Indiscretions. Robyn Donald

       CHAPTER ONE

      “I THOUGHT YOU’D BE interested.”

      Wide blue eyes shaded with cynicism, Mariel Browning lifted her brows at the bartender. “Why?”

      “Well, they are fellow countrymen of yours. You can’t meet many of them—didn’t you tell me there are only three million of you?”

      “I did, but at least half of those are overseas at any one time.”

      She grinned at the look he sent her over the top of his spectacles. Desmond was too good a bartender to show any disbelief, but she’d met him several times over the past year and was beginning to be able to read his expressions. This one said, Pull the other leg!

      “Well, that’s the way it seems,” she amended, her smile and tone edging into irony. “I trip over New Zealanders all the time. They’re everywhere. When their kids grow up the first thing they want to do is fly away from those three little islands at the furthermost ends of the earth and see what the rest of the planet is like. In any group of more than five people anywhere in the world, you can be sure that one of them is a New Zealander.” She smiled to soften the stiffness in her tone. “Yes, even here in South Carolina, where most people don’t know New Zealand exists, and those few who do think it’s part of Australia.”

      The middle-aged black man, who had been one of the latter, gave her a stately smile as he set the tall glass of gently fizzing mineral water in front of her. “But these are important New Zealanders,” he said seriously.

      “The Minister of Trade, no less, here to talk business with his Japanese counterpart. Big deal,” she said lightly, hiding a tiny niggle of unease with a dazzling smile. Where there were politicians intent on conferring there would also be diplomats, discreetly powerful, unobtrusive and necessary.

      Until her arrival on Jermain Island, one of the Sea Islands off the coast of South Carolina, she’d believed she was going to be interpreting for a group of businessmen. Noted for her fluency in Japanese and her ability to navigate flawlessly through the ideographs of its written language, Mariel always enjoyed coming to Bride’s Bay Resort. However, had she been told this was a diplomatic occasion, she’d have looked for some excuse to stay away.

      She had reason, she thought with a twist of her full mouth, to be wary of diplomats.

      The cool mineral water slid down her throat as she looked appreciatively around Desmond’s domain. Some forty years ago the bar had been planned to reflect the stately, country-house sophistication of an English gentleman’s club. Mariel had never been in an English club, but she thought the designer had produced a very pleasant atmosphere.

      But then, the hotel was noted for its beauty and refined ambience. That was one of the reasons it was so popular with high-powered groups of businessmen and diplomats for semiofficial meetings like the one ahead.

      After a moment she said restlessly, “I don’t know that I count as a Kiwi anymore—I’ve been away for the past ten years.” Ever since she was eighteen.

      And I didn’t enjoy it much while I was there, she added silently. Hated it, in fact.

      “You’ve still got an accent,” Desmond said, looking past her as a man entered the room and sat at one of the tables. Moving toward the newcomer, he said professionally, “Good afternoon, sir. What can I get for you?”

      “Weak whiskey and soda, please.”

      In spite of herself, Mariel’s head turned. Although the newcomer’s deep textured voice invoked an involuntary feminine response, it was the accent that caught her attention most. Far from a conspicuously antipodean drawl, the unmistakable intonation and rhythm nevertheless proclaimed his antecedents.

      Definitely one of the New Zealand party.

      And a diplomat to boot.

      Certainly not a politician. For a start, he was too young. Thirty-four at the outside, showing a smooth elegance that hinted of a lifetime accustomed to the confidence and privileges that only social position