Stick to social pleasantries, she told herself, rattled by a note in his voice that came very close to mockery. ‘Thank you so much for helping—I didn’t have a hope of stopping it on my own.’
‘Didn’t it occur to you that lighting a fire in the middle of a drought could be dangerous?’
No, not mockery—condemnation.
Controlling an intemperate urge to defend herself, Taryn responded evenly, ‘I didn’t light it. I came down for a swim but before I got that far I noticed someone had had a fire on the beach above high tide mark to cook tuatua—shellfish. They didn’t bother to put it out properly with sea water so I hosed it down, but a spark must have lodged somewhere up in the grass.’
‘I see.’
Nothing could be gained from his tone or his expression. Stiffening, she said coldly, ‘As soon as I saw smoke I rang the emergency number.’
‘Ah, so that’s why they arrived so quickly.’
Screwing up her eyes in an effort to pierce the pall of smoke, she said, ‘It looks as though they’re winning, thank heavens.’
Heat curled in the pit of her stomach when her gaze met his, aloof and speculative. Something in his expression reminded her she’d been clad only in her bikini when he’d arrived. And that the shorts he’d ordered her to get into revealed altogether too much of her legs.
Shocked by the odd, primitive little shiver that tightened her skin and set her nerves humming, she looked away.
He asked, ‘Are you a local?’
‘Not really.’ She’d lived in the small village a mile away during her adolescence.
‘So you’re on holiday?’
Casual talk between two strangers abruptly hurled together …
Taking too deep a breath of the smoky air, she coughed again. ‘No.’
‘What do you do?’ He spoke idly, still watching the activity on the grass behind the beach.
‘I’m a librarian,’ she responded, her tone even.
The brows that lifted in faint surprise were as black as his strictly controlled hair. In an abrupt change of subject, he said, ‘Should you be swimming on your own?’
Taryn parried that steel-blue survey. ‘This is a very safe bay. I don’t take stupid risks.’
How did this man—this judgmental man, Taryn decided—manage to look sceptical without moving a muscle?
In a bland voice, he said, ‘Fighting the fire looked risky enough to me. All it needed was a slight change of wind and you’d have had to run like hell to get to the beach safely. And you probably wouldn’t have saved your car.’
That possibility had occurred to Taryn, but she’d been more afraid the fire would set the coastline alight. ‘I can run,’ she said coolly.
His gaze drifted down the length of her legs. ‘Yes, I imagine you can. But how fast?’
His tone invested the words with a subliminal implication that summoned a swift, embarrassing heat to her skin.
That nagging sense of familiarity tugged at her again. Who was he?
Well, there was one way to find out. Without allowing herself second thoughts, she said coolly, ‘When it’s necessary, quite fast,’ and held out her hand. ‘It’s time I introduced myself—I’m Taryn Angove.’
CHAPTER TWO
CADE’S heart pounded a sudden tattoo, every nerve in his body springing into instant taut alertness. This young Amazon was Taryn Angove?
OK, so courage didn’t necessarily go with attributes like compassion and empathy, but she was nothing like the women Peter usually fell for. They’d all been startlingly similar—slight and chic, with an intimate knowledge of fashion magazines and the latest gossip, they’d pouted deliciously and parroted the latest catchphrases.
Cade couldn’t imagine any of them trying to put out a fire, or throwing commands at him.
Mind racing, he took in the implications.
Did she know who he was?
If she did, she’d suspect that although this meeting was a coincidence, his presence in New Zealand wasn’t. So she’d be wary …
Chances were, though, that Peter wouldn’t have spoken of him. An unpleasant situation some years before, when Peter’s then lover had made a determined play for Cade, meant that Peter rarely introduced his girlfriends to his family. He’d once admitted that although he referred to Cade occasionally, it was only ever as his brother.
Cade knew the value of hunches; he’d learned which ones to follow and which to ignore. One was warning him right now to keep quiet about the connection.
‘Cade Peredur,’ he said smoothly, and shook Taryn Angove’s outstretched hand. ‘How do you do?’
He could see why Peter had fallen for her. In spite of the smoke stains, she was very attractive—beautiful, in fact, with fine features and creamy skin set off by coppery hair.
Not to mention a lush, sinfully kissable mouth …
Ruthlessly, Cade disciplined an unexpected kick of lust. Nowhere near as easily affected as his brother had been by a lovely face and lissom body, it exasperated him that Taryn Angove had a definite and very primal impact on him.
Which he had to suppress.
His investigation team hadn’t been able to turn up a single person who wasn’t shocked and astonished by his brother’s death. The police had been unable to add anything beyond the fact that there had definitely been no foul play.
Peter had taken Taryn Angove to the theatre the previous night. She’d stayed with him that night and then he’d delivered her to Heathrow for the flight home. He’d cancelled an appointment with friends the following evening, but he’d spoken by telephone to them and he’d seemed perfectly normal.
Yet only a few hours later he’d killed himself.
From New Zealand, Taryn been asked to do a video interview with the police, but it revealed nothing; she hadn’t mentioned anything that might have upset him, so they didn’t consider her a person of interest. Although sympathetic, for them there was no doubt that Peter had committed suicide, and so there was nothing to investigate.
So she was the only person who might be able to help Cade find out why Peter had done it.
And there was the question of what had happened to the money …
Looking down into the wide green-gold eyes lifted to his, noting their subtle darkening and the faint flush visible even under a patina of smoke, Cade decided a change of tactics could be in order.
He’d come here determined to use whatever weapons might be necessary to find out what she knew. He’d try appealing to her better instincts—if she had any—and, if that failed, then intimidation might work. Or paying her off.
Now he’d met her, he wondered whether such weapons would be necessary. Taryn seemed nothing like he had expected. In order to choose the best method of persuading her to talk, he’d have to find out what made Taryn Angove tick.
Which meant he needed to get to know her.
Ignoring the electricity his touch zapped across her nerve-ends, Taryn concentrated on his grip—firm but not aggressive and completely confident.
Just her luck to be sweaty and smoky, with stringy hair clinging to her probably scarlet face. How did he manage to look so … so much in control?
Not that it mattered. Too late, she remembered who he was—periodically, she’d seen photographs of him in the press and