The Heiress Bride. Laurey Bright

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      “I’ll see you inside.” He followed her up the wide path to the front door and waited while she opened her bag, fumbling for her keys. She let out a short, annoyed exclamation and he said, “What’s wrong?”

      “I assumed I’d be coming home with Dad. I’ve left my house key on the ring with the car keys.”

      “So you can’t get in.”

      “Damn! How stupid!” She glared at the firmly locked front door as if that might miraculously open it.

      “No hidden keys?”

      “We don’t do that.”

      “Probably wise. What about open windows?”

      “The bathroom, maybe. But it’s too high.”

      “Show me.”

      “You can’t…” But she showed him all the same, and then watched as he swung onto the roof of the veranda.

      He moved with grace and economy and Alysia was unwillingly fascinated by the play of muscles under his shirt, the lithe masculinity of his body. Sternly she thrust away the stirring of sexual curiosity.

      Chase made surefootedly for the slightly open window, thrust it wide and hoisted himself through the narrow space.

      A few minutes later lights went on and he opened the door for her, stepping back to allow her in. He was fishing in his pocket with his left hand, holding his right hand up while blood trickled from the knuckles.

      “What have you done?”

      “Grazed myself getting the window open properly. There wasn’t much room. It’s nothing.” He’d found a handkerchief and was clumsily trying to wrap it about his bleeding hand. “I don’t think I’ve messed the carpet. Can you tie this for me?”

      “Come upstairs again and I’ll get a plaster for it. Come on,” Alysia insisted as he looked about to argue.

      She led him to the main bathroom, placed her bag on the floor and took a first-aid box from the cupboard under the hand basin. She unscrewed the cap on a bottle of disinfectant. “Is it dirty?”

      “No. Just pour a bit of that on,” he said, holding his hand over the basin. “It’ll kill any lurking germs.”

      He winced slightly as she did so, and she murmured, “Maybe we should have diluted this. It stings.”

      “I noticed.” He seemed very close, watching her as she swabbed the wound dry with a piece of gauze and pressed a plaster over it. Although he shifted back a little while she replaced the disinfectant and plasters, she was conscious of him right behind her.

      When she turned he didn’t move, and she found herself trapped against the basin. She raised wary eyes, and caught a strange look in his. A look that seemed attentive and faintly puzzled. Without speaking he lowered his head, pressing a quick, warm kiss on her mouth.

      It was over before she had a chance to either reciprocate or protest, or even decide which she wanted to do.

      “Thank you,” he said. And still he didn’t move away, his steady gaze questioning.

      She stared back, refusing to evade the challenge.

      He was too adept at finding vulnerable areas of her psyche. A reporter’s instinct, she guessed, that told him where to dig for what lay under the surface. For what people preferred to keep hidden.

      He knew that since the kiss in the garden she’d been unwillingly attracted to him. No doubt the knowledge gave him great satisfaction. But that didn’t mean she’d give in to the attraction.

      His smile widened a little, and then his head dipped again.

      Alysia whipped her own head back, her hands clutching at the cold porcelain of the basin behind her.

      Chase straightened. Alysia tried to keep her eyes steady and indifferent. She still felt a tingle of surprised pleasure on her lips. But mingled with the pleasure was hostility, resentment that this man could produce that sensation.

      At last Chase took a step away, then another. Blocking the doorway, he cast a lightning glance over her, and she realized that she was taut as a bowstring, her body curved so that her breasts and hips were thrust forward. Hastily she readjusted her stance, releasing her grip on the basin to bring her arms protectively across her midriff.

      Chase laughed then, his eyes going glittery. She must have imagined that fleeting tenderness, there was no sign of it now. The thought pierced her, unexpectedly poignant.

      “That cocktail,” he said conversationally, “was it chilled?”

      Alysia blinked at the non sequitur. “Yes. There was ice in it.”

      “I thought so.” He stood there a moment longer, surveying her in a not unfriendly way but with a hint of sarcasm in his slight smile. Then he sketched her a salute. “Tell your father he ought to get a burglarproof catch on that window. Good night—I’ll find my own way out.”

      She heard his quick footsteps on the stairs, and the forceful closing of the front door, and then the distinct sound of whistling as he went on down the path.

      Pink and sweet—and cold. That’s what he thought of her, Alysia acknowledged irritably. Translated it meant insipid and uninteresting.

      It didn’t matter. What Chase Osborne thought of her was a matter of total indifference to her. Wasn’t it?

      Chapter Three

      Alysia and her father spent Christmas Day with his sister in Auckland. Aunt Patricia’s children were all married but some of them brought along their families for Christmas dinner.

      Perhaps because she’d been an only child herself, Alysia enjoyed the children, willingly keeping them amused while their parents relaxed after a too-large midday meal.

      At the end of the day she helped her cousin Valda pack children and their paraphernalia into the family station wagon.

      Stuffing a teddy bear into a carry bag, Valda asked her curiously, “Do you really want to work at the Clarion?”

      Alysia straightened from fastening a child’s safety belt. “Of course.”

      Valda cast her a shrewd look. “To please your father?”

      Alysia tucked an errant strand of her hair into its clasp. “To carry on the family tradition.”

      “Robbie!” Momentarily distracted, Valda admonished her younger son. “Leave your sister alone!” Turning back to Alysia, she looked at her speculatively. “I wondered if you chose to study journalism in Wellington just for a chance to spread your wings. Between your father and my mother you’d led a pretty sheltered life.”

      While Alysia was at university she had boarded with her aunt and uncle. Her father had vetoed СКАЧАТЬ