Unwelcome Invader (Harlequin Treasury 1990's) Read online

  ‘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 covere
d 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.