Island of Secrets. Robyn Donald

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

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

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

      Her eyes narrowed. ‘Then who are you?’

      ‘I’m Luc MacAllister.’

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

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

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

      ‘My mother was Tom Henderson’s wife.’

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

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

      And he was angry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Forcing her thoughts into