of fashion magazines and the latest gossip, they’d pouted deliciously and parroted the latest catchphrases.
Cade couldn’t imagine any of them trying to put out a fire, or throwing commands at him.
Mind racing, he took in the implications.
Did she know who he was?
If she did, she’d suspect that although this meeting was a coincidence, his presence in New Zealand wasn’t. So she’d be wary …
Chances were, though, that Peter wouldn’t have spoken of him. An unpleasant situation some years before, when Peter’s then lover had made a determined play for Cade, meant that Peter rarely introduced his girlfriends to his family. He’d once admitted that although he referred to Cade occasionally, it was only ever as his brother.
Cade knew the value of hunches; he’d learned which ones to follow and which to ignore. One was warning him right now to keep quiet about the connection.
‘Cade Peredur,’ he said smoothly, and shook Taryn Angove’s outstretched hand. ‘How do you do?’
He could see why Peter had fallen for her. In spite of the smoke stains, she was very attractive—beautiful, in fact, with fine features and creamy skin set off by coppery hair.
Not to mention a lush, sinfully kissable mouth …
Ruthlessly, Cade disciplined an unexpected kick of lust. Nowhere near as easily affected as his brother had been by a lovely face and lissom body, it exasperated him that Taryn Angove had a definite and very primal impact on him.
Which he had to suppress.
His investigation team hadn’t been able to turn up a single person who wasn’t shocked and astonished by his brother’s death. The police had been unable to add anything beyond the fact that there had definitely been no foul play.
Peter had taken Taryn Angove to the theatre the previous night. She’d stayed with him that night and then he’d delivered her to Heathrow for the flight home. He’d cancelled an appointment with friends the following evening, but he’d spoken by telephone to them and he’d seemed perfectly normal.
Yet only a few hours later he’d killed himself.
From New Zealand, Taryn been asked to do a video interview with the police, but it revealed nothing; she hadn’t mentioned anything that might have upset him, so they didn’t consider her a person of interest. Although sympathetic, for them there was no doubt that Peter had committed suicide, and so there was nothing to investigate.
So she was the only person who might be able to help Cade find out why Peter had done it.
And there was the question of what had happened to the money …
Looking down into the wide green-gold eyes lifted to his, noting their subtle darkening and the faint flush visible even under a patina of smoke, Cade decided a change of tactics could be in order.
He’d come here determined to use whatever weapons might be necessary to find out what she knew. He’d try appealing to her better instincts—if she had any—and, if that failed, then intimidation might work. Or paying her off.
Now he’d met her, he wondered whether such weapons would be necessary. Taryn seemed nothing like he had expected. In order to choose the best method of persuading her to talk, he’d have to find out what made Taryn Angove tick.
Which meant he needed to get to know her.
Ignoring the electricity his touch zapped across her nerve-ends, Taryn concentrated on his grip—firm but not aggressive and completely confident.
Just her luck to be sweaty and smoky, with stringy hair clinging to her probably scarlet face. How did he manage to look so … so much in control?
Not that it mattered. Too late, she remembered who he was—periodically, she’d seen photographs of him in the press and appreciated his sexy, angular impact. He was a big player in financial circles and appeared occasionally in the gossip magazines a flatmate in London used to devour.
In them, he was usually squiring a beautiful titled woman with very expensive taste in clothes.
When he released her hand she said calmly, ‘Thanks so much for coming to help when you saw the smoke.’
Broad shoulders lifted again dismissively. ‘It was a matter of self-interest.’ At her enquiring look he enlarged, ‘I’m holidaying in the next bay.’
Had he bought Hukere Station? She dismissed the idea immediately. High-flyers like Cade Peredur didn’t invest in remote agricultural areas in New Zealand’s subtropical north; they went to the South Island’s glorious mountains. Anyway, he didn’t look the sort to want a cattle station; from what she remembered, his interests lay in the cutthroat arena of finance and world-shaking deals. And sophisticated English aristocrats.
In that cool, slightly indifferent tone he told her, ‘I saw smoke in the air so I came to see what I could do.’
Taryn looked past him and said with a shiver, ‘I’m so glad you did. I wish the idiots who lit that fire could see what their carelessness has led to. The thought of all these pohutukawa trees going up in flames is horrifying. Some of them are over five hundred years old. In fact, Maori legend says that the big one along at the end of the beach was used to tie up the first canoe that ever landed here.’
His gaze followed her pointing finger. ‘It looks old enough, certainly.’
Taryn shrugged mentally at his lack of enthusiasm. He was English, and on holiday—why should he share her love for the ancient trees? It was enough that he’d come to help.
‘It will take a lot of time before this place gets back to its previous loveliness,’ she said. ‘It’s such a shame. It’s the only good swimming beach close to Aramuhu township, but no one will want to come here until the grass grows again.’ Her nose wrinkled. ‘It looks horrible and it smells beastly, and everything—and everyone—would get covered in soot.’
Cade accepted the opportunity she’d offered—whether deliberately or not, he couldn’t tell. ‘If you’d like to swim, why don’t you try the beach I’m staying at?’ He nodded towards the headland that separated the two bays.
Startled and a little wary, she looked up. Caught in an ironic blue-grey focus, she felt her pulse rate surge and automatically ignored it. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ she said without committing herself.
‘It seems only fair.’
For the first time he smiled, sending languorous heat curling through Taryn. ‘Fair?’ she asked, only just stopping herself from stuttering.
‘You might well have saved the beach house from going up in flames—and me with it,’ he replied, noting that the farm manager was on his way towards them with the fire chief.
Noted too, with something close to irritation, the swift appreciative glances both men gave Taryn Angove.
Not that he could blame them. Those shorts showed off her glorious legs, and her bikini top accentuated her more obvious assets; only a dead man would ignore them.
The thought no sooner formed in his
