Natalia’s lashes drooped as his wife all but dragged him away. Damn Dean Jamieson and his lies. How long was it going to take her to live down the reputation he’d deliberately saddled her with?

‘He might see you around,’ a disturbing masculine voice murmured from behind her, ‘but not if she sees you first.’

Stiff with pride, Natalia turned abruptly, only to collide with a large, immovable object. Before she had a chance to trip, hands clamped just above her elbows. Powerful fingers held her for a moment, startlingly tanned against her pale skin.

Of course she knew who it was.

‘Sorry,’ she muttered, lifting her head to look the stranger in the eyes.

Their impact drove the breath from her lungs. Behind the black silk mask, narrowed tawny-gold slivers were fringed by black lashes in a watchful, almost calculating scrutiny. In spite of that, Natalia was left in no doubt that he liked what he saw.

On the right-hand side of his face a thin, faded scar slashed downwards to the point of his jaw. Although it heightened the forceful, uncompromising power of his honed features, Natalia had to stop herself from tracing it with a finger.

Latent sensation flamed into life inside her—a volatile mixture of fire and ice, honey and gall, velvet and steel that combined in a fierce, terrifyingly elemental hunger.

‘I’m sorry—I knocked you,’ the unsmiling stranger said.

‘No, it was my fault—I wasn’t looking where I was going,’ she returned, reckless in her desire to get away.

One hand slid down her forearm. As she stared, dumbstruck, lean fingers rested on her pulse, testing the rapid, heavy throbbing of her heartbeat in the fragile blue veins.

Face hot, she wrenched free; he didn’t try to hold her.

‘You can feel mine if you like. It’s beating just as fast as yours,’ he purred, his devil-dark voice pierced by a shockingly intimate note.

She couldn’t breathe. Perhaps this was an asthma attack; she’d heard they could come on like this, unexpected, terrifying…

‘No, thanks,’ she said, appalled by her unsure tone.

His laughter shivered through her, stroked her slowly, as sensuous as sleek fur against her skin.

‘Dance with me,’ he said, and without waiting for her answer took her hand in his and led her to the floor.

Later she wondered what on earth he’d done to her, why she hadn’t walked away from him back to her own party. Perhaps the old-fashioned waltz had cast some old-fashioned spell on her, melting her into docility.

Turning her into his arms with practised skill, he swept her on to the floor. Of course he was a brilliant dancer.

As ravishing Viennese music filled the room, Natalia’s brain switched off. For the first time in her life she experienced the mindless pull of desire, existing only through her senses—senses swamped by the man who guided her through the crowds on the floor. Lost in a silent, erotic fantasy, they danced the whole set without speaking.

Until the music changed she’d begun to think he was never going to speak; then, as though that wordless, fiercely intent communion had never happened, he said, ‘I’m Clay Beauchamp, and you’re Natalia Gerner.’

Like its owner, his voice had immediate impact. Its masculine depth—emphasised by an undertone of raw strength—lifted the hair on the back of Natalia’s neck as she retorted, ‘And I don’t like being ordered to dance.’

Although she was staring rigidly over his shoulder she caught a flash of white teeth when he smiled. ‘I’ll remember that in future.’ The fingers around hers tightened fractionally, then loosened.

Natalia stiffened and almost missed a step. ‘Sorry,’ she said tonelessly.

‘My fault,’ he said, and pivoted with a lithe masculine grace.

As they spun she realised he’d used the steps to pull her a little closer. Clay Beauchamp was too sophisticated for the usual overt manoeuvres of men looking for a cheap thrill and a taste of sexual power. His grip was relaxed enough to allow her the illusion of freedom, yet for a suffocating second she felt as though he’d caged her.

It gave her such a shock she lifted her head and pulled back.

When he smiled one corner of his mouth lifted a little higher than the other, giving him a slightly lopsided look that should have reduced that potent male attraction. At the very least he should have looked endearing.

Except that ‘endearing,’ she thought, watching the hard curve of that classically carved mouth, was not a word she’d ever associate with this man.

For the first time in her life, Natalia tripped on the dance floor.

‘Sorry,’ Clay Beauchamp murmured, gleaming topaz eyes raking her face as he supported her. ‘And we were doing so well, I’d even stopped counting one-two-three.’

He waltzed as though he’d been born in Vienna. And he was really getting to her. Time for damage control.

With the cool politeness her mother had drummed into her, she asked, ‘Are you a visitor here, Mr Beauchamp?’

‘Temporarily.’ Amusement deepened his voice.

Natalia hoped she wasn’t spoiled or over-confident, but she’d never been laughed at before. It was a challenge she should refuse.

Unfortunately she’d always found it almost impossible to back away from a dare. Lifting her lashes, she surveyed the powerful, angular face with a glinting appreciation. ‘But surely all visitors are temporary?’ she asked demurely, knowing the moment she’d spoken that she’d made an error of judgement.

This man wasn’t the sort you teased.

‘Not in this case. I’ve bought Pukekahu Station,’ he said indolently.

Guilt roiled with anger and settled icily in her stomach. Resisting it—for what had she to feel guilty about?—Natalia directed a slanting glance at the angular face above hers. ‘How appropriate. You’ve got the right eyes for a place that’s called the Hill of Hawks.’ She was dicing with danger, yet she couldn’t have banished the mockery that flicked through her words.

Outlined with sinister exactness by the black mask, those golden eyes narrowed. ‘And the right nose too.’

Common sense kicking in too late, Natalia forced her voice into an approximation of friendly interest. ‘It’s going to take you a while to bring Pukekahu into profit again. Even the house is falling down. Are you planning to live there?’

‘I live in Auckland.’

She didn’t like the silences: they sizzled with tension. ‘Unusual place for a farmer to live,’ she said lightly.

‘I’m not exactly a farmer. More an agri-businessman.’

‘Ah, one of the new breed of absentee landlords,’ she returned affably. ‘As I said, temporary.’

Her hand—loose on his shoulder—registered a sudden tightening of muscles beneath the superb cloth of his dinner jacket. It lasted for a second only, but she was recklessly pleased that she’d got through his formidable armour.

‘I’ve never heard myself described as an absentee landlord before,’ he drawled. ‘I prefer to think I’m part venture capitalist, part restorer of over-stocked farmland.’

‘How altruistic.’ Her tone oozed blandness, but he’d have had to be stupid not to recognise the caustic lash to each word. And Natalia would bet her next year’s income that Clay Beauchamp wasn’t stupid.

‘You’re an entrepreneur yourself, I believe,’ he said obliquely. ‘Bowden’s capsicum queen, who just happens to share a boundary with Pukekahu.’

It took all her will to say in a bright voice, ‘I’m flattered, but “capsicum queen” doesn’t quite cut it. There’s something inherently unromantic about peppers, don’t you think? Perhaps it’s their shape—so sturdy and blocky.’

‘Are you a romantic, Natalia?’ Clay Beauchamp asked with a subtle, predatory inflection.

Her fault; she’d given him the perfect opening. ‘Not in the least,’ she returned crisply, smiling with sunny nonchalance into his face.

For several seconds he and Natalia duelled, using those most potent of weapons, the eyes. Natalia refused to lower her lashes; in the end he won by the simple trick of dropping that tawny gaze to her mouth.

Not fair, she thought, irrationally elated—but not surprising either. Clay Beauchamp probably never played fair.

‘Good,’ he said enigmatically. ‘Romantics are a real nuisance. And, speaking as an unromantic male, do you wear contact lenses to brighten the colour of those magnificent eyes?’

Until then she hadn’t realised that she was rather proud of her eyes, but what really flicked that pride was that he’d noticed.

Well, she could salvage something. With a deliberate sweep of her lashes, she allowed her gaze to rest a significant moment on the hard line of his jaw and purred, ‘You can’t really expect me to admit to that. However, I’ll confess that I wear lipstick.’

‘So you’re a tease,’ he said, his smile a swift, savage punishment. ‘I’m disappointed—you seem more direct, more open.’

Anger glittered in the depths of her eyes, licked in a flame across her cheekbones. With that cat-like smile still pinned to her lips, she said, ‘I’m every bit as frank as you are.’ There, that should shut him up, because if ever a man held secrets close to his chest this one did.

‘I doubt it.’ Beneath the silk mask his intent stare was pure gold. Without breaking eye contact he pivoted gracefully, and this time the hand across her back came to rest on the heated skin just above her waist.

Although Clay released her almost immediately, and his hand left her skin for a more discreet position, its imprint burned like a brand. Tension sawed through her nerves, producing a feverish need.

Calmly he said, ‘I want you, Natalia. I wanted you as soon as I saw you glimmering like a serpent woman across the room. I give you fair warning—I’m hunting.’

Her jaw dropped. Stunned, she stared at him, imprisoned by the implacable, leashed hunger of his eyes.

‘Not so open, after all,’ he murmured, a taunting amusement not warming his expression. ‘At least you didn’t say that you wouldn’t sleep with me if I were the last man on earth.’

Her brain began to work again, overriding the violent pulse of desire. ‘You’re accustomed to that response?’ she asked, arching her brows in pretended surprise. ‘Then it’s time you moved up to a better class of mistress. Not me— I’m sorry, I’m too busy at the moment—but I can introduce you to several women who might be interested.’ In spite of her attempt at sophisticated repartee she couldn’t banish the bite from her words.

What was it about her that made men think she was easy? Dean had expected her to fall into bed with him, been angry when she refused.

Clay’s long black lashes half covered his eyes. He laughed, a sound that battered the remnants of her composure. ‘So much for honesty,’ he said ironically, and once more tightened his arms so that for a second she was held inexorably against him. Still dancing with a lithe masculine grace, still in perfect time to the music, he forced her to accept the reality of his lean, aroused body.

To her intense humiliation, Natalia’s betrayed her. In her hidden, inner reaches desire worked its physical magic, overwhelming her in a smooth, heated tide. Although superhuman will held back her rash impulse to signal a surrender, she had to fight a bitter battle with untamed need—and he, damn him, knew it!

She’d been attracted to Dean—but this was a wilder, fiercer response, and it scared her. This, she thought, trying desperately to regroup her defences, was the sort of thing that toppled kingdoms.

Clay relaxed his grip. ‘Physical evidence is more trustworthy than words. They often deceive—the body never does.’

If there had been the slightest satisfaction—the faintest note of smugness—in his voice, Natalia would have twisted free and stalked across the crowded dance floor to the other side of the room. What stopped her was the raw catch to his words, the harsh, startled edge he couldn’t conceal. When she looked up, darkness prowled the golden eyes.

And that made her angrily, foolishly confident. Carefully she uncurled the fingers that had dug into his upper arm. Carefully she positioned her gaze over his shoulder.

People moved in a bright kaleidoscope of colour around the floor, the masks turning familiar faces to strangers. Chatter and laughter echoed in her ears, backed by the succulent, achingly poignant sound of a turn-of-the-century waltz—one of her mother’s favourites.

Coolly, deliberately, she asked, ‘Is this your usual mode of attack? A pre-emptive strike with no attempt at subtlety? What follows now—all-out war?’

His tight smile revealed strong white teeth that snapped out one word. ‘Surrender.’

CHAPTER TWO

NATALIA should have laughed in his face. She should have said, Really? with every ounce of sarcasm she could muster, lifted her brows in scorn and disdain and left Clay there in the middle of the dance floor.

Instead her mouth dried and she felt as though she’d fallen into a black hole and was being torn apart by forces she couldn’t fight. Beneath that succinct word there had been a controlled, menacing determination, the remorseless patience of the hunter he’d likened himself to.

She was frightened. She was exhilarated. And that reckless excitement wasn’t tempered by common sense or pragmatism. He’d issued a challenge, one she was so tempted to take up she could taste the wanting—keen, enticing, insistent, dangerous as a drug.

‘I’m not into surrender,’ she parried, surprised to hear a steady voice.

Clay swung her around a couple who’d forgotten their neighbours were watching and were swaying together in an embrace that came close to being embarrassing. ‘Perhaps I am,’ he said, and laughed quietly at the swift flash of fire in her glance. ‘Yes, you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Natalia,’ he said, reading her so perfectly that it was a statement, not a question.

‘I’m very into power,’ she said offhandedly.

But that terrifying, untamed desire stirred again. She felt as though he’d put his mark on her; his scent, fiercely male, filled her nostrils; her fingers tingled, seeking slick, tanned skin. And sensation flowed through her, glowing, fiery, merciless as lava, devouring everything in its path.

This is simple lust, Natalia thought disdainfully, nothing more. Intensely relieved when at last the music died on a flourish, she pulled free of his arms, turning her head away in the hope of disguising the hasty flutter of her breathing.

‘It cuts both ways,’ Clay Beauchamp said unhurriedly, tawny eyes glittering as he held out his arm.

If only her mother hadn’t been so determined to bring up her daughter as a lady! Reluctantly Natalia put the tips of her fingers on his sleeve, straightening her spine as they walked across to the side of the room.

Liz was already sitting there; horrified, Natalia endured a sharp stab of jealousy at her friend’s sunny, unaffected smile at Clay.

Woodenly, she introduced them. ‘Liz, this is Clay Beauchamp, who has bought Pukekahu Station. Clay, Liz Kaiwhare. Her parents own the Tourist Lodge in Manakiwi Bay.’

Dimpling, Liz held out her small hand. With a smile that indicated more than appreciation, Clay took it. Another spear of jealousy rankled through Natalia.

‘You looked wonderful together,’ Liz said with a rare lack of tact. ‘Everyone was watching you—you’re really well matched.’

‘Just what I’ve been trying to convince Natalia,’ Clay said outrageously, mockery glimmering in his golden eyes.

Liz laughed. ‘And I’ll bet she told you she didn’t have time.’ She glanced at Natalia’s unresponsive face, then back to Clay. ‘She works far too hard,’ she said firmly.

Fortunately Mr and Mrs Kaiwhare arrived back then, and the ensuing bustle of introductions silenced Liz.

A little later, however, Natalia—carefully ignoring Clay Beauchamp, still with their group—said half under her breath, ‘Stop trying to matchmake.’

‘Not interested?’ Liz’s eyes widened further. ‘Truly, Nat?’

‘Truly.’ Natalia picked up her glass of water with a jerk that almost spilled it.

Liz grinned. ‘Then you won’t mind if I try my luck, will you?’

The icy water sizzled down Natalia’s throat. Meticulously she put the glass down and contemplated the green-skinned wedge of lime decorating its rim. ‘Not in the least,’ she said tersely, stiffening slightly as she heard Clay laugh.

‘Liar,’ Liz said cheerfully. ‘You’re fascinated by each other. Nat, give yourself a break. One rotten apple doesn’t mean you have to retire to a nunnery.’

‘I haven’t got time for romantic entanglements.’ Or unromantic ones.

Liz leaned forward, her pretty face vengeful. ‘I could throttle Dean Jamieson. He might belong to an old, stiff, rich family with a lot of old, stiff, rich power, but he is a nasty piece of goods. Keeping quiet about his wife, and then spreading it around the district that you tried to break up his marriage was a totally rotten thing to do. Not that it matters—everyone knows he was lying.’

The embarrassment of being warned off only an hour or so previously by yet another wife sprang to Natalia’s mind. ‘Not everybody,’ she said cynically. ‘Thanks to his malice, I’ve now got a reputation.’

‘Only with nasty-minded creeps,’ Liz said with trenchant, partisan bias. ‘They’re jealous because you’re so stunning and you don’t give a cent for the men who try to hit on you.’

Natalia stifled a yelp of laughter. ‘You make it sound as though I’ve cut a swathe through the district!’

‘You could if you wanted to.’ Liz leaned closer and dropped her voice. ‘And you’d better accept that you’re as attracted to Clay Beauchamp as he is to you or you’re going to find yourself in deep trouble. I suspect he’s the bulldozer sort! And as he’s living only a mile away—’

Natalia’s lip curled. ‘He’s not a farmer, Liz, he’s an agri-businessman, so naturally he lives in Auckland with all the other rich entrepreneurs.’

‘Pity,’ Liz said pragmatically.

‘So no more matchmaking, all right?’ Natalia said with emphasis. The band struck up again, a much more modern foxtrot. Gratefully she accepted an invitation from Greg.

‘You’re looking a bit flushed,’ he said, studying her with a professional eye.

‘It’s hot in here,’ she returned. ‘You wouldn’t think it was the first month of winter, would you? I wonder when it’s going to get cold?’

Greg snorted. ‘This is north of Auckland—it never gets cold here. In Dunedin it freezes.’

‘Poor darling,’ she said, primming her mouth. Greg was in his last year at medical school in New Zealand’s exquisite southernmost city. Lifting a hand, she patted his cheek. ‘I remember the first year you went away, and your parents kept getting anguished faxes about the cold—Liz and I knitted you a jersey each for your birthday, and your mother shipped you off an electric blanket. Did you ever wear those jerseys?’

‘Both together, if I remember correctly,’ he said with a grin.

Laughing, Natalia looked over his shoulder and met a blaze of gold. Clay Beauchamp was dancing with Liz; as Natalia’s brows climbed he deliberately looked away from her and into Liz’s small, mischievous face. It felt like a blow.

‘…saved my life,’ Greg was saying. ‘I honestly thought my blood would freeze that first winter.’

Awkwardly she dragged her gaze away from the two striking black and white figures. ‘Good,’ she said vaguely.

Greg frowned. ‘Sure you’re all right? You sound a bit disassociated.’

‘I’m fine,’ she told him crisply.

Within a few moments she’d almost managed to put Clay Beauchamp out of her mind. She and Greg were friends; several years previously he’d fancied himself to be in love with her, only giving up when she told him gently that although she did love him, it was as a brother rather than a lover.

Now they were both satisfied with the way things were between them. When the dance ended, and they were called by friends to the other side of the elegant Victorian ballroom, she went happily with him, staying snug within his arm for the intermission. The next dance was a tango, and she and Greg enjoyed themselves enormously, hamming it up, one of the few couples who dared try it.

Clay Beauchamp, she noticed reluctantly, wasn’t dancing; he’d deposited Liz back with the rest of her party and was talking with a group of the major players in the district, including their host.

‘Nat, I love showing off with you,’ Greg said when it was over and they were the centre of a laughing, clapping group. ‘You dance like a dream!’ He hugged her extravagantly.

‘So, best-beloved, do you.’

Well pleased with each other, they came off arm in arm. Still smiling, Natalia realised that in spite of the disturbing, unsettling, far too intriguing Clay Beauchamp, she was glad she’d come; secure with friends who knew her and loved her she could forget the worry that hung over her like her own private thundercloud.

Back with the rest of their party, she laughed off the compliments and sat down beside Liz, picking up her glass of water. ‘Gosh, I enjoy a good tango!’

‘You were born to do it,’ Liz told her enviously. ‘Well, go ahead and ask me.’

‘Ask you what?’

‘What he said.’

Colour whipped along Natalia’s cheekbones. Had she been so obvious? ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said haughtily.

Her friend half closed her eyes and pursed her mouth. ‘He’s far too sophisticated to discuss one woman with another, is Clay Beauchamp. Although I must say I felt him not looking at you, if you know what I mean. He was utterly charming. We talked about a lot of things and he didn’t lose concentration once, which I thought was pretty clever of him because he just hated seeing you dance with my big brother.’

Natalia put her glass down. ‘Liz, don’t.’

Her friend’s smile disappeared. ‘All right, but it’s such a waste. I hate to go off to England for years and know that once I’m gone you won’t let anyone make you go out and have fun. Sometimes I look at your stubborn, tired face and I could kick your father for leaving you in this situation. OK, sermon’s over.’

Natalia’s eyes stung. ‘I have to keep going, Liz.’

Liz opened her mouth, then closed it.

‘Yes,’ Natalia said with a wry twist to the words, ‘his friends were foolish to lend money to him, but you know how persuasive he could be. He really believed he’d make everyone’s fortunes with the tunnel-houses.’

‘I know. Promise me one thing?’

‘What?’ Natalia eyed her warily.

‘Just have dinner with Mum and Dad once a fortnight, will you? They love having you, and you’ve cried off their last few invitations.’

‘All right,’ Natalia said. ‘Damn, I’m going to miss you.’

‘I’m going to miss you too.’

The band struck up again, and within seconds both were back on the floor. As the evening lengthened, Clay Beauchamp danced with the wives and daughters of the men he’d been speaking to, the district’s most solvent and powerful citizens. Bowden wasn’t exactly cliquey, but it usually took time for newcomers to be accepted so it was mildly unexpected for him to be welcomed into the fold with such enthusiasm.

Although piqued by his apparent lack of interest, Natalia recognised a ploy as old as time: make your interest known, then pull back to whet the appetite of the person you want.

It was disappointing; she’d expected him to be more subtle.

She set herself to enjoying the rest of the evening, and succeeded so well that the last dance came as an unwelcome surprise. Much more unwelcome was that she found herself in Clay’s arms, waltzing.

‘Who taught you to dance?’ he asked casually.

‘My father.’

He nodded. ‘He knew what he was doing.’

‘Indeed he did.’

‘What did I say wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ she parried. ‘Why?’

His eyes were narrowed, the golden fire concentrated and intense. ‘He left you in debt, I gather.’

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