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'On a Sunday?' Deverenko asked.
'A hotel is a hotel every day of the week,' Clare pointed out.
'Don't you want to come?' asked Tim bluntly, and Clare quailed slightly under that direct regard. Trust Tim to cut to the heart of the matter with childishly adult perception! 'Why?'
'Yes, Clare, why?' Deverenko gently mimicked her son's question, leaning back in his chair, flustering her with his knowing smile.
'Don't encourage him,' she snapped.
'To be enquiring?' he wilfully misunderstood her. 'I have an enquiring mind myself. For instance, I begin to wonder why you're so reluctant to relax in my company. What are you afraid will happen if you do?'
Conscious of Tim's grave curiosity, Clare strove to appear amused. 'Perhaps I'm just awed by your august presence.'
'You hide it well. People in awe of me usually bow and scrape. But perhaps you're like my daughter in that respect: offence is the best defence. You're at your most bold when you're at your most insecure…'
It was such a terrifyingly apt assessment that Clare instantly regained her poise. 'Then Tamara must be in dire need of the reassurance of your attention. Perhaps you had better turn your enquiring mind to identifying her needs rather than those of perfect stranger—' She stopped as he gave a short, growling laugh, realising that she had just confirmed his statement with her attack.
'Mum?' She also realised that Tim was disturbed by the subtle undertones in the exchange. No more disturbed than she!
'It's all right, Tim,' to her chagrin it was Deverenko who eased the moment, 'your mother and I are just teasing each other, aren't we, Clare?' She gave a weak smile. 'If I promise to be good, will you come with us? If I promise to be very, very good?'
The sexual boast implicit in the innocent phrase was revealed in the wickedness of his attractive smile. Clare's feminine instinct told her that it was no idle boast, either. There was an animal vitality about him that she found both attractive and repellent, hinting as it did of a sensual appetite that was alien to her experience. She had loved Lee, but due to her reserve and Lee's tender protectiveness there had been no wild excitement in their sexual relationship, although it had been warm and completely fulfilling to the woman she had been. She didn't welcome the thought that she might have changed since his death, that she might have physical desires unrelated to her emotional need for security.
Later that morning, helping Kerry unload the groaning hamper and stock the fridge in the small galley of the launch, Clare wondered if she would have had the strength to continue to resist the dual pleas if Miles hadn't come into the dining-room at that moment and swept all before his enthusiasm.
'Great! Great!' he boomed when Deverenko told him of the suggestion. 'The launch could do with a run— waste of money just sitting there. Drive you myself— blow a few cobwebs away—make a day of it. And if you don't mind, Davey, I'll ask Doug Fallon to tag along— he needs a few lake shots of the lodge for his book.' He explained that Doug was a wildlife photographer of international repute, working on a book which combined travel information for birdwatchers with studies of New Zealand birds in their natural habitats. Doug was the other chalet occupant, usually absent at breakfast be-cause he spent his nights pursuing the elusive kiwi with his lens and generally never surfaced until noon.
Clare's feeble protestations of work had been overridden, and Deverenko had tipped her a smug smile as he had gone off to inform Tamara of the scheme. If his daughter was intent on being difficult, Clare wondered what technique Deverenko would use to convince her to join them, but when she waved Kerry off the boat and watched the newest guests walk down from the lodge to the long wooden jetty she had her answer. It was Deverenko who was lagging, hands thrust sullenly in his jeans pockets while his daughter, inappropriately dressed in a bright red dress that, although long-sleeved, looked very thin and more suited to a shopping expedition than a winter boat ride, strode haughtily ahead. Clare turned away to hide her rueful smile. She had used such child psychology herself, pretending reluctance to encourage interest, although she and Tim were so attuned that it was becoming increasingly difficult to fool him.
Doug Fallon, tall, blond and softly-spoken, was the last to arrive, loaded down with camera bags. Clare helped him store them while Deverenko, Tamara and Tim joined Miles on the top deck as he switched on the engines and spun the wheel to ease the sleek blue and white launch away from the jetty. When Doug was ready, he called up instructions to Miles and leaned over the bow rail to take his shots. The original sixty-year-old homestead that formed the basis of the lodge was constructed in weathered stone, and the extensions made over the years were in the same stone. Nestling in the bush, the wooden chalets almost out of sight among the trees, Moonlight looked like a natural outgrowth of the lava rock that formed the shores of the lake. Lake Romata was on the northern edge of Rotorua's volcanic centre, the highest of the mosaic of lakes in the region created by massive eruptions and lava flows over hundreds of thousands of years. Although Romata had none of the geysers and mudpools and spectacular thermal effects that drew tourists to other lakes in the Rotorua region, Clare thought its peace and beauty a joy in itself. Because there was no road right around the lake, most of the native bush was unspoiled—small, secluded beaches around the shoreline a delight to discover only by boat. The lake was very deep and correspondingly cold and brilliant of colour, and on days like today, when there was little breeze, reflected bush and sky with mirror-like clarity.
After Doug had got the shots he wanted, Miles aimed the launch at the far shore and Deverenko allowed Tim to show him the galley and cabins below. Tamara, who was obviously having second thoughts about the whole thing, looked for a moment as if she might join them, but then flounced over to one of the deck-chairs and sat down, a picture of boredom. Clare joined her with a sigh.
'You don't have to sit with me, you know. I do
n't need a baby-sitter,' the girl said in a hard little voice. 'I know where you really want to be.'
'Oh? Where's that?' asked Clare in surprise. Had Deverenko told her of Clare's reluctance to come, as part of his psychology?
'With my father. All the women drool over him. Only he doesn't want any of them, so you're wasting your time if you think he'd be interested in you.' Tamara's dark brown eyes slid insolently over Clare's warmly track-suited figure, well-padded against the cold. Although the sun was shining, its rays were weak, and Clare knew that if it clouded over the temperature over the lake could drop quickly and markedly.
'Have you been to Rotorua before?' asked Clare, deciding to ignore her rudeness.
'Of course I have. I used to go everywhere with Mum and Dad. I've been all over the world.'
'What about your schooling?'
'I had tutors.'
'But you're at school now?'
The question didn't go down well. 'I was for a while.' She named a very prestigious English girls' school. 'But I've left. I'm going to be going on tour with Dad from now on.' She looked challengingly at Clare, as if she would welcome a chance to argue.
'You're very lucky. I've never been out of New Zealand. I planned to save up and travel when I became a secretary, after I left school, but I met Lee and got married instead. We did travel around New Zealand a lot, though.' Clare smiled. 'Touring, like your dad.'
'Your husband was a musician?' Tamara demanded narrowly.
'He was lead guitarist and vocalist with a rock band, Kraken.'
