in hers.
Bleak irony tightened his mouth as the house came into view through the tall, sinuous trunks of the palms. One of these trees had killed Tom, its loosened fruit as dangerous as a cannon ball. He’d known the risk, of course, but he’d gone out in a cyclone after hearing what he thought were calls for help.
It had taken only one falling coconut to kill him instantly.
Luc dragged his gaze from the woman in front to survey Tom’s bolthole. It couldn’t have been a greater contrast to the other homes and apartments his stepfather owned around the globe, all decorated with his wife’s exquisite taste.
A pavilion in tropical style flanked by wide verandas, its thatched pandanus roof was supported by the polished trunks of coconut palms. With no visible exterior walls, privacy was ensured by lush, exuberant plantings.
The woman ahead of him turned and gave a perfunctory smile. ‘Welcome,’ she said without warmth. ‘Have you been here before?’
‘Not lately.’ In spite of the fabled beauty of the Pacific Islands, his mother had found them too hot, too humid and too primitive, and the society unsophisticated and boring. As well, the climate made her asthma much worse.
And once he’d retired Tom had made it clear that his island home was a refuge. Visitors—certainly his stepson—weren’t welcome.
For obvious reasons, Luc thought on a flick of contempt. With Joanna Forman in residence Tom had needed no one else.
His answering nod as brief as her smile, he followed her into the house and looked around, taking in the bamboo furniture and clam shells, the drifts of mosquito netting casually looped back from the openings. A black and white pottery vase on the bamboo table was filled with ginger flowers in gaudy yellows and oranges that would have made his mother blink in shock. Although the blooms clashed with an assortment of brilliant foliage, whoever arranged them had an instinctive eye for colour and form.
Luc found himself wondering whether perhaps the casually effective simplicity of the house suited Tom better than the sophisticated perfection of his other homes …
Dismissing the foolish supposition, he said coolly, ‘Very Pacific.’
Jo clamped her lips over a sharp retort. Tom had loved this place; in spite of his huge success he’d had no pretensions. The house was built to suit the lazy, languorous climate, its open walls allowing free entry to every cooling breeze.
It would be a shame if Tom’s stepson turned out to be a snide, condescending snob.
Why should she care? Luc MacAllister meant nothing to her. Presumably he’d come to warn her she had to vacate the house; well, she’d expected that and made plans to move into a small flat in Rotumea’s only town.
But Luc had bothered enough to defuse that awkward scene with Sean. And at least he was staying at the resort.
Still, she counted to five before she said levelly, ‘This is the Pacific, and the house works very well here.’
‘I’m sure it does.’ He looked around. ‘Is there a spare room?’
His dismissive tone scraped her already taut nerves. No, she thought furiously, you don’t belong here! Go back to the resort where your sort stay …
Forcing her thoughts into some sort of order, she asked, ‘Are you planning to stay here?’
He gave her a cynical smile. ‘Of course. Why would I stay anywhere else?’
Sarcastic beast. Stiffly, she said, ‘All right, I’ll make up the bed for you.’
Dark brows lifted as he looked across the big central room to a white-painted lattice that made no attempt to hide the huge wrought-iron bedstead covered by the same brilliantly appliquéd quilting he’d noted on the cushions.
‘Are there no walls at all in the place?’ he asked abruptly.
Jo managed to stop herself from bristling. ‘Houses here tend to be built without walls,’ she told him. ‘Privacy isn’t an issue, of course—the local people wouldn’t dream of coming without an invitation, and Tom never had guests.’
His black brows met. In a voice as cold as a shower of hail, he demanded, ‘Where do you sleep?’
CHAPTER TWO
SOMETHING IN THE crystalline depths of Luc MacAllister’s eyes sent uncomfortable prickles of sensation sizzling down Jo’s spine. Trying to ignore them, she said shortly, ‘My room’s on the other side of the house.’
His frown indicated that he wasn’t happy about that. Surely he didn’t expect her to move out without notice? Well, it was his problem, not hers.
It would have been nice to be forewarned that he expected to stay, but this man didn’t seem to do nice. So she said, ‘I assume you won’t mind sleeping in the bed Tom used?’ And hoped he would mind. She wanted him to go back to the resort and stay there until he took his arrogant self off to whatever country he next honoured with his presence.
But he said, ‘Of course not.’ So much for hope.
She gave the conversation a sharp twist. ‘I presume you flew in yesterday?’
‘Yes.’ Which meant he wouldn’t be accustomed to the tropical humidity.
Good manners drove her to offer, ‘Can I get you a drink? What would you like?’
Broad shoulders lifted slightly, sending another shimmering, tantalising sensation through her. Darn it, she didn’t want to be so aware of him … Possibly he’d noticed her sneaky unexpected response because his reply came in an even more abrupt tone. ‘Coffee, thank you. I’ll bring in my bag.’
Jo nodded and walked into the kitchen. Of course coffee would be his drink of choice. Black and strong, probably—to stress that uber-macho personality. He didn’t need to bother. She knew exactly the sort of man Luc MacAllister was. Tom hadn’t spoken much about his family, but he’d said enough. And although he’d fought hard to keep control of his empire, he had once admitted that he could think of no one other than Luc to take his place. A person had to be special to win Tom’s trust. And tough.
With an odd little shiver, she decided Luc MacAllister certainly fitted the bill.
If he preferred something alcoholic she’d show him the drinks cupboard and the bottle of Tom’s favourite whisky—still almost full, just as he’d left it.
A swift pang of grief stung through her. Damn it, but she missed Tom. Her hand shook slightly, just enough to shower ground coffee onto the bench. In the couple of years since her aunt’s death Jo had grown close to him. A great storyteller, he’d enjoyed making her laugh—and occasionally shocking her.
Biting her lip, she wiped up the coffee grounds. He’d been a constant part of her life on and off since childhood. Sometimes she wondered if he thought of her as a kind of stepdaughter.
When she’d used up her mother’s legacy setting up a skincare business on Rotumea, he’d advanced her money to keep it going—on strictly businesslike terms—but even more valuable had been his interest in her progress
