Unwelcome Invader

‘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 discussion about it over our supper. But first you will want to have a bath.’

He set down the bags, strode further into the hall, opened the big linen closet and handed her a huge, fluffy white towel, a bath mat and a washcloth.

‘The bathroom is the second door on the left,’ he said.

‘I know where the bathroom is!’ flared Jane.

‘Of course, of course,’ he murmured in an amused voice. ‘Well, then, I’ll leave you to it while I go and heat up some food.’

Jane was quietly seething as she stalked into the bathroom and began to run hot water into the old claw-footed bath. How dared this stranger treat her like a guest in her own home? And what was he doing here? The questions buzzed in her head like a cloud of hornets, but the whole evening was beginning to take on a dreamy, surrealist air, like some sort of strange nightmare. Yet the clouds of steam rising from the bath and the fragrant horse-chestnut scent of Badedas were real enough, even if the tiled floor did seem to be undulating gently underneath her feet. With a wail of exhaustion Jane stamped out into the hall, snatched up the smaller of her two bags and retreated to the bathroom. As she locked the door, she wished she could just escape from the whole crazy predicament. All she wanted to do now was soak in the hot, foamy water, then dry off and stumble up to bed. Instead she had to try and clear her tired brain enough to go out and do battle with this extraordinary foreigner who seemed to have taken over her home.

Deliberately she kept him waiting, but the results were not helpful. She almost fell asleep in the soothing hot water and was roused from a drifting doze by a peremptory hammering on the door.

‘Have you drowned in there?’ demanded a deep, masculine voice. ‘Must I come in and rescue you? I can break the lock if you’re in difficulties.’

Alarmed at the threat, Jane scrambled out of the bath and began hastily to dress. Once she was dry she hesitated in front of the mirror, then wiped off the steamy glass with her towel and looked at herself critically. If she had been alone, she would have put on comfortable old pyjamas and some sheepskin boots. As it was, she paused indecisively. Should she put on an even older pair of clean jeans and a more ragged windcheater as an act of defiance, or dress up to the nines?

From childhood onwards Jane had always tried to tackle difficult situations by making sure that she looked her very, very best. Somehow it always helped to control those butterflies of insecurity in her stomach. But if she dressed nicely mightn’t this arrogant stranger think that she was trying to lead him on? She stared at herself in the mirror. Long, curly blonde hair, wide green eyes, heart-shaped face with a small pointy chin and a wide, defiant mouth.

‘Why should I care what he thinks?’ she demanded aloud. ‘I’ll wear whatever I like!’

Kneeling down, she unzipped her bag and took out clean underwear, tights, shoes and the one wild extravagance of her French trip—a dress of pale green clinging georgette, which clung to the curves of her body and made her look ten thousand times more sexy and sophisticated than she ever usually did. Jane scrambled into these clothes, brushed her hair, sprayed herself with Arpège, fastened a gold and pearl-drop necklace around her throat and applied a glossy scarlet lipstick to her lips. Then, squaring her shoulders and ready to do battle, she opened the bathroom door and charged.

‘Go into the dining-room,’ called a masculine voice, which was already beginning to be hatefully familiar. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’

Jane gasped as she entered the dining-room. The large cedar dining-table that she and her father only ever bothered to set for special occasions like Christmas dinner was covered with an exquisite lace tablecloth. At one end two places were set; candles burned in silver candelabra and their gentle, flickering light winked off crystal glasses, heavy silver cutlery and the best Wedgwood china. Mouthwatering scents drifted in from the kitchen. Some kind of delicious beef stew, with an undertone of other delights. Fresh bread and something fruity and spicy. An apple tart perhaps? Jane’s spirits revived magically. She might be small and even rather frail-looking, but she had a formidable appetite. Perhaps there was something to be said for having mad Frenchmen take over the house if they cooked like this!

A moment later the mad Frenchman entered the dining-room. He paused at the sight of Jane and a small, approving smile lit his face.

‘Very chic,’ he murmured. ‘I congratulate you, mademoiselle. I half expected you to appear looking like a grape-picker after the harvest.’

Jane flushed, torn between pleasure and annoyance.

‘Can I do anything to help in the kitchen?’ she asked.

‘But no, it is all organised. I had only to heat things up. Have a glass of sherry and I’ll bring in the soup.’

He moved across to the sideboard and turned back to look enquiringly at her as his hand hovered above the bottles.

‘A medium dry Reynella, please,’ she said.

‘A very good choice. I think I’ll join you. Now, please sit down at the table and we’ll eat.’

Jane sipped the pale, straw-coloured, nutty-flavoured liquid and stared wonderingly after Marc’s departing back as he vanished into the kitchen. Moments later he returned, first with a couple of hot bread rolls in a napkin and then with two bowls of clear soup.

‘Consommé Julienne,’ he announced, setting one down in front of her.

‘Bon appetit,’ said Jane automatically.

‘Ah, you speak French?’ asked Marc with interest.

‘Not really,’ she replied. ‘Certainly not fluently, but I’ve just spent six months in the Champagne district.’

‘Really? What were you doing there?’

‘Learning more about winemaking.’

‘And is this a hobby, or your profession?’

‘My profession,’ said Jane proudly.

‘You’ve trained in it?’

‘Yes. After I finished school I did a winemaking course in South Australia, worked for a year at Penfold’s and then came back here to Tasmania to try and start a family vineyard. That was five years ago.’