‘To every woman’s relief,’ Elana observed. ‘As well, it’s a lot easier to sew a Twenties shift than the gowns they wore twenty years previously.’
* * *
Niko glanced down, struck by the way the lights shimmered on her gleaming hair. Freed from the neat knot at the back of her neck it would look like silk. Into his mind sprang an image of the soft swathe spread out across a pillow—of her lithe, ivory-skinned body against white sheets, green-gold eyes heavy-lidded and beckoning...
Strange how exotic eyes and a fall of bright hair could lend spice to an occasion...
Irritated by a fierce surge of desire, he suppressed the tantalising thought and concentrated on the conversation.
He’d expected little entertainment from this evening. If his presence at the ball went some way to convincing the district that he intended to return Mana Station to full production again—which would mean jobs for local people—it would make the new manager’s position easier.
Above the babble of conversation and laughter he discerned a rapidly approaching roar as some idiot drove past the hall, achieving as much noise as he could from a badly maintained engine.
When the noise had faded Mr Nixon told him laconically, ‘One of the local hoons. Like all young kids with an attitude, they like to stir up the district periodically. No harm to them, by and large.’
Niko nodded. The band struck up for the next dance, and some young guy in evening clothes slightly too big for him came up and asked Elana Grange for it. Smiling up at him, she accepted.
Watching them dance, Niko resisted a swift emotion that veered dangerously close towards possessiveness. Startled by its intensity, he secured one of the matrons Mrs Nixon introduced him to, and guided her onto the floor. But although his partner was a brilliant dancer, and had a sharp, somewhat acerbic wit, he had to force himself to concentrate on her and not allow his gaze to follow Elana Grange around the room.
As the evening wore on he noted she was a popular dance partner, but seemed to favour no particular man, apparently enjoying her turns with middle-aged farmers as well as with younger men.
* * *
Keeping her eyes firmly away from Niko Radcliffe, Elana chatted with old friends and acquaintances, grateful that he didn’t approach her for any more dances.
By the time midnight arrived she was strangely tired, but she managed to hide any yawns until she slid into her car, pulling out to follow his car. It suited him—big enough to be comfortable for a tall man, super-sophisticated yet tough...
Stop this right now, she told herself grimly. You’re being an idiot. OK, so he looks like some romantic fantasy, all strength and good looks and seething with charisma, but that’s no reason for you to feel as though you’ve overdosed on champagne.
Frowning ferociously, she stifled another yawn and concentrated on the road as it narrowed ahead. Some time during the ball it had rained and the tarseal shone slickly in the headlights. After a few kilometres the road swung towards the coast and the surface turned to gravel as it dived into the darkness of the tall kanuka scrub crowding the verges.
About halfway home, scarlet tail-lights ahead warned her of trouble. Slamming on her own brakes, she gasped as the seatbelt cut across her breasts.
When her stunned gaze discerned the cause of the sudden stop, she gulped, ‘Oh, no—’
SHOCKINGLY, THE GLARE of the headlights revealed a stationary vehicle on its side. The driver had failed to take the corner and the car had skidded into the ditch before sliding along the clay bank that bordered the road on the passenger’s side.
Hideous memories of another accident, the one that had killed her stepfather, and ultimately her mother, flashed through Elana’s mind. Sick apprehension tightened her stomach and froze her thoughts into incoherence until she realised that Niko Radcliffe was already out of his vehicle and running towards the wreck.
Fingers shaking, she released her seatbelt and opened the door. Her first instinct was to join him, but second thoughts saw her haul the first-aid kit from the glove box.
Clutching it, she ran, heartbeats thudding in her ears as Niko wrenched open the driver’s door and leaned inside.
‘Oh, dear God, please...’ Elana breathed a silent prayer that jerked to a sudden stop when she realised he was half inside the car, presumably undoing the driver’s seatbelt.
Over his shoulder he commanded harshly, ‘Get back. Quickly—I can smell petrol.’
So could she now, the acrid stench cutting through the minty perfume from the kanuka trees. At least the force of the collision had stopped the engine.
‘Go,’ Niko Radcliffe ordered, dragging the driver free of the car in one ferociously powerful movement.
‘I’ll help you—’
He broke in, ‘Have you got a cell phone?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Then get back to your car and use it to call for help.’
Torn between summoning the emergency services and helping him, Elana wavered.
‘Move! And stay there!’
The peremptory command raised her hackles, but sent her running back. Snatching up her cell phone, she tapped out the emergency number, eyes fixed on Niko and his limp burden as he strode past his own vehicle towards her.
‘Ambulance, fire engine and police,’ she told the emergency operator, and answered the subsequent questions as clearly and concisely as she could, finishing by saying, ‘The smell of petrol seems to be getting much stronger. I have to go now.’
She dropped the phone onto the driver’s seat and ran towards Niko and his burden.
He had to be immensely strong, because, although the hard angles of his face were slick with sweat, he’d carried the driver of the wrecked car past their vehicles to what she fervently hoped was a safe distance.
Breathing heavily, he laid the unconscious man on the narrow, stony verge before straightening. ‘How long will it take them to get here?’
‘About fifteen minutes,’ Elana told him unevenly, adding, ‘I hope that not too many of the volunteers were drinking champagne at the ball.’ She dropped to her knees beside the still—dangerously still—driver. ‘Jordan,’ she said urgently, groping for his wrist. ‘Jordan, can you hear me? It’s Elana Grange. Open your eyes if you can.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Jordan Cooper.’ Tears clogged her eyes. ‘He’s only a kid—about eighteen.’
‘Any pulse?’
Steady, she told herself when her probing fingers found nothing. Concentrate. ‘No.’
Inwardly shaking, she explored
