Loe raamatut: «Surrender To Seduction»

CHAPTER ONE

GERRY DACRE realised that she’d actually heard the noise a couple of times before noticing it. Sitting on her bed to comb wet black hair off her face, she remembered that the same funny little bleat had teased her ears just before she showered, and again as she came back down the hall.

Frowning, she got to her feet and walked across to the window, pushing open the curtains. Although it was after seven the street-lamps were still struggling against a reluctant New Zealand dawn; peering through their wan light, she made out a parcel on the wet grass just inside the Cape Honeysuckle hedge.

The cry came again, and to her horror she saw movement in the parcel—a weak fluttering against the sombre green wall of the hedge.

‘Kittens!’ she exploded, long legs carrying her swiftly towards the front door.

Or a puppy. It didn’t sound like kittens. How dared anyone abandon animals in her garden—anywhere! Anger tightened her soft mouth, blazed from her dark blue-green eyes as she ran across the verandah and down the wooden steps, across the sodden lawn to the parcel.

It wasn’t kittens. Or a puppy. Wailing feebly from a shabby tartan rug was a baby. Little fists and arms had struggled free, and the crumpled face was marked with cold. Chilling moisture clung to its skin, to the knitted bonnet, to the tiny, aimlessly groping hands. So heartbreakingly frail, it had to be newborn.

‘Oh, my God!’ Gerry said, scooping up the baby, box and all, as it gave another weak wail. ‘Don’t do that, darling,’ she soothed. ‘Come on, let’s get you inside.’

Carefully she carried it indoors, kicked the door closed behind her, and headed into the kitchen, at this time of day the warmest room in the old kauri villa. She set the box on the table and raced into the laundry to grab a towel and her best cashmere jersey from the hot water cupboard.

‘I’ll ring the police when I’ve got you warm,’ she promised the baby, lifting it out and carrying it across to the bench. The baby let out another high-pitched wail.

Crooning meaningless words, Gerry stripped the clothes from the squirming body. It was, she discovered, a girl—and judging by the umbilical cord no older than a couple of days, if that.

‘I’m going to have to find you some sort of nappy,’ she said, cuddling the chilly baby against her breasts as she cocooned it first in cashmere and then the warm towel. ‘I wonder how long you’ve been out there, poppet? Too long on a bitter winter morning. I hope your mother gave you some food before she abandoned you. No, don’t cry, sweetheart, don’t cry…’

But the baby did cry, face going alarmingly scarlet and her chest swelling as she shrieked her outrage.

Rocking and hushing, Gerry tried to lend the warmth of her body to the fragile infant and wondered whether she should bathe her, or whether that might make her colder. She pressed her cheek against the little head, relieved to find that it seemed marginally warmer.

The front door clicked open and the second member of the household demanded shrilly, ‘What’s on earth’s going on?’

Two pairs of feet made their way down the hall, the busy clattering of Cara’s high heels counterpointed by a long stride, barely audible on the mellow kauri boards.

It’s not my business if she spends the night with a man—she’s twenty, Gerry thought, propping the baby against her shoulder and patting the narrow back. The movement silenced the baby for a second, but almost immediately she began to cry again, a pathetic shriek that cut Cara’s voice off with the speed of a sword through cheese.

She appeared in the doorway, red hair smoothed back from her face, huge eyes goggling. ‘Gerry, what have you done?’ she gasped.

‘It’s a baby,’ Gerry said, deadpan, expertly supporting the miniature head with its soft dark fuzz of hair. ‘Someone dumped her on the front lawn.’

‘Have you rung the police?’ Not Cara. The voice was deep and cool, with an equivocal note that made Gerry think of a river running smoothly, forcefully over hidden rocks.

Startled, she looked past Cara to the man who followed her into the room.

Not Cara’s usual type, Gerry thought, her stomach suddenly contracting. Her housemate liked pretty television actors and media men, but this man was far from pretty. The stark framework of his face created an aura of steely power, and he looked as though he spent his life dealing with the worst humanity could produce. His voice rang with an authentic authority, warning everyone within earshot that he was in the habit of giving orders and seeing them obeyed.

‘I was just about to,’ Gerry said stiffly. Irritatingly, the words sounded odd—uneven and hesitant—and she lifted her chin to cover her unusual response.

Gerry had perfected her technique for dealing with men—a lazy, flirtatious approach robbed of any element of sexuality. Instinct warned her that it wasn’t going to work with this man; flirting with him, she thought, struggling for balance, would be a hazardous occupation indeed.

A green gaze, clear and cold and glinting like emeralds under water, met hers. Set beneath heavy lids and bordered by thick black lashes, the stranger’s eyes were startlingly beautiful in his harsh, compelling face. He took up far too much room in her civilised house, and when he moved towards the telephone it was with a swift, noiseless precision that reminded Gerry of the predatory grace of a hunting animal.

Lord, but he was big! Gerry fought back a gut-level appreciation of just how tall he was as he dialled, recounted the situation with concise precision, gave a sharp inclination of his tawny head, and hung up. ‘They’ll call a social worker and get here as soon as they can. Until then they suggest you keep it warm.’

‘Her,’ Gerry corrected, cuddling the baby closer. It snuffled into silence and turned its head up to her, one eye screwed shut, small three-cornered mouth seeking nourishment. ‘No, sweetheart, there’s nothing here for you,’ she said softly, her heart aching for the helpless child, and for the mother desperate enough to abandon her.

‘You look quite at home with a baby,’ Cara teased, recovering from astonishment into her natural ebullience.

Gerry gave her a fleeting grin. ‘You’ve lived here long enough to know that I’ve got cousins from here to glory, most of whom seem to have had babies in the past three years. I’m a godmother twice over, and reasonably handson.’

The baby began to wail again, and Cara said uncertainly, ‘Couldn’t we give it some milk off a spoon, or something?’

‘You don’t give newborn babies straight cows’ milk. But if someone could go to the dairy—I know they sell babies’ bottles there; I saw a woman buy one when I collected the bread the other day—we could boil some water and give it to her.’

‘Will that be safe?’ the strange man asked, his lashes drooping slightly.

Gerry realised that her face was completely bare of cosmetics; furthermore, she wore only her dressing gown—her summer dressing gown, a thin cotton affair that probably wasn’t hiding the fact that she was naked beneath it. ‘Safer than anything else, I think. Here,’ she said, offering the baby to Cara, ‘hold her for a moment, will you?’

The younger woman recoiled. ‘No, I can’t, I’ve never held a baby in my life. She’s so tiny! I might drop her, or break an arm or something.’

‘I’ll take her,’ the green-eyed stranger said crisply, and did so, scooping the child from Gerry’s arms with a sure deftness that reassured her. He looked at Cara. ‘Put the kettle on first, then go to the dairy and buy a feeding bottle. My car keys are in my right pocket.’

She pouted, but gave him a flirtatious glance from beneath her lashes as she removed the keys. ‘You trust me with your car? I’m honoured. Gerry, it’s a stunning black Jag, one of the new ones.’

‘And if you hit anything in it,’ the man said, with a smile that managed to be both sexy and intimidating, ‘I’ll take it out of your hide.’

Cara giggled, swung the keys in a little circle and promised, ‘I’ll be careful. I’m quite a good driver, aren’t I, Gerry?’ She switched her glance to Gerry and stopped, eyes and mouth wide open. ‘Gerry!’

‘What?’ she asked, halfway to the door.

Cara said incredulously, ‘You haven’t got any make-up on! I’ve never seen you without it before!’

‘It happens,’ Gerry said, and managed to slow her rush to a more dignified pace. At the door, however, she turned and said reluctantly, ‘She hasn’t got a napkin on.’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time a baby’s wet me,’ he said drily. ‘I think I can cope.’

Oh, boy, Gerry thought, fleeing after an abrupt nod. I’ll just bet you can cope with anything fate throws at you. Ruler of your destiny, that’s you, whoever you are! No doubt he had another expensive dark suit at his office, just in case he had an accident!

In her bedroom she tried to concentrate on choosing clothes, but she kept recalling the impact of that hard-hewn face and those watchful, speculative eyes.

And that smile. As the owner of a notorious smile herself, Gerry knew that it gave her an undeserved edge in the battle of the sexes. This man’s smile transformed his harsh features, honing the blatant male magnetism that came with broad shoulders and long legs and narrow hips and a height of close to six foot four.

It melted her backbone, and he hadn’t even been smiling at her!

Where on earth had Cara found him?

Or, given his aura of masterful self-possession, where had he found her?

The younger woman’s morals were no concern of hers, but for some reason Gerry wished that Cara hadn’t spent the night with him.

Five minutes later she’d pulled on black trousers and ankle boots, and a neat pinstriped shirt in her favourite black and white, folded the cuffs back to above her wrist, and looped a gold chain around her throat. A small gold hoop hung from each ear. Rapidly she applied a thin coat of tinted moisturiser and lip-glaze.

Noises from outside had indicated Cara’s careful departure, and slightly more reckless return. With a touch of defiance, Gerry delicately smoothed a faint smudge of eyeshadow above each dark blue-green eye. There, she told her reflection silently, the mask’s back in place.

Once more her usual sensible, confident self, she walked down the hall to the living room. Previous owners had renovated the old villa, adding to the lean-to at the back so that what had been a jumble of small rooms was now a large kitchen, dining and living area.

The bookcases that lined one wall had been Gerry’s contribution to the room, as were the books in them and the richly coloured curtains covering French windows. Outside, a deck overlooked a garden badly in need of renovation—Gerry’s next project. It should have been finished by now, but she’d procrastinated, drawing endless plans, because once she got it done she might find herself restlessly looking around for something new to occupy herself.

Cara was sitting beside the man on one of the sofas, gazing into his face with a besotted expression.

Had Gerry been that open and easy to read at twenty?

Probably, she thought cynically.

As she walked in the stranger smiled down at the baby lost in his arms. Another transformation, Gerry thought, trying very hard to keep her balance. Only this one was pure tenderness. Whoever he was, the tawny-haired man was able to temper his great strength to the needs of the weak.

The man looked up. Even cuddling a baby, he radiated a compelling masculinity that provoked a flicker of visceral caution. It was the eyes—indolent yet perceptive—and the dangerous, uncompromising face.

After some worrying experiences with men in her youth, Gerry had carefully and deliberately developed a persona that was a mixture of open good humour, light flirtation, and warm charm. Men liked her, and although many found her attractive they soon accepted her tacit refusal to be anything other than a friend. Few cared to probe beneath the pleasant, laughing surface, or realised that her slow, lazy smile hid heavily guarded defences.

Now, with those defences under sudden, unsparing assault—all the more dangerous because she was fighting a hidden traitor in her own body and mind—she was forced to accept that she’d only been able to keep men at a distance because she’d never felt so much as a flicker of attraction.

‘Flicker’ didn’t even begin to describe the whitehot flare of recognition that had seared through her when she first laid eyes on the stranger, a clamorous response that both appalled and embarrassed her.

Hiding her importunate reaction with a slightly strained version of her trademark smile, she asked, ‘How’s she been?’

‘She’s asleep,’ he said, watching her with an unfaltering, level gaze that hid speculation and cool assessment in the green depths.

Something tightened in Gerry’s stomach. Most men preened under her smile, wrongly taking a purely natural movement of tiny muscles in her face as a tribute to their masculinity. Perhaps because he understood the power of his own smile, this man was immune to hers.

Or perhaps he was immune to her. She wouldn’t like him for an enemy, she thought with an involuntary little shiver.

The baby should have looked incongruous in his arms, but she didn’t. Blissfully unconscious, her eyes were dark lines in her rosy little face. From time to time she made sucking motions against the fist at her mouth.

‘We haven’t been introduced,’ Gerry said. Relieved that his hands were occupied with the baby, she kept hers by her sides. ‘I’m Gerry Dacre.’

‘Oh, sorry,’ Cara said, opening her eyes very wide. ‘Gerry’s my agent, Bryn, and she owns the house—her aunt’s my mother’s best friend, and for her sins she said she’d board me for a year.’ She gave a swift urchin grin. ‘Gerry, this is Bryn Falconer.’

Exquisitely beautiful, Cara was an up-and-coming star for the modelling agency Gerry part-owned. And she was far too young for Bryn Falconer, whose hard assurance indicated that his thirty-two or three years had been spent in tough places.

‘How do you do, Bryn?’ Gerry said, relying on formality. ‘I’ll sterilise the bottle—’

‘Cara organised that as soon as she came in,’ he said calmly.

‘Mr Patel said that the solution he gave me was the best way to disinfect babies’ bottles,’ Cara told her. ‘I followed the instructions exactly.’

Sure enough, the bottle was sitting in a special basin on the bench. Gerry gave a swift, glittering smile. ‘Good. How long does it have to stay in the solution?’

‘An hour,’ Cara said knowledgeably. She glanced at the tiny bundle sleeping in Bryn’s arms. ‘Do you think she’ll be all right until then?’

Gerry nodded. ‘She should be. She’s certainly not hungry now, or she wouldn’t have stopped crying. I’ll make a much-needed cup of coffee.’ Her stomach lurched as she met the measuring scrutiny of Bryn Falconer’s green eyes. ‘Can I get you one, or some breakfast?’ Cara didn’t drink coffee, and vowed that breakfast made her feel ill.

The corners of his long, imperious mouth lifted slightly. ‘No, thank you.’ He transferred his glance to Cara’s face and smiled. ‘Don’t you have to get ready for work?’

‘Yes, but I can’t leave you holding the baby!’ Giggling, she flirted her lashes at him.

Disgusted, Gerry realised that she felt left out. Stiffly she reached for the coffee and began the pleasant routine of making it.

From behind her Bryn said, ‘I don’t run the risk of losing my job if I’m late.’

Cara cooed, ‘It must be wonderful to be the boss.’

Trying very hard to make her voice steady, Gerry said, ‘Cara, you can’t be late for your go-see.’

‘I know, I know.’ Reluctance tinged her voice.

Gerry’s mouth tightened. Cara really had it bad; last night she’d been over the moon at her luck. Now, as though a chance to audition for an international firm meant nothing to her, she said, ‘I’d better change, I suppose.’

Gerry reached for a cup and saucer. Without looking at him, she said, ‘You don’t have to stay, Mr Falconer. I’ll look after the baby until the police come.’

‘I’m in no hurry,’ he replied easily. ‘Cara, if you’re ready in twenty minutes I’ll give you a lift into Queen Street.’

‘Oh—that’d be wonderful!’

Swinging around, Gerry said grittily, ‘This is a really important interview, Cara.’

‘I know, I know.’ Chastened, Cara sprang to her feet. ‘I’ll wear exactly what we decided on.’

She walked around Bryn’s long legs and set out for the door, stopping just inside it when he asked Gerry, ‘Don’t you have to work too?’

Cara said, ‘Oh, Gerry’s on holiday, lucky thing. Although,’ she added fairly, ‘it’s her first holiday since she started up the agency three years ago.’

‘You’re very young, surely, to be running a model agency?’

Although neither Bryn’s words nor his tone gave anything away, Gerry suspected he considered her job lightweight and frivolous. Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she gave him her smile again and said, ‘How kind of you. What do you do, Mr Falconer?’

Cara hovered, her lovely face bemused as she looked from one to the other.

‘Call me Bryn,’ he invited, hooded eyes gleaming behind those heavy lashes.

‘Thank you, Bryn,’ Gerry said politely, and didn’t reciprocate. His smile widened into a swift shark’s grin that flicked her on the raw. In her most indolent voice Gerry persisted, ‘And what do you do?’

The grin faded as rapidly as it had arrived. ‘I’m an importer,’ he said.

Cara interrupted, ‘I’ll see you soon, Bryn.’

Bryn Falconer’s gaze didn’t follow her out of the room. Instead he looked down at the sleeping baby in his arms, and then up again, catching Gerry’s frown as she picked up the package of sterilising preparation.

‘Gerry doesn’t suit you,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Is it your real name?’

Gerry’s brows shot up. ‘Actually, no,’ she drawled, emphasising each syllable a little too much. ‘It’s Geraldine, which doesn’t suit me either.’

His smile had none of the sexy warmth that made it so alarmingly attractive. Instead there was a hint of ruthlessness in it as his gaze travelled with studied deliberation over her face. ‘Oh, I don’t know about that. “The fair Geraldine”,’ he quoted, astonishing her. ‘I think it suits you very well. You’re extremely beautiful.’ His glance lingered on the flakes of colour across her high cheekbones. Softly he said, ‘You have a charming response to compliments.’

‘I’m not used to getting them first thing in the morning,’ she said, angry at the struggle it took her to achieve her usual poised tone.

His lashes drooped. ‘But those compliments are the sweetest,’ he said smoothly.

Oh, he knew how to make a woman blush—and he’d made the sexual implication with no more than a rasp in the deep voice that sent a shivering thrill down her spine, heat and cold intermingled. Into her wayward mind flashed an image of him naked, the big limbs slack with satisfied desire, the hard, uncompromising mouth blurred by kisses.

No doubt he’d woken up like that this morning, but it had been Cara’s kisses on his mouth, Cara’s sleek young body in his arms.

Repressing a sudden, worrying flare of raw jealousy, Gerry parried, ‘Well, thank you. I do make excellent breakfasts, but although I’m always pleased to receive compliments on my cooking—’ her voice lingered a moment on the word before she resumed, ‘—I don’t know that I consider them the sweetest. Most women prefer to be complimented on more important qualities.’ Before he had a chance to answer she switched the subject. ‘You know, the baby’s sleeping so soundly—I’m sure she wouldn’t wake if I took her.’

It was the coward’s way out and he had to know it, but he said calmly, ‘Of course. Here you are.’

Gerry realised immediately that she had made a mistake. Whereas they’d transferred the baby from her arms to his in one swift movement, now it had to be done with slow care to avoid waking her.

Bryn’s faint scent—purely male, with a slight, distasteful flavouring of Cara’s favourite tuberose—reached right into a hidden, vulnerable place inside Gerry. She discovered that the arms that held the baby were sheer muscle, and that the faint shadow of his beard beneath his skin affected her in ways she refused even to consider.

And she discovered that the accidental brush of his hand against her breasts sent a primitive, charged thrill storming through her with flagrant, shattering force.

‘Poor little scrap!’ she said in a voice too even to be natural, when the child was once more in her arms. Turning away, she fought for some composure. ‘I wonder why her mother abandoned her. The usual reason, I suppose.’

‘Is there a usual reason?’ His voice was level and condemnatory. ‘How would you know? The mothers in these cases aren’t discovered very often.’

‘I’ve always assumed it’s because they come from homes where being an unmarried mother is considered wicked, and they’re terrified of being found out.’

‘Or perhaps because the child is a nuisance,’ he said.

Gerry gave him a startled look. Hard green eyes met hers, limpid, emotionless. Looking down, she thought, He’s far too old for Cara! before her usual common sense reasserted itself.

‘This is a newborn baby,’ she said crisply. ‘Her mother won’t be thinking too clearly, and could quite possibly be badly affected mentally by the birth. Even so, she left her where she was certain to be noticed and wrapped her warmly. She didn’t intend her to die.’

‘Really?’ He waited a moment—making sure, she wondered with irritation, that she knew how to hold the baby?—before stepping back.

Cuddling the child, Gerry sat down on the opposite sofa, saying with brazen nerve, ‘You seem very accustomed to children. Do you have any of your own?’

‘No,’ he said, his smile a thin line edged with mockery. ‘Like you, I have friends with families, and I can claim a couple of godchildren too.’

Although he hadn’t answered her unspoken question, he knew what she’d been asking. If she wanted to find out she was going to have to demand straight out, Are you married?

And she couldn’t do that; Cara’s love life was her own business. However, Gerry wondered whether it might be a good idea to drop a few comments to her about the messiness of relationships with married men.

Apart from anything else, it made for bad publicity, just the sort Cara couldn’t afford at the beginning of her career.

She was glad when the sudden movement of the baby in her arms gave her an excuse to look away. ‘All right, little love,’ she soothed, rocking the child until she settled back into deep sleep.

He said, ‘Your coffee’s finished percolating. Can I pour it for you?’

‘Thank you,’ she said woodenly.

‘My pleasure.’ He got to his feet.

Lord, she thought wildly, he towers! From her perch on the sofa the powerful shoulders and long, lean legs made him a formidable, intimidating figure. Although a good height for a model, Cara had looked tiny beside him.

‘Are you sure you don’t want one?’

‘Quite sure, thanks. Will you be able to drink it while you’re holding the baby?’

What on earth had she been thinking of? ‘I hadn’t—no, I’d better not,’ she said, wondering what was happening to her normally efficient brain.

‘I’ll pour it, anyway. If it’s left too long on a hotplate it stews. I can take the baby back while you drink.’ He spoke pleasantly.

Gerry tried not to watch as he moved easily around her kitchen, but it was impossible to ignore him because he had so much presence, dominating the room. Even when she looked out of the window at the grey and grumpy dawn doing its ineffectual best to banish the darkness, she was acutely aware of Bryn Falconer behind her, his presence overshadowing her thoughts.

‘There.’ He put the coffee mug down on the table before her, lean, strong hands almost a dramatic contrast to its blue and gold and white stripes. ‘Do you take sugar or milk?’

‘Milk, thank you.’

He straightened, looking down at her with gleaming, enigmatic eyes. ‘I’m surprised,’ he said, his voice deliberate yet disturbing. ‘I thought you’d probably drink it black.’

She gave him the smile her cousins called ‘Gerry’s offensive weapon’. Slow, almost sleepy, it sizzled through men’s defences, one of her more excitable friends had told her, like maple syrup melting into pancakes.

Bryn Falconer withstood it without blinking, although his eyes darkened as the pupils dilated. Savagely she thought, So you’re not as unaffected as you pretend to be, and then realised that she was playing with fire—dangerous, frightening, peculiarly fascinating fire.

In a crisp, frosty voice, she said, ‘Stereotyping people can get you into trouble.’

He looked amused and cynical. ‘I must remember that.’

Gerry repressed a flare of anger and said in a languid social tone, ‘I presume you were at the Hendersons’ party last night?’ And was appalled to hear herself; she sounded like a nosy busybody. He’d be quite within his rights to snub her.

He poured milk into her coffee. Gerry drew in a deep, silent breath. It was a cliché to wonder just how hands would feel on your skin, and yet it always happened when you were attracted to someone. How unfair, the advantage a graceful man had over a clumsy one.

And although graceful seemed an odd word to use for a man as big as Bryn Falconer she couldn’t think of a better one. He moved with a precise, assured litheness that pleased the eye and satisfied some inner need for harmony.

‘I met Cara there,’ he said indifferently.

Feeling foolish, because it was none of her business and she knew it, Gerry ploughed on, ‘Cara’s very young.’

‘You sound almost maternal,’ he said, his expression inflexible, ‘but you can’t be more than a few years older than she is.’

‘Nine, actually,’ Gerry returned. ‘And Cara has lived in the country all her life; any sophistication comes from her years at boarding school. Not exactly a good preparation for real life.’

‘She seems mature enough.’

For what? Gerry wondered waspishly. A flaming affair? Hardly; it would take a woman of considerable worldly experience to have an affair with Bryn Falconer and emerge unscathed.

He looked down at the baby, still sleeping peacefully, and asked, ‘Do you want me to take her while you drink your coffee?’

The coffee could go cold and curdle for all she cared; Gerry had no intention of getting close to him again. It was ridiculous to be so strongly aware of a man who not only indulged in one-night stands, but liked women twelve or so years younger than he was. ‘She’ll be all right on the sofa,’ she said, and laid her down, keeping a light hand on the child as she picked up the mug and held it carefully well away from her.

Sitting down opposite them, he leaned back and surveyed Gerry, his wide, hard mouth curled in a taunting little smile.

I don’t like you at all, Bryn Falconer, Gerry thought, sipping her coffee with feigned composure. The bite of the caffeine gave her the impetus to ask sweetly, ‘What sort of things do you import, Mr Falconer?’

‘Anything I can earn a penny on, Ms Dacre,’ he said, mockery shading his dark, equivocal voice. ‘Clothing, machinery, computers.’

‘How interesting.’

One brow went up. ‘I suppose you have great difficulty understanding computers.’

‘What’s to understand?’ she said in her most come-hither tone. ‘I know how to use them, and that’s all that matters.’

‘You did warn me about the disadvantages of stereotyping,’ he murmured, green gaze raking her face. ‘Perhaps I should take more notice of what you say. The face of an angel and a mind like a steel trap. How odd to find you the owner of a model agency.’

‘Part-owner. I have a partner,’ she purred. ‘I like pretty things, and I enjoy pretty people.’ She didn’t intend to tell him that she was already bored with running the agency. She’d enjoyed it enormously while she and Honor McKenzie were setting it up and working desperately to make it a success, but now that they’d made a good name for themselves, and an excellent income, the business had lost its appeal.