Taken by the Pirate Tycoon (8 page)

He said, “Maybe you should think again.”

Samantha blinked at the steady light in his eyes.

Jase got up, pushing back his chair, and she stiffened, all her nerves jumping to life. But he only turned away and opened a cupboard, taking down a jar to spoon coffee into a coffeemaker.

Unthinkingly Samantha grabbed at her glass and finished the wine in it. It should have made her feel better, but instead she realised she was a little giddy.

How many glasses had she had? Three in a little over an hour? Or had it been four?

She was usually more cautious. Hastily she ate another grape and reached for a chunk of cheddar.

“We’ll have coffee in the other room,” Jase said. “I’ll join you there when I’ve made it, if you’ve had enough to eat.”

Samantha stood up, glad he wasn’t watching. She steadied herself on the back of her chair and then walked to the door. “I don’t want to be too late getting home,” she said as she paused. Just to make things clear. “I have a party to go to tomorrow.”

“Okay, Cinderella,” he said easily. “You’ll be tucked up in your own bed before midnight.”

If he had propositioned her, he was taking her refusal remarkably well, she thought with an irrational spurt of pique.

Jase watched her go, his hand tightening on the coffeepot as he placed it on the heating plate. He wanted to follow Samantha and like some caveman haul her by the hair—or any other part of her anatomy—into his bed.

When she’d disappeared from sight he put both hands on the counter in front of him and dropped his head, eyes closed.

She was the only woman who had ever awakened such primitive feelings. The only one he found so infuriatingly difficult to fathom.

He watched the drips falling into the glass jug and brooded. What was under all that glacial inaccessibility? She’d shown more emotion over a piece of
cheese
than she’d ever allowed him to dig out. When her mouth closed over it and her eyelids drifted down while her chin lifted at the taste, her expression had been the nearest thing to ecstasy. His imagination had instantly run riot with X-rated sexual fantasies.

His body had reacted predictably, and he’d had to turn his back and walk away to prevent himself from leaning across the table and grabbing her. This whole trip had been a test of his patience and self-control.

He’d hoped his boisterous, open family might break down some part of the icy shell.

If only he could get inside her head, her mind, her heart. If he could get her to trust him, tell him her real feelings.

The coffee machine seemed to be taking forever to percolate. Sugar. Samantha liked sugar in her coffee. He took a bowl of brown crystals from the cupboard, frowning at the centimetre or so of liquid left in the wine bottle, then lifted the coffee jug.

It was a long time since Samantha had seen so many stars. Here they weren’t dimmed by city lights, although the distant glow near the horizon was presumably Hamilton. A few clouds were still around, and now and then one crossed the polished-copper full moon still low in the sky.

The music in the room had changed to a selection of easy-listening, once-popular hits from the previous century. Standing at the big window, unconsciously she began to sway in time to a dance tune her mother used to like. She remembered that once they’d danced to it together, holding hands, while her mother taught her the steps, pleased that Samantha easily picked them up.

A feeling for music and rhythm was one of the few things she’d inherited from her mother. Not Ginette’s vividly sky-blue eyes, her pretty, heart-shaped face or her thick, lustrous strawberry-blonde hair, nor her natural charm and grace.

A gangly child with long limbs that seemed bony and out of proportion to her body, milk-skinned and naturally reserved, Samantha hadn’t repaid her mother’s efforts to dress her in frills and bows. Frills simply showed up her skinny legs and arms and featureless face with clear, almost transparent pale eyes, and ribbons slipped from her straight, colourless hair. Apart from dyeing it, a failed teenage experiment that for some reason had roused her father’s ire, there was nothing she could do about her hair except ensure she had a very good hairdresser. A pity Ginette had never seen her late-blooming daughter grow into her awkward form, develop a decent figure and learn to make the most of her meagre assets.

But once, they had danced together and Samantha had earned her mother’s praise.

The reflection behind her made Samantha realise Jase was back in the room, and she abruptly stopped moving.

As she turned, he straightened from putting a tray on the coffee table between the sofas.

He smiled at her and came over with his hand held out. “May I have this dance?” he said.

About to say she wasn’t really dancing and only wanted coffee, Samantha was assailed by an uncharacteristic impatience with her own caution, a reckless what-the-hell feeling that was alien to her and almost frightening in its intensity.

She placed her hand in his and Jase put his arm about her and held her lightly, their bodies just touching, swaying to the music, moving in small steps.

He lifted his head to look at her, into her eyes. The circle of light around the sofa left the rest of the room only dimly lit, but his eyes held hers with a mysterious green glow, almost like a nocturnal big cat—a tiger, or a panther.

She stared back at him, mesmerised, thinking vaguely that she’d had too much wine too quickly—and this was dangerous, wasn’t it? But that didn’t abate the tingling throughout her body, the heat that flooded her veins, the dreamy, otherworldly mood that held her in thrall to the music, the night, and this unpredictable, abrasive, stunningly attractive man.

The music paused, and Jase stopped dancing but didn’t release his hold on her. Samantha’s heart momentarily stopped, too. Then a new track began, the strains of a love-song filling the room, but instead of resuming the dance he just went on looking at her, unsmiling but with a question in his eyes. The same question she’d evaded earlier.

This time she didn’t look away, and after a moment he lowered his head and nuzzled gently at her lips with his mouth.

Samantha stood perfectly still, as she would have on the brink of a cliff. Her eyes fluttered closed and she savoured the taste of his mouth, the feel of his arms tightening gradually around her, until he parted her lips with his and her head tipped back, her mouth opening further under his erotic persuasion.

Her hand on his shoulder moved to curve about his neck,
and she felt his hair, amazingly soft and silky, settle against her skin. Her other hand was held in his, over his heart, the beat of it sending pulsing thrills all the way to hers.

He explored her mouth, teasing, tantalising, tasting, until she kissed him back fiercely, pressing herself closer to him, feeling him react unmistakably to that, the kiss becoming even deeper-questing, demanding, until her body began to sing, taut as a stretched wire, silently screaming with tumultuous, raw need.

Finally he tore his mouth away from hers and said hoarsely, “Have you changed your mind about staying?”

For a moment she simply stared at him, not even comprehending the question.

Before she had a chance to answer, he shook his head as though trying to clear it, and loosened his hold on her. “Hang on,” he said. “You taste of wine.”

“That’s a problem?” she asked dazedly.

“No…
yes
!” he said. “I think so. You drank most of the bottle.”

“You drank—”

“One glass,” he interrupted. “So I could drive you home. Which is what I’m going to do—” he drew in a harsh breath “—just as soon as you’ve had some coffee.”

Then he let go of her, so suddenly that she swayed. Or the room did, before it righted itself.

“I’m not
drunk
!” she said.

“Just a bit tipsy,” he agreed, his grin crooked. He took her arm in a firm grip and said,
“Coffee.”

T
HE
journey back to Auckland in the dark seemed endless. Samantha stared through the windscreen, her back rigid. Jase drove with a ferocious concentration, a frown between his brows, occasionally allowing the speedometer to creep just beyond the speed limit, as if he couldn’t wait to get rid of her.

Outside her apartment he flung wide the driver’s door, going round the car and getting hers open before she had time to unclip the unfamiliar seatbelt and do it herself.

He walked her to the entrance of the building, watched her use her key and said, “You’ll be all right now?”

“Of course.” She tried to sound gracious. “Thank you for a nice day.”

“Glad you enjoyed it.” His voice was clipped. A short, awkward silence ensued; then he said in a muffled voice, “Good-night.”

And was gone before she had closed the door behind her.

It wasn’t fair to blame him, she knew, aware that he’d been chivalrous, unwilling to take advantage of a woman who’d had slightly too much to drink. That she found the fact humiliating wasn’t his fault.

All the same, it was hard not to resent that Jase had been
the one to interrupt that kiss, just when for once she’d been on the brink of doing something hopelessly rash for a change, without weighing the consequences.

She would have pulled back, she assured herself. In another second or two. Perhaps three. Common sense would have prevailed. She ought to be grateful Jase hadn’t followed through, considering she hadn’t made the slightest effort to stop him. Hadn’t wanted to.

It was only a kiss, after all.

And this tearing regret would surely be over by tomorrow, when she’d be stone-cold sober.

She wandered to her bedroom, suddenly very tired. Her movements slow, she stepped into the shower, the warm water cascading over her body reminding her of the shower in Jase’s apartment and her earlier fantasy, shamefully erotic pictures dancing before her eyes. Abruptly she turned the shower to cold, gasping and shivering under the assault.

It didn’t stop her dreaming about Jase after she climbed into her lonely bed. His body lightly touching hers while they danced, his eyes lit with desire, his mouth warm and persuasive against hers, his smile crooked and regretful when he pushed her away.

The dream left reality behind, and she felt his hands on her body, freed of clothing, saw herself running her fingers down his chest, stroking his hip, his thigh, kissing him in places she’d never kissed a man in reality.

Then he returned the compliment, touching, kissing everywhere, until he looked into her eyes again, lowered his body and…

Moaning with pleasure, she opened her eyes to darkness and emptiness.

She bit her lip, the aftermath of that phantom climax still
throbbing as it gradually faded, and she saw she had displaced the sheet, her short nightie rucked up, leaving her thighs exposed to the cooling night.

Damn Jase Moore. He’d awakened a craving that had never really bothered her before. And he was the wrong man to satisfy it. If she needed sex there were plenty of other men only too eager to offer it with no strings, no risk.

An affair with Jase would be fraught with complications. A relationship was probably the last thing he wanted. He might be attracted to her physically, but it had been far too easy for him to act the perfect gentleman. He was in no danger of losing his head over her.

After dropping off Samantha, Jase headed for his Auckland flat, calling himself all kinds of idiot. For not being able to keep his hands off her. For halting what might have been the perfect opportunity to breach her defences and get inside her—literally and figuratively, even the thought making him hot and hard. And for feeling that way about her in the first place.

All day he’d been trying to maintain some objectivity against the fantasies that kept entering his mind, trying to keep things light and not spook her into retreat. He’d told himself often enough that falling for Samantha Magnussen wasn’t an option.

But when she looked at him that way, for once soft and vulnerable and accessible, he’d rationalised that one kiss wouldn’t do any harm. He’d half expected her to push him away as she had the last time he’d kissed her.

Only she hadn’t. Instead she’d melted into his arms and let him open her mouth to his, and…

And then for an instant, an aeon, he’d lost himself in the
feel of her body, so perfectly moulded to his, in the subtle perfume of her skin, her hair.

She’d tasted of wine, and that had finally penetrated the dim recesses of his brain, reminding him of the nearly empty bottle in the kitchen, of her un-Samantha-like mellow mood, of the way her eyes looked, gazing into his—sultry and slumbrous and inviting. Bedroom eyes.

Too-much-wine eyes.

She’d trusted him enough to drink more of his wine than was good for her, enough to make her drop some of her usual wary reserve. Enough to loosen her inhibitions. Maybe she’d even done it deliberately, knowing the effect it would have, waited for him to make a move.

And he had.

The perfect opportunity. And he’d blown it.

A red light brought him to a stop, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead at nothing while his brain went round and round on the same insistent, muddled track. He wasn’t thinking straight, he knew. And it was due to the most maddening, intriguing, enigmatic woman he’d ever met.

A toot behind alerted him to the fact the light had turned green, and he moved the car forward, pressing the accelerator.

He should be feeling virtuous, having stuck to his principles; a decent man didn’t take advantage of a drink-affected woman. Instead he felt frustrated and deep-down furious. Mostly with himself. Some part of him wanted to turn the car around and drive back to Samantha’s apartment, kick down the door and carry on where they’d left off in his living room.

Maybe he wouldn’t need to kick down the door. Maybe
she’d welcome him with open arms, drag him to her bedroom, take him to her bed. Where she probably was by now.

He slammed the door in his mind on a fantasy about what she’d be wearing in bed, how he’d remove it before…

A blinking orange light on the dashboard brought him back to reality. His petrol tank was showing low. He slowed and turned into the courtyard of a service station, glad of the distraction, although it didn’t last long enough.

Despite a perfectly comfortable bed, he didn’t sleep until the early hours of the morning. Once he’d showered and dressed he tried to phone Samantha with no reply, deciding not to leave a message on her answer machine. She must have already left for her Christening party.

Phoning wasn’t a good idea anyway. He needed to see her face to face.

And say what? That he regretted he’d taken her home instead of to his bed? That he wanted to pick up where they’d left off? Either approach would send her scuttling back into her shell. It hadn’t escaped him that she’d been chagrined when he’d broken off the kiss. She’d frozen him out from then on, no doubt feeling rejected.

Didn’t she have any idea what acting like a gentleman had cost him? His mother would have been proud.

The trouble was, anything he said might make things worse. He’d never been famous for his tact. She might prefer not to discuss the incident at all.

Yes, that would be her style, he decided caustically. He should probably just leave her alone for a while until her embarrassment faded, let her get over it. Not the way he’d prefer—he’d been accused more than once of tackling personal problems like a bull at a gate—but he’d never met a woman quite like Samantha.

And while she was—hopefully—getting over it, maybe he’d come up with another plan of attack.

He spent all Monday at the Auckland office, itching to pick up the phone and telling himself to back off as he’d decided. After working until nine at night, he drove back towards Hamilton. On his arrival at the farm he was surprised to see Rachel’s car outside his parents’ new garage. He didn’t think they’d been expecting her.

In the morning he decided to drop in for breakfast at the farmhouse and say hello to Rachel at the same time.

The minute he entered the kitchen at the back door he knew something was wrong. His mother looked upset as she stood at the toaster, and his father was scowling over his home-grown beef sausages and free-range eggs.

“What’s happened?” he asked. “Rachel?”

His mother said, “In her room. She’s staying for a few days.” The toaster popped and she removed a couple of pieces. “Do you want breakfast?”

“Later,” he said. “Is she all right?”

“She says she’s left Bryn.”

It felt like a punch in the gut.
“Why?”

His father looked up. “She’s not talking,” he growled.

“I told her,” his mother said, “all marriages hit rough patches, but…I don’t know.”

A feeling of foreboding had lodged in Jase’s stomach. He touched his mother’s arm, then left the kitchen to go down the hallway and knock on the door of the spare bedroom. “Rache?” Shortening her name as he had when they were kids. “You okay?”

“Go away, Jase,” came the muffled reply. “I’m fine.”

He snorted at that obvious untruth. “You’d better be decent because I’m coming in.” He gave her a couple of seconds and then opened the door.

Rachel was sitting on the bed, wearing shorts and a baggy T-shirt. She tried to glare at him, but it didn’t come off because her eyes were full of tears. She turned away to grab a handful of tissues from a box on the dressing table, and wiped her eyes and nose. “I said, go away!” she reiterated huskily.

“Hey,” he said, “I just want to help. What the hell is going on? It’s not like you to come running home to Mummy.”

Her head rose defensively. “It’s just until I find a place. Somewhere I won’t bump into—” she swallowed a gulp “—into Bryn. But last night—this was the only place that felt safe.”

“Safe?” Jase’s hackles rose. “He didn’t
hit
you? If he did I’ll—”

“
No!
Bryn would
never
do that. You know he wouldn’t!”

“What
did
he do?” Jase demanded grimly.

“Nothing! It’s all my fault.”

Her fault? The slight lifting of the dread inside him should have made him feel ashamed. Slowly he said, “So, what did
you
do?”

“I didn’t exactly
do
anything,” she said, “except marry him when I knew that…” She looked away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Not even to him?”

“
Especially
not to him. It’s not some tiff that can be resolved by talking.”

Baffled, he said, “Well, kiddo, if you feel like drowning your sorrows, or want a shoulder to cry on, come over to my place. I’ve got some pretty good wine we can open.” He grabbed one of her dark curls and gave it a gentle tug, then left her.

Surely this was nothing to do with Samantha? The way she’d kissed him on Saturday he’d been certain she couldn’t still be in love with Bryn. Or even think she was.

And, he realised, he was also sure now that she’d never had designs on his brother-in-law. There was a lot he didn’t know about her, but his gut told him she wouldn’t deliberately break up a marriage. Whatever hang-ups she had, whatever feelings she might once have had for Bryn, she was honest and true and Rachel had nothing to fear from her.

The revelation lifted a weight he hadn’t known he’d been carrying.
This
was what he needed to tell Samantha. That he had faith in her integrity. Before he told her anything else.

He went back up the driveway to work and spent most of the day at his desk surrounded by his staff. After they’d left he went on working, partly because he felt guilty about his lack of concentration during the day, and partly to clear some uninterrupted time to spend in Auckland, to convince Samantha that they needed to see where that kiss they’d shared might take them. That it was important for both of them.

At last he got up, made himself a hasty meal and was deep in a computer science magazine article about quantum physics when the automatic buzzer connected to the front door burred, and he saw Rachel’s face on the built-in screen.

After he’d ushered her into his living room she said, “Mum and Dad are treating me like a ticking bomb. When they aren’t tiptoeing around they’re offering cake or coffee, or advice. I love them and I’m grateful, but…”

“Uh-huh,” Jase said warily. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to treat her, but obviously being coddled wasn’t it. “Want to watch TV with me?”

“Love to!” He guessed she was happy not to have to talk.

He broke out a bottle of red wine and produced the remains of the cheese he’d shared with Samantha. They drank and nibbled through a couple of programmes and then watched a film from his collection until after midnight.

He saw Rachel grow seemingly relaxed and then droopy, her legs tucked under her on the sofa, her arm resting on a cushion while she sipped at the wine.

The film over, he lifted the remote and switched off.

Rachel was swirling the last of the wine in her glass.

“You okay?” he asked.

She tried to smile, but a tear slipped down her cheek and impatiently she wiped it away. “Sorry. I’ve got to stop this.” Her voice was muffled, a little slurred.

“Feel free. Maybe the wine was a mistake.” He wondered if she’d eaten anything before arriving at his door.

“No. It helps…a bit. Just this once, though.” She brushed away another tear. “My biggest mistake was marrying Bryn. His, too.”

“Yeah? Why?”

She was staring down at her glass, her voice so low she might have been talking to herself. “I can’t give him what he wants. Needs. If I’d known, I would never have married him. I saw him today with Samantha Magnussen. She’s the kind of woman he—”

“Samantha?”
Jase felt as if he’d been doused in icy water, his whole body going rigid, his chest tight.

Rachel looked up, startled. “You know her, don’t you? Of course, you’ve been working for her, Bryn said.” Her voice wobbled and she blinked hard. “She’s beautiful, and clever—”

“So are you!” Jase said loyally. “And he married
you.
”