The Temptress Of Tarika Bay. Robyn Donald

eyes glinted beneath their heavy lids. ‘I’m not going to ignore the mutual interest we have in each other, but as we’re neighbours I’d like to get to know you socially.’

      Morna dithered. It was only a dinner…

      If she agreed he might be bored with her, and that would be an end to it.

      ‘I’m sure Cathy and Nick will be more than adequate chaperons,’ he murmured, the gravelly note in his voice very pronounced as he smiled again.

      It was a killer, that smile, and he knew what effect it had. Her heart skidded to a stop and then began to beat again, swift and uneven. ‘All right, I’ll be there,’ she said, regretting her surrender the moment the words left her lips.

      Suckered by a million-dollar smile—and a crazy fascination that had smashed across her life, roaring in like a comet from outer space, bent on destruction.

      So when she went to dinner tomorrow night, she decided after he’d left, she’d keep in mind the last time she’d felt like this—shooting stars in her stomach, feet not touching the ground, unbearable anticipation.

      When she’d first met Glen.

      Morna eyed her glass of New Zealand Riesling and took another tentative sip. Although they’d finished a superb dinner, she was still on her first drink because she needed to keep her head.

      Even now she wasn’t going to admit that part of the reason she’d accepted Hawke’s invitation was sheer, blatant curiosity—some of which had been satisfied. Over dinner she’d discovered that he actually lived at his small, exclusive and very luxurious resort.

      Excellent pickings for a good-looking man here, she thought, trying hard to be cynical. Quite a few eager unattached women were strolling about, not to mention jaded trophy wives. Scattered around the dining room, several of each watched the men at her table with the secret, starving intensity of a dieter tantalised by forbidden food.

      Not that she blamed them. Tall, dark and handsome might be a cliché, but men who matched the description were rare—and to see two of them at the same table was probably unique outside Hollywood.

      Stick to Hawke, she advised the avid watchers silently. Nick has given his heart.

      Yet the thought of Hawke with anyone else summoned a hollow outrage that scared her. Her first instinct had been right—she should have refused to come. If he asked her again she’d turn him down.

      Not that she could fault him tonight; he’d been a superb host. She slid a glance sideways to scan his striking profile with unwilling appreciation.

      Music drifted into the dining room through double doors, slow and smokily suggestive above the low hum of conversation. Morna’s heart began to beat in time to the tune; hastily she put the glass down and got to her feet.

      ‘Excuse me,’ she said, and retreated to the cloakroom.

      She renewed her lipstick and ran cold water over her wrists before straightening her animal print top, its dramatic contrast of black and white somehow suiting her mood. The black wrap skirt that revealed her legs needed adjustment too, but eventually she had to leave her refuge and set off back to the dining room.

      Halfway there she was waylaid by an elderly man Nick had introduced to her at the show.

      ‘Nice to see you again,’ he said, seizing her hand and pumping it up and down. ‘How did you enjoy your day in the country?’

      ‘I had a great time,’ she said, smiling. ‘I loved those magnificent cattle of yours—even though I can’t remember what breed they are!’

      Just outside her field of vision she sensed the approach of another person. She knew who it was; every cell in her body thrummed with a mixture of apprehension and a steamy, elemental excitement.

      The voice of the old man as he informed her what esoteric type of cow she’d admired buzzed in her ears.

      Her companion broke off to say cheerfully, ‘Hello, young Hawke. Didn’t take you long to find the best-looking woman in the place, did it?’