Page 3 of Reasons Of the Heart

'Some sort,' he conceded unrevealingly, and her frowning eyes drifted from his handsome face to his busy hands. Odd that such square, solid hands could wield a knife so delicately. She had seen surgeons at work who were clumsier, men whose hands were pampered and cared for, not brown and weathered like Ross's.

'Well, you must realise that things have changed since he died,' she said with what she thought was patient reason. 'I'm going to be staying here for a week or so while I settle things with his lawyer, so you won't be able to come and go as you like, though of course you can still use the beach...'

'Why, thank you, ma'am,' he drawled, with an ex­cessive humility that made her flush. She hadn't meant to sound condescending, only to make it quite clear that she wanted her privacy. Her grandfather hadn't actually owned the little curve of black sand just below the steps of the front deck, but he did own all the land which surrounded the beach. Locals, of course, took for granted their right-of-way. Did that mean that Ross still lived here, Ross of the itchy feet and the big plans to travel? It was his younger brother, Jason, who had wanted to stay in Whaler's Bay and take over the family crop-dusting business when his father retired.

'Why don't you take your catch home and eat it there?' she suggested, assuming that the Tarrants still lived a few kilometres down the road. Nothing much changed in Whaler's Bay. But Ross didn't satisfy her veiled curiosity.

'And if I don't?' he asked, dipping a thick fillet in flour and shaking it.

'I'll—' What? Even arguing with him made her feel exhausted, and the idea of using physical force was ludi­crous. The black wool of his sweater rolled over im­pressively powerful shoulders and tapered down to a hard-looking waist. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, displaying muscled forearms covered with dark brown hair.

'I'll... I'll call the police and have them remove you,' she said foolishly, suddenly noticing another new ad­dition ... a telephone on a low table in the corner.

'If you mean Jack Trent, go ahead, then we'll see which one of us gets kicked out.' Jack Trent had been the sole police presence in Whaler's Bay for at least twenty years, and Fran wasn't surprised to discover he was still on the job. She was surprised, though, by Ross's unconcern.

'Why should I get kicked out?'

'Because, Princess, you're not the ruler of this castle.'

'Not ? But...this is Grandpa's cabin. Of course

it's going to be mine!' she stated starkly.

'Is it? Or did you just assume it would be? Actually, your grandfather said he was leaving the place to me when he died.' Ross calmly put the prepared fillets into sizzling butter and pushed them around the pan.

Outrage blazed in Fran's eyes. 'To you! I don't be­lieve it.' He had to be lying, she was counting on being heir, had committed herself on the strength of it... 'If you think you can just come along and appropriate my inheritance you've got another think coming!'

'I didn't just "come along",' he interrupted her curtly. 'I've been living in this cabin for months—leasing it. Ian and I got to know each other rather well during that time, and when I said that I'd be interested if he wanted to sell, he said that he wanted to hang on to the cabin but that I could have it when he died. He promised, in fact... in front of a witness, too.'

'Grandpa wouldn't do that!' Fran retorted fiercely, ignoring her own uncertainty, seeing her lovingly planned future dissipating like smoke around her ears.

'Cut out his own grandchild? Why not? You certainly did your best to cut him out of your life. It didn't seem to occur to you that Ian was a lonely old man after Agatha died.' He gave her a look of contempt. 'You're something else, you know that, Princess? You take on a caring profession like nursing, but you don't seem capable of caring on a personal basis. I guess you thought the old man didn't deserve your attention because he wasn't sick. Well, I have news for you, Sister Lewis! Ian said he was diagnosed as having a heart condition years ago, and was having angina attacks even before your grandmother died.'

'I never knew, they never told me,' said Fran, stiff with guilt and resentment, familiar companions both. The estrangement hadn't been totally one-sided, but she didn't see why she should have to explain the painful details of her life to Ross Tarrant.

'You never gave them a chance to tell you. You always were a stuck-up bitch, too good for the rest of humanity.'

Stung by the reminder of the extreme shyness that had been misinterpreted by her fellow pupils, Fran drew herself up to launch a volley of her own. 'And what made you suddenly so all-fired interest in my lonely grand­father's welfare? You were never loaded down with much responsibility yourself, as I recall. Could it be that you thought you might get something out of it...like this cabin?'

She froze at the stillness of his expression, remem­bering the teenager's hot temper, but when he spoke it was with a coldness that matched the ice-storm in his eyes. 'Be careful when you start casting stones, Fran-cesca. Your own motives don't seem to be too pristine. You didn't even bother to come up for the funeral, but you're pretty quick off the mark when it comes to settling the estate.'

'I've been ill,' she snapped, angry at having the tables turned.

'Too ill even to send a wreath?' The blue eyes were deeply sceptical.

'As a matter of fact, yes!' It gave her satisfaction to tell him. 'Just after I got the telegram about Grandpa's death I collapsed. I've had pneumonia and compli­cations ...'

'All the more stupid of you to lie around in an outside spa in the middle of winter,' he stunned her by saying, completely undercutting her anger with his apparent concern. 'Were you hospitalised? Are you still on medication?'

'Yes...and none of your business,' she snapped, even more disturbed by his concern than by his contempt. 'And as for the property, when I spoke to Simpson, Grandpa's lawyer, he said that there was no will. That means that everything will automatically come to me as the only relative.'

'Not necessarily,' he punctured her smugness. 'Simpson seemed to think that the verbal promise would probably stand up in court if it came to that.'

'You've spoken to him?' Francesca frowned, wishing now that she had stopped off in Whangarei to appraise the lawyer of her unexpected visit. But his letter in­forming her of the lack of a will hadn't mentioned any possible problems and, as it had been nearing dusk by the time she'd reached the city, she had decided to press on through the last half-hour of winding roads to Whaler's Bay. She still had the key to the beach cabin, and had naturally assumed that it would be empty at this time of the year. There had been no question of staying at the old farmhouse on the hill which had been her grandfather's home, since the lawyer had told her it had been almost completely destroyed by the fire which had coincided with the old man's death. 'He can't be your lawyer, too,' she objected. 'That would be a con­flict of interest.'

'We were both at the funeral, so naturally we talked. In case you don't already know, I was the one who called the fire brigade that night. I was out here on the deck when I saw the smoky glow over the hill. Thank God I'd got Ian to put in a telephone here. I made the call and raced up across the fields, but although I got there before the volunteers, it was too late. The old place had gone up like tinder and there wasn't a hope in hell of getting to Ian.'

'I'll bet there wasn't...' Guilt and resentment uttered the sly sneer and Francesca closed her eyes briefly in horror and self-digust. She wasn't really surprised to feel Ross grab her wrist and drag her against the hard edge of the bench. She opened reluctant eyes. His were glit­tering slits, the ridge of his cheekbone dark with angry blood. A rasp of whiskers coated the rigid jawline, em­phasising his tough masculinity, and Fran felt a frisson of fear.

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