Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

Copytight

“I thought you wanted me,” Marc murmured hoarsely.

“I did…I do. But—” Jane broke off and a hot flush of shame burned her cheeks.

“But you’re a nice girl who doesn’t play games with men she hardly knows,” he finished for her.

Games? Was that all it had meant to him, that kiss that had inflamed her, igniting all kinds of unfamiliar passions within her?

“That’s right,” she said coldly.

ANGELA DEVINE grew up in Tasmania surrounded by forests, mountains and wild seas, so she dislikes big cities. Before taking up writing, she worked as a teacher, librarian and university lecturer. As a young mother and Ph.D. student, she read romance fiction for fun and later decided it would be even more fun to write it. She is married with four children, loves chocolate and Twinings teas and hates ironing. Her current hobbies are gardening, bushwalking, traveling and classical music.

Unwelcome Invader
Angela Devine

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To L.B.

CHAPTER ONE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I can’t wait,’ she murmured aloud.

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

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

‘You,’ he breathed, and sprang.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shrugged.

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

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

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

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

‘Colin West.’

‘And your name, mademoiselle?’

‘Jane West.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marc shrugged.

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

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

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

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

‘All right,’ she agreed ungraciously.

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yes.’

‘Strange.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘And before that you were…where?’

‘France,’ she replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jane flushed, torn between pleasure and annoyance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Bon appetit,’ said Jane automatically.

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

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

‘Really? What were you doing there?’

‘Learning more about winemaking.’

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

‘My profession,’ said Jane proudly.

‘You’ve trained in it?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Boeuf à la bourguignonne,’ she breathed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Well——’ said Jane doubtfully.

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

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

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

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

‘Why are you here?’ she demanded bluntly.

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

‘Are you fond of cooking?’ he asked.

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

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

Marc smiled.

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

‘Too busy doing what?’ asked Jane.

Their eyes met.

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

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

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

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

‘Yes.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Exactly,’ agreed Marc.

For a moment Jane was shocked speechless.

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

‘Everything,’ he agreed gravely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jane was furious at his sceptical tone.

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

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

‘No doubt you have documents to prove this?’

Jane’s head swam with exhaustion and disbelief.

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

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

‘Yes,’ said Jane uneasily.

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

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

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

‘Wouldn’t he?’ asked Marc quietly.

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

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

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

Jane swung round.

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

Marc shook his head fastidiously.

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

CHAPTER TWO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiled with unexpected charm.

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

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

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

Jane caught her breath sharply and clenched her fists.

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

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

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

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

Marc turned and looked at her with amusement.

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

Jane gave a choking laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

Marc’s smile broadened.

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

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

‘You’re impossible!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jane ground her teeth.

‘No.’

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

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

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

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

‘All right,’ she agreed ungraciously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marc shrugged.

‘Probably.’

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

‘Because I chose not to,’ he replied.

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

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

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

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

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

Marc’s lips twisted into an odd smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Well? Has he left you enough money?’

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

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

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

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

‘Oh, go to hell!’ flared Jane.

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

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

Jane gave him a long, smouldering, silent glare.

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

‘Just try!’ snapped Jane.

Marc smiled provocatively.

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

‘I’m staying here,’ insisted Jane.

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

‘I never go to the hairdresser’s!’

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

‘Yes.’

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

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

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

‘I’ll eat grapes.’

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

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

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

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

Marc shrugged.

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

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

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

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

A sweet radiant smile replaced her scowl.

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

Marc suddenly looked uneasy.

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

‘Moi?’ demanded Jane innocently.

Marc sighed and shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Happy birthday,’ he said.

‘Thanks, Brett.’

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

‘Thanks. That’s very nice of you.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brett’s face creased into a baffled frown.

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

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

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

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

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

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