eye contact lasted only long enough for a fleeting impression of a hostile storm-sea glare under lowered brows, a strong nose with flared nostrils, a clear-cut upper lip and a fuller, sensuous lower one, and a couple of weeks of dark growth lightly framing a wide, stubborn and very masculine chin.
The designer-stubble, just-got-out-of-bed look had never appealed to Samantha, yet despite his smouldering glare the beard shadow seemed to emphasise instead of detract from the man’s striking good looks.
She moved through the crowd on the spacious lawn, skirting chattering groups of guests holding champagne flutes or coffee cups.
Glad she’d had the forethought not to wear stiletto heels that would have sunk into the ground and impeded her progress, she paused only to take a full glass from one of the circulating waiters before coming to a stop under the shade of a huge old magnolia, and realised she was almost panting, as if she’d been running across the short-cropped grass instead of walking at a perfectly normal pace.
She’d not even looked round to see whom she should be making small-talk with. It might be a private occasion, but many business decisions had their genesis in chance—or not-so-chance—meetings at gatherings like this. There were movers and shakers here, potentially important contacts.
None of them impinged on her consciousness, her inner eye still focused on the stranger who had stared at her with such inexplicable ferocity.
His hair had been a shoulder-length mane of unruly dark brown, shot with streaks that glinted golden-red in the sun. She’d have assumed he’d had it professionally highlighted, except that the luxuriant, uneven waves looked as if they’d been trimmed with hedge clippers and pushed back from his forehead with impatient fingers. Like the other men here he was dressed formally, yet despite the pearl-grey suit of impeccable cut and fit, a snowy-white shirt and olive-green silk tie, he seemed totally out of place.
The tree cast a broad, protective shadow over chairs set about small tables holding plates of gourmet hors d’oeuvres. A quick glance at the guests seated there showed her no one she knew, and right now she felt unsettled, not up to making polite conversation with strangers.
Perhaps she should have brought along a partner—any of a number of male friends would have been happy to oblige. But she hadn’t wanted the bother of maintaining at close quarters a pretence of enjoying herself, and making sure a companion actually did.
Anyway, she didn’t need a crutch, or a smokescreen. No one would imagine that Samantha Magnussen was without an escort for any reason but her own choice.
Taking a few steps out of the shade, she paused to admire the Donovan mansion. Beautifully maintained, it had stood the test of time with its white-painted timbers and long windows, gabled roofline and tall chimneys.
She was the daughter of a man who had made a fortune erecting much-admired public buildings and some very exclusive private homes. Throughout her childhood the family had moved from one show house to another, each bigger and more opulent than the last, superb advertisements for her father’s burgeoning business.
Yet she had a special liking for beautifully crafted old houses like this one, with its air of permanence and grace, home to successive generations of one family.
She had been curious to see Rivermeadows for herself. That her first chance to do so had been Bryn Donovan’s wedding invitation was perhaps ironic.
He and his bride were posing for photographs now on the wide steps, along with their attendants and various family members, the groups shifting from one take to the next.
The man who had fixed his inimical glare on Samantha mounted the steps with others for several shots, and Samantha wondered where he fitted in.
For a second time his eyes found hers. Even at this distance she felt the full force of his hostility, as if something had thumped her in the chest.
What was with the man? She was certain she’d never seen him before in her life. He surely had no reason to dislike her at first sight.
Even this late in the afternoon, perspiration was forming on her forehead under the brim of her hat. Looking away from the group on the steps, she caught sight of a path leading to the rear of the house. It would be cooler there, and the guests had been given carte blanche to enjoy the gardens for an hour while the wedding party was photographed, before a formal meal.
Slowly she made her way to the rear of the house where people gathered on a shaded terrace. Past the swimming pool, an archway invited a stroll under tall trees with flowers and plants beneath them. No one seemed to be taking up the opportunity and Samantha was alone as, sipping at her champagne, she followed the winding path until she found a small summerhouse shrouded in flowering climbers.
Removing her hat, she stepped into the dim, shady interior and sat down on a narrow bench. Then she leaned her head against the latticed wall and closed her eyes, allowing the peace and privacy to quiet her confused emotions.
She hadn’t expected to feel so despondent about Bryn Donovan’s marriage. It wasn’t as though he’d ever shown the slightest sexual interest in her, even before Rachel Moore returned from working overseas and apparently bowled him over. For as long as Samantha had known him Bryn had been involved with some other woman, any hiatus between female companions soon filled.
For the past three years he and Samantha had been business associates, becoming firm friends. She wasn’t sure when she’d begun to hope that friendship might one day morph into something more. And now it was too late.
Since the announcement of his engagement she’d tried to banish fruitless might-have-beens, persistent fantasies of how it would feel to be loved by a man like him.
Almost thirty years old and in good health, in charge of the very successful firm she’d inherited from her father, Samantha had the respect of the commercial community, the loyalty of a select circle of friends, and her choice of several undemanding and pleasant men whenever she needed one at her side for social reasons, or simply felt like enjoying male company.
Everything she needed or wanted was hers, and yet…
Something alerted her—perhaps a shadow falling across the doorway, a soft sound, or a change in the air around her.
Reluctantly opening her eyes, she recognised with a start the looming masculine bulk that blocked the entrance. He’d un-knotted the green tie that matched his eyes, and it hung loose, the collar of his shirt unbuttoned and showing a vee of sun-browned skin. He was watching her, unsmiling, leaning on the doorframe with arms crossed, one black-leather-shod foot angled across the other ankle.
A pirate, she thought fancifully. Or a brigand. With his raffish beard-growth and untameable hair he seemed not to belong in the twenty-first century.
She sat up straighter, the movement sending her hat sailing silently from its perch on her knee to the leaf-strewn floor of the summerhouse. “Are you following me?” she demanded.
Someone had told her once that she had a smoky note in her voice, although apart from a brief teenage fling with cigarettes she’d always been a non-smoker. For some reason, at this moment the slight huskiness was more marked than usual, and she wished she could start over, make the question sharp and clear.
It didn’t appear to have impressed this man. The way a corner of his mouth twisted was almost a sneer. “Are you running from me?” he countered.
“Of
