secret messages from her body, trying desperately to sound relaxed and calm and only idly curious about this distant cousin. ‘Are you a typical tycoon, working all day and into the night?’ She glanced at the leather briefcase at his feet.
His smile should be banned, she thought; it was challenging and utterly compelling and a threat to womankind. Humour lurked in it, and danger spiced the hint of arrogance that illuminated his angular features with a special magnetism.
‘It sounds as though you’ve been doing a little research of your own,’ he said blandly.
Lecia ate another scallop, appreciating the rich, delicate flavour with less than her usual enjoyment. ‘The friend I was with at the opera in the park gave me an article about you from one of the business magazines.’ Andrea had tracked it down and faxed it through the day before. Lecia had no intention of telling him she’d read it then thrown it in the rubbish. ‘There was a photograph too. It gave me quite a jolt,’ she confessed.
‘How do you think I felt, seeing my face in the crowd? I wanted to drag you out and ask you what the hell you were doing with it!’
Lecia’s brows shot up. ‘You didn’t move a muscle. I’m sure your—the woman with you didn’t notice.’
‘No, she didn’t.’ An edge of mockery sharpened his tone.
She’d been beautiful, the woman in the park, with subtle, clever style when it came to clothes. Well, Lecia thought, she herself wasn’t bad-tooking—
Whoa, there! This was not a contest, with Keane the prize!
The way her mind was running shocked and bewildered her. All right, she was attracted to Keane Paget; she could cope with that. It wasn’t even so surprising. He exuded an innate air of disciplined authority, of uncompromising competence. Allied to his obvious intelligence and unfair, far too potent charm, it made him, she thought shrewdly, a walking, talking summons to most women.
What scared her was the hint of risky decadence that cast a dark shadow across her response. Was part of this unsettling, goaded attraction a prohibited thrill at their close resemblance, the way her features were manifested in his more chiselled, hard-edged face?
Damn it, she thought, pushing the last scallop around her plate, she’d been interested in men before and never felt as though she stood on the brink and one step could fire her into heaven—or drop her straight into hell.
Not even with Anthony, the man she’d once loved so violently, who’d made her feel that all control of her emotions. was being wrested from her by forces too strong for her to resist.
Because she’d hated that helplessness, she’d learned from the whole, horrible experience, developing both judgement and the prudence to pull away from danger before she got in too deep. Her eminently satisfactory life was not up for grabs.
Besides, Keane could be another woman’s lover. And Lecia never poached.
So she’d call a halt. Tactfully, she’d refuse any invitation to meet his aunt. It wouldn’t take long, she thought, avoiding those penetrating eyes, for Keane to get the message.
She found something else to talk about, hoping she’d managed the switch of subject smoothly enough to appear sophisticated, and was relieved when the meal ended. Logic—and pragmatic, boring old common sense—warned her that the more she saw of Keane the more difficult it would be to refuse his invitations, to stop thinking about him—dreaming of him...
Not that he wanted to linger. After she refused a cup of coffee he glanced across the room and almost immediately a waiter headed towards them.
This ability to summon waiters from the void fascinated Lecia. Perhaps it was because Keane was well-known in the restaurant and a good customer.
Perhaps, but she thought wryly that it probably happened whenever Keane Paget looked up. He had presence, the sort of aura that caught people’s attention.
Paying for the meal took little time, and when they rose Keane once more took Lecia’s arm. Scoffing that the tingle of electricity that leapt from nerve-end to nerve-end when he touched her was not only improbable but a cliché, she allowed herself to be steered across the Italian tiled floor towards the bright sunlight outside.
From somewhere close by a man said something and laughed.
Lecia felt the colour drain from her skin in a clammy rush. Blinking, she forced her gaze in the direction of the voice.
Of course it wasn’t Anthony. A perfectly strange man with a blond moustache leaned across a table and lifted a woman’s hand to his mouth. Anthony had been dark and sophisticated, and he’d no more have kissed her hand in public than he’d have taken his shoes off.
As she registered the sweet rush of deliverance Lecia realised that it wouldn’t have mattered if the stranger had been Anthony. She no longer loved him—had never loved the real Anthony, the married man whose mistress she’d been for a few short weeks until someone had told her about his wife.
Without missing a step, she walked on.
‘Are you all right?’ Keane asked, the sensuously rough timbre in his voice suddenly transmuted to harshness.
Remotely she said, ‘I’m fine, thank you.’
But she wasn’t, because when he said, ‘I’ll drop you off,’ she nodded and thanked him and went into the parking building with him.
In the car, Keane asked, ‘What happened?’ He didn’t switch on the engine, so the words hung heavily in the dim quietness.
Lecia drew in a painful breath. ‘It was just—I was surprised.’
‘Is he the man you were engaged to?’
‘No!’ And before he could probe further she said aloofly. ‘I’m surprised your detective didn’t discover that Barry lives in Wellington now.’
Keane ignored that. ‘Then who was the man who laughed inside the restaurant?’
‘A total stranger. I’ve never seen him before in my life.’
‘But he reminded you of someone you’re afraid of.’
‘No!’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m not afraid of anyone.’
Only of herself. Of this weakness that made her fall in lust with a certain sort of man.
‘Do you usually go white so dramatically whenever a man laughs?’ Keane touched her cheek. ‘You’re still cold,’ he added judicially, his sharp, perceptive eyes relentless.
His hand slid to the pulse beneath her ear, lingering there for a second. Lecia’s breath clogged her throat so that she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think above the fast chatter of her heartbeat in her ears.
