it certainly was, but far from comfortable.
Not to mention the fact that she was much too busy to waste time developing a hopeless crush on someone at least ten years older than she was, and light-years ahead of her in sophistication. Who belonged to another woman.
Setting her jaw, she drove sedately for ten minutes through farms and orchards, finally coming down a steep hill to the village. Parahai was a small town on the edge of a narrow, winding inlet Once a busy coastal shipping port and now a yachting haven, it served a diverse area of farms and stations and orchards. Because there were beaches close by it was a holiday town, so during summer the tree-lined streets were probably frantic.
In spring it was laid back enough to be friendly, and that holiday rush ensured that the shops were of a higher standard than she’d expected in such a small place. Emma liked the ambience, admired the pohutukawa trees shading the main street, and enjoyed the quick smiles of the locals.
She followed Kane’s directions to the workshop and got out, tensing as his car drew up beside her. Leaning into the Volvo, she pulled out her bag and asked sweetly as she straightened, ‘Have you discovered that your warrant is overdue too?’
He got out—all long legs and shoulders, she thought crossly—and surveyed her with tawny eyes iced by mockery. ‘No.’
Quelling the urge to be very rude, Emma headed towards the workshop. He caught her up within two strides.
The owner looked up as they walked in. ‘Hi, Kane,’ he said amiably, ‘I didn’t know you were coming in today.’ But that’s all right, his tone revealed.
Kane introduced him to Emma, who had to suffer the open interest in the man’s eyes as he said, ‘Yep, fine, no problem. She should be done in a couple of hours, no sweat.’
Clearly, having Kane with her made her someone to be reckoned with, Emma decided irritably. In spite of his easygoing attitude, there was no mistaking the mechanic’s respect. She handed over the keys and he got into the Volvo and drove it into the workshop.
Kane said, ‘I’ll drop you off wherever you want to go.’
It wasn’t actually a suggestion. With a small, acid pleasure Emma said, ‘If you don’t mind I’ll walk into town. I’d like to look at the gardens on the way and it’s not far.’
No doubt her smile was as insincere as her excuse, because the dark brows drew together for a second and heavy eyelids masked the topaz glitter of his gaze before he said evenly, ‘Of course. But you should wear a hat. Spring comes early up here and the sun can burn any time of the year.’
His eyes lingered a moment on the fine, pale skin of her face, bringing heat flaring to the surface.
‘I’ll remember that,’ she said primly, and set off down the road. Arrogant oaf!
Well, no, ‘oaf’ was the wrong word. He wore clothes that had been made for him by a very good tailor, and there was nothing provincial about him at all; he possessed a worldliness and self-assurance that was all the more potent for being entirely unconscious.
And beneath it there was strength and something predatory, something untamed and battle-hardened, she thought, walking briskly up the road.
Now where had that idea come from?
From the man himself. He had a warrior’s discipline, a power based on cold, unemotional courage and expertise.
And that, Emma scoffed, ignoring a particularly colourful garden, was pure imagination! He possessed a natural male magnetism that attracted a woman’s interest, and she could tell by his muscles that he worked hard, but, although she was certain he could handle himself in any situation, he wasn’t a superhero. They didn’t exist. She’d simply been overwhelmed by an excess of pure male charisma.
And everyone knows, she thought with a faint, malicious smile, that charisma has nothing to do with character—it’s a fairy godmother’s doting gift, handed to the unworthy as well as the good.
The big green car passed her with almost no sound beyond a little toot that irritated her even more; setting her chin, she strode down the footpath, examining magnolias and camellias and daffodils with a determined interest.
Kane had been right when he’d said spring came early in the north; the daffodils were in full glory, daphne bushes perfumed the air with their sharp, exquisite scent, the poplar-like cherry trees she’d noticed were ablaze with tiny rosy-cerise bells, and freesias and annuals mingled in bright profusion in every flowerbed.
Clearly no gardener in Parahai worried about late frosts.
The walk calmed her, so that by the time Emma got to the village she was ready to enjoy its atmosphere. First she called into the bank, to make sure that everything was under control with her account, and then she spent a very pleasant hour acquainting herself with the stock in both the bookshop and a small boutique that specialised in chic, casual clothes.
Nice, but too expensive, she thought, eyeing a smart pair of capri pants with a matching shirt and waistcoat in the crisp, clear grey that suited her. The move from her flat in Taupo to a unit in Hamilton, a bustling city some distance away, had drained more from her bank balance than she’d budgeted for. As she didn’t start her new job for three weeks, she’d have to be careful with her savings.
She found the local library and organised a temporary membership before choosing a detective novel set in ancient Rome and a big, fat historical novel written by a woman who was both a scholar and a brilliant author. Though Mrs Firth had many books, they were mostly about gardening and cooking; Emma enjoyed them, but wanted a little variety.
After that she sat out a shower in a coffee bar that overlooked a little courtyard, where a fountain spilled a shimmer of water over three graduated cockle shells and more flowers bloomed in pots, mostly big, blowzy pansies in shades of blue and purple and yellow. Smiling over her coffee cup at the antics of the sparrows outside, Emma let her irritation fade.
No doubt Kane Talbot didn’t intend to be so autocratic. He’d probably been born that way, she thought, and grinned at the image of a small baby with that imperious nose and chin bending an entire household to his will.
Finally she went to the supermarket, buying the staples she needed before allowing herself the pleasure of choosing a few mandarins, cushiony and glowing, a dark purplish-green avocado and some smooth, ruby, egg-shaped tamarillos, her favourite fruit, so frost-tender they only survived where winters were mild and short.
Leaving the bags to be called for, she set off for the garage again, enjoying the salt-tanged, sunlit air and the huge white clouds that sailed rapidly across the bright sky.
She was a few minutes early, but the mechanic had finished. Wiping his hands on a piece of cloth, he said, ‘I can’t give you a warrant, Ms Saunders, because she needs a new clutch plate. You must have noticed she was shuddering a bit when you started.’
‘Oh,’ Emma said blankly. ‘Well, yes, but I thought it was just because the car was old.’
‘She’s a dowager, all right, but she’s in great heart and a new clutch plate will make all the difference,’ he said encouragingly.
Emma asked the probable cost, and frowned at his reply. ‘That’s a lot of money,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to—’
And
