plenty of money, after all. So what if they were decades apart in age? B.B. was a secretive man, but he didn’t do anything without a reason. No one had ever seen him make a false move. Now Ms. Jessica Tennant, in the guise of an interior designer. What had seemed incomprehensible started to appear perfectly clear.
I have to protect myself, Robyn thought. I’m no loser like Mum.
A FEW MINUTES BEFORE THE TIME scheduled for the grand tour, Jessica made her way downstairs. Best not be late, when Bannerman was famous for bawling people out. Robyn had dropped out of sight, no doubt slamming her palm against her forehead in mortification, but Mrs. Patterson, who turned out to be a very pleasant woman, had been on hand to show Jessica to her room.
There, she had changed her outfit, settling for something cool, cotton pants with a gauzy multicolored caftan top decorated with little crystals and beads over with tiny buttons down the front. Usually she did up just enough to cover her bra, but with the way Broderick Bannerman had been looking at her, she decided to do them all up.
The dazzling play of late-afternoon light falling through the beautiful leaded panes and fan lights on the front door held her immobile for a moment. The kaleidoscope of color unlocked some lovely fragment of memory from her childhood. Before she could move, the door opened, letting in a wave of hot air.
And Cyrus Bannerman. The look he gave her held her transfixed.
“Hi!”
“Ms. Tennant. We meet again.”
At first glance, he could have been a particularly sexy and virile escapee from the TV show Survivor. His darkly tanned skin glowing with sweat and grimed with red dust gave him a startlingly exotic appearance. Red dust had thrown a film over his jet-black hair, which was tousled and fell onto his forehead. There was a stain of brownish-red—blood—across his bush shirt, and his eyes seem to blaze a hole through her.
They continued gazing at one another for what seemed an inordinate amount of time. Was it the atmosphere? she wondered. The old homestead certainly had an air about it.
“Sorry,” he said finally. “I must look a mess. One of the men took a bad fall off his motorbike. Head injuries. We didn’t want to move him. I had to call in the RFDS. That’s the Royal Flying Doctor Service, as I expect you know. God knows what we’d do without them. They didn’t take long.”
“Is he going to be all right?” Only now could she take a few more steps down the stairs, reassured that an injured employee so clearly mattered to him.
“We have to wait and see with head injuries. I’m worried about him.” Cy’s remarkable eyes made another sweep over her. “Meanwhile, what have you been up to?”
“Why, nothing.” She stopped where she was on the stairs. “Change of clothes is all,” she said sweetly. “Now your father is taking me on a tour of the new house.”
“I see.” He pulled at the red bandanna at his throat, exuding so much powerful masculinity she felt in need of oxygen.
“That’s good. For a moment I thought you’d missed something along the way. Your father has hired me to handle the interior design.”
“Indeed he has. Forgive me if it takes a little time to get used to it.” He came close to her, so commanding a presence, Jessica remained where she was, two steps above him. A dubious advantage.
“You must be extremely clever, Ms. Tennant. Dad was compelled to hire you after seeing you for about ten minutes on a TV program? Have I got that right?”
He was suspicious of his father’s motivation, she suddenly realized. It was emblazoned on his smug, handsome face. “You have. What’s so amazing?”
“The pure chance of it.” His eyes shifted to the little beads and crystals on her top and he gave a leisurely verdict. “Very pretty.” He paused, then said, “Look, Ms. Tennant, I’ll level with you. I’m concerned about this. I’m sure you’re talented, but it doesn’t automatically follow you should be given such a big commission. At this stage of your career anyway.”
She leaned forward slightly, her voice mock confidential. “Be that as it may, it was your father who hired me, Cyrus. He’s the man I have to answer to. Not you.”
“Say that again.” Suddenly he smiled into her eyes. Night into day.
“I’m sure you took it in the first time. Your father hired me—”
“Not that!” he scoffed. “The Cyrus bit. I really liked the sound of my name on your lips.”
She knew she blushed, but she couldn’t control it. “Calling you Cyrus is the easy bit. Getting on with you appears to be quite another. What exactly is it you and your sister—”
“I don’t have a sister,” he corrected.
“That’s odd. I’ve met her.”
“You’ve met Robyn,” he pointed out suavely. “Robyn is my father’s adopted daughter.”
“Which surely means legally she’s your stepsister?”
“Ah, you’re turning into a hotshot lawyer before my very eyes. Robyn is my stepsister, forgive me. She must be. She lives here.”
“Not your average loving family, then?” She forced her breath to stay even.
“Unfortunately, no.”
“I’m sure there are reasons.”
“There always are. Are you going to come down from those stairs?”
“Not for the moment. I like us to be on the same level.” She was attracted to this man. Powerfully attracted. It was the very last thing she needed or wanted. She was here to do a job, not play at a dangerous flirtation.
“That would never be unless you grow a few inches.”
“Or own some very fancy high-heeled shoes, which I do. Well, it’s nice chatting with you, Cyrus, but I’m supposed to meet your father.”
“I’m not detaining you, surely?” He made an elaborate play of backing off, his ironic smile putting more pressure on her. She felt slightly giddy as she descended the last two stairs to pass him. Something he undoubtedly noticed and chalked up as a small victory.
Her nerves were stretched so taut she actually jumped when Broderick Bannerman, a look of barely suppressed impatience on his face, suddenly appeared in the entrance hall. He looked from one to the other as though they were conspiring in a plot against him. “There you are, Ms. Tennant. I did say four o’clock, didn’t I?”
“I’m so sorry—” Jessica was tempted to mention it could only have been a few minutes after four, but Cyrus intervened.
“She was chatting with me, Dad. Okay?” He lifted a hard-muscled arm and glanced at his watch. “How time flies! It’s three minutes past.”
“And you’re back early,” B.B. clipped off.
“Surely there’s not a note of disapproval in that. I don’t clock on and off, Dad. Eddie Vine took a bad spill off his motorbike. He’s been airlifted
