Rich, Ruthless and Secretly Royal. Robyn Donald

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      Struggling to dampen down her wildfire response, Hani smiled distantly, but she couldn’t ignore the greeting or the fact that he obviously thought a handshake would be the next step.

      Nor could she pretend not to feel the scorching along her cheekbones when she looked up and found his gaze on her mouth. Hot little shivers ran through her at that gaze—darkly intent, too perceptive.

      ‘Hannah Court,’ she said, hoping the aloof note in her voice would frighten him off.

      Of course, he didn’t scare easily. One black brow lifted. Reluctantly she extended her hand, and his fingers closed around hers.

      Hani flinched.

      ‘Did I hurt you?’ he demanded, frowning.

      ‘No, no, not at all.’ He had, in fact, judged to a nicety exactly how much strength to exert. Fumbling for a reason she could give him at her involuntary reaction, she hurried on, ‘Just—I think someone walked over my grave.’

      It took every shred of her fragile control not to snatch back her hand. His fingers were warm and strong—the hand of a person who worked hard.

      But it wasn’t his calluses that sent another bolt of sensation through her, so fiercely intense it numbed her brain and left her with nothing to say.

      Rescue came from the band; abruptly, the drums and music fell silent. The dancers stopped and turned to the back of the dance floor.

      The stranger looked over her head, his eyes narrowing as Hani found enough voice to warn, ‘The elders have arrived. It’s polite to be quiet.’

      He didn’t look like someone who’d care about the rituals of Polynesian society, but after a quick nod he watched the aristocratic council of men and women who ruled Tukuulu file past.

      Hani dragged in a deep breath. The leaders would produce their best oratory to thank the group of students, and on Tukuulu it was an insult to leave while they spoke. So although she was stuck beside this man for some time, at least she wouldn’t have to talk to him.

      She’d have time to subdue the wild confusion attacking her. And then she’d think up some innocuous conversation. Not that she cared if he assumed she was a halfwit, she decided defiantly.

      Willing herself to keep her gaze on the elders as they positioned themselves in front of the crowd, she wondered where he’d come from and what he was doing here. Although his height and those burnished eyes, the cold blue of the sheen on steel, hinted at a northern-European heritage, his olive skin spoke of the Mediterranean.

      Perhaps he was Australian, or from New Zealand, although she couldn’t recall an accent.

      As for what he was doing here—well, right next door was the big nickel mine, Tukuulu’s only industry, so possibly he had something to do with that.

      If so, Hani thought trenchantly, she’d try to persuade him that the mine company needed to accept some responsibility for the school that educated its workforce.

      About half an hour into the speeches, Hani blinked, then closed her eyes against the light from the flaring torches.

      Not here, not now, she prayed fervently. Please!

      Cautiously she lifted her lashes, only to blink again as the flames splintered into jagged shards that stabbed into her brain. Heat gathered across her temples, while a dragging ache weighted her bones.

      The fever had returned.

      Don’t panic—just stay upright. Once they finish you can go.

      For almost two months—ever since the last bout—she’d been so sure she’d finally managed to shake off this wretched bug. Fear hollowed her stomach; the last time she’d been ill with it the principal had told her that another bout would mean some months spent recuperating in a more temperate climate.

      But she had nowhere to go, and no money…

      Acutely aware of the silent woman at his side, Kelt Crysander-Gillan concentrated on the speeches. Although he couldn’t follow all the allusions, the Tukuuluan dialect was close enough to Maori for him to appreciate the sentiments and the aptness of the songs that followed each speaker.

      Pity the council hadn’t waited another ten minutes or so to arrive. Then he’d have had time to introduce himself properly to the woman with the intriguing face and the aloof, reserved air.

      Looking down, he realised that she was sneaking a glance at him from beneath her lashes. When their eyes clashed she firmed her luscious mouth and looked away, providing him with an excellent view of her profile.

      Kelt switched his gaze back to the orator, but that fine line of brow and nose, the determined little chin and the sleek gloss of exquisite skin stayed firmly lodged in his mind.

      An islander? No. Not if her eyes were as green as they seemed to be. And although her silky fall of hair gleamed like jet, a quick glance around the room confirmed that not a single Tukuuluan shared the red highlights that gleamed across the dark sheen. A staff member? Probably. When he’d come in she’d been talking to one of the teachers.

      He’d already ascertained she wore no rings.

      More than an hour after they’d arrived, the elders finally sat down, giving the signal for the celebrations to continue. Immediately the hall exploded in chatter, swiftly overwhelmed by the renewed staccato thump of the drums.

      And the woman beside him turned without speaking and walked away.

      An ironic smile pulled at the corners of Kelt’s mouth as he watched her. So much for the notorious Gillan pulling power! He couldn’t recollect any other woman flinching when he shook hands.

      His gaze sharpened when she appeared to stumble. She recovered herself and stood with bowed head and slumping shoulders.

      Without volition, Kelt took two steps towards her, stopping when she straightened up and set off into the hot, dark embrace of the night.

      But something was definitely wrong. She wasn’t so much walking as lurching down the avenue of coconut palms, and while he watched she staggered again, managed another few steps, and then collapsed heavily against the trunk of the nearest tree.

      Kelt set off after her, long legs eating up the distance. Once within earshot he demanded, ‘Are you all right?’

      Hani tried to straighten up when she heard the deep, cool, aloof voice—very male. Even in her distress she was pretty sure she knew who was speaking.

      Weakly she said, ‘Yes, thank you,’ humiliated to realise she sounded drunk, the words slurred and uneven. She probably looked drunk too, huddled against the palm trunk.

      ‘Can I get you anything?’ This time he sounded curt and impatient.

      ‘No.’ Just go away, she pleaded silently.

      ‘Drink or drugs?’

      She longed for her usual crisp, no-nonsense tone when she responded, ‘Neither.’

      Instead the word dragged, fading into an indeterminate mutter. Closing her eyes, СКАЧАТЬ