No Greater Joy Page 3

When the woman, still holding the little boy in her arms, had walked away, Alison said, 'That was quick thinking, Clint—and very brave.'

  He smiled at her. 'I was no braver than you, Alison.'

  'Me? I didn't do a thing!' she protested.

  'You were going to. Have you forgotten that I stopped you from jumping into the paddock yourself?'

  Wide-eyed, she stared at him. 'Yes, I had forgotten. Why did you stop me, Clint?'

  The smile turned wicked. 'Put it down to masculine arrogance.'

  She shook her head. 'No, it wasn't arrogance. But I could have done it—I'm used to horses and fences, Clint.'

  'So am I,' he said easily.

  After a long moment Alison said, 'You really did grow up on a farm, then?'

  'Really. I thought that surprised you the first time I mentioned it. Why, I wonder?'

  She had to think about it. 'Your image, 1 suppose. Your... your clothes, your car. All those hotels.'

  He was so close to her that she could feel his laughter shaking his body. 'Trappings that all came much later. I didn't grow up owning hotels, Alison.'

  After a moment she asked, 'What kind of sheep farm was it, Clint?'

  'Merinos, mostly. Like you, I spent my youth on horseback—helping the men look for lost sheep, checking broken fences.'

  They were still standing at the paddock, arms in front of them on the wooden rail, but now Clint shifted position, so that his arm was touching Alison's. A strong arm, deeply tanned, with the suggestion of hard muscle and sinew just beneath the skin.

  Where his arm touched Alison's, her skin felt as if it was on fire. She wanted to remove herself from that touch, yet she didn't know how to do so without seeming childish in Clint's eyes.

  She kept her eyes straight ahead of her. 'How long did you live on the sheep farm?' she asked him.

  "Till I was twelve. My mother died then, and the heart seemed to go out of my father. Dad sold up, and we became city people after that.'

  'That must have been hard for you,'

  'It was at the time.' And then in a different tone, he said, 'Alison...'

  'Yes?'

  'This isn't touching.' His voice was soft. 'Not the kind of touching you were referring to in the car.'

  Her head swung round at the words, but after a fevered moment she looked away from him again. 'I suppose you're right... it isn't,' she agreed quietly.

  'Not that I wouldn't like to touch you in just that way.'

  'Don't say that—please!'

  'You're so awfully uptight,' he observed. 'I wish 1 knew why.'

  'It's...nothing personal. I just don't go in for touching strangers, that's all. I already told you that.'

  'I thought the last hour had taken us beyond being strangers.'

  On a dry throat Alison said, 'I may be working for you for a little while, but basically we'll always be strangers, Clint.'

  She didn't stop to wonder why his lips tightened at that. She was only conscious of a strange sadness deep inside her. She was relieved when he shifted his arm away from hers and said, 'Would you like to try out the roan, Alison?'

  'Oh, yes!'

  'All right, then, let's see what I can arrange.'

  Clint strode away, lithe and loose-limbed, and as tall and tanned as any of the farmers. Alison watched him stop the man walking with the roan, and talk to him for a few moments. And then they were walking back towards her.

  Minutes later Alison was in another paddock, astride the lovely horse. This was her world, the world where she felt secure and happy, no matter what. There was just the horse beneath her, and the wind stinging her cheeks and tugging at her hair.In the veld she'd have ridden for hours. As it was, the ride couldn't last long. At last, reluctantly, she had to slow the horse to a gentle trot, and after that a walk.

  Clint was right beside the horse as Alison made to dismount, his hands reaching for her waist.

  'I haven't been helped off a horse in years,' she protested.

  He laughed at her. 'Doesn't mean you can't be helped this time! Enjoy the ride, Alison?'

  Her eyes were great and green and shining. 'That's just the most marvellous horse!' she told him eagerly.

  'You looked marvellous riding it.'

  It was the compliment that brought home to her the fact that he was still holding her—a loose hold, his hands just touching her waist. There was no reason at all why the touch had the feeling of an embrace.

  She took a step backwards, away from those big hands, and Clint did nothing to stop her. Instead he said, very softly, 'Do you know how beautiful you are?'

  'Shouldn't we be moving on?' Her voice was jerky.

  'In a moment.'

  Reaching out, he pushed a strand of wayward hair behind her ear. Alison tried to ignore the excitement that flamed suddenly inside her.

  'Clint...' she began.

  'that wasn't touching, either, Alison. Nothing you could object to. You know that.'

  'It must be getting late,' she said, taking another step away from him.

  'Does your boyfriend tell you every day that you're beautiful, Alison?'

  'Stop this, Clint!'

  'I'd never stop telling you so if you were my girl.' His voice was low and husky, as caressing as his touch had been.

  'But I'm not your girl.'

  'No, you're not, are you?' His hand went to her hair again, smoothing it from her forehead this time. 'I know one thing: if you were my girl I'd never have permitted you to go away with another man.'

  'I haven't gone away with another man,' she gritted. 'I've taken a job. I'm travelling to the camp with you— that's all there is to it. You know that as well as I do.'

  'I'd want you near me all the time if you were mine.' He was so close to her that his breath was warm on her cheek.

  For the merest moment she caught herself wondering what it would be like to be constantly near a man like Clint Demaine. And then she caught the thought and pushed it Firmly away from her.

  'You talk of belonging, but I can never belong to anyone.' Her voice was harsh now. 'Not in the way you seem to be implying. That kind of relationship isn't for me.'

  'Does that mean you're not in love, Alison?'

  Her head jerked sharply. 'My private life doesn't concern you, Clint. And I really wish you'd stop talking this way, you can see it upsets me.'

  'I'm not sure why. You must be used to having men tell you that you're lovely.'

  When was the last time Raymond had said she was lovely? A long time ago, she realised now.

  'It's getting late, Clint,' she said.

  He didn't answer immediately. He stood for a long time just looking down at her. Her cheeks felt warm, her lips were trembling, and she did not need a mirror- to tell her that her eyes were distraught. And Clint was just standing there, looking at her, and she knew he was taking all of it in.

  Suddenly he smiled, the devil-may-care smile that was beginning to do strange things to her system. She would have to learn to harden herself against that smile.

  'It's going to be a good summer, Alison,' he remarked.

  'I hope so.'

  'I know so.'

  With one of those unexpected movements he reached for her hand. He held it only briefly, and because she decided to take the gesture as one of friendship, she did not pull away from him.

  But long after his hand had left hers she could still feel the warmth of it burning her skin.

  It was mid-afternoon when they reached Big Willow Farm, where Clint had some business to discuss with the owner, Don Anderson.

  They'd been leaving the fair when Clint had stopped to phone the farm from a public booth. When he'd told Don that he'd be later than he'd first thought, and that he was bringing someone with him, Don's wife had insisted that they spend the night at the farm.

  The Andersons were at the car by the time Clint and Alison got out—Jenny, a pretty young woman with fair hair and very obviously pregnant, padding down the steps of the big stone veranda, and Don, very tall, almost as
tall as Clint, jumping from a jeep with two labradors at his heels.

  'Don! Jenny, love.' Clint shook the man's hand, then hugged the woman to him. 'Good to see you both.' He turned to Alison, who hung back a little shyly. 'This is Alison Lenox. She's driving up to Bushveld Camp with me. Alison, I want you to meet my very good friends, Jenny and Don Anderson.'

  After the first niceties were over, Don's approving eyes swept the racy lines of the Porsche. 'Nifty car! New since the last time you were here.' He grinned at Clint. 'But then I've always admired your taste in cars—as well as in women.' The last was said with a smile at Alison.

  The words had Alison drawing in her breath. Involuntarily, she took a step backwards.

  Her reaction was not lost on Jenny, who threw her an apologetic look before saying, 'Now, Don...'

  'It's not the first compliment Alison has received today.' Clint threw a wicked grin at Alison.

  She managed a smile in return. 'It's not, is it?'

  But the smile was difficult. So she was not the first female Clint had brought to Big Willow Farm. Why on earth did that matter to her?

  She was about to tell the Andersons that she was not one of Clint's women, when Clint threw a teasing look in the direction of Jenny's middle. 'Seems to me something got in my way when I hugged you, Jenny. You're looking great, honey.'

  'Great in more ways than one.' Jenny was flushed with pleasure. 'I know you and Don have things to discuss, but let's eat something first.'

  Alison followed Jenny into the spacious farmhouse kitchen, where copper pots hung from the walls and pot- plants stood in happy profusion on the windowsills. On one side of the room, long strips of biltong hung to dry from the rafters. In a corner stood an ancient creamer, a reminder of the days when women had had to make their own butter.

  'This makes me think of home,' Alison said to Jenny. 'My mother would love your kitchen.'

  She carried the tea-tray to the table, while Jenny took an apple tart out of the oven and put it down beside a dish of warm scones.

  They were drinking their tea when Clint turned the conversation back to Jenny. 'So this man of yours has made you a mother.'

  'An expectant mother. We'd like you to be godfather, Clint.'

  'I'll be happy to. Especially if the baby's a girl, and even half as beautiful as her mother.'

  Jenny mock-grimaced down at her stomach. 'Call this beautiful?'

  Clint was not the man to leave the comment at that. Beneath the benevolent eye of her husband, he began to flirt with Jenny. Bemused, Alison watched the other girl sparkle. Although she could not help but know that most of what Clint said was just provocative nonsense, Jenny was opening up to Clint like a flower opening to the sun.

  Glancing at Don, Alison was surprised to see him beaming. Don, she realised wonderingly, was seeing the carefree girl his wife had been before the onset of chores and pregnancy. Obviously he was secure enough not to mind that another man's attention had wrought the transformation.

  Well, it was fine for Don to be unconcerned. As for Alison, she had been warned. She would have to make sure she was on her guard against Clint Demaine, who had doubtless been charming women—and discarding them the moment the next challenge appeared—since he was old enough to shave. With his brand of sex appeal and dynamic good looks that would have been so easy for him.

  The meal finished, the men left the farmhouse. Alison remained behind to help Jenny.

  They had almost finished washing up when Jenny said, 'Clint is quite a man, isn't he?'

  'Yes, he is,' Alison agreed, and proceeded to tell her hostess how Clint had vaulted the paddock fence to save the little boy.

  'It's what I'd expect from him.' Jenny smiled. 'I bet he was modest about it afterwards.'

  'Yes, he was.'

  'Tough as they come, that's Clint.' And with a mischievous look at Alison, 'Sexy, too. Not that that's something I need tell you!'

  Inside Alison, something tightened. 'Look, Jenny, there's something you should know—I don't happen to be one of Clint's women.'

  Jenny looked startled. 'You were offended by Don's remark.'

  'No, of course I wasn't! But I thought I'd set the record straight. I have a job at Bushveld Camp—that's the only reason I'm travelling with Clint.'

  'That remark about Clint's women—it was silly, but Don didn't mean anything, you know. He was just joking.'

  But he had meant it; Alison was sure of it.

  Jenny was looking unhappy. 'I hope you didn't mind me flirting with Clint.'

  'Good heavens, no!' exclaimed Alison. 'Why on earth would I?' 'It doesn't mean anything, either—Clint knows that. Don does, too.'

  'So do I,' said Alison. 'In any case, it really doesn't concern me.'

  Except that, for some reason, it did concern her. And the person Alison was angry with was not Jenny, but herself.

  'I'm glad you're not upset,' Jenny said. 'I love my Don very dearly, and I wouldn't trade him for the world. And I'm so excited about the baby. But right now the pregnancy's beginning to wear me down, and I suppose... Well, if truth be told, I was feeling a bit envious of you.'

  'Envious of meV Alison asked incredulously.

  'You're so carefree—no responsibilities to tie you down. Going off with Clint, having fun.'

  'I'm going to be working for Clint,' Alison said carefully.

  'You'll be having fun at the same time.'

  'Yes, I will. I enjoy kids and horses/

  'Fun with Clint was what I meant,' explained Jenny.

  'You're quite wrong,' Alison assured her.

  'Not that the others won't try to get their share of him,' Jenny went on, as if she had not heard the protest. 'Especially the camp director, Virginia. She runs the camp for Clint, and I think she rather fancies him. I heard that they'd spent quite a bit of time together last year. Still, the fact that you'll be alone with him before the others arrive gives you an edge.'

  Alison's lips were so tight that her jaw ached. 'You don't understand. I don't want to be alone with Clint.'

  Jenny looked surprised. 'Don would say it isn't any of my business, but will you take a well-meant word from someone who's just beginning to learn what it is to be tied down? Don't turn your back on fun, Alison.'

  'Fun!' Alison made a harsh sound in her throat. 'I'm not interested in having fun. At least, not if by fun you mean a man.'

  Jenny's eyes were compassionate. 'I get the feeling you've been hurt,' she said quietly.

  After a moment Alison said, 'Yes.'

  Jenny began to stack the dishes in the kitchen cupboard. For a minute or two the domestic clatter of dishes and cutlery was the only sound in the kitchen. At length, without turning, Jenny said quietly, 'Clint has been hurt, too.'

  The words caught Alison by surprise. 'Someone let him down? I find that hard to believe.'

  'Much worse than that, Clint was married. His wife died.'

  Alison drew in her breath. 'Good lord! I'm sorry, I had no idea...'

  'He doesn't talk about it very often.'

  'Did it happen recently?' Alison would have been hard put to it to identify the strange emotion she was feeling.

  Jenny frowned. 'Quite a long time ago, actually—eight or nine years. Clint was very young at the time, about twenty-three, I suppose.'

  'Did you know her, Jenny?' Alison asked.

  'Linda? No. I only met Clint after I married Don three years ago.'

  'And he's never remarried?'

  'No.'

  'There must have been women, though. You mentioned the camp director, Virginia...''I don't know how many women there've been, Alison. Don really was joking when he made that remark.'

  'If...if Clint doesn't talk about his wife, why have you told me?' Alison asked.

  'I just thought it was something you might like to know.' Jenny treated her to a direct look. 'I like you. I like Clint.'

  And then, before Alison could make anything of that, Jenny looked at her watch. 'I'm exhausted. I never dreamed pregnancy could be so
tiring! Would you mind very much if I went and had a nap before dinner?'

  Alison smiled at her. 'I wish you would. What can I prepare for you in the meantime?'

  'Not a thing, but thanks all the same. Don will organise a braaivleis, and the salads are in the fridge. Look, do you have your swimming costume handy?'

  'Yes, I do.'

  'The pool is at the bottom of the garden. And if you don't feel like swimming, there's a whole stack of magazines on the veranda. Just make yourself at home.'

  The two men were nowhere to be seen as Alison walked to the pool. Despite the gathering shadows, it was still very hot. The veld was silent. Even the slight wind that had blown much of the day had stilled. In the distance the mielie fields stretched towards the horizon and beyond. A piet-my-vrou called to its mate from its perch in an acacia, and from the farmhouse behind her Alison heard the barking of the labradors.

  The water was wonderful—cool enough to be refreshing, yet still warm enough to relax. Alison swam until she grew tired, then she rolled over on to her back and floated with her eyes closed.

  Eyes that snapped open in alarm when a hand touched her back, then widened when they looked up into a laughing face.

  'What on earth--!' she gasped.

  She tried to stand, to twist away from Clint, but his arm had folded around her, holding her weightless body in such a way that her feet could not have touched bottom.

  'No, Clint—no! What do you think you're doing?'

  'Answering a mermaid's call.'

  'I'm not a mermaid!' she protested.

  'You could have fooled me. Lying there, so sleek and beautiful, with your hair drifting behind you on the water, what else could you be?'

  She tried to move away from him, but he moved quicker than she did. His other arm was holding her too now, resting just below her breast. She could feel every one of his fingers on her skin, imparting sensations that were quite frightening. She tried once more to stand, but it was too deep where they were, and instead of touching ground her feet brushed his legs. Suddenly, even her toes tingled with life.

  'I'm not a mermaid, Clint. Nor was I calling you.' Her voice was jerky.

  'Is that really what you would have me believe?' He was laughing again. His eyes were very dark, but the gold flecks lit them, warmed them. His eyelashes were long and thick.