My Boyfriend and Other Enemies

by Nikki Logan

  Lord, bad enough having him here, in her studio, watching her work, without him bringing a whole lot of tsss into what was already a hot enough space. Just had to stay focused.

  As he’d noted, she was very determined.

  He watched her in silence as she dribbled melted colour along each leg under the sear of the brace-mounted torch repeatedly, until all five legs had organic colour streaking down them. She pulled the lot away from the torch and waited the few seconds for the glass to cool enough to see the natural colours emerging.

  It was so hard not to glow as bright as the sea star at the awe in Aiden’s gasp. ‘Cool, huh?’ she said. ‘Furnace-born.’

  Steadfastly ignoring his closeness, she set about adding dozens of blobs to the underside of each leg and then went over the lot again, pressing an indent into each little sucker. Not perfect yet, but she was getting there.

  Aiden began circling her as she worked, watching from all angles. Wherever he moved, she felt his regard despite his mask; the intensity of his stare, every bit as scorching as the heat she worked with. He reminded her of the shark again....

  Circling.

  Waiting.

  Finally, the sea star was finished. She killed the blowtorch and the sudden silence was startling. She dropped her goggles and Aiden flipped his visor up. As she laid the starfish on the edge of her brace its legs curled and sank in a slow, descending wave exactly like the real thing—as though it really were alive—until two legs hung over the edge of the brace as it would hang over a shelf. Or a fish tank. Or a bookcase.

  Just like the one she’d watched at the observatory bending around the sharp angles of the timber pier.

  It wasn’t the best that she’d made, but it was the best she was going to do today. The intensity of Aiden’s stare, the intimacy of him watching her work...if ending that came at the price of a half-arsed starfish, then so be it. She apologised to the spirit within the glass as she gloved it carefully into the kneeling oven where it would slowly cool over the next twenty-four hours to preserve the integrity of the glass. Then she slid the heavy door closed.

  And her best excuse for not facing Aiden evaporated.

  ‘Your arms must be screaming,’ he murmured, coming closer now that all the heat was safely behind asbestos doors. At least the heat from the furnace. The friction between the two of them was still creating its own blazing warmth.

  ‘They’re used to it.’ She backed away a step for each one he took towards her, busying herself with removing her gloves and setting her tools back to rights. ‘It’s my back where I tend to feel it.’

  Idiot. She’d spoken just for something to say—surely, while they were talking she couldn’t be busy thinking about anything else—but he took that as encouragement and crossed to her more quickly than she could avoid.

  ‘Here,’ he said, spinning her around and tossing his safety gloves. ‘Let me do something about that.’

  No. No, no, no... She tried to twist out from under his strong hands as they kneaded down into her aching muscles but they were too powerful. And warm. And way too good. How often had she wished for someone to do this at the end of a long day in the hot shop? Or even a short one. His fingers probed and kneaded the worst of the developing bunches, rhythmically pressing into her and then easing off again, using the same kind of rhythm that she seduced the glass with.

  Seduced...

  Tash twisted away without any hope of it being subtle. ‘Aiden—’

  He raised his hands beside his shoulders in as non-threatening a manner as a man of his size and presence could possibly achieve. ‘Tash...’ he mocked.

  ‘This is not going to happen.’ It just couldn’t. And wouldn’t.

  ‘You’re attracted to me.’

  ‘I’m—’ So dead. ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Liar.’

  Yes, more than she’d ever lied in her life. He was making her into one. ‘This—’ her finger ping-ponged between his chest and hers ‘—is not going to happen.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Frustration roared through her. At being put in this position. ‘Because I don’t want it.’

  ‘Your body disagrees, it seems.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What am I missing?’

  She pressed her lips together. Anything she said could be used against her in the court of Aiden.

  ‘Am I not good-looking enough for you? Not rich enough?’

  She threw him a glare. ‘I’m not interested in your money or how pretty you are.’ She used the word intentionally to distract him from his line of questioning. ‘Give me some credit.’

  ‘I believe you. And that intrigues me. I’ve never met anyone who puts so little value on the things I have to offer.’

  ‘I’m just a challenge to you. The novelty will wear off in no time.’

  His eyes darkened. ‘I wish that was true. Because I’d understand that.’

  Her breath tripped over itself and backed up in her throat. ‘What don’t you understand?’

  He stepped closer. ‘This hold you have over me. I’m not in the habit of begging.’

  ‘You haven’t begged.’

  ‘Feels like I have.’

  ‘Why, because I didn’t crumble at the first sexy smile?’ Damn. She hadn’t meant to admit that.

  If nothing else, he was a gentleman—when it counted. He didn’t call her on her slip. But the intensity in his gaze doubled. ‘I’m intrigued by you. I respect you. I even admire you.’

  He said the words like they were anathema. ‘Are those not qualities you’re accustomed to in your...dates?’

  His stare grew bleak. ‘Not particularly. But they have pretty faces. And great bodies. And they’re very...sympathetic to my way of doing things.’

  His eyes grazed her.

  ‘Maybe it’s that simple, then,’ she murmured, scrabbling around for a legitimate answer that didn’t mean betraying anyone’s trust. ‘You’ve grown spoiled. And bored. Perhaps you’re just hungering for a challenge?’

  Those blue eyes narrowed. And the step he took towards her officially pushed her up against the wall of her studio. He placed a braced fist on either side of her. ‘That would explain it.’

  Her hands came up to rest on his chest and his eyes flicked down, full of speculation.

  Until she pushed against him and all she could think about was how gorgeously hard his chest was. ‘Unfortunately,’ she said as she slid out from his imprisonment, ‘I’m not all that sympathetic to your cause. Certainly not enough to oblige you.’

  He shook his head. ‘You will.’

  The certainty made her bristle. ‘Actually, I won’t.’

  ‘Why won’t you?’

  ‘Can’t I just not want to?’

  ‘If I thought you genuinely didn’t want to I’d turn and walk out right now. You do want to.’

  ‘You’re very fond of telling me what I should be thinking.’

  ‘I just think I know you better than you do.’

  ‘No. You’re just hearing what you want to hear.’ She twisted away from him, picked up the still-hot blowpipe and wielded it across her chest. Like a weapon. ‘Now, if you don’t mind I have a lot of work to do today and I’ve already lost the morning catering to the whims of my commissioning client.’

  His left eye twitched but he didn’t argue.

  ‘Fair enough. I’ll leave you to it.’ He pulled the open visor off his head. Sweaty hat-hair only made him look infuriatingly more handsome. ‘But we’ll resume this conversation tomorrow after Maxima.’

  Oh, crap... The dinner.

  A function she couldn’t possibly attend anymore. Not knowing what she now knew. Not knowing how terrible at deterring his touches she was, how much her own body would sabotage her best intentions. How could she sit beside him as he slid those bedroom eyes
her way and not feel what she didn’t dare feel?

  Or if he touched her.

  Or—her stomach knotted—tried to kiss her again.

  Based on the steam in his expression right now he would do those things unless she explained. But she couldn’t explain; that was for his father to do.

  By the way, Aiden, you have a half-sister and she’s been working with us these past weeks. Oh, and—PS—you’ve had your tongue in her mouth.

  Surprise!

  If she cancelled, she’d need a rock-solid excuse or he’d see right through it. And if she went, then the night would be full of knowing glances, the two of them against the world. Sitting pressed together. Smiling. Being delightful.

  Just she and her—

  Even her mind choked on the word.

  —brother.

  EIGHT

  ‘Get dressed.’

  The first thing Tash thought when she opened her cottage door to find Aiden leaning there, all concerned and gorgeous, was how darned edible he looked in a dinner suit. The second thing she thought was what had happened to all her self-control—and her dignity—that she couldn’t even last two seconds without feeling something she shouldn’t.

  ‘I’m sick, Aiden,’ she overcompensated.

  ‘You’re a terrible liar.’

  ‘I told you on the phone—’

  ‘Yeah, I know you did. That way you could hide the fact that you’re pink and healthy and the least sick person I’ve seen all week.’

  ‘So someone tells you they’re sick and your first reaction is to go to their house and give them grief?’

  He held a translucent plastic bag high. It sagged with the weight of something inside. ‘No. My first reaction is to go to their house with chicken broth.’

  Tash stared. He’d brought her soup.

  A whole bunch more feelings she’d promised herself not to allow came rushing to the fore. She almost wished she were sick so that she could accept kindness from him. Instead of tossing it back in his face with her lies, which she had to do.

  She crossed her arms.

  ‘Thank you, Aiden.’ He glared.

  ‘Oh, please. You just needed an excuse to check up on me.’

  ‘I needed you to feel better.’

  Even he looked surprised at the word that slipped across his lips. Need. Tash forced her resolve to hold. ‘Uh-huh. And that’s why the first words from your mouth were “get dressed”?’

  ‘You opened the door looking so bloody gorgeous and not sick. That’s why I told you to get dressed. Which I notice you still aren’t doing.’

  ‘That’s because I’m not going with you to dinner.’

  ‘Why not? You gave me your word.’

  Lying just sat so uncomfortably on her. She was sure it showed. ‘I don’t feel well. What if I’m viral? I’ll give it to everyone there.’

  ‘Instead of just me.’

  ‘Hey, you came knocking on my door, remember?’

  ‘You don’t sound much like a sick person, either.’

  ‘What do you want? A temperature reading?’ Nice one. Plant the idea. He was suspicious enough to pull out a thermometer, too.

  His eyes narrowed and she could practically see the cogs turning in his sharp mind. ‘Okay, I’ll come in, then. A nice night in, behind closed doors. Just you and me.’

  No. That was not an option. No matter how fantastic it sounded. Because if he came into her house there was no way soup would be the only thing steaming up the place. The arms wrapped around her torso tightened. The hug helped a little, even if it was her own. Her face must have spoken volumes.

  ‘What’s going on, Tash?’ He leaned on her doorframe. ‘I thought you were up for this.’

  ‘That’s a little direct, isn’t it?’ Even for him.

  ‘I’m talking about dinner.’

  ‘Oh. I just—’ Oh. ‘Why don’t you just go yourself?’ Away. As far from her as possible would be good.

  ‘I am going, of course. But I wasn’t expecting to be dateless.’

  Was that his problem? A face-saving thing? ‘I’m sure you have any number of women on standby for occasions just like this one.’

  ‘Occasions where my present date is lying through her beautiful teeth?’

  She wanted to be angry but how could she? She was lying. ‘Can’t I just ask you to trust me that I have a good reason not to go?’

  His eyes roamed over her face and finally settled on her eyes, curious and probing. ‘Is it the dinner or the after-dinner that has you all worked up?’

  ‘Aren’t they a package?’

  ‘No. One is not conditional on the other.’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘So we could just have dinner?’

  Dinner was doable. Friends had dinner all the time. Siblings had dinner all the time, too.

  ‘We can totally just have dinner. Is that what this is about?’

  This is about me not trusting myself for five minutes in your company. But she could do dinner. Dinner was just eating and talking, right? And then he’d leave her alone. Their scoresheet would be square.

  She spun away, towards her bedroom. ‘Give me ten minutes.’

  * * *

  Aiden watched the light spring of Tash’s steps and then closed the front door behind him and placed the pointless soup on the nearest flat surface. Then he yanked it up again and looked for something a bit sturdier, a bit less polished timber-y. His mother’s meticulous upbringing coming to the fore. She wasn’t much on mess.

  He crossed to the kitchen bench and set the soup there.

  Then he turned and looked around Tash’s house, studying the hotchpotch of items pinned to her fridge door as he went. Bills, takeaway menus, a gorgeous photo of what could only be a younger Tash with a sparkly-eyed woman. Her mother.

  Her little cottage was full of modest, mass-produced furniture that would have been bland if not for the liberal addition of throws and rugs and a disparate collection of bright wall-mounted artwork. There was no particular style or artist; it was just crazy. Like the woman herself—complex, contradictory.

  Confusing.

  Hadn’t they been on the same page on Monday? On the same page and even in the same book, and he didn’t often find someone who had the same book he did. He’d been as clear as he could be, and his heart—which didn’t make a habit of speeding up for just anyone—had actually lurched when she’d smiled at him and followed him so eagerly out of the underwater observatory. She’d thought she knew what they were leaving for, and she’d been comfortable with what she thought.

  He’d seen it.

  Yet here she was baulking—and lying, though about as miserable an attempt as anyone he’d ever met—to get out of whatever obligation she felt about what was planned for après dinner.

  He eyed the one old piece of furniture in the room, an over-stuffed chair covered in an Aztec-patterned throw. That was more his size. He just about groaned as he sank down into its welcome comfort. It was a chair made for lounging in front of a game, or a long night of conversation or—he looked at the sturdy armrests—something else. All he needed was a glass of red and Tash and he was good for the evening.

  Except that she’d looked almost panicked at the thought of the two of them here alone. Ludicrous after what they’d virtually committed to earlier in the week, but there it was.

  Maybe that was what was behind this fake illness.

  Nerves.

  Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have had much time for indulging the modest blushes of his date, but this was different. This was Tash. He found himself prepared to indulge any of her quirks if it meant she’d let him near her. Let him touch her. So a few blushes were a no brainer. He’d pull back a little, reduce the haste and increase the flirt. Romance her. Women l
iked that. And Lord knew he savoured the agony of anticipation. It would make eventual success so much sweeter.

  He’d once been described as ‘relentless and persistent’ in a protracted negotiation, but it was those qualities that eventually won the day. He literally outlasted and outgunned everyone else. The same qualities would help him now. He understood nerves—actually, he didn’t, but he understood them in someone else—and he understood reticence. No one liked to surrender, especially not someone as spirited as Tash.

  And that was pretty much what it was, wasn’t it? Surrender.

  He tuned in to the sounds of shuffling behind a half-closed door as Tash dressed for a dinner she didn’t want to go to.

  Relentless it was, then. And Tash would be his for the taking.

  He almost—almost—regretted that. Because taken was taken and then what would sustain him if not the thrill of the chase? He knew himself well enough to know what to expect then.

  Not a problem for tonight. Tonight was about the onset of the campaign.

  Operation Romance.

  NINE

  Honestly, if he touched her one more time she was going to explode. And not in a good way.

  Tash was certain that Aiden hadn’t been this...hands-on...the other times he’d been with her, but it was hard to stay certain when every brush clouded her memory, every light pressure from those strong fingers muddled her mind. Or, worse, the times he didn’t touch her, but came within infuriating millimetres and then all she could think about was whether he was going to make contact again.

  Dreading that moment.

  Wanting that moment.

  It had taken her about twenty-five seconds behind her bedroom door to come up with a plan to get through the evening. A great mental filing system that would give her some way of managing the feelings that had started swilling through her blood as soon as she opened the door to see him leaning there, waving the ridiculous bag of soup.

  Two mental folders: one marked ‘brother’ and one marked ‘other’.