The Blackmail Bargain

For the rest of the evening Curt didn’t come near her again. On her way home in the small hours she told herself vigorously that she was glad. Dancing with him had been like dancing with temptation…

‘And I don’t do temptation either,’ she told herself as she unlocked her front door.

But before she escaped into the silent house she stooped and picked a gardenia flower from the bush by the steps. Its sweet, sinfully evocative scent floated through her bedroom as she lay awake and fought a treacherous need to retrace every moment she’d spent in Curt’s arms.

She stared into the darkness, seeing again the glinting irony in his gaze when he’d realised that her body responded helplessly to the heat and strength of his.

‘Stop it,’ she commanded herself. ‘He was having fun with you, and it wasn’t kind. Sharks are predators, and this one wants to take you out of circulation.’

How long was he going to stay at Tanekaha? For a while she toyed with the idea of ringing Gillian Matheson and saying she couldn’t come to the barbecue the following night; she could manufacture an emergency easily enough.

But that would be cowardice.

So she’d go. She’d cope because she had to. She wasn’t going to give Curt the chance to laugh at her again.

Shaken by a sudden ache of longing for something she didn’t understand, she turned over, curled her long body in the bed and wooed sleep with such fervour that eventually she achieved it.

Peta heard the sound of the engine just before breakfast. Frowning, she closed the gate behind her and turned to see the station Land Rover come up the drive. Her heart jumped unexpectedly, only to go cold when Ian’s rangy form unfolded from behind the wheel.

‘Hello,’ she said warily.

‘How are you?’

Ever since she’d noticed the worrying change in his attitude she’d braced herself for this meeting. Without moving, she said brightly, ‘I’m fine, thanks. What can I do for you?’

‘You could make me a cup of coffee,’ he suggested with a wry smile.

Ten days ago she wouldn’t have thought a thing about it; she’d have made the coffee and they’d have drunk it sitting on the narrow deck while they talked easily about farming matters.

‘I’d love to,’ she said easily, ‘but I’m on my way to feed a calf your brother-in-law helped me drag out of the swamp.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

After a moment’s hesitation she turned and led the way to the calf-shed.

Hiding her wary discomfort with a brisk veneer, she made up the mixture and stayed to make sure the calf drank it. ‘She must be feeling better; this time yesterday she didn’t want to drink at all.’

Ian observed, ‘Curt told us about it.’

‘I’d have managed without him,’ she said quickly, sad because the friendship and support Ian had offered so unstintingly was shattered. He’d stepped over an invisible boundary and now there was no going back.

He said casually, ‘It looks pretty good now.’

‘She’ll survive.’

Ian’s face crinkled into a wry smile. ‘Good. What did you think of Curt?’

Peta made a production of her shrug. ‘He’s more or less as I’d imagined him.’

Ian said, ‘And that is?’

‘Like any other tycoon,’ she said lightly. ‘Dominating, formidable, high-handed and more than a bit arrogant.’

He nodded and got to his feet. ‘Good-looking too.’

‘Yes.’ But Curt’s handsome face and the impact of his strong bone structure were irrelevant. Like a force of nature, his compelling personality overwhelmed everything else.

Her upwards glance caught an unusual indecision in Ian’s face, as though he was trying to make up his mind about something.

Suspecting that it would be better if he never said the words that were in his mind, she said, ‘Shouldn’t you be on your way home? Gillian will be wondering where you are.’

‘Gillian isn’t—’ The noise of a car engine coming up the drive stopped him in mid-sentence. He turned his head so that he could see through the open end of the shed and in a flat voice said, ‘This is her car.’

Peta froze. She hated scenes, and she suspected she was about to be treated to one. Ian moved jerkily out into the sunlight, but she sat there watching the calf drink, ears straining as the engine cut out.

Voices revealed that it was Gillian who’d driven up. And with her, Curt.

Peta’s skin tightened as she took in the pattern of sounds, of silences. She should get up and go out; instead, she kept her eyes fixed on the white brush at the end of the calf’s tail, watching it swish to and fro as the little animal sucked.

When she heard Gillian’s laugh she relaxed a fraction, only to tense up again as the voices approached. Above the calf’s noisy, enthusiastic slurps she heard Curt’s deep voice, and the foreboding that had been prowling below the surface of her consciousness since the previous night rocketed off the scale.

‘Hello, Peta,’ Gillian called out. ‘Can we come in?’

‘Of course.’ Still she kept her eyes on the calf, only looking up when it became rude not to acknowledge them.

Clad in casual clothes that proclaimed the imprint of a designer, Gillian looked completely out of place in the calf-shed with its dusty smell of hay and the more earthy scent of young animals. His expression a combination of stubbornness and indecision, Ian walked behind his wife.

In fact, Peta realised, the only person whose self-assurance remained intact and invulnerable was Curt.

Wondering if anything ever put a crack in his self-assurance, Peta greeted them with a brief smile. ‘Have you come to examine the patient? As you can see, she’s in good heart today.’

Gillian made a soft clucking noise. ‘What a pretty little thing,’ she cooed, and leaned over to give the curly poll a scratch. ‘I thought she’d be covered in mud!’

‘No, I brushed her down and dried her yesterday.’

‘You didn’t explain how she got into the swamp.’ Curt’s voice, anger running beneath each deliberate word like lava welling through rocks.