Australia: Wicked Mistresses

by Robyn Grady

  “How did you find this place?” she asked. Had he stumbled upon it during his walk?

  The kettle had boiled and he was sliding a coffee bottle over the counter. It was overly large, with a palm tree embossed on one side. It must have been here as long as that picture.

  “This isn’t what you’re used to, I expect.”

  An unpolished wooden floor, a square-paned window with no curtain to draw against a view of the deluge. The cabin was austere, but also dry and cosy…and, in its intimate isolation, rustically romantic. But foremost it was somebody else’s property. Were the people in that photo still alive? Given the circumstances, she supposed the owners wouldn’t mind them sheltering here, but she frowned as he poured water from the kettle.

  “Do you think we should help ourselves to the pantry?”

  He paused, setting the kettle down, but then sent over a smile. “This place is mine for the week—along with a bungalow back at the resort.”

  Nina lifted her brows. So this millionaire liked to rough it? And this was about as rough as it got.

  He asked about sugar and milk. It seemed they both liked their coffee black, so he added some cold water from the tap and brought the much appreciated drink over.

  Taking the warm mug in two hands, she sipped. The bitter but tasty brew filtered heat through her blood and most of the goosebumps faded.

  Running an eye over the kitchen—retro orange tiles, super-old stove, modern microwave—she pressed the mug to her cheek, then her breastbone. “How did you know this even existed?” She hadn’t heard a murmur about a rental bush cabin from the staff.

  He heeled off his shoes near the cold ashes of the fireplace. “The owner built it decades ago.” She had her mouth open to ask more, but he changed the subject. “You need to get out of those clothes.”

  The nerves high in Nina’s stomach kicked—firstly at his words, then at the thought of that double bed and its come-hither quilt. But he wasn’t suggesting anything other than the obvious. The rain had set in, and sitting here, shivering and sopping, wasn’t smart. They both needed to get dry.

  Striding past her towards the bed, he threw back a filmy curtain, which was hooked up to a chrome rail. “I’ll run a tub and you can get that grit off.”

  Nina craned her neck. A chipped porcelain clawfoot bathtub. Hardly five-star—she set her mug aside—but if hot water was involved, she was there.

  After he had twisted the stiff faucets, unseen pipes shuddered and groaned to life. He tested the water and, with the other hand propping his weight on the tub’s rim, sought out her gaze.

  “You okay to undress and get in?”

  His question came at the same time as she found her feet. Her blood pressure dropped and, suddenly giddy, she closed her eyes and withered back down.

  He was concerned she mightn’t be able to manage with her ankle, but for her this last half-hour had moved too fast. First the appearance of her angel on the cliff, then the rescue, heightened by that once-in-a-lifetime kiss. Finally she’d been whisked away to this delectable man’s secret lair.

  On the beach, as his hands had traced over her body and his mouth had covered hers, she’d craved far more than his kiss. Here was her opportunity. Maybe she ought to take up his offer to help her undress.

  She felt a familiar heat and opened her eyes. He was hunkered down beside her, dark brows drawn, the bristles on his jaw rough and close enough to touch.

  “Hey…you all right?”

  Genuine concern shone in his eyes. For so many reasons, it wasn’t the time to think beyond what was relevant. Salt had dried on her skin where the rain hadn’t reached. Sand, stuck to her shorts and her back, rubbed against the seat. And her scratches should be washed out properly too. Never mind about getting naked. Right now she needed to get clean.

  Carefully she pushed to her feet again. “I think a hot bath is exactly what I need.”

  He loaned her an arm, collected the chair in his free hand, and she hobbled with him over to the tub. He set the chair below a tarnished brass rack and, before drawing the curtain, said, “That’s a fresh towel.”

  Then the curtain whizzed closed and she was alone.

  She slipped out of her clothes. When a perfect fan-shaped shell fell from her shorts pocket she set it on a rickety shelf. A few minutes later she slipped into warm liquid heaven.

  Her ankle twinged briefly before she slid against the porcelain until she was fully under. Working her fingertips over her skull and through her hair, she shifted the stubborn sand and salt. After coming up for air, she repeated the exercise twice more. Then she closed her eyes and, resting her neck against the rim, simply floated.

  When her nostrils blew air into the water, she yanked herself up with a start. She’d drifted close to sleep, and the bath had lost its steamy edge. Past time to dry off.

  But as she reached for the towel her attention honed in on the rain, still thumping on the roof, and the wet clothes piled near the chair.

  Her throat closed.

  She had nothing to wear.

  A gust of wind blew the curtain in, and she snatched the towel to her breast. But the wind dropped just as suddenly as it had appeared and the curtain fell straight again.

  Wet hair running rivers over her shoulders, Nina first straddled the bath’s rim then, careful of her foot, stepped out and secured the towel under her arms. The door had opened and shut; her companion must have left while she’d been submerged, rinsing out her hair. But where had he gone?

  Wondering if she should call out, she instead peeked around the curtain’s corner—and her legs all but buckled.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  NINA’S face flamed and her toes dug into the floor. She’d enjoyed the sight of her half-naked angel earlier, but she had only imagined the full, delectable picture standing before her now.

  His back to her, he stood in the middle of the room, saturated—including the towel he now unravelled from around his hips. The moving shadows of early evening had deepened on the walls, but nothing could dim the glistening outline of his broad back as he tossed the towel near the unlit fireplace, where it landed with a heavy slap.

  Bands of sinew roped in his arm when he stretched to retrieve a second towel from the table, and when he tousle-dried his hair—his long legs braced apart—Nina couldn’t tear her gaze from his hamstrings…thick and hard and rock-solid scrumptious. His buns were tight too, and beautifully masculine; she lost her breath each time he rubbed himself and one or the other flexed in turn. When he flicked the towel behind his head and gave his back a two-handed rub down, the rippling muscles sang to her like a Ravel composition come to life.

  Too soon he knotted that towel around his hips and thrust both hands through his damp dark hair. At the same time he rotated her way. Her mind slotted into gear and Nina ducked back behind the curtain. Heartbeat knocking at her ribs, she watched his shadow’s languid gait as he moved towards the bed. She bit her lip and almost whimpered. To think a man like that truly existed and, better yet, was here with her.

  “Are you all right back there?”

  At the deep enquiring voice Nina’s pulse leapt and she squeaked, “Fine. I’m fine.”

  “I used the outside shower to wash off.”

  Outside shower? “Oh?”

  “A broken drainpipe,” he explained, at the same time as an arm materialised behind the curtain. A green chequered shirt was thrust towards her.

  “This’ll have to do for now,” came the voice, so near and rich the vibrations shot a fiery dart directly at her core. “Can’t help in the underwear department,” he added as she took the shirt and the hand withdrew. “When you’re dressed we’ll bandage those cuts. I want to know they’re clean.”

  She finished drying, then slipped the oversized laundered shirt over her head. Bath, shirt, bandages. Do this, do that. He might have saved her life, but did he ever give over being such a boss?

  Shirt-tails brushing her knees, she straightened the collar, then drew back the curt
ain and said, “You love being in charge, don’t you?”

  He was crouched by a kitchen cupboard. He seemed to deliberate on his answer and then, hitching back one shoulder, pushed to his bare feet. “It’s what I do.”

  Right. Like Alexander had led armies. Only Alexander hadn’t been a bean-counter—

  And he hadn’t worn jeans like this man could.

  But even as she unconsciously wet her lips at the heart-pumping sight standing tall before her, another vision sprang to mind and she couldn’t smother a laugh.

  A wry glint in his eye, he sauntered over. “What’s the joke?”

  “It’s just commanding and accountant don’t seem to go. I can’t help picturing a masked crusader, with a big A on his chest and a turbo-blasting calculator cocked in one hand.”

  Faint lines branching from the corners of his eyes deepened. “Never underestimate the power of a turbo-blasting calculator.” His gaze fixed on hers, he moved closer still, the low band of his jeans riding and sliding with each deliberate step.

  “What about you?”

  “Me?” Her attention shot up from the dark hair trailing down from his navel. “What about me?”

  “We’re done with the guessing game. Spill.” His pale eyes twinkled. “Who are you?”

  Very good question.

  “I’m…er…in hospitality.”

  His eyes darkened. “Here to check out the opposition?”

  “I’m a hands-on type.”

  He nodded as if he understood. “How long are you staying?”

  “That’s up in the air.”

  Seemingly not surprised, he undid the first aid kit she now realised he held. “I’m here for a wedding on Saturday.”

  “The Wilson wedding?” His gaze sharpened. “You’re a friend of April’s?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “A friend of the groom’s, then? I’m Gabriel Steele, by the way. April’s boss. Or should I say former boss.”

  “The bride-to-be resigned?” she asked, and he nodded. “And you’re not happy about it.”

  A muscle in his jaw jumped twice before he crossed to the fireplace. He placed the first aid kit on the mantel and, with kindling prepared, struck a match. “April’s a great PA.”

  “Guess her fiancé thinks she’ll make a great wife.” And he didn’t want to share with macho man here. Understandable. She’d bet Gabriel had a harem of Girl Fridays back at the office, all eager to rip their veils off.

  He retrieved a poker and, with one perfectly sculptured arm bracing the mantel, stirred the embers while virgin flames licked around the logs. “These days I didn’t think marriage meant a woman had to give up her career.” He sniffed. “But good luck to them.”

  A vote for feminism? Nina thought not. Did he disapprove of his PA’s fiancé? Or were his reasons more personal? Perhaps he had a thing for this April himself? Or was it more a classic case of “eligible male against marriage” syndrome? Those guys ought to form a club.

  But then her mind scuttled back to his name.

  She’d known a Gabriel once. Of course she hadn’t seen or heard from him in years. Not since the funeral.

  Her stomach double-clutched at the thought of that day and she studied her host’s face again, this time in the wavering firelight. The hawkish nose, the cleft in his shadowed chin, the sharp widow’s peak dead centre of his forehead as he set the poker aside.

  The Gabriel she’d known—Gabe Turner—had been a friend of her brother’s, and they’d made an unlikely pair. While Anthony had been sporty, charming, and much sought after by the girls, Geeky Gabe had sat on the chess squad, had worn his hair parted way over on one side, and had owned glasses with super-thick lenses that darkened when hit by the light. Sadder still, Gabe had been poor…or poor by Petrelle standards.

  One day she’d let Gabe into their house—more like a three-storey mansion—and when he’d taken off his shoes at the front door, the fourteen-year-old Nina had been appalled. A hole in both sets of toes. She’d whispered across, asking whether they could perhaps buy him a new pair, but Gabe had pressed his lips together and, hands clenched, strode off to Anthony’s room.

  She’d only been trying to help, but, thinking back, of course she’d hurt his pride. He’d made a point of avoiding her after that, and heaven knew back then she hadn’t been used to being ignored. Consequently, whenever she’d had the opportunity, she’d pestered him to get a reaction. Any reaction. Give the guy his due, he had never once lashed out.

  “You still haven’t told me your name.”

  The rich timbre of his voice swept her back to the present. He’d moved into the kitchen.

  “I’m Nina,” she said, and as he flicked a faucet to wash his hands she caught the smirk. Her senses sharpened. “Something wrong with my name?”

  “Just the last Nina I knew was as thin as two sticks and went around with a perpetual scowl on her face.”

  An ex? It didn’t sound as if they’d blasted too far off the launching pad. Still, a man with his attributes wouldn’t have pined for long.

  Sauntering back, Gabriel swept the first aid kit off the ledge. Moving past, he took a seat at the foot of the bed and began to sort through bandages and lotions.

  “So, Nina, how do you know the groom? You’re not an old flame here to cause trouble?” He looked up, almost hopeful. “Are you?”

  “We’ve never met.”

  The square angle of his jaw shifted. “You’re not a friend of the bride or the groom, yet you’re attending their wedding?”

  She cleared her throat, formed words in her mind to explain her situation, but those words would not leave her mouth. She wanted to tell him. She needed to. She certainly couldn’t lie about who she was.

  He dabbed a cotton ball with antiseptic, and indicated with a tip of his chin that she should sit too.

  “I’ve got it,” he said. “You’re a wedding planner. One of the experts people hire to make sure everything’s perfect on the day.”

  Smothering a sigh, she shook her head and joined him.

  The line between his brows furrowed again. “You really don’t want me to dig any more, do you?”

  “It’s not that exactly…”

  “Look, if you’re more comfortable sticking with Nina the Mysterious for now, I’ll back off. Privacy can be a huge issue, I know.”

  She opened her mouth to fess up, but something held her back.

  The thing was…she wasn’t sure who she was any more. With each passing day she wondered more. Being here with this delectable man only seemed to confuse the matter. She was a waitress, yet he was treating her like a princess. Once she had been a princess, of sorts, but then her family had lost everything and, not long after, she’d lost her position. Much of her identity had been lost with it.

  The truth was she would rather remain Nina the Mysterious for now. Lately she’d felt so exposed and raw and vulnerable…She wasn’t certain she could stand to peel off one more layer—even to the man who’d saved her life.

  Not that she was embarrassed that she’d taken a waitressing job. She would rather step up any day than lie around fanning herself and hoping for some miracle to materialise and get her out of this jam. If she was embarrassed about anything it was that her performance here could have been better. If she was going to stay—and for now she had to—the other staff were right: she needed to take it up a gear.

  As if agreeing to put an end to the identity discussion, he nodded at her foot. “Let’s fix you up.”

  He first applied antiseptic to the bump on her head, then to her ankle. A large adhesive bandage was fitted, and a crepe one wound around that. When he was done, she ran two fingers over the joint—which didn’t feel nearly as sore as it had.

  “Don’t have much in the way of other provisions.” He pushed on his thighs to stand. “Some bread and spread, if you’re hungry. And I do have a bottle of quite passable red wine.”

  Watching firelight flicker behind his silhouette, shifting ever darkening shapes
over the roughly hewn walls, she felt she didn’t need another thing other than that fire’s heat, this blessed mattress, and her host’s not unpleasant company. Despite the sexual awareness bubbling away below the surface—or perhaps because of it—she hadn’t felt this stress-free in ages. Being stranded with a gorgeous man clearly worked for her. Why not go for broke?

  She smiled on a nod. “A glass of wine would be nice.”

  In the kitchen, he opened the bottle of red and dug out a packet of peanuts and filled a ceramic bowl.

  “Here’s a not so interesting fact,” he said sauntering back. “When I was a kid I wanted to run a macadamia nut farm.”

  “Well, I think that’s very interesting.” She accepted a glass and he poured. “I wanted to own a ballet school. What happened to your dream?”

  He hesitated in pouring. “I’m not sure. Maybe I should put it on my ‘to-do’ list.”

  He raised his glass, she raised hers, and they sipped. The wine was mellow, and trailed warmth from her throat to her belly. Repositioning her weight, she leaned back on one elbow and sipped again.

  “So,” he said, getting comfortable beside her, “you dance?”

  She screwed up her nose. “I was awful. I just liked the costumes.”

  Grinning, he grabbed some peanuts from the bowl which he’d set between them. “What else do you like?”

  “You’ll laugh.”

  “All the better.”

  “I like boxing.”

  He spluttered, and hit his chest to help clear his throat. “Didn’t you see Million Dollar Baby?”

  “Not competition boxing. Just mucking around.” She protected her chin and jabbed the air. “At the gym.” She shrugged. “I’m improving.”

  Her ankle throbbed once, and pain spiked up her shin. Careful of her wine, she manoeuvred back until she lay on her side, her cheek resting in one palm.

  Better.

  “What about you?” she asked. “Ever put on the gloves?”

  “Nope. But I’ve tried practically every other sport.”