Читать книгу Unwelcome Invader - Angela Devine - Страница 8

‘BECAUSE it’s a question of simple decency!’ cried Jane.

Marc gave her a baffled look, as if he had never heard the word in his life.

‘I still don’t see what it has to do with me,’ he said dismissively. ‘Obviously, the first thing we need to do is phone your father tomorrow morning in New Zealand and find out exactly what the legal position is.’

‘Legal position!’ protested Jane. ‘That’s all that matters to you, isn’t it? The legal position! Don’t you have any feelings at all?’

Marc’s face remained completely impassive. Only the eyes seemed alive—dark, brooding, thoughtful. But his face might have been carved out of granite for all the encouragement it gave her.

‘This is nothing but a business transaction to me,’ he said. ‘I’ve made an extremely generous payment to your father for the option to purchase this property. I’ve also had to make extensive arrangements in France to cover my absence in Australia for three months. Why should I throw away all that when there’s no certainty that I could even help you by doing so?’

Jane gave a defeated sigh. He was quite right. Why should he? After all, it was her own stupid fault she was in this position, although that didn’t make it any easier to bear. Quite the reverse, in fact. She felt shaken, humiliated, betrayed. And instead of making some attempt to comfort her this unfeeling stranger simply stood there, staring at her as impassively as a judge.

‘What are you going to do with the place if you do buy it?’ she demanded accusingly. ‘Winemaking here is a lot different from in France.’

He smiled with unexpected charm.

‘That’s half the attraction for me,’ he said. ‘I want to be one of the flying winemakers. It’s tremendous good luck that the seasons are reversed in the two hemispheres. By spending half the year in Europe and half the year in Australia I can have two vintages. Twice the chance to make superb wine, plus the best of French tradition and Australian innovation. It seems ideal to me.’

‘And you’re prepared to ruin me to do it?’ demanded Jane bitterly.

‘You’re being melodramatic, chérie. You’re not ruined yet. And even if you were, it would be entirely your own doing. You’ve been a naïve, impetuous little fool, you know.’

Jane caught her breath sharply and clenched her fists.

‘You patronising——! I hate you. I wish you’d never come here!’

‘I begin to wish it myself,’ murmured Marc as he met her scowling gaze. ‘You have no manners at all, mademoiselle. You attack me with bottles and torches—what next will it be? A pitchfork? Or just your own teeth and claws? Now that might be interesting.’

Something in that husky drawl sent a throb of unwilling excitement through Jane’s body, which only annoyed her still further. She made an impatient movement towards the door but found that Marc was blocking her way. He made no attempt to move, but simply stood there—large, threatening and intensely masculine. She paused, irresolute, not wanting to make an undignified and very obvious detour around him, but the pause was a mistake. Looking up into those mocking brown eyes, she was suddenly conscious of another reluctant thrill of attraction to him, of an electric tingling in her limbs that filled her with an insane urge to move into his arms. The scent of his cologne, spicy and erotic, drifted into her nostrils and her senses swam. Horrified, she broke away and retreated to the door.

‘Don’t worry!’ she snapped. ‘I’m not going to do anything else to hurt you.’

Marc turned and looked at her with amusement.

‘I don’t believe you could hurt me,’ he said. ‘And where are you off to now? If you’re planning to run off somewhere and sob your heart out, I forbid it.’

Jane gave a choking laugh.

‘What would you care?’ she exclaimed unsteadily. ‘Anyway, as it happens, I’m just going to bed.’

‘I’ll come and prepare a guest-room for you,’ offered Marc.

‘No, you won’t!’ she shouted. ‘I’m not a guest. I live here! I’ve got a perfectly good room of my own upstairs.’

‘Ah, of course,’ murmured Marc with dawning comprehension. ‘The locked room that Monsieur West told me he had left his possessions in. The one opposite the head of the stairs?’

‘Yes, and I might as well warn you right now that I’m not just staying there tonight. I’m staying as long as I like. I won’t move out just to please you and I don’t care what kind of legal contract you’ve got. If you want me to go then you’ll have to drag me out of here.’

Marc’s smile broadened.

‘That too might be interesting,’ he said softly.

Jane made a strangled sound deep in the back of her throat.

‘You’re impossible!’

Her rage boiled over. She stepped out into the hall and slammed the door, then she remembered his earlier taunt that she had no manners. With a contemptuous snort she swung round and reopened it. She poked her head back into the sitting-room.

‘Thanks for the meal!’ she hissed. Then she withdrew and slammed the door so hard that the grandfather clock struck twice in protest.

Upstairs, Jane was in no way soothed by the familiar green-sprigged wallpaper, lace curtains and soft lighting of her bedroom. On the contrary, she was doubly annoyed to find that her father really had left a lot of his belongings in her room. Sweeping a pile of cardboard cartons off her bed so that they landed on the floor with ominous crashes, she crawled under the feather duvet, snapped off the bedside lamp and closed her eyes. Her heart was still thudding angrily from her encounter with Marc and she felt like a racing car running on high octane fuel. She intended to stay awake trying to think out some plan of action to protect her vineyard and her home, but soon exhaustion took over and she fell asleep.

Not that this was in any way a refreshing experience. Her dreams were troubled by the roaring of plane engines, the shattering of bottles and confused visions of Marc Le Rossignol prowling in the firelight like a demon king. Towards dawn these restless nightmares gave way to a deep, annihilating slumber in which she was conscious of cool, fresh country air rippling the curtains and of branches tapping softly against her window. It was almost noon when at last she woke up properly. For a moment she had a tranquil sense of wellbeing, which was even accompanied by an odd sense of exhilaration. Then the memories of the previous night came hurtling back to her and she gave a sudden groan.

‘Oh, no! He can’t take this place away from me. He can’t! He can’t!’

Jumping out of bed, she ran to the window and flung open the curtains. The Japanese maple which had been tapping out its Morse code all through her dreams waved a vivid canopy of scarlet leaves against a bright blue sky. Raising the sash window even higher, she leaned on the windowsill and looked out. In spite of her worries, the scene still made her heart lift. Down below was the vivid green of the garden contained within a darker green yew hedge. Beyond that were the rows and rows of lime-green grapevines, rustling peacefully in the autumn sunshine. In the distance the hills looked dark blue against the paler blue of the sky. It seemed a double irony that disaster should threaten her on such a beautiful day. Well, she wasn’t going to give up without a fight!

Luckily her room had a tiny en suite bathroom with a shower, so she didn’t have to face Marc while she was still tousled and yawning. After a long reviving shower she dressed in clean jeans, a shirt and espadrilles, tied her unruly hair back in a riotous ponytail and went downstairs. She was in the kitchen burning her second lot of toast when Marc suddenly appeared. He snatched the smoking toast, swore softly in French as it burned his fingers, and dropped it into the bin. A moment later he unplugged the toaster and dropped that in on top of the burnt bread.

‘What are you doing?’ cried Jane indignantly. ‘We’ve had that toaster for fifteen years.’

‘That is obvious,’ retorted Marc. ‘It’s bad enough when somebody efficient like me makes the toast. But you, you don’t even watch it and your sense of smell evidently doesn’t work. Do you want to burn the whole house down? And don’t worry about the toaster. I’ll buy you another one tomorrow.’

‘I don’t want another toaster!’ cried Jane. ‘I want that one.’

Even to her own ears she sounded remarkably like a petulant six-year-old. It was even worse when she ran to the bin and tried to snatch the toaster back out. Marc barred her way.

‘You wish to fight me for it?’ he invited.

Jane ground her teeth.

‘No.’

‘Ah, bon. You have some sense after all. I had begun to wonder. And, since that is the last slice of bread you have just burnt, perhaps you will join me in a decent breakfast.’

‘What do you mean “a decent breakfast”?’ asked Jane suspiciously.

‘Coffee—real coffee—almond croissants, a baguette. There are some surprisingly good bakeries in Tasmania.’

Jane scowled silently. She wanted to refuse, but the pastries which Marc was laying out in a basket on the kitchen table looked far too delectable to resist. Those yummy little crescents filled with almond paste, dusted with flaked almonds and icing sugar—surely it wouldn’t hurt if she had just one of them? After all, there was no point in starving even if her whole life was in ruins.

‘All right,’ she agreed ungraciously.

Fortified by two cups of fragrant black coffee, an almond croissant, a pain au chocolat and a large piece of crusty French bread, Jane was beginning to feel that Marc might not be quite such a monster as she had thought the previous evening. The way his gaze rested on her in that quiet, mocking scrutiny still unnerved her, but perhaps underneath he was really quite nice. She didn’t know that her opinion would change before the morning was over.

‘Well,’ said Marc, when they had finally rinsed the dirty plates and cups and put them in the dishwasher. ‘I think it’s time we phoned your father.’

‘All right,’ agreed Jane with lead in her heart.

It was every bit as bad as she had feared. The telephone number which Marc gave her proved to be in Queenstown in New Zealand. When she first came on the line her father proclaimed himself delighted to hear her, but as soon as he realised she was back in Australia and had learnt about Marc’s contract on the vineyard his manner changed. He became defensive and began to bluster. First he told Jane that he had signed the contract for her own good because Marc’s offer had been too handsome to refuse and assured her that they would both make a mint of money out of a set of time-share apartments he was planning to build.

Jane tried to reason with him, then pleaded, and finally lost her temper and began to shout. At that point Marc seized the telephone and took over. Where Jane had been impassioned and incoherent, he was cool and rational, but Jane had the impression that his cool questioning was beginning to wear her father down. It was tantalising to listen to a one-sided conversation, but a wild hope rose in her as she realised that Marc was getting the better of her father on every point. It was all the more of a disappointment when Marc uttered a pleasant farewell without obtaining any clear resolution of the problem.

‘What happened?’ cried Jane hotly. ‘You had him on the run! You could have made him back out of the whole deal, couldn’t you?’

Marc shrugged.

‘Probably.’

‘Then why didn’t you?’ she demanded. ‘The whole situation is completely unfair to me—you told him that yourself! So why didn’t you make him give up?’

‘Because I chose not to,’ he replied.

Jane’s disappointment was so acute that she felt like shouting or hitting something. Preferably Marc. Somehow over breakfast she had begun to think of him not so much as an unwanted invader but as her protector and ally. Now she realised bitterly that he was only interested in protecting his own interests.

‘I suppose that’s fair enough,’ she sneered. ‘Naturally you’re only interested in your own interests. Why should I expect anything else?’

Marc’s pupils narrowed to tiny, opaque points of light that seemed for an instant to glitter dangerously. Then he gave her a long, appraising look.

‘Never mind my reasons. The important thing is that I’m staying here for the full three months. The question now is, What’s going to happen to you?’

‘I’m staying here too,’ insisted Jane. ‘I’m not moving.’

Marc’s lips twisted into an odd smile.

‘And when the irresistible meets the immovable, what happens?’

‘I wouldn’t call you irresistible,’ said Jane scathingly.

‘And I wouldn’t call you immovable,’ he murmured. His voice was husky and his eyes held a suave, mocking glint that seemed to conceal something brooding and wild beneath it. He reminded Jane of a tiger on a leash. ‘I feel sure I could move you if I tried.’

‘Stop playing games!’ she cried. ‘I’m staying here and that’s that.’

‘Really? And what will you do for money? I suppose your father has left you adequately provided for?’

Jane stared at him, aghast. Supposing he hadn’t? She and her father had a joint account which had served both for housekeeping and the expenses of the property. Either of them could withdraw money at any time and she had never fussed about it too much, even though her mother had warned her that it was unwise. Now a tremor of misgiving went through her. What if her father had cleaned the account out?

‘I’m sure he’s left me enough money!’ she cried, leaping instantly to her father’s defence.

With a sceptical expression Marc picked up the phone again and held it out to her.

‘Why don’t you phone your bank manager and check?’

Jane’s fingers were shaking as she punched in the numbers. She wished Marc wouldn’t keep looking at her with that half pitying, half contemptuous stare. Her heart beat more and more frantically and, when at last she got her bank manager on the line, her questions came out in a breathless staccato rush. Even before he answered her something in the quality of his long, initial silence told her that she was in for a bitter disappointment. Waves of humiliation and anger washed over her as she set down the phone again.

‘Well? Has he left you enough money?’

‘No,’ she flared. ‘You knew he wouldn’t, didn’t you? He’s transferred everything to New Zealand except for a few dollars. What am I going to do? There are Charlie’s wages to be paid and soon there’ll be grape-pickers for the harvest.’

‘Don’t work yourself into a state,’ advised Marc coolly. ‘Those things are my concern now. Under the terms of the contract I signed, I’m responsible for all the expenses to do with the vineyard for the next three months. The real difficulty is you. It seems you’re thrown on my charity, Jane. If I choose to show any.’

She stared at him in horror as the implication of his words sank in. If she stayed here then every mouthful she ate, every bar of soap she washed her hands with would be paid for by Marc Le Rossignol! And the taunting smile that touched the corners of his mouth showed that he was thinking exactly the same thought.

‘Yes, chérie, I’m afraid so. If you stay here you will have to come down every morning and beg me sweetly to share my croissants with you. You’ll have to ask me for money to go shopping or to buy petrol for the car. Is that what you want?’

‘Oh, go to hell!’ flared Jane.

Marc laughed, in no way upset by her spurt of temper.

‘I’ve always thought my ideal woman would be tall, red-haired and gracious in any situation,’ he remarked. ‘But you, you remind me of…What’s that ferocious little creature you have here? The one that snarls and bares its teeth? A devil, that’s it. You’re a little Tasmanian devil, aren’t you?’

Jane gave him a long, smouldering, silent glare.

‘They’re very bad-tempered creatures,’ continued Marc in a conversational tone. ‘Although I’m told they make good pets if you can tame them—but only one man in a thousand is capable of doing it.’

‘Just try!’ snapped Jane.

Marc smiled provocatively.

‘I might. It would be a challenge to see if I could get you eating out of my hand. All right, enough of these games! What’s to become of you?’

‘I’m staying here,’ insisted Jane.

‘What about when you want to go to the shops, or to buy petrol, or clothes, or to visit the hairdresser’s?’

‘I never go to the hairdresser’s!’

‘Never?’ marvelled Marc. ‘You mean all that long, blonde, wonderful hair is natural?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s very beautiful,’ said Marc, momentarily diverted. ‘But we must not lose the thread of our conversation. Even if you don’t go to the hairdresser’s, there must be some place where you need to spend money.’

‘I won’t go out at all,’ threatened Jane. ‘I’ll just stay here at the house until you leave.’

Marc’s lips twitched. ‘And if I choose not to feed you?’

‘I’ll eat grapes.’

‘Quelle drôle de femme! Comme elle est farouche! No, no, Jane, this won’t do. In any case, I need all the grapes I can get to make the best possible wine here. I have a much more sensible idea. I’ll employ you.’

‘Employ me?’ echoed Jane in a baffled tone.

‘Yes, you can be my personal assistant for the next three months on a salary of——’ He named a figure which made Jane blink at its generosity.

‘Why?’ she asked suspiciously. ‘Why would you want to do a thing like that?’

Marc shrugged.

‘It seems a very good idea. You could learn a lot from me, Jane. I’m thirty-four years old; I’ve been a professional winemaker for the last twelve years and I’ve been working in my family vineyard for even longer than that. It’s an excellent opportunity for you.’

‘Maybe,’ admitted Jane grudgingly. ‘But what’s in it for you?’

‘Well, I don’t want you starving on the streets or plotting sabotage behind my back. This way I can keep an eye on you. Besides, I’d like to try my skills at taming a genuine Tasmanian devil.’

Jane hated being teased. Ever since childhood it had been the surest way to make her fly into a rage. Now she opened her mouth to protest hotly, to refuse Marc’s stupid, insulting proposition, and then paused. If she didn’t accept, what could she do? She would either have to leave the place entirely or stay here on even more humiliating terms. Was she really prepared to beg for croissants every morning? No way! Wasn’t it better to be Marc’s employee? Besides, if she stayed then she might be able to talk him out of buying the property at all…

A sweet radiant smile replaced her scowl.

‘All right,’ she agreed meekly. ‘It’s a deal.’

Marc suddenly looked uneasy.

‘There are conditions,’ he warned. ‘No bombs in the car, no fires in the equipment shed, no poison in the coffee.’

‘Moi?’ demanded Jane innocently.

Marc sighed and shook his head.

‘For centuries the men of my family have had the gift of prophecy,’ he lamented. ‘They are forewarned of disaster to the Le Rossignols by a mysterious prickle down their spines. Me, I have a mysterious prickle down my spine.’

In spite of Marc’s foreboding no disasters happened immediately. As a matter of fact he and Jane soon developed a strong professional respect for each other. Yet, much as she admired Marc’s knowledge about vineyards, Jane found the whole situation fraught with unbearable tension. In her rash determination to hold on to her territory at any cost, she had not stopped to consider what an intimate situation she was being plunged into with this suave, mocking Frenchman.

Morning after morning she came downstairs and had to look at him over the breakfast table, just as if they were married. There were so many decisions to be made about what they would eat for dinner, whose turn it was to load the washing machine, whether or not friends should be invited over for Sunday lunch. Worst of all was the alarming and wholly unwelcome attraction that she felt towards him. Even though she tried to fight against it, Jane was no more immune to Marc’s smouldering animal magnetism than any other woman would have been. Her weakness infuriated her. She had never trusted men with those brooding, bedroom eyes or that hoarse, caressing voice. At any rate not since she was nineteen years old and had fallen violently in love with Michael Barrett, her chemistry tutor in Adelaide.

Michael had pursued her with an ardour that had flattered and excited her and she had been bitterly disillusioned to overhear other students joking crudely about the way he always tried to seduce the prettiest girl in each new class. Fortunately matters had not gone quite that far between them although they had gone quite far enough to lacerate Jane’s pride. Her cheeks burned even now whenever she thought of one particularly torrid evening in Michael’s flat when he had kissed her violently and——Well, she felt bitterly certain that Marc was another man just like that. Someone only interested in scoring women as if they were goals in a soccer match, and Jane had no intention of adding to his tally!

All the same, it became harder and harder to face him calmly over the breakfast table each morning, particularly since he was in the habit of appearing in a navy-blue towelling dressing-gown that left the top of his muscular, tanned chest exposed. Again and again Jane felt her eyes straying in horrified fascination to the dark, springy hairs that curled over the V of fabric, then up the brown column of his neck to the aggressive line of his jaw and the taunting half-smile that always seemed to hover around his lips as he read the newspaper. What a fool she was! Why couldn’t she just settle for someone dull and nice and devoted like Brett? The restless yearning she felt for a man who would make her blood pulse like molten fire through her veins was probably quite insane! It seemed to be a law of nature that the only men who made her heart pound and her breath come faster were utterly worthless like Michael. Or dangerous and probably untrustworthy like Marc. No, she would be much wiser to give up crying for the moon and settle for second best.

When her twenty-seventh birthday arrived two weeks after her return from France, she was so depressed that she almost made up her mind to do exactly that. Over breakfast she sat gloomily stirring her coffee and sighing quietly to herself. If she knew Brett, he was bound to arrive some time during the day, probably with a bale of wire for the vineyard and definitely with another one of his matter of fact proposals. Well, this time she really ought to accept! After all, she wanted a home and children and she was fond of Brett. Besides, she wasn’t getting any younger and she didn’t want to feel as if love had passed her by completely. Sometimes she thought she was probably the only twenty-seven-year-old virgin in Australia. Or even in the world. She sighed again.

‘Mon Dieu!’ exclaimed Marc. ‘What is the matter with you? Do you have asthma?’

‘No,’ retorted Jane with a scowl. She rose to her feet abruptly, pushing away her coffee-cup, and headed for the French doors which led out of the kitchen into the garden.

‘Where are you going?’ demanded Marc with a frown.

Jane paused with her hand on the door handle and turned back to look at him. An unwanted thrill of excitement tingled through her as she scanned every detail of his body from his carelessly brushed-back hair, his narrowed eyes and twisted smile to his lean, muscular body which seemed to strain against the confining dressing-gown. She shuddered and looked away.

‘Into the garden,’ she replied drily and then chanted half to herself, ‘Nobody loves me, everybody hates me, I’m going into the garden to eat worms!’

The baffled look on Marc’s face almost made her laugh as she escaped into the cool, dewy crispness of the garden. Luckily the fine autumn weather was holding well. Although there was an early morning freshness in the air, the cloudless blue sky held the promise of a fine day. If the good weather held she should soon have an excellent harvest.

Yet the lift in her spirits was only momentary and before long she was pacing around the shrubs and flowerbeds feeling tragic again. What a mess everything was! It looked as if she was going to lose her home and her livelihood; nobody did love her except Brett and she really wished he wouldn’t and, worst of all, she was locked into this ridiculous, humiliating situation with Marc Le Rossignol, whom she both desired and disliked, with equal fervour!

She was on her third circuit of the garden when she heard the sound of a utility truck pulling up in the turning circle behind the house. Her spirits plummeted even further. It had to be Brett! Feeling as if she were about to make a visit to the dentist, Jane sat down at the pine table near the barbecue. If he asks me to marry him, I’ll say yes, she told herself defiantly. At least it will make Brett happy and it will get Marc Le Rossignol out of my life forever!

A moment later Brett came strolling around the corner of the house with a lettuce under his arm.

‘Happy birthday,’ he said.

‘Thanks, Brett.’

‘I’ve got some irrigation pipe out in the ute for you. I thought you’d prefer something practical.’

‘Thanks. That’s very nice of you.’

‘No worries. And I thought you could do with a lettuce from my veggie garden.’

He set the lettuce down on the table in front of her and then took Jane in his arms as she rose to her feet. His face looked as red and good-natured as ever and she wanted to return the fervent emotion that she saw shining in his eyes, but somehow she couldn’t. At the last moment, as he bent to kiss her, she turned her head so that his kiss landed on her cheek instead of her lips.

‘Ah, come on, Jane,’ he protested. ‘You can do better than that. Give us a proper kiss.’

Jane’s instinct was to run, but she steeled herself to obey. Glancing at the kitchen, she saw that Marc was standing just inside the French doors and suddenly a crazy impulse seized her to tell Brett that it was Marc she loved and to flee inside to him. How stupid could she be? Instead she flung her arms around Brett’s waist and kissed him warmly on the lips. Brett looked shocked and then delighted. He kissed her back with a warm, moist fervour that made her stiffen with distaste.

‘Ah, that’s the way,’ he exclaimed, approvingly at last. ‘I knew you’d come round if I waited long enough! Listen, Jane, what do you say we stop all this pussyfooting around and get married right away?’

Jane stared at him in horror. This was the proposal she had been waiting for—the proposal she had meant to accept. She opened her mouth to say yes and was seized by such a blind, unreasoning panic that for a moment she could say nothing at all.

‘No!’ she wailed at last, pushing away the bewildered farmer. ‘I’m sorry, Brett, you’re a really, really nice man, but I don’t love you and I never will. Now please go away!’

Hurtling into the house, she almost knocked Marc down in her mad rush.

‘Get out of my way!’ she cried impatiently, confusingly aware of his strong hands steadying her arms, the spicy, masculine scent of his body so close to hers, the questioning glint in his eyes. The irrelevant thought occurred to her that she would have no trouble kissing Marc or agreeing to marry him. She gave him a violent push and ran for the stairs.

‘Don’t let him follow me!’ she begged over her shoulder, and then vanished.

Much as she simply wanted to race up the stairs two at a time, lock herself in her wardrobe and never come out again, Jane couldn’t help pausing anxiously on the stairs to see what happened. A moment later she heard Brett’s heavy tread as he entered the kitchen.

‘Get out of my way, mate,’ he ordered, amiably enough.

Craning her neck, Jane risked a look, and saw that Marc was barring Brett’s way with equal amiability.

‘She doesn’t want to see you,’ said Marc, in a pleasant voice that held an undertone of steel.

‘Now, look here,’ protested Brett. ‘I’m not just mucking about and leading her on, you know. I came here to ask Jane to marry me.’

‘I’m sorry for you. But it seems you have your answer and the answer is no.’

‘This is your fault,’ said Brett accusingly. ‘Coming here, filling her head with your fancy foreign ideas. I’ll bet you’re just trying to turn her against me so that you can have some rotten little affair with her and then go off and leave her broken-hearted.’

‘Whatever happens between Jane and me is none of your business,’ replied Marc with aristocratic hauteur. ‘But, since you seem a decent fellow, I will tell you this. In fact, Jane and I have an understanding between us. Naturally in these circumstances she does not want to be involved with any other man. Nor would I permit it.’

‘But you’ve only been staying here with her for two flaming weeks!’ exclaimed Brett in an outraged voice. ‘How the hell can you have an understanding with her in that time?’

‘You seem to forget that she was in France for six months before that,’ Marc reminded him.

Brett’s face creased into a baffled frown.

‘You mean, you knew her in France before you came here?’ he demanded.

With the merest upward flick of his eyebrows, Marc contrived to suggest that this was so.

‘Well, she never said anything to me about it!’ insisted Brett belligerently.

‘Why should she tell you?’ countered Marc. ‘She regards you as a dear friend, certainly, but she would hardly want to discuss her love for another man with you.’

‘Oh, yeah, love is it?’ demanded Brett sceptically. ‘Well, it had better be, mate, and the real thing into the bargain. Because I’ll tell you this. I’m not going to quarrel with any other bloke if he wins Jane fair and square and she really prefers him to me. But if you’re taking advantage of her and your intentions aren’t serious, I’ll knock your flaming teeth down your throat!’