Summer Seduction. Daphne Clair

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ laughed and started down the slope. ‘I’m twenty-one,’ she said. Her lack of height, and the winsome prettiness that nothing she did with her hair or clothes or even make-up could efface, was deceptive.

      He frowned, and a tinge of colour entered his cheeks. ‘You live alone up there?’ He glanced at the cottage behind them.

      ‘Since my grandmother died last year.’ A shadow crossed her face. ‘I moved in with her after Grandad’s death, because she was getting a bit frail and we didn’t like her being on her own. I’d been working at a nursery and taking night classes in horticulture, so it was an ideal opportunity to try setting up for myself, and at the same time it helped Gran.’ She lifted a hand to peel wind-blown hair away from her mouth. ‘Everyone thought I was crazy, trying to grow things here.’

      ‘Really.’ He was looking down at the uneven ground, his hands thrust into the pockets of his parka.

      ‘Too far from the city, they said, and too close to the sea. But it’s just over an hour from Auckland, and it’s turned out to be ideal. Only…the market for dried flowers is being taken over by the artificial sort. So I’m trying a new crop this year—sunflowers.’

      ‘Sunflowers.’ He looked at her and laughed. It was a brief laugh and sounded unpractised.

      ‘Is there something funny about sunflowers?’ she demanded, angling her head so that the wind pulled her hair away from her forehead.

      ‘No.’ His eyes looked suddenly glazed. ‘No—they’re very…interesting.’

      She’d been going on about her family history and her work, and he was either being gently sarcastic or trying hard to pretend he wasn’t bored. ‘Well,’ she said awkwardly, backing from him, ‘I’ll…um…see you later.’

      ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Uh…good hunting.’ And he swung away and strode off along the sand.

      Scavenging the tide-line, Blythe kept her eyes on the sea-wrack delivered by the bountiful waves, refusing to allow herself to peek at her unsettling new neighbour.

      When she made her way back to the cottage the wind had grown wilder and carried fine, stinging rain with it, and Jas Tratherne had gone.

      The rain intensified, thrown against the windows. Blythe lit a fire in the wood stove in a corner of the kitchen-cum-living room, and sat down to sort her new treasures, and wire some of the flowers that she had drying in nets strung from the ceilings of every room.

      When the light started to fade she got up from the table. Through the rain-blurred window a glimmer at the other end of the gully drew her eye. She could make out a distant square of light, and a shadow that flickered across it, then returned and stayed.

      She lifted a hand, but could discern no answering gesture from the still, obscure figure.

      She turned to put on a light and make herself something to eat. While a slice of ham steak and a round of pineapple were grilling she washed a few leaves of lettuce, added fresh herbs and a squeeze of lemon juice, and wondered what her neighbour was having for dinner.

      Maybe she should invite him for a meal. It would be a neighbourly thing to do; her grandmother would have done it, first thing.

      But he wasn’t interested in socialising. No doubt he’d chosen to lease the house because of its relative isolation. He liked his own company, did Jas Tratherne.

      That probably wasn’t quite true. He didn’t relish the company of other people, but he didn’t seem particularly comfortable with himself either.

      

      The store at Apiata doubled as service station and postal centre. On Friday, as well as groceries Blythe bought diesel for the generator that provided her electricity. The storekeeper handed over her mail and said, ‘There’s a parcel here for Mr Tratherne. In the old Delaney place, isn’t he? Came in and said he might be getting mail here.’

      ‘Yes, he is.’

      ‘Doesn’t seem to have a phone. I don’t s’pose you’d like to deliver it to him? It’s sat here a couple of days already, and the weekend’s coming up.’

      Blythe hesitated, although if it had been for anyone else along her route home she’d have agreed instantly. ‘Yes, all right.’

      When the storekeeper lugged it out for her and slid it into the back of the van she saw why he was anxious to get rid of the parcel. It was a large carton and obviously not light.

      She drove back to Tahawai and stopped in front of the Delaney house. Long ago there had been a fence, but now only a couple of weathered grey corner posts indicated the boundary of the section, and another bearing a single rusted hinge was all that was left of the gateway.

      Through the bare window on the left of the door, she saw a big table with a row of books and a neat stack of papers on it, and what looked like a portable computer. The office-type chair behind it was empty.

      The front door was ajar, and music poured out of the narrow space, surrounding her as she lifted her hand to knock.

      She paused and dropped her hand, hypnotised by the rich, mellow sounds.

      But if Jas Tratherne found her loitering on his doorstep he’d have cause to wonder if he’d been right about her listening at keyholes.

      She rapped quite hard with her knuckles, and the door swung open onto the broad passageway. To her left the room with the desk looked otherwise empty except for a shelving unit along one wall, filled with folders and more books, and to her right, through another open door, she saw Jas Tratherne seated with his back to her at an electronic keyboard.

      He lifted his hands from the keys and twisted round, his eyes meeting hers before he stood up, his face darkly flushing—with anger? she wondered. Or embarrassment?

      He strode towards her across the bare floorboards into the passageway.

      Blythe said the first thing that came into her head. ‘It wasn’t a recording.’

      ‘No.’ He stood facing her, his hand on the door as if he contemplated shutting it in her face.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, not sure what she was apologising for. ‘You play wonderfully,’ she told him, driven by her surprise and genuine admiration. ‘I don’t mean to interrupt.’

      He didn’t bother to deny it. ‘What can I do for you?’

      ‘It’s what I can do for you,’ she said, stung by this unfriendly reception. ‘I have a parcel for you.’

      His brows drew together. ‘More biscuits?’

      ‘I brought you a postal parcel from Apiata.’

      ‘Do you moonlight as a postal employee?’

      ‘I happened to be collecting my mail and Doug asked if I’d drop it off on my way home.’

      ‘Surely that’s against regulations.’

      ‘Very likely, but the locals have a habit of ignoring city-made regulations that don’t fit country circumstances. If you don’t want it, of course I could always take СКАЧАТЬ