Читать книгу Irresistible Attraction - Alison Kelly - Страница 7

BART CAMERON looked up from the task of grooming his favourite stallion as a pick-up was brought to a dustflurrying halt. He’d heard it long before it came into view, and reason told him it was the woman his sister Marilyn had talked him into hiring as a bookkeeper for the summer. He wasn’t thrilled at the idea of having to play host to a tourist for twelve weeks, but Bart had never been able to refuse his older sister’s artful cajoling. He knew it was time to start trying, though, the instant the woman opened the vehicle’s door!

He watched in silence as a slim peroxide-blonde moved towards him. Long, shapely legs stretched from what a vivid imagination might call shorts and a snug yellow T-shirt did nothing to conceal the wearer’s delicate curves, nor the fact she was braless. He judged her age at around twenty-five. If this woman was as hard up for work as Marilyn had led him to believe, then it was only because Hugh Heffner’s talent scouts didn’t know she was in the country!

‘Gidday! Can you tell me where to find Bart Cameron?’

‘I’m Bart Cameron, ma’am. You must be Marilyn’s friend, Alexandra.’

‘Alessandra,’ she corrected.

‘Sorry, ma’am.’

‘Don’t worry about it; I’ve spent half my bloody life trying to teach people how to pronounce my name!’ She laughed. ‘But drop the “ma’am”, uh? It’s positively matronly! Hell, I’m only twenty-eight!’

Her voice was reminiscent of Katherine Hepburn’s, if you could ignore the harsh language and broad accent.

‘Alessandra. Unusual name.’

‘After five boys my dad wanted something really feminine.’ She gave a deep, throaty laugh. ‘Unfortunately he got me!’

‘I’m nearly finished here,’ Bart said, indicating the horse and silently deciding that her father must be darned hard to please. ‘If you don’t mind waiting a few minutes until I’m through, I’ll help you take your stuff into the house.’

‘No rush,’ Alessandra assured him, grasping the post and rail fence surrounding the corral and pushing against it as she stretched first one leg then the other behind her. Her actions drew a puzzled look from Bart Cameron.

‘Just getting a few kinks out,’ she explained. ‘Drove without stopping for the last four hours.’

He nodded and returned his attention to the horse.

Alessandra immediately hoped she’d have a chance to ride while she was here. She loved horses almost as much as she hated office work, but, she rationalised, she had to eat. Before Bart Cameron had agreed to employ her as a bookkeeper things had looked financially grim. After twelve months backpacking round the USA she’d returned to Australia penniless.

Bart’s silence as he continued grooming the stallion gave Alessandra the opportunity of assessing the man and comparing it to what Marilyn had already told her about him. She knew he’d been widowed eighteen years earlier and since had devoted himself to raising his daughter Lisa and building up his ranch in Texas. Four months ago he’d purchased this cattle station on the Queensland-New South Wales border as an experimental extension of his American ranching operation. Marilyn had said he was thirty-eight. Alessandra decided he looked nearer his mid-forties, his weathered appearance no doubt attributed to spending so much time outdoors in the harsh climate. He wasn’t good-looking in the conventional sense of the word—in fact she wasn’t sure she could stretch charity far enough to describe him as ruggedly handsome—but he had an honest, strong face that people would trust. His body was another matter altogether, she decided; worn denim and chambray more than hinting at male physical perfection hidden beneath. A one-time aerobics instructor, Alessandra recognised quality when she saw it; Bart Cameron’s body was definitely top quality! He gave the stallion a final pat then turned quickly, catching her appreciative expression.

‘Nice body,’ she said, unable to suppress a sheepish grin at being caught.

‘Yes,’ Bart agreed. ‘He’s my best stallion.’

‘I didn’t mean the horse,’ she replied honestly, smiling at the man’s surprised look. ‘You’re in good shape. Do you work out regularly?’

He climbed over the fence to stand six inches above her five feet six.

‘If you mean in a gym, then no. I reckon I get enough exercise working this place,’ he told her.

Alessandra smiled. ‘I reckon you must at that!’

Bart pulled his stetson lower on to his forehead as they walked to where she’d stopped the pick-up at the foot of the porch steps. This didn’t seem like any bookkeeper he’d ever known! What he needed was someone to handle the financial side of things for twelve weeks, not a house guest! He had enough problems right now with Lisa, without having to ride shot-gun on the accounts as well.

‘Have you had much experience with accounts work before?’

‘On and off. I’ve worked on several occasions for my brother’s building firm and I also did a stint with a film company in Greece. I’ve done both computer and manual processing, so I don’t anticipate any difficulties here.’

‘Good, because I can’t spare the time to give you anything more than a basic explanation of how things operate; you’ll be on your own with the books. This all the luggage you got?’ he asked, holding a battered leather suitcase.

‘That and this,’ she replied, pulling a small backpack from the front seat. ‘When you’ve done as much travelling as I have you learn to pack economically. ‘Struth, it’s hot!’

Bart made no response to her observation of the climate. He wasn’t one to waste his breath making irrelevant comments or endorsing accurate ones. The woman seemed to have no such reservation.

‘You’re obviously used to this heat. At least it’s dry heat and not that oppressive humidity you get up FNQ! Is that exhausting!’

As they reached the top of the porch stairs, Alessandra became aware of the close scrutiny of the man next to her.

‘Is something wrong?’

‘FNQ?’ he enquired in a slow drawl, accompanied by a look that suggested he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the translation.

Alessandra laughed.

‘Far North Queensland. FNQ. Sounds like an obscene way of saying “Get lost”, doesn’t it?’

She turned, catching the smile her reaction had caused, and was stunned by the transformation in his face. Strong white teeth were exposed from behind the previous thin line of his mouth, and deep grooves appeared at the sides. The fine lines spreading from the corners of his eyes, no doubt created by years of squinting against the sun, suddenly became laughter lines, lending a boy-like roguishness to his face. When he smiles, she thought, he is almost more than conventionally good-looking!

She accepted his offer of a cold drink and sat quietly in the air-conditioned comfort of the kitchen as he busied himself at the refrigerator.

All the mod cons were evident and in sparkling condition. Grey Formica benching and cedar cupboards ran the length of three walls, separated by a strategically placed stove, refrigerator, microwave and the largest domestic freezer she had ever seen! Soft grey walls complemented the black slate floor.

‘Here you are.’

She turned in response to the rich Texas drawl.

‘Uh…thanks.’ She barely restrained a sigh as she accepted a glass of what was obviously lemonade and watched him pull the top off a can of beer. Oh, well, she’d suffered lemonade before and it hadn’t killed her… Mind you, it wasn’t likely to kill her thirst, either!

Leaning against the bench, Bart watched her take a tentative sip from the glass. He wondered what whim had possessed her to bleach her hair to stark white, or for that matter why she wore it so short. It was completely straight and cut into a bob that ended an inch below her ears with a fine fringe just tipping her eyebrows. The hair, along with the elfin chin and fine, turned-up nose, created a pixie-like look that seemed in total conflict with the sensual blue eyes, rimmed by bluetipped lashes.

As the father of a teenage daughter, he was only too familiar with the use of mascara and kohl, but he’d never struck anyone who used blue! Why would anyone want to have blue eyelashes?

‘You’re staring, Bart.’

The truth in her words startled him back to reality.

‘Sorry, I just noticed you weren’t really enjoying that drink.’

‘Well, it’s pretty damned hard to enjoy a lemonade when you’re watching someone drink a frosty-cold beer!’ she responded cheekily.

‘Oh!’ Bart felt chastised. He hadn’t thought to offer beer, since none of the women he knew drank it. ‘Would you prefer a beer?’

She grinned. ‘Can a duck swim?’

‘Sorry, I’m not used to women drinking beer. Here.’

Alessandra smiled at the speed with which he put a can on the table.

‘I’ll get you another glass…’

‘Don’t bother, a can will do me.’

She was already lifting the beer can to her mouth and a hot spark of sensation shot through him as she took two long swallows. He wondered how watching a woman do something as unladylike as guzzling beer from a can could be physically stimulating.

‘Ahh!’ She gave a blissful smile. ‘Now that felt good enough to call orgasmic!’

Bart sent her a startled look, wondering whether some cosmic force was putting them on to the same wavelength. The notion didn’t bear thinking about!

‘I have to get back to work. I’ll show you your room, since I’m sure you’ll want to rest.’

‘What I’m hanging out for is a swim. Although I’ll settle for a shower.’

‘I’m afraid the swim will have to wait till Lisa can show you a safe spot in the stream.’ At the dejected look on her face he only just stopped himself from offering to take her there himself. He didn’t have time to pander to the whims of someone who was here to work for him. ‘Dinner is at seven-thirty. We don’t usually dress for it unless we have guests.’

‘Righto! I’ll remember. Dinner in the nude at seven-thirty.’

Bart gave a wry smile as he desperately pushed away mental images of himself trying to eat a meal while a naked Alessandra MacKellar sat opposite. Already he felt the effects of heartburn.

‘Listen, will you do me a favour?’ she asked.

‘If I can,’ he said tentatively, picking up her bag to take upstairs.

‘Smile more often,’ she said. ‘You have one helluva sexy smile, Bart Cameron!’

Bart was sure he was the only thirty-eight-year-old man ever to blush!

More tired than she’d realised, Alessandra awoke to find she had only twenty minutes until dinner. She felt sure Bart Cameron’s don’t-dress-for-dinner rule wasn’t flexible enough to allow her the luxury of arriving at the table in a satin and lace camisole. Time to unpack.

Packing and unpacking wasn’t difficult for Alessandra; in fact she could manage to make herself at home in a new place in a little over ten minutes. Rolling from the bed, she lifted her suitcase on to it and proceeded to do just that.

Her meagre wardrobe consisted mainly of jeans and trousers which she teamed with either brightly coloured T-shirts or sweatshirts, as climate dictated. There were two hand-embroidered calf-length skirts she’d bartered for in Israel and a length of colourful hand-painted silk, purchased last year in Hong Kong, should she need something more dressy. Alessandra had never been one to get overly hung up on fashion, probably due to growing up with a tribe of brothers, and her only concessions to feminine vanity were expensive underwear and a collection of gold and silver jewellery, which she’d gathered from various parts of the world over the last nine years.

The last items she pulled from her case were three brass-framed photographs, which she set on the dressing-table. One was of a smiling middle-aged couple against a backdrop of ocean. She had taken the snap four years ago when, following her father’s retirement from his plumbing business, her parents had moved to the north coast of New South Wales.

The second photograph was of her five brothers— Greg, Drew, Scott, Brad and Matt. Scott and Matt were both single while the other three were married with seven children between them. The remaining snap was of the children and their mothers.

Bart waited for her as she descended the stairs.

‘Settled in?’

‘Yes, thanks.’ She gave him a wide smile. ‘It never takes me long.’

‘Good. Lisa has dinner ready, so we better get in there.’ He stood aside to allow her to pass, hoping she didn’t have a sensitive stomach—his daughter’s cooking was definitely an acquired taste!

‘Wow! I love your hair!’

‘Thanks!’ Alessandra smiled pleasantly at the teenage girl, who hadn’t waited for a formal introduction.

‘Is it bleached?’

‘Lisa!’

‘Only by the sun,’ Alessandra replied, ignoring Bart’s apologetic expression at what he considered rudeness on his daughter’s part.

‘I wish I was a blonde!’ Lisa Cameron sighed, pushing savagely at her waist-length dark hair.

‘I dyed mine black once when I was thirteen,’ Alessandra confessed, and laughed at the teenager’s horrified expression. ‘My parents’ facial reaction was pretty much similar to yours now!’

‘Dad would kill me if I changed mine!’ she said with more than a trace of resentment.

‘You’ve got that right,’ Bart Cameron stated.

‘Why?’ Alessandra asked, causing both heads to swing in her direction. ‘It’s her hair.’

‘That’s what I keep telling him!’ Lisa said.

Bart sent a controlled glare across to his most recent employee.

‘Lisa is only seventeen years old,’ he replied, as if that explained everything.

‘Nearly eighteen!’ his daughter responded.

‘With luck you might make it.’

The tone of the exchange between father and daughter told Alessandra she had walked into a struggle of awakening independence versus old-fashioned discipline. The atmosphere wouldn’t be dull around here, that was for sure, even if the cutlery was. Cripes! How was a person expected to cut steak with a blunt knife? She diverted her plan of attack to the creamed potatoes, only to wish she hadn’t as the half-cooked vegetable caused her to gag.

‘You OK?’ Bart Cameron enquired, and Alessandra wasn’t sure whether she imagined the hint of humour she saw in his eyes.

‘Eh, sure! A bit just went down the wrong way,’ she lied, now suspecting that the inability to cut the steak lay in its cooking and not the knife. ‘Do you kill your own meat?’ she asked, in an effort to forestall having to take another mouthful.

‘Usually. The Rough Rivers Brand has the reputation of producing some of the finest beef cattle on either side of the Pacific.’

Alessandra tried to look impressed, while wishing that it hadn’t lost quite so much of its reputation on the way to her plate!

‘We have beef for dinner every night when the housekeeper is on vacation. It’s the only thing Lisa feels confident about cooking.’

God help us if she ever tries to tackle anything else! Alessandra prayed silently as she managed to sever another piece of meat and insult her taste-buds with it.

From then on conversation was limited to enquiries about the health of Marilyn and her family, and Alessandra explained how she had met Bart’s sister in California and become firm friends with the older woman and her husband and children. It was Marilyn, knowing that Alessandra was planning to return to Australia for the summer, who had suggested that she apply for the job at Rough Rivers.

When Bart began to talk to Alessandra about the ranch’s accounting system, Lisa announced she had a date and excused herself from the table in the wake of a paternal instruction to be home before midnight.

Through it all Alessandra continued to try and force herself to eat; finally she gave in and pushed the plate aside. She looked across the table to find her employer leaning back in his chair watching her. His gaze caused a pool of warm liquid to settle in her lower abdomen.

‘Well, that was certainly…filling,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t eat another bite.’

‘Not many people would,’ Bart replied drily. ‘Lisa isn’t exactly overly talented in the kitchen.’

His humour was no longer only hinted at, but bursting out in a smile so dazzling that Alessandra felt almost giddy.

‘Now there’s an understatement! May I ask what perverse pleasure you get out of watching visitors choke on raw vegetables and charred steak?’ she asked, having no intention of making polite noises about how it wasn’t that bad.

‘I figure it’s about time Lisa learnt to cook…’

‘At what cost? A manslaughter charge?’

‘She’ll get better with practice,’ Bart stated.

‘It would be healthier for everyone if she got better with instruction! Besides, cooking isn’t absolutely essential to a woman’s armoury these days. Wouldn’t you be better off hiring a replacement while your regular housekeeper is away?’

‘Lisa wouldn’t make any effort at all then. Can you cook?’ he asked.

‘No. But I’m sure as hell better than your daughter! Which isn’t to say I’m prepared to take over the task, if that’s what you have in mind.’

‘It wasn’t,’ he assured her, standing and commencing to clear the plates from the table. ‘Would you care for dessert?’

‘Only if it comes out of a tin.’

‘What about frozen pecan pie and ice-cream? I’ll even defrost the pie first,’ he promised. ‘Though I’m not sure Lisa would.’

Alessandra wondered whether he would use the microwave or simply conserve power by directing his denim-blue eyes on it; for a man who wasn’t good-looking he certainly had some powerful extras!

‘Suddenly I’m starving again! And as a dedicated, card-carrying member of the women’s movement I feel obligated to enjoy having a man cook for me!’

By mutual consent they ate their dessert in the kitchen.

‘What made you decide to become a rancher? Marilyn told me you both grew up in Dallas.’

‘Even as a kid I always preferred country life over the city. My uncle used to let me spend every vacation on his ranch, working for him. When I was old enough to quit school I did and moved out there for good. When my uncle died he left the ranch to me. Twelve months ago I decided to take a chance and began looking around for an Australian property.’ He shrugged. ‘So here I am.’

‘You don’t regret it?’ she queried, sensing the conversation would end there if she didn’t.

‘Why should I? Do I look as though I have regrets?’ he returned, holding her vivid blue gaze. Not because he wanted to, but because it was hard not to be drawn into the peacock-blue depths of her eyes.

‘No. But few people can claim to have no regrets about their lives.’

‘Do you have regrets?’

Alessandra grinned. ‘No! Not for the last nine years, at any rate. I can honestly say I’ve done everything I have ever wanted to do so far with my life, and I can’t see that changing in the future. Mind you, other people have spent a great deal of time regretting things on my behalf! My girlfriends, boyfriends, lovers, brothers, parents…’

Realising this woman needed very little encouragement to talk, Bart made no comment as he began to stack the dishwasher.

‘Boy! Have my parents spent some time regretting some of the things I’ve done. Like the time I was arrested for assaulting a police officer…’

Bart swung around, not certain he’d heard her correctly.

‘For what?’

‘For assaulting a police officer,’ she repeated calmly.

‘You see, I was taking part in a protest at White Bar, in Sydney, about the shipping of yellow cake…uranium,’ she qualified, ‘when the guy I was with was suddenly hit by a copper. I mean, Rick—that was the guy’s name— wasn’t doing anything worse than casting aspersions on the copper’s bloodlines when—whammo!’

She swung a clenched fist at an imaginary figure and winced.

‘The boys in blue suddenly wanted to exercise their fists on Rick’s face! Well, hell, what was I supposed to do? Stand back and not even try to help him? Don’t say yes, because that’s exactly what the judge thought too. But I was lucky, I only got fined a couple of hundred bucks. Even though it was the second time I’d been picked up by the cops.’

‘The second time?’ Bart wondered just what sort of woman his sister had sent him!

‘Yeah, but I got off with a caution the first time. That was for kicking the door on a car after it had run over my dog. They bought the plea of shock that Dad’s solicitor thought up.’ She smiled smugly. ‘In actual fact I was mad as hell and if my brother hadn’t grabbed me I’d have kicked more than the car door!’

‘Umn—how long ago did all this happen?’ He hoped she wasn’t about to say, ‘Only last month.’

‘I was fifteen when my dog was killed and nineteen the second time. Don’t worry, I’m not a hardened crim. I’m not about to slit your throat in the night and take off with the family silver!’ she teased.

If this woman claimed she had no regrets about her life to date, one thing was certain—she wasn’t hard to please! He poured two cups of coffee and carried them back to the table. Already Alessandra was into a heartfelt monologue on why uranium shouldn’t even be mined, let alone used for the production of nuclear weapons. He would kill Marilyn for inflicting this on him! Not only was he at the mercy of the emotions of an increasingly difficult seventeen-year-old daughter, he now had to contend with a radical feminist who would probably talk underwater with a mouthful of marbles! Suddenly he could claim one very real regret—he regretted that, on top of everything else, Alessandra MacKeller had to be sexy into the bargain!

Without a doubt this was going to be the longest summer he’d ever had to endure!

Two days later, Alessandra entered the kitchen to find the teenage Lisa eating breakfast. Except for presenting herself at dinnertime, along with her usual unappetising excuses for meals, the girl had made herself scarce.

‘Good morning. Can I get you some breakfast?’

Alessandra gave a wry smile and leant against the refrigerator.

‘Do I look that desperate to eat?’ she asked the young brunette.

‘Pardon?’

‘Lisa, you may have your old man fooled, but don’t try and come the raw prawn with me,’ Alessandra told her.

‘Come the…raw prawn? I don’t understand…’

Alessandra poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove before seating herself at the table.

‘It’s an Aussie expression that means, “don’t insult my intelligence”. I know a con job when I see one.’

‘I don’t know what——’ Lisa began.

‘No one cooks as badly as you do without putting in a lot of effort! Even a person with absolutely no comprehension of electric appliances would show gradual improvement. Unless, of course, they were deliberately trying to sabotage the food. Your efforts are too consistently bad to be genuine.’

Alessandra watched the guilt rise in a tide of red from the girl’s neck. Her hunch was right.

‘Look, kid, I don’t know what you’re trying to prove, but if you have the idea that your father is suddenly going to give in and hire another cook, forget it. I already suggested that and he wasn’t buying.’

‘He wouldn’t! Daddy thinks just because my mother was a terrific cook I have to be too. I never even knew my mother! But between him and Grandma I feel like I’m a clone or something!’ Lisa pushed her plate aside and propped her chin on her hands.

Alessandra noted that the dark brown depths of her eyes, although sparkling with rebellion, also hinted at confusion.

‘Every vacation for as long as I can remember I’ve been pushed into learning something that my mother learned as a girl and excelled at.’ Lisa sent an assessing look at the older woman, as if trying to gauge the wisdom in discussing family matters with a stranger. Alessandra said nothing and finally the teenager continued. ‘It started with ballet at four and has covered just about everything from music and art to equine sports! Their latest programme is an all-girls college! Well, I’m not going!’ she said, flicking a waist-length plait over her shoulder. ‘No matter what, I’m not going.’

Alessandra let out a soft sigh; her sympathies were definitely with Lisa. She took a thoughtful sip of her coffee as she gauged the prudence of stepping into something which clearly had nothing to do with her. Yet the memory of a long-time friend demanded she do just that. She finished her coffee and pushed the mug across to Lisa.

‘Pour us both another,’ she said, giving the girl a smile of understanding, ‘and tell me what you want to do.’

‘I haven’t time. I have to meet someone.’

‘Oh. Well, perhaps another time.’ Alessandra smiled. ‘I have to get cracking on the accounts at any rate.’

‘I told Dad I’d show you a safe swimming hole later today. What time do you want to go?’

Alessandra sensed Lisa’s edginess, but made no reference to it.

‘Any time this arvo is fine with me,’ she replied easily.

‘Ah…?’

‘Any time this afternoon. I can see I’m going to have to remember that we’re dealing with a language problem here!’

Lisa nodded. ‘I’ll be back about lunchtime.’

Alone, Alessandra finished her coffee. Bart Cameron would be back later to see how she was progressing with the accounts. For some reason her body churned with anticipation.

Alessandra spent the best part of nearly two hours cursing Bart Cameron’s bookkeeper, as she tried to interpret the accounting procedures used in the various cash ledgers. No one could accuse the absent Edith Wilcox of being either neat or methodical! In an effort to clear her mind of the jumble of figures whizzing about, Alessandra shook her head vigorously.

‘Having problems?’

Startled, she turned quickly to see Bart Cameron standing in the doorway of the tiny office. His presence seemed to reduce the room’s size. She decided to credit her accelerated heart-rate to his silent unexpected appearance rather than his inherent masculinity. It was wiser.

‘You surprised me. I don’t like people creeping up on me.’

‘I didn’t “creep”, but I am sorry if I startled you. You were so busy talking to yourself you obviously didn’t hear me call out as I came into the house.’

‘I wasn’t talking to myself.’ Alessandra smiled, matching his amusement. ‘I was pouring out verbal criticisms of Mrs Wilcox’s handwriting, as you no doubt heard.’

Bart nodded. ‘I came in about the time you reached the decision that as an accountant she was, “About as useful as teats on a bull”!’

‘It’s true.’

‘I’ll take your word for it. I’ve never been able to make out her scribbling well enough to judge. Fortunately for me my auditors can.’

‘They were probably employed as code breakers during World War II or have studied ancient hieroglyphics in Egypt.’

Trying to keep her gaze from wandering over his body, Alessandra focused on the black stetson he twirled on his finger.

Where the crown met the brim, beneath a small braid of leather, she could see the tell-tale stain of what was probably years of perspiration. Illogically, that rather than the time spent poring over the ranch’s financial records convinced her of Bart Cameron’s dedication to hard work. Blisters and sweat were something that this man knew intimately. She wondered if there was a woman alive who knew him equally intimately. If so, she envied her. ‘Struth! Where had that thought sprung from?

‘You look hot. Why don’t you join me for a cold drink before we carry on any further?’ Bart suggested, noting her flushed face.

‘Hot’! ‘Carry on’! Alessandra almost choked as he said the words. The man had no idea how well he could read minds!

‘Good idea!’ Alessandra endorsed, moving to the doorway as if she were dying of thirst.

Bart sensed her unease and knew he had caused it. While it was true he considered Alessandra MacKellar to be more than just a little rough around the edges, he had hoped his feelings weren’t obvious, having no desire to hurt her. Sighing softly, he followed her to the kitchen, determined to ignore the tantalising swing of her hips.

‘It’s almost lunchtime. I can fix us a couple of sandwiches, if you like,’ Alessandra offered.

Bart surveyed the clock hanging on the kitchen wall. Generally he didn’t eat until about one, but the idea of sharing a meal with someone appealed.

‘OK. If it’s no bother.’

‘I’m not Lisa; I think I can handle a couple of sandwiches,’ she said drily.

‘I don’t suppose you’d consider a trade?’ Bart asked wryly as he pulled assorted jars and containers from the refrigerator.

Alessandra eyed him cautiously.

‘Such as?’

‘I’ll make lunch if you make dinner.’

‘I thought dinner was Lisa’s chore.’

‘It’s the “chore” of anyone who has to try and eat her cooking!’

‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

‘So you’ll do it?’ He looked up eagerly, sensing unspoken agreement in her tone.

‘On two conditions,’ Alessandra said, grinning at his raised eyebrows. ‘Firstly, Lisa will continue to cook the evening meal, but under my guidance. I think you’ll be quite surprised at the improvement…’

‘If there’s an improvement it’ll be gratitude not surprise I’ll be feeling! And the second condition?’

‘That you’ll allow me to work as a jillaroo.’

‘A what?’