Taken by the Pirate Tycoon

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

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.”