She’d read, written, taken frequent walks around the cabin that eased the stiffness of the long journey, but refused to nap again in the luxurious sleeping cabin. Awash with industrial quantities of water, she was looking forward to fresh air, and a night in a bed that was firmly anchored to the ground.
She risked a glance at Alex beside her. That now familiar slow burn of sensation in the pit of her stomach made her hesitate a half-second before she said, ‘It’s beautiful—a splendid setting. I hadn’t realised the city was so big.’
He shrugged. ‘New Zealanders like living on their own land. And while we might have only four million inhabitants, a million of them live in Auckland. In area the country’s almost as big as Italy.’
‘How far away is Haruru?’ She pronounced the word carefully.
‘Well done,’ he said, his smile quickening her pulse. ‘It’s half an hour’s flight north. I’m afraid I have a function to attend in Auckland tonight, so we’ll spend the night at my apartment here, then head home tomorrow morning.’
Serina thought she’d hidden her surprise, but a black brow lifted and he said dryly, ‘Perhaps I should have mentioned that before.’
Chagrined, she shook her head and made a mental memo to watch her expression more closely. ‘Of course not,’ she said in her most practical tone.
‘I’m sorry to have to leave you alone for your first night in New Zealand.’
She laughed. ‘Nonsense. The last thing I want to do is go out for the evening.’
For most of the journey he’d worked solidly, except when he joined her for meals. She’d insisted he take the bed when he decided to sleep, pointing out that as she was shorter she’d be more comfortable in the reclining chair. He’d politely accepted.
If he’d been trying to convey his total lack of interest in her, he’d succeeded.
Serina despised the pang that thought produced.
She was far too conscious of Alex to be comfortable in his presence. He made the world seem a larger, more intriguing place, stirring her senses into hyperdrive and awakening reactions—both physical and mental—that were not only inconvenient but scary.
She must have been mad to agree to come, but four weeks wasn’t too long. She’d cope.
She hoped…
The plane eased down to a smooth landing at an airport near one of the city’s two harbours. Customs and immigration formalities quickly over, she walked beside Alex to a waiting car.
The driver, a tall, solidly built man, olive-skinned and with finely chiselled features, greeted Alex with a smile. ‘Good trip?’ he asked.
Alex’s return smile made him younger and more approachable than Serina had ever seen him.
‘Excellent, thanks, Craig. How’s the family?’
Craig beamed. ‘Brilliant.’ He took Serina’s bag and manoeuvred it into the boot before announcing, ‘The boy’s walking.’
Alex laughed. ‘So you don’t know what’s hit you?’
‘He’s a hell-child—into everything. It’s total mayhem,’ Craig told him, his proud smile contradicting his words.
Alex introduced Craig Morehu to her. They shook hands and Serina asked, ‘How old is your son?’
‘Ten months,’ Craig said with even more pride, and grinned at her surprise. ‘Yes, apparently he’s advanced for his age.’
Alex said, ‘Serina, if you don’t mind, Craig and I need to talk business so I’ll sit in the front seat with him.’
‘Of course I don’t mind,’ she said politely, and during the journey kept her gaze to either side of the car, ignoring the width of Alex’s shoulders and the incisive tone of his voice as he and the driver spoke together.
Auckland was leafy and green and busy, the motorway bordered by shrubs and trees, many of which she didn’t recognise. Small volcanic cones, most covered in brilliantly green grass, seemed to pop into view wherever she looked, and the twin harbours wove in and out of the land so that each change of direction revealed a new vista.
Alex’s apartment was richly welcoming, a big penthouse in a solid nineteenth-century building that had been turned into a hotel. Furnished in traditional style with huge timber-framed windows that took in magnificent views of the harbour and cityscape, the rooms were warmed by flowers.
Serina didn’t know what she’d expected—something uncompromisingly minimalist to go with what she knew of Alex’s character?
But the decor had probably been produced by a decorator. All Alex would have had to do was throw money at it.
Then she saw the telescope aimed at the harbour. Her father had had one just like it; it still stood in the tiny back street apartment in Nice she shared with Doran when he was home.
She repressed a swift pang of homesickness as Alex showed her into a large bedroom with its own bathroom. This was more feminine, the comfort factor still very evident.
Alex said, ‘If you need anything let me know, or ring the bell. I’ll be with Craig for another half an hour, and after that we could fill in time by either swimming or playing tennis on the residents’ court. Which would you prefer?’
‘Tennis,’ she said instantly, repressing a forbidden image of him stripped down and glistening…
She suspected he was surprised, but could read nothing in his angular face as he said, ‘Then tennis it will be.’
After she’d unpacked she set up her laptop and sent an email to Doran to tell him she’d arrived; he’d already sent one to her, brief but enthusiastic. Clearly, he was enjoying himself.
Spirits rising, she spent a long time in the shower, her dry skin luxuriating in the cool water. The shorts and T-shirt she changed into were neat and practical, although when Alex saw her she was suddenly—foolishly—too aware of her bare legs and arms.
He was wearing shorts and a shirt too, and something very odd happened in the pit of Serina’s stomach. Lean and tanned, the lithe power of his body revealed without the sophisticated covering of his more formal clothes, Alex was—overwhelming.
Serina swallowed, heartily glad she’d chosen tennis. If he had this impact on her fully clothed, she’d probably have fainted at the sight of him in swimming trunks, she thought disparagingly.
‘What standard do you play?’ he asked as they went down to the court.
‘Average. You?’
He shrugged. ‘Lousy, I imagine—I haven’t played for years.’
Possibly not, but the powerful coil and flow of muscle beneath his shirt told her he exercised in some way. And she soon discovered he played a fierce game, revealing a natural athleticism that forced Serina onto the defensive. Fully extended, she set her lips firmly and fought back, determined not to let him win easily.
As they walked back to the penthouse after her honourable defeat, he commented, ‘You’re a fighter.’
Was that a note of surprise in his voice? Good, she thought.
‘I try very hard not to lose,’ she told him, conscious of her T-shirt clinging to her damp skin and knowing she badly needed another shower.
But she’d enjoyed the hard physical tussle, and the fact that she’d made Alex work for his victory. One of her mother’s favourite sayings had been that a man needed to know he was stronger than the woman in his life. Her mother had been wrong. It might apply to men who were fundamentally weak, but Serina didn’t believe Alex would have been shattered if he’d been beaten. His innate self-confidence