His thick black eyelashes screened his eyes, his blunt, handsome features tight and inscrutable; his was a gambler’s face, intent on winning the pot by out-reading the opposition.
‘Yes, if that’s what you want...’
CHAPTER NINE
NO WONDER Melissa had been so bitchy about the deprivations that her brother had been made to suffer, thought Jane several hours later as she left her room to wander through the magnificent two-storeyed holiday house perched on the headland above Piha. Compared to Great-Aunt Gertrude’s, this place was a palace!
The long modern Mediterranean-style house was bounded at the rear by a dense stand of virgin native bush and the north-facing aspect captured the sun all day. The outflung arms of the building curved in a broad U-shape towards the cliff, as if reaching out to embrace the spectacular view, and from her upstairs bedroom, which opened out, like all the other bedrooms, onto its own private balcony, Jane could see the whole of Piha—even a wedge of the rusty iron roof that she had been persuaded to temporarily abandon.
Once he had had her agreement, the shift in premises had been accomplished with Ryan’s usual ruthless efficiency, leaving little time for second thoughts. Jane had no reason to feel piqued that he had merely given her a brief tour of his house before disappearing with a vague murmur about letting her settle in. Melissa, too, had floated off, gleefully smug that her obnoxious behaviour had achieved one of her primary aims.
Jane had her doubts. She got the feeling that it was Ryan who had been the main orchestrater of events. Melissa had merely been the deus ex machina by which he had distracted and manoeuvred Jane into accepting a deal that she would otherwise have flatly refused to even consider. Ryan could hardly have continued to escalate his campaign of seduction in the poky little cottage, with his sister breathing down their necks, alert to every creak of the floorboards, every stray touch and heated look. But here, in comfort and luxury, with privacy locks on all the bedroom doors and little distraction from her rapidly healing burn, Jane was all too vulnerable to his dangerously seductive persistence.
Jane’s mouth dried at the memory of Ryan’s lovemaking and, since she had drifted in the general direction of the kitchen, she decided on a cold drink to cure her hot flush.
She hesitated at the door when she saw a small, spare, middle-aged woman with a short helmet of silver hair bustling back and forth between the sink and central work-island, obviously preparing vegetables for dinner. This must be the housekeeper who was employed on a part-time basis whenever the family was in residence, Jane guessed. The one that Ryan had mentioned was a superb cook.
She cleared her throat and the woman looked up from her chopping board, surprise springing into her warm hazel eyes at the sight of Jane in her plain skirt and white cotton T-shirt, her feet in classy black flats and her hair rioting loose around her bare face.
‘Hello, I’m Jane Sherwood...’ She faltered, not quite sure how to politely describe her turbulent relationship with Ryan.
‘Yes, I know.’ The woman’s face lit up in a generous smile that made Jane feel like an old and valued friend. ‘What an awful time you’ve been having, my dear. I’m Peggy Mason. I won’t offer to shake hands because I know you can’t. Come on in and sit down. You look hot... would you like an iced tea?’ She put down her knife, drying her hands on her apron. ‘I find it just the thing in this heat. Sit here and I’ll get you one.’
She steered Jane onto a stool at the breakfast bar which divided the kitchen from an open living area, clicking her tongue sympathetically as she looked at the damaged hands. ‘You poor thing—no wonder Ryan insisted you needed looking after. I bet it’s terribly frustrating... like being a baby all over again. Now, would you like something to eat with your glass of tea? I know you had lunch before you came, but dinner won’t be served until quite late...the family likes to eat out on the terrace and watch the sunset—’
‘Uh, no thank you, Mrs Mason,’ said Jane, disconcerted by her familiarity yet irresistibly drawn by the woman’s maternal warmth.
‘Call me Peggy.’ She set down the iced tea and returned to her chopping, making little piles of celery and onion as she continued with a chiding frown, ‘I hope you’re not dieting. It’s not a good thing to do when your body’s been under a lot of pain or stress.’
‘I have lost a bit too much weight recently,’ Jane was amazed to hear herself confess. ‘But not on purpose... and I think I’m starting to put it back on,’ she added hurriedly as Peggy frowned and she sensed an impending scold.
But the housekeeper’s vehement disapproval was directed elsewhere. ‘Ryan has a lot to answer for! Melissa told me how you burnt your hand. I hope he apologised for causing you to hurt yourself!’
Jane’s smile was rueful. ‘Well, it was mostly my own stupidity...’ Both times, she added mentally, flattening out the strapped fingers of her left hand and experiencing the faint twinge that reminded her that if she had obeyed her original orders the healing would have been complete by now.
Grey eyebrows rose sharply over hazel eyes. ‘You’re far too forgiving, my dear. A hefty dose of guilt is just what that boy needs to curb his tendency to play God!’
‘Well, he appears to be trying to make up for it...’ Jane said weakly, suddenly realising that Peggy wasn’t just referring to her current physical injuries. By her easy manner she was obviously used to being treated as part of the family by the Blairs and must be aware of Ryan’s vendetta, if not the reason for it. Her affection for him was plainly strong, but her natural sympathies seemed to lie with the underdog.
‘Oh? In what way?’
Jane pinkened at the innocent question. ‘Well, he’s cooked me some marvellous meals,’ she said hastily, burying her nose in her tea.
‘Mmm...’ Peggy gave her an assessing look. ‘He’s pretty handy in the kitchen, I’ll give him that.’
And the bedroom! Jane’s flush deepened as the thought popped into her head.
‘I wish I was—a good cook, I mean,’ she stammered. ‘My technique is s
till very much trial and error. Unfortunately I never learned the basics when I was young...’
‘Didn’t your mother ever let you help her around the kitchen when you were little?’
‘We always had a cook and I wasn’t supposed to get in the way. My mother left home when I was six,’ Jane added impulsively.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Peggy, with a quiet compassion that tapped a deep-seated need in Jane’s subconscious.
‘Actually, I don’t remember that much about her, except that she was dark and pretty and liked to laugh and went out a lot,’ she admitted, her eyes darkening with memory. ‘After she left, my father burnt all her photos and only mentioned her when he was in a rage, so I’m not sure if what I remember is real or a childish fantasy I’ve built up in my head.’