over the desk, his arctic gaze never leaving Bruce’s face.
Bruce rose also, wondering why the man facing him seemed considerably taller than his height of a few inches over six feet.
Presence …
Luc MacAllister had it in spades.
MacAllister’s lip curled. ‘Presumably this Forman woman will play along with Tom’s condition.’
‘She’d be extremely stupid not to,’ Bruce felt compelled to point out. The other man’s intimidating glance made him say bluntly, ‘However difficult the situation, both you and she have a lot to gain by sticking to the terms Tom set out.’
In fact, Joanna Forman had the power to deprive Luc MacAllister of something he’d worked for all his adult life—complete control of Tom Henderson’s vast empire.
Which was why the younger man’s face looked as though it had been carved out of granite.
Once more MacAllister glanced down at the will. ‘I assume you tried to persuade Tom not to do this.’
Bruce said crisply, ‘He knew exactly what he wanted.’
‘And like a good solicitor and an old friend, you’ve done your best to see that this is watertight.’
Luc didn’t expect an answer. He’d get his legal team to go through the will with a fine-tooth comb, but Bruce Keller was a shrewd lawyer and a good one. He didn’t expect to be able to challenge it.
He asked, ‘Does Joanna Forman know of her good fortune yet?’
‘Not yet. Tom insisted I tell her in person. I’m flying to Rotumea in three days.’
Luc reined in his temper. It was unfair to blame the solicitor for not preventing this outrageous condition. His stepfather was not a man to take advice, and once Tom had made up his mind he couldn’t be swayed. He’d been a freebooter, his recklessness paying off more often than not until that tiny temporary stroke had messed around with his brain.
Which was the reason, Luc thought grimly, he and Joanna Forman would be forced to live in close proximity for the next six months.
Not only that, at the end of the six months she’d make the decision that would either hand him the reins of Tom’s empire, or deprive him of everything he’d fought for these past years.
One thing he had to know. ‘Will you tell her that she’ll decide who controls Henderson’s?’
And watched closely as the solicitor expostulated, ‘You know I can’t reveal that.’
Luc hid a bleak satisfaction. When required, Bruce Keller could produce a poker face, but Luc was prepared to bet that Tom had stipulated Joanna Forman not be told until it was time for her to make her decision.
Which gave him room to manoeuvre. ‘And if her decision is against me, what will happen?’
Keller hesitated, then said, ‘That’s another thing I can’t divulge.’
Well, it had been worth a try. Tom would have organised someone he trusted to take over, and Luc knew who that would be—Tom’s nephew.
He’d fought Luc for supremacy in various overt and covert ways, culminating a year previously in his elopement and subsequent marriage to Luc’s fiancée. Who just happened to be Tom’s goddaughter.
Damn you, Tom.
Jo stood up from the desk and stretched, easing the ache between her shoulder blades. After two years in the tropical Pacific she was accustomed to heat and humidity, but today had left her exhausted.
The last thing she wanted to do was play gooseberry to a pair of honeymooners, but her oldest friend had brought her new husband to stay one night at Rotumea’s expensive resort so her two favourite people could meet …
And Lindy and she had been best friends since they’d bonded on their first day at school in New Zealand, and it would be lovely to see her again.
Also, she was eager to meet the man who’d generated Lindy’s rave reviews during the past year. A non-existent bank balance had prevented Jo from accepting her friend’s request to be maid of honour, and the current recession meant there wasn’t much chance of things improving financially for her for a while.
Not that she was going to dim the couple’s happiness with any mention of her business worries. But the sooner she got home and made herself ready, the better.
Several hours later she realised she was wishing she’d made an excuse. The evening had started well; Lindy was radiant, her new husband charming and very appropriately besotted, and they’d sipped a champagne toast to the future as the sun dived suddenly beneath the horizon and twilight enfolded the island in a purple cloak shot with the silver dazzle of stars.
‘You’re so lucky,’ Lindy had sighed. ‘Rotumea has to be the most beautiful place in the world.’
Before she’d had a chance to do more than set down her glass, Jo heard a familiar smooth voice from behind, and the evening immediately lost its gloss.
‘Hi, Jo-girl, how’re things going?’
Jo froze. Of all the people on the island, Sean was the one she least wanted to see. Only a few days after Tom’s death she’d refused his suggestion of an affair. His reaction had left her nauseated and furious.
However, she wasn’t going to let his presence spoil the evening for her friends. She turned, wishing she’d chosen to wear something a little less revealing when Sean’s gaze immediately dropped to her cleavage.
‘Fine, thanks,’ she said calmly, trying to convey that she didn’t want him there without making it obvious to her companions.
Sean lifted his eyes to give the other two a practised smile. ‘Hi. Let me guess—you’re the honeymooners Jo’s been looking forward to seeing, right? Enjoying your stay in the tropics?’
Seething, Jo wished she’d had the sense to realise what sort of man he was before she’d told him about Lindy.
Sure enough, her friend beamed at him. ‘Loving everything about it.’
His smile broadened. ‘I’m Sean Harvey.’ Glancing at Jo, he drawled, ‘A friend of Jo’s.’
So of course Lindy invited him to sit down. Jo cast a harried look around the open-air restaurant, her gaze colliding with that of a man being seated at the next table.
Automatically she gave a brief smile. Not a muscle in his hard, handsome face moved and, feeling as though he’d slapped her, Jo looked away.
Fair men usually looked amiable and casual—surfer-style. Well, not always, she admitted, the most recent James Bond incarnation springing to mind. In spite of the sun-bleached streaks in his ash-brown hair, this stranger had the same dangerous aura.
Surfer-style he was not …
Tall and powerfully muscled, good-looking in an uncompromising, chiselled fashion, he had eyes like cold grey lasers and a jaw that gave no quarter.
