dancer, missed a step, nearly causing him to tread on her toe. ‘Must I remind you that I’m taken?’ she said as though he had broken a strict rule.
‘So you are!’ His voice was deeply regretful.
What should she do? Walk away? Abandon him on the dance floor? She didn’t want to. At the same time she knew she had to.
Run, run away! Far from temptation!
‘Give yourself plenty of time to make sure it’s going to work.’ He steered her away from a whirling couple.
‘Is that a warning?’ This man was deliberately casting a spell on her. To what end?
‘I don’t see the two of you together,’ he said.
‘How can you possibly judge?’ Despite herself she began to compare him with Scott. It was something she couldn’t control. ‘You don’t know me and you don’t know Scott. We have a fine future ahead of us.’
‘Why, then, the fright in your eyes? If he’s the love of your life?’
There was such a whirring inside her. It was as though some part of her hitherto not properly in working order, suddenly sprang into life. ‘Why are we talking like this, Clay? It’s getting very personal and private.’ Not to say out of order.
‘I told you. I don’t have much time. Besides, I feel I could talk to you far into the night.’
‘You’ve just told me why.’ She pointed out, not without sarcasm. ‘You’re lonely.’
‘It’s possible that’s part of it,’ he agreed smoothly.
Carrie sucked in her breath; waited a moment. ‘I must tell you I wouldn’t have agreed to marry Scott if I didn’t love him.’ Now her voice sounded stilted.
‘As I said, Harper is a very lucky man.’
This was too much. Just too much. She couldn’t play this game if that’s what it was. Dancing with him wasn’t the same as dancing with Scott. Or any other man for that matter. She could feel the blood beating in her throat, in her breasts, in the pit of her stomach. She had never been so breathtakingly conscious of her own flesh.
The same tipsy couple almost careened into them. Clay’s arm tightened around her as he swiftly drew her out of harm’s way.
She knew it was well past the time to break away, but she made the excuse to herself that would only draw attention to them. So change the subject quickly! ‘You’re not planning to leave, then?’
‘Caroline, I’ve just arrived,’ he replied, mock-plaintively.
‘Everyone calls me Carrie.’ She spoke as if to correct him when in reality the sound of her name on his lips was like a bell tolling inside her.
‘I’m not everyone,’ he said quietly. ‘Carrie is pretty. Caroline suits you better.’
‘What if I say I want you to call me Carrie?’
‘All right, Carrie.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll call you Caroline whenever I get the chance.’
It was totally unnerving how dramatically he was getting to her. ‘I used to think when I was little that Jimboorie House was a palace.’
‘So did I.’ Again his glance like blue flame rested on her.
‘You have more than a trace of an English accent. Where did that come from?’
He looked over her blond head. ‘From my mother I guess. She was Anglo-Irish and well spoken—and lovely. My father’s appallingly cruel family had no right to treat her the way they did. They turned all their fury on her because my father abandoned them for her. The accent would have been reinforced by long contact with my late mentor who was English. I became very close to him.’
‘Was he the one who presented you with Lightning Boy?’ She wanted to know all about him.
He nodded. ‘Yes, he was. He handed Lightning Boy over a couple of months before he died.’
She read the grief in his glance. ‘What did you do? Did you work for him?’
‘I was proud to,’ he said briefly, his tone a little curt. ‘My boss and mentor.’
‘Are you going to tell me his name?’
‘No, Caroline.’ He refused her. At the same time his gaze gathered her up.
‘I’m sorry.’ She glanced across the dance floor at all the glowing, happy faces. This would go on into the wee hours. ‘I won’t intrude. I’m just glad you met someone who treated you well.’
‘I can’t recall many others.’ His expression was openly bitter.
‘Are you going to make us all pay for wounding you?’ she asked, thinking he had been hurt a great deal.
He ignored her question. ‘I’d like to take you out to Jimboorie. Would you come?’
Her heart jumped. Agree and there’d be trouble. Big trouble.
‘Look at me,’ he invited quietly. ‘Not away. Would you come, Caroline?’
A back-up singer in the band launched into a romantic number. ‘How do you see me?’ she countered. ‘As someone whose freedom is being curtailed?’
‘Is it?’ He studied her so intently he might have been trying to unmask her.
That put her on her mettle. ‘I’d be delighted to come,’ she said shortly, consoling herself she had been driven to it.
‘Good. I confess I find a woman’s views necessary.’
‘Is it your intention to put in your ad that Jimboorie House is falling down?’ She met his eyes.
‘Certainly. It’s the right thing to do,’ he replied smoothly. ‘But it’s not in the utter state of decay it appears to be from the outside. The best materials were used in its construction. The finest, stoutest timbers. The cedar came from the vast forests of the Bunya Bunya Mountains. The house itself is built of sandstone. There is a tremendous amount of restoration to be done—I can’t deny that—but somehow I’ll get around it.’
‘Perhaps you should say in your ad that you’re looking for an heiress?’ she suggested, bitter-sweet.
‘Now that’s a great idea.’ His face broke into a mocking smile.
Unnoticed by either of them Scott Harper, who had been further detained by two of his father’s friends wanting to know if he thought his team could continue their unbeaten polo season, was quickly canvassing the crowd.
The blood flooded into his face the moment he saw them together. He drew in his breath sharply, catching his bottom lip between strong teeth and drawing blood. How could Carrie possibly do this thing? She knew how he felt about Clay Cunningham. All his childhood antipathy had returned but one hundred times worse. He made his way towards them, threading a path through the dancers, some of them, marking his expression, getting out of his way.
Just look at her, Scott inwardly raged, his jealousy violent and painful. Her beautiful blond head was tipped right back as she stared up into Cunningham’s eyes.
This is wrong, all wrong. Let her go!
His progress was stopped when a woman got him in a surprisingly strong arm-lock. ‘Scotty, you’re not ignoring me are you, darling?’
He swung, catching the hateful expression of malice on Natasha’s face. ‘You can’t let your dewy little fiancée have a bit of fun, can you?’ Her voice dropped so low he could barely hear her. ‘And she is having fun, isn’t she?’
‘Let go, Natasha,’ he rasped. If she’d been a man he would have hit her, so tense was his mood.
‘Sure. One dance and we’ll call it a night.’ She stepped right up to him, a stunning figure in violet banded