alighted from the vehicle. His stomach tensed. She still looked good, he noted bitterly, although a bit paler and a bit thinner than the last time he’d seen her. In the dark emerald-coloured suit, buttoned just high enough to expose a hint of perfect creamy breast, and with her brown-red hair tightly twisted to the back of her head, she played the grieving widow well.
“A taxi, Helena?”
“And what’s wrong with that? I’ve recompensed him, and then some.” Her glittering green eyes met his gaze and clashed. Every nerve in his body went on full alert.
“Just seems a bit extravagant, don’t you think? Especially when you can drive any one of Patrick’s cars yourself.”
“I don’t drive anymore. Not since…Well, anyway, I never got my confidence back behind the wheel.” Her eyes drifted away from his face and fixed on a spot somewhere behind him.
Acid burned low in his belly. Like he needed the reminder of that night right now.
The taxi driver swung through the circular turning bay at the front of the house and disappeared back down the drive. What?
“Hey, where’s he going?”
“Back to Auckland.” Helena’s voice held an underlying thread of steel.
The tightness in his gut ratcheted up another notch as, in a few graceful steps, she closed the distance between them. Her perfume reached out to tantalise his nostrils—a bit sweet, a bit spicy. His body stirred with unwelcome interest. He hated that she could still do that to him.
“You said five minutes.” He bit the words out as if he’d chipped them from stone.
“I lied.”
The conniving witch. Rage boiled up inside of him and he ground his teeth together hard to keep the heated words he wanted to shout from spilling out. She hadn’t changed a bit. Now her easy source of income was gone she probably thought she could move onto her next victim. He knew her type only too well.
“Enjoy your walk home.” He spun away from her and stepped back inside, but he wasn’t fast enough. The telltale waft of her fragrance followed close behind.
“So call me a taxi when we’re done. I don’t care. I have to talk to you.”
“Oh, we’re done all right. Now get off my property before I have you charged for trespass.”
He was unprepared for the butterfly-like touch of her hand on his arm. His skin contracted sharply under the cool softness of her fingers and he shook himself free.
“I’m sorry, Mason. I shouldn’t have tricked you.”
“There are a lot of things you shouldn’t have done, Helena. Marrying Patrick was only one of them.”
She flinched as if he’d struck her and for a split second remorse lanced through him. His mother, rest her soul, would have been ashamed to hear him speak like that to a woman—even one like Helena—but the anger he’d borne toward her, and women just like her, took a firmer grip.
“Well, neither one of us is perfect,” she murmured and shivered in the rapidly cooling air.
The storm he’d predicted started to make its presence felt in the darkened sky and heavy splats of raindrops hit the pavers outside in an increasing staccato. Damn, as much as he wanted to, even he couldn’t make her walk out in this.
“You’d better come in,” he said begrudgingly.
He held the door open for her to pass through, showed her through to the expansive sitting room that faced out to the ocean and gestured for her to sit in a chair.
Helena looked around the room, impressed with the luxurious comfort of the large open-plan living and dining area that had obviously been structured to take advantage of what must be a spectacular view of the water in daylight. He kept the place tidy. Aside from the half-full wineglass on the coffee table there wasn’t so much as a dish left out on a bench. Even the wood stack next to the fireplace was arranged with military precision.
She sat, forcing the butterflies in her stomach to calm their crazy fluttering, as Mason lifted his wine from the table and took a deliberate slow draft. He set the long-stemmed glass back on its coaster and thrust his hands deep in the pockets of his black trousers. A slight sheen of the wine lingered on his lower lip and he swept it away with the tip of his tongue. Her eyes locked onto the tiny movement and, deep inside, her muscles clenched. She forced herself to drag her eyes from his lips, from his face, and stared out at the rain that lashed against the floor-length glass windows. Darkness encroached outdoors; solar-powered lamps began to glow gently around the periphery of the deck. She stared at the lamp nearest the window until the shape blurred into a watery ball of light.
It had been a long time since she’d felt at such a disadvantage. She hated the way he deliberately tried to dominate her—forcing her to look up to him, not offering her so much as a glass of water. If it was only up to her, and if she didn’t need his help so badly right now, she’d have darned well started that walk back to Auckland and damn the consequences. But this was Brody’s future, his life, and she’d crawl over broken glass if that’s what it took to get Mason to help her.
Where to start, where to start? She gathered her fractured thoughts. It had been so easy when she’d mentally rehearsed this scene in the taxi during the trip down. Now, face-to-face with him, it wasn’t as easy as she’d hoped.
She let her eyes briefly rake over his body. Physically she couldn’t discern much change from the dark-haired stranger who’d rescued her from certain death that night—he stood at six feet tall and beneath the dark soft cotton polo shirt he still had shoulders like a world-class rugby player. But now there was a hardness to his face, a remote look to his eyes, that had never been evident in the plethora of photographs Patrick had proudly shown her of his protégé.
“Is this going to take long?” His irritated drawl dragged her attention back to the present.
“No, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to waste your time. It’s just…I…”
“You what?”
She’d rarely heard less interest in a question. Helena reached to the soles of her feet and hauled up all the courage she could muster. “I need your help.”
“And I’d want to help you—why?” His upper lip curled in derision.
Helena forced her fingers to relax their grip on the straps of her handbag. “Because it was Patrick’s last wish.”
She watched as he snagged the glass with his fingers and took another pull at the wine, the slight tremor in his hand the only giveaway that, oh yes, she’d struck a chord this time. It was a low blow, she knew, using his relationship with his old mentor now, but she had to useall the ammunition at her disposal. She knew Patrick’s death had hit him harder than he’d shown at the well-attended funeral six weeks ago. There he’d been locked behind an aloof façade. Polite and friendly and not a sign of any other emotion. But to her, his grief had been stark in his dark eyes, in the pallor of his face and in the tight lines that bracketed his lips. She’d ached to comfort him but knew he’d spurn any empathy from her.
“Go on.” His voice was steady, his eyes cold and flat.
Helena
