on models very plain when she was here before. All the same, under his assessment, a little flush crept up her face, especially when his gaze lingered on her long, slender legs.
‘Very chic,’ he drawled, and she felt Patrick stiffen next to her, resenting the personal nature of the remark.
Josh Kern hadn’t so much as acknowledged Patrick’s presence yet, even by looking in his direction. No doubt, Laura thought, he found her an easier target, an idea which made her bristle from head to foot like a cat that is having its fur stroked the wrong way.
‘So what do you do if you aren’t a model?’
‘I’m in public relations,’ she curtly told him, and he raised his brows in sardonic enquiry.
‘I’ve often wondered what that meant—are you some sort of journalist?’
‘No,’ she said coolly, aware that he was making fun of her, but taking his question totally seriously. ‘My firm is a buffer between a client company and the public, or the media. I deal with the Press, TV, radio, on behalf of the company, or arrange for publicity for them—when they’re launching a new product, for instance—smooth their way, make their lives easier, entertain overseas buyers for them.’
‘Ah, I see,’ he murmured, his mouth twisting cynically. ‘So that was why you had a carload of model girls with you? Were you all going off to “entertain” some overseas buyers the other day? I hope you gave them a good time.’
The insult made her flush hotly, and Patrick lost his temper. ‘Now look here, Mr Kern,’ he burst out, ‘that’s enough! You’re being damned rude...’
Josh Kern turned his dark head, and stared at him with icily arrogant indifference.
‘And who the hell are you?’ He took in Patrick’s appearance with a dismissive flick of the eyes, noting that he was dressed as formally and elegantly as Laura, in a smooth pale grey suit, expensively tailored, a crisp white shirt and a dove-grey silk tie, his black shoes shining like mirrors.
‘I’m Patrick Ogilvie, Laura’s fiancé! And I resent your tone, Mr Kern!’
Josh Kern flicked a look at Laura. ‘You’re going to marry him?’
‘Yes,’ she snapped, tense as she waited for what he might say next.
What he did was laugh. In a way that made her burn with rage. He looked Patrick up and down again, his black brows signalling contempt and amusement.
‘Now, he has got to be a model!’
Patrick went red.
‘I’m an artist, as it happens!’ If he had ever thought she was exaggerating her description of Josh Kern, Laura thought, he certainly wouldn’t after this! The man was living up to everything she had said about him.
‘An artist? Not a model?’ Those black brows shot up, signalling disbelief. ‘You amaze me. But I bet you work for glossy magazines, or do the artwork for an advertising firm.’
‘I’m freelance; I do whatever I’m commissioned to do, Mr Kern,’ Patrick said with dignity, refusing to apologise for his work or himself, and, proud of him, Laura moved to his side and slipped her hand through his arm, leaning on him. Patrick glanced down at her and then looked back at Josh Kern, his face smoothing out into courtesy again.
‘I’m sorry you dislike the idea of having us living in the cottage, Mr Kern. I realise the circumstances are difficult for you, but be fair—it’s hardly our fault that the owner doesn’t wish to sell it back to you.’
Josh Kern’s face tightened and darkened, but he didn’t say anything when Patrick paused to let him.
After a moment, Patrick went on quietly, ‘Somebody is going to buy the place, you know. Sooner or later. You might as well accept the idea.’
Josh Kern’s teeth parted and he bit out, ‘Like hell. I can’t stop you buying this place...’ His narrowed stare shot from Patrick to Laura, glittering and dangerous. ‘But, believe me, you aren’t going to enjoy living here!’
Laura’s head went back, her blonde curls blowing in the spring wind, her eyes defiant. ‘If you keep threatening us, you’ll find yourself in trouble with the police, Mr Kern!’
‘Threatening you? I wasn’t threatening you,’ he lied blandly. ‘I was warning you. About the inconvenience you’re going to suffer when I put my grids across the track.’
‘Grids?’ she repeated, thrown by that word. ‘What do you mean, grids?’
‘Cattle grids,’ he coolly said. ‘I have a very valuable herd of cows and I don’t want them straying off my land, so I’m having gates put up at the end of our private road and there will be a wide cattle grid in front. I should have done it before, but we’re so far off the beaten track that I hadn’t thought it was necessary, but now I think I will have to get it done without delay.’
‘That won’t inconvenience us,’ Laura told him. ‘I’ve often driven over cattle grids; my car can cope with them, and so can Patrick’s. As for the gates, you’ll still have to allow us free access. It will be very expensive for both sides if you make me prove my rights in court, but I will, believe me, if I have to!’
He didn’t argue with that, just murmured, ‘It will take weeks to do the work on the road, by the way. Sorry about that; there will be quite a mess.’
She laughed scornfully. ‘What? A set of gates and a cattle grid? I wouldn’t have thought so. Unless you deliberately drag it out, just to make life difficult!’
His hard mouth mocked her. ‘Well, you know country workmen—they never hurry themselves. Amazing how long they can take to do one simple little job. And the ground is pretty rocky there; they’ll probably have to use pneumatic drills, I expect, which will be noisy for you, especially as they start very early in the morning. Crack of dawn, probably.’
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