Island of Secrets. Robyn Donald

I’ll make up the bed for you.’

      Dark brows lifted as he looked across the big central room to a white-painted lattice that made no attempt to hide the huge wrought-iron bedstead covered by the same brilliantly appliquéd quilting he’d noted on the cushions.

      ‘Are there no walls at all in the place?’ he asked abruptly.

      Jo managed to stop herself from bristling. ‘Houses here tend to be built without walls,’ she told him. ‘Privacy isn’t an issue, of course—the local people wouldn’t dream of coming without an invitation, and Tom never had guests.’

      His black brows met. In a voice as cold as a shower of hail, he demanded, ‘Where do you sleep?’

      CHAPTER TWO

      SOMETHING IN THE crystalline depths of Luc MacAllister’s eyes sent uncomfortable prickles of sensation sizzling down Jo’s spine. Trying to ignore them, she said shortly, ‘My room’s on the other side of the house.’

      His frown indicated that he wasn’t happy about that. Surely he didn’t expect her to move out without notice? Well, it was his problem, not hers.

      It would have been nice to be forewarned that he expected to stay, but this man didn’t seem to do nice. So she said, ‘I assume you won’t mind sleeping in the bed Tom used?’ And hoped he would mind. She wanted him to go back to the resort and stay there until he took his arrogant self off to whatever country he next honoured with his presence.

      But he said, ‘Of course not.’ So much for hope.

      She gave the conversation a sharp twist. ‘I presume you flew in yesterday?’

      ‘Yes.’ Which meant he wouldn’t be accustomed to the tropical humidity.

      Good manners drove her to offer, ‘Can I get you a drink? What would you like?’

      Broad shoulders lifted slightly, sending another shimmering, tantalising sensation through her. Darn it, she didn’t want to be so aware of him … Possibly he’d noticed her sneaky unexpected response because his reply came in an even more abrupt tone. ‘Coffee, thank you. I’ll bring in my bag.’

      Jo nodded and walked into the kitchen. Of course coffee would be his drink of choice. Black and strong, probably—to stress that uber-macho personality. He didn’t need to bother. She knew exactly the sort of man Luc MacAllister was. Tom hadn’t spoken much about his family, but he’d said enough. And although he’d fought hard to keep control of his empire, he had once admitted that he could think of no one other than Luc to take his place. A person had to be special to win Tom’s trust. And tough.

      With an odd little shiver, she decided Luc MacAllister certainly fitted the bill.

      If he preferred something alcoholic she’d show him the drinks cupboard and the bottle of Tom’s favourite whisky—still almost full, just as he’d left it.

      A swift pang of grief stung through her. Damn it, but she missed Tom. Her hand shook slightly, just enough to shower ground coffee onto the bench. In the couple of years since her aunt’s death Jo had grown close to him. A great storyteller, he’d enjoyed making her laugh—and occasionally shocking her.

      Biting her lip, she wiped up the coffee grounds. He’d been a constant part of her life on and off since childhood. Sometimes she wondered if he thought of her as a kind of stepdaughter.

      When she’d used up her mother’s legacy setting up a skincare business on Rotumea, he’d advanced her money to keep it going—on strictly businesslike terms—but even more valuable had been his interest in her progress and his helpful suggestions as she’d struggled to expand the business through exports.

      A voice from behind made her start. ‘That smells good.’ One dark brow lifted as Luc MacAllister looked at the single mug she’d pulled down. ‘Aren’t you joining me?’

      A refusal hovered on her lips but hospitality dictated only one answer. ‘If you want me to,’ she said quietly.

      Following a moment of silence she swivelled, to meet a hooded, intent survey. A humourless smile curved the corners of a hard male mouth that hinted at considerable experience in … in all things, she thought hastily, trying to ignore the sensuous little thrill agitating her nerves.

      ‘Why not?’ His voice was harsh, almost abrupt before he turned away. ‘I’ll unpack.’

      Strangely shaken, she finished her preparations. He’d probably prefer the shaded deck, so she carried the tray there and had just finished settling it onto the table when Luc MacAllister walked out.

      He examined it with interest. ‘Looks good,’ he said laconically. ‘Is that your baking?’

      ‘Yes.’ Jo busied herself pouring the coffee. She’d been right; he liked it black and full-flavoured, but unlike Tom he didn’t demand that it snarl as it seethed out of the pot.

      Sipping her own coffee gave her something to do while he demolished a slice of coconut cake and asked incisively penetrating questions about Rotumea and its society.

      She knew why he was here. He’d come to tell her he was going to sell the house. Yet, in spite of his attitude, his arrival warmed her a little; she’d expected nothing more than a businesslike message ordering her to vacate the place. That he should come out of his way to tell her was as much a surprise as the letter from Tom’s solicitor suggesting the meeting tomorrow.

      Leaving the house would be saying goodbye to part of her heart. Get on with it, she mentally urged him as he set his cup down.

      ‘That was excellent.’ He leaned back into his chair and surveyed her, his grey gaze hooded.

      It looked as though she’d have to broach the matter herself. Without preamble, she said, ‘I can move out as soon as you like.’

      His brows lifted. ‘Why?’

      Nonplussed, she answered, ‘Well, I suppose you plan to sell this house.’ He’d never shown any interest in the place, and his initial glance around had seemed to be tinged with snobbish contempt.

      He paused before answering. ‘No.’ And paused again before adding, ‘Not yet, anyway.’

      ‘I wouldn’t have thought—’ She stopped.

      He waited for her to finish, and when the silence had stretched too taut to be comfortable, he ordered with cool self-possession, ‘Go on.’

      She shrugged. ‘This was Tom’s dream.’ Not Luc MacAllister’s.

      ‘So?’

      The dismissive monosyllable sent her back a few years to the awkwardness of her teens. A spark of antagonism rallied her into giving him a smile that perhaps showed too many teeth before she parried smoothly, ‘It doesn’t seem like your sort of setting, but I do try not to make instant judgements of people I’ve only just met.’

      ‘Eminently sensible of you,’ he drawled, and abruptly changed the subject. ‘How good is the Internet access here?’

      ‘Surely you knew your father better than—’

      ‘My stepfather,’ he cut in, his voice flat and inflexible. ‘My father was a Scotsman who died when I was three.’

      In spite of the implied rejection of Tom’s presence in his life, Jo felt a flash of kinship. Her father had died before she was born.

      However, one glance at Luc’s stony face expelled any sympathy. Quietly she said, ‘There is access to broadband.’ She indicated the screen that hid Tom’s computer nook. ‘Feel free.’

      ‘Later. I noticed as I flew in that the island isn’t huge, and there seems to be a road right around it. Why don’t you show me the sights?’

      Hoping she’d managed to hide her astonishment, she said, ‘Yes, of course.’ Her mouth twitched as she took in his long legs. ‘Not on the scooter,