She didn’t want courtesy from him; she wanted fire and passion and flash and thunder.
Oh, why not aim for the moon? She had a better chance of getting that. And she had to tamp down her first instinct to refuse; he was a guest. Keeping her voice as level as she could, she replied, ‘I’ve already been told that I’m having dinner with you.’
And then flushed, because she’d sounded petulant and—horrors—deprived, as though she wanted this to be a real date! Of course it wasn’t; he was merely being polite to the sister of one of his friends. And she had to accept for the same reason.
‘Sorry if that offended you.’ But he didn’t sound sorry; he sounded amused. ‘I checked with the manager first to make sure it wouldn’t upset his staff roster.’
Very considerate of him! In a wooden voice she said, ‘That would be lovely, thank you.’
‘I’ll see you at eight, then.’ Now he sounded crisp and businesslike.
Yes, definitely a duty meal. After tonight he’d probably ignore her. Not that she saw much of the guests, anyway. ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ she said, repressing the rebellion that threatened to curdle each word.
His deep laughter was shaded by more than a hint of irony. ‘I won’t take up much of your spare time.’ And he hung up.
Slowly she replaced the receiver.
She’d really enjoyed being at Shipwreck Bay. No one had expected her to be anything other than what she was—plain Melissa Considine.
With, she thought gloomily, the emphasis on plain. Love them though she did, in some ways having two outrageously handsome brothers had been a cross for her to bear. People expected another magnificent Considine, only to be taken aback when introduced to a lanky woman with strongly marked features and brown hair. Apart from her height, there was absolutely nothing interesting about her; she hadn’t even inherited the famous blue Considine eyes. Hers were a boring light brown.
And she’d totally missed out on the unconscious aura she envied in her brothers. Hawke Kennedy had it too—that powerful pulse of authority and confidence, as though there wasn’t anything in the world he couldn’t deal with.
So what on earth was she going to wear to dinner with him?
A year ago she’d have asked Gabe’s fiancée for advice; Sara had been easy to talk to, and she had impeccable taste—something else Melissa had missed out on.
However, the engagement had broken up in a blaze of publicity, leaving Gabe bitterly unhappy behind an armour of grim control. And she hadn’t seen Sara since.
Think duty, Melissa advised herself curtly. And wear the little black dress you bought in Paris.
It was difficult to keep her mind on her work; during that interminable day she found herself drifting off into daydreams interspersed with periods of painful anticipation that brought heat to her skin, and made her chide herself for her stupidity.
But eventually she was ready. Dissatisfied, she turned away from the mirror. The black dress might be sophisticated, but it drained the colour from her skin so that the blusher she’d used stood out like two streaks of paint on her cheekbones.
Why had she never noticed that before?
Because it had never mattered. Under the tutelage of a tiny, exquisite mother, a true Frenchwoman with superb grooming and clothes, she’d learned to minimise her height and stay in the background. Until tonight she hadn’t wanted to impress any man enough to worry about whether a colour suited her or not.
Or whether she looked sexy.
Disgusted with herself for caring so much about Hawke’s opinion—a man who’d never given her any reason to indulge this stupidly adolescent reaction—she wrenched off the black dress and wiped away her blusher.
She surveyed her scanty wardrobe before setting her jaw and taking down a top in darkly bronze silk with fake bronze and gold ‘jewels’ around the V-neck. Sara had given it to her, along with velvet jeans in the same rich colour. Melissa had never worn them; she’d only packed them because she’d been told New Zealanders were noted for their informality.
So she’d be informal for Hawke Kennedy.
She scrambled into the top and jeans, then surveyed her long, narrow feet in despair. Not one pair of shoes suited the sleek jeans. Eventually she set her jaw and pulled on a pair of high-heeled boots in black.
Her mother would have called the whole outfit vulgar, and told her that the long, slim lines made her look taller. Well, she thought robustly, she didn’t care. At least she looked a little more alive in it. Although that was probably because the twisting and turning of getting dressed had produced a flush in her cheeks.
Frowning, she stared at her reflection. No foundation, she thought defiantly. Her skin was pretty good, even if she did say so herself. What lipstick? Her favourite peach didn’t go with the rich bronze of her clothes. She examined her lip gloss, a shade of soft coppery-pink. If she used that on its own it might look good with the clothes.
It did.
Eyes? Distastefully she examined the open eyeshadow palette. Normally she used muted greens, but tonight something compelled her to pick out a smoky golden brown and apply it with a slightly unsteady hand.
‘Actually, that’s not bad,’ she said slowly, after scrutinising herself.
The rich colour around her eyes intensified their almond shape and gave them a heavy-lidded smoulder that startled her. It also picked up hitherto unnoticed golden highlights in her irises.
And the soft sheen to her lips looked…well, slightly provocative.
Or had she just made a fool of herself? Would Hawke take one look at her with cynical eyes and realise that she’d gone to an awful lot of trouble to make herself look good for him?
Her mother’s voice echoed in her ears. That colour’s too bright for you, Melissa. It makes you look vulgar and brassy. Stay with classic colours and lines. With your height you need to be subtle, not blatant.
Melissa took a deep breath. Although her mother had rarely commented on her tall daughter’s lack of beauty and grace, Melissa knew she’d always been a disappointment.
Setting her too obvious jaw, she pulled her hair away from her face and pinned it severely at the back of her neck. There, that should show Hawke she hadn’t tried to be seductive.
Stifling a familiar sense of inadequacy, she said flippantly, ‘Sorry, Mama.’
But at the door she turned back, seized by a painful sense of her own inadequacy. She couldn’t go out like this. It would only take her ten minutes to change back into the little black dress…
A glance at her watch told her she was running too late for that. For a second she hesitated, then set her jaw.
She couldn’t face walking through the lodge and down the long, glassed-in corridor that led to the suite. Instead, she took the path along the lake edge, hoping that the serenity of the water and the mountains would calm the erratic pounding of her heart.
CHAPTER TWO
