The Colour Of Midnight

It made her distinctly uneasy. In a voice that could have starched a dozen tablecloths, she said, ‘The hole in the ozone layer has put an end to roasting in the sun, but I’m looking forward to it. I believe it’s extraordinarily beautiful there.’ Before she had time to wonder whether it was sensible, she added, ‘Stella and I used to promise each other that one day we’d go to the Caribbean and drink rum and play in a steel band.’

‘She wouldn’t have liked it, unless you stayed in a luxury hotel. For some strange reason I expected you to look like her,’ he said, pale eyes opaque. ‘Stupid, I know. You don’t share even a parent in common, do you?’

‘No, we’re a blended family. Stella and I were no relation at all, really, which is why she was beautiful and I’m not.’

The minute she said it she knew it was a mistake. It sounded like a cheap appeal for compliments. She opened her mouth to qualify the statement, then closed it firmly.

‘Yes, she was,’ he said. ‘But you’re very attractive too, as I’m sure you know.’

He wasn’t so crass as to look her over, but an undertone in the enigmatic voice made her aware that he had noticed the long, coltish legs in her jeans, the gentle curves of her breasts, and the indentation of her narrow waist.

A kind of outrage, mingled with a suspicious warmth, sent colour scudding through her white skin. Not for the first time she wished she had Stella’s even tan. For her stepsister a blush had merely been a slight deepening of the apricot skin over her cheekbones; for Minerva it was an embarrassing betrayal.

She strove for objectivity. Men did notice women—it was a simple fact of life. They enjoyed with their eyes. Women did, too.

After all, she had observed that because his mouth was intriguingly lop-sided each rare smile hinted of wryness. She’d registered the thick black lashes and dark brows surrounding those amazingly limpid, guarded eyes, and now that his hair was drying she’d realised it was the colour of manuka honey, a warm, rich amber with golden highlights set there by the northern sun.

She was unreservedly grateful when Mrs Borrows came too quickly in through the door, her face unnaturally disciplined. ‘Nick—oh, Nick! Murray’s just rung,’ she said without preamble, her voice breaking on the last word. ‘Things are not going right. He—he thinks I should come down. As s-soon as I can.’

With the smooth speed Minerva had noticed before Nick got to his feet and went across to the housekeeper, sliding an unselfconscious arm around her shoulders, holding her while she fought for control.

‘Pack your bag,’ he ordered, ‘and I’ll get you to the airport in time to catch the afternoon plane to Auckland. I’ll organise a flight through to Christchurch.’

‘I can’t go,’ she said in muffled tones into his chest.

‘Why not?’

‘The dinner party you’re giving on Saturday night for those Brazilians. This isn’t Auckland, Nick, you can’t just get in caterers, and there’s no one here who could help you out with the cooking. Jillian’s not—’

‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong. Providentially, Minerva is a professional cook,’ he said calmly, silver eyes lancing across to where Minerva sat, frozen with dismay as she realised the implications. ‘She’ll be more than happy to stay and see to it that our South American guests are fed. Won’t you, Minerva?’ It was no question. The icy transparency of his gaze had hardened into a silent command.

Minerva’s brain closed down. She didn’t want to stay here! But of course she nodded. And when she saw Mrs Borrows lift her head to look at her with dawning hope she knew she couldn’t have refused.

‘Yes, I can do it,’ she said.

‘Are you sure?’ The housekeeper was obviously trying hard to be convinced.

Minerva nodded. ‘Tell me what you’ve organised and I guarantee I’ll have it on the table at the right time and cooked properly,’ she promised, her tone revealing such complete confidence that Mrs Borrows relaxed.

Yet she still hesitated. ‘It doesn’t seem right,’ she said, looking from Minerva’s face to Nick’s.

He said calmly, ‘Helen, Minerva is family.’

Minerva smiled. ‘That’s what families are for,’ she supplied. ‘Coming to the rescue. Don’t worry about it, I’ll be glad to help out.’

This was the right note to take. Her voice quivering, the housekeeper said, ‘Oh, thank you. I’ll get a bag packed,’ and hurried from the room.

Half an hour later they were seated in a large green Range Rover, travelling at a fair pace down the road Minerva had inched up so short a time before. Mrs Borrows was giving Minerva instructions, instructions Minerva didn’t need. However, she sat through them, asking questions when it seemed the older woman had run out. For the next two and a half hours until the housekeeper got to Christchurch she’d have nothing to do but worry; Minerva’s questions at least kept her mind occupied now.

Although the rain had eased again, the road was still slippery enough for the Range Rover to skid. That it didn’t was due to the skill of the man driving. Minerva, inclined to be a nervous passenger with a driver she didn’t know, soon gave up keeping her eye on the road ahead. Nick Peveril knew what he was doing.

They were ten minutes late, but the plane waited. Probably even large jumbo jets would wait for this man.

After a hasty goodbye Mrs Borrows ran across to the little aircraft and the door was swung shut behind her.

‘Hello, Nick,’ a laughing feminine voice said from behind. ‘The baby arrived, has it?’

He turned. ‘On its way,’ he said, that powerfully attractive smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

The woman was one Genevieve Chatswood, thirtyish, smart in jeans and a Liberty print shirt with a navy woollen jersey over it, her slim feet in boots. As Nick made the introductions she eyed Minerva with cool but unmistakable interest.

‘Oh. Stella’s sister? You don’t look much alike.’

‘We were stepsisters,’ Minerva explained, trying to hide the note of resignation in her voice. ‘Her mother married my father.’

After a dismissive look Genevieve transferred her attention to the man beside her. Frowning, she asked, ‘Nick, if Mrs Borrows has had to go, what are you doing for Saturday night?’

‘Ah, that’s where the light hand of serendipity comes in,’ he said blandly. ‘Minerva will deal with it all. She’s a professional chef.’

‘How—fortunate,’ Genevieve said, her voice cooling rapidly. ‘Do you plan to stay long, Minerva?’

‘No.’ Minerva left it at that. She wasn’t going to answer questions from someone who had no right to ask them.

Nick said evenly, ‘Minerva is on holiday in the north. I hope to persuade her to stay on for a few days after the dinner.’ His enigmatic gaze rested a moment on Minerva’s shuttered face.

Genevieve’s green eyes narrowed a second, then opened wide. She flashed a smile at Nick. ‘Well, if you need any help, let me know, won’t you? I’d be quite happy to act as hostess for you again.’ The dazzling smile dimmed noticeably when it was transferred to Minerva. ‘I’d better go. I’ve just put ten boxes of orchids on the plane for Auckland; I’ve got to pick another fifty boxes to catch the flight to Japan tomorrow. See you Saturday!’

She strode away, confident, sure of her attraction and her competence. Minerva watched her departure thoughtfully. Genevieve Chatswood had lost no time in staking her claim. If that was the sort of woman Kerikeri bred, it was no wonder Stella had found it difficult to make friends.

Since knowing Stella she had learned to feel sorry for beautiful people. They never knew whether they were admired for their looks or for themselves.

Not that the man who walked with an easy, effortless gait around the front of the Range Rover seemed to suffer any such problems. Resenting quite irrationally that air of complete and invincible confidence, Minerva hid a cynical little smile as she fastened her seatbelt. Nick Peveril looked like a Regency buck, with all the type’s fabled pride and hauteur and air of self-contained assurance, as well as the elegance and savoir faire.

Perhaps he was too—too intense, too shut in on himself to have stepped from the pages of a Georgette Heyer novel. He was certainly a complex man, not a hearty, extroverted son of the soil.

However, he chose his accoutrements to fit his place in society. The Range Rover was exactly the right vehicle for the seriously rich pastoral aristocrat, and Spanish Castle the right setting. It was a pity the horse wasn’t black; it should rear all over the place, and be called Satan, or Demon, or Devil, and only ever be rideable by the lord of the house, but in spite of that it had looked the part perfectly.

Of course, the dog should be an aristocrat—a wolfhound, or some kind of hunting, shooting and fishing dog, instead of a black and white sheepdog. But it had added the right touch. You couldn’t have everything.

And in spite of his glacial demeanour, Nick made her more aware of her femininity than any other man since Paul Penn had seduced her when she was nineteen.

Which had to signal danger. Minerva looked straight ahead as he got in and switched on the engine.

Five silent minutes later he remarked casually, ‘You won’t have to do any of the housework. Helen has help three days a week from the wife of one of the stockmen. Just concentrate on the cooking.’

‘Oh, I’ll probably be able to manage a few light duties,’ she said, hiding the amusement in her tone with mildness.

He smiled. It was like the sun breaking through storm clouds. Lop-sided, slightly twisted it might be, but the fundamental detachment that seemed to be an integral part of his personality was temporarily in retreat when he smiled.