Читать книгу Island of Secrets - Robyn Donald - Страница 7

SOMETHING IN THE crystalline depths of Luc MacAllister’s eyes sent uncomfortable prickles of sensation sizzling down Jo’s spine. Trying to ignore them, she said shortly, ‘My room’s on the other side of the house.’

His frown indicated that he wasn’t happy about that. Surely he didn’t expect her to move out without notice? Well, it was his problem, not hers.

It would have been nice to be forewarned that he expected to stay, but this man didn’t seem to do nice. So she said, ‘I assume you won’t mind sleeping in the bed Tom used?’ And hoped he would mind. She wanted him to go back to the resort and stay there until he took his arrogant self off to whatever country he next honoured with his presence.

But he said, ‘Of course not.’ So much for hope.

She gave the conversation a sharp twist. ‘I presume you flew in yesterday?’

‘Yes.’ Which meant he wouldn’t be accustomed to the tropical humidity.

Good manners drove her to offer, ‘Can I get you a drink? What would you like?’

Broad shoulders lifted slightly, sending another shimmering, tantalising sensation through her. Darn it, she didn’t want to be so aware of him … Possibly he’d noticed her sneaky unexpected response because his reply came in an even more abrupt tone. ‘Coffee, thank you. I’ll bring in my bag.’

Jo nodded and walked into the kitchen. Of course coffee would be his drink of choice. Black and strong, probably—to stress that uber-macho personality. He didn’t need to bother. She knew exactly the sort of man Luc MacAllister was. Tom hadn’t spoken much about his family, but he’d said enough. And although he’d fought hard to keep control of his empire, he had once admitted that he could think of no one other than Luc to take his place. A person had to be special to win Tom’s trust. And tough.

With an odd little shiver, she decided Luc MacAllister certainly fitted the bill.

If he preferred something alcoholic she’d show him the drinks cupboard and the bottle of Tom’s favourite whisky—still almost full, just as he’d left it.

A swift pang of grief stung through her. Damn it, but she missed Tom. Her hand shook slightly, just enough to shower ground coffee onto the bench. In the couple of years since her aunt’s death Jo had grown close to him. A great storyteller, he’d enjoyed making her laugh—and occasionally shocking her.

Biting her lip, she wiped up the coffee grounds. He’d been a constant part of her life on and off since childhood. Sometimes she wondered if he thought of her as a kind of stepdaughter.

When she’d used up her mother’s legacy setting up a skincare business on Rotumea, he’d advanced her money to keep it going—on strictly businesslike terms—but even more valuable had been his interest in her progress and his helpful suggestions as she’d struggled to expand the business through exports.

A voice from behind made her start. ‘That smells good.’ One dark brow lifted as Luc MacAllister looked at the single mug she’d pulled down. ‘Aren’t you joining me?’

A refusal hovered on her lips but hospitality dictated only one answer. ‘If you want me to,’ she said quietly.

Following a moment of silence she swivelled, to meet a hooded, intent survey. A humourless smile curved the corners of a hard male mouth that hinted at considerable experience in … in all things, she thought hastily, trying to ignore the sensuous little thrill agitating her nerves.

‘Why not?’ His voice was harsh, almost abrupt before he turned away. ‘I’ll unpack.’

Strangely shaken, she finished her preparations. He’d probably prefer the shaded deck, so she carried the tray there and had just finished settling it onto the table when Luc MacAllister walked out.

He examined it with interest. ‘Looks good,’ he said laconically. ‘Is that your baking?’

‘Yes.’ Jo busied herself pouring the coffee. She’d been right; he liked it black and full-flavoured, but unlike Tom he didn’t demand that it snarl as it seethed out of the pot.

Sipping her own coffee gave her something to do while he demolished a slice of coconut cake and asked incisively penetrating questions about Rotumea and its society.

She knew why he was here. He’d come to tell her he was going to sell the house. Yet, in spite of his attitude, his arrival warmed her a little; she’d expected nothing more than a businesslike message ordering her to vacate the place. That he should come out of his way to tell her was as much a surprise as the letter from Tom’s solicitor suggesting the meeting tomorrow.

Leaving the house would be saying goodbye to part of her heart. Get on with it, she mentally urged him as he set his cup down.

‘That was excellent.’ He leaned back into his chair and surveyed her, his grey gaze hooded.

It looked as though she’d have to broach the matter herself. Without preamble, she said, ‘I can move out as soon as you like.’

His brows lifted. ‘Why?’

Nonplussed, she answered, ‘Well, I suppose you plan to sell this house.’ He’d never shown any interest in the place, and his initial glance around had seemed to be tinged with snobbish contempt.

He paused before answering. ‘No.’ And paused again before adding, ‘Not yet, anyway.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought—’ She stopped.

He waited for her to finish, and when the silence had stretched too taut to be comfortable, he ordered with cool self-possession, ‘Go on.’

She shrugged. ‘This was Tom’s dream.’ Not Luc MacAllister’s.

‘So?’

The dismissive monosyllable sent her back a few years to the awkwardness of her teens. A spark of antagonism rallied her into giving him a smile that perhaps showed too many teeth before she parried smoothly, ‘It doesn’t seem like your sort of setting, but I do try not to make instant judgements of people I’ve only just met.’

‘Eminently sensible of you,’ he drawled, and abruptly changed the subject. ‘How good is the Internet access here?’

‘Surely you knew your father better than—’

‘My stepfather,’ he cut in, his voice flat and inflexible. ‘My father was a Scotsman who died when I was three.’

In spite of the implied rejection of Tom’s presence in his life, Jo felt a flash of kinship. Her father had died before she was born.

However, one glance at Luc’s stony face expelled any sympathy. Quietly she said, ‘There is access to broadband.’ She indicated the screen that hid Tom’s computer nook. ‘Feel free.’

‘Later. I noticed as I flew in that the island isn’t huge, and there seems to be a road right around it. Why don’t you show me the sights?’

Hoping she’d managed to hide her astonishment, she said, ‘Yes, of course.’ Her mouth twitched as she took in his long legs. ‘Not on the scooter, though, I think.’ Why on earth did he want to see Rotumea?

His angular face would never soften, but the smile he gave her radiated a charisma that almost sent her reeling. He was too astute not to understand its impact. No doubt it had charmed his way—backed by his keen intelligence and hard determination.

‘Not on the scooter,’ he agreed. ‘I wouldn’t enjoy riding with my knees hitting my chin at every bump in the road.’

Taken by surprise, she laughed. His brows rose and his face set, and she felt as though she’d been jolted by an electric shock.

So what was that for? Didn’t he like having his minor jokes appreciated?

Black lashes hid his eyes a moment before he permitted himself another smile, this one marked by more than a hint of cynicism.

Sobering rapidly, Jo said, ‘We’ll take the four-wheeler.’

‘What’s a four-wheeler?’

Shrugging, she said, ‘It’s the local term for a four-wheel drive—a Land Rover, to be exact.’

An old Land Rover, showing the effects of years in the unkind climate of the tropics, but well maintained. Jo expected Luc to want to drive, but when she held out the keys he said casually, ‘You know the local rules, I don’t.’

Surprised, she got in behind the wheel. Even more surprised, she heard the door close decisively on her, penning her in. Her gaze followed him as he strode around the front of the vehicle, unwillingly appreciating his athletic male grace.

Once more that provocative awareness shivered along her nerves.

He was too much … too much man, she thought as he settled himself beside her. All the air seemed sucked out of the cab and as she hastily switched on the engine she scolded herself for behaving like a schoolgirl with a crush.

‘Basically the road rules here amount to don’t run over anything,’ she explained, so accustomed to the sticking clutch she set the vehicle on its way without a jerk. ‘Collisions are accompanied by a lot of drama, but traffic is so slow people seldom get hurt. If you cause any damage or run over a chicken or a pig, you apologise profusely and pay for it. And you always give way to any vehicle with children, especially if it’s a motor scooter with children up behind.’

‘They look extremely dangerous,’ he said.

His voice indicated that he’d turned his head to survey her. Tiny beads of sweat sprang out at her temples. Hoping he hadn’t noticed, she stared ahead, steering to miss the worst of the ruts along the drive.

She had to deliberately steady her voice to say, ‘The local children seem to be born with the ability to ride pillion without falling off.’

Her reaction to Luc meant nothing.

Or very little. Her mother had explained the dynamics of physical attraction to her when she’d suffered her first adolescent crush. And her own experience—limited but painful—had convinced Jo of her mother’s accuracy.

She set her jaw. Sean’s insinuations about her mother had hurt some deep inner part of her. Even in her forties, Ilona Forman’s great beauty and style had made her a regular on the Parisian catwalks, and she’d been one great designer’s inspiration for years.

To her surprise, the tour went off reasonably well. Jo was careful not to overstep the boundary of cool acquaintanceship, and Luc MacAllister matched her attitude. Nevertheless, tension wound her nerves tighter with each kilometre they travelled over Rotumea’s fairly primitive road.

Luc’s occasional comments indicated that the famous romance of the South Seas made little impression on him. Although, to be fair, he’d probably seen far more picturesque tropical islands than Rotumea.

Nevertheless she bristled a little when he observed, ‘Tom once told me that many of the Rotumean people live much as their ancestors did.’

‘More or less, I suppose. They have schools, of course, and a medical clinic, and a small tourist industry set up by Tom in partnership with the local people.’

‘The resort.’

‘Yes. Tom advised the tribal council to market to a wealthy clientele who’d enjoy a lazy holiday without insisting on designer shops and nightclubs. It’s worked surprisingly well.’

Again she felt the impact of his gaze on her, and her palms grew damp on the steering wheel. She hurried on, ‘Some islanders work at the resort, but most of them work the land and fish. They’re fantastic gardeners and very skilled and knowledgeable fishermen.’

‘And they’re quite content to spend their lives in this perfect Pacific paradise.’

His tone raised her hackles. ‘It never was perfect,’ she said evenly. ‘No matter how beautiful a place is, mankind doesn’t seem to be able to live peacefully. A couple of hundred years ago the islanders all lived in fortified villages up on the heights and fought incessantly, tribe against tribe. It’s not perfect now, of course, but it seems to work pretty well for most of them.’

‘What about those who want more than fish and coconuts?’

She glanced at him, caught sight of his incisive profile—all angles apart from the curve of his mouth—and hastily looked back at the road. So Tom hadn’t taken him into his confidence—and that seemed to indicate something rather distant about their relationship.

‘Tom set up scholarships with the help of the local chiefs for kids who want to go on to higher education.’

He nodded. ‘Where do they go?’

‘New Zealand mainly, although some have studied further afield.’ With the skill of long practice she negotiated three hens that could see no reason for the vehicle to claim right of way.

‘Do they return?’

‘Some do, and those who don’t keep their links, sending money back to their families.’

He said, ‘So if you don’t buy the tropical paradise thing, why are you here?’

‘I came here because of my aunt,’ she said distantly. ‘She was Tom’s housekeeper, and insisted on staying on even after she contracted cancer. Tom employed one of the island women to help her, but after my mother died she asked me to come up.’

He nodded. ‘So you took her place after her death.’

An ambiguous note in his voice made her hesitate before she answered. ‘I suppose you could say that.’

Tom hadn’t employed her. He’d suggested she stay on at Rotumea for a few months to get over her aunt’s death, and once she’d become interested in starting her business he’d seen no reason for her to move out. He liked her company, he told her.

Luc MacAllister asked, ‘Now that Tom’s not here, how do you keep busy?’

‘I run a small business.’

‘Dealing with tourists?’

It was a reasonable assumption, yet for some reason she felt a stab of irritation. ‘Partly.’ The hotel used her range.

‘What is this small business?’ he drawled.

Pride warred with an illogical desire not to tell him. ‘I source ingredients from the native plants and turn them into skincare products.’

And felt an ignoble amusement at the flash of surprise in the hard, handsome face. It vanished quickly and his voice was faintly amused when he asked, ‘What made you decide to go into that?’

‘The islanders’ fabulous skin,’ she told him calmly. ‘They spend all day in the sun, and hours in the sea, yet they never use anything but the lotions handed down by their ancestors.’

‘Good genes,’ he observed.

His cool comment thinned her lips. Was he being deliberately dismissive? She suspected Luc MacAllister didn’t do anything without a purpose.

And that included passing comments.

Steadying her voice, she said, ‘No doubt that helps, but they have the same skin problems people of European descent have—sunburn, eczema, rashes from allergies. They use particular plants to soothe them.’

‘So you’ve copied their formulas.’

His tone was still neutral, but her skin tightened at the implication of exploitation, and she had to draw breath before saying, ‘It’s a joint venture.’

‘Who provided the start-up money?’

It appeared to be nothing more than an idle question, yet swift antagonism forced her to bite back an astringent comment. Subduing it, she said politely, ‘I don’t know that that’s any of your business.’

And kept her eyes fixed on the road ahead. Tension—thick and throbbing—grated across her nerves.

Until he drawled, ‘If it was Tom’s money I’m interested.’

‘Of course,’ she retorted, before closing her mouth on any more impetuous words. Silence filled the cab until she elaborated reluctantly, ‘It was my money.’

Let him take that how he wanted. If Luc MacAllister had any right to know, he’d find out about Tom’s subsequent loan to her from the solicitor—the man arriving tomorrow.

Was that why Luc had come to Rotumea? To be told the contents of Tom’s will?

Immediately she dismissed the idea. Luc was Tom’s heir, his chosen successor as well as his stepson, so he’d already know.

Possibly Tom had mentioned her in his will; he might even have cancelled her debt to him. That would have been a kind gesture. And if he hadn’t—if Luc MacAllister inherited the debt—she’d pay it off as quickly as she could.

A coolly decisive voice broke into her thoughts. ‘And are you making money on this project?’

For brief moments her fingers clenched around the steering wheel. For a second she toyed with the idea of telling him again to mind his own business, but it was a logical question, and if he did inherit the debt he had a right to know.

However, he might not have.

‘Yes,’ she said, and turned off the tarseal onto a narrow rutted road that led up into the jungle-clad mountains in the centre of the island.

A quick glance revealed Luc was examining a pawpaw plantation on his side. He didn’t seem fazed by the state of the road, the precipice to one side or the large pig that only slowly got up and made room for them.

‘This is the area we’re taking the material from now,’ she said. ‘Each sub-tribe sells me the rights to harvest from the plants on their land for three months every year. It works well; the plants have time to recover and even seem to flourish under the pruning.’

‘How many people do you employ to do the harvesting?’

‘It depends. The chiefs organise that.’

She stopped on the level patch of land where the road ended. ‘There’s a great view of this side of the island from here,’ she said, and got out.

Luc followed suit, and again she was acutely aware of his height, and that intangible, potent authority that seemed to come from some power inside him. The sun-streaks in his hair gleamed a dusky gold; his colouring must have come from that Scottish father. The only inheritance from his French mother was the olive sheen to his skin.

Did that cold grey gaze ever warm and soften? It didn’t seem likely, although she could imagine his eyes kindling in passion …

Firmly squelching an odd sensation in the pit of her stomach, she decided that from what she knew of him and the very little she’d seen of him, softness wasn’t—and never would be—part of his emotional repertoire. It was difficult to imagine him showing tenderness, and any compassion would probably be intellectual, not from the heart.

So, after an hour or so you’re an expert on him? she jeered mentally, aware of another embarrassing internal flutter. Remember you’re totally off good-looking men!

Although good-looking was far too weak a word for Luc MacAllister’s strong features and formidable air of authority. Composing herself, she began to point out the sights, showing him the breach in the reef that sheltered the lagoon from the ever-present pounding of the ocean waves.

‘The only river on the island reaches the coast below us, and the fresh water stops the coral from forming across its exit,’ she said in her best guidebook manner. ‘The gap in the reef and the lagoon make a sort of harbour, the first landing place of the original settlers.’

Luc’s downward glance set her heart racing, yet his voice was almost casual. ‘Where did they come from, and when was that?’

Doggedly, she switched her attention back to the view below. ‘Almost certainly they arrived from what’s now French Polynesia, and the general opinion seems to be it was about fifteen hundred years ago.’

‘They were magnificent seamen,’ he observed, looking out to sea. ‘They had to be, to set off into the unknown with only the stars and the clouds to guide them.’

The comment surprised her. Like all New Zealanders, she’d grown up with tales of those ancient sailors and their remarkable feats, but she remembered that Luc had been educated in England and France. She wouldn’t have thought he had a romantic bone in his big, lithe body, and it was unlikely he’d been taught about the great outrigger canoes that had island-hopped across the Pacific, even travelling the vast distance to South America to return with the sweet potato the Maori from her homeland called kumara.

‘Tough too,’ he said, his eyes still fixed on the lagoon beneath them—a symphony of turquoise and intense blue bordered by glittering white beaches and the robust barrier of the reef. Immense and dangerous, the Pacific Ocean stretched far beyond the horizon.

‘Very tough,’ she agreed. ‘And probably with a good reason for moving on each time.’

‘They must have had guts and stamina and tenacious determination, as well as the skill and knowledge to know where they were going.’

Yes, that sounded uncompromising and forceful—attributes as useful in the modern, high-powered world Luc moved in as they would have been for those ancient Polynesian voyagers.

‘I’m sure they did,’ she said. ‘Over a period of about four thousand years they discovered almost every inhabitable island in the Pacific from Hawaii to New Zealand.’

She pointed out the coral motu—small white-ringed islets covered in coconut palms, green beads in the lacy fichu of foam that the breaking combers formed along the reef.

‘When the first settlers landed there,’ she told him, hoping her voice was more steady than her pulse, ‘they didn’t know whether there were any other people on Rotumea so they anchored the canoe in the lagoon, ready to take off if a hostile group approached.’

‘But no one did.’

‘No. It was uninhabited. Virgin territory.’

And for some humiliating reason her cheeks pinked. Hastily she kept her gaze out to sea and added, ‘It must have been a huge relief. They’d have carried coconuts with them to plant, and kumara and taro, and the paper mulberry tree to make cloth. And of course they brought dogs and rats too.’

‘You’ve obviously studied the history,’ Luc said sardonically.

I don’t like you, Jo thought sturdily. Not one tiny bit. Not ever.

Buoyed up by the thought, she turned and gave him a swift challenging smile. ‘Of course,’ she said in her sweetest tone. ‘I find them fascinating, and it’s only polite to know something of the history of the place, after all. And of the people. Don’t you think so?’

‘Oh, I agree entirely. Information is the lifeblood of modern business.’

Her heightened senses warned her that his words and the hard smile that accompanied them held something close to a threat.

Stop dramatising, she told herself decisively. He was just being sarcastic again.

Yet it was dangerously exhilarating to fence with him like this. Anyway, he’d soon leave Rotumea. After all, she thought irritably, there must be rulers all over the world desperate to speak to him about matters of national interest, earth-shattering decisions to be pondered, vast amounts of money to be made. Once he’d shaken the white sand and red volcanic soil of Rotumea from his elegantly shod feet, he’d never come back and she wouldn’t have to deal with him again.

Cheered by this thought, she said, ‘We’d better be going. I want to call in at the shop before it closes.’

And she hoped it bored the life out of him. She knew most men would rather chance their luck in shark-infested waters than walk into the softly scented, flower-filled shop that sold her products.

She turned to go back to the car, only to realise he’d done the same. Startled, she pulled away at the touch of his arm on hers, and to her chagrin her foot twisted on a stone, jerking her off balance.

Before she could draw breath strong hands clamped onto her shoulders and steadied her. Jo froze, meeting glinting eyes that narrowed. Her heart somersaulted under the impact of his touch, his closeness. Every cell in her body was suddenly charged with a fierce awareness of his potent male charisma.

His grip tightened for a painful moment, then relaxed.

But, instead of letting her go, he drew her towards him. His face was set and intent, his eyes molten silver.

Something feverish and demanding stopped her from jerking backwards, from saying anything. Helpless in a kind of reckless, fascinated thraldom, she forced herself to meet that fiercely intent gaze. In it she read passion, and a desire that matched the desperate impulse she had no way of fighting.

No, something in her brain insisted desperately, but a more primal urge burnt away common sense, any innate protectiveness, and when his mouth came down on hers she went up in flames, the blood surging through her in response to the carnal craving summoned by his kiss. Her lashes fluttered down, giving every other sense free rein to savour the moment his mouth took hers.

He tasted purely male, clean and slightly salty, with a flavour that stimulated far more than her taste buds. The arms that held her against his powerful body were iron-hard, yet somehow made her feel infinitely secure. And mingling with the tropical fecundity of the rainforest around them was his scent. It breathed of arousal and a need that equalled the heat inside her. She wanted to accept and unleash that need, allow it to overcome the faint intimations of common sense, surrender completely …

And could not—must not …

Before she could pull away, he lifted his head. Her lashes fluttered drowsily up, but when she saw his icily intimidating expression, all desire fled, overtaken by humiliation.

He dropped his hands and took a step backwards.

‘A bit too soon—and very crass—to be making a move like that, surely?’ he said in a voice so level it took her a second or two to register the meaning of his words. ‘After all, Tom’s barely cold in his grave. You could make some pretence of missing him.’

The flick of scorn in his last sentence lashed her like a whip.

Damn Sean’s sleazy mind and foul mouth, she thought savagely.

But the brutal sarcasm effectively banished the desire that had roared up out of nowhere. Defiantly she angled her chin and forced herself to hold Luc’s unsparing arctic gaze.

In a voice she struggled to hold steady, she said, ‘Tom and I didn’t have that sort of relationship.’

He shrugged. ‘Spare me the details.’

‘If you spare me your crass assumptions,’ she flashed, green eyes glittering with some emotion.

After a charged pause, he nodded. ‘I’m not interested in your relationship with Tom.’

He registered the slight easing of her tension. It seemed she was prepared to believe that.

Not that it was exactly the truth. For some reason the thought of her in Tom’s bed sickened him.

But with a mother who’d made no secret of her affairs, Joanna Forman undoubtedly had an elastic attitude to morality.

As she’d just shown. Hell, she’d been more than willing. He could have laid her down on the grass and taken her.

Mentally cursing his unruly mind as it produced an image of her golden body beneath him, of losing herself in her carnal heat, he quenched his fierce hunger with the sardonic observation that possibly her response was faked.

Had she realised that giving away her lovely body might not be sensible at this time? Sex would mean she’d lose any bargaining power …

‘For your information,’ she said now, her tone crisp and clear, her eyes coldly green and very direct, ‘when I was a child I spent quite a few of my holidays here, staying with Aunt Luisa. My mother travelled a lot, and Tom didn’t mind me coming even when he was in residence.’

His brows lifted and she waited for some comment. None came, so she resumed, ‘We always got on well.’

She stopped, then in an entirely different tone, the words a little thick as though fighting back a surge of grief, she finished, ‘That’s all there was to it.’

Cynically Luc applauded that final touch. She also made the whole scenario sound quite plausible; Tom had a history of mentoring promising talent.

However, he’d mentioned none of his other protégées in his will.

But her statement certainly fitted in with the information he had about her. She’d attended excellent private schools—paid for probably by the succession of rich lovers her mother had taken. However, she hadn’t followed her mother’s choice of career. At university, she’d taken a science degree and a lover, graduating from both just before Ilona Forman had developed the illness that eventually killed her.

Joanna had left a fairly menial job at a well-connected firm to care for her mother, and then found herself with an ill aunt who’d refused to leave Rotumea. Either she had a sense of responsibility for her family, such as it was, or she’d seen an opportunity to get closer to Tom and grabbed it.

No doubt it had seemed a good career move.

And it had paid off.

Luc let his gaze roam her face, unwillingly intrigued by the colour that tinged her beautiful skin. Perfect skin for a woman who made skincare products. Yet, in spite of that betraying blush, her black-lashed eyes were steady and completely unreadable.

Was she wondering if he accepted that her relationship with Tom involved nothing more than innocent pleasure in each other’s company?

Tamping down a deep, unusual anger, he reminded himself that he had to live with her for the next six months. And that he needed her approval before he could assume full control of the Henderson organization.

You cunning old goat, Tom, he thought coldly, and held out his hand. ‘Very well, we’ll leave it at that.’

Surprised, Jo reluctantly put her hand in his. A rush of adrenalin coursed through her when long fingers closed around hers, a thrill that coalesced into a hot tug of sensation in the pit of her stomach. Her breath came faster through her lips, and she had to force herself not to jerk free of his touch.

OK, so he hadn’t said he believed her. Why should she care?

Yet she did.

However, she wasn’t going to waste time wondering about the reason.

But at the shop she was surprised. Tall and darkly dominant, Luc examined the fittings, and even took down and read the blurb on a package of her most expensive rehydrating cream.

She had to conquer a spasm of irritation at her manager’s admiring glances. This was her domain, and he had no right to look so much in charge, she thought crossly, and immediately felt foolish for responding so unreasonably.

But something about Luc MacAllister made her unreasonable. Something more than his assumption about her and Tom. Something she didn’t recognise, primal and dangerous and … and idiotic, she told herself bracingly.

Face it and get over it. He has a bewildering effect on you, but you can cope. He’s not really interested in either you or your product, and you don’t want him to be.

Back in the Land Rover, he commented, ‘You need better packaging.’

She knew that. Though what made him an expert on packaging skincare products? ‘That’s all I can afford right now,’ she said evenly, turning to take the track that led to Tom’s house.

‘You haven’t considered getting a partner?’

‘No.’

He said nothing, but she sensed his examination of her set profile as she negotiated the ruts. When she pulled up at the house he asked, ‘And your reason?’

‘I want to retain control,’ she told him, switching off the engine and turning to meet his gaze with more than a hint of defiance.

His dark brows lifted, but he said, ‘Fair enough. However, unless you’re happy with your present turnover—’ his tone indicated he considered that likely to be peanuts ‘—you’re going to have to bite that bullet eventually.’

‘Right now, I’m happy with the way things are going,’ she told him, a steely note beneath her words.

When Tom had suggested exactly the same thing she’d refused his offer of a further loan without any of the odd sensation of dread that assailed her now.

Luc’s kiss had changed things in a fundamental way she didn’t want to face. His hooded eyes, the autocratic features that revealed no emotion and the taut line of his sensuous mouth—all combined to lift the hairs on her skin in a primitive display of awareness. He looked at her as though she was prey.

And that was ridiculous! He’d taken over Tom’s huge empire, and had built it up even further. He was accustomed to organising and managing world-spanning enterprises. He wasn’t interested in her piddling little business.

Or her, she thought, feeling slightly sick. There had been something about that kiss—something assessing, as though he’d been testing her reactions …

And, like a weak idiot, she’d gone up in flames for him. So now, of course, he’d be completely convinced that Sean’s insulting accusation was the truth.

Well, she didn’t care. Neither Sean nor Luc meant anything to her, and anyway, Luc would be gone as soon as he’d organised the sale of the house.

She said, ‘I have no illusions about how far I can go.’

Without moving, he said, ‘It sounds as though you’re planning to stay in Rotumea for the rest of your life.’

She shrugged. ‘Why not? Can you think of a better place to live?’

‘Dreaming your days away in paradise?’ he asked contemptuously.