The Far Side of Paradise

As though the words were torn from him, Cade said roughly, ‘Damn. This is too soon.’

Taryn froze, every instinct shrieking that this was a bad, foolish, hair-raisingly terrifying idea.

Every instinct save one—the primal, irresistible conviction that if Cade didn’t kiss her she’d regret it for ever.

Her lips parted. ‘Yes,’ she said, in a husky, faraway voice. ‘Too soon.’

‘And you’re afraid of me.’

She dragged in a deep breath. Oh, no, not afraid of Cade.

Afraid—terrified—of being shown once more that she was cold, too cold to satisfy a man …

But she didn’t feel cold. This had never happened before—this wild excitement that shimmered through her like a green flash at sunset, rare and exquisite, offering some hidden glory she might perhaps reach …

About the Author

ROBYN DONALD can’t remember not being able to read, and will be eternally grateful to the local farmers who carefully avoided her on a dusty country road as she read her way to and from school, transported to places and times far away from her small village in Northland, New Zealand.

Growing up fed her habit. As well as training as a teacher, marrying and raising two children, she discovered the delights of romances and read them voraciously, especially enjoying the ones written by New Zealand writers. So much so that one day she decided to write one herself. Writing soon grew to be as much of a delight as reading—although infinitely more challenging—and when eventually her first book was accepted by Mills & Boon® she felt she’d arrived home.

She still lives in a small town in Northland, with her family close by, using the landscape as a setting for much of her work. Her life is enriched by the friends she’s made among writers and readers, and complicated by a determined Corgi called Buster, who is convinced that blackbirds are evil entities. Her greatest hobby is still reading, with travelling a very close second.

Recent titles by the same author:

POWERFUL GREEK, HOUSEKEEPER WIFE* BROODING BILLIONAIRE, IMPOVERISHED PRINCESS THE VIRGIN AND HIS MAJESTY

* part of The Greek Tycoons series

THE FAR SIDE

OF PARADISE

ROBYN DONALD

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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CHAPTER ONE

STONE-FACED, Cade Peredur listened again to the tape of his foster-brother’s final call—a frantic, beseeching torrent of words recorded just before Peter Cooper killed himself.

‘Cade, where are you? Where the hell are you—oh, with Lady Louisa, I suppose. Damn it, Cade, I need you more than any woman could—why aren’t you home? Why can’t you be there for me?’

A short pause, broken only by his breathing, jagged and irregular, and then, ‘Cade, I’ve been such a fool—such an idiot.’

Not a muscle of Cade’s face moved at the sound of choked weeping.

At last Peter said in a thick, despairing voice, ‘Taryn was my last—my only—hope. It hurts—so bloody much, Cade, so much …’ Another wrenching pause and then, in a voice Cade had never heard before, Peter said, ‘There’s nothing left for me now. She laughed when I asked … laughed …’

The silence stretched for so long that when he’d first heard it Cade had been sure the call was over.

But eventually his brother whispered, ‘It’s no good, Cade. I’m sorry, but it’s no good any more. I can’t—I just can’t live with this. She’s gone, and she’s not coming back. Tell the parents I’m sorry to be such a useless son to them, but at least they’ll still have you. You’re the sort of man they wanted me to be, and God knows I tried, but I’ve always known I didn’t have what it takes. Get married, Cade, and give them some grandchildren to adore. They’ll need them now …’

He stopped abruptly. Then he said unevenly, ‘Try not to despise me, Cade. I love you. Goodbye.’

Cade switched off the tape and walked across the luxurious room to look unseeingly across the London cityscape, fighting to control the rush of blind rage threatening to consume him. The call had come eight hours before he’d arrived home and by the time he’d got to Peter’s apartment his brother was dead.

Peter had worshipped him, emulated and envied him, then finally grown away from him, but Cade had always been intensely protective of his younger brother.

Hands clenching, he turned and walked into his office, stopping at his desk. The photograph on it had been taken at his foster-parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary a few months before Peter’s death—Isabel and Harold Cooper all smiles for the camera, Peter’s grin revealing a hint of feverish excitement.

As always, Cade was the odd one out—taller than the other two men, his features harsher and his expression unreadable.

His brother’s suicide shattered that secure, tight family unit. A fortnight after the funeral, Harold Cooper had died from a heart attack, and while Isabel was still trying to come to terms with the wreckage of her life she’d stepped out into the path of a car. Onlookers said she’d moved as though in a daze.

She’d wanted to die too, but not before she’d begged Cade to find out what had driven her son to suicide.

He’d held her hand while she’d whispered painfully, ‘If … if I knew why … it wouldn’t be so bad. I just want to know, Cade, before I die.’

‘You’re not going to die,’ he said harshly. ‘I’ll find out what happened.’

Her lashes had fluttered up again, revealing a spark of animation in her gaze. ‘Promise?’

To encourage that hope, that flicker of determination, he’d have promised anything. ‘I will. But you have to keep going for me.’

She’d managed a pale smile. ‘It’s a deal.’

That had been the turning point; valiantly she’d gathered her reserves and struggled back to cope with everything life had thrown at her. It had taken months of rehabilitation, and she was now adjusting to living the rest of her life in a wheelchair.

The letter Peter had left for his parents lay in its envelope on Cade’s desk. He flicked it open and read it again. Unlike the telephone call, it was free of overt grief. Peter had told his parents he loved them, that he was sorry to cause them pain, but his life was no longer worth living.

No mention of the woman who’d reduced him to this depth of despair. He’d never introduced her to his family, only spoken of her once or twice in a casual, throwaway fashion. The last time he’d gone home—to celebrate his first big commission as a sculptor, a work for a public park in a market town—he hadn’t referred to her.

So why that anguished, cryptic mention in his final call?

Cade turned away, his hard, arrogantly contoured face set. What part had Taryn Angove played in Peter’s death?

Had something she’d said, something she’d done, precipitated his final, fatal decision? It seemed possible, although she’d left for her home country of New Zealand eight hours before Peter’s suicide.

Cade had always known that revenge was a fool’s game; he’d seen the hunger for it eat into the intellect, destroy the soul.

Justice, however, was a different matter.

Progress had been infuriatingly slow. He knew now her return to New Zealand had been organised well before Peter’s death. He knew she and Peter had been good friends for almost two years, almost certainly lovers.

He knew Peter’s bank account should have been flush with a large advance to buy materials for his commission. Indeed, the money had arrived—and immediately a substantial sum had been taken out and paid directly to Taryn Angove. But the rest of the money had been siphoned off in large weekly cash payments, so that when Peter had died there had only been a few hundred pounds left.

If—and it was only an if, Cade reminded himself—Taryn Angove had somehow got her hands on it all, that could be why Peter had killed himself. Unfortunately, so far there was nothing, apart from that initial payment, to connect her with its absence.

But now, thanks to dedicated work by his security people, he knew where she was in New Zealand.

Cade looked across at the suitcase he’d just finished packing. His arrangements were all made and his actions from now on would depend on the woman he was hunting.

All day it had been still, the horizon a hazy brush-stroke where simmering sky met burnished sea, the forest-clad hills around the bay drowsing in the fierce glare of a sub-tropical sun. Cade narrowed his eyes against the intense light to watch seabirds made dumb by the heat fight silent battles over their catch.

Even the tiny waves on the shore were noiseless; all he could hear was the thrum of thousands of cicadas vibrating through the forest-covered hills behind the bay—the prevailing summer sound in this long northern peninsula of New Zealand.

The sibilant hum was penetrated by the imperative summons of his cell phone. Only his personal assistant had that number, so somewhere in his vast holdings something had gone wrong.

From halfway around the world his PA said, ‘A few matters pertaining to this meeting in Fala’isi.’

‘What about it?’ Because of his business interests in the Pacific Basin, Cade had been asked to attend a gathering of high-powered Pacific dignitaries to discuss the future of the region.

Dealing with that took a few minutes. His voice a little tentative, Roger, his PA, said, ‘Lady Louisa called.’

Arrogant black brows almost meeting across the blade of his nose, Cade said, ‘And she wanted.?’

‘Your address. She was not happy when I wouldn’t give it to her. She said it was urgent and important.’

‘Thanks.’ Cade didn’t discuss his private life easily, but he did say, ‘We are no longer together.’

A pause, then, ‘You might need to work on convincing her of that.’

His voice hard and cold, Cade said, ‘Ignore her.’

‘Very well.’

Cade’s mouth curved in a sardonic smile. Louisa wouldn’t follow him to New Zealand—it was completely out of her orbit. His ex-lover craved luxury and fashion and the heady stimulation of admiration. This remote paradise couldn’t satisfy her need for the envy of others.

‘Ah … not to put too fine a point on it, but she sounded stressed.’ Roger paused. ‘Actually, desperate.’

Her father had probably refused to pay a bill. Cade shrugged broad shoulders. ‘Not your problem.’ Or his. ‘How is your daughter?’

His PA hesitated before saying in a completely different tone, ‘We hear the results of the first lot of tests tomorrow.’

What the hell did you say to a man whose child could be suffering a terminal illness? ‘If you need leave or any help at all, it’s yours.’

‘I know. Thanks—for everything.’

‘No need for thanks—just let me know what I can do.’

‘Thanks. I will. Keep in touch.’

Cade closed down the cell phone, his eyes flinty. Against the fact that a three-year-old could be dying, Louisa was a very minor consideration. A sensuous, satisfying lover until she’d decided Cade—influential, moving in the ‘right’ circles and exceedingly rich—would make the ideal first husband, she’d been careless enough to let him overhear as she discussed her plans on the telephone.

It had needed only a few questions in the right ears for Cade to discover she’d run through most of the fortune inherited from her grandfather. With no chance of support from a father whose income had been decimated by financial crisis, marriage was the obvious solution.

Like Louisa, Cade didn’t believe in the sort of love poets wrote about. However, although experience had made him cynical, he intended to marry some day, and when he did it would be to a woman who’d value him for more than the size of his assets. He’d choose carefully, and it would last.

Cade’s expression hardened. If Louisa was desperate enough to follow him, he’d make sure she understood that he was not and never would be a suitable husband—first, last or intermediate—for her.

After eyeing the hammock in the dark shade of one of the huge trees bordering the beach, he succumbed to an unusual restlessness that drove him down onto the hot amber sand. He stared out to sea for a long moment before turning. Only then did a drift of movement in the cloudless sky catch his attention.

Frowning, he stared at it. At first nothing more substantial than a subtle darkening of the blue, the haze swiftly thickened into a veil, an ominous stain across the sky.

In the grip of its severest drought in living memory, the province of Northland was under a total fire ban. The manager of the farm he’d rented the holiday house from had impressed on him that any smoke anywhere had to mean danger.

Muttering a word he wouldn’t have said in polite company, Cade headed towards the house, long legs covering the ground at speed. He grabbed his car keys and cell phone, punching in a number as he headed towards the bedroom.

‘I can see smoke in the sky,’ he said curtly when the farm manager answered. ‘South, and close—in the next bay, I’d say, and building fast.’

The farm manager swore vigorously, then said, ‘Bloody free campers probably, careless with a camp-fire. OK, I’ll ring the brigade and round up a posse from here. With any luck, we’ll be able to put it out before it takes hold.’

Cade eyed the growing smoke cloud. ‘I’ll go over and see what I can do.’

‘Man, be careful. There’s a tap in the bay, but the creek’s probably dry. If you’ve got a bucket there, grab it.’ Possibly recalling that the man renting the farm’s beach house was an influential tycoon, he added, ‘And don’t try to be a hero.’

Cade’s swift grin vanished as he closed the cell phone. The smoke suddenly billowed, forming a cloud. Until then there had been no movement in the air, but of course the instant some idiot lit a fire the wind picked up.

The faster he got there, the better. He hauled on a long-sleeved shirt and trousers with swift, economical movements, then wasted precious moments looking for a non-existent bucket before giving up.

Not, he thought grimly as he got into the car, that a bucket would be much help, but it would have given him an illusory feeling of control.

He drove too fast along the track to the boundary gate; unlocking it wasted a few more valuable seconds so he left it open to give the manager and his men easy access. Lean hands tense on the wheel, he swung the four-wheel drive onto a narrow public road that led to the next bay.

It took too long to manoeuvre his vehicle around the tight corners through thick coastal scrub that would go up like a torch the moment a spark got into it. When the car emerged into searing sunlight a glance revealed no tents on the grassy foreshore or beneath the huge trees—nothing, in fact, but an elderly car parked in the deep shade cast by one of those trees.

And a woman in a skimpy bikini far too close to an area of blazing grass.

What the hell did she think she was doing?

Putting his foot down, Cade got there as fast as he could. He turned the vehicle, ready for a quick getaway, and was out of the car and running towards the woman before he realised she was directing a hose at the flames.

Tall and long-legged and young, she had a body guaranteed to set a man’s hormones buzzing in anticipation. Smoke-smeared and glistening with sweat, she exuded unselfconscious sensuality.

At that moment she turned, pushing back a mane of copper-coloured hair that had been fanned across her face by the hot wind from the flames.

A flame flared up only a few inches from her feet and she jumped back, water from the hose splashing gleaming legs that went on forever.

The woman was crazy! Couldn’t she see she wasn’t achieving anything except putting herself in danger?

Cade covered the ground between them in a few seconds, watching the woman’s expression turn to undisguised relief.

She thrust the hose into his hands and commanded brusquely, ‘Keep directing it anywhere the flames try to get away. If they make it to those bullrushes the whole place will go up. I’ll wet my towel and have a go at it from the other side.’

‘Get dressed first,’ he suggested, turning the pathetic dribble of water onto the flames.

She gave him a startled look, then nodded briskly. ‘Good thinking.’

Taken aback and amused by her air of command, Cade watched her race across to her car to haul on a pair of inadequate shorts and a T-shirt and jam her feet into elderly sandshoes. Only then did she sprint down to the waves to wet her towel.

A sudden flare almost at his feet switched Cade’s attention, but as he sprayed water onto it he wondered why on earth he was bothering. It was a losing battle; a wet towel would be as useless as the meagre trickle from the hose. Yet clearly the woman had no intention of giving up and doing the sensible thing—getting out of there before the fire made retreat impossible.

Cade admired courage in anyone, even reckless, blind courage. She might have lit the fire, but she was determined to put it out.

When she came running up from the shoreline she thrust the heavy, sodden towel into his hands. ‘I’ll take the hose—you’re stronger than me so you’ll be more efficient with this. Just be careful.’

The next few minutes were frantic. And hopeless. Working together, they fought grimly to hold back the flames but, inch by menacing inch, the bright line crept closer to the stand of bullrushes, pushing first one way and then, when frustrated, finding another path through the long, dry grass.

‘Get back,’ Cade shouted when flames suddenly flared perilously close to those lithe bare legs. Two long strides got him close enough to put all his power into beating it out.

‘Thanks.’ Her voice sounded hoarse, but she didn’t move, directing that inadequate spurt of water with a stubborn determination that impressed him all over again.

She looked down at the towel, which was beginning to scorch. ‘Go down and wet the towel again.’

‘You go.’ Cade thrust the towel into her hands and grabbed the hose from her.

Sensibly, she didn’t waste time in protest, turning immediately to run across the sand.

His foster-mother’s influence was embedded so deeply he couldn’t evade it, Cade thought wryly, stamping out a tuft of grass that was still smouldering. Women were to be protected—even when they made it obvious they didn’t want it.

He glanced up the hill. No sign of the fire brigade yet. If they didn’t appear damned soon he’d grab the woman and, if he had to, drag her away. It would be too late once the bullrushes caught; they’d be in deadly danger of dying from smoke inhalation even if they took refuge in the sea.

Panting, she ran up from the beach and almost flung the dripping towel at him. Her face was drawn and smoke had stained the creamy skin, but she looked utterly determined. Clearly, giving up was not an option.

Cade said abruptly, ‘The brigade should be here soon,’ and hoped he was right.

His arms rose and fell in a regular rhythm but, even as he beat out sparks along the edge of the fire, he accepted their efforts were making very little headway. No way could they stop the relentless line of fire racing through the grass towards a stand of rushes so dry their tall heads made perfect fuel.

If they caught, he and the woman would have to run, but not to the cars. The beach would be their only refuge.

Once the fire got into the coastal scrub it would take an aerial bombardment or heavy rain to put it out. The cloudless sky mocked the idea of rain, and a helicopter with a monsoon bucket would take time to organise.

And if the wind kept building, the blaze would threaten not only the beach house he’d rented, but the houses and barns around the homestead further up the coast. Cade hoped the farm manager had warned everybody there to be on the alert.

A muted roar lifted his head. Relief surged through him as the posse from the station came down the hill on one of the farm trucks, almost immediately followed by two fire engines and a trail of other vehicles.

‘Oh, thank God,’ his companion croaked, a statement he silently echoed.

Taryn had never been so pleased to see anyone in her life. Smoothly, efficiently the firemen raced from their vehicles, the chief shouting, ‘Get out of the way—down onto the beach, both of you.’

She grabbed a bottle of water from her car and headed across the sand. Without taking off her shoes, she waded out until the water came up to her knees, and only then began to drink, letting the water trickle down a painfully dry throat.

Heat beat against her, so fierce she pulled off her T-shirt, dropped it into the sea and used it to wipe herself down. The temporary coolness was blissful. She sighed, then gulped a little more water.

The stranger who’d helped her strode out to where she stood. ‘Are you all right?’ he demanded.

He was so tall she had to lift her face to meet his eyes. Swallowing, she said hoarsely, ‘Yes. Thank you very much for your help.’

‘Go easy on that water. If you drink it too fast it could make you sick.’

Taryn knew the accent. English, clipped and authoritative, delivered in a deep, cool voice with more than a hint of censure, it reminded her so much of Peter she had to blink back tears.

Not that Peter had ever used that tone with her.

The stranger was watching her as though expecting her to faint, or do something equally stupid. Narrowed against the glare of the sun on the sea, his disconcerting eyes were a cold steel-blue and, although Taryn knew she’d never seen him before, he looked disturbingly familiar.

An actor, perhaps?

She lowered the bottle. ‘I’m taking it slowly.’ Stifling a cough, she kept her eyes fixed on the helmeted men as they efficiently set about containing the flames. ‘Talk about arriving in the nick of time!’

‘I wouldn’t have thought the village was big enough to warrant a fire station.’

A note in his voice lifted tiny invisible hairs on the back of her neck. He was very good-looking, all angles and strong bones and lean distinction. Not exactly handsome; that was too neutral a description for a man whose arrogantly chiselled features were stamped with formidable self-assurance. His aura of cool containment was based on something much more intimidating than good bones. An odd sensation warmed the pit of Taryn’s stomach when she met his gaze.

Unnerved by that flinty survey, she looked away, taunted by a wisp of memory that faded even as she tried to grasp it.

‘They’re a volunteer group.’ She took refuge in the mundane and held out her bottle of water. ‘Would you like some?’ Adding with a wry smile, ‘I’ve wiped the top and as far as I know I have no diseases you need worry about.’

‘I’m sure you haven’t,’ he drawled, not taking the bottle. ‘Thanks, but I’ve already had a drink—I brought my own.’

Stick to social pleasantries, she told herself, rattled by a note in his voice that came very close to mockery. ‘Thank you so much for helping—I didn’t have a hope of stopping it on my own.’

‘Didn’t it occur to you that lighting a fire in the middle of a drought could be dangerous?’