Unwelcome Invader (Harlequin Treasury 1990's)

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Unwelcome Invader (Harlequin Treasury 1990's) Page 6

by Angela Devine


  ‘You’re not married, are you?’

  Marc looked taken aback.

  ‘No. Why?’

  Jane cringed.

  ‘Oh. Uh. No reason. Just…you know…small talk,’ she babbled.

  You fool! she told herself savagely. You moron! What are you trying to do? Make him believe that you’re the village idiot? While you’re at it, why don’t you tell him the truth and really shock him? Say something like, Oh, I just wondered if you’re already taken because I’d like to go to bed with you myself. With a wild-eyed look she clamped her bottom teeth firmly over her upper lip for fear that the words would escape from her mouth. Marc glanced at her rather uneasily.

  ‘Why are you pulling those strange faces?’

  ‘I’m not,’ she said hastily. ‘I always look like this.’

  ‘No, you don’t. You’re normally very pretty, but when you stick your jaw out like that you look like a wild animal trapped in a corner. Is it the terrifying word marriage that affects you that way?’

  ‘No!’ cried Jane.

  ‘Perhaps you’ve been unhappily married yourself?’ probed Marc.

  ‘No! I’ve never been married and I don’t intend to be.’

  ‘Why not?’ he demanded. ‘Is it that you hate men? I can’t help feeling that some bad experience must have soured your nature.’

  ‘Do we have to keep talking about marriage?’ asked Jane in an exasperated voice.

  ‘Well, you started it,’ pointed out Marc reasonably. ‘You asked me if I was married.’

  ‘Oh, forget it, will you? It was stupid of me to mention it. Anyway, my nature isn’t soured!’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ murmured Marc. ‘So these strange looks you give me do not represent hostility?’

  ‘N-no,’ stammered Jane.

  ‘And you are actually perfectly friendly towards me?’

  She turned away from him and stared out of the passenger window, feeling suddenly trapped. She couldn’t come right out and say, I resent you bitterly for seizing my home and wrecking my dreams, but I feel a completely irrational sexual attraction to you. Instead she gave a sickly grin.

  ‘Oh, yes, perfectly friendly,’ she said in a failing voice.

  Marc’s hand shot out and gripped hers.

  ‘Don’t lie, Jane. I know you hate me. Let’s be honest—there’s a contest of wills going on here and quite a challenging one. You want to get rid of me and I intend to stay. But I warn you, I will be the winner.’

  Jane fumed in silence for the rest of the trip home and could not wait to escape from Marc’s hateful company. He did not drive all the way to the house immediately, but stopped the car just inside the entrance to the vineyard and climbed out to inspect the grapes. He tasted one and nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘Come here,’ he ordered.

  Jane resented the curt summons but she too was interested in the condition of the grapes. She strolled across to join him and was just about to pick some fruit from the cluster when Marc popped a grape directly into her mouth. Even that brief touch of his fingers on her lips sent an unwelcome thrill through her so that she had to force herself to concentrate on the warm, sweet juice that was spilling on to her tongue.

  ‘I think they’ll be ready to harvest next week,’ announced Marc. ‘Do you agree?’

  Jane nodded.

  ‘And after that the real excitement begins,’ he said with his eyes gleaming. ‘We can start winemaking together.’

  Jane tried hard not to be caught up in his anticipation.

  ‘A lot might go wrong,’ she said discouragingly. ‘It could rain.’

  ‘True, but if it turns out well I’ll be very pleased. I’ll probably stay here.’

  Jane’s mouth twisted.

  ‘Well, I hope you don’t expect me to wish you luck, then,’ she said.

  Marc gave an exasperated sigh and seized her arm. He seemed on the point of saying something, but then shook his head and gritted his teeth. When he did speak, his words were clipped and barely civil.

  ‘Get in. I’ll drive you the rest of the way,’ he commanded.

  Jane felt a little spurt of satisfaction at having annoyed him even that far. She pulled free of his grip.

  ‘No, thanks. I’ll walk from here.’

  It wasn’t far to the house, but the car was already parked outside and the back door was open when she arrived. Marc appeared to have vanished. Just as she came into the back porch she heard the ding of the fax machine in the study and quickened her pace. Marc came hurrying down the stairs and they collided in the hall.

  ‘There’s a fax,’ said Jane.

  ‘I know,’ agreed Marc. ‘I’m just going to get it.’

  She opened her mouth to protest and then realised that it was entirely likely that the fax was for Marc and not for her. It was just one more unwelcome reminder that he was the legal occupant now and that she was living here on sufferance in her own home.

  ‘You’d better come in here,’ called Marc from the study. ‘This concerns you too.’

  ‘What?’ asked Jane eagerly, hurrying in to join him. ‘Is it from my father? Has something happened?’

  ‘No, it’s from Simone,’ said Marc in an abstracted voice, looking down at the long sheet of paper in his hand.

  ‘Who is Simone?’ asked Jane with a sinking sensation.

  Marc was still reading and a pleased expression had come over his face. There was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes when at last he looked up.

  ‘Simone Cabanou. She’s a neighbour of mine near Bordeaux,’ he explained carelessly. ‘She’s coming to stay here at the farm to find out more about Australian vineyard practices.’

  A renewed wave of bitterness rose in Jane’s breast. Normally she loved having guests to stay but it infuriated her to feel that she was not even being consulted but merely informed about this particular guest. Obviously Marc didn’t consider this place to be her home any more, but only his. Damn him!

  ‘That’s nice,’ she said coldly. ‘I’m so pleased.’

  ‘Are you?’ asked Marc, darting her a searching glance. ‘I wonder.’

  Simone arrived three days later. By then Jane had got over her misgivings enough to make all the preparations she would have made for any other guest. Crisp sheets on the bed in the best spare room, gold and russet chrysanthemums in a crystal vase on the mantelpiece, a tin of chocolate wafers and a couple of juicy paperbacks on the bedside cupboard. Yet she still felt strangely reluctant to confront the mysterious Simone in person.

  To her surprise, Marc tracked her down in mid-afternoon when she was checking the winemaking vats and asked her if she would like to go to the airport with him to meet their guest.

  ‘All right,’ she agreed, wiping her hands on her jeans. ‘But wouldn’t you rather be alone with her?’

  Marc shrugged carelessly.

  ‘I’ll have plenty of time to be alone with her later,’ he replied.

  It was an answer which left Jane feeling vaguely dissatisfied. As they drove towards the airport she even managed to overcome her innate dislike of asking personal questions.

  ‘Why is Simone really coming here?’ she demanded bluntly.

  Marc gazed out at the golden grass and blue hills that were gliding by and took his time about answering, as if he was more interested in the countryside than Simone.

  ‘Partly curiosity, I think,’ he said at last. ‘We’ve known each other for a long time and she was very interested when I told her about this new venture of mine. We’ve been in touch quite a bit since I’ve been here. I think she may even try to persuade her family to introduce a few Australian innovations in their vineyard.’

  ‘She comes from a winemaking family too?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Yes, they have a large vineyard near ours. Simone is a qualified accountant and she does all the financial side of the business. I was telling her only last week about the system of movable trellis wires that you use in Australia. It’s standard practice here, but quite a revolutionary idea in France. She
’s very keen to find out how it’s done and how much it can increase profits.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jane, feeling slightly relieved. If Simone was only coming here for business reasons then perhaps she wouldn’t stay too long. Although on the other hand the trip from Europe was so arduous that it was hardly worth making just for the sake of a few days.

  ‘Will she be here very long?’ she asked, trying to hide her eagerness for Simone’s rapid departure.

  Marc darted her a surprised look.

  ‘She’ll stay as long as she likes, of course,’ he replied. ‘We’re…old friends.’

  Something in the way he said the word ‘friends’ made alarm bells ring in Jane’s head. Friends? she thought suspiciously. Or something more? She was surprised at the pang of antagonism that went through her. She hadn’t even met Simone and the poor woman might be very nice indeed. She tried to tell herself that her instinctive dislike was only due to resentment at the invasion of her home, but she had a niggling suspicion that what she was actually feeling was jealousy. How stupid! Marc didn’t mean anything to her. He had merely kissed her once, which was an incident she was doing her best to forget. So why should it annoy her so much to learn that he and Simone were ‘old friends’? It would be better to look on the bright side. With luck, Simone’s report on the vineyard might prove so discouraging that they would both pack up and leave immediately. Yet somehow the thought of Marc’s departure didn’t make her feel quite as happy as she’d expected.

  Simone’s plane arrived on time, at four-fifteen p.m. on the dot. She was one of the first people to walk across the tarmac and Jane’s heart sank when she saw her. The Frenchwoman looked as if she had stepped off a fashion-modelling catwalk rather than a horror flight from Europe. She was tall and slim, dressed in a cream trouser suit with scarlet grosgrain ribbon trim. Her dark hair was pulled back into a chignon, a style which showed off her swan-like neck and flawless features. Her make-up looked as if it had been done in a professional salon and she was festooned with various elegant accessories—gold and pearl earrings, an expensive gold watch, a Louis Vuitton handbag. Her brown eyes lit up at the sight of Marc and she smiled radiantly, revealing flawless white teeth.

  ‘Marc!’

  ‘Simone!’

  As if moved by a common impulse they rushed into each other’s arms, embraced fervently, and kissed each other on both cheeks. Jane, standing back a couple of paces, had to admit grudgingly that they made a stunningly handsome couple. Simone was almost as tall as Marc, and they both had the expensive, elusive aura of money and power and good taste. Once the initial embrace was over, a great torrent of French burst forth, far too rapid for Jane to follow. She stood woodenly, feeling like an insignificant dwarf dressed in the cast-off clothing from a charity shop. Even Simone’s voice was enchanting—a melodious murmur that made several passing men turn around and stare admiringly. At last the quickfire volley of French came to a halt. Marc turned around, still smiling, gripped Jane’s shoulder and pulled her forward.

  ‘You must meet Jane,’ he said in English. ‘She’s spent all morning preparing your room, Simone.’

  ‘Qui est-ce?’ asked Simone. ‘C’est ta domestique?’

  ‘Speak English, chérie,’ urged Marc reprovingly. ‘Jane doesn’t understand much French. No, she’s not the housemaid. She’s the daughter of the vineyard owner and she’s still living on the property at the moment. It’s a temporary arrangement, of course.’

  ‘I see,’ said Simone thoughtfully.

  She extended one manicured hand with long, scarlet-tipped fingernails to Jane. There was little warmth in her handshake and her brown eyes were appraising rather than friendly. Not that Jane could really blame her for her lack of goodwill. Jane herself wasn’t exactly brimming with sweetness at the moment either. Practically every word of Marc’s speech had stung her in some way. She didn’t like the thought that Simone had mistaken her for a housemaid and even less did she like the ominous statement that she was only staying on at the house as a temporary measure. Worse still was her growing suspicion about the nature of the relationship between Marc and Simone. Her French might be patchy but she knew enough to understand that ‘chérie’ meant darling. Shaking Simone’s hand as briefly as possible, she spoke in a voice that was cool and strained, quite unlike her usual tone.

  ‘Welcome to Tasmania, Simone. I hope your stay here will be very happy.’

  And brief, she added silently to herself.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  TENSION mounted over the next few days. In spite of Marc’s explanation Simone did tend to treat Jane as the ‘domestique’ around the house and Jane reacted by spending as much time as possible in the vineyard and the winery to escape from her. Not that this was an ideal solution, for she found herself tormented by doubts about what Simone and Marc were finding to talk about so earnestly in the house. It was not just movable trellises, she was sure of that.

  A few days after Simone’s arrival Jane walked into the sitting-room straight into the midst of another rapid-fire volley of French. Simone had the lapels of Marc’s shirt in her hands and was staring at him with a distorted, impassioned expression on her lovely face while Marc looked back at her with a faint, weary frown. At the creak of the heavy cedar door they both stopped speaking and glanced sharply at Jane. Simone snatched away her hands from Marc’s shirt, strode across the room with her breast heaving, paused to give Jane a venomous look and then walked out.

  ‘Did I interrupt something?’ asked Jane innocently.

  ‘We were just discussing the costs per litre of stainless steel storage tanks,’ replied Marc in a deadpan voice.

  ‘It’s amazing the things some people get upset about, isn’t it?’ demanded Jane.

  ‘Amazing,’ said Marc drily.

  Jane let out an exasperated sigh. When it came to this sort of verbal fencing, Marc could beat her any day of the week. It was clear enough that he didn’t want to discuss the issue any further, but some demon of curiosity goaded her on.

  ‘Look, Marc,’ she began, ‘it’s probably none of my business, but——’

  ‘You’re right. It is none of your business,’ cut in Marc.

  His bluntness infuriated her.

  ‘There’s no need to be so rude!’ she flared. ‘Simone is my guest in a way and if she’s upset about something then I can’t help being concerned about it. After all, it might have something to do with me.’

  Marc took a sudden swift, harsh breath. His eyes were opaque and unfathomable as he looked down at her.

  ‘It has everything to do with you,’ he muttered. ‘But it’s still none of your business.’

  His lips brushed hers briefly, then he went out of the room without a backward glance. Jane touched her mouth and shuddered. She could still feel the tingling warmth of his kiss, although it only left her mystified and unhappy. I want him, but I don’t trust him, she thought miserably. I haven’t the least idea of what’s going on between him and Simone, but something definitely is. Oh, why did he ever come here?

  Fortunately her thoughts were given a new direction the following morning by Marc’s announcement that the grapes were ready to harvest. Immediately Jane went to the phone and began calling the people who had volunteered to work as pickers. There was no shortage of workers. Plenty of teenagers in the district were only too happy to earn some extra money and some of her old friends had offered to come along just for the fun of it.

  The next morning they arrived shortly after dawn and Jane was kept busy for over an hour allocating buckets, secateurs and gardening gloves. After that the real work began—hours and hours of cutting the stems, dropping the bunches of grapes into buckets and emptying the buckets into large receiving bins. It was a pleasant job, with the sun beating down warmly and the green vine leaves rustling in a gently westerly breeze, but after lunch Jane’s pace began to slow. By the end of the day her wrists were aching, her face and arms were sunburnt, her clothes were dusty and stained with juice. Worse still, hunger pains
were attacking her so fiercely that several times she could have sworn she smelt the aroma of juicy spit-roasted beef.

  ‘Do you think we ought to ask everyone to come into Richmond with us and have a counter meal?’ she asked Marc wearily as they stood watching the last bin of grapes being hauled up to the winery by tractor. ‘I’m starving.’

  ‘I have a much better idea,’ said Marc. ‘I’ve decided to follow the old custom we have in Bordeaux. I’ve organised a dinner and dance for the grape-pickers.’

  ‘A dinner and dance?’ echoed Jane in alarm. ‘But when…? How…? Who’s doing the food and the music?’

  ‘I’ve hired caterers and a bush dance band.’

  ‘I can’t possibly afford——’ she began.

  He laid two fingers warningly on her lips.

  ‘It’s my treat,’ he said carelessly. ‘Now, come on, we want everyone to assemble in the barn as soon as possible.’

  As they came trudging up the last stretch of path towards the house Jane realised that the smell of barbecued beef hadn’t been a hallucination after all. When Marc gave a party, he evidently did it in style. An entire steer was being barbecued on a spit just outside the barn, giving off an aroma that made her mouth water. From inside the barn came the sound of laughter and conversation and musical instruments tuning up.

  ‘What are they all doing in there?’ she asked. ‘Am I the only one who didn’t know about this party?’

  Marc’s eyes narrowed in amusement.

 

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