Nanny’s nightmare Letter to Reader Title Page Dedication CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN Copyright

Nanny’s nightmare

Emma reeled at the horrible coincidence that had sent her to the house where Diane, the woman Emma’s father had wanted to marry—the woman Emma had driven away—had lived.

There was now no chance of ever being more to Kane than a very temporary neighbor. She’d ruined any such hope seven years ago, when she’d been sixteen, grief-stricken and outraged—and determined and devious.

She wondered whether she should tell Kane, but dismissed the idea. No, it was over and done with, long gone, and it didn’t sound as though Diane came home from the other side of the world very often. Let sleeping dogs lie, Emma thought.

Dear Reader,

A perfect nanny can be tough to find, but once you’ve found her you’ll love and treasure her forever. She’s someone who’ll not only look after the kids but could also be that loving mom they never knew. Or sometimes she’s a he and is the daddy they are wishing for.

Here at Harlequin Presents® we’ve put together a compelling new series, NANNY WANTED!, in which some of our most popular authors create nannies whose talents extend way beyond taking care of the children! Each story will excite and delight you and make you wonder how any family could be complete without a nineties nanny.

Remember—Nanny knows best when it comes to falling in love!

The Editors

Look out next month for:

Accidental Nanny by Lindsay Armstrong (#1986)

The Nanny Affair

Robyn Donald

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Don and Lucky, and in memory of Morag

CHAPTER ONE

‘LUCKY! No!’

Emma Saunders deepened her normally gentle voice into an authoritative roar, but the barely half-grown dog ignored her, slithering beneath the bottom wire of the fence like an eel before racing towards the flock of sheep some two hundred metres away.

Their heads came up; a few of the nearer ones began to run, and Lucky recognised a new and exciting variation of chase. Barking, he set off after them.

Panic grabbed Emma beneath the breastbone. ‘Lucky, no,’ she yelled ferociously, not pleased when the elderly corgi at her side barked imperatively.

However, that summons did the trick. Reluctantly Lucky skidded to a halt, wistfully panting after the sheep, which were now in full flight across the paddock.

‘Here!’ Emma ordered, muttering, ‘Thank you, Babe,’ to the corgi as relief surged through her and her pulse rate slowed.

Realising he’d committed some unknown sin, Lucky approached carefully and with ingratiating whines. Her senses honed by adrenalin, Emma tried to ignore the car that drew up behind her.

It didn’t work. The skin on her back prickled in a primitive warning. Because she didn’t dare take her eyes off the puppy, every sound the driver made as he or she got out assumed vast significance. The solid thunk of the closing door almost made her jump.

A cold, dark, very male voice stated, ‘If I see that dog chasing my sheep again I’ll shoot him.’

Emma had to swallow to ease her dry throat. ‘It won’t happen again,’ she said without turning her head. Her voice sounded oddly tinny in her ears.

Although not yet a year old, Lucky’s mostly Rottweiler blood—and dominant male genes-told him that Emma might need protection. In a streak of black and tan he hurtled beneath the fence and positioned himself on four stiff legs between Emma and the unknown man, hackles raised, ears slightly flattened as he watched with wary alertness.

‘Heel!’ Emma said sharply as she turned to face both man and dog.

Lucky stood firm. Not now! Emma thought, repeating the command. This was a tussle of wills she couldn’t afford to lose. Her demand for obedience was not aided by the old corgi, who was eyeing the intruder with grave reserve.

‘Heel!’ Emma said steadily, refusing to accept the pup’s offer of a compromise, which was to sit just in front of her, black and brown face turned implacably towards the strange man.

Emma hadn’t yet looked directly at him, but from the corner of her eyes she could see that he took up too much room.

At least he understood dogs. Silently, with ominous stillness, he waited as she ordered again, ‘Heel.’

Lucky didn’t want to move, but he knew who was the leader in his particular pack. Unwillingly, keeping a cautious gaze on the stranger, he got to his feet.

Emma waited until he stood at heel before saying, ‘Good boy. Sit.’

He sat.

After patting him, Emma lifted her head. Because the setting sun shimmered in a dazzling aura around the stranger’s head she couldn’t discern his features, but the rest of him was formidable enough to make her check an instinctive step backwards. She didn’t need to see his face to be aware of an overwhelming presence, made more impressive by a curbed patience that sent a swift, chilling shiver through her.

Talk about dominant males! she thought, stubbornly refusing to be impressed. He and Lucky were a good pair.

Big—too big—the stranger had shoulders that would have done a rugby forward credit. They surmounted a magnificent chest that tapered to narrow, masculine hips above long legs. Neither trousers nor checked shirt hid the powerful muscles of a man who used every single one every day.

He loomed at least a foot above her five feet three inches, and every inch of that height was significant.

But it wasn’t his physical configuration alone that fired Emma’s senses. It was his stance—the lithe, disciplined authority, self-possessed and uncompromising, of a man who could deal with anything that came his way.

Emma, who until that moment had considered herself to be confident and assured, despised the uncertain note in her voice as she said, ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, but if I don’t make him obey orders he’ll grow up undisciplined.’

Coolly, inflexibly the stranger said, ‘And for a Rottweiler that would be disastrous. I meant what I said. If I see him in my paddocks again I’ll shoot him.’

Delivered calmly, it was a simple statement, not a threat. Emma knew perfectly well that any farmer in New Zealand had the right to shoot a dog that chased stock; nevertheless she had to block an unwise and impetuous response.

‘And don’t say he wouldn’t worry sheep,’ the man continued, not trying to soften the grimness in his voice. ‘From chasing to killing is only a step.’ He bent his head a little to examine the corgi, now sitting at Emma’s feet. His voice hardened as he said, ‘Usually it’s the work of at least two dogs, one a bitch.’

‘Babe is fourteen years old,’ Emma retorted crisply. ‘She can hardly stagger along the road.’

‘I’ve seen older dogs than that bale up lambs and rip their throats out. Keep them both off my land.’ Delivered in the same inexorable tone as everything else he’d said, there was no room for negotiation in the warning.

Emma nodded stiffly, grateful for once that she had long curling lashes, eminently suitable for hiding any resentful, mutinous expression in her grey eyes. She found herself staring at the exact place where a button fastened his checked shirt, revealing the tanned skin of his throat. Slow and steady, a pulse beat in the smooth hollow there.

A primal reaction—sharp and dangerous as a lightning spike to the ground—ripped through her. Lucky pressed against her from behind, and she put her hand down to his blunt head, stroking behind the ears while she tried to regain her composure.

Nothing, she thought dazedly, will ever be the same again. In some strange, terrifying way she’d been fundamentally changed—almost as though her basic cellular structure had been twisted and she’d been transformed into a different woman.

Oh, for heaven’s sake!

Had she said the words or just thought them? Whatever, she was behaving like a schoolgirl imprisoned in the agony and exhilaration of her first crush.

It was his size, common sense soothed. He was big enough to be intimidating—bigger than enough, actually.

Then he moved slightly, so that the sun wasn’t behind his head.

Told often enough that she was pretty, Emma had come to despise the word and its implications of softness and sweetness with all her heart, so she was normally unimpressed by outward appearances. Because she had big grey eyes and a soft red mouth, white skin with a delicate pink tinge, and because her black hair and lashes curled and shone, many people expected her to flirt and laugh and be light-hearted and docile and slightly stupid.

So she distrusted those who read character from the random mishmash of genetic inheritance that formed most faces. But this man’s personality as revealed in his countenance hit her with the full-blown impact of an earthquake.

He certainly wasn’t handsome. Beneath hair as black as sorrow the strong framework of his face added authority to his powerful presence, a presence emphasised by blazing, remote, tawny eyes, keen and fierce and impersonal as those of a raptor.

Striking, her stunned mind supplied, trying to be helpful by using words to distance her from that first, mind-blowing shock. Oh, yes, he was striking—and impressive, and disturbing, forceful and dynamic. And a whole lot of other adjectives she couldn’t think of just then because her brain had collapsed into curds.

In his thirties—old enough to set every one of her twenty-three years at naught—the stranger had a face defined by a blade of a nose and a jaw that took no prisoners.

And yet...

And yet, although his mouth was held straight by an uncompromising will, it was beautifully sculpted, and there was a probably deceptive fullness about the bottom lip. The man himself might make her think of a granite peak in a mountain range, bleak and stony and compelling, but in spite of the discipline he exerted on that chiselled mouth it hinted at caged emotions.

Interesting.

But not to her. Emma knew her limitations, and this man was so far beyond them she and he might as well inhabit different worlds.

He said, ‘Those are Mrs Firth’s dogs.’

‘Yes.’ It would serve him right, she thought, if she refused to answer his implied question, but one glance at the arrogant features and the cold fire of those eyes convinced her that discretion was the way to go. She added, ‘I’m looking after them while she’s in Canada.’

Straight dark brows drew together above the blade of his nose. ‘At her daughter’s?’ After Emma’s reluctant nod he pursued, ‘When did she go?’

‘Yesterday.’

‘When will she be back?’

With frigid politeness Emma said, ‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’

‘You must have some idea of how long you intend to stay here.’

Definitely not a subtle man. Emma’s tone chilled further as she replied, Three weeks.’

‘And you’re wondering what business it is of mine.’

He might be nosy and unsubtle, but he wasn’t stupid. She contented herself with a slight, dismissive smile.

‘It’s my business,’ he said, in a voice that had dropped to a dangerous, silky quietness, ‘because you can’t control that Rottweiler. I’m Kane Talbot and those are my sheep he was chasing.’

Resisting the urge to wipe suddenly clammy hands down the side seams of her jeans, Emma said, ‘I’m Emma Saunders, and from now on whenever we’re near your sheep I’ll keep Lucky on a leash.’

‘Will you be able to manage him?’ The fierce predator’s gaze assessed her from the top of her curly head to her gumboots. ‘You don’t look strong enough.’

Every hair on her skin pulled tight. Furious at the involuntary reaction, Emma said woodenly, ‘I’m stronger than I look, and Lucky walks well on a leash.’ He didn’t like it, but his sweet temper kept him obedient.

‘I hope so.’ After a taut, humming moment he ordered, ‘And shut both of them up at night.’

‘They are always locked up at night.’

Kane Talbot looked down his arrogant nose. ‘Good.’

Pushing her luck, she said sweetly, ‘Thank you. Come on, Lucky, Babe, we’ll head for home.’

Straight black brows rose as the man’s glance switched to the dogs at her feet. No doubt, she thought sarcastically, he called his sheepdogs names like Dig and Flo and Tip, good, practical names that could be heard over the noise of a flock of sheep and were easy to combine with swear words.

‘I’ll give you a lift,’ he said. He was driving a Land Rover, both dusty and mud-splashed, entirely suitable for dogs.

Formally, although not without a trace of relish in her tone, Emma replied, ‘That’s very kind of you, but the idea of the exercise is—well, exercise. We’ll walk back.’ She turned away, saying, ‘Home, Babe. Home, Lucky.’

As she and the reluctant dogs marched back up the road she could feel the cold burn of his gaze on the back of her neck. Her shoulders stiffened until the sound of the engine told her that he was safely back in his Land Rover.

She knew where he lived. Right opposite Mrs Firth’s house.

Oh, not in anything so ordinary as Mrs Firth’s charming bungalow set in its acre of garden and orchard, with a lazy little stream running over an ancient lava flow at the bottom of the garden. No, Kane Talbot, who owned large chunks of New Zealand’s northernmost peninsula, lived in a splendid house a mile or so from the road.

Kane Talbot, Mrs Firth had informed her, was old money and old influence; as well as holding a position of power on one of the big cooperative enterprises that ran the producer boards in New Zealand, he had varied business interests, moving easily between his life as one of New Zealand’s most efficient and productive station owners and his wider urban and international interests.

Furthermore, he was suspected of being almost engaged to an Australian woman from an impeccable and influential family.

While they’d waited at Auckland airport for the plane to Vancouver Mrs Firth, a cryptic crossword addict who enjoyed searching out the meaning of words, had told Emma that the most probable derivation of his surname was the old French word talebot, meaning bandit.

‘I’m not in the least surprised,’ Emma observed beneath her breath now, waving briefly as the Land Rover went by with a sharp toot.

Once well past, Kane Talbot accelerated up the metal road before turning onto a drive lined with huge magnolia trees, now coming into bloom. Just as no one could deny the pink and white fairytale glory of that avenue, it was impossible to deny the impact of its owner.

Whose first name, according to Mrs Firth, could be derived from the Welsh language. If so, it meant beautiful.

Emma grinned with involuntary enjoyment. Not likely!

On the other hand, if it came from the Manx language that was much more suitable because then it would mean warrior. And she could certainly see Kane Talbot as a warrior bandit. He exuded a no-holds-barred toughness, the hard, dynamic determination of a man who didn’t know when to give up.

Recreating that autocratic face in her mind, she recalled the harsh moulding of chin and jaw and nose, the decisive authority that revealed itself in every line and angle and plane, and in the intelligent, icy fire of his eyes. He’d make a bad enemy.

Yet he had, she acknowledged reluctantly as she called Lucky to heel again, been surprisingly calm about the situation. Most farmers confronted by a dog clearly chasing sheep would have gone ballistic.

Odd, then, that his controlled detachment had set warning bells clashing.

Her mouth twisted. Her response was probably an atavistic relic from the days when a woman confronted by so much male presence packaged in well-honed muscles had had good reason to be wary.

‘Lucky, heel!’ she commanded forcefully, frowning at another male seething with presence and packaged in smoothly flowing muscles, with a strength of will almost as formidable as Kane Talbot’s.

Oh, well, she knew how to handle dogs, and she wouldn’t be seeing much of Kane Talbot.

And if Mrs Firth, who had let her charming pup get away with murder, was to be able to manage him when she got back from staying with her pregnant daughter, then Emma would have to teach Lucky that dogs who wanted to survive in the country didn’t go chasing sheep.

She looked at his alert black and tan head and began to laugh quietly. Until that moment she hadn’t realised that as well as attitude he and Kane Talbot were an almost identical match in colouring, with the same sable hair; the tawny markings of the Rottweiler were only slightly darker than the man’s unusual eyes.

At least their black hair was sleek, not fluffy with curls like hers. Combine those curls with big grey eyes, fine, fragile skin, and a cupid’s bow of a mouth, and what you got was a vapid, baby face. The fact that Emma knew why she was always being treated as though she were much younger than twenty-three didn’t make it any easier to bear.

Oh, she was glad she wasn’t ugly, but she’d like to have a face with some character to it.

Once home, she rubbed both dogs down and fed them, then went into the house and surveyed the contents of the refrigerator. Tomorrow she’d have to drive into Parahai and buy some more food.

She had just steered Mrs Firth’s elderly silver Volvo through the gate when a large dark green car debouched onto the road from beneath the avenue of magnolias.

Overnight Emma had decided that her first impressions of Kane Talbot must have been coloured by her guilt about Lucky’s behaviour. No man could possibly be so-well, so much!

It was a conclusion she revised now as he stopped, got out of the vehicle and strode across while she closed the gates behind Mrs Firth’s car.

How could one man reduce the beauty around him to a mere accompaniment, Emma asked the universe crossly, his force of character effortlessly overpowering the natural loveliness of the valley?

Head erect, she waited at the car door while her pulses skipped a beat. Remember that Australian almost-fiancée, she reminded herself sternly.

‘Good morning.’ Kane’s tawny eyes examined her with a leisurely interest that lifted her hackles. ‘The warrant of fitness on the Volvo is overdue.’

Brows drawn together, Emma swung around to peer at the windscreen. Sure enough, in the excitement of leaving Mrs Firth must have forgotten to have it renewed. ‘I’ll make an appointment to have it seen to,’ she said, adding with rigid politeness, ‘Thank you for pointing it out.’

He said negligently, ‘I’ve got a cellphone in the car. Why not ask the garage if they’ll do it today?’

‘Well-thank you.’

She preferred, she thought as she accompanied him across the road, the man who had been so aloof yesterday. She didn’t want neighbourly actions and consideration from Kane Talbot He made her feel small and incompetent and—pretty.

After keying in a number he handed the phone to her, then moved a few steps away. He had good manners; she watched as he bent to examine some weed growing on the verge.

She blinked as a man’s voice answered, and regrouped her scattered thoughts to explain to the mechanic what she wanted.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll try to do it today, but I haven’t seen the car before so it might take a bit longer than usual.’

Emma frowned, then remembered that as Mrs Firth had only moved north a month ago the last warrant would have been issued in Taupo, a good six hours’ drive southwards. Where, she thought feverishly, dragging her gaze away from the muscled contours of Kane’s backside and thighs, she wished she was at this very moment. Except that Taupo was no longer her home.

She said, ‘That’s all right—I’ve got shopping to do.’

‘OK, drop it off, then.’

Kane stood up. She handed the phone back and smiled with what she hoped was cool and impersonal friendliness. ‘Thank you,’ she said again, ignoring Lucky’s deep barking from inside the house.

‘You’ve got ragwort growing on the verge,’ he said crisply.

Emma bristled; she’d seen the bright yellow flowers in incompetent farmers’ paddocks and was well aware that it was a vile pest, poisonous to sheep as well as smothering good grass. ‘Where?’

He pointed out a small rosette of leaves. ‘I’ll send someone down to spray it.’

‘I’ll dig it out.’

‘It would be a waste of time. In fact it would make matters worse because you can never get all the roots, and each one left in the ground sends up another shoot. Unfortunately spraying is the only way to kill it. Don’t worry—it’s as much to my advantage to see that it’s dealt with as it is to Mrs Firth’s. I don’t want to have to conduct a mop-up operation on my own property.’

Emma’s gaze flew to the paddocks on the other side of the road. Smooth and vigorously green, they had the opulent air of good husbandry.

‘I don’t suppose you do,’ she said. ‘Thank you. Mrs Firth will be very grateful when she comes back.’

‘I gather you’re house-sitting for her,’ he said.

‘Yes.’ She smiled politely. ‘Dog-sitting, really. Babe pines in kennels, and Mrs Firth thought this would be less stressful for her.’

‘Obviously you know her well.’

He certainly chose the straightest and most direct route to get information. Whipping up resentment, because it smothered more complex emotions she didn’t want to examine, Emma explained aloofly, ‘Until Mrs Firth came up here she lived next door to me.’

‘So you’re from Taupo.’

‘Yes.’ She was not going to tell him that Taupo was no longer her home; when she left Parahai she’d be going to a new job and a new life in Hamilton.

‘And how do you enjoy being nanny to a couple of dogs?’ he asked, smiling.

Amusement turned his eyes to pure, glinting gold, Emma registered dazedly. And that smile! Although it didn’t soften the hard framework of his face, it transformed his powerful male charisma into a potent sexuality.

‘Very much,’ she said, using the words to distract her from the intensity of her response. ‘Babe’s a darling, and Lucky—well, Rottweilers are very determined animals, so they need guidance and firm training, otherwise they believe they’re the leaders of the pack. Then they can become dangerous because they see their job as protecting the others in the pack and enforcing discipline. Lucky has to understand that in his pack he’s down at the bottom. He takes orders; he doesn’t give them.’

‘Can you make him do that?’

At the note of scepticism in his question, Emma lifted her round chin. ‘Yes,’ she said with complete confidence. ‘As any nanny will tell you, it’s just a matter of training and praise, training and praise until eventually he gets the idea.’

‘And what training do you have for this?’ he asked, looking down at her with unreadable eyes.

‘I’m a registered vet nurse,’ she told him coolly, ‘and

I’ve done a lot of work with a man who breeds dogs for obedience trials. I’ve known Lucky since he was six weeks old, and I can handle him because he really wants to please me.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ he said, his voice somehow goading.

Acutely and suspiciously aware of the breeze lifting her curls, the sun’s golden caress on her skin, the way the light emphasised the rugged strength of Kane Talbot’s features, Emma said, ‘Dogs usually do want to please,’ trying to cut off the conversation without making it seem obvious.

Foolishly, she looked him straight in the eyes.

She’d heard the clichés—‘my heart stood still,’ friends had told her, or, ‘I sizzled right down to my toes.’

She’d never thought to experience that sort of reaction to any man. Yet when she met Kane Talbot’s gaze she fell headfirst into topaz fire; alien sensations scorched down her backbone and she stiffened at the clutch of an unbidden hunger in the pit of her stomach.

Mercifully, a renewed fusillade of barks from the house dragged her back from that dangerous brink.

Twisting away, she blinked several times at the silver hood of Mrs Firth’s car to clear her sight. ‘I’d better get going,’ she said—how strange that her voice was perfectly steady—‘before Lucky decides to break a window to rescue me.’

It was a stupid thing to say, and to his credit Kane didn’t pick her up on it. Instead he said, ‘One day you must tell me how he managed to acquire a name like that.’

She slid into the car, realising only when she’d finished clicking on the seatbelt that he held the door for her. ‘I’ll do that,’ she said, nodding at a point just over his left shoulder.

‘If you wait, I’ll go ahead and show you the way to the garage.’

A little too sharply she countered, ‘That’s very kind of you, but if you tell me where it is you won’t need to bother.’ She managed to produce a smile. ‘It must be difficult to get lost in Parahai.’

‘Impossible. Turn left at the crossroads. The workshop is on the right about three hundred metres past it.’

‘Thank you.’

Her breath sighed out as he closed the door and stood back to let her drive on.

Accelerating down the road, she thought with real gratitude that she wasn’t likely to see much of him. According to Mrs Firth he had interests in Australia and North America, so he was often out of the country.

Which was just as well, because he didn’t appear to be attacked by the same treacherous weakness that still quickened her pulses. His hard, angular face hadn’t changed, and there’d been no answering glitter in the glacial depths of those eyes. Naturally, because he was in love with another woman. Since all of her friends who had fallen in lust had assured her that it was mutual, a meeting of desires across a crowded room, this had to be a crush rather than lust. She’d get over it.

And it had better happen soon, she thought, noticing that his car was already in her rearview mirror. Apart from anything else, the physical manifestations were embarrassing and extravagant

And scary. She’d never realised she could feel like this—as though the world and all her interests had suddenly condensed to an unbearable focus on one man. Exciting it certainly was, but far from comfortable.

Not to mention the fact that she was much too busy to waste time developing a hopeless crush on someone at least ten years older than she was, and light-years ahead of her in sophistication. Who belonged to another woman.

Setting her jaw, she drove sedately for ten minutes through farms and orchards, finally coming down a steep hill to the village. Parahai was a small town on the edge of a narrow, winding inlet Once a busy coastal shipping port and now a yachting haven, it served a diverse area of farms and stations and orchards. Because there were beaches close by it was a holiday town, so during summer the tree-lined streets were probably frantic.

In spring it was laid back enough to be friendly, and that holiday rush ensured that the shops were of a higher standard than she’d expected in such a small place. Emma liked the ambience, admired the pohutukawa trees shading the main street, and enjoyed the quick smiles of the locals.

She followed Kane’s directions to the workshop and got out, tensing as his car drew up beside her. Leaning into the Volvo, she pulled out her bag and asked sweetly as she straightened, ‘Have you discovered that your warrant is overdue too?’

He got out—all long legs and shoulders, she thought crossly—and surveyed her with tawny eyes iced by mockery. ‘No.’

Quelling the urge to be very rude, Emma headed towards the workshop. He caught her up within two strides.

The owner looked up as they walked in. ‘Hi, Kane,’ he said amiably, ‘I didn’t know you were coming in today.’ But that’s all right, his tone revealed.

Kane introduced him to Emma, who had to suffer the open interest in the man’s eyes as he said, ‘Yep, fine, no problem. She should be done in a couple of hours, no sweat.’

Clearly, having Kane with her made her someone to be reckoned with, Emma decided irritably. In spite of his easygoing attitude, there was no mistaking the mechanic’s respect. She handed over the keys and he got into the Volvo and drove it into the workshop.

Kane said, ‘I’ll drop you off wherever you want to go.’

It wasn’t actually a suggestion. With a small, acid pleasure Emma said, ‘If you don’t mind I’ll walk into town. I’d like to look at the gardens on the way and it’s not far.’

No doubt her smile was as insincere as her excuse, because the dark brows drew together for a second and heavy eyelids masked the topaz glitter of his gaze before he said evenly, ‘Of course. But you should wear a hat. Spring comes early up here and the sun can burn any time of the year.’

His eyes lingered a moment on the fine, pale skin of her face, bringing heat flaring to the surface.

‘I’ll remember that,’ she said primly, and set off down the road. Arrogant oaf!

Well, no, ‘oaf’ was the wrong word. He wore clothes that had been made for him by a very good tailor, and there was nothing provincial about him at all; he possessed a worldliness and self-assurance that was all the more potent for being entirely unconscious.

And beneath it there was strength and something predatory, something untamed and battle-hardened, she thought, walking briskly up the road.

Now where had that idea come from?

From the man himself. He had a warrior’s discipline, a power based on cold, unemotional courage and expertise.

And that, Emma scoffed, ignoring a particularly colourful garden, was pure imagination! He possessed a natural male magnetism that attracted a woman’s interest, and she could tell by his muscles that he worked hard, but, although she was certain he could handle himself in any situation, he wasn’t a superhero. They didn’t exist. She’d simply been overwhelmed by an excess of pure male charisma.

And everyone knows, she thought with a faint, malicious smile, that charisma has nothing to do with character—it’s a fairy godmother’s doting gift, handed to the unworthy as well as the good.

The big green car passed her with almost no sound beyond a little toot that irritated her even more; setting her chin, she strode down the footpath, examining magnolias and camellias and daffodils with a determined interest.

Kane had been right when he’d said spring came early in the north; the daffodils were in full glory, daphne bushes perfumed the air with their sharp, exquisite scent, the poplar-like cherry trees she’d noticed were ablaze with tiny rosy-cerise bells, and freesias and annuals mingled in bright profusion in every flowerbed.

Clearly no gardener in Parahai worried about late frosts.

The walk calmed her, so that by the time Emma got to the village she was ready to enjoy its atmosphere. First she called into the bank, to make sure that everything was under control with her account, and then she spent a very pleasant hour acquainting herself with the stock in both the bookshop and a small boutique that specialised in chic, casual clothes.

Nice, but too expensive, she thought, eyeing a smart pair of capri pants with a matching shirt and waistcoat in the crisp, clear grey that suited her. The move from her flat in Taupo to a unit in Hamilton, a bustling city some distance away, had drained more from her bank balance than she’d budgeted for. As she didn’t start her new job for three weeks, she’d have to be careful with her savings.

She found the local library and organised a temporary membership before choosing a detective novel set in ancient Rome and a big, fat historical novel written by a woman who was both a scholar and a brilliant author. Though Mrs Firth had many books, they were mostly about gardening and cooking; Emma enjoyed them, but wanted a little variety.

After that she sat out a shower in a coffee bar that overlooked a little courtyard, where a fountain spilled a shimmer of water over three graduated cockle shells and more flowers bloomed in pots, mostly big, blowzy pansies in shades of blue and purple and yellow. Smiling over her coffee cup at the antics of the sparrows outside, Emma let her irritation fade.

No doubt Kane Talbot didn’t intend to be so autocratic. He’d probably been born that way, she thought, and grinned at the image of a small baby with that imperious nose and chin bending an entire household to his will.

Finally she went to the supermarket, buying the staples she needed before allowing herself the pleasure of choosing a few mandarins, cushiony and glowing, a dark purplish-green avocado and some smooth, ruby, egg-shaped tamarillos, her favourite fruit, so frost-tender they only survived where winters were mild and short.

Leaving the bags to be called for, she set off for the garage again, enjoying the salt-tanged, sunlit air and the huge white clouds that sailed rapidly across the bright sky.

She was a few minutes early, but the mechanic had finished. Wiping his hands on a piece of cloth, he said, ‘I can’t give you a warrant, Ms Saunders, because she needs a new clutch plate. You must have noticed she was shuddering a bit when you started.’

‘Oh,’ Emma said blankly. ‘Well, yes, but I thought it was just because the car was old.’

‘She’s a dowager, all right, but she’s in great heart and a new clutch plate will make all the difference,’ he said encouragingly.

Emma asked the probable cost, and frowned at his reply. ‘That’s a lot of money,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to—’

And stopped, because he glanced past her as someone joined them.

‘Trouble?’ Kane Talbot asked.

The garage owner explained again, and Kane said calmly, That’s all right. We’ll leave the car here and Emma can contact Mrs Firth when she gets home.’ He switched that hard-edged glance to her. ‘If Mrs Firth agrees to the repairs, ring Joe before five this afternoon and he’ll get the part couriered up from Auckland tonight. That way you’ll have the car back almost as soon as if you told him to go ahead now.’

‘Yep, that’s right,’ the mechanic said cheerfully.

Aware that her reluctance to do this was based entirely on the fact that it was Kane who’d suggested it, Emma nodded. ‘OK,’ she said to the mechanic. ‘I’ll contact you as soon as I’ve rung Mrs Firth.’

‘Fine.’ The mechanic nodded at Kane before going back into the workshop.

Emma stood quite still, battling a chill, empty feeling as though somehow the ground had been neatly cut from under her feet.

‘Have you left parcels somewhere?’ Kane asked.

‘At the supermarket.’

‘Right, we’ll go and get them.’

Because there was nothing else to do she went with him, accepting the unforced politeness that put her into the passenger’s seat. He obviously didn’t care whether she wanted him to extend such courtesies to her—he performed them automatically. After a rapid glance Emma decided that he’d probably never even heard of political correctness or the feminist movement.

She felt, she told herself crisply, sorry for that woman in Australia.

The seats were leather and very comfortable. Emma folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them. The seatbelt fitting snugly across her chest seemed to be blocking her breath. Deliberately she inhaled, but barely had time to fill her lungs before Kane opened the door and got in behind the wheel.

CHAPTER TWO

‘ENJOY your morning?’ Kane asked as he turned the key.

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘It’s a nice little town.’ He changed gear and inclined his dark head to someone who’d tooted and waved from another car. ‘How did that Rottweiler get its name? Lucky is all right for a sheepdog or a Labrador, but it’s no name for a guard dog.’

Emma was halfway through her answer before she remembered that she’d planned to stay stiff and distant all the way home. By then it was too late, so she kept on going in her usual pleasant voice.

‘He was lucky Mrs Firth came to collect Babe from the clinic I worked for in Taupo. Or perhaps he was lucky Babe chased a roaming goat out of Mrs Firth’s garden and hurt her paw. She stayed in the clinic overnight, and while she was there a man brought Lucky in. He’d been given the pup but his wife thought it would grow into a monster that might eat their children, so he dumped it on us. When Mrs Firth came to pick up Babe the pup was in a cage, bawling his head off.’

‘And she couldn’t resist him.’ He sounded amused and a little patronising.

A swift glance from beneath her lashes revealed that he was smiling. No doubt he never did anything on impulse.

Looking straight ahead, Emma said woodenly, ‘When she went over to say hello, Lucky rushed across and pressed his face into her hand as though she’d been sent to rescue him.’

Kane laughed quietly. ‘Did he do that to you too?’

‘Oh, yes, but I didn’t tell Mrs Firth that. He was going to be put down, you see.’

‘Not exactly good pet material,’ he observed. ‘They’re tough dogs, and they need a lot of work to keep them happy.’

‘Corgis might look very sweet, but they’re tough dogs too, and Mrs Firth trained Babe well enough.’ This was stretching the point; although Babe was devoted to her mistress, and more than amiable with Emma, she was inclined to snap at strangers, and she certainly ruled the roost in the house.

‘You can pick a corgi up if it misbehaves,’ Kane said ironically.

Emma shrugged. ‘Rottweilers are good, even-tempered dogs if they’re taught properly. They’re really clever—they remember almost everything. I think Lucky’s playfulness and exuberance comes from his grandmother, who was a boxer. His jumping ability certainly does. He’ll be fine.’

She hoped she sounded convincing.

The car slid into the supermarket car park. Kane Talbot got out and so did she, walking quickly inside to pick up her parcels. Again he caught her up before she’d taken more than a few steps.

It was, she thought a few moments later, rather like being with royalty. He knew everybody; they knew him. He greeted people as they walked through the shop, meeting smiles and interested glances. But he didn’t stop to introduce anyone. And he scooped up her three plastic bags without asking whether she needed any help.

The sort of man who simply took over, Emma thought, replacing a quirk of resentment with resignation. Good in emergencies, but unbearable in everyday life. That poor woman in Australia—after a year of marriage she wouldn’t have a thought to call her own.

Back in the car, groceries safely stowed, he switched on the engine and asked casually, ‘Do you ride?’

After a moment’s pause she said, ‘Yes.’

‘I have a mare that badly needs exercise. I’m too big for her and no one’s been on her for a couple of months.’

‘You don’t know whether I’m any good,’ she said.

When his tawny glance flicked across her hands, the fingers curled. She felt as though she’d been branded.

‘I think you’ll be all right,’ he said with cool, abrasive confidence, ‘but if you sit like a sack of spuds and saw at her mouth I’ll rescind the offer.’

Surprised into a short laugh, she said, ‘All right, I’d like to try her out.’

‘She’s not placid.’

‘Neither am I,’ Emma said dulcetly.

Something glittered beneath the long black lashes. ‘No? You look as sweet and demure as a good child.’

Slowly, with great effort, Emma relaxed her hands until they rested sedately in her lap. She’d like to hit him fair and square in the middle of that flat stomach, right on the solar plexus so that she winded him, so that he doubled up and gasped and had to wipe tears from those brilliant eyes.

Restraining the sudden and most unusual surge of anger, she looked down unseeingly. She’d probably break every knuckle if she tried to punch him, and besides, he didn’t look as though he’d accept an attack with equanimity. She stifled the quick, sly query from some hidden part of her brain about how he’d deal with a woman’s aggression, carefully smoothed her brow and leashed her imagination with a strong will.

He probably didn’t mean to sound patronising—and then she looked up and caught the narrow gleam of gold in his eyes and knew that he damned well did.

She produced a smile. ‘I know,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I look like Snow White. That wretched film’s blighted my life.’

‘You wouldn’t have let the wicked stepmama drive you out into the snow?’

How did—? No, he couldn’t know! Colour seeped back into her suddenly clammy skin. When she’d been sixteen she’d fought her prospective stepmother with the only weapon she’d had, her father’s love, and she’d won. Now, seven years too late, she regretted it bitterly.

Fighting to keep her voice even, she said, ‘No. As for housekeeping for seven miners—never.’

‘And I don’t suppose you’re just hanging about waiting for the prince to ride by on his white horse?’

‘Give her credit,’ she retorted, ‘she was in a coma—she couldn’t actually go out looking for him.’

‘True,’ he said, and ruthlessly dragged the conversation back to the subject. ‘So you don’t intend to be any man’s reward?’

‘If we’re still talking about Snow White,’ she returned, ‘don’t you think that the prince was her reward? She’d put up with a lot, worked hard for years and fought off a couple of murderous attacks before succumbing to treachery, and then along came this nice young man who apparently believed in love at first sight. She deserved a treat, and he was it.’

He laughed. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Interesting—fairy stories read as feminist fables.’

‘Nothing as intellectual and rigorous,’ Emma said firmly. ‘It’s just that I got called Snow White so often that I had to develop some sort of attitude to the wretched thing.’

‘I’ll bet you were a tomboy.’

The arrogant, angular profile showed no emotion at all, but the corner of his mouth tucked up. It irritated her that he could read her so easily, and behind that chagrin flickered fear.

Men, Emma had discovered, didn’t really understand women. Seven years ago her father had refused to believe that his daughter was lying and cheating with one aim only: to smash his relationship with the woman he’d been having an affair with, the woman he planned to marry. Because Emma had never been rude, never thrown down any gauntlet, always been polite, he’d believed her and allowed himself to be manipulated by her feigned bulimia.

Looking back down the years, she shivered with dismay as she recalled how grimly she’d battled with the woman she’d believed to be a greedy, unprincipled interloper. Rage and grief had fuelled her determination. She hadn’t cared that her father had truly loved his mistress; she’d been determined to punish them for being lovers while her mother, made wretched by their affair, had suffered and died.

Punish them Emma had. Her father had sent his lover away, and—completely taken in by her pretence—devoted himself to getting Emma through her illness.

A year later he’d died of a heart attack. Sometimes, when she lay awake in the voiceless night, she wondered whether he’d have lived if she hadn’t taken it on herself to avenge his betrayal of her mother, if she hadn’t in turn betrayed her father by lying and cheating. The irony of her own behaviour was now very clear to her.

Kane Talbot seemed a lot more perceptive than most men. Those amber eyes, lit by a clear ring of gold around the dark centres, saw more than she liked.

More acidly than she’d intended, she replied, ‘Turning into a tomboy is the classic response to looking like Snow White. I climbed the highest trees, rode the toughest horses, broke arms and skinned knees galore, and had to prove myself over and over again.’

‘The onset of adolescence must have been a shock,’ he observed.

‘Isn’t it to everyone?’ Emma asked with offhand insouciance. ‘A friend of mine, a thin, shy redhead, was always the tallest in the class—everyone called her Legs. She got unmercifully teased all through primary school. At fifteen she shot up to almost six feet, developed a face to stun the angels, and is now one of the world’s top models.’

And Emma would bet a considerable sum of money that Kane had never had any problems with growing up—or with anything, unless it was swatting away women. That indefinable thing called star quality had probably been obvious from the moment he’d first smiled in his cradle.

Except that ‘star’ was a lightweight description, and there was nothing lightweight about Kane Talbot. The quality that made him immediately noticeable was based on calm mastery of his strength and dynamic power.

Of course, growing up heir to large amounts of money helped. People respected power and influence.

And even as that last snide comment popped into her brain she discarded it. Whatever situation Kane Talbot had been born into he’d still possess that air of authority and courage. It was innate.

Kane broke into her thoughts with, ‘And do you envy this top model?’

‘Good heavens, no.’ She thought a moment, then added fairly, ‘Well, the money would be nice, but I’d go crazy leaping around like they have to, not to mention the hours it takes to make up their faces and do their hair. Sorrel’s into meditation and poetry, so she just lets it all wash over her while she thinks out her next poem, or communes with the infinite, or whatever you do when you meditate. She’s giving it until she’s thirty, and then she’s going to retire and write the great New Zealand novel, which she’s sure is going to be difficult enough to keep her interested and striving for the rest of her life.’

‘She sounds interesting herself,’ he said.

Emma gave a mental shrug. ‘She is,’ she said sturdily. All men were intrigued by beautiful women; why be surprised—and, yes, disappointed—that he fitted the pattern?

He slowed, and turned into the gateway of Mrs Firth’s house. ‘I can hear the dogs barking from here,’ he said.

‘Babe never used to bark until Lucky arrived,’ Emma told him. ‘She taught him his manners, and he taught her that a dog is supposed to raise the roof whenever a stranger appears.’

‘And is she the leader of the pack?’

‘Well, she’s above him,’ she said, relaxing. ‘And I’m above them both, although I do have to keep reminding them that I’m top dog. Lucky is sure we females need protecting, and Babe thinks I’m a snippety young upstart who needs to be taught a few manners myself.’

Absurdly pleased at his laughter, she waited until he’d stopped to say, ‘I’ll get out here and then we won’t have to open and shut the gate.’

‘All right,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I’ll carry your parcels in.’

Emma sighed silently and got out. She needed fresh air to banish the sound of that low, amused laugh and calm her jittery heartbeat. ‘I’ll let the dogs out,’ she called, and walked smartly up the drive to the back door. Both dogs bounded out, although Babe stayed with Emma. Lucky, however, raced barking down towards the car and the open gate.

‘Sit,’ Kane said in a voice that held no fear and no apprehension of disobedience.

The dog skidded to a halt, then obeyed the repeated command and sat. Looking slightly bewildered, he stared up at Kane, who waited a moment to establish dominance, then held out his hand. Lucky made to rise, was bade sternly to sit again, and obeyed instantly. He sniffed Kane’s long fingers with interest and respect, then gazed up into his face. It was ridiculous, but Emma felt shut out from a purely masculine moment.

‘Stay away from my sheep,’ Kane said sternly.

Lucky’s tail, long because Mrs Firth didn’t approve of docking, swept the ground.

Kane said, ‘How do you release him?’

‘G-o-o-d b-o-y.’

He said the words and Lucky sprang up, eagerly sniffing around the car, getting ready to cock his leg until both Emma and Kane said ‘No’ sharply enough to make him look startled and back off.

‘Two nannies,’ Kane said with an ironic smile. ‘He’ll develop a complex.’

A sudden glow in Emma’s heart shocked her. Instinct warned her that Kane Talbot was not good medicine for inexperienced women. Although Emma enjoyed challenges, some, she knew, were not worth the exhilaration.

She and Kane had nothing in common. He was cosmopolitan, with a sophistication that was so essential a part of him he probably didn’t even realise he possessed it. Not for him the fake worldliness, the desperate effort to be cool of so many younger men. And he was almost engaged, whatever that meant.

Watching the broad shoulders flex as he hoisted the grocery bags from the boot, Emma thought that he’d know exactly how to make a woman so aware of him she’d begin to think of all sorts of disturbing things, like how good he’d be as a lover.

A disconcerting wrench of sensation in her stomach turned to heat. Fortunately he was so much older than her—ten years or so, she guessed—that he probably did think of her as barely grown up. He was just being a considerate neighbour; she was the one with the problem.

‘Here, I’ll take a bag,’ she said, when it was obvious he intended to carry all three in.

‘They’re not heavy.’

Setting her jaw, she followed him up the two steps to the brick porch at the back of the house. She didn’t realise that he’d stood back to let her go first until she cannoned into him.

‘Ouff,’ she muttered, leaping back with a memory of muscles like iron and a faint, sexy scent, not soap or shaving lotion, just Kane Talbot.

‘Sorry,’ he said calmly.

She gave him a brief glance, and muttered as she went in, ‘I didn’t see you.’

Leading the way into the kitchen, she took a couple of deep breaths to centre herself. ‘Just put them on the bench, please,’ she said, pointing to the smooth grey granite.

He did that, then glanced at her with amusement glinting beneath black lashes as straight as his brows.

Emma looked past him and said softly, ‘Oh, look outside—on the maple branch. A tui!’

The iridescent bird ducked and bowed along the branch, head held low as he sang a soft, seductive song. At his throat a tuft of white feathers bobbed like a stock in a lace collar when he fluffed his wings and repeated the sinuous movements and his song. Against the glowing red stems of the maple tree he looked superb.

‘What’s he doing?’ Emma asked quietly.

‘He’s courting.’ Kane’s voice was unexpectedly abrupt. ‘He knows how splendidly those branches set off his colours; he’s parading, looking for a mate, promising that he’ll give her ecstasy and young ones and keep all their bellies filled.’

A note in his words dragged her gaze from the bird strutting his stuff outside. Kane’s face had hardened into indifference, but there was a twist to his lips that gave his comment a satirical inflection.

Tentatively she asked, ‘Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?’

‘No, thank you, I have to keep going,’ he said, the words so quick and cool they were a rebuff.

Brows pleated, Emma watched the big car go down the road and turn into his drive. He’d been reasonably friendly, and then suddenly, as though she’d insulted his mother, he’d withdrawn behind an impervious armour.

‘Perhaps he thought I was flirting with him,’ she told the dogs, who were eyeing the packets of pet mince with anticipatory interest. ‘Well, he was wrong. Men with dangerous eyes and tough faces and volatile moods do nothing for me at all. Even when they’re not virtually engaged to Australian women of impeccable family. Whoa, hold your horses; I’ll make your dog biscuits this afternoon. I want to do some weeding first while it’s fine.’

Once outside, Babe found a warm place on the brick terrace and went to sleep, while Lucky investigated a score of fascinating scents around the garden before settling close to her. As Emma tugged at weeds encouraged into growth by the warm touch of spring, she decided that her unexpected holiday had altered direction. Kane’s arrival on the scene had sent her stumbling blindly into perilous, intriguing, unknown territory.

She yanked out a large sowthistle, patted back into place the three pansies its roots had dislodged, and tried to persuade herself that the slow excitement that licked through her whenever she thought of the man next door was uncomplicated attraction, a pragmatic indication from her genes that she was old enough to reproduce and that for the survival of her offspring it would be wise to choose a tough man who was a good provider, with enough prestige to protect her from other men as well as the strength to beat off cave bears and sabretooth tigers.

Basic stuff, an inheritance from the primitive past, still powerful even though it was outdated at the end of the twentieth century.

‘And don’t forget,’ she reminded herself, ‘the almost-fiancée.’

After an hour of solid work she stood to admire a bed of pansies and tall bluebells unmarred by weeds. But as she scrubbed the dirt from her fingernails she admitted that her next door neighbour had been constantly on her mind, disturbing her usually serene thoughts and refusing to go away.

The telephone rang. She scrabbled to dry her hands on the towel and ran into the kitchen. ‘Yes?’ she asked breathlessly.

‘Were you outside?’

Divorced from the actual physical presence of the man, Kane Talbot’s voice made its own impression. Deep and level, with an intriguing rasp in the middle register, it brushed across her skin like velvet.

‘I was washing my hands,’ she said, trying to sound cheerful and bright and ordinary. ‘I’ve been weeding.’

‘I thought Mrs Firth had Fran Partridge to help in the garden.’

‘She does, but Ms Partridge went away this morning, and anyway, I like weeding.’ Fran Partridge was a single mother and the probable source, Emma had decided on meeting her, of Mrs Firth’s information about the locals.

How did she know Kane was frowning when he said, ‘Where’s Fran gone?’

A subtle undernote in his voice betrayed his expression. Before she’d realised it was none of his business, Emma told him, ‘It’s the school holidays and she’s on a trip somewhere with her son.’

‘Of course. I’d forgotten.’ He was silent, possibly thinking of Davy Partridge, who lived at the end of the road and rode his bike up and down on fine days, singing at the top of his voice. ‘It’s unusual for someone of your age to be interested in gardening.’

Emma bristled. ‘Is it?’

‘Most twenty-year-olds prefer to be out and raving.’ An ambiguous note of—amusement?—echoed through his words.

Emma’s teeth clenched for a second on her bottom lip. ‘Well, perhaps because I’m twenty-three instead of twenty, I enjoy gardening.’

‘Ah, a mature woman.’

Definitely mockery. Her chin lifted. Very clearly she said, ‘That, I suppose, is a matter of opinion. To someone of your age I might appear quite green and raw.’

‘Sweet, actually,’ he said odiously. ‘Eleven years is enough to make us different generations. Do you want me to ring Mrs Firth and tell her what the problem with the car is?’

Didn’t he trust her to be able to dial a number in Canada? Or did he think she was incapable of understanding the inner workings of an engine? Well, Emma thought, I’ve got news for you, Mr Talbot, sir. Lords of the manor have had their day; nowadays the peasants are more than capable of running their own lives.

Calmly she said, ‘That’s very kind, but it’ll be all right. I’m sure she has some idea of how the car works and the terminology won’t throw her. Or me,’ she added dulcetly.

There was a moment’s pause until he said in an amused voice, ‘That’s put me well and truly into my place.’

‘I—’

He cut in, ‘One thing I didn’t say before—if you need anything, let me know. We pull together in the country; it makes life easier for all of us. Goodbye.’ And he hung up.

‘And goodbye to you, sir, Mr Talbot,’ Emma said, crashing the receiver down. Lucky’s tail swept the floor.

Laughing a little to blunt the raw intensity of her feelings, she said, ‘Takes a dominant male to know one! Kane Talbot might be used to running everyone’s lives around here but he’s not going to run ours. We’d better go out and do some work together, Lucky. By the time your mistress comes back I’d like to have you able to stare at a sheep without wanting to chase it, which means you need to practise those commands. And, speaking of Mrs Firth, I’d better ring her right now and see what she wants done with her car.’

Next morning the sun was shining, and although the wind from the south was cold it had polished the sky into the radiant silvery blue that spring claims as its own. Yawning, Emma drew back the curtains and scanned the green, lovely contours of hill and valley.

Mrs Firth had given her permission to order a new clutch plate for the Volvo, so the part should be in Parahai by now. Thinking of that telephone call, Emma smiled. She’d had to field a couple of enquiries about Kane Talbot.

‘A very sexy man, isn’t he?’ the older woman asked slyly.

‘If you like them rough-edged and masterful,’ Emma parried.

‘Ah, I’ve seen him in evening clothes—no sign of rough edges then! You young things might like your idols to be pretty, but as you get older you appreciate the value of strength and power and discipline. He has a charming mother too.’

‘It doesn’t seem possible,’ Emma said delicately.

‘I’d like to see you both in action.’ Mrs Firth laughed. ‘I must go, Emma. Thank you so much for helping me in my hour of need. I’ll never forget it, and neither will Philippa.’

Philippa was her daughter, five years older than Emma, and as Emma had already asked after her she knew that her pregnancy was not being an easy one.

‘I had the free time,’ Emma said cheerfully, ‘and it’s no hardship to spend it in a place like this, I promise you! Northland in the spring is glorious.’

Halfway through the morning, while she was drinking coffee out on the terrace, she said sternly, ‘Sit!’ to Lucky, and waited for him to decide not to race across the lawn and bark fearsomely at the car pulling into the gateway. He obeyed, but he did bark.

Tamping down a flicker of excitement, Emma ordered, ‘Stay.’

Whining, he obeyed, and she left him to walk across the green damp lawn.

But it was not the car of yesterday, nor the Land Rover, and the driver, although tall, was nothing like the man who had managed to make himself so at home in her mind that she knew the exact shade of his eyes: a mixture of gold and bronze and flickering tawny fire that somehow chilled his gaze instead of heating it.

The woman leaning on the gate smiled at her, and as Emma was telling herself sturdily that she wasn’t disappointed she recognised the smile.

‘Hello,’ Kane Talbot’s mother said, ‘I’m Felicity Talbot, and you are Emma Saunders, and over there, looking desperate, is L-u-c-k-y, whose name I will not say in case it persuades him to disobey you and come across.’

How could Kane Talbot have such a laughing, lovely mother? Emma shook the hand offered to her and agreed, ‘It would indeed, and I shouldn’t push him too far. Do you like dogs?’

‘I love animals.’

So Emma said, ‘Good boy, Lucky. Here.’

Even he fell for that charm. After hurtling across to the gate, he smelt Mrs Talbot’s extended hand and gave her a swift swipe with his tongue before settling back on his haunches and beaming at her.

‘What a darling,’ she cooed.

‘Your son didn’t think so when he drove past as Lucky was chasing his sheep,’ Emma said stringently.

Dark eyes widened. ‘Goodness, it’s a wonder he didn’t shoot him then and there. Kane doesn’t usually hand out second chances.’

It figured. ‘I don’t suppose he had a gun with him, so Lucky was—well, lucky. And he came back when I called him,’ Emma explained. ‘Kane was angry, but I promised most faithfully not to let the dog off a leash again whenever we went near sheep.’

‘I should hope not! He looks as though he’s biddable.’

‘He’s very teachable.’ Emma turned as Babe woke up and realised they’d been joined by a stranger. Barking, she hobbled down from the terrace and sniffed her way across the lawn.

Stooping to let her smell her fingers, Kane’s mother asked, ‘Is she blind?’

‘Not quite, but her eyes are failing. She hates being put in kennels, which is why I’m here. I’ve always looked after her when Mrs Firth’s gone away. And Lucky had such a traumatic experience at the vet’s when he was a puppy that he goes to pieces in any sort of institutional place.’

Mrs Talbot gave the corgi a final pat and straightened. ‘How lucky for Mrs Firth that you could take over for her.’ She gave a charming smile. ‘I haven’t come to interfere with your day at all, but to ask if you’d like to come up to dinner at our place tomorrow night. It’s just a little dinner, no fuss at all, and you’ll meet some of the neighbours.’

Emma did not want to socialise with Kane Talbot, but it would be nice to meet the neighbours. So she smiled and replied, ‘I’d love to, thank you very much.’

‘Good. Around seven? I’ll get someone to come down and pick you up.’

‘No, no, I can walk up.’

Mrs Talbot looked startled. ‘You’ll get your shoes dirty. It’s no problem.’

Clearly one did not attend a dinner party at the Talbots’ place with dirty shoes, or even carry a pair to change into. Emma said, ‘I’ll drive up, then.’

‘I thought the car was in dock?’

Emma said, ‘It should be ready by tomorrow night.’

Unfortunately it wasn’t. Emma, now dressed neatly in a silk shirtdress of black with a soft violet pattern, had had every intention of donning gumboots and walking, but late in the afternoon Kane had rung and told her laconically that he’d pick her up at seven.

Emma had opened her mouth to protest, then shrugged and agreed. She’d have graciously accepted any other offer of a lift; it was only because it was Kane that she wanted to assert her independence.

He arrived exactly on time and in a downpour of rain. Warned by barking, Emma raced from the bedroom, grabbed her umbrella and shot out through the front door, closing it carefully behind her. She’d had a last-minute battle with the strap of her slip—it tore from the bodice as she put it on and had to be anchored with a safety pin—but she met Kane with a smile and her best social manner.

‘Good evening,’ he said, taking her umbrella and holding a much larger one over her.

In one swift, startled glance Emma understood what Mrs Firth had meant. Kane looked as completely at home in the well-cut trousers and fine cotton shirt as he’d looked in the working clothes she’d first seen on him—not a rough edge in sight.

Of course his tailor had a good frame to work on. Kane’s lithe, perfectly proportioned body enhanced anything he wore, but more than that, his powerful male potency reduced his clothes to mere accessories, carefully chosen and then forgotten.

‘Hello,’ Emma said, pretending that her heart was ambling along in its normal unnoticeable fashion. Rain hurtled against the roof of the house, and she raised her voice to ask, ‘Do you want to wait until it goes over?’

‘No. Guests will be arriving soon, and I need to be there when they come.’ He looked down at the narrow-heeled shoes she wore. ‘Would you like me to carry you out to the car?’

‘No,’ she said firmly as heat burnt across her cheeks. She peered out at the rain, driving in curtains of silver through the brilliant glow of the security lights, then said desperately, ‘I think it’s easing up,’ and set off towards the car.

He got there before her and opened the door with one strong, negligent hand.

While she did up the seatbelt she watched him walk around to the other side. He didn’t waste time or effort, moving with an economical, spare grace that liquefied her spine, and when he got in beside her the muscles in his thigh flexed beneath the superb cloth of his trousers. Swiftly, precisely, he put the car into gear, long-fingered hands casually competent.

Emma’s pulse began to throb in her throat. On the way back from Parahai the other day it hadn’t occurred to her that only a few centimetres separated her thigh from his; nothing had changed, so why was she so aware of it now?

She stared out at the avenue of magnolias, big, swooping trees holding their splendid flowers up to the dark sky. When they fell the petals would carpet the vivid grass in pink and white for two weeks of exquisite beauty...

And because the silence in the car stretched and simmered with tension, she said, ‘Those trees are a magnificent sight. Who planted them?’

‘My parents, when my mother came here as a bride.’

Emma said, ‘She must delight in them now.’

‘Yes.’

‘Will the rain spoil the flowers?’

‘No.’

All right then, she thought, irritated rather than hurt by his abruptness, you can come up with the next subject of conversation.

The drive swooped past paddocks where large red cattle placidly chewed cuds in the sudden exposure of the headlights, then it branched and almost immediately a cattlestop rattled under their wheels. Skilfully placed lighting illuminated a pond large enough to be called a lakelet. Framed by trees and gardens, it glimmered in the dusk and then was left behind as they drove beneath more trees and between wide lawns.

Emma said impulsively, ‘What a magnificent setting!’

‘My mother will enjoy showing you around,’ Kane Talbot said levelly.

‘My mother adored gardening. I remember her laughing at her grubby hands, and my father asking her why she didn’t wear gloves. She said she couldn’t work in gloves.’

‘It doesn’t sound as though she’s still alive.’

Emma said slowly, ‘She died when I was fifteen—almost sixteen.’

‘That’s a bad age to lose a mother,’ he said unexpectedly.

Emma nodded. ‘Yes. Too young to be able to view her with any degree of judgement—I just thought she was perfect—and I was so self-absorbed I couldn’t see past my own grief. But I don’t suppose there’s any good age to have your mother die. Oh!’

The drive had eased around a clump of large trees and run out in front of the homestead, a splendid, modern structure that fitted the garden and the landscape, both enhancing and being enhanced by its surroundings.

‘It’s lovely,’ Emma breathed. ‘But surely the framework of the garden is older than the house? Those trees have been here a long time.’

‘The original homestead burnt to the ground about thirty years ago,’ Kane said. ‘After that we lived in the manager’s house until my mother persuaded me to build this.’

Emma glanced up swiftly at a stony, unrevealing profile. Choosing her words, she murmured, ‘It’s always a shame when a piece of history goes up in smoke.’

‘It happens. And this is a superbly comfortable replacement.’

Gracious, too: behind big double doors the hall opened out in tiled splendour. Lit by a wide skylight, an indoor garden planted with leafy, tropical shrubs ran in cool, soothing harmony down the entire side of the hallway, set off by the white flowers of peace lilies hovering above their glossy green leaves like small doves.

‘My flight of fancy,’ Mrs Talbot confided when she saw Emma’s admiration. ‘Kane indulges me shamelessly, even though I’m only here over summer. I’m an Australian, and winter here is too cold and wet for me, so I flee across the Tasman for nine months of the year.’

It was difficult to imagine Kane indulging anyone, but when Emma looked involuntarily upwards she surprised an ironic amusement in those enigmatic golden eyes. ‘You and the architect waited until I went overseas,’ he said, ‘and then changed the plans.’

‘It was just going to be a pool of still water,’ his mother confided, ‘very modern and tranquil and lovely, but I prefer plants. And—be honest now, Kane—don’t you like the plants better?’

‘How can I know, as I never had a chance to enjoy the water?’

His mother said sternly, ‘It will be much better when you have children. If the reflecting pool was there you’d have to put up rails, and that would spoil the look of the hall.’

A hint of reproof in her hostess’s voice caught Emma’s attention. She looked at Kane.

Although not a muscle moved in his face, she sensed that he wasn’t pleased with his mother’s comment. When he spoke it was with an inflexible undertone that made his words seem dangerously close to a warning. ‘True. Shall we go through?’

As they went towards a door Emma found herself thinking that although the plants looked lovely she’d like to see a reflecting pool there, its depthless, gleaming surface emphasising the serenity of the hall.

CHAPTER THREE

THE sitting room was big, with a high ceiling and wide windows. Emma had a confused impression of comfortable sofas and chairs covered in pleasantly muted stripes, of pictures and flowers, of light gleaming on silver and mellow wood.

Waiting for them were a man, about the same age as Emma, and his sister. They made a handsome pair—he with the easy grace and good looks of an actor, she only seventeen or so, with a soft, rather petulant mouth and huge green-blue eyes.

‘Rory and Annabelle Gill,’ Mrs Talbot said, introducing them. ‘Kane’s cousins. They’re spending the holidays with us.’

Rory Gill greeted Emma with every appearance of interest, but his sister had no eyes for anyone but Kane. Poor kid, Emma thought compassionately; there was a schoolgirl with a crush if ever she’d seen one!

After a perfunctory smile Annabelle emphasised, ‘Very distant cousins! Kane, if somebody doesn’t ride Asti soon she’s going to be too stroppy to catch, let alone mount. I’ll take her out for you if you like.’

‘Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,’ Kane said, smiling at her. ‘Emma’s agreed to exercise her.’

Emma’s head came up and she met tawny eyes that were cool and hard and commanding. After a prickly moment she lowered her lashes.

‘Really?’ Annabelle directed an accusing, chagrined glare at Emma and said sharply, ‘I hope you’re a decent rider. Asti’s pretty toey.’

‘I manage,’ Emma said, noticing the tiny, hastily smoothed frown that pleated Mrs Talbot’s brows.

‘How on earth did you get that chance?’ Annabelle demanded.

Kane said calmly, ‘I offered it to her.’

And such was the power of his personality that no one said anything more about the subject, meekly following his lead as he began to talk of places that Emma might like to visit now that she was in the north.

Nevertheless, Emma was pleased when the doorbell chimed, and the neighbours, mostly considerably older than her, and friendly, began to arrive.

At dinner she sat beside Kane, and if it had been any other occasion she’d have enjoyed it very much, although she thought that the table decorations—formally arranged roses—and the silver and very expensive china were a trifle too fulsome for a dinner party in the country. Beautiful as it was, it looked like a setting from a glossy magazine.

Still, that was a personal reservation, and there could be none about the food or the company. They talked about the happenings of the district, but also of politics and national events, books and films, so that she was able to hold up her end of the conversation.

And it wasn’t Annabelle Gill’s narrow-eyed condemnation that ruffled her composure, either—she could deal with the Annabelles of this world. What made her uncomfortable were the times she looked up and found Kane Talbot watching her.

He didn’t stare and he certainly didn’t leer; no, this was a speculative, probing regard, as though she was something new to his experience. He was probably more accustomed to sophisticated women, she thought with a rare flash of self-consciousness, picturing a blonde, long-legged Australian almost-fiancée with manicured fingernails, seriously good jewellery and Versace clothes.

After the superb meal Mrs Talbot fended off compliments with a charming reference to her housekeeper’s skill i hard work. Kane’s mother was an excellent hostess, making sure that everyone was enjoying themselves, drawing out the shy guests, dazzling everyone with her wit and warmth.

And yet, Emma realised reluctantly, although Mrs Talbot couldn’t have been nicer, whenever she spoke to her that all-embracing warmth dimmed behind a slight wariness.

Later, as they were drinking coffee in the lovely sitting room, one of the men said to Emma, ‘You’ve got that Rottweiler of Mrs Firth’s under control, I hope.’

Acutely conscious of Kane, Emma said, ‘He’ll be on a leash whenever I walk him, and he sleeps in the garage at night.’

‘Just keep him away from my sheep,’ the older man said jocularly. He meant it, however.

Hoping she could deliver on the implied promise, Emma said, ‘Don’t worry. He’s very trainable.’

Annabelle Gill, perched on the arm of her brother’s chair—to show off, Emma thought with unusual annoyance, her lovely long legs—said, ‘Did you read in the paper couple of days ago that Rottweilers are the most dangerous dogs in the country?’

‘To vets,’ Emma returned drily. ‘Closely followed by corgis and chihuahuas. I can vouch for that—I’ve been severely bitten by a chihuahua that looked as though butter wouldn’t melt in its tiny mouth. However, Lucky is not vicious.’

They talked dogs for a little while, and inescapably the conversation drifted to sheep-worrying. Emma listened. She knew that farmers dreaded the sporadic outbreaks of death and mutilation; she understood their concern.

One of the men remarked, ‘Of course the best way to keep a dog safe around sheep is to train him as a sheepdog.’ He looked across at Emma. ‘Perhaps that’s what you should do with the Rottweiler.’

Emma said, ‘They were bred to be guard dogs. I don’t think—’

‘You said he was intelligent,’ Kane put in casually. ‘I’ve got a puppy I’m putting through her paces. Bring Lucky up and we’ll see how he goes with sheep.’

His guests grinned and tossed the idea around, making jokes, guessing how a trainer would deal with something as naturally dominant as a Rottweiler. Emma sat silently, wondering why Kane Talbot had made the suggestion.

But it might be a good idea...

Although she could handle Lucky, she didn’t know if Mrs Firth was strong enough to deal with him when he grew to maturity. Many people weren’t; she’d seen enough big dogs, bred to guard, who terrorised their owners or the public because they hadn’t been trained with any understanding of their natures. Eventually many followed their protective instincts to the extreme, and had to be put down after attacking an innocent bystander.

She said, ‘But if he gets the idea that he’s entitled to be around them, wouldn’t that make him too interested in sheep?’

They considered this. The man who’d first suggested it said, ‘Can’t see it myself. If he’s trained to work them he’ll only do it on command.’

And Kane, who seemed to understand the way her thoughts were going, said coolly, ‘It’s worth a try. A big, intelligent dog needs work to keep active and interested. Sheepdogs have been trained to use their instincts to control sheep rather than attack them. There’s no reason why a different breed shouldn’t be at least taught not to chase them.’

Mrs Talbot smiled. ‘Let’s hope it succeeds,’ she said cheerfully, and gave the conversational ball a neat little twist that spun it in a new direction.

Shortly afterwards a dismayed Emma realised that the safety pin she’d used to secure her slip strap had come undone and, apart from savagely jabbing her shoulder, had relinquished its hold on her slip.

Affronted by the prospect of revealing a scoop of satin beneath her hem, she waited until her hostess was free and explained her predicament

‘Oh, dear, how annoying! There’s a powder room along the hall,’ Mrs Talbot said. ‘I’ll show you where it is.’

Although small, the powder room was luxuriously fitted and decorated with a throwaway charm that was informal and friendly. Family photographs hung along one wall in a kind of mural. Emma saw Kane in various stages—a child laughing at a large dog, an adolescent who’d managed to avoid the gangly stage, a young man sitting completely at ease on a horse.

Hastily she forced herself to look at the other photographs. One image—repeated several times—hit her like a kick in the stomach. Dark, brilliant eyes looked out at the world from a tense face; dark hair was dragged back in the child, drawn sleekly away from the lovely, adult face that bore a faint resemblance to Kane’s.

‘My stepdaughter—Kane’s half-sister,’ Mrs Talbot said, following Emma’s gaze. ‘Diane’s mother died when she was very young, so when I married her father I suppose I should have expected fireworks. However, I was very young myself, and I had no idea how a child could react to a stepmother. I expected it to be roses all the way, and fortunately Diane is as sweet-tempered as she is beautiful, so she accepted me happily. When Kane was born a year later she fell in love with him—not a sign of jealousy!’

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