A Ruthless Passion

After a discreet glance at the wedding ring on Cat’s hand, the woman said, ‘Mr Harding’s expecting you, Mrs Courtald. Take the lift to the fourth floor and his personal assistant will meet you.’

His personal assistant was altogether more intimidating; elegant in a severe midnight-blue suit, she waited by the lift door, her face revealing nothing but polite enquiry. ‘Mr Harding won’t be long,’ she said as she ushered Cat into an impressive ante-room. ‘Can I get you some coffee while you’re waiting?’

Cat’s stomach lurched. ‘No, thank you.’

Coffee grew on the hills of Romit, a large island to the north of Australia—delicious, fragrant coffee that drew its superb flavour from red earth basking beneath a tropical sun. Cat never drank it now without being propelled back to a land torn apart by a bloody civil war that had left thousands dead.

But Juana lived, and it was for Juana she’d come here. Another bubble of foreboding expanded slowly in her stomach.

‘Do sit down,’ the personal assistant urged. ‘Mr Harding won’t keep you waiting for long.’

Smoothing out her frown, Cat sat in a chair and picked up a magazine, glancing at it without registering a word. Desperation had driven her to this place; she’d been turned down by bank after bank, the loans managers shaking their heads with professional solemnity and refusing her with equally professional courtesy—and insulting speed.

A blur of motion lifted the hairs on the back of her neck. She looked up, her skin prickling.

Like a panther, all noiseless, graceful intimidation, Nick strolled into the subdued luxury of the office and surveyed her with flat, unblinking eyes burnished the tawny colour of old gold—eyes that flicked across her face, then down to the finger on which, driven by some obscure need for protection, she’d pushed her wedding ring. Unworn for the past year, it weighed her hand down.

Driven by a need to establish some sort of physical parity, Cat stood up. For a horrifying second she thought the floor lurched beneath her feet. He reached her just as she clutched the back of the chair and dragged a deep breath into her lungs.

His hand closed around her upper arm, lean fingers gripping hard. ‘Careful!’ he barked.

She froze.

Shock splintered in his eyes, but the flare of emotion lasted less than a heartbeat; almost immediately a smile, as aggressive as it was humourless, curled his beautiful, chiselled mouth.

Oh, God, she thought hopelessly. Memories of him were seared on her brain, carved into her heart. She’d never forgotten his voice—deep, textured, a voice that could turn instantly to ice. It had featured in her dreams, tormenting her through endless nights.

‘Hello, Cat,’ he said with chilling courtesy.

Although a little harsher in feature, even more brazenly handsome, he hadn’t changed much. Broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped and long-legged, radiating male power and authority, Nick Harding still dominated every room he walked into, taking up all the space and all the air, so that she breathed quickly and shallowly while her heartbeats thudded in her ears.

And he still looked at her with utter and complete contempt in his lion-coloured eyes.

Cat fought back a flash of mindless panic. How many times in two years had she dreamed of meeting Nick again, imagined it in loving detail in those drowsy moments between sleep and wakefulness when her defences were down?

Hundreds.

And now it was happening and she couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but respond with helpless intensity.

Nothing had changed.

‘Hello, Nick,’ she said thinly, acutely aware of the personal assistant’s glance sliding cautiously from Nick’s tanned, gypsyish face to Cat’s clammy one.

He said, ‘Come on through,’ and stepped back to let her go ahead. ‘No interruptions, Phil, please.’

Tension sizzled across the ends of Cat’s nerves as she preceded him into his office and looked around. The severely organised room shouted his success—massive desk, state-of-the-art computer, tall bookshelves and black leather chairs around a low table. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over Auckland’s harbour.

‘Lovely view,’ Cat said inanely.

‘I’m glad you like it,’ he returned with sardonic courtesy.

Furious with herself for giving him an opening for sarcasm, Cat found her gaze drawn to a painting. Not the usual bland business print; this was an original oil of a naked woman, her back to the artist. All that could be seen of her face was the curve of her cheek. It had been painted by a genius who’d imbued the banal pose with dark mystery and threat.

And it had to be pure coincidence that the fall of hair shimmering over the woman’s ivory shoulder and down her back repeated the colour of Cat’s—the burnished red-brown of a chestnut.

Once hers had been as long as that; now it was short and feathery.

Nick’s eyes were hooded, impossible to read, but the black brows lifted in cool irony. ‘Charming. As always. Clever to choose a silk so blue it turns your eyes to pure cornflower.’

In spite of the pathetic contents of her wardrobe it had taken her an hour to decide on the suit. Trying to control the violent mixture of emotions that pulsed through her, she retorted, ‘And you’re as subtle as always.’ She stiffened her spine. ‘How are you?’

His insolent golden gaze mocked her. ‘All the better for seeing you.’

Long-repressed anger came to her rescue. She said bluntly, ‘I don’t believe that for a moment.’

It gave her a quick satisfaction to see Nick’s brows snap together, but the counter-attack was swift and brutal. ‘How did you enjoy the traditional widow’s therapy?’ At her startled look, his smile turned savage. ‘Although most widows might feel that two years roaming the fleshpots of the world is a trifle excessive.’

‘Roaming the fleshpots?’ she parroted indignantly.

His survey seared the length of her body. ‘You didn’t buy that pretty thing in Auckland.’

‘I—no.’ Glen had bought it in Paris.

The words stuck in her throat, and before she could get them out Nick nodded. ‘When did you get back to New Zealand?’

‘In February.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘What have you been doing since then?’

‘Finishing my degree.’

‘Really?’ he drawled. ‘Do I congratulate a fully-fledged accountant?’

‘If I pass my finals.’

‘Oh, you’ll pass,’ he said easily. ‘Your intelligence has never been in doubt.’ The insult buried in the words tested the fragile shell of her composure. ‘Sit down, Cat.’

When she’d seated herself he walked around to the other side of the desk and sat there. Cat’s stomach jumped, but he said mildly enough, ‘Accountancy seems an odd profession for someone like you.’ He waited before adding with smooth insolence, ‘Although perhaps not.’

‘I like figures,’ she said crisply. ‘You know where you are with them.’

‘Much neater than all those messy emotions,’ he agreed with a hard smile. ‘And so convenient for keeping track of your finances.’

The implication that gold-diggers needed money skills angled Cat’s chin upwards. Shrugging to hide her hurt, she wished she was eight inches taller—as tall as his PA. Height impressed people who thought small, fine-boned women were ultra-feminine, and therefore stupid and greedy. ‘Exactly.’

‘So, to what do I owe the honour of this visit?’ he said indolently.

There was no easy way to say it, so she settled for blurting it out. ‘I need some money.’