Rose's Vintage Read Free Page A

a room for you in the barn.’ Astrid drained the last of her tea, stood up and grabbed her coat from the back of one of the chairs. ‘Come on then.’
    Rose perked up at the sound of a barn. She followed Astrid, who had swept Luisa and her manky bunny up into her arms, to the back door and across the garden. A barn. How romantic! She had visions of a New England-style conversion, all soaring spaces and white walls, overstuffed loose-covered cream sofas and thoughtfully placed glass bowls of blousy peonies in shades of blush pink …
    Hmm, perhaps not.
    Rose surveyed the dilapidated structure in front of her. This barn stretched the definition of habitable and clearly hadn’t been occupied for quite some time. Its roof was a cobbled-together patchwork of rusted corrugated iron, and the plaster on the walls crumbled at her touch.
    Walking inside, she discovered that a thick layer of dust coated the windowsills, the floor – any horizontal surface, actually – and the windows were cobwebbed and grimy. There was a cavernous white-walled sitting area with a couple of faded sofas; the far end of the space had been sectioned off to form a couple of bedrooms; and there was also a small bathroom with a deep, claw-footed rust-stained tub and a shower over it. Rose peered into one of the bedrooms and found an unmade bed with a lumpy mattress, several curling paperbacks on the bedside table, and an ancient, very dusty dresser. It lacked the Home Beautiful touch, that was for sure.
    â€˜I’ll leave you to get settled,’ said Astrid, hurrying out of the door with Luisa still in her arms, back to the relative warmth of the main house.
    Rose sat for a moment on the bed, shivering in the chilly air, torn between a desire to drive back to Sydney as fast as four wheels could take her, and the lure of huddling up under a blanket and sleeping off the last vestiges of her jet lag.
    She did neither.
    Silently cursing her brother, and kicking herself for agreeing to his plans, Rose walked back to the cellar door. Retrieving her car, she followed a track that wound around the back of the winery to the barn. Arriving at her destination, she popped the boot, grabbed her backpack and threw it into the barn’s living room.
    She needed clean sheets, a broom and plenty of bleach, so she set out purposefully towards the house again. If she was going to stay, even for only a few weeks, she might as well have somewhere halfway decent to sleep.
    As Rose made her way back she caught sight of a tall, rangy figure striding towards her. He had his head down, his hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans, and as he got closer she could see a definite scowl on his face. Rose knew immediately who it was: Mark Cameron. But he didn’t appear to notice her until they were almost shoulder to shoulder. She was just wondering if she should say something to him when he glanced up and blinked at her. He looked as if he had been a million miles away.
    â€˜Hello, can I help you? I’m afraid the cellar door’s not open today.’
    His voice was low and husky and Rose gave an involuntary shiver. She found herself staring into eyes as green and as dark as bottle glass. She realised they were on a level with hers, not something that she encountered all that often – she was used to being taller than most men. It was a little unnerving to gaze directly into such a forbidding scowl.
    â€˜Er … um, actually, I’m not here for the cellar door.’
    â€˜Well, we’re not running any winery tours at the moment either,’ he said abruptly. As he finished speaking recognition dawned on his face, softening its harshness. ‘Oh, you must be Rose. Of course. Sorry, I completely forgot that you were coming today. Have you met Astrid? Been shown around?’ He held out his hand and she took it in hers. She felt a prickle of electricity at his touch. His grip was firm, his skin dry and smooth, though his nails