for Rassel I became interested in photography, so I soaked up as much knowledge about the way professional photographers do it as I could. I was lucky—one in particular used to critique my shots.’ She gave a slight smile. ‘He was cruel, but I learned an awful lot from him.’
His mouth thinned, then relaxed. ‘I have a few calls to answer,’ he said, ‘so I’ll be busy for an hour or so. Enjoy the garden.’
Still on edge, Serina collected her camera and went out into the garden again. The flowers in a wide border glowed as she relived Alex’s kisses and their explosive effect on her.
He’d kissed her like a lover, she thought dreamily.
She walked beneath a huge tree and closed her eyes for a moment.
Of course she wasn’t his lover. If it existed, true love had to mean you knew the person you loved, trusted them deeply and intimately and were completely convinced they’d never let you down.
Like Rosie and Gerd. They’d known each other since they were children. Whereas she’d only met Alex a few times before she’d embarked on this crazy trip across the world with him.
Yes, she’d felt an instant attraction, and been strangely elated to realise he felt it too. And she’d trusted him enough to come to New Zealand with him, she reminded herself and bit her lip—then muttered, ‘Ouch!’ when her teeth grazed the tender skin there.
When Alex kissed a woman she certainly knew she’d been kissed, she thought, trying to find some humour to lighten her mood.
But his reaction when she’d suggested she take photographs of his garden showed her how little he trusted her. Tension wound her tight, set her pacing restlessly out into the sunlight, still warm but now thickening into a gold that edged close to amber as the sun sank towards the hills to the west.
It was stupid to feel hurt. Alex certainly wasn’t in love with her, so why did she expect him to trust her?
Because what she felt for him—all she could allow herself to feel—was a mad, wild, unreasonable desire. Just thinking of him made her body spring into instant life, as though charged with electricity, and when she was with him she teetered on the most deliciously terrifying tenterhooks, so aware of his every movement that it was almost a relief to walk away.
Lust, she told herself sternly. Not love…
‘Forget about him,’ she told herself, startling a small bird with a tail like a fan into darting upwards. It landed on a tall stem a few feet away and surveyed her with black button eyes, scolding her with high-pitched chirps as it flirted its tail at her.
Smiling, she lifted her camera and got a shot of it, using it to get some pointers on how to deal with the bright, clear light.
But, try as she did to concentrate on photographic techniques, her obstinate mind kept replaying the way Alex had held her hand as they’d walked back to the Land Rover.
Somehow, that most casual of caresses meant more—just more, she thought in confusion.
Not more than his kisses, which had rocked her world, yet in a strange way that casual linking of hands satisfied something she didn’t recognise in herself, a kind of yearning…
For what?
She shook her head. Romance?
Giving up, she went inside and inspected her shots, relieved when several showed up really well—so well, she emailed a couple to her editor as a sample of what was in store for her.
Then she surveyed her clothes, finally choosing a little black dress. Discretion itself, she thought satirically. Ladylike and quite forgettable, although it did nice things for her skin and eyes.
And it was useless to wish now she’d brought something more daring, something that would subtly signal the change in her. Pulling a face at her reflection, she combed back her hair and caught it behind her head with a neat, unobtrusive clip. It didn’t seem likely that for a quiet dinner for two at home Alex would dress too formally, but she had no idea what New Zealanders wore for such occasions.
Or even if it mattered. Last night she’d changed into a pair of tailored silk trousers and a simple soft blouse, relieved when Alex had been equally casually attired. And it was foolish to think anything had altered just because he’d kissed her again, and she’d somehow—she hoped—managed to convey how much she wanted him.
Butterflies swirled through her stomach when she left her room, setting up a frenzied internal tornado when Alex came through a door a few metres along the wide hallway. To her relief, he was clad informally in a well-tailored linen shirt and narrow-cut trousers that set off the powerful body beneath.
Without trying to hide the gleam of appreciation in his eyes, he said, ‘Tell me, is it training or do you somehow just know the perfect way to look for any occasion?’
Colour heated her skin, but she managed to say demurely, ‘What a lovely compliment.’
He laughed and opened a door into a room that looked more like a library than a study. Standing back to let her go in first, he said, ‘That is no answer.’
‘Because your question was unanswerable. I choose what I hope will be appropriate for the occasion and leave it at that.’
He surveyed her through his lashes. ‘And an elegant, very chic that it is tonight.’
His response washed a deeper tinge of colour through her translucent skin. For a moment the violet eyes were clouded by an emotion Alex couldn’t define.
They cleared almost instantly and she said, ‘I wonder why I have the feeling you’re testing me in some subtle way I don’t understand?’
He already knew she wasn’t the stock princess he’d first thought, but he was surprised she’d dropped her usual reserve for such a forthright statement. Ignoring a sharp rush of adrenalin, he said, ‘You have an overactive imagination. I like to see you blush—it’s a charming reaction.’
How many other men had summoned that swift, rapidly fading heat? The photographer who’d been cruel but helpful? That thought brought with it a fierce, baseless anger that startled him.
He asked, ‘What would you like to drink?’
After a cool glance she said, ‘Wine would be great, thank you.’
To her surprise, he opened a bottle of champagne-style wine. Pouring it for her, he said, ‘This is from the Hawkes Bay, a big wine-growing region. Like Aura and Flint, most Northland vineyards tend to concentrate on growing for red wines. Some vintners buy in grapes to make their white wines. In the far north there are several vineyards, some of them with magnificent grounds. I’ve included them in a list of places you might find interesting. You can look at it after dinner, and tomorrow I’ll contact any you’d like to see.’
She took a sip of the liquid. Alex watched the curve of her artfully coloured mouth as it kissed the glass, and felt his gut tighten. Cynically he thought that for someone who’d never put a foot wrong, never figured in any scandal, she certainly knew all the tricks.
And she kissed like a houri. She’d learned that from someone. Or several someones. So his Princess was nothing if not discreet.
For
