Or would she say yes?
“Cheers.” She touched the bottle against his mug and sat, stretching her long, tanned legs along the sofa.
Seven weeks.
How was he going to survive them?
Chapter Fourteen
Bri folded the used car flyer and put it in her tote as she waited by the fort for the bell to ring, signalling the end of the school day. Her situation was looking brighter by the week. The generous salary Harry was paying her—casual rates, and above award, Bri. You’re helping me out of a bind—would make a solid down payment on a decent second hand car. She was undecided about Gramps’ offer to help her with the rest. He was adamant he wanted her mobile so she could complete her part in their exposé of the latest mining powerbroker, but accepting his help would be like admitting she wasn’t quite grown up enough to manage by herself.
But today, she was about to initiate her second and secret project—Assignment: Harrison needs to date. Her target popped her head around the door and called her over.
“Hi, Clare, how was Vicky today?”
“Okay, fine, she’s always good. Bri, I thought I’d talk to you in the first instance. We may have a small problem. Can you wait until I’m free to talk at more length?” A squeal came from behind and Clare turned her head. “Robbie, give the doll back to Jessica.”
“Sure, I’ll wait.” Bri’s plan needed Clare attentive, not supervising all those little bundles of darting energy. To Bri the room looked like a bowl of mice, racing helter-skelter for the next piece of cheese. The kindy teacher gave an instruction and every child was suddenly, magically seated on the carpet in front of her. Vicky spotted Bri and grinned, giving her a small wave, and then turned to face her teacher.
Bri strolled away, finding a spot of shade under the biggest tree, and texted Gramps.
Got enough bodies for action day against mine?
The answer came straight back. Good, Gramps had his phone beside him.
Will be big. Reef threatened, people turn up.
It was a source of disbelief and aggravation to him that people seemed to care more for fish than miners, but he was willing to take support wherever he found it. Bri was philosophical. Growing up, Pocahontas had shaped her view of the world.
Everything is interconnected. Will get aerial shots with Dan’s help. Love you.
She slid the phone into her bag as Vicky raced across the soft fall flourishing a drawing. “See what I painted, Bri!”
Vicky opened the butcher’s paper and dropped it on Bri’s lap. “That’s me, that’s Daddy, and this is you.”
‘Daddy’ had his elongated arm around both Bri and Vicky’s shoulders and lots of little hearts were strewn on the ground while others floated, anchorless in the air around them. And in Bri’s arms was a bundle with a face and a head of bright yellow hair no newborn baby ever possessed.
Bri’s breath constricted in her lungs and her stomach took a dive and kept going. “It’s—lovely.” The words strangled and tangled in her throat. Vicky thought they were a family? What did she know about making babies?
“It’s for you. Daddy has lots of pictures already.” Vicky climbed into the fort. Fraser ran to join her as his father strolled across the play area. Quickly, Bri folded the picture. Jim was a friend of Harry’s and Harry was not going to hear about this picture, from her or from his friend.
“Hello, Bri. How’s the—nanny—position?” She could hear the air quotes, almost see them burning the air between Jim and her. And the implied nudge, nudge, wink, wink. What did he imagine the nanny position to be anyway? Definitely nothing like the missionary, but similar to reverse cowgirl?
Suggesting she was sleeping with Harry the day she took kindy photos was her fault. Maybe she deserved the innuendo, but Harry didn’t. Holding in a sigh at the continuing repercussions of her offhand comment, she decided to ignore Jim’s jibe and prurient curiosity. “Hello, Jim. I’m loving looking after Vicky. I’m lucky; she’s a sweet, bright, happy little girl.”
“And Harry? Are you looking after his needs as well? Is he—lucky—to get you?”
Good grief! If Harry’s friend felt it was okay to ask if they were sleeping together, how far around the kindy parent group had the rumour run? Heat ran up her face along with anger on Harry’s behalf. Starting a scene by poking Jim Faulkner in the chest and yelling at him would only add to the story. She clenched the straps of her tote. “Excuse me, but I don’t see that Harry’s home life is any of your business?”
Too late, she realised her mistake.
Damn, that came out sounding like confirmation.
Jim grinned and leaned against the tree. “None, which makes it more interesting than anything else happening around here. Sorry, Bri, that probably sounded crass. Harry is a good mate. People here really like him. The mums want to see him find another woman; a couple of them are jealous you got to him before they did. And me, I think he needs to jump back on the horse and ride like hell.”
Bri checked Vicky was out of hearing range and let fly, her voice pitched low and crackling with anger. “And you’ve cast me as the horse? Nice way to talk about your friend.” It didn’t matter that she had given Jim the ammunition for his belief. It didn’t matter that she’d wondered about Harry’s love life too. What mattered was that she had done something silly and thoughtless, and Harry was copping the fallout.
“You’re an attractive woman and Harry’s not blind.”
Bri put a finger to her chin and tipped her head in a melodramatic pose. “Gee, could it be that his wife is dead and he’s still mourning her?”
“Precisely why he needs—” Jim lowered his voice. “A damned good fuck.”
The need to protect Harry, to put right the injustice her casual remark had caused him, surged within Bri. “Jim, I’m going to say this once. Harry employed me to look after his daughter, not to share his bed, and I’d really appreciate it if you would just back off the insinuations. He’s a decent man and he’ll be the one to decide if and when he’s ready for another relationship. And just so you’re clear about this—it won’t be with me.”
“Whatever you reckon, love. My money’s on you breaking Harry’s drought.” He turned to the fort. “Come on, Fraser, Mum’s waiting for us.”
Fraser and Vicky slid down the slide one after another and raced each other to the tree.
“Think about it, Bri. You could do a good Samaritan turn tonight. Say hi to Harry for me.” He took his son’s hand and sauntered away.
Vicky came to stand beside her and patted Bri’s knee. “What’s a good ‘samitan’, Bri?”
Damn Jim Faulkner for his comments. Her cheeks still felt warm, but now heat ran down her neck and chest. Her good turn for Harry was to look after Vicky, not cater to his lost libido.
“Someone who does something nice for another person without expecting anything in return. Do you want to play on the fort or read a book while I speak to your teacher?” Clutching Vicky’s hand, they walked into the centre.
“Book.” Vicky yawned and peeled off to the reading area.
Bri didn’t feel like a Good Samaritan. She felt foolish and angry and oddly protective of Harry. Her good turn for Harry wasn’t in the way his friend expected. She looked for Clare.
The teacher’s aide was stacking instruments from the music lesson as Clare stood and waved Bri into her office. “Come in, Bri. Coffee?” She closed the door behind them, cutting off any chance of being overheard.
Bri shook her head. How was she going to play this if Clare had heard the rumour and believed Harry was sleeping with her? Wishing she’d planned for that eventuality, she took a breath, but Clare invited her to take a seat and sat opposite. The desk lay between them like a chessboard and Clare beat her to the opening move. “Bri, I don’t want this to sound like I’m prying; I’m not, but I have a responsibility for my students’ welfare. Has Vicky shown you the painting she drew today?”
“Yes. It worries me.”
The teacher’s
eyes narrowed and she folded her hands together on the desk. “Why, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Harry employed me to fill the vacancy when Vicky’s nanny broke her ankle. Six to eight weeks, he said. I’m temporary, but I’m aware that Vicky has begun to—”
Begun to what? Was Vicky simply imagining belonging to a family bigger than her and her father, or had she already cast Bri in the role of her new mother? “I know she wants a baby to play with. I guess it’s all tied in with a visit we made to Harry’s friends recently. One couple have a little boy, Dan, who is just twelve months old. The other couple, my cousin and his partner, shared the news of Amy’s pregnancy on the same day. Later, Vicky announced she wanted a baby brother or sister too.”
Clare released an audible breath and sat back in her seat. “That’s a relief. By that I mean Vicky was vulnerable when she started kindy. Losing her mother as she did was traumatic and she exhibited occasional outbursts, which I put down to her grief when we did things such as a mother and child event. Unusually she was the only one without a mother. I was concerned when I saw her painting.”
“I understand. From what I’ve seen, Vicky seems to be well adjusted. Harry works really hard to be what she needs; he’s a wonderful father. I know she would like a mother, but she is happy at home.” In many ways, Harry reminded Bri of her own father: playing games, reading bedtime stories, making her feel safe. Vicky might want another woman to mother her, but Harry needed a wife, partner, lover. Whatever the label, she agreed with Jim Faulkner on one thing; Harry needed someone to share his life. It wouldn’t be her, but an excellent candidate sat across from her.
If Bri didn’t stuff up the next few minutes.
“Do you have to tell Harry about the painting?”
Clare frowned, unfolded her hands and set them flat on the desk. “Your explanation is enough for now. Why don’t you want him to know?”
“As I said, I’m temporary. I don’t think Harry needs the—shall we call it a hassle? I’ll be gone in four weeks—six, at most. I love Vicky, but I’m his daughter’s nanny, not a potential partner for Harry. I live in, true, but that’s all there is to it. Oh—” She strived to bring the right degree of casualness into her voice. “Harry mentioned the kindy parents’ dinner dance. I think he’d like to go with a partner if you know anyone who’s free. I’ll be looking after Vicky that night.”
Clare’s lips parted and a telltale blush coloured her cheeks. “I didn’t realise he’d bought a ticket, but I’ll give it some thought. Thanks.”
Part one of the Good Samaritan turn done.
A sense of victory ran through Bri. Now all she had to do was convince Harry to go to the party. And buy him a ticket.
Chapter Fifteen
Bri opened the door to Harry’s bedroom. Half a dozen shirts on hangers dangled from her fingers as she hummed, half-singing along to the song playing through her headphone. Vicky’s minor mishap with a pair of scissors had resulted in a now short-haired mermaid doll before the Faulkners picked her up to go to the movies with Fraser. By the time she neatened the doll’s haircut and cleaned up, Bri was running late to cook dinner before Harry got home. She stopped on the threshold and the song died on her lips as she saw his room for the first time.
Sparsely furnished by comparison with the rest of the house, the room lacked any of the personal touches that softened other spaces. It was as though when his wife died, he’d erased every trace of her in the most intimate room they had shared. Not one photo adorned the walls. It wasn’t even a sad room. It was just—a space, devoid of emotion and the loving family Bri saw elsewhere in Harry’s home.
Maybe this was how Harry coped, by stripping this room of reminders of his wife. Bri felt sorry for him, for the gaping hole in his life that left him living this half-life. Wanting to be out of his room before he returned, she whipped open the wardrobe and reached up to hang the first pair of shirts.
“Bri, what are you doing in my room?”
Heart thumping, she jumped back. One of the freshly ironed shirts slid off its hanger and she stooped and scooped up the fallen shirt. “Good grief, you startled me. I didn’t know you were home.” She settled the shirt back on the hanger before she looked up.
Harry wore a towel slung low around his hips and held a razor in one hand. Half shaved he looked—delicious and decadent. Her own words taunted her, running around in her brain like wild children, jumping with the sheer pleasure of looking at Harry.
He’d been hiding a damned fine body beneath work shirts and King Gees. Jim Faulkner’s comment dislodged from her memory and joined hers, holding hands and skipping, while her hormones did cartwheels. Harry looked very—fuckable.
“I—um—I—” She turned and shoved the remaining shirts into the wardrobe and fiddled with reorganising them. If she couldn’t see him, she would be able to string more than two words together. “I was putting your ironing away. Do you have a tux?”
“Not much call for it in my line of work. Why?”
“Kindy dinner dance. Everyone’s going and I assumed . . . I ticked the yes box. Your ticket is on your desk.” Slowly she turned and met his gaze.
“I—see. I’m looking after Vicky that night.”
“No, I am, of course.” Her fingers twined together. This wasn’t how she’d intended to tell him about the function. Setting the scene, spruiking the community support aspect of the evening—these were supposed to have been her starting points. But Harry had caught her unawares and loosed an arsenal of prime male muscle to defeat her.
Harry folded his arms across his chest; his broad, naked chest. Was it still damp from his shower? Was he—?
“But you’ll be at the party. Using the ticket you purchased.”
Tongue-tied and drooling. Great bargaining position, Bri.
She tried to work out the quizzical expression darkening his eyes to the colour of dark chocolate. Was he annoyed by her presumption, or was something else behind that look? “It’s for parents and kindy staff. I’m neither so I’ll mind Vicky.”
“Briony, you can either tell them you made a mistake or go yourself. I’m not interested. And next time, consider asking me first.” He turned his back on her and closed the bathroom door with a decisive click. It opened a moment later and he poked his upper body around the edge. “For future reference I still prefer to hang my own shirts.” The door shut with a finality that underscored his words. Harry was peeved. He was annoyed, antsy, and—dammit, he’d reverted to being Harrison.
She tipped her head back and glared through slitted lids at the closed door. She didn’t like it when Harrison took over. He was the side of Harry that was so buttoned up and stiff-necked Gran would have said he’d swallowed a gallon of starch.
Gritting her teeth, she left his room, shutting the door loudly so he’d know she was gone. So Harry had a bad day; so she knew she shouldn’t have gone into his room. He’d made that clear the first time she’d offered to put away his ironing, but Vicky’s hairdressing incident had flustered her.
So I should have asked about the ticket.
Carried away by her desire to match make Harry and Clare, good sense had vanished. But it wasn’t in her nature to give up without a fight. Gramps had taught her to play chess and win.
When you think you’re beaten, dig deep, take a breath, and look for a new strategy.
Figuring a tactical retreat was called for, she headed back to the kitchen. From the pantry she pulled out flour and golden syrup and sugar and oats. A batch of Anzac biscuits for Harry’s upcoming field trip might ease the way for her next approach. Harry was going to that party, and he was going with the kindy teacher. Bri would accept nothing less in her quest to get Harry out on a date.
As she measured and mixed and spooned uncooked mixture into rough piles, she considered her options. Working alongside Gramps as he took on the big mines had honed her understanding of negotiation to a fine point and she’d inherited his determination. If Harry was going to be difficult about th
e party, he’d met his match.
##
Harry splashed water over his face and rinsed off the last of his whiskers. It wasn’t Bri’s forgetfulness that had made him snap at her, or his day from hell. Seeing Bri in his room triggered a desire that swamped him, threatening to tear away the thin veil of control he clung to when she was near. He’d recognised the threat the night he rescued her, the tug of attraction to a desirable woman. It had surprised him, startled him, and he’d clammed up. He didn’t want to feel again.
And so he pulled back, gave terse responses to her attempts at conversation, kept himself locked away and safe from feeling. When Bri had left the next morning he had felt safe again, but relief had been brief. Felicity’s accident had seen to that.
Knowing Bri slept along the hall each night was a new form of sweet torture. His body longed for physical intimacy, and his mind hung onto her optimistic nature and bubbly teasing. Then they had shared a nightcap and he’d imagined kissing her, and he had seen awareness in her eyes.
Seeing her in his bedroom had shaken his control. Her presence made the idea of more than kisses all too real. Tantalising to a man who knew his boundaries, knew how close he was to crossing them. Bri was exciting and attractive, and he knew if she gave him the smallest indication she felt anything for him, he’d accept her offer.
But what was the use of starting something that would end in six weeks? Maybe only four if Felicity recovered quickly.
Grumping at her had been impolite. It wasn’t Bri’s fault she rattled his control. He dragged in a deep breath, picked up the bottle of aftershave and slapped some on his cheeks.
Had Bri really expected him to use the ticket? Torn between annoyance at her temerity, and amusement at the look of dismay on her face when he told her she could go in his place, he settled for laughing. He’d laughed more in the last couple of weeks than he had in eighteen months. Bri dispelled his bad mood and it felt good, even when she was up to something. Because he was certain the ticket was some misguided attempt to make him engage with parents at kindergarten.
Wild About Harry (Hearts of the Outback Book 5) Page 8
