else could it be? Clearly it’s somebody who likes to make an entrance. It figures it’d be a Chatsfield.’
‘You don’t know that, Holly.’
Her hackles did.
Her bones did.
‘It’s him,’ she said, before balling the tea towel in her hands and unceremoniously flinging it across the room to land in the sink with the same unerring certainty. She slid open the door to air that was so cold and crisp it might snap, the rain squalls moved on for now, and from the edge of the verandah they waited as the chopper’s motor wound down, the blades’ revolutions slowing.
And even though it was near-freezing outside, her blood simmered with resentment. Did he honestly imagine they’d be impressed at such a grand entrance?
Not likely.
The passenger door popped open and their visitor jumped out and Holly’s skin prickled.
Tall, she registered. Around six foot if she wasn’t mistaken, though it was hard to tell given how far he had to duck his head under the rotating blades. And then he straightened and she could see his face and he could be nothing other than a Chatsfield, with his chiselled good looks and the tendrils of his bad-boy hair flicking like serpents in the down draft from the blades.
The prickling under her skin intensified and spread until even her breasts tingled and peaked. The cold, she told herself as she clutched her arms over her chest and pressed her fingernails tight into her flesh. Damn this cold and damn this man who was smiling as if he was welcome here.
As if he imagined he was going to get a slice of Purman Wine action.
Not on her watch.
‘Angus Purman?’ he said, extending a hand to her grandfather. ‘Franco Chatsfield. It’s good to meet you.’
‘Gus will do just fine,’ the older man said with a nod, and Franco felt his hand enveloped by a weatherbeaten paw that housed a grip of steel. ‘And this here’s my granddaughter, Holly. She’s the real boss of the show.’
Really? ‘Holly,’ he said, taking her hand in turn, and there could be no greater contrast between the two handshakes. For while the older man’s had been certain, his leathery skin calloused and hard, hers was cool and way too brief to decide if that buzz he’d felt on contact had been any more than his imagination. She made no attempt to acknowledge him or return his smile, but then, she didn’t look happy at all. Instead she looked—He searched for a word as he took in her khaki work pants, dusty boots and a faded long-sleeved polo jumper bearing the Purman Wines logo. Drab. In fact, if it wasn’t for blue eyes in a make-up-free face, she’d be completely colourless.
‘I apologise if my arrival has taken you unawares,’ he said, realising she must be angry because she hadn’t had time to get herself ready. He knew how women liked to preen.
‘No, of course, we were expecting you,’ the old man said genially.
‘We just weren’t expecting you—’ the woman added, gesturing towards the helicopter ‘—in that.’
So she was angry with him. But what the hell for? ‘I had to take it from Mount Gambier. Storms closed the Coonawarra airfield so my charter flight couldn’t land here.’
‘There were no hire cars?’ Gus asked as he wheeled himself inside and gestured Franco to follow.
‘No,’ he said as he followed, discounting the offer he’d had of a car so tiny his knees would have been around his ears. ‘At least, nothing that was suitable.’
‘They were all out of Maseratis?’ quipped the woman. ‘I just hate it when that happens.’
‘Holly!’ Gus growled over his shoulder, and Franco pulled his lips into a smile in spite of his building irritation. He was here with a fistful of dollars in his pocket and a deal that anyone would be mad to turn down and yet she was acting like he wasn’t welcome. What the hell was her problem?
Warmth enveloped him as he stepped into a spacious living area, a kitchen one end and a dining area dominated by a massive timber table the other, all warmed by a stone-walled fireplace pumping out the heat. Stone and timber featured largely in the interior, working in combination with the high ceilings and windows that afforded a view over the surrounding vines. And not that he’d given it much thought, but he hadn’t expected to be reminded of his own stone villa in the Piacenza hills outside Milan and to actually like what he found half a world away in the southeast corner of South Australia.
‘We were just about to have lunch,’ Gus said. ‘Why don’t you sit down and join us?’
Franco held up his hands. ‘I don’t want to put you out,’ he said, and Holly caught the gleam of a gold watch at his wrist. Ridiculously expensive gold watch, by the looks, just like the ridiculously expensive hand-stitched leather shoes on his feet. Big feet, she registered absently, and in the very next instant wished she hadn’t.
Tall.
Big feet.
What did they say about tall men with big feet?
And heat that had nothing to do with the fireplace suddenly blossomed hot and heavy in her cheeks. She turned her back towards the men, launching an attack on a loaf with the bread knife, furious with herself. She didn’t even like the man. Why the hell would she even think such a thing?
‘A man can’t be expected to do business on an empty stomach,’ Gus said. ‘It’s no trouble, is it, Holly?’
‘No trouble at all,’ she said with a brightness she didn’t feel. ‘I do hope you’re a fan of corned beef sandwiches?’
‘But of course,’ he said, and not for the first time, Holly wondered at his accent. She’d expected him to sound upper crust and privileged, and he did—for the most part. But every now and then there was an unexpected texture to his accent that curled the edges away from Sloane Square and headed for somewhere entirely more earthy.
Maybe because of his Italian mother? Not that it mattered. Not that she cared.
‘That’s the spirit,’ her grandfather said. ‘Holly not only makes the best wine in the district, it’s a little-known fact she also makes the best sandwiches. She makes the relish herself, you know.’
‘Then I am indeed fortunate. It appears I couldn’t have timed my arrival better.’
A charmer, she thought as she put together a platter of doorstop sandwiches, adding this latest discovery to his list of crimes, a list that was growing longer by the minute. A Chatsfield and a charmer with a posh accent, who wore handmade shoes and gold watches and who hired helicopters when mere mortals hired cars—and usually the budget model at that.
She didn’t care for charmers with fat pockets.
She didn’t trust them.
She glanced over her shoulder at their guest, her father and Franco engaged in conversation. Another squall had hit, the rain coming in fat drops that belted onto the tin roof and splattered over the windows when the wind blew it horizontally under the wide verandah, and over the din, she could barely hear what
