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'Great legs, Clare!'
'Shut up!' Although she had grown too tall for classical ballet, Clare still enjoyed going to jazz ballet and 'jazzercise' classes for fun, and even filled in for the instructor now and then at the gym she attended in Rotorua. Lee had always told her that she had the legs of a chorus girl.
She retrieved the crumpled kite and tossed the remains, with its tangled ball of string, to the ground. Going down was not quite as simple as going up, and Ray's ridiculous teasing didn't help.
'Look, Ray, will you be quiet? I can't laugh and climb at the same time.'
'Doesn't say much for your co-ordination, old girl. Why don't you jump from there? I'll catch you.'
'I bet you will,' said Clare, not trusting him an inch.
'Cross my heart. Would I risk letting you damage one of those glamorous legs?'
Clare didn't really mean to jump, but the flexible soles of her canvas espadrilles slipped suddenly, and to save herself from a thicket of branches she flung herself downwards. Ray caught her, but he was off balance and she wrapped her arms and legs frantically around him as he staggered backwards and fell against the rough tree-trunk, banging his head hard enough to make his eyes water.
'Oh, Ray, I'm sorry. Are you all right?'
He blinked manfully. 'I'm enjoying every minute of it. It's not often I get women crawling all over me. Shall we do it right here like this, or should we take our clothes off first?'
'Ray!'
Clare's laughter-choked protest was echoed by a horrified one from several yards behind them. With an inward groan Clare detached herself from the wickedly amused Ray to turn and explain to her mother-in-law. She was rooted to the spot when she discovered that Virginia was not alone.
Beside her stood a tall, dark man in a black polo-neck sweater and jeans, staring at Clare with a mixture of disapproval and bold sexual appraisal. Clare stiffened, instinctively pressing her splayed hands protectively across her bared upper thighs, which the bold black eyes seemed to find of particular interest. Her silent groan became a moan as she had no difficulty in identifying the famous face.
David Deverenko had come to call.
CHAPTER TWO
Clare's hands were trembling with embarrassment as she untucked her skirt and smoothed it back down around her knees, even though she knew it wasn't going to redeem the wanton image she had just presented. Damn Virginia for springing this on her! She could at least have had the decency to come out and warn Clare that he was here.
She hardly heard Virginia's reproving questions or Ray's rumbling amusement as he explained the circumstances of their clinch, she was far too conscious of the silent penetration of the dark eyes which watched her fumble with her clothing. He wasn't even trying to make the pretence of polite disinterest, and the faint tilt at one corner of his mouth made a mockery of Ray's explanation. How dared he insult her with his disbelief?
She wasn't going to allow herself to be flustered any longer. Let him think what he liked. She raised her eyebrows and stared back at him coolly, eyes grey with disdain. The only defence for shyness was directness; staring someone in the eye always projected an impression of confidence… or so it had proved in the past. Unfortunately, looking at David Deverenko, her eyes had a tendency to wander.
He was not as tall as she had first thought, under six foot, in fact, but the squarish shoulders and compact muscularity of his body beneath the close-fitting clothes exuded command—over himself and others. His skin was olive, and broad Slavonic cheekbones and a hawkish nose bore aggressive testament to his Russian ancestry. Not handsome, Clare decided, then her eyes met his again and she was not so sure. His eyes were very aware, holding a brooding intelligence that refined the harshness of his features.
'Your mother's expecting you back for tea, isn't she, Ray?' Virginia was saying pointedly. 'I'll see you off on that dreadful machine of yours while Mr Deverenko talks to Clare. Take him into the lounge, Clare, and I'll bring a tray through when it's ready.'
Ray gave Clare a resigned grin and, with a quick glance at the silently waiting visitor, leaned over to give her an unnecessarily warm goodbye kiss, taking the opportunity to whisper teasingly, 'Chin up, Goldilocks, the Russian bear won't eat you. He lives on porridge, remember. Odds on he'd never catch you!'
For once his humour didn't register. Clare watched them go down the garden path towards the side gate in the high fence before turning towards the house and saying stiffly, 'If you'd like to come this way, Mr Deverenko…'
David Deverenko followed her thoughtfully, his faint amusement at the entertaining scene fading. He wouldn't have been human if he hadn't, after her rudeness the previous night, rather enjoyed her discomfort, but he was aware it could work against him. Her continued antagonism would make his self-appointed championship of her son that much more difficult.
How to handle it? The problem was that Virginia Malcolm had given him a very sketchy, incomplete picture of Timothy's mother. He had expected someone cool and self-contained, a very reserved woman with a host of emotional anxieties stemming from her husband's death, anxieties that she was projecting on to her son. The artist in David had revolted at the thought of great musical talent being stifled by the clinging of a neurotic woman. She had certainly been 'clinging' a few minutes ago, but not in the context that he had expected.
Pondering the best approach, David's eyes fell to the trim ankles in front of him and he idly shortened his stride, dropping back in order to get another look at her legs. Her calves were slender and beautifully shaped, and the fine interplay of muscles as she walked indicated femininity modified by strength. In spite of the tense set of her spine, she moved with a natural grace enhanced by the subtle refinements of teaching. He wondered whether the thick tangle of her hair was naturally the colour of pale honey, and then, remembering her startlingly pale skin with its liberal sprinkling of freckles, decided that it was. That very fair complexion would burn easily, which was probably why, unlike most New Zealand women at the end of a long, spectacular summer, she didn't have a tan.
Clare excused herself for a few minutes when they reached the lounge, he presumed to have a few trenchant words with her mother-in-law, but when she came back David's amusement was revived. She had used the time to arm her defences. Her hair was returned to sleekness and her blouse had been firmly tucked back into her skirt and buttoned to the hilt. She had used powder, too, to disguise the freckles on her face, as if they might weaken her authority,
and her demeanour was brisk and businesslike. She looked him dead in the eye as she invited him to be seated, and he was careful not to show his amusement at her tactics. What was it, he wondered, that rendered those cool grey eyes under their unfashionably thick and straight brows so ineffective? Her mouth, he decided. It was rather small for her face, but sweetly full. A perfect bow. However cold and stern her manner, that mouth would always give her away. Confident now, David relaxed. Her concern with her appearance revealed her vulnerability. All he had to do was to show her that his was the superior strength and authority, and she would be ripe for persuasion. The insecure—male and female—usually responded to the disconcerting mixture of aggression and charm that came naturally to him. Face to face, Clare Malcolm didn't have a chance… and her son would be able to have his…
'Well, Mr Deverenko. Why did you want to talk to me?' Clare sat down opposite him, her hands folded in her lap, her shoulders squared.
In contrast, David Deverenko lounged. Admittedly he did it very well. 'Games, Mrs Malcolm? You may have time for them, but I don't. You know very well why I'm here to see you. Your son Timothy.'
His loaded patience was designed to make her feel silly for her pretence of ignorance. Awed, too, by the great man's condescension, no doubt.
