‘If there are, why can’t I know about them?’ she countered. ‘Believe me, I am not the spoilt little rich girl you mistake me for and I don’t take kindly to being treated as such.’
His lips twisted and he folded his arms. ‘So you don’t think this exercise has labels stuck all over it shouting ‘‘Maggie Trent has to get her own way’’?’
Her nostrils flared. ‘No. If anything it shouts, ‘‘Maggie Trent deserves better’’.’
‘Better,’ he repeated.
‘Yes, better. As in—why on earth can’t we get to know each other better? For example, I wouldn’t dream of judging you on your father.’ She stopped and bit her lip, then soldiered on, ‘You know what I mean!’
‘Men,’ he said slowly, ‘and their grievances don’t always work that way.’
‘Then perhaps you should take more notice of women,’ Maggie suggested tartly. ‘Come to that, the whole world might be a better place if people did.’
A reluctant smile chased across his mouth and he seemed about to say something, but he merely shrugged and walked inside.
Maggie hesitated, then she shrugged herself, and followed him.
* * *
His house was simple and open plan, but there was nothing rough and ready about it.
The floors were gleaming polished wood throughout. There was a low double bed covered with a faux mink throw and several European pillows covered in dusky pink linen. One bedside table was stacked with books, the other bore a beautiful beaten-copper lamp.
Two corner leather couches sat about a vast wooden coffee-table bearing more books and some model ships, one in a bottle. A big cabinet housed a television, stereo and DVD player. Brown wooden and raffia blade fans were suspended from the ceiling and louvre blinds protected the windows.
The kitchen was all wood and chrome and state- of-the-art with black marble bench tops. There were several cane baskets with flourishing indoor plants dotted about and on the wall facing the front door there was a huge, lovely painting of two gaudy elephants in soft greens, matt gold and dusky pink.
‘Yes!’ Maggie stared at it enchanted. ‘The perfect touch.’
‘Thank you.’ He pulled a plunger coffee-pot out of a cupboard and switched on the kettle.
She watched him assemble ground coffee, mugs, sugar crystals and milk. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘What?’
‘The painting?’
He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Thailand.’
Maggie pulled a stool out from the breakfast bar and perched herself on it. ‘Is there anything I can say to make this easier?’
‘You don’t appear to be having much difficulty as it is.’ He spooned coffee grounds into the plunger and poured boiling water over them.
Maggie inhaled luxuriously. ‘Believe me, never having done this before, I’m a basket case inside,’ she said, however.
He stopped what he was doing and regarded her expressionlessly. ‘Done what?’
She laced her fingers together on the counter. ‘Well, changed my stance on a man rather drastically to begin with. Not,’ she assured him, ‘that I had much to do with that. It just—happened. Unfortunately there’s a whole lot of baggage I carry that makes it—’
‘You’re talking about locking me in a shed first of all, then cornering me here?’ he suggested dryly.
A hot sensation behind her eyes alerted Maggie to the fact that it would be quite easy to burst into tears of frustration—to her absolute mortification should she allow it to happen. It was obviously going to be much harder than she’d anticipated to get through to Jack McKinnon.
‘It’s not that I’m only after your body, nor do I have any agenda to do with forcing you round to my way of thinking on housing estates,’ she said quietly.
He smiled with so much irony, she flinched. ‘That’s just as well,’ he commented, and poured a mug of coffee and pushed it towards her. ‘Because while your body is perfectly delightful, and has even deprived me of my sleep on the odd occasion, I don’t intend to do anything about it.’
Maggie’s eyes nearly fell out on stalks. ‘Say that again!’