An Attraction of Opposites Read online

  An Attraction of Opposites by Sandra Field

  It wasn't possible for anyone to be quite as disagreeable as Stephen Moore, Joanna thought angrily. All right, he needed peace and quiet, and he had come to Prince Edward Island to get it — but did he really have to be so unreasonable and standoffish? And he seemed to single her out in particular to be rude to! But it was obvious that something had happened in his life to make him so embittered, and before long Joanna found her antagonism turning to sympathy and then to love. But would her love ever be strong enough to break the shell Stephen had built around himself?

  Printed in Great Britain

  Books you will enjoy by SANDRA FIELD

  THE TIDES OF SUMMER

  Sharon thought she had plenty of problems of her own until she found herself working on Marshwinds, Ross Bowen's farm in Nova Scotia. For although she sensed that Ross was as attracted to her as she was to him, all he could really think and care about was Marshwinds. What would happen to them both if he lost it?

  WALK BY MY SIDE

  It wasn't just because she was disabled that Meg had refused to marry Paul Moreton. She anew he didn't love her, that he only wanted her as a mother for his little son—and that just wasn't enough, she told him. He must just give up the idea. But how would Meg feel if he took her at her word?

  SIGHT OF A STRANGER

  Blinded in an accident, and deserted by her fiance Rick who had been the cause of it, Shannon felt as if life had ended for her. And then -Rick's forceful half-brother Blaise came whirling into her life, ordering her to pull herself together and stop wallowing in self-pity. His attitude was the last thing she wanted—or was it?

  THE STORMS OF SPRING

  After her desperately unhappy marriage to Barry, the last thing Vicki wanted was another involvement—but, almost against her will, and mostly for the sake of his little son, she found herself agreeing to marry Garth Travis. But any hopes that the marriage would succeed began to vanish as she realised that Garth was no better than Barry had been .. .

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the Author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or

  cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  First published 1983

  This edition 1983

  © Sandra Field 1983

  ISBN 0 263 74355 1

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE gusts of chill Atlantic wind carried the haunting call of the geese to the slim, red-haired girl standing so still beside her car. In a ragged V-formation the great birds drifted down to earth, where the stalks of last year's corn stood in neat rows in the field and the last of the winter snow lay unmelted in the furrows: geometric lines of red soil, white snow, red soil, stretching as far as the eye could see. It almost seemed to Joanna that she could hear the beat of air against the many wings as the birds, moving like one, sank lower, then became earthbound, until they were only so many dark specks against the fields.

  She had been travelling along the narrow dirt road doing the egg deliveries, concentrating on her driving, for the road was sleek with mud now that spring was finally coming to the Island. Then something had made her look up. The minute she had seen the synchronised beat of wings against the cloudy sky, she had stopped the car and got out. She could not have explained the attraction these wild and beautiful birds had for her. Canada geese—long-necked and majestic, wily and sagacious. As soon as the ice started to melt on the rivers they arrived from the south, great flocks of them blackening the sky. For a month the Island was their home; they gathered in the bays and inlets, feeding in the open meadows. By the middle of May they were gone, flying northward to nest and raise their young. But in the autumn they would return, plump from their summer feeding, to remain until ice again claimed the waterways and the imperative call of the south could no longer be ignored. To Joanna they epitomised the mystery and beauty of nature, of all that was wild and free.

  Now she gave a little sigh. She'd better get back to work. Mrs Robertson Would be waiting for her weekly delivery of a dozen brown-shelled eggs, and the kettle would be bubbling on the stove. Banging her gloved fingers together, Joanna got back in the car. A cup of tea would hit the spot right now. It was cold, the raw, biting cold of April in Prince Edward Island when the sea ice was still packed against the shoreline and the winds seemed to come straight from the North Pole.

  Cautiously she engaged the clutch. John had insisted she bring his car rather than her own; his was considerably older than hers, and needed handling with a carefully tuned mixture of bravado and sensitivity. She picked up speed, avoiding two gaping potholes filled with dirty brown water, and from long experience also avoiding the shoulders of the road where the mud was soft and glutinous and the car could sink axle-deep in no time. Hands firm on the wheel, which, reverberated and quivered with a life of its own, she began to hum to herself.

  Then everything seemed to happen so quickly that afterwards Joanna had difficulty piecing it together. It was all the fault of the geese, that much was certain. She was only a couple of miles from Mrs Robertson's when something made her look up; over a copse of naked-limbed trees a huge V of birds fanned across the windswept sky. Joanna gazed at them in delight, not even seeing the red-painted Stop sign ahead. They were so incredibly beautiful in their grace and freedom; they made her want to leave her island home, to take wing herself and fly she knew not where. . . .

  There was a crash of metal on metal, a splintering of glass. Her head banged against the windshield as the wheel was jolted from her hands. She was not aware of jamming on the brake, but she must have done so at the instant of impact, for the old car had come to a shuddering halt. The world rocked on its axis and Joanna closed her eyes, fighting back a wave of nausea and dizziness.

  Her door was jerked open—it had a squeal all of its own which Joanna would have recognised anywhere—and a man's harsh voice demanded, 'Are you all right?'

  Her forehead resting on the wheel, she swallowed hard. Then she forced herself to look up. The eyes that met hers were unlike any she had ever seen before: long-lashed and deep-set, they were an opaque shade of grey. But grey was far too ordinary a word, she thought dazedly. They were like rock. Granite. Hard and unyielding. There was a patina of concern over them now, but even confused as she was, she was not deceived by that; for underneath lay anger, all the more frightening for being held back. Impatiently he repeated, 'Are you all right?'

  `I—I think so.' She touched her forehead gingerly. 'I must have hit my head.'

  `Looks as though it struck the windshield. Here, you'd better get out—let me give you a hand.'

  `I can manage.'

  But when she had eased herself out of the seat and went to stand up, she discovered that her knees were like jelly and that she was shaking all over. She felt his arms go around her and knew that without them she would have subsided into an ignominious heap on the ground. She rested her cheek against his jacket, breading shallowly, her eyes closed against a light that suddenly, seemed
glaringly bright. Briefly time and all the demands of reality were suspended.

  Into her consciousness gradually crept a number of impressions. The fabric her cheek was leaning against was suede, smooth and pliable and expensive. Her nose was buried in his sweater; while she had never owned anything so soft and finely woven, she would be willing to bet that it was cashmere—also expensive. Then she became aware of other things: the heavy beat of his heart, slower, far stronger than hers; an indefinably masculine odour, clean yet somehow disturbing, that came from his clothes—and from the body beneath, she

  thought, with the first touch of unease; a sensation of latent strength from the arms that encircled her and from the hard wall of his chest against which she was leaning. Had been leaning for far too long, she decided in a sudden panic that was as intense as it was irrational.

  She pushed herself away from him, again meeting those impenetrable grey eyes. 'I feel better now,' she faltered. I—what happened, anyway?'

  `What happened is that you drove straight into me,' he replied grimly.

  `Oh, no—'

  `Oh, yd. Didn't you see the Stop sign?'

  Joanna looked around her, seeing for the first time that she was standing at the intersection of two roads, the dirt one on which she had been travelling and a paved one that was the most direct route to John's farm. Because she could no longer avoid doing so, she also looked at the cars. The stranger had struck her right front wheel, crumpling the fender, denting the mudguard, and flattening the tyre. His car, she saw sickly, was a Mercedes, a sleek black station wagon, as expensive and well-bred as its owner. Fortunately it appeared as though John's car had taken the brunt of the collision, although there were two deep scratches in the shiny black paint and the chrome rim around the headlight was bent. She said helplessly, 'I'm sorry. I'll pay for any damage to your car.'

  If she had expected gratitude, she was soon disappointed. 'It's easy to say you're sorry,' was the uncompromising reply. 'What I'd like to know is what the devil you were doing that you didn't even slow down for the intersection—I was, as you see, going on the assumption that you would stop.'

  Whatever her faults, dishonesty was not among them. `I wasn't paying attention ' she began.

  `Obviously.'

  His voice was laden with sarcasm and something in it

  caught her on the raw. Her chin tilted defiantly. 'I've said I was sorry and I'll pay for the damage. You don't have to act as if I've committed a murder!'

  `If you'd been going much faster, you could have. It borders on the criminal to drive without watching what you're doing.'

  That he was absolutely right didn't help matters at all. Hot colour flooded her cheeks. 'I'm damned if I'll apologise again!'

  Tor a minute I was afraid I might have killed you!'

  His furiously spoken statement stopped her in her tracks, and for the first time she noticed the hint of white about his mouth. 'Then I am sorry,' she repeated with genuine remorse. 'I'll truly be more careful in the future.'

  He seemed to be singularly unimpressed by her pledge, for all he said was, icily, 'At least do me the courtesy of enlightening me as to what world-shaking matter was occupying your attention. Are you in love? Or did you have a fight with your boy-friend?'

  `No and no!' Joanna exploded. Then her head suddenly swung to the right and the anger vanished from her eyes. Quite unconscious of what she was doing, she rested her hand on his sleeve. 'Listen '

  Unwillingly he turned his head to follow her gaze. Above the copse of trees, their limbs a black tracery against the clouds, a long skein of geese straggled across the sullen sky, calling back and forth to each other. Then the wings grew still; the birds hovered, gliding downwards and disappearing behind the trees.

  As Joanna gave a tiny sigh of repletion, the man's eyes came back to her. Her green jacket had seen better days, her jeans were patched on both knees, her boots had been chosen for serviceability rather than glamour. But it was her face that drew his gaze and held it. Short auburn hair curled around her ears and the nape of her neck, clinging to her exquisitely shaped head. High cheekbones, grey-green eyes, and a dusting of freckles

  over a retrousse nose made a face of unusual beauty. But it had more than beauty, for her features mirrored her every emotion—a mobile, vibrantly alive face. Even as he watched, she dragged her attention away from the sky and back to him. 'It was the geese, you see—that's why I wasn't paying attention to the road.'

  It was obvious she considered this brief statement entirely self-explanatory. 'I don't get you,' he said with rather overdone patience. 'Would you mind explaining what's so all-absorbing about a few birds?'

  Shocked, she exclaimed, 'But they're not ordinary birds!' Again she gazed out over the meadow, her eyes shining softly. 'They fly with the wind and the sky is their home. . . .' She gave herself a little shake, trying to be more prosaic. 'Many of them nest in the far north, and they'll fight with the courage of lions for their young. They mate for life, you know.'

  `Unlike the human species.'

  Her eyes flew to his face. She had always thought Drew the best-looking man she had ever seen, but now she was not so sure. This man did not have the smooth, classic good looks that were Drew's, for his features were far more ruggedly hewn, and again that word granite slipped into her mind. Prominent cheekbones and, a determined chin, a formidably controlled mouth and those arresting, deep-set eyes . . . what other words would she use to describe him? Bored, cynical, disillusioned? Certainly they all came to mind. Detached? Yes, that as well. But more than that she sensed an underlying unhappiness, so deeply ingrained that perhaps he was not even aware of it himself. Which brought her back to his remark. 'It's nonsense to say that. I know some very good marriages that have lasted for years.'

  `Do you, now? Then you've been more fortunate than I.'

  The wind tugged at her parka, ruffling her hair. 'I

  think this is a very odd conversation, considering the circumstances.'

  He was not to be deflected. 'Tell me one more thing—do you get that excited about everything? Or is it only wild geese?'

  With a delightful tinge of self-mockery, she said, 'I wish it were. I do have a tendency to go overboard about things, and as a result I quite often get into trouble.' She looked over at the two cars. 'Like now. Oh dear, I wish I'd been watching where I was going. It would have to be John's car, too, not mine, wouldn't it?'

  `John?'

  Her expressive face clouded and she missed the implicit question as well as his lightning-swift glance downwards at her ring finger, hidden by a woollen glove at least two sizes too big for her. `Mmm . . . he doesn't need anything like this right now.' She gave another sigh. 'Well, I suppose he's used to me getting into scrapes. Perhaps he won't mind too much.'

  Pointedly the stranger looked at his watch. 'I think it's time we extricated ourselves from this particular scrape. Tell me where you keep your spare tyre and I'll change it for you—I think the rest of the damage is fairly superficial.'

  `The spare tyre needs air in it,' Joanna said weakly. 'I was supposed to get it pumped up this morning, but I thought I'd deliver the eggs first. Oh, lord, I hope they didn't all get broken!'

  `The eggs are the least of my worries. Is the tyre in the trunk? We'll drive to the nearest gas station—there's one a couple of miles down the road, isn't there?'

  Joanna looked down at her mud-caked boots and over at the gleaming Mercedes. 'Why don't I wait here?'

  `It's much too cold. Get in.'

  Something in his voice quelled the protest on her tongue. John, she thought with a faint touch of amusement, would have been surprised to see how

  meekly she climbed into the stranger's car, although she did first bang her boots together to remove the worst of the mud. The interior of the car smelled pleasantly of leather and pipe tobacco. Trying not to shiver, for the wind had chilled her to the bone and her ears were tingling from the cold, she sat in the front seat, watching as the man—she didn't even know his
name, she realised—removed her tyre from the trunk, shut it in his own trunk, then carefully backed her car on to the shoulder of the road. He bent to remove the shards of broken glass from the pavement, tossing them into the ditch. As he straightened, it struck her how tall he was, well over six feet, and how well built; every movement had the controlled power of a man at the peak of physical fitness. More than that, he bore an undefinable stamp of sophistication that had little to do with the well-groomed, peat-brown hair, the pigskin gloves, or the silk ascot; it seemed almost inborn, as much a part of him as the piercing grey eyes and the harsh line of mouth. A man of the city, she was sure of that. So what was he doing here?

  One thing was certain, she decided ruefully, looking down at her own worn and unbecoming outfit: she would hardly impress him. Apart from the very literal way in which she already had. . . .

  He got back in the car, saying tersely as they began to move forward, 'There is a garage a mile or two down the road, isn't there?'

  `Yes.' She added hesitantly, 'I hope you weren't in too much of a hurry?'

  He shot her a sardonic, sideways glance. 'Belated pangs of conscience? Ah, well . . . one of the reasons I came here was to escape the tyranny of being totally ruled by the clock. Consider this morning your contribution to the cause.'

  Joanna could think of no polite reply to this, although several impolite ones came to mind. Her mutinous green eyes belying the sweetness of her voice, she said, 'You haven't even told me your name.'

  `Stephen Moore.' Politely, but with no real interest, he added, 'And yours?'

  `Joanna Hailey.' She took the plunge, realising full well that if she did not say something the conversation would die on its feet; he was definitely not a man for small talk. 'You're just a visitor here?'