Joanna froze, meeting glinting eyes that narrowed. Every cell in her body was suddenly charged with a fierce awareness of Luc’s 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.

Helpless in a kind of reckless, fascinated thralldom, she forced herself to meet that fiercely intent gaze. In it she read passion, a desire that matched the desperate impulse she had no way of fighting.

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.

About the Author

ROBYN DONALD can’t remember not being able to read, and will be eternally grateful to the local farmers who carefully avoided her on a dusty country road as she read her way to and from school, transported to places and times far away from her small village in Northland, New Zealand. Growing up fed her habit. As well as training as a teacher, marrying and raising two children, she discovered the delights of romances and read them voraciously, especially enjoying the ones written by New Zealand writers—so much so that one day she decided to write one herself.

Writing soon grew to be as much of a delight as reading—although infinitely more challenging—and when eventually her first book was accepted by Mills & Boon she felt she’d arrived home. She still lives in a small town in Northland, with her family close by, using the landscape as a setting for much of her work. Her life is enriched by the friends she’s made among writers and readers, and complicated by a determined Corgi called Buster, who is convinced that blackbirds are evil entities. Her greatest hobby is still reading, with travelling a very close second.

Recent titles by the same author:

 STEPPING OUT OF THE SHADOWS

 ONE NIGHT IN THE ORIENT(One Night In …)

 THE FAR SIDE OF PARADISE

 POWERFUL GREEK, HOUSE KEEPER WIFE(The Greek Tycoons)

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Island
of Secrets

Robyn Donald

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

IN A VOICE that iced through the solicitor’s office, Luc MacAllister said, ‘Perhaps you can explain why my stepfather insisted on this final condition.’

Bruce Keller resisted the urge to move uncomfortably in his chair. He’d warned Tom Henderson of the possible repercussions of his outrageous will, but his old friend had said with some satisfaction, ‘It’s time Luc learned that life can mean dealing with situations you can’t control.’

In his forty years of discussing wills with bereaved families Bruce had occasionally been shocked, but he’d never felt threatened before. The familiar sound of the traffic in the street of the small New Zealand town faded as he met the hard grey eyes of Tom’s stepson.

He squared his shoulders, warning himself to cool it. MacAllister’s formidable self-possession was a legend. ‘Tom didn’t confide in me,’ he said steadily.

The man on the other side of the desk looked down at the copy of the will before him. ‘So he refused to give any reason for stipulating that before I attain complete control of Henderson Holdings and the Foundation, I must spend six months in the company of his—of Joanna Forman.’

‘He refused to discuss it at all.’

MacAllister quoted from the will. ‘“Joanna Forman, who has been my companion for the past two years.”’ His mouth twisted. ‘It wasn’t like Tom to be so mealy-mouthed. By companion he presumably meant mistress.’

The solicitor felt a momentary pang of pity for the woman. Thanking his stars he was able to be truthful, he said austerely, ‘All I know about her is that her aunt was your stepfather’s housekeeper on Rotumea Island until she died. Joanna Forman cared for her during the three months before her death.’

‘And then stayed on.’

The contempt in Luc’s voice angered the solicitor, but he refrained from saying anything more.

Whatever role Joanna Forman had played in Henderson’s life, she’d been important to him—so important he’d made sure she’d never want for anything else again, even though he’d known it would infuriate his formidable stepson.

MacAllister’s broad shoulders lifted in a shrug that reminded the older man of Luc’s mother, an elegant, aristocratic Frenchwoman. Although Bruce had met her only once he’d never forgotten her polished composure and what had seemed like a complete lack of warmth. She couldn’t have been more different from Tom, a brash piratical New Zealander who’d grabbed the world by the neck and shaken it, enjoying himself enormously while setting up a worldwide organization in various forms of construction.

Bruce had done his best to convince Tom that this unexpected legacy was going to cause ructions, possibly even cause his will to be contested in court, but his friend had been completely determined.

Anyway, MacAllister had no reason to be so scornful. The solicitor could recall at least two rather public liaisons in his life.

A just man, Bruce accepted that a relationship between a sixty-year-old and a woman almost forty years younger was, to use his youngest granddaughter’s terminology, icky. Involuntarily his mouth curved, only to vanish under another cold grey stare.

Luc said crisply, ‘I don’t find the situation at all amusing.’

In his driest tone, Bruce said, ‘I realise this has been a shock to you. I did warn your stepfather.’

‘When did he finalise this will?’

‘A year ago.’

MacAllister pushed the document away. ‘Three years after he had that ischaemic stroke, and a year after this Forman woman moved in.’

‘Yes. He took the precaution of having a thorough check—both physical and mental—before he signed it.’

In a clipped voice MacAllister said, ‘Of course he did. On your recommendation, I assume.’ Without waiting for an answer he went on, ‘I won’t be contesting the will—not even this final condition.’

The solicitor nodded. ‘Sensible of you.’

MacAllister got to his feet, towering over the desk, his arctic gaze never leaving Bruce’s face.

Bruce rose also, wondering why the man facing him seemed considerably taller than his height of a few inches over six feet.

Presence …

Luc MacAllister had it in spades.

MacAllister’s lip curled. ‘Presumably this Forman woman will play along with Tom’s condition.’

‘She’d be extremely stupid not to,’ Bruce felt compelled to point out. The other man’s intimidating glance made him say bluntly, ‘However difficult the situation, both you and she have a lot to gain by sticking to the terms Tom set out.’

In fact, Joanna Forman had the power to deprive Luc MacAllister of something he’d worked for all his adult life—complete control of Tom Henderson’s vast empire.

Which was why the younger man’s face looked as though it had been carved out of granite.

Once more MacAllister glanced down at the will. ‘I assume you tried to persuade Tom not to do this.’

Bruce said crisply, ‘He knew exactly what he wanted.’

‘And like a good solicitor and an old friend, you’ve done your best to see that this is watertight.’

Luc didn’t expect an answer. He’d get his legal team to go through the will with a fine-tooth comb, but Bruce Keller was a shrewd lawyer and a good one. He didn’t expect to be able to challenge it.

He asked, ‘Does Joanna Forman know of her good fortune yet?’

‘Not yet. Tom insisted I tell her in person. I’m flying to Rotumea in three days.’

Luc reined in his temper. It was unfair to blame the solicitor for not preventing this outrageous condition. His stepfather was not a man to take advice, and once Tom had made up his mind he couldn’t be swayed. He’d been a freebooter, his recklessness paying off more often than not until that tiny temporary stroke had messed around with his brain.

Which was the reason, Luc thought grimly, he and Joanna Forman would be forced to live in close proximity for the next six months.

Not only that, at the end of the six months she’d make the decision that would either hand him the reins of Tom’s empire, or deprive him of everything he’d fought for these past years.

One thing he had to know. ‘Will you tell her that she’ll decide who controls Henderson’s?’

And watched closely as the solicitor expostulated, ‘You know I can’t reveal that.’

Luc hid a bleak satisfaction. When required, Bruce Keller could produce a poker face, but Luc was prepared to bet that Tom had stipulated Joanna Forman not be told until it was time for her to make her decision.

Which gave him room to manoeuvre. ‘And if her decision is against me, what will happen?’

Keller hesitated, then said, ‘That’s another thing I can’t divulge.’

Well, it had been worth a try. Tom would have organised someone he trusted to take over, and Luc knew who that would be—Tom’s nephew.

He’d fought Luc for supremacy in various overt and covert ways, culminating a year previously in his elopement and subsequent marriage to Luc’s fiancée. Who just happened to be Tom’s goddaughter.

Damn you, Tom.

Jo stood up from the desk and stretched, easing the ache between her shoulder blades. After two years in the tropical Pacific she was accustomed to heat and humidity, but today had left her exhausted.

The last thing she wanted to do was play gooseberry to a pair of honeymooners, but her oldest friend had brought her new husband to stay one night at Rotumea’s expensive resort so her two favourite people could meet …

And Lindy and she had been best friends since they’d bonded on their first day at school in New Zealand, and it would be lovely to see her again.

Also, she was eager to meet the man who’d generated Lindy’s rave reviews during the past year. A non-existent bank balance had prevented Jo from accepting her friend’s request to be maid of honour, and the current recession meant there wasn’t much chance of things improving financially for her for a while.

Not that she was going to dim the couple’s happiness with any mention of her business worries. But the sooner she got home and made herself ready, the better.

Several hours later she realised she was wishing she’d made an excuse. The evening had started well; Lindy was radiant, her new husband charming and very appropriately besotted, and they’d sipped a champagne toast to the future as the sun dived suddenly beneath the horizon and twilight enfolded the island in a purple cloak shot with the silver dazzle of stars.

‘You’re so lucky,’ Lindy had sighed. ‘Rotumea has to be the most beautiful place in the world.’

Before she’d had a chance to do more than set down her glass, Jo heard a familiar smooth voice from behind, and the evening immediately lost its gloss.

‘Hi, Jo-girl, how’re things going?’

Jo froze. Of all the people on the island, Sean was the one she least wanted to see. Only a few days after Tom’s death she’d refused his suggestion of an affair. His reaction had left her nauseated and furious.

However, she wasn’t going to let his presence spoil the evening for her friends. She turned, wishing she’d chosen to wear something a little less revealing when Sean’s gaze immediately dropped to her cleavage.

‘Fine, thanks,’ she said calmly, trying to convey that she didn’t want him there without making it obvious to her companions.

Sean lifted his eyes to give the other two a practised smile. ‘Hi. Let me guess—you’re the honeymooners Jo’s been looking forward to seeing, right? Enjoying your stay in the tropics?’

Seething, Jo wished she’d had the sense to realise what sort of man he was before she’d told him about Lindy.

Sure enough, her friend beamed at him. ‘Loving everything about it.’

His smile broadened. ‘I’m Sean Harvey.’ Glancing at Jo, he drawled, ‘A friend of Jo’s.’

So of course Lindy invited him to sit down. Jo cast a harried look around the open-air restaurant, her gaze colliding with that of a man being seated at the next table.

Automatically she gave a brief smile. Not a muscle in his hard, handsome face moved and, feeling as though he’d slapped her, Jo looked away.

Fair men usually looked amiable and casual—surfer-style. Well, not always, she admitted, the most recent James Bond incarnation springing to mind. In spite of the sun-bleached streaks in his ash-brown hair, this stranger had the same dangerous aura.

Surfer-style he was not …

Tall and powerfully muscled, good-looking in an uncompromising, chiselled fashion, he had eyes like cold grey lasers and a jaw that gave no quarter. He also looked familiar, although she knew she’d never seen him before.

Perhaps he was a film star? He wasn’t the sort of man anyone would forget.

As though that moment of eye contact somehow forged a tenuous link between them, Jo’s pulses picked up speed and she rapidly switched her gaze to Lindy.

Don’t be an idiot, she told herself, and concentrated on ignoring the stranger and enduring the evening.

Not that she could fault Sean’s behaviour; he was gallant with Lindy, man-to-man with her husband, and managed so well to indicate his interest in Jo that when he eventually left Lindy challenged her.

‘You haven’t mentioned him at all—is he your latest?’

‘No,’ Jo said shortly.

Her friend had spoken in a rare moment of general silence, and the man at the next table looked across at her. Again, no emotion showed in the sculpted features, yet for some reason an uneasy shiver skated across her skin.

All evening she’d been aware of him—almost as though his presence indicated some form of threat.

Oh, don’t over-dramatise, she scoffed. The stranger didn’t deserve it; she was still—unfairly—reacting to Sean’s intrusions. Because of him she was totally off good-looking men.

For the rest of the evening she kept her gaze scrupulously away from the grey-eyed newcomer. But that sense of his presence stayed with her until she left the hotel and walked into the car park, stopping abruptly when a dark shadow detached itself from the side of her car.

‘Hi, Jo.’

She froze, then forced herself to relax. On Rotumea the only danger came from nature—seasonal cyclones, drownings—or the very rare accident on the motor scooters that were everywhere on the roads. There had never been an assault that she was aware of.

Nevertheless, Sean’s presence jolted her. She asked briskly, ‘What do you want?’

This time he didn’t bother smiling. ‘I want to talk to you.’

Without changing her tone she answered, ‘You said everything I needed to hear the last time we met.’

He shrugged. ‘That’s partly why we need to talk.’ His voice altered. ‘Jo, I’m sorry. If you hadn’t turned me down so crudely, I wouldn’t have lost it. I really thought I was in with a chance—after all, if old Tom had been able to keep you happy you wouldn’t have made eyes at me.’

It wasn’t the first time someone had assumed that Tom had been her lover, and each time it nauseated her. As for making eyes …

Jo reined in her indignation. Distastefully she said, ‘As an apology that fails on all counts. Leave it, Sean. It doesn’t matter.’

He took a step towards her. ‘Was it worth it, Jo? No matter how much money he had, sleeping with an old man—he must have been at least forty years older than you—can’t have been much fun. I hope he left you a decent amount in his will, although somehow I doubt it.’ His voice thickened, and he took another step towards her. ‘Did he? I believe billionaires are tight as hell when it comes to money—’

‘That’s enough!’ she flashed, a little fear lending weight to her disgust. ‘Stop right now.’

‘Why should I? Everyone on Rotumea knows your mother was a call girl—’

‘Don’t you dare!’ Her voice cut into his filthy insinuation. ‘My mother was a model, and the two are not synonymous—if you understand what that means.’

Sean opened his mouth to speak, but swivelled around when another male voice entered the conversation, a crisp English accent investing the words with compelling authority.

‘You heard her,’ the man said. ‘Calm down.’

Jo jerked around to face the man who’d sat at the next table as he finished brutally, ‘Whatever you’re offering, she doesn’t want it. Get going.’

‘Who the hell are you?’ Sean demanded.

‘A passing stranger.’ His contempt strained Jo’s nerves. ‘I suggest you get into your vehicle and go.’

Sean started to bluster, stopping abruptly when the stranger said coolly, ‘It’s not the end of the world. Things have a habit of looking better a few weeks down the track, and no man’s ever died just because a woman turned him down.’

‘Thanks for nothing.’ Sean’s voice was surly. He swung to Jo. ‘OK, I’ll go, but don’t come running to me when you find yourself kicked out of Henderson’s house. I bet anything you like he left everything to his family. Women like you are two a penny—’

‘Just go, Sean,’ she said tensely, struggling to keep the lid on her embarrassment and anger.

He left then, and when his footsteps had died away she dragged in a breath and said reluctantly, ‘Thanks.’

‘I suggest you let the next one down a bit more tactfully.’ A caustic note in the stranger’s voice was overlaid with boredom.

Jo caught back a terse rejoinder. In spite of his tone she was grateful for his interference. For a few moments she’d almost been afraid of Sean.

‘I’ll try to keep your advice in mind,’ she said with scrupulous politeness, and got into her car.

Once on the road she grimaced. The spat with Sean had unsettled her; she’d totally misread the situation with him.

Like her he was a New Zealander, in Rotumea to manage the local branch of a fishing operation. Although from the first he’d made it clear he found her attractive, he’d appeared to accept the limits she put on their contact with good grace. Several times she’d searched her memory in case something she’d said or done had given him the idea that she wanted to be more than friendly. She could recall nothing, ever.

Frustrated, she swerved to avoid a bird afflicted with either a death wish or an unshakeable sense of its immortality. Naturally, the bird was a masked booby … the clown of the Pacific.

Concentrate, she told herself fiercely.

After Tom’s death, Sean’s suggestion of an affair had come out of the blue, but she’d let him down as gently as she could, only to be shocked and totally unprepared for his sneering anger and contempt.

She didn’t like that he’d lain in wait for her to deliver that insulting apology. His belief that she and Tom were lovers still made her feel sick. It seemed that Sean believed any relationship between a man and a woman had to have a sexual base.

Neanderthal! In a way Tom was like the father she’d never known.

That night she slept badly, the thick humidity causing her to wonder if a cyclone was on its way. However, when she checked the weather forecast the following morning she was relieved to see that although one was heading across the Pacific, it would almost certainly miss Rotumea.

Then her shop manager rang to apologise because a family crisis meant she wouldn’t be in until after lunch, so Jo put aside the paperwork that had built up over the month since Tom’s death, and went into the only town on the island to take Savisi’s place.

And of course she had to deal with the worst customer she’d ever come across, an arrogant little snip of about twenty whose clothes proclaimed far too much money and whose manners reminded Jo of an unpleasant animal—a weasel, she decided sardonically, breathing a sigh of relief when the girl swayed, all hips and pout, out of the shop.

But at least Savisi arrived immediately after midday to relieve her. She drove back to the oasis of Tom’s house, yet once she’d eaten lunch she paced about restlessly, unable to draw any comfort from its familiarity.

In the end, she decided a swim in the lagoon would make her feel more human.

It certainly refreshed her, but not enough. Wistfully eyeing the hammock slung from the branch of one of the big overhanging trees, she surrendered to temptation.

Her name, spoken in a deep male voice, woke her with a start. Yawning, she peered resentfully through her lashes at the figure of a tall man with the tropical sun behind him. She couldn’t see his features, and although she recognised his voice she couldn’t slot him into her life.

Groggy from sleep, she muttered, ‘Go away.’

‘I’m not going away. Wake up.’

The tone hit her like an icy shower. And the words were a direct order, with the implied suggestion of a threat. Indignant and irritated, she scrambled out of the hammock and pushed her mass of hair back to stare upwards, her dazed gaze slowly travelling over the stranger’s features while she forced her brain into action.

Oh. The man from last night …

Feeling oddly vulnerable, she wished she’d chosen a bathing suit that covered more skin than this bikini.

Not that he was showing any interest in her body. That assessing stare was fixed on her face.

‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded. ‘This is a private beach.’

‘I know. I came to see you.’

Although Jo just managed to stop a dumbfounded gape, nothing could prevent her jerky step backwards. Shock, and a strange feverish thrill shot through her, dissipating when she realised who he had to be. Hastily she shoved on her sunglasses—a fragile shield against his penetrating survey—and blurted, ‘You’re the solicitor, right?’ Frowning, she added, ‘I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow.’

Not that he looked anything like a solicitor. Nothing so tame! Pirates came to mind, or Vikings—lethal and overwhelmingly male and almost barbaric. And very, very vital. It was hard to imagine him sitting behind a desk and drawing up wills …

‘I am not the solicitor,’ he said curtly.

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Then who are you?’

‘I’m Luc MacAllister.’

Like his face, the name was familiar, yet her groggy mind couldn’t place it. Warily, she asked, ‘All right, Luc MacAllister, what do you want?’

‘I’ve told you—I came to see you.’ Again he seemed bored.

Before she could organise her thoughts he spoke again, each word incisive and clear.

‘My mother was Tom Henderson’s wife.’

‘Tom?’ she said, everything suddenly clicking into place with ominous clarity. Heat stained her face.

So this large, brutally handsome man was Tom’s stepson.

And he was angry.

OK, so after Sean’s sneers last night Luc MacAllister probably believed she’d been Tom’s lover. Even so, there was no need for that scathing survey.

Humiliation burned through her. It took a few seconds for pride to come to her aid, stiffening her backbone and lifting her chin sharply, and all the while, Luc MacAllister’s gunmetal gaze drilled through her as though she were some repulsive insect.

An explanation could wait. This man was part of Tom’s family. He’d taken over Tom’s empire a few years previously, after Tom’s slight illness. According to Tom, it hadn’t been an amiable handing over of reins …

One glance at Luc MacAllister’s arrogantly honed features made that entirely believable. Yet, although Tom had been manipulated away from the seat of power, he’d still seemed to trust and respect his stepson.

Fumbling for some control, Jo fell back on common courtesy and held out her hand. ‘Of course. Tom spoke of you a lot. How do you do, Mr MacAllister.’

He looked at her as though she were mad, his grey gaze almost incredulous. At first she thought he was going to ignore her gesture, but after a moment that seemed to stretch out interminably, he took her hand.

Lightning ran up her arm as long steely fingers closed around hers, setting off a charge of electricity that exploded into heat in the pit of her stomach. Startled, she nearly jerked away. He gave her hand a brief, derisory shake before dropping it as though it had contaminated him.

All right, so possibly it hadn’t been the most appropriate response on her part, but he was rude! And he couldn’t have made it plainer that he’d swallowed Sean’s vicious insinuation hook, line and sinker.

Disliking him intensely, she said crisply, ‘I suppose you’re here to talk about the house.’

Without waiting for an answer, she stooped to pick up her towel and draped it sarong fashion around her as she turned her back.

‘This way,’ she said over her shoulder, and led him through the grove of coconut palms.

Luc watched her sway ahead of him, assessing long legs and slender curves and lines, gilded arms and shoulders that gleamed in the shafts of sunlight, toffee-coloured hair tumbling in warm profusion down her back. Unwillingly his body responded with heady, primitive appreciation. Tom had good taste, he thought cynically; no wonder he’d fallen for such young, vibrantly sensuous flesh. Even in her prime, long before her death, his mother would never have matched this woman.

That thought should have stopped the stirrings of desire but not even contempt—now redirected at himself—could do anything to dampen the urgent hunger knotting his gut. He’d never lost his head over a woman, but for a moment he got a glimmer of the angry frustration that had driven the man last night to bail her up in the car park. She must have trampled right over his emotions …

But what else could you expect from a woman who’d chosen to sleep with a man old enough to be her grandfather? Generosity of spirit?

No, the only sort of generosity she’d be interested in would be the size of a man’s bank balance—and how much of it might end up in hers.

Bleak irony tightened his mouth as the house came into view through the tall, sinuous trunks of the palms. One of these trees had killed Tom, its loosened fruit as dangerous as a cannon ball. He’d known the risk, of course, but he’d gone out in a cyclone after hearing what he thought were calls for help.

It had taken only one falling coconut to kill him instantly.

Luc dragged his gaze from the woman in front to survey Tom’s bolthole. It couldn’t have been a greater contrast to the other homes and apartments his stepfather owned around the globe, all decorated with his wife’s exquisite taste.

A pavilion in tropical style flanked by wide verandas, its thatched pandanus roof was supported by the polished trunks of coconut palms. With no visible exterior walls, privacy was ensured by lush, exuberant plantings.

The woman ahead of him turned and gave a perfunctory smile. ‘Welcome,’ she said without warmth. ‘Have you been here before?’

‘Not lately.’ In spite of the fabled beauty of the Pacific Islands, his mother had found them too hot, too humid and too primitive, and the society unsophisticated and boring. As well, the climate made her asthma much worse.

And once he’d retired Tom had made it clear that his island home was a refuge. Visitors—certainly his stepson—weren’t welcome.

For obvious reasons, Luc thought on a flick of contempt. With Joanna Forman in residence Tom had needed no one else.

His answering nod as brief as her smile, he followed her into the house and looked around, taking in the bamboo furniture and clam shells, the drifts of mosquito netting casually looped back from the openings. A black and white pottery vase on the bamboo table was filled with ginger flowers in gaudy yellows and oranges that would have made his mother blink in shock. Although the blooms clashed with an assortment of brilliant foliage, whoever arranged them had an instinctive eye for colour and form.

Luc found himself wondering whether perhaps the casually effective simplicity of the house suited Tom better than the sophisticated perfection of his other homes …

Dismissing the foolish supposition, he said coolly, ‘Very Pacific.’

Jo clamped her lips over a sharp retort. Tom had loved this place; in spite of his huge success he’d had no pretensions. The house was built to suit the lazy, languorous climate, its open walls allowing free entry to every cooling breeze.

It would be a shame if Tom’s stepson turned out to be a snide, condescending snob.

Why should she care? Luc MacAllister meant nothing to her. Presumably he’d come to warn her she had to vacate the house; well, she’d expected that and made plans to move into a small flat in Rotumea’s only town.

But Luc had bothered enough to defuse that awkward scene with Sean. And at least he was staying at the resort.

Still, she counted to five before she said levelly, ‘This is the Pacific, and the house works very well here.’

‘I’m sure it does.’ He looked around. ‘Is there a spare room?’

His dismissive tone scraped her already taut nerves. No, she thought furiously, you don’t belong here! Go back to the resort where your sort stay …

Forcing her thoughts into some sort of order, she asked, ‘Are you planning to stay here?’

He gave her a cynical smile. ‘Of course. Why would I stay anywhere else?’

Sarcastic beast. Stiffly, she said, ‘All right, I’ll make up the bed for you.’

Dark brows lifted as he looked across the big central room to a white-painted lattice that made no attempt to hide the huge wrought-iron bedstead covered by the same brilliantly appliquéd quilting he’d noted on the cushions.

‘Are there no walls at all in the place?’ he asked abruptly.

Jo managed to stop herself from bristling. ‘Houses here tend to be built without walls,’ she told him. ‘Privacy isn’t an issue, of course—the local people wouldn’t dream of coming without an invitation, and Tom never had guests.’

His black brows met. In a voice as cold as a shower of hail, he demanded, ‘Where do you sleep?’

CHAPTER TWO

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.

CHAPTER THREE

‘I PRESUME YOU have no idea of how patronising you sound.’

It didn’t need the subtle ironic uplift of Luc’s dark brows to make Jo regret she’d voiced her irritation.

How did that slight movement give his handsome face such a saturnine aspect?

But he said levelly, ‘I didn’t intend to be. Rotumea is a very small dot in a very empty ocean, a long way from anywhere. If your stuff’s any good, don’t you want to take it to the world?’

Torn, she hesitated, and saw the corners of his mouth lift, as though in expectation of a smile—a triumphant one.

Goaded, she said explosively, ‘Not if it means handing over any control to anyone else. I have an arrangement with the local people and I value the ones who work with me—I feel I’ve established a business that takes their ambitions and needs seriously. I don’t believe I’d be any happier if I were making megabucks and living in some designer penthouse in a huge, noisy, polluted city.’ She paused, before finishing more calmly, ‘And my product is better than good—it’s superb.’

‘If your skin is any indication of its effect, then I believe you.’

Delivered in a voice so dispassionate it took her a second to realise what he’d said, the compliment disturbed her. Uncertainly, she said, ‘Thank you,’ and opened the door of the Land Rover, stopping when he began to speak again.

‘Although if you were making real money you could choose wherever you want to live,’ he said coolly. ‘Modern communications being as sophisticated as they are, no one has to live over the shop any more.’

‘Agreed, but apart from liking Rotumea, in Polynesia personal relationships are important in business.’

Another lift of those dark brows. ‘No doubt.’

After an undecided moment she ignored the distinctly sardonic note to his words. Instead she said, ‘I like to keep a close watch on everything.’

Luc’s nod was accompanied by a measuring glance. ‘How to delegate is one of the lessons all entrepreneurs have to learn.’ He looked at his watch. ‘When do you eat at night? I assume I’ll have to reserve a table for us at the resort.’

Relieved, Jo permitted herself a wry smile. She’d been wondering whether he’d expect her to cook for him. ‘It’s sensible to do so.’ But something forced her to add, ‘We don’t have to go there if you don’t want to. I’m actually quite a good cook. Basic, but the food’s edible, Tom used to say.’

‘I’m sure he didn’t employ you for your prowess in the kitchen,’ Luc said smoothly.

Something about his tone set her teeth on edge. She opened her mouth to tell him Tom hadn’t employed her at all, then closed it again.

The arrangement she had with Tom was none of Luc’s business, and anyway, he wouldn’t believe her.

Taking her silence for agreement, he said, ‘Then I’ll reserve a table. Eight tonight?’

Jo hesitated, then nodded. ‘Thank you,’ she said and got out of the Land Rover.

Inside the house, she opened a wardrobe door and stared at its meagre contents. Her one good dinner dress had been aired the previous evening in honour of Lindy and her husband.

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