The Timber Baron's Virgin Bride

She certainly was different fromthe rather gauche innocentwho sometimes appeared in hisdreams.

Bryn had to quell an impulse to exact a sweet revenge on her lovely mouth even as it mocked him.

There was an intriguing dislocation between the Rachel Moore he remembered and the Rachel he’d met today. Now and then a glimpse of the ardent, uncomplicated girl peeked through the cool reserve of the woman, arousing in him a capricious desire to probe deeper and find out just how much she had really changed.

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 thirty 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

BY

DAPHNE CLAIR

CHAPTER ONE

“RACHEL?” BRYN DONOVAN’S grey-green eyes sharpened as he met his mother’s cornflower-blue gaze.

Black brows drawing closer together, he sat slightly forward on the dark green velvet of the wing-chair that, like most of the furniture in the room, had been in the family for as long as the big old house. “You don’t mean Rachel Moore?”

Pearl, Lady Donovan spread her hands in a surprised gesture. Her slight frame seemed engulfed by the wide chair that matched the one her son occupied on the other side of the brass-screened fireplace.

“Why not?” Her mouth, once a perfect cupid’s bow, today painted a muted coral, firmed in a way Bryn knew well. Behind the scarcely lined milk-and-roses complexion and artfully lightened short curls was a keen brain and a will of solid iron.

Bryn said, “Isn’t she rather young?”

His mother laughed as only a mother can at a thirty-four-year-old man whose name in New Zealand’s business and financial circles engendered almost universal respect. The nay-sayers were mostly competitors jealous of the way he had expanded his family company and increased its already substantial fortunes, or employees who had fallen foul of his rigidly enforced standards. “Bryn,” she chided him, “it’s ten years since her family left us. Rachel is a highly qualified historian, and I’m sure I told you she’s already written a book—in fact, two, I think.”

He could hardly tell her he’d tried to expunge all information about the girl from his mind.

Pearl pressed on. “You know your father always intended to write a family history.”

“He talked about it.” It had been one of the old man’s planned retirement projects, until an apparently harmless penchant for the best wines and liqueurs had wreaked a sudden and fatal revenge.

“Well—” the widow’s prettily determined chin lifted “—I want to do this as a memorial to him. I thought you’d be pleased.” A suspicious sheen filmed her eyes.

Bryn’s reputation as a hard-headed though not unprincipled businessman wasn’t proof against this feminine form of assault. His mother had emerged from a year and a half of grieving to at last show real interest in something. Her expression today was less strained and her movements more purposeful than since his father’s death.

That Rachel Moore’s barely seventeen-year-old face under a halo of soft, unruly dark hair, her trusting brown eyes and shockingly tempting, too-young mouth occasionally entered Bryn’s dreams, and left him on waking with a lingering guilt and embarrassment, was his own problem. He couldn’t in conscience pour cold water on his mother’s new project.

He said, “I thought she was in America.” Rachel had gone to the States for postgraduate study after gaining her MA in English and history, and had since been teaching university students there.

“She’s back.” Pearl looked pleased. “She’s taking up a lectureship in Auckland next year, but she needs something to tide her over for six months or so because of the different semesters from America. It’s ideal, and so nice that we can get someone who isn’t a stranger to do this for us. She can stay here—”

“Here? Aren’t her parents—” The former estate manager and his wife, who had helped with housekeeping, had left to go sharemilking in the lush green fields of the Waikato district when their daughter started her university studies there. Bryn had vaguely assumed the only contact with his own family since then had been a yearly exchange of Christmas cards and family news. But his mother had always been an inveterate telephone user.

“She’s with them now,” Lady Donovan told him, “and ready to start in a week or two. She’ll need access to our family records, and I wouldn’t let them go out of the house.” Her expression became faintly anxious. “Of course it will cost, but surely we can afford—”

“No problem,” he assured her, reluctantly conceding a rare defeat. “If she wants the job.” With any luck Rachel might turn it down.