delayed made it obvious she had none.
‘Unless you eat all your meals on the run, Miss Harris?’ he drawled.
Domenica flinched inwardly at the underlying sarcasm of his question. She also asked herself why she was so unwilling to see more of this man without even giving it much thought, and realized it was an instinctive reaction to a subtle process that had been going on between them from the moment they’d laid eyes on each other. Certainly, for his part, an assessment of her that was not only physical but as if her mental processes were on test too had taken place—then again, she hadn’t been immune from making assessments either.
But it still came as something of a surprise to her that she should have been drawn into the process. Because she’d been prepared to dislike him thoroughly and with good reason, considering the war they’d waged over the sale of Lidcombe Peace? Only to discover herself speculating on his physique but, not only that, responding to the things he’d said as they’d moved about the house, things that had indicated a sense of humour as well as a man who might be interesting to know intellectually…
Or had it been a lot simpler? she reflected. That there was a magnetism about Angus Keir that could be summed up in three words—sheer sex appeal. It was impossible not to be impressed by his body, by his hands, by an aura of refined strength, as well as touched by the lurking feeling that, when you added it all up, it made you feel particularly womanly.
She blinked surprisedly at this choice of words that had sprung to mind and didn’t sound like her at all, and decided it was all the more reason to escape Angus Keir as soon as possible.
She said, ‘No, I don’t eat all my meals on the run, Mr Keir, but the thing is, although I told you I was a realist, it hasn’t been that easy to hand Lidcombe Peace over to you, or to anyone, for that matter, and I think it would be better to make a clean cut now.’ Which had an element of truth in it, she mused.
But the expression that crept into those smoky-grey eyes as he looked down at her meditatively was both insolent and sceptical, causing Domenica to feel suddenly unsure of herself. Because he’d read exactly how ‘womanly’—just hate that term now, she decided with gritted teeth—he’d made her feel, and knew all too well that she was disseminating for the most part?
Damn him, she thought. Who does he think he is? The Sheik of Araby? Only to close her eyes in further frustration as she wondered where these outlandish or coy expressions were coming from, and to fall back on her mother’s tried and tested defence for all situations that she felt were beneath her—pride.
She tilted her chin, looked at him with extreme composure and said coolly, ‘So, goodbye, Mr Keir. I don’t think there’ll be any need for our paths to cross again. My solicitor can deal with any problems you may have.’ And she picked up her hat and stalked out.
Nor did she give any indication as she strode to her car of the mixture of annoyance yet skin-prickling awareness of him watching her that possessed her until she was in the car, turning the key. And only then did she give some rein to her emotions—because nothing happened.
‘Start, damn you!’ she ordered it, and tried again. But it didn’t and she only just restrained herself from pounding the steering wheel with her palms.
While Angus Keir, standing on the veranda with his hands shoved into his pockets, grinned satanically and started to walk towards the car as Domenica Harris got out and slammed the door with a lot less savoir-faire than she’d previously exhibited.
‘It’s the starter motor,’ he said a few minutes later. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t had trouble with it before.’
Domenica, still raging inwardly, paused and thought a bit as she fanned herself with her hat. ‘Now you mention it, it has been sounding a bit strange lately. Can you fix it?’
Angus took his time about replying because he was laughing inwardly, this time at her lady-of-the-manor manner, and because he knew that, while he might be able to fix it temporarily, he had no intention of doing so. ‘I’m afraid not. But I’d be happy to give you a lift into town, Miss Harris.’ He wiped his hands on his handkerchief and closed the bonnet. ‘The only thing is, I’m starving.’
Domenica regarded him frustratedly.
‘I could also tow the car down to the local garage where you could make arrangements for it to be repaired and returned to you,’ he added.
She glanced at his vehicle, a large, powerful, latest model Range Rover undoubtedly capable of towing her rather shabby hatchback sedan, and said through her teeth, ‘Don’t rely on fate always working in your favour, Mr Keir!’
‘Certainly not,’ he responded. ‘But I’m sure you’ll feel better after a civilized lunch rather than eating on the run, Miss Harris.’
The restaurant had a garden area with tables set beneath a pergola bearing the weight of a grapevine laden with dark, bloomy fruit. It offered delicious shade on what was now a very hot summer’s day, and that was where they ate. There were birds singing in the hedge that screened the road, cicadas shrilling in the grass and yellow cotton cloths on the tables. They also shared a small carafe of the house wine, which Angus had ordered without consulting her.
But, both the wine and the delicious, home-made steak and kidney pie she’d ordered did put her in a better mood. It even made her feel that she’d been rather churlish, and she set out to make amends, although in the most general way. She followed his lead on several topics of conversation ranging from sport, to books, to politics, then found herself, without quite knowing how it had happened, telling him about her business.
‘They’re girls’ clothes,’ she said, ‘and marketed under the “Primrose” label. I cater for girls from four to twelve, which is about the upper limit for most girls to enjoy lovely, frothy, feminine creations.’
He raised a dark eyebrow.
She grinned. ‘From then onwards they go through a grunge stage or trying to look as adult as possible,’ she explained.
‘How did you work that out? Market research?’
‘No. Memories of my childhood and just looking about.’
‘So how did you start? With an old sewing machine in the garage?’
‘Hardly.’ She grimaced and paused as their gazes clashed and she saw a flicker of something that could have been caustic in his grey eyes, although she had no idea why.
She frowned faintly but he didn’t explain so she went on, ‘After university, where I studied design and marketing, I teamed up with a friend who is a much better seamstress than I am. And, after an assessment of where there might be a gap in the market, we hired a studio and a few more sewers and went into production. I do the designing, marketing and handle the business aspects, she handles the actual making of the clothes.’
‘Sounds very professional,’ he murmured. ‘How did you come up with the capital to start it?’
‘My Lidcombe grandmother left me a small inheritance but I also applied for and got a bank loan. That’s been paid off, though, I’ve recouped my initial investment and we’re making a steady, although at this stage not exactly spectacular, profit. Since I recently persuaded two major department stores to stock our clothes, which gives us a much higher profile now, and even although we’ll need to expand, I expect our profits to rise quite considerably.’
‘You
