A Ruthless Passion

Nick struggled to leash the ruthless passion that clamored through every cell in his body, urging him to pick her up and carry her into the bedroom and there lay claim to her. “Cat, you can’t marry Glen,” he said steadily, pouring his considerable power to persuade into his deep voice. “Cancel the wedding—I’ll help you with the arrangements. It will be difficult, but we’ll cope.”

He almost had her. He could feel her hunger, feel her urge to surrender. She closed her eyes; when her lashes lifted the blue irises were smooth and opaque as enamel. “I don’t know what this—thing—is between us, but it can’t mean anything, because I don’t know you. I do know Glen, and I not only love him, I respect him.”

His demons unleashed by three sleepless nights and intense, aching frustration, Nick kissed her startled mouth.

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A Ruthless Passion

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Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

PROLOGUE

NICK waited in the foyer of the hotel until Glen and Mrs Courtald had left for their appointment with the lawyer. He despised subterfuge, but what he had to say to Cat was too important to risk any interruption—especially not from her mother or fiancé.

When he knocked on the suite door he noted with an odd remoteness that his pulse-rate was up. And when he heard her call, ‘Coming,’ in the low, husky voice she’d grow into when she’d learned what sex was all about, his gut clenched and a charge of male hunger hit him with the force of a bomb.

The door opened. Cat’s smoky blue eyes widened; colour surged through her exquisite skin before draining away. Her fingers tightened on the veil she’d been trying on—short and fluffy as befitted an eighteen-year-old bride.

‘N-Nick,’ she said unevenly. ‘This is a surprise.’

‘Ask me in,’ he said tersely.

She hesitated, then stepped back. ‘You’ve missed Glen—he and my mother have just gone.’

‘I didn’t come to see them,’ he said, walking into the suite Glen had reserved for the girl he was marrying the following day—the best hotel in Auckland, as befitted the bride of one of New Zealand’s top advertising men.

Its impersonal opulence should have overshadowed such a small person, yet in spite of her youth and her fragility Cat stood very erect, the ridiculous veil still perched on hair the polished red-brown of a chestnut, and although he sensed her unease, her gaze was direct and steady. ‘What do you want?’ she asked quietly.

Nick had had erotic dreams about that hair, and her slender body, and that ripe mouth, still innocent in spite of her engagement to his friend. Glen was being very careful with her, apparently content to wait until they were married before consummating their relationship.

Clamping down on a bitter, raw jealousy that astonished and infuriated him, Nick said bluntly, ‘Have you thought what marriage to Glen will involve?’

‘I might be only eighteen,’ she returned with a cool dignity he found both maddening and provocative, ‘but I’m not a total idiot. Yes, I know what marriage involves. I watch television, read newspapers and magazines and books, go to films, talk to people.’ She paused before adding with delicate sarcasm, ‘And my parents were married.’

Did she know that his hadn’t been? Possibly; Glen might have told her. ‘What people have you talked to? The pupils at that expensive boarding school you graduated from at the end of last year? What do they know?’

With a spark of temper she retorted, ‘As much as any kid who grows up on the streets, actually. Just because they come from a different socio-economic group doesn’t mean that the same problems don’t affect them.’ Small face hot with dismay, she went on swiftly, ‘I’m sorry—I didn’t mean that you—’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he interrupted. ‘I did grow up on the streets, but I’m talking about the realities of life as a very rich man’s trophy wife.’

Her cheeks stung as though he’d hit them. ‘I thought a trophy wife was someone who took the place of the real wife. Glen hasn’t dumped anyone for me.’

Nick bit back his first, lethal response. It was no use dragging in Morna’s private tragedy; besides, technically Cat was correct. Glen had never offered to marry the woman who’d been his lover for the past five years.

Instead, he said relentlessly, ‘Glen is going to expect you to run his house, to plan dinners, to organise parties, to meet and charm clients. Can you do that?’

‘I can try,’ she said, adding on a note of uncertainty that wrung his heart, ‘My mother will help me.’

‘Your mother is not well.’

A shadow darkened her features. How much pressure, Nick wondered savagely, had Cat’s charming, gentle, uncomplaining mother applied? Oh, nothing overt, but with her father dead, and his small annuity gone with him, Mrs Courtald must have seen Glen as the answer to all her prayers.

Cat said, ‘She’s—well enough.’ Her full, soft mouth, tantalisingly red, tightened. ‘And I’m a quick learner,’ she finished on a challenging note.

She was going to go through with it. For only the second time in his life Nick braced himself as a shaft of panic overturned the processes of his cool, incisive brain. Reasserting control, he asked with cutting scorn, ‘Why are you marrying him, Cat? If it’s money—’

‘It is not money!’ Indignation woke those sleepy eyes to fiery alertness, jutted the small, pointed chin. Coldly she retorted, ‘Glen’s an attractive, exciting man, kind and thoughtful and fun to be with—’

‘And twenty years older than you.’

Her chin jutted even further. ‘So? I like older men.’

‘Because you want a father to replace the one you’ve just lost,’ he said brutally; he was doing this all wrong and he didn’t know how to rescue the situation. ‘But Glen is not yet forty, and he’s no father figure. He’s going to want to sleep with you, Cat—’

‘Don’t call me that!’

‘Why not? You’re like a cat, sweet and kittenish when everything’s going your way, but I can see the feline in you. Glen can’t—he thinks you’re docile and obedient and playful. He’s a virile man, experienced and vigorous. Have you thought of what it will be like to make love to him?’

Once again the colour drained from her face. Her lashes fell as she said angrily, ‘I’m going to be the best wife I can possibly be to him—’

‘Even though you want me?’ Nick demanded.

Head down, face averted, she was shaking her head, the folds of tulle swinging in soft waves. ‘No,’ she said fiercely. ‘I love Glen.’

‘But you want me,’ Nick repeated, sliding his hand beneath her chin, lifting her face. Mouth trembling, she looked at him with desolate, hungry eyes.

‘Cancel the wedding now,’ he pressed quietly, struggling to leash the ruthless passion that clamoured through every cell in his body, urging him to pick her up and carry her into the bedroom and there lay claim to her in the most primitive, effective way, stamp her with his possession, make her shrink with horror at the thought of any other man touching her. ‘Cat, you can’t marry Glen,’ he said steadily, pouring his considerable power to persuade into his deep voice, into his expression. ‘Cancel the wedding— I’ll help you with the arrangements. It will be difficult, but we’ll cope.’

He almost had her. He could feel her hunger, feel her urge to surrender—until her lashes dropped and her mouth tightened, and she said, ‘And then what, Nick?’

His hand dropped to his side. ‘I can help you,’ he repeated, knowing as he said it that she wasn’t going to give in on such a vague promise—and angry because he could offer her nothing more. Glen might be prepared to take advantage of a girl straight from school, but Nick knew she wasn’t ready for marriage to anyone, much less the passion that hardened his body the moment he touched her.

She closed her eyes; when her lashes lifted the blue irises were smooth and opaque as enamel. ‘I don’t know what this—thing—is between us, but it can’t mean anything because I don’t know you. We only met three days ago. I do know Glen, and I not only love him, I respect him. I couldn’t put him through the pain of such a public humiliation because of something that I don’t understand and don’t trust.’ She looked at Nick directly. ‘I’d have thought that as his closest friend and his protégé, you’d be ashamed even to suggest it.’

His demons unleashed by three sleepless nights and an intense, aching frustration, Nick kissed her startled mouth, forcing it open. Her scent, sweet and womanly, filled his head with narcotic fumes; he tried to drop his arms, lift his head and step back, but he couldn’t move, overthrown by a ferocious, dangerous pleasure.

She didn’t resist; after a few rigid seconds she yielded, her body sinking against his, her mouth softening beneath his.

So this, he thought dimly, was paradise…

When she stiffened and tried to push him away he let her go, only then aware that somebody was knocking on the door.

Huge, shamed eyes slid away from his. Cat pressed her hand against her mouth, then with sudden, deliberate violence wiped his kiss off. ‘Get out,’ she whispered. ‘Just get out of here, and never come back. I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man in the world.’

Nick leaned over and straightened the crushed tulle of her veil. Amazingly his hands remained gentle, although he’d never felt so much like smashing everything in his life to bits.

‘I don’t remember offering you marriage. Think of that kiss when you’re in bed with Glen,’ he said savagely, and turned and walked out, striding without a backward look past the hotel maid who waited there.

CHAPTER ONE

Six years later

CAT stopped at the busy crossing, staring apprehensively at the building on the other side of the road. In the quick intimacy of a crowd, the man beside her followed her gaze.

‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’ he observed chattily, his admiring gaze returning to Cat’s small, fine-featured face. ‘It’s already won several New Zealand awards, and a couple of overseas ones. Nick Harding commissioned it.’

At Cat’s blank look he expanded, ‘An amazing man—he started off in advertising, made a fortune and won awards, then moved on to set up the best and biggest Internet provider in New Zealand. He’s coining money, and according to the financial press he’s in the middle of a deal that’s going to boost him right into the stratosphere. And he’s still in his early thirties!’

Thirty-two, to be exact. Cat swallowed and nodded. The building on the other side of the street gleamed prosperously, a vast contrast to the drab suite of rooms in a rundown industrial complex on the outskirts of Auckland that had originally housed Nick’s business.

Somewhere in this palatial new building, perhaps behind one of those windows, he was waiting for her.

Her heart thudded sickeningly and moisture collected in her palms. Apart from a few newspaper photographs, she hadn’t seen Nick for two years. Would he have changed? Would he think she’d changed?

‘Are you a visitor to Auckland?’ the man beside her asked.

‘No,’ Cat returned, too tense to be polite.

Rebuffed, he said, ‘Oh. Well, have a nice day.’ He moved away, losing himself and his dented pride in the growing crowd.

Carefully Cat wiped her palms on her handkerchief. A quick glance at her watch showed that she still had five minutes.

A month after she’d married Glen, Nick had walked out on his executive position in Glen’s advertising agency, turning his back on everything Glen had done for him.

‘Bloody ingratitude,’ Glen had stormed. ‘I took him in off the streets, gave him the best education in New Zealand and then sent him overseas to university, made him what he is, treated him like a bloody crown prince—and he betrays me.’

Impossible to imagine Nick—tall, harshly good-looking, wearing his expensive clothes with casual elegance—living on the streets! Yet everyone knew the story. Still raw with guilt at the memory of her response to Nick’s unsparing kiss, Cat had asked, ‘If he was a street kid, how on earth did you meet him?’

Glen had shrugged. ‘Well, he wasn’t living on the street; he shacked up with some girl in a hovel.’ For a moment he’d looked uncomfortable. ‘He baled me up outside the agency one day and asked for a job. I said, “Why should I give you a job?” And he said, “Because you’re the best, and I plan to be better than you one day.” He was only fourteen, but I could tell he meant it. I liked that, so I sent him off to my old school.’

Cat, who’d had first-hand experience of the casual cruelty of adolescents at an expensive boarding school, had asked, ‘How did he deal with that?’

‘With style and arrogance,’ Glen had said indifferently. ‘Had everyone eating out of his hand within a week. I knew he would; I recognised that steely self-confidence straight away, and it took me only ten minutes to see that he was brilliant. He worked like a demon, graduating with the highest grades, an A bursary and a whole new set of social skills. Blazed through university like a rocket! Now he’s thrown the whole lot away to go on a wild-goose chase into the internet. It’s going to collapse, and he’ll go down with it.’

But he hadn’t. Nick had ignored the gossip, ignored Glen’s frustrated anger, and shown that he knew how to use determination and his ruthless intelligence to push his fledgling company to heights beyond anyone’s guessing. Within a few years he’d ridden the eagle to become a multimillionaire.

Now, no longer a player only in the South Pacific, he was expanding into communications technology. He was set, so one business writer had pronounced tritely but apparently truthfully, to conquer the world.

Glen, who’d respected power, had eventually welcomed him back into the fold, only to be killed a few months later in a car accident.

That was when Cat had discovered that he’d appointed Nick to oversee the trust he’d set up for her. Still numb from the double deaths—for her mother had died only a month before Glen—she’d been relieved when Nick had treated her with remote courtesy. Except, her inconvenient memory reminded her, for a few searing moments after the funeral, when what had begun as a comforting touch had been transformed into desperate passion.

That desperate kiss had sent her fleeing overseas, and the only communication she’d had with him since then had been via her solicitor.

Soft mouth tightening, Cat obeyed the familiar buzz of the crossing signal. Now it was time to face Nick Harding again, woefully unprepared as always. Clad in a silk suit three years out of date, she swallowed to ease her dry throat, but there was nothing she could do about the butterflies in her stomach; they threatened to mutate into a herd of dinosaurs as she turned into the splendid foyer of his headquarters.

Tensely, Cat gave her name to the receptionist.

After a discreet glance at the wedding ring on Cat’s hand, the woman said, ‘Mr Harding’s expecting you, Mrs Courtald. Take the lift to the fourth floor and his personal assistant will meet you.’

His personal assistant was altogether more intimidating; elegant in a severe midnight-blue suit, she waited by the lift door, her face revealing nothing but polite enquiry. ‘Mr Harding won’t be long,’ she said as she ushered Cat into an impressive ante-room. ‘Can I get you some coffee while you’re waiting?’

Cat’s stomach lurched. ‘No, thank you.’

Coffee grew on the hills of Romit, a large island to the north of Australia—delicious, fragrant coffee that drew its superb flavour from red earth basking beneath a tropical sun. Cat never drank it now without being propelled back to a land torn apart by a bloody civil war that had left thousands dead.

But Juana lived, and it was for Juana she’d come here. Another bubble of foreboding expanded slowly in her stomach.

‘Do sit down,’ the personal assistant urged. ‘Mr Harding won’t keep you waiting for long.’

Smoothing out her frown, Cat sat in a chair and picked up a magazine, glancing at it without registering a word. Desperation had driven her to this place; she’d been turned down by bank after bank, the loans managers shaking their heads with professional solemnity and refusing her with equally professional courtesy—and insulting speed.

A blur of motion lifted the hairs on the back of her neck. She looked up, her skin prickling.

Like a panther, all noiseless, graceful intimidation, Nick strolled into the subdued luxury of the office and surveyed her with flat, unblinking eyes burnished the tawny colour of old gold—eyes that flicked across her face, then down to the finger on which, driven by some obscure need for protection, she’d pushed her wedding ring. Unworn for the past year, it weighed her hand down.

Driven by a need to establish some sort of physical parity, Cat stood up. For a horrifying second she thought the floor lurched beneath her feet. He reached her just as she clutched the back of the chair and dragged a deep breath into her lungs.

His hand closed around her upper arm, lean fingers gripping hard. ‘Careful!’ he barked.

She froze.

Shock splintered in his eyes, but the flare of emotion lasted less than a heartbeat; almost immediately a smile, as aggressive as it was humourless, curled his beautiful, chiselled mouth.

Oh, God, she thought hopelessly. Memories of him were seared on her brain, carved into her heart. She’d never forgotten his voice—deep, textured, a voice that could turn instantly to ice. It had featured in her dreams, tormenting her through endless nights.

‘Hello, Cat,’ he said with chilling courtesy.

Although a little harsher in feature, even more brazenly handsome, he hadn’t changed much. Broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped and long-legged, radiating male power and authority, Nick Harding still dominated every room he walked into, taking up all the space and all the air, so that she breathed quickly and shallowly while her heartbeats thudded in her ears.

And he still looked at her with utter and complete contempt in his lion-coloured eyes.

Cat fought back a flash of mindless panic. How many times in two years had she dreamed of meeting Nick again, imagined it in loving detail in those drowsy moments between sleep and wakefulness when her defences were down?

Hundreds.

And now it was happening and she couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but respond with helpless intensity.

Nothing had changed.

‘Hello, Nick,’ she said thinly, acutely aware of the personal assistant’s glance sliding cautiously from Nick’s tanned, gypsyish face to Cat’s clammy one.

He said, ‘Come on through,’ and stepped back to let her go ahead. ‘No interruptions, Phil, please.’

Tension sizzled across the ends of Cat’s nerves as she preceded him into his office and looked around. The severely organised room shouted his success—massive desk, state-of-the-art computer, tall bookshelves and black leather chairs around a low table. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over Auckland’s harbour.

‘Lovely view,’ Cat said inanely.

‘I’m glad you like it,’ he returned with sardonic courtesy.

Furious with herself for giving him an opening for sarcasm, Cat found her gaze drawn to a painting. Not the usual bland business print; this was an original oil of a naked woman, her back to the artist. All that could be seen of her face was the curve of her cheek. It had been painted by a genius who’d imbued the banal pose with dark mystery and threat.

And it had to be pure coincidence that the fall of hair shimmering over the woman’s ivory shoulder and down her back repeated the colour of Cat’s—the burnished red-brown of a chestnut.

Once hers had been as long as that; now it was short and feathery.

Nick’s eyes were hooded, impossible to read, but the black brows lifted in cool irony. ‘Charming. As always. Clever to choose a silk so blue it turns your eyes to pure cornflower.’

In spite of the pathetic contents of her wardrobe it had taken her an hour to decide on the suit. Trying to control the violent mixture of emotions that pulsed through her, she retorted, ‘And you’re as subtle as always.’ She stiffened her spine. ‘How are you?’

His insolent golden gaze mocked her. ‘All the better for seeing you.’

Long-repressed anger came to her rescue. She said bluntly, ‘I don’t believe that for a moment.’

It gave her a quick satisfaction to see Nick’s brows snap together, but the counter-attack was swift and brutal. ‘How did you enjoy the traditional widow’s therapy?’ At her startled look, his smile turned savage. ‘Although most widows might feel that two years roaming the fleshpots of the world is a trifle excessive.’

‘Roaming the fleshpots?’ she parroted indignantly.

His survey seared the length of her body. ‘You didn’t buy that pretty thing in Auckland.’

‘I—no.’ Glen had bought it in Paris.

The words stuck in her throat, and before she could get them out Nick nodded. ‘When did you get back to New Zealand?’

‘In February.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘What have you been doing since then?’

‘Finishing my degree.’

‘Really?’ he drawled. ‘Do I congratulate a fully-fledged accountant?’

‘If I pass my finals.’

‘Oh, you’ll pass,’ he said easily. ‘Your intelligence has never been in doubt.’ The insult buried in the words tested the fragile shell of her composure. ‘Sit down, Cat.’

When she’d seated herself he walked around to the other side of the desk and sat there. Cat’s stomach jumped, but he said mildly enough, ‘Accountancy seems an odd profession for someone like you.’ He waited before adding with smooth insolence, ‘Although perhaps not.’

‘I like figures,’ she said crisply. ‘You know where you are with them.’

‘Much neater than all those messy emotions,’ he agreed with a hard smile. ‘And so convenient for keeping track of your finances.’

The implication that gold-diggers needed money skills angled Cat’s chin upwards. Shrugging to hide her hurt, she wished she was eight inches taller—as tall as his PA. Height impressed people who thought small, fine-boned women were ultra-feminine, and therefore stupid and greedy. ‘Exactly.’

‘So, to what do I owe the honour of this visit?’ he said indolently.

There was no easy way to say it, so she settled for blurting it out. ‘I need some money.’

His golden eyes hardened. ‘Of course you do,’ he replied scathingly, leaning back in his chair and steepling his hands—just like all the finance managers who’d already rejected her, Cat thought with a flare of temper.

Eyes half closed, he said, ‘As the trustee of Glen’s estate I made sure your annual allowance was transferred to your account four months ago. You’re not entitled to any more for another eight months.’