Shanahan's Revenge Page 3

  Absently, she watched as the Devonport ferry left the wharf, heading across the harbour, breaking the smooth surface of the sea with its solid bow and leaving behind a mass of chopped up waves.

  That’s what I’m like, she thought. All chopped up and chaotic. The job. The other applicant. The workers’ worries. The dead horse.

  And the man. She felt again his lips and the sure, possessive hands. Her face burned at the memory. Causing the horse’s agony yesterday was terrible, but to top it off by kissing a total stranger in that most intimate way was something else again.

  Worse still, she’d enjoyed his kiss. It had ignited something in her. Something more than mere lust, she decided. And if she was honest with herself, if she could by chance replay the whole scene, she’d probably do exactly the same thing.

  She jumped when Christina, her personal assistant, popped her head into her office. ‘Did you forget you’re meeting the financial director downstairs in five minutes?’

  ‘Oh, bollocks! Thanks for the reminder, Chrissie.’ Quickly, Kate grabbed a folder from her desk and was heading through the door when her phone rang. She hesitated for a moment—if she left it, it would be rerouted to Christina’s phone, but when it rang three times, unanswered, she ran back to her desk and picked up the handset.

  ‘Kate?’

  She stopped breathing.

  ‘Kate? Are you there? We need to talk.’

  The voice was deep and slightly abrasive. She recognised it immediately.

  ‘No,’ she whispered. Her lungs started working again, but her breaths were short and shallow.

  ‘Yes, Kate. We need to talk before—’

  ‘No! I don’t know who you are, or what you want, but I do know I don’t want to talk to you.’

  On the other end of the phone, he was silent.

  Her only small comfort in yesterday’s fiasco was that she’d never have to face the man again: when Ralph had delivered her back to the farm airstrip, the dead horse was covered with a tarpaulin and the man was nowhere to be seen. But now …

  Kate thought about slamming down the phone, but he spoke again.

  ‘Okay, you don’t want to talk to me.’ She heard the beginnings of yesterday’s anger in his voice now. ‘But maybe you’d like to listen, because if you don’t, it might cost you.’

  Oh, money! Kate drew a deep breath. Of course, he wanted money, and fair enough. She owed him. ‘I’m sorry for what happened to Trojan, and I’m willing to pay you compensation.’

  She heard a quiver in her voice, and made a supreme effort to speak slowly and calmly. ‘Ralph—the man you met at the airstrip—I asked him to talk to you, get your bank account details. We’ll do an online payment. I’ll call him up and get him to go over to see you straight away.’

  ‘Ralph’s talked to me and I don’t want your damn blood money.’ He sounded offended as well as angry now. ‘That horse was worth more to me than any of your money could buy. But that’s over and done with now.’

  He paused.

  ‘There’s something else I need to talk to you about and I think it would be best face-to-face. I’m down in Auckland today. I want to come and see you.’

  ‘No!’ Panic gripped her.

  ‘Seeing me is to your advantage.’

  So that was his game: blackmail. In a flash, she saw it all. What a headline it would make in the Woman’s Weekly or the Sunday tabloids—Industry darling is anybody’s darling. In return for a big fat pay-off, he’d tell them all the juicy details, with embellishments, of how Ms Squeaky-Clean McPherson killed his horse with her foolishness and then threw herself at him, practically begging for sex.

  ‘Get lost, buddy.’ She slammed the phone down and sank into the big chair behind her desk, breathing hard through her nose. Anger rose up, bitter as bile, but it was quickly followed by regret.

  ‘How could I have been so dumb,’ she groaned. She had kissed a perfect stranger with passion and total abandon. How could she let a man she didn’t know from Adam take such liberties? How could she have taken such liberties?

  She was still sitting in her chair when Christina came into the office looking puzzled.

  ‘Hey, Kate? Are you all right? Your meeting downstairs should have started ten minutes ago. They rang me to ask where you were.’

  ***

  Near the end of the day, the ache in her head was a sledgehammer thump and annoying flickers had appeared at the edge of her vision. Kate gave Christina the keys to the silver Mercedes soft-top her father had given her on her last birthday, and her PA drove her to the apartment on the St Heliers Bay waterfront.

  At home, she found her migraine pills and climbed between cool, crisp sheets. At seven the next morning, she dragged herself out of bed, drenched with sweat and feeling wretched after an awful night of tossing and turning, but determined to have breakfast and get herself to the office. It was Friday; one more day of work, then she could spend the whole weekend in bed if she wanted to.

  She made it to the bathroom before throwing up. In between bouts of retching, she leaned against the wall and swore. It had been two years since she’d had a migraine; she thought she’d grown out of them.

  At last, the vomiting stopped. She climbed back into bed, phoned Christina and took more pills.

  She was much improved but still flat on her back in bed when her PA phoned from the office at four that afternoon. Kate eased herself upright. Any sudden movement would send her head exploding into a thousand pieces.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you.’ Christina apologised. ‘But I thought you should know asap, Sam Shanahan’s coming in to address the board on Monday.’

  ‘Sam Shanahan?’ For a moment, Kate’s mind was blank, then she groaned and slid back down in the bed.

  How could she forget? Sam Shanahan was the other applicant.

  She felt silly as well as sick.

  ‘Of course. Sam Shanahan. That’s excellent.’ She tried to inject some businesslike normality into her voice.

  Christina had been her PA for five years and Kate loved her in much the same way she imagined she would love a sister if she had one. But even so, she couldn’t tell her just how rough the last twenty-four hours had been, of the tormenting, tortuous images which had charged through her pain-filled head, images of a beautiful horse, at times sleek and golden, galloping free, at times bloodied and deathly still on the ground, of a man with a gun and eyes black with anger, of a kiss sweeter than any she’d known, and of a woman with shiny dark hair and loving arms and hands so cold Kate cried in her sleep.

  ‘The HR department just phoned with apologies for the short notice, but some of the directors will be away in the next couple of weeks and it was the best they could arrange,’ said Christina.

  So soon, thought Kate, but still … it was her pushing that persuaded the board to advertise the job, her suggestion they meet the other applicant before the formal interviews began. It was she who’d demanded fairness and clarity in the whole damn process of appointing a new CEO—the darling of the share market now, McPherson’s could easily become the dog if shareholders got a whiff of any process they saw as unsavoury.

  ‘He rang.’

  ‘He did?’ Kate sat up again too quickly and had to cradle her forehead in her hand.

  ‘Just a while ago. He said he’d like to see you before the Monday meeting. I said it wasn’t possible because you were off sick. I’ve got his mobile number if that’s any help.’

  Kate closed her eyes against the bright sunlight slanting through her bedroom window. ‘Don’t give it to me, Chrissie. I don’t want to talk to this man till I’m fighting fit. Monday’ll do.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. Actually, he sounds kind of sexy over the phone.’ Christina paused. ‘Said he was looking forward to meeting you. Very much looking forward.’

  Kate could hear the impish smile in her PA’s words. They hung unanswered in the afternoon stillness of her bedroom, and Kate knew Christina was waiting for her to laugh, but the laughter was stuck s
omewhere below her rib bones.

  Sexy! Why did the word make her think of the dark-haired stranger at the airstrip? She swallowed hard. Sexy was a no-go area. Sexy was dangerous. Sexy was not something she wanted just now. Not from Mr Sam Shanahan. Not from anyone.

  She opened her eyes and took a deep breath.

  ‘You haven’t had any other, uh … odd … phone calls for me, have you?’

  ‘No. Should I have?’ Christina sounded puzzled.

  ‘Not at all. Just wondered.’ And that’s an understatement of mammoth proportions, thought Kate, who’d switched off her mobile and triple-checked the deadlocks on her apartment door in the high-rise block where she lived. Change the subject.

  ‘Bet you anything your Mr Shanahan is very unsexy. You know, fifty, gone to fat and mired in midlife crisis?’

  ‘Possible,’ conceded Christina, ‘but I’d say unlikely. I know he’s your rival and we don’t want him but he does sound yummy.’ She sighed theatrically.

  ***

  Later that night, when Kate got up to feed Paddy, her cat, the pain in her head was almost gone and she felt much better. She remembered something she’d meant to do earlier, and she flicked through the contacts on her phone, looking for the number for Bob Symes, who grazed animals on the farm up north, and whose wife May looked after the homestead and gardens now. Bob would know what the hell that man was doing swanning around on Grandad and Grandma’s farm as if he owned the place. And if he didn’t know, he’d certainly make it his business to find out. She glanced up at the clock on the kitchen wall.

  ‘Oh darn.’ Ten-thirty was far too late to ring Bob. She picked up Paddy and stroked the soft fur, thinking. Bob liked to go fishing and spend time with his family at weekends. She wouldn’t bother him until Monday. And when she rang him, she would ring the police up at Waikauri, the small township nearest the farm, as well. If this man was a squatter, a member of a drug gang or a blackmailer—or all three, they needed to know.

  As she cuddled the cat, she let her mind drift.

  ‘Sam Shanahan. What will he be like, Paddy? Hmm? Fifty and fat? Or …?’ She shivered slightly, although the night was warm.

  ***

  The next night was even warmer, the air hot and sticky as she prepared for bed. She opened the doors to her third-floor balcony and stepped outside. St Heliers Bay, just across the road from her apartment, was normally a tame, sedate beach, but tonight an easterly was whipping the waves into frothy peaks. The breeze that should have cooled and refreshed was warm and cloying.

  She climbed into bed, but even with the balcony doors open the oppressive February humidity was uncomfortable and she quickly discarded her sheet. On the big bed, she spread her arms wide to catch the little whispers of air from the overhead fan. She drifted into sleep easily, lulled by the gentle rumble of surf, but her night was disturbed by the vivid dreams which almost always followed her migraines.

  Just before dawn she dreamed of a shadowy man, running with her through a sweet-smelling pasture. She couldn’t see his face, but she knew she wasn’t afraid. She was laughing, then in the way of dreams, the scene suddenly changed and they were lying together in gently surging surf, sand under her back, the slide of his skin as sensuous on hers as the sea, which lapped against her. His mouth feathered across her bare skin, her closed eyes, her lips, and her body sang with joy as she soared on the wings of a sensation so exquisite she cried out. Then, in her dream, Kate opened her eyes.

  Shock woke her.

  For several minutes she lay trembling in her bed, caught in the half-world between sleep and wakefulness, wanting desperately to return to her dream and hating herself for doing so. The waves continued to lap and her body ached with joyous sensation. Then a car slammed on its brakes in the street outside and Kate was fully awake.

  Still she trembled, remembering. In her dream, the man gazing triumphantly down at her had blue eyes, blue and hard as the skies on a summer day, and hair that was wild and dark.

  Chapter 3

  On another beach, three hundred kilometres to the north, the hooves of a lone horse tore up the sand in a hypnotic beat, slowing fractionally as the animal approached the rocky headland that reared from the churning water.

  The rider swore under his breath and eased back into the saddle, squeezing the reins to check the young grey’s momentum. Little lumps of foamy lather flew off the horse’s chest and past the man. He turned in the saddle and saw the long, perfect line of hoof prints etched deep in the sand, stretching far back along the empty Northland beach.

  He swore again with colourful imagination and leaned forward to stroke the hot, sweat-slicked shoulder.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ he muttered, then allowed himself a reluctant smile.

  Blue’s ears pricked forward—as far forward as they would go—and even as he slowed, his canter betrayed a youthful exuberance. Blue had loved the wild gallop along the firm sand, close to the roaring surf. He clearly wanted more. But he was young and newly in training. There was no way the man wanted to risk damaged tendons by pushing him too hard, for too long, on a difficult surface like sand. But he had. And all because of a dream.

  Sweet Jesus. He tensed immediately and had to make a conscious effort to relax as he felt Blue begin to accelerate again. It wasn’t even really a dream—it was more a brief, intensely real, flash across his subconscious just before he awoke. Her body, as soft and yielding as his was strong and demanding, had shuddered and writhed beneath his, her heat devouring him, pulling him further and further into fiery depths. He had looked down into her face and seen that the mask of cool control was shattered; in its place were eyes wild with passion and lips pulled back in ecstasy over gleaming white teeth. He’d woken abruptly, heart thudding and blood pounding in his ears.

  Now he turned the young horse’s head slightly so his hooves described a wide arc in the wet sand, then he worked on settling him into a steady trot for the journey home.

  ‘Home.’ He said the word out loud, and laughed.

  ‘Home.’ He tried it again, rolled it on his tongue. It wasn’t a word he’d ever imagined he would use to describe the big house up on the hill. The big house filled with memories that didn’t belong to him. And some that did. He felt again the dream, and groaned. An arctic shower had helped, but a million icy jets could never obliterate the memory of her, the feel of her, the taste of her, under his skin—on his skin. Kissing her had been a big mistake, a gargantuan mistake. But … at the time … at the time, he couldn’t help himself. He’d been drawn into her sweet womanliness, into that double-edged sword of strength and weakness, without rational thought or decision, driven by a wild compulsion to protect and possess and punish. In the moment his mouth met the wet silkiness of hers, he’d braced, waiting for the rebuff. But she’d pulled him in with an eager hunger that was totally unexpected and devastatingly impossible to resist.

  He grimaced and shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. He clamped his teeth together and fought the urge to give in to the young gelding’s plain desire to fly across the sand in a mad race with the swirling tide. Control. That was what was needed. Control. Kate McPherson was off limits—strictly off limits.

  ***

  He felt her presence the instant she entered the boardroom. He was standing with his back to the door, talking to two of the directors, but he felt it, an indefinable change in the atmosphere, an awareness that prickled at the back of his neck.

  Or perhaps it was the loaded hush that fell over the room. As he turned to face her, he wondered what they all expected—pistols at dawn perhaps?

  He saw her body stiffen with shock, her eyes widen and the blood drain from her face. He was walking towards her, hand outstretched while she stood there, just inside the doorway, seemingly rooted to the spot. He saw the emotions flicker across her face at lightning speed—dismay, anger, fear—and for a split second he felt sorry for her. Another split second later, he reminded himself that Kate McPherson was his rival in a high-stakes game.

 
‘Kate.’ He stopped in front of her, held out his hand, made himself smile. ‘Good to see you again.’

  Her hand was cold in his, and he noticed she pulled it back from his as quickly as possible. She’d regained control of her face, though, and mentally he gave her ten out of ten for professionalism.

  ‘Mr Shanahan, I presume.’

  Her voice had an icy edge—which he understood completely. ‘Please, it’s Sam.’

  She nodded curtly, and he saw her lips compress in a tight little line. Quickly, he looked away from her lips. Too many memories there.

  ‘So you two have met before?’ Henry Cadogan, one of the two directors Sam had been speaking to when Kate arrived, had followed him across to the doorway. Now he glanced curiously from Kate to Sam and back again.

  ‘I—that is, we, ah—’

  Henry’s bushy eyebrows shot up. Sam guessed the older man had never before seen Kate McPherson lost for words.

  ‘We met briefly the other day,’ cut in Sam smoothly. ‘More of a social meeting really.’

  She was dressed in some sort of slim-skirted white dress, teamed with a plain black jacket. An androgynous jacket, noted Sam, designed to put her on an even footing in the predominantly male boardroom. She’d pulled her hair back severely and used something to flatten the wayward bits around her face. Her only jewellery was a pair of tiny rose-shaped gold earrings and a fine gold chain around her neck. She seemed taller than she had the other day; without looking down, he guessed she was wearing heels—but even so, her eyes reached only to the level of his chin.

  Dammit; he preferred his enemies, his business rivals, to be at least six foot tall and in trousers. And he liked to be able to look them in the eyes without being reminded of those eyes filled with tears.

  ***

  Kate’s breath was stuck somewhere in her chest, but she had her face under control. She knew, because she’d often practised in front of a mirror when she was younger. ‘Business is like poker,’ her grandfather used to tell her. ‘To be successful in business you need to have a face that would win games of poker. And you need to be able to read the other guy’s face.’