The Final Proposal. Robyn Donald

Lannion’s curt command the black and white dog on the back of his vehicle stopped its eager suggestions that it get down and explore and settled back quietly, its eyes fixed on him as he came towards the house.

      He could be an axe murderer, but at that moment he represented safety. The oppressive weight of her grandfather’s fate lifted slightly as Jan walked across the cracked linoleum floor-covering to stand in the doorway.

      ‘Hello,’ he said, looking, she saw with a spurt of anger, unsurprised, although the narrowed grey eyes were enigmatic. ‘This is a long way from Auckland.’

      ‘Isn’t it just? Another universe.’ The flippancy of her reply sounded crudely out of place, but it was all she could manage.

      He smiled, not very nicely. That comprehensive survey had taken in her narrow linen trousers and elegant boots, the fine weave of her cotton shirt and the thin gold chain around her neck.

      ‘This is private property,’ he said.

      Jan discovered that she disliked him in equal measure to her unbidden, reluctant attraction to him. ‘My private property,’ she told him, not without relish.

      He didn’t move but she detected a waiting kind of stillness in him, an unexpressed astonishment. Aha, she thought maliciously, you didn’t know that.

      Not even trying to hide the dismissive note in his words, he said, ‘How did this happen?’

      ‘Fergus Morrison was my grandfather.’

      His brows came together. For a moment she sensed a cold, deliberate patience that sent an icy chill down her back.

      Then he said, ‘I see. I assume you plan to sell it.’

      Later, she would understand that that was when she’d made up her mind to keep the place, but at the time she was too busy trying to ignore his effect on her to realise anything. ‘Possibly,’ she said.

      It was just his size; short, thin people tended to be a bit wary of big people, especially when those big people walked with head erect and a rangy, almost arrogant self-assurance that sent out all sorts of messages—most of them tinged with intimidating overtones.

      Kear went on conversationally, ‘If you do, I’d like first refusal.’

      It didn’t seem too much to give him, but something held her back. She said, ‘I’ll have to talk to my solicitor about that.’

      ‘Of course,’ be said laconically. Nothing altered in his expression, no emotion darkened the pale gaze, but every nerve in her body suddenly screamed a warning.

      He said, ‘Where do you plan to stay the night?’

      As wary as a deer in tiger-haunted jungle, she swallowed. ‘Here.’

      There was an alarming silence. Or perhaps it was stunned. No, a swift upward glance revealed that the first word had been the right one. Kear Lannion kept tight rein on his emotions, but his mouth had compressed and there was a glint of irritation in the frigid depths of his eyes.

      ‘Do you know how to work the range? The water?’

      ‘No,’ she said.

      With brusque impatience he demanded, ‘Don’t you think it would have been a good idea to find out what the conditions were before you came up to gloat over your inheritance?’

      Jan raised her brows, delicately questioning his right to make such comments. ‘I’ll manage.’

      His icy gaze slid across her face, cold enough to burn the ivory skin. She thought she actually felt the welts as he said, ‘So, even though you never came near Fergus Morrison, he left what he had to you when he died?’

      ‘He did.’ It angered her that this man somehow managed to strip off the comfortingly opaque social mask she took for granted. She never lost her temper—never—and yet she wanted to stamp her feet and scream with childish, uncontrolled rage. In a voice that could have congealed lava she told him, ‘I’m his only descendant, apparently. I thought he was dead—we all did. He left for Australia after my father died, and didn’t contact us when he came back.’

      ‘I wonder why?’

      ‘My mother told me he adored my father and went a little mad when he was killed.’

      ‘He certainly turned into a hermit,’ he said. ‘Jan, you can’t stay here. You’d better come back and spend the night at my place.’

      CHAPTER THREE

      ‘THAT’S very kind of you,’ Jan said formally, ‘but I’ll be perfectly all right.’

      Sleeping with rats—and oh, how she prayed there weren’t any around!—would be less stressful than accepting his hospitality.

      His dark brows drew together above hard eyes. ‘I’ve seen you in your native habitat,’ he said, ‘and you are not going to like it here, believe me.’

      She didn’t have to prove herself—she wasn’t in the least worried about what he thought of her—and she wasn’t going to cave in like a wimp under the relentless assault of his masculine dominance.

      Tilting her chin, she said, ‘I’ll be perfectly all right.’ Wickedly, she added, ‘I have been camping several times.’

      And she enjoyed a fierce satisfaction when his mouth curved into a slow smile that was both sinister and sexy as hell.

      ‘Don’t play games with me,’ he said softly. ‘There’s a difference between camping with the latest equipment and this. You’ll find the homestead much more comfortable.’

      It would be perilously easy to give in to that deep, assured voice, to his smooth assumption of mastery—especially as that smile sent a hot pulse of sensation washing through her. Ignoring the quick, uneven flurry of her heartbeats, Jan said crisply, ‘I’m sure I would, but I’m quite capable of looking after myself.’

      He gave her another intent, measuring glance, then said, ‘If you’re determined to stay here I’ll leave you my mobile phone.’

      Lightly, wishing he’d go, Jan told him, ‘I have one in the car. Look, if it worries you, give me your number and I’ll call each night to let you know I’m all right.’

      He didn’t like being crossed. Not that he showed it—she was beginning to think that his control over his expression was almost unnatural—but she could feel the irritation coming off him in waves. His disapproval stiffened her backbone—not ousting the intense awareness that played havoc with her heartbeat, but making it easier to ignore.

      He seemed to realise that she meant it, because he said indifferently, ‘Very well, if that’s what you want.’ And he gave her his number, waiting while she wrote it down in her Filofax.

      ‘Ring tonight at seven,’ he said. ‘Have you got food?’

      ‘Yes, plenty, thanks.’

      ‘I’ll see you around.’ And he turned and went back to the Land Rover, the warm autumn sun striking fire from his head.

      She watched him turn the vehicle with an economy of movement she envied; a hand waved, the dog braced itself and the Land Rover took the rutted track easily and without fuss to disappear beneath the kanuka trees.

      Perhaps she should have asked him how to get the range going. Ah, well, it was too late now, and she was intelligent enough to work it out on her own. Waiting until the sound of the engine had died away, she drove the scarlet MG into the shed, where it would be sheltered from any rain. Looking around at the logs neatly stacked against the walls, she decided that the range had to be fuelled by wood.

      Somehow, from there the bach looked even more suspicious and surly. ‘It’s only because you could have gone to stay with the local laird,’ she said out loud, forcing herself to walk back across the coarse grass.

      Once inside she explored properly. There was