A Forbidden Desire

That not-quite-lazy, assured smile sizzled from the top of her head down to her toes, curling them involuntarily in her sandals. He knew very well the effect he had on women.

She returned his smile, pleased by the slight narrowing of his eyes as she said courteously, ‘A good idea. I don’t want to end up in the bull paddock.’

‘Our bulls are normally placid enough,’ he said. ‘However, it is a good idea to keep away from them. Any large animal can turn dangerous.’

Like the man who owned them, she thought, startled by the insight. Ignoring a mental image of that easy self-reliance transformed by violent emotion into something much darker and infinitely more hazardous, she asked dulcetly, ‘Do you think that pastoral farming has any future in a world that appears to be going green and vegetanan?’

A slight lift of one dark brow recognised the provocation in her question, but he gave a reasoned, restrained reply. This man would scorn an emotional response, an argument based on anything but facts.

Legal training again.

Another thought slipped so stealthily into her mind that it had taken possession before she realised its existence. Had he been hurt by his emotions, hurt so badly that he no longer indulged them?

Not that he looked like someone too wounded by love to risk it again, she thought after a snatched glance at the strong, clear-cut profile. Still, she suspected that his pleasant, approachable attitude was armour. She didn’t know what lay beneath it, but she’d be prepared to bet that it would take intense goading to penetrate his shield of self-contained authority.

Gerard, who seemed to still have a mild case of hero-worship for his older cousin, had once told her that Paul never lost his temper.

Not even when Aura had told him she was going to marry his best friend?

As they walked past woolsheds, and an implement shed where brightly coloured monsters lurked, and beneath darkly needled macrocarpa trees along a fenced, metalled race that led to other paddocks, they talked objectively, intelligently, about the world and where it was possibly headed.

Jacinta filed little snippets of information away like hiding treasure. Paul McAlpine moved with a tightly leashed vitality that was at odds with his indolent appearance. He looked at each topic of conversation from both sides; he had a sharp, incisive mind; he enjoyed discussing issues, but when the conversation became personal he blocked.

He needn’t worry, she thought when at last they came back to the house. She’d be as detached and dispassionate as he was.

But these next three months would have been a lot simpler if those penguins hadn’t decided to take up residence beneath the bach...

If only she had the money to say thanks, but no thanks, and walk away.

Unfortunately, her mother’s legacy covered only her tuition fees—although since their rise ‘covered’ was hardly the word, and if they rose again next year she’d be in trouble. Her student’s allowance paid the rent and bought her soap and shampoo and other necessities.

And she was being silly, letting Paul get to her.

She’d certainly make sure she paid her way here. Even if she did look and feel like an unsophisticated hick, she thought ironically as they turned back, she had her pride.

Inside the cool house, Paul said pleasantly, ‘Dinner is at seven-thirty. If you’d like a drink first I’ll be in the conservatory around seven.’

‘Thank you,’ she said non-committally, giddily aware of herself, of the way her long limbs moved, of the way her hips swayed, and the fact that her hair had once more slipped free of its clip and was clinging to her hot cheeks.

Back in her bedroom, she switched on the computer, opened a file, typed ‘CHAPTER ONE’, and then hesitated, before picking up a very old dictionary of quotations she’d bought for fifty cents in a garage sale. She found the lines quickly, from Shakespeare’s Richard the Second.

Mine honour is my life; both grow in one

Take honour from me, and my life is done.

A hard creed, she thought; a creed for a strong man who held to a spartan belief.

Thoughtfully she closed the book, sat down in front of the computer screen and began to write.

At first the words came easily. She’d told the story so many times to her mother that she almost knew it by heart. The unicorn snorted, its blue eyes shimmering in the moonlight, she wrote. ‘Very well then,’ it said smugly. ‘Don’t blame me when the Master realises what you’ve done. I did my best to stop you.’

But after she’d typed a page she stopped and read it, frowning. It looked—clumsy. And whenever she tried to summon the unicorn’s image, its blue eyes had a disconcerting trick of changing to other eyes—quite different ones, cool and distant and enigmatic.

She got to her feet and glowered out of the window. The garden looked very desirable, the lounger eminently appealing.

Doggedly, Jacinta sat down at the desk again. She had promised her mother she’d write this and she was going to do it, even if it did look raw and childish and unformed on paper.

An hour later she got up and walked across to the French windows, trying to recall the look in Paul McAlpine’s eyes when she’d told him that the computer equipment had been Gerard’s.

Perhaps, she decided, trying to be fair, he had reason to worry about his cousin She knew and Gerard knew that she wasn’t trying to sponge off him, but to an outsider it could look that way. He’d lent her his car, would have lent her money if she hadn’t refused it, and out of the kindness of his heart had organised this chance to fulfil one of the promises she’d made to her mother. He didn’t know anything about the other promise she’d made, the one she was actually working on now. She owed him a lot.

And, talking of the car, she’d better see where she could garage it, because salt winds were notorious for causing rust. But before she bearded the lion in whatever den he was ensconced she’d go for a quick walk to the gate and back.

Out in the garden she smiled and clipped a leaf from the lemon verbena Her mother had loved its citrus perfume, sharp and delightful, and always had a bush of it in the garden. And now she was dead, but the world was still beautiful beyond belief, and it was an insult to her not to enjoy it.

Blinking, Jacinta unlatched the gate and walked through it straight into a pair of hard, masculine arms.

For a moment she thought she’d managed to stumble into Paul McAlpine’s grip, but the voice that said, ‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t know you were there,’ was younger than his and lighter, the New Zealand drawl more pronounced.

‘No,’ she said, stepping backwards, ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking...’

Dark eyes rested on her face with unmistakable appreciation, and the smile he gave her was open and guileless and very infectious.

‘Dean Latrobe,’ he said. ‘I’m Paul’s farm manager.’

Jacinta returned his smile and told him her name, adding after a short pause, ‘I’m staying here.’

‘Oh, yes, the lady who’s supposed to be spending the summer in the bach,’ he said, and grinned again. ‘Paul was ropable when I told him no one would last a night there.’

‘I imagine he would have been,’ she said, laughing a little. ‘But he very kindly offered me a bed for the holidays just the same.’

‘If you’ve got the keys,’ he said, ‘I’ll put your car in the garage. It is your car, isn’t it?’

She said hastily, ‘No, it belongs to Paul’s cousin. He’s in America at the moment.’

‘Yeah, thought I recognised it.’ He ran a knowledgable glance over it. ‘He was up a month or so ago. Got the keys?’

‘I’ll get them from my room,’ she said. ‘But there’s no need for you to put it away—if you’ll just show me where the garage is...’

‘All right,’ he said obligingly.

Jacinta hesitated. ‘I’d better ask Paul first.’

‘Why? There’s room in the garage. Trust me, he won’t throw his cousin’s car out.’

Well, no, he hadn’t thrown his cousin’s protégée out, but that didn’t mean he wanted her there.

‘He’s a hard man,’ Dean Latrobe said cheerfully, ‘but he’s not unreasonable.’