The Far Side of Paradise

As though the words were torn from him, Cade said roughly, ‘Damn. This is too soon.’

Taryn froze, every instinct shrieking that this was a bad, foolish, hair-raisingly terrifying idea.

Every instinct save one—the primal, irresistible conviction that if Cade didn’t kiss her she’d regret it for ever.

Her lips parted. ‘Yes,’ she said, in a husky, faraway voice. ‘Too soon.’

‘And you’re afraid of me.’

She dragged in a deep breath. Oh, no, not afraid of Cade.

Afraid—
terrified
—of being shown once more that she was cold, too cold to satisfy a man …

But she didn’t feel cold. This had never happened before—this wild excitement that shimmered through her like a green flash at sunset, rare and exquisite, offering some hidden glory she might perhaps reach …

ROBYN DONALD
can’t remember not being able to read, and will be eternally grateful to the local farmers who carefully avoided her on a dusty country road as she read her way to and from school, transported to places and times far away from her small village in Northland, New Zealand.

Growing up fed her habit. As well as training as a teacher, marrying and raising two children, she discovered the delights of romances and read them voraciously, especially enjoying the ones written by New Zealand writers. So much so that one day she decided to write one herself. Writing soon grew to be as much of a delight as reading—although infinitely more challenging—and when eventually her first book was accepted by Mills & Boon® she felt she’d arrived home.

She still lives in a small town in Northland, with her family close by, using the landscape as a setting for much of her work. Her life is enriched by the friends she’s made among writers and readers, and complicated by a determined Corgi called Buster, who is convinced that blackbirds are evil entities. Her greatest hobby is still reading, with travelling a very close second.

Recent titles by the same author:

POWERFUL GREEK, HOUSEKEEPER WIFE
^*
BROODING BILLIONAIRE, IMPOVERISHED PRINCESS
THE VIRGIN AND HIS MAJESTY

S
TONE-FACED
, Cade Peredur listened again to the tape of his foster-brother’s final call—a frantic, beseeching torrent of words recorded just before Peter Cooper killed himself.

‘Cade, where are you? Where the
hell
are you—oh, with Lady Louisa, I suppose. Damn it, Cade, I need you more than any woman could—why aren’t you home?
Why can’t you be there for me?’

A short pause, broken only by his breathing, jagged and irregular, and then, ‘Cade, I’ve been such a fool—such an idiot.’

Not a muscle of Cade’s face moved at the sound of choked weeping.

At last Peter said in a thick, despairing voice, ‘Taryn was my last—my
only
—hope. It hurts—so bloody much, Cade, so much …’ Another wrenching pause and then, in a voice Cade had never heard before, Peter said, ‘There’s nothing left for me now. She laughed when I asked …
laughed …’

The silence stretched for so long that when he’d first heard it Cade had been sure the call was over.

But eventually his brother whispered, ‘It’s no good, Cade. I’m sorry, but it’s no good any more. I can’t—I just can’t live with this. She’s gone, and she’s not coming
back. Tell the parents I’m sorry to be such a useless son to them, but at least they’ll still have you. You’re the sort of man they wanted me to be, and God knows I tried, but I’ve always known I didn’t have what it takes. Get married, Cade, and give them some grandchildren to adore. They’ll need them now …’

He stopped abruptly. Then he said unevenly, ‘Try not to despise me, Cade. I love you. Goodbye.’

Cade switched off the tape and walked across the luxurious room to look unseeingly across the London cityscape, fighting to control the rush of blind rage threatening to consume him. The call had come eight hours before he’d arrived home and by the time he’d got to Peter’s apartment his brother was dead.

Peter had worshipped him, emulated and envied him, then finally grown away from him, but Cade had always been intensely protective of his younger brother.

Hands clenching, he turned and walked into his office, stopping at his desk. The photograph on it had been taken at his foster-parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary a few months before Peter’s death—Isabel and Harold Cooper all smiles for the camera, Peter’s grin revealing a hint of feverish excitement.

As always, Cade was the odd one out—taller than the other two men, his features harsher and his expression unreadable.

His brother’s suicide shattered that secure, tight family unit. A fortnight after the funeral, Harold Cooper had died from a heart attack, and while Isabel was still trying to come to terms with the wreckage of her life she’d stepped out into the path of a car. Onlookers said she’d moved as though in a daze.

She’d wanted to die too, but not before she’d begged Cade to find out what had driven her son to suicide.

He’d held her hand while she’d whispered painfully, ‘If … if I knew why … it wouldn’t be so bad. I just want to
know,
Cade, before I die.’

‘You’re not going to die,’ he said harshly. ‘I’ll find out what happened.’

Her lashes had fluttered up again, revealing a spark of animation in her gaze. ‘Promise?’

To encourage that hope, that flicker of determination, he’d have promised anything. ‘I will. But you have to keep going for me.’

She’d managed a pale smile. ‘It’s a deal.’

That had been the turning point; valiantly she’d gathered her reserves and struggled back to cope with everything life had thrown at her. It had taken months of rehabilitation, and she was now adjusting to living the rest of her life in a wheelchair.

The letter Peter had left for his parents lay in its envelope on Cade’s desk. He flicked it open and read it again. Unlike the telephone call, it was free of overt grief. Peter had told his parents he loved them, that he was sorry to cause them pain, but his life was no longer worth living.

No mention of the woman who’d reduced him to this depth of despair. He’d never introduced her to his family, only spoken of her once or twice in a casual, throwaway fashion. The last time he’d gone home—to celebrate his first big commission as a sculptor, a work for a public park in a market town—he hadn’t referred to her.

So why that anguished, cryptic mention in his final call?

Cade turned away, his hard, arrogantly contoured face set. What part had Taryn Angove played in Peter’s death?

Had something she’d said, something she’d done,
precipitated his final, fatal decision? It seemed possible, although she’d left for her home country of New Zealand eight hours before Peter’s suicide.

Cade had always known that revenge was a fool’s game; he’d seen the hunger for it eat into the intellect, destroy the soul.

Justice, however, was a different matter.

Progress had been infuriatingly slow. He knew now her return to New Zealand had been organised well before Peter’s death. He knew she and Peter had been good friends for almost two years, almost certainly lovers.

He knew Peter’s bank account should have been flush with a large advance to buy materials for his commission. Indeed, the money had arrived—and immediately a substantial sum had been taken out and paid directly to Taryn Angove. But the rest of the money had been siphoned off in large weekly cash payments, so that when Peter had died there had only been a few hundred pounds left.

If—and it was only an
if,
Cade reminded himself—Taryn Angove had somehow got her hands on it all, that could be why Peter had killed himself. Unfortunately, so far there was nothing, apart from that initial payment, to connect her with its absence.

But now, thanks to dedicated work by his security people, he knew where she was in New Zealand.

Cade looked across at the suitcase he’d just finished packing. His arrangements were all made and his actions from now on would depend on the woman he was hunting.

All day it had been still, the horizon a hazy brush-stroke where simmering sky met burnished sea, the forest-clad
hills around the bay drowsing in the fierce glare of a sub-tropical sun. Cade narrowed his eyes against the intense light to watch seabirds made dumb by the heat fight silent battles over their catch.

Even the tiny waves on the shore were noiseless; all he could hear was the thrum of thousands of cicadas vibrating through the forest-covered hills behind the bay—the prevailing summer sound in this long northern peninsula of New Zealand.

The sibilant hum was penetrated by the imperative summons of his cell phone. Only his personal assistant had that number, so somewhere in his vast holdings something had gone wrong.

From halfway around the world his PA said, ‘A few matters pertaining to this meeting in Fala’isi.’

‘What about it?’ Because of his business interests in the Pacific Basin, Cade had been asked to attend a gathering of high-powered Pacific dignitaries to discuss the future of the region.

Dealing with that took a few minutes. His voice a little tentative, Roger, his PA, said, ‘Lady Louisa called.’

Arrogant black brows almost meeting across the blade of his nose, Cade said, ‘And she wanted.?’

‘Your address. She was not happy when I wouldn’t give it to her. She said it was urgent and important.’

‘Thanks.’ Cade didn’t discuss his private life easily, but he did say, ‘We are no longer together.’

A pause, then, ‘You might need to work on convincing her of that.’

His voice hard and cold, Cade said, ‘Ignore her.’

‘Very well.’

Cade’s mouth curved in a sardonic smile. Louisa wouldn’t follow him to New Zealand—it was completely
out of her orbit. His ex-lover craved luxury and fashion and the heady stimulation of admiration. This remote paradise couldn’t satisfy her need for the envy of others.

‘Ah … not to put too fine a point on it, but she sounded stressed.’ Roger paused. ‘Actually, desperate.’

Her father had probably refused to pay a bill. Cade shrugged broad shoulders. ‘Not your problem.’ Or his. ‘How is your daughter?’

His PA hesitated before saying in a completely different tone, ‘We hear the results of the first lot of tests tomorrow.’

What the hell did you say to a man whose child could be suffering a terminal illness? ‘If you need leave or any help at all, it’s yours.’

‘I know. Thanks—for everything.’

‘No need for thanks—just let me know what I can do.’

‘Thanks. I will. Keep in touch.’

Cade closed down the cell phone, his eyes flinty. Against the fact that a three-year-old could be dying, Louisa was a very minor consideration. A sensuous, satisfying lover until she’d decided Cade—influential, moving in the ‘right’ circles and exceedingly rich—would make the ideal first husband, she’d been careless enough to let him overhear as she discussed her plans on the telephone.

It had needed only a few questions in the right ears for Cade to discover she’d run through most of the fortune inherited from her grandfather. With no chance of support from a father whose income had been decimated by financial crisis, marriage was the obvious solution.

Like Louisa, Cade didn’t believe in the sort of love poets wrote about. However, although experience had
made him cynical, he intended to marry some day, and when he did it would be to a woman who’d value him for more than the size of his assets. He’d choose carefully, and it would last.

Cade’s expression hardened. If Louisa was desperate enough to follow him, he’d make sure she understood that he was not and never would be a suitable husband—first, last or intermediate—for her.

After eyeing the hammock in the dark shade of one of the huge trees bordering the beach, he succumbed to an unusual restlessness that drove him down onto the hot amber sand. He stared out to sea for a long moment before turning. Only then did a drift of movement in the cloudless sky catch his attention.