Unwelcome Invader. Angela Devine
I’ve had some trouble with vandals since I took possession of the vineyard here.’
‘Took possession of the vineyard?’ echoed Jane in bewilderment. ‘I don’t understand! Have I wandered into some kind of crazy nightmare?’
‘There does seem to be some confusion,’ agreed the stranger tranquilly. ‘You said that your father owns this property. What is his name?’
There was an air of authority in his voice that made Jane answer without hesitation.
‘Colin West.’
‘And your name, mademoiselle?’
‘Jane West.’
‘Bon. We begin to make progress. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Marc Le Rossignol.’
‘How do you do?’ said Jane with heavy sarcasm.
‘Ah, you are thinking perhaps that this is no place for exchanging the pleasantries? How right you are, Miss West. Why don’t you come inside and we’ll discuss the matter in comfort?’
‘Inside?’ echoed Jane in horror. ‘Do you mean you’re staying here? Are you some kind of guest of my father’s?’
‘Not exactly,’ replied Marc. ‘We are more in the nature of business associates, but I’ll explain all that once we’re inside.’
Jane glared at him suspiciously in the inadequate torchlight. Something very odd was going on here, but at least it no longer looked as if this Marc Le Rossignol was some kind of mad rapist or burglar. Suddenly she made up her mind.
‘All right,’ she agreed curtly. ‘I don’t suppose I can come to much harm anyway with my father in the house.’
Marc shrugged.
‘Unfortunately your father is not in the house,’ he replied. ‘He has gone to New Zealand.’
‘New Zealand?’ exclaimed Jane. ‘That’s the first I’ve heard about it! I don’t have the faintest idea of what’s going on here.’
‘Nor I, mademoiselle,’ replied Marc briskly. ‘But perhaps we can get to the bottom of it all over a meal and a glass of wine.’
Jane sighed. Her head was spinning. After the long flight and the drama of the last few minutes the last thing she wanted to do was share a meal with this unwelcome invader, whoever he was. Yet obviously she would get no peace until matters were straightened out.
‘All right,’ she agreed ungraciously.
With a proprietorial gesture, which annoyed her intensely, Marc took the torch and guided her with exaggerated courtesy back along the way they had come. At the foot of the stairs Jane crouched down amid the broken glass and the spilt wine and sorrowfully picked up a shattered fragment of the bottle which still had the label adhering to it.
‘Grange Hermitage,’ she said tragically, shaking her head. ‘What a waste! It’s enough to make a girl weep.’
‘Or a man,’ agreed Marc gloomily. ‘But I’ve got something equally fine inside. A bottle of Petrus 1985. I look forward to hearing your opinion of it.’
In a daze, Jane allowed herself to be hustled inside the house. In the outside porch Marc halted as if noticing something for the first time, and then strode across to the patch of shadow where Jane had dumped her luggage.
‘These are your bags, one assumes?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Strange.’
With a Gallic shrug he moved towards the back door, making no attempt to pick up the bags. Obviously he was either too ill-mannered to help her or had no intention of letting her stay the night! Darting him a smouldering look, Jane snatched them up herself.
‘What are you doing with those?’ he demanded.
‘What does it look as if I’m doing? I’m staying here. This is my home.’
He smiled faintly, a smile that struck Jane as being oddly dangerous. Suave, mockingly amused, but with a hint of some indefinable wildness and power behind it. To her surprise he suddenly took both bags out of her hands.
‘How pleasant. It will be very agreeable to have some feminine company. One always misses the gentle voices, the elegant clothes, the charming manners of women.’
Since Jane’s voice so far had been shrill with indignation, her clothes were travel-stained and splashed with wine and her manner was hostile to the point of rudeness, she had little doubt that this infuriating stranger was mocking her. Enraged beyond belief, she could not even think of a snappy comeback, but simply stood glaring at him as he held open the mesh door for her by leaning against it with one powerful shoulder.
‘Do come in,’ he urged pleasantly, as if he was a host welcoming a favourite guest. ‘If you’re going to stay the night then I’ll need to arrange some things for you. A bath, a meal, a bedroom.’
Jane stepped inside, as aggressively as if she were laying a territorial claim to an entire continent. Then she further relieved her feelings by turning and kicking the massive cedar door shut behind her. After that she swung round, planted her hands on her hips and addressed herself to the stranger.
‘Now look here, Mr Le Rossignol or whatever your name is.’
‘Marc, please,’ he murmured. ‘You Australians are so informal, aren’t you? Since I’m staying in your country it’s only polite that I follow your customs. And perhaps I may call you Jane?’
‘You may call me anything you like as long as you get out of my house,’ flared Jane. ‘And the sooner the better. But first will you kindly tell me what’s going on here?’
‘All in good time,’ he replied tranquilly. ‘First you will wish to tidy up and have something to eat. Your clothes—they are only fit to throw away.’
Jane glared at him. She didn’t feel at all sure that he was referring only to the splashes of wine on her clothes. Something in the disapproving lift of his eyebrows as he scanned her body made her feel that he did not approve of women who travelled in faded old jeans and cheap, green cotton windcheaters. Well, she didn’t care whether he approved of her or not! How dared he stand there looking her up and down as if she were something on sale and not a very good bargain at that?
It only annoyed her further to realise that he seemed to have come off completely unscathed when she flung the bottle of wine at him. He must have been still on the stairs and therefore protected from the impact when it shattered against the wall of the cellar itself. Thinking it over, Jane was of course extremely relieved to realise that the bottle hadn’t hit him, causing heaven knew what serious injuries. All the same, she wouldn’t have minded in the least if the immaculate perfection of his striped blue and white shirt and grey, pleated trousers had been gloriously splattered with stains that would be almost impossible to remove.
It wasn’t just this baffling situation that made her dislike him so much. It was something about his manner—so smooth, so confident, so certain that he could control the world and everybody in it. Being so good-looking probably had something to do with his aura of power and authority. He was a shade over six feet, with powerful shoulders, narrow hips and hard, muscular thighs, but it was his face that commanded most attention. The tough jaw, the shrewdly narrowed brown eyes, the mocking smile and the rather rugged features gave the irresistible impression of a man born to win. He seemed unaware of her hostile scrutiny as he glanced down at the labels on her bags.
‘You’ve had a long journey, mademoiselle. All the way from Thailand today.’
‘Longer than that, really,’ she said. ‘I only stayed one night in Bangkok to break my journey.’
‘And before that you were…where?’
‘France,’ she replied.
‘Ah, my own country. Excellent. We will have a