Taken by the Pirate Tycoon (10 page)

He was looking straight back at her, in the same hostile, accusing way he had the very first time she’d seen him. She
turned to the man still standing behind her chair, raising her face to him as he bent to ask, “Can I get you something to drink?”

She asked for sparkling wine, and chatted to the other people at the table until he returned and seated himself at her side, hooking an arm companionably across the back of her chair. Samantha was glad she had invited him. He was a widower, a nice middle-aged furniture company director who was wary of relationships after the abrupt end to his happy marriage. He and his wife had both been keen dancers and he missed that a lot, he’d told Samantha. They found each other useful on occasions such as this.

She was glad too that she’d worn a dress she’d fallen in love with—a blue silk only slightly darker than her eyes, with a faux 1930s elegance relying on cut rather than embellishment. With it she wore a pair of glittering pale blue topaz teardrop earrings and a silver bracelet set with the same stones.

She sipped at her champagne, her face set in a pleasantly smooth social mask, exchanging platitudes until one of the women said, “Where’s Bryn’s lovely wife? I don’t see her here.”

“They’ve separated,” another woman told her. “Didn’t you know? There was a piece in that gossip column of Cynthia’s a while ago. Rachel seems to have disappeared from view.” Turning to Samantha, she added, “You know him pretty well, don’t you? Any idea what happened?”

Samantha shrugged. “Bryn and I are business friends. His personal life is his own affair.” Then she changed the subject to the charity auction that traditionally formed part of the entertainment, the night’s proceeds going to help sick children. She’d donated a piece of her mother’s jewellery—a heavy diamond-and-wrought-silver necklace that she’d never particularly liked.

Samantha and her widower friend had taken to the floor several times before Bryn arrived at their table and asked her to dance with him, saying, “I’ve done all my duty dances.”

She thought about Jase balefully watching them, and deliberately pushed him out of her mind as she rose and followed him.

There were still signs of strain around his eyes, in the set of his mouth. When Jase passed them, his arm around the pretty girl he’d been sitting next to, she quickly averted her gaze. It was the first time this evening they’d been near each other, although he’d been dancing with the girl earlier, and once she saw him with an older woman.

Bryn returned her to her seat and lingered for a few minutes talking to the others round the table. Then she and her partner went to view the items for auction later. Her mother’s necklace was displayed on a table among other jewellery and antique ornaments. On the floor stood things like brand-new water pumps and garden gadgets, office machines and household whiteware.

Samantha’s companion became absorbed in inspecting a large and gleaming bright-red ride-on mower. He climbed onto the seat and began fiddling with levers, and she smilingly left him to it and moved on, attracted by a set of silk cushions embroidered and beaded in gold and jewel colours. Perhaps they’d add warmth and a touch of the exotic to her living room, which she had lately found rather stark.

Stepping away, she cannoned into a solid shape behind her and turned to apologise, half expecting to see one of the burly security guards who were watching over the display.

What she saw was Jase, so close she could smell the fabric of his evening shirt, and a hint of soap.

She felt his hand on her arm like a manacle before he dropped it and she backed against the table, the apology dying on her lips.

They were hemmed in amongst other people, and he seemed transfixed, as she was, both of them simply staring at each other for what seemed like an age, though it could only have been seconds at most.

“Samantha,” he said at last. And then, his voice barely audible among the increasingly loud chatter all about them, “Who’s the guy with you? A smokescreen? Why bother, now you’ve got what you wanted? Or isn’t it working out after all? Bryn looks to me like he’s not too happy with his life. Is his conscience bothering him, or have you had a falling out?”

“Why don’t you ask him?” Samantha hissed, unspeakably hurt. She’d still had some vague hope that Jase would have realised how wrong he was, would admit it and apologise. But since returning to New Zealand he’d come nowhere near her. He still hated her.

Had he all along? It struck her, sickeningly, that his apparent thawing, the walk on the beach, the almost-friendship during his makeover of her company’s systems, the visit to his parents and his home—even the kiss—might have been part of a calculated plan to keep her away from Bryn, distract her by offering himself instead. It was what he’d said to her in her office, raging,
If you want a man, choose one who’s free. Like me.

But then he’d kissed her. He had still wanted her in that way—even if he hated her. Her angry, ignoble triumph at that was no compensation for him not even liking her. But it helped to hide the hurt.

He said, “I did ask Bryn what the hell was going on with you two. He decked me.”

She blinked. Bryn was the most self-controlled person she knew. Not that Jase didn’t deserve it. “Didn’t that give you a clue?” she asked incredulously.

Someone jostled her, a woman saying irritably, “Excuse me, I just want to look at—”

Samantha missed hearing the rest. Jase had taken hold of her arm again and was hauling her after him, pushing through the throng until they emerged in a clear space and he found an empty corner half screened by a palm in a huge pot that blocked any escape. He growled, “Sure it gave me a clue. He wouldn’t tell me a damn thing. Which seems to me like a guilty conscience.”

“He has nothing to feel guilty about!” Samantha protested.

Jase exploded. “What the hell is it about the guy and you women, that you all stick up for him? Even Rachel—”

“Because he hasn’t
done
anything!” Samantha said. “It was
Rachel
who left
him
.”

“I know that. And I know why.”

He did? And still he blamed Bryn—and her? It didn’t compute. “Bryn told you?” she asked.

“Rachel told me. She saw you two together.”

“What do you mean, together? You know we—”

“Kissing,” he said harshly. “Making love at Bryn’s office. You didn’t even know she was there.”

For once she was unable to control her expression. Her eyes widened and her lips parted in silent protest. Her voice wavered. “She’s lying!”
Why?
To conceal her own infidelity from her brother, the rest of her family?

His eyes narrowed. “My sister doesn’t lie.”

Stuttering with shock, she said, “We—we’ve—hardly even touched when we’ve been in Bryn’s office.” Belatedly she added, “Or anywhere. It’s not true!”

This couldn’t really be happening, could it? “Jase—” she reached out a hand to touch him, her fingers on the sleeve of his jacket, her voice still unsteady
“—it isn’t true.”

For a couple of seconds he stared at her, and doubt flickered in his eyes. Then they hardened and he shook off her hand as though it were an annoying insect. “She wouldn’t say so if it wasn’t true. And she’s not the only one.”

Samantha recoiled.
“What?”

“You haven’t heard the talk?”

She should have realised that people would jump to conclusions, seeing her and Bryn together more often in the wake of his marriage breakup. They were both high-profile businesspeople, marks for public speculation. “Anonymous gossip is hardly a reliable—”

“Not all of it’s anonymous,” he interrupted harshly. “A friend, with no reason to make it up. She saw you holding hands with Bryn in a restaurant downtown. Staring into each other’s eyes as if you’d forgotten anyone else was there, embracing right outside the doorway where everyone could see. If you two can’t keep your hands to yourselves in public, why the pretence tonight?”

“There’s no pretence!” This had gone too far. “Jase, you don’t underst—”

“A lovers’ quarrel then?” he asked, shoving a hand into the pocket of his trousers, his lip curling. “You trying to make him jealous?”

She opened her mouth to reply, but another male figure appeared behind Jase. “Samantha?” Her partner of the evening, having finally abandoned his love affair with the lawnmower. “Everything all right?”

Jase didn’t even look at him, his eyes raking Samantha with a hostile, deliberately insulting glance that made her heart shrivel. “She’s all yours, mate,” he tossed contemptuously in the direction of the other man, and strode away.

“Who’s he?” Her partner frowned. “Are you okay?”

“Someone I’ve done business with in the past,” she said carefully. “And of course I’m okay.” She tried a smile, hoping he couldn’t see she was shaking inside. “Have you decided to bid for the mower?”

“Maybe.” Apparently not convinced of her disclaimer, he put an arm about her as he led her back to their table. By the time they reached it she had regained her composure and was able to pretend nothing had happened.

The floor was cleared for the auction and the necklace fetched a good price. Her mother would have been pleased. One of her favourite charities had been the children’s hospital. It was probably selfish of Samantha to wish her mother had spent less time sitting on committees for good causes, or “making contacts” at bridge parties and fashion shows, and more with her only child.

She’d been someone who needed other people around, restless and bored when her only companion was a little girl. Samantha had tried to grow up fast, to copy her pretty, popular, socialite mother—while at the same time trying to become her father’s worthy successor. It had been a difficult balancing act.

When the cushions Samantha had admired came up for sale she put in a bid but her heart wasn’t in it, and when another bidder seemed set on acquiring them she dropped out. Later she entered a bid for a lovely octagonal parquet occasional table on low splayed legs trimmed with brass. She wanted to contribute to the cause and the piece seemed about to go for much less than it was worth. Eventually it was knocked down to her and she wondered how it would fit into her décor. Perhaps she’d use it to hold a vase of flowers.

After the auction the music became livelier and the
younger contingent dominated the floor. She saw Jase with the girl who might be his partner for the night—and more? He was just as good at the hip-swivelling, foot-stomping style as he was at traditional dance steps.

The night dragged on, and around midnight Samantha asked her escort to take her home, suddenly deathly tired and with an incipient headache. They took a taxi, and when they reached her home he got the cab to wait while he walked her to her door, refusing to let her pay her share of the fare. “Don’t be silly,” he said. “You bought the tickets and I had a very nice time. I enjoyed the dancing. Thank you.” He touched his lips to her cheek, and left.

There were nice people in the world, she thought, closing the door and switching on the hall light. A pity she couldn’t have fallen for one of them, instead of a man who was too ready to believe the worst of her. And who might have been playing with her emotions.

Once in her bed, she stared into the darkness for a while before closing her eyes. All she could see was Jase, his face dark with fury, his eyes filled with contempt and dislike. And all she could feel was hurt and anger and desolation.

No matter what she said he wouldn’t believe her. He believed the preposterous story Rachel had apparently told him.

Why would Rachel have made up something like that? And how dare she implicate Samantha?

The pieces of the puzzle didn’t fit.

J
ASE
didn’t remember a time when he’d been reluctant to go to work. Or felt that having his home and his office in the same building was a mistake.

His staff were at their desks below while he still sat slumped over the remains of his breakfast, the cereal hardening at the edges of the bowl he’d shoved away, and toast crumbs sticking to a plate while his third cup of coffee cooled between his hands.

Since he was a night owl by nature, it wasn’t unusual for him to be at his computer into the early hours solving a particularly sticky problem, or to leave his bed because in the half-conscious state between the real world and sleep a new idea had filtered into his brain, and he needed to get it on the screen where he could see if it had any substance or was merely a crazy dream.

Crazy dreams had sometimes led to new, groundbreaking realities. And after years of working on his own he found it stimulating being among others with the same eagerness to make the impossible possible.

The last few nights he’d been sleepless yet unable to work. Even when he turned on his computer and stared at the screen
nothing came. And in the daytime he hadn’t wanted to face his colleagues, wanting only to be alone to brood.

All because of seeing Samantha again at the Donovan’s Charity Ball, so serene and beautiful and untouchable, and after one brief, indifferent glance ignoring him.

Not unexpected, considering their last encounter, but it had ignited a slow-smouldering rage that he couldn’t shake. He’d had to summon all his willpower to keep up an appearance of enjoying himself so as not to spoil the party for the wife and daughter of his sales director, who had persuaded him that the networking opportunity was too valuable to turn down.

The two women, particularly the daughter, were excited at being his guests at the Donovan’s Ball. While the sales director worked the room, Jase had done his best to entertain them, feeling old and jaded at the girl’s awed enthusiasm. She was a nice kid, and he’d made sure she had a night to remember—for all the right reasons. He suspected he wasn’t going to forget it for a long time either, but for all the wrong reasons. Like the fact he hadn’t been able to resist baiting Samantha when they literally bumped into each other.

For once she couldn’t quite hide her emotions, looking shocked when he confronted her with the evidence. And as guilty as hell for a second or two before she accused Rachel of lying.

He knew his sister better than that. And anyway, what reason would she have?

What he didn’t understand was why Samantha didn’t just admit that she and Bryn were having an affair, or were at least close to it. Probably picking up where they’d left off before. Rachel had seemed to think that likely.

The hell of it was, he admitted silently as he dumped cold
coffee in the sink and added his breakfast dishes to the others already in the dishwasher, that no matter what he told himself about Samantha’s deceit and her cold-hearted treatment of his sister, he couldn’t stop wanting her.

An overnight electrical storm hit Auckland, knocking out phones, fax machines and computers all over the city. Despite the safeguards Jase’s team had installed, a direct lightning strike on the roof of the Magnussen Building affected some of the company’s network. The IT manager called and demanded action.

Samantha reassured herself that it wouldn’t be likely that Jase himself would be needed, but after a couple of technicians had worked on the problems all morning and then left, saying everything tested okay now, half an hour later her secretary informed her he was on the line.

Tempted to tell Judy to say she was out to lunch, Samantha decided that would be cowardly and took the call, annoyed to find her palm on the receiver was moist. She said crisply, “Yes?”

“Just checking,” he said, “that you’re happy—”

“What?”
Had he phoned to harass her again about her supposed affair with Bryn?

“—with the job my team did on your computers,” he said. “I’m making sure all my clients are satisfied.”

Samantha closed her eyes and bit her lip, glad he couldn’t see her. One thing she’d been adamant about
not
wanting was a phone-camera link. “You’re ringing them all personally?”

“That’s right. It’s business, Samantha.” His voice was as smooth as butter.

She covered the mouthpiece and took a deep breath before
removing her hand. “Yes, well—they seem to have done a good job. No one’s complained so far.”

“If they do, get your IT guy to give me a call.”

“Thank you, I’ll do that.”

There was a hiatus, and she clutched the phone, reluctant to put it down.

Then he said, “Fine. See you.”

She heard the click of the receiver, and knew that despite the last statement he didn’t intend to see her at all. He often ended calls with that casual, meaningless goodbye. Even shop assistants she’d never seen before and probably never would again sometimes used it instead of the equally hollow, “Have a good day.”

She replaced the receiver, her throat tight and aching, her eyes stinging, and in her mind repeated a mantra,
I never cry, I am not crying, I will not cry, I never…

She pulled opened her drawer to haul a tissue out of its box, intending to wipe her hands, but it brought a wad of others with it. Stuffing them back in, she swore softly but vigorously, then scrubbed at her damp palms and swiped away a single escaping tear, sniffed, and wiped her nose too before throwing the tissue into the bin.

At least swearing was better than weeping. It had worked for her father, hadn’t it? Although he had made clear his disapproval of his daughter doing the same.

Her mother had used tears as a tool to get what she wanted. Something Samantha had made up her mind not to do. She’d accept a kiss on the cheek instead of a handshake from a male colleague, give a congratulatory touch instead of a backslap, deliver a pat or briefly stroke his arm for commiseration—even hug him if she knew him well.

And she wasn’t above using her eyes, her smile, to win a man over to her viewpoint if it was important enough. Particularly if he was the patronising type who responded better to feminine charm than to simple, obvious evidence that she could do her job as well as any man.

In a business where sexism was still subtly and sometimes glaringly present, she’d use any weapon she could call to hand. Except the ultimate female one.

For the rest of the day she worked as usual, but without being able to shake the sound of Jase’s voice from some secret inner ear. As they had for days, the same questions came back to haunt her.

Halfway through the afternoon she made a phone call to Bryn, on the excuse of asking him if Donovan’s had suffered any damage from the storm.

“Very little,” he replied. “Jase sent someone in to check our systems, and found a few minor problems.”

“Did he phone you to check later?”

“Yes. He runs a good service. Are you okay over there?”

“Fine.” So Jase’s claim to be checking on his clients was true. He wasn’t driven by some need to speak to her.

She hesitated then. If she were a smoker, she thought irrelevantly, a cigarette might have made this easier—a long, slow hit of nicotine. But she’d always been chary of addictions—of anything with the potential to take over her body or her mind.

And what good had that done her once Jase Moore sailed into her life? She couldn’t even get through the day without him affecting both.

Bryn said, “Is there something you want, Samantha?”

She breathed in and out. “You know there are rumours going round—about you and me?”

After a second he said, “My policy has always been to ignore cheap gossip. I hope it isn’t going to affect our friendship.”

“No! It’s just that…Jase thinks there’s something in it.” Her voice had sunk to almost a whisper.

“Jase?” And then he said slowly, “So that’s what it was about!”

The confrontation when Bryn had punched Jase, presumably. “Rachel told him she saw us,” Samantha explained. “You and me…t-together.”

“So what? We’ve often been toge—” He broke off. She heard him draw a breath. “She can’t have told him that. Her leaving had nothing to do with you. I’ll straighten Jase out if you like.” His voice suddenly sharp and curious, he asked, “Is it important to you?”

“No,” she said quickly. “Don’t do that.” Leaving the ambiguity in the air. Having Bryn fight her battles wasn’t an option. “He told me at the Donovan’s ball that you hit him.”

Bryn sounded rueful. “I guess because of course I couldn’t hit Rachel. I was feeling pretty raw and angry. I’m damned sure she didn’t ask him to interfere.”

“You didn’t tell him…”

“No. If she hadn’t told him that she’d found someone else, it wasn’t up to me. You and my mother are the only ones who know. And I did apologise for the punch.”

And she supposed, manlike, they rubbed along together now. For women, conflict was less simply resolved with an outburst of physical aggression.

He said, “Jase has always been close to Rachel. When they were kids he even had a go at Ben if he teased her. He’s a good guy, Sam, if a bit overprotective.”

He was tiptoeing round the subject of her relationship with Jase.

She might have told him there wasn’t one, that even if there had been a slight possibility it had withered on the vine, succumbing to the worm of distrust and the blight of disbelief.

That evening after the storm had passed, leaving only occasional drizzle behind, she was watching a film on TV, trying to blank her mind to all else, and had just pressed the remote at the third lot of ads when her doorbell pealed.

Assuming it was one of the neighbours, perhaps the retired accountant next door who was a keen fisherman and sometimes dropped off a fresh kahawai or snapper for her, she unlocked the door and opened it, stepping back quickly as Jase pushed it wider and strode into the small entryway. His hair was more unruly than usual, and she had trouble reading his expression. Fed up? Angry? Obstinate?

He said, “Don’t tell me to go away. Where can we talk?” He saw the open doorway to the lounge, where the TV and one of the sofas was visible, clasped her arm and drew her into the room.

“Why are you here?” she asked, trying to smother a glimmer of hope fighting through the resentment that had closed about her heart.

He searched her eyes with a gimletlike gaze, then made an impatient sound. “Are you going to ask me to sit down? Do you want to finish watching your programme?”

“No,” she said. “I mean, sit down if you like.” She walked over to switch off the set.

When she turned he was ensconcing himself in a chair. He wore jeans and a black crew-neck shirt and smelled of rain. The shirt was darkened on the shoulders and there were tiny
droplets in his hair. The storm had blown southward but the wind had gusted all day, with intermittent misty showers. She wondered how long he’d been out in the rain.

She said, “Can I get you a drink? Or coffee?” She could do with a strong one herself, but it probably would be a mistake.

Jase shook his head. “I just had coffee. Lots of it.”

She sat opposite him, upright and with her hands folded in her lap, as she’d been taught as a little girl to sit when there were visitors. “What can I do for you?” she asked.

His lips twitched and he drawled, “Now there’s an interesting question.”

“If you’ve come here to make suggestive adolescent remarks—” Her temper was slipping a little, and she made an effort to keep it leashed.

“No,” he said, holding up a hand then lowering it. He looked at her intently, as if trying to fathom her thoughts. “I came to—” he ran a hand over his hair, which did almost nothing to smooth it “—have a go at sorting things out.”

Hope flared again, and she quickly doused it. He might not mean what she thought. “Things?” she said cautiously. “Like what?”

His mouth thinned impatiently for a moment. “I keep telling myself it’s no use, but I can’t get you out of my system. I still want you, Samantha, always have. And I can’t shake this crazy, irrational feeling I always will. Everything else is irrelevant. Is it the same for you?”

Samantha was speechless. Trust him to go directly to the point of his visit, dispense with any sort of finesse. One part of her was responding with a soft, sweet yearning, disarmed by his frankness. That was the emotional part. All the female areas of her body were quiveringly alert with a totally physical answer
to the sexual demand in his eyes that was even more explicit than his words. And yet her mind was screaming warnings.

She had never wanted a man so much in her life. And it scared her witless.

“Well?” Jase stood up so quickly she flinched.

“I…” She paused to catch her breath, stop herself saying something inane like,
Mr Moore, this is such a surprise!

“I’m not going to attack you!” he said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Were you really as cool as a bloody iceberg when I phoned today? Or were your palms sweating?”

He noticed her almost imperceptible start, and his eyes narrowed, glittering. His voice lowered. “Did you remember that kiss at my window? At that moment you were mine if only I’d been short enough of common decency to take advantage of it. You have no idea how often I lie awake wishing I had fewer principles,” he told her with grim irony.

So did she, but she wasn’t going to confess to that.

He said, his expression turning brooding, “When you heard my voice today, did you wish you’d come to my bed and we’d made love, with the stars overhead and the night breeze to cool the heat we shared? The heat we’d create when we touched each other, kissed each other, found out what it was like to be together, to have me inside you?”

Samantha couldn’t stop the flush rising in her cheeks, spreading throughout her entire body. “No,” she said. She knew he was telling her his own fantasy, and the erotic picture he drew made her pulse throb, her breasts tingle and peak.

“Samantha.” He took a step and leaned over her, one hand on the arm of the sofa, the other lifting her chin so that she had to either look into his mesmerising, deep-sea eyes or close her own—which would invite…