LITMIR.BIZ

      Excerpt

       The solid front door was closed. Jase went forward and laid his hand on the brass handle, but didn’t open it immediately, instead surveying her with an assessing gaze.

      Samantha took a determined step towards the door. He’d have to open it or move out of the way.

      Instead he lifted his other hand and closed it about the nape of her neck, pulling her to him. Then as her mouth parted in startled protest he leaned towards her and she felt his warm lips on hers, a slight pressure parting them further.

      Daphne Clair lives in subtropical New Zealand, with her Dutch-born husband. They have five children. At eight years old she embarked on her first novel, about taming a tiger. This epic never reached a publisher, but metamorphosed male tigers still prowl the pages of her romances, of which she has written over forty for Harlequin Mills & Boon®, and over sixty all told. Her other writing includes non-fiction, poetry and short stories, and she has won literary prizes in New Zealand and America.

      Readers are invited to visit Daphne Clair’s website at www.daphneclair.com

      Taken By the Pirate Tycoon

      By

      Daphne Clair

      

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Chapter One

      IT WAS Auckland’s society wedding of the year. Although the bride had come from nowhere, the daughter of a former employee of Sir Malcolm and Lady Donovan, the groom was the Donovans’ only son—and until today one of New Zealand’s most eligible bachelors.

      Following the ceremony in the historic missionary church at Donovan’s Falls, Sir Malcolm’s widow had organised a lavish reception at Rivermeadows, the family’s gracious nine-teenth-century homestead.

      Samantha Magnussen had dressed for the occasion in a superbly designed rich-cream silk summer suit. Her naturally blonde hair was styled to a shining cap that swung forward at her earlobes. A hot-pink wide-brimmed hat trimmed with huge gauze roses shaded her face from the sun and reflected a subtle warmth to her complexion. The slim purse she carried and the elegant Italian-made shoes on her narrow feet perfectly matched the colour of the hat.

      Samantha had never been able to acquire a suntan, but the expertly sprayed salon version gave her bare arms and legs a convincing golden glow.

      She might find the light blue eyes she’d inherited from her Scandinavian forebears colourless and uninteresting, the refusal of her hair to thicken or take any kind of curl frustrating, and certainly her mouth lacked the lush fullness that many women would endure the pain of injections to achieve. But Samantha knew she was fortunate in having regular features and smooth, fine skin. With skilful application of the right makeup her nondescript looks could pass for a kind of beauty.

      And today she wanted to look her best.

      Approaching the bridal couple where they stood at the top of the wide steps leading to the long veranda and the homestead’s massive front door, she stifled a stab of jealousy as Bryn Donovan bent his handsome dark head to his bride and smiled at her with an intimacy that Samantha had never experienced. Not with Bryn, not with any man.

      He was still talking to the last person to shake his hand when his new wife raised her brown eyes to Samantha.

      Noting the difference in height between herself and Bryn’s bride, she asked herself with a touch of cynicism why tall men seldom chose women close to their own stature.

      There was only one way to get through the next several hours—slip into her Society Event persona. Pinning on her well-practised social smile, she introduced herself to Rachel, and as Bryn turned at the sound of her voice, added, “Bryn’s a very good friend.” Reminding herself: And that’s all.

      She put a hand on his shoulder and kissed him, a brief, non-sexual peck on his warm but unresponsive lips, surely allowable on his special day. Some people routinely greeted close friends this way.

      Then she stepped back, her hand involuntarily sliding down the front of his jacket before returning to her side.

      “Congratulations, darling,” she said lightly, making Bryn’s brows lift a fraction, his smile turn quizzical. “I never thought you’d do it. I guess even the tallest tree in the forest has to fall sometime.” But not in my direction. Her smile, hiding piercing disappointment, didn’t waver.

      Bryn laughed, easily. “Very philosophical.” He hooked an arm about Rachel’s waist and pulled her closer. “I’m a lucky man.”

      Samantha had seen other intelligent and good-looking—and wealthy—men snared by women with little to offer beyond a pretty face and a passable pedigree. Still, although Rachel might lack the pedigree, apparently she wasn’t short of brains—a historian and author, no less.

      Studying the young woman for a moment, Samantha saw wariness in the dark eyes, perhaps uncertainty, but also determination in the tilt of her chin. Maybe Bryn had met his match. “You know,” she told him, with reluctant respect for his choice, “I’m sure you’re right. Does she know what she’s taking on?” Bryn could be a formidable presence.

      “I do,” Rachel answered firmly. “I’ve known Bryn since I was five.”

      So keep off the grass? Samantha couldn’t help but be intrigued. Even with Bryn’s ring newly on her finger Rachel Donovan wasn’t convinced of her husband’s love.

      Squashing a temptation to whisper in the bride’s ear, Don’t be such a goose! He’s all yours now, so make the most of it! Samantha said with genuine sincerity, despite the pang it cost her, “Well, I wish you all the best. I hope you’ll both be very happy.” She certainly wanted it for Bryn. Her gaze shifted to him, but already Rachel had recaptured his attention—the man couldn’t keep his eyes off her for a minute.

      Samantha turned to walk away, her mouth unconsciously curving again in a wry, self-mocking smile, her eyes clashing with a deeply green, brown-flecked masculine stare no more than a metre or so away, that startled her with its glittering suspicion and animosity.

      The eye contact lasted only long enough for a fleeting impression of a hostile storm-sea glare under lowered brows, a strong nose with flared nostrils, a clear-cut upper lip and a fuller, sensuous lower one, and a couple of weeks of dark growth lightly framing a wide, stubborn and very masculine chin.

      The designer-stubble, just-got-out-of-bed look had never appealed to Samantha, yet despite his smouldering glare the beard shadow seemed to emphasise instead of detract from the man’s striking good looks.

      She moved through the crowd on the spacious lawn, skirting chattering groups of guests holding champagne flutes or coffee cups.

      Glad she’d had the forethought not to wear stiletto heels that would have sunk into the ground and impeded her progress, she paused only to take a full glass from one of the circulating waiters before coming to a stop under the shade of a huge old magnolia, and realised she was almost panting, as if she’d been running across the short-cropped grass instead of walking at a perfectly normal pace.

      She’d not even looked round to see whom she should be making small-talk with. It might be a private occasion, but many business decisions had their genesis in chance—or not-so-chance—meetings at gatherings like this. There were movers and shakers here, potentially important contacts.

      None of them impinged on her consciousness, her inner eye still focused on the stranger who had stared at her with such inexplicable ferocity.

      His

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