Unwelcome Invader

Jane made a strangled sound deep in the back of her throat.

‘You’re impossible!’

Her rage boiled over. She stepped out into the hall and slammed the door, then she remembered his earlier taunt that she had no manners. With a contemptuous snort she swung round and reopened it. She poked her head back into the sitting-room.

‘Thanks for the meal!’ she hissed. Then she withdrew and slammed the door so hard that the grandfather clock struck twice in protest.

Upstairs, Jane was in no way soothed by the familiar green-sprigged wallpaper, lace curtains and soft lighting of her bedroom. On the contrary, she was doubly annoyed to find that her father really had left a lot of his belongings in her room. Sweeping a pile of cardboard cartons off her bed so that they landed on the floor with ominous crashes, she crawled under the feather duvet, snapped off the bedside lamp and closed her eyes. Her heart was still thudding angrily from her encounter with Marc and she felt like a racing car running on high octane fuel. She intended to stay awake trying to think out some plan of action to protect her vineyard and her home, but soon exhaustion took over and she fell asleep.

Not that this was in any way a refreshing experience. Her dreams were troubled by the roaring of plane engines, the shattering of bottles and confused visions of Marc Le Rossignol prowling in the firelight like a demon king. Towards dawn these restless nightmares gave way to a deep, annihilating slumber in which she was conscious of cool, fresh country air rippling the curtains and of branches tapping softly against her window. It was almost noon when at last she woke up properly. For a moment she had a tranquil sense of wellbeing, which was even accompanied by an odd sense of exhilaration. Then the memories of the previous night came hurtling back to her and she gave a sudden groan.

‘Oh, no! He can’t take this place away from me. He can’t! He can’t!’

Jumping out of bed, she ran to the window and flung open the curtains. The Japanese maple which had been tapping out its Morse code all through her dreams waved a vivid canopy of scarlet leaves against a bright blue sky. Raising the sash window even higher, she leaned on the windowsill and looked out. In spite of her worries, the scene still made her heart lift. Down below was the vivid green of the garden contained within a darker green yew hedge. Beyond that were the rows and rows of lime-green grapevines, rustling peacefully in the autumn sunshine. In the distance the hills looked dark blue against the paler blue of the sky. It seemed a double irony that disaster should threaten her on such a beautiful day. Well, she wasn’t going to give up without a fight!

Luckily her room had a tiny en suite bathroom with a shower, so she didn’t have to face Marc while she was still tousled and yawning. After a long reviving shower she dressed in clean jeans, a shirt and espadrilles, tied her unruly hair back in a riotous ponytail and went downstairs. She was in the kitchen burning her second lot of toast when Marc suddenly appeared. He snatched the smoking toast, swore softly in French as it burned his fingers, and dropped it into the bin. A moment later he unplugged the toaster and dropped that in on top of the burnt bread.

‘What are you doing?’ cried Jane indignantly. ‘We’ve had that toaster for fifteen years.’

‘That is obvious,’ retorted Marc. ‘It’s bad enough when somebody efficient like me makes the toast. But you, you don’t even watch it and your sense of smell evidently doesn’t work. Do you want to burn the whole house down? And don’t worry about the toaster. I’ll buy you another one tomorrow.’

‘I don’t want another toaster!’ cried Jane. ‘I want that one.’

Even to her own ears she sounded remarkably like a petulant six-year-old. It was even worse when she ran to the bin and tried to snatch the toaster back out. Marc barred her way.

‘You wish to fight me for it?’ he invited.

Jane ground her teeth.

‘No.’

‘Ah, bon. You have some sense after all. I had begun to wonder. And, since that is the last slice of bread you have just burnt, perhaps you will join me in a decent breakfast.’

‘What do you mean “a decent breakfast”?’ asked Jane suspiciously.

‘Coffee—real coffee—almond croissants, a baguette. There are some surprisingly good bakeries in Tasmania.’

Jane scowled silently. She wanted to refuse, but the pastries which Marc was laying out in a basket on the kitchen table looked far too delectable to resist. Those yummy little crescents filled with almond paste, dusted with flaked almonds and icing sugar—surely it wouldn’t hurt if she had just one of them? After all, there was no point in starving even if her whole life was in ruins.

‘All right,’ she agreed ungraciously.

Fortified by two cups of fragrant black coffee, an almond croissant, a pain au chocolat and a large piece of crusty French bread, Jane was beginning to feel that Marc might not be quite such a monster as she had thought the previous evening. The way his gaze rested on her in that quiet, mocking scrutiny still unnerved her, but perhaps underneath he was really quite nice. She didn’t know that her opinion would change before the morning was over.

‘Well,’ said Marc, when they had finally rinsed the dirty plates and cups and put them in the dishwasher. ‘I think it’s time we phoned your father.’

‘All right,’ agreed Jane with lead in her heart.

It was every bit as bad as she had feared. The telephone number which Marc gave her proved to be in Queenstown in New Zealand. When she first came on the line her father proclaimed himself delighted to hear her, but as soon as he realised she was back in Australia and had learnt about Marc’s contract on the vineyard his manner changed. He became defensive and began to bluster. First he told Jane that he had signed the contract for her own good because Marc’s offer had been too handsome to refuse and assured her that they would both make a mint of money out of a set of time-share apartments he was planning to build.

Jane tried to reason with him, then pleaded, and finally lost her temper and began to shout. At that point Marc seized the telephone and took over. Where Jane had been impassioned and incoherent, he was cool and rational, but Jane had the impression that his cool questioning was beginning to wear her father down. It was tantalising to listen to a one-sided conversation, but a wild hope rose in her as she realised that Marc was getting the better of her father on every point. It was all the more of a disappointment when Marc uttered a pleasant farewell without obtaining any clear resolution of the problem.

‘What happened?’ cried Jane hotly. ‘You had him on the run! You could have made him back out of the whole deal, couldn’t you?’

Marc shrugged.

‘Probably.’

‘Then why didn’t you?’ she demanded. ‘The whole situation is completely unfair to me—you told him that yourself! So why didn’t you make him give up?’

‘Because I chose not to,’ he replied.

Jane’s disappointment was so acute that she felt like shouting or hitting something. Preferably Marc. Somehow over breakfast she had begun to think of him not so much as an unwanted invader but as her protector and ally. Now she realised bitterly that he was only interested in protecting his own interests.

‘I suppose that’s fair enough,’ she sneered. ‘Naturally you’re only interested in your own interests. Why should I expect anything else?’

Marc’s pupils narrowed to tiny, opaque points of light that seemed for an instant to glitter dangerously. Then he gave her a long, appraising look.

‘Never mind my reasons. The important thing is that I’m staying here for the full three months. The question now is, What’s going to happen to you?’

‘I’m staying here too,’ insisted Jane. ‘I’m not moving.’

Marc’s lips twisted into an odd smile.

‘And when the irresistible meets the immovable, what happens?’

‘I wouldn’t call you irresistible,’ said Jane scathingly.

‘And I wouldn’t call you immovable,’ he murmured. His voice was husky and his eyes held a suave, mocking glint that seemed to conceal something brooding and wild beneath it. He reminded Jane of a tiger on a leash. ‘I feel sure I could move you if I tried.’

‘Stop playing games!’ she cried. ‘I’m staying here and that’s that.’

‘Really? And what will you do for money? I suppose your father has left you adequately provided for?’

Jane stared at him, aghast. Supposing he hadn’t? She and her father had a joint account which had served both for housekeeping and the expenses of the property. Either of them could withdraw money at any time and she had never fussed about it too much, even though her mother had warned her that it was unwise. Now a tremor of misgiving went through her. What if her father had cleaned the account out?

‘I’m sure he’s left me enough money!’ she cried, leaping instantly to her father’s defence.

With a sceptical expression Marc picked up the phone again and held it out to her.

‘Why don’t you phone your bank manager and check?’

Jane’s fingers were shaking as she punched in the numbers. She wished Marc wouldn’t keep looking at her with that half pitying, half contemptuous stare. Her heart beat more and more frantically and, when at last she got her bank manager on the line, her questions came out in a breathless staccato rush. Even before he answered her something in the quality of his long, initial silence told her that she was in for a bitter disappointment. Waves of humiliation and anger washed over her as she set down the phone again.

‘Well? Has he left you enough money?’

‘No,’ she flared. ‘You knew he wouldn’t, didn’t you? He’s transferred everything to New Zealand except for a few dollars. What am I going to do? There are Charlie’s wages to be paid and soon there’ll be grape-pickers for the harvest.’

‘Don’t work yourself into a state,’ advised Marc coolly. ‘Those things are my concern now. Under the terms of the contract I signed, I’m responsible for all the expenses to do with the vineyard for the next three months. The real difficulty is you. It seems you’re thrown on my charity, Jane. If I choose to show any.’