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