‘Relax. She’s probably immune.’ Conner leaned his broad shoulders against the doorframe, watching them both with an expression that could have been amusement or boredom. ‘Do a blood test and check her antibody status.’

She was wrong, Flora realised with a flash of disquiet. There was nothing of the boy left. There were more changes than she’d thought, and some were so subtle that they weren’t immediately obvious. Those ice-blue eyes were sharper and more cynical, and his arrogance had clearly developed along with his muscles. What did he know about antibody status? Or was he one of those people who watched all the medical soaps on television and then assumed they were qualified to diagnose?

To make matters worse, Logan was nodding, encouraging him. ‘Yes—yes, I’ll do that, but if she’s not immune…’

‘Then you just give her zoster immunoglobulin. What’s the matter with you?’ Conner’s brows drew into a frown as he looked at his cousin. ‘This is why I’m careful not to fall in love. It fries your brain cells and obliterates your judgement.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with Logan’s judgement.’ Fiercely loyal, Flora immediately flew to Logan’s defence and then wished she hadn’t because Conner switched his gaze from Logan to her and his attention was unsettling, to say the least.

Apparently unaware of the change in the atmosphere, Logan rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. ‘When you love someone, Conner,’ he said, ‘you lose perspective.’

Conner’s eyes held Flora’s. ‘I wouldn’t know. That’s one mistake I’ve never made.’

She swallowed, every bit as uncomfortable as he’d clearly intended her to be. Was he trying to shock her? He’d had women, she knew that. Probably many. Was she surprised that he’d never found love? That he considered love a mistake?

‘True love is a gift, given to few,’ she murmured, and Conner’s mouth tilted and his blue eyes glinted with sardonic humour.

‘True love is a curse, bestowed on the unlucky. Love brings weakness and vulnerability. How can that be a gift?’

Flustered, she cleared her throat and looked away. What was he doing here? Why had he returned to Glenmore with no warning, looking like the bad guy out of a Hollywood movie? His hair was dark and cropped short and his jaw was dark with stubble. He was indecently handsome and the only thing that marred the otherwise faultless symmetry of his features was the slight bump in his nose, an imperfection which she assumed to be the legacy of a fight. He looked tough and dangerous and the impression of virile manhood was further intensified by the width and power of his shoulders under the black leather jacket.