The Heiress Bride

She turned on her pillow and told herself it didn’t matter if he left for better prospects, except that her father would be disappointed. And probably furious.

Chase Osborne was an opportunist by nature. Witness the way he’d climbed the ladder of success from lowly agricultural reporter to his present position, while older and more experienced staff remained stuck in the newsroom.

He was her father’s blue-eyed boy—except that his eyes were actually an uncomfortably knowing hazel-green—and she gathered that his meteoric rise had created some antipathy among other employees. Chase apparently cared for the criticism no more than Spencer did. Those who were jealous or aggrieved either accepted the changes or left.

As she began to drift into sleep she found herself reliving the kiss under the pepper tree, vividly recalling every detail.

With an effort she opened her eyes, and restlessly turned on the pillow.

Chase Osborne believed in making the most of his chances. In the darkened garden he’d acted true to type—stung by her less than enthusiastic reaction to him and his promotion, and perhaps aided by a certain amount of alcohol which might have blunted some natural inhibition about kissing the boss’s daughter. He’d wanted to make her succumb, to assert the most primitive kind of male power because she’d shown him how little the other kind impressed her.

Maybe he was regretting it now. If she’d complained to her father he might have found himself less in favor. That would have been a setback to his flagrant ambition.

Contemplating the thought briefly, she quickly discarded it. Spencer would tell her she was making a mountain out of a molehill—if he believed her at all. Bitter memory rose to haunt her, and she determinedly pushed it away.

Put the kiss down to an excess of Christmas spirit and forget it.

Surprisingly difficult. She lay wakeful for ages, plagued by images of a dark head bowed over her, a glint of laughter in moonlit eyes, a warm masculine mouth confidently moving on hers, hard arms holding her firmly but not cruelly.

And she woke in the morning with the scent of the pepper tree still in her dream memory.

Chapter Two

The traffic light changed from red to green. Alysia turned the snappy little blue Toyota and it moved forward, then inexplicably stopped, stranding her in the middle of the intersection.

Other cars maneuvered around the stationary vehicle as she vainly pumped the accelerator and switched the key off and on.

Clenching both hands on the steering wheel, she gave vent to an expletive that would have shocked her father, before getting out and gratefully accepting the help of a couple of hefty male passersby who pushed the car to the side of the road.

“Want me to take a gander at the engine?” one asked.

“Thanks, but no.” Amateur tinkering might void the guarantee.

The other Samaritan, a blond young man with a cocky air, offered hopefully, “I can give you a lift. My car’s over there.”

Alysia shook her head and brushed back a strand of hair escaping her ponytail. “I’ll be fine,” she said firmly. “My father’s office is quite close. Thanks for your help.”

He stood by as she took her purse and shopping bags from the car, locked the doors and walked away. When she glanced back he was still watching. Damn.

The late-afternoon sun beat hotly on her shoulders, bared by the tiny, sleeveless pink top she wore with a short denim skirt. Scientists had been warning of ozone depletion over New Zealand for years now. And summer was early this year. Christmas was still two weeks away.

At the Clarion Building she paused, and unconsciously took a slightly deeper breath before ascending the worn marble steps into the dim chill of the imposing old building. Next year she’d be doing this every day. Working in the newsroom with other reporters, she reminded herself. Not in the print room with its huge machines, echoing spaces and hidden corners.

She left her keys and purchases with the receptionist, then went up the brass-edged stairs and along a corridor to the office suite at the end.

A word processor hummed on the desk in the outer office, but there was no sign of Glenys Heath, her father’s longtime secretary. The inner door was ajar. Tapping on the panels, Alysia pushed it wide and walked in.

Spencer was rummaging in a drawer behind the desk while Chase Osborne lounged against one side of it, his hands in his pockets. He looked up, giving her a faint, questioning smile, and straightened.

Spencer lifted his head, a sheet of paper in his hand. “Here it is!” he said, handing the paper to Chase before he noticed his daughter. “Alysia, my dear! This is a surprise.” He smiled at her, so evidently happy to see her that she flushed with pleasure.

Chase said, “I’ll leave you.”

“No need,” Spencer assured him. “Alysia won’t mind waiting while we go over the figures, will you, Alysia? Get her a chair, Chase.”

Alysia murmured that of course she didn’t mind, and sank into the chair that Chase unnecessarily placed for her.

“I think I can follow these okay,” he told Spencer, glancing at the sheet of paper.

Holding out his hand for it, Spencer said a mite testily, “We’ll just check them together. Excuse us, my dear.”

Alysia slipped her leather bag from her shoulder, folded her hands in her lap on top of it and placed her ankles together while the two men murmured over the document before them.

She deduced that Chase was perfectly able to understand without Spencer’s help, and when she looked up she found that instead of following the finger her father was running down a column, he had lifted his head slightly and was idly staring at her.

Alysia blinked, and he gave her an almost conspiratorial smile before his attention returned to the paper.

Alysia shifted her feet, crossing her ankles and tucking them to one side. As if he’d caught the movement from the corner of his eye, Chase’s attention strayed again, and she was aware that he was interestedly inspecting her ankles, then her calves right up to where her skirt stopped above her knees.

Resisting the urge to tug at the skirt, she curled her fingers around the bag in her lap. Chase’s eyes swept up to her face, and he smiled openly before lowering his head and concentrating on what her father had to say.

He didn’t look up again, and Alysia, after gazing at the art prints on the cream-painted walls, found herself studying the strong male hand that Chase had spread on the desk to brace himself as he bent over Spencer’s shoulder. He had long fingers with short, almost square nails. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, and his arm, sporting a businesslike stainless-steel watch, looked muscular and lightly tanned under a dusting of hair. She recalled how strongly it had held her three nights ago, how his fingers had combed through her hair and cradled her nape. Reluctant heat invaded her.

At last her father stopped talking, and Chase said patiently, “Okay, I’ve got that,” before picking up the paper and folding it.

Spencer said, “What about a drink after work, Chase? Get Howard along. We need to do some preliminary planning of the home improvement supplement.”

If Chase was put out at the demand on his supposedly free time, he didn’t show it. “If you like,” he said easily. About to leave, he paused as Alysia opened her mouth to speak, then changed her mind. His brows lifted in faint interrogation. “Something wrong?”

Alysia shook her head. To her father, she said, “My car broke down. I’ve called the garage to get the keys from reception and fetch it, and I was going to ask you for a lift. But if you’re not coming straight home—”

Spencer frowned. “You haven’t run out of petrol?”

Chase was trying not to grin, she thought. “I have plenty of petrol,” she said, her chin lifting. “Teething troubles, I suppose.” The car was brand-new.

Her father snorted. “I’ll have something to say to the dealer about that.” His face clearing somewhat, he suggested, “No reason why you shouldn’t come with us. In fact we could all have dinner afterward. Save you fixing a meal.”

“I can get a taxi.” It was much too hot to walk.

Spencer overrode her, apparently unwilling to relinquish his solution. “Tell Howard he’s invited to dinner, too,” he ordered Chase. “He’ll have to let his wife know.”

Seated on a deep upholstered banquette flanking a low polished table, Alysia was next to Chase as they were served predinner drinks.

Howard produced a briefcase and opened a folder. “This is a preliminary draft of the home improvement supplement, but I think we can do better than last year, if we increase the ratio of straight advertisements—”

The three men bent over the folder, effectively blocking Alysia out. Spencer, with an air of giving her a treat, had ordered the cocktail of the day for her, and it had come in a wide, shallow glass decorated with a cherry and a tiny pink parasol. She sipped at it slowly until only a film of creamy foam remained, then sat idly opening and shutting the parasol.

“Alysia?” Chase’s voice was in her ear, and she looked up to find his face quite close. The other two men were still engrossed in discussion. “Another drink?”