Engaging the Enemy

by Susanne Bellamy

  Could he trust Dave? Little Miss Trouble wasn’t blindly guessing; she was certain of her facts. Most of them at least.

  Were the tenants just being difficult or had the former owner left him to deal with a difficult tenant? He shook his head. Getting emotionally invested in this project had affected his objectivity. It was more than time to take a metaphorical step back.

  ‘See that you do, Dave. It’s an important project. We can’t afford to get on the wrong side of the city council, and this late in the process, we sure as hell can’t afford any negative publicity. Find out if we have tenants or squatters and get them somewhere else to go. Hell, transport them in your car if you have to.’

  ‘I’m on it, boss.’ With a nervous half smile, Dave slipped through the door.

  Matt sat back, tugging on his lower lip. Dave may have missed squatters still in the old pub after the sale was finalised, but he had discovered the interim heritage control order in time to deal with it before they signed. The council chairperson was adamant all stakeholders had their say in the consultation process and that included lessees. Fair enough. But unexpected tenants could stuff up his plans big time.

  He considered the red-head’s certainty. Why would she lie?

  Whoever she was, her appearance at the fundraiser threatened his dream.

  Gloomy thoughts of bad press dogging the project depressed his enthusiasm like a cold shower. It was past time he contacted the seller. The personal approach had always been most effective for him. He dragged the keyboard toward him, found the number, and then pulled out his phone. Delegating had its problems.

  A gruff-voiced male answered on the third ring. ‘De Villiers here.’

  Ten minutes later, Matt marched out of his office. Trouble — Lexie, whoever — was going to find he wasn’t a soft touch.

  ‘I’m going out.’

  As he swept past his PA’s desk, he met her surprised expression. Narelle pulled out her wireless ear piece. ‘But you have a meeting with—’

  ‘Move it.’ He headed for the glass doors in reception.

  ‘How long will you be?’ She called after him, not missing a beat, and he thanked his lucky star she’d chosen to work for him when he’d branched out on his own.

  ‘I wish to God I knew.’

  He jabbed the lift button. He hated not having all the facts. And this time, it appeared he’d made the mother of all omissions. Damage control might be his only option.

  ***

  He pulled up beside an industrial bin in the laneway on the corner of a piazza-style square. Graffiti covered the lower walls of the red brick building behind, lurid yellow, blue and silver swirls that danced like demented letters of a once familiar language.

  He turned to the pale stone building on his right. As he looked up at the elegantly simple façade, his heartbeat picked up a notch. Beneath years of city grime, pink streaks were faintly discernible in the sandstone, though he doubted anyone but himself was aware of them now. Pink sandstone — it would have been costly back when it was built but this had been one of the grander homes of Melbourne.

  Ma had talked about it before he moved to Melbourne. ‘Your great-great-grandfather purchased it in the late 1870s. ‘Twas a wise investment of his gold rush wealth.’ Wiser and smarter than his feckless grandson.

  Matt thought about the grandfather he barely remembered, the lean, white-haired figure stooped over his mother’s table playing endless card games and muttering. Always muttering that he’d been cheated.

  Matt had ground his teeth. ‘A man should face up to his responsibilities, accept the consequences of his choices. Gramps made a desperate bet and lost. The home that should have been yours and eventually mine went to a card sharp.’

  ‘ ’Tis no matter now, Matt.’ Ma hadn’t liked his comment but it had firmed his resolve to restore his family’s lost heritage and honour.

  Matt tensed, waiting for the familiar throbbing in his head whenever he thought about his grandfather’s weakness, but it barely registered today as he looked at his building.

  Ma’s home.

  Rundown, grimy and forgotten it may be, but cleaned and repaired, the pink sandstone would glow in the sunlight and restore her former glory.

  And his family’s honour.

  Annoyance with his grandfather faded. His mother’s father had lost his inheritance on the turn of a card; her son would restore it.

  For her.

  He drew a ragged breath. Restoring it in time for her to enjoy before she died was his priority. If only the wealth he’d fought hard to gain could buy her more time. His heart thudded in his chest.

  As he examined the grimy moulding around the nearest window, he found himself staring into a child’s face dominated by a pair of big brown eyes. The little boy grinned and poked out his tongue. Matt drew in a long, slow breath then released it on a sigh.

  Damn. Trouble was telling the truth last night.

  There was no point standing out here gawking like an idiot. Determined to sort out the problem, he marched up the three wide stone steps and knocked. The unlatched door swung open onto a small tiled vestibule, bare but for a hand-painted sign taped to the facing wall.

  ‘Hello? Anyone home?’ The sound of his voice echoed around the empty space. He waited, listening for an answer, and glanced back at the sign.

  ‘Come on in.’ The irresponsible welcome stirred a ripple of disbelief through him.

  ‘Come on in?’ Jeez, are they idiots? I could be Jack the Ripper himself.

  Surely nobody could be ignorant of the dangers of unlocked doors in the CBD? Especially when children like the little boy at the window could get out and wander off. Who was responsible for him? Just who was living in his building?

  Anger burned in his gut. He stepped inside, and then carefully fastened the door behind him. When he found the boy’s mother, he’d give her a piece of his mind about taking responsibility before he addressed their continued residence in his building.

  He peered along the poorly lit corridor and called again. Was nobody home?

  The door beside him creaked as it opened and a small, shadowy figure peered through the slit, silhouetted against the brightness behind him.

  Not wishing to alarm the boy, Matt sank onto his haunches so they were on the same eye level and spoke gently. ‘Hello. Is your mum here?’

  As much as Matt could see of the child, he appeared clean and happy. It mollified him, just a little.

  A cheeky grin and giggle was the only response, and then the door closed.

  So your ma’s not in there at any rate.

  Matt stood, dusted off his trousers and called again. Trams rumbled in the distance and the floorboards creaked as he shifted his weight. Had the child been left alone? Concern fought with rapidly growing anger. Could the boy’s mother care so little that she’d left him unsupervised in an unlocked house?

  Memory ghosted through his mind. His mother unable to move after she’d fallen and his little brother, Paddy, running…

  Sweat broke out on his brow and his throat constricted around the old grief. The child could have easily slipped out the front door while his mother lay injured. Like Paddy had done. Only this time he’d been here to lock the door.

  With hard-won control, he forced his hands to unfist and calmed his breathing. Maybe this time he’d averted a tragedy.

  Clanging and banging sounds echoed down the long uncarpeted hallway. At last. Sounds of occupation.

  Poor choice of word, eejit That’s the last thing you want to find.

  Standing here wasn’t going to gain any further response. Matt strode down the wide, bare floorboards to the kitchen. His determination to find someone carried him two steps beyond the doorway. He pulled up short, eyes fixed on a jeans-clad backside, peach-shaped and most definitely feminine. The upper half of her body was hidden within the cavernous cupboard beneath the sink but even that didn’t stop him recognising the rhythmic swaying as she worked.

  Last night, black material had
stretched tight over this same bottom and distracted him as the owner collected flutes from the ballroom floor. Half the night he’d fantasised about slowly sliding that fitted black skirt down her hips and exploring her soft curves. The desire to do so now was more than inconvenient. He shifted uncomfortably and dragged his attention away from his body’s response.

  Trouble by name and trouble by nature.

  If the sound of metal clanging against metal was any indication, Trouble — Lexie — was fixing the pipes. He stepped forward just as a dull thud sounded. The peachy bottom did a little jig as its owner stretched further into the cupboard. Her muffled voice filtered up from under the sink.

  ‘Damn! What idiot came up with this ridiculous arrangement? Jordan? Pass that big black tool to me, sweetie.’

  Matt scanned the cracked lino then picked up the monkey wrench and leaned down beside her. ‘Is it the wrench you’d be meaning? I have it here.’

  Trouble’s body jerked and a hard thud was followed by a muffled oath. She eased backward out of the cupboard and sat back on her heels, eyes scrunched as she rubbed the top of her head. ‘Damn and blast it. What do you mean by—’

  ‘By offering you what you asked for?’

  Her hand stilled when he spoke, eyelids flying open and her plump pink lips shaped a soundless Oh. On her knees in front of him, head level with his zipper, his groin gave an inconvenient jump, right in front of her wide-eyed stare. Wicked images coalesced, of Trouble in the same position wearing a tool belt and not much else. Of what she could do with that beautiful mouth. Of…and wasn’t Dave in love with her?

  Back off, eejit

  He grimaced as she tilted her head back and looked him in the eye.

  ‘So, Trouble. Now you’re a plumber, last night you were a waitress. And what will you be tomorrow, I wonder?’

  Glints of amber deepened the green of her eyes and surprise gave way to recognition. Her eyes narrowed on him. She scrambled to her feet, one hand fisted around a small wrench, the other clenching and unclenching by her side. He eyed the tool warily as she jigged from foot to foot in front of him.

  ‘You! How did you get in?’ A lone red curl slipped loose from her untidy ponytail and fell over her eyes. She blew upward but it flopped back. Impatiently, she swiped at it with her free hand and left a smudge of oil across her forehead. The image of her in a tool belt roared back.

  Down and dirty and all oiled up, yeah.

  ‘Well, Mr Mahoney? Cat got your tongue? I asked you—’

  Eejit! Where’s your control gone? South?

  He hauled his brains into gear. No deal was ever won by allowing the opposition an opening. He straightened and frowned.

  ‘Through an unlocked door. Highly irresponsible when there’s bairns in the place.’

  She frowned, tasting the word. ‘Bairns? What do you–’

  Why was it so hard for him to say ‘kids’?

  Because you think of baby goats every time someone uses it that way.

  Comprehension hit and Trouble scanned the kitchen. ‘Jordan? Where is he?’

  ‘If Jordan’s the little one with big brown eyes, he’s in the front room.’

  ‘Jordan?’ She pushed past him, angling for the door and he reached for her arm. The boy was safe and she wasn’t going anywhere until he had his answers.

  ‘I locked the front door. Now I want to know—’

  ‘Let me go. I’ve got to make sure he’s okay.’ A childish giggle interrupted their exchange and Matt turned at the same time as Trouble. Jordan’s face peeked round the door, eyes fixed on a matchbox-sized truck he ran up the peeling paint of the door jamb then let fall. Jordan dropped to his knees and grabbed the toy. Adding his own chaos and destruction sound effects, he scuttled down the hallway.

  Matt loosened his hold on Trouble’s elbow. ‘Satisfied? Now—’

  She shook off his arm and swung around to face him, a battle light in her green eyes. Green, like the grass of home. Green, like—

  ‘And how dare you trespass?’ She fisted her hands on her hips. ‘Who the hell do you think you are, Mr Matt Mahoney, barging in here with your judgmental nose in the air and telling me I’m irresponsible. You’re the one who—’

  ‘Trespassing you call it? Funny, I seem to recall being invited to talk with you. And what would you call that ridiculous sign out the front if not an invitation?’

  Maybe Dave’s description was right. That lip-biting vulnerability she’d revealed last night was gone and in its place blazed a petite firebrand. Yes, that was a more apt description; it matched the red of her hair and the fire in her eyes.

  ‘I meant at your office.’

  ‘You invited me here. “Come to the shelter” you said, so here I am. Or are you in the habit of making offers you’ve no intention of keeping?’ His gaze lowered to the wrench she was tapping against her denim-clad thigh.

  Offers she’s not even realised she’s making.

  Offers he’d like to explore if he could sort out her squatting in his building. He suppressed the thought — later, Mahoney — leaned back against the sink and folded his arms. ‘Well?’

  ‘Says you. Do you know how many times I’ve tried to see you at your office?’

  ‘Did you make an appointment, ever?’

  She shrugged. ‘I tried once or twice. After that I just took pot luck but you refused to see me. Your receptionist is a dragon. “No, I’m sorry he’s not available today, tomorrow, ever, Miss de V…Dev…lin.” Her gaze skittered over the floor and she wrapped her arms around her waist.

  He paused, sensing a chink in her prickly armour. That little slip implied she was lying, but why? She wasn’t any good at it so why bother? Last night’s scene in the hotel kitchen replayed in his mind for the umpteenth time. Through the night he’d relived the press of her body imprisoned by his, her breasts brushing his chest with each choppy breath she took. He’d wanted to kiss away the misery in her eyes and go on kissing her all night.

  Now, he teased out the memory, concentrating on the moment she’d asked him about Matt Mahoney, and then dived in with her request to be introduced. She hadn’t pre-planned the encounter but spontaneously responded to an opportunity.

  Impetuous and honest?

  Oddly, the memory of her bright-eyed hopefulness made him feel better. Impetuous he could accept. He’d get to the bottom of why she felt the need to lie about who she was later.

  ‘Now if I’d known who was trying so hard to see me, I’d have told my staff to check you for a loaded tray of champagne and then send you through, Miss Dev…lin.’

  Deliberately, he emphasised the stumble over her name, reassured by the flare of colour on her high cheek bones that his initial assessment was accurate.

  She raised her chin and fixed her emerald gaze on his. ‘Well, what would you do if somebody judged you without even bothering to hear you out? I had to resort to a crazy scheme to try and reach you.’

  ‘Crazy it was.’

  She paused, tipped her head to the side and looked hard at him. ‘It worked though. You’re here. Does that mean you’re willing to listen now?’

  Her crazy ploy had worked.

  So why aren’t I feeling mad that she’s manipulated me?

  He waited for annoyance or self chastisement to kick in. Nothing.

  Trouble put her free hand on her hip and tipped her head to one side, waiting for his response.

  His lips twitched and he struggled to hold back his grin. Trouble had achieved what no one else had. Silently, he applauded her win and settled back against the counter. ‘Listen, to be sure.’

  And look. He ran his gaze slowly up her body. Her curves were an invitation to trace their outline. He folded his arms over his chest, but his eyes were free to roam her body. He continued his visual exploration.

  She nibbled on her lower lip and his eyes fixated there, dangerously close and tempting. Trouble was living up to her name.

  Control, Mahoney. Where’s your control?

  ‘But I want
answers too.’

  Fingers linked, she clutched the wrench against her stomach, took a deep breath and launched into speech. ‘Fair enough. The Shelter exists to—’

  She’d rehearsed her speech multiple times. Likely this was what he’d have listened to if she’d ever made it past Narelle on reception but right now he wanted answers, not a prospectus or a mission statement.

  ‘Under the circumstances I should go first. Don’t you think?’

  Recently a woman’s magazine had named him one of Melbourne’s top ten bachelors. Time to use some of that so-called appeal. He offered the smile that always worked with women, dates and female staff alike. Winning, Ma called it. A winning smile. He turned it on.

  Delectable lips parted, Trouble paused mid-sentence. Her focus dropped and lingered on his mouth. Had he unbalanced her like she had him?

  Good.

  ‘Well, Miss Devlin?’

  She blinked and slowly nodded. ‘Okay. Fire away.’

  ‘Thank you. First, what’s your name?’

  ‘I told you—’

  ‘Your real name.’

  ‘Devlin.’

  Glancing away, she replied but her teeth worried her lower lip. That damned lower lip of hers. He wished, not for the first time, that she’d stop biting on it.

  Or that he could.

  ‘Okay. We’ll leave that one for the moment…Miss Devlin.’

  A tiny sigh whooshed out of her and the tension in her shoulders eased a notch.

  What’s in a name? She was being agreeable so what did her name matter? Really, Mahoney, don’t bog down in details.

  ‘So, there’s a bairn named Jordan and you here. Is he your son?’

  Colour flared in her face. ‘What business is it of yours?’

  She didn’t deny it. She must have escaped here with her son. Had they been abused? Thrown out of home? There were always men who failed to meet their responsibilities, who put their needs before those they had promised to care for. Voices argued in his head as reason collided with emotion.

  And aren’t you about doing the same to them?

  It’s different. This is for Ma.

  But it’ll have the same effect on them, turfing them out of the only shelter they have.