The Final Proposal

‘Diamonds!’ Recoiling, Jan almost lost her balance as the ankle-wrecking high heels on her Italian shoes sank into the grass. ‘Oh, damn these things! They’re going to kill me before this is over. Gerry, you’ll never get away with this. Talk about a Victorian nightmare!’

‘We don’t want to get away with anything,’ Gerry said, casting her eyes heavenward. ‘The bracelet is absolutely perfect.’

‘I might lose it. Though I’d be doing the world a favour if I did. Or it might be stolen,’ Jan muttered through set lips while the make-up woman reapplied lipstick.

‘You’re too conscientious and sensible to lose anything, and although I know New Zealand seems to be trying to catch up with the rest of the world as far as crime rates go, there’s not likely to be a master jewel thief at a polo match. Anyway, we’ve got a security man. And that bracelet is just the right overdone touch. So shut up and hold your arm out. Think of what you can do with the money at your half-a-shoestring centre.’

It was the only redeeming feature of this whole episode. Closing her eyes again, Jan schooled her features into long-suffering patience and submitted to being fettered by the heavy, ostentatious snake of diamonds and gold.

‘Great,’ Gerry said, gloating. ‘You look awful. Actually, damn you, you don’t—in spite of our best efforts you just about manage to get away with it. Shows what little chicken bones and huge, dark blue eyes set on an exotic slant will do for a woman. To say nothing of that sensual pout. Just think, snooks, if you’d been ten inches taller you’d be a millionaire model.’

Jan snorted. ‘I haven’t the stamina for it. Anyway, I’d be be over the hill by now.’

‘But rich, love, filthy rich—because the camera adores you. And nowadays quite a few models last beyond their thirty-first birthday. You’d be one—there isn’t a wrinkle on that fabulous skin.’

‘Everyone’s got wrinkles,’ Jan said morosely. ‘And I’m not thirty-one until tomorrow.’

‘Ha—more semantics! I’m really looking forward to tonight—you and Aunt Cynthia know how to make a birthday party hum. But first we have to get this over with. OK, let’s go out there—and don’t forget to simper for the camera.’

Jan batted her lashes dramatically. ‘You’ll never see a more perfect simper. Damn, I can barely move in these shoes. I need crutches. Or a large, oiled Nubian slave to carry me around.’

Unimpressed, Gerry grinned. ‘Sorry, slaves are off today. Anyway, an oiled one would mark the suit. You’ll cope. You’ve got that inborn aplomb that makes the rest of us feel inferior. And remember, it’s for a good cause. There are hundreds of thousands of women in New Zealand and Australia who are dying to discover that they can go anywhere, any time, with a good, basic wardrobe that isn’t going to cost them a fortune.’

‘I still think just showing the right gear would have been enough.’

‘It lacks drama. Trust me. Besides, this is good publicity for you.’

‘Good publicity?’ Jan almost choked. ‘I’ll probably never see another client.’

‘Rubbish! Everyone will look at the “after” shots and understand what we’ve done.’

‘And if you believe that,’ Jan said sweetly, picking her way out of the tent and into the blinding sunlight of a late New Zealand summer, ‘I have the latitude and longitude of a shipwreck off Fiji and I know for a fact that all the gold is still on board. I’ll sell you the treasure map for a million dollars.’

Outside, champagne glass in hand, she posed for the camera, keeping her gaze fixed and slightly unfocused, because most of the spectators at the celebrity tournament found the sight of an overdressed woman being photographed every bit as fascinating as the game. People she knew grinned, waved and settled back to stare quite unashamedly, but even complete strangers seemed to feel that the camera gave them licence to watch.

Jan was accustomed to being looked at; it was, to some extent, part of her job. At seminars and workshops she frequently stood in front of large audiences and, without anything more than a few minor bubbles in her stomach, kept them interested.

This, however, was different. She felt as though she’d been dumped into the modern equivalent of medieval stocks.

It didn’t help when the photographer, damn him, entered wholeheartedly into the theatrical ambience of the occasion and began giving a running commentary.

‘Everyone’s an actor,’ Jan hissed after he’d told her to shake her sexy little hips. ‘Shut up!’

‘But this is how photographers are supposed to behave,’ he said, narrowing his eyes lustfully at her. ‘You’ve seen the films and read the books. Come on, darling, give me a slow, come-hither grin—make like a volcano...’

Resisting the impulse to stick out her tongue, she tossed her head, catching as she did so the eyes of a man a few feet away. Until then he’d been intent upon the game, but apparently Sid’s babble had intruded on his concentration. Dark brows compressed, he scrutinised them.

Growing up with a tall, big-framed stepfather and a half-sister who took after him should have taught Jan not to be intimidated by mere stature, but Anet and Stephen Carruthers were gentle people. Once she’d discovered that some men used their height and build to intimidate, Jan had rapidly developed a small woman’s wariness.

And the stranger was tall, with broad shoulders and heavily muscled legs and thighs beneath skin-tight jodhpurs.

Something about him—possibly his relaxed stance, the almost feline grace that held the promise of instant, decisive response—tested the barriers she’d erected over the years.

Trying to reinforce them, she gave him her most aloofly objective gaze and decided that he’d photograph well. Angular bone structure gave strength and a certain striking severity to his features, a hard edge intensified by straight browns and a wide, imperiously moulded mouth. His bronzed, bone-deep tan indicated a life spent outside, as did the long, corded muscles in his arms. And he had a good head of hair, wavy and conventionally cut by an expert, the glossy brown heated by the sun to a rich mahogany.

He had to be a professional polo player, in New Zealand for the celebrity tournament. Perhaps he was playing in the next game.

Beside him stood a girl even taller than Gerry, a girl, Jan noticed automatically, dressed with exactly the right note of casual elegance. As Jan watched she said something, her stance revealing a certain tentativeness. Instantly he switched that intent, oddly remote gaze from Jan to the girl, and answered. His companion blushed, her carefully cultivated poise vanishing like mist in the fierce light of the sun. His smile was a masterpiece, the sort that seduced women without even trying—indolent, confident and compelling.

And you’d better get a hold of yourself, Jan commanded herself sternly. You’re here to do a job, not drool over some wandering sportsman, even if he does have more magnetism in one black eyebrow than most other men have in their whole bodies.

Eventually, thank heavens, Gerry said, ‘OK, that should do it. Let’s get back into the tent and change into the “after” gear.’

‘Just a couple more,’ Sid decided. ‘Jan, stand by the hoardings, will you? I want to get a horse or two in the background.’

Jan cast a swift glance at the field. Most of the game was taking place in the middle of the paddock, well away from the advertisements that separated the playing ground from the spectators, so she’d be safe enough.

Moving as gracefully as she could in the ridiculous heels, she walked across, obeying Sid’s request to watch the horses.

‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘Try a smile. OK—a sort of faint, yearning one, as though your lover’s out there and you’re going to see him again tonight.’

What lover? Jan thought sardonically. Still, she did her best, keeping the smile pinned in place even when horses and riders suddenly changed direction and thundered towards her. She stepped back at the moment a breeze whipped the ludicrous hat off her head and sent it cartwheeling out into the paddock, straight into the path of one of the horses.

Rigid, Jan watched as the horse reared and tripped, sending its rider to one side as it came down and slid towards her, a huge, squealing mass of gleaming chestnut.

Even as she tottered backward Jan knew she was doomed. Faintly, she was aware of yells. A woman screamed.

Suddenly she was grasped by steel-strong hands and hauled back and to one side, snatched by the sheer force of her rescuer’s momentum into safety. At the same time the horse splintered through the hoardings, then amazingly got to its feet, sweating, shaking its head as its eyes rolled.

Jan was thrust aside and her rescuer, the man with the deadly smile, moved with slow, steady steps towards the trembling horse, talking to it in a voice that was deep and lazy and gentle. Jan couldn’t hear what he was saying above the hammer of her heart, but like everyone else she watched, spellbound.

‘Are you all right?’ Gerry whispered, grabbing her.

Jan nodded, pulling away from her cousin’s hold and clenching her teeth to hold back the shivers that had come abruptly out of nowhere.

A lean, tanned hand caught the horse’s bridle and held it firmly while the other hand stroked up the dripping neck. The man’s voice, textured with a magic as primal and compelling as the partnership between man and beast, crooned the nervous, panting horse into quiescence while the rider, fortunately unhurt by his tumble, approached.

Time got going again. Jan’s rescuer said something to the polo player that made him laugh, and then relinquished his charge and turned back, heading straight for Jan.

‘Are you all right?’ he demanded.

The same words Gerry had used, but where her tone had been anxious his was accusing.

Although that swift, hard embrace had wrenched every bone in her body, Jan said, ‘I’m fine. Is the horse?’

He had amazing eyes, smouldering silver between thick, curly lashes, and he was in a towering rage. ‘If it is, it’s no thanks to

ou,’ he said, his voice curt as a whiplash. ‘Horses are not props, and that damned hat of yours could have killed both the rider and the horse, as well as you.’