Читать книгу Unwelcome Invader - Angela Devine - Страница 7

‘LOOKS as though your dad has let you down,’ said Brett mildly.

Gazing up and down the rapidly emptying airport, Jane felt inclined to agree with him. It was after eleven o’clock and most of the passengers had already disappeared hurriedly into the chill autumn night. After being delayed for several hours by engine trouble in Melbourne nobody wanted to linger any further. Only a few airline employees and a single family with some problems about missing luggage were still left in the small Hobart air terminal. There was no sign of her father anywhere.

‘I think you’re right,’ she admitted ruefully. ‘Although I don’t know why he hasn’t shown up. I wrote to him two weeks ago and told him when I was arriving. I even reminded him to phone and check that the flight was on schedule, which it wasn’t! But you know Dad…he’s so unreliable. I’m afraid I won’t be able to give you a ride home after all, Brett.’

‘Well, it’s not the end of the world, mate. Tell you what, I’ll see if the bloke down at the Hertz desk can rustle up a hire-car for us, then I’ll give you a ride home.’

‘Thanks, Brett, you’re a real sweetie.’

With a sigh of relief that she didn’t have to make any further effort, Jane sat down in one of the blue seats with her luggage scattered untidily around her. She was almost reeling with fatigue after the long flight from Thailand, the almost equally long wait in Melbourne and the final flight home to Tasmania, so that for once she was quite happy to let Brett make decisions for her. As she gazed after his stocky figure ploughing purposefully towards the car rental desk Jane smiled affectionately. Dear Brett, with his red face and thick, capable hands and milky-blond hair already growing sparse across his scalp, although he was only twenty-seven—a year older than Jane herself. What a shame it was that she could never feel anything more than a sisterly affection for him! Ever since they had started school together, more than twenty years ago, Brett had been her admirer and protector. But without that mysterious, indefinable spark she knew he would never be anything more than that. She had made that clear to him, time after time, but that didn’t prevent Brett from going on hoping. In addition to being good-natured he was infinitely stubborn. A tremor of doubt went through Jane as she wondered whether it had been wise to offer him even the lukewarm encouragement of a ride home from the airport. Then she dismissed her misgiving. What else could she have done? After all, they were neighbours, with Brett’s farm only two miles down the road from her own home. Besides, she had expected her father to be with them.

‘All right, mate, all sorted out. Give me some of your gear and we’ll get moving.’

Ten minutes later they had left the airport behind and were on the winding road which led to the small village of Richmond. Jane lolled in her seat, halfway between waking and sleeping, enjoying the peaceful, moonlit countryside which unrolled slowly past them. Brett drove at an unhurried pace, as he did everything else. She had plenty of time to admire the bare, stark branches of dead gum trees, the dense masses of living bushland, the tiny blobs of sheep as motionless as children’s toys in their paddocks, the ghostly outlines of farmhouses already dark and silent for the night. Then a wind must have arisen in the west, for the sounds of rustling leaves came to them above the purr of the car’s engine and scuds of flying clouds went sailing over the moon’s bright face, so that for a moment the moon itself seemed to be hurtling across the dark sky. Brett drove even more slowly through the village with its sandstone Georgian buildings and carefully tended gardens. Here there were a few reassuring signs of life—firelight, street-lamps, even a snatch of laughter and music from a restaurant open late—then they were out into the stillness of the countryside again. With a quickening of her heartbeat, Jane sat forward in her seat for the first glimpse of her vineyards and the old farmhouse called Saddler’s Corner where she had spent her childhood. There they were! Row upon leafy row of them, all along the river’s edge and climbing the slopes of the hills beyond. The sheep which had been the mainstay of the farm for generations had all been banished to distant paddocks long ago.

‘Your vines are looking good,’ remarked Brett. ‘I was talking to your overseer, Charlie, about a month ago, just before I went on my holidays. He said you’d be ready to harvest just after Easter.’

‘That’s right,’ agreed Jane. ‘That’s why I came back, really. I was learning so much in France that I could quite happily have stayed away for another six months.’

‘Well, I’m glad you didn’t,’ said Brett in measured tones, and let his left hand drop casually on to her knee.

Jane felt as if she were an apple or an orange being squeezed for ripeness. The sensation was not exactly unpleasant, but it woke nothing in her except embarrassment and a desire to escape.

‘Don’t, Brett,’ she begged in a stifled voice, removing his hand.

‘One of these days you’ll come round,’ he said good-humouredly. ‘I’m not a bad bloke, Jane; I’m steady and I’ve got my own farm. That’s worth something.’

With relief Jane saw that they had bumped up the gravel driveway and round the loop which led to the rear of the house.

‘I won’t ask you in, Brett,’ she said hastily. ‘It’s rather late and I’m terribly exhausted after that long flight.’

‘Sure. No worries,’ agreed Brett. ‘But at least let me see you inside.’

‘Well, just to the back door,’ agreed Jane uncomfortably. ‘I’ll be fine then. I see Dad’s left the outside light on for me. Perhaps he didn’t get the message about the plane being delayed.’

‘Sure you’ll be all right, then?’ asked Brett, setting her bags down for her. ‘Anything else I can do for you? A goodnight kiss, maybe?’

‘No!’ wailed Jane. ‘Oh, Brett, cut it out. I’m very, very fond of you, but not like that!’

‘Some women have no taste!’ lamented Brett, touching her briefly on the cheek and then lumbering away to the hire-car. ‘See you in a day or two, Jane.’

Tired as she was, Jane did not go inside immediately once the car had vanished. Instead she stood breathing in deep lungfuls of the clean, cold night air with its unmistakable Australian smell of eucalyptus. From somewhere out of sight she could hear the hoarse croaking of frogs, and the sudden hiss and scuffle and a flash of red eyes in the gum trees next to the barn told her that the possums were active tonight. An exultant smile curved Jane’s lips. It was good to be back! And the best thing of all was the thought that her vines were nearly ready for their first harvest…

Suddenly she realised that she couldn’t possibly wait until tomorrow morning to see how the grapes were getting along. She would have to take a quick glance right away. Groping in her handbag, she fished out the small torch which she always carried while travelling and trained its circle of light on the path leading down to the first of the vineyards. As she picked her way through the rows of espaliered vines a feeling of mounting pride and delight rose inside her. Soon, very soon, she would have her first harvest and then she would find out just what kind of wine she could make from her own grapes. Reaching out, she plucked one of them from a dark cluster and put it in her mouth. It burst with a faint pop, releasing a cool liquid on her tongue—full-bodied, still slightly acid, but very, very promising. With a contented sigh Jane spat the pips on the ground and picked her way back up the slope towards the cluster of buildings. Perhaps she would just take a quick look at her wine cellar too, before she went to bed.

The wine cellar was located beneath the big stone building which had originally been a dairy and was now used to store all the paraphernalia of the vineyard. Disliking the thought of the bright glare of fluorescent lights, Jane did not flick the switch, but used her torch to guide her past the dark shapes of picking buckets, secateurs and lengths of irrigation pipe to the stairs which led to the next level. The door at the bottom was padlocked, but she had the necessary key on her keyring. A moment later the door creaked open and she stepped inside and flashed her torch around. There was a row of oak barrels with silicon bungs—empty now but soon to be filled with her own wine—and a long row of weldmesh shelves containing her own collection of Australian wines built up over several years. It occurred to her that it would be nice to have a glass of wine to celebrate her return. She could always invite a friend over to lunch tomorrow, to finish the bottle with her. Pausing pleasurably, she ran her fingers along the mesh and finally chose a bottle of Penfold’s Grange Hermitage. Her mouth watered at the prospect of that dark berry fruit and charred oak bouquet, the full-bodied flavour and the astringent tannins that would follow.

‘I can’t wait,’ she murmured aloud.

At that moment there was a stealthy footstep on the stairs behind her. Not particularly troubled, Jane swung round, expecting to see her father. Instead a total stranger stood there before her, caught in the beam of her torch. A grim, unsmiling man in his mid-thirties, dressed in grey trousers and an open necked shirt, with dark brown hair brushed back from a lean, sardonic face and the most hostile brown eyes Jane had ever seen. He was advancing towards her in a purposeful crouch like a hunting animal and there was something utterly terrifying about the grim twist of his lips. Jane’s heart lurched.

‘What do you want?’ she asked in a high, nervous voice, stepping back a pace and half raising the bottle as if it was a weapon.

‘You,’ he breathed, and sprang.

Jane screamed, hurled the bottle and ran. There was wild confusion as she heard the shatter of breaking glass against the brick wall, smelled the sudden, heady perfume of red wine and felt her heart would burst from her chest as she raced down the avenue of flagstones between the shelves and the barrels. Her torch beam swung wildly, revealing the other exit, a crude, wooden door leading out into a rough shrubbery on the slope behind the building. It shouldn’t be padlocked, only bolted from the inside. Could she make it before he caught her? Transferring the torch to her left hand, she seized the bolt with her right, wrenched violently and pushed. It was like a nightmare. Nothing happened. Some resistance on the outside was preventing the door from opening. With a sob of frustration Jane hurled herself at it. A shuddering jolt went through her entire body, but still the door would not yield. Then suddenly a powerful hand caught her by the neck of her shirt and swung her round.

‘It seems I have you right where I want you,’ breathed a hoarse, masculine voice.

‘Oh, no, you don’t!’ cried Jane defiantly and, swinging the torch, she hit him hard on the side of the face. Another jarring impact travelled up Jane’s arm, but the stranger barely seemed to feel the blow. The only response he gave was a quick, sharp intake of breath, then his right hand came out and crushed her fingers, forcing her to release the torch. Gasping in outrage, Jane kicked him in the shins. With a faint sigh, he took one of her hands and twisted it behind her back. A warning twinge of pain went through her.

‘I don’t want to hurt you, mademoiselle,’ he murmured apologetically. ‘But you and I need to have a little talk.’

‘What about?’ panted Jane indignantly. ‘What is there to talk about? You’re a raving lunatic who attacked me for no reason at all.’

He shone the torch disconcertingly in her face, so that she blinked in its dazzling light.

‘Quite pretty,’ he said in the tone of a connoisseur. ‘Big green eyes, delicate features, long, curly blonde hair. The hair needing the attentions of a good hairdresser. Not quite the sort of vandal I expected, I must admit. Tell me, mademoiselle, what made you break into my wine cellar?’

‘Y-your wine cellar?’ stuttered Jane furiously. ‘Now I know you’re insane. This is my wine cellar, not yours.’

‘Ah, I begin to understand,’ he said courteously. ‘You are not the juvenile delinquent, but merely deranged. My apologies for handling you so roughly, mademoiselle. You deserve pity, not blame.’

‘I am not a juvenile delinquent!’ shouted Jane, although as a matter of fact she looked remarkably like one in her crumpled jeans and wine-splashed shirt with her hair falling in her eyes. ‘And I’m not mentally deranged, either! If anyone is deranged it’s you, claiming that this wine cellar is yours. My father is the legal owner of this farm and I own every barrel and bottle of wine in this cellar.’

As she spoke she slapped one hand against the weldmesh shelves, to emphasise her point.

‘Don’t do that!’ exclaimed her companion in horror. ‘It’s very bad for the wine.’

‘I know that!’ snapped Jane. ‘I’m a winemaker. Why on earth would you think I was a delinquent?’

He shrugged.

‘My apologies. I’ve had some trouble with vandals since I took possession of the vineyard here.’

‘Took possession of the vineyard?’ echoed Jane in bewilderment. ‘I don’t understand! Have I wandered into some kind of crazy nightmare?’

‘There does seem to be some confusion,’ agreed the stranger tranquilly. ‘You said that your father owns this property. What is his name?’

There was an air of authority in his voice that made Jane answer without hesitation.

‘Colin West.’

‘And your name, mademoiselle?’

‘Jane West.’

‘Bon. We begin to make progress. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Marc Le Rossignol.’

‘How do you do?’ said Jane with heavy sarcasm.

‘Ah, you are thinking perhaps that this is no place for exchanging the pleasantries? How right you are, Miss West. Why don’t you come inside and we’ll discuss the matter in comfort?’

‘Inside?’ echoed Jane in horror. ‘Do you mean you’re staying here? Are you some kind of guest of my father’s?’

‘Not exactly,’ replied Marc. ‘We are more in the nature of business associates, but I’ll explain all that once we’re inside.’

Jane glared at him suspiciously in the inadequate torchlight. Something very odd was going on here, but at least it no longer looked as if this Marc Le Rossignol was some kind of mad rapist or burglar. Suddenly she made up her mind.

‘All right,’ she agreed curtly. ‘I don’t suppose I can come to much harm anyway with my father in the house.’

Marc shrugged.

‘Unfortunately your father is not in the house,’ he replied. ‘He has gone to New Zealand.’

‘New Zealand?’ exclaimed Jane. ‘That’s the first I’ve heard about it! I don’t have the faintest idea of what’s going on here.’

‘Nor I, mademoiselle,’ replied Marc briskly. ‘But perhaps we can get to the bottom of it all over a meal and a glass of wine.’

Jane sighed. Her head was spinning. After the long flight and the drama of the last few minutes the last thing she wanted to do was share a meal with this unwelcome invader, whoever he was. Yet obviously she would get no peace until matters were straightened out.

‘All right,’ she agreed ungraciously.

With a proprietorial gesture, which annoyed her intensely, Marc took the torch and guided her with exaggerated courtesy back along the way they had come. At the foot of the stairs Jane crouched down amid the broken glass and the spilt wine and sorrowfully picked up a shattered fragment of the bottle which still had the label adhering to it.

‘Grange Hermitage,’ she said tragically, shaking her head. ‘What a waste! It’s enough to make a girl weep.’

‘Or a man,’ agreed Marc gloomily. ‘But I’ve got something equally fine inside. A bottle of Petrus 1985. I look forward to hearing your opinion of it.’

In a daze, Jane allowed herself to be hustled inside the house. In the outside porch Marc halted as if noticing something for the first time, and then strode across to the patch of shadow where Jane had dumped her luggage.

‘These are your bags, one assumes?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Strange.’

With a Gallic shrug he moved towards the back door, making no attempt to pick up the bags. Obviously he was either too ill-mannered to help her or had no intention of letting her stay the night! Darting him a smouldering look, Jane snatched them up herself.

‘What are you doing with those?’ he demanded.

‘What does it look as if I’m doing? I’m staying here. This is my home.’

He smiled faintly, a smile that struck Jane as being oddly dangerous. Suave, mockingly amused, but with a hint of some indefinable wildness and power behind it. To her surprise he suddenly took both bags out of her hands.

‘How pleasant. It will be very agreeable to have some feminine company. One always misses the gentle voices, the elegant clothes, the charming manners of women.’

Since Jane’s voice so far had been shrill with indignation, her clothes were travel-stained and splashed with wine and her manner was hostile to the point of rudeness, she had little doubt that this infuriating stranger was mocking her. Enraged beyond belief, she could not even think of a snappy comeback, but simply stood glaring at him as he held open the mesh door for her by leaning against it with one powerful shoulder.

‘Do come in,’ he urged pleasantly, as if he was a host welcoming a favourite guest. ‘If you’re going to stay the night then I’ll need to arrange some things for you. A bath, a meal, a bedroom.’

Jane stepped inside, as aggressively as if she were laying a territorial claim to an entire continent. Then she further relieved her feelings by turning and kicking the massive cedar door shut behind her. After that she swung round, planted her hands on her hips and addressed herself to the stranger.

‘Now look here, Mr Le Rossignol or whatever your name is.’

‘Marc, please,’ he murmured. ‘You Australians are so informal, aren’t you? Since I’m staying in your country it’s only polite that I follow your customs. And perhaps I may call you Jane?’

‘You may call me anything you like as long as you get out of my house,’ flared Jane. ‘And the sooner the better. But first will you kindly tell me what’s going on here?’

‘All in good time,’ he replied tranquilly. ‘First you will wish to tidy up and have something to eat. Your clothes—they are only fit to throw away.’

Jane glared at him. She didn’t feel at all sure that he was referring only to the splashes of wine on her clothes. Something in the disapproving lift of his eyebrows as he scanned her body made her feel that he did not approve of women who travelled in faded old jeans and cheap, green cotton windcheaters. Well, she didn’t care whether he approved of her or not! How dared he stand there looking her up and down as if she were something on sale and not a very good bargain at that?

It only annoyed her further to realise that he seemed to have come off completely unscathed when she flung the bottle of wine at him. He must have been still on the stairs and therefore protected from the impact when it shattered against the wall of the cellar itself. Thinking it over, Jane was of course extremely relieved to realise that the bottle hadn’t hit him, causing heaven knew what serious injuries. All the same, she wouldn’t have minded in the least if the immaculate perfection of his striped blue and white shirt and grey, pleated trousers had been gloriously splattered with stains that would be almost impossible to remove.

It wasn’t just this baffling situation that made her dislike him so much. It was something about his manner—so smooth, so confident, so certain that he could control the world and everybody in it. Being so good-looking probably had something to do with his aura of power and authority. He was a shade over six feet, with powerful shoulders, narrow hips and hard, muscular thighs, but it was his face that commanded most attention. The tough jaw, the shrewdly narrowed brown eyes, the mocking smile and the rather rugged features gave the irresistible impression of a man born to win. He seemed unaware of her hostile scrutiny as he glanced down at the labels on her bags.

‘You’ve had a long journey, mademoiselle. All the way from Thailand today.’

‘Longer than that, really,’ she said. ‘I only stayed one night in Bangkok to break my journey.’

‘And before that you were…where?’

‘France,’ she replied.

‘Ah, my own country. Excellent. We will have a discussion about it over our supper. But first you will want to have a bath.’

He set down the bags, strode further into the hall, opened the big linen closet and handed her a huge, fluffy white towel, a bath mat and a washcloth.

‘The bathroom is the second door on the left,’ he said.

‘I know where the bathroom is!’ flared Jane.

‘Of course, of course,’ he murmured in an amused voice. ‘Well, then, I’ll leave you to it while I go and heat up some food.’

Jane was quietly seething as she stalked into the bathroom and began to run hot water into the old claw-footed bath. How dared this stranger treat her like a guest in her own home? And what was he doing here? The questions buzzed in her head like a cloud of hornets, but the whole evening was beginning to take on a dreamy, surrealist air, like some sort of strange nightmare. Yet the clouds of steam rising from the bath and the fragrant horse-chestnut scent of Badedas were real enough, even if the tiled floor did seem to be undulating gently underneath her feet. With a wail of exhaustion Jane stamped out into the hall, snatched up the smaller of her two bags and retreated to the bathroom. As she locked the door, she wished she could just escape from the whole crazy predicament. All she wanted to do now was soak in the hot, foamy water, then dry off and stumble up to bed. Instead she had to try and clear her tired brain enough to go out and do battle with this extraordinary foreigner who seemed to have taken over her home.

Deliberately she kept him waiting, but the results were not helpful. She almost fell asleep in the soothing hot water and was roused from a drifting doze by a peremptory hammering on the door.

‘Have you drowned in there?’ demanded a deep, masculine voice. ‘Must I come in and rescue you? I can break the lock if you’re in difficulties.’

Alarmed at the threat, Jane scrambled out of the bath and began hastily to dress. Once she was dry she hesitated in front of the mirror, then wiped off the steamy glass with her towel and looked at herself critically. If she had been alone, she would have put on comfortable old pyjamas and some sheepskin boots. As it was, she paused indecisively. Should she put on an even older pair of clean jeans and a more ragged windcheater as an act of defiance, or dress up to the nines?

From childhood onwards Jane had always tried to tackle difficult situations by making sure that she looked her very, very best. Somehow it always helped to control those butterflies of insecurity in her stomach. But if she dressed nicely mightn’t this arrogant stranger think that she was trying to lead him on? She stared at herself in the mirror. Long, curly blonde hair, wide green eyes, heart-shaped face with a small pointy chin and a wide, defiant mouth.

‘Why should I care what he thinks?’ she demanded aloud. ‘I’ll wear whatever I like!’

Kneeling down, she unzipped her bag and took out clean underwear, tights, shoes and the one wild extravagance of her French trip—a dress of pale green clinging georgette, which clung to the curves of her body and made her look ten thousand times more sexy and sophisticated than she ever usually did. Jane scrambled into these clothes, brushed her hair, sprayed herself with Arpège, fastened a gold and pearl-drop necklace around her throat and applied a glossy scarlet lipstick to her lips. Then, squaring her shoulders and ready to do battle, she opened the bathroom door and charged.

‘Go into the dining-room,’ called a masculine voice, which was already beginning to be hatefully familiar. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’

Jane gasped as she entered the dining-room. The large cedar dining-table that she and her father only ever bothered to set for special occasions like Christmas dinner was covered with an exquisite lace tablecloth. At one end two places were set; candles burned in silver candelabra and their gentle, flickering light winked off crystal glasses, heavy silver cutlery and the best Wedgwood china. Mouthwatering scents drifted in from the kitchen. Some kind of delicious beef stew, with an undertone of other delights. Fresh bread and something fruity and spicy. An apple tart perhaps? Jane’s spirits revived magically. She might be small and even rather frail-looking, but she had a formidable appetite. Perhaps there was something to be said for having mad Frenchmen take over the house if they cooked like this!

A moment later the mad Frenchman entered the dining-room. He paused at the sight of Jane and a small, approving smile lit his face.

‘Very chic,’ he murmured. ‘I congratulate you, mademoiselle. I half expected you to appear looking like a grape-picker after the harvest.’

Jane flushed, torn between pleasure and annoyance.

‘Can I do anything to help in the kitchen?’ she asked.

‘But no, it is all organised. I had only to heat things up. Have a glass of sherry and I’ll bring in the soup.’

He moved across to the sideboard and turned back to look enquiringly at her as his hand hovered above the bottles.

‘A medium dry Reynella, please,’ she said.

‘A very good choice. I think I’ll join you. Now, please sit down at the table and we’ll eat.’

Jane sipped the pale, straw-coloured, nutty-flavoured liquid and stared wonderingly after Marc’s departing back as he vanished into the kitchen. Moments later he returned, first with a couple of hot bread rolls in a napkin and then with two bowls of clear soup.

‘Consommé Julienne,’ he announced, setting one down in front of her.

‘Bon appetit,’ said Jane automatically.

‘Ah, you speak French?’ asked Marc with interest.

‘Not really,’ she replied. ‘Certainly not fluently, but I’ve just spent six months in the Champagne district.’

‘Really? What were you doing there?’

‘Learning more about winemaking.’

‘And is this a hobby, or your profession?’

‘My profession,’ said Jane proudly.

‘You’ve trained in it?’

‘Yes. After I finished school I did a winemaking course in South Australia, worked for a year at Penfold’s and then came back here to Tasmania to try and start a family vineyard. That was five years ago.’

‘So it’s your hand that’s been at work planting the vines and setting up the equipment? Are you the one who masterminded the whole enterprise?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Jane with satisfaction. ‘I put in Riesling and Cabernet Shiraz vines several years ago. Since then I’ve planted and pruned and irrigated. It’s been hard work, although I’ve had some help from my father and from Charlie Kendall, who works for us. In fact, Charlie became so good at handling everything that I felt I could afford to go to France for six months to learn more about the trade.’

‘You’ve done well,’ said Marc. ‘It’s an impressive little operation, although it would have been wise to put more nets over the vines. It protects them from birds and prevents the risk of botrytis.’

‘You know about wines yourself, then?’ asked Jane, intrigued in spite of herself.

‘It’s in the blood,’ replied Marc. ‘My family have been winemakers near Bordeaux for the last five hundred years.’

‘Then what on earth are you doing here?’ demanded Jane in a baffled voice.

‘All in good time,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘Have you finished your soup? May I take your bowl?’

After he had vanished into the kitchen again, Jane sipped her sherry and frowned thoughtfully. There was a mystery about Marc that intrigued her. Who was he? What was he doing here? If they had met in different circumstances, she might have found him fascinating. As it was, she felt very, very troubled and uneasy.

A moment later he returned and set a bubbling iron casserole on to a hot pad. Jane inhaled ecstatically, revelling in the mingled odours of stewed beef, red wine, bayleaf, black pepper.

‘Boeuf à la bourguignonne,’ she breathed.

‘Ah, your nose does not fail you,’ said Marc. ‘But the real test is with the wine. Tell me what you think of this.’

He fetched a decanter from the sideboard and poured a small quantity of purplish-red liquid into the bottom of Jane’s crystal wine glass. She raised it to her nose, inhaled, swirled and then drank.

‘It’s magnificent!’ she said. ‘Very rich and well-balanced, with a lace-like finesse and incredible ripe fruit aromas.’

‘Quite right,’ he agreed. ‘You’ve learned a lot in France.’

Jane helped herself to a substantial serving of the stew, accompanied by waxy new potatoes and carrots in a herb butter. For the moment she had almost forgotten her dislike and distrust of Marc Le Rossignol.

‘Oh, I did,’ she agreed eagerly. ‘It’s an amazing place; there’s so much skill, so much dedication, so much tradition. The French winemakers are wonderful.’

‘Ah, yes. But where there is appreciation there must also be a faculty for criticism,’ said Marc. ‘What did you find to criticise there?’

‘Well——’ said Jane doubtfully.

‘Please, don’t spare my feelings. Be perfectly frank with me.’

‘Perhaps too much emphasis on tradition,’ she said. ‘Sometimes they seem a little hidebound, unwilling to try new things.’

‘I couldn’t agree with you more. Australian wine-makers are often more adventurous, more willing to use new technology. I think Australia is a very exciting place at the moment for anyone seriously interested in wine. That’s why I’m here.’

Jane put down her fork and gave him a troubled look.

‘Why are you here?’ she demanded bluntly.

With another of his mocking smiles, Marc changed the subject.

‘Are you fond of cooking?’ he asked.

Jane was annoyed but decided not to pursue the subject further, at least for the moment. Yet all her initial dislike of Marc Le Rossignol came surging back at full strength. During the remainder of the meal she confined herself to terse replies to his questions. Her only weak moment came when Marc produced a pear and brown sugar tart that was so good she had to acknowledge it.

‘That was superb,’ she said grudgingly. ‘Can you always produce a three-course meal at a moment’s notice?’

Marc smiled.

‘Usually,’ he agreed. ‘I’m fond of good food and fortunately I had some substantial leftovers from last night’s meal. Also fortunately, I was too busy to eat anything much earlier this evening.’

‘Too busy doing what?’ asked Jane.

Their eyes met.

‘You’ve bathed, you’ve eaten,’ said Marc, as if he were a doctor assessing a patient’s progress. ‘I think perhaps you’re ready to face the truth now. Come into the sitting-room and we’ll have our little discussion.’

Hardly able to contain her alarm, Jane followed him into the sitting-room next door. There was a fire burning in the fireplace and the room seemed comfortably inviting with its smell of lemon furniture polish, woodsmoke and old leather couches. There were no curtains but cedar shutters kept out the chill night air, and the faded Persian rug on the floor, with its now dim patterns of scarlet and royal blue, looked reassuringly familiar. The grandfather clock in the hall ticked stoically and then struck once with a reverberating boom as Jane lowered herself into a comfortable chintz armchair by the fire. One a.m. Somehow the sound had an oddly sinister ring, as if it heralded the end of everything she had ever known and loved, as if this man had come like some dangerous enchanter to change her world forever. A feeling of growing alarm clamoured inside her.

‘What are you doing here?’ she burst out. ‘Why have you taken over my home?’

‘It’s very simple,’ said Marc, standing with one arm draped along the mantelpiece. ‘You really are Colin West’s daughter, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I can’t imagine why your father hasn’t told you this, but it seems I must be the one to do so. There have been some big changes here. In the first place your father has sold off all his sheep. Secondly…’ He paused.

‘Secondly?’ prompted Jane with an ominous sense of misgiving.

‘I have leased this property from him with an option to purchase at any time during the next three months.’

Jane gasped as the implications of his words slowly sank in.

‘You mean…you could buy this place any time you want to in the next three months?’

‘Exactly,’ agreed Marc.

For a moment Jane was shocked speechless.

‘The house? The vineyards? The outhouses…everything?’ she stammered at last.

‘Everything,’ he agreed gravely.

Suddenly Jane’s disbelief was replaced by anger-hot and rich and murderous.

‘But that’s ridiculous!’ she cried wildly, jumping to her feet. ‘This has been my home ever since I was born. And the vineyards, the winemaking plant…’ Her voice broke. ‘What happens to those?’

Marc’s face was inscrutable. With the firelight leaping over his features he looked uncannily like some stage demon.

‘All fixed property is included in the sale,’ he said in measured tones. ‘Naturally that means all of the vineyards and most of the winemaking plant. Movable property may be taken with you, but that won’t be much. Only the wine collection, the empty barrels, the ladders, buckets, a few pruning shears. The rest will all be mine if I decide to go ahead with the purchase.’

Jane stumbled desperately across the room, hot tears stinging behind her eyes, then she turned on him like an animal at bay.

‘That’s impossible! I was the one who put up the money for most of this. I had a legacy from my grandmother and I spent every cent of it on this place. My father can’t just sell it behind my back without my approval!’

Marc shrugged. His voice was very calm and cool and seemed to come from a great distance.

‘I checked the legal details very carefully before I entered into this contract. I always do. There is no doubt that your father is the legal owner of this property, nor that it is unencumbered by any mortgages. These payments you say you made on the vineyards, the wine plant…have you any proof of this?’

Jane was furious at his sceptical tone.

‘I don’t just say I made the payments!’ she shouted. ‘I did make them!’

Marc’s voice continued relentlessly, as if he had scarcely heard her impassioned interruption.

‘No doubt you have documents to prove this?’

Jane’s head swam with exhaustion and disbelief.

‘Yes. No. Not exactly. After I inherited the money from my grandmother my father persuaded me to form a company. It was all terribly complicated.’

‘Not Saddler’s Vineyards Limited, by any chance?’ asked Marc in a hushed voice.

‘Yes,’ said Jane uneasily.

‘Parbleu!’ exclaimed Marc, leaving his place by the mantelpiece and crossing the room to her. ‘I’m extremely sorry for you, Jane. It seems to me that your father has…what’s the expression you Australians use?…sold you down the river. I’ve seen the documents governing the formation of that company. Your father is chief managing director and has a controlling interest in it. You were a very foolish girl to hand over control of your assets to another person in such a manner. What possessed you to do such a thing?’

Jane’s head came up and her eyes blazed. Her blonde hair seemed to crackle around her shoulders with a life of its own.

‘Because I trusted him!’ she cried. ‘OK? I trusted him! He’s my father, for heaven’s sake. He wouldn’t do a thing like this to me.’

‘Wouldn’t he?’ asked Marc quietly.

With a low groan Jane crossed to the fireplace and stood staring unseeingly into the leaping flames. Certain bitter memories of her mother came back to her.

‘Maybe he would,’ she admitted at last in a defeated voice. ‘Oh, not deliberately, I suppose. He’d feel certain that he was doing the right thing and he’d excuse it to himself somehow. Tell himself that he was going to make huge profits for me by putting it into some harebrained scheme of his own. My mother always complained that he ran through all her money before they split up. I used to think it was just bitterness, but now I’m not sure…Are you telling me that I’m financially ruined?’

‘Only if I go ahead with the purchase of this property,’ said Marc. ‘If I don’t, there’s a chance you might regain control of your assets.’

Jane swung round.

‘Then don’t do it!’ she cried passionately. ‘Please, please don’t do it! You said yourself it’s an impressive little vineyard and I’ve worked hard on it. Don’t make me give it up.’

Marc shook his head fastidiously.

‘Why should it matter to me?’ he asked.