A Reluctant Mistress. Robyn Donald

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      Why was she so susceptible to handsome men? Her high school boyfriend had been the best-looking boy in the district, and her physical response to Dean Jamieson had lured her close enough to be intrigued by his charm.

      But her luck had held—just. Her heart had still been intact when she’d found out about his wife, and she’d turned her back on what could have turned into a messy, sordid affair. She’d emerged with her pride and her independence tarnished, but still intact.

      So it was doubly ironic that the only other man who’d made an impression on her since then had also made a large dent in her pride—and was now threatening her independence.

      Clay drew into the car park at the supermarket, and insisted on carrying the boxes of peppers inside.

      ‘I can do it,’ Natalia said, trying not to sound unappreciative. ‘They’re not heavy.’

      ‘It’s all right; I’m stronger than I look.’

      Stressed, she walked beside him into the shop. ‘Thanks, Nat,’ the woman who ran the produce department said. She cast an appraising glance at Clay and smiled with genuine, startled admiration. ‘Just put them here, will you? The usual payment?’

      ‘Yes, that’s fine.’

      Back at the car, Clay said, ‘I hope you get market prices. That’s good stuff you have there.’

      Natalia said politely, ‘We have an arrangement that works well for both of us.’

      The wide, arrogant mouth compressed a moment, then relaxed into a smile that almost seduced her into an answering one. Oh, he knew exactly what effect he had on a woman!

      And why shouldn’t he? Clay Beauchamp probably had to chase glamorous women out of his wardrobe.

      He said, ‘Where’s the garage?’

      When they arrived he reached for the ruined spare wheel.

      ‘It’s dirty,’ Natalia said.

      ‘So?’ His voice had an edge to it. ‘I know what dirt is.’

      She didn’t answer. He leaned down to say, ‘You’re beginning to exasperate me, Natalia.’

      She lifted her brows. ‘Then I’d better be quiet,’ she said dulcetly, ‘at least until I get home.’

      His brows met in a formidable frown. ‘I wouldn’t leave you stuck here,’ he said shortly as he straightened, and hefted the tyre effortlessly into the shop.

      ‘Hi, Nat,’ the man who came out from behind the counter said. ‘Did you have a good time last night?’

      ‘Wonderful, thanks, Mr Stephens. Can you order me a tyre for this wheel?’

      Mr Stephens looked at it. ‘It’s buckled,’ he pointed out unnecessarily. ‘Do you want another wheel too?’

      ‘No, I’ll send the good wheel in to you on Monday so you can fit the new tyre.’ In spite of her attempt to sound her normal cheerful self, her words emerged clipped; Clay’s silent presence tugged at her nerves like a comb over wool.

      Mr Stephens looked at Clay. To Natalia’s outrage Clay gave a short nod; relieved, the older man turned to her and said, ‘All right, then. I’ll put it on the rural delivery on Tuesday.’

      Clay said nothing until they were back in the car. Then, as he turned the key to start it, he said, ‘All your tyres are shot—they’re dangerous, and even if another doesn’t blow out, you’re not going to get a warrant of fitness next time you take the truck in.’

      Colourlessly Natalia said, ‘Quite possibly. I’ll contact my insurance company on Monday—no doubt they’ll be in touch with you soon afterwards. I’m really sorry about the door.’

      His low laugh had a savage note in it. ‘I understand pride—sometimes it’s been the only thing that’s kept me going. I presume you can’t afford to pay for a new wheel.’

      ‘You presume too much,’ she said frostily.

      There was a moment’s taut silence. Then he said quietly, ‘Point taken. We need to talk about fences. Boundary fences, to be specific.’

      That was when Natalia remembered she’d be liable for half the cost of any new boundary fence between Xanadu and Pukekahu Station. She drew in a quick, jolting breath and tried to relax shoulders aching with sudden strain. ‘Yes, of course.’

      He said, ‘Come up to dinner tomorrow night. How does seven o’clock sound?’

      With rigid precision she said, ‘I’d rather discuss business more formally.’

      In a tone that nudged too close to contempt, he said, ‘I don’t discuss business at social occasions. However, if you feel so strongly, come to the office at the homestead at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon.’

      Which left her with nothing to say but, ‘Yes, all right.’

      He nodded. Biting back hot, unwise words, Natalia sat in tense silence that lasted until they drove past the truck.

      Clay asked laconically, ‘What are you going to do about that?’

      ‘It’ll be OK here,’ she said, hoping she was right. ‘It’s well off the road, so a driver would have to try hard to hit it.’

      A stray beam of sun outlined his forceful profile, reinforcing the arrogant cut of his jaw and the symmetrical, autocratic bone structure as he nodded. Natalia looked straight ahead, her expression held under stony discipline.

      When he drove into her gateway she said steadily, ‘You can put me down here, thank you.’ The last thing she wanted was for him to see inside her home.

      ‘You’ll get wet before you’re halfway there—it’s trying to rain.’

      Sure enough, one of early winter’s soft showers was gathering around the ridges, ready to billow down the hills and across the narrow coastal flats to lose itself in the wide expanse of the Pacific Ocean.

      ‘Rain won’t melt me,’ Natalia said, hiding her defensiveness with unemphatic words and a flat tone.

      ‘So you’re a tough, hard woman.’ The drawled comment was meant to be sarcastic, and succeeded. ‘Why are you so prickly, Natalia?’

      ‘I have no idea what you mean,’ she said, each word so clearly articulated it could have sliced through ice. As the car drew up outside the ramshackle shed that was both garage and packhouse, she unclipped her seat belt.

      His eyes narrowed and his mouth tilted into a mirthless smile, his keen gaze lingering on her hot cheeks. A feverish shiver pulled her skin tight.

      ‘Your eyes fire up brilliantly when you’re angry,’ he said, the words smooth and taunting.

      ‘Whereas you become offensive.’ She should be intimidated but she wasn’t; adrenaline pumped through her in a singing, exhilarating flood.

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