The loss of her unborn child had been such a deeply personal grief that Kalera had been unwilling to expose it to the harsh glare of publicity which had surrounded Harry’s death and subsequent funeral. Her parents had chided her for dropping out of the grief therapy provided for the surviving victims of the massacre but the gruel-ling sessions had reminded Kalera too uncomfortably of the mind-games played by the so-called spiritual gurus of her youth.
Shivering in Duncan’s arms, she finally acknowledged that she couldn’t escape her pain by pretending it didn’t exist; she was merely prolonging the agony of her bereavement. But she was terribly afraid that the feelings of guilt and abandonment which she was experiencing would never go away…
When Kalera’s tears had finally dwindled into shuddering sniffles, Duncan tucked his handkerchief into her hand and hoisted her from the couch.
‘Come on, I’m taking you home—’
‘No, really—I’ll be all right,’ she protested automatically, brushing the back of her hand across her swollen eyelids.
‘No, you won’t—you look terrible,’ said Duncan ruthlessly. ‘As if you’ve been beaten with a rubber hose.’
It was precisely how she felt—fragile and pulpy, inside and out. Every bone seemed to be bruised to the marrow and her head felt stuffed with cotton wool.
‘Anyway, it wasn’t a suggestion, it was an order. We’re both finishing early for the day.’
Unprecedented orders from a self-acknowledged workaholic. ‘But—you’ve got a meeting in twenty minutes—’ she protested weakly.
‘So? I’ll tell Anna to reschedule. Get your things and we’ll slip out the back way before anyone knows we’re gone.’ He was tapping out a message to Anna on his keyboard even as he spoke and, exhausted by emotion, Kalera allowed herself to be whisked out of the office and into his little-used private lift.
At that moment she would have meekly followed Duncan Royal into the jaws of hell.
Instead he turned out to be her guide, and helter-skelter ride, to a brief slice of heaven.
CHAPTER FOUR
ONCE down in the underground car park a firm hand in the small of her back steered Kalera towards the red McLaren F1 that was Duncan’s most spectacular extravagance.
‘But what about my car?’ she fretted belatedly, glancing over her shoulder at the sedate family saloon which Harry had always kept in immaculate condition.
‘It’ll be safe enough here overnight. If you think I’m going to let you drive in the state you’re in, you’ve got another think coming,’ Duncan said, handing her into the passenger seat of his car and brushing aside her fumbling fingers to buckle her into the safety harness and tuck her skirt under her slender thigh, the gentleness of his touch a direct contrast to the sternness of his words.
Kalera’s reserves of energy were too low to generate even a token objection to his high-handedness. She shut her mind to the difficulties of getting to work the next day and sank into the plush leather, closing her eyes and allowing the deep, throaty purr of the powerful engine to act like a sedative on her tired brain.
To her relief Duncan made no effort to engage her in conversation and, instead of surging onto the streets with his usual impatience, drove with an exaggerated care that she realised with detached amusement was a positive insult to the rampant machine under his control.
Insulated by her weary lassitude, Kalera wasn’t prepared for the icy attack of panic that hit her when she opened her eyes and saw the signpost for her street.
‘No! Wait—don’t turn here—’ She flung out a hand, clutching at the flowing sleeve of Duncan’s loose-fitting white shirt, urgently tugging his arm away from the wheel, causing the car to shy like a nervous thoroughbred.
Duncan cursed violently under his breath as he braked, skilfully controlling their sudden swerve. ‘Why? This is where you live…’
Only because Harry’s life insurance had paid off the hefty mortgage, otherwise Kalera wouldn’t have been able to continue to afford the payments on her single income. She could see the green roof of the house which they had saved so hard to buy…a family home in a suburban neighbourhood bustling with children, within walking distance of the local shops and primary school. A house purchased on hope and dreams…
Kalera’s breath caught in her throat, her restraining grip tightening, her skin creeping with an inexplicable dread. ‘I don’t want to go home yet!’ she declared flatly.
Duncan pulled into the kerb and looked down at her tense white face.
‘I wasn’t just going to dump you on the doorstep and run, Kalera,’ he said, disentangling his crumpled shirt from her stiff fingers. ‘You won’t have to be by yourself—I’ll come inside with you—’
‘No!’ She shuddered, unable to articulate her nameless fear. He thought the house was empty, but it wasn’t. Memories crouched in the very walls, waiting to leap out at her the moment she let her guard down. ‘No! I don’t want to go in there. Please—can’t we go somewhere else?’
‘Where would you like me to take you?’
‘I don’t know—it doesn’t matter…anywhere!’ she said, her voice rising shrilly. ‘I don’t care—please—can’t you just drive?’
That was how she had ended up at Duncan’s home and, ultimately, in his bed.
Some of the details were a blur. For instance she didn’t remember the drive to his house in Ponsonby, and only vaguely recalled the cup of sweet tea and sugary snack that he had forced her to eat in his aggressively modern kitchen when he had discovered that she had skipped lunch. She did remember the blooming headache that had made her grateful to accept his offer of a lie-down in a cool, mint-green room with a soft-sprung bed and dark teak shutters with which she could shut out the strident afternoon sun. Sleep was the perfect escape, both from her own pain and the subtle pressure of Duncan’s curiosity.