by JC Grey
He fantasised that, at this very moment, Hollywood’s scarlet woman was stripping off that sexy shirt and stepping beneath the shower spray. His cock hardened against the leather saddle, and he shifted to relieve the pressure, cursing under his breath and trying to remind himself that she had not yet been cleared of killing her Hollywood boyfriend.
He got his riotous body under control, but not without effort, which infuriated him. For God’s sake, he didn’t even like the woman! But then, what had liking to do with lust? Still, at thirty-six he was damn old enough to get a grip on his gonads.
He’d done the neighbourly thing and checked she was settling in. She had power, transport, food – all the basics. She didn’t need him and he sure didn’t need her. Women like Blaze Gillespie were trouble, and Macauley Black didn’t do trouble. Not even when it was packaged in the sexiest face and body ever placed on this earth.
Urging True away from the waterhole, he gave the horse its head and it took off across the paddock, flying over field and fence until he was back on Rosmerta land. They slowed to a trot and then a walk, following the well-worn path home, their sweat drying in the warmth of the waning sun.
‘I’m looking for someone to restore a turn-of-the century house.’ Holding the newly installed study phone to her ear as she stared at her laptop, Blaze considered the smart home page for Classic Homes, which specialised in top-of-the-line renovations. ‘The budget isn’t an issue – within reason, of course – but I need someone to come out and quote for the job as soon as possible.’
‘Where, luv?’
‘Sweet Springs. It’s a property about fifty minutes out of Meriwether.’
‘Fifty . . . you gotta be kiddin’, love. I can’t spare the time to blow me bloody nose, let alone drive all the way out there.’
Blaze said a curt goodbye, and redialled the next and last builder on her list. Thomas Vine & Son Building Services, to explain what she needed.
‘Jeez! Sweet Springs, is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘You that movie star, then? Heard you’d been swannin’ around town like you owned the place. Well, I’ll have you know —’
Blaze resisted the temptation to abuse her new phone by slamming down the handset, but she cut Thomas Vine or son off before he could finish his rant, which made her feel better.
‘Shit.’ She leaned back tiredly in the creaky leather chair. Since getting her wifi internet connection up this morning, she’d spoken to all seven of the local building contractors, and had absolutely nothing to show for it. Either they were too busy with other contracts, weren’t inclined to drive more than ten minutes to cost a job or, like Vine, were bloody bastards. If Blaze guessed right, someone had been whispering in the man’s ear, like that woman from the timber yard.
She could always phone Macauley Black and ask his advice, as Stella had suggested, but that was a last resort; beyond last. And she wasn’t quite there yet.
Still, she had made progress of sorts. The landline phone and laptop were working. She had a car. The top of Gramps’ desk was clear of paper – although everything was stacked in piles until she had time to sort through it – and last night she’d actually cooked an edible omelette for herself using a recipe from an old cookbook of Gram’s that had been published in 1947.
And – she peeked out of the study window overlooking the front porch to admire her work – she had planted two half-barrels of yellow and white pansies out the front, and another two on the back veranda. It was amazing how much more welcoming plants made the place.
Now the heat was abating a little, it was probably time to water them. Wandering into the kitchen, she filled her new watering can and lugged it outside. Carefully, she showered the young plants until they’d had a good drenching.
After eating her dinner outside while listening to the regular nightly symphony of frogs and cicadas, she was just about to go inside and clean up the kitchen when a soft growl from behind her had her spinning around. Her throat squeezed tight in fear as ghostly amber eyes gleamed in the dusky light, and a shadow slunk slowly up the steps towards her. Backing up towards the door, reaching behind her for the handle, she watched as the dog from yesterday morning approached with a limping gait. As she held her breath, it stopped a few feet from her, and sank down on to the veranda as though exhausted. Dropping its head to its paws, it whimpered pathetically.
‘Oh, you’re just an old sook, aren’t you?’ Blaze murmured. ‘I think your growl is worse than your bite, but since we don’t really know each other, I’ll keep my distance. Wait there. You look like you could do with something to eat and drink, and I can help you out with that.’
Careful to close the screen door behind her, Blaze raced into the kitchen, plunked the empty watering can down, and found the bowl she’d used previously. She filled it, took it out and placed it slowly in front of the dog, which didn’t budge from its position.
‘Okay, not exciting. But I have something else.’
She dashed back inside, grabbed another plastic bowl, snipped open the bag of dry dog food and poured a mound into it. She switched on the veranda light and eased the screen door open. Walking a cautious semi-circle around the dog, she placed the food in front of the animal and retreated to the chair.
The dog just stared at her, occasionally emitting one of his low and less-than-ferocious growls, until Blaze pushed the bowls closer and retreated.
This time, the dog sniffed, shuffled forward and lapped a little of the water. His head came back, tongue out and a look curiously like a lopsided grin spread across his face. Blaze nodded encouragingly, and the animal investigated the food bowl, touching the crunchy pieces with his nose until satisfied they weren’t dangerous. He took a cautious mouthful, chomped, looked at Blaze and swallowed. Within moments, he’d emptied both bowls and sat back, tongue lolling and tail flicking.
‘Better?’ Blaze crouched down in front of the dog and let him sniff her hand. A rough tongue swiped her skin, making her laugh. ‘I guess that means you want seconds, huh? Just a minute.’
In the kitchen, she grabbed the bag of food and filled a jug with water. Again the bowls were empty within minutes, and she replenished his water once more, but withheld the food. ‘Don’t want to turn you into a pig,’ she said, daring a soft stroke of his side. He twitched and growled, and it was then that Blaze realised the cause of his strange gait. His rear left leg was scraped raw, enough to be uncomfortable.
Sitting back on her heels, she wondered what to do. The dog wasn’t wearing a collar, and there was no point trying to find a vet tonight, even if she could persuade the dog into the car, which was unlikely. At the same time, she didn’t want to have her hand bitten off if she tried to clean the wound.
Still, it wasn’t fair to leave an animal with an obvious injury, so although she was already imagining sharp canine teeth on her fingers, she went to get a bowl of warm water. Gram’s old first-aid kit yielded an ancient bottle of antiseptic lotion – intended for humans, but it was all she could find – and a bandage. Under the kitchen sink, she located a pair of thick leather work gloves, far too big, but they’d give her hands some protection if the dog decided to nip her. On impulse, she also pulled a bone from the frozen pack and left it out to thaw.
‘Okay, now if this hurts, don’t blame me,’ she said to the dog.
With a soft cloth from Gram’s ragbag, she dipped it into the warm water, wrung it out, and ran it gently along the healthy part of the dog’s leg down to the wound. He flinched and whined but didn’t snarl. More confidently, Blaze gently cleaned around the wound, eventually pressing the cloth to the raw patch. The dog yelped and half rose, before sinking down again. When she’d finished, Blaze pressed a fresh cloth to the wound, and tied the bandage firmly around his leg.
‘Okay, the hard bit’s over. Now you get a treat.’
Taking the first-aid supplies back into the kitchen, Blaze collected the bone. Gram didn’t believe in microwaves, so Blaze finished the defrosting process with a
pan of warm water. When she returned to the veranda, the dog was making his way cautiously to the steps. He turned back to look at her, and when she approached, he gave her hand another lick.
‘You’re welcome. And look what I’ve got.’ She showed him the bone, and then placed it on the floor.
The dog actually licked his lips, making her laugh, and then pounced on it, gripping it firmly in his mouth. His tail wagged, and then he trotted towards the waterhole until the night swallowed him up.
For long minutes, Blaze stood there staring into the dark as moths clinked against the light and the moon shone high and white.
Even though he wasn’t her dog, she had to call him something, didn’t she? Especially as she was pretty certain he’d come calling again.
‘Paddy,’ she said to the night. ‘That’s what I’ll call you. After Gramps.’
It wasn’t until she went smiling to her attic bed that night that Blaze realised she was actually happy. And she couldn’t even remember how long it had been since she’d felt that way.
The phone rang, startling Blaze from a deep and thankfully dreamless sleep. More than a week had passed since she’d arrived back in Queensland, and the change of location, the hot, exhausting days and undemanding company of Paddy had achieved what none of Hollywood’s fancy doctors had been able to give her: a good night’s sleep. Until now.
Groaning, she groped for the phone. She’d bet a good bottle of wine that Jaxon had somehow tracked down her landline number, having given up on her ever answering her mobile messages. Since her escape, her California agent had left fifteen voice mails and sent a dozen texts, but Blaze had been enjoying her solitude too much to let the real world back in. Now it was intruding, noisily, at 6:10 a.m.
‘Jaxon, do you know what time it is?’ She yawned, and listened to static on the line. ‘Jaxon, I know it’s you. Who else would it be at this unearthly hour?’
Silence.
‘Hey, I know you’re pissed off, but I was no good to you in that state. I told you I needed to get away.’
Static.
‘Jaxon? Can you hear me?’
Click. The line went dead.
Blaze groaned again and slumped back on to the pillow. If there was one thing worse than a phone call at this hour, it was a wrong number.
A kookaburra cackled noisily from the waterhole where they liked to play in the early morning. Sparrow fart, the locals called this time of day. The expression made her grin as she shoved open the attic window to let in the fresh morning air. No doubt the working day had already begun on stations like Macauley Black’s to take advantage of the relative cool.
Macauley Black.
She really didn’t want to have to contact him, but she was out of options as far as finding someone to remodel the house was concerned. She’d even checked the supermarket’s notice board to see if any handyman advertised there, without luck. The only other possibility was the local paper, which meant another trip into town today. She didn’t relish the drive, but Paddy had nearly chomped through the dry food she’d bought, and there were other things she needed, so she could kill two or three birds with one stone.
First things first, though. The day didn’t officially start until she’d had coffee. In the kitchen, she switched on the kettle, opened the veranda door and found Paddy on the other side. At her greeting, he jumped to his feet and sidled over with a woof of welcome.
‘Hello, boy. You’re early.’
She knelt down for his lick, and gave him a good rub until he lay down in sheer pleasure, inviting her to rub some more. Blaze indulged him, taking the opportunity to check that his wound was continuing to heal. It was, so she removed the makeshift bandage to allow the fresh air to continue the process.
When she went into the kitchen, Paddy followed her, venturing inside for the first time. He sniffed at the skirting board, then lapped at the water she put down for him. Blaze poured her coffee and leant against the kitchen bench, watching him. Feeling generous, she got a bone from the fridge and gave it to him, and Paddy disappeared back outside.
Armed with her coffee and a slice of toast, Blaze jotted down her shopping list, then reluctantly checked the series of increasingly frustrated messages Jaxon had left on her mobile. The first ones, from ten days ago, were relatively benign. Hoped she was feeling better, did she realise the Oscars were just days away, had she read his emails and please call. In the last one left yesterday, he was screaming and pleading.
‘For God’s sake, Blaze, this could be the role you’re waiting for. Call me back or Natalie Portman will have it wrapped up!’
He’d emailed the script to her. She’d seen it in her inbox the other day. Siren. But as yet she wasn’t ready to think, let alone talk, about work, and Natalie Portman would do a fine job.
There were a couple of calls from reporters running stories about her escape to her homeland after the scandal, and another from a journalist she knew well saying that he’d heard something she needed to know. Cal Marsden was pretty fair as far as entertainment reporters went, but right now she was on leave from Hollywood.
At least there were no messages from the LAPD, as she’d been dreading. But all that meant was that they were still investigating their case. When her lawyer had informed them that she wished to return to Australia for a period, they had made it clear that, as the last person to see Mitch alive, she was expected to return to L.A. immediately should they request her to do so.
While the LAPD hadn’t mentioned the rumours, she was sure they’d heard the theory that Mitch had threatened to leave her after Rick Beatty’s sleazy story about her and the crew of Bad & Co. She and Mitch had fought and she’d killed him. It even sounded plausible in a 1940s bad melodrama way, but that didn’t make it the truth.
In fact, she and Mitch had never been lovers. Close friends, sure – and it had suited both of them to maintain a façade of something more – but a sexual relationship had never been on the cards.
Just before eight, all messages deleted, showered and dressed in a strappy top and knee-length tiered navy skirt, she was ready to leave for town. The morning was still cool so she drove with the window down, enjoying the empty landscape and the feel of the breeze in her hair.
The shopping centre car park was quiet when she drove in and she was able to park close to the doors. As she approached, an old sedan drew up, and a pregnant young woman with spiky dark hair and an eyebrow ring, wearing a supermarket-branded badge with the name Marianne, heaved herself from the passenger seat.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ she said with little conviction.
‘I’ll be here at five to pick you up. Don’t keep me waiting.’
Marianne sounded as though she would object, but then capitulated with a weary shoulder shrug. ‘Mum . . . I’ll be here.’
‘Better be. If I catch wind of you showing your shameless self around town, you’ll be out the door. And what’ll happen to you then? You just tell me that.’
Marianne slammed the door as her mother looked set on continuing her tirade. In the end, the sharp-faced woman pursed her lips and drove off.
‘Bad day?’ Blaze nodded in the direction of the departing car.
‘Bad life,’ the girl muttered and burst into tears.
Oh shit.
Blaze felt terrible. Looking around, she ushered Marianne over to a bench. ‘Sit down.’ She dug a tissue from her bag. ‘Here. Blow your nose.’
The girl did, and wiped her eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’ She looked up, her mascara a little smudged. ‘It’s just . . .’ she tailed off, staring. ‘Omigod, are you Blaze Gillespie?’
‘Guilty,’ Blaze said. ‘But don’t say anything, okay? I’m trying to keep a low profile.’
‘Yeah, I mean sure. Whatever. Wow!’ Marianne cheered up. ‘Wow. I just blew my nose on Blaze Gillespie’s tissue!’
She looked so pleased with herself that Blaze had to laugh. ‘Well, I’m glad to brighten your day. Hopefully your mum will calm down.’
‘Not likely.’
The girl shook her head, a look of despair returning. ‘I’m going to have to leave home. Ever since I got pregnant she’s been in my face night and day. Yeah, I stuffed up, but so did she when she had me!’
‘She’ll mellow when she sees her grandchild. Mums usually do.’ Didn’t they? Not having a clue, Blaze winged it.
‘Uh-uh. I’m not letting my kid grow up with that old bag. Not like I did,’ Marianne said with a trace of defiance. ‘I’m just getting some money together and then I’m out of there. I’m Marianne Goranovich, by the way.’
‘Well, good luck,’ Blaze said, standing.
The girl stood too, glancing at her watch. ‘Yeah, I gotta go. Clock-in time’s in two minutes and I can’t afford to lose this job if I’m gonna save to get out of this stupid town.’
Blaze watched her retreating back. She wasn’t the only one with a tricky life path to navigate. Passing the florist, who was still placing buckets of flowers outside the shop, she paused and decided to pick up some lemon yellow banksia later. First she wanted to buy a local newspaper in case there were any ads for local carpenters in the ‘work wanted’ column.
She nodded at the newsagent as she leaned to pick up a paper, and then pulled her hand back as if she’d been stung, when she saw the lure below the tabloid masthead, flagging a story inside.
Blaze’s Starring Role in Sex Tape
Chapter Four
The air crackled with heat. Mac swiped a filthy sleeve at his damp forehead, and stomped into the bunkhouse where, except for old Amos, the hands were still huddled around the common-room table where they took their meals, even though it was well past noon. They should have been back at work twenty minutes ago, and as there was a full afternoon of hot, dusty, backbreaking work to do repairing fences in the far pasture, he was pissed off. And that was an understatement.
