without intelligence and, she suspected, ruthlessness.
No doubt with women, too. The lover Gerard had pointed out that day in Ponsonby was a woman so beautiful she’d dazzled. However she was not the woman who had been with Paul in Fiji.
Perhaps he was promiscuous. Was that what Gerard had been hinting at with his reference to broken hearts?
Her quick revulsion at the idea was a warning, as was her conviction that he was too fastidious for crude promiscuity. All she knew about him was that he’d been kind to her mother, he’d been jilted—and he’d had two lovers in ten months.
And he danced well.
When his cool voice broke into her memories she jumped guiltily, and had to pull herself together to answer his question about her degree.
‘I majored in history,’ she said.
‘Yes, of course. Gerard’s speciality. That’s where you met him, I suppose?’
It was impossible to accuse him of prying. He must, she thought—surely irrelevantly—be hell in a courtroom. Any witness would be lulled into a sense of security by that lazy, calm voice that expressed nothing more than interest.
But he must have heard the reservation in her voice when she replied, ‘I—yes.’
Dark lashes almost hid his eyes. ‘I believe he offered you bed and board in his apartment. That must have been very convenient.’
Tautly she responded, ‘He realised that things were—difficult—where I was living, and very kindly told me about a flat a friend of his wanted looked after while she took up a scholarship in England.’
For a moment the classically shaped mouth straightened, but when she looked again it was relaxed, even curved in a slight smile. ‘Flatmates can be trying, can’t they.’
It was not a question. Trying to lift the flatness of her tone, she agreed, ‘Oh, they certainly can.’
‘It sounds as though you had the ones from hell’
‘He—one was not—not congenial.’ She put her cup and saucer down, relieved when they arrived on the table without any betraying chinks.
Paul said nothing, and after an awkward moment she went on, ‘Gerard found me in the university library one night and realised that I was having a bad time.’
‘Ah,’ Paul said smoothly, ‘he’s always found it difficult to cope with tears.’
She fastened down her indignation. ‘I wasn’t crying,’ she told him firmly, and added, ‘He’s very kind.’
‘I’m sure he is,’ Paul said, his voice soothing, almost mesmeric. ‘Why can’t you stay in your flat over the holidays?’
‘A friend of the woman who owns it has moved in.’
When Gerard came back in February he’d go into his new house, a house with a flat joined to it, and she’d have a home once more. There was no reason she shouldn’t tell Paul McAlpine that, but she fenced the words behind her teeth.
‘And now you’re waiting for the results of your final exams. Getting your BA has been a long haul. I believe there was a gap between the first two years and the last?’
Had her mother told him that her arthritis had become so bad after her daughter’s second year at university that Jacinta had to give up her studies and come home to take care of her? No, she’d been a very private woman, so it had to have been Gerard. Hoping he hadn’t coaxed Paul to lend her the bach by implying that she was a deserving case, she said evenly, ‘Yes, nine years.’
‘What do you intend to do when you’ve done your Master’s? Teach?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think I’d be very good at that.’
Judicially, he observed, ‘I shouldn’t think there’s much call for history masters outside the halls of academe.’
Why was she so—so nervous about her plans, so secretive? Because she didn’t yet know whether they were possible—and because she didn’t like the prospect of appearing a fool. ‘Probably not,’ she agreed, feeling ineffectual and foolish.
Goaded by his measuring look, she added, ‘Actually, the Master’s degree is a promise I made to my mother.’
There, that would show him she wasn’t just drifting.
‘And you always keep your promises?’
‘Yes.’
Without haste her unwilling host surveyed her face, his vivid blue gaze roaming the thick, now untidy mass of her hair, its damp curls clinging to the margins of her high forehead.
Heat burned through her skin. Straight copper brows drawn over her long nose, she met his scrutiny with defiance, knowing that the golden specks in her eyes would be glittering against the green matrix.
Starry Eyes, her mother used to call her when she was a child.
She could read nothing in Paul’s scrutiny beyond a cool assessment that prickled her skin and tightened her muscles in a primitive reflex, but when his glance moved to her wide, soft mouth she jutted her chin, fighting back a response in which anger and a forbidden excitement warred.
She didn’t want this overwhelming physical attraction. It was something she’d never experienced before, and it was dangerous.
Paul’s enigmatic gaze didn’t drop any further—and that, she thought angrily, was just as well. Although his scrutiny was too impersonal to be a leer, he’d checked her out beyond the bounds of politeness.
‘“Mine honour is my life”,’ he quoted.
Shakespeare, of course. An equivocal note in his voice scratched at her nerves again. ‘Something like that,’ she said curtly:
Each word dropped into the tense silence that stretched between them—humming, she thought edgily, with unspoken thoughts, with emotions she didn’t intend to examine.
Just when she thought she was going to have to break it, he drawled, ‘Very worthy.’
‘Hardly.’ She wondered why his words should sound like a warning. ‘Every child learns the importance of keeping promises.’
‘But children often forget as they grow older.’
Too late Jacinta remembered Aura, who had broken her vows to him in the most dramatic way. She opened her mouth to say something—anything—then closed it again when a covert glance at his shuttered expression warned her that nothing she could say would help ease the tension.
He asked her about the new fee structure at the university, and while they discussed the implications Jacinta forgot her reservations, forgot that almost insolent survey of her face. His astute, acerbic sagacity made her think hard and fast, and his understanding of people’s motives startled her with its blend of tolerance and cynicism.
‘Gerard seems to think you’ll get honours when you do your MA,’ he said, the
