Robyn Donald - The Final Proposal

‘You had a point,’ she said, wondering why her mouth was so dry. ‘The hat should have been pinned on. Is the horse really all right?’

‘Yes, apart from a few bruises.’ He didn’t attempt to hide the surprise in his tone.

Defensively, she said, ‘I was worried about it. Life is bad enough for a polo pony without—’

His brows rose. ‘Polo ponies are fed like kings and cared for with the utmost devotion. They seem to enjoy the whole experience.’

‘I hope so.’ It had sounded ungracious, so she added, ‘Lots of people think animals are like machines-disposable.’

‘I earn my living from animals. Only a fool doesn’t care for them.’

Sally had told them he was a farmer. Before Jan could stop herself she said shortly, ‘Exploiting them.’

‘Perhaps. But as long as humans eat meat there’ll be farmers. I make sure my animals are looked after and not treated cruelly, and that their death is quick and painless. Which is more than could be said for most animals in the wild.’

‘At least in the wild they’re free,’ she said, more to provoke than because she believed what she was saying.

His smile was ironic. ‘Freedom is a human concept. And, even for Homo sapiens, a full belly and security are more important than any illusory freedom.’

She said, ‘Goodness, you’re a cynic.’

‘I’m a realist.’ His tone was dry as Chardonnay. ‘Most people who live in the country are. When your livelihood is at the mercy of the elements you very soon learn that nature doesn’t value any one thing above the other. Humanity is no more important than animals, and no less.’

She said pertly, ‘So rural life teaches one lessons. I must remember that next time I stay with friends in the country.’

‘I gather you don’t go often.’

‘How did you guess?’ She widened her eyes like those women who believed rapt, slightly glazed stares were a good substitute for conversation. ‘I get twitchy if I’m too far from a bookshop or café. However, if the air didn’t smell so peculiar I might be tempted to go more often.’

She’d caught his attention well and truly. “The air?’

‘Well, there’s no body to it. It hardly seems natural, somehow.’

His mouth twitched. ‘No exhaust fumes.’

He was watching her, not with the interest of a man for a woman he was attracted to, but measuringly, as though he’d like to know what made her tick. A nameless sensation clutched her stomach, tangling her thoughts into incoherence.

‘Exactly,’ she said, smiling, but thinking, I have to get away from here! Failing that, she needed a neutral subject; the usual rules didn’t seem to apply to this man. Teasing him, however mildly, was too much like walking along the edge of a cliff. ‘Sally said you live by the sea. In the Bay of Islands?’

‘No, further north,’ he said. ‘On an estuary where two small rivers join to form a harbour. A little peninsula shelters it from Doubtless Bay and my house is on the peninsula.’

‘Set in pohutukawa trees,’ she said, her voice dulcet and guileless.

‘All the clichés,’ he agreed blandly.

‘It sounds idyllic. How far from the nearest café?’

The glacial depths of his eyes were lit by a spark of humour. ‘Twenty minutes.’

‘Too far for me, alas.’

Smiling, she turned with—she hoped—well-hidden relief as Marcus Fielding came up. Marcus was a bit of a pain, but easy to deal with. Kear Lannion’s penetrating gaze made her feel as though she had to screen every word, every nuance.

‘Janny, darling, how are you?’ Marcus kissed her soundly, keeping one arm looped around her shoulders as he held out his other hand to Kear. ‘How are you, Kear? Haven’t seen you for months. Have you been overseas?’

‘I’ve been busy,’ Kear said, shaking the hand he was offered. He smiled, his striking face confident and compelling. ‘I see you won the Bremner Prize. Congratulations.’

Marcus grinned like a schoolboy. ‘I’d like to say, oh, it was nothing, but as I struggled and bled and anguished for months to get the sculpture ready I don’t feel inclined to,’ he said. ‘At least it gives me a year when I don’t have to worry about money.’

They discussed the award for a few minutes longer before Kear was carried off by Sally to meet some newcomer.

Frowning after the tall figure, Marcus said, ‘God, if I could get him to buy something of mine I’d be made.’

‘I thought he was a farmer.’

‘Darling,’ Marcus said with affectionate malice, ‘of course he is. He’s also something of a Renaissance man, is Kear Lannion. Actually, the farm is a thumping great station, but I doubt very much whether it’s his sole source of income. I’ve heard that he owns quite large chunks of various business and enterprises. I know for certain he’s a director of several companies. Rumour has it he’s got a lot of disposable cash. And he likes to spend some of it on art.’

Jan thought she hid her surprise rather well, but Marcus crowed, ‘Ah, you thought he was a philistine, didn’t you? Shame on you, darling, all your little prejudices are found out. When he buys, the cognoscenti start sniffing around.’

Jan said brightly, ‘Well, in that case let’s hope he likes your stuff’

She had allowed herself to fall into a fairly obvious trap. Kear Lannion was not a man you could slot into a comfortable niche and expect to stay there. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

With a swift, sideways look, Marcus purred, ‘He has a reputation in other things too.’

Jan stared at him. It was unlike him to be coy; shocking people for the sheer wicked fun of it was more his style.

‘Don’t we all?’ she said neutrally.

‘Ladies love him,’ Marcus said. ‘He likes them too, if they’re tall and willowy and beautiful.’

Only four inches shorter than Kear Lannion, not unhandsome, very smartly dressed and with his full mouth set in a modish sneer, he was no match for Kear’s effortless male magnetism. And he knew it.

Jan said cheerfully, ‘Perhaps you should produce some tall, willowy, beautiful pieces of sculpture for him.’

Laughing, he surprised her by kissing her on the mouth. ‘Jan, you’re incurably nice. Ah, he’s coming back. If I leave you alone, will you sing my praises to him?’

She began to tell him he’d got things wrong, but he grinned and headed off, leaving her caught, as defenceless as a possum on the road at night, in Kear’s dispassionate gaze.

‘Is he your lover?’ Kear asked coolly.

Startled by his unexpected crudeness, she snapped, ‘No, he is not.’

Although discretion warned her to be careful, her pulses raced with a keener, more eager beat. Her reaction, half excitement, half antipathy, bewildered her, because she’d never responded to a man like this before. It wasn’t as though she had anything to base her dislike on either. Kear was interesting to talk to, with a presence that made him an asset at any social occasion; apparently he was also a worthy member of society and an honest businessman.

She was being absurdly sensitive. Clutching precariously at her temper, she said, ‘Now, is there anyone I can introduce you to?’

He didn’t even glance around the room. ‘I think I know most people,’ he said. ‘Sally tells me you’re an image consultant. What exactly does that mean?’

There was no sign of emotion in his voice, none revealed in the arrogant contours of his face, but she sensed a note of irony that further irritated already raw nerves. ‘Basically, I give people confidence,’ she said sweetly.

He raised his brows. ‘And how do you train for that?’

‘I worked in fashion for a while, and then I became intrigued because some people seemed to know instinctively what suited them, whereas others didn’t have a clue. I started to read up about it, but there wasn’t much to be learnt here, so I had to go to America to find someone who knew what he was doing in the field. When I came back to New Zealand three years ago I decided to set up for myself.’