Wellington Series 2

by Kris Pearson

  Or have they made a special effort because they knew I was visiting?

  She took a deep breath and steepled her fingers beneath her chin. “Okay, total change of plans I’m afraid. I’m still shaking from it.”

  “Oh God—what?”

  “Shut it, Hallie. Let her get on with it,” Bren snapped from the adjoining kitchen.

  Jetta bit the inside of her cheek to stifle a smile. Bren hadn’t changed.

  “Well, I started ripping up some old lino this morning,” she began. “Something to take my mind off Gran’s funeral on Monday, I suppose. And I had a visitor.” She dug out her phone, flipped up a photo of Anton, shirtless, and held it out towards Hallie. “Him.”

  Hallie took a few moments to admire Anton’s long golden back, and narrow waist and hips.

  “What’s wrong with his face?”

  “Nothing, but this was before I met him. He was polishing his car next door.” The prickling warmth of a blush crept up her neck as she remembered sneaking the shot of him over the fence.

  Bren came across from the kitchen and peered at the screen. “And all the rest of him’s as good?”

  “Mmmm. And he’s living at number seventeen.”

  “Lucky you. How handy.”

  Jetta wrinkled her nose. “Not really. He’s moving out.” She waited a couple of beats before adding, “And moving in with me.”

  “Whaaaaat???” both girls screamed in unison.

  “How did you meet him?” Hallie asked.

  Bren pursed her lips. “Who is he?”

  “He’s...exactly what I don’t need right now. He says he’s called Anton Haviland. Haviland was Mum’s unmarried name—Gran and Grandpa’s name—and he’s claiming half the house is his. Half mine, half his. And I can’t find out any more until Monday because of course the lawyers are closed.”

  “God,” Hallie breathed. “Do you think he’s for real?”

  Jetta shrugged. “It’s possible. Gran was getting pretty vague. She told me over and over the house would be mine one day, but she never said quite how much of it would be mine. Maybe it’s only half.”

  “He’s a con-man. He’s got to be,” Bren suggested. Suspicion narrowed her grey eyes.

  “Utter bastard,” Hallie added. “He can’t just move in on you like that. You need to get the locks changed soon as. There’s that twenty-four hour guy who’s always advertising on the radio?”

  “That won’t help for long. And if I did change the locks I wouldn’t put it past him to take a wrecking bar to the doors. He’s perfectly polite but he sounds damned determined.”

  “That’s breaking and entering,” Bren retorted. “We’ll come and stay the night. Then he’ll have to fight off three of us instead of only one.”

  “What? You’ve got nothing better to do on a Saturday night than play bodyguard?” The warmth of true friendship settled around her like a soft, much-loved blanket.

  “Nick’ll understand—especially if I make it up to him tomorrow.”

  “Tart,” Hallie grinned.

  How Jetta envied their easiness with men...

  “But moving in with me isn’t the worst of it,” she added. “This Anton’s bought the house next door. I thought the Godfreys had gone to live up the coast and rented their place out.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “I’ve seen guys there and heard music when I’ve been visiting Gran, but the Godfreys have definitely sold it to him. And Anton says he’s going to pull it down.”

  “Don’t tell her any more until I’m back,” Bren instructed, diving out into the kitchen. She returned quickly with coffees. “He’s going to pull it down? Why?”

  “To build a block of apartments.”

  “Is he, like, going to steal all your sunshine or something?”

  “Steal my whole life,” Jetta groaned. “He says both houses are coming down and eight apartments are being built, and I can have one.”

  “Very big of him...”

  Jetta huffed out a sigh, defeated and confused. “The last thing I want is a brand new apartment. I really love Gran’s old house. It has such potential to look treasured again.” She shrugged, and stayed silent for the next few seconds. “I don’t know where I really stand,” she added. “It’s a huge scare, and I can’t find out if it’s for real. Not until Monday. Not until the funeral’s out of the way and the legal firm is open after their summer break.”

  “He’s a con-man,” Bren repeated.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. He seems very keen to get me to his lawyer and have everything explained.”

  “You need your own lawyer,” Hallie inserted.

  Jetta pulled down the corners of her mouth. “Haven’t got one. Never needed one. He says the same man has also been looking after Gran. Now she’s passed, surely he has to get in touch with me?”

  “Och, this is all sounding far too incestuous,” Bren declared, collapsing down onto the sofa beside her.

  “In more ways than one,” Jetta muttered, reaching out for her favorite mug and sipping the black coffee with caution.

  “It’s all right,” Bren said, watching with amusement. “You may have deserted us but I still know to add a wee bittie cold water to yours.”

  Jetta nodded gratefully. She sent them both an anxious glance. “And that’s the other thing, of course. My plans to have you two live in the house and look after it for half-rent while I’m in New York? Down the drain at this rate. You didn’t hand your notice in on this place yet, I hope?”

  “Hey, your Granny only died yesterday. Give us a chance,” Hallie protested.

  “This is such stink timing!” Jetta exclaimed. “I’ll have to contact the Design School and probably rearrange things yet again. Not to mention grovel to Faye Severino and see if I can keep my job for a bit longer. Or maybe not. I just don’t know what’s going to happen.”

  “It’ll all work out,” Bren soothed.

  “Yes, but my life’s going backward. I’ve been in limbo for months, worried about Gran, not daring to do the New York course until something was settled about her. I’m glad I paid ahead so they’ll have to find a place for me, but…”

  “It’ll be okay now,” Hallie soothed.

  “How? Maybe I don’t have the house to fall back on any more. Maybe bloody Anton’s wrecked everything. I need the equity to set up my own studio once I have the New York qualification.” She glared at her friends, and then added in a softly desperate tone, “And in the meantime, I have to share my house with the sexiest man I’ve ever met. And I have to keep my hands off him!”

  Chapter Three — Getting Physical

  “Where the hell have you been?” Anton demanded as he strode through the front doorway, pail of paint swinging from one hand, ladder under his other arm, and temper at boiling point.

  He knew the instant Jetta had returned—he’d heard the gate creak open, and watched as she pushed the kitchen window wide for fresh air.

  “Hello to you, too,” she said.

  “So?”

  “I’ve been with friends. You know—people you actually like, who are polite to you and don’t try and steal your house?”

  He tried not to react to that, even though his gut churned with annoyance. Two wasted hours! He could have got a lot done in that time.

  Obviously his soon-to-be-housemate was still pretty upset. And downright pretty now she’d cleaned herself up. The hilarious old hat had covered short glossy hair, black as coal. Her big eyes were shadowed silver-grey, and her cupid’s-bow mouth pouted rosy pink. He tried not to inspect her lushly feminine body, showing to great advantage in snug white trousers and a summery sea-green top.

  The dust-covered, red eyed waif he’d met earlier had disappeared. Maybe it was better if she stayed mad at him, because this new and attractive version would be hell on his hormones. Especially if her necklines often dipped that low.

  “The house is half mine. Get over it,” he taunted.

  “Bastard!”

  “True, unfortunately.”

  Jet
ta gasped, maybe realizing what she’d unwittingly said. “You can finish the kitchen floor if you’re so keen. I’m going to put this on my bedroom door.” She rummaged in her bag and pulled out a big, ugly, galvanized sliding bolt arrangement. Ideal for a chicken coop or a farm gate.

  “Thinking of keeping livestock?” he asked, tucking his tongue in his cheek.

  “Keeping animals like you out.”

  “Wasn’t planning on visiting.”

  “Good—because you’re not invited.”

  “Glad we got that settled. Do you want to borrow my toolkit?”

  She looked daggers at him and dived into the bag again, rummaging around until she produced a gleaming new screwdriver and flourished it at him. “I don’t need your help, thank-you.”

  “What about a drill?”

  Her triumphant expression faded, and he softened. “At least let me put it on for you. You’ll wreck the door, and these old paneled ones are worth money when they’re recycled.”

  “You won’t be recycling them. You won’t be demolishing my house.”

  “Make a mess of it then,” he rasped, turning on his heel and stalking out.

  *

  Jetta watched him go, wondering if she’d been too rude to him. But dammit, he was the one being rude. If he thought he could just breeze in and ride roughshod over her plans, he could think again. Had he even asked? Suggested? No—he’d demanded. And she hadn’t liked it. If he thought flashing her one of his high-voltage smiles, giving in on paint colors, and making her a good cup of coffee would change her mind, he was sorely mistaken.

  She caught sight of him through the window—all long legs, broad shoulders, and blue eyes as he strode off home in a huff. Great—he was leaving her property. She’d certainly been stirred up and shivery when he arrived in such a temper.

  As she changed into her shorts and t-shirt her bare toes hit the old suitcase she’d shoved under the bed earlier. She expended some of her pent-up energy and annoyance in a short sharp curse, then bent and pushed the case further in out of her way. It could go in the big bin on Monday—opened or not.

  She’d only just returned to the kitchen in her work clothes and sneakers when Anton marched back with a paint-spattered plastic drop sheet over one arm and a bulging hardware store bag and a six-pack of beer in the other. Taking no notice of her, he stashed the beer in Gran’s old fridge as though he owned the place.

  Her spirits dropped even lower. What if he did? She turned that thought around bitterly as he spread the drop-sheet out and started to collect the larger pieces of linoleum she’d levered up earlier.

  “Got a broom?” he barked.

  She sulked to the cleaning cupboard in the laundry and brought it back for him.

  “Your job.” He waved at the smaller pieces.

  She returned to the cupboard and grabbed the dustpan and brush as well. They worked together in icy silence, Anton tossing the worst of the old flooring onto the drop-sheet and Jetta carefully sweeping the areas he cleared.

  Eventually he gathered up the corners and hefted the load out to the front lawn. Jetta hoped he didn’t see the reluctant admiration in her eyes as she checked out his hard, lean body.

  It was the first time she’d ever dared to be alone with a man for any length of time. She kept sneaking quick glances at him. And looking away. Finding her eyes had wandered back. Turning resolutely aside again.

  Her fear had dropped to an acceptable level. The hot/cold panics had returned when he’d galloped back with his arms full of stuff, but he’d been so brusque and surly that her nerves had settled surprisingly fast.

  So he’d given up his charm offensive. She thought she was pleased about that.

  “Spread this in the dining room,” he ordered, pushing the empty sheet toward her when he stomped back up the hall. She grabbed its trailing edge, but before she could obey, he crossed his arms, grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and dragged it off over his head.

  All the air left her lungs. Her surreptitious view of his back through the jasmine hadn’t prepared her for the warm living front version of the man who now stood close enough to touch.

  The Sydney sun had toasted his skin golden. And there was a lot of it—ornamented with two flat brown nipples and a drift of dark hair. How could she not look?

  He set his jaw as though to challenge any objections to his lack of clothing.

  She wasn’t objecting!

  Her hands trembled as she meekly spread the sheet for him. When she turned, he’d grabbed the spade, about to attack the floor.

  His long arms tensed. His biceps bulged. The tendons in his forearms stood out in sharp relief. As he bent, his shoulders and chest bulked up, hard and strong. His torso tightened, his abs contracted, his jeans slid down and settled lower on his hips.

  Jetta’s lips parted on a small gasp, and she bit her tongue to stop any comment escaping.

  The ever present memory of Uncle Graham’s nasty belly sprang, uninvited, into her brain. Flabby from too many takeaways. Pale from too little sun. Hairy and disgusting as he tried to force her small hands into the front of his trousers.

  By contrast Anton was taut and tanned and smooth. Ridged with muscle. Beautiful. As supple and sleek as an animal on the prowl. Something big and rangy... golden and streamlined and fast.

  And he became even more beautiful as he started to spade up the old flooring with smooth economical sweeps.

  Jetta watched his arms and shoulders flexing, bunching, relaxing—muscle and sinew working in mesmerizing harmony. Suddenly she saw why Bren wanted Nick; why Hallie flirted with almost any man who came onto her radar.

  Would it ever be the same for her?

  In an instant, the hot little ripples of pleasure flowed back again—twitching and pulsing deep inside, and reminding her she was definitely female. That a man like this should be hers. That the distressing events of her childhood were years in the past. That she was now a woman, and needed to reclaim her spirit, and courage, and femininity.

  Yes, but how am I going to stop freezing up at the most casual contact? How can I ever relax if a man wants to touch me where Uncle Graham did? Or do any of the things in that book?

  Her thoughts ricocheted in all directions as Anton continued his savage attack. Abruptly he stopped and straightened, stood the spade against the wall, unkinked his neck, and rolled his shoulders.

  He breathed harder now, chest rising and falling under a slight sheen of moisture. In ten minutes, he’d achieved more than she’d managed in an hour and a half.

  “Beer?” she asked in a strangled voice, remembering the six-pack he’d parked in Gran’s fridge and that she’d taken such exception to.

  “In a mo.”

  He squatted to collect up some of the broken flooring, firing the shards through onto the sheet in the dining room with deadly accuracy. He looked scarily angry. Was he working off his frustration at her lack of co-operation about letting him demolish her house?

  She breathed out slowly, then licked her suddenly dry lips as she admired the snug blue denim over his taut butt and thighs.

  When he rose again and turned in her direction, she grabbed for the broom, desperate to hide the fact she’d been practically eating him alive. She avoided his brilliant blue eyes by dropping her gaze to the floor and sweeping with much more force than was necessary.

  “Don’t go overboard,” he drawled, reaching for the beers. “There might be asbestos in this old stuff. Come outside and let the dust settle.”

  Anton stood with her under the laden peach tree, watching her throat as she took small sips from her bottle. He tipped his up and drank deeply, thirsty after the physical exertion.

  Jetta reached out and tested one of the peaches for ripeness. “Nearly ready,” she said, apparently wanting to fill the awkward silence between them. “Gran used to preserve these. There might be some jars of them left from last year.”

  He nodded but didn’t reply. The old lady’s cooking skills were the last thing on his mind.
From this angle the sun lit Jetta’s breasts perfectly. She’d been braless under her T-shirt that morning. Not expecting visitors. Not expecting him, for sure.

  She’d been hot and dusty, soft and gently jiggling.

  But she’d dressed up to go out. Now she’d changed back into the same thin old shirt she’d worn that morning and he could see the bra she’d left under it.

  A very low-cut bra. With a just-visible band of lace or embroidery on the top edge of the cups. Surely her nipples were barely covered? It was black or chocolate or wine-red; the outline darker against her pale skin. Just the thought of that pale fragrant skin made him swallow.

  He loved underwear. Always thought silly shiny scraps of lace and ribbon enhanced a woman’s body—not to mention they gave him the pleasure of slowly revealing what lay concealed beneath them.

  He took another gulp of beer. His groin prickled and tightened as he speculated.

  Damn. Not now. Keep her annoyed. Keep her at a distance.

  “I’ll start moving in tonight,” he said.

  Jetta whirled around and faced him. “You will not!” she ground out between clenched teeth. “You said Monday, and as far as I’m concerned by Monday lunchtime I’ll have the proof I need to stop you from moving in at all.”

  “Not going to happen, babes. Half this old dump is mine.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  Her gorgeous breasts rose with a deeply gasped breath of indignation. The sensation in his groin intensified.

  “You can’t move in before the funeral anyway,” she added.

  “What time’s that?”

  “Ten on Monday morning—and you’re not invited.”

  “Fine by me.” He tore his eyes away from her sunlit breasts. “I presume you wouldn’t have started ripping up the kitchen floor if you’d invited people back here afterward?”

  She shook her head. “I arranged everything yesterday with the funeral director and the matron of the Eventide Hospital, and put a notice in tonight’s paper.” She bowed her head. “I’ve let Gran’s closest friends and neighbors know what’s happening. A simple service at the chapel in the cemetery, then morning tea in the hospital lounge, and that’s it. Indecently fast, but there won’t be many people.”