Wellington Series 2

by Kris Pearson

  “Here?” Her eyes widened with surprise.

  “Need to look the part.”

  The elevator shot them upwards. He unlocked an office with ‘Haviland Homes’ on the door and ushered her in. The harbor view stretched wall to wall.

  She crossed to the window and peered down over the cityscape to the glittering water and the green hills beyond. “I’d never get any work done here with a distraction like this.”

  “I don’t work here—it’s strictly a sales base.”

  When she turned to inspect the room she found it sparsely furnished with his desk, another easy-care Yucca plant in a black pot, and two low slung chairs for guests. Copies of the same plans and drawings from his bedroom adorned one of the walls.

  “You need some mood boards,” she said. “To make your apartments look more like homes. Color schemed to show samples of possible furnishings.”

  “Yeah—I’ve been a bit busy.”

  “I could help. It’s exactly what I do. In return for my birthday dinner?”

  Why am I offering to do this? Does a great body and a sharp suit and a smile like that really deserve such co-operation?

  The answer seemed to be yes.

  “So what are your invariables?” she asked, trying to sound businesslike.

  “Black granite counter tops, white tiled bathrooms, fittings from the Habitas range, bronze colored exterior window and door sashes. You can pretty much go to town on the rest.” He turned aside to search for something in one of the desk drawers.

  Jetta considered possibilities and decided she might call in at work once her funeral duties were over. She’d check out leftover samples and raid some of the brochures and magazines for pictures.

  While Anton was absorbed in his search, she browsed from the top of his dark head all the way down his superbly covered body to his glossy black shoes. He was a honey in lots of ways, and they were both caught up in the same awkward situation. She hoped they could sort it out—soon, and with no huge loss on either side.

  When would he mention his blonde girlfriend? Why was he keeping quiet about her?

  *

  Later that afternoon, she had her answer.

  “Jetta Rivers—Claire Frobisher.”

  Five feet ten of enviable slimness topped with far too much streaky blonde hair rose from one of Gran’s old dining chairs as though she owned the place.

  Jetta clenched her teeth, smiled slightly, and extended a hand. The Claire person bent and gave her an unexpected kiss on the cheek instead.

  “Ants says you’ve been to a funeral, you poor thing,” she gurgled. “Aren’t they just the pits?”

  Chapter Seven — Confessions and Co-operation

  “Mmmm,” Jetta agreed, swinging around to face Anton again.

  Before she could open her mouth, two men in jeans appeared from the sitting room and he added, “And Paul and Ben.”

  She nodded in their direction, unable to find polite words for a moment. Obviously the four of them had been partying. Partying! Empty beer bottles and almost finished plates of snacks dotted the dining table. And they’d moved it from its usual place across to the window. That was the final straw.

  “What an excellent idea to invite visitors,” she sniped. “Today of all days. When I’ve just lived through the worst time of my life.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes. Furious with herself, and with all of them, she whirled aside and dashed to her room. Right before she slammed her door, she heard Anton yell, “They’ve been helping me shift my gear.”

  She flung herself face down on her big new bed, buried her head under a pillow, and clamped her hands over her ears for good measure.

  No—she did not want excuses. She did not want his friends wandering round. And she did not, not, not want Anton sleeping in her home, right through the wall. Probably with kissy Claire.

  After a few minutes of useless self pity, she pushed herself upright and looked down at her beautiful linen jacket.

  Creased to extinction.

  She grimaced at her stupidity, stood and removed it, and hung it in the wardrobe, hoping it would recover. Then she kicked off her tall shoes and stripped off her skirt and pantyhose, keeping a wary ear out for any approaching feet. Once she had jeans on like the rest of them, she felt marginally better. She flopped back onto the bed. The cooler air around her silky camisole felt wonderful.

  *

  Twenty minutes later, Anton knocked on her door, juggling a mug of coffee and a couple of cookies. No reply. Was she even there?

  He leaned his elbow on the handle and pushed the door open. Jetta lay flat on her back in the middle of the bed, eyes closed.

  “What?” she muttered sleepily.

  “It’s me. Thought you might like a drink after your horrible day.” He sat down beside her, and she shot up into a sitting position—eyes wide, arms crossed over her breasts.

  “No!” she gasped. The color drained from her face. She looked terror stricken.

  “Hey… hey… don’t panic. I said it was only me.”

  Jetta clutched her arms more tightly around herself, and Anton mistook her reaction for modesty. “It’s okay—your red top last night displayed more than that.”

  “No...” she wailed again. “Get out. Get right out.” She scrambled backward until she’d flattened herself against the wall, childlike and vulnerable. Her legs guarded her body like an extra barrier, and she pressed her death-white face down onto her knees so hard he saw her feathery black hair trembling against the bright pink wall.

  Mystified, and hoping not to spook her any worse, he reached sideways in slow motion like a cat doing the ‘you cannot see me’ walk when it knows it’s in another’s territory. He set the coffee and cookies down on the bedside chest, then rose and backed from the room, pulling the door quietly closed behind him. What the hell had that been about? Had she still been half asleep and dreaming?

  *

  It took her almost half an hour to gain the courage to face him again. When she emerged from her room, it was with a T-shirt over her camisole, and deep dread in her heart.

  He’ll think I’m nuts. Bonkers. Totally la-la. He’ll tell me to go to the doctor for tranquilizers. He’ll never look at me the same again.

  She crept, barefoot, back into the kitchen where Anton had paperwork spread on the old table. Her coffee had been three-quarters cold by the time she’d relaxed enough to gulp it down, but she’d been grateful—especially after she’d been so spectacularly rude to his guests.

  He glanced up when he heard the slight ‘chink’ of her mug as she set it down. “Better now?”

  No drama, no intrusive questions, no condemnation. She could almost have hugged him for it.

  “I feel so stupid. Of course they were here helping you. I saw all the stuff piled into the big bin outside.”

  “Even the old carpet?” His grin shone wicked.

  Her jaw dropped as she stared into the dining room...back down the hall. “Oh. My. God! How could I miss that? The timber floor is amazing.”

  “You were pretty distracted. And you were upset about more than just finding people here.” It was a statement, not a question. His blue eyes were enquiring but still kind.

  She sighed, unwilling to tell him most of it, but knowing he deserved at least something. Pulling out the farthest chair, she sat, twisting handfuls of her T-shirt between her fingers as she tried to work out what to say. “Um—this is so difficult.”

  She stayed silent for a few more moments, attempting to marshal her thoughts into coherent order.

  “Gran was not just my Gran,” she stammered. “So today was a doubly awful day for me. She was my Mom as well since I was fifteen.” She glanced over at him, wondering if that made sense. She worried at her bottom lip with her teeth and then continued. “My parents were killed in a road smash. They collided with a fully loaded cattle truck and trailer, and you don’t walk away from something that big.”

  Her voice sounded far from steady, so she stopped agai
n, hoping for more composure.

  Anton reached across the table and covered her hand with his. There was comfort there, much more than threat. She managed to keep her hand still, and he sat for at least thirty seconds before asking, “Were you with them?”

  She shook her head. “They were coming to collect me from a friend’s birthday party. A sleepover. It was broad daylight—middle of the morning. I felt so guilty. They were in the car because of me, and I was the one who didn’t die.” She closed her eyes as the old desolation swamped her yet again.

  She heard him mutter a soft curse. “You can’t think that way. I hope you don’t still feel like that?”

  She shrugged, looked up at him, then away again. “Sometimes.”

  He surprised her then by saying “I drive myself hard because I’m the only child my mother has. I want success for her more than for me. Equally stupid, isn’t it.”

  Jetta looked up and found his blue eyes very watchful. “Paul and Ben aren’t your brothers then?

  He shook his head. “Business partners. We’re Barker Haviland Mosely.” His beautiful mouth twisted into a lopsided grin. “The other way of looking at it,” he said, “is that I want to thumb my nose at my absent father, who wasn’t man enough to stick around. There’s a definite element of ‘stuff you Dad, I don’t need you’ in everything I’ve ever tried to do.”

  His hand still sat warmly over hers, and to her surprise, Jetta turned her own over and gave his a squeeze.

  “I can understand that,” she said, releasing it again.

  Hoping she’d offered him enough by way of apology she sprang to her feet. “Hey—I did you some mood boards. I left them in the hall when I came home and heard voices.”

  She trotted down the hallway to retrieve the big flat package.

  “Barker Haviland Mosely,” she murmured as she padded back. “I should have twigged. You won a ‘House of the Year’ design this time around.”

  “Best under $750,000. Not the Supreme Award, though.” Anton started to shuffle his paperwork into a pile.

  “Next time.” She ripped at the paper she’d taped around the boards and set the pile down. Anton had cleared away the plates and bottles from the dining table. It now sat in its rightful place. Gran’s sideboard had been relocated to the end wall, under a vivid orange and red abstract she’d never seen before.

  She swung around to inspect the sitting room. No more fusty velvet or tizzy lamps! Anton’s long grey suede sofa ranged along one pristine white wall. The giant-pile rug softened the center of the room. His TV still appeared huge, but he’d arranged several of the old, randomly spaced hall watercolors into tight groups either side of it. The two spiky yuccas stood guard by the glass doors.

  “Amazing,” she said. “Where did you get the extra chairs?”

  “From your junk room. I had a scavenge under some old loose covers and that’s what was hidden.”

  Jetta shook her head in admiration. Plain beige linen. Gran had covered it up with Sanderson roses many years ago.

  “Pretty slick. You could have done your own boards.”

  “No—these are great,” he said, spreading hers out. “Although I didn’t picture the apartments ever looking like this.” He indicated the option with French blue walls, navy carpet, and floral tapestry brocade with a mix-and-match stripe and check.

  “And some nice, wealthy, nearly retired lady probably wouldn’t consider this,” Jetta said, pointing at the white walled, charcoal tiled version with black and white geometric fabric options. “I’ve also done you a ‘naturals’ scheme—which I can tell you right now is what most people will want.”

  Anton ran a long finger over the small square of nubby cream carpet and grinned.

  “And this one, which is still very neutral but has colored accents.” She slid it onto the top of the stack, watching his eyes as they ran over the magazine clippings of bright cushions, flowers, ceramics, a vibrant painting. “Same exactly—apart from the accessories.”

  He sent her one of his bone melting smiles. “You’re good, but you need to sign them. If you’re back from New York in time the work’s yours.”

  “Thank you cousin,” she said without thinking.

  *

  Anton disappeared soon afterward, looking a lot tidier, and calling over his shoulder, “Expect me when you see me.” Jetta presumed he was seeing Claire. She was welcome to him.

  Once he’d gone, she checked the rest of the house.

  The bathroom had gained an electric toothbrush, a second tube of toothpaste, and extra towels. She flinched at the evidence of masculine occupation. Panic waves began to lap around her ankles.

  The spare room was wonderfully clear. Only his drawing board and a stack of plastic chairs lurked there.

  The front bedroom had that big, big bed, and the sleek desk and chests she’d seen at the other house. He’d pulled the old brown roller blinds halfway down against the setting sun, making the atmosphere mysterious and sexy.

  She sniffed. His lemony cologne hung in the air, bringing back memories of Saturday, and his arm against hers as she told him how nasty his apartments were.

  The panic waves lapped higher.

  She spied his toolbox in the corner and thought of the big new latch she’d bought. She simply had to have that control. There was no way she’d be able to sleep, knowing he could walk right into her room like he had earlier...like Uncle Graham had on the evenings her parents went out, when they’d trusted him to look after her.

  She trembled, calling herself a wuss, a scaredy-cat, a nutcase.

  But surely knowing she was unreachable would help her relax?

  She picked up the toolbox and carried it back to her room. Half an hour later, she nodded with satisfaction. The latch was ugly, slightly crooked, and stiff to work, but it was on.

  Then she noticed the little TV on the corner stand had been replaced by Gran’s bigger sitting room set. Anton had been in here, messing with her stuff, invading her privacy! The shivers of shock and consternation started all over again. How dare he do that without asking?

  She stared across at the ugly latch again, and waited until calmness stole over her and her heart rate decreased.

  Chapter Eight — Fire and Fear

  Against all expectations, she slept deeply on Monday night—exhausted from the terrible day, and grief and worry and trepidation. She didn’t hear Anton come back. But she certainly heard the demolition crew when they arrived at number seventeen early next morning.

  A noisy truck, men’s loud voices far too close, and metallic clanking and thumping yanked her out of her peaceful sleep before her alarm sounded. She shot from the bed, parted the curtains, and glared across at them.

  Anton said the men would be working inside number seventeen on Tuesday, but when she came home, she found a big chunk of the side fence missing, the old timber palings stacked up beside her bedroom, and a door rather roughly installed through the outside wall of Gran’s old spare bedroom/site office.

  “I knew you wouldn’t want everyone tramping through the house,” Anton said, as if he’d done her a favor.

  Privately she agreed. If extra people had to access the site office, she had no wish to see them or their muddy boots, but she wasn’t about to look grateful for his thoughtfulness.

  By Wednesday knockoff time, the old terracotta roof tiles had disappeared from seventeen. She presumed that meant the timber flooring had been retrieved. The best windows had certainly gone. She kept well clear, not wanting too vivid a picture of number fifteen’s eventual fate. If it ever came to that, of course...

  On Thursday morning, an evil yellow digger arrived on a truck and proceeded to bash its bucket into what remained. Seventeen put up no fight at all. There was bare land when she arrived home from work that day. A bright orange netting fence strung with ‘Keep Out—Construction Site’ notices had been erected across the road frontage.

  And by then, she was almost used to him. He was always up and dressed by the time she wok
e, so that took care of any awkwardness in the mornings. She’d find him in one of his superb suits if he was heading into the city; in jeans if he was aiming to be on-site next door.

  His evenings were a mystery to her—he never mentioned Claire, and he spent hours tapping away on his laptop at the kitchen table. And being charming to her if she was home. Her guard was dropping fast.

  By ten on Thursday night, she was in bed with a new magazine, guiltily keeping half an eye on her larger TV. She’d pushed the latch safely across.

  She’d survived four whole days living with a man...

  Sometime after midnight, a noise scratched at the edges of her sleep. An eerie crackling. Snapping and popping, somewhere far too close.

  She woke enough to register the flickering orange light through her curtains must be flames. The stink of smoke confirmed it a nanosecond later.

  Number seventeen was on fire!

  Her sleep-addled brain took a little longer to tell her number seventeen no longer existed. And at that exact moment, the glass in her window cracked and exploded with the heat, and the hungry flames roared up her curtains and rushed across the ceiling.

  Get out, get out, get out!

  She lurched from her bed and staggered across the room, blinded by the invading smoke. She groped in the murk, cannoned into the end of the unaccustomed larger bed, and almost pitched to the floor. Somehow, she stayed upright, grabbing, grasping, feeling things cascade from the edge of her lowboy as her frantic fingers scrabbled along in the eerie light. Her throat closed up with fear. The blood beat a furious tattoo there, pounding, choking, stifling. Her heart thumped as loud and fast as a kettledrum. Sudden tears welled from her eyes, stinging in the acrid air. Please God, where was the door?

  At last the handle. She wrenched it down, but the door refused to budge. Stuck fast. Immovable. A hateful barrier to her freedom.

  The latch. The latch.

  She fumbled and found it. Wrenched at the metal, but her hands were drenched with perspiration from the stomach-curdling fear pouring through her. No chance of a proper grip on the bolt. Her desperate fingers couldn’t slide it aside.