Rich, Ruthless and Secretly Royal

‘Siblings and cousins. In New Zealand the term whanau is used to denote the extended family,’ the man beside her said.

‘You didn’t need to warn them off,’ she told him. ‘I like children.’

Kelt Gillan said succinctly, ‘Honey or Hannah or whoever you are, you’re here to convalesce, and it’s no part of that healing process to act as unpaid babysitter. Your principal asked me to make sure you didn’t overexert yourself.’

His words set off a flicker of memory. The night he’d unhooked her from the coconut palm and carried her home he’d spoken in exactly that controlled, uncompromising tone. As though she were an idiot, she thought angrily.

She didn’t care what Kelt thought, but it wasn’t fair to spoil the children’s pleasure. ‘Both you and he are very thoughtful, but I’m quite capable of making decisions like that for myself. Believe me, it didn’t hurt me or tire me or worry me to sit in the sun and watch them. I enjoyed it.’

‘Perhaps so,’ he said inflexibly, ‘but that’s not the point. You’re here to rest and regain your strength. I’ll make sure their parents understand that they stay in Homestead Bay. Don’t fret about curtailing their fun—they’ll play quite happily there.’

Behind him his horse lifted its head from lipping the grass and took a step sideways, its powerful muscles fluid beneath satiny skin.

In Moraze, her homeland, herds of wild horses roamed the grassy plateau country that surrounded the central volcanic peaks. Descended from Arabian steeds, they’d been brought there by her ancestor, a renegade French aristocrat who’d settled the island with a rag-tag train of soldiers and a beautiful Arabian wife.

Hani’s parents had given her one of those horses for her third birthday…

Long dead, her parents and that first gentle mount, and it was years since she’d ridden.

Hani was ambushed by a pang of homesickness, an aching sense of loss so fierce it must have shown in her face.

‘Sit down!’ Kelt said sharply, unable to stop himself from taking a step towards her.

One hand came up, warning him off. Apart from that abrupt gesture she didn’t move, and the flash of something tight and almost desperate in her expression disappeared. Her black hair swirled around her shoulders in a cloud of fiery highlights as she angled her chin at him.

Looking him straight in the eye, she said in a gentle voice with a distinct edge to it, ‘Mr Gillan, I’m neither an invalid nor a child. I make my own decisions and I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.’

He examined her closely, but her lovely face was shut against him, that moment of despair—if that was what it had been—replaced by aloof self-assurance.

Kelt chose to live in New Zealand for his own good reasons, one of them being that Kiwinui had been in his grandfather’s family for over a hundred years, and he felt a deep emotional link to the place. But as a scion of the royal family of Carathia he’d been born to command. Backed by their grandmother, the Grand Duchess, he and his brother had turned their backs on tradition and gone into business together as soon as he’d left university. Between them they’d built up a hugely successful enterprise, a leader in its field that had made them both billionaires.

Women had chased him mercilessly since he’d left school. Although none had touched his heart, he treated his mistresses with courtesy, and had somehow acquired a legendary status as a lover.

Women were an open book to him.

Until now. One part of him wanted to tell Hannah Court that while she was on Kiwinui she was under his protection; the other wanted to sweep that elegant body into his arms and kiss her perfect mouth into submission.

Instead, he said crisply, ‘And I’ll do what I consider to be best for the situation. If you need anything, there’s a contact number by the telephone.’

Hani looked at him with cool, unreadable green eyes, the colour of New Zealand’s most precious greenstone. ‘Thank you; Mr Wellington told me about that.’

Kelt shrugged. ‘Arthur works for me.’

Her head inclined almost regally. ‘I see.’

‘Tell me if another bout of fever hits you.’

‘It’s not necessary—I have medication to deal with it.’ Another hint of soft apricot tinged her exotic cheekbones when she continued, ‘As you found out, it works very quickly.’

Clearly, she had no intention of giving an inch. He wondered how old she was—mid-twenties, he guessed, but something in her bearing and the direct glance of those amazing eyes reminded him of his grandmother, the autocratic Grand Duchess who’d kept her small realm safe through wars and threats for over fifty years.

Dismissing such a ridiculous thought, he said, ‘Do you drive?’

‘Of course.’ Again that hint of appraisal in her tone, in her gaze.

‘Any idea of New Zealand’s road rules?’ he asked, making no attempt to hide the ironic note in his voice.

‘I’m a quick learner. But how far is it to the nearest village? If it’s close enough I can walk there when I need anything.’

‘It’s about five kilometres—too far for you to walk in the summer heat.’

Warily wondering if he’d given up any idea of looking after her—because he seemed like a man with an over-developed protective streak and a strong will—she pointed out, ‘I’m used to heat.’

‘If that were true, you wouldn’t be convalescing here.’ And while she was absorbing that dig, he went on, ‘And somehow I doubt very much that you’re accustomed to walking five kilometres while carrying groceries.’

Uneasily aware of the unsettling glint in his cold blue eyes, Hani shrugged. ‘Don’t worry about me, Mr Gillan. I won’t be a bother to anyone.’

A single black brow climbed, but all he said was, ‘Call me Kelt. Most New Zealanders are very informal.’

She most emphatically didn’t want to call him anything! However, she’d already established her independence, so, hiding her reluctance, she returned courteously, ‘Then you must call me Hannah.’

He lifted one black brow. ‘You know, I think I prefer Honey. Hannah is—very Victorian. And you’re not.’

The slight—very slight—pause before he said Victorian made her wonder if he’d been going to say virginal.

If so, he couldn’t be more wrong.

Far from virginal, far from Victorian, she thought with an aching regret. ‘I’d prefer Hannah, thank you.’

His smile was tinged by irony. ‘Hannah it shall be. If you feel up to it, I’d like you to come to dinner tomorrow night.’

Caution warned her to prevaricate, fudge the truth a little and say she wasn’t well enough to socialise, but she’d already cut off that avenue of escape when she’d made it clear she didn’t need to be looked after by—well, by anyone, she thought sturdily.

Especially not this man, whose unyielding maleness affected her so strongly she could feel his impact on every cell. Even politely setting limits as she’d just done had energised her, set her senses tingling, and every time she looked into that hard, handsome face she felt a hot, swift tug of—of lust, she reminded herself bitterly.

And she knew—only too well—what that could lead to.

However, he was her landlord. She owed him for several things; his impersonal care on Tukuulu, the refrigerator full of groceries.

Changing her wet clothes…

Ignoring the deep-seated pulse of awareness, she said, ‘That’s very kind of you. What time would you like me to be there?’

‘I’ll pick you up at seven,’ he told her with another keen glance. ‘Until then, take things slowly.’

His long-legged strides across the lawn presented her with a disturbing view of broad shoulders and narrow hips above lean, heavily muscled thighs. He dressed well too—his trousers had been tailored for him, and she’d almost bet his shirt had too.

Very sexy, she thought frivolously, quelling the liquid heat that consumed her. Some lucky men were born with that it factor, a compelling masculinity that attracted every female eye.