Island of Secrets
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 some sort of order, she asked, ‘Are you planning to stay here?’
He gave her a cynical smile. ‘Of course. Why would I stay anywhere else?’
Sarcastic beast. Stiffly, she said, ‘All right, 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, though, I think.’ Why on earth did he want to see Rotumea?
His angular face would never soften, but the smile he gave her radiated a charisma that almost sent her reeling. He was too astute not to understand its impact. No doubt it had charmed his way—backed by his keen intelligence and hard determination.
‘Not on the scooter,’ he agreed. ‘I wouldn’t enjoy riding with my knees hitting my chin at every bump in the road.’
Taken by surprise, she laughed. His brows rose and his face set, and she felt as though she’d been jolted by an electric shock.
So what was that for? Didn’t he like having his minor jokes appreciated?
Black lashes hid his eyes a moment before he permitted himself another smile, this one marked by more than a hint of cynicism.
Sobering rapidly, Jo said, ‘We’ll take the four-wheeler.’
‘What’s a four-wheeler?’
Shrugging, she said, ‘It’s the local term for a four-wheel drive—a Land Rover, to be exact.’
An old Land Rover, showing the effects of years in the unkind climate of the tropics, but well maintained. Jo expected Luc to want to drive, but when she held out the keys he said casually, ‘You know the local rules, I don’t.’
Surprised, she got in behind the wheel. Even more surprised, she heard the door close decisively on her, penning her in. Her gaze followed him as he strode around the front of the vehicle, unwillingly appreciating his athletic male grace.
Once more that provocative awareness shivered along her nerves.
He was too much … too much man, she thought as he settled himself beside her. All the air seemed sucked out of the cab and as she hastily switched on the engine she scolded herself for behaving like a schoolgirl with a crush.
‘Basically the road rules here amount to don’t run over anything,’ she explained, so accustomed to the sticking clutch she set the vehicle on its way without a jerk. ‘Collisions are accompanied by a lot of drama, but traffic is so slow people seldom get hurt. If you cause any damage or run over a chicken or a pig, you apologise profusely and pay for it. And you always give way to any vehicle with children, especially if it’s a motor scooter with children up behind.’
‘They look extremely dangerous,’ he said.
His voice indicated that he’d turned his head to survey her. Tiny beads of sweat sprang out at her temples. Hoping he hadn’t noticed, she stared ahead, steering to miss the worst of the ruts along the drive.
She had to deliberately steady her voice to say, ‘The local children seem to be born with the ability to ride pillion without falling off.’
Her reaction to Luc meant nothing.
Or very little. Her mother had explained the dynamics of physical attraction to her when she’d suffered her first adolescent crush. And her own experience—limited but painful—had convinced Jo of her mother’s accuracy.
She set her jaw. Sean’s insinuations about her mother had hurt some deep inner part of her. Even in her forties, Ilona Forman’s great beauty and style had made her a regular on the Parisian catwalks, and she’d been one great designer’s inspiration for years.
To her surprise, the tour went off reasonably well. Jo was careful not to overstep the boundary of cool acquaintanceship, and Luc MacAllister matched her attitude. Nevertheless, tension wound her nerves tighter with each kilometre they travelled over Rotumea’s fairly primitive road.
Luc’s occasional comments indicated that the famous romance of the South Seas made little impression on him. Although, to be fair, he’d probably seen far more picturesque tropical islands than Rotumea.
Nevertheless she bristled a little when he observed, ‘Tom once told me that many of the Rotumean people live much as their ancestors did.’
‘More or less, I suppose. They have schools, of course, and a medical clinic, and a small tourist industry set up by Tom in partnership with the local people.’
‘The resort.’
‘Yes. Tom advised the tribal council to market to a wealthy clientele who’d enjoy a lazy holiday without insisting on designer shops and nightclubs. It’s worked surprisingly well.’
Again she felt the impact of his gaze on her, and her palms grew damp on the steering wheel. She hurried on, ‘Some islanders work at the resort, but most of them work the land and fish. They’re fantastic gardeners and very skilled and knowledgeable fishermen.’
‘And they’re quite content to spend their lives in this perfect Pacific paradise.’
His tone raised her hackles. ‘It never was perfect,’ she said evenly. ‘No matter how beautiful a place is, mankind doesn’t seem to be able to live peacefully. A couple of hundred years ago the islanders all lived in fortified villages up on the heights and fought incessantly, tribe against tribe. It’s not perfect now, of course, but it seems to work pretty well for most of them.’
‘What about those who want more than fish and coconuts?’
She glanced at him, caught sight of his incisive profile—all angles apart from the curve of his mouth—and hastily looked back at the road. So Tom hadn’t taken him into his confidence—and that seemed to indicate something rather distant about their relationship.
‘Tom set up scholarships with the help of the local chiefs for kids who want to go on to higher education.’
He nodded. ‘Where do they go?’
‘New Zealand mainly, although some have studied further afield.’ With the skill of long practice she negotiated three hens that could see no reason for the vehicle to claim right of way.
‘Do they return?’
‘Some do, and those who don’t keep their links, sending money back to their families.’
He said, ‘So if you don’t buy the tropical paradise thing, why are you here?’
‘I came here because of my aunt,’ she said distantly. ‘She was Tom’s housekeeper, and insisted on staying on even after she contracted cancer. Tom employed one of the island women to help her, but after my mother died she asked me to come up.’
He nodded. ‘So you took her place after her death.’
An ambiguous note in his voice made her hesitate before she answered. ‘I suppose you could say that.’
Tom hadn’t employed her. He’d suggested she stay on at Rotumea for a few months to get over her aunt’s death, and once she’d become interested in starting her business he’d seen no reason for her to move out. He liked her company, he told her.
Luc MacAllister asked, ‘Now that Tom’s not here, how do you keep busy?’
‘I run a small business.’
‘Dealing with tourists?’
It was a reasonable assumption, yet for some reason she felt a stab of irritation. ‘Partly.’ The hotel used her range.
‘What is this small business?’ he drawled.
Pride warred with an illogical desire not to tell him. ‘I source ingredients from the native plants and turn them into skincare products.’
And felt an ignoble amusement at the flash of surprise in the hard, handsome face. It vanished quickly and his voice was faintly amused when he asked, ‘What made you decide to go into that?’
‘The islanders’ fabulous skin,’ she told him calmly. ‘They spend all day in the sun, and hours in the sea, yet they never use anything but the lotions handed down by their ancestors.’
‘Good genes,’ he observed.
His cool comment thinned her lips. Was he being deliberately dismissive? She suspected Luc MacAllister didn’t do anything without a purpose.
And that included passing comments.
Steadying her voice, she said, ‘No doubt that helps, but they have the same skin problems people of European descent have—sunburn, eczema, rashes from allergies. They use particular plants to soothe them.’
‘So you’ve copied their formulas.’
His tone was still neutral, but her skin tightened at the implication of exploitation, and she had to draw breath before saying, ‘It’s a joint venture.’
‘Who provided the start-up money?’
It appeared to be nothing more than an idle question, yet swift antagonism forced her to bite back an astringent comment. Subduing it, she said politely, ‘I don’t know that that’s any of your business.’
And kept her eyes fixed on the road ahead. Tension—thick and throbbing—grated across her nerves.
Until he drawled, ‘If it was Tom’s money I’m interested.’
‘Of course,’ she retorted, before closing her mouth on any more impetuous words. Silence filled the cab until she elaborated reluctantly, ‘It was my money.’
Let him take that how he wanted. If Luc MacAllister had any right to know, he’d find out about Tom’s subsequent loan to her from the solicitor—the man arriving tomorrow.
Was that why Luc had come to Rotumea? To be told the contents of Tom’s will?
Immediately she dismissed the idea. Luc was Tom’s heir, his chosen successor as well as his stepson, so he’d already know.
Possibly Tom had mentioned her in his will; he might even have cancelled her debt to him. That would have been a kind gesture. And if he hadn’t—if Luc MacAllister inherited the debt—she’d pay it off as quickly as she could.
A coolly decisive voice broke into her thoughts. ‘And are you making money on this project?’
For brief moments her fingers clenched around the steering wheel. For a second she toyed with the idea of telling him again to mind his own business, but it was a logical question, and if he did inherit the debt he had a right to know.
However, he might not have.
‘Yes,’ she said, and turned off the tarseal onto a narrow rutted road that led up into the jungle-clad mountains in the centre of the island.
A quick glance revealed Luc was examining a pawpaw plantation on his side. He didn’t seem fazed by the state of the road, the precipice to one side or the large pig that only slowly got up and made room for them.
‘This is the area we’re taking the material from now,’ she said. ‘Each sub-tribe sells me the rights to harvest from the plants on their land for three months every year. It works well; the plants have time to recover and even seem to flourish under the pruning.’
‘How many people do you employ to do the harvesting?’
‘It depends. The chiefs organise that.’
She stopped on the level patch of land where the road ended. ‘There’s a great view of this side of the island from here,’ she said, and got out.