Hard hands clamped on her arms, steadying her. She ducked her head and closed her eyes again, willing away the brief dizziness before slowly and carefully looking up.
So near, Zachary Ballantine’s sea-green eyes were uncomfortably penetrating. She could see the lift of his cheekbones beneath faintly tanned skin, and a tiny white scar at the corner of his upper lip; smell soap, and wool suiting and a hint of something that brought to mind pine trees and wooded, snowy slopes. Aftershave?
She said, ‘Yes, I’m all right. Thank you.’
He still held her arms. ‘You’re very pale.’
‘I’ve had the flu.’ His grasp was less tight now, his thumbs making absent stroking movements against her skin. Katrien’s breath clutched at her throat, and she swallowed. ‘You’re not leaving?’ she asked him. There must still be dozens of people wanting to speak to him.
‘I was on my way to the men’s room,’ he said, ‘when I saw you alone and palely loitering…’ He smiled. ‘I thought you were about to faint.’
No man should have a smile like that. It was positively lethal, glinting in his eyes and tilting the masculine planes of his mouth into a seductive curve framing a glimpse of white, even teeth.
She felt the involuntary tightening of her facial muscles, the widening of her eyes. And knew he’d read the startling, inappropriate quickening of sexual awareness when his own eyes darkened and the smile died from his mouth. She saw the slight flare of his nostrils as he took a deeper breath, and long dark lashes momentarily veiled his eyes as he dropped his gaze a few inches to her parted lips.
Katrien felt dizzy again, and perhaps he noticed, because his hold on her arms became more urgent, almost painful.
Her body curved towards him, her spine arching subtly, her head tipping back—movements that were small but unmistakable. Her eyelids fluttered, and she watched his mouth part as he leaned towards her.
Then Callum’s voice said, ‘Okay, Katie—got one.’ And, more sharply, ‘What’s going on?’
Katrien jumped, automatically raising her hands to push ineffectually at Zachary Ballantine’s chest as her body stiffened.
His hands slid from her arms without haste and he turned. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded of the man who had been at Katrien’s side all evening and was now striding towards them.
Callum blinked, looking both outraged and uncertain.
Katrien laid a hand on his arm as she stepped to his side. ‘This is Callum Steward,’ she said. ‘My fiancé. Mr Ballantine thought I was going to faint, Callum,’ she explained. ‘He was kind enough to stop and…offer his help.’
Her cheeks burned. She knew that her fiancé’s searching glance would see no sign of paleness now.
Callum’s arm slipped about her waist. ‘You felt faint?’
‘Just a bit. I’m all right now.’ She risked a fleeting glance at Zachary Ballantine, and saw that he appeared cynically amused.
Addressing Callum, he said, ‘I wouldn’t leave her alone if I were you.’ As she looked up again his eyes shifted, giving her a cool, assessing stare. ‘She seems likely to fall into the arms of any passing stranger.’
Katrien sucked in a choking breath. ‘Not at all. It was a momentary dizziness. I’m sure it would have passed.’
‘Apparently,’ Zachary Ballantine observed, ‘it has.’
‘Still,’ Callum said with a shade too much heartiness, ‘I’m grateful you were there to catch her, Mr Ballantine. We enjoyed your talk, by the way.’ He held out his hand, and after a moment the big man took it in his.
‘Thank you.’
‘Thank you for looking after my fiancée. Now if you’ll excuse us, I’ve got a cab outside. Come on, darling…’
As they walked away and Callum pushed open the door, ushering her into the wintry air outside, Katrien knew that the other man was watching them. She resisted turning to look back at him.
Zachary Ballantine was the stuff dreams were made of. Every woman’s fantasy. His friend who had died on the mountain had been another one. She recalled a picture of Ben Storey published in the aftermath of his death—a young god smiling against the backdrop of a snow-covered mountain, the sun glinting on his golden hair, the hood of his parka pushed back and a pair of goggles slung about his neck.
On the same page had been a picture of his widow, looking with tearless bravery straight into the camera as she cradled the youngest of her children in her arms while the other leaned against her knee.
Katrien even remembered the caption: ‘Mountaineer “died doing what he wanted”.’ The quote had been from Wendy Storey, the woman who had supported his insane aspirations and borne his children. Like everyone else she had praised his courage. Katrien had admired hers more.
‘Thank heaven,’ she said to Callum as he got into the cab beside her and took her hand in his, ‘you have no desire to conquer mountains.’
‘How do you know?’ he asked her lightly.
Katrien directed him a look of undiluted horror.
Callum laughed, pulling her into his arms. ‘I have other desires,’ he growled in her ear.
She let him kiss her, and kissed him back, trying to banish from behind her closed lids the vivid memory of aroused male curiosity in a pair of deep green eyes.
When the taxi driver let them out at the door of her flat in the inner suburb of Herne Bay, her hair had lost its sleek styling and Callum was breathing less than evenly. He fumbled as he dug in his wallet for money to pay the driver before following Katrien inside.
She made coffee and they sat side by side on the comfortable softness of the two-seater sofa in her sitting room while they drank it, but when he took her in his arms again she laid her head on his shoulder and said, ‘I’m really tired, Callum.’
He stroked her hair. ‘I’m a selfish brute.’
‘No, you’re not. You’re the nicest man I’ve ever known. But I guess you’re right…I haven’t quite got over the flu bug. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ He kissed her forehead. ‘I’ll wait until you’re properly well again.’
He was the nicest man she knew. So why was she suddenly finding it impossible to look at him? Why did she feel that if he didn’t leave soon she’d scream?
She kissed him on the lips, not giving him a chance to reciprocate before she pulled away and turned to rise from the sofa and pick up their cups. ‘Maybe next time…’ she muttered vaguely.
Almost any other man would have swept her into bed the minute he’d got a ring on her finger, if not before. Callum had too much finesse for that. He’d been prepared to wait for the right moment. And when the right moment was delayed by her inconveniently succumbing to the nasty ailment that seemed to have afflicted half the population this winter, he’d sent her flowers and phoned every day, even called in person with offers of nursing and food.
She’d wanted only to be left alone to subsist on packet soups and orange juice, and not to have him see her looking and feeling like a sodden and aching dishrag.
His offers spurned, Callum had phoned her sister, and Miranda had come round regularly with chicken soup and aspirin and bracing sympathy, sometimes bringing the youngest of her three children, with strict instructions to stay out of the sickroom and not disturb Aunty Kat.
Callum phoned for another cab while Katrien took the cups into the kitchen. She fussed around washing and drying them and putting away the sugar bowl she’d taken out for Callum’s coffee, making