The Seduction of Suzanne Read online

  The Seduction of Suzanne

  Amelia Hart

  Kite Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Kite Publishing

  86 Kiteroa Street

  Karapiro, Cambridge

  Waipa 3494

  New Zealand

  Copyright © 2012 by Rebecca Leys

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address Kite Publishing.

  First Paperback printing: September 2012

  First Edition

  For my mother,

  for many confidences shared, and always an open mind and heart

  Chapter One

  Suzanne sighed in contentment under the blazing sunshine, a stiff breeze fingering her exposed skin. It was perfect.

  The beach was quite crowded. Crowded for a beach on Great Barrier Island, at least. Suzanne had decided long ago if one had to come alone to a place full of people, they should be happy people. Here, caught in the haze of determined sun-worship, tanned bodies sprawled. Children ran shrieking between them, kicking up the white powder sand and laughing. Parents kept a watchful eye on their toddlers, who dug little holes in the beach and then carefully ferried water to them from the sea’s edge. Further out the surfers played.

  As the day drifted on into towards afternoon and early evening, a few people were packing up their towels, swimsuits and beach umbrellas. Tired and salty, some had gone already.

  But many remained, nothing more in their world than sunshine and warmth, fine grains of white sand and fresh air. The blue, blue sea and the wide, upside down bowl of the azure sky.

  As she sat on the swell of a dune looking out over carelessly happy island residents and holiday-makers, Suzanne smiled a little to herself, one hand resting on the page of her open book. It was a good place to be.

  It would be even better if she had a really excellent novel. A gripping mystery, or a romance. Regretting her own misplaced virtue, Suzanne glanced down at the English Syllabus Sourcebook propped open on her knees.

  She had planned to spend today finishing the last of her new lesson plans for her students. The school year would be starting in a month. But she had worked flat out for the past two weeks, until there was barely anything left to do. So this morning the bright sun and flawlessly clear sky was a lure too strong to resist. She postponed her duties. After all, there was little enough that needed doing, and it could wait another day.

  Then at the last minute she replaced the novel in her tote bag with the textbook, to do some worthwhile reading. There was the mistake. She should have cast aside any last-minute qualms of conscience and brought something decent to read. It was too hot for real thinking.

  Suzanne tilted her romantically large straw hat to a better angle, and went back to watching the surfers.

  Great Barrier Island - so-called because it forms a protective barrier to the harbour of Auckland, New Zealand - is a Mecca for surfers. Every summer the population swells as holiday-makers come to the island. Back-packers, cyclists, kayakers and yachties all travel there for the natural beauty and rugged landscape.

  In particular the canny surfers come, knowing that this is one place where perfect waves, rolling in from across the Pacific Ocean, will never be over-crowded by too many tourists. For all its appeal, the island is relatively unknown. Most of those who visit over summer have been coming for years. They think of the Barrier as their own special retreat.

  When the visitors go home, the residents cheerfully wave them goodbye and then settle into the more peaceful routines of autumn, winter and spring.

  Suzanne had lived on the island all her life, bar the three years she had taken to go to Teacher’s Training College in Auckland. Even then she had come back to the island every holiday, and many weekends.

  It was in her soul.

  Idly she ran her fingertips through the hot sand, sifting it, making small mountains and valleys. The top layer was scorching but several inches below the surface it was cooler. She picked up a handful in a clenched fist, feeling the hard ball of it hollow out and give way as she let it trickle out again. A whisper of a breeze carried the falling sand sideways to stick to her slender, smoothly muscled leg.

  Her wandering attention came to rest on five people who were standing in the shallows, boards held firmly under their arms. Two women and three men, each with that classic well-honed look. Surfing is a hungry mistress, and leaves little fat on those who love her.

  Two of the surfers turned to wade back out, while the other three walked slowly up the beach, legs heavy without the buoyant lift of the water. All three looked healthy and muscular, their skin tanned and hair slicked back against their skulls.

  With the sun shining so brightly on the sea and sand behind them, they were little more than dark silhouettes, gradually increasing in size as they approached. After a while they were close enough that the wind carried their voices to where she sat.

  “. . . know what they’re like on a day like this. With waves so good, they won’t be in ‘til it’s nearly nine,” said the shorter of the two men.

  “Yeah,” said the woman. “Wish I had that kinda stamina. These days I can only go a few hours before I run out.”

  “I don’t think I can even make it all the way up the beach,” said the taller man, and Suzanne noticed that he had a light American accent, unlike the other two, who were clearly New Zealanders.

  “Hah!” said the woman teasingly. “You’re out of shape.”

  “Perhaps, but then some of us have to take breaks from surfing to earn a little cash,” he replied wryly.

  “Y’know, that’s just what my accountant likes to tell me,” she said, with an infectious chuckle.

  “Accountant? Since when do we have an accountant?” asked the dark-haired man as they walked past Suzanne, and then stopped behind her at the top of the dune. The woman just laughed. Then the American said:

  “I think I’ll stop here for a moment. I’ll see you guys later.”

  The three said casual goodbyes, and Suzanne heard the sound of the couple’s footsteps fading away. There was silence for several minutes. She watched the breeze stir the fine white grains of sand around her half-buried toes, which were dug in as she savoured the baking warmth of the long day’s sunshine. Her ears were virtually pricked as she listened for a hint that the tall American was still standing close behind her, a peculiar awareness crawling down her spine, so that she had to control an atavistic shiver.

  Then he spoke, his voice a deep, smooth rumble, making her flinch slightly, startled.

  “Do you have the time?” he asked.

  “Do I . . . ? Oh, yeah, it’s . . . quarter past five,” she said, glancing quickly at her watch and then looking over her shoulder to meet his eyes.

  She was transfixed. While he had been walking toward her, he had at first been too far away for her to see his features, and then she had been loath to visually track the three surfers as they approached, which would have made it obvious she was listening in on their conversation.

  He was quite literally breathtaking.

  He had high, moulded cheekbones, a straight nose and firm jaw, and eyes of such a clear, piercing blue that she could see the colour even from where she sat. Her gaze flicked quickly, involuntarily over the broad shoulders and narrow waist within his wetsuit, and came to rest on his left wrist.

&nbs
p; His left wrist with its chunky diver’s wristwatch.

  She resumed breathing as her eyes narrowed and leapt back to his face. His lips parted in an easy grin to reveal perfectly straight white teeth.

  He was offering her a line!

  She gritted her teeth, refused to blush, and offered him a tight little smile in return. There was no way that she was prepared to encourage him. The last thing she needed or wanted in her life was a feckless transient surfer.

  Certain that her politely cold shoulder would be enough to send the man on his way, she turned back to her book.

  There was a pause in which she tried not to listen for the shush of retreating footsteps in the sand. All was silence. Perhaps he had already left?

  But no, she was not so lucky.

  “What are you reading?” he asked in his rich voice.

  She leaned over the book a little more, turned a page and, seized by an imp of perversity, said sweetly: “The Kama Sutra.”

  A moment later she regretted the impulse as he let out a startled laugh. Stupid! Making jokes would only egg him on. Go away go away go away.

  “I love this look you’ve got going on. All drapey mystique. Very counter-beach culture,” he said, sitting down beside her. “And your version of the Kama Sutra has a lot more words in it than mine.”

  Now there was no controlling the warm tide of pink blush that heated her skin. She drew both knees and the book close to her chest like armour, folds of her sarong caught up between the two, and glared out defiantly from under her big hat.

  “Skin cancer kills 200 New Zealanders every year.”

  He cocked his head to one side and smiled crookedly at her at her, his good cheer unabated. “Well that explains it then. With such fair skin you should take care.”

  She stared at him, blinked twice, held her breath and blushed even harder. Damn it. Damn it!

  He was so big.

  The proximity of his large, masculine body set her on an edge of nervous awareness. As a tall woman, she was unused to feeling diminutive, but now he was so close, his sheer size was overpowering. With an effort of will she kept her gaze from scanning his body again. It would be just the reaction he was waiting for.

  When she didn’t reply to his provocative statement he lifted his hand and ran the backs of his fingers lightly down her cheek. Suzanne only just kept herself from reacting as she felt the impact of his touch all the way to her toes, like a hot current of electricity.

  No one had touched her in a long time.

  With an effort she held on to her dignity, wanting to snarl at him for invading her personal space so casually. His eyes grew more intent, though his tone was unchanged as he said:

  “No, too warm and soft to be porcelain.”

  Her annoyance surged full force. Couldn’t the wretched man see that she wasn’t interested?

  “Look,” she began tightly, “I don’t mean to be rude--”

  “Yes you do,” he interrupted, with a sparkle in his eye.

  “But would you please leave me alone.”

  “Why?” he asked, all boyish innocence.

  “Because I’m reading.”

  “No you’re not.”

  “I was reading!” she said with less restraint, her voice climbing.

  “No you weren’t. You were listening as my friends and I talked. I thought it very ill mannered, and I’ve come to give you a piece of my mind.” He shook his head in solemn reproof but his eyes twinkled delightfully at this arrant piece of nonsense. “Luckily I realised in time that I’d much rather be in your good books,” and he glanced mischievously at the book in her lap, inviting her to laugh with him.

  “Fine,” she said evenly, not even cracking a smile. “If you won’t go, I will.” She was eager to get away, uncaring that he’d chased her into retreating from her comfortable spot.

  Besides, it was better that she got out of the sun now anyway, having already had a full day of it.

  Slipping her book quickly into her tote bag, which she slung across one shoulder, she gathered up the edges of her sarong and stood.

  He came to his feet beside her.

  “Maybe we got off on the wrong foot,” he said. “I’m Justin Walker, and you are . . .?”

  She put her shoulders back, and looked regally down her nose at him.

  “The Queen of Sheba,” she said, deadpan, and turning on her heel, she walked away.

  “Ah, I should have known, your majesty,” he called after her, the laughter back in his voice.

  Pausing for a moment to look over her shoulder, she was in time to see him give her a grandiose bow, and then straighten to stand with his feet widespread, making her think with unexpected whimsy of a flamboyant buccaneer, with the sea in his heart and sky in his eyes.

  As he stood there on the sand dune in the blaze of the sun, she suddenly felt wistfully that it might be nice to be someone else for a little while. Someone who would be delighted to have a handsome man approach her with a light dalliance in mind.

  But a wave of revulsion rose in her at the thought.

  No, never again.

  She pushed her halting feet into motion, almost tripping with the slide of sand underneath her, but catching herself in time and ploughing on, shoulders hunched under the weight of dark memories.

  Back to her car and she opened the driver’s door, tossed everything across the seat to the passenger side and threw herself in. Her key in the ignition brought the dusty, battered ute roaring to life and she backed out swiftly and was gone, fleeing more than an importunate stranger on a beach.

  Chapter Two

  Suzanne woke early the next morning from dreams that were a strange jumble of sand and sea, and tall men who all wore the same perfect features. Features which should have already begun to fade after such a brief encounter, she thought, rolling her eyes at her perverse sleep-wandering mind.

  “Or more likely my libido,” she mumbled to herself.

  I had very good reasons for stonewalling him, she thought. She rolled lithely out of bed and jogged down the sundrenched hallway into the kitchen to fix herself some muesli for breakfast, scooping her hair into its usual ponytail as she went.

  He’s here for the surfing season. He’ll be gone soon, back to the US. I refuse to be involved in a dead-end fling. No matter how appealing he may be.

  She carefully put just enough water into the kettle to make a single mug of tea, and mentally shied away from the memory of those gentle fingers on her cheek.

  “Well-practiced charm,” she scoffed aloud, and then felt sheepish to be talking to herself. The curse of those who live alone.

  Setting dried red clover and dandelion root to steep in the hot water, she experienced a sudden, deep pang of loss. Only a year ago she wouldn’t have been alone. Her father would be here with her, making her herbal teas, pottering around the house in his industrious fashion so she had to keep dragging him away from the chores she made her responsibility once his heart began to fail.

  Peter Turlin had raised her virtually single-handedly from the age of ten.

  At twenty-one she had only just completed her teaching diploma when her father suffered a massive heart attack. It left him ill and too weak to work. She came back to the island to take care of him and be his companion.

  When one of the three teachers at the small school on the island quit a few months later she applied and easily got the job. The locals were delighted to have one of their own educating their children. It meant she could work until three each afternoon, and then come home and spend the rest of the day with her father; talking, playing cards, or just quietly marking school work as he read.

  A year later he died in his sleep from a second heart attack, before the transplant he’d been waiting for could take place. He was only fifty-two. She mourned him deeply, feeling as if a piece of herself had been taken away. Yet after almost a year the pain had eased, softened. She could walk through the house without listening for his gentle voice, could pass the shelf in the general st
ore and not tear up at the sight of his favourite chocolate biscuits. The space on the bathroom shelf where his toothbrush used to be no longer held that deeper meaning.

  Suzanne realised that she was staring blankly at the bowl she had mechanically emptied, chewing and swallowing on auto pilot. Completely away with the fairies, she thought ruefully, running her fingers through her thick ponytail until they were stopped by a large tangle. She put her bowl in the sink, poured her herbal tea into a mug and took it back to her bedroom to get ready for the day.

  Moments later she ran back for the phone singing out from the bench. It was Anita, her voice crackling with the energy Suzanne had missed in the past few months.

  “Hiya sweetpea. Listen, you home at the mo? I’ve got a whole bunch of herb seedlings I don’t need, and rather than dump them I thought you maybe could use them.”

  “Sure, that sounds great. I was just going to suggest the cafe for lunch but you won’t want to leave those sitting in the car.”

  “How about I drop them off and pick you up? If we make it eleven we’ll beat the rush.”

  “Perfect. I’ll see you then.”

  Suzanne rang off with a smile of pure pleasure. It was so good to have Anita back on the island. She’d been gone since June, following her latest boyfriend. But that had come to an end. Lunch was sure to be full of all the gory details.

  The café was crowded and bustling as usual in summer. Suzanne ordered a quiche and Anita chose nachos and a slice of rhubarb cake. Suzanne teased her about the cake and Anita laughed good-naturedly.

  “I’ve got to build up my stamina again if I’m going hunting beach bunnies. Mark may have been a mistake, but not in bed. I barely even escaped to eat. I’m wasted away to practically nothing.”

  “You’re looking for someone new already?” Suzanne cocked a curious eyebrow at her friend.