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Edge Of Deception
Daphne Clair
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
HE HADN’T CHANGED.
It was Tara’s first thought when she saw him across the big, crowded room. There must have been nearly forty people there, standing about in groups with glasses in their hands, some of the men as tall as he, but her eyes found Sholto unerringly, as though he’d called her name. As though her heart, her mind, her body, had recognised his presence and known where to look for him.
What had brought him back to New Zealand?
Business, of course. Herne Holdings, his import and export business, still had a branch in Auckland as well as others in Hong Kong and Sydney, shipping goods from country to country all around the Pacific rim.
Perhaps it was the intensity of her gaze that made him turn his head from the woman at his side and meet Tara’s eyes. She saw the small movement, quickly controlled, that betrayed his discomposure. Something flared in the Prussian-blue eyes below the dark slash of his brows, something compounded of recognition and antagonism, sending a hot shiver along her spine. And then he shifted slightly so that a broad shoulder in expensive charcoal tailoring partially obscured his companion, his sleek black head bent to concentrate on what she was saying.
‘What can I get you to drink?’ Chantelle was asking at Tara’s side. ‘Dry white? Or sparkling?’ Her brown eyes, peeking from under a bouncy fringe, were enquiring.
‘I’d like a stiff gin and lemon,’ Tara heard herself say, wrenching her attention away to focus on her hostess. ‘Happy birthday,’ she added. ‘As instructed, I didn’t bring a present, but I’d love you to pick something you’d like from my shop. Pop in any time.’
She scarcely heard Chantelle’s delighted rejoinder.
Maybe she should just leave. But that would entail some kind of explanation—and besides, Sholto had seen her. She didn’t want him to think she was running away.
She avoided looking in his direction as she accompanied Chantelle to the polished mahogany bar in the corner of the room—which was two rooms, really, the dividing doors pushed back for the party.
Chantelle’s husband, Philip, appeared and greeted Tara with a kiss on her cheek. ‘What can I get you?’ he asked, slipping behind the bar.
Chantelle relayed Tara’s request.
‘Hard day?’ he enquired. The doorbell pealed, and Chantelle hurried off to answer it. Philip poured a generous measure of gin into a glass and topped it with lemon squash, adding a couple of ice cubes and a slice of fresh lemon before handing her the glass. ‘Business booming in the antique trade?’
Tara took a swallow of the drink before answering. ‘Real antiques are rather slow to move, but I’m doing well with other things. Furniture recycled from used native timber taken from demolition sites is a good seller. The prices are not as high as for antiques, so more people can afford them.’
‘Swings and roundabouts, eh? Chantelle says she’s selling more potted plants than cut flowers these days. Sign of the times, do you think?’
A man plonked a couple of glasses down on the curved bar, gave Tara a friendly, interested smile and said, ‘Same again, please, Phil.’
Tara returned the smile briefly and took a couple of steps away, burying her nose in her glass. Philip had made the drink strong; maybe it would calm her leaping nerves.
‘Tara.’
She knew he was near just before the deep, midnight voice spoke behind her. A spot between her shoulder blades, bared by the off-the-shoulder flame-red party frock and the swept-up style she’d imposed on her unruly burnished-bronze hair, felt as though a fiery finger had touched it.
Unconsciously standing taller, she turned slowly, making sure her face revealed none of her feelings, praying that her eyes, more green than hazel when her emotions were disturbed, would not betray her.
‘Sholto.’ She moved her lips in what she hoped was a reasonable facsimile of a smile. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’
‘Nor I you.’ Close up he was as devastating as ever, but her first impression had been wrong. There were subtle changes—a fine crease between the black eyebrows, a few more at the corners of the fathomless smalt eyes, and his mouth looked harder, without the faint promise of tenderness that had once been implicit in its firm lines. The light gleamed on his hair, and she realised with a pang that a few strands here and there had turned grey.
‘You look older,’ she said involuntarily. He would be thirty-eight now.
Not even trying to smile, he said, ‘I am—five years older. So are you—but you don’t show it.’
‘You needn’t flatter me,’ she said with a hint of tartness.
‘I wasn’t.’ His gaze moved over her in a chillingly clinical way. ‘You’ve changed, but not aged. Hard to believe that you’re—what?—twenty-seven.’
‘Thank you.’ Tara’s voice was curt. She took another sip of her drink. ‘Are you in Auckland on business?’
He seemed to hesitate before saying, ‘Not entirely, this time.’
Someone bumped into her back, propelling her forward a little,
