cattlestop rattled energetically beneath the wheels, its noise transmuting to the crunch of gravel as the car headed towards the slightly seedy, comfortable little house that always made Morna think of a badly cut gem in a perfect setting.
She’d spent until mid-afternoon in the well-equipped workroom behind her shop in Auckland, finishing a commission—transforming a clumsy, inherited diamond necklace into something her client could wear with pride.
Morna had enjoyed both designing and making the piece. Now, with fingers still blackened by the jeweller’s rouge she’d used in the final polishing, she was ready to relax in her rented portion of paradise, where ancient trees hung over sand the colour of champagne.
After a hurried trip to the supermarket she’d called in to see the Hardings, drinking coffee with them but refusing Cathy’s offer of dinner.
Morna skirted several daunting potholes, wondering if Cathy’s delicacy extended to more than her looks. Nick had certainly kept a close eye on his wife at the show yesterday. Morna frowned into the sunlight as the vehicle emerged from the bush, and all thought of her friends vanished.
There, right in front of the bach, lounged a thumping great Range Rover, a sturdy vehicle that proclaimed its ability to deal with anything a country road could throw at it.
And standing beside the passenger’s door as though he had every right to be on her land was Hawke Challenger, tall and formidably confident in the warmth of the late autumn afternoon, hair gleaming blue-black in the sunlight, his stance relaxed yet alert—almost territorial.
Morna’s mouth dried. She blinked several times before realising she’d almost driven off the track. Oh, great, she thought bitterly, white-knuckled hands clutching the wheel as she steered the car to a halt beside his, switched off the engine and wound down the window.
‘Hello,’ she said in her most remote tone, resenting that bland green scrutiny.
Morna Vause was ready for war, Hawke saw.
Not that most people would have noticed; a very cool lady, she kept herself under strict control. But, in spite of her steady eyes and aloof expression, he sensed tension vibrating through her like the throbbing of distant drums. Some feral part of him responded with aggressive anticipation.
It took iron will-power to discipline it. This erotic awareness was a weakness.
‘You didn’t come to the dinner last night,’ he said.
A flare of emotion turned her eyes to molten gold. ‘You didn’t think I would, surely?’
‘It might have been a late invitation, but I meant it.’
A fast pulse throbbed at the base of her throat, but although she couldn’t hide her involuntary response the only change in her expression was a swift, disbelieving lift of her brows. ‘You didn’t wait for an acceptance.’
‘Because you unsettle me.’
Hawke could tell his frankness startled her. Colour burned her skin and she looked away, lashes flickering in an oddly ingenuous response for a woman who’d had at least one long-term lover. Was she playing coy?
With more than a hint of acid in her tone, she said, ‘It’s called attraction—a nice little joke played on us by Mother Nature to make sure the species doesn’t die out. It doesn’t mean anything and you don’t have to do anything about it. If you just ignore it, it will eventually fade away.’
That sounded more like a woman of experience.
He took the two steps across to her door and opened it, standing back to let her get out. She gave him a baffled, glittering glance, but obeyed his unspoken suggestion. Swinging out long, elegant legs clad in black designer jeans, she straightened, her cold defiance at odds with the curvy body revealed by a fitting black top that clung too closely to be a T-shirt. She’d covered it with a black and white striped shirt that hung open so that he could see the firm thrust of her breasts beneath. The shirt-sleeves were pushed up her arms, giving her a jaunty, sporting look.
An interesting set of mixed messages, Hawke decided cynically. He clamped down on an elemental male response and surveyed her composed face with its strongly marked features.
Twenty-four hours hadn’t changed his first reaction. He still wanted her, and her stubborn, silent resistance intrigued him as much as it frustrated him. From the time he’d reached six feet and grown into his shoulders, Hawke had been a target.
And although he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t enjoyed his lovers, he was fastidious. He’d never made love to anyone he didn’t like and respect. Now, confronted by a woman who’d turned obstinate wariness into an art form, he wondered if it was the novelty of her antagonism that hooked him.
Driven by a primitive male imperative, he took a step forward, standing close enough to make it difficult for her to move away from the car, but not so close that she’d feel trapped. He didn’t think for a moment that she’d be intimidated.
Nevertheless, the colour faded from her warm ivory skin and her eyes darkened, although they didn’t waver.
She wasn’t afraid of him, he decided objectively, just very, very cautious. Why? He said, ‘Am I forgiven for delivering such a cursory invitation yesterday?’
‘Of course,’ she said neutrally.
‘Then shall we shake to a new beginning?’
For a charged moment she didn’t speak, and her hand stayed firmly by her side. When it became obvious that she wasn’t going to do any more than deliver a small, dismissive smile he extended his hand, driven to bad manners by an overwhelming urge to force her to acknowledge him.
After a reluctant pause she took it, her strong fingers quivering in his light clasp.
At her touch all Hawke’s control disappeared, consumed by sensation. Stunned, he cursed noiselessly as fire hammered him in his most vulnerable places, burning away the shackles his coldly intelligent brain had forged around his sexual appetite.
With painfully sharpened senses he heard the ragged intake of her breath, and watched her breasts tighten against the black top.
No, she wasn’t intimidated—she wanted him. Exultant fire burned in his gut and for the first time in his life he understood how a man could lose his head over a woman.
Without thinking he let his other hand come up, lifted hers, and kissed the fragile skin at the wrist, a primal instinct relishing the rapid thunder of her pulse against his mouth. He felt her fingers splay out in rigid rejection, before miraculously curving along his jaw in a caress that set his body surging.
But she said in a tight, hoarse voice, ‘No.’
Hawke’s fingers slid along her hand, holding it against his face. He watched the heat drain from her skin and then flood back across her wide cheekbones, softening her mouth into ripeness and provocation.
Through the fog clouding his brain he knew he had to stop this right now. It was far too early—besides, he’d spent the weekend doing informal research on her, and he didn’t like what he’d discovered.
Yet it appalled and infuriated him to find out how much will-power it took to release her and step back.
Robbed
