“You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

But accepting his offer leads to sinful temptation...

Elana Grange is primed to dislike Niko Radcliffe—the tycoon’s arrogant reputation precedes him!—so she’s not prepared for the heart-stopping, charismatic reality. Their intense chemistry sends shock waves through her, especially when she’s forced to accept his help. Elana knows she’ll find only ecstasy in Niko’s arms, but letting him close feels so very dangerous...

ROBYN DONALD lives in Northland, New Zealand, in a rural landscape bordered by the sea and formed by ancient volcanoes. An avid reader, she discovered romance novels when pregnant with her second child, and decided to try her hand at writing one. Ten years later, after abandoning more manuscripts than she cares to remember, her patient husband suggested she actually finish one and send it away. To her utter astonishment and joy it was accepted—with revisions, of course. Since then she’s completed another eighty-six, and is thrilled at the thought of some day achieving a century.

Also by Robyn Donald

Innocent Mistress, Royal WifeThe Rich Man’s Blackmailed MistressRich, Ruthless and Secretly RoyalThe Virgin and His MajestyBrooding Billionaire, Impoverished PrincessPowerful Greek, Housekeeper WifeThe Far Side of ParadiseOne Night in the OrientStepping out of the ShadowsIsland of Secrets

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Claimed by Her Billionaire Protector

Robyn Donald

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07186-4

CLAIMED BY HER BILLIONAIRE PROTECTOR

© 2018 Robyn Donald Kingston

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

CHAPTER ONE

NIKO RADCLIFFE HAD expected an unsophisticated band playing unsophisticated country music. After all, this was the northernmost part of New Zealand, a farming region of small villages, ancient volcanoes and stunning coastal scenery. Narrow and sea-bordered, the peninsula thrust north towards the equator, relying on its beauty and its history to attract tourists.

So the strains of mellow jazz drifting across the car park as he walked towards Waipuna Hall came as a pleasant surprise. Either the Far North had an unusually professional musical culture, or—more likely—the committee who’d organised the Waipuna Centennial Ball had hired the band from Auckland.

At the doors a middle-aged man stepped towards him. ‘Good evening. Can I see your ticket, please?’

Niko held it out, and after a quick scan the doorman nodded and said, ‘Welcome to Waipuna, Mr Radcliffe. I hope you enjoy the evening.’

Niko had his doubts about that, but he said, ‘Thank you,’ and walked into the hall, stopping just inside the doors to survey the crowd.

The district had done the occasion proud. Garlands of flowers looped around the walls, their faint evocative perfume floating on the warm air. Men in the stark black and white of evening dress steered partners clad in a multitude of colours. Everyone appeared to be having a fine time.

Whoever had done the decorations had talent, and must have denuded quite a few farm and village gardens of flowers. Their soft, fresh perfume hung in the warm air, the blooms competing in colour with the women’s bright copies of Twenties’ flapper fashions.

Idly, Niko allowed his eyes to follow one of the dancers. Although she had her back to him, she was above average height, and her sleek head of strawberry-blonde hair made her easy to see amongst the dancers. Her grace should have won her a better partner than the middle-aged man steering her somewhat clumsily through the crowd. When they turned Niko recognised him—Bruce Nixon, husband of the woman who headed the Waipuna Centenary Ball committee.

The music stopped, the floor began to empty, and the noise changed to a buzz of chatter and laughter. His gaze still held by that bright crown of hair, Niko realised the woman and her partner were walking towards Mrs Nixon, the only other person in the hall he recognised. In spite of his unexpected arrival in Waipuna several days previously she’d tracked him down and welcomed him to the Far North.

‘And as the new owner of Mana Station it would be appreciated if you could come to our Hall Centennial Ball and meet some of the local people,’ she’d told him, her tone reminding him of his rather severe first governess.

He’d agreed to endure the possible boredom of a country ball because his purchase of the cattle station had been a matter of comment in the national media, quite a bit of it critical. The new manager he’d appointed had also informed him of discontent caused by yet another foreign absentee owner buying up a large agricultural holding in New Zealand.

Especially an owner with his background. The only child of a European aristocrat who’d fallen crazily in love with a rugged New Zealander, Niko could barely recall his early life on his father’s vast tussock-clad hill station in the South Island. He’d been just five years old when his mother had fled with him back to her father’s palace in San Mari, a small European principality.

So it was logical enough for him to be considered a foreigner. The fact that he’d forged an empire for himself in commerce wasn’t likely to cut much ice—if any—with pragmatic, farming Kiwis.

Given time, they’d discover that he was nothing like the previous owner of Mana Station, who’d not only stripped the station of every available cent for years, eventually bringing what had once been a profitable farming concern so close to ruin that he’d been forced to sell, but had appointed an inefficient, corrupt farm manager.

Doubtless Niko’s dismissal of that man would cause more gossip.

Mrs Nixon looked across the hall, saw him, and smiled, beckoning him across. Noting wryly that he was being openly inspected by at least half of the dancers, Niko set off towards her.

The strawberry blonde could be Mrs Nixon’s daughter, although that seemed unlikely. Both Mrs Nixon and her husband were short and rather stout, whereas the redhead was slender.

Niko’s gaze narrowed as he took in the younger woman’s face—fine features and ivory skin, faintly flushed with exertion. Her violet silk shift subtly revealed soft curves and long limbs. She wasn’t beautiful, yet something about her stirred his blood. Her hair was pulled back from her face and confined in a knot at the base of her neck. Ivory-skinned, she turned her head slightly as he walked towards them, revealing slightly tilted eyes and a full, sensuous mouth.

‘Mr Radcliffe! I’d begun to think you weren’t coming!’ Mrs Nixon beamed as he arrived.

‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ he said smoothly. ‘Your ball is obviously a huge success.’

Her smile widened even further. ‘I hope you enjoy it. You’ve met my husband, Bruce, of course.’

While the two men shook hands, she went on, ‘And this is Elana Grange, who helped us enormously with the organisation for tonight, and also with the decorations. She’s a neighbour of yours—right next door at Anchor Bay, in fact.’ The smile she directed at her companion was almost mischievous. ‘Elana, this is Niko Radcliffe, the new owner of Mana Station.’

‘How do you do, Mr Radcliffe.’

Her voice was cool, and so was the hand she extended, allowed to lie in his for a brief moment, and then retrieved.

For the length of a heartbeat, Niko’s initial awareness gave way to a sensation infinitely more primal—a swift, uncontrollable physical response that startled him. Elana Grange radiated a subtly provocative allure that roused him in a way he hadn’t experienced before.

Yet he sensed contradictions. Slightly tilted eyes of dark green speckled with gold gave her an exotic air, but her level gaze lacked the coquettish awareness he often saw in women’s eyes. And although her mouth hinted at passion, something about the lift of her square chin indicated a controlled reserve.

Which could, of course, be deliberate. Several bitter experiences in his youth had led to a sardonic appreciation of the various methods of feminine provocation. If Elana Grange expected him to be intrigued by her aloofness, she’d discover she was wrong. Niko had learned to deal with women who viewed him either as a challenge, or a path to social and material advancement.

Her sophisticated appearance was completely at odds with the dilapidated little shack she lived in, huddled just outside the gates to Mana Station. He’d noticed it from the helicopter as he’d arrived at Mana homestead, and assumed the place was a ruin. Judging by the state of the roof, its owner was going to face a large repair bill some time soon.

Mrs Nixon said enthusiastically, ‘I’m so glad you could make it tonight, Mr Radcliffe. Or should I call you Count?’

‘No. My name is Niko.’

Another slight smile curved Elana Grange’s soft mouth. It gave her a fey look, an air of cool mystery that summoned another swift, startlingly carnal response in Niko.

Mrs Nixon smiled. ‘Very well, Niko.’ She glanced at the woman beside her. ‘Elana was just wondering why you’d chosen to buy Mana Station when it’s almost derelict.’

A faint colour warmed the face of the woman beside her. Embarrassed she might be, Niko thought cynically, but his answer would almost certainly be circulated through the district. So he told her the truth. ‘I spent my early years on a high country station in the South Island, as well as some school holidays, and developed an affection for New Zealand and its stunning countryside. As for Mana—it needs rescuing.’

* * *

An interesting and unexpected comment, Elana decided. However, his purchase of the large sheep and cattle station had caused quite a lot of publicity, and he was probably aware that not all of it had been favourable. Pretending to an affection for the country could be a way to alleviate that.

The Count had an interesting voice, if you liked men’s voices deep with a hard edge. He’d judged his handshake perfectly—strong enough to be masterful without causing pain. Once he’d released her hand she’d had to stop herself from rubbing her tingling palm surreptitiously against her side.

Her first glance at the arrogant jut of his jaw had set every warning instinct on full alert. And the unsparing assessment of his ice-blue gaze had reinforced her surge of defensiveness. It was highly unlikely she’d ever become friends with the new owner of Mana Station.

However, her foolish body was buzzing with sensual excitement. His lean, charismatic muscularity emphasised by wide shoulders and his height, Count Niko Radcliffe wore his formal evening clothes with an intimidating confidence that was like nothing she’d seen before.

Cool it, Elana commanded her jumping heartbeat. Handsome men were not that uncommon, and she’d seen enough photographs of him in the media to know what to expect.

But photographs failed to convey his effortless air of authority or the powerful aura that was more than physical, backed by a disturbing smile. According to the media he ran his numerous interests with a formidable combination of intelligence, determination and ruthlessness.

An image formed in her mind of some warrior king of long ago, one who ruled by sheer force of character.

Chemistry, she decided, trying to dampen her foolish reaction with irony. Some men had it in spades. And dangerously attractive though he seemed, Niko Radcliffe’s magnetism owed nothing to honesty or kindness or—well, any of the virtues.

But then, royal billionaires probably didn’t need honesty or kindness to attract some women.

Immediately ashamed of the snide thought, she banished it. According to Mrs Nixon, an avid reader of gossip magazines, he chose lovers noted for their beauty and intelligence, the latest one a gorgeous English aristocrat.

And in farming circles he had a good reputation. Only a few weeks ago she’d read an article about his rescue of the sheep and cattle station he’d inherited from his father. He’d spent much money killing the wilding pines that threatened to turn the land into forest, and clearing the station of goats. Apparently he was determined to clear it of rabbits too, although he’d admitted he might need a miracle for that.

She risked a swift upwards glance, her pulse speeding as her eyes clashed with his. Somehow she just couldn’t see this man, completely assured in his perfectly tailored evening clothes, shooting goats or hauling out pine seedlings.

Ah well, no doubt he had minions to do the heavy work.

Fixing a noncommittal smile to her lips, she said lightly, ‘Welcome to Northland, Mr Radcliffe.’

Black brows lifted. ‘Niko,’ he repeated with a crisp intonation that came close to curtness. But then he smiled.

Elana was shocked by a fierce awareness that tightened her nerves and sinews. That smile was something!

And no doubt he was aware of its impact.

He added, ‘Congratulations on the decorations. They are superb.’

Striving to control a swift surge of adrenalin, she forced herself to concentrate on his accent. He sounded almost English, but his faint foreign intonation no doubt came from his upbringing in a European palace.

Elana steadied her voice enough to say, ‘Thank you—we had an excellent committee to work with.’

The band struck an imperative chord, and once the chatter faded the MC—a local farmer—spoke into the microphone, welcoming the crowd. Something far too close to relief gripped Elana when the man beside her turned to listen.

Stop being an idiot, she told herself robustly. OK, so the new owner of Mana had the kind of presence that attracted eyes and attention.

Definitely an alpha male—uncompromising and intolerant and intimidating.

Like her father. Just the sort of man she despised.

And feared...

The MC announced the next dance, and the Count turned to Mrs Nixon with a request that summoned a slight flush to her cheeks. ‘Dear man, that’s lovely of you, but I’m not dancing tonight. I managed to twist my ankle yesterday,’ she said.

Horrified, Elana realised that Niko had no polite way out of asking her to dance.

Sure enough, he turned to her, hard eyes veiled by lashes too long for any man. ‘May I have the pleasure?’

Say no.

But that would be ludicrous. After all, it was only one dance...

Her smile hiding, she fervently hoped, her abrupt and unwarranted reaction, she placed her fingers gingerly on his outstretched arm.

‘So you live above Anchor Bay,’ he said as the band struck up a tune. His tone indicated that he wasn’t particularly interested.

Matching it, she answered, ‘Yes.’

‘You must be able to see quite a bit of Mana Station from there.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ll notice quite a few changes soon.’

Strangely, the purposeful note in his voice chilled her. She looked up, and for a couple of seconds their eyes locked. Blinking, she lowered her lashes against the ironic challenge in his cold blue gaze.

Suavely he asked, ‘You’re surprised?’

He saw too much. Elana struggled for something banal and conventional to say, but only managed, ‘No.’ When his brows drew together she added, ‘I’m pleased. It’s time someone gave Mana back some pride.’

He nodded. ‘Exactly what I intend to do. Don’t worry, I won’t bore you with farming talk. Let’s dance.’

A shiver ghosted the length of her spine as she stepped closer. For a foolish moment she felt she’d taken a forbidden step into an alternative world.

A dangerous world, she realised as they began to move together—a world where the rules no longer applied. Jumping heartbeats took her by surprise and her nostrils flared at the faint, exciting, potently male scent of him and the hard strength in the arms that imprisoned her.

Imprisoned her?

What a ridiculous thought!

Yet the heat of Niko Radcliffe’s hand at her waist was stirring a blatant response. Her dress seemed suddenly far too revealing, the violet silk slithering over acutely sensitised skin in a sensuous massage.

Of course he danced superbly; she was ready to bet that lean, splendidly physical body would do anything well, from dancing to making love.

‘Are you all right?’

His 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 he wasn’t suffering the same potent response. Indeed, his arm had loosened swiftly as though he found her sudden closeness distasteful.

Chilled, she had to swallow before she could say, ‘Perhaps we should tell them that jitterbugging arrived some years after the Twenties.’

‘They’re enjoying themselves,’ he said dismissively, then surprised her by asking, ‘Are you the local florist?’

Elana hesitated. He sounded quite interested—which seemed unlikely. Perhaps faking interest when bored out of his mind was another talent developed in that princely court...

OK, concentrate on small talk now, she told herself. Ignore those pulsating seconds when you were plastered against him, and something weird happened to you.

Sedately she told him, ‘I work part-time in the florist’s shop in Waipuna.’

‘Was that always your ambition?’ he asked, almost as though he were interested.

‘No.’ After a second’s pause she added, ‘I’m a librarian and I used to work in Auckland, but a couple of years ago a family situation meant I had to come home to Waipuna.’

The family situation being the accident that had killed her stepfather and confined her mother to a wheelchair.

‘So you decided to stay here.’

Elana glanced up and met a narrowed blue gaze. Another of those unnerving shivers chased down her spine. In a tone she didn’t recognise, she said, ‘Yes.’

‘Is there no library in Waipuna?’

‘Yes, run by volunteers. There’s no need for a professional librarian.’

‘Ah, I see. Do you enjoy working in the florist’s shop?’

Surely he couldn’t be interested in a small-town woman in the wilds of northern New Zealand? He didn’t need to hear that, although she loved Waipuna, she missed the stimulation of her career in Auckland.

She evaded, ‘I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t fascinated by flowers. My mother was a fantastic gardener and apparently from the time I could toddle I drove her crazy by picking any blooms—’ She stopped abruptly. Any blooms her mother had been allowed to cultivate. ‘Often before they’d opened out,’ she finished.

He gave the big hall a quick survey. ‘You clearly have a talent for arranging them. Mrs Nixon also mentioned that you wrote the booklet—a short history—of the hall. I haven’t read it yet, but intend to.’

Elana flushed. ‘I hope you find it interesting.’

‘Are you a historian as well as a librarian?’

‘I did a history degree,’ she said.

And wasn’t surprised when he asked, ‘Why?’

‘Because I’m interested in history.’ She added, ‘After that my stepfather insisted I take a business course.’

‘Very sensible of your stepfather,’ Niko Radcliffe said dryly. ‘From your tone, I gather you didn’t want to do it. Was he right to insist?’

Elana didn’t like the way he emphasised the word stepfather. Steve had been as dear to her as any father could be—infinitely dearer than her own father. She said briskly, ‘Yes, he was right. It’s been very useful.’

Especially over the past couple of years, after a friend had asked her to tape her great-grandmother’s reminiscences and transcribe them so they could be bound into a book to mark her hundredth birthday. Elana found the task absorbing, enjoyed the whole experience and had been astounded when her friend’s family insisted on paying her for the time she’d spent.

Even more astonishing, word had got around the district, and soon she was repeating the process. Then the editor of the local weekly newspaper commissioned her to write articles on the history of the district. As she was working for only three days a week at the florist’s shop, the money came in handy, and she loved the research.

To her relief the music drew to a close. Niko Radcliffe released her and offered an arm. Forcing herself to relax, she took it, trying to ignore the sudden chill aching through her—a bewildering sense of abandonment.

How could a man she’d only just met have that effect on her?

Be sensible, she told herself robustly as they walked across the hall towards Mr and Mrs Nixon. So you’re attracted to him? So what? You’re probably not the only one here tonight to be so aware of him...

Over the centuries women had learned to recognise an alpha male. For probably most of humankind’s existence, a strong capable father to one’s children gave them a much better chance of survival.

And, tall and good-looking, with that indefinable magnetism—not to mention the fact that he was rich, she thought sardonically—everything about him proclaimed Count Niko Radcliffe a member of that exclusive group.

Which was no reason to fantasise about feeling strangely at home in his arms. When the next dance was announced he’d choose a different woman to partner him, and that woman might well feel the same subliminal excitement, a reckless tug of sexuality both dangerous and compelling.

Together they walked to where the Nixons had just finished chatting to another couple. Acutely aware of sideways glances, Elana was surprised by an odd regret when they arrived.

Mrs Nixon observed, ‘Good evasive action, Niko. For a second I thought we might need to call on my first-aid skills, but you saved the day with that sidestep. Young Hamish and his partner are going to have to practise jiving a bit longer before they’re safe enough to do it in public.’

His smile held a tinge of irony. ‘Fortunately I had an excellent partner.’

The older woman sighed. ‘My grandmother was a great dancer—she could still do a mean Charleston when she was eighty, and her tales of balls and parties used to make me deeply envious. Then rock and roll came onto the scene when my parents were young. I always felt I missed out on being wild and rebellious.’

‘Surely punk must have been wild and rebellious enough,’ Elana teased.

Mrs Nixon chuckled. ‘A bit too much for me, I’m afraid,’ she confessed. ‘And now I find I’ve turned into my father—when I hear the hit songs today I mutter about their lack of tune and how they don’t sing clearly enough for me to understand the words.’

‘Possibly a good thing,’ Niko observed coolly. ‘Tell me, why did the committee choose the Twenties as a theme for tonight? I believe the hall was built in the early twentieth century, so you should have been celebrating its centennial some years ago?’

Mrs Nixon smiled. ‘Nobody was interested in running a ball to celebrate the centennial then, but a year ago a group of us decided Waipuna deserved a Centennial Ball. So we called it that. It meant that people who’d give an ordinary dance a miss came for it—some from overseas,’ she finished proudly. ‘It’s been a lovely reunion.’

He laughed, and Elana’s heart missed a beat. ‘Good thinking. So why the Twenties theme?’

‘Comfort.’

Brows lifting, he echoed, ‘Comfort?’

‘Comfort,’ Mrs Nixon repeated firmly. ‘In the early twentieth century women were still confined to elaborate clothes and corsets. We decided unanimously that comfort is more sensible than historical accuracy.’

‘To every woman’s relief,’ Elana observed. ‘As well, it’s a lot easier to sew a Twenties shift than the gowns they wore twenty years previously.’

* * *

Niko glanced down, struck by the way the lights shimmered on her gleaming hair. Freed from the neat knot at the back of her neck it would look like silk. Into his mind sprang an image of the soft swathe spread out across a pillow—of her lithe, ivory-skinned body against white sheets, green-gold eyes heavy-lidded and beckoning...

Strange how exotic eyes and a fall of bright hair could lend spice to an occasion...

Irritated by a fierce surge of desire, he suppressed the tantalising thought and concentrated on the conversation.

He’d expected little entertainment from this evening. If his presence at the ball went some way to convincing the district that he intended to return Mana Station to full production again—which would mean jobs for local people—it would make the new manager’s position easier.

Above the babble of conversation and laughter he discerned a rapidly approaching roar as some idiot drove past the hall, achieving as much noise as he could from a badly maintained engine.

When the noise had faded Mr Nixon told him laconically, ‘One of the local hoons. Like all young kids with an attitude, they like to stir up the district periodically. No harm to them, by and large.’

Niko nodded. The band struck up for the next dance, and some young guy in evening clothes slightly too big for him came up and asked Elana Grange for it. Smiling up at him, she accepted.

Watching them dance, Niko resisted a swift emotion that veered dangerously close towards possessiveness. Startled by its intensity, he secured one of the matrons Mrs Nixon introduced him to, and guided her onto the floor. But although his partner was a brilliant dancer, and had a sharp, somewhat acerbic wit, he had to force himself to concentrate on her and not allow his gaze to follow Elana Grange around the room.

As the evening wore on he noted she was a popular dance partner, but seemed to favour no particular man, apparently enjoying her turns with middle-aged farmers as well as with younger men.

* * *

Keeping her eyes firmly away from Niko Radcliffe, Elana chatted with old friends and acquaintances, grateful that he didn’t approach her for any more dances.

By the time midnight arrived she was strangely tired, but she managed to hide any yawns until she slid into her car, pulling out to follow his car. It suited him—big enough to be comfortable for a tall man, super-sophisticated yet tough...

Stop this right now, she told herself grimly. You’re being an idiot. OK, so he looks like some romantic fantasy, all strength and good looks and seething with charisma, but that’s no reason for you to feel as though you’ve overdosed on champagne.

Frowning ferociously, she stifled another yawn and concentrated on the road as it narrowed ahead. Some time during the ball it had rained and the tarseal shone slickly in the headlights. After a few kilometres the road swung towards the coast and the surface turned to gravel as it dived into the darkness of the tall kanuka scrub crowding the verges.

About halfway home, scarlet tail-lights ahead warned her of trouble. Slamming on her own brakes, she gasped as the seatbelt cut across her breasts.

When her stunned gaze discerned the cause of the sudden stop, she gulped, ‘Oh, no—’

CHAPTER TWO

SHOCKINGLY, THE GLARE of the headlights revealed a stationary vehicle on its side. The driver had failed to take the corner and the car had skidded into the ditch before sliding along the clay bank that bordered the road on the passenger’s side.

Hideous memories of another accident, the one that had killed her stepfather, and ultimately her mother, flashed through Elana’s mind. Sick apprehension tightened her stomach and froze her thoughts into incoherence until she realised that Niko Radcliffe was already out of his vehicle and running towards the wreck.

Fingers shaking, she released her seatbelt and opened the door. Her first instinct was to join him, but second thoughts saw her haul the first-aid kit from the glove box.

Clutching it, she ran, heartbeats thudding in her ears as Niko wrenched open the driver’s door and leaned inside.

‘Oh, dear God, please...’ Elana breathed a silent prayer that jerked to a sudden stop when she realised he was half inside the car, presumably undoing the driver’s seatbelt.

Over his shoulder he commanded harshly, ‘Get back. Quickly—I can smell petrol.’

So could she now, the acrid stench cutting through the minty perfume from the kanuka trees. At least the force of the collision had stopped the engine.

‘Go,’ Niko Radcliffe ordered, dragging the driver free of the car in one ferociously powerful movement.

‘I’ll help you—’

He broke in, ‘Have you got a cell phone?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Then get back to your car and use it to call for help.’

Torn between summoning the emergency services and helping him, Elana wavered.

‘Move! And stay there!’

The peremptory command raised her hackles, but sent her running back. Snatching up her cell phone, she tapped out the emergency number, eyes fixed on Niko and his limp burden as he strode past his own vehicle towards her.

‘Ambulance, fire engine and police,’ she told the emergency operator, and answered the subsequent questions as clearly and concisely as she could, finishing by saying, ‘The smell of petrol seems to be getting much stronger. I have to go now.’

She dropped the phone onto the driver’s seat and ran towards Niko and his burden.

He had to be immensely strong, because, although the hard angles of his face were slick with sweat, he’d carried the driver of the wrecked car past their vehicles to what she fervently hoped was a safe distance.

Breathing heavily, he laid the unconscious man on the narrow, stony verge before straightening. ‘How long will it take them to get here?’

‘About fifteen minutes,’ Elana told him unevenly, adding, ‘I hope that not too many of the volunteers were drinking champagne at the ball.’ She dropped to her knees beside the still—dangerously still—driver. ‘Jordan,’ she said urgently, groping for his wrist. ‘Jordan, can you hear me? It’s Elana Grange. Open your eyes if you can.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Jordan Cooper.’ Tears clogged her eyes. ‘He’s only a kid—about eighteen.’

‘Any pulse?’

Steady, she told herself when her probing fingers found nothing. Concentrate. ‘No.’

Inwardly shaking, she explored a little further, and to her intense relief recognised the faint flutter of heartbeats against her fingers. ‘Yes. He’s alive.’ Barely...

She laid a gentle hand on the driver’s chest, some of her panic fading when she felt it rise and fall beneath her palm. ‘He’s breathing.’

‘Keep checking. Tell me at once if his pulse stops or he stops breathing.’

Vowing to take the next first-aid course available, she infused her tone with a confidence she didn’t feel. ‘Jordan, hang on in there. You’re going to be all right. Help is coming and will be here soon. Keep breathing.’

Did he hear her? Probably not, but that faint flutter steadied a little and his breathing became slightly less harsh.

* * *

Niko surveyed her, crouched on the stones, her long fingers clasping the unconscious man’s wrist.

As though sheer willpower could keep him alive, she urged again, ‘Keep breathing, Jordan, keep breathing. It won’t be long now before the ambulance gets here.’

Never had time dragged so slowly. Niko hoped to heaven he hadn’t made Jordan’s injuries—whatever they were—worse by hauling him from the car. The boy had worn a seatbelt so he’d almost certainly have escaped severe injury, although to knock him out the car must have hit the bank heavily.

And the stench of spilt petrol hung in the cool air, a constant threat.

At last the silence, broken only by the regular mournful morepork call of a nearby owl and Elana’s commands to Jordan to keep breathing, was interrupted by the sound of engines labouring up the hill.

Her head jerked up. Voice trembling with relief, she said, ‘Jordan, the ambulance is almost here. I can see its lights flashing through the bush. Keep breathing. You’re going to be all right.’

She fell silent as the ambulance arrived, followed closely by a fire engine and a police car.

Gladly handing over to those who knew what they were doing, Niko gave silent thanks for volunteers, and decided to double the donation he gave to each organisation.

Reaching down, he pulled Elana gently to her feet. Although she valiantly straightened her shoulders, she couldn’t hide the shivers that wracked her slender body.

He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it across her shoulders. ‘All right?’

‘Yes.’

The quaver in her voice and the shiver that accompanied it told him she was in mild shock. Understandable, especially as she knew the kid.

He looped an arm around her shoulder. When she flinched he demanded, ‘What’s the matter? Did your seatbelt hurt you?’

‘No.’ She held herself stiffly while he urged her onto the side of the road out of the way of the vehicles. ‘I’m all right.’

And presumably to prove it, she moved away from him, putting distance between them. For some reason that exasperated him. Eyes narrowed, he kept a close watch on her while the ambulance personnel got to work and what at first seemed chaos soon resolved itself into a well-oiled routine that swiftly transferred the still-unconscious youth to the ambulance.

‘Elana?’ A young policeman stopped in front of them, frowning. ‘You all right?’

‘Don’t worry, Phil, I’m fine,’ she said, and summoned a shaky smile.

‘Rotten thing to happen to you—’ He stopped, looking profoundly uncomfortable, then asked hastily, ‘You sure you’re OK?’

Niko glanced down at her. What was going on? Had she been involved in an accident recently?

‘I’m fine,’ she repeated, her voice a little firmer, and added, ‘Truly, Phil, I’m all right.’

The young cop kept his gaze on her face. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

‘Neither of us saw it,’ Niko informed him. ‘It looks as though he took the corner too fast, over-corrected, then hit the bank at speed. I think we got here almost immediately after that.’

Questions had to be asked and answered, Niko knew, but surely not now. The woman beside him was no longer shaking, but she was still in shock. No wonder, if she had been involved in an accident.

Apparently the constable agreed, because he said, ‘Thanks for being so quick off the mark—the fire chaps say that it must have been touch and go that the engine didn’t explode. They’ll deal with it until it’s no longer a danger and the guys can tow it away.’ He looked at the silent woman. ‘Elana, I’m sorry—it must be bringing back really bad memories. Right now, you need something hot to drink and someone to look after you. I’d take you home myself—’

‘Phil, don’t be silly,’ she said weakly. Phil’s wife was very pregnant. The last thing she’d need would be him arriving home with someone to look after.

His suspicions confirmed, Niko looked down at her white face. Without thinking, he took her arm and said firmly, ‘She can stay at Mana. The homestead’s not completely repaired yet, but it’s liveable.’

He expected some resistance, and it was in a muted voice she said, ‘No, that’s not necessary. I’m fine.’ But it took an obvious effort for her to stiffen her shoulders as she added, ‘I just hope Jordan will be too.’

‘The ambos think he’s been lucky,’ the constable reassured her. ‘Not too much damage beyond a bad graze and possible cracked ribs. I hope so too, for his parents’ sake. They’ll be at the hospital to meet him.’ He transferred his gaze to Niko. ‘I don’t think Elana should be driving. If you can drop her off at home I’ll make sure her car gets back to her place.’

‘Phil, it’s not necessary.’ Elana’s tight voice made it obvious she didn’t like being discussed as though she weren’t there.

Niko intervened, ‘You’re mildly shocked. I’ll take you home.’

She pulled away from him. ‘I’m all right.’ But her voice wavered on the final word.

‘Be sensible.’ He added crisply, ‘Let the professionals take over.’

Her chin lifted. ‘You’re a professional?’

‘No, but this man is. Come on, give him your keys.’

The cop was hiding a smile, one that almost escaped him when Elana stared indignantly at Niko for a few seconds, then shrugged. ‘The keys are still in my car,’ she said bleakly. ‘OK, Phil, I won’t drive if you think I shouldn’t. I’ll just collect my bag.’

Niko found himself admiring both her spirit and her common sense. He said, ‘I could do with something hot and soothing right now. I’m pretty good at making coffee, but I’m thinking a tot of whisky should go into it.’

The lights of the remaining vehicles revealed both her disbelieving expression and a swift, narrowed glance. ‘I hate whisky.’

Amused by her intransigence, Niko watched her head for her vehicle, and found himself wondering what had given her that sturdy spirit.

Once she was out of earshot the cop turned to him. ‘Rotten thing to happen to her,’ he said, frowning.

‘To anyone,’ Niko returned. Especially to the kid behind the wheel...

The young policeman went on, ‘But tougher on Elana than most.’ He hesitated, watching her as she opened her car door and bent inside it. ‘She lost her parents—well, her stepfather—a couple of years or so ago in an accident. He was killed instantly, and her mother was so badly hurt she never walked again.’

Niko said harshly, ‘Damn.’

‘Yes. Elana was with them—they were hit head-on by an out-of-control truck.’ He paused and shook his head. ‘She was lucky—not too much in the way of injuries, but she had to leave a good job in Auckland to come home and look after Mrs Simmons—her mother. She died after a stroke about six months ago.’ He paused. ‘Hell of a shame for Elana to come across young Jordan like that.’

Niko looked towards her car. Elana was still groping around in the front seat, presumably searching the bag she’d carried—a little satin thing that didn’t look big enough to hold the keys to any house. Frowning, he watched her straighten up and step back, bag in hand.

He turned to the constable and extended his hand. ‘I’m Niko Radcliffe from Mana Station.’

‘Yeah, I recognised you from the photos in the local newspaper.’

They shook hands and turned to watch Elana walk back, clutching her bag, her face drawn and taut.

Niko opened the passenger door of his car. When she hesitated he said, ‘Get in.’

Lips parting, she gave him a dark look, but clearly thought better of whatever she’d been going to say and obeyed, after thanking Phil Whoever-He-Was.

‘I’ll go and have a word with the fire brigade,’ Niko told her, and closed the car door on her.

Turning away so she couldn’t hear, he said quietly to the cop, ‘I’ll also ring my housekeeper; she’ll stay the night and will keep an eye on her.’

The constable nodded. ‘Great. She shouldn’t be on her own. I’ll get in touch with you when I know young Jordan’s condition.’ He paused, and gave a brief smile. ‘But watch out for fireworks. Elana’s pretty independent.’

However, when Niko returned to his car after being reassured that the leaking petrol was no longer a danger, Elana Grange looked far from independent. Eyes closed, she was leaning back in the seat, and even in the semi-darkness he could see that the colour hadn’t returned to her face, and that her hands were clenched on her bag as though reliving the impact of a crash. A pang of compassion shook him.

* * *

At the sound of the opening door Elana forced up her weighted eyelids and took a deep breath. ‘Thanks,’ she said, adding, ‘I didn’t realise just how—how affected I’d be by this.’

‘Accidents are always difficult to deal with, and for you now, I imagine much more so.’

So Phil had told him. She blinked back shaken tears. ‘I thought—hoped—I’d got over it. The shock, I mean.’

Only to fall to pieces... Sometimes she wondered if she’d ever recover from the tragedy of her parents’ deaths.

‘Give it time,’ Niko said as he set the car in motion. ‘It’s a truism, but time does heal most things—eventually.’ He paused before adding, ‘And if it doesn’t entirely heal, it usually provides the ability to cope.’

Surprised, she looked up. His angular sculpted profile and the tone of his voice made her wonder if he’d discovered this for himself. Immediately she chided herself for her self-absorption. She wasn’t the only person in the world to be forced to live with unexpected tragedy. Other people had even worse events in their lives, and managed to overcome their impact.

In a small voice she said, ‘I just miss them so much.’

To her astonishment he dropped one hand from the wheel and closed it over hers. Although strong, his grip was warm and strangely comforting.

‘That’s the worst part,’ he told her, releasing her cold fingers. ‘But eventually you’ll learn to live without them. And to be happy again.’

His pragmatic sympathy warmed some part of her that had been frozen so long she’d come to take it for granted. Had he too suffered a loss? Possibly. However, she wasn’t comfortable discussing her grief with a man she didn’t know, even though the events of the evening somehow seemed to form a link between them.

Opening her eyes, she gazed ahead as the headlights revealed paddocks and fences and the sweep of a bay.

‘Hey!’ she exclaimed. ‘Stop!’

‘Why?’ He kept on driving towards Mana homestead.

‘You’ve gone past my gate. Sorry—I should have told you where I—’

‘I know where you live.’

After digesting that she fought back bewilderment to demand, ‘Then why did you drive past?’

‘Because I agree with your policeman friend. You shouldn’t be on your own tonight.’

Silenced by a mixture of shock and outrage, she opened her mouth to speak, only to have her throat close and the words refuse to emerge.

The man beside her went on, ‘I called my housekeeper and she’s preparing a bed for you.’ And without pausing he added on an ironic note, ‘I’m sure there will be a lock on the door. If not, you’ll still be quite safe.’

Stung, she blurted, ‘I didn’t—I wasn’t...’

Housekeeper? Did he travel with a domestic ménage? Although various tradesmen and decorators had been working on the sadly neglected and almost derelict Mana homestead for some months, local gossip hadn’t mentioned a resident housekeeper.

Perhaps Niko Radcliffe guessed her thoughts, because he said calmly, ‘I assume you know that the house is still being restored, although fortunately it’s almost finished.’

Elana drew in a sharp breath. ‘It’s been the talk of the district since you bought the station.’ Along with the huge amount of money he was spending on the house as well as the land itself. ‘But I’m perfectly all right—a bit shaken, that’s all. I don’t need to be cosseted.’

‘Your policeman friend didn’t seem to think so.’

His amused tone rubbed her raw. ‘Phil’s a nice man but he’s always had an over-developed protective instinct. There’s no need for you to wake up your housekeeper and put her to this trouble.’

‘She’s another with an over-developed protective instinct,’ he said laconically, turning the wheel to swing between low stone walls. For years they’d proudly guarded the entrance to Mana homestead, but now more than a few of the volcanic boulders had tumbled to the ground.

No doubt they’d soon be put back in place.

Above the clatter of the cattle stop, Elana said grittily, ‘I—thank you.’ In his forceful, domineering way, Niko Radcliffe possibly thought he was being neighbourly.

‘It’s nothing.’

His tone told her that, indeed, he meant just that. Because, of course, his housekeeper would be the one who did any actual caring—not that it would be necessary.

She opened her mouth to say something astringent, then closed it as he went on, ‘It’s been an unnerving experience for you—and understandably so.’

‘Which doesn’t mean I’m not capable of looking after myself.’

‘Is it always so difficult for you to accept help?’

Elana couldn’t come up with any sensible response. Much as she resisted the idea, her shock at the accident and fear for Jordan weren’t the only reasons for her silence. From the moment she’d seen Niko he’d had a potent effect on her.

And she certainly wasn’t going to let him know that.

He broke the silence. ‘If Mrs Nixon had been with us, I’m sure you’d have let her sweep you off home with her.’

‘I—’ Elana paused, then said reluctantly, ‘Well—yes. But I’ve known the Nixons almost all my life, and she’d worry.’

Still amused, he said, ‘I can’t say I’d worry, but I’d certainly be concerned if I’d dropped you off by yourself. And if you’re concerned now about local gossip, you don’t have to be. My housekeeper will be enough of a chaperone.’

His response made her seem like some virgin from Victorian melodrama. Elana stifled a sharp retort. ‘I’m not at all worried about my—well, about my safety. Or my reputation. I just want to go home.’

‘No,’ he said coolly.

Fulminating, she looked across at a profile hewn of stone, all arrogant angles above a chin that proclaimed complete determination.

Sheer frustration made her demand recklessly, ‘Why are you doing this? You realise that it’s kidnapping?’

His mouth curved. ‘Tell me, would anyone in Waipuna accept that—and I’m including your policeman friend?’

He’d called her bluff. Of course they wouldn’t, and neither would she accuse him of it. Curtly she retorted, ‘I’d have preferred that we talk the matter over before you drove past my gate.’

‘Why? We’d have just had exactly the same conversation, only sooner. And I’m assuming that you’re sensible enough to accept that you’re not only tired, but still traumatised by the tragedy of your parents’ accident.’

Elana flinched, averting her face as he stopped the car outside the old homestead. The harsh glare of the headlights highlighted the amazing change huge amounts of money could produce in a few months. Evidence of years of neglect under the previous owner had been erased, and Mana homestead looked as pristine as it must have when it had first been built over a century ago.

* * *

Niko turned and inspected her. She was staring at the homestead, her features sharpened. ‘I’ve upset you. I’m sorry,’ he said, resisting the impulse to take her hands in his and offer what comfort he could.

Years ago he’d learned a harsh lesson about giving in to a compassionate impulse. A friend’s daughter had suffered a setback, and he’d taken her on a short cruise on his yacht, only to realise that she was falling in love with him. He’d felt no more for her than a brotherly affection, and had told her so as gently as he could. For the rest of his life, he’d be grateful that her attempt at suicide had failed, and that she was now happily married.

Since then, he’d been careful not to raise expectations he wasn’t able to satisfy, choosing sophisticated lovers who understood that he wasn’t interested in matrimony.

Elana Grange shook her head, her tone flat when she answered. ‘I’m rather weary of telling people I’m all right. Thank you. You’re being very kind.’ She even attempted a smile as she straightened her shoulders and said in what she probably hoped was her normal voice, ‘It’s shocking what twenty years of neglect did to this place. Those pohutukawa trees on the edge of the beach are over three hundred years old. The previous owners were going to cut them down. They said they blocked the view.’

‘Why didn’t they fell them?’

‘There was a public outcry, and a threat to take it to the environment court. I don’t know why they wanted them removed. They almost never came to Mana.’ She paused. ‘And the oak tree we’ve just passed was planted by the wife of the very first settler here.’

‘I gather from your tone that you’re not sure whether or not I’m going to bulldoze trees down,’ Niko said dryly.

* * *

Elana hesitated, before telling him the truth. ‘It hadn’t occurred to me, but I hope you’re not.’

‘I prefer to plant trees rather than kill them.’

Brief and to the point, and, because he’d decided to restore the homestead rather than demolish it, she believed him. ‘Except for pine trees, I believe.’

‘Except for wilding pines,’ he agreed.

He switched off the engine and got out. On a ragged, deep breath, Elana fumbled with the clip of her seatbelt, then wrestled with the unfamiliar door catch. Before she’d fathomed it out, the door swung open.

‘Here, take my hand,’ Niko commanded.

Scrambling out, she muttered, ‘Thanks, but I’m fine.’

Although he said nothing, she realised he was watching her closely as they walked towards the house. A woman opened the door—the housekeeper, of course—probably in her forties, with a smile that held both a welcome and some interest.

Niko said, ‘Elana, this is Mrs West. Patty, Elana Grange lives next door. She’s had a shock, so I’d suggest a cup of tea or coffee.’ He glanced down at Elana. ‘Or something a bit stronger.’

‘Tea will be fine, thank you,’ Elana said as crisply as she could, and added, ‘I’m sorry Mr Radcliffe felt obliged to put you to all this trouble.’

The older woman’s smile widened. ‘It’s no trouble. I’ve made you up a bed in a room overlooking the beach.’

‘Thank you.’ Although it had to be very late Elana was no longer tired. Just strung on wires. Tea might help her to think clearly.

Why on earth had she surrendered to Niko’s calm abduction?

The answer stared her in the face. Jordan’s accident had flung her back into the shock of losing Steve and, later, her mother.

It was too late now to regret her weakness. She was here at Mana, and, thanks to both Phil and Niko Radcliffe’s over-developed sense of responsibility, she had no way of getting home.

* * *

Five minutes later she was sitting on a comfortable sofa in a room that breathed sophisticated country style, fighting an aching weariness that clouded her mind. Barely able to prop her eyelids up, she covered a prodigious yawn.

Sitting down had not been a good move. Right then she desired nothing more than the blessed oblivion of sleep—in her own bed. Her eyes were full of grit, and somehow her bones had crumbled. The thought of getting to her feet made her want to curl up and collapse, crash out on the sofa for what was left of the night.

Niko’s black brows drew together. ‘You’re exhausted. Do you want to forego the tea?’

‘No.’ Her voice sounded oddly distant. She set her shoulders and tried for a smile, failing dismally.

‘You did well,’ he told her, his voice level.

‘So did you.’

Always, until she died, she’d remember how he looked as he dragged Jordan free of the car, the sheer brute strength of the man, and the fierce determination in his face as he carried the youth to safety.

Taking a deep breath, she said, ‘I’m going to take the next first-aid course the St John’s people advertise.’

‘An excellent idea, although I hope you never have to deal with a situation like that again.’

The urgent summons of a cell phone startled her. A mixture of adrenalin and concern forced her shakily upwards.

After a moment she realised Niko was holding out a hand to her. A cold fist of dread closing around her heart, she staggered to her feet. His fingers closed around hers, summoning a tingle of primal awareness that sizzled through her, giving her enough energy to stay upright.

He flicked his phone open, was silent a second or two, then said crisply, ‘Speaking. How is he?’

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