the illusion of freedom, yet for a suffocating second she felt as though he’d caged her.
It gave her such a shock she lifted her head and pulled back.
When he smiled one corner of his mouth lifted a little higher than the other, giving him a slightly lopsided look that should have reduced that potent male attraction. At the very least he should have looked endearing.
Except that ‘endearing,’ she thought, watching the hard curve of that classically carved mouth, was not a word she’d ever associate with this man.
For the first time in her life, Natalia tripped on the dance floor.
‘Sorry,’ Clay Beauchamp murmured, gleaming topaz eyes raking her face as he supported her. ‘And we were doing so well, I’d even stopped counting one-two-three.’
He waltzed as though he’d been born in Vienna. And he was really getting to her. Time for damage control.
With the cool politeness her mother had drummed into her, she asked, ‘Are you a visitor here, Mr Beauchamp?’
‘Temporarily.’ Amusement deepened his voice.
Natalia hoped she wasn’t spoiled or over-confident, but she’d never been laughed at before. It was a challenge she should refuse.
Unfortunately she’d always found it almost impossible to back away from a dare. Lifting her lashes, she surveyed the powerful, angular face with a glinting appreciation. ‘But surely all visitors are temporary?’ she asked demurely, knowing the moment she’d spoken that she’d made an error of judgement.
This man wasn’t the sort you teased.
‘Not in this case. I’ve bought Pukekahu Station,’ he said indolently.
Guilt roiled with anger and settled icily in her stomach. Resisting it—for what had she to feel guilty about?—Natalia directed a slanting glance at the angular face above hers. ‘How appropriate. You’ve got the right eyes for a place that’s called the Hill of Hawks.’ She was dicing with danger, yet she couldn’t have banished the mockery that flicked through her words.
Outlined with sinister exactness by the black mask, those golden eyes narrowed. ‘And the right nose too.’
Common sense kicking in too late, Natalia forced her voice into an approximation of friendly interest. ‘It’s going to take you a while to bring Pukekahu into profit again. Even the house is falling down. Are you planning to live there?’
‘I live in Auckland.’
She didn’t like the silences: they sizzled with tension. ‘Unusual place for a farmer to live,’ she said lightly.
‘I’m not exactly a farmer. More an agri-businessman.’
‘Ah, one of the new breed of absentee landlords,’ she returned affably. ‘As I said, temporary.’
Her hand—loose on his shoulder—registered a sudden tightening of muscles beneath the superb cloth of his dinner jacket. It lasted for a second only, but she was recklessly pleased that she’d got through his formidable armour.
‘I’ve never heard myself described as an absentee landlord before,’ he drawled. ‘I prefer to think I’m part venture capitalist, part restorer of over-stocked farmland.’
‘How altruistic.’ Her tone oozed blandness, but he’d have had to be stupid not to recognise the caustic lash to each word. And Natalia would bet her next year’s income that Clay Beauchamp wasn’t stupid.
‘You’re an entrepreneur yourself, I believe,’ he said obliquely. ‘Bowden’s capsicum queen, who just happens to share a boundary with Pukekahu.’
It took all her will to say in a bright voice, ‘I’m flattered, but “capsicum queen” doesn’t quite cut it. There’s something inherently unromantic about peppers, don’t you think? Perhaps it’s their shape—so sturdy and blocky.’
‘Are you a romantic, Natalia?’ Clay Beauchamp asked with a subtle, predatory inflection.
Her fault; she’d given him the perfect opening. ‘Not in the least,’ she returned crisply, smiling with sunny nonchalance into his face.
For several seconds he and Natalia duelled, using those most potent of weapons, the eyes. Natalia refused to lower her lashes; in the end he won by the simple trick of dropping that tawny gaze to her mouth.
Not fair, she thought, irrationally elated—but not surprising either. Clay Beauchamp probably never played fair.
‘Good,’ he said enigmatically. ‘Romantics are a real nuisance. And, speaking as an unromantic male, do you wear contact lenses to brighten the colour of those magnificent eyes?’
Until then she hadn’t realised that she was rather proud of her eyes, but what really flicked that pride was that he’d noticed.
Well, she could salvage something. With a deliberate sweep of her lashes, she allowed her gaze to rest a significant moment on the hard line of his jaw and purred, ‘You can’t really expect me to admit to that. However, I’ll confess that I wear lipstick.’
‘So you’re a tease,’ he said, his smile a swift, savage punishment. ‘I’m disappointed—you seem more direct, more open.’
Anger glittered in the depths of her eyes, licked in a flame across her cheekbones. With that cat-like smile still pinned to her lips, she said, ‘I’m every bit as frank as you are.’ There, that should shut him up, because if ever a man held secrets close to his chest this one did.
‘I doubt it.’ Beneath the silk mask his intent stare was pure gold. Without breaking eye contact he pivoted gracefully, and this time the hand across her back came to rest on the heated skin just above her waist.
Although Clay released her almost immediately, and his hand left her skin for a more discreet position, its imprint burned like a brand. Tension sawed through her nerves, producing a feverish need.
Calmly he said, ‘I want you, Natalia. I wanted you as soon as I saw you glimmering like a serpent woman across the room. I give you fair warning—I’m hunting.’
Her jaw dropped. Stunned, she stared at him, imprisoned by the implacable, leashed hunger of his eyes.
‘Not so open, after all,’ he murmured, a taunting amusement not warming his expression. ‘At least you didn’t say that you wouldn’t sleep with me if I were the last man on earth.’
Her brain began to work again, overriding the violent pulse of desire. ‘You’re accustomed to that response?’ she asked, arching her brows in pretended surprise. ‘Then it’s time you moved up to a better class of mistress. Not me— I’m sorry, I’m too busy at the moment—but I can introduce you to several women who might be interested.’ In spite of her attempt at sophisticated repartee she couldn’t banish the bite from her words.
What was it about her that made men think she was easy? Dean had expected her to fall into bed with him, been angry when she refused.
Clay’s long black lashes half covered his eyes. He laughed, a sound that battered the remnants of her composure. ‘So much for honesty,’
