Александр Суворов. Сергей Тимофеевич Григорьев
sculpted with definite edges. She felt understandable alarm at the stirring within her. Trevelyan had such a compelling aura that her memory of Mark faded away into nothingness. How was that possible?
Her fiancé, a lover she’d been intimate with, all but obliterated? She might be in need of a powerful distraction, but not Trevelyan.
“Why aren’t you wearing sunglasses?” he was asking. “You really need them.” He was watching the effect of the sun on her flaming hair. It was flashing out all the bright coppers, the rosy reds, the threads of metallic gold.
Genevieve looked down, patting the mustard-coloured leather tote bag she had slung over her shoulder. She wondered if he’d noticed the designer label stitched onto the front. Probably had. “They’re in here somewhere,” she said.
“Find them.”
“I know an order when I hear one.”
“It is.”
“Okay.” This was a man well used to giving orders. She kept her head down as she removed her fake glasses and popped them into the capacious bag, rummaging for her sunglasses. Tiffany & Co. Again the expensive label would stand out—like the sparkling silver circles on the winged sides. Couldn’t be helped. Anyway, there had been no suggestion she was struggling financially. She’d held down a well-paid teaching job.
“Let’s go into the house,” he said, gesturing with his arm to the curving flight of stone steps. “You must be aware, as a redhead, you have to be doubly careful in the sun. I don’t want our sun to bake you.” Her skin didn’t have the milky-white ultra-sensitive texture of many redheads, he had noted. It had the luscious stroke-me creamy quality of magnolia petals. Still, she would have to use plenty of protection.
“I’ll be careful—promise.” Genevieve’s musical ear was becoming attuned to all the whistles and trills that filled the air around them, the rush of brilliantly coloured wings. Birds would naturally be attracted to all the nectar-rich plants—the grevilleas, the bottlebrushes and the banksias, to name a few. “I’ve brought plenty of sunblock.”
“If you run out you can get some at the station store. We stock just about everything—clothing, boots, hats, etc. Do you ride?” He found himself hoping she did. She was moving beside him with effortless grace, tallish, very slender, without looking in the least unathletic.
“I need to get in a little practice, but, yes. I learned to ride as a child. I love horses.” Enthusiasm suddenly entered her voice, causing a charming lilt. “My parents bought me my first pony when I was six—a gentle little Shetland. I have to say I pestered them. My mother thought I was too young. She wanted to wait a year or two. But I got my way. Apparently I had a natural ability, and I had a great teacher. She was patient and kind and an expert rider herself. She always won prizes for dressage. I still remember groups of us going out hacking with her.” Genevieve paused as if in remembrance. “We lived on acreage in those days—good grazing for horses. I used to ride every day when I came home from school. I did all the feeding, watering and exercising, as I was supposed to. When I was ten my father bought me the most beautiful Arabian.” She didn’t say it had been to cheer her up. “I called her Soraya, after the beautiful divorced wife of an ex-Shah—remember?”
“I do. She couldn’t give him children.”
“Yes. My Soraya was inclined to be skittish. I was thrown a few times, but I never broke anything.”
“So your parents were indulgent?” They must have been. Buying ponies and beautiful, elegant Arabs was a serious financial commitment. Although the acreage lifestyle would have helped.
“Very.” She averted her head, as though studying the superb central fountain—a focal point for the landscaping. It was playing, which she found delightful—silver streams spilling down over two great bowls like a waterfall. It added greatly to the illusion of cool.
“And your father is what?” She had unmistakable class.
“He’s a lawyer,” she offered briefly.
He let it go. She was prepared to talk horses, but not prepared to talk about family. “And your mother? Please don’t think I’m asking intrusive questions. I’d like to know a little more about you.”
“Nothing much to know,” she said, her expression settling back into a quiet reserve. “I’ve led an uneventful life.”
“Now, why do I think that’s not true?” he said in a decidedly challenging tone. “You haven’t told me about your mother. She must be a very beautiful woman if you take after her.”
Genevieve was stunned. She’d truly believed she had made herself unobtrusive. Her efforts appeared to have made no difference to Trevelyan.
“I do take after my mother, but I’d hardly call myself beautiful.”
“Nonsense.” With his height he loomed over her. “The beautiful know they’re beautiful—just as powerful people know they’re powerful. Beauty is power. It’s commonly accepted a beautiful woman has power over a man.”
“You occupy a powerful enough position yourself,” she retorted, to get off the subject of herself. She had the feeling he was determined on getting to know more about her.
“It’s a life crammed with hard work, Genevieve. And I don’t lose track of the great responsibility to use power for good. But we were talking about your mother …?”
She felt exposed again. “My mother died in a car pile-up on the freeway in heavy rain.”
“Ah! I’m sorry to hear that.” He spoke with very real empathy. “How old were you?”
“Ten. I’ll remember that shocking day until I die. For along time my father and I were in denial. It didn’t seem possible. The light of our lives—there one day, gone the next. I learned then that there are absolutely no certainties in life.”
“I’m in total agreement on that. You and your father took it very hard?”
“It was a terrible time.” She swallowed on a lump in her throat.
“I’m sorry.” He fully understood her pain. Probably her father had remarried at some time—if only to give his child a caring stepmother. Some very nice woman she could turn to—especially at such a vulnerable age.
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