Trouble By Numbers Series

by Alam, Donna

  ‘You heard her.’ Rory’s bass tone rings through the space. He doesn’t yell, and it isn’t a growl, but it’s very obvious he’s not happy. Not happy at all.

  Mac’s hold loosens, a wry sort of smile now on his face. ‘She doesn’t usually make such a fuss, do you, hen?’

  His words and delivery could mean anything, though they make my heart sink to my stomach.

  ‘Doesn’t the place look great?’ I say, stepping closer to Rory. ‘Mac owns the company who set up the equipment.’

  ‘Yeah. Great.’ His words hold little conviction, his eyes unmoving from the space behind me; the space containing Mac. I half turn, trying to catch the silent messages flying between the pair. ‘Does the owner of the company always make follow-up calls?’

  ‘Only for very special customers,’ Mac answers, ignoring Rory’s antagonistic tone. For good measure, he adds a wink in my direction. Hell.

  My head swings between the pair, the room suddenly and obviously very still, when my skin becomes aware of the weight of Rory’s gaze as he watches me. Stares. It’s a look of such intensity, though it’s hard to understand the cause. Is it anger? Frustration? Desire? Dislike? Whatever this is, my mind screams with the knowledge of his gaze, my every fibre aware from the ends of my fingers balled into fists, to the tiny hairs prickling against the back of my neck.

  I’m being scrutinised.

  ‘Right, well.’ Rory’s words are expelled with a long exhale, like the phrase is uncomfortable. ‘I’ll let you both get on.’ With one last unreadable look, he walks out the door.

  ‘What was that?’

  I turn to Mac’s amused tone, my hands clasping cheeks which suddenly feel very hot. ‘That was Rory.’

  ‘I didn’t ask who. I asked what.’ I can feel myself frowning, not sure what to say. ‘Someone’s a bit hot under the collar. A bit red about the face.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I ask, forcing my hands away.

  ‘Rooree, is it?’ Mac’s tone borders on delight, his accent drawing out the sounds in the name, making it something else completely.

  ‘He—he’s the landscape guy. Garden designer, I think.’ Though, in truth, I haven’t seen him do much of anything. Except maybe me.

  ‘Oh, he has designs on more than just the garden.’ Mac chuckles. ‘And I think that sentiment is returned.’

  ‘Hush,’ I reply. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m recently widowed.’

  ‘According to Ivy, that’s no’ a bad thing. I hear he was a bit of a bastard.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I say, my eyes gliding to the space where Rory just stood.

  ‘Fine, but that gardener?’ he teases.

  ‘Seriously, Mac, you’re full of crap.’

  ‘Must be the Lady Chatterley affect. I know horny when I see it and those were some serious come fuck me eyes.’

  ‘He was not looking at me like that.’ I mean, he was definitely looking at me like something, but it would’ve been easier if he’d clued me in on exactly what. Maybe sent me a note?

  ‘I wasn’t talking about him.’

  He looks at me pointedly, one eyebrow raised, as I grasp at something to say, words to take us away from the topic of Rooree, because I’m so not going there. Even if I am tempted to ask Mac to decipher the man’s behaviour. God knows I could do with a clue.

  ‘So, you were saying about maintenance?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t,’ he answers with a sly smile.

  ‘Yeah, you were. Before—’

  ‘Before Mellors came in?’ I think my chin just hit my chest, or maybe it would have if I actually had boobs. ‘Come on, I’m not a complete philistine.’

  ‘You’ve read Lady Chatterley’s Lover?’ My question is filled to the brim with bewilderment. How is this possible? He’s such a guy.

  ‘Porn,’ he answers with a shrug.

  ‘Someone turned D. H. Lawrence’s work into porn?’ Incredulous much?

  ‘Aye, it was a bit art hoose for my tastes.’

  ‘I can’t believe—’

  ‘Jesus, your face. I’m not a complete moron. I have read bits of it.’

  ‘The dirty bits, I’ll bet.’

  ‘They were’na that dirty,’ he answers. ‘And it ended a bit flat—where was the resolution for either of them? But I digress. The point I was trying to make is that Mellors there.’ He gestures to the door Rory just shot out of. ‘Was looking at me like he’d smile while breaking my arm, just for having it near you. And you, well, you’ve no’ much of a poker face.’

  ‘It’s complicated,’ I begin. ‘An—and you mustn’t tell Ivy any of this.’

  ‘Fat chance of that, is there? Not when she’s buggered off to the States again. I don’t think she knows where she wants to be.’

  ‘I’m worried about her,’ I admit. ‘It just doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Don’t fash yourself. Ivy does nothing she doesn’t want to. That girl’s got a head like a mule. Anyway, I can’t stand here all day. I’m an important business man.’ With this he folds his arms, pokes out his tongue and crosses his eyes as though we were both kids again. Though I suppose, as far as his emotional development goes, he still is.

  ‘You’re a loop. A serious fruit loop.’

  ‘That’s a bit of an oxymoron. Seriously daft? And, aye, I understand the word,’ he says, amused again. ‘So, am I to suppose you don’t want a lift with this fruit loop?’

  ‘Aw,’ I say, patting his cheek. ‘I didn’t say you were stupid, just a little crazy.’

  Mac’s never cranky for long, and true to form, his smile stretches into my hand. As far as transport goes, it’s true I don’t have Ivy’s Fiat today having left it at the salon for Natasha to make a trip to the wholesalers. And while it’s tempting to leave now, avoiding Rory totally, I still have a couple loose ends to tie up today. Plus, after yesterday and the whole imma-crush-you-between-the-car-and-my-fantastic-smelling-body thing, I don’t want him to think he has me running scared.

  I need to be sensible about this thing.

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply, retracting my hand. ‘But I’m not done yet.’

  ‘You haven’t been done yet?’ Hands against his thighs, Mac guffaws.

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ Did I? No, I couldn’t have. And yet, my cheeks begin to heat all the same.

  ‘Oh, you most certainly did. Freudian slip of the tongue . . . you like to use on him?’

  ‘God, you’re worse that Natasha. She must be rubbing off on you. Stop,’ I add as he begins to speak. ‘I don’t want to know where you’re going with that. And just . . . just get out of here!’ Pushing on his shoulder, I turn him in the direction of the door.

  ‘Suppose it’s better than just telling me you’re hanging about to get f—’

  ‘Please leave. Go bother Nat!’

  ‘Now, there’s some business I’d like to take care of.’

  ‘Urgh, you’re such a Neanderthal,’ I complain, pushing him harder in the direction of the door.

  Thirty

  Rory

  Fuck it all.

  If the way I reacted in the gym is any indicator, I really need to get my arse back to London.

  Fucking maniac.

  Sitting in the pickup truck, I start the ignition, knowing I need to move.

  The first thought to cross my thick head when I’d heard her squealing was that she’d fallen and hurt herself. The second, after I’d rushed in, seeing that fucker with his arms wrapped around Fin, was that it was him I’d like to hurt.

  Like to.

  Seriously.

  Still.

  Was he the ex-husband? Because the way he’d looked at her as she’d put a bit of space between them was proprietary—like if I’d looked hard enough, I’d find his name stamped on her somewhere. Like I haven’t already looked hard enough. Nah, he wasn’t her ex; she was too relaxed. But for Christ’s sake, it was like he was goading me—his eyes scanning her up and down like he was picturing what was under her cloth
es. Probably for a spot of self-abuse later. And watching him watch her created a knot in my stomach the size of a fucking ball. Fuck knows how I’d forced myself to just stand there as the meathead’s eyes all but fell out of his fucking head. I wanted badly to grab the bastard, to punch him into the understanding that he couldn’t leer at her like that.

  I’m a fucking maniac. And I’m losing the plot, clearly, especially as I’d told him to let her go.

  In no uncertain terms.

  Back. The. Fuck. Off.

  How did I get from something casual to wanting to tear off someone’s limbs?

  It’s only my sanity that keeps me in the truck. I can’t afford to go back. Can’t let my feelings show, especially as I can’t make sense of them myself. And something tells me she wouldn’t welcome being thrown over my shoulder and dragged off to bed. But that’s exactly what I want to do; erase the imprint of his gaze by placing my fingerprints all over her skin. She’s so fucking cool, or at least she manages to pretend to be. Right up until the point of cutting to the chase when it becomes so fucking clear. She. Wants. Me. But how much?

  I’ve had women play hard to get. Sometimes it works—adds to the thrill of the chase—and sometimes I just can’t be arsed and am more than happy to let them walk away. But this . . . This is something unfamiliar. Confusing. It’s like she’s afraid of acknowledging her wants.

  And I think I’m playing the same game.

  Yesterday, as she’d pulled up in her pal’s wee car, my steps had faltered, then sped up, though it took every ounce of my restraint not to rush at her. Pull her out of the thing. To feed her hands to the small of her back, to pin them there. To kiss her senseless, kiss her until she was boneless, held up against the car door purely by desire. And my dick.

  I could see myself lifting her thighs around my hips, letting her feel how hard she made me, right there, pressed between her splayed thighs. I’d swallowed, almost tasting the salt on her skin as I imagined dragging my tongue down her neck, while loosening her buttons out in the open, the cold morning air aiding my quest to make her nipples hard peaks. I’d’ve kissed them then, my mouth and tongue warm. Lick and nip. Consume, as I’d carry her back to that tiny bed. I’d desperately wanted to lie her down, spread her out under me. Probably leave those boots on her, the first time, at least. Then fuck her so hard she’d still be feeling me the following week.

  Yeah, I might’ve given it a little more thought than I should.

  I’d opened the door, the floral smell of her perfume preceding a flash of thigh where her dress draped. But when she looked up into my face, I was a goner. Pink, full lips with just a hint of gloss. It took me back to that first night when she’d propositioned me at the pub. What they say about men—and mouths and any kind of lip gloss—is the truth. And right then and right there, I wanted to see those lips wrapped around my cock. Not the most original thought, but as an encore I wanted to see them covered in my come.

  I’d held out my hand, not that she’d needed my help, but more for the opportunity of contact, but when I’d failed to ask what happened to her on Saturday night—Jesus, her face! She’d lifted a chin, a wee bit imperious, so I thought I’d wind her up and annoy her a bit more.

  What I’m coming to like second best about Fin—first, naturally, is being inside her—is making her pissy, then making her spin. And, just as I think this, my smile is quick to grow . . . and quick to fall as I realise I’m fucking drunk on the woman. That I shouldn’t be loving the experience. I’ve enough going on in my life without getting involved with a woman that makes me feel like this. Add to the fact that she’s just coming out of a marriage—at least, I don’t think she’s been divorced long—she won’t be looking at getting involved. It had seemed like a fairly good reason to screw her earlier, but the way she looks at me and the responses she draws from me, really, all of the facts, as opposed of all of the feelings, tell me this is a terrible idea. I lower my idling foot and the engine roars, and then after opening the windows, hoping to blow the cobwebs from my eyes, as I push the lever into drive.

  Of course, it might’ve been cooler had I avoided spinning the wheels in the gravel like a lovesick teen.

  Thirty-One

  Rory

  It’s dark when I get back to the house, timing my arrival until I’m sure Fin will have left. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking this afternoon; hypothesising while driving around aimlessly. Thinking rationally, I suppose. The conclusion I’ve come to is that I have to stop thinking with my dick. It just keeps leading me into bad decisions; Beth, Anna, and now Fin. The first two were poor business decisions, but I think messing with Fin could be much more damaging. It’s not that I want to stop this thing between us, this whatever it is, but she’s not in the right headspace for casual, despite what she might think. And me? I have all sorts of thoughts and feelings concerning the woman—wants versus needs—desire versus what’s good for me.

  It’s bloody ironic, really. I love women; that’s no lie, but I’ve never been interested in the whole package deal, preferring my women in parts. Sounds slightly serial killer-ish, but isn’t at all. I love their eyes, their laugh. A pretty face and a nice smile, and I happen to like their intelligence almost as much as I like what’s between their legs. But the other parts? The truth is, I’m not interested. I don’t want to know of their dreams and ambitions, their pasts, their families or their beloved cat’s name. I really don’t give a toss about any of that stuff. But with Fin, I can see the day coming where a roll in her bed won’t be enough. Isn’t enough now.

  I’ll want all of her and won’t be satisfied by parts. This isn’t only wrong but dangerous, because she’s unavailable, and I’m not sure she really knows.

  Just my fucking luck that the first woman I’ve ever had strong feelings for would be only available in parts. I can have her body, sure.

  But her head?

  Her thoughts?

  Her heart?

  It’s clear I can’t afford to get involved.

  As I drive around to the rear of the house, I’m relieved I’ll be leaving soon. Decision made: I’m going home. Fuck the gardens and grounds and fuck Kit. It’s for the best, but still means one more night in Fin’s bed. One more night surrounded by her scent.

  The gravel crunches under my feet as I click the key fob, pointing it over my shoulder at the truck. I’m conscious of the lack of light indicating execution of both lock and alarm as I hesitate. It’s not likely to get stolen; not only is this place pretty remote, but it’s also a very conspicuous car. There aren’t many Ford F-150’s on the roads of Scotland. Run of the mill in the States they may be, but here they’re huge fuck off vehicles. Not to mention a nightmare to park. Serves Kit right if it does get nicked, I think, even as I turn to check the driver’s side door. It’s then I see there’s a light on. Not inside the car, but the house—the main house. Dragging a weary hand down my face, I make my way to the backdoor to investigate.

  The door to the old scullery is open, the door beyond into the kitchen, too. I’m beginning to think Fin must’ve left in a hurry, not that I blame her the way I stormed out, when I hear the distant strains of music from somewhere deeper inside the house. I know it’s wrong but I can’t help that my pulse rate picks up at the thought of her still being in the building somewhere.

  I follow the soft strains, a smile growing as I realise two things. Firstly, the music is coming from the direction of the gym, and second, it sounds a little like country music the closer I get. Maybe that gorgeous exterior hides a country girl’s heart? I actually huff out a laugh at the random though. Whatever, I’m kind of hoping she’s using the gym whatever she’s listening to, maybe in tiny shorts. I’m not planning on anything, but it’s a view my eyes will always appreciate.

  And what do you know, my hopes are realised as I reach the partially frosted glass doors. Well, partly realised. Fin is on the treadmill. No shorts. Knee length leggings and wrestler back sports bra top. I might not be getting involved and I might�
��ve promised myself I’d back away, but how could you not look at that arse?

  It’s like a fucking peach.

  I can look.

  And I certainly can watch.

  That’s not harming anyone, least of all Fin.

  I won’t make a noise, won’t even open the door. Apart from startling and possibly knocking her off her unforgiving stride—because, Jesus wept, the woman can run— I don’t want to give her any ideas, especially as it seems I can’t do normal around her. Apparently, I can only do antagonistic with a side of innuendo. Why is it that mad sexual tension is our baseline?

  Her feet pound against the belt as I consider the music as a strange choice of song for a run. I run myself, usually along Canary Wharf, where our office is. I’m a road runner essentially and not a big fan of filling my head with anything while I do so. Running provides me with valuable thinking time and if I’d had my running gear with me today, I might well have taken off on foot rather than in the truck. The point is, I don’t run to music, but if I did, I wouldn’t have chosen this song. It’s an older one and, as it turns out, not country. Probably from the eighties. It plays from a music channel on one of several TVs mounted to the various walls.

  Won’t open the door, my arse.

  Ignoring the implications, I push it open with my foot and slip inside.

  The lights illuminate only one side of the room, casting the entrance in shadow. This, and the angle of the room, means she likely won’t see me, though I can see her.

  And I can watch. Like a fucking perve.

  Sweat glistens against the skin of her lower back, shoulders and neck, the latter causing the hair at her nape to kink and curl. Through the mirror, my attention is pulled to her mouth—no surprise there—her lips open as she pants. It’s just fucking indecent where my mind wanders, but the sounds she makes don’t exactly help. Running. Think of running. She’s got good technique; good pace and stride. I try to concentrate on this rather than the fact her mouth is open and that, in the mirror, it’s reflected like some sort of deliciously obscene gasp.