Shanahan's Revenge Read online

  Then she felt as though someone had punched her in the stomach, driving the breath from her body.

  The tall, willowy blonde’s name was Justine Capizzi—Kate’s numbed brain registered that much. Her silvery, elegantly understated dress clung like a second skin. In much the way its wearer clung to Sam, thought Kate, sickened, her hip pressing his, her slim, graceful hand draped around his waist. She was turned towards him, her eyes adoring. His own eyes were directed at the camera. They were unguarded, as if the photographer had captured him totally unawares, and Kate saw love and pride emanating from them, clear as a beacon on a dark night.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, then forced them open and made herself read the caption.

  Justine, she gathered, was the only daughter of one of Sydney’s leading families. That she was a beauty was obvious; that she was intelligent and successful was equally obvious. Justine, apparently, was a young barrister who had recently made a name for herself in a couple of high-profile cases.

  She studied the photograph again. It was a high-quality shot on the society page of a glossy Sydney magazine; its colours and textures were frighteningly lifelike. She studied Justine’s undeniable beauty, and the contented upward curl of Sam’s lips.

  Something inside her withered and died.

  She read the date at the top of the clipping. The photo had been taken three weeks ago at a society function in Sydney.

  ‘You fool, Kate McPherson,’ she muttered. ‘You bloody fool.’

  ***

  The knowledge that he had a girlfriend—no, a lover—in Sydney would make it easier for her to work with him, Kate had told herself.

  Now, she wasn’t so sure. She’d arrived ten minutes late—the traffic had been diabolical on the motorway—for the meeting she’d organised to brief him on the alternate species project. Outside the meeting room, she paused to catch her breath. And to tell herself for the hundredth time that the only way to handle this meeting was to keep it businesslike.

  Another deep breath, and then she waltzed in, her gaze fixed somewhere over his left shoulder, her smile bright and breezy and totally impersonal; well, that was the goal.

  ‘How nice to see you again, Sam.’ Even to herself, the greeting sounded forced.

  He turned from the window where he’d apparently been admiring the view, and moved towards her, his eyes wide and soft and alight with a look of unadulterated pleasure—a look very like the one she’d seen in his eyes in the photo with Justine.

  Justine. Her heart somersaulted half a dozen times. He took her hand and brushed his lips briefly against her cheek before releasing her.

  Kate thought that warm, friendly, totally accepting peck on the cheek might be her undoing. Then she saw his eyes flick over her, scanning the severe cut of her black pinstriped suit, and mercifully, she felt anger kick in. How dare he even look at her in that … that checking out way when he was involved with another woman?

  She wasn’t supposed to feel any unbusinesslike emotion when she saw him this morning, and neither was he.

  ‘Shall we start?’ It was all she could think of to say.

  ‘Let’s go.’ With easy grace, he folded his large frame into one of the chairs around the meeting table, and she chose one opposite him. She swallowed hard, poured some water from the jug on the table and took a sip.

  Having Sam work with her on this project was going to be one of the hardest assignments of her life.

  ***

  As it transpired, it was less difficult than she’d imagined. She put an office at his disposal, on the same floor as hers in McPherson House, and ensured he was equipped with both an office computer and a laptop for fieldwork. But for days on end, she saw nothing of him; she’d arranged for him to meet her forestry staff on site, and visit several existing experimental woodlots.

  On the occasions he did spend time in his office, compiling his recommendations, he would often stop by her office to update her on progress and discuss his findings.

  She found herself looking forward to their meetings; she enjoyed watching his lithe, athlete’s body in motion as he strode up and down the length of her office, hands shoved in pockets, expounding this theory or that. And she enjoyed their verbal jousting as they debated the merits of his recommendations. She quickly recognised him as a kindred spirit when it came to trees, and relished the way she could anticipate his objections to her suggestions before he’d even made them, and vice versa. Their lively discussions stimulated her, and for long minutes at a time she was almost able to forget the high voltage sexual chemistry that seemed to spring in a sparking arc, from her to him and back again.

  By late on Friday afternoon of the second week, the report was complete. Kate was excited. Sam’s recommendations were eminently workable, if sometimes surprising, and even banking on conservative figures, the bottom line results were looking outstanding for McPherson’s. His contribution had been superb.

  She told him so.

  ‘Pleasure’s all mine,’ he said, rising from the armchair in her office, where he’d sat, one knee cocked over the other, watching as she stood in the soft filtered light by the window and read through the final draft of the report.

  She felt the squeeze of her heart as he closed the gap between them. Clean-shaven today, he wore black trousers and a snowy-white, crisp cotton business shirt, but his jacket and tie—concessions to a meeting earlier in the day with representatives of the Forestry Minister—had long been discarded. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, and the top two shirt buttons undone at the neck. Kate could see tight little curls, dark and entirely masculine against the pristine whiteness of his shirt, peeking at the vee of his shirt, and felt a primitive pulse begin to beat deep within her. She forced her eyes upward; his mouth was curved in a slight smile, his eyes a smoky blue as they contemplated hers. And I once thought your eyes were harsh and savage, she thought in wonder.

  He stopped close to her.

  ‘Call me if you need any more help with the report.’ His voice was soft and low. ‘I’m flying back to Sydney tonight.’

  ‘Oh.’ She felt ridiculously bereft. The job was over. He was leaving, flying back to Sydney—and Justine. She had a sudden mental image of willowy Justine lying with Sam, her soft blonde hair spilling over his body, mingling with the crispy dark curls on his chest.

  An unfamiliar mantle of loneliness settled on her shoulders. She hugged her arms about her and half-turned away from him, hoping he would leave now. But he didn’t, and silence stretched between them.

  He broke it. ‘And you, Kate, what are your plans for the weekend?’

  She turned her eyes towards him and saw at once his interest was genuine. He frowned slightly, as if puzzled.

  ‘My plans? Tomorrow morning I’m flying the Cessna up to our northern forest. Ralph needs to talk about which area to clear fell next, and I simply haven’t had time to get up there this week. I’m flying straight back to Auckland in the afternoon, and then … well, then I haven’t got anything specifically planned.’ Kate’s mind was jabbed with another image of Sam and Justine: she, laughing on his arm as they night-clubbed in Sydney, he, attentive and loving. Her own life suddenly seemed yawningly empty.

  She pushed some hair back behind her ear and drew her shoulders upward. ‘I’ll probably have dinner with friends on Saturday night and another couple have asked me to go out on their yacht with them sometime, so I think I’ll do that on Sunday.’

  ‘But you haven’t said yes?’

  Her eyes widened. ‘I … well …’

  ‘Have you said yes? Are the arrangements firm?’

  Kate shook her head and looked away from his steady gaze.

  ‘Then why don’t you stay overnight tomorrow? Up north at your grandparents’ farm? It’s relaxing, it’s peaceful. It’s stressful rushing up there, working, rushing back.’

  She pulled her gaze back to his. Who did he think he was, her father? ‘I’ll be fine. I’ve done it lots of times, up and back in one day.’

&
nbsp; ‘So?’ he persisted. ‘A quiet break with fresh air and sunshine will do you the world of good. You need a break.’

  ‘I don’t need—’

  ‘You’re tired. I can see dark shadows under your eyes.’

  He reached out his hand, and with infinite care allowed his thumb to trace the delicate skin beneath her eyes.

  Kate closed her eyes and let her lips part in the softest of sighs. It was a sigh of despair, of defeat, an admission to herself that the inner battle she had fought since the moment she’d set eyes on him was coming to an end.

  The descent of his mouth to hers was swift but sure. She allowed the pressure of his mouth to bend back her head, and she heard herself gasp at the slide of his tongue between her parted lips. Her response was instinctive, her lips moving against the sweetness of his, her tongue meeting his in a slow waltz of promise.

  Abruptly, he withdrew his mouth from hers. Her eyes opened wide in surprise and for the space of two heartbeats, they stared at each other.

  She saw in his eyes regret. And then, without another word, he turned, picked up his jacket from the back of the armchair where it was slung, and walked out of her life.

  ***

  Kate stood under the shower for far too long that night. At last she emerged and wrapped a large fluffy towel around her body. Water dripped from the tangled mass of dark curls which fell to her shoulders, and she reached into a cupboard under the vanity for another towel to wind in a turban around her head.

  She used one end of the towel to rub at her steamed-up mirror, then she studied her reflection. With slender fingers, she traced the dark circles under her eyes.

  ‘Oh, yes, Sam. I’m tired,’ she whispered. Would it surprise him to learn that he was the source of her exhaustion? That she lay awake at night, her body desperately craving sleep but her mind working overtime as she sought to make some sense of Sam Shanahan, and her feelings for him.

  Her work had taught her to ‘read’ people, to quickly gauge their character, their motives and their driving forces. But Sam? Sam was different. He was a man of intelligence and strength, a man of steel who’d prospered in the tough, competitive business world through his astuteness and, to a large extent, his canniness in dealing with people.

  And yet, that night by the lake, he had shared with her the most personal and intimate scraps of his family history. Why? She’d asked herself the question a hundred times. She was a business colleague, a newly acquainted business colleague, and a rival for a job. So why had he told her about his family? Why had he asked about her mother? It simply wasn’t the sort of conversation you had with someone you’d just met in a business relationship.

  Unless … but no, he couldn’t be interested in her on a personal level. Wasn’t interested in her. He’d made that abundantly clear. He’d told her the kiss at the airstrip meant nothing to him—had merely been an ill-considered response to a traumatic event. But the kiss today? Why had he touched her mouth with such passion and tenderness? Kate closed her eyes, remembering. She’d responded. Oh hell, neither of them was in any doubt she had responded! I couldn’t help myself. She opened her eyes and studied her face. I’m made of flesh and blood, she told herself. Not wood, or concrete or steel.

  Her cheeks were pink from the warmth of the shower, her lips full and soft and slightly reddened. She pressed her fingertips to the reflection of her lips in the mirror. Those short few seconds when his mouth had fused with hers had invoked sensations she’d never before experienced, or imagined—not with any of the men she’d ever gone out with. And today, the only part of her body he’d touched was her mouth.

  But he has Justine, she reminded herself. Beautiful, smart Justine. Justine, who even now was probably driving him home from Sydney airport—or worse, giving him a welcome home party in her bed.

  Kate groaned and reached for the silk robe hanging behind her bathroom door. Sam had Justine. Sam was not interested in Kate. He’d said so.

  Then why had he kissed her today?

  He was a contender for the role of McPherson CEO. So was she. One of them would win. If it was Sam, he’d know that he’d have to work with Kate, often closely. So why complicate the working relationship with sexy kisses?

  Why indeed? She shook her head. She wasn’t an innocent teenager, and she didn’t need to be a brain surgeon to work out the answer to that particular question. Sam’s body could react to hers like flames to oil—and vice versa—but it meant nothing.

  She thought of Sandy’s words the other day at the lakeside house: ‘Physical attraction and sex are a natural part of life … it’s entirely normal to have … urges. Have an affair with him by all means.’

  ‘No, Sandy dear, I don’t think so,’ she muttered now. ‘I might get burnt beyond recognition.’

  She’d already made her decision: if Sam won the role of CEO, she, Kate McPherson, would gracefully exit the company. It would break her heart to do so, but it was the only way to save her sanity. She’d travel for a while, do some work for her favourite charity, Women’s Refuge, spend time with friends. Sam Shanahan never seemed to stay long in one role. Sooner or later, he’d leave McPherson Enterprises. Then, she’d be back.

  Chapter 8

  ‘I’m staying up here overnight, Ralph. I’ll fly back to Auckland tomorrow afternoon.’

  The burly Ralph shot her a concerned glance as his ute bounced across the grassy strip towards the Cessna. ‘Good idea, Kate. I noticed you were looking a little bit tired, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  She did, because it reminded her of Sam, but she couldn’t help smiling at Ralph. He was a sweet, kind man. She’d finished her business with him by midday, and he had driven her back to the airstrip—the company’s strip, not her grandfather’s old airstrip. Kate couldn’t bear the thought of landing there again, ever. He carried her overnight bag to the ute garaged at the strip for the use of visiting McPherson executives, and waved goodbye to her.

  As she drove along the forest road, she tried to remember precisely how she’d made the decision to stay up here tonight. Certainly, on the flight north, she’d been quite sure she would be flying back to Auckland this afternoon. But in the forest, with the scent of pine in her nostrils and a cooling sea breeze lifting her hair, she knew she would stay.

  When she stopped the ute to open the gate between the company’s forest and Grandad’s airstrip, she averted her eyes from the scene of Trojan’s death, further down the hill. She drove across the top of the strip and through the next gate to the track leading to the homestead. She pulled up onto the deserted gravel turnaround area, and switched off the engine in front of the imposing old house.

  Grandma and Grandad’s house. Thanks to May Symes, Grandma’s colourful beds of impatiens still flourished at the foot of the veranda, and two large terracotta pots spilled marigolds and alyssum on either side of the front door. A family of swallows had built its mud nest up under the eaves. But the house itself was still as death. Kate shivered.

  She could stay in the house. All it would take was a phone call to Bob and May and they’d pop up with the key. She and her dad and his new wife had done that a couple of times since the house was empty. But she had no intention of doing so today, all on her own. The old homestead held too many happy memories.

  Instead she started the engine and drove down the long driveway towards the ocean. By the letterbox at the bottom of the drive, she turned left and followed a sandy track running through the grass, parallel to the beach. Presently she came to a small house built of logs, nestled on the grassy dune not far from high tide mark. She parked the ute under a huge old karaka tree, its large, shiny green leaves harbouring fat bunches of orange drupes; it was one of a number of the ancient trees that fringed the shore in shadowy groves.

  Grandad had built the log cabin as a guesthouse for visitors, and over the years Kate had often brought friends here to stay, or stayed on her own. She had a key to the door in her handbag and she had the overnight bag she always popped into the pl
ane on her excursions, just in case she got delayed. Inside, she used the phone to call Bob and May and let them know she was there so they wouldn’t get alarmed if they saw someone was in the cabin.

  It was small but beautifully appointed, and she loved the warmth and ambience of the natural timbered walls.

  By two o’clock, she’d changed into a little black bikini and was stretched out on the warm sand in the dappled shade of a rambling karaka. This February was one of New Zealand’s hottest on record, and she had no intention of subjecting her golden skin to the searing blast of the sun. The book she’d brought down to the beach lay unopened beside her, and she closed her eyes.

  It was luxurious, decadent even, to lie here with a gentle breeze kissing her skin, and not a telephone in earshot. She’d deliberately left her phone back at the beach house. She wiggled herself into a more comfortable position on the big towel she’d slung on the sand, and let her arms sprawl free above her head. Sam was right. She was tired, and the sunshine and fresh air would do her the world of good.

  Sam. She felt the little twist of her heart as the image of his face, handsome and hard, vulnerable and soft, impregnated her mind. Sam in Sydney. Sam with the beautiful Justine.

  She uttered a little groan and picked up the book at her side.

  ***

  The drone of a vehicle penetrated her dream. But when she stirred and shifted into the realm of wakefulness, the beach was devoid of man-made noises. She closed her eyes again and listened to the hypnotically insistent percussion of waves dumping on the beach. It was a sound she never tired of.

  At first she thought the offbeat whistle was a sea bird, but its persistence persuaded her its origins were entirely human. She lay very still and had an argument with herself about whether or not she would pretend to be asleep. Access through the farm to the beach was private, but there were no signs to say so.

  Her grandparents had always maintained that the coastline belonged to the people of New Zealand, and while its isolation made outside visitors few and far between, many locals used the beach for fishing and gathering shellfish.