She walked with him to the door, and he kissed her gently and lingeringly, his thumbs stroking her cheeks as he lifted his head and smiled down at her.
She recalled Zachary Ballantine caressing her arms. His skin had been less smooth than Callum’s, the pads of his thumbs faintly rasping.
She closed the door behind Callum and leaned against it, her forehead on the painted wood. What was wrong with her tonight?
She had a warm shower, then climbed into bed wearing a fleecy-lined cotton nightshirt. After switching off the light she lay staring into the darkness for a long time.
When at last her eyes drifted shut and the night enfolded her, he came.
It was the same as always. The man held her in his strong, imprisoning arms, and spoke words she couldn’t hear. And she struggled, frightened and unable to breathe, trapped in silent, murky depths, until the dark voice commanded her stillness, her compliance. And the words came clearly to her—Trust me.
The voice changed to reassurance, soothing her panic away. She felt his mouth on her lips, his breath filling her, the warmth of his body against the utter coldness of hers. And then the warmth flooded her as she clung to him while he lifted her and carried her out of the blackness and into the dazzle of light. And she opened her closed eyes and looked up at him.
She had dreamed of him so often that she knew now how the bright sun behind him shadowed his features, so that she could never see what he looked like.
Only this time it was different. His eyes were the deep green of the sea, and his hair was sleeked back but stubbornly waved; the chest she rested against and his shoulders under her encircling arms were bare and muscled.
He looked at her and smiled, and she felt her lips part under the lambent fire in his gaze.
Then he lowered his head and at the touch of his mouth on hers, her eyes flew open on darkness.
Her heart pounded as if she’d been running, and the bedclothes were disarrayed about her heated body. She pulled at them, then sat up and switched the bedside lamp back on, pushed back tumbled hair from her damp temples and squinted down at the time on her watch.
She’d been asleep for less than an hour.
Slumping back on the pillows, she left the light on and fiercely gazed at the cream-painted wall opposite her bed.
She had never been able to see the man. Sometimes she’d woken crying with frustration because he wouldn’t reveal himself to her, wouldn’t let her find out what he looked like.
Now, for the first time, the man of her dreams—and nightmares—had a face.
CHAPTER TWO
‘YOU know I don’t do swimsuit work.’ Katrien handed back the folder her agent had passed to her.
Hattie Fisher sighed. ‘You’re limiting your options. And this assignment—’
‘Yes, the money’s good.’
‘The advertising agency asked for you specially, you know.’
‘I’m flattered that they want me, but I’ll pass on this one, thanks.’
‘I don’t have anything else for you at the moment, until that shampoo commercial you’re booked for.’
‘That’s okay. I could do with a break.’ Katrien quashed a tremor of anxiety. She’d had to pull out of her last assignment when she got the flu and now here she was with only one confirmed booking in view. Modelling work within New Zealand was limited, and although in the past she’d flown to Australia at the drop of a hat, and sometimes further afield, she’d promised Callum to limit her overseas assignments. But she had her savings, and maybe it was time she took a holiday.
‘Skiing?’ Callum looked doubtful, stirring sugar into his coffee. Katrien had phoned his office and suggested meeting for lunch at their favourite downtown café. ‘Do you think that’s wise when you’re just getting over the flu?’
‘Mountain air’s healthy, they say. And there’s a special deal going at Whakapapa, with accommodation at the Chateau.’
‘Well, at least you’d be comfortable, in a decent hotel.’
More than decent, Katrien thought. The wonderful old hotel offered luxury on the ski fields. ‘With all the rumbling Mount Ruapehu’s been doing in the last couple of seasons, I guess they have to get as many people down there as they can.’ The volcano had created havoc by spreading ash on the snow and many tourists had been frightened away by the danger of eruptions, although others had enjoyed the thrill of watching the mountain throw fire and rocks into the sky. The ski fields had not opened on schedule and the operators had lost a lot of money.
‘You’ll get cold and wet,’ Callum fussed. ‘Suppose you have a relapse?’
‘I’ll be careful, and with the proper gear I won’t get cold—or wet.’
‘I wish I could come with you, but the bank wouldn’t look kindly on a request for leave right now.’ He was a senior bank executive and his job was much too important for him to go on holiday at a moment’s notice.
‘I wish you could come too,’ Katrien assured him, disturbed to find that it was a lie. ‘But you don’t ski, and it’s only for a week. You’ll hardly know I’m gone.’
‘Not true. I’ll miss you every day.’
Katrien gave him an absent smile. ‘That’s sweet. I’ll miss you too.’ Surely it was the aftermath of her illness that had caused this odd lethargy of her emotions. When she was really over it the warm, loving feelings would come back. She reached out for his hand and his fingers closed around hers. ‘I love you,’ she murmured.
His clasp tightened and a flush came into his cheeks. He raised her hand to his face and pressed his lips into her palm. His voice muffled, he said, ‘And I love you!’
Her heart contracted, shrinking. Gooseflesh chilled her arms. She looked away, and was relieved when Callum lowered their joined hands to the table. Feeling guilty and bothered, she let her fingers lie slackly in his grasp. ‘I’ve already made a booking,’ she told him. ‘I leave tomorrow morning.’
‘That…’ He cleared his throat. ‘That was quick.’
‘Once I’d made up my mind—’ Katrien shrugged.
‘Yes, well… You’ll be packing tonight, then?’
Katrien forced herself to look at him regretfully, apologetically. ‘I’ve got a lot to do.’
‘When you get back…’ Callum smiled hopefully.
‘I’ll be fully recovered then,’ she promised. ‘As soon as I’m home I’ll let you know.’
The ski slopes were magnificent, the snow glinting like spun sugar in the wintry sun. Tiny figures zigzagged down the mountain, far below the adzed peaks veiled in snow and a drift of lazy cloud.
Looking forward to joining them, Katrien idled up the slope in the chairlift, the cold air numbing her nose even as the sun warmed her cheeks. She raised her eyes to the mountain top, and found herself speculating on what drove men like Zachary Ballantine. Going up with the object of skiing down again with the wind in her face and the snow sliding away beneath her skis was one thing. Climbing laboriously over sheer rock faces and across treacherous ice fields and skirting hidden crevasses with the sole aim of reaching the top was another, totally alien concept.
Her first skiing lesson had been during a photo shoot for a travel magazine. She’d been playing the part of a beginner—and played it convincingly because she was. Later she’d paid for more lessons, partly because she’d found it enjoyable and a challenge, and partly because she figured it might be a useful skill to