jeopardy because the man who had married Stella looked like a fallen angel.
When Nick came into the kitchen just before half-past four, Minerva was taking a tray of muffins from the oven. Acutely aware of his burnished glance, she flicked them on to a wire rack and covered them with a cloth.
His smile, swift and brilliant as a lightning flash, seared through her. ‘Are those for afternoon tea? They smell good.’
Something moved in the pit of her stomach, primeval, intense. ‘Yes,’ she said shortly.
The telephone interrupted. He answered it, asked a couple of questions, said, ‘I’ll ring you back in five minutes when I’ve got the information,’ and hung up, asking, ‘Is the tea made?’
‘No, I’ve only just put the kettle on.’
‘In that case, can you bring it to the office?’
‘Yes, of course.’
The office was a large room with a very intimidating computer set-up. Minerva, who had a novice’s fear of technology, put the tray down on one corner of the desk well away from it, and turned to go.
Nick was reading something at the desk, his lean hand making quick notes in the margin. Apart from calling ‘Come in,’ when she knocked, he hadn’t looked up. But as she moved away, he asked absently, ‘Why is there only one cup and saucer?’
‘Well, I—’
He lifted his head, his eyes narrowing. ‘Go and get another cup for yourself.’
Another direct order, and one that he didn’t expect to be disobeyed. He didn’t seem to realise that she might prefer some privacy. Minerva hesitated.
There was no warmth in his eyes, yet she thought they lingered a moment on her mouth. ‘Minerva,’ he said softly, ‘you’re here as a member of the family who is helping out, not as a hired hand. You said so, remember.’
She returned defensively, ‘After five years of being very much the hired help, being a member of the family is going to take a bit of getting used to.’
‘Get used to it,’ he commanded as she turned to leave the room. ‘You’re doing both Helen and me a favour.’
When she returned he was still scribbling notes in the margin, but as she came into the room he put his pen down and stood up, waiting for her to sit down.
‘Have you got yourself organised?’ he asked quite pleasantly.
‘Oh, yes.’ Far too aware of him, she poured the tea and set the pot down. In spite of his superficial pleasantness there was something curiously implacable about Nick Peveril.
‘Can you cope with the menu for the dinner?’
‘That’s no problem.’ She could cope with an infinitely more elaborate menu than the one Helen had made out, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. It sounded too much like boasting, and he wasn’t her employer; she didn’t have to impress him with her skill. She said, ‘I’ll need some help, though. I can cook it, but I’m not going to be able to serve a sit-down meal for twenty people by myself.’
‘That’s all organised. Jillian Howard’s going to be here all of Friday and Saturday; she’ll help in the kitchen with the dinner, and the two high-school sons of the head shepherd will serve at table.’
Minerva knew she looked taken aback. Composing her expression, she asked, ‘Do they know what they’re doing?’
‘Yes, they’ve done it before. I prefer to get people who are working on the station to help out.’
It sounded very worthy, although Minerva caught herself wondering whether they were too intimidated by the man to refuse.
‘You, of course, will eat with us,’ he said, so blandly that she wondered for one heart-stopping moment whether he was able to read her thoughts.
She frowned. ‘It will make things more difficult,’ she warned.
His brows lifted slightly. ‘Too difficult?’
‘Well, no,’ she admitted.
‘Good. I’d like you to act as my hostess.’
‘Oh, but—’ Minerva’s eyes met his. She could read nothing in their depths, but her protest died before Genevieve Chatswood’s name fell from her unruly tongue.
‘That’s settled, then. Is there anything else you want to know?’ he asked politely.
She shook her head. ‘Not at the moment, no.’
Leaning forward, he said, ‘I know I more or less dumped you in it, and I’m damned grateful. Helen wouldn’t have gone if you hadn’t agreed, and, to be honest, I didn’t like the sound of her daughter’s condition.’
Minerva said quietly, ‘I hope she’s all right. As for the other—well, it was good luck that I happened to be here. Perhaps it was meant.’
‘Or perhaps just coincidence,’ he countered, sounding very slightly bored. ‘Do you like what you’ve seen of the north so far?’
‘All I’ve seen so far,’ she told him acidly, ‘is rain. I left Auckland on a glorious day, but as soon as I reached the Brynderwyn Hills the rain set in, and it’s been raining on and off ever since.’
‘Well, you would come up in spring. Look at it this way—things can only get better. Last summer was such a dreary one we’re hoping for a good warm season this year. That’s if Mount Pinatubo in the Philippines doesn’t blow again.’
‘I thought farmers hated lovely dry summers,’ she said contrarily.
‘Who said anything about dry? A summer with no wind and at least an inch of rain each week will do us fine. Although there’s always the possibility of facial eczema then, of course.’
Minerva smiled. ‘I knew there had to be some catch,’ she teased. ‘Farmers are notorious for never being happy.’
‘Only because so much can go wrong when you’re at the mercy of the weather,’ he parried, a glint of amusement softening his features. ‘Cyclones, hailstorms, floods—’
‘Floods? Up here on the top of a thumping great hill?’
‘You’d be surprised how flooded the creek can get. We’re high enough to collect any raincloud that’s crossing Northland so we have to watch it carefully.’
The telephone rang. As he answered it Minerva started to get to her feet, but he shook his head. His hair gleamed golden in the light of the businesslike lamp above the desk. ‘Frank—what—? Where is he?’
The telephone quacked on. Nick frowned, staring into space, his eyes as clear and cold as shards of diamond. ‘No, I’m having afternoon tea. I’ll finish that, then go. I don’t care if he is wet!’ He hung up.
Minerva tried to look blank as though Frank and his wetness didn’t interest her in the least.
‘Frank
