Claimed By Her Billionaire Protector. Robyn Donald

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СКАЧАТЬ voice startled her. She had to swallow before she could speak and even then, she sounded hesitant. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ A swift defiance made her glance up to meet hooded, glinting eyes. ‘Why?’

      ‘You seem a little tense,’ he responded coolly, blue gaze unreadable. ‘I rarely bite, and when I do, it’s not to hurt.’

      Heat zinged from her scalp to her toes, lighting fires all the way. That instinctive awareness strengthened into a sensation much more intense, so fiercely tantalising it shocked her.

      Was he coming on to her?

      No sooner had the thought flashed across her mind than she dismissed it. Of course he wasn’t flirting! It was impossible to imagine Count Niko Radcliffe doing anything so frivolous. So was he testing her?

      If so, it was unkind. He was as out of place in Waipuna as she’d be in the rarefied social circles that were his natural habitat. According to Mrs Nixon, gorgeous film stars fell in love with him...

      And probably the occasional princess. Gorgeous too, no doubt.

      She couldn’t care less, she thought sturdily, trying to corral her rampaging senses.

      ‘So you’re quite safe,’ he drawled.

      The note of mockery in his voice stiffened her spine. ‘I’m always glad to have that assurance,’ she retorted.

      ‘Even when you don’t necessarily believe it?’

      Elana tried to come up with some innocuous answer, but before anything came to mind he continued curtly, ‘Whatever you might have heard about me, I don’t attack women.’

      * * *

      As soon as the words left his mouth Niko wondered why he’d said them. He spent more time fending off women than reassuring them of his integrity.

      He had no illusions about the reason behind that sort of feminine interest. Money and power talked, and for a certain type of woman it was enough to seduce. Yet for some reason the note in Elana Grange’s voice had struck a nerve.

      Actually, she struck a nerve.

      When they’d been introduced he’d noticed her fingers, long and slender and bare of rings, and for a moment he’d wondered what they’d feel like on his skin. And as she’d stepped into his arms, his whole body had tightened in swift, primitive response.

      However, elegant though she appeared, he suspected Elana Grange wasn’t sophisticated enough for the sort of relationships he chose. His affairs—nowhere near as many as suggested in gossip columns—had always been between two people who both liked and wanted each other, whose minds meshed. He valued intelligence as much as he did sex appeal.

      And because he drew the line at breaking hearts, his lovers had always understood that he wasn’t offering marriage.

      Whatever sort of mind Elana Grange had, she looked like a dream—and danced like one too, her grace fulfilling the promise of her sinuous body.

      Elana broke the silence between them. ‘Mr Radcliffe, there have been rumours that you plan to develop Mana Station. Is that true?’

      ‘What do you mean by develop?’

      Wishing she’d stayed silent, she told him. ‘Cut it into blocks, sell them off and make a gated community of it—’

      ‘No,’ he interrupted curtly. ‘I’m planning to bring it back into the vital, productive station it once must have been.’

      She couldn’t stop herself from asking, ‘Why?’

      Broad shoulders lifting, he said, ‘I despise waste. In San Mari every acre of land is precious, cherished and nurtured over the centuries, treated with respect. All agricultural and pastoral land should be viewed like that.’ His tone altered as he finished, ‘And call me Niko.’

      Hoping no sign of her reluctance showed in her tone, she said, ‘Then you must call me Elana.’

      He laughed. Surprised, she glanced up, meeting his gaze with raised brows.

      ‘Don’t look so startled,’ he said. ‘When I came back to New Zealand it took me a few weeks to understand that although most people here call each other by their first names, it didn’t necessarily denote friendship.’

      Elana had never previously pondered the intricacies of New Zealand ways of addressing people. Perhaps he was interested because he’d grown up in a royal household, where such things were important?

      Or perhaps not, she thought wryly. Probably he was just filling in a boring experience with smooth small talk.

      She considered a moment before replying, ‘You’re probably right. I think it’s a preliminary to a possible friendship—addressing a person by his or her first name is an indication that you feel he or she might be someone you’d like, once you get to know him or her better.’

      ‘So if you decide you don’t like me, you’ll call me Mr Radcliffe?’

      Elana allowed herself a careful smile. ‘I’d probably avoid you. That way I wouldn’t have to address you at all.’

      ‘So if I notice you fleeing from me, I’ll have to accept that I’ve done something that’s displeased you.’

      * * *

      Bemused, Elana looked up. Their eyes met, and another tantalising rush of adrenalin boosted her pulse rate into overdrive. A point in his favour was the dry amusement in his voice.

      Not that it mattered what sort of person he was—or only so far as he was a neighbour.

      ‘Actually, I’m not into fleeing,’ she told him briskly. ‘And we like to believe we’re an egalitarian society. But—didn’t I read that you’re a New Zealander too?’

      ‘I have dual citizenship,’ he said levelly.

      A swift change of direction startled Elana until she realised she was being skilfully steered around a jitterbugging pair in the centre of the floor.

      ‘Wrong period,’ Niko Radcliffe observed dryly. ‘They should be doing the Charleston.’

      She said, ‘But they’re good.’ The words had barely been spoken when the young man missed a step and stumbled towards them.

      * * *

      Instantly her partner’s arm tightened, forcing Elana against his steely strength so that she was held firmly for a few seconds against the powerful muscles of his thighs. Sensation, so intense and sensuous it drove the breath from her lungs, scorched through her in a delicious, dangerous conflagration.

      Concentrate on dancing, blast you, she commanded her wayward body fiercely, pushing a wilful erotic image into the furthest reaches of her brain and trying to lock the door on it.

      Suddenly dry-mouthed, she breathed, ‘Thanks.’

      ‘It was nothing.’ His voice was cool and uninflected.

      Clearly СКАЧАТЬ