schools, of course, and a medical clinic, and a small tourist industry set up by Tom in partnership with the local people.’
‘The resort.’
‘Yes. Tom advised the tribal council to market to a wealthy clientele who’d enjoy a lazy holiday without insisting on designer shops and nightclubs. It’s worked surprisingly well.’
Again she felt the impact of his gaze on her, and her palms grew damp on the steering wheel. She hurried on, ‘Some islanders work at the resort, but most of them work the land and fish. They’re fantastic gardeners and very skilled and knowledgeable fishermen.’
‘And they’re quite content to spend their lives in this perfect Pacific paradise.’
His tone raised her hackles. ‘It never was perfect,’ she said evenly. ‘No matter how beautiful a place is, mankind doesn’t seem to be able to live peacefully. A couple of hundred years ago the islanders all lived in fortified villages up on the heights and fought incessantly, tribe against tribe. It’s not perfect now, of course, but it seems to work pretty well for most of them.’
‘What about those who want more than fish and coconuts?’
She glanced at him, caught sight of his incisive profile—all angles apart from the curve of his mouth—and hastily looked back at the road. So Tom hadn’t taken him into his confidence—and that seemed to indicate something rather distant about their relationship.
‘Tom set up scholarships with the help of the local chiefs for kids who want to go on to higher education.’
He nodded. ‘Where do they go?’
‘New Zealand mainly, although some have studied further afield.’ With the skill of long practice she negotiated three hens that could see no reason for the vehicle to claim right of way.
‘Do they return?’
‘Some do, and those who don’t keep their links, sending money back to their families.’
He said, ‘So if you don’t buy the tropical paradise thing, why are you here?’
‘I came here because of my aunt,’ she said distantly. ‘She was Tom’s housekeeper, and insisted on staying on even after she contracted cancer. Tom employed one of the island women to help her, but after my mother died she asked me to come up.’
He nodded. ‘So you took her place after her death.’
An ambiguous note in his voice made her hesitate before she answered. ‘I suppose you could say that.’
Tom hadn’t employed her. He’d suggested she stay on at Rotumea for a few months to get over her aunt’s death, and once she’d become interested in starting her business he’d seen no reason for her to move out. He liked her company, he told her.
Luc MacAllister asked, ‘Now that Tom’s not here, how do you keep busy?’
‘I run a small business.’
‘Dealing with tourists?’
It was a reasonable assumption, yet for some reason she felt a stab of irritation. ‘Partly.’ The hotel used her range.
‘What is this small business?’ he drawled.
Pride warred with an illogical desire not to tell him. ‘I source ingredients from the native plants and turn them into skincare products.’
And felt an ignoble amusement at the flash of surprise in the hard, handsome face. It vanished quickly and his voice was faintly amused when he asked, ‘What made you decide to go into that?’
‘The islanders’ fabulous skin,’ she told him calmly. ‘They spend all day in the sun, and hours in the sea, yet they never use anything but the lotions handed down by their ancestors.’
‘Good genes,’ he observed.
His cool comment thinned her lips. Was he being deliberately dismissive? She suspected Luc MacAllister didn’t do anything without a purpose.
And that included passing comments.
Steadying her voice, she said, ‘No doubt that helps, but they have the same skin problems people of European descent have—sunburn, eczema, rashes from allergies. They use particular plants to soothe them.’
‘So you’ve copied their formulas.’
His tone was still neutral, but her skin tightened at the implication of exploitation, and she had to draw breath before saying, ‘It’s a joint venture.’
‘Who provided the start-up money?’
It appeared to be nothing more than an idle question, yet swift antagonism forced her to bite back an astringent comment. Subduing it, she said politely, ‘I don’t know that that’s any of your business.’
And kept her eyes fixed on the road ahead. Tension—thick and throbbing—grated across her nerves.
Until he drawled, ‘If it was Tom’s money I’m interested.’
‘Of course,’ she retorted, before closing her mouth on any more impetuous words. Silence filled the cab until she elaborated reluctantly, ‘It was my money.’
Let him take that how he wanted. If Luc MacAllister had any right to know, he’d find out about Tom’s subsequent loan to her from the solicitor—the man arriving tomorrow.
Was that why Luc had come to Rotumea? To be told the contents of Tom’s will?
Immediately she dismissed the idea. Luc was Tom’s heir, his chosen successor as well as his stepson, so he’d already know.
Possibly Tom had mentioned her in his will; he might even have cancelled her debt to him. That would have been a kind gesture. And if he hadn’t—if Luc MacAllister inherited the debt—she’d pay it off as quickly as she could.
A coolly decisive voice broke into her thoughts. ‘And are you making money on this project?’
For brief moments her fingers clenched around the steering wheel. For a second she toyed with the idea of telling him again to mind his own business, but it was a logical question, and if he did inherit the debt he had a right to know.
However, he might not have.
‘Yes,’ she said, and turned off the tarseal onto a narrow rutted road that led up into the jungle-clad mountains in the centre of the island.
A quick glance revealed Luc was examining a pawpaw plantation on his side. He didn’t seem fazed by the state of the road, the precipice to one side or the large pig that only slowly got up and made room for them.
‘This is the area we’re taking the material from now,’ she said. ‘Each sub-tribe sells me the rights to harvest from the plants on their land for three months every year. It works well; the plants have time to recover and even seem to flourish under the pruning.’
‘How many people do you employ to do the harvesting?’
‘It
