out in the mirror, frowning when she caught a glimpse of bra through the thin cotton of her shirt. After a moment’s thought she opened a drawer and found a camel-coloured T-shirt and put it on under the shirt.
Yes, that was more discreet, although slightly too warm in the humid heat of Northland. Still, after her utter folly in Curt’s arms, discretion came first.
In spite of everything, there was a sly satisfaction in looking good. Mouth set in a smile that held more irony than amusement, she tied her hair back with a fine loop of leather and picked up her lipstick. Its warm peachy toning reinforced the lushness of her tender lips.
She was scared. Already in too deep with Curt McIntosh, she vowed that from now on she’d be cool and composed and completely unavailable.
But when Laddie began barking enthusiastically above the low growl of an engine, an aggressive, heady anticipation hollowed out her stomach. For the last time she checked herself in the mirror, and gaped in startled wonder at the difference. She looked alive—skin glowing, mouth full and sensuous, gold sparks lighting up the green depths of her eyes. Even her hair shimmered with new life and vibrancy.
Curt McIntosh should patent his kisses; they’d make him a fortune in the rejuvenation market!
And people were going to notice, she thought uncomfortably.
‘Well, that’s the point of this whole farcical charade,’ she said aloud in a hard voice.
So she wanted Curt McIntosh. Big deal. As long as she didn’t make the cardinal mistake of confusing desire with love, she’d be fine. Passion was less complex and infinitely safer. She’d seen first-hand how love could betray. Her mother had given up everything for it—her family and friends, her talent at music, her health. Worn down by hard work and lack of money, she’d struggled through the years because she’d loved her husband.
And in the end it had killed her.
Peta’s jaw firmed. No way was she going to surrender to that. Her independence was too precious to jeopardise by losing her heart.
That thought gave her enough calmness to pick up her small bag and open the front door. Tall and autocratic, the sun coaxing blue-black shadows in his dark head, Curt stepped back and lifted his brows, surveying her with open appreciation. Her stupid stomach performed an acrobatic manoeuvre that left her breathless.
Cool, she commanded. Be very, very cool. Right now.
‘Quite a transformation.’ He bent to pick a bloom from the gardenia by the steps.
‘I assume that’s a compliment,’ she said in a muted voice, overwhelmed by the sight of him in a casual shirt the same grey-blue as his eyes, and sleek black trousers that hugged his hips and made the most of his long legs.
His blue eyes mocked her. ‘Of course.’ He tucked the gardenia into his top buttonhole and waited while she locked the door.
This time he was driving a Range Rover, a massive thing that combined power with restrained luxury. From his kennel, Laddie watched interestedly as Curt opened the passenger door and closed it behind her.
Already belted in by the time he got in behind the wheel, she linked her hands in her lap and thought, Cool! He was far too big, and in the confined space he loomed when he turned to examine her, a frown drawing his brows together.
Hiding her dilating eyes with a quick sweep of her lashes, she stared at the fine-grained olive skin of his throat and demanded, ‘What is it?’
A swift hand found the leather tie in her hair and pulled it smoothly down over her ponytail.
‘Hey!’ she spluttered. Her hair swirled free, settling in a thick topaz cloud across her shoulders; she looked down to see a wave of it sift over his wrist. The westering sun burnished it into a flame of gold and cognac. Her heart began to pound in her ears, a cynical little drum informing her that although her mind and her will might want one thing, her body had its own agenda.
He drawled, ‘That’s much more grown-up,’ and dropped the strip of leather into his pocket as he switched on the engine.
‘Agreeing to this doesn’t give you the right to manhandle me,’ she told him tautly.
He gave her a sardonic smile and backed the vehicle skilfully around. ‘I promised not to kiss you. Anything else goes. I’ll do whatever needs to be done to save my sister’s marriage. And in case you didn’t know, what you call manhandling is an indication of attraction.’
Peta opened her mouth to speak, then closed her lips again.
‘You were going to say?’ he enquired as the vehicle swung out onto the road—his road, she thought bitterly.
‘I was going to ask if her marriage was worth saving,’ she said.
‘That’s her decision.’ He turned his head to flash a brief, white smile at her. ‘So do your best tonight, Peta. No flinching girlishly if I touch you, plenty of smiles and lots of play with those astonishing eyelashes.’
* * *
Peta had been to several parties at the homestead before— not the A-list ones, of course, just the neighbourhood affairs. Walking beside a silent Curt through the gardens towards a rear terrace, she thought bleakly that he must love his sister very much to initiate this sham relationship. How had he convinced his lover to agree to it? The thought of Anna Lee, artist and snob, rubbed her already raw nerves painfully.
Curt looked at her. ‘Smile.’
She produced a wide, false grin. ‘Don’t expect me to gaze adoringly into your eyes. No one who knows me would believe it.’
‘Didn’t you gaze adoringly into the eyes of your previous lovers?’
‘No,’ she said, clipping the word short. There had been no previous lovers, but that was no business of his.
‘I expect you to follow my lead in everything I do,’ he said softly, and when her eyes flashed he went on with grim emphasis, ‘Or else.’
Actually, he played it perfectly. Inherent sophistication meant he didn’t make a show of his supposed interest; he staked his claim far more subtly with glances and smiles, the occasional touch of his hand on her waist or arm, and his possessive air. In an odd way it made her feel protected and safe, and that, she thought warily, was even more dangerous than the flash-fire of sexual hunger she felt whenever he touched her.
If it hadn’t been for Ian and Gillian she might have enjoyed the evening, but in their presence she felt as though she were teetering on the edge of a perilous cliff, exposed and vulnerable, waiting for someone to push her over.
Born a hostess, Gillian had done an excellent job with the gardens; from the terrace around the swimming pool parents could sip and watch their children swim, and those who felt energetic worked it off at the tennis courts behind high, vine-covered walls. Any who demanded less strenuous activity tried their hand at petanque.
The Mathesons were gracious, as charming as they had ever been, yet an hour later Peta looked around the lovely grounds, the laughing people, and wondered why no one else sensed the strain between their hosts.
‘You’re doing well,’ Curt said, bending as though he
