Loe raamatut: «Claimed By Her Billionaire Protector»

CHAPTER ONE

NIKO RADCLIFFE HAD expected an unsophisticated band playing unsophisticated country music. After all, this was the northernmost part of New Zealand, a farming region of small villages, ancient volcanoes and stunning coastal scenery. Narrow and sea-bordered, the peninsula thrust north towards the equator, relying on its beauty and its history to attract tourists.

So the strains of mellow jazz drifting across the car park as he walked towards Waipuna Hall came as a pleasant surprise. Either the Far North had an unusually professional musical culture, or—more likely—the committee who’d organised the Waipuna Centennial Ball had hired the band from Auckland.

At the doors a middle-aged man stepped towards him. ‘Good evening. Can I see your ticket, please?’

Niko held it out, and after a quick scan the doorman nodded and said, ‘Welcome to Waipuna, Mr Radcliffe. I hope you enjoy the evening.’

Niko had his doubts about that, but he said, ‘Thank you,’ and walked into the hall, stopping just inside the doors to survey the crowd.

The district had done the occasion proud. Garlands of flowers looped around the walls, their faint evocative perfume floating on the warm air. Men in the stark black and white of evening dress steered partners clad in a multitude of colours. Everyone appeared to be having a fine time.

Whoever had done the decorations had talent, and must have denuded quite a few farm and village gardens of flowers. Their soft, fresh perfume hung in the warm air, the blooms competing in colour with the women’s bright copies of Twenties’ flapper fashions.

Idly, Niko allowed his eyes to follow one of the dancers. Although she had her back to him, she was above average height, and her sleek head of strawberry-blonde hair made her easy to see amongst the dancers. Her grace should have won her a better partner than the middle-aged man steering her somewhat clumsily through the crowd. When they turned Niko recognised him—Bruce Nixon, husband of the woman who headed the Waipuna Centenary Ball committee.

The music stopped, the floor began to empty, and the noise changed to a buzz of chatter and laughter. His gaze still held by that bright crown of hair, Niko realised the woman and her partner were walking towards Mrs Nixon, the only other person in the hall he recognised. In spite of his unexpected arrival in Waipuna several days previously she’d tracked him down and welcomed him to the Far North.

‘And as the new owner of Mana Station it would be appreciated if you could come to our Hall Centennial Ball and meet some of the local people,’ she’d told him, her tone reminding him of his rather severe first governess.

He’d agreed to endure the possible boredom of a country ball because his purchase of the cattle station had been a matter of comment in the national media, quite a bit of it critical. The new manager he’d appointed had also informed him of discontent caused by yet another foreign absentee owner buying up a large agricultural holding in New Zealand.

Especially an owner with his background. The only child of a European aristocrat who’d fallen crazily in love with a rugged New Zealander, Niko could barely recall his early life on his father’s vast tussock-clad hill station in the South Island. He’d been just five years old when his mother had fled with him back to her father’s palace in San Mari, a small European principality.

So it was logical enough for him to be considered a foreigner. The fact that he’d forged an empire for himself in commerce wasn’t likely to cut much ice—if any—with pragmatic, farming Kiwis.

Given time, they’d discover that he was nothing like the previous owner of Mana Station, who’d not only stripped the station of every available cent for years, eventually bringing what had once been a profitable farming concern so close to ruin that he’d been forced to sell, but had appointed an inefficient, corrupt farm manager.

Doubtless Niko’s dismissal of that man would cause more gossip.

Mrs Nixon looked across the hall, saw him, and smiled, beckoning him across. Noting wryly that he was being openly inspected by at least half of the dancers, Niko set off towards her.

The strawberry blonde could be Mrs Nixon’s daughter, although that seemed unlikely. Both Mrs Nixon and her husband were short and rather stout, whereas the redhead was slender.

Niko’s gaze narrowed as he took in the younger woman’s face—fine features and ivory skin, faintly flushed with exertion. Her violet silk shift subtly revealed soft curves and long limbs. She wasn’t beautiful, yet something about her stirred his blood. Her hair was pulled back from her face and confined in a knot at the base of her neck. Ivory-skinned, she turned her head slightly as he walked towards them, revealing slightly tilted eyes and a full, sensuous mouth.

‘Mr Radcliffe! I’d begun to think you weren’t coming!’ Mrs Nixon beamed as he arrived.

‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ he said smoothly. ‘Your ball is obviously a huge success.’

Her smile widened even further. ‘I hope you enjoy it. You’ve met my husband, Bruce, of course.’

While the two men shook hands, she went on, ‘And this is Elana Grange, who helped us enormously with the organisation for tonight, and also with the decorations. She’s a neighbour of yours—right next door at Anchor Bay, in fact.’ The smile she directed at her companion was almost mischievous. ‘Elana, this is Niko Radcliffe, the new owner of Mana Station.’

‘How do you do, Mr Radcliffe.’

Her voice was cool, and so was the hand she extended, allowed to lie in his for a brief moment, and then retrieved.

For the length of a heartbeat, Niko’s initial awareness gave way to a sensation infinitely more primal—a swift, uncontrollable physical response that startled him. Elana Grange radiated a subtly provocative allure that roused him in a way he hadn’t experienced before.

Yet he sensed contradictions. Slightly tilted eyes of dark green speckled with gold gave her an exotic air, but her level gaze lacked the coquettish awareness he often saw in women’s eyes. And although her mouth hinted at passion, something about the lift of her square chin indicated a controlled reserve.

Which could, of course, be deliberate. Several bitter experiences in his youth had led to a sardonic appreciation of the various methods of feminine provocation. If Elana Grange expected him to be intrigued by her aloofness, she’d discover she was wrong. Niko had learned to deal with women who viewed him either as a challenge, or a path to social and material advancement.

Her sophisticated appearance was completely at odds with the dilapidated little shack she lived in, huddled just outside the gates to Mana Station. He’d noticed it from the helicopter as he’d arrived at Mana homestead, and assumed the place was a ruin. Judging by the state of the roof, its owner was going to face a large repair bill some time soon.

Mrs Nixon said enthusiastically, ‘I’m so glad you could make it tonight, Mr Radcliffe. Or should I call you Count?’

‘No. My name is Niko.’

Another slight smile curved Elana Grange’s soft mouth. It gave her a fey look, an air of cool mystery that summoned another swift, startlingly carnal response in Niko.

Mrs Nixon smiled. ‘Very well, Niko.’ She glanced at the woman beside her. ‘Elana was just wondering why you’d chosen to buy Mana Station when it’s almost derelict.’

A faint colour warmed the face of the woman beside her. Embarrassed she might be, Niko thought cynically, but his answer would almost certainly be circulated through the district. So he told her the truth. ‘I spent my early years on a high country station in the South Island, as well as some school holidays, and developed an affection for New Zealand and its stunning countryside. As for Mana—it needs rescuing.’

* * *

An interesting and unexpected comment, Elana decided. However, his purchase of the large sheep and cattle station had caused quite a lot of publicity, and he was probably aware that not all of it had been favourable. Pretending to an affection for the country could be a way to alleviate that.

The Count had an interesting voice, if you liked men’s voices deep with a hard edge. He’d judged his handshake perfectly—strong enough to be masterful without causing pain. Once he’d released her hand she’d had to stop herself from rubbing her tingling palm surreptitiously against her side.

Her first glance at the arrogant jut of his jaw had set every warning instinct on full alert. And the unsparing assessment of his ice-blue gaze had reinforced her surge of defensiveness. It was highly unlikely she’d ever become friends with the new owner of Mana Station.

However, her foolish body was buzzing with sensual excitement. His lean, charismatic muscularity emphasised by wide shoulders and his height, Count Niko Radcliffe wore his formal evening clothes with an intimidating confidence that was like nothing she’d seen before.

Cool it, Elana commanded her jumping heartbeat. Handsome men were not that uncommon, and she’d seen enough photographs of him in the media to know what to expect.

But photographs failed to convey his effortless air of authority or the powerful aura that was more than physical, backed by a disturbing smile. According to the media he ran his numerous interests with a formidable combination of intelligence, determination and ruthlessness.

An image formed in her mind of some warrior king of long ago, one who ruled by sheer force of character.

Chemistry, she decided, trying to dampen her foolish reaction with irony. Some men had it in spades. And dangerously attractive though he seemed, Niko Radcliffe’s magnetism owed nothing to honesty or kindness or—well, any of the virtues.

But then, royal billionaires probably didn’t need honesty or kindness to attract some women.

Immediately ashamed of the snide thought, she banished it. According to Mrs Nixon, an avid reader of gossip magazines, he chose lovers noted for their beauty and intelligence, the latest one a gorgeous English aristocrat.

And in farming circles he had a good reputation. Only a few weeks ago she’d read an article about his rescue of the sheep and cattle station he’d inherited from his father. He’d spent much money killing the wilding pines that threatened to turn the land into forest, and clearing the station of goats. Apparently he was determined to clear it of rabbits too, although he’d admitted he might need a miracle for that.

She risked a swift upwards glance, her pulse speeding as her eyes clashed with his. Somehow she just couldn’t see this man, completely assured in his perfectly tailored evening clothes, shooting goats or hauling out pine seedlings.

Ah well, no doubt he had minions to do the heavy work.

Fixing a noncommittal smile to her lips, she said lightly, ‘Welcome to Northland, Mr Radcliffe.’

Black brows lifted. ‘Niko,’ he repeated with a crisp intonation that came close to curtness. But then he smiled.

Elana was shocked by a fierce awareness that tightened her nerves and sinews. That smile was something!

And no doubt he was aware of its impact.

He added, ‘Congratulations on the decorations. They are superb.’

Striving to control a swift surge of adrenalin, she forced herself to concentrate on his accent. He sounded almost English, but his faint foreign intonation no doubt came from his upbringing in a European palace.

Elana steadied her voice enough to say, ‘Thank you—we had an excellent committee to work with.’

The band struck an imperative chord, and once the chatter faded the MC—a local farmer—spoke into the microphone, welcoming the crowd. Something far too close to relief gripped Elana when the man beside her turned to listen.

Stop being an idiot, she told herself robustly. OK, so the new owner of Mana had the kind of presence that attracted eyes and attention.

Definitely an alpha male—uncompromising and intolerant and intimidating.

Like her father. Just the sort of man she despised.

And feared...

The MC announced the next dance, and the Count turned to Mrs Nixon with a request that summoned a slight flush to her cheeks. ‘Dear man, that’s lovely of you, but I’m not dancing tonight. I managed to twist my ankle yesterday,’ she said.

Horrified, Elana realised that Niko had no polite way out of asking her to dance.

Sure enough, he turned to her, hard eyes veiled by lashes too long for any man. ‘May I have the pleasure?’

Say no.

But that would be ludicrous. After all, it was only one dance...

Her smile hiding, she fervently hoped, her abrupt and unwarranted reaction, she placed her fingers gingerly on his outstretched arm.

‘So you live above Anchor Bay,’ he said as the band struck up a tune. His tone indicated that he wasn’t particularly interested.

Matching it, she answered, ‘Yes.’

‘You must be able to see quite a bit of Mana Station from there.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ll notice quite a few changes soon.’

Strangely, the purposeful note in his voice chilled her. She looked up, and for a couple of seconds their eyes locked. Blinking, she lowered her lashes against the ironic challenge in his cold blue gaze.

Suavely he asked, ‘You’re surprised?’

He saw too much. Elana struggled for something banal and conventional to say, but only managed, ‘No.’ When his brows drew together she added, ‘I’m pleased. It’s time someone gave Mana back some pride.’

He nodded. ‘Exactly what I intend to do. Don’t worry, I won’t bore you with farming talk. Let’s dance.’

A shiver ghosted the length of her spine as she stepped closer. For a foolish moment she felt she’d taken a forbidden step into an alternative world.

A dangerous world, she realised as they began to move together—a world where the rules no longer applied. Jumping heartbeats took her by surprise and her nostrils flared at the faint, exciting, potently male scent of him and the hard strength in the arms that imprisoned her.

Imprisoned her?

What a ridiculous thought!

Yet the heat of Niko Radcliffe’s hand at her waist was stirring a blatant response. Her dress seemed suddenly far too revealing, the violet silk slithering over acutely sensitised skin in a sensuous massage.

Of course he danced superbly; she was ready to bet that lean, splendidly physical body would do anything well, from dancing to making love.

‘Are you all right?’

His voice startled her. She had to swallow before she could speak and even then, she sounded hesitant. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ A swift defiance made her glance up to meet hooded, glinting eyes. ‘Why?’

‘You seem a little tense,’ he responded coolly, blue gaze unreadable. ‘I rarely bite, and when I do, it’s not to hurt.’

Heat zinged from her scalp to her toes, lighting fires all the way. That instinctive awareness strengthened into a sensation much more intense, so fiercely tantalising it shocked her.

Was he coming on to her?

No sooner had the thought flashed across her mind than she dismissed it. Of course he wasn’t flirting! It was impossible to imagine Count Niko Radcliffe doing anything so frivolous. So was he testing her?

If so, it was unkind. He was as out of place in Waipuna as she’d be in the rarefied social circles that were his natural habitat. According to Mrs Nixon, gorgeous film stars fell in love with him...

And probably the occasional princess. Gorgeous too, no doubt.

She couldn’t care less, she thought sturdily, trying to corral her rampaging senses.

‘So you’re quite safe,’ he drawled.

The note of mockery in his voice stiffened her spine. ‘I’m always glad to have that assurance,’ she retorted.

‘Even when you don’t necessarily believe it?’

Elana tried to come up with some innocuous answer, but before anything came to mind he continued curtly, ‘Whatever you might have heard about me, I don’t attack women.’

* * *

As soon as the words left his mouth Niko wondered why he’d said them. He spent more time fending off women than reassuring them of his integrity.

He had no illusions about the reason behind that sort of feminine interest. Money and power talked, and for a certain type of woman it was enough to seduce. Yet for some reason the note in Elana Grange’s voice had struck a nerve.

Actually, she struck a nerve.

When they’d been introduced he’d noticed her fingers, long and slender and bare of rings, and for a moment he’d wondered what they’d feel like on his skin. And as she’d stepped into his arms, his whole body had tightened in swift, primitive response.

However, elegant though she appeared, he suspected Elana Grange wasn’t sophisticated enough for the sort of relationships he chose. His affairs—nowhere near as many as suggested in gossip columns—had always been between two people who both liked and wanted each other, whose minds meshed. He valued intelligence as much as he did sex appeal.

And because he drew the line at breaking hearts, his lovers had always understood that he wasn’t offering marriage.

Whatever sort of mind Elana Grange had, she looked like a dream—and danced like one too, her grace fulfilling the promise of her sinuous body.

Elana broke the silence between them. ‘Mr Radcliffe, there have been rumours that you plan to develop Mana Station. Is that true?’

‘What do you mean by develop?’

Wishing she’d stayed silent, she told him. ‘Cut it into blocks, sell them off and make a gated community of it—’

‘No,’ he interrupted curtly. ‘I’m planning to bring it back into the vital, productive station it once must have been.’

She couldn’t stop herself from asking, ‘Why?’

Broad shoulders lifting, he said, ‘I despise waste. In San Mari every acre of land is precious, cherished and nurtured over the centuries, treated with respect. All agricultural and pastoral land should be viewed like that.’ His tone altered as he finished, ‘And call me Niko.’

Hoping no sign of her reluctance showed in her tone, she said, ‘Then you must call me Elana.’

He laughed. Surprised, she glanced up, meeting his gaze with raised brows.

‘Don’t look so startled,’ he said. ‘When I came back to New Zealand it took me a few weeks to understand that although most people here call each other by their first names, it didn’t necessarily denote friendship.’

Elana had never previously pondered the intricacies of New Zealand ways of addressing people. Perhaps he was interested because he’d grown up in a royal household, where such things were important?

Or perhaps not, she thought wryly. Probably he was just filling in a boring experience with smooth small talk.

She considered a moment before replying, ‘You’re probably right. I think it’s a preliminary to a possible friendship—addressing a person by his or her first name is an indication that you feel he or she might be someone you’d like, once you get to know him or her better.’

‘So if you decide you don’t like me, you’ll call me Mr Radcliffe?’

Elana allowed herself a careful smile. ‘I’d probably avoid you. That way I wouldn’t have to address you at all.’

‘So if I notice you fleeing from me, I’ll have to accept that I’ve done something that’s displeased you.’

* * *

Bemused, Elana looked up. Their eyes met, and another tantalising rush of adrenalin boosted her pulse rate into overdrive. A point in his favour was the dry amusement in his voice.

Not that it mattered what sort of person he was—or only so far as he was a neighbour.

‘Actually, I’m not into fleeing,’ she told him briskly. ‘And we like to believe we’re an egalitarian society. But—didn’t I read that you’re a New Zealander too?’

‘I have dual citizenship,’ he said levelly.

A swift change of direction startled Elana until she realised she was being skilfully steered around a jitterbugging pair in the centre of the floor.

‘Wrong period,’ Niko Radcliffe observed dryly. ‘They should be doing the Charleston.’

She said, ‘But they’re good.’ The words had barely been spoken when the young man missed a step and stumbled towards them.

* * *

Instantly her partner’s arm tightened, forcing Elana against his steely strength so that she was held firmly for a few seconds against the powerful muscles of his thighs. Sensation, so intense and sensuous it drove the breath from her lungs, scorched through her in a delicious, dangerous conflagration.

Concentrate on dancing, blast you, she commanded her wayward body fiercely, pushing a wilful erotic image into the furthest reaches of her brain and trying to lock the door on it.

Suddenly dry-mouthed, she breathed, ‘Thanks.’

‘It was nothing.’ His voice was cool and uninflected.

Clearly he wasn’t suffering the same potent response. Indeed, his arm had loosened swiftly as though he found her sudden closeness distasteful.

Chilled, she had to swallow before she could say, ‘Perhaps we should tell them that jitterbugging arrived some years after the Twenties.’

‘They’re enjoying themselves,’ he said dismissively, then surprised her by asking, ‘Are you the local florist?’

Elana hesitated. He sounded quite interested—which seemed unlikely. Perhaps faking interest when bored out of his mind was another talent developed in that princely court...

OK, concentrate on small talk now, she told herself. Ignore those pulsating seconds when you were plastered against him, and something weird happened to you.

Sedately she told him, ‘I work part-time in the florist’s shop in Waipuna.’

‘Was that always your ambition?’ he asked, almost as though he were interested.

‘No.’ After a second’s pause she added, ‘I’m a librarian and I used to work in Auckland, but a couple of years ago a family situation meant I had to come home to Waipuna.’

The family situation being the accident that had killed her stepfather and confined her mother to a wheelchair.

‘So you decided to stay here.’

Elana glanced up and met a narrowed blue gaze. Another of those unnerving shivers chased down her spine. In a tone she didn’t recognise, she said, ‘Yes.’

‘Is there no library in Waipuna?’

‘Yes, run by volunteers. There’s no need for a professional librarian.’

‘Ah, I see. Do you enjoy working in the florist’s shop?’

Surely he couldn’t be interested in a small-town woman in the wilds of northern New Zealand? He didn’t need to hear that, although she loved Waipuna, she missed the stimulation of her career in Auckland.

She evaded, ‘I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t fascinated by flowers. My mother was a fantastic gardener and apparently from the time I could toddle I drove her crazy by picking any blooms—’ She stopped abruptly. Any blooms her mother had been allowed to cultivate. ‘Often before they’d opened out,’ she finished.

He gave the big hall a quick survey. ‘You clearly have a talent for arranging them. Mrs Nixon also mentioned that you wrote the booklet—a short history—of the hall. I haven’t read it yet, but intend to.’

Elana flushed. ‘I hope you find it interesting.’

‘Are you a historian as well as a librarian?’

‘I did a history degree,’ she said.

And wasn’t surprised when he asked, ‘Why?’

‘Because I’m interested in history.’ She added, ‘After that my stepfather insisted I take a business course.’

‘Very sensible of your stepfather,’ Niko Radcliffe said dryly. ‘From your tone, I gather you didn’t want to do it. Was he right to insist?’

Elana didn’t like the way he emphasised the word stepfather. Steve had been as dear to her as any father could be—infinitely dearer than her own father. She said briskly, ‘Yes, he was right. It’s been very useful.’

Especially over the past couple of years, after a friend had asked her to tape her great-grandmother’s reminiscences and transcribe them so they could be bound into a book to mark her hundredth birthday. Elana found the task absorbing, enjoyed the whole experience and had been astounded when her friend’s family insisted on paying her for the time she’d spent.

Even more astonishing, word had got around the district, and soon she was repeating the process. Then the editor of the local weekly newspaper commissioned her to write articles on the history of the district. As she was working for only three days a week at the florist’s shop, the money came in handy, and she loved the research.

To her relief the music drew to a close. Niko Radcliffe released her and offered an arm. Forcing herself to relax, she took it, trying to ignore the sudden chill aching through her—a bewildering sense of abandonment.

How could a man she’d only just met have that effect on her?

Be sensible, she told herself robustly as they walked across the hall towards Mr and Mrs Nixon. So you’re attracted to him? So what? You’re probably not the only one here tonight to be so aware of him...

Over the centuries women had learned to recognise an alpha male. For probably most of humankind’s existence, a strong capable father to one’s children gave them a much better chance of survival.

And, tall and good-looking, with that indefinable magnetism—not to mention the fact that he was rich, she thought sardonically—everything about him proclaimed Count Niko Radcliffe a member of that exclusive group.

Which was no reason to fantasise about feeling strangely at home in his arms. When the next dance was announced he’d choose a different woman to partner him, and that woman might well feel the same subliminal excitement, a reckless tug of sexuality both dangerous and compelling.