There was also a large brick shed. She left it to last to inspect and finally tore herself away from the creek to do so. The shed had two means of access: a set of double doors you could drive a vehicle through, but they were heavily barred and padlocked, and a stout wooden single door with a deadlock. She unlocked it and walked into the cavernous gloom of the building.
One corner of it had been converted into a rudimentary dwelling, she found, complete with kitchenette, bathroom and toilet. The kitchenette had a small two-burner stove. There were an old kettle and a couple of pots as well as some mismatched china and cutlery. The kitchen cupboard held some tinned food and dry goods, but there was little furniture, only a sagging settee and a Formica-topped table with four chairs. But there were, as she clicked a light switch then ran a tap, both electricity and water connected.
She made some notes and looked around again, but it was bare except for a large mound covered with tarpaulins in one corner. She was just about to investigate when the scamper of mice in the rafters caused her to grimace and decide against it.
That was when she heard a vehicle pull up outside. To her amazement, as she watched through the doorway, who should step out of the late-model Range Rover but Jack McKinnon?
She stared through the door wide-eyed, but there was no mistaking him as he stretched and looked around. He wore buff chinos and a dark green long- sleeved shirt with patch pockets, casually dressed again in other words, but still—how to put it?—a very compelling presence? Yes.
All the same— Oh, no! No, you don’t! were her next sentiments. No way are you going to turn this little piece of heaven into a housing estate, Jack McKinnon.
She emerged from the shadows of the shed with an ominous expression on her face.
‘Well, well,’ he drawled as they came face to face, ‘if it isn’t little Miss Trent, green crusader and man- hater.’
He looked her up and down and decided, somewhat to his surprise, that if she were anyone but David Trent’s daughter he would find her rather peachy despite her grim expression.
Peachy? he thought with an ironic twist of his lips. Where did that come from? You wouldn’t exactly call—he dredged his mind for an example—Lia Montalba peachy. Svelte, stunning, sexy, sophisticated—yes, definitely that, but peachy? No. So why apply it to this girl? Did it indicate a succulent, fresh and rather innocent quality he detected in Maggie Trent alongside the expensive grooming and the stunning green eyes?
He shook his head, mainly to dislodge an image of her without her clothes—she was David Trent’s daughter, after all—and reminded himself that she could certainly stand up for herself.
But that produced another inclination in him. As well as speculating on her figure, he discovered a desire to indulge in more verbal fencing with her.
Hell, Jack, he thought, isn’t that a little immature? Not to mention a dead-end street with this particular girl?
In the meantime, Maggie discovered she was clutching her mobile phone as tightly as if she wished to crush it, so she put it, together with her notes, carefully on the roof of her car and planted her hands on her hips as she delivered her reply.
‘At this moment, yes to all of those names, Mr McKinnon,’ she said through her teeth. ‘But since I’m here at the express instructions of the owner in my capacity as a real-estate agent, you can’t be here legitimately so would you mind moving on?’
He smiled fleetingly, thought, Immature? Maybe, but what do they say? Men will be men! And he took his time about summing her up from head to toe again.
With a rural inspection to do, Maggie wore jeans, short boots and a pink blouse. Her hair was fish- plaited and she wore the minimum of make-up, only lip gloss, in fact. It was also her last assignment of the day so she’d gone home to change into something suitable for tramping round a paddock.
None of that hid the fact that she was long-legged, high-breasted and had a particularly lithe way of walking that was an invitation to imagine that supple, golden body in your arms, in your bed…
Nor, he noted, did his scrutiny of her breasts, hips and legs, her smooth, silky skin, indeed his systematic stripping of her, go unnoticed.
Once again, bright colour flooded her cheeks, but at the same time her eyes started to sparkle with rage.