The Nanny Affair. Robyn Donald

engaged to an Australian woman from an impeccable and influential family.

      While they’d waited at Auckland airport for the plane to Vancouver Mrs Firth, a cryptic crossword addict who enjoyed searching out the meaning of words, had told Emma that the most probable derivation of his surname was the old French word talebot, meaning bandit.

      ‘I’m not in the least surprised,’ Emma observed beneath her breath now, waving briefly as the Land Rover went by with a sharp toot.

      Once well past, Kane Talbot accelerated up the metal road before turning onto a drive lined with huge magnolia trees, now coming into bloom. Just as no one could deny the pink and white fairytale glory of that avenue, it was impossible to deny the impact of its owner.

      Whose first name, according to Mrs Firth, could be derived from the Welsh language. If so, it meant beautiful.

      Emma grinned with involuntary enjoyment. Not likely!

      On the other hand, if it came from the Manx language that was much more suitable because then it would mean warrior. And she could certainly see Kane Talbot as a warrior bandit. He exuded a no-holds-barred toughness, the hard, dynamic determination of a man who didn’t know when to give up.

      Recreating that autocratic face in her mind, she recalled the harsh moulding of chin and jaw and nose, the decisive authority that revealed itself in every line and angle and plane, and in the intelligent, icy fire of his eyes. He’d make a bad enemy.

      Yet he had, she acknowledged reluctantly as she called Lucky to heel again, been surprisingly calm about the situation. Most farmers confronted by a dog clearly chasing sheep would have gone ballistic.

      Odd, then, that his controlled detachment had set warning bells clashing.

      Her mouth twisted. Her response was probably an atavistic relic from the days when a woman confronted by so much male presence packaged in well-honed muscles had had good reason to be wary.

      ‘Lucky, heel!’ she commanded forcefully, frowning at another male seething with presence and packaged in smoothly flowing muscles, with a strength of will almost as formidable as Kane Talbot’s.

      Oh, well, she knew how to handle dogs, and she wouldn’t be seeing much of Kane Talbot.

      And if Mrs Firth, who had let her charming pup get away with murder, was to be able to manage him when she got back from staying with her pregnant daughter, then Emma would have to teach Lucky that dogs who wanted to survive in the country didn’t go chasing sheep.

      She looked at his alert black and tan head and began to laugh quietly. Until that moment she hadn’t realised that as well as attitude he and Kane Talbot were an almost identical match in colouring, with the same sable hair; the tawny markings of the Rottweiler were only slightly darker than the man’s unusual eyes.

      At least their black hair was sleek, not fluffy with curls like hers. Combine those curls with big grey eyes, fine, fragile skin, and a cupid’s bow of a mouth, and what you got was a vapid, baby face. The fact that Emma knew why she was always being treated as though she were much younger than twenty-three didn’t make it any easier to bear.

      Oh, she was glad she wasn’t ugly, but she’d like to have a face with some character to it.

      Once home, she rubbed both dogs down and fed them, then went into the house and surveyed the contents of the refrigerator. Tomorrow she’d have to drive into Parahai and buy some more food.

      

      She had just steered Mrs Firth’s elderly silver Volvo through the gate when a large dark green car debouched onto the road from beneath the avenue of magnolias.

      Overnight Emma had decided that her first impressions of Kane Talbot must have been coloured by her guilt about Lucky’s behaviour. No man could possibly be so-well, so much!

      It was a conclusion she revised now as he stopped, got out of the vehicle and strode across while she closed the gates behind Mrs Firth’s car.

      How could one man reduce the beauty around him to a mere accompaniment, Emma asked the universe crossly, his force of character effortlessly overpowering the natural loveliness of the valley?

      Head erect, she waited at the car door while her pulses skipped a beat. Remember that Australian almost-fiancée, she reminded herself sternly.

      ‘Good morning.’ Kane’s tawny eyes examined her with a leisurely interest that lifted her hackles. ‘The warrant of fitness on the Volvo is overdue.’

      Brows drawn together, Emma swung around to peer at the windscreen. Sure enough, in the excitement of leaving Mrs Firth must have forgotten to have it renewed. ‘I’ll make an appointment to have it seen to,’ she said, adding with rigid politeness, ‘Thank you for pointing it out.’

      He said negligently, ‘I’ve got a cellphone in the car. Why not ask the garage if they’ll do it today?’

      ‘Well-thank you.’

      She preferred, she thought as she accompanied him across the road, the man who had been so aloof yesterday. She didn’t want neighbourly actions and consideration from Kane Talbot He made her feel small and incompetent and—pretty.

      After keying in a number he handed the phone to her, then moved a few steps away. He had good manners; she watched as he bent to examine some weed growing on the verge.

      She blinked as a man’s voice answered, and regrouped her scattered thoughts to explain to the mechanic what she wanted.

      ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll try to do it today, but I haven’t seen the car before so it might take a bit longer than usual.’

      Emma frowned, then remembered that as Mrs Firth had only moved north a month ago the last warrant would have been issued in Taupo, a good six hours’ drive southwards. Where, she thought feverishly, dragging her gaze away from the muscled contours of Kane’s backside and thighs, she wished she was at this very moment. Except that Taupo was no longer her home.

      She said, ‘That’s all right—I’ve got shopping to do.’

      ‘OK, drop it off, then.’

      Kane stood up. She handed the phone back and smiled with what she hoped was cool and impersonal friendliness. ‘Thank you,’ she said again, ignoring Lucky’s deep barking from inside the house.

      ‘You’ve got ragwort growing on the verge,’ he said crisply.

      Emma bristled; she’d seen the bright yellow flowers in incompetent farmers’ paddocks and was well aware that it was a vile pest, poisonous to sheep as well as smothering good grass. ‘Where?’

      He pointed out a small rosette of leaves. ‘I’ll send someone down to spray it.’

      ‘I’ll dig it out.’

      ‘It would be a waste of time. In fact it would make matters worse because you can never get all the roots, and each one left in the ground sends up another shoot. Unfortunately spraying is the only way to kill it. Don’t worry—it’s as much to my advantage to see that it’s dealt with as it is to Mrs Firth’s. I don’t want to have to conduct a mop-up operation on my own property.’

      Emma’s gaze flew to the paddocks on the other side of the road. Smooth and vigorously green, they had the opulent air of good husbandry.

      ‘I don’t suppose you do,’ she said. ‘Thank you. Mrs Firth will be very grateful when she comes back.’

      ‘I gather you’re house-sitting for her,’ he said.

      ‘Yes.’ She smiled politely. ‘Dog-sitting, really. Babe pines in kennels, and Mrs Firth thought this would be less stressful for her.’

      ‘Obviously you know her well.’

      He certainly chose the straightest and most direct route to get information. Whipping up resentment, because it smothered more complex emotions she didn’t want to examine, Emma explained aloofly, ‘Until Mrs Firth came up here she