examined it with interest. ‘Looks good,’ he said laconically. ‘Is that your baking?’
‘Yes.’ Jo busied herself pouring the coffee. She’d been right; he liked it black and full-flavoured, but unlike Tom he didn’t demand that it snarl as it seethed out of the pot.
Sipping her own coffee gave her something to do while he demolished a slice of coconut cake and asked incisively penetrating questions about Rotumea and its society.
She knew why he was here. He’d come to tell her he was going to sell the house. Yet, in spite of his attitude, his arrival warmed her a little; she’d expected nothing more than a businesslike message ordering her to vacate the place. That he should come out of his way to tell her was as much a surprise as the letter from Tom’s solicitor suggesting the meeting tomorrow.
Leaving the house would be saying goodbye to part of her heart. Get on with it, she mentally urged him as he set his cup down.
‘That was excellent.’ He leaned back into his chair and surveyed her, his grey gaze hooded.
It looked as though she’d have to broach the matter herself. Without preamble, she said, ‘I can move out as soon as you like.’
His brows lifted. ‘Why?’
Nonplussed, she answered, ‘Well, I suppose you plan to sell this house.’ He’d never shown any interest in the place, and his initial glance around had seemed to be tinged with snobbish contempt.
He paused before answering. ‘No.’ And paused again before adding, ‘Not yet, anyway.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought—’ She stopped.
He waited for her to finish, and when the silence had stretched too taut to be comfortable, he ordered with cool self-possession, ‘Go on.’
She shrugged. ‘This was Tom’s dream.’ Not Luc MacAllister’s.
‘So?’
The dismissive monosyllable sent her back a few years to the awkwardness of her teens. A spark of antagonism rallied her into giving him a smile that perhaps showed too many teeth before she parried smoothly, ‘It doesn’t seem like your sort of setting, but I do try not to make instant judgements of people I’ve only just met.’
‘Eminently sensible of you,’ he drawled, and abruptly changed the subject. ‘How good is the Internet access here?’
‘Surely you knew your father better than—’
‘My stepfather,’ he cut in, his voice flat and inflexible. ‘My father was a Scotsman who died when I was three.’
In spite of the implied rejection of Tom’s presence in his life, Jo felt a flash of kinship. Her father had died before she was born.
However, one glance at Luc’s stony face expelled any sympathy. Quietly she said, ‘There is access to broadband.’ She indicated the screen that hid Tom’s computer nook. ‘Feel free.’
‘Later. I noticed as I flew in that the island isn’t huge, and there seems to be a road right around it. Why don’t you show me the sights?’
Hoping she’d managed to hide her astonishment, she said, ‘Yes, of course.’ Her mouth twitched as she took in his long legs. ‘Not on the scooter, though, I think.’ Why on earth did he want to see Rotumea?
His angular face would never soften, but the smile he gave her radiated a charisma that almost sent her reeling. He was too astute not to understand its impact. No doubt it had charmed his way—backed by his keen intelligence and hard determination.
‘Not on the scooter,’ he agreed. ‘I wouldn’t enjoy riding with my knees hitting my chin at every bump in the road.’
Taken by surprise, she laughed. His brows rose and his face set, and she felt as though she’d been jolted by an electric shock.
So what was that for? Didn’t he like having his minor jokes appreciated?
Black lashes hid his eyes a moment before he permitted himself another smile, this one marked by more than a hint of cynicism.
Sobering rapidly, Jo said, ‘We’ll take the four-wheeler.’
‘What’s a four-wheeler?’
Shrugging, she said, ‘It’s the local term for a four-wheel drive—a Land Rover, to be exact.’
An old Land Rover, showing the effects of years in the unkind climate of the tropics, but well maintained. Jo expected Luc to want to drive, but when she held out the keys he said casually, ‘You know the local rules, I don’t.’
Surprised, she got in behind the wheel. Even more surprised, she heard the door close decisively on her, penning her in. Her gaze followed him as he strode around the front of the vehicle, unwillingly appreciating his athletic male grace.
Once more that provocative awareness shivered along her nerves.
He was too much … too much man, she thought as he settled himself beside her. All the air seemed sucked out of the cab and as she hastily switched on the engine she scolded herself for behaving like a schoolgirl with a crush.
‘Basically the road rules here amount to don’t run over anything,’ she explained, so accustomed to the sticking clutch she set the vehicle on its way without a jerk. ‘Collisions are accompanied by a lot of drama, but traffic is so slow people seldom get hurt. If you cause any damage or run over a chicken or a pig, you apologise profusely and pay for it. And you always give way to any vehicle with children, especially if it’s a motor scooter with children up behind.’
‘They look extremely dangerous,’ he said.
His voice indicated that he’d turned his head to survey her. Tiny beads of sweat sprang out at her temples. Hoping he hadn’t noticed, she stared ahead, steering to miss the worst of the ruts along the drive.
She had to deliberately steady her voice to say, ‘The local children seem to be born with the ability to ride pillion without falling off.’
Her reaction to Luc meant nothing.
Or very little. Her mother had explained the dynamics of physical attraction to her when she’d suffered her first adolescent crush. And her own experience—limited but painful—had convinced Jo of her mother’s accuracy.
She set her jaw. Sean’s insinuations about her mother had hurt some deep inner part of her. Even in her forties, Ilona Forman’s great beauty and style had made her a regular on the Parisian catwalks, and she’d been one great designer’s inspiration for years.
To her surprise, the tour went off reasonably well. Jo was careful not to overstep the boundary of cool acquaintanceship, and Luc MacAllister matched her attitude. Nevertheless, tension wound her nerves tighter with each kilometre they travelled over Rotumea’s fairly primitive road.
Luc’s occasional comments indicated that the famous romance of the South Seas made little impression on him. Although, to be fair, he’d probably seen far more picturesque tropical islands than Rotumea.
Nevertheless
