‘Who the hell are you?’

The outraged voice from the doorway made her jump.

There was no doubt of the identity of the man standing there. If the hint of russet in his dark brown hair hadn’t proclaimed him Mark’s father she would still have known him from Debra’s description.

Pride and assurance personified, she thought. Everything under control. And when it wasn’t he hit the roof.

His lean face was set in harsh lines that looked dangerously permanent and there was a ferocity in his eyes that she refused to let intimidate her.

‘I’m Miss Wharton,’ she said, determinedly pleasant. ‘I teach languages at Mark’s school.’

He made a wry face. ‘Really!’

‘Yes, really,’ she said, nettled.

‘Dressed like that?’

She looked down at her colourful outfit and shrugged.

‘A verb conjugates exactly the same, however I’m dressed, Mr Dane.’

‘You look like some crazy student.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, giving him her best smile. She knew he hadn’t meant a compliment but she couldn’t resist riling him. ‘At my age that’s a really nice thing to hear.’

‘I wasn’t flattering you.’

‘You amaze me. I’d assumed you went through life winning hearts with your diplomacy.’

There was a flicker in his eyes that suggested uncertainty. Was she, or wasn’t she, daring to mock him?

Let him wonder, she thought.

‘How old are you?’ he demanded.

‘Old enough not to tolerate being barked at.’

‘All right, all right,’ he said in the voice of a man making a concession. ‘Maybe I was hasty. We’ll start again.’

She stared at him in fascination. This man was so lacking in social skills that he was almost entertaining.

‘I suppose that’s as much of an apology as I’m going to get,’ she observed.

‘It wasn’t meant as an apology. I’m not used to coming home and finding myself under investigation by strangers.’