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He wore clean clothes—cotton trousers and a blue T-shirt. His hair was damp from the shower, still too long but tamed by the water, at least temporarily. His eyes were still the same penetrating black and the part of his face where yesterday had flourished the bushy beard now revealed a strong, square jaw. His face was all hard angles, his features well-defined. Energy radiated from him.
His gaze swept over her, then back up to her face. ‘Are you the same woman I met last night, the one wearing that long, lacy nightgown? Or was that merely a lovely vision in my dreams?’
Her stomach tightened and her pulse leaped. ’that was me,’ she said, not being able to think of anything more brilliant or profound. It was a pretty nightgown, true, but she wished she’d been wearing functional unisex pyjamas instead. Only she didn’t own any. She liked beautiful lingerie—possibly because it felt good to put on something soft and feminine after spending a long, hard day in old jeans and a T-shirt covered with dust and paint and wallpaper paste.
He took two mugs out of one of the cabinets. ‘Coffee?’ he asked politely.
’thank you, yes,’ she answered, equally politely. Well, that was the way she’d been brought up. It sort of came out automatically, but she realised the absurdity of the whole situation as soon as she heard her own courteous reply. The man had invaded her house and now he was playing host.
The groceries she’d bought yesterday had been taken out of the paper bags and spread out on the table. Instant coffee, chocolate bars, bread, peanut butter, thick orange marmalade, strong French mustard. He’d obviously taken charge and acted as if he had every right to be here in this kitchen.
He opened one of the cabinets, took out two plates and put them on the table, then opened a drawer and found knives and forks. It did not escape her that he didn’t search for these items. He knew exactly where they were. It was not a good sign. A tiny flame of apprehension began to flicker in her mind. She suppressed it. Maybe he’d checked things out earlier.
‘Make yourself at home,’ she said coolly.
‘I am at home,’ he returned. ’so tell me, what is your name?’
‘What is yours?’
‘May I point out to you that a question requires an answer, not another question?’
‘You may point all you want. What’s your name?’
His mouth curved in faint mockery. ‘Clint Bracamonte. What’s yours?’
‘Olivia Jordan.’
‘Olivia.’ He spoke her name as if tasting it, narrowing his eyes, considering. ‘Nice name. I like that. Now, Olivia, is this all there is for food? What were you planning to eat for breakfast? Peanut butter sandwiches?’
’something wrong with that?’ In Kalimantan people probably ate rice for breakfast, as they did in much of the Far East.
‘Nothing at all,’ he said calmly. ‘I was only asking.’
She opened the freezer compartment of the refrigerator and extracted a couple of frozen breakfast burritos in paper wrappings. ‘Actually, I was going to have one of these.’ She put them on the counter and turned on the small toaster oven.
‘Breakfast burritos?’ He examined the frozen food, reading the information printed on the wrapper. ‘Good God, what are they going to come up with next?’
’they’re good,’ she said. ‘Eggs, cheese, ham, the works. All the protein you need.’ And all the choles-terol you didn’t. ‘And they’re real easy. All you do is heat them up in the oven. Haven’t you ever seen these before? Where have you been?’ She couldn’t help herself.
‘Not anywhere in the so-called civilised world,’ he said promptly.
So she had discovered from his ticket carbons, but of course he didn’t know that, and she wasn’t about to admit that she’d been snooping through his papers.
‘And where was that?’ she asked casually.
‘Nowhere you’d know.’
That’s what you think, she told him silently, annoyed with his arrogance. She looked at him squarely. ’try me.’
Obviously he didn’t deem this a worthy challenge, because he simply ignored it. Instead he poured boiling water into the mugs and handed her one.
Well, how many people in rural Virginia had ever heard of Balikpapan? Not too many. Yet his condescending attitude was definitely insulting. Mr High and Mighty, Mr Globetrotter with an attitude problem.
‘You’re giving me the evil eye,’ he said with a sardonic twist of his lips.
‘It’s my gypsy blood,’ she said lightly, and took a drink from her coffee.
‘Ah,’ he said slowly. ‘Gypsy blood. Very intriguing. Is that what gives you the fire in your eyes?’ He flicked a finger at her ponytail. ‘And that gorgeous dark hair?’
Instinctively, she took a step back. It had been a casual gesture, the way he had touched her hair, yet it had set off instant sparks of fire inside her. ‘Watch it,’ she said. ‘I do spells, too.’ She walked out the back door into the bright spring morning, taking her cup with her. His presence was dark and disturbing and made her long for light and cheer. He made her uneasy with those black, mysterious eyes and that big, muscled body, all male virility and power. She didn’t want him in her house.
Yet it was not fear for her physical well-being that made her uncomfortable. She saw power, strength and energy, but no violence. There was something else that disturbed her, that made her heart beat faster, her senses sharpen. Something that set off strange vibrations and tremors.
The back porch was big and had a view of the grounds with its many blooming white and pink dogwoods, and numerous azaleas in a luxuriant riot of colour. It was a fairy-tale garden. She leaned on the wooden railing and watched the squirrels racing up and down the large oak trees just starting to bud into leaf. Everywhere birds chirped in exuberant harmony. Spring was springing and all was light and cheer.
She loved this place. She’d remodel it as a big family home, but it would be perfect as a bed-and-breakfast, a hideaway where stressed-out yuppie couples could come for rest, relaxation and romance.
She sighed. Romance. She wouldn’t mind a little romance herself. Actually, she wanted a lot more than a little romance. She was twenty-eight and she wanted a man for the long haul, meaning that she wanted a lot of romance for a long time, preferably for the rest of her life, another fifty years or so. A half-century. Finding a man good enough to last you for a half-century wasn’t an easy proposition.
The kitchen screen door squeaked and Clint appeared next to her, leaning brown muscled arms on the railing.
He was awfully close, or maybe it just seemed that way. Her body reacted instantly, tensing, as if her every cell was aware of his presence. She smelled soap. She stared straight ahead at the oak tree, fighting the impulse to move away. She didn’t want him to know he disturbed her.
‘We need to talk,’ he said. ‘My mind was not exactly crystal-clear last night, and it unfortunately did not retain the information about the reason for your presence in my house.’
Her hands clamped hard around her coffee-cup. ‘It’s my house. I bought it, I paid for it, I own it, it’s mine. Is that clear enough?’
He shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, it’s not clear at all. If I didn’t sell it, you couldn’t have bought it.’
‘I’ve never met a man who owned a house furnished like this one unless he was an eighty-year-old widower.’ Doilies on the backs of chairs. A collection of porcelain figurines, needlepoint cushions, ruffled curtains, cabbage-rose wallpaper. Good Housekeeping magazines twenty years old.
He observed her calmly. ’then you’ve learned something today and it’s only seven in the morning. Congratulations.’
She wanted to throw her coffee at him, but only barely controlled herself. ’the house belonged to an old lady. She died. I bought the house.’
’the old lady was my grandmother and she left the house to me. I have a will to prove it.’
For a moment she felt panic. Had she been the victim of some crooked scheme? It was true that she’d got the house for a good price, but not such a good price as to make it suspiciously low. In her mind’s eye she saw the round, friendly face of the estate agent who had sold her the house. The lady who had told her that there was no crime in these parts, the lady who had shown her the picture of her baby granddaughter—a beautiful baby, not at all the sort of baby that would have a criminal for a grandmother.
She was not the victim of a crooked deal. She could not afford to believe it. If the sale had been a fraudulent one, she might lose everything. There’d be nothing left—no money, no trip to the Amazon jungle. In fact, she’d be in debt. It was enough to make you panic and break out in a sopping sweat. Only, she refused. She simply refused to panic.
All the papers had been in order. The whole process had been completely ordinary and routine and she was no dummy. This wasn’t the first time she’d bought a house. In the past five years she’d bought, fixed up and sold five residences in all. This was the sixth. She knew what she was doing. She crossed her arms in front of her chest and gave him a stony stare.
‘I suggest you check with your lawyer about that will,’ she said, as coolly professionally as she could manage in the circumstances, ‘and with Boswell and Armis in Charlottesville. They dealt with the estate.’
His mouth curved fractionally. ‘Oh, I certainly will.’ And you’re not going to get away with anything, his tone implied. He took a swallow of his coffee and surveyed the view with obvious appreciation. He did not say anything, but she could tell from his face. A good face. Strong, determined, yet with a certain undefinable sensuality…Good lord, what was she thinking?
He turned to face her again. ‘You said you bought the house. Anyone else involved in this little scheme? A husband perhaps?’
She glared at him. ‘Nobody is involved in any kind of a scheme. And I don’t have a husband.’ Why had she said that? It was none of his business.
He was too close for comfort. She finished the last of her coffee and pushed herself away from the railing. In the kitchen she opened a carton of orange juice, filled two glasses and put them on the table.
This was not a good situation. What was she going to do with this man in her house? How was she going to get rid of him? Here she was, having breakfast with the intruder. It was completely absurd.
He came in and poured more water into the kettle and put it on the stove.
She fixed her gaze on his broad back. ‘Mrs Coddlemore died two months ago. If she was your grandmother, why didn’t you come here sooner to handle the estate?’
‘I didn’t know she had died until ten days ago.’ He turned and sat down at the table.
‘Why didn’t you know until ten days ago? Didn’t anyone notify you?’
‘Yes, they notified me, but the news didn’t reach me until ten days ago.’
‘Where were you? The moon? Antarctica? The jungle?’ She looked straight at his face.
’the jungle,’ he said. ‘Only these days we call it the rainforest.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard. Which rainforest?’
‘Kalimantan.’
She nodded. ‘Borneo, the Indonesian part.’
His eyes narrowed and she felt a thrill of triumph. She smiled brightly. ‘I have this thing for geography. Maps have always fascinated me, ever since I was little. All those exotic places! All those fascinating countries and mysterious islands!’ She sighed. ‘Well, let’s eat.’
The breakfast burritos were heated through and ready to eat. She placed one on each plate and he picked up his knife and fork and cut into the tortillawrapped bundle. Melted cheese oozed out. Egg and ham came into view. He began to eat without comment.
’so, what do they eat for breakfast in Kalimantan?’ she asked, having trouble with the silence between them. Silence made her nervous. She wanted it filled up with something—conversation.
He shrugged. ‘Rice, wild boar, fish, whatever.’ The water boiled and he pushed himself to his feet and made more coffee. The burrito finished, he ate two more slices of toast. Then he got up and marched to the kitchen door. He turned and met her eyes.
‘I’ll see you tonight.’ It was more than a statement. It was a promise. He opened the door and strode out.
She ran to the phone as soon as she’d heard the car drive away. But the lawyer’s offices weren’t open for business yet, nor the estate agent. Well, she wasn’t going to sit here and be paralysed. She was going to go on with the job.
The skip had been delivered the day before, and she began cheerfully tossing in junk and rubbish. She took down the old dusty window treatments and tossed them out, except the drapery linings which she could use as painting drop cloths. Soon the truck from Rommel’s Auction Barn would come and haul off the first load of stuff she didn’t want to keep—books and knick-knacks and much of the furniture.
Then the phone rang. It was Jack, her brother the architect, and the familiar sound of his voice was instantly comforting. However, not comforting was the news that his car had given up the ghost that very morning.
‘Would it be a terrible tragedy if I didn’t make it today?’ he asked. ‘I’ll have it back by tonight and I’ll come tomorrow.’
Livia felt her heart sink. She considered telling Jack what had transpired, then thought better of it. If she did, all four of her brothers would descend on the house to rescue her within hours. This was very nice, of course; it made her feel loved and cared for, but it might, in actual fact, not be helpful. First she wanted to make sure what the situation really was.
What the situation really was, the lawyer told her a while later when she called again, was that the old lady had made a new will only days before she had passed away. In that will it was stipulated that the house be put up for sale and the revenue deposited in the bank in the name of her grandson who was incommunicado in the Borneo jungle, but who would show up sooner or later. The lawyer himself had been appointed the executor of the estate and she had nothing to worry about. Nothing fishy going on.
‘What’s the name of the grandson?’ she asked, holding her breath.
‘Let me check,’ said the lawyer. ‘Oh, here it is. Clinton Bracamonte. Why do you want to know?’
‘He just emerged from the jungle and he’s trying to claim the house.’
From the dining-room window Livia noticed the silver-grey Ford come up the drive and instantly felt her heart start racing. The truck from Rommel’s Auction Barn was sitting in the drive, full of a load of chairs and tables and boxes with dishes and plates and glasses, none of them of great value. She’d spent all day sorting through cabinets and drawers, deciding what to keep and what to sell. She was tired and dirty. The dining-room was cleared and she was almost finished taking up the old carpeting.
Clint came out of the car, strode up to the truck, took one look at it, said something to the driver and turned abruptly. He marched up the front porch, opened the door and slammed it.
‘Olivia!’
‘I’m in the dining-room,’ she called out. She went down on her knees and started rolling up the last strip of carpeting. Underneath the padding lay a beautiful oak floor. She’d leave the padding to protect the wood during the painting process.
The next moment Clint loomed in the door and stared. His dark eyes scanned the room and what he saw obviously did not please him. Of course, she had not expected him to be pleased. That was why her heart was hammering against her ribs. The air was electric.
He advanced into the room. ‘What the hell have you been doing?’ he asked, his voice low and furious.
‘I’m clearing the place out,’ she said as calmly as she could. ‘It makes it a lot easier to do the renovation work.’ The room looked bare. All the curtains gone, the walls empty of pictures, the furniture removed.
’these were my grandmother’s things!’
’they are my things now,’ she said, steeling herself. ‘And I can do with them as I please. If you want them, buy them back from Rommel’s Auction Barn. I’m sure Mr Rommel will make you a deal for the lot. He seems like a nice guy.’
There was a loaded silence. She felt a shiver crawl up her spine as she looked at his hard face, his penetrating black eyes.
‘All right,’ he said slowly, ‘let’s talk.’
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_a6757563-e713-52fa-8c2d-1f5a4d87265e)
LIVIA’S heart was pounding. He was not a man who suffered defiance, but she’d be damned if she’d let him intimidate her. ’there’s nothing to talk about. This is my house and I want you out.’ She went on rolling up the heavy, awkward carpeting. Dust motes floated in the sunlight streaking through the window.
Clint Bracamonte reached out, took her arms and pulled her to her feet. ‘I said, let’s talk,’ he said quietly.
Her reaction was automatic. A couple of swift moves and she was free of his grip. ‘Keep your hands off me,’ she said coldly.
He laughed. ’that was very impressive, I have to admit.’
His reaction infuriated her. How dared he be amused? ‘Next time you won’t laugh. You’ll hurt.’
He nodded solemnly, but a spark of humour glinted in his eyes. ‘I’ll keep that in mind. Karate and gypsy spells. You’re a dangerous woman.’
She gave him a withering look which seemed to have no effect on him at all. Not that she really had any hope of affecting him; he didn’t look like a man who’d feel threatened by anything, and certainly not by a lightweight female.
He pushed his hands into his pockets. ‘Now, I have a proposition to make,’ he said casually.
‘I’m not interested in your propositions.’
‘I made some enquiries,’ he went on, unperturbed. ‘And you’re right, you bought the house, and it’s yours.’
She inclined her head in mockery. ’thank you,’ she said, pseudo-polite. ‘I understand you are the recipient of the money from the sale.’
