Read Online Taken by the Pirate Tycoon by Daphne Clair - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Daphne Clair
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realised he wasn’t heading for any of the popular inner harbour beaches within minutes of the city, nor across the Harbour Bridge to the North Shore. Instead they were travelling in the opposite direction. “Where are we going?” she demanded.
“To a beach,” he said imperturbably.
She took her cell phone from her bag but as her finger hovered over the “on” button she found the idea of no one knowing where she was strangely liberating.
She lifted her finger and dropped the phone back in her bag again. “Where?” she asked again.
“The west coast,” he said. “Not some tame, crowded strip of trucked-in sand.”
The west-coast beaches—Piha, Muriwai, and their less-well-known neighbours—were wide and wild, a paradise for surfers but often dangerous. Lifeguard patrols routinely rescued swimmers swept out to sea by rips, board-riders who had overestimated their skills, and fishers washed from the rocks by rogue waves. Of course he’d prefer one of those beaches.
Jase expertly negotiated a change of lane, swinging into a space between a bus and a red Volkswagen Golf, and later he took an exit off the motorway, stopping outside a tavern with a bistro and bottle store. “What do you fancy to drink on the beach? I could buy a bottle of wine. And some glasses.”
It sounded too intimate, sitting on the beach drinking wine with Jase Moore. She wondered what she was doing here, why she’d rashly decided to join his spur-of-the-moment expedition. “I thought you wanted a beer.”
“Do you drink it?” His surprise almost led her to lie and say yes. “Cider,” she said, “would be nice. A small bottle, thanks.”
“Wait here.”
He came back minutes later with a six-pack of beer, her cider and a bag of potato wedges with sweet chilli sauce and sour cream. “Shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach. Have some.”
The sight and smell of the spiced wedges was too much to resist, and she reached for one, then another and another.
Rush hour traffic was heavy as they left the city but eventually the 4WD turned onto a winding road that showed glimpses of blue ocean between stands of white-feathered toe-toe, tough tiny-leaved manuka shrubs and tall, thick clumps of flax.
A few vehicles were parked on the gravel area at the end of the road, but the dun-coloured stretch of beach, streaked with broad bands of black iron-sand, looked deserted except for a lone surfer and a couple of distant figures with fishing rods on the flat-topped rocks at one end.
Jase parked beside a battered Holden station wagon with a roof-rack holding a surfboard. Samantha jumped to the ground and strolled to the sand. Jase took a rug from the back of his vehicle and joined her, and for a minute they stood inhaling the salty air and watching the breakers roll in, the blue-green water foaming on the crests and giving off a faint mist as they curled over and hurtled to the dark, glistening shore, a flattened, green-and-white mass of moving patterns leaving a long, slick tongue edged with creamy bubbles until the next wave came in.
“Tide’s coming in, by the look of it,” Jase said.
Samantha removed her shoes and they tramped over the dry, hillocky sand to a small hollow where he spread the rug and they sat down to sip at their cool drinks. They talked only desultorily, and Samantha began to feel pleasantly lazy and rather like a truant.
Jase crushed the empty single can he’d taken from the six-pack, and when she finished her cider he collected up the containers. Samantha shook out the rug and he stowed everything in their vehicle then said, “Let’s walk.”
They crossed the soft, still-hot sand to the smoother, harder part of the broad beach, where their feet made only shallow prints. Jase had discarded his shoes and rolled up his jeans, and Samantha swung her shoes in one hand. Just out of reach of the waves, they walked in silence for a while, enjoying the sea-scented wind that made Jase swipe hair from his eyes and teased
“To a beach,” he said imperturbably.
She took her cell phone from her bag but as her finger hovered over the “on” button she found the idea of no one knowing where she was strangely liberating.
She lifted her finger and dropped the phone back in her bag again. “Where?” she asked again.
“The west coast,” he said. “Not some tame, crowded strip of trucked-in sand.”
The west-coast beaches—Piha, Muriwai, and their less-well-known neighbours—were wide and wild, a paradise for surfers but often dangerous. Lifeguard patrols routinely rescued swimmers swept out to sea by rips, board-riders who had overestimated their skills, and fishers washed from the rocks by rogue waves. Of course he’d prefer one of those beaches.
Jase expertly negotiated a change of lane, swinging into a space between a bus and a red Volkswagen Golf, and later he took an exit off the motorway, stopping outside a tavern with a bistro and bottle store. “What do you fancy to drink on the beach? I could buy a bottle of wine. And some glasses.”
It sounded too intimate, sitting on the beach drinking wine with Jase Moore. She wondered what she was doing here, why she’d rashly decided to join his spur-of-the-moment expedition. “I thought you wanted a beer.”
“Do you drink it?” His surprise almost led her to lie and say yes. “Cider,” she said, “would be nice. A small bottle, thanks.”
“Wait here.”
He came back minutes later with a six-pack of beer, her cider and a bag of potato wedges with sweet chilli sauce and sour cream. “Shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach. Have some.”
The sight and smell of the spiced wedges was too much to resist, and she reached for one, then another and another.
Rush hour traffic was heavy as they left the city but eventually the 4WD turned onto a winding road that showed glimpses of blue ocean between stands of white-feathered toe-toe, tough tiny-leaved manuka shrubs and tall, thick clumps of flax.
A few vehicles were parked on the gravel area at the end of the road, but the dun-coloured stretch of beach, streaked with broad bands of black iron-sand, looked deserted except for a lone surfer and a couple of distant figures with fishing rods on the flat-topped rocks at one end.
Jase parked beside a battered Holden station wagon with a roof-rack holding a surfboard. Samantha jumped to the ground and strolled to the sand. Jase took a rug from the back of his vehicle and joined her, and for a minute they stood inhaling the salty air and watching the breakers roll in, the blue-green water foaming on the crests and giving off a faint mist as they curled over and hurtled to the dark, glistening shore, a flattened, green-and-white mass of moving patterns leaving a long, slick tongue edged with creamy bubbles until the next wave came in.
“Tide’s coming in, by the look of it,” Jase said.
Samantha removed her shoes and they tramped over the dry, hillocky sand to a small hollow where he spread the rug and they sat down to sip at their cool drinks. They talked only desultorily, and Samantha began to feel pleasantly lazy and rather like a truant.
Jase crushed the empty single can he’d taken from the six-pack, and when she finished her cider he collected up the containers. Samantha shook out the rug and he stowed everything in their vehicle then said, “Let’s walk.”
They crossed the soft, still-hot sand to the smoother, harder part of the broad beach, where their feet made only shallow prints. Jase had discarded his shoes and rolled up his jeans, and Samantha swung her shoes in one hand. Just out of reach of the waves, they walked in silence for a while, enjoying the sea-scented wind that made Jase swipe hair from his eyes and teased
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