Wellington Series 2

by Kris Pearson

  It had been bad enough waking in his bed, exhausted and confused, and discovering the searing nightmare of the fire had been for real. That her possessions were gone, and the links to her past consumed by the voracious flames.

  The same flames that had nearly taken her life.

  But the next step felt bigger than any of it. She’d never been sensual with a man. Never truly embraced her womanhood. Her one-time drunken grapple didn’t count. She’d been acutely ashamed the moment that was over, and wondered how she’d dredged up the courage to tell Anton about it. About any of it—her single woeful attempt at sex, or the shocking experiences with her uncle.

  Everything depends on Anton. Poor Anton!

  The next few hours would either turn her into the woman she hoped to be, or fling her back into her childhood terror. If it was the latter, she’d know there was truly no escape for her.

  *

  Anton wolf whistled as she halted in the doorway. Flimsy smoke grey fabric swirled around her thighs and finished well short of her knees. The criss-cross pleating of the high-necked bodice was disappointingly unrevealing, but it would be no hardship having to imagine her pretty breasts across the dinner table for a couple of hours.

  Yet again, the heaviness hit his groin. Hot excitement had pulsed there all day, fading and returning with his thoughts of her. His thoughts had been damn near constant.

  He’d woken ramrod stiff, to find her thigh thrown across his and her arm around his waist. Easing away, he’d escaped to the bathroom, leaned his forehead against the shower wall as the warm water poured over his shoulders, closed his eyes, wrapped his hand around himself, and gone for oblivion with long desperate strokes as he imagined the evening to follow.

  Now the object of his fantasies stood there in tall silver stilettos, slim legs disappearing into that smoky skirt, lips in a glossy pout, eyes made up to kill. And still she looked like the most lost little girl in the world.

  She gave an uncertain smile in return for his whistle.

  “So I’ll do?”

  “You’ll definitely do.”

  And I’ll be in agony until we’re home again. Maybe much longer than that.

  He grabbed his jacket from the chair back and slung it over his shoulder, glad he’d decided on a suit with his casual shirt. Jetta would attract every eye in the place. She deserved to be shown off by someone dressed for the part.

  “I love the harbor restaurants,” she said. “And it’s a great night for it.”

  She turned to precede him, and Anton saw why the dress was so demure in front. It was practically non-existent behind—plunging in a deep scoop past her waist. His eyes fastened on the smooth sweep of her back as she walked ahead of him, swaying slightly in her tall shoes.

  He fumbled for his car keys and wallet on the way by the hall table, and pulled the front door closed, eyes still riveted on her as she trod elegantly across to the Porsche. She stood waiting for him to unlock it.

  “Stay just like that,” he directed from a few steps behind. His voice had turned husky. Had she detected it too? “Hold on to the car. If every other man in the room gets that view while I can’t see it, I want my share now.”

  She glanced over her shoulder with a small enquiring smile. In answer, he stepped close and bent to kiss her nape. He’d intended only a gentle brush of his lips, but as the scent of her skin and hair beguiled him, he opened his mouth and pressed kiss after hot devouring kiss on her pretty neck.

  She made a small throaty noise of pleasure, and instinctively he pinned her against the car with his body. She arched her neck, and he bit, eyes closed, breathing deeply.

  “Anton...?” Her voice sounded strung with beads of panic.

  “Mmmmm?”

  “That’s scary. Let me go please.”

  Cursing his stupidity, he tore himself away and leaned back so he touched her with nothing except his lips.

  Of course she hates being confined. Being overpowered. She’s shaking like a mare about to be covered by a stallion. But God, she’s so hot, such a turn-on.

  He trailed a string of soft kisses down her spine, hoping she’d find the courage to stay for him. And was rewarded by a breathy sigh of relief, and soon another small murmur of appreciation. “Sorry, should have thought,” he muttered.

  “I wish I didn’t get so easily spooked.”

  Great—now she’s apologizing for my thoughtlessness.

  “If you saw yourself from back here you’d know why I got too appreciative. That’s some dress, honey—and some body inside it.”

  A chuckle trembled through her, and he changed direction, brushing his lips upward again until he reached her nape.

  “Nice,” she whispered.

  He closed his eyes, enjoying her scent. After what she’d been through, teaching her about love-making would test his restraint to the absolute limit. But the rewards would be very sweet if he did well for her.

  In almost every respect, she was a virgin needing to be thoroughly aroused and only then taken with the utmost care. A man didn’t get an opportunity like that twice in his lifetime.

  And maybe I don’t want anyone else messing up all my good work afterward.

  He drew a sharp breath.

  Get over yourself, Haviland. You’re a player. Long-term has never been your style.

  He smoothed his face against Jetta’s short ruffled hair. Kissed her shoulder a final regretful time.

  “Nice?” he asked in answer to her shy whisper. “You like it? I’ll kiss you all over later, and I promise we’ll take it real slow and gentle.”

  He reached out and opened the door for her, still shaken by his sudden surge of jealous possessiveness.

  Long-term, and exclusive as well? Not a hope matey.

  He walked stiffly around the car to the driver’s side. What had just hit him? He’d never allowed a woman really close, but Jetta was different in ways he couldn’t begin to describe.

  *

  She sat without speaking as the car growled its way towards Customhouse Quay. The city of Wellington surrounded its big sheltered harbor like a shawl around shoulders. In some places, dark green vegetation held sway; in others, buildings spilled down the slopes right to the water’s edge.

  Already the sun laced the lowest clouds with molten gold. Lights shone around the steep hills and reflected in the rippling water. But watching Anton across the table would beat anything the scenery had to offer.

  She shivered as the ghosts of his kisses drifted up and down her spine—by turns as soft as a butterfly’s wings and then hot with desire.

  She’d been thrilled knowing he really wanted her. So sex gave power and brought power?

  “You all right now?” he asked, his soft murmur breaking into her speculation.

  She turned and smiled. “Wonderful. Better than I should be—with Gran and the house and the fire... and everything.”

  He grimaced slightly. “Is tonight the ‘everything’?”

  “Part of it.”

  But it wasn’t the night. It was the man. And he was more than part of it—he was the everything.

  “Tell me more about your mother?” she asked as their waiter cleared away the big white entrée plates.

  Anton glanced up to the beamed ceiling for a few moments before fixing his dazzling blue eyes on her again.

  “She’s just Mom. Isobel Scott, sixty or so. Blonde hair—kind of Hilary Clinton-ish. Tall for a woman. I suppose that’s where I get it from, having no father to measure myself against.”

  There was bitterness there all too clearly, and she wished she hadn’t hurt him. But how could she solve the mystery any other way?

  He considered for a little longer before adding, “Claims she’s putting on weight, but I can’t see it. She paints.”

  “Portraits? Landscapes?”

  “Still life. Flowers, fruit—that sort of thing.”

  Jetta nodded slowly, picturing a tall fair woman with a softened version of Anton’s features. It got her no closer t
o solving the mystery though. Why did he think he was entitled to half of Gran’s house. “Mine was a dancer,” she said. “Short and dark like me. Ballroom dancing—I used to love her dresses. All those sequins...” Once again, the pain of loss dragged at her, and she bit her lip, and closed her eyes for a moment.

  Anton stayed silent until she came back to him. “Do you dance, too?” he asked.

  “Not like Mom and Dad used to. They were good—won cups at the Nationals.”

  “I don’t ever remember Isobel bringing a man home overnight,” he said. “But she must have had men friends. I’ve never really wondered about that before.” He wrinkled his brow as he reviewed his mother’s past.

  “But you don’t with your parents, do you?”

  “Think about their sex lives?” he asked with a grin.

  Jetta shrugged, then grinned right back. “I suppose,” she agreed. “Sixty? My mom would have been ten years younger.”

  “Isobel must have been about my current age when she had me. Old enough to know how to avoid getting pregnant. Perhaps she didn’t see herself marrying, but wanted a child?”

  “She was hardly over the hill.”

  “Times change. Maybe back then she thought so.”

  “And... your father?” Jetta asked with caution.

  Anton shook his head. “Never met the bastard. He’s just a name on a piece of paper. And married to someone else, according to Mom.”

  “But aren’t you curious?” she pressed.

  “When I was a kid—hell yes! But you get past it.”

  “So you never tried to meet him?” She reached toward his hand as it lay on the table top and ran her fingers over the back of it before sliding them through his.

  “I go by his name. Much good it ever did me. I hated having a different name from my mother. I always wanted to be Anton Scott.”

  “So that’s a ‘no’?”

  “Total no. He never wanted to meet me. I never want to meet him. That won’t change.”

  She gave his fingers a gentle squeeze, amazed she’d even had the courage to touch him. “What do you know about him apart from his name?”

  “Not a thing. Mom wouldn’t talk about him. Whenever I asked questions, she politely discouraged me. She couldn’t have him, so I couldn’t have him.”

  Jetta sighed. “I bet he was gorgeous. I bet your mother fell totally in love with him and he broke her heart. Maybe you look just like him?”

  His gaze wandered away from her face, and then returned. “So if I sift through that lot, can I assume you think I’m gorgeous?”

  “You know you are,” she said, pleased to see his intensity lightening.

  “You wouldn’t have thought so once. I grew tall in a hurry, and stayed skinny for ages. Hated the way I looked at seventeen.”

  “You filled out for your height.”

  “Yeah, but I was a mess for years. Too tall, too thin, mental age way past my physical age, so I never really fitted in at school. Isobel pushed me, of course. Only child and all that.”

  “So what made you become an architect?”

  Anton lifted her hand and kissed it. “That’s for the ‘gorgeous’ comment. We should be talking about you if ‘gorgeous’ is the topic.”

  “What made you become an architect?” she asked again, as her heart sped up and she imagined his lips drifting over her in feather-light caresses.

  His mouth quirked at her determination. “Good at math. Good spatial perception. Loved designing things. What got you into décor?”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “Is it working?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head and smiling.

  “Damn. Okay—got my first qualification at twenty-two. Went on to do my Masters. Teamed up with Paul and Ben a few years back. The firm’s doing well, but I want something different to them, so I’ve started my own project on the side.” He took a deep swallow of his wine. “What got you into décor?”

  Jetta sipped and thought for a minute or two. A waiter bustled by with a still sizzling meal, and the Asian stir-fry aromas drifted across.

  She rested her chin on her fist and smiled. “If I said Gran did, you probably wouldn’t believe me, would you? Not the way her house was furnished.”

  Anton’s eyes closed at the idea.

  “But she used to be a really keen gardener, and belonged to the Camellia Society and other clubs over the years. They did bus trips to lovely gardens—especially out to big country properties—and sometimes I went with her.”

  “Not exactly teenage territory?”

  She shook her head. “No, I was always the youngest by miles, and I always loved the houses more than the gardens. I found if I admired their stained glass windows or carved veranda posts or whatever, the owners sometimes took pity on me and invited me inside.”

  “Leaving the others to prowl around the trees and ponds and flower borders?”

  She nodded. “Right. And that’s how I got hooked. Décor generally, but the heritage stuff in particular. Did a design diploma, worked several years for the Severino Studio, which has a really good reputation. Next, I’m off to New York for a seriously useful qualification. I need to get my life in order and move forward now Gran’s gone. Set up my own business to support myself. It’s like coming out of the fog. I can’t wait.”

  Chapter Twelve — Tender Build-up

  He drew her out of the car and into his arms.

  “Relax,” he whispered. For all her sophisticated appearance, she was taut as a bowstring, quivering with nerves. He saw it in the slight shimmer of her silver tassel earrings, the tremble of her tender bottom lip. He dropped a small kiss on her hair. “You’re the sweetest thing I ever met. We’ll be fine.”

  He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to wind himself down too. Jetta tilted her head up just enough to lock eyes with his.

  “I’m relaxed,” she said. “I want to do this so much.”

  “You’re about as relaxed as a cat on the prowl,” he countered. “I can feel the tension across your shoulders and down your back.” He trailed his fingers over the offending muscles, stroking and kneading her soft skin.

  She sighed and snuggled against him, pretending confidence she didn’t have because the telltale tension still rolled off her in waves.

  “We should have a bath together,” he suggested, only partly joking. “I don’t suppose there’s a spa pool hidden in the back garden?”

  “No—and it’d be freezing cold and full of dead leaves if there was,” she muttered. “Sorry—spoiling the mood.”

  He gave her a wry grin. “Yeah, not quite what I had in mind. But your Gran’s old bath is huge. We could start there.”

  “I’m perfectly clean,” she objected.

  He buried his face in her neck and made a game of sniffing until she giggled.

  “I know you are, but imagine the lights off, a few candles, deep bubbles to preserve your modesty...?”

  “What about your modesty?”

  “Haven’t got any. You’ve already spied on all I possess.”

  “No I haven’t. Not... there.”

  Anton grabbed her hand and pressed it to his groin before he got any harder. “No great mystery,” he said, as Jetta gasped and tried to pull her hand away. “Just flesh,” he added, releasing her before she could feel the full extent of his rapidly rising erection. “So shall we start in the bath?” he repeated. “I bought some candles to soften the light in the bedroom, but they’ll work as well in the bathroom?”

  She tilted her head and sighed. “Are you sure we won’t be breaking the law? I so want to do this, Anton, but… you know… what if we find it’s out of bounds?”

  He slid an arm around her shoulders and walked her toward the house. “You’re not my sister—that’s for sure. My mother had no other children. Your mother had no other children. And if I was the result of your Dad sowing any wild oats I’d be Anton Rivers, not Haviland.” He bent and kissed her brow. “I’ve looked at it
every way I can, so I reckon we’re safe, don’t you? Even if we were first cousins—and we’re not—it’d still be fine.”

  *

  Her fingers trembled as she reached for the old brass handle and pushed the door open. Fragrant steam drifted in the air. Candles flickered on the window ledge, on the edge of the old pedestal basin, and on the corner shelf at the shower end of the bath. Anton had transformed the unlovely bathroom into a magical grotto.

  Maybe I can do this after all.

  He’d preceded her into the bedroom, quickly stripped off, and departed for the bathroom in his white toweling robe, leaving her to undress in privacy while he ran the bath, arranged the candles, and set soft music playing.

  She’d searched the laundry for anything clean and concealing; her favorite wrap had been burned in the fire. Eventually she settled for a long tailed shirt, and slipped it on over the lacy cobweb-grey thong. Surely he hadn’t expected her to walk in there naked?

  She stood for a moment until her eyes adjusted to the near darkness. Anton’s tall silhouette threw a menacing shadow on the opposite wall. To Jetta, who was barefoot, he looked enormous.

  Or maybe I don’t dare?

  Her pulse pounded... her blood rushed double speed. She raised her hands to her face. Pressed her fingers against suddenly sensitive lips. Glanced at him with eyes that couldn’t hold his for longer than a second.

  No—this is utterly mad—I can’t do it!

  *

  Anton sensed her panic and crossed the room in two long strides before she could turn and bolt. He tipped her chin up with one finger and gazed down at her woebegone face.

  God—I’m all psyched up for this and now she’s lost her nerve.

  “We can stop any time you want,” he murmured.

  Although it will probably kill me...

  She nodded, but it was only the barest of nods.

  Forcing himself to move slowly, he placed his hands on the collar of her shirt and then ran them down past the buttonholes and buttons until he was level with her breasts. He did a button up. “You can let go that death-grip now,” he said, glancing down to where her arms hugged the shirt close around her body.