grinned and said confidently, ‘You’ll love it. It’s a great day and all Northland’s going to be spread out like a map under us.’ He took an envelope from his pocket. ‘A note from the boss,’ he explained, handing it over.
Peta opened it with trembling fingers. It was the first time she’d seen Curt’s writing, and for some reason the occasion assumed ridiculous importance.
Like him, his writing breathed bold, aggressive power. He wasn’t able to meet her in Auckland; his personal assistant would pick her up.
He signed it simply, ‘C’.
Curt by name and curt by nature, she thought, chilled. He was probably making sure he didn’t sign any documentation she might be able to use against him.
Well, he didn’t need to worry. She knew exactly why she was there. She’d keep her side of the bargain.
The pilot was right; the trip down was fantastic. Peta exclaimed with pleasure as Northland’s long peninsula, barely a hundred miles across at its widest part, unrolled beneath them in a glory of gold and green, hemmed by the blue of the Pacific Ocean on the left and the dangerous green waters of the Tasman Sea on the right; estuaries gleamed in the opalescent blues and greens of a paua shell.
‘We need rain,’ she said, looking down at toast-coloured countryside as they neared Auckland.
‘Rain? Have a heart, it’s summer,’ the pilot expostulated. ‘Nobody wants rain in summer.’
And there in a nutshell was the difference between city people and those from the country. She thought of the bag she’d packed so carefully that morning, choosing and discarding clothes, getting more and more stressed until she’d realised that no matter what she took, she couldn’t match the exquisite simplicity of the clothes worn by Gillian and Lucia Radcliffe.
With as little taste for humiliation as anyone, she hoped Curt had remembered his promise to hire clothes.
He’d remember. She relaxed as the helicopter began its descent. Overbearing blackmailer he might be, but she’d put down good money on nothing escaping that formidable mind.
Besides, he had an image to sustain, one that home-sewn clothes would wreck. An ironic smile tilted her lips; try as she did, she just couldn’t see Curt worrying about his image!
His personal assistant turned out to be a middle-aged woman, elegant and somewhat distant, who nevertheless greeted Peta with a smile and a ready fund of conversation as she drove her to a large house overlooking the harbour in Herne Bay, one of Auckland’s marine suburbs.
‘Mr McIntosh will be here as soon as he can,’ she said, turning into a gateway. ‘He’s really sorry—an important colleague arrived in Auckland unexpectedly this morning.’
‘It’s all right,’ Peta said easily, trying to convince herself that she wasn’t gripped by aching disappointment.
Perhaps some of her feelings showed in her tone, for his assistant gave her a sideways glance. When the engine had died she said, ‘In the meantime, he told me that you need additions to your wardrobe. I’ve organised a woman who dresses people to come along to see you; I think you’ll like her.’ Her smile relaxed. ‘Of course, that might be because she’s my daughter.’
Peta tensed, torn between relief and hurt pride. ‘I see,’ she said woodenly.
‘She’ll make it as painless as she can. I know how you feel; I hate shopping with a passion and so does my husband. Liz always says that because someone had to do the shopping in our household she was forced to develop a taste for it! Shall we go in?’
Far from resembling the Tanekaha homestead, Curt’s house was a gracious relic from the early twentieth century. On the path to the front door, Peta’s nostrils quivered at a familiar perfume—a gardenia bush spread its white velvety flowers across the path, their scent filling the air.
Another woman opened the door. How the heck many people did Curt employ?
‘Mrs Stable, the housekeeper,’ his personal assistant told her quietly.
The housekeeper, a wiry woman in her mid-forties with improbably red hair, showed her to a room that overlooked the harbour. Peta eyed the huge bed, the exquisite furnishings, and the magnificent painting on one wall—and wished herself back home. Damn Curt. How dared he go ahead and organise a shopping spree when she’d specifically told him she wouldn’t accept any money from him?
Well, why was she surprised? That was what men like him did—ploughed their way through life, trampling anyone who got in their way.
But she was nothing like her mother. Although she found Curt dangerously desirable, she certainly wasn’t in love with him. And even if she had been, pride wouldn’t let her follow like a dog at his heel.
And to be fair, the assistant’s daughter might have selected clothes from a hire firm…
Peta washed her face, and had just finished storing her pathetically few clothes in the huge wardrobe when someone knocked on the door.
Curt?
Consuming eagerness drove her across the room; she had to take several steadying breaths before she opened the door to a woman whose discreet chicness and resemblance to Curt’s PA gave away her identity.
‘You must be Liz,’ Peta said, masking searing disappointment with a fixed smile.
‘I am, indeed. Can I come in?’
‘Of course.’ She stood back, somewhat startled when the other woman surveyed her with impersonal intensity. ‘No offence, but I’m not too happy about this shopping idea,’ Peta said, hiding her awkwardness with a brisk overtone.
‘It’s Curt McIntosh’s idea, so we do it.’ Liz seemed to come to some decision. ‘OK, I can see which designers will be on your wavelength, but can I check the clothes you’ve brought? Curt said you’d be going to the opening night at a gallery and a dinner party, and spending a day on a yacht. He also said that although the clothes need to be good, they should be useful too, so no wildly impractical stuff. And he said that you’ve got great colour sense, which is perfectly obvious now I’ve seen you.’
Pleasure tingled through Peta, temporarily shutting down her indecision.
Liz glanced around, spied clothes through the open door of the walk-in wardrobe, and set off towards them like an elegant bulldozer. Peta opened her mouth.
And then closed it. Feeling alien and abandoned, she stood irresolute.
Liz took down a shirt. ‘Did you make this?’
‘I—yes.’
‘Good finishing.’ She directed a quizzical glance at Peta. ‘Curt warned me you’d probably object.’
‘Did he?’ Peta said through gritted teeth. Liz was probably wondering why on earth Curt had allied himself to a country hick. ‘Then you can tell him that I didn’t, can’t you?’
Liz gave a swift, sympathetic grin. ‘I’ve known Curt since Mum went to work for him, and one thing I’ve learned—well, me and the rest of the world!—is that if you’re stupid enough to go hand to hand with him, you’ll
