Sanchia's Secret

His touch exploded through her like wildfire, dangerous, beautiful, filled with a hazardous lure.

‘It’s all right,’ she mumbled. ‘It wasn’t you—or what you said. It just comes over in waves.’

‘I know.’ Strange that the textures of warmth and harshness were mingled in his voice. He lifted a hand to trace the trickle of a tear just below her sunglasses.

Sanchia’s jerk was instinctive but the imprint of his long, lean fingers, tanned and graceful, burned into her skin as his hand fell to his side. She looked up and saw his beautiful mouth harden as he stepped back, giving her space to breathe.

‘Great-Aunt Kate used to love summer,’ she said, knowing it sounded like a peace offering.

He nodded. ‘I remember her swimming every day, and striding along the beach in the morning looking like some ancient, vital nature spirit. She had such guts, such zest.’

‘She didn’t take any nonsense,’ Sanchia said, her heart clenching, ‘and she was brusque and sensible and plain-spoken, but she was infinitely kind.’

‘You’ve never told me how you came to live with her,’ he said neutrally.

‘It’s a long story.’

‘And one you don’t want to talk about.’ Gleaming blue eyes examined her from beneath thick, straight black lashes.

His words challenged her into revealing more than she intended. ‘My parents died when I was twelve and I had to live with my mother’s sister. She was younger than my mother, and she didn’t like spoilt kids—’ and oh, was that ever an understatement! ‘—so after—after a while I ran away. Great-Aunt Kate found me and brought me here, and we worked out a system of living together.’

It had taken a lot of patience and love from a woman already elderly, a lot of effort on both their parts, and almost a year for Sanchia to learn to trust again.

‘I remember when she brought you here,’ Caid said unexpectedly. ‘You were a tall, skinny kid, all arms and legs with hair that floated like spun silk behind you when you ran. That first summer I don’t think I heard you speak, let alone laugh. My mother worried about you.’

Startled, Sanchia said, ‘Did she? That was kind of her.’

‘Mmm. She’s a very kind woman.’ He ran a forefinger down Sanchia’s arm. Fire followed the light, swift touch.

He knew it too. In a voice that hovered on the border of amusement, he said, ‘You’re hot. I’ll walk you home.’

She didn’t want him back at the bach; struck by inspiration, she countered, ‘Why don’t we go via your place and I’ll sign that option? Then you won’t have to bring it down tonight.’

His mouth curved. ‘Why not? Can I help you over the fence?’

She flashed him a look. ‘No, thanks. I haven’t forgotten how to climb a fence.’

Although under his eye she fumbled it, landing too heavily on the other side.

‘My mother worried about you,’ Caid explained, swinging over with a sure male grace, ‘because she has a strong maternal streak. It’s wasted with only me to lavish it on—she should have had ten kids. You reassured her the following summer when you’d grown a few inches, and we heard you laughing and saw that you were very fond of your great-aunt.’

‘I didn’t think you noticed us much,’ Sanchia said, starting jerkily down the mown track.

Black brows shot up. ‘I noticed you.’ Watchful eyes beneath lowered lashes should have given him a sleepy air. They did nothing of the sort; the half-closed lids intensified both the colour and the speculation in his gaze.

Sanchia lifted her brows in return. With a composed, polite smile she replied, ‘You were busy with your friends, and we hardly ever saw you except when you were sailing or water-skiing or windsurfing, or having a party on the beach.’

She’d seen him enough to fuel some heated fantasies, however! Innocent daydreams—a kid’s crush without the heavy, hard beat of dangerous sexuality that pulsed through her now. That had come later.

The path dived in under the trees, releasing them into welcome shade. Apart from an early cicada strumming his strident little guitar, the foliage muffled and deadened sounds, cocooning them in a heavy, pressing silence.

Caid’s lashes drooped even further. His mouth, an intoxicating combination of power and classical lines, curved. ‘So you ignored us. How unflattering—especially as I was very aware of you,’ he said softly. ‘The first thing I used to do each summer was to impress on my friends that you were absolutely, totally out of bounds, and that if anybody made even a token gesture towards you I’d personally dismember him.’

Sanchia’s mouth dropped open; his tone rearranged the cells in her spine, turning them into jelly.

‘How kind,’ she said, resisting the desire to lick suddenly dry lips. Humiliatingly, the thought of Caid warning off his friends appalled her yet sent shivery, sneaky frissons of excitement through her.

Rallying, she went on, ‘The best sort of big brother—an unknown one.’

‘Yes,’ Caid said easily. ‘It wasn’t so bad until you turned sixteen and developed a figure like a supermodel—the year you hurt your ankle rescuing a butterfly, if you remember. Then I had to get very heavy. So did my mother.’

‘I’m so grateful,’ Sanchia said, striving for a brisk, matter-of-fact tone. Unfortunately she couldn’t stop herself from continuing with the faintest snap, ‘It sounds as though you kept a close eye on me.’

From the corners of her eyes she caught the flash of white teeth in a satirical smile. Infuriated, she stared stonily ahead.

‘Only at the beginning of each summer,’ he said, and added outrageously, ‘To check up on progress, you understand.’

Sanchia snorted.

With infuriating amusement he went on, ‘And then, three years ago, when you came back after university, I discovered you’d more than fulfilled all that coltish promise.’

He was using his voice as an instrument of seduction; its deep timbre and intriguing hint of an accent stroked along her nerves with the sensuous nap of velvet, at once caressing and stimulating.

How many women had lost their heads when he spoke to them like that? Dozens!

‘I—remember,’ she said foolishly, unnerved enough to miss seeing a large spider-web hanging from a manuka branch until it clung to her face, its panicked occupant racing towards the branch in a tangle of black legs.

Sanchia hurled herself sideways, her foot twisting over a root as she cannoned into the man beside her. ‘Sorry!’ she gasped, clutching instinctively at solid muscle.

Caid moved with lethal speed, his strong hands clamping onto her arms, wrenching her away from him as he hauled her upright. When he saw she wasn’t going to fall, he wiped the remnants of the web from her cheek with a sure, gentle touch.

Her breath turned into lead in her chest; her gaze clung to the prominent framework of his face, the potent mouth. Although her hands were empty she could still feel his hot, fine-grained skin searing her palms.

‘Is the spider all right?’ she asked breathlessly.

His hand stilled; she looked up to meet incredulous eyes. Some small part of her brain realised dimly that they were standing a few centimetres apart, his blue gaze fencing with hers through the protective mask of her sunglasses. Pinned by those molten eyes, by his grip, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, and her body sang an irrational song of feverish, primal need.

‘The spider?’ he asked harshly.

When she nodded he gave a hard, humourless laugh. ‘Why don’t you look for yourself?’

Sanchia froze as he whipped off her sunglasses, stepped back and released her, his face impassive.

She forced her glance past him and said, ‘Oh, the spider’s fine. P-probably cursing clumsy p-passers-by.’

With any luck Caid would think it was the close encounter with the spider that pitched her voice too high and caused that betraying hesitation.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked curtly.