The Seduction of Suzanne (7 page)

A date was the last thing she wanted, yet it seemed she was going to get one. Oh, she could jump in her car and flee, stand him up. But that wasn’t really an option. She never treated someone that way. And especially not someone who – even if he might be a dastardly toad underneath all that charm – had still been perfectly behaved thus far. Well perhaps not perfectly behaved (as she thought of his sexy innuendoes)
but really who could blame a man for finding one attractive?  Apparently not even she could do that. She sighed, shook her head at herself then got up to go pick salad leaves out of the garden. 

When Justin returned he was freshly showered and clean-shaven, and for the first time since they had met, she couldn’t see any holes or fading in his clothing. Obviously he was dressing up for her. The muted blue of his shirt made the colour of his eyes seem even brighter by contrast.

She had briefly considered doing the same after her own brief shower, then turned back to her reliable uniform of shorts, a T-shirt and sneakers.

He held out a bottle of white wine, beaded with condensation, as he leaned casually on the doorjamb. His big frame nearly filled the doorway.

“Nina recommended this to go with crayfish. I don’t drink much, but I trust her judgement.”

“Cool. That was a good idea.” She imagined he usually drank beer rather than something more expensive.

Suzanne felt awkward and stilted. Had she ever invited a man back to her house for a solitary meal? She was almost certain this was the first time.

“Come around to the back. I’ve set up a table outside.” She made a shooing gesture, sending him back out onto the wraparound veranda. She didn’t want him in her space, looking at her possessions
and learning more about her.

She led the way around the corner of the house as he obediently trailed in her wake.

“I’ll just put the crays on now. They won’t take long.”

“Would you like me to open the wine?”

“Sure but-no, no, you sit down. I’ll get a corkscrew and some glasses.” She waited until he took a seat, half afraid he would follow her inside instead. But he folded himself into one of the director’s chairs she had set out. Hopefully the fabric would stand up to his weight. Those chairs were getting pretty elderly.

It took a bit of hunting to find her wine glasses. She had to blow a dead insect out of one of them, so she gave them both a quick rinse and carried them out with a linen teatowel still in her hands.

“Perhaps you could polish these for me,” she said, putting them in his hands.

“Certainly madam,” he replied, receiving them willingly.

When she returned with the corkscrew she saw he’d put a fine shine on the two glasses. She handed over the bottle and set to work with the barbecue and the crayfish. She’d put them to sleep in the freezer earlier, and now she pulled them out – cautiously checking to see there were no twitches of life remaining – and dispatching each of them with a decisive blow from a cleaver, lengthwise. Onto the hotplate they went with a sizzle of butter.

“You are a remarkable woman!” he exclaimed,
watching this show.

“Dad used to butcher his own homekill. He’d get me to help, when I was old enough. He thought people who eat meat should be prepared to look the animal in the face, and be grateful for the gift of a life. Once you’ve taken a cow or sheep apart, a crayfish is pretty straightforward.”

“So your dad was a man with strong values?”

“The best. I try to live up to him every day.”

“You must miss him.”

“Every day.”

She went inside to get bread and garlic butter, setting them in the centre of the table along with her mismatched cutlery and salad dressed with balsamic vinaigrette. She hadn’t bothered with a tablecloth, never did. Ironing was a terrible waste of time.

At the barbecue she stood over the crayfish, inhaling deeply. Two more minutes and they’d be done, she judged by the scent and the colour of the shell, which was beginning to redden. She hovered, plate at the ready, until the crucial moment then whipped them off with long-handled tongs and placed Justin’s plate in front of him, her own to his left rather than opposite, so she wouldn’t have to look at him directly and keep losing her train of thought.

“Dig in,” she said, plonking down into her own chair and starting without ceremony.

“This is a bit intimidating without a bib,” he said lightly.

“A bib,” she repeated, a forkful of perfectly cooked crayfish halfway to her mouth. She looked at him as if he were crazy.

“That’s how we do it back home. Only we call these lobsters.”

“A bib,” she said again, this time sniggering and shaking her head. “Sorry, I don’t keep bibs on hand. I could get you an old T-shirt of dad’s to put over your pretty clothes.” Not that it would fit of course.

“That’s very hospitable of you,” he said gravely, “but I think I’ll just man up.” He did an ostentatious little neck-cracking, arm limbering ritual like some prize fighter, rolled up his sleeves and started to eat.

She grinned at this byplay, spreading a lavish smear of butter over her crayfish to melt and ooze down inside the shell. She ate as always with swift economy of motion, and in silence. It was not until she was halfway through her meal that she tuned in to Justin’s table manners.

They were exquisitely perfect.

Suzanne’s mother had been murder on table manners, drilling Suzanne mercilessly on the dictates of Miss Manners until she could comport herself like a lady during a meal, even at ten years old. But then her mother had been a totally different woman from Suzanne, unable to bear rugged, uncivilised Great Barrier for the lifetime of marriage she had promised Peter, her husband. And the Barrier was Suzanne’s home. So Suzanne leaned her elbows on the table, pulled her crayfish apart with her hands and sucked the juices off her fingers, wiping her chin with the back of her hand.

Justin sat straight, laid his cutlery down between mouthfuls, used the nutcracker and fork with precision and didn’t drip anything anywhere. He did it all unselfconsciously, the ingrained habits of a lifetime of proper conduct at the dinner table.

So much for needing a bib!

She watched him in bemusement, absently poking a skewer through the delicate tubing of the lower legs to get those sweetest pieces she loved.

Weird.

As he neared the end of his meal, his elegant progress slowed even further, until he eventually leaned back in his chair with his glass of wine in hand.

“That was magnificent. I don’t think I’ve ever tasted better lobster than that. Even in the fine. . . ah. . .the fresh seafood capitals of the world.”

“Thank you. When you’ve got good ingredients, it’s best to keep it simple.
So. . .uh. . .” She didn’t know what to do, now she had no meal with which to busy her hands. She clasped them between her knees, rolled her lower lip between her teeth. “What do you have planned for tomorrow?” she finally asked, a conversational gambit she only belatedly realised could be read as an invitation.

“I thought perhaps you might have some suggestions about what’s good to see. Since you know it all so well.”

Suzanne took a deep breath, and then brightly launched herself into a description of the pleasures of Great Barrier Island’s walking and cycling paths, thermal springs, fishing, kayaking and snorkelling, knowing but not caring that she sounded like a tour guide. It was a conversational treading of water.

When she paused for a moment, temporarily out of words, Justin said, “I’d love to see more of the island than what I’ve seen so far – mostly just the surf beaches. Of course I really need a companion, someone who knows the best things to see and do. Preferably a local.”

“What about your friends?” she asked. “Aren’t they from round here?”

“They’re all Aucklanders who’ve bought baches on the Barrier. They come over quite often in the weekends, and for the next couple of weeks they’re here on holiday, but they’re only just beginning to get to know the island. No, I really need an expert.” He met her eyes again, blatantly making this broad hint even broader with his warm and meaningful gaze.

Ah, he was so. . .beautiful. It was difficult to look at him and think clearly at the same time. There was no doubt that she wanted to respond by offering herself as a knowledgeable local. The desire was based on the pleasure she always felt when sharing her beloved island with those who didn’t know its most precious secrets, and a near irresistible urge to explore the dynamics of her attraction to him. That urge was starting to dominate her fears.

Her hand came to her mouth in a thinker’s pose. She was trying hard to look as if she was giving the idea calm contemplation.

She would be a fool to commit herself to spending hours or even days in this man’s company. He created such a tumultuous reaction within her. She didn’t want to stir up the peaceful tenor of her life by letting him in at all. Certainly any relationship with him, no matter how casually it was intended, would prove to be uncomfortably intense. Her every instinct and internal barometer warned her of that.

Of course, he had as good as declared that he was free to stay for months if he wanted to. But that didn’t put him in a ‘reliable’ category, by any stretch of the imagination. There was nothing in his behaviour to indicate that he genuinely intended to remain for a long period of time. And did it really matter how long he stayed, when it was inevitable that regardless of what happened, he would eventually leave?

Yet there was the way she felt with him sitting so close beside her. She was drawn to him with a strange, bone-deep excitement. She thought of the moth with the candle flame. She also had to admit that it wouldn’t be difficult to like him, as easy-going and assured as he was, with his genial sense of humour. He had charisma and confidence, yet managed to escape the swaggering machismo that would have instantly repelled her.

Perhaps she could simply get to know him better,
without becoming romantically involved. It was a possibility.

A vague possibility.

And underneath it all were those damned fears, making her feel like any step towards him, any lessening in her defences was a mistake. She should be more guarded, more careful with him, or just plain stay out of his way. He was
danger
.

These thoughts tumbled through her head, one chasing and contradicting another as she struggled with indecision. All the while, his clear-eyed gaze remained steady on her. It was mesmerising.

“I suppose
I
could show you around a little,” she said grudgingly, not sure – not at
all
sure – if she was making the right choice. Or even if she had really made the choice, rather than automatically filled the silence while her busy brain was preoccupied trying to think it through.

His smile burst out, dazzling in its sensual power. She felt herself quiver with the impact, and immediately wished she could recant. It was hardly wise to expose herself to someone who could make her so vulnerable, so quickly. Fool.

Yet at the same time she could not find the words that would withdraw her from the situation.

Maybe familiarity with him would breed contempt, or at least indifference, she thought, but even as she put words to the idea, she knew it would convince nobody, least of all herself.

As if afraid she would change her mind, Justin efficiently arranged their meeting the next day, finished his glass of wine and left before she could pull together her scattered defences. There was a moment as they both stood where his eyes dropped to her mouth and she could have sworn she was about to be kissed – and she had no idea whether the idea thrilled or horrified her. Only that her heart had leapt into her throat, beating madly, and she felt a quiver go right through her.

But she was mistaken, or he thought
better of it, leaving her untouched.

As she tidied up, putting the half-finished bottle of wine in the fridge and starting to wash the dishes, she daydreamed about the suspended, heated moment. And once again she felt that bone-melting flash of heat go right through her as her nipples tightened. She almost dropped the plate she was holding. God, but she was an idiot. A stupid, lecherous idiot. But there was an ache deep within her core that recognised this man, wanted to use him for her own pleasure. And maybe her body would get its way.

Chapter Five

They had arranged to leave from the house where he was staying at seven the next morning, before the heat of the day had begun to build. She had suggested a bicycle ride. He agreed, although he laughingly warned: “I’m no cyclist. You’ll have to be gentle with me on the uphills.”

“You can actually ride a bike, can’t you?” she asked a little dubiously.

“I’ll have you know,” he had said, puffing his chest out with mock belligerence, “that I was the first kid in my class at school to ride, and I didn’t have training wheels
at all
!”

“Nonetheless,” she
said sternly, although the corners of her mouth twitched, “I think we’ll keep you on-road to start with.”