between a man and a woman had to have a sexual base.
Neanderthal! In a way Tom was like the father she’d never known.
That night she slept badly, the thick humidity causing her to wonder if a cyclone was on its way. However, when she checked the weather forecast the following morning she was relieved to see that although one was heading across the Pacific, it would almost certainly miss Rotumea.
Then her shop manager rang to apologise because a family crisis meant she wouldn’t be in until after lunch, so Jo put aside the paperwork that had built up over the month since Tom’s death, and went into the only town on the island to take Savisi’s place.
And of course she had to deal with the worst customer she’d ever come across, an arrogant little snip of about twenty whose clothes proclaimed far too much money and whose manners reminded Jo of an unpleasant animal—a weasel, she decided sardonically, breathing a sigh of relief when the girl swayed, all hips and pout, out of the shop.
But at least Savisi arrived immediately after midday to relieve her. She drove back to the oasis of Tom’s house, yet once she’d eaten lunch she paced about restlessly, unable to draw any comfort from its familiarity.
In the end, she decided a swim in the lagoon would make her feel more human.
It certainly refreshed her, but not enough. Wistfully eyeing the hammock slung from the branch of one of the big overhanging trees, she surrendered to temptation.
Her name, spoken in a deep male voice, woke her with a start. Yawning, she peered resentfully through her lashes at the figure of a tall man with the tropical sun behind him. She couldn’t see his features, and although she recognised his voice she couldn’t slot him into her life.
Groggy from sleep, she muttered, ‘Go away.’
‘I’m not going away. Wake up.’
The tone hit her like an icy shower. And the words were a direct order, with the implied suggestion of a threat. Indignant and irritated, she scrambled out of the hammock and pushed her mass of hair back to stare upwards, her dazed gaze slowly travelling over the stranger’s features while she forced her brain into action.
Oh. The man from last night …
Feeling oddly vulnerable, she wished she’d chosen a bathing suit that covered more skin than this bikini.
Not that he was showing any interest in her body. That assessing stare was fixed on her face.
‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded. ‘This is a private beach.’
‘I know. I came to see you.’
Although Jo just managed to stop a dumbfounded gape, nothing could prevent her jerky step backwards. Shock, and a strange feverish thrill shot through her, dissipating when she realised who he had to be. Hastily she shoved on her sunglasses—a fragile shield against his penetrating survey—and blurted, ‘You’re the solicitor, right?’ Frowning, she added, ‘I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow.’
Not that he looked anything like a solicitor. Nothing so tame! Pirates came to mind, or Vikings—lethal and overwhelmingly male and almost barbaric. And very, very vital. It was hard to imagine him sitting behind a desk and drawing up wills …
‘I am not the solicitor,’ he said curtly.
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Then who are you?’
‘I’m Luc MacAllister.’
Like his face, the name was familiar, yet her groggy mind couldn’t place it. Warily, she asked, ‘All right, Luc MacAllister, what do you want?’
‘I’ve told you—I came to see you.’ Again he seemed bored.
Before she could organise her thoughts he spoke again, each word incisive and clear.
‘My mother was Tom Henderson’s wife.’
‘Tom?’ she said, everything suddenly clicking into place with ominous clarity. Heat stained her face.
So this large, brutally handsome man was Tom’s stepson.
And he was angry.
OK, so after Sean’s sneers last night Luc MacAllister probably believed she’d been Tom’s lover. Even so, there was no need for that scathing survey.
Humiliation burned through her. It took a few seconds for pride to come to her aid, stiffening her backbone and lifting her chin sharply, and all the while, Luc MacAllister’s gunmetal gaze drilled through her as though she were some repulsive insect.
An explanation could wait. This man was part of Tom’s family. He’d taken over Tom’s empire a few years previously, after Tom’s slight illness. According to Tom, it hadn’t been an amiable handing over of reins …
One glance at Luc MacAllister’s arrogantly honed features made that entirely believable. Yet, although Tom had been manipulated away from the seat of power, he’d still seemed to trust and respect his stepson.
Fumbling for some control, Jo fell back on common courtesy and held out her hand. ‘Of course. Tom spoke of you a lot. How do you do, Mr MacAllister.’
He looked at her as though she were mad, his grey gaze almost incredulous. At first she thought he was going to ignore her gesture, but after a moment that seemed to stretch out interminably, he took her hand.
Lightning ran up her arm as long steely fingers closed around hers, setting off a charge of electricity that exploded into heat in the pit of her stomach. Startled, she nearly jerked away. He gave her hand a brief, derisory shake before dropping it as though it had contaminated him.
All right, so possibly it hadn’t been the most appropriate response on her part, but he was rude! And he couldn’t have made it plainer that he’d swallowed Sean’s vicious insinuation hook, line and sinker.
Disliking him intensely, she said crisply, ‘I suppose you’re here to talk about the house.’
Without waiting for an answer, she stooped to pick up her towel and draped it sarong fashion around her as she turned her back.
‘This way,’ she said over her shoulder, and led him through the grove of coconut palms.
Luc watched her sway ahead of him, assessing long legs and slender curves and lines, gilded arms and shoulders that gleamed in the shafts of sunlight, toffee-coloured hair tumbling in warm profusion down her back. Unwillingly his body responded with heady, primitive appreciation. Tom had good taste, he thought cynically; no wonder he’d fallen for such young, vibrantly sensuous flesh. Even in her prime, long before her death, his mother would never have matched this woman.
That thought should have stopped the stirrings of desire but not even contempt—now redirected at himself—could do anything to dampen the urgent hunger knotting his gut. He’d never lost his head over a woman, but for a moment he got a glimmer of the angry frustration that had driven the man last night to bail her up in the car park. She must have trampled right over his emotions …
But what else could you expect from a woman who’d chosen to sleep with a man old enough to be her grandfather? Generosity of spirit?
