The Rich Man's Royal Mistress. Robyn Donald
her coltish grace and her reserve.
Don’t forget her eyes, his photographic memory prompted—heavy-lidded and topaz-gold, set under fly-away brows. And the mouth that made him wonder if she ever let her full lips relax into lush sensuousness.
Skin like magnolia petals, and a voice all crisp coolness on the surface but with an intriguing hint of huskiness…
Hawke said something succinct and irritable beneath his breath. All right, so for some reason she’d stuck like a burr in his memory, and that dance in Provence was still as fresh and new as it had been the following day.
Probably because he’d never danced with anyone who’d stayed so silent, practised no tricks, merely followed his lead as though caught in some bewitched time out of time!
He hadn’t wanted to talk either, in case words shattered the tenuous enchantment that surrounded them that night. Content to waltz with her in his arms, he’d watched her grave, absorbed face, the soft mouth tender as though she’d strayed into a dream…
It had been an oddly moving experience, so moving that he hadn’t gone near her for the rest of the night. Although, he remembered, he’d known when she and her brothers left the ballroom.
He walked out onto the stone terrace, disconcerted at his satisfaction when she turned as though his presence had impinged on some sixth sense. After a moment’s hesitation she came towards him.
Hawke drew in a sharp breath. His previous thought that she looked like some goddess of old came back to him; instead of the unsophisticated student he knew her to be, she projected a potent physical radiance.
Her smile, tentative and fleeting, banished it instantly, thank God.
Quelling the slow growl of sexual hunger in his gut, he said more sternly than he’d intended, ‘Good evening, Melissa. I’m glad you could come.’
‘Thank you,’ she said a little breathlessly.
Once they were inside he held out his hand. ‘Can I take your jacket?’
‘I…Yes, thank you.’
After the crisp coolness of the air outside the room was warm, but she felt oddly reluctant to surrender her outer layer. The silk of her top felt suddenly thin and too revealing, the fake jewels obvious and cheap.
Nevertheless, she’d look a total idiot if she wore the jacket all evening. And Hawke clearly wasn’t in the least interested in what lay beneath it; a swift glance revealed no emotion at all in the forceful features.
His closeness, emphasised by the light touch of his hands on her shoulders as he took the garment, produced gentle tremors of tantalising energy through her. The world froze, suspending them in a fragile bubble of silence and stillness so that her senses lingered obsessively on each tiny, heart-jerking stimulus.
A faint, almost subliminal scent, masculine and wholly disturbing, set her pulse rate soaring. Did his hands linger on her shoulders as though staking a claim she didn’t dare recognise?
No, she told herself sternly, while her body swayed slightly and she had to control an urge to hyperventilate. Of course not; he was merely being polite.
And she was behaving as foolishly as a fifteen-year-old in the throes of her first crush!
He dropped her jacket onto the back of a chair. Masking her dilating pupils with her lashes, Melissa took a swift step away and tried to reassemble the shreds of her self-confidence by examining the table with a professional interest.
The staff had done him proud, setting the white damask with flowers from the warmer North Island—rich apricot and cream roses with a softly intimate perfume. Wine glasses sparkled in the light of candles, and the silver gleamed richly, burnished by the gentle flames.
‘I hope you’re enjoying yourself here,’ she said laboriously.
OK, so pedestrian was all she could summon, but she was damned well going to stick to the conventions.
The problem was, she didn’t want to, and she had the feeling that Hawke Kennedy wasn’t a man who thought much about convention at all.
‘Very much,’ he said gravely.
A molten undercurrent of anticipation robbing her of caution, Melissa looked into Hawke’s enigmatic eyes. ‘I believe you went heli-skiing today.’
And could have bitten out her tongue. Now he’d think she was keeping tabs on him.
Not that he showed it. ‘And thoroughly enjoyed it,’ he said, a faintly cynical tone bringing helpless colour to her skin.
The guide who’d accompanied Hawke to make sure he didn’t ski over a bluff on the way down the mountain had told her there was nothing he could teach his charge about skiing in the Southern Alps.
‘Or anywhere. Good as a professional,’ Bart had said admiringly.
Melissa wasn’t surprised. Hawke Kennedy breathed the sort of competence that attracted instinctive trust.
‘Interesting guy, too,’ Bart went on. ‘Good company, although he doesn’t suffer fools gladly. You should have heard him lay into a snowboarder who thought he had right of way. Never raised his voice, but the kid came away with one less layer of skin. He’ll remember his manners from now on.’
Through her lashes Melissa watched Hawke go across to a tray on a sideboard. He moved with the spare, relaxed grace of an athlete, his big body supple and strong and sexy.
Something shockingly hot and wild twisted inside her. She looked away and started to speak in a voice she expected to sound bright and conversational. To her surprise each word emerged with a husky intonation.
‘You were lucky with the snow. Spring is definitely here.’ She stopped, swallowed and pinned a small, desperate smile to her lips. ‘The forecasters are saying that this will be the last dump of powder for the season.’
‘Almost certainly. I ordered champagne, but would you rather have something else?’
‘No, thank you.’ Already dizzy at just being there, she watched him open the bottle with the minimum amount of fuss, and pour the wine into two crystal flutes.
Handing her one, he said with a smile made dangerous by a hint of challenge, ‘Here’s to meetings.’
Stop fantasising, Melissa told herself sturdily. He is not flirting with you. Or if he is, he probably does it with everyone, including elderly dowagers.
Especially elderly dowagers…
Acknowledging the challenge with a lift of her chin, she raised her glass. ‘To meetings.’
Like her, he barely sipped the delicious liquid before saying, ‘Come and sit down and tell me how you’re getting on here.’
Flames shot up in the huge stone fireplace as she settled into a chair and watched Hawke take the opposite one. He leaned back like a king on his throne, and looked across at her, the austerity of his angular features increased by a trick of the firelight. Melissa felt like the logs in the fire—burning with a mixture of sensations.
Sedately she said, ‘Fine, thank you.’
But that didn’t satisfy him, and before long she was telling him about her experience at the lodge, relishing it when she made him laugh a couple of times. In the next half-hour she found herself settling into something perilously like ease, keenly stimulated by his sharp brain and wide knowledge. Several times she was surprised to catch herself laughing; to her bemused astonishment, she discovered that they shared a similar sense of humour.
The peal of the doorbell interrupted that.
‘Dinner,’ Hawke said, getting to his feet.
Startled, she realised that she’d drunk most of her glass of wine. Not that she could hold the champagne solely responsible for her heightened senses; when she heard Hawke’s voice as he spoke to whoever had delivered the dinner,